[
    {
        "title": "4th of July",
        "content": "hotel” on a block in San Francisco’s Tenderloin District that’s so\nforbidding\neven the sun won’t cross the street.\nThree black-and-whites were at the curb, and Conklin, the first\nofficer at the\nscene, was taping off the area. So was another officer, Les Arou.\n“What have we got?” I asked Conklin and Arou.\n“White male, Lieutenant. Late teens, bug-eyed and done to a turn,”\nConklin told\nme. “Room twenty-one. No signs of forced entry. Vic’s in the\nbathtub, just like\nthe last one.”\nThe stink of piss and vomit washed over us as Jacobi and I entered\nthe hotel. No\nbellhops in this place. No elevators or room service, either. Night\npeople faded\nback into the shadows, except for one gray-skinned young prostitute\nwho pulled\nJacobi aside.\n“Give me twenty dollars,” I heard her say. “I got a license plate.”\nJacobi peeled off a ten in exchange for a slip of paper, then turned\nto the desk\nclerk and asked him about the victim: Did he have a roommate, a\ncredit card, ahabit?\nI stepped around a junkie in the stairwell and climbed to the second\nfloor. The\ndoor to room 21 was open, and a rookie was standing guard at the\ndoorway.\n“Evening, Lieutenant Boxer.”\n“It’s morning, Keresty.”\n“Yes, ma’am,” he said, logging me in, turning his clipboard to collect\nmy\nsignature.\nIt was darker inside the twelve-by-twelve-foot room than it was in\nthe hallway.\nThe fuse had blown, and thin curtains hung like wraiths in front of\nthe\nstreetlit windows. I was working the puzzle, trying to figure out what\nwas\nevidence, what was not, trying not to step on anything. There was\ntoo damned\nmuch of everything and too little light.\nI flicked my flashlight beam over the crack vials on the floor, the\nmattress\nstained with old blood, the rank piles of garbage and clothing\neverywhere. Therewas a kitchenette of sorts in the corner, the hot plate still warm,\ndrug\nparaphernalia in the sink.\nThe air in the bathroom was thick, almost soupy. I swept my light\nalong the\nextension cord that snaked from the socket by the sink, past the\nclogged toilet\nbowl to the bathtub.\nMy guts clenched as I caught the dead boy in my beam. He was\nnaked, a skinny\nblond with a hairless chest, half sitting up in the tub, eyes bulging,\nfoam at\nhis lips and nostrils. The electric cord ended at an old-fashioned two-\nslice\ntoaster that glinted up through the bathwater.\n“Shit,” I said as Jacobi entered the bathroom. “Here we go again.”\n“He’s toast, all right,” said Jacobi.\nAs commanding officer of the Homicide detail, I wasn’t supposed to\ndo hands-on\ndetective work anymore. But at times like this, I just couldn’t stay\naway.\nAnother kid had been electrocuted, but why? Was he a random\nvictim of violenceor was it personal? In my mind’s eye, I saw the boy flailing in pain\nas the\njuice shot through him and shut his heart down.\nThe standing water on the cracked tile floor was creeping up the\nlegs of my\ntrousers. I lifted a foot and toed the bathroom door closed, knowing\nfull well\nwhat I was going to see. The door whined with the nasal squeal of\nhinges that\nhad probably never been oiled.\nTwo words were spray-painted on the door. For the second time in a\ncouple of\nweeks, I wondered what the hell they meant.\n“NOBODY CARES.”\nChapter 2\nIT LOOKED LIKE A particularly grisly suicide, except that the spray\npaint can\nwas nowhere around. I heard Charlie Clapper and his CSU team\narrive and begin to\nunpack forensic equipment in the outer room. I stood aside as the\nphotographertook his shots of the victim, then I yanked the extension cord out of\nthe wall.\nCharlie changed the fuse. “Thank you, Jesus,” he said as light\nflooded the\ngod-awful place.\nI was rifling through the victim’s clothes, finding not a scrap of ID,\nwhen\nClaire Washburn, my closest friend and San Francisco’s chief medical\nexaminer,\nwalked through the door.\n“It’s pretty nasty,” I told Claire as we went into the bathroom. Claire\nis a\ncenter of warmth in my life, more of a sister to me than my own.\n“I’ve been\nhaving an impulse.”\n“To do what?” Claire asked me mildly.\nI swallowed hard, forcing down the gorge that kept rising in my\nthroat. I’d\ngotten used to a lot of things, but I would never get used to the\nmurder of\nchildren.\n“I just want to reach in and pull out the stopper.”\nThe victim looked even more stricken in the bright light. Claire\ncrouched besidethe tub, squeezing her size-sixteen body into a size-six space.\n“Pulmonary edema,” she said of the pink foam in the dead boy’s\nnasal and oral\norifices. She traced the faint bruising on the lips, around the eyes.\n“He was\ntuned up a bit before they threw the switch on him.”\nI pointed to the vertical gash on his cheekbone. “What do you make\nof that?”\n“My guess? It’s going to match the push-down lever on the toaster.\nLooks like\nthey clocked this child with that Sunbeam before they chucked it into\nthe tub.”\nThe boy’s hand was resting on the bathtub’s rim. Claire lifted it\ntenderly,\nturned it over. “No rigor. Body’s still warm and lividity is blanching.\nHe’s\nbeen dead less than twelve hours, probably less than six. No visible\ntrack\nmarks.” She ran her hands through the boy’s matted hair, lifted his\nbruised top\nlip with her gloved fingers. “He hadn’t seen a dentist in a while.\nCould be a\nrunaway.”\n“Yeah,” I said. Then I must’ve gotten quiet for a minute or so.“Whatcha thinking, honey?”\n“That I’ve got another John Doe on my hands.”\nI was remembering another teenage John Doe, a homeless kid\nwho’d been murdered\nin a place like this when I was just getting started in homicide. It\nwas one of\nmy worst cases ever, and ten years later the death still gnawed at\nme.\n“I’ll know more when I get this young man on my table,” Claire was\nsaying when\nJacobi stuck his head through the doorway again.\n“The informant says that partial plate number was taken off a\nMercedes,” he\nsaid. “A black one.”\nA black Mercedes had been seen at the other electrocution murder. I\ngrinned as I\nfelt a surge of hope. Yes, I was making it personal. I was going to\nfind the\nbastard who had killed these kids and I was going to put him away\nbefore he\ncould do it again.\nChapter 3A WEEK HAD GONE by since the nightmare at the Lorenzo Hotel.\nThe crime lab was\nstill sifting through the abundant detritus of room 21, and our\ninformant’s\nthree-digit partial license plate number was either half wrong or a\nwild guess.\nAs for me, I woke up every morning feeling pissed off and sad\nbecause this ugly\ncase was going nowhere.\nThe dead kids haunted me as I drove to Susie’s for a get-together\nwith the girls\nthat evening. Susie’s is a neighborhood café, a bright hot spot with\nwalls\nsponge-painted in tropical colors, serving spicy but tasty Caribbean\nfood.\nJill, Claire, Cindy, and I had adopted this place as our sanctuary as\nwell as\nour clubhouse. Our straight-shooting girl talk, unhampered by rank\nor department\nlines, had often cut through weeks of bureaucratic BS. Together,\nwe’d broken\ncases wide open in this very spot.\nI saw Claire and Cindy in “our” booth at the back. Claire was\nlaughing atsomething Cindy had said, which happened a lot because Claire had\na great laugh\nand Cindy was a funny girl as well as a first-class investigative\nreporter for\nthe Chronicle. Jill, of course, was gone.\n“I want what you’re having,” I said as I slid into the booth next to\nClaire.\nThere was a pitcher of margaritas on the table and four glasses, two\nof them\nempty. I filled a glass and looked at my friends, feeling that almost\nmagical\nconnection that we’d forged because of all we’d gone through\ntogether.\n“Looks like you need a transfusion,” Claire joked.\n“I swear I do. Bring on the IV.” I took a gulp of the icy brew,\nsnagged the\nnewspaper that was beside Cindy’s elbow, and paged through until I\nfound the\nstory buried on page 17 of the Metro section, below the fold. INFO\nSOUGHT IN\nTENDERLOIN DISTRICT MURDERS.\n“I guess it’s a bigger story in my mind,” I said.\n“Dead street people don’t make page one,” Cindy said\nsympathetically.“It’s odd,” I told the girls. “Actually, we have too much information.\nSeven\nthousand prints. Hair, fiber, a ton of useless DNA from a carpet that\nhadn’t\nbeen vacuumed since Nixon was a boy.” I stopped ranting long\nenough to pull the\nrubber band off my ponytail and shake out my hair. “On the other\nhand, with all\nthe potential snitches crawling through the Tenderloin District, all we\nhave is\none shitty lead.”\n“It sucks, Linds,” said Cindy. “Is the chief on your ass?”\n“Nope,” I said, tapping the tiny mention of the Tenderloin District\nmurders with\nmy forefinger. “As the killer says, nobody cares.”\n“Ease up on yourself, honey,” Claire said. “You’ll get a bite into this\nthing.\nYou always do.”\n“Yeah, enough about all this. Jill would give me hell for whining.”\n“She says, ‘No problem,’” Cindy cracked, pointing to Jill’s empty seat.\nWe\nlifted our glasses and clinked them together.\n“To Jill,” we said in unison.We filled Jill’s glass and passed it around in remembrance of Jill\nBernhardt, a\nspectacular ADA and our great friend, who’d been murdered only\nmonths ago. We\nmissed her terribly and said so. In a while, our waitress, Loretta,\nbrought a\nnew pitcher of margaritas to replace the last.\n“You’re looking chirpy,” I said to Cindy, who jumped in with her\nnews. She’d met\na new guy, a hockey player who played for the Sharks in San Jose,\nand she was\npretty pleased with herself. Claire and I started pumping her for\ndetails while\nthe reggae band tuned up, and soon we were all singing a Jimmy\nCliff song,\nplinking our spoons against the glassware.\nI was finally getting loose in Margaritaville when my Nextel rang. It\nwas\nJacobi.\n“Meet me outside, Boxer. I’m a block away. We’ve got a bead on that\nMercedes.”\nWhat I should’ve said was “Go without me. I’m off duty.” But it was\nmy case, and\nI had to go. I tossed some bills down on the table, blew kisses at the\ngirls,and bolted for the door. The killer was wrong about one thing.\nSomebody cared.\nChapter 4\nI GOT IN THE passenger-side door of our unmarked gray Crown Vic.\n“Where to?” I asked Jacobi.\n“The Tenderloin District,” he told me. “A black Mercedes has been\nseen cruising\naround down there. Doesn’t seem to fit in with the neighborhood.”\nInspector Warren Jacobi used to be my partner. He’d handled my\npromotion pretty\nwell, all things considered; he had more than ten years on me, and\nseven more\nyears in grade. We still partnered up on special cases, and even\nthough he\nreported to me, I had to turn myself in.\n“I had a few at Susie’s.”\n“Beers?”\n“Margaritas.”\n“How many is a few?” He swung his large head toward me.\n“One and a half,” I said, not admitting to the third of the one I drank\nfor\nJill.“You all right to come along?”\n“Yeah, sure. I’m fine.”\n“Don’t think you’re driving.”\n“Did I ask?”\n“There’s a thermos in back.”\n“Coffee?”\n“No, it’s for you to take a piss in, if you’ve got to, because we don’t\nhave\ntime for a pit stop.”\nI laughed and reached for the coffee. Jacobi was always good for a\ntasteless\njoke. As we crossed onto Sixth just south of Mission, I saw a car\nmatching the\ndescription in a one-hour parking zone.\n“Lookit, Warren. That’s our baby.”\n“Good catch, Boxer.”\nApart from the spike in my blood pressure, there was a whole lot of\nnothing\nhappening on Sixth Street. It was a crumbling block of grimy\nstorefronts and\nvacant SROs with blank plywood eyes. Aimless jaywalkers teetered\nand streetsleepers snored under their piles of trash. The odd bum checked out\nthe shiny\nblack car.\n“I hope to hell no one boosts that thing,” I said. “Stands out like a\nSteinway\nin a junkyard.”\nI called in our location and we took up our position a half block away\nfrom the\nMercedes. I punched the plate number into our computer, and this\ntime gongs went\noff and it spit quarters. The car was registered to Dr. Andrew Cabot\nof\nTelegraph Hill.\nI called the Hall and asked Cappy to check out Dr. Cabot on the\nNCIC database\nand call me back. Then Jacobi and I settled in for a long wait.\nWhoever Andrew\nCabot was, he was definitely slumming. Normally, stakeouts are as\nfascinating as\nyesterday’s oatmeal, but I was drumming the dash with my fingers.\nWhere the hell\nwas Andrew Cabot? What was he doing down here?\nTwenty minutes later, a street-sweeping machine, a bright yellow\ncar-sized hulklike an armadillo with flashing lights and honking back-up alerts,\nrolled right\nup onto the sidewalk, as it did every night. Derelicts rose up off the\npavement\nto avoid the brushes. Papers swirled in the low light of the street\nlamps.\nThe sweeper blocked our view for a few moments, and when it had\npassed, Jacobi\nand I saw it at the same time: Both the driver’s-side and the\npassenger-side\ndoors of the Mercedes were closing.\nThe car was on the move.\n“Time to rock and roll,” said Jacobi.\nWe waited tense seconds as a maroon Camry got between us and\nour subject. I\nradioed dispatch: “We’re following a black Mercedes, Queen Zebra\nWhiskey Two Six\nCharlie, heading north on Sixth toward Mission. Request units in the\narea—aw,\nshit!”\nIt was meant to be a quick pullover, but without warning or apparent\ncause, the\ndriver of the Mercedes floored it, leaving Jacobi and me in the\nfreshly washeddust.\nChapter 5\nI WATCHED IN DISBELIEF as the Mercedes’ taillights became small\nred pinpoints,\nmoving even farther into the distance as the Camry backed carefully\ninto a\nparking space, hemming us in.\nI grabbed the mike and barked over the car’s PA system, “Clear the\nstreet! Move\nover now!”\n“Fuck this,” said Jacobi.\nHe flipped the switches that turned on the grille lights and the\nheadlight\nstrobes, and as our siren screamed into action, we tore past the\nCamry, clipping\nits taillight.\n“Good one, Warren.”\nWe blew across the intersection at Howard Street, and I called in a\nCode 33 to\nkeep the radio band free for the pursuit.\n“We’re going northbound on Sixth, south of Market, in pursuit of a\nblackMercedes, attempting to pull it over. All units in the area, head into\nthis\nvicinity.”\n“Reason for the pursuit, Lieutenant?”\n“Ongoing homicide investigation.”\nAdrenaline flooded my body. We were going to land this baby, and I\nprayed we\nwouldn’t kill any bystanders in the process. Radio units sang out\ntheir\nlocations as we crossed Mission against the light, going at least sixty.\nI pressed my foot against virtual brakes as Jacobi gunned our car\nacross Market,\nthe largest and busiest street in town, heavy now with buses, Muni\ntrains, and\nlate commuter traffic.\n“Hang a right,” I shouted to Jacobi.\nThe Mercedes veered onto Taylor at a split in the road. We were two\ncar lengths\nbehind but not close enough in the darkening night to get any sense\nof who was\ndriving, who was riding shotgun.\nWe followed the car onto Ellis, heading west past the Hotel\nCoronado, where thefirst electrocution murder had happened. This was the killer’s turf,\nwasn’t it?\nThe bastard knew these streets as well as I did.\nCars hugged the curbs, and we blew past cross streets at eighty, our\nsiren\nblaring, speeding uphill at full throttle, going airborne for a few\nheart-stopping seconds before dropping onto the downside curve of\nthe\nincline—and even so, we lost the Mercedes at Leavenworth as cars\nand pedestrians\nclogged the intersection.\nI yelled into the mike again and thanked God when a radio car called\nin, “We’ve\ngot him in sight, Lieutenant. Black Mercedes heading west on Turk,\ngoing\nseventy-five.” Another unit joined the chase at Hyde.\n“I’m guessing he’s headed toward Polk,” I said to Jacobi.\n“My thoughts exactly.”\nWe deferred the main route to the squad cars, shot past Krim’s and\nKram’s Palace\nof Fine Junk on the corner of Turk, and picked up Polk heading\nnorth. There were\nabout a dozen one-way alleys branching off Polk. I drilled each one\nof them withmy eyes as we passed Willow, Ellis, and Olive.\n“That’s him, dragging his butt,” I shouted to Jacobi. The Mercedes\nwobbled on a\nblown right rear tire as it took the turn past the Mitchell Brothers’\ntheater,\nthen onto Larkin.\nI grabbed the dash with both hands as Jacobi followed. The\nMercedes lost\ncontrol, caromed off a parked minivan, flew up onto the pavement,\nand charged a\nmailbox. Torn metal screamed as the mailbox punched the\nundercarriage of the\ncar, which then came to rest with its nose pointing upward at a\nforty-five-degree angle, the driver’s side canting down toward the\ngutter.\nThe hood popped, and steam poured out as the radiator hose gave\nup the ghost.\nThe stink of burned rubber and the candy apple smell of antifreeze\npermeated the\nair.\nJacobi halted our vehicle, and we ran toward the Mercedes, guns in\nhand.\n“Get your hands in the air,” I shouted. “Do it now!”I saw that both occupants were pinned by the airbags. As the\nairbags deflated, I\ngot my first look at their faces. They were white kids, maybe\nthirteen and\nfifteen, and they were terrified.\nAs Jacobi and I gripped our weapons with both hands and\napproached the Mercedes,\nthe kids started bawling their hearts out.\nChapter 6\nMY HEART WAS BOOMING almost audibly, and now I was furious.\nUnless Dr. Cabot was\nDoogie Howser’s age, he wasn’t in this car. These kids were idiots or\nspeed\nfreaks or car thieves—or maybe all three.\nI kept my gun pointed at the driver’s-side window.\n“Put your hands in the air. That’s it. Touch the ceiling. Both of you.”\nTears were cascading down the driver’s face, and with a shock, I\nrealized it was\na girl. She had a short pink-tipped haircut, no makeup, no face\npiercings: a\nSeventeen magazine version of punk that she hadn’t quite pulled off.\nWhen shelifted her hands, I saw glass shards dusting her black T-shirt. Her\nname hung\nfrom a chain around her neck.\nI admit I yelled at her. We’d just been through a chase that could\nhave killed\nus all.\n“What the hell did you think you were doing, Sara?”\n“I’m sorrrry,” she wailed. “It’s just—I only have a learner’s permit.\nWhat are\nyou going to do to me?”\nI was incredulous. “You ran from the police because you don’t have\na driver’s\nlicense? Are you insane?”\n“He’s going to kill us,” said the other kid, a lanky young boy hanging\nsideways\nfrom the over-the-shoulder seatbelt holding him into the passenger\nseat.\nThe boy had huge brown eyes and blond hair falling across them.\nHis nose was\nbleeding, probably broken from the slam he’d taken from the airbag.\nTears\ndribbled down his cheeks.\n“Please don’t tell. Just say the car was stolen or something and let\nus go home.Please. Our dad’s going to really kill us.”\n“Why is that?” Jacobi asked sarcastically. “He won’t like the new\nhood ornament\non his sixty-thousand-dollar car? Keep your hands where we can see\nthem and get\nout real slow.”\n“I can’t. I’m stuh-uh-uck,” cried the boy. He wiped his nose with the\nback of\nhis hand, smearing blood across his face. Then he threw up on the\nconsole.\nJacobi muttered, “Aw, shit,” as our instincts to render aid took over.\nWe\nholstered our weapons. It took our combined strength to wrench\nopen the ruined\ndriver’s-side door. I reached in and shut off the ignition, and after\nthat we\neased the kids out of the vehicle and onto their feet.\n“Let’s see that learner’s permit, Sara,” I said. I was wondering if her\nfather\nwas Dr. Cabot and if the kids were afraid of him for good reason.\n“It’s here,” Sara said. “In my wallet.”\nJacobi was calling for an ambulance when the young girl reached\ninto her insidejacket pocket and pulled out an object so unexpected and so chilling\nmy blood\nfroze.\nI yelled, “GUN!” a split second before she shot me.\nChapter 7\nTIME SEEMED TO SLOW, every second distinct from the one before\nit, but the truth\nis, everything happened in under a minute.\nI flinched, turning sideways as I felt the bullet’s hard punch to my\nleft\nshoulder. Then another shot slammed into my thigh. Even as I\nstruggled to\nunderstand, my legs buckled and I fell to the ground. I reached a\nhand out\ntoward Jacobi and saw his face register shock.\nI didn’t lose consciousness. I saw the boy shoot Jacobi—blam-blam-\nblam. Then he\nwalked over and kicked my partner in the head. I heard the girl say,\n“C’mon,\nSammy. Let’s get out of here.”\nI felt no pain, just rage. I was thinking as clearly as I had at any\ntime in mylife. They’d forgotten about me. I felt for my 9mm Glock, still at my\nwaist,\nwrapped my hand around the grip, and sat up.\n“Drop your gun,” I shouted, pointing my weapon at Sara.\n“Fuck you, bitch,” she yelled back. Her face was etched with fear as\nshe leveled\nher .22 and squeezed off three rounds. I heard shell cases ping\nagainst the\nsidewalk all around me.\nIt’s notoriously hard to hit your target with a pistol, but I did what I\nwas\ntrained to do. I aimed for central mass, the center of her chest, and\ndouble-tapped: boom-boom. Sara’s face crumpled as she collapsed.\nI tried to get\nto my feet but only managed to rise to one knee.\nThe bloody-faced boy was still holding a pistol in his hand. He\npointed it at\nme. “Drop it!” I screamed.\n“You shot my sister!”\nI aimed, double-tapped again: boom-boom. The boy dropped his\ngun, his whole body\ngoing limp.\nHe cried out as he fell.Chapter 8\nTHERE WAS A TERRIBLE hushed silence on Larkin Street. Then\nsounds kicked in. A\nradio played rap in the middle distance. I heard the soft moans of\nthe boy. I\nheard police sirens coming closer.\nJacobi wasn’t moving at all. I called out to him, but he didn’t answer.\nI\nunhooked my Nextel from my belt and, to the best of my ability, I\ncalled in.\n“Two officers down. Two civilians down. Need medical assistance.\nSend two\nambulances. Now.”\nThe dispatcher was asking me questions: location, badge number,\nlocation again.\n“Lieutenant, are you okay? Lindsay. Answer me.”\nThe sounds were fading in and out. I dropped the telephone and put\nmy head down\non the soft, soft pavement. I’d shot children. Children! I had seen\ntheir\nshocked faces as they went down. Oh, my God, what had I done?\nI felt hot blood pooling under my neck and around my leg. I played\nthe wholething over in my mind, this time throwing the kids against the car.\nCuffing\nthem. Frisking them. Being smart. Being competent!\nWe’d been inexcusably stupid, and now we were all going to die.\nMercifully,\ndarkness closed over me and I shut my eyes.\nPart Two\nUnscheduled Vacation Time\nChapter 9\nA MAN SAT QUIETLY in a nondescript gray car on Ocean Colony\nRoad in the nicest\nsection of Half Moon Bay, California. He wasn’t the kind of man\npeople would\nnotice, even though he was out of place here. Even though he had\nno legitimate\nbusiness surveilling the people who lived in the white colonial house\nwith the\npricey cars in the driveway.\nThe Watcher held a camera that was no bigger than a book of\nmatches up to his\neye. It was a wonderful device with a gig of memory and a 10x\nzoom.He zoomed in and pressed the shutter, capturing the family moving\nbehind the\nkitchen window, downing their wholesome multigrain cereal, having\nmorning\nchitchat in their breakfast nook.\nAt 8:06 on the dot, Caitlin O’Malley opened the front door. She was\nwearing a\nschool uniform, a purple knapsack, and two watches, one on each\nwrist. Her long\nauburn hair positively shone.\nThe Watcher took Caitlin’s picture as the teenager got into the\npassenger side\nof the black Lexus SUV in the driveway and soon he heard the faint\nsounds of\nrock FM.\nPlacing his camera on the dash, the Watcher took his blue notebook\nand a\nfine-tip pen from the center console and made notes in a careful,\nnearly\ncalligraphic hand.\nIt was essential to get it all down. The Truth demanded it.\nAt 8:09 the front door opened again. Dr. Ben O’Malley was wearing a\nlightweightgray wool suit and a red bow tie that cinched the collar of his\nstarched white\nshirt. He turned to his wife, Lorelei, pecked her on the lips, and then\nstrode\ndown the front path.\nEveryone was right on time.\nThe tiny camera captured the images. Zzzzt. Zzzzt. Zzzzzt.\nThe doctor carried a bag of trash to the blue recycling bin at the\ncurb. He\nsniffed the air and looked up and down the street, sweeping his eyes\nacross the\ngray car and its occupant without pausing. Then he joined his\ndaughter in the\nSUV. Moments later, Dr. O’Malley backed out onto Ocean Colony\nRoad and headed\nnorth toward Cabrillo Highway.\nThe Watcher completed his notes, then returned the notebook, the\npen, and the\ncamera to the console.\nHe had seen them now: the girl in her freshly pressed uniform and\nclean white\nkneesocks, lots of spirit showing in her pretty face. This so touched\ntheWatcher that tears gathered in his eyes. She was so real, so different\nfrom her\nfather, the doctor, in his bland everyday-citizen’s disguise.\nBut there was one thing he did like about Dr. Ben O’Malley. He liked\nhis\nsurgical precision. The Watcher was counting on that.\nHe just hated to be surprised.\nChapter 10\nA VOICE IN MY head yelled, “Hey! Sara!”\nI came awake with a jolt and reached for my gun, only to find that I\ncouldn’t\nmove at all. A dark face loomed over me, lit from behind with a hazy\nwhite glow.\n“The Sugar Plum Fairy,” I blurted.\n“I’ve been called worse.” She laughed. It was Claire. I was on her\ntable, and\nthat meant I was a goner for sure.\n“Claire? Can you hear me?”\n“Loud and clear, baby.” She hugged me gently, wrapping me in a\nmother’s embrace.\n“Welcome back.”\n“Where am I?”“San Francisco General. Recovery room.”\nThe fog was lifting. I remembered the dark chill of Larkin Street.\nThose kids.\nJacobi was down!\n“Jacobi,” I said, reaching out to Claire with my eyes. “Jacobi didn’t\nmake it.”\n“He’s in the ICU, honey. He’s fighting hard.” Claire smiled at me.\n“Look who’s\nhere, Lindsay. Just turn your head.”\nIt took tremendous effort, but I rolled my heavy head to the right,\nand his\nhandsome face came into view. He hadn’t shaved and his eyelids\nwere weighted\nwith fatigue and worry, but just seeing Joe Molinari made my heart\nsing like a\nflippin’ canary.\n“Joe. You’re supposed to be in DC.”\n“I’m right here, sweetie. I came as soon as I heard.”\nWhen he kissed me, I felt his tears on my cheeks. I tried to tell him\nthat I\nfelt all broken inside.\n“Joe, she’s dead. Oh, God, it was a horrible screw-up.”\n“Honey, the way I hear it, you had no other choice.”Joe’s rough cheek brushed mine.\n“My pager number is right by the phone. Lindsay? Do you hear me?\nI’ll be back in\nthe morning,” he said.\n“What, Joe? What did you say?”\n“Try to get some sleep, Lindsay.”\n“Sure, Joe. I will. . . .”\nChapter 11\nA NURSE NAMED HEATHER Grace, a saint if ever there was one, had\nsecured a\nwheelchair for me. I sat in the wheelchair beside Jacobi’s bed as the\nlate-afternoon light poured through the window in the ICU and\npooled on the blue\nlinoleum floor. Two bullets had tunneled through his torso. One had\ncollapsed a\nlung, the other had punctured a kidney, and the kick he’d taken to\nthe head had\nbroken his nose and turned his face a brilliant shade of eggplant.\nThis was my third visit in as many days, and though I’d done my\nbest to cheer\nhim, Jacobi’s mood remained unrelentingly dark. I was watching him\nsleep whenhis swollen eyes flickered open to slits.\n“Hey, Warren.”\n“Hey, Slick.”\n“How’re you feeling?”\n“Like the world’s biggest horse’s ass.” He coughed painfully, and I\nwinced in\nsympathy.\n“Take it easy, bud.”\n“It sucks, Boxer.”\n“I know.”\n“I can’t stop thinking about it. Dreaming about it.” He paused,\ntouched the\nbandages over his nose. “That kid popping me while I stood there\nholding my\ndick.”\n“Um. I think it was your cell phone, Jacobi.”\nHe didn’t laugh. That was bad.\n“No excuse for it.”\n“Our hearts were in the right place.”\n“Hearts? Shit. Next time, less heart, more brains.”He was right, of course. I was taking it all in, nodding, adding a few\nstrokes\nin my own mind. Like, would I ever feel right with a gun in my hand\nagain? Would\nI hesitate when I shouldn’t? Shoot before thinking? I poured Jacobi\na glass of\nwater. Stuck in a striped straw.\n“I blew it. I should’ve cuffed that kid —”\n“Don’t even start, Boxer. It’s we shoulda—and you probably saved\nmy life.”\nThere was a flash of movement in the doorway. Chief Anthony\nTracchio’s hair was\nslicked across his head, his off-duty clothes were plain and neat, and\nhe was\ngripping a box of candy. He looked like a teenager coming to pick up\nhis first\ndate. Well, not really.\n“Jacobi. Boxer. Glad I caught you two together. How ya doing,\nokay?” Tracchio\nwasn’t a bad guy, and he’d been good to me; still, ours was no love\naffair. He\nbounced a bit on his toes, then approached Jacobi’s bed.\n“I’ve got news.”\nHe had our full attention.“The Cabot kids left prints at the Lorenzo.” A light danced around in\nhis eyes.\n“And Sam Cabot confessed.”\n“Holy shit. Is this true?” Jacobi wheezed.\n“On my mother’s head. The kid told a nurse that he and his sis were\nplaying a\ngame with those runaways. They called it ‘a bullet or a bath.’”\n“The nurse will testify?” I asked.\n“Yes, indeed. Swore to me herself.”\n“‘A bullet or a bath.’ Those little fuckers.” Jacobi snorted. “A game.”\n“Yeah, well, that game’s over. We even found notebooks and\ncollections of crime\nstories in the girl’s bedroom at home. She was obsessed with\nhomicides. Listen,\nyou two get well, okay? Don’t worry about nothin’.\n“Oh. This is from the squad,” he said, handing me the Ghirardelli\nchocolates and\na “get well” card with a lot of signatures. “We’re proud a ya both.”\nWe talked for another minute or so, passing along thanks to our\nfriends at the\nHall of Justice. When he was gone, I reached out and took Jacobi’s\nhand. Havingalmost died together had forged an intimacy between us that was\ndeeper than\nfriendship.\n“Well, the kids were dirty,” I said.\n“Yeah. Break out the champagne.”\nI couldn’t argue with him. That the Cabot kids were murderers didn’t\nchange the\nhorror of the shooting. And it didn’t change the notion I’d been\nharboring for\ndays.\n“I’ll tell you something, Jacobi. I’m thinking of giving it up. Quitting\nthe\njob.”\n“C’mon. You’re talking to me.”\n“I’m serious.”\n“You’re not going to quit, Boxer.”\nI straightened a fold in his blanket, then pushed the call button so a\nnurse\nwould come and roll me back to my room.\n“Sleep tight, partner.”\n“I know, ‘Don’t worry about nothin’.’”I leaned over and kissed his stubbly cheek for the first time ever. I\nknow it\nhurt to do it, but Jacobi actually smiled.\nChapter 12\nIT WAS A DAY that had been ripped from the pages of a child’s\ncoloring book.\nBright yellow sun. Birds tweeting and the flowery smell of summer\neverywhere.\nEven the pollarded trees on the hospital green had sprouted\nflamboyant hands of\nleaves since I’d last been outside, three weeks before.\nA lovely day, for sure, but somehow I couldn’t reconcile life as usual\nwith my\ncreeping feeling that all was not well. Was it paranoia—or was\nanother shoe\nabout to drop?\nCat’s green Subaru Forester cruised around the elliptical driveway at\nthe\nhospital entrance, and I could see my nieces waving their hands and\nbouncing up\nand down in the backseat. Once I strapped into the passenger seat,\nmy mood\nlifted. I even started singing, “What a day for a daydream —”“Aunt Lindsay, I didn’t know you could sing,” six-year-old Brigid piped\nup from\nthe backseat.\n“Sure I can. I played my guitar and sang my way through college,\ndidn’t I, Cat?”\n“We used to call her Top Forty,” said my sister. “She was like a\nhuman jukebox.”\n“What’s a joooot box?” asked Meredith, age two and a half.\nWe laughed and I explained, “It’s like a giant CD player that plays\nrecords,”\nand then I explained what records were, too.\nI rolled down the window and let the breeze blow back my long\nyellow hair as we\ndrove east on Twenty-second Street toward the rows of pretty pastel\ntwo- and\nthree-story Victorian houses that stair-stepped up and across the\nridgeline of\nPotrero Hill.\nCat asked me about my plans, and I gave her a big wide-open\nshrug. I told her I\nwas benched pending the IAB investigation of the shooting and that\nI had a whole\npile of “injured on duty” time I might put to good use. Clean out my\nclosets.Sort out those shoe boxes full of old photos.\n“Here’s a better idea. Stay at our house and recuperate,” Cat said.\n“We’re off\nto Aspen in another week. Use the house, please! Penelope would\nlove your\ncompany.”\n“Who’s Penelope?”\nThe little girls giggled behind me.\n“Whooooooo’s Penelope?”\n“She’s our friend,” they chorused.\n“Let me think about it,” I said to my sister as we turned left onto\nMississippi\nand pulled up to the blue Victorian apartment house I called home.\nCat was helping me out of the car when Cindy loped down the front\nsteps with\nSweet Martha running in front of her.\nMy euphoric doggy almost knocked me over, licking me and woofing\nso loudly I\nonly hoped Cindy heard me thank her for taking care of my girl.\nI waved good-bye to everyone and was bumping up the stairs\nfantasizing about a\nhot soak in my shower and a long sleep in my own bed, when the\ndoorbell rang.“Okay, okay,” I grumbled. My guess? I was getting flowers.\nI clumped down the stairs again and flung open the door. A young\nstranger\nwearing khakis and a Santa Clara sweatshirt stood at the threshold\nwith an\nenvelope in hand. I didn’t believe his cheese-eating smile for a\nsecond.\n“Lindsay Boxer?”\n“Nope. Wrong address,” I said perkily. “I think she lives over on\nKansas.”\nThe young man grinned steadily—and I heard the clatter of that\nother shoe\ndropping.\nChapter 13\n“KILL,” I SAID TO Martha. She looked up at me and wagged her tail.\nTrained\nborder collies respond to many commands, but “Kill” isn’t one of\nthem. I took\nthe envelope from the kid, who backed away with his hands in the\nair. I slammed\nthe door shut with my cane.\nUpstairs in my apartment, I took what was clearly a legal notice out\nto theglass-and-tubular-steel table on my terrace, which had a staggering\nview of San\nFrancisco Bay. I carefully eased my sorry butt into a chair.\nMartha settled her head onto my good thigh, and I stroked her as I\nstared out\nacross the hypnotic swells of glinting water.\nThe minutes ticked by, and when I couldn’t stand it any longer, I\nopened the\nenvelope and unfolded the document.\nLegalese jumped all around the “writ, summons, and complaint” as I\ntried to find\nthe point of it. It wasn’t that hard. Dr. Andrew Cabot was suing me\nfor\n“wrongful death, excessive use of force, and police misconduct.” He\nwas asking\nfor a preliminary hearing in a week’s time in order to attach my\napartment, my\nbank account, and any worldly goods I might attempt to hide before\nthe trial.\nCabot was suing me!\nI felt hot and cold at the same time as a sense of profound injustice\nroared\nthrough me. I replayed the whole scene again. Yes, I’d made a\nmistake bytrusting those kids, but excessive force? Police misconduct? Wrongful\ndeath?\nThose murdering kids had had guns.\nThey’d shot me and Jacobi while our weapons were holstered. I’d\nordered them to\ndrop their guns before I returned fire! Jacobi was my witness. This\nwas a\nclear-cut case of self-defense. Crystal clear!\nBut I was still scared. No, actually I was petrified.\nI could see the headlines now. The public would set up a howl:\nsweet-faced\nlittle kids gunned down by a cop. The press would lap it up. I would\nbe\npilloried on Court TV.\nIn a minute or so, I would have to call Tracchio, get legal\nrepresentation,\nmarshal my forces. But I couldn’t do anything yet. I was frozen in\nmy chair,\nparalyzed by a growing notion that I’d forgotten something\nimportant.\nSomething that could really hurt me.\nChapter 14I WOKE UP IN a sweat, having thrashed my Egyptian cotton sheets\nto a fine froth.\nI took a couple of Tylenol for the pain and a sky blue Valium the\nshrink had\ngiven me, then I stared at the pattern the streetlights cast on the\nceiling.\nI rolled carefully onto my uninjured side and looked at the clock:\n12:15. I’d\nonly been asleep for an hour and I had the feeling I was in for a\nreally long\nnight.\n“Martha. Here, girl.”\nMy pal jumped onto the bed and settled into the fetal hollow I made\nwith my\nbody. In a minute, her legs twitched as she herded sheep in her\nsleep while my\nbrain continued to churn with Tracchio’s new neatly hedged version\nof “Don’t\nworry about nothin’.”\nTo wit:\n“You’re gonna need two attorneys, Boxer. Mickey Sherman will\nrepresent you on\nbehalf of the SFPD, but you’ll need your own lawyer to defend you in\ncase . . .well, in case you’ve done something outside the scope of your job.”\n“Then what? I’m on my own?”\nI was hoping the drugs would tumble my mind off the hard edge of\nconsciousness\ninto the comfort of slumber, but it didn’t happen. Mentally, I ticked\noff the\nremains of the day, the meetings I’d set up with Sherman and my\nlawyer, a young\nwoman called Ms. Castellano. Molinari had recommended her highly\n—and it means\nsomething when you get a rave review from the deputy director of\nHomeland\nSecurity.\nOnce again I concluded that I was taking good care of myself, given\nthe\ncircumstances. But the coming week was going to be hell. I needed\nsomething to\nlook forward to.\nI thought of Cat’s house. I hadn’t been there since she had moved in\nright after\nher divorce two years ago, but the images of where she lived were\nunforgettable.\nOnly forty minutes south of San Francisco, Half Moon Bay was a little\nbit ofparadise. There was a crescent-shaped bay with a sandy beach,\nredwood forests,\nand a panoramic ocean view, and it was warm enough in June to\nrelax on Cat’s\nsunporch and bleach the ugly pictures from my brain.\nI simply couldn’t wait until morning. I called my sister at quarter to\none. Her\nvoice was husky with sleep.\n“Lindsay, of course I meant it. Come whenever you like. You know\nwhere the keys\nare.”\nI fixed my thoughts on Half Moon Bay, but every time I nodded off\ndreaming of\nparadise, I snapped awake, my heart racing like a cyclotron. Fact\nwas, my\nlooming court date had taken hold of my mind and I couldn’t think\nabout anything\nelse.\nChapter 15\nTHUNDERCLOUDS GRAZED THE ROOF of the Civic Center\nCourthouse at 400 McAllister,\nand a lashing rain soaked the streets. Having dispensed with my\ncane thismorning, I leaned against Mickey Sherman, attorney for the City of\nSan\nFrancisco, as we climbed the slick courthouse steps. I was leaning\non him in\nmore ways than one.\nWe passed Dr. Andrew Cabot and his lawyer, Mason Broyles, who\nwere giving an\ninterview to the press beneath a cluster of black umbrellas. The only\nblessing\nwas that there were no cameras pointed at me.\nI grabbed a quick look at Mason Broyles as we passed. He had\nhooded eyes,\nflowing black hair, and a wolfish curl to his lip. I heard him say\nsomething\nabout “Lieutenant Boxer’s savagery” and I knew he was going to gut\nme if he\ncould. As for Dr. Cabot, grief had turned his face to a mask of stone.\nMickey pulled open one of the heavy steel-and-etched-glass doors\nand we entered\nthe foyer of the courthouse. Mickey was a cool old hand, respected\nfor his\ndoggedness, street smarts, and considerable charm. He loathed\nlosing and rarely\ndid.“Look, Lindsay,” he said, furling his umbrella. “He’s grandstanding\nbecause we\nhave a great case. Don’t let him get to you. You have a lot of friends\nout\nthere.”\nI nodded, but I was thinking about how I’d put Sam Cabot in a\nwheelchair for\nlife and his sister in the Cabot family plot for eternity. Their father\ndidn’t\nneed my apartment or my pathetic little bank account. He wanted to\ndestroy me.\nAnd he’d hired just the guy to do it.\nMickey and I took the back stairs and slipped into courtroom C on\nthe second\nfloor. In a few minutes it was all going to happen inside this small,\nplain room\nwith gray-painted walls and a window looking out onto an alley.\nI’d stuck an SFPD pin in the lapel of my navy blue suit so I’d look as\nofficial\nas possible without wearing a uniform. As I took a seat beside him, I\nreviewed\nMickey’s instructions: “When Broyles questions you, don’t give long\nexplanations. ‘Yes, sir; no, sir.’ That’s it. He’s going to try to provoke\nyouto show that you’ve got a quick temper and that’s why you pulled\nthe trigger.”\nI had never thought of myself as an angry person, but I was angry\nnow. It had\nbeen a good shoot. A good shoot! The DA had cleared me! And now\nI felt like a\ntarget again. As the rows of seats filled with spectators, I was\nconscious of\nthe chatter building behind me.\nThat’s the cop who shot the kids. That’s her.\nSuddenly there was a reassuring hand on my shoulder. I turned, and\nmy eyes\nwatered when I saw Joe. I put my hand over his, and at the same\ntime my eyes\ncaught those of my other lawyer, a young Japanese American\nwoman with the\nunlikely name of Yuki Castellano. We exchanged hellos as she took\nher place\nbeside Mickey.\nThe rumble in the courtroom cut out suddenly as the bailiff called\nout, “All\nrise.”\nWe stood as Her Honor Rosa Algierri took the bench. Judge Algierri\ncould dismissthe complaint and I could walk out of the courtroom, heal my body\nand soul,\nresume my life. Or she could send the case forward and I’d be facing\na trial\nthat could cost me everything I cared about.\n“You okay, Lindsay?”\n“Never better,” I said to Mickey.\nHe caught the sarcasm and touched my hand. A minute later, my\nheart started\nhammering. Mason Broyles rose to make his case against me.\nChapter 16\nCABOT’S LAWYER SHOT HIS cuffs and stood silently for so long you\ncould’ve\ntwanged the tension in the room like a guitar string. Someone in the\ngallery\ncoughed nervously.\n“The plaintiff calls chief medical examiner Dr. Claire Washburn,” said\nBroyles\nat last, and my best friend took the stand for the plaintiffs.\nI wanted to wave, smile, wink—something—but of course all I could\ndo was watch.\nBroyles warmed up with a few easy lobs across the plate, but from\nthen on, itwas fastballs and knuckle curves all the way.\n“On the evening of May tenth did you perform an autopsy on Sara\nCabot?” Broyles\nasked.\n“I did.”\n“What can you tell us about her injuries?”\nAll eyes were fixed on Claire as she flipped through a leather-bound\nnotepad\nbefore speaking again.\n“I found two gunshot wounds to the chest pretty close together.\nGunshot wound A\nwas a penetrating gunshot wound situated on the left upper/outer\nchest six\ninches below the left shoulder and two and a half inches left of the\nanterior\nmidline.”\nClaire’s testimony was crucial, but still my mind drifted out of the\ncourtroom\nand into the past. I saw myself standing in a dusky patch of\nstreetlight on\nLarkin Street. I watched Sara take her gun out of her jacket and\nshoot me. I\nfell, rolled into a prone position.“Drop your gun!”\n“Fuck you, bitch.”\nI fired my gun twice, and Sara fell only yards from where I lay. I’d\nkilled that\ngirl, and although I was innocent of the charges against me, my\nconscience was\nguilty, guilty, guilty.\nI listened to Claire’s testimony as she described the second shot,\nwhich had\ngone through Sara’s sternum.\n“It’s what we call a K-five,” said Claire. “It went through the\npericardial sac,\ncontinued on through the heart, and terminated in thoracic vertebra\nnumber four,\nwhere I retrieved a semijacketed copper-colored, partially deformed,\nmedium-size\nprojectile.”\n“Is this consistent with a nine-millimeter bullet?”\n“It is.”\n“Thank you, Dr. Washburn. I’m finished with this witness, Your\nHonor.”\nMickey put his hands flat on the defense table and came to his feet.\n“Dr. Washburn, did Sara Cabot die instantly?”“I’d say so. Within a heartbeat or two. Both of those gunshot\nwounds perforated\nthe heart.”\n“Uh-huh. And, Doctor, had the deceased recently fired a gun?”\n“Yes. I saw some darkening at the base of her index finger that\nwould be\nconsistent with cylinder flare.”\n“How do you know that that’s gunshot residue?”\n“The way you know your mother’s your mother,” Claire said, her eyes\ntwinkling.\n“Because that’s what she looks like.” She paused for the laughter to\nsubside,\nthen she continued. “Besides which, I photographed that smudging,\ndocumented it,\nand did a gunshot wound residue test, which was submitted to the\nlaboratory and\ncame back positive.”\n“Could the deceased have shot Lieutenant Boxer after she herself\nwas shot?”\n“I don’t see how a dead girl could shoot anyone, Mr. Sherman.”\nMickey nodded. “Did you also note the trajectory of those gunshot\nwounds, Dr.\nWashburn?”“I did. They were fired upward at angles of forty-seven and forty-\nnine degrees.”\n“So to be absolutely clear, Doctor, Sara Cabot shot Lieutenant Boxer\nfirst—and\nthe lieutenant returned fire upward from where she lay on the\nground.”\n“In my opinion, yes, that’s how it happened.”\n“Would you call that ‘excessive force’ or ‘wrongful death’ or ‘police\nmisconduct’?”\nThe judge sustained Broyles’s outraged objection. Mickey thanked\nClaire and\ndismissed her. He was smiling as he came toward me. My muscles\nrelaxed, and I\neven returned Mickey’s smile. But the hearing was just beginning.\nI felt a shock of fear when I saw the look in Mason Broyles’s eyes.\nYou could\nonly describe it as anticipatory. He couldn’t wait to get his next\nwitness on\nthe stand.\nChapter 17\n“PLEASE STATE YOUR NAME,” Broyles said to a petite brunette\nwoman in her early\nthirties.“Betty D’Angelo.”\nHer dark eyes behind her large horn-rimmed glasses darted quickly\nover to me,\nthen back to Broyles again. I looked at Mickey Sherman and\nshrugged. To the best\nof my knowledge, I’d never seen this woman before.\n“And what is your position?”\n“I’m a registered nurse at San Francisco General.”\n“Were you on duty in the ER on the evening and night of May\ntenth?”\n“I was.”\n“Did you have occasion to take blood from the defendant, Lindsay\nBoxer?”\n“Yes.”\n“And why was blood drawn?”\n“We were prepping her for surgery, for extraction of the bullets and\nso on. It\nwas a life-threatening situation. She was losing a lot of blood.”\n“Yeah, I know, I know,” Broyles said, batting away her comment like\na housefly.\n“Tell us about the blood test.”\n“It’s normal procedure to take blood. We had to match her up for\ntransfusions.”“Ms. D’Angelo, I’m looking at Lieutenant Boxer’s medical report from\nthat night.\nIt’s quite a voluminous report.” Broyles plopped a fat stack of paper\non the\nwitness stand and stabbed at it with a forefinger. “Is this your\nsignature?”\n“Yes.”\n“I’d like you to look at this highlighted line right here.”\nThe witness tossed her head as if she smelled something bad.\nEmergency room\nstaff often felt part of the cop team and would try to protect us. I\ndidn’t get\nit, but this nurse plainly wanted to duck Broyles’s questions.\n“Can you tell me what this is?” Broyles asked the witness.\n“This? You mean the ETOH?”\n“That stands for ethyl alcohol content, is that right?”\n“Yes. That’s what it stands for.”\n“What does .067 mean?”\n“Ahh . . . That means the blood alcohol level was sixty-seven\nmilligrams per\ndeciliter.”\nBroyles smiled and lowered his voice to a purr. “In this case it refers\nto theblood alcohol level in Lieutenant Boxer’s system, doesn’t it?”\n“Well, yes, that’s correct.”\n“Ms. D’Angelo, .067—that’s drunk, isn’t that right?”\n“We do refer to it as ‘under the influence,’ but—”\n“Yes or no?”\n“Yes.”\n“I have nothing further,” said Broyles.\nI felt like my head had been struck with a sledgehammer. My God,\nthose fucking\nmargaritas at Susie’s.\nI felt the blood drain from my face and I almost fainted.\nMickey turned to me, the expression on his face demanding: Why\ndidn’t you tell\nme?\nI looked at my attorney, openmouthed and absolutely sick with\nremorse.\nI could hardly bear Mickey’s look of incredulity as, armed with\nnothing but his\nwits, he leaped to his feet and approached the witness.\nChapter 18THERE WERE ONLY TWELVE rows of seats in courtroom C in the San\nFrancisco Civic\nCenter Courthouse and no jury box. It would have been hard to find\na courtroom\nmore intimate than this one. I don’t think anyone breathed during\nMickey’s walk\nto the witness stand.\nHe greeted Ms. D’Angelo, who looked relieved to be off the hot seat\nMason\nBroyles had fired up for her.\n“I only have a couple of questions,” he said. “It’s common practice to\nuse ethyl\nalcohol swabs to clean the wounds, isn’t it? Couldn’t that alcohol\nhave been\nconfused with the blood alcohol?”\nBetty D’Angelo looked as though she wanted to cry. “Well, we use\nBetadine to\nswab the wounds. We don’t use alcohol.”\nMickey brushed off the response and turned to the judge. He asked\nfor a recess\nand it was granted. The reporters bolted for the doors, and in the\nrelative\nprivacy, I apologized with all my heart.“I feel like a real schmuck,” he said, not unkindly. “I saw that\nmedical report\nand I didn’t notice the ETOH.”\n“I just completely forgot until now,” I said. “I must have blanked it\nout.”\nI told Mickey that I had been off duty when Jacobi called me at\nSusie’s. I told\nhim what I had had to drink and that if I wasn’t flat-out straight\nwhen I got\ninto the car, the adrenaline rush of the chase had been completely\nsobering.\n“You usually have a couple of drinks with dinner?” Mickey asked me.\n“Yes. A few times a week.”\n“Well, there you go. Drinks at dinner were an ordinary occurrence\nfor you, and\n.067 is borderline, anyway. Then comes a major trauma. You were\nshot. You were\nin pain. You coulda died. You killed someone—and that’s what you’ve\nbeen\nobsessing about. Half of all shooting victims block out the incident\nentirely.\nYou’ve done fine, considering what you’ve been through.”\nI let out a sigh. “What now?”“Well, at least we know what they have. Maybe they’ll put Sam\nCabot on the\nstand, and if they give me a chance at that little bastard, we’ll come\nout on\ntop.”\nThe courtroom filled once more, and Mickey went to work. A\nballistics expert\ntestified that the slugs taken from my body matched those fired from\nSara\nCabot’s gun, and we had Jacobi’s videotaped deposition from his\nhospital bed. He\nwas my witness on the scene.\nAlthough in obvious pain from his gut wound, Jacobi testified about\nthe night of\nMay 10. First, he described the car crash.\n“I was calling for an ambulance when I heard the shots,” he said. “I\nturned and\nsaw Lieutenant Boxer go down. Sara Cabot shot her twice, and\nBoxer didn’t have a\ngun in her hand. Then the boy shot me with a revolver.” Jacobi’s\nhand gingerly\nspanned his taped torso.\n“That’s the last I remember before the lights went out.”Jacobi’s account was good, but it wouldn’t be enough to overturn\nthe margaritas.\nOnly one person could help me now. I was wearing her clothes,\nsitting in her\nchair. I was queasy and my wounds throbbed. I honestly didn’t know\nif I could\nsave myself or if I would make everything worse.\nMy lawyer turned his warm brown eyes on me.\nSteady, Lindsay.\nI wobbled to my feet as I heard my name echo through the\ncourtroom.\nMickey Sherman had called me to the stand.\nChapter 19\nI’D BEEN A WITNESS dozens of times during my career, but this was\nthe first time\nI’d had to defend myself. All my years of protecting the public, and\nnow I had a\nbull’s-eye on my back. I was raging inside, but I couldn’t let it show.\nI got to my feet, swore to God on an old worn Bible, and placed my\nfate in the\nhands of my attorney.\nMickey cut straight to the chase. “Lindsay, were you drunk on the\nnight of Maytenth?”\nThe judge broke in: “Mr. Sherman, please don’t address your client\nby her first\nname.”\n“Okay. Lieutenant, were you drunk that night?”\n“No.”\n“Okay, let’s back up. Were you on duty that night?”\n“No. My shift was over at five p.m.”\nMickey took me through the events of that night in excruciating\ndetail, and I\ntold it all. I described the drinks I’d had at Susie’s and told the court\nabout\ngetting the call from Jacobi. I stated that I’d told Jacobi the truth\nwhen I’d\nsaid that I was good to go along that night.\nWhen Mickey asked why I’d responded to the call when I was off\nduty, I said,\n“I’m a cop twenty-four hours a day. When my partner needs me, I’m\nthere.”\n“Did you locate the car in question?” Mickey asked me.\n“We did.”\n“And what happened then?”“The car took off at high speed, and we chased it. Eight minutes\nlater, the car\nwent out of control and crashed.”\n“After the crash, when you saw that Sara and Sam Cabot were in\nmedical distress,\nwere you afraid of them?”\n“No. They were kids. I figured they’d stolen the car or made some\nother bad\ndecision. Happens every day.”\n“So what did you do?”\n“Inspector Jacobi and I put away our guns and tried to render aid.”\n“At what point did you pull out your gun again?”\n“After Inspector Jacobi and I had both been shot and after warning\nthe suspects\nto drop their weapons.”\n“Thank you, Lindsay. I have no further questions.”\nI reviewed my testimony and gave myself a passing grade. I looked\nacross the\nroom and saw Joe smile and nod even as Mickey turned away from\nme.\n“Your witness,” he said to Mason Broyles.\nChapter 20A SILENCE STRETCHED BETWEEN me and Broyles, who sat staring\nat me for so long I\nwanted to scream. It was an old interrogator’s trick and he had\nperfected it.\nVoices rippled across the small gray room until the judge banged her\ngavel and\njolted Broyles into action.\nI looked straight into his eyes as he approached.\n“Tell us, Lieutenant Boxer, what are the proper police procedures for\na felony\nstop?”\n“Approach with guns drawn, get the suspects out of their car, disarm\nthem, cuff\nthem, get the situation safely under control.”\n“And is that what you did, Lieutenant?”\n“We did approach with guns drawn, but the occupants couldn’t get\nout of the car\nwithout assistance. We put our guns away in order to free them\nfrom the\nvehicle.”\n“You violated police procedures, didn’t you?”\n“We had an obligation to render aid.”“Yes, I know. You were trying to be kind to the ‘kids.’ But you’re\nadmitting\nthat you didn’t follow police procedures, correct?”\n“Look, I made a mistake,” I blurted. “But those kids were bleeding\nand vomiting.\nThe car could’ve caught fire —”\n“Your Honor?”\n“Please limit your answers to the question, Lieutenant Boxer.”\nI sat back hard in the chair. I’d seen Broyles operate many times\nbefore in the\ncourtroom and recognized his genius for finding his opponent’s\npressure point.\nHe’d just fingered mine.\nI was still blaming myself for not cuffing those kids, and Jacobi, with\nmore\nthan twenty years on the force, had been suckered, too. But Christ,\nyou can only\ndo what you can do.\n“I’ll rephrase that,” Broyles said offhandedly. “Do you always try to\nfollow\npolice procedures?”\n“Yes.”\n“So what’s the police policy about being intoxicated on the job?”“Objection,” Mickey shouted, leaping to his feet. “There’s evidence\nthat the\nwitness had been drinking, but there’s no evidence that she was\nintoxicated.”\nBroyles smirked and turned his back to me. “I have nothing further,\nYour Honor.”\nI felt huge wet circles under my arms. I stepped down from the\nwitness stand,\nforgetting about my leg injury until the pain called it sharply to my\nattention.\nI limped back to my seat, feeling worse than I had before.\nI turned to Mickey, who smiled his encouragement, but I knew the\nsmile was fake.\nHis brow was corrugated with worry.\nChapter 21\nI WAS SHAKEN BY the way Mason Broyles had flipped the events of\nMay 10 and\nplaced the blame on me. He was good at his job, that slime, and it\ntook all my\nstrength to park my face in neutral and sit calmly as Broyles made\nhis closing\nargument.\n“Your Honor,” he said, “Sara Cabot is dead because Lindsay Boxer\nkilled her. AndSam Cabot, age thirteen, is in a wheelchair for life. The defendant\nadmits that\nshe didn’t follow proper police procedures. Granted, there may have\nbeen some\nmisdoing on the part of my clients, but we don’t expect juveniles to\nexercise\ngood judgment. Police officers, however, are trained to deal with all\nmanner of\ncrises, and the defendant couldn’t handle a crisis, because she was\ndrunk.\n“Simply put, if Lieutenant Boxer had properly performed the duties\nof her job,\nthis tragedy wouldn’t have occurred and we wouldn’t be here today.”\nBroyles’s speech outraged me, but I had to admit he was persuasive\nand had I\nbeen sitting in the gallery instead of the dock, I might have seen it\nhis way.\nBy the time Mickey stood to mount his closing argument, my blood\nwas pounding so\nhard in my ears it was as though a rock band were jamming inside\nmy head.\n“Your Honor, Lieutenant Lindsay Boxer didn’t put loaded guns into\nthe hands of\nSara and Samuel Cabot,” Mickey said, his voice ringing with\nindignation. “Theydid that themselves. They shot unarmed police officers without\nprovocation, and\nmy client returned fire in pure self-defense. The only thing she’s\nguilty of is\nbeing too kind to citizens who showed her no kindness in return.\n“In all fairness, Your Honor, this suit should be dismissed and this\nfine\nofficer allowed to return to her duties without blame or blemish to\nher\ndistinguished service record.”\nMickey finished his summation sooner than I had expected. A gap\nopened behind\nhis last ringing words, and my fear poured in. As he sat down beside\nme, the\ncourtroom filled with slight mouselike stirrings: papers rustling, the\nclicking\nof laptop keys, bodies shifting in their chairs.\nI gripped Mickey’s hand under the table and I even prayed. Dear\nGod, let her\ndismiss the charges, please.\nThe judge pushed her glasses up onto the bridge of her nose, but I\ncouldn’t read\nher face. When she spoke, she did so concisely and in a weary tone.“I believe the defendant did everything she could to salvage a\nsituation gone\nhorribly wrong,” said Judge Algierri. “But the alcohol bothers me. A\nlife has\nbeen lost. Sara Cabot is dead. There’s enough evidence here to\nmerit sending\nthis case to a jury.”\nChapter 22\nI WENT RIGID WITH shock as the trial date was set for a few weeks\nin the future.\nEveryone stood as the judge left the courtroom, then the mob closed\nin around\nme. I saw blue uniforms at the edge of the throng, eyes not quite\nmeeting mine,\nand then clumps of microphones were pushed up to my face. I still\nheld Mickey’s\nhand.\nWe should have gotten a dismissal.\nWe should have won.\nMickey helped me to my feet, and I followed him as he cut through\nthe crowd.\nJoe’s hand was on the small of my back as the three of us and Yuki\nCastellanoexited the courtroom and made for the stairs. We stopped in the\nground-floor\nstairwell.\n“When you walk outside, hold your head up,” Mickey advised me.\n“When they\nscream, ‘Why did you kill that girl?’ just walk slowly to the car. Don’t\nsmile,\ndon’t smirk, and don’t let the media beat you. You did nothing\nwrong. Go home\nand don’t answer your phone. I’ll stop by your house later.”\nThe rain had ended by the time we stepped out of the courthouse\ninto the dull\nlate afternoon. I shouldn’t have been shocked to see that hundreds\nof people had\ngathered outside the courthouse to see the cop who’d shot and\nkilled a teenage\ngirl.\nMickey and Yuki split away from us to address the press, and I knew\nthat\nMickey’s thoughts were turning now to how he was going to defend\nthe SFPD and\nthe City of San Francisco.\nJoe and I walked through the jostling, yelling crowd toward the alley\nwhere thecar was waiting. I heard a chant, “Child killer, child killer,” and\nquestions\nwere lobbed at me like stones.\n“What were you thinking, Lieutenant?”\n“How did you feel when you shot those kids?”\nI knew the faces of the television reporters: Carlos Vega, Sandra\nDunne, Kate\nMorley, all of whom had interviewed me when I’d been a witness for\nthe\nprosecution. I did my best to ignore them now and to look past the\nrolling\ncameras and the jouncing placards reading Guilty of Police Brutality.\nI kept my eyes focused just ahead and my steps matching Joe’s until\nwe reached\nthe black sedan.\nAs soon as the doors thunked closed, the driver put the car into\nreverse and\nbacked out fast onto Polk Street. Then he wheeled the car around\nand pointed it\ntoward Potrero Hill.\n“He murdered me in there,” I said to Joe once we were under way.\n“The judge saw you, saw the kind of person you are. It’s too bad\nshe felt shehad to do what she did.”\n“Cops are watching me, Joe, cops who work for me and who expect\nme to do the\nright thing. I’m supposed to keep their respect after this?”\n“Lindsay, the right-minded people in this city are rooting for you.\nYou’re a\ngood person, damn it, and a fine cop.”\nJoe’s words got to me in a way that Mason Broyles’s vicious barbs\nhad not. I put\nmy head on his nice blue shirt and let the pent-up tears come as he\nheld and\ncomforted me.\n“I’m okay,” I said at last. I mopped up with the hankie he offered\nme. “It’s my\nhay fever. A high pollen count always makes me weep.”\nMolinari laughed and gave me a good hug as the car climbed\nhomeward. We crossed\nTwentieth Street, and the staggered rows of pastel Victorian houses\ncame into\nview.\n“I’d quit my job right now,” I said, “but that would only make it look\nlike I’m\nguilty.”“Those murdering kids, Lindsay. No jury’s going to find in their favor.\nThere’s\njust no way.”\n“Promise?”\nJoe squeezed me again, but he didn’t answer. I knew that he\nbelieved in me\ncompletely, but he wouldn’t make a promise that he couldn’t keep.\n“You going back right now?” I asked at last.\n“I wish I didn’t have to. But yeah, I have to go.”\nJoe’s work for the government rarely allowed him to break away to\nbe with me.\n“Someday I’ll have a life,” he said tenderly.\n“Yeah. Me, too.”\nTrue? Or a dumb fantasy? I put my head back on Joe’s shoulder. We\nheld hands and\nsavored what could have been our last moments together for weeks,\nnot speaking\nagain until we kissed and murmured good-byes at my doorstep.\nUpstairs in the quiet of my apartment, I realized how emotionally\ndepleted I\nwas. My muscles ached from holding myself together, and there was\nno relief insight. Instead of freeing me from this assault on my reputation and\nmy belief in\nmyself, the hearing had only been a dress rehearsal for another trial.\nI felt like a tiring swimmer way out past the breakers. I got into my\nbig soft\nbed with Martha, pulled the blankets up to my chin, and let sleep roll\nover me\nlike a thick fog.\nChapter 23\nA SHAFT OF EARLY-MORNING sunlight split the clouds as I tossed a\nlast suitcase\ninto the back of the car, strapped in, and backed the Explorer out of\nmy\ndriveway. I was hot to get out of town and so was Martha, who had\nher head out\nthe passenger-side window and was already creating quite a breeze\nwith her\nwagging tail.\nThe stop-and-go rush hour traffic was typical for a weekday, so I\npointed the\nExplorer in a southerly direction and used the time to replay my last\nbrief talk\nwith Chief Tracchio.“If it were me, I’d get the hell out of here, Boxer,” he’d told me.\n“You’re on\nrestricted duty, so call it vacation time and get some rest.”\nI understood what he wasn’t saying. While my case was pending, I\nwas an\nembarrassment to the department.\nGet lost?\nYes, sir, Chief. No problem, sir.\nAgitated thoughts bounced around inside my skull about the\npreliminary hearing\nand my fears concerning the upcoming trial.\nThen I thought about my sister, Cat, putting out the welcome mat\nand how lucky\nthat was for me.\nWithin twenty minutes I was heading southbound on Highway 1, the\nopen road\ncutting through thirty-foot-tall boulders. The waves of the Pacific\npounded the\nrocky incline to my right, and great green mountains rose high on\nmy left.\n“Hey, Boo,” I said, calling my dog by her pet name. “This is what’s\ncalled a\nvacation. Can you say va-ca-tion?”Martha turned her sweet face and gave me a loving brown-eyed\nlook, then put her\nnose back into the wind and resumed her joyous surveillance of the\ncoastal\nroute. She’d gotten with the program, and now I had to do the\nsame.\nI’d brought along a few things to help me do just that: about a half\ndozen books\nI’d been wanting to read; my screwball-comedy videos; and my\nguitar, an old\nSeagull acoustic that I’d strummed sporadically for twenty years.\nAs sunshine brightened the road, I found my mood lightening. It\nwas a stunning\nday and it was all mine. I turned on the radio and fiddled with the\ndial until I\nfound a station in the thick of a rock and roll revival.\nThe disk jockey was practically reading my mind, spinning hits of the\nseventies\nand eighties, sending me back to my childhood and to my college\ndays and\nmemories of a hundred nights with my all-girl band jamming in bars\nand\ncoffeehouses.\nIt was June once again, and school was out—maybe for good.I turned up the volume.\nThe music took me over, and my lungs filled as I sang LA dude rock\nand other\nhits of the times. I crooned “Hotel California” and “You Make Loving\nFun,” and\nwhen Springsteen bellowed “Born to Run,” I was pounding the\nsteering wheel,\nfeeling the body and soul of the song out to the ends of my hair.\nI even egged Martha on, getting her to howl along with Jackson\nBrowne’s “Running\non Empty.”\nAnd that’s when it dawned on me.\nI really was running on empty. The little blinking gas light was\nfrantically\nsignaling that my tank was dry.\nChapter 24\nI COASTED INTO A filling station right inside the limits of Half Moon\nBay. It\nwas an indie that had somehow avoided takeover by the oil\nconglomerates, a\nrustic place with a galvanized-steel canopy over the tanks and a\nhand-lettered\nsign over the office door: Man in the Moon Garage.A sandy-haired guy looking to be in his late twenties wiped his\nhands on a rag\nand approached as I got out of the car to work a cramp out of my\nbum leg.\nWe had a brief exchange about octane, then I headed toward the\nsoda machine in\nfront of the office. I looked around the side yard, a lot full of sticker\nweeds,\nteetering towers of worn-out tires, and a few beached old junkers.\nI’d just lifted a cold can of Diet Coke to my lips when I noticed a car\nin the\nshadows of the garage that made my heart do a little dance.\nIt was a bronze-colored ’81 Pontiac Bonneville, the twin of the car\nmy uncle\nDougie had owned when I was in high school. I wandered over and\npeered into the\npassenger compartment, then I looked under the open hood. The\nbattery was\nencrusted, and mice had eaten the spark plug wires, but to my eyes\nthe innards\nlooked clean.\nI had an idea.\nAs I handed my credit card to the gas station attendant, I pointed a\nthumb backover my shoulder and asked, “Is that old Bonneville for sale?”\n“She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” He grinned at me from under the bill of\nhis cap. He\nbalanced a clipboard against a denim thigh, ran the slider over my\ncard, then\nturned the sales slip around for me to sign.\n“My uncle bought a car like that the year it came out.”\n“No kidding? It’s a classic, all right.”\n“Does it run?”\n“It will. I’m working on it now. The tranny’s in good shape. Needs a\nnew starter\nmotor, alternator, a little this and a little that.”\n“Actually, I’d like to fool around with the engine myself. Kind of a\nproject,\nyou know?”\nThe gas station guy grinned again and seemed pleased by the idea.\nHe told me to\nmake him an offer, and I put up four fingers. He said, “You wish.\nThat car’s\nworth a thousand if it’s worth a nickel.”\nI held up the flat of my hand, five fingers waggling in the breeze.\n“Five hundred bucks is my limit for a pig in a poke.”The kid thought about it for a long moment, making me realize how\nmuch I wanted\nthat car. I was about to up the ante when he said, “Okay, but it’s ‘as\nis,’ you\nunderstand. No guarantees.”\n“You’ve got the manual?”\n“It’s in the glove box. And I’ll throw in a socket wrench and a couple\nof\nscrewdrivers.”\n“Deal,” I said.\nWe high-fived, low-fived, bopped our fists, and shook on it.\n“I’m Keith Howard, by the way.”\n“And I’m Lindsay Boxer.”\n“So, where am I delivering this heap, Lindsay?”\nIt was my turn to grin. Caveat emptor, indeed. I gave Keith my\nsister’s address\nand directions on how to get there.\n“Go up the hill, then turn onto Miramontes and then onto Sea View.\nIt’s a blue\nhouse on the right, second one in from the end of the road.”\nKeith nodded. “I’ll drop it by day after tomorrow, if that’s okay.”“Excellent,” I said, climbing back into the Explorer. Keith cocked his\nhead and\nflashed me a flirtatious look.\n“Don’t I know you from somewhere, Lindsay?”\n“No,” I said, laughing. “But nice try.” The gas station guy was coming\non to me!\nI was old enough to be his . . . big sister.\nThe kid laughed along with me.\n“Well, anyway, Lindsay. Call me anytime if you need me to bring over\nan engine\nhoist or whatever.”\n“Okay, I’ll do that,” I said, meaning just the opposite. But I was still\nsmiling\nas I honked the horn good-bye.\nChapter 25\nSEA VIEW AVENUE WAS a link in a looping chain of cul-de-sacs,\nseparated from the\ncurving arms of the bay by a quarter-mile stretch of dune grass. I\nopened the\ncar door, and as Martha bounded out, I was almost blown away by\nthe heady scent\nof rockroses and the fresh ocean breeze.I stood for a minute, taking in Cat’s cheery house, with its dormers\nand porches\nand sunflowers growing against the fence in the front yard, before\ntaking the\nkeys from the niche above the lintel and opening the door into my\nsister’s life.\nInside, Cat’s home was a comfy hodgepodge of overstuffed\nfurniture, crammed\nbookshelves, and gorgeous views of the bay from every room. I felt\nmy entire\nbody relax, and the idea of retiring from the force rose up in me\nagain.\nI could live in a place like this.\nI could get used to waking up in the morning thinking about life\ninstead of\ndeath.\nCouldn’t I?\nI opened the sliders to the back deck and saw a playhouse out in the\nyard. It\nwas painted dusky blue like the house itself and was fenced all\naround with\nwhite pickets. I made my way down the back steps right behind\nMartha, who was\nrunning with her head down low.I suspected that I was about to meet Penelope.\nChapter 26\nPENELOPE WAS A LARGE Vietnamese potbellied pig, all black and\nwhiskery. She\nwaddled over to me, huffing and snoodling, so I leaned over the\nfence and patted\nher head.\n“Hi, gorgeous,” I said.\nHi, Lindsay.\nThere was a note tacked to Penelope’s little bungalow, so I entered\nthe pen to\nget a better look at “The Pig House Rules,” as “written” by Penelope.\nDear Lindsay,\nThis note is all about me.\n1) I’d like a cup of pig chow twice a day and a clean bowl of water.\n2) I also like cherry tomatoes, Saltines with peanut butter, and\npeaches.\n3) Please come out and talk to me every day. I like riddles and the\ntheme songto SpongeBob SquarePants.\n4) In case of emergency, my vet is Dr. Monghil in town and my pig-\nsitters are\nCarolee and Allison Brown. Allison is one of my best friends. Their\nnumbers are\nby the kitchen phone.\n5) Don’t let me into the house, okay? I’ve been warned.\n6) If you scratch me under the chin, you can have three wishes.\nAnything you\nwant in the whole wide world.\nThe note was signed with big Xs and a pointy little hoofprint. The Pig\nHouse\nRules, indeed! Cat, you funny girl.\nI catered to Penelope’s immediate needs, then changed into clean\njeans and a\nlavender sweatshirt and took Martha and the Seagull out to the front\nporch. As I\nran through some chords, the fragrance of roses and the salty ocean\ntang sent my\nmind drifting back to the first time I’d come to Half Moon Bay.\nIt had been just about this time of year. The same beachy smell had\nbeen in theair, and I was working my first homicide case. The victim was a\nyoung man we’d\nfound savagely murdered in his room in the back of a sleazy\ntransient hotel in\nthe Tenderloin.\nHe had been wearing only a T-shirt and one white tube sock. His red\nhair was\ncombed, his blue eyes were wide open, and his throat had been\nslashed in a\ngaping grin stretching from ear to ear, nearly decapitating him.\nWhen we turned\nhim over, I saw that the skin on his buttocks had been flayed to\nribbons with\nsome kind of lash.\nWe’d tagged him John Doe #24, and at the time I fully believed that\nI’d find his\nkiller. John Doe’s T-shirt had come from the Distillery, a tourist\nrestaurant\nsituated in Moss Beach, just north of Half Moon Bay.\nIt was our only real clue—and although I’d combed this little town\nand the\nneighboring communities, the lead had gone nowhere.\nTen years later, John Doe #24 was still unidentified, unclaimed,\nunavenged bythe justice system, but he would never be just another cold-case file\nto me. It\nwas like a wound that ached when it rained.\nChapter 27\nI WAS ABOUT TO drive into town for dinner when the late-evening\nnewspaper landed\nwith a whomp on the lawn.\nI picked it up, shook out the folds, and felt the headline reach out\nand hook\nme: POLICE RELEASE PRIME SUSPECT IN CRESCENT HEIGHTS\nSLAYINGS.\nI read the article all the way through.\nWhen Jake and Alice Daltry were found slain in their house in\nCrescent Heights\non May 5, police chief Peter Stark announced that Antonio Ruiz had\nconfessed to\nthe crime. According to the chief today, the confession didn’t jibe\nwith the\nfacts. “Mr. Ruiz has been cleared of the charges against him,” said\nStark.\nWitnesses say Ruiz, 34, a maintenance worker for California Electric\nand Gas,couldn’t have been in the Daltrys’ house on the day of the murders\nbecause he\nwas working his shift in the plant in full view of his coworkers.\nMr. and Mrs. Daltry had their throats slashed. Police will not confirm\nthat the\nhusband and wife were tortured before they were killed.\nThe article went on to say that Ruiz, who’d done some handiwork for\nthe Daltrys,\nclaimed that his confession had been coerced. And Chief Stark was\nquoted again,\nstating that the police were “investigating other leads and suspects.”\nI felt a reflexive, visceral pull. “Investigating other leads and\nsuspects” was\ncode for “We’ve got squat,” and the cop in me wanted to know\neverything: the\nhow, the why, and especially the who. I already knew the where.\nCrescent Heights was one of the communities along Highway 1. It\nwas on the\noutskirts of Half Moon Bay—only five or six miles from where I was\nstanding.\nChapter 28GET IN AND OUT in under five minutes. Absolutely no more than\nfive.\nThe Watcher noted the exact time as he stepped out of his gray\npanel van onto\nOcean Colony Road. He was dressed as a meter man this morning:\ndun-colored\ncoveralls with a red-and-white patch over the right breast pocket. He\npulled\ndown the bill of his cap. Patted his pockets, feeling his folding knife\nin one,\nhis camera in the other. Picked up his clipboard and a tube of caulk,\ntucked\nthem under his arm.\nHis breathing quickened as he took the narrow footpath alongside\nthe O’Malleys’\nhouse. Then he stooped at one of the basement window wells,\nstretched latex\ngloves over his hands, and used a glass cutter and a suction cup to\nremove a\ntwenty-four-by-twenty-inch pane of glass.\nHe froze, waiting out the yipping of a neighbor’s dog, then slipped\nfeet first\ndown into the basement.\nHe was in. Not a problem.The basement stairs led up to an unlocked door to a kitchen filled\nwith deluxe\nappliances and a ridiculous excess of gadgets. The Watcher noted\nthe alarm code\nposted by the phone. Committed it to memory.\nThanks, Doc. You dummy.\nHe took out his small, excellent camera, preset to shoot in bursts of\nthree\nconsecutive shots, and pointed it around all sides of the room. Zzzt-\nzzzt-zzzt.\nZzzt-zzzt-zzzt.\nThe Watcher bounded up the stairs and found a bedroom door wide\nopen. He stood\nfor a moment in the doorway, taking in all the girly things: the four-\nposter\nbed, ruffles in lavender blue and creamy pink. Posters of Creed and\nendangered\nwildlife.\nCaitlin, Caitlin . . . what a sweet girl you are.\nHe pointed the camera at her vanity table, zzzt-zzzt-zzzt, capturing\nimages of\nlipsticks and perfume bottles, the open box of tampons. He sniffed\nthe girlyscents, ran his thumb across her hairbrush, pocketed a long strand\nof red gold\nhair from the bristles.\nLeaving the girl’s room, the Watcher entered the adjacent master\nbedroom. It was\ndraped in rich colors, redolent with the smell of potpourri.\nThere was a supersize plasma screen TV at the foot of the bed. The\nWatcher\npulled open the night table, rifled through it, and found a half dozen\npackets\nof photographs wrapped in rubber bands.\nHe undid one of the packets and fanned the photos out like a deck\nof cards. Then\nhe returned the packet and closed the drawer. He took a slow pan\naround the room\nwith his camera whirring.\nThat’s when he noticed the little glass eye, smaller than a shirt\nbutton,\nglittering from the closet door.\nHe felt a thrill of fear. Was he being taped?\nHe pulled open the closet door and found the video recorder on a\nshelf at the\nback wall. The on-off button was in the off position.The machine wasn’t recording.\nThe Watcher’s fear lifted. He was elated now. He panned his camera,\ncapturing\neach room on the second floor, every niche and surface, before\nheading down to\nhis basement exit. He’d been inside for four minutes and a few\nseconds.\nNow, outside the house, he ran a line of caulking along the window\nglass and\npressed it back into place. The caulk would hold until he was ready\nto enter the\nhouse again—and torture and kill them.\nChapter 29\nI OPENED CAT’S FRONT door, and Martha yanked on her lead,\npulling me into\nshocking sunshine. The beach was a short walk away, and we were\nheaded toward it\nwhen a black dog zoomed out of my peripheral vision and lunged at\nMartha—who\npulled free of my grasp and bolted.\nMy scream was cut short when something rammed me hard from\nbehind. I fell, and\nsomething, someone, piled on top of me. What the hell?I tore free of the tangle of flesh and metal and stood up, ready to\nswing.\nDamn! Some idiot had run me over with his bicycle. The guy\nstruggled to his\nfeet. He was twenty-something, with thinning hair and pink-framed\nglasses\nhanging from one ear.\n“So-phieee,” he yelled in the direction of the two dogs now barreling\ntoward the\nwater’s edge. “Sophie, NO!”\nThe black dog braked and looked back at the cyclist, who adjusted\nhis glasses\nand turned a worried look toward me.\n“I’m so s-s-sorry. You okay?” he asked. I felt him grappling with his\nstutter.\n“I’ll let you know in a minute,” I said, fuming. I limped down the\nstreet toward\nMartha, who was trotting toward me, ears back, looking whipped,\npoor thing.\nI ran my hands over her, checking for bites, hardly listening as the\ncyclist\nexplained that Sophie was just a puppy and didn’t mean any harm.\n“Look,” he said, “I’ll g-g-get my car and drive you to the hospital.”“What? No, I’m okay.” And Martha was fine, too. But I was still\npissed. I wanted\nto blast the guy, but, hey, accidents happen, right?\n“What about your leg?”\n“Don’t worry about it.”\n“If you’re sure . . . ?”\nThe bike guy leashed Sophie and introduced himself. “Bob Hinton,”\nhe said. “If\nyou need a good lawyer, here’s my card. And I’m really sorry.”\n“Lindsay Boxer,” I said, taking his card. “And I do need a good\nlawyer. Some guy\nwith a baby rottie ran over me with his Cannondale.”\nThe guy smiled nervously. “I’ve never seen you around here before.”\n“My sister, Catherine, lives there.” I pointed to the pretty blue house.\nThen,\nsince we were headed the same way, we all trooped off together\nalong the sandy\nfootpath that bisected the dune grass.\nI told Hinton that I was staying at my sister’s house while taking a\nfew weeks\noff from my job with the SFPD.\n“A cop, huh? You’ve come to the right place. All those murders that\nhavehappened around here.”\nI went hot and cold at the same time. My cheeks flamed, but my\ninsides turned to\nice. I didn’t want to think about murders around here. I wanted to\ndetox. Take\nmy R&R. And I certainly didn’t want to talk anymore with this\nblindsiding\nlawyer, although he seemed nice enough.\n“Listen, I’ve gotta go,” I said. I tightened Martha’s lead so that she\nwas\nbeside me and walked quickly on. “Take care,” I shot over my\nshoulder. “And try\nto watch where you’re going.”\nI clambered down the sandy cliff to the beach, distancing myself\nfrom Bob Hinton\nas quickly as possible.\nOut of sight. Out of mind.\nChapter 30\nTHE WATER WAS TOO cold for swimming, but I sat cross-legged\nnear the surf’s edge\nand stared out at the horizon where the aqua blue bay met the great\nrolling\nPacific.Martha was running along the curve of the beach, the sand spraying\nout behind\nher feet, and I was enjoying the warmth of the sun on my face when\nI felt\nsomething hard jab the back of my neck.\nI froze.\nI didn’t even take a breath.\n“You shot that girl,” a voice said. “You shouldn’t have done that.”\nAt first I didn’t recognize the voice. My mind spun, searching for a\nname, an\nexplanation, the right words to say. I reached my arm behind me so\nthat I could\ngrab the gun and I saw his face for a split second.\nI saw the hatred in his eyes. I saw his fear.\n“Don’t you move,” the boy shouted, jabbing the gun muzzle hard\nagainst my\nvertebrae. Sweat trickled down my sides. “You killed my sister. You\nkilled her\nfor nothing!”\nI remembered the empty look on Sara Cabot’s face when she fell.\n“I’m so sorry,” I said.\n“No, you’re not, but you will be. And guess what? Nobody cares.”You’re not supposed to hear the bullet that gets you, but that must\nbe a myth.\nThe booming report of the shot that drilled through my spine\nsounded like a\nbomb.\nI slumped over, paralyzed. I couldn’t speak and I couldn’t stop the\nflow of\nblood pulsing out of my body, ebbing into the cold water of the bay.\nBut how had it come to this? There was a reason that just eluded\nmy grasp.\nSomething I should have done.\nSlap the cuffs on them. I should have done that.\nThat’s what I was thinking when my eyes flew open.\nI was lying on my side, my fists full of sand. Martha was looking\ndown at me,\nbreathing on my face.\nSomebody cared.\nI sat up and reached my arms around her, buried my face in her\nneck.\nThe dream’s sticky sense clung to me. I didn’t need a PhD in\npsychology to know\nwhat it meant. I was churning in the violence of last month.\nStuck in it up to my eyeballs.“Everything’s fine,” I told Martha.\nLying my face off to my little dog.\nChapter 31\nWHILE MARTHA HERDED SHOREBIRDS, I sent my mind skyward\nand pretended that I was\ndrifting effortlessly, up there with the wheeling gulls. I was\nruminating on\nboth my recent past and my uncertain future when I leveled my\ngaze and saw him.\nMy heart lurched. His smile was bright, but his blue eyes were\nscrunched against\nthe glare.\n“Hi, gorgeous,” he said.\n“Oh, my God, look what the tide brought in.”\nI let him help me to my feet. We kissed, and I felt this sensational\nheat\nsearing my insides.\n“How’d you manage to get the day off?” I finally asked, squeezing\nhim hard.\n“You don’t understand. This is work. I’m scouring the coastline for\nterrorist\ninfiltration,” he cracked. “Ports and shorelines, that’s what I do.”“And here I thought your job was to pick out the day’s color alert.”\n“That, too,” he said. He flapped his tie at me. “See? Yellow.”\nI liked that Joe could josh about his job, because it would have been\ntoo\ndepressing otherwise. Our shoreline was extremely porous, and Joe\nsaw the holes.\n“Don’t tease,” he said, then we kissed again. “This is hard work.”\nI laughed. “All work, no play makes Joe a dull guy.”\n“Hey, I’ve got something for you,” he said as we walked together\nalong the\njetty. He pulled a packet of tissue paper out of his pocket and\nhanded it to me.\n“I wrapped it myself.”\nThe packet was sealed with Scotch tape, and Joe had penned a\nstring of Xs and Os\nwhere a ribbon would’ve been. I ripped open the tissue and poured\na bright\nsilver chain and a medallion into my palm.\n“It’s supposed to keep you safe,” Joe said.\n“Sweetie, it’s Kokopelli. How did you know?” I held the little disk\nlevel with\nmy eyes.\n“The Hopi pottery in your apartment kinda gave me a clue.”“I love it. What’s more, I need it,” I said, turning my back to him so\nhe could\nfasten the long silver chain around my neck.\nJoe swept the hair off my nape and kissed me just there. His lips,\nthe roughness\nof his cheek against that tender spot, sent a thrill through me. I\ngasped, then\nturned into his arms again. I liked it there a lot.\nI kissed him softly, and the kiss turned deeper and more urgent. I\nfinally\npulled away from him.\n“Let’s get you out of those clothes,” I said.\nChapter 32\nCAT’S GUEST BEDROOM WAS peach and gauzy with a double bed\nnext to the window.\nJoe’s jacket flew onto the chair, followed by his blue denim shirt and\nyellow\ntie.\nI lifted my arms, and he gently pulled my skimpy halter top over my\nhead. I took\nhis hands and pressed his palms to my breasts, and the warmth of\nhis touch mademe feel almost weightless. I was panting by the time my shorts hit\nthe floor.\nI watched from the bed as Joe finished undressing and climbed into\nbed beside\nme. God, he was a good-looking boy. Then I went into his arms.\n“I have something else for you, Lindsay,” Joe said. What he had was\nquite\napparent. I laughed into the crook of his neck.\n“Not just that,” Joe told me. “This.”\nI opened my eyes and saw that he was pointing to small letters\nclumsily written\non his chest with a ballpoint pen. He’d written my name over his\nheart.\nLindsay.\n“You’re funny,” I said with a smile.\n“No, I’m romantic,” said Joe.\nChapter 33\nIT WASN’T JUST ABOUT sex with Joe. He was too real and too good\na person for me\nto think of him as simply a hunk and a real good time. But I paid a\nterrible\nprice for feeling more. At times like this, when our jobs permitted,\nwe had anindescribable intimacy. Then morning came and Joe jetted back to\nWashington, and\nI didn’t know when I’d see him—or if it would ever feel this good—\nagain.\nIt’s been said that love finds you when you’re ready.\nWas I ready?\nThe last time I had loved a man so much, he’d died a terrible death.\nAnd what about Joe?\nHe’d been scalded by a divorce. Could he ever really trust again?\nRight now, as I was lying in his arms, my heart was divided between\ntaking down\nall of the walls and protecting myself against the wrenching pain of\nour\nimminent separation.\n“Where are you, Linds?”\n“Right here. I’m here.”\nI held Joe tightly, forcing myself back into the moment. We kissed\nand touched\nuntil being apart was unbearable and we joined together again, a\nperfect fit. I\nmoaned and told Joe how good he felt—how good he was.\n“I love you, Linds,” he murmured.I was saying his name and telling him that I loved him when waves\nof pleasure\novertook me and I allowed all of my scared, undermining thoughts\nto go away.\nWe held each other for a long time afterward, just catching our\nbreath, getting\na grip on our spinning world, when the doorbell rang.\n“Shit,” I said. “Pretend it’s not happening.”\n“Gotta get the door,” said Joe softly. “It could be for me.”\nChapter 34\nI CLIMBED OVER JOE’S body, threw his shirt on over my cutoffs, and\nwent to the\ndoor. An attractive fifty-ish woman was standing on the front porch\nwith an\nexpectant smile on her face. She was too hip in her tennis dress and\nLilly\nPulitzer sweater to be a Jehovah’s Witness, and she looked too\nsunny to be a\nfederal agent.\nShe introduced herself as Carolee Brown.\n“I live down on Cabrillo Highway, about a mile north of here. That\nblue\nVictorian with a lot of chain-link fencing.”“Sure. I know the place. A school, isn’t it?”\n“Yes, that’s the one.”\nI didn’t mean to be snappish, but I felt awkward standing there with\nmy\nbeard-roughened face and love-smushed hair.\n“What can I do for you, Ms. Brown?”\n“It’s Dr. Brown, actually, but please call me Carolee. Lindsay, right?\nMy\ndaughter and I help your sister out with Penelope. This is for you.”\nShe handed\nme a platter covered in aluminum foil.\n“Oh, Cat did mention you. I’m sorry. I’d invite you in, but —”\n“Don’t even think about it. I wasn’t paying a visit. Just being the\nCookie Lady.\nWelcome to Half Moon Bay.”\nI thanked Carolee, and we exchanged a few more words before she\nsaid good-bye\nand got into her car. I stooped to pick up the morning paper,\nglancing at the\nfront page on the way back to the bedroom. Sunny today, NASDAQ\ndown ten points,\nCrescent Heights murder investigation still going nowhere. It was\nnearlyimpossible to believe that people had been murdered in this lovely\nplace.\nI told Joe about the slayings, then peeled the dome of aluminum foil\noff the\nplatter.\n“Chocolate-chip,” I announced. “From the Cookie Lady.”\n“The Cookie Lady. Like the Easter Bunny?”\n“I guess. Something like that.”\nJoe was staring at me with that dreamy look of his.\n“You look great in that. My shirt.”\n“Thanks, big fella.”\n“You look even better out of it.”\nI grinned and put down the platter. Then I slowly unbuttoned Joe’s\nnice blue\nshirt and let it fall from my shoulders.\nChapter 35\n“I USED TO HAVE a pig like this one,” Joe said as we leaned over the\npigpen\nfence that evening.\n“Come on! You’re from Queens.”“There are backyards in Queens, Linds. Our pig’s name was\nAlphonse Pignole, and\nwe fed him pasta and sautéed escarole topped off with a hit of\nCinzano. Which he\nloved.”\n“You’re making this up!”\n“Nope.”\n“What happened to him?”\n“Ate him at one of our famous Molinari family pig roasts. With apple\nsauce.”\nJoe saw the look of disbelief on my face.\n“Okay, that part was a lie. When I went to college, Al got a great\nhome in\nupstate New York. Let me show you something.”\nHe reached for a rake that was leaning against the pig house, and\nPenelope began\ngrunting and woofling as soon as she saw it.\nJoe grunted and woofled right back.\n“Pig Latin,” he said, grinning over his shoulder.\nHe reached the rake over the fence and scratched Penelope’s back\nwith it. She\ndropped to her knees and with a pleasurable groan rolled over onto\nher back andstuck her legs in the air.\n“Your talents know no bounds,” I said. “By the way, I think you’re\nentitled to\nthree wishes.”\nChapter 36\nTHE WANING SUN WAS streaking the sky as Joe, Martha, and I had\nour dinner out on\nthe deck facing the bay. I’d used my mom’s barbecue sauce recipe\non the chicken,\nand we followed it up with a pint each of Cherry Garcia and Chunky\nMonkey.\nWe sat nestled together for hours, listening to the crickets and music\non the\nradio, watching the candle flames do the mambo in the soft, sultry\nbreeze.\nLater, we slept in snatches, waking up to reach for each other, to\nlaugh\ntogether, to make love. We ate chocolate-chip cookies, swapped\nmemories of our\ndreams, and fell back to sleep, our limbs entwined.\nAt dawn, Joe’s cell phone brought the rest of the world crashing\nback. Joe said,\n“Yes, sir. Will do,” and snapped the phone shut.He opened his arms and folded me back in. I reached up and kissed\nhis neck.\n“So. When is the car coming for you?”\n“Couple of minutes.”\nJoe didn’t exaggerate. I had 120 seconds to watch him dress in the\ndark room,\none lone ray of light slipping beneath the window shades to show\nme how sad he\nlooked as he left me.\n“Don’t get up,” Joe said as I pushed back the covers. He drew them\nup to my\nchin. He kissed me about eleven times: my lips, cheeks, eyes.\n“By the way, I got my three wishes.”\n“Which were?”\n“Not telling, but one of them was the Cherry Garcia.”\nI laughed. I kissed him.\n“Love you, Lindsay.”\n“Love you, too, Joe.”\n“I’ll call you.”\nI didn’t ask when.\nChapter 37THE THREE OF THEM gathered at the Coffee Bean early that\nmorning, settling into\ndeck chairs on the stone terrace, a wall of fog obscuring their view\nof the bay.\nThey were alone out there, conversing intensely, discussing murder.\nThe one called the Truth, wearing a black leather jacket and blue\njeans, turned\nto the others and said, “Okay. Run it by me again.”\nThe Watcher studiously read from his notebook, citing the times, the\nhabits, his\nconclusions about the O’Malleys.\nThe Seeker didn’t need to be sold. The family was his discovery and\nhe was gladthe Watcher’s investigation had confirmed his instincts. He began to\nwhistle the\nold blues standard “Crossroads”—until the Truth shot him a look.\nThe Truth had a slight build but a weighty presence.\n“You make good points,” said the Truth. “But I’m not convinced.”\nThe Watcher became agitated. He pulled at the collar of his\ncrewneck sweater,\nriffled through the photographs. He stabbed the close-ups with his\nfinger,\ncircled details with his pen.\n“It’s a good beginning,” said the Seeker, coming to the Watcher’s\ndefense.\nThe Truth waved a hand, a dismissive gesture. “Don’t jerk me\naround. Get me the\ngoods.” Then, “Let’s order.”\nThe waitress named Maddie pranced out onto the terrace in skinny\nhip-huggers and\na tank top that exposed a smooth expanse of tummy.\n“That’s what I call a belly-blinker,” said the Seeker, his charm\novershadowed by\nthe hunger in his eyes.\nMaddie gave him a wan smile before refilling their coffee mugs.\nThen she pulledout her order pad and took the Truth’s order: scrambled eggs,\nbacon, and a\nfreshly baked cinnamon bun.\nThe Seeker and the Watcher ordered, too, but unlike the Truth, they\nonly picked\nat their food when it came. They continued to speak in muted\nvoices.\nWorking the angles.\nTrying it on.\nThe Truth stared into the fog, listening intently as a plan finally came\ntogether.\nChapter 38\nTHE DAY UNFURLED LIKE a yellow beach blanket. It was a terrible\nshame that Joe\nwasn’t here to share it with me.\nI whistled Martha into the car, and we headed into town for\nprovisions. As we\nsped along Cabrillo Highway, I saw the sign: Bayside School,\nDepartment of Child\nWelfare, State of California.\nThe big blue Victorian house loomed large on my right side. On an\nimpulse, Ipulled the car into the parking area.\nI sat for a long moment, taking in the house, the playground, the tall\nchain-link fence. Then I locked the car and walked up a gravel\npathway to a\nheavy oak door.\nA very overweight black woman, probably in her midthirties,\nanswered the bell.\n“Hi,” I said. “I’m looking for Dr. Brown.”\n“Come on in. She’s in the teachers’ lounge. I’m Maya Abboud. I’m\none of the\nteachers here.”\n“What kind of school is this?” I asked as I followed her through dark,\nnarrow\nhallways and up two flights of stairs.\n“The state stashes runaways here, mostly. These kids are the lucky\nones.”\nWe passed small classrooms, a TV lounge, and dozens of children\nfrom very small\nones to adolescents. It was a far cry from Oliver Twist, but still, that\nall of\nthese children were essentially homeless was sad and troubling.\nMs. Abboud left me at the threshold of a bright, many-windowed\nroom, and insideit was Carolee Brown. She jumped to her feet and came toward me.\n“Lindsay. Good to see you.”\n“I was passing by and, well, I wanted to apologize for being abrupt\nyesterday.”\n“Oh, stop. I surprised you, and you didn’t know me from a tuna fish\nsandwich.\nI’m glad you’re here. There’s someone I want you to meet.”\nI told Carolee that I couldn’t stay long, but she assured me it would\njust take\na minute.\nI followed her outside to the playground and saw that we were\nheaded toward a\npretty, dark-haired girl of about eight, sitting at a table under a\nshade tree,\nplaying with her Power Rangers.\n“This is my daughter, Allison,” said Carolee. “Ali, this is Brigid and\nMeredith’s aunt Lindsay. She’s a police lieutenant.”\nThe little girl’s eyes got very bright as she turned them on me.\n“I know exactly who you are. You’re taking care of Penelope.”\n“I sure am, Ali, but it’s just for a few weeks.”\n“Penelope is so cool, isn’t she? She can read minds.”The little girl chattered on about her pig friend as she and her mom\nwalked me\nto the parking area.\n“It’s really cool that you’re a policewoman,” Allison said, grabbing my\nhand.\n“It is?”\n“Sure. Because it means you’re good at fixing things.”\nI was wondering what the little girl meant, when she squeezed my\nfingers\nexcitedly, then sprinted to my car. Martha wagged her tail and\nbarked until I\nlet her out. Then she danced around Allison and covered her with\nsloppy kisses.\nWe eventually separated child and dog, and Carolee and I made\nplans to get\ntogether soon. As I waved good-bye through the open window, I\nthought, I’ve made\na new friend.\nChapter 39\nTHE WATCHER NERVOUSLY STROKED the steering wheel as he\nwaited for Lorelei\nO’Malley to leave the house. It was bad news that he had to go in\nagain.At last, the silly-ass woman exited her house in her shopping outfit\ndu jour and\nlocked the door behind her. She gunned her little red Mercedes down\nOcean Colony\nRoad without looking back.\nThe Watcher got out of his car. He was wearing a blue sport jacket\nand slacks,\ndark sunglasses—what a field supervisor from the telephone\ncompany might wear.\nHe walked quickly toward the house.\nAs he had before, the Watcher stooped at the basement window\nwell and pulled on\ngloves. Then, slicing through the caulking with the blade of his\nhunting knife,\nhe removed the pane of glass and dropped into the basement.\nHe moved swiftly through the house, up the stairs to the O’Malleys’\nbedroom.\nOnce there, he opened the closet, pushed aside a raft of dresses,\nand examined\nthe video camera on the shelf attached to the back wall.\nThe Watcher took the tape out of the camera and slipped it into a\npocket. He\ntook another tape at random from a messy stack of tapes on the\nsame shelf,resisting the impulse to tidy the rest. Then he took a packet of\nphotos from the\nnightstand drawer.\nHe’d only been in the house for two minutes and twenty seconds\nwhen he heard the\nfront door slam.\nHis mouth went dry. In all his days of watching this house, no one\nhad ever come\nback after leaving for the morning. The Watcher went to the closet\nand crouched\nbeneath a shimmying curtain of skirts. He reached up and closed the\ndoor.\nThe carpet dampened the sound of footsteps, and the Watcher was\nstartled when\nthe doorknob turned. He had no time to think. The closet door\nopened, the\nclothing parted—and the Watcher was revealed, crouching like a\nthief.\nLorelei O’Malley gasped out loud and clutched at her breast, then\nher face\ndarkened.\n“I know you,” she said. “What are you doing here?”\nThe knife was already in his hand. Lorelei saw it and let out a\npiercing scream.The Watcher felt he had no choice. He lunged forward, the long\nblade popping\nbuttons off her blue silk dress as it slid into her belly.\nLorelei twisted, trying to escape the knife, but the Watcher held her\ntightly in\nwhat could have passed for a lover’s embrace.\n“Oh. God. Why are you doing this?” she moaned, her eyes rolling\nback, her voice\nfading to a sigh.\nPressing his hand against the small of her back, the Watcher sliced\nthe blade up\nthrough the soft tissues of Lorelei’s abdominal cavity, severing her\naorta. The\nblood didn’t spray; it poured from the woman’s body like water from\na bucket\nuntil her knees gave and she fell onto the shoes lining the closet\nfloor.\nThe Watcher knelt and touched two fingers to her carotid artery. Her\neyelids\nflickered faintly. She would be dead in seconds.\nHe had just enough time to do what needed to be done. He pushed\nup her blue\nskirt, took off his belt, and whipped Lorelei O’Malley’s buttocks until\nshe wasdead in her clothes closet.\nChapter 40\nIT COULD ONLY GET worse, and it did. The Watcher sat in the van\nin a parking lot\non Kelly Street across from the two-story house the doctor used as\nhis office.\nHe flicked his eyes over to the Seeker, who looked dazed and\nconfused in the\nseat beside him. Then he surveyed the parking lot again. He\nnervously noted the\nshoppers, the few cars entering and leaving.\nWhen Dr. Ben O’Malley stepped outside, the Watcher jostled the\nSeeker. They\nlocked eyes. “Get ready.”\nThen the Watcher got out of the van. He sprinted toward the doctor,\novertaking\nhim before he reached his SUV.\n“Doc, Doc, thank God! I need help.”\n“What is it, son?” the doctor asked, looking both startled and\nannoyed.\n“It’s my friend. Something’s happened. I don’t know if it’s a seizure\nor a heart\nattack or what!”“Where is he?”\n“Over there,” he said, pointing to the panel van fifty feet away.\n“Hurry, okay?\nPlease?”\nThe Watcher jogged ahead, looking back to make sure that the\ndoctor was\nfollowing. When he reached the van, he wrenched open the\npassenger-side door,\nstepping aside so the doctor could see the Seeker slumped across\nthe front seat.\nThe doctor peered into the interior, reached in, and lifted one of the\nSeeker’s\neyelids. He jerked in surprise as he felt the sharp point of a blade\npiercing\nthe nape of his neck.\n“Get in,” said the Watcher.\n“Don’t say a word,” said the Seeker, charming, disarming,\nunflappable, “or we’ll\nkill your whole family.”\nChapter 41\nTHE WATCHER HEARD THE doctor’s bound body bump and roll in\nthe back of the van\nas they climbed the steep road.“What about here?” he asked the Seeker. He checked the rearview\nmirror, then\nturned off the roadside into a niche between clumps of trees. He\napplied the\nbrakes.\nThe Seeker leaped out of the van, hauled back on the sliding door,\nand propped\nthe doctor into a sitting position.\n“Okay, Doc, time to go,” he said, ripping the duct tape from his\nmouth. “Any\nlast words? Or forever hold your peas.”\n“What do you want me to say?” Dr. O’Malley gasped. “Just tell me.\nDo you want\nmoney? I can get money for you. Drugs? Anything you want.”\n“That’s really stupid, Doc,” said the Seeker. “Even for you.”\n“Don’t do this. Help me,” he pleaded. “Help me, please.”\n“Help me, please,” mocked the Watcher.\n“What did I do to you?” Dr. O’Malley sobbed.\nA rough shove sent the doctor out of the van and into the grit on the\nside of\nthe road.\n“It’s easier than you think,” the Seeker said kindly, leaning close to\nthedoctor’s ear. “Just fill your mind with things you love . . . and say\ngood-bye.”\nThe doctor never saw the rock that caved in the back of his skull.\nThe Seeker opened his knife and lifted the doctor’s head by a\nhandful of\nsalt-and-pepper hair. As neatly as if he were slicing a melon, he slit\nthe man’s\nthroat.\nThen the Watcher used his belt as a lash, striking hard, leaving\nbrownish\nstripes on the bright white skin of O’Malley’s buttocks.\n“Feel that?” he said, panting over the dying man.\nThe Seeker wiped his prints off the knife using the doctor’s shirttail.\nThen he\nhurled the knife and the rock far down the hillside, where they were\nswallowed\nby trees, brush, and tall rasping grasses.\nTogether the two men lifted the doctor’s body by his arms and legs\nand carried\nhim to the cliffside edge of the road. They swung the limp body and\non the count\nof three launched it over the side. They listened as the body crashed\ninto theunderbrush, tumbling downhill to a place so remote it would lie\nhidden, they\nhoped, until coyotes dragged off the worthless carcass.\nChapter 42\nI WAS ON THE front porch picking out notes on my Seagull when a\ngod-awful\nclanking mangled my concentration. It was a tow truck, of all things,\nrattling\nalong the peaceful curves of Sea View Avenue. I scowled until I\nnoticed that it\nwas towing a 1981 Bonneville.\nMy 1981 Bonneville.\nThe driver waved when he saw me.\n“Hey, lady. I’ve got a special delivery for you.”\nAh. The man in the moon. The gas station guy. I grinned as Keith\nworked the\ngears that let the car down. When it was on all fours, he got out of\nthe cab and\ncame toward me with a little swagger in his walk.\n“So what makes you think you can make this jalopy go?” he asked,\ntaking a seat\non the step.“I’ve tinkered around with a few engines,” I told him. “Patrol cars,\nmostly.”\n“You’re a mechanic?” He whistled through his teeth. “Holy shit. I\nknew there was\nsomething neat about you.”\n“Not exactly a mechanic. I’m a cop.”\n“You lie.”\n“I don’t lie,” I said, laughing off the kid’s moon-eyed attention.\nHe stretched a muscular arm toward me and with a cursory “Do you\nmind?” snatched\nup my guitar.\nHelp yourself, buddy.\nThe kid put the Seagull in his lap, strummed some chords, then\nbelted out a few\nlines of a country sob song of the “My baby’s left me all alone”\nvariety. He put\nso much ham into it, I could only laugh at his performance.\nKeith took a mock bow, then handed the guitar back to me.\n“So what’s your specialty?” he asked.\n“Acoustic rock. The blues. I’m working on a song right now. Fooling\naround with\nsome pieces and parts.”“Here’s an idea. Why don’t we talk about it over dinner? I know this\nfish place\nin Moss Beach,” he said.\n“Thanks, Keith. That’s a nice idea, but I’m already taken.” I reached\nup and\nclutched the Kokopelli Joe had given me.\n“I don’t mind telling you that you’re breaking my heart.”\n“Awww. You’ll survive.”\n“No, it’s true. I’m smitten. Beautiful, a mechanic in her spare time.\nWhat more\ncould a guy ask for?”\n“Come on, Keith,” I said patting his arm. “Show me around my new\ncar.”\nI stepped down from the porch with Keith behind me. I ran my hand\nover the\nBonneville’s fender, opened the driver’s door, and settled in. The car\nhad a\ngood roomy, comfy feel, and the dash was full of whizbang dials and\ngizmos, just\nas I remembered.\n“It’s a good choice, Lindsay,” Keith said, leaning on the roof of the\ncar. “I\nwouldn’t sell you a junker. My backup toolbox is in the trunk, but call\nif youhave any problems.”\n“Will do.”\nHe flashed a sheepish smile, took off his cap, shook out his sandy\nhair,\nrepositioned his cap, and said, “Well, take care, okay?”\nI waved as he drove away. Then I put the key into my new baby’s\nignition and\nturned it.\nThe engine didn’t start. It didn’t even cough, buzz, or whine.\nIt was dead as a flat frog in the middle of the road.\nChapter 43\nI MADE A SHOPPING list of the parts I’d need, and then spent the\nrest of the day\nbringing up the Bonneville’s shine with a tube of compound I found\nin Keith’s\ntool kit. I was supremely happy buffing dull brown into a high bronze\ngleam.\nI was still admiring my work when the evening paper came sailing\nout the window\nof a passing car. I backpedaled quickly and plucked it out of the air,\nearning a\n“Nice catch!” from the paper guy.I snapped open the thin local Gazette, and the bold black headline\ngrabbed me:\nLOCAL DOCTOR’S WIFE STABBED TO DEATH AT HOME\nDOCTOR MISSING\nI stood rooted to the lawn and read:\nLorelei O’Malley, wife of Dr. Ben O’Malley, was found slain in her\nhome on Ocean\nColony Road this afternoon, apparently the victim of a burglary gone\nwrong. The\nvictim’s stepdaughter, Caitlin, 15, found her stepmother’s body in the\nbedroom\ncloset when she returned home from school. Dr. O’Malley, a\nrespected general\npractitioner and longtime member of the community, is missing.\nThis afternoon, Chief Peter Stark asked the crowd outside the police\nstation to\nbe calm but vigilant.\n“There appear to be similarities in the recent homicides,” said Stark.\n“But I\ncan’t comment because it would jeopardize the overall investigation.\nWhat I can\ndo is give you my word, this police force will not rest until the\nmurderer iscaught.”\nIn answer to questions from reporters, Chief Stark said, “Dr. O’Malley\nwas last\nseen at around noon. He was on his way out to lunch but did not\nreturn to his\noffice or call in. He’s not a suspect at this time.”\nI rolled up the paper and stared blankly at the pretty pastel and\nshingled\nhouses on Sea View Avenue. My instincts were screaming. I was a\ncop without a\ncase, a cop without a job. I didn’t want to read about homicides. I\nwanted\nfirsthand information.\nI put away the tools I’d been using to polish the car, then I went\ninside and\nhad the phone company set up a conference call.\nI was suddenly lonely for the girls.\nChapter 44\nTHE OPERATOR CONNECTED ME with Claire first, and her mellow\nvoice warmed me.\n“Hi, doll. Sleeping in? Getting some color in your cheeks?”“I’m trying, Butterfly, but my brain is like a hamster on a wheel.”\n“Don’t waste this downtime, Lindsay, please. God, what I wouldn’t\ndo for some\ntime off.”\nCindy joined the conference call, her youthful voice ringing with the\nusual\nexcitement. “It’s not the same without you, Linds. Sucks.”\n“I wish you guys were here,” I told my friends. “It’s all blue sky and\nyellow\nsand. And hey, Joe came and spent the night.”\nCindy had some news about her second date with the hockey player,\nprompting\nwhistles, and I came back with the story of Keith, the sandy-haired\ngas station\nguy.\n“He’s in his twenties, I think, Brad Pitt type. He actually put the\nmoves on\nme.”\nClaire said, “You two really make me feel like the boring old married\nwoman.”\n“I want to be as bored as you are with Edmund,” said Cindy. “That’s\nfor sure.”\nThe laughing and teasing made me feel as if we were gathered\naround a dimly littable at Susie’s.\nAnd, as we always did at Susie’s, we talked shop.\n“So, what about these murders I’ve been hearing about?” Claire\nasked.\n“Aw, jeez. The town is freaking out. A young couple was killed a few\nweeks\nago—and a woman was murdered about a mile from here this\nmorning.”\n“It was on the wire,” Cindy said. “A bloody scene.”\n“Yeah. It’s starting to look like a killer on a spree, and you know it’s\nirking\nme that I can’t do anything. I want to comb the crime scene. I hate\nnot being in\nthe loop.”\n“Well, you’ll be interested in this little tidbit,” Claire said. “I got this\noff\nthe medical examiners’ list serve. That couple who were murdered in\nCrescent\nHeights a few weeks ago? They were whipped.”\nI think I blanked out for a moment as my mind flew to John Doe\n#24.\nHe’d been slashed and whipped.\n“They were whipped? Claire, you’re sure about that?”“Absolutely sure. Back and buttocks.”\nJust then, a beep came over the line and the name on the caller ID\nwas like the\npast slamming into the present. I said, “Hold on, guys,” and I\npressed the flash\nbutton.\n“Lindsay, it’s Yuki Castellano. Got time to talk?”\nIt was good that I was still on the phone with Claire and Cindy. I\nneeded some\ntime to shift gears into talking to my lawyer about the shooting on\nLarkin\nStreet. Yuki said she’d call back in the morning, and I got on the line\nwith the\ngirls again, but my mind was scrambling.\nFor the past few days, I’d gotten away from everything—except the\nupcoming trial\nof my life.\nChapter 45\nTHE WATCHER WALKED ALONG the path through the dune grass\nunder a slender\ncrescent moon. He was wearing a wool cap and black sweats, and\nhad his\nmicrocamera with the 103 zoom in hand.He used it to watch a couple making out at the end of the beach,\nthen he turned\nthe lens toward the houses a hundred yards away on the outer loop\nof Sea View\nAvenue.\nHe narrowed his focus to one particular house: a blue Cape Cod with\na lot of\nwindows and a double set of sliders leading out to the deck. He\ncould see\nLieutenant Lindsay Boxer walking around in the living room.\nHer hair was pinned up off her neck, and she was wearing a thin\nwhite T-shirt.\nTwirling a chain around her neck as she talked on the phone. He\ncould see the\noutline of her breasts under that shirt.\nFull but perky.\nNice tits, Lieutenant, sir.\nThe Watcher knew exactly who Lindsay was, what kind of work she\ndid, and why she\nsaid she was in Half Moon Bay. But he wanted to know a lot more.\nHe wondered who she was talking to on the phone. Maybe the dark-\nhaired guy who’d\nstayed over last night and had left in a black government-issue Town\nCar. Hewondered about that guy: who he was and if he was coming back.\nAnd he wondered where Lindsay kept her gun.\nThe Watcher took some pictures of Boxer, smiling, frowning, taking\ndown her\nhair. Holding the phone between her shoulder and her chin,\nreaching, breasts\nmoving as she did so, to put up her hair again.\nAs he watched, the dog crossed the room and lay down near the\nsliders, staring\nout through them—almost as if she were looking directly at him.\nThe Watcher walked a ways down the beach, toward the smooching\nlovers, then cut\nacross the dune grass to a parking area where he’d left his car. Once\ninside, he\ntook his notebook out of the glove box and turned to the tab with\nLindsay’s name\nwritten in meticulous script.\nLieutenant Lindsay Boxer.\nThere was just enough glow from the streetlights to add to his\nnotes.\nHe wrote: Wounded. Alone. Armed and dangerous.\nPart ThreeBack in the Saddle Again\nChapter 46\nTHE SUN WAS ONLY a blush on the dawn sky when a loud ringing\njarred me out of\nsleep. I fumbled for the phone, nailed it on the fourth ring.\n“Lindsay, it’s Yuki. I hope I didn’t wake you. I’m in the car and this is\nmy\nonly free minute, but I can tell you everything fast.”\nYuki was passionate and smart, and I knew this about her—she\nalways spoke at\nninety miles an hour.\n“Okay. I’m ready,” I said, flopping back into the bed.\n“Sam Cabot is out of the hospital. I deposed him yesterday,” Yuki\nsaid, her\nvoice a rhythmic rat-tat-tat. “He recanted his confession of the hotel\nmurders,\nbut that’s the DA’s problem. As for the action against you, he says\nyou fired\nfirst, missed him, and that he and Sara returned fire in self-defense.\nThen you\ngunned them down. Crock of shit. We know it and they know it, but\nthis is\nAmerica. He can say whatever he wants.”My sigh came out as a kind of strangled groan. Yuki kept on talking.\n“Our only\nproblem is that he’s such a heartbreaker, that pathological little crud.\nParalyzed, propped up in that chair with his neck in a brace,\nquivering lower\nlip. Looks like a cherub who’s been blindsided —”\n“By a vicious, gun-happy chick cop,” I interrupted.\n“I was going to say blindsided by a sixteen-wheeler, but whatever.”\nShe laughed.\n“Let’s get together and strategize. Can we make a plan?”\nMy calendar was so sparkling clean it was practically virginal. Yuki,\non the\nother hand, had booked depositions, meetings, and trials almost\nevery hour for\nthe next three weeks. Still, we picked a date a few days before the\ntrial.\n“Right now the media are churning up the waters,” Yuki continued.\n“We leaked to\nthe press that you’re staying with friends in New York so they won’t\nhound you.\nLindsay? Are you there?”\n“Yep. I’m here,” I said, eyes fixed on the ceiling fan, ears ringing.\n“I’d suggest that you relax if you can. Keep a low profile. Leave the\nrest tome.”\nRight.\nI showered, dressed in linen slacks and a pink T-shirt, and took a\nmug of coffee\nout to the backyard. I had a question for Penelope as I scooped\nbreakfast into\nher trough: “How much chow can a big pig chow if a big pig chows\npig chow?”\nCity girl talking to a pig. Who woulda thunk it?\nI considered Yuki’s advice as the sea breeze wafted across the deck.\nRelax and\nkeep a low profile. It made good sense, except that I was in the\nclutches of a\nmonster desire to do something. I wanted to shake things up, bang\nheads, right\nwrongs.\nI really couldn’t help myself.\nI whistled to Martha and started up the Explorer. Then we headed\nout toward a\ncertain house in Crescent Heights—the scene of a double homicide.\nChapter 47\n“BAD DOG,” I SAID to Martha. “You can’t keep out of trouble, can\nyou?” Marthaturned her melting brown eyes on me, wagged her tail, then\nresumed her\nsurveillance of the boulder-sculpted highway.\nAs I drove south on Highway 1, I was bristling with excitement.\nThree miles down\nthe road, I turned off at Crescent Heights, an idiosyncratic collection\nof\nhouses freckling the face of the hill at the tip of Half Moon Bay.\nI pointed the Explorer up the gravelly one-laner, feeling my way\nalong until the\nscene of the crime nearly jumped out at me. I pulled over and\nturned off the\nengine.\nThe yellow clapboard-sided house was a charmer, with three gabled\ndormers, an\novergrown flower garden, and a whirligig of a lumberjack sawing\nwood attached to\nthe post-and-rail fence. The name Daltry was painted on the\nhandmade mailbox,\nand a half mile of yellow plastic tape was still wrapped around this,\nthe\nAmerican dream.\nCrime scene. Do not enter by order of the police.I tried to imagine that two people had been brutally murdered in this\nhomey\nlittle cottage, but the images didn’t fit together. Murder should never\nhappen\nin a place like this.\nWhat had drawn a killer to this particular house? Was it a targeted\nhit—or had\nthe killer just happened on this home-sweet-home by chance?\n“Stay, girl,” I told Martha as I got out of the car.\nThe murder had occurred more than five weeks ago, and by now the\npolice had\nrelinquished the crime scene. Anyone who wanted to snoop could do\nso, as long as\nthey didn’t break into the house—and I saw signs of snoopers\neverywhere:\nfootprints in the flower beds, cigarette butts on the pavement, soda\ncans on the\nlawn.\nI stepped through the open gate, ducked under the tape, and\nwalked around the\nhouse, slowly frisking the scene with my eyes.\nThere was an abandoned basketball under the shrubbery, and a\nsingle child’ssneaker on the back steps, still wet from last night’s dew. I noticed\nthat one\nof the basement windows had been removed from its frame and was\nleaning against\na wall of the house: the probable point of entry.\nThe longer I stayed at the Daltry house, the harder my heart\npounded. I was\ncreeping around a crime scene instead of taking charge of it, and\nthat made me\nfeel weird and bad, as though this crime was none of my business\nand I shouldn’t\nbe here. At the same time, I felt driven by what Claire had told me\non the phone\nlast night.\nThe Daltrys of Crescent Heights weren’t the first murder victims to\nbe whipped.\nWho else had been savaged this way? Did these killings connect with\nmy unsolved\ncase, John Doe #24?\nRelax and keep a low profile, Yuki had said. I actually laughed out\nloud. I got\ninto the Explorer, patted my furry sidekick’s flank, then bumped\ndown the\ngravelly road to the highway.We would be back in the center of Half Moon Bay in ten minutes. I\nwanted to see\nthe O’Malley house.\nChapter 48\nOCEAN COLONY ROAD WAS lined with patrol cars on both sides of\nthe street. The\ninsignias on the car doors told me that the local cops were finally\ngetting the\nhelp they badly needed. They’d called in the state police.\nAs I drove past, I saw that a uniformed officer was guarding the\nfront door of\nthe house and another cop was interviewing the UPS man.\nDetectives and crime scene techs entered and left the house at\nirregular\nintervals. A media tent had been set up on a neighbor’s lawn, and a\nlocal\nreporter was going live from Half Moon Bay.\nI parked my car down the block and walked toward the house,\nblending in with a\nclump of bystanders who were watching the police process the\nscene from the\nsidewalk across the street. It was a good enough vantage point, and\nas I stoodthere, I sifted through my impressions, hoping for a nugget of\ninsight.\nTo start with, the houses of the victims were as different as chalk\nand cheese.\nCrescent Heights was a blue-collar community with Highway 1\nwhizzing between the\nunpretentious homes and their view of the bay. Ocean Colony\nbacked up onto a\nprivate golf course. The O’Malley house and the others around it\nfairly\nglistened with all of the nicest things money could buy. What did the\ntwo homes\nand the people who’d lived in them have in common?\nI studied the O’Malleys’ spiffy colonial, with its slate roof and\nboxwood\ntopiaries in pots by the door, and once again I ran through the\npreliminary\nquestions. What had drawn a killer here? Was it a personal hit or a\nrandom\nkilling of opportunity?\nI turned my eyes up to the blue-shuttered windows on the second\nfloor, where\nLorelei O’Malley had been stabbed to death in her bedroom.\nHad she been whipped, too?I was concentrating so intently, I must have attracted attention to\nmyself. A\nyoung uniformed cop with a florid face and an excitable manner was\nheaded toward\nme.\n“Miss? Miss? I’d like to ask you some questions.”\nDamn. If I had to show my badge, this cop would run me through\nthe database.\nPass the news along: Lieutenant Lindsay Boxer, SFPD, was at the\nscene of the\ncrime. In twenty minutes the media would be ringing the doorbell\nand camping out\non Cat’s lawn.\nI assumed my most innocent expression.\n“Just passing through, Officer. I’m leaving now.”\nI flipped a little wave, turned around, and walked quickly to the\nExplorer.\nNuts. I saw him do it.\nThat cop wrote down my plate number as I drove past.\nChapter 49\nTHE QUAINT LITTLE WATERING hole was named for a soaring\nseabird, the Cormorant,an elegant facsimile of which hung from the ceiling over the bar.\nThe place had a raw bar, six kinds of beer on tap, loud music, and a\nfull\nFriday-night crowd. I looked around until I spotted Carolee Brown at\na table\nnear the bar. She was dressed in slacks and a hot pink pullover; a\ngold crucifix\nglinted discreetly at her throat.\nThe Cookie Lady on her night off.\nCarolee saw me a split second after I saw her, and she smiled\nbroadly, gesturing\nfor me to join her. I shimmied my way through the crowd and\nhugged her lightly\nas she stood to greet me.\nWe ordered Pete’s Wicked Ale and linguini with clams, and, as\nwomen sometimes\ndo, we got personal within minutes. Carolee had been briefed by my\nsister, Cat,\nand knew about the shooting that had left me twisting slowly in the\nCalifornia\nlegal system.\n“I misjudged the situation because they were kids,” I told Carolee\nnow. “After\nthey shot my partner and me, I had to bring them down.”“It really sucks, Lindsay.”\n“Doesn’t it ever? Killing a kid. I never thought I could do such a\nthing.”\n“They forced you to do it.”\n“They were murderers, Carolee. They’d killed a couple of kids, and\nwhen we\napprehended them, they saw only one way out. But you’d think kids\nwith all the\nadvantages these two had wouldn’t be so whacked.”\n“Yeah, I know. But judging from the hundreds of kids who’ve come\nthrough my\nschool, believe me, psychologically damaged kids come from\neverywhere,” Carolee\nsaid.\nWhen Carolee spoke of damaged children, something slammed into\nmy brain. I saw\nmyself as a kid, flying across my bedroom, careening into my\nbureau. “Don’t talk\nback to me, missy.” My father swaying in the doorway, king of the\nhill. I was a\ndamaged child myself.\nI struggled to drag myself back to the Cormorant.\n“So what are you, Lindsay?” Carolee was saying. “Single? Divorced?”“Divorced—from a guy I think of as the brother I never had,” I said,\nrelieved\nthat she’d changed the subject. “But I could be talked into hooking\nup again.”\n“Now I remember,” Carolee said with a smile. “If I’m not mistaken,\nyou had\ncompany when I came around with my cookies.”\nI grinned at the memory of answering the door in Joe’s shirt. I had\nopened my\nmouth to tell Carolee about Joe when my attention was drawn to the\nmovement\nbehind her.\nI’d been aware of three guys drinking steadily at the bar. Suddenly\ntwo of them\nleft. The remaining guy was strikingly handsome: dark wavy hair, a\nsymmetrical\nface, rimless glasses, pressed pants, and a Ralph Lauren polo shirt.\nThe bartender rubbed the bar with a rag, and I heard him ask,\n“Ready for\nanother?”\n“Actually, I’d like some of that pint-size brunette. And I might go for\nthat\ntall blonde as a chaser.”Although this remark was accompanied by a pleasant smile, I felt\nthat there was\nsomething wrong about this guy. He looked like an ex-jock JP\nMorgan banker, but\nhe sounded more like a salesman living on his draw.\nMy jaw tensed as he swiveled on his bar stool and turned his gaze\non me.\nChapter 50\nI NOTED THE GUY’S stats automatically: white male, maybe six two,\na fit 190,\nforty to forty-two years old, no distinguishing marks except for a\nhealing wound\nbetween the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. As if he’d been\ncut with a\nknife.\nHe got down off his bar stool and came toward us.\nI said quietly to Carolee, “This is my fault. I looked at him.” I did my\nbest to\nhead the guy off, making a big show of turning my face toward\nCarolee, but he\nkept coming.\n“How are you two ladies tonight? You’re both so pretty, I just had to\nsayhello.”\n“Thanks,” said Carolee. “Nice of you to say.” Then she turned her\nback on him.\n“I’m Dennis Agnew,” he said, pressing on. “Sure, you don’t know\nme, but listen,\nwe can change all that. Why don’t you girls offer me a seat? Dinner’s\non me.”\n“Thanks anyway, Dennis,” I said, “but we’re having a nice time on\nour own. You\nknow. Girls’ night out.”\nA frown suddenly crossed the guy’s face, like the lights dimming\nduring a\nbrown-out. A fraction of a second later, his cockiness surged back, as\ndid his\nbeautiful smile.\n“You couldn’t be having such a good time. Come on. Even if you’re\nthe kind of\ngirls who don’t like guys, it’s okay with me. It’s just dinner.”\nDennis Agnew was a crazy blend of smooth and crude, but whatever\nhe was up to,\nI’d had enough of it.\n“Hey, Dennis,” I said, fishing my badge out of my handbag and\nflashing it at\nhim. “I’m a police officer and this conversation is private. Okay?”I could see the pulse beating in his temple as he tried to strike a\nface-saving\npose.\n“You really shouldn’t make snap judgments, Officer. Especially about\npeople you\ndon’t know.”\nAgnew walked back to the bar, put down some bills, and gave us a\nfinal look.\n“You take care, now. I’ll be seeing you around.”\nThen he stiff-armed the door that led out to the parking lot.\n“Nice work, Lindsay.” Carolee made a cocked gun of her hand and\nblew imaginary\nsmoke off the end of her finger.\n“What a creep,” I said. “Did you see the look on his face? Like he\ncouldn’t\nbelieve we were blowing him off. Who does he think he is? George\nClooney?”\n“Yeah,” said my new friend. “His mom and his mirror have been\ntelling him that\nhe’s irresistible for his whole life.”\nToo funny! We laughed hard, clinked glasses. It was great to be with\nCarolee; I\nfelt that I’d known her for years. Because of her, I stopped thinking\naboutDennis Agnew, killers and corpses, and even my looming court date.\nI lifted my hand and ordered another round of Pete’s Wicked.\nChapter 51\nTHE SEEKER STASHED HIS new knife under the front seat of his car,\nthen got out\nand opened the door to the convenience store. He was instantly\nrefreshed by the\nair conditioning, the soothing sight of the tall, frosty coolers filled\nwith\nsoda and beer.\nHe was especially gratified to see a small dark-haired woman\nwearing an\nexpensive Fila tracksuit in line at the checkout counter.\nHer name was Annemarie Sarducci, and the Seeker knew that she\nhad just finished\nher nightly run. She’d buy her bottle of imported spring water, then\nwalk home\nand have dinner with her family in their home overlooking the bay.\nThe Seeker already knew a great deal about Annemarie: that she\nwas vain about\nher size-three, 112-pound figure; that she was screwing her\npersonal trainer;that her son was dealing drugs to his classmates; and that she was\ninsanely\njealous of her sister, Juliette, who had a long-running role in a\ndaytime soap\nfilmed down in Los Angeles.\nHe also knew that she authored a blog under the screen name\nTwisted Rose. He’d\nprobably been her most attentive reader for months. He’d even\nsigned her “guest\nbook” with his own screen name.\n“I like the way you think. The SEEKER.”\nThe Seeker filled a paper cup with strong black coffee from the urn\nin the\ncorner of the store, then joined the line behind Mrs. Sarducci. He\njostled her a\nlittle, brushed her breast as though it were an accident.\n“I’m sorry. Oh. Hey, there, Annemarie,” he said.\n“Yeah. Hi,” she answered, dismissing him with a bored glance and a\nnod. She\nhanded a five to the sallow young girl behind the cash register,\naccepted her\nchange for the bottled water, and left without saying good-bye.\nThe Seeker watched Annemarie leave the store, wiggling her little\nass because itwas her habit to do so. In a couple of hours he’d be reading her\nonline diary,\nall the kinky things she didn’t want people in her real life to know.\nSee you later, Twisted Rose.\nChapter 52\nWHEN CAROLEE CALLED AND asked me to keep Allison for a few\nhours, I wanted to\nplead, “Please don’t ask me to babysit.” But Carolee got to me\nbefore the words\nleft my mouth.\n“Ali misses that pig,” she’d said. “If you’ll let her visit Penelope, she’ll\namuse herself and I can get my molar fixed. I’d really appreciate it,\nLindsay.”\nA half hour later, Allison bounced out of her mom’s minivan and ran\nup to the\nfront door. Her dark glossy hair was in two bunches, one on either\nside of her\nhead, and everything she wore, including her sneakers, was pink.\n“Hi there, Ali.”\n“I brought apples,” she said, pushing past me into the house. “Wait’ll\nyou see.”\n“Uh-huh,” I said, faking some enthusiasm.As soon as I opened the back door, Penelope trotted over to the\nfence and began\ngrunting a noisy string of squeals and woofles—and Allison squealed\nand woofled\nback. Just about the time I thought the neighbors would call the\nanimal warden,\nAllison grinned at me and said, “That’s what we call Pigese.”\n“So I’ve been told,” I said, smiling back at her.\n“It’s a real language,” Allison insisted. She raked the pig’s back and\nPenelope\nrolled over, assuming her ecstatic, feet-in-the-air stupor. “When\nPenelope was a\npiglet, she lived in a big house near the sea with pigs from all over\nthe\nworld,” Ali told me. “She used to sit up all night and talk Pigese with\nthe\nother pigs and during the day she gave pedicures, called pigatures.”\n“Is that right?”\n“Pigs are a lot smarter than people think,” Ali confided. “Penelope\nknows lots\nof things. More than people would ever realize.”\n“I simply had no idea,” I said.\n“Look,” Ali continued. “You feed her the apples. I have to paint her\nnails.”“Really?”\n“It’s what she wants.” With Allison assuring me that it was okay to\nlet the pig\nonto the back deck, I did what I was told. I held Granny Smith\napples so that\nPenelope could chomp them while Allison chattered to us both and\npainted the\npig’s cloven hooves with pearly pink nail polish.\n“All done, Penny.” Ali beamed proudly. “Just let them dry. So,” she\nsaid to me.\n“What can Martha do?”\n“Well, as a matter of fact, border collies also have a language.\nMartha is\ntrained to herd sheep on command.”\n“Show me!”\n“Do you see any sheep around here?”\n“You’re silly.”\n“Yes, I am. But you know what I love most about Martha? She keeps\nme company and\nshe warns me about bad guys or even about things that go bump in\nthe night.”\n“And you have a gun, right?” Ali asked with an almost cagey look on\nher sweetface.\n“Yup. I have a gun.”\n“Wow. A gun and a dog. You rock, Lindsay. You might be the coolest\nperson I\nknow.”\nI finally threw back my head and laughed. Ali was such a cute and\nimaginative\nchild. I was shocked at how much I liked her and how fast. I’d come\nto Half Moon\nBay to rethink my whole life. Now I was being visited by a vivid\nfantasy of me,\nJoe, a home, a little girl.\nI was turning this shocking thought around in my mind when\nCarolee came into the\nbackyard with a lopsided Novocain smile. I couldn’t believe two\nhours had gone\nby and I was so, so sorry to see Ali go.\n“Come back soon,” I said, hugging her good-bye. “Ali, come back\nany time.”\nChapter 53\nI STOOD ON THE street waving until Carolee’s minivan disappeared\naround the loopin Sea View Avenue. But when it was gone, a thought that had been\ncircling the\nperiphery of my consciousness parked in my forebrain.\nI took my laptop to the living room, settled into a puffy chair, and\nbooted up\nthe NCIC database. Within minutes I learned that Dr. Ben O’Malley,\nage\nforty-eight, had been cited for speeding a few times and arrested on\na DWI five\nyears before. He had been married and widowed twice.\nWife number one was Sandra, the mother of their daughter, Caitlin.\nShe’d died\ninside their two-car garage in 1994, hanged herself. The second Mrs.\nO’Malley,\nLorelei née Breen, murdered yesterday at age thirty-nine, had been\narrested for\nshoplifting in ’98. Fined and released.\nI did the same drill on Alice and Jake Daltry, and reams of\ninformation scrolled\nonto my screen. Jake and Alice had been married for eight years and\nhad left\ntwin boys, age six, when they were slaughtered in their yellow house\nin Crescent\nHeights. I pictured that cute place with its sliver of bay view, the\nabandonedbasketball, and the child’s sneaker.\nThen I focused back on the screen.\nJake had been a bad boy before he married Alice. I clicked down\nthrough his rap\nsheet: soliciting a prostitute and forging his father’s signature on his\nSocial\nSecurity checks, for which he served six months, but he’d been clean\nfor the\nlast eight years and had a full-time job working in a pizzeria in town.\nWife Alice, thirty-two, had no record. She’d never even run a light or\nbacked\ninto a car at the supermarket.\nStill, she was dead.\nSo what did this add up to?\nI phoned Claire, and she picked up on the first ring. We got right\ninto it.\n“Claire, can you dig around for me? I’m looking for some kind of link\nbetween\nthe O’Malley murder and those of Alice and Jake Daltry.”\n“Sure, Lindsay. I’ll reach out to a few of my colleagues around the\nstate. See\nwhat I can find.”“And also could you look into Sandra O’Malley? Died in 1994, hanged\nherself.”\nWe talked for a few more minutes, about Claire’s husband, Edmund,\nand a sapphire\nring he’d given her for their anniversary. And we talked about a little\ngirl\nnamed Ali who could channel pigs.\nWhen I hung up the phone, I felt as if I were breathing air of a\nricher kind. I\nwas about to close down my computer when something caught my\neye. When Lorelei\nO’Malley went to trial for boosting a twenty-dollar pair of earrings, a\nlocal\nlawyer by the name of Robert Hinton had represented her.\nI knew Bob Hinton.\nHis card was still in the pocket of my shorts from the morning he\nhad mowed me\ndown with his ten-speed.\nAnd as I remembered it, the guy owed me a favor.\nChapter 54\nBOB HINTON’S OFFICE WAS a shoe box of space on Main Street,\nnestled betweenStarbucks and a bank. Taking the chance that he might be in on a\nSaturday, I\npushed open the glass door and saw Bob sitting behind a large\nwooden desk, his\nbalding scalp bent over the San Francisco Examiner.\nHe jerked his head up and his arm flew out, knocking over his coffee\nand\nspilling it across his newspaper. I saw the picture on the front page\njust\nbefore it became a coffee-sodden mess. It was a close-up of a fair-\nhaired boy in\na wheelchair.\nSam Cabot. My own little nightmare.\n“Sorry, Bob, I didn’t mean to startle you like that.”\n“You have nothing to be s-s-sorry for,” Bob said. He adjusted his\npink-framed\nglasses and pulled some paper napkins out of his desk drawer to\nblot the spill.\n“Have a seat. Please.”\n“Thank you. I will.”\nBob asked me how I was getting along in Half Moon Bay, and I told\nhim I was\nmanaging to keep busy.“I was just reading about you, Lieutenant,” he said, mopping the\nfront page of\nthe paper with a wad of napkins.\n“There are no secrets in a nanosecond world,” I said with a smile.\nThen I told\nBob that I’d become interested in the homicides that were going on\na few miles\nfrom my door and wondered what he could tell me.\n“I knew Lorelei O’Malley,” he said. “Represented her on a case. Got\nher off with\na wrist slap,” he said with a self-deprecating shrug. “I know Ben only\nslightly.\nPeople are saying he must have had something to do with Lorelei’s\ndeath, but I\ncan’t see him killing Caitlin’s stepmother. The child was so\ntraumatized by her\nreal mother’s suicide.”\n“Cops always look at the spouse first.”\n“Sure. I know. I’ve got friends on the force. I grew up in Half Moon\nBay,” he\nexplained, “and I started practicing here right after law school. I like\nbeing a\nsmall fish in a small pond.”“You’re too modest, Bob.” I waved my hand, indicating the photos\nhanging on the\nwalls of Bob shaking hands with the governor and other dignitaries.\nThere were\nalso some neatly framed parchment awards.\n“Oh, those,” Bob said, shrugging again. “Well, I do some pro bono\nwork as a\nguardian ad litem for abused or neglected kids. You know,\nrepresenting them in\ncourt, making sure that their rights are protected.”\n“Very commendable,” I said. I was starting to warm up to this very\nlikable guy,\nand I noticed that he was getting more comfortable with me. He\nhadn’t stuttered\nsince the coffee incident.\nBob leaned back in his chair and pointed to a photo of an award\nceremony in the\ntown hall. Bob shaking hands with someone who was handing him a\nplaque.\n“See this guy?” he asked, indicating a dapper man sitting with a line\nof others\non the stage. “Ray Whittaker. He and his wife, Molly, lived in LA, but\nthey\nsummered here. Murdered in their beds a couple of years ago.\nLindsay, do youknow that all these people were whipped and slashed to death?”\n“I’d heard,” I said. I zoned out for a minute as my brain grappled\nwith the fact\nof yet another set of murders a couple years ago. What did the\nwhippings mean?\nHow long had the killer been working?\nWhen I tuned back in, Bob was still talking about the Whittakers.\n“. . . folksy, real nice people. He was a photographer and she was a\nbit player\nin Hollywood. It makes no sense. These were all good people, and\nit’s tragic\nthat the kids end up in foster homes or with relatives they hardly\nknow. I worry\nabout the kids.” He shook his head and sighed. “I try to leave this\nkind of\nstuff at the office at the end of the day, but it never really works.”\n“I know what you mean,” I said. “If you’ve got a few minutes, I’ll tell\nyou a\nstory that I’ve been bringing home from the office for the past ten\nyears.”\nChapter 55\nBOB GOT UP AND walked over to a Mr. Coffee sitting on a filing\ncabinet. Hepoured us each a cup of coffee.\n“I’ve got all the time in the world,” he said. “I don’t like Starbucks\nprices.”\nHe smiled over at me. “Or that whole yuppie-on-the-go scene.”\nOver tepid coffee with powdered milk, I told Bob about my first\nhomicide case.\n“We found him in a squalid hotel in the Mission District. I’d seen\ncorpses\nbefore, but I was unprepared for this, Bob. He was young—\nsomewhere between\nseventeen and twenty-one—and when I walked into the room I\nfound him lying\nspread-eagled on his back, decomposing in a congealed pool of his\nown blood.\nFlies were all over him. A shimmering blanket of flies.”\nMy throat closed up as the image came flooding back; it was as clear\nas if I\nwere standing in that hotel room right now, thinking, Oh, God, get\nme out of\nhere. I sipped at the terrible coffee until I could speak again.\n“He was wearing only two items of clothing: an ordinary Hanes tube\nsock, which\nwas identical to hundreds of thousands that were sold all across the\ncountrythat year, and a T-shirt from the Distillery. You know the place?”\nBob nodded. “I’ll bet every tourist passing through Half Moon Bay\nsince 1930 has\neaten there.”\n“Yeah. Hell of a clue.”\n“How did he die?”\n“Throat slashed with a knife. And there were stripes, like lash marks,\nacross\nhis buttocks. Sound familiar?”\nBob nodded again. He was listening intently, so I continued. I told\nhim that\nwe’d canvassed the city and Half Moon Bay for weeks.\n“No one knew the victim, Bob. His prints weren’t on file, and the\nroom he died\nin was so dirty, it was a classic case of instant cross-contamination.\nWe were\nutterly clueless.\n“No one ever came forward to claim the body. It’s not so\nuncommon; we already\nhad twenty-three unclaimed John Does that year. But I still\nremember the\ninnocence of his young face. He had blue eyes,” I said. “Light red\nhair. Andnow, all these years later, more murders with the same signature.”\n“You know what feels really weird, Lindsay? To think that this killer\ncould be\nsomeone who lives in this town —”\nThe phone rang, cutting Bob off midsentence.\n“Robert Hinton,” he said.\nIn the next instant, the color drained from his face. There was\nsilence,\npunctuated by Bob saying, “Uh-huh, uh-huh.” Then he said, “Thanks\nfor letting me\nknow,” and hung up.\n“A friend of mine who works at the Gazette,” he explained. “Ben\nO’Malley’s body\nwas found by some kids hiking in the woods.”\nChapter 56\nJAKE DALTRY’S PARENTS LIVED in a housing development in Palo\nAlto, a\nthirty-minute drive southeast of Half Moon Bay. I parked the Explorer\non the\nstreet in front of their cream-colored raised ranch, one of a dozen\nlike it on\nBrighton Street.A portly, unkempt man with gray flyaway hair, wearing a flannel shirt\nand blue\ndrawstring pants, answered the door.\n“Mr. Richard Daltry?”\n“We don’t want any,” he said, and slammed the door. I’ve come back\nfrom bigger\nslams than that, buster. I took out my badge and rang the bell\nagain. This time\na small woman with hennaed hair and gray roots, wearing a bunny-\nprint\nhousedress, opened the door.\n“What can I do for you?”\n“I’m Lieutenant Lindsay Boxer, SFPD,” I said, showing her my badge.\n“I’m\ninvestigating a homicide case that’s been in our cold-case files.”\n“And what’s that got to do with us?”\n“I think there may be similarities between my old case and the\ndeaths of Jake\nand Alice Daltry.”\n“I’m Agnes, Jake’s mother,” she said, opening the door. “Please\nforgive my\nhusband. We’ve been under a terrible strain. The press is just awful.”I followed the elderly woman into a house that smelled of Lemon\nPledge and a\nkitchen that didn’t seem to have changed since Hinckley shot\nReagan. We sat at a\nred Formica table, and I could see the backyard through the window.\nTwo little\nboys played with trucks in a sandbox.\n“My poor grandsons,” said Mrs. Daltry. “Why did this happen?”\nAgnes Daltry’s heartbreak was written on her deeply lined face, her\nstooped\nshoulders. I could see how much she needed someone to talk to\nwho hadn’t heard\nit all before.\n“Tell me what happened,” I urged her. “Tell me everything you\nknow.”\n“Jake was a wild child,” she said. “Not bad, you understand, but\nheadstrong.\nWhen he met Alice, he grew up overnight. They were so much in\nlove and wanted\nchildren so badly. When the boys were born, Jake vowed to be a\nman they could\nrespect. He loved those boys and, Lieutenant, he lived up to that\npromise. He\nwas such a good man, and he and Alice had such a good marriage—\noh.”She put her hand over her heart and shook her head miserably. She\ncouldn’t go on\nand she hadn’t talked about the murders at all.\nAgnes looked down at the table as her husband came through the\nkitchen. He\nglared at me, took a beer out of the refrigerator, slammed the door\nshut, and\nleft the room.\n“Richard is still angry at me,” she said.\n“Why is that, Agnes?”\n“I did a bad thing.”\nI was almost desperate to know. I put my hand on her bare arm,\nand at my touch,\ntears rose in her eyes.\n“Tell me,” I said softly. She grabbed tissues out of a box and pressed\nthem to\nher eyes.\n“I was going to pick up the boys at school,” she said. “I stopped off\nat Jake\nand Alice’s house first to see if they needed milk or juice. Jake was\nnaked,\nlying dead in the foyer. Alice was on the stairs.”\nI stared at Agnes, urging her on with my eyes.“I cleaned up the blood,” Agnes said with a sigh. She looked at me\nas if she\nexpected to be whipped herself. “I dressed them. I didn’t want\nanyone to see\nthem that way.”\n“You destroyed the crime scene,” I said.\n“I didn’t want the boys to see all that blood.”\nChapter 57\nI WOULDN’T HAVE DONE this a month ago. I would’ve been too\nbusy thinking about\nthe job I had to do. I stood and I opened my arms to Agnes Daltry.\nShe put her head against my shoulder and cried as though she\nwould never stop. I\nunderstood now. Agnes wasn’t getting the comfort she needed from\nher husband.\nHer shoulders shook so hard, I could feel her pain as if I knew her,\nas if I had\nloved her family as much as she did.\nAgnes’s grief moved me so much that I was thrown back into the\nloneliness of\nlosing people I had loved: my mom, Chris, Jill.\nI heard the distant sound of the doorbell. I was still holding Agnes\nwhen herhusband came back into the kitchen.\n“Someone’s here to see you,” he said, his anger coming off his body\nlike a sour\nsmell.\n“To see me?”\nThe man waiting in the living room was a study in dung brown:\nbrown sport jacket\nand pants, brown-striped tie. He had brown hair, a thick brown\nmustache, and\nhard brown eyes.\nBut his face was red. He looked furious.\n“Lieutenant Boxer? I’m Peter Stark, chief of police, Half Moon Bay.\nYou need to\ncome with me.”\nChapter 58\nI PARKED THE EXPLORER in the “guest” spot outside the gray-\nshingled\nbarracks-style police station. Chief Stark got out of his vehicle and\ncrunched\nacross the gravel toward the building without once looking back to\nsee if I was\nfollowing him.So much for professional courtesy.\nThe first thing I noticed inside the chief’s office was the framed\nmotto behind\nhis desk: Do the right thing and do it well. Then I took in the mess:\npiles of\npapers over every surface, old fax and copy machines, cockeyed,\ndusty photos on\nthe wall of Stark posing with dead animals. Half a cheese sandwich\non a file\ncabinet.\nThe chief took off his jacket, exposing a massive chest and monster-\nsize arms.\nHe hung the jacket on a hook behind the door.\n“Sit down, Lieutenant. I keep hearing about you,” said the chief,\nriffling\nthrough a stack of phone messages. He hadn’t given me eye contact\nsince the\nDaltry house. I took a motorcycle helmet off a side chair, put it on\nthe floor,\nand sat down.\n“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he asked.\n“Sorry?”\n“What the hell gives you the right to come into my backyard and\nstart pokingaround?” he said, drilling me with his eyes. “You’re on restricted\nduty, aren’t\nyou, Lieutenant?”\n“With all due respect, Chief, I don’t get your point.”\n“Don’t screw with me, Boxer. Your rep as a loose cannon precedes\nyou. Maybe you\nshot those kids without cause —”\n“Hey, look —”\n“Maybe you got scared, lost your nerve, whatever. And that would\nmake you a\ndangerous cop. Get that?”\nI got the message, all right. The guy outranked me, and a report\nfrom him that I\nhad violated police procedures or disobeyed direct orders could hurt\nme. Still,\nI kept my expression neutral.\n“I think these recent murders link up with an old homicide of mine,”\nI said.\n“The killer’s signature looks the same. We might be able to help\neach other.”\n“Don’t use the we word with me, Boxer. You’re benched. Don’t mess\nwith my crime\nscenes. Leave my witnesses alone. Take some walks. Read a book.\nGet a grip.Whatever. Just stay out of my hair.”\nWhen I spoke again, my voice was so taut an aerialist could’ve\ncartwheeled\nacross it to the other side of the room.\n“You know, Chief, in your place, all I’d be thinking about is this\npsychopath\nwandering your streets. Thinking, How can I shut him down for\ngood? I might even\nwelcome a decorated homicide inspector who wanted to help out.\nBut I guess we\nthink differently.”\nMy little speech set the chief back a blink or two, so I seized the\nopportunity\nto get out with my dignity.\n“You know how to reach me,” I said, and marched out of the police\nstation.\nI could almost hear my lawyer whispering in my ear. Relax. Keep a\nlow profile.\nNuts, Yuki. Why not advise me to take up the harp?\nI revved the engine and peeled out of the parking lot.\nChapter 59\nI WAS DRIVING ALONG Main Street, muttering under my breath,\nthinking up severalnew things I wish I’d said to the chief, when I noticed that my gas\ngauge light\nwas practically screaming, Lindsay! You’re out of gas!\nI pulled into the Man in the Moon, ran the Explorer over the air bell,\nand, when\nKeith didn’t appear, walked across the asphalt apron into the depths\nof his\nshop.\nThe Doors’ “Riders on the Storm” billowed out when I opened the\ndoor to the\nrepair bay.\nOn the wall to my right was a calendar featuring Miss June wearing\nnothing but a\nwave in her hair. Above her was a splendid sight: rare and beautiful\nhood\nornaments from Bentleys, Jags, and Maseratis, mounted on\nlacquered blocks of\nwood, like trophies. Curled inside a tire was a fat orange tabby cat\nhaving a\nsnooze.\nI admired the red Porsche parked in the bay and addressed Keith’s\njeans and work\nboots in the pit below.\n“Nice ride,” I said.Keith ducked out from under the car, a smile already lighting his\ngrease-streaked face.\n“Isn’t it, though?” He climbed out of the pit, wiped his hands on a\nrag, and\nturned down the music. “So, Lindsay. You having trouble with that\nBonneville?”\n“Not at all. I replaced the alternator and the plugs. Engine purrs like\nthis\nguy.”\n“This’s Hairball,” Keith told me, scratching the cat under the chin.\n“My attack\ncat. He rode in on the carburetor of a pickup truck a couple of years\nago.”\n“Youch.”\n“All the way from Encino. Burned his paws, but he’s good as new\nnow, aren’t you,\nbuddy?”\nKeith asked if I needed gas, and I said that I did. We walked\ntogether into the\nsoft afternoon sunshine.\n“I caught you on TV last night,” Keith told me as high-test gurgled\ninto the\nExplorer’s capacious tank.“You did not.”\n“No, I did. Your attorney was on the news, and they showed a\npicture of you in\nyour blues,” he said, grinning at me. “You really are a cop.”\n“You didn’t believe me?”\nThe kid shrugged winningly. “I pretty much believed you. But it was\nokay either\nway, Lindsay. Either you were a cop or you just had a great line.”\nI hooted, and Keith’s face crinkled in laughter. After a bit, I told him\nabout\nthe Cabot case—just the overview, absent the grief and the gore.\nKeith was\nsupportive and a damned sight more fun to talk to than Chief Stark.\nHell, I was\neven enjoying his attention. Brad Pitt, right?\nHe unlatched the Explorer’s hood, pulled out the dipstick, and gave\nme a direct\nlook with his bright blue eyes. I stared into them long enough to\nnotice that\nhis irises were rimmed with navy blue and flecked with brown, as if\nthere were\nlittle drifts of gold dust in them.\n“You need oil,” I heard him say. I felt my face color.“Sure. Okay.”\nKeith punched open a can of Castrol and poured it into the engine.\nAs he did, he\nput his other hand in the back pocket of his jeans, adopting a\nposture of\nstudied nonchalance.\n“So, satisfy my curiosity,” he said. “Tell me about your boyfriend.”\nChapter 60\nI WRENCHED MYSELF OUT of whatever the heck was going on\nbetween us and told\nKeith about Joe: what a great guy he was, how funny, how kind, and\nhow smart.\n“He works in DC. Homeland Security.”\n“I’m impressed,” said Keith.\nI saw the kid swallow before he asked, “Are you in love with the\nguy?”\nI nodded, picturing Joe’s face, thinking how much I missed him.\n“Lucky guy, that Manicotti.”\n“Molinari,” I said, grinning.\n“Lucky, whatever his name is,” Keith said, closing the hood. Just\nthen, a black\nsedan with rental-car plates pulled up to the garage.“Damn,” Keith muttered. “Here comes Mr. Porsche, and his car’s not\nready.”\nAs I handed Keith my MasterCard, “Mr. Porsche” stepped out of his\nrent-a-car and\ninto my peripheral vision.\n“Hey, Keith,” he called out. “How’s it coming, my man?”\nWait a minute. I knew him. He looked older in broad daylight, but it\nwas that\nobnoxious guy who’d hit on me and Carolee in the Cormorant.\nDennis Agnew.\n“Just give me five minutes,” Keith called back.\nBefore I could ask him about that creep, Keith was heading toward\nthe office and\nAgnew was walking straight toward me. When he got within spitting\ndistance, he\nstopped, put his hand heavily on the hood of my car, and shot me a\nlook that hit\nme right between the eyes.\nHe followed up the look with a slow, insinuating smile. “Slumming,\nOfficer? Or\ndo you just like young meat?” I was honing a retort when Keith\ncame up from\nbehind.“You calling me meat?” Keith said, aligning his body with mine. He\nmatched\nAgnew’s sarcastic smile with a sunny one of his own. “I guess I\nshould consider\nthe source, you dirty old man.”\nIt was a grin-off, both men holding their ground. A long blistering\nmoment\npassed.\nThen Agnew took his hand off my hood.\n“C’mon, meat. I want to see my car.”\nKeith winked at me and handed me back my card.\n“Stay in touch, Lindsay. Okay?”\n“Sure thing. You, too.”\nI got into my car and started up the engine, but I just sat for a while\nwatching\nAgnew follow Keith into the repair shop. The guy was wrong, but\nhow wrong, and\nin what way, I just didn’t know.\nChapter 61\nI’D SLEPT BADLY. WILD, fractured dreams had awoken me\nrepeatedly. Now I leanedover the bathroom sink and brushed my teeth with a goofy\nvengeance.\nI was edgy and I was furious, and I knew why.\nBy threatening me, Chief Stark had effectively stopped me from\ninvestigating\nleads that might finally solve the John Doe #24 homicide. If I was\nright, Doe’s\nkiller was still active in Half Moon Bay.\nI banged glass and crockery around in the kitchen, feeding Martha,\nmaking\ncoffee, eating my Wheaties.\nI was half-watching the Today show on the small kitchen TV when a\nred banner\nflashed on the screen.\nLIVE. Breaking News.\nA somber young woman, a local TV reporter, stood in front of a\nredwood house,\nthe crime scene tape behind her cordoning off the house from the\nstreet. Her\nvoice rose over the sounds of a crowd visible at the edges of the\nframe.\n“At seven-thirty this morning Annemarie and Joseph Sarducci were\nfound dead intheir home on Outlook Road. Their slashed and partially nude bodies\nwere found\nby their thirteen-year-old son, Anthony, who was unharmed. We\nspoke with Police\nChief Peter Stark just minutes ago.”\nThe scene cut away to a shot of Stark facing reporters outside the\nstation\nhouse. The crowd jostled for position. There were network call\nletters on some\nof the microphones. This was a siege.\nI turned up the sound.\n“Chief Stark. Is it true that the Sarduccis were slaughtered like\nanimals?”\n“Chief! Over here! Did Tony Sarducci find them? Did the kid find his\nparents?”\n“Hey, Pete. Do you have a suspect?”\nI watched transfixed as Stark negotiated the balancing act of his life.\nEither\ntell the truth or lie and pay for it later, but keep the public calm and\ndon’t\ngive the killer any information he can use. I’d seen the same look on\nthe face\nof Chief Moose when the DC-area sniper was at large.“Look, I can’t say more than this,” Stark said. “Two more people\nhave died, but\nI can’t tell you anything of an evidentiary nature. We’re on it. And\nwe’ll\ninform the public as soon as we have something substantive to\nreport.”\nI grabbed a chair, pulled it right up to the screen, and sat down\nhard. Even\nthough I’d seen so many murdered people, this case got me to the\ncore.\nI didn’t think I could have a reaction like this. I was so outraged at\nthe\nkiller’s audacity I was shaking.\nI joined the throng outside the police station by proxy. I found\nmyself talking\nat a thirteen-inch Sony and Chief Stark’s shrunken image.\n“Who is doing this, Chief?\n“Who the hell is murdering all of these people?”\nPart Four\nTrials and Tribulation\nChapter 62THEY WERE CARRYING THE bodies out of the house just as I\narrived. I parked\nbetween two black-and-whites on the lawn and looked up at a\nstunning\nglass-and-redwood contemporary.\nThe gaping crowd parted as paramedics bumped down the steps\nwith the stretchers,\nthen slid the two body bags into the open maw at the back of the\nEMS van.\nAlthough I didn’t know Annemarie and Joseph Sarducci, I was\nswamped by\nunspeakable sadness.\nI edged my way through the mob and up to the front door, where a\nuniformed\nofficer was on security detail, at ease, with his hands behind his\nback.\nI could tell he was a pro because he gave me both a warm smile and\na cold eye. I\ntook a chance and badged him.\n“The chief’s inside, Lieutenant.”\nI rang the bell.\nThe first bar of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons chimed.\nChief Stark opened the door, and when he saw that it was me, his\njaw tightened.“What are you fucking doing here?” he said, biting down on his\nwords. I put my\nheart into my reply, because it was true.\n“I want to help, damn it. May I come in?”\nWe stared at each other across the threshold until finally Chief Stark\nblinked.\n“Anyone ever tell you that you’re a persistent pain in the ass?” he\nsaid,\nstepping aside so that I could enter.\n“Yes. And thanks.”\n“Don’t thank me. I called a friend of mine on the SFPD. Charlie\nClapper says\nyou’re a good cop. He’s right about half the time. Don’t make me\nsorry.”\n“You honestly think you could feel sorrier than you do right now?”\nI walked past Stark through the foyer and into the living room with\nits wall of\nwindows facing the water below. The furnishings were of a spare\nScandinavian\nvariety: clean lines, flat woven carpets, abstract art, and although\nthe\nSarduccis were dead, I could feel their presence in the things they’d\nleft\nbehind.Even as I mentally catalogued everything I could see, I noticed what\nwas\nmissing. There were no cones, tags, or markers on the ground floor.\nSo where had\nthe killer entered?\nI turned to the chief. “Mind running the scene for me?”\n“Bastard broke in through the skylight upstairs,” said Stark.\nChapter 63\nTHE MASTER BEDROOM FELT not just cold, but hollowed out, as if\nthe room itself\nwere suffering from the terrible loss.\nWindows were open, and the vertical blinds clacked in the breeze\nlike the\nrattling bones of the dead. The rumpled ice blue bed linens were\nspattered with\narterial blood, and the sight of that made the room feel even colder.\nA half dozen CSU techs bagged knickknacks from the nightstands,\nvacuumed the\ncarpet, brushed surfaces for prints. Except for the blood, the room\nseemed oddly\nundisturbed.\nI borrowed some surgical gloves, then leaned in close to look at a\nstudio shotof the Sarduccis that was propped on the bureau. Annemarie was\npretty and\npetite. Joe had a “gentle giant” look, his arms proudly surrounding\nhis wife and\nson.\nWhy would someone want this couple dead?\n“Annemarie’s throat was slashed,” Stark said, his voice breaking into\nmy\nthoughts. “Just about cut her head off.”\nHe indicated the blood-drenched carpet beside the bed. “She fell\nthere. Joe\nwasn’t in bed when it happened.”\nStark pointed out that Annemarie’s blood spatter radiated out\nstraight across\nthe bed and that the stain pattern was uninterrupted.\n“No signs of a struggle,” said the chief. “Joey bought it in the\nbathroom.”\nI followed Stark across the blond carpet to a white marble bath.\nBright blood\nwas concentrated on one side of the room, a lateral swath sprayed\nagainst the\nwall at about knee level. It dripped down the wall and joined the\ncongealinglake of blood on the floor. I could see the outline of Joe’s body\nwhere he had\nfallen.\nI crouched to get a better look.\n“The intruder must’ve found the lady alone in bed,” said the chief,\nrunning me\nthrough his hypothetical. “Maybe he puts his hand over her mouth,\nasks, ‘Where’s\nyour husband?’ Or maybe he hears the toilet flush. He offs\nAnnemarie quick. Then\nhe surprises Joe in the can. Joe hears the door open and says,\n‘Honey —?’ He\nlooks up now. ‘Wait. Who are you? What do you want?’”\n“This blood’s from his neck wound,” I said, indicating the swath low\non the\nwall. “The killer had to get Joe down on all fours so he could control\nhim. Joe\nwas the bigger man.”\n“Yeah,” Stark said wearily. “Looks like he got him down, stood\nbehind him,\npulled Joe’s head back by the hair, and —” The chief drew his finger\nacross his\nthroat.I asked questions and the chief answered: Nothing had been stolen.\nThe boy\nhadn’t heard a sound. Friends and neighbors had come forward to\nsay that the\nSarduccis were happy, didn’t have an enemy in the world.\n“Just like the Daltrys,” Chief Stark said. “Same story with the\nO’Malleys. No\nweapons, no clues, nothing funny with their finances, no apparent\nmotive. The\nvictims didn’t know each other.” The chief’s face kind of crumpled in\non itself.\nHe was vulnerable for a split second, and I could see the pain.\n“All the victims had in common was that they were married,” he said.\n“So where\ndoes that go? Eighty percent of the people in Half Moon Bay are\nmarried.\n“The whole goddamned town is terrified. Me included.”\nThe chief finished his speech. He looked away, stuffed the back of\nhis shirt\ninto his pants, patted down his hair. Collected himself so he didn’t\nlook as\ndesperate as he must have felt. Then he looked me in the eye.\n“So what are your thoughts, Lieutenant? Wow me, why don’t you?”Chapter 64\nI HADN’T SEEN THE bodies, and the labs from this savage double\nhomicide wouldn’t\nstart trickling in for days. Still, I ignored the chief’s sarcasm and told\nhim\nwhat my gut had already told me.\n“There were two killers,” I said.\nStark’s head jerked back. He practically spat, “Bullshit.”\n“Look,” I said. “There was no sign of a struggle, right? Why didn’t\nJoe try to\noverpower his assailant? He was big. He was a bear.\n“Try it this way,” I went on. “Joe was taken out of the room at\nknifepoint—and\nhe cooperated because he had to. Killer number two was still in the\nbedroom with\nAnnemarie.”\nThe chief’s eyes darted around, looking at the scene from a new\nangle, imagining\nit the way I saw it.\n“I’d like to see the kid’s room,” I said.\nWhen I stepped across the threshold, I could see from his stuff that\nAnthonySarducci was a smart kid. He had good books, terrariums full of\nhealthy\ncreepy-crawlers, and a high-powered computer on his desk. But\nwhat got me most\ninterested were the indentations in the carpet where the desk chair\nnormally\nstood. The chair had been moved. Why was that?\nI swung my head around and saw it just inside the doorway.\nI thought about that cop standing sentry outside the Sarducci house\nand made a\nmental leap.\nThe child had heard nothing.\nBut what would have happened if he had?\nI pointed out the chair to the chief.\n“Anyone move this chair?” I asked.\n“No one’s been inside this room.”\n“I changed my mind,” I told him. “There weren’t two intruders here.\nThere were\nthree. Two to do the killings. One to manage the boy if he woke up.\nHe sat right\nover there in that chair.”\nThe chief turned stiffly, walked down the hall, and returned with a\nyoung femaleCSU tech. She waited by the door with her roll of tape until we had\nstepped out\nof the room. Then she cordoned it off.\n“I don’t want to believe this, Lieutenant. It was bad enough when\nwe were\ndealing with one psycho.”\nI held his gaze. Then, for just a second, he smiled.\n“Don’t quote me, now,” he said, “but I think I just said we.”\nChapter 65\nIT WAS LATE IN the afternoon when I left the Sarducci house. I\ndrove southeast\nalong Cabrillo, my mind buzzing with the details of the crime and my\nconversation with the chief. When he confirmed that the Sarduccis,\nlike the\nother double-murder victims, had been whipped, I told him that I’d\nhad a brush\nwith these murderers myself.\nI told him about John Doe #24.\nAll the dots between the Half Moon Bay murders and my John Doe\nhadn’t been\nconnected yet, but I was pretty sure I was right. Ten years on\nhomicide hadtaught me that though MOs might change over time, signatures\nalways stayed the\nsame. Whipping and slashing in combination was a rare, possibly\nunique\nsignature.\nThe light was red as I approached the intersection just a few blocks\nfrom the\nSarduccis’. As I braked, I glanced into the rearview mirror and saw a\nred sports\ncar coming up behind me very fast. I expected the car to stop, but it\ndidn’t\neven slow down.\nI could not believe what I saw next. My eyes were pinned to the\nrearview mirror,\nwatching as the car kept coming toward me on a collision course.\nI leaned on my horn, but the car just got bigger in my rearview.\nWhat the hell\nwas going on? Was the driver on his freaking cell phone? Did he see\nme?\nAdrenaline shot through me, and time splintered into fragments. I\nstepped on the\ngas and jerked the wheel to avoid the collision, driving off the road\nand onto a\nfront lawn, taking out a garden cart before coming to rest at the\nbase of aDouglas fir.\nI jerked the Explorer into reverse, tearing up the lawn before getting\nback onto\nthe roadway. Then I took off after the fast-disappearing maniac\nwho’d almost\ndriven through my backseat. Who hadn’t stopped to check on the\nwreck he almost\ncaused. The asshole could have killed me.\nI kept the red car in sight, getting close enough to recognize its\nelegant\nshape. The car was a Porsche.\nMy face got hot as my fear and anger came together. I gunned my\nengine,\nfollowing the Porsche as it wove through traffic, crossing the double\nyellow\nline repeatedly.\nThe last time I’d seen that car, Keith had been fixing the oil pan.\nIt was Dennis Agnew’s car.\nA dozen miles flew by. I was still on the Porsche’s tail when we went\nup and\nover the hills into San Mateo and south on El Camino Real, a seedy\nthoroughfare\nbordering the Caltrain tracks. Then, without signaling, the Porsche\nhooked asharp right into a strip mall entrance.\nI followed, squealing into the turn, coming to a stop in a nearly\ndesolate\nparking lot. I turned off the engine, and as my racing heart slowed\nto a canter,\nI looked around.\nThe minimall was a down-market collection of retail shops: auto\nparts, a Dollar\nStore, a liquor store. Down at the far end of the lot was a square\ncement-block\nbuilding with a red neon sign in the window: Playmate Pen. XXX Live\nGirls.\nParked in front of the poster-plastered storefront was Dennis\nAgnew’s car.\nI locked the Explorer and walked the twenty yards to the porn shop.\nI opened the\ndoor and went inside.\nChapter 66\nTHE PLAYMATE PEN WAS an ugly place lit by harsh overhead lights\nand flashing\nneon. To my left were racks of party toys: dildos and ticklers in\ngarish colors\nand molded body parts in lifelike plastic. To my right were soda and\nsnackmachines—refreshment for all those film lovers trapped inside tiny\nvideo booths\nwith their brains hooked into their fantasies, hands firmly on their\njoysticks.\nI felt eyes tracking me as I walked the narrow aisles lined with\nvideos. I was\nthe only female wandering loose in the place, and I guess I stood\nout more in my\nslacks and blazer than if I’d been stark naked.\nI was about to approach the clerk in front when I felt a dark\npresence at my\nelbow.\n“Lindsay?”\nI started—but Dennis Agnew looked thrilled to see me.\n“To what do I owe the honor, Lieutenant?”\nI was caught in a maze of stacks and racks of chicks-and-dicks, but\nlike a steer\nin the chute of a slaughterhouse, I could see that the only way out\nwas straight\nahead.\nAgnew’s office was a brightly lit, windowless cubicle. He took the\nchair behind\na wood-grain Formica desk and indicated where I should sit—a black\nleather sofathat had seen better days.\n“I’ll stand. This isn’t going to take long,” I said, but as I stood there\nin the\ndoorway, I had to look around the room.\nEvery wall was hung with framed photos signed to “Randy Long”\nfrom G-stringed\nlovelies, porn film publicity stills of overheated couplings featuring\nRandy\nLong and his partners. I also saw a few flashbulb snapshots of\nAgnew posing with\ngrinning guys in suits.\nBells started clanging as I matched the mugs of young up-and-\ncoming wiseguys to\nthe mobsters they’d later become. At least two of the suits were\nnow dead.\nIt took me another couple of seconds to realize that Dennis Agnew\nand the\nyounger, long-haired Randy Long in the photos were one and the\nsame. Agnew had\nbeen a freaking porn star.\nChapter 67\n“SO, LIEUTENANT, WHAT CAN I do you for?” Dennis Agnew said,\nsmiling, making neatstacks of his papers, corraling a loose pile of cock rings, pouring\nthem like\ncoins from one hand to another, then onto the desktop.\n“I don’t know what you’re trying to pull,” I said, “but where I come\nfrom,\nrunning a car off the road is a crime.”\n“Seriously, Lindsay. You don’t mind if I call you Lindsay?” Agnew\nfolded his\nhands and gave me one of his bleached-beyond-white smiles. “I\ndon’t know what\nyou’re talking about.”\n“That’s crap. Twenty minutes ago you ran me off the road. People\ncould’ve been\nkilled. I could’ve been killed.”\n“Oh. No. Couldn’t have been me,” Agnew said, furrowing his brow\nand shaking his\nhead. “I think I would’ve noticed that. No, I think you’ve come here\nbecause you\nwant to see me.”\nIt was infuriating. Not just that Agnew was a creep with a fast car\nwho didn’t\ngive a shit, but his mocking attitude really fried me.\n“See these girls?” he said, hooking a thumb toward his “wall of\nfame.” “You knowwhy they do these flicks? Their self-esteem is so low they think by\ndebasing\nthemselves with men, they’ll actually feel more powerful. Isn’t that\nridiculous?\nAnd look at you. Debasing yourself by coming here. Does it make\nyou feel\npowerful?”\nI was choking on this load of crap, sputtering, “You arrogant horse’s\nass,” when\nI heard a voice saying, “Whoa. Please tell me you’re applying for a\njob here.”\nA small man with a cheap green jacket buttoned over his beer belly\nappeared in\nthe office doorway. He leaned against the doorjamb, an arm’s length\nfrom where I\nstood, running his eyes over me. It was a look that just about\nskeeved me out of\nmy skin.\n“Rick Monte, this is Lieutenant Lindsay Boxer. She’s a homicide cop\nfrom San\nFrancisco,” Agnew said. “She’s on vacation—or so she says.”\n“Enjoying your time off, Lieutenant?” Rick asked my bustline.\n“I’m loving it, but I could make this an official visit at any time.”\nAs soon as I said those words, I felt a jolt straight to the heart.What was I doing?\nI was on restricted duty and out of my jurisdiction. I’d chased a\ncitizen in my\nown car. I had no backup, and if either of these jerk-offs phoned in a\ncomplaint, I’d be up on disciplinary action.\nIt was the last thing I needed before my trial.\n“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were upset,” Dennis said in his\noily\nvoice. “I haven’t done anything to harm you, you know.”\n“Next time you see me,” I said through clenched teeth, “turn and\nwalk the other\nway.”\n“Oh. Pardon me. I must have it wrong. I thought it was you who\nfollowed me.”\nI was hot to fire off a comeback, but this time I stifled it. He was\nright. He\nhadn’t actually done anything to me. He hadn’t even called me a\nname.\nI left Agnew’s office, kicking myself for showing up on this lowlife’s\nturf.\nI had pointed my nose toward the front of the shop, intent on\nputting this\nhorrid little scene behind me, when my way was blocked by a\nbrawny young guywith blond streaks in his mullet and tattooed flames shooting out of\nhis T-shirt\ncollar.\n“Out of my way, hot stuff,” I said, trying to squeeze past him.\nThe guy held out his arms while standing like a boulder in the middle\nof the\nstore. He smiled, daring me.\n“Come on, mama. Come to Rocco,” he said.\n“It’s all right, Rocco,” Agnew said. “This lady is my guest. I’ll walk\nyou out,\nLindsay.”\nI reached for the door, but Agnew leaned against it, boxing me in.\nHe was so\nclose all I could see was his face: every pore, every capillary in his\nbloodshot\neyes. He pressed a videocassette into my hands.\nThe cover advertised Randy Long’s epic performance in A Long Hard\nNight.\n“Take a look when you have a chance. I put my phone number on\nthe back.”\nI pushed away from Agnew and the video clattered to the floor.\n“Move it,” I said.He stepped back, just clearing the door enough so that I could open\nit. Agnew\nhad a grin on his face and his hand on his crotch as I left.\nChapter 68\nI WOKE UP THE next morning thinking about Dennis Agnew, that\nslime. I took my\ncoffee out to the porch and before it had cooled enough to drink, I\nwas taking\nmy agitation out on a rattle in the Bonneville’s engine.\nI had a feeler gauge in hand and was fiddling with the valves when a\ncar rolled\nup and parked in the driveway.\nDoors slammed.\n“Lindsay? Helllooo.”\n“I think she’s been swallowed by that big gold boat.”\nI ducked out from under the hood, wiped my greasy hands on a\nchamois, and\nreached out my arms to Cindy and Claire, grabbing them both in one\ngiant hug. We\nsquealed and jumped around, and Martha, who’d been sleeping on\nthe porch, joined\nin.“We were in the neighborhood,” said Claire when we broke from our\nclinch.\n“Thought we’d stop by and see how much trouble you’ve gotten\ninto. So what’s\nthis, Lindsay? I thought all these gas gluttons had been crushed and\noutlawed.”\n“Don’t be talking bad about my baby,” I said with a laugh.\n“It runs?”\n“No, sirree, Butterfly. She flies.”\nThe girls handed me a beribboned spa basket from Nordstrom’s full\nof great\nmood-altering bath and body stuff, and after a unanimous show of\nhands, we piled\ninto the Bonneville for a ride.\nI buzzed down the electric windows, and as the car’s big whitewalls\nsoftened the\nroad, the zephyr coming off the bay mussed and tousled our hair.\nWe rounded the\nloops of Cat’s neighborhood and were headed up the mountain\nwhen Claire showed\nme an envelope.\n“Almost forgot. Jacobi sent this.”\nI glanced at the eight-by-eleven-inch manila envelope in her hand.\nThe nightbefore, I’d called Jacobi and asked him to get me anything he could\nfind on\nDennis Agnew, aka Randy Long.\nI filled Cindy and Claire in on my first accidental meeting with Agnew\nat the\nCormorant bar, the set-to at Keith’s garage, and the near-rear-ender.\nThen I\ndescribed my skeevy tour of the Playmate Pen in minute detail.\n“He said that to you?” Cindy exclaimed after I quoted Agnew on\n“women debase\nthemselves with men so they can feel powerful.” Her cheeks pinked;\nshe was\npissed off right up to her eyelashes. “Now, there’s someone who\nshould be\ncrushed and outlawed.”\nI laughed and told her, “Agnew had this wall of fame, like something\nyou’d see\nin Tony’s office in the Bada Bing. All these signed photos from porn\nqueens and\nwiseguys. Unreal. Claire, will you open that, please?”\nClaire took three pages from the envelope. They were stapled\ntogether and\nannotated with a Post-it note from Jacobi.“Read it out loud, if you don’t mind,” Cindy said, leaning over the\nback of the\nfront seat.\n“There’s some minor league stuff: DWI, assault, domestic violence, a\ndrug bust\nand some time at Folsom. But here ya go, Linds. Says he was\ncharged with\nfirst-degree murder five years ago. Case dismissed.”\nI reached over and peeled off Jacobi’s handwritten note: “The vic\nwas Agnew’s\ngirlfriend. His lawyer was Ralph Brancusi.”\nI didn’t have to say more. We all knew Brancusi was a high-profile\ndefense\nattorney. Only the wealthy could afford him.\nBrancusi was also the lawyer of choice for the mob.\nChapter 69\nWHEN WE GOT BACK to Cat’s house, there was a patrol car in the\ndriveway, and\nChief Stark was walking toward us. He looked as grim as ever, brow\nscrunched up,\nwith a haunted look in his eyes that was actually contagious.\n“What is it, Chief? What’s happened now?”“The ME’s starting the posts on the Sarduccis,” he said, squinting\ninto the sun.\n“This is your formal invitation.”\nI felt a surge of excitement that I masked out of consideration for\nthe chief. I\nintroduced Cindy and Claire.\n“Dr. Washburn is the CME in San Francisco,” I said. “Okay for her to\ncome\nalong?”\n“Sure, why not?” the chief grunted. “Take all the help I can get. I’m\nlearning,\nright?”\nCindy looked at the three of us and saw that she wasn’t being\nincluded in the\ninvitation. Hell, she was the press.\n“I get it,” she said good-naturedly. “Look, I’ll hang out here, no\nproblem. I’ve\ngot my laptop and a deadline. Plus, I’m a leper.”\nClaire and I got back into the Bonneville and followed the chief’s car\nout to\nthe highway.\n“This is great,” I said, my enthusiasm brimming over. “He’s letting\nme into thecase.”\n“What am I doing?” Claire said, shaking her head. “Aiding and\nabetting your\ncompletely ill-advised involvement when we both know you should\nbe out on the\nporch with a gin and tonic, your butt in a chair and your legs over\nthe\nrailing.”\nI laughed. “Admit it,” I said. “You’re hooked, too. You can’t turn\naway from\nthis thing, either.”\n“You’re nuts,” she grumbled. Then she looked over at me. My grin\nset hers off.\n“You kill me, Lindsay. You really do. But it’s your ass, baby.”\nTen minutes later, we followed Stark’s car off the highway into Moss\nBeach.\nChapter 70\nTHE MORGUE WAS IN the basement of the Seton Medical Center. It\nwas a white-tiled\nroom smelling as pristine and fresh as the frozen-food section in a\nsupermarket.\nA cooler hummed gently in the background.I nodded at two evidence techies who were grousing about some\nbureaucratic\nscheduling screwup as they folded the victims’ garments into brown\npaper bags.\nI was drawn to the autopsy tables in the middle of the room, where\nthe ME’s\nyoung assistant was running a sponge and hose over the Sarduccis’\nbodies. He\nturned off the water and stepped aside as I approached.\nJoseph and Annemarie lay naked and exposed under the bright\nlights. Their\nglistening bodies were unmarked except for ugly slash wounds\nacross their necks,\ntheir faces as unlined in death as those of children.\nClaire called my name, breaking my silent communion with the dead.\nI turned and she introduced me to a man in blue scrubs and a\nplastic apron, with\na net over his gray hair. He had a slight, stooped build and a\nlopsided smile,\nas if he had Bell’s palsy or had suffered a stroke.\n“Lindsay, this is Dr. Bill Ramos, forensic pathologist. Bill, this is\nLieutenant\nLindsay Boxer, Homicide, from SFPD. There may be a link between\nthese murdersand a cold case of hers.”\nI was shaking Ramos’s hand when Chief Stark came over.\n“Doc, tell her what you told me on the phone.”\nRamos said, “Why don’t I show you?”\nHe spoke to his assistant: “Hey, Samir, I want to take a look at the\nfemale’s\nback, so give me a half turn. Let’s put her on the side.”\nSamir crossed Annemarie’s ankles left over right, and the doctor\nreached over\nand took her left wrist. Then the two of them pulled the corpse so\nthat it\nrested on one side.\nI peered at seven yellowish marks crossing over one another on the\ndead woman’s\nbuttocks, each about three-quarters of an inch in width,\napproximately three\ninches long.\n“Tremendous force in these blows,” said Ramos. “Still, you can\nbarely make them\nout. Samir, let’s turn Mr. Sarducci now.”\nThe doctor and his assistant pulled the male onto his side, his head\nlolling\nback pathetically as they did so.“Now, see,” the doctor said, “here it is again. Multiple faint\nrectangular\npatterns, pressure-type abrasions. They aren’t the red brown color\nyou’d see if\nthe section had been struck while he was still alive, and they’re not\nthe yellow\nparchmentlike abrasions you’d get if the blows were administered\npostmortem.”\nThe doctor looked up to make sure I understood.\n“Punch me in the face, then shoot me twice in the chest. There\nwon’t be enough\nblood pressure for me to get a rip-roaring bruise on my face, but\nthere’ll be\nsomething there if my heart pumps for a moment.”\nThe doctor took a scalpel to one of the marks on the male’s back,\ncutting\nthrough unmarked tissue and the pale strap mark. “You can see this\nlight\nbrownish color under the abrasions, what’s called a ‘well-\ncircumscribed focal\naccumulation of blood.’\n“In plain English,” Ramos continued, “and wouldn’t you agree, Dr.\nWashburn? The\ndeep slash across the carotid artery and the vagus nerves stopped\nthe heartalmost instantly, but not instantaneously. This man had one last\nheartbeat when\nhe was whipped.\n“These blows were administered cum-mortem—just before or at the\ntime of death.\nIn the mind of the killer, the victim could still feel the lash.”\n“Looks like it was personal,” said Stark.\n“Oh, yes. I’d say the killers hated their victims.”\nThere was a hush in the room as the doctor’s words sank in.\n“The marks on Joe are narrower than the marks on Annemarie,”\nClaire noted.\n“Yes,” Ramos agreed again. “Different implements.”\n“Like a belt,” I said. “Could these whippings have been made by two\ndifferent\nbelts?”\n“I can’t say positively, but it’s certainly consistent,” said Ramos.\nClaire looked not only focused but sad. “What are you thinking?” I\nasked her.\n“I hate to say it, Lindsay, but this really brings me back. The marks\nlook like\nwhat I remember seeing on your John Doe.”\nChapter 71IT WAS AFTER MIDNIGHT when the Watcher headed inland from\nthe beach. He climbed\nthe sandy cliff, then stuck to the quarter mile of path that cut\nthrough the\nthistles and thick dune grasses and ran east from the cliffs. The\nWatcher could\nfinally make out the serpentine bay-side road.\nHe was honing in on one particular house when he stumbled over a\nlog in the\npath. He reached out to break his fall and went down hard, splaying\non his\nbelly, hands scraping packed sand and saw grass.\nThe Watcher got quickly to his knees, slapping his breast jacket\npocket—his\ncamera had flown.\n“Fuck fuck fuck!” he yelled in frustration.\nHe crawled on all fours, patting the sand, feeling the sweat on his\nupper lip\ndry in the cool air.\nDesperation clutched at him as the minutes leached away. At last, he\nfound his\nprecious camera, so small—lens-down in the sand.\nHe blew on the camera to dislodge the grit, pointed it at the houses,\nand peeredinto the viewfinder. He saw through a haze of fine scratches across\nthe plastic\nlens.\nThis was bad.\nCursing under his breath, the Watcher checked the time—12:14 a.m.\n—and set out\ntoward the house where Lindsay was staying.\nNow that his zoom lens was useless, he would have to get closer,\nand on foot.\nThe Watcher stepped over the guardrail at the end of the field and\nstood square\non the sidewalk with a streetlight blazing down on his head.\nTwo houses in from the end of the road, Cat Boxer’s house glowed\nwith lamplight.\nHe ducked into shadows and approached the house obliquely by\ncutting through\nside yards, crouching at last in the lee of the privet hedge bordering\nthe Boxer\nliving room.\nWith heart pounding, he stood and peered through the picture\nwindow.\nThe gang was all there: Lindsay in her SFPD T-shirt and tights;\nClaire, theblack ME from the city, in a gold caftan; and Cindy, her blond hair\nbunched on\ntop of her head, a chenille robe covering all but the legs of her pink\npajamas\nand her feet.\nThe women were talking intensely, sometimes laughing loudly, then\ngetting\nserious again. If only he could make out what the hell they were\nsaying.\nThe Watcher ran through the facts, recent events, the\ncircumstances. The chair\nin the kid’s room. It didn’t connect any of them to anything, but it\nwas a\nmistake that he’d made.\nWas it safe to go forward?\nThere was so much more to do.\nThe Watcher felt the accumulating effects of stress on his body. His\nhands were\nshaking, and his chest burned with acid. He couldn’t stay here any\nlonger, he\njust could not.\nHe looked around, making sure no one was walking a dog or taking\nout thegarbage, then he stepped from behind the hedge and briefly into the\nstreetlight.\nHe jumped the guardrail and started along the darkened path to the\nbeach.\nA decision had to be made about Lindsay Boxer.\nA tough one.\nThe woman was a cop.\nChapter 72\nI WOKE EARLY IN the morning with a thought that surfaced in my\nmind like a\nporpoise breaking from beneath the waves.\nI let Martha out back, put coffee on to perk, and booted up my\nlaptop.\nI remembered that Bob Hinton had said that two other people had\nbeen killed in\nHalf Moon Bay two years before: Ray and Molly Whittaker. They\nwere summer\npeople, Hinton had said. Ray was a photographer, Molly a bit player,\nan extra,\nin Hollywood.\nI went online to the NCIC database and looked them up. I was still\nin shock when\nI went into the bedrooms to rouse the girls.When they were dressed and had coffee and scones in front of\nthem, I told them\nwhat I’d learned about Ray and Molly Whittaker.\n“They were pornographers, both of them. Ray was behind the\ncamera, and Molly\nperformed with kids. Boys, girls, it didn’t seem to matter,” I said.\n“They were\nbusted for it and acquitted. Their lawyer? It was Brancusi, again.”\nThe girls knew me too well. They got on my case, warning me to be\ncareful,\nreminding me that for all intents and purposes I was a civilian and\nthat even\nthough it seemed logical to check out a possible connection between\nthe\nWhittakers and Dennis Agnew, I was out of my territory, no one had\nmy back, and\nI was heading for big trouble.\nI must have said “I know, I know” a half dozen times, and as we\nsaid good-bye in\nthe driveway I made a lot of promises to be a good girl.\n“You should think about coming home, Lindsay,” said Claire finally,\nholding my\nface in her hands.\n“Right,” I said. “I’ll definitely think about it.”They both hugged me as though they would never see me again,\nand frankly, that\ngot to me. As Claire’s car backed down the driveway, Cindy leaned\nout the\nwindow.\n“I’ll call you tonight. Think about what we said. Think, Lindsay.”\nI blew kisses and went inside the house. I found my handbag\nhanging from a\ndoorknob and rooted around inside it until I felt my phone, my\nbadge, and my\ngun.\nA minute later I started up the Explorer.\nIt was a short drive into town, with my mind churning right up to the\nsecond I\npulled my car into a parking spot outside the police barracks.\nI found the chief in his office, staring at his computer, coffee mug in\nhand, a\nbox of sugared doughnuts on the side chair.\n“Those things will kill you,” I said. He moved the doughnuts so I\ncould sit\ndown.\n“If you ask me, death by doughnuts is a fine way to go. What’s on\nyour mind,Lieutenant?”\n“This,” I said. I unfurled Dennis Agnew’s rap sheet and slapped it\ndown on top\nof the messy pile of paper on the chief’s desk. “Ray and Molly\nWhittaker were\nwhipped, weren’t they?”\n“Yup, they were the first.”\n“Did you like anyone for their murders?”\nThe chief nodded.\n“Couldn’t prove it then, can’t prove it now, but we’ve been watching\nthis guy\nfor a long time.”\nHe picked up Agnew’s rap sheet and handed it back to me. “We\nknow all about\nDennis Agnew. He’s our prime suspect.”\nChapter 73\nI WAS ON THE porch at sunset, noodling a little tune on my guitar,\nwhen\nheadlights at the bottom of the road crawled slowly up the street\nand stopped\noutside Cat’s house.I was already moving toward the car as the driver got out of the\nfront seat and\nopened the rear passenger-side door.\n“I get it,” I said, my face glowing enough to light up the dusk. “You\njust\nhappened to be in the neighborhood.”\n“Exactly,” Joe said, reaching an arm around my waist. “Thought I’d\nsurprise\nyou.”\nI put my hand on the front of his crisp white shirt.\n“Claire called you.”\n“And Cindy.” Joe laughed a little sheepishly. “Let me take you out to\ndinner.”\n“Hmm. What if I make dinner here?”\n“Deal.”\nJoe tapped the roof, and the sedan took off.\n“C’mere,” he said, folding me in his arms, kissing me, shocking me\nonce again\nthat a kiss could spark such a conflagration. I had one moderately\nsane thought\nas the heat surged through my body: Here we go again. Another\ndrive-by romantic\ninterlude on the roller-coaster affair of my life.Joe cupped my face in his hands and kissed me again, and my heart\nsurrendered\nits feeble protestation. We entered the house, and I kicked the door\nshut behind\nus.\nI stood on tiptoe with my arms around Joe’s neck and let him walk\nme backward\nthrough the house until I was on my back in bed and Joe was taking\noff my\nclothes. He started with my shoes and kissed everything he exposed\non his way up\nto my lips.\nDear God, he melted everything but my Kokopelli.\nI gasped and reached for him, but he was gone.\nI opened my eyes and watched him undress. He was gorgeous. Fit,\ntanned, hard.\nAnd all for me.\nI smiled with sheer delight. Five minutes ago, I’d been looking\nforward to a Law\n& Order marathon. Now this! I opened my arms, and Joe covered\nmy body with his.\n“Hey,” he said. “I’ve missed you so much.”\n“Shut up,” I said. I bit his lower lip, not too hard, then opened my\nmouth tohis and wrapped my limbs around him.\nWhen we emerged from the bedroom an hour later, barefoot and\ndisheveled, it was\npitch-black outside. Martha thumped her tail, plainly meaning, Feed\nme, which I\ndid.\nThen I made a luscious tricolor salad with a mustard vinaigrette and\nthinly\nshaved Parmesan, and I put some pasta on to boil while Joe stirred\nbasil,\noregano, and garlic into tomato sauce. Soon a divine aroma filled\nthe air.\nWe ate at the kitchen table, exchanging our headlines of the past\nweek. Joe’s\nheadlines were a lot like CNN’s. Horrifying car bombs, airport\ninfiltrations,\nand political dustups that I didn’t need to have top-secret clearance\nto hear\nabout. As we washed the dishes together, I told Joe the briefest,\nleast\ninflammatory version of my encounters with Agnew.\nHis jaw clenched as I laid it out for him.\n“Pretend I didn’t tell you,” I said, kissing his brow as I refilled his\nglasswith wine.\n“Pretend I’m not mad at you for putting yourself in that kind of\ndanger.”\nJeez, had everyone forgotten that I was a cop? And a smart one, by\nthe way.\nFirst female lieutenant in San Francisco and so on and so forth.\n“How do you feel about Cary Grant?” I asked him. “How does\nKatharine Hepburn\ngrab you?”\nWe cuddled together on the sofa and watched Bringing Up Baby, one\nof my favorite\nscrewball comedies. I cracked up as I always did at the scene where\nCary Grant\ncrawls around after a terrier with a dinosaur bone in its mouth, and\nJoe laughed\nalong with me, holding me in his arms.\n“If you ever catch me doing that with Martha, don’t ask.”\nI laughed.\n“I love you so much, Lindsay.”\n“I love you so much, too.”\nLater that night, I fell asleep inside the curve of Joe’s body thinking,\nThis isso right. I just can’t get enough of this man.\nChapter 74\nJOE COOKED BACON AND scrambled eggs in the dazzling light\npouring through the\nkitchen windows. I filled mugs with coffee, and Joe read the squint\nin my eyes\nfor the unspoken question that it was.\n“I’m here until I get the call. If you want, I’ll help you brainstorm the\nmurders.”\nWe got into the Explorer with Joe at the wheel and Martha on my\nlap. I filled\nJoe in on the Sarduccis as we slowly cruised past their glass house\nbeside the\nbay.\nThen we headed up to Crescent Heights, taking the snaking dirt road\nto the door\nof the Daltrys’ abandoned little house.\nIf ever a house looked devastated by murder, this was it. The front\nlawn had\ngone to seed, boards had been hammered over the windows and\nthe doors, and\nscraps of crime scene tape fluttered like little yellow birds in the\nbushes.“Very different socioeconomic class from the Sarduccis,” said Joe.\n“Yeah. I don’t think these murders have anything to do with money.”\nWe pointed the Explorer down the mountain and within a few\nminutes we entered\nOcean Colony, the golf course–bordered community where the\nO’Malleys had lived\nand died. I pointed out the white colonial with blue shutters as we\nneared it.\nNow there was a For Sale sign in the front yard and a Lincoln in the\ndriveway.\nWe parked at the curb and saw a blond woman in a pink Lilly\nPulitzer dress exit\nthe house and lock the front door. When she saw us, her face\nstretched into a\nheavily lipsticked smile.\n“Hello,” she said, “I’m Emily Harris, Pacific Homes Real Estate. I’m\nsorry; the\nopen house is Sunday. I can’t show you the home now because I\nhave an\nappointment in town. . . .”\nMy face must have shown disappointment, and I saw Ms. Harris size\nus up as\nlikely prospects.\n“Listen. Replace the key in the lockbox on your way out. Okay?”We got out of the car, and I linked my arm through Joe’s. Looking\nevery bit the\nmarried couple shopping for our new home, Joe and I climbed the\nfront steps and\nunlocked the O’Malleys’ front door.\nChapter 75\nTHE INSIDE OF THE house had been sanitized, spiffed up, and\nrepainted—whatever\nit took to get top dollar for a very challenging property. I lingered in\nthe\ncenter hall, then followed Joe up the winding staircase.\nWhen I got to the master bedroom, I found him staring at the closet\ndoor.\n“There was a small hole here, at eye level—see, Linds? It was\npatched.” He\ndented the still-malleable Spackle with his fingernail.\n“A peephole?”\n“A peephole in a closet,” said Joe. “That’s odd, don’t you think?\nUnless the\nO’Malleys were making home movies.”\nMy mind whirled for a moment as I grappled with a possible\nconnection betweenhomemade porn and the Randy Long variety. Had the cops seen the\ncamera setup?\nAnd if they had, so what?\nThere was nothing illegal about consenting adults at play.\nI stepped inside the newly painted closet, batted the wire coat\nhangers aside,\nthen grabbed them to stop their jangling.\nThat’s when I saw another patch of Spackle visible under the fresh\npaint.\nI prodded it with a finger and felt my heart start to hammer. There\nwas another\npeephole at the back of the closet and it went right through the wall.\nI took one of the hangers off the rod and straightened it into a long\nwire,\nwhich I inserted into the hole.\n“Joe, could you go find where this comes out?”\nThe wire felt like a living thing as I waited for the tug that finally\ncame from\nthe other end. Joe returned seconds later. “It goes through to\nanother bedroom.\nYou should see this, Lindsay.”\nThe room next door was still partly furnished, with a ruffled four-\nposter,matching vanity, and an ornate full-length mirror affixed to the wall.\nJoe\npointed out the hole disguised as a floral detail in the mirror’s carved\nwooden\nframe.\n“Shit, Joe. This is their daughter’s room. Were those bastards spying\non\nCaitlin? Were they filming her?”\nI stared out the car window as Joe drove us back to Cat’s house. I\ncouldn’t stop\nthinking about that second peephole. What kind of people had the\nO’Malleys been?\nWhy would they have trained a camera on that child?\nHad it been some kind of nanny-cam in the past?\nOr was it something far more sinister?\nMy mind did pretzel loops around that peephole as I tried on every\npossibility.\nBut it all came back to one question: Did any of this tie in with the\nmurders?\nChapter 76\nIT WAS ONLY NOON when we got back to Cat’s house. Joe and I\nwent into my nieces’bedroom so that we could use their wall-size corkboard to plot out\nwhat we knew\nabout the murders.\nI found marking pens and construction paper, and pulled up two\nsmall red plastic\nstools to sit on.\n“So what do we know?” Joe asked, tacking yellow paper across the\nboard.\n“Circumstantial evidence suggests three killers. The ME says it looks\nto him as\nthough various knives and belts were used, backing up my theory\nthat there were\nmultiple perps, but there’s really nothing else. Not a hair, not a fiber,\nnot a\nprint, not a speck of DNA. It’s like working a case in the 1940s. CSU\nwouldn’t\nhelp crack this one.”\n“What do you see as a pattern? Talk it out for me.”\n“It’s not coming in clear,” I said, moving my hands over a make-\nbelieve crystal\nball. “Stark told me that the victims were all married. Then he says,\n‘That\ndoesn’t mean anything. Eighty percent of the population here is\nmarried.’”Joe printed the victims’ names on the sheets of paper.\n“Keep going,” he said.\n“All of the couples had children except the Whittakers. The\nWhittakers made\nkiddie porn, and Caitlin O’Malley may have been a victim. That’s\npure\nspeculation. The porn angle makes me think there may be some\nconnection to the\nlocal porn guys, and through them to organized crime—speculation\nagain. And\nlastly, my John Doe doesn’t seem to match the victim profile.”\n“Maybe the first murder was an impulse,” said Joe, “and the later\nmurders were\npremeditated.”\n“Hmm,” I said, letting my gaze drift to the windowsill, where sweet\npotatoes\ngrew in water glasses, sending out tendrils and fresh green leaves\nalong the\nledge.\n“That makes sense. Maybe my John Doe was killed in a crime of\npassion. If so,\nthe killer or killers didn’t feel the urge again for quite a long time.\nSame\nsignature. But what’s the connection?”“I don’t know yet. Try boiling it down for me.”\n“We’ve got eight related murders within a ten-mile radius. All the\nvictims had\ntheir throats slit, except for Lorelei O’Malley, who was gutted. All\neight plus\nJohn Doe were whipped. Motive unknown. And there’s a prime\nsuspect who’s an\nex-porn stud and a Teflon-coated sleazeball.”\n“I’ll make some calls,” Joe said.\nChapter 77\nWHEN JOE GOT OFF the phone with the FBI, I picked up the\nmarking pen and Joe\nsummarized his notes.\n“None of the victims raised any red flags: no felonies, no changed\nnames, no\nconnections with Dennis Agnew. As for the Playmate Pen guys,” Joe\nsaid, “Ricardo\nMontefiore, aka Rick Monte, has been convicted of pandering, lewd\npublic\nbehavior, and assault, and that’s it for him.\n“Rocco Benuto, the bouncer at your porn shop, is a lightweight. One\ncount ofpossession. One count of breaking and entering a convenience store\nin New Jersey\nwhen he was nineteen. Unarmed.”\n“Hardly the typical profile of a serial killer.”\nJoe nodded, then continued. “All three come up as ‘known\nassociates’ of various\nlow-to-midlevel mobsters. They attended a few wiseguy parties,\nprovided girls.\nAs for Dennis Agnew, you already know about the murder charge in\n2000 that was\ndismissed.”\n“Ralph Brancusi was the lawyer who got him off.”\nJoe nodded again. “The victim was a porn starlet from Urbana,\nIllinois. She was\nin her twenties, a heroin addict, busted a few times for prostitution.\nAnd she\nwas one of Agnew’s girlfriends before she disappeared for good.”\n“Disappeared? As in, no body was found?”\n“Sorry, Lindsay. No body.”\n“So we don’t know if her throat was slit.”\n“No.”\nI put my chin in my hands. It was frustrating to be so close to the\nvery heartof this horror show and yet have not one decent lead to run with.\nBut one pattern was clear. The murders were coming closer together.\nMy John Doe\nhad been killed ten years ago, the Whittakers eight years later, the\nDaltrys a\nmonth and a half ago. Now two double homicides in one week.\nJoe sat down on the little stool next to mine. He took my hand, and\nwe stared at\nthe notes tacked to the corkboard. When I spoke, my voice seemed\nto echo in the\ngirls’ small room.\n“They’re ratcheting up their timetable, Joe. Right now, they’re\nplanning to do\nit again.”\n“You know this for a fact?” Joe said.\n“I do. I can feel it.”\nChapter 78\nI AWOKE TO THE jarring sound of the bedside phone. I grabbed it\non the second\nring, noticing that Joe was gone and that there was a note on the\nchair where\nhis clothes had been.“Joe?”\n“It’s Yuki, Lindsay. Did I wake you?”\n“No, I’m up,” I lied.\nWe talked for five minutes at Yuki’s trademark warp speed, and after\nwe hung up,\nthere was no falling back to sleep. I read Joe’s sweet good-bye note,\nthen I\npulled on some sweats, put a leash on Martha, and together we\njogged to the\nbeach.\nA cleansing breeze whipped in off the bay as Martha and I headed\nnorth. We\nhadn’t gotten very far when I heard someone calling my name. A\nsmall figure up\nahead came running toward me.\n“Lindseee, Lindseee!”\n“Allison! Hey, girl.”\nThe dark-eyed little girl hugged me hard around the waist, then\ndropped to the\nsand to embrace Martha.\n“Ali, you’re not here alone?”\n“We’re having an outing,” she said, pointing to a clump of people\nand umbrellasa ways up the beach. As we got closer, I heard kids singing “Yolee-\nyolee-yolee,”\nthe theme song from Survivor, and I saw Carolee coming toward me.\nWe exchanged hugs, and then Carolee introduced me to “her” kids.\n“What kind of mutt is that?” an eleven- or twelve-year-old with a\nsandy mop of\nRasta hair asked me.\n“She’s no mutt. Sweet Martha is a border collie.”\n“She doesn’t look like Lassie,” said a little girl with strawberry curls\nand a\nhealing black eye.\n“Nope. Border collies are a different breed. They come from England\nand\nScotland, and they have a very serious job,” I said. “They herd sheep\nand\ncattle.”\nI had their attention now, and Martha looked up at me as if she\nknew that I was\ntalking about her.\n“Border collies have to learn commands from their owners, of\ncourse, but they’re\nvery smart dogs who not only love to work, they feel that the\nanimals in theherd are theirs—and that they are responsible for them.”\n“Do the commands! Show how she does it, Lindsay,” Ali begged me.\nI grinned at\nher.\n“Who wants to be a sheep?” I asked.\nA lot of the kids snickered, but four of them, including Ali,\nvolunteered. I\ntold the “sheep” to scatter and run down the beach and then I\nunleashed Martha.\n“Martha. Walk up,” I called to her, and she ran toward the little\ngroup of five.\nThey squealed and tried to evade her, but they couldn’t outdo\nMartha. She was\nfast and agile, and with her head down, eyes focused on them, she\nbarked at\ntheir heels, and the kids kept together and streamed forward in\npretty tight\nformation.\n“Come-bye,” I shouted, and Martha herded the kids clockwise\ntoward the bay.\n“Away,” I called out, and Martha looped them back around toward\nthe cliff, the\nchildren giggling gleefully.“That’ll do,” I called out, and my little black-and-white doggy kept\nthe kids in\na clump by running circles around their legs, shepherding them,\nbreathless and\ngiddy, back to the blankets.\n“Stand, Martha,” I said. “Good job. Excellent, sweetie.”\nMartha barked in self-congratulation beside me. The kids clapped\nand whistled,\nand Carolee handed out cups of orange juice and toasted us. When\nthe attention\nhad gone off me and Martha, I huddled with Carolee and told her\nabout my\nconversation with Yuki.\n“I need a favor,” I said.\n“Anything,” said Carolee Brown. And then she felt compelled to say,\n“Lindsay,\nyou would be a great mom.”\nChapter 79\nMINUTES AFTER SAYING GOOD-BYE to Carolee and the kids, Martha\nand I climbed the\ncliff and crossed the grassy field toward Miramontes Street. My feet\nhad justtouched the sidewalk when I saw a man maybe a hundred yards\naway pointing a\nsmallish camera in my direction.\nHe was so far away, all I could see was the glint of the lens, his\norange\nsweatshirt, and a baseball cap pulled down low over his eyes. And\nhe didn’t let\nme get any closer. Once he saw that I had noticed him, he turned\nand walked\nquickly away.\nMaybe the guy was just taking pictures of the view, or maybe the\ntabloid press\nhad found me at last, or maybe that pinging in my chest was just\nparanoia, but I\nfelt kind of uneasy as I headed home.\nSomeone was watching me.\nSomeone who didn’t want me to see him.\nBack at Cat’s, I stripped my bed and packed my things. Then I fed\nPenelope and\nchanged her water.\n“Good news, Penny,” I told the wonder pig. “Carolee and Allison\npromised that\nthey’ll come over later. I see apples in your future, babe.”I put Joe’s sweet good-bye-for-now note into my handbag and, after\na thorough\nlook around, made for the front door.\n“Home we go,” I said to Martha.\nWe scrambled up into the Explorer and headed back to San\nFrancisco.\nChapter 80\nAT SEVEN THAT NIGHT, I opened the door to Indigo, a brand-new\nrestaurant on\nMcAllister, two blocks from the courthouse, which ought to have\ntaken my\nappetite away. I passed through the wood-paneled bar into the high-\nceilinged\nrestaurant proper. There, the maître d’ checked me off his list and\nescorted me\nto a blue velvet banquette where Yuki was leafing through a sheaf of\npapers.\nYuki stood to hug me, and as I hugged her back, I realized how very\nglad I was\nto see my lawyer.\n“How’s it going, Lindsay?”\n“Just fabulous, except for the part when I remember that my trial\nstartsMonday.”\n“We’re going to win,” she said. “So you can stop worrying about\nthat.”\n“Silly me for fretting,” I said.\nI cracked a smile, but I was more shaken than I wanted her to\nknow. Mickey\nSherman had convinced the powers that be that we would all be\nbest served if I\nwas represented by a woman attorney and that Yuki Castellano was\n“a great gal\nfor the job.”\nI wished I felt as sure.\nAlthough I was catching her at the end of a long workday, Yuki\nlooked fresh and\nupbeat. But most of all, she looked young. I reflexively clutched my\nKokopelli\nas my twenty-eight-year-old attorney and I ordered dinner.\n“So, what have I missed since I skipped town?” I asked Yuki. I\npushed chef Larry\nPiaskowy’s pan-seared sea bass with a parsnip purée to the far side\nof my plate\nand nibbled at the fennel salad with pine nuts and a carrot-tarragon\nvinaigrette.“I’m glad that you were outta here, Lindsay, because the sharks\nhave been in a\nfeeding frenzy,” Yuki said. I noticed that her eyes made direct\ncontact with\nmine, but her hands never stopped moving.\n“Editorials and TV coverage of the outraged parents have been\nrunning\ntwenty-four/seven. . . . Did you catch Saturday Night Live?”\n“Never watch it.”\n“Well, just so you know, there was a skit. You’ve been dubbed Dirty\nHarriet.”\n“That must’ve been a riot,” I said, pulling a face. “I guess someone\nmade my\nday.”\n“It’s going to get worse,” said Yuki, tugging at a lock of her shoulder-\nlength\nhair. “Judge Achacoso okayed live TV coverage in the courtroom.\nAnd I just got\nthe plaintiff’s witness list. Sam Cabot’s going to testify.”\n“Well, that’s okay, isn’t it? Sam confessed to doing those\nelectrocution\nmurders. We can use that!”\n“’Fraid not, Lindsay. His lawyers filed a motion to suppress because\nhis parentsweren’t there when he blurted out his confession to that ER nurse.\n“Look,” Yuki said, grabbing my hands, no doubt responding to the\nway my face had\nfrozen in shock. “We don’t know what Sam’s going to say—I’ll take\nhim apart; you\ncan count on that. But we can’t impeach him with his confession. It’s\nyour word\nagainst his—and he’s thirteen and you’re a drunken cop.”\n“And so you’re telling me ‘Don’t worry’ because . . . ?”\n“Because the truth will out. Juries are composed of human beings,\nmost of whom\nhave had a drink in their lives. I think they’re going to find that\nyou’re\nentitled and probably even expected to have a few drinks now and\nthen.\n“You tried to help those kids, Lindsay. And that ain’t no crime.”\nChapter 81\n“DON’T FORGET THAT YOU’RE on trial from the minute you arrive at\nthe\ncourthouse,” Yuki said as we walked together through the cool and\ndarkening\nnight. We entered the Opera Plaza Garage on Van Ness and took the\nelevator downto where Yuki had parked her taupe two-door Acura.\nSoon we were driving east on Golden Gate Avenue toward my\nfavorite watering\nhole, although I was sticking to Cokes tonight. Just to be safe.\n“Come in a really plain car, not a cop car or a new SUV or anything\nlike that.”\n“I have a four-year-old Explorer. With a ding in the door. How’s\nthat?”\n“There you go.” Yuki laughed. “Perfect. And what you wore to the\nprelim was\ngood. Dark suit, SFPD lapel pin, no other jewelry. When the press\nclimbs all\nover you, you can smile politely, but don’t answer any of their\nquestions.”\n“Leave all that stuff to you.”\n“Bingo,” she said as we pulled up to Susie’s Bar.\nA surge of happiness warmed me as we stepped inside Susie’s. The\ncalypso band\nhad put the dinner crowd into a fine mood, and Susie herself,\nwearing a hot pink\nsarong, was doing the limbo in the center of the dance floor. My two\nbest\nfriends waved us over to “our” booth at the back.I said, “Claire Washburn, Yuki Castellano; Yuki, Cindy Thomas,” and\nthe girls\nstretched out their hands and shook hers in turn. I could see from\nthe strained\nlook on their faces that my buds were as worried about my\nupcoming ordeal as I\nwas.\nWhen Claire took Yuki’s hand, she said, “I’m Lindsay’s friend—and I\ndon’t have\nto tell you, I’m also a witness for the prosecution.”\nCindy, looking quite grave, said, “I work for the Chronicle and I’ll be\nyelling\nrude questions outside the courthouse.”\n“And chopping her into bite-size chunks if that’s the way the story\ngoes,” said\nYuki.\n“Absolutely.”\n“I’m going to take good care of her, you guys,” Yuki said. “We’re\ngoing to have\na real nasty fight on our hands, to be sure, but we’re going to win.”\nAs if we’d known in advance we were going to do it, we clasped our\ncombined\neight hands across the center of the table.“Fight, team, fight,” I said.\nIt felt good to laugh, and I was glad when Yuki took off her suit\njacket and\nClaire poured margaritas for everyone but me.\n“My first one of these,” Yuki said dubiously.\n“It’s about time, Counselor. But drink it nice and slow, okay? Now,”\nsaid\nClaire. “Tell us all about yourself. Start at the beginning.”\n“Okay, I know, what gives with the funny name?” Yuki said, licking\nsalt from her\nupper lip. “First, you should know, the Japanese and the Italians are\nlike polar\nopposites. Their food, for instance: raw squid and rice meets\nscungilli marinara\nover linguine.” Yuki laughed, a lovely sound, like the ringing of bells.\n“When my petite, demure Japanese mom met my burly, passionate\nItalian American\ndad at an exchange student mixer, it was pure magnetism,” Yuki told\nus in her\nfunny, rapid-fire delivery. “My daddy-to-be said, ‘Let’s get married\nwhile we’re\nstill in love,’ which they did, about three weeks after they met. And I\narrived\nnine months after that.”Yuki explained that there was a lot of prejudice against “half-breeds”\nin\nstill-conservative Japan and that her family moved to California when\nshe was\nonly six. But she remembered well what it felt like to be tormented\nin school\nbecause she was of mixed race.\n“I wanted to become a lawyer from the time I was old enough to\nknow what Perry\nMason did on TV,” she said, her eyes glinting. “Believe me, I’m not\nbragging,\nbut just so you know, I got straight As at Boalt Law, and I’ve been\non the fast\ntrack with Duffy and Rogers since I graduated. I think that people’s\nmotives are\ncritical to their performance, so you guys should understand mine.\n“I’ve always had to prove something to myself: that smart and that\nsuper good\naren’t good enough. I have to be the best. And as for Lindsay, your\nold friend\nand my new one, I know with all my heart that she’s innocent.\n“I’m going to prove that, too.”\nChapter 82DESPITE EVERYTHING YUKI HAD told me about the media frenzy, I\nwas stunned to see\nthe square block of mosh pit at the Civic Center Plaza the next\nmorning. TV\nsatellite vans lined Polk on both sides of McAllister, and a somewhat\nmalevolent, shifting mob fanned out in all directions, blocking traffic\nto City\nHall and the Civic Center Courthouse.\nI parked in the garage on Van Ness, only a three-block walk to the\ncourthouse,\nand tried to blend into the crowd on foot. But I didn’t get away with\nit. Once I\nwas spotted, reporters stampeded, shoved microphones and\ncameras into my face,\nand screamed questions that I couldn’t understand, let alone answer.\nThe “police brutality” accusations, the baiting, the almost painful\nnoise of the\ncrowd, made me dizzy with a kind of grief. I was a good cop, damn\nit. How had it\nhappened that the people I’d sworn to serve had turned against me\nlike this?\nCarlos Vega from KRON-TV was on the “Dirty Harriet Trial” big-time.\nHe was a\ntiny man with a rabid style, known for interviewing people so\ncourteously theyhardly felt the evisceration. But I knew Carl—he’d interviewed me\nbefore—and\nwhen he asked, “Do you blame the Cabots for taking this action\nagainst you?” I\nalmost snapped.\nI was about to give Mr. Vega an ill-advised sound bite for the six\no’clock news\nwhen someone plucked me out of the mob by my elbow. I jerked\naway—until I saw\nthat my rescuer was a friend in uniform.\n“Conklin,” I said. “Thank God.”\n“Stick with me, Lou,” he said, steering me through the crowd to a\nbarricaded\npolice line that offered a narrow path to the courthouse. My heart\nswelled as my\nfellow officers, grasping hands to give me safe passage, nodded or\nspoke to me\nas I passed.\n“Go get ’em, Lieutenant.”\n“Hang tough, LT.”\nI picked Yuki out of the crowd on the courthouse steps and made\nstraight for\nher. She took over from Officer Conklin, and together we put all our\nweight intoopening the heavy steel-and-glass doors of the civil courthouse. We\nclimbed a\nflight of marble stairs and moments later stepped inside the\nimpressive\ncherry-paneled courtroom on the second floor.\nHeads turned toward us as we entered. I straightened my freshly\npressed collar,\nran a hand over my hair, and walked with Yuki across the carpeted\nfloor of the\ncourtroom to the attorneys’ tables at the front. I had gained a\nmeasure of\noutward composure in the last few minutes, but I was absolutely\nseething inside.\nHow could this be happening to me?\nChapter 83\nYUKI STOOD ASIDE AS I edged behind the table and took my seat\nnext to\nsilver-haired-and-tongued Mickey Sherman. He half rose and shook\nmy hand.\n“How ya doin,’ Lindsay? You look terrific. You okay?”\n“Never better,” I cracked.\nBut we both knew that no sane person would be feeling “okay” in\nmy shoes. Mywhole career was at stake, and if the jury went against me, my life\nwould go up\nin flames. Dr. and Mrs. Andrew Cabot were asking $50 million in\ndamages, and\nalthough they’d have to get $49.99 million from the City of San\nFrancisco, I\nwould be financially devastated anyway and possibly known as Dirty\nHarriet for\nthe rest of my life.\nAs Yuki sat down beside me, Chief Tracchio reached across the\nrailing to squeeze\nmy shoulder in support. I hadn’t expected that, and I was touched.\nThen voices\nrolled across the room as the plaintiffs’ “dream team” filed in and\ntook their\nseats across from us.\nA moment later, Dr. and Mrs. Cabot came into the courtroom and sat\nbehind their\nattorneys. The reedlike Dr. Cabot and his blond and visibly grieving\nwife\nimmediately fixed their eyes on me.\nAndrew Cabot was a trembling rock of contained rage and anguish.\nAnd Eva Cabot’s\nface was a picture of desolation that would never end. She was a\nmother who’dinexplicably lost her daughter because of me, and I’d crippled her\nson as well.\nWhen she turned her red-rimmed gray eyes on me, all I could see\nwas her\nbottomless fury.\nEva Cabot hated me.\nShe wished me dead.\nYuki’s cool hand on my wrist broke my eye contact with Mrs. Cabot—\nbut not before\nthe image of our locked stares was captured on tape.\n“All rise,” boomed the bailiff.\nThere was a deafening rustle as everyone in the courtroom stood\nand the small\nbespectacled form of Judge Achacoso ascended to the bench. I sat\ndown in a daze.\nThis was it.\nMy trial was about to begin.\nChapter 84\nJURY SELECTION TOOK ALMOST three days. After day one, because\nI couldn’t take\nthe ringing phone and the media swarm outside my wee little house\nany longer,Martha and I packed up and moved into Yuki’s two-bedroom\napartment in the Crest\nRoyal, a mini high-rise with great security.\nThe media swarm got bigger and more vociferous daily. The press\nfed the public’s\nfrenzy by detailing the ethnic and socioeconomic makeup of every\nperson picked\nfor the jury, charging us with racial profiling, of course. In fact, it\nmade me\nqueasy to watch both sides choose or dismiss potential jurors based\non\ndiscernible or imagined prejudice against me. When we excused four\nblack and\nLatino men and women in a row, I put it to Yuki during our next\nbreak.\n“Weren’t you just telling me the other day about how it felt to be\ndiscriminated\nagainst because of your race?”\n“This isn’t about race, Lindsay. The people we excused all had\nnegative feelings\nabout the police. Sometimes people aren’t aware of their own bias\nuntil we ask\nthem. Sometimes, in a hugely public case like this, people lie so that\nthey can\nhave their fifteen minutes of fame.“We’re working the voir dire process as it’s our right to do. Please\ntrust us.\nIf we don’t play hardball, we’re done before we start.”\nLater that same day, the opposition used three peremptory\nchallenges to excuse\ntwo middle-aged white civil servants—women who might have\nviewed me kindly, as\nif I were a daughter—as well as a fireman named McGoey who\npresumably wouldn’t\nhave held even a gallon of margaritas against me.\nIn the end, neither side was happy but both sides accepted the\ntwelve men and\nwomen and three alternates. At two in the afternoon of the third\nday, Mason\nBroyles got up to make his opening statement.\nIn my worst dreams, I couldn’t have imagined how that poor excuse\nfor a human\nbeing would present the Cabots’ case against me.\nChapter 85\nMASON BROYLES LOOKED AS if he’d slept his full eight hours the\nnight before. His\nskin was dewy, his suit was classic navy blue Armani. His pale blue\nshirt wascrisp and matched his eyes. He stood and, without using notes,\naddressed the\ncourt and the jury.\n“Your Honor. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. In order to\nunderstand what\nhappened on the night of May tenth, you have to go inside the\nminds of two kids\nwho had a notion. Their parents weren’t home. They found the keys\nto their\nfather’s new Mercedes and they decided to take a joyride.\n“It wasn’t right, but they were kids. Sara was fifteen. Sam Cabot, an\neighth\ngrader, is only thirteen.”\nBroyles turned away from the jury and faced his clients, as if to say,\nLook at\nthese people. Look at the faces of bereavement caused by police\nbrutality.\nBroyles turned back to the jury and continued his opening\nstatement.\n“Sara Cabot was at the wheel that night. The Cabot kids were\ndriving around in a\nbad neighborhood, the high-crime area we know as the Tenderloin\nDistrict, and\nthey were driving an expensive car. Out of nowhere, another car\nstarted to chasethem.\n“You will hear Sam Cabot tell you that he and his sister were terrified\nby the\npolice car that was in pursuit. The siren was very loud. The grille\nlights and\nheadlights were flashing, lighting up the street like a disco from hell.\n“If Sara Cabot were here, she would testify that she was so afraid of\nthe car\nthat was chasing them, she fled and then she lost control of the car\nshe was\ndriving and crashed it. She would say that when she finally realized\nher\npursuers were the police, she was scared out of her mind because\nshe’d run from\nthem, because she’d wrecked her father’s car, because she was\ndriving without a\nlicense. And because her little brother had been hurt in the accident.\n“And she was afraid because the police had guns.\n“But Sara Cabot, who was two full grades ahead of other children\nher age, a girl\nwith an IQ of one hundred sixty and almost endless promise, can’t\ntell us\nanything—because she’s dead. She died because the defendant,\nLieutenant LindsayBoxer, made an egregious error of judgment and shot Sara twice\nthrough the\nheart.\n“Lieutenant Boxer also shot Sam Cabot, barely a teenager, a bright,\npopular\nyoung boy who was captain of his soccer team, a champion\nswimmer, an athlete\nextraordinaire.\n“Sam Cabot will never play soccer or swim again. Nor will he stand\nor walk or\ndress himself or bathe himself. Sam will never even hold a fork or a\nbook in his\nhands.”\nMuffled gasps volleyed around the courtroom as the tragic picture\nBroyles had\npainted took hold in people’s minds. Broyles stood for a long\nmoment in the\ncircle he’d created around himself and his bereaved clients, a kind of\nsuspension of time, reality, and truth he’d perfected during his\ndecades as a\nstar litigator.\nHe put his hands in his pockets, exposing navy blue suspenders, and\nhe cast hiseyes down toward his shiny black wing tips as if he, too, were\nabsorbing the\nhorrific tragedy he’d just described.\nHe almost looked as though he was praying, which I was sure he\nnever did.\nAll I could do was sit there, silent, my eyes fixed on the judge’s\nimmobile\nface, until Broyles released us by looking toward the jury box.\nHaving wound up for his pitch, he delivered it, hard and fast.\n“Ladies and gentlemen, you will hear testimony that Lieutenant\nBoxer was off\nduty the night of this incident and that she had been drinking. Still,\nshe made\na decision to get into a police car and to fire a gun.\n“You will also hear that Sara and Sam Cabot had guns. The fact is\nthat\nLieutenant Boxer had sufficient experience to disarm two frightened\nchildren,\nbut she broke all the rules that night. Every single one.\n“That’s why Lieutenant Boxer is responsible for the death of Sara\nCabot, a young\nwoman whose remarkable promise was canceled in one shattering\nmoment. AndLieutenant Boxer is also responsible for crippling Sam Cabot for the\nremainder\nof his life.\n“We are asking that after you hear the evidence you will find\nLieutenant Lindsay\nBoxer guilty of excessive use of force and of police misconduct\nresulting in the\nwrongful death of Sara Cabot and the crippling of Sam Cabot.\n“Because of this irreparable loss, we’re asking that you give the\nplaintiffs\nfifty million dollars for Sam Cabot’s lifetime medical bills, for his pain\nand\nsuffering, and for the misery of his family. We’re asking another one\nhundred\nmillion in punitive damages to send a message to this police\ncommunity and every\npolice community around our country that this is not acceptable\nbehavior.\n“That you don’t police our streets when you’re drunk.”\nChapter 86\nWHEN I HEARD SAM Cabot, that cold-blooded little psycho,\ndescribed as the next\ngreat sports hero, it almost made me sick to my stomach. I thought,\nChampionswimmer? Soccer team captain? What the hell did that have to do\nwith the murders\nhe’d committed or with the bullets he’d put into Warren Jacobi?\nI struggled to keep my expression neutral as Yuki stood and took the\nfloor.\n“The night of May tenth was a Friday night and the end of a rough\nweek for\nLieutenant Boxer,” Yuki said, her sweet, melodic voice chiming out\nacross the\ncourtroom. “Two young men had been murdered in the Tenderloin,\nand Lieutenant\nBoxer was very troubled by the brutality and the lack of viable\nforensic\nevidence.”\nYuki walked over to the jury box and let her hand skim the rail as\nshe made eye\ncontact with each of the jury members. They followed the thin\nyoung woman with\nthe heart-shaped face and the luminous brown eyes, leaning forward\ninto every\nword.\n“As commanding officer of the SFPD’s Homicide detail, Lieutenant\nBoxer is\nresponsible for investigating every homicide in the city. But she was\nespeciallydisturbed because the victims of these murders were still in their\nteens.\n“On the night in question,” Yuki continued, “Lieutenant Boxer was off\nduty,\nhaving a drink before dinner with some of her friends, when she got\na call from\nWarren Jacobi, inspector first grade. Inspector Jacobi was formerly\nLieutenant\nBoxer’s partner, and because this was a special case, they were\nworking it\ntogether.\n“Inspector Jacobi will testify that he phoned Lieutenant Boxer to tell\nher that\ntheir one lead—a Mercedes-Benz that had been previously seen in\nthe vicinity of\nboth homicides—had been spotted again south of Market Street.\n“A lot of people in Lieutenant Boxer’s situation would have said,\n‘Forget it.\nI’m off duty. I don’t want to sit all night in a police car.’ But this was\nLieutenant Boxer’s case, and she wanted to stop whoever killed\nthose two boys\nbefore they killed again.\n“When Lieutenant Boxer got into the police car with Inspector\nJacobi, she toldhim that she had been drinking but that her faculties were not\nimpaired.\n“Ladies and gentlemen, the plaintiffs will make much use of the\nword drunk. But\nthey are twisting reality.”\n“Objection, Your Honor. Argumentative.”\n“Overruled. Please sit down, Mr. Broyles.”\n“In fact,” Yuki said, standing directly in front of the jury box, “the\nlieutenant had had a couple of drinks. She was not inebriated,\nstaggering\naround, slurring her speech, illogical, or out of it.\n“And Lieutenant Boxer did not drive. The drinks she had had\nabsolutely nothing\nwhatsoever to do with the events that transpired that night.\n“This police officer is charged with brutally shooting down a young\ngirl with\nher service pistol. But you will learn that Lieutenant Boxer wasn’t the\nonly\nperson on the scene with a gun in her hand. The ‘victims’”—Yuki\nmade the\nuniversal hand sign for quote marks around the word—“not only\nbrought guns to\nthe scene, but they fired first and with intent to kill.”Chapter 87\nMASON BROYLES JUMPED FURIOUSLY to his feet.\n“Objection, Your Honor. Defense counsel is mocking the victims and\nshe is way\nout of line. Sam and Sara Cabot are not on trial here. Lieutenant\nBoxer is on\ntrial.”\n“Well, she shouldn’t be,” said Yuki, pressing on. “My client did\nnothing wrong.\nNothing. She’s here because the plaintiffs are suffering and they\nwant someone\nto pay for their loss, right or wrong.”\n“Objection! Your Honor! Argumentative.”\n“Sustained. Ms. Castellano, please hold your argument for\nsummation.”\n“Yes, Your Honor. I’m sorry.” Yuki walked over to the table and\nlooked at her\nnotes, then swung back around as if she’d never been interrupted.\n“On the night in question, the exemplary Cabot kids evaded the\npolice by driving\nat over seventy-five miles per hour on crowded streets in wanton\ndisregard for\npublic safety; that’s a felony. They were armed—another felony—and\nafter SaraCabot totaled her father’s car, she and her brother were helped out\nof the wreck\nby two concerned police officers whose weapons were holstered,\nwho were doing\ntheir duty to serve and protect, and above all, to render aid.\n“You will hear testimony from a police ballistics expert who will tell\nyou that\nthe bullets that were surgically removed from Lieutenant Boxer and\nInspector\nJacobi were fired from Sara Cabot’s and Sam Cabot’s guns,\nrespectively. And you\nwill also hear that Sara and Sam Cabot fired upon these officers\nwithout\nprovocation.\n“On the night in question, as Lieutenant Boxer lay on the ground,\nlosing nearly\na third of her blood and close to death, she ordered the plaintiffs to\ndrop\ntheir weapons, which they did not do. Instead, Sara Cabot fired\nthree more\nshots, which mercifully missed my client.\n“Only then did Lieutenant Lindsay Boxer return fire.\n“If anyone else—a banker, a baker, even a bookmaker—had shot\nsomeone inself-defense, we wouldn’t be having a trial. But if a police officer\ndefends\nherself, everyone wants a piece of her —”\n“Objection!”\nBut it was too late for objections. Dr. Andrew Cabot’s stony\nexpression had\nshattered into shards of wrath. He leaped to his feet and moved\ntoward Yuki as\nif he were going to throttle her. Mason Broyles restrained his client,\nbut the\ncourtroom boiled over even as Judge Achacoso banged her gavel\nagain and again.\n“I’m done, Your Honor,” said Yuki.\n“Oh, no, you’re not. I will not have this trial become a free-for-all.\nBailiff,\nclear the courtroom. I’ll see both counsels in chambers,” said the\njudge.\nChapter 88\nWHEN COURT RESUMED, YUKI’S eyes were sparkling. It looked to\nme as if she felt\nthe butt-kicking she’d taken from the judge had been worth the\npoints she’d\nscored in her opening.Broyles put on his first witness: Betty D’Angelo, the ER nurse who’d\nministered\nto me the night I was shot. D’Angelo reluctantly repeated what she\nhad said\nduring the prelim—that my blood alcohol level was .067, that there\nwas no way\nshe could say if I was intoxicated, but that .067 was considered\n“under the\ninfluence.”\nNext up, Broyles called my friend Dr. Claire Washburn. He elicited\nher\ncredentials as the city’s chief medical examiner, and the fact that\nshe’d\nperformed Sara Cabot’s autopsy.\n“Dr. Washburn, were you able to ascertain the cause of Sara Cabot’s\ndeath?”\nUsing a line drawing of a human form, Claire pointed out where my\nbullets had\nentered Sara Cabot’s body.\n“Yes. I found two gunshot wounds to the chest. Gunshot A entered\non the left\nupper/outer chest, right here. That bullet penetrated Sara Cabot’s\nchest cavity\nbetween left ribs number three and four, perforated the upper lobe\nof the leftlung, went into the pericardial sac, tore through the left ventricle,\nand\nstopped in her thoracic column on the left-hand side.\n“The second gunshot wound,” Claire said, tapping the chart with a\npointer, “was\nthrough the sternum, five inches below the left shoulder. It went\nright on\nthrough the heart, terminating in thoracic vertebra number four.”\nThe members of the jury were rapt as they heard about what my\nshots had done to\nSara Cabot’s heart, but when Broyles had finished examining her,\nYuki was ready\nfor Claire on cross-examination.\n“Can you tell us the angles of penetration, Dr. Washburn?” Yuki\nasked.\n“The shots were fired upwards, from a few inches above the\nground.”\n“Doctor, was Sara Cabot killed instantly?”\n“Yes.”\n“So, you could say Sara was too dead to shoot anyone after she’d\nbeen shot?”\n“Too dead, Ms. Castellano? As far as I know, there’s only dead.”\nYuki blushed. “Let me rephrase that. Given that Lieutenant Boxer\nwas shot twiceby Sara Cabot’s gun, it stands to reason that Sara Cabot fired first—\nbecause she\ndied instantly after Lieutenant Boxer shot her.”\n“Yes. Ms. Cabot died instantly when she was shot.”\n“One more question,” Yuki said, sounding as if it were an\nafterthought. “Did you\ndo a tox screen on Ms. Cabot’s blood?”\n“Yes. A few days after the autopsy.”\n“And what were your findings?”\n“Sara Cabot had methamphetamine in her system.”\n“She was high?”\n“We don’t use high as a medical term, but yes, she had .23\nmilligrams of\nmethamphetamine per liter in her blood. And in that sense, it’s\nhigh.”\n“And what are the effects of methamphetamine?” Yuki asked Claire.\n“Methamphetamine is a powerful central nervous system stimulant\nthat produces a\nwide range of effects. The upside is a pleasurable rush, but long-\nterm users\nsuffer many of the downside effects, including paranoia and suicidal\nand\nhomicidal thoughts.”“How about homicidal actions?”\n“Absolutely.”\n“Thank you, Dr. Washburn. I’m finished with this witness, Your\nHonor.”\nChapter 89\nI WAS ELATED WHEN Claire stepped down, but not for long.\nI heard Mason Broyles call Dr. Robert Goldman, and when the\nbrown-haired,\nmustachioed man in a light blue suit had been sworn in, he began to\ntestify\nabout the terrible injuries Sam had received at the ugly end of my\ngun.\nUsing a chart similar to the one Claire had used, Dr. Goldman\npointed out that\nmy first bullet had gone through Sam’s abdominal cavity, lodging in\nhis thoracic\nvertebra number eight, where it still remained.\n“That bullet paralyzed Sam from the waist down,” said the doctor,\npatting his\nmustache. “The second bullet entered at the base of his neck,\npassing through\ncervical vertebra number three, paralyzing everything below his\nneck.”“Doctor,” Broyles asked. “Will Sam Cabot ever walk again?”\n“No.”\n“Will he ever be able to have sex?”\n“No.”\n“Will he ever be able to breathe on his own or have the full\nenjoyment of his\nlife?”\n“No.”\n“He’s in a wheelchair for the rest of his life, correct?”\n“That is correct.”\n“Your witness,” Broyles said to Yuki as he returned to his chair.\n“No questions of this witness,” said Yuki.\n“Plaintiff calls Sam Cabot,” said Broyles.\nI sent an anxious look to Yuki before we both turned to face the rear\nof the\ncourtroom. Doors swung open, and a young female attendant\nentered pushing a\nwheelchair, a shiny chrome Jenkinson Supreme, the Cadillac of its\nclass.\nSam Cabot looked frail and shrunken in his little-boy’s sport coat and\ntie,nothing like the vicious freak who’d murdered a couple of people for\nkicks\nbefore gunning Jacobi down. Except for the venomous look in his\neyes, I wouldn’t\nhave recognized him.\nSam turned those brown eyes on me now, and my heart raced as I\nfelt horror,\nguilt, and even pity.\nI dropped my gaze to the humming respiratory ventilator just below\nthe seat of\nSam’s chair. It was a heavy metal box with dials and gauges and a\nthin plastic\nair hose snaking up from the machine to where it was clipped right\nbeside Sam’s\nleft cheek.\nA small electronically assisted voice box was positioned in front of\nhis lips.\nSam locked his lips around his air tube. A ghastly sucking sound\ncame from his\nventilator as compressed air was pumped into his lungs. It was a\nsound that was\nrepeated every three or four seconds, every time Sam Cabot needed\nto draw\nbreath.I watched as the attendant wheeled Sam up to the witness stand.\n“Your Honor,” Mason Broyles said, “since we don’t know how long\nSam will be\nasked to testify, we’d like to plug his ventilator into an electric socket\nto\npreserve the battery.”\n“Of course,” said the judge.\nThe technician snaked a long orange cord into a wall socket and\nthen sat down\nbehind Andrew and Eva Cabot.\nThere was no place for me to look but at Sam.\nHis neck was stiff, and his head was braced to the back of his chair\nwith a halo\ntraction device strapped across his forehead. It looked like some\nkind of\nmedieval torture, and I’m sure it felt that way to Sam.\nThe bailiff, a tall young man in a green uniform, approached Sam.\n“Please raise your right hand.”\nSam Cabot cast his eyes wildly from side to side. He sucked in some\nair and\nspoke into the small green voice box. The voice that came out was\nan eerie and\nunnerving mechanical sound.“I can’t,” Sam said.\nChapter 90\nSAM’S VOICE NO LONGER sounded completely human, but his\nyoung face and his small\nfrail body made him seem more fragile and vulnerable than any\nother person in\nthe room. The people in the gallery murmured in sympathy as the\nbailiff turned\nto Judge Achacoso.\n“Judge?”\n“Administer the oath, bailiff.”\n“Do you swear to tell the truth, so help you God?”\n“I do,” said Sam Cabot.\nBroyles smiled at Sam, giving the jury enough time to really hear,\nsee, and\nabsorb the pitiful state of Sam Cabot’s body and imagine what a hell\nhis life\nhad become.\n“Don’t be nervous,” Broyles said to Sam. “Just tell the truth. Tell us\nwhat\nhappened that night, Sam.”Broyles took Sam through a set of warm-up questions, waiting as\nthe boy closed\nhis mouth around the air tube. His answers came in broken\nsentences, the length\nof each phrase determined by the amount of air he could hold in his\nlungs before\ndrawing on the mouthpiece again.\nBroyles asked Sam how old he was, where he lived, what school he\nwent to, before\nhe got to the meat of his interrogation.\n“Sam, do you remember what happened on the night of May tenth?”\n“I’ll never forget it . . . as long as I live,” Sam said, sucking air from\nthe\ntube, expelling his words in bursts through the voice box. “It’s all I\nthink of\n. . . and no matter how hard I try . . . I can’t get it out of my mind. .\n. .\nThat’s the night she killed my sister . . . and ruined my life, too.”\n“Objection, Your Honor,” Yuki rose and said.\n“Young man,” said the judge, “I know this is difficult, but please try\nto\nconfine your answers to the questions.”\n“Sam, let’s back up,” said Mason Broyles kindly. “Can you tell us the\nevents ofthat night, and please take it step-by-step.”\n“A lot of stuff happened,” Sam said. He sucked at the tube and\ncontinued. “But I\ndon’t remember . . . all of it. I know we took Dad’s car . . . and we\ngot\nscared. . . . We heard the sirens coming. . . . Sara didn’t have her\nlicense.\nThen the air bag burst. . . . All I remember . . . is seeing that woman\n. . .\nshoot Sara. . . . I don’t know why she did it.”\n“That’s okay, Sam. That’s fine.”\n“I saw a flash,” the boy continued, his eyes fastened on me. “And\nthen my sister\n. . . she was dead.”\n“Yes. We all know. Now, Sam. Do you remember when Lieutenant\nBoxer shot you?”\nWithin the small arc permitted by his restraints, Sam rolled his head\nfrom side\nto side. And then he started to cry. His heart-wrenching sobs were\ninterrupted\nby the sucking of air and enhanced by the mechanical translation of\nhis wails\nthrough the voice box.It was an unearthly sound, unlike anything I’d ever heard before in\nmy life.\nChills shot up my spine and, I was quite certain, everyone else’s.\nMason Broyles quickly advanced across the floor to his client,\nwhipped a hankie\nout of his breast pocket, and dabbed at Sam’s eyes and nose.\n“Do you need a break, Sam?”\n“No . . . sir. . . . I’m okay,” he brayed.\n“Your witness, Counsel,” said Mason Broyles, shooting us a look that\nwas as good\nas a dare.\nChapter 91\nYUKI APPROACHED THE thirteen-year-old killer, who looked even\nyounger and more\npitiable now that his face was red from weeping.\n“Are you feeling a little better, Sam?” Yuki asked, putting her hands\non her\nknees and stooping a little so that her eyes met his.\n“Okay, I guess . . . considering,” said Sam.\n“Glad to hear it,” said Yuki, standing, taking a few steps back. “I’ll try\ntokeep my questions brief. Why were you in the Tenderloin District on\nMay tenth?”\n“I don’t know . . . ma’am. . . . Sara was driving.”\n“Your car was parked outside the Balboa Hotel. Why was that?”\n“We were buying a newspaper . . . I think. . . . We were going to go\nto the\nmovies.”\n“You think there’s a newsstand inside the Balboa?”\n“I guess so.”\n“Sam, you understand the difference between a lie and the truth?”\n“Of course.”\n“And you know that you promised to tell the truth?”\n“Sure.”\n“Okay. So, can you tell all of us why you and Sara were carrying\nguns that\nnight?”\n“They were . . . Dad’s guns,” the boy said. He paused for breath and\nmaybe for\nthought as well. “I took a gun out of the glove compartment . . .\nbecause I\nthought those people . . . were going to kill us.”\n“You didn’t know that the police were trying to pull you over?”“I was scared. . . . I wasn’t driving, and . . . everything happened\nfast.”\n“Sam, were you on crank that night?”\n“Ma’am?”\n“Methamphetamine. You know—ice, get-go, beanies.”\n“I wasn’t on drugs.”\n“I see. Do you remember the car accident?”\n“Not really.”\n“Do you remember seeing Lieutenant Boxer and Inspector Jacobi\nhelp you out of\nthe car after it crashed?”\n“No, because I had blood in my eyes. . . . My nose broke. . . . All of\na sudden\n. . . I see guns, and the next thing I know . . . they shot us.”\n“Do you remember shooting Inspector Jacobi?”\nThe kid’s eyes widened. Was he surprised by the question? Or was\nhe simply\nremembering the moment?\n“I thought he was going to hurt me,” Sam croaked out at last.\n“So you do remember shooting him?”\n“Wasn’t he going to arrest me?”Yuki stood her ground as she waited for Sam’s lungs to fill. “Sam.\nWhy did you\nshoot Inspector Jacobi?”\n“No. I don’t remember . . . doing that.”\n“Tell me: Are you under a psychiatrist’s care?”\n“Yeah, I am. . . . Because I’m having a hard time. Because I’m\nparalyzed . . .\nand because that woman murdered my sister.”\n“Okay, let me ask you about that. You say that Lieutenant Boxer\nmurdered your\nsister. Didn’t you see your sister fire at Lieutenant Boxer first? Didn’t\nyou\nsee the lieutenant lying on the street?”\n“That’s not how I remember it.”\n“Sam, you remember that you’re under oath?”\n“I’m telling the truth,” he said, and sobbed again.\n“Okay. Have you ever been inside the Lorenzo Hotel?”\n“Objection, Your Honor. Where is this going?”\n“Ms. Castellano?”\n“It’ll become apparent in a second, Your Honor. I just have one more\nquestion.”\n“Go ahead, then.”“Sam, isn’t it true that right now you’re the prime suspect in the\ninvestigation\nof multiple homicides?”\nSam turned his head a few degrees away from Yuki and bellowed in\nhis\nsoul-searing, mechanically aided voice, “Mr. Broyles.”\nSam’s voice tailed away as the air went out of him.\n“Objection! No foundation, Your Honor,” Broyles shouted above the\nmurmurs\nwashing over the room and the slams of Judge Achacoso’s gavel.\n“I want that question struck from the record,” Broyles shouted, “and\nI ask Your\nHonor to instruct the jury to disregard —”\nBefore the judge could rule, Sam’s eyes wheeled frantically.\n“I take the amendment,” the kid said, getting a fresh infusion of air\nbefore\nspeaking once more. “I take the Fifth Amendment on the grounds\n—”\nAnd with that, a horrific shrieking alarm came from beneath the\nwheelchair.\nThere were screams from the gallery and from the jury box as the\nreadouts on the\nventilator went down to zero.Andrew Cabot leaped from his chair, shoving the attendant forward.\n“Do something! Do something!”\nThere was a collective intake of breath as the tech knelt, fiddled with\nknobs,\nand reset the ventilator. At last, the alarm went silent.\nA loud whoosh was heard as Sam sucked in his life-saving air.\nThen the roar of the crowd’s relief filled the room.\n“I’m done with this witness,” Yuki said, shouting over the rumble\nthat flowed\nfrom front to back of the courtroom.\n“Court is adjourned,” said Judge Achacoso, slamming her gavel\ndown. “We’ll\nresume tomorrow at nine.”\nChapter 92\nAS THE COURTROOM EMPTIED, Yuki directed her full five-foot-two\npresence toward\nthe judge.\n“Your Honor! Move for a mistrial,” she said.\nThe judge waved her to the bench, and she and Mickey as well as\nBroyles and his\nsecond chair clumped up to the front.I heard Yuki say, “The jury had to have been prejudiced by that\nfreaking alarm.”\n“You’re not accusing the plaintiff of deliberately setting off that\n‘freaking’\nalarm, are you?” asked the judge.\n“No, of course not, Your Honor.”\n“Mr. Broyles?”\n“Pardon my language, Judge, but shit happens, and what the jury\nsaw is an\nongoing feature of Sam Cabot’s life. Sometimes the ventilator\nmalfunctions and\nthe kid could die. The jury saw that. I don’t think it made our case\nany\nstronger than the fact that Sam’s in that chair and his sister is dead.”\n“I agree. Motion denied, Ms. Castellano. We’re going forward\ntomorrow morning,\nas planned.”\nChapter 93\nI DON’T KNOW WHO was more shell-shocked, me or Yuki. We found\nour way to the\nfire exit stairwell, clattered down the concrete stairs, and opened the\nside\ndoor onto Polk, leaving Mickey to handle the press.Yuki looked positively stunned—and mortified.\n“Sam’s testimony was beyond a nightmare,” she said, her voice\ncracking. “When\nthat alarm went off, my whole cross was obliterated. It was like\neveryone was\nthinking, What in God’s name did she do to that child?”\nWe took the most circuitous and least scenic route to the garage. I\nhad to put\nmy arm across Yuki’s waist to stop her from crossing the wind tunnel\nof Van Ness\nagainst the light.\n“My God,” Yuki said again and again, each time throwing her hands\nout, palms\nfacing the sky. “My God, my God. What a joke. What a complete\ntravesty!”\n“But Yuki,” I said, “you got your point across. You said it all. The kids\nwere\nparked in the Tenderloin. They had no business there. They had\nguns. You said\nthat Sam was the target of a homicide investigation, and Sam will be\narraigned\nfor those murders.\n“His prints were found on the lip of the bathtub where that poor kid\nwaselectrocuted. He and Sara murdered those kids, Yuki. Sam Cabot is a\nterror. The\njury has to know that.”\n“I don’t know that they know. I can’t get away with saying he’s a\nsuspect again\nbecause he hasn’t been arraigned. The jury might have even\nthought I was baiting\nthe kid, trying to get his pathetic little goat. Which, apparently, I\ndid.”\nWe crossed Opera Plaza, a mixed-use development with restaurants,\na bookstore,\nand movie theaters on the ground floor. Avoiding the stares of the\ncrowd, we\ntook the elevator down to the garage, and after going back and\nforth several\ntimes between the rows of parked cars, we found Yuki’s Acura at\nlast.\nWe strapped in, and when Yuki turned the key, the engine jumped to\nlife. I was\nalready thinking ahead to tomorrow.\n“You’re sure it’s a good idea for me to testify?” I asked my attorney.\n“Absolutely. Mickey and I totally agree on this. We’ve got to get the\njury’s\nsympathy going toward you. And to do that, those people are going\nto have to seeand hear what you’re made of.\n“And that’s why you’ve got to testify.”\nChapter 94\nTHE NEXT MORNING THE view from Yuki’s kitchenette was gray, as\nrain gathered for\na fall from the huge thunderheads over the city. Strangely, this was\nthe San\nFrancisco that I loved, stormy and tempestuous.\nI drank my coffee and fed Martha. Then we went for a quick walk on\nJones Street.\n“Gotta hurry, Boo,” I said, already feeling the mist in the air. “Big\ndoings\ntoday. Mama’s going to be lynched.”\nTwenty minutes later, Mickey picked us up in his car. We got to the\ncourthouse\nat quarter to eight, cleverly missing most of the mob scene.\nInside courtroom B, Mickey and Yuki sat next to each other and\nargued in\nwhispers, Yuki’s hands fluttering like frantic little birds. As for me, I\nstared\nout the courthouse window at the sheets of falling rain as tense\nminutes ticked\noff on the electric clock against the side wall.I felt a touch on my arm.\n“I’ll be honest, that alarm was one of the worst things that ever\nhappened to me\nin a courtroom,” Mickey said, leaning across Yuki to talk to me. “I’d\nhate to\nthink that Broyles staged that event, but I wouldn’t put it past him\nto have\nrigged the electric cord.”\n“You can’t be serious?”\n“I don’t know, but we’ve got to do damage control. It’s our turn to\nput on our\ncase, and we have two messages to convey. The kid’s a horror even\non wheels, and\nyou’re a great cop.”\n“Look, do not worry about your testimony, Lindsay,” Yuki added. “If\nyou were any\nmore prepared, you wouldn’t sound natural. When it’s time to do it,\njust tell\nthe story. Take your time and stop to think if you aren’t sure of\nsomething. And\ndon’t look guilty. Just be the great cop that you are.”\n“Right,” I said. And for good measure, I said it again.\nToo soon, the spectators filled the room in their damp raincoats,\nsome of themstill shaking out umbrellas. Then the opposition filed in and banged\ntheir\nbriefcases down on the table. Broyles gave us a civil nod, barely\nmasking his\njoy. The man was in his element, all right. Court TV. Network TV.\nEveryone\nwanted to speak with Mason Broyles.\nOut of the corner of my eye, I saw Broyles shake Andrew Cabot’s\nhand, kiss Eva\nCabot on the cheek. He even helped the medical attendant position\nSam Cabot’s\nwheelchair just so. He orchestrated everything, so why not that\nalarm yesterday?\n“Sleep okay, Sam? That’s great,” Broyles said to the boy.\nFor me, the nightmare resumed.\nThe sound of Sam sucking air through his ventilator tube every few\nseconds was\nsuch a painful and constant reminder of what I’d done that I found it\nhard to\nbreathe myself.\nSuddenly, the side door to the courtroom opened, and the twelve\ngood men and\nwomen and three alternates walked to the box and took their places.\nThe judge,carrying a cardboard cup of coffee, took hers as the court was called\ninto\nsession.\nChapter 95\nYUKI, LOOKING CALM, COLLECTED, and sensational in a gray suit\nand pearls, kicked\noff our case by putting veteran dispatcher Carla Reyes on the stand.\nYuki asked\nCarla some general questions about her duties and what her shift on\nMay 10 had\nbeen like.\nThen she played the tape of my radio transmissions that awful night:\nfour and a\nhalf long minutes of my voice calling in our locations as well as radio\ncalls\nfrom the patrol cars.\nThe clipped and broken transmissions surrounded by sparking static\npumped\nadrenaline into my bloodstream and sent my mind careening around\nthe corners of\nthat dark night in the past, chasing the unknown suspects in a black\nMercedes.\nJacobi’s voice requesting paramedical help for the passengers of the\nwrecked carwas interrupted by the hard pops of gunfire that cut him off\nmidsentence.\nI actually started in my seat at the sounds of the gunshots. My\nhands began to\nsweat, and I felt myself tremble.\nA moment later, I heard my own fading voice request ambulances.\n“Two officers\ndown. Two civilians down.”\nAnd the worried voice of Carla Reyes. “Lieutenant, are you okay?\nLindsay. Answer\nme.”\n“I really thought I’d lost her,” Carla told Yuki from the witness stand.\n“Lindsay’s one of our best.”\nAfter Mason’s tepid cross, Yuki put on our next witness, Mike Hart\nfrom\nBallistics, who confirmed that the slugs removed from my body were\na match to\nSara’s gun and that the slugs taken from Jacobi had been fired by\nthe gun found\nbeside Sam Cabot.\nBroyles had no questions for Mike, so Yuki called Jacobi to the stand.\nTears brimmed in my eyes as my old friend and partner walked to\nthe front of theroom. Jacobi’s walk was heavy even though he’d lost a lot of weight.\nHe\nstruggled as he heaved himself up to the witness stand.\nYuki gave him time to pour himself a full glass of water. Then she\nasked him\nsome routine questions about how long he’d been with the force,\nhow long with\nHomicide.\nThen, “Inspector Jacobi, how long have you known Lieutenant\nBoxer?”\n“About seven years.”\n“Have you had an occasion to work with her before the night in\nquestion?”\n“Yep. We were partners for three years.”\n“Have you been in other situations with her where she had to use\nher gun?”\n“Yes. A coupla times.”\n“And how would you say she reacts under pressure?”\n“She’s great under pressure. And you know, every time you go out\non the street\nyou’re under pressure, because nothing suddenly turns into\nsomething without any\nwarning at all.”“Inspector, when you hooked up with Lieutenant Boxer on the night\nof May tenth,\ndid you smell alcohol on her breath?”\n“No.”\n“Did you know that she had been drinking?”\n“Yes. Because she mentioned it to me.”\n“Well, why did she mention it to you?”\n“Because she wanted me to know, so that I could kick her out of the\ncar if I\nwanted to.”\n“In your opinion, having worked with her for so many years, did she\nhave all her\nfaculties?”\n“Of course. She was sharp, just like she always is.”\n“If she was in any way impaired would you have gone on this\nassignment with\nher?”\n“Absolutely not.”\nYuki took Warren through the night of the tenth, from the moment\nhe picked me up\nat Susie’s to the last thing he remembered.“I was glad we got those kids out of that car. I was worried that the\ngas tank\nwas leaking and the whole thing could’ve gone kaboom. I was on\nwith our\ndispatcher, Carla Reyes over there, telling her that Sam Cabot had a\nbroken nose\nfrom the air bag blowing up in his face and that those kids coulda\nhad internal\ninjuries. Little did I know.”\n“I beg your pardon, Inspector?”\n“Little did I know that while I was calling for paramedics, that little\nprick\nwas going to shoot me.”\nMason Broyles blew his cork, of course, and the judge admonished\nJacobi. I was\necstatic that Jacobi had had the balls to call Sam Cabot a prick.\nWhen order was\nrestored, Yuki had a last question for my old partner.\n“Inspector, are you familiar with Lieutenant Boxer’s reputation in the\npolice\ncommunity, and if so, what is that reputation?”\n“In a word? She’s a damned good cop.”\nChapter 96BROYLES GOT NOTHING MUCH out of Jacobi on cross. He answered\nyes and no and\nrefused to rise to the bait when Broyles insinuated that he’d been\nlazy in\nperforming his duty according to SFPD policies and procedures.\n“I did the best I could do for both those kids and I’m thankful that\nyour client\nwasn’t a better shot,” Jacobi said. “Otherwise I’d be dead, instead of\ntalking\nto you here.”\nWhen court adjourned for a lunch break, I found a quiet spot in a\ncorner on the\nthird floor between a Coke machine and a wall, and talked to Joe,\nour virtual\nhug spanning three time zones. He apologized at least a half dozen\ntimes for\nbeing in the middle of a huge investigation involving threats to\nairports from\nBoston to Miami, which was why he couldn’t be with me in San\nFrancisco.\nI had a bite of a dry ham sandwich and a sip of coffee from a\nmachine before\ntaking my seat beside Yuki as court was called back into session.\nThen the moment I’d been dreading arrived. Yuki called me to the\nwitness stand.When I was seated in the witness box, she stood in front of me so\nthat my view\nof the Cabot family was blocked, and she gave me a sunny smile.\n“Lieutenant Boxer, do you believe in following police procedures?”\n“I do.”\n“Were you drunk on the night in question?”\n“No. I was having dinner with friends. I had a couple of drinks\nbefore I got the\ncall from Jacobi.”\n“You were off duty?”\n“Yes.”\n“It’s not against any rules to drink off duty, is it?”\n“No.”\n“When you got into the car with Inspector Jacobi, you officially went\nback on\nduty.”\n“Yes. Still, I was sure that I had all my faculties. I stand by that\nnow.”\n“Would you say you’re a ‘by-the-book’ kind of cop?”\n“Yes, but the book doesn’t cover all circumstances. Sometimes you\nhave to work\nwith the situation at hand and use your best judgment.”At Yuki’s prompting, I told the story up to the point where Jacobi\nand I\nwrenched open the car door and freed the Cabot kids from the\nwreck.\n“I made a mistake because those kids looked such a mess. I felt\nsorry for them.”\n“Why did you feel sorry for them?”\n“They were both crying. And Sam in particular was bleeding,\nthrowing up, and\npleading with me.”\n“Could you explain?”\n“He said, ‘Please don’t tell my father. He’ll kill me.’”\n“So what did you do?”\n“As Inspector Jacobi said, we had to get them out of the car. There\nwas a danger\nof the gas tank exploding. I put my gun away so that I could get a\ngrip on the\ncar door, and together Inspector Jacobi and I got them out.”\n“Go on, Lieutenant.”\n“After they were out of the car, I should have cuffed Sara. Instead, I\ntreated\nher as a victim of a bad traffic accident. When I asked to see her\ndriver’slicense, she pulled a gun out of her jacket and shot me in the\nshoulder, then in\nthe thigh. I went down.”\n“Where was Inspector Jacobi when Sara shot you?”\n“Inspector Jacobi was calling an ambulance.”\n“Where was his gun?”\n“It was holstered.”\n“You’re sure of that.”\n“Yes. He was on the phone. His gun was holstered. I yelled ‘Gun’\njust before\nSara shot me. I saw Jacobi turn and see me fall. Just then, Sam\nCabot fired on\nhim—hitting him twice.”\n“You’re sure you saw all this, Lieutenant? You didn’t lose\nconsciousness?”\n“No. I was conscious throughout.”\n“Did Inspector Jacobi lose consciousness?”\n“Yes. I thought he was dead. I saw Sam Cabot kick him in the head,\nand he didn’t\nmove or try to protect himself.”\n“You saw Sam Cabot kick Inspector Jacobi in the head. Please\ncontinue.”“Maybe they thought I was dead, because they seemed to have\nforgotten all about\nme.”\n“Objection. The witness is speculating.”\n“Sustained.”\n“Just tell us what you saw and heard and did,” Yuki said. “You’re\ndoing very\nwell.”\nI dipped my head and tried to focus.\n“I heard Sara tell Sam that they should leave the scene,” I said. “I\ngot my gun\nout of my holster and demanded that Sara Cabot drop her weapon.\nShe called me a\nbitch, then fired several more shots at me. Then I returned fire.”\n“What happened after that?”\n“Sara dropped to the ground, and Sam started screaming at me that\nI’d shot his\nsister. Again, I demanded that he drop his gun, which he refused to\ndo. I shot\nhim also.”\n“Tell me, Lieutenant, did you want to hurt those children?”\n“No, of course not. I wish with all my heart that none of this had\neverhappened.”\n“In your opinion, if Sam and Sara Cabot hadn’t been carrying guns,\ncould this\ntragedy have happened?”\n“Objection,” Broyles shouted. “Calls for a conclusion on the part of\nthe\nwitness.”\nThe judge leaned back in her chair and stared up at the ceiling\nthrough her\nthick black-rimmed glasses. Then, having decided, she snapped back\nupright.\n“Sustained.”\n“Lindsay. Is it true that in your ten years in Homicide, you’ve been\ncited for\nexcellent arrests on thirty-seven occasions and received fifteen unit\ncitations\nand twenty meritorious-service commendations?”\n“I didn’t keep count, but that sounds about right.”\n“In short, Lieutenant Boxer, the San Francisco Police Department\nwould agree\nwith Inspector Jacobi’s description of you. You’re a ‘damned good\ncop.’”\n“Objection. Counsel is making a speech.”“Thanks, Lindsay. I’m done, Your Honor.”\nChapter 97\nI FORGOT ABOUT YUKI as soon as she turned away from me. I was\nfalling backward\nin time, feeling the pain of that horrifying night. The whooshing\nsound of Sam’s\nbreathing was like the sound of salt water washing over my open\nwounds, and the\ncourtroom was a slick sea of faces, reflecting back what must have\nbeen my own\npained and stricken expression.\nI picked out six members of the Cabot family by their resemblance\nto Sara and\nSam, and the fury in their eyes. And I saw cops everywhere, men\nand women I’d\nknown and worked with for years. My eyes locked on Jacobi, and his\neyes held\nmine. He gave me a thumbs-up and I wanted to smile, but Mason\nBroyles was coming\ntoward me.\nHe wasted no time with amenities.\n“Lieutenant Boxer, when you shot my client and his sister, did you\nshoot tokill?”\nThere was a loud ringing in my ears as I tried to understand his\nquestion. Had I\nshot to kill? Yes. But how could I say that I had meant to kill those\nkids?\n“I’m sorry, Mr. Broyles. Could you repeat the question?”\n“Let me ask it another way. If this incident happened as you say,\nthat Sara and\nSam Cabot refused to put down their guns, why didn’t you simply\ndisable them?\nShoot them in the arms or legs, for instance.”\nI hesitated, trying to imagine it. Sara standing squarely facing me on\nthe\npavement. Those shots pounding into my body. Falling to the street.\nThe shock.\nThe pain. The shame.\n“Lieutenant?”\n“Mr. Broyles, I fired in self-defense.”\n“Amazing that your aim was so good. Drunk as you were.”\n“Objection. He’s badgering Lieutenant Boxer.”\n“Sustained. Watch yourself, Mr. Broyles.”\n“Yes, Judge. Lieutenant, I don’t understand. You shot two bullets\ninto Sara’sheart—a pretty small target, wouldn’t you say? Why couldn’t you\nhave shot her so\nthat she’d survive? Why didn’t you shoot Sam Cabot’s gun out of his\nhand?”\n“Your Honor! Asked and answered.”\n“I withdraw the question. We understand what you did, Lieutenant.”\nBroyles\nsneered. “We understand exactly what happened.”\nChapter 98\nI HEARD YUKI SAY, “Redirect, Your Honor.”\nThen she approached me, moving quickly. She waited until I was\nlooking into her\neyes.\n“Lindsay, when you fired on Sam and Sara Cabot, was your life in\ndanger?”\n“Yes.”\n“What’s proper police procedure for that situation? What’s ‘by the\nbook’?”\n“You shoot to center mass to alleviate the threat, and once the\nthreat is\nalleviated, you cease firing. Often those center-mass shots are fatal.\nYou can’ttake any chances by shooting at extremities. You could miss. The\nindividual\nmight still be able to shoot, and you’ve got to make sure the shooter\ncan’t hurt\nyou or other people.”\n“Did you have any other choice but to shoot the way you did?”\n“No. None at all. Once the Cabots introduced lethal force.”\n“Thank you, Lieutenant. Now we understand exactly what\nhappened.”\nI was weak with relief when I stepped down from the stand. As soon\nas I took my\nseat, I heard the judge dismiss the court.\n“See you all tomorrow at nine,” she said.\nYuki and Mickey and several attorneys from his office formed a\nbuffer zone\naround me as we left the courthouse by the back door and entered\nthe black\nLincoln Town Car that was waiting for us on Polk.\nThrough the car’s smoked windows, I saw the angry, chanting crowd\nholding\nposters with my picture and the slogans “Loose Cannon” and “Dirty\nHarriet.”\n“You did great, Lindsay,” Mickey said, reaching over from the front\nseat andpatting my arm. But his brown eyes didn’t smile, and the lower half\nof his face\nlooked frozen.\n“I shouldn’t have hesitated. I—just didn’t know what to say.”\n“No harm done. We’re going to dinner now. Yuki and I have to\nspend some time\ngoing over her closing. You’re welcome to come with us.”\n“If you don’t need me, why don’t you drop me off at Yuki’s place. Let\nyou guys\nwork in peace.”\nI clutched Yuki’s keys in my hand and watched the city I knew so\nwell fly by the\ndarkened car windows. I knew that I’d blown it. A few seconds of\nhesitation and\neveryone in the room had read my mind.\nThe impression that jury walked away with today was that I’d shot\nthose kids to\nkill.\nAnd, of course, they were right.\nChapter 99\nA SHRILL ALARM SHATTERED whatever nightmare had gripped me\nin its vise lock. Ilay stiff and immobile, trying to get my bearings, when the alarm\nwent off\nagain, less strident now, less jarring.\nI grabbed my cell phone from the night table and flipped it open, but\nthe caller\nhad disconnected.\nAwake and grouchy at 6:00 a.m., I moved piles of Yuki’s stuff in the\nsmall\nsecond bedroom until I found my tracksuit and running shoes. I\ndressed quietly,\ncollared and leashed Martha, and together we slipped out of the\nCrest Royal into\ndawn’s early light.\nI ran through the route in my mind, pretty sure that I could do two\nmiles on\ngentle hills and flatlands. Then Martha and I headed north for the\nstraightaway\nof Jones Street at a slow jog, the twinge in my joints reminding me\nhow much I\nreally hated to run.\nI slipped the lead from Martha’s collar so she wouldn’t wrap her\nleash around my\nlegs and herd me into a pratfall. Then I forced myself into a faster\npace on thedownhill side of Jones, until the still-irksome pain from my shoulder\nand leg\ndissolved into an overall ache of my rusty muscles.\nAs much as I hated it, running was my only hope of escaping my\nobsession with\nthe trial because it was the best way to shift from a mental state to\na more\nmanageable physical one. And even though my tendons screamed, it\nwas good to\nfeel my sneakers pounding the sidewalk, my sweat drying in the cool\nair as the\ndawn faded into morning.\nI kept running north on Jones across Vallejo Street until I reached\nthe summit\nof Russian Hill. Straight ahead was Alcatraz Island with its flashing\nlighthouse\nand the glorious view of Angel Island.\nIt was there that my mind floated free and my heart hammered from\nexertion\nrather than from stress and fear.\nI blew through the wall as I crossed onto Hyde and the wonderful\nendorphins\nwarmed me. To my right was the crooked block of Lombard, an\nendlessly charmingstreet that runs down the hill to Leavenworth. I pumped my arms\nand jogged in\nplace waiting for a red light to change, delighted that I was still\nahead of the\ncommuter crowd that a half hour from now would totally clog the\nstreets and\nsidewalks.\nThe light changed and I pushed off. The path I’d chosen took me\nthrough some of\nthe city’s prettiest blocks of gorgeous old homes and postcard views,\neven with\nthe fog still drifting around the bay. Martha and I had reached the\nedge of\nChinatown when I heard the shushing of car wheels following close\non my heels.\nSomeone called out, “Miss, you have to put your dog on a leash.”\nI was ticked off at the interruption of my new blissful mood and\nswung around to\nsee a black-and-white unit dogging me. I stopped running and called\nMartha to my\nside.\n“Oh, my gosh. Lieutenant. It’s you.”\n“Good morning, Nicolo,” I panted to the young officer riding\nshotgun. “Hello,Friedman,” I said to the driver.\n“We’re all behind you, Lou,” Friedman said. “I don’t mean, like,\nliterally this\nmoment,” he sputtered. “I mean we really miss you, man, uh,\nLieutenant.”\n“Thanks.” I smiled. “That means a lot. Especially today.”\n“Never mind about the dog, okay?”\n“Hey, you were right the first time, Nicolo. She stays on the leash.”\n“Following procedures?”\n“Yup, that’s me.”\n“Good luck, okay, Lieutenant?”\n“Thanks, guys.”\nFriedman flashed the car’s headlights as they pulled past me.\nHolding Martha’s\nlead with both hands so that it crossed tightly against my body, I\nturned up\nClay Street and headed back up the hill toward Jones.\nBy the time I stumbled into the lobby of Yuki’s building, all of the\nknots and\nsnarls had melted out of my system. Minutes later I soaked under\nthe hot shower\nI’d earned, and it was a stupendous reward.I toweled myself off with one of Yuki’s giant terry cloth bath jobbies\nand then\nI wiped the condensation off the mirror.\nI gave myself a good hard look.\nMy skin was pink. My eyes were clear. I’d run my miles in decent\ntime, including\nthe dog leash stop. I was okay. Win or lose, I was still the same\nperson I’d\nalways been.\nEven Mason Broyles couldn’t take that away from me.\nChapter 100\nAPART FROM THE SOUND of Sam Cabot’s laborious breathing, the\ncourtroom was quiet\nas Broyles stood at his table, eyes on the screen of his laptop,\nwaiting for the\nlast excruciating moment to begin his closing statement.\nFinally, he stepped over to the jury box and after greeting them in\nhis usual\ngreasily gracious manner, he launched into his summation.\n“I’m sure we all appreciate that the police have a difficult job. To tell\nyou\nthe truth, it’s not a job I’d like to do. The police deal with rough\npeople andugly situations routinely, and they have to make tough split-second\ndecisions\nevery day.\n“These are all conditions of the job Lieutenant Lindsay Boxer took on\nwhen she\nput on her badge. She swore an oath to uphold the law and to\nprotect our\ncitizens.\n“And it’s indisputable that you can’t do those things properly when\nyou’re\ndrunk.”\nSomeone in the back of the room stepped on his rhetoric with a\ncoughing fit.\nBroyles stood patiently, hands in his pockets, and waited for the\nhacking to\ncease.\nWhen the room was quiet once more, he picked right up where he’d\nleft off.\n“We all heard Lieutenant Boxer’s testimony yesterday, and I find it\ninteresting\nthat she denies what she can’t admit—and admits what she can’t\ndeny.\n“Lieutenant Boxer denies that she should never have gotten in that\ncar. That sheshould never have assumed the position of a police officer when\nshe’d had too\nmuch to drink. But she must admit that she didn’t follow procedures.\nAnd she\nmust admit that she killed Sara Cabot and destroyed Sam Cabot’s\nlife.\n“Ladies and gentlemen, we have police procedures in place to\nprevent deadly\nshoot-outs like the one that happened on the night of May tenth.\n“Those procedures weren’t made up after this tragic incident\noccurred. They’re\ntime-tested and have been in effect for decades for a reason. Every\ncop alive\nknows that you approach a suspect vehicle with your gun drawn so\nas to show the\nperson you’re approaching that you mean business.\n“And you disarm suspects so that no one gets hurt.”\nBroyles walked over to his table and drank from a tall glass of water.\nI wanted\nto jump up and call him out on his perversion of the truth, but\ninstead I\nwatched in silence as he turned toward the cameras before walking\nback to the\njury, all of whom seemed transfixed by what he was saying.“Sam and Sara Cabot were young, cocky kids, and they took liberties\nwith the\nlaw. They borrowed their dad’s car without permission, and they fled\nfrom a\npolice pursuit. They lacked maturity and they lacked good judgment.\nWhat that\nmeans to me is that despite their intelligence, they needed more\nprotection than\nadults would have needed in a similar situation.\n“And Lieutenant Boxer failed to provide that protection because she\ndidn’t\nfollow the most basic police procedures. She decided to ‘serve and\nprotect’ when\nshe was intoxicated.\n“As a result of that decision, an exceptional young woman is dead,\nand a young\nman who could have been anything he wanted to be is going to sit\nin a wheelchair\nfor the rest of his life.”\nMason Broyles pressed his hands together, adopting a prayerlike\npose, and, damn\nit, it was moving. He took a deep breath and released it, nearly\nsighing his\nsorrowful conclusion to the jury.“We can’t bring Sara Cabot back,” he said. “And you’ve seen what’s\nleft of Sam’s\nlife. Our legal system can’t reverse the damage done to these\nchildren, but you\nare empowered to compensate Sam Cabot and his parents for their\nloss and\nsuffering.\n“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I ask you please to do the right\nthing and\nfind for my client in the amount of one hundred fifty million dollars.\n“Don’t just do it for the Cabot family.\n“Do it for your family and mine, for every family and every person in\nthis city\nof ours.\n“Finding the defendant guilty is the only way we can make sure a\ntragedy like\nthis one never happens again.”\nChapter 101\nYUKI CLOSED HER NOTEBOOK and stepped out onto the courtroom\nfloor. She turned\nher lovely face to the jury and greeted them. I clasped my hands\ntightlytogether and tried to think past Mason Broyles’s powerful closing\nspeech.\n“This is a very emotional case,” Yuki said. “On the one hand, we\nhave a tragedy\nthat will remain with the Cabot family forever.\n“On the other hand, a damned good cop has been unfairly accused\nof causing this\nincident.\n“Because this case is so emotional, because the Cabot kids are and\nwere so\nyoung, I want to state the facts again, because your job is to decide\nthis case\nbased on facts, not emotion.\n“It’s a fact that if a cop wants to have a couple of margaritas on a\nFriday\nnight when she’s off duty, there is absolutely nothing wrong with\nthat. Cops are\npeople, too. And while police officers are there for the public twenty-\nfour\nhours a day, it would have been perfectly okay for Lieutenant Boxer\nto have told\nInspector Jacobi that she was busy.\n“But this officer cared intensely about her work and went beyond the\ncall ofduty, and in so doing she put herself in harm’s way.\n“You’ve heard the plaintiffs say over and over again that Lieutenant\nBoxer was\ndrunk. In fact, she was not intoxicated. And while her alcohol\nconsumption may\nhave been a condition of this incident, it was not the cause.\n“Please don’t lose sight of this distinction.\n“Lieutenant Boxer did not make any errors of judgment on the night\nof May tenth\nbecause her reactions were slow or her thinking was faulty. If\nLieutenant\nLindsay Boxer did anything wrong that night, it was because she\nshowed too much\ncompassion for the plaintiffs.\n“The two people who were the cause of the death and injuries to\nSara and Sam\nCabot were the Cabot children themselves. The fact is that two\nyoung, spoiled,\nrich kids had nothing better to do on the night in question than go\nout and\ncause injury and misery to other people and eventually to\nthemselves.\n“Ladies and gentlemen, Sam and Sara Cabot caused the events of\nMay tenth withtheir reckless behavior and with their use of deadly force. They\nintroduced\ndeadly force into this affair, not Lieutenant Boxer. And that is a\ncrucial\nfact.”\nYuki paused, and for a terrible second, I thought she might have\nforgotten where\nher closing statement was headed. She lifted her pearls from the\nfront of her\nsilk blouse and ran her fingers over them, then she turned back to\nthe jury, and\nI realized she was simply gathering her thoughts.\n“Usually when a cop goes on trial it’s a Rodney King- or Abner\nLouima-type\naffair. A cop pulled the trigger too quickly or beat the hell out of\nsomeone, or\nabused his or her authority.\n“Lindsay Boxer is being accused of doing just the opposite. She\nholstered her\ngun because the Cabot children seemed helpless and in fact they\nwere in danger.\nAnd the plaintiffs want to turn her humanity toward these children\ninto a\n‘failure to follow police procedures.’“Forgive me, but this is bull.\n“Lieutenant Boxer followed procedures when she approached the car\nin question\nwith her gun drawn. Then, based on the visible injuries to Sam\nCabot, she\nrendered aid to the victims of a car accident.\n“That was the right thing to do.\n“Inspector Jacobi, another damned good cop, with over twenty-five\nyears on the\nSFPD, did the same thing. You heard him. He holstered his gun.\nAfter he and\nLieutenant Boxer freed the Cabot kids from their vehicle, he tried to\nget them\nmedical assistance.\n“Isn’t this the kind of behavior we all want from our police force? If\nyou were\nin an accident? If these had been your kids?\n“But instead of thanking these officers, the Cabot children fired guns\nat them\nwith intent to kill. Sam kicked Inspector Jacobi in the head after he’d\nbeen\nshot. Was their vicious and potentially lethal aggression caused by\nthe use of\ndrugs? Or were they just bent on murder?“We don’t know.\n“But we do know that Lieutenant Boxer was shot first and that she\nreturned fire\nin self-defense. That’s a fact. And defending herself, ladies and\ngentlemen, is\n‘proper police procedure.’\n“Lieutenant Boxer told you she’d give anything in the world to have\nSara Cabot\nalive today and for this young man to have the full use of his body.\n“But the fact is, the events of May tenth did not happen because of\na fire that\nLindsay Boxer set. She tried to put that fire out.”\nI felt a rush of gratitude that almost spilled from my eyes. My God,\nto be\ndefended with such heart and eloquence. I bit my lower lip and\nwatched Yuki as\nshe finished her summation.\n“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. You’ve been very patient this\nweek through a\nlot of testimony and harassment from the media. I know you are\nlooking forward\nto your deliberation.\n“We ask that you find Lieutenant Lindsay Boxer guilty of being the\nkind of copwe should all be proud of: a compassionate, dedicated, selfless\nofficer of the\nlaw.\n“And we ask that you find her innocent of the outrageous charges\nthat have been\nbrought against her.”\nChapter 102\n“WHAT DO YOU SAY we go out the front door today?” Mickey said,\ntaking my arm.\n“It’s Friday. The case will be on hold throughout the weekend and\nthat makes me\nthink this is a good time to ‘meet the press.’”\nI walked between my attorneys into the hallway and from there\ndown the marble\nstairs and out onto McAllister. The corner of the Civic Center\nCourthouse is cut\non an angle so that the building faces kitty-corner onto the wide\nintersection\nand the manicured park across from Civic Center Plaza.\nBy contrast to the dark of the courthouse, the sunshine was\nblinding. And, as it\nhad been since the beginning of my trial, McAllister was so jammed,\nI couldn’tsee over the press and the satellite vans that were lining the curb.\nIt was like the scene outside the O. J. Simpson courtroom. The same\nkind of\nadrenaline-fueled madness that masked the truth, whatever that\nmight be. This\ntrial wasn’t worthy of the world stage. The media exposure was all\nabout\nviewership, ratings, advertising dollars. Be that as it may, today I\nwas “it.”\nLike hounds on a rabbit, the press saw me and closed in for the kill.\nMickey was\nready with his statement, but he never got to deliver it.\n“How long do you think the jury will be out, Mr. Sherman?”\n“I don’t know, but I’m sure, however long it takes, the jury will find\nLieutenant Boxer innocent of all charges.”\n“Lieutenant Boxer, if the jury finds against you —”\n“That’s unlikely to happen,” Yuki answered for me.\n“Ms. Castellano, this is your first high-profile case. How do you think\nyou\ndid?”\nFifteen feet away, a crowd was also forming around Mason Broyles,\nhis clients,and his deputies. Film rolled as the medical attendant moved Sam\nCabot down a\nwooden ramp and loaded him into a van. Reporters followed, firing\nquestions at\nSam as his father did his best to shield the boy.\nI picked Cindy out of the crowd. She was shouldering through the\nsardine\ncan-packed bodies, trying to get closer to me. And that’s why I\nwasn’t paying\nmuch attention to Mickey when he answered his cell phone.\nThen his hand was on my shoulder. His face was totally gray.\n“I just got a heads-up from the clerk’s office,” he shouted into my\near. “The\njury has a couple of questions.”\nWe pressed through the crowd, making our way to the street and\nMickey’s waiting\ncar. Yuki and I got into the backseat, and Mickey got in front beside\nhis\ndriver.\n“What did they want to know?” Yuki asked as soon as the doors\nclosed. The car\nmoved slowly through the crowd, heading toward Redwood.\n“They want to see the evidence of Lindsay’s alcohol intake,” Mickey\nsaid,turning to face us.\n“Christ,” Yuki said. “How could they still be stuck on that?”\n“What else?” I asked urgently. “You said there were two things.”\nI saw Mickey hesitate. He didn’t want to tell me, but he had to do it.\n“They wanted to know if there was a limit on how much money they\ncould award the\nplaintiffs,” he said.\nChapter 103\nIT WAS A GUT shot, and the shock resonated from my solar plexus\nthroughout my\nbody. I felt my stomach drop and bile rise into my throat. I had\nenvisioned\nlosing this case in terms of a fanciful, theoretical aftermath: working\nat\nstreet fairs, reading books on the deck of some beach house, la-de-\nda. But I\nhadn’t taken into account the full emotional impact of the reality of\nlosing.\nBeside me, Yuki squealed, “Oh, my God, it’s all my fault. I shouldn’t\nhave said\n‘find her guilty of being a good cop, blah blah.’ It was a flourish! I\nthought\nit was good, but I was wrong.”“You did a great job,” I said, my voice as heavy as stone. “This has\nnothing to\ndo with what you said.”\nI wrapped my arms around myself and lowered my head. Mickey\nand Yuki were\ntalking together. I heard Mickey assure her that the fat lady hadn’t\nyet sung,\nbut the voice in my mind was a needle stuck in an old-fashioned\nrecord groove.\nOne question kept repeating.\nHow could this be?\nHow could this be?\nChapter 104\nWHEN I TUNED BACK in to the conversation in the car, Mickey was\nexplaining\nsomething to Yuki.\n“The judge gave them the paperwork from the hospital and the\ntranscript from the\nnurse. And she told them not to worry about limiting the award.\nThat’s her job\nand need not concern them.”\nMickey ran his hand over his face in what I took to be exasperation.\n“Yuki, youdid a fantastic job, I mean it. I can’t believe that the jury bought\nMason\nBroyles’s act,” he said. “I just don’t believe it. I don’t know how we\ncould\nhave done better.”\nAnd that’s when Yuki’s cell phone rang.\n“The jury is back,” she said. She folded her phone, clutching it until\nher\nknuckles whitened. “They have a verdict.”\nMy mind spaced. I saw the word verdict in front of my eyes and\ntried to parse\nit, looking between the letters and syllables for something to hope\nfor. I knew\nfrom past days in court that the Latin roots of the word verdict\nmeant to speak\nthe truth.\nWould this verdict be the truth?\nIn the minds of the people of San Francisco, it would be.\nMickey directed his driver to turn around, which he did, and a few\nminutes later\nI was saying, “No comment, no comment, please,” and following\nYuki and Mickey\nthrough the mob, up the steep stairs, and into the courthouse once\nagain.We took our places in courtroom B, and the opposition took theirs.\nI heard my name pierce the moment as if it had come from another\ntime and place.\nI turned to look behind me.\n“Joe!”\n“I just got in, Lindsay. I came straight from the airport.”\nWe reached out and for a brief moment entwined our fingers across\nthe shoulders\nof the people sitting behind me. Then I had to let go and turn away.\nAlong the sides of the room, cameramen focused their lenses, then,\nonly an hour\nsince we’d left this room, the judge entered from her chambers and\nthe jury\nfilled the jury box.\nThe bailiff called the court back into session.\nChapter 105\nIT TOOK THE MEMBERS of the jury long moments to fix their skirts,\nput down their\nbags, and get comfortable in their seats. Finally, they were at\nattention. I\nnoticed that only two of them had looked at me.I listened numbly as the judge asked the jury if they’d arrived at the\nverdict.\nThen the foreman, a fifty-something African American man named\nArnold Benoit,\nstraightened the lines of his sport jacket and spoke.\n“We have, Your Honor.”\n“Please pass your verdict to the bailiff.”\nAcross the aisle, Sam Cabot’s breathing quickened, as did mine,\nkeeping double\ntime along with my pounding heart as the judge opened the single\nsheet of paper.\nShe scanned it and, without expression, passed it back to the bailiff,\nwho\nreturned it to the jury foreman.\n“I caution the audience not to react to whatever the foreman says,”\nsaid the\njudge. “All right, Mr. Foreman. Please pronounce the verdict.”\nThe foreman took his glasses out of his jacket pocket, flipped them\nopen, and\nset them on his nose. At last, he began to read.\n“We, the jury in the above-entitled action, find the accused,\nLieutenant Lindsay\nBoxer, not guilty of the charges against her.”“So say you all?”\n“We do.”\nI was so numb, I wasn’t sure I’d heard correctly. And when I played\nthe\nstatement back in my mind, I half expected the judge to overrule\nwhat the\nforeman had just said.\nYuki grasped my wrist tightly, and only when I saw the smile lighting\nher face\ndid I fully realize that I wasn’t imagining anything. The jury had\nfound in my\nfavor.\nA voice shouted, “No! No! You can’t do this!”\nIt was Andrew Cabot, on his feet, holding on to the chair-back in\nfront of him\nwhere Mason Broyles sat, white-faced and grim, and beaten.\nBroyles’s request that the jury be polled was a demand, and the\njudge complied.\n“As you hear your seat number called, please tell the court how you\nvoted,” said\nJudge Achacoso.\nOne at a time the jurors spoke.\n“Not guilty.”“Not guilty.”\n“Not guilty . . .”\nI had heard the expression, but I’m not sure I understood it until\nthat moment.\nWith both my attorneys’ arms around me, I floated in a feeling of\nrelief so\ncomplete it was a dimension of its own. Perhaps this feeling was\nreserved only\nfor moments of redemption, moments like this.\nI was free, and my heart took flight.\nPart Five\nThe Cat’s Meow\nChapter 106\nTHERE WAS A MOODY gray sky overhead when Martha and I left my\napartment and\nheaded out of San Francisco. I turned on the car radio and caught\nthe weather\nreport, listening with half an ear as I negotiated the stop-and-go\nsnarl of the\nusual commuter traffic.\nAs I bumped along Potrero Street, I was thinking about Chief\nTracchio.Yesterday, when we’d met at the Hall of Justice, he’d asked me to\ncome back to\nwork, and I’d gotten as flustered as if he’d asked me for a date.\nAll I’d had to do was shake his hand on it.\nIf I’d done that, I would have been driving to the Hall this morning,\nmaking a\nspeech to the troops about going forward, diving into the mountain\nof paperwork\non my desk, unsolved cases. I would’ve taken back my command.\nBut, although the chief had laid it on really thick, I’d turned him\ndown.\n“I still have some vacation time, Chief. I need to take it.”\nHe said he understood, but how could he? I still didn’t know what I\nwanted to do\nwith my life, and I had a sense that I wouldn’t know until I’d gotten\nto the\nbottom of the killings in Half Moon Bay.\nThose unsolved murders were a part of me now, too.\nMy gut told me that if I did what I was good at, if I persevered, I\nwould find\nthe SOB who had killed my John Doe and all those others.\nRight now, that was all I really cared about.I took 280 southbound and, once clear of the city, I rolled down the\nwindows and\nchanged the channel.\nBy 10:00 a.m., my hair was whipping across my face, and Sue Hall\nwas spinning my\nfavorite oldies on 99.7 FM.\n“It’s not raining this morning,” she purred. “It’s the first of July, a\nbeautiful gray San Francisco day—just floating in pearly fog. And\nisn’t the fog\nsomething that we love about San Francisco?”\nThen, the perfect song poured through the speakers: “Fly Like an\nEagle.”\nI sang along in full voice, the tune pumping oxygen into my blood,\nsending my\nmood right through the ozone layer.\nI was free.\nThe horrific trial was in my rearview mirror, and suddenly my future\nwas as open\nas the highway ahead.\nEighteen miles out of the city, Martha needed a rest stop, so I pulled\nover into\nthe parking lot of a Taco Bell in Pacifica. It was a wooden shack built\nin thesixties before the zoning commission knew what was happening.\nAnd now there\nstood one of the tackiest buildings in the world on one of the most\nbeautiful\nspots on the coastline.\nUnlike most of the highway, which streamed high above the ocean,\nthe fast-food\nrestaurant parking lot was at sea level. A row of rocks separated the\nasphalt\nfrom the beach, and beyond it the deep blue Pacific flowed over the\nrim of the\nhorizon.\nI bought an irresistible cinnamon-sugared churro and a container of\nblack coffee\nand took a seat on the boulders. I watched tattooed, hard-bodied\nsurfers riding\nthe waves as Martha ran over the luminous gray sand until the sun\nhad nearly\nburned off the fog.\nWhen this great moment was sealed in my memory, I called Martha\nback to the car.\nTwenty minutes later, we entered the outskirts of Half Moon Bay.\nChapter 107I DROVE ACROSS THE air bell on the apron of the Man in the Moon\nGarage and\nhonked a little shave-and-a-haircut until Keith came out of his office.\nHe\nlifted off his baseball cap, shook out his golden hair, stuck the cap\nback on,\nsmiled my way, and sauntered on over.\n“Well, well. Lookit who’s here. The Woman of the Year,” Keith said,\nputting his\nhand on Martha’s head.\n“Oh, that’s me, all right,” I said, laughing. “I’m just glad it’s over.”\n“Yeah, I totally get it. I saw that Sam Cabot on the news. He was so\npitiful. I\nwas really scared for you, Lindsay, but it’s water over the hill now.\nCongratulations are in order.”\nI murmured my thanks for his interest and asked Keith to fill up the\ntank.\nMeanwhile, I took the squeegee from a bucket and cleaned the\nwindshield.\n“So, what’re you up to, Lindsay? Don’t you have to go back to work\nin the big\ncity?”\n“Not right away. You know, I’m just not ready yet. . . .”As the words left my mouth, a red blur breezed across the\nintersection. The\ndriver slowed and looked right at me before gunning the engine and\ntearing down\nMain.\nI’d been in town for less than five minutes, and Dennis Agnew was\nback in my\nface.\n“I left the Bonneville at my sister’s house,” I said as I observed the\nPorsche’s\ncontrail. “And I have a little unfinished business here in town.”\nKeith turned and saw that I was watching Agnew’s Porsche\ndisappear down the\nstreet.\n“I’ve never understood it,” he said, jacking the gas gun into my tank,\nshaking\nhis head. A bell rang as the gas meter racked up the gallons. “He’s a\nreally baddude. I just don’t understand why women are so attracted to\ntrouble.”\n“You’re kidding me,” I said. “You think I’m interested in that guy?”\n“Aren’t you?”\n“Very. But not the way you mean. My interest in Dennis Agnew is\npurely\nprofessional.”\nChapter 108\nAS WE HEADED TO Cat’s house, Martha jumped around from\nbackseat to front,\nbarking like a fool. And when I parked in the driveway, she leaped\nthrough the\ncar’s open window and ran up to the front door, where she stood\nwagging her tail\nand singing in a high key.\n“Be cool, Boo,” I said. “Show a little restraint.”\nI jiggled the key in the lock and opened the front door; Martha\ntrotted inside.\nI called Joe and left him a message: “Hey, Molinari, I’m at Cat’s\nhouse. Call\nwhen you can.” Then I left a message for Carolee, telling her that\nshe andAllison could stand down from pig-sitting detail.\nI spent the day thinking about the Half Moon Bay murders while I\ncleaned up\naround the house. I cooked up some spaghetti and canned baby\npeas for dinner,\nmaking a mental note to do some grocery shopping in the morning.\nThen I brought my laptop into my nieces’ room and set it up on their\nshelf of a\ndesk. I noticed that the sweet potato vines had sent another couple\ninches\nacross the windowsill, but the notes Joe and I had tacked up on the\ngirls’\ncorkboard were unchanged.\nOur little scribblings detailing the circumstances and the savagery\ndone to the\nWhittakers, Daltrys, Sarduccis, and O’Malleys still led nowhere. And\nof course\nmy lone John Doe remained pinned to the wall.\nI booted up my laptop and went into the FBI’s VICAP database. The\nViolent\nCriminal Apprehension Program was a national Web site with one\npurpose: to help\nlaw enforcement agents link up scattered bits of intel related to\nserialhomicides. The site had a kick-ass search engine, and new\ninformation was always\nbeing plugged in by cops around the country.\nNow I typed in key words that might make the tumblers spin, some\nanswers fall\ninto place.\nI tried them all: whippings administered cum-mortem, couples killed\nin bed, and\nof course slashed throats, which sent up a storm of information. Too\nmuch.\nHours passed, and my vision started to blur, so I put the computer\non\n“hibernate” and dropped down onto one of my nieces’ small beds to\nrest for a few\nminutes.\nWhen I woke up, it was pitch-black outside. It felt as though\nsomething had\nawoken me. A slight noise that didn’t belong. According to the time\nflashing on\nthe kids’ VCR, it was 2:17, and I had a prickly sense that I couldn’t\nnail down,\nas if I were being watched.\nI blinked in the blackness and saw a red blur shoot across my vision.\nIt was theafterimage of that red Porsche and it called up snatches of the\ndisturbing\nscenes I’d had with Agnew. The set-to at the Cormorant and the one\nat Keith’s\ngarage. The near collision on the road.\nI was still thinking about Agnew. It was the only thing that explained\nthe\nsensation of being watched.\nI was about to get up and go to my room for what remained of the\nnight when a\nseries of hard pops and the sound of splintering glass shattered the\nstill night\nair.\nShards of the window fell all around me.\nGun! Gun! Where the hell was my gun?\nChapter 109\nMARTHA’S REFLEXES WERE QUICKER than mine. She dove off the\nbed and crawled under\nit. I was right behind her, rolling onto the floor while riffling through\nmy\nshocked mind, trying to remember where I’d put my weapon.\nThen I knew.It was in my handbag in the living room, and the closest phone was\nthere, too.\nHow could I be so vulnerable? Was I going to die trapped in this\nroom? My heart\npounded so hard it hurt.\nI lifted my head just inches off the floor and by the faint green light\nof the\nVCR clock, I took inventory.\nI focused on every surface and object in the room, looking for\nsomething,\nanything, I could use to protect myself.\nThe place was littered with big stuffed animals and a dozen dolls,\nbut there\nwasn’t a single baseball bat or hockey stick, nothing I could use in a\nfight. I\ncouldn’t even throw the TV, because it was bolted to the wall.\nI pulled myself across the hardwood floor on my forearms, reached\nup, and locked\nthe bedroom door.\nJust then, another fusillade of shots rang out—automatic gunfire\nraking the\nfront of the house, again striking the living room and the spare room\nat the end\nof the hall. Then the true intent of the assault finally sunk in.I could have been—should have been—sleeping in that bedroom.\nInching forward on my stomach, I clasped the leg of a wooden chair,\npushed at\nit, angled the chair onto its rear legs, and wedged its back under the\ndoorknob.\nThen I picked up its twin and swung it against the dresser.\nWith a length of chair leg in my hand, I crouched with my back to\nthe wall.\nIt was just pathetic. Forget the dog under the bed, my only line of\ndefense was\na chair leg.\nIf anyone came through the door aiming to kill me, I was dead.\nChapter 110\nAS I LISTENED FOR the sound of feet on the floorboards outside the\nbedroom, I\nimagined the door being kicked open and me swinging at the\nintruder with my\nstick, hoping to God that I could somehow knock his brains out.\nBut as the VCR clock blinked away the minutes and the silence grew\nlonger, my\nadrenaline ebbed.\nAnd I started to get mad.I stood, listened at the door, and when I heard nothing, I opened it\nand worked\nmy way down the long hallway, using doorways and walls as\nbarricades.\nWhen I got to the living room, I grabbed my bag from where it\nleaned against the\nsofa.\nI reached in and closed my hand around my gun.\nThank you, God.\nAs I called 911, I peeked through slits in the window blinds. The\nstreet looked\nempty, but I thought I saw something glinting on the front lawn.\nWhat was it?\nI told the dispatcher my name, rank, and shield number, and that\nshots had been\nfired at 265 Sea View.\n“Anyone hurt?”\n“No, I’m fine, but call Chief Stark on this.”\n“It’s already been called in, Lieutenant. The cavalry is on the way.”\nChapter 111\nI HEARD SIRENS AND saw flashing lights approaching Sea View. As\nthe firstcruiser arrived, I opened the front door, and Martha bolted past me.\nShe ran\nover to a snakelike object that was lying in the moonlight.\nShe gave it a sniff.\n“Martha, what have you found? What is it, girl?”\nI was hunkered down beside Martha when Chief Peter Stark got out\nof his squad\ncar. He walked over with his flashlight and knelt down next to me.\n“You okay?”\n“Yep. I’m good.”\n“Is that what I think it is?” he asked.\nTogether, we looked at a man’s belt. It was about thirty-six inches\nlong and a\nhalf-inch wide, narrow brown leather with a squared dull silver\nbuckle. It was\nsuch an ordinary belt; probably half the people in the state had one\nlike it in\ntheir closet somewhere.\nBut this particular belt seemed to have some brownish-red stains on\nthe\nmetalwork.\n“Wouldn’t it be grand,” I said, refusing to dwell on the terror of the\nlast fewminutes—how those shots had surely been meant for me—“wouldn’t\nit be something,”\nI said to Chief Stark, “if this belt was evidence?”\nChapter 112\nTHREE SQUAD CARS HAD pulled up to the curb. Radios sputtered\nand crackled, and\nall along Sea View, lights went on in houses, and people came out\nonto their\ndoorsteps wearing PJs and robes, T-shirts and shorts, hair standing\nup, fear\noverriding the lines in their sleep-creased faces.\nCat’s front yard was lit by headlights, and as the cops exited their\ncars, they\nconferred with the chief and spread out. A couple of uniforms\nstarted collecting\nshell casings, and a pair of detectives began to canvass the\nneighbors.\nI took Stark into the house, and together we examined the shattered\nwindows, the\nsplintered furniture, and the bullet-pocked headboard in “my”\nbedroom.\n“Any thoughts on who did this?” Stark asked me.\n“None,” I said. “My car’s in the driveway where anyone can see it,\nbut I didn’tlet anyone know I’d be in town.”\n“And why are you here, Lieutenant?”\nI was considering the best way to answer that when I heard Allison\nand Carolee\ncalling out my name. A young cop with ruddy, protruding ears came\nto the\nthreshold and told Stark that I had visitors.\n“They can’t come in here,” Stark said. “Jesus Christ, is someone\nroping off the\nstreet?”\nThe uniformed cop’s face colored completely as he shook his head\nno.\n“Why the hell not? Number one: Stabilize the scene. Get on it.”\nI followed the patrolman as far as the front doorstep, where Carolee\nand Allison\ngrabbed me in a much-needed two-tier hug.\n“One of my kids monitors the police band,” Carolee said. “I got over\nhere as\nsoon as I heard. Oh, my God, Lindsay. Your arms.”\nI glanced down. Broken glass had made a few cuts in my forearms,\nand blood had\nstreaked down and stained my shirt.\nIt looked a lot worse than it was.“I’m fine,” I told Carolee. “Just a few scratches. I’m sure.”\n“You don’t plan to stay here, do you, Lindsay? Because that’s crazy,”\nCarolee\nsaid, her face showing how mad she was and how scared. “I’ve got\nplenty of room\nfor you at the house.”\n“Good idea,” Stark said, coming up behind me. “Go with your nice\nfriend. I’ve\ngot calls in to the CSU techs, and they’re going to be prying slugs\nout of your\nwalls and combing the place for the rest of the night.”\n“That’s fine. I’ll be okay here,” I told him. “This is my sister’s house.\nI’m\nnot going to leave.”\n“All right. But don’t forget that this is our case, Lieutenant. You’re\nstill out\nof your jurisdiction. Don’t go all cowgirl on us, okay?”\n“Go all cowgirl? Who do you think you’re talking to?”\n“Look. I’m sorry, but someone just tried to kill you.”\n“Thanks. I got that.”\nThe chief patted down his hair out of habit. “I’ll keep a patrol car\nposted in\nthe driveway tonight. Maybe longer.”As I said good-night to Carolee and Allison, the chief went to his car\nand\nreturned with a paper bag. He was using a ballpoint pen to lift the\nbelt into\nthe bag as I wrapped my dignity tightly around myself and closed\nthe front door.\nI went to bed, but of course I couldn’t sleep. Cops were coming and\ngoing\nthrough the house, slamming doors and laughing, and besides, my\nmind was\nspinning.\nI stroked Martha’s head absently as she shivered beside me.\nSomeone had shot up\nthis house and left a calling card.\nWas it a warning to stay away from Half Moon Bay?\nOr had the shooter really tried to kill me?\nWhat would happen when I turned up alive?\nChapter 113\nA SUNBEAM SLIPPED THROUGH the window at an unaccustomed\nangle and pried my eyes\nopen. I saw blue wallpaper, a picture of my mother over the dresser\n—and it all\ncame together.I was in Cat’s bed—because at 2:00 a.m. bullets had thudded\nthrough the house,\nplugging the headboard in the spare room inches above where my\nhead would have\nbeen.\nMartha pushed her wet nose at my hand until I swung my feet out\nof bed. I pulled\non some of Cat’s clothes—a faded pair of jeans and a coral-colored\nblouse with a\ndeep ruffled neckline. Not my color and definitely not my style.\nI ran a comb through my hair, brushed my teeth, and stepped out\ninto the living\nroom.\nThe CSU techs were still digging bullets out of the walls, so I made\ncoffee and\ntoast for everyone and asked pointed questions that yielded the\nbasic facts.\nTwelve 9mm shots had been fired, evenly distributed through the\nliving room and\nspare bedroom, one through the kids’ small, high window. The\nbullets and spent\ncases had been bagged and tagged, the holes had been\nphotographed, and the\nforensic team was wrapping up. In an hour, the whole kit and\ncaboodle would besent to the lab.\n“You doing okay, Lieutenant?” asked one of the techs, a tall thirty-ish\nguy with\nbig hazel eyes and a toothy smile.\nI looked around at the destruction, the glass and plaster dust over\neverything.\n“No. I’m not. This makes me sick,” I said. “I’ve got to sweep up, get\nthe\nwindows fixed, do something about this . . . this mess.”\n“I’m Artie, by the way,” the tech said, stretching out his hand.\n“Nice to meet you,” I said, shaking it.\n“My uncle Chris has a Disaster Master franchise. You want me to call\nhim? He can\nget this place cleaned up, like, pronto. I mean, you’ll go to the head\nof the\nline, Lieutenant. You’re one of us.”\nI thanked Artie and took him up on his offer. Then I grabbed my\nhandbag and took\nMartha out the back way. I fed Miss Piggy, then circled around to the\npatrol car\nin the driveway and ducked my head to window level.\n“Noonan, right?”\n“Yes, ma’am.”“Still on duty?”\n“Yes, ma’am. We’ll be here for a while. The whole squad is watching\nout for you,\nLieutenant. The chief and all of us. This really stinks.”\n“I appreciate the concern.”\nAnd I did. Harsh daylight only made the shooting more real.\nSomeone had driven\ndown this sweet suburban street, raking Cat’s house with automatic\ngunfire.\nI was unnerved, and until I got my composure back, I had to get\naway from here.\nI jingled my car keys so that Martha flattened her ears and nearly\nwagged her\ntail off.\n“We need groceries,” I said to her. “What do you say we take the\nBonneville on a\nshakedown cruise?”\nChapter 114\nMARTHA JUMPED ONTO THE bench-style front seat of the “big gold\nboat.” I strapped\nin and turned the key. The engine caught on the second try, and I\npointed the\nBonneville’s aristocratic nose toward town.I was going to the gourmet grocer on Main Street, but as I made my\nway along the\ncrosshatched streets of Cat’s neighborhood, I became gradually\naware of a blue\nTaurus sedan in my rearview mirror. It seemed to be deliberately\nlagging behind\nme but keeping up all the same.\nThat creepy feeling of being watched tickled my spine again.\nWas I being tailed?\nOr was I in such a state I just kept seeing myself as a pop-up figure\nin a\nshooting gallery?\nI took Magnolia across the highway and onto Main, where I whizzed\npast all the\nlittle shops: the Music Hut, the Moon News, the Feed and Fuel store.\nI wanted to\nconvince myself that I was just being skittish, but damn—if I lost\nthat Taurus\nfor a block or two, it was behind me at the next turn.\n“Hang on tight. We’re going for a ride,” I said to Martha, who was\nsmiling\nbroadly into the wind.\nToward the end of Main, I hooked a right onto Route 92, Half Moon\nBay’sumbilical cord to the rest of California.\nTraffic was going fast on this winding two-laner, and I merged into a\nbumper-to-bumper chain of cars going fifty in a twenty-five-mile-per-\nhour zone.\nThe double yellow line went the distance—a full five miles of no-\npassing lane as\n92 crossed the reservoir and linked up with the freeway.\nI drove on, dimly aware of the hillside of scrubby trees and chaparral\non my\nleft and the twenty-foot drop a few feet from the right side of my\ncar. Three\ncars behind, the blue sedan kept me in sight.\nI wasn’t crazy. I had a tail.\nWas it a scare tactic?\nOr was the shooter inside that car, waiting for an opportunity for a\nclear hit?\nThe end of 92 intersected with Skyline, and at the near right-hand\ncorner was a\nrest stop with five picnic tables and a gravel parking lot.\nI didn’t signal for a turn, just hauled right on my steering wheel. I\nwanted to\nget off the road, let that Taurus pass me so that I could see his face,\nget hisplate number. Get out of his sights.\nBut instead of gripping the road as my Explorer would have done,\nthe Bonneville\nfishtailed across the gravel, sending me back out onto 92, across the\ndouble\nyellow line and into the stream of oncoming traffic.\nThe Taurus must have passed me, but I never saw it.\nI was hanging on to the wheel of my spinning car when the lights on\nthe\ndashboard freaked out.\nMy power steering and brakes were gone, the alternator was dead,\nthe engine was\nheating up, and I was skidding around in the middle of the roadway.\nI pumped the brakes, and a black pickup truck swerved to avoid\ncreaming me\nbroadside. The driver leaned on his horn and yelled obscenities out\nhis window,\nbut I was so glad he’d missed me, I wanted to kiss him.\nBy the time I skidded to a stop on the roadside, a cloud of dust\nbillowed around\nme and I couldn’t see beyond the windshield.\nI got out of the Bonneville and leaned against it. My legs were\nrubbery and myhands shaking.\nFor now, the chase was over.\nBut I knew it wasn’t really over.\nSomeone had me in his crosshairs, and I had no idea who it was or\nwhy.\nChapter 115\nI PHONED THE MAN in the Moon Garage on my cell phone and got\nKeith’s answering\nmachine.\n“Keith, I’m in a little jam. It’s Lindsay. Please pick up.”\nWhen Keith answered, I gave him my coordinates. Twenty minutes\nfelt like an hour\nbefore he pulled up in his jouncing tow truck. He hooked up the\nBonneville for\nher ignominious return home, and I climbed up into the passenger\nside of the\ncab.\n“It’s a luxury car, Lindsay,” Keith chastised me. “You’re not supposed\nto do\nloop-de-loops with this thing. It’s more than twenty years old, for\nGod’s sake.”\n“I know, I know.”Long silence.\n“Nice blouse.”\n“Thank you.”\n“No, really,” he said, making me laugh. “You should wear more stuff\nlike that.”\nBack at the garage, Keith flipped open the Bonneville’s hood.\n“Ha. Your fan belt snapped,” he said.\n“Ha. I know that.”\n“Did you know that in a pinch you could fix this with a length of\npanty hose?”\n“Yes, I did. But, strange as it may seem, I didn’t have any tights in\nmy\nroadside emergency kit.”\n“I have an idea. Why don’t I buy this car back from you? Give you a\nhundred\nbucks more than you paid me.”\n“I’ll think about it. No.”\nKeith laughed and said he’d drive me home and I had to accept his\noffer. Since\nhe was going to find out anyway, I told Keith what I hadn’t told my\ngirlfriends,\nhadn’t even told Joe yet.I told him about the gunfire the night before.\n“And now you think someone’s following you? Why don’t you go\nhome, Lindsay?\nSeriously.”\n“Because I can’t turn this murder case loose. Not now. Especially\nsince someone\nthrew a dozen rounds at my sister’s house.”\nKeith gave me a sorry look, tugged on the bill of his Giants cap,\nhandily\nnegotiated the turns in the road.\n“Anyone ever call you stubborn?”\n“Sure. It’s considered a good trait in a cop.”\nI understood what he was getting at. I no longer knew whether I\nwas being\nintrepid or stupid.\nBut I wasn’t yet ready to make the call.\nChapter 116\nWHEN KEITH AND I pulled up in front of Cat’s house, the driveway\nwas full: the\nExplorer, a patrol car, a glazer’s truck bearing the legend “We Do\nWindows,” and\na big metallic-blue van with Disaster Master decals on the doors.I thanked Keith for the lift and, with Martha trotting behind me, I\nwent inside\nthe house, where I found a big man with a little mustache and a\nhorseshoe of\ndark hair around his head, vacuuming the sofa. He turned off his\npower vac and\n“Uncle Chris” and I exchanged introductions.\n“Buncha snoopy reporters showed up,” he said. “I told them you\nmoved out until\nthe house was put back together. Okay?”\n“Perfect. Brilliant.”\n“And Chief Stark was here a few minutes ago. Said to call him when\nyou could.”\nI ignored the forty-seven messages blinking on the answering\nmachine and called\nthe station from the kitchen phone. I got the duty officer.\n“The chief’s in an interview,” she said. “Can he call you back?”\n“I really wish he would.”\n“I’ll see to it, Lieutenant.”\nI hung up and walked down the hall to my nieces’ room.\nThe blankets were still on the floor. A window was shattered, and\none of thosesweet potato vines was drying up on the floor. I’d dented the dresser\nreally\ngood when I bashed the chair against it, and the whole room full of\nstuffed\nanimals seemed to rebuke me.\nWhat if the kids had been here?\nWhat then, Lindsay?\nI dragged the unbroken chair over to the corkboard, sat down, and\nstared at my\nnotations on the murders. My eyes went right to the thing that\ndisturbed me\nmost.\nSometimes the most telling facts hide in plain sight until you’re ready\nto see\nthem.\nI had tunnel vision now—on the peepholes in the O’Malleys’ closet.\nI changed my clothes and put Martha outside with Penelope. “You\ntwo play nice.”\nThen I carefully angled the Explorer around the glazer’s truck and\nout to the\nstreet.\nI drove back into town.Chapter 117\nTHE WATCHER TOOK THE blue Taurus north on 280, sticking to the\nfreeway through\nHillsborough. His thoughts were varied, but most of them centered\non Lindsay\nBoxer.\nThinking about Lindsay gave the Watcher a complex set of feelings.\nHe was kind\nof weirdly proud of her, the way she kept surviving, kept snapping\nback. The way\nshe refused to back off, stand down, go back to where she came\nfrom.\nBut it was bad news that she insisted on being their problem. Bad\nnews for her.\nWhen it came right down to it, they didn’t want to kill her. Killing a\ncop,\nespecially this particular cop, would mean an all-out manhunt. The\nwhole SFPD\nwould spill out of the city and work her murder. Maybe the FBI, too.\nThe Watcher slowed at the exit sign for Trousdale Drive, then his\nsturdy little\ncar glided down the off-ramp. A mile and a half later, he turned right\nat the\nhuge Peninsula Hospital, and right again onto El Camino Real,\nheading south.He found an Exxon station two blocks down the road and went\ninside the attached\nminimart. He wandered around for a couple of minutes, picking up a\nfew small\nthings: a bottle of springwater, a Clif bar, a newspaper.\nHe paid the busty teenage girl at the cash register $4.20 for his\npurchases and\nanother $20 for gas. As he left the store, he unfolded the morning\npaper and saw\nthe story on page one.\nGUNSHOTS RIP THROUGH INSPECTOR’S HOUSE\nThere was a picture of Lindsay in uniform over the story, and in the\nright-hand\ncolumn was a follow-up about the Cabot case. Sam Cabot had been\ncharged with a\ndouble homicide, “Continued on page 2.”\nThe Watcher put the paper neatly down on the passenger seat and\nfilled up his\ntank. Then he started the car and headed toward home. He would\ntalk to the Truth\nlater. Maybe they wouldn’t kill Lindsay the way they had the others.\nMaybe they\nwould just make her disappear.Chapter 118\nTHE LATE DR. O’MALLEY’S office was inside a two-story brick house\non Kelly\nStreet, his name etched on a brass plaque to the right of the\ndoorway.\nI felt a little rush as I rang the bell. I knew the chief would kick my\nbutt for\ngoing around him, but I had to do something. Better to beg\nforgiveness later\nthan to ask permission and be refused.\nThe buzzer sounded, and I pushed open the door. I found the\nwaiting room to my\nleft: small and square, with gray upholstered furniture and yards of\ncondolence\ncards strung up around the walls.\nBehind the reception desk, framed in the open window, was a\nmiddle-aged woman\nwith graying hair in a sixties flip.\n“I’m Lieutenant Boxer, SFPD,” I said, showing my badge. I told her\nthat I was\nworking on a cold homicide case that had some similarities to Dr.\nO’Malley’s\nunfortunate death.“We’ve already spoken to the police,” she said, scrutinizing my badge\nand the\nwinning smile I’d put on just for her. “Hours and hours of questions.”\n“I’ll only need a couple of minutes.”\nShe slid her frosted-glass window closed and a moment later\nappeared in the\ndoorway to the inner office.\n“I’m Rebecca Falcone,” she said. “Come in.”\nTwo other middle-aged women were in the office behind the\nconnecting door.\n“That’s Mindy Heller, RN,” she said, indicating a streaked blonde\nwearing\nnurse’s whites and gobs of eye makeup, dumping platters of plastic-\nwrapped\ncookies into the trash can. “And this is Harriet Schwartz, our office\nmanager,”\nRebecca said of a wide woman in red sweats sitting behind an old\ncomputer.\n“We’ve all been with Dr. Ben since before the flood.”\nI shook hands, and repeated my name and why I was there. “I’m\nsorry for your\nloss,” I said. Then I told the women that I needed their help.\n“Anything you can\ndo to shed some light.”“You want the truth?” said Harriet Schwartz. She turned away from\nthe computer,\nleaned back in her chair, and warmed to her memories. “He was like\na Picasso\ndrawing. A bunch of lines, and from looking at those, you deduce a\nperson. In\nbetween the lines, blank space —”\nMindy Heller jumped in: “He was a decent doctor, but he was\nchintzy,\nwithholding, a know-it-all. And he could be mean to his galley\nslaves.” She shot\na look at her coworkers. “But I don’t believe he was killed because\nhe was a\ndickhead, and that’s the worst he was.”\n“Uh-huh. So you think the O’Malleys were just victims of\nopportunity.”\n“Exactly. Picked at random. I’ve been saying that all along.”\nI asked if any of the other murder victims had been patients of Dr.\nO’Malley’s\nand I was shut right down.\n“You know we have to protect patient confidentiality,” said Ms. Heller,\n“but I’m\nsure Chief Stark can tell you what you want to know.”\nOkay, then.I jotted down my cell phone number and left it on Harriet Schwartz’s\ndesk. I\nthanked everyone for their time, but I felt deflated. Dr. O’Malley may\nhave been\nall his staff said he was, but in fact, I’d hit another dead end.\nI’d just opened the door to the street when someone gripped my\narm. It was\nRebecca Falcone, a look of urgency drawing her features into a line\ndown the\ncenter of her face.\n“I have to speak to you,” she said, “in private.”\n“Can you meet me somewhere?” I asked.\n“The Half Moon Bay Coffee Company. Do you know the place?”\n“In that little strip mall at the top of Main?”\nShe nodded once. “I get off at twelve-thirty.”\n“I’ll be there.”\nChapter 119\nOUR KNEES ALMOST TOUCHED under the small table at the back of\nthe restaurant\nnear the restrooms. We had salads and coffee in front of us, but\nRebecca wasn’t\neating. And she wasn’t yet ready to talk.She pulled on the little gold cross hanging from a chain around her\nneck,\nsliding it back and forth.\nI thought I understood her conflict. She wanted to be the one to tell\nthe real\ninformation, but at the same time, she didn’t want to blow the\nwhistle where her\nfriends could hear it.\n“I don’t know anything, understand?” Rebecca said at last. “And I\ncertainly\ndon’t know anything about the murders. But Ben was under some\nkind of shadow\nlately.”\n“Can you elaborate, Rebecca?”\n“Well, he was unusually moody. Snapped at a couple of his patients,\nwhich, let\nme tell you, was rare. When I asked him what was going on, he\ndenied that he was\nhaving problems.”\n“You knew Lorelei?”\n“Sure. They met at church, and frankly I was surprised Ben married\nher. I think\nhe was lonely and she looked up to him.” Rebecca sighed. “Lorelei\nwas prettysimple. She was a childlike woman who liked to shop. No one hated\nher.”\n“Interesting observation,” I said. And that was all the\nencouragement Rebecca\nneeded to say what she’d wanted to say all along.\nShe looked as though she were standing on the edge of a diving\nboard and the\npool was far, far below.\nShe took a breath and dove.\n“Did you know about the first Mrs. O’Malley?” she asked me. “Did\nyou know that\nSandra O’Malley killed herself? Hanged herself in her own garage?”\nChapter 120\nI FELT THAT PECULIAR crawly feeling at my hairline that often\npresaged a\nbreakthrough.\n“Yes,” I said, “I read that Sandra O’Malley committed suicide. What\ndo you know\nabout it?”\n“It was so unexpected,” Rebecca said. “No one knew . . . I didn’t\nknow she was\nso depressed.”“So why do you think she took her own life?”\nRebecca forked her Caesar salad around on her plate, finally putting\nthe utensil\ndown without eating a bite.\n“I never found out,” she said. “Ben wasn’t talking, but if I had to\nguess, I’d\nsay that he was abusing her.”\n“Abusing her how?”\n“Humiliating her. Treating her like she was nothing. When I heard\nhim talk to\nher, I’d cringe.” She made the gesture now, pulling her shoulders up,\nlowering\nher chin.\n“Did she complain about it?”\n“No. Sandra wouldn’t have done that. She was so compliant, so nice.\nShe didn’t\neven squawk when he started having an affair.”\nThe wheels inside my head were sure turning, but they weren’t\ngetting traction\nyet. Rebecca pursed her lips with distaste.\n“He’d been seeing this same woman for years, was still seeing her\nafter hemarried Lorelei, I’m sure of it. She was calling the office up to the\nday he\ndied.”\n“Rebecca,” I said patiently, although I couldn’t stand the suspense\nfor another\nsecond. “Rebecca. What was the other woman’s name?”\nRebecca leaned back in her chair as a couple of men scraped past us\non the way\nto the bathroom. When the bathroom door closed, she leaned\nforward and\nwhispered.\n“Emily Harris,” she said.\nI knew that name. I pictured her bright lipsticky mouth. Her pink\npatterned\ndress.\n“Is she with Pacific Homes Real Estate?”\n“That’s the one.”\nChapter 121\nEMILY HARRIS WAS SEATED at her desk when I entered the long\nnarrow office with a\nrow of desks along one wall. Her pretty mouth stretched into an\nautomatic smile,which broadened when she recognized me.\n“Oh, hello,” she said. “Didn’t I meet you and your husband a couple\nof weeks ago\nat the Ocean Colony Road house? You have a beautiful dog.”\n“That’s right,” I told her. “I’m Lieutenant Boxer. I’m with the SFPD.”\nAnd then\nI showed her my badge.\nThe woman’s face stiffened instantly. “I’ve already talked to the\npolice.”\n“That’s great. So I’m sure you won’t mind doing it again.”\nI pulled out the chair beside her desk and sat right down.\n“I understand that you and Dr. O’Malley were close friends,” I said to\nher.\n“I’m not ashamed of what you’re insinuating. The man was\nmiserable at home, but\nI wasn’t a threat to his marriage and I damned well had nothing to\ndo with his\nmurder.”\nAs I watched, Ms. Harris squared all the pads, pens, and papers on\nher desk.\nTidying up. Getting everything straight and true. What was running\nthrough this\nneatnik’s mind right now? What did she know about the O’Malleys?“And you’re the listing broker for his house?”\n“That’s not a reason to murder someone, for God’s sake. Are you\ncrazy? I’m one\nof the top brokers in this area.”\n“Take it easy, Ms. Harris. I wasn’t implying that you murdered\nanyone. I’m just\ntrying to get a handle on the victims because I’m working another\nunsolved\nhomicide.”\n“Okay. I’m still a little raw, you know.”\n“Sure. I understand. Have you actually sold the house?”\n“Not yet, but I have an offer pending.”\n“Good. How about showing the house to me, Ms. Harris? I have a\ncouple of\nquestions that I hope you can answer. Maybe you can help solve Ben\nO’Malley’s\nmurder.”\nChapter 122\nPACIFIC HOMES FLYERS WERE fanned out on a table in the foyer,\nand the flowers\nhad been changed since Joe and I had taken our self-guided tour of\nthis prettyhouse on Ocean Colony Road.\n“Mind coming upstairs with me?” I asked the Realtor.\nMs. Harris shrugged, tossed the keys down next to the lilies, and\nstarted up the\nstairs ahead of me.\nWhen we got to the entrance of the master bedroom, she hung\nback.\n“I don’t like to go into this room,” she said, casting her gaze around\nthe pale\ngreen bedroom with its brand-new green carpet.\nI could imagine the murder scene almost as well as she could. Only\nthree weeks\nbefore, the body of Lorelei O’Malley had lain gutted about ten feet\nfrom where\nwe stood.\nEmily Harris swallowed hard, then joined me reluctantly in front of\nthe walk-in\ncloset. I showed her the faint painted-over outline of the peephole in\nthe door\nand the still-visible crescent where Joe’s thumbnail had left its\nimpression in\nthe wood filler.\n“What do you make of this?” I asked her.Emily’s voice thinned and became scratchy. “This kills me, that’s\nwhat I make of\nit,” she said. “It’s obvious, isn’t it? He was videotaping sex with\nLorelei. He\ntold me he wasn’t sleeping with her anymore, but I guess he lied.”\nThen her face crumpled and she started to cry softly into a bouquet\nof pale blue\ntissues she pulled from her handbag.\n“Oh, God, oh, God,” she sobbed. After a while she blew her nose,\ncleared her\nthroat, and said, “My relationship with Ben has no bearing on his\nmurder. Can we\nget out of here now?”\nNot if I could stop her. Whatever I might learn from Emily Harris,\nthere was no\nbetter time than now, no better place than right here.\n“Ms. Harris.”\n“Jesus Christ. Call me Emily. I’m telling you all this personal stuff.”\n“Emily. I really need to know your side of the story.”\n“Fine. You know about Sandra?”\nI nodded my assent, and as if I had pulled the plug, she spilled.\n“Don’t you think I worried that she killed herself because Ben was\nseeing me?”She dabbed at her swollen eyes, and more tears came.\n“Ben said Sandra was a head case, which is why he didn’t leave her.\nBut after\nshe killed herself, I stopped seeing him for a year.\n“Then Lorelei came into the picture. The Princess. Ben thought the\nsooner he got\nmarried, the better for Caitlin, so what could I say? I was still\nmarried,\nLieutenant.\n“Then we started up again.\n“My place mostly. Motels once in a while. Funny enough, I don’t\nthink Lorelei\ngave a damn about Caitlin.\n“But Ben and I made the best of the situation. Played a game with\nit. He called\nme Camilla. I called him Charles. His Royal Highness. It was fun. And\nI miss him\nso much. I know Ben loved me. I know he did.”\nI didn’t say, “As much as a scurvy, cheating prick can love someone,”\nbut I did\nopen the door to the walk-in closet and invite the real estate broker\ninside.\n“Please, Emily.”I showed her the second peephole in the back wall.\n“This hole goes through the wall . . . to Caitlin’s room.”\nEmily gasped and put both hands to her face.\n“I never saw that. I know nothing about it! I have to go,” she said,\nturning and\nrunning out of the bedroom. I could hear her high heels clacking as\nshe ran down\nthe stairs.\nI caught up to Emily as she grabbed the keys from the hall table and\nopened the\nfront door. She stepped outside.\n“Emily.”\n“I’m done,” she said, her chest heaving, pulling the door closed and\nlocking it\nbehind us. “This is too painful. Don’t you understand? I loved him!”\n“I can see that,” I said, walking beside her, then standing next to the\ndriver’s-side door as she fired up her engine.\n“Just tell me one more thing,” I persisted. “Did Ben know a man\nnamed Dennis\nAgnew?”\nEmily released her emergency brake and turned her tear-streaked\nface toward me.“What? What are you saying? Did he sell our videos to that slime?”\nEmily didn’t wait for an answer. She yanked on the steering wheel\nand jammed\ndown the accelerator.\n“I’ll take that as a yes,” I said to the retreating Lincoln.\nChapter 123\nI CRUISED BY THE idling patrol car at the end of Sea View Avenue,\nlifting my\nhand in greeting as I passed. Then I hooked a right into Cat’s\ndriveway and\nparked the Explorer next to the Bonneville. Apparently, Keith had\nreturned the\nold girl while I was away.\nI let Martha into the house and gave her a biscuit. Then I turned my\nattention\nto the blinking answering machine. I pressed “play” and started\nmaking notes on\na scratch pad.\nJoe, Claire, and Cindy had all phoned in with worried requests for\nme to call\nback. Message number four was from Carolee Brown inviting me to\ndinner at the\nschool that night.Then, a message from Chief Stark, his voice weary as it came\nthrough the\nspeaker.\n“Boxer, we got the labs back on that belt. Call me.”\nChief Stark and I had been playing phone tag all day. I swore as I\nflipped\nthrough the scratch pad looking for his number. Then I dialed.\n“Hang on, Lieutenant,” said the duty officer. “I’ll page him.”\nI heard the sound of the police band sputtering in the background. I\ntapped my\nnails on the kitchen counter and counted to seventy-nine before the\nchief got on\nthe line.\n“Boxer.”\n“That was a fast return on the lab report,” I said. “What have we\ngot?”\n“It was fast for a reason. There were no prints, not that that\nsurprises me. But\nunless you count bovine DNA, there was nothing else, either.\nLindsay, the\nbastards dripped a little beef blood on the buckle.”\n“Aw, give me a break!”“I know. Shit. Look, I gotta go. Our mayor wants a few words with\nme.”\nThe chief hung up, and, by God, I felt sorry for him.\nI walked out to the deck, took a seat in a plastic chair, and hung my\nankles\nover the railing as Claire had advised me to do. I stared out beyond\nmy sandals\nand the neighbors’ backyards to the aqua blue line of the bay.\nI thought again about that belt lying on the lawn this morning, and\nthe\nbloodstain that had turned out to be nothing.\nOne thing was clear.\nThe killers hadn’t tried to kill me.\nThe belt was a warning meant to scare me away.\nI wondered why they’d bothered.\nI hadn’t solved John Doe’s murder and ten years later I was still\nsucking swamp\nwater here.\nMeanwhile, the killers were out there, and all the white hats had was\na\ntantalizing handful of “what ifs” and “how comes” that went\nnowhere.\nWe didn’t know why.We didn’t know who.\nAnd we didn’t know where they would strike again.\nOther than that, everything was the cat’s meow.\nChapter 124\nFAMILIES, THE BANE OF modern civilization, where the scum of the\npast was kept\nalive, cultivated, and refined. At least that was the Watcher’s\nperspective\ntonight.\nHe opened the mudroom door and entered the pink stucco house\nhigh up on Cliff\nRoad. The Farleys were out for the night, so secure in their cocoon\nof wealth\nand privilege that they never even bothered to lock the door.\nThe mudroom led into a glassed-in kitchen that was glowing with\nthe last rays of\nsunset.\nThis is just surveillance, the Watcher reminded himself. Get in and\nout in under\nfive. Same as always.\nHe took his camera from the inside pocket of his soft leather jacket\nand pannedthe room, taking a series of digital photos of the many tall glass\npanes, the\nmullions wide enough for a person to enter.\nZzzzt, zzzzt, zzzzt.\nHe moved quickly through the kitchen to the Farley family room,\nwhich\ncantilevered out over the mountainside. Amber light filled the woods,\ngiving the\nshaggy eucalyptus bark an almost human presence, the trees like\nelderly men\nwatching his movements. As though they understood and approved.\nJust surveillance, he told himself again. Things were too complex,\ntoo hot right\nnow to go forward with their plans.\nHe rapidly mounted the back stairs to the bedrooms, noting the\nsteps that\ncreaked the loudest, the solid banister. He proceeded down the\nhallway of the\nsecond floor, stepping inside each of the opened doors, taking his\nphotos,\nmemorizing the details. Frisking the rooms as if he were a cop\npatting down\nsuspects.The Watcher checked his watch as he entered the master bedroom.\nNearly three\nminutes gone. He quickly opened the closets, sniffed the scents of\nVera Wang and\nHermès, closed the doors.\nHe ran down the steps to the kitchen and was about to leave when\nhe thought of\nthe basement. There was enough time for a quick look.\nHe opened the door and skittered down.\nThere was an extensive wine cellar to his left, and the laundry room\nwas in\nfront of him. But his eyes gravitated to a door on his right.\nThe door was in shadow, secured with a combination padlock. The\nWatcher was good\nwith combination locks. He was very good with his hands. He turned\nthe dial left\nuntil he felt the minute resistance, then right and left again. The lock\nsprung\nopen, and the Watcher unlatched the door.\nHe identified the equipment in the basement’s half-light: the\ncomputer, the\nlaser printer, and the reams of high-quality photo paper. The video\nand digital\ncameras with night vision capability.A thick stack of photo prints sat neatly on a counter.\nHe stepped quickly inside and closed the door behind him. Flipped\nthe switch\nthat turned on the lights.\nIt was just a harmless surveillance mission, that was all, one of\nmany.\nBut what he saw when the lights went on almost sent him over the\nedge.\nChapter 125\nMARINARA SAUCE WAS IN the air as I came up the walk to Carolee’s\nVictorian\nlive-in schoolhouse. I shielded my eyes against the last rays of sun\nflashing\noff the many-paned windows and dropped the brass knocker on the\nbig front door.\nA dark-skinned boy of about twelve opened up and said, “Greetings,\npolice lady.”\n“You’re Eddie, right?”\n“Ready-Eddie,” he said, grinning. “How’d you know that?”\n“I’ve got a pretty good memory,” I told him.\n“That’s good, since you’re a cop.”\nA cheer went up as I entered the “mess hall,” a large open and airy\ndining roomfacing the highway.\nCarolee gave me a hug and told me to sit at the head of the table.\n“That’s the\n‘honored guest’ spot,” she said. With Allison grabbing the chair to my\nleft and\nFern, a small red-haired girl, fighting for the chair to my right, I felt\nwelcomed and at home in this huge “family.”\nBowls of spaghetti and a tub of salad with oil and vinegar journeyed\naround the\ntable, and chunks of Italian bread flew across it even as the kids\npelted me\nwith questions and riddles—which I fielded and occasionally aced.\n“When I grow up,” Ali whispered, “I want to be just like you.”\n“You know what I want? When you grow up, I want you to be\nexactly like you.”\nCarolee clapped her hands together, laughing gaily.\n“Give Lindsay a break,” she said. “Let the poor woman eat her\ndinner. She’s our\nguest, not something for you to devour along with your food.”\nAs she got up to bring a liter of cola from the sideboard, Carolee put\nher hand\non my shoulder and leaned down to say, “Do you mind? They love\nyou.”“I love them, too.”\nWhen the dishes were cleared and the children had gone upstairs for\ntheir study\nhour, Carolee and I took our coffee mugs out to the screened-in\nporch facing the\nplayground. We sat in matching rockers and listened to the crickets\nsinging in\nthe darkening night. It was good to have a friend in town, and I felt\nespecially\nclose to Carolee that night.\n“Any news on whoever shot up Cat’s house?” Carolee asked, concern\nedging into\nher voice.\n“Nope. But you remember that guy we had a run-in with at the\nCormorant?”\n“Dennis Agnew?”\n“Yeah. He’s been harassing me, Carolee. And the chief isn’t making a\nsecret of\nthe fact that he likes Agnew for the murders.”\nCarolee looked surprised, even shocked. “Really? I’m having a hard\ntime\nimagining that. I mean, he’s a creep, all right,” she said, pausing.\n“But I\ndon’t see him as a murderer.”“Just what they said about Jeffrey Dahmer.” I laughed.\nThen I drummed my fingers on the arm of the chair; Carolee\ncrossed her arms over\nher chest, and I imagined we’d both gone inside our heads to think\nabout killers\nin the wind.\n“It’s pretty quiet here, huh?” said Carolee at last.\n“Remarkably. I love it.”\n“Hurry up and catch that maniac, okay?”\n“Listen, if you ever get nervous about anything, Carolee—even if you\nthink it’s\njust your imagination—call nine-one-one. Then call me.”\n“Sure, thanks. I will.” After a moment of silence, Carolee said, “They\nalways\nget caught eventually, don’t they, Lindsay?”\n“Almost always,” I answered, though that wasn’t exactly the truth.\nThe really\nsmart ones not only didn’t get caught, they weren’t even noticed.\nChapter 126\nI HAD A ROUGH night’s sleep, riding my nightmares on a\nsteeplechase of drive-byshootings and whipped corpses and faceless killers with no names. I\nawoke to a\ndismal, gray morning, the kind that makes you want to stay in bed.\nBut Martha and I needed exercise, so I dressed in my blue tracksuit,\ntucked my\ngun into its shoulder holster, and put my cell phone in the pocket of\nmy denim\njacket.\nThen Sweet Martha and I took off to the beach.\nThunderheads were moving in from the west, bringing the sky so\nlow to the bay\nthat seabirds coasting through the clouds looked like airships in\nnewsreels\nabout the Second World War.\nI noticed a few hardy souls jogging or meandering far ahead and\nbehind us, so I\nlet Martha off her lead. She trotted after a little flock of plovers,\nmaking\nthem scatter, and I headed south at a moderate clip.\nI’d only gone about a quarter of a mile when the rain started to fall.\nSoon, the\nintermittent drops thickened, pockmarking the sand and firming my\nrunning\nsurface.I turned to check on Martha, running backward long enough to see\nthat she was\nright behind a man in a hooded yellow slicker, maybe a hundred\nyards back.\nI put my face into the slanting rain and was hitting my stride when\nMartha’s\nyipping bark grabbed my attention. She was nipping at the heels of\nthe guy\nbehind me. She was herding him!\n“Martha,” I shouted, “that’ll do.”\nThat was the command to return to my side, but Martha totally\nignored me.\nInstead, she drove the guy at a right angle away from me, uphill\ntoward the\ngrassy tops of the dunes.\nThat’s when I realized that Martha wasn’t fooling around with him.\nShe was\nprotecting me.\nSon of a bitch.\nI’d been followed again!\nChapter 127\nI YELLED OUT, “HEY. Stop running and she’ll back off,” but neither\ndog nor manpaid any attention. Finally, I charged after them, but climbing the\ncrumbling\ntwenty-foot-high incline was a little like running under water.\nI bent low, clutched at the sand, and at last pulled myself up to the\ngrassy\nplateau of the Francis Beach campground. But the driving rain\nplastered my hair\nto my face, and for a moment I was completely blind.\nIn the time it took to drag the hair away from my eyes, I felt the\nsituation\nslip out of control. I looked wildly around, but I couldn’t even see\nthe guy\nwho’d been tailing me. Damn it! He’d gotten away again.\n“Mar-thaaaa.”\nJust then, a smear of yellow shot out from behind the restrooms,\nacross my field\nof vision—with Martha still close on his heels. The guy kicked out at\nher but\nfailed to shake her off as they cut across the picnic grounds.\nI pulled out my nine and yelled, “Freeze. Police.” But the man in the\nslicker\nveered around the picnic tables and sprinted toward a multihued\npickup truck in\nthe parking lot.Martha stayed on him, growling, grabbing on to his leg, keeping him\nfrom getting\ninto his vehicle. I screamed “Police!” again, and I ran with my loaded\ngun in\nfront of me.\n“On your knees,” I ordered when I got within range. “Keep your\nhands where I can\nsee them. Get down on your belly, mister. Do it now!”\nThe guy in the slicker did what I told him, and I approached quickly\nas the\nsoaking rain pelted down on us. I pulled off his hood, keeping my\ngun pointed at\nhis back.\nI recognized the yellow hair instantly, but I tried to deny what I saw.\nHe\nlifted his face toward me, his eyes seeming to throw off sparks of\nfury.\n“Keith! What are you doing? What’s going on?”\n“Nothing, nothing, nothing. All I was doing was trying to warn you.”\n“Is that so? Why didn’t you call me on the phone?” I panted.\nMy heart was pounding: ba-boom, ba-boom.\nMy God. I had a loaded gun in my hand—again.I kicked Keith’s legs apart and patted him down, finding a nine-inch-\nlong\nBuckmaster hunting knife in a leather sheath at his hip. I removed\nthe fearsome\nknife and tossed it aside. This was getting worse by the second.\n“Did you say ‘nothing’?”\n“Lindsay, let me talk.”\n“Me first,” I said. “You’re under arrest.”\n“What for?”\n“For carrying a concealed weapon.”\nI stood where Keith could clearly see both my gun and the look on\nmy face that\nshowed I would use it.\n“You have the right to remain silent,” I said. “Anything you say can\nand will be\nused against you in a court of law. If you don’t have an attorney,\none will be\nappointed for you. Do you understand your rights?”\n“You’ve got me all wrong!”\n“Do you understand your rights?”\n“Yeah. I get it.”I fished inside my jacket pocket for my cell phone. Keith twisted, as\nif he were\nabout to make a break for it. Martha bared her teeth.\n“Stay right where you are, Keith. I don’t want to have to shoot you.”\nChapter 128\nTHE THREE OF US were in “the box,” the small gray-tiled\ninterrogation room\ninside the police station. The chief had already told me that he had\nhis doubts.\nHe’d known Keith Howard for a dozen years as the Man in the Moon\nauto mechanic\nwith nothing more on his mind than a steady dollar and a well-tuned\ncar.\nBut the chief was going along with my instincts, thank God, because\nI’d seen a\nlook in Keith’s eyes that frankly scared the hell out of me. It was the\nsame\nsoulless look I’d seen on the faces of sociopaths before.\nI sat opposite Keith at the scarred metal table, both of us dripping\nrainwater,\nwhile Chief Stark leaned against the wall in a corner of the room.\nBehind the\nglass, other cops watched, hoping that I was right, that soon they’d\nhave moreto go on than a knife and a hunch.\nSince his arrest, Keith had regressed, seeming much younger than\nhis\ntwenty-seven years.\n“I don’t need a lawyer,” he said, directing his pitch to me. “I was just\nfollowing you. Girls always know when a guy likes them. You know\nthat, so just\ntell them, okay?”\n“You mean you were stalking me,” I said. “That’s your explanation?”\n“No, I was following you. Big difference, Lindsay.”\n“What can I say? I don’t get it. Why were you following me?”\n“You know why! Someone was trying to hurt you.”\n“Is that why you shot at my sister’s house?”\n“Me? I didn’t do that.” Keith’s voice cracked and he put a steeple of\nfingers\nacross the bridge of his nose. “I like you, always have. And now\nyou’re going to\nhold that against me.”\n“You’re pissing me off, you little ass wipe,” the chief finally muttered.\nHe\nstepped forward and slapped Keith across the back of his head. “Be\na man. Whathave you done?”\nKeith seemed to fold into himself then. He dropped his head to the\ntable, rolled\nit from side to side, and moaned, a hollow cry that seemed to come\nfrom some\nbottomless place of misery and fear.\nBut all the moans in the world wouldn’t help him. I’d been suckered\nby crocodile\ntears recently, and it was a terrible mistake I wouldn’t make again.\n“Keith, you’re scaring me, buddy,” I said evenly. “You’re in a real jam\nright\nnow, so don’t be stupid. Tell us what you’ve done so we can help\nyou spin the\nstory to the DA. I’ll help you, Keith. I mean it. So tell me. Are we\ngoing to\nfind blood stains on your knife?”\n“Noooo,” he howled. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”\nI relaxed the muscles in my face. Then I smiled. I covered Keith’s\nhand with my\nown.\n“Would you feel more comfortable if we took off those cuffs?”\nI looked up at the chief, who nodded. He took keys from his shirt\npocket andundid the lock. Keith regained his composure. He shook his hands,\nunzipped his\nslicker, and flung it over the back of the chair. Then he peeled off the\nsweater\nhe wore underneath.\nIf I had been standing up, my knees would have buckled and I\nwould have dropped\nto the floor.\nKeith was wearing an orange T-shirt emblazoned with the logo from\nthe\nDistillery, the tourist restaurant on Highway 1 in Moss Beach.\nIt was a carbon copy of the shirt John Doe #24 had been wearing\nwhen he was\nwhipped and killed ten years before.\nChapter 129\nKEITH SAW ME STARING at his shirt.\n“You like?” he asked breezily, his smile returning as if we were back\nat his\ngarage. “This one’s practically a classic,” he said. “The Distillery\ndoesn’t\neven sell T-shirts anymore.”\nMaybe not, but its bloody twin was locked in the evidence room at\nthe Hall ofJustice.\n“Where were you the night before last, Keith?” I pressed.\n“Do you own a gun?”\n“What did you want to warn me about?”\n“Tell me something I can believe.”\nHe was defiant at first, then giddy, then tearful, and sometimes he\njust went\nmute. As the hours crawled by, Stark took over to ask Keith if he\nknew the\nvictims of the recent homicides.\nKeith admitted that he knew them all.\nHe also knew nearly every person who lived in Half Moon Bay or had\npassed\nthrough his little gas station at the crossroads, he told us.\n“We have a witness,” said the chief, putting both of his hands on the\ntable,\ngiving Keith a stare that could have bored through steel. “You were\nseen, my\nfriend, leaving the Sarducci house on the night of their murder.”\n“Come on, Pete. Don’t make me laugh. That’s so lame.”\nWe were getting nowhere, and at any minute Keith could say,\n“Charge me for theknife and let me out of here,” and he’d be within his rights to post\nbond and\nwalk away.\nI stood up from the table and talked to the chief over Keith’s head,\nmy voice\ncolored with compassion.\n“You know what? He didn’t do it, Chief. You were right. He doesn’t\nhave it in\nhim. Look. He’s not too bright, and he’s not exactly mentally stable. I\nmean,\nI’m sorry, Keith, you’re a pretty good grease monkey, but it’s crazy to\nthink\nyou have the chops to do those murders. And without leaving a\nclue? I don’t\nthink so.”\n“Yeah, we’re wasting our time,” the chief said, following my lead.\n“This little\npunk couldn’t get away with stealing dimes out of parking meters.”\nKeith swung his head to the chief, to me, to the chief again. “I get\nwhat you’re\ndoing,” he said.\nI ignored him, continuing to direct my remarks at the chief.\n“And I think you were right about Agnew,” I continued. “Now, there’s\na guy withballs enough to knock off people at close range. Watch them squirm.\nWatch them\ndie. And he has the brains to get away with it.”\n“Right. Him being connected and all,” said the chief, patting down\nthe back of\nhis hair. “It only makes sense.”\n“You shouldn’t be talking this way,” Keith muttered.\nI turned back to him with a questioning look.\n“Keith, you know Agnew,” I said. “What do you think? Is he our\nguy?”\nIt was as if a timer had tripped and a bomb had detonated far\nunderground. First\nthere was a tremor, then a rumble, then everything broke loose.\n“Dennis Ag-new?” Keith spat. “That dick-for-brains freaking porno\nhas-been. He’s\nlucky I didn’t kill him. And believe me, I’ve thought about it.”\nKeith clasped his hands together and brought them down hard on\nthe tabletop,\nmaking the pens, the notepad, the soda cans jump.\n“Look. I’m a brighter bulb than you think, Lindsay. Killing those\npeople was the\neasiest thing I ever did.”Chapter 130\nKEITH WORE THE SAME coldly furious expression he’d shown me\nwhen I’d put my gun\nto his neck. I didn’t know this Keith.\nBut I needed to.\n“You’re totally wrong about me, both of you,” he said. “And even if\nyou’re\nplaying me, that’s fine. I’m sick of the whole deal. Nobody cares.”\nWhen Keith said “Nobody cares,” I sat back hard in my chair. The\nCabot kids had\nspray-painted the same words on the wall where they’d killed their\nvictims. And\nso had the killer of John Doe #24, ten years ago.\n“What do you mean, ‘Nobody cares’?”\nKeith fixed me with his hard blue eyes. “You’re the smart one, right?\nYou figure\nit out.”\n“Don’t mess with me, Keith. I do care. And I’m really listening.”\nAs the video camera recorded his confession, it was a cop’s dream\ncome true.\nKeith gave it all up: the names, the dates, the minutiae only the\nkiller could\npossibly know.He talked about using different knives, different belts, described\nevery murder,\nincluding how he’d tricked Ben O’Malley.\n“Yeah, I clubbed him with a rock before cutting his throat. I threw\nthe knife\nover the side of the road.”\nKeith laid out the details in an orderly fashion, like so many cards in\na game\nof solitaire, and they were convincing enough to convict him many\ntimes over.\nBut it was still hard for me to believe that he’d done these bloody\ncrimes\nalone.\n“You killed Joe and Annemarie Sarducci by yourself? Without a fight?\nWhat are\nyou, Spider-Man?”\n“You’re starting to catch on, Lindsay.” He lurched forward in his seat,\nscraping\nthe chair against the floor, sticking his face too close to mine.\n“I charmed them into submission,” he said. “And you better believe\nit. I worked\nalone. Spin that for the DA. Yeah, I’m Spider-Man.”\n“But why? What did these people ever do to you?”Keith shook his head as if he pitied me. “You couldn’t understand,\nLindsay.”\n“Try me.”\n“No,” he said. “I’m through talking.”\nAnd that was it. He ran his hands through his blond hair, guzzled\ndown the last\nof his Classic Coke, and smiled pleasantly, as if he were taking a\ncurtain call.\nI wanted to punch his face until he didn’t look so smug anymore. All\nthose\npeople slaughtered, and it made no sense at all.\nWhy wouldn’t he say why he’d done it?\nStill, it was a great day for the good guys. Keith Howard was\nbooked, printed,\nphotographed, slapped back into cuffs, and taken to a holding cell\npending his\ntransport and arraignment in San Francisco.\nI stopped by Chief Stark’s office on my way out.\n“What’s wrong, Boxer? Where’s your party hat?”\n“It’s bothering me, Chief. He’s protecting other people, I’m sure of\nit.”\n“That’s your theory. Guess what? I believe the guy. He’s said he’s\nsmarter thanwe think, and I’m gonna give him credit for being the big, bright\nbulb he claims\nto be.”\nI gave the chief a tired smile.\n“Shit, Boxer. He confessed. Be happy. This goose is cooked. Let me\nbe the first\nto congratulate you, Lieutenant. Great catch. Great interview. It’s\nover now.\nThank God, it’s finally over.”\nChapter 131\nTHE PHONE RANG, YANKING me out of a sleep so deep, I thought I\nwas in Kansas. I\nfumbled around in the dark for the receiver.\n“Who is this?” I croaked.\n“It’s me, Lindsay. Sorry to call so early.”\n“Joe.” I pulled the clock toward me; it read 5:15 in bright red\nnumbers. I felt\na jolt of alarm. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”\n“Everything’s fine with me,” he said, his voice calm, warming, sexy.\n“There’s a\ncrowd outside your house, though.”\n“You’re picking that up by GPS?”“No, I just turned on the TV.”\n“Hold on,” I said.\nI stepped across the room and pulled up a corner of the window\nshade.\nA couple of reporters had set up on the lawn, and camera crews\nwere stringing\ncables out to satellite vans that curved around the road like\nConestoga wagons.\n“I see them now,” I said, getting back under the covers. “They’ve\ngot me\nsurrounded. Shit.”\nI snuggled back down into the bedding and with the phone tucked\nbetween my face\nand my pillow, Joe felt so close, he could have been in the same\ntime zone.\nWe talked for a good twenty minutes, made plans to get together\nwhen I got back\nto the city, and winged some kisses across the phone line. Then I\ngot out of\nbed, threw on some clothes and a little makeup, and stepped\noutside Cat’s front\ndoor.\nReporters converged and pushed a posy of mikes up to my chin. I\nblinked in themorning light, saying only, “Sorry to disappoint you guys, but I can’t\ncomment,\nyou know. This is Chief Stark’s case, and you’ll have to talk to him.\nTh-th-that’s all, folks!”\nI stepped back inside the house, smiled to myself, and closed the\ndoor on the\nfusillade of questions and the echoing sound of my name. I threw\nthe bolt and\nturned off the phone’s ringer. I was taking down my crime notes\nfrom the kids’\ncorkboard when Cindy and Claire rang in with a conference call to\nmy cell phone.\n“It’s over,” I told them, repeating what the chief had said. “At least\nthat’s\nwhat I’ve been told.”\n“What’s really going on, Lindsay?” my intuitive, highly skeptical\nfriend Cindy\nasked.\n“Boy, you’re smart.”\n“Uh-huh. So what’s the deal?”\n“Off the record. The kid’s really proud of himself for getting into the\npsycho-killer hall of fame. And I’m not sure he’s totally earned it.”\n“Did he confess to the John Doe killing?” Claire asked.“There you go, Butterfly,” I said. “Another smarty.”\n“Well?”\n“No, he did not.”\n“So where do you come out?”\n“I don’t know what to believe, Claire. I really thought whoever killed\nthese\npeople also killed John Doe. Maybe I was wrong.”\nChapter 132\nIT WAS A RARE place for me to be: I was sitting in the backseat of a\npatrol car\nwith Martha. I rolled down the window, undid the buttons on my\nblazer, and took\nin the excitement that was building on Main Street.\nA marching band tuned up on a side street where Boy Scouts and\nfirefighters were\ndressing flatbed trucks as floats. Men on ladders hung banners\nacross the\nroadway, and flags flew from light posts. I could almost smell the\nhot dogs\ngrilling. It was the Fourth of July.\nMy new buddy Officer Noonan let us out in front of the police\nstation, whereChief Stark was standing before a crowd of bystanders and reporters\nsix deep.\nAs I made my way through the crowd, Mayor Tom Hefferon came\nout of the station\nhouse wearing khaki shorts, a polo shirt, and a fishing hat covering\nhis bald\nspot. He shook my hand and said, “I hope you’ll spend all of your\nvacations in\nHalf Moon Bay, Lieutenant.”\nThen he tapped on a microphone and the crowd quieted down.\n“Everyone. Thanks for coming. This is truly Independence Day,” he\nsaid, a tremor\ncracking his voice. “We’re free, free to resume our lives.”\nHe put up his hand to quell the applause. “I give you our chief of\npolice, Peter\nStark.”\nThe chief was in full uniform, complete with brass buttons, shiny\nbadge, and\ngun. As he shook hands with the mayor, the corners of his mouth\nturned up and,\nyes, he smiled. Then he cleared his throat and bent over the mike.\n“We have a suspect in custody, and he has confessed to the murders\nthat haveterrorized the residents of Half Moon Bay.” A cheer went up into the\nmorning\nmist, and some people broke down and wept with relief. A little boy\nbrought a\nlit sparkler up to the platform and handed it to the chief.\n“Thank you, Ryan. This is my boy,” he said to the crowd, his voice\nchoking up.\n“You hang on to that, okay?” The chief pulled the child next to him,\nkept his\nhand on his son’s shoulder as he went on with his speech.\nHe said that the police had done their job, that the rest was up to\nthe DA and\nthe justice system. Then he thanked me “for being an invaluable\nresource to this\npolice department” and, to more and wilder cheers, he handed a\nbrass medal on a\nribbon to his son. A patrolman held the boy’s sparkler while Ryan\nhung the medal\naround Martha’s neck. Her first commendation.\n“Good dog,” said the chief.\nStark then credited every officer in his command and the state police\nfor all\nthey had done to “stop this one-man crime wave that took the lives\nof innocentcitizens.”\nAs for me, by bringing in the killer, I’d gotten back into my own good\ngraces.\nI was still “a damned good cop.”\nBut even as I basked in the moment, I had to fight down a\ndisturbing thought. It\nwas like the little boy who was waving his sparkler and pulling on his\nfather’s\nsleeve and demanding attention.\nIt was a thought like that.\nWhat if the “one-man crime wave” didn’t stop?\nChapter 133\nTHAT NIGHT, FIREWORKS EXPLODED with incessant booms and\nrapid-fire cracks over\nPillar Point and bloomed in the sky. I put a pillow over my head, but\nit didn’t\nblock the noise worth a damn.\nMy hero dog was squashed way under the bed, her back against the\nwall.\n“It’s nothing, Boo. It’ll be over soon. Chin up.”\nI fell asleep only to be jolted out of it by the metallic rattle of a key\nin thelock.\nMartha heard it, too, and streaked out of the bedroom toward the\nfront door,\nbarking sharply.\nSomeone was coming through the door.\nIt all happened so fast.\nI wrapped my hand around my gun, lowered myself from the bed to\nthe rag carpet,\nand, with my pulse hammering, I crept toward the front room.\nI was touching the walls, counting the doorways between my room\nand the living\nroom, my heart in my throat, when I saw the shadowy figure coming\ninto the\nhouse.\nI went into a crouch, clasped my piece with both hands in front of\nme, and\nyelled out, “Put your fucking hands where I can see them. Do it\nnow.”\nThere was a shrill scream.\nMoonlight pouring in from the open doorway lit my sister’s terrified\nface. The\nsmall child she was carrying in her arms screamed along with her.\nI almost screamed myself.I stood up, took my finger off the trigger, and let my gun hand fall to\nmy side.\n“Cat, it’s me. I’m so sorry. That’ll do, Martha! That’ll do.”\n“Lindsay?” Cat came toward me, adjusting Meredith in her arms. “Is\nthat gun\nloaded?”\nBrigid, only six, trailed behind my sister. She pressed a floppy stuffed\nanimal\nover her face and broke into a piercing wail.\nMy hands were shaking, and the blood was pounding in my ears.\nOh, my God. I could have shot my sister.\nChapter 134\nI PUT THE GUN down on a table and grabbed Cat and Meredith into\none fierce hug.\n“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”\n“I called and called,” Cat said into the crook of my shoulder. Then\nshe pulled\naway from me.\n“Don’t arrest me, okay?”\nI picked Brigid up and wrapped her in a hug, kissed her damp cheek,\nheld herdear head with my hand. “Martha and I didn’t mean to scare you,\nhoney.”\n“Are you staying with us, Aunt Lindsay?”\n“Just for the night, sweetie.”\nCat turned on a light and looked around at the spackled bullet holes\nin the\nwall.\n“You didn’t pick up,” Cat said. “And the answering machine said it\nwas full.”\n“It was full of reporters,” I told her, my heart still galloping. “Please\nforgive me for scaring the crap out of you.”\nCat reached out with her free arm, hooked my head toward her face,\nand kissed my\ncheck.\n“You’re a damned scary cop, you know?”\nI walked with Cat and the girls to their room, where we calmed\nourselves as well\nas the sniffling children. We got them into their pajamas and tucked\ninto their\nbeds.\n“I’ve been listening to the news,” Cat said as she closed the door to\nthe girls’room behind us. “Is it true? You caught the guy and it turns out to\nbe Keith? I\nknow Keith. I liked him.”\n“Yeah. I liked him, too.”\n“And what’s that car in the driveway? It looks like Uncle Dougie’s\ncar.”\n“I know. It’s a present for you.”\n“Come on. Really?”\n“A house gift, Cat. I want you to have it.”\nI hugged my sister again really hard. I wanted to say, “Everything’s\nfine now.\nWe got the bastard.” But instead I said, “We’ll go for a test drive\ntomorrow.”\nI said good-night, and as my sister turned the taps for a bath, I took\nMartha\ndown the hall and opened the bedroom door. I switched on the light\nand froze in\nthe doorway.\nActually, I almost screamed again.\nChapter 135\nCAROLEE’S LITTLE GIRL, ALLISON, was sitting on my bed. That was\nalarmingenough—but how she looked alarmed me more. Ali was barefoot,\nwearing a thin\neyelet nightgown, and she was crying her heart out.\nI put down my gun and went to her, dropped to my knees, and\ngrabbed her little\nshoulders.\n“Ali? Ali, what’s wrong? What’s wrong?”\nThe eight-year-old threw her body against me and wound her arms\ntightly around\nmy neck. She was shaking, her body heaving with sobs. I hugged\nher and peppered\nher with questions, not even giving her time to answer.\n“Are you hurt? How did you get here, Ali? What on earth is wrong?”\nAllison said, “The door was open, so I came in.”\nAt that, new tears sprang from some mysterious wound that I\ncouldn’t fathom.\n“Talk to me, Ali,” I said, setting her away from me, checking her out,\nlooking\nfor injuries. Her feet were cut and filthy. Cat’s house was a mile from\nthe\nschool and across the highway. Allison had walked here.\nI tried again to get answers, but by now, Ali was incoherent. She\nclung to me,gulping air and choking out tears, making absolutely no sense.\nI pulled on a pair of jeans over my blue silk pajamas and stepped\ninto my\nrunning shoes. I slipped my Glock into my shoulder holster and\ncovered up with\nmy denim jacket.\nI wrapped Ali in my hooded sweatshirt and lifted her into my arms.\nLeaving\nMartha behind in the bedroom, I went with Ali to the front door.\n“Honey,” I said to the hysterical child, “I’m taking you home.”\nChapter 136\nCAT’S FORESTER WAS RIGHT behind the Explorer, blocking it in. The\nkeys to the\nBonneville were in the ignition, and the big gold boat was facing the\nroad.\nSo I buckled Ali into the backseat, got behind the wheel, and turned\nthe key.\nThe engine vrooomed smoothly to life. At Highway 1, I signaled to\ngo north under\na crackling, rocket-streaked sky, toward the schoolhouse. Shockingly,\nAllison\nshouted, “NO!”I looked into the rearview mirror and saw her pale face, utterly wide-\neyed. She\npointed with her finger south.\n“You want me to go that way?”\n“Lindsay, pleeease. Hurry.”\nAli’s fear and urgency were electrifying. All I could do was trust the\nlittle\ngirl, so I took the car south until Ali whispered from the backseat,\n“Turn here”\nat a lonely intersection.\nThe rat-a-tat bangs of the Fourth of July pyrotechnics overhead\npumped\nadrenaline into my already overloaded system. There had been too\nmuch shooting\nrecently, and I was experiencing each bang as an exploded round.\nI accelerated the Bonneville up the winding dirt track that was Cliff\nRoad,\nskidding around the corners like a big rig on grass. I heard Keith’s\nchiding\nvoice in my mind: “You can’t do this, Lindsay. This is a luxury car.”\nI drove through a starless tunnel of eucalyptus trees that finally\nopened into a\nwide mountain view. In front of and to the left of us was a round\nstucco houseclinging to the side of the hill.\nI looked again into the rearview mirror. “What now, Ali? How much\nfarther?”\nAllison pointed to the round tower of a house. Then she clapped her\nhands over\nher eyes. Her voice was barely audible.\n“We’re here.”\nChapter 137\nI PULLED THE CAR just off the road and looked up at the house—a\nthree-story\ncolumn of glass panes and stucco. Two thin bands of light moved\nsporadically on\nthe lower floor.\nFlashlight beams.\nOtherwise, the house was dark.\nClearly, people were inside who didn’t belong there. I slapped at the\npockets of\nmy denim jacket and got a sick feeling even before I knew that I\nwas right: I’d\nleft my cell phone on the table beside my bed. I could see it lying\nagainst the\nclock.This was very bad news.\nI had no car radio, no backup, and I wasn’t wearing a vest. If a\ncrime was in\nprogress, going into that house alone wasn’t a real good idea.\n“Ali,” I said. “I have to go for help.”\n“You can’t, Lindsay,” she said, her voice coming out as a whisper.\n“Everyone\nwill die.”\nI reached around and touched her face with my hand. Ali’s mouth\nwas turned down,\nthe trust in her eyes was heartbreaking.\n“Lie down on the backseat,” I said to the little girl. “Wait for me and\ndon’t\nmove until I come back.”\nAli got down with her face against the seat. I put my hand on her\nback, patting\nher gently. Then I got out of the car and shut the door behind me.\nChapter 138\nBRIGHT MOONLIGHT FLOODED THE hilly terrain, casting long\nshadows that fooled the\neye into believing chasms were opening up underfoot. I stuck to the\nbrush at theside of the road, rounding the clearing until I arrived at the blind\nside of the\nhouse on higher ground.\nAn upscale SUV was parked beside the house next to a plain wooden\ndoorway. The\ndoorknob turned easily in my hand, and the door swung open into a\nmudroom.\nI groped my way in the dark, advanced into a spacious kitchen.\nFrom there, I\nentered a high-ceilinged great room, luminous with moon glow.\nI kept to the walls, skirting the long leather sofas and large pots of\npalms and\npampas grass. I looked up in time to see a flashlight beam disappear\nat the top\nof a staircase.\nI drew my gun and loped up the carpeted staircase, taking two steps\nat a time,\ncrouching at the top landing.\nI listened over the sound of my own breathing and heard soft\nmurmurs coming from\nthe room at the end of the hall.\nThen a high-pitched scream shattered the air. I ran to a doorway,\nturned the\nknob, kicked open the door.I strafed the scene with my eyes. There was a king-size bed, a\nwoman sitting\nwith her back against the headboard. A figure dressed in black held\na knife to\nthe woman’s throat.\n“Hands in the air,” I yelled. “Drop the knife now!”\n“It’s too late,” said a voice. “Just turn around and get the hell out of\nhere.”\nI reached for the wall switch and flicked on the light.\nWhat I saw was shocking, horrifying, unbelievable.\nThe intruder with the knife was Carolee Brown.\nChapter 139\nCAROLEE WAS ABOUT TO commit murder. My brain stalled as I tried\nto assimilate\nthe unimaginable. When it kicked back into gear, I acted, barking out\na command\nat the top of my voice.\n“Back away from her, Carolee. Keep your hands where I can see\nthem.”\n“Lindsay,” she said in a maddeningly reasonable tone. “I’m asking\nyou to please\ngo. She’s a dead woman no matter what. You can’t stop me.”“Last chance,” I said, pulling back the hammer. “Put that knife down\nor I’m\ngoing to kill you.”\nThe woman in the bed whimpered as Carolee measured the distance\nbetween us with\nher eyes and calculated how long it would take to slash the woman’s\nthroat\nbefore I put a bullet through her brain.\nI was making the same calculations.\n“You’re making a huge mistake,” Carolee said with regret. “I’m the\ngood guy,\nLindsay. This thing you see here, this Melissa Farley, is complete\ntrash.”\n“Toss the knife over here very carefully,” I said, grasping my Glock so\nhard\nthat my knuckles were white. Could I shoot Carolee if I had to? I\nreally didn’t\nknow.\n“You aren’t going to shoot me,” she said then.\n“I think you’ve forgotten who I am.”\nCarolee started to speak again, but the resolve gripping my face\nstopped her. I\nwould shoot her, and she was smart enough to get it. She smiled\nwanly. Then shetossed the knife underhand onto the carpet at our feet.\nI kicked the knife under a bureau, then I ordered Carolee to the\nfloor.\n“On your knees!” I shouted. “Hands in front of you!”\nI took her down to the ground, told her to lace her hands behind her\nneck and\ncross her ankles, frisked her, and found nothing but a thin leather\nbelt around\nher waist.\nThen I darted my eyes to the woman on the bed.\n“Melissa? Are you okay? Call nine-one-one. Tell them that a violent\ncrime is in\nprogress and a cop needs assistance.”\nThe woman reached for the bedside phone even as she kept her\neyes on me.\n“He’s got my husband,” she said. “A man is in the bathroom with\nEd.”\nChapter 140\nI FOLLOWED MELISSA FARLEY’S gaze across the shadows to the\ndoor to the left of\nthe bed.\nThe door opened slowly, and a male walked stiffly into the bedroom,\nhis eyeswild behind blood-speckled glasses.\nI noticed everything as the man came toward me: black T-shirt\nsoaked with blood;\nbelt, stripped from his pants, dangling by its silver buckle from his\nleft hand;\nugly hunting knife clutched in his right.\nMy mind raced ahead, thinking not where the knife was now, but\nwhere it would be\nnext.\n“Drop your weapon!” I screamed at him. “Do it now or I’ll shoot.”\nThe man’s mouth formed a grim smile, the chilling look of someone\nwho is ready\nto die. He continued coming toward me, pointing the bloody knife.\nMy vision narrowed so that I could concentrate on what seemed\nnecessary to my\nsurvival. There was too much to focus on, too much to control.\nCarolee was behind me, unsecured.\nThe man with the knife knew it, too. His lip curled back.\nHe said, “G-g-get up! We can take her.”\nI calculated what would happen if I shot him. He was less than ten\nfeet away.\nEven if I got him square in the chest, even if I stopped his heart, the\nclosingrange was short.\nHe was still coming.\nI leveled my gun, fingered the trigger, and then Melissa Farley\nscrambled across\nthe bed, launching herself toward the bathroom.\n“No,” I yelled out. “Stay where you are.”\n“I have to go to my husband!”\nI never heard the door open behind me.\nI never heard someone else enter the room.\nBut suddenly she was there.\n“Bobby, don’t!” Allison screamed.\nAnd for one long second, everything stood still.\nChapter 141\nTHE MAN ALLISON CALLED Bobby froze. He steadied himself, and I\nwatched his face\nseize with confusion.\n“Allison,” he said, “you’re supposed to be home.”\nBobby! The stutter hadn’t cued me, but now I recognized his face. It\nwas Bob\nHinton, the lawyer from town who’d run into me with his bike. I\ndidn’t have timeto figure out exactly how he fit into this picture.\nAllison drifted from behind me as if she were in a dream. She walked\nover to Bob\nHinton and put her arms around his waist. I wanted to stop her, but\nbefore I\ncould, Hinton reached his arms around her and held Allison tightly.\n“Little sister,” he whispered, “you shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t\nsee this.”\nMy blood pressure dropped, and the sweat on my hands made the\ngun’s trigger\nslippery. I continued to gauge my shot at Hinton.\nI jockeyed for a better angle, and Hinton turned the dazed little girl\ntoward\nme. I could see that he was dazed himself.\n“Bob,” I said, putting my heart into it. I wanted him to believe me.\n“It’s your\nchoice. But I’ll blow your head off if you don’t drop that knife and\nget right\ndown on your knees.”\nBob stooped, dipping his face behind Allison’s head, turning her into\na shield.\nI knew he would put his blade across her throat next and tell me to\nthrow down\nmy gun. I’d have to do it.I didn’t expect the look of terrible sadness that came over his face\nas he\npressed his cheek to Allison’s. “Oh, Ali, Ali, you aren’t old enough to\nunderstand.”\nAli shook her head.\n“I know everything, Bobby. You have to give up. I have to tell\nLindsay all of\nit.”\nA flash of red tore my attention from the haunting tableau in front of\nme.\nMelissa Farley half fell through the bathroom doorway. The front of\nher\nnightgown was dark with blood.\n“Ambulance,” she panted. “Get an ambulance. Please! Ed is still\nalive.”\nChapter 142\nABOUT TEN MINUTES LATER, sirens wailed and the flashing lights of\npatrol cars\nraced up the winding road below. Medevac chopper blades roared\noverhead.\nMelissa Farley was back in the bathroom with her husband. “Allison,”\nI said.“Please go downstairs and open the door for the police.” Bob still\nheld Allison\ntightly in his arms. She turned her round-eyed stare on me. Her lips\nwere\nquivering as she held back sobs.\n“Go ahead, darling,” Carolee said from where she lay on the floor.\n“It’s all\nright.”\nTen steps away from me, Bob’s face sagged; his expression was that\nof a beaten\nman. He squeezed Ali’s shoulders, and I gasped involuntarily. Then\nhe released\nthe child.\nAs soon as Ali was safely out of the room, my anger exploded.\n“Who are you two? What made you think you could get away with\nthis?”\nI stepped over to Bob Hinton, ripped away the knife, and ordered\nhim to put his\nhands against the wall. I Mirandized him as I frisked him.\n“Do you understand your rights?”\nHis laughter was shrill but sardonic. “Better than most,” he said.\nI found glass-cutting tools and a camera on Hinton, which I\nremoved. Then Iforced him to the ground and sat on the edge of the king-size bed,\nholding my\ngun on him and Carolee.\nI didn’t even blink until I heard heavy footsteps rumbling up the\nstairs.\nChapter 143\nIT WAS AFTER THREE in the morning, and I was back at the police\nstation. Chief\nStark was with Bob Hinton in the interrogation room, where Bob was\ndescribing in\ndetail the many homicides that he, Carolee, and Keith had\ncommitted in Half Moon\nBay.\nI sat with Carolee in the chief’s office, an old Sony tape recorder\nbetween us\non Peter Stark’s messy desk. A detective brought cups of coffee into\nthe room in\na cardboard box, then he took a position inside the doorway as I\ninterviewed\nCarolee.\n“I think I’d like to talk to my lawyer,” Carolee said flatly.\n“You mean Bob? Can you wait a few minutes?” I snapped. “He’s\ngiving you up rightnow, and we’d like to get it all down.”\nCarolee gave me a bemused smile.\nShe flicked a strand of hair from the front of her black silk\nturtleneck, then\nfolded her manicured hands in her lap. I couldn’t help but stare.\nCarolee had been a friend. We’d traded confidences. I’d told her to\ncall me if\nshe ever needed me. I idolized her daughter.\nEven now, she was dignified, articulate, seemingly sane.\n“Maybe you’d like a different lawyer,” I said.\n“Never mind,” she said. “It’s not going to matter.”\n“Okay, then. Why don’t you talk to me?”\nI switched on the tape recorder, spoke my name, the time and date,\nmy badge\nnumber, and the subject’s name. Then I rewound the tape and\nplayed it back to\nmake sure the machine was working. Satisfied, I leaned back in the\nchief’s\nswivel chair.\n“Okay, Carolee. Let’s hear it,” I said.\nThe lovely-looking woman in her Donna Karan perfection took a\nmoment to organizeher thoughts before she spoke for the record.\n“Lindsay,” she said thoughtfully, “you need to understand that they\nbrought it\nupon themselves. The Whittakers were making child pornography.\nThe Daltrys were\nactually starving their twins. They were part of some freaking\nreligious cult\nthat told them their children shouldn’t eat solid food.”\n“And you didn’t think to get Children’s Services involved?”\n“I reported it again and again. Jake and Alice were clever, though.\nThey stocked\ntheir shelves with food, but they never fed the children!”\n“And Doc O’Malley? What about him and his wife?”\n“Doc was selling his own child on the Internet. There was a camera\nin her room.\nThat stupid Lorelei knew. Caitlin knew. I only hope that her\ngrandparents get\nher the help she needs. I wish I could do it myself.”\nThe more she talked, the more I understood the depths of her\nnarcissism. Carolee\nand her cohorts had taken on the mission of cleaning up child abuse\nin Half Moon\nBay—acting as the whole judicial package: judge, jury, and\nexecutioners. And theway she described it, it almost made sense.\nIf you didn’t know what she’d done.\n“Carolee. You killed eight people.”\nWe were interrupted by a knock on the door. The detective cracked\nit open a few\ninches, and I saw the chief outside. His face was gray with fatigue. I\nstepped\nout into the hallway.\n“Coastside hospital called,” he told me. “Hinton administered the\ncoup de grâce\nafter all.”\nI stepped back into the chief’s office. Sat down in the swivel chair.\n“Make that nine, Carolee. Ed Farley just died.”\n“And thank God for that,” Carolee said. “When you people open the\nbarn at the\nback of the Farleys’ yard you’re going to have to pin a medal on me.\nThe Farleys\nhave been trafficking in little Mexican girls. Selling them for sex all\nacross\nthe country. Call the FBI, Lindsay. This is a big one.”\nCarolee’s posture relaxed even as I grappled with this new\nbombshell. She leanedforward confidingly. The earnestness in her face was absolutely\nstunning.\n“I’ve been wanting to tell you something since I met you,” she said.\n“And it\ndoesn’t matter to anyone but you. Your John Doe? That terrible shit\nhad a name.\nBrian Miller. And I’m the one who killed him.”\nChapter 144\nI COULD HARDLY ABSORB what Carolee had just told me.\nShe’d killed my John Doe.\nThat boy’s death had been on my mind for ten full years. Carolee\nwas my sister’s\nfriend. Now I tried to grasp that John Doe’s killer and I had been\ntraveling on\nadjacent paths, paths that had finally converged in this room.\n“It’s traditional for the condemned to have a cigarette, isn’t it,\nLindsay?”\n“Hell, yes,” I said. “As many as you want.”\nI reached on top of a filing cabinet for a carton of Marlboros. I broke\nopen the\nbox and placed a pack of cigarettes and a book of matches beside\nCarolee’s elbow\nwith a casualness I had to fake.I was desperate to hear about the boy whose lost life I’d been\ncarrying with me\nin spirit for so many years.\n“Thank you,” said Carolee, the schoolteacher, the mom, the savior of\nabused\nchildren.\nShe peeled cellophane and foil from the mouth of the packet, tapped\nout a\ncigarette. A match sparked, and the smell of sulfur rose into the air.\n“Keith was only twelve when he came to my school. Same age as my\nson, Bob,” she\nsaid. “Lovely boys, both of them. Tons of promise.”\nI listened intently as Carolee described the appearance of Brian\nMiller, an\nolder boy, a runaway who gained her confidence and eventually\nbecome a counselor\nat the school.\n“Brian raped them repeatedly, both Bob and Keith, and he raped\ntheir minds, too.\nHe had a Special Forces knife. Said he’d turn them into girls if they\never told\nanyone what he’d done.”\nTears slipped from Carolee’s eyes. She waved at the smoke as if that\nwas whathad made her tear up. Her hand shook as she sipped at her\ncontainer of coffee.\nThe only sound in the room was the soft sibilance of the magnetic\ntape spooling\nbetween the reels of the Sony.\nWhen Carolee began speaking again, her voice was softer. I leaned\ntoward her so\nthat I wouldn’t miss a word.\n“When Brian was finished using the boys, he disappeared, taking\ntheir innocence,\ntheir dignity, their self-worth.”\n“Why didn’t you call the police?”\n“Look, I reported it, but by the time Bobby told me what had\nhappened, time had\npassed. And the police weren’t so interested in my school for\nrunaways. It took\nyears to get Keith to smile again,” Carolee went on. “Bob was even\nmore fragile.\nWhen he slashed his wrists, I had to do something.”\nCarolee fooled around with her watchband, a dainty, feminine\ngesture, but fury\ncontorted her features, an anger that seemed as fresh now as it had\nbeen a\ndecade ago.“Go on,” I said. “I’m listening to you, Carolee.”\n“I found Brian living in a transient hotel in the Tenderloin,” she told\nme. “He\nwas selling his body. I took him out for a good meal with lots of\nwine. I let\nmyself remember how much I’d once really liked Brian, and he\nbought it. He\nbelieved that I was still his friend.\n“I asked him nicely for an explanation. The way he told it, what he\nhad with the\nboys was ‘romantic love.’ Can you believe it?”\nCarolee laughed and tapped ashes into an aluminum foil tray.\n“I went back to his place with him,” Carolee continued. “I’d brought\nhis things\nwith me: a T-shirt, a book, some other stuff.\n“When he turned his back, I grabbed him. I slashed his throat with\nhis own\nknife. He couldn’t believe what I’d done. He tried to scream, but I’d\ncut\nthrough his vocal cords, you see. Then I whipped him with my belt\nas he lay\ndying. It was good, Lindsay. The last face Brian saw was mine.\n“The last voice he heard was mine.”An image of John Doe #24 came to me, animated now into a living\nperson by\nCarolee’s story. Even if he was everything she said he was, he’d still\nbeen a\nvictim, condemned and executed without a trial.\nThe final coincidence, and it was a killer, was that Carolee had\nscrawled\n“Nobody Cares” on the hotel wall. It was in all the newspaper\nstories. Ten years\nlater, the clippings were found in Sara Cabot’s bizarre collection of\ntrue crime\nstories. She and her brother had ripped off the catchphrase.\nI flipped a notepad across to Carolee’s side of the desk and handed\nher a pen.\nHer hand was shaking as she started to write. She cocked her pretty\nhead. “I’m\ngoing to put down that I did it for the children. That I did it all for\nthem.”\n“Okay, Carolee. That’s fine. It’s your story.”\n“But do you understand, Lindsay? Someone had to save them. I’m\nthe one. I’m a\ngood mother.”\nSmoke curled around us as she held my gaze.“I can understand hating people who have done terrible things to\ninnocent\nchildren,” I said. “But murder, no. I’ll never understand that. And I’ll\nnever\nunderstand how you could have done this to Allison.”\nChapter 145\nI WALKED ALONG THE dreary alley called Gold Street until I reached\nthe neon\nsign, Bix, in huge blue letters. I entered through the brick-lined\ndoorway and\nthe blue-note chords of a baby grand thrilled me.\nThe high ceilings, the cigarette smoke hanging above the long\nsweep of mahogany\nbar, and the art deco fixtures and trappings reminded me of a\nHollywood version\nof a 1920s speakeasy.\nI stepped up to the maître d’, who told me that I was the first to\narrive.\nI followed him up the stairs to the second floor and took a seat in\none of the\nrichly upholstered horseshoe-shaped booths overlooking the jumping\nbar scene\nbelow.I ordered a Dark & Stormy—Gosling’s Black Seal rum and ginger\nbeer—and was\nsipping it when my best bud in the world came toward me.\n“I know you,” Claire said, sliding into the booth, wrapping me in a\nhuge hug.\n“You’re the gal who went and solved a whole buncha murders\nwithout any help from\nher homegirls.”\n“And lived to tell the tale,” I said.\n“Just barely, the way I heard it.”\n“Wait,” said Cindy, scooting into the booth on my other side. “I want\nto hear.\nFor the record, if you don’t mind, Lindsay. I think a little profile of\nour\nhomicide ace is in order.”\nI bussed her on the cheek. “You’ll have to clear it with PR,” I told\nher.\n“You’re such a pain,” she said, kissing me, too.\nClaire and Cindy each ordered one of the exotic drinks the bar was\nfamous for as\nYuki arrived, straight from the office. She was still in her prim\nlawyer’s suit,\nbut she had a new sassy red streak in her glossy black hair.The oysters and firecracker shrimp came, and the hand-cut steak\ntartare was\ndressed by a waiter at tableside. As the food and libations were\nserved, I told\nthe girls about the takedown at the stucco house on the hill.\n“It was so freaking weird that I thought of her as a buddy,” I said of\nCarolee,\n“and I didn’t know her at all.”\n“Makes you doubt your intuition,” said Cindy.\n“Really. And she fooled my sister, too.”\n“You think she was just keeping tabs on you because you\ninvestigated this Brian\nMiller’s murder?” said Claire.\n“Yeah. Keeping her ‘friend’ close and her enemy closer.”\n“To John Doe Number Twenty-four. His case is closed,” said Yuki,\nlifting her\nglass.\n“Case closed,” we repeated, clinking our glasses to hers.\nWe ordered monkfish, skate with asparagus, Maine lobster spaghetti,\nand New York\nBlack Angus steak, and somehow, between chowing down on the\nsensational food and\nall of us trying to speak at once, everyone got her story in.Cindy was writing a story about a bank robber who’d gotten caught\nbecause he\nwrote his “stick ’em up” note on the back of his own deposit slip.\n“He left the deposit slip and took off with the dough,” Cindy said.\n“Cops were\nwaiting for him when he got home. This one goes to the head of my\n‘Dumb Crooks’\ncolumn.”\n“I’ve got one for you!” Yuki jumped in. “My client—to remain\nnameless—is a\nstepson of one of the partners, and I had to defend him,” she said,\ntwirling the\nred streak in her hair. “A coupla cops bang on his door looking for a\nrobbery\nsuspect. My guy says, ‘Come on in,’ because he doesn’t know\nanything about a\nrobbery. Then he says, ‘Look anywhere you like—except the attic.’”\n“Go on, go on,” we urged her. Yuki sipped her Germain-Robin\nSidecar and looked\naround the table.\n“Judge grants a search warrant, and the cops find my client’s setup\nin the\nattic. Hydroponic marijuana under grow lights. Sentencing is next\nweek,” shesaid over our laughter.\nAs the conversation swirled around the table, I felt lucky to be with\nthis gang\nagain. We all felt so comfortable together and had shared so much—\neven with our\nnewest friend, Yuki, who’d been unanimously admitted to the group\nfor saving my\nbutt and my life as I knew it.\nWe were about to order dessert when I saw a familiar white-haired\nman with a\nslight limp coming toward us.\n“Boxer,” Jacobi said, without even acknowledging the others, “I need\nyou now.\nThe car’s running outside.”\nI put my hand over my now-empty glass reflexively. My heart rate\nshot into high\ngear, and a mental slide show of a car chase and a shoot-up flashed\nbefore my\neyes.\n“What’s going on?” I asked him.\nHe bent his head toward mine, but instead of whispering, he kissed\nme on the\ncheek.“There’s nothing going on,” he said. “I was going to pop out of a\ncake, but your\ngirls here dissuaded me.”\n“Thanks, Jacobi,” I said, cracking up. I put my hand on his arm.\n“Come and join\nus for dessert.”\n“Don’t mind if I do.”\nJacobi slid into the booth, and we all shoved over one seat to make\nroom for\nhim. The waiter brought chilled Dom Perignon—thanks, Jacobi—and\nwhen our flutes\nwere full, my friends new and old toasted my return.\n“To Lindsay. Welcome home!”\nEpilogue\nChapter 146\nTHE FIRST WEEK BACK on the job blew around me like a Category 5\nhurricane.\nThe phone rang nonstop, and cops were at my door every few\nminutes bringing me\nup to speed on several dozen active cases. Everything was a red\nalert.But the overarching problem was clearer to me than ever before.\nThe department’s\naverage of solved cases hovered around 50 percent, which put us\nvery close to\nthe bottom of large-city homicide squads.\nIt wasn’t that we weren’t good; we were simply undermanned and\noverwhelmed, and\nthe squad was burning out. In fact, people had been calling in sick\nall week.\nWhen Jacobi knocked on the glass door that Friday morning, I told\nhim to come\nin.\n“Lieutenant, shots were fired in Ocean Beach, two men down. One\ncar is on the\nscene, one on the way, and the officers are still requesting backup.\nThe\nwitnesses are panicky and starting to scatter.”\n“Where’s your partner?”\n“Taking lost time.”\nI could see everyone in the squad through the glass walls of my\noffice. The only\ncop without a stack of active cases on his or her desk was me. I\ngrabbed my\njacket from the back of my chair.“I guess we’re catching,” I said to my former partner. “Tell me what\nyou know.”\n“Two gangs from Daly City and Oakland had it out in the parking lot\nnear the\nbeach,” Jacobi told me.\nWe hustled down the stairs, and once we were outside on McAllister,\nJacobi\nunlocked the car and took the wheel.\n“It started with knives, then a gun came out. Two vics dead at the\nscene, one\nwounded. Two perps are in custody. One of the perps waded out\ninto the surf and\nburied the gun in the sand.”\nI was already imagining the scene of the crime, looking ahead to\nputting the\npuzzle pieces together. “We’ll need divers,” I said, gripping the dash\nas we\ntook the corner at Polk.\nJacobi gave me a rare grin.\n“What’s that for, Jacobi?”\n“Pardon me, Lieutenant,” he said over the sound of the siren. “I was\nthinking.”\n“Yes?”"
    },
    {
        "title": "A Man in Full",
        "content": "version of a peacock or a turkey preening. His wife, Serena, was\nonly twenty-eight, whereas he had just turned sixty and was bald on\ntop and had only a swath of curly gray hair on the sides and in back.\nHe seldom passed up an opportunity to remind her of what a sturdy\ncord-no, what a veritable cable-kept him connected to the rude\nanimal vitality of his youth.\nBy now they were already a good mile away from the Big House\nand deep into the plantation's seemingly endless fields of broom\nsedge. This late in February, this far south in Georgia, the sun was\nstrong enough by 8 a. M. to make the ground mist lift like wisps of\nsmoke and create a heavenly green glow in the pine forests and light\nup the sedge with a tawny gold. Charlie took another deep breath . .\n. Ahhhhhh . . . the husky aroma of the grass . . . the resinous air of\nthe pines ... the heavy, fleshy odor of all his animals, the horses, the\nmules, the clogs. . . Somehow nothing reminded him so instantly of\nhow far he had come in his sixty years on this earth as the smell of\nthe animals. Turpmtine Plantation! Twenty-nine thousand acres of\nprime southwest Georgia forest, fields, and swamp! And all of it,\nevery square inch of it, every beast that moved on it, all fifty-nine\nhorses, all twenty-two mules, all forty dogs, all thirty-six buildings\nthat stood upon it, plus a mile-long asphalt landing strip, complete\nwith jet-fuel pumps and a hangar-all of it was his, Cap'm Charlie\nCroker's, to do with as he chose, which was: to shoot quail.\nHis spirits thus buoyed, he turned to his shooting partner, a stout\nbrick-faced man named Inman Armholster, who was abreast of him\non another of his walking horses, and said:\n\"Inman, I'm gonna-\"\nBut Inman, with a typical Inman Armholster bluster, cut him off\nand insisted on resuming a pretty boring disquisition concerning the\nupcoming mayoral race in Atlanta: \"Listen, Charlie, I know Jordan's\ngot charm and party manners and he talks white and all that, but\nthat doesn't\"- dud'n-\"mean he's any friend of . . .\"Charlie continued to look at him, but he tuned out. Soon he was\naware only of the deep, rumbling timbre of Inman's voice, which had\nbeen smoke-cured the classic Southern way, by decades of Camel\ncigarettes, unfiltered. He was an odd-looking duck, Inman was. He\nwas in his mid-fifties but still had a head of thick black hair, which\nbegan low on his forehead and was slicked back over his small round\nskull. Everything about Inman was round. He seemed to be made of\na series of balls piled one atop the other. His buttery cheeks and\njowls seemed to rest, without benefit of a neck, upon the two balls\nof fat that comprised his chest, which in turn rested upon a great\nswollen paunch. Even his arms and legs, which looked much too\nshort, appeared to be made of spherical parts. The down-filled vest\nhe wore over his hunting khakis only made him look that much\nrounder. Nevertheless, this ruddy pudge was chairman of Armaxco\nChemical and about as influential a businessman as existed in\nAtlanta. He was this weekend's prize pigeon, as Charlie thought of it,\nat Turpmtine. Charlie desperately wanted Armaxco to lease space in\nwhat so far was the worst mistake of his career as a real estate\ndeveloper, a soaring monster he had megalomaniacally named\nCroker Concourse.\n\"-gon' say Fleet's too young, too brash, too quick to play the race\ncard. Am I right?\"\nSuddenly Charlie realized Inman was asking him a question. But\nother than the fact that it concerned Andr6 Fleet, the black \"activist,\"\nCharlie didn't have a clue what it was about.\nSo he went, \"Ummmmmmmmmmmm.\"\nInman apparently took this to be a negative comment, because\nhe said, \"Now, don't give me any a that stuff from the smear\ncampaign. I know there's people going around calling him an out-\nand-out crook. But I'm telling you, if Fleet's a crook, then he's my\nkinda crook.\"Charlie was beginning to dislike this conversation, on every level.\nFor a start, you didn't go out on a beautiful Saturday morning like\nthis on the next to last weekend of the quail season and talk politics,\nespecially not Atlanta politics. Charlie liked to think he went out\nshooting quail at Turpmtinc just the way the most famous master of\nTurpmtine, a Confederate Civil War hero named Austin Roberdeau\nWheat, had done it a hundred years ago; and a hundred years ago\nnobody on a quail hunt at Turpmtine would have been out in the\nsedge talking about an Atlanta whose candidates for mayor were\nboth black. But then Charlie was honest with himself. There was\nmore. There was . . . Fleet. Charlie had had his own dealings with\nAndre Fleet, and not all that long ago, either, and he didn't feel like\nbeing reminded of them now or, for that matter, later.\nSo this time it was Charlie who broke in:\n\"Inman, I'm gonna tell you something I may regret later on, but\nI'm gonna tell you anyway, ahead a time.\"\nAfter a couple of puzzled blinks Inman said, \"All right... go\nahead.\"\n\"This morning,\" said Charlie, \"I'm only gonna shoot the bobs.\"\nMorning came out close to moanin, just as something had come out\nsump'm. When he was here at Turpmtine, he liked to shed Atlanta,\neven in his voice. He liked to feel earthy, Down Home, elemental;\nwhich is to say, he was no longer merely a real estate developer, he\nwas ... a man.\n\"Only gon' shoot the bobs, hunh,\" said Inman. \"With that?\"\nHe gestured toward Charlie's .410-gauge shotgun, which was in a\nleather scabbard strapped to his saddle. The spread of buckshot a\n.410 fired was smaller than any other shotgun's, and with quail the\nonly way you could tell a bob from a hen was by a patch of white on\nthe throat of a bird that wasn't much more than eight inches long to\nstart with.'Yep,\" said Charlie, grinning, \"and remember, I told you ahead a\ntime.\"\n\"Yeah? I'll tell you what,\" said Inman. \"I'll betcha you can't. I'll\nbetcha a hundred dollars.\"\n\"What kinda odds you gon' give me?\"\n\"Odds? You're the one who brought it up! You're the one staking\nout the bragging rights! You know, there's an old saying, Charlie:\n'When the tailgate drops, the bullshit stops.' \"\n\"All right,\" said Charlie, \"a hundred dollars on the first covey, even\nStephen.\" He leaned over and extended his hand, and the two of\nthem shook on the bet.\nImmediately he regretted it. Money on the line. A certain deep\nworry came bubbling up into his brain. PlannersBanc! Croker\nConcourse! Debt! A mountain of it! But real estate developers like\nhim learned to live with debt, didn't they ... It was a normal\ncondition of your existence, wasn't it . . . You just naturally grew gills\nfor breathing it, didn't you ... So he took another deep breath to\ndrive the spurt of panic back down again and flexed his big back\nmuscles once more.\nCharlie was proud of his entire physique, his massive neck, his\nbroad shoulders, his prodigious forearms; but above all he was\nproud of his back. His employees here at Turpmtine called him\nCap'm Charlie, after a Lake Seminole fishing-boat captain from a\nhundred years ago with the same name, Charlie Croker, a sort of\nPecos Bill figure with curly blond hair who, according to local legend,\nhad accomplished daring feats of strength. There was a song about\nhim, which some of the old folks knew by heart. It went: \"Charlie\nCroker was a man in full. He had a back like a Jersey bull. Didn't like\nokra, didn't like pears. He liked a gal that had no hairs. Charlie\nCroker! Charlie Croker! Charlie Croker!\" Whether or not there had\nactually existed such a figure, Charlie had never been able to find\nout. But he loved the idea, and he often said to himself what he wassaying to himself at this moment: \"Yes! I got a back like a Jersey\nbull!\" In his day he had been a star on the Georgia Tech football\nteam. Football had left him with a banged-up right knee, that had\nturned arthritic about three years ago. He didn't associate that with\nage, however. It was an honorable wound of war. One of the\nbeauties of a Tennessee walking horse was that its gait spared you\nfrom having to post, to pump up and down at the knees when the\nhorse trotted. He wasn't sure he could take posting on this chilly\nFebruary morning.\nUp ahead, his hunting guide and dog trainer, Moseby, was riding\nyet another of his walking horses. Moseby signaled the dogs with a\ncurious, low-pitched, drawn-out whistle he somehow produced from\ndeep in his throat. Charlie could just make out one of his two prize\npointers, King's Whipple and Duke's Knob, ranging through the\ngolden sea of sedge, trying to get wind of quail coveys.\nThe two shooters, Charlie and Inman, rode on in silence for a\nwhile, listening to the creaking of the wagons and the clip-clopping\nof the mules and the snorts of the horses of the outriders and\nwaiting for some signal from Moseby. One wagon was a rolling dog\nkennel containing cages for three more pairs of pointers to take\nturns in the ceaseless roaming of the sedge, plus a pair of golden\nretrievers that had been born in the same litter and were known as\nRonald and Roland. A team of La Mancha mules, adorned in brass-\nknobbed yokes and studded harnessing, pulled the wagon, and two\nof Charlie's dog handlers, both of them black, attired in thorn proof\nyellow overalls, drove them. The other was the buckboard, an\nancient wooden thing rebuilt with shock absorbers and pneumatic\ntires and upholstered with rich tan leather, like a Mercedes-Benz's.\nTwo more of Charlie's black employees, wearing the yellow overalls,\ndrove the La Manchas that pulled the buckboard and served food\nand drink from an Igloo cooler built into the back. Sitting on the\nleather seats were Inman's wife, Ellen, who was close to his age and\ndidn't ride anymore, and Betty and Halbert Morrissey and Thurston\nand Cindy Stannard, four more of Charlie's weekend guests whodidn't ride or shoot. Charlie himself wouldn't have been caught dead\nconfined to a buckboard during a quail shoot, but he liked having an\naudience. Off to the side were two black employees on horseback,\nwearing the yellow overalls, whose main job was to hold the horses\nof the shooters or of Charlie's wife, Serena, and Inman and Ellen's\neighteen-year-old daughter, Elizabeth, when they dismounted.\nSerena and Elizabeth had drifted off from the rest of them and\nwere riding side by side fifty or sixty yards away, Charlie now\ndiscovered. This he found annoying, although at first he couldn't\nhave said why. Both were dressed with perfect propriety, in khaki-at\na Georgia plantation shoot khaki was as obligatory as tweeds at a\ngrouse shoot in Scotland- and both were mounted flawlessly on their\nhorses, except that they were leaning slightly toward one another,\nchatting away softly, smiling, and then going into convulsions of\nstifled laughter. Oh, what great chums they had become this\nmorning-his wife and Inman and Ellen's daughter .. . No one who\nsaw Serena's thick, slightly wild array of black hair and her big\nperiwinkle-blue eyes, which stood out so vividly beneath it, could\nhelp but realize how young she was. Less than half his age! Even\nfrom fifty or sixty yards away she had Second Wife written all over\nher! Moreover, she was making it pretty obvious that she had more\nin common with this teenager, Elizabeth Armholster, than with\nElizabeth's mother or Betty Morrissey or Cindy Stannard or anybody\nelse in the party. Elizabeth was a sexy little number herself . . . pale\nskin, a great mane of light brown hair, big sensual lips, and a chest\nshe made sure you saw, even beneath the khaki . . . Charlie chided\nhimself for thinking that way about his friend's eighteen-year-old\ndaughter, but the way she flaunted it all-the way her stretch riding\npants hugged her thighs and the declivities of her loins fore and aft-\nhow could you help it? What did Ellen Armholster really make of\nSerena, who was much closer to being her daughter's contemporary\nthan her own-Ellen, who had been such a pal of Martha's? Then he\ntook a deep breath and drove Martha and all of that old business out\nof his mind, too.You could hear the low voice of one of the buckboard drivers\nsaying, \"Buckboard One to base . . . Buckboard One to base . . .\"\nThere was a radio transmitter under the driver's seat. \"Base\" was the\noverseer's office, back near the Big House. Buckboard One . . .\nCharlie hoped Inman and Ellen and the Morrisseys and the\nStannards got the drift of that and were reminded that he had sent\nout four shooting parties this morning, four sets of weekend guests,\nwith four buckboards (Buckboards One, Two, Three, and Four), four\nkennel wagons, four dog trainers, four sets of outriders, four of\neverything . . . Turpmtine was that big and that lavishly run. There\nwas a formula. To send out one shooting party, with one pair of\nshooters, half a day each week for the entire season, which ran only\nfrom Thanksgiving to the end of February, you had to have at least\nfive hundred acres. Otherwise you would wipe out your quail coveys\nand have no birds to shoot the following year. To send out one party\nall day once a week, you had to have at least a thousand acres.\nWell, he had 29,000 acres. If he felt like it, he could send out four\nparties all day, every day, seven days a week, throughout the\nseason. Quail! The aristocrat of American wild game! It was what\nthe grouse and the pheasant were in England and Scotland and\nEurope-only better! With the grouse and the pheasant you had your\nhelp literally beating the bushes and driving the birds toward you.\nWith the quail you had to stay on the move. You had to have great\ndogs, great horses, and great shooters. Quail was king. Only the\nquail exploded upward into the sky and made your heart bang away\nso madly in your rib cage. And to think what he, Cap'm Charlie, had\nhere! Second biggest plantation in the state of Georgia! He kept up\n29,000 acres of fields, woods, and swamp, plus the Big House, the\nJook House for the guests, the overseer's house, the stables, the big\nbarn, the breeding barn, the Snake House, the kennels, the\ngardening shed, the plantation store, the same one that had been\nthere ever since the end of the Civil War, likewise the twenty-five\ncabins for the help-he kept all this going, staffed, and operating, not\nto mention the landing field and a hangar big enough to\naccommodate a Gulfstream Five-he kept all this going, staffed, and\noperating year round ... for the sole purpose of hunting quail forthirteen weeks. And it wasn't sufficient to be rich enough to do it.\nNo, this was the South. You had to be man enough to deserve a\nquail plantation. You had to be able to deal with man and beast, in\nevery form they came in, with your wits, your bare hands, and your\ngun.\nHe wished there was some way he could underline all this for\nInman, but of course there wasn't, unless he wanted to sound like a\ncomplete fool. So he decided to approach the subject from a wholly\ndifferent direction.\n\"Inman,\" he said, \"did I ever tell you my daddy used to work here\nat Turpmtine?\"\n\"He did? When?\"\n\"Aw, back when I was nine or ten.\"\n\"What'd he do?\"\nCharlie chuckled. \"Not a hell of a lot, I speck. He only lasted a\ncouple months. Daddy musta got fired\"-came out farred-\"from half\nthe plantations south of Albany.\"\nInman didn't say anything, and Charlie couldn't read anything in\nhis face. He wondered if this reference to the Cracker origins of Clan\nCroker had made Inman uncomfortable. Inman was Old Atlanta,\ninsofar as there was any Old Atlanta. Atlanta had never been a true\nOld Southern city like Savannah or Charleston or Richmond, where\nwealth had originated with the land. Atlanta was an offspring of the\nrailroad business. It had been created from scratch barely 150 years\nago, and people had been making money there on the hustle ever\nsince. The place had already run through three names. First they\ncalled it Terminus, because that was where the new railroad ended.\nThen they named it Marthas- ville, after the wife of the governor.\nThen they called it Atlanta, after the Western and Atlantic Railroad\nand on the boosters' pretext that the rail link with Savannah made it\ntantamount to a port on the Atlantic Ocean itself. The Armholstershad hustled and boosted with the best of them, Charlie had to\nadmit. Inman's father had built up a pharmaceuticals company back\nat a time when that was not even a well-known industry, and Inman\nhad turned it into a chemicals conglomerate, Armaxco. Right now he\nwouldn't mind being in Inman's shoes. Armaxco was so big, so\ndiverse, so well established, it was cycleproof. Inman could probably\ngo to sleep for twenty years and Armaxco would just keep chugging\naway, minting money. Not that Inman would want to miss a minute\nof it. He loved all those board meetings too much, loved being up on\nthe dais at all those banquets too much, loved all those tributes to\nInman Armholster the great philanthropist, all those junkets to the\nnorth of Italy, the south of France, and God knew where else on\nArmaxco's Falcon 900, all those minions jumping every time he so\nmuch as crooked his little finger. With a corporate structure like\nArmaxco's beneath him, Inman could sit on that throne of his as\nlong as he wanted or until he downed the last mouthful of lamb\nshanks and mint jelly God allowed him-whereas he, Charlie, was a\none-man band. That was what a real estate developer was, a one-\nman band! You had to sell the world on . . . yourself! Before they\nwould lend you all that money, they had to believe in . . . you! They\nhad to think you were some kind of omnipotent, flaw-free genius.\nNot my corporation but Me, Myself & I! His mistake was that he had\nstarted believing it himself, hadn't he . . . Why had he ever built a\nmixed-use development out in Cherokee County crowned with a\nforty-story tower and named it after himself? Croker Concourse! No\nother Atlanta developer had ever dared display that much ego,\nwhether he had it or not. And now the damned thing stood there, 60\npercent empty and hemorrhaging money.\nThe deep worry was lit up like an inflammation. Couldn't let that\nhappen . . . not on a perfect morning for shooting quail at\nTurpmtine. So he returned to the subject of his father.\n\"It was a whole different world back then, Inman. A big Saturday\nnight was going to the jookhouse up near the-\"Charlie broke off in the middle of the sentence. Up ahead,\nMoseby, the dog trainer, had stopped and looked back and lifted his\ncap. That was the signal. Then his low voice came rolling across the\nsedge:\n\"Poi-i-i-int!\"\nSure enough, over there was Knobby-Duke's Knob-in the classic\npointer's stance, his nose thrust forward and his tail sticking up at a\nforty-five-degree angle like a rod. He had gotten wind of a covey of\nquail in the sedge. Out beyond Moseby, Whip-King's Whipple-was in\nthe same position, backing Knobby's point.\nThe wagons came to a halt, and everyone grew quiet, and the\ntwo shooters, Charlie and Inman, dismounted. Luckily for Charlie,\nwhen you mounted or dismounted, your left leg bore the weight as\nyou swung yourself over the horse's back, and his right knee didn't\nhave to go through the ordeal. He had barely dismounted when one\nof his boys in the yellow overalls, Ernest, arrived on horseback and\ntook the reins of his horse and Inman's. Charlie withdrew his .410\nfrom the leather scabbard and slipped two shells into its twin barrels\nand began walking through the sedge with Inman. He realized that\nthe knee had stiffened and he was limping, but he was not conscious\nof the pain. The adrenaline took care of that. His heart was\nthumping away. No matter how many times you went hunting quail,\nyou never became immune to the feeling that came over you when\nthe dogs set the point and you approached a covey hidden\nsomewhere nearby in the grass. The quails' instinct in the face of\ndanger was to hide in the tall grass and then, all at once, to explode\nupward in flight with incredible acceleration. Everybody used the\nsame term for it: explode. You didn't dare have more than two\nshooters at a time. The little birds rocketed upward in every\ndirection, scattering in order to confound their predators. In the\nexcitement, hunters swung their guns about so wildly that three or\nmore shooters would pose more of a threat to each other than to\nthe quail. It was dangerous enough with two. That was why he\nmade his help wear the yellow overalls. He didn't want some idiotguest with buck fever cutting loose with a load of buckshot in the\ndirection of one of his boys.\nInman took a position off to Charlie's right. The understanding\nwas that an imaginary line ran between them, and Charlie could go\nafter any birds to the left of it. It was so quiet, he could hear his\nown breathing, which was too rapid. He could feel the pressure of all\nthe eyes now fixed upon him, the guests', the mule drivers', the\noutriders', Moseby's, his wife's . . . He'd brought quite a little army\nout here, hadn't he-and he'd opened his big mouth and announced\nhe was going to shoot only the males-and bet Inman a hundred\ndollars, within practically everybody's hearing.\nHe had the stock of the .410 up near his shoulder. It seemed to\ntake forever. In fact, it was no more than twenty seconds--\nThrash!\nWith an extraordinary pounding of the air the covey burst up out\nof the grass. The sound seemed suffocatingly loud. Gray blurs\nhurtled at even' angle. A patch of white. He swung the .410 to the\nleft. Keep the barrel moving ahead of the bird! That was the main\nthing. He fired one barrel. He thought-didn't know. Another white\npatch. Swung the barrel almost straight up. Fired again. A bird came\npeeling down out of the sky.\nCharlie stood there holding the shotgun, conscious of the sharp\nsmell of exploded gunpowder, his heart hammering away. He turned\ntoward Inman.\n\"How'cl you do?\"\nInman was shaking his head so hard his jowls were lagging\nbehind his chin and flopping around. \"Shit-'sense me, ladies\"-his\nwife, Ellen, and Betty and Halbert Morrissey and the Stannards had\nclimbed down off the buckboard and were heading toward the two\nshooters-\"I missed the first one. Didn't lead the sonofabitch.\" He\nseemed furious with himself. \"I might've gotten the second one, butI ain't even sure a that, goddamn it, 'sense me.\" He shook his head\nsome more.\nCharlie hadn't even been aware of Inman's gun going off.\nInman said, \"How'd you do?\"\n\"I know I got the second one,\" said Charlie. \"I don't know about\nthe first one.\"\n\"Got both, Cap'm Charlie.\" It was Lonnie, one of the dog handlers\non the kennel wagon.\n\"Better be bobs,\" said Inman. \"Either that or you better have a\npicture of Ben Franklin handy.\"\nSoon enough the retrievers, Ronald and Roland, had fetched both\nof Charlie's birds from the underbrush and brought them to Lonnie,\nwho in turn brought them over to Cap'm Charlie. Quail seemed so\nsmall, once you actually had one in your hands. Their bodies were\nstill warm, almost hot. Charlie turned up their beaks with his\nforefinger, and there they were, the white patches on their throats.\nA surge of inexpressible joy swept through him. He had done it,\njust as he said he would! Shot two males from out of that rocketing\nbevy! It was an omen! What could go wrong now? Nothing! He\ndidn't even dare to let himself smile, for fear of revealing just how\nproud and sure he was of himself.\nHe could hear a buzz of conversation between the mule drivers\nand the outriders and among the guests about how Cap'm Charlie\nhad called his shots and made them, with a hundred dollars riding\non the outcome. Inman came over and put his hand down on one\nbob and then the other.\nNow Charlie allowed himself a smile. \"Whatcha doing, Inman? You\nthink me and Lonnie's got a couple of old birds stowed away to trick\nyou with?\"\"Well, I'll be a sonofabitch,\" said Inman glumly. \"I didn't think you\ncould do it.\"\nAnd now Charlie let himself laugh from deep inside. \"Don't do to\ndoubt me, Inman, not where quail's concerned! Now how 'bout\nintroducing me to that pal a yours you were talking about, Ben\nFranklin!\"\nInman thrust his hands down into the pockets of his khakis, and a\nsheepish expression came over his face. \"Well, hell ... I didn't bring\nanything out here. I didn't come out here to shop, f'r chrissake, and\nI sure as hell wasn't gonna buy anything at that plantation store a\nyours.\"\n\"Oh brother!\" said Charlie. \" 'Didn't bring anything out here'! I'm\ngonna file that one along with 'The truck's broke down' and 'The\ncook took sick'! 'Didn't bring anything out here'?\" Charlie looked\naround at Ellen Armholster and the Morrisseys and the Stannards\nand beamed. \"Juh hear that? It's easy to bet blue chips when you\nain't even got table stakes!\"\nOh, this was rich stuff. Now he looked around at his mule drivers\nand outriders, all his boys in the yellow overalls, to make sure they\nwere in on it, too, and at Moseby, who had ridden back toward\nthem, and at Serena-\n-but where was she? Then he spotted her. She was still way off,\nmaybe seventy or eighty yards away, out in the field, Serena and\nElizabeth Armholster, too, still on their horses, which were side by\nside. They were chatting and laughing up a storm. He couldn't\nbelieve it. The two young women, with their wild hair and loamy\nloins, hadn't paid the slightest attention to what had just gone on.\nCouldn't have cared less about what two ... old men . . . had or\nhadn't accomplished with their shotguns. He was suddenly filled with\na rage he didn't dare express.\nJust then Serena and Elizabeth swung their mounts about and\nheaded toward them, laughing and talking to each other the wholetime. And now, still high in the saddle, they pulled up beside Charlie\nand Inman and Ellen and the Morrisseys and the Stannards. Their\nyouthfulness couldn't have been more obvious . . . the high color in\ntheir flawlessly smooth cheeks . . . the imperiously correct postures\nof two girls at a horse show . . . the tender curves of their necks and\njaws... the perfectly packed fullness of their cloven hindquarters ...\nas compared to the sagging hides of Ellen Armholster and Betty\nMorrissey and Cindy Stan- nard's generation . . .\nThe ever-obliging Betty Morrissey looked up at Serena and said,\n\"You know what your husband just did? He shot two bobs, and\nInman owes him a hundred dollars.\"\n\"Oh, that's wonderful, Charlie,\" said Serena.\nCharlie studied her face. She hadn't said it in any pointedly ironic\nway, but from the mischievous way her eyes, which were such a\nvivid blue, flashed beneath the black corona of her hair and from the\nlittle glance she flicked toward Elizabeth Armholster, he knew she\nmeant it ironically. He could feel his face turning hot.\nElizabeth looked down at her father and said, \"How'd you do,\nDaddy?\"\n\"Don't ask,\" said Inman in a glum voice.\nTeasingly: \"Oh, come on, Daddy. 'Fess up.\"\n\"Believe me, you don't want to know,\" said Inman, twisting his\nlips in a way that tried, unsuccessfully, to make it seem as if he were\nmaking light of his miserable performance.\nThen Elizabeth leaned way over in the saddle, causing her long,\nlight brown hair to cascade down either side of her face, and put her\nhand on the back of Inman's neck and rubbed it and puckered up\nthose full lips of hers and said in a babyish, coquettish voice she had\nobviously used on her father before:\"Oh, golly gee, Daddy didn't shoot anybody in the whole quail\nfamily?\"\nWith that she flicked a glance of her own toward Serena, who\ncompressed her lips as if she was making a determined effort not to\nlaugh in the two old shooters' faces.\nNow Charlie's face was red hot. The whole quail family! What was\nthat supposed to mean? Animal rights? Whatever it was, it was\nintentional heresy-the two of them peering down from the eminence\nof their steeds upon the old parties below and sniggering and\nexchanging glances of conspiratorial superiority-why, the . . . the ...\nthe ... the impudence of it! According to a tradition as old as the\nplantations themselves, a quail shoot was a ritual in which the male\nof the human species acted out his role of hunter, provider, and\nprotector, and the female acted as if this was part of the natural,\nlaudable, excellent, and compelling order of things. None of this\ncould Charlie have put into words, but he felt it. Oh, he felt it--\nJust then a burst of static came over the radio on the buckboard,\nfollowed by some words in a deep voice Charlie couldn't make out.\nOne of the mule drivers yelled over: \"Cap'm Charlie! It's Durwood.\nSays Mr. Stroock called from Atlanta and wants you to call him back\nright away.\"\nA sinking feeling ran through Charlie. There was only one reason\nwhy Wismer Stroock, his young chief financial officer, would ever\ndare try to track him down in the fields of Turpmtine on a Saturday\nmorning during a quail shoot.\n\"Tell'm-tell'm I'll call him later on, after we get back to the Gun\nHouse.\" He wondered if the quaver of concern in his voice had been\ndetectable.\n\"Says it's urgent, Cap'm.\"\nCharlie hesitated. \"Just tell'm what I said.\"He looked down at the patches of white on the throats of the two\ndead bobs, but he could no longer focus on them. The birds' bellies\nlooked like a reddish-gray fuzz.\nPlannersBanc. The mountain of debt. The avalanche has begun,\nthought Cap'm Charlie.\nChapter 1Chocolate Mecca\nFor a while the freaknic traffic inched up piedmont . . . inched up\nPiedmont . . . inched up Piedmont . . . inched up as far as Tenth\nStreet . . . and then inched up the slope beyond Tenth Street . . .\ninched up as far as Fifteenth Street . . . whereupon it came to a\ncomplete, utter, hopeless, bogged-down glue-trap halt, both ways,\nnorthbound, southbound, going and coming, across all four lanes.\nThat was it. Nobody was moving on Piedmont Avenue; not\nanywhere, not any which way; not from here; not for now. Suddenly,\nas if they were pilots ejecting from fighter planes, black boys and\ngirls began popping out into the dusk of an Atlanta Saturday night.\nThey popped out of convertibles, muscle cars, Jeeps, Explorers, out\nof vans, out of evil- looking little econo-sports coupes, out of pickup\ntrucks, campers, hatchbacks, Nissan Maximas, Honda Accords,\nBMWs, and even ordinary American sedans.\nRoger Too White-and in that moment this old nickname of his, Roger\nToo White, which he had been stuck with ever since Morehouse,\ncame bubbling up, uninvited, into his own brain-Roger Too White\nstared through the windshield of his Lexus, astonished. Out the\npassenger-side window of a screaming-red Chevrolet Camaro just\nahead of him, in the lane to his left, shot one leg of a pair of fiercely\npre-faded blue jeans. A girl. He could tell it was a girl because of the\nlittle caramel- colored foot that protruded from the jeans, shod only\nin the merest of sandals. Then, much faster than it would take to tell\nit, out the window came her hip, her little bottom, her bare midriff,\nher tube top, her wide shoulders, her long wavy black hair with its\nheavenly auburn sheen. Youth! She hadn't even bothered to open\nthe door. She had come rolling out of the Camaro like a high jumper\nrolling over the bar at a track meet.\nAs soon as both feet touched the pavement of Piedmont Avenue,\nshe started dancing, thrusting her elbows out in front of her and\nthrashing them about, shaking those lovely little hips, those tube-\ntopped breasts, those shoulders, that heavenly hair.ram yo' booty! ram yo' booty!\nA rap song was pounding out of the Camaro with such astounding\nvolume, Roger Too White could hear every single vulgar intonation\nof it even with the Lexus's windows rolled up.\nhow'm i spose a love her, catch her mackin' with the brothers?\n-sang, or chanted, or recited, or whatever you were supposed to call\nit, the guttural voice of a rap artist named Doctor Rammer Doc Doc,\nif it wasn't utterly ridiculous to call him an artist.\nram yo' booty! ram yo' booty!\n-sang the chorus, which sounded like a group of sex-crazed crack\nfiends. It took a Roger Too White to imagine that sex-crazed crack\nfiends could get together and cooperate long enough to sing a\nchorus, although he did correctly identify Doctor Rammer Doc Doc,\nwho was so popular that even a forty-two-year-old lawyer like\nhimself couldn't completely- shut him out of his waking life. His own\ntastes ran to Mahler and Stravinsky, and he would have gladly\nmajored in music history at Morehouse, except that music history\nhadn't been considered too great a major for a black undergraduate\nwho wanted to get into the University of Georgia law school. All of\nthat, compressed into a millisecond, blipped through his mind in this\nmoment, too.\nThe girl swung her hips in an exaggerated arc each time the fiends\nhit the BOO of booty. She was gorgeous. Her jeans were down so\nlow on her hips, and her tube top was up so high on her chest, he\ncould see lots of her lovely light-caramel-colored flesh, punctuated\nby her belly button, which looked like an eager little eye. Her skin\nwas the same light color as his, and he knew her type at a glance.\nDespite her funky clothes, she was a blueblood. She had Black Deb\nwritten all over her. Her parents were no doubt the classic Black\nProfessional Couple of the 1990s, in Charlotte or Raleigh or\nWashington or Baltimore. Look at the gold bangles on her wrists;\nmust have cost hundreds of dollars. Look at the soft waves in herrelaxed hair, a 'do known as a Bout en Train; French, baby, for \"life\nof the part)'\"; cost a fortune; his own wife had the same thing done\nto her hair. Little cutie, shaking her booty, probably went to Howard\nor maybe Chapel Hill or the University of Virginia; belonged to Theta\nPsi. Oh, these black boys and girls came to Atlanta from colleges all\nover the place for Freaknic every April, at spring break, thousands of\nthem, and here they were on Piedmont Avenue, in the heart of the\nnorthern third of Atlanta, the white third, flooding the streets, the\nparks, the malls, taking over Midtown and Downtown and the\ncommercial strips of Buckhead, tying up traffic, even on Highways 75\nand 85, baying at the moon, which turns chocolate during Freaknic,\nfreaking out White Atlanta, scaring them indoors, where they cower\nfor three days, giving them a snootful of the future. To these black\ncollege students shaking it in front of his Lexus, this was nothing\nmore than what white college students had been doing for years at\nFort Lauderdale and Daytona and Cancun, or wherever they were\ngoing now, except that these boys and girls here in front of him\nweren't interested in any beach. They were coming to the . . .\nstreets of Atlanta. Atlanta was their city, the Black Beacon, as the\nMayor called it, 70 percent black. The Mayor was black-in fact, Roger\nand the Mayor, Wesley Dobbs Jordan, had been fraternity brothers\n(Omega Zeta Zeta) at Morehouse-and twelve of the nineteen city\ncouncil members were black, and the chief of police was black, and\nthe fire chief was black, and practically the whole civil service was\nblack, and the Power was black, and White Atlanta was screaming its\nhead off about \"Freaknik,\" with a k instead of a c, as the white\nnewspapers called it, ignorant of the fact that Freaknic was a\nvariation not of the (white) word beatnik but of the (neutral) word\npicnic. They were screaming that these black Freaknik revelers were\nrude, loud, rowdy, and insolent, that they got filthy drunk and\nlittered the streets and urinated on (white) people's lawns, that they\ntied up the streets and the malls and cost the (white) merchants\nmillions of dollars.\neven that they made so much noise they were disrupting the fragile\nmating habits of the rhinoceroses at the Grant Park zoo. The matinghabits of the rhinos!\nIn other words, these black boys and girls had the audacity to do\nexactly what white boys and girls did even- year during their spring\nbreaks. Oh yes, and White Atlanta was screaming everything they\ncould think of, except for what they really thought, which was:\nThey're everywhere, they're in our part of town, and they're doing\nwhat they damn well please-and we can't stop them!\nOut of the other side of the Camaro popped the driver, a great\nlubberly lad. A snub-tailed Eclipse was practically touching his rear\nbumper. Me put one hand on the airfoil lip on the trunk of the\nCamaro and-youth!-vaulted between the two cars and landed right in\nfront of the girl. And no sooner had his feet touched the pavement\nof Piedmont Avenue than he was dancing.\nram yo' booty! ram yo' booty!\nHe was a tall fellow, slightly darker than she was, but not much. He\ncould still pass the Brown Paper Bag Test, as they used to call it here\nin the Black Beacon, which meant that so long as your skin was no\ndarker than a brown paper bag from the grocery store, you were\neligible for Black Society and black debs. He had on a baseball cap,\nbackwards. He had one gold earring, like a pirate's. He had on an\norange T-shirt so big the short sleeves came down to his elbows and\nthe neck opening revealed his clavicle; the tail came down below his\nhips, so that you could barely see his baggy cut-off jeans, whose\ncrotch hung down to his knees. On his feet he wore a pair of huge\nblack sneakers known as Frankensteins, with rubber}' white tongue-\nlike shapes lapping up the sides from the soles. Homey; that was the\nlook. Ghetto Boy; but Roger Too White, who was wearing a chalk-\nstriped gray worsted suit, a blue- and-white-striped shirt with a\nwhite collar crisp with stays, and a navy silk tie, wasn't buying this\nghetto rags getup: the boy was big, but he was fat and happy. He\ndidn't have those hard muscles and thong-like tendons and that\nwary look through the eyes of the ghetto boy-and he did have a\nChevrolet Camaro that must have set his daddy back close to$20,000. No, this was probably the son of somebody who had\ninherited the oldest black bank or insurance company in Memphis or\nBirmingham or Richmond or-Roger Too White checked out the\nlicense plate: Kentucky-okay, in Louisville-from his daddy. Our\nLouisville company chairman-in-embryo, now a college boy, has\ncome to Atlanta for three days for Freaknic, to raise hell and feel like\na true blood and righteous brother.\nRoger Too White looked up ahead and to his left and behind him,\nand everywhere he looked there were happy, frolicsome black boys\nand girls like this pair, out on the pavement of Piedmont Avenue,\ndancing between the cars, shouting to each other, throwing away\nbeer cans that went ping! ping! ping! on the roadway, shaking their\nyoung booties, right at the entrance to a white enclave, Ansley Park,\nand baying at that chocolate moon. The very air of Saturday-night\nAtlanta was choked with the hip-hopped-up mojo of rap music\nbooming from a thousand car stereos--\nram yo' booty!\n-and then he took a look at his watch. Oh shit! It was 7:05, and he\nhad to be at an address on Habersham Road in Buckhead, some\nstreet he had never laid eyes on, by 7:30. He had allowed himself\nplenty of time, because he knew Freaknic was in progress and the\ntraffic would be terrible, but now he was trapped in the middle of an\nimpromptu block party 011 Piedmont Avenue. He felt panicky. He\ncould never say this out loud to a living soul, not even to his wife,\nbut he couldn't stand the thought of being late for appointments-\nespecially where important white people were concerned. And this\nwas the Georgia Tech football coach, Buck McNutter, an Atlanta\ncelebrity, a man he didn't even know, who had summoned him out\n011 a Saturday night, urgently; unwilling to even go into it on the\ntelephone. He couldn't be late to an appointment with a man like\nthat. Couldn't! Maybe that was craven of him, but that was the way\nhe was. Once, when he was representing the MoTech Corporation in\nthe Atlanta Pythons stadium negotiations, he was standing around in\na conference room up in the Peachtree Center with a bunch of whitelawyers and executives, and they were all waiting for Russell Tubbs,\nwhom he knew very well because he, too, was black and a lawyer.\nRuss was representing the city. One of these big meaty white\nbusiness types, a real red-faced Cracker, is talking to another one,\njust as big, red-faced, and slit-eyed, and they've got their backs to\nhim. They didn't know he was there. And one of them says, \"When\nthe hell's this guy Tubbs gonna get here?\" And the other one puts on\nthis real Cracker-style imitation of a black accent and says, \"Well\nnow, I don' rightly know de answer to dat. Counselor Tubbs, he\noperates on C. P. T.\" Colored People's Time. Roger Too White had\nused that tired old joke himself, with other brothers, but to hear it\ncome out of the mouth of this fatback white bigot-he wanted to\nstrangle him on the spot. But he didn't strangle him, did he-no,\ninstead he had swallowed it . . . whole . . . and pledged to himself\nthat he would never-ever.1-be late to an appointment, particularly\nwith a prominent white person. And he never had been, from that\nday to this-and now he was trapped in a Freaknic Saturday-night\nblock party that could go on forever.\nDesperate, Roger Too White sought a way out-the sidewalk. He was\nin the right lane, the lane next to the curb, and maybe he could\ndrive up over the curb and onto the sidewalk and down to Tenth\nStreet and get out that way somehow. The sidewalk was against an\nembankment topped by a fence with rustic stone pillars that ran up\nthe hill of Piedmont Avenue. The embankment was like a cliff,\nretaining a stretch of high ground that cropped up between the\navenue and Piedmont Park, which was on the other side. Right\nabove the wall you could see a low structure that from this angle\nlooked like a lodge in the mountain resort area of western North\nCarolina. There was a terrace, and up on that terrace were a bunch\nof white people in formal clothes. They were peering down at the\nFreaknic revelers.\nram yo' booty! ram yo' booty!\nFrom where he was, he could see the white faces of the men and\nthe shoulders of their tuxedos. He could see the white faces of thewomen and, in many cases, their bare white shoulders and the\nbodices of their dresses. They were not smiling. They were not\nhappy. Bango! The Piedmont Driving Club! That was what this\notherwise unremarkable building was: the Piedmont Driving Club!\nNow he recognized it! The Driving Club was the very sanctum, the\nvery citadel of the White Atlanta Establishment. He got the picture\nimmediately. These white swells had no doubt planned this big party\nfor this Saturday night ages ago, never dreaming it would coincide\nwith Freaknic. And now their worst white nightmare had come true.\nThey were marooned in the very middle of it. Black Freaknik! On this\nside, black boys and girls were ejecting from their automobiles and\nshaking it to Doctor Rammer Doc Doc's \"Ram Yo' Booty.\" On the\nother side, in Piedmont Park, thousands of black boys and girls were\ngathering for a concert featuring another rapper, G. G. Good Jookin'.\nAll those white faces up on the Driving Club terrace could look here,\nand they could look there, and they could see nothing in any\ndirection but a rising tide of exuberant young black people, utterly\nunfettered and unafraid.\nPerfection! The perfect poetic justice was what this black traffic-jam\njam session on Piedmont was! The very origin of the Piedmont\nDriving Club was . . . driving vehicles. The club had started up in\n1887, just twenty-two years after the Civil War, when the Atlanta\nelite, which meant the white elite, it went without saying, had begun\nmeeting on the weekends in what was now Piedmont Park to show\noff their buggies, phaetons, barouches, victorias, and tallyhos with\nall the custom bodywork and harnesses and tack and the hellishly\nexpensive horses, in order to bask in one another's conspicuous\nconsumption. So then they had bought themselves a clubhouse, and\ngradually they had enlarged it, and eventually it became the\nrambling structure up there on the high ground he was looking at\nright now. It wasn't all that long ago that no black man set foot in\nthe place unless he was a cook, a dishwasher, a waiter, a doorman, a\nmaltre d' or an attendant who parked the members' cars. Lately the\nDriving Club had seen the handwriting on the wall, and they were\nlooking for some black members. Roger himself had received anoverture, if that was what it was, from a jolly lawyer named Buddy\nLee Witherspoon. That was an example of just how Too White even\nwhite people perceived him to be, wasn't it! Well, they could just go\nkiss his -he was damned if he would ever set foot in that place and\ncirculate on that terrace with all those white faces he was now\nstaring up at-not even if they got down on their knees and begged\nhim. Hell, no! He was going to get out of this Lexus sedan and join\nthe party and stand in the street and raise his black fists up toward\nthat terrace and roar out to them: \"Look, you want a driving club?\nYou want a driving club that convenes at Piedmont and Fifteenth\nStreet? You want to see the elite meet? Then feast your eyes on\nthis! Take a good look! BMWs, Geos, Neons, Eclipses, sports utilities,\nHummers, runabouts, Camrys, and Eldorados, millions of dollars'\nworth of cars, in the hands of young black Americans, billions of\nvolts of energy and excitement, with young black America in the\ndriver's seat and shaking its black booty right in your pale trembling\nfaces! Look at me! Listen to me, because I'm going to-\"\nBut then he lost heart, because he knew he wasn't going to say that\nor anything else. He wasn't even going to get out of the car. Cot to\nbe at Coach Buck McNutter's house in Buckhead in less than twenty-\nfive minutes, and Coach Buck McNutter is very white.\nFor an instant, as he had many times before, Roger Too White hated\nhimself. Maybe he was too white . . . 'loo White ... His father, Roger\nMakepeace White, pastor of the Beloved Covenant Church, had\nnamed him Roger Ahlstrom White 11, out of his intellectual\nreverence for \"a religious historian named Sidney Ahlstrom. His\nfather had thought that the II was the proper designation for sons\nwho had the same first name as their fathers but different middle\nnames. So when he was a boy growing up in Vine City and Collier\nHeights, all his aunts and uncles and cousins had started calling him\nRoger Two, and then everybody started calling him Roger Two, as if\nhe had a double name like Buddy Lee. Then when he got to\nMorehouse in the seventies, his fellow students turned that perfectly\nharmless nickname on him like a skewer through the ribs andstarted calling him Roger Too White instead of Roger White II. He\nhad come to Morehouse, the crown jewel of the four black colleges\nthat made up the Atlanta University Center, with the misfortune of\nbeing deeply influenced in all matters political (and moral and\ncultural and pertaining to personal conduct, property, dress, and\netiquette) by his father, an ardent admirer of Booker T. Washington.\nBooker T. had made the most important pronouncement of his life\nright over there in Piedmont Park, his so-called Atlanta Compromise\nspeech of 1895 at the Cotton States Exposition, in which he said\nblack people should seek economic security before political or social\nequality with whites. Alas, the late seventies were a time when,\nespecially at Morehouse, the number-one elite blueblood black\ncollege in America, molder of the much-vaunted Morehouse Man,\nyou had to be for the legacy of the Panthers and CORE and SNCC\nand the BLA and Rap and Stokely and Huey and Eldridge, or you\nwere out of it. Black Atlanta's own Martin Luther King had been\nmurdered not even ten years before, and so obviously gradualism\nand Gandhiism and all that were finished. If you were a proponent\nof Booker T. Washington, then you were worse than out of it. The\nway people acted, you might as well have been waving a placard for\nLester Maddox or George Wallace or Eugene Talmadge. But damn it\nall, Booker T. was no Uncle Tom! He never kowtowed to the white\nman! He didn't even want integration! He said the white man will\nnever like you! He said he'll never treat you fair out of the goodness\nof his heart! He'll treat you fair only after you've made something\nout of yourself and your career and your community and he's dying\nto do business with you! But nobody at Morehouse, and certainly\nnobody in Omega Zeta Zeta, wanted to even hear about all that.\nThey wanted to hear about confrontations with the White\nEstablishment and gunfights with the cops that brothers had had in\nthe sixties. Booker T. Wds/iington? Roger Too White they started\ncalling him, and he hadn't been able to shake it in the whole three\ndecades since then.\nAnd maybe they were right . . . maybe they were right ... In this\nvery moment, as he looked up through the windshield of his Lexusat the Piedmont Driving Club, in this very moment when he felt the\nurge to get out of the car and lift his fists to the heavens and\nannounce the new dawn, he was pulled in two directions. Part of\nhim was so proud of these boys and girls all around him on the\nstreet, these young brothers and sisters who didn't hesitate for a\nsecond to claim the streets of Atlanta, all the streets, as their own,\nwith just as much Dionysian abandon as any white college students-\nwhile another part of him said, \"Why can't you put on a classier\nshow? If you can afford the BMWs and the Ca- maros and the Geo\nconvertibles and the Hummers\"-he could see one of those monsters,\na Hummer, four or five cars ahead of him--\nHe turned his head to take another look at the Deb dancing in the\nstreet--\nWhat?\nHe couldn't believe it. She was now up on top of the Camaro,\ndancing as if she were on top of a bar, like the bar of the\nSportsman's Club downtown 011 Ellis Street. And there wasn't just\nher lubberly boyfriend staring up at her, there was a whole mob of\nboys, college boys, the jeunesse doree of Black America, all of them\nwearing their ghetto rags and jumping around like a bunch of\nmaniacs and grinning and shrieking, \"Take it off! Take it off! Take it\noff!\"\nram yo' booty! ram yo' booty!\nThe Deb, this beautiful, exquisite young woman, was merrily teasing\nthem on, grinding her boot)' and projecting her breasts, and\ntouching the top of the fly of her jeans with both hands, as if at any\nmoment she was about to unzip them, slip them down off her hips,\nall with a salacious leer on her lips and a lubricious look in her eyes.\n\"take it off! take it off! take it off!\"\nThere must have been thirty berserk boys around that Camaro, wild\nwith anticipation. Some were thrusting money up toward her. Shelooked at them with a grin of concupiscent mockery and continued\nto grind her hips.\nRoger Too White's heart was pounding, partly because he feared\nwhat a terrible turn this exhibition might take-but also-and he felt\nthis immediately, in his very loins-because he had seldom been so\naroused by any sight in his life-he didn't want her to-and yet he did-\n-when suddenly Circe, the Deb, the golden tan daughter of some\nIdeal Black Professional Couple of the 1990s, stretched her right arm\nstraight out, pointing upward-and grinned.\nStunned, astonished, her besotted subjects on the pavement\nswiveled their heads in that direction, too. Now they were all looking\nupward, obedient drones of Circe, the great tubby lubberly Louisville\ncompany chairman-in-embryo among them. They had all spotted the\nwhite people up on the terrace of the Driving Club peering down\nfrom the formal eminence of their tuxedos and cocktail dresses. All\nthe boys and girls, the whole street full of them, began laughing and\nshouting.\nram yo' booty! ram yo' booty!\nThen they all started dancing, all those black boys and girls out in\ntheir shiny screaming sea of cars, with the Deb up on top of the\nCamaro like the Queen of the Rout, all facing in one direction,\ntoward the Piedmont Driving Club, shaking their booties and\nthrashing their elbows. Did they know that this was the Piedmont\nDriving Club and what the Piedmont Driving Club was? Not one\nchance in a thousand, thought Roger Too White. All they saw was a\nclutch of bewildered white people clad in their evening clothes. The\ndance in the street became a good-natured mockery. You want to\nsee Freaknic? Then we'll show it to you! We'll give you a real eyeful!\nWe're loose! We're down! You're dead! You're rickety!\ngonna sock it to my baby!\nlike a rocket, don't mean maybe!-Suddenly a new rap song was pounding from the Camaro--\ngirl, can't knock it, say be limbo!\nshanks akimbo!\nhey! yo! bimbo! you unlock it!\ngonna take it out my pocket!\nan' then i'm gonna cock it in -\nCHOC-olate mecca! unnhhh!\nCHOC-olate mecca! unnhhh!\ncHoc-olate mecca! unnhhh!\nCHOC-olate mecca! unnhhh!\nWith each choc of chocolate mecca the Black Deb on top of the\nCamaro thrust her hips this way, and with each unnhhh! she thrust\nthem that way. And now the whole block party was doing the same\nthing, grinning and laughing at the stricken white people on the\nterrace.\nchocolate mecca! unnhhh!\nchocolate mecca! unnhhh!\nchocolate mecca! unnhhh!\nSuddenly the tubby boy, the company chairman-to-be, stopped\ndancing, wheeled about, and walked up close to his Camaro, facing\nthe passenger-side door. What was he doing? The Black Deb\napparently wondered the same thing, because she stopped dancing,\ntoo, and looked down at him. He was so close to the Camaro, you\ncouldn't see anything but his back, but he seemed to be fumbling\nwith the fly of his cut-off jeans. Roger Too White had a disheartening\npremonition . . . Surely he wouldn't . . . right there in the middle of\nPiedmont Avenue . . . Now the boy reached down under the tail ofhis long, floppy T-shirt and lifted it as high as his waist and hooked\nhis thumbs over the top of his cut-off jeans and, in a single motion,\npulled his jeans and his under- shorts clown around his knees and\nleaned over and stuck out his big fat bare bottom.\nThe Black Deb shrieked and exploded with laughter. Boys and girls\nall over the street shrieked and exploded with laughter.\nMooning!\nMooning!\nHe was mooning the very Piedmont Driving Club itself!\nRoger Too White, encased in his fancy Lexus and his $2,800 custom-\nmade suit and $125 shirt and crepe de chine necktie, was appalled.\nHe wanted to cry out: \"Brothers! Sisters! Is this why you've become\nthe jeunesse dorie of Black America? Is this why we've finally scaled\nthe heights educationally and professionally? Is this why your\nparents struggled to accumulate the capital to give you those cars\nyou're cruising around Atlanta in tonight? Is this why they made sure\nyour generation went to college? So you brothers could act like this?\nWearing ghetto rags and snorting and squealing like rutboars and\nturning that beautiful sister into a common Ellis Street hootchy and\nthrowing money at her? And you sisters-why would you do\nsomething like this? You veritable flowers of black womanhood-why\nwould you let the brothers turn you into the very same stereotypes\nthat the hip-hop videos make you out to be? Why don't you say no\nto such sexist disrespect? Why don't you insist, as you should, as\nyou easily could, upon the love, affection, and genuine respect you\ndeserve? Brothers, Sisters, listen to me-\"\nAt the same time another feeling entirely was sweeping through his\nloins. Deep inside he was . . . exhilarated. The freedom of these\nyoung brothers and sisters, the abandon, the Dionysian fearlessness\non the very threshold of the Piedmont Driving Club- Oh my God, oh\nmy God- Oh, Chocolate Mecca!miraculously, the traffic started moving again, and the girls and boys\npopped back into their cars as fast as they had ejected from them,\nand the Freaknic traffic began inching up Piedmont Avenue once\nmore. Not a moment too soon, either. The Black Deb had managed\nto take advantage of the brief interlude of mocking the stuffed white\nshirts on the terrace of the Driving Club to scramble back down into\nthe Camaro, alongside her fat moon-happy friend, and now the\ntraffic was moving again, and it was all over.\nRoger Too White's heart was still pounding, from a fear of what the\nscene might have turned into-and from a sexual stimulation that\nmade him wonder all over again about his proper forty-two-year-old\nself-but he managed to keep his wits about him long enough to peel\noff from Piedmont Avenue at Morningside Drive.\nHe sped over to Lenox Road and then headed north and made a big\nloop around the Lenox Square area, which he knew would be\nclogged with Freaknickers. By driving much too fast, he managed to\nget over to Habersham Road, near West Paces Ferry, only eleven\nminutes late.\nAw, man . . . Habersham Road ... It was dusk, but it was still light\nenough to see what Habersham Road was. . . Georgia Tech was\ntreating Coach Buck McNutter like a king. The Stingers Club, the new\ngroup of alumni football boosters, had raised enough money to top\noff the university's regular football coach's pay enough, and\nguarantee the great McNutter $875,000 a year, thereby wooing him\naway from the University of Alabama. As a bonus on a bonus, they\nguaranteed him a house in Buckhead, gratis. Not only that,\nHabersham Road was obviously in the very best part of Buckhead.\nThe lawns rose up from the street like big green breasts, and at the\ntop of each breast was a house big enough to be called a mansion .\n. . Trees everywhere . . . reaching up so high it was obvious they\nwere virgin timber . . . boxwood bushes so big and dense and well\nclipped, you could hear all those gardeners snicker- snacking away\njust by looking at them . . . and, above all, the dogwood. It was a\nlate spring, for Georgia, and the dogwood had just burst out in alltheir glory. Here in the gloaming, the white blossoms, arranged in\ntheir distinctive planes, swept from green breast to green breast,\nfrom mansion to mansion, estate to estate, as if some divine artist\nhad adorned the heavenly air itself with them to show that the\nresidents of Buckhead, off West Paces Ferry Road, were the elect,\nthe anointed, the rightful white hard grabbers of whatever Atlanta,\nGeorgia, had to offer. In Cascade Heights and at Niskey Lake, where\nRoger Too White lived, way down in Southwest Atlanta, he and a lot\nof other successful black people, the lawyers, the bankers, the\ninsurance company executives, had big houses-some with white\ncolumns-and big lawns and, for that matter, dogwood. But it just\nwasn't the same. Niskey Lake didn't have those big green breasts,\nand the dogwood blossoms didn't seem to exist in such divine clouds\n. . .\nRoger Too White drove his Lexus up a driveway that ascended the\nlush swell of the lawn McNutter. As seen through the planes of\ndogwood blossoms, the house appeared to have been done in the\nFrench Maison Lafitte style, with lofty casement windows from which\ncame a soft, mellow light, upstairs and down. At the top of the hill,\nthe driveway made a show)' loop, bordered with liriope, in front of\nthe house. Roger Too White parked near the front door. As he\nwalked toward it, he remembered all the stories he had heard of the\nblack men who had been hassled and detained by not only the\npolice but also the Buckhead private security patrols . . . just for\nbeing black and setting foot on this hallowed earth near the holy\nwhite corridor of West Paces Ferry Road.\nThe doorbell was answered by Coach Buck McNutter himself. Oh,\nthere was no mistake about that. Roger Too White had never met\nthe man before, but he knew that face. He had seen it God knew\nhow many times on television and in the pages ofThe Atlanta\nJournal-Constitution. It was the real loose-sausage-eating, brown-\nliquor-drinking Southern face of a white athlete turned forty and\ncovered with a smooth well-fed layer of flesh. His neck, which\nseemed a foot wide, rose up out of a yellow polo shirt and a blueblazer as if it were unit-welded to his trapezius muscles and his\nshoulders. He was like a single solid slab of meat clear up to his hair,\nwhich was a head of hair and a half, a strange silver)' blond color,\ncoiffed with bouncy fullness and little flips that screamed $65 male\nhairdo. Not a single cilium was out of place. Amid the vast smooth\nmeat of his head and neck, his eyes and his mouth seemed terribly\ntiny, but they were both going all out to register pleasure at the\nsight of Counselor Roger White, this black man who had arrived at\nthe door at 7:42 on Freaknic Saturday night.\n\"Hey, Mr. White!\" exclaimed Coach Buck McNutter. \"Buck McNutter!\"\nWith that, he extended an enormous right hand. Roger Too White\nput out his own hand and felt it disappear, knuckles and all, inside a\ngrip that made him wince.\n\"Sure do 'predate you doing this! Particularly\"-P'tickly-\"on a Saturday\nnight!\"\n\"Not at all,\" said Roger Too White. There was something so\ndesperate about the man's show of gratitude, he didn't bother\napologizing for being twelve minutes late.\n\"Come on in and make yourself comfortable!\" Then, over his\nshoulder: \"Hey, Val, Mr. White's here!\"\nVal turned out to be a blond woman, in her late twenties, if Roger\nToo White was any judge. Everything about her, especially the\nprovocative way she lowered her eyebrows when she smiled, gave\noff whiffs of frisky trouble. She came into the entry hall from some\nside room with the same desperate delight in her eyes as the coach.\n\"Hi!\" She really sang it out.\n\"Mr. White, I want you to meet my wife, Val!\"\nSo they shook hands, too. There was so much frenzied grinning\ngoing on that Roger Too White couldn't help grinning himself. He\nunderstood part of it. He saw this type of prominent white person allthe time in Atlanta. Buck McNutter was a prototypical Southern white\nboy, from Mississippi, which was an even harder case than Georgia,\na real hardtack Cracker in his heart but one who had decided that if\nhe had to deal with these nigras, then the better part of valor was to\nput on a good show of being civil about it. (Proving Booker T.\nabsolutely right, of course.)\n\"Let's go on in the library, Mr. White,\" said Buck McNutter.\nWith this, he dropped the grin. In fact, his beefy face grew long,\nverging on sad. Obviously the pertinent part of Counselor White's\nhouse call on Habersham Road was about to begin.\n\"Can I get you something to drink?\" said young Mrs. McNutter. She\nsaid it with such an animated grin that for an instant it looked like a\nleer and made Roger Too White wonder what on earth she had in\nmind.\n\"Oh, no thanks,\" he said.\n\"You sure? Then I'll just let you two take care of yourselves.\"\nThe library was paneled in a dark wood, mahogany or perhaps\nwalnut, and lined with shelves that seemed to contain far more silver\nbowls, trophies, and pieces of blown-glass sculpture than books. The\ncombination of the dark wood, the soft light, and the gleaming\nobjets was such that at first Roger Too White failed to notice the\nfigure sprawled back on a tufted leather sofa. The long legs were\nutterly ajar. The long arms rested slackly on the sofa's seat. The\nmilky-white eyes, set in a dark brown face beneath the brow of a\nshaved head, stared with utmost sul- lenness. Roger l oo White\nknew that face immediately because it was even more famous in\nAtlanta than Coach Buck McNutter's. It was the face of Georgia\nTech's all-American football star, a running back named Fareek\nFanon, constantly referred to in the newspapers and on television as\nFareek \"the Cannon\" Fanon, a local boy, the proudest product of one\nof Atlanta's most run-down areas, the Bluff, in a neighborhood\nknown as English Avenue. Even slouched back the way he was, withdreadful posture, in this dim room, the young black man radiated\nphysical power. He wore a black polo shirt with red stripes on the\ncollar, wide open at the throat, revealing the long, thick pair of\nmuscles that came down the sides of his neck and inserted at the\nclavicle. Adorning his neck was a gold chain so chunky you could\nhave used it to pull an Isuzu pickup out of a red clay ditch. In his\nforearms and in his elbows and wrists you could see the dense\nmuscles and cable-like tendons of the real ghetto boy (not to\nmention a massive gold Rolex watch with diamonds set in the face),\nand above all, you could see that wary, hostile look through the\neyes. The polo shirt hung out over his hips, which were engulfed in a\npair of ridiculously voluminous black homey jeans that bunched up\nat his ankles where they met a pair of black Frank- ensteins, just like\nthose the college boy had been wearing on Piedmont Avenue. In\neach of his earlobes, which seemed small for so big a man, was\nimbedded a tiny diamond-bright gem. They may have been\ndiamonds and they may have been rhinestones, but Roger Too\nWhite wouldn't have put it past a kid like this to insist on diamonds.\n\"Mr. White,\" said Buck McNutter, \"I want you to meet Fareek Fanon.\"\nFareek \"the Cannon\" Fanon didn't budge. He waited a couple of\nbeats, then gave Roger Too White a barely perceptible nod and a\nlittle shrug of the lips that seemed to say, \"So you're here. So what?\"\nMcNutter glowered, clenched his teeth, mouthed the words \"Get\nup!,\" then pantomimed Get up! with his chin.\nThe Cannon gave McNutter the little lip shrug, which now seemed to\nsay, \"Why've I got to put up with this Good Manners shit?\"\nSlowly, with a great show of world-weariness, the Cannon got up.\nEven with his abysmal posture he towered over Roger Too White.\nRoger Too White extended his hand, and the Cannon deigned to\nshake it, albeit with a gloriously bored limpness.\n\"Fareek is a member of our football team,\" said Coach McNutter.\"Oh, I know that very well,\" said Roger Too White, smiling, looking\nthe young man in the eye, hoping to establish some rapport with\nthis hard case. \"I expect everybody in Atlanta knows that. I've been\nfollowing your adventures, along with everybody else.\"\nThe Cannon said nothing. Instead, he gave Roger Too White a quick\nlook up and down, a dubious look, as if to say, \"Why would I care\nwhat some bitch in a suit like you thinks about me?\"\nThere was an awkward silence, and then McNutter said, \"Mr. White,\nI've asked you to come over here tonight because Fareek has a\nproblem. I have a problem. Georgia Tech has a problem. It\nhappened last night, at a Freaknik party. Fareek's being accused of-\nhe's being accused of rape. Actually, it's a kind of a date-rape thing,\nI suppose you might say. Fareek swears he didn't do anything\nimproper, but he's in a real bind. So am I. So is Georgia Tech.\"\nThe Cannon looked away and did that little disdainful shrug with his\nlips again. This time it looked almost like a smirk.\nMcNutter's eyes blazed with reproach. He'd had enough of this\nghetto-boy cool attitude. \"All right, Fareek-tell Mr. White who the\nyoung woman is!\"\nIn a bored, barely audible voice the Cannon said, \"Some white girl\ngoes to Tech.\"\n\" 'Some white girl goes to Tech'!\" said McNutter. \"Tell Mr. White what\nsome-white-girl-goes-to-Tech's name is, Fareek! Tell him her name!\"\n\"I 'unno.\"\n\"In a pig's eye you don't know!\" roared McNutter. Then he turned to\nRoger Too White. \"I'll tell you who it is, Mr. White. Her name is\nElizabeth Armholster. She's Inman Armholster's daughter, that's who\nshe is.\"\"You're kidding!\" said Roger Too White, in spite of himself, realizing\ntoo late that this was not a very professional response from anyone\nwho fancied himself a high-powered lawyer.\n\"I'm not kidding,\" said McNutter, \"and he wants Fareek's ass, and he\nwants Georgia Tech's ass, and if we lose Fareek, then it's my ass,\ntoo.\"\nInman Armholster. Inman Armholster was one of the first five names\nyou'd think of if the subject was the White Establishment in Atlanta.\nHe was in ever)' network worth networking with in this whole town.\nHe was Old Family and Piedmont Driving Club all the way, and he\nwas rich as Croesus. He could have been up on that terrace tonight,\nand even if he wasn't, you could be sure he was invited. Inman\nArmholster.\nRoger Too White looked at McNutter and then he looked at Fareek\nFanon. Questions came flooding into his mind faster than he could\nsort them out, but the first one was obvious enough. Why had this\nbig white side of beef, McNutter, called him in? He wasn't a criminal\nlawyer, and he wasn't a negligence lawyer. He wasn't even a litigator.\nHe was a corporate lawyer, and his specialty was contracts. Inman\nArmholster wasn't going to be out for money. He was going to be\nout for blood.\nRoger Too White looked at the young athlete again, standing there\nbehind his smug shield of coolness, clad in his ridiculous ghetto rags,\nthe little jewelry in his ears and the big jewelry on his neck and wrist\ncatching the light. The football star. Roger Too White had never seen\none of these people up close before, but here stood an example of\none of the worst role models black youth could emulate: the big-\ntime athlete, the mercenary for hire who assumes that the world\nowes him money and sex, and lots of both, whenever he wants it,\nand that he will be immune, whatever happens. The code of the\nmercenary! Rape, pillage, and loot! With no one to answer to! And\nthis sucker has to pick Inman Armholster's daughter. Whether heknew it or not, and he didn't seem to know much, the Cannon was\nnow a stick of dynamite.\nOh. Chocolate Mecca.\nChapter 2The Saddlebags\nAlmost exactly thirty-six hours later, which is to say, at 7:30 a. M.,\nMonday, it was one of those brutally bright April mornings you\nsometimes get in Atlanta. Even up here on the thirty- second floor of\nthe PlannersBanc Tower, behind a sealed inch-thick thermoplate\nglass wall, with a ten-ton HVAC system chundering cold air down\nfrom the ceiling, you could sense the heat that would soon oppress\nthe city. The conference room faced east, making the glare from the\nsun unbearable. There was nothing in front of all that plate glass to\nreduce it, either, no curtains, no blinds, no screens, not one shred,\nnot one slat. Oh no; the whole thing had been carefully thought out,\nand everybody at the PlannersBanc end of the table knew exactly\nwhat the game was.\nEverybody, not just the senior loan officer Raymond Peepgass, knew\nthis breakfast meeting was an elaborate practical joke, starting with\nthe word \"breakfast.\" Peepgass had made sure the whole lot of them\nhad been advised that if they wanted breakfast, they had better\nattend to it before they got here. And that they had done,\napparently. Nobody was even looking at the \"breakfast.\" They were\nall settling back and eyeing the mark, the quarry, the prey, or\nwhatever you should call the butt of a practical joke involving half a\nbillion dollars. It was the old man at the other end of the table, the\nCroker Global Corporation's end. To Peepgass, who was a mere\nforty-six, any man sixty years old was an old man, even a man as\nburly and physically intimidating as Charlie Croker was.\nObviously Croker did not realize he was it. He was reared back\nconfidently in his chair with his suit jacket thrown open. The fool\nseemed to think he was still one of those real estate developers who\nown the city of Atlanta. He was grinning at the underlings on either\nside of him, his lawyers, financial officers, division heads, his aging\nBanking Relations preppies, and his so-called executive assistants,\nwho were a couple of real numbers with skirts up to . . . here . . .Christ, he was a brute, for a man sixty years old! He was an absolute\nbull. His neck was wider than his head and solid as an oak.\n(Fleetingly it occurred to Peepgass that he, a member of the first\nAmped-Up Audio generation, raised in a treeless spec-house\ndevelopment outside of San Jose, California, had never, so far as he\nknew, seen an oak, much less a bull.) Croker was almost bald, but\nhis baldness was the kind that proclaims masculinity to bum-as if\nthere was so much testosterone surging up through his hide it had\npopped the hair right off the top of his head.\nLook at him . . . the way he's beaming at the two numbers with the\nlegs. They're standing, hovering over him ... so gorgeous! ... a pair\nof real model-girls! . . . Miles of blond hair, both of them, down to\ntheir shoulder blades . . . long legs glistening with youth, lubricity,\nand panty hose . . . That one . . . the taller one . . . such a lovely\nlong neck . . . pale skin ... a slender face, a full-budding lower lip, a\ndemure high- necked silk blouse with a floppy bow tie of the same\nwan and vulnerable fabric . . .\nCroker looks up at her with a broad grin and says something, and\nPeepgass can make out only one thing clearly, a name: \"Peaches.\"\nPeaches. He couldn't believe it. Only in Atlanta would you actuallv\ncome across some blond bombshell named Peaches.\nA cloud rose up Peepgass's brainstem. Sirja was blond and sexv, too,\nwasn't she . . . That little Finnish hooker-a notions buyer for a\nHelsinki department store! How had he ever let a 105-pound Helsinki\nnotions buyer do what she was now doing to him . . . With a sinking\nfeeling, more of a nervous intuition than a thought, he realized that\nthe\nCharlie Crokers of this world would never let any such thing happen\nto them . . .\nJust then Croker's gaze wandered toward a far corner of the room\nand a doubtful, puzzled look came over his face.Peepgass's colleague, Harry Zale, the workout artiste, leaned his\nhuge head over and said out of the corncr of his mouth:\n\"Hey, Ray, check out the big boffster. He just noticed the dead\nplant.\" It was true. Croker's eyes had drifted over to the corner\nwhere, in a dismal gloaming, there stood a solitary tropical plant, a\ndracaena, in a clay pot, dying. Several long, skinny yellowish fronds\ndrooped over like the tongues of the dead. The pot rested on an\notherwise empty expanse of Streptolon carpet pocked with the\nmashed-in depressions of desk feet, chair casters, and office\nmachines that had been moved somewhere else. The old man had\nto squint to make it out. He was puzzled. He could hardly see a\nthing. From where he was sitting, he should have been able to look\nout through the plate-glass wall and seen much of Midtown Atlanta\n... the IBM tower, the GLG Grande, Promenade One, Promenade\nTwo, the Campanile, the Southern Bell Center, Colony Square, and\nthree of his own buildings, the Phoenix Center, the MossCo Tower,\nand the TransEx Palladium. But he couldn't ... It was the glare. He\nand his contingent had been seated so that they had to look straight\ninto it.\nOh, everything about this room was cunningly seedy and\nunpleasant. The conference table itself was a vast thing, a regular\naircraft carrier, but it was put together in modular sections that didn't\nquite jibe where they met, and its surface was not wood but some\nsort of veal-gray plastic laminate. On the table, in front of each of\nthe two dozen people present, was a pathetic setting of paperware,\na paper cup for the orange juice, a paper mug with foldout handles\nfor the coffee, which gave off an odor of incinerated PVC cables, and\na paper plate with a huge, cold, sticky, cheesy, cowpie-like\ncinnamon-Cheddar coffee bun that struck terror into the heart of\nevery man in the room who had ever read an article about arterial\nplaque or free radicals. That, in its entirety, was the breakfast\nmeeting's breakfast.\nTo top it off, on the walls a pair of no smoking signs glowered down\nupon the Croker Global crew with the sort of this-means-youlettering you might expect to find in the cracking unit of an oil\nrefinery, but not at a conference of twenty-four ladies and gentlemen\nof banking and commerce in the PlannersBanc Tower in Midtown\nAtlanta.\nOn second thought, Peepgass decided, to say that Croker or any\nother shithead actually noticed all these things at first was probably\noverstating the case. At first they merely sensed them, stimulus by\nstimulus, through their antennae, through the hair on their arms. It\nwas the central nervous system that finally informed the tycoons\nthat they had descended to the status of shithead at PlannersBanc.\nShithead was the actual term used at the bank and throughout the\nindustry. Bank officers said \"shithead\" in the same matter-of-fact\nway they said \"mortgagee,\" \"co-signer,\" or \"debtor,\" which was the\npolite form of \"shithead,\" since no borrower was referred to as a\ndebtor until he defaulted. Why did bankers turn so quickly to\nscatology when loans went bad? Peepgass didn't know, but that was\nthe way they were. At the Harvard Business School, back in the\n1970s, he had taken a course called Structural Ethics in Corporate\nCulture, in which the teacher, a Professor Pelfner, had talked about\nFreud's theory of money and excrement . . How did it go? ... Dr.\nFreud, Dr. Freud ... He couldn't remember . . . When people at the\nbank now referred to Croker as a shithead, they truly meant it. They\ntruly felt it. His botching things was malfeasance. It made them look\nso goddamned bad! Half a billion! Now his heedless deadbeat\nsquandering was making them all look like fools!-suckers!-patsies!\nAnd he, Raymond Peepgass, was one of the patsies who had signed\noff on those foolish loans! Fortunately, others up the chain of\ncommand had also. Still, he was a senior loan officer, and the\nbanking industry was shrinking, and there were plenty of former\nsenior loan officers of Atlanta banks who were now sitting in their\ndens in Dunwoody, Decatur, Alpharetta, and Snellville, middle-aged\nand hopelessly unemployed, staring out the window at their sons'\nbasketball backboards in their driveways. At PlannersBanc today, the\nwatchwords were \"lean and mean\" and \"mental toughness.\" Forseventy-five years the bank had been called the Southern Planters\nBank and Trust Company. But now that seemed too stodgy, too\nslow-footed, too old- fashioned, and, above all, too Old South.\nPlanters was a word humid with connotations of cotton plantations\nand slaver)'. So Planters had been sterilized and pasteurized into\nPlanners. Nobody could object to Planners; even the most\ndysfunctional welfare case in the Capital Homes could be a planner.\nThen the two words, Planners and Banc, were fused into\nPlannersBanc in keeping with the new lean, mean fashion of\njamming names together with a capital letter sticking up in the\nmiddle . . . NationsBank, SunTrust, BellSouth, GranCare, CrvoLife,\nCvtRtx.\nXcelleNet, 3Com, MicroHelp, HomeBanc ... as if that way you were\ncreating some hyperhard alloy for the twenty-first century. The\nFrench banc was supposed to show how cosmopolitan, how\ninternational, how global, how slick you had become. Obviously\nPlannersBanc hadn't exercised sufficient slick steely Mental\nToughness with Charlie Croker, and Croker's troubles remained a live\nthreat to Peepgass's position. He was eager to see Harry Zale go to\nwork on that big arrogant egomaniacal shithead down there at the\nend of the table.\nHe leaned over toward Harry and said, \"Well . . . you about ready?\"\n\"Yep,\" said Harry. And then he smiled and winked and said, \"Let's\ntake the safeties off the ring binders.\"\nPeepgass's heart jumped inside his rib cage. The Male Battle was\nabout to begin! But even that much explanation would have been\nbeyond him. (He could have used Dr. Freud's help on this one, too.)\nThere were a dozen men at the PlannersBanc end of the table. But\nthe show was all Harry Zale's. Harry, who was about forty-five, had a\nbig jowly round head with a thin top dressing of black-and-gray hair\ncombed straight back and a chin that swelled out like a melon. He\nwas one of those mesomorphs who have short arms and thick chestsand torsos. Just now Harry was jotting down a note, and you\ncouldn't help but be aware that he was left-handed, because he was\nthe type of awkward left-hander who hunches way over and curls his\nshoulder, arm, wrist, and hand into a pretzel shape as he writes. But\nfor what he did, Harry Zale looked perfect. He was a workout artiste,\nand the workout artistes were the Marines, the commandos, the G.\nI. Joes of commercial banking. Or maybe the term should be D. I.,\nfor drill instructor, since Harry liked to refer to what was about to\ntake place not as a workout session but as \"boot camp.\"\nThe time had come, and so Peepgass drew himself up in his seat\nand raised his voice and announced to the entire table, \"All right,\nladies and gentlemen-\" And then he paused. What he meant to say\nnext was a brusque \"Time to get started.\" But that was close to\nbeing an order, and he was not sure he could look Charlie Croker in\nthe face and bark out an order. And so he said, \"Why don't we get\nstarted?\"\nThe Croker Global people who had been standing now took their\nseats. The fabulous bird, Peaches, sat right next to Croker. The other\nsat several seats away.\nPeepgass had no intention of referring to Croker by name. Or, if he\nhad to. he wouldn't call him Charlie. He'd call him Mr. Croker as\ncoldly as he could, by way of letting him know that things have\nchanged, that he was no longer a star customer, a priceless pal, and\nan Atlanta business giant; he was just another shithead. But as he\nlooked at Croker's square-jawed face and massive neck, the memory\nof how fawningly, how ingratiatingly, how constantly he had called\nhim Charlie, of how many times he had charlied him within an inch\nof his life, came flashing back to him; and contrary to every\nconscious intention, he heard himself saying:\n\"Charlie, I believe you met Harry on the way in.\" He gestured toward\nthe workout artiste. \"Harry's the head of our Real Estate Asset\nManagement Department\"-eventually, although not immediately, the\nshit- heads always figured out the acronym-\"and so I've askedHarry-\" He paused again. He couldn't think of how to say what it\nwas Harry was about to do. \"-I've asked Harry to get things under\nway.\"\nHarry didn't even look up. He just kept on writing on a yellow legal\npad, with his left arm and hand all curled around it. Silence\ncommandeered the room. It was as if Harry had more important\nthings than Mr. Charles E. (for Earl) Croker on his mind. Presently he\nlifted his big chin. He sighted Croker down his nose and let his gaze\nlinger . . . and linger . . . and linger . . . without saying a word . .'.\nthe way a father might lead into a man-to-man talk with a boy who\nknows he's been bad.\nAnd then he said in a high-pitched, rasping voice, \"Why are we here,\nMr. Croker? Why are we having this meeting? What's the problem?\"\nOh, Peepgass loved this part of Harry's workout sessions-the rude,\ngrating, condescending way they started off! This was why a\nworkout artiste like Harry Zale was known as an artiste! This was\nartistry. This was boot camp in the PlannersBanc Tower.\nCroker stared at the artiste. Then he turned and looked past Peaches\ntoward his chief financial officer, a young but dour presence named\nWismer Stroock, probably not much more than thirty, who wore\nglasses with rectangular titanium frames and had pale skin, a heavy\nfive o'clock shadow, and the sunken cheeks and string}' neck\npeculiar to compulsive joggers. Croker smiled at Stroock in a\nsmirking way, and this smile said, \"Hey, what kind of cute little stunt\nis this supposed to be? Who is this character? What is this why are\nwe here bullshit?\"\nHarry kept staring at Croker, never once blinking. But Peepgass had\nto give Croker credit; he didn't blink, either. How long would it take\nHarry to get the saddlebags this time? Everybody rated Harry's\nperformance that way, according to how long it took him to get the\nsaddlebags.Finally Croker said, \"You called this mcetin', my friend.\" Mu/i fan; he\nspoke with a South Georgia drawl. Croker had lived in Atlanta for\nforty years, but his act-Peepgass regarded it as an act-was Baker\nCounty. Peepgass had never set foot in the place, of course, but he\ntook Baker County to be about as Redneck as it got in Georgia. It\nwas in Baker County that one of the first big civil rights protests of\nthe 1960s had been ignited. A sheriff known as Gator Johnson had\nshot a black man named Ware after Ware had made a pass at the\nblack mistress of the white overseer of a plantation belonging to\nRobert Woodruff, the president of Coca-Cola. Gator Johnson!\nthought Peepgass . . . and if you read all the articles about Charlie\nCroker in The Atlanta Journal- Constitution and Atlanta magazine\nand the profiles that had run in Forbes and The Wall Street Journal,\nyou had to endure constant references to the piney woods, the\nswamps, hunting, fishing, horses, snakes, raccoons, wild boars,\ninfantry combat, football, and a lot of other Southern Manhood stuff;\nbut above all, football. Back in the late 1950s, when Georgia T ech\nwas a national football power, Charlie Croker had been not only a\nstar running back but a linebacker, one of the last players on any\nmajor football team to play both offense and defense, earning him\nthe title, on the Atlanta sports pages, of \"the Sixty-Minute Man.\" The\nSixty-Minute Man became a local legend his senior year in the\nclosing seconds of the big game with Tech's arch rival, the University\nof Georgia. With forty-five seconds left on the clock, Tech was losing,\n20-7, when Croker ran forty-two yards for a touchdown. The score\nwas now 20-14. Following the kickoff, with twenty-one seconds\nremaining, Georgia was trying to eat up the clock with routine\nrunning plays when the Georgia quarterback attempted yet another\nhandoff to his fullback-and Croker blitzed through the line from his\nlinebacker position and took the ball out of the quarterback's hand\nbefore his own fullback could reach it, knocked the fullback to the\nground like a bowling pin, and ran forty yards for another\ntouchdown, and Tech won, 21-20. To this day old-timers recognized\nhim in malls or lobbies and yelled out, \"The Sixty-Minute Man!\"\nAtlanta magazine had asked him what kind of exercise regimen he\nfollowed now, almost fifty years later, and Peepgass had alwaysremembered Croker's answer: \"Exercise regimen? Who the hell's got\ntime for an exercise regimen? On the other hand, when I need\nfirewood, I start with a tree.\" Croker was the kind who liked to be\nknown as Charlie, not Charles, because it was earthier. On his own\nplantation in Baker County he actually had his black employees call\nhim Captain\nCharlie, or just Cap'm. But he was the kind of Cap'm Charlie who\nalways had to let you know he was a self-made Cap'm Charlie.\n\"And since it's your meeting,\" the Captain continued, \"I speck you're\ngettin' ready to tell us why.\"\nHe said it with such a relaxed smile, Peepgass began to wonder if\nHarry was going to get any saddlebags at all.\n\"No, I wanna know if you know,\" said Harry. \"Think of this as an AA\nmeeting, Mr. Croker. Now that the spree is over, we wanna see some\nreal self-awareness here. You're right, we called this meeting, but 1\nwant you to tell me why. What's it all about? What's the problem\nhere?\"\nPeepgass watched Croker's face. Oh, he loved this part, too, the\nmoment when the shitheads finally realized that things have\nchanged, that their status has taken a header (into the excrement).\nCroker eyed Harry, really sizing him up now, not sure how to play it.\n(They never were.) Every manly fiber in his being-and Charlie\nCroker's being was positively thick with manly fiber-wanted to put\nthis condescending asshole in his place, firmly and rapidly. But if the\nsession turned into a personal pissing match, he was at a distinct\ndisadvantage. The condescending asshole could cause him severe\ngrief. PlannersBanc held all the cards. PlannersBanc could bring six\nother banks and two insurance companies piling in on top of him.\nCroker Global owed the other lenders an additional $285 million,\nmaking a total of $800 million, of which $160 million were notes he,\nCroker, was personally liable for.\"Well, we're here,\" said Croker at last, \"we're here\"-(and if you don't\nknow why you're here, then we can't help you out)-\"to see about\nrestructuring this thing, and we've come here with a good solid\nbusiness plan, and 1 think you're gonna love it.\"\nWith that he reared back in his chair again, might)7 pleased with\nhimself, and Wismer Stroock and the rest of the financial types and\nlawyers and division heads and the Banking Relations preppies and\nPeaches and the other model-girl reared back also, looking mighty\npleased with Himself, too.\n\"But what is 'this thing'?\" asked the Artiste. \"You're talking about\nsolutions, about a way out. First we gotta know what we're in,\nbecause it's getting deep, and it's thick, and it's slimy. The Croker\nGlobal Corporation is sinking into the ooze. You're disappearing on\nus, Mr. Croker, like the Lost Continent. Before we lose you, you gotta\ntell me what this ooze is.\"\nAt this point Croker did something Peepgass had never seen a' shit-\nhead do before. Quite nonchalantly he stood up, looking neither this\nway nor that, as if there was no one else in the room. He was a\nmountain! He took off his jacket-and as he did so, his chest flexed\ninto a couple of massive hillocks. He undid his cuff links and rolled\nup his sleeves-and his forearms looked like a pair of country hams.\n(Peepgass had seen pictures of country hams in the Christmas mail-\norder catalogues that even- credit-card holder in metropolitan\nAtlanta received.) He loosened his necktie and unbuttoned his shirt\nat the collar-and his might)' neck swelled out until it seemed to\nmerge with his trapezii in one continuous slope to the shoulders. And\nthen he arched his back and stretched and preened and showed the\nroom his omnipotent deltoids and latissimi dorsi, which bulged\nbeneath his shirt. Then he sat down again. His minions, Peaches and\nthe rest, rose in their seats and then settled back with him.\n\"Now,\" said Charlie Croker, narrowing his eyes, lifting his chin, and\nputting on the grimace that signifies tolerance stretched just aboutto its limit, \"you said something about . . . ooze?\" Sump'm 'bout . . .\nooze?\nPeepgass's heart tripped faster still. The Male Battle was now surely\njoined.\nHarry was a bulldog. He wouldn't let go, and he wouldn't let the big\nboffster break up his routine.\n\"That's right, Mr. Croker, ooze.\" Harry threw in a lot of Mr. Crokers,\nbut Croker wouldn't lower himself to utter Harry's name, if, indeed,\nhe knew it. \"Ooze ... as in Ooze Creek. It seems to me we're drifting\nup Ooze Creek without a paddle.\"\nNow began a round of verbal fencing in which the Artiste kept\ncutting off Croker's evasions, blusters, rambles, tangents, until finally\nCroker was in a corner where there was nothing to do but come\nforth with the damning information. Even so, he sidestepped at the\nlast moment and made his grim young sidekick, Wismer Stroock, say\nthe actual words. Stroock was very nearly Croker's opposite. Croker\nwas all heartiness and manly charm and bluster and Down Home\nDrawl and cagy Old Dawg of the South; Stroock was all MBA Youth\nand Low Cholesterol and High Density Lipids and Semiconductor\nCircuits, and by his voice you couldn't tell where he was from, unless\nit was the Wharton School of Business and Economics. Yes, he said,\nCroker Global had borrowed a total of $515 million from\nPlannersBanc; and yes, Croker Global had now failed to come up\nwith $36 million in scheduled interest payments and a scheduled $60\nmillion repayment of principal.\n\"But this situation is not acute,\" said Wismer Stroock.\nPeepgass cut a glance at Harry, and they both smiled. The\ndevelopers and their minions never used the word problem; to these\nshitheads there were only situations.\n\"The underlying assets remain sound,\" Stroock continued. \"After the\nmarket saturation of 1989 and 1990, the absorption rate ofcommercial space in metro Atlanta has steadily increased, and\nvacancies have dropped below 20 percent, making Croker\nConcourse, as a prime outer perimeter property, perfectly positioned\nfor the inevitable upswing in demand. As for Croker Global Foods,\nour facilities are mainstays in fourteen key markets, from Contra\nCosta Count)', California, to Monmouth County, New Jersey. It just\nso happens that all our divisions have been hit simultaneously by the\nsame cyclical downturn, that's all. What we're talking about here is a\ncash-flow situation. All our divisions have potential for tremendous\ngrowth in the near term, once the general climate improves. Now,\nyou take Global Foods-\"\nOh, he was very smooth in his modem-mouth fashion, this Wismer\nStroock. He commenced a disquisition about Croker Global Foods\nand its wholesale food distribution centers and about \"emerging\npockets of regional restaurant strength\" and \"food deflation\" and\n\"dampened margins\" and \"the enhanced pricing of crop packs\" . . .\nHarry let Stroock have his head until he said, \"Anyway, what we're\nreally looking at here is the prospect of a significant uptick in cash\nflow over the next two quarters. This is not a stagnant situation by\nany means. All we really need is a temporary freeze on these big\nprincipal payments, and-\"\n\"Whoa!\" said Harry with a grating whine, \"whoa, whoa, whoa. Did I\nhear the word freeze?\" Then he looked at Charlie Croker. \"Mr. Croker,\ndid Mr. Stroock just say something about freezing the principal\npayments?\"\nHe kept staring at Croker with his chin lifted and his head cocked, as\nif his credulity was being put to a severe test. \"Let me tell you two\ngentlemen something about loans. A loan is not a gift. When we\nmake a loan, we actually expect to get paid back.\"\n\"Nobody's talkin' about not payin' you back,\" snapped Croker. \"We're\ntalkin' about something very simple.\" Sump'm veh simple.\"Simple I like,\" said the Artiste. \"I'd like to hear some simple\nproposals as to how we're gonna get paid back. Simple, no assembly\nnecessary, batteries included.\"\nPeepgass noticed that the first little dark crescents of sweat were\nbeginning to form on Croker's shirt, beneath his arms.\n\"That happens to be precisely what we been showin' you,\" he said.\n\"All I've heard so far are some projections concerning office leasing\nin Atlanta and the American food service industry,\" said the Artiste.\n\"We're talking about half a billion dollars here.\"\n\"Look,\" said Charlie Croker, \"you may recall that one of your own\npeople, Mr. John Sycamore, assured us over and over again that if-\"\n\"Mr. Sycamore's no longer on the case.\" \" That may be, but-\" \"Mr.\nSycamore is no longer a factor here.\"\n'Teah, but the fact is, he was your representative, and he practically\ngot down on his knees and-\" \"Mr. Sycamore's hopes-\"\n\"-begged us to take that last $180 million loan and assured us-\" \"Mr.\nSycamore's hopes-\"\n\"-if any situation arose regarding the payback schedule, he-\" \"Mr.\nSycamore's hopes and dreams, whatever they were, no longer exist\nso far as the obscene mess we have now is concerned. They\ndisappeared down the memory hole.\"\nCharlie Croker stared, steaming. Peepgass smiled to himself, albeit\nmorosely. If John Sycamore had any sense, he was at this moment\nbusy sending out resumes. A dapper and ebullient little fellow,\nSycamore had been the salesman, the line officer, who had opened\nthe door to Charlie Croker and Croker Global's half a billion dollars'\nworth of debt. At the time that had made Sycamore a star, a real\n\"first-tier\" operator, to use the PlannersBanc parlance. Back then big\nloans were spoken of as \"sales,\" and hotshots like Sycamore worked\nfor the \"Marketing Department.\" Now that the huge debt had gonebad, Sycamore's career at PlannersBanc was a shambles. He was\nofficially a shithead, too.\nSeeing that Croker was once again speechless, Harry chose this\nmoment to take off his jacket. He stood up and removed it very\nslowly. Peepgass knew what was coming. This was always a great\ntouch.\nIn the process of taking his jacket off, the Artiste thrust his thick\nchest forward. Running down it were a pair of suspenders. They\nwere broad and black, these suspenders, and even at the other end\nof the table you couldn't miss the motif embroidered on them in\ndead white: the skull and crossbones, repeated over and over.\nAs for Charlie Croker-the shitheads, Peepgass had observed, always\npretended they hadn't noticed the damnable death's-head\nsuspenders; although later, if they were in any mood to reminisce,\nthey would invariably ask about the suspenders and inquire if this\nhad been a calculated gesture on the Artiste's part or if he just\nhappened to be wearing a pair of skull-and-crossbones suspenders.\nCroker did the usual. He tried to act as if he hadn't noticed. He\nlooked away and scanned the room . . . but of course there was no\nrelief there, just more of the cheap and seedy details, the Streptolon\ncarpet, the synthetic furniture, the no smoking signs, the glare, the\ndying dracaena, the vile cinnamon-Cheddar coffee buns on the\npaper plates . . .\nThe little crescents of sweat under the tycoon's arms, Peepgass now\nnoticed, had become full half-moons.\nAn elaborate practical joke! Yet none of it was designed simply to\nhumiliate the shitheads and punish them for their sins. What would\nbe the point of that, when you needed them to help you recover\nhundreds of millions of dollars? No, this was boot camp, in Harry\nZale's formulation. The main purpose of a boot camp, like the Marine\nboot camp at Parris Island-Harry had been in the Marines during the\nwar in Vietnam-the main purpose of a boot camp was psychologicalconditioning. The idea was to strip away the recruit's old habits, soft\ncomforts, and home-turf ties and turn him into a new man, a U. S.\nMarine. Well, your typical shithead was a business executive who\narrived at a workout session with bad habits, creature comforts,\nregal ties, a layer of fat, and an ego that would have made the Sun\nKing flinch. The word tycoon, from the Japanese, meaning \"might)'\nruler,\" might be a cliche, but it was no exaggeration in the case of\nyour typical chief executive officer of an American corporation here\nat the turn of the century. He was surrounded by people who\njumped whenever he crooked a finger or cut a glance. They\nperformed all onerous chores for him, no matter how slight. Your\ntypical big shithead like Charlie Croker had not had to stand in line at\nan airport, walk through a metal detector, or utter his name to\nsomeone at a counter for years, unless it was to board the\nConcorde. He lived a life of private planes, private elevators, hotel\nsuites, Lucullan meals, golf weekends, ski weekends, ranch\nweekends, and cutie-pie weekends, as in \"boffing bimbos in the\nCaribbean,\" which was one of Harry's favorite phrases. A \"big\nboffster\" like Charlie Croker was an executive who used the company\nairplane to go hoffing bimbos'in the Caribbean and kept the\nexecutive offices positively awiggle with cutie pies, such as the pair\nwho were seated with him at this very table right now. To sec this\nshithead go on in these magazine articles about what a son of the\nDown Home sod he was was ludicrous.\nAt the outset, Peepgass had to admit, PlannersBanc had only made\nthings worse. In the quest for \"big sales,\" line officers like John\nSycamore had catered to the tycoon's even- lordly vice. The bank\nhad treated Croker to enough food at the PlanncrsClub, up on the\nfiftieth floor of the PlannersBanc Tower, and at the dining room of\nthe Ritz Carlton Buckhead to keep half of Ethiopia alive for a year.\nAnd Cap'm Charlie, no dummy, had buttered up his lenders as well.\nA real \"first-tier\" officer was one who maintained a close personal tie\nwith the big borrower. So when Charlie Croker had telephoned\nSycamore to say he had an extra ticket to the Masters golf\ntournament in Augusta, Sycamore had risen from his dying mother'sbedside at Piedmont General Hospital and left her a number at the\nclubhouse where she could reach him if she felt she was departing\nthis trough of mortal error for good. In those, the palmy days, when\nCroker visited PlannersBanc, he was taken straight to the executive\nfloor, the forty-ninth, where there was a reception room with a\n$270,000 custom-made rug the size of a tennis court, and he had\nsat only at conference tables of mahogany with fruitwood bandings,\namid walnut-paneled walls and more custom carpeting, and was\nserved only viands by the in-house chef and coffee from New\nOrleans in bone chinaware bearing PlannersBanc's logo (a highly\nstylized Creative Director's phoenix with outstretched wings) beneath\nwhite ceilings fitted with pinhole spotlights that lit up pictures so\nbafHing they were bound to be worth a fortune. And beyond the\nglass window walls, always exquisitely curtained against glare, all of\nAtlanta, with its new glass towers rising up like the Emerald City of\nOz, was laid out before him. (It's all yours, Charlie.)\nThere was one more thing about the shithead's relationship with the\nbank . . . something Peepgass never talked about to anybody at the\nbank, even though he was sure that plenty of his colleagues were\naware of it and felt it. There were believed to be-he knew very well\nwhat people outside banking thought, had known it ever since his\ndays at the Harvard Business School-there were believed to be two\nkinds of males in American business. There were the true Male\nAnimals, who went into investment banking, hedge funds, arbitrage,\nreal estate development, and other forms of empire building. They\nwere the gamblers, plungers, traders, risk takers; in short, the\nCharlie Crokers of this world. And then there were the passive males\nwho went into commercial banking, where all you did was lend\nmoney and sit back and collect interest. At Harvard the only thing\nconsidered duller, safer, and less adventurous than working for a\nbank was working for some old-line can't-miss industrial firm like\nOtis Elevator, which only needed caretakers. The Charlie Crokers\nwere convinced that if they got in a tight corner, they could always\nmanipulate the banking types-such as Raymond Peepgass. Using\ntheir stronger wills, greater guile, and higher levels of testosterone,they could always get them to roll over their out-of-control loans,\nrestructure them, refinance them, or otherwise push trouble off into\nan open-ended future.\nBut lo! - somewhere in the shallows of the PlannersBanc hormone\npool the bank had found the likes of Harry Zale, the workout artiste,\nthe bank's own Marine drill instructor. Harry was here to make the\nshitheads pop to, to render the fat, melt down the ego, separate the\nsoul from its vain props, and create a new man: a shithead who\nactually focuses on paying back the money.\nStill standing, Harry took a deep breath, which thrust his chest out\nand flaunted the skull-and-crossbone suspenders even more\nflagrantly. Then he sat down and raised his big chin and looked\ndown his nose once more and gave Charlie Croker another lingering\nstare and said:\n\"Okay, Mr. Croker, we're all waiting. The floor is now open for\nconcrete proposals for paying back money. As I said, simple we like,\nno assembly necessary, batteries included.\"\nIt was probably the Artiste's infatuation with this little metaphor of\nhis that finally did it. Croker had been no-assemblv-necessary'd,\nbatteries-included'd, why-are-we-here'd, dead-dracaena'd, coffee-\nburned, lectured at, and trifled with long enough. He leaned forward\nwith his huge forearms on the table and the testosterone flowing.\nHis shoulders and neck seemed to sv ell up. He thrust his own\nsquare jaw forward, and the lawyers and the accountants all\nhunched forward with him; and so did Peaches.\nA small and ominous smile was now on Croker's face. His voice was\nlow, controlled, and seething: \"Well now, friend\"-frin-\"I wanna ask\nyou sump'm. You ever been huntin'?\"\nHarry said nothing. He just put on a smile exactly like Croker's.\n'Tou ever headed out in a pickup truck early inna moaning and\nlissened t'alFose'oP boys talking about alia buds 'ey gon' shoot?People, they shoot a lotta buds with their mouths onna way out to\nthe fields . . . with their mouths . . . But comes a time when you\nfinally got to stop the truck and pick up a gun and do sump'm with it\n. . . see . . . And down whirr I grew up, in Baker County, theh's a\nsaying: 'When the tailgate drops, the bullshit stops.' \"\nHe eyed Harry even more intently. Harry just stared back without\nblinking, without altering his little smile so much as an eighth of an\ninch.\n\"An'eh's been a certain amount a bullshit in 'is room 'is morning,\"\nCroker continued, \"if you don't mind the introduction of some plain\nEnglish into these proceedings. Well, now the tailgate's dropped.\nWe're here with a serious business plan and a serious proposal for\nrestructuring these loans and straightening out this situation. But\nwe're not here for a lecture about the nature of loan obligations . . .\nsee . . . I'm not sure who the hale you think you're talking to, but-\"\n\"I know exactly-\"\n\"-you need to be straightened out-\"\n\"I know exactly-\"\n\"-on a coupla things, my-\"\n\"I know exactly-\"\n\"-frin, because-\"\n\"I know exactly who I'm talking to, Mr. Croker.\" Croker's voice was\nlow and strong, but Harry's high grinding whine cut through it. \"I'm\ntalking to an individual who owes this bank half a billion dollars and\nsix other banks and two insurance companies two hundred and\neighty- five million more, that's who I'm talking to. And you know,\nthere's an old saying here in Atlanta, too, and that saying is 'Money\ntalks, and bullshit walks,' and the time has come to talk with money,\nMr. Croker. All I'm telling you is what's already obvious. All I'm telling\nyou are some home truths in the privacy of this room. You wanna\nthrow this thing open to all seven banks and the two insurancecompanies and have a real workout session? We can do that!\nHappens all the time. It'll have to be in an auditorium. Nine different\nlenders? We're talking about more than a hundred people sitting in\nan auditorium, with an audio system and microphones, and it'll be\nincumbent upon every one of those lenders to pick up a microphone\nand tell you something over the wall speakers that I'm gonna tell\nyou right now, very quietly, in this little room, across this table, on\nbehalf of only one lender, PlannersBanc, and it's this, Mr. Croker . . .\"\nSeeing that Croker was suitably stunned by his belligerence, the\nArtiste paused for maximum effect and then said in a menacingly\ncalm voice, \"This is one of the worst cases of corporate\nmismanagement . . . one of the grossest violations of a fiduciary\nobligation . . . I've ever seen . . . And in my job I look down the\ngullet of mismanagement and malfeasance every day. You and your\ncorporation have taken five hundred million dollars from this bank,\nMr. Croker, and treated it like your own private Freaknik, like you\ncould take five hundred million dollars from us and do anything you\nwanted with it, go hog- wild, go Freaknik, because nobody could\ntouch you, because this was Freaknik time for Croker Global and the\ntown was yours. Well, I got news for you, Mr. Croker. This ain't\nSaddy night no mo'. Freaknik's over, baby. You know what I'm\nsavin'?\" Peepgass's heart was pounding. He couldn't tell whether\nHarry was imitating Croker's Down Home accent or a black accent or\nboth. \"This here's the morning after, bro, and Croker Global's got the\nbiggest hangover in the history of debt defalcation in the\nsoutheastern Yew-nited States.\"\nNow Peepgass's eyes were fastened on Charlie Croker. Croker looked\nas if his breath had been knocked out. He no longer looked furious.\nThe smoke was no longer coming out of his ears. He still stared at\nHarry, but his stare was frozen and opaque.\nThe Artiste! Oh yes, this was artistry!\nIt wasn't that the Artiste was tougher than the tycoon, more of a\nman, and had dominated him in a fair fight. No, it was the tone, the\nstance the Artiste dared assume, the insolence he so cavalierlybrandished as his natural prerogative, the way he lifted his big chin\nand looked down his nose and, with ever)' twist of his body and his\ngrating whine, announced: \"Behold! Nothing but another shithead.\"\nWith a few arcs of that chin he had knocked the vain props out firom\nunder the great man, ripped away the insulation and the princely\nprotocol, and left him sitting white and plump in his birthday suit, a\nsinner, a debtor, a deadbeat minus his dignity, naked before an\nunsparing dun.\nPeepgass noticed that the tycoon's half-moons had begun to enlarge\nand had spread across his shirt along the curves on the underside of\nhis mighty chest muscles.\nHarry began speaking in a softer, lower voice. \"Listen, Mr. Croker,\ndon't get me wrong. We're on your side here. We don't want this to\nturn into a free-for-all with nine lenders, either. And we wouldn't\nparticularly look forward to the press coverage.\" He paused to let\nthat terrorist threat, the press, stalk the room. \"We're the agent\nbank in this setup, and that gives us the privilege of looking out for\nPlannersBanc first of all. But we gotta come up with something\nconcrete.\" He extended his right fist up in the air as high as it would\ngo and said, \"Where's the money gonna come from? It ain't gonna\ncome . . . poo/)\"-he sprung his fist open-\"from outta the air! Mr.\nStroock assures us you got a lot of sound assets. Okay . . . good.\nThe time has come to make them liquid. The time has come to pay\nus back. The time has come to sell something. I'm with you-the\ntailgate has dropped.\"\nAt that point young Stroock jumped in, evidently to give his boss,\nCroker, time to get his breath back and his battered wits together.\nJust \"selling something,\" said Stroock, was not such an easy\nproposition. Croker Global had considered this particular option. But\nin the first place there was a complex of interlocking ownerships.\nCertain corporate structures within Croker Global's real estate\nportfolio actually owned certain independently structured divisions of\nCroker Global Foods, each of which was a corporation in its own\nright, and-\"I'm aware of all that,\" said the Artiste. \"I've got your organization\nchart. I'm entering it in the Org-off.\"\n\"The Org-off?\" said Wismer Stroock.\n\"Yeah. That's a contest we have at PlannersBanc for the worst-\nlooking organization chart. I thought nobody was gonna be able to\nbeat Chai Long Shipping, out of Hong Kong. They got three hundred\nships, and each ship is a separate corporation, and each corporation\nowns a fraction of at least five other ships, and each ship has a color\ncode, and the chart is ten feet long. Looks like a Game Boy\nsemiconductor panel, blown up. I thought Chai Long was a sure\nthing in the Org-off until I saw yours. Yours looks like a bowl of\nlinguine primavera. You just gotta untangle it and sell something.\"\n\"Unh-huh. I see. Do you mind if I finish?\"\n\"No, I don't mind, but why don't we entertain a few modest\nproposals first.\"\nThe Artiste turned to an assistant on his other side and said in a low\nvoice, \"Gimme the cars, Sheldon.\" The young man, Sheldon,\nsnapped open a ring binder and handed Harry a sheet of paper.\nThe Artiste studied it for a moment, then looked up at Croker and\nsaid, \"Now, in your last financial statement you list seven company\nautomobiles, three BMW 750:L's valued at . . . What's it say here? . .\n. $93,000 each . . . Two BMW 540:A's valued at $55,000 each, a\nFerrari 355 valued at $129,000, and a customized Cadillac Seville\nSTS\nvalued at $75,000 ... By the way, how'd you get here this morning?\"\nCroker gave the Artiste a long death-ray stare, then said, \"I drove.\"\n\"Wliat'd you drive? A BMW? The Ferrari? The customized Cadillac\nSeville S I S? Which one?\"Croker eyed him balefully but said nothing. The steam was coming\nback into his system. His mighty chest rose and fell with a prodigious\nsigh. The dark stains were inching closer, from either side of his\nchest, toward the sternum.\nHarry said, \"Seven company cars . . . Sell 'em.\"\n\"Those cars are in constant use,\" said Croker. \"Besides, suppose we\nsold 'em-to the distinct disadvantage of our operations, by the way.\nWhat are we talking about here? A couple of hundred thousand\ndollars.\"\n\"Hey!\" said the Artiste with a big smile. \"I don't know about you, but\nI have great respect for a couple of hundred thousand dollars.\nBesides, your arithmetic's a little off. It's five hundred and ninety-\nthree thousand. A thousand more insignificant items like that and\nwe've got half a billion and plenty to spare. See how easy it is? Sell\n'em.\"\nHe turned to his assistant again and said, \"Gimme the airplanes.\"\nThe ring binder snapped open, and the assistant, Sheldon, gave him\nseveral sheets of paper.\n\"Now, Mr. Croker,\" said Harry, looking at the pages, \"you also list\nfour aircraft, two Beech jet 400A's, a Super King Air 350, and a Gulf-\nstream Five.\" Then he looked up at Croker and, in a voice like W. C.\nFields's, repeated: \"A Gulfstream Five ... a Gee-Fiiiiiiive . . . That's a\n$38 million aircraft, if I'm not mistaken, and I see here that yours\nhas certain . . . en/ianccments ... a Satcom telephone system,\n$300,000 installed ... A Satcom telephone enables you to telephone,\nwhile you're alofffifft, from anywhere in the world, isn't that correct?\"\n\"Yeah,\" said Croker.\n\"I low many of Croker Global's operations are overseas, Mr. Croker?\"\n\"As of now, none, but-\"\"And I see you've also got a set of SkyWatch cabin radar display-\nscreens, worth $125,000 installed, and a cabin interior custom\ndesigned and furnished by a Mr. Ronald Vine for $2,845,000. And it\nsays here there's a painting installed on that airplane worth\n$190,000.\" The Artiste raised his great chin and looked down his\nnose at Croker with a mixture of incredulity and disdain. \"Are those\nfigures correct? Thev come straight from your financial statement.\nYou presented these items as collateral.\"\n\"That's right.\"\n\"That's $40 million tied up in that one aircraft.\" He turned to his\nassistant. \"What's the total value of the other three planes,\nSheldon?\" \"Fifteen million, nine hundred thousand.\"\n\"Fifteen million, nine hundred thousand,\" said Harry. \"So now we're\ntalking about $58 million worth of airplanes. Where do you keep\nthose airplanes, Mr. Croker?\"\n\"Out at PDK,\" said Croker, referring to the airport for private aircraft\nin DeKalb County, just east of the city. PDK was short for Peachtree-\nDeKalb.\n'Ton lease hangar space there?\" \"Yeah.\"\n\"How many pilots do you employ?\" \"Twelve.\"\n\"Twelve . . .\" The Artiste arched his eyebrows and whistled through\nhis teeth in mock surprise. He smiled. \"We're gonna save you a\nwhole lotta money.\" He smiled again, as if this was all great fun.\nThen the smile vanished, and he said with a toneless finality, \"Sell\n'em.\"\n\"That we could always do,\" said Croker, \"but it would be totally self-\ndefeating. Those aircraft are not used in a frivolous manner. In\nGlobal Foods we got seventeen warehouses in fourteen states. We\ngot-\" \"Sell 'em.\" \"We got-\"\"Sell 'em. From now on we're gonna be like the Vietcong. We're\ngonna travel on the ground and live off the land.\"\nHe now turned to Sheldon and said something out of the side of his\nmouth that Peepgass didn't catch. The young man's binder popped\nopen, and he handed the Artiste three or four sheets of paper.\nHam- studied them for a moment and then said, without looking up,\n\"The experimental farrrrrrrm.\" He sounded like W. C. Fields again.\n\"Twenty-nine thousand acres in Baker County, Georgia . . . We got\nthe correct spelling here, T, U, R, P, M, T, I, N, E?\" \"That's right,\" said\nCroker. \"The place is called Turp-um-tine?\"\n'Turpmtine,\" Coker said with an edge to his voice. \"It's always been\ncalled that. Turpmtine's been in operation since the 1830s. For the\nfirst fifty or sixty years the only crop they had there was turpentine,\nand that was the way the-the farm workers pronounced it,\n'turpmtine.' As a matter of fact, they called themselves the\nTurpmtine Ni-the Turpmtine\nPeople. That was all they did, for generations, they harvested\nturpentine from the pine trees. We got descendants of the-of these\npeople- working there right now.\"\nPeepgass wondered why Croker was suddenly so forthcoming,\ninformative, and reflective.\n\"It's listed here,\" said Harry, \"as an 'experimental farm.' My\ninformation is that it's a plantation.\"\n\"Well, down 'eh below the gnat line,\" said Croker in an amiable\nvoice, \"anything much over five hundred acres, they're liable to call\nit a plantation.\"\n\"Yeah,\" said Harry, \"but my impression is that Turpmtine is known\nspecifically as a quail plantation. Do you shoot quail at Turpmtine?\"\n\"It's quail country. Certainly we shoot some quail there. Be hard to\nresist.\"\"But would you say that's the main enterprise at Turpmtine, shooting\nquail? Mr. Sycamore visited Turpmtine several times, I believe, and\nthat was his impression.\"\nCroker's huge chest delivered another labored sigh. Peepgass knew\nexactly what he was thinking. First they tell me Sycamore's out of\nthe picture, and now they're quoting him as an authority. But what\nhe said was \"Turpmtine's been a workin' farm for more'n a century\nand a half, and it's still a workin' farm. In fact, now more'n it's ever\nbeen. It's the main testin' ground for our food division.\" He was now\ndropping g's by the bushel. \"We got more'n a thousand experimental\nplats\"-spearmen- tal plats-\"at Turpmtine where we're runnin'\nexperiments on crop production and rotation and tillin'-we got\nexperiments with robots that'll level an acre of-\"\n\"And you also got fifty-nine horses, valued at $4,700,000, according\nto this,\" said the Artiste. He held up one of the sheets of paper\nSheldon had handed him. \"Wliatta these fifty-nine horses do? They\ndon't pull plows, do they?\"\n\"The horses are a profitable business in their own right,\" said Croker,\nmanaging to control his temper. \"The market for good horses is\nfireproof. Besides that, we got a good stud business.\"\n\"That's what I understand,\" said the Artiste, studying a sheet of\npaper. \"It says here you got a stud named First Draw, and he's worth\nthree million dollars.\" He lifted his big chin and peered down his\nnose at Croker.\n\"That's true.\" said Croker.\nHarry said, \"First Draw . . . Does that horse's name by any chance\nallude in some way to the proceeds of a real estate construction\nloan?\"\nSniggers and guffaws from the PlannersBanc end of the table; and\nnot even Croker's somber young VVismer Stroock could resist a small\nsmile.Croker paused, then said with a sudden burst of joviality, \"It's a\ngam- blin' term. Refers to the game of draw poker.\"\n\"I'm sure it's a gambling term,\" said the Artiste, \"but I'm not so sure\nthe game is poker.\"\nMore sniggers and guffaws. Even, body at both ends of the table\nknew that when a developer obtained a loan commitment from a\nbank, the bank released the money to him in stages, and the first\nstage was known as \"the first draw.\" There was a motto among the\ndevelopers in Atlanta: \"Bin the boat with the first draw,\" which\nmeant, Buy the seventy-four- foot Hatteras motor yacht you've\nalways wanted, the house on Sea Island you've been dreaming of,\nthe condominium in Vail, the ranch in Wyoming, with that first\nrelease of money, just in case something goes wrong and you don't\nmake any profit on the project. Strictly speaking, using the first draw\nthat way was illegal-fraudulent, in a word-since in the loan\nagreement the developer promised to devote every nickel to the\nproject. But in the heady days of the late 1980s and then again in\nthe late 1990s the banks had winked and looked the other way, and\nthere were, in point of fact, quite a few boats named First Draw\nmoored on Sea Island and at Hilton Head, and there was a stallion\ndown in Baker County . . .\n\"First Drawwwwwwww,\" said the Artiste in his W. C. Fields voice.\n\"Yowza, yowza. Is it also a fact, Mr. Croker, that you ride some of\nthose fifty-nine horses while you shoot quail at Turpmtine?\"\n\"Well, you best get off t/v'em first, before you shoot a shotgun, or\nyou'll regret it. But cert'ny, you ride out to the fields. And it's good\nfor the horses.\"\nThe Artiste eyed the shithead dubiously. \"Fifty-nine horses . . .\n$4,700,000.\" Then he looked down at the sheets in front of him.\n\"Twenty-nine thousand acres . . . land, improvements, and\nequipment ... a 5,000-foot concrete runway capable of\naccommodating a Gulf- stream Five jet aircraft . . . Total value, $32million ... All told, with the horses, that's $37 million right there.\" He\npaused, then said in his dead-even voice, \"Sell 'em.\"\n\"Sell . . . what?\"\n\"The plantation and the horses. The works.\"\nNow Croker paused. He squinted into the glare, as if to see the\nArtiste better. \"For the moment I'm gonna leave aside the\nimportance of Turpmtine to the future of our corporation, and I'm\ngonna mention two other things.\" The old man seemed to have\ndecided to take the reasonable approach. \"First, this is not the time\nin the real estate cycle\"-sackle-\"to put a 29,000-acre farm on the\nmarket. But I'm sure you know that. Second, Turpmtine is not just a\nfarm. It's an institution ... a veil remarkable institution.\"\nThe old man's voice was suddenly warm and resonant. He launched\ninto a passionate account of Turpmtine's history, with some more\nabout \"the Turpmtine People.\" He told of how Croker Global was\ntoday one of the biggest employers of unskilled black labor in that\npart of Georgia. He told of black workers tending the plats, black\nworkers tending the horses, black workers tilling the soil, black\nworkers preserving the ecology of Turpmtine's eight thousand acres\nof swamp. You could hear his voice welling up toward a peroration.\n\"Nobody else is gonna employ these people the way we do. Nobody\nbut Croker Global is gonna have experimental plats and\nagrochemical experiments and a horse operation and peanuts,\ncotton, timber, and an ecological program-\"\n\"And quail shooting,\" said the Artiste.\n\"Yeah, all right, quail shooting. That provides employment for these\npeople, too. We got some black dog trainers, and they're damned\ngood at it. We got-we got people tendin' the dogs and the horses\nand the copses and the wagons and . . . and everything else. Now, if\nCroker Global pulled out, sold out, where would these people go? I'll\ntell you. On welfare. We're talkin'bout southwest Georgia here, out inthe country, the real country, and these folks don't just go off to\nsome . . . other job. 'These are good, proud folks who don't wanna\nbe 011 the dole. These are good country folks who see welfare as a\nstigma. These are Turpmtine folks who count 011 Croker Global as\nthe one steady rock in their lives. So there's no way you or me or\nanybody else can look at Turpmtine as just some asset to be\ncapitalized or liquidated. 'There's a dimension here you can't put in a\nfinancial statement, a dimension that involves pain and suffering,\nthat involves a human cost.\"\n\"Hey, wait a minute,\" said Harry, lifting both hands, palms outward,\nand casting his eyes down in the gesture that says, Please, no more.\n\"I understand pain. I understand suffering. I understand the human\ncost.\" Now he looked up, straight at Croker, with a gaze that\nbespoke the utmost sincerity. \"I've been there. I was in the war . . .\nMost four fingers . . .\"\nWith that he raised his right fist above his head as high as it would\ngo, with the back of his hand twisted toward Croker, so that it looked\nlike a stump of a hand with only the ridges of the four big knuckles\nremaining. Then he extended a single finger upward, his middle\nfinger, and kept it that way, a look of quizzical sadness on his face.\n\"Sell it,\" he said.\nCroker stared at the upright middle finger and squinted and stared\nsome more, and his face grew red. And then Peepgass saw them . .\n. the saddlebags! The saddlebags! The saddlebags had formed! They\nwere complete! The great stains of sweat on the tycoon's shirt had\nnow spread from both sides, from under the arms and across the rib\ncage and beneath the curves of his mighty chest until they had met,\ncome together, hooked up-two dark expanses joined at the sternum.\nThey looked just like a pair of saddlebags on a horse.\nOh, Peepgass loved it! Harry had done it again!-gotten his\nsaddlebags-even with a tough old bird like Charlie Croker!Fellows here at the PlannersBanc end of the table were nudging\neach other and smiling. They'd noticed it, too. Peepgass was elated.\nSomehow Harry had redeemed them all. He turned toward the\nArtiste and said, behind his hand, \"Saddlebags, Harry! Saddlebags!\"\nHe meant it to be sotto voce, little more than a whisper, but it came\nout much too loud. He hadn't meant to grin, either, but he did. He\ncouldn't hold back. He could see Croker staring at him.\nThe Artiste lowered his arm, and Croker began to sputter. His voice\nwas low and deep in his throat. \"Now, listen . . .\" he began.\nIn a perfectly pleasant voice Harry Zale said, \"Just a moment, Mr.\nCroker,\" and he leaned over toward Peepgass and said in a low\nvoice, \"Time for a little lender's cactus, wouldn't you say?\"\nPeepgass chuckled. \"Perfect,\" he said. Oh God, this would be rich.\nHarry straightened up and looked at Croker and arched his\neyebrows. \"Now you listen . . .\" Croker resumed, his voice lost\nsomewhere deep in his trachea.\n\"Excuse me, Mr. Croker,\" said the Artiste, \"but we're gonna have a\nlender's cactus now. So we're gonna ask you gentlemen and you\nladies to step outside the room so we can cactus.\" \"You're gonna\nwhat?\" asked Croker.\n\"We're gonna have a lender's cactus.\"\n\"Did you say cactus?\" asked Croker.\n\"Right,\" said the Artiste. \"So if you'll just step outside for a little\nwhile, we'll appreciate it.\"\n\"Are you trying to say caucus?\" Croker was all but snarling.\n\"No, cactus,\" said the Artiste with a merry smile. \"This time we want\nall the pricks on the outside.\"\nThe Artiste kept the smile spread across his face, as if this was all\ngood Boys' Locker Room fun. The tycoon stared with as furious ascowl as Peepgass had ever seen on a man's face. All that the Artiste\ngave him was the big unblinking grin. Ten kinds of mayhem must\nhave been going through Croker's mind, but he said nothing. Slowly\nhe rose, and Wismer Stroock and the rest of his retinue rose with\nhim. The long- legged bird, Peaches, now standing beside him,\nstared at the old man's shirt. For the first time Croker seemed to be\naware that it was a sopping mess. He glanced down morosely at his\nsaddlebags, then picked up his jacket and wheeled about and\nstarted walking out of the room.\nHe took a step, and then when he took a second step, his entire\nhuge body seemed to buckle and collapse to starboard before he\ncould right himself. Then he took another step and then another, and\nthe same thing happened again. Evidently something was terribly\nwrong with his right knee or his right hip. The whole room was\nwatching. On he walked toward the door, taking a normal step and\nthen buckling, taking a normal step and then buckling. It made it\nseem as if the drubbing he had just suffered at the hands of Harry\nZale had taken some terrible physical toll on his body.\nThen he stopped and paused for a moment. Slowly he turned about.\nHe stared, balefully, but not at Harry Zale. He stared at Peepgass\nhimself, and with a hissing stage whisper he said:\n\"Asshole.\"\nAll at once Peepgass was aware that now everybody in the room, at\nboth ends of the table, was looking at him. They were waiting for\nhim to respond. But he was stunned, speechless. And more than\nthat-he was afraid. What did he dare say to this enraged bull down\nat the other end of the table? A moment ago he had been so\nelated!-reveling as the Artiste had reduced the great tycoon to a\nsweating, sputtering, groggy, humiliated shithead. A moment ago he\nhad felt redeemed, avenged against Croker and his entire saber-\ntoothed ilk! And now he stood here paralyzed while a scalding\nrealization spread through the very lining of his skull: I can't take\nthis man on! Not even verbally! Not even when he's thrown such aninsult-\"Asshole\"-right in my face in front of my own people! And he\nstood there, unable to make a sound, while his face burned and his\nheart pounded.\nCroker shook his head disdainfully and turned away and continued\nhis gimp-legged retreat from the room, taking a step and buckling,\ntaking a step and buckling, taking a step and buckling, taking a step\nand buckling.\nPeepgass just stood there, frozen, speechless, afraid to look into the\neyes of anybody else in the room.\nChapter 3Turpmtine\nBy noon charlie croker was sitting in his favorite seat in the forward\ncabin of his Gulfstream Five as the two BMW/Rolls- Royce engines\nroared and the aircraft lifted off from PDK.\nHis right knee still hurt, and he was burning up, but he kept his\njacket on because he didn't want the ship's only other passenger,\nWismer Stroock, looking at his shirt. \"Saddlebags!\" Ray Peepgass\nhad exclaimed, and by now Charlie had figured out that insolent\nwisecrack. The shirt was still wet beneath the arms and across the\nribs. The saddlebags wouldn't go away.\nWismer Stroock was seated facing him. Between the two of them\nwas Charlie's pride and joy, a desktop that had been custom-made\nout of a slab of tupelo maple from Turpmtine Plantation and\ncantilevered from the G-5's wall by stainless-steel supports. The Wiz\nwas only thirty-two, but he had a bony neck and a bony jaw and\nsunken cheeks and cadaverous cheekbones from getting up ever)'\nmorning, every morning, before dawn and running six miles through\nthe streets of a Dunwoody subdivision called Quail Ridge. The\nrectangular titanium frames of the Wiz's eyeglasses made his eyes\nlook like a pair of bar-code scanners. At this moment the bar-code\nscanners were aimed out the window, as if the Wiz were absorbed in\nthe process of takeoff or the G-5's distinctive white wing with its\nrudder-like upturned tip. In fact, Charlie could tell that his young\nchief financial officer was embarrassed for him and didn't want to\nhumiliate him any further by even so much as contemplating his\nface. That meant he must have really looked bad over at\nPlannersBanc.\nThe head remained in profile, but the two bar-code scanners rotated\ntoward him for an instant, and so Charlie decided to put an end to\nthe tension.\n\"Okay, Wiz, got any good ideas?\" He tried to boom his voice out over\nthe noise of the engines.Now the Wiz looked straight at him and opened his mouth, but no\nwords came out. Instead, he held his fingertips up to his ears, as if it\nwas too noisy to hear, and looked away again.\nSo Charlie looked away, too, and tried to buck himself up by\nconsidering the glories of his surroundings, namely, the G-5 and its\nwonderful appurtenances. The cabin's dozen seats were big as\nthrones and upholstered in the richest tan leather imaginable and\nplaced at conspicuously wasteful intervals, like chairs in a club\nlounge. There were curtains and carpeting woven with Croker\nGlobal's navy-and-gold globe logo and custom-made consoles with\nthe logo carved on the doors in relief so deep people couldn't resist\nrunning their fingers over it. There were SkyWatch screens they\ncould see from any seat they sat in ... as a tiny white airplane shape\nmoved across an electronic map and showed them precisely where\nthey were flying, anywhere in the world.\nBut what really got them was Charlie's desktop. It had been\nfashioned from a single slab of wood, four or five inches thick, cut\nfrom the knee of a black tupelo maple tree from Jookers Swamp at\nTurpmtine, the knee being the part of the tree that swelled out just\nabove the water- line. The desk retained the irregular shape and\nrugged edge of the slab as it was originally cut, although it was all\nhighly polished and the top was like glass, with the burled swirls of\nthe grain creating an extraordinary design. The desk was actually\nthe brainchild of Ronald Vine, the decorator Serena had insisted he\nbring down to Atlanta from New York to do the G-5's interior; but\nCharlie loved that desk so much, there were days when he believed\nthe original idea, the germ of the inspiration, must have been his. He\nloved it so much, he had had Ronald-Charlie had actually grown to\nadmire and enjoy the guy-make a much larger version of it as a\ndining table for the new hunting lodge at Turpmtine, the Gun House,\nthat Ronald had designed and built last year ... at a cost (to Croker\nGlobal Foods) of $3.6 million by the time it was all over. Ronald had\nalso paneled the bulkheads of the G-5 with tupelo maple. It was\nlighter and warmer and livelier than the usual stiff-neckedmahogany. On the bulkhead facing Charlie, the one right behind the\nWiz's seat, Ronald had affixed the ornate gold frame of the greatest\nwork of art in the history of the world, so far as Charlie Croker was\nconcerned, and Charlie was staring at it right now.\nIt was a painting by N. C. Wyeth of Jim Bowie rising up from his\ndeathbed to fight the Mexicans at the Alamo. Wyeth had done it in\nreds, oranges, tans, blacks, and whites as the frontispiece for Lone\nStar, a child's history of Texas that was the only book, the only book,\nCharlie could remember his father and mother ever possessing. The\nday in 1986 when he bought that painting, the one he was staring at\nright now, for $190,000 at an auction at Sotheby's up in New York\nCity had been one of the happiest days of his entire life.\nAnd this was already one of the worst days of his entire life, and it\nwas only twelve noon. Humiliation . . . well, let's face facts. The\nwhole thing had been humiliating, from start to finish. That\nsonofabitch Zell or Zale, or whatever his name was, the smart guy\nwith the big chin, had humiliated him in a whole room full of people,\nincluding eleven of his own people, from his own office. He had\ngiven him the finger\\ He had called him a prick\\ He had compared\nhim to some drunk fool peeing in the street during Freaknikl And he\nhad had to grit his teeth and take it!\nOn the way out, gimping along on his bad knee like an old man, he\nhad annihilated this Zell or Zale four or five times. On the elevator\ngoing down he had thrown both hands up toward the sonofabitch's\nface in a feint, and when the sonofabitch had lifted his own hands in\ndefense, he had grabbed him around the waist in a bear hug and\nsqueezed with every ounce of the strength of his might}' arms and\nhis massive back- I've got a back like a Jersey bull-until the\nsonofabitch's backbone cracked and he started whimpering for\nmercy--\nLost four fingers in the war, did you, you pansy, you cow, you\ngladiola! Now how about a little joke about losing your very life--Between PlannersBanc's marble mausoleum of a lobby and his car,\nwhich was in the tower's parking garage, he had destroyed the\nsonofabitch three or four more times in various ways, until he ran\nout of ideas for committing homicide with his bare hands; and truly,\nif the sonofabitch had been so unwise as to turn up at that moment,\nsomething violent surely would have taken place.\nAs soon as he and Wismer Stroock reached the car, Charlie had\ndecided not to go back to the office and, instead, told the Wiz to get\non the telephone and call the office and have Marguerite get hold of\nLud and Jimmy and Gwenctte and have them get the Gulfstream\nready to fly to Turpmtine immediately and call Durwood to pick them\nup at the landing strip and have lunch ready in the Gun House. He\nwanted to get away to someplace quiet to work out a little strategy\nwith the Wiz. Or that was what he told the Wiz-and, for that matter,\nhimself. He insisted on doing the driving out to PDK himself, even\nthough it hurt his knee just to press his foot on the gas pedal. He\ndidn't want the Wiz-or himself-to think he was a totally helpless\ncase. On the way out on the Buford Highway, heading for PDK, lie\nput the car on cruise control as much as he could. His knee hurt that\nmuch.\nAnd so now, as the aircraft roared and strained to gain altitude,\nCharlie concentrated on the painting of Jim Bowie and tried to draw\nstrength from it, as he had so many times before in moments of\nstress. The knee was aching so goddamned much-oh, he was like a\nlot of old football players ... It had been great and glorious stuff,\nplaying football for Tech, for the Ramblin' Wreck back in the fifties\nand early sixties . . . and now he was a worn-out arthritic wreck\nhimself. . . But that wouldn't have stopped a Jim Bowie. In the\npainting, Bowie, who was already dying, lay on a bed with a cheap\nmetal bedstead, an old-fashioned infirmary bed. He had propped\nhimself up on one elbow. With his other hand he was brandishing his\nfamous Bowie knife at a bunch of Mexican soldiers who had burst\ninto the room with rifles and bayonets and were heading for him. It\nwas the way Bowie's big neck and his jaw jutted out toward theMexicans and the way his eyes blazed, defiant to the end, that made\nit a great painting. Never say die, even when you're dying, was what\nthat painting said. Charlie always wished he could have met N. C.\nWyeth and shaken his hand. He stared at the indomitable Bowie and\nwaited for an infusion of courage. Instead, he felt some sort of\ndisturbing electrical field forming beneath his sternum, around his\nheart. For an instant he didn't know what it was-but then he did. Its\nname was panic.\nThe ship had taken off to the northeast, and the two pilots, Lud\nHarnsbarger, the captain, and Jimmy Kite, the co-pilot, were\nexecuting a big lazy turn to the northwest in order to head back\nsouth for the trip down to Turpmtine. Gwenette, the stewardess,\nmust have already gotten up from her seat in the rear, because\nCharlie heard a refrigerator cabinet or the microwave, or something,\nslam shut back in the galley. Gwenette probably figured she ought to\nmove fast, since it didn't take much more than thirty minutes' flying\ntime to reach the plantation.\nIn the distance the sun was exploding off the towers of Downtown\nand Midtown Atlanta and the commercial swath on the eastern side\nof Buckhead. Charlie knew them all by sight. He knew them not by\nthe names of their architects-what were architects but neurotic and\n\"artistic\" hired help?-but by the names of their developers. There\nwas John Portman's seventy-story glass cylinder, the Westin\nPeachtree Plaza, flashing in the sun. (Portman was smart; he was his\nown architect.) There was I om Cousins's twin-towered 191\nPeachtree. There was Blaine Kel- lcy's Promenade Two, with all the\nlittle neon fins 011 top. There was Lars Gunsteldt's GLG Grande\nTower. There was Charlie's own Phoenix Center; and, over there, his\nMossCo Tower; and over there, his TransEx Palladium. (Palladium!\nWhat an innocent time the 1980s had been!) There was Mack Taylor\nand Harvey Mathis's Buckhead Plaza. There was Charlie Ackerman's\nTower Place. Downtown, Midtown, and Buck- head were like islands\nrising from an ocean of trees. Many was the time that the view from\nup here in the G-5, looking down upon the towers and the trees, hadfilled him with an inexpressible joy. I did that! That's my handiwork!\nI'm one of the giants who built this city! I'm a star! Total strangers\nused to say hello to him in restaurants, in malls, at sports events,\nwith a certain glistening look in their eyes, because they knew he\nwas . . . the fabled Charlie Croker!-which made it all the more\nunbelievable, this thing that had just happened at PlannersBanc . . .\nSaddlebags! Such contempt!\nHe looked away from the buildings and out over the ocean of trees.\nSince Atlanta was not a port city and was, in fact, far inland, the\ntrees stretched 011 in every direction. They were Atlanta's greatest\nnatural resource, those trees were. People loved to live beneath\nthem. Fewer than 400,000 people lived within the Atlanta city limits,\nand almost three- quarters of them were black; if anything, over the\npast decade Atlanta's population had declined slightly. But for the\npast thirty years all sorts of people, most of them white, had been\nmoving in beneath those trees, into all those delightful, leafy, rolling\nrural communities that surrounded the city proper. By the hundreds\nof thousands they had come, from all over Georgia, all over the\nSouth, all over America, all over the world, into those subdivided hills\nand downs and glens and glades beneath the trees, until the\npopulation of Greater Atlanta was now more than 3.5 million, and\nthey were still pouring in. How fabulous the building booms had\nbeen! As the G-5 banked, Charlie looked down . . . There was\nSpaghetti Junction, as it was known, where Highways 85 and 285\ncame together in a tangle of fourteen gigantic curving concrete-\nand-asphalt ramps and twelve overpasses . . . And now he could see\nPerimeter Center, where Georgia 400 crossed 285. Mack Taylor and\nHarvev Math is had built an office park called Perimeter Center out\namong all those trees, which had been considered a very risky\nventure at the time, because it was so far from Downtown; and now\nPerimeter Center was the nucleus around which an entire edge city,\nknown by that very name, Perimeter Center, had grown. Taylor and\nMathis had proved to be geniuses.Edge city . . . Charlie closed his eyes and wished he'd never heard of\nthe damn term. He wasn't much of a reader, but back in 1991 Lucky\nPutney, another developer, had given him a copy of a book called\nEdge City by somebody named Joel Garreau. He had opened it up\nand glanced at it-and couldn't put it down, even though it was 500\npages long. He had experienced the Aha! phenomenon. The book\nput into words something he and other developers had felt,\ninstinctively, for quite a while: namely, that from now on, the growth\nof American cities was going to take place not in the heart of the\nmetropolis, not in the old Downtown or Midtown, but out on the\nedges, in vast commercial clusters served by highways. The\ncommercial part of Buckhead, which not so long ago had seemed\nlike the suburbs, was precisely that: an edge city, Atlanta's first.\nThen came Perimeter Center. Then Don Childress developed the\nGalleria out where Highways 75 and 285 crossed, and Frank Carter\ndeveloped the Cumberland Mall, and another edge city grew up\naround them. All the edge cities were north of Downtown and\nMidtown Atlanta, and they were being built deeper and deeper into\nthe immense ocean of trees. Already a new edge city was forming\naround Spaghetti Junction and another one northeast of there, out\nin Gwinnett County, known as the Gwinnett Place Mall. Already\nForsyth County, farther north still, had turned from a sleepy Redneck\nRedman Chewing Tobacco rural outback into Subdivision Heaven,\nand one of the three fastest-growing counties in the United States.\nBango! Charlie had envisioned a new edge city, due west of Forsyth\nand north of the Galleria, in Cherokee County. It would be an edge\ncity bearing his name: Croker.\nDid he dare open his eyes and look down? He didn't want to, but he\ncouldn't help himself. Just as he feared, the G-5 was in the perfect\nspot for an aerial view of Croker Concourse. There it was, the tower,\nthe mall, the cineplex, the hotel-and-apartment complex, the\nimmense swath of asphalt (conspicuously empty) for parking-a\npreposterously lonely island sticking up out of that ocean of trees.\nCroker's folly! Had to leapfrog the future, didn't you, Charlie! A few\nyears down the line somebody would make a fortune off what hehad put together there, once the outer perimeter highway was built,\nbut for now-too far north, too far from the old city, Atlanta itself. For\nnow--\nSaddlebags! His shirt felt sopping wet against his skin all over again,\nand his eyes, although he tried to avert them, stayed fixed upon\nCroker Concourse. Had to build a tower, didn't he . . . had to take\nthe name Croker soaring up fort)' stories into the sky . . . with a\ndome to top it all off. You couldn't very well miss it, the dome, out in\nits splendid leafy loneliness . . . The dome contained a planetarium\nand housed the Cosmos Club. Atlanta was big on private dining clubs\nin fancy high-rises, but there had never been one quite like this one.\nInto the club's domed ceiling he had put a state-of-the-art\nastronomical light-show apparatus developed by the Henry Beuhl, Jr.,\nobservatory at Carnegie-Mellon University in Pittsburgh . . . Croker\nGlobal . . . Croker of the Cosmos . . . He had sunk $8.5 million into\nthe thing, but it had turned out that nobody wanted to drive all the\nway out to Cherokee County for lunch and look up at a bunch of\nfake stars twinkling in the blackness of space while they ate their\ngrilled yellowfin tuna on a bed of kale and Moroccan couscous or\nwhatever it was Greater Atlanta yuppies ate for lunch. The Cosmos\nClub had been a hideously expensive bomb. Cosmos Club . . . cosmic\npinnacle of the great Croker Concourse . . . And there it was, right\ndown there . . .\nWhen the G-5 finally completed its turn and cleared the city and\nheaded south over the green woods and farmlands of the Georgia\nPiedmont, he wasn't sorry. There was no more joy in looking down\nat Atlanta and its edge cities. Saddlebags! That they would have the\ngall, the temerity, the audacity to treat him, Charlie Croker, with\nsuch-such- such--\nWismer Stroock was no longer looking out the window but straight\nat him, through his titanium frames. Charlie sighed and gave him a\nresigned smile, as if to say, \"You know what's going through my\nmind, and I know you know it.\" And then, aloud:\"Like I was saying, Wiz, got any good ideas?\"\nThanks to the G-5's exquisitely muffled engines, a soft surf of sound.\nnothing more, enveloped the aircraft. The Wiz didn't even have to\nraise his voice. When he became intense, his voice didn't go up;\ninstead, a ditch formed down the middle of the forehead of his\ngaunt face. Wismer Stroock was of the new breed of financial\nofficers who came out of the business schools. Technogeeks was\nwhat Charlie called them. But the Wiz could \"run the numbers\" and\nhe was a genius at the \"cross- functional integration\" of the different\ndivisions of the Croker Global Corporation-two expressions he used\nall the time-and Charlie had become highly dependent on him.\n\"Good ideas vis-a-vis who, Charlie? Or vis-a-vis what?\"\nThat was another thing Wiz said all the time, \"vis-5-vis.\" You never\ncould figure out why.\n\"How do 1 deal with these people?\" said Charlie. \"How do I\napproach them? Before, there was always Sycamore, who was a\nreasonable human being. But these people . . .\" He gave his hands a\nlittle upward toss. \"When I think of all the money we spent on\nSycamore, all the times we flew him to Turpmtine on this\ngoddamned airplane, all the ball games, that weekend in Augusta,\nall the dinners we treated him to . . . him and Peepgass, for that\nmatter. Peepgass-\" He decided not to finish the sentence. He grew\nsilent.\n\"I'm afraid that's a sunk cost, Charlie,\" said Wismer Stroock. \"At this\npoint the whole paradigm has shifted.\"\nCharlie started to remonstrate. Most of the Wiz's lingo he could put\nup with, even a \"sunk cost.\" But this word paradigm absolutely\ndrove him up the wall, so much so that he had complained to the\nWiz about it. T he damned word meant nothing at all, near as he\ncould make out, and yet it was always \"shifting,\" whatever it was. In\nfact, that was the only thing the \"paradigm\" ever seemed to do. Itonly shifted. But he didn't have the energy for another discussion\nwith Wismer Stroock about technogeekspeak. So all he said was:\n\"Okay, the paradigm has shifted. Which means what?\"\n\"Except for Peepgass,\" said the Wiz, \"those were the bank's workout\npeople, Charlie. Peepgass is a loan officer, and Sycamore was in\nmarketing. In marketing they're incentivized to think of charm and\ncustomer satisfaction as value-adding strategies, but not in the\nworkout department. What we're dealing with now is a division of\nthe bank that has a very narrow niche focus.\"\nNiche focus? But he got the drift of it.\n\"At the end of the day they know they're going to be judged by only\none thing: how much money they recover for the bank. Their\norientation is post-goodwill. Down in Texas after the oil crash and all\nthe bankruptcies, the workout people the banks sent in were so\nniche- focused on that one thing, they started getting death threats.\nThey'd call them up at their hotels in the middle of the night and\nthreaten to execute them.\"\nA tired smile. \"Do any good? Worth trying?\"\n\"I don't think it was a value-creating exercise,\" said the Wiz.\nNo doubt the Wiz was making his little joke, but you never really\nknew with this dour young man, because he always talked that way.\nSuddenly Charlie felt very angry.\n\"I don't give a damn about their orientation, Wiz. That fat little\nsonofabitch, he gave me the finger, he called me a prick, and did\nyou see the way Peepgass-did you see the way that little . . . that\nlittle . . . pussy-\"\nHe gave up 011 that line of thought, too. A sixth sense told him it\nwas useless to try to get into a discussion of Ray Peepgass's\ncharacter with the Wiz. Peepgass wasn't a bad-looking guy, and he\nwas probably bright, but he was soft. His head of thick, thatchy,sandy hair made him look ten years younger than he was, but in a\nweak, boyish way. His neck and his chin and his cheeks and his\nhands were soft. To see that soft, weak face grinning at his expense-\nit had been infuriating. Peepgass was not strong, not fit, not manly.\nBut the point would be lost on the Wiz. The Wiz was young and fit,\nbut he was neither manly nor unmanly. He was a financial officer\nand a technogeek. He ran six miles before dawn every morning\nsolely to keep the Wismer Stroock cardiovascular system lubricated\nand tuned up for the long-term project, which was to live forever. As\nto whether Ray Peepgass was or was not a sad specimen of\ncontemporary Georgia manhood, the Wiz would be completely\nuninterested.\nSure enough, the Wiz ignored the reference to Peepgass and said,\n\"The good news is, they don't have many branches on their decision\ntree at PlannersBanc. I don't see that foreclosure is a viable strategic\nalternative for them. They've done a DFC, the same as we have, and\nif they foreclose, our operating losses become their operating losses.\nCash flow is king.\"\nBy now Charlie knew that a DFC was a \"discounted cash flow,\" but\nexactly how you picked a number to discount it at, he never could\nfigure out.\n\"At the end of the day,\" the Wiz continued, \"PlannersBanc will be\nwilling to do anything other than be left having to manage Croker\nConcourse and seventeen wholesale food warehouses. The net-net\nis, they'll have to restructure the loans. But we can't stonewall them,\neither. We'll have to give them something reasonably substantial,\nCharlie, just to buy some breathing space and get the best deal we\ncan and recapture some goodwill. Wc lost a lot of goodwill because\nwe didn't let them know about our situation soon enough.\"\nCharlie knew the Wiz wanted to say I told you so. For months he\nhad been urging him to \"make a preemptive strike\" by alerting\nPlannersBanc to the cash-flow situation, but he, Charlie, had beensure he could come up with something and pull it all out, as he\nalways had in the past.\nAfter a pause Charlie said, \"Okay, we give them something\nreasonably substantial. Like what?\"\nThe Wiz looked at him through the titanium rectangles with his\nbarcode-scanner stare, and his lips parted, and the words didn't\ncome out. He had withheld them.\n\"Go ahead,\" said Charlie. He gestured encouragingly.\n\"Well,\" said the Wiz, \"I'm just thinking out loud-I'm not anticipating\nthat you're going to like it-it's not something I want to see happen-\nI'm only considering our strategic alternatives-but what about the\nplantation?\"\nIncredulous: \"Turpmtine?\"\n\"Well, I mean, only in the sense that here we have a non-core asset,\nnot functionally integrated into the rest of the corporation and not\ncreating any particular synergies, or at least not resulting in any\nstrategic advantage, not in any zero-sum sense-and it's worth a\ngreat deal of money.\" The Wiz's diction was beginning to degenerate\ninto sheer technogeekspeak gibberish . . . out of fear. He knew he\nhad blundered onto dangerous ground with his boss. He tried to\nextricate himself. \"I wouldn't want to see Turpmtine go, either, but\nit's already a red flag as far as these people are concerned. You saw\nthat. I mean, what do you suppose these people make a year? I bet\nthat fellow Zale doesn't make $150,000, and he knows you've got a\n29,000-acre quail plantation.\"\nThat was evidently supposed to make him, Charlie, feel better, feel\nsuperior; but the very mention of the name Zale did the opposite. It\nsent a sickening wave of shame through his nervous system. This\nZale, with his big jaw and contemptuous stares, had humiliated\nhim!-in front of his own people!-and obviously that fact was very\nmuch on the Wiz's mind.\"Wiz,\" said Charlie, \"I wouldn't give 'em the satisfaction. There's a\nlot of other reasons not to sell Turpmtine, but that's enough for now.\nThey're not gonna get the fuckin' satisfaction.\"\n\"As I said, Charlie, I'm only trying to offer some constructive\nfeedback. I'm only considering strategic alternatives. What about the\nplanes?\"\n\"I don't mind selling some of the planes . . . but we keep this one.\"\nThe Wiz exhaled and pulled in his chin. \"That'd give them\nsomething, I guess. A bone, anyway, although I'm not sure they'd be\nterribly impressed. You saw what got them so aggravated.\" He lifted\nhis hand up to eye level and then pointed his forefinger down\nseveral times toward the floor of the aircraft.\nOf course, the Wiz was right. Charlie knew that. And now he realized\nsomething else: exactly why he was on this airplane at this moment,\nmaking a largely pointless flight to a South Georgia plantation on a\nMonday afternoon in April. He was damned if they (those insolent\nbastards at the bank) could tell him (one of the Creators of Greater\nAtlanta) he couldn't have the G-5 and Turpmtine or, for that matter,\nthe Cadillac SLS he had just driven himself and the Wiz out to the\nairport in. It was utterly, blatantly wasteful to crank up a ship like the\nG-5 and have two pilots and a stewardess hop to it in order to take\ntwo men down to Baker County, where they weren't going to do\nanything but talk, and then fly back. Well-so what! It underscored\nhis rights, his power, his refusal to cave in to a lot of impudent\nthreats . . .\nBut there was something else also, something he fought to keep\nfrom becoming a conscious thought. The truth was, he had been\nafraid to return to the office immediately. He didn't dare return in a\nstate of. . . of. . . of. . . agitation (he avoided the word panic) ... to\nthat grand space he had set aside for himself and Croker Global up\non the thirty- ninth floor at Croker Concourse.Why had he taken an army with him over to PlannersBanc? Eleven\npeople he had brought along! Christ! By now the word was all over\nthe office! Cap'm Charlie has just been humiliated! They ripped his\neyeballs out and made him swallow them! Nothing like this had ever\nhappened to Charlie Croker before. They had punched holes in his\ncharisma and now it was hemorrhaging all over the place. If he\ndidn't pull himself together, the whole office would smell the blood\nimmediately. They would detect it in the way he walked in, hobbling\non his bad knee . . . Step, gimp, step, gimp, step, gimp . . . They\nwould see it in the look on his face. They would suddenly see him as\n... an old man ... a toothless, eyeless, limping, gimping alpha lion.\nHe had hired a lot of young hotshots over the past few years. The\nWiz was one of them. He wanted to feel and look wired into the new\ngeneration. But the new generation wouldn't waste an ounce of\nsympathy. They'd start making telephone calls and drafting resumes.\nA real estate developer was not like an industrial CEO or an\ninvestment banker. No, you either had the aura, the aura of magic,\nfireproof confidence, and invincibility-or you had nothing. And right\nnow he felt as if he was leaking fast, right down to charisma zero.\nHe couldn't let them see him in this state. He had to regroup. He\nhad to stop gimping around on an old rusting football knee.\nTomorrow morning, when he took the elevator up to the top of\nCroker Concourse, he had to look, sound, make every move of his\nalpha lion body, as if nothing had happened.\nWhy hadn't he told the bastards off right then and there in that\ninsultingly seedy excuse for a conference room? How could he have\nlet them abuse him like that? What had happened? Was he truly\ngetting old? Or maybe the explanation was more obvious. He was in\na terrible jam! He had guaranteed $160 million in loans himself! It\nwas madness! The Wiz had warned him against it. The cardinal rule\nof real estate development was: Other people's money!-non-\nrecourse loans only!- never guarantee a loan yourself! But he had\nbeen so desperate to get financing for his edge city, he had crawled\nway out on the forbidden limb . . . and he didn't have a single friend\nleft at PlannersBanc. A hundred and sixty million dollars! They couldseize everything he possessed on this earth, right down to the house\nhe lived in and the cars he drove. Never in his entire life had he\nbeen in such deep water, deep slime, deep ooze, Ooze Creek, up\nOoze Creek without a paddle . . . All of that smart guy's wisecracks\nstarted ricocheting around in his skull . . . Why hadn't he put that\nZale or Zell, or whatever his name was, in his place, even if it meant\nwalking around the table and breaking his fat jaw for him?\nAw, this was esprit de I'escalier stuff, as the French say, the shoulda\ndones you think of on the stairs at night after it's all over. He opened\nhis eyes.\n\"What kin I gitcha, Cap?\"\nGwenette, the stewardess, was standing beside the desk, smiling.\nShe had 110 idea what had gone on, of course. She wore a short-\nsleeved blouse with a repeat pattern of navy-and-gold Croker Global\nglobes and a navy skirt, but beneath this corporate getup she was a\nreal country girl, young, plump, hearty, plain, no matter what she\ntried to do with her hair or her makeup. Plain was what he had been\nlooking for this time. He had made a real fool of himself when\nPeaches was the stewardess on the G-5 . . .\n\"I don't know, Gwenette,\" he said. In fact, he was dying for a good\nstiff jolt of Jack Daniel's in a short glass with ice and a little water-\nbut at noon? He didn't want the Wiz to know how much he needed a\ndrink-how much he craved it! But why the hell shouldn't he have it, if\nhe wanted it? So he said, \"We got any a Auntie Bella's biscuits on\nboard? And maybe a little glass of Jack Daniel's?\"\nAuntie Bella was the cook at Turpmtine, a real Baker County colored\nwoman, of the old school-and suddenly he had a terrible, sickening\nvision. How could he possibly look Auntie Bella in the eye one day\nand inform her that Cap'm Charlie was no more, Cap'm Charlie had\nblown it, he was flat as a tick, he'd lost Turpmtine, and she was out\nof a job and would have to find a new home? .\n\"We got 'em froze,\" said Gwenette, \"but they heat up pretty good.\"\"We got any a Uncle Bud's ham?\" Uncle Bud was Auntie Bella's\nhusband, who never had done anything but loaf around the kitchen\nand cure hams out in the smokehouse. He was an old man, but so\nerect and lordly that Charlie had always wondered if he wasn't the\ndescendant of some African chief or something.\n\"We always got some a the ham, Cap,\" said Gwenette.\nNot only Gwenette but also the two pilots, Lud and Jimmy, called\nhim \"Cap.\" They'd picked that up from the employees at Turpmtine.\nThe full \"Cap'm Charlie\" was a little too servile for Gwenette, Lud,\nand Jimmy, he reckoned, but at the same time they admired him\nand felt too warmly toward him to use a cold, formal \"Mr. Croker.\" So\nthey'd settled on \"Cap\" as the middle ground. He liked that.\n\"Well, then, let me have a coupla ham biscuits, too.\"\n\"How 'bout yew, Mr. Stroock?\"\n\"Oh . . . I'll just have a glass of Quibelle.\"\nThat was the Wiz for you, working twenty-four hours a day on\nProject Wiz, whose object was eternal life. Quibelle was one of those\nbottled carbonated waters. Why anybody would want to drink\ncarbonated water, Charlie didn't know, except that it was a New York\nfad that had seeped into Atlanta.\nGwenette headed back to the galley, and he had another sickening\nvision ... of having to look Gwenette and Lud and Jimmy in the eye\nand inform them that their Cap . . . had been grounded . . . From\nnow on he'd have to be like the Vietcong and travel on the ground\nand live off the land . . .\nHe looked at the Wiz and said, \"Naw, Wiz, they're not gonna git\nTurpmtine and they're not gonna git this airplane.\"\nSuddenly he had an inspiration. He cocked his head and gave Wiz a\nlong, fixed stare, the way you do when you're about to say\nsomething of far-reaching importance.\"1 got an idea, Wiz. If we're gonna sell something\"-sump'm-\"to\nsatisfy these bastards, why not do it up right? What if we sell the\nfood division, the whole damn thing?\"\nTo his surprise and disappointment, the Wiz smiled indulgently; and\nthe Wiz was not a smiler. \"I know it's never exactly captured your\nimagination,\" he said.\n\"It's worse than that,\" said Charlie. \"The whole goddamn business is\ndepressing. I can't stand going in those warehouses. They're so\nfuckin' gloomy. You wanna know what's really depressing? It's seeing\nthose poor bastards-whatta they call 'em?-the freezer pickers?-\ncoming out of those freezer units. I don't know if I ever told you. I\nwas in the warehouse in St. Louis once, showing it to Harvey\nMorehead, and this guy comes out of the freezer unit, and he's got\ntwo icicles hanging out of his nose. Icicles-hanging out of his nose.\"\nHe shook his head. \"I can't understand how I ever got involved in a\nbusiness like that.\"\nIn fact, he understood very well. He had bought the old Maws &\nGullett Food Service Corporation in 1987 and renamed it Croker\nGlobal Foods at a time when many big developers, like John Harbert\nin Birmingham, were branching out into other businesses. Harbert\nhad become a real tycoon. Everything was booming, and Maws &\nGullett was on the market for a reasonable price, and along with the\nwholesale food operation he would be acquiring a lot of good real\nestate, where the warehouses were located, and the name Croker-\ncroker global foods-would be on the sides of trucks and be spread all\nover the country. Terrific . . . but the business had no sex appeal.\nThere was no way you could show a . Wholesale food warehouse to\nsomebody and expect him to say Wow. You could take somebody\ninto the lobby of the tower at Croker Concourse, and even though\nthe damned building was more than half empty and bleeding to\ndeath financially, the sheer \"curb flash\" would bowl him over ... the\nHenry Moore sculpture out front, the marble arch over the doorway,\nthe fifty-foot-high ceiling in the lobby, the tons of marble on the floor\nand the walls, the Belgian tapestries, the piano player in a tuxedoplaying classical music from 7:30 a. M. on . . . Whereas you take\nsomebody like Harvey Morehead to one of those warehouses, and he\ncan't wait to get out of there.\n\"Well, Charlie,\" said the Wiz, \"in my opinion we have to learn to love\nit. Food service is not a business we can afford to get out of right\nnow.\"\n\"Whaddaya mean?\"\n\"I mean that Croker Global Foods is the one part of the corporation\nwhere-well, first let me give you a kind of executive summary of\nwhere we are now. Okay?\"\n\"Go ahead.\"\n\"Okay,\" said the Wiz. \"If you've got assets with a market value of\n$2.2 billion and debts of $1.3 billion, then your net worth is $900\nmillion, and you're rich, right? That's where we were in late 1989,\n1990, and early 1991 even. Okay? But if you wake up one day and\nthe market value of your assets has declined to $1.1 billion, and you\nstill owe the $1.3 billion, then suddenly the paradigm has shifted and\nyour net worth is minus $200 million, and it's a serious issue. And\nthat's where we are today. All right? In the real estate business,\nmarket values can move up and down very fast. They're agile,\nthey're flexible, they're terpsichorean.\" The Wiz made an awkward\nlittle flutter with his fingers to indicate terpsichorean. \"But debt just\nsits there, like a rock formation, like a mountain. It doesn't budge.\nWe're not in a cyclical downturn, Charlie, we're in a . . . special\nsituation.\"\n\"Awright, but what's that got to do with the food division? It's losing\nmoney, too.\"\n\"That's true,\" said the Wiz. \"But there are two serious impediments\nto selling it. First of all, it's so encumbered with debt that if we sold\nit now, in this market, we wouldn't see a nickel of it. It would all go\nto the banks, and we'd still owe a hundred million or so on it.\"\"Yeah, but the banks would get some cash, and maybe they'd leave\nus alone for a while and give us some room.\"\n\"Perhaps,\" said the Wiz, \"but that brings me to impediment number\ntwo. The food division has lost value because the restaurant\nbusiness is in a slump right now. But that is a cyclical downturn, and\nthe industry will recover. Our warehouses are solidly positioned for\nthe eventual upturn. People don't have to lease expensive office\nspace in top-end buildings like Croker Concourse, but they can't\ndefer their food consumption function.\"\n\"Can't defer their food consumption function?\"\n\"Thev have to eat. Kverv day.\"\n\"All the same-\"\n\"Charlie! What's the personal dividend you're taking out of this\ncorporation each year? Seven million dollars?\"\nCharlie nodded glumly. It was true. The annual outflow of what he\nspent personally had become a form of madness. After taxes, after\nthe $50,000 a month to his first wife, Martha, after the endless\nfantasies in furniture, clothes, travel, servants his second wife,\nSerena, managed to come up with, after the house on Sea Island,\nthe house on Blackland Road, the stable and forty acres in Buckhead\nup near the Cobb County line where he went riding-he couldn't\nfigure out where it all went. It sure as hell didn't go into stocks,\nbonds, municipals, treasuries, or the mattress. And that didn't even\ninclude Turpmtine, most of which was billed to Croker Global Foods.\nShit! He hadn't even thought of that. Without the food division, he'd\nhave to swallow the cost of Turpmtine himself. He couldn't very well\nbill a plantation to Croker Concourse.\n\"And of that seven million, do you know how much comes from\nCroker Global Foods, Charlie? Four. The cash flow of the food\ndivision is more than Croker Concourse and our other buildings puttogether. The food division is the engine that drives the cash flow of\nthe whole corporation.\"\n\"Awright,\" said Charlie, \"you've made your point.\"\nThe engine that drives the cash flow. Give me a break . . .\nOh, he understood the Wiz a lot better than the Wiz thought he did.\nThe Wiz looked upon him as an aging, uneducated, and out-of-date\ncountry boy who had somehow, nonetheless, managed to create a\nlarge and, until recently, wildly successful corporation. That the\ncountry boy, with half his brainpower, should be the lord of this\ncorporation and that he, a Wharton MBA and financial genius, with\n\"an excellence that cuts across disciplines,\" to use a Wizism, should\nbe his vassal was an anomaly, a perversity of Fate, that would in the\nlong run be corrected. He had youth on his side. In the meantime,\nhis resentment rose and fell, and he took a sharp pleasure in\nrubbing in the old man's ignorance with these little lectures. Or part\nof him felt that way. The other part of him was in awe, in\nunconscious awe, of something the old boy had and he didn't:\nnamely, the power to charm men and the manic drive to bend their\nwills into saying yes to projects they didn't want, didn't need, and\nnever thought about before. The common word for this was\nsalesmanship, a term the Wiz probably looked down his nose at. Yet\nthe Wiz was in awe of something that was at the heart of\nsalesmanship when the game got up into the hundreds of millions of\ndollars and it was time to make a decision and act, make your move,\neven though you could run the numbers all day and they added up\nonly to imponderables and the decision tree was so full of branches,\ntwigs, sapsuckers, and leaves, a mere Wiz couldn't find the paradigm\nno matter how hard he looked . . . And that thing was manhood. It\nwas as simple as that.\nCharlie looked at the Wiz, sitting there on the other side of the\ntupelo desk, beneath N. C. Wyeth's painting of Jim Bowie at the\nAlamo, and he said to himself, \"My motto is 'Ready, fire, aim,' andyou give me lectures and make sly fun of me about that. But yours is\n'Ready, aim, aim, aim, aim, aim, aim, aim . . .' \"\nHe turned away and looked out the window and let the surf of the\nengines roll over his nerve endings. Down below . . . Startled, he put\nhis nose up against the window and stared. It was breathtaking! A\nglorious cloud of pink seemed to cover the earth. A peach orchard ...\nin full blossom ... a huge one, gorgeous beyond belief. . . We must\nbe down around Thomaston . . . Wonder who owns it? . . .\nGwenette reappeared with his glass of Jack Daniel's and his two ham\nbiscuits and the Wiz's glass of carbonated water and set them down\non the desk. Charlie noticed the way her plump lower abdomen,\nwhich was about at his eye level, swelled out against her navy skirt.\nHow old was she? Twenty-four or -five, he figured.\nAs soon as she headed back to the galley, he said to the Wiz, \"How\nmany warehouses we got in the food division? Seventeen?\"\n\"That's correct. Seventeen.\"\n\"What's the payroll?\"\n\"For all the warehouses? For the entire division?\"\n\"Yeah, the entire division.\"\n\"I don't have the number on the tip of my tongue, but I can do a\nback-of-the-envelope calculation.\"\nHe produced an HP-12C calculator from the side pocket of his jacket,\nand the ditch down the middle of his forehead deepened, and he\nbegan pecking away. That damned HP-12C was the Wiz in hardware\nform. It was the wizard's wand of the technogeeks. Charlie couldn't\nstand the sight of it, because it utterly baffled him and made him\nfeel how cut off he was from the new generation coming out of the\nbusiness schools. Curious about the thing, he had once asked the\nWiz to let him try it for a second. He tried to enter 2+2. He couldn't\nget 4! Couldn't get 2+2=4! Turned out that with this damnedmachine, you had to enter +2 plus +2. It worked backwards or\nsomething. Only people with MBA's from Wharton could even get it\nto function.\nIn no time the Wiz looked up and said, \"Two hundred and seven\nmillion, three hundred and seventy-five thousand, in round numbers,\ngive or take twenty-five thousand.\"\n\"Jesus, that's a lot of money. Am I right?\"\n\"That's true.\"\n\"What if we cut the payroll by 20 percent?\"\n\"How? What type of initiatives? Across-the-board layoffs?\"\n\"Right. What would we save?\"\n\"Well, $40 million. But I don't see how we could do it. I'm not aware\nof any inefficient fits in the employment situations in the\nwarehouses, and the Teamsters would go crazy. They're all Teamster\nshops.\"\n\"I can deal with the Teamsters. They have a practical streak.\"\n\"Are you serious? Twenty percent? I don't know, that's an awfully\ndeep cut, Charlie.\"\n\"The restaurant business is way down, volume is way down, and I\ndon't recall any layoffs to speak of.\"\n\"Maybe, but I've never gotten any indication there was any real slack\nat the warehouses.\"\n\"Well, let's find out. Let's try it.\"\n\"I don't know, Charlie. Twenty percent. That's twelve hundred\npeople.\"\nThe word people, as opposed to the words they had been using,\npayroll and employment situations, jarred Charlie for a moment.\"You're probably right,\" he said. \"That is a lot. What about 15\npercent? We'd still save $30 million-right?-and we'd be talking about\nonly nine hundred layoffs, which is fewer than a thousand. It won't\nlook so drastic, and it'll impress the hell out of the bank. You know\nwhy?\"\n\"Why?\"\n\"Because banks can't stand paying money to employees. To them,\ngiving money, that sacred thing, money, giving money to people,\njust to spend on themselves, that's practically immoral. Layoffs are\nright on their wavelength.\"\nThe Wiz arched his eyebrows and rolled his eyes but said no more.\nHe looked out the window, and Charlie followed his gaze. Down\nbelow, amid a swath of orchards, you could see a house on a low\nrise with a long, long, long curving driveway leading up to it. The\ndriveway was bordered on both sides by a parade of dogwood trees,\nplanted so close together that their profusions of blossoms created\ntwo glorious trains of white, stretching on for what must have been\nhalf a mile. Christ! Must cost a fortune to keep up a place like that,\nand-bango!-you could lose it all before you knew it!-and then where\nwould all those heavenly bowers be?\nNow, while the Wiz continued to stare out the window, Charlie\nlooked at N. C. Wyeth's painting of Jim Bowie, which made him think\nabout his mama and his daddy and the shack he'd grown up in . . .\nBaker Count)' had been so rural, there had been only one town,\nNewton, big enough to make it onto the Esso road map . . . There\nhadn't been many places for poor white people to work in Baker\nCounty other than the plantations and the pulp mill. His daddy had\nworked at Ichau- way, the plantation owned by Robert Woodruff, the\npresident of Coca- Cola, right there on the Flint River, and at\nTurpmtine and two or three other places, none of them stayed for\nvery long, and then he went to work at the pulp mill. He'd lost the\nindex finger of his right hand working in the pulp mill. That was the\nworst job in Georgia. Just going over to the mill to see his daddywas like going to see a horrible freak show of men with fingers and\neyes missing. A bunch of Teamsters working in a modern warehouse\nfor twelve or fourteen dollars an hour, with forklifts to do the heavy\nlifting and OSHA regulations and God knows what else-Croker Global\nFoods was a country club compared to real work. Just as if it were\nyesterday, he could see that godforsaken pulp mill, and he could\nhear it, with the saws and the rippers screaming and whining and\nthe geysers of sawdust spewing up from the blades and the chips\nflying and those poor crippled bastards working like dogs, his daddy\namong them. Some of them had an eye and a finger or hvo missing.\nHe could see the pitiful stumps--\nAha! Was that the real reason he had suddenly thought of his daddy\nand the pulp mill-the missing fingers? He could feel his lips compress\nand his face turn red just thinking about the insolent sonofabitch\nwith the chin giving him the finger and making the crack about\nlosing four fingers in the war. He had seen men with missing fingers,\nhis own daddy for a start, and he'd actually been in a war ... In the\nearly years of the war in Vietnam he'd won the Purple Heart and the\nBronze Star with a combat V, and he was willing to bet money that\nthe cute guy with the big chin had never even sewed in the armed\nforces. He'd have the Wiz or Marguerite or somebody check the guy\nout. He was tempted to say something to the Wiz right now about\nthat sonofabitch and who had or had not experienced combat, but\nhe restrained himself. Nobody wanted to hear war stories from a\nsixty-year-old man.\nThe two of them sat in silence a moment longer, ruminating. Just\nthen the door to the cockpit opened, and the chief pilot, Lud Harns-\nbargcr, came out and beamed at Charlie and said, \"Well, Cap,\neverything okay? 'Bout to begin the descent.\"\n\"Yeah, everything's fine, Lud.\"\nCharlie liked everything about Lud Harnsbarger. He was from over in\nCobb County, near Marietta, which he pronounced \"May-retta.\" He\nwas one of those big, tall, blond Georgia boys who are lean andstrong but have such thick, fair Anglo-Saxon skin you don't see any\nmuscular definition. He was wearing a short-sleeved white shirt and\na navy necktie with the Croker Global logo embroidered on it in neat\nrows, and the sunlight lit up a furze of reddish-blond hair on his big\nforearms. Charlie always liked that, the way that ever-so-delicate\nfurze of hair lit up like spun candy on his pilot's big, thick forearms;\nalthough it was the kind of thing you couldn't mention to anybody.\nLud had spent four years in the Air Force flying transports. Fighter\nplanes would have been better, but the main thing was that he was\na good old Georgia boy who had put in his time in the armed\nservices. Charlie liked the way Lud looked at him and spoke to him.\nLud didn't fawn, but Charlie could always tell that he respected him\nas ... a man, not just an employer.\n\"I jes talked to Durwood on the radio, Cap. The Range Rover's broke\ndown. So he's gon' come on out to the strip and pick y'all up in the\nSuburban. Auntie Bella's gon' have some kale and sausage soup and\nsome hot biscuits ready when you git there.\"\n\"Well, that's great, Lud,\" said Charlie.\nAnd now Gwenette was standing beside him again. \"Git you\nsomething else before we land, Cap?\"\n\"No thanks,\" said Charlie.\n\"How 'bout yew, Mr. Stroock?\"\nThe Wiz just shook his head no.\nGwenette's hips and forearms were at Charlie's eye level, and once\nmore he was aware of the way her lower abdomen swelled out\nagainst her skirt. She was pretty plump, but her skin was lovely,\nabsolutely smooth and flawless. It looked like milk, the way milk\nlooks when you milk a cow and it comes right out of the udder. He\nhad never noticed that before. She was stout ... a real country girl . .\n. There had been an animal vitality about these broad-beamedcountry girls when he was growing up . . . something marvelous and\nrobust . . . The juice really flowed . . .\nPop. He forced himself off that train of thought. What the hell did he\nthink he was doing? Suppose he made a play for the likes of\nGwenette? How long could that last? Twenty-four hours? Twenty-\nfour minutes? And then he would have lost a good stewardess . . .\nGwenette was heavyset, like Martha . . .\nA little wavelet of guilt and remorse . . . Twenty-nine years he'd been\nmarried to Martha . . . before Serena . . . Christ! Serena . . . not\neven thirty yet and already tough as whit leather . . . Tough as whit\nleather . . . How the hell had that expression floated into his head? .\n. . His daddy used to say it all the time . . . Never could figure out\nwhat whit leather was ...\nHe closed his eyes and thought about Peaches and hoped he'd feel a\ntingle in his loins. He had a theory ... If you lost your sexual drive,\nyou lost everything, your energy, your daring, your imagination. He\nkept waiting for the tingle . . . Instead, he felt an electrical jolt in his\nsolar plexus. Suppose it happened! Suppose they took everything\nfrom him! They could wipe him out. He was sixty years old, and this\ntime they could wipe him out-utterly*.\nDesperately he looked up at the bulkhead again, at Jim Bowie 011\nhis deathbed ... A brave, brave man, brave as they come, and he\nnever said die . . . Yeah!-and a few minutes later he was dead as\nthey come, with a Me. ican bayonet through his heart. And no doubt\nthey took everything he had, including the Bowie knife, while they\nwere at it.\nBeneath his sternum, Charlie Croker's heart was hurrying as if it had\nan urgent appointment somewhere else.\nLud was banking the ship toward the east. They were coming in to\nTurpmtine. Down below, for as far as you could see . . . stands of\nsoaring longleaf pines with riots of white dogwood blossoms runningthrough them . . . tawny fields of sedge, just beginning to turn\ngreen, interspersedTom Wolf*\nwith copscs of already brilliant green spreads of beggarweed,\nEgyptian wheat, rye, oats, peas, and corn . . . huge groves of live\noak, only just beginning to burst into leaf, so that you could make\nout the arthritic trunks and branches and the shaggy garlands of\nSpanish moss strung through them in immense ghostly gray strands\n. . . and, in the middle distance, a swamp, eight thousand acres of it,\nglistening in the sun where the water broke clear of the stands of\ncypress and tupelo maples and the tangled thickets of cane, holly,\ngreenbriar, and God knew what else . . . Even from up here, at this\naltitude, looking out the window of an airplane, you could tell that it\nwas spring and that the swamp was . . . coming alive . . . The\nbranches of the cypress and tupelo maples were swollen with buds\nabout to explode into foliage . . .\nHe glanced at the Wiz. The Wiz was looking down, too . . . through\nhis titanium frames . . . Just what the bar-code scanners must have\nseen clown there he couldn't imagine . . . The outdoors . . . home of\ninsects, snakes, and other irrational and undependable elements . . .\nProbably left him feeling nothing, except a dermatitic itch . . . Charlie\nwanted to reach across the tupelo desk and take him by the\nshoulder and say, \"Wiz! Look at it! Twenty-nine thousand acres, and\nit's all coming alive! The sap is rising! The eggs are hatching! The\nseeds are germinating! Snakes, puppies, foals, and little babies are\nbeing born! You think you're such a realist-well, that's real life, what\nyou see down there!\"\nNow the G-5 turned south again and came down even lower, and he\ncould see the pale, sandy dirt roads running through the pines . . .\nHe could see the sheds . . . there . . . there . . . and way over there,\ndeep in the plantation . . . the ones he built for feeding and\nsheltering the mules and the horses during the quail shoots . . . And\nnow he got his first glimpse of the white fences, iniles of them it\nlooked like, enclosing the vast clearing where the horses were\nturned out. . . fifty-nine horses, and they all had to be turned outevery day, and some had to be segregated to keep the\ntroublemakers, particularly the stallions, from kicking or biting each\nother to bits . . . The pastures were that same brilliant green . . .\nAnd over there! Two foals, no more than two weeks old, kicking up\ntheir heels!\nHe couldn't resist any longer. \"Hey, Wiz! Take a look right over there.\nSee what I'm talking about, those two foals? I bet they're not more\nthan two weeks old! I think one of them's\"-one uv'em's-\"First\nDraw's!\"\nYou could just begin to make out the Big House in the middle of a\ngrove of live oaks, pin oaks, and Southern magnolias, some of the\noldest of them eighty feet high, which would put out such a towering\nprofusion of white blossoms two months from now, he sometimes\ntraveled to Turpmtine in the middle of the summer just to see them.\nThe house itself was not the sort of Greek Revival palace with the\nIonic columns and the entablatures that the plantation parvenus had\nbuilt just before the Civil War. The Big House at Turpmtine had been\nbuilt in the early 1830s, with the low lines and deeply shaded\nwraparound porches and white clapboard siding and floor-to-ceiling\ndouble-hung windows of the true antebellum Old South. It wasn't\neven on high ground, because hills scarcely even existed in this part\nof Baker Count)'. But what a show it was! The driveway, a broad dirt\nroad with a sandy composition so fine and pale it looked almost\nwhite, curved for a mile through the pines before entering an avenue\nof live oaks planted so closely on either side that a month from now\nthey would create a cool, dark, dense, green tunnel of foliage. Then\nit emerged into the clearing and made a grand loop, bordered by\nancient boxwood, in front of the house. The flower beds were ablaze\nwith vivid red horseshoe geraniums, yellow bavberry bushes, violet-\nmauve masses of IthuriePs spear, orange Kaffir lilies, crimson-and-\nyellow Japanese quince, and the flower he loved above all others,\nthe early-blooming Confederate rose, which now, in the afternoon,\nwas still white but which by nightfall would be a deep rose, inmourning, folks said, for the blood shed by brave Confederate lads in\nthe Lost Cause.\nIt was breathtaking-fcreaffitaking! Charlie felt a catch in his throat.\nThe G-5 was now beyond the Big House. Lud was bringing it down\nclose to Jookers Swamp before swinging about and heading into the\nglide path to the landing strip. Down this low, and with so little\nfoliage on the trees, you could clearly see the stands of cypress and\nblack tupelo maple rising out of the water . . . You could see their\nhuge swollen knees just above the waterline . . . And there was the\nJook House, a big white clapboard structure on stilts, cantilevered\nout over the water, which he had built as a twelve-bedroom guest\nhouse . . . Cost $2.4 million . . . Oh, how flush he had felt! . . . way\nback then . . .\nThe landing strip was an alley of asphalt cut through a pine forest. It\nwas almost a mile long, so as to accommodate a jet this big . . .\nWhat with the landing lights, the maintenance hangar and its asphalt\napron, the fuel pumps, and the access roads that had to be built, the\nwhole thing had cost him $3.6 million. He thought about that as the\npines whizzed by in a blur on either side, and they glided in and\ntouched clown for the landing.\nWhen they reached the hangar apron, Durwood was out there with\nthe big Chevrolet Suburban, as promised, and Rufus Dotson, the\nblack man who was in charge of the crew that maintained the\nrunway and the hangar, was standing beside it. As soon as Charlie\nslid himself out from under his tupelo desk, he could tell his right\nknee had stiffened. He didn't want to be seen hobbling clown the\nstairs, not even in front of Durwood and Rufus, but it couldn't be\nhelped. His knee hurt so much he had to hold on to the cable that\nserved as a railing. When he reached the bottom, Rufus was right\nthere waiting. He was a short, squarely built man, in his fifties-or his\nsixties-Charlie never had known his age for sure-with dark skin and\ngray hair that stuck out on either side of his head. He wore an old-\nfashioned cap, like a golfer's cap, that covered the top of his head,which was bald. He touched the cap's little visor, respectfully, with\nthe thumb and forefinger of his right hand and said:\n\"How you doing, Cap'm Charlie? Lemme give you a hand.\" He\nreached out with his big, powerful right hand. He was wearing a\nlong- sleeved gray work shirt of a sort you seldom saw anymore,\nbuttoned at the wrist, and a pair of jeans.\n\"Aw, 'at's all right, Rufus,\" said Charlie, who would rather have died\nthan be helped down those stairs, \"it's jes'at damn knee a mine,\nfrom plavin' football.\"\nRufus chuckled deep in his throat and said, 'Ton don' have to tell me\n'bout the rheumatiz, Cap'm Charlie.\"\nMine's not rheumatism, damn it, Charlie wanted to say, mine's from\nfootball!\nAll around were the deep cooling shadows of the pines, which\nreached up a hundred feet or more, but out here on the hangar\napron it was painfully bright. Charlie squinted. Mirage slicks flared up\nin front of your eyes when you looked back down the runway, and\ncaloric waves rose from the asphalt. It made him feel hot and tired\nand weak. Durwood was ambling over from the Suburban.\n\"Hey, Cap'm,\" said Durwood. \"Mr. Stroock.\"\nEvery time Charlie saw this big man and heard his deep Baker\nCounty voice, he just knew that he was the archetype of what the\noverseers had been back when overseers rode herd on the field\nhands who were slashing pine out in that murderous heat ten or\ntwelve hours a day, not only before the Civil War but for a good fifty\nyears afterward. Slashing pine was as hellish as working in the pulp\nmills, the way Uncle Bud told it. It drove men so close to the ragged\nedge, the overseers used to sleep with loaded shotguns by their\nbeds. That Durwood could have lived such a life Charlie had not the\nslightest doubt. He was stone-cold Georgia Cracker, top to bottom.\nHe was one of those big men who are more intimidating in middleage than ever before, because their hide has gotten tougher and\nthey've learned what it takes to be mean in a calculating way, which\nis the meanest way of all. He was about Charlie's height, a few\ninches over six feet. His head and neck were huge, and everything\nseemed to droop, his eyes, his cheeks, his nose, his mouth, which\ngave him a perpetual scowl. His beefy shoulders drooped, his huge\nchest drooped, and his belly drooped over his belt, and some sort of\nhorrible and irresistible power seemed to be packed inside all that\nflesh. He wore a khaki-colored shirt with the sleeves rolled up over\nhis immense forearms and khaki balloon-seat twill pants whose cuffs\nrested on top of a pair of old battered calf-high boots of the sort that\nanybody in Baker County who spent time in the fields wore as\nprotection against the rattlesnakes, which usually went for the\nankles. Riding on top of his big hips was a gunbelt and a holster with\nthe handle of a huge .45- caliber revolver showing. The revolver was\nfor shooting snakes.\n\"Hey, Durwood,\" said Charlie, \" 'zat First Draw's foal I saw ovair\nkickin' up his heels when we was comin' down?\" He said it mainly to\nget some conversation going, to keep everybody thinking about\nsomething else while he step-gimped-step-giniped-step-girnped-\nstep-gimped- step-gimped-step-gimped the twenty or thirty feet to\nthe Suburban.\n\"S'peck hit was, Cap,\" said Durwood. \"Tale you what. If you'n Mr.\nStroock ain't too hongry yet, ahmoan swing on ovair fo' we git to the\nGun House. 'At's the biggest, kickin'est dayum foal-I ain' never seed\none 'at big, not fer no dayum two days old, anyhows.\"\nSo the three of them, Charlie, Durwood, and Wismer Stroock, got in\nthe Suburban, and they swung on over there by the stables and the\nenclosure where First Draw's big foal was kicking up his heels. No\nsooner did they get out of the vehicle than they saw five or six of\nthe black stablehands and the two little Australians, Johnny Groyner,\nthe stud manager, and Melvin Bonnetbox, his steerer, standing in a\nsemicircle out on a whitish sandy road where it emerged from the\npalmetto scrub and wire grass into the open space by the stable.They were so absorbed in whatever it was they were looking at, they\nbarely even noticed that the Suburban had pulled up with their\noverseer, Durwood, and the master of Turpmtine, Cap'm Charlie\nCroker.\nDurwood didn't take that too well, not with his boss having just\narrived. \"Hey!\" he yelled out. \"Cain chew boys think a nuthin' to do\n'cep clusterfuckin' inna ballin' sun?\" Clusterfucking was a term\nDurwood had picked up in Vietnam, where soldiers in the field\nweren't supposed to gather in clusters, lest all be wiped out by a\nsingle strike.\nTo Durwood's-and Charlie's-surprise, Johnny Groyner, a chesty elf\nwith a close-cropped ginger-red beard, turned toward them and put\nhis forefinger to his lips and motioned with his other hand as if to\nsay, \"Come on over and take a look at this.\"\nSo Durwood, the Wiz, and Charlie, limping worse than ever, walked\non over, and right away they saw what all the fuss was about. On\nthe edge of the road, next to a clump of palmetto scrub and wire\ngrass, out in the boiling sun, was a diamondback rattlesnake, a huge\none, six feet long if it was an inch, maybe seven . . . motionless . . .\ntorpid . . .\nA cold-blooded creature, it had found that toasty stretch of sandy\nroad out in the sunshine of an April afternoon . . . and was soaking it\nup, oblivious of the growing audience. It was a monster, even for a\npart of Georgia notorious for big rattlers. It had such girth that you\ncould see its skin's entire pattern of big and small brown diamonds\noutlined in black against a tan field. The stablehands stood a\nrespectful distance to the rear. No one dared approach the head.\nRattlers had no lids over their eerie vertical slits-for-eyes, and no one\nknew whether they actually slept or not.\nOne of the black stablehands. Sonny Colquitt, said, \"Hey, Cap'm\nCharlie! What you want do with that big sucker? Want me git a\nhoe?\" He meant a hoe to chop the head off with.Charlie stared at Sonny. Then he stared at the snake, which was a\nmagnificent brute. And then he was aware that everybody else,\nincluding Durwood and the Wiz, was staring at him, Cap'm Charlie.\nSo he said to Sonny, \"Go git me a croker sack.\"\nHe motioned toward the stable, and Sonny hightailed it toward the\nstable to get a croker sack, that being the local term for a burlap\nbag. While Sonny was gone, Charlie took off his jacket and loosened\nhis necktie. He didn't care if they saw his saddlebags, because they\nwouldn't know what they came from, and nobody in Baker County\nwas surprised to see a man sweating in the first place. Mainly he\nwanted to give them a proper eyeful of his huge chest, his broad\nback, his massive neck. Gimp or no gimp, he was still Cap'm Charlie\nCroker.\nIn no time Sonny was back with the croker sack. He handed it to\nCharlie. Charlie held the sack in his left hand and stepped through\nthe semicircle of gawkers, right between the other Australian elf,\nMelvin Bonnetbox, and one of the new black employees, Kermit\nHoyer, and advanced toward the snake. Step-gimp-step-gimp-step-\ngimp-step-gimp ... he walked as slowly and softly as he could . . .\npausing by the row of rattles . . . eight of them . . . still had the\noriginal button, or so it looked like . . . And now he crept on toward\nthe head, and a strange and wondrous thing happened. The pain\nbegan to recede from his knee. He was now close enough to the\nbeast's head to see its graceful heart shape and the sinister but\nbeautiful mask of black that ran across its face and eyes. And now\nhe stepped across its body, so that he was straddling the great\nsomnolent brute.\nHe knew that what he was about to do was foolhardy-and he knew\nhe would do it anyway. The only sane way to go about it would be to\nget a sapling branch and whittle it into a forked stick and pin the\nsnake's head down first. But by the time he managed to get a forked\nstick made, the beast might come to and retreat into the\nunderbrush, and everybody would just be staring at poor, feckless,gimped-up Cap'm Charlie. No, there was no other choice but the\nfoolhardiest possible way.\nHe could no longer hear a thing from the outside world. A rushing\nsound, like steam, filled his skull. He was no longer aware of telling\nhis sixty-year-old body what to do. He crouched, he leaned over at\nthe waist, and-\n-a flash of white filled his brain, and he thrust his right hand down\nand grabbed the rattlesnake around the neck at the base of its skull.\nWith a single motion he straightened up and swept the reptile off\nthe ground and held its head out in front of himself at arm's length.\nHe had done it! He had done it right! Right behind the jaws he had\nhim! One inch off in either direction-one slip of the fingers-and the\nbrute would have sunk its fangs into his forearm-but he had done it!\nThe snake was now six or seven feet of writhing bestial anger. Its\nhuge mouth was wide open, and its two fangs, which were truly like\nhypodermic needles, were erect, and it bit at the air, and great gouts\nof yellowish venom spurted from the fangs, and its forked black\ntongue flicked in every direction, and a hissing sound burst from its\nthroat. The beast was more than six feet of muscle, vertebrae, and\nribs, literally hundreds of ribs, and it lashed about until Charlie\nwondered if he could maintain his grip much longer. A heavy musk,\nlike a skunk's, spewed from the snake's body and choked the air, and\nto Charlie in that moment it was as rich as frankincense and myrrh.\nBut above all, there was the sound of the rattles.\nA chattering terror fills the place!\nThat was from a poem about rattlesnakes by somebod)-Somebody\nHarte?-that Charlie had read in high school. It was one of the few\npoems he had ever willingly memorized.\nThe wild bird hears; smote with the sound, As if by bullet brought to\nground;\nOn broken wing, dips, wheeling round!Smote with the sound! Full-grown, one-ton horses would bolt on you\nwhen thev heard the terrible castanet of the rattlesnake. That sound\nseemed to be a trigger of terror built into the nervous system of\nevery creature possessing the sense of hearing, including, above all,\nman.\nCharlie turned and held out the rattling beast toward everyone in the\nsemicircle, and they all shrank back, even Durwood, as if the\nincredible Cap'm Charlie were about to march upon them and cram\nthe venomous serpent down somebody's windpipe.\nIn fact, Charlie wondered how much longer he could hold the\ndamned thing. Seldom did a rattler weigh more than five pounds,\nbut this one did, and it was thrashing with tremendous jerks and\nspasms. On the other hand, as Charlie well knew, it couldn't thrash\nlike a buggy whip, and it couldn't wrap itself around his arm. It could\nonly thrash from side to side, in a lateral plane, and once its belly\nlost contact with the ground it was disoriented. The Wiz, he noted\nwith grim satisfaction, had now drifted back a full twenty feet. Me\nWho Would Live Forever had done an instantaneous back-of-the-\nenvelope calculation and decided that the vicinity of the Chevrolet\nSuburban was a better strategic alternative than anyplace anywhere\nnear that whitish sandy road above which a gigantic terror-\nchattering rattlesnake now thrashed in the grip of his boss gone\nberserk.\nCharlie gave them all one more terrible look down the gaping,\nvenom-spouting gullet, and then he flopped the mouth of the croker\nsack open with his left hand and thrust the head of the rattler down\ninto the bottom of it. Then he released his grip on the snake and\njerked his right hand and arm out of the sack and drew the\ndrawstring tight and held the sack aloft by the strings. The sack was\nnow a hive of primal anger. The burlap thrashed about furiously, the\nclattering terror filled the place, and you could see the beast's fangs\nknifing through the fabric's loose weave and squirting its seemingly\ninexhaustible supply of venom into the air.\"Awright, y'all,\" said Charlie in a tone of coldest command, \"c'mon\nov'ere.\"\nHe started walking toward the Snake House, which was about fifty\nyards beyond the stable. He held the croker sack far out from his\nshoul- cjer, suspended by the drawstrings. He'd known of cases\nwhere men had got bitten by diamondbacks because they let the\nbag get too close to their bodies. The strain on his arm was fierce,\nbut he was damned if he was going to ask anybody else to help him;\nnot now he wasn't, not after having gone this far. Out of the corner\nof his eye he could see the others forming behind him in a straggling\nline . . . with the Wiz bringing up the rear. He could hear a couple of\nthe stablehands going, \"Unnnh- ummhhh-unnnrmhhhhhhh.\" It was\nmusic to his ears.\nCharlie's body was gimping on him a little bit, but he didn't feel a\nthing. He felt light on his feet. He felt as if he was floating. He had .\n. . done it. And he was about to ... do more.\nInside, as well as outside, the Snake House was an absolute jewel of\na little building; or that was the way Charlie saw it. Outside, its\noctagonal, almost circular, shape and its ancient red brick\n(meticulously hunted down by Ronald Vine) and its white wooden\ntrim and its heavy slate roof made it look like one of those little\nbuildings Charlie had seen when he was in Virginia and had visited\nMonticello and Colonial Williamsburg. Up on top, where the eight\nsides of the roof came to a point, instead of a weather vane or\nanything like that, there was the bronze sculpture of a coiled\nrattlesnake. Inside-and this had been Ronald Vine's true stroke of\ngenius-the Snake House's tiny interior was lined with what at first\nlooked like some sort of lurid wallpaper. But then you realized the\nstripes were in fact rattlesnake skins, flattened out and stretched up\nvertically and touching, edge to edge, so that they created a vast\nfield of rough, scaly diamonds. Around the lower part of the little\neight-sided room ran an ornate white wainscoting, and at the top of\nthe wainscoting was a wide white counter, and in the center of the\ncounter on each of seven wall sections of the octagon-the eighthwas devoted to the doorway-was a big glass aquarium, or, better\nsaid, terrarium, and in each terrarium were live snakes from the\nfields and swamps of Turpmtine: rattlers, copperheads,\ncottonmouths, and corals ... all of them poisonous and all of them\ndeadly.\nThere were plenty of Turpmtine employees, black and white, who\ndidn't even like to go inside the Snake House. They had a sound\ninstinct: you steer clear of snakes, and when you see them, you kill\nthem. Some of the boys believed snakes were the Devil's agents. So\nthe little band that followed Cap'm Charlie into the Snake House-\nthey were quieter than they would have been if they were going into\na Methodist church.\nCharlie carried his croker sack over to the far wall, where there was\na terrarium with six huge rattlesnakes, each one almost as big as the\none in the sack, slithering around one another like the Devil making\nhis appearance on earth in a slimy moving knot of coils bristling with\nfangs and swollen with pent-up venom. Sonny, Durwood, Kermit,\njohnny, and Bonnie, as Melvin Bonnetbox was called-all of them\nhung back. The Wiz truly hung back; he made sure he was nearer\nthe door than the terrarium.\nCharlie shifted the croker sack from his left hand to his right hand,\nand then, without asking anybody's help or looking at a soul, he\nlifted up one end of the wire-mesh grille over the terrarium and laid\nthe mouth of the croker sack on the lip of the glass. Then he lifted\nthe bottom of the croker sack up to about a 60-degree angle. You\ncould see the snakes in the bottom of the terrarium looking up at\nthe croker sack and Charlie's bare left hand and wrist. Then you\ncould see the head of the rattler in the croker sack beginning to\nprotrude from the sack's mouth. That head and those fangs and that\nvenom were no more than six inches from Charlie's left hand, which\nheld up the lid. Now more and more of the snake's huge body began\nto slither out the mouth of the sack. Suddenly the serpent thrust its\nentire body, all six or seven feet of it, out of the croker sack andflopped down among its brethren in the bottom of the terrarium and\njoined the moving knot of slithering coils.\nEver so gingerly, Charlie lowered the lid and withdrew the croker\nsack. For a moment he just stood there and stared at the seven\nrattlesnakes inside the terrarium. The biggest of them all, the\nnewcomer, the monster he had picked up with his bare hand,\nslithered about among all the deadly coils in a state of high\nagitation.\nThen Charlie stepped back about two feet and stared some more.\nOut of the corners of his eyes he noticed that the boys, including\neven the Wiz, had now stepped forward to get a closer look. So he\nreached in his pants pocket withdrew his car keys, concealing them\nin his fist. He stared at the serpents a few beats longer-then\nsuddenly threw the keys against the side of the terrarium. The angry\nnewcomer struck the spot first, his fangs smashing into the glass,\nbut the other six hit the same spot, fangs bared, within the next\nfraction of a second. Everybody in the room, except for Charlie,\njumped back, as if rocked by an explosion. Even Durwood; even\nSonny; and the Wiz, He Who Would Live Forever, was almost out the\ndoor.\nCharlie turned around and let his gaze run over the whole bunch of\nthem, one by one, and then he said, in the calmest voice imaginable,\n\"Boys, that's one damn fine snake.\"\noutside the snake house, as they dispersed, the others were\nconversing excitedly with one another. But not the Wiz; he was\nstanding alone, his hands in his pockets. Charlie walked over to him,\nand he wasn't conscious of any gimp at all in his right leg. He put his\narm around the young man's shoulders, and he said:\n\"Wiz, I been thinking it over. I've made up my mind. We're gonna do\nit. We're gonna lay off 15 percent of the food division.\"\nThe Wiz didn't look at his boss. He just nodded yes and looked\nstraight ahead. Behind the titanium frames his bar-code-scannereyes were open wide enough to take in the world. Charlie Croker felt\nalmost whole again.\nChapter 4Beige Half Brothers\nThe ori'ice ok the mayor ok atlanta, roger white's old Omega Zeta\nZeta fraternity brother at Morehouse, Wesley Dobbs Jordan, was up\non the second floor of the 1989 addition to City Hall, the new part of\nCity Hall, the part you entered from Trinity Avenue. You found\nyourself in a lobby, a rotunda that struck Roger as very modem but\nat the same time very grand, which was a big admission for Roger to\nmake to himself, because he didn't have much patience with modern\narchitecture and decor. His own taste had never tolerated much that\ncame after Exlwin Lutyens. But this rotunda wasn't bad. It was all\ngray Georgia marble, which rose three stories to a fabulous dome\nwith a skylight that flooded the place with a sunlit radiance, even on\na dreary day like this one. On either side, marble stairways led up to\na balcony on the second floor whose immense brass railing ran clear\naround the rotunda like a crown.\nGod, Roger thought, with a stab of envy, Wes Jordan has made it, if\nhe runs this kingdom! Well, there was no use being envious of Wes,\nwas there. Wes was unique. Wes had always had a twelve-month\nsupply of confidence. He was a short, somewhat pudgy little guy, but\nat Morehouse he had been more than just an exemplar of the\nMorehouse Man. He had been the Morehouse Man and a half. He\nhad been president of Omega Zeta Zeta and president of the student\nbody. He was a light- skinned blueblood, related to many important\nfigures of the old Sweet Auburn black elite, and from the start he\nhad been a leader because he was . . . going to be a leader. Roger\nwas a light-skinned blueblood himself and kin to perhaps as many\nprominent people as Wes was, but he had never had the implacable\nconfidence that Wes had or the withering cynicism with which Wes\ncut all enemies down to size. You couldn't pull any of that Authentic\nBlack business on Wes. With a few words he'd take some blacker-\nthan-thou fool's own words and stick them between his ribs and into\nhis gizzard before the sucker knew what was happening. And now\nWes was Mayor of Atlanta, and he, Roger, was approaching the\nthrone of the Monarch of the Marble Rotunda, seeking, like everyoneelse, a favor. Well, at least I know him on a first-name basis, thought\nRoger. I won't have to stand there murmuring Mr. Mayor with my hat\nin my hand. Not, it occurred to him, that he was wearing a hat; but\nhe had gone to the trouble of putting on the richest-looking\nensemble he possessed: a navy hard-finished worsted suit with\npinstripes, nipped in at the waist, a tab-collared shirt with a white\ncollar and spaced- out pale-blue stripes on the shirtfront,. a solid\nFrench-blue crepe de chine silk necktie from Charvet in Paris, and a\npair of close-soled, cap- toed, highly polished black shoes that fit\nhim in the insteps like a pair of gloves. Debouching from the breast\npocket of his jacket was a white silk handkerchief selvaged with\nFrench blue.\nOnce you walked up the stairs and went through the doors of the\nmayoral domain, you found yourself before a long modern counter,\nbehind which sat a pretty black receptionist, late twenties if Roger\nhad to guess, with medium-dark skin and carefully coiffed, relaxed\nhair. As soon as he announced his name, she said brightly:\n\"Oh, Mr. White! Have a seat. It'll only be a minute.\" Very brightly, in\nfact, and with such a warm smile that Roger turned off his status\nradar, which had been dialed up to detect even the slightest sign\nthat he was being treated like any other humble petitioner before His\nEminence.\nIn the rear of the reception area a huge white policeman sat at a\ndesk, eyeing him with a neutral expression that changed into a small\npolite smile when Roger looked directly at him. Security . . . white\nReceptionist . . . black ... A white cop and a black receptionist . . .\nRoger wondered if Wes always arranged it this way, black and white,\none of each; since the petitioners who arrived in this place would be\nwhite as well as black. In fact, the only other person waiting in the\nreception area, sitting on a couch, was a white businessman, about\nfifty; or Roger took him to be a businessman. He had on the typical\nAtlanta white businessman's garb of the moment: a nondescript,\nshapeless, mall- men's-store, off-the-rack dark suit, a striped shirt,and a Pizza Grenade necktie, as Roger called the current necktie\ngenre. It was the sort of tie that looked as if a peppcroni-and-olive\npizza had just exploded on your shirtfront. Even black businessmen\nwere wearing them!-and Roger had always just naturally assumed\nthat black businessmen dressed more subtly, as well as more\nstylishly, than their white counterparts. And the shoes . . . white\nbusinessmen just didn't understand about shoes. They didn't wear\nclose-soled shoes. They wore them with soles that stuck out like\nsidewalks.\nRoger Too White took a seat across from him in a leather easy chair\nthat made a luxurious whooshing sound as he sank into it. Idly he\nlooked about ... a lot of English furniture of the sort Wes had always\nliked, Sheraton and Hepplewhite; Wes had it in his home in Cascade\nHeights, too. The place looked like an old-line men's club, such as\nthe Commerce Club or the Capital City, which Roger had been inside\na few times for lunch . . . and yet-\n-something was jarring the pattern, the mental atmosphere of the\nroom . . . Then Roger noticed the curtains on either side of the\nwindow. Enormous things, these curtains were, heavily pleated and\ndraped . . . Yoruban cotton . . . Yoniban! . . . The bold black, red,\nand yellow Yoruban designs were unmistakable, even with the\nmaterial so heavily pleated and folded in upon itself. And up there on\nthe wall above the couch, set against the dark paneling . . . fantastic\nAfrican carvings, in stone and ivory . . . antelopes, wildebeests, lions,\ncheetahs . . . plus fabulous creatures that came from out of Yoruban\nmyths. . . . and over there on the adjoining wall . . . two lurid but\nstunning and probably very valuable witch-doctor masks and a pair\nof crossed spears with distinctive Yoruban tassels hanging from the\nmetal necks just below the spearheads.\nOh, Roger recognized it all, because during his junior year at\nMorehouse he had been one of the students chosen to go on a tour\nof Yorubaland during spring break-why couldn't those wallowing\nFreaknickers of today think of something constructive like that!-he\nhad gone on a tour of Yorubaland, in the hinterlands of Lagos,Nigeria, with a group led by Dr. Michaels and Dr. Pomeroy. And why?\nRoots! It was generally believed, by scholars, that a high percentage\nof the slaves who had come to America had been seized in\nYorubaland, which had been the seat of a great civilization, perhaps\nthe greatest civilization in all of Africa. The houses of the chiefs were\nmagnificent structures. Some of them had as many as fifty rooms,\nrichly decorated with carvings and symbolic devices just like the\nones on these walls. And then Roger remembered: Wes had been on\nthat trip. Wes would remember all this stuff as vividly as he did.\nHe got up from the chair and approached the receptionist.\n\"Excuse me,\" he said. Her lovely smiling face turned toward him. \"I\nwas just wondering\"-he gestured toward the carvings on the wall\nabove the couch-\"how long have these carvings been here?\"\n\"About two and a half weeks, I guess.\"\n\"And these?\" He gestured toward the mask and the spears.\n\"Same thing,\" said the receptionist. \"The Mayor brought them in. I\nthink he brought them from home.\"\n\"No kidding!\" said Roger. And then he realized the expression\nsounded almost as silly as it had when he had said it to Coach Buck\nMcNutter the other night. Then he said, \"They're stunning.\"\nHe repeated the phrase several times on the way back to his chair, in\na slightly narcoleptic fashion, talking to himself. \"Yes, they're\nstunning . . . they're stunning . . .\" All the while he was thinking,\nFrom home? Wes Jordan's been collecting Yoruban art?\nHe was still puzzling over this fact-Wes Jordan had never shown the\nslightest interest in African art after their return from Yorubaland,\nnot even during the height of Afirocentrism in the late 1960s and\nearly 1970s-he was still puzzling over it when a woman came\nbustling out of a door on the side wall slightly behind the\nreceptionist and said, with much heartiness and a big smile:\"Mr. White? I'm Gladys Caesar. If you'll come with me-the Mayor's\nbeen looking forward to seeing you!\"\nRoger sized up Gladys Caesar immediately. She was the sort of\nchunky, highly energetic, relentlessly well-organized middle-aged\nwoman, neither light-skinned nor terribly dark, either, who, since\ntime was, had gotten things done in the community. He followed her\ndown a long hallway lined on one side by glassed-in shelves bearing\nan astonishing array of objets: two Japanese ceramic dolls clad in\nreal cloth kimonos of fabulous richness and complexity, adorned with\nsome sort of large lake-red disks, a Lalique glass bowl with an Art\nDeco nude rising from the rim, a fragment (but a big one) of an\napparently ancient Italian bas-relief, a fifteen-or-sixteen-inch-high\nbronze figure of a mustachioed New York City policeman from the\nturn of the century mounted on a horse and wearing a capelct over\nhis shoulders, an exquisite model of a nineteenth-century ship inside\na big bottle with a narrow neck-these objets, each one more\nexpensive-looking than the previous one, stretched on and on,\nbehind glass. Before Roger could ask the question, Gladys Caesar\nanswered it for him:\n\"Gifts from visiting dignitaries. The Japanese never come without a\ngift. They'd consider that bad manners.\"\nThe hallway led past a couple of small offices and down toward two\nbig mahogany doors. When they reached the door on the left,\nGladys Caesar produced a key and unlocked it, pushed it open,\ngestured toward a big couch upholstered in white tweed, and said\nsoftly, with the warmest possible smile, \"Have a seat. He'll be right\nin.\"\nRoger looked about. He was in what looked like a living room, a\nmodern living room but a spectacular one. There was a single, wide,\nfloor-to-ceiling window, which also served as a sliding door, that\nlooked out onto a balcony. The balcony, like the rest of the building,\nwas made of a pale pre-cast concrete, but a modernistic dark metal\nrailing and balusters created a pattern that gave it high style. Theback of the couch was within four or five feet of the window, and in\nfront of the couch was a glass coffee table with a beveled top that\nlooked two inches thick, at least, supported by a simple but\nmagnificently forged brass frame. The floor was covered by a thick\nrug with a dark brown geometric shape repeated against a white\nbackground; upon closer inspection Roger could see that the shape\nwas that of a phoenix, the mythical bird that rises from the ashes,\nthe symbol of Atlanta, which had twice burned to the ground and\nsprung back up. On one end of the coffee table was a stack of\noversized picture books, and in the center of the table ... a\nsuperlative Yoruban divination cup resting atop the foot-high figures\nof a horse and rider carved in a reddish wood in the ancient Oyo\nstyle . . . Stunning! . . . Yes, stunning . . . and then he noticed the\nwalls, which at first glance he had assumed were more mahogany,\nbecause they were so dark. But now he could see what they really\nwere . . . ebony . . . from floor to ceiling . . . without any bevels or\nother decorative incisions . . . Displayed on the wall opposite where\nhe stood ... a massing of what a m must have been at least a dozen\nYoruban ceremonial swords, each one eighteen inches or so in\nlength, carved in ivory in the most intricate detail . . . The ebony\nbehind them brought out all the lacelike apertures in the swords'\nblades . . . Stunning! Stunning!\nRoger was still staring, agape, when he heard a door open off to the\nside. Coming toward him, across the phoenix rug, from out of what\nappeared to be a smallish office, was Wes Jordan, all five feet, seven\ninches of him, beaming.\nHe opened his arms and held his hands up as if preparing for an\nembrace, and said in a deep voice, \"Brother White! Brother White!\"\nRoger immediately recognized this as Wes's put-on voice, his ironic\nAuthentic Black voice, and he knew \"Brother\" to have two meanings,\nboth of them ironic: Brother White, as in Omega Zeta Zeta fraternity\nbrother, and Brother White, as in my African-American soul brother.When he drew close, Wes didn't embrace him, as Roger thought he\nwas about to. Instead, he raised his left hand, palm open, and said,\n\"Hey, blood, gimme five.\"\nRoger slapped the Mayor's palm with his own, obligingly, even\nthough he knew this was a put-on, too. Then the Mayor raised his\nright palm and said, \"Gimme high, blood!\"\nRoger slapped his palm up high. Then the Mayor lowered his left\nhand, palm up, almost down to knee level, and said, \"Gimme low,\nblood!\"\nRoger slapped the palm down low. Then, to his surprise, the Mayor\ndid embrace him. He threw his arms right around him and rested his\nhead cheek-by-jowl to Roger's and said in a perfectly normal voice,\nwith evident sincerity, \"It's good to see you, brother. I don't know\nwhere the time goes.\"\nThen he stepped back abruptly and looked Roger up and down, from\nhis gleaming sweet close-soled black shoes up to his white tab collar\nand Charvet necktie and back down to his feet again.\n\"Vnnh-unnh-unnnnhhhhhhh\\\" A deep voice, back in the mock\nAuthentic Black mode once more. \"Ain't we da buttas, baby! Ain't we\nda . . . buttas\\ Was up, bro?\"\nDa buttas was current street slang, the hip-hop pronunciation of \"the\nbutters,\" which was the latest term for smooth or slick or cool,\nparticularly in matters of clothing. Roger was surprised that Wes\nJordan even knew the term. He had only just heard of it himself.\n\"How you know 'bout da buttas, brudda?\" said Roger, slipping into\nWes's put-on diction in spite of himself.\n\"Aw, baby,\" said the Mayor, \"you didn't know you was lookin' at a\ndown cat? You didn't know you was lookin' at Mr. Mean Streets of\nAtlanta? The question is, how does a Wringer Fleasom & Tick bitch\nin a suit like you know 'bout da buttas!\"\" 'Case you didn' know,\" said Roger, once more mimicking the\nMayor's jive voice, \"I got a 'leven-year-old boy in the house.\nWhatever trash you got lvin' out there litterin' the streets a this town\nyou runnin', he's gon' bring it home, 'long's it's homey, cool, and\nstraight from the ghetto.\"\nThey both started laughing, and Roger took this moment to look his\nold fraternity brother up and down. In contour he was the same old\nWes Jordan, a little too round, a little too chubby, wearing a\nperfectly good but not striking dark gray suit, a white shirt-and a\nPizza Grenade necktie. Him, too. But his light tan face looked harder\nand squarer than Roger remembered it, and his hair was receding\npretty deeply; all to the good, actually, it occurred to Roger; after all,\nhis old pal was now the Mayor of Atlanta. As it had always been,\nWes's hair was naturally straight enough for him to comb it back in\nwaves. In fact, it occurred to Roger at that moment, Wes Jordan\ncould probably have passed for white if he had ever wanted to work\non it, if he had ever wanted to move to another city somewhere and\nstart out from zero. But what did a man like Wes need with white\nand zero? He was forty-three years old and already mayor of one of\nthe four or five most important cities in the United States.\nNo, Wes didn't need a thing to improve himself in the credentials\ndepartment. He was a true Sweet Auburn blueblood. In fact, his\nblood was about as blue as black blood got. His whole act, ever\nsince he'd emerged from his office and come toward Roger, had\nbeen vintage Wes Jordan irony, which he had perfected more than\ntwo decades ago, way back in their Morehouse College days. Wes\nwas the first in their group-or the first Roger was aware of-to isolate\nand make fun of the custom among black professionals and\nintellectuals of greeting each other with an exchange of some form\nof Authentic Black street talk. It was an unconscious way of\nexpunging guilt, guilt over being so many fortunate levels above\none's black brethren who truly were denizens of the streets-of\nexpressing solidarity, of symbolizing an eternal awareness and\nvigilance in the face of a white society that, in point of fact, did notdistinguish between those different levels of black males and did not\neven want to.\nBut to Wes Jordan it had always seemed phony, nonetheless, and\nwhen he engaged in it, he made it so ironic that you had to be a\npretty dim bulb not to get the point. Wes might have his faults, but\nbeing insecure about his status in this life had never been one of\nthem.\nRoger said, \"You'll never guess who I started thinking about soon as\nI walked into your waiting room out there.\"\n\"Who?\"\n\"Professor Milford Pomeroy.\"\n\"Ahhhh,\" said the Mayor, \"Pom-Pom Pomeroy.\"\n\"Can you guess why?\"\n\"I'll take a wild guess, I'll take a wild guess. Could it be that you\nspied a few treasures of the Oyo and the Owo out there on the\nwalls?\"\n\"You got it,\" said Roger, \"but I was really surprised. You . . . and\nYoruban art?\"\n\"Oh, we've gone to some pains to put down some . . . Yoruban roots\nin this office.\"\n\"Your receptionist-\"\n\"Miss Beasley.\" The same smile.\n\"A very attractive young lady,\" said Roger.\n\"Yes, she is,\" said the Mayor.\n\"Miss Beasley told me you brought all these pieces in here. I never\nknew you collected Yoruban art. I hope you don't mind me sayingso, Mr. Mayor, but collecting Yoruban art doesn't strike me as very\nWes Jordan.\"\n\"Miss Beasley said I collected Yoruban art?\"\n\"Well, no, she didn't exactly say that. You brought them in was what\nI think she said.\"\n\"In that she is correct,\" said Wes, \"in that she is correct. In that she\nis, indeed, correct.\" That was another Wes Jordan mannerism,\nrepeating a phrase over and over, until it finally seemed totally ironic\nor else mysteriously significant. \"I did bring them in, at least in the\nsense that if it weren't for me, they wouldn't be here. I'll tell you\nsomething, Roger. Sometimes it really is fun, being the Mayor of\nAtlanta. I got all these pieces or got them on loan, with about a\ndozen telephone calls, and for half of them I didn't even have to get\non the telephone myself. Everybody's looking ahead. I called the\nNational Museum in Lagos, Nigeria, I called the Hammer Collection-\nyou know, Armand Hammer? 1 called the Linden Museum in\nStuttgart, Germany, I called the Pace Gallery in New York City-by the\nway, Brother Roger, this is just you and me talking, right, Brother\nWes and Brother Roger?\"\n\"Oh, sure,\" said Roger.\n\"1 mean, I don't even know why you're here. You were very\nmysterious on the telephone with Gladys, I gather, very mysterious,\nvery mysterious.\" The smile again.\n\"Well, you'll see why in a minute. But go ahead, tell me about all\nthis.\" He gestured toward the divination cup and the ivory swords\nagain.\n\"I told all these people exactly what I was doing. I told them their\nstuff would be on loan and displayed prominently in the Mayor's\noffice. I didn't say for how long, and they didn't ask. Well, that's not\nreally true. They did ask, but only barely.\"\"But you, Wes? As I remember, you used to laugh at all this Afro-\ncentric business. 1 remember one night-when was it?-'87?-'88-you\nmade so much fun of Jesse Jackson and his 'African-American'\npronouncement at that press conference-you remember?-wherever it\nwas-Chicago, I think-that press conference where he started\neverybody using 'African-American' instead of 'black'?-you remember\nthat night-you had Albert Hill laughing so hard, I thought he was\ngoing to die, and he liked Jesse.\"\n\"Well,\" said the Mayor, cocking his head and smiling more knowingly\nthan ever, \"times change. Times change, times change, and the polls\nchange.\"\n\"The polls?\"\n\"The polls and the focus groups.\"\n\"You use focus groups?\"\n\"That we do, but don't get me started on all that. Have a seat\"-he\nindicated the white couch-\"and tell me what I have to thank for the\nhonor of this visit.\"\nSo Roger took a seat on the couch, and Wes Jordan pulled up a big\narmchair on the other side of the coffee table and sat down and\nsank back comfortably.\nRoger said, \"Wes-do you by any chance know Fareek Fanon, the\nfootball player?\"\n\"Oh yes,\" said Wes, rolling his eyes, \"I know him. I shared the dais\nwith him at a Special Junior Olympics event, I believe it was.\" The\nsmile on his face had a distinctly sardonic twist. \"What about him?\"\nRoger said, \"I represent him.\"\n\"You? What on earth for?\"\nRoger took a deep breath and launched into the narrative of Fanon\nand the Freaknic party and the white student who somehow endedup in the Cannon's room at 2 a. M. and now claimed she was raped.\nWhen he said, \"Her father is Inman Armholster,\" the Mayor sat bolt\nupright and slid forward to the edge of the chair and leaned toward\nRoger and exclaimed:\n\"You're kidding!\"\n\"That's exactly what I said when McNutter told me who she was,\"\nsaid Roger. \"It wasn't a very lawyer-like response, but that's exactly\nwhat I said: Tou're kidding.' He wasn't kidding.\"\n\"And they want you to represent him? Isn't this a little outside your\nfield?\" The Mayor was now leaning so far forward, with his hands\nclasped and his forearms resting on his thighs, his weight seemed to\nbe centered over the balls of his feet.\n\"Oh, I wondered the same thing,\" said Roger. \"They've got two other\nlawyers on the case, Julian Salisbury, who's a very good white\nlitigator, and Don Pickett, who's a very good black litigator, and\nthey've got me.\"\n\"Yeah, I know them both,\" said the Mayor.\n\"They've got me because-well, just a minute ago you asked me if I\nwas Brother Roger and you said you were Brother Wes. Does that\nstill stand?\"\n\"Sure.\"\n\"Well then, I'll tell you exactly why they've hired me. I won't put any\nspin on it at all. They've hired me because they know I know you.\nThey know we went to grade school and high school together and,\nfor that matter, Sunday school. They know we were fraternity\nbrothers at Morehouse. They think you'll listen to me in a way you\nwouldn't listen to someone who hasn't known you from way back.\nIt's as simple as that, and that's all I know.\"Wes Jordan rose to his feet. He began to pace back and forth with a\nbemused look on his face, massaging the knuckles of his left hand\nwith the fingers of his right.\nThen he stopped and said to Roger, \"Okay, let's assume that's sound\nthinking on their part. Just what do they think you're going to get\nme to do? Inman Armholster. Jesus Christ! And just who is 'they'?\nWho's paying for all this?\"\n\"It's this new group of football boosters they've got, the Stingers.\"\n\"All of whom are white and know Inman Armholster, no doubt. Do\nyou have any idea-\" The Mayor broke off the sentence and started\npacing again. \"Okay. As I was saying, what are you supposed to be\npersuading me to do?\"\n\"Well, they-we-whatever-we want-\"\nInterrupting in a distracted way, as if unaware that Roger had said\nanything, all the while gazing out toward the murky clouds beyond\nthe balcony, the Mayor said, \"Do you have any idea of the . . .\npotential of this thing? One of the greatest athletes to ever come out\nof South Atlanta, out of black Atlanta, and the daughter of one of\nthe richest and most prominent men in North Atlanta, in white\nAtlanta, in Buck- head . . .\" Then he looked at Roger and said with\nthe faintest of smiles, \"So what does your client want me to do?\"\n\"Well, Wes-what we want, above all, is to keep this thing quiet.\nJulian Salisbury and Don Pickett may be terrific litigators, but this is\na case we can't win in any court. All that has to happen is for the\nwhole thing to get out in public and the damage is done. But it can't\nbe kept quiet just by saying nothing. Somebody has to step in and\nmediate . . . mediate with Inman Armholster. Somebody has to calm\na lot of very ruffled feathers, and they-and I happen to agree with\nthem one hundred percent-they can't think of anybody who could do\nit better than you. You have the trust of the Inman Armholsters of\nthis city.\"Wes stood still and gazed out through the big plate-glass window\nand began to smile, as if he had just seen something terribly\namusing way over in Paulding or Douglas County. Then he looked at\nRoger with the same smile on his face.\n\"Roger,\" he said, \"do you happen to know what 'get-out-the-vote\nmoney' is? Sometimes it's called 'walking-around money.'\"\n\"In a general way,\" said Roger. \"I've heard the term. Why?\"\n\"Well,\" said Wes Jordan, \"what would you say it meant, in a general\nway?\"\n\"I gather it refers to the money you have to spend on election day,\nor maybe starting a few days before, to alert your supporters in the\npoorer neighborhoods -I don't know . . . send sound trucks through\nand pay those people who stand on the corners near the polling\nplaces handing out leaflets and get people to drive vans to take\npeople to the polls, things like that. Why?\"\nWes smiled, a bit too superciliously in Roger's estimation. \"That's\nwhat I always thought, too, Roger. But right after I announced my\ncandidacy for mayor, Archie Blount -remember Archie? -congressman\nfrom the Fifth District? -Archie drops by, and he says, 'Wes, this is\nthe first time you've ever run in something this big, a citywide\nelection. In the first month of the campaign, your knowledge of how\npolitics actually work will increase by 100 percent. In the second\nmonth it'll increase 200 percent, and in the third it'll increase 400\npercent -and you'll still be in kindergarten.' I thanked him, in a\npatronizing way, probably -I liked him, but I didn't consider him very\nbright -and I continued my preparations to run on the merits, which\nwere all in my favor, I figured.\n\"The very next morning I got my first surprise. There on my desk is\na stack of letters this high. Clipped to each letter is a check made\nout to my campaign. The letter itself is a contract between me and\nthe organization that sent it. One, I remember, was from some 'gay\nrights' organization. All I had to do was sign off on this letter sayingthat I would come out in favor of same-sex marriages, survivor's\nrights for same-sex couples, gay-sex education starting in\nelementary school, criminal sanctions against anti-gay bigotry, I can't\neven remember it all, and I could have the check, which was for\n$20,000. I disdained it, on the merits, and had my secretary send it\nright back. First, it was absolute rubbish, and second, my core\nconstituency, our brothers and sisters, couldn't care less about\nmaking life easier for homosexuals, black or white. And when these\ngay-rights groups, who are all white boys, of course, start trying to\ncompare their 'struggle'- it's always 'struggle' -with our folks' -I\nmean, they're comparing a lot of white boys hugging and kissing\neach other with a people rising up from slavery -it makes the smoke\nstart coming out of your ears. So I figure I've made a can't-miss\ndecision. I've returned the letter and the check with a polite note\nsaying thanks but no thanks, and I think that's the end of it. Then,\nfour days later, I see a front-page headline on this weekly, The Five\nPointer it's called. I'm denounced as a homophobe opportunist who\nwon't support even the most fundamental gay rights. You might say,\n'Well, so what?' The Five Pointer's circulation is 15,000 at the most.\nIt's a so-called alternative newspaper. But it's very popular among\nwhite homosexuals -and so I've just lost the gay vote without even\nopening my mouth on the subject.\n\"Every letter in that stack proposed the same deal. 'Bind yourself to\nour agenda, and you can keep the money.' After a couple of months\nyou're beginning to pant for money. You're beginning to need it the\nway you need food and air. These campaigns devour money, and by\nnow the vendors are all too smart to sell you anything on credit. You\nstart thinking back to all those checks you turned down in such a\nhigh- minded way. You start wondering if you couldn't review your\npositions and find room under your umbrella for some of these . . .\nreally not so terrible . . . special-interest organizations and their . . .\n$20,000 checks . . . because you have now learned an elemental\nlesson, which is: Nobody - nobody - wins a citywide election strictly\non the merits. You must have two things: money and organization.And by organization I mean you've got to have people who know\nevery single neighborhood, particularly in South Atlanta.\n\"Which brings me to 'get-out-the-vote money.' In the closing days of\nthe election you're going to be approached by people claiming they\ncan deliver X number of votes. Some guy wearing a shirt with no\ncollar and a Braves warm-up jacket will come up to you and say, i\ngot Mechan- icsville, but I gotta know right now. It's $10,000.' You\nhesitate, partly because he has such a belligerent, disrespectful tone\nin his voice, whereupon he says, Tou don't want it? Fuck you! This is\nthe deal! I didn't come here to negotiate! Ten thousand up front or\nfuck you, pal!' Here's some red-eyed moron screaming 'Fuck you' in\nyour face -the face of the next Mayor of Atlanta -but by now you\nknow there's no use getting on your high horse. So you stand there\nand take it. Maybe this is a guy who can deliver Mechanicsville.\nThat's where organization comes in. You've got to have people who\nknow these neighborhoods, who know who can or can't deliver a\nneighborhood or part of a neighborhood, and who can talk their\nlanguage and who's willing to get his hands dirty.\"\n\"His hands dirty?\" said Roger.\n\"Oh yes,\" said Wes. \"After you've made your decision who to pay off,\nyou've got to have somebody -you can't do it yourself-somebody\nwho delivers the $20,000, $30,000, $40,000, whatever, to these\noperators. In cash. After you deliver the money, you've got no\ncontrol over what happens to it, and no redress. You've made a\nverbal agreement with some character who doesn't speak English\nbeyond 'Take it or leave it' and 'Fuck you.'\"\n\"What does happen to it?\"\n\"Assuming the guy can do what he says he can, he gets on the\ntelephone early the morning of the election and he starts calling all\nthe people on his list, all the potential voters, and he says, \"\n'Whatcha say, baby? How 'bout getting your ass out of bed andcoming on out here and fulfill your civic duty? I'm talking about\nvoting, baby.'\n\"And the guy'll say, 'I don't know, man. What I got coming from it?'\n\"And your newest ardent supporter will say, Thirty dollars.'\n\"And the guy'll say, 'Can't you do no better'n that?'\n\"And your vote-getter-outer says, Thirty's top dollar this year, bro.'\n\"And the guy'll say, 'Okay . . . shit . . . Who I supposed to vote for?'\n\" 'Wesley Dobbs Jordan.'\n\" 'Say who? Wesley Dobbs Who da fuck?'\n\" 'Ne'mind, baby, just come on down here and I'll tell you.'\n\" 'Ohhhhhhkay. Shit. I'll see you down'eh. You sure you can't do no\nbetter'n thirty?'\"\n\"When does he get paid?\" asked Roger. \"How does he get paid?\"\n\"He gets paid after he votes,\" said the Mayor of Atlanta. \"As for\nprecisely how, that I can't tell you, because I've never seen it done\nand I don't intend to. But you can be sure of one thing: it's paid in\ncash.\"\nRoger said, \"What exactly does the . . . operator, or whatever he's\ncalled, what does he get out of it?\"\n\"That I don't know, either, but judging by how much you give one of\nthese people and how many votes you get in his district, I'd say he\nkeeps about half or maybe a little more than that. Little enough to\npay for such a vital service, is what everybody figures.\"\n\"But isn't that illegal?\" asked Roger. \"Isn't that buying votes?\"\n\"That it is, Brother Roger, that it is, and except in the rare case\nthere's no other way to win a citywide election. And today you'dbetter have half a million dollars set aside just for that, just for\nhanding out cash to voters, and the more you can devote to that,\nthe better your chances. A full million dollars increases your chances\nby 50 percent. And would you like to know who's guaranteeing\nAndre Fleet a million in get-out- the-vote money when the time\ncomes?\"\n\"Guaranteeing who?\"\n\"Andre Fleet.\"\n\"The Operation Higher guy? He's going to run against you?\"\n\"He's already running against me. He's making the rounds of the\n'hoods, talking to every group that's willing to sit still to hear a\nspeaker. He actually calls 'em that, the 'hoods. I'm not kidding! He\nmust think this is a made-for-TV movie. The . . . 'hoods . . .\"\nWithering sarcasm\n\"He's calling me everything in the book. I'm a blueblood, I'm part of\nthe 'Morehouse elite.' I'm in the back pocket of the white Chamber\nof Commerce. I'm an Oreo, black on the outside and white on the\ninside, only I ain't even very black on the outside. I'm a 'beige half\nbrother.' Direct quote. 'It's time Atlanta had its \"first black Mayor.\" '\nMaynard Jackson, Andy Young, Bill Campbell, and me-we've all been\n'high vella.' I'm not making this stuff up. You ought to hear him,\nRoger. People bring me tapes. You know what he looks like?\"\n\"I've seen pictures of him.\"\n\"Well, he's tall, six-five or something, he's young, five years ago he\nwas still playing in the NBA, he's got a lot of muscles, and the ladies\nlove him, and he's dark, brother.\" The deep put-on voice. \"He's\nstrong coffee. He's from the streets, brother, from the 'hood. I'd like\nto know what streets he thinks he grew up on. His father owned a\nservice station in West End, and his mother owned a beauty parlor\ncalled Rita's Beauty Box, and he grew up in Collier Heights. Collier\nHeights. What kind of real life does he think he grew up with in his'hood, squirrels and robins and lightning bugs? He's too much, Mr.\nAndrPS Fleet is, but people are listening to him. He's saying that\never since Maynard Jackson became the first black Mayor of Atlanta,\nthe black political leadership has been in the hands of a light-skinned\nelite, the Morehouse elite, he keeps calling it, and somehow we're in\nleague with the White Establishment-the Piedmont Driving Club elite,\nhe calls it-to enrich each other at the expense of the ordinary people\nof the streets. All of us, Maynard Jackson, Andy Young, Bill\nCampbell-we're all the Morehouse elite, even Andy, who grew up in\nLouisiana and went to Dillard, in New Orleans, and Bill Campbell,\nwho grew up in North Carolina and went to Vanderbilt, in Nashville,\nTennessee. It's one of those situations in which the truth doesn't\nmatter, because deep down we're all Morehouse bluebloods, no\nmatter what the facts are. We're not really black. It's the worst kind\nof demagoguery, Roger, the worst kind of pandering-but he's\nscoring. Oh, he's scoring. We run our own polls, and we run our own\nfocus groups out in his beloved 'hoods, and he's scoring. If the\nelection was held today, I'd be in a lot of trouble. For one thing, he\nhas a really solid commitment for a million dollars in get-out-the-vote\nmoney.\"\n'Tou mentioned that,\" said Roger. \"From whom?\"\nWes Jordan cocked his head to one side and put on a cold smile.\n\"Inman Armholster.\"\nRoger was dumbfounded. He fought back the impulse to say 'Tou're\nkidding.\" He ransacked his brain to try to figure out the logic of\nwhere this put or didn't put Wes in dealing with Armholster in the\nmatter of Fareek Fanon. Finally he shook his head and said, \"I'll be\ndamned.\"\n\"Atlanta's a small world,\" said the Mayor. \"If you look closely, there's\na handful of people who do everything.\"\n\"How does that alter your position when it comes to . . . my client?\"\"It doesn't,\" said Wes Jordan. \"That's a completely separate matter.\"\nHis face took on a familiar ironic smile. \"What you've tossed in my\nlap this morning is something that could blow this city apart. I just\nwanted to make sure you had the full measure of Mr. Inman\nArmholster.\"\n\"Why would a man like that be backing someone like Andre Fleet?\"\n\"Oh, it's not very complicated,\" said Wes. \"He thinks he's going to\nwin. In these all-black elections, I don't see white businessmen\nwasting time on ideology and issues. It's more like 'Can I do\nbusiness with him or not?' and I'm sure Armholster is all ready to do\nbusiness with Andre Fleet. That's what is known as 'the Atlanta Way.'\n\"\n\"The Atlanta Way?\"\n\"Exactly,\" said Wes Jordan, \"the Atlanta Way. Did you ever unravel a\nbaseball?\"\n\"No.\"\n\"It's not a particularly illuminating exercise, but I used to enjoy\ndoing it when I was ten or eleven years old. After you take the white\nhorsehide cover off, you come across a ball of white string, or it's\nlike string. There's about a mile of the stuff, once you start\nunraveling it, all this white string. Finally you get down to the core,\nwhich is black, a small hard black rubber ball. Well, that's Atlanta.\nThe hard core, if we're talking politics, are the 280,000 black folks in\nSouth Atlanta. They, or their votes, control the city itself. Wrapped all\naround them, like all that white string, are three million white people\nin North Atlanta and all those counties, Cobb, DeKalb, Gwinnett,\nForsyth, Cherokee, Paulding . . . So how do those white millions deal\nwith that small black core? That's what leads to the Atlanta Way.\nRemember that billion-dollar expansion of the airport back when\nMaynard was Mayor? Well, Maynard got the 'business interests'\ntogether and said, 'Boys, here's a billion-dollar project.' So they're\nsalivating, of course, and then he says, 'And 30 percent of it's goingto minority contractors.' They gulped -but only for a moment. Seven\nhundred million was nothing to look down your nose at, either, and\nin no time they were salivating all over again, and they figured\nthey'd just make do with the minority contractors some way or other.\nLater on Maynard said, 'That airport created twenty-five black\nmillionaires.' He was proud of it, and he had every right to be. That's\nthe Atlanta Way.\"\nRoger said, \"Where does my client figure in all this?\"\n\"I don't know yet,\" said Wes Jordan. \"Maybe not at all. I need to\nlook into a few things and talk to some people.\"\n\"For God's sake, Wes, be careful who you talk to about this. All this\nthing has to do is get out on the rumor circuit and we might as well\ngive up on containing it. It'll blow the city apart, as you say, on its\nown power.\"\n\"I'm mindful of that.\"\n\"What can I tell my colleagues?\"\n\"You can tell them that I'm fully aware of the explosive nature of the\nsituation, that I will try to think of the best way to approach Inman\nArmholster, and that I will do . . . something . . . quickly. You know,\nRoger, you and your dream team had better face up to the fact that\nan awful lot of people, it seems to me, already know about this\nthing. There's McNutter and his wife, who doesn't strike me as any\ntaciturn pillar of discretion, and there are people at Tech, people in\nthis Stingers organization, there's the dream team and all your\nfamilies.\"\nRoger was annoyed by the \"dream team\" crack, but all he said was,\n\"I haven't said a word to Henrietta.\"\n\"Yeah, and she'll probably never forgive you later on. And there's\nFareek Fanon and his buddies. The Cannon doesn't strike me as any\nrock of restraint, either. That kid is such a jerk.\"\"What do you mean?\"\n\"What do I mean? That cretin thinks he's doing you a terrific favor\nby allowing vou to get close enough to see the little diamonds in his\nears.\"\nRoger was alarmed. \"Well, I'll grant you-\"\n\"Don't worry,\" said the Mayor, \"don't worry. At City Hall we don't\nsubtract points from anybody for being a jerk. I just want you to\nunderstand that I don't know how long you can realistically count on\nthis thing remaining secret. There's also the girl-what's her name?-\nElizabeth, Elizabeth Armholster. She's got friends, no doubt. And\nArmholster-he's a hotheaded old tub of lard. I can't imagine him\nkeeping this thing to himself for very long.\"\n\"All the more reason to talk to him sooner rather than later, Wes.\"\nWes Jordan eyed him from above a cynical and reproachful smile.\n\"Kindly tell your colleagues that what I do I will do quickly. Tell them\nthat you, the Mayor's old pal, have successfully engaged the Mayor.\"\nThen his face grew as hard and serious as Roger had ever seen it.\n\"And tell them that whatever I do, it will not be with the interests of\nyour client or of the House of Armholster in mind. I will act solely in\nthe interests of the city.\"\nRoger waited for a telltale twist of the lips . . . that never came.\nChapter 5The Suicidal Freezer Unit\nThe Croker global foods warehouse in the san francisco Bay Area is\nnot in any part of the fabled Bay Area that ever stole the heart of a\nsongwriter. Or, as far as that goes, a travel writer, not even a travel\nwriter desperate for something different to write about. No, the\nCroker warehouse is on the wrong side of the bay, the east side, not\nthe San Francisco side but the Oakland side, up toward El Cerrito, in\nContra Costa Count)', just off the marshes, in the flatlands.\nOn those magical evenings in San Francisco when the fog rolls in\nfrom the Pacific Ocean and people emerge from the hotels on Nob\nHill and go for brave walks down the staggeringly steep slopes of\nPowell Street and shiver deliciously in the chilly air and listen to the\nhappy clapper clangor of the cable cars and the mournful foghorns\nof the freighters heading out to sea, and all at once life is a lowlv\nlittle operetta from the year 1910-at that moment, likely as not,\nbarely five miles to the east, a brutal sun has been roasting Contra\nCosta County for thirteen or fourteen hours, and the roof of the\nCroker warehouse is still swimming in caloric waves, even though\nthe stars are out and the mercury remains swollen up to 90 degrees,\ndown from 104 at 3 p. M., and the employees' parking lot, which is\ndirt, has been cooked to cinders until it's as parched, pocked, dusty,\nand godforsaken as the surface of Mars.\nIn short, Croker Global Foods is part of the engine room, the heavy\nplumbing, the industrial hardpan of this Elysian littoral known as the\nSan Francisco Bay Area.\nAt about 8:45 on just such an evening a young man named Conrad\nHensley drove into the employees' parking lot at Croker behind the\nwheel of a Hyundai hatchback family wagon. Since he was wearing a\nfull set of long johns beneath his flannel shirt and jeans, he had the\nair conditioning roaring away on the high setting. He cruised up and\ndown six or seven rows of cars, churning up quite a swirl of dust as\nhe went, and finally found a spot over by a Cyclone fence with razorwire on top. Beyond the fence, against a vast California sky bursting\nwith stars, he could see the silhouettes of a sewage substation, the\nsmokestack of the Bolka Rendering works, the pilings of a freeway\nspur that was under construction, and coming toward him,\noverhead, low enough to touch, it seemed like, the big belly of an\nairplane grumbling. Along the glide path to the Oakland International\nAirport. Such was the view on this side of the scenic San Francisco\nBay.\nHe opened the door of his little car, slid out, stood up, and turned his\neyes away from the raw floodlights on the roof of the warehouse. He\nput his hands on his hips and rocked his torso, like an athlete\nloosening up before a match. At a glance he might have passed for\nan athlete. He was tall enough and young enough, and he looked\nstrong enough, despite his slight build. The sleeves of his shirt were\nrolled up, and his forearms bulged beneath the long johns, tapering\ndown to hands with long fingers that had been delicate just six\nmonths ago but were now so muscular, his wedding ring bit into the\nflesh like a cinch. How he would ever get it off, if he had to, was a\ngood question. With his dark eyes and long dark eyelashes, his fair\nskin and delicate lips, he had the sort of face that made people\nwonder if he wasn't French or Spanish or Italian or Portuguese or\nGreek or something else sort of Mediterranean. Or to put it another\nway, he looked almost too pretty.\nFor that reason he had grown the droopy mustache that young men\ngrow in hopes of appearing older and graver and . . . well, tougher.\nHis shirt and faded jeans were the standard uniform of vast legions\nof young California males who work down below the managerial\nlevel, but his were so meticulously pressed you could see the\ncreases, even in the shirt. Obviously Conrad Hensley was a young\nman who wanted order in his life.\nIn the next moment, however, this vision of clean-cut athletic sort-\nof-Meditcrranean orderliness began to wilt. With his flannel shirt and\nhis long johns on, he was already burning up. At least twenty trucks,\nperhaps as many as thirty, were over at the loading dock, big whitetrucks with crokf. R in enormous letters on the sides, and the rage of\nthe engines and the air brakes hurt his head. The flatulent sighs of\nthe air brakes were what bothered him most of all . . . but he only\nneeded a little push . . .\nHe slumped back into the Hyundai, into the driver's seat. His\nshoulders and his lower back began to ache. His sinuses felt\ncongested, and so lie snuffled and spit out the open door of the car.\nThis was his central nervous system rebelling against the immediate\nfuture, which was eight more hours in the Suicidal Freezer Unit.\nHis mouth fell open slightly, and his eyes began to gaze far beyond\nthe Cyclone fence, far beyond the Bolka Rendering works and the\nfreeway pilings and the San Francisco Bay and the California littoral.\nIt was the sort of look people get when they are about to consider\nwhat insignificant specks tlicy arc in the immense and\nincomprehensible scheme of things, if, indeed, there is any scheme\nat all.\nYou baby havee baby.\nNo doubt Sukie had forgotten she ever said it, but Conrad couldn't\nget it out of his mind. You baby havee baby. Before supper he and\nJill had gone over to Sukie's 24-Hour Mini-Mart with the children. Jill\nhad Christ)- in her arms and he was walking with Carl, and Sukie\nherself, who was at the checkout, had broken into a big smile and\nexclaimed, \"You baby havee baby!\" It took a moment before he\nrealized what she was saying, which was: \"You're babies having\nbabies!\"\nHis face had turned hot, he was so embarrassed, but what could he\nsay? Here was a Cambodian woman who could barely speak English,\na heart)- woman who liked him-seemed to like him a great deal, in\nfact. Then why did he feel so insulted? Because she was so close to\nthe truth! You're babies having babies. He and Jill were both twenty-\nthree, and Jill looked about sixteen, and they had no business\nhaving two children, not in this day and age, and half the time Jillwas like a third baby- but he chided himself for even thinking that. It\nwas no use bringing Jill down. What would he have left? There was\nnobody else in the world he could fall back on, not a single solitary\nsoul. Other people had their mom or dad or some relative\nsomewhere, but he-they hit up on him\\ In the six months since he'd\nhad this job at Croker Global Foods, both his mom and his dad-\nseparately-they hadn't spoken to each other for seven years-both of\nthem had tried to hit him up for loans. \"Loans.\" They talked about\nhis fourteen dollars an hour in a wholesale food warehouse as if it\nwere all the money in the world.\nWell, in a way it was-for somebody in his position. Even though he\nknew it was a pointless exercise, he sat th- e in his rattling old\nHyundai tallying his mistakes all over again. If he hadn't gotten Jill\npregnant when they were both eighteen; if he hadn't insisted-\ninsisted!-on marrying her, if they hadn't gone ahead and had two\nchildren, he could have gone on to San Francisco State or perhaps\neven Berkeley instead of having to settle for two years at Mount\nDiablo Community College ... By now he could have been embarked\non a real . . . career . . . The one dream he had left now was that\nthey, Conrad Hensley & Family, were going to live in a home they\nowned themselves ... a condo in Danville ... In his mind, as he sat\nhere in the Hyundai, he could see Danville ... a lovely leafy little\ntown with pretty houses and pretty shops, an oasis not all that far\nfrom the dump they were renting now . . . Today, being payday,\nmeant another $150 he could put aside, bringing the total to\n$4,622.85. The figures were already in his head, down to the penny.\nAnother twelve months and he'd have a shot at a down payment ...\nA condo in Danville.. . .\nHe looked over at the warehouse. At night, like this, it was an\nenormous silhouette hulking behind the lights ... a monster . . . His\ndad had no idea what he did in the warehouse for his fourteen\ndollars an hour. He hadn't even asked. His dad had never had a real\njob in his life. His father's face came bubbling up into his brain . . .\nthe beard, the ponytail, both shot through with gray . . . the soft,sallow flesh . . . His dad wouldn't last ten minutes in the freezer unit\nat Coker Global Foods.\nWith that, Conrad had a terrible premonition. Suppose something\nhappened in there tonight. . . Suppose he was crippled . . . Then\nwhat? . . . The big Japanese from San Francisco, the one they called\nSumo, had wrenched his back doing practically nothing, and now he\ncouldn't walk . . . Last week one of the Okies, Junior Frye, had had\nhis ankle crushed by a pallet sliding across a patch of ice ... A steady\npain seized Conrad's lower back, and his sinuses became so\ncongested thev began to ache. He had never felt this bad at the\nstart of the shift ... Something was definitely wrong . . . Why didn't\nhe just drive to a pay phone and call in sick ... and blow it off. . .\nPickers did it all the time . . .\nAwwwwwwwww pull yourself together! Be a man--\nBot thomp hot thomp hot thomp bot thomp-a beat came pounding\nacross the parking lot. Conrad glanced into the rearview mirror and\nsaw a tornado of dust tearing along one of the rows of cars near the\nentrance. In a moment the higher frequencies reached him ... a\ncrazy skirl of electric guitars and a chorus of raw-throated young\nmale voices screaming-what? Sounded like \"Brain dead brain dead\nbrain dead brain dead!\" In no time the tornado seemed to be right\non top of him, and there was no mistaking the insane screams:\n\"Brain dead brain dead brain dead brain dead!\"\nThe funnel of dust, lit a feverish yellow by the floodlights, came\nroaring around the last line of cars at a crazy speed ... a terrific\nyowling . . . bot thomp \"Brain dead!\" . . . Conrad twisted about in his\nseat just in time to see the car fishtail in the dirt behind him with a\ntremendous shower of dust-and then shoot straight at him and his\nopen door. Terrified, he doubled up and recoiled into the seat. In the\nnext moment it was all over, with the car parked right beside his\nsomehow, just inches from his door's outer edge. The engine shut\noff, the yowling music was shut off, and a great illuminated dirty\nyellow cloud of dust was settling over everything.His ears were ringing. His heart was flailing away. What idiot--\nEmerging from the car, a very low bright red car with a rakishly\nswept- back windshield in front and an airfoil wing in the rear, was a\ncreature with a long neck, a bulging Adam's apple, and a baseball\ncap. The filthy silhouette straightened up in the haze. It was one of\nhis mates in the freezer unit.\nFurious, Conrad sprang out of the little Hyundai and yelled, \"Hey-\nKennyl\"\n\"Ayyyyyyyyyyyyyyy, Conrad!\" A huge grin. \"Crash'n'burn, old buddy!\"\n\"Crash and hum? You're crazy, Kenny! You're gonna kill somebody!\"\nThe great gangling youth, Kenny, seemed to enjoy that immensely.\n\"Aw, come on, Conrad. 'At wasn't nothing but a little four-wheel\ndrift.\"\n\"Yeah, right. You're a four-wheel drift. You're a lunatic.\"\nKenny cackled with delight. He was one of those rawboned young\nCalifornia Okies, to use the local term for Redneck, with a neck so\nbig and long his Adam's apple seemed to bob up and down a foot\nevery time he swallowed. His eerily pale blue eyes looked as wild as\nan Arctic dog's, an impression magnified by his scraggly mustache\nand two-week growth of beard. He wore a T-shirt advertising an\nOakland radio station, KUK: \"i don't give a kuk . . . fuh nuthun but\nKuntry Metal 107.3 FM.\" Around his midsection was the sort of six-\ninch-wide leather belt weight lifters use. His body was all bones and\njoints and sharp angles, except for his forearms and hands, which\nwere huge, even bigger than Conrad's. The bill of his baseball cap\nwas turned up, revealing the undersurface, upon which was\ninscribed, in felt marker, suicide.\n\"Brain dead,\" said Conrad, shaking his head in disgust but also\nbeginning to smile the reluctant smile you give a child who is\nnaughty but has a certain roguish charm and knows it. \"Now, that's\nsick.\"\"You heard it?\"\n\"Heard it? Did I have a choice? I could've stayed home in Pittsburg\nand heard it.\"\nKenny started cackling again, and the cackle threw him into a cough,\nand the cough started him snuffling and hawking, and then he spit\non the ground and began hopping about and pumping his arms in a\ntype of jerky dance that was in vogue among the Country Metal\nheadbangers, as they were called. He started singing or, rather,\nsingsonging, rapping, in a nasal voice:\nCon' put my jitnbo Up yo' shanks akimbo! Without no shuckin'\nwords, No mind-suckin' words'. You get my meanin'? Or you want a\nskull cleanin? Gon peel yo' cap, J said Peel yo' cap, I said Peel yo'\ncap, I said Peel yo' cap, I said\nPeel yo' cap, I said said said said said\nBrain dead brain dead brain dead brain dead/\n\"Peel yo' cap?\" said Conrad. \"What's peel yo' cap supposed to\nmean?\"\n'Tou don't know peel yo' cap? 'At's like what they do in a autopsy.\nThey cut the top a your skull off, so they can get at your brain.\nThat's called peeling your cap. That's jailhouse talk. They'll say, 'Don'\ntry to git over on me, motherfucker, or I'll peel yo' cap for you.' \"\n\"Oh, that's terrific,\" said Conrad, sniffling and then hawking deep in\nhis throat. \"You got any idea how sick that is-I mean, a song about\nthat? That's very sick, Kenny. And you wanna know what's even\nsicker? The fact that you know that piece a garbage by heart.\"\n\"Whaddava talking about? That's by the Pus Casserole! That's their\nnew one! Hey, lemme show you something.\"\n\"The Pus Casserole,\" said Conrad, shaking his head.Kenny motioned toward his bright red car and then coughed again\nand began a snuffling and scuffling so deep in his throat it seemed\nto reach down into his very lungs. The car was a snub-tailed two-\ndoor sports model with rapier xsi written like a speed blur across the\nside.\n\"When'd you get this?\" asked Conrad, sneezing, snuffling, hawking,\nand spitting again.\n\"Just got it. Lemme show you something.\"\nHe opened the door, collapsed the back of the front seat forward,\nand motioned toward the interior. Conrad stuck his head in. There\nwas no back seat; it had been removed. In its place was a sheet of\nplywood that ran from the base of the front seat to the rear window.\nSet in the plywood were two enormous stereo speakers.\n\"Twenty-inch speakers, man. Those things got so much tympanum,\nyou're sittin' there in the front seat and they'll blow the hair around\non your head and make your ears flap. God's honest truth. Your\nears'll flap, and your ribs'll rattle. Those speakers pull so many amps-\nlemme show you this.\"\nNow he took Conrad around to the rear of the car and opened the\ntrunk. The two young men coughed, snuffled, hawked, and spit in\nunison. Mounted in the floor of the trunk were a pair of big fans\naimed in toward the backs of the speakers and a tangle of wires and\nequipment.\n\"See those fans? That's to cool 'em off. They pull so many amps,\nwithout the fans they'd burn up. I'm talking about catch fire.\"\nConrad stood up and gave Kenny a long, level look. \"How much'd\nthat cost you, Kenny?\" Cost you, Kenny came out in a wheeze; so he\ncleared his throat.\n\"The fans?\"\"Everything. The fans, the speakers, the car . . .\" He made a motion\nwith his hand. \"The whole thing.\"\n\"Awwwww, AGT paid for it.\" He snuffled deeply and spit and rubbed\nhis eye sockets with his fingers. AGT was a finance company well\nknown in Alameda and Contra Costa Counties. His watery eyes lit up.\n\"These speakers, you can go boom-bombing with 'em. I already\ndone it.\"\n\"What bombing?\"\n\"You know. Boom-bombing. That's like when you drive past a\nbuncha cars and you turn up your sound system to max-q and like\nthe vibrations set off the car alarms?\" The way he said it, Okie-style,\nit sounded like a question. \"I was going through Danville coming\nover here, and you know that section over there with the houses\nwith those big old roofs, slate or tile or whatever it is? I betcha I\nboomed off six or eight cars. People running out the doors . . .\"\nConrad was appalled. \"Not with 'Brain Dead,' I hope. Danville's a\nnice town.\"\nKenny smiled and nodded toward Conrad's Hyundai hatchback.\n\"Whyn't you fix yours up?\" He had a frog in his throat and scuffled it\nout. \"You can fit a couple of twenty-inchers in the back a yours, no\ntrouble at all.\"\n\"Yeah, that'd be real great, Kenny. Why'd I want to take the back\nseat of my car out? I got a wife and two children.\"\n\"Ummmm. Yeah, well, that's cool.\"\n\"And why would I want to go 6oom-bombing in Danville? I like\nDanville. I want to live in Danville. I'm gonna buy a condo in\nDanville.\" He snuffled, swallowed, and gave Kenny's car a wave of\ndismissal. \"Here's thousands of dollars you're spending, and for\nwhat, Kenny? The only reason I'm working in there in that freezer is\nto get the down payment on a condo. Soon as we get a condo inDanville, me and Croker Global Foods're history. I'm not even gonna\ncome near this place.\"\n\"Yeah, well . . . like I say, that's cool. But you oughta loosen up,\nConrad, loosen up and lighten up.\"\n\"No, you're wrong,\" said Conrad. \"I oughta tighten up. So should\nyou. You ever listen to yourself!1 Or listen to me? Or anybody else\nwho works in the freezer? Everybody's coughing and sneezing and\ntaking pills all night. Everybody's nose is running, and this is Contra\nCosta Count)', California, one beautiful, hot, dry day after another,\nand the whole bunch of us, we sound like-well, whyn't you sit back\nand listen sometime.\"\n\"That's nothing but freezer flu, man. Don't mean a thing.\"\n\"Nothing but freezer flu, hunh? Just because there's a little name for\nit, don't think that makes it any better.\"\n\"Look,\" said Kenny, \"the pay is good, fourteen dollars an hour.\nWhere else you gonna get that? Where else you even gonna get a\njob? There's no jobs out there, Conrad! Shit. Be happy. Crash and\nburn.\"\n\"No, Kenny, not crash and burn. You got to start thinking about\nwhere you're gonna be five years from now.\"\n\"Five years from now . . .\" Kenny shook his head. \"You say you're\ngonna get a condo in Danville. Well, lotsa luck, old buddy. I hope\nyou do. But it iddn' gonna happen from working a job and saving\nmoney. Maybe your folks're gonna help you out.\"\nConrad laughed without smiling. \"That's a joke. They hit me up for\nmoney. What makes you think 1 can't do it?\"\n\"You ever know anybody did it? It don't happen. Sooner or later you\nrun into the bald man with the necktie.\"\n\"What bald man with the necktie?\"\"You don't know 'Easy Payments'? By Snuff Out?\"\n\"No, I don't know 'Easy Payments' by Snuff Out.\"\n\"Jesus Christ, Conrad! You never even heard it? You never heard\n\"Nine to five you park yo' butt Beneath the bitch box on the wall And\nlap up all that crap inside The rut they make you crawl. So, yo, go\nbuy yo' own death, bro, And die on the installment plan, 'Fo' they cut\nyo' nuts and hang you From the necktie on the bald man.\"\nConrad sighed and gave Kenny a long, serious look. \"You know your\nproblem?\" said Conrad. \"You actually believe that stuff. You actually\ntake it seriously.\"\n\"Aw, for Christ's sake, Conrad.\"\n\"Who do you think writes these songs?\" said Conrad. \"It's people\nwith neckties and suits and big houses in places like Danville, that's\nwho, and they make their money off people like you, and you just let\nthem put all this stupid poison in your brain. You let them put No! in\nyour heart. Take my advice, Kenny. You oughta forget about the Pus\nCasserole and Snuff Out and Crash'n'Burn and what was that other\none?-the Child Abusers? You oughta stop listening to all that . . .\ngarbage*\"\n\"And like I said, you oughta lighten up.\"\n\"And like I said, you oughta tighten up.\" Conrad tapped his\nforehead. \"Lotta screws loose in there, Kenny.\"\nConrad turned his back and went over to the Hyundai to pick up his\nlunch bag from the front seat, and Kenny howled, and the laughter\nmade Conrad realize how many nights had begun this way. Kenny\nwould recite some sick Country Metal lyrics or recount some vile\nmarauding adventure he'd had, and Conrad would register his shock\nand disapproval and turn his back, and Kenny would find it all\nenormously amusing. With his determination to lead a serious and\norderly life, he was Kenny's perfect straight man, as he knew verywell. Here at the warehouse Kenny was the king of the\ncrash'n'burners, and the crash'n'- burners sure did outnumber the\nstraightforward strugglers like himself. He would've liked to bring Mr.\nWildrotsky, who taught the American history course at Mount Diablo,\na real old sixties type who wore mut- tonchops and wire-rim glasses\nand was always talking about the \"working class\" and the\n\"bourgeoisie\" and showing them pictures of coal miners with dirty\nfaces-wouldn't it be funny to bring old Mr. Wildrotsky over to Croker\none night and show him what the \"working class\" looked like today,\nin real life . . . bring him over and introduce him to Kenny and the\ncrash'n'burners . . .\nthe freezer was a warehouse within a warehouse, a vast refrigerated\nchamber down at one end of the building behind a wall covered in\nsheets of galvanized metal studded with rivets. A door, big as a\nbarn's, covered in the same galvanized metal and battered as an old\nbucket, hung from a track. It had been opened for the start of the\nshift, revealing a curtain of heavy-gauge vinyl clouded by oily smears\nand shales of ice. The curtain had a slit up the middle so that the\nworkmen could go in and out without too much of the cold air\nescaping. The freezer was maintained at dead zero Fahrenheit.\nInside, there were no windows. The chamber remained in an eternal\nfrigid gray dusk, twenty-four hours a day. Stacks of cartons, tons of\nthem, many of them packed with meat and fish, reached up three\nstories high on metal racks. Way up on the ceiling you could make\nout lengths of gray galvanized metal air-conditioning ducts doubling\nback and forth upon themselves like intestines. Between the ducts\nstrips of fluorescent tubing emitted a feeble bluish haze. The\nextreme cold seemed to congeal the very light itself and remove\never)' trace of color.\nKenny, Conrad, and some thirty other pickers stood about just inside\nthe entryway, waiting for the shift to start. They were clad in the\nlumpish, padded metal-grav Zincolon gloves and freezer suits with\nDynel fur collars the warehouse issued. On the backs of the jackets\nwas written croker in big yellow letters that looked lemony in thefluorescent light. Beneath the freezer suits they wore so many\ncombinations of long johns, shirts, jerseys, sweaters, insulated vests,\nand sweatsuits, they were puffed up like blimps or the Michelin Tire\nMan. Kenny had the hood of a sweatshirt pulled up over his head,\nwith just the bill of his baseball cap sticking out, upturned and\nemblazoned suicide. His wild eyes seemed to be beaming out from\nwithin a shadowy hole. Three of the freezer pickers were black,\nthree were Chinese, one was Japanese, and one was Mexican, but\nmost were Okies, like Kenny, and half the Okies had adopted Kenny's\nsuicide regalia. They were known as the crash'n'burners, and they\ncalled the freezer the Suicidal Freezer Unit, a term Conrad couldn't\nget out of his head.\nThe way the jets of breath fog streamed from their noses and\nmouths was the first indication of how cold it actually was, but any\npicker foolish enough to try to work without his gloves on would\nsoon have another. Each of them operated a pallet jack, a small but\nheavy electric vehicle with which you could jack up a loaded pallet\nand move it to another part of the warehouse. You stood on the\nback of the jack, behind its metal motor housing. It was simple to\nuse. But if you touched the levers or handlebars with your bare\nhands in this ice box, your flesh would freeze to the metal. (And just\ntry pulling it loose.)\nTo one side of the entrance was a wooden table manned by the\nnight foreman, Dom, an old fellow-in the freezer, forty-eight was old-\nwho looked a mile wide in his plaid Hudson Bay jacket. He wore a\nnavy watch cap pulled down over his forehead and ears, which made\nthe top half of his big round head look ridiculously tiny. Bursts of\nmouth fog pumped out of his mouth as he studied the printout order\nsheets in front of him. He had a little cylindrical remote microphone\nclipped to the collar of his jacket.\nThe boys were beginning to feel the cold creep in. It made your\nnose run even more. A chorus of sniffles, sneezes, snufflings,\nhawkings, coughs, and spitting welled up. Every now and then some\npicker would spit right on the floor, which made Conrad's flesh crawl.Dom's deep voice sounded out over the wall speaker system:\n\"Okay, men! Before we get started, just a couple things. There's\ngood news and bad news. First, the bad news. We been getting\ncomplaints from over at Bolka Rendering that somebody here's been\nusing their parking lot for tailgate parties . . . Kenny.\"\n\"Ayyyyyyyyyyyy,\" said Kenny. \"Why you looking at me?\"\n\"Why?\" said Dom. \"Because two nights ago-or it was in the morning-\nthe sun was up-and they're coming to work over there, and not\nonly's there a buncha guys sprawled shit-faced all over their parking\nlot, but there's some kinda boom box playing this song where they're\nscreaming, 'Eat shit.' Guy tells me that's all you could hear over half\na Contra Costa County, 'eat shit, eat shit, eat shit.' That's really\nterrific, that's very high class.\"\n\"Ooooooooo, ooooooooo, ooooooooo!\" whooped the crash'n'bumers.\n\" 'Eat Shit'?\" asked Kenny in a pseudo-startled voice. \"Iddn'at by the\nChild Abusers?\"\n\"Whoever it's by, it's disgusting,\" boomed Dom's voice over the\nspeaker system. \"There's a lotta women go to work at Bolka in the\nmorning. 1 hope you realize that.\"\n\"Oooooooooo, oooooooooooo, oooooooooooooooo!\" Now the pickers\nreally let out whoops. Dom's concern for the tender sex, especially in\nthe form it took at the Bolka Rendering works, struck them as a\nhowl, worthy of maximum derision.\nDom shook his head. \"Okay, you can laugh, but if it don't stop,\nsomebody over here's gonna get child-abused. Capeesh? . . . Okay?\"\nLest the whoops start again, he hurried on. \"All right, now here's the\ngood news. We got a good turnout, and this is the end a the month,\nand so it looks like a light night. So whenever you men complete the\norders, you can get outta here.\" Dom always said \"you men\" when\nhe was appealing to their better natures.More whoops, only now with a note of honest elation. Light nights\nthey loved. Toward the end of the month, many of the hotels and\nthe institutional kitchens that operated on monthly budgets-the\nprisons, hospitals, nursing homes, company cafeterias-cut back on\ntheir orders. On top of that, there had been a general falling off of\nbusiness. The result was nights like tonight, on which the pickers\ncould work five, six, seven hours and get paid for eight, so long as\nthey got the orders out.\nThe boys converged on the foreman's table to pick up the order\nprintouts, which were stacked in a wire basket. Now the great dreary\nchamber was filled with the squeals of rubber-soled boots pivoting\non the concrete slab, the whines of the pallet jacks' electric motors\nstarting up, the jolts of power hitting the driveshafts, the rumble of\nthe wheels rolling over the concrete floor.\nConrad had slipped his order sheet onto the clipboard on his\nhandlebars before he actually focused on what it was . . . Santa Rita\n... He ached a little more and rubbed his nose with the back of his\nglove. Santa Rita, down near the town of Pleasanton, was the\nAlameda County jail, one of eight prisons Croker supplied. Santa Rita\norders always went on and on and included a lot of heavy cases of\ncheap meat. He scanned the sheet . . . twelve cases of beef shanks,\nRow J, Slot 12 . . . Each case weighed eight)' pounds. In loading up\na pallet the trick was to put the heaviest cases on the bottom and\nbuild up to the lightest. So that was how he'd have to start the\nnight-lifting half a ton of frozen beef shanks in eighty-pound bricks.\nHe stood on the back of his pallet jack and squeezed the accelerator\nlevers. With a whine and a jolt the machine came to life, and he\nheaded down the aisle bearing an empty pallet on the blades before\nhim. The boys were already plunging full-decibel into the frenzy of\nthe light night ... All over the freezer you could hear whining motors,\nsquealing boots, cries, shouts, oaths, the crashing sound of pickers\nslinging heavy frozen cartons onto the pallets. . . They leaned into\nthe racks' icy slots, waddled in, crawled in, swollen gray creatures\nwith Dynel fur collars, and then they crawled back out, waddled backout, slithered back out, bearing frozen cartons of food, fat gray ice\nweevils swarming over the racks in a terribly diligent frenzy; and he\nwas one of them.\nHis destination, Row J, Slot 12, was deep in the gloom of the freezer.\nHe looked into the slot at floor level and sighed a long jet of breath\nfog. It was empty. He looked into the slot above it. It was about a\nquarter full, with the cartons stacked at the rear of the two pallets\nthat formed the slot's floor. So he did the usual. He hopped up on\ntop of the jack's motor housing and hoisted himself into the upper\nslot on his haunches. The slots were only four feet high. He duck-\nwalked across a pallet toward the cartons stacked in the rear. The\npallet's slats sagged in a weary, spongy way beneath his feet. He\nsank to his knees, hooked his hand over a carton in the uppermost\nrow, let his body flop down on the icy blocks beneath him, and\nstarted pulling. It wouldn't budge; it seemed to be frozen fast\nbetween the cartons on either side. He started yanking on it . . .\ngrunts . . . bursts of mouth fog . . . It was dark in here . . . inside\nthis cliff of ice. He struggled to rock the carton free. The pressure on\nhis fingers, his forearm, his elbow and shoulder was tremendous. His\neyes started watering, and the rims of his eyelids began to burn.\nFinally, with a hot burst of fog, he yanked the carton loose and\nbegan pulling it toward him. He got off his knees and rose up in a\ncrouch once more. Then he went into a deep squat and tried to pick\nup this frozen eighty-pound dead weight without straining his back.\nSince he couldn't straighten up, he had to pull the carton in toward\nhis midsection and duck-waddle to the mouth of the slot. Eighty\npounds, frozen solid, more than half his own weight-already his\nshoulders, his arms, his hands, his lower back, the big muscles of his\nthighs were in agony. Despite the frigid temperature, his cheeks and\nforehead were hot from the exertion. At the edge of the slot he set\nthe carton down, slid the four feet to the floor below, and grabbed\nthe carton in a bear hug. For an instant he staggered before getting\nhis feet squarely under the weight. Then he squatted again and\nlowered the carton onto the pallet on the front of his jack. When hestood up, a jolt of pain went through his lower back. He glanced\ndown--\nBlearily, in the periphery of his vision, he could see little glints and\nsparkles. Ice crystals were forming in his mustache. Sweat had run\noff his face, and mucus had flowed from his nose, and now his\nmustache was beginning to freeze up. He took the glove off his right\nhand and ran his fingers through his hair. There were little icicles in\nthe hair on his head and in his eyebrows, and a regular little\nstalactite had formed on the end of his nose. He looked at his hand.\nHe made a fist. Then he undid it and splayed his fingers out and\nturned them this way and that. They were extraordinarily broad, his\nfingers. From yanking, and carrying the eighty-pound carton, they\nwere pumped up, bulging with little muscles. They were . . .\nstupendous . . . and grotesque at the same time. His hand looked as\nif it belonged to someone twice his size.\nHe stood still for a moment. The noise in the freezer had risen to a\nmerry old ruckus. The whines of the jacks came from every direction\n. . . the crashes of product hitting the pallets . . . the shouts, the\ncries.\n\"Crash'n'bum!\"-the unmistakable high nasal cry of Kenny himself\nsomewhere a few rows away.\n\"Crash'n'burn!\" sang Kenny's boys with the suicide caps in a choral\nresponse.\nBacking out of a slot nearby, here came a fat gray ice weevil wearing\na Panzer helmet . . . Herbie Jonah was his name ... He had a huge\ncarton hugged into his abdomen. Jets of fog came out of his mouth\nwith a regular beat. Conrad couldn't hear him, but he knew exactly\nwhat he was saying, because Herbie said the same thing all night\nlong as he struggled with the frozen blocks: \"Mother/ucfcer,\nmotherfucker, mother- fucker.\" Over there, on the aisle, sailing past\non his pallet jack at a real crash'n'burn clip came a wiry little\ncrash'n'burner known as Light Bulb, his suicide cap jammed downpractically over his eyes, the hood of his sweatshirt sticking up with\na funny point above the top of his head, as if he were an elf. For\nsomeone so small, he was amazingly strong. The pallet on the front\nof his jack was already piled high with product.\n\"Crash'n'burn!\" Kenny sang out from somewhere, this time in\nfalsetto.\nAnd Light Bulb, perched on the back of his pallet jack, threw back\nhis head and gave a falsetto yodel of his own-\"Crash'n'burn!\"-and\nzipped past.\nSuddenly Dom's deep voice was bellowing over the speakers:\n\"Cleanup! Cleanup! Betty 4! Betty 4! Cleanup! Chop chop!\"\nThis meant a spill had occurred. \"Betty 4\" was Row B, Slot 4. Some\nproduct had slid off a pallet as it went around a curve; or some\npicker had dropped something from an upper slot; or an entire jack-\npicker, pallet, and all-had turned over, and product was spilled on the\nfloor. Cleanup was not a verb but a noun, a job category. There were\ntwo cleanups, two Filipinos, known as Ferdi and Birdie, both of them\ntoo small to be pickers, who did nothing but clean up product that\nspilled or got smashed on the concrete slab. There would be plenty\nof spills tonight. There were plenty of them every light night, as the\nboys ya- hooed through the frozen phosphorescent haze in the name\nof the god of the Suicidal Freezer Unit, testosterone.\nConrad listened to the crazy din of his mates-and then caught\nhimself. He was letting No.' creep into his heart. What he was doing\nin this place had nothing to do with jacks and slots and pallets and\nproduct or with crashing and burning. It had to do with a new life for\nhis young family. With a deep breath, a sigh, and a long jet of breath\nfog, he hopped back up on the motor housing of his pallet jack and\nhoisted himself back into the upper slot. A weevil with Yes! in his\nheart, he burrowed back into the cliff for eleven more eighty-pound\nblocks of frozen beef shanks. The evening had just begun.by the time lie had loaded all twelve cartons onto the pallet on the\nfront of his jack, his face was burning up, and his mustache was so\nfull of ice he could feel its weight pulling at his skin. Quickly he\nscanned the printout again . . . Twenty-four cases of beef patties . . .\nHadn't even noticed that . . . Row D, Slot 21 . . . fifty pounds apiece\n. . . Didn't help to dwell on it ... He headed off on the jack, bearing\nthe twelve cases of beef shanks on the pallet before him.\nDown the aisle sailed Kenny, standing up on the back of his pallet\njack. His eyes burned crazily in the shadow beneath his suicide brim\nand the sweatshirt hood. The pallet on the front of his jack seemed\nto be more than half loaded already. As soon as he saw Conrad\ncoming toward him, he broke into a big grin and yelled out, 'To!\nWhoa!\"\nConrad released his accelerator lever and drifted to a stop, and\nKenny pulled up beside him. \"Yo! Conrad! What the hell's happened\nto your mustache?\"\n\"Whattaya mean?\". Said Conrad. Kenny's own mustache was heavily\nflecked with frost.\n\"It's fucking turned to ice!\" said Kenny. 'Tou look like you got a\ncouple a icicles hanging out your nose!\"\nConrad pulled the glove off his right hand. It was true. His mustache\nwas frozen solid from his nostrils to where it dropped down on either\nside of his mouth.\n\"I swear to God,\" said Kenny. \"Looks exactly like a couple icicles\nhanging out your nose. Whattaya been doing?\"\nConrad gestured toward the cartons of beef shanks on his pallet.\n\"Santa Rita,\" he said.\nKenny said, \"Like lifting the QE2, iddn'it?\"\nWith that he shot a whining jolt of electricity to his driveshaft and\nsped on down the aisle.Conrad burrowed on, a weevil with the best of them, into the\nSalisbury steaks, fishburgers, gravy stock, ice cream, orange juice,\ncut fava beans, American cheese, margarine, pepperoni pizza,\nchipped beef, bacon, and waffles, and the ruckus rose, and the cries\nrang out- Crash'n'buml-and the product crashed, and the pickers\nyahooed, and Dom's big voice bellowed over the speakers: \"Cleanup!\nCleanup! Kilo 9! Kilo 9! Come on, Ferdi! You, too, Birdie! On the\ndoubIe!\"-and the light-night frenzy ran through the chamber like a\nrogue hormone.\nAs soon as he retrieved the final item on the Santa Rita printout (a\ndozen cases of frozen buckwheat waffles), Conrad rubbed his nose\nwith his glove to break up the rings of ice that had formed inside his\nnostrils. A thick, restless fog was beginning to roil around the tops of\nthe racks from the heat of the machinery and the bodies of the\nstruggling human beings. The fluorescent tubing gave off a wan\ntubercular-blue glimmer behind it. Conrad's pallet was piled\nperilously high with product. He eased the jack toward the freezer\ndoor. He pulled a handle hanging from a chain, and the door rolled\nopen hydraulically. Slowly he drove through the slit in the vinyl\ncurtain and out onto the dock's concrete apron.\nAs soon as he emerged from the freezer, he was engulfed,\noverwhelmed, by heat. The temperature out here was still well up\ninto the eighties. The trucks were roaring and sighing; a few were\nalready pulling out for the nightly deliver)' runs. All up and down the\nplatform were great heaps of cartons, drums, canisters, sacks,\nresting on pallets the pickers had deposited. He could feel the ice\nmelting from his hair and his eyebrows and his mustache and\nstreaming down his face. What must he look like to the loaders and\nthe drivers and everyone else out here in the real world? A poor\nencrusted weevil emerging from the polar depths, a mutant, bleary-\neyed, blinking its way into a sweltering California night ... He\nstraightened up in an instinctive bid for dignity.\nAnd yet when he deposited the pallet and its prodigious load at Bay\n17, neither the checker nor the loaders nor the driver seemed totake any special notice of him. They were used to such creatures,\nthe gray weevils who came crawling out from under the ice . . .\nBefore heading back into the freezer, Conrad got off the jack and\nstood and stretched. His long johns were soaked clear through from\nhumping product for so long without a break.\nHe gazed out beyond the big white Croker trucks and the glare of\nthe loading platform, out beyond the parking lot and the flatlands\nand the marshes. There was such a profusion of stars, they seemed\nto be swelling and surging in the sky. Below them, near the horizon,\nhe could see other lights twinkling ... San Francisco . . . Sausalito . .\n. Tiburon, he guessed it was . . . just across the bay . . . and so far\noff. Might as well be another continent. What were people his age,\ntwenty-three, doing over there at this moment beneath that\nexuberant, starry sky? He couldn't even imagine it, and he steeled\nhimself against submitting to such an idle exercise, for that would be\ninviting No! into his heart. The leafy town of Danville, in Contra\nCosta County, was as near to the fabled coast of California as he\ncared, or dared, to aspire.\nWith a great effort he beckoned Yes! back into his heart. It was slow\nin coming.\njust before conrad reached the entrance to go back into the freezer,\nthere was a tremendous clatter. A picker from the warehouse's main\nsection, Dry Foods, pulled up ahead of him driving an electric truck\nknown as a tugger, pulling three metal wagons piled high with\nproduct . . . drums of detergent, canisters of tomato paste, sacks of\npinto beans, huge jugs of red food dye . . . There was no end to it.\nThe tugger had a seat like a golf cart's, and perched on it was a\nchubby redheaded fellow, no older than Conrad himself, wearing a\nshort-sleeved sport shirt, work gloves, and crepe-soled boots. The\nDry Foods pickers sometimes drew orders with one or two frozen\nitems and were told to just go into the freezer and get them. They\nweren't dressed for it, but they could take it for the few minutes\nthey might have to be in there.This one, the chubby redhead, was studying the freezer's huge door.\nHe couldn't figure out how to open it. Conrad drove up beside him\nand pointed to the chain and then pulled it for him. As the door\nrolled open, he gestured toward the slit in the vinyl curtain as if to\nsay, \"After you.\"\nThe redhead eased his tugger and his wagons on through, and\nConrad entered behind him. The light-night ruckus had not died\ndown for a moment. Shouts, oaths, crashing sounds, whines ... and\nKenny's voice singing out through the icy haze and the roiling fog:\n\"Crash'n'burn!\"\n\"Crash'n'bum!\" answered the crash'n'burners from even- aisle, every\nrow, every rack, every icy, hazy, fogbound corner.\nBaffled, the boy on the tugger swiveled his head this way and that.\nAll at once he took off for the racks, his tugger whining shrilly from\nall the juice he was feeding it.\nConrad drove his jack over to the foreman's desk. Kenny was\nstanding there beside his jack studying a printout he had just picked\nup.\n\"Shit,\" he said to nobody in particular. Then he caught sight of\nConrad and held up the sheet and said, \"Nat'n'Nate's,\" and made a\nface.\nNat' n Nate's was a big old delicatessen in San Francisco just south\nof Market Street. The pickers hated Nat'n'Nate's orders because of\nthe heavy cases of processed meat.\nConrad pulled a printout from the wire basket . . . Morden\nRehabilitation, up in Santa Rosa ... He scanned the sheet . . .\nShouldn't be too bad ail order. He got up on the pallet jack and\ndrove into the canyons amid the ice cliffs.\nHe soon found himself humping product just one slot away from\nKenny. He could hear Kenny grunting and swearing to himself.Conrad was loading a case of spareribs on his jack when Kenny\nemerged from the cliff embracing an eighty-pound carton of\nprocessed turkey. All at once, there was a sharp whine and a terrific\nclattering. Here came the redheaded Dry Foods picker, barreling out\nof a row on his tugger and pulling his three wagons full of product.\nHe turned to go up the aisle. He was turning too fast. Instead of\nstraightening out, he kept on turning in a huge crazy arc. The\ncentrifugal force sent the wagons up on two wheels. They were\ngoing over. A massive gush of product hit the slick concrete of the\naisle. A huge sack split open. Pellets! No, pinto beans, streaming in\nevery direction. Hard and smooth and slippery as ball bearings they\nwere. A loaded pallet jack came speeding up the aisle from behind .\n. . Panzer helmet . . . Herbie Jonah . . . Herbie veered to keep from\ncrashing into the spill. His jack hit the streaming pinto beans,\nskidded, then went into a ferocious spin. Herbie, the jack, the loaded\npallet-spinning, flinging frozen product in every direction, careening\nstraight toward Kenny, who had his back turned with an eighty-\npound block of frozen meat clutched to his midsection-\n\"Kenny!\"\n- Herbie, screaming, trying to keep his grip on the handlebars of the\njack. Bango! He was thrown off. He hit the floor. The floor turned\nred. Red! Kenny turned his head. He could see Herbie's jack coming\nstraight at him, but he was frozen by his own compulsive grip on the\ncarton. Conrad sprang forward, dove at Kenny headfirst, bowled him\nover. A tremendous suffocating crash enveloped their bodies ... a sea\nof red . . . They went sliding through a blood-red muck on the pinto\nbeans . . . Kenny and Conrad ... a tangle of arms and legs . . . racks\nand cartons wheeling overhead in the roiling fog . . . The moment\nstretched out endlessly and then stopped.\nConrad was upside down on his head and his right shoulder, looking\nup at his legs-which were red!-jackknifed over Kenny's body-covered\nin-my blood? Slowly, not at all sure that he could, he rolled his legs\noff Kenny. Everywhere-red! Hemorrhaging!-but he couldn't figure out\nwhere he was cut.Kenny, lying next to him, contorted, seemed to be trying to roll over\non his back. Cartons, drums, canisters, sacks were strewn about in\nthe horrible red muck ... A Panzer helmet, a body, a gray weevil,\nHerbie Jonah, smeared red . . . Herbie tried to sit up, but the heel of\nhis hand skidded on the pinto beans, and he flopped back down into\nthe red muck again. There was Herbie's pallet jack, smashed into\nKenny's. The motor housing of Kenny's was ripped off its base. The\nlevers of the two machines were twisted about each other. The slats\non the two pallets were snapped into huge splinters. Both machines\nwere jammed against one of the black metal uprights of the racks.\nOut in the middle of the aisle all three of the Dry Food picker's\nwagons were turned over, but the tugger itself was still upright,\nnosed into the row on the other side, and the chubby redhead was\nstill on his seat, slumped over toward his handlebars and moaning.\nOne of the black pickers, Tony Chase, came running toward Conrad\nand Kenny. Suddenly his legs went out from under him. The pinto\nbeans. He landed in the red muck. Conrad managed to get up to a\nkneeling position. He could feel the pinto beans, hard as marbles,\nrolling underneath his knees. His Zincolon suit was dripping red-\nblood!\nBut wait a minute . . . Blood wouldn't look like this, couldn't possibly\nremain this bright. . . Then he saw them, two shattered ten-gallon\njugs ... red food dye . . . The jugs and the pinto beans ... a flash\nflood of the stuff . . .\n\"Can't get my hand . . . can't get my hand . . .\"\nIt was the Dry Foods picker, still hunched over the handlebars of his\ntugger, moaning, \"Can't get my hand.\"\nSomehow the boy had taken the glove off his right hand and\nneglected to put it back on before he took hold of the handlebars to\nsteer his tugger into the Kirn, and his fingers and his palm had\nfrozen to the metal.Kenny was sitting up, staring at the wreckage of the two jacks. It\nwas pretty obvious. If he had stayed where he was, squatting down\nbeside his jack with the carton of frozen turkey in his arms, he would\nhave been crushed. Conrad's diving tackle had knocked him toward\nthe aisle. Conrad had thrown his own body directly into the path of\nHerbie's careening jack. Had his legs been six inches higher as he\ndove, they would have been crushed as the two motor housings\nsmashed together. Had they been six inches lower, they would have\nbeen crushed by the scythe-like swing of Herbie's pallet.\nThe manic light had gone out in Kenny's wild blue eyes. Pickers were\nconverging upon the spill. Kenny opened his mouth, but no words\ncame out.\nFrom above, Dom's voice, over the speakers: \"Cleanup! Cleanup!\nWhiskey 8! Whiskey 8! Chop chop! Birdie! Ferdi! Both a you! On the\ndouble! Got a whole aisle out over here! Whiskey 8! Whiskey 8!\"\nAnd then Kenny, still sitting in the red muck, spoke more softly than\nConrad had ever heard him speak before. \"Jesus Christ, Conrad . . .\nyou just saved my life.\"\nthe two cleanups, Ferdi and Birdie, earned their pay this time all\nright. There must have been a ton of product strewn about in the\naisle and Row W, split open, staved in, mashed, crushed, all of it\nbeginning to freeze to the floor in an icy red slush. It was a miracle\nthat no one was badly hurt. The padded freezer suits saved them,\nprobably, the suits and all the other stuff they swaddled themselves\nin. The worst off was the chubby redhead from Dry Foods who, sure\nenough, had ripped a chunk of flesh off his hand trying to remove it\nfrom the handlebar. The pickers who had hit the deck looked a lot\nworse than he did, however. They looked like survivors of a bomb\nexplosion. There was red dye smeared all over their Zincolon\njumpsuits, their gloves, their heads, their faces. Half of Conrad's hair\nwas soaked with the dye; so was Herbie's. One side of Kenny's\nmustache was a sopping red. It looked as if he had been shot in the\nnostril.Dom came over and took the whole bunch of them out to the\nloading platform to give them a break, let them warm up, and see if\nthey were okay. Godalmighty! The checkers and the loaders looked\nat them now, all right! The muck had frozen to their freezer suits,\nand it was melting. The suits seemed to be oozing and festering\nblood. Every now and then a pinto bean would fall off, looking like a\nbloody clot. Conrad began to shiver, right out here in the stifling\nheat. He'd almost gotten killed, or maimed, him and Kenny both.\nKenny was abnormally quiet. He stuck by Conrad's side. He'd start to\ntalk about what had happened, and he'd say, \"I guess ... I guess . .\n.\" or something equally vague, and his eyes would look as if they\nwere pinned on something a mile away.\nAnd then Herbie came over and told Kenny he was truly sorry, but\nthere had been no way he could control his jack once it hit the pinto\nbeans. It seemed so strange, because nobody had ever heard Herbie\nexpress anything approaching a tender sentiment before.\n\"Oh, I know that,\" said Kenny. \"I heard you yell, and I saw the\ngoddamn thing coming at me, and I just froze. I had'at goddamn\ncarton a processed turkey in my hands, and I couldn't even drop it\nor nothing. I just froze. If this character here . . .\" He nodded toward\nConrad and smiled faintly and then that smile, too, died 011 his lips,\nand he got the far-off look again.\nDom came over and told the boys that the lunch break was coming\npretty soon and they might as well stay out here until the horn\nsounded and go straight in to lunch. Then he drew Conrad aside and\nput his arm around his shoulders and said, \"You okay? You showed\nus something in there, kid.\"\nConrad didn't know what to say except that he was, in fact, okay. He\nwas still too shaken to take any pleasure in the compliment.\nThe lunch break was at 12:30 a. M. in what was known as the break\nroom, which was nothing but a clearing in the main work bay, Dry\nFoods, with 4-by-8-foot sheets of raw plywood serving as walls. Thefreezer pickers had taken off their Zincolon freezer suits, the thermal\nvests, the hats and gloves and wadding and swaddling, and were\nsitting in plastic chairs at the break room's heavy-duty folding tables.\nStripped down to shirts and jeans again, they looked whipped and\nclammy from lifting so much product at such a furious pace and\nsweating so much inside their insulation. Kenny was slumped back in\na chair right across the table from Conrad. Conrad had just opened\nhis paper bag and taken out one of the two meat-loaf sandwiches Jill\nhad fixed him. A couple of dozen pickers, carrying their Igloo\ncoolers, were lined up waiting to cook their lunches in the microwave\novens over by the plywood walls. They kept turning their heads and\nlooking at him. He figured it was because he and Kenny presented\nsuch a spectacle, smeared red the way they were.\nLight Bulb came over from the microwave with a steaming plastic\npicnic plate and sat down and said, \"Jeeeeeesus Christ-how you\nguys doooooin'? You okaaaaaay?\" Light Bulb stuttered, but he\nstuttered on the vowels rather than the consonants. By the time he\nreached the okaaaaaay, the little crash'n'burner was no longer\nlooking at both of them but squarely at him, Conrad. He had a\nglistening look on his face. Conrad could feel himself blushing. For\nthe first time he let the thought form in his mind: They all think I'm\nsome kind of hero.\nThe notion was not exhilarating. On the contrary, he felt like a fraud.\nWhen he dove at Kenny, it had not been an act of calculated bravery\nin the teeth of dreadful, well-known odds. He had just. . . done it, in\na moment of terror. And he was still terrified! I could have been\nkilled in therel That he shared these guilty, submerged, utterly\ninexpressible feelings with most of the heroes of history, he had no\nway of knowing.\nJust then, to his great relief, the warehouse's assistant night\nmanager, Nick Derdosian, came into the break room with a burnt-\norange manila folder cradled in his arms. In the folder would be the\npaychecks, and everybody would have something else to think\nabout.Derdosian was a swarthy man in his mid-thirties. The top of his head\nwas bald, but the rest of him was remarkably hairy. A heavy crop of\nblack hair emerged from the short sleeves of his shirt and ran all the\nway down his arms and out onto the backs of his hands. Thanks to\nKenny, the freezer pickers all called him Nick Necktie. He and the\nother supervisory personnel and salesmen had offices up in the front\nof the warehouse, overlooking East Bay Boulevard. Kenny referred to\nthem collectively as \"the neckties.\" Most of the men up in the front\noffice did, in fact, wear neckties, as did Derdosian-until recently.\nEvery time he turned up in the break room or the work bays, Kenny\nhad taken to yelling out, \"Nick Necktie!\" and some crash'n'burner or\nother would echo the cry in falsetto: \"Nick Nec&tie!\" This finally so\nrattled Derdosian, a quiet, stolid man whom God had not designed\nfor dealing with crash'n'burners, he had lately abandoned his necktie\nand started wearing open-necked shirts. But he was so hairy, a\ncarpet of crinkly chest hairs was visible in the V of the open neck,\nand Kenny and the crash'n'burners had started calling him Harry No\nTie. \"Harreeeeee No Tie!\" So this week he had put the necktie back\non and taken to approaching the crew with a necktie and a tense,\ningratiating grin.\nTonight, however, he came into the break room without any smile at\nall. Tonight he looked gloomy and wary, as if he thought perhaps\nKenny had dreamed up some new way of making his life miserable.\nInstead, Kenny merely nodded and said, \"Hi, Nick.\" He looked every\nbit as glum himself.\nDerdosian set the manila folder down on a nearby table, removed\nthe stack of paychecks, and started calling out the names in\nalphabetical order. Conrad took his envelope without bothering to\nopen it, folded it in two, put it in the pocket of his plaid shirt, and\nwent back to the table.\nJust then voices erupted at the next table. It was Tony Chase and\nthe other two black pickers. Tony was showing them a white slip ofpaper and talking angrily. Light Bulb swung around to listen, then\nleaned forward again.\n\"Jesus Christ,\" he said, \"Tohohohohohony just got nohohohohoho-\ntified. He's been laid off.\"\nConrad sat upright. Tony bad been hired the same week he was.\nKenny and Light Bulb already had their envelopes 'out and were\ngoing through them to see if there was anything other than a check\ninside. Evidently they were safe. They hadn't been laid off. The same\nthing was going on all over the break room. From somewhere\nbehind him Conrad heard a voice gasp out, \"Fuck a duckl\"\nSlowly Conrad withdrew his envelope from his shirt pocket and\nslipped his big forefinger under the flap and ripped it open. There\nwas the salmon-colored paycheck, as usual. Behind it was a white\nslip of paper.\nHe read the first few words: \"Due to a necessary capacity reduction\nin this facility, your services . . .\" Then he looked up. Kenny and\nLight Bulb were staring at him. He couldn't make himself speak. He\ncould only nod up and down to tell them, \"Yes, it's true.\"\n\"I don't fucking believe this,\" said Kenny. Lunging, he stretched his\narm across the table and said, \"Lemme see that,\" and snatched the\nslip of paper from Conrad's hand and studied it for a moment.\nThen he bolted out of his seat. The chair hit the floor behind him\nwith a loud plastic smack. Glaring at the retreating figure of\nDerdosian, he called out, \"Yo! Nick!\"\nDerdosian stopped in the entryway to the break room. Immediately\nhis head began to jiggle from side to side, as if to say, \"I had\nnothing to do with it.\"\n\"What the hell's going on, Nick\\\"Kenny's huge hands were pressed down on the surface of the table,\nsupporting the weight of his upper body. His chin jutted forward.\nEvery striation of the muscles of his great long neck stood out. He\nlooked as if he were about to spring all the way from there to the\nopening in the plywood wall where the cowering assistant night\nmanager stood. His wild-dog eyes bored in, demanding a response,\nand then they opened wide, and he screamed out:\n\"who's the bright boy thought this up, nick?\" You could still hear the\nclatter and banging of the Dry Foods bay beyond, but here in the\nbreak room there wasn't another sound. The crew froze stock-still,\nriveted by this outburst of crash'n'burner fur\\'.\n\"who's the shit fer brains, nick? you're laying off CONRAD? you're\nlaying off the best man in this whole fucking PLACE?\"\nDerdosian, transfixed, slowly lifted his shoulders and then the palms\nof his hands and lowered his head, in the gesture that pleads, \"It\nwasn't me! I don't make these decisions!\"\n\"he was gonna buy a condo, nick! he's got a wife and two kids! he's\ngot heart, nick, he's got heart! he's worth more'n the whole buncha\nyou fuckin' neckties put together!\"\nThe assistant night manager now had his palms up so high, and his\nhead down so low, he looked as if he were trying to disappear into\nhis own thoracic cavity.\n\"aw, i know, nick! you only work here! you're so fuckin' pathetic! you\nknow that? so whyn't you fuckin' go get lost! what's the name a the\nasshole that owns this fuckin' company? somebody croker? is he the\nbright boy? then he'd better fuckin' get lost, too, or i*m gonna-\"\nKenny's voice broke, and he lowered his gaze and looked not at Nick\nDerdosian but at Conrad. He compressed his lips, which began to\ntremble, as did his chin. His eyes opened wide, and then he closed\nthem slowly. When he opened them again, they were brimming with\ntears, which began to roll down his cheeks. Still supporting himselfon the table with one hand, he raised the other and covered his\nface. He lowered his head, and his bony frame began convulsing all\nthe way from his shoulders down to his weight lifter's belt.\nConrad's eyes fastened on the most insignificant thing: Kenny's pale\nblond hair, wet, stringy, matted down, was already thinning badly in\nthe crown. All at once the indomitable crash'n'burner looked so weak\nand weary.\nKenny raised his head and tried to wipe his tears away with his hand\nand then with his forearm. He forced a smile.\n\"See? I was right, wasn't I, old buddy? They just ain't gonna let you\ndo it. And you were right, too. You said I got No.' in my heart. And\nthat's the truth. I got No.' in my heart.\" He clutched his throat with\nhis forefinger and thumb. \"I got it up to here . . . from lapping up all\nthat crap inside the rut they make you crawl in.\"\nChapter 6\nIn the Lair of the Lust\nAt that moment, twenty-eight hundred miles away, the bright boy\nwho thought it up, Charlie Croker, layer-offer of freezer pickers, woke\nup with a start. His eyes popped open like a pair of umbrellas. He\ncouldn't see a damn thing, it was so dark in here. The neck of his\nnightshirt was wet with perspiration. The big rabbit, his heart, was\nthumping away in his chest. The Wiz's latest numbers were already\nchurning through his head, and he hadn't been awake five seconds.\nIt was bad enough having PlannersBanc checking in practically every\nday with new demands, new threats ... to seize this, attach that,\nencumber the other thing . . . but this afternoon the Wiz has to\ncome hustling into his office to inform him of some horror the IRS\nhas dreamed up called phantom gains . . . phantom gains . . . The\nbank forecloses, you lose your shirt, and the IRS hits you with a\nwhole ton of taxes for your \"phantom gains\" . . . and now, as he lies\nhere in bed in the dark, his heart starts thumping in a funny way, as\nif fluttering to the rhythm of the words themselves . . . phantomgains . . . phantom gains . . . and then- galumph-a palpitation-\ntwang-it snaps back to its regular beat--\nThe insomnia factory was open for the day, heading toward peak\nproduction. He looked at the clock by the bed. Its feverish little\ngreen digits said 3:20. He turned toward Serena. There was barely\nenough ambient light to make out her silhouette. She was lying on\nher side, turned away from him. He could see one of her haunches\nwelling up beneath the covers. It was a wonder he could see that\nmuch. Must be thanks to the tiny light from the clock. Sure as hell\ncouldn't be from the windows. He stared toward them, three tall\nwindows overlooking the rolling, big- breasted lawns of Buckhead,\nbut he couldn't even locate them in the dark. Not a glimmer of light\nseeped through. Serena had had Ronald Vine load them down with\nenough fabric, enough shades, enough un- dercurtains, inner\ncurtains, outer curtains, whatever it all was, to smother an army.\nYou must be crazy, Croker! He had let her sink more than three and\na half million dollars into the interior of this house! Three and a half\nmillion he'd like to get his hands on right now! And just try! He had\npaid $2,750,000 for the property itself, which had been a huge price\nfor Atlanta, even for the Buckhead area in the final swell of the last\nreal estate bubble, which was when he had bought it. He had\nalready sunk a fortune into one extravaganza in Buckhead, over on\nValley Road, which had gone to Martha in the divorce. So now he\nhad bought a second one, barely a half mile away, here on Blackland\nRoad.\nIrritably, Charlie propped himself up on one elbow, halfway hoping\nthe deflection of the mattress would wake Serena . . . Not a chance .\n. . Her slumbering young loins and lamb chops rose and fell. She\nwas breathing regularly in the blissful sleep of youth. He felt a stab\nof nostalgia for Martha, or not for Martha herself exactly, but for life\nwith Martha. Martha he could have reached over to and shaken by\nthe shoulder, and she would have put up with it and woken up and\nasked him why he couldn't sleep.Your first wife married you for better or for worse. Your second wife,\nparticularly if you were sixty and she was a hventy-eight-year-old\nnumber like Serena-why kid yourself?-she married you for better.\nCharlie could suddenly see the prissy face of Martha's daddy, Dr.\nBunting Starling, president, back then, of the Commonwealth Club in\nRichmond, Virginia, where he had hosted the wedding reception.\nCharlie's own daddy, Mr. Earl Croker, lately of a hole in the ground in\nBaker County, Georgia, had gotten so drunk at that reception he had\njumped on the bandstand and put his arm around the waist of the\npretty singer for the Lester Lanin Orchestra and done the dirty\nboogie, all the while waving the shiny knob of the stump where his\nright index finger used to be. Christ, that had just about finished off\nany social standing his son might have had, which hadn't been much\nto start with, other than the fact that he had been the fullback on\nthe Georgia Tech football team at a time, more than fort)' years ago,\nwhen Tech was a power in national football, a matter that seemed to\ncut more ice in Atlanta, Georgia, than Richmond, Virginia. Otherwise\nhe had been nothing but a big old boy from down below the gnat\nline who was selling a lot of commercial real estate in Atlanta for\nHedlock & Co. and had a way with the girls. He certainly had had a\nway with Martha. She was a graduate of Sweet Briar College who\nwas in her first year of medical school at Emory University in Atlanta,\nand with scarcely a second thought she gave up her plans to be a\ndoctor (like her father) in order to be Mrs. Croker. For a time there\nwas no happier couple in the state of Georgia. He had to give\nhimself credit for one thing. He had married well, but he was not a\nsocial climber. In point of fact, he had been far more captivated by\nMartha's sunny, flirtatious disposition and her fair white body than\nanything the Starlings-of-Virginia connection could possibly do for\nhim. The connection did something for him, all the same, when he\nwent out on his own as a developer in the 1970s, inasmuch as\nMartha added a certain polish and tone to the enterprise. In the\nmeantime, she had borne him three children, Martha, whom they\ncalled Mattie; Catherine, whom they called Caddie; and the\nyoungest, Wallace, born when Martha was thirty-seven.Wallace. Wally. At this very moment, as he lay propped up on one\nelbow in bed with his new wife, feeling his pangs in the dark, Charlie\nwas well aware that Wally was asleep in a bedroom in the other\nwing. Wally was sixteen now. Charlie called him Wally. Nobody else\ndid; to the rest of the world he was Wallace. Charlie kept waiting for\nsome robust, zestful spirit to break loose in the boy, so that people\njust couldn't resist calling him Wally. It hadn't yet. Wally was home\nfor a week in some sort of \"independent project\" they had dreamed\nup at the boarding school in Massachusetts he went to, Trinian, and\nwas staying with him for three days before he went back to his\nmother's. With another pang he realized he didn't even know what\nkind of project Wally was supposed to be working on. He was\ngrateful that Wally had elected to stay a few days with him, and yet\nin the past two days he had spent a grand total of about thirty\nminutes with his son, despite promising himself that this time they\nwould do something \"significant\" together. This whole situation with\nPlannersBanc was eating up every spare moment he had-and\nbesides that, if he was going to be honest with himself, he had to\nadmit that something about Wally disturbed him. Wally always gave\nhim a certain look, a certain lost, blank look. Charlie couldn't tell if it\nwas a look of accusation, longing, or bewilderment. Wally had\nsufficient cause to be bewildered, of course. Mattie and Caddie had\nbeen grown and out on their own when all the turmoil over Serena\nhad started four years ago and he and Martha had separated, but\nWally had been only twelve. What was Wally supposed to think of\nSerena, who was younger than his sister Mattie? What was he\nsupposed to think of his new eleven-month-old half sister, Kingsley,\nwho was at this moment up in the third-floor nursery with this\nmonth's nanny, Heidi? . . . A fifty-or-sixty-year-old Filipino named\nHeidi . . . Kingsley was some name, too. Charlie had argued with\nSerena about it, but she was determined to add a little yuppie\ngrandeur to the premises: Miss Kingsley Croker . . . Serena and\nKingsley and Heidi and Wally, and up on the third floor of the other\nwing was the Woo Dynasty: his cook, Nina Woo, and her sister,\njarmaine, the housekeeper, and Jarmaine's son, Lin Chi.Jesus Christ! What a menagerie! All these people to look after,\nsupport, pay for-all of them sleeping like tops, no doubt-while he has\nto wake up in the middle of the night with insomnia and go to the\nmat with phantom gains and a lot of other horrible nonsense.\nThe house was deathly quiet. All he could hear was a muffled flow of\nair from the central air-conditioning vents. Outside, it was one of\nthose merciless muggy nights in Georgia. What a racket the cicadas\nused to make at night in the summer when he was growing up . . .\nIn those days you just used to listen to the bugs and sweat it out . .\n. Serena was so young, she probably couldn't even imagine human\nlife without air conditioning. He stared at her haunches again. She\ngave a little sigh from beneath a deep layer of sleep and moved one\nof her arms, but that was it.\nHe became aware of an overwhelming urge to urinate. Gingerly he\npulled the covers back. Slowly he swung his legs off the bed. Ever so\nstealthily he stood up and began stealing across the carpet, a Wilton\nweave, or whatever Ronald called it, which had set him back $225 a\nyard, and-bango!-stubbed his toe on that spindly piece of whatever-\ncentury wooden junk of a chair that Serena had placed by the door\nto the bathroom, and his knee started aching. Why the hell did he\nhave to creep around in the dark like a goddamned mouse in his\nown goddamned house so that a twenty-eight-year-old woman worn\nout from shopping and driving her Jaguar XJ6 could have her\nprecious rest?\nNevertheless, Creepy Mouse limped into the bathroom and shut the\ndoor without letting the latch so much as click in its slot. He\nswitched on the light-and was practically annihilated by Ronald\nVine's overkill of wall sconces, downlighters, beveled mirrors, and\nglistening marble surfaces. It was blinding. He felt so damned tired.\nThe day was already wrecked. He stared at a big bleary bald-headed\nsixty-year-old man in the mirror. He turned 011 the cold water at one\nof the basins and cupped his hands and rubbed water over his face.\nThe water really made him want to urinate, and so he went over to\nthe toilet, which was some streamlined, low-slung beige thing, andhe urinated. Was this a bad sign, this urge he always had to urinate\nin the middle of the night? Was it the prostate or some other old\nman's problem?\nHe would read a little, that was what he would do. It would be\nbetter than a pill. He wasn't the world's greatest reader, and trying\nto read before he went to bed at night usually put him right under.\nHe noticed his half-glasses, another barnacle of advancing age,\nsticking out of the breast pocket of his bathrobe, which was hanging\non the door, and so he put on the bathrobe and went out the far\nside of the bathroom and into his dressing room and turned on the\nlight in there. It was a big room lined with closets and built-in\nbureaus and mirrors and bookshelves, a regular extravaganza of\nmahogany and ogeed moldings and beveled glass.\nHe went over to the bookshelves and took down a book he'd been\nmeaning to read anyway, The Paper Millionaire, by some Arab-\ntumed- Englishman named Roger Shashoua. He sat down in the\nlounge chair and put on the glasses and turned on the little brass\nreading lamp, which had cost a truly unbelievable amount-Ronald\nhad ordered it from Nebraska-and opened the book. His eye fell on\nthe inside jacket flap:\nIn the course of his astonishing career, Roger Shashoua made it, lost\nit, made it, lost it, made it yet again and then, with impeccable\ntiming, walked away from it all.\nCharlie closed the book, turned it over, and looked at the photograph\nof this Roger Shashoua on the back . . . Cocky-looking little devil . . .\nAn Arab, but with a typical Brit half-a-smirk on his face . . . ferocious\nhead of hair, turning gray but with every hair he ever had in his head\nstill nailed in . . . all of forty-six or forty-seven years old . . . Then he\nturned back to the jacket flap again:\n. . . made it, lost it, made it, lost it, made it yet again . . .\nHe lowered the book and stared at the mahogany closets without\nreally seeing them. He had always thought of himself that way. Hewas a player. He wasn't greedy, he wasn't acquisitive. He was a\nplayer, a plunger, a risk taker who loved the great game more than\nthe rewards. If he lost everything-hell, what would it matter? He was\na good old Baker County Georgia boy who started off down in the\ndirt, and so the idea of rolling over in the dirt once more didn't scare\nhim. He'd dust himself off and make it yet again. Hadn't he done\nthat after the real estate debacle of the 1970s? . . . Yeah, but he\nhadn't had all that much to lose in the first place back then, had he .\n. . and he had been only thirty years old. Chronological age didn't\nreally mean anything, but. . Jesus ... he was sixty now . . . The\nthought weighed down his very bones. He tried to conceive of\npicking himself up from out of the dirt again ... flat broke but\nindomitable . . . indomitable . . . The notion of having to get up\nevery day and show a flat-broke but indomitable face to the world\nsent him sinking so deeply into the lounge chair, he wondered if he\ncould even stand up . . . He gave in ... He began to feel immensely\nsorry for himself. . .\nThe hell with that!\nHe sprang up out of the chair, as if escaping from the deadly\ncaresses of self-pity. That played hell with his knee, and the sudden\nexertion made him light-headed. He caught a glimpse of himself in\nthe mirror. He was in a crouch, clad in a nightshirt and a bathrobe\nwith a pair of half-glasses teetering on the tip of his nose. He stuffed\nthe glasses back into his pocket and put his hands on his knees and\nbent over and lowered his head in order to get some blood to his\nbrain, and then he stood upright and made a fierce face in the\nmirror. Charlie Croker-brute! Charlie Croker-force of nature! The hell\nwith sixty years old and whatever that was supposed to mean!\nEnough sitting here stewing . . . Action was called for. . . Go riding!\nThat was it. He'd go out to the Spread. The Spread, as he had taken\nto calling it, was forty acres off Crest Valley Road, not far from the\nChattahoochee River National Park. It was like the Chattahoochee\nCounty countryside out there, and yet it was part of Atlanta, part of\nBuckhead, for that matter, loosely defined. He kept three horses atthe Spread, one of them being Jugsy, the big jumper he had just had\nvanned up from Turpmtine. Hell, he really ought to ride Jugsy ever}'\nday ... It was too early just yet. Dodson, the caretaker, and his wife,\nFanny, who lived in the little house near the stable-their dogs would\nstart barking if they heard the stable opening up when it wasn't even\nlight yet . . . Well- what he'd do was, he'd get dressed and go\ndownstairs and fix himself breakfast, a big country breakfast . . .\neggs, grits, biscuits, smoked ham ... a trout . . . He'd always loved it\nwhen his daddy cooked himself a trout for breakfast. That sharp,\nalmost sweet, grilled smell came back to him as he stood in this\nfroufrou dressing room in the most expensive part of Buckhead . . .\nexcept that there wouldn't be any trout in this establishment . . . But\nit would be a pleasure just to fix breakfast all by himself . . . Nina\nWoo wasn't a bad cook, but this morning he didn't need the\npresence of the Woo Dynasty fluttering about him in all their\ninsincere solicitude . . . No, he'd fix a big breakfast all by himself and\neat it at his leisure and drink some good New Orleans coffee with\nchicory and clear his head and recharge the batteries and go for a\nride.\nHe went over to one of the mahogany closets, his Sports Closet,\nRonald called it, and took out his riding clothes, the high black\nboots, the tan pants, the polo shirt, a tweed hacking jacket, and the\nrest of it, and got dressed. The boots ... so goddamned hard to put\non .. . custom- made ... fit like a corset around the calves . . . hurt\nhis knee so much he groaned as he tugged on the handles of his\nmetal boot pulls ... He stood up . . . Ahhhhhh, but what a fabulous\nfigure he cut now! . . . The boots were a dream in creamy black\nleather with glossy highlights. He could forgive the Woo Dynasty a\nlot for the mule's work they always did on the boots. The riding\npants were made of an elasticized twill that brought out the powerful\ncurve of his thigh muscles, and the polo shirt showed off the\nmassive hillocks of his chest and the prodigious girth of his upper\narms. More than satisfied with himself, he hooked his jacket over his\nthumb and tossed it over his shoulder, threw his head back, struck a\njaunty pose in the mirror, and went out into the hallway. He snappedon the staircase lights and headed down toward the kitchen. The\nscrambled eggs (well done), the steaming grits (with a little butter),\nthe hot biscuits (made from scratch by Auntie Bella down at\nTurpmtine and frozen and flown up here on the G-5), the ever-so-\nthin slices of smoked country ham (slaughtered, cured, and aged by\nUncle Bud down at Turpmtine), the New Orleans coffee with chicory-\nevery nerve in his body was primed for the ambrosial aromas soon\nto come.\nThe stair hall was a real piece of work, a symphony of big-bellied\ncurves, with a balcony that swooped this way and a staircase that\nswooped down that way and a walnut banister that swooped all over\nthe place upon balusters of delicate and highly ornate ironwork.\nCharlie noticed none of that, however. Only one thing was on his\nmind: a real country breakfast, starring Charlie Croker, a Baker\nCounty boy who knew what life boiled down to, once all the fat was\nrendered away. Now he was at the final flamboyant curve of the\nstaircase, where it headed down to the marble floor of the entry\nfoyer, when-Brannnnng! Brarmnnng! Brannnnng! Brannnnng!\nHoly shit! All hell broke loose. Brannnnng! Brannnnng! Brannnnng!\nBrannnnng! The sound hammered his head in relentless waves.\nBrannnnng! Brannnnng! Brannnnng! Brannnnng!\nThe burglar alarm! He'd totally forgotten about it! Forgot to push the\nbypass switch! The motion detectors! On the ground floor, which\nwas full of French doors, Serena didn't want sensors sitting there on\nevery pane and had insisted on motion detectors-and anything that\nmoved could set them off. He'd set off the alarm-by walking down\nthe stairs!\nBrannnnng! Brannnnng! Brannnnng! Brannnnng!\nThere were alarm gongs all up and down the staircase, and outside\nthe house, too. They were hammering their metal heads off. The\nnoise was enough to cave your skull in.\nGoddamn you, Serena!Like any man who has just committed a blunder of elementary\nstupidity, Charlie racked his brain to find the malefactor who had\nmade him do it. It was Serena who had insisted on this totally\nuseless burglar alarm system! Charlie Croker was from Baker\nCount)', where you defend your own goddamn house your own\ngoddamn self! You don't wire yourself into some goddamn company\nmanned by a bunch of half-wits who aren't much above burglars\nthemselves! He had his bare hands and a short-barreled .20-gauge\nshotgun in the closet in the bedroom! He didn't need some armed\nminimum-wage winos from Radartronic Security- Radartronic\nSecurity!-poking around his house in the middle of the night!\nBrannnnng! Brannnnng! Brannnnng! Brannnnng!\nThe whole menagerie-Serena, Heidi Filipino, Miss Kingsley Cro- ker,\nWally, the Woo Dynasty-they'd all be ricocheting off the walls and\ndescending upon him. Shut off the gongs! That was the main thing.\nHie control box was in a closet in the bedroom. He went charging up\nthe stairs in his riding boots. Clomp clomp clomp clomp clomp. Knee\nhurt like hell-110 time to worry about that. As he reached the\nsecond floor, he heard a clicking sound. That would be the telephone\nautomatically dialing Radartronic Security, which was located\nsomewhere down around the old Southern Railway yards. They, in\nturn, would telephone the house, and unless you answered and gave\nthem your code number, they would call the police and dispatch their\nown so-called agents, who had keys to your house.\nSerena! T hat's so stupid, letting a bunch of jack-legged, barely\nemployable bums have the keys to your home! What's the matter\nwith you!\nOn he charged. In 110 time, breathing stertorously, he was at the\nbedro >m door. He turned the handle. Damn! It was locked. What\nidiot locked it? Who else? Serena.\nNow he could hear the telephone ringing. TrrrilllU . . . Trrrilllll. . .\nTrrrilllll . . .That would be the burglar alarm company calling back. Naturally\nnobody in the whole menagerie answered it. He ran to the door of\nthe dressing room. Thank God, it opened. He dashed for the\nbathroom, went in, and opened the door to the bedroom.\nBranmmng! Brannnnng! Brannnnng! Brannnnng!\nTrrrilllll . . . Trrrilllll. . . Trrrilllll. . .\nPitch-black in the bedroom, just the way he'd left it. He felt around\non the wall for the light switch. The wall was lined with a padded\nfabric. It was like feeling around for a light switch in a mattress.\nFinally he found it and switched it on. The bedroom rose up in the\nglow from tawny, peachy, pink-lined little silk lampshades atop wall\nsconces. The carved Victorian mantelpiece with its bevels and\nescutcheons, the billowing yards of chintz curtains and silk\nundercurtains, the fretwork radiator covers, the vast bed with its\nbombastic upholstered headboard- all of it popped out in a luxurious\nplay of highlights and deep shadows. But no Serena. Not a trace of\nher.\n\"Serena! Where are you!\"\nFrom behind the bed rose a tousled head of long black hair. A pair of\nextraordinary periwinkle-blue eyes blazed away. Then the shoulders,\nbare except for a pair of salmon-pink straps that held up a little\nsalmon- pink chemise so low cut that he could see all but the very\ntips of her breasts as she came out of her crouch. Young, fabulous,\nperfect breasts they were. It was a sight that had stirred Charlie\nCroker, brute, many times, but now he was possessed by another\npassion entirely: the urge to blame.\n\"Jesus, Serena! Answer the phom1 What's that damned code\nnumber?\"\nThen he took in the look on her young face. Her eyes were wide-\nopen and her lips were slightly parted, but it was not an expressionof pure fear. There seemed to be a delicate balance between fear\nand panic, on the one hand, and disbelief and hostility on the other.\nShe put her hand to her sternum, as if to steady her heart. \"Charlie!\nWhat on earth!\"\n'Tour goddamned motion detectors, Serena! I was goin' downstairs\nto the kitchen-and I mean, shit! Can't you pick up the telephone, for\nChrist's sake? That's the alarm company. What's 'at code number?\"\nBrannnnng! Brannnnng! Brannnnng!\nTrrrilllU . . . Tmilllll. . . Tmilllll. . .\nThen it dawned on him that the telephone was, in fact, on the table\non the other side of the bed. He pointed toward the closet where the\ncontrol box was. \"I'll get the telephone. See if you can't turn that\ngoddamned thing off!\"\nShe gave him a look. The balance was slipping rapidly toward\ndisbelief and hostility. But she said nothing. As she went into the\ncloset, he could see the cups of her buttocks where they showed\nbeneath the little salmon-pink chemise.\nBrannnnng! Brannnnng! Brannnnng!\nTrrrilUU . . . Tmilllll. . . TrrrilllU . . .\nWith a bound Charlie reached the bedside table and picked up the\ntelephone. Belligerently: \"Hel/o!\"\n\"This is Surve/Tlance. We have an alarm signal.\" It was a man's\nmeasured, carefully modulated, almost singsong voice. It struck\nCharlie as a parody of someone trying to instill calm during an\nemergency. It infuriated him.\n\"It's a false alarm,\" said Charlie. He made it sound like an\naccusation. \"Everything's okay.\"The man's voice said, 'Tour name . . . please?\" The way the voice\nwent up. two or three notes on the please irritated Charlie\nenormously. Besides, he wasn't used to having to tell people his\nname. By the time you spoke to Charlie Croker you were supposed\nto know who he was.\nBut he reined himself in. \"Charles Croker,\" he said in an even voice,\nbut it was run over by the relentless Brannnnng! Brannnnng!\nBrannnnng!\n\"Say again . . . please?\" said the voice of Radartronic Security.\n\"I said Charles Croker! Can't you hear, for God's sake?\"\nThe studiously imperturbable voice merely said, \"Your ID number . .\n. please?\" * \"What?\"\n\"Your ID number . . . please?\"\n\"It's, uh, 2-2-8 . . . uh . . . Oh, for Christ's sake.\" He looked toward\nthe closet, toward Serena. The closet was full of clothes, and the\ncontrol box was on a side wall, so that Serena had to lean in to get\nat it. Charlie could see her firm young legs, bare right up to her\nperfect little bottom. There had been many times when this sight,\ntoo, had driven him wild. But now he saw a half-nude nitwit.\nBrannnnng! Brannnnng! Brannnnng!\n\"Serena, what's 'at number! And for Christ's sake, can't you turn\nthose damn gongs off? It's a little toggle switch!\"\nIn fact, as Charlie realized from the last time he'd set off the alarm\nby mistake, when you opened the control box, you were presented\nwith a baffling profusion of fuses, colored wires, buttons, switches, a\nveritable electronic goulash. He was in no mood to be reasonable,\nhowever.\n\"Serena!\"The gongs hammered on, but Serena's head emerged from the\ncloset. She didn't say anything at first. She looked him up and down,\nfrom his bald pate and angry face down to the toes of his boots and\nback up again, before saying, \"It's taped to the bottom of the\ntelephone.\"\nCharlie picked up the telephone cradle and turned it over and then\nspoke into the receiver: \"Okay . . . you listening?\"\nThe voice: \"Yes, we are.\" Up two infuriating patient notes 011 the\nare.\n\"Okay . . . it's 2-2-8-6-8.\"\n\"Thank you. Have you ascertained the origin of the signal?\"\nAscertained the origin? He found the wording ludicrously\npretentious, but all he said was \"Yes. It was a false alarm.\"\n\"Would you like the assistance of our agents?\"\n\"Agents? Spare ine-nawwww, I don't need any a your agents.\"\nThe voice bade him goodbye with the same stenciled calm with\nwhich it had begun.\nBrannnnng! Brannnnng!-suddenly the dreadful hammering noise\nstopped. Serena had finally found the switch. An after-ring filled\nCharlie's skull as he turned back toward the closet. Serena emerged,\npopping out of her little chemise. She was breathing hard and\nlooking holes through him.\n\"I'm gonna call upstairs to Heidi,\" she said. She was breathing so\nrapidly, it made her voice tremulous. She sat down on the edge of\nthe bed and picked up the telephone receiver and pressed an\nintercom button.\njust then-a banging on the bedroom door. \"Dad! Dad! You in there?\"\nCharlie walked over, unlocked the door, and opened it about a foot.There was Wally, looking confused, sleepy, wilted, thin, gawky. He\nhad a plaid bathrobe pulled over the T-shirt and boxer shorts he\nslept in. Wally was already six feet tall, and he had his father's curly\nblond hair, or the same sort of hair Charlie had enjoyed when he was\nyoung, and the beginning of his handsome features. But he was not\nCharlie Croker or close to becoming Charlie Croker. That was what\ncrossed Charlie's mind the first time he saw him on any given day.\n\"What happened?\" asked Wally.\n\"Nothing to worry about,\" said Charlie, \"Just Serena's-just the\nburglar alarm system having another one of its little fits.\"\n\"The burglar alarm system had a little fit?\" It was Serena. Charlie\nturned away from the door and looked at her. She was still sitting on\nthe edge of the bed. She had her head cocked and a dubious little\nsmile on her lips in the expression that asks, \"Is anybody actually\nsupposed to believe what you just said?\"\nWally stuck his head through the door. What he saw was his father's\nnew wife, sitting on the edge of his father's big bed with her long,\nbare legs crossed. Her hair tumbled down wildly over her bare\nshoulders. She had her arms crossed over her bosom, modestly\nenough, but there was no way that this girl and her young body\ncould be modest in that tiny chemise. Wally's eyes stuck out like the\nhat pegs in a Baker County country church. Charlie was mortified,\nand for reasons that went well beyond modesty. His sixteen-year-old\nson was getting a look, a forbidden look, in the very lair of the lust,\nthe master bedroom, on the edge of the master's bed itself, at what\nhis father had left his mother for. Charlie looked at Wally. Charlie\nlooked at Serena. He wanted to say, \"Wally! Don't look! Get out of\nhere!\" He wanted to say, \"Serena! For God's sake! Vanish! Cover\nyourself!\" But he couldn't get a word out.\nAs if reading his mind, Serena stood up and said, \"Excuse me,\" and\nwalked over to the closet and took the matching salmon-pink silk\nbathrobe off a door hook and slipped into it and wrapped it abouther and tied the sash. It took no more than fifteen seconds, but in\nthose fifteen seconds Wally, sixteen years of age, drank in a lifetime\nsupply of lubri- cious crevices and undulating lamb chops and those\nand them and these and that.\nAnd Croker had never even had that talk with Wally, the most\nimportant talk a father could have with a son, not the one about the\nbirds and the bees, but the one about how things really are, actually\nare, in real life, between men and women.\nAt last Wally averted his eyes and asked his father, \"Are the police\ncoming?\"\n\"Naw,\" said Charlie, \"the police aren't coming, and neither's those\nscarecrows from the burglar alarm company. I'd rather have a\nburglar in the house than one a those homeless with pistols they\nsend over here.\"\nNow Wally was looking at him with his blank, bewildered expression.\nHe was looking him up and down, from the top of his head to the\ntoes of his spiff)' boots, the same way Serena had the moment\nbefore.\n\"What are you wearing, Dad?\"\nSince it was perfectly obvious what he was wearing, Charlie found\nthe question impertinent. At the same time he didn't want to be\nantagonistic to Wally, whom he so seldom saw, and so he put on the\nbeginning of a smile and said, \"Well . . . what's it look like?\"\n\"You're going riding? Now?\"\n\"I sure am, if I can ever get outta here. Out at the Spread. I brought\nJugsy up from Turpmtine. You remember Jugsy, don't you? The big\nbay jumper?\"\nWally nodded yes with blank, unbelieving eyes, as if humoring a\nlunatic.Charlie detected some of that and said, \"It's a great time to go\nriding. The dawn comes up-nobody ever gets to see a real dawn in\nAtlanta anymore. You oughta come with me, Wally. You can ride\nBird. You rode her once, didn't you?\"\nFor half a second he figured it just might work out. It could be the\nsignificant experience he had been promising himself . . . Father and\nson riding side by side over the rolling hills of the Spread at dawn as\nthe sun rises up behind the distant towers of the city . . . It would be\nsomething Wally would never forget. This burglar alarm fiasco might\nturn out to be all for the best. And then he saw the look on Wally's\nface.\nThe boy was smiling gamely and his head was nodding yes, and his\neyes, which were as big around and blank as a pair of clay pigeons,\nwere saying, \"Not in a million years.\" It was what was known in the\ncoarse argot of real estate development as a grin fuck.\nSerena walked toward them. Wrapped in her robe of the finest char-\nmeuse, she looked gorgeous. Her black hair was full and rich and\nbouncy. Her skin was fair. Her neck was long, bare, and lovely.\n\"Charlie,\" she said, speaking all too calmly now, \"did I hear you say\nriding? Do you have . . . any idea . . . whatsoever . . . what time it\nis?\" Then she extended an uplifted palm toward the clock on the\nbedside table. It was the patronizing gesture that says, Please, be\nmy guest.\nAgainst his better instincts he looked at it. Damn! -3:55 a. M.\nDesperately he wished for the psychokinetic power to make it blip\nforward six minutes, so that it would at least be after four o'clock.\nHer arm still extended, Serena demanded, \"What time does it say?\"\nIt was the tone you would use on a child.\nNow it was Charlie who was bewildered. The impudence! A hventy-\neight-year-old girl standing here in next to nothing, trying to make\nhim look like a doddering idiot in front of his son! Frantically heransacked his brain for the proper strategy. He couldn't just let her\nhave it, tell her to mind her goddamn mouth-not in front of Wally.\nHe couldn't just laugh it off-he'd look weak, since she was clearly\ntrying to put him in his place. No-he'd-he'd tell her about the country\nbreakfast-the country breakfast-how he was going to fix himself a\nreal country breakfast with all the trimmings, how he was going to\nrelax and enjoy it, how- it would take more than an hour, and then it\nwould be after five, which would be a good time to head out to-\n-aw hell, that would really sound like a confused old man-a man with\nthree servants in the house who's getting ready to go down to the\nkitchen by himself to fix a real country breakfast on one of the most\nexpensive streets in Buckhead at 3:55 in the morning-and besides,\nevery true leader of men knew that when challenged by an\nunderling, you don't stop to explain. You squash that underling and\nexplain later, if you have to. But suppose the underling is your barely\nclad new wife, and your sixteen-year-old son by your old wife is\nstanding there-what do you do then?\nAround and around his brain whirled and he was aware that his lips\nwere parted and no words were conning out--\nLoud whispering and giggling out in the hallway. He knew who that\nwould be: the Woo Dynasty. Grateful for an interruption, he held up\nhis forefinger and said, \"Just a second!\"-and ducked out into the\nhall, pulling the bedroom door almost shut.\nSure enough, there were Jarmaine and Nina, a pair of plump,\nfortyish-looking figures in bathrobes. He had never seen them in\nsuch a state before. Their thick black hair was sticking out every\nwhich way, like a pair of dove's nests. Their legs were bare and not\nterrific to look at, being stumpy and slightly bowed. A few feet\nbehind them, hanging on to the stairhall banister, for the fun of it,\nwas Lin Chi, who was eight. He was in a T-shirt and little\nundershorts. Jarmaine and Nina were smiling mightily.\n\"Mr. Croker!\" said Nina through her big smile. \"Burglar alarm go off!\"Both women looked at Charlie and giggled. Charlie did not find this\nat all unusual, however. They never laughed in his presence out of\namusement. It was always out of embarrassment-in this case\nprobably over the fact that they had had the temerity to venture so\nclose to the master bedroom in the middle of the night.\nCroker explained what had happened, providing a version of the\nfacts that would make it easy to conclude that the system had\nmalfunctioned.\n\"Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh,\" said Nina, changing to a serious expression.\nThe Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh came out as a wail of revelation.\nMeantime, Lin Chi, the eight-year-old, gripped a baluster with both\nhands and let his body hang sideways, like a sailor clutching a railing\nin the wind, all the while staring fixedly at Charlie.\nCharlie had come to like Lin Chi. He was a real boy. In a few years\nhe'd be a handful. He was more like what he wanted to see in a son\nthan Wally was.\nHe smiled at Lin Chi. \"Makes a lotta noise, don't it, Lin Chi, that\nburglar alarm?\"\n\"You can say that again!\" said Lin Chi, still hanging sideways. He had\nno accent at all.\nTerribly embarrassed, Jarmaine and Nina reddened, giggled, glared\nat Lin Chi, and then beamed at Charlie and giggled some more.\nCharlie laughed heartily to show them he hadn't found Lin Chi\nimpertinent, and then he said, \"Well, you ain't gotta worry about it\nanymore, Lin Chi. We're gettin' rid of it. It ain't good for nothing but\nfalse alarms, is it.\" Unconsciously the ain'ts were a great Charlie\nCroker compliment. They meant: \"You're a real boy. You're my kind.\"\nWhat the hell had happened to all these sons of the rich in Wally's\ngeneration, these well-brought-up boys who went off to the private\nschools? These damned schools were producing a new kind of scionof the elite: a boy utterly world-weary by the age of sixteen, cynical,\nphlegmatic, and apathetic around adults, although perfectly\nrespectful and maddeningly polite, a boy inept at sports, averse to\nhunting and fishing and riding horses or handling animals in any\nway, a boy embarrassed by his advantages, desperate to hide them,\neager to dress in backward baseball caps and homey pants and\nother ghetto rags, terrified of being envied, a boy facing the world\nwithout any visible signs of the joy of living and without . . . balls . .\n.\nNow down the stairs came another figure, walking past the Woo\nDynasty, a small thin woman in a white uniform she'd obviously just\njumped into. She had made a stab at pushing her black hair back\nfrom her face, but it was almost as big a mess as Jarmaine's and\nNina's. She was barefoot. She was carrying a little bundled armful. It\nwas Heidi, the Filipino nanny, carrying Miss Kingsley Croker.\nThe bare feet were not the result of haste, however. Heidi was the\nmost proper nanny they had had in the house in eleven months of\nhiring and firing nannies, but she always went about in bare feet.\nThat detail Charlie always noticed. It reminded him of a book he'd\nseen once in the library at Tech. It was a picture book of the kilts\nand full regalia of the Scottish clans. It was full of lovingly colorful\nillustrations of Scottish lairds dressed up to beat the band-all of them\nwith bare legs, big knotty calves, and bare feet. It was as if there\nwas something Down Home, hog-stomping, and primeval in their\nmakeup that you couldn't remove, no matter how fancy the clothes\nbecame. Charlie loved that, since he always assumed he was the\nsame way. Whether this was a desirable attribute in a nanny or not,\nhe couldn't decide.\nAs she rounded the last bend in the flight of stairs, Heidi looked at\nhim and said brightly, \"Hello, Mister. Everything okay?\"\n\"Yep,\" said Charlie, \"everything's okay. Just a false alarm. She get\nscared?\" He motioned toward Kingsley, a pale little creature curledup in the nanny's arms, apparently dead to the world. She. He\ndisliked the name Kingsley so much, he avoided using it.\n\"Oh no, Mister. She don't wake up.\"\nThe little girl's eyes were shut tight. She tucked her head and buried\nit in Heidi's bosom. Jarmaine and Nina made a polite fuss over the\nheiress apparent and turned back toward Charlie and did some more\ngiggling. Their eyes were trained on his face, but then they lowered\nand drifted clown, clown over his polo shirt and his tight twill riding\npants and his boots with all the glossy highlights and then back up\nto the riding pants and the polo shirt and up to his face. Lin Chi was\ndoing the same thing, except that his eyes remained fixed on the\nfabulous boots. Heidi's, too . . . she took in all of him, but the boots\nwere what really got her. All of them, save the infant, had been\nblasted out of their REM sleep by a burglar alarm and blown into the\nhallway to find Cap'm Charlie dressed up in his high black boots as if\nhe's about to hop on a horse at 3:55 a. M. / can explain!-but he\nfought off the urge. Real leaders didn't explain.\nNow he was aware of voices behind him, inside the bedroom, low\nvoices, confidential voices; and not just voices, either, but also\nchuckles. Wally. Serena. He couldn't believe it. They sounded like the\nmerriest young pals you ever encountered. He couldn't believe it,\nand he didn't like it. They barely knew each other, and their\nrelationship, such as it was, had always seemed awkward and\nstrained. What could they possibly be chuckling over? What little\njoke were they sharing? . . . Him . . . Charlie ... It had to be at his\nexpense.\nJust then the bedroom door opened and Wally emerged. His head\nand his eyes were downcast, thanks to poor posture and apathy, no\ndoubt, but a smile was spread on his lips, the afterglow of his\nconversation with his father's wife in the next-to-nothing outfit. Then\nhe looked up and saw his father standing there, and the smile\nvanished, and he clamped his blank look back on.Charlie was furious. But what could he say?\nSo he swept his eyes over the whole menagerie, Wally included, and\nsaid, \"Awright, whyn't you all go back to bed now. Get some sleep.\"\nHe said it so sharply, it was like a rebuke. An inexplicable rebuke;\nbut that was all right. Every real leader knew that the occasional\noutburst of unexplained anger was good for discipline. It set the\ntroops to searching their own conduct for flaws.\nThey all started trudging back to their quarters. Wally, his head\nlowered, his shoulders stooped, lugged his sixteen years off the\nmost wearily of all.\nCharlie went into the bedroom ... to set a few things straight. He\nshut the door behind him. Serena was sitting on the edge of the bed\nagain, facing him. She lowered her head, dug the fingers of both\nhands in under her hair at the scalp line, threw her tangled black\nmane back over her shoulder, raised her head, and looked him right\nin the eye. There was a hint of a smile on her face. Well, she was\ncertainly in a good mood all of a sudden. . . . after joking with Wally\nabout his sixty- year-old father.\nHe glowered at her for a couple of beats, then gestured behind him\ntoward the hallway. 'Tou missed the town meeting.\" It wasn't uttered\nas a little witticism. It was sarcasm incised on a tablet brought down\nfrom on high by the patriarch, blame.\n\"Oh?\" If anything, Serena's trace of a smile grew a bit bolder.\n\"Yeah, they were all there. Your burglar alarm brought the whole\ngang. The whole Woo Dynast)', including Lin Chi. He was hanging\noff the spindles. And Heidi Filipino. Barefoot.\" All Serena did was\nchange her suggestion of a smile into a suggestion of a sneer. So\nCharlie said, \"Heidi brought your daughter down, in case you're\ninterested. She was fine. She slept through the whole thing-if you\nwere wondering.\"\"I know. I talked to Heidi on the intercom.\" She didn't even sound\ndefensive, which annoyed him still more.\n\"Serena-you realize that's the third false alarm in the past month or\nso?\"\n\"Past six months or so.\"\n\"Well, whatever, it's ridiculous. What earthly good is it? The police,\nthey get so many false alarms, they don't even bother to respond.\nAnd Radartronic Security? I hope you don't honestly believe\nRadartronic Security's actually gonna protect anybody. Who do you\nthink works for these companies? Who do you think you get for\nminimum wage, or whatever they pay? You get drifters, winos-and\nthen they let 'em carry sidearms-and they've got the keys to the\nhouse! It's ludicrous! We're sayin' goodbye to the burglar alarm\nsystem.\"\n\"Well, well, well. I hadn't noticed you were so well informed about\nburglar alarms and burglar alarm companies.\"\nThe impudence! \"I'm informed enough\"-infawmed-\"and even if I\nwasn't, I'm from Baker County, Georgia, and I kin take keer my own\nhouse. If these ain't enough\"-he held up his hands-\"I got a .20-\ngauge shotgun in the closet. If I have to shoot a man, I kin do it.\nI've done it before.\"\n\"In Vietnam, you're talking about.\"\nAs a matter of fact, he was-but was she really saying what he\nthought she was saying?-which was: \"You've already bragged to me\nabout what a holy terror you were in the war in Vietnam thirty-odd\nyears ago.\"\n\"I'm talkin'bout how it's gonna be in this house from now on, 'at's\nwhat I'm talkin'bout! There ain't gonna be any more burglar alarm!\nIs 'at clear enough?\"Serena put both palms down flat on the bed and stiffened her arms\nand leaned back and uncrossed her legs and let them fall open in a\npose of insouciance. Her breasts welled up under the layers of\nsalmon- pink charmeuse. He could see the insides of her thighs\nwhere the robe had parted. Her little half-smile, half-sneer\nintensified. She looked him right in the eye.\nShe said, \"Who's supposed to shoot the man when you're not here?\"\n\"Whattya talkin'bout? What man?\"\n'Tou said if you have to shoot a man. Suppose you're outta town or\noff riding a horse at three o'clock in the morning. Who's supposed to\nshoot the man then? Me? Heidi? Nina? Jarmaine? They're not from\nBaker County, Georgia, far as I can tell, and I doubt if they've been\nto war, although we can always ask them.\"\n\"Now, you listen, goddamn it-\"\n\"Don't you swear at me.\" With a single angry thrust of her arms she\nwas up off the edge of the bed and walking toward the bathroom.\nHer little expression had vanished. She wasn't even looking at him\nany longer. She was turning her back on him and walking out of the\nroom.\nHe tried to grab her by the arm. With a furious wrench she broke\nfree and confronted him, her eyes ablaze.\n\"Now you listen, Charlie. You don't even know what's just happened\nin this house, do you. You don't understand the first thing.\"\n\"I know one thing 'at's happened, and I know one thing 'at's about\nto happen.\"\n\"Oh, kindly spare me the caveman stuff. Whyn't you do yourself a\nfavor and go in the bathroom?\" She extended her arm and pointed a\nfinger toward the bathroom door, like a parent ordering a child to\nmarch. \"Take a look at yourself in the mirror, in the full-length mirror.\nJust take a good look. Make sure you can see the boots, too.\"And in that moment what struck Charlie even more than the outright\ninsolence was her face. It wasn't contorted, there was no furious\nscowl, her chin wasn't trembling, she wasn't about to sob or shake\nor come to pieces in any fashion. Oh no, not her. She was the very\npicture of icy superiority, a twenty-eight-year-old girl laying down a\nlecture to Charlie Croker himself. He didn't knpw what to say.\n\"You're so busy being the big stuff,\" she was saying, \"you don't even\nwanna think how it might affect anybody else in the house.\" \"Such\nas you, I suppose.\"\n\"Such as me, for a start. All of a sudden I wake up? The burglar\nalarm is ringing? I turn toward my husband, who's supposed to be\nbeside me in bed, and he's not there? I look at the clock, and it's\nthree-some- thing? I call out your name? You don't answer? I look in\nthe bathroom? You're not in there, either? For all I knew,\nsomebody'd broken into the house, and you were lying in a pool of\nblood. Just then I hear this terrific racket. You never heard such a\ncommotion. Sounds like somebody's charging up the stairs in army\nboots, some maniac or something. I run over and lock the bedroom\ndoor-just in time, because the next thing I know, somebody's\nturning the handle of the door this way and that, trying to get in,\nand throwing his weight against the door, like he's gonna push it in,\nand grunting and groaning-doesn't even sound like a human being.\nSounds like a-a-a-a bear-or a monster. It's going Ungggghhhhh\nungggghhhhh ungggghhhhh, like that. So I hide behind the bed.\nWhen it breaks down the door, maybe it won't see me. Then I hear\nit coming through the bathroom. Then I hear it fumbling around on\nthe wall for the light. I figure, This is it. It's coming after me.' And\nthen I hear this ang-ry, bel-frgerent voice say, 'Serena'-\" \"I was only\ntrying to get to the control box to- \" \"Let me finish-\" \"-turn the thing\noff before-\" \"Let me finish-\"\n\"-it woke the whole house up, and-\"\n\"Let me finish! Good. Thank you very much. Then the light comes\non, and it's standing there. It's got on riding boots, right up to itsknees. It's got on riding pants. It's got on a polo shirt. Three o'clock\nin the morning; and it's going riding.\"\n\"Three fifty-five,\" said Charlie, immediately realizing how lame it\nsounded.\n\"Ohhhhh! Three fifty-/ive! Excuse me. All right, 3:55. You set off the\nalarm, even though you know very well you have to turn it off before\nyou go down downstairs, and what's your first instinct? To blame\nsomebody else. To blame me.\"\n\"I never blamed you.\"\n\"No? No? I wish you could've seen the look on your face. Goddamn\nthis and Jesus Christ that and shit-look-what-you-did-Serena and\nget-in- that-closet and what-the-hell's-the-matter-with-you-Serena\nwhen I couldn't find that little switch right away. You weren't\nblaming me? What would you call it?\"\n\"The alarm was ringing, the phone was ringing, all hell was breaking\nloose-I was only tryin' to get things under control.\"\n\"You were only trying to shift the blame, was what you were only\ntrying to do, Charlie. I still haven't heard a single Gee, I'm sorry or\nanything else. I know what you told your son. I hate to think what\nyou told Nina and Jarmaine and Heidi.\"\nCharlie was angry all over again. \"Awright-you finished now?\"\n\"No,\" said his wife, \"I'm not. 1 really do think you oughta go in the\nbathroom right now and take a look at yourself. It's the middle of\nthe night, Charlie, and you're up and dressed in this . . . this . . .\"-\nwhile she searched for the word, she waved her hand at him\ndismissively- \"this . . . getup of yours. The barn isn't open in the\nmiddle of the night. Maybe Jugsy's only a stupid horse, but he's not\nso stupid that he's standing around ready to go in the middle of the\nnight.\" She jutted her chin forward slightly and cocked her head and\ngave him a look of mock solicitude. \"What are you doing? Anybody\nwho didn't know you would think you were gaga.\"With that she turned and headed straight into the bathroom and\nshut the door and locked it. Gaga. The impudence! Charlie was\nfurious, and yet in that very moment he realized that it wasn't that\ngood, keen, pure, all-out male fury that had served him so well over\nthe years. He was going to make her feel six kinds of sorry when she\ncame out of that bathroom . . . but in fact he felt so damned tired . .\n. His head felt like a husk ... He walked over and sat down on the\nside of the bed. He closed his eyes and massaged his temples with\nhis fingertips. Maybe the good old country breakfast would revive\nhim. . . . He'd haul out the pans and thaw the biscuits and the grits-\nor were the grits frozen?-and where were the pans, for that matter?\n. . . and the butter and the coffee ... It dawned on him that he didn't\nhave a ghost of an idea where any of it was kept . . . Well, he'd\nfigure it out . . . He pivoted on his hip and brought one leg up onto\nthe bed, boot and all. The boot wasn't going to do much for the\nbed's white coverlet, which had a little waffle design on it and came\nfrom-what the hell was the name of it?-someplace where they sold\nsheets for $500 apiece was all he knew . . . Well-he was the one\nwho had paid for all this stuff in the first place, and so he could put\nhis damned boots any damned place he felt like. So he brought the\nother leg and the other boot up and let his upper body sink back on\nthe bed and his head sink back on the pillow. He closed his eyes.\nHe'd catch forty winks and then go downstairs and get some\nbreakfast and head on over to the Spread and the hell with what\nSerena or anybody else had to say about the middle of the night. He\ncould hear her running the water in the bathroom. He hoped she'd\nkeep it on for a while. It was a soothing sound, and as long as he\ncould hear it he wouldn't be having to deal with her unbelievable\nimpudence . . .\nChrist . . . Who was this woman? How the hell did she get here? The\nquestions startled him. Then he realized they had been forming in\nhis mind for the past thirty months at least, and he had only been\nmarried to her for thirty-six. But never before had they just popped\ninto his head in so many words. Who was she? What was she doing\nhere? And the terrible thing was, once he finally asked thequestions, he knew the answers. Sex and vanity; it was as simple as\nthat; and maybe vanity even more than sex. Martha had gotten\nolder, that was all . . . And as he lay there stretched out on the bed,\na vision of Martha's shoulders and neck, just her shoulders and neck,\nfloated into his head. That was what he had noticed, once she\nreached her forties, he guessed it was. Martha had always been a\nbig girl, a big, sunny, lovely girl, but as she got older, she got thicker.\nHer midsection got thicker, and her skin got thicker, and her\nshoulders and her upper back began to round over a little bit and\nget thicker. One night at a big Tech reunion at the Hyatt Regency,\nshe was wearing some kind of bare-shouldered dress, and he\nhappened to come up behind her from a certain angle, and Jesus\nChrist, she had shoulders like a middle linebacker for the Dallas\nCowboys, his wife did. He couldn't get that image out of his mind.\nLike a middle linebacker-and how often could you get aroused by a\nforty-some-year- old woman with that much beef in her neck and\nher shoulders and her upper back? He hated himself for even\nthinking it. But that was the way the male animal was constituted,\nwasn't it . . .\nInvoluntarily he sighed, just lying here with his eyes closed. A\nwavelet of guilt washed over him. Martha's beefy shoulders lingered\nbehind his eyelids for a moment, and then he could see Serena the\nway she had looked the first time he had ever laid eyes on her. She\nwas standing in front of a meeting room at PlannersBanc conducting\nsome kind of \"art investment seminar\" the bank had cooked up.\nJohn Sycamore and Ray Peepgass had talked him into attending it.\nThey had these young women from some kind of graduate school in\nNew York conducting these goddamned things, these \"seminars,\"\nand Serena was standing up there giving a talk with slides and a\nlaser-light pointer she held in her hand. She had on a little black\ndress that made her seem more naked than if she had been wearing\nnothing at all. She was so sexy that if she had pointed that little\nlaser thing at him and hit the button, he would have risen up right\nthen and there and done something silly. The lecture was pure\nbullshit, something about some German artists named Kiefer andBaselitz and Something-or-other and how much their totally sick\npaintings would be worth in five years if you invested in them now.\nBut the lecturer-the lecturer he had gone for all the way. At the time\nit had seemed like nothing more than the usual thing. In Atlanta a\nreal estate developer was a starl-and some of the others, like Lucky\nPutney, Dolf Brauer, and his old buddy Billy Bass, were out\ntomcatting around so openly, so outrageously, that his little fling with\nSerena seemed like nothing at all. She made him feel like a kid, like\na twenty-year-old in the season of the rising sap. She liked it good\nand reckless, like that time they went off for a weekend to Myrtle\nBeach-another wavelet of guilt . . . The terrible lies he dreamed up\nto tell Martha in order to arrange these things . . .\n-and they were walking along the beach, and then they went over\nbehind some sand dunes, and he couldn't believe it-she had a funny\nlook on her face, and she took off her bikini and he took off his\nswimming trunks-in the middle of a bright sunny day!-with a\nlighthouse or observatory, or whatever it was, not three hundred\nyards away!-they could have been caught at any moment!-him!-the\ngreat star!-fifty- six years old!-rutting away in the sand!-sex-crazed,\nlike a dog in the park! But that was the thing ... At fifty-five or fifty-\nsix you still think you're a young man. You still think your power and\nenergy are boundless and eternal! You still think you're going to live\nforever! And in fact, you're attached to your youth only by a thread,\nnot a cord, not a cable, and that thread can snap at any moment,\nand it will snap soon in any case. And then where are you?\nVengeance is mine, saith the Lord, and I shall be paid. Nobody ever\nwarned anybody about this, did they! All those experts, all those\npeople who wrote the books and articles and ran the talk shows on\ntelevision or whatever-when they talked about marriage, they were\nalways talking about the first marriage, the original marriage. But by\nnow, he figured, there must be thousands of men like him, rich\nbusinessmen who over the past ten or fifteen years had divorced\ntheir old wives of two to three decades' standing and taken on new\nwives, girls a whole generation younger. And what did all the expertshave to say about these irresistible little morsels? Nothing! What if a\nman goes through all that, the separation, the divorce, all that\nagony, that struggle, that hellish expense, that . . . that . . . that\nguilt . . . and one day, or one night, he wakes up and wonders, Who\nthe hell is this in the bed next to me? Why is she here? Where did\nshe come from? What does she want? Why won't she leave? That\nthey don't tell you about.\nThe thought made him tired ... so tired ... so tired ... so tired . . . In\nthe bathroom the water continued to rush and rush . . . Charlie\nCroker lay stretched out on the bed, in his big glossy black riding\nboots, with all the lights on, surveying the world from behind his\neyelids. In no time, in far fewer than forty winks, he rode off into the\nLand of Nod.\nChapter 7\nHello Out There, 7-Eleven Land\nIt was the time of day raymond peepgass dreaded most.\nIt was after 9 p. M. this warm April night, and dark outside, and he\nwas alone in his mean little rental unit-rental unit!-$625 a month-\napartment number XXXA-XXX!-at the bottom of the steep asphalt\nslope of the Normandy Lea Apartments at the base of the concrete-\nwalled cliff that supported Highway 75 some seventy or eight}' feet\noverhead.\nTerribly warm and muggy tonight, for late April in Atlanta . . . But if\nhe kept the two little windows in the little living room open, to get\nsome air, he could hear the merciless hum of the eight lanes of\ntraffic up on the expressway, plus the gear changes and diesel horns\nof the trucks, and the crabby sounds of the young couples, already\nfed up with marriage, buckling and unbuckling their bawling children\ninto and out of the Streptofoam-lined plastic child-safety seats in\ntheir Toyotas and Hondas out on the asphalt in front of the building.\nOn the other hand, if he closed the windows he had to turn on theincremental room air conditioner, which made a grinding noise\nwhenever the compressor came on.\nSo he kept the windows open, and now he could hear one of the\nyoung wives screaming at her husband-it was mostly the young\nwives who screamed-sometimes the husband, but mostly the wife-\nhe could hear one of the wives screaming:\n\"Oh, that's just greatl How many times did I tell you? Your attitude\ntoward your own child stinks! It just stinks the whole place up!\nUcccchhhh!\" A child began howling.\nStinks! That was the sort of thing young wives yelled at their\nhusbands these days! Stinks!\nNormandy Lea . . . Lea . . . Peepgass had looked it up. A lea was a\ngrassy meadow. Normandy Lea consisted of three two-story\nbuildings, parallel to one another, each containing twenty apartment\nunits. For some eccentric reason, each unit bore a roman numeral\nplus an arabic letter from IA and IB to XXXA and XXXB. The lea was\na three-foot- wide swath of grass that fringed each building.\nNormandy came in the form of three astonishing steeply pitched\nroofs made to look like the roofs of dairy barns in northern France.\nThe fact that Peepgass had drawn an XXX unit-XXX/-down at the\nbottom of the ravine, at the base of the highway cliff-this he found\nfrighteningly, but perfectly, in keeping with his general run of\nfortune. Technically the Normandy Lea was in Collier Hills, and\ntechnically Collier Hills was the southernmost part of Buckhead;\nbeyond that there wasn't much you could say about this poor little\napartment.\nChrist God, he was lonesome! The hums, thrums, and belches of\nHighway 75 only made it worse. All those people, hundreds of them,\nthousands of them, roaring past up there on top of the cliff, going\nsomewhere, probably to see somebody, and he sat here alone at\n9:15 p. M. looking out the window here in unit XXXA into the\nwindow of unit XIXA in the next building. Whoever lived there hadtilted a mattress up against the wall and hung a bunch of plastic\nhangers with skirt clips on the edge of the mattress for some\nunfathomable reason . . .\nAnd he had thought Snellville was Low Rent living! Jesus, the house\nin Snellville, a two-story, four-bedroom Williamsburg Colonial with a\nmock Jack'n'Jill slate-roofed well in the front yard, coach lights by\nthe front door, and an NBA Products glass basketball basket on a\nstanchion out by the little backaround in front of the garage-despite\nthe way he used to complain about the hour's drive down to Atlanta\nevery morning in all that hellish traffic, the house in Snellville had\nbeen San Simeon compared to . . . this ... At least there were people\nthere! Betty, heavy and overbearing as she was-at least she was\nsomeone to talk to! Brian and Aubrey, only eleven and nine but\nfellow human beings all the same, little souls who at least filled up\nthe void of the night!\n\"Now you've done it! Sometimes you really make me wanna pukel\nYou really do!\" The husband this time.\nPeepgass went to the window, to get closer to humanity, if only as a\nvoyeur. The husband had parked one baby, strapped into its child\nseat, up on top of the roof of the Toyota, and the child was yowling.\nThe husband was wearing a white T-shirt with a shaggy, shapeless,\nmuch- too-big sleeveless sweater and jeans, plus a baseball cap. The\nwife wore jeans, hideously gaudy sneakers, and a black-and-red-\nplaid logger's shirt with the tail hanging out. She was holding the\nother baby, which was also yowling, in another child-safety seat with\na lot of veal-colored straps hanging down.\nPeepgass waited for more dialogue. Humanity! Please, God! Human\nvoices!\nBut the unhappy young couple, fed up with marriage, fed up with\nchildren, fed up with the Normandy Lea, just glowered at one\nanother.Peepgass himself felt not so much fed up with marriage as stripped\nof it, as if he had been snuggled up in a nice warm bed and\nsomeone had snatched all the covers off. That someone was Betty.\nAs soon as she had learned about Sirja, she had thrown him out.\nJust like that! No long, agonizing discussions, no visits to the\nmarriage counselor. Just. . . Out, Bozo! Betty was more Old Boston\nthan he had ever realized; none of your late-twentieth-century\ntherapeutic mewling and puling for Betty Pierce Peepgass of the\nBoston Pierces. Oh no. She was tall, wiry, raw- boned, and tough,\nBetty was, the tennis-playing type. She had been tall, lean, fit,\nhearty, sunny, blond, fair-skinned Betty Pierce when he had met her\ntwenty-one years ago in Cambridge. She was in graduate school\ngetting her Ph. D. in English after four years at Princeton, and he\nwas a U. C. Berkeley boy in the Harvard Business School, and they\nwere engaged before he even got his MBA, and they had married\nsoon thereafter. Betty had intimidated him a little, and her family, the\nPierces, who had a house in Brookline and spent their summers in\nMaine, had intimidated him a lot. Betty had pressured him to get a\njob in the Northeast or, better still, become some sort of\nentrepreneur-she was very strong on this word entrepreneur-even\nthough her own father, John Codd Pierce, was a typical Boston\ncorporate time-server, a real vest- pocket watch-chain club man\n(Porcellian at Harvard, as she often just happened to mention).\nPeepgass's own father had been something close to a genius, a\nthermodynamics physicist at the Ames Research Center near San\nJose; and his, Peepgass's, SAT and GMAT scores for Berkeley and\nthe Harvard Business School had been way up in the ninety-some-\nthing percentile. At the Business School, even back in the late 1970s,\nwhen he was there, only MBAs in the lower half of the class went\ninto banking-and he had been near the top of the class. But back\nthen he, Peepgass, had been about to get married . . . and\neverything . . . and the job offer from PlannersBanc ... or the\nSouthern Planters Bank and Trust Company, as it was then called . .\n. had been so indisputably solid . . . and it was a huge bank, even\nthough it was in Atlanta, Georgia . . . Not a bad place to start out,\nanyway . . .Betty Pierce Peepgass had never really adjusted to Atlanta. She\ndetested Southern Girls with \"their incessant how-yew smiles and\nthroat- slitter sniggers,\" as she put it. She never got used to being\naway from her beloved Boston, where Pierces were Pierces. But she\nwasn't so depressed that she ever started to fade away . . . Oh no . .\n. She never suffered in the Amazon department. She had grown\nsteadily stronger, louder, bossier, and grimmer over the years; not to\nmention prematurely gray, which she refused, in typical Old Boston\nfashion, to do anything about; and more scornful of his\nindecisiveness and his \"umbilical attachment\" (her term) to\nPlannersBanc. He couldn't imagine summoning up the fortitude to\nleave her ... or the bank.\nNevertheless, the great flame of the 1980s, which was known as the\nSexual Revolution, had been lit in Raymond Peepgass-and shit! He\nrealized, as he stood here at the window of his little flat in\nNormandy- Lea, listening to the overhead hum of Highway 75,\nstaring out at the nighttime asphalt, inwardly crying, \"Hello, out\nthere! Any fellow humans?\"-he realized that the damnable Charlie\nCroker even had a hand, without ever knowing it, in lighting the\nholocaust of 1980s Sex in him. But he shut that out of his mind,\nrefused to think about it. The Ice Queen and her Art Geishas, Jenny\nand Amy Phipps-Phelps ... He was damned if he was going to let\nhimself dwell on all that again . . . but Sirja-there was no way in\nGod's world he could help but think about Sirja . . .\nTwo years ago he had begun traveling to Helsinki, Finland, to\nmonitor a $4.1 billion loan package PlannersBanc had put together\nfor the purchase of Finnish government bonds. Helsinki had to be\nthe dullest capital in Europe, even worse than Bonn, but Miss Sirja\nTiramaki was 105 pounds of joy. He had literally bumped into her,\nshank to flank, Sirja with her smiling face, her super full and bouncy\npale blond hair, her big brilliant blue eyes, her tenderly curved little\nneck, and the swollen suggestion of her surprisingly big bosom, in\nan aisle of the first-class cabin of a Finnair flight to Helsinki.\nPeepgass was in first class thanks to tens of thousands ofAtlanta/Helsinki frequent-flier miles. Sirja was in first class as a\ntrespasser from Coach in search of a vacant lavatory. Enchanted by\nthe twinkle in her eyes, he didn't want to deflate his first- class\nbearing by telling her about the frequent-flier miles, and so he\ndidn't. She was merely a notions buyer for Ragar, the Finnish\ndepartment store chain, who came to the United States four to six\ntimes a year to scout the American market. But the way she spoke\nEnglish, with her strange, clipped, hippety-hop Arctic Circle accent-it\nwas so exotic-so erotic! Soon they were snuggling in his hotel in\nHelsinki ever\\' time he came to town 011 a PlannersBanc bond\nmission. Raymond Peepgass, senior loan officer, had never known\nsuch joy.\nHis exotic, erotic little flower of Scandinavia had a rather grossly\ninflated notion of his place in the international banking community.\nHe flew first class, stayed in the finest hotel in Helsinki, the Grand\nTatar, took her to the most famous restaurants, and, as a senior\nofficer of the great American banking giant, PlannersBanc, had\nmeetings with the Finance Minister himself. \"Raymond!\"-it was so\nexotic, so erotic, the way she pressed his name with her tongue\nagainst the roof of her mouth. He couldn't bring himself to puncture\nthe lovely bubble of her conception of him as a fabulously wealthy\nAmerican banker. As for the other inevitable question-\"But,\nRaymond, you are married\"-the great banker allowed as how his\nmarriage had been dead for many years, was disintegrating rapidly,\nand would need merely a push . . .\nThe great banker assumed that his little Finnish bundle was in it for\nwhat he was in it for, namely, the revolution in the loins. In that\nassumption, as he now realized, he had been even more naive than\nshe. One day, after months of international snuggling and bundling,\nthe no- longer-smiling little Sirja informed him that she was\npregnant. No problem, he said; in America abortions were quick,\nlegal, inexpensive, and absolutely safe: outpatient stuff. You don't\nunderstand, Raymond, said Sirja. I am Roman Catholic. I will have\nmy child, and you will be its father. His response, as he had to admiton a long and gloomy reflection, was pure Raymond Peepgass. He\nwas petrified. He tried to avoid her; and when he couldn't, he tried\nto double-talk her. Here at the office he took about one of every\nforty calls she made and kept telling her he had to think things\nthrough. This was not a smart strategy. She turned up at his office\none day, visibly pregnant, and announced that she had resigned\nfrom Ragar and was moving to the United States so that her son-she\nhad had a sonogram-would be an American citizen like his father,\nwho would be providing full support, either voluntarily or . . .\notherwise. She had already hired a lawyer. In a state of shock\nPeepgass, in true Peepgass fashion, had done nothing but dither\nabout and beg for time, while she got a paternity suit going.\nWhat with the telephone calls and certified letters, Betty Pierce\nPeepgass got wind of it, pried the whole story out of him-and then\nthrew him out of the house. He had been lucky to find what he was\nnow standing in: a $625-a-month apartment in Collier Hills, which,\nby mi- cromanaging the definition, you could call Buckhead, as in\n\"Where do you live?\" Answer: \"Oh, up in Buckhead.\" Sirja was\ncurrently living not in Finland but in an apartment in some old\nwoman's house in Decatur, over in DeKalb County. She had given\nbirth to her son at the Emory University Hospital, to make him a\ncitizen not only of the United States but of the state of Georgia, and\nhad named him Pietari Paivarinta Peepgass, after some revered\nFinnish writer or other, and was demanding $15,000 a month in child\nsupport. Was she kidding? Was this some kind of morbid joke?\nCouldn't she get it through her head that his gross pay was only\n$10,833 per month? Didn't she have a calculator? Couldn't she\ndivide 12 into $130,000?\nHis counteroffer was $300 a month . . . and he couldn't afford that!\nWhat with this miserable hovel in Collier Hills to pay for, plus the\nhouse and household in Snellville, plus Brian's and Aubrey's\northodontic makeovers and many and varied extracurricular\nactivities, plus Betty's interminable chronic-sinus treatments and God\nknew what else, plus the legal fees, which were eating him alive, hisyearly nut was now more than his gross salary! Squalid, all too\nsqualid, the whole thing . . . Master Pietari Paivarinta Peepgass was\nout there somewhere in DeKalb County, eating, gurgling, eating,\ngoo-gooing, eating, growing, eating, growing . . . growing . . .\ngrowing . . . and crying for more . . . She would feed him well, the\nFinnish femme natale would ... That little bugger, Pietari Paivarinta\nPeepgass, that little bundle of ludicrous Scandinavian alliteration,\nthat budding little butter-bottomed Georgia boy, was her meal ticket\n. . . and he was eating and growing, someday to rise up on his two\nhind legs-\n\"real smart, pus brain! you're just gonna let your son slide off the\nroof of a worthless beat-up 1986 toyota and crack his skull on the\nasphalt, all because you're too much of a dick- head to load a car\nand look after your own flesh and blood at the same time!\"\nThe wife again ... It was gross and horrible-but a human voice!\nOh, how desperately he wanted the husband to answer. Anything.\nAnything at all. Any human voice would do. Hello out there . . .\nconrad hensley's affliction, unemployment, cast a shadow upon\neverything around him, and nothing around him at this moment had\never been much to start with. The chair he sat in, a $9.95 folding\naluminum chair from the Price Club, had a plaid nylon webbing that\nwas already beginning to fray. The rug beneath him, from Pier One\nImports, was made of sisal, and left waffle designs on the children's\nfeet when they walked across it barefoot. The coffee table was made\nof a flush door from the Home Depot, with dowels screwed on for\nlegs, and had a depressed crack in the middle where Carl, his five-\nyear-old son, had bludgeoned it this morning with a foot-and-a-half-\nlong plastic figure of Cyber Rex, the robot dinosaur.\nA stab of self-loathing. He, Conrad, didn't look any better himself. His\nT-shirt was worn-out, as well as being too skimpy and too tight\nthanks to the way his shoulders, his chest, and his back had\nthickened up during his six months as a beast of burden in theSuicidal Freezer Unit. His jeans were too tight in the thighs for the\nsame reason and had a tear in one knee. His feet were bare except\nfor a pair of zori with Styrofoam soles and rubber thongs . . . No!\nwas pouring into his heart ... at the very time when he should be\nconcentrating on the manual he held in his hands, his huge freezer\nunit hands (he stared at his massive fingers with wonder and\nadmiration), a paperback entitled SympaTechnics: The Omni-Brand\nWord-Processing Home Tutor.\nHis latest spark of hope-so many had already died-was the notion of\nsigning on with ContempoTime, an Oakland agency that was always\nrunning word processors wanted ads in the Oakland Tribune and the\nWalnut Creek Observer. \"Word Processors\" referred to people, not\nthe machines, to the clerical help who operated word processors.\nContempoTime hired them out as \"office temps\" for companies in\nthe East Bay. He couldn't even begin to buy a PC or any other form\nof word processor, but he had always been good at using computers\nwhen he was at Mount Diablo. His gaze kept returning to his\nmiserable cracked table and his miserable torn jeans, which taunted\nhim, saying, \"You miserable failure! You jobless statistic! You\npathetic excuse for a father!\"\nThe truth was, how could anyone, or anything, look good in this\nplace? They were living in a duet, a form of cheap housing Conrad\nhad never heard of before he and Jill moved in a year ago. Duets\ndidn't seem to exist outside the East Bay, but here in Pittsburg, thirty\nmiles east of Oakland, everybody knew about duets. They had been\nbuilt fifty years ago, after the Second World War, and now they were\nfalling to pieces. Duets were rows of small one-story houses about\ntwelve feet apart, with patchy little strips of yard between them. In\neach house a wall ran right down the middle, the long way, dividing\nit into two narrow apartments. The apartment on this side of the\nwall was the flip-flop of the one on the other; and there you had\nyour duet. In the kitchen on your side you could hear bacon frying\non the stove next door. This was the dump he had worked like a dog\nin the freezer unit at Croker Global to escape from, and now the$4,700 he had saved up was melting away, and they were still stuck\nin it.\nAll at once: \"Leela sluhhhhh! Leela sluhhhhh!\"\nHe could hear it through the wall. He had been hearing it steadily for\ntwo days. By now it was a refrain. Leela sluhhhhh. He couldn't\nimagine what the woman was actually saying. She was Asian,\njudging by her voice and the voices that sometimes tried to answer\nher. In the two days since the family moved in, Conrad had never\nlaid eyes on any of them, and there seemed to be an absolute mob\nin there, too. Asians-Cambodians, Laotians, Thais, Vietnamese,\nKoreans, Sikhs- were moving in all over the duets. Eight or ten\nwould pile into a single tiny apartment.\n\"Leela sluhhhhhhhh!\"\nThis time it was a regular scream, followed by a high-pitched\nrejoinder from a girl: \"You don'-\" He couldn't make out the rest of it,\njust the You don'.\nThen came a terrific crash, as if a heavy piece of furniture had fallen\nover. Conrad jumped up. What were they doing to each other? More\ncommotion, more yelling. The action seemed to be moving into the\nkitchen. He went into the kitchen on his side of the duet wall.\n\"Leela sluhhhhh!\"\n'Tou don'-\"\nA tremendous slam. Now the two combatants, the woman and the\ngirl, seemed to be heading from the kitchen into the garage, which\nprobably meant they were leaving the apartment. Most tenants\ncame and went through the garages, which opened directly onto the\nstreet. To Conrad's sense of alarm was now added an overwhelming\ncuriosity. He went through the screen door from his kitchen into his\nhalf of the little twin garages.The garage's roll-up door was opened wide upon one of those\ndazzling, cloudless, sky-blue days that follow one another in such an\nendless procession in the Bay Area in the spring. Yawning at him\nfrom across the street were the mouths of more duet garages,\nrevealing every sort of hopeless, pathetic piece of rubbish\nimaginable. The tenants parked their cars on the street and used the\ngarages as attics ... or as God knew what. Straight across from his\nhalf-garage was the half-garage of an Okie named Boo Tuttle. Down\nthe concrete slope in front of the garage ran a tongue of black\nsludge. Boo Tuttle himself, Conrad now realized, was underneath an\nIsuzu pickup parked in the garage. In the recesses of the garage he\ncould make out the inevitable drum of oil. Boo Tuttle did cut-rate oil\nchanges and lubrications. Conrad had used him himself. . . but that\ndidn't improve the view any. Three duets away were the Sikhs. He\ncould see half a dozen of them right now, sitting in who knows what\nkind of chairs, using the garage as a veranda. The men were\nwearing turbans and beards and the sort of Indian jodhpur-style\npants that were full in the thighs and tight in the lower leg. Conrad\nhad to hand it to the Sikhs. They kept nothing in the garage except\nthe chairs.\nHere they came-the woman and the girl. He could hear them as\nclearly as you please. They were going at it on the other side of the\ngarage wall.\n'Tou don' keh,\" the girl was saying.\n\"Boolashih,\" said the woman. \"I keh you dress like you a sluhhh!\"\n'Tou don' keh nothin' a-\"\n\"I you mother, an' I care you hair\"-it came out keh you heh-\"\\ook\nlike a nest a rat!\"\n'Tou don' keh nothin' 'bout my se'f-esteem!\"\n\"I don' keh nothin' 'bout you se'f-esteem? You don' keh nothin' 'bout\nyou se'f-esteem! You look like a sluh, like a bim-bim!\"\"A bim-bim?\" The girl gave a little snort. \"What's a bim-bim? You\ndon' even know what you say.\"\n\"Shuh up! You don' give me you smah mouth, leela sluhhhhh!\"\nAnd now they stepped out of the garage, the pair of them, stopping\non the concrete apron and glaring at one another, two furious little\nfigures lit up by the sun. Conrad was no more than seven or eight\nfeet away, in the shadows of his garage. The woman, who wore a\nlong, tight skirt wrapped in the Laotian style, was a stumpy creature\nwith a face that looked as if it had been crushed top to bottom. The\ngirl appeared at first to be much taller. She was seventeen or\neighteen, slim, delicate, with black hair swept up into an incredible\nbeehive on top of her head. She wore lurid purplish eye makeup, big\nhoop-style gold earrings, a black T-shirt, jeans cut off almost to the\nhips so that they revealed the entire length of her legs, which\nteetered atop a pair of black open-back sandal-style shoes with\nprecipitously high, thick heels. Conrad was all eyes. Not that there\nwas anything unusual about the getup itself. She was dressed like\nhalf the girls he had gone to school with just a few years before at\nGalileo High School in San Francisco. The girls referred to it without\na trace of irony as the Hooker Look-and in that moment it occurred\nto him: \"leela sluhhh\" meant little slut. But this girl's Midnight Disco\neyes were Asian and so exotic, and her legs were so young and slim-\n-\nSuddenly the girl's head turned, and she was staring straight at\nConrad. Then the mother turned and saw him. There wasn't time for\nhim to pretend he was doing anything other than what he was,\nwhich was standing there listening. The mother narrowed her eyes\nand gave him a poisonous stare. The daughter lowered her head, as\nif from modesty, but then turned her eyes up toward him. How big\nand white they were!-there in the shadows beneath the overhang of\nher false eyelashes. She looked him up and down and gave him the\nmost suggestive smile he had ever seen on a girl's lips. He turned\naway in embarrassment. Yet he couldn't resist stealing another look\nas mother and daughter headed off toward an old Ford Escortparked at the curb. And he knew she knew he would look again . . .\nfrom the way her hips went this way and that way as she clicked\nalong on her ridiculous shoes . . . and the way she extended her\nbare right leg as she slid into the front seat . . . She gave him an\neyeful of her leg all the way up to the hollow over the hip joint.\nBack inside the duet, he couldn't return to his manual and his sober\nthoughts of employment. He felt disturbed and aroused. He paced\nfrom the living room into the kitchen and then back into the living\nroom. Then he went into the bathroom and looked at himself in the\nmirror over the sink. He wanted to see himself as she had seen him,\nthe leela sluh ... He studied his lean face, his dark eyes, his\nmustache . . . Not bad at all! ... He liked the way the T-shirt\nstretched across his chest and his shoulders, which were highly\ndefined ... He pulled the T-shirt out of his pants and slid it up over\nhis ribs so as to bare his midsection, and he tensed his abdominal\nmuscles until they popped out like a six- pack. He was . . . cut,\nripped, as the bodybuilders liked to put it, from wrestling with all\nthose tons of frozen product at Croker Global . . . Then he lifted his\nforearms and hands and made two fists ... His forearms were\npositively gorged with muscle, and for a brief moment he admired\nhimself enormously. He could have been an athlete- He could have\nfinished college by now-at Berkeley- He might have met all sorts of\npeople-girls- A familiar stirring took over his loins. He was only\ntwenty-three! Still in the season of the rising sap!-and what an\nanachronism he was!\nThat very word, anachronism, one of Mr. Wildrotsky's favorites,\npopped into his head. Conrad had been a virgin when he met Jill,\nand she had been a virgin, and he had gotten her pregnant, and\nthen he had married her, and he had never even fooled around with\nanother woman. In this day and age who would even believe it? He\ncould hardly believe it himself. He had the same feelings, the same\nstirrings, as any other young man, and in fact he had those stirrings\nat this very moment. If the leela sluh were to walk in here, alone,\nright now, batting those big eyes at him, he would be sorely temptedto go with the flow, and he knew that. But why had go with the flow\npopped into his head? Why one of the favorite expressions of his\ndad, that past master of euphemisms and other ways of hiding from\nyourself what you were really doing? His mom was good at that, too,\nalthough not nearly so expert as his dad. When his dad decamped\nfrom the University of Wisconsin in his junior year and went off to\nSan Francisco, he didn't say he had dashed the hopes and broken\nthe hearts of his parents, who had made great sacrifices to send him\nto the university. He characterized it as \"moving off of dead center.\"\nWhen he and Conrad's mom-to-be started living together in a fly-by-\nnight commune on Haight Street, they didn't call themselves hippies.\nThat was a word they detested and resented. They referred to\nthemselves as Beautiful People, a term they used in the singular\nalso, as in: \"Shag? Shag's Beautiful People, man.\" The fact that his\ndad had never held a job in his life, other than a temporary one as\nnight desk clerk at the Sailors' Home, didn't mean he was lazy and\nshiftless. No, it meant he was avoiding that \"bummer\" known as \"the\nwhole bourgeois trip.\" Conrad, like most little boys, had tried to work\nout in his own mind that somehow his father was an admirable\nperson. His father did seem to be a big hit among other Beautiful\nPeople. When he told his marvelous yarns, they absolutely dissolved\nwith laughter, to Conrad's delight. His dad was a high-spirited, good-\nlooking man, handsome the way a storybook pirate is handsome,\nand he had a certain foolish daring. When high, he wasn't afraid of\nsassing figures of authority: policemen, bureaucrats (at the Welfare\nOffice), restaurant managers, and the like. Out of such elements\nConrad tried to construct a picture of a man who might be a bit lazy\nand disorganized but who was an adventurer, a freebooter, a free\nspirit, a buccaneer-with his mustache, his beard, his ponytail, his\nsingle gold earring, and his wild eyes, he really did look like a pirate-\nwho was ready to take on the world. Alas, the picture never held\ntogether very long. One night, during a dispute over money, their\nhashish connection- connection, since they never used the word\ndealer-slapped his mom across the face, and his dad didn't even lift\na finger. Conrad could never forget that.His mom was a very pretty, sweet, sentimental, but terribly lax soul\nwho would smother him with affection one moment and neglect the\nmost elementary duties the next. He always remembered sitting with\nhis fourth-grade teacher in a tiny school office for thirty minutes . . .\nwhile his mom forgot to show up for the conference. The teacher,\nbelieving Conrad showed unusual musical aptitude, had hoped to\nencourage her to provide him with piano lessons. Home was a mess.\nDishes piled up in the sink until the top ones began to slide off onto\nthe floor. They actually slid off and crashed. Another thing Conrad\nalways remembered was the time a dirt)', used Band-Aid, mashed by\nfootsteps, had lain on a door saddle for a month. He was seven\nwhen he first asked his mom and dad when and where they got\nmarried. He wanted to hear about the wedding. They gave him\nfoolish grins and vague, conflicting answers. Soon enough he\nstopped asking, because even a child could figure out the truth. By\nand by he came to realize that the imprecation \"bourgeois\" was\nsupposed to explain all such matters. Only bourgeois people got\n\"hung up\" on things like marriage, school, appointments, tidy\nhomes, and hygiene. He was not even eleven when he first began to\nentertain the subversive notion that \"bourgeois\" might in fact be\nsomething he just might want to become when he grew up. By the\ntime Conrad was twelve, his dad had given up heavy drugs in favor\nof being pretty much an ordinary North Beach drunk who also\nsmoked pot. He would disappear for days at a time, and his mom\nwould accuse him of staying with a girlfriend. Then came dreadful\nmornings when Conrad would find some strange man or other in the\napartment, some specimen of Beautiful People who had obviously\nspent the night with his mom. The worst morning of all, however,\ncame one day when he got up to go to school and found his mom\nand dad asleep in bed-bed being a mattress on the floor and a\nblanket-no sheets-with another man and a woman he had never laid\neyes on before, all four of them naked. He was never able to forget\nthe flaccid areolae of the two women. He felt worse than wounded\nand betrayed; he felt shamed and dishonored. His father had\nawakened while he was standing there and had put a sickly grin on\nhis face and said, \"Well, Conrad, sometimes you just gotta go withthe flow.\" It didn't take a genius to figure out that this phrase, go\nwith the flow, was supposed to put a mystical aura around being a\nweak sloven and giving in to your lowest animal appetites. His dad\nsaid \"go with the flow\" a lot. Forever after, when Conrad heard\npeople speak blithely of the \"sexual revolution,\" it made him despair\nabout how little supposedly intelligent people understood concerning\nthe world around them.\nIn high school, at Galileo, he had few friends and almost no social\nlife. He was ashamed and, in fact, afraid to bring anyone home.\nWhat on earth would they make of the squalid hole he lived in?\nWhat would they make of the unmistakable sweetish but rotten odor\nof marijuana that clung to the place? Above all, what would they\nmake of his parents, these two aging, rumpled, irresponsible, ruined\nBeautiful People? When he was fifteen, his father left for good, and\nConrad moved to Berkeley with his mom, who now decided she was\na radical feminist. They lived in a commune in the Berkeley Flats\nwith five California Granola women, as Conrad thought of them. One\nthing he never would forget was the way big gruff women kept\nmarching through the living room in logging boots. After high school\nhe left home, enrolled in Mount Diablo Community College in nearby\nContra Costa County, and managed to squeeze by on odd jobs. It\nwas in his second and last year at Mount Diablo, in Mr. Wildrotsky's\nclass, that he first learned what \"bourgeois\" meant in its full\nhistorical context. Mr. Wildrotsky, a contemporary of his mom and\ndad, was sardonic about the concept, but that didn't diminish it for a\nmoment in Conrad's eyes. To live the bourgeois life was to be\nobsessed with order, moral rectitude, courtesy, cooperation,\neducation, financial success, comfort, respectability, pride in one's\noffspring, and, above all, domestic tranquillity. To Conrad it sounded\nlike heaven. Even Mr. Wildrotsky was bourgeois enough to take him\naside and urge him to fulfill his promise as a student by applying to\nBerkeley, the crown jewel of the California university system, and\ngetting a bachelor's degree. He had caught Mr. Wildrotsky's attention\none day in class when Mr. Wildrotsky had brought up the subject of-\nironically, looking back on it, since he hadn't yet moved there-thenearby town of Pittsburg. It seemed that Pittsburg had been\nfounded before the Civil War by land speculators who figured the\nlocation, where the Sacramento River emptied into East Bay, would\nbe perfect for a great new Western city, which they laid out on paper\nand called New York West. But after a decade New York West\nconsisted of two stores and a dozen houses. So when a huge coal\ndeposit was discovered nearby, the name was changed to Black\nDiamond. But the ore proved to be low-grade, and in 1912, after U.\nS. Steel built a steel mill on the bay, the name was changed to\nPittsburg, without the h. But it had never become the Pittsburgh of\nthe West, either, said Mr. Wildrotsky, and now here we were, near\nthe end of the twentieth century, and perhaps it was time to change\nthe name again. Any suggestions? His heart thumping over his\ntemerity, Conrad had raised his hand and said, \"How about 7-\nEleven?\" 7-Eleven? Yes, said Conrad. He had driven through that\nwhole area, from Vine Hill, where he lived, on east to Pittsburg and\nbeyond, and it was now one vast goulash of condominiums and\nother new, cheap housing. The only way you could tell you were\nleaving one community and entering another was when the\nfranchises started repeating and you spotted another 7-Eleven,\nanother Wendy's, another Costco, another Home Depot. The new\nlandmarks were not office towers or monuments or city halls or\nlibraries or museums but 7-Eleven stores. In giving directions,\npeople would say, \"You take the service road down past the 7-\nEleven, and then . . .\" Mr. Wildrotsky loved it. It was right up his\nalley. 7-Eleven! He devoted an entire two weeks of the class to the\nstudy of this new urban phenomenon, 7-Eleven Land. Never before\nor since had Conrad ever felt so important.\nAs he stood there in a wretched little duet bathroom in Pittsburg,\nlooking at himself in the mirror, he remembered the way Mr.\nWildrotsky had finally done everything but get down on his knees\nand beg him to apply to Berkeley. But by this time he was married,\nwith a son, and another child was on the way-and all over again, as\nhe surveyed his fabulous cut, ripped, six-pack build in the mirror, he\nached over What Might Have Been.Just then he heard the Hyundai drive up and stop outside. The\nengine had a rattling sound you couldn t miss. Little feet were\nrunning on the hard ground of the strip of yard beside the duet. He\nleft the bathroom and went out into the living room.\nJill's voice: \"Carl! You come back here! Right now! Don't you run\naway from me! You come back here right now and apologize to your\nsister!\"\nMore running, plus the sound of a child crying and gasping for\nbreath at the same time.\n\"Carl! Come here!\"\nThe door to the living room burst open, and here came Carl, five\nyears old and furious. He was a beautiful little boy, blond and fair\nlike his mother. His hair came down over his forehead in thick\nstraight bangs, but his face was now red and contorted, and his eyes\nwere full of tears.\n\"Hey, Mr. C.!\" said Conrad, smiling. \"What's the matter?\"\nThe smile only infuriated the boy more, and he began throwing\npunches that hit his father on the thighs. Conrad sank down onto his\nhaunches and put his palms up in front of him to catch the punches,\nand Carl began punching him on the arms.\n\"Come on, me boy,\" said Conrad, \"tell me what's the matter.\"\n\"Mommy's what's the matter. Mommy hates me. All she cares about\nis her little bay-bee.\"\n\"That's not true, Carl. Mommy loves you.\"\n\"Yeah . . . right\\\" said the boy, and he started punching his father's\narms again.\nConrad was startled. Yeah . . . right. It was the first time he had\never heard his son use sarcasm. Was that normal? Were five-year-\nolds sarcastic? Or was that something he had picked up from livingin a run-down duet development in Pittsburg, California? He\nhesitated to imagine what he would pick up next. Whatever it was,\nsarcasm would be the least of it.\n\"Carl! Did you hear me!\" Jill was now standing in the doorway,\nglowering at the two of them.\nJill always looked about sixteen instead of twenty-three. She wore\nher blond hair parted in the middle and flowing down her back, in\nwhat was known locally as the Surfer Look; but now two long\nstrands, matted with sweat, hung down over her right eye. Her\nsweet babyish face had two lines that ran from the middle of her\nforehead down between her eyebrows and almost to her nose. She\nwas red with heat and fury and too much makeup around the eyes\nand on the cheeks. She wore a man's-style blue-and-white-striped\nshirt with three buttons undone down the front and a pair of jeans\nthat squeezed her hips and the declivity of her lower abdomen\nwithin an inch of her life-and it occurred to Conrad, sadly, as he\nlooked at her, how hard it must be to try to keep on being a\nCalifornia Girl when you were a mother with two small children. Still\ndown on his haunches, he smiled up at her with warmth and\nsympathy.\nThat was a big mistake. Jill looked as angry as he had ever seen her.\n\"That's right!\" she said. \"Turn it into a little game! Play pattycake\nwith him! For goodness' sake don't ever be firm with him!\nNoooooooo! Leave that to me\\ Let me be the disciplinarian in the\nfamily! Let me be the heavy!\"\n\"Wait a second-\"\n\"It isn't funny! Carl just hit Christ)' as hard as he could, right in the\nstomach.\"\n\"Well-how was / supposed to know?\"\n\"You're not deaf! You heard me yelling at him! You knew he was\ndisobeying me. So whatta you do? You get down on the floor andplay with him.\"\nConrad was speechless. He could feel his face reddening. In a way\nthat he couldn't yet sort out logically, he was being terribly\nhumiliated. For what? He stood up, and as he did so, Carl ran down\nthe little hall toward the bedrooms.\n\"For God's sake, Jill,\" said Conrad, \"let's all calm down.\"\n\"All . . . calm . . . down? Thank you very much! I lost my temper-\nthat's all that's happened? That's what you're telling me? Your son,\nwho's a year older than Christy and twice as big and twice as strong,\nyour son just hit your daughter in the stomach with all his might and\ndisobeyed me, and you don't want to do anything about it? You just\nwant everybody to be quiet? Is that what you're telling me?\"\nThe victim of the assault, Christy, came walking through the door\nbehind her mother, all eyes and ears. Far from appearing done in,\nshe had the solemn, confident look of a little girl who has just won a\nbig round in the sibling rivalry game.\nIn the doorway behind Christy, bringing up the rear, appeared\nanother figure. It was Jill's mother, a plump, round-faced woman in\nher late forties wearing a pair of flowered culottes and a white polo\nshirt.\n\"Hello, Conrad,\" she said with a certain smile. It was the weary,\ntolerant smile of Patience on a monument, smiling at Grief.\n\"Oh, hi,\" said Conrad.\nHe knew he should call her by name, but he couldn't bring himself to\ndo it. Her name was Arda Ella Otey, and she had indicated he should\ncall her Delia, which had been her nickname since childhood. He\nwould have preferred \"Mrs. Otey,\" but that would have sounded\ndistant. At the same time he couldn't bring himself to call her\nanything so familiar as Delia. As to why, he couldn't have said in so\nmany words, but it boiled down to this: Mrs. Otey had never forgiven\nhim for being the Low Rent boy who had gotten her daughterpregnant and then married her. He was the son of a \"hippie slob and\nGod knows what for a father\"-a verbatim quote Jill had passed along\nto him in the early rapturous Us Against the World phase of Being in\nLove-whereas Jill was the daughter of Dr. Arnold Otey, the eminent\ngastroenterologist. The eminent gastroenterologist had left Mrs.\nOtey for his twenty-four- year-old receptionist. This was back in\nRosemont, Pennsylvania, a high- toned town, apparently, outside\nPhiladelphia, when Jill was fifteen. Doing her best to cope, Mrs. Otey\nhad become intoxicated by a faddish notion spread by books,\nwomen's magazines, and television shows: namely, that such a\ndivorce was not a defeat but a rebirth, an exit ramp from the Rut, a\nchance for a new and wonderful life. Suddenly, with Jill in tow, Mrs.\nOtey had moved to California, to the East Bay, to the brown hills of\nWalnut Creek, fifteen miles east of Oakland. Reborn! - free of the\nogre Arnold Otev!-until one day she woke up to the fact that she\nwas now an obscure woman in her forties, in a strange place, on her\nown, hunched over a word processor in the circulation department\nof The Harvester, a Contra Costa County shopping newspaper. At this\npoint she began to work into any and all conversations the\ninformation that she was, in fact, the former wife of the eminent\nPhiladelphia Main Line gastroenterologist Dr. Arnold Otey. In due\ncourse Jill had enrolled at Mount Diablo Community College and met\na boy as lonely, shy, uprooted, and good-looking as she was. His\nname was Conrad Hens- ley. When the two of them got married at\nthe age of eighteen, Dr. Otey's ex-wife was appalled.\nA pattern had developed. WTienever Jill went to visit her mother, she\nreturned to the duet with a large earful of the shortcomings of\nConrad Hensley, which oozed out in conversation over the next few\nhours, however unconsciously. How long did he intend to work as a\nmanual laborer in a warehouse freezer? There had been many\nvariations on that lament. And, of course, now that he had no job at\nall, not even one as a product bumper at Croker Global, the range\nwas unlimited.Conrad looked at Mrs. Otey's patient, pitying smile and decided to\nsmile back, just to promote peace.\n\"go ahead, make my lay!\"\nLay? It was a boisterous teenage voice. All four of them, Conrad, Jill,\nher mother, and Christ)', were startled for the microsecond it took\nthe burst of robot laughter to kick in, whereupon they realized it was\ntelevision. The minor villain, Carl, had slipped away during the attack\non the major villain, Conrad, and turned on the set in Conrad and\nJill's bedroom.\nJill glared at Conrad and lifted her palms upward, as if to say, \"Don't\nyou even have what it takes to keep him from turning on the TV set\nin the middle of the morning?\"\nBeaten in a way he didn't yet understand, Conrad hurried into the\nbedroom. Carl was reclining belly-down on the bed, propped up on\nhis elbows, the toes of his sneakers drumming up and down on the\nbedspread, watching television. On the screen three girls dressed as\nhigh- school cheerleaders were confronting a grossly fat teenage\nmale clad in a pair of Speedo racing swim trunks, a pair of\nwraparound dark glasses, and a frizzy apricot-red woman's wig. Over\nthe nipples of his bare fatty chest he sported two tasseled striptease\npasties. With exaggerated huffing and puffing he was trying to curl a\nbig silver dumbbell upward with his right arm.\nOne of the cheerleaders said, \"Whattaya think it is, Kimberly?\"\n\"I don't know,\" said the second one. 'Tou suppose there's such a\nthing as an alien transvestite?\"\nAnother great burst of unseen robot laughter. Conrad walked over\nand pressed the Off button.\n\"No!\" shrieked Carl. He burst into tears all over again and began\nkicking the bed with his sneakers for all he was worth.\"Come on, Carl,\" said Conrad, trying to put a sharp tone in his voice\nfor the benefit of his accusers in the living room. \"You know better\nthan that! We don't watch junk TV in the middle of the morning!\"\n\"Who says so!\" A real outburst.\n\"I say so.\"\n\"Who cares?\" This piece of impudence was muffled, because Carl\nhad buried his face in the bedspread. Conrad wondered if Jill and her\nmother could hear it. They probably could. He felt compelled to\npress on as the stern father.\n\"What did you say?\"\nSoftly, tearfully, deeply muffled: \"You heard me.\" It was a decidedly\nhalfhearted form of defiance-but what would they think?\nSo he said, \"That's right, I heard you, and I didn't like what I heard,\nCarl. I don't like smart talk.\" Smart talk came off as a pretty weak\nreprimand, and so he added, \"And I'm not gonna have it. You\nunderstand?\"\nEven more softly, even more halfheartedly, sunk even deeper in the\nbedspread: \"Shut up.\"\nShut up? Conrad felt helpless. To what level of anger was he\nsupposed to ascend now?\nSuddenly Jill was in the room, her face full of fury and\nrighteousness. She ignored Conrad, grabbed Carl by his upper arm,\nrolled him over on his back, shook her forefinger in his face, and\nyelled:\n\"All right! That's it! You hit your sister, you disobeyed me, you don't\nlisten to your father-now you're gonna get punished!\"\nIt was a real screech. Conrad prayed, hopelessly, that the Laotians\nnext door couldn't hear it.\"Get up!\" shrieked Jill. She gave the boy's arm a jerk. He went limp.\nSo she dragged him off the bed by one arm in a furious series of\njerks. Carl began crying and screaming and grabbed a handful of\nbedspread with his other hand. The bedspread came off the bed\nwith him. Jill had pulled him almost as far as the door of the tiny\nroom, but the child still clung with a terrier's determination to the\nbedspread, which had caught on the metal frame that supported the\nbox springs. His little body was now stretched out like the weak link\nin a chain about to be pulled to pieces by an overwhelming force.\nConrad gasped, \"Jill!\" He didn't know which was more appalling, the\npossibility Carl might get hurt or the vulgarity of the scene. The\nLaotians next door were hearing it all! What was a mere shout of\nLeela sluhhhhh compared to this exhibition?\nHe moved toward Carl with the idea of gathering him up, but in that\nmoment the boy lost his grip on the bedspread and went sliding\nacross the floor toward his mother. She grabbed him by both arms\nand turned toward Conrad with as hateful a look as he had ever\nseen on her face.\n\"Don't you . . . Jill! . . . me!\" she said. \"Somebody's gotta teach him\nhe can't be disrespectful.\"\nCarl struggled to get his breath, then let out a wail, went limp again,\ntried to fall to the floor, and, failing that, started writhing and\nkicking.\nJill screamed, \"Don't you-! Cut that out! You can walk or you can get\ndragged, but you're going to your room! Now march!\"\nStill holding on to his arms, she propelled him, half-stumbling, half-\nsliding, toward the other bedroom, which he and Christy shared. She\nslammed the door shut behind her but there was no problem, inside\nor outside the duet, no doubt, hearing the tirade that followed.\nConrad stood staring pointlessly at the snagged bedspread. His face\nwas burning.From down the hall: \"Do you hear me? Do-you-hear-me?\"\nNot knowing what else to do, he returned to the living room. Mrs.\nOtey sat on the folding chair holding Christ)' in her lap, enclosing her\nprotectively with her arms. From the look on Christy's face it was\nclear that her triumph was now complete. The music of her mother's\nexcoriation of her brother continued to pour down the hall.\nMrs. Otey looked up at Conrad with a certain smile of forbearance\nthat he always found condescending; and never more so than at this\nmoment.\n\"Jill tells me you're applying for a job in Oakland.\" She said it in a\nway-or so it seemed to Conrad-calculated to show that she was only\nmaking conversation to divert attention from the general\nembarrassment over his failure as a disciplinarian.\n\"That's right,\" said Conrad.\n\"Some sort of office job, I think she said?\"\n\"Well-it's an agency called ContempoTime.\" He tried to explain what\nContempoTime did.\nAll at once Mrs. Otey stopped looking at his face and stared at his\nleft hand. \"My goodness. I never noticed that before. Are you able to\nget your ring off?\"\nConrad turned his palm upward and looked at his wedding ring,\nalthough he knew the answer perfectly well.\n\"I've never tried,\" he said.\n\"Conrad, you've got the . . . biggest hands and the ... biggest\nforearms I've ever seen, for someone your size.\"\nMale vanity is such that he took it as a compliment. Now he turned\nup both palms and spread his fingers out, which made his hands\nseem even bigger. For an instant he thought perhaps his four-year-\nold daughter might be impressed, too. He proceeded to explain whata demanding test of strength work in the freezer unit at Croker\nGlobal had been.\n\"Well,\" said Mrs. Otey, \"I just hope-do you have a long-sleeved shirt\nor maybe a jacket with nice long sleeves?\"\n\"Long sleeves?\"\n\"If you're being interviewed for an office job, you might want to\nwear long sleeves and try to keep your hands in your lap. That's all I\nmean.\"\nNow came the scalding realization. Far from being favorably\nimpressed by his pride and joy, his powerful hands and arms, she\nsaw them as the seal of his fate, which was to work with his hands\nforever, at least during the periods when he wasn't part of America's\nchronically unemployed.\nSpeechless, Conrad lowered the offending extremities to his side and\nstared at Mrs. Otey and the little girl in her lap. Christy was still\nlooking at his arms and hands, having just learned that they were\nmonstrous. He had a terrible vision of three generations of Otey\nwomen, Delia, Jill, and Christ)', arrayed against him at this low point\nin his life.\n\"I'll try to remember that.\" He had trouble raising his voice above a\nhiss.\nDown the hall his wife, efficiently shouldering the man's role in\ndisciplining their five-year-old son, had no such problem.\nChapter 8The Lay of the Land\nWell, wes, old boy,\" said roger white under his breath, \"this one\nbetter be good.\"\nSullenly, sulkily, surlily, Roger sank back into the white tweed couch\nin the Mayor's City Hall salon, wondering how much damage his\nsudden exit had done to his relationship with Gerthland Fuller. Fuller\nwas president of the Citizens Mutual Assurance Society, one of the\nlargest insurance companies in the South-which was to say, the\nwhite president of a huge white company-and he was prepared to\npay Wringer Fleasom & Tick $1.4 million to have Roger White II\nhandle the company's conversion from one owned by policyholders\nto one that issued stock and was owned by shareholders. To call him\nRoger's number-one client was putting it mildly; number two didn't\neven qualify for the game. Moreover, the Citizens Mutual account\nproved to one and all at Wringer Fleasom how easily he could clear\nthe race barrier. Gerthland Fuller had been in Roger's office when\nWes called, summoning him to City Hall. Why had he done what he\ndid? Why had he hopped to it, made up some gibbering\n\"emergency\" for Fuller's benefit, and left him there? Now, as he sank\ninto the Wes Jordan white couch and surveyed the Wes Jordan\nebony walls, he was beginning to hate himself for giving in and\nskipping out on Fuller-and Wes for having the power and charisma\nto make him do it.\nTrue, he hadn't had to wait in the reception room with Miss Beasley\nand the big white cop for a second. Gladys Caesar had been\nstanding out there expressly to receive him and usher him straight in\nto the Mayor's suite.\n\"Big deal,\" he said to himself, reflecting upon this evidence of VIP\nstatus.\nIdly he let his eyes wander about the room. On the far wall there\nseemed to be twice as many Yoruban ivory ceremonial swords as\nbefore.\"What's this supposed to be,\" he said, \"a Yoruban war room?\"\nHis lips must have moved as he muttered, because the next thing he\nheard was: \"Say what?\"\nIt was Wes Jordan emerging from his inner sanctum. Big grin. No\njacket. Pizza Grenade necktie. \"Say what?\"\nRoger now realized it was a parody of a street voice. So he started\nto say, \"I was just asking, What's this supposed to-\"\nWes cut him off before he could utter another word. \"Roger, I got\nthings to tell you, things to tell you, things to tell you, things to tell\nyou, things to tell you.\" He pulled up an armchair, sat down, leaned\nforward until his forearms rested on his thighs, and said, \"Do you\nwant to take a guess as to who was sitting on that couch, exactly\nwhere you are right now, not even an hour ago?\"\n\"No, because I have a feeling you're going to tell me anyway.\"\nThe Mayor stared at him and waited a couple of seconds before\nsaying, \"Inman Armholster.\"\nRoger leaned forward himself and said, \"You're-\" He caught himself\nbefore saying \"kidding.\" \"Well, I'll be damned. What'd he have to\nsay?\"\n\"Started to say 'kidding,' didn't you. You've got to steel yourself\nagainst that particular response to life's little surprises. He was\nstartled and upset by the fact that I knew about his daughter's\npredicament.\"\n\"What'd you say to that?\"\n\"I said things just have a way of reaching the Mayor's office. I told\nhim it's a good thing they do, because this situation with his\ndaughter and Fareek Fanon, given his prominence in the corporate\nworld of Atlanta and Fareek's prominence as a sports star-I told him\nthis situation could blow the city apart. I said if we didn't worktogether in a statesmanlike manner, this thing could lead to a race\nriot.\"\n\"Race riot?\" said Roger. 'Tou said 'race riot'?\"\nWes Jordan smiled faintly and said, \"That's exactly what I said. In\nAtlanta I can't think of any two words that panic people more. It's\nthe fear that's always just beneath the surface. The last real race riot\nin Atlanta-started by white people, by the way-was in 1906. It was\nhorrible, and if we had one now it would be a lot worse.\"\n\"So what did Armholster say to that?\"\n\"I don't think he heard 'race riot.' I don't think he heard a thing after\n'statesmanlike.' 'Statesmanlike?' he kept saying. 'Statesmanlike like\nwho? Like Bismarck, like Chou En-lai, like John Foster Dulles, like\nDean Rusk?' \" The Mayor smiled. \"I was surprised he remembered\nChou En- lai and John Foster Dulles. 'I'll be damned if I'll be\nstatesmanlike,' he says. 'My daughter's been raped, and that\nsonofabitch is gonna pay.' I'd say the word that was right below the\nsurface on that one was 'lynch.'\"\n\"He said 'lynch'?\"\n\"No, no, no, I'm just interpreting his mood. He didn't say 'lynch,'\nalthough if that were any longer a practical choice, I'm sure he'd be\nconsidering it. That's how angry he is.\"\nRoger said, \"But when you get right down to it, he really hasn't done\nanything so far. He hasn't gone to the police, he hasn't gone to the\npress, I don't know what he's doing with people at Tech. I hear\nthings, but I don't really know.\"\n\"Have you ever seen Inman Armholster, seen him in action?\"\n\"Mmmmm-no.\"\n\"He's fat,\" said the Mayor. \"He is one fat man. He's fat from top to\nbottom. I'll bet you the soles of his feet are fat. But he's a sort of fatwhite man who exists only in Georgia. All the fat is pure orneriness,\nand he's ready to chew your head off. The fat doesn't slow him\ndown. He feeds off it. No, the only thing holding him back is that he\ndoesn't want his daughter's name to be made public. The press\nnever does identify the girl in a rape case. But this case is different. I\ncan think of rape cases in which the man was as well known as\nFanon, but I can't think of a single one in which the man was as well\nknown as Fanon and the girl was the daughter of anyone as\nprominent as Inman Armholster. The combination of Fareek 'the\nCannon' Fanon and Inman Armholster's daughter might be more of a\ntemptation than the press can resist. That's the way Armholster\nlooks at it.\"\n\"So what did he want from you?\"\n\"Nothing,\" said the Mayor. \"He only came to see me because I asked\nhim to. At the suggestion of my friend Roger White II, although I\ndidn't get into that. Anyway, Armholster is literally and figuratively a\nloudmouth. But he's also ornery and angry, and I don't see him as\nbeing all bluff, by any means. Sooner or later he'll do something. So\nI suggested a way out.\n\"I said to him, 'Why not turn the case over to the student\ngovernment Sexual Harassment Committee, or whatever it's called at\nTech? They'd have a much better chance of ascertaining the facts\nand coming to a decision quietly, without any publicity, than anything\ninvolving the police or the court system.' \"\n\"What did he say to that?\"\n\"He laughed in my face. He says, 'A bunch of students? They'll cave\nin to the Administration or the Athletic Department or some \"activist\"\ngroup or anybody else who puts a little pressure on them.' To tell the\ntruth, he may be right about that.\"\n\"Well, what should I do?\"\"I don't know, other than keep your client out of sight. Or as out of\nsight as an all-American football player with diamonds in his ears\nand a couple of pounds of gold around his neck can be. You're\nsupposed to be very persuasive, Counselor. Can't you get your client\nto take all that junk off his head and his neck?\"\nRoger said, \"I'm afraid Fareek and I aren't-\"\n\"I suppose it would be asking too much to hope he might also grow\nsome hair on his head while he's at it, so he doesn't look like some\npredatory gladiator.\"\n\"Fareek and I aren't on the same page,\" said Roger. \"He thinks of\nme as part of an alien world of suits and ties.\"\n\"I feel the same way,\" said Wes Jordan. 'Tour clothes always make\nme want to get to a mirror and find out what's wrong with mine.\"\n\"Might be a good idea,\" said Roger, looking Wes Jordan up and\ndown. \"Anyway, he feels more at home with Don Pickett.\"\n\"Well then, get Don to do it. But I didn't really bring you over here to\ngive you advice. I just want to warn you of something that's\ninevitable, something that's bound to happen.\"\n\"What's that?\"\nThe Mayor said, \"Roger, this thing is going to spread all over town,\nwith or without the press. Too many people already know about it.\nSo you might as well face facts. This story is . . . coming out. The\nquestion is not . . . Is it coming out? The question is . . . And then\nwhat?\"\n\"Well ... I don't know, Wes. I don't have any clear idea of what\nwould happen then. What do you think?\"\n\"Oh, I don't know exactly,\" said the Mayor, \"but I have a general\nidea.\"\n\"Which is what?\"\"Which is that-let me think of just how to put it . . . Okay, not to\nbelabor the obvious, there are two Atlantas, one black and the other\nwhite, but that only begins to say it.\" The Mayor paused, as if he\nwas having difficult)' putting his thoughts together. 'You see all the\ntowers in Downtown and Midtown-that's all white money, even\nthough the city is 70 percent black, perhaps 75 percent black by\nnow.\" He paused again, and then he said, \"Our brothers and sisters\nin this city are not blind.\" He paused once more, and Roger\nwondered what his descent into the conventional political rhetoric of\nthe times, \"our brothers and sisters,\" signified. It wasn't Wes Jordan.\n\"They see,\" resumed the Mayor-but then he stopped and gave Roger\na searching look. \"It's hard to put it into words.\"\nRoger smiled. \"You? Having a hard time putting it into words? What's\ntoday's date? Jot it down.\"\nThe Mayor finessed the remark and said, \"It's going to be a whole\nlot easier if I show you.\"\n\"Show me7\"\n\"I'd like to take you on a little ride, a little tour.\"\n\"What kind of tour?\" Involuntarily Roger looked at his watch.\n\"It won't take long.\"\n\"Gee, I don't know,\" said Roger. \"I've got some appointments, Wes.\nI had to interrupt a meeting with my biggest client, biggest client\nI've ever had, as a matter of fact, to come here. Please don't get me\nwrong, it's not that-\"\n\"You are wrong,\" said the Mayor. \"You may not know it yet, but\nFareek Fanon is the biggest client you ever had. I'm not just going to\ntake you sightseeing, Roger. I have something very specific to tell\nyou, but I want to put it in the right context. Okay?\"\nWes looked dead serious, and Roger felt powerless to say no, even\nthough his hopes for the value of any \"little tour\" were negligible.\"Well . . . okay,\" he said, \"but I've got to call my secretary first.\"\n\"Go ahead,\" said Wes Jordan. \"I'll ask Gladys to get hold of my\ndriver and have the car ready. You look dubious, Roger ... I promise\nyou, you won't be bored.\"\n\"It's not that-\"\n\"And don't worry about Wringer Fleasom & Tick. They may not\nrealize it yet, either, but this is the biggest case they've got.\"\nSo Roger called up Roberta Huffers, and the Mayor had a talk with\nGladys Caesar, and soon they were heading down a small stairway\nthat led to an underground parking garage. A big chocolate-colored\nman, probably in his early fifties, stood beside a pearl-gray Buick\nsedan. The man was a tank. His shirt-collar size must have been\ntwenty at least. He had a narrow mustache that ran along his upper\nlip. He already had the back door open for them. For a chauffeur, he\nwas dapper; no two ways about it. He was wearing a double-\nbreasted bluish-gray twist-weave suit and a navy necktie. Twist-\nweave! Roger wished he'd thought of that.\n\"Roger,\" said the Mayor, \"this is Dexter Johnson. Dexter, this is my\nold fraternity brother, Counselor Roger White.\"\nThey shook hands; Mr. Dexter Johnson's hands were so big, each\nfinger so gigantic, that somehow Roger's hand got caught up in the\nman's forefinger, middle finger, and thumb. He couldn't get his\nfingers around the entire hand.\nRoger and the Mayor got in the back seat of the Buick, which was\nupholstered in burgundy leather, and Dexter Johnson got behind the\nwheel. He was so massive through the back and shoulders, the front\nseat seemed incapable of containing him.\nThe Mayor said, \"Let's go up to Tuxedo Park, Dexter, but take\nPiedmont instead of Peachtree.\" Then to Roger: \"I want to show you\nInman Armholster's house.\"Roger looked at Wes Jordan and, with a questioning arch of the\neyebrows, motioned his head toward the driver.\n\"Nothing to worry about,\" said the Mayor, \"nothing to worry about at\nall. Besides, anybody might swing by for a look at Inman\nArmholster's house. You know the expression showplace? Inman\nArmholster's house is a showplace.\"\nIn no time they were heading north through the old Black\nDowntown, the onetime center of Black Society, black shopping,\nblack professional life, black restaurants, black nightlife . . .\nEdgewood Avenue, Auburn, Ellis Street, Houston . . . above all,\nAuburn. Back in the day, as the old folks said, the black leader for\nwhom Wesley Dobbs Jordan had been named, John Wesley Dobbs,\nhad dubbed it \"Sweet Auburn.\" Nothing sweet about it now, thought\nRoger. Black Society had pulled out a long time ago in favor of the\nWest End, Cascade Heights, and other neighborhoods to the west.\nAn enormous elevated highway had been built through the heart of\nSweet Auburn. The house where Martin Luther King's parents lived\nwhen he was born was right over there on Auburn, and in the next\nblock was a big memorial to King, the Center for Nonviolent Social\nChange. King's remains reposed in a marble bier out in the middle of\na reflecting pool within the center's walls. Those two blocks were\namong the most popular destinations in the country for tourists . . .\nbut they didn't stick around to spend money in Sweet Auburn.\nThe driver, Dexter, went under the Highway 75 overpass and then\npast the old Atlanta Convention Center, which meant they were\nalready on Piedmont. Then the Mayor said, \"You know what street\nwe just crossed?\"\n\"I didn't notice,\" said Roger.\n\"Ponce de Leon.\"\nThis required no amplification, since practically everybody in Atlanta\nold enough to care about such things knew that Ponce de Leon was\nthe avenue that divided black from white on the east side of town.On the west side it was the Norfolk Southern Railroad tracks. They\nmight as well have painted a double line in the middle of Ponce de\nLeon and made it official, a white line on the north side and a black\nline on the south.\n\"Incidentally,\" said Wes Jordan, \"just to put things in perspective,\nhvo-thirds of the land in Atlanta is now behind us, back there.\" He\nmotioned with his thumb. \"And 70 percent of the population. But to\nthe rest of the world it's invisible. Did you happen to see any of\nthose 'guides to Atlanta' they published for the Olympics? Big, thick\nthings, some of them, regular books, and I couldn't believe it at first.\nIt was as if nothing existed below Ponce de Leon other than City Hall\nand CNN and Martin Luther King memorabilia. The maps-the mapsl-\nwere all bobtailed-cut off at the bottom-so no white tourist would\neven think about wandering down into South Atlanta. They didn't\neven mention Niskey Lake or Cascade Heights.\"\n\"I'm not too sorry about that,\" said Roger.\n\"I'm not, either,\" said Wes, \"but you get the picture, don't you? How\ndo you segregate white tourists from black people in a city that's 70\npercent black? You render the black folks invisible! Okay, now you'll\nnotice we're on Piedmont Avenue, and we're heading uphill. Now,\nwhy do I mention that?\"\nWes had on one of his smiles.\n\"I couldn't begin to tell you,\" said Roger.\n\"Right this moment,\" said Wes, \"we're driving up a paved-over\nfoothill of the southernmost range of the Blue Ridge Mountains. This\nwhole city is in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. That's why\nthere are so many hills in Cascade Heights and, as far as that goes,\nso many neighborhoods named Something Heights or Something\nHills. Atlanta's elevation-Atlanta is up higher than any other large city\nin the country, with the exception of Denver. Most of the rest are at\nsea level. They're ports. Even Chicago's a port. Atlanta's elevation is\na thousand feet. That's the average elevation, the one printed in theatlases. But some people in Atlanta are more elevated than others,\nand you know what they say always flows downhill. You and I live in\nthe best parts of South Atlanta, but don't kid yourself. We still live\ndownhill.\"\nWhen they stopped for a light at Piedmont and Tenth, it dawned on\nRoger that it was just a few blocks up the slope that he had been\nstuck in Freaknic traffic on the Saturday night that great rocking\nhulk, Fareek Fanon, had come, contemptuously, into his life.\nThe Mayor gestured off to the right. \"There's Piedmont Park. But do\nyou know what that is up there on the right, the first building you\ncome to? The one I'm pointing to?\"\nRoger realized that Wes wished to enjoy the minor status thrill of\nendowing the ignorant with knowledge, but this was his, Roger's,\nterritory. So he immediately replied, \"The Piedmont Driving Club.\"\nDisappointed: \"Ah. You already knew that.\"\n\"I didn't tell you about the night I met our boy Fareek?\" He\nproceeded to recount the whole incident, with a special emphasis on\nthe young Kentucky board-chairman-to-be's mooning of the black-tie\nparty of white people up on the terrace.\nThis provoked no reaction from the Mayor, and so Roger turned to\nlook squarely at him. His face seemed to be sagging with\ndisappointment. He was waiting for Roger's lips to stop moving.\n\"Well, I'll tell you something,\" said the Mayor. \"Last year I was\ninvited-all very quietly, you understand-I was invited to join the\nPiedmont Driving Club.\"\n\"You were? So was I!\"\nNow Wes Jordan looked squarely at Roger. He seemed more\ndisappointed than ever.\n\"I'm not convinced that's a good sign,\" said Roger.\"Take my word for it,\" said Wes, \"it's not. And that gets down to a\nproblem I have, which I'll tell you about in a minute.\"\nNow they were driving up the hill past the white fence with the\nstone pillars that led up toward the Driving Club's entrance. Because\nof the hill it was difficult to see the building itself.\n\"I don't want to be in that club,\" said Wes Jordan, \"but I do have my\neyes on someone who is in there.\"\n\"You have your eyes on someone?\"\n\"I'll tell you about that, too. This all has to do with your client. This\nentire excursion of ours has to do with your client. I just want to\ngive you a little background first, the lay of the land, you might say,\nthe lay of the land.\"\nWell, Wes knew his topology, in any event. Roger never had noticed\njust how steep a climb it was from Downtown up Piedmont Avenue\nand up into the North side and Buckhead. Near the top of the\nfoothill, if this really was a Blue Ridge Mountain foothill, Piedmont\nhad been voraciously developed: all concrete and asphalt, not a tree\nin sight.\nBy now they were in the commercial district of Buckhead. A\nconglomeration of shopping malls, hotels, faceted-glass office\nbuildings, showrooms, and restaurants was spread out before them.\nThis was the shopping heart of Atlanta. Downtown and Midtown\nwere all office and hotel towers; shopping scarcely existed. At the\nvery top of the Piedmont Avenue hill was Peachtree Street, where\nthey turned left.\n\"Peachtree's built on top of a ridge,\" said the Mayor. \"That's the\nreason it curves the way it does, all the way into Downtown.\"\n\"I always heard it was built on top of an old Indian trail,\" said Roger.\n\"The two statements are not mutually exclusive,\" said the Mayor. \"I\ndon't know how smart the Indians were, but I bet they were smartenough to walk on top of the ridge and not on the slope.\"\nAt an office tower called Buckhead Plaza they turned right onto West\nPaces Ferry Road, and in two or three blinks they were beneath a\nlush canopy of trees. The branches and leaves arched over the road\nuntil they created an ethereal green tunnel aglow with the sun.\nDown below, in fabulous planes that began only three or four feet\nabove the ground, were the dogwood blossoms, the heavenly white\nones, that had so impressed Roger that Saturday night, the Saturday\nnight of Freaknic, the heavenly Buckhead blossoms through which\nhe had first laid eyes on Buck McNutter's house.\nBango!-they were crossing Habersham Road.\n\"Habersham Road,\" said Roger. \"Buck McNutter lives up there.\" He\nmotioned toward the right. \"That's where I met my . . . star client.\"\n\"You don't believe me yet, do you,\" said the Mayor. Then he\nmotioned ahead. \"The Governor's Mansion.\"\nThe Governor's Mansion was right there, set back from West Paces\nFerry Road, a long, low structure with a great many columns, a sort\nof low-slung Mount Vernon, not particularly grand at first glance.\nMuch more impressive, somehow, was the expanse of brick and\nwrought-iron fencing that ran the length of the huge piece of\nproperty. Soon they were beside a high, blank wall. The wall was so\nhigh and the vegetation so thick, you couldn't begin to see what was\nbehind it. It was almost noon on a sunny day in Georgia, but West\nPaces Ferry Road's glowing green arboreal tunnel kept Buckhead's\nprime residential artery in the softest, gentlest, richest of shades.\nWhere the wall ended, they turned right.\n\"This is Tuxedo Road,\" said Wes Jordan. \"We're entering Tuxedo\nPark. It doesn't get much better than this. Not here, not anywhere.\"\nAgain! The same great swollen green-breasted lawns he had seen\nthe evening he went to McNutter's! And perched atop each one ... a\nmansion, visible through the low-lying clouds of dogwood blossoms.Up above, reaching astonishing heights . . . the trees, with their\ncanopy of green and gold at the top.\n\"I want you to notice something, Roger,\" said Wes Jordan. \"These\ntrees? There's pine up here, but there's also lots of hardwood,\nmaple, oak, locust, sycamore, beech, chestnut-whereas we've got\npractically all pine in South Atlanta, even on that Niskey Lake you're\nso proud of. Hardwood trees need two or three weeks a year in\nwhich they're dormant, and because of Atlanta's elevation we get\njust enough cold weather for that to happen. But up here in\nBuckhead, up this high, it's cooler than it is down in South Atlanta,\nand so they've got more hardwood trees . . . Flows downhill, Roger,\nright into Niskey Lake.\"\nThe road, rf'uxedo, wound along at the base of the big-breasted\nmansions for a while and then made a gentle curve to the east. The\nmansions and the grounds became bigger and bigger, and the\ncanopy of trees became ever more green and golden.\nWes Jordan motioned out the window. \"That's the old Courtney Dan-\nforth place. I forget what it was called, Windmere . . . Wood Thrush\n. . . something like that. That was what having the biggest fortune\nsouth of Delaware got you. Stop here for a second, Dexter.\"\nRoger lowered his head so he could see out the window better.\nThere, on a rise, stood an enormous structure of brick with four\nimmense columns before the front entrance. There were quoins and\ngroins and pilasters. Ten windows ran across the front on the second\nstory; nine windows and a doorway on the ground floor. God knew\nhow many rooms there were. The ever-present dogwood blossoms\nfrolicked across the lawn in the foreground.\n\"Know what they used to call Danforth at the American Chocolate\nCompany?\" asked the Mayor.\n\"No, what?\"\" 'Boss.' 'Boss, may I speak to you for a second?' He loved it. 'Boss.'\nHe had a huge plantation near Thomasville called Throno. If it\nwasn't the biggest plantation in the state of Georgia, then it was\nsecond, and he had about a hundred black folks down there calling\nhim 'Boss.' Music to his ears. An old lawyer, John Fogg-Fogg Nackers\nRendering & Lean?-was telling me about it. He'd been there. The\nblack folks used to sing spirituals for the Boss and his guests after\ndinner.\" The Mayor widened his eyes in a mocking way and broke\ninto song: \" 'Jussssst a closer walk with Theeeeeee . . .' All very\ntouching, as you can imagine. I'm sure there wasn't a dry blue eye\nin the house.\"\n\"You've got a good voice, Wes!\" said Roger.\n\"Don't act so surprised,\" said the Mayor. \"Like you, I'm interested in\nmusic. It's just that our tastes are different. Mahler, Stravinsky-come\non! I'll bet you not even Booker T. dug what those cats were\nblowing. Okay, Dexter, let's head on a little farther.\"\nSo they headed on a little farther, and the Mayor said, \"Let's stop\nabout where that mailbox is.\" Which they did. \"This is what I want\nyou to see.\" Roger looked where he pointed. \"With all that\nvegetation it's hard to make it out at first, but you'll see it.\"\nThere were so many trees, bushes, flowers, and billows of dogwood\nblossoms, it took some doing. But soon Roger got his bearings.\nThere, beneath the glorious green-and-gold canopy of Buckhead,\natop a great fat green knoll, was an Italian Baroque palazzo such as\nyou might see in Venice or Florence. It was a huge thing whose\nstucco faPSade was painted a soft reddish pink. From above, each of\nthe windows projected a high baroque curved cornice, painted\nwhite, that matched the curves and counter-curves of a broken\npediment, also painted white, that reached up into the roofline.\nUnder each window on the second story of the facade was some sort\nof crest in high relief-also painted white.Everywhere you looked there were flamboyant white curves popping\nout from the redclish-pink stucco. At one end of the house was an\nold- fashioned porte cochere with a great barrel-vaulted roof and a\ngreat curved wooden cornice, painted white, and at the other end\nwas a wing with a matching vaulted roof and cornice and grand\nVenetian windows. A white string course ran all the way across the\nfacade and intersected with the truly extravagant curved cornice\nabove the main doorway.\nEngrossed, Roger kept staring at this amazing house, whose curves\ncreated a curious sense of motion, and he said softly, as much to\nhimself as to Wes Jordan, \"Philip Shutze.\"\n\"Who?\" said the Mayor. \"That's Inman Armholster's house.\"\n\"Armholster's?\"\n\"That's it, and there's a huge wing in the back you can't even see\nfrom here. Check out the driveway.\"\nThe driveway was sheer homage to conspicuous consumption. It\nwent up to the crest of the hill, where the house was, in two grand\nand blithely unnecessary curves. It was lined, all the way up, on\nboth sides, with dogwood, boxwood, and beds bursting with blue-\nand-yellow pansies.\n\"According to the tax assessor,\" said the Mayor, \"that's the most\nvaluable single-family house in Atlanta. It's 324 feet across the front.\nThat's longer than a football field. It's got thirty-two rooms, a squash\ncourt and a gymnasium, which I don't think Inman Armholster has\nbeen using very much, a screening room, a library, a sunroom and\nporch, a built- in greenhouse, and nineteen bathrooms. Nineteen.\"\n\"How do you know all that?\" asked Roger.\n\"It's available to one and all down at the assessor's.\"\n\"How many people in the family? I mean, that live here?\"\"Three,\" said the Mayor with his sardonic smile, \"a grand total of\nthree: Armholster, his wife, and their daughter. Thirty-two rooms.\nThis is how Elizabeth Armholster grew up. Incidentally, in the rear\nwing there are eight servants' rooms, a servants' kitchen, and a\n'servants' hall,' whatever that may be. Oh, and somewhere out back\nthere's a swimming pool, a pool house, two tennis courts, and a\npotting shed.\"\n\"And it's a Philip Shutze house,\" said Roger, \"or I'll bet it is.\"\n\"A what?\"\n\"Philip Shutze was the most famous architect, or residential\narchitect, Atlanta ever had, him and his partner, Neel Reid. This\nplace has the classic Shutze look, Italian Baroque it's called, or\nVenetian Baroque. This is the kind of palazzo the Venetian\nmerchants used to build back in the sixteenth century, I guess it\nwas. You know The Merchant of Venice? They were the richest\npeople in the world. All that fabulous art you see in Venice? That's\nthe merchants competing with each other to commission a bigger,\ngrander, more beautiful ceiling mural, or whatever.\"\nThe Mayor looked at Roger quizzically for a few moments, then said,\n\"You really get off on this grayboy art and architecture, don't you?\"\nRoger felt a hot red tide rush into his face. Get off? Grayboy? Why,\nyou bastard! \"You don't have to get off on it to appreciate it, Wes!\nFor Christ's sake, art and architecture aren't black or white, they're\njust art and architecture! I'm surprised at you! From your friend\nAndre Fleet maybe that's what I'd expect, blacker-than-thou and all\nthat old bullshit! But you?\"\nRoger didn't realize how angry he had become until he saw Dexter\nJohnson eyeing him in the rearview mirror to see if by any chance\nthe Mayor of Atlanta was in any imminent danger.\nWes backed off as fast as he could. \"Okay, okay, okay, you're right,\nyou're right. Logic is a hundred percent on your side, but sometimesI don't react logically, which is my fault, I'll grant you. I just feel like\nso- called Western art's got nothing to do with me, much less with\nthe rest of the population of South Atlanta.\"\n\"Oh, so now you're part and parcel of South Atlanta!\nCongratulations! Or is it that Western art doesn't go over with the\nvoters? Is that what you're trying to say?\"\nWes looked at Roger crossly for a moment, then relaxed and said,\n\"Perhaps. Perhaps. But I think it runs deeper than that. Sometimes\nmy friends up here on the north side of town-and we're talking\nabout people with money now-contributors-sometimes they try to\nget me mobilized for some big art exhibition or the opening of the\nsymphony season, or whatever it is, and it just doesn't feel right. It's\ngot absolutely nothing to do with me, all this stuff. That's just the\nway I feel. I'm totally unmoved by any of it, except maybe by the\namount of money they put into it.\"\n\"Are you moved by Yoruban art? You've got enough of it in your\noffice.\"\n\"Well, at least I-aw, hell, Roger, I didn't bring you all the way up\nhere to argue about aesthetics. We're on the same side.\"\n\"I'm not so sure the argument is about aesthetics,\" said Roger.\n\"Well-whatever. I'm trying to forge an alliance. You'll see. Your\ncolleagues at Wringer Fleasom will be very proud of you. Dexter, let's\nhead on over to Blackland Road.\"\n\"What's on Blackland Road?\" asked Roger.\n\"I'll tell you, but first I just want to show it to you.\"\nBlackland Road was scarcely a quarter of a mile from Armholster's\nhouse. The homes were even grander.\n\"Stop right there, Dexter,\" said the Mayor.Roger found himself looking up at an extraordinary house of stone,\nor extraordinary for Atlanta. It looked like a medieval manor in the\nwest of England, an observation he decided not to unburden himself\nof. The big central front doorway was surmounted by a segmental\npediment, and the facade featured an array of grand windows with\ncruciform mul- lions and more small panes than you could count\nfrom this distance with the naked eye. Roger decided to keep all that\nto himself also. Wes Jordan obviously didn't want to hear about\ngrayboy segmental pediments, let alone cruciform honky mullions. In\nfront of the house was a low stone wall with a pair of magnificent\nornamental stone piers. A large ungated opening in the wall gave\naccess to a turnaround paved with Belgian cobblestone. The whole\nthing was very European, not a hint of which did Roger intend to\ntransmit to the Mayor of Atlanta. The only thing he couldn't figure\nout was the two sculpted birds that were perched, wings spread, as\nif taking off, on the pediments atop the ornamental piers. Ordinarily\nyou would expect to see eagles or falcons or some other predatory\nbeast. These two birds looked curiously benign, even slightly\nfrightened.\n\"Not as big as Armholster's,\" said Wes Jordan, \"but quite a pile all\nthe same, hunh?\"\n\"That's true,\" said Roger.\n\"I don't get those birds, though,\" said Wes. \"What the hell are they?\nWhat do you figure they are?\"\nChristalmighty. He would pick out the one detail he, Roger, knew\nnothing about. \"I don't have the faintest idea,\" he said a bit\npetulantly.\nFrom the front seat Dexter went \"Heh heh hegggghhhhhh! I can tell\ny'all never lived in the country. Anybody in Dougherty County could\ntell you what they are. We weren't supposed to shoot 'em-they were\nthe plantation owner's bird. We were supposed to stick to squirrels\nand rabbits. But we got our share.\" He nodded toward the stonewall. \"They're quail. They're 'bout ten times as big as a real quail,\nbut they're quail.\"\n\"That's great, Dexter!\" said Wes Jordan with genuine relish. \"A stone\nmansion, a stone wall, and the plantation owner's bird! I love it!\"\n\"Whose house is it?\" asked Roger.\n\"I'll tell you in due course,\" said the Mayor, \"in due course. I'm not\nplaying games. I'm just trying to construct a narrative, you might\nsay, and I'm just hoping it'll unfold naturally.\"\n\"Okay,\" said Roger, \"construct and unfold.\" He realized his voice had\ntaken on a peevish edge.\n\"Dexter,\" said the Mayor, \"let's head on over to Vine City and English\nAvenue. This time go down Peachtree.\"\n\"Vine City?\" said Roger.\nThe Mayor nodded. \"I'll take you by your old house.\"\n\"As I remember,\" said Roger, \"your folks and mine-we both left there\nabout the same time, when we were in-what was it?-the fourth or\nfifth grade?\"\n\"More like the sixth,\" said Wes. \"Remember how we'd head out in\nthe morning to play, and your momma'd say, 'Now, I want you back\nhere by lunchtime,' and we'd roam all over the neighborhood? We'd\ngo on up to the Bluff and down in the ravines, and we'd finally\nstraggle back for lunch? Nobody thought anything of it.\"\n\"God,\" said Roger, \"I'd forgotten about all that. But that's the truth.\nThat's exactly the way it was.\"\n\"Today, Counselor,\" said Wes, \"your momma and my momma- they'd\nhave a fit. You can see for yourself when we get there.\"\nOn the drive downtown Roger was aware as he had never been\nbefore that Peachtree Street was one long hill, and a pretty steepone. Soon they were down in Midtown. On the right was the High\nMuseum of Art, a modern building with all sorts of white geometric\nshapes going this way and that.\n\"Look at that damned museum,\" said the Mayor. \"Looks like an\ninsecticide refinery.\"\nA guffaw from Dexter in the front seat.\nThe museum had been designed by a famous (white) architect\nnamed Richard Meier, but Roger Too White kept that to himself.\nInstead, he said, \"I was reading that a big show's going to be\nopening there before too long, hundreds of paintings by Wilson\nLapeth. He'd hidden them someplace before he died? Have I got\nthat right?\"\n\"Unh-hunh. Hundreds of paintings on what they seem to like to call\n'homoerotic themes.'\"\n\"Are you going to the opening?\"\nWes laughed a cynical little laugh deep in his throat. \"No, the Lapeth\nshow will not have the ceremonial blessing of Atlanta's Mayor. I've\nbeen invited, invited, and reinvited. The charming ladies who run the\nmuseum-and now we are talking about Buckhead ladies, who are\nloaded-they came to see me at City Hall as a delegation to assure\nme that this was going to be one of those milestones in the history\nof the city that demand the presence of the Mayor.\"\n\"So what did you do?\"\n\"I smiled and thanked them and told them I'd have to see about my\nschedule.\"\n\"So what will you tell them?\"\n\"That I'm busy.\" Wes looked straight ahead, through the front\nwindshield, as if toward the row of towers that comprised the\nMidtown and Downtown skyline. Then he looked back at Roger. \"It'ssort of interesting. This is one case in which my political instincts line\nup a hundred percent with my personal instincts.\" He smiled his\ncharming smile. \"I'm afraid I've already made myself clear about\nhow I feel about 'Western art.' \"\n\"That you have,\" said Roger. He couldn't avoid a certain tone.\n\"And I think I told you what I think about the gay-rights movement\nand its 'struggle.' \"\n\"That you did.\"\n\"Well, the opening of the Lapeth show is going to be, among other\nthings, a solemn homage to gay rights. I'd have to sit there at the\nhead table all night with a straight face giving my implied blessing to\nthe 'struggle' and to this poor old departed lulu, Lapeth. I'd not only\nspend three or four unpleasant hours inside that insecticide refinery,\nI would lose ground with my core constituency.\"\n\"How so?\" said Roger.\n\"I don't think the Buckhead ladies or white folks generally have any\nidea how little interest black folks have in these art shows of theirs.\nAnd that's because they don't understand their own motivation for\nmaking such a big to-do over 'Western art.' When they put on these\nshows, they're celebrating their people's cultural accomplishments\nand saying, 'We're great! Creativity and talent are all ours! History is\non our side!' Oh, every now and then they'll have a show by some\nblack artist, but that's only out of a feeling of guilt... or\nenlightenment... or of: 'See? We include everybody-but notice how\nfew are up to our standards!'\nThey're cultural chauvinists, but that thought has never so much as\ncrossed their minds. Our people have no interest in seeing their\nblack Mayor at one of these celebrations of white cultural\nchauvinism, and this black Mayor has even less interest, especially in\na show that's also celebrating the 'struggle' for gay rights.\"By now the towers of Midtown were streaming past on either side of\nPeachtree, which was the place to have a tower. In fact, if it wasn't\nwithin a block or so of Peachtree, it wasn't worth having. That\nseemed to be the thinking. Each one outdid the one before.. . a 38-\nstory ziggurat of rose-colored glass called Promenade Two . . . then\na mid-rise building split in two called Promenade One . . . then the\n52-story PlannersBanc Tower, a glass skyscraper that appeared\nbigger at the top than the bottom . . . One Atlantic Center . . .\nPhoenix Center . . . the GLG Grande . . . the Mayfair . . . Colony\nSquare, the 1100 Peachtree Street Building, the Campanile, the\nMossCo Tower, First Union Plaza . . . and in no time they were in the\nheart of Downtown, in the Peachtree Street canyon created by the\nskyscrapers that rose on either side ... One Peachtree Center, the\neven taller Armaxco Coliseum-Wes pointed at it and said, \"Inman\nArmholster's monument to Inman Armholster\"-the Hyatt Regency,\nthe Merchandise Mart, the Westin Peachtree Plaza Hotel, 191\nPeachtree . . . Quite a parade it was . . .\nWes said, \"I wanted to come down here this way, down Peachtree,\nbecause Peachtree Street was our friends the business interests'\ndream for the twentieth century. All these towers were supposed to\nshow you that Atlanta wasn't just a regional center, it was a national\ncenter. And you have to give them credit.\" He gestured vaguely\ntoward the towers that reached up far above them. \"They did it!\nAtlanta favors people who are hypomanic -I think that's the term -\npeople like Inman Armholster who are so manic they refuse to pay\nattention to the odds against them, but not so manic that they're\nirrational.\"\nDexter made a right turn, and the Mayor said to Roger, \"Check out\nthe street sign.\" It said international boulevard. \"That's a new name.\n'International Boulevard.' What we're going to see now is the\nbusiness interests' dream for the twenty-first century. You know\nwhat they want to do now? They want to make Atlanta a world\ncenter, the way Rome, Paris, and London have been world centers in\nthe past, and the way New York is today. They never say so outloud, but I'm sure they figure it's only a matter of time before New\nYork is only number two. After all, our airport already makes their\nthree airports look like little country strips. And don't bet against\nthem! They're just aggressive enough, just hypomanic enough, to\npull it off.\"\nBy now they were nearing an immense angular limestone building\nthat rose up on their left, the CNN Center. \"Check it out,\" said the\nMayor. \"If you're thinking 'world center,' CNN is the biggest thing to\nhit Atlanta since the railroad and the airplane, and the Gulf War was\nthe luckiest break the business interests ever got. All of a sudden the\nwhole world was watching two CNN correspondents on television,\nBernard Shaw and Peter Arnett. Suddenly it made all these people\nrealize that Atlanta's own CNN was the only international television\nnetwork on earth.\"\nComing up on the right was a building only four or five stories high\nbut enormous in the amount of ground it covered.\n\"That thing's half a mile long on the diagonal,\" said Wes. \"And note\nthe terminology. It's not called the Atlanta Convention Center or\nanything else indicating such a modest view of its place in the\nscheme of things. It's called the Georgia World Congress Center. And\nyou probably know what this is called.\"\nThey were passing through a brand-new park, with the Georgia\nWorld Congress Center on the right and the Georgia Dome, built in\n1991 as a domed football stadium and exhibition hall, on the left.\nThe park was a meticulously mown greensward from which rose a\nsculpture of two gymnasts in mid-flight and a pair of towering\nderricks bearing lamps that could illuminate the entire park at night.\n\"International Plaza,\" said Wes. \"And you want to know why they\nchose gymnasts?\"\n\"Why?\"\"Because gymnastics is a sport Americans utterly ignore except for\nthree days every four years, and that's when the Olympics are\nshown on television. When you see gymnastics, you think Olympics-\nand when you think Olympics, you're supposed to think of Atlanta's\ngreatest international coup: the 1996 Olympics. There was\nhypomania, ignoring the unbelievable odds against it and getting the\nOlympics brought to Atlanta. Not just any Olympics, either -the\nhundredth anniversary of the Olympics, 1996. The business interests\ndon't intend to let anybody forget that. Have you been to the\nCentennial Olympic Park?\"\n\"Ummmmmmm no, I don't think I have,\" said Roger.\n\"Well,\" said Wes, \"it's right over there. There's a fountain you ought\nto take a look at. You know the symbol of the Olympics, the five\nrings?\"\n\"Unh-hunh.\"\n\"This fountain spouts up the five rings-five rings of water-every five\nseconds, or whatever it is. Oh, I wouldn't put it past them. They may\njust pull it off, turn this town into the world center, the center of the\nworld. They know how to generate money, and they know how to\ngive money leverage. You wouldn't believe the interlocking\ndirectorates of the corporations in this town unless I showed them to\nyou on a diagram. It's incredible! But there's one thing they don't\nhave, and it's right here in this car.\"\nWes smiled and pointed his right forefinger at his own chest. \"Black\npower. Did I ever tell you about Isaac Blakey's great line?\"\n'Tou mean Reverend Blakey, the pastor? No, I don't think so.\"\n\"A whole bunch of white developers, contractors, union people, they\napproached Isaac about a meeting with 'the neighborhood leaders,'\nto see if they couldn't do something about all the opposition to\nHighway 600, which they wanted to run through South Atlanta. So\nthey've got this lawyer who's their spokesman, the white people do,and he starts bis pitch, and he's talking about Atlanta's place in the\nregional economy and the global village and the cosmos and one\nthing and another and Isaac interrupts him and says, ' 'Scuse me,\nbrother, but you mind if I speed things up and get right to the\ncheckered flag? You got the money, and we got the power. We want\nsome money.' \"\n\"You mean he just flat out solicited bribes?\" asked Roger.\n\"Not bribes,\" said the Mayor. \"Atlanta doesn't have a culture of\nbriber)'. It's not like New York. It's more like: 'You build us day-care\ncenters, youth centers, health clinics, parks, swimming pools-so we\ncan say to our constituents, \"Look what we brought you\"-and we'll\nsee about doing something for you.' That's the way it works out.\"\nNo sooner had they driven past the Georgia Dome and through\nInternational Plaza than Dexter bore left, made another turn, then\ncrossed Northside Drive, and-pop!-all the glossy pomposity of the\ncenter of the world vanished, just like that.\nNow they were right on the edge of the University Center, the\ncampuses of Morehouse, Spelman, and Clark, which had always\nbeen the bedrock of Vine City as a neighborhood. The old brick\nbuildings, the greenswards, the landscaping-they had all been\nbrought to perfection for the Olympics back in 1996, and they still\nlooked great.\nSoon the Buick was on Sunset, and the Mayor said, \"Dexter, stop\nright there at the foot of University Place-I-think-it's-called.\" Dexter\nstopped, and the Mayor pointed up a rise in the ground at the crest\nof which stood a brick mansion with six two-story Corinthian\ncolumns and a pair of matching two-stow pilasters giving drama and\ngrandeur to the front entrance. All along the rooflinc was a white\nbalustrade like Mon- ticello's. \"You recognize that, don't you?\"\n\"Oh sure,\" said Roger. \"Alonzo Herndon.\"Alonzo Herndon had been born a slave but went on to create the\nsecond-largest black-owned insurance company in the country. His\nshowplace up there had been the grand example that had lured\nmiddle- class black people to Vine City after the fire of 1917 that\ndestroyed so much of Sweet Auburn.\n\"You'd have to go pretty far to beat that house,\" said Wes. \"There's\nsome houses bigger than that in Buckhead, but I don't know of any\nthat handsome, if you want my opinion.\"\n\"You're probably right,\" said Roger, who was not going to waste his\nbreath on any more aesthetic debates with Wes Jordan.\nThey headed on up Sunset, and Wes said, \"Slow down along here,\nDexter.\" To Roger: \"Recognize that house?\"\n'Yes . . . Martin Luther King.\" It was a good-sized but architecturally\nplain, suburban-style brick house, well kept, next to other houses of\nthe same sort. It was King's home at the time of his assassination.\nHis widow, Coretta King, still lived there.\nThey moved on. \"Isn't that where Floppy Bowles used to live,\" said\nRoger, \"that house over there?\"\n\"I think so,\" said Wes.\nThey kept on going, and the houses looked smaller than Roger\nremembered them, but they weren't all that bad . . . Julian Bond\nused to live somewhere around here ... So did Maynard Jackson . . .\nSome of the houses were missing . . . gone . . . Made it hard to get\nyour bearings . . . But once they'd driven eight or ten blocks north,\ndim recollection gave way to astonishment. . . Three vacant lots in a\nrow . . . overgrown with weeds and saplings-and what are those\npuddles, those ponds? . . . In the middle lot, all but hidden by the\nwild growth, was a short flight of wooden stairs leading to . . .\nnothing ... All that remained of an entire house was the front stairs\nand a few slabs of a broken cinder-block foundation. Through the\nweeds on one side of the house he could see a pool of collectedwater, out of which protruded .... junk ... of every sort, a pedal-\ndriven sewing machine, a rusted-out medicine cabinet, what looked\nlike an old fusebox, a bicycle frame with no wheels, a refrigerator\nwith one side staved in . . . how? ... by whom? . . . why? ... a coil of\nplastered wire lathing, automobile tires, an old scorched bile-green\nquilt whose synthetic stuffing was coming out. A white plastic Clorox\nbottle floated on the surface. The very sight of this rotting sump\nmade Roger uneasy. His eyes kept going back to the stairs.\n\"Stop here a second, Dexter,\" said the Mayor. Once they had\nstopped, the Mayor said to Roger, \"Recognize them?\"\n\"Recognize what?\"\n\"Those stairs. Those were the stairs to the front door of your\nhouse.\"\n\"My God . . .\" said Roger. \"That's what they are\\ I remember that\nfunny little diamond design halfway down the balusters.\" The little\nlot looked like a wilderness that was returning to drag all man-made\ncreations back into the primordial muck.\n\"Tug at your heartstrings?\" asked Wes.\n\"Not really. I've always thought of West End as where I grew up. Still\n. . . it's-this was a nice neighborhood.\"\n\"Well\"-the Mayor gestured-\"here it is, South Atlanta. Families like\nours moved west, and the folks that took our place weren't owners,\nthey were renters. By and by, the landlord gives up on making any\nmoney on the property and walks away from it, and now the city\ntakes it over in lieu of taxes, and after that it's the same as if nobody\nowns it.\"\nRoger said, \"I'm going to get out and take a look.\" He started to pull\nthe door handle.\n\"Not a good idea,\" said the Mayor.\"Why? There's nobody around.\"\n\"These neighborhoods are never as empty as they look.\"\nWes's tone made Roger apprehensive. He sank back into his seat.\n\"Go on ahead,\" Wes said to Dexter, \"and stop at the corner.\"\nAt the corner the Mayor said to Roger, \"What street is this?\"\nRoger looked up at the street sign, but it was impossible to read. It\nwas covered with graffiti. So was the stop sign. There was only the\nhexagonal shape to remind you that it was a stop sign.\n\"Another couple of blocks, Dexter,\" said Wes, \"and take it slow.\"\nThe overhead power lines in Vine City drooped as wearily as the\nhouses that remained. They rolled past houses that seemed to be\nsinking under their own weight. Some were defaced by graffiti along\nthe base . . . There were more vacant lots . . . more pools of\ncollected water filled with half-sunken debris . . . more weeds and\ntangles and thickets . . . and cannibalized cars. Along the curb there\nwas an old goldtone Mercury Grand Marquis resting flat on the street\non its axles and wheel rims. The hood was gone, and the engine and\nmuch of the interior had been gutted. Most of the pavement on the\nstreet was gone, the sidewalk had been reduced to rubble, and the\nstreet itself, not just the vacant lots, had become a dump.\n\"Stop up there by that house, Dexter.\"\nIt was a small two-story frame house notable chiefly for the metal\ngrillwork that covered ever) window on the ground floor and the\nfront door and the window above the house's little front porch roof.\nOn one side of the house was a vacant lot with not only a pool of\ncollected water but also an enormous and inexplicable mound of\nsludge. On the other side was the charred husk of a house whose\nroof had been half burned away. F. Ven the window frames had\nburned, and the face of the house had been blackened.\"Know whose house that is?\" asked Wes, pointing to the house with\nthe barred windows. \"Or was?\"\n\"Whose?\"\n\"Mine.\"\n\"God ... I wouldn't even recognize it now, Wes. Look at all that\ngrillwork. Looks like a cage.\"\n\"I can tell you who lives there. Or 1 can tell you what kind of\nperson.\"\n\"What kind?\"\n\"Old people. They're too poor to get out, and they can't get anything\nfor their house. So they have to sit here in their cage waiting to be\npreyed upon by the predators.\"\n\"What predators? I don't even see anyone around here.\"\n\"Oh, I'll find you some,\" said West. \"Dexter, head on up toward the\nBluff.\"\nDon't find me any, thought Roger, just tell me. But Dexter was\nalready heading up one of Vine City's slopes. Roger could see one of\nthe ravines. It was a real dumping ground, filled with weeds, rusted\nmetal, burnt mattresses. Up ahead, near the corner, in front of the\nfour little houses that remained, was a pack of boys. Actually only\nfive; but to Roger, whose heart bolted at the sight, it looked like a\npack, obviously primed for trouble here in the middle of a school\nday. Three of them were tall, gawky but menacing (as Roger Too\nWhite saw it), wearing baggy jeans whose crotches hung down to\ntheir knees. The huge pants legs crumpled down in great denim\npuddles on top of their black sneakers, which had evil rubbery white\ntongues lapping up from the sole onto the uppers. The arms of their\nT-shirts hung down to their elbows and the tails hung down to their\nhips. Two of them had green rags wrapped about their heads, like\npirates. The other two boys were no more than twelve, but weredressed like the older boys. They were hanging out up near the\ncorner in front of a burned-out house.\nThe hostility!-the wariness!-that beamed out of those dark faces as\nthey eyed the Mayor's pearl-gray Buick. Around the corner sidled an\nemaciated woman-it was impossible to tell how old she was-in a T-\nshirt, short-shorts, and bedroom slippers.\n\"Stop here for a minute,\" the Mayor said to Dexter. Don't stop here,\nRoger said to himself. Dexter stopped. Thev were about fort)- yards\nfrom the boys and the decaying houses.\n\"See that last house, Roger, the one that's burned out?\"\n\"Yes.\"\n\"That's a crack house.\"\n\"But about a third of the roof's gone. What do they do when it\nrains?\"\n\"Smokeheads are not sticklers for amenities,\" said Wes. \"I want you\nto notice the curtains, too.\"\nRoger noticed. They were a slipper}' brown color. \"What is that?\nPlastic?\"\n\"Garbage bags,\" said the Mayor. \"Just to keep prying eyes from\nlooking in. Now look at the one nearest us.\"\nThe one nearest them was a one-story house that seemed to be\ncollapsing from the pull of gravity. The roof of the front porch\nsagged down from either side toward the middle.\n\"That's the house Fareek Fanon grew up in. He lived there until he\nentered Tech three years ago. I just want you to soak in the\natmosphere a little bit, Roger,\" said Wes Jordan, \"and look at what\nwe have here.\" He made a sweeping gesture with his right hand\ntoward the tableau of urban living before them.Roger looked and soaked in the atmosphere and kept his eyes on\nthe five youths, who continued to stare balefully at the Buick.\n\"See those two young kids?\" said the Mayor. \"They're runners for the\ndealers. If they're arrested, it's no big deal, because they're so\nyoung. And see that lovely seductress with her hands on her hips?\nShe's an addict and a prostitute who's willing to do anything you can\nthink of for another chunk of crack. \"Just think of it,\" said Wes.\n\"Here we have a kid who grew up right there\"-he pointed toward\nFareek Fanon's house-\"three doors from a crack house in the worst\nslum in Atlanta, and somehow he keeps his nose clean, or clean\nenough to go to Georgia Tech, and he becomes an all-American\nfootball player known all over the country as Fareek 'the Cannon'\nFanon. Six months from now he'll be in a position to sign contracts\nworth literally millions of dollars. Fareek Fanon, a kid from that\ndisintegrating dump-Fareek's got the world at his feet. He could've\njust as easily ended up in that crack house, but he didn't. Rightly or\nwrongly, Fareek's an example for ever}' kid in Atlanta, or ever}-\nblack kid anyway, every black kid who ever felt trapped in some\nshithook inner city neighborhood. He's got one little problem,\nhowever. He's been accused of rape by Miss Elizabeth Armholster. So\nwe've been to Miss Armholster's house up in the heights of\nBuckhead. She's grown up in the most expensive-what was that\nword you used? -pala/. Zo?-the most expensive palazzo in Atlanta.\nHer father is president of Armaxco. She made her debut at the\nPiedmont Driving Club. Just take a look around! That was the top!\nThis is the bottom! Can you imagine this story after the press gets\nhold of it? And don't kid yourself. They will. They'll show the two\nhouses, too. They wouldn't pass up anything that rich.\"\n\"What about that other house you showed me up in Buckhead?\" said\nRoger.\nWes Jordan smiled. \"I'm getting to that. I'm getting to that.\" He\nsmiled some more. \"Roger, I've made a decision about this case. It's\nkind of a dicey one, because at this point we don't really know what\nhappened. A sex case can blow up in your hands. Most politicianswon't touch them. But I want to do something for Fareek Fanon. I'm\nnot going to say he's innocent-I mean, at this point how could I\npossibly know one way or the other? But I can stand up for the\nprotection of his rights. I can remind the public of his long journey\nfrom the Bluff\"-he made another sweeping gesture-\"to national\nsports stardom. I can make the point that men have rights, too,\neven athletes, even superstar athletes, even superstar black\nathletes, even superstar black athletes from the Bluff. I think I can\nlay to rest once and for all the whispering campaign Andre Fleet is\nso busy spreading around, the one that says I duck the 'black\nissues.' Ordinarily any man, especially any black man, is under a\ncloud the moment some woman cries rape. I think I can take care of\nthat cloud in short order.\"\n\"That would be great,\" said Roger, \"if it comes to that. I'm still\nhoping that somehow this will all get laid to rest, but if it does break\nopen we'll need you in a big way.\"\n\"Now there's just one other thing, Roger, but it's important. I'll go\nout on a limb for your client, but I don't intend to go out there\nalone. Once this thing breaks, you're going to see racial tension such\nas hasn't existed since the late 1960s. I need some prominent white\nperson to get up and say the same thing I'm going to say: 'Fareek's\na fine young man who's come a long way after a terrible journey,\nand there must be no rush to judgment, et cetera et cetera.' I can't\nafford to make it seem like I'm polarizing the city. And if I may be\ntotally candid, I can't afford to flat-out alienate my friends at the\nhigher elevations.\" He rolled his eyes in the general direction of\nBuckhead.\nRoger thought a moment. \"What about somebody like Herbert\nRichman?\"\n\"Nahhhhhh,\" said the Mayor. \"He's Jewish. He's a push-button\nliberal. He's for the minority in any situation. His impact would be\nzero. I need somebody from the real establishment, somebody from\nthe Piedmont Driving Club kind of establishment.\"Roger shook his head. \"Well, it's a good idea, but as to who-\" He\nturned his palms up in the universal gesture of helplessness.\n\"I have a candidate,\" said the Mayor, \"but lining him up will take\nsome doing, and I'm going to need your help.\" \"Who is it?\" asked\nRoger. \"Charlie Croker,\" said the Mayor. Incredulous: \"The\ndeveloper?\" \"The very one.\"\n\"Well, maybe you know something about him I don't know, but he\nstrikes me as a . . . Cracker through and through.\"\n\"So much the better,\" said the Mayor, \"if we can get him to come\naround. You know, lie was a big star for Georgia Tech, too, just like\nFareek, a running back. They called him 'the Sixty-Minute Man,'\nbecause he played both defense and offense. Maybe we'll find out\nhe has a profound . . . empathy ... for athletes under the dreadful\npressures of stardom.\" The Mayor smiled his ironic smile.\n\"Well, Wes,\" said Roger, \"I don't want to sound pessimistic, but\nthat'll be the day, if you ask me.\"\n\"Stranger things have happened,\" said Wes Jordan, \"stranger things\nhave happened. Oh, bv the way, that other house we looked at in\nBuck- head, the one with the stone wall and the quail statues out\nfront? That's Croker's. Just up the way from Armholster's . . . Can't\nyou see it? He's perfect. And before I forget, he's also a member of\nthe Piedmont Driving Club--\nRoger shook his head some more. \"Well, good luck.\"\n\"We can't leave it to luck,\" said Wes. \"You've got to help me make it\nhappen.\"\nFrom here in the back seat of the Buick, Roger looked round about\nthe Bluff. So many wretched little huts, falling down, burned out,\nwith pools of collected water in the vacant lots and rusting, rotting\njunk sticking up out of the scum. And in his mind's eye he could see\nArmholster's Venetian palazzo and Croker's pile ... A Georgia Cracker\nin a medieval manse. Wes was right. This thing was going to erupt.What the hell had he let himself get involved in-he who had leaped\nso clear of the race barrier? He had a sudden yearning to stick to\nPeachtree Street and the eminently respectable Gerthland Fullers of\nthe Wringer Fleasom & Tick universe.\n\"Dexter,\" said the Mayor, \"give us a little cop magic for Mr. White's\nbenefit.\" , Roger looked at Wes quizzically. Meantime, Dexter, up in\nthe driver's seat, was opening the door and swinging his massive\nself out of the car and standing up on the street beside the Buick.\nThe five boys were huddling and staring lasers at these intruders.\nDexter put a walkie-talkie radio to his mouth, and Roger could hear\nhis rumbling voice but couldn't make out what he was saying.\n\"Who's he talking to?\" asked Roger, all the while keeping his eyes\npinned on the boys. (Why stir up the hornets like this?)\n\"He's not talking to anybody,\" said Wes. \"The thing doesn't work\nmuch more than 500 yards from City Hall.\"\n\"Then why is he doing it?\"\n\"Cop magic,\" said Wes. \"See what happens.\"\nThe five boys, in the coolest possible manner, as if it made no\ndifference to them one way or another, turned around and began\nbeating a retreat with the coolest gait known to the human animal,\nthe Frankenstein Rock.\n\"They see Dexter,\" said the Mayor, \"they see cop.\"\nBut when the boys reached the burned-out house, they stopped.\nNow they were alternately talking to three older, derelict figures, two\nmen and the prostitute, who seemed to be sliding, like something\nmelting, down the building's front wall-and staring back at Dexter\nand the Buick.\n\"Oh, look!\" said Wes. \"Now they're being good citizens!\"\n\"Good citizens?\"\"T hey're alerting the crack house to our presence. You see what\nthose boys are wearing, the baggy pants with the crotches they're\npractically stepping on? And those do-rags they've got around their\nheads? Those are jailhouse fashions. Jailhouse. In jail they don't\nprovide belts, and so if your pants are too big you just let them ride\nlow. And the do-rags? In jail, if you want a headgear, you have to\nmake it yourself, by ripping up a sheet. Just imagine what it really\nmeans to be a fifteen-or-sixteen-year- old boy-and to want to wear\njailhouse fashions. It means you don't think of jail as anything\nforeign to your life. You don't even fear going to jail. You know you'll\nhave friends there when you arrive! Imagine that-thinking of jail as\nan extension of the 'hood, as the great Andre Fleet would put it. In\nthis part of English Avenue the boy who grows up with no police\nrecord is regarded, ipso facto, as a model citizen. Just think about\nthat for a minute. Just think about that when you think about Fareek\nFanon. Mr. Warmth & Discretion he ain't-but he came from out of\nhere without a blemish on his record and turned himself into one of\nthe greatest athletes in America. Think about it.\"\nBy now the five boys, the five Jailhouse Fashion plates, were Frank-\nensteining it, rocking like Druids, away from the crack house and\naround the corner. The smokeheads on the porch, with only the\nthinnest veneer of Cool, were fleeing, too, scurrying behind them.\nNow came an exodus from the innards of the house. Dark faces,\nmen and women of every sort, from teenagers to bent-over old folk,\nsome of them glancing at the Buick but most of them hopelessly\nglassy-eved. The sheer numbers-departing that burned-out hulk of a\nhouse! No end to them! Must've had them stacked against the walls!\nAfter a while one last figure came out on the porch, a big tall man,\nperhaps fort)-, barefoot, wearing a filthy grayish T-shirt and khaki\npants . . . Can't get his balance . . . His huge frame keeps staggering\nto starboard ... He rubs his right hand across his face . . . goes\nsprawling on the porch . . . manages to get up on all fours, crawls\ndown the porch stairs, crawls along the sidewalk, manages to get to\na standing position, lurches forward, lands on all fours, startscrawling again . . . disappears, crawling, all 200-plus pounds of him,\naround the corner.\n\"What runs away on all fours like that at the approach of man?\"\nasked Wes.\n\"1 don't know,\" said Roger. \"What does?\"\n\"A rodent,\" said Wes, \"or else a man reduced to a rodent. Fareek\nFanon could've very easily ended up like that. Armholster couldn't've.\nNeither could Charlie Croker. Think about it.\"\nChapter 9The Superfluous Woman\nRam yo' booooooooty!\n\"Lof, torque!\" Clap!\nRam yo' booooooooty!\n\"Right, torque!\" Clap!\nRam yo' booooooooty!-\n-and the hateful meaning of booty, which she had just learned was\nsynonymous with the vulgarism ass, and the hateful name of the\nsinger whose voice came over the audio system, which was Doctor\nRammer Doc Doc, clicked in and out of Martha Croker's mind as she\nstruggled to keep up with Mustafa Gunt's beat-\n\"Right, torque!\" Clap!\n-and spring her left foot forward and her right foot backward and\ntorque her body to the right--\nMustafa Gunt was a former Turkish wrestling champion of some sort\nwho kept his head shaved bald. His neck fanned out wider than his\nears and merged with a pair of trapezius muscles that sloped like his\nnative Balkar Dagh Mountains down to his shoulders. He wore an\nOlympic- style wrestler's unitard, and when he clapped his hands to\nthe beat, more muscles popped out in his glistening shoulders, arms,\nand chest than Martha could possibly remember the names of,\ndespite all the anatomy she had once studied so hard at Emory.\nBehind the mighty Mustafa was a wall of plate glass looking out on a\nbusy street in the commercial part of Buckhead, off Piedmont Road.\nAnybody passing by could have looked right in-there was no\nmodest)' about group exercise in Atlanta-except that the heat from\nthe bodies of the thirty struggling women kept the glass fogged up.\nMustafa's face scowled at the whole bunch of them, as if in some\nunanswerable accusation.\"Lof, torque!\" Clap! went Mustafa Gunt.\nRam yo' booooooooty! went the voice of Doctor Rammer Doc Doc.\nThe exercise was called a straddle-torque, and the springs and\nthrusts and twists were so fast and so violent, Martha was already\ngasping for breath. Sprays of sweat hit her in the face and in the\nback. Ever)' woman who came to Mustafa Gunt's class here at\nDefinitionAmerica was assigned a rectangle, > by 7 feet, painted on\nthe floor, with a number in the middle of it. The young woman in the\nrectangle in front of hers and the one in the rectangle in back of\nhers and the ones in the rectangles on either side-all four of them\nhad long, intentionally tangled hair that looked as if a hurricane had\njust blown through, unimpeded by any sort of bands or barrettes.\nThe very signature of Rake-a-Cheek Youth at the turn of the century,\nthis hairstyle was, and when the Rake- a-Cheek Youth spun their\nheads in the torques, the sweat flew from their manes and sprayed\nMartha on all sides. Oh, they could spin, they could, they could, they\ncould. They had nice wide shoulders and nice narrow hips and nice\nlean legs and fine definition in the muscles of their arms and backs.\nThey were built like boys, boys with breasts and hurricane manes.\nRam yo' booooooooty! went Doctor Rammer Doc Doc.\n\"Right, torque!\" Clap! went Mustafa Gunt, urging them on.\nMartha wanted nothing more than to just drop, right there in her\nrectangle. Only the fear of humiliation kept her from it. At fifty-three,\nshe was the oldest woman in the class, perhaps the oldest customer\nin all of DefinitionAmerica, and already the young woman on her\nright, a perfect boy with breasts who wore a thin white leotard to\nmake sure you saw it all, was giving her a certain look, as if\nwondering how she could have had the bad taste to turn up here in\ntheir midst at her age . . .\nNevertheless, Martha persevered. Every woman (in tout le monde)\nnow knew there was no possible detour around exercise. Only\nvigorous exercise could help you even remotely approach thefeminine ideal of today-a Boy with Breasts!-and practically every\nwoman Martha knew in Atlanta, other than those who were\nirretrievably ancient, joined classes like Mustafa Gunt's. The exercise\nsalons were proliferating like cellular telephones and CD-ROMs. Boys\nwith breasts! My God, whatever happened to voluptuous? Thirty-two\nyears ago, when she had married Charlie, the voluptuous woman\nhad been the ideal of sexual attractiveness. Voluptuous denoted\nfullness and flesh, soft female flesh. She had been a voluptuous\nwoman, or a boarding school and debs' cotillion version of same;\nenough to drive Charlie Croker wild, in any event. She had had nice\nbroad shoulders, a nice full bosom, and nice full smooth hips and\nthighs that Charlie had grown rhapsodic over, or as rhapsodic as\nCharlie, who was no poet, was ever likely to get. She was a woman\nwith a full layer of adipose tissue! That was the way she was made!\nShe had never been bom to have the shrink-wrapped look these\nyoung women wanted, all this definition they talked about! O\nDefinition- America!\nBut that was what Charlie had run off with, a boy with breasts\nnamed Serena. That simple, plain truth had obsessed her mind ever\nsince Atlanta magazine had arrived in the mail yesterday, but she\nwas determined not to think about the damnable picture--\nRam yo' booooooooty! Ram yo' booooooooty!\n\"Right, torque!\" Clap! \"Lof, torque!\" Clap!'\nAs Martha spun this way and that in the torques, beginning to gulp\nfor air, her eyes kept alighting-little as she wanted them to-on the\nperfect bodies in the first two rows of the class. There they were,\nwith their little sculpted buttocks encased in tights and bisected by\nleotard thongs, straddle-torquing within an inch of their young lives.\nThey were shameless. They wanted the world to look in through the\nplate glass and see them. They wanted Mustafa to get an eyeful,\ntoo. She hated them all, except for Joyce, who was right up there in\nthe first row with the youngest of them. Joyce Newman was the one\nfriend Martha had made at DefinitionAmerica. Although tiny, scarcelyfive foot one, Joyce was an all-too-perfect boy with breasts herself;\nbut she was forty-two years old and, like Martha, divorced after\nmany years and given to making amusing observations about their\ncommon fate.\nRam yo' booooooooooty!-Doctor Rammer Doc Doc continued to rap\nout his rape threat to some unnamed victim, but Mustafa Gunt was\nno longer clapping out the beat and barking out his \"lof, torque,\nright, torque.\" Instead, the mighty Turk rose up, preening, on his\ntoes and threw back his shoulders and drew in his midsection. His\nwaist became tiny, his chest and shoulders became huge, his rib\ncage inflated. Scowling furiously, he extended his left arm and\npointed toward the back doorway, where the exit sign was. Martha\ncouldn't believe he was actually going to do this, not after the brutal\nround of straddle-torques they had just been through. But sure\nenough, that guttural Turkish take-no- prisoners voice commanded:\n\"Steers! Steers! Op! Op! Op!\"\nImmediately the thirty women bolted from their rectangles and\nscampered toward the doorway. Martha thought she couldn't take\nanother step, but she had no choice. She was swept up in a\nstampede of leotards, tights, and exercise briefs. Onward the herd\ntook her. They went fun- neling through the metal frame of the\ndoorway and out onto the fire stairs, shank to flank, elbow to rib.\nThe stairwell was freshly painted (Computer Casing beige) and well\nlit, but too narrow for a herd of thirty endorphin-crazed women\ncharging full tilt.\n\"Steers! Steers! Op! Op! Op!\"\nOp they ran, op five flights of steers. The younger ones were like\nmountain goats. They fairly leaped o/jward, their sneakers squealing\non the metal risers. Bump-bump-two little jolts Martha felt in rapid\nsuccession. It was two of the perfect ones from the first row jostling\nher adipose shoulders and hips as they passed her on the narrow\nstairway and bounded o/nvard. She could see their perfect littlebounding bottoms with the thongs cutting smartly into the ravines of\ntheir buttocks. They didn't have the faintest idea that they had just\njolted Martha Starling Croker. They had merely passed some ... old\nwoman ... on the stairs. And then-ow!-a sharp jab in the ribs. A bony\nelbow, an outrageous head of red hurricane hair, and a pair of skinny\nhips sprang past her, shot opward. Then Joyce scampered past,\nmaking sure not to crowd her, and gave her a smile and a shrug and\nan arch of the eyebrows, as if to say, \"What can you do? We're in\nthe same boat!\"\nIt was all so dizzying. The shaft was quickly filled with the funk of\nsweat and too much expensive perfume. Desperately Martha tried to\ngulp in air. By the time she had gone three flights, she was at the tail\nend of the herd. By the time she had gone four flights, the lead\ngoats, the perfect boys with breasts, were already bounding\ndownward. A laggard such as herself had no choice but to squeeze\nup against the railing and let Youth have its way.\nBy the time she chugged all the way up the five flights and back\ndown to the room and her rectangle, she was drenched with sweat\nand breathing with loud, rapid heaves. Gradually she became aware\nof. . . eyes . . . She lifted her head. The young woman in front of her\nand the one to her right were cutting glances at her and then at\neach other. 7'he two of them were glistening with sweat, but they\nwere scarcely even breathing hard. They were in perfect condition.\nOh yes, they were perfect. (Once again the offending page in Atlanta\nmagazine popped up into her brain. She could see the picture! But\nshe fought it back and cast it out, she did, she did, she did.) The\nareolae of the perfect breasts of the paragon on her right, plainly\nvisible through the nylon of her white leotard, rose and fell at a\nperfectly normal rate. She looked at Martha and frowned and said in\nthe sort of Atlanta Little Girl voice she had come to despise:\n'Tew awrighhhht?\"\nThe words were not spoken unkindly. They were even filled with\nconcern and graced with a certain sugary, solicitous smile. But thesweetness left an iron-like aftertaste that said: \"What's the idea of\nan old lag like you coming in here and depressing us all with your\nmortal snorts?\"\nMartha nodded to indicate she was not dying. She tried to shrink. If\nher rectangle had had a drain in it, she would have gladly swirled\ndown it and disappeared. Lacking that, she wanted to call out to\nJoyce Newman to come back here and show these people she was\nnot old and friendless. All she could do, in fact, was to avert her eyes\nand stay stooped over and give her cardiovascular system a break\nand try to keep from collapsing on the spot, which would be the\nultimate ignominy.\nAlready Mustafa Gunt was announcing the next exercise, which he\ncalled \"the seagulls\" and pronounced \"da zeegols.\"\nOver the audio system Doctor Rammer Doc Doc was singing, if you\ncould call it singing, a new song, if you could call it a song. \"Hovv'm\nI spose a love her,\" he chanted, or rapped, \"catch her mackin' wit da\nbrothers?\"\nThe moron had actually used the word love. It was apparently only\nin the context of some woman's infidelity, some woman whose\nbooty- he had no doubt been rutting and grunting over;\nnevertheless, for Doctor Rammer Doc Doc this verged on the\nsentimental. The lame half- rhyme, love her/brothers, so typical of\nthese illiterate troubadours of dog-like sex, irritated Martha no end.\nWhat was Martha Croker, nee Martha Starling, from Richmond,\nVirginia, from the very best part of Richmond, Cary Street Road,\ndaughter of the former president of the\nCommonwealth Club-what was she doing here in an exercise hive in\nBuckhead in Atlanta, listening to a lot of mindless, obscene, totally\nvulgar \"Negro music,\" as her father had always called it, letting\nherself be jostled, jabbed, and belittled by a bunch of vain, brainless,\nnarcissistic, body-snobbish girls, dutifully obeying a bald-headed\nmartinet from Turkey named Mustafa Gunt who liked to send herrunning up a set of fire stairs to within a c. C. or so of her cardiac\ncapacity? She was past menopause. She was no longer too young to\nhave a heart attack--\nWhy was she in this ridiculous position?\nCharlie.\nThat was it, pure and simple: Charlie.\nIn that moment all the cumbersome psychological baggage a woman\nloads herself up with during a divorce fell away. She was fifty-three\nyears old, for God's sake! She had been married to Charlie Croker for\ntwenty- nine years, and she had borne him three children, and she\nhad helped him get started in this glorious career of which he was so\nobscenely proud! She had ever}- right to be what her own mother\nhad been at the age of fifty-three ... a matron . . . yes, a matron! ...\na queen! . . . immovably secure in her family and in society ... If a\nmatron wanted to help herself to a nice comfortable coating of\nadipose tissue, she had nothing to worry about, nothing at all. It had\nmerely lent her mother . . . gravity- . . .\nWhat was all that nonsense about relationships and role modulation\nand emotional accretion she had tormented herself with in all those\ntotally useless trips to the therapists and the counselors? You,\nCharlie, vou alone, through an act of capriciousness and utter\nselfishness, have done this to me! You eviscerated my perfectly good\nlife, Charlie! Here I am at fifty-three, trying to start over as a\nwoman-in this ludicrous factor)' for boys with breasts!\nThe purity' of her hatred got her adrenaline flowing, and the\nadrenaline gave her body a lift, and her head began to clear.\nMustafa Gunt was saying, \"Some of you don' wahnt to be zeegols,\nay?-ay? You don' wahnt to fly? I'm diz-abointed.\"\nThe Turk was always diplomatic enough not to reprimand any\nwoman directly, personally. After all, these were paying customers.\nHe used only terms that could be taken as applying to the entireclass. Nevertheless, Martha knew very well the remark was aimed at\nher. She raised her head. Sure enough, he was looking her way.\nEveryone else, every boy with breasts, was already in a half-deep-\nknee bend with arms stretched out to the sides, lifting them up and\ndown in \"the seagull.\" Dutifully she bent her knees and got down\ninto the crouch and started flapping.\nMustafa Gunt said, \"Don' geef op! Flop! Flop! Flop! Flop! Wahn more\nzet! Geef me twonty! Flop . . . on . . . flop . . . on . . . flop . . . on . .\n. flop!\"\nMartha flapped. Her shoulders ached. Her thighs burned from\nstaying so long in one position with her knees bent. But she\npersevered. Why? Why had she so dutifully obeyed? Was there\nsomething in her makeup that made her want to cave in to the wills\nof big, strong, blustering, manly men? Did she unconsciously enjoy\nbeing dominated by these iron-lunged Alley Oops? Was she suffering\nfrom a repetitive compulsion?\nOh, cut it out, Martha . . . Her daddy had been right thirty years ago,\nhadn't he, when he told her that, confidentially, psychoanalysis was\nrubbish from top to bottom . . . She wasn't suffering from any\nsickness or neurosis. She was suffering from the perfidy of a man\nnamed Charlie Croker. She set her jaw, girded her loins, and buckled\ndown to the seagulls. She flapped her arms. She imagined the\nburning in her thighs was melting away untold ounces of adipose\ntissue.\n\". . . on . . . flop . . . on . . . flop . . . on . . . flop . . .\"\nObsessively she followed every instruction of the big Turk, Atlanta's\nhottest new creator of boys with breasts. I'm fifty-three years old,\nshe thought, flapping away like a seagull, and I need a man.\nafter class, as they often did, Martha and her friend Joyce Newman\ndrove to a restaurant on Piedmont Road known as the Bread Basket.\nThe Bread Basket was casual enough so that two women who had\nbeen exercising vigorously for an hour and had not showered couldput hip- length warm-up jackets on over their tights and leotards\nand go in and sit down and not feel out of place. At the same time\nthe Bread Basket had a certain flashy 1990s California Granola\ncachet. As you walked in, you found yourself facing an amazing wall\nof bread, covered with every kind of loaf imaginable, round ones,\noblong ones, rectangular ones, freshly baked and arranged up-\nended on shelves, like bone-china dishes in a breakfront. In the\nforeground was a pastry counter beneath a huge globe of light with\nstrips of gold-anodized aluminum orbiting it. Off to the side were\nseveral dozen slick black coffee-shop-style tables set upon a\nflagstone floor beneath a ceiling of etched mirrored glass with\nstreams of free-form Mot Pastel neon tubing running across it. And\neverywhere ... a profusion of greenery, hanging plants, plants in\ntubs, containers of mother-in-law's tongues, those rubber)' green\nfronds that stick up like swords, stretching on at shoulder height\natop the room dividers.\nMartha and Joyce always sat at a small table by a mirrored room\ndivider beneath a stupendous crop of mother-in-law's tongues, and\nthey always talked about the same thing, although it would have\nembarrassed them to say what it was in so many words. 'They were\npart of that unnamed sorority who met ever)' day, all over Atlanta,\nall over America, to talk about their common affliction, which was\ndivorce.\nJoyce stared at herself in the mirrored wall and said, \"Look at my\nhair.\"\nMartha looked. Joyce's long dark brown hair was now damp, flat,\npressed down against her head, thanks to the hour at\nDefinitionAmerica.\n\"Even- day I drive home from here looking like that,\" said Joyce, still\ninspecting herself in the mirror. \"I can't stand it anymore. I don't\neven feel like having the cleaning woman see me like this.\"\n\"Well,\" said Martha, \"why don't you bring a hat?\"\"I can't wear hats. I've tried ever)' kind of hat in the world. They all\nmake my face look too small. You know what my father used to call\nme? 'Penny Face.' \"\nFleetingly Martha wondered who, or what, Joyce's father was. She\nwas never very specific about her background. Martha's impression\nwas that she was a little girl from a decent but quite ordinary family\nin Massilon, Ohio, who went to public schools-girls who went to\nprivate schools always managed to work that into the conversation\nwithin fifteen minutes of meeting you-and came to Atlanta and\ncaptivated some sorl of software marketing whiz (Mr. Donald\nNewman of Lodestar Systems) and who, until her divorce last year,\nhad been leading a very good life on Marne Drive in Buckhead.\nHer problem, Joyce was saying, expanding on her theme, was that\nshe had nice big eyes--\nMartha nodded. Joyce did in fact have lovely big brown eyes, which\nshe carefully called attention to by applying eyeliner and mascara\nbefore she came to exercise in Mustafa Gunt's class each morning.\n-but her face was too small, so that she needed a lot of hair, full hair,\nto enhance it.\nMartha glanced into the mirror. Her jawline, which had once been a\nlovely strong smooth oval running from ear to ear, was now in three\nparts. Her cheeks were like a pair of big parentheses; her chin was a\nU that dropped down between them. That once-smooth flesh looked\nterribly . . . mealy. The pale facial hair that came down past her ears\nto her jaws, hair once so fine and downy and virginal that Charlie\nused to love to stroke it, now looked . . . coarse.\n\"You're lucky,\" said Joyce. \"You have good hair. It's so thick.\"\nMartha paused. One of the conventional courtesies of the sorority\nwas that you matched your sisters woe for woe, to show them that\nyou understood and sympathized and that they were not alone. So\nMartha started to say that she now had to backcomb her hair, teaseit, to make it look as full as it used to be-but that might lead into a\ndiscussion of how, after menopause, a woman began to lose hair,\nand she didn't. . . well, she didn't feel like talking to Joyce as a . . .\npost-menopausal woman ... So then she started to tell her how she\nhad to dye it-but that might force an embarrassing disclosure that\nJoyce didn't want to make . . . So . . . just then she noticed a\nmagazine sticking up in one corner of the open tote bag Joyce had\nbeside her on the seat. Even though the cover was rolled almost into\na tube and was upside down, she knew the . . . gestalt ... of that\ncover. It was the new issue of Atlanta. That cover she knew by\nheart. And- so she found herself responding to Joyce-whether out of\nconventional courtesy of the sorority or a genuine desire to bare her\nown stranded-woman's agony she couldn't have said-she found\nherself responding:\n\"Thank you, but I've got other problems.\" She motioned toward the\ntote bag. \"Let me have your Atlanta magazine a second.\"\nJoyce handed it to her. Laying it out on top of the table, so that\nJoyce could see it, Martha turned straight to the offending page. She\nknew precisely where it was.\n\"Read that and tell me what you think. Just the little introduction\nhere and that caption there. And that picture. That's all you have to\nlook at.\"\nJoyce pored over it. The article was a picture feature entitled \"The\nPrams What Am,\" with full-page color photographs of the latest\nfashions in perambulators among Atlanta women with social or\ncelebrity wattage. There, in the very first picture, opposite the title\npage, was a glorious portrait of Serena Croker. One hand rested\nlightly on the bar of a navy- blue British Silver Cross pram gleaming\nwith extravagantly curved chromium parts and great chromium-\nspoked wheels with fine white tires.\nThe vehicle was stuffed with about four thousand dollars' worth of\npillows, sheets, blankets, throws, quilts, and coverlets from PierrePan, plus the pinky-winky face of an infant with wisps of blond hair,\nall but lost in the bed-linen riches-the latest product of the loins of\nthat fabulous developer, Mr. Charlie Croker. The new Mrs. Croker,\nMom Triumphant, wore a tweed jacket, a ribbed cream cashmere\nturtleneck sweater that went perfectly with her luxurious mane of\nblack hurricane hair, and a little afterthought of a wool skirt that\nshowed how perfectly narrow her hips were and how long, lean, and\nlithe her perfect legs were. In short, as anyone could plainly see, a\nboy with breasts non pareil. The caption began: \"When Charlie and\nSerena Croker and their eleven- month-old daughter, Kingsley, head\noff on a family outing . . .\"\nJoyce studied it for a long time, then looked up at Martha with wide\neyes. What was that expression? Puzzlement? Embarrassment? Her\neyes seemed to be saying, \"Just give me a clue. I'll respond any way\nyou want me to.\"\n\"See what it says in the caption?\" said Martha. \" 'When Charlie and\nSerena Croker and their eleven-month-old daughter, Kingsley, head\noff on a family outing.' A family outing.\"\nJoyce drew a blank.\n\"When Charlie Croker heads off on a family outing,\" said Martha,\nlooking at her and adding a sardonic twist to her lips. \"Charlie Croker\nalready has a family. He's got two grown daughters and a sixteen-\nyear- old son. But they've become invisible. They no longer exist.\nThere's Charlie's family.\" She motioned toward the magazine. \"I can't\nbelieve he named that little girl Kingsley. Kingsley Croker. It's like a\njoke.\"\nJoyce said, \"Well ... I think you're overinterpreting.\"\n\"I don't think so. What are Mattie and Caddie and Wallace supposed\nto think when they read that?\"\n\"Well . . .\"\"I won't even get into the question of where it leaves me. I mean, I\ndisappeared a long time ago. The ex-wives of these . . . hotshots . .\n. become invisible immediately.\"\n\"Oh, that's not true, not if they've got money.\"\n\"It's not? Whatever happened to the first Mrs. Nelson Rockefeller?\nWhatever happened to the first Mrs. Aristotle Onassis? It occurred to\nher that this might be ancient history to Joyce, and so she tried to\nbring the evidence up-to-date. \"Whatever happened to the first Mrs.\nRonald\nReagan-and she was once a movie star! They're all invisible. They're\nsuperfluous.\"\nJoyce just looked at her.\n\"1 wasn't prepared for that,\" said Martha. \"We had a lot of friends,\nand I really thought a lot of them were much more my friends than\nCharlie's. Like the parents of the children in Wallace's class at Lovett.\nThose were friends that I made. Those were people who liked me,\nor that's what I thought. Half of them didn't know what to make of\nCharlie and all his Baker County stuff, all that 'down below the gnat\nline' business he goes on about. When Charlie and I broke up, they\nwere all on my side, and they wanted all the gory details, and they\ngave me all this advice. All day long I was talking and talking and\ntalking, to the therapist, to the marriage counselors, to the lawyers,\nto all my friends, and they were all telling me how absolutely right I\nwas . . .\"\nJoyce smiled and started nodding. \"I know that part. It's exciting,\nisn't it. You're in a state of shock, but it's exciting. You're like the\nheroine of a big soap opera. And then you start reading all the\nfeminist literature.\"\n\"You did that, too?\"\n\"Oh sure,\" said Joyce, \"and it really helped! It gave me a lift. It\nbucked me up.\"\"Well, I did more than that,\" said Martha. \"I actually went to four or\nfive meetings of Woman's Fist. You remember them?\"\n\"Oh, come on! You? Martha Starling Croker? I don't believe it.\"\n\"It's the truth! The meetings were in an art gallery called Minor\nInjuries on Euclid Avenue down in Little Five Points. Men weren't\neven allowed inside. I used to come out of there feeling like an\nAmazon! How could I have ever put my fate in the hands of a man?\nWho needed men? It was exhilarating.\"\n\"But weren't they a little . . . over the top?\"\n\"Of course! That was all part of it. There was every type you could\nimagine, lunatics, lesbians wearing paratrooper boots, the whole\nshooting match. But I swear, it made you feel eight feet tall! You\nwere part of an irresistible movement of the oppressed, rising up\nfrom the lower depths, throwing off your chains.\"\n\"I wish I could have seen that. Martha Starling Croker . . . But you\nstopped going.\"\n\"Well,\" said Martha, \"one day you wake up and the soap opera is\nover. All of a sudden it's stopped being exciting, what's happening to\nyou. And all those supportive friends-I can't tell you how I've come\nto loathe that word supportive. All those supportive friends, the ones\nwho loved to talk to you and lap up all the gory details, they start\nreceding, like a tide, except for the therapists and the counselors\nand the lawyers, of course, who will stick by you as long as you're\nwilling to pay them, and what you finally realize you are is, you're a\nbeached whale. You're high and dry.\"\n\"Well-up to a point,\" said Joyce, frowning.\nMartha realized she had gone too far. Another of the conventions of\nthe sorority was that you never admitted or even hinted at utter\ndefeat. So she hastily added, \"Or at least some very obvious things\nfinally dawn on you.\"\"Such as what?\"\n\"Such as-well, let's be realistic. If you're giving a dinner part)', and\nyou might have invited the Crokers, but now they're divorced, which\none are you going to invite? The former Mrs. Croker, who really was\nsuch a nice person, or Mr. Croker, who still owns Croker Global and\ngets written about all the time?\"\nJoyce didn't try to dispute the point.\n\"One day it has to dawn on you that you're completely . . . out of\ncontext.\"\n\"Out of context?\"\n\"Or maybe context isn't the word. Maybe it's pattern. The whole\npattern of your life has vanished, including your daily routine. For\ntwenty-nine years I was Mrs. Charlie Croker. We had a house on\nValley Road, and five people worked for me there every day. We had\na plantation near Albany, and there were a dozen people who\nworked in the house and forty or fifty who worked in the stables and\nthe kennels and the fields. I never particularly liked the place.\nTurpmtine was a place where Charlie and the boys came to cuss and\ndrink and put on their old khakis and shoot birds and tell war stories,\nwhile the girls made sure the food was served on time. Some\nwomen are comfortable with that life. I never was, but the\nplantation and all those people-I was the one who had to keep the\nplace organized, and it was a big undertaking, which took a lot of\ntime, and that was all part of the routine, the pattern, the context,\nwhatever the word is. When Charlie and I broke up-\"\nEven as she uttered the words-When Charlie and / broke up-it\noccurred to her she couldn't bear the humiliation of the plain truth,\nwhich was: When Charlie abandoned me for a boy with breasts. And\nin that instant she saw Serena the way she had seen her the first\ntime she ever laid eyes on her. Four years ago it was now, or almost\n. . . seven- thirty in the morning ... in a restaurant not unlike this\none . . . Supposedly Charlie was in Charlotte and wouldn't be backuntil that evening, and she had gotten up early and driven over to a\nlittle restaurant on North Highland, Cafe Rufus, the one she and\nCharlie used to go to years before because they served waffles with\nreal maple syrup, and there, to her astonishment, was Charlie, in a\nbooth, and he happened to look up. He looked right into her face,\nand his eyes became big as half-dollars-and the head of black\nhurricane hair and periwinkle eyes sitting across the table from him\nturned to see what he was looking at-\n\"-when Charlie and I broke up, there was no earthly reason for me\nto try to hang on to Turpmtine. It was bad enough to be rattling\naround in a house in Buckhead with five servants. That house is a ...\na ... a . . . you want to know what it really is? It's an aquarium ... for\na beached fish.\" She couldn't bring herself to say whale again,\nbecause she was already feeling too fat. \"I'm completely cut off from\neverything my life used to be. I am invisible. I am superfluous. And\nnow I have to pick up this . . . magazine . . . and see a picture of the\nCharlie Croker family.\"\n'Tou can look at it that way if you want to,\" said Joyce, \"but I think\nit's self-defeating.\"\nMartha sighed and paused. Joyce was getting tired of her lament.\nShe should stop. But she couldn't leave it at that. Hers was not the\nusual case of a woman who had let herself become completely the\nsatellite of a man. Her case was different! Charlie had been\ndependent on her when they started out! She had practically lifted\nhim up out of the swamps! She had created Charlie Croker and given\nup a lot to do it!\nSo she said, \"I was a medical student at Emory when I married\nCharlie.\"\n'Tou mentioned that once,\" said Joyce.\nShe was repeating herself. . . Well . . . \"My father, Bunting, was a\ndoctor, and I wanted to be a doctor. But I gave all that up to helpCharlie get started. Charlie was a real country boy, Joyce. He was a\nreal South Georgia Cracker. He used to call lightbulbs 'latbubs.' \"\n\"What was he doing for a living?\"\n\"He was a real estate broker. In Atlanta that's what Georgia Tech\ngraduates who aren't equipped to do anything but play football do.\nThey become real estate brokers. You should have seen Charlie's\nfather at our wedding.\"\nShe stopped. She couldn't bring herself to tell her friend how she\nhad really felt back then . . . How noble she had imagined herself!\nHow enlightened! How big in spirit! How romantic! Miss Martha\nStarling had reached down and found a beautiful diamond in the\nrough, Charlie Croker, and she had lifted him up to her level, and she\ndidn't care what Richmond, Virginia, thought, which wasn't much. If\nhe said Ah caint for I can't and latbubs for the things you put in\nlamps to create light, she would be Pygmalion and change all that!\nWhich she had! She was the princess in the story who brushes aside\nall base snobberies to find beauty in the commoner and give him a\nnew life and happiness ever after. She had-had-had-well-created]-\nthe Charlie Croker the world had come to know-and now, after three\ndecades, he had the audacity-the audacity]-to shuck her, cast her off\nlike any old piece of worn-out baggage, as if she had been merely\nlucky enough to come along for the great ride, as if he had\nintroduced her to all the wonders of the Buckhead life rather than\nthe other way around!\nThat was the fact of the matter, but how could you get the point\nacross without sounding completely vain and foolish?\nSo instead she said, \"I really worked with Charlie. When we put up\nour first building-it was a twelve-story office building on Peachtree\nRoad-Charlie found the location and figured out how to assemble the\nparcels, but he was totally disorganized. To this day I bet I can tell\nyou more about the steps you have to take to develop a commercial\nbuilding than Charlie can. I can also tell you about the schemes andthe tricks, as far as that goes. If it ever got out, the way Charlie\nassembled the property for this Croker Concourse of his-I mean, the\nway Charlie-\"\nShe stopped again. She realized her voice was becoming much too\nheated. But how could she help it? There was more to the whole\nthing than just her career as a business partner, co-developer, and\nindispensable counselor of the man now known as that rugged\nindividualist Charlie Croker. There was so much more! But she\ncouldn't very well tell Joyce about that, either. There was love-but\nhow could she possibly find the words to describe it? Success,\neuphoria, ecstasy, love\\ She and Charlie had been a pair of young,\nbeautiful, bright, strong creatures! The night after Charlie had closed\nthe deal with Harris, Bledsoe & Phee to come into the Peachtree\nbuilding as anchor tenants-which meant that the project would\nbecome a reality, the building would at last be built-and it was she,\nMartha, personally, who had introduced Charlie to the law firm's\ngeneral partner, Harry Bledsoe-she and Amanda Bledsoe, his\ndaughter, had gone to Sweet Briar together-that night, in the little\nhouse they had in Virginia Highlands, just the two of them, Charlie\nand herself-they opened a bottle of iced champagne, Dom Perignon-\nsomehow Dom Perignon became the national drink of real estate\ndevelopers-they were in that long, low, dreadful 1950s-style living\nroom, and Charlie reached inside her little linen jacket and put his\narms around her waist, and then he slipped the jacket off her\nshoulders and unzipped her little dress in the back-and just sitting\nhere in the Bread Basket, thinking about it, she could feel that\nmoment all over again-they had dissolved into one another, utterly,\nand Charlie's pride and happiness flowed into her until she\nexperienced it as hers, and it became something far beyond\nanything that could go by the name of ambition-it was love\nabsolute!-and for a time there were no two happier people on the\nface of the earth.\nBut how could she tell this to anybody?-to Joyce?She lowered her voice and said disconsolately, \"I don't mean to go\non about it. It's just that it wasn't an ordinary relationship.\"\nRelationship. Why had she let herself use that word? She hated\nrelationship almost as much as supportive. \"We were so close,\nJoyce, in every way you can possibly imagine.\"\nJoyce was silent for a moment. Then she said, \"Did you ever\nconsider going back into medicine?\"\n\"Oh, I went over to Emory last year and talked to them about\nreentering medical school!\"\n\"And?\"\n\"They were very nice, but these days medical training takes eight to\nten years, depending on your field, and there's no way they're going\nto let somebody my age come back and start over.\"\n\"Well, what about just moving back to Richmond? You must have a\nlot of friends there.\"\n\"I do, or I did. A lot more than here. But frankly, I just can't go\ntrudging back as Charlie Croker's cast-off wife. I just can't . . .\nPeople have very long memories in Richmond, and you know what\nthey'll say? They'll say, 'You marry common as pig tracks, you get\ntreated common as pig tracks.' That's the way they think, and\nmaybe they're-\"\nSuddenly she stopped and grasped Joyce's forearm. \"Don't look up\nyet, but there's a couple headed our way.\"\nHere came a woman in her fifties with a carapace of lemon-blond\nhair. Beside her was a dignified-looking man in his sixties.\nAfter a tactful interval Joyce gave them a glance and then turned to\nMartha. \"Who are they?\"\n\"She's Ellen Armholster. You've heard of Inman Armholster.\" Joyce\nnodded. \"And he's John Fogg of Fogg Nackers Rendering & Lean.Now watch this. I'm gonna look straight at her.\" Martha sat up\nstraight and did so.\nThe woman, Ellen Armholster, headed toward them, seemingly deep\nin conversation with Lawyer Fogg-and swept right on by without\ngiving Martha so much as a flicker of recognition.\n\"Did you see that?\" said Martha with a loopy smile. \"I'm invisible!\nShe looked right through me! I still take up space, but I don't exist!\"\n\"Well, she looked pretty preoccupied with Mr.-what's his name\nagain?\"\n\"John Fogg. I've only met him on about thirty different occasions,\nbut him cutting me I don't count. He's the sort who doesn't know\nwho wives are even when they're with the husbands he's busy\nfawning over. But Ellen Armholster! I mean, dear God in heaven! We\nwere-close friends! Or at least I thought so. Her daughter was going\nout with some hoody character, some drummer with some group\ncalled Overdose, and she called me every day for two weeks,\nsobbing, asking for advice. I was her . . . therapist, for God's sake.\nShe was telling me things about her daughter that you just don't tell\nto a casual acquaintance. But you saw that! She breezed right on by\nme, with me looking her square in the face!\"\nJoyce said, \"She was pretty wrapped up in your Mr. Fogg.\"\n\"John Fogg-I mean, please,\" said Martha. \"John Fogg may be the\nmost boring man in Atlanta. No, it's precisely what I was telling you.\nWithout Charlie I'm incorporeal, I'm the superfluous woman, the\ninvisible ex-wife.\"\nJoyce put her elbows on the tabletop. She opened her big mascara'd\neyes wide and looked into Martha's and gave her a broad, flat smile\nof sympathy. \"Do you mind if I make a suggestion?\"\n\"Go ahead.\"\nSoftly, significantly: \"Let it go.\"\"Let what go?\"\n\"Let 'Me'n'Charlie' go. I thought you were over all that.\"\nSheepishly: \"I am. I was. Something hit me during class just now.\nWhy should I let Charlie off the hook? Why shouldn't I resent what\nhe's done?\"\n\"Because you haven't got time,\" said Joyce. \"You haven't got the\nenergy, either, not to waste on 'Me'n'Charlie.' You're not telling me\nabout anything I haven't experienced myself. But I'm not gonna\nwaste any more of myself on Mr. Donald Newman. You said your\nwhole 'context' is gone. Well, you just gotta create a new one! And\nyou can do it. You've got the wherewithal.\"\n\"How?\"\n\"Do something! Start living again! Me, I give dinners. I organize\nevenings. I get involved in things, and I don't even have the money.\nYou gotta create a-a-a current and draw people in. You can't just sit\nthere in-what did you call it?-your aquarium?-and resent Charlie.\"\nShe gave Martha the sort of smile you use to try to jolly up a pouting\nchild.\n\"Well, but-\"\n\"You said context. But why don't you use a grander word.\"\n\"Such as?\"\n\"Such as destiny. Why don't you think big? Why don't you treat\nyourself to a new destiny? You've got the resources.\"\n\"It's a nice word . . .\"\n\"Oh, for Christ's sake, Martha, give me that magazine.\" She picked\nup the Atlanta magazine and shook it in front of Martha until the\npages rustled. \"We're not gonna look at The Prams What Am'\nanymore. Okay? We're not gonna look at Serena Croker. We're not\ngonna worry about Charlie Croker's family outings. We're gonnacreate our own outings. We're gonna stop moping. We're gonna get\nout of the house and start doing things and get involved with new\npeople.\"\nShe started rummaging through the back pages of the magazine,\nwhere performances and coming events were listed.\n\"What are you looking for?\" asked Martha.\n\"Something for you to do.\" She rummaged some more, now moving\ntoward the front of the magazine. \"Ahhh . . . how about this? Did\nyou see this? I bet you didn't even look at it, you were so fixated on\nThe Prams What Am.'\"\nShe spread the magazine open in front of Martha, just the way\nMartha had spread it open in front of her. On the left-hand page a\nsplashy title in big thick letters with vertical prison-uniform stripes\nrunning through them said: genius escapes from solitary. On the\nright-hand page was a painting of a group of young men in a prison\ndormitory, some fully clothed in striped uniforms, some half-clothed,\nsome naked, some naked and lying clown on cots. The atmosphere\nwas charged with sexuality. The arrangement of the bodies was\npowerful and striking, but also circumspect, in that no genitalia were\nvisible to the viewer.\nPuzzled, Martha looked up at Joyce.\n\"Have you ever heard of an artist named Wilson Lapeth?\" asked\nJoyce.\n\"I've heard of him. He was from Atlanta, right? He was gay or\nsomething?\" \"Right.\"\n\"And there was a big article about him in the Sunday paper? I only\nglanced at it.\"\n\"That's the one,\" said Joyce. It seemed that Lapeth was a painter\nfrom the early 1900s who had always been regarded as a laudable\nbut minor figure, one of those early Modernists who served assignposts pointing to the later, greater achievements of others. In\nAtlanta, which was a bit short on big names in art, he had always\nbeen a major figure, however; and over the past six months he had\nbecome one of the most- talked-about names in art circles\nnationally. Some nine hundred paintings, watercolors, and drawings\nof his had been found inside a bricked-over cold-storage chamber of\nhis mother's house in Avondale, a neighborhood near Agnes Scott\nCollege, in Decatur, where he had spent the last few years of his life\nbefore dying of complications of diabetes in 1935. Practically all of\nthem were on homosexual themes, many of them depicting prison\nlife, some of them highly explicit. So far, a select few critics,\nincluding Hudson Braun of The New York Times, had been allowed\nto view these buried treasures, and they had all been swept away.\nNow, Joyce explained, the High Museum was mounting an\nexhibition, with a grand opening, showing the Lapeth trove to the\npublic for the first time. That was what the piece in Atlanta and the\none in the Journal-Constitution on Sunday were all about.\nMartha chuckled. \"The High Museum? Atlanta, Georgia? Homosexual\nart?\"\n\"You don't know the half of it,\" said Joyce. \"They had a roaring fight\non the board, but finally they had to have the show. We had the\nOlympics and everything, and so we're supposed to be this big,\nsophisticated international city and Lapeth is our only claim to fame\nin art. All the board has to do is veto this show, and then the\nMuseum of Modern Art or the Whitney puts it on in New York, and\nthe whole town will look like a bunch of Baptist yokels. And that's\nwhat everybody in Atlanta dreads, being thought of as a hick. So\nthey didn't have any choice.\"\nMartha stared at Joyce as if to say, \"And therefore?\"\n\"That opening's gonna be the biggest event in Atlanta since . . .\nsince . . . since I don't know what.\"\n\"You think so?\"\"I know so. Of that you can be sure. Take a look at this article. And\nyou're going.\"\n\"I am?\"\n\"Yes,\" said Joyce, \"and you're gonna take an entire table and invite a\nwhole bunch of people.\"\n\"Oh, really?\"\n\"Yes, really.\"\n\"And how do I take an entire table?\"\n\"You pay for it. You buy it.\"\n\"And how much does that cost?\"\n\"Twenty thousand dollars.\"\n\"Oh, is that all?\"\n\"Martha,\" said Joyce, fixing her earnestly with her eyes, \"you've\nbeen moaning about your 'context.' This dinner, this opening, is\ngonna be so big . . . The world will be there. If you have an entire\ntable at the Lapeth opening-well, I can tell you one thing that'll\nhappen right away. The High-all these museums, they have people\non the staff whose only job is to keep big donors happy and get\nthem involved in social events that have to do with the museum.\nYou'll start meeting people.\"\n\"But twenty thousand dollarsl\"\n\"You can afford it! It's an investment in your future. We're gonna get\nyou out into the world.\"\n\"Isn't that an awful lot of money to pay for a new context?\"\n\"Forget context, Martha. Think destiny. Think of it as an initiation\nfee. For a new destiny it's not a bad price.\"The two women stared at each other. Martha was conscious of the\nshining young waitress chirping away over two customers at the\nnext table. Looking into the mirror she could see a whole tableau of\nwhite faces across the way, eating, drinking, smiling, burbling,\nbeneath a riot of mother-in-law's tongues, all so happy to be a part\nof the scene-Young\nAtlanta!-at the Bread Basket. She was also aware of the face in the\nmirror that stared right back at her, a fifty-three-year-old face with a\nU that dropped down between two big parentheses and a corona of\nstill thick-looking, still blond-looking hair.\n\"Look at me, Martha,\" said Joyce. Martha did so. \"You're going to\nthat dinner, even if I have to drag you there myself. Think destiny.\"\nthat night Charlie sat in the dressing room clad in a voluminous\nnightshirt and a bathrobe with his book, The Paper Millionaire, on his\nlap and a pair of half-glasses riding low on his nose. He stared at the\nwords ... \"1 tried desperately hard to live with the system. I made it,\nlost it, made it again, lost it, made it, and stopped. It is the rising\ndamp creeping unseen in your own house which is a danger to the\nenvironment . . .\"\nRising damp, all right. He was awash in debt, and it had begun to\ntake soaking, spattering, humiliating, everyday forms. There was no\nend to them. A delegation of dark blue suits arrives from his anchor\ntenant in the tower at Croker Concourse, Consolidated Surety, and\nannounces to him they want a 30 percent reduction in rent, from\n$32 a square foot to $21.80, and some thirty-year-old blue-suit\nlawyer informs him, with maximum impudence: \"You have no\nchoice\"-meaning, \"We can afford to vacate, walk out on a five-year\nlease, but you, in your precarious position, can't afford to have us\nleave, which would make your disaster of a tower look worse than\never.\"\nCharlie attempted to concentrate on the book in his lap again. \"I\ntried desperately hard to live with the system. I made it, lost it,made it again, lost it . . .\" Christalmighty, his eyes were skimming\nover the very same words he was just looking at. Panic . . . and he\nknew it. Out of the corner of his eye-something moving. He looked\nup with a start. It was Serena. He hadn't even heard her come into\nthe room.\n\"Jesus Christ, I didn't know you were in here. You must be part\nIndian.\" He didn't say it with a smile, however, and she could have\ntaken it as a complaint or as just something to say. He didn't know\nwhich it was himself.\n\"She is coming, my own, my sweet,\" said Serena. \"Were it ever so\nairy a tread, my heart would hear her and beat, were it earth in an\nearthy bed; my dust would hear her and beat.\"\n\"My dust would hear her, hunh?\" What was she suddenly being so\ncute and sweet about? \"What's that from?\"\n\"Tennyson,\" said Serena.\n\"Tennyson?\" The name rang only a far-off bell for Charlie. What was\nhe, a writer or a cavalry officer? If he had to guess, he would have\nguessed cavalry officer.\n\"It's from 'Maud.' 'Come into the garden, Maud, for the black bat,\nnight, has flown; come into the garden, Maud, I am here at the gate\nalone.' At St. Maud's we had to memorize whole sections of it. I bet\nwe were the only school in the country that still studied Tennyson.\"\nLiterary references, which he never got, annoyed Charlie, and he\ngave his wife a wary once-over. She was wearing her little salmon-\ncolored silk robe and not much else, judging by how much of her he\ncould see. For a moment he was afraid she had come in to coax him\ninto bed to have a go at it-something that had not occurred over the\npast several weeks.\nHe was afraid. That was the word. Since he believed that his\nperformance as a developer, as an entrepreneur, as a plunger, as a\ncreative person, was bound up with his sexual vitality, then he alsobelieved that if he ever lost that, he would lose his . . . power ... in\nbusiness and everything else. And now he was afraid that the\npressure had rendered him exactly that: impotent. He could sense it;\nhe could feel it; somehow he knew it. But he didn't want to have to\ntake the test and find out for sure. Not tonight.\nSerena took a seat in the easy chair near his, and he got an eyeful\nof the inside of her thigh as she crossed her legs. The slow,\nvoluptuous way she had of crossing her legs and letting a half-\nslipper dangle on her toes had been enough to set him off all by\nitself. . . once upon a time. Now he stared and waited for the tingle,\nwhich never came.\nGodalmighty . . . That was one of the ways he had worked it out in\nhis mind that he was right to break up with Martha and marry\nSerena. He had had to. It had been necessary, in order to maintain\nhis vitality. He had been fifty-five when he first started fooling\naround with Serena, and she had made him feel like twenty-five. She\nhad him doing things you should get out of your system by age\nthirty at the latest. Serena loved sex mixed with danger. She loved it\non the edge of exposure. She pulled him right into this crazy stuff of\nhers. It was breathtaking! He lost his senses. One night in Piedmont\nPark, under a full moon-now, that had been truly insane. The\nfounder, president, and chairman of the Croker Global Corporation!\nThe fabled Sixty-Minute Man! Mr. Charles E. Croker of Valley Drive,\nBuckhead! The police were always patrolling Piedmont Park at night,\nnot to mention malefactors of various sorts. One afternoon they\nwere driving by that sleazy motel on the Bu- ford Highway, The\nSwallows-\"The Swallows!\" she started shrieking, as if it were the\nfunniest name in the world-and she insisted that they stop then and\nthere and take a room, on the spot, and they did, and once they got\nin the room, she produced that little cup from her handbag, and they\ndid that thing with the cup, something he had never heard of in all\nhis life-my God, suppose anybody had seen him, Charlie Croker,\nmaster builder-Croker Concourse!-checking into a motel on the\nBuford Highway with a twenty-three-year-old girl-but he had lost hismind to her demented form of lust. Danger! Imminent exposure!\nThat thing with the cup!\nShe had made him feel as if he were still young. In a way . . .\nlooking back on it ... a man is still connected to his youth at fifty-\nfive-but why kid himself? Now he was sixty years old, and the\nconnection was nil, and he was sitting here in a nightshirt with his\nbelly sagging all the way down to the book in his lap.\nStill smiling sweetly, Serena asked, \"What are you reading?\"\nCharlie lifted the book up and looked at the cover as if he had never\nbothered to notice the title before. \"It's called The Paper Millionaire.\"\n\"What's it about?\"\n\"Awww, it's about an Arab, an Iraqi. He lives in London. He makes a\nlot of money ... He loses it . . .\" He shrugged, as if it wasn't worth\ngoing into.\nSerena said, \"It's non-fiction?\"\n\"I reckon. Supposed to be.\"\nThe two of them sat there in silence for a few moments, and Charlie\nbegan to wonder just what was the purpose of this wifely visit.\nThen Serena said, \"Did you read the paper this morning?\"\n\"I looked at it.\"\n\"Did you read the article about Wilson Lapeth?\"\n\"Who?\"\n\"Wilson Lapeth. An Atlanta artist? Died in the 1930s? He was pretty\nwell known. You must have heard of him.\"\nThe name did ring a bell, sort of; another of those far-off bells.\n\"Mmmmmm ... I'm not sure.\"Serena proceeded to give him a quick rundown on Lapeth, treading\nas lightly as possible upon the fact that the theme of these\nmasterworks was homosexual. Instead, she stressed the excitement\nthe name Wilson Lapeth was creating in Atlanta.\n\"The High Museum's gonna show them,\" she said, \"and it's gonna\nbe-well, it'll be the biggest art show in the history of Atlanta, I\nguess.\"\n\"Bigger than the Cyclorama?\" said Charlie.\nHe could see Serena studying his face to figure out whether or not\nhe was having his little joke. The Cyclorama was a tourist attraction\ncreated back in the 1880s, a temple-like building in Grant Park\ncontaining an immense circular mural, a full 360 degrees, illustrating\nthe Battle of Atlanta during the Civil War. Yes, he was having his little\njoke, although he managed to keep a straight face. Serena couldn't\npossibly imagine how uninterested he was in some dead homosexual\nartist named Wilson Lapeth.\nShe may have divined that much, but she didn't let it stop her. \"Well,\nI'm talking about-you know what I mean. You should see what The\nNew York Times wrote about it.\"\nBefore he could say no, she had hopped up and gone into the\nbedroom. In no time she was back with a page from The Atlanta\nJournal- Constitution, folded in two, which she deposited in his lap.\nThe headline said, genius and treasure in the closet.\nSerena pointed to a boxed inset containing a quotation from a New\nYork Times critic named Hudson Braun. \"Just read that part.\"\nCharlie was annoyed. He was tired. He didn't feel like reading\nsomething by somebody from The New York Times. Why was it that\nwhen the subject of art came up, everybody in Atlanta immediately\nhad to start talking about what people said in New York? But to\nhumor his wife he read that part.Annoyance now rose to the level of irritation. \"Gay artist\" . . .\n\"unabashedly phallic thrust\" . . . \"zenith of the homoerotic\nimagination\" . .. \"Today, at last, we know what Wilson Lapeth really\nwas: quite simply a genius\" . . . Give me a break . . . The word gay,\nall by itself, was galling enough, especially since he realized that\ncontemporary etiquette demanded that you solemnly accept it as the\nproper designation. He could think of four or five other words that\ngot the point across in plainer English.\nHe looked up at Serena and said, \"So that's Mr. Lapeth. That's quite\na write-up.\"\n\"Isn't it?\" She smiled brightly.\nCharlie looked down at the article again and then said, as if reading\naloud from it: \"Today, at last, we know what Wilson Lapeth really\nwas: queer as Dick's hatband.\"\n\"What?\" In the next instant she realized her husband was having his\nfun, which she found completely stupid and gauche. She\ncompressed her lips and gave him a withering stare.\nHer anger amused Charlie. He grinned and looked down at the\nnewspaper clipping again and said, \"It says right here! Today, at last,\nwe know what Wilson Lapeth really was: queer as Dick's hatband.'\"\n\"Hah hah,\" said Serena. \"You know, I hope you don't make cracks\nlike that in front of other people. Not even your cronies. You might\nget a laugh, but they're not going to respect you. I hope you\nunderstand that.\"\n\"All right, all right,\" said Charlie, chuckling. He was pleased over\nhaving gotten a rise out of her. \"I take it back. Mr. Lapeth wasn't\nqueer as Dick's hatband.\"\n\"It's like saying 'nigger,' \" said Serena. \"I'm sure you have your\ncronies you can get a laugh out of by saying 'nigger,' too, but you\ncan imagine what they'd actually think of you.\"That stung a bit. \"You've never heard me say that, and nobody else\nhas. My momma and daddy never used that word, and I'm talking\nabout South Georgia fifty years ago.\"\nThat wasn't exactly true, but his folks had been far from the worst\noffenders in Baker County, and Charlie regarded himself as a great\nfriend and protector of colored people, thanks to his role as the\npatron of Turpmtine Plantation . . . The nerve of Serena . . . and\nthen he realized he had broken one of his own cardinal rules, which\nwas: In dealing with subordinates and women, never justify, never\nexplain, never back off.\nSerena said, \"Well, I wish you could say the same for some of your\nfriends.\"\n\"Such as who?\"\n\"Billy Bass. The last time we were down at Turpmtine, he was going\naround saying, The niggers this' and The niggers that,' especially to\nthe Roths. I don't know what marvelous effect he thought he was\ncreating. I don't know whether they were supposed to think he was\nsome colorful macho good ol' boy who was man enough to flout\ngood taste anytime he felt like it or whether he just felt like shocking\nthem because he knew they were Jewish and from New York. But\nyou want to know what they really thought of him? They thought he\nwas a Neanderthal . . . and a creep.\"\nCharlie wanted to take up for Billy, who was one of his oldest\nfriends, but he was too tired to let this turn into a full-blown spat. So\nhe said, \"Well-Billy's Billy.\"\n\"I know.\" Serena offered a philosophical smile. Evidently she didn't\ncare to get into a fight, either. She kept on smiling, and then she\nsaid, \"Anyway, I'd like to go to the opening. I think we should go.\"\n\"The opening?\"\n\"The High's gonna open the Lapeth exhibition with a dinner in the\nmuseum. Charlie-it's gonna be a huge event. We really do have togo. I think we should take a table.\"\n\"What does that mean, 'take a table'?\"\n\"Subscribe-take a table for ten, and we'd invite eight people.\"\n\"Unh-hunh. How much would that cost?\"\n\"Well-the tables are twenty thousand dollars each.\"\n\"Twenty thousand dollars?\"\nShe leaned forward until he could look straight down her robe. It\nwas true; she had nothing on underneath. \"Come on, Charlie . . .\"\nShe was smiling. Then she stood up and came around behind his\nchair and put her hands on his shoulders. She let her hands run\ndown his chest and leaned over him until her chin was pressing on\nthe top of his head. \"We really do have to go to this, Charlie.\"\n\"Let me explain something to you, Serena . . . This id'n a great time\nfor me to be spending twenty' thousand dollars for dinner at a\nmuseum.\"\nSerena's response to this was to settle in even more cozily, until her\nbosom was up against the back of his head and her arms were\naround his neck. \"You're talking about your-what do you call it?-\nsituation? -with PlannersBanc?\"\nCharlie sighed and let his eyes wander around the room . . . Ronald\nVine's tribute to vanity'. . . Closet after closet after closet. . . full-\nlength mirror after full-length mirror after full-length mirror ... all\nframed in mahogany ... In the mirror straight ahead he could see an\nold man slouched back in an Omohundro easy chair, an old man who\nwas bald, rumpled, weary, beaten. Nestled in on top of his head was\nthe face of a girl, a flawless young thing with long black hair that\nnow streamed down over the old man's shoulders. She had a\nfrolicsome smile on her face. But of course; she was young. Life was\nstill a long, adventuresome climb up a hill. She had no clear idea of\nwhat she would see at the top, let alone of the grim slide thatawaited on the other side. Foreclosure, default, repossession,\nbankruptcy, phantom gains-all of it extending down into the gloom\nof a crevice, which was old age. Even if she understood their\nmeaning, they'd be nothing but words to her. All of a sudden he\nresented her youth. No, he feared it. He feared its inevitable\ncallousness.\n\"I'm talking about cash flow, Serena,\" he said in an old man's voice.\n\"Twenty thousand dollars is twenty thousand dollars.\"\nHer smile didn't waver for a moment. The young face in the mirror\nlooked straight into his eyes. \"So is that the signal you want to\nsend?\"\n\"Whattaya mean, 'signal'?\"\n\"If we don't go, don't think nobody'll notice. You've been a major\nbenefactor of the museum, and this'll be the biggest event in the\nmuseum's history. If you're not there, everybody'll wonder why.\"\nIn the mirror Charlie could see himself slump down still farther. His\nyoung wife, with her lineless face, enveloped him still more lovingly\nas he sank. She was right . . . Back in the days when they were\nraising money for the High Museum's new building, he-or Croker\nGlobal- had kicked in $100,000. Mr. Big-Timer! But that was the way\nit was. If you wanted to do business in Atlanta, you were expected\nto step up to the plate and hit that ball for the charities, the\nmuseums, the schools, the foundations, the lot. That was what you\ndid. Christ, he had given $5 million to his alma mater, Georgia\nTech-$5 million! He suddenly had an inspiration. He'd go back to\nthem. He'd say, \"Look, when you needed money, I gave you $5\nmillion without batting an eye. Well, now I need money, and so I'd\nlike a million back. You'll still be $4 million ahead.\" But immediately\nhe lost heart. They'd never go for it. He'd only end up looking like a\ndesperate fool. And the tone of pious regret with which they would\nturn him down would make him sick to his stomach . . . No, he had\nno choice but to keep up appearances and brazen it out until hecould think of a solution to all this. Fortunately in Atlanta you didn't\nhave to worry about something like your humiliation in a workout\nsession popping up in print the next day. Whatever circulated,\ncirculated on the grapevine. Serena was right. They'd better go to\nthat show ... of some dead faggot-\n\"Okay,\" he said, noticing in the mirror how bleary he looked as he\nsaid it, \"we'll go. But why can't we just go? Why do we have to buy\na whole table?\"\n\"Ohhhhh-two reasons,\" said the young woman who cradled his old\nhead. \"One, all the tables could get bought up. That could easily\nhappen. And two, if you just buy tickets, you'll be assigned to a table\nwith -who knows who, and I'm not sure if you want that, either.\"\nChrist; no way out. \"All right... we'll get a table.\" Even as the words\ncame out, he was calculating how to manage it. The museum\nwouldn't dare demand cash up front. So he'd get the table . . . and\nafter that the High Museum could stand in line with everybody else\nwho was yammering at the Croker Global Coqioration.\nSerena lowered her head so that she could press her cheek against\nhis and began to massage his chest with her hands.\n\"All right!\" said the old man in the mirror, \"I give up. You win, you\ngot your dinner.\" He said it so brusquely it sounded as if he were put\nout over having been talked into it. But that was not the case. In\nfact, he was afraid the nuzzling and the massaging might go further\nand she might try to get him into the next room, where the bed was.\nHe already knew the truth in his loins. He was in no mood to have it\ndemonstrated in an unmistakable fashion.\nChapter 10The Red Dog\nIn harry zale's office on the forty-ninth floor at plan- nersbanc the\nboys had their jackets off and their tie knots at half-mast. Harry\nhimself sat back in his leather swivel chair behind his desk with his\nelbows winged up in the air and his fingers interlaced behind his\nneck. The skulls and crossbones on his suspenders were parading up\nand down his big chest. Everybody else, including Raymond\nPeepgass, even though he outranked him, faced in toward Harry\nfrom chairs or the couch or the marble window seat. They were like\nthe pilots of a fighter squadron in the presence of the Old Man. With\nthe exception of himself, it occurred to Peepgass, none of them\nactually sat in a chair or on the couch. They perched on an arm or a\nback or on the edge of a cushion or the marble ledge with their\nthighs ajar in an athletic sprawl, as if they were bulging with so\nmuch testosterone they couldn't have closed their legs if they tried.\nBusinessmen all over America sat around like this, Peepgass\nreckoned, but none were more thoroughly convinced of their\nmanliness than these Southern boys were. The subject was Charlie\nCroker and what to do with that shithead, and they were the ones\nwho had saddlebagged him in the now-legendary workout session.\nSince then they had been closing in for the kill, which would consist\nof making Croker sit, lift his paws and say please, roll over, and play\ndead. Jack Shellnutt, Harry's rangy number-one sidekick, who\nthought he looked like Clint Eastwood, was straddling one arm of the\ncouch. \"I just got off the telephone with Croker half an hour ago.\"\nHe gave a short snorting laugh. \"That guy's too good to waste on\none person. Next time I'm gonna hook up a conference call. You\ngotta hear him go on about his fucking airplanes. You'd think he\ncouldn't draw another breath without his Gulfstream Five.\"\n\"What's breathing got to do with it?\" said Harry. \"You know all 'at\nCroker uses that airplane for, don't you?\"\n\"Yeah,\" said Shellnutt, holding his fist up to his mouth as if it were a\nmicrophone. \"Ladies and gentlemen, in preparation for landingplease return all seatbacks, tray tables, and stewardesses to their\noriginal upright positions.\"\nThey all cracked up for about the fortieth time in the past ten\nminutes. Oh yeah, we are men, and we brook no whining by the\nshit- heads. Even Peepgass started chuckling . . . until the word\nstewardesses, which reminded him of flights to Finland. He had a\ndeposition coming up with Sirja that was going to cost him $400 an\nhour in legal fees plus maximum humiliation and mortification.\nHe looked away from Harry and the rest of Team Saddlebags and\nout the window. This office was part of the main executive floor,\nPlannersBanc's Olympus. From his desk, through the plate-glass\nwindow wall, Harry Zale could gaze south upon the pride of the\nAtlanta skyline, a whole strutting parade of towers that ran from One\nPeachtree Center in the foreground to the twin crowns of the 191\nPeachtree building in the background. Peepgass outranked Harry on\nthe organizational chart, but his office was down on the sixth floor,\nwhere he gazed west upon the Highway 85 expressway and the\nrailroad yards. At this moment in the economic cycle Harry Zale and\nhis Real Estate Asset Management Department were riding very\nhigh.\nHarry's office was so swell, on one wall he had a huge glass and\nstainless-steel etagfcre. The shelves were glass an inch thick, with\nbeveled edges that caught the light, and on the shelves Harry had\nhis trophies: his scalps, so to speak, from victorious workout\nsessions of the past. There was an elaborate two-foot-long model,\nexquisitely made, of a yellow manure spreader, from the Heartland\nFarm Equipment workout. Manure spreader: more irresistible\nbanker's scatology, of course. There was an artificial heart from the\nCybermax workout; a molded rubber impression of the size-19 left\nfoot of You Gene Jones, the basketball star, from the Offum Sports\n(mostly sneakers) workout; and so forth and so on. But Ham's pride\nand joy was a gold Patek Philippe wristwatch-a fake one, actually-\nwhich sat in the center of the etagPSre on a miniature velvet easel.\nIn the Clockett, Paddet, Skynnham & Glote workout, the law firm'ssenior partner, Herbert Skynnham, had been so desperate, he had\nlisted a $40,000 Patek Philippe watch as collateral. At a breakfast\nsession Harry had asked if by any chance he had it with him. Yes,\nsaid Skynnham. Harry asked if he could inspect it. Skynnham took it\noff his wrist and handed it to him. Harry weighed this dazzling\ngolden wafer with its gleaming band tenderly in his palm, then\nsmiled, slipped it into the left-hand side pocket of his jacket, and\nsaid, \"Thank youuuuu.\" With that, Harry Zale became a legend in his\nown time. PlannersBanc's chief cxccutivc officer, Arthur Lomprcy, lord\nof the forty-ninth floor, was so impressed, he bought a fake Patek\nPhilippe watch from a Senegalese street vendor out in front of\nUnderground Atlanta with $65 of his own money and had it\nengraved To Harry. Thank youuuuu! Arthur.\nDan Friedman, the new Mr. Wonderful from Marketing, sitting on the\nother arm of the couch, was looking straight at Harry, and beaming,\nas he said, \"But you gotta admit Croker's a playoffs-caliber talker.\nYou have to hand him that much. As long as he's talking, you sort of\nhalfway believe that unbelievable dog's breakfast he's trying to pass\noff as a business plan. He'll talk to you about Baker County, huntin'\ndawgs, the ballin' sun, the wale-fare system, his faithful Turpmtine\nfolk, and his two dicks, and blow fairy dust in your face, all at the\nsame time.\"\nTeam Saddlebag cracked up again.\n\"He's a good bullshitter,\" said Shellnutt, \"but when he gets around to\nthe part about spreading out the interest payments, he's straining so\nhard you can see daylight underneath his shoes.\"\nThey all cracked up again.\n\"Talk about trying too hard,\" said one of the fellows from Legal,\nTigner Shanks, who was perched on the back of a club chair.\n\"Remember the workout session? Remember when he started\ntalking about that fucking plantation of his? I thought he was gonna\nstart crying.\"\"He wasn't crying,\" said Shellnutt. \"He had such a hard-on for that\nboffable bimbo sitting next to him, Miss Peaches, it was stretching\nthe skin on his face.\"\nCracked up again, they did, they did, these victorious warriors. Why\ndo they turn everything into sex? wondered Peepgass. Dicks, hard-\nons. boffable bimbos, horizontal stewardesses, fucking this and\nfucking that. . . They were educated people talking about loans,\nbuildings, and food warehouses, but they had to reduce it all to sex,\nor sex and shit. . . Well, he was a fine one to feel superior, wasn't he\n. . . His life was coming apart because some ditzy little horizontal\nScandinavian notions buyer was filing a paternity suit . . .\n\"One thing I gotta ask you, Harry,\" said Tigner Shanks. \"How did you\nhave the-what made you decide to put Croker through the lender's\ncactus? Remember that? I mean, you already had the saddlebags,\nyou'd already given the guy the unidigital salute\"-Shanks extended\nthe middle finger of his right hand, and Harry's Squadron cracked up\nagain- \"the guy was about to explode, he was already getting ready\nto leave the room, and you pulled the lender's cactus on him! I\nmean, Harry, if you wanna know the truth, I couldn't believe it! I just\nabout shit!\"\nHarry rocked back a little farther in his swivel chair and smiled and\nshrugged. \"I don't know ... I guess I figured, with a guy like that,\nwho thinks the whole world sways to his big swinging dick, you gotta\nbe absolutely sure you get your point across. You know, one time\nCurtis LeMav-the general?-one time Curtis LeMay appeared before a\nSenate committee asking for ten thousand nuclear warheads for the\nAir Force, and one of the senators, Everett Dirksen, says, 'I thought\nyou told us that with six thousand warheads you could reduce the\nentire Soviet Union to cinders. Why should we give you ten\nthousand?' And LeMay says, 'Senator, I wanna see the cinders\ndance.' \"\nTeam Saddlebags exploded, blasted off, orbited, experienced a\nhundred dawns and sunsets in ten seconds as the boys spun aroundtheir peerless leader.\nYeah, well, it was great stuff, all right, and he, Peepgass, had\nenjoyed the demolition of Charlie Croker along with all the rest; but\nfor him the triumph had already grown cold. Maybe he was an\naccepted member of the mighty Team Saddlebags, and maybe he\nwasn't, but it wasn't his triumph, in any event. It was Harry's. It was\nthe Workout Department's . . . and as Harry's Squadron yahooed,\nexulted, cracked wise, and cracked up, Peepgass grew steadily more\ndepressed ... It wasn't that he envied Harry, or not exactly. The\nworkout people were riding high right now because the bank needed\nthem so badly, what with so many big loans having tanked. But that\ndidn't mean Harry was going anywhere. Elsewhere on this floor, in\nthe CEO's office, the workout artistes were looked upon as special\ncases, like a special unit in football. No, Harry had a big salary and a\nbig office, but it was important to Peepgass to believe he wasn't\ngoing anywhere, because neither was he, Peepgass. Only forty-six\nyears old, and already he'd reached a dead end in the banking\nmaze! And at forty-six there was no retracing your steps!\nThrough the glass inner wall of Harry's office he could look through\nother glass walls, into other offices, in toward the very core of the\nforty- ninth floor. And everywhere he looked, he could see the eerie\nluminous rectangles of computer screens, and across those screens\nblipped the two hundred to three hundred billion dollars that moved\nthrough PlannersBanc even- day. They were sailing, Harry, Tigner\nShanks, jack Shellnutt, Friedman, himself, the whole crew, on an\nunimaginably huge sea of money. But all that any of them could take\nout of that huge sea for themselves was a little jiggerful. He was a\nsenior officer of one of the biggest banks in the country, and his\nsalary was only $130,000 a year. Oh, lie knew he could never say\nthat word only out loud, certainly not back in San Jose to his father\nand mother or any of their friends. But the fact was, he was\nstrapped! Federal and state taxes took almost $46,000. Mortgage\npayments on the house in Snellville took almost $34,000, and he\ncouldn't even live there since Betty had thrown him out. Theapartment in Normandy Lea was costing him $7,920 a year, once he\nfigured in telephone and utilities. The car payments, for Betty's Buick\nLe Sabre and the Honda Excel wagon he was stuck with, came to\n$5,400. So there you had more than $93,000, leaving $37,000 for\neverything else, such as food, fuel, clothes-and the children, Brian\nand Aubrey, were outgrowing clothes every time you looked around-\nrepairs, insurance, the orthodontist, not to mention (was it too much\nto ask!) going out to restaurants, having a little vacation in the\nsummer, or whatever else senior corporate officers making $130,000\na year might reasonably expect to do. The hell of it was, without the\nroughly $55,000 a year Betty- got from the securities her mother left\nher, they would have had to drastically lower their standard of living,\nwhich wasn't all that great to start with. As for how he was going to\npay for the $45,000 in legal fees he had already run up trying to\nfend off Sirja, he had no idea whatsoever, and there was a $400-an-\nhour deposition coming up--\nThe computer screens beyond all the glass walls of the forty-ninth\nfloor glowed and flared and popped out into CD-ROM patterns, and\nthe little phosphorescent lines were skittering from left to right,\nwhen a burst of he-man gullet laughter brought him back into this\nroom, Commander Harry's command post.\nHarrv and Shellnutt and Shanks and the boys were shaking with the\nmirth of their hearty wit and slapping their gaping manly thighs, and\nPeepgass wondered how on earth it had ever turned out this way.\nHe was smarter than all the talent in this room put together. Then\nwhy had he taken such an unadventurous route at the bank? There\nwas only one organizational chart at PlannersBanc, but there were\ntwo kinds of officers. There were line officers, and there were staff\nofficers. The line officers were those who generated new business or\notherwise created income for the bank. They were involved in\nmarketing (such as originating big loans to entrepreneurs like Charlie\nCroker) or in investment banking or novel retail strategies, or\nworkouts, like Harry. They were the officers Arthur Lomprey and the\nrest of them here on the forty-ninth floor were referring to whenthey used that grand-sounding term bankers. Only a line officer was\na real banker. A staff officer wasn't; a staff officer was something\nelse; and there you had Raymond Peepgass. What was he actually?\nWhat was any senior loan officer? He was a referee, a monitor. He\nwas supposed to monitor big loans to make sure they stayed within\nprudent boundaries.\nPrudent? It had been a struggle even to be prudent. In the 1980s\nPrudent hadn't stood a chance; nor in the late 1990s. The boom was\non, and the banking business had caught fire, and a wonderful giddy\nmadness was in the air. The line officers from Marketing were\npushing through loans, their \"big sales,\" with a pell-mell abandon. If\nyou were a referee who insisted on detecting the madness and\nblowing your whistle, they just ran right over you, laughed at you,\nmade you feel timid and old-fashioned. Like every other senior credit\nofficer, Peepgass had signed off on tens of millions of dollars' worth\nof loans with self-destruct written all over them . . . including Charlie\nCroker's, rather than try to stand in the way of the stampede . . .\nBut to tell the truth, that explanation, sad as it was, wasn't the\nwhole story. In fact, he had been swept up in the madness himself.\nLike many another bank officer, he had started getting a euphoric lift\nout of being part of the grand schemes and imperial visions of the\nCharlie Crokers of the world. John Sycamore may have been the\nhigh-flying line officer who had brought Croker to the bank and\nmade the big sales, but Sycamore had had to come to him,\nPeepgass, for approval; and he, too, had become an advocate of this\ninfinitely vital and charming back-country boy, this risk taker with a\ngrand vision and an infallible touch. It had reached the point where\nhe had became convinced that Croker had more than talent, know-\nhow, and drive; that Croker also had a certain magical power that\nenabled him to pull off the impossible. And he, Peepgass, was\nsomehow his partner. Croker and Peepgass, riding before the wind\non the great sea of money!\nInstinctively, gloomily, he shook his head at the very thought. There\nwas no denying it. Back then, in the palmy days, he had loved beingaround Charlie Croker. He was the one who had introduced Croker to\nSerena; or indirectly he had. In PlannersBanc's Private Banking\nDepartment there had been a line officer named Frances Geistman,\nknown sotto voce among the boys as the Ice Princess, of whom\nShanks had once said, \"She's the only banker in Atlanta who can cut\nyour nuts off and give you a hard-on at the same time.\" The Ice\nPrincess had dreamed up a new marketing strategy called the Art\nInvestment Seminars. The art market in New York had picked itself\nup off the floor and was surging again, and Frances Geistman got\nthe bright idea of luring big clients into the bank by offering to\ninstruct them in the arcana of this hot and glamorous New York-st)'le\nform of investment. Businessmen in Atlanta liked to affect\nindifference to New York and its fashions, but they also liked to show\nthe world that they moved on just as fast a track as anybody else.\nAnd the lure? Here the Ice Princess, who was from New York, had\ndemonstrated her sexual genius. As instructors she hired recent\ngraduates of the New York University' Institute of Fine Arts. The\nInstitute seemed to graduate nothing but young, gorgeous, socially\nconnected girls with boarding-school accents and tender loamy loins\nand legs that drove rich men wild. They matriculated in the Art\nInvestment Seminars in droves. The girls cooed to them about\nBruegel the Elder and Fischl the Younger and about short- and long-\nterm auction variables. The courses were conducted, covertly, in\nconjunction with Gillray's, the New York auction house. The bank\nlent money to its smitten seminarians and steered them to Gillray's\nto buy art and sell it (and took commissions from Gillray's going and\ncoming) and set them up with deluxe VIP art tours of New York,\nwhile they were at it, and then moved in on them to get all their\nbanking business, personal and corporate.\nThere were so many stories floating around about the Ice Princess\nand her Art Geishas, Peepgass had dropped in on a few classes-and\nbecome as besotted as the worsted-suited marks themselves. Art!\nHe tried to come on to one of the instructors, a little brunette named\nJenny; and then another, a willowy redhead named Amy (Amy\nPhipps-Phelps!). Insofar as he could afford it, he became anhabitu<SS of the art world, going to the big gallery and museum\nopenings in Atlanta, including fund-raising dinners at the High\nMuseum, which he couldn't afford. He wangled introductions to\ncollectors and museum trustees-anything to get into the merry swim\nof Art's sex, money, and glamour. He didn't get very far with Jenny\nand Amy. The Geishas, if they wanted to fraternize, didn't have to\nsettle for a PlannersBanc staff officer making a pitiable $130,000 a\nyear. There were far, far bigger fish right there in front of them at\nthe bank, at the art seminars: Charlie Croker, for a start.\nIt was Peepgass who had persuaded Croker to take a class and get\nthe feel of this hot new investment opportunity. Croker had found\nthe class a bore and a joke. He was interested in narrative art of\nmen in action, by N. C. Wyeth, Howard Pyle, Frederic Remington,\nand Wins- low Homer, and that was about it. But he found the\ninstructor, Miss Serena Sharp, all he could ask for. Serena was bright\nand provocatively sarcastic. She had such a perfect young body,\nsuch loosely sprung hips, that even in a simple black minidress (her\nprofessional costume) she managed to look naked. Croker never\nwent near the Art Investment Seminars again, but he went after\nSerena Sharp and divorced his wife of twenty-nine years and married\nher.\nPeepgass was amazed-mostly by the fact that the big tycoon had the\nnerve to shuck his old wife after all that time, just like that. He\ncouldn't have imagined summoning up the fortitude to leave Betty.\nNevertheless, the great sexual itch of the 1980s had been spread to\nRaymond Peepgass. And then he had met Sirja.\n\"What'll he do next?\"\nIt was Shanks's voice, in such a high-pitched whine that it cut right\nthrough the morose shell of his thoughts. Evidently he was talking to\nHarry, because Harry said, \"Oh, that's easy. He'll try to hide the\nairplanes.\"\n\"That's a safe fucking bet,\" said Shellnutt.\"An ordinary human being can't imagine how tightly a shithead\nbonds with his airplanes,\" said Hart)'.\n\"Yeah,\" said Shellnutt, \"a shithead like Croker never heard of\nfrequent-flier miles or standing still beside an X-ray box while some\nrent- a-guard making $7.50 an hour runs a Geiger counter up your\nin-seam. Remember that shithead from Cybermax, Harry? Duber\nwas his name, or something like that?\"\n\"Fucking hoople sells his King Air, he claims. Turns out he sold it to\nhis sister-in-law for a piece a paper.\"\n\"What's a hoople?\" asked Shanks.\n\"Ten pounds a shit in a five-pound bag,\" said Shellnutt. \"So now\neven' time he has to fly in here to see us, he has his fucking pilot fly\nthe plane to PDK. He has a limo waiting to drive him in on the\nBuford Highway to Downtown, and then he gets a taxi to bring him\nhere, so if anybody sees him arrive, he's getting out of a jellybean\ndriven by some guy named Jahmeed.\"\n\"What's a jellybean?\" asked Friedman.\n\"Oh, you know, a Chevrolet Caprice. All the taxis are Chevrolet\nCaprices, and they all look like jellybeans.\"\n\"It was worse than that,\" said Harry. \"Fucking guy, while he's flying\nhere from Cincinnati, he calls his secretary and tells her to look up\nthe airline schedules and inform him as to what flight he's supposed\nto be on right now and which one he's going back on, in case\nanybody asks. The dickbrain, if he spent half as much time tending\nto business as he did worrying about his phantom itineraries, we\nmight've gotten outta that one alive.\" He gestured toward the\nCybermax artificial heart up on the magnificent etagere. \"What that\nshithead needed was a left- hemispherectomy.\"\n\"And a Vibram scrotum,\" said Shellnutt.\"Well, whattaya figure our chances are of coming outta Croker\nGlobal alive?\" asked Friedman. He didn't ask it of Peepgass,\nhowever, as Peepgass was quick to note, but of Harry.\n\"In the current market?\" said Harry. 'You want my honest opinion? . .\n. Terrible. I'd love to foreclose on that big shithead, love to. They call\nup here two months ago and say they've 'run into a situation.' That's\nsuch pure shithead stuff-'We've run into a situation.'That always\nmeans the same thing: they can't make the next interest payment,\nlet alone pay back principal. We've run into a situation . . .\" Disgust\ndripped from the words. \"Well, we don't have a situation. We got a\nproblem, a real nut-masher. We got a pile a commercial real estate\nhere that's leaking money all over the place, and we got seventeen\nwholesale food warehouses operating at a loss. The trouble is, you\ncan't just turn these places off and put locks on 'em and wait for a\nchange in the economic cycle and then sell 'em. The buildings have\ntenants with leases. Lousy leases and not enough of them, but\nleases. And you close down a wholesale food operation, and it just\ndies on you. But if you try to keep it open when it's losing money, it's\nlike opening a vein and hemorrhaging. The idea of taking over and\nrunning a bunch of buildings and a chain of food warehouses is not\ngonna put any stars on your shoulder boards on this floor.\" Harry\ntwirled his left forefinger in the air to take in the entire forty-ninth\nfloor, meaning Arthur Lomprey and the rest of the top brass. \"And\nthere's another thing. If we commence foreclosure proceedings\nagainst Croker, then suddenly we got a $500 million loss on the\nbooks. Right now those loans are posted as a $500 million asset. A\nhalf-a-billion- dollar loss would make a lotta people- It would not\nlook good.\" He paused, pursed his lips, and looked around the room\nsignificantly. \"A half a billion,\" he said, and then began nodding his\nhead, as if to say, \"You get the picture.\"\n\"The hell of it is,\" said Shellnutt, \"some of these properties are\nbasically sound, or they would be if you could-\"\n\"Jesus Christ, Jack,\" said Shanks, \"you sound just like Croker.\"\"Well, I never said he was wrong, did I? All I said was, he's a\nworthless, useless, lying conniving ball a shit who boffs stewardesses\non his G-5 with our money.\"\n\"Oh,\" said Shanks. \"I don't know how I ever got the idea you\nthought he was wrong.\"\n\"No, I mean you look at some a those early projects he did, like\nBuckingham Square, Wimberley Mall, Phoenix Center-there's nothing\nwrong with the cost basis. They're just overburdened with debt. But\nthis last fiasco, Croker Concourse, that fucking building must a come\nout to a thousand dollars a foot! There's no way you could make\nthat back, period, much less make a profit and service your debt. If\nit cost exactly half of what it actually cost, fine. You'd be in good\nshape. But this way, you could keep it leased to capacity for thirty\nyears and still never get your money back. How the hell these\ngoddamned loans ever went through, I don't know.\" Then he added\nhurriedly, as if to spare Peepgass any embarrassment, \"Johnny\nSycamore was out of control there toward the end.\"\nShanks said, \"Well, as Lenin once said-\"\nHart}' broke in: \"Lenin had it easy. He didn't have to clean up after a\nshithead like Charlie Croker.\"\nShanks, persevering: \"As Lenin once said-\"\nFriedman broke in and said to Harry, \"I say we unload the shit as\nfast as we can and take the loss. There's bankrupt property\nbeginning to flood the market, and that's gonna drive all the prices\ndown. The longer we dick around with this property, the less we're\ngonna get for it.\"\nShanks said, \"As Lenin once said-\"\nHarry broke in: \"Like I said, I'd love to foreclose on that shithead,\nbut we'd look so goddamned bad.\"Raymond Peepgass was only halfway paying attention or, rather, he\nwas thinking about the half-a-billion-dollar shithead from an entirely\ndifferent perspective. The bank might end up ruining Croker, wiping\nhim out utterly, or it might not. The game had not yet been played\nout. But one thing the bank couldn't change. The bank couldn't\nchange history. There was no rewriting the fact that Charlie Croker\nwas a man who had come from out of nowhere and built up an\nempire. The empire might crumble and disappear. But so what? So\ndid Napoleon's. Who does the world remember and respect,\nNapoleon or Joseph Dominique Louis, his treasury minister\n(Peepgass had looked it up), who kept his nose clean and retired in\n1815 on a pension? He, Peepgass, had gone to the Harvard Business\nSchool, whereas Croker couldn't have gotten into Harvard on a bet.\nBut Croker had something that Monsieur Raymond Peepgass did not\npossess-or, rather, something he had never been willing to let off the\nleash ... A certain red dog . . . That was the way he suddenly\nthought of it; as a red dog you had to be willing to let off the leash\n... He could see that wild red dog ... It had a chain around its neck,\nbut the chain was broken ... It was a red bull terrier with its\nforehead in a dreadful frown and its lower incisors bared and thrust\nforward . . . Every man had that red dog inside him, but only real\nmen dared let him loose--\nShanks said, \"As Trotsky once said-\" Shellnutt broke in: \"Trotsky?\nWhat happened to Lenin?\" \"Nobody wanted to hear about Lenin, you\nbuncha anti-intellectual fucks.\"\n\"Okay,\" said Shellnutt, \"what did Trotsky say?\" \"He said you don't\nhave to believe in the trolley company to let it take you where you\nwant to go.\"\n\"Trotsky said that? That's pretty funny. I don't know what the fuck it\nhas to do with anything, but I like it. And incidentally, you need a\nvery long vacation, Shanks.\"\nHarry's Squadron cracked up with another macho burst from the\ngullet, a deep red laugh--That did it somehow. You don't have to believe in the trolley\ncompany to let it take you where you want to go. The trolley\ncompany... Peepgass could feel, actually feel, some terribly\nsignificant synaptic experience in his brain, and he could see,\nactually see, as if it were some grainy diagram, the outlines of a ... a\n... a theory, a concept, a strategy ... It would be illegal. He did not\nyet know exactly why, but that much he could sense with the sort of\nvisceral rush that precedes logic in the case of dreadfully exciting\nprospects. It would require secrecy, an intimate knowledge of\nbanking procedures, resourceful confederates, the stealth of a cat,\nthe heart of a thief . . . Strangely, and he was well aware of the\nstrangeness of it, in that moment of revelation he felt that he,\nRaymond Peepgass, the star Harvard MBA who had been so cautious\nthat he had chosen banking as a career-he suddenly felt that he had\nall it took, even the stealth, even ... the heart . . . And in that\nmoment his heart began to pound, bang away beneath his\nbreastbone, so frightened and exhilarated was he by what he could\nsee taking shape in his thoughts.\nIf Croker could be forced to hand over Croker Concourse to the\nbank, hand over the deed-deed in lieu of foreclosure was the term-\nso that there would be no foreclosure process and therefore no\nauction . . . and if the bank could be persuaded to unload the\nbuilding quietly, for a fraction of its cost, as Friedman was already\nurging Harry to do . . . and if a syndicate could be formed to take it\noff their hands . . . and if he, Peepgass, were the one who put the\nsyndicate together . . . without anyone at PlannersBanc knowing--\nHe would crush Charlie Croker! Mash his nuts for him! ... to use\nHarry's oh-so-graphic way of putting things . . . and come away from\nit with untold millions. That was the phrase that actually popped into\nhis head: untold millions. Untold was the word, all right! Couldn't tell\na soul about it--\nChristalmighty, was it really possible?\"Hey, Ray. You look like a happy fella.\" It was Harry himself. Until he\nheard that grating, rasping voice, he hadn't realized that a smile had\ncrept across his face. Now he was back in this room. The whole\nsquadron, Team Saddlebags, was staring at him. Beyond the glass\nwall, behind many layers of glass walls, the endless rivulets of a\nworld awash with money streamed across the computer screens with\ntheir sickly diode glares.\n\"Oh,\" he said, \"I was just thinking of something Croker once said, in\nthat fucking interview in Atlanta magazine. 'Exercise regimen?' he\nsaid. 'I'm fum daown in southwest Georgia, daown below the gnat\nline, an' if you come daown'eh'n'ask anybody 'bout a exercise\nregimen, they won't know what the hale you're talkin' abaout. On\nthe other hand, when I need some farwood, I start with a tree.'\nJesus Christ. That sonofabitch is so fulla shit, and he has clicked\naround with us so badly . . . 1 say we go after even' piece a\ncollateral he's got on that list, starting with the airplanes and that\nridiculous goddamned plantation of his, which he thinks is fucking\nTara, and that house he's living in in Buck- head, which he no doubt\nbought with our money, too. If he's such a Down Home hero, if he's\nsuch a son of the South Georgia sod, then just let him start over\nwhere his mouth is. Let's just let him start over . . . with his bare ass\nand an ax and a tree.\"\nNobody else in the room said a word. They just kept staring. They\ncouldn't believe the evidence of their own senses. None of them had\never heard Ray Peepgass use the word fucking before, much less\nany such terms as bare ass and fulla shit. None had ever heard him\nmimic the might)' Charlie Croker or, for that matter, anyone else.\nNone had ever heard him suggest going after some shithead with\nfangs bared, like the saber-toothed tiger he was not. And certainly\nnone had ever seen him with the sort of malevolent grin he was\nsporting at this moment. What the hell had gotten into old Ray?\nOh, he knew very well what they were thinking. But, then, there was\nno way any of them could have possibly known that RaymondPeepgass had just slipped his red dog off the leash and let him out\nfor the first romp of his life.\nto a man of sixty, like Charlie Croker, one of the grimmest reminders\nof the Reaper's approach comes when his doctors, the people who\nhave attended to his body for decades, begin retiring on him ... or\ndying on him ... or both. The orthopedist who had looked after\nCharlie's right knee since he first injured it in a game against\nAuburn, Archibald Turner, had retired two years ago and died of a\nheart attack one year ago. Arch Turner's practice had included many\nof the best bones in Buckhead. Now his two young associates,\nEmory Nuchols (rhymed with \"buckles\") and Douglas Ray, had\ninherited all those excellent, golden bones, and Emmo Nuchols\nbecame the new tender of Charlie's aching knee joint.\nAt this moment Charlie was sitting on the edge of an examination\ntable, minus his pants and shoes, watching Emmo Nuchols's peculiar\nmouth as it said, \"Look, Charlie, a knee replacement is not a medical\ndecision, not in the sense of your general health. It's a question of\nhow much pain you can stand without having it replaced. There's\nonly one person who can answer that question.\" He waited several\nportentous heartbeats before adding, \"And that's you.\"\nOh brother. Charlie hated the condescension that inevitably found its\nway into the young man's voice. Emmo was about forty, a full\ngeneration younger than Charlie, and yet he had called him Charlie\nright from day one. He insisted on being called Emmo, a nickname\nthat reminded Charlie of a motor oil or a laxative. He would have\npreferred to have called him a curt, formal \"Dr. Nuchols,\" but Emmo\nwas a member of the Driving Club, and at the club he couldn't very\nwell be saying hello to him and introducing him as \"Dr. Nuchols.\"\nEmmo Nuchols had fast-receding curly black hair and a crinkly black\nbeard that was carefully trimmed so that it created an oval that ran\nfrom his nose to his chin and was at no place more than half an inch\nwider than his lips. The explanation that this small grizzly oval had\nbeen designed to fit beneath the standard face mask during surgery\nwas one Charlie had not sought and could have done without. Worstof all were his lips and his curiously tiny teeth. The lips were\nincredibly red. They curved like a woman's. It was somehow\ndisgusting to watch him speak with this woman's mouth of his set in\nthe middle of such a finickly shaped oval of black shag.\n\"Okay,\" said Charlie, \"how long are you laid up if you have a knee\nreplaced?\"\n\"That varies,\" said the red lips, \"but usually you're in the hospital five\ndays to a week. But now, I don't want to mislead you. Full recover}'\ncan take as long as six weeks. The most difficult part of the whole\nthing is post-op. You have to undergo therapy immediately, to keep\nthe muscles, tendons, and ligaments from stiffening up, and there's\na fair amount of pain involved. I've never seen an operation that was\na failure in and of itself. The only failures I've seen have been cases\nwhere the patient couldn't take the pain of keeping the joint flexible,\nand even that's been very seldom, certainly in my experience.\"\nIn my experience. And how much is that, in God's name? You're a\nkid, a calf, a baby! In my experience, indeed . . . And in that\nmoment a flash of revelation hit Charlie. It wasn't just Arch Turner's\ndeparture from this globe that made Charlie feel old. It was the\nrealization that there were all these kids out there, these children,\nready and more than willing to do the job. It got harder and harder\nto feel indispensable at age sixty.\n\"Well, I'll think it over,\" said Charlie.\nHe never said anything like I'll think it over, Emmo. He was damned\nif he'd use this red-lipped mooncalf's oily nickname if he didn't have\nChapter 11\nThis Is-Not Right!\nAn accident in the caldecott tunnel on route 24 had caused a terrific\nbackup, so that Conrad arrived in downtown Oakland barely five\nminutes before his 10 a. M. appointment. Where could he park the\nHyundai? Where could he park it? Where? He was frantic. Just as hismom and dad had never thought twice about letting appointments\ngo with the flow, he was obsessive about keeping them. Where\ncould he park? There! There, a block and a half from the East Bay\nInsurance Building, where the ContempoTime offices were located,\nhe spotted a space just this side of a strip of curbing painted red,\nwith a fire hydrant in the middle of it. Only a car as small as the\nHyundai could have squeezed into the legal space remaining, and\neven then only by backing up against the bumper of a big Chevrolet\nSuburban.\nAs soon as he walked into the premises of ContempoTime, he\nrealized that this \"appointment\" of his was in fact only some sort of\nvague traffic slot. Twenty or thirty people, a couple of them middle-\naged white men in coats and ties, sat in rows of school-style desk\nchairs in a bare, spare reception area filling out forms and waiting to\nbe assigned to an interviewer. The room was lit by banks of\nfluorescent tubes, which kept blinking, so that the entire place\nseemed to be suffering from a colossal tic. Conrad picked up the\nforms from a receptionist and sat down in one of the rows of desk\nchairs and joined the herd.\nAcceding, however bitterly, to Mrs. Otey's urgings, he had worn a\nlong-sleeved white shirt, a necktie, his only jacket, which was a\nsingle- breasted navy blazer he had bought at Roos-Atkins in Walnut\nCreek two years before, and a pair of gray worsted pants, which\nwere the only wool pants he possessed. The jacket was now too\ntight, and he could no longer button the shirt at the neck, causing\nthe tie to look unkempt, and his hands, his laborer's hands, the\nsubject of Mrs. Otey's insulting admonition, extended too far beyond\nthe shirt cuff and the jacket sleeves. Nevertheless, he was glad he\nhad worn this, his only dress-up outfit.\nLong after he had completed the forms, he sat there in the dismal,\nblinking, tic-afflicted ranks of school chairs listening to the hum and\nclatter of electric typewriters in a maze of cubicles that stretched on\nbeyond the reception area, idly wondering, Why typewriters?, since\nContempoTime's advertisements stressed word-processor skills.By and by he was summoned back to the reception desk and\nintroduced to a girl named Carol, who was no older than he was, a\nsunny creature with milky white skin and bouncy reddish-blond hair,\na bit plump but with a perfect dimple in her chin and absolutely\nmarvelous dimples in her cheeks when she smiled, which was\nconstantly.\nShe showed him into a cubicle with four-foot-high particle-board\nwalls, a so-called work station. There was barely room for the\nfurniture, which consisted of two low-backed gray fiberglass chairs\nand a desk, upon which rested a big IBM Selectric typewriter. The\nchattering rat- tat-tat of other electric typewriters poured in from\ncubicles all around. When the girl twisted her body to sit down, her\nlittle skirt gripped the full curve of her thigh. She had such a . . .\nlibidinous presence! Confused, a-tingle, blushing, Conrad smiled at\nher. She smiled back-so frankly! She looked straight into his eyes-so\nwarmly! Then she began studying the forms he had filled out. After\na bit she said, \"Have you ever done any office work before, any\nword processing?\"\n\"No, but I studied it in college. I took a course in it. Two semesters.\"\nShe went over the forms some more. \"Well, that's the main thing,\nbeing able to use the computer. That and being able to spell.\"\nA rogue notion ran through his mind. What if he asked her out for\ncoffee or something? Or for lunch! It would soon be lunchtime, and\nhe had brought a little over a hundred dollars with him. He shouldn't\nspend so much as a nickel on lunch in downtown Oakland, but if he\ncaught on with ContempoTime, or it looked like it was a sure thing\nat least. . . Not a big lunch, just something quick ... He deserved-\nafter everything he-it would do him good-and besides . . .\nThe girl got down to the matter of the test. It was in two parts: a\nwritten test concerning the use of a word processor and a typing\ntest. She handed him a clipboard with the written test on it,produced a little white plastic kitchen timer, set it for fifteen minutes,\nand placed it on the desk.\n\"Good luck,\" she said as she left the cubicle. \"I'll be back. There isn't\nmuch to it.\"\nAnd, in fact, there wasn't much to it, especially since the answers\nwere multiple-choice. \"How do you delete two lines within a\nparagraph?\" . . . \"How do you create a second copy?\" . . . \"To save\nmaterial, what do you do?\" ... He had finished long before the bell\non the timer went off. He scored 100. To set up the typing test, the\ngirl had to lean over him and place some written material on the\nlittle stenographic easel beside the IBM Selectric. The warmth of her\nbody set loose the most delicious perfume. Conrad was a-tingle all\nover again.\nShe remained bent over, supporting herself with her hands on her\nknees. Her face was right beside his. \"Now this time,\" she said,\n\"when I say go, you start typing-starting right here.\" She pointed to\nthe beginning of the paragraph at the top of the page on the easel.\n\"Just keep on typing until I tell you to stop. You'll have five minutes.\nOkay? It's not a big deal. Thirty words a minute qualifies. I'm sure\nyou can do that.\"\n\"I was up to eighty-five words a minute when I took the course at\nMount Diablo,\" said Conrad. \"But I haven't done this for a while, so\ndon't expect any world records.\"\n\"Eighty-/ive? I don't think I ever tested anybody who could do\neighty- five.\"\nShe made a little laughing sound deep in her throat as she said it,\nand Conrad thought he could feel the warmth of her cheek, although\nin fact her cheek was six or eight inches away. He had a new rogue\nurge: to hold her face in his hands and kiss her.\nInstead, he turned his face toward hers and said, \"Do you mind if I\nask you something?\"Now she turned toward him. Her face was so close to his, he saw\nthree eyes . . . and many dimples ... So sunny! So frisky! So full of\nrude pink animal health! He felt intoxicated. \"Go ahead,\" she said.\nHis chccks were turning crimson. Did he dare-could he possibly-\ndon't be crazy! So he stuck to his question: \"Why is the typing test-\nwhy do you give it on a typewriter? Won't we be using computers?\"\n\"Oh sure,\" she said. She didn't pull her head back at all. She seemed\nto be beaming at him. He could detect a faint, sweet aroma of\nspearmint on her breath. He loved it. He loved everything about her.\n\"But for the test all we want to see is how well you type, how fast\nyou are and how accurate you are. On a computer you can go back\nand delete your mistakes, and that way we can't tell how accurate\nyou really are.\"\nShe pushed a little ribbed wheel on the keyboard, and the big Selec-\ntric came humming to life in a delicious cloud of perfume and\nspearmint.\nThen she stood up and turned the chunky hand on the timer once\nmore. \"You have five minutes,\" she said. \"Just type as much as you\ncan, as accurately as you can, before I come back. Okay? Ready? . .\n. Go.\" She set the timer down on the little desk. \"Good luck.\" A\nwonderful smile! The most wonderful smile in the world! Then she\nwithdrew from the cubicle.\nConrad took a deep breath and placed his fingers on the keyboard in\nthe standard touch-typing position. The timer was already ticking\naway. At the top of the page was a paragraph that began: \"This ratio\ncan be easily derived by comparing the real (inflation-adjusted)\ncapital fueling the two most recent retail electronics booms: 1971-75\nand 1983-87 (Fig. 4-6). The amount of real capital in the most\nrecent period was $736.1 billion, as compared with . . .\"\nHe concentrated on the first words . . . This ratio can .. . and started\ntyping. The Selectric's little letter ball jumped about madly and spat\nout a terrific rat-tat-tat upon the paper.He knew immediately that something had gone wrong. He stared\nInstead of This he had somehow typed Rhhhodd. Instead of the T,\nthe /, and the s, he had hit the letters next to them, the R, the o,\nand the d. He had managed to hit the h, but he had pressed it down\ntoo heavily and too long, causing it to repeat. He was baffled and\nappalled. How could that have happened? He would have to start\nover. He looked about for another sheet of typing paper, but there\nwas none. Then her words came back to him: they wanted a true\nrecord of how accurate-or inaccurate-you were.\nHe scrolled the paper up a few lines and started over. Another\nclattering rat-tat-tat. He inspected his handiwork . . . This ratip\ninstead of This ratio. He had overlapped the p when he tried to\nstrike the o. Should he start over again? No time. So he backspaced\nand typed an o over the p. Didn't help much; looked like an o with a\ntail.\nThen he realized what the problem was. His hands! His fingers were\nnow so much wider and heavier and stronger, from working in the\nwarehouse, he was constantly overlapping adjoining keys or else\nstriking them too hard, causing the letters to repeat. He had lost the\ntouch in his own fingers! Two grotesque musclebound strangers, his\nhands were! My own hands! He stared at them as if he had never\nseen them before.\nThe ticking of the timer seemed dreadfully loud. A minute had gone\nby, and he had produced a grand total of a dozen words, most of\nthem mangled. Gingerly he placed his fingertips back on the\nkeyboard, hoping against hope that it would all come back to him. It\nhad to. He stared at the text: \"most recent retail\" . . . Rat-tat-tat-tat-\ntat . . . and he had written ,pst recemt rwtsil... A burning panic . . .\nThese hands of which he had been so proud just a few hours ago as\nhe stared into the bathroom mirror-they were the paws of a dumb\nanimal, of a beast of burden-he couldn't believe it!-and all the while\nthe humming of the IBM Selectric grew louder and louder . . . Okay,\nbig boy, produce! I'm ready, I'm humming, I'm waiting-what about\nyou? . . . and the timer went ticktickticktickticktick.He plunged on, trying to batter his way through the text, since\nnothing else seemed to work, typing right on top of misstruck\nletters, x'ing out the totally hopeless mistakes and the repeats,\nletting the hair-trigger keys rat-tat-tat-tat-tat amok. Just get through\nit, that was the main thing.\nIn no time-ding!-the timer bell went off, and the girl, Carol, was in\nthe entryway to the cubicle. Conrad stared at the piece of paper. Far\nfrom having produced the minimum of 150 words in five minutes, he\nwasn't sure he had produced 90. With all the x's, typeovers, repeats,\nand false starts, the tight little single-spaced patch of words looked\nlike something small and black that had been run over on a highway.\n\"Well,\" said the girl brightly, \"how'd it go?\"\nConrad was speechless. All he could do was shake his head. Her\neyes shifted to the page.\n\"What happened?\"\n\"I don't know,\" said Conrad. He lifted his hands-and was suddenly\nmortified that she might notice their size. He hid them in his lap. \"I\njust couldn't-I guess it's been so long-1 don't know.\"\nIn a low, confidential tone she said, \"Well, do you want to try it\nagain? I'm not supposed to, but I can give you another sheet of\npaper, and we'll do it over.\"\n\"Thanks, but it's no use. I don't know what's wrong.\"\n\"Why don't you go home and practice some and then come back.\nYou want to? If you call ahead and let me know when you're\ncoming, I can get the desk to assign you to me. We're not supposed\nto do that, either, but I'll do it.\" She gave him a sympathetic smile.\n\"It's just-\" He couldn't complete the sentence. \"I'll try,\" he said in a\nhopeless tone.He thanked her and left without another word. On the elevator he\nheld his hands up before his face. What had he turned into? The\nlonger he stared at them, the bigger they seemed to become. My\nown hands! And she had tried to give him . . . everything! ... on a\nplatter ... He could still see her smile, her dimples (the swell of her\nbreasts, the curve of her thighs) . . . The most shaming part of it\nwas that the ever-smirking Arda Otey had been right, more so than\nshe could have ever even guessed.\nthoughts of )ill and her mother possessed him as he walked down\nthe sidewalk heading for his car. It was a bright sparkling noontime,\na fact that couldn't have interested him less. What would they say\nwhen he told them? What would they think? Or did he have to tell\nthem? Why couldn't he just say he had had the interview and was\nwaiting to hear back?\nScuffling along the sidewalk, his head down, he scarcely even\nnoticed the knot of idlers and gawkers who had gathered near a\ntruck until he was almost upon them. It was a high-riding flatbed\ntruck painted a hot yellow-green and embellished with swash\nlettering and pinstriping and gleaming chrome. A sunburnt man\nwearing a cowboy hat and a leather vest appeared, a regular giant,\n250 pounds if he was an ounce. The sleeves of his shirt had been\ncut off at the shoulders, revealing his huge fleshy arms. He walked\nto the front of the truck, stepped up on a chrome running board,\nopened the door, leaned inside the cab, emerged with a metal rod of\nsome kind, and returned to the rear.\nIt occurred to Conrad, with a start, that whatever was going on, it\nwas in the red zone in front of where he had parked the Hyundai.\nThe gawkers blocked his view. He hurried forward and joined them.\nHe found himself staring at the broad beam of the giant in the\ncowboy hat, who was leaning over, attaching a tow chain to a car\nthat had both front wheels up on the curb, right in the middle of the\nred zone, barely a foot from the fire hydrant--and in that instant Conrad realized it was his car, his little Hyundai\nExcel. In the middle of the red zone! Up on the curb! Impossible! -\nand yet there it was. There was a ticket under the windshield wiper.\nStanding on the sidewalk, right beside the car, following the tow\ntruck operator's progress, was a meter maid, easily identifiable by\nher uniform, a short-sleeved powder-blue shirt and navy-blue pants.\nShe was probably in early middle age, so stout that the flesh of her\nupper arms stretched the hems of her sleeves. She held a walkie-\ntalkie radio up to her mouth. She had a terrific set of Chinese-red\npress-on nails on her fingers.\nConrad approached from the side. He was scarcely eighteen inches\nfrom her, but she didn't give him so much as a flicker of an eye.\n\"Excuse me!\" he said. No response. Much louder: \"Excuse me!\"\nThe walkie-talkie still at her ear, she cut him a glance that said Don't\nbother me.\n\"Miss!\" said Conrad.\nShe gave him a withering look and said, \"Can't you see I'm\ntransmitting?\"\nThe terribly official-sounding word, transmitting, brought him up\nshort, and he turned toward the tow truck driver. By now the big\nman had secured the tow chain beneath the Hyundai and was\nstanding up, and you could see just how enormous he really was. He\nwas a mountain of flesh with the sun-beaten, lard-grilled look of a\nroustabout, clear down to the immense ring of keys hanging from a\nbelt loop beneath the bulge of his bellv on one side of his jeans and\nthe cluster of novelty key fobs on the other: a tiny wrench, a\ndisposable butane lighter, a pair of dice, a plastic figurine of Mickey\nMouse and Minnie Mouse doing the tango, a miniature dueling pistol,\nand a little silvery skull with fangs instead of eyeteeth.\nConrad jumped between the fire hydrant and the fender of the\nHyundai and over the tow chain and rushed up to him. \"Hey!-sir!-this is my car! Whattaya doing?\"\nScarcely looking at him, not even pausing, the giant said, \"Towin' it\noutta the red zone.\"\nHe said it in a bored way that made it clear he had said the same\nthing, or something very close to it, a thousand times before, to a\nthousand other frantic, befuddled, and, above all, helpless\nautomobile owners. He was now heading for the driver's-side front\ndoor with the shaft of metal he had taken from the truck. It was a\nlength of spring steel. Conrad recognized it immediately. It was a\ndevice known as a Slim Jim, used to slip through the window seals\nof locked cars to release the lock mechanisms from the inside.\n\"Wait a minute! Please!\" But the giant was already inserting the Slim\nJim between the glass and the frame.\n\"You're gonna break the glass! I've got the keys right here! I can\nopen the door!\"\n\"Nobody's breakin' any glass,\" said the giant in the same bored\nvoice, without looking at him. In no time he had sprung the lock,\nopened the door, and was reaching inside, doing something with the\nsteering wheel.\n\"Please!\" said Conrad. \"It's my car! I've got the keys! I can move it!\"\nThe giant didn't even look at him. Utterly nonplussed, Conrad swung\nback toward the sidewalk to appeal to the meter maid. She wasn't\nlooking at him, either. She was writing something in her summons\nbook. By now the knot of gawkers had grown into a real crowd.\nThey were revved up, ready for some action, eager for the beano,\nnow that the hapless owner of the automobile had materialized and\nwas acting suitably dismayed, frightened, anguished, and frustrated.\nThis time Conrad yelled at the meter maid: \"Hey! Miss!\"\nShe looked up, and he jumped back over the tow chain and went\nstraight to her. \"Please-you gotta tell me what's going on! This is mycar!\"\nShe begun studying the summons pad and gestured toward the\nHyundai without looking at Conrad. \"Car's in the red zone-and up on\nthe sidewalk.\"\nConrad raised his hands in frustration. \"But I didn't park in the red\nzone! I swear! Look, miss, listen-I was all the way back there, on the\nother side of the line!\"\n\"Well, exactly the way it's sittin' right now, that's exactly the way it\nwas sittin' when I called the dispatcher.\" She said this in a\nreasonable- enough tone, but it inspired a couple of unh-hunnnhs\nand hegh- hegggghhs among the gawkers, and she became aware\nshe had an audience. So she added, \"And I never seen a car drive\nitself into a red zone yet.\"\n\"Woooo-eeee,\" said one of the gawkers, and another said,\n\"Ohhhhhh yeah,\" all in the eternal spirit of Let's You and Him Fight.\n\"Look, miss,\" said Conrad. He struggled to find the right words, the\ncompelling logic. \"I'm telling you, I didn't park in the red zone.\nHonest. And even if I did, would I put my front wheels up on the\ncurb? Would that make any sense?\"\nThe woman delivered a contralto chuckle deep in her throat and\nsaid, \"They don't pay me to make sense outta what the drivers do in\nthis town. Couldn't pay me enough to do that.\" This brought such an\nappreciative round of unhh-hunnnhhhs, heh-heggghhhhhs, and\nwoooo- eeeeees, the big woman felt uplifted, emboldened. Usually\nstreet crowds were against the meter maid, but she had won this\nbunch over with rhetorical brilliance, and so she headed for new\nheights: \"My job is keeping cars from parking in the wrong place and\ngetting them outta there when they do, and that car right there is\nparked in about as wrong a place as you can get. That's a red zone,\nand that's a fire hydrant, and that's a sidewa\\k-and that's a tow\ntruck.\"Woooo-eeeeeeel Hegh-heggghhhhhh! Unhh-hunnnnhhhhhh! Oh\nyeah! That's a tow truck!\nConrad was dumbstruck. In the next moment he realized what had\nhappened. To squeeze into the small space on the legal side of the\nred zone, he had backed his car up against the bumper of the\nChevrolet Suburban behind him. The driver of the Suburban had\nreturned and, finding himself hemmed in, had bulldozed his way out\nby pushing the little Hyundai forward along the pavement. Conrad\nmust have left his wheels turned toward the curb, so that the sheer\nbrute force of the Suburban had shoved the Hyundai all the way up\nonto the sidewalk.\n\"But this isn't right\\\" said Conrad. \"The car behind me must've\npushed my car where it is! Why else would it be up on the curb?\"\nHis vehemence caused the meter maid to withdraw a little. She\nsighed, cast her eyes down, and shook her head. \"I don't know\nnothing about another car. Anyway, can't do nothing about it now.\"\n\"But why not?\" said Conrad. \"Please! I'm right here! It's my car! I've\ngot the keys! I'll take the car out of the red zone!\"\nTo indicate how compellingly logical his solution was, as compared to\nthe official one now in progress, he threw his hands up in front of his\nshoulders in the gesture that says, \"It's so obvious, only a fool could\nfail to see it.\" This did not help his case.\nWith a bit of a growl the meter maid pinned her eyes on her\nsummons book and said, \"It's too late. Already wrote it up and called\nthe dispatcher. Once it's written up, that's it.\"\n\"Well-go ahead and give me the ticket. But let me take my car. I've\ngot to have my car!\"\n\"I told you it's too late. Once the summons is made out and the\ndispatcher's notified and the tow's hooked up, then it's a tow, and\nain't nothing nobody can do about it once it's a tow.\"\"But this is-not right]\" said Conrad.\n\"Woooo-eeeeeee! Unh-unhhhh-unhhhhh! A tow is a tow!\"\nConrad looked at the gawkers, whose merry eyes seemed to be\nsaying, \"Now what are you going to do?\" He looked at the meter\nmaid, who seemed to be reveling in her new role as street\nentertainer. He looked toward the tow truck driver-but he had\ndisappeared into the cab of the truck and was getting ready to pull\nthe Hyundai up onto the slant of the flatbed.\nBut this was-not right! On top of everything else-he couldn't lose his\ncar this way!\nAt that moment the tow truck started up with a great throaty roar,\nfollowed by the hideously loud and harsh grinding sound of the\nwinching gear. The gawkers were suddenly quiet, thrilled to see that\nthe drama was approaching its climax. The power! The authority!\nThe mighty truck! Its yellow-green paint job shone from many coats\nof lacquer in which glittery particles were somehow suspended.\nStreams of pin- striping swept back from the hood and across the\ndoor of the cab. On the door a rollicking silvery script with a shiny\nblack undershadow proclaimed: Three C Towing, Salvage 6 Repair.\nConrad stared with his mouth open. Somehow the truck was the\nmechanical embodiment of the arrogance and imperiousness of the\nmeter maid and the driver themselves.\nThe little Hyundai began to slide up the slant of the flatbed. In no\ntime it was secured, trapped, in the piggyback position, and the\ntruck was lumbering off. All the while the gawkers were watching\nhim- him!-this helpless nonentity who could do nothing more than\nstand there with his keys in his hand as they, those with the power,\ntook his car away from him before his very eyes.\nMy car!\nHe had not merely been wronged, he had suffered a dreadful,\nshameful, humiliating defeat, with this bunch of trifling idlers as hisaudience.\nHe could barely control his voice when he asked the meter maid how\nmuch the fine was for parking in a red zone and what he had to do\nto get his car back. She answered him in a reasonable and even\ncourteous way, which somehow made it all worse. Her roughshod\nvictory, her humiliation of this young man with his protestations and\nhis this-is-not- right's, her subjugation of Conrad Hensley, was so\ncomplete, she could now throw him a morsel of civility.\nAll the while he knew he had a still more humiliating audience to\ndeal with. In a broken-down little duet in Pittsburg his wife and her\nmother, they who had already indicted him for worthlessness,\nhopelessness, joblessness, and the wrong parents-they were now\nwaiting for him and his car. Jill's mother's car was in the shop for\nrepairs, and he was supposed to pick her up when he returned, to\nfetch it. Surely even he, the otherwise hopeless one, could manage a\nsimple thing like returning from Oakland in a timely fashion and\ntaking Mother over to the garage--\nHe dreaded the telephone call he would now have to make.\nthe ordeal began before he actually made it. A telephone ... He\nlooked all around on this busy street in downtown Oakland, and\nthere wasn't a telephone to be found. He started walking . . . Three\nblocks he walked before he finally found one. It was the type that\nrequired a quarter to initiate a long-distance call-but he didn't have a\nquarter. In his pocket he had five twenty-dollar bills, a five, and\nthree ones. The bills, thank God, would be just enough to retrieve\nthe car. According to the meter maid, the fine for parking in a red\nzone was $30, and the towing fee was another $77. But right now\nhe needed to change one of the dollar bills and get a quarter. But\nwhere? He looked all around . . . Nothing but office buildings and the\nkind of shops you didn't just walk into and ask for change ... He\nwalked some more . . . Finally he spotted a candy stand in the lobby\nof an office building on Broadway. The proprietor, a swarthy man,\napparently Asian, didn't even deign to answer his question. He justgave him a dour look and kept pointing to a crudely lettered sign on\nthe candy counter: no change without purchase. In his way he was\nas humiliating as the tow truck driver . . dealing in a bored,\ncontemptuous manner with a question he had already heard from a\nthousand other urban vermin.\nThe cheapest item was a newspaper, the Oakland Tribune, for fifty\ncents. But by now Conrad was starving, and so instead he bought a\nSchotter's HDL (for High Density Lipids) Chocolate Health Nut bar for\nsixty cents, yielding him the quarter he needed, plus a dime and a\nnickel in cliangc. This decision he would soon regret, even aside\nfrom the fact that the candy bar sliced a thin blade of\nhypersweetness into his stomach and quelled his hunger for all of\nten minutes.\nHe walked the three blocks back to the pay telephone and placed his\ncall to Pittsburg, collect. The telephone was supposed to return his\nquarter but ate it instead. Jill accepted the call. She repeated\neverything he said, slowly, loudly, so slowly and loudly she seemed\nto be mocking him. After a few moments he realized it must be for\nthe benefit of her mother. When he reached the part about finding\nthe car up on the sidewalk in a red zone, Jill started saying:\n\"You left it in a red zone? Up on the sidewalk? You-left-it-in-a -red-\nzone? Up-on-the-s/c/ewalk?\"\nNo! No! No! he protested. He had found it that way, upon his return!\n\"In-a-red-zone? On-the-sidewalk?\"\nNot even the meter maid had been quite so contemptuous. Suddenly\nshe asked him how the job interview had gone. Conrad stammered\nout a few words to the effect that he might have to take the test\nagain. Might-have-to-take-the-test-again? At this, he dropped all\ndefenses and circumlocutions and just started telling her what had\nhappened. She cut him off in the middle-as you would anyone who\nwas so predictably hopeless and pathetic that the details of his latest\nfailure simply didn't matter.\"Conrad, I want you back here with that car right away. My mother's\nstranded, I'm stranded, the children are stranded, everybody's\nstranded until you-get-in-the-car-and-come-back-here.\"\nWhen he hung up, he felt feverish, as if suffering from some\ninsidious infection (called inevitable failure). It was a good little hike\ndown Broadway to reach the Parking Violations office at 150 Frank\nOgawa Plaza, where you had to go to pay your fines before\nretrieving a towed vehicle. The meter maid, the giant with the\ncowboy hat, the gawkers, and now the swarthy man at the candy\ncounter-he felt feverish.\nIn the Parking Violations office, there was a whole row of windows,\nbut only one was open, and Conrad found himself at the end of a\nlong, ponderous line in another grim gray-beige room with\nfluorescent lights. It took him forty minutes to reach the window,\nwhere a gaunt woman, the very embodiment of Tried Patience,\ninformed him that he owed an additional thirty dollars. He was\nstunned. Stunned! He didn't have an additional thirty dollars! Thirty\ndollars for what? For parking on a sidewalk. That was in addition to\nthe thirty for parking in a red zone, making a total of $60 in fines he\nwould have to pay in order to get a slip releasing the car from the\ntowing pound. At the pound he would still have to pay a $77 towing\ncharge, assuming he got there by 7 p. M. Any sort of charge for\npicking it up? The clerk looked at his ticket . . . The tow was at 11 a.\nM. exactly. Then she looked at her watch ... If he got there by 7 p.\nM., he should be all right. He shouldn't have to pay the $50-a-day\nstorage fee. That was a total of $137 he would have to pay out, and\nall he had was $107.15. Nor was that the end of it. The pound ... All\nalong he had assumed that the pound was some municipal facility\ndowntown, near this building. Now he was informed that his car\nwould be at the towing company's own lot. Two companies did the\ntowing for the city. His car had been towed by a new one, Three C\nTowing, Salvage & Repair-which was where? On Keeler Avenue, over\nin East Oakland. Conrad knew only one thing about East Oakland: it\nwas the slums. A cloud rose up his brain stem and filled his head.His car would be deep in the slums ... in the domain of a giant\nroustabout with a cowboy hat.\nHe paid the $60 and left the Parking Violations office with the\nrelease slip, $47.15 in his pocket, a racing heart, and a big problem.\nHow could he get another $29.85? No, he had two problems, three\nproblems, four problems-the tide seemed to rise with every passing\nsecond. The only possible way to get the money would be to call Jill\nagain, an appalling prospect in itself. If she had it, she could get it to\nhim-how? Wire it? How was it done? He had never telegraphed\nanything in his life. Many times, when he was a boy, he had gone\nwith his parents to the Western Union office in San Francisco after\nthey had pleaded desperately, and wholly mendaciously, with their\nparents or old friends for pity, which meant money in the form of a\nWestern Union money order. He had so botched things, he couldn't\neven make the call. He had only fifteen cents in change. If only he\nhad bought a newspaper instead of the Schotter's HDL Chocolate\nHealth Nut bar, he would have had twenty- five cents. Had to have\nhis candy bar, didn't he!\nHe tugged absentmindedly at his mustache, then set off at a brisk\nwalk, once more looking for some place to break a dollar bill. Two\nblocks, three blocks, four blocks-he could feel, or thought he could\nfeel, his blood pressure rising. His extremities seemed to be gorged\nwith blood. At last, a hole in the wall that sold glassine envelopes,\nlittle glass pipes, so-called roach clips, sunglasses, candy, cigarettes,\nand newspapers. Tenderized, he didn't dare ask for change. He\nbought an Oakland Tribune for fifty cents. To his consternation the\nproprietor, a dour little olive-skinned man with a drooping lip, gave\nhim a fifty-cent piece in change. A fifty-cent piece-you couldn't put\nthat in a pay telephone! A fifty-cent piece-hadn't seen one in years!\nWiny now? Only after repeated entreaties did the man agree to\nexchange it for two quarters.\nOutside, Conrad threw the newspaper away in a receptacle on the\ncorner. He now had two twenty-dollar bills, a five, a one, two\nquarters, a dime, and a nickel. He started walking again. Over there-a telephone. He deposited a quarter. Nothing; dead; it was out of\norder; he couldn't get the quarter back; he jiggled the lever; he\npounded the machine with the heel of his hand. A panic rose up in\nhim, and now his extremities seemed to shrink and grow cold. He\nwalked all the way back to the first telephone he had found. His\nheart was beating much too fast. Gingerly he deposited his last\nquarter-and placed another collect call to Jill- and told her the whole\nsad story.\nThis time her long, deadly silence was worse than anything she\ncould have said. She left the telephone. She returned after what\nseemed like an eternity. Tonelessly she delivered the information\nthat, between them, she and her mother had only twenty-three\ndollars in cash. Tonelessly she told him she would now have to\nspend most of that, probably, to take a taxi all the way out to the\nbank and then all the way to Western Union, wherever on earth that\nwas. Tonelessly, with a seething restraint, she asked him if he\nrealized how utterly . . . utterly . . . and then words failed her. By the\ntime he hung up, his throat felt so constricted, he could barely\nspeak.\nThe only good thing that came out of it was that this time the\nmachine at least returned the quarter he had used to initiate the\ncall. So he stood on the street in downtown Oakland with $46.40 in\nhis pocket waiting for his wife to chase down $35 in a taxi and call\nhim back. He couldn't budge. He had to stand here and wait by this\ntelephone. Her voice had dripped with insinuation. He had\ndescended to the level of life's hopeless losers. He had lost his job,\ncouldn't pass the simplest employment test imaginable, and now he\nhad gone and lost his car. No/ poured into his heart. Forlorn, he\nlooked up at the sky. It was a bright, cloudless day-but something\nhad happened. That dazzling light was becoming steadily lower. It\nhad been 2:35 when he hung up with Jill. Now it was 2:55, and the\nsun was definitely no longer overhead. The day was sinking, sinking,\nsinking, and if he didn't reach the pound by 7 p. In, he would haveto pay a day's storage, which would be still more money he didn't\npossess. A current of anxiety ran through his solar plexus.\nIt was almost 3:30 when she finally called back. Many crabbed\ndetails of the ordeal by taxi, which had cost $22.50; finally, the\naddress of the Western Union office where he could go to claim the\n$35-1400 Broadway. Thank God. At least he knew where that was.\nBut when he reached 1400 Broadway, it turned out to be not a\nWestern Union office but a drugstore . . . Baffled, he started\napproaching people on the sidewalk. \"Excuse me . . .\" The first two\nignored him, as if he were a beggar. But why? He was wearing a\ncoat and tie! Was there now something people could see in his eyes?\nHad this feverish anxiety he was feeling done something to his face?\nThe next three said they didn't know where it was. He looked at his\nwatch: 3:32. Finally an old woman walking along Broadway in a\nroyal-blue jogging suit and gleaming white sneakers gave him\ndirections. Western Union was six blocks away, on Franklin Street.\nHe hurried down Broadway, but where she said it was on Franklin\nStreet-a grocery store! Back onto Broadway he went, frantically\nquerying passersby, who now began to look at him as if he had\nroom to let upstairs. Finally a young Asian woman-Korean?-\nJapanese?-told him it was inside a check-cashing facility ... up that\nway. So Conrad ran up that way. Sure enough, there was a Western\nUnion window inside the place. It seemed that Western Union was\nnow devoted almost entirely to money orders, and its branches were\noften located inside of drugstores, grocery stores, all sorts of retail\noutlets, served by a single computer network. Now: 3:35.\nBy the time he reached Western Union, it was 3:55. Quite a little line\nof woebegone souls .. . seeking the services of a lone clerk, a courtly\nAsian behind a teller's window. One and all seemed to be picking up,\nsending out, or feverishly waiting for money orders.\nIt was 4:25 by the time he worked his way up to the window and\nwas face-to-face with the clerk. The final all-too-perfect note came\nwhen the man asked him the Test Question, designed to make sure\nthe right person collected the money order. Jill had contrived it, andthe question, as it came out in the clerk's curious chirping accent,\nwas: \"Wot ees Jed's /a/jta's name? and ti-tie?\" Conrad heard himself\nintoning the very syllables that signified All That Distinguishes the\nHigher Orders of Humanity from Conrad Hensley: \"Dr. Arnold Otey.\"\nNo sooner did the man slip him the $35 through the slot at the base\nof the window than Conrad realized he should have asked Jill to get\nhim more money, so that he could take a taxi to the car pound. It\nwas now 4:30. He had two and a half hours to get there-but how?\nHe had only $4.40 to spare. He would have to take a bus. But what\nbus? From where? Suppose there was no bus that went near the\nplace? So he asked the clerk. The man gave him a funny little smile.\n\"Oh! I don't knowl East Oakland! Hah hah. Dere 1 don't travel,\n'owever I can a void it!\"\nOut on the street again . . . The light was beginning to fade ... It\nseemed to take forever before he found someone (the manager of a\nMail Box, Inc., service) who knew where the nearest bus stop was.\nJust the nearest bus stop; no one knew where one went to catch a\nbus to Keeler Avenue in East Oakland. In fact, it had taken only nine\nminutes, but it was now almost 4:40, and every minute was\nbeginning to assume a swollen importance. Only 140 minutes until\nseven o'clock! Four blocks he had to walk to reach the bus stop. His\nwatch said: 4:45. Only three people at the bus stop; none even\nknew where Keeler Avenue was, much less how to get there. Finally,\nat 4:53, a bus arrived. The driver informed him: buses did go out to\nKeeler, but not from this stop. The nearest stop was six blocks that\nway. Conrad took off, running. He arrived panting, his shirt soaked\nwith sweat under the arms, terribly conscious of the odor, of fear as\nwell as exertion, that rose from his body. It was 4:58. Three minutes\nlater-5:01-a bus arrived. It was the wrong bus; he had to wait for a\nNumber 58. Ten minutes later-5:11-a Number 58 arrived, and\nConrad boarded and presented the driver with a dollar bill. The man\njust shook his head. Either a token or $1.50 in change. Well . . . take\nthe whole five-dollar bill! No can do. Conrad pleaded. The man just\nshook his head. Conrad could hear a sawing sound coming from hisown chest. He was hyperventilating. He left the bus dumbfounded.\n5:13.\nIn the first two stores he entered, looking for change of a five-dollar\nbill, a luggage shop and an office-supply store, the clerks gave him a\nfishy look and insisted they had no change. Now it dawned on him\nthat he was red-faced, frantic, disheveled, sweating, and breathing\ntoo hard. He tried to pull himself together. Finally a lank young thing\nclerking in a L'eggs store listened to his woeful tale and gave him\nchange out of her own purse. 5:24.\nHe ran back to the bus stop. It was twenty-two minutes before\nanother Number 58 arrived. 5:46. He boarded and presented his six\nquarters. He now had a grand total of $79.90, $77 for Three C\nTowing, Salvage & Repair and $2.90 for himself. The bus lumbered\noff toward East Oakland.\nThe slums of East Oakland were slums California-style. There were\nnone of the narrow, squalid tenement buildings Conrad was used to\nseeing in movies about New York. Instead, block after block of small\ndrab buildings, many of them old wood-frame houses, worn-out,\nfaded, neglected, sagging . . . This grim landscape was highlighted\nhere and there by the lurid contemporary symbols of the Low Rent\nlife: over here, a stucco structure on a corner painted a violent\nmustard yellow with check cashing on the sides in black letters a\nfoot high and outlined in red . . . over there, a billboard featuring an\neight-foot-high picture of a single High Five sneaker with a cutout\nshowing the inner construction of the sole and the heel . . . and two\nblocks farther on, a decrepit moss- green building with a rickety old\nporch just above ground level and a smartly painted sign with blue\nletters vibrating . Against a yellow background stretching across the\nlength of the roof: medworld plasma center ... A line of derelicts\nwith faces so grimy and weathered you couldn't tell if they were\nblack or white or something else were in a line on the porch, looking\nfor all the world as if they had been spat upon the wall and were\noozing down it. They were waiting to sell their blood. Deeper and\ndeeper, ever so slowly-6:11 now-the bus made its way deeper anddeeper into the Oakland slums. The blocks of shabby little buildings\nbegan to thin out. The area was so far gone, half the lots were\nheaps of slag and dirt. Finally-6:32!-he could see it up ahead . . .\nBehind a high chain-metal fence, topped all the way around with\ncoils of razor wire, was a sea of automobile hoods and roofs\nexploding with reflections of the late-afternoon sun. The Three C\nTowing lot occupied most of a city block, or what was left of it. Even\nbefore the bus came to a stop, Conrad could make out people in\nsilhouette against the light of the low-slung sun-walking across the\nsurface of this blinding sea of metal. Across the surface-but was\nsuch a thing possible?\nHe got off the bus and dashed across the avenue and up to the\nfence. He squinted into the sun. His eyes had not deceived him.\nThere were three or four workmen walking across the hoods of cars,\none after the other, and not merely walking, either, but striding, their\nboots making a thwop thwop thwop sound as the hoods torqued\nunder their weight. The cars were jammed in so close together, it\nwas easier to walk across them than to try to squeeze between\nthem. Suddenly, with a whining, grinding sound, an entire car rose\nup in silhouette against that punishing light, straight up into the air,\nuntil you could see burning sunlight beneath its wheels. Conrad\nknew that sound very well: a forklift. They were moving cars around\nwith forklifts.\nUp ahead, along the fence line, a pair of metal stanchions supported\na rusting sign with part of the paint peeled away: three c towing,\nsalvage & repair. Beneath it was a wide opening to an enclosure with\na big chain-link gate, the entryway to the lot itself, and two port-a-\nrooms, trailer-like structures set end to end up on jacks. A crude\nwooden staircase led to a door. The offices of Three C Towing. 6:40!\nHe had made it, with just twenty minutes to spare.\nInside the port-a-room, a Formica-top counter ran the length of the\nnarrow space. Half a dozen people were in line. Behind the counter\nwas a short, stocky man, deeply suntanned, probably in his mid-\nthirties. His receding black hair was combed straight back over thetop and around the sides to the base of his skull, where it erupted\ninto a cascade of little curls down the back of his neck. He wore a\npolo shirt with the sleeves rolled up, the better to display his upper\narms, which were huge, obviously pumped up through weightlifting.\nHe was grinning-and Conrad now saw that he was deep in\nconversation with the person at the head of the line, a young\nwoman with an astonishing mane of blond hair. Conrad stared at her,\nstared at the grinning man, stared at the sign on the wall above his\nhead:\ncash or postal money orders only (no checks, no credit cards)\nafter 24 hours storage fee $50 per day charged on all cars\n(no exceptions) towing $77 first half hour, $77 each additional half\nhour\n-and then at the large round clock beside it: 6:46.\n\"So you're from Pleasanton,\" said the man.\n\"That's right,\" said the blonde.\n\"You know a girl named Scarlett Antonucci, by any chance? From\nPleasanton?\"\n\"I don't think so.\"\n\"1 used to go out with her. I was in Pleasanton all the time. I like\nPleasanton. It's a nice town. Wliy'd you ever drive into Oakland\ntoday?\" Big smile.\n\"I was shopping.\"\n\"In Odfcland? You got some terrific malls in Pleasanton. Stoneridge -\niddn'at one a them?\"\nFlirting with her!-and all these people at the counter waiting- 6:47-to\nget their cars before 7 p. M.!Conrad studied the line for the first time, looking for the likely\ncandidate who would speak up and get things moving . . . But the\nwhole bunch of them, the three men and the two women, merely\nfidgeted, looked this way and that, craned their necks-and none of\nthem said a word.\nWell-should he? Dared he? He was the youngest person at the\ncounter. He had the least natural authority. Could he? . . . Finally he\nleaned forward over the counter and stared, hoping this would show\nthe man that everybody was growing impatient. He leaned over so\nfar, he could see under the counter. There was a billy club there,\nheld by a wall clip, the sort of device ordinarily used to hold a broom\nhandle. Beyond the man, through a doorway to the adjoining port-a-\nroom, he could now see two figures. At a metal desk sat an old\nwoman, in her sixties at least, her hair combed flat against her head\nand dyed blond, wearing a pair of glasses with a chain hanging from\nthe ends of the temples and looped behind her neck. She was\nlooking up at a heavyset inan who had a T-shirt stretched over his\ngreat wrestler's gut. He was holding a coffee mug in one hand and\ngesturing with the other, grinning and talking up a storm. Then\nConrad noticed the man's dark blue twill trousers and the handcuffs\nhooked onto his belt ... an Oakland PD cop with his uniform blouse\nand his gunbelt off, making himself at home at Three C Towing,\nSalvage & Repair.\nConrad straightened up and looked at the others in the line. Surely\nat least the proper-looking man in the suit-but not a peep out of any\nof them. All at once he heard himself saying:\n\"Sir-excuse me!\"\nHe was frightened by his own temerity and began sputtering. \"I was\nwondering if-the thing is-I really need-\" He broke off, blushing\nterribly.\nThe man turned and stared at him with his eyes narrowed. He\nremained that way, one beat, two beats, three beats. Then heextended his arm toward the girl with the mane, managing to make\nboth his biceps and his triceps pop out as he did so, and he said,\n\"You see this young lady? She'd like to get her car, too, and she's\nfirst in line. You got any problem with that?\"\n\"No-\"\n\"Good. You're gonna get your turn.\" Then he turned back toward the\ngirl, twisting his lips and arching his eyebrows and shaking his head\nin the wav that says, \"Some people . . .\"\nNevertheless he quickly completed the transaction. The girl paid in\ncash and left the port-a-room. The man, he who adored Pleasanton,\nfollowed her all the way out with his eyes. Her blond mane bobbed\nand tumbled about with every step. She didn't look back, however.\nThere were now five people ahead of Conrad-but only four\ntransactions, assuming the couple in the short pants counted as one.\nThe clock said: 6:48. His heart was beating too fast. His stomach\nwas cramped with hunger heightened by despair and fear.\nWhen the couple reached the head of the line, it was 6:56. Conrad\nwas beside himself. His entire body, every synapse in his central\nnervous system, tried to hurry them along. The woman had a\nstrapped-on belly pouch rather than a handbag. Conrad's feverish\neyes tried to unzip it for her, reach inside, remove her receipt from\nthe Records Division, hand it across the counter to the swarthy man\nwith the swollen arms.\nIt was 6:58 and about 50 seconds, practically 6:59, when the couple\ndeparted and Conrad moved into place at the head of the line. His\nheart was racing.\nTo his great relief the man scarcely looked at him as he took his\nRecords Division receipt. Perhaps he didn't hold it against him the\nway he had interrupted him as he was coming on to the girl from\nPleasanton . . . Without a word he opened up the binder and riffled\nthrough and came up with a carbon copy of a summons. Then hewent through the door into the adjoining port-a-room, said\nsomething to the old woman, leaned down and made some entries\non a sheet of paper, and returned, studying the piece of paper as he\nwalked.\nNow he looked at Conrad and said, \"Okay, that'll be a hundred and\nfifty-four dollars.\"\n\"A hundred and fifty-four dollars!\" exclaimed Conrad. \"What for\\ I\nwas here by seven! I don't owe any storage!\"\n\"Who's saying you owe storage?\" said the man in a matter-of-fact\nvoice. \"You owe a hundred and fifty-four dollars towing.\"\n\"A hundred and fifty-four dollars towing? How can that be?\"\n\"Took an hour and ten minutes to tow it. Read the sign.\"\n\"An hour and ten minutes? How could it? This is -not right! I've got-I\nhave seventy-seven dollars! I've got it right here!\" By now he had his\nmoney in his left hand, which had closed into a fist. Slowly he\nopened his fingers, revealing a clump of crumpled bills that looked\nas if they had been gassed.\nThe man studied his copy of the summons for a moment, as if he\nwas willing to review the case and listen to reason. Then he looked\nup. \"You come on back with a hundred and fifty-four dollars before\n11 a. M. tomorrow, you can have your car. After eleven it's $204.\"\n\"But this isn't fair! This is -not right!\"\nThe man gave Conrad a look of glorious indifference and motioned\nhis head toward the sign. \"There's a line in here,\" he said. \"There's\npeople waiting.\"\nConrad looked around. Two white men with suits and neckties were\nwatching him with pinched stares. They were not his allies. They\nwere interested in only one thing: seeing him vanish or disintegrate\nso that they could retrieve their own cars. He turned back towardthe man behind the counter and got nothing but the same\ncontemptuously patient and implacable stare. Aflame with anger and\nhumiliation, he wheeled about and hurried out of the port-a-room.\nOutside, in the fenced-in enclosure, he became aware of how heavily\nhe was sweating. His mouth and throat were terribly dry. He was\nbreathing too fast. A feeling of panic swept over him. What was to\nbe done? Call Jill again and have her get more money to him? But\ncall her how? There wasn't even any telephone here!-and he would\nrather die than go back inside that port-a-room and plead to be\nallowed to use one of theirs. Head back into downtown Oakland and\ntry to catch a BART train and a bus back to Pittsburg? But how? He\nhad only 90 cents in change! They wouldn't even let him on the bus!\nWhat was happening was impossible-and yet it was happening. He\nwas stranded out on Kee- ler Avenue in East Oakland, in the worst\nslum in the East Bay, and the sun was going down!\nThe sun was now so low in the sky, it created a terrific glare as it\nbounced off the metal sea of the Three C lowing lot. It made you\nclose your eyelids down to slits. The sound of truck, automobile, and\nforklift motors rose from all over. Right in front of him was a tall\nwoman who had been in the line. Her pink scalp showed through her\nhair. The chain-link gate to the lot began to open. A gaunt, bony\nroustabout with a baseball cap pulled way down over his eyes was\npushing the gate outward. His cars stuck out so far, they took on a\ntranslucent orangey glow from the way the sun shone through them\nfrom behind. An Olds- mobile Cutlass Cicra came through and\nstopped. Another roustabout was at the wheel. He got out and\nturned the car over to the tall woman, then headed back through\nthe open gate, which the roustabout with the glowing ears\nproceeded to close. The two men began walking back into the lot\nand, as Conrad watched, soon became two silhouettes against the\nlow, dazzling light of the sun.\nJust then, a third silhouette--Iilven squinting into the ferocious glare he couldn't mistake that\nfigure. Barely thirty feet away, on the other side of the gate, inside\nthe lot, there was the giant, the tow truck driver, his cowboy hat still\non his head.\nConrad ran over to the gate and peered between the chain links.\nNow he could see him more clearly. The man was climbing down\nfrom a heavy-duty forklift, bigger than the ones they had used at\nCroker Global. No two ways about it, it was him . . . the vest, the\nhuge bare flaccid arms, the enormous ruff of keys protruding from\nhis belt, the novelty key fobs . . .\nThe forklift was in a big irregular cinder path that was maintained\namid the mass of vehicles so they could be moved in and out. The\ngiant began walking between two rows of cars. Every two or three\ncars he had to turn sideways to squeeze through, and his enormous\nring of keys would scrape against the side of a car. The metallic bite\nof the keys cut through the general ruckus of the lot. Such utterly\ninsouciant destruc- tiveness! Nine or ten cars deep into the metal\nsea the giant stopped, leaned into a sedan, withdrew something,\nand put it into his pocket. Over and over, car after car, he removed\nthings. Why? But of course! He was foraging, looting the cars for\nwhatever their owners had been so unfortunate as to have left\ninside.\nFinally he made his way back to the dirt clearing and the forklift, and\nit was at that moment that Conrad spotted-even with the hellish\nglare in his eyes-if.'-his own car!-the Hyundai! It was parked at an\nodd angle on the outer edge of the mass of vehicles. Now the giant\nwas back up on the forklift. With a great v hine it lumbered back to\nlife. The giant shoved the gear stick and pressed the throttle levers.\nThe machine rumbled forward. It was headed straight for the side of\nthe Hyundai. The forks of the forklift slid straight in under the\nchassis, and the nose of the machine stopped just short of the door.\nThe giant thrust the control levers this way and that, and the forks\nrose up under the Hyundai, and there was a sickening metal crunch,\nand the unmistakable groan of metal joints bending, and the nose ofthe forklift went down, and the Hyundai rose up, up, up, completely\noff the ground, until Conrad could see a flare of sunlight between\nthe bottom of his car and the hoods of the cars behind it. As the\nlittle car rose up, the driver's-side door fell open helplessly, with a\nsad torquing sound, and hung at a stricken angle.\nConrad yelled out, \"Hey!-hey!-hey!-heyyyy! You can't do that!\"\nThe roustabout who had just closed the gate was no more than ten\nfeet away. He looked back at Conrad for a moment, then, without a\nword, turned his head and continued on in toward the recesses of\nthe lot.\nConrad tried to pull the gate open, but it was locked in some\nfashion. He dug the tips of his shoes into the gate's metal fencing in\norder to gain some height and managed to get his arm up over the\ntop and down the other side. But he couldn't reach the locking\nmechanism. His little Hyundai was now being borne aloft, way up on\nthe forklift's metal elevator, a silhouette against the waning sun, its\ndoor flapping, the very- picture of defeat and humiliation.\nOnly one thing to do! Nothing else left! He swung his leg over the\ntop of the gate and got a toehold with his shoe in the gate's chain-\nlink mesh. Then he swung the other leg over and dropped to the\nground. He was staring straight into an exploding sun. The roar of\nthe truck and car engines and the whine of the forklifts engulfed\nhim. For an instant the light was blinding, but then he could make\nout the car and the forklift and the immense back of the giant. The\nmachine was thirty or forty yards away now. The giant was\nbeginning to lower the little car down into the metal sea. Conrad ran\ntoward it. The ground was so hard, he could feel the grit slipping\nbeneath his shoes.\nThe roustabout who had closed the gate still had his back turned.\nConrad raced past him, and he yelled out, \"Hey! Yo! Come here!\"\nConrad kept running. The man called out, \"Yo! Morrie! Yo!\"As he ran, Conrad's field of vision was a blur of bouncing sunlight\nand crude silhouettes. The Hyundai was descending. With a\ncrunching smash it dropped to the ground on all four wheels.\n\"Stop it! stop it!\"\nThe giant turned in his seat on the forklift. His huge chest gave a\ngreat heave, and he stared at Conrad, who came skidding to a halt\nbarely three feet away.\n\"stop it! give me my car! you're ruining it!\" Conrad realized he was\nshrieking, but the words wouldn't come out any other way. \"this is-\nnot right!\"\nSlowly, warily, staring into Conrad's eyes the whole time, the giant\nslid his great bulk from the forklift seat and stepped down off the\nfloorboard.\nConrad pointed toward the Hyundai, \"look at what you did! you ben\nt the chassis! this is not right!\"\nThe giant's chest was beginning to heave up and down. His deep\nvoice rumbled to life. \"I remember you.\" He took a half step forward.\nWith a guttural hiss Conrad said, \"I'm taking my car.\"\nHe said it so fiercely, the giant stopped. Conrad started toward the\nHyundai. The forklift's blades were on the ground beneath the\nchassis.\n\"Pal,\" said the giant, \"all you're taking-all you're taking-you're taking\nshit.\" He said it calmly, but he was breathing in gasps. His face was\nturning red.\nConrad tried to walk around him to get to the car, and the giant\ngrabbed him by the elbow. \"All you're taking\"-wheezing-\"is a walk\nback\"-wheezing-\"the way you came.\"\nConrad thrashed his arm backward and broke the man's grip and\nheaded once more toward the Hyundai. The giant grabbed for hisarm again but succeeded only in getting a grip on his jacket sleeve,\nand once more Conrad broke free. He stood his ground and\nscreamed straight into the giant's face:\n\"stop it! it's my car! this is not right!\"\nTo his astonishment the giant suddenly grabbed him by the necktie\nand jerked him toward him, until their faces were no more than six\ninches apart. \"One way or the other, pal\"-wheezing-\"you're getting\nthe fuck\"-gasping-\"outta this lot\"-gasping-\"Which way's\"-gasp- ing-\n\"it gonna be?\"\nConrad tried to pull his head back, but the giant's strength was too\nmuch for him. He was pulling him relentlessly downward. The\nnecktie was cutting into his neck and pressing against his windpipe.\nReflex- ively, he seized the giant's wrist with both hands and twisted\nit backward with all his might to try to break his hold. The giant\ncried out-\n\"Ahhhhhhh!\"-and let go, and Conrad sprang back, crouching. The\ngiant was staring at him, his mouth open, his face now a purplish\nred, cradling his wrist with his other hand, astonished at the power\nof this slender young man.\n\"All I\"-Conrad was breathing so hard, he could barely get the words\nout-\"all I want-is my-own car.\"\nThe giant lunged. Conrad ducked to one side, and the giant's\nimmense bulk came crashing into his hip. The world turned upside\ndown in a swirl of dirt and blinding sunlight. The next thing Conrad\nknew, he was picking himself up out of the cinders. The giant was\nthree or four feet away, on his back, propped up on one elbow,\nstaring at him out of a blood-red face, with his mouth open, sighing\ndeeply and going, \"Aw . . . awww . . . awwwww,\" as if in profound\ndisappointment.\nConrad made a dash for the Hyundai, figuring that now he could get\ninto it before the giant could climb to his feet. He jumped behind thewheel and closed the door, straightened his body out like a board,\nand pulled the keys out of his pants pocket. His hands were shaking\nterribly. Hanh . . . hanh . . . hanh . . . hanh . . . hanh ... It was the\nsound of his own breathing ... He managed to get the key into the\nignition- and it started.\nHe looked through the windshield, terrified that the giant would\nalready be up and lumbering toward him. But he was still on his\nback, still propped up on one elbow, still staring at him with that\nstrange look on his florid face. Too fat! Out of breath! Exhausted!\nMustn't try to jackrabbit out of here . . . Clear the forklift blades first\n. . . Take it slow, take it slow, take it slow, take it slow ... He could\nfeel the wheels roll over the blades . . . one by one . . . and he was\nclear. Now gun it! The wheels spun on the cinders, and he took off\ntoward the gate. Two figures were running toward him from the\nsides . . . roustabouts . . . but they weren't close enough . . . Up\nahead, another one, out in the middle, waving both arms over his\nhead, back and forth, signaling him to stop . . . Conrad sped up . . .\nThe roustabout jumped to the side . . .\nA clear run to the gate up ahead ... He could see the backs of the\ntwo port-a-rooms ... He glanced in the rearview mirror . . . couldn't\nmake out a thing . . . geysers of dust roiling up behind . . . The gate\n. . . He braked and came skidding to a stop four feet away ... He\njumped out . . . Open the gate! ... a tremendous haze of dust in the\nlate-afternoon sunlight . . . Out of the corner of his eye he saw a\nfigure slip between two cars to the rear of the port-a-rooms and\ncome charging toward him ... It was the man from behind the\ncounter, the one with the huge arms . . . He was brandishing a billy\nclub ... He stopped in a crouch, thrusting the club out in front of him\nlike a sword . . .\n\"Hold it! Hold it! Hold it!\" He kept saying. \"Hold it.\"\n\" This is my car\\\" yelled Conrad ... He pointed in the general\ndirection of the forklift and the giant . . . \"He was destroying it! Ihave a right to get my car!\"\n\"Just hold it right there!\"\nConrad stared at him for an instant . . . The man's chest and upper\narms looked huge, but the billy club was shaking . . . Conrad moved\ntoward the gate . . .\n\"Get away from that fucking gate!\" The man advanced on him.\nThe gate was locked with a spring hasp, and it required both hands\nto open it . . . The man was right on top of him . . .\n\"You heard what I said! Don't be a jerk!\" With that the man tried to\nherd him away from the gate by jabbing him in the ribs with the billy\nclub...\nConrad spun about and grabbed the head of the club . . . The man\npulled it back, but Conrad tightened his grip . . . With a sudden twist\nhe wrenched the club from him . . . The man recoiled ... He eyed\nConrad for a moment, then darted toward the Hyundai . . . The\nkeys'. . . . Conrad sprang toward the car to try to beat him to the\ndoor . . . They collided . . . The man spun backward . . . The edge of\nthe open door caught him in the back ... He fell to the ground ... His\nface was contorted ... His legs were twisted beneath him ... He\nstarted screaming, \"Cliff! Cliff! Cliff!\" . . . Conrad was standing over\nhim, fighting to get his breath, still holding the billy club . . .\nSuch was the scene-Conrad Hensley, a club in his hand, standing\nover the crumpled, stricken, screaming form of the proprietor of\nthese premises-when a third figure arrived. It was the policeman, an\nOakland policeman in half a uniform, his pants and shoes, with\nnothing but a T-shirt on top. He held a revolver in both hands braced\nin front of him.\n\"Freeze!\" he yelled. \"Drop it! Drop it! Now!\"\nConrad was dumbfounded. He had to look down at his own hand to\nrealize that in fact he was standing there holding a club. He openedhis hand, staring at his own fingers, and let the club roll off them. It\nhit the ground with a curiously musical little clink. The implications of\nwhat was now taking place swept over him in a sickening wave.\n\"Now-lie down! Over here! Face down! Arms out to the side! Now!\"\nConrad stared at that furious face and at that incredible machine,\nthe revolver, which he held out in front of him. Why? / can explain!\n\"I-\"\n\"l said lie down! now!\"\nBaffled, aghast, Conrad did as he was told. He dropped to his knees,\nthen to his hands. Then he stretched flat out on his chest and\nabdomen and thighs.\n\"hands out to the sides! now!\" 'Hie policeman was somewhere\nbehind him.\nWhen Conrad stretched his hands out to the sides, he had no choice\nbut to lower his head to the ground. He lay on one side of his face.\nHis body was drenched with sweat. He could feel the dirt caking to\nhis face. His cheek was pressed against some sort of cinders or\nrubble. Through the dust and haze he could make out figures\nrunning toward him. If only he'll let me explain!\n\"Officer-\"\n\"shut up! i told you, face down!\"\nSomebody shoved a rod under his head and up against the rim of\nhis ear where it lay pressed against the earth . . . the hilly club ... He\nturned his head until he was completely face down and his chin and\nnose dug into the dirt. A filthy congestion of dust filled his nostrils.\nHe could hear the gritty sound of shoes coming toward him. He\ncould hear someone panting.\n\"Corky! You okay?\"\"Shit!\" A deep groan from the little man with the big arms.\n\"Uggghhhhhhhhhh.\" Someone seemed to be helping him up. \"My\nbaaaaack . . . The cocksucker blindsided me.\"\nRunning footsteps . . . someone gasping, struggling to get enough\nair to get the words out: \"Hey, Corky . . . Cliff . . . Jesus Christ . . .\nSomebody's gotta go help Morrie . . . He's lvin' back'eh by the forklift\n. . . He don't move! He don't even breathe!\"\nProstrate, face down in the dirt of the Oakland slums, a sodden little\nspeck of humanity, Conrad Hensley could feel the very flesh on his\nhead grow hot. His nostrils were caked, choked with dust. His eves\nwere stinging. So he closed them. All at once, behind his eyelids, he\ncould see two people looking down at him. One was Arda Otey ... No\nmore than she expected . . . The other was his little boy, Carl, Carl\nwith his perfect blond bangs. He was looking at his father the way\nConrad had looked at his own father so many times.\nChapter 12The Breeding Barn\nIt was Friday evening, and the master of turpmtine, charlie Croker,\nwas presiding over dinner at the burled tupelo maple table\nRonald Vine had devised for the Gun Room, which was the\nshowpiece of the plantation's new Gun House. Logs blazed in a vast\nhearth, fashioned by Ronald out of Georgia limestone, casting\nCharlie and his thirteen guests-fifteen, if you counted Serena and\nWally-into a pattern of firelit glows and deep shadows. The flames\nsent highlights flickering up the long barrels and ornate chase-\nworked clasps of a parade of shotguns, many of them classics from\nthe so-called Golden Age of Shotgunning, Dicksons, Bosses, Purdys,\nBerrettas, L. C. Smiths, the lot, priceless pieces that lined the entire\nroom, all four walls, rank after rank, encased in burled tupelo gun\nracks.\nUp above the gun racks, between two rows of heavy tupelo cornice\nmoldings, ran an array of stuffed boars' heads with fantastic curving\ntusks and stuffed coiled diamondback rattlesnakes with their jaws\nagape, their fangs erect. A boar's head, a coiled diamondback\nrattlesnake, a boar's head, a coiled diamondback rattlesnake-they\nalternated, creating, in Ronald's phrase, \"The Frieze of the\nUnfriendly Beasts.\" Each boar, each snake, was a masterpiece of\ntaxidermy, and they were Charlie's beasts. He had killed or captured\nthem all with his own hands out in the fields and swamps of\nTurpmtine, a fact he fully intended to impart to his guests, given a\nhalfway natural opening.\nFour black maids in black uniforms with white aprons had just\nfinished serving the first course, turtle soup, under the supervision of\nthe butler, Mason, an old black man who stood, erect and watchful,\nnear the kitchen door. The turtle soup gave Charlie an idea.\n\"Hey, y'all!\" he boomed out over the hubbub of conversation around\nthe table. \"I want'chall know sump'm!\"He said it so loudly that even Lettie Withers, the Atlanta grande\ndame who was seated on his left, stopped talking to Ted Nashford,\nthe surgeon and chairman of the board of the Emory University\nSchool of Medicine, in whom she seemed to be taking such a\ncoquettish interest. Even old Billy Bass stopped telling the bawdy\nstory with which he obviously hoped to shock Lenore Knox, the wife\nof the former governor of Georgia, Beauchamp Knox, who was just\nacross the table.\n\"I want'chall to know,\" said Charlie, \"that this turtle soup comes\nfrom turtles rat'cheer at Turpmtine. Uncle Bud caught every one\nuv'em. You know how he does it? He ties a line to a bough hanging\nout over the water and baits the hook with chicken. When the bough\nbends, he knows the turtle's struck. Turtle don't come any better'n\nUncle Bud's.\" Then he surveyed the table and beamed.\nPutting it into words would have been beyond Charlie, but he knew\nthat the magic of Turpmtine depended on thrusting his guests back\ninto a manly world where people still lived close to the earth, a\nluxurious bygone world in which there were masters and servants\nand everybody knew his place. He didn't have to explain who Uncle\nBud was. He merely had to say his name in a certain way, and one\nand all would realize that he was some sort of faithful old retainer,\nprobably black.\nHe had hoped that Uncle Bud's catching the turtles might somehow\nserve as a transition to just who had caught the boars and the\nrattlesnakes. But that wasn't happening, and so he leaned across the\nwoman on his right, Howell Hendricks's second wife, Francine, and\nsaid to the man next to her, \"Well, Herb, whattaya think a yer turtle\nsoup?\"\n\"Oh, it's delicious, Charlie,\" said the man, with a somewhat\nembarrassed smile.\nCharlie beamed, hoping to coax a little more conversation out of\nhim. But it wasn't forthcoming. Herb Richman was going to be atough pigeon to bag, a hard one to mesmerize with the magic of\nTurpmtine. For a start, he was Jewish, which in Georgia meant that\nyour paths weren't going to cross socially all that much. And he was\nso damned mild-mannered and polite. It wasn't going to be easy to\nput him under the Turpmtine Spell with the usual hearty, jolly, manly\nchatter. Nevertheless, Herb Richman was the pigeon he needed. This\nwhole weekend had been created for the sole purpose of casting the\nSpell over Mr. Herbert Richman, who was known in the Atlanta\nnewspapers as \"the fitness center tycoon.\" Herb Richman was the\nfounder of Definition- America, a network of 1,100 health-and-\nfitness centers, which he had started in Atlanta and then reproduced\nthick as shad throughout the country. He was looking for 360,000\nsquare feet of prime office space to create a new corporate\nheadquarters. With luck and the Turpmtine Spell, that might mean\nseven floors and more than $10 million a year in lease income at\nCroker Concourse, a financial and public relations coup that would\nimpress even the workout people at PlannersBanc with their \"niche\nfocus\" and all the rest of it. Practically every big weekend at\nTurpmtine had its pigeon, a term Charlie had said out loud only\nonce, to his first wife, Martha, who had found it distasteful. So he\nhad never dared utter it at all to Serena, although he had told her\nexactly why he had invited Herb Richman and why he would be\npaying so much attention to him. Turpmtine might not be, strictly\nspeaking, an experimental farm, but it had paid for itself many times\nover in terms of bagged pigeons, a point he didn't quite know how\nto get across to those small-brained niche-focused motherfuckers at\nPlannersBanc.\nCharlie continued to beam at his pigeon. Herb Richman wasn't much\nof an advertisement for DefinitionAmerica, which promised its\nthousands of members sculpted, high-toned, sharply defined bodies.\nHe was only forty-four but already running to fai. His head popped\nup out of his blazer and polo shirt like a bubble. His skin was pallid\nand pasty. A few strands of hair the color of orange-juice stains\nskimmed back across his otherwise bald pate. His extremely pale\nhazel eyes gave him a look that was at once eerie and washed out.He looked sleepy. It occurred to Charlie that he himself would have\npresented a better picture for such a firm, even at the age of sixty.\nCharlie was wearing an open-necked khaki shirt that brought out the\ngirth of his neck, the width of his shoulders, and the massiveness of\nhis chest. Casual dress was very much the fashion at the grand\nplantations these days, even at dinner, except for a few spreads in\nSouth Carolina owned by Northerners who were infected with British\ncustoms.\n\"I want to make sure you meet Uncle Bud tomorrow,\" said Charlie.\n\"Uncle Bud's a walking history of Georgia plantations. He's been here\nat Turpmtine since a long time fo' I ever was. His folks were all\nTurpmtine Ni-Turpmtine People from way back, when all you did here\nwas, you harvested resin from the pine trees for naval stores and\nthat sorta thing. I couldn't even begin to tell you how old he is. I\ndon't think he could, either.\" Charlie shook his head with a salt-of-\nthe-earth significance. \"Uncle Bud.\"\n\"Sounds like an interesting man,\" said Herb Richman with a weak\nsmile, great politeness, and utter lack of conviction.\nThe table's conversational buzz had now dropped badly, even though\nCharlie had managed to stock the weekend with enough loquacious,\ncolorful, prestigious characters to impress Herb Richman, no matter\nwhat his personal tastes were. Down at the other end of the table,\non one side of Herb Richman's wife, Marsha, he had put Howell\nHendricks, the big, hearty, melon-headed CEO of Serry & Belloc, the\nsecond or third biggest advertising firm in the South. On the other\nside he had put Slim 'flicker, the country singer who was one of the\nfirst music- business figures to buy a South Georgia quail plantation.\nThey had both been paying a lot of attention to Marsha Richman-\nwho was such a pretty brunette that Charlie figured she had to be a\nsecond wife-but now all three of them were silently exploring their\nturtle soup with their spoons. The old ex-governor, Beauchamp\n(pronounced Beacham) Knox, who was sitting next to Serena, was\ndoing the same. Even Opey Mc- Corkle, the Baker County judge whocould talk a raccoon out of a tree, had stopped talking to Ted\nNashford's young live-in girlfriend, Lydia Something-or-other. In true\nOpey McCorkle fashion he had turned up for dinner wearing a plaid\nshirt, a plaid necktie, red felt suspenders, and a big old leather belt\nthat went around his potbelly like something you could hitch up a\nmule with, but for now he had cut off his usual torrent of orotund\nrhetoric mixed with Baker Countyisms. So it was up to Charlie\nhimself to put some life back into the proceedings. This he felt well\nprimed to do. Before dinner he had downed a couple of glasses of\nbourbon and water-\"brown whiskey,\" as opposed to the Yuppie Lite\nstuff that was in vogue in Atlanta these days, the white wine and\nvodka and so on-although he hadn't made an issue of the point,\nsince Herb Richman had asked for white wine-and then he had\nbrought out some of Uncle Bud's homemade com liquor. The ladies\nhad turned it down with appropriately terrified ladylike protestations.\nBut naturally Charlie had to knock back a glass of it, despite the fact\nthat it practically took the top of your head off. It stopped his right\nknee from aching, in any event, and left him feeling . . . loud.\n\"Hey, Mason!\" he boomed out to his butler, who was still standing by\nthe kitchen door. \"Don't we have any honest-to-God logs around\nhere? All's I see in'eh's lightwood and kindling.\"\nMason, wearing an old-fashioned white cotton mess jacket and a\nblack bow tie, came forward with a worried, slightly wounded look\non his face.\n\"There's logs on'eh, Cap'm Charlie. 'Put logs on'eh, just a while ago.\"\n\"I don't see nothing but lightwood, Mason,\" said Charlie. \"Go get me\nsome logs.\"\nThe butler hesitated, then averted his eyes and shook his head. He\nwas a tall man with broad shoulders, now turning bony with age,\nwho wore his hair parted in the middle and combed straight back in\nlittle marcelled wavelets.In a whispery voice, as if they were getting into a subject that didn't\nbear discussing in front of the guests, he said, \"Put too much wood\non'eh, Cap'm Charlie, gon' th'ow out too much heat.\"\nCharlie understood. The problem was that it was warm outside, up\nin the high sixties even now. But Ronald had given the Gun Room a\nfireplace big enough to walk into, a fireplace so stupendous it clearly\ndemanded a fire. The only way you could stand the fire on a day like\nthis was to turn the central air conditioning on to the maximum,\nwhich Mason had done. Every now and then a frigid draft would sink\nfrom a vent overhead and make you feel as if your gums were\ncongealing and your teeth were coming loose. If Mason put a full\nload of hardwood on the fire, enough to look appropriate for the\nhearth's colossal andirons, the fire might overwhelm the cooling\nsystem completely. But hell . . . you just had to have a roaring fire in\na hearth that big.\nIn a now somewhat softer voice Charlie said to Mason, \"Go on. Go\nahead and get me some real logs.\"\n\"Yessir, Cap'm Charlie ... but I 'on know . . .\" Mason shook his head.\nSerena spoke up from down at the other end of the table. \"Please,\nCharlie.\" Then she looked at Mason. \"We don't need any more logs\non there.\"\nMason stared at her for a moment, then stared at Charlie with a\npained expression. Charlie was also aware of the expression on his\nson Wally's face. Wally was sitting three seats away from Serena,\nbetween\nDoris Bass and Ted Nashford's little Live-in Lydia, and his eyes were\ngoing from Serena to Charlie to Mason, and he seemed to be\nshrinking in his chair.\nNow Charlie glowered at his wife with resentment, three kinds of it.\nShe was coming perilously close to countermanding his instructions\nto his butler. Not only that, if he knew Serena, she was capable ofdescribing to the entire table the battle between the fire and the air\nconditioning, thereby making him look vain and foolish. And to top it\nall off, she was making Mason uncomfortable. Mason disliked taking\norders from her or having her intervene in household matters in any\nfashion. Mason remained loyal to Martha even now, three years after\nthe divorce. Charlie could feel it every minute Mason and Serena\nwere in the same room.\nNow Mason was standing there awaiting further instructions and a\nresolution of the conflicting opinions of Cap'm Charlie and his hot\nnew cookie on the subject of the magnitude of the logs in the\nfireplace. Charlie was afraid to tell him to just do what he said and\nget the big logs, for fear Serena would jump in and bring up the\nmatter of the air conditioning. Clearly a change of subject was called\nfor.\nSo all of a sudden he gave Mason a big smile, and then he gave\nLettie Withers a big smile, and he said, 'Tou met Mason, didn't you,\nLettie? You met Mason when you were here last time.\"\n\"I certainly did,\" said Lettie in the sort of smoker's baritone many\nolder Southern women had from a lifetime of cigarettes. \"It's nice to\nsee you again, Mason.\"\n\"Fine, Miz Withers.\" Mason had the habit of saying \"Fine\" when he\nmet people, regardless of whether or not they asked him how he\nwas. At the same time, Charlie was impressed that he had\nremembered Let- tie's last name.\n\"Mason's had a lotta good news since you were here, Lettie.\"\nMason looked perplexed.\n\"Tell Miz Withers about your son and your daughter, Mason.\"\nMason hesitated. So Charlie said, \"Where's your boy now?\"\n\"Georgia Tech,\" said Mason.\"Tell Miz Withers what he's studying.\"\n\"Electrical engineering,\" said Mason. His eyes were now jumping\nfrom Charlie's face to Lettie's face and back again. This recitation\nwas making him uncomfortable, which Charlie realized, but he was\ndetermined to establish a point-and not for Lettie's benefit, either.\nCharlie's own eyes were beginning to jump from Mason to Herbert\nRichman.\n\"Electrical engineering where?\" said Charlie. \"Which school?\"\n\"Which school?\" The old butler looked at Charlie quizzically. \"Georgia\nTech?\" It came out like a question.\n\"Naw, I mean the graduate school,\" said Charlie. \"Mason's boy is in\nthe graduate school, Lettie. He's already got his BS from Tech. He\ngot that last year. In'at right, Mason?\"\n\"Yessir.\"\n\"And now he's in the graduate school in the best engineering\nprogram in the South, if not the country,\" Charlie said. \"In'at right?\"\n\"Yessir.\"\n\"I graduated from Tech, too,\" said Charlie, \"but they wouldna had ...\nme in the graduate school! I bet you don't doubt that, do you,\nMason?\" Yet another glance at Herbert Richman.\n\"No, sir.\" Mason's face was now twisted into a terribly embarrassed,\ntortured smile. \"I mean, yessir, I speck they'd a had you if that's\nwhat you wanted.\"\n\"Naw, Mason,\" Charlie said, laughing, \"unh-unnh. They're too smart\nfor that at Tech! Now tell Miz Withers about your daughter. Tell her\nabout Verna. Where's Verna now?\"\n\"She's in Atlanta.\"\"What's she doing in Atlanta? She's a nurse, in'she? Where's she a\nnurse?\"\n\"In the trauma center at Emory.\" Mason was now standing with his\nshoulders pulled forward and his hands twisted together at hip level,\nlike a dutiful student.\n\"The trauma center at Emory,\" said Charlie. \"That's a pretty\nimportant job, in'it, Ted?\" He looked at Ted Nashford, the surgeon,\non Lettie's left, then swiveled another quick glance at Herbert\nRichman, to make sure he was paying attention, then looked back at\nTed.\n\"Oh, yes,\" said Dr. Nashford, \"that's a very important job.\"\nCharlie smiled. He beamed triumphantly. \"I think that's great,\nMason. You oughta feel very proud.\"\n\"Yessir,\" said Mason.\n\"And I don' just mean proud a your children. You oughta feel proud\na yourself.\" He gave Mason a long, penetrating stare.\nMason comprehended what his employer now wanted him to say.\n\"Yessir, but I speck-I couldna-couldna done it 'thout you, Cap'm\nCharlie. You been mighty gen'rous.\"\n\"Aw, nonsense, Mason,\" Charlie said grandly. \"All I did was knock on\na couple a doors. You've got two fine children there.\"\nCharlie turned again to glance at Herbert Richman, but in that same\nmoment he noticed that Wally, all sixteen years' worth of him, was\nnow slumped way down in his chair as if recoiling from something\ndistasteful and looking anxiously toward Serena. For her part, Serena\nwas giving him, Charlie, a look that expressed anything but pride in\nhis benevolence toward his faithful black servant. In fact, the look\nwas accusatory. About what, for godsake? All he was doing was\nmaking sure that Herb Richman understood how warm and tolerantand-and-and enlightened things were nowadays down here at\nTurpmtine. What was so bad about that?\nAn immense, cackling laugh broke out halfway down the table.\nUnmistakably . . . Billy Bass. Billy's gangling form was thrust back in\nhis chair, and his head was thrown back and his chin was pointing\nalmost straight up in the air. He had the sort of laugh that was so\nprofound, he would lose his breath. He was a big, tall, untidy man\nwith a paunch and drooping eyelids and wattles like a hound and\nthinning gray hair that always stuck out this way and that. Seeing\nhim now, reared back in his khakis and looking like a big old aging\nCracker, which he was, you would never know what a superb\nphysical specimen he had been forty years ago when he was a\nsenior playing end for Tech just as Charlie was starting off as a\nsophomore in the backfield. This particular old Cracker roosted atop\na fortune. He was one of the few real estate developers who had\nbeen smart enough to sell his holdings in 1987, near the peak of the\n1980s boom in Atlanta. Although Charlie hadn't known him when he\nwas a boy, Billy had grown up practically next door, in Dougherty\nCount)', and he had grown up the same way Charlie had, dirt poor\nand common as pig tracks, and for years now he had been Charlie's\ngreat huntin'n'shootin'pal and a fixture, an endless source of good\ncomic low humor, at these big weekends at Turpmtine. The entire\ntable was watching by the time he finally got his breath back and\nrocked forward, tears of laughter streaming down his cheeks, and\nlooked at Lenore Knox and roared:\n\"Did you say ... a ball for AIDS? a . . . ball for aids?\"\nAs the former First Lady of Georgia, Lenore was an old hand at\ndinner table conversation who had dealt with practically every\npeculiarity known to that endeavor, but she seemed genuinely\nnonplussed bv this one. She cocked her head defensively.\n\"I've heard a balls for AIDS,\" cried Billy, \"but this is the fust time I\never knowed anybody that actually went to one!\" One came out\nwuh- uhn; two syllables; in South Georgia, Billy's speech becameeven more Down Home than Charlie's. The key to his low humor\nwas that he started laughing even before the first words left his\nmouth, and his laughter swept you along like a wave, no matter\nwhat he was actually saying. \"I was born at the wrong damn time,\nLenore! Hell\"-Hale-\"when I was growing up, if you got a venereal\"-\nvernerl-\"disease, it was a stigma\\\" Already he was looking away from\nLenore Knox and toward the men at the table, as if rallying his\ntroops for a salvo of male laughter. \"If you got syphilis or the clap, it\nwas a dis-grace!\" His eyes sought out Governor Knox's-the old\nGovernor didn't know what to do, since his wife seemed to be the\nbutt of the joke-and then they sought out Howell Hendricks's and\nJudge Opey McCorkle's and Herb Richman's and Charlie's and Ted\nNashford's and Slim Tucker's. Charlie and Judge McCorkle were\nalready laughing, because they were pushovers for Billy's brand of\nhumor when he went on these dinner table jags of his. \"I can\nremember plenty a fellows with vernerl diseases, but I don't\nremember anybody throwin' parties for'm!\" exclaimed Billy, bursting\nwith mirth. \"I don't remember any dances! I don't remember any\nlet's rap for clap nights! Or let's riff for syph!\"\n\"Or let's hop for herpes!\" volunteered Judge Opey McCorkle, who\nwas laughing so hard he could hardly get the words out.\n\"Or let's co greet the spirochetes!\" contributed Charlie, who was now\nin the same paroxysmal condition.\n\"Or let's go roar for the chancre sores!\" exclaimed Billy Bass.\n\"Or let's pay our dues to the pustular ooze!\" exclaimed the judge.\n\"Or let's go hug a dyin' bugger!\" cried Billy, who was gasping for\nbreath and weeping with laughter at the same time. \"Now-now if\nyou get AIDS, you're some kinda saint!-and they give banquets for\nyou! Everbuddy goes dancin'!\"\n\"Glory me-I got da HIV!\" sang out the judge, who had his mouth\nopen, his eyes wide, and both hands flopping in the air up by hisears, as if he were a minstrel performer. This started Billy and\nCharlie laughing even harder.\n\"They never used to give lepers banquets for being lepers!\" shouted\nBilly. \"They put bells around their necks so people could hear'em\ncoming and stay outta their way! Maybe they could do that with all\nthese characters with AIDS!\"\n\"Yeah,\" said Charlie, \" 'cep when you went to New York or San\nFrancisco or one a those places, Christalmighty, you wouldn't be able\nto hear yourself think! It's bad enough in Atlanta!\"\nBilly and the judge redoubled their laughter, which pleased Charlie,\nwho was afraid that up until then he had fallen behind in the rounds\nof wisecracks. Oh, this was the real thing! This was vintage manly\nhumor deep in the huntin'n'shootin' atmosphere of Turpmtine! This\nwas the sort of good times among men that the Gun House and this\nGun Room had been built for! \"Let's Rap for Clap!\" \"Let's Riff for\nSyph!\" \"Let's go hug a dyin' bugger!\" Jesus, Billy was one funny old\nsonofabitch! This was letting it all hang out down here below the\ngnat line!\nCharlie surveyed the table, to enjoy the sight of the rest of the party\ncaught up in the rich manly humor of Turpmtine. In fact, what he\nsaw surprised him. Howell Hendricks had a grin, or the beginning of\none, on his big face, but his eyes were not laughing. They were\njumping anxiously from Serena to Dr. Ted Nashford's young Live-in\nLydia to Veronica Tucker, who was sitting on the other side of Herb\nRichman. Billy's wife, Doris, was laughing heartily, but Serena was\nonce more staring accusingly at him, Charlie, and Wally had slumped\nso far down in his chair and rolled his eyes so far back in his head-\nhe had embarrassment written all over him. Live-in Lydia was staring\nacross at Ted Nashford with her lips parted, as if waiting for a cue as\nto which way to turn them, up or down. Ted's expression was like\nHowell Hendricks's: a smile topped by a pair of small, anxious eyes.\nCharlie had heard Lettie Withers's smoke-cured laugh braying when\nit had all started, but now she had settled back into her chair withan apprehensive look. Slim Tucker, who wanted to prove he was a\nnatural-bom plantation-owning type, had on a big grin, but it was\nfrozen. Marsha Richman, sitting between Slim and Howell, was\nstaring morosely across the table at her husband. And as for Herb\nRichman--\nHerb Richman's fat face looked numb. He was returning his wife's\nstare with a look that seemed to say, \"Well, here we are, and there's\nnothing I can do about it right now.\"\nWhat the hell was going on? This was Turpmtine! Not only that, this\nwas the Gun Room at Turpmtine, the very bastion of male\ncamaraderie! What was wrong with these people?\nSuddenly a reedy voice piped up from down at the far end of the\ntable: \"Why don't you just nuke 'em all, Dad?\"\nIt was Wally. Charlie was stunned. He had no idea what he was\ntalking about, but he sensed revolt. It was in the boy's very tone,\nwhich began with a lilt of levity and then swooned into a quaver. The\ntable went stone quiet. The sound of a log burning through and\ncollapsing with a crunch on the hearth seemed like an nvalanche.\n\"Nuke who?\" said Charlie. There was his son, shrunken back in his\nchair, staring like a raccoon transfixed by headlights, his mouth\nslightly open.\n\"All the people with AIDS.\" Not even the pretense of\nlightheadedness now. Nothing but a sixteen-year-old boy thoroughly\nfrightened by his own audacity.\n\"Nuke 'em?\" asked Charlie. \"Why nuke 'em?\" More tremulous than\never: \"Because that way the ones that don't die, you can see 'em\ncoming, because they'll glow in the dark.\"\nBy the time he reached glow, his young voice was close to a sob of\npanic. Ever)' dinner party's worst nemesis, stricken silence, seized\nthe table.Then judge Opey McCorkle forced a country laugh and turned to\nCharlie and said, \"Charlie, damn if your boy ain't bad as you! 'Nuke\n'em!' Heh heh heh heh heggggggghhhhhh!\"\nThe judge's intervention gave everybody the opportunity to release\nthe tension by joining in the laughter. Everybody but Charlie; he\ncouldn't even feign a smile. Finally he pulled himself together and\nlooked toward the kitchen door and roared out: \"Mason! Bring these\nfolks some more turtle soup!\"\nbetween courses, as the black women in the black dresses with the\nwhite aprons cleared away the turtle soup, Serena got up from her\nseat and came around to Charlie and motioned toward the doorway\nand said, \"I need you for a minute,\" as if it were some household\nmatter.\nCharlie stood up, discovered his knee had stiffened again, and\ngimped on out into the hall with her. He could hear the burble of\nconversation from the table as Serena stopped, looked him in the\neye, and said, \"Charlie . . . you can't encourage Billy like that. You\ncan't let him go into these good ol' boy numbers of his.\" Confused\nand irritated: \"Why not?\"\n\"Herb Richman!\" said Serena in a low, sibilant voice. \"You should\nhave seen the look on his face. His wife, too.\"\n\"Whattaya mean?\"\n\"They're Jewish, Charlie.\"\n\"I know that,\" said Charlie defensively.\n\"Well, then you ought to know that Jewish people tend to be liberals.\nTo them-well, you and Billy and Judge McCorkle carrying on like\nthat-they took it as gay-bashing.\"\n\"Gay-bashing? Jesus Christ, Serena! Billy didn't say a word about\nfaggots. All he said was-\"\"And for God's sake, don't introduce the word faggots into the\nconversation.\"\n\"I didn'tl Nobody did!\"\n\"Nobody had to, Charlie. Herb and Marsha Richman knew exactly\nwhat Billy really meant. So did your own son. You heard what he\nsaid.\"\n\"That I did,\" said Charlie. He shook his head. \"And I couldn't believe\nwhat I was hearing.\"\n\"The poor kid,\" said Serena, \"he meant to keep it light. But you\ncould see what he really felt.\"\n\"That I could, and I'd like to know where he gets off-\" He decided\nnot to finish the sentence. He shook his head some more.\n\"It wasn't just the Richmans and Wally, either,\" said Serena. \"I'm not\nsure how it all went over with Howell. He's in advertising, and you\nknow how sensitive they get to-\"\n\"Sensitive to what, inna name a Christ!\" It was all he could do to\nkeep his voice down.\n\"I'm not reprimanding you, Charlie,\" said Serena, whispering. \"All\nI'm saying is, if you're interested in Herb Richman, don't let Billy and\nthe judge-and don't you, either-well, you know what I mean. Just\nremember that Herb Richman is Jewish and liberal and he's on the\nboard of half the rights organizations in Atlanta.\"\n\"Okay,\" said Charlie, \"you've made your point. Jesus H. Christ.\" He\nshook his head, but he recognized the practicality of the advice.\nThe two of them headed back to the table. Charlie's knee hurt worse\nthan ever, and he was limping badly. What the hell were things\ncoming to? What Billy had said was genuinely funny! The judge, too!\nLet's pay our dues to the pustular ooze! That was a hell of a line to\ncome up with on the spur of the moment. Opey McCorkle'scourtroom had always been a hoot and a howl when it came to the\nuse of the English language from the bench. Pay our dues to the\npustular ooze . . . But then he thought of Wally . . . What the hell\nhad gotten into him? It was that damned New England boarding\nschool Martha had packed him off to, Trinian. They drilled all this\nliberal, politically correct stuff into them up there . . . This was\nTurpmtine, for God's sake! This was a gun house, maybe the\ngreatest gun house ever built! If a man couldn't speak his mind and\nbe a man here, where the hell could he?\nthe main course, as was so often the case at Turpmtine, was quail,\nserved with Auntie Bella's own secret gravy, plus the thinnest\nimaginable slices of Uncle Bud's smoked ham, mashed potatoes,\nokra, collard greens, snap beans boiled with ham fat and served with\nsliced onions and vinegar, and Auntie Bella's own biscuits and\ncornbread and a rich bread called Sally Lunn, all three. To their own\nsurprise, citified folks always loved Auntie Bella's vegetables, the\ncollard greens and snap beans and all, even young people who these\ndays went through the better part of life eating no vegetables but\nFrench fries and lettuce. Even the citified dude Charlie was most\nworried about, Herbert Richman, was digging into the main course\nwith gusto.\nTraditionally, South Georgia plantation country had not been an area\nwhere folks went in for anything so effete as European wine, but\nCharlie had discovered a heavy, slightly spicy German white wine\ncalled Gewurtztraminer that was fabulous with Auntie Bella's quail\nand vegetables, and he was now knocking it back at a pretty good\nclip. So, too, he noticed, was Billy Bass. Feeling ebullient once more,\nCharlie leaned across Francine Hendricks, to whom he had not paid\nnearly enough attention-but the hell with it-and said, \"Hey, Herb!\nWhattaya think a that quail there?\" 'At quail'eh.\n\"It's great, Charlie,\" said Herb Richman, with far more enthusiasm\nthan anything else he had said all night. \"These are great, too.\" He\nmotioned toward the okra and the greens and the snap beans with\nhis fork. \"But the quail is really something.\"\"Oughta be!\" exclaimed Charlie. \"Each bird cost fo' thousand, seven\nhunnert'n eichty-fo' dollars!\"\nSuch silence all of a sudden, you could once again hear the logs\nspluttering in the fireplace.\nHerb Richman said, \"Four thousand, seven hundred and eighty-four\ndollars?\"\n\"Well,\" said Charlie, quite satisfied with himself, \"if you figure out\nhow much it costs to run this place every year, and you divide it by\nthe number of birds you shoot, that's what you get!\"\n\"That's amazing,\" said Herb Richman.\nCharlie sensed consternation all around the table. Too late it dawned\non him that it was not over the amount but the fact that he had\nbeen so ... so ... so vulgar as to divulge it at all. He could see Serena\nslowly shaking her head down at the other end of the table.\nSo Charlie shut up, and the logs spluttered and popped, and the hot\nglows and deep shadows played across everybody's face, and the\nboars' tusks curved out into the room more ferociously than ever\nbefore, and the rattlesnake fangs did everything but spit venom, and\nthe general conversation rose, and Charlie felt confused and thick-\nheaded, which was a better way of putting it to himself than drunk.\nThe next eruption came when Judge Opey McCorkle, who had drunk\nplenty of brown whiskey and Gewiirztraminer himself, plus a couple\nof shots of corn liquor, started orating straight across little Live- in\nLydia, Wally, and Doris Bass in order to get across a point to Beau-\nchamp Knox.\n\"Naw, naw, naw, Beauchamp!\" cried the judge in stentorian Baker\nCount)' tones, \"this year we gon' have to plead nolo contendere\nwhen it comes to Tech! Or to say it correctly, no-li-mus contendere.\nIrregular in the first-person plural, present tense. Ain'eben gon' be\nwhatcha call a football game!\"\"What makes you say that, Opey?\" asked the old Governor.\n\" 'Cause now we got us a new coach, and he's a prima donna with a\nhalo over his head. Thinks he's the Archangel Ahura of Academia.\nAny player who don' complete all his course work this year with a\n2.5 average or better in'gon' play for his Bulldogs this fell, and he\nmeans it, for some ab-struse, i-dealistic, pigheaded, totally\nunfathomable reason. Ain'eben made the papers yet, but the alumni\nare already screaming and I'm one uv'em! I believe in education,\nand I believe in high standards at the university, but if you're a\nfootball coach and you actually believe football and education's got\nanythang to do with each other, you gotta be a flat- out imbecile!\nNever have had anythang to do with each other!\"\nThe judge was a University of Georgia alumnus, both undergraduate\nand law, and as rabid a Yew-Gee-A football fan as existed in the\nwhole huge humming swarm of them in the state of Georgia. He was\na learned man and a great reader, but his favorite book on this earth\nwas one entitled Clean Old-fashioned Hate, which was devoted\nentirely to accounts of the Georgia-Georgia Tech football rivalry,\ndating back to the first game, in 1893, when each team accused the\nother of using non- student ringers, and the university students,\nwhose team lost 28-10, began chanting, \"well, well, well! who can\ntell! tech's umpire is cheating like hell!\" Opey McCorkle kept Clean\nOld-fashioned Hate on his bedside table. As an old alum of the\nuniversity and a politician with considerable clout in the\nsouthwestern part of the state, the judge had a lock on blocs of\nseats on the fifty-yard line, no matter whether the Bulldogs and\nYellow Jackets played at Sanford Stadium in Athens or Bobby Docld\nStadium at Tech in Atlanta.\nFor the first time as a conscious thought Charlie became aware of . .\n. Football ... in Georgia. Here was Opey McCorkle, a distinguished\nwhite-haired old judge, a Latin scholar, no less, and there was Beau-\nchamp Knox, an illustrious white-haired former governor of the State\nof Georgia, and here it was, April, and here they were in the gun\nhouse of a 29,000-acre quail plantation-and suddenly Football risesup in the room . . . Football!-an obsession no one can resist. This\nwas so common in Georgia that folks never even noticed it as\nanything remarkable. At this moment all over the state, in the\nunlikeliest corners, other folks were no doubt invoking Football, too,\nin the form of the Bulldogs, the Yellow Jackets, or the Falcons, or\nwhatever ferocious zoological hide the Game put on at the local high\nschool, the Wildcats, the Pit Bulls, the Jaguars, the Copperheads.\nHe, Charlie-the Sixty-Minute Man- was one of the great beneficiaries\nof this curious mental condition. But what was it? How did get such\na grip, even on wise old men like Opey and Beauchamp? What on\nearth was it? It made Charlie's already corn- liquored,\nGewiirtztraminered head hurt.\nFrom across the table Billy Bass, who had just finished off another\nbig glass of the Gewtirtztraminer, yelled out: \"If I was you, I wud'n\ngive up yet, Opey! We got our own problems at Tech!\"\n\"I warrant they ain't as bad as that chubby little cherub a ours,\nCoach Mathias Spongl\" As in spineless worm.\n\"Worse,\" said Billy Bass.\n\"How you mean?\" yelled the judge. The two of them were so loud,\nthe rest of the table had quieted down.\n\"You know our boy Fareek Fanon?\"\n\"Oh yeah,\" said the judge, \"yowza yowza, Fareek 'the Cannon'\nFanon. What about him?\"\nBilly Bass opened his mouth again, but no words came out. Finally\nhe said, \"Let's just say ... uh ... it seems our boy has trouble keeping\nbis cannon from going off where it ain't spose go off.\"\nThat got a big laugh, and Billy started to go on, but then once more\nstopped with his mouth open.\n\"Meaning what?\" asked Opey McCorkle.\"I caint tell you,\" said Billy. \"I shouldna told you as much as I just\ndid.\"\n\"Aw, come on, Billy,\" said the judge, \"you caint throw out a teaser\nlike that and then say you caint talk about it.\"\n\"Don't be coy now, Billy,\" said Lettie Withers.\n\"Naw,\" said Billy, \"I shouldna opened my mouth. It's all just a\nbuncha rumors anyhow.\"\n\"I can't believe this, Billy,\" said Dr. Ted Nashford. \"What a lame\nperformance!\"\nSimilar protests from all around the table, with Lettie Withers\nrepeating her line over and over again, like a refrain: \"Boys can't be\ncoy, Billy!\"\nA bemused smile formed on one side of Billy's lips, and his eyes\nlooked upward into an unfathomable distance-. Obviously the\ncompunction to keep a secret, on the one hand, and natural-born\nloquaciousness and the desire to star at dinner table conversation,\non the other, were locked in mortal combat inside his big head.\nTo everyone's surprise, compunction triumphed. \"I just caint,\" he\nsaid, with his eyes cast down and his head oscillating. \"I shoulda\nkept my mouth shut, and it ain't nothing more'n a rumor in the first\nplace.\"\nLettie, Opey, and Ted Nashford continued to rag him, while Doris\nfixed him with a reproving stare.\ndessert consisted of three kinds of pies-pecan, lemon meringue, and\napple-and three kinds of ice cream-vanilla, peach, and peppermint.\nAll of it was homemade; the ice cream had been hand-churned right\nout there on the screen porch beyond the kitchen by Auntie Bella\nand her helpers, as Charlie heartily informed everybody. Afterward .\n. . a great chorus of praise of what a great dinner it had been. Even\nHerb and Marsha Richman joined in.So Charlie said, \"Mason, ask Auntie Bella come on out here a\nsecond.\"\nAuntie Bella was a fleshy woman with dark skin and gray hair, which\nshe had pulled straight back into a tight little bun. The light from the\nhearth shimmered on her face and her bare arms, which were\nalready glistening from the heat of the kitchen. She was wiping her\nhands on a big workmanlike apron. Obviously accustomed to these\ncurtain calls of approbation, she beamed at Charlie and his guests.\n\"Your ears prob'lv been buzzing in'eh, Auntie Bella,\" said Charlie.\n\"You been getting an awful lotta compliments!\"\nIn truth, the compliments now poured forth, not only from the\nregulars, such as Billy and Doris Bass and the judge, but also from\nFrancine Hendricks, Lenore Knox, Live-in Lydia, and, Charlie was\npleased to see, Herb Richman, although his soft voice was lost in the\ngeneral happy clamor.\nThen Marsha Richman, turning in her seat so that she could smile\ndirectly at Auntie Bella, spoke up in a very ladylike Southern voice: \"I\ndon't know how you do it! To tell you the truth, I'm usually not crazy\nabout okra, collard greens, and snaps, but yours just melted in my\nmouth. You've got to tell me your secret.\"\nAuntie Bella pulled her head back and smiled broadly at Marsha\nRichman, and shook with a couple of silent chuckles, and then let\nloose a laugh from deep in her throat, and said:\n\"Welcome to . . . Grease.\"\nTremendous laughter from all around the table. Welcome to Grease!\nOh, it was priceless. Auntie Bella was a card, all right! Not even\nCharlie himself had ever heard that line before! Everyone was in\nconvulsions! Well, not everyone. Charlie noticed that Marsha\nRichman was still smiling, but her face had fallen. She looked as if\nshe had just been shot through the heart.after dinner Charlie led the party out to the stone terrace at the rear\nof the Gun House. He had instructed Mason to make sure the terrace\nlights were kept off. He didn't want anything to dilute the effect of\nthe nocturnal landscape he had prepared for his guests. He stuck\nclose to the Richmans, hoping for maximum astonishment.\nThey didn't disappoint him. \"Huhhhhhhhhh!\" It was Marsha Rich-\nman; a sharp intake of breath.\nFlames!\nIn the middle distance a stupendous arc of fire cut through the\nblackness of the plantation at night. The silhouettes of the pine trees\nin the foreground rose like enormous bars. The pungent odor of\nburning sedge and scrub pine was thick in the air.\nCharlie made a point of inhaling and then letting his breath out with\na satisfied \"Ahhhhhhhhh. Nothing else on earth like it.\" In truth, the\naroma made his heart thump with an emotion he couldn't have\nbegun to describe.\n\"Wow! What's going on, Charlie?\"\nIt was Herb Richman. Charlie felt he was getting somewhere at last.\nFor the first time the man had broken out of his lethargic mode.\n\"We're burning over the fields, Herb.\"\n\"What for?\"\n\"If you don't burn 'em over in the spring, they'll be so overgrown\nwith saplings, vines, thorns-it'd be like Br'er Rabbit's briar patch. You\nremember Br'er Rabbit's briar patch?\"\n\"Not really,\" said Herb Richman.\n\"Well, they'd get so overgrown, you'd have to forget about hunting.\nNot even a dog'd be able to get through.\"He was pleased to observe that Herb Richman was staring slack-\njawed at the sight. \"But how do you keep it from . . . fri>m . . .\"\n\"From getting out of control?\"\n\"Yes.\"\n\"I got twenty a my boys out there steering it.\" A fleeting thought\ntold him he shouldn't have called his black help \"boys,\" since, as\nSerena kept drumming into him, the Richmans were Jewish and\nliberal. But it was only that, a fleeting thought. \"And 'at's why we do\nit at night, too -when the dew falls and it's damp and there's no\nwind.\" He sighed. \"You know, Herb, I love that smell. I really do.\nFar's I'm concerned, nobody ever made a perfume that can touch it.\"\nStill gazing into the distance, Herb Richman said, \"It's amazing\" . . .\nbut in the irritatingly indifferent way he had of making such\nobservations. Then he said, \"What happens to the wildlife in a big\nfire like that?\"\nCharlie gave an amused snort. \"Happens to 'em? They run, or else\nthey fly, that's what happens. You can see 'em. I've been out there\nin the field for a lotta burnovers, and you can see animals you didn't\neven know was there running ahead a the flames. I'll tell you what's\nreally sump'm. That's the snakes, 'specially the rattlers. People will\ntell you how fast a snake can move, but they really can't, not in\nmiles per hour or anything like that. They can't outrun the flames, so\nwhat they do is, they burrow down into the ground? They get under\nthe earth? And as soon's the fire's passed over them, they come\noutta their holes and they get the hell outta there. You can see 'em!\nOf course, you got to watch yourself, because they're not in a good\nmood at that point. The ground is still hot, and here are all these\nsnakes slithering along like there's no tomorrow. It's just one hell of\na sight. No, the wildlife know what to do about fire, because it'll\noccur spontaneously out in the woods. The only ones that don't\nmake out so well are the turtles. The next day you'll find all these\nburnt-out turtle shells in the woods.\"Herb Richman turned his head to look at Charlie. In the darkness\nCharlie couldn't tell exactly what the man's expression was, but he\nsaid to himself, \"Oh shit. Why did I have to mention the dead\nturtles? Anybody who uses the expression wildlife is going to be\nsensitive about the dead turtles.\"\nAloud he said, \"But you don't have to worry about the turtles. They\nsurvive, they survive. There's no older animal in the woods than the\nturtle.\"\n'Tou actually bum over the whole plantation?\" asked Herb Richman.\n\"Yep.\"\n\"Well then-where do the animals go? Where do the quail go?\"\n\"Aw, before you start the burnover, you go out there and you create\nfeedin' patches everywhere. You take your bulldozers and you dig\nfirebreaks in a big circle. Inside the circles they're like islands, the\nfeeding patches are. They got trees, grass, beggarweed, corn, all the\nthings the quail like. The other animals, too, for that matter. By fall\nthe burned- over fields, they got a nice stand a sedge again, but\nmost of the undergrowth is gone, and it's good hunting out there.\"\n\"Well, don't the pine trees burn, too?\"\n\"Not if your boy-your people know what they're doing. A good\nhealthy stand a pine, the trunks might get scorched, but the whole\ntree's not gonna go up in flames. Oh, the scrubs might bum up. But\nthat's nature's way a culling the stock, too. Fire in the woods is a\nnatural thing.\"\nNow Charlie and his guests grew quiet, transfixed by the flaming\ntableau before them. If you stared long enough, the flames began to\nplay tricks on your eyes. It was an overcast night, and the sky was\nblack, and the ground between the terrace and the arc of flames\nwas black, and the fire seemed to be floating in space somewhere\nbeyond the perpendicular silhouettes of the pine trees, which in turn\nseemed to draw closer and then recede, draw closer and thenrecede once more. And now, way out there somewhere, you could\nhear the boys shouting to one another: not the words, just the\nmusic of their voices.\nSo far as Charlie was concerned, what he was now treating his\nguests to was one of the greatest pageants, one of the greatest\nsymphonies, in all the world. He noticed with satisfaction that, here\nin the darkness, Herb Richman had slipped his arm around his wife\nMarsha's waist and drawn her close to him. Perhaps the man was at\nlast responding to the Turpmtine Spell.\nBy and by, they all came back inside the Gun House, and Charlie\noffered everybody something to drink, but the Richmans said they\nwere ready to turn in for the evening, and so did the Knoxes, and so\ndid Dr. Ted Nashford and his Live-in Lydia. Then Wally left, without\nsaying anything, and then Slim and Veronica Tucker pulled out, and\nthen Serena told him she was heading back to the Big House, where\nthe Richmans were staying, to make sure they had everything they\nneeded. Charlie got the picture. Pretty soon there would be just him\nand Opey McCorkle and Billy, and maybe Doris.\nSo while there were a few souls still left, Charlie beckoned Billy into\na little office he had off the entry gallery in the Gun House and\nclosed the door and said, \"Billy, what the hell was that you were\ngetting ready- to say about Fareek Fanon?\"\nBilly, who was already working on another bourbon and water, gave\nCharlie a funny smile and didn't say a thing.\n\"Hey, Billy, it's me, Charlie.\"\nBilly knocked back a little more of his drink, and then he said, \"I\nshouldna said the first thing about it, Charlie. 1 told 'im I wouldn't.\"\n\"Told who? Fareek Fanon?\"\n\"Naw . . . Inman.\"\n\"Inman Armholster? What's he got to do with it?\"Billy grew silent again, and once more stared at Charlie, but rather\nvacantly. Then he said, \"Well ... I think Inman's gonna want to talk\nto you anyway, but in the meantime, this stays in this room. I don't\neven want you telling Serena. Will you promise me that?\"\n\"Yeah.\"\n\"Inman claims Fanon raped his daughter.\"\n\"What?\"\n\"That's what he says.\" \"Elizabeth? You're kidding!\"\n\"Naw, I'm not kidding.\"\n\"Jesus-H.-Christ. How'd he say-they were my guests here just a\ncouple months ago! Elizabeth and Inman and Ellen! Next-to-last\nweekend of the quail season!-well, hell, you remember that. You\nwere here, too. How'd this happen?\"\n\"Well, according to Inman, Elizabeth was up in Fanon's room at\nsome kinda part)' on the first night a Freaknik, on 'at Friday.\"\n\"Fanon's room? The first night a Freaknik? What the hell was she\ndoing up in Fanon's room on the first night a Freaknik?\"\n\"Inman says there were two other white students there, two girls,\nand one uv'em saw what happened, but she's scared to death, and\nnow she claims she didn't see anything.\"\n\"Christalmighty.\" Charlie lowered his eyes and shook his head and\nthen looked up at Billy again. \"I don't believe this! What's Fanon\nlike? Any idea?\"\n\"Aw, man,\" said Billy, \"don't ask. You missed that meeting a the\nStingers where McNutter brought him out and introduced him to\neverybody. He won't do that again. It was a disaster. You've heard\nthis term attitude? Well, this guy is 225 pounds of attitude. He\ncomes out wearing a diamond in each earlobe and a gold necklace\nabout yea thick. He don't even smile. Unh-unhh, no ingratiatinghimself with a bunch of old broken-down white has-been athletes\nfrom long ago. McNutter gives him the microphone and all he does is\nmutter a few words that sound like he's taking the Fifth Amendment.\nHe looks at everybody like we're dirt underneath his feet. The worst\npicture you ever had in your mind about a pampered athlete? There\nyou got our boy Fareek.\"\n\"What's Elizabeth Armholster like?\" asked Charlie.\n\"I don' really know,\" said Billy. \"I saw her when she came out at the\nDriving Club last year. She probably looked fabulous. Most uv'm do.\"\n\"She's a sexy-looking little lamb chop,\" said Charlie. \"She came along\nwith my party, with Inman and Ellen, that weekend. She made sure\neverybody knew she had a body.\"\n\"Well, hell, Charlie, rape's rape, no matter what kind of body the girl\nhas.\"\n\"I'm not saying it iddn'! I mean, Jesus Christ. I was just making an\nobservation. What's Inman gon' do?\"\n\"Inman don' know what to do. But you know Inman. He's a\nhotheaded son of a gun, and you can count on it, he's gon' do\nsump'm. What's got him stumped right now is that he don' want\nElizabeth's name to get out, and with her being the daughter of\nsomeone as prominent as he is, he don' know how he can keep it\nfrom getting out. And he says Elizabeth is so traumatized by the\nwhole thing, she don't wanna talk to the police about it or the\npeople at Tech or anybody else. So for now what he's doing is, he's\ngoing to the board.\"\n\"Tech's board?\"\n\"He's a great buddy of the new chairman, Holland jasper.\"\n\"Aw, yeah, I know him.\"\"There's been a lotta changes on the board, Charlie, and guess what\nthey're coming out strong on.\"\n\"What?\"\n\"The football program. They think Tech's lost too much ground over\nthe past ten years. Everything slumps when the football team\nslumps. The legislature comes through with less money. Alumni\ncontributions fall off. The SAT scores of the applicants drop.\nEverything comes down.\"\n\"The SAT scores come down?\"\n\"That's what Inman told me,\" said Billy.\n\"What's he care about the SAT scores?\"\n\"He don't care, but when he talked to Holland jasper, he got kind of\na rude awakening, seems to me. He thought Jasper'd drop\neverything and call out the cavalry when he told him what'd\nhappened to his daughter. Instead, Jasper starts double talking him\nand telling Inman how we have to take everything into consideration\nand how the student government has its own mechanism for dealing\nwith sexual harassment, and he's double talking him some more,\nand Inman's yelling at him and saying, Tm not talking about sexual\nharassment, you imbecile, I'm talking about flat-out rape!' \"\n\"I'da like to seen that.\"\n\"Well, you know what the bottom line is, Charlie. The board's\nnumber-one priority is to build the football program. They've hired\nBuck McNutter away from Alabama for $875,000 a year and given\nhim a big house in Buckhead, and they got an all-American running\nback named Fareek Fanon. Every magazine, every capital-\ncontributors brochure, every Admissions Office flyer-they got a\npicture of Fareek Fanon shaking off tacklers and heading for open\ncountry. Suddenly Inman finds himself up against some a the harsh\nrealities a modern life.\"\"Is he angry?\"\n\"Angry? He's hopping, Inman is. He's fit to be tied. He's gonna do\nsump'm. Right now, seems like he's trying to line up some Tech\npeople against Holland Jasper. That's why he came to see me and\ntold me all this. And I'll betcha anything he gets in touch with you-\nonly you gotta make out like you ain't heard the first word about the\nwhole thing. He made me swear up and down I wouldn't tell a living\nsoul.\"\n\"Well, hell, like I said, Billy, it's me, Charlie.\"\n\"I know, but you gotta swear on a Bible.\"\n\"Okay,\" said Charlie, \"I swear.\"\nin the morninc, after breakfast, Charlie led them all, all the guests\nplus Serena and Wally, out to a small but smart-looking barn, made\nof old brick, with a slate roof, not far from the stables. It was a fine\nspring day.\nInside the barn, it took a moment to adjust your eyes to the\ncontrasts of light and dark, since there were no windows in the\nwalls, only a row of clerestory windows under the eaves. All at once,\nas if on cue, a great shaft of sunlight, vibrating with dust particles,\nstreamed down from one of the little windows and lit up the dirt\nfloor like a stage. There, spotlit by the sunbeam, was a narrow\nwooden enclosure with low walls, a type of stall known as a stock;\nand in the stock stood a large pale-bay mare. The warm, heavy,\ngumbo smell of horseflesh filled the place, suffused even' rhinal\ncavity, permeated your very gizzard.\nTwo stable hands, both of them black, were busy buckling straps\nthat ran from the mare's neck to her hind legs. A short but chesty\nlittle white man stood by, giving instructions. He was barely five feet\ntall and had a close-cropped ginger-red beard that took 011 a\ncurious sheen in the sunlight. He was Charlie's stud manager, the\nAustralian Johnny Groyner.Charlie's guests stood off to the side in the shadows. Billy Bass and\nOpey McCorkle were rocked back on their heels, chatting with Slim\nTucker and Howell Hendricks. Lettie Withers had Francine Hendricks,\nTed Nashford, Veronica Tucker, and Lenore Knox for an audience.\nHerb and Marsha Richman were huddled together over near Serena,\nWally, Live-in Lydia, and Beauchamp Knox. From time to time\neveryone glanced at the mare. Herb and Marsha Richman glanced at\neach other, too. They looked tired and apprehensive. Or was he,\nCharlie, just imagining it?\nHerb Richman turned toward him and said, \"What do you call this,\nCharlie?\"\n\"The breeding barn,\" said Charlie.\n\"And you use it for . . .\"\n\"Breeding.\"\n\"You mean . . .\"\n\"This is where they mate,\" said Charlie. \"This is where it takes\nplace.\"\n\"You need a special building for it?\"\n\"Yep,\" said Charlie. \"You'll see why.\"\nThe next thing he knew, Serena had come over and was taking him\naside, deeper into the shadows.\n\"You sure you want to do this?\" she said. \"The Richmans don't look\nvery happy.\"\n\"Well, don't tell me they're Jewish and liberal,\" said Charlie. \"This's\ngot nothing to do with Jewish or not Jewish or liberal or not liberal.\nThis's got to do with the way life is.\"\n\"They're-they're not country people, Charlie. They're sensitive.\"\"Aw hell, they'll be fascinated. Weren't you? You know you were, and\nyou're not a country person, either.\"\n\"Well-\" She shook her head and grimaced slightly.\n\"Whattaya want me to do, take them all outta here and say, 'Well,\nthat's it folks'?\"\nThe truth was, since the quail season was over and they couldn't go\nhunting, Charlie had planned this as one of the weekend's big\nevents. The thought that Herb Richman might not be impressed by\nwhat he was about to see had never even crossed Charlie's mind.\nRichman was about to see one of the greatest horses in the country\nin a role people always read about-but the true nature of which they\ncouldn't begin to guess. Besides . . . this was the only big event on\nthe schedule today ... So without another word to Serena, he\nreturned to the guests.\nBy now the other little Australian, Melvin Bonnetbox, or Bonnie, as\neveryone called him, had joined Johnny Groyner over near the mare.\nBonnie was Johnny's steerer, as this peculiar breed of specialist was\nknown. The two of them, Johnny and Bonnie, looked like a pair of\nmiddle-aged elves standing next to the stable hands, all of them\nblack, who conferred with them. And now the mare's attendants,\nhaving finished putting the straps on her hind legs, were buckling a\nleather mantle over her lower neck and her withers and furling her\ntail up until it looked bobbed.\n\"What arc the straps for?\" asked Herb Richman.\n\"Keep her from kicking,\" said Charlie. \"One kick in the testicles, and\nyou've lost a three-million-dollar stud.\"\nHe noticed with satisfaction that the entire entourage was listening.\nHe sucked in his breath and put his shoulders back. The drag of\ninsomnia was finally fading away. He had been having trouble\nsleeping ever since the workout session at PlannersBanc, and last\nnight had only made it worse. Before they went to bed, Serena hadcontinued her lecture about the Richmans and told him what a\ndisaster the dinner had been ... Billy Bass and Judge McCorkle and\nall their broad humor about AIDS ... Herb and Marsha Richman were\nJewish and liberal, and you could read the distress in their faces, and\nso forth and so on . . . Only Wally had come close to saying what\nwas probably on their minds . . .\nCharlie had on his khakis and a pair of low Wellington boots. He was\nwearing a .45-caliber revolver, a huge thing, on his right hip. Herb\nand Marsha Richman kept checking it out, and so did Wally, even\nthough he had seen it many times before. Good ... let them check it\nout... For the first time all day he felt like himself, like Cap'm Charlie,\nthe Boss, the Master of Turpmtine.\nHe called out, \"When y'all gon' be ready, Johnny?\"\n\"Ready now, Cap'm,\" said the little man with the bright red beard.\n\"Then let's bring him on in.\"\nJohnny Groyner motioned toward one of the black workmen, who\nleft the barn. Presently he returned, leading a light chestnut horse in\nthrough the doorway, a stallion, as was obvious from the fact that\nthe animal's penis was already half-distended beneath his belly. The\nstallion was snorting and pawing the ground and throwing his head\nand neck this way and that, and lurching into a nervous sidewise\ngait as the handler struggled to pull his head down and keep him\nunder control. The beast forced his head up and cut loose with a\ntremendous whinny before the handler jerked it back down again.\nCharlie's guests were silent, all eyes. By the time the stallion moved\nout into the shaft of sunlight, it was obvious that he was neither very\nbig nor very young; in fact, he was slightly smaller than the mare.\nThe handler led him to the rear of the stock, where another black\nworkman lifted the wooden bar over the entryway and two more\nheld the mare by her halter. Snorting, highly agitated, the stallion\nwalked into the stock and right up to the rear end of the mare. The\nmare began twitching and rolling her head and switching her furled-up tail. The stallion's penis was now a tremendous black shaft.\nSuddenly he extended his head and his long neck and pushed his\nnose into the mare's rear end, into her vulva. She tried to kick with\nher rear legs, but the hobble straps prevented it. She tried to bolt\nforward, but the walls of the stock hemmed her in, and the stable\nhands held her halter. The stallion kept twisting his head, rooting\naround in her vulva.\nCharlie noticed that most of his guests lowered their chins and\npulled them inward, as if shrinking, all the while staring, transfixed.\nThe deep voice of Lettie Withers: \"Good Lord, Charlie, I thought this\nwas the Bible Belt. That looks suspiciously like oral sex.\"\nBut no one laughed, and no one else said anything. The truth was,\nthey were . . . shocked.\nAll at once a gusher of yellowish liquid shot out the rear of the mare.\nThe stallion pulled back. His lower jaw, throatlatch, and breast were\ndripping with it. It was urine, which continued to spew out. The\nstallion shook his head and whinnied and started back toward the\nmare, his penis fully erect, but two black handlers had him by the\nhalter and were forcing him back, away from the stock. He snorted,\nwhinnied, pawed the ground, and started slapping his penis against\nhis underbelly. The handlers kept forcing him to back up. Once he\nwas clear of the wall of the stock, they yanked him away from it\naltogether and began leading him toward the doorway, while he\ntried to jerk free of the halter and slapped his penis against his belly\nsome more.\n\"What's going on?\" asked Howell Hendricks. \"Why are they taking\nhim away?\" The other guests closed ranks in order to hear the\nanswer.\n\"He's not the stud,\" said Charlie, \"he's the teaser.\"\n\"The teaser?\"\n\"Yep. You just use the teaser to get her aroused.\"\"And she urinates in his face?\" said Howell.\n\"Yep. Always happens.\"\n\"And that's all he gets out of it?\"\n\"That's about the size of it.\"\n\"Terrific,\" said Howell. \"Reminds me of when I was in high school.\"\nTed Nashford and his little Lydia, Slim and Veronica Tucker, Fran-\ncine Hendricks, Lettie, and Lenore Knox laughed. Even Herb and\nMarsha Richman smiled. Charlie felt superior to the whole bunch of\nthem. City people always felt compelled to make jokes about what\nwent on in the breeding bam, which was in fact the most serious\nthing in the world.\nThe mare stood there in the stock with her shanks spread slightly\napart. Beneath her bound tail was an astonishingly large, soft, moist,\ndark liverish crevice of flesh, and the flesh was writhing. It opened\nup and then contracted, opened up and contracted, opened up and\ncontracted. It was the beast's vulva. She was now fully aroused,\nwrithing uncontrollably.\n\"My God,\" said Lettie, \"what's that?\"\n\"It's called winking,\" said Charlie.\n\"Really?\" said Lettie with one of her contralto chuckles. \"Winking?\"\n\"That's what it's called,\" said Charlie matter-of-factly, to show he\nwas not making a joke.\nBy now one of the black handlers was busy swabbing the convulsing\ncrevice with a sponge, which he kept dipping into the bucket at his\nfeet. In the bucket was a PhisoHex solution. To ensure a successful\nconception, Charlie explained, the mare's genitals had to be kept\nantiseptic, and there was no telling what kind of dirt was on the\nteaser's nose. Lettie and the others watched with undisguised\nfascination.The stud manager, Johnny Groyner, walked over to Charlie. \"I'd say\nit's about that time, Cap'm. Time for Sy to have his go.\"\nHerb Richman looked from Johnny to Charlie.\n\"Sy's the stud,\" said Charlie. \"First Draw's his real name. Sy's his\nbarn name.\"\n\"First Draw,\" said Herb Richman. \"Why does that ring a bell?\"\n\"Used to race him,\" said Charlie. \"Six years ago he won the\nBreeders' Cup.\" Then to the stud manager: \"Okay, Johnny, I'm\ngonna go get him.\"\nWith that, Charlie walked out of the barn, leaving Herb Richman and\none and all, he assumed, impressed.\nAs soon as he got outside, he could feel the heat of the sun. It was\nso bright it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. His knee began to\nache terribly, and he wondered if it was because of anxiety over\nwhat he now had to do.\nJust to the rear of the barn-there he was, the black stallion. He was\nhuge, a behemoth. A stable hand named Clint held him close to the\nhalter by a lead line. The stallion shifted his weight and tried to\ncrane his neck, and his hide rippled in the sunlight. Clint's dark face\nwas already glistening with sweat from the exertion of leading him\nfrom the stable to this point. Now the stallion began to snort and\njerk his head about. Clint, who was a big man and at least twenty-\nfive years younger than Charlie, had his hands full. The mighty First\nDraw had made this trip to the breeding barn many times and knew\nexactly what was coming.\n\"Unnnnh! He's randy, Cap'm Charlie!\"\n\"He's always randy, Clint. Many time's he's done this, think he'd calm\ndown after'while.\"\"I know, Cap'm, but this time he is some kinda randy. You best be\nwatching out for him when he sets foot in'at barn in'eh.\"\nCharlie surveyed the horse from front to back. \"Well, Clint, here\ngoes.\"\nAs soon as he took the lead line, he knew he was in for a baule. The\nstallion began lifting his head and straightening his neck. It was all\nCharlie could do to yank his head down.\n\"Hah! Ho! Sy! Ho! Ho! Cut it out!\"-this last in as deep and rough a\nvoice as possible, as much to impress Clint as the animal. He slid his\nhand up the lead line, closer to the beast's mouth. Racing\nthoroughbreds were so high-strung, they were fully capable of biting\nif there was enough slack in the line. Jesus Christ, why hadn't he\ntold them to put a breeding bridle on him, which would have meant\nthere was a bit in his mouth to keep him in check? Well-couldn't ask\nfor one now. Cap'm Charlie would lose too much face.\nEven before he had led him as far as the doorway, the stallion began\nbreathing heavily through the nostrils in what seemed almost a\ngroan and prancing in an eccentric sideways gait. Charlie could feel\nthe muscles in his forearm tighten as he fought to maintain control.\nA terrible realization bubbled up into his brain. If this beast knew his\nown strength and had the willpower, no man on earth could have\nkept him from doing whatever he wanted. Suppose he, Cap'm\nCharlie, lost control of him in there-in front of that audience!\nSuppose-but what was this? He had never before even allowed such\ndoubts to enter his skull.\n\"Sy! Ho! Ho! Hah! Ho!\"\nAs they entered the doorway, the stallion breathed in the full\noverpowering smell of the mare in heat and launched into a\nferocious show of machismo. He snorted, he rolled his massive\nshoulders, he flexed his neck up and down and yawed it back and\nforth, he did a little dance with his hindquarters, and he whinnied.\nHe whinnied in anger, in agony, in desperation and anticipation. Hadhe possessed bigger vocal cords, he would have sounded like ten\ntrumpets. He bared his teeth, rolled his eyes, whinnied some more.\nHe looked like an immense equine lunatic. Charlie set his jaws and\ntried to look totally in command and held on for dear life. His eyes\nwere slow in readjusting to the gloom. Over here-a dazzling cone of\nlight-the mare in the stock-the stable hands. Over there-slowly\ntaking shape in the shadows-Lettie, Wally, Serena, Herb and Marsha\nRichman, and the rest of them-they were huddled together. Their\neyes were like saucers. As he fought to keep the beast's head down,\nCharlie could feel its huge body shuddering- with lust!-the rawest,\npurest lust imaginable! He could feel his own arm shaking, trying so\ndesperately to keep the stud's head down. Could they tell? The final\ntwenty feet, out into the shaft of light, where the mare waited-the\nmare and, thank God, Johnny Groyner and his helpers-Charlie had to\nfight ever)' inch of the way. The brilliance of the sunlight and the\nheavy, humid smell of flesh made him feel dizzy.\n\"Johnny,\" he said, \"he's a . . . he's a . . . randy\"-he fought to get his\nbreath-\"he's a randy sonofabitch!\"\n\"Ain't he always, Cap'm,\" said the little stud manager. Then he\nturned toward two of the black stable hands. \"Okay, boys.\"\nOne of them took the lead line, and the other held on to a halter\nstrap. Charlie hoped that Herb Richman and Wally and the rest of\nthem took note of the fact that it required two men to hold the\nsnorting beast he had just brought in by himself. He walked toward\nhis guests. He was suddenly aware of how hard he was breathing,\nand he had led the big animal no more than forty or fifty yards. He\ntook a deep breath and displayed the fullness of his chest. He had\nmade it. He had brought the beast in without looking like an old fool.\nHe felt as if somehow he shared in the stud's power.\nBoth the stud and the mare were now out in the cone of light, along\nwith Johnny and his little Australian sidekick, Bonnie, and six stable\nhands. All of them, not just the two Australians, looked tiny next to\nthe two great beasts. The stud, snorting, rolling his huge muscles,was fast building up to a full erection. Inside its sheath, his penis\nlooked like a huge, long, dark, evil leather knout hanging down from\nbeneath his legs. All the while the beast trumpeted, whinnied,\nsnorted, proclaimed his power.\nNow Johnny was out in the middle of the floor gesturing like a\nsymphony conductor toward the stud and then toward the mare and\nbarking out instructions to his men.\n\"Okay, Alonzo, bring her on out!\"\nThe three handlers at the breeding stock began backing the mare\nout of the little enclosure. The beast's vulva continued to writhe. The\nhobbles on her rear legs made the going slow. Now she was out of\nthe stock, and the stable hands turned her away from the stallion, so\nthat her rear end faced him, while she twitched, lashed her bobbed\ntail, and shook her neck. The stud was beside himself. His nostrils\nflared, his eyes looked maniacal, his huge black body shook with\nwaves of lust. The stable hands could barely hold him back. Charlie's\nguests had dropped all pretense of aloofness or detachment. Even\nsuch unlikely mates as Beauchamp Knox and Veronica Tucker were\nhuddled together, wayfarers suddenly marooned in a fast-rising\nstorm. Sex! Lust! Each of the great beasts weighed close to a ton,\nalmost ten times the size of a big man like Billy Bass and fifteen or\nsixteen times the size of any woman in the little group of well-heeled\nhuman beings who now stood bunched together on the dirt floor of\nthe breeding barn.\nThe mare was beginning to act up. She knew what was coming, too.\nBy now her handlers, holding on to her halter, were having to dance\nin the dirt just to keep their balance.\nJohnny Groyner, his beard flaming in the sunlight, stood between the\ntwo animals, both hands up in the air. He pointed toward the mare.\n\"Alonzo! Put the twitch on her!\"\nThe tallest of the mare's handlers, Alonzo, wrapped a length of\nleather around the flesh above her upper teeth and twisted it tight.The pain would distract her from her concern over what was about\nto happen to her backside.\n\"Wilson! Lift her foot! Lift her bloody foot!\"\nAnother handler reached down and grasped the pastern of the\nmare's right foreleg and lifted the hoof off the ground so that she\ncouldn't bolt forward.\nNow Johnny Groyner pointed toward the stud. \"Awright, boys, bring\n'im up! Bring 'im up!\"\nA regular platoon was gathered around the big black stallion. Two\nstable hands held the animal's head by the lead line and the halter.\nTwo more were posted back by his haunches, one on each side.\nBonnie stood beside one flank in a slight crouch, his hands up in\nfront of him, as if ready to spring into action. As they led him\nforward, the stud began snorting and whinnying and prancing more\nwildly than ever. He was within ten feet of the mare when Johnny\nGroyner held up his right palm and yelled, \"Whoa! Whoa! Montrose!\nLewis! Get her some hay!\"\nThe two men hustled off to a bin along the wall and returned with\nbales of hay, which they proceeded to stack under the mare's belly.\nHerb Richman turned toward Charlie and said in a low voice, \"What\nare they doing?\"\n\"He's so wound up, they're afraid she's gonna collapse when he\nmounts her.\"\nNow the hay was in place, and all the handlers were back in\nposition. Johnny Groyner looked toward the mare's crew and\nextended one arm, palm up, and said, \"She ready?\" Alonzo nodded\nyes. Then he looked toward the stallion and extended his other arm,\npalm upward, and said, \"He ready?\" Bonnie nodded yes.\nThe little stud manager had both arms lifted upward and outward, as\nif he were spreading his wings. To Bonnie: \"Okay, bring 'im up! Bring'im up! Bring 'im up!\"\nThe stallion's handlers were now struggling for all they were worth,\nas they let the animal move closer to the mare's cavernous vulva,\nwhich was now winking madly.\nTo Alonzo: \"Be alive! Be alive! Don't let her stagger when she breaks\ndown!\"\nTo Bonnie and the stallion's crew: \"Awright, boys-awright, boys-\nawright, boys-\"\nAll at once the mare spread her haunches, opened her vulva wide,\nand seemed almost to squat. She was breaking down, abandoning\nher struggle, opening up unconditionally, surrendering utterly. At\nthat moment the stud manager, his beard a brilliant red in the\nsunlight, his arms stretched out like wings, brought his hands\ntogether, slamming the heel of his right hand into the palm of his left\nwith a tremendous smack! The stallion's handlers released their\nhold. The mare's handlers gave her back her foreleg. The stallion\nreared. His head, his wild eyes, his flared nostrils, his bared teeth,\nhis huge neck, his forelegs, his massive chest rose up until the great\nbeast appeared to be towering on tiptoe above the world. The little\nAustralian, Bonnie, jumped forward, almost beneath the animal's\nbelly. Smash!-the stallion came crashing down on the mare's back\nand drove his enormous penis toward her yawning vulva. The very\nground shook beneath Charlie and his band of guests. The quake\nrattled their innards. The planets collided. The earth wobbled. Sex!\nLust! Desperate! Irresistible!\nThe force was so great, it drove the mare forward. She struggled to\nkeep her feet. Her belly was pressed down on the bales of hay,\nwhich slid forward with her. For an instant it appeared that Bonnie\nmust have been crushed between the two of them or else spavined\nwhen the stallion's hooves came crashing down. Johnny Groyner was\nskittering along beside the mare's hindquarters shouting, \"Bonnie!\nBonnie!\"Now you could see Bonnie again. He had both hands wrapped\naround the stallion's huge penis, which furiously sought the mare's\nvagina. This was Bonnie's moment. He was the steerer, he whose\ntask it was to steer the stallion's erect penis squarely into the proper\nchannel of the mare's vagina. His feet danced along crazily, and his\nhead seemed to have disappeared between the groins of the two\nbeasts as the stallion's mighty haunches and two thousand pounds\nof thrust drove them all, man and beast, across the floor of the barn.\nJohnny Groyner kept shouting, \"Lower, Bonnie! Lower, Bonnie! Lower\nand-up! Lower and-up!\"\nBonnie struggled to make sure the penis entered the vulva at the\nproper downward angle, then thrust up into the vagina.\n\"Push!\" screamed Johnny Groyner. \"Push, goddamn it! This way!\nThis way! This way! Steady! This way!\"\nThe three stable hands leaned in at a fierce angle, shoving the\nmare's flank and skittering across the dirt, three frantic little\ntugboats attending a stupendous, thundering act of coitus beneath\nthe very belly, beside the very rutting rod, of the stallion.\nThe stallion was no longer the magnificent thoroughbred who just\nmoments before had reared up on his hind legs, trumpeting as if he\nwere the reigning king of all the animal kingdom. His forelegs, those\nvisions of the graceful racing stride when he had won the Breeders'\nCup just a few years before, now hung awkwardly, ridiculously,\nuselessly, like a pair of vestigial appendages, down either side of the\nmare's back. His great neck and head and, above all, his eyes, now\nlooked like those of a demented creature as he tried, over and over,\nto bite the mare's neck. His teeth sunk, instead, into the leather\nmantle that had been placed over her neck and withers for that very\nreason. Otherwise, in his uncontrollable sexual fury, he would have\nchewed her raw. All the while, his haunches, his thighs, his buttocks,\nthe seat of the stupendous power that had propelled him, the great\nFirst Draw, this great poem in motion, this embodiment of powerand coordination, to glorious victories on the track-this magnificent\nengine was reduced to a single jerky, spastic, convulsive, compulsive\nmotion: rut rut rut rut rut rut rut rut rut rut rut.\nHis entire musculature, rippling beneath his hot black hide in the\nshaft of sunlight, indeed, his very hide itself, ever)' ounce of his one\nton, his three million dollars' worth, of horseflesh, was now a\nhopeless, helpless slave to that single synaptic impulse: rut rut rut\nrut rut rut rut rut rut rut rut rut-while a sexual valet, an Australian\nelf, with his bare hands steered the rut-mad penis into a yawning\nvaginal canal, and an army of human beings, mere Lilliputians,\npushed and shoved, and a little red- bearded conductor waved his\narms about, and the lot of them, man and beast, careened twenty,\nthirty, forty feet across the barn's dirt floor with thousands of pounds\nof rut-lust momentum.\nSuddenly the slide ended, the paroxysmal jerks ceased, and the\nstallion gave a sigh and a noisy groan, a cross between a snort and\na whinny. A pathetic whine was what it was, compared to the mighty\noverture he had sung just seconds before. Then he slid back off the\nmare. His forelegs looked more ridiculous than ever, as they slithered\nback over her hide. He was finished, utterly spent. Despite his\nenormous size, he suddenly looked powerless. One of the handlers\ntook him by the halter- but was it even necessary? He wasn't going\nanywhere. He certainly wasn't running. His penis-that once-almighty\nrod-was still distended, but it was now an ugly distorted black mess,\nslimy, oozing semen and dripping with the mare's lubricant. It looked\nmore like a wet shillelagh than a penis, a lumpy, knotty', misshapen\nlength of stick. Then, before the astonished eves of Charlie's guests,\nthe tip of it began to swell up. It swelled, swelled, swelled, swelled\nuntil it looked like a mushroom, an enormous and exceptionally\nnoxious black mushroom with a long, black, gristly stem. The\nmushroom and its shillelagh shaft hung down in a wear)' fashion.\nThe great beast looked dead, out on his feet. His head drooped. His\ngait was that of an old mule. As the stable hand led him away, he\ndidn't so much as glance back at the mare. Not once. Not a nod, nota twitch, not so much as a sigh or a sentimental snort for the\ncreature who just moments before had obsessed every neuron of his\ncentral nervous system.\n\"Yes, but will he call her in the morning?\"\nIt was the throaty baritone of Lettie Withers. They all looked at\nLettie and at one another-Herb Richman, Marsha Richman, Ted\nNashford, Lenore Knox, the whole lot of them. They were stunned\nby what they had just witnessed, and Lettie's joke wasn't enough to\nsnap them out of\nSo Doris Bass tried: \"Now watch him light up a cigarette.\"\nSlim Tucker said, \"Is this what they mean by date rape?\"\nHowell Hendricks said, \"Don't knock it if you haven't tried it.\"\nVeronica Tucker said, \"That was a real meat-and-potatoes kind of\nguy\"\nFrancine Hendricks said, \"Oh, you guys are all the same.\"\nBilly Bass said, \"Charlie maybe. Not me.\"\nThey all tried, and nobody could manage to laugh. They had been\njolted. They had just witnessed something so unexpected, so\npowerful, so elemental, they were all overwhelmed, however\ninchoately, by the same question: What-does-it-mean?\nCharlie knew that much, because he felt it himself. He felt it all over\nagain every time he watched one of these sessions in the breeding\nbarn. And this time, as he had led the stallion into the barn, he had\nfelt the great beast's urge to procreate in his very bones. It had\ntraveled down his arms, the beast's uncontrollable desire had, and\ninto his shoulders, down into his solar plexus. Oh, he knew what it\nmeant, but where could he find the words?\nHe stepped in front of the group, in front of Serena and Wally and\nhis guests, and as he spoke, his eyes locked onto Herb Richman's.Herb and his wife, Marsha, had numb expressions, and their\nshoulders were up and their heads were lowered, as if they were\nretreating into shells.\n\"Well, that's it,\" said Charlie. He found, to his surprise, that he was\nbreathing heavily and his shirt was wet beneath his armpits. \"There\nyou have it. People can say whatever they want. They can talk about\ngay rights\"-gay rats-\"or anything else they want.\" He stopped to\ntake a couple of deep breaths. \"They can talk about gay rats till\nthey're blue in the face.\" He was so out of breath. \"They can\nworship gay rats as if Moses brought 'em down from the\nmountaintop. They can close their eyes and dream of whatever'll\nmake 'em feel better. But there\"-he gestured toward the stallion and\nthe mare-\"there's the heart of it.\" He took another deep breath.\n\"That's what it all boils down to at the end, the male and the female,\nand that's it.\"\nHe studied Herb Richman's face for a reaction. All he could make out\nwas pain and paralysis. Why? Why? What did that strange look\nmean? Could Serena possibly be right? Had he been shocked and\naffronted by what he had just seen? Was he that sensitive? That\nliberal? That Jewish?\nJust then Johnny Groyner came bouncing over. He was obviously\nelated. He was grinning. His ginger-red beard fairly blazed with high\nspirits.\n\"Well, Cap'm,\" he said, \"went perfect!\" He was breathing hard and\nsweating, too. \"Couldna been better!\"\n\"Looked great, Johnny,\" said Charlie. \"You guys did a great job.\" But\nhis mind was still spinning with Herb Richman, Herb Richman, Herb\nRichman. Then he got an idea. Liberal, liberal. He wouldn't treat\nJohnny, the conductor of the show, like a hired hand. He'd introduce\nhim. Equality, equality'. Liberal, Jewish.\n\"Johnny,\" he said, \"1 want you to meet one of our guests . . . Hebe\nRichman.\"What had he just said! A scalding feeling swept over his brain.\n\"I mean Herb Richman! Godalmighty, Herb, I must be losing my grip.\nI guess-\" He lifted his hands helplessly. \"Herb Richman, Johnny!\" He\nlooked about. Everyone had heard him. \"Jesus, Herb, that must be\nmy Alzheimer's flaring up!\" And why had he said \"Jesus\"?\nHerb Richman's pale face turned scarlet, and then a soft,\nembarrassed smile spread over his features, and he turned toward\nJohnny Groyner and put out his hand and said, \"It's nice to meet\nyou, Johnny. That was quite something.\"\nWhat have I just said!\nThen Herb Richman turned back toward Charlie and, with the same\nsoft smile on his face, patted him twice on the arm, as if to say,\n\"There, there.\"\nCharlie opened his mouth, but at first no words came out. Then he\nsaid, hoarsely, \"Herb-I think I'm losing my marbles.\"\nHerb Richman continued to smile, but his eyes were about 33\ndegrees Fahrenheit. Then he made a grunting noise deep in his\nchest, approximating a chuckle ... or a punch in the solar plexus.\nCharlie didn't dare look at Marsha Richman or Serena or Wally or\nanyone else who might have heard. A wave swept through his\ncentral nervous system and told him he had just blown seven floors\nof the Croker Concourse tower and $10 million a year in income.\nChapter 13The Arrest\nAll the way back to atlanta, on this sunny Sunday afternoon, the\ngaffe wafted in the G-5's recirculating air like a smell. Charlie sat in\nthe forward cabin upon his leather throne, at his tupelo maple desk,\nwith Lenore Knox opposite him and old Governor Knox and Lettie\nWithers sitting just across the aisle. Herb not Hebe Richman and his\nwife, Marsha, and Howell and Francine Hendricks and Ted Nashford\nand his Live-in Lydia and Serena and Wally sat in the rear cabin. Billy\nand Doris Bass, who had flown back on Billy's own Learjet, and Slim\nand Veronica Tucker and Judge Opey McCorkle, who stayed on in\nBaker Count)', were not on the flight-but the gaffe was, and it would\nremain on board as long as Charlie and Herb not Hebe Richman did.\nCharlie still couldn't believe he had said what he had said. Couldn't\nbelieve it. Maybe, upon reflection, everybody would take it as a\nsimple slip of the lip and not as anything racial in origin . . .\nOh sure, Charlie.\n\"What's Beauchamp Jr. got to say about Chicago these days?\"\nCharlie asked Lenore Knox-that and other questions of comparable\ngravity- but nothing could dispel the smell of the gaffe. Charlie\nwondered if even-body on board was thinking about the gaffe, the\ngaffe, and nothing but the gaffe, the way he was.\nHe had Gwenette ask everybody every three seconds if he or she\nwould like something to drink or some ham biscuits or Sally Lunn\nwith damson presents, and he had Lud Hamsbarger come out of the\ncockpit and pay attention to the guests and let them have an eyeful\nof the spun- gold furze on his big forearms, but nothing was\nantiseptic enough to remove the stench of Johnny, I want you to\nmeet one of our guests, Hebe Richman.\nAs the great G-5 touched down at PDK, Charlie was so caught up in\nthe subject of how best to say farewell to Herb Richman, he didn't\neven look out the window to see what might be awaiting him on thathot, sunny tarmac. Let's see . . . he'd make a point of being the first\noff the plane, and he'd stand at the foot of the stairs and press one\nlast effusion of hospitality upon his guests, and especially Herb and\nMarsha, as if nothing embarrassing had ever occurred.\nThe ship came to a halt, and Charlie's right knee began throbbing as\nsoon as he stood up. In due course the G-5's stairs were lowered,\nand he looked down diligently before putting weight on his aching\nknee, and so he failed to notice the ten men who were emerging\nfrom the arrivals building and hustling across the asphalt apron.\nCharlie had already assumed his stance of maximum bonhomie at\nthe foot of the stairs, squinting in the bright sunlight, and Lenore\nKnox, Lettie Withers, Ted Nashford, and Live-in Lydia were heading\ndown the stairs when a sharp voice said:\n\"Mr. Charles E. Croker?\"\nCharlie looked about. There, behind him, was a short, balding,\nsquarely built little bulldog of a man, about forty probably, with a\nprognathous jaw. He wore a gray suit and some sort of go-to-hell\nnecktie and held a sheaf of papers in his hairy paws. At first Charlie\ndidn't make out the composition of the crew of nine he had brought\nwith him.\n\"Mr. Croker,\" the little bulldog continued, \"my name is Martin Thor-\ngen, counsel representing PlannersBanc, and I have here an order\"-\nhe thrust some papers at Charlie-\"executed by the Superior Court,\nDeKalb County, Judge Oma Lee Listlass presiding, calling for the\narrest and removal of this aircraft, N-number 741FS, model\nGulfstream Five, a chattel against which a lien exists, as partial\nsatisfaction of defalcatory loans owed said bank by the Croker Global\nCorporation.\"\nCharlie stared at this jut-jawed little man, from whom such a stream\nof legalistic block phrases poured, and then he began to take in the\nmen who accompanied him. Near him, a step behind, was a tall,\nrangy, athletic-looking young man with a long neck, a head of thickblack hair, and a wild stare, who looked as if he had been wrestled\ninto the lawyerlike gray suit he wore. Behind the two lawyers were\nthree policemen wearing Smokey Bear hats and the navy shirts and\ngray trousers, with black stripes down the legs, of the DeKalb\nCounty Sheriff's Office. All three were tall, and two of them were real\ncountry boys, the raw-boned kind who liked to get drunk on\nSaturday night and go down to the railroad grade crossing and have\na rock fight. Behind the cops were three young men wearing navy-\nblue windbreakers-Charlie couldn't read the lettering on them at\nfirst-and two men in suits Charlie realized he knew all too well: Ray\nPeepgass and that guy Zell or Zale, the one with the rasping voice\nand the big chin.\nThe bastards! They wait until the G-5 is full of guests, so they can\npull this! Lettie, Lenore, and Ted Nashford and Live-in Lydia had\nalready heard the whole thing and were bound to realize what was\nin progress.\nCharlie looked Lawyer Martin Thorgen up and down and said,\n\"Lemme see that 'order.' \"\nLawyer Martin Thorgen handed a sheet of paper to Charlie, and\nwithout giving it so much as a glance, Charlie took it and tore it in\ntwo and then in four and then in eight, and then he threw the pieces\nat the feet of the lawyer. Several pieces stuck to his pants legs\nelectrostatically.\n\"That's what said order amounts to,\" said Charlie. He looked past\nLawyer Thorgen, searching out Peepgass's face. 'Tou dream this\nstunt up, Ray? Or did your sidekick?\"\n\"Didn't take much dreaming up,\" said Peepgass. \"We talked to you\nweeks ago about the need to sell this airplane. You never seriously\nput it on the market. We found you a broker, and you just gave him\nthe runaround.\"\nCharlie was amazed that Peepgass could respond so firmly and with\nsuch conviction. What had gotten into old Ray?Meantime, Lawyer Thorgen was saying, \"Whatever you choose to do\nwith the order in its printed form doesn't alter a thing, Mr. Croker.\nThe order has been executed, and the Croker Global Corporation is\nno longer the owner of this aircraft. It is now the property of\nPlannersBanc. These gentlemen here\"-he gestured toward the three\npolicemen-\"and myself are here solely to carry out the dictates of\nthe court.\"\nCharlie stepped closer to the little canine lawyer until he towered\nover him, and said in a low and, he hoped, menacing voice, 'You're\ngonna carry out dick, that's what you're gonna earn' out. Now kindly\nget all your stooges out of the way, so I can tend to my guests.\"\nThen he looked at Peepgass: \"Kindly round up all your clowns and\ngoons and get out of my way. I got guests on this airplane, Ray.\nEither you do the right thing or what happens next iddn'\nPlannersBanc versus the Croker Global Corporation, it's me versus\nyou. You understand what I'm saying?\"\n'You can say whatever you want, Charlie,\" said Peepgass, \"but\nnothing can change the fact that that G-5 is now ours.\"\nCharlie couldn't believe this. Somewhere Peepgass had found the\nstrength to talk back to him. He stepped toward his guests, his knee\nbuckling as he did. Lettie and Lenore were already on the tarmac,\nand Ted Nashford and Live-in Lydia were almost there, and Howell\nHendricks and his wife were on the stairway behind them. It was\nobvious from the wary looks on their faces that one and all had had\nan earful of what was going on.\nCharlie tried to beam confidently at all six of them. With as cheery a\nvoice as possible he said, \" Yall go ahead. G'on into the waiting\nroom. I'll be right there.\" He could not believe what was happening.\nHis mind spun, frantically seeking some workable strategy.\nHe'd ignore the bastards, that's what he'd do. He'd get his guests off\nthe ship, and then he'd deal with the situation. He beamed broadly\nat Beauchamp Knox and Marsha Richman, who were now headingdown the stairs, and at Howell and Francine Hendricks, Ted\nNashford, Lettie Withers, and Lenore Knox, all of whom had held\nback-probably in the interest of gossip. It was pretty hard to stand\nthere, as Charlie now was, beaming at everyone and trying to act\noblivious of an enemy platoon of ten men, especially when three of\nthem were policemen.\nLawyer Thorgen made it worse by announcing in a loud voice: \"As\nsoon as your guests and crew have disembarked, Mr. Croker, the\naircraft will be arrested and removed.\"\nNow Wally was on the G-5's stairs, followed by Herb Richman and\nSerena. \"Dad,\" said Wally, \"what's going on?\"\n\"Nothing,\" said Charlie, \"a whole lotta nothing.\" But he could tell\nfrom Wally's expression that that wasn't what it looked like.\nLawyer Thorgen's voice: \"How many people remain onboard?\"\n\"That's not your concern,\" said Charlie.\n\"I'm afraid it is. That's PlannersBanc's aircraft.\"\nDamn, thought Charlie. I need a lawyer, and my lawyer's giving me\nnothing but grief because he wants his $354,000. I'll-I'll-I'll contest\njurisdiction.\n\" The county court has no jurisdiction,\" he said. \"This aircraft is\nengaged in interstate commerce.\"\n\"This aircraft,\" said Martin Thorgen in a tone of exaggerated\nboredom, \"is a chattel encumbered by a chattel mortgage and\nsubject to foreclosure in situ in DeKalb County.\"\n\"What the hell's a chattel?\"\n\"A chattel's a movable possession, and a Gulfstream Five aircraft is\neminently movable.\"\n\"Oh yeah?\" said Charlie. \"And just how do you think you're gonna\nmove it?\"\"The usual way. Fly it.\" He gestured toward the three men in the\nwarm-up jackets. \"We have a mechanic and two licensed pilots\nchecked out in ever)' model of Gulfstream and, for that matter, most\njet airliners.\"\nThe three men stared blankly at Charlie. He engaged each one of\nthem eye to eye, then said, 'Tou enjoy slimy assignments like this\none?\"\nThe youngest of the three, a tall, lanky fellow with a mouth much\ntoo small for his big head, responded insouciantly: \"I'd rather be\nflying the Concorde, if you want to know the truth. Or an F-16. But\nthis is the job that's open.\"\nThe young man's impudent nonchalance threw Charlie off. Finally he\nsaid, \"Anything as long as it pays money, right? You must feel great\nabout yourself.\"\nThe young man shrugged. \"Like to fly. This iddn' the first time I've\nworked on one of these chattel-mortgage foreclosures here at PDK,\neither. G-5's a nice ship.\"\nNow Charlie was aware that Serena and Herb Richman had\ndescended the stairs and were standing near him. Charlie wasn't\nworrying anymore about how to bid goodbye to Herb Richman. Now\nhe had to figure out how to keep from looking like a hapless\nbankrupt fool.\nSerena said, \"What's going on, Charlie?\"\n\"Nothing,\" growled Charlie. \"Just a little misunderstanding.\"\nHerb Richman stood just slightly behind Serena. A soft smile played\nupon his lips, and he looked sleepier than ever.\nAt the top of the stairs Lud Harnsbarger had just emerged from the\nG-5 with the naw overnight bag he carried, and behind him Charlie\ncould just make out Jimmy Kite and Gwenette.Charlie held up his hand and motioned for them all to stop. \"Hold it,\nLud! I'm gonna need you and Jimmy and Gwenette.\" Then he turned\nto Serena. \"Sweetheart, you take Herb\"-not Hebe!-\"and everybody\ninto the waiting room. The drivers should be there already. Figure\nout who goes in which cars, and you all head on home. I'm gon' be\ntied up here for a spell.\" Spale. \"Gotta take a short trip.\"\nHe turned to head back to the stairway to the plane, and his knee\nrocked unsteadily. The pain like to kill him. Then, faster than he\ncould have imagined such big men could move, the three county\ncops outflanked him and set up a line at the foot of the stairs.\nThe one in the middle, the one whose belly bulged out over his big\nleather belt, said, \"We can't let you back on the plane, Mr. Croker.\nWe're here to arrest it, pursuant to a court order.\" Coat awda.\n\"Yeah, and pursuant to what kinda awda'd you let yourself be talked\ninto picking out a Sunday afternoon when I'm arriving with a dozen\nguests?\"\n\"We're just carrying out instructions, Mr. Croker.\"\n\"You just work here, right?\" said Charlie.\nAll the while his sense of humiliation was rising alarmingly. This\nignominious farce was being played out before his wife, his son, his\nemployees (Lud, Jimmy, and Gwenette), Herb Richman, and some of\nthe biggest and most widely listened-to mouths in Atlanta, namely,\ngarrulous souls like Howell Hendricks and Lettie Withers. How could\nhe get around these three monkeys in the sheriff's deputy uniforms,\nthis beef trust, and take command of the G-5 and get the hell out of\nhere? If he thought he could have done it, physically, the way he\ncould have done it when he was thirty years old, not sixty, he would\nhave muscled the three men aside and stormed up the stairway and\ninto the G-5's cabin and ordered Lud and Jimmy to take off. They\nwould have been astonished by how little never-mind he paid their\nuniforms, the stupid monkeys. But he wasn't at all sure he could get\nby them. His right knee was buckling with pain every time he took astep. And these three wouldn't be pushovers. The one with the belly\nwas probably in his mid- thirties, and he struck Charlie as a younger\nversion of Durwood. He looked like the kind who'd love to roll in the\ndirt with you or whack you upside the ear with his nightstick so that\nyou could no longer hear and were in the grip of a mortal pain from\nyour mastoid process to your occipital rim.\nOne of the rules Charlie knew all leaders should follow was: Never\nengage in a fight in the presence of your followers that you can't\npossibly win. And this was a fight he couldn't possibly win, at least\nnot physically. He sighed and looked about. Over in the doorway of\nthe hangar, all but obscured by the shadows that plunged its\nimmense space into gloom, was a mechanic named Lunnie (for\nLunsford), an employee of PDK but one who had been working on\nCharlie's planes for six years at least. Charlie looked at Lunnie-and\ngot an idea. Just like that his entire mood changed.\nHe broke into a sage smile and said to the beefy policeman before\nhim, \"Well, Officer, I can see that-by the way, what's your name?\"\nThe policeman hesitated, not sure whether standing here and\ndutifully revealing his name would compromise him or not. But\nCharlie's evidently sincere smile loosened him up, and he finally said,\n\"Hunni- cutt, Officer Arra Hunnicutt.\" Or it came out \"Arra.\" After a\ncouple of seconds Charlie realized the man was a Georgia country\nboy whose name was Ira, which out in the sticks, including Baker\nCounty, would come out \"Arra,\" just the way \"fire\" came out \"far,\"\nand \"He got hired by the Fire Department\" came out \"He got hard by\nthe Far Department.\"\n\"Well, Officer Hunnicutt, I can see you're a man who means what he\nsays. But I have to give you fair warning: it's unwise for anyone but\nme to attempt to move this airplane from where it is right now.\"\n\"That ain't for me to say,\" said Officer Hunnicutt. \"That's for who-\never's acquarrin't.\"\"Well,\" said Charlie, smiling again, \"I can only pass along my\nadvice.\"\nWith that, he turned toward Lud and Jimmy and beckoned them on\ndown the stairs. \"Come on, boys, and you, too, Gwenette. I'll treat\nyou to a beer.\"\nHe headed toward the waiting room, but suddenly stopped when he\ncame abreast of Peepgass and Zale. Peepgass seemed to shrink, as\nif trying to pull himself back into a shell, but Zale looked at Charlie\ndown his nose, with his big melon-shaped chin thrust up.\n\"By the way,\" said Charlie cheerily, looking at Zale, \"you oughta\nknow that a lien on the starboard engine of this airplane is held by\nMagTrust. We had to go to MagTrust when PlannersBanc wouldn't\nextend us any more credit. Whether you want to be taking off with\nMagTrust's collateral is something y'all oughta be thinking about. I\nwouldn't, if I were you.\"\n\"We'll bear that in mind,\" said Zale in his high, grating voice. \"We'll\nkeep everybody informed.\"\nThe young pilot who had bandied words with Charlie stepped\nforward and called out not to Charlie but to Lud Harnsbarger, \"\n'Scuse me, 1 need to ask you something.\"\nNow Charlie could see what was on the back of his windbreaker. In\nfluorescent Day-Glo yellow letters seven inches high it said repo.\nAbove that, in smaller letters, about the size of the names printed on\nthe backs of the jerseys of professional football players, it said\nplannersbanc. That was what all his guests in the waiting room got\nan eyeful of when they looked out the big plate-glass window:\nplannersbanc repo.\nLud looked at Charlie, silently asking if he should talk to the\nPlannersBanc pilot, and Charlie boomed out, \"Sure, go ahead!\"Lud and Jimmy and Gwenette were by now down on the tarmac,\nand Charlie walked, gimping badly, over to the three of them and\nsaid in a hushed voice, \"Tell him anything he wants to know. You,\ntoo, Jimmy. Just keep him talking. The longer, the better.\"\nWhereupon Charlie went gimping on into the waiting room. Serena\nand Herb Richman were just ahead of him. They had been hanging\nback, taking it all in.\nSerena said, \"What are you going to do, Charlie?\"\n\"I'm gonna relax, take it easy,\" said Charlie.\n\"What are they doing?\"\nA cheery grin. \"Nothing. They just enjoy spinning their wheels.\"\nThe painting1. It came to him-just like that!\n\"One other thing,\" Charlie said, turning back toward Peepgass and\nthe big-jawed Zale. \"I got personal effects on that airplane.\"\nZale, in a bored fashion: \"Don't worry, all personal effects will be\nreturned.\"\n\"One uv'em I want right now,\" said Charlie. \"It's a painting by N. C.\nWyeth on the bulkhead of the forward cabin.\"\n\"No can do,\" said Zale. He had his chest and wrestler's gut thrust\nforward and his suit jacket wide open, revealing the skulls and cross-\nbones that ran up and down his suspenders. \"That painting is listed\nas collateral, a hundred and ninety thousand dollars' worth, and title\nwas held by the Croker Global Corporation.\"\nCharlie was furious-and anguished. More than anything else he\npossessed, including Turpmtine itself, the painting symbolized the\ntriumphs of Cap'm Charlie Croker. But he mustn't let them see how\nlie felt. He would just have to get his hands on it tonight or\ntomorrow-after the surprise this impudent, melon-jawed monkey had\ncoming.He forced himself to smile in a knowing way. \"Well, I'm putting you\non notice. Anything happens to this aircraft or its contents, and\nespecially that painting-you're in it up to your armpits.\"\n\"I'll try to remember that,\" said Zale, sticking his chest out still\nfarther.\nCharlie felt the urge to kill. He'd like to throttle Peepgass, too. Now\nthat they were barely six feet apart, Peepgass wasn't saying a word.\nHe had his head down and his shoulders pressed practically up\nagainst his neck, as if he were trying to get ready to drop through a\ncrack in the earth. But Charlie had presence of mind enough to know\nthat anything he tried to do physically would only make things\nworse. The three cops . . . his bad knee . . . his guests' greedy eyes\n. . . which would be treated to the spectacle of Cap'm Charlie Croker\nrolling around on the asphalt at PDK with three DeKalb County peace\nofficers ... at his age . . . sixty years . . . The sixty years were what\nhe truly didn't want to have to think about. So he concentrated 011\nthe cops, the knee, and the guests. He was determined to make his\nguests feel that whatever it was that was going on, it was part of the\nfun of a rollicking weekend with Cap'm Charlie.\nThe others-Beauchamp and Lenore Knox, Howell and Francine\nHendricks, Lettie Withers, Ted Nashford, Live-in Lydia, Marsha Rich-\nman, and Wally-were already in the waiting room. The room\nfeatured a great horseshoe arrangement of couches that looked out\nupon the field through a floor-to-ceiling plate-glass window. None of\nhis guests was seated, however, not even old Governor Knox. They\nwere all standing near the window, so as not to miss a trick. And\nwhen Charlie entered the room, their eyes were on him. (How\ncomplete had his humiliation been?)\nIn fact, Charlie was all smiles. \"Hey, Serena,\" he said, loud enough\nfor everybody to hear, \"figure out who oughta go in which car, and\nget everybody a Coke or sump'm. I'll be right back.\" Rat back.With that, Charlie, bad knee and all, hurried toward a door marked\nemployees only that opened out into the hangar. He looked about in\nthe gloom for the round-shouldered form of Lunnie, the mechanic.\nAnd there he was, about twenty feet from the hangar's enormous\nmouth. He looked startled when Charlie came gimping up to him,\nstartled and embarrassed.\n\"Cap'm,\" he said, \"I'm sorry about what's going on out there. I wish\nI could help.\"\nCharlie smiled. \"Maybe you can, Lunnie. Maybe you can. I want you\nto tell me sump'm. What's the easiest way a keeping a ship like a G-\n5 from taking off?\"\n\"Keep'er from taking off? You mean mechanically?\"\n\"Yeah, mechanically. Exactly.\"\n\"Hell\"-hale-\"the easiest way is, slide a wrench down the intake of an\nengine.\"\n\"What'll'at do?\"\n\"Soon's it starts up, the wrench'll break all the fan blades. Each\nengine's got five sets a fan blades. It'll ruin the whole damn engine.\"\n'That'll do it, hunh?\"\n\"Sure will. I seen it happen.\"\n\"Lunnie,\" said Charlie, \"how long you been working for me?\"\n\"Six or seven years, I reckon.\"\n\"I treated you okay?\"\n\"You the best, Cap'm.\"\n\"Lunnie, I want you to do something for me. This is very important,\nand only you can do it slick enough. I want you to slide a wrenchdown the intake of the starboard engine of my G-5, that ship right\nthere. How 'bout it?\"\nImmediately Lunnie's placid features began to contort. You could see\nloyalty and obedience on the one hand at war with loss of job and\npossible criminal prosecution on the other.\n\"I'm not asking you for a favor, Lunnie,\" said Charlie. \"I'm ready to\npay for it. It'd be worth a lot to me. Four thousand dollars cash,\nLunnie-no, make it five. Five thousand dollars for five seconds of\nwork. Just let it slide down the gullet.\"\nLunnie's head was oscillating like an electric fan in the summertime\nand he was massaging his knuckles, first one hand and then the\nother. \"I don' know, Cap'm, destroying a piece of equipment like that\n. . . That engine's worth about half a million dollars, I reckon.\"\n\"Well, shit, Lunnie, it's my piece of equipment, and that's what I\nwant.\"\nFaster oscillation and massaging. \"I know, Cap'm, but I'd be the one-\nI can't take the chance.\"\nCharlie put on a furious visage. \"Chance, hell, Lunnie! I'm ordering\nyou to do it! This is a direct order! Do it!\"\nBy now Lunnie had begun making imaginary snowballs with his two\ncupped hands. \"I know, Cap'm\"-imaginary snowball-\"I unnerstan\"-\nimaginary snowball-\"what you're saying\"-imaginary snowball-\"but it\ncould cost me my job\"-imaginary snowball-\"the onliest way I got a\nmaking a living\"-imaginary snowball.\nCap'm Charlie Croker, forgiver of children: \"Okay, Lunnie, okay. It's\nall right. Can you do this much for me, which ain't much-can you tell\nme where I can find a wrench and a pair of coveralls?\"\nThe relieved child, off the hook: \"I can give you a wrench.\" He\nproduced one from somewhere in his coveralls. \"And there's a whole\nbunch a coveralls on the hooks ov'air by 'at door you come in.\"\"And just remember one thing, Lunnie. Me'n'you never had this\nconversation. That way nobody can drag you into nothing. We never\nsaid a word to each other.\"\n\"Okay, Cap'm.\"\nCharlie retreated into the gloom of the hangar and found, over by\nthe door, at least a dozen pairs of coveralls hanging on hooks, just\nas Lunnie had said.\nHe finally found one big enough to accommodate his 235-pound bulk\nand pulled it on right over his clothes. In the pocket of another pair\nwas a bandanna. This gave him an idea. He took it out. It had a\nstrange camouflage pattern of white, gray, and black. For what?\nHiking over a rocky terrain with melting snow? Didn't matter. Charlie\ndraped it over his bare skull and tied it in back, the way a pirate\nmight have. He put the wrench in one of the coveralls' capacious\npockets and headed through the greasy twilight of the hangar and\nout onto the tarmac.\nThe G-5 was parked so that the left side, which was outfitted with\nthe main passenger door and the door to the luggage bay, faced the\nwaiting room. The right side was visible only from the hangar or the\nhangar side of the tarmac, and there was nobody on that side; or,\nrather, no one but Charlie Croker.\nBeneath the belly of the G-5 he could see the feet and lower legs of\na whole clump of men who were apparently discussing the G-5.\nEvery now and then he could hear the grating, high-pitched voice of\nthe one called Zale. A whole lot of talk. Good boy, Lud!\nCharlie walked slowly and casually toward the starboard engine. He\nkept the wrench concealed in the coveralls. The G-5's two mighty\nengines hung down beneath the wings. He began stooping over and\nlooking at the underside of the wing, as if making an inspection.\nNow he was right next to the engine. He steeled himself, forced\nhimself not to look this way or that-and withdrew the wrench and\nreached up, and let it slide down the mouth of the engine. Then,stooping as he went, he inspected the underside of the wing from\nthe engine to the fuselage, in the interest of appearing diligent, then\nsauntered back into the hangar. Once he was safely within its deep\npenumbra, he removed the coveralls and the bandanna, and put\nthem back where he had got them. Lunnie was nowhere to be seen.\nHe had vanished. Charlie hurried back through the employees only\ndoor into the waiting room.\nSerena had succeeded in shepherding Howell and Francine\nHendricks and Beauchamp and Lenore Knox into one of the BMWs,\nbut the rest, including Herb Richman and his wife, seemed to want\nto stay on and follow the little drama on the tarmac. When Charlie\ncame back into the room, all eyes turned toward him. They were\nwondering how he would take this shaming turn of events.\nGesturing toward the aircraft, Ted Nashford said, \"That bunch-\nthey're boarding your aircraft, Charlie.\"\nSure enough, there were Zale and Peepgass making their way up the\nstairs to the G-5's cabin.\n\"Where are\"-whirr-\"the pilots?\" asked Charlie. Big smile.\nThe smile was so genuine, Ted Nashford was taken aback at first.\n\"They're both on board, them and the other one, the-the-the-\"\n\"The mechanic,\" said Charlie, who seemed terribly merry about it all.\n\"Well, I advised them against it, but they were in no mood to listen.\"\n\"Why?\"\n\"Why wouldn't they listen or why'd I advise them not to?\"\n\"Why'd you advise them not to.\"\n\"The G-5's a temperamental airplane, Ted. A wonderful airplane, but\nyou gotta know each one by heart. They don't know that ship from\ntheir left elbow. I wonder if they'll make it as far as the runway.\"So now they all watched, Ted, Live-in Lydia, Herb and Marsha Rich-\nman, Lettie Withers, Wally, Serena, and Charlie himself, as the\nstairway folded up into the fuselage of the G-5. If you looked closely\nenough, you could see Zale sitting in Charlie's seat-at the great\ntupelo desk facing N. C. Wyeth's Jim Bowie on His Deathbed-and\nsitting opposite him was Peepgass. Both had grand smiles. Then Zale\nmust have said something terribly funny, because you could see\nPeepgass laughing to beat the band.\n\"They look happy!\" volunteered Live-in Lydia.\nOrdinarily Charlie would have wanted to throttle her skinny live-in\nneck. Instead, he chuckled and said, \"Just remember, I told every\none of them\"-tol' ewer one uv'em-\"they didn't know what they're\ndoing.\"\nThen the engines started up. One moment you could see a puff of\nsmoke rise from the left engine, the one visible in the waiting room,\nand in the next you could hear a sound like gunfire, fast stuttering\ngunfire, as if from an exceptionally loud automatic weapon. Pang!\nPang! Pang! Pang! The sound penetrated the half-inch-thick glass of\nthe waiting-room window as if it weren't there.\nThe engines shut down, and now a plume of black smoke rose from\nthe other side of the G-5. The faces at the windows, Zale's and\nPeepgass's, were etched with the consternation of two men who\nthought they had just settled in for a swell little ride somewhere with\ntheir $38 million boot)'. Pretty soon the ship's stairway was unfurled\nagain, and here came Zale clomping down, with Peepgass right\nbehind him. They stood on the tarmac at the bottom of the stairs,\nstaring helplessly at the ship. Then down the stairs came the two\npilots in their plannersbanc repo jackets, both of them barking at the\nmechanic, who was behind them on the stairs, tossing one hand up\nin the air and then the other. Then all five of them, Zale, Peepgass,\nthe two pilots, and the mechanic, headed around the nose of the\nship toward the starboard side.Charlie chuckled. \"Well, you can give people fair warning, but you\ncan't nail 'em to the ground and say, 'Don't move.' \"\nHugely pleased, he gave all his retinue a come-on gesture and\nheaded toward the glass door that led to the building's parking lot.\n\"Got cars out here waiting for y'all.\"\nTed Nashford, who was close behind him, said, \"What do you\nsuppose happened to the airplane?\"\n\"I can only guess,\" said Charlie, \"but it sounded like the pilot?-he\ntried to feed too much power to the engines before they were\nwarmed up?-and it did something to the fan blades in the\ncompressors?-that's what it sounded like to me, but what do I know\nabout jet engines.\"\nBy the time they got outside, where Croker Global drivers were\nwaiting with two BMWs, Charlie was laughing as if the havoc\nwreaked upon the G-5 was one of the funniest things that had\nhappened in years.\nChapter 14\nGod's Cosmic Joke\nSo it's your testimony, mr. peepgass, that you invited Sirja to have\ndinner with you at the Hotel Grand Tatar out of a sudden interest in\nFinnish art?\"\n\"1 didn't know anything about Finnish art at that time,\" said\nPeepgass, who was dying to wipe his forehead, \"but we had an art\nprogram at PlannersBanc and 1 was interested in exploring the\npossibilities. She seemed very knowledgeable about Finnish art.\"\n\"Nobody disputes the fact that you were 'exploring the possibilities,'\nMr. Peepgass, and just what those 'possibilities' were is what we're\ngonna get to.\"\nOh God, the tawdriness! The tawdriness!Peepgass stared helplessly into the smirking mug of Morton Tennen-\nbaum, Esq., who was seated directly across the table from him, and\nwondered how Sirja had ever found this odious specimen of the\nDeKalb County bar . . . here in aij office in a shopping mall off\nDecatur Road between a gift shop and a sporting-goods store that\nseemed to sell nothing but sneakers and violently patterned outfits\nfor non-athletes to exercise in . . . The front half of the dome of\nLawyer Tennenbaum's skull was completely bald, but halfway back\nthere rose up a stand of blackish- gray hair so thick, so wiry, so\nunruly, it looked like incoming surf. The man seemed to have only\ntwo expressions: Indignation and Contempt. This one was\nContempt.\nNext to him sat the Finnish femme natale herself, although Peepgass\ntried his best not to look at her. He could no longer associate the\nindividual across from him, this woman, with the raging lust that had\nimpelled him to invite her to the Grand Tatar Hotel in Helsinki that\nnight and engage in a fervent round of footsie under the tablecloth.\nHer astonishingly full head of blond hair, which had once swept him\naway in veritable typhoons of lust, now just made him wonder how\nshe managed to frizz it up like that. Her big blue eyes, which he had\nonce looked into to explore the very depths of Nordic love, now\nstruck him as bugged-out, possibly from a thyroid condition. And\nthose breasts . . . those obscenely enormous jugs . . . Even now,\neven at this lawyers' deposition in which she was trying to portray\nherself as an innocent working girl from up near the Arctic Circle\nseduced, impregnated, and abandoned by a rich American banker,\nshe couldn't resist displaying her huge hooters under a satiny white\nblouse open almost down to there . . . How could he have ever\nburied his very head in those two pillows? They were grotesque, as\nif God, careless at the end of a busy day, had hung Isolde's\nheadlights on some scrawny little 105-pound bag of bird bones. Oh,\nthe tawdriness... the tawdriness . . . Peepgass's own lawyer,\nAlexander (Sandy) Dickens, seated right next to him, didn't elevate\nthe level of these proceedings, either, despite the fact that he came\nfrom an old Downtown law firm, Tripp, Snayer & Billings, andcharged $400 an hour. Too late it had dawned on Peepgass that\nTripp, Snayer didn't regard paternity suits as a very classy business\nand had fobbed off one of the firm's dim bulbs on him. Dickens was\nan obese, florid, rumpled, fortyish redhead who sat hunched over\nwith the heel of his hand dug into the side of his fat face. He made a\nnoise when he breathed. At the head of the table sat a solemn,\napoplectic-faced, middle-aged man with a carefully combed-back\nhead of grayish-brown hair. He was a so-called court reporter, a\nstenographer who was recording the deposition on a spindly\nstenotype machine. His expression was a florid blank, but the fact\nthat he was going to hear and preserve all this stuff verbatim . . .\nOh, the tawdriness, the tawdriness, the tawdriness, the tawdriness .\n. . Completing the picture was the room itself, a windowless box in\nthe back with a flush door, covered in a lurid imitation-wood grain,\nthat hung a half-inch short of the floor, so that Peepgass and\neverybody else at the table could hear the whimperings and fitful\ncries of Master Pietari\nPaivarinta Peepgass, whom the plaintiff in this suit had parked\noutside with some secretary or other while she laid siege to the\nassets of Raymond Peepgass.\nMorton Tennenbaum's incoming surf kept rolling in. \"So as a\nrepresentative of PlannersBanc, one of the largest banks in the\nSoutheast, you decided to invite to your hotel a twenty-seven-year-\nold Finnish notions buyer as an art consultant. Is that your\ntestimony?\"\n\"No,\" said Peepgass, \"what I said was-\"\n\"That wasn't his testimony,\" said Sandy Dickens. It came out bored\nand slurred, since he didn't bother removing his face from the heel\nof his hand.\n\"Never mind,\" said Tennenbaum, \"I withdraw the question. Is it true,\nMr. Peepgass, that you asked Sirja to bring along some slides of her\nown work?\" \"Yes.\"\"Did you think PlannersBanc might want to promote Miz Sirja Tir-\namaki, someone you had never heard of before, someone who\npainted at home-you thought PlannersBanc might want to select the\nwork of this young woman for its 'art program'?\"\n\"No-\"\n\"Or did you just want her to come on up and show you her\netchings?\"\n\"I'm gonna object to that,\" said Lawyer Dickens, still talking into the\nheel of his hand.\n\"You don't have to,\" said Morton Tennenbaum, looking at Peepgass\nwith a sneer. \"The question answers itself. All right. The two of you\nare having dinner at the Grand Tatar. Did you have anything to\ndrink?\" \"Yes.\"\n\"And what did you have?\"\n\"We had a drink called a bamboo cocktail.\"\nSirja scrunched up the tiny Finnish features of her face and began\nscribbling furiously on a pad and passed a note to Morton\nTennenbaum. She and Peepgass had reached the stage, well known\nto divorce lawyers, in which the principals no longer speak to each\nother but only to the lawyers, to whom they pass notes, notes, and\nmore notes, endless notes, exposing the mendacity and evasions of\ntheir erstwhile loved ones.\nThe Incoming Surf read the note and said, \"Both of you had bamboo\ncocktails?\"\n\"Yes\"-although after he said it, Peepgass wasn't absolutely sure that\nwas true.\nMorton Tennenbaum arched his eyebrows in an ironic way. \"All right.\nAnd what made you think you might like to have that particular\ndrink, a bamboo cocktail?\"Peepgass paused. He could see where it was all headed, and he\ndidn't want to go there. The red-faced court reporter had his fingers\npoised over his little machine, ready to record and write out every\nlast sordid detail. Peepgass didn't want to get into any of this, but\nSandy Dickens had said he had no choice. Peepgass looked at\nDickens anyway, halfway hoping he might change his mind and\ncome to life and say, \"I object.\"\n'Tou don't have to look at your attorney,\" said Tennenbaum. \"He\ncan't tell you why you wanted that drink.\"\nFinally Peepgass said, \"Miss Tiramaki recommended it.\"\nTennenbaum, in his tawdry way, insisted on calling his client Sirja.\nPeepgass was damned if he would.\nMiss Tiramaki went into a real fury of note writing.\n\"Isn't it a fact, Mr. Peepgass, that you asked Sirja what this drink on\nthe menu was, this 'bamboo cocktail,' and that she merely described\nto you a local rural superstition, in response to your question?\"\n\"No, as I recall-\"\n\"All right, let's stick with your recollection. According to your\nrecollection, what was it that this bamboo cocktail had to\nrecommend it?\"\nDefeated, Peepgass said tonelessly, \"It was made with a fertilized\negg yolk in it instead of a maraschino cherry, and it was supposed to\n. . . enhance sexual energy.\"\n\"It was supposed to enhance sexual energy. And why did you like\nthat idea so much at that point?\"\n\"I didn't like it or dislike it,\" said Peepgass. \"It was just a . . . a . . . a\nnovelty, as far as I was concerned.\"\n\"It was just a novelty as far as you were concerned.\" Witheringly.Peepgass felt completely whipped. This was only a deposition, not\nyet a trial, and already he couldn't take it. What did it matter\nwhether she had started it or he had started it? It was all utterly\ncheap, sordid, and tawdry, either way. A paternity suit! Forty-six\nyears old, he was, and drowning in a smelly little sexual cesspool,\nwhile the clock ticked and the worst lawyer at Tripp, Snayer leeched\n$400 an hour out of the pathetic remains of his resources.\nThe Incoming Surf wouldn't let up. He forced him to relive that\nentire meal at the Grand Tatar. Was he, Peepgass, really testifying,\nunder oath, that it was she who had rubbed his leg under the table\nwith her foot? That it was she who had told him it was too noisy in\nthe dining room and that they needed to go someplace quieter to\ntalk about Finnish art and look at her slides? That it was she who\nhad suggested his suite? Peepgass barely bothered defending\nhimself. He was too demoralized. He braced for the knockout\npunches he now knew were inevitable.\n\"All right,\" said Lawyer Tennenbaum, \"and so then you led Sirja over\nto your king-size bed and you made love. Is that correct?\"\n\"I didn't lead her-\" But then he gave up. \"Yes,\" he said with an air of\ninfinite resignation and an empty stare. Made love. What an absurd\nand sleazy concoction of words! Made what love? He had had an\noverwhelming, fiery, juvenile itch in his groin, and she had been only\ntoo happy to offer the big American banker her pelvic saddle to\nrelieve it, that was all . . . Oh God, the tawdriness, the tawdriness . .\n. Then the Incoming Surf asked, \"Did you use a condom?\"\nDid I use a condom? Aghast, utterly humiliated by the very asking of\nthe question, Peepgass turned to Lawyer Dickens for protection.\nShield me! Help me! It can't go this far! But Lawyer Dickens sat\nthere with his fat red head lolling on the heel of his hand and rolled\nhis eyes toward him with a look that said, \"I already told you you'd\nhave to answer such questions.\"\n\"Yes,\" said Peepgass with a doomed tone.\"Where'd you get it, Mr. Peepgass?\"\n\"Get it?\"\n\"The condom.\"\n\"The condom? I-I don't remember.\" Although of course he did. Every\nsingle nervous moment he had spent in the pharmacy of the Grand\nTatar, before Sirja had arrived, purchasing the condoms and praying\nthat the clerk, with her boyishly short blond hair, wouldn't recognize\nhim as a guest in the hotel-every single red-faced microsecond of it\nwas stored away in his memory bank.\n\"You don't remember? Well, let's think about it a moment . . . and\ntry. Do you carry condoms with you wherever you go, in case these .\n. . 'possibilities' present themselves? Or does the Grand Tatar Hotel\nleave them on the bedside tables? Or what? It shouldn't be very\nhard to remember.\"\nPeepgass was speechless. His mind churned. The Sandy Dickens\nscenario . . . When the subject of the condom had come up, Lawyer\nDickens had never asked him where he got the condom. No, instead\nhe opened up a certain . . . avenue ... He never suggested, in so\nmany words, that he make up a little fib . . . but if in fact Sirja had\nhappened to have arrived at the hotel with her own supply of\ncondoms-and many young women apparently went about these days\nso equipped-then it would put the affair in a light advantageous to\nthe defense ... Peepgass's brain churned and churned and churned-\nbut he couldn't bring himself to do it. Exactly why, he couldn't have\nexplained to himself. God knew, Sirja had undertaken that romp on\nthe bed with a lasciviousness that any hooker would have to go\nsome to top. So what difference would it make if he insisted that she\nhad brought the condoms? Psychologically it was true, wasn't it?\nNevertheless, he couldn't bring himself to head down that avenue.\nThe doomed man: \"I just don't remember.\"Furious scribbling by Sirja; but Lawyer Tennenbaum didn't look at\nher note. Instead, he made a little motion with his hand that said,\n\"Relax.\"\n\"All right, Mr. Peepgass, we'll leave it at that. A condom . . .\nmaterialized. We don't know how, but there it is. We have a condom,\nand the two of you are on your king-size bed in your hotel suite . . .\"\nOh, the tawdriness! The tawdriness! On and on it went, until finally\nLawyer Tennenbaum had finished with Peepgass and it was time for\nLawyer Dickens to depose Sirja. Dickens straightened up and came\nalive at this point and proceeded to prove that he could be as odious\nas his counterpart. Tennenbaum at least had two expressions:\nIndignation and Contempt. Dickens had but one: Scorn. He stared\nout of a pair of puffy- slits for eyes in a way that made clear his\nscorn for the selective memory of the plaintiff. He breathed audibly\nfrom beneath his layers of fat. He sighed with disgust. He asked her\nwhether or not she had ever before met a strange man on an\nairplane and then joined him for dinner at his hotel.\n\"No,\" said Sirja, her thyrotic eyes flashing, \"I was never doing that.\nWhy you are asking me such things?\"\nThat dry, high-pitched Scandinavian chirp of hers . . . Her English,\nwhich was never really wrong and yet always off. . . Back then, on\nthat first night at the Grand Tatar and in the months that followed,\nhe had found her accent and her eccentric syntax so exotic, so\nalluring . . . Just hearing it over the telephone had made him think\nof. . . white nights! Northern Lights! Hot little Finnish bodies popping\nout of the Arctic snows! ... He could remember feeling all that, but\nhe could no longer imagine why . . . Christ, there was nothing even\nremotely alluring about that voice. Quite the opposite; it was brittle,\nit was bird-like, it was supremely annoying . . . Imagine having to\nspend a lifetime in a house listening to that voice torturing proper\nEnglish usage in tiny, maddening ways minute after minute, hour\nafter hour, month after month . . .Now Dickens was leading her through that dinner at the Grand Tatar.\nShe was the one who had suggested to Mr. Peepgass that she come\nsee him in his hotel to brief him on Finnish art, wasn't she . . . She\nwas the one who had initiated the footsie under the table with Mr.\nPeepgass. Was that not the case? . . . She was the one who had\nsuggested going to Mr. Peepgass's suite, wasn't that the simple truth\nof the matter?\nNo, no, and no. \"I was speaking very much at dinner concerning\nFinnish art, but Raymond was speaking always concerning where am\nI living and am I having a boyfriend and these very much personal\nthings.\" Chirp, chirp, chirp, chirp. She didn't look at him, not even\nonce.\nAnd then Dickens steered her up to that accursed suite in the Grand\nTatar. And then to the matter of . . . the condom.\n\"Now, Miss Tiramaki, who provided the condom?\"\nStartled: \"Who?\" Hotly: \"Raymond!\" Peepgass hated the way she\ninsisted on still referring to him as Raymond. Under the\ncircumstances, wouldn't Mr. Peepgass suffice? \"Certainly I was not\nproviding a condom!\"\n\"We're only trying to establish the facts here, Miss Tiramaki. That's\nthe purpose of a deposition. I realize these are personal matters, but\nthe nature of your suit makes them germane. Do you understand\nwhat I'm saying? Now I want you to tell me-we have this condom.\nRight?-I want you to tell me who put it on Mr. Peepgass.\"\n\"What?\" Sirja's face turned crimson. Her eyes bugged out alarmingly.\nPeepgass cringed. He wanted to evaporate, escape into the fourth\ndimension. How could Dickens bring this up? Why had he, Peepgass,\never been so gauche and gross as to even tell him about it? How\ncould he have been so pointlessly graphic as to mention, by way of\nshowing that Sirja had been the lust commando, the sexual predator\nthat evening-how could he have gone so far as to tell his lawyer how\nshe had insisted on putting the condom on him herself, rolling itdown with much stroking and kneading and squeezing and kissing-\nyes! kissing!- until he thought he was going to burst--\njust then, from the other side of the door with the fake veneer, a\nseries of convulsive little sobs. A baby was beginning to cry.\nPeepgass glanced at Sirja. She sat bolt upright. The sobs suddenly\ncut off, but you could tell it was merely the prolonged, heart-\nstopping gasp in which the child struggles desperately to catch its\nbreath in order to explode with an all-out bawl. The moment was\nrigid with suspense. Even Tennenbaum and Dickens looked toward\nthe door. Would the kid ever get bis breatb or not? Sirja rose from\nher chair, her mouth open, her eyes wide.\n\"Pawy! Pawy!\" she cried. Her face was contorted. She rushed toward\nthe door. \"Pawy!\"\nBy the time she reached the door, the child had managed to fill his\nlungs with air, and the full-fledged explosion had begun, and the\ncrisis was over. That didn't stop Sirja, of course. Just like that, she\nwas through the door, and you could hear her clearly:\n\"Oh, Pawy, Pawy, Pawy, Pawy!\" Followed by something in Finnish\nthat sounded like \"Ah dotey dotey dotey ahda hiya dotey.\"\nNo longer the Finnish phallus condomizer; now the Eternal Mother.\nOh yes, the crisis was over, but from that moment on Peepgass\nrealized his goose was cooked. He didn't stand a chance. The satyr,\nthe rut boar, was up against the Eternal Mother, and the satyr would\nnever win that contest, not in any DeKalb County court, not in any\ncourt anywhere. Not only that, he would lose even if he won. If this\npathetic little drama, oozing with cheap lechery, was ever played out\nin an open courtroom . . . Suppose somehow his children got a\nsnootfi. Il of these details? Suppose Betty did? Suppose anybody\ndid? The very thought made him want to shrivel up and die.\nThe door was open, and the baby's bawling filled the premises of\nMorton Tennenbaum, shopping-mall attorney-at-law. Ever)' timeMaster Pietari Paivarinta Peepgass turned off the squall long enough\nto take a breath, you could hear Sirja cooing away. Pawy Pawy Pawy.\nPawy, she called him. Well, that was better than Peepsy or Little\nPeepgass . . . She was cooing to him in Finnish, but this boy was\ngoing to be a Georgia boy, Pawy Peepgass of DeKalb Count}', with a\nhell of a pair of lungs and, Fate being as perverse as she was, a\nCracker accent, in which he would tell the world:\n\"I exist! I'm real! I'm not just a bad joke on a foolish middle-aged\nman! I eat-every day! I grow-and just try to stop me! I occupy space\non this earth-and I will be heard from! And you will know my name!\"\nHow could this have come about out of white nights and Northern\nLights, on PlannersBanc's cuff, in Helsinki, Finland? He wouldn't have\na cent left after it was all over. He'd be lucky if he had a job. As it\nwas, he'd had to tell the most pathetic lie to account for his absence\nfrom the bank this morning . . .\nThe thought of impending poverty caused him to look at his watch:\n10:50 a. M. They'd been in here almost an hour. Four hundred\ndollars' worth of Lawyer Dickens that meant, with the clock still\nticking, ticking, ticking, even while the Eternal Mother coos over the\nFinnoCracker- in-Embryo, and they hadn't even reached the end of\nnight one in Helsinki ...\nHe needed a new life. He needed a ton of money. That, in turn,\nmade him think of Charlie Croker-which gave him his first spark of\nhope this entire morning. He had somehow mustered up the\ncourage yesterday to go out to PDK with Zale and the rest of them\nto confront Croker and \"arrest\" the G-5, to use Lawyer Thorgen's\nterm for it. Right in front of his guests, too! People the likes of\nHerbert Richman, Beau- champ Knox, and Lettie Withers! Oh, it was\noutrageous, but he had stood his ground-or at least he hadn't fled,\nas an urgent little voice inside him had advised him to do. And it had\nworked. True, one of the engines had \"blown,\" rather mysteriously,\nas soon as they tried to move the ship. Nevertheless, the G-5 andCroker's beloved N. C. Wyeth painting were now PlannersBanc's.\nThey had the big boffster's attention. If the G-5 could go-then so\ncould his beloved plantation. By the time they made their offer to\nspare him utter ruin and humiliation in return for his handing over\nhis deeds in lieu of foreclosure, tough old Charlie Croker would be . .\n. tenderized.\nHe had to be . . . had to be . . . From just beyond the door came the\ndemanding wails of Master Pietari Paivarinta Peepgass, Master Pawy\nPeepgass, Master P. P. Peepgass, Master Pietari P. Peepgass, Master\nPete Peepgass-however it came out, it wouldn't be your everyday\nname . . . Not but so many Peepgasses on the face of the earth . . .\nThe whole situation was ludicrous. Truly, sex was God's cosmic joke.\nat that moment Charlie Croker was sitting at his desk on the thirty-\nninth floor of his dead elephant, the Croker Concourse tower,\nconferring with the Wiz. As always, the Wiz looked like an expensive\ndigital appliance with all its diode lights waiting for the cue to wink.\nAs far as he himself was concerned, Charlie hoped to God he didn't\nlook as bad as he felt. He couldn't remember ever feeling more\nmiserable. Last night his insomnia had been total. He hadn't gone to\nsleep for so much as thirty seconds. Every time he told himself he\nwas going to refuse to think about the bank's seizing the G-5 and\nthe Wyeth painting-in front of Lettie Withers-Ted Nashford-Howell\nHendricks-his own son-and Herb Richman-and how could he have\ncalled the man Hebe in the first place!-and how many people in\nAtlanta had they already shot their mouths off to!-and was he a\nwalking dead man-it was no use. There was no way he was going to\nshut those thoughts out of his skull.\nCharlie looked away from the Wiz and out the office's big plate-glass\nwindows toward the towers of Midtown and Downtown Atlanta,\nwhich you could see in the distance. They looked like tiny scale\nmodels, but you could see them. Southern exposures like this were\nnot so great this time of year. By mid-afternoon the sun would be\nfrying you alive, to the point where the central air conditioning couldbarely deal with it. But one of Croker Concourse's selling points was\nthat it had the best of both worlds, the sylvan spaciousness of\nCherokee County and proximity to the city proper. So he had put the\nexecutive suites on the south side of the tower to persuade the\ntenants that they were not paying top dollar for some remote\ncountry outpost. They were ... in the game. They could see Midtown\nand Downtown. Well . . . good luck, one and all. The one who was\nno longer in the game was himself . . . roosting up here atop a\ntower he had put his own name on . . . behind a desk big enough\nfor a dictator, resting upon a carpet custom made with raised,\ninterlocking C's and G's, in tan, on a slate-blue field . . . Such a riot\nof egomania!\nThe G-5 had been merely the beginning. How long would it be\nbefore PlannersBanc came after the building itself? And Turpmtine . .\n. He'd been trying to get hold of his lawyer ever since yesterday\nafternoon, old John Fogg of Fogg Nackers Rendering & Lean. Maybe\nhe was too old-\n\"You're outside the bandwidth, Charlie!\" said the Wiz. Hurriedly he\nwent into a dry chuckle to show that he was only making a\npleasantry.\n\"Bandwidth?\" Charlie looked at the Wiz with a puzzled expression,\nand the Wiz did some more earnest, dry chuckling.\n\"Just a figure of speech, Charlie. You looked like you were a\nthousand miles away.\" \"I did?\" said Charlie. \"Maybe I did. I was\nthinking about John Fogg. Might as well be a thousand miles away.\nIt's not just that I want to know how this thing with the G-5 slipped\nby them, it's that I couldn't get ahold a anybody when I needed\nthem. Ordinarily, if it's a weekend, I call John at home, and even if I\nhave to leave a message I get a call back from somebody, Justin\nNackers, somebody. This time nothing from nobody, and it's almost\nnine o'clock Monday morning, and still nothing from nobody, and\nwe're giving them tens of thousands of dollars' worth of business.\"\"Up to a point, Charlie,\" said the Wiz, \"up to a point. They may not\nsee it that way. As I'm pretty sure I've told you, as our creditors go\nthey have one of the biggest footprints. Lately, when I've talked to\nthem, all they've done is growl.\"\n\"You're not saying that therefore they're giving this thing less than\ntheir best shot, are you? I mean, Jesus Christ. You're not saying\nthey're dogging it on purpose.\"\n\"Not consciously,\" said the Wiz. \"On the other hand, they may not be\nas . . . incentivized as we might like to see them.\"\n\"Well, I've already got Marguerite putting in calls to Fogg. If I don't\nhear from them within the hour, I'm going ov'eh and lay waste that\ndamn place with a baseball bat. They gotta do something fast, while\nthat plane and my painting are still at PDK.\"\nCharlie and the Wiz were still talking about the G-5 and Jim Bowie\non His Deathbed when the telephone on the credenza by Charlie's\ndesk emitted a soft burble. That would be Marguerite.\n\"Cap,\" she said, \"I've got John Fogg on the line.\"\n\"Where's he calling from?\" He looked at the Wiz and mouthed the\nname for him.\n\"I don't know,\" said Marguerite. \"Shall I put him through?\"\n\"Aw yeah.\"\nT he voice in Charlie's ear said, \"Good morning, Charlie.\" Good\nmawnin, Chollie; a soft Old Southern voice it was. \"What brings you\nto the office so early?\"\n\"I wouldn't call it early, John. I been trying to reach you or\nsomebody in your firm for seventeen, eighteen hours now.\" He said\nit sharply. \"We got a critical situation facing us here, and we need a\nlotta help in a hurry, and I ain't been able to get ahold a anybody.\"\"Well, I'm very sorry about that.\" Charlie was not aware at first that\nthe voice was becoming considerably less soft, courtly, and Old\nSouthern. \"Why don't you tell me about your problem.\"\nCharlie launched into a description of the scene at PDK, the court\npapers, the policemen, the repo pilots, and the blown engine, which\nhe treated as a piece of mysterious good luck in an otherwise\ndisastrous Sunday afternoon. He ended with: \"Now, John, I thought\nyou told me there was no way they could just go around attaching\nthings. Well, they've just attached a pretty big thing, plus a valuable\npainting. I thought you and your firm were supposed to be on top of\nthings like that.\"\n\"Sounds to me as if they've done some motion-jumping,\" said John\nFogg. \"That loophole does exist from time to time, but I've never\nheard of anyone being so devious as to take advantage of it.\"\n\"The whole legal profession is devious, John,\" said Charlie. \"That's\nwhat we pay you to do: stay one jump ahead of devious lawyers.\"\n\"Pay you\" turned out be an unfortunate choice of words.\n\"Sorry if you find us less than diligent, Charlie,\" said John Fogg with\nno warmth whatsoever. \"But as long as we're on the subject of the\nrelations between our two firms, there's something I should probably\nmention, little as I've wanted to have to mention it to you directly.\nThe fact is that on numerous occasions I have had to instruct people\nin my firm to get in touch with people in your firm about this, but\nthey seem to have gotten nowhere. We've had a long relationship,\nand in the past Croker Global has met its obligations in a timely\nfashion, and so over the past six months or so we've been willing to\naccommodate you-but your unmet balance now stands at $354,000.\nI'm at a loss to see how I can insist that the firm continue to\nrepresent you unless the account becomes substantially more\ncurrent.\"\nCharlie was astonished. \"Do you mean-\"\"I will pursue the matter of the arrest of the airplane and the\npainting, Charlie, and I will see what can be done and offer you my\nbest advice. As things now stand, I don't think we can go beyond\nthat.\"\nAfter they said their goodbyes, Charlie was in a dazed state as he\nput the telephone back in its cradle on the credenza.\n\"What did he say?\" asked the Wiz.\n\"He said he'll look into the court order PlannersBanc got for the G-5,\nand then . . .\" He started to let it go at that. He didn't want the word\nto get out. He didn't want to start a wave of people jumping ship\naround here, least of all the Wiz. But the Wiz would have to know.\nCharlie depended on him too completely in matters financial. \". . .\nand after that they're not gonna represent us unless we pay them a\nbig chunk of our 'unmet balance.' That was what he called it, our\n'unmet balance.' I don't know where he gets these airs he likes to\nput on. His daddy was a clerk in a stationer*' and art-supply store on\nHouston Street. Wore a gray smock. Barely scraped by . . . Unmet\nbalance . . . well-anyway- is there some way we can shift a couple of\nhundred thousand from someplace into Fogg Nackers Rendering &\nLean?\"\n\"I don't see how,\" said the Wiz. \"We don't have $200,000 just sitting\naround parked someplace. Even' clime of our cash flow is pre-\ndedicated.\"\n\"Well then, let's start pre-dedicating it to Fogg Nackers,\" said\nCharlie. \"We can't afford to have them shut clown on us. Not at this\npoint. He says we owe them $354,000.\"\n\"That's true,\" said the Wiz. \"That's the figure. But who do we divert\nit from to pay Fogg Nackers? We got noise all across the bandwidth\nas it is.\"\nJust then a door opened and Marguerite came rushing in. A pale,\nslender woman in her late forties, she was dressed in a tweed jacketand skirt with a lush weave. Her dyed-dark-brown hair was done just\nso, in a pageboy bob. Charlie was so dependent on her, he was now\npaying her $90,000 a year. Marguerite had never married, and every\npenny went into her clothes, her hair, and her Mercedes. As usual,\nwhen she was perturbed about something, she pressed her lips\ntogether, distorting her even features. She came straight to Charlie.\n\"Cap, your first visitor has arrived.\"\n\"My first visitor? Whattaya mean, my first visitor?\" Charlie looked at\nhis watch.\n\"It's that fat man, Colonel Popover. Sal-what's his real name?\"\n\"Gigliotti?\" said Charlie.\n\"Right!\" said Marguerite. \"I never can remember it.\"\n\"What the hell's he doing here?\"\n\"He says he wants his $17,000. Says we've owed it to him since last\nNovember.\"\nCharlie looked at the Wiz and arched his eyebrows, as if to ask,\n\"What's the story?\"\nThe Wiz nodded. \"He catered the Croker Concourse Caramba last\nyear, last November. We owe him $17,000. Colonel Popover, Inc.\"\nMarguerite said, \"You probably don't remember it, Charlie, but he\nshowed up here late in the afternoon on Thursday.\"\n\"He didn't have any appointment, did he?\"\n\"No, he just hung around. Says he hasn't gotten anywhere by\ncalling. He came back here Friday afternoon, but you'd already left\nfor Turpmtine. So here he is, out in the waiting room again, and I\nwish you could take a look at him.\"\n\"Whattaya mean?\"\"Well, this time lie's not dressed in a suit. This time he's dressed like\nColonel Popover. He's got on white shoes, white pants, one of these\nwhite-tunics do they call 'em?-the kind that chefs in the magazines\nwear-and a toque blanche, and he's very fat.\"\n\"Toque blanche?\"\n\"You know,\" said Marguerite, \"one of those sort of white chimneys\nthey put on their heads with a sort of puff of cloth on top-and he's a\nvery fat man. He's already perspiring, and the day hasn't even\nbegun.\"\n\"So what did you tell him?\"\n\"I told him you have appointments all day.\"\n\"And what did he say?\"\n\"He said he'd wait.\"\n\"Well, let him wait. He'll get tired of it.\"\n\"I hope so-but he's a little bit repulsive, Charlie. He's very fat and\nvery sweaty, and he's got on this outfit.\"\nShe didn't need to say any more. Charlie could see it vividly enough.\nHe himself had insisted on having Colonel Popover for the Croker\nConcourse Caramba, which had been a party with so-called heavy\nhors d'oeuvres for the entire real estate community and even' likely\nprospect in the business community. The idea was to stir up interest\nin the tower and the rest of the complex. The heaviest of the heavy\nhors d'oeuvres were Colonel Popover's specialty, swans sculpted of\nice with shelled lobster tails for feathers. The lobster tails were set in\nridges in the ice. Cost a fortune; but in Atlanta real estate circles a\nparty' just wasn't a party without Colonel Popover's ice swans-and\nthe Colonel himself. The presence of this very round, very fat, and,\nas luck would have it, very sweaty man in his chef's rig and-what\nhad Marguerite called it? -toke blonsh?-was the necessarytrademark, telling one and all that this event had been done up as\nroyally as an event could be done up in Metro Atlanta.\nAnd now the fat man-he must have weighed close to 300 pounds -\nwas sitting out in the waiting room of the Croker Global floor in the\nsame outfit, angry and sweaty. Now he was the trademark of the\nbeginning of the end. God knew what he was likely to say to other\nvisitors in the waiting room. Ought to throw him out, but who was\ngoing to do it? Guy was a blob of suet, but he weighed a ton. Not\nonly that, he was altogether right in his complaint. Croker Global had\nstiffed him.\nCharlie looked at the Wiz. \"Can't we find $17,000 for this guy? He's\nnot a bad guy.\"\nThe Wiz said, \"This is what I'm talking about, trying to shift money\nfrom one place to the other. Colonel Popover's been on the PC's list.\"\n\"PC's?\"\n\"Stands for 'patsies'-'pat-sies'-the ones who are in no position to give\nus a lot of trouble. We hate to give up anybody on that list. But if\nColonel Popover has found a way to be truly obnoxious, then we\nmay have to take him off the list.\" The Wiz looked at Marguerite.\n\"Just let me know.\"\nCharlie said, \"Jesus Christ-is Sue Ellen in?\" Sue Ellen was the\nreceptionist.\n'Yes,\" said Marguerite.\n\"Well,\" said Charlie, \"turn the fat man over to her. You got other\nthings to think about. Who's my first appointment?\"\n\"Jerry Lovejoy and some of his people, from VectorCom, at nine.\"\nJerrv Lovejoy and his people did, indeed, arrive at nine. His three\npeople were, like Jerry Lovejoy himself, a bit on the flaccid side.\nTheir jowls rose out of their shirt collars absolutely smoothly and, asis often the case with men not much over forty, in a way that doesn't\nstrike you as fat so much as young and swollen with rich food.\nCharlie had had Marguerite set things up at a round table in one of\nhis office's conference alcoves, with windows looking out toward\nAtlanta. He had her make a pot of New Orleans coffee with chicory\nand warm up some of Uncle Bud's ham biscuits. It was time to do\nwhatever he could to please Jerry Lovejoy, his sidekicks, and\nVectorCom. It was well known that this aircraft navigation giant was\nlooking for new corporate headquarters, which could mean\nanywhere from four to eight floors of the Croker Concourse tower.\nAt first, Jerry and his colleagues had turned down the coffee and the\nham biscuits, but pretty soon the warm aromas got them, just as\nCharlie knew they would. Most men didn't eat enough breakfast. In\nthe case of hungry men like these porkers, the miraculous offer of\nUncle Bud's ham biscuits was irresistible.\njerry Lovejoy had popped a ham biscuit into his cheeks, and hadn't\neven finished chewing, when he said, 'This is great ham, Charlie!\nSpeaking of good food, guess who we ran into out in your waiting\nroom?\"\nOh shit, thought Charlie, but all he said was \"Who?\" The circuits\nbegan racing.\n\"Colonel Popover, the caterer.\" He flicked a glance that Charlie didn't\nmuch like toward one of his people.\nCharlie made a big point of looking at his watch. \"He's early, sure-\n'nough. Appointment's not until the middle a the morning.\"\n\"Well, he's there, all right, big as life, and he's wearing his outfit- you\nknow, that hat they wear?\"\n\"Aw, that's his trademark,\" said Charlie.\n\"I know him-slightly,\" said Jerry Lovejoy. \"We've used him for a\ncouple events-and so I said, 'What brings you to Croker Concourse?'\nand he says, 'Seventeen thousand dollars.' \" He beamed at Charlie.That fat buttery blob! Charlie had the urge to go out there to the\nwaiting room and throttle-but he made himself focus on the here\nand now. He put on a big smile and reared back in his chair and\nsaid, \"Godalmighty. I hope that's not what he's planning to charge us\nfor our open house! We're planning an open house.\" He made\nhimself chortle. \"He's a character, Sal is!\"\n\"That he is,\" said Jerry Lovejoy, \"that he is.\"\nCharlie took a deep breath and tried to swell his chest with\nconfidence, enthusiasm, energy, warmth, and manly charm. \"Jerry,\nhow about another ham biscuit?\"\n\"Uhhhmmmmm,\" said Jerry, who already had a mouthful.\n\"That ham's cured in a smokehouse on a place a mine down in\nBaker Count)'. Nothing quite like home-cured ham.\"\n\"Uhhhmmmmmm!\" Jem' Lovejoy added a smile and arched\neyebrows to his picture of cheek-popping gluttony.\nCharlie said, \"Then I want to show you some space I think will\ninterest you, just three floors below here. Has the same view.\" He\ngestured with a sweeping grandeur toward the towers of Atlanta,\nwhich from this distance looked like a miniature Oz.\nSuddenly he had an overpowering urge to yawn. He had to fight his\njaw muscles to keep them from flexing. The effort made his lips\nexpand laterally. He hoped to God the porkers from VectorCom\nhadn't noticed it.\nIt wasn't just the insomnia. Every day in this office-events propelled\nhim in this direction and then whiplashed him back in that direction.\nOne minute he's in a sweat lying to creditors, double-talking\ncreditors, hiding from creditors, and yes, even he, Cap'm Charlie\nCroker, beseeching creditors, beseeching like a drowning dog-and\nthe very next he's got to shift gears, recircuit his whole central\nnervous system, put on a whole new face, become a big, happy,\nhearty personification of confidence, omnipotence, charm, and trust,and talk people into leasing millions of dollars' worth of space in a\ntower that had no business standing up forty stories high out in\nCherokee County in the first place.\nCharlie rose from his seat. The effort made him slightly light-headed,\nand his knee hurt. He stood still for a moment to get everything\nback in focus.\n\"Let's take the scenic route,\" he said to Jerry Lovejoy and his jowly\nsidekicks with a big manly smile. \"We'll take the stairs. It's just three\nstories down, and that way you can get a look at the whole fire\nsystem. I'm real proud a how . . . how we built the fire-stair\nenvelope. State a the art.\"\nNot only that, the fire stairs were not in the line of sight of that 300-\npound sack fulla suet known as Colonel Popover, the way the\nelevators were. All Charlie needed was that clown waddling over to\nexpound upon what he had meant by his cryptic \"seventeen\nthousand dollars,\" and he could once again say goodbye to all\nprospects for $10 million a year in Uncle Bud-ham-biscuit-buttered-\nup porky boys' leasing space in Croker Concourse.\nChapter 15The Rubber Room\nIn alameda county, california, an east-west freeway, Route 580,\nseparated the town of Pleasanton from the Santa Rita\nRehabilitation Center, which sprawled over two square miles of dusty\nrangeland just to the north. The freeway created such a good barrier\nthat most people in Pleasanton never even thought about Santa\nRita, as it was called, except when they saw some young black male\nwalking through town, carrying a clear plastic garbage bag full of\npersonal belongings he had kept in his cell and looking for a bus to\nthe BART station, where he could catch a train back home to\nOakland. Why a county jail had to give released convicts clear plastic\nbags, revealing all their miserable junk, as opposed to bags you\ncouldn't see through, and why they didn't give them a lift to the bus\nand eliminate all this walking along the streets of Pleasanton,\nnobody knew. The townspeople seldom complained, however. They\nreckoned they ought to be thankful that Santa Rita at least gave\nthese ominous hombres tickets out of town.\nThe freeway cut right through what until not all that long ago, the\n1860s, had been a magnificent Spanish finca known as Rancho\nSanta Rita. The southern part was the richest farmland imaginable,\nperfect for grapes, plums, apricots, and avocados. The northern\npart, where the jail now was, ran up into the hills and had been used\nfor grazing horses and cattle. That was the part the U. S. Army had\nacquired during the Second World War for Camp Parks, a training\nground for soldiers heading off to the Pacific. They had slapped\ntogether a bunch of clapboard buildings to house the troops.\nToday, more than half a century later, on a cloudless, dazzling, sky-\nblue Sunday in May, drivers speeding by on Route 580 could see that\nvery same huddle of big gray-brown wooden structures squatting on\nthe ground. Anybody might have guessed that here were a bunch of\nmold- ering military barracks from a long time ago. What they werenot so likely to figure out was that the old barracks had been\nconverted into the Alameda Count)- jail.\nBeing Sunday, this was visiting day at Santa Rita, and, as usual, in\nthe visitors' area of the jail's West Greystone Building a row of\nprisoners sat behind some Lexan windows on one side of a concrete\nwall, and their visitors sat on the other. Lexan was a sandwich of two\nstout layers of glass with a thick sheet of clear plastic in between.\nNothing short of a sledgehammer could break through it. The metal\nstools the prisoners sat on were bolted to the floor. That way none\nof them could pick up a stool and assault the Lexan, the deputy at\nthe end of the row, or each other. They all wore short-sleeved\npajama-style uniforms, with V-neck tops, made of a coarse cotton\ntwill dyed yellow, and p-alameda county jail stamped on them. The\nyellow indicated that the wearer had been convicted of a felony. On\ntheir feet were rubber flip-flop sandals with nothing but bands over\nthe insteps to hold them on. The sandals were suitable for walking\nbut not for running or kicking people in the abdomen, groin, knees,\nor ankles.\nThrough that concrete wall, through those Lexan windows, you\ncouldn't have heard a sound, not even a scream. The prisoners and\nthe visitors had to converse by telephone. So there they were,\ninches apart -holding telephones to their ears. They could see each\nother and they could hear, although the telephones' poor acoustics\nsmothered the high and low tones, but they couldn't touch. It was\nlike being sealed in a tomb with a porthole through which to glimpse\nsome fragment of the living world that existed beyond the grave, or\nso it seemed to Conrad, who was hunched forward, his nose almost\nup against the Lexan, petrified, waiting for Jill to come in through\nthe door from outside, afraid that if he missed so much as one\nsecond of her visit he could not possibly survive another week in\nSanta Rita.\nThe door, a huge wooden thing that slid back like a barn's, was\nwide- open, creating a rectangle of daylight. He could see the\ncinders on the ground outside cooking in the sun. He drank in thesight, even though they were nothing but cinders on bare gray dirt\nin a jail yard. In ten days in Santa Rita this was the first time he had\nseen any of the world outside at all.\nSeated at the window to his right was a young Mexican, perhaps\neven younger than himself, a big but flaccid boy who was talking to\nhis mother. Conrad couldn't see the mother and couldn't hear her,\nbut he could hear the boy's words gushing out through sobs and his\ncontinual chorus of \"Oh, Mama . . . Mama . . . Mama.\" He glanced\ntoward him. The boy's body was convulsing with despair. Tears were\nrolling down his cheeks and accumulating in beads on the wisps of\nthe pathetic little mustache he was trying to grow. Reflexively,\nConrad touched his own mustache-and had his doubts about its\nmaking him look the least bit older or tougher.\nHe didn't dare glance at the inmate to his left. He knew who he was,\nbecause everybody in the pod, his section of the jail, knew who he\nwas. He was the most prominent figure you saw in the pod room, or\nrecreation room, the only place inmates congregated at Santa Rita,\nsince there was no outdoor prisoners' yard. His real name was Otto,\nbut he was known as Rotto, after the so-called dude with attitude in\nthe television show Smoke 'at Mother. Rotto was white, about thirty,\nwith prodigious upper arms, chest, and shoulders, obviously buffed\nup, to use the current phrase, by lifting weights during long stays at\nstate penitentiaries, and a wrestler's gut. He had three ugly welted\nscars on the left side of his face. The bridge of his nose was\nabnormally thick, as if it had been broken many times. He was\nalmost bald on the top of his head but had grown his hair long on\nthe sides and pulled it back into a greasy, scraggly, sublimely Low\nRent ponytail. Three-quarters of the inmates were black. In Conrad's\npod Rotto was the shot caller, or faction leader, for an inner core of\nwhite toughs known as the Nordic Bund. Rotto was one of the last\ninmates any new fish would want to make eye contact with,\nespecially a young, slim, good-looking, white new fish (he had\nlearned this demoralizing jailhouse term immediately) like Conrad;\nfor no matter how much you might want to deny it, suppress it, orforget it, the same fear burned day and night in the brain of every\nwhite first- time inmate at Santa Rita: homosexual rape. Rotto's\nvisitor, whom Conrad couldn't see from where he sat, was apparently\na girlfriend, because he kept saying, \"Aw, come awn, sugar, you ain'\nno toss-up. You my bottom lady-my bottom lady!\"\nThis refrain, like the sobs and moans of the Mexican boy, kept\nbursting through the shell Conrad hoped to create around himself\nduring this precious interval. He wanted to shut out everything else.\nHis very- soul depended on what he could see through this window\nand that barnlike door beyond . . . the sunlight . . . and Jill, who\nwould appear at any moment. The fact that he had been led to this\nwindow meant that she was already waiting outside.\nHis very soul! To Conrad, all twenty-three years of him, soul had\nnever been anything more than a word. He had never heard his\nfather or his mother even mention the soul. They had taken one\nstab at religion, just as they had taken a stab at Oriental diets. Once,\nfor about a week and a half, they had pronounced themselves\nBuddhists. There had been a lot of talk about karma and kiriya and\nthe dharma and the ten bonds and the five hindrances and the four\nsomething-or-others. Above all, there had been a lot of chanting-\n\"Ohmmmmmmmmm, olimin- mmmmmmm, ohmmmmmmmm,\nohmmmmmmmm\"-until, as with so many of their enthusiasms, they\nwearied of the discipline it required. He had grown up associating\nreligion with the self-delusion and aim- lessness of adults. But now\nhe thought about the soul, his soul. Or he tried to. But it was only a\nword! He didn't know how to give it any meaning! He had lost\neverything, every cent, his freedom, his good name, every shred of\nthe respectability he had struggled toward, even his dreams. What\nwas there left to dream of? And yet there was something left,\nsomething that caused him to care whether he lived or died and to\nworry about Jill and Carl and Christy. Perhaps that was his soul.\nWhatever it was, it was not confined within his body and his mind. It\ncould not exist without . . . other people . . . without the only people\nhe had left, his wife and his two children. Other inmates had theirchildren come in on Sundays for visits, but the thought of Carl and\nChristy seeing him like this, even as small and uncomprehending as\nthey were, was more than Conrad could bear. That left Jill, and he\nstared at the big door as if the rectangle of sunlight it framed were\nall that remained of the world.\nIn the next instant there she was. At first, coming in through the\ndoor with the sunlight behind her, she was just a silhouette, but then\nthe overhead fluorescent lighting of the visiting area picked her up\nas she walked the fifteen or twenty feet to his window. The\nfluorescence gave everything a washed-out dead-of-the-night look,\nbut Conrad saw a perfect . . . Jill! Her fair white skin! Her long blond\nhair! Her full lips! Her flowered blouse! Her tiny waist! Her tight\njeans over her perfect lithe loins! He drank in even' detail as if there\nhad never been anything so perfect as the deity in blue jeans who\napproached him.\nAs she sat down opposite him, his heart burst forth. He smiled with\na smile that released everything that had been pent up inside him.\nHe started to reach to touch the Lexan, if only to show her how\ndesperately he wanted to embrace her. She smiled back-and he felt a\njolt. His mind would have to interpret it later, but his eyes caught it\nimmediately. Her smile was a smile of patience and tolerance. It was\nher mother's smile.\nHe picked up his telephone, and she picked up hers. All at once he\nrealized he had 110 idea what to say. How could he possibly tell her\neverything? He'd end up like the poor sobbing boy next to him. So\nwhat he said was \"Did you-did you have any trouble getting here?\"\n\"Not getting here.\" She said it with an exasperated look, which she\nquickly changed into a smile. This smile was another one whose\norigins he knew: Patience on a monument, smiling at Grief.\n\"You had some trouble here?\"\nJill opened her mouth, then paused, with her lips apart, and\nchanged her mind. \"Not really.\" She sighed. She smiled patientlyagain. \"So how are you, Conrad?\"\n\"I'm okay.\" His voice sounded so hoarse, it surprised him. His throat\nfelt constricted. \"I guess I haven't been sleeping very well. That's\nthe worst thing.\" He stopped. That wasn't the worst thing, but\nsuddenly, for reasons he couldn't yet comprehend, he felt wary, as if\nit would be a tactical mistake to come right out and tell her just how\ndesperate, hopeless, and frightened he felt.\nJill stared at him intently, abnormally so, it seemed to Conrad, and\nthen said in a shaky, far-off voice, \"You're not sleeping well?\"\nConrad shook his head.\nJill tried another smile, but her lower lip began trembling, and tears\ncame into her eyes. She glanced to either side and put her mouth\nclose to the telephone and leaned in toward the Lexan window.\n\"Conrad,\" she said in a voice just above a whisper, \"what's a 'hubba\nho'?\"\nWhat's a hubba ho? He was startled. He couldn't have imagined a\nmore unlikely question. \"A hubba ho?\"\n\"Yes.\"\n\"Why? Where'd you hear about a hubba ho?\"\nJill put her forefinger to her lips, as if it were important that he keep\nhis voice down, and whispered, \"What is a hubba ho?\"\nBaffling! Hubba ho was a piece of black street argot, peculiar to\nOakland, which he had heard for the first time three nights ago,\nwhile in his cell.\n\"Who'd you hear say that?\"\nJill's whisper was so low, he could barely make it out over this crude\ntelephone. \"What's it mean, Conrad?\"He studied her face. She seemed frightened. \"Well,\" he said, \"a ho is\na whore, and a hubba ho-you ever see a piece of Hubba Bubba\ngum?\"\nShe shook her head.\n\"I bet you have. You just don't remember the name. You know those\nlittle pieces of gum? Well, they look like a chunk of crack. The drug.\"\nShe nodded. Puzzled, he watched her face. One visit per week, thirty\nminutes, and we're talking about hubba ho's! Nevertheless, he went\non. \"A hubba ho is a whore who hangs around crack houses-and\nlike, they're addicts. They trade sex for a chunk of crack or a smoke\non a crack pipe. Or at least that's what I was told.\" He motioned\nback over his shoulder to indicate the innards of the jail. \"Who told\nyou about a hubba ho?\"\nNow Jill lifted her shoulders, as if to shield her voice from prying\nears. She lowered her head so far, she had to turn her eyes up to\nlook at him. Her irises peeked out from beneath her upper lids.\n\"I was standing in line out there, Conrad.\" A quavering whisper.\n\"You've never seen such people. All these-\" She broke off and closed\nher eyes tightly and seemed to be about to cry. \"All these-women.\"\nIt seemed that just now, while she was standing in line in the jail\nyard, waiting to enter the building, the woman in front of her had a\nfour-or-five-year-old girl in tow who kept running off to explore the\nyard. The woman kept yelling at her, to no avail. Finally she ran after\nher and pulled her back to the line, jerking her arm and shrieking\nand threatening to hit her. Then she seized her by both shoulders\nand began shaking her. She shook her so hard, the woman standing\nbehind Jill began screaming at the first woman to stop before she\nhurt the child.\nThe first woman turned on her accuser. \"You mind your own damn\nbusiness, you old hubba ho!\" She kept repeating this imprecation,\nhubba ho, until the second woman began firing back. \"Who youcalling a hubba ho, you old fucked-over toss-up!\" In no time the\nslanging match swelled up into a frenzy: Hubba ho-fucked-over toss-\nup-hubba ho- fucked-over toss-up! Jill was shocked, appalled-and\ncaught between the two of them. She wanted to flee, and yet she\ndidn't want to lose her place in line. Finally, the first woman was\ndrowning out her challenger. The furious cry Hubba ho! filled the\nyard, the sky, the cosmos. Hubba ho! Hubba ho! Hubba ho! Hubba\nho! The two women were about to come to blows when a man in\nuniform stepped in and told them to quiet down. Jill had been\nterrified. She was still shaken. With an elaborate dumb show, much\nmotioning of her head and rolling of her eyes, she indicated that the\nfirst woman, she who had kept screaming \"Hubba ho,\" was seated\nto her immediate right. She was the one who had come to visit\nRotto.\n\"Conrad,\" she said, \"who are these people!\" Her face was twisted\nwith anguish.\nConrad looked at her helplessly. He was stupefied by the turn their\nconversation had taken. The minutes were rolling by!\nFinally he said, \"I don't know. They're the same people as the ones\nin here, I guess, except that they're women. Be thankful they\nweren't the men, that's all I can tell you.\" Immediately it occurred to\nhim that might sound like a bid for sympathy. And then he wondered\nwhy he was so wary of seeking sympathy from his own wife-and he\nwasn't sure he wanted to know the answer. So he said, \"Tell me\nabout Carl and Christ)'.\"\n\"Carl and Christy?\" She looked at him as if this were an astonishing\nchange of subject.\n\"Are they okay?\"\nLong pause. 'Yes, they're okay.\"\nHe stared at her imploringly, desperate to hear that the children\nasked about him, talked about him, missed him, loved him, longedfor him, even though he also wanted to hear that they were at\npeace and happy and believed the story they had decided upon,\nwhich was that he was off on a trip.\n'Yoli might have called,\" she said.\n\"Jill-there's two telephones. I can't get near them.\" He started to tell\nher about the pod room and the black faction and the Nordic Bund\nand how they controlled the two public telephones, but he decided\nnot to, on the chance that Rotto might possibly overhear. He pulled\nthe telephone's mouthpiece close to his lips and said, \"There may be\na few white inmates who can use them, but I'm a-\" He started to\nsay \"new fish\" but thought better of that, too. \"-I'm new here, and I\ncan't get near them.\"\n\"Well,\" said Jill, \"if you want to know the truth about your children-\nwe're gonna have to move in with my mother, Conrad. You know\nhow wonderful that's gonna be? You know how big her place is? You\nknow how happy-\" She broke off. She lowered her eyes. She heaved\na big sigh. When she looked up, there were tears in her eyes. \"I\nhave no money, Conrad! What am I supposed to do? Live in a duet\nin Pittsburg next to a bunch of-those people?-and go on welfare? Or\nyou want me to park the children in that day-care center?-where all\nthe kids have strep throat and impetigo and head lice-and try to get\nsome job that's not gonna pay enough in the first place? You tell me\nwhich!\"\nConrad was speechless. Tears were rolling down her cheeks, when\nall at once she glanced to one side in alarm. At that moment Conrad\nheard a baritone voice rising in volume:\nYeah . . . yeah . . . oh yeah, baby . . . you got it, you got it, you do\nit, you do it . . . oh, how you do it, sugar . . .\nIt was Rotto. Conrad risked a glance. The big man held his\ntelephone to his ear with one hand and had the other hand cupped\nover his groin, while he thrust and swiveled his pelvis as he sat on\nthe stool.\"Conrad!\" said Jill. \"What is this woman doing!\" Her eyes were\ndarting back and forth from Rotto's girlfriend to Conrad's face.\n\"I don't know,\" said Conrad, even though he had a pretty good idea.\n\"She has her legs spread!\" whispered Jill, who now clucked her head\ndown very low and leaned forward until her nose was almost up\nagainst the window. \"And she's . . . touching herself and moaning\\\"\nConrad shook his head, as if in consternation. In fact, he now knew\nfor sure. He had already heard about it more than once. It was\ncalled beavering. The inmates' girlfriends arrived for the visit\nwearing miniskirts and no underpants. Then they hiked up the skirts,\nspread their legs, bared their crotches, and went through the\nmotions of sexual ecstasy.\nJill put her hand over her eyes and shook her head. When she took\nher hand away, her face was contorted and streaked with tears. She\nsaid softly, \"I can't stand this.\"\n\"Please don't cry. I'm sorry. I don't know what to say.\"\nBewildered: \"What are you doing here?\"\nAt first he couldn't figure out what she meant. \"Doing here?\"\nAccusingly: \"They offered you probation!\"\n\"I-we've already been over this a hundred times,\" said Conrad. All\nthe while he could hear Rotto going Tuh-unnhh, tuh-unnhhh, tuh-\nunhhhh . . . Honey pie . . . You the one, you the one, don't stop,\ndon't stop . . . \"How could I plead guilty? I wasn't guilty of anything.\nThey wanted me to plead guilty.\"\n\"Yes,\" said Jill, her eyes wide with dismay and exasperation, \"to a\nmisdemeanor!\"\n\"To assault,\" said Conrad, \"but I didn't assault anybody. They\nassaulted me. I only kept them from hurting me and destroying our\nproperty.\"\"But you jumped over their fence, Conrad! That was trespassing!\nAfter that, anything-\" She lowered her eyes and shook her head over\nthe uselessness of rehashing it. When she looked up, she was crying\nonce more. \"All right, Conrad, you were totally innocent. So what\nhave you gained by insisting on that? What did you gain by going\nthrough a trial? They were willing to give you probation! They were\nwilling to give you a break! I don't understand you!\"\nRotto was going, Do it, sugar, do it, sugar, do it, sugar, do it, sugar,\ndo it, sugar. Jill's eyes kept darting to one side and back again.\nChastened by her tears, Conrad said softly, 'You're right. I didn't gain\nanything. I didn't think any jury would ever convict me, because I\nknew, and I still know, I was innocent. But they did, and I lost. I lost\na lot. But I kept something, Jill. I kept my honor, and I didn't bargain\naway my soul.\"\nIncredulous: 'Your . . . soul? Well, hats off to your soul. We're all\nvery proud of your soul. Did your soul by any chance stop to think\nabout your son and your daughter and your wife?\"\n\"That's all I was thinking about, Jill! When the time comes, I wanna\nbe able to look Carl and Christy in the eye and say, 'I was innocent. I\nwas falsely accused. I refused to compromise with a lie. I went into\nprison, but I went into prison a man, and I came out of prison a\nman.' \"\nA mirthless smile took over Jill's face. She began shaking her head,\nand then the tears began again.\nRotto was going, Keep on-keep on-keep on-keep on-keep on, baby,\nkeep on, baby, keep on, baby, keep on, baby, keep on, baby-\n\"Please-don't cry,\" Conrad pleaded over the telephone.\nPleaded; rare, indeed, is the male soul so staunch that it can\nwithstand a woman's tears.\"This is better for them?\" Jill said in a pathetic, broken voice. \"It's\nbetter for their souls? It's better that they know you're in jail for\nfelonious assault? Their father's a convict? What kind of big favor\nhave you done them, for God's sake?\"\nRotto was going awnnnh-awnnnh-awnhhhh-awnnnnnh-awnnn-\nhhhhh-awnnnnnhhhhhhh-AWmNNHHHHHHHHHHHHH!\nConrad lowered his eyes and then hung his head. He felt as if the\nground had been cut out from under him. All at once his\nrationalizations, his principles-his soul-seemed like the emptiest\npropositions imaginable. His soul-the very idea began to seem like a\nfoolish delusion. His soul, if there was such a thing, was losing its\nlast tie to all that was good and sane. He looked up again at Jill. She\nwas sobbing silently, the telephone still at her ear.\nHis peripheral vision detected the huge form of Rotto rising up from\nhis stool. Thank God, the man was leaving. He let out a sigh of\nrelief. Then he felt a tap on his shoulder. He looked up. Rotto was\nlooking down at him, smiling. He seemed immense, staring down\nthat way.\n\"Hi, Conrad,\" he said. \"How you doin', bro?\"\nA red alert burst forth from somewhere inside Conrad's skull and\nsurged out to the surface of his skin until the very pores of his scalp\nfelt like little fiery craters. He said nothing. He looked away and tried\nto concentrate on Jill's face. Hi, Conrad. How you doin', bro? This\nman, this brute Rotto, knew his name! How? Why?-or was it all too\nobvious why! In Santa Rita for only ten days-but long enough to\nknow that the last thing any young inmate in the pod wanted to do\nwas to attract the attention of someone like Rotto!\nConrad kept his gaze fixed on Jill. She was crying, her lips were\nmoving, the sound of her voice was running through the receiver at\nhis ear, but he had completely lost track of what she was saying.\"At least ask him, Conrad!\" The look on her face was begging him,\nbut begging him to do what? Ask who? Something about the lawyer,\nMynet, but he had lost the thread. Hi, Conrad. How you doin', bro?\nHis heart was racing. He felt feverish. What was it Jill was talking\nabout? Mynet? The lawyer Mynet? Mynet, the lawyer, had gone\nthrough his pitiful savings, his last $2,900, like that, in a snap of the\nfingers, and that was all that lawyer Jack Mynet wanted to know\nabout Conrad Hensley.\n\"Will you?\" Jill beseeched him.\n\"I will,\" said Conrad.\n\"You don't mean it. You're just saying that.\"\nIt was true. He was just saying that. He was so rattled by what the\nbrute Rotto had said, he could barely think of anything else. Finally\nhe said, \"Did you get a chance to send the book?\"\nJill gave him a puzzled look, an exaggerated expression that seemed\nto ask, \"What's that got to do with what we're talking about?\"\n\"The Stoics' Game,\" said Conrad. \"Did you have any luck?\" The\nStoics' Game was a new novel by a writer of spy thrillers, an\nEnglishman named Lucius Tombs whose work Conrad particularly\nenjoyed.\nJill sighed. \"Yes, I sent it. Or they sent it, the bookstore sent it, a\nweek ago. Thirty dollars, by the way, plus the postage.\" Jail\nregulations forbade inmates from receiving books unless bookstores\nor publishers did the packaging and mailing.\nConrad sensed her exasperation but plowed on: \"We just sit in the\ncell for hours at a time, and then we go to this place, this sort of\nrecreation room, the pod room, and then we just sit there. I'm going\ncrazy. You can get books from a sort of bookmobile, but it's all\ntrash.\" He was conscious of how nervous he had become. Hi,\nConrad. How you doin', bro?Jill said, \"I sent the book. And you have something to do, Conrad.\nYou've got to-talk to-Mister Mynet.\"\nConrad opened his mouth and, instead of speaking, breathed very\ndeeply and nodded yes.\n\"Please don't just yes me,\" said Jill. \"I don't understand you. I don't\nknow what's happening to us. I talk to my mother about it-and she\nthinks I shouldn't even wait. I'm gonna wait, Conrad, but can't I\nhave some little shred of hope?\"\nWait? As opposed to what? he wondered. And then the drift of it\ndawned on him. In California a felony conviction was automatic\ngrounds for divorce. A sickening feeling came over him.\nHe tried to smile. \"To tell you the honest truth, I don't know. I don't\nknow what hope there is at this point. I made a decision, and it mav\nhave been the wrong decision, but I made a decision, and here I\nam. I honestly don't know what can change that. I love you, I love\nCarl, I love Christ)', and I did what I thought was the honorable\nthing. There's either some hope in that, or there isn't.\"\nJill's eyes filled with tears, and her lips and chin began trembling,\nand then the tears began flowing down her cheeks.\n\"I'm not trying to get sympathy, Jill. That's all-that's exactly what I\nfeel, and I don't know what else to tell you.\" He lifted his hand\nhelplessly and then let it fall into his lap.\nJill was still sobbing, soundlessly, when a deputy cut in on the line to\ntell them time was up. Conrad couldn't believe it. He felt as if two\nminutes had gone by. All that time spent talking about . . . hubba\nho's!\nHolding the telephone close to his lips, he said to Jill, \"Tell Carl and\nChrist)' you talked to me, will you?\" She nodded. \"Tell them I love\nthem very much. Tell them I think about them all the time.\" She\nnodded again. He paused and gazed at her not so much longingly ashelplessly. \"I'll see you next week.\" He knew the expression on his\nface had turned it into a question.\nShe nodded again. She didn't say anything.\nConrad said, \"I love you, darling.\"\nEver so softly Jill said into the telephone, \"I love you.\" Then she\nhung up the receiver and, still sitting there, stared at him with her\nlips tightly compressed.\nWhat did they mean, those compressed and despairing lips? What\nwas he to conclude? He brought his fingertips to his lips and threw\nher a kiss and lifted both hands, still holding the telephone, to show\nher he would embrace her if he could. She brought her fingertips to\nher lips, too, but her lips remained compressed. As she turned to go,\nhe had the terrible feeling that he would not see her next Sunday or\nany Sunday. What future was there but the pod?-where the world\nshrank until there was no room for speculations about the law, let\nalone the soul. Hi, Conrad. How you doin', bro?\nthe old barracks at Santa Rita were built like barns, with big, gloomy,\ndark wooden bays two stories high. The cells were unlike any jail\ncells Conrad had ever heard of. They were stalls; or perhaps the\nword was sties, since, as on many pig farms, they were made of a\ndirty beige concrete and plaster. Each cell was about 5 by 9 feet,\nbarely big enough for a double-decker metal bunk, bolted to the\nfloor, and a unit- welded metal toilet-and-basin ensemble. There\nwere no windows, and the door was a solid slab of wood, like a\nship's hatch, painted black, with a slot for passing in food. Instead of\na ceiling, each cell had a heavy wire screen for a cover. The inmates\nwere like lizards in those boxes or the terrariums children get from\npet shops, the ones with the screens over the top. When you looked\nup through the screen, you saw the underside of a wooden catwalk,\nwhere the deputies patrolled, peering down at the creatures below.\nSomewhere above the catwalks were clerestory windows, for light\nand air. A few ancient belt-driven attic fans were always grinding andscreeching away, but the heat kept pressing down. It never lifted,\nnot even at night.\nAt this particular moment the screeches of the fans were cutting\nthrough the soft, warm soup of a solo by a jazz saxophonist named\nGrover Washington, piped in over the PA system from an Oakland\nradio station, KBLX, devoted to classical music and jazz. Whether\nthis was the deputies' idea of soothing the inmates or annoying\nthem, Conrad couldn't figure out. The deputies were all local boys,\nfrom the Sheriff's Office, out here in the country, in the Livermore\nValley, Okies mostly, but also a few Latinos, whereas the inmates\nwere mainly black youths from the streets of O-town or Bump City,\nas they referred to Oakland. O-town music the deputies detested\nand resented; and if they were trying to annoy the homcboys by\npiping in Grover Washington, they were succeeding.\n\"Motherfuckin' com mute music!\"\n\"Motherfuckin' weather station!\"\n\"What they think this is, a motherfuckin' e/evator?\"\n\"Ain't these motherfuckers ever heard a the year two motherfuckin'\nthousand?\"\nConrad sure was getting tired of this motherfuckin' word\nmotherfuckin'. After ten days it had begun to beat him down. You\ncouldn't get it out of your head. It rained down from everywhere,\nfrom that cell- and that cell-and that cell-and that cell-and that cell\nway over there. Wherever it came from, you were going to hear it,\nbecause there was nothing over anybody's cell but a wire screen. In\nSanta Rita you heard everything. Motherfuckin' battered every skull\nand finally penetrated every brain, and then came out of every\nmouth, or almost every mouth, the whites', the Latinos', the Asians',\neven the deputies'. All this O-town talk got to the deputies, too.\nYou'd hear some Okie up on the catwalk sound out to another one:\n\"Yo! Armentrout! Where you at? Wa's up? What's the motherfuckin'\nmatter now?\"Conrad sat on the concrete floor of his cell with his back against the\nwall, his knees drawn up, his arms around his knees, his head down,\nhis eyes closed, letting the whole absurd symphony run through his\nhead, trying to keep out ever)' thought . . . Buh buh buh buh hubba\nboooooo uh-oooooooooooooo, the long soft ripe soupy notes of\nGrover Washington's saxophone . . . Scrack scrack scrack scrack\nscraaaaaaaaccccckkkkkkkkk, the grinding screech of the attic fans . .\n. Motherfuckin' motherfuckin' motherfuckin' motherfuckin', the\nmotherfuckin' chorus of one and all . . . Thragooooooom\nthragooooooom, the roar of the toilets flushing . . . Glug glug glug\nglug glug glug glug, the sucking noise they made when they finished\nflushing . . . and then motherfuckin' motherfuckin' motherfuckin'\nmotherfuckin' all over again ...\nHe kept his eyes closed, because if he opened them, things would\nonly get worse. If he opened them, he would see this tiny, filthy sty,\nthis lizard's cage he was trapped in, and he would see his two\ncellmates, and he would start thinking again; and if he started\nthinking again, he would have to face again the horrible possibility\nthat Jill was right, that all his posturing about principles had been\nnothing but that, posturing . . . that he had ruined his life and hurt\nthose he loved for no other reason than to indulge his obstinate ego\n... in a world in which principles were dead . . . and that his descent\ninto this hole, this Hell on Earth, had been in the name of nothing\nbut vanity and foolishness. No! He had done it for his children! It\nwas an example he would hold up to them, proudly, when they were\nold enough to appreciate what he had done and why he had made\nsuch a sacrifice. His eyes closed, he tried to bring Carl's and Christy's\nfaces into his mind, every detail, with utmost vividness, and-he\ncouldn't! All that would appear behind his eyelids were a pair of\nsmall, vague, pale, ghostly images. Even Jill, whom he had just laid\neyes on, was fading fast. He was losing all three of them, even in his\nown memory. If Jill failed to visit him next Sunday-and the next\nSunday-and the next Sunday-if she divorced him . . . His heart was\nthrumming. He was abloom with heat and anxiety. The sweat\nunderneath his arms had turned into an oily slick. Gas pains weremoving around like a lot of little knives in his bowels. He was aware\nof the funk of his own body, which was now part of the inescapable\nodor of Santa Rita-the smell of human beings!-the stench of defeat,\nfrustration, anger, aggression, sexual madness, and, above all, fear.\nHi, Conrad. How you doin', bro? Thanks to Santa Rita's chronic\novercrowding, he was the third and latest inmate stuffed into a cell\nthat, like all the rest, was only barely big enough for two. His\ncellmates were an Okie called Mutt and a Hawaiian called Five-O.\nBoth seemed to know their way around jails, and both seemed to\nwish he would disintegrate. He was a useless new fish who\nunderstood nothing about anything and who, moreover, as the third\nman in, was to blame for the overcrowding. The Okie, Mutt, had the\nbottom bunk, and the Hawaiian, Five-O, had the top bunk, and\nConrad slept on a mattress on the floor. His cellmates resented the\nmattress, too. At night it took up all the space between the bunk and\nthe door and, even then, had to be folded up against one wall,\nforcing Conrad to sleep with his legs bent. During the day it went\nunder the bottom bunk, leaving him no place to sit but on the floor.\nMutt and Five-O didn't want to see the mattress and they didn't want\nto see him. So he sat on the floor with his eyes closed, hoping\nagainst hope that the gas pains didn't cause him to have to get up\nand have some sort of appalling bowel movement twenty-four inches\nor so away from these two men, who already resented the mere fact\nthat he existed.\n\"motherfucker, five-o! what the fuck'd you jes do?\"\nThe outburst was so sudden and loud, Conrad opened his eyes. Mutt\nand Five-O were sitting cross-legged on Mutt's lower bunk. Mutt had\nremoved the shirt of his yellow jail uniform, and Five-O was\ntattooing a three-inch-long picture of an AK-47 assault rifle on his\nchest, just beneath the hollow where the two halves of his\ncollarbone joined, with a sharpened piece of guitar wire.\n\"Motherfucker hurt like a motherfuckcrl\" said Mutt.\"Bummahs, man,\" said Five-O. \"I only tryeen fo' make da bullet clip,\nli'dat, ass why.\"\n\"Well then, shit, don't make it li'dat!\"\n\" 'Ev, bummahs, man, yeah, but you ever wen spahk da AK-47, da\nbullet clip, get s'koshi da kines?\" He described a little curve in the air\nwith his hand.\n\"Li'dat?\" As Conrad had finally figured out, in Five-O's Hawaiian\ndialect, which was called Pidgin, spahk meant inspect or check out,\ns'koshi meant a little bit, and da kines meant that kind, like that, or\nlike you know.\nMutt was a wiry little man, no more than 140 pounds, if that, with\nnetworks of veins protruding on his forearms. He reminded Conrad\nof Light Bulb, who worked in the freezer unit at Croker Global,\nexcept that Mutt had a nervous habit of lowering his eyebrows, over\nand over, which made him look perpetually angry. On one shoulder\nhe had a tattoo with the legend live to ride, ride to live. Beneath that\nwas a small but extravagantly detailed tattoo of a winged motorcycle\nridden by a phantom. On the other shoulder was a tattoo of a\ndeath's-head wearing a Nazi officer's cap. These were jailhouse\ntattoos, artfully done, or artfully enough, but all black and marred bv\nwelts of colloidal tissue, where they had become infected and healed\nover. Tattooing was tolerated at the state penitentiaries but was\nforbidden at Santa Rita. Mutt and Five-O had solved that problem by\nsitting on the lower bunk where the deputies couldn't see them from\nup above on the catwalk.\nConrad judged Mutt to be in his late thirties. Five-O was probably\nten years younger. He was heavyset, fleshy rather than muscular,\nwith smooth putty-colored skin, a shock of jet-black hair, and a\nbroad flat nose. His full lips had a stretch of skimpy mustache\nrunning above them, but his wide jaws and well-developed chin\npulled all the elements of his face together and gave him a strong,\nrather handsome look. Conrad had watched him draw the AK-47 witha ballpoint pen on a slip of paper. It was a surprisingly sophisticated\npiece of work. He had applied a waxy film of roll-on deodorant, from\nthe commissary, on Mutt's chest and pressed the drawing onto it.\nWhen he peeled the paper away, the drawing of the rifle was\ntransferred to Mutt's skin, and he went to work on it, holding the\nguitar wire like a lancet and pricking out the design in the little\nOkie's flesh. His concentration was so intense, his eyebrows seemed\nto wrap around his nose. Conrad was fascinated. He stared at him.\nFive-O stopped, froze, with his hands poised above Mutt's chest, and\nturned toward Conrad and glowered with the look that says, \"What\ndo you think you're looking at?\" Then he growled, \"Boddah you? I\nowe you money, or wot?\"\nMutt turned toward him, too, lowered his eyebrows, squinted\naccusingly, then turned back and said under his breath, \"Shit.\nMotherfucker.\"\nConrad shrugged and looked away and closed his eyes again.\nDespite all their jailhouse bluster, he didn't fear these two men.\nMutt, from all he could gather, was a far-gone petty criminal who\nhad been in jails more than he had been out of them and was\ncurrently awaiting trial on a charge of dealing in a drug called crank,\na form of methedrine. He claimed to be a member of the Nordic\nBund, and perhaps he really was. since he was one of the few white\ninmates able to penetrate the blacks' control of the two telephones\nin the pod room. But his tough- guy pose had failed to cover up the\nfact that he was a nervous wreck, plagued by twitches and tics and\ngiven to stretches of gloomy silence interrupted by bursts of anger.\nFive-O was in jail on a charge of forgery, involving credit cards, and\nnot for the first time, apparently. Having a sound instinct for self-\npreservation, he, like most knowledgeable Asian inmates who could\nmanage it, had hooked up with a Latino gang known as Nuestra\nFamilia.\nAll such matters of jailhouse manners, mores, and vocabulary\nConrad had come to know through Mutt and Five-O's interminableconversations. Cooped up in the cell for hours at a time, they\nsometimes read books from the bookmobile cart that came around\nto the pod every two weeks. Mutt was reading a novel called Berkut,\nabout the last days of the Third Reich and Hitler's escape and\ncapture by Stalin, which he devoutly believed to be based on fact.\nFive-O was reading a novel called Dr. Snow, about pimps and \"their\nbitches,\" by a writer named Donald Goines. He kept slapping it down\non his bunk and saying, \"Wow, bummahs. Wot a junk book.\" Then\nhe would pick up a tablet of writing paper and a ballpoint pen from\nthe commissary and start drawing stupendously muscular men and\nwomen, after the. Fashion of comic-book superheroes. They were\ngrotesque in their extreme muscularity, and yet the big Hawaiian\nknew his human anatomy. The gods and goddesses kept pouring out\nof his fingertips, often in attitudes of violent action, involving\ncomplex foreshortening. Mutt would pester him for pornographic\ncreations, and occasionally Five-O would oblige, sending Mutt off\ninto wild cackles of pleasure. And now Five-O was tattooing an AK-\n47 for him, on his chest, while the two of them continued their\nverbal chronicle of jailhouse days.\nFive-O struck Conrad as a moke, which, he had deduced, was Pidgin\nfor an ordinary Low Rent knockabout fellow. He had gotten in\ntrouble here on the mainland and was scuffling to survive in a bad\nfix known as Santa Rita.\nAt the moment, as Conrad sat on the floor with his eyes closed, Five-\nO and Mutt were discussing jailhouse bodybuilding and the problems\nit was causing currently in the pod room. The only bathing facility in\nthe pod-Five-O said bafe-ing-was a lineup of showers on one side of\nthe pod room separated from the rest of the room by a waist-high\nconcrete wall with a narrow opening midway. There was no weight\nlifting equipment at Santa Rita, and so \"buffed-up cons\" had taken\nto standing in the opening and placing one hand on each section of\nthe wall and doing dips, an exercise that pumped up the shoulders,\nthe chest, and the triceps muscles of the arms. The black inmates in\nthe pool outnumbered the white inmates by better than three toone; and their shot caller, a brute named Vastly, who wore his hair in\ncornrows with tiny yellow ribbons like a jailhouse crown, was even\nbigger than Rotto. When \"the popolos\" - black people -were busy\ndoing dips, Five-O observed, no one else could take a shower.\n'Tou try go eenside,\" he said, \"you ass-out.\"\nAss-out was not Pidgin; it was the universal Santa Rita term for out\nof luck. Conrad was curious as to what Mutt's reaction to this\ndeclaration of the jailhouse facts of life would be, and so he parted\nhis eyelids slightly, just enough to see without his cellmates realizing\nhe was looking at them.\n\"Shit,\" said Mutt, \"any motherfucker tries to keep me out the\nmotherfuckin' shower, I'll show you who's ass-out.\"\n\"Yeah, den I hope you get plenny lakas, bruddah.\" Get meant have;\nlakas meant balls. \"You know dat buggah, Riffraff? Dat buggah wen\nfo' try cockaroach\"-slip-\"on by one dem beeg popolos fo' go eenside,\nand chee!-Vastly-dem broke his face fo'im! Dey bus'up dat buggah!\"\nHe made a gesture with one hand over the biceps of his other arm\nto indicate how big the muscles of Vastly'n'them were.\n\"Fuck doing dips 'n'all'at shit,\" Mutt said, with infinite disgust. 'Tou\nwanna know what'll pop all 'ose motherfuckin' inflated muscles real\nfast?\"\n\"Wot?\"\n\"A length a metal, Five-O. Gimme a shank, and I'll go up against any\npumped-up ugga-bugga in this whole motherfuckin' jail.\" He closed\nhis fingers and gave his hand a sudden twisting thrust, as if shoving\na knife into someone's solar plexus.\njust then there was a clack at the door, the sound of a deputy sliding\nopen the slat that covered the food slot.\n\"Hensley!\"Conrad looked up. He could see part of the deputy's face peering in.\n\"You got a package.\" Conrad got up and with a single step was at\nthe door. Through the slot he could see the deputy, a pale, stout\nOkie with big arms bulging out of his short-sleeved gray uniform\nblouse. The man was pulling open the zip-strip on a padded manila\nenvelope. He withdrew a book. Conrad barely had time to make out\nthe word Stoics on the jacket before the deputy removed the jacket\nand tucked it under his arm, along with the padded envelope. Then\nhe seized the book's hard front cover with his right hand and,\nwithout another word, began shaking it for all he was worth. The\npages and the back cover flapped about violently.\nConrad was appalled. The binding would be torn to bits!\nThe deputy suddenly stopped flailing the thing and looked at Conrad\nthrough the slot. \"You can have the book, but you can't have this.\"\nHe nodded toward the hard cover, which he still gripped, holding it\nup at eye level.\nSo saying, he seized the pages of the book with his other hand and\nhunched over and, with a furious grunt, ripped the front cover off\nand then the spine and then the back cover. When it was all over, his\nface was red, and he was breathing hard. He held up the remains, a\npathetic stack of folios that were coming apart, with clots of glue\nsprouting all over the place.\n\"Okay, this is yours.\" He passed the stricken clump through the slot,\nand Conrad took it. \"Next time, whoever sent you this, you tell 'em\nyou want paper backs.\" Then he walked away.\nConrad stood there for a moment, holding what was left of this\ngrossly violated object. He was shocked. Somehow he had been\nterribly degraded and humiliated. Such a gratuitous, utterly pointless\nexercise of power! My book!\nStill holding the sheaf of paper chest-high, he turned and looked at\nhis two cellmates, halfway expecting some expression of sympathy,despite their obvious resentment of his very existence. Both were\nwatching him from the lower bunk.\n\"Mother/ucfcer!\" said Mutt, but not to Conrad. He was now looking\nat Five-O. \"I'd like to get my hands on 'at motherfuckin' book cover.\nTalk about shanks, man ... It don't have to be metal, long's it'll go in.\nI learned that the first day I ever spent in jail. I was-\" He stopped.\nHe looked off, as if he were gazing into the distance instead of at a\nfilthy beige wall two feet away. Then he glanced at Conrad. Conrad\naverted his eyes and stepped back toward the wall and sat down on\nthe floor again and looked at the remains of the book, as if he was\nabout to start reading it. Holding the folios together with his left\nhand, he turned the first page with his right. It was the blank sheet\nthat began the book.\nNext came a page with the title; only that, the title: the stoics . . .\nHow strange ... It didn't say the stoics' came, and stoics didn't have\nan apostrophe--\nMutt resumed. \"I was just a kid,\" he told Five-O. \"I was seventeen,\nbut I musta looked twelve. I don't reckon I weighted a hunnert'n ten\npounds, and they th'ew me in a cell with three a these big buffed-up\nmotherfuckers.\" He made the same motion over his biceps that Five-\nO had made in describing Vastly and his retinue.\n\"Tree popolos?\"\n\"Naw, they was three white motherfuckers. First thing I know, they\njump me, and two a those buffed-up motherfuckers, they hold me\ndown, and the third one-he tries to rape me.\" He stopped again.\nAnother long pause. \"Shit ... he did rape me, Five-O, he did rape me.\nThe other hvo uv'em, they had my arms and legs pinned down, and\nthere wasn't one goddamned thing I could do about it. I was\nseventeen years old. And then they took a nap, all three uv'em, just\nlike they'd all had 'emselves a nice big meal. Well, one a those\nmotherfuckers had a book just like'df motherfucking book he got,\nwith the stiff cover, and the front uv'it was prackly tore off the restuv'it. So I tore it off the rest a the way, quiet as you please, and I\nstarted bending that cardboard while they was sleeping, like this\nhere.\" He pantomimed bending the cardboard back and forth with\nhis hands. \"I worked me loose a piece of it about like this here.\" He\nmade a wedge shape with his forefingers. \"Then I started bending\n'at piece a cardboard the long way until I had me a double- thick\npiece like this here.\" With his fingers he described a long, narrow\ntriangle, the shape of a dagger. \"Then I took it around the big end\nlike this here\"-he clenched his fingers in the air, as if holding a knife-\n\"and I leaned over that big motherfucker, the one 'at'd had me-and\nI-so help me, Christ, Five-O-i drove 'at cardboard shank right in his\nmotherfuckin' eye!\"\nWith that he brought his clenched hand down with such ferocity that\nFive-O drew back on the bunk. Mutt's outcry was so loud, it was no\ndoubt heard in every cell in the pod.\n\"Chee!\" said Five-O. \"Wot happen den, bruddah?\"\nMutt was now leaning forward on the bunk, his arms and his bare\ntorso rigid. His eyes were blazing with the recollection of that\nincident long ago. \"That motherfucker, he wakes up screamin', and\nthere's blood spoutin' th'oo his fuckin' fingers where he puts 'em\nover his eye, and he looks up at me with the other eye, and I was\nglad he could look up and see it was me who done it, because that\nwas the last thing that motherfucker ever got to use his eyes for\nexcept to cry his fuckin' guts out, because, Five-O-then i drove 'at\ncardboard shank th'oo 'at motherfucker's other eye!\"\nHe brought his hand down again, and Five-O flinched again, and a\nchorus started up from the cells all around:\n\"Who's 'at talkin' all 'at eyeball shit?\"\n\"Where's at cardboard J-cat at?\"\n\"Yo! Motherfucker! Shut up or I'm gon' shove 'at cardboard a yo's up\nMr. Brown!\"These messages \"over the wire,\" as it was known, riled Mutt up still\nfurther, until he was leaning toward Five-O like an animal about to\npounce.\n\"It wasn't nothing but a piece a cardboard off a book, Five-O, but it\nwas the sweetest shank I ever had! Ain't no metalworker in the\nworld ever made a sweeter one! It was sweeter than if I'd killed the\nmotherfucker! That motherfucker, if he's still livin', then all he is is\none miserable goddamned shufflin' gimp-along gork with poached\neggs for eyes-and fuck him! ain't no motherfucker in no\nmotherfuckin'\njail ever tried to fuck with me again!\"\nThe chorus swelled up anew:\n\"Yo! Superman! Kiss my sweet ass!\"\n\"Who's 'at J-cat? Cat got cardboard fo' brains!\"\n\" 'At cat's got a reservation in the Rubber Room, 'at's what he's got!\"\nHeh-heh-hegggggghhhhlihhhhhhh!\nThe mere memory of the rape had already roused Mutt to a manic\nintensity. The mocker}' and laughter of the chorus of black voices\nnow pushed him to the edge. You had only to look at him to see\nthat. He jumped off the bunk and looked up through the screen, his\nlips parted and his teeth showing, breathing rapidly. You could tell he\nwas about to deliver a message to the world. Which he now did:\n\"so don't try to tell me some buncha buffed-up nicgas gon' keep me\nout the shower!\"\nThat did it.\n\"Hey! Who used the N-word?\"\n\"Who's the motherfucker said that?\"\" 'At J-cat motherfucker just used the N-word!\"\n\"Yo! Deputy! Better pack 'at motherfucker off to Wackyville or he's\ndead meat!\"\nThe cries rose from cells all over the pod. A regular ruckus it was.\nConrad no longer pretended to lool< at the book. He sat upright in a\nstate of alarm. The N-word was the most taboo word at Santa Rita,\nif you were white.\n\"Where's 'at J-cat at? What's his motherfuckin' cell number?\"\nf-cat was the jailhouse lingo for a crazy person. Many Santa Rita\ninmates were first sent to the state prison facility at Vacaville, up in\nthe Napa Valley, for psychiatric evaluation. The Vacaville designation\nfor psvchotics was category \"J\"; homosexuals were category \"B\";\nand inmates referred to Vacaville as Wackyville and Faggotville. Well-\nmaybe Mutt was a candidate for Wackyville. Conrad, sitting tensely\non the floor, chanced a look at Five-O. Five-O was sitting on the\nedge of the bunk, not so close to Mutt any longer. He had put the\npiece of guitar string down. He looked at Conrad-for the first time\nwith something other than the aloofness of the jailhouse veteran\nlording it over the new fish. What did Conrad now see?-perhaps\neven a glimmer of the comradeship of two poor devils thrown\ntogether, for they were both thinking the same thing: this wound-up\nlittle Okie with half an AK-47 freshly tattooed on his chest had just\nsnapped.\nSure enough, Mutt began raging at his detractors. He threw his head\nback and screamed up through the screen: \"who the fuck you talkin'\nto, you bunch a motherfuckin' uggah-buggahs!\" Then he started\nhopping about like a monkey and scratching his ribs with his fingers\nand screaming, \"uggah-buggah! uggah-buggah! uggah-buggah!\nuggah-bucgah!\"\nThe roar of the pod was now deafening.\"Hev! Knock it off down 'eh!\" It was one of the deputies leaning over\nthe railing of the catwalk.\nFrom somewhere one inmate's voice rose above all the others: \"Tell\n'at racist J-cat motherfucker knock it off or he gon' get his cap\npeeled!\"\n\"Gon' peel yo' cap, motherfucker!\"\n\"Peel yo' cap!\"\n\"Peel yo' cap!\"\n\"Peel yo' cap!\"\nKenny! It all came back! On the night Conrad had gotten laid off at\nCroker Global Foods, Kenny had come barreling into the parking lot\nwith his brand-new red boom-box car thundering out some Country\nMetal song called \"Brain Dead,\" in which a group called the Pus\nCasserole kept bawling, \"Peel yo' cap, I said-peel yo' cap, I said-peel\nyo' cap, I said,\" and Kenny, from his eminence as a man of the world\ntalking to a poor square kid named Conrad Hensley, had informed\nhim this was jailhouse talk. How ironic! How little Kenny actually\nknew! If Kenny had thought and thought for a thousand years, he\ncouldn't have imagined being penned up like a lizard at Santa Rita,\nwhere people threatened to peel each other's caps-with the utmost\nsincerity!\nMutt stood beside the bunk, looking up through the screen, his teeth\nclenched, his arms out to the side as if he were ready for a movie\ncowboy gunfight. He was bare from the waist up. His slim torso was\nall gristle, nodes, and veins. His eyebrows were flexing up and down\nat a furious rate. The phantom motorcyclist and the death's-head\nNazi on his shoulders took on a crazed reality. The AK-47\nemblazoned on his chest looked as demented as he did. Half of it\nwas still in the dull black of Five-O's ballpoint rendering. The other\nhalf, the half Five-O had already incised into his skin, stood out in aninflamed red relief. Sweat poured down his face. His half-naked body\nglistened. He began screaming again:\n\"shut the fuck up! shut the fuck up!\"\n\"Easy, brah!\" said Five-O. \"Cool head main t'ing!\" But it was no use.\n\"shut the fuck up!\" screamed Mutt, \"or i'm gon' putchoo back on thf.\nside a the minute rice box, you buncha uncle bens!\"\nThe ruckus increased. Someone yelled out, \"Motherfucker's dead\nmeat! Dead meat!\"\nThen it became a chant: \"dead meat! dead meat! dead meat! dead\nmeat!\"\nSplaaatttt-\n-something hit the floor of the cell just inches from where Conrad\nwas sitting. Right there-a runny yellowish gooey mess. The smell of\nurine rose up, that and a high sweet smell besides. He jumped up\nbefore the pool could spread. Above him a long viscous string of goo\nhung from the screen, gradually lengthening, thanks to its own\nweight. Bombardment! From an adjoining cell! The pizzooka! The\npizzooka was part of the perverse weaponry of Santa Rita. Inmates\nurinated into plastic shampoo tubes from the commissary, poured in\nsyrup saved up from the morning servings of pancakes, shook it all\nup, screwed the tops back on, got on the top bunks, and squeezed\nthe tubes to propel the noxious mixture up over the cell walls.\nMutt stared at the mess on the floor for a moment, then leaped past\nConrad. When he reached the door, he gave it a terrific kick, like a\nkarate kick, with the heel and the sole of his foot. This was a way\ninmates commonly expressed dissatisfaction. He stopped, stared at\nthe lower part of the door, then began kicking it repeatedly: bang\nbang bang bang bang bang.\n\"Yo! Simms! Was a matter wit chew?\" It was one of the Okie\ndeputies, yelling down from the catwalk. \"What the hell you thinkyou're doing?\"\nWithout looking up, still facing the door, Mutt said, \"I want some\ncrank!\"\nThe deputy said, \"You want some crank?\"\n\"Gimme some crank, goddamn it!\"\n\"Guess what, Simms-you're ass-out!\"\nA chorus of catcalls and laughter from the other cells. Mutt's face\nbecame contorted with rage.\n\"l said i want some crank!\"\nSomeone yelled, \"You can crank my johnson, Dead Meat!\" Raucous\nlaughter.\nThe deputy yelled, 'To! Simms! Look at me!\"\nMutt looked up through the screen, and so did Conrad and Five-O,\nwho had now gotten up off the bunk. They could make out the\ndeputy leaning way over the catwalk railing and looking down at\nthem. \"Chill down, Simms,\" he said. Then he lowered his arm over\nthe railing until his hand was at the level of his groin. He curled his\nfingers and extended his thumb and began jiggling his hand in the\nmale semaphore that means \"Go masturbate.\"\nApoplectic with rage, Mutt extended his arm and his middle finger\ntoward the deputy, then wheeled about toward the door and began\nkicking it even more furiously than before: bang bang bang bang\nbang bang bang bang bang.\nThe deputy yelled, \"Cut that shit out, Simms! That's an order!\"\nMutt didn't cut it out. \"fuck you!\" He was hammering away at the\ndoor with his heel.Another voice from the catwalk, a deeper voice: \"Goddamn it,\nSimms! Cut it out! You want Michael Jackson come gitchoo?\"\nHeh-heh-hehhhhgggghhhhhhh! That got a big rise out of the chorus\nover the wire.\n\"fuck you!\" screamed Mutt to one and all.\n\" 'Ey, Mutt!\" said Five-O. \"Easy, brah! Cool head main t'ing. Laydahs\nfo' da Michael Jackson, da kine.\"\nBut Mutt was long past cooling down and taking advice. He was in a\nfrenzy, a rage, which the catcalls from all over the pod only made\nworse.\nConrad and Five-O had both gravitated toward the other end of the\ncell, near the toilet and the basin. Presently they could hear the\nclack of wooden slats being slid shut over the slots in the doors.\nOnly the deputies, outside the cell, could open or close the slats.\nThey always closed them when they had to remove an inmate\nforcibly, so that the other inmates couldn't look out and watch. The\nclacks came closer and closer, and you could hear the sound of a\nwhole group of men speaking in low voices. Mutt stopped kicking the\ndoor. Now he just stared at it, but he kept jerking his shoulders and\nelbows about. Then you could see a pair of eyes at the slot, and a\ndeep Okie voice said, \"Okay, Mutt, I'm gonna open this door, and I\nwant you to walk on out like a nice fella.\"\n\"Fuck you. You don't call me Mutt. You don't know me. You ain't no\nfriend a mine.\"\n\"Okay, Mutt, you can be Mutt or you can be Mr. Simms, but I'm\ngonna open this door, and I want you to come on outta there\npeaceful, like a good fella. Otherwise, you're Mr. Ass-out.\"\n\"Fuck you.\"\n\"I don't wanna have to bring Michael Jackson in 'eh, Mutt.\"Mutt's response to that was to lunge toward the door and spit\nthrough the slot. \"Shit! Cocksucker,\" said the deep voice. Clack!-\nsomeone slammed the slat across, closing the slot. The deep voice\nnow came over the door and through the screen: \"Always gotta be\nthe hard way, hunh, Mutt?\"\nThen silence. All three of them, Mutt, Five-O, and Conrad, stared at\nthe door. The cell doors at Santa Rita opened outward and had no\nhandles on the inside, so that the inmates couldn't prevent the\ndeputies from opening them. The entire pod was abnormally quiet.\nThe inmates, or most of them, were confused as to their allegiance.\nOrdinarily they were on the side of any other inmate in a set-to with\nthe deputies, and all the more so when the issue finally boiled down\nto brute force. But\nMutt was the J-cat who had used the N-word. The fans overhead\nwent scrack scrack scrack scraaaacccckkkkkk. Grover Washington's\nsaxophone went huhoooomuhoooooooom. Conrad's eyes were\npinned on the black door.\nSuddenly it swung open, revealing a whole gang of deputies in their\nshort-sleeved gray shirts and naw pants. The lead man held a clear\nplastic riot shield in front of him and had a billy club in his other\nhand. He was the Okie named Armentrout, and he was the most\nimposing of the deputies who regularly worked the pod. The short\nsleeves of his uniform blouse, which had obviously been hemmed\nstill shorter, revealed the sort of massive arms that can come only\nthrough weight lifting. His was the deep voice they had already\nheard, and now that voice said:\n\"Give it up, Mutt, and come on outta there. Use your head. We won't\nlay a hand on you, long's you use your fuckin' bean.\"\nMutt, who was in a crouch, stepped back and then seemed to relax.\nNonchalantly he leaned against the wall at the end of the bunk and\nfolded his arms and bent one knee and propped his foot up on the\nwall as well.\"Good man, Mutt,\" said the deputy. \"Now just stay cool.\"\nSlouching still farther, Mutt lowered his head and eyed the deputy\ndubiously, but with no great concern, the way you might check out a\nstray dog that happened to be walking by. For a few seconds it was\na Mexican standoff, with the adversaries looking each other in the\neye and doing nothing about it. Behind Armentrout and his shield\nand his club was another deputy, a lean, rangy Okie with a rubber\nglove on his right hand. It was a great ugly thick black thing that\ncame all the way up to his elbow. And in that instant Conrad got it:\nthat must be the \"Michael Jackson,\" named for the singer whose\ntrademark was a single glove. The rest of the deputies were\nbunched in the doorway. The cell was too small and crowded for\nthem all to come inside at once.\nArmentrout took a step forward, his shield before him-\n-and suddenly, more suddenly than Conrad would have thought\nhumanly possible, Mutt sprang off the wall with a kick, the same\nkarate- style kick he had been giving the door. It caught the shield\non one edge, spinning the deputy around and knocking him off\nbalance. Mutt was on top of him, in too close for the big man to use\neither his club or his shield, and he drove his right forearm into the\ndeputy's face and his left forearm into the side of his head, across\nthe ear. Stunned, Armentrout staggered, slipped on the pizzooka\nmess, and fell. Blood was streaming out of his nose. Mutt was on top\nof him. The rangy deputy leaped forward on top of Mutt and\nclamped his huge gloved hand on Mutt's upper left arm. Mutt's body\nstiffened. There was a smell of burning flesh. His arm and his\nshoulder began convulsing; and then his entire body. His eyes rolled\nback into his head, and his mouth opened, and his tongue filled his\nmouth like a big fish. He looked like someone having an epileptic\nseizure. He was sprawled on the floor, on his back, shuddering. His\nhead kept clattering against the metal leg of the bunk. The inflamed\nred half-an-AK-47 on his chest stood out redder, more feverish, more\ngrotesque than ever.The big deputy, Armentrout, managed to regain his feet. He still had\na compulsive grip on his club and his shield. His face was a stream\nof blood, from the nose down, and his nose was swelling up. It\nlooked as if someone had taken a wide paintbrush and stuck it under\nhis nose and painted a swath of red straight down over his chin.\nThere was blood on his blouse and on his chest and chest hair\nwhere the blouse was open at the top.\n\"Oh, you little cocksucker,\" he said, and he- lifted the club and bent\nover as if to smash Mutt in the head. But two more deputies\nsqueezed through the door and restrained his arm. \"Goddamn it,\nArmie! Motherfucker's out cold!\"\nThe rang}' deputy released his grip with the rubber glove on Mutt's\nupper arm. Conrad could see now that there were two metal prongs\nsticking out of the palm. However they managed to store it up in the\ncontraption, it had a tremendous electrical charge. Mutt's body was\nstill convulsing and struggling to take in air. The smell of burnt flesh\nwas sickening.\nThey hog-tied Mutt's wrists together behind his back with plastic\ncinches, and then they hog-tied his ankles together the same way,\nand then they ran a length of plastic from his wrists to his ankles, so\nthat he wasn't going to hit or kick a living soul if and when he came\nto. By the time they carried him out, he had grown still. He appeared\nshrunken. He was so limp and fragile, it was hard to imagine the\nrage and animal strength that had exploded out of that little creature\njust a few minutes earlier.\nThe last deputy out of the cell was Armentrout, who now had a\nhandkerchief pressed against his streaming nose. The handkerchief\nwas soaking red, and there was more blood on the back of his right\nhand and forearm, from where he had first tried to wipe it away\nfrom his nose and mouth. Conrad and Five-O couldn't keep their\neyes off it. Armentrout must have detected that, because he stopped\nand stared them down until they looked away.Then he took the handkerchief from his mouth, and, through that\nmad-dog crimson orifice, in his deepest voice, soaked through with\nthreat, he said, \"Shit removal's free a charge around here. Have a\nnice day.\"\n'Then he slammed the door shut and locked it.\nConrad looked at Five-O. Five-O arched his eyebrows and opened his\neyes wide and twisted his lips into a half-smile and began nodding\nhis head slightly, in the way that says, \"Wow! Astounding! What is\none to make of all that?\" To Conrad the man's expression offered\nhope. Perhaps this big Hawaiian would now stop freezing him out.\nPerhaps he might even have a cellmate he could talk to. For that\nreason, not because he had any interest in the answer, he asked,\n\"Where they taking him?\" He motioned his head in the general\ndirection of the departed Mutt.\n\"From now,\" said Five-O, \"Armentrout-dem going broke his face, if I\nknow dem. Den dey goin t'row 'im in da Rubber Room.\"\n\"The Rubber Room?\"\n\"Get rubber walls, get rubber floor, li'dat, fo'da crazy people. No mo'\nblankets, no mo' baferoom, no mo' basin, no mo' notting. Ass why\nhard, bruddah. Da Rubber Room stay nails.\"\nConrad could feel a strange wave spreading through his central\nnervous system, and he could hear a sound like rushing steam inside\nhis skull. It was the rush of madness, the incorrigible madness of\nthis place. He had just witnessed something horrible. Before his very\neyes, barely an arm's length away, a tormented little man had lost\nhis mind and turned into a cornered beast. Then they had attacked\nand reduced him to a grisly, spastic, convulsive length of live meat\nburning in the throes of neurons gone amok and hauled his shriveled\ncarcass off to some madhouse called the Rubber Room. And yet that\nwas the least of it, wasn't it . . . There was something much worse .\n. . His mind fought against sorting it all out and letting it up to the\nsurface, but the wave was irresistible, and he already knew thesource of his terror. Live meat!-to be devoured! And now he stared\nthe terror right in its filthy face. Mutt Simms!-the reduction of that\nlittle Okie to such a pitiful state had begun with a homosexual rape\nin a county jail when he was seventeen years old, not all that much\nyounger than he, Conrad, was now. Such things did happen! In an\nhour they would be turned out of their cells and into the pod room,\nwhere all the mad creatures were thrown together and it was every\nman for himself. Dead meat! Dead meat! Dead meat! Dead meat! Hi,\nConrad. How you doin', bro?\nChapter 16Gotcha Back\nAt about 7:15 p. M., with serena in the passenger seat, Charlie drove\nthe Ferrari up the slope of the Piedmont Driving Club's driveway and\nstopped under the porte cochere, muttering imprecations about\nSerena and anybody else who might have had anything to do with\nthis useless fucking evening, which was called the Mayflies Ball. Why\ndid he have to put on a tuxedo and leave home and have dinner\nwith the likes of Tilton and Elaine Lundeen and Freddy and\nWhatthehell'shiswife'sname Birdwell and that kid Perkins Knox, who\nwas old Governor Knox's nephew, and WhatheheH's/iemame and\nSlim and Whateveritis Tucker, who Serena thought were such a great\ncatch-and pay for it? Pay for it! He had reached that stage of\ndepression in which going out in public seems fraught with the\ndanger of exposing the sorriness of your sorry fucking self to the\nentire world.\nOn top of that, his right knee was aching so much, just putting on\nthe brakes was a killer. He had even thought of having Serena drive,\nbut that meant that when they arrived here under the porte cochere,\nhe would have to come teetering out of the car in full view of the\nclub members going in or out of the main door. Poor old bastard has\nto have his young wife drive for him . . . How old is he, anyhow? . . .\nThis way only the parking attendants would notice the old man with\nthe rusting joint, and what difference did they make?\nActually they did make a difference. The egotism of the male of the\nspecies is such that he is embarrassed to let another male get an\neyeful of his infirmities, no matter who it is. Charlie's plan for exiting\nthe driver's seat was to plant his left foot on the driveway pavement\nand then thrust himself upright with his arms, so that when he\ndragged his right leg out of the car his weight would be fully\nsupported by his left leg and his sound left knee. But when he tried\nto thrust himself up, he didn't make it and went keeling over\nbackward onto the seat.\"Cap'm Charlie-\"\nDon't need anybody's fucking help!\n\"Cap'm Charlie-\"\nStop fucking hovering over me!\nThis time he pulled himself upright by planting his left foot and then\ngrabbing the door frame with both hands. Took forever . . . plus a lot\nof trembling of his right arm and shoulder, but he was standing and\nprepared to go gimping into the Piedmont Driving Club.\n\"Cap'm Charlie,\" the parking captain, whose name was Gillette, said\nonce more, \"let me give you a hand!\"\nTwo parking attendants, younger black men, were looking on\nimpassively and no doubt thinking, These old crocks with their\nFerraris and their money . . .\n\"Thanks anyway, Gillette,\" said Charlie. \"Just don't take up football,\nGillette. It always racks you up in the end.\" It seemed supremely\nimportant to let Gillette know that it wasn't age or plain old arthritis\nthat had done this to his knee. It was football, which qualified it as\nan honorable wound of war.\n\"I don't speck I will, Cap'm Charlie,\" said Gillette, shaking his head\nand smiling and chortling, as if Charlie had delivered one of the\nfunniest lines he had ever heard here at the portals of the Piedmont\nDriving Club.\nGillette made Charlie feel marginally better. Cap'm Charlie . . .\nCharlie couldn't even figure out how the employees here at the club\nhad ever learned that he was called Cap'm Charlie down at\nTurpmtine. But they had, and Cap'm Charlie he was. But then his\nspirits fell all over again. What if. . . the word . . . concerning Cap'm\nCharlie Croker gets out to everybody, to all the world . . . The bank\nseized his airplane! . . . Who would feel like calling him Cap'm\nCharlie Croker then?Charlie went limping around the front of the car (not the back,\nwhere the lights of the car behind him would illuminate his decrepit\nold carcass for one and all) and caught up with Serena, who was\npatiently waiting near the door.\nThe doorman, Gates-Charlie had never known whether Gates was\nhis first name or his last name-said, \"Evening, Cap'm Charlie.\nEvening, Miz Croker.\"\n\"Evening, Gates.\" And thank you for not offering to fucking carry me\nover the threshold or otherwise calling attention to my fucking knee.\n\"Charlie,\" said Serena, taking his arm as they entered the club, \"are\nyou sure you're all right? I've never seen your knee flare up this bad\nbefore.\"\nTestily: \"I'm fine.\" And thanks so much for making sure I couldn't\nfucking set foot inside the club without being reminded of my knee.\nWhich, by the way, is a football injur)', not arthritis, for your fucking\ninformation.\n\"Why don't you go see Emmo Nuchols again?\"\n\"I don't need to see Emmo Nuchols again. I know exactly what he'll\ntell me. I need a knee replacement. I don't want a plastic knee.\"\n\"Well -it's up to you.\"\nThanks, thanks a lot. And thanks for forcing this stupid evening on\nme. I really am going to enjoy an evening with some of \"the\nyounger crowd,\" aren't I . . . That was one of Serena's . . . themes\n... It was necessary to keep in touch with \"the younger crowd\" in\norder to stay current on the ideas that were circulating. Too bad,\nsister, you knew how old I was when you married me. Besides,\nFreddy Birdwell and Tilton Lundeen-Christ, they're children! i doubt\nthat either one of them's forty yet. I know their goddamn parents! I\nknow their parents a whole lot better than I know them. Ike\nBirdwell's son and Tilty Lun- deen's son . . . saw them when they\nwere still wearing seersucker sunsuits and playing in the sandbox . .. They're going to have to fight the impulse to call me Mr. Croker . . .\nMutter mutter mutter mutter . . .\nAs a piece of architecture the Driving Club was one surprise after\nanother. Visually it unfolded like the chambers of a nautilus. Because\nof its position on a hill, it was impossible to grasp the size of the\nplace as you drove up. Neither the porte cochere nor the main\nentrance was very imposing. The rough stone of which the porte\ncochere was made gave it a rustic rather than a grand look. The\nmain entrance opened into a hallway of adequate but by no means\nelegant proportions. The surprises lay beyond. Tbe original building,\nback in 1887, had been a farmhouse-with rusticated brick and stone.\nSince then the club had burned down three times and been rebuilt\nand enlarged three times and expanded some more in flush times,\nso that it had rambled on across the hillside in stages. Some of the\ngrandest parts of the interior, such as the lobby and the ballroom,\nbore the signature of the most hallowed name in Atlanta\narchitecture, Philip Shutze. The members loved the fact that the club\nand the building had such a rich archaeological history. In Atlanta\nanything that dated as far back as 1887 was ancient.\nUp ahead, in the lobby, in a cackling throng of black tuxedos, white\nshirts, and part)' dresses, he could already see Lettie Withers, Ted\nNashford, and Live-in Lydia-what the hell was club policy toward\nLive-in Lydia?-a guest fee anytime she set foot in the place?-and\nBeauchamp Knox and Lenore-if even one of them brought up the\nsubject of the G-5 and its \"arrest,\" he was going to drive his-and\nmaybe her-teeth down her gullet-or else go out and find a rock to\ncrawl under . . . His face was already scalding with shame and\nnobody had even seen him yet, much less said anything.\nThis was a big night at the club. The ecstatic cries of the crowd in\nthe lobby, the straining voices and constant yawps of laughter, made\nit seem as if nothing could be more rapturous than being together in\nthis place beneath such a high ceiling and so many of Maestro\nShutze's intricate moldings. If he hadn't had eight guests, plus\nSerena, dependent on his generosity, he'd leave right now. Why didpeople want to belong to the Driving Club in the first place?\nEverybody said that the day when the Driving Club had been the\ncenter of the most important network in the city was long gone . . .\nthat the Atlanta definition of an aristocrat was someone whose\nparents knew the doorman at the Driving Club by name, too . . . that\nthe club was filled with old people who didn't mean much one way\nor the other . . . and yet, much as he might want to, nobody could\nconvince himself that that was actually- true . . . You might have the\ngrandest house in all of Buckhead and the summer place on Sea\nIsland and the biggest private jet and the ranch or two in Wyoming,\nevery toy a man could possibly long for-and yet your failure to make\nthe roster of the Piedmont Driving Club would always be hanging\nover you, like a reproach. The mere fact that it was . . . there . . .\nthat it . . . existed . . . was a challenge you didn't know how to meet\n. . .\nCharlie knew very well, when he was being honest with himself, that\nif it hadn't been for Martha, he would have never gotten in. Martha\nwas from Richmond, and in Atlanta things Richmond (like things\nNew Yorfc, when it came to the arts) had authenticity. Charlie kept\ntelling himself that he couldn't care less about the Driving Club one\nway or the other; but had he been excluded, his Hard Cracker\nresentment would have known no bounds. It was the very fact that\nit was . . . there . . . that mattered so terribly much.\nWell, one thing you had to admit, anyway. The Driving Club was the\none place you could go in Atlanta and count on hearing real\nSouthern accents. Other places . . . Christ, you never knew.\nSuddenly the face and the voice of this guy Zale at PlannersBanc\npopped into his mind-the guy must be from New Jersey or\nsomeplace-and he was sorry he'd ever thought about the subject.\nNow they were in the lobby, amid all the fancy Shutze plasterwork.\nLettie Withers came braying over to him with her cigarette-baritone\nvoice-and was discreet enough to say nothing about the G-5. Serena\nhad veered off to talk to Lydia, who was young enough to wear a\nshort black silk-and-chiffon outfit that invited you to take a long lookat her Live-in body. Gibble gabble cackle cackle gibble gabble cackle\ncackle -there was Arthur Lomprev, the president of PlannersBanc,\nwhom you couldn't miss because he was so tall and his neck and\nhead were bent forward like a dog's, and Charlie wondered if the old\nbastard was going to give him some grief over his loan situation, but\nthen he realized Lomprey wouldn't have the nerve to do that in the\nlobby of the Piedmont Driving Club at the Mayflies Ball, which he\ndidn't. They gobble- gobbled for a little while, and then Charlie\nnoticed Serena on the other side of the lobby whispering something\nin the ear of . . . Elizabeth Armholster! Elizabeth wore the sort of\nparty gown that the young crowd favored currently, a simple black\nnumber with spaghetti straps and a plunging neckline. Whatever\nSerena was saying to her, Elizabeth was beaming. They looked every\nbit as conspiratorial as they had at Turpmtine. Elizabeth Armholster.\nThere she was, big as life. She didn't look like some traumatized and\nravished wreck of a girl to Charlie. If Elizabeth was here, where was\n. . . and then Charlie saw him, that squat, round figure himself,\nInman Armholster. Inman was deep in conversation with\nWestmoreland (Westy) Voyles, who used to be chairman of the\nboard at Georgia Tech. Charlie kept staring. He stared at the roll of\nfat that rode up on the back of the stiff collar of Inman's formal\nshirt. He really didn't want to have to talk to Inman. Should he\npretend he didn't know about Elizabeth, which in fact he wasn't\nsupposed to? Should he keep it light-all the while knowing how\nInman must feel? He was staring at the roll of fat on Inman's neck\nand considering these things, when suddenly Inman turned around.\nCharlie turned away, in hopes that Inman wouldn't notice him. Then\nhe slowly rotated his eyes back toward Inman, to make sure Inman\nhad turned his attention elsewhere, and ... caught!... nailed!...\nInman was looking him right in the eye. The collar of his tuxedo shirt\nwas obviously too tight, which made him look even more apoplectic\nthan usual. That round head with its tarmac of black hair combed\nback over it... had him ... There was no turning away a second time.\nNow that he had him, Inman lifted the fat fingers of his right hand\nand beckoned him over, all with a morose look on his face, without\nsmiling for so much as an instant. Charlie managed to maneuver hisway around several knots of people who were in the way, and by the\ntime he reached Inman, West)' Voyle had departed.\n\"Hey, Inman,\" said Charlie, trying out a smile.\nInman didn't bother with a smile or any other preliminary. He\nglowered and said in his deepest cigarette voice, \"You know, don't\nyou.\"\n\"Know what?\" said Charlie, already feeling like a fool.\n\"About Elizabeth,\" said the deep rumble of the furious fat man in\nfront of him.\nCharlie's mouth opened, but he had no idea what to say. Finally he\nsaid, \"That's true, Inman. I do.\"\n\"Who told you?\"\n\"What made you so sure I knew?\"\n\"The look on your face, Charlie. You're not a hard guy to read, in\ncase you don't know it. You did not want to have to talk to me\ntonight, did you?\"\n\"Well . . . shit,\" said Charlie. \"I knew about it, and yet I wasn't\nsupposed to know about it. I didn't know what to say.\"\n\"Okay,\" said Inman, \"so now you know I know you know. That being\nthe case, there's some more I want you to know.\" He looked about\nat the crowd here in the lobby. By now there were people on all\nsides. Over there was Howell Hendricks with his smooth buttered\njowls rising smartly out of the stiff, black-tied collar of his shirt. His\ngrinning mouth had more teeth than a perch's. \"Let's go to the\nballroom, Charlie. There won't be anybody down there yet.\"\nCharlie looked about, trying to spot Serena. There she was, heading\ninto the Bamboo Room with Elizabeth Armholster. Ordinarily, except\nfor a big occasion like the Mayflies Ball, dinner was served in the\nBamboo Room, which had been added in 1938 after yet another fire.Why the hell were Serena and Elizabeth Armholster going off by\nthemselves?\nInman and Charlie managed to extricate themselves from the lobby,\nbut only after a lot of handshakes and social grins. Charlie found it\nall very depressing. The whole time he had his eyes cocked to catch\npeople who were looking at him and thinking ... or saying . . . \"The\nbig sonofabitch, after all his big talk and egotistical plans, he's\nfinished! Belly-up! PlannersBanc just took his G-5 away from him!\nHe's a walking dead man! A ghost-and how pathetic! He dares show\nhis face here!\"\nEventually they made their way to the ballroom, where there was no\none except for a few black waiters making last-minute fine tunings of\nthe table settings for the dinner. The ballroom was Philip Shutze's\ncrowning touch at the Piedmont Driving Club. It was immense. It\nhad a vaulted ceiling and two majestic colonnades, complete with\narches, cornices, and plaster garlands running down either side of\nthe room, the long way. The tables, ablaze with hotel silver and\nacres of stemware, were arranged in front of and behind the\ncolumns on both sides, leaving the center of the great parqueted\nfloor free for dancing.\nInman gestured to show Charlie they should take chairs at a table in\nthe corner. So they sat down. That was a mistake. Sitting down\nmade Charlie feel so damned sleepy. He never slept anymore, but as\nlong as he stayed on his feet, he was all right.\nInman said, \"I haven't seen your knee flare up this bad before,\nCharlie.\"\n\"That's the one thing I regret about playing football for Tech,\" said\nCharlie. Even though Inman knew it was football, not age, damnit,\nhe felt as if he had to underline the fact.\nInman gazed off into the distance and said, \"Football at Tech . . .\"\nThen he looked at Charlie and said in his smoke-cured voice, \"I've\ntold myself any number of times to talk to you about what'shappened- especially because you played football at Tech. In your\nday you were even more famous than this black sonofabitch.\"\n\"Inman, if there's anything I can do for you, all you got to do is\nname it.\"\n\"Thanks, Charlie,\" said Inman, who suddenly seemed to be on the\nverge of tears. \"I can't tell you what that means to me.\" Then he\ntook a deep breath and sighed and looked about the ballroom, as if\nto make sure none of the waiters were close enough to overhear,\nand said, \"I\ncan't figure out what to do, Charlie. Here's the facts-here's what\nhappened, and maybe you can tell me what to do. This was the\nFriday night of the Freaknik weekend. You remember that\nweekend?\"\n\"Yeah.\"\n\"1 had a hysterical girl on my hands, Charlie. She'd just gone\nthrough the worst nightmare a girl can imagine.\"\n\"What did happen? Bi-I didn't get any details.\"\nInman said, \"There's this stuff all the universities try to cram down\nthe throats of their students about 'diversity' and 'equality' and\n'multiculturalism'-but don't let me get off on all that. You know what\nit is, Charlie? It's bullshit. It's-well, anyway, there's this restaurant\nnear the campus called the Wreck Room. It's popular with the\nstudents because it's popular with the big-time athletes, which is\nsynonymous with black athletes. So it's about eleven o'clock at night,\nand Elizabeth and two of her friends, two white girls, are in there\nhaving a pizza or something, and in comes this sonofabitch Fanon\nand three or four of his hangers-on, you know? This . . . shitbird ...\nis the most famous person at Tech. More kids recognize him than the\nPresident, probably. Anyway, he and his friends sat down in a booth\nright across from Elizabeth and her friends. The first thing Elizabeth\nknows, this Fanon and his boys are coming on to them. Elizabeth-she and her friends think it's harmless. That's what I mean about all\nthis diversity, multiculturalism, equality bullshit, Charlie. In years\ngone by, and not all that long ago, either, if three white girls from\ngood families, or even respectable families, never mind 'good,' if\nthree white girls happened to be in a restaurant in Atlanta, Georgia,\nand a bunch a niggers happened to sit in a booth across from them\nand start making comments, no matter how harmless they might\nsound, those girls would refuse to respond and, if it kept up, they'd\nleave. That's right, that's the word, niggers. It's not a word I use,\nand I got nothing whatsoever against black people. I've known 'em\nall my life, and there's plenty of black people wouldn't even make\nme think of the word nigger; Andr6 Fleet is one, and, for that matter,\nWesley Dobbs Jordan is another. They're gentlemen. I never use that\nword. But there's a certain type of black person who's a nigger, and\nnothing's gonna change that. But these white students nowadays\ncan't see that. Or if they do, they've got no vocabulary for it.\" Inman\nshook his head so hard his sloshing jowls lagged behind his chin. \"So\nthey get brainwashed by all the stuff they're hearing from teachers,\nfrom visiting lecturers, from the administration, from all the bullshit\nartists on television-thev get brainwashed to the point where it's\ngross bad manners to not respond to the likes of Fareek Fanon. So\nwhen he invites them to come up for a Freaknik part)', they're so\nbrain-damaged by all this liberal bullshit, they accept. Yeah! The\nFriday night of Freaknik, 11 p. M., and they accept the invitation!\nThat's how much brain damage they got!\"\n\"Did you say he invited them to 'come up' for a party?\" asked\nCharlie.\n\"Yeah. It turns out that in addition to a dorm room this creep has a\ntwo-bedroom apartment not even half a block from this place, the\nWreck Room. Who pays for it, I don't know, but I'd like to know, that\nfucking vine-swinger. He's gonna-\"\nInman suddenly shut up. A black waiter was approaching the next\ntable to add some silverware. Inman looked at Charlie and gave hima smile that so quickly turned down on one side, it became a\ngrimace.\nAs soon as the waiter departed, Inman said, \"So anyway, Elizabeth\nand the other two girls go on up there with this bastard, thinking\nthat there's some big Freaknik party in progress, and they're gonna\nbe enlightened. It's all in the name of enlightenment and equality\nand all that shit, when her instinct shoulda been 'Let's get outta\nhere. This guy has trouble written all over him.' So anyway, they go\nup to this apartment, and instead of a big party there's nobody.\nFanon says, 'Well, now we do have a party, don't we.' The girls, they\ndon't hear any warning bells. How could they? They've been addled\nby enlightenment and diversity. They even had a couple of drinks.\nMeantime, this sonofabitch Fanon is paying Elizabeth a lot of\nattention, and she's flattered, because, A, here's this famous football\nplayer, maybe the most famous college player in the country, and B,\nshe's enlightened! She thinks she's doing the right thing! So when\nhe says something about another room, she thinks he wants to show\nher the rest of the apartment. The next thing she knows, she's in\nthe sonofabitch's bedroom. And that's when he-forces himself on\nher. That's what he was doing when Elizabeth's two friends walked\nin. They were getting a little edgy, and they were looking for\nElizabeth to see about going home.\"\n\"So you've got two witnesses!\"\n\"I thought I did. But now they won't say a thing. Those girls are\nafraid of something. I don't know what. They swear they haven't\nbeen threatened-but if you've been threatened and you're scared to\ndeath, then what you say is 'I haven't been threatened.' So I don't\nknow.\"\n\"How's Elizabeth taking it?\" asked Charlie.\n\"Oh my God,\" said Inman, \"at first she was desolate. Desolate! She\nwas afraid to leave the house. She made me promise not to tell\nanybody about it, least of all the police or anybody at Tech. just tohave her name come out in any sexual connection to that . . . animal\n. . . the idea makes her feel completely filthy. But at least she's\ngotten enough of her old self back to go out in public and go\nthrough the motions and put on a brave smile. Thank God for that\nmuch at least.\"\n\"So what are you doing in the meantime?\"\n\"I'm trying to get certain things lined up for the day when she has\nthe courage to go to the police. I've assured her that the press\nwouldn't print her name anyway. Iddn'at right?\"\n\"Always has been, seems to me,\" said Charlie.\n\"I wanna be ready,\" said Inman. \"I've got two investigators, used to\nbe detectives on the Atlanta police force, back before the chief of\npolice was black or a woman or a black woman or whatnot, and\nthey're going through that sonofabitch's background and his financial\nsituation and what the hell he's doing with his own apartment\ndowntown, and everything else. I got nothing against Georgia Tech,\nCharlie, but I'm gonna blow their big nigger outta the fucking water\nor die trying. I'll do whatever it takes.\"\n\"Charlie! Charlie!\"\nIt was Serena, who had just entered the ballroom. Then she saw\nhim and Inman. \"Charlie, I couldn't imagine where you'd gone to.\"\nInman stood up, to be polite. So Charlie followed suit, even though it\nhurt his goddamned knee to do so. Before she reached them, Charlie\nturned toward Inman and said, \"I know exactly how you feel.\" Then\nhe held out his hand and looked Inman in the eye and said, \"Inman,\nyou can count 011 me a hundred percent. Anything I can do for you\nat Tech or anywhere else, you just tell me.\" They gave each other\nthe kind of handshake that's just short of a blood oath.\nNow here came Serena. For an instant Charlie saw her just the way\nhe had seen her when he first entered the art seminar room at\nPlannersBanc . . . way back when ... a simple black dress with a sortof scoop-out in the front and tiny straps over her shoulders . . . the\npale skin . . . the wild mane of black hair, only slightly contained . . .\nthe blue eyes so vivid they were startling . . . the playful lips that\nalways seemed to be smiling over a secret . . .\n\"Inman,\" she said, \"I've just had such a good time talking to your\ndaughter! She's so lovely and so much fun!\"\n\"Thank you,\" said Inman. \"Her daddy kind of feels a little partial to\nher, too.\" He looked at Charlie. The two men nodded slightly to one\nanother and thought in unison, Oh, if she only knew.\nSerena said, \"Charlie, all our guests have arrived now, and I think\nwe ought to say hello to them.\"\n\"Guess so,\" said Charlie, taking a deep breath and beginning the\nlong gimp back to the lobby.\nroger too white-the old nickname was really burning up his\nbrainstem tonight-sat in his Lexus, brooding. He could probably\nmake it unscathed to the church, which was just over a block away,\nbut the bad boys would descend upon the Lexus like . . . like . . . like\n... He couldn't even imagine what the bad boys here in this part of\nSoutheast Atlanta would be like. He had a vision of a window bashed\nin until the remains looked like crushed ice and holes in the steering\ncolumn and on top of the dashboard where there used to be air bags\n. . .\nWes Jordan was the one who had dispatched him here, and Roger\nwas beginning to wonder who the hell Wes thought he was working\nfor, him or Fareek Fanon. Andre \"Blaq\" Fleet was having a rally, or\nwhatever it should be called, up there in that church, the Church of\nthe Sheltering Arms, Reverend Isaac Blakey, pastor. The Mayor was\nalarmed that Ike Blakey was implicitly endorsing Fleet by letting him\nhave this meeting in his church. Down here in Southeast Atlanta the\nministers were the political leaders, like the party district leaders or\nward chairmen in other cities, and Ike Blakey was one of the best.\nHe represented many votes. Wes wanted Roger Too White to recordthe meeting with a device that had been somehow secured inside a\nfolded newspaper, which was at this moment resting on the\npassenger seat next to him. When Wes had described it -\"This is a\npublic meeting, and so it's practically begging to be recorded\"-it had\nall seemed natural enough. But now that he was here, with his fancy\ncar and his fancy clothes, Roger wasn't so sure anymore about how\nnatural it was, being here with a hidden recording device; or how\nhealthy. When he got dressed for this little escapade, he had\nthought it would be wise to dress down, be casual and\ninconspicuous. Hence the suede shoes and the tennis collar and the\nknit necktie and the twill pants and the tweed hacking jacket.\nCasual.\nInconspicuous. Sure. What planet had he been beamed down from?\nWhile he had been sitting there, in the gloaming of dusk, gazing out\non the little lots with water standing and chunks of concrete sticking\nup out of the water and white plastic containers and forty-ounce\nplastic bottles of King Cobra malt liquor floating in it, and the askew\ntilts of decaying little houses reflected in it, a few people had walked\nby, presumably to go to the meeting: older people, not bad boys,\nand even among them dressing up meant wearing a shirt with a\ncollar. Dressing down ... he didn't even want to find out. But if he\ndidn't attend, if he didn't take the hidden recording device with him,\nhe would have the scorn-not the anger but the scorn-of Wes Jordan\nto contend with. That he knew he couldn't stand, and so with a big\nsigh he picked up the folded newspaper and the hidden micro-\nmicrophone and got out of the Lexus and looked this way and that\nfor bad boys and pressed a button 011 his key chain, whereupon the\ndoors of the Lexus made a sound like a set of snare drums and\nlocked smartly.\nThe Church of the Sheltering Arms was so little like the church he\nand Henrietta went to over in Southwest Atlanta, it made Roger feel\nguilty. He and Henrietta went to the Beloved Covenant Church in\nCascade Heights, a decidedly Uptown church with a pulpit that was\nsituated over on the left side of the stage so as not to impede yourview of various sacred tabernacle objects and the fanlights of\nstained glass and the soar- ing pipe organ that filled most of the wall\nat the rear of the stage. Roger's father, Roger I, would have said,\n\"Unh unh unh,\" and shaken his head, had he been alive when that\nBeloved Covenant Church went up in Cascade Heights. The\nReverend Roger I would have seen all this for what it was: an\nattempt to look high-class. At the heart of the Beloved Covenant\nChurch was The Word, and The Word was brought to the flock by a\npastor standing right in the center of the stage, as was the case\nhere in Reverend Blakey's Church of the Sheltering Arms. Behind the\npulpit was a crescent of choir boxes that went from one side of the\nstage to the other. In the center of the wall behind the choir boxes\nwas the only piece of stained glass in the entire church. Instead of\nbeing intricate and rather abstract like the stained glass at the\nBeloved Covenant Church, this was a slightly primitive but powerful\ndepiction of Jesus looking straight at you, with his arms, his\nsheltering arms, outstretched, as if he were saying, \"Come ye unto\nme.\" All along the side walls was something more moving than\nstained glass: watercolor paintings of Bible scenes by the church's\nSunday-school children. On the floor just below the stage, off on the\nright side, a Curland electric organ, a behemoth, a gleaming piece of\nhigh-tech machinery. Roger knew about what such an organ cost:\ntwenty-five thousand dollars. Choir boxes, a Curland organ -no\nmatter what else this might be, it was not your everyday poor little\nchurch in the slums.\nNow the pews were filling up. It was a good-natured crowd, and\nmany people knew one another. Most of them were middle-aged or\nclose to it, exactly the segment of the population most likely to vote,\nit occurred to Roger. Suddenly-a tremendous vibrating crash of\nchords from the Curland organ, followed by a walking bass and a\nrollicking treble, out of which emerged, as if through a musical\nmiracle, the clear melodic line of the old spiritual \"Won't You Stay\nHere in the Garden Next Time, Eve.\" Roger Too White craned his\nneck upward and this way and that, and even pushed himself up\nfrom the seat of the pew on his fingertips in order to get a look, overand through the forest of heads in front of him, at the organist. It\nturned out to be a slender, dark woman in a deep burgundy choir\nsinger's robe who clenched her jaw muscles every time she hit a big\nchord.\nNow from both sides of the stage came a choir, in robes of the same\ndark burgundy, entering with military precision, so that singers from\nthe two sides met in the center of the choir boxes in perfect\nsynchrony. The organist hit another set of chords in the same key\nand the singers began swaying in unison. Without Roger's knowing\nwhere he came from, a choirmaster had materialized in front of the\narc of choir boxes, a small dark man with gray hair and a large bald\nspot in the crown of his head, like a monk's tonsure. His burgundy\nrobe spread out like wings as he raised his hands and surveyed the\nchoir. Then he brought both hands down sharply, and the choir came\nalive like one great human chord:\nWon't you stay here in the garden next time, Eve?\nWon't you give this poor old sinner time to grieve?\nWon't you pray to our dear Lord before you leave?\nWon't you stay here in the garden next time, Eve . . .\nNo one could fail to be swept up by this music, thought Roger, not\neven a Roger Too White who admired Igor Stravinsky. It vibrated in\nyour bones and resonated in your solar plexus and made you feel\nthat, yes, your people did have a spirit that a hostile world outside\ncould never exterminate. It made you feel a whole lot less like a . . .\nRoger Too White.\nThe choirmaster turned both hands palm up and then lifted them\nslowly, bringing the choir to a dangerously high note-or dangerous\nfor the ordinary chorister-then turned his palms over and slowly\nbrought the choir back down to a calmer register, at which point he\ngestured toward a singer close to where he stood. A slim, dark\nyoung woman stepped forward:\"Won't you stay here in the garden next time, Eve?\"\nIt was a soprano voice of great beaut)' and clarity, drawing out the\nlongest note without even a hint of vibrato, a voice with a purity that\ncouldn't possibly survive past age thirty, a voice so close to\nperfection it brought a mist to Roger's eyes.\nShe was still singing when a more mundane matter popped into his\nhead: \"What does all this have to do with a political outing for Andre\nFleet?\" Which in turn reminded him that he had not yet turned on\nthe recording device hidden in the newspaper on the seat beside\nhim. With great trepidation, looking this way and that way and that\nway and this, he found the little switch with his fingertips-and his\ncareer as a spy for Wes Jordan began.\nIt wasn't terribly long before the choirmaster with the tonsure led his\nsingers to a soaring finale that ended on a sustained F-sharp. Then\nsilence. After five or six seconds the silence seemed to sizzle, and\nyou wondered what would happen next.\nFrom out of a narrow aisle between two choir boxes came a burly,\nbeaming black man, about fifty, wearing a chocolate-brown suit, a\nwhite shirt, and a flowered necktie. He was big as a barrel around\nthe middle, but somehow his heft went with the smile he was\nbeaming at everybody. The way he walked toward the pulpit, with\nan almost tiptoed gait on his curiously tiny feet somehow doubled\nand redoubled the jollity of his appearance.\nCries of joy broke out in the audience: Ike! . . . Ike! . . . Tell it,\nReverend! . . . Get it said, Reverend! . . . Daddy Mention! . . . Get it\nsaid, Daddy Mention!\nWhat \"Daddy Mention\" meant, Roger had no idea. When Reverend\nIsaac Blakey reached the pulpit and looked out on the audience with\nhis radiant smile, they gradually grew quiet.\nThe big man said, \"The Holy Ghost\"-he pronounced it as if it were all\none word, accented on the first syllable: Holyghost-\"the Holyghost isamongst our choir tonight, praise God!\" Applause . . . shouts of \"Get\nit said, Reverend Blakey!\" . . . Unnh-hunnnh! Oh yes! \"And the Holy-\nghost is with Brother Lester Monday, praise God!\" He turned and\nmade a grand gesture toward the choirmaster, who had taken a seat\nin the first row of the middle choir box. Then he turned toward the\nCurland electric organ with another grand gesture. \"And Sister Sally\nBlankenship! She turns that organ into an en-tire orchestra, and that\norchestra makes heavenly music, praise God!\"\nCries of Praise God, oh yes! . . . It's gettin' said, Reverend! . . . You\nright at home, Sister Sally!\nThen the Reverend Isaac Blakey grew slightly more serious and said,\nrather softly for him, \"One of our good brothers just said, 'You right\nat home, Sister Sally,' and I'm here to tell you that. . . was getting it\nsaid.\" Sister Sally! . . . Praise God! . . . Gettin' it said! . . . \"Because\nwhen we come together in this place, we're all ho-o-o-o-ome . . .\nPraise God . . . We're home where none of the evil and meanness of\nthe world outside can touch us, because right here, in the presence\nof one another, testifying before one another, testifying and getting it\nsaid, praise God\" . . . Praise God! Tell it, Reverend Isaac ... \"We're\nhome in the sheltering arms of the Carpenter, the Carpenter who\nwalked on the waters.\"\nThe stained-glass figure of Christ, with the sheltering arms, seemed,\nto Roger Too White, to step forward a couple of feet, so powerful\nwas the Reverend Mr. Blakey's invocation of Jesus the Protector.\n\"But inevitably,\" he continued, \"comes the time when we have to\nlook outside, too, beyond these walls, and think about the future of\nour children and of our brothers and sisters all over Atlanta. For as\nthe prophet says in Isaiah, 'Cast thine eyes about and thou shalt see\nthyself many times over in the eyes of thy people,' praise God.\"\nPraise Him! . . . Thy people, praise God! .-. . \"Brothers and sisters,\ntonight we're going to hear from a good brother of ours who has a\nnew vision for our city. Sometimes we hear Atlanta referred to as the\nChocolate Mecca . . . the Chocolate Mecca, yes . . . and that makesus feel good, because it reminds us that our brothers and sisters,\nthey predominate in the city government, they head up many\ndepartments of the city government, including the office of mayor.\nYes, that makes us feel good, but sometimes we can't help asking\nourselves, 'Are they really our brothers and sisters? Do we really see\nourselves when we look into their eyes? When you get up in the\nmorning and go outside your house and say hello to your neighbor,\ncan you imagine any of those folks, the commissioner of this or the\ncommissioner of that, or any of the others of them walking on your\nstreet, looking you in the eye, and saying, 'I'm here to help. I'd like\nto know about your concerns.\" Or are they a little too busy tending\nto business over on . . . the other side of town?\" Laughter . . . hoots\nand howls . . . Gettin' it said, the gospel truth! Roger froze. He felt\nradioactive, as if a sickly blue aura was radiating from his head and\nbody, immediately identifying him to one and all as the very\npersonification of the Westside, of Cascade Heights and the\nGreenbriar Mall and Niskey Lake.\n\"So like I was saying,\" said Isaac Blakey, \"tonight we're going to\nhear from a good brother who rose up from amongst us, or from\nnearby, in Summerhill, who was an excellent student at the\nUniversity of North Carolina and a great athlete, a great basketball\nplayer who then went on to play in the NBA . . . the NBA ... for the\nPhiladelphia 76ers and the New York Knicks. Oh yes, he was a star\nathlete in New York, where all of life's sensual pleasures are laid out\nfor professional athletes like cookies on a plate ... on a plate, see . .\n. But this young man never forgot his home folks, he never forgot\nthat he came from the South side of Atlanta-from the east side of\nthe South side, if you get my meaning-and he never forgot that his\nfirst allegiance is to his wife, Estelle, and the children, who now\nnumber three in all. I can see . . . him . . . walking up to any of us,\nin this neighborhood, which, God knows, has its problems, and\nsaying . . . T'm here to help. I'd like to know about your concerns . .\n. here in Southeast Atlanta . . . where I came up the same way as\nyou.\" He paused, and his gaze panned across the entire audience,\nand he leaned forward on the pulpit and smiled and said in what forhim was a soft and intimate voice, \"Now who you reckon I'm talking\nabout?\"\nJoyful cries erupted. Blaq! . . . Blaq! . . . Brother Blaq! . . . Brother\nAndre . . . Brother Fleet!\nNow Isaac Blakey switched to his most stentorian voice and boomed\nout: \"You got it! You're right on, brothers and sisters! Brother Andre\nFleet is with us-and not for just tonight, either!\"\nRoger Too White expected to see Andre Fleet emerge from one of\nthe two wings of the stage, as the choir and Isaac Blakey had. But\nBlakey gestured toward the very rear of the church, and everybody,\nincluding Roger Too White, turned about in his seat. There, in the\naisle, level with the very last row of seats in the hall, was Andre\n\"Blaq\" Fleet. In the ranks of the National Basketball Association he\nhad been anything but a tall man. He had played point guard for\nPhiladelphia and the New York Knicks. He was known as a good\nplaymaker and a good but not great outside shooter. Probably his\ngreatest asset was his speed and agility on defense. In any event,\nhe had seemed like one of the smaller players, merely six foot four.\nIn fact, by any standard other than the National Basketball\nAssociation's, he was a giant. He seemed to tower over the rest of\nthe hall. He wore a naw blazer and a pale blue turtleneck jersey that\nhugged the thick, smooth column of his neck. He was built in a V,\nfrom the extraordinary width of his shoulders down to his narrow\nwaist. And he was dark. Oh yes; no question about it. He had the\ngood looks of a Sidney Poitier, and his flawless teeth fairly gleamed\nagainst the deep chocolate of his skin. The man had good looks and\nthen some.\nNo sooner had Roger twisted about to take a look than Sister Sally\nBlankenship had plunged her two amazing hands into the Curland,\nand the stirring Toreador Song from Bizet's Carmen, that rousing\nrefrain, was roaring forth, vibrating in every gizzard in the church\nand making Andre \"Blaq\" Fleet seem like even more of an invincible\nchampion. He was working the crowd, reaching deep into each row,on both sides, to touch the hands that reached out toward him. He\nwasn't the sort of politician who materialized elevated above you\nonstage, having just departed some unseen VIP room. Oh no; he\nwas here among you, starting with the very last row, yours to see up\nclose, to touch and hear from. Blaq Fleet had something to say to\neverybody, although it was doubtful that anybody could hear a word\nof it. Quite in addition to the organ's triumphal anthem, the cries had\nbegun. At first: Andr4! . . . Andrei . . . Fleet! . . . Blaq! . . . Blaq!\nGotcha back! Blaq! . . . Gotcha back! . . . Fleet! . . . Gotcha hack! . .\n. Then cries from every quarter of the audience: Gotcha back! . . .\nGotcha back!. . . Gotcha back!. . . from here, from there, from way\nover there and the other side: Gotcha back! . . . until it became a\nsingle, unified chant springing forth from hundreds of gullets: Gotcha\nback, gotcha back, gotcha back!\nIt took a few moments, but then it dawned on Roger that gotcha\nback-\"got your back\"-was an Atlanta street expression meaning \"I'm\nbehind you-I am your follower-and I'll protect you against attacks\nfrom the rear.\"\nRoger wouldn't have believed it possible, but the chant continued to\nswell in volume as Blaq Fleet made his way down the aisle: \"gotcha\nback! gotcha back! gotcha back!\"\nDamn! thought Roger. Why did I take a seat on the aisle? What\nwould he do when Fleet got to where he was sitting? So far, every\nsingle soul sitting in an aisle seat had enthusiastically touched the\nflesh of the great champion. But he, Roger, was not only Wes\nJordan's backer but his agent. What should he do? Well, it was\nobvious what he would do. He'd stay in his seat and keep his hands\nin his lap and look straight ahead.\nBlaq Fleet was now just one row away, and the crowd was roaring\ngotcha back! in overwhelming unison. Roger was going to keep\nlooking straight ahead, no matter what-but I already stand out in\nthis place! My clothes give me a radioactive aura that everybody in\nthis hall can see! If I don't stand up and pay homage to this V-shaped savior and touch the hem of his garment-or his hand, in any\nevent-they'll all scrutinize me . . . and notice my newspaper . . . and\ninspect what's inside and peg me for what 1 am, a spy, a secret\nagent!\nAs if there were two motor systems inside him, one of which existed\nseparate from his free will, Roger felt himself rising to his feet and\nputting on a grin and extending his hand to the towering presence of\nBlaq Fleet, who beamed his eyes and his pearly teeth down at him\nand shook his hand and then leaned way in over him to shake or\ntouch the hands of others in the row. As he was straightening up to\ncontinue on, he leaned down very close to Roger's ear and said, \"I'll\nthrow you down for that tweed jacket, brother!\" Then he beamed\nsome more teeth at him and moved on.\nRoger found the whole thing deeply disturbing. What did he mean,\n\"I'll throw you down for that tweed jacket, brother\"? Presumably it\nwas said in jest. But at the very least it meant that he, Roger, stood\nout in this place like . . . like . . . like . . . like a member of the\nMorehouse elite among hundreds of people who were obviously\nprimed to give elites the boot.\nBefore he went onstage, Fleet stopped by the electric organ and\ngave Sister Sally Blankenship a kiss on the cheek while she was still\nplaying the Toreador Song, a gesture that brought tumultuous cries\nand clapping. Then, instead of going up onstage via the stairs at\neither end, he went up near the organ-in a single bound! The stage\nwas at least three and a half feet high, so that this feat brought\ngasps of astonishment. How could anybody's legs be that strong?\n(Nothing to it if you were the great Blaq Fleet.)\nHe approched Blakey, who was standing just to the side of the\npulpit, and raised his hand in the high-five gesture, and Blakey\nraised his hand and gave him five, and it was as if that were the\nsmack heard round the world. People in the audience rose to their\nfeet and whooped and applauded more wildly than ever. Roger\ncouldn't help but think of Wes Jordan's high fives. Like Wes's highfives, Fleet's high five had an element of humor about it. After all,\npeople don't go around greeting preachers of the Gospel with high\nfives. There was humor- but there was no irony, which, it occurred\nto Roger, was a big difference.\nBlakey gestured toward the pulpit, as if to say, \"It's all yours.\" Fleet\nfirst lowered his head and touched his brow with the tips of the\nfingers of his right hand as a form of salute, appreciation, and\nhomage. Blakey took a seat just behind and off to one side of Fleet\nin a high-backed leather-upholstered armchair Roger had not even\nnoticed being brought onstage. Fleet now took the pulpit and\nbeamed his fabulous smile at the audience, which renewed its chant\nof gotcha back! gotcha back! gotcha back!\nOnce they had quieted down, Fleet leaned forward as if to become\ncloser to one and all. \"Thank you, brothers and sisters,\" he said in a\nrich baritone, \"thank you and God bless you. You know, brothers and\nsisters, it don't often fall to our lot to get to know and be close to a\ntruly great man. But you and I been among the fortunate ones.\"\nWhile Fleet paused and scanned the audience for what would no\ndoubt be some sort of rhetorical effect, Roger wondered if his\nmistakes in grammar were genuine or just part of his Blaq Fleet act.\nOnce the pause was suitably pregnant, Fleet said, \"You and me, we\nknow . . . reverend isaac blakey!\"\nMore wild applause and shouts of Tell it, brother! . . . You gettin' it\nsaid, Blaq! . . . Right on!\nFleet continued: \"A man as . . . brilliant ... as Reverend Blakey can\ntake any fork in the road he wants, but the man we know with\nreverence as . . . Ike . . . he stays with his people! With us! with his\nbrothers and sisters on the south side! he ain'r nobody's\nopportunist!\" Or at least Roger thought he said, He ain't nobody's\nopportunist, but he couldn't be sure, because the roar of the\naudience swallowed it up. The Reverend Mr. Blakey, meanwhile, was\nattempting to look suitably modest. He gave Blaq Fleet the smile ofgratitude, the one that turns down ever so slightly at the corners to\nshow a mixture of happiness and some more profound emotion.\nFleet was saying, \"No, I'm grateful just to be in the presence of this\ngreat man and in the church to which he has devoted his life.\" He\nsaid this in a lower-pitched, more intimate voice, to indicate that no\nmore applause was required on this subject. \"Just a moment ago\nReverend Blakey said something as only he could say it.\" He turned\ntoward Blakey and smiled, and then turned back toward his\naudience. \"He said, 'Right now, in this beautiful church, we're home .\n. . we're home in the sheltering arms . . . see . . . the sheltering\narms of the Carpenter. But then Reverend Blakey said, 'Comes the\ntime when we have to look outside, too, beyond these walls, and\nthink about the future of our children and of our brothers and sisters\nall over Atlanta.' As usual, Reverend Blakey's said it best. So I just\nwant to add a footnote ... to what he's told us. Reverend Blakey said\nwe have our brothers-and a few sisters, a few sisters-all over City\nHall and the current administration. But like Ike, when I go down to\nCity Hall to the buildings department, when I go by the Mayor's\noffice, I get the feeling I'm dealing with some kind of . . . beige half\nbrothers . . . You unnerstan' what I'm sayin' . . .\"\nThat brought out some gasps and laughs and the whinny of people\nsuddenly thrilled by the prospect of the speaker drawing blood.\n\"I get the feeling they're not hearing . . . what I'm saying . . . either\nthat or they're not listening to anybody but. each other . . . see . . .\nThey're not listening . . . There's certain of our beige half brothers\nwho are used to having things go . . . their way . . . They've never\nseen any other way. Just as Reverend Blakey put it so well, right on\nthe money, they're used to the West side way. Over there on the\nWest side is Morehouse College. Now, don't get me wrong. I love\nMorehouse College, even though I never attended Morehouse\nCollege, just as I love Spel- man and Clark and Morris Brown. These\nare great institutions with a great heritage, which have done great\nthings for our people. But there is also something called the\nMorehouse Man-again, don't get me wrong, I think it's great toaspire to be a Morehouse Man or a Spelman Woman or whatnot. But\nwhat you have to guard against is coming to think you're part of an .\n. . elite . . . and living your life as if you're part of an . . . elite . . .\nand running the government of this city as if you're part of an elite\nwith an attitude ... a Daddy Knows Best attitude . . . cutting the\ndeals any way you see fit . . . Well, I can tell you this: they need to\nbe reintroduced to their own people!\"\nRight on! . . . Tell it like it is, Blaq! . . .\n\"The way I see it,\" said Fleet, leaning toward his audience, his eyes\nblazing, \"it's high time Atlanta had its first . . . black mayor!\"\nAn initial confusion-and then the audience exploded with cackles,\nguffaws . . . You gettin' it said, Blaq! . . . applause and belly laughs\nthat went Heh heh heggggggggghhhhhhhh!\n\"Just think for a minute about'how many times our representatives\nhave reached compromises with the business establishment,\naddressed the concerns of the business establishment, courted\nmoney at election time from the business establishment, even\ncatered to the concerns of the rhinos-the rhinos in Grant Park-during\nFreaknic-and what about the concerns of African-American young\npeople who used to come to Atlanta even' spring for Freaknic-used\nto-until our representatives began walling off highway exits and\nturning entire areas of the city into frozen zones-and why?-because\nour young brothers and sisters had the . . . gall ... to want to do\nwhat white college students do all the time, which is to go off\nsomewhere at spring break and ... be young ... be free . . . feel their\noats, as they used to say-and why these anti- Freaknic crackdowns?\nBccause our young brothers and sisters upset the nerves of the\nbusiness establishment-and of course you know who they are, and\nthey do not live in the South side-they never even put one toe in the\nSouth side . . . except to go to baseball games in a stadium called\nTurner Field, which should have been named for the greatest player\nin the history of the game, our own Hank Aaron-\"The waves of emotion in the audience were rising and cresting and\nbreaking faster and faster. Unh-hunnnnhhhh . . . Oh yeah! . . . Hank\nAaron! . . . Tell it, Brother Blaq!\n\"Oh, they'll tell you six ways from Sunday how you have to tread\nlightly with the business establishment. They don't want to frazzle\nthe nerves ... of the North side. I say it's time we had . . .\ndemocracy in this Atlanta city, I say it's time we heard the voice of\nthe people who make up 75 percent of this city, I say it's time we\nheld our representatives in this city strictly accountable! ... see . . .\"\nOh yeah! . . . Unh-hunnnnhhhhhh! . . . You testifyin', Blaq! . . . You\ngettin' it said! . . . gotcha back! gotcha back! gotcha back! They\nbroke into the chant again.\nRoger Too White didn't move his head, but he cut his eyes this way\nand that. He was afraid that everybody in the hall was looking at\nhim. If there was any candidate for membership in that beige elite in\nthis hall, it was him, him with his necktie and his hacking jacket and\nhis collar pin. But in fact the audience seemed so absorbed in the\nroyal figure of Blaq Fleet, they weren't wasting their time on a run-\nof-the-mill sinner like Roger Too White. He couldn't wait to get out of\nhere with his beige hide and Wes Jordan's recording device. But he\ncouldn't do so just yet. To bail out in the middle of Blaq Fleet's\nsermon from the pulpit truly would drew attention.\nBlaq Fleet knew what he was doing at that pulpit. Sometimes he was\nthe Preacher. Sometimes he was the Next-Door Neighbor, having a\nchat with you out by the cedar picnic table in the back yard.\nSometimes he was Short)', crooning to \"you women.\" Sometimes he\nwas Your Fishing Buddy, putting a strong arm across the shoulders\nof \"you men.\" And often he was the NBA star, telling everybody how\nlife was like a basketball game:\n\"One time, when I was playing for the 76ers, we were up against\nthe Boston Celtics in the playoffs, and this was back when the Celtics\nhad Larry Bird.\" White, it occurred to Roger Too White. \"We weredown three games to one in the series, and it was the fifth game,\nand we were down by 21 points going into the fourth quarter.\nTwenty-one points ... So our coach, Buster Grant\" - black, thought\nRoger Too White-\"calls us all together in a huddle in front of our\nbench. Have you ever wondered what coaches say in those huddles\nin the middle of a basketball game? Well, Buster Grant was like\nReverend Blakey. He didn't waste words. He didn't just try to give\nyou a pep talk. He got down to business. 'Boys,' he said, 'we're\ndown 21 points going into the fourth quarter. But guess what? You're\nnot gonna go out there playing like you're desperate. You're gonna\nplay like this game is just beginning. You're not gonna go out there\nthrowing up bombs from row Z, looking for treys. You're gonna play\nbasketball. The only one who shoots is the open man, and that goes\nfor everybody.' Right away you sort of knew what the 'goes for\neverybody' meant. We had a forward- you may remember him-a\nforward called Gunner Wycoff\"-white, thought Roger Too White-\n\"who was a great shot, but he was gonna keep on shooting no\nmatter what kind of defense they put up against him and whether\nhe was open or not. That's why we called him Gunner. His real name\nwas Eric. Buster Grant didn't single the Gunner out, he just let his\neyes rest on him longer than anybody else. \"You're gonna go out\nthere and be a basketball team. You're gonna crawl all over them on\ndefense, and slice through them on offense-and you're gonna be\nprouder of yourselves than you've ever been in your whole life.'\nSome of you may remember what happened next. We went out\nthere and outscored the Celtics 35 to 13 in the final period and won\nthe game, 84 to 83. Our scoring was spread out among seven\nplayers, and none of us scored more than six points. Gunner Wycoff\nonly got four points, and two of those were foul shots, but he got\nsomething much bigger that night: the knowledge that he could pass\nand make plays, as well as gun that ball, and from that moment on,\nhe was a hundred percent better basketball player. We were all\nbetter basketball players from that moment. We were better not\nbecause Buster Grant had given us good advice but because\nsomehow his plain speaking had reached . . . our souls . . . see . . .\nour souls.\"Well, life is a lot like a basketball game. Maybe that's why so many\nfolks like basketball. The lessons are right there in front of you. It's a\nteam sport. There are games where a player-and I've been in'em-\ngames where a player scores 44 or 45 points, and his team still loses\nbadly. It's the same way with life in this city. You can go into politics\nand be a big star, but if you're a gunner . . . see ... a gunner who\njust wants to cover himself in glory, then you're not going to do\nanything for this city. But if you truly make our people a team,\nmake'em brothers and sisters who act with unity, then there's\nnothing we can't accomplish. And do we have a Buster Grant to\nreach our souls? That we do, brothers and sisters, that we do. We\nhave more than one, but one of them is right up here on this stage.\"\nHe pivoted and gestured. \"And his name is Reverend Isaac Blakey!\"\nApplause, cheers, cries of You the one! . . . You shootin' treys every\ntime, brother! . . . You dunkin'em, Blaq!\nThen Fleet leaned forward in his intimate mode once more and said,\n\"That's why I'm running for mayor in November. I want to create the\n. . . team . . . that our people have needed. As Reverend Blakey has\nsaid, Atlanta has been called the Black Mecca. Well, as long as\nAtlanta is in the hands of beige half brothers busy wooing the vanilla\npeople . . . see . . . the vanilla people . . .\"\nLaughter . . . whooeee . . . heh heggggghhhhhh . . . Lay it down,\nBlaq! . . . tuh unnnh! tuh unnnnnh!\n\". . . then we don't have a team. All we got's gunners . . . and we\ncan do better than that.\" He pulled back and straightened up and\nraised the volume of his voice: \"We will do better than that! Brothers\nand sisters, let us pledge to one another that we will unite! We don't\ncare 'bout the e-lites-of any color! We're gon' be a team! Oh, face\nfacts. We're way behind, going into the quarter period. But we're\ngonna make sure our souls . . . catch fire! . . . see . . .\"\nOh yeah! ... You gettin' it told, Blaq! . . . Catch fire, the burning\nhush! . . . Praise God!\"... Ain't nobody gon' be telling us the game is over, because when\nwe got the unity-ain't nothing can stop us! Ain't nothing gonna stop\nus! We gon' win this game!\"\nBlaq Fleet thrust his arms out in a fashion curiously similar to that of\nthe Carpenter in the stained-glass window behind him. The audience\nexploded with applause. People rose to their feet. From out of the\nconfused roar came the chant once more: gotcha back! gotcha back!\ngotcha back! gotcha back!\nCravenly, Roger Too White rose to his feet, too. He glanced back up\nthe aisle. Could he leave now-at last? People were beginning to step\nout into the aisle, not to leave, but to somehow magnify their\napproval of the great strapping young man at the pulpit. Roger Too\nWhite stood there, frozen, all too white.\nAfter a long while the applause subsided, and the Reverend Blakey,\nwho by now was standing beside Fleet, stepped to the pulpit.\n\"Brothers and sisters,\" he said, \"brothers and sisters . . . I've asked\nBrother Fleet to do one more thing before he goes. He didn't want to\ndo it. He thought it wasn't the right place. But if he's talking about\nunify, I want to show him unity.\" With this, Reverend Blakey stooped\ndown behind the pulpit and came up with four small buckets,\nordinary silvery galvanized buckets, one resting inside the next. \"I\nwant Brother Fleet to be passing amongst you-and I'm gonna be\nwith him, and so are two fine ladies from our choir-we're gonna pass\namongst you, and I want you to tap those buckets with anything you\ncan spare, to support Brother Fleet's campaign. He's not gon' have\nthe big corporations making contributions, because he hasn't cut any\ndeals . . . with the North side. If you can't tap the bucket, nobody's\ngon' hold it against you, because not even Brother Fleet himself\ncame here with the idea of raising money. I'm making him do it!\"\nFleet smiled and lowered his head and shook it. He was the very\npicture of humility in the face of the good fortune that was about to\ncome his way.Damn! thought Roger. I can't leave until they finish tapping theft-\ndamn buckets! If I leave now, it'll look like I'm leaving just to avoid\nmaking a contribution.\nSoon he could hear the sound of coins tapping the bottoms of the\nsilvery buckets.\nDamn! he thought. The bucket for my row is the one Fleet himself is\npassing!\nWhat should he give? How small an amount would be enough to get\nhim off the hook? Slowly he eased his paper money, which was\nfolded in two and held by a gold clip, out of his left pants pocket. As\ncovertly as possible he surveyed it. He couldn't believe it. What he\nhad were two hundred-dollar bills, one fifty, and a single. Could he\nget away with a one-dollar contribution? No. That would be almost\nas bad as stiffing him altogether. Now the great Fleet was right\nbeside him again, waiting for the bucket, which was being passed\nfrom the opposite end of the row. When it reached Roger Too White,\nit was as if, once more, some other being were overriding his free\nwill. He found himself depositing the $50 bill in the bucket.\nBlaq Fleet leaned over as if merely to take the bucket, flashed Roger\nanother gleaming grin, and said in a low voice, \"Thank you, brother.\nIf you have time, I'd like a word with you backstage after this is\nover.\"\nRoger Too White nodded yes helplessly. But as soon as the others\nstepped out into the aisle to depart, he beat a retreat-literally ran-\nwith his mortal hide and the newspaper with the recording device\ninside.\nOutside, it was now dark. The car!\nTo his immense surprise, the Lexus was in one piece, and there were\nno bad boys to be seen.\nChapter 17Epictetus Comes to Da House\nFollowing mutt's departure, five-o set about rearrang- ing \"da\nhouse.\" \"The house\" was what inmates, or veteran inmates,\nroutinely called their cells. Whether this was irony, nostalgia for\nhome and hearth, or just more jailhouse simplemindedness, Conrad\nhad no idea; although given what this reeking lizard cage looked\nlike, it sure struck him as simpleminded.\nFive-O took Mutt's bottom bunk, and Conrad took Five-O's top bunk,\nright under the lizard screen. A deputy appeared and removed the\nmattress on the floor, the one Conrad had been using, and two\ntissuey polyethylene bags, which commissary orders had come in,\ncontaining Mutt's personal belongings. Five-O emptied his own bag\nfull of. . . stuff . . . out on the lower bunk and took inventory. Conrad\nsaw a plastic commuter mug, a toenail clipper, a package of Ramen\nnoodles, a can of Dr Pepper soda, the Donald Goines novel Dr. Snow,\nanother paperback novel called White Horse, by Ahu Junghyo, a\ntimeworn little paperback book of silhouettes by an artist named Eric\nGill, a stack of postmarked letters, a photograph of a smiling\nHawaiian girl sitting in a booth inside a diner with a palm tree visible\nout the window, a toothbrush, two small tubes of Crest toothpaste,\nwriting paper and envelopes, three disposable Bic ballpoint pens, a\nSalvation Army address book, a plastic bottle of Faberge Organic\nShampoo for Normal Hair, an ice cream cup filled with instant coffee\npowder, and another ice cream cup that for some reason had its\ncircular top, which had been heavily blackened, shoved down inside\nthe cup and a piece of clear polyethylene sandwich wrap stretched\nover the opening. Conrad now had a place to sleep where he could\nlie down full-length. But the biggest change in da house was that\nFive-O started talking to him. All the time.\nTwo things he learned about Five-O very quickly. First, to Five-O\ntalking was as necessary as breathing, so great was his need for\nhuman company, any human company. Conrad wondered if the man\ncould have survived half a day in solitary confinement. Second, Five-O believed one hundred percent in what Mr. Wildrotsky used to refer\nto as Realpolitik. Every day, ever)' minute, if need be, he was willing\nto erase the blackboard of history and make alliances with whoever\ncould serve him best in the battle lines as now drawn. Mutt's poor\nbody had scarcely stopped twitching before Five-O started talking to\nConrad as if they were buddies from small-kid time, as they said in\nPidgin, and the past week of glowering at him as if he were a\nparasite sucking away the very air he breathed had never happened.\nNow, all of a sudden, Five-O couldn't tell him enough about the\nthings a new fish needed to know in order to survive in jail.\nWhatever the motivation, Conrad was grateful. Hi, Conrad. How you\ndoin', bro? He was dying to ask Five-O what to do about Rotto's\nalarming overture in the visitors' area, but a sixth sense made him\nhold back. He didn't know yet how far he could trust Five-O; and\nbesides, Five-O was himself in some way connected with the Latino\ngang, Nuestra Familia; and Nuestra Familia were likely to strike any\nyoung white new fish as only marginally less threatening than Rotto\nand his gang.\nThe dinner trolley was due soon, and the pod was relatively quiet,\neven though the deputies had loaded the PA system with something\neven more irritating to the O-town homeboys than Grover\nWashington's saxophone. It was a chorus of white singers, backed\nup by a lot of bubbly, bouncy clarinets and trombones, rendering a\nsong with a very old- fashioned beat called, apparently, \"The\nChattanooga Choo-choo.\" But aside from the occasional comment\nover the wire -such as \"The fuck they singin'? Them lame gray\nmotherfuckers, they the motherfuckers that ought to be down\"-the\ninmates didn't get particularly exercised about it. They were more\nupset because of the Bugler tobacco crisis.\nThe inmates made out commissary slips and had items charged to\ntheir accounts, and a trusty pushed around a cart delivering orders\nto the cells. The cart had come around, and the inmates discovered\nthere was no Bugler rolling tobacco for roll-your-own cigarettes. One\nby one, as in a row of falling dominoes, they'd yell up through thewire, \"Mother- fuck, no Bugler?\" And the deputies on the catwalk\nwould answer, \"Yeah, I guess you're ass-out.\" Finally one of the\ndeputies said, \"Stop complaining. They're talking about a no-\nsmoking rule around here, and then you're really gonna be ass-out.\"\nAnd one of the inmates yelled back, \"Then you better buy some\nearplugs, Sheriff, 'cause you gonna hear a whole lotta goddamned\ndoor-kickin'.\"\nUp on the top bunk, beneath the lizard screen, Conrad sighed and\npropped his back against the wall and tried once more to read his\nbook, even though it had turned out to be a terrible disappointment.\nIt was not The Stoics' Game by the magnificently entertaining Lucius\nTombs, after all. The title was simply The Stoics. On the title page it\nsaid, \"The complete extant writings of Epictetus, Marcus Aurelius, C.\nMusonius Rufus, and Zeno. Edited and with an Introduction by A.\nGriswold Be- mis, Associate Professor of Classics, Yale University.\" He\ncouldn't believe it! The bookstore had sent the wrong book! How\ncould fate turn this completely against him? As if to rub it in, the\ndeputy had then raped the book's physical integrity, leaving him with\nthe tattered remains, these limp clumps of unbound pages-of the\nwrong book!-in his lap. Still, it was a book, and the only book he\nhad. So he started browsing through the introduction by Professor\nBemis . . . Scrack scrack scraaaccck went the ceiling fans .. . Thra-\ngoooooom! Gluglugluglug went the toilets . . .\nMotherfuckermotherfuckermotherfucker went the inmates ... It was\npretty tedious going, this book, which was all about the Greeks and\nthe Romans and \"the origins of philosophy, the speculative spirit of\ninquiry into the mysteries of life and the universe\" . . . These people,\nEpictetus, Marcus Aurelius, C. Musonius Rufus, and Zeno, were\nphilosophers from nearly two thousand years ago in the days of\nImperial Rome . . . Conrad was drifting 011 the swollen river of\nwords when a detail, a mere detail, caught his attention. The author\nhappened to mention that this Epictetus had spent time in prison as\na young man. He had been tortured and crippled, but he had gone\non to become one of the greatest Roman philosophers. Conrad\nbegan hurrying through the thick, leisurely prose. Very little wasknown about Epictetus, not even the dates of his birth and death,\nbut it was known that his parents, who were Greeks, had sold him\nas a slave, when he was a boy, to an officer in the Emperor Nero's\nImperial Guard. He had begun his life stripped of everything, his\nfamily, his possessions, his freedom.\nNow Conrad couldn't read fast enough. He leafed through the pages\nto find this man Epictetus' own words . . . Book I, Chapter 1: \"On\nThings in Our Power and Things Not in Our Power\" . . . and he came\nupon this passage: \"To ye prisoners\" - prisoners - \"on the earth and\nin an earthly body and among earthly companions, what says Zeus?\nZeus says, 'If it were possible I would have made your body and\nyour possessions (those trifles that you prize) free and\nuntrammelled. But as things are-never forget this-this body is not\nyours, it is but a clever mixture of clay. 1 gave you a portion of our\ndivinity, a spark from our own fire, the power to act and not to act,\nthe will to get and the will to avoid. If you pay heed to this, you will\nnot groan, you will blame no man, you will flatter none.' \"\nAnd then Epictetus said: \"We must die. But must we die groaning?\nWe must be imprisoned\" -We must be imprisoned! he said! -\"but\nmust we whine as well? What say you, fellow? Chain me? My leg you\nwill chain-yes, but my will-no, not even Zeus can conquer that. You\nsay, 'I will imprison you.' I say, 'My bit of a body, you mean.' You say,\n'I will behead you.' I say, 'When did I ever tell you I was the only\nman in the world that could not be beheaded?' It is circumstances\nwhich show what men are. Therefore when a difficulty falls upon\nyou, remember that Zeus, like a trainer of wrestlers, has matched\nyou with a rough young man. 'For what purpose?' you may say.\n'Why, that you may become an Olympic conqueror; but it is not\naccomplished without sweat-' \"\n'To! Conrad!\" It was Five-O, who was sitting on the edge of the bunk\nbelow. \"One noddah t'ing mo', brah. Okay? Da new fish, dey t'ink so\nif-\"And Five-O was off on another lesson for the first-timer on the ways\nof jailhouse life. Conrad didn't want another lesson just now. He had\na sudden, overwhelming thirst for the words of this man he had\nnever heard of before, this man whose name he couldn't even begin\nto pronounce, Epictetus. At the same time, he didn't want to risk\nlosing the newly acquired goodwill of his cellie (as the prisoners\ncalled their cellmates), and so he figured he had better pay\nattention.\n\"Da new fish,\" Five-O was saying, \"dey t'ink so if dey stay real quiet\nkine, if dey no make ass, if dey ac' like dey jes coasting kine, if dey\nboddah no mo' nobody-den dey going stay eenveesible.\" Invisible.\n\"Cannot, brah! You edah dis t'ing or you one noddah t'ing. You no\nstay eenveesible. You edah one player or one punk, yeah? An' dees\nbuggahs\"-he raised his hand high enough for Conrad to see it and\nmade a circle in the air, as if to take in the entire pod-\"if dey t'ink\nyou one punk, den you real had-it. Bumbye dey going grind you.\"\nConrad didn't want to start a conversation. He wanted to get back to\nEpictetus. But the word grind got him. It frightened him. Hi, Conrad.\nHow you doin', bro? In Pidgin, as he knew by now, grind meant eat:\nbite, chew up, swallow, obliterate.\n\"But how do you get to be a ... a player?\" he asked Five-O. \"What\ncan you do?\"\n\"No do no mo' notting, brah. Use da mouth. No make beef wit' da\nbuggahs. Use da mouth.\"\nConrad pondered this advice, but couldn't imagine what it actually\nmeant.\nThe white singers and the clarinets and the trombones were now-\nbobbing along in some rickety old song about \"jiggers of moonlight.\"\nThe pod was going scrack scrack scrack scraaacccckkkkkk thra-\nGOOM glug glug glug glug motherfucker motherfucker motherfucker.\n.. and then you could hear the aluminum clatter of the meal trolley\nbeginning to roll though the pod . . . Yo! Trus-tee! . . . Trus-tee! . . .Inmates elevated to the status of trust)', thanks to good behavior-at\nSanta Rita the word was always pronounced trus-tee-dispensed the\nmeals off the trolleys on thin paper plates with the cheapest plastic\nutensils imaginable. If you liked pancakes for breakfast and roast\nchicken for dinner, you wouldn't starve at Santa Rita. The lunch,\nwhich was always a sandwich of processed meat shot through with\nwhat looked like blood vessels and tendons, was inedible, as were\nthe powdered eggs at breakfast, which tasted oddly like prunes; but\nyou could get by on the pancakes and the chicken . . . Yo! Trus-tee!\n. . . The meal trolley rattled closer.\nFive-O picked up the ice cream cup with the sandwich wrap\nstretched across the top and went to the door, stuck the cup out the\nslot, then cocked his head and squinted out at the cup. Then he\npulled the cup back in and turned to Conrad and said, \" 'Ey, try\nlook.\"\nSo Conrad walked over to the door and did as Five-O had done. He\nstuck the cup out through the slot and squinted at it. The cup's top\ncap was the one Five-O had blackened with a ballpoint pen. The top,\nwhich he had forced down into the cup, plus the stretch wrap, which\nhe had pulled tight over the opening, created a mirror, a rearview\nmirror, as it were. He could look down the line of cells. He could see\nthe meal trolley, a tall aluminum cart full of shelves, two cells away.\nHe could see the stacks of paper plates with roast chicken legs on\nthem . . . Croker Global! Eighty pounds! Croker Global supplied\nSanta Rita. He had just finished humping a Santa Rita order the\nnight he was laid off. The cartons of frozen chicken legs weighed\neighty pounds apiece. For an instant he was back inside the icy cliffs\nof the Suicidal Freezer Unit, struggling with those frozen dun-colored\ncubes. Maybe Kenny or Light Bulb or Herbie had humped the very\ncarton these chicken legs came from. And he was now on the\nreceiving end in this unbelievable place . . . The trusty pushing the\nmeal trolley was a tall but terribly thin and gawky Chinese wearing a\npair of big round black-rimmed glasses. He was probably in his late\ntwenties. He looked like an ancient Mandarin scholar in embryo.Conrad pulled the cup and his arm back inside the cell, and Five-O,\nstanding right beside him, lifted a forefinger straight up, at eye level,\nas if to say, \"Hark!\" and said, \"Try listen, Conrad. Use da mouth.\" He\nwinked.\nSoon there was a rap on the cell door, and you could see the big\nblack-rimmed eyeglasses of the Chinese trust)' at the slot. In a reedy\nvoice he said, 'To, mealtime.\"\nFive-O walked to the slot, squared his jaws, and stared at the trusty\nwith a steady, deep, malevolent gaze. The trusty passed a paper\nplate with a chicken leg on it through the slot. Five-O took it, turned\nback toward Conrad, winked again, picked up the chicken leg, took a\nhuge bite, and put the remains back on the plate. Almost half the\nmeat was gone. Then he turned back to the trusty and pushed the\nplate and the chewed chicken leg back through the slot, and, his\ncheeks still crammed with food, managed to say, \" 'Ey, bummahs,\nman. Try look. Some buggah wen grind half da muddahfuggin'\ncheecken. You going give me one noddah plate, man!\"\nHe beamed such a malevolent look at the gawky Chinese that if\nlooks could kill, the man would have died on the spot.\nBut he didn't take the plate back. He just stared at Five-O and said,\n\"Say what?\"\n\"Spahk\"-check out-\"da muddahfuggin' cheecken, bruddah! Some\nbuggah wen grind half da muddahfuggah! You going give me one\nnod- dah one!\"\n\"Aw, come on, man,\" said the trusty wearily. 'You ate half 'at leg a\nchicken yo'ownse'f.\"\nConrad saw a glimmer of dismay in Five-O's eyes. The trusty's voice\nhad deepened, and he didn't sound like some weak, skinny Chinese.\nIf anything, he sounded black. Five-O narrowed his eyes and\nclenched his jaws and tried a growl: \"Haaaaaahh? Wot? Like beef?\"Five-O's face was so furious, you didn't have to know Pidgin to know\nthat he was saying: \"You want to fight?\"\nThe skinny Chinese with the big spectacles said, \"Look, bruwa, I'm a\nnumber in here, and you a number in here . . . see . . . an' I ain't\ntryin' a disrespectchoo. I'm jes' tryin'a do my time . . . You unnastan'\nwhat I'm sayin'? I ain't tryin'a sweatchoo, and I ain't tryin'a play you.\nSo whatchoo doggin' me for? I ain't rollin'is motherfuckin' trolley\nth'oo here to come sweatchoo, play you, dog you, git over on you,\nrun a game on you, or any other damn thing ... see . . .\"\nBy now Conrad was as perplexed as Five-O. Pouring out of the\nlarynx of this slight, bespectacled, scholarly-looking Chinese was the\nvoice of an East Oakland homeboy, a righteous one, with heart, a\nblood among bloods who knew how to get down and tend to\nbusiness.\n\"So, bruwa, you kin have half a dis pod and half a Santa Rita and\nhalf a Alameda County and half a the whole damn East Bay, for all I\ncare, but don't be doggin' me 'bout no half a damn leg a chicken,\n'cause ain't a damn thing in the world I kin do wid the other half of it\n'cep'n git myse'f all fucked up wid my shot caller. My shot caller, he\nsay, You let yo'sef git dogged, bruwa, you gon' git yo'sef double-\ndogged-by me ... see ... So whyn'tchoo kindly do the right thing,\nbruwa, and take 'is here paper plate and 'at half a damn leg a\nchicken and go with God, Shakem Alakem, and you'n'me's fifty-fifty\nand everything's cool.\"\nHis jaw slack, his mouth half open, Five-O pulled the plate back\nthrough the slot without a word, in slow motion, all the while staring\nat this skinny Chinese with the bleary glasses and the baggy vellow\nfelony pajamas. The light went out in Five-O's eyes. He moved\nslowly away from the door, holding the plate at chest level, looking\ntoward the bunk, as if in a trance. Conrad stepped up to the door\nand took the second plate, which the trusty now put through the\nslot. Five-O was sitting on the edge of his bunk, staring at the wall.You could hear the trolley rattling as the trusty pushed it to the next\ncell.\nConrad didn't know whether to look at Five-O or not. The man had\njust been humiliated. After all his big talk, he was the one who had\nbacked down. But Five-O himself solved that one for him.\n\"No laugh, you!\" He stared at Conrad angrily, but then his expression\nchanged from angry to doleful. \" 'Ey, bummahs, man, yeah? Hear\ndat buggah? Wow, dat buggah get connections! Dat buggah get\nconnections wit' da popolos from long time. No bulai\"-No bullshit!-\n\"brah. Maybe da Black Guerrilla Family, yeah? Maybe da Crips. No\ncan affo'd'um, make beef wit' dem buggahs.\" He shook his head\ndisconsolately.\nWhat ran through Conrad's mind was: Do 1 dare say the obvious?\nThe tactful thing would be to say nothing and perhaps just nod to\nnote the sagacity of this latest advice. But something told him this\nmight in fact be a moment when he could forge a bond with his\ncellie. So he dared: \"That trus-tee's not a big guy like you, Five-O.\nHe's just a skinny, weak-looking guy with thick glasses.\"\nIrritably: \"An' den?\"\n\"And then so maybe he took your advice.\"\n\"Yeah? Ass what?\"\n\"Remember what you just told me?\" said Conrad. 'Tou said, 'Use the\nmouth.' You said, 'Don't get into a beef. Use the mouth.' Well, that\ntrusty can really use the mouth. That bugger can talk, Five-O.\"\nSitting there, holding his plate in his lap, Five-O narrowed his eyes\nand scowled. Then his face relaxed and he looked straight ahead at\nthe wall, as if deep in thought. Then he turned back toward Conrad,\nand a smile stole over his face. He started nodding.\n\"Fo' real, brah,\" he said softly, \"fo' real.\" He chortled ruefully. \"Dat\nbuggah wen use da mouth. Dat buggah-dat buggah's mouth mo' bigdan mines! Dat Chinaboy, he stay one motormouth-to da max!\" He\nstarted laughing. \"No mo' mind me, Conrad! Try listen dat China\nbuggah!\"\nevery afternoon at one and every evening at six the deputies turned\nthe inmates out of their cells and led them into the pod room for\nfour hours of communal \"pod time,\" as it was known. Strictly\nspeaking, you didn't have to leave your cell. But if you didn't, you\nwere locked in, and that was that. You couldn't go back and forth\nfrom the cell to the pod room. Conrad was so afraid of having to\ndeal with Rotto, he was sorely tempted to stay inside. But on the\nother hand . . . staying inside that 5-by-9 lizard cage all day long,\nlooking up through the screen at the catwalk, listening to the attic\nfans struggling, was a grim prospect . . . and sooner or later you had\nto come out, to take a shower . . . and he didn't want his now-\nfriendly cellie to think he was eccentric or, worse, frightened . . . and\nhis body ached for the chance to move around, if only in that grim\ngray pod room . . . and something within him-his useless, deluded\nsoul?-told him he must not surrender to fear. So he trooped on out\nwith Five-O and the others.\nThe pod room was a large rectangle of concrete with two rows of\nmetal tables and metal stools out in the middle. The tables and the\nstools, like even' other piece of furniture in the pod, were bolted to\nthe floor. Along one side of the room were the open showers with\nthe concrete retaining wall in front of them; and along the opposite\nside, also separated from the rest of the space by a retaining wall,\nwas a line of open toilets and basins. Down at one end were two\npublic telephones that could be used for outgoing collect calls only.\nNot too far away was a television set up on a metal stanchion. To\nchange the channels you had to be somebody tall standing on one\nof the metal tables. Overhead there was no wire screen and no\ncatwalk. The main instrument of surveillance was a video camera\nhigh up in one corner that fed a screen the deputies monitored.\nFrom the position of the camera you could tell that. . . things . . .\ncould go on in the shower area without the deputies ever knowing.Of this, at the moment, Conrad was dreadfully aware. His job was to\nstay as far away from Rotto and his boys as possible without getting\nanywhere near Vastly and his boys. Even' time he so much as\nglanced toward the telephones and the television set, he could pick\nout Vastly immediately. The yellow ribbons on his cornrows created a\nstrange floating field of gold above his head. Right now he was\nseated, along with a half dozen of his followers, at the table that\noffered the best view of the television screen.\nThey had found a channel showing a concert, in some huge arena,\nfeaturing a black singer named Lorelei Washburn. Lorelei Washburn\nwas a screamer. Given a choice between a high register and a low\none, she always went high and screamed in order to reach the note .\n. .\n\"tearing out the heart of meeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEeee!\" . . . Her\nscreams ricocheted off the gray concrete of the pod room. But Vastly\nand the boys had no interest in Lorelei Washburn, who was wearing\na white dress that was sleek, silky, and tight-fitting, but also long\nand not particularly revealing. No, their entire attention seemed to\nbe pinned on her backup singers, three tan-skinned girls wearing\npleated miniskirts that barely covered their bottoms. When they\nswiveled their hips or whirled-and they swiveled and whirled\nconstantly-the pleated skirts rose up like pinwheels, revealing tiny\nglittery bikini panties. Little more than cache-sexes these panties\nwere, and the sight of so much nearly bare booty drove Vastly's\ngang wild.\n\" 'At's the real deal, baby!\"\n\"Right on, bro! No mo'at homosexual-faggot-drag-queen-B-cat-\ntumed- out-punk shit!\"\n\"Yeah, 'at's the real shit! It's live, man! It ain't Memorex!\"\n\"I'm fulla jook, sugar!\"\n\"Looka the booh' on 'at mama!\"\"Shake yo' booty!\"\n\"Jook vo' booty!\"\nConrad's blood ran cold. Tumed-out punk. The message he heard in\nthese shouts had nothing to do with the three sexy young\nperformers on the screen. These men-the rulers of the pod at Santa\nRita-preferred women, but they regarded homosexuals as a perfectly\nacceptable substitute while you were in jail. And in jail, in addition to\nthe drag queens and the B-cats, who might be found anywhere,\nthere were also the \"turned-out punks,\" young and slightly built new\nfish, like the Mutt Simms of long ago, who were forced to commit or\nsubmit to homosexual acts.\nConrad now surveyed the pod room with a horrible clarity. It was a\nfoul gray chamber inhabited by grim organisms in yellow felony\npajamas who arranged themselves in primitive territorial packs. The\nprime territory was the end of the room where the two telephones\nand the television set were located, and the blacks had all of that to\nthemselves. Most of the black inmates kept their heads shaved, or\nclose to it, but some of them wore their hair long and wrapped do-\nrags around their heads. All the do-rags were green, because the\nonly way they could get the material was to rip it off the green\nsheets the jail issued. It infuriated the deputies, all these insults to\ncounty property, but the practice never died. The most sinister-\nlooking do-rag wearer, as Conrad saw it, was sitting next to Vastly at\nthis moment, a tall, gaunt young man with sunken cheeks and a\ndegenerate slouch, known as Rapmaster EmCee New York. He\nwrapped his do-rag down so low, it almost covered his eyes. He\nlooked like a black pirate. A few, most notably Vastly, wore their hair\nin cornrows or dreadlocks. Bunched together the way they were,\nthey looked supremely powerful; and in the pod room, in fact, they\nwere. The possibility of some white or Latin inmate just ambling over\nand using a telephone or changing the television channel without\nVastly's permission was nil.The Latinos mainly hung around one side of the room over by the\nopen toilets and the basins. Most of them were Mexican. They kept\ntheir hair short and liked to wear necklaces with crosses, which they\nwove out of plastic lace left over from packaged items from the\ncommissar)'. They seemed to spend half the pod time shadow-\nboxing. Lefts, rights, hooks, combinations-their brown fists were\ntearing the air to pieces. What good that would do anybody in a\njailhouse fight, Conrad couldn't imagine. You only had to look across\nthe way to where the black inmates had commandeered the\nentryway to the showers to do their dips ... to buff up . . . to keep\naccumulating the brute power that ruled the pod . . . The Latinos\ngave each other mildly deprecatory nicknames such as Flaco\n(Skinny), Gordo (Fat Man), Weddo (Blondie), Oso (Grizzly Bear),\nand, curiously, Wino. Wino was the Nuestra Fam- ilia shot caller. He\nwas a short, heavyset, sleepy-looking man, probably in his early\nthirties, not very prepossessing; and yet everyone, even Vastly &\nCo., seemed to give him plenty of room. The white inmates, who\ncongregated up here, far away from the telephones, gave each other\nnicknames that were straight out demeaning: Rotto, Mutt, Riffraff,\nSlimy, Sleaze Man-and, like Mutt, took offense if any outsider\npresumed to call them that. The inner core, members of the Nordic\nBund, were heavily tattooed and wore their hair in ponytails or else\ncombed it back on the sides and let it run down the backs of their\nnecks in wild mongrel tangles-like Morrie, the giant from the tow-\ntruck company. (His huge figure rose up once more in Conrad's\nmind.) There were only four Asians in the pod, Five-O and three\nyoung Chinese drug dealers from Oakland. Like Five-O, they stuck\nclose to the Latinos during pod time.\nPacks! Dens! Utterly primitive animal turfs!\nConrad sat down by himself at a table. He had brought along a\nwriting tablet and a Bic ballpoint pen and his book, The Stoics. He\nset about writing a letter to Jill-and Carl and Christ)'. Right away he\nrealized it was really the children he wanted to reach. He was so\nafraid they would forget him altogether. He tried to draw a picture ofan elephant, with a comic-strip balloon over its head, saying, \"Hi,\nCarl! Hi, Christy!\" But he wasn't much of an artist, and he couldn't\nfigure out where the elephant's mouth went or which way the hind\nlegs were supposed to bend . . . Well, at least it was something that\nmight make them think of their father . . . As for Jill ... he realized he\ndidn't know what to say to her. Should he pour his heart out? . . .\nSomething told him that would be a tactical mistake. A tactical\nmistake. What a sad thing it was to have to think tactically about\nyour own wife . . .\nEver)' minute or so he lifted his eyes and cut a glance toward the\nend of the room, where Rotto held court. He could feel his heart\nstrumming along far too fast. If anything happened, he would have\nno allies, and he couldn't imagine where he would ever find any. His\nnew pal in da house, Five-O, had scarcely looked at him once they\nreached the pod room, let alone talked to him. Obviously he didn't\nwant to be seen hanging out with some new white fish. Conrad\nwasn't even surprised. That was Five-O. Five-O spent the pod time\nwith his Latino buddies, although Conrad now saw him chatting with\na couple of the hard- looking Okies. Evidently he was giving them\nthe details of Mutt's set-to with the deputies. He made a little kick in\nthe air and then lunged forward a step with his forearm raised,\npantomiming Mutt's surprise assault on Armentrout. Conrad couldn't\nhear what he was saying, but no doubt he was assuring them he\nhad been Mutt's staunch ally, shoulder to shoulder, shank to flank,\nuntil the bitter end.\nHe studied the Okies for a moment. They were white, but there was\nno way he could approach them. The Nordic Bund-they were all\nbigger and tougher versions of Mutt. Except for the color of their\nskin, they were as alien as the Black Guerrilla Family. The only other\nwhites were hopeless cases who could offer no protection at all.\nThere was a pudgy man, in his mid-forties, if Conrad had to guess,\nwith thinning light brown hair, who was referred to only as Pops or\nOld Man . . . Yo, Pops! . . . Hey, Old Man! . . . But that, apparently,\nwas true of all inmates who were over forty. Unless they were bruteswith fearsome reputations, they lost not only their real names but\nalso their nicknames. They were written off. They were history. They\nbecame just Pops or Old Man. This particular Pops walked around\nthe pod room with his puffy eyes half- closed and his feet dragging\nacross the floor in a pathetic gait known as the Sinequan Shuffle.\nSinequan was a drug, like Thorazine, which was used to tranquilize\nJ-cats. This Pops was pathetic, and he did the Shuffle, but he wasn't\nso crazy. He kept shuffling around throughout the entire pod time,\nnever standing still, apparently not looking at a thing, but he never\nshuffled near the Latinos, much less the blacks. He wasn't J-cat\nenough to do some stupid J-cat thing like let himself stray from the\nwhite turf.\nThen there was Pocahontas. Pocahontas was a new fish, newer than\nConrad, tall, six-three or six-four, skinny, practically anorexic, pale,\nclose to being albino, young, as young as Conrad. He had a Mohawk\nhaircut, no eyebrows, and four tiny sinkholes in the rim of his left\near, where there had no doubt been a row of earrings prior to his\narrival at Santa Rita. The Mohawk was a narrow brush of auburn\nhair bisecting his shaved head. He had shaved off his eyebrows, too,\nwhile he was at it. His movements, the way he walked, the way he\ncarried things, were effeminate. He had immediately picked up the\nnickname Pocahontas. The fact that the real Pocahontas was a\nPowhatan princess rather than a Mohawk was a historical nicety not\nlikely to trouble anybody in D Pod, West Greystone, Santa Rita\nRehabilitation Center. The boy sat with a shell back and a collapsed\nposture at one of the tables, his pale green eyes blank, looking\nutterly miserable. Conrad not only felt sorry for him but also felt an\nobligation to tTy to help him in some way-but what could he possibly\ndo? And then he felt guilty . . . since he also knew he didn't want to\nbe lumped with him as a pal . . . and fellow B-cat . . .\nOn the screen atop the metal pole Lorelei Washburn continued to\nwail and fill the pod with her screams . . . \"-at the heartless feet of\nyooooooOOOOOOOOOOOOOU!\" . . . and her three backup singers\ncontinued to swivel and whirl and shake their nearly bare booties . .. and Vastly and the boys offered up more prayers to their god,\nsexual conquest:\n\"Ooooooooooo-weeeee, baby, I been down in Santa Rita too long!\"\n\"This is the lick!\"\n\"This is the real lick fo' a change, bro!\"\n\"No mo' B-cat boot)', man!\"\n\"Gimme the boot)' all-roooooty!\"\n\"I'm gon' mack a sweet meat crack!\"\n\"No mo' jookin' punks, I want some booty in my bunk!\"\nto conrad's great relief, the pod time ground by without Rotto even\nseeming to notice his existence, much less making a move in his\ndirection. By the end, shortly before 10 p. M., he had managed to\ncomplete his letter and his clumsy, labored drawing and to read\nthree chapters of \"the extant writings\" of Epictetus.\nThe words of this onetime prison inmate from two thousand years\nago resonated across the millennia with an electrifying clarity. It\nseemed that in fact these were not Epictetus' writings but his\ndialogues, his colloquies, with his disciples, as recorded by one of\nthem, whose name was Arrian. Thanks to the conversational tone,\nthere was an immediacy about everything he said. Conrad had a\npicture of a crippled old man with wisps of gray hair on his head but\na full beard-according to the introduction, all the Roman\nphilosophers wore beards-an old man wearing a beard and a toga,\nsitting on a chair in a bare room with a small group of young men,\nalso wearing togas, sitting at his feet. (And now they are joined by a\nyoung man wearing yellow felony pajamas and flip-flop sandals and\na mustache, who takes a seat on the floor, at the rear of the group,\never so quietly and reverently . . .)In Book I, Chapter 2, the group gets into a discussion of what a man\nshould do when faced with the choice of either submitting to\nsomething degrading or else suffering severe punishment or death.\nEpictetus says, \"To the rational creature, only the irrational is\nunbearable; the rational he can always bear. Blows are not by nature\nintolerable.\"\nOne of his disciples (no doubt a young man, about Conrad's own\nage, in a toga) says, \"What do you mean?\"\nEpictetus proceeds to tell how Florus, a Roman historian, was\nsummoned by Nero to act in one of his notorious spectacles. Nero\ndelighted in forcing famous and noble Romans to put on costumes\nand go onstage and act out degrading roles in so-called tragedies he\ndevised. To refuse was to risk death. Badly shaken, Florus goes to\nsee his friend Agrippinus, the Stoic philosopher.\n\"What should I do?\" says Florus. \"If I refuse, I will be beheaded. If I\ntake part, I will be humiliated before all of Rome.\"\n\"Nero has summoned me, too,\" says Agrippinus.\n\"So what do we do?\" says Florus.\n\"You appear in the tragedy,\" says Agrippinus.\n\"And you?\"\n\"I will not,\" says the Stoic.\n\"But why should I, and not you, appear in this spectacle?\" says\nFlorus.\n\"Because you have considered it,\" says the Stoic.\nThen Epictetus tells them about an Olympic athlete who was\nthreatened with death if he did not allow himself to be castrated so\nthat he might serve as a statuesque eunuch, a human ornament, in\nNero's seraglio. His brother, who was a philosopher, came to him andsaid, \"Brother, what will you do? Are we to let the knife do its work?\"\nThe athlete refused and was executed.\n\"How did he die,\" asks one of the disciples, \"as an athlete or as a\nphilosopher?\"\n\"He died as a man,\" says Epictetus, \"and a man who had wrestled at\nOlympia and been proclaimed victor, one who had passed his days in\nsuch a place as that, not one who merely parades about the\ngymnasium anointing himself with oil so that all can admire him.\nAnother man would have consented to have even his head cut off, if\nhe could have lived without it. That is what I mean about keeping\nyour character: such is its power with those who have acquired the\nhabit of carrying it into ever)' question that arises. You can be the\nordinary thread in the tunic, or you can be the purple, that touch of\nbrilliance that gives distinction to the rest.\"\nHis final example is from his own life. It seemed that the Emperor\nDomitian, Nero's successor, had ordered all the philosophers of\nRome to go into exile. But if they shaved off their beards-i. E.,\nsvmbolize for all to see that they were no longer philosophers but\nordinary men bowing before the Emperor-they could remain in Rome\nand live in peace. Epictetus refused.\n\"They said, 'We must behead you then.'\n\" 'So be it,' I said. 'Behead me, if it is better for you that way. When\ndid I tell you that I was immortal? You will do your part, and I mine.\nIt is yours to kill, mine to die without quailing: yours to banish, mine\nto go into exile without groaning.'\" He was sent into exile.\nOne of the disciples says, \"How then shall we discover, each of us,\nwhat suits his character?\"\nEpictetus says, \"How does the bull, when the lion attacks, discover\nwhat powers he is endowed with? It is plain that each of us who has\npower of this sort will not be unaware of its possession. Like the\nbull, the man of noble nature does not become noble all of asudden; he must train through the winter and make ready, and not\nlightly leap to meet things that concern him not.\"\nConrad looked up from the pages before him on the metal table. He\nwas aware of all the yellow felony pajamas, eddying and fidgeting\nabout in clumps, in their various turfs . . . The pudgy white man,\nPops, still had his head down and his eyes nearly shut, doing his\nSinequan Shuffle not far from Rotto and a clutch of his tattooed\nOkies who were huddled with downcast shit-kickin' looks on their\nfaces . . . Pocahontas was sitting collapsed over a metal table with\nhis head, his ludicrous auburn Mohawk and all, resting on his\nforearms, which seemed terribly thin, pale, and spidery . . . The\nMexicans were still pulverizing their phantom enemies with their\nhooks, jabs, and straight rights in the air, while Five-O joked about\nwith the one with the light hair, Weddo . . . One of Vastly's boys, a\nshort, very dark man, with prodigious shoulders, neck, and chest,\nwas over by the showers doing his dips in the opening of the\nretaining wall while two more waited their turn . . . and Vastly\nhimself still held court with most of his retinue at the table in front of\nthe television set . . . The tiny yellow paper ribbons seemed to fairly\ngleam above his cornrow hairdo ... He and his boys were watching a\ntelevision show called Posse, about a black gang in Los Angeles, full\nof gunfire, maudlin laments about \"da 'hood,\" and dialogue that\nstruck Conrad as totally unrealistic, since on television nobody said\nmotherfuckin'.\n\" 'At's da law a da 'hood, man,\" said a character on the screen, a\nyoung man who rocked along in a Frankenstein gait, wearing a pair\nof bulky black sneakers, voluminous homey jeans whose crotch\ncame down to his knees, a black leather jacket with numerous\nlethal-looking zippers, a do-rag, and an expression of terminal anger,\n\"an ain'no po-lice you can run to to take care da law a da 'hood.\"\nVastly nodded, and his boys nodded with him. They were engrossed.\nThis was drama. This was the real lick, no doubt.What would Epictetus have done with this bunch? What could he\nhave done? How could you apply his lessons two thousand years\nlater, in this grimy gray pod, this pigsty full of beasts who grunted\nabout motherfuckin' this and motherfuckin' that and turning boys\ninto B-cats and jookin' punks? And yet . . . were they really any\nworse than Nero and his Imperial Guard? Epictetus spoke to him!-\nfrom half a world and two thousand years away! The answer was\nsomewhere in these pages! What little bit Conrad had learned about\nphilosophy at Mount Diablo had seemed to concern people who were\nfree and whose main problem was to choose from among life's\ninfinite possibilities. Only Epictetus began with the assumption that\nlife is hard, brutal, punishing, narrow, and confining, a deadly\nbusiness, and that fairness and unfairness are beside the point. Only\nEpictetus, so far as Conrad knew, was a philosopher who had been\nstripped of everything, imprisoned, tortured, enslaved, threatened\nwith death. And only Epictetus had looked his tormenters in the eye\nand said, 'You do what you have to do, and I will do what I have to\ndo, which is live and die like a man.\" And he had prevailed.\nBut most important of all, only Epictetus understood. He\nunderstood1. Only he understood why Conrad Hensley had refused\nto accept a plea bargain! Only Epictetus understood why he had\nrefused to lower himself just a rung or two, demean himself just a\nlittle bit, dishonor himself just a touch, confess to a minor crime, a\nmere misdemeanor, in order to avoid the risk of a jail sentence.\n\"Each of us considers what is in keeping with his character . . .\" His\nlawyer, even his own wife, wanted him to compromise and plead\nfalsely. But he knew himself and at how much he put his worth. He\ndid not count himself as an ordinary thread in the tunic, but as the\npurple, that touch of brilliance that gives distinction to the rest.\nWhen the deputies announced the end of pod time, Conrad gathered\nup the folios of The Stoics, his letter, his writing tablet, his ballpoint\npen, and walked to the cell with his shoulders back and his head\nhigh.lights-out was at 10 p. M. There was no announcement. The lights\nhanging from the underside of the catwalk went off, and so did the\nmusic being broadcast over the PA system. The deputies had lights\nsomewhere up on the catwalk, however; so the pod was never\npitch- black. Five-O was lying on the bottom bunk, and Conrad was\nstretched out on the top bunk, beneath the lizard wire. As usual, it\nwas too hot. He could hear the deputies moving around on the\ncatwalk. The place must have been even hotter for them, since they\nwere up near the ceiling. Scrack scraaack scraaaaack. The attic fans\nwere still screeching. Thra-goooooom thra-gooooooom. The toilets\nwere still flushing. Glug- luglugluglugluglug.\nConrad's thoughts kept racing and tumbling in the semidarkness . . .\nhis last glimpse of Jill . . . Carl and Christ)'-would he ever see them\nagain? . . . Rotto, the Nero of the Pod, and the inevitable showdown\n... Or did it have to be? . . . Epictetus, his only hope ... He longed for\nlight, so that he could get back into the poor bedraggled pages of\nthat book, which he kept up here on the bunk next to the wall . . .\nNow he could see Epictetus' beard, his old thin body, his toga . . .\nWhat would Epictetus have had to say about Jill and Carl and\nChristy?-and once more his thoughts spun around. He couldn't begin\nto relax enough to sleep.\nBut, in fact, there was no sleep for anyone in the pod. Every night,\nat lights-out, a session began in the darkness, a therapy session, a\njam session, a hoedown, a prayer meeting, a Pentecostal\nconfessional, a tribal rumble, a shriek into the void, a wailing for that\nwhich never was and that which never would be, a lamentation\nconcerning Fate. Conrad didn't know what to call it, but every night\nit took place in the darkness, over the wire.\nSomeone began moaning: \"Meds . . . meds . . . mehhhds . . .\nmehhhhds . . . mehhhhhds . . .\" Medicines were distributed each\nday, to those on the \"meds list,\" by a nurse named Maggie, who was\nreferred to, sometimes to her face, as Maggot. \"Mehhhhhhds . . .\nmehhhhhhhds . . . mehdddddddds . . .\" The moans stretched out\nlonger and longer.From somewhere: \"Shut the fuck up, you J-cat motherfucker!\"\n\"Mehhhhhhhhhds ... mehhhhhhhhhhds ... mehhhhhhhhhhds ...\"\nFrom somewhere else: \"Pill call, Maggot!\"\nCries began to rain down, over the wire, from all over the pod.\n\"Where you at, Maggot? Git on in here and give the motherfucker\nhis Sinequan!\"\nA new voice: \"Fuck the meds! I want a rollie! I want some Bugler!\"\nThe voice that had been moaning for the meds said, \"You know\nHank Aaron?-the first Negro slave baseball player that owned a\nyellow wool suit?\"\n\"Mother/uc*/ I gotta listen'at shit all night? 'At motherfucker's gone\nJ-cat again! Where's'at Maggot at?\"\n\"Voice on the TV!\" said the J-cat. \"Told me I gon' die if I go outside.\ni don't want to die!\" It was a real shriek.\n'Tou gon' die fo' damn sure, you don't shut the fuck up!\"\n\"I want a rollie! I want some Bugler, goddamn it! Yo! Sheriff! Where\nthe Bugler at?\"\nA black voice imitating an Okie deputy: \"Newj&ro-cedure. Gawn stick\nyo' right leg out yo' porthole so's I kin see you. Then you gitcho\nBugler.\"\n\"I want a light!\"\n\"How 'bout a Bud Light?\"\n'To! Brothers! Yo!\" Conrad's heart jumped. It was a big voice, such a\nbig voice that he thought it must be Vastly's, even though he didn't\nreally know what Vastly's voice was like. \"Just come over the wire.\n'At gray motherfucker 'at burnt the cross in Hayward?\" In O-town\nstreet parlance, gray meant white. \"They got that motherfuckerover'n B Pod!\" There had been an incident, mentioned on television,\nin which someone had burned a cross on the lawn of a black family.\nB Pod was the isolation pod, where prisoners were removed from the\ngeneral population and kept one to a cell.\n\"The fuck, he's ass-out, that motherfucker!\"\n\"Ass-out! . . . Ass-out! . . . Ass-out! . . . Ass-out!\" The cry swept the\npod.\n\"Ne'mind'em peckerwoods. Got a ex-po-lice rightcheer in D fo'teen!\"\nA huge voice: \"Who the fuck are you, motherfucker, talkin 'bout\nexpo-lice? The fuck, you sayin' you got some paperwork on me?\nMan, you outta pocket!\"\n\"I'm sayin'-\"\n'Tou motherfucker, you the one'at's trying to put jackets on\neverybody!\" A jacket was a file prison authorities kept on informants.\n'Tou trying to fire everybody's ass up! You the one 'at's under,\nmotherfucker!\" Short for working undercover. 'Tou the one 'at's the\nsnitch!\"\n\"Unh-hunh, yeah, well-\"\n\"Fuck yo' unh-hunh yeah well. You keep on hying to hang jackets on\npeople, you gon' gitcho cap peeled!\"\nThe huge voice had won the debate, and a chorus of imprecations\nagainst the accuser rolled through the pod.\n\"Motherfucker's running a game!\"\n\". . . messin' with the unity!\"\n\"He the snake his ownself!\"\n\"Mehhhhhhhhhhhds . . . mehhhhhhhhhhhhhds . . . mehhhhhh-\nhhhhhhhhds . . .\"'To! One a y'all! Kite me a rollie!\" To kite something was to send it\nfrom one cell to another hand by hand through the openings in the\nwire cages overhead.\n'To! Dinky Man! Where you at, baby brother?\" \"K aisle, man, K aisle.\"\n\"Call my woman and tell her to take that six G's to my momma's\nhouse and get the deed to her house and take it to my bondsman.\nMy momma's got another forty-five'hun a ma money. Tell her I'm\ngon' beat her ass if she don't do it.\"\n\"Man, she say she don't have 110 six G's a yo's.\"\n\"What? Just tell the bitch to do what I said!\"\n\"Okay, man.\"\n\"Thank you, baby brother. Shit, I got two hunnert G's. The fuck do I\nwanna stay in jail for!\"\n\"Wooooooo-eeeeee!\"\n\"Su-perflyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!\"\n\"Yo! Deputy! There's a spicier in my house! I don't play that shit!\nYou gotta do something! Call the exterminator!\"\nThe voice of an Okie from up on the catwalk: \"Whyn't you both go to\nsleep? Spider say he's ass-out, too.\"\n\"Yo! Heavy! Read me that kite again, from that African bitch over in\nEast Greystone! Need some music to jack off by!\"\n\"Dark in here, man. How you speck me read 'at kite?\"\n\"Then remember it, Heavy! Part about gettin' licked ten times a\nday!\"\nMasturbation was so prevalent at Santa Rita after lights-out, you\ncould actually hear the joints and flat springs of the metal bunks\ngroaning and squeaking. Conrad could hear them now. He couldhear undisguised groans . . . Unnnnh . . . Awnnnnnnnnnhhhhhhhhh\n... He could hear exclamations of satisfaction . . . God-damn! . . .\nGood jookin'! . . . And now, amid the whiffs of body funk, urine,\nbowel movements, and Bugler smoke, there arose, as it did every\nnight, the sickly sweet smell of semen. Geysers of it! Gallons of it!\nJook! Jook! Jook! Jook! There had been nights when Mutt and Five-\nO had both been going at it at the same time, Five-O on the upper\nbunk and Mutt down below, barely a yard from where Conrad lay\njackknifed on the mattress on the floor. In these lizard cages of\ndespair and terror, he couldn't imagine unlocking his nervous\nsystem's defenses long enough even to fantasize about sexual joy.\nBut few others seemed to have any such constraint. They were lying\nback on their bunks, slogging away. They were transported.\nTestosterone! Brute sexual energy! A herd of young male animals!\nHe had the impression that if some night they managed to\nmasturbate in a harmonic wave, Santa Rita would rise right up out of\nthe ground and flip over.\nAnd then the tuckatuckatuckatuckatuckatucka began. It was the\nsound of scores of tiny makeshift bongo drums starting to beat.\nEvery night the inmates, including many of the white ones, took\nplastic spoons and began rapping on the bottoms of empty ice\ncream cups. This was the invitation for the great entertainer, the\nwraith with the do-rag, Rapmaster EmCee New York, to begin his\nact. In the light, in the pod room, he looked like someone wasted\nand ravaged beyond all hope. But at night, in the dark, he seemed\nas big as all of Santa Rita. His voice filled the old barracks.\nThe ice cream cup percussion swelled in volume, and a voice sang\nout: \"And now . . . direct from the Apollo Theater ... in New York\nCity . . .\" This was Dinky Man, the Rapmaster's herald and backup\nsinger. \". . . Rapmaster EmCee . . . new york!\"\nA burst of cheers, and then the pod grew quiet. All you could hear at\nfirst was the thrum of an electric bass, which an inmate called Beat\nBox was able to create, a cappella, deep in his throat, as the O-townboys waited for the opening line they loved. And here it came. The\nbig baritone voice of the Rapmaster chanted:\n\"Yo, sugar!-think 'at's a ruby\nYou got stuck inside yo' crack?\"\nUmmmmmmmmhhhhhhhhh. A collective moan of approval swept\nthrough the pod.\n\"The fuck, yo' booty turned to gold\nWhile you was lyin' on your back?\"\nThe chorus began to keep time by slapping their hands on the bunk\nframes as well as rapping the cups.\n\"Ain' tryin' no mo' sweet talk, baby!\nHubba ho know street talk, maybe!\nSo you gon' get a homey's dick, 'cause\nThis homey's got a dicky itch!\nAn' I ain't gonna play 'at shit!\nSo . . .\nGive it up, bitch!\"\nBy the time he reached the it in Give it up, bitch, the pod was\nscreaming the refrain over the wire, for this was the Rapmaster's\ntheme song. In an instant the pod was resounding with the hymn to\nits one god, raw masculinity:\ngive it up, bitch! give it up, bitch! give it up, bitch! give it up, bitch!\nLying there on the top bunk, as the sound rolled over him, Conrad\nfelt his hands grow cold and his torso grow terribly hot, and he\nbroke out into a sweat. He had been hearing \"Give It Up, Bitch\"\nevery night for ten days, but now its meaning truly sank in. At SantaRita \"Give it up, bitch\" was the cry of absolute male conquest.\n\"Whatever you have, your body, your booty, your ass, your money,\nyour honor, your self- respect, your good name, it's now mine, and\nyou'll either give it to me or I'll rip it out of you\"-and when would\nConrad Hensley's moment come?\nThe percussion of the ice cream cups and the slaps on the bunk\nframes continued, but the voices grew silent, as the homeys, the O-\ntown homeboys, waited for the Rapmaster's second stanza. The\nsecond stanza was always something new. You could hear Beat Box\nmaking his electric bass sound deep in his throat, and then the\nRapmaster resumed:\n\"Shorty's johnson, he go roamin', Homey jeans a his is packin' heat\nInside that Cracker hack's own home, an' Bottom lady wants 'at\nsweet dark meat.\"\nHideous laughter. The O-town homeys picked up every reference\nright away. Shorty was code for the sort of man who goes around\nmaking love to other men's bottom ladies when the men are out of\nthe house. Shorty's johnson was his penis, which was hot as a pistol\n(packin' heat). A Cracker hack was an Okie deputy.\n\"No mo' tiny Cracker dickies, Lordy, Gimme yo' big jimbo. Shorty!\nFo'at Cracker come back, 'cause I Caint take at tiny gray hack's\nmackin'!\"\nHowls, cries, ululations-the boys were beside themselves. Mackin'\nwas lovemaking. This was a ballad of the O-town boys subjecting\nthe Okie deputies, who were up on the catwalk at this very moment,\nto the ultimate ignominy: cuckolding them in their own homes.\n\"At gray ho's dyin' fo' Shorty's pitch! So . . .\"\nThis time the chorus didn't even wait for the Rapmaster. With a\ncontemptuous laughing roar they broke into the refrain. The very air\nof the pod exploded with give it up, bitch! give it up, bitch! give it\nup, bitch! give it up, bitch!Most of the code the deputies couldn't figure out. But hack was an\nold and familiar slang term for jailhouse guards, and Cracker was the\nstandard O-town derogation for white people; and so at the very\nleast the deputies knew that this particular stanza of Rapmaster\nEmCee New York's composition was about them. As soon as the\nruckus died down a bit, one of them yelled from the catwalk:\n\"yo! knock off 'at damn jungle music!\"\nLaughter, whistles, catcalls, and then the voice of the Rapmaster\nhimself: \"What's the problem, man? We just having a little unity\ndown here.\"\nThe deputy yelled: \"Steppin' on your fuckin' knuckles and hollerin' is\nwhat you doin'!\"\nMore laughter, ruder catcalls. They were so wound up they didn't\neven take offense. The Rapmaster had just put this bunch of\nlamebrain Crackers in their place-but good!\nOn the top bunk Conrad propped himself on one elbow. He looked\nup through the screen, past the silhouette of the catwalk, until he\ncould make out a corner of one of the clerestory windows. He\nstared, stared, stared, hoping for some glimpse of the outside world,\na star, a fragment of the moon . . . But there was nothing. His world\nwas now this lizard cage in this pod, which was gorged with anger\nand testosterone. Everything boiled down to the power of the brute,\nwhich was constantly expressed in terms of sexual conquest.\nHe lay down flat on his back and closed his eyes and listened to the\ntesticular squall as it raged over the wire. Sooner or later his time\nwould come. Of that he had no doubt. And what character would he\nbring to the encounter? How would he act? How does the bull, when\nthe lion attacks, discover what powers he is endowed with? It is\nplain that each of us who has the power will not be unaware of its\npossessions. Like the bull, the man of noble nature does not become\nnoble all of a sudden. He must train through the winter and make\nready ... He tried to review his own life ... He had ... He had . . .Well, he had refused to accept a plea bargain ... He had ... He had .\n. . His spirits sank all over again. No matter what he had done, how\ncould it help him? He was young, white, and slightly built, and he\nhad no comrades, and he was penned up with the brutes in Pod D,\nWest Greystone, Santa Rita. Lying there in the dark, he ran his right\nhand down his left arm, from the shoulder to the hand, and then he\nran his left hand down his right arm. He still had his big forearms\nand wrists and hands, the only legacy of six months as a beast of\nburden in the Suicidal Freezer Unit at Croker Global. But what\nearthly good would these poor arms be against Rotto and his boys?\nHe was barely half the size of any of them . . .\n\"I gave you a portion of our divinity,\" said Zeus, \"a spark from our\nown fire.\" His eyes tightly shut, Conrad sought to shut out\neverything, all sounds and all other evidence of his senses, so as to\nfeel the spark of Zeus and open himself to his divine energy. Where\nit would come from and what it might feel like, he had no idea. All\nhe knew was that it was time to beckon it and surrender himself to\nit. Zeus . . . Zeus . . . how would he even know it when it came?\nHaving never believed in a god, and having never prayed before, he\ndidn't even know that this was prayer.\nChapter 18\nThe Aha! Phenomenon\nIt had just turned dark, and atlanta's pride and joy in the arts, the\nHigh Museum, was ablaze with the light that poured from its\nwindows up on the eminence of a knoll at Peachtree and Sixteenth\nStreets, right across from the First Presbyterian Church. The\nmuseum was fiercely different from the church. The church, built in\n1919, was a stately, dark, and stony neo-Gothic pile. The museum,\nbuilt in 1983, was pure white and modern in the Corbusier mode. It\nstretched on for half the length of a football field in a parade of\nwhite geometric shapes, from cubes to cylinders and everything in\nbetween and back again, all of it adorned with white pipe railings. Letout Atlanta was there, for this was the opening of the notorious but\nglorious Wilson Lapeth exhibition.\nA storm of voices, a regular typhoon, raged in the museum's grand\natrium, until the very air seemed to exert an unbearable pressure. It\nmade Martha Croker dizzy. So many tuxedos and extravagant\ndresses! So many grinning white faces! So many boiling teeth! So\nmany cackling laughs! So many white ramps and railings! So many\nthroats screaming with the euphoria of knowing they had arrived in\nthe one place in all Atlanta where anyone of any social wattage\nwhatsoever was supposed to be on this particular evening in May!\n(Oh, Destiny.) Martha turned toward her escort, a tall, plump,\npleasant, fiftyish man named Herbert Longleaf, whom Joyce had\nfound for her, and he smiled and leaned toward her and said\nsomething that was immediately swept away by the deafening\nscreams and cackles of the tuxedos and fancy dresses. Joyce's\nboyfriend, Glenn Branwaist, a handsome but gloomy- looking forty-\ntwo-year-old, rolled his eyes as if to say, \"Useless to even try to\ntalk.\" Joyce's little face was resolutely radiant with makeup and her\nparty smile. She looked at Martha and swung her big brown mas-\ncara'd eyes upward, as if to say, \"Isn't this something!\"\nThe atrium was an immense space, almost fifty feet high and pure\nwhite, like the building's exterior. Up a great curved window wall\nwith white industrial muntins rose a series of curving ramps, one\nabove the other, with white pipe railings and white wire grilles\ninstead of balusters. Spotlights and floodlights beamed down from\nall over the place in a Factoiy Work Bay galaxy. On a balcony, an\nexhibition wall bore two immense Wilson Lapeth paintings, the same\ntwo Martha had seen in Atlanta magazine. The size was startling;\nthe figures seemed twice as big as life. There was the chain gang-\nand the two handsome young prisoners, clad in prison stripes,\nreaching out toward one another with looks of abject romantic\nyearning on their fair young faces. And there was the prison\ndormitory and all the fair young flesh . . . prisoners half- clad,\nprisoners practically naked, prisoners without a stitch on . . . Thepainting throbbed with pent-up sexuality . . . The boys seemed to be\nabout three seconds from plunging into a homosexual rout . . . And\nthis, a gay delirium, was the aegis underneath which le tout Atlanta\nhad assembled in this place . . .\nMartha looked about her, half-expecting to see hundreds of amazed\nfaces turned up toward the vast tableau on the balcony . . . but not\nat all. They were like the crowd at any other Atlanta gala. They had\neyes only for one another. The way they grinned and screamed and\ncackled, it could just as easily have been the Juvenile Diabetes Ball\nor a Georgia Tech alumni banquet. Perhaps by now everybody, even\nin Atlanta, just accepted the notion that art was supposed to be\nperverse, troublesome, and-what was the word?-confrontational?\nPerhaps they had all glanced at those two paintings and decided that\nif the late Mr. Lapeth's libidinal kinks hadn't been any more\noutrageous than this, then Atlanta could take it.\nThe happy bawling mob was packed in all around Herbert, Joyce,\nGlenn, and Martha, but somehow a young man wearing a tuxedo\nand a mint-green bow tie appeared with a tray full of flutes of\nchampagne, and they each took one. The mint-green bow tie was\nthe familiar insignia of the caterer, Colonel Popover, and for an\ninstant Martha flashed back to all the parties and ribbon cuttings\nCroker Global had staged with Colonel Popover, an enormously fat\nman, whatever his real name was, as the caterer-but she hadn't\ncome here to think about Charlie. Quite the opposite. (A new\nDestiny.) She took a sip of the champagne. Not bad. She smiled at\nJoyce and Herbert and Glenn. Smiles all around; another sip of\nchampagne; and another.\nThe crowd surged and heaved and roared. Before she knew it, a\nvery tall man was standing barely an arm's length away, talking to\nsomeone she couldn't see. His back was almost completely to her,\nbut she had no trouble recognizing him. He was so hunched over\nthat his neck jutted forward and his nose looked like a pointer's.\nArthur Lomprey it had to be, the president of PlannersBanc. She had\nsat next to him at dinner on at least three different occasions backwhen Charlie was trying to get the financing for Croker Concourse.\nThere was something patronizing about the way Arthur Lomprey\nalways cocked his canted-over head and squinted and smiled as he\ntalked, as if he were letting you in on secrets from on high that you\nprobably couldn't comprehend anyway. But she did know him, and\nsomething was gnawing at her: the urge to show that she was part\nof the social swim. After all, this was her return to . . . Society. She\nhad paid $20,000 for a table and invited nine guests. She had\nbought this dress-a black silk taffeta embroidered with tiny red dots,\nbare-shouldered and scarcely even knee-length-she was proud of\nher wide shoulders and well-turned calves-for $3,500. She had\nanointed her shoulders with baby oil to make them glisten. She had\nspent $4,200 for this necklace-watch-chain gold with small rubies-\n$225 for hair coloring (pineapple blond) and a hairdo at Philippe\nBrud- noy's, $150 for makeup at LaCrosse, $850 for these black\nlizard-and- patent-leather high-heeled shoes, plus she couldn't\nremember how much on Mustafa Gunt's class at DefinitionAmerica in\nhopes of giving herself a body more like a boy with breasts'.\nOn top of that, she had just downed a glass of champagne. So she\ninched closer to the tall, stooped figure and exclaimed: \"Arthur!\"\nArthur Lomprey turned and looked at her, and his smile spread so far\nshe could have counted his teeth. But his eyes were pure panic.\nThey contracted into little frozen balls. \"May Day!\" they said. \"Code\nBlue! I've met this woman somewhere before, but who in the name\nof God is she?\"\n\"Heyyyyy!\" he exclaimed. \"Howya doin'!\"-all the while grinning\nfoolishly as his eyes began a frantic search for a clue. They bounced\nall over her hairdo, her tinctured locks, her made-up face, the\nnecklace, the dress, the glistening shoulders, and whatever else he\ncould see of her rigorously exercised body.\n\"How're the children!\" he exclaimed finally, taking a desperate\nchancc.How're the children? This was the deepest wound of all. The man\nhad just scanned the best she could possibly present to the world\nafter spending $8,925 plus untold hours of cardiovascular agony at\nthe hands of a Turkish martinet-and that fully analogue, non-digital,\nchemically activated computer, his brain, had arrived in milliseconds\nat the answer: matronly. So . . . How're the children?\nMartha wanted to scream, but in her stunned condition the best she\ncould do was say lamely and mechanically, \"Fine.\"\n\"That's terrific!\" exclaimed Arthur Lomprey, who probably hadn't\neven heard her. \"That's terrific!\"\nHe kept bobbing his head to show just how terrific it was and\nlooking straight through her, trying to devise some way to remove\nhimself from her presence before he was compelled to introduce her\nto the people he was with. Who was this superfluous woman? Who\nwas this invisible ex-wife? Who was this social ghost (without a\nhusband at her side to give her an identity)? She didn't wait for the\nsituation to become any more painful. She pivoted and turned back\nto Joyce, Joyce's Glenn, and Herbert Longleaf.\nat last, in that roaring sea, Peepgass spotted another of those lads\nwith the mint-green bow ties and the trays of champagne. This one\nlooked like a blond prep school boy on the precipice of his first\nplunge into debauchery. But that was merely a mental blip, the\nfleetest of passing thoughts. The main thing was to get to him and\nlay hands on another glass of champagne.\nAll the grinning faces shrieked to be heard. The noise choked the air.\nThe crowd was packed so close together in this part of the atrium,\nhe would have to wriggle like a fish to get through. The path to the\nchampagne lay between a man and a woman who had their backs to\neach other. The woman had on a black dress with an extravagant\nflounce of material, a gigantic bow, just below the waist,\nsurmounting her buttocks. The man was a real porker with a bottom\nso big it forced apart the vent in the back of his dinner jacket.Peepgass took a deep breath. He tried to flatten himself. He made\nhis move, turned sideways, tried to slip through. He got stuck. Both\nof them, the man and the woman, turned their heads and glowered\nat him.\n\"Excuse me!\" he exclaimed. \"I'm very sorry!\" A smile of social shame\nslithered across his face-but with a supreme, ungainly, much-\nresented effort he forced his way through. Thank God, the boy with\nthe mint- green bow tie hadn't been able to budge. Peepgass took a\nglass of champagne from the tray. A quick look about: he was\nhemmed in on all sides by people he didn't know. A quick look\nabove: on the balcony Wilson Lapeth's pale and handsome young\nprisoners, tres gay, reigned over Atlanta's big money ... All very odd\n... He lifted the champagne to his lips and took a sip. He loved it. He\nwas torn between the desire to dawdle over the glass, so as to have\nsomething to do, some bit of part)' business to perform, even if it\nwas only to drink a glass of champagne, so that he wouldn't appear\nto be an utter social cipher-and an urge to . . . knock back another\nglass of champagne. The animal urge overcame the social insecurity.\nHe downed the champagne in four rapid gulps, put the empty flute\nback on the tray, and grabbed another one. The boy with the bow\ntie gave him a startled, reproving look. Peepgass offered a smile of\napology. A delicious warmth rose from his stomach and filled his\nhead like a cloud. He had an overwhelming urge to find somebody to\ngrin at and talk to, But whom did he know, other than Marsha? And\nso far, in this mob, he had been unable to find her. He had met\nMarsha four years ago when she was Marsha Bernstein and had\nopened a gallery of contemporary art called the Alma (for Alma\nMahler, whom she thought she resembled) down 011 Ponce de Leon.\nOpening a gallery of contemporary art in Atlanta, Georgia, was not a\nsound business decision, and the venture began foundering\nimmediately. Peepgass, eager to demonstrate his clout in the world\nof banking to this pretty and very likable young woman, had\nengineered a $100,000 loan from PlannersBanc. This would have\ninevitably earned him shithead status, except for the fact that it was\nin her role as proprietress of the Alma Gallery that Marsha had metHerbert Richman and married him, after which paying back a mere\n$100,000 loan was no problem.\nMarsha was not one to forget a friend; so she had invited Peepgass\nto join her table at the Wilson Lapeth opening.\nPeepgass stood on tiptoe to see if he could spot her . . . Marsha . . .\nHe craned about ... No Marsha . . . but there, almost directly behind\nhim, a towering and yet oddly stooped-over man-no question about\nit! Lomprev, lord of the forty-ninth floor at PlannersBanc! Lomprey\nwas grinning at a matronly woman with pineapple-blond hair and big\nbare shoulders that glistened as if they were oiled. Peepgass had\nseen her somewhere before, but who on earth was she? The woman\nsuddenly turned away, and Lomprey was left standing there with a\nfoolish grin on his face.\nLike many another man with sweet clouds of champagne in his\nhead, Peepgass did not stop to think. He could only feel the\ntremendous relief of spotting someone he knew.\nHe was no longer timid. He forced his way through the crowd\nwithout so much as a diffident wrinkling of the brow.\n\"Arthur!\"\nLomprey turned, stared at him, then squinted, did a double-take,\ncocked his head, and smiled. It was a smile that did not in any way\ninvolve the eyes, however.\n\"Well, well, well . . . Peepgass,\" he said.\nThe hesitation and the dead smile were bad enough, but it was the\nPeepgass that did it. At the bank Lomprey always called him Ray. But\nhis instinctive reaction at this breathtaking social altitude, a $2,000-\na- plate opening at the High Museum, was to call him by his last\nname, as if he were no more than a petty functionary in his employ.\nPeepgass felt the insult before he could sort it out logically. But he\nsorted it out fast enough. Lomprey, no doubt feeling like a great lion\nof finance, had bought an entire table-with the bank's money, ofcourse-and filled it with people appropriate to his eminence in the\nworld. The unexpected and inappropriate presence of a mere\nunderling, a mere staff officer from the bank, a mere cog, a mere\nloan monitor, a mere Peepgass, diminished the magnitude of his\nsocial triumph. And now Lomprey just stared at him with that dead\nsmile, as if to say, \"Okay, you got in here somehow-and what of it?\"\nHe made no attempt to introduce him to the two men and the\nwoman in his little conversational knot.\nSuddenly feeling embarrassed and ransacking his brain for\nsomething to say, Peepgass shouted above the roar of the crowd, \"I\ncan't remember, Arthur! Did we sell Lapeth futures?\"\nImmediately he regretted the crack. He was alluding to a scheme\nLomprey himself had dreamed up during the heady days of the late\n1980s, back when art prices were skyrocketing. In connection with\nthe Art Investment Seminars the bank had begun selling what were,\nin effect, futures on certain fashionable artists. The scheme had\nfailed miserably. It may have been innovative, it may have been\ncosmopolitan, but it wasn't about to fly in Atlanta, Georgia.\n\"I don't think so,\" said Lomprey's lips. But his eyes said, \"Kindly\ndisintegrate.\"\nThe moment stretched out, stretched out, stretched out-until\nPeepgass had no choice but to leave.\n\"Well, Arthur,\" he said, \"happy landing!\"\nThen he wheeled about and headed back into the shrieking sea of\nhumanity.\nHappy landing? Why had he said that? How could he be so flippant?\nBut that worn' was soon replaced by a champagne surge of anger\nand resentment. Why, that stiff neck! That party whore! That petty\nsnob! That great social-climbing hunchback! Wouldn't even introduce\nme to the people he was talking to!Just ahead, no more than six feet away in a roaring swell of tuxedos\nand pouffed dresses, was another young man with a mint-green bow\ntie and a tray full of champagne. This time Peepgass was neither\ndiffident nor even remotely subtle about it. He practically bowled\nover two women as he bulled his way to the tray and seized a lovely\nfluteful. Bottoms up!\nCharlie croker steadied himself with both hands on the white pipe\nrailing of the balcony and leaned over and surveyed the scene\nbelow. A confused cackling gabble swelled up from the atrium floor.\nThe fools! Reminded him of a flock of turkeys.\nHe leaned over a little farther and stared straight down at the tables,\nwhich were set for dinner. The tablecloths were white, and they\ngleamed with stemware and hotel silver, and in the center of each\ntable was a dense cluster of reddish-orange flowers with black spots\nin their centers. Two thousand dollars a plate-and he had bought an\nentire table- $20,000-and oh, how he'd love to go home to\nBuckhead-right now . . .\nCharlie felt more depressed than ever by the thought of doing what\nhe was now doing, going out among them, among friends, admirers,\nrivals, the world. He had the feeling that his big body and his square\njaws and his bald head now gave off an aura and that this aura\nflashed bankrupt! bankrupt! fraud! fraud! fraud!\nSo badly had he wanted to avoid the crowd that it was he, Charlie,\nwho had suggested that Serena and he and Billy and Doris Bass walk\nup the ramp to the balcony and see the rest of the exhibition. So\nnow he led them from the balcony into the labyrinth of exhibition\npanels here in the recesses of the second floor.\nEven before he saw anything different, he could sense the change.\nThere were scores of people in tuxedos and party dresses up ahead\nof them, but all the sound now came from behind them, from the\nshrieking voices on the floor below. Up here things were oddly quiet.\nA large white exhibition panel faced them head-on. A cluster ofpartygoers stood before it, looking terribly pensive. Charlie moved\ncloser. On the panel was a single painting, perhaps five feet high and\nsix feet wide. Another chain gang . . . The point of view was from\ndown inside a deep ditch. Far back in the ditch and in the middle\nground you could see prisoners wielding picks and shovels. Above\nthe ditch, in the background, you could see the torsos of two meaty\nsheriff's deputies wearing short-sleeve gray shirts and sun helmets\nand brandishing shotguns. Up above them was a sky filled with\nbrutal sunlight. In the immediate foreground, down in the ditch,\nbathed in the cool colors of the ditch's shadows, were two young\nwhite men, both prisoners. One was sitting back against the red clay\nwall of the ditch, naked from the waist down, his thighs akimbo,\nrevealing a tumescent, although not erect, penis. The other one was\nstanding over him, bent at the waist, lowering his pants over his\nbuttocks. A caption on the panel said, Arrangement in Red Clay.\n1923.\nCharlie was . . . shocked, speechless, stupefied. He averted his eyes\n. . . and they lit upon another exhibition panel just beyond. On this\none, another huge painting ... a dozen young white prisoners\nmarching in a circle in a jail yard. Each wore a striped prison shirt\nand nothing else . . . Around and around they went, a circus of\npenises and bare bottoms ... He averted his eyes once more ... He\ncouldn't believe what he was seeing. Everywhere, all the way into\nthe deep recesses of the exhibition space, he could see white\nexhibition panels, clusters of silent onlookers, and images of prison\ngarb, bare flesh, and an endless stand of penises.\nLike anyone who sees his most basic assumptions about propriety\nbeing flouted, lie looked to the people around him for confirmation\nof the righteousness of his objections. He glanced at Serena. She\ndidn't glance back. She was studying the painting as if she had\nfound something profound in the red clay ditch before them. Then\nhe looked at Billy and Doris, who were at that moment looking at\neach other without saying a word. They were probably as shocked\nas he was, but it remained silent as a church up here. Just beyondBilly and Doris he noticed the stately, portly presence of Abner\nLockhart and his beanpole of a wife, Katie. Abner was not only a\npartner in one of Atlanta's oldest law firms, Wringer Fleasom & Tick,\nbut he was also a deacon of the Tabernacle Baptist Church. He was\ncradling his chin with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand,\nstudying the painting as devoutly as Serena. A Baptist deacon! True,\nTabernacle Baptist was an In-Town Baptist church, a bit\nsophisticated, at least, as compared to a good old Footwashing\nBaptist church out in the countryside, but Godalmighty, nevertheless-\nhe was a Baptist deaconl-and he was looking at these pictures of . . .\nof. . . of . . . prison-pent faggots ... as if they were Madonnas with\nhalos . . . What made it still more unbelievable was the setting. This\npart of the museum was what was ordinarily the Decorative Arts\nsection, which mainly meant furniture. That had always been the\nHigh Museum's strong suit, antique furniture. For decades the true\npassion of the matrons who ran the establishment had been interior\ndecoration, and the High was heavy with furniture from the\nnineteenth century, immense pieces, many of them, startling\ncontrivances of carved and inlaid wood, beds, sideboards, arnioires,\nbreakfronts, the sort of stupendous hulks that cow you into silence\nthe moment you enter a room. The smaller pieces had been moved\nout for the Lapeth show. But some of the major pieces, the real\nmonsters, were too big or too precious to be moved about, such as\nthe famous Herter Bed, which was . . . right over there ... a fabulous\ncreation in ebonized cherry inlaid with light woods, rosewood, brass,\nand Japanese marquetry, a veritable monument to Victorian dignity,\nsolidity, respectability, and grandeur-the Herter Bed had now been\noverrun by this . . . this . . . this homosexual orgy--\nA sudden stab of doubt. . . Was it he, Charlie, who was out of step?\nHad his eyes been closed when some irresistible shift took place on\nthe moral terrain? Or were all these people, even Abner Lockhart,\njust plain intimidated, afraid to let it be known that they weren't\nsophisticated enough to be cosmopolites of the new Atlanta, the\ninternational city?Whichever, Charlie experienced his first surge of spirit of the entire\nevening. He was damned if he was just going to stand here piously\nlike the rest of them. He brushed past Abner Lockhart and went up\nclose to the panel and looked at the caption: Arrangement in Red\nClay. 1923. Pretending to read, he said in a full voice, \"Two\ncocksuckers down in a ditch. 1923.\"\nBilly Bass let out a loud guffaw, but Doris didn't seem to know what\nto do, and Serena said with an exterminating hiss:\n\"Don't be stupid!\"\nCharlie was aware of people cutting glances at him from all sides,\nexcept for Abner and Katie Lockhart, who acted as if they hadn't\nheard a thing. Gradually all the faces turned away, and the solemn\nperusal of the treasures of Wilson Lapeth continued. The great\nCharlie Croker was being treated like a child who has done\nsomething infantile in church.\nat dinner the crowd, drunk on champagne and the thought of being\nat the place in Atlanta where things are happening this evening,\nshrieked and cackled until their bawling seemed to bounce off the\nwalls and the ceiling fifty feet above and roll back over them in\nwaves. Martha's table was out in the middle of that sea of round\nwhite tables on the atrium floor. At the center of each table was a\nstartling cachepot of fully opened poppies, made all the more\nstartling by the implacable whiteness of the atrium itself.\nAt Joyce's urging, Martha had seated herself between the two best-\nlooking and most eligible bachelors in their entourage-finding such\nmen was Joyce's specialty, her mission, at this stage of her life-Oskar\nvon Evrik, who had been born in Germany but had only a trace of an\naccent now and was vice president of ProCor, an HMO with\nheadquarters in Atlanta, and Sonny Beamer, who had his own public\nrelations firm, called HiBeam. Both were in their late forties, a bit\nfleshy, but handsome, hearty, gregarious, and great talkers. Oskar\nvon Eyrik, leaning toward his hostess in order to make himselfheard, was off on a long discourse about the security precautions\nthat various major business executives were taking. Martha kept a\nsmile fixed on her face while she racked her brain for something she\nmight possibly contribute to the subject. Suddenly it came to her,\nthat much-sought-after social resource-a nugget!-a conversational\nnugget! The architect Charlie had chosen for Croker Concourse,\nPeter Prance, had once told her how\nJimmy Good, the young Silicon Valley microchip billionaire, had\ninstructed him to build a secret room in his 30,000-square-foot\nhouse in Los Altos, a room that not even his wife and children would\nknow about. The idea was that when predators broke into his house\nin the night- he was quite paranoid on that score-he could slip into\nthe secret room and no one, not even his own flesh and blood with\nguns at their temples, would be able to divulge his whereabouts. As\nsoon as Oskar von Eyrik's lips stopped moving, she attempted to\ndrop this nugget into the conversation in a brief, condensed form-\nsince, being a veteran of dinners like this, thanks to her twenty-nine\nyears with Charlie, she knew that a woman can ask questions,\nintroduce topics, interject the occasional bon mot, even deliver a\npunch line now and again, but she is not to launch into anecdotes or\nin any other fashion actually tell long stories herself.\nBut no sooner had she enunciated the phrase \"Jimmy Good's house\"\nthan Oskar von Eyrik broke in and exclaimed, \"Jimmy Good's house!\nOh my God!\"-whereupon he was off on a long anecdote about the\ntime he was actually in Jimmy Good's house, and Jimmy-he referred\nto him as Jimmy, as if they were pals of long standing-Jimmy had\ntaken up skateboarding at the age of thirty-three and had built an\nenormous half-pipe 011 his back lawn, and--\nMartha didn't so much mind the fact that he had expropriated her\nconversational nugget as the fact that when Sonny Beamer, who was\non her other side, turned their way to listen in, Oskar von Eyrik\nbegan to look right past her and direct the entire story into the\nman's face. Not only that; when Sonny Beamer was distracted for a\nmoment by Joyce, who was 011 his other side, Oskar von Eyrikstopped talking. He stopped in mid-sentence with his mouth open\nand his eyes pinned on Sonny Beamer. He remained frozen that way,\nas if his pause button had been pushed, as he waited for Sonny\nBeamer to finish with Joyce. He didn't so much as flick a glance\ntoward Martha.\nAfter all, why waste a terrific yarn on a superfluous woman, even if\nshe happens to be your hostess?\nbarely eight feet away, in this boiling social sea, Peepgass was\nstruggling to keep up a conversation with the woman on his left,\nCordelia Honeyshuck, the widow of Georgia's Senator Ulrich B.\n(Eubie) Honey- shuck. It was not that she was difficult to talk to, for\nshe was adept at prattling on about almost any subject. It was that\nshe was too old and too much of a has-been, and Peepgass was too\nhighly primed with champagne and too eager for the joys of le\nmonde at this table where Herbert and Marsha Richman, the fitness-\ncenter tycoon and his scintillating wife, reigned. Marsha was too\nmany seats away for Peepgass to talk to her, but Herbert Richman\nwas only two seats away, just on the other side of Cordelia\nHoneyshuck, and Peepgass was busy trying to overhear what\nHerbert Richman was saying to Julius Licht, a wealthy lawyer known\nas Mr. Class Action, who was two seats to his left. They were talking\nright across the face of a young thing Peepgass didn't recognize, a\nbony but pretty blonde, whose head oscillated like an old-fashioned\nelectric fan as the two men conversed back and forth. In fact,\nPeepgass was all c irs, since the subject at this moment was Charlie\nCroker.\nHis voicc raised to surmount the din of the banquet, Herbert Rich-\nman was regaling Julius Licht with an account of a weekend he had\nrecently spent at Croker's plantation, Turpmtine, and of how he had\ngotten an earful and an eyeful of the Good 01' Boy taking on the\nworld ... on race ... on gay rights . . .\nLicht, a trim, silver-haired man whose face was all sharp angles,\nshook his head and said, \"That guy-he's such a throwback. He's heresomewhere.\" He craned his head about. \"I saw him earlier. He's\nbought a table. I'd love to eavesdrop and hear what he thinks of this\nshow.\"\n\"This show?\" said Richman.\n\"Wilson Lapeth's coming-out show,\" said Licht.\nRichman laughed in his soft way. \"Me, too.\"\nA wave of fear shot through Peepgass, who was busy not listening to\nold Mrs. Honeyshuck on the subject of horticulture. Croker-\nsomewhere in this room! Reflexively he glanced about at the swarm.\nWouldn't want to run into that big tank without a few DeKalb County\npeace officers running interference! At the same time, the subject\nwas perfect. Now! thought Peepgass. Now's the moment!\nThere was no way he could hear this old woman out on the subject\nof aerated camellias-and-jump into Richman and Licht's conversation\nabout Charlie before they changed the subject, after which it would\nbe too late. Must move now!\nSo without any preamble or apology whatsoever, he looked past old\nMrs. Honeyshuck toward Julius Licht, put on a 300-watt grin, and\nshouted, \"Did I just hear you say Charlie Croker's bought a table at\nthis dinner!\"\nHe caught no more than a peripheral glimpse of Mrs. Honeyshuck's\nshocked face-utterly rude, of course, to abruptly end one\nconversation in order to join a better one-but there was no time to\nworry about that! He was leaning so far toward Licht and Richman\nthat his shoulder was practically on top of Mrs. Honeyshuck's\nclavicle.\n\"That's right,\" said Julius Licht, a bit tentatively, since he had no idea\nwho this grinning man was.\n\"Then he's being a naught)' fellow!\" said Peepgass. \"He's bought it\nwith our money!\"'Tour money?\" said Herbert Richman.\n\"Ours-PlannersBanc's,\" said Peepgass, rolling his eyes in the way\nthat says, \"Discretion keeps me from going into the details.\" Aloud:\n'Tou know Croker Concourse?\"\nRichman and Licht nodded yes. They were both leaning toward him,\navid for the gossip. Peepgass rolled his eyes again.\n\"What's wrong with Croker Concourse?\" said Herbert Richman.\n\"As a building? Nothing,\" said Peepgass. \"It's a fabulous building. As\na situation-\" He rolled his eyes once more.\n\"Whattaya mean?\" asked Herbert Richman.\n\"Let's just say that if Charlie Croker still owns Turpmtine Plantation\nsix months from now, it'll be a miracle,\" said Peepgass. Still more\nrolling of the eyes.\n\"No kidding,\" said Herbert Richman.\nPeepgass gave his lips a terse pursing and shook his head.\nBy now the three men, Herbert Richman, Julius Licht, and Peepgass,\nwere leaning so far toward one another that the two women, old\nMrs. Honeyshuck and the pretty, bony young thing, were flattened\nagainst the backs of their chairs.\nPeepgass loved the way he himself sounded. He had spoken with the\nauthority and omniscience of a Lomprey at the very least. He loved\nthe new Ray Peepgass. He felt that he now existed on the same\nsocial plateau as any of the most exalted creatures in this vast room.\n\"Speaking of Charlie Croker,\" said Julius Licht, \"do you know who\nthat woman is?\"\n\"What woman?\" asked Peepgass.To be discreet about it, Licht kept his hand close to his chest and\npointed toward a woman at the next table. Peepgass had to turn in\nhis seat to see her. It was the same matronly, middle-aged woman\nwith glistening shoulders whom he had noticed earlier in the\nevening. She was leaning disconsolately back in her chair while the\nmen on either side of her leaned toward one another and talked.\n\"Who is that?\" said Peepgass. \"I noticed her earlier. I've seen her\nsomewhere or other.\"\n\"That's Croker's first wife,\" said Julius Licht. \"I haven't seen her for a\nlong time. To tell you the truth, I'd totally forgotten about her. Nice\nwoman.\"\nPeepgass stared at the woman and tried to size her up. Croker's first\nwife . . . Her eyes appeared to be focused on some point far beyond\nthe walls of the High Museum . . .\nAll at once the Aha! phenomenon swept Peepgass's central nervous\nsystem.\n\"What's her first name?\" he asked Julius Licht.\n\"Martha.\"\n\"Martha,\" said Peepgass, nodding up and down and echoing this\ninformation. \"Now it all comes back. She is a nice woman. Martha\nCroker, Martha Croker . . .\"\nHe made it sound as if he was indulging in pleasant recollections of\ndays gone by ... In fact, he was trying to nail her first name down in\nhis mind.\nMartha Croker, Martha Croker, Martha Croker, Herbert Richman, and\nJulius Licht . . . Martha, Herbert, and Julius . . . Unless he was wildly\nwide of the mark, he had just found his nucleus, his center of gravity\n. . . Julius, Herbert, and Martha . . .A smile stole onto his face while the atrium of the High shrieked and\nboomed and roared.\nCharlie didn't feel the slightest urge to project the hearty Croker\npersonality upon his \"guests\" at the table. Billy and Doris were the\nonly ones he cared about. The rest had been chosen by Serena, and\nhe didn't have the slightest interest in knowing why. He just wanted\nthe evening to be over. He just wanted to escape from the gaze of\nall the people in this ridiculous room. Serena was sitting across the\ntable from him. Some Atlanta hostesses always sat husbands next to\ntheir wives, but Serena favored the New York (and therefore\ncosmopolitan) way. She was having such a grand time, she would\nhave to be dragged away. That much was obvious, not just from her\nconstant, hemorrhaging laughter, but also from the way her vivid\nblue eyes danced about.\nMeantime, the woman on his right, a sharp-nosed fortyish creature\nnamed Myra Somethingorother, kept pestering him with inane\nconversational gambits. In fact, at this very moment she was asking\nhim: \"Tell me, Mr. Croker, how did you come to be interested in art?\"\nThe presumption made him angry. \"Good Lord,\" he said, \"who on\nearth told you I was interested in art?\"\nStartled, the woman lifted her hand and gestured vaguely toward\nthe table, the atrium, the museum . . .\nHe felt almost as if somehow his manhood had been called into\nquestion. \"I'm not interested in art, and I'm sure as hell not\ninterested in this show or this museum. But if you want to do\nbusiness in Atlanta, you come to these things.\" He shrugged, as if to\nadd, \"It's as simple as that.\"\nThe woman was left speechless, which suited him fine.\njulius licht said to Herbert Richman and Peepgass, \"Look at Colonel\nPopover over there! I never saw that great tub of lard move so fast\nin my life!\"Herbert Richman said to Licht, \"Oh, one way or the other, that guy's\npretty speedy. He's got the banquet business in this town locked\nup.\" Then to Peepgass he said, \"Whattaya suppose he clears on a\ndinner like this?\"\nPeepgass hadn't a clue-but he was elated! Satisfaction swept\nthrough him like a neural wave! Richman had asked him and not his\npal Licht! He regarded him as an equal-a man on his plane in the\ngrand scheme of things! A man who would know about such things-\na man who could, after all, provide such broad hints about the\nstunningly cataclysmic fate of the likes of that boorish throwback\nCharlie Croker! One's very presence at a social event like this was a\npermission slip to deal knowingly with such nabobs as Herbert\nRichman and Julius Licht! He felt like a Cinderella liberated, if only\nfor this divine interlude, from the squalor of Normandy Lea and the\nstaff side of the PlannersBanc hierarchy.\n\"Well, let's see . . .\" he said to Herbert Richman. He had no idea\nwhat he might say next, since the hiring of a caterer was so far\nbeyond the scope of his world that he couldn't even make an\nintelligent guess.\nFortunately, Julius Licht intervened: \"I've used him, so I can give you\na pretty good idea. He's charging the museum about one hundred\ndollars a head. So what's 100 times 400?-forty thousand? Yeah. So\nlet's say his overhead is half that-although it's probably not even\nthat. He's got a lot of kitchen help to pay, but these waiters, they're\nall students and actors and artists and so forth. They don't cost him\nmuch. So he's clearing twenty to twenty-five thousand dollars here.\nNot bad.\"\nPeepgass nodded sagely, as did Richman. Me'n'Herb'n'Julius. . . Not\nbad! In no time Ray, as he insisted they call him, had their addresses\nand telephone numbers. They, in turn, had his assurances that he\nwould \"be in touch\" about something he was \"sure will interest you.\"By and by, dessert was served, lovely deep slices of lemon meringue\npie, that and more champagne. Ray held his flute of champagne up\nto the light and grinned, intoxicated by Fortune, at Herb and Julius.\nBy now the two women, Cordelia Honeyshuck and the young blond\nthing, were driven ever more deeply back into their chairs, almost as\ndeeply, in fact, as Martha Croker at the next table.\nthe lights dimmed, and some sort of theatrical illumination beamed\ndown upon a podium at the far end of the atrium. The ceremonial\npart of the evening was about to begin. That was okay by Charlie.\nHe didn't want to be seen, and he certainly didn't want to have to\ntalk to the two women anymore. He didn't even know the name, first\nor last, of the woman to his left, a reasonably young woman with\nher hair done in a so-called Palm Beach Crash Helmet. She not only\ndropped names, she dropped places and conveyances. If she let\nCharlie know once that her husband had a ranch in Wyoming-and\nthat the only practical way to reach it from Atlanta was to have your\nown jet-she must have let him know fifty times. By now Charlie had\ntuned out.\nHe remained tuned out as the president of the museum's board of\ntrustees, Ingebaugh Blanchard, the widow of Baker Blanchard, a\nhefty, boisterous woman known to her friends as Inky, came to the\npodium and said all the usual things, and then introduced the\nmuseum's new director, Jonathan Myrer. Charlie would have tuned\nhim out, too, except that his appearance was so remarkable. He was\nno more than forty- two or -three, very tall and very narrow through\nthe shoulders. His body seemed to tilt to one side, as if he suffered\nfrom scoliosis. He had a long neck and a small head with a wild\novergrowth of dark curly hair that stuck out on the sides like horns.\n\"As you know,\" said this strange-looking man, in rat-tat-tat bursts of\nwords, \"this museum was originally founded by Caroline High-in her\nhouse-which was situated precisely where we are tonight. What may\nnot be so well known-is the fact that she was acquainted with Wilson\nLapeth. In the catalogue of this exhibition-you will find a photographof Lapeth and several long-since-forgotten Atlanta artists at a picnic\non her lawn. We don't know whether she knew Lapeth's secret or\nnot. His secret, of course, was not that he was gay. In her day-in his\nday-such things were often silently understood-and never talked\nabout. No, Wilson Lapeth's secret was that his sexual orientation\nwas the engine-the driving force-the font, if you will-of a genius he\nfelt compelled to hide from the world. This did not demonstrate a\nlack of courage on his part. It merely demonstrated that he was a\nrealist. The lack of courage was society's-a society that was quick-\nand remains all too quick today-to repress and disempower those\nwho-like Walt Whitman, another gay genius-have the temerity to\nproclaim their 'barbaric yawp' over the rooftops of the world. How\nfitting it is\"-\nCharlie looked about to see if everybody else heard what he was\nhearing. But even Billy's and Doris's heads were turned in a polite\nblank- ness toward the podium.\n-\"that Lapeth chose the prison as the subject matter of the art\ntreasures we see around us tonight. As Michel Foucault has\ndemonstrated so conclusively in our own time-the prison-the actual\ncarcerel, in his terminology-the actual center of confinement and\ntorture-is but the end point\"-\nWho? thought Charlie. Michelle Fookoe? He looked at Serena, who\nwas turned about in her chair drinking in every word as if it were\nambrosia.\n-\"the unmistakable terminus-of a process that presses in upon us all.\nThe torture begins soon after the moment of birth, but we choose to\ncall it 'education,' 'religion,' 'government,' 'custom,' 'convention,'\n'tradition,' and 'Western civilization.' The result is\"-\nAm I hearing what I think I'm hearing or am I crazy? thought\nCharlie. Why wasn't somebody at one of these many tables hissing?-\nor something--\"a relentless confinement within 'the norm,' 'the standard,' a\nprocess so\"-\nOh, how he twisted those words norm and standard! Such\npassionate contempt!\n-\"so gradual that it requires a genius on the order of a Foucault- or a\nLapeth-to awaken us\"- Fookoe again.\n-\"from the torpor of our long imprisonment. Lapeth chose to join the\noutlaws-those who want out-those who refuse to be confined by\nconvention-in prison. Even within prison walls, of course, our society\ndoes not relent. Even incarceration, as Foucault has pointed out, is\ncalled 'correction' in our enlightened time. The outlaws are\nsupposedly 'corrected'-bent back toward the norm-when, in fact, in\nso many cases it is they who are in a better position to correct us in\nthe ways of independence and\"-\nCharlie looked about again. This table, the next table, the table next\nto that-people with absolutely untroubled countenances, as if the\nman were making the usual, entirely appropriate remarks that one\nmakes on an important civic occasion.\n-\"and fulfillment. So while we have ever)' reason to celebrate the\ndiscovery of a treasure of inestimable value-which this exhibition\nrepresents-we also have ever)' reason to mourn-mourn not only the\nloss of Lapeth's genius to his own time-but also to mourn the loss of\nall the Wilson Lapeths we will never know about. We must find the\ncourage, as a society, to invite-not allow but invite-genius into our\nlives, no matter what troubling, upsetting, turbulent, defiant, rude,\nand unconventional forms it may take, for such, more often than\nnot, is the face of greatness. You who have come to this exhibition-\nyou who have shown such generosity to this museum tonight-you\nhave proven that you have that courage-the courage to consider the\nultimate 'jailbreak,' if you will, that our society must accomplish if\nany of us-in any profound sense-is to become free. Such will be the\ntrue legacy of this historic moment-even more than the very realcontribution you have made to our stability, our health, our future as\nan institution. For this, above all, I salute you.\"\nGeneral, unquestioning, routine, ceremonial applause. How could the\nman go on that way, that long, without mentioning what this\nexhibition was actually about!\nCharlie began hissing, but nobody even noticed, except for the\nwoman with the Palm Beach Crash Helmet, who looked at him nol\nonly as if he were repulsive but also as if he had a room to let\nupstairs.\neven after the lights came up and Inky Blanchard bade the crowd\nfarewell and they headed away from the white tables and poppy\ncache- pots, Martha remained in a daze. Twenty thousand dollars\nshe had poured into this evening-and for what? Herbert Longleaf\nwas suddenly at her side, all smiles and patter, as if he had actually\npaid her some attention from the moment they first arrived until now\n. . . and within thirty seconds, although he walked beside her, he\nhad turned his head to Joyce's Glenn Branwaist. Joyce was all\nsmiles, too, clearly ecstatic about being in the thick of such a\nfabulous event. She had a strange piping laugh that went eye eye\neye eye eye eye eye eye as she listened to something rich that\nOskar von Eyrik was saying to Sonny Beamer.\nOne and all were heading for the front entrance, which was far too\ncramped for a crowd this size. Scores of tuxedos and part)' dresses\nwere converging. A blur of fancy-dressed humanity slowing down to\na shuffle--\nSuddenly right beside her-Charlie. Charlie and Serena-so close there\nwas no avoiding them.\nThey were as startled as she was. Charlie's huge chest swelled up\ninside his white shirt, and for an instant his big square face looked\nas helpless as it had that fateful morning when she had surprised\nhim with Serena. Serena stood stock-still, her lips parted, her eyes\nwide, motionless, as if holding her breath.Martha knew exactly what was coming. It was as if she could hear\nthe synapses firing in Charlie's skull. He had a look she had seen so\noften before. He broke into a smile. Then his eyes lit up. She didn't\nknow what he was going to say, but she already knew how to\ncharacterize it: a real hamhone performance.\n\"Heyyyyyyy, Martha!\" he said in the heartiest voice imaginable. \"As I\nlive and breathe! How you doin', gal? I didn't know you were here!\"\nThe How you doin', gal? was the worst of it. How you doin' was\npronounced in a certain tiny, intimate, mincing way-\"Heh yew\ndewin'?\" -that was pure South Georgia. And the gal was just short of\nobscene. Martha stared at him, paralyzed, speechless. So Charlie\nturned to Herbert Longleaf and gave him the sort of intense Friendly\nBear grin and thrust of the head that he used to charm people he\nwas meeting for the first time and put out his hand, and Martha\ncould see she had no choice but to croak out:\n\"Charlie, this is Herbert Longleaf.\"\n\"Herbert?\" said Charlie with the sort of pseudo-rapt Southern manly\nstare she had seen him use so often during their twenty-nine years\nof marriage. It was terribly tiresome to see him use it yet once\nmore, in this place, at this time. \"Charlie Croker, Herbert! It's real\nnice to meet you. I want you to meet my wife, Serena.\"\nHe steered Serena-Serena and her tiny black dress with the deep\ncleavage that was so fashionable among young women this year-\ntoward Herbert Longleaf. Martha instinctively withdrew. She didn't\nwant to have to force a smile onto her face and say hello to Charlie's\nperfect boy with breasts.\nTo make matters worse, Herbert Longleaf, her supposed escort, was\ncharmed, immediately. A big submissive grin came over his face, and\nhe began blurting out pleasantries. The next thing Martha knew,\nGlenn and Oskar von Eyrik and Sonny Beamer began moving closer\nto the great man as well. Immediately mesmerized, the whole bunch\nof them! The fabled tycoon-and his perfect boy with breasts! Noquick hello, so long, not for Mr. Herbert Longleaf. Oh no. Now he and\nCharlie were deep in conversation, and Serena, listening in, laughed\nsociably, and so did Glenn and Oskar and Sonny Beamer. Their grins\nbecame more and more worshipful, helpless, grateful, and\ningratiating. The great man stoops to converse with us! Oh, bless\nour lucky stars! They were paying more attention to Charlie than\nthey had paid to her the entire evening. Joyce was loyal and stayed\nby her side, although who could say? Maybe in her heart of hearts\nshe wanted to meet the great man and bask in the radiance of his\nmanly grandeur like the rest of them.\n\"So that's Charlie,\" said Joyce.\nMartha made no reply. Involuntarily she pulled back still farther, until\nnow the stream of people trying to get to the door had made its way\nbetween her and the worshipful knot of people around her ex-\nhusband. Except for Joyce, her eighteen thousand dollars' worth of\nguests were no longer aware of her existence. She was afraid to say\nanything to Joyce. She was afraid she might start crying.\n\"Martha! Martha!\"\nShe turned her head. It was a pleasant-looking man, late thirties,\nearly forties, with a nearly lineless face and thick sandy-colored hair.\nHe was in a crouch, as if hiding from something. He also looked a bit\ndrunk.\nShe had no idea who he was-but at the very least he was that rare\ncreature in this teeming place: a man who actually remembered her\nname.\n\"Ray Peepgass, Martha! From PlannersBanc!\"\nShe still had no recollection of him, but she did remember the many\nhours she spent in the company of people from the bank while\nCharlie was ropiancing them for stupendous loans.\nHe came forward, still in his crouch, and shook her hand. \"I saw you\nearlier but I couldn't get over to you, there was such a mob!\" Hekept smiling but also looking this way and that. \"This is so funny,\nbecause I was thinking about you just yesterday and wondering how\nto get in touch with you!\"\n\"With me?\"\n\"Yes! There's something I need to run by you! Could I give you a\nring?\"\nHe grinned and grinned, and his eyes darted this way and that. No\nquestion about it, the man was drunk.\nOn the other hand, during this entire night of her great re-debut, of\nher new Destiny, he was the one human being who had shown the\nslightest spontaneous interest in her existence.\n\"Well-of course, Mr. . . .\"\n\"Peepgass!\" he said. \"Ray! Make it Ray!\"\nHe produced a ballpoint pen from an inside jacket pocket and then\nbegan ransacking his tuxedo for a piece of paper. Finding none, he\nthrust out the cuff of the left sleeve of his shirt and positioned the\npen above it and grinned and said, \"What's the number?\"\n\"Not on your shirtl It'll never come out.\"\n\"You're right! Here-I'll put it here!\" He positioned the pen over the\nback of his left hand and grinned some more. Drunk; no question\nabout it. But she gave him the telephone number and he wrote it on\nthe back of his hand.\n\"That I won't misplace!\" he said with a merry gleam in his eyes.\n\"The shirt-you never know!\"\nStill crouched, Mr. Ray Peepgass said goodbye and departed, and\nMartha didn't give him a second thought. She was staring morosely\nat Herbert Longleaf and the rest of them and wondering how long it\nwould take them to relinquish their eye-to-eye adoration of the great\nCharlie Croker.\"Who was that?\" said Joyce.\n\"To be perfectly honest with you,\" said Martha, \"I have no idea.\nSomebody 1 must have met back when Charlie was busy borrowing\nmoney from PlannersBanc.\"\nShe resumed her bitter observation of the manly Mr. Croker and his\nnew admirers. More scalps taken by the Croker charm. Some\nDestiny.\nChapter 19The Trial\nThe next two days, monday and Tuesday, were so un- eventful,\nConrad began to believe that things were settling down into a\nroutine: a drear)' one, but bearable. There were the boring times in\nthe cell, in which he listened to the Pidgin chatter of Five-O and the\nmotherfuckin' laments over the wire, and there were the long,\nanxious interludes in the pod room, in which he kept one eye on\nRotto and his retinue while trying to act as if he were paying\nattention to nothing at all. Either way, he was able to write letters to\nJill, Carl, and Christ)- and to read the words of Zeus' messenger,\nEpictetus. He kept the poor bedraggled pages of The Stoics with him\nat all times.\nThere wasn't a truly tense moment until the next day. During the\nevening pod time Rotto left the white turf and approached Vastly. He\nwalked right into the heart of the black turf, to where Vastly,\nsurrounded by his boys, sat on the edge of a metal table watching\ntelevision. Even a blind inmate would have known something was\nup, because the whole pod grew quiet, except for the television set,\nwhich was tuned to a show called Planet Retro, about a morbid,\ndysfunctional world of the future in which only the explosives,\nautomatic weapons, and combat vehicles seemed to work with any\nregularity. So now there was dead silence in the pod, punctuated by\ntinny explosions, fusillades, rpm surges, and tire screeches from up\non the stanchion where the TV set was.\nRotto wasn't as big as Vastly, but with his welted scars and brawler's\nnose he was the meanest-looking man in the pod, Vastly included.\n\"Yo, Vastly,\" he said. \"I got people here needs to use the telephone,\nman.\"\n\"Yeah,\" said Vastly, who didn't budge from the edge of the table and\nkept one eye on Planet Retro, to demonstrate the coolness with\nwhich he took Rotto's big excursion, \" 'know how it is. But hey, bro,\ncheck it on out.\" He gestured sadly toward the two telephones. Twoblack inmates were using them, and six more were waiting. \"Heavy\nnight, bro. Next pod time, you got it.\"\n\"Come on, man,\" said Rotto. \"I got people here needs to get holt\ntheir lawyers and their old ladies. How 'bout showing a little respect?\nWe show you guys respect.\"\n\"That's cool, bro,\" said Vastly, \"that's cool. Next pod time, no\nproblem. Tonight's just one a those nights.\" He shook his head with\nan air of exaggerated regret.\nIt went on like that for a while. In terms of sheer numbers, physical\npower, and toughness, there was no reason why Vastly and his\nfaction ever had to let the Nordic Bund or anybody else use the\ntelephones. But with the Nordic Bund, as Five-O had explained it to\nConrad, one never knew. They were crazy enough to cut, bite, kick,\nor gang-stomp Vastly or anybody else if pushed too hard, no matter\nwhat the consequences might be. Having seen the very smallest of\nthe breed, Mutt, in action, Conrad believed it.\nThe standoff dragged on until Rotto finally walked on back to the\nother end of the room with more assurances of \"next pod time,\"\nwhich meant exactly nothing, since next time all prior negotiations\nwere always forgotten. Rotto returned to the white turf with a dark\ncloud across his face. He didn't look at anybody, not even Riffraff\nand Sleaze Man. He had just been totally disrespected, and\neverybody knew it. In any case, everybody let his breath out, and\nthe usual ambient noise of the pod room rose back up, and a\ncommercial came on the TV screen. A slender blonde appeared, and\nher face suddenly filled the screen. \"Super-smooooooooooth,\" she\nsaid, closing her eyes and giving her lips an exaggerated O-shape\nand then opening her mouth and sticking the tip of her curiously\nblood-red tongue out between her teeth.\n\"You kin smooth this out for me, baby,\" said Rapmaster EmCee New\nYork, looking to Vastly for approval.After pod time, back in the cell, Five-O said to Conrad, \"Bummahs,\nbrah! Vastly wen diss Rotto to the max! Dat moke going make\nsomebody pay.\" He pulled a face and rolled his eyes up into his\nhead.\nthe next afternoon, at pod time, all seemed tranquil.\nConrad sat down at a table and returned to Epictetus. By now he\nhad learned how to sit on a bolted metal stool at a bolted metal\ntable and place the forlorn pages of The Stoics before him and shut\nout the rest of the pod. What Epictetus had to say was supremely\nsimple, and he said it over and over again in different ways. All\nhuman beings are the children of Zeus, who has given them a spark\nof his divine fire. Once you have that spark, no one, not even Zeus,\ncan take it from you. This spark gives you the faculty of reasoning\nand the will to act or not to act and the will to get and the will to\navoid. But the will to get and avoid what? \"To get what is good,\"\nsays Epictetus, \"and to avoid what is evil.\" There is no use spending\nyour life agonizing over the things that are not dependent upon your\nwill, such as money, possessions, fame, and political power.\nLikewise, there is no use spending your life trying to avoid the things\nthat are not dependent upon your will, such as the tyranny of a\nNero, imprisonment, and physical danger. (Conrad nodded as he\nread it.) Epictetus had a special scorn for those who \"merely tremble\nand mourn and seek to escape misfortune.\" \"Zeus!\" he cries out at\none point, \"send me what trial thou wilt! For I have endowments\nand resources, given me by thee, to bring myself honor through\nwhat befalls!\" Then he says to his disciples, \"What do you think\nwould have become of Hercules if there had not been a lion and a\nhydra and a stag and a boar and unjust and brutal men, whom he\ndrove forth and cleansed the world of? What would he have done if\nthere had been nothing of this sort? Is it not plain that he would\nhave wrapped himself up and slept and slumbered all his life in ease\nand luxury? He would never have been a Hercules at all! What use\nwould he have made of his arms and his might and his enduranceand noble heart, had he not been stimulated and trained by such\nperils and opportunities?\"\nAnother sudden drop in the noise level of the pod room . . . Conrad\nlooked up. His heart bolted in his chest. Rotto! Rotto had left his\ncircle of Nordic Bundsmen and was sauntering toward the metal\ntables with a rocking gait, the Frankenstein, which he had apparently\npicked up from the O-town brothers. His nose and scars looked\nunusually hideous, set off as thev were bv the smile he had decided\nto paste on his mug. His upper arms looked freshly pumped up to a\nprodigious girth. His greasy ponvtail bobbed at the base of his\nmostly bald skull as he rocked Conrad's way. Conrad stared, too\nstartled to even pretend he wasn't riveted, paralyzed, by the sight.\nBut Rotto wasn't looking at him. He went right past him and headed\nstraight for Pocahontas, who, as usual, sat slumped over a metal\ntable. Nobody was moving a muscle, except for the old man (all of\nforty-five), Pops, who now Sinequan Shuffled as far away from Rotto\nas it was possible to get without leaving the white turf altogether.\nRotto sat down on the metal stool next to Pocahontas's. Pocahontas\nraised his pallid face off his forearms just far enough to look at his\nvisitor and then remained in that position as if frozen. He looked like\nan animal mesmerized by a snake. (Conrad's entire knowledge of\nsnakes mesmerizing animals came from a Disney animated movie,\nThe Jungle Book.) Rotto gave the poor boy a hideously warm smile\nand leaned toward him and said something Conrad couldn't make\nout. Pocahontas's lips wavered spasticallv between a polite smile and\nan incoherent mumble. But his eyes never varied. They stared with a\nlook of stark transfixed fear. His head remained at a cockeyed angle\nnear the tabletop. He was breathing so hard the auburn Mohawk\nbrush down the middle of his skull bobbed up and down. Rotto\nlaughed as if the boy had said something terribly amusing, then\ntalked to him some more. This dreadful parley seemed to go on\ninterminably, although in fact it was only for three or four minutes.\nThen Rotto gave Pocahontas a few comradely claps on the shoulder,smiled, got up, and went walking back to his mates with his\nFrankenstein rock.\nConrad was shaken. (What if it had been me!) As to what had just\ntranspired, he could only make a horrifying guess. Everyone else\nseemed to be doing the same. Everyone took one last look at\nPocahontas-who straightened up on the stool for a moment,\nbreathed a prodigious, helpless sigh, and then laid his eyebrowless\nface and arms supinely down upon the table again. After that\neveryone avoided looking at him, as if the vet}' sight might spread\nsome terrible contagion.\nConrad tried to return to Epictetus. At first the words just ran\ntogether in a goulash, so turbulent were the thoughts and fears that\nhad taken possession of his mind. But fifteen minutes went by, half\nan hour, an hour ... and the pod eased back into its usual precarious\nequilibrium, and he was finally able to calm down . . . Still, he\ncouldn't stop thinking about this poor boy, Pocahontas. What was his\nduty toward this sad, strange, friendless soul, if worse came to\nworst? What would Epictetus have done? He remembered something\nhe had read-where? Book III, it was. . . Book III . . . Book III . . . He\nbegan riffling through the pages of the folios before him . . . Book\nIII . . . and finally he found . . . Chapter 29 . . . The chapter was\nentitled \"That We Ought Not to Spend Our Feelings on Things\nBeyond Our Power.\" It began: \"If a thing goes against another's\nnature, you must not take it as evil for you. For you are not born to\nshare humiliation or evil fortune but to share good fortune. And if a\nman is unfortunate, remember that his misfortune is his own fault;\nfor Zeus created all men for happiness and peace of mind.\"\nOne of his disciples asks, \"How then am I to prove myself\naffectionate?\"\n\"In a noble and not a miserable spirit,\" says Epictetus. \"Prove\nyourself affectionate, but see that you observe this rule: If this\naffection of yours, or whatever you call it, is going to make you a\nmiserable slave, it is not for your good to be affectionate. Weabound in ever}' kind of excuse for people with degenerate spirits;\nwith some of us it is a child, with others our mother or our brothers.\nWe ought not to let anyone make us miserable, but let everyone\nmake us happy, and Zeus above all, he who created us for this.\"\nConrad looked up and stared at Pocahontas, who seemed to have\nabandoned himself utterly to his fate, so forlornly and helplessly was\nhe now draped over the table. How very sad he looked-and how\nhardhearted Epictetus was! Was this the other side of the sternness\nwith which he bade him face adversity? He wasn't sure he could be\nthat hard-hearted ... He studied Pocahontas some more . . . Look at\nwhat he had done to himself, to his head, all of which screamed,\n\"Look at me! I'm here to shock you!\" Judging by the puncture holes\nin his ear- lobe, you could tell he had worn a whole array of\nearrings, to make the scream even louder. He had shaved off his\neyebrows, which made his eye sockets and his pallid eyes look\nghastly. He walked with a mincing gait and held his elbows in and let\nhis forearms waggle out like a girl's. \"If a man is unfortunate,\nremember that his misfortune is his own fault . . . We abound in\nevery kind of excuse for people with degenerate spirits . . .\"\nThe words ran through Conjad's mind, and he tried to make them fit\nthe sad case he beheld . . . We could make them fit, and yet-what\nwas the obligation of the Stoic, the man of noble spirit, to the people\naround him?\nIt dawned on him that he didn't even know Pocahontas's real name.\nBACK IN THE cell, as they waited for the dinner trolley, all that Five-\nO could talk about was Rotto's pod call on Pocahontas. He sat 011\nthe edge of his bunk, holding the sides of his head with his hands\nand shaking it at the same time.\n\"Dat beeg haole mahu\"-that big white faggot-\"he wen make ass to\nthe max.\" He blundered totally. \"He mockay-die-dead.\" He's deader\nthan dead.Conrad stood with his back propped against the wall and his arms\ncrossed over his chest. \"But what could he do, Five-O?\"\n\"Anyt'ing! Anyt'ing . . . You remember wot I tell? You either one\nplayer or one punk. You no stay eenveesible. Cannot! An' dese\nbuggahs, dey t'ink you one punk, you real had-it. Bumbye dey going\ngrind you. Dat Pocahontas-dat mahu-wow, bummahs, man. He wen\nget one chance: bus' up da guy, broke his face.\"\n\"Are you kidding?\" said Conrad. \"He's just a weak, skinny kid. He's\nlike a noodle. Rotto would kill him.\"\n'Teah?\" said Five-O. \"Better dat mahu going get his face broke den\nwot Rotto'dem going do to da buggah. Garans, brah.\" He began\nshaking his head some more. \"Rotto wen get disrespected by Vastly.\nNow he going prove he beeg, tough moke all'a same. Make li'dat to\nda max. Pocahontas real had-it.\"\nDuring the evening pod time, after dinner, Conrad felt agitated. He\nsat at a table, as usual, with the pages of The Stoics open before\nhim. But he kept raising his eyes to keep tabs 011 Pocahontas . . .\nand Rotto. Pocahontas was no longer sitting at a table. He was on\nhis feet, slowly walking around the edges of the white turf, as far as\nhe could get from Rotto without straying into the Nuestra Familia or\nblack turfs. His posture was dreadful. His gangling body was humped\nover at the shoulders, and his head, bearing its auburn brush, hung\nforward like a dog's. His long, dead-white, hairless arms stuck out of\nthe armholes of his yellow felony pajamas like lengths of bone barely\ncovered in flesh. He didn't seem to have a single muscle. Conrad\nwas possessed with the urge to do something for him, to talk to him,\ngive him some encouragement (but how?) ... or something . . .\nEveryone else was treating him like a disease. Five-O was over on\nthe Nuestra Familia turf huddled with one of his Mexican pals, Flaco.\nThe two of them glanced at Pocahontas, and then Five-O did some\nmore of his exaggerated head-shaking, all the while smiling\nsardonically. Not even Pops was having any truck with that piece of\ndead meat. Whenever his shuffle took him anywhere near theperambulating Pocahontas, he would turn on the heels of his flip-\nflops and go shuffling back the other way.\nSo that left Conrad . . . But hadn't Epictetus said, \"We ought not to\nspend our feelings on things beyond our power\"? Hadn't he said,\n\"You are not born to share humiliation or evil fortune . . . and if a\nman is unfortunate, remember that his misfortune is his own fault\"?\nHadn't he said, \"We abound in ever)' kind of excuse for people with\ndegenerate spirits ... we ought not to let anyone make us\nmiserable\"? Yes, he had said that, and Epictetus was now his only\ncompass . . . And so he would stay out of it . . . But suppose he was\nmisinterpreting the long-dead master ... or using him to shirk his\nclear duty, to absolve himself of guilt? . . . But hadn't Epictetus said,\n\"If this affection of yours, or whatever you call it, is going to make\nyou a miserable slave, it is not for your good\"? . . . Yes, he had said\nthat . . . Around and around it went in his head . . .\nVastly was over at the entryway to the showers, doing his dips. He\nhad taken off the shirt of his felony pajamas, and his neck, trapezii,\nshoulders, and chest, as well as his upper arms, seemed to swell out\nto a prodigious size as he lowered and lifted his body. Five or six of\nhis buddies hung about, fawning. Not even Rotto and his crew were\npaying any attention to Pocahontas-or himself-or not as far as he\ncould detect.\nThe hours went by, slowly at first but then faster, as he relaxed and\nbecame absorbed once more in a letter to Jill, Carl, and Christ)' and\nBook II of Epictetus. Before he knew it, it was time for lights-out and\ncries into the void and O-town ballads by Rapmaster EmCee New\nYork.\nit was pod time the following evening. When Conrad had last looked\nat them, Pocahontas was pacing quietly and dejectedly around the\noutskirts of the white turf, and Rotto and his bovs were out in the\nmiddle.as usual. The television set was tuned to a sports channel on which\nsome sort of bobsledding event was in progress. The hushed,\nmodulated voice of a commentator was interspersed with the\nwhooshing, scraping sound of the bobsleds going down their chutes.\nThis was such a relief from the explosions, tire shrieks, Lorelei\nWashburn screams, and Hollywood wannabe street talk that\nordinarily poured out of the TV set on the pole, there was something\nlulling about it. Conrad had sunk back into Book III of Epictetus . . .\nWill you realize once and for all that it is not death that is the source\nof a mean and cowardly spirit but rather the fear of death?\nAgainst this fear then I would have you discipline yourself--\nWithout knowing why, he looked up. Then he was aware that the\nnoise level had dropped once more. He cut a glance toward Rotto\nand his boys-or where they usually were. Not there, not any of them\n. . . Then he looked for Pocahontas. No tall, sickly, languid figure\nwith a degenerate plume walking near the wall . . . Neither was he\ndraped over the metal table. At the table where Pocahontas usually\nsat was a group of Nuestra Familia Latinos plus Five-O, who was\ndeep in conversation with Flaco. Five-O shot a glance toward the\nshower area. So did Flaco. So Conrad looked that way, too. To his\nastonishment, a half dozen of Rotto's boys, including Riffraff and\nSleaze Man, stood in a line in front of the entrance to the shower\narea, as if they were sentinels, blocking not only anyone who might\nwant to go inside but also anyone who wanted to look inside.\nObviously they had made some kind of arrangement with Vastly and\nhis crew. No sign of Rotto himself. The bobsleds whooshed and\nscraped away . . . The hushed voice murmured and droned . . .\nOccasional applause . . . Pops was doing his Sinequan Shuffle as far\naway from the showers as he could get . . .\nWhatever was happening, it was happening in the shower area at\nthis moment. Conrad felt an impulse to get up and go over there,\nbut he didn't. He didn't budge. He sat on the metal stool, staring.\nThe air seemed to be crackling.After what seemed to be an eternity but may have been only a\nminute or two, the line of Rotto's Nordic Bundsmen stirred a bit at\nthe entryway. Two of them moved apart, and from behind them\nappeared the tall, rangy, degeneratedly slouched figure of the one\nthey called Slimy. Behind him came the fat, bearded Okie they called\nGut. He was hitching up the pants of his yellow felony pajamas. As if\non a military command, Rotto's boys moved away from the showers\nand began walking toward their end of the pod room, single file,\nhugging the wall. And then Conrad realized why. That way they\nremained just out of range of the surveillance camera up in the\ncorner near the ceiling. Wino and the rest of Nuestra Familia,\nincluding Five-O, made a point of not looking at them. The Sinequan\nShuffler put the maximum distance between himself and their\nmarch. But from the black turf Vastly and his boys looked on with\nwhat appeared to be amusement and curiosity. Conrad stared\nunabashedly. He couldn't help himself. He was too appalled by the\nthought of what must have just happened to do anything else. And\nthen he saw what he somehow knew he was foreordained to see. He\nsaw the bald head and the greasy ponytail behind the retaining wall\nof the showers. Then the brute rose to his full height and looked all\nabout. Rotto was bare from the waist up. His buffed-up body was\nglossy with sweat. He leaned over and, as nearly as Conrad could\ntell, went through the motions of putting on his pants. Then he\nstood up again and nonchalantly walked out of the shower room\nwith his Frankenstein rock, hooking his thumbs inside the elastic\nwaistband of his felony pajamas to adjust them over the crests of his\nhips. With his shoulders moving this way and that from the stiff-\nlegged gait of the Frankenstein, he looked all around, as if anxious\nfor the entire pod to know what he had just done. Consciously,\nConrad wanted to avert his eyes, but some autonomous impulse\nwouldn't let him. For an instant their gazes locked, Rotto's as he\nrocked along the wall, Conrad's as he sat at the metal table before\nthe words of Epictetus. Rotto's lips moved ever so slightly, but what\nthat expression was, Conrad couldn't decipher. And then the brute\nlooked away and continued his triumphal stroll back toward his\ndomain.The pod remained quiet, except for the television set. A commercial\nmust have been on, because Conrad could hear the laughter of what\nsounded like a group of overstimulated small children, while a\nsaxophone played.\nThen another figure rose from behind the retaining wall of the\nshower room . . . The auburn Mohawk on the pale, pale skull was\nthe first thing Conrad saw . . . Pocahontas came staggering toward\nthe opening in the wall. When he reached it, you could see that he\nwas still trying to pull the pants of his yellow felony pajamas up over\nhis hips. His midsection, emaciated and dead white, was bare. His\nface, more ghastly-looking than ever, bore a strange expression. The\nflesh of his eyebrowless brow was contorted and his mouth hung\nopen, as if he were trying to remember something very important.\nThen he closed his eyes and hung his head, and he twisted up his\nmouth and began bobbing his chin. He took a single step out into\nthe pod room, sobbing without making a sound. Then he opened his\neyes and looked all around. The entire pod seemed to shrink from\nthe sight. The Nordic Bund, Nuestra Familia, Five-O, even Vastly and\nhis boys, and Pops, who did another of his spins and began shuffling\nin the opposite direction, away from the stricken youth-one and all\naverted their eyes, with the single exception of Conrad. Pocahontas\nstraightened up slightly and put his hands 011 his hips, with the\nthumbs forward, as if he was trying to pull himself together and\nregain his dignity. And then, just like that, he collapsed. He\ncrumpled, he swooned, he fell to the concrete floor in a sprawl.\nRotto, Sleaze Man, Five-O, Flaco, Weddo, Wino-none of them was\nmore than twelve feet from the boy, and none made a move. The\nbobsleds were whooshing and scraping again, and you could hear a\nruffle of applause out in some cold open country, God knew where.\nConrad got up from his metal stool, impelled by something he could\nno longer reason with, not even with the help of Epictetus. A rushing\nsound rose inside his skull until he couldn't hear the television set or\nanything else. The faces of the Nordic Bund and Nuestra Familia\nstared at him as he walked between their two turfs. Five-O gave him\nsuch an uncomprehending, wide-eyed look, he knew what was goingthrough his mind: \"My cellie, he going crazy.\" When Conrad reached\nPocahontas's side, he thought at first the boy was dead. He was\nsprawled chest-down, but his head and neck were twisted at an odd\nangle. He appeared to be trying to look at the ceiling, but his eyes\nwere focusing on nothing at all, and his mouth was wide-open, as if\nhe had just taken his last breath. A mold!-a fungus!-spreading over\nhis skin!-but in fact it was only a faint reddish-white stubble that had\nbegun to grow not only on his face but also on his skull, where he\nhad shaved it.\nConrad knelt down and started to speak to him. Didn't even know\nhis name! Couldn't very well call him Pocahontas--\nHe touched the boy's shoulder and said, \"Can you hear me?\"\nNo reply. Conrad put his fingertips on the boy's neck and could feel a\npulse in his throat. Now he became aware of the stench that arose\nfrom his body. Terrified of the shower room, Pocahontas probably\nhadn't bathed since he arrived at Santa Rita. His legs were twisted\nand spread out in such a way that it looked as if he must have been\nrunning when he fell. Between his legs, in the folds of the yellow\nfelony pajamas, barely visible because of the grotesque sprocketing\nof his legs, you could see a long red stain, about two inches wide.\nConrad put his hand back on the boy's shoulder and said, \"Don't try\nto move! We're gonna get you some help!\"\nStill on one knee, he looked about beseechingly at his fellow inmates\n. . . these yellow figures frozen in their zones ... He picked out Five-\nO with his eyes.\n\"Get a deputy! This guy's bleeding!\"\nFive-O tucked his chin down and arched his eyebrows, as if he had\njust been presented with a completely irrational proposition. Conrad\nlooked all around the pod, craning his head wildly-the videocamera.\nHe spotted the surveillance camera up near the ceiling line at\nVastly's end of the pod room. He stood up and stepped farther outtoward the center of the floor, directly in the line of the camera lens.\nHe stared right into it and raised both hands in supplication and\nyelled out:\n\"Yo! Deputy!\" In the very instant it left his lips it occurred to him that\nlie had never uttered the cry Yo! before. But this was Santa Rita.\n\"We got a man injured in here!\" He started pointing toward\nPocahontas, all the while keeping his eyes pinned on the camera.\n\"He's bleeding! Yo! Deputy! We got a man here's bleeding!\"\nIn no time two deputies, Armentrout and the younger, leaner one\nwho had clamped the Michael Jackson love glove on Mutt,\nmaterialized.\n\"What the hell happened to him?\" said Armentrout, leaning over and\npeering down at Pocahontas.\nConrad paused. He was keenly aware that the entire pod was\nhanging on every word. \"I don't know,\" he said finally. \"He was\nstanding here -and then he-he collapsed.\" To himself he said, \"I've\ngone this far. Why don't I tell them the whole story?\" But he didn't.\nAnd now the nurse, Maggie, was kneeling beside Pocahontas. This\nmuch-mocked Maggot was in fact a rather sweet, plump woman,\nabout forty. Conrad had never seen her up close before, and he was\nsurprised. Not even her mannish uniform, the white blouse, pants,\nand flat white shoes, could detract from her complexion, which was\nso smooth and milky white, or her hair, which was a reddish gold\nand pulled back into an elaborate plaited bun. She leaned down\nclose to Pocahontas's face and began talking to him softly. Presently\nthe boy's eyes focused on hers, and he murmured something.\nArmentrout stepped over Pocahontas's body, so that he had one foot\nplanted on either side of his waist, and he bent clown and hooked\nhis hands under his shoulders and picked him up. In Armentrout's\npowerful grip his frail form came up off the floor like a plastic doll's.\nHis fungoid head, with its auburn plume flopping to one side, lolled\nforward on his neck, a long, pale stem that seemed ready to snapoff from the weight of the grotesque noggin it supported.\nPocahontas's legs did a helpless half-shuffle as the two deputies led\nhim off with his arms hooked over their shoulders. The bloodstain\nwas now plainly visible. It extended from the seat four or five inches\nclown the inside of one leg of his pants. Before the nurse, Maggot,\nleft, walking behind them, she turned and gave Conrad a look. It\nwasn't exactly a smile. It was a look of such warmth ... He couldn't\nthink of her as Maggot ... He wanted to embrace her. He wanted to\nhold her and put his cheek next to hers. No woman had given him a\nlook like that since . . . since . . . since ... He couldn't even bring\nhimself to think about it, and precisely why he wanted to hold this\nwoman he couldn't have explained in a thousand years.\nHe was now standing by himself in the spot where Pocahontas had\nfallen-aware that he was now what he had certainly never wanted to\nbe, the center of attention of the entire pod. He could hear the\ntelevision set once more as it droned away up on top of the metal\nstanchion in the black zone. The commentator with the TV sports\nvoice was speaking, but no longer in hushed tones:\n\"A1 Westerfield! Captain of the U. S. bobsledding team-the\nchampions!-winners in the finals of the European winter games here\nin Vogelsbein, Austria. Congratulations, Al.\"\nOut of breath: \"Thank you, Sam.\"\n\"Al, that was a stupendous victory, the first championship for a U. S.\nbobsledding team in these games in-what is it now?-almost two\ndecades. But it was terribly close.\"\nStill out of breath but obviously elated: \"Too close for comfort, Sam.\"\n\"Frankly, for a second there I thought you'd lost it on that third\nturn.\"\nTaking a big gulp of air: \"I did, too, Sam. It was my fault. I overcom-\npensated, and we almost came up over the lip.\" Panting. \"But thenwhen I snapped back, it gave us like a little kick in the butt, and I\nthink maybe we even picked up a fraction of a second.\"\n\"Sounds like a mighty big kick in the butt, Al, maybe the biggest kick\nin the butt in these games so far. Al Westerfield!-captain of the\nvictorious American bobsledders!\"\nAs Conrad walked back toward his table, he perceived-perceived-it\nregistered first as a sensory perception rather than a thought-that no\none was looking at him. Both the Nordic Bund and Nuestra Familia\nseemed to pull back rather than risk contact with this pariah. He\ncaught just a glimpse of Five-O's wide, putty-colored face. For an\ninstant Five-O shrugged his eyebrows upward in the look that asks,\n\"What can I tell you?\" before turning away and leaning toward Flaco,\nas if he had something important to tell him.\nBack at the metal table, sitting on the metal stool, Conrad couldn't\neven make himself pretend to look at the pages of The Stoics. He\nsat bolt upright, looking straight ahead at . . . nothing ... at the\nshadow of the recesses of the shower room behind the retaining\nwall. His heart was pounding. His armpits were abloom with heat.\nHe was churning with fear, anger, and guilt. He was now the lone\nwhite new fish in the pod, young, slightly built, and all at once highly\nvisible-and scorned and held in contempt. Not only had he come to\nthe aid of an untouchable, a poor, ravaged, humiliated, turned-out,\nfreakish homosexual-a punk-he had also come close to being a\nsnitch. Rotto and his crew had barely departed the shower area\nwhen he was out in the middle of the pod room screaming \"Yo!\nDeputy!\" and calling the hacks to the scene of the crime-yes!-and\nwhich one of these paragons of manhood, who on the black turf,\nwho on the Latin turf, who on the white turf, with their tattoos and\ncrosses and gorged muscles, had the courage or the simple human\ndecency to help a poor, pathetic kid like Pocahontas? None of them!\nNot one! What kind of manhood was it to look the other way and not\nsnitch when a brute decides to have his way with the hide of\nanother human being? Yes . . . and what about himself? He had\ncome to Pocahontas's aid, all right-when it was altogether too late.Why had he never offered him the hand of, if not friendship,\ncomradeship? Why had he let him flounder in this gray concrete\nhole, totally isolated, totally without the simplest word of\nencouragement or counsel? . . . Why had he-or was he being too\nhard on himself? What chance had the boy ever had, from the very\nbeginning? Pocahontas had turned himself into a freak. He had\nshaved his own head, shaved his own eyebrows, grown his own\nMohawk plume, punctured his own earlobes and rims and studded\nthem with earrings, slumped him self over with a slacker's posture,\nscreamed to the world with his own sick, perverse defiance: \"Look at\nme! I'm a freak and I'm glad of it!\" Epictetus' words resounded in his\nmind: 'Tou are not born to share humiliation or evil fortune . . . If a\nman is unfortunate, remember that his misfortune is his own fault\n. . . We ought not to spend our feelings on things beyond our\npower.\"\nSo agitated was he that now all of it-his fear, his anger, and his guilt-\nwas suddenly directed toward Epictetus. What would the great\nmaster have him do, simply turn away, avert his eyes, like the\nothers, like the Mexicans, like Five-O, like Pops in his shuffle, like\nVastly, for that matter, and do nothing? Was this newly found god of\nhis, Zeus, a false god? And Epictetus a false teacher? If that was so,\nthen he had nothing, no one left and nothing to draw upon, not\neven that little spark of divinity upon which only this morning he had\nbased every last tiny hope that still existed for his miserable life . . .\nSuddenly-a wave of the purest guilt. What was he doing? Under the\npressure of the very first test sent by Zeus, he was buckling!-\nabandoning his faith! \"It is for you then,\" Epictetus had written, \"to\nsay, 'Zeus, send me what trial thou wilt! For I have endowments and\nresources, given me by Thee, to bring myself honor through what\nbefalls.' \" But no, he then scolded, \"Instead of that, you sit trembling\nfor fear of what may happen, or lamenting, mourning, and groaning\nfor what does happen, and then you reproach the gods. What else\nbut impiety indeed can attend upon so ignoble a spirit as yours?\"\nImpiety. Mis very first test-and already he was doubting the power ofZeus. He felt ashamed. He was denying not only Zeus but the\nexistence of his own soul. \"What are you, slave,\" Epictetus had\ndemanded, \"but a soul carrying a corpse and a quart of blood?\"\nWhat was this body of his, which he was so worried about, but a\ncorpse and a quart of blood? The living part of him was his soul, and\nhis soul was nothing other than the spark of Zeus.\nStill sitting bolt upright, he put both hands, palms down, on the\npages of The Stoics and closed his eyes. He knew they would all be\nlooking at him, the entire pod, but so what? He rejected the pod's\ncode of false manliness. He kept his eyes closed and banished them,\nall of them, from his central nervous system, them and all their\nyammering and motherfuckin' and inane TV shows ... He opened up\nhis mind, his heart, his connective tissue, the pores of his skin, the\ncoupling of his joints, the very marrow of his bones ... He emptied\nhis body, that corpse with its quart of blood, of all sensations. He\nbecame a vessel, yearning only to receive the divine . . .\nSo profound was this state, this trance, that he had no idea how\nlong he had been in it when something-he had no idea what-caused\nhim to open his eyes. The ambient sounds of the pod room, the\nburble of voices, had dropped off all over again. But in the corner of\nhis eye he saw him. Rotto was coming straight toward him.\nConsciously he wanted to look away, but something made him stare\nright into the brute's face. Zeus! Send me what trial thou wilt! Rotto\nlooked enormous. There were deep shadows in his yellow felony\npajama top shirt beneath the slabs of muscle on his chest. The hair\non the sides of his head was so greasy, it reflected the overhead\nlight. The shot caller. Conrad looked about for Five-O, not because\nlie thought his cellie would ever step in and help him in some way,\nbut because he was his last comrade, his last tie to the earthly\nbeings from whom men are used to deriving their courage and\nsupport. And there he was, Five-O, with his smooth flat face and his\nshock of black hair, about thirty feet away, standing there with his\nLatino buddies, looking on, waiting for the confrontation, for the\nbeano, like everybody else.And now the brute was standing over him, looking down. His\neyebrows were lifted, and he had a small, indecipherable smile 011\nhis face. Conrad fastened on the most insignificant thing, the milky,\nslightly yellowish cast of the whites of Rotto's eyes.\nA deep voice with a soft and obscenely friendly lilt: \"Hey, dude. Mind\nif I sit down?\"\nConrad had 110 idea what to do. The entire pod was watching this\nlittle set-to. He could not afford to be like Pocahontas and do\nnothing. But do-what? The next thing he knew, Rotto was sitting on\nthe metal stool next to his and leaning over with his elbows on the\ntable and cocking his head and looking directly into Conrad's eyes-\njust as he had with Pocahontas.\n\"So how you doin', Conrad?\" The same soft, deep, insinuatingly\nfriendly tone.\nConrad's mind spun, desperately searching for a strategy. Epictetus!\nWhat had he said? The trial had begun-what was he supposed to\ndo?\nA soft, almost sugary voice: \"So this your first time bein' down,\nConrad? Vimh-unnhhh-unnnhhhh!\" groaned Rotto in an unctuously\nsympathetic way. \"I know that trip. I know that trip.\" He looked\naway and shook his head as if tormented by the memory of it. Then\nhe turned back and leaned even closer to Conrad, until his face and\nhis milky eyes and his hideously benign smile were barely a foot\naway, and he said, \"Any a these motherfuckers tryin' a sweatchoo?\"\nConrad kept staring at him, his mind racing. Treating me just like he\ndid Pocahontas! And I'm transfixed just like Pocahontas-by the\nsnake! Act!-do something-now! But what? Five-O had said: Use da\nmouth.\n\"Tell ya what,\" said Rotto with an exaggerated croon, \"you wanna\nmake a phone call outta here? You wanna call home? You wanna\nmake a phone call right now? 1 made an arrangement with thosemotherfuckers\"-he motioned toward the black turf with his head.\n\"They opening up those phones for me and my buddies.\"\nJust what he did with Pocahontas!\n\"Ain' no damn shuck, dude. Take you ov'eh right now. Talk long's\nyou want. Tell you one thing: take care a one thing real fast. Show\nall'ese motherfuckers you got somebody on your side. Ain't one\nuv'um gon' run no damn game on you after-\"\nSuddenly, before he was even conscious of his own will, Conrad\nsprang to his feet and looked down at Rotto with a furious\nexpression on his face. Startled, Rotto recoiled and slid back on the\nstool and half-staggered to his feet. His insinuating smile had\nvanished.\n\"Hey, brother, look!\" Conrad said with a rasp deep in his throat. \"You\na number in here, and I'm a number in here . . . see . . .\" He was\nonly halfway aware of what was happening to his accent. \"And I\nain't tryin'a disrespectchoo none . . . see . . . All's I wants is to do\nmy time. I ain't tryin'a sweatchoo none, play you none, dog you\nnone, or git over on you none. I ain' doin' nothing but settin' here\ntryin'a read my book and write a letter to my wife and my chil'run.\nYou unnerstan' what I'm sayin'? So ain' no cause for nobody be\nplayin' me or doggin' me or runnin' a game on me, neither.\"\nRotto's expression was one of blank incomprehension. The man was\nbaffled. This gave Conrad courage-and at the same time the word\nfox popped into his mind. The fox, the craven, godforsaken beast of\nmis- chievousness and deceit, said Epictetus-that was what he was\ntrying to be, the fox. But it was too late to turn back. The borrowed\nsoul of the Chinese trusty, who had learned to talk blacker than the\nhomeyest East Oakland homeboy, swelled up in his voice box:\n\"I ain' askin' you for no favors . . . see ... I don' want no damn\ntelephone. I don' want no damn TV. All's I wants is what I already\ngot. You know what I'm sayin'? I mean, brother, you can have yo'\ntelephone, and you can have yo' TV, and you can have this wholedamn pod and this whole damn jailhouse and this whole damn\nAlameda County and this whole damn East Bay, an'at's cool . . . 'at's\ncool . . . 'cause all I'm askin' is, lemme serve my own damn time,\nlemme eat my own damn clock ... see ... So whyn't you kindly do the\nright thing, brother, and\nI'll go my way and you go with God, and you Vine's hello, so long,\ngoodbye, nice knowin' you, an' ewythang's cool.\"\nRotto's baffled expression now changed to a puzzled scowl. A ditch\nran down his forehead, between his eyebrows, making him look\nextremely angry. But then he forced a smile onto his face and\nlaughed with a snort that shook his whole torso. The laugh ceased\nabruptly, although he kept the smile on.\n\"That's nice,\" he said in a low baritone. \"Fac', 'at's real good . . .\nunh-hunh . . . yeahhh . . . Fac', 'at's real cute.\" He forced out\nanother snorting laugh. \"You're a cute little dude . . . Conrad.\"\nWith that he brought his right hand up and seized Conrad's left\ncheek between his thumb and forefinger and shook it, as if in a\nplayful tweak.\nConrad felt a dreadful fear and then a terrible rage. We cannot be\nfree from fear, we cannot be free from anxiety. Yet we say, \"O Lord\nZeus, how am I to be rid of anxiety?\" Fool, have you no hands? Did\nnot Zeus make them for you? Has he not given you greatness of\nmind, has he not given you manliness? When you have these strong\nhands to help you- My hands! In that instant-a fiery energy. With his\nleft hand he seized Rotto's right hand and wrenched it off his cheek.\nImmediately he sensed that his grip enclosed all four of Rotto's\nknuckles. For all his massive shoulders, arms, and chest, the brute's\nhands were not big. Conrad's, product of the Suicidal Freezer Unit-\nand of Zeus!-were bigger and more powerful. When you have these\nstrong hands to help you! He brought up his other hand-and now\nboth his hands had the brute's knuckles in a crushing vise. He felt\nhimself possessed of a superhuman strength. Hercules-he whocleansed the world of unjust and brutal men! Rotto's face quivered\nfrom the pain. He groped for Conrad's throat with his other hand,\nbut the pain was too much. His right hand was being crushed. He\nlowered his left to try to pry Conrad's fingers off. Too late! Conrad\nwas now an engine devoted solely to closing the vise. The muscles\nof his chest, his back, his abdominals were contracted to their very\nlimits at the service of his hands. Rotto's knuckles and metacarpal\nbones-he willed their destruction-willed it-willed itAn audible snap.\n\"Awwwwwwwhhhhhhhhhh!\" A groan, very nearly a howl, rose from\ndeep inside the brute. His eyes closed, and his face became terribly\ncontorted. He kept clawing at Conrad's hand, but now Conrad forced\nhis wrist over backward. The brute had no choice but to try to shift\nhis weight to get out from under the fierce torque.\n\"Awwwhhhhh!-awwwhhhhh!-awwwhhhhh!-awwwhhhhh!\" The\nmoans were coming out in spurts. Rotto couldn't get his breath. For\nConrad-life, existence, consciousness had but one purpose. Cleanse\nthe world of an unjust and brutal man. The very words themselves-\nfrom Zeus!-fastened upon his mind. He could see his own forearms\nswelling with the stupendous exertion. He could feel the brute's bony\nprocesses collapsing inside his grip. He forced the forearm backward,\nagainst the natural rotation of the elbow. All at once Rotto lost his\nfooting. He went down on one knee. His head went back. His eyes\nwere closed. A hideous grimace was on his face.\nSnap.\n\"ahhhhhhhhhmhhhhiihhhhh!\" A scream, a full-fledged scream, the\nsort of scream that breaks loose once all defenses are gone. Rotto\ncollapsed. He fell over on one side, then flopped on his back. Conrad\nwas on top of him, a terrier who won't let go. He could feel the fight\ngoing out of Rotto's wrist. So he forced it backward-backward-\nbackward- backward--\nSnap.\"ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!\" Another scream, followed by a huge\ntearful sigh. Rotto was staring at him in a cockeyed way, breathing\nrapidly, with little heaves, but his eyes weren't focusing. His ponytail\nstuck out on one side, on the floor. It looked filthy. His face had the\nstricken slackness of defeat.\nOnly then did Conrad hear the ruckus, the shouts.\nGit'im, Rotto! . . . Whack 'at sucker! . . . Off 'at little motherfucker! .\n. . Git up, man!\nThey were all around him, the entire pod, Vastly's gang, the Latinos,\nthe Chinese druggies, Rotto's Nordic Bund, the whole bunch. Out of\nthe corner of his eye Conrad was aware of the wraith-like Rapmaster\nEmCee New York with his green do-rag . . . Vastly with his cornrows\nand paper ribbons, . . . and Five-O, who stared in wonderment, his\neyes big as quarters . . . They wanted more! More thrashing! Looser\nteeth! Blood! Bone fragments!\nRotto's boys obviously thought their champion, their shot caller, was\ngoing to rise up off the floor and teach this insignificant fish the\nmost terrible lesson of his life. They weren't jumping in, because\nwhy would Rotto ever need help against anyone so puny? They\ndidn't know he was already out of it, finished, shut down for the\nnight.\nConrad lifted himself to a sitting position, straddling Rotto's midsec-\ntion. He relaxed his grip on the brute's hand. Slowly, staring at him\nin a strangely distracted way, going ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh\nahhhhhhhhh- hhhhh ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh, Rotto lifted his huge left\narm. For an instant Conrad thought he was going after his throat\nagain. But then the arm collapsed, fell, and flopped down on the\nother arm, as if to protect it from further damage. Conrad let go of\nthe brute's hand and rocked back on his heels. He looked up at\nRotto's boys, fearing the worst. But they were stunned. Slack-jawed,\nthey, too, stared, but not at Conrad. They stared at Rotto's right\nhand. The wrist was twisted about like a rope. The knuckles were nolonger in a straight line. The flesh of the back of the hand was\nhideously swollen. His face bore a look of such agony, the crowd\ngrew quiet. An unbelievable truth was dawning: the champion, the\nmighty shot caller, had just been vanquished ... by a new fish half\nhis size.\nA ripple ran through the crowd. Heads began turning toward the\nentry to the pod room. Conrad felt a grip on his shoulder. He swung\nhis head about. It was Five-O, leaning down toward him.\n\" 'Ey, bruddah! Get up! Bag it!\" He nodded toward the entrance.\n\"Deputies, man!\"\nTo his amazement-he didn't think Five-O would dare help him in\nfront of Rotto's boys-Five-O hooked his hands under his shoulders\nand gave him a hoist up and steered him back into a cluster of\nNuestra Familia Latinos. Otherwise, the yellow felony pajamas were\nmoving this way and that, heading for their racial turfs, as if it were\nthe beginning of pod time.\n\"Yo! You yo-yos!\" Armentrout bellowed. \"What's this cluster fuck all\nabout?\"\nBreathing rapidly, dazed by what had just happened, Conrad stood\nwith Five-O and a group of Latinos in the white section of the pod\nroom. Armentrout led four gray-shirted deputies wielding batons,\nlooking this way and that. There, in the middle of the white section,\non the concrete floor, lay a single white figure in yellow felony\npajamas, rolled over on his side and moaning. That there was a\nwounded inmate, even a grievously wounded inmate, lying on the\nfloor would not have surprised the deputies. But when they realized\nwho it was, they were dumbstruck: Rotto, the white shot caller.\nFor a moment Armentrout stared at Vastly, who was facing the other\nway, the usual simpleminded look of jailhouse insouciance on his\nmug. He stared at Rotto's boys in the center of the white turf. You\ncould hear a low rumble of mutterings and grousing. They were\nglowering at Conrad, a fact that did not even register on thedeputies, since he would have been one of the last inmates they\nwould have suspected of having done in the might)' Rotto.\nThen Armentrout looked down at Rotto. \"Jesus Christ, what's going\non in this shithole tonight?\"\n\"Ahhhhhhhhhhh ahhhhhhhhhhhh ahhhhhhhhhhh . . .\" The brute was\nstill gasping for breath and moaning. His eyes were shut, and his\nface was twisted.\n\"Can you get up?\"\n\"Ahhhhhhhhhh ahhhhhhhhhh ahhhhhhhhhh . . .\"\n\"Shit.\" Armentrout looked about at his men. \"Hey, Reese, better go\nget Jerry's Kid.\" Jerry's Kid was the prison doctor, who had a\nwithered left arm and leg and reminded them of the afflicted\nchildren on the annual Jerry Lewis television program in behalf of\nmuscular dystrophy sufferers.\nThen he announced to the inmates in his huge voice: \"Awright! Pod\ntime's over! Line up! You're going back to the cells! You guys wanna\nclusterfuck, you can clusterfuck over the wire.\" He looked at Riffraff.\n\"Awright, you guys line up first!\" He looked at Wino. \"And then you\nguys.\" He looked at Vastly and Rapmaster EmCee New York. \"And\nthen you guys! Anybody starts any more bullshit gets a vacation in\nthe Rubber Room!\"\nback in the cell, as they waited for lights-out, Five-O was beside\nhimself. He was acting as if he had been in Conrad's corner the\nwhole time during the fight with Rotto, urging him on to victory.\n\" 'Ey, brah! You wen bus' up dat buggah, yeah? Bus' him up!\" He\nsaid it in a hoarse whisper. \"Da whole pod, brah-da whole pod, dey\nwen spahk\"-they watched- \"dat beeg moke\"-that big tough guy-\"sit\ndown wi' one new fish, you, brah\"-sit down with a new fish, you,\nbrother-\"an' den he wen make eyes da kine, an' den he wen say,\n'Get chance, baby, get chance?' Da kine!\"-and then he kind of made\neyes at you and as much as said, \"You want to get it on, baby?\"-\"an'all dem buggahs, dey wen t'ink so you going make ass, an'\nRotto, he going treat you like one mahu\"-and everybody thought you\nwere going to screw up and he was going to treat you like a faggot-\n\"but den, onreal, brah! No mo' polite little haole! You wen use da\nmouth-an' den you wen use da heart-an' den you wen broke up dat\nbuggah!\"-but then, unreal, brother! You stopped being the polite\nlittle white boy! You used the mouth-and then you used the heart-\nand then you beat up that bugger!\nFive-O was trembling, quivering with joy at the triumph of his cellie,\nlike a fan whose idol has just won the fight for the championship,\nand yet his voice never rose above that excited whisper. Ever the\nrealist, he was looking ahead. Sound carried over the wire in the pod\nat Santa Rita, and he didn't want it known that he was the cheering\npartisan of the new fish who had humiliated Rotto.\n\"Oh, bruddah,\" he said, shaking his head and looking at the wall. His\nwhisper was lower than ever. \"Dis one beef to da max, Conrad. Dat\nbeeg moke, he da shot caller.\"\n\"Don't worry,\" said Conrad. \"Everybody saw what happened. He\nstarted it. He grabbed me by the cheek. I had to do something.\"\n\"Dey wen spahk, yeah.\" Yeah, they saw it. \"But den you wen broke\nup dat buggah!\" Five-O put his head down. When he finally lifted it,\nhe looked Conrad in the eye and said softly, \"Dey try fo' kill you.\"\nConrad just looked at him. Five-O shook his head yes. \"Mockay-die-\ndead, Conrad.\"\nConrad smiled slightly. Exactly why, he couldn't have begun to say.\nDey fry fo' kill you. It seemed like an oddly abstract concept.\n\"I can't believe any of this is happening, Five-O. I keep thinking I'm\ngonna wake up and be somewhere else.\"\n\"I know, brah,\" said Five-O. \"From long time I want one timeout. To!\nDeputy! timeout!' kine. Pull da plug and t'ink about no mo' nottingand do da time, li'dat. Dis place stay funny kine\"-this place would be\nkind of funny-\"if only dey let you take a break ever)- now'den.\"\nWhen lights-out came, Conrad climbed up to the top bunk and\nstretched out on his back. It was much too hot in here, and his heart\nwas beating much too fast, and he knew he would never go to\nsleep. But he would need to rest before ... He couldn't even imagine\nwhat might happen tomorrow in the pod room. He stared up\nthrough the lizard screen and listened to the ceiling fans struggling\nand the catwalk creaking as a deputy walked along overhead. Soon,\nover the wire, the nocturnal yammering had begun. The J-cat, the\none who was obsessed with Hank Aaron in a yellow wool suit, began\nmoaning for his medication: \"Meds . . . meds . . . mehhhds . . .\nmehhhhds . . .\"\nA voice from somewhere. \"Oh shit. Heh we go again. The fuck, give\nthe man his shuffle pills.\"\n\"Where's'at Maggot at?\"\n\"Yo! Maggot!\"\n\"Emergency med call, Maggot! Code blue! Name of Hensley!\"\nIt was an Okie voice, a high-pitched playacting voice. Conrad felt a\nburning sensation inside his skull. So now it began.\n\"Motherfucker don't need no pills,\" said another voice, \"motherfucker\nneeds a motherfuckin' shower, is what the fuck he needs.\nMotherfucker, he be too funkyl Smell like the motherfucker's dyirtgl\nYou a disgrace to the brothers, motherfucker!\"\n\"But they told me!\" said the J-cat. \"Told me I gon' die if I go outside\nmy house!\"\n\"Hensley! Hensley!\" said the Okie voice. \"Do you copy? Do you\ncopy?\"From the bunk below, Five-O whispered, \"Ey, brah, you wen\nhear'um?\"\n\"Yeah, I heard 'em, Five-O.\"\n\"Hensley! Stick vo' ass out yo' porthole so's we kin see you. Then\nyou ass-out.\"\nThe next thing Conrad knew, Five-O was off his bunk and standing\nup and looking at him and pointing in the gloom toward the catwalk.\n\"Maybe dey put you in da Rubber Room, Conrad. Maybe dey put you\nin da B Pod.\"\n\"Whattaya mean?\"\n\"Ac' crazy kine, man. Like Mutt. Yell crazy t'ings, keeck da do', go J-\ncat, li'dat. An' den da deputies, dey going take you outta here.\"\n\"I wouldn't even consider it,\" said Conrad. \"I-\" But he stopped. He\nwanted to say, \"I want to keep my character. Why did I fight Rotto?\nBecause I refused to be dishonored. Outside this hole, this pigsty, no\none will ever know that I lived as a man and fought like a man and\nrefused to sell myself at any price. But in this grim little universe, the\npod, the only world that is left, they will know, and Zeus will know,\nand I, a son of Zeus, will know.\"\n\"But dey going kill you, brah! Mockay-die-dead!\"\n\"This bit of clay you mean, Five-O? They'll do what they have to do,\nand I'll do what I have to do. Besides, when did I ever say I was\nimmortal?\"\nFor several seconds Five-O didn't say anything. Then he sighed and\nsaid, \"Edah you get plenty lakas\"-Either you have big balls-\"or you\ngoing crazy like Mutt. 'Dis bit a clay/ yeah? Don' go crazy on me,\nConrad. Every cellie going crazy-bummahs, man.\"\nTuckatuckatuckatuckatuckatucka the ice cream cup bongo\npercussion had begun . . . and then the slaps against the sides ofthe bunks . . . and then the voice of Dinky Man: \"And now . . . direct\nfrom the Apollo Theater ... in New York City . . . Rapmaster EmCee .\n. . new york!\" Conrad didn't know if it was his imagination or what,\nbut the cheers that followed seemed like brutal cries, and a strange\nmad ulu- lation spread throughout the pod as Beat Box thrummed\nhis a cappella electric bass. Rapmaster EmCee New York-Conrad\ncould see his bony ravaged visage and his pirate's do-rag-began as\nhe always did-\n\"Yo, sugar!-think 'at's a ruby You got stuck inside yo' crack?\"\n-but this time the great moan over the wire rose immediately to\nsomething just short of a scream in a cry for blood, and throughout\nthe first stanza it never let up, and the chorus-\"give it up, bitch! give\nit up, bitch\"-burst forth with a fury, then quickly died down and was\nsupplanted by a whinnying sound, as if the inmates just knew what\nwas coming next and could barely restrain themselves long enough\nto actually hear it.\nSome more a cappella strumming by Beat Boy, and then Rapmaster\nEmCee New York resumed:\n\"Little punk, he gon' get turned out, He gon' leam 'bout comin\nthrough For the real funk, he be ass-out! Ram 'at sucker, he gon'\npass out! Fucker, he gon' switch from him to her, 'At jissum-sucker\nwon' know which, An' ain't that rich!\"\nThe inmates didn't even wait for the Rapmaster. With a laughing roar\nthey broke into the refrain. The very air of the pod exploded with\ngive it up, bitch! give it up, bitch!\ngive it up, bitch!\ngive it up, bitch!\nConrad lay there with his heart racing. Then he closed his eyes and\ntried to visualize Carl and Christy and Jill, all that remained to him\noutside this doomed universe of men who had reduced themselves\nto the level of the bodies they shared with the animals. Carl . . .Christy ... He could no longer see them at all . . . couldn't bring their\nfeatures into focus . . . just a couple of tiny ghosts with little coronas\nof blond hair . . . Jill . . . He couldn't see the beautiful Jill he had\nfallen in love with. He couldn't see that face. Instead, he saw a knit\nbrow, an angry brow. He saw her body and tried to feel his love for\nher . . . and instead he merely saw the flesh. Nevertheless, he\nreckoned, as his heart banged away and the ceiling fans scracccked\nscraaaaccccked and scraaaaccccked overhead, and the bloody\nululations resounded over the wire, it was through that flesh that he\nhad transmitted the spark of Zeus to Carl and Christ}'. He tried once\nmore to visualize Carl, and he couldn't, and tears came to his eyes.\nOne day Carl would be a man, and long before that time he would\nneed someone to tell him what a man was.\nHe rolled over and lowered his head below the edge of his bunk and\nsaid, \"Five-O!\"\n\"Yeah, bruddah?\"\n\"Promise me one thing.\"\n\"Wot's dat, bruddah?\"\n\"Whatever happens tomorrow, you'll write it all down and send it to\nmy wife.\"\n\"Write it down?\"\n\"Yeah, write down everything. Will you promise me that? Start with\nwhat happened tonight, with Rotto coming over and everything. I\nwant my son to know, Five-O. I want him to know I didn't lie here\ntrembling and moaning and groaning and whining and- It's\nimportant, Five-O. Will you promise me that much?\"\n\"Yeah, I promise, bruddah. But remember, cool head main t'ing.\nDon't go crazy on me. You promise me dat.\"\n\"Don't worry, I'm not going crazy. I've never been clearer about\nanything in my life.\"He rolled over once more onto his back. His heart continued to race,\nbut he could feel the tension begin to recede from his knees, his\nthighs, his abdomen, his arms, his shoulders, his neck. And then\neven his heart began to calm down. Breathing deeply and\nrhythmically, he tried to imagine his very . . . self. . . opening,\nopening, opening up . . . his pores, the very fibers of his muscles,\nhis nerve endings, the chambers of his heart and lungs, his solar\nplexus ... An energy seemed to spread out in a single wave from his\nheart to the tender flesh beneath the nails of his fingers and toes\nand to the rims of his ears and the flesh on his scalp, and he was\nsure that he saw a bright light behind his eyelids.\n\"Zeus! Send me what trial thou wilt!\" He hadn't meant for it to be\naudible, but it came out as a hoarse whisper.\nFrom below, Five-O whispered back, \" 'Ey, bruddah, you don' go\ncrazy on me. You promise me dat.\"\nChapter 20\nMai's Army\nSCRACK SCRACK SCRACK SCRACCCKKK SCRACCCCKKK, the belt-\ndriven turbines were struggling away up in the roof, to no avail. The\npod remained hot and airless, despite the fact that it was now-\nwhat?-1 a. M.?-2 a. M.? As Conrad lay there on his bunk, staring up\nthrough the lizard screen above his head, the ambient light from the\ncatwalk created huge silhouettes that gave the darkness a delirious\nquality. Roammmmi, somebody flushed a toilet glug glug glug\nglugluglug. \"Aw, mannnnnnnn,\" somebody protested. Half a dozen\ninmates were snoring so loudly, with such helpless surrender, you\ncould feel their exhaustion. Even' mindless rattle of it came croaking\nin over the wire.\nBut they were fortunate, weren't they . . . They could sleep. Rotto's\ncrew could sleep. Rotto, wherever he was, could sleep. They could\nstore up energy for the assault, however it might come. They werenot lying here with their hearts played out, ratcheting, drained by\nthe constant alert alert alert alert alert alert alert alert . . .\nConrad was so hot, he had a slick of oily sweat where the underside\nof his upper arm lay against his rib cage and another where the\nunderside of his chin met his neck. He had finally taken off his felony\npajamas and was wearing only his shorts, like Five-O, down below,\nand practically every other inmate, even though he didn't want to be\nthat naked if the onslaught began. Not that there was any way they\ncould break into a cell in the middle of the night-or was there? The\ningenuity of the brutes, who made mirrors out of ice cream cups and\ndaggers out of book covers-their perverse power of invention knew\nno bounds.\nHe had never felt so utterly depleted. He was dying to sink into the\noblivion of sleep. He would start to sink, sink, sink, sink, and then\nthe sentinel, somewhere deep in his brain, would jerk him back into\nconsciousness. Sweat was collecting in his eyebrows, his mustache,\nand the stubble of his beard, which had an irritable feel to it, like a\nrash. Ab- sentmindedly he pressed his mustache on either side with\nhis thumb and forefinger, as if to wring the moisture out ... It made\nhim think of the freezer unit . . . the way his mustache used to\nfreeze and sparkle . . . zero degrees Fahrenheit ... He closed his eyes\n. . . immersed himself in that frigid zinc-gray box ... an upper slot, L-\n17, trying to rock a huge carton of frozen pork loins loose, and the\nbreath fog was coming out in spurts, and Dom was looking at Kenny\nand saying, \"I got good news and bad news,\" and-whuh? He jerked\nhimself alert. His heart was hammering away. He was sweating\nprofusely. Yet the pod was as quiet as before.\nHe tried to think of Carl and Christ)' .'. . and Jill . . . She would care,\nshe wouldn't disappear, she would come back to him ... He closed\nhis eyes . . . The duet ... He was in the sad little living room. No, he\nwas out in the garage . . . Hie door was up. A slim young figure . . .\nbut it was not Jill. It was the leela sluh . . . wild teased hair, heavy\neye makeup, almost like a burglar's mask ... a sleeveless black T-\nshirt with such big loose armholes he could see the sides of her littlebreasts . . . She came toward him, smiling . . . She pressed her little\nbreasts against his bare chest--\nThomp! Thomp! Thomp! Thomp! Thomp!\nHe came to with a start. He rolled over on his abdomen and stared\ndown at the floor of the cell. Someone was battering the floor from\nunderneath with the upright end of a broom!-a mop!-a pole!\nThomp! Thomp! Thomp! Thomp! Thomp!\nBut there was no room, no cellar space, 110 foundation under the\nfloor, which was a slab built flat upon the ground. Rotto's crew! They\nhad tunneled under the ground! Coming up through the floor!\nThomp! Thomp! Thomp! Thomp! Thomp!\nThe entire bunk began to rock, end to end, the long way. The\nbattering beneath the cell grew louder. All at once-110 more light\nfrom the catwalk. Instead, the flash of a bright moon through a\nclerestory window, which was swaying. The screeching of the ceiling\nturbines ceased at the same instant, and a colossal creaking,\ngroaning sound commenced, as if some prodigious force were trying\nto jimmy the catwalk off the wall, pry the metal bunks apart, pull the\nnails out of the timbers, wrench the water pipes out of the toilets.\nAnd then the cries began:\n\"The fuck, motherfucker!\"\n\"Dinky Man, where you at!\"\n\"Yo! Deputy! I don' play this shit!\"\n\"Yo! Armentrout! The lights!\"\n\"The fuck, you feel that?\"\n\"Mira! Terramoto!\"\n\"Motherfucker!\"\"Motherfucker!\"\n\"Motherfucker!\"\nThe bunk was bucking back and forth and groaning at the joints.\nConrad grabbed the end of the bunk ladder that stuck up by his\nhead and held on, to keep from falling off. He heard a thud on the\nfloor. He looked down. It was Five-O, who had been thrown out of\nhis bunk.\n\" 'Ey, Conrad! Wha's da haps!\"\n\"I don't know!\" But then he could feel the bunk pitching and rolling\nin S-waves. \"Earthquake!\"\n\"Bummahs, man!\" Five-O tried to stand up and was immediately\nthrown down to the floor again.\nAfraid of being thrown from the upper bunk, Conrad gripped the\nladder uprights and swung himself down the side and dropped to the\nfloor. He lost his footing and almost hit his head on the rim of the\ntoilet. The very concrete of the floor seemed to be rolling. Conrad\nand Five-O were on all fours. The sweaty sheen of Five-O's back\nreflected a pale phosphorescent light from the clerestory window\nabove. Conrad looked up. The lizard wire itself appeared to be\ndipping and swaying.\nFive-O shouted, \" 'Ey! Deputy! Open da do', you!\"\nSimilar cries were coming from all over the pod. Rats trapped in their\ncages, the inmates were desperate to flee to open ground.\nAmid all the lurching, bucking, pitching, rolling, yawing, groaning,\nand swaying, there arose a tremendous cracking sound overhead.\nSomething had blotted out the moonlight in the clerestory window.\nIt was the catwalk, which had come loose from the wall. A beam of\nlight shot out at a crazy angle-a deputy with a flashlight.\n\"Yo! Fry! Where you at?\"Conrad struggled to his feet, lurched toward the bunk ladder, held\non, turned to Five-O, and held out his hand. \"Get up! Grab hold! The\ncatwalk's coming loose! We gotta get under here!\" With his head he\nindicated the space between the upper and lower bunks.\nFive-O grabbed his arm, and the two of them piled onto the lower\nbunk. The bunk's metal frame was swaying. It sounded as if the wall\nwas cracking in the corner. A pungent smell filled the atmosphere,\noddly sweet and yet rotten. Dust!-as the hulk of Santa Rita began\ncoming apart and the accumulated filth of half a century burst forth\nand filled the mouths, the noses, the lungs of the trapped rats, who\ngulped for air.\nSuddenly-a force so great, both men were thrown against the wall,\nFive-O on top of Conrad. The lower bunk rose beneath them and\npitched them head-first. A tremendous roar. Huge masses gave way.\nThe sound of wood, metal, glass, concrete falling and smashing the\nbunk frame. The floor heaved up at an angle and Conrad felt himself\ndrop head down into-what? Utter blackness. Buried! Suffocating! His\nhips were somewhere above his head. His torso was wedged\nbetween-what? He could see-nothing! His left arm was free. He\ngroped wildly. He tried to reach up. Impossible! A mass of\nincalculable weight pressed down on him. He reached back. Flesh!\n\"Five-O!\" The effort of calling out made him cough. The dust! He\nwas choking on it.\n\"Conrad . . . bruddah ...\" A feeble voice, and then he felt a grip on\nhis leg. \"Bruddah . . . bruddah . . . bruddah . . .\" Five-O's voice had\nbecome a high, frantic peep.\nThe terrified voice and desperate grip sent a new wave of\nclaustrophobia through Conrad. Buried in utter darkness! A tomb! He\nwas hyperventilating, and the harder his lungs worked, the more\ndust they drew in. Choking! Dying! And yet he was getting air from\nsomewhere. He could hear moans, shrieks, piteous cries from all\nover the pod. He reached down. An empty space. What? A pit? Heprayed, although he couldn't have called it prayer, in the words of\nEpictetus. \"Lead me, O Zeus, and Thou my destiny.\"\n\"Bruddah . . . bruddah . . . bruddah . . .\" Five-O was whimpering,\ncrying, clinging desperately to his leg.\n\"Shut up, Five-O! Save your breath!\" The primal urge ... to protect .\n. . gave him strength.\nHe wriggled his head, shoulders, and chest down into the hole, the\npit, the space, whatever it was. The earth had stopped moving.\nScreams from all over: Yo! Help me! . . . The fuck, help me .. .\nAggghhhh! Motherfucker! Aggghhhh! He could hear someone\nbleating, \"Mehhhhhhds . . . mehhhhhhhhhds . . . mehhhhhhhhds . .\n.\" It was the voice of the J-cat.\n\"No leave me, bruddah!\"\n\"I'm not leaving you. Let go my leg and follow me.\" Obediently, Five-\nO let go.\nConrad slithered all the way down into the space below. Five-O\nscrambled behind him. They were on their bellies, struggling for\nbreath. Pitch-black. Conrad tried to lift his head, but an immense\njagged mass weighed clown from above. Choking, he slithered\nforward. Lace! He could see it! Faint pinpoints of light. He slithered\nforward some more. It was a pale light coming through a tangle of\ndebris up ahead. They were inside some sort of crevice no more\nthan a foot high and barely the width of their shoulders.\nConrad felt a terrific grip on his leg. Five-O was gasping and\nmoaning, \"Help me, bruddah . . . help me . . . real had-it . . .\"\n\"Let go!\" said Conrad. \"Start crawling!\" But the grip only grew\ntighter. Five-O was whimpering like a baby.\nLike a baby . . . Conrad managed to snake his arm behind him until\nhe found Five-O's face, which was mashed against his legs. He\nstroked his cheek, just as if he were his child, and said softly, \"Five-O . . . I'm with you, and you're with me, and we re gonna get out of\nhere now. You hear me? We're gonna get out, Five-O, and I'm gonna\nbe with you. You're gonna be right behind me, and I won't leave\nyou. We're gonna crawl, and so you gotta let go of me and put your\nhands on the ground. I won't leave you.\" He kept stroking his cheek.\nBig sighs, moans, coughs, sobs, and the ferocious grip slackened.\n\"Okay, Five-O, here we go.\" It was even harder to snake his hand\nback from behind him and bring his arm forward again. His shoulder\nkept wedging against the jagged mass that threatened to entomb\nthem. He began slithering on his belly. There was no way he could\nlift his back high enough to get to his knees and crawl. The space\nwas terribly narrow. All he could see was the faint lace- work of light\nahead. Five-O was right behind him, struggling for breath.\nSuddenly the earth was wet beneath his hands and forearms ...\nMuck . . . Water streaming in from somewhere. The earth they\ncrawled through was mud. Now he was near enough to the ghostly\nlight to see a small irregular opening, where a floor had heaved up\nbeneath a wall and torn away from it. He could see the silhouette of\nan old-fashioned plaster lathing in the breach. An ungodly mass of\nearth, concrete, and debris above him. He kept inching forward.\nA section of wire lathing hung straight down. He put the heel of his\nright hand against it and pushed with all his might. It bent outward.\nHe was looking up through a fissure . . . into some sort of room ...\nIn a phosphorescent gloaming he could see a row of windows in a\nwall, but the wall had keeled over at an extraordinary angle, almost\n45 degrees. It had torn away from the ceiling, which was itself\nruptured and pitched downward in a precarious way. The wall\nseemed to be suspended by the electrical cables buried in it. Then\nhe realized what it was . . . the pod's visiting area . . . The windows\nwere the Lexan windows through which he had talked to Jill on the\ntelephone. The ghostly light was moonlight from the doorway that\nled out to the dusty yard where the visitors lined up. Somewhere\noutside an unmuffled motor was throbbing away, creating a terrificracket. He could hear shouts, screams, cries for help. His lungs and\nhis throat were burning. Could he possibly squeeze through the\nopening? Was it even six inches top to bottom? By shoving his\nelbows back against the sides of the crevice he was in, he managed\nto get his head up and through. By twisting sideways he got his\nshoulders through. Ever}' time he took a breath, the expansion of\nhis rib cage pinned his arms against his sides. The wire lathing was\ndigging into his back. It was the visitors' area, all right. In the silvery\nlight he could make out the stainless-steel stools, still bolted to the\nconcrete floor, which had pitched up at a bizarre angle. The\ntelephones, jolted out of their cradles, hung down by their cords\nfrom the windows.\nHe dug his bare feet into the earth and thrust his body upward with\nall the power of his legs. A sharp pain-but his right elbow was\nthrough the opening, and from that point he was able to wriggle the\nrest of his body through. He remained on all fours, trying to regain\nhis breath. The floor was tilted at a disorienting angle. Mud all over\nhis body ... his belly, his face, his nostrils, his eyelashes . . . Gobs of\nit fell from his nose and his forehead . . . There was a raw, burning\nsensation high up in the small of his back. He contorted his left arm\nbehind him and reached up . . . blood . . . blood and muscle . . .\nWildly he looked about ... a strange moonlit gloaming . . . This place,\nthe visitors' area, looked as if a gigantic pair of hands had picked it\nup, buckled it, wrenched it, and then slammed it down on the earth.\nNo two planes were any longer at right angles. The floor had heaved\nup, pulling away from the rear wall and leaving the opening he had\njust come through. The barn-like entrance door had been sprung\nclean out of its tracks and lay cracked almost in two on the ground\noutside, allowing the moonlight in. The wall with the Lexan windows\nhad not only torn loose from the ceiling above but also from the far\nwall, creating a big V-shaped opening. An opening--\nAil opening! A rage to . . . flee!. . . surged through his nervous\nsystem. His even' synapse, from head to toe, now transmitted the\nhorrible news, understood only by those creatures who havefloundered atop a major tremor of the earth. The one constant, the\none dependable fundamental of life, namely, the solidity of the earth\nunder your feet-just an illusion! A sham! Terra firma-what a terrible\njoke! It moves! It writhes! It bucks! It rises up in thunder! It\nswallows you!-buries you alive. And it will move again-soon!\nFlee!\nThen, almost at once, a revelation: Zeus!\n\"Conrad! . . . bruddah ... No leave me!\"\nConrad spun about. Five-O's eyes were at the opening, pleading. But\nthe big Hawaiian could never make it through that little opening-and\nif 1 stay here and try to help him-\n\"Five-O,\" said Conrad. He paused. He wrestled with the implacable\ngiant claustrophobia. Zeus! \"I'm-I'm not leaving you. I've just gotta .\n. . get you ... get you something . . .\"\n\"Bruddah . . .\"\nConrad looked about the wreckage of the space. Up there ... he\ncould make out a length of broken riser pipe. He had to climb up the\nslope of the concrete floor to get it. It sloped! The entire room, the\nentire structure-could collapse at any moment! Flee! He was\nhyperventilating again, just as if he were still trapped underground.\nHe fought himself, fought himself, fought himself- No leave me,\nbruddah-and finally retrieved the pipe and came back down the\nslope in a wary crouch and brought it to the opening.\n\"You got to pull back, Five-O, so I can stick this thing in there! I\ngotta make the opening bigger!\"\n\"No, bruddah . . .\"\nThe eyes looked up at him hopelessly, from out of a dark hole, but\nthen he pulled back. Conrad jammed the pipe into the opening and\ntried to use it as a lever. He couldn't budge the wall, but little by littlehe was able to make the concrete of the floor crumble, until the\nopening was a few inches deeper.\n\"Okay, Five-O, we're gonna try it now! Put your head through!\"\nAt first, nothing . . . Then the stricken face appeared. Five-O was\ncovered in mud. His skin, his hair, his mustache-streaks, gobs,\nsmears of mud. His eyes looked like two frantic little white organisms\ntrapped in the muck. He was breathing with rapid, shallow gasps. He\nworked his head through the opening.\n\"Okay, Five-O, now push!\"\nPanting with a rumble that came from deep in his chest, Five-O\nmanaged to force his shoulders through. But now he was stuck, just\nas Conrad had been.\n\"Bruddah . . . bruddah ...\" He was breathing with desperate heaves,\nand his eyes were fastened upon Conrad, begging, begging,\nbegging.\n\"You gotta use your legs, Five-O! You gotta push! You gotta kick! I\ndid it! You can do it!\"\nMore desperate heaves, and Five-O managed to get enough of his\nbody through to free his arms.\n\"Push! Push!\"\nThe lathing dug into his broad back, but Five-O finally made it\nthrough, whereupon he flopped facedown on the sloping concrete\nfloor, desperately trying to regain his breath. There were long cuts\non his back . . . smears of blood . . .\nThe loud motor, whatever it was, was still grinding away. Agonized\ncries rose from the interior of West Greystone and beyond. All at\nonce -a shuddering thunder. Tons of. .. structure . .. collapsed right\nbehind them, down onto the crevice they had just crawled through.The wall buckled. The ceiling canted with a tremendous groan. The\nopening Five-O had just struggled through no longer existed.\n\"Come on, Five-O! Get up! We gotta get outta here!\"\nAt that instant he understood with the sharpest clarity: This was\nZeus' handiwork.\nFive-O rolled over on his side. His mouth was wide-open, and his\nbody was glossy with sweat and blood in the moonlight that came\nthrough the doorway. He looked up at Conrad, but he was breathing\nso hard he couldn't speak. Conrad took his hand and pulled him to a\nseated position and finally managed to get him to his feet.\n\"Put your arm around my shoulders!\"\nHe did so, and Conrad steadied him and led him down the slope of\nthe floor. His arm around Five-O's waist, he helped him through the\nV-shaped opening. His arm was covered with blood, the blood that\nwas streaming down Five-O's back. Both of them were smeared in\nmud, naked except for their shorts, which the mud had plastered to\ntheir bodies. Five-O's mouth remained wide-open. He was fighting\nfor breath.\nThey emerged through the big doorway, into the jail yard. Conrad\nwas staggering under Five-O's weight, and finally Five-O sank\nhelplessly to the ground. No! It will move again! But Conrad\nmanaged to say nothing. Five-O was slumped over in a heap, neither\nsitting nor lying, breathing with a deep rasping sound.\nA three-quarter moon was high in the south, over Pleasanton. The\nsky was bursting with stars. Stars! This was the first time he had\nseen the open sky since he had been in Santa Rita. Zeus' stars! It\nsuddenly became so sharply clear.\nThe grinding motor was louder than ever. Barely thirty yards away,\non the stomped earth of the jail yard, was a shed-like building. A\nweak light shone from the windows. The noise came from a\ngasoline-powered emergency generator. Two beams of light emergedfrom the shed and came bouncing across the yard. Deputies with\nflashlights. In the distance, from Pleasanton, most likely, came the\nwoooo-woooo-woooo-woooo of police car sirens and the Klaxon horn\nof a fire engine. Conrad looked back toward the doorway they had\njust emerged from. The entire West Greystone building had been\nthrust upward on one side. Its big tar-and- gravel clerestory roof had\ncracked down the middle and was canted up at a bizarre angle. And\nnow, for the first time, in the moonlight, Conrad saw the little cliff,\nthe escarpment. A low but sheer cliff, three or four feet high, had\nheaved up out of the earth. It ran under the building, under D Pod,\nand straight through the grounds of the jail on a north- south axis.\nConrad gazed beyond. The vast plain of the Livermore Valley-\nsuddenly so clear and peaceful. He looked to the south, toward\nHighway 580. No sign of it-no lights. Electricity was knocked out\neverywhere. In the jail yard more beams-flashlights-danced this way\nand that. Men were shouting. Without looking up, Five-O said, \"I real\nhad- it . . . ass-out, bruddah . . .\"\n\"Just hang on,\" said Conrad.\nA beam of light came lurching and bouncing toward them. Then it\nhit them head-on. The light was so powerful, Conrad covered his\neyes with his hand. He couldn't even make out the shape of the\nperson holding it.\n\"Where'd you come from? What's your unit?\" It was an Okie voice, a\nLivermore Valley farmboy voice.\n\"In there,\" said Conrad, motioning toward the caved-in building. \"D\nPod.\"\n\"Well . . . get moving,\" said the voice behind the flashlight. 'Tou guys\nare all going in the repair shed.\"\nFive-O didn't budge. In the harsh glare of the flashlight, sitting on\nthe ground, slumped over the way he was, almost naked, smeared\nfrom head to toe in mud and blood, he looked as if he was about todie. His head hung over on his chest and rose and fell with his\nlabored breathing.\n\"Get up,\" said the man with the flashlight, but not very forcefully.\n\"He needs a doctor,\" said Conrad.\n\"Yeah, well-\"\nJust then a voice from nearby began yelling, \"Yo! Leon! Where you\nat?\"\n\"Over here!\" said the man with the flashlight. \"Got two inmates!\"\n\"Ne'mind 'at! Come back here! Need you at East Greystone!\"\nThe flashlight beam lingered on Five-O and then hit Conrad in the\nface. \"You're gonna stay right here, you understand? I'm coming\nright back, and you guys ain't gonna move one fucking inch.\nAnybody caught heading for the perimeter is gonna get shot.\nAnybody goes near the fence is ass . . . ouf!\"\nWhereupon he hurried off at a jog.\nFive-O, still sitting, turned and supported himself on his right arm\nand looked at Conrad. \"Conrad . . . bruddah . . .\" He continued to\nstruggle for breath. \"Bag it . . . bag it . . .\"\n\"Bag it?\"\n\"Run, brah! Split!\" \"Split?\"\n\"Dey going put all da inmates in da shed-in da dark-all-dem to-\ngedda. Rotto-dem, dey going kill you, brah! Mockay-die-dead!\"\nConrad could hear the generator throbbing away. There were cries\nand shouts. Rods of light, from flashlights, bounced around in the\ndark.\nConrad got down on his haunches, so that his head was level with\nFive-O's.\"I'm gonna bag it, Five-O, but not because I'm afraid of Rotto and\nthem. Look . . .\" He made a sweeping gesture with his hand, to\nindicate the devastation. 'Tou know who did all this?\" He caught\nhimself. He remained there on his haunches, his mouth half open,\nstaring at Five-O, not uttering a sound. He knew it would be\npointless to bring up the name of Zeus. Five-O believed only in the\nmoment-to-moment strategies of the realist.\nFive-O said, 'Tou mean dat buggah you wen tell about before?\" You\nmean that bugger you were talking about before?\n'Tes.\"\n\"Garans?\" Guarantee it? \"Den tell dat buggah fo' bring me one\nhamburger weet' mustard and one beer. Me, I no can move. I real\nhad it.\"\nDat buggah-a scalding realization rolled through Conrad's skull. The\nbook! The Stoics! His very lifeblood- gone! For an instant he looked\nback at the remains of West Greystone to see if there might not be\nsome way to retrieve it-although of course there wasn't. But this was\nmore than a book! This was . . . living tissue-this was . . . the word\nof Zeus! He looked forlornly across the infinite nightscape of the\nLivermore Valley.\n\"Huhu, brah?\" said Five-O. What's wrong, brother?\n\"My book's gone, Five-O.\"\n\"Da book all about dat buggah?\"\nGloomily: \"Yeah.\"\n\"I wen spahk\"-I've seen-\"you read dat book to da max. By now you\nget'um memorized.\"\nConrad shook his head despondently, then looked at Five-O and\nsaid, \"I'm gonna take your advice. I'm gonna bag it, Five-O. Butwhere can I go? What can I do? Look at me. I don't have any\nclothes. I don't have any shoes. I'm covered in mud.\"\n\"Try use da head, bruddah.\" Five-O said it wearily, as if talking to\nsomeone who was proving to be dense.\n\"Use my head?\"\n\"How you like fo' leave here, bruddah-in Santa Rita baggies and\nzoris, li'dat?\" How do you want to leave here, brother-in Santa Rita\npajamas and rubber sandals? \"Cannot! Dees da one night in yo'\nwhole life you can run t'roo da shtreets weet' no clothes on, covered\nin mud, and no mo' nobody going t'ink you one crazy person. Oh no!\nDa Okies- dem, dey going tell, 'Poor little haole! Eardquake victim!\nWe going help him!' Garans. Garans ballbaranz. Use da head. Bag it,\nbrah. Hitchhike. Da Okies-dem, dey help you.\"\n\"But he said they're gonna shoot anybody who goes near the fence!\"\n\"Bulai. Dey no get dat many deputies. Dey try fo' scare you, man.\nDey jes' sucking wind. Bag it.\"\nStill down on his haunches, Conrad stared at the Hawaiian for a few\nseconds, then said, \"What are you gonna do?\"\nFive-O smiled faintly. \"I going handle 'em. I always handle 'em.\"\nConrad stood up. He extended his hand toward Five-O and said,\n\"Wish me luck.\"\nFive-O grasped his hand with both of his and held on tightly and\nlooked up. The moonlight played over his mud-smeared face. He\nblinked, and his eyes misted over. \"You my bruddah, Conrad. You\nwen save my life. Now-bag it! Split! Laydahs for dees muddahfuggin'\nRotto- dem an' dees muddahfuggin' junk place!\"\nConrad straightened up and looked all about in the darkness. The\ngenerator continued to throb away, flashlight beams and dim\nsilhouettes were milling about over toward the parking lot, sirensand horns could be heard in the distance to the south, in\nPleasanton-and yet a heavy stillness had settled over the Livermore\nValley and the hills that rose to the north. At one stroke the\nearthquake had obliterated the electrical galaxies that had always lit\nup the night. It had brought back the stupendous presence of the\nmoon, the stars, and the earth itself. The very floor of the world had\nmoved . . . with a power that still resonated in the bones of\neveryone who had been through the upheaval. A cliff now ran\nstraight through Santa Rita where none had existed before. A new\nwave of fear and hopelessness swept Conrad's nervous system. He\nfelt as if the very last roots of his past had been ripped out. Zeus\nhad done all this and he was in Zeus' hands. He gave Five-O one last\nsmile and a little wave and then began running alongside the\nescarpment, away from the remains of West Greystone.\nWhat could he do? Hitchhike . . . This vague notion was the only\nplan he had. Try to reach Route 580 or Pleasanton . . . and hitchhike\n. . . Where? It didn't matter . . . Wasn't actually escaping from jail . .\n. just staying out of harm's way until . . . until what, he didn't know .\n. . The ground hurt his feet as he ran. He hadn't run barefoot for a\nlong time. He hadn't run at all for a long time. His lungs were\nalready beginning to burn. The flesh of his back was beginning to\nhurt from where the lathing had cut into it. But fear and his pumping\nadrenaline overrode everything else.\nHe kept running toward the highway. Up ahead, in the moonlight-\nlooked like huge filthy marshmallows floating in the air. What were\nthey? Now he could make it out. The earthquake had uprooted the\nrazor- wire-topped Cyclone fence when it created its new cliff. The\n\"marsh- mallows\" were the enormous concrete blocks with which the\nmetal posts had been anchored in the ground. Beyond the fence was\nthe steep embankment upon which Highway 580 had been built. But\nit was no longer level. There was an astonishing jagged silhouette.\nThe earthquake had thrust an entire section of the highway upward,\nuntil it was eight or ten feet above the other. He could see the\nbeams of car lights. They were going nowhere. Then came theflashing lights and the wailing of a police cruiser approaching the\nstranded cars. So much for hitchhiking on Route 580.\nConrad ducked under the upthrust fence and started running west,\nawav from Santa Rita. A phrase popped up in his mind: escaped\nconvict. And yet it wasn't accurate. He was merely exercising his will\nto avoid. Rotto and the Nordic Bund would no doubt kill him, or try\nto. Zeus had given him this way out. Zeus had demolished Santa\nRita and lifted up the very fence for his benefit. Of that he didn't\nhave the slightest doubt. Lead me, O Zeus!\nHe ran, leaping over ruts, hillocks, drainpipes, rocks, bottles, roots,\nshags of tulare grass, whatever rose up before him in the moonlight.\nAhead-how far?-a mile? half a mile?-he could see a galaxy of\nautomobile lights that seemed to be moving about aimlessly. As he\ndrew closer he could hear car and truck engines accelerating. Shouts\nbawled out in the midst of it all, shouts and frantic exhortations over\na bullhorn. Conrad's first instinct was to avoid the place. Then he\nremembered Five-O's words: \"This the one night in your whole life\nyou can run through the streets with no clothes on, covered in mud,\nand no more nobody going think you one crazy person.\"\nHe was approaching some sort of parking area. Headlights came on\nand shot this way and that in the darkness, accompanied by great\nroars and squeals. People were yelling. Whatever this place was, all\nwas uproar and confusion. The headlights hit long shapes and cast\nprodigious shadows ... A barracks, tilted precariously and about to\ncollapse . . .\nBarracks! ... a prison! . . . like Santa Rita! . . . But in the next instant\nhe realized that couldn't be ... No fence, no wall ... He didn't know\nwhether he was seeing things or not, but as the headlight beams\nswung this way and that, he seemed to keep getting glimpses of\nyoung men in underwear, men no older than himself, scampering\nabout in the dizziest fashion . . . And here in the parking lot, he\ncould now tell, were rows of Jeeps painted in camouflage patterns.A figure came running toward him ... It was a man about thirty-five\nwith close-cropped blond hair, a long face, and a big nose, a real\nbeak, hurriedly buttoning up a camouflage jumpsuit. Conrad ducked\nbehind a Jeep. The man bounded up into a Jeep nearby. It roared to\nlife. The headlight beams shot forth, revealing an ancient barracks\nbuilding, now- keeled over sidewise. Two young men were trying to\nclimb into a window. One had on a T-shirt and boxer shorts; the\nother, only the shorts; both were barefoot. The man with the big\nnose jumped out of the Jeep, leaving the motor running and the\nlights on, and ran toward them. The lights of the Jeep cast a long,\ncrazy shadow ahead of him.\n\"Whatta you idiots think you're doing?\" he shouted.\n\"We gotta get back inside, sir!\" said the young man with no T-shirt.\n\"Our uniforms are in there!\"\n\"Forget about it!\" yelled the man in the camouflage suit. \"That\ngoddamned thing's about to fall down! We got enough casualties\nalready. There's uniforms in J-23, Jay for Jonathan!\"\n'Tes, sir!\" The young men hurried off in the darkness. Shouts firom\nall sides, over here, over there . . . engines roaring to life, wheels\nchurning, headlights shooting this way and that . . . Beams suddenly\nhit Conrad as he crouched behind the Jeep. He stood up. He froze in\nhis tracks. The man with the big nose, returning to his Jeep, spotted\nhim and barked out: \"What's the matter with you, soldier? Whattaya\ndoing?\"\nConrad's mind spun. \"I-I fell, sir! I fell in a ditch!\"\n'Tou fell in a ditch?\" The man made it sound as if it were the most\nabsurd thing he'd ever heard of. \"Well-Jesus Christ, are you hurt?\"\n\"No, sir!\"\n\"Then snap out of it! Get your uniform! What's your barracks?\"Desperate, not knowing what else to do, Conrad pointed in the\ndirection the two young men had gone and said, \"Right over there,\nsir!\"\n\"Then get over there! And pull yourself together!\"\nConrad started running out of the parking lot. Set back from the lot\nwas a low wooden sign, now illuminated by headlights: camp parks\nu. S. army reserve center. There were letters and numbers,\napparently designating buildings. Soon he was amid long rows of\nbarracks, flimsy wooden structures, many of which had been\ndamaged by the earthquake and were tilted at precarious angles.\nConfusion and uproar reigned. Young men were running about,\nsome in camouflage uniforms, but many in the underwear they had\nbeen sleeping in. Someone had got hold of a bullhorn and was\nbellowing out instructions that, thanks to screels of feedback, were\nutterly incomprehensible. Conrad could see two buildings lit up by\ngenerators, but most of the light now came from vehicles moving\nabout on the edge. Raw glares and long, baffling shadows slid over\nthe camp, over the skittering Reservists, over the teetering barracks.\nA beam of light moved across a shed-like building . . . J-23/ . . .\nConrad ran toward it. Inside was bedlam. Young men were rooting\nthrough boxes of camouflage fatigues. Nobody challenged Conrad\nfor a moment. Half of them were barefoot and clad in nothing but\nboxer shorts, too. Although he couldn't find any socks or boots, he\nemerged from the building wearing a set of camouflage fatigues and\neven a camouflage cap.\nMore incomprehensible bullhorns were bellowing away. Straight\nahead was another parking area. Two young men jumped into Jeeps\nand went screeling off, their headlights beaming deliriously through\nthe rows of stricken barracks. Two Jeeps had their headlights\nbeamed in toward the center of the camp, apparently to provide\nsome semblance of general illumination. Conrad drew closer and\ncould hear the two Jeeps idling. There were no drivers; the Jeeps\nwere just sitting there, running. He walked up beside the closer oneand looked inside. No keys! Nothing but a lever on the steering\ncolumn! But of course! This was a military vehicle, and in the military\nyou couldn't afford to have keys floating around and getting lost or\nmisplaced.\nBut he wouldn't take this one. It was providing illumination, and its\ndeparture might be noticed right away. So he walked two rows back\nand picked out one. He tried the ignition lever, and just as he had\ndeduced, that was all it took. The engine sprang to life. Slowly he\npulled out of the row, turned on the headlights, and headed down\nthe corridor between the rows of vehicles. Heading . . . where? ...\nHis mind churned ... To Pittsburg?-back home to the duet? Didn't\ndare. First place they would look. To Jill's mother's? She'd turn him\nin just like that. He knew that as well as he knew anything in the\nworld. Mynet the lawyer? Had no idea where he lived-and he'd turn\nhim in, too. Suddenly, as he neared the end of the row of Jeeps, a\npair of headlights beamed on, and a Jeep pulled out, right in his\npath. Cutting me off! Coming after me! But instead of blocking his\nway, the Jeep accelerated with a terrific roar and turned down the\ncorridor, going away, spinning its wheels madly, sending up a\ntremendous geyser of dust, so that Conrad's headlights illuminated\nnothing but the roiling yellow cloud immediately in front of him. You\nlunatic--\nAnd in that instant he thought of Kenny.\n-the parking lot at Croker Global Foods ... a beat pounding across\nthe hardpan ... a funnel of dust ... a crazy skirl of electric guitars and\na chorus of raw-throated young male voices screaming Brain dead\nBrain dead Brain dead ... a veritable tornado of dust lit up a feverish\nyellow by the floodlights . . . Kenny's outrageous boom box of a car\nfishtailing in the dirt and rocketing in right beside his . . . Ayyyyyyy,\nConrad--\nKenny!-the freezer unit came to work at 9 p. M. on Sunday nights.\nKenny would be there at this moment! The warehouse was only\nthirty or thirty-five miles north of here! Kenny would think ofsomething! Kenny would get word to Jill! Kenny would-Kenny would-\nthe truth was, he didn't know what Kenny would do. He didn't even\nknow if he was still working at the warehouse. Suppose they had\nchanged his schedule? Suppose they dismissed the entire crew as\nsoon as the earthquake hit? No, they wouldn't do that. They had\nemergency generators to protect the racks full of frozen product.\nDom would have them working like dogs. On the other hand,\nsuppose--\nThe possibilities whirled about in his head. But there was no other\npossibility, was there . . . There was no one else he, Conrad Hensley,\na fugitive from the Santa Rita jail, could turn to in the middle of the\nnight in the aftermath of an earthquake.\nThe yellow cloud began to clear as the Jeep ahead of him reached\nthe paved road out of the lot. It was tearing along at a terrific clip,\napparently heading south toward the highway. Conrad sped along\nbehind it.\nHe glanced off to the side. Camp Parks appeared to be dancing in a\nmadhouse of light beams and shadows. All in shock, the whole lot of\nthem! The earth had risen up and shown them how helpless they\nactually were! Life was anchored by-nothing at all!\nnear the bay there was far less destruction, although electricity was\nout everywhere. The Croker Global warehouse's immense hulk lay\nthere in the darkness inert, dead, barely discernible, seemingly\ndeserted. They had shut down-sent everybody home!\nBut in the parking lot the lights of Conrad's Jeep hit rows of cars,\nalthough not nearly so many as were usually there at this time of\nnight. Now he could see a glow from one end of the vast black\nsilhouette of the warehouse. The freezer unit; the backup\ngenerators; the light from the freezer spilled out onto the loading\nplatform. Truck headlights came on at the other end. He could make\nout the ghostly shapes of several big white Croker Global trucks and\nhear the sighs of the air brakes.He cruised slowly up and down the rows of cars. He rounded the last\nrow, and his headlights hit the Cyclone fence, the razor wire, and\ncars and cars and cars and cars and-\n-there. Thank God!\nHe stopped the Jeep and just let the lights stream over Kenny's\nridiculous little low-slung boom box of a car.\nThen he nosed in beside it and turned off the engine and the lights\nand sank back into the seat. A terrible weariness came over him. His\nhead seemed to drain. He was sweating profusely. His heart was\nbeating so hard beneath his sternum, he could hear it when he\nopened his mouth . . . tchhhhhhh tchhhhhhh tchhhhhhh tchhhhhhh .\n. . The veins on the backs of his hands were gorged with blood. His\nbare feet, which rested on the floorboards, were so sore and swollen\n. . .\nHe closed his eyes and tried to think it all through. How could he get\nto Kenny? He couldn't very well just go walking into the unit.\nEverybody would recognize him, Dom, Light Bulb, Herbie, whoever\nwas there. So he would wait for Kenny here, wait for him to come\nback to his car. But suppose he stayed inside? Suppose Dom kept\nhim in there overtime because of the emergency? Suppose Kenny\ndidn't come out until the sun was up and the new shift started? How\nlong did he dare stay out here in a U. S. Army vehicle done up in\nbattle camouflage?\nHe was thirsty . . . Had to get something to drink . . . But how? . . .\nSo thirsty . . . above all, thirsty . . . Had to think ... He slid down and\ntried to stretch out. . . and collect his thoughts ... But his knees were\nsticking up, and suppose somebody saw them? ... So he rolled over\non his side and jackknifed his knees ... He pulled the cap down over\nhis eyes for good measure. Let's see . . . Kenny and the freezer unit\nand what could he get to drink . . . How could he call Jill and let her\nknow what had happened? How could he find out about her and Carl\nand Christy? . . . Strange movies were sliding by behind his eyelids... If Kenny was inside and Dom was giving him instructions . . .\nDom, grunting with great bursts of mouth fog . . . complaining about\nthe tailgate parties over at Bolka . . . Kenny going, \"Crash'n'burn!\" . .\n. and Light Bulb and the rest of them answering him in falsetto . . .\nHerbie brooding . . . Nick the bald man with the necktie . . . inside\nthe cold, cold, cold, cold icy cliffs . . .\n\"eat shit! eat shit! eat shit! eat shit!\"-right beside the bunk -they'd\nbroken into the cell, crying out, \"eat shit! eat shit! eat shit! eat shit!\"\nConrad rolled to slide down off the bunk. His knee hit the gearshift.\nHe came to with a start-\n\"eat shit! eat shit! eat shit! eat shit!\"-from right outside the door of\nthe Jeep--\nHe propped himself up on one elbow and tried to make sense out of\nit-\n\"eat shit! eat shit! eat shit! eat shit!\"-the car right beside him roared\nin neutral, ready to shift into gear--\nKenny.'\nConrad lifted himself high enough to look out the window. In the\ndarkness a silhouette . . . Kenny with his baseball cap and his bony\nAdam's apple . . . hunched forward in the driver's seat ... his twenty-\ninch boom box speakers yowling, battering the air with the anthem\nthat had so infuriated Dom: \"eat shit! eat shit! eat shit! eat shit!\"\nConrad yelled out: \"Kenny!\"\n\"eat shit! eat shit! eat shit! eat shit!\"\nNo way Kenny could hear him-and now he was gunning the engine,\nready to leave.\nConrad scrambled toward the door.\nKenny's car was backing up. \"kenny! kenny! stop!\"The crash'n'burner anthem-\"eat shit! eat shit!\"-filled the world.\nNow Conrad was out of the Jeep, screaming, but Kenny had his head\nturned to the rear as he backed up. In another second he would be\ngunning his car through the dust of the parking lot, the way he liked\nto do. Only one way--\nConrad ran toward Kenny's rakish red car and dove. He landed in a\nsprawl on the hood. T he car came to such an abrupt stop that\nConrad rolled right up onto the windshield with his face flattened on\nthe glass, staring head-on at Kenny, who was barely a foot away.\nKenny stuck his head out his side window. \"The fuck, you crazy?\nYou? In the Army? In the middle of an earthquake? Jumping on the\nhood of my car? This I don't fucking believe!\" \"eat shit! eat shit! eat\nshit! eat shit!\"\nto kenny this was a great crash'n'burner adventure. He had Conrad\nfollow him in the Jeep and abandon it in Northtown, up in Richmond,\nwhere its chances of being stolen, Kenny assured him, would be\napproximately one hundred percent, thereby obliterating the Jeep's\nrecent history. At that point Conrad got into the front seat of Kenny's\nlittle red boom box of a car and closed his eyes.\nKenny told him why he was driving him to Oakland, but Conrad was\ntoo groggy to comprehend. His nervous system had sunk below the\nthreshold of logic. His eyelids felt immensely heavy. A stupefying\nweight bore down on his cerebral cortex, driving him lower lower\nlower lower lower. Get word to Jill . . . but soon he couldn't think\neven about that . . .\nHe didn't come to until lights and voices roused the sentinel, fear,\ndeep in his nervous system. He opened his eyes. It was still dark.\nKenny was cruising along a street with traffic and lights and voices\n... a wide street . . . four lanes . . . sodium vapor lamps overhead ...\nSo many people . . . dark faces . . . out on the sidewalks . . .\nstanding about in clusters in a park . . . treating themselves to aneighborhood beano in the aftermath of the greatest event of recent\nhistory, the earthquake.\nConrad turned toward Kenny. \"Where are we?\"\n\"O-town,\" said Kenny, cackling. \"Bump City, Shattuck Avenue,\nOakland, California.\"\n\"Where are we going?\"\nKenny laughed without explaining why. \"Mai's 24-Hour Mini-Mart.\nYou're gonna meet Mai and Mai's army.\"\nKenny turned onto the asphalt apron of what looked like a service\nstation. Lights beneath a shed-like roof shone down on two islands\nof self-service gasoline pumps. The sign over the entrance to the\nsmall building just beyond them said: mai's 24-hour mini-mart. The\nplace was doing a lively business in the middle of the night, post-\nearthquake. Cars were backing out of the row of parking places on\neither side, and others were pulling in. With a sharp intake of breath\nConrad realized that Kenny was pulling into a spot right next to a\npolice cruiser.\n\"Ayyyyyy,\" said Kenny. \"This is Shattuck Avenue, not Danville. You're\ngonna see police cars. Just be cool. You can be sure there's no cops\nout on Shattuck Avenue in the middle of the fucking night looking for\nsome white boy who's escaped from the Santa Rita jail.\"\nInside, Mai's was a shabby space lit with fluorescent lights so bright\nthey made you wince. The place was crammed with racks of\nmerchandise and glass-faced refrigerators full of every sort of soda,\nice cream, milk, beer, and malt liquor imaginable, and stacks of\ncartons that had never been opened and others that were empty\nand lying in jumbles on the floor. There were at least two dozen\ncustomers in all, loose souls rolling around O-town, Bump City, after\nan earthquake. Overhead, a battery of surveillance cameras, aimed\nat the entrance and down the aisles between the racks and towardthe checkout counter and the cash register, recorded their jack-\nlegged progress on videotape.\nFrom behind the register came the loud, angry voice of a woman:\n\"Youie faggot, what you are! You look da boys! You be da girl!\" A\ncontemptuous laugh. 'Tou don' care dey steal me everyt'ing! Youie\nfaggot!\"\n\"Bu'shit, Mai, I find it like dat.\"\nWith a sneer: \"You find a lotta dicks you look at, what you find! Now\nyou go home. You fire.\"\n\"C'mon, Mai! What I do to you?\"\n\"You let dem steal me everyt'ing! And you-you look da pornos!\"\nMai, the proprietress of Mai's 24-Hour Mini-Mart, wore black jeans\nand a sleeveless black cotton blouse. She was a Vietnamese, no\nmore than thirty, with full, smooth Asian features, a glowing\ncomplexion, and full, sweetly curved lips. Not even anger could ruin\nsuch voluptuous good looks.\nThe object of her scorn was a Chinese, a thin, almost gaunt boy in\nhis mid-twenties, wearing a knit golf shirt and jungle camouflage\npants, like Conrad's, with what appeared to be a lock-blade folding\nknife in a pouch on one side of his belt and a small shiny flashlight in\na holster on the other. Thoroughly cowed, he kept gesturing toward\nMai and blurting out excuses. Kenny turned toward Conrad and\ngrinned and winked.\nAs Mai's harangue continued, the nature of the offense became\nclearer. The Chinese, whose name was Hong, was supposed to\nmanage the store whenever Mai was away or upstairs sleeping or\nworking back in the office. But, as she now realized, if she was\nabsent for any length of time, Hong liked to unscrew the hinges on\nthe locked wooden cabinet that stored all the video surveillance\nequipment and watch pornographic tapes from the store's own rack\non the monitor screens, thereby shutting clown the entiresurveillance system. Mai had been upstairs sleeping when the\nearthquake shook the city and had come downstairs to find a\npornographic film rolling on her screens. All the cassettes were made\nfor a heterosexual audience, but Mai was now convinced, or claimed\nto be, that Hong was homosexual and was interested only in the\nnude men \"wit' big clicks.\"\n\"Go yo' home and be faggot!\" she was screaming at the hapless\nChinese.\nIn the background, enjoying it all immensely, was a group of six\nyoung men who had gathered at the far end of the counter. One was\na tall Chinese dressed like Hong, in camouflage fatigue pants. Two\nwere Sikhs with pale-blue turbans and upswept beards and\nmustaches, both of them heavyset and muscular. The other three\nhad very dark skin and thin, fine-boned features.\nWhile Mai and Hong continued their set-to, Kenny sidled over to\nConrad and said out of the corner of his mouth: \"Mai's army. You see\nthat guy, Hong?\" Hong was now insisting that he could prove he was\nnot homosexual. \"And his buddy?\" He motioned toward the tall\nChinese by the counter. \"They were both a them Chi Coins.\"\n\"They were what?\"\n\"Chinese Communists, soldiers. They were born in Cambodia, and\nthey speak Khmer, but they were trained in China, and they fought\nfor China somewhere ov'eh, and then they turned around and\nimmigrated over here as Cambodians. You see that flashlight on his\nbelt?\" He nodded toward Hong. \"That's aircraft steel. That's a\nweapon, bro. He could kill you with that thing.\" Kenny was\nprofoundly impressed-and excited-by lethal capabilities and the men\nwho possessed them. If only he really knew. \"And you see that Sikh\nthere, the tall one? His name is\nTorin, Torin Singh. He was a guerrilla in India, a sapper, is what he\ntold me, fighting the government. And that black guy, the one on the\nleft? His name's Achilles. He was a commando in Ethiopia, and aparatrooper. But then they found out his old man had been a buddy\nof Haile Selassie, and so he went underground and finally got here.\nThe other two, they're from Eritrea. You ever heard a Eritrea?\"\nConrad shook his head.\n\"It's north a Ethiopia. The both a them, they were college students,\nand then they joined some revolutionary movement, or whatever it\nwas, and they were blowing up trucks and shit, and then they came\nhere. These guys, they work nights at convenience stores, just like\nHong does. They drive taxis at night, like Achilles. They work nights\nat the Pioneer Chicken, like Torin. I mean, you got to be a\ncommando or something to work nights at that damned Pioneer\nChicken where he works. That neighborhood's worse than this one.\nAnd they all come here, to Mai's. This is Mai's army. While everybody\nelse sleeps, there's an army out here. There's sappers, guerrillas,\ntunnel rats, commandos, terrorists, volunteers for suicide missions-\nand I mean they're from Asia and Africa and God knows where else,\nand nobody knows how they got here or what they want or what\nthey're really doing- or where they want to go, except for Mai\nmaybe. This is where they come for fake IDs, fake licenses, fake\nSocial Security cards, cell phone numbers, credit cards, green cards,\nplane tickets, jobs, whatever they need. These jobs don't pay shit.\nWhat does a guy like Hong make? Maybe five dollars an hour. And\nthey're dangerous. Working in these places is a good way to get\nyourself killed. But they're jobs, all the same, and Mai'll keep you\ngoing. Mai's army.\"\nKenny's eyes were lit with the romance of it all, the idea of a lethal\nforeign legion of the night, of young men hardened into a\nbrotherhood of violence, a fraternity that Kenny, he who would make\n\"Brain Dead,\" \"Eat Shit,\" and \"Crash'n'burn\" his anthems, so\ninnocently admired. Conrad found such a vicarious thrill all too sad\nand deluded. In Conrad these young men stirred an entirely different\nemotion. A wave of sadness came over him, and his heart sank. He\nsaw seven pitiable creatures, young men torn up by the roots from\nall that means home and hearth and reassurance in this life andblown halfway around the world to the bowels of Shattuck Avenue in\nOakland, California, seven young men almost as hopelessly lost as\nhimself.\nMai turned away from Hong, shaking her head. Then she saw Kenny.\nShe broke into a smile, and the loveliness of her wide, smooth face\nburst forth.\n\"Ken-ny! I t'ink about you!\"\n\"Hey, Mai!\" said Kenny. \"Get off Hong's case and come here.\"\nShe came out from behind the counter, beaming. Kenny put one arm\naround her shoulders, and she put one arm around his waist, and\nthey gave each other a big squeeze. Three or four customers, lined\nup at the checkout counter, waiting to pay for purchases, glowered.\nMai looked up into Kenny's eyes and said, \"Wha' hoppen up dere? I\nworry 'bout you.\" Before he could answer, she turned her head\naround and gestured brusquely toward Hong with her free hand.\n\"Get back dere. You don't see? Got customers.\"\nForlornly Hong trooped back around behind the counter to the\nregister.\nTo Kenny once more: \"So wha' hoppen?\"\nKenny steered Mai toward the rear of the store. Conrad felt dizzy,\nnauseated, terribly weary, thoroughly conspicuous, and frightened.\nHe was an escapee from the county jail standing out in the middle of\na convenience store at three o'clock in the morning in his bare feet,\nmuddy, swollen, bloody bare feet, at that. The fact that he looked no\nworse than the rest of the loose souls who were up and around on\nShattuck Avenue in Mai's 24-Hour Mini-Mart in the wake of an\nearthquake seemed like no safeguard whatsoever.\nNow Mai and Kenny were heading back toward him. Mai's hips went\nthis way and that way, ever so insouciantly, as she walked.\"Okay,\" said Kenny, \"Mai'n'me just had a talk. Here's what's gonna\nhappen. Mai's gonna take care a you here tonight. Okay? You're\ngonna be fine. Mai's gonna look after you. After you wake up, I'm\ngonna come back, and I'm gonna bring you some things. Got it?\" He\npaused. He studied Conrad's face and then his camouflage outfit and\nthen his feet. He looked at his feet a long time. \"You wanna know\nsomething?\"\nConrad stared back dazedly.\n\"You're a mess. What size shoes you wear?\"\nHe quizzed him about all sorts of sizes: shoes, shirts, jackets,\nunderwear. Then he said to Mai, \"You got razors and shaving foam\nand combs and all that stuff here, right?\" Kenny gestured toward the\nracks where the loose souls grazed in Mai's store, and Mai nodded\nyes. Kenny said to Conrad, \"You're gonna have a shave, old buddy, a\nbig shave. You ain't gonna have a mus-taehe anymore. That's what\nyou owe Mai for one night's lodging.\"\n\"Okay,\" said Conrad, \"I guess that . . . makes sense . . . Look . . .\none thing I've got to do is, I've got to get hold of my wife and let her\nknow what's happened. Is there some way I could call her?\"\n\"I been trying to reach Antioch myself,\" said Kenny. \"You can't get\nthrough. All the lines are tied up, plus there's a relay station totaled\nin Concord. Besides, I'd be careful if I was you. They got automatic\nrecords of ever)' call that's made.\"\n\"They do?\"\n\"Aw, yeah.\"\nConrad didn't know if this was some fantasy of Kenny's infatuation\nwith soldiers, weaponry, surveillance, and espionage-or a real\ndanger. He closed his eyes, lowered his head, and sighed deeply. It\nmade him feel dizzy.\"You come with me,\" said Mai. She laughed. \"Now you in Mai's\narmy.\"\nShe led him back behind the counter to a tiny office. In the far\ncorner were a narrow spiral staircase and the door to a cramped\nlavatory. Then she led him up the stairs, pausing at the top. A light\ncame on. A few more steps, and the two of them were in a cramped\nattic space, beneath sloping eaves, that had been turned into a\nmakeshift bedroom. Because of the steep slopes of the eaves, they\ncould only stand in the center, side by side. He became aware of the\njasmine perfume she wore.\nShe pointed out two cramped, flimsy, upright cabinets. One served,\nsomehow, as a shower; the other as a toilet.\n\"Okay, my friend,\" said Mai, \"you take a shower.\"\n\"Thanks,\" said Conrad with another great sigh, \"but I think I'm just\ngonna lie down a minute.\"\nShe laughed. \"Not just gonna lie down. You a real mess, my little\nfriend. You in Mai's army.\" She gestured toward the mattress and the\nsheets. \"And that's Mai's bed. You take a shower, you feel better.\nThen you lie down.\"\nShe nodded a few times, to indicate she meant business, then\nslipped past him to head back downstairs.\nAs he took off the camouflage uniform, his shadow swept\ngrotesquely across the ceiling. He was a mess, sure enough. Mud\nwas smeared over his chest, his midsection, his thighs, his knees.\nMud had plastered his shorts to his groin. Chunks of dried mud fell\nto the floor as he took them off. His clothes were so filthy that after\nhe took a shower and dried himself, he crawled into the makeshift\nbed with nothing on. He reached over and turned off the lamp on\nthe floor. He lay there, on his back. The sheets were redolent of\njasmine. Soon his ability to reason began sliding helplessly away,and there was nothing but darkness, the drone of a fan, and a great\nfluffy cloud of jasmine.\nit was almost 11 a. M. by the time Conrad woke up, put on the plaid\nshirt, chinos, and construction boots that had materialized beside the\nbed, shaved off his mustache, per Kenny's instructions, and made\nhis way downstairs to look for Mai. Sunlight was flooding in through\nthe plate-glass windows of the mini-mart.\nMai was out at the cash register haranguing Hong, as usual. When\nshe saw Conrad, she led him back into her little office, berating Hong\nfor not taking her place at the register fast enough. She stood still\nfor a moment and stared at Conrad's face.\n'Tou look better!\" she said. \"No more mustache.\" She laughed. This\nstruck her as a very funny turn of events.\nThen she sat down at her desk, picked up the telephone, and\nordered in some food. She had barely hung up when Kenny arrived.\nConrad had never seen him look more manic. His pale blue eyes\nwere electric. His grin showed all his teeth. He was carrying a navy-\nblue duffel bag heavy enough to bring out the huge muscles of his\nforearm.\nHe flashed his wildest grin, for Conrad's benefit, stroked his own\nwispy blond mustache with his thumb and forefinger, and said, \"You\nwanna know something? You did yourself a favor. I never did like\nyour mustache. Damn thing drooped. I'm not kidding!\"\n\"Look better!\" said Mai.\n\"You got it, Mai,\" said Kenny. Then he set the blue duffel bag at\nConrad's feet. \"Here's all the clothes you'll need, or everything I\ncould think of.\" He handed Conrad a newspaper and said, \"Take a\nlook. You're on the front page!\"\nGenuinely frightened: \"Me?\"A headline stretched all the way across the upper half of the\nOakland Tribune: quake rocks east bay. From smaller headlines you\nquickly picked up: \"Massive Destruction ... 6.2 on Richter scale . . .\nHayward Fault . . .\" and there, just below the main headline, a big\npicture, in color-must have been taken at dawn-of Santa Rita and\nthe ruins of\nWest Greystone and the escarpment that had risen beneath it and\nbroken it almost in two. Above was a headline reading, jail breaks.\nBelow was a caption that began, \"The quake's irresistible force\ncreated this cliff near Pleasanton, destroying an entire cell block at\nthe Alameda County Jail. All the jail's buildings were heavily\ndamaged. Rescue workers search the ruins for survivors.\"\nKenny said to Mai, \"You get the ticket?\"\nFrom a drawer in her desk she produced an envelope and handed it\nto him. Kenny studied the ticket for a moment, then handed it to\nConrad. \"Hang on to this. This is a ticket from Portland to Atlanta\ntonight at ten.\"\n\"Portland? To Atlanta?\"\n\"Portland']] be safer than Oakland or San Francisco, and Atlanta's\nwhere Mai can get tilings organized for you right away.\"\nMai handed him another envelope, explaining that it contained the\nname-Lum Loc-of the Vietnamese who would meet him at the\nAtlanta airport and drive him to an apartment.\n\"How will we recognize each other?\" asked Conrad.\n\"You not recognize him,\" said Mai. \"He recognize you. Baggage\narea.\"\nShe reached into another drawer and pulled out one of what ap-\npeared to be a dozen apple-green baseball caps with yellow lettering\noutlined in dark green. The lettering said, \"hi-gro. We feed gardens.\"\"Lum Loc look for this hat. Social Security card, driver's license, birth\ncertificate, whatever you want, he get it.\"\n\"He's gonna want $750 cash,\" said Kenny.\n\"Don't worry, you got it.\" With that, Kenny stood up and removed a\ndoubled-over envelope from the back pocket of his jeans. \"Here.\nCount it.\"\nAstonished, Conrad did so. Five hundred-dollar bills, twelve fifties,\nand twenty twenties: $1,500 in all. He looked at Kenny with a\nbaffled, wondering grin.\n\"Good,\" said Kenny, \"I'm glad something makes you smile. You can\npay me back when you got a condo in Danville, a Volvo station\nwagon with side-impact air bags, and a set of Fuzzy Zoeller golf\nclubs.\"\nMai left the office to go out into the store, and Conrad went over to\nKenny and said, \"I hate to ask you to do anything more'n you've\nalready done, but could you try to call my wife? Maybe from a pay\nphone someplace? Just tell her I'm okay, I'm out of Santa Rita, and\nI'll be in touch with her as soon as I can? You don't have to be any\nmore specific than that. You don't even have to tell her who you\nare.\"\nKenny found a piece of piece of paper and a ballpoint pen on Mai's\ndesk and wrote down Conrad's telephone number in Pittsburg and\nhis own in Antioch and tore off his number and gave it to Conrad.\nThirty or forty minutes later Kenny and Mai introduced Conrad to the\nbig muscular Sikh, the Mai's warrior he had seen the night before,\nTorin Singh, who was about to make his regular truck run to\nPortland. They walked him out to the Sikh's huge rig, which he had\npulled up to the curb out front on Shattuck Avenue. There were Sikh\ntruck drivers all over California now, but Torin Singh, perched way up\nin the driver's seat of the silvery cab with his pale blue turban andan upswept beard as magnificent as the King of Diamonds's, looked\nlike a monarch of the breed.\nConrad turned to Kenny and smiled. \"Kenny, I can't even begin-\"\nKenny cut him off. \"Don't begin. I ain't even close to catching up.\nJust promise to send me a postcard when you get there. What the\nhell do they have postcards of in Atlanta?\"\nConrad climbed up into the cab, and the Sikh threw the engine into\ngear, creating the sort of roar Conrad had always disliked when he\nwas working at Croker Global Foods.\nConrad leaned out the window and looked back and waved. The last\nthing he could see was two figures standing upright on the asphalt\nout by the gasoline pumps, one of them all bones and knobs and\neccentric angles, wild-looking even in the abstract, the other one\nMother Earth in black jeans.\nChapter 21The Real Buckhead\nAs soon as the mayor came out of his little inner office and into the\nmayoral parlor, Roger Too White knew there was something different\nabout him, but couldn't figure out what. He had on the same sort of\nnondescript dark gray suit as usual. True, he wasn't wearing a Pizza\nGrenade necktie this time; he had on a darkish red tie with a faint\nprint design; but it wasn't the necktie. So what was it?\n\"Brother Roger!\" said Wes Jordan, giving him his customary mock-\nhigh five and then gesturing for him to sit down on the couch. Wes\npulled up an armchair and sat across the coffee table from him. On\ntop of the coffee table was a copy of today's Atlanta Journal-\nConstitution with a color picture of something about yesterday's\nearthquake in California.\n\"Brother Wes,\" said Roger Too White, \"you look different today, but I\ncan't put my finger on what it is.\"\n\"I know. I'm leaner and harder. Either that or I have a better tailor\nnow.\"\n\"You go to a tailor for those suits?\"\n\"No, I'm only kidding,\" said the Mayor. \"No politician or lawyer\nshould ever go to a tailor.\" \"Well, I'm a lawyer,\" said Roger Too White\nin an exaggerated tone of disappointment, \"and I go to a tailor.\"\n\"I'm not too surprised. All those nipped-in waists and peaked lapels.\nWho do you go to?\"\n\"A fellow named Gus Carroll. Has a little tailor shop down on Ellis.\"\n\"Well,\" said Wes Jordan, \"at least he's south of Ponce de Leon.\nBesides, you're not a litigator, are you? If you ever start going into\nthe courtrooms, I advise you to buy off the rack like me.\"\n\"What difference does it make?\" said Roger Too White.\"People can always tell there's something a little too studied, a little\ntoo smart, whereas charisma consists of being like everybody else.\"\n\"Did you make that up?\"\n\"No, somebody said it. I can't remember who. I just remember it\nwas in Dr. Crawford's sociology class at Morehouse.\"\n\"Anyway,\" said Roger Too White, \"there's something different about\nyou. I just haven't quite figured it out.\"\nThe Mayor shrugged and gestured toward the newspaper on the\ntable. \"Did you read anything about this or see anything on TV?\"\n\"Not really,\" said Roger Too White, looking down at the big color\npicture. It was of an escarpment that had risen up out of the earth\nand torn a large wooden building in two and twisted it every which\nway. The caption read: \"natural born jailbreak: A California\nearthquake measuring 6.2 on the Richter scale creates an instant\ncliff, demolishing the Alameda County Jail southeast of Oakland and\nleaving a guard and eight inmates dead. Another twenty inmates, as\nyet unaccounted for, may have escaped.\"\nWith one of his familiar wry smiles the Mayor gestured toward the\nnewspaper and said, \"Our press office has had about two dozen\nqueries about the risk of an earthquake in Atlanta.\"\n\"So what do you say?\" asked Roger Too White.\n\"So far as we can tell, there hasn't been an earthquake in this region\nin recorded history. The nearest geological fault line is somewhere in\nTennessee. But we promise eternal vigilance. Makes me want to say,\n'All we've got here is a racial fault line.' But I don't say that.\"\n\"And its initials are F. F.?\"\n\"Whose are?\"\n\"The racial fault line's.\"\"Ahhh,\" said the Mayor, \"that is true, that is true.\"\n\"And I presume that's why you asked me over?\"\n\"There are many reasons why I enjoy your company, Roger, but in\nthis instance that is the case, that is the case.\"\n\"Well, at least it hasn't hit the press.\"\n\"Depends on how you define the press,\" said the Mayor. \"Take a look\nat this.\" He handed Roger a piece of paper.\nAt the top, in exaggerated Oriental-looking letters, it said \"Chasing\nthe Dragon.\" Up in a square in the corner were the call letters of an\nInternet Web site. Beneath that was the inscription \"Opening the\nDoors of Perception.\" The rest of the page was presented as a news\nbulletin . . . Fareek Fanon ... a Freaknik party . . . rape charges ... It\ndidn't mention Elizabeth Armholster by name, but the description of\nher unnamed father's industrial and social might was so detailed,\ndown to the dollar volume of (unnamed) Armaxco, they might as\nwell have supplied a picture of his house 011 Tuxedo Road and put\nan arrow over it.\n\"Godalmighty,\" said Roger. \"Where the hell did this come from?\"\n'Tou know my press secretary? Gloria Loxley? Gloria came walking in\nwith this. She'd just downloaded it from the Internet. Then she\nstarted making some calls. Roger, people all over Atlanta are\ndownloading this item from the Internet.\"\nRoger looked at it again. \"What the hell is 'Chasing the Dragon'\nsupposed to be?\"\n\"It's sort of an . . . Internet gossip column, I guess you'd say. A lot\nof what they run seems to concern petty drug busts and drug\navailability on the street. 'Chasing the dragon,' so I'm told, is some\nnew way of taking heroin without using a needle.\"\n\"In other words, they're totally irresponsible,\" said Roger.\"Totally unsavory,\" said Wes Jordan, \"but not necessarily totally\nirresponsible. Gloria checked out a couple of their drug-arrest items\nwith Elihu Yale at the police department, and they were right on the\nmoney. They just weren't big enough stories to make the Journal-\nConstitution. What they're running about Fanon and the Armholsters,\nyou'll notice, is accurate in ever)' detail.\"\nRoger looked at Wes with wide eyes, as if to say, \"What does this\nmean?\"\n\"This doubles, triples the pressure on the 'responsible' media to\nbreak the story. They know people all over town are reading what\nyou just read. They're dying to publish it, but they don't have\nanybody to attribute it to. They don't have anybody to confirm the\nrumor. Armholster hasn't filed charges because his daughter's\nbegged him not to-because she's traumatized and won't even leave\nthe house-or that's what he told me-and as far as that goes,\nArmholster himself, he's petrified that his daughter's name will end\nup in the press. Meantime, he's going around trying to round up\nsupport behind the scenes for whatever retaliation he has in mind\nfor your client.\"\n\"Which will be what?\" asked Roger.\n\"1 don't know, but he knows a lot of influential people. So I want to\nmake sure your client has a fair shake when the time comes.\" The\nMayor smiled again. \"I know a lot of influential people myself.\"\nRoger T oo White didn't say anything. He just looked at Wes Jordan\nand waited and tried to figure out what it was that was . . . different.\n. . about him. He was aware of yet more Yoruba carvings mounted\non the ebony walls.\n\"But that isn't what I wanted to see you about,\" said the Mayor.\n\"What I wanted to see you about is . . . our man.\"\n\"Our man?\"\n\"Our man Charlie Croker.\"\"Ahhhhhh,\" said Roger, tilting his head back in an ironic, mock-\nsignificant way. \"What about him?\"\n\"He's the one. No doubt about it. The Sixty-Minute Man.' People\nused to point him out on the street and say, There's the Sixty-Minute\nMan.' I'm sure he knows precisely what pressures a big-time athlete\nis under. He knows how jealous and resentful people can be. He\nknows how fast people are to find fault with a sports star and how\nthey over- interpret every little thing. And the time to approach him\nis right, because this thing's going to blow wide-open any moment.\"\nRoger knew there was a missing link in the logic of what Wes had\njust said, but he confined himself to a simple \"Unh-hunh.\"\n\"Oh, he's our man,\" said Wes, \"but we've got one big problem. The\nman's practically bankrupt. Yeah! He's about to lose everything he's\ngot. They've already seized his corporate jet, a huge thing called a\nGulfstream Five, big as an airliner. It won't have the same effect if he\ntries to stand up for Fareek Fanon while he's going down in flames\nas just another megalomaniacal Atlanta real estate developer who\ndidn't know enough to quit while he was ahead.\"\n\"Who seized his corporate jet?\"\n\"PlannersBanc.\"\n\"How do you know that?\"\n\"Oh, I know a lot of what goes on at PlannersBanc. We-I'm talking\nabout the city-we keep a lot of our deposits, the municipal deposits,\nat PlannersBanc. That's a huge asset for them. We're talking about\nmillions of dollars a year they can lend, based on those deposits.\nThat's a huge asset. Believe me, they'll do a lot to keep us happy.\nAnd it's not just a matter of money. You remember we were talking\nthe other day about the 'Atlanta Way'?\"\n\"Unh-hunh.\"\"Well, these big firms like PlannersBanc-and the interesting thing is,\nthe bigger they are, the more willing they are-they're willing to do us\nbig favors just for the sake of . . . oh, keeping everything smooth,\nwarm, congenial, and well oiled with the black power structure. It's\nsort of like 'paying tribute.' Remember old Pomeroy-the historical\nsense in which he always used that term 'paying tribute'?\"\n\"Unh-hunh.\"\n\"That's one of the ways we keep ourselves busy in the city that's too\nbusy to hate,\" said Wes Jordan with a classic Wes Jordan ironic\nsmile.\n\"Maybe I'm slow or something, Wes,\" said Roger, \"but I still don't get\nit.\"\n\"Roger-I'm speaking to you as a brother now. Okay?\"\n\"Okay.\"\n\"I have a delicate mission for you to perform,\" said Wes Jordan.\nRoger searched his face for a hvist of the lips, a twinkle of the eyes,\nthat would indicate that the phrase delicate mission was yet more\nWes Jordan irony. But he looked completely serious and mayor-like.\n\"This is something,\" he continued, \"that you mustn't tell your client\nabout or your colleagues, Mr. Salisbury and Mr. Pickett. Can I have\nyour word on that?\"\n\"I love you, Brother Wes, but I can't see how I could possibly give\nyou my word, since I don't know what you're talking about.\"\n'Tou can't even do that much for me, hunh?\" said Wes Jordan. \"All\nright, then I'll just appeal to your sense of civic concern.\"\nRoger searched his face once more. No smile, no wink, no arching of\nthe eyebrows.\n\"This case,\" said the Mayor, \"has the potential to do more damage to\nthis city than anything since the murder of Martin Luther King or theRodney King riots, because it gets right down to the core of the\nwhite man's fear. Do you see what I'm saying?\"\n'Tes,\" said Roger Too White, \"I can see that.\"\n\"All right, so what I'm saying is, I'm saying that Charlie Croker, or\nsomebody like Charlie Croker, could be an essential figure to keep\nthe city from getting split apart.\"\n\"Along the racial fault line,\" said Roger Too White.\n\"Exactly, along the racial fault line. Very well put. Along the racial\nfault line. So if he's willing to stick his neck out to that extent-and for\nsomebody like him, this'd really be sticking his neck out-this sixty-\nyear- old Cracker with a-did you know he has a 29,000-acre\nplantation down in Baker County?\"\n\"No.\"\n\"Just for shooting quail? All very antebellum? Even got African-\nAmerican servants who sing gospel for the guests after dinner?\"\n\"You're . . . exaggerating.\" He had started to say \"kidding.\"\n\"Not at all, not at all. He calls the place Turpmtine. T,u,r,p,m,t,i,n,e.\nOriginally the cash crop at this place was not cotton but turpentine,\nfrom the pine trees. Apparently slashing the pine trees for resin was\nthe worst work in the world, much worse than picking cotton. Croker\nseems to enjoy calling them the Turpmtine Niggers.'\"\n\"Aw, come on! And you think you're gonna get him to stand up for\nFareek Fanon against Inman Armholster?\"\n\"I have my reasons for thinking he might. And if he does, then I\nthink the city would owe him a debt of gratitude, which might take\nthe form of removing some of the other pressures that now bear\ndown on the man.\"\n\"Such as?\"\"Such as the threat of bankruptcy, to be specific. I would think that\nPlannersBanc would find it in its long-term interest, as a part of this\ncity, to restructure the man's debt load in some significant fashion,\nso that in the same moment he speaks up for your client he isn't\nrevealed to be one of the biggest deadbeats in the history of\ncommercial real estate in Atlanta.\"\nRoger Too White pondered all this for a moment. He wasn't sure\nwhat he was actually hearing. \"All right, Wes, assuming all that\nmakes sense-which I'm not sure it does-I don't see where I would fit\nin.\"\n\"I need someone to outline the facts of the matter to Croker. It can't\nbe me, because that might be misinterpreted. But if it comes from\nyour client, from counsel representing your client, then it's perfectly\nappropriate. You're not asking him to testify in court. All you're doing\nis asking him to render a judgment in the arena of public opinion.\nWe're not talking about the law. We're talking about public\nrelations.\"\n\"But what kind of opinion, Wes? What kind of opinion could you\npossibly expect Charlie Croker to have-or express?\"\n\"That Fareek is a fine young man. That young athletes like him have\nalways been setups for all sorts of pressures, schemes, and\nvilifications. That he can't believe that Fareek is guilty of the sort of\nthing he's being smeared with now, and so forth and so on.\"\n\"Where's he going to do this?\" asked Roger. \"At a protest\ndemonstration or a rally or what?\"\n\"No, no, no, no,\" said Wes. \"You don't have protests or rallies in a\nsex case. What I envision is a press conference, a press conference\nwhose ostensible purpose is simply to urge calmness and restraint in\nthe face of a potentially explosive situation. In the course of that I\nestablish the point that men have rights, too, even big black men,\neven big black sports stars, every bit as many rights as white women\nhalf their size. This is all in the context of maintaining public order,you understand. Then Croker gets up and makes the point even\nstronger. He says that Fareek is a fine young man-\"\n\"Wait a minute, Wes,\" said Roger. \"He's gonna say Fareek is a fine\nyoung man-on the basis of what? I wonder if he's ever even laid\neyes on Fareek, unless it was from a seat in the grandstand.\"\nWes Jordan smiled. \"He has to meet Fareek, Roger, and get to know\nhim. And as you know, to know him is to love him.\"\nRoger let loose a laugh that ended up sounding like a snort. \"For\nGod's sake, Wes, you and I can't stand the sonofabitch!\"\n\"I think you might be surprised, Roger,\" said Wes Jordan with a\nfamiliar ironic gleam in his eyes. \"I think you might be surprised. I\nthink Mr. Croker might see something in Fareek that we don't see.\"\n\"Well-where's he supposed to meet him?\"\n\"I'll leave that to your best judgment, Counselor. But it's essential\nthat he meet him and that he come away from that meeting ready\nto say favorable things about Fareek, for the record. It's also\nessential that he know that you, as a representative of Fareek and\nhis many supporters, are in a position to see to it that the banking\ninterests in this city restructure his loans on highly favorable terms\nso as not to damage his credibility at this pivotal moment in Atlanta's\nhistory. And if he says, 'Why me?' then you say, 'Because you're the\nonly Atlanta business leader with a sports career like Fareek's. You're\nthe Sixty-Minute Man.' \"\nNow Roger gave the Mayor an ironic smile of his own. \"And he's\nsupposed to believe all that because some black lawyer he's never\nheard of drops by and tells him his troubles are over?\"\n\"1 already thought of that,\" said the Mayor. \"I think what you have\nto do is offer him a practical demonstration, a sort of field\nexperiment, as it were. I think what you have to tell him is 'Go see\nFareek, and then decide if you want to do your part for the city at\nthe press conference, and if you say yes, then all communicationfrom PlannersBanc concerning outstanding loans will immediately\ncease.' 1 think Mr. Croker will look upon you as a black prophet he\ncan believe in.\"\n\"And you really think you can see to that?\" asked Roger.\n\"If 1 can't, then the field experiment will be a failure. But I'm not\nworried.\" Wes Jordan leaned back in his chair and thrust his chest\nout in a certain satisfied way, as if he had already won a great\nbattle. The ironic smile that Roger had known for so many years\nplayed upon his lips. \"Roger, you're about to see the way politics\nactually works in a city. It would be nice to think that certain\nlaudable positions prevail because they have an irresistible logic all\ntheir own. But that is seldom the case . . . seldom the case . . . And\nI'm sure the Charlie Crokers of this town, dense though they may be\nin certain respects, already understand that.\"\nRoger sat bolt upright on the couch, opened his eyes wide, and\nflashed a big grin. \"I've figured it out!\"\n\"Figured out what?\"\n\"What's different! About you!\"\n\"Really? You gonna let me in on it, too?\"\nRoger Too White slapped the side of his leg and grinned some more\nand started laughing. \"You're darker, Brother Wes, you're darker!\nWhat'd you do? How'd you do it?\"\nThe Mayor ran his hands over his own cheeks, as if in wonderment.\n\"Darker? Well, I'll be damned. It is true that I've gotten in a lot more\ngolf than usual.\"\n\"Golf?\"\n\"Been playing a lot of golf recently, Brother Roger.\"\n\"You? Give me a break, Brother Wes!\"\"Yeah, I know. I used to make fun of golf. But I figured I ought to\nget outdoors more, smell the newly mown grass and the newly\nraked sand traps. Lanny's been playing, too.\"\n\"Lanny? Your wife, Lanny? You must be joking!\"\n\"No, I'm not joking,\" said Wes Jordan. \"Everybody's entitled to\nchange his or her mind. The good old Georgia sunshine does\nwonders for a person.\"\n\"Well, you sly old dog, you!\" exclaimed Roger Too White. 'You're\ngetting ... a suntan-for the election campaign! You're getting . . .\ndarker?'\nWes Jordan winked and chuckled deep in his throat. \"It just naturally\nhappens to us golf lovers, just naturally happens. And besides,\neverything is relative. I've always been blacker than thou, Roger Too\nWhite.\"\npeepgass told people he lived \"in Buckhead,\" but this . . . was\nBuckhead. This ... was the real thing. At the wheel of his little Ford\nEscort, he had just turned off West Paces Ferry Road onto Valley\nRoad, on which, less than a quarter of a mile from this point,\naccording to Martha Croker, he would come upon her house.\nPeepgass was all eyes. Rolling lawns, absolutely perfectly cut,\nwatered, landscaped, and ornamented by flowers and deep-green\nbushes, every leaf of which seemed waxed and polished by hand-\nrolling lawns swelled up on either side of Valley Road, leading to\nstupendous piles of Georgian brick with real slate roofs or romantic\nbut equally stupendous villas of Italianate stucco atop the crests.\nAnd even though it was nine o'clock in the morning, on a hot day in\nMay that had already turned the asphalt slopes of Collier Hills into an\noven, here in the real Buckhead all was serene and green and cool,\nthanks to the soaring trees, left over from virgin forest, that created\na great green canopy for the entire neighborhood.\nPeepgass slowed down, as much in awe as in the interest of spotting\nMartha Croker's house number. The house numbers seemed to bemainly on mailboxes at the foot of the driveways. In a neighborhood\nlike this, if you actually put the number on the house, no one would\never see it; it would be too far away from the road. The street itself,\nValley Road, was laid out in suitably wasteful serpentine curves, like\nthe floor of a valley winding its way between the eminences of the\ncastles that rose up on either side. Peepgass drove his little Escort\naround a big bend, ever so slowly, and-\n-there in the middle of the street . . . women! ... six or eight of them\n. . . walking right in the middle of the road ... at a leisurely pace . . .\nlaughing, talking . . . black and Latin women of various ages, but\nnone very young, some in dresses, some in blouses and pants and\nsneakers, walking right in the middle of Valley Road ... In the next\ninstant it dawned on Peepgass . . . Maids, housemaids, for the\ncastles! They arrived by bus, on the line, the Number 40 line, that\nran along West Paces Ferry Road, got off at the corner of Valley\nRoad, and walked the rest of the way to the castles, which were\ntheir places of employment. There were no sidewalks in this part of\nBuckhead-who other than servants would be walking anywhere\nanyway-and they had to walk in the street. But why out in the\nmiddle?\nPeepgass swung way over to the left and passed them, very slowly .\n. . Only one or two of the women even bothered to look his way.\nJust ahead he saw Martha Croker's house number on a mailbox by\nthe driveway. And up the driveway, at the crest of the great swollen\ngreen lawn -Peepgass couldn't believe it. The house was a colossal\npile of brick with a portico and white columns and windows with\nwhite muntins that seemed ten feet tall. It took Peepgass's breath\naway. He suddenly felt terribly intimidated.\nJesus Christ, he thought. I can't drive up to that place in a five-year-\nold Ford Escort.\nSo he continued past the driveway and made a U-turn-plenty of\nroom on Valley Road to make a U-turn in a Ford Escort-and headed\nback the other way. Now he had to pass the battalion of maids byswinging to the right. More of them gave him the once-over this\ntime, no doubt wondering what he was doing. Once he passed\nthem, he made another U-turn and pulled over to the curb about\nfifty feet from Martha Croker's drivewav. Now plenty of the women\nhad turned their heads around to give him a dubious look. Who was\nthis creep who kept driving by them and was now getting out of his\ncar so he could follow them, on foot, out in the middle of the street?\nHe'd walk up her driveway, Escortless, that's what he'd do. He soon\ndiscovered why the maids walked out in the middle of the street. On\nthe edges, the street sloped so much to allow for water to run off,\nwalking was uncomfortable. So now, out in the middle of Valley\nRoad, came a battalion of maids ... with Raymond Peepgass of\nPlannersBanc bringing up the rear.\nMartha Croker's driveway was also laid out in yet more graceful,\nwasteful Buckhead curves. On either side were banks of green-and-\nwhite-striped hostas. So this is what Croker had to give up when he\nshucked Martha, thought Peepgass. He was beginning to get a bit\nwinded from the long climb. His armpits were already cooking. This\nin turn made him think of how second-rate his clothes were. This old\ngray pinstripe suit that had come back just a bit . . . shiny . . . from\nits last trip to the cleaners ... the buttonhole in the front that was\nfrayed and needed selvaging . . . this striped shirt that was\nbeginning to get a bit threadbare where the collar met the necktie ...\nand the necktie, which suddenly seemed far too loud to be wearing\ninto a house like this . . .\nYou had to walk up three steps to the portico and pass between two\ngreat white Doric columns to reach the front door, which was a\ncolossal thing, painted dark green, with all sorts of raised panels and\narchitraves a foot wide, plus window lights running down either side.\nPeepgass pressed the doorbell, and everything-the walls, the glass,\nthe door- was so big and heavy, you couldn't hear it ringing inside.\nPresently the door opened, and a middle-aged black maid in a white\nuniform was standing there.\"Ray Peepgass,\" said Peepgass. \"I'm here to see Mrs. Croker.\"\n\"She's expecting you,\" said the woman. \"Come on in.\"\nPeepgass found himself in an astonishingly-to him-large hall with a\nmarble floor of white, into which were set, at discrete intervals, black\ndiamond shapes. At the rear of the hall a colossal staircase swung\nup in a half-spiral to the floor above. The curve of the staircase\ncreated a silhouette against the light that flooded in through an\nenormous arched window behind it.\nIn no time Martha Croker had emerged from one of the rooms off to\nthe side. She was wearing a long-sleeved navy blouse and a tan\ngabardine skirt. She struck Peepgass as a little heavy, but her legs\nweren't bad at all-and this place was lavish beyond anything he had\nimagined. On the other hand, he also happened to know her age all\ntoo well: fifty- three.\n\"Good morning, Mr. Peepgass.\"\n\"Good morning, Martha, and please-make it Ray!\"\nThey shook hands, and Martha Croker said, \"I'm sorry I had to make\nthis so early-would you like some coffee?\"\n\"No-actually, to tell you the truth, some coffee would be great!\"\nSo she sent the maid off for some coffee and led Peepgass into\nsome sort of den or library. It wasn't a big room, but every square\ninch of it looked as if it cost more than the sum total of Peepgass's\npossessions in Collier Hills. The Oriental rug ... the antique secretary\nat which she seemed to have been working ... the fabric on the walls\n... the bookshelves ... the chintz-covered easy chairs . . . and, above\nall, a charming bay that was set off from the rest of the room by a\nparabolic wooden arch and a sumptuous display of Victorian\nmoldings that surrounded the bay's three big windows ... In the bay\nwas a round rosewood Regency table with a pair of upholstered\nRegency dining chairs pulled up to it.\"Let's sit by the window,\" said Martha Croker. \"It's a nice place to\nhave coffee.\"\nAnd, sure enough, it was. The windows looked out on a small formal\ngarden, bursting with statice, delphinium, and peonies that seemed\nto have been created especially for the view from this one room. An\nancient gardener, a black man, was down on his knees doing\nsomething with a trowel. He wore old-fashioned puttees, an article\nof dress Peepgass had never seen before, except in pictures of the\nWorld War I military. At the perimeter of the garden was a dense\nsemicircle of boxwood bushes, mature ones, waist-high and grown\ntogether and immaculately clipped until they looked like a single fat\ngreen wall. Beyond the boxwood was an immense lawn, partly in\nopen sunlight, partly in the shade of huge old trees, and everywhere\nbordered by carefully groomed shrubbery and beds of flowers.\nPeepgass gazed out the window and, without turning toward her,\nsaid, \"It's absolutely beautiful, Martha.\" Something told him to tuck\nin as many Marthas as he could.\n\"It's a lovely time of year for gardens,\" said Martha. \"I can't take any\ncredit for it.\" She motioned toward the old gardener. \"Franklin does\nit all.\"\nMr. Ray Peepgass of PlannersBanc's little Marthas were somehow so\ncasual and intimate . . . pleasantly so. She gazed at Mr. Peepgass\nwhile he gazed out the window. He was nice-looking, handsome\neven, but in a rather soft way, with a lineless, boyish face, perhaps a\nbit too boyish -how old was he, anyway? A full head of sandy hair,\nbut with traces of gray . . . bright blue eyes, but his eyelids drooped\nat the outer corners . . . the beginnings of a double chin ... all of\nwhich gave her hope that he might be closer to fifty than to forty . .\n. clothes a bit the worse for wear ... an appalling necktie with an\nexplosive burst of colors that had nothing to do with his shirt or his\nsuit ... a small faint patch of beard stubble below the joint of his jaw,\nwhich his razor had missed ... all of which perhaps indicated he\ndidn't have a wife to monitor such things ... not a strong man,obviously . . . drunk the other night when she first met him ... but\nfriendly and warm, and he had remembered her name . . . and\nfriendly and warm this morning, whatever he had come over for . . .\nall of which flashed through the Wernicke's and Broca's areas of her\nbrain in a matter of seconds-far faster than it would take to say it\nout loud . . . She was now happy she had chosen to wear what she\nhad on . . . the dark blouse that minimized her heaviness through\nthe shoulders and back ... the tight gabardine skirt that brought out\nher best feature, which was her legs ... the tan pumps with black\ncaps that more or less matched the skirt and the blouse . . . semi-\nhigh heels, just high enough to bring out the excellent contours of\nher calves . . . and her makeup, almost as carefully done as it had\nbeen for the opening at the High, although she had gone far easier\non the mascara . . . and her heavy gold chain-link choker, which\nhelped cover up the lines in her neck.\n\"Did you have to drive far to get here?\" she asked Mr. Ray Peepgass,\nwhich really meant: \"Where do you live, and is there a wife there?\"\n\"Not very far, really,\" said Peepgass. \"I live in Buckhead, too, but\nthere's Buckhead-\" He paused and chuckled and made a little\ngesture out the window. \"And there's Buckhead. I have an\napartment in Collier Mills. I used to have a house in Snellville before\nmy wife and I separated.\" He had a vague awareness, which he\ncouldn't have explained, of wanting Martha Croker to be apprised of\nthat fact. \"To tell you the truth, it's a lot easier to drive here from\nCollier Hills at this time of the morning than it is to drive down\nPeachtree Street to PlannersBanc.\"\nMartha said, \"Well, I'm sorry I had to make it so early. This is just\none of those days.\"\nWhich really meant: one of those days when I have a 10:30\nappointment at DefinitionAmerica for Mustafa Gunt's class.\n\"Not at all!\" said Peepgass. \"This is actually a perfect time for me.\"Except that I'm so damned hungry, he thought. For an instant he\nwondered if he might possibly suggest that perhaps her maid might\nbe good enough to whip up some pancakes or waffles for him-but\nonly for an instant. Out loud: \"I hope I haven't made all this-the\npurpose of my visit, I mean-sound mysterious or anything. It's just\nthat I'm afraid I'm going a little out-of-bounds with what I want to\ntalk to you about-\" He paused, lifted his eyebrows, opened his eyes\nwide, and gave her a vulnerable smile. \"So anytime, if you want me\nto shut up and forget about it, just say so, and I won't proceed any\nfurther.\"\n\"Well-now you do make it sound mysterious,\" said Martha.\nPeepgass gave a shrug, also of the vulnerable sort. 'Tou remember\nwhen I saw you at the museum the other night, I told you I had\nbeen thinking about you that day, or 1 think that's what I said.\nAnyway, that's quite true. The only thing I'm not sure about is how\nmuch of all this it's appropriate for me to tell you, since it's the\nbank's business, but it's even more critically your business, it seems\nto me.\"\nMartha smiled patiently. \"What is?\"\nPeepgass put on a dead-serious look. \"I'm not sure whether or not\nyou know about the jam Charlie-your. . . former husband-has gotten\nhimself into.\"\n\"No, I don't,\" said Martha.\n\"The bank would probably take a dim view of my telling you this, but\nto all intents and purposes, Charlie Croker is bankrupt.\"\n\"Bankrupt?\"\n'Tes,\" said Peepgass. \"The only question that remains is how hard a\nline PlannersBanc wants to take. He owes us approximately half a\nbillion dollars and several other banks and two insurance companies\nanother $285 million. Of the total, he's guaranteed $160 millionpersonally. He's already hopelessly in arrears on interest payments,\nnever mind principal.\"\n\"What happened to 'non-recourse loans only'?\" One of Charlie's\ncardinal principles, from the very beginning, had been that a\ndeveloper should never accept a loan for which he was personally\nresponsible. The bank's only recourse should be the assets of the\ncorporation.\n\"Charlie was determined to build Croker Concourse, no matter what,\nand now he's paying the price. He spent eight million dollars-of our\nmoney-putting in an astronomical light show at the top of the tower,\nwhich nobody wants to look at at lunch in the first place. Now . . .\nwhy am I telling you all this? Because we've begun workout\nproceedings in his case-do you remember 'workout proceedings'?\"\n\"I remember Charlie involved in a workout back in the seventies.\"\n\"Well, he's in the workout of all workouts right now, believe me.\nWhich means that we're going through his finances with a fine-tooth\ncomb. In the course of it I've seen the terms of his divorce\nsettlement with you. So I've seen the dollar amount he's supposed\nto give you each month, and I can only assume it's a significant part\nof your income. Forgive me if I'm way off base or out of line.\"\nSubdued: \"No . . .\"\n\"Well-what I see happening is that the approximately seven million\ndollars a vear Charlie takes as a dividend out of the Croker Global\nCorporation is no longer gonna be there. We've already seized his\nGulf- stream Five, and we're probably going to go after Turpmtine\nnext. And there's no way his creditors are going to let him take\nseven million dollars a year out of this drowning corporation of his.\"\n\"Good Lord,\" said Martha. She seemed genuinely shocked by the\nwhole business. \"If he loses Turpmtine, he'll absolutely die.\"\"If I may be frank about it,\" said Peepgass, \"I don't particularly care\nwhat happens to Charlie and Charlie's plantation. My concern is the\neffect all this might have on you. I thought that at the very least you\nought to know about it, even though, as I say, I don't know what my\nown superiors would think of my coming here and telling you all this.\nWhat worries me-or what you might want to think about-is that\nCharlie is going to be lucky if he takes $300,000 a year out of Croker\nGlobal, much less the $600,000 a year he's supposed to give you\nunder the terms of the settlement-and if he keeps on with the\nhardnose, uncooperative attitude he's been giving us so far, he could\nwind up with nothing. Every single asset he possesses, right down to\nhis cuff links, if he wears cuff links-I don't recall-everything he's got\nis on the line. I just thought somebody ought to give you at least the\nrough outlines of what's been happening.\"\nMartha Croker didn't say anything at first. Peepgass studied her face.\nShe must have been a very pretty woman back when Croker married\nher. She was a very handsome woman even now. But the lines in her\nface had begun to creep down over her jawline, the better to hook\nup with the lines in her neck. And yet what a chain of gold there was\naround that neck! He wondered if it was real gold. Well, why\nshouldn't it be? The lawn, the gardens, the gardener in puttees were\nall real.\nJust then the black maid, Carmen, arrived with a tray, a silver tray\nwith gadrooned edges, upon which were not only an ornately\nwrought little silver coffeepot with an eccentric ivory handle\n(Peepgass had never heard of Georg Jensen silverware) and two\nsets of outsized bone-china coffee cups and saucers (the saucers\nhad handles designed in flamboyant swoops) and a silver sugar bowl\nand creamer that matched the coffeepot (viscerally he could sense\nhow much the sugar bowl, a mere sugar bowl, must have cost,\nwhich was in fact $1,250) but also a silver bread gondola from\nwhich, beneath a covering of damask napkin, came the most\ndelicious aroma of hot bread-or was it possibly cake?-an aroma that\nproceeded straight from Peepgass's nose to the aching, starving voidin his stomach, exciting that organ in a delirious way. He wanted to\nreach out and pull back the damask napkin and-get at it! But he\nrestrained himself. Meantime, the maid poured the coffee. Another\necstatically rich aroma!\nMartha Croker said, \"Thank\"you, Carmen!\"-adding the sort of warm\nsmile that, as Peepgass had already observed, Southern women\nused to show their guests how considerate they were of their help.\nThen she folded back the damask napkin on the bread gondola-and\nthere they were: thick, rich, cake-like slices of a sort of bread\nPeepgass had never seen before.\n\"Please-have some Sally Lunn, Ray.\"\nRay she had called him! Out loud: \"Sally Lunn?\"\n\"It's a Virginia recipe,\" said Martha. \"No one I know has ever made it\nany better than Carmen\"-this loud enough for Carmen, who was\nheading out of the room, to hear. \"I'm not even going to tell you\nwhat's in it. I think it's wonderful with damson preserves.\" She\nmotioned toward the little crock on the table.\nPeepgass didn't have to be told twice. He took a thick slice of the\nbread, which was still warm to the touch, and spread on some\nmargarine and the preserves, which had tart pieces of plum skin that\ngave it a wonderful tactile quality, and took a big bite. It was . . .\nwonderful! marvelous! the answer to a forty-six-year-old bachelor's\nprayer!\n\"Great coffee, too!\" exclaimed Mr. Ray Peepgass.\n\"I'm so glad you like it,\" said Martha. \"I get it from Louisiana. It's\ncalled Cafe du Monde. It's made with chicory.\"\n\"Chicory . . . hmmmmmm. Well, it's great!\" The rich warmth of the\ncoffee, the richness of the bread, the ambrosial sweetness of the\npreserves, the translucence of the bone china, the sheer\nconspicuous cost of the silverware, which, he now realized, featuredtiny, exquisitely wrought little bunches of silver grapes, the intricacy\nof the crocheted place mats, which were obviously handmade, the\npatterns of sharp angles and ogee curves in the woodwork around\nthe windows, the view beyond, the formal garden created solely for\nthose who sat in this bay, the ancient gardener kneeling in the dirt in\nhis puttees to maintain this perfect little vista-the luxury of it all\ncoursed through Peepgass's central nervous system as a sensation, a\nvisceral feeling that played upon a man's sixth sense, his sense of\nwell-being.\n\"Anyway,\" said Peepgass, \"I just thought somebody should let you\nknow what's going on, since it seems to me your exposure in this\nmess Charlie has made of things is in a way as great as ours.\" The\nold boy also gave you $10 million in cash and securities, thought\nPeepgass, and why wouldn't you want to roll the dice with a couple\nmillion and join the syndicate? But he wouldn't get into all that right\nnow.\n\"Well, this is all certainly news to me,\" said Martha. \"You know, I ran\ninto Charlie the other night at the museum. He certainly didn't seem\nto be in a bad way. He was the same old Charlie.\"\n\"Then all I can tell you is that he's a good actor,\" said Peepgass. \"In\nfact, he comes under the heading of Too Much. Did you know he\nbought an entire table for that dinner? Twenty thousand dollars? Of\nour money? Believe me, that did not go unnoticed at PlannersBanc.\nThat's so typical of the way he refuses to be impressed by the\nseriousness of the situation he's in. Even after we arrest his\nGulfstream Five, he doesn't seem to get it.\"\n\"Arrested?\"\n\"That's the technical term for seizing a piece of collateral like that.\nWe took it right in front of him, out at PDK. He was right there and\nyelling about the painting on the bulkhead, the one by N. C. Wyeth.\"\n\"Oh my God,\" said Martha Croker, \"you mean Jim Bowie on His\nDeathbed?\"\"That's it, yeah.\"\n\"The two things Charlie loves most in this world are Turpmtine and\nthat painting.\"\n\"And he still doesn't get it. There he was at the Lapeth show acting\nas if nothing has changed. The fact is, for him . . . everything has\nchanged.\"\nMartha's face grew hot and reddened . . . Charlie in the atrium of\nthe High Museum . .. Charlie preening about with his boy with\nbreasts, captivating the very people she had spent $20,000 on to\nbring to the show ... To Peepgass she said, \"Charlie went through a\nbad time in the mid-seventies. At one point he was paying back\ncreditors twenty- cents on the dollar, and they were happy to get it-\nand somehow he managed to pull out of the situation. I think he\nthinks he's immune.\" In her mind she could hear Charlie saying,\n\"Hey, gal! Heh yew devvin'?\"\nPeepgass said, \"If he thinks he's immune, then he's in for a big\nshock. We've offered him a very good deal, but I don't think he\nunderstands that.\" He paused and looked straight into Martha\nCroker's eyes and said, \"What I'm about to tell you is strictly entre\nnous. Okay? If Arthur Lomprey\"-Martha could see his hateful\nhunched-over form-\"knew I was over here telling you all this, I don't\nknow what he would say, but something tells me it wouldn't be\ngood. But-I've gone this far, so I might as well tell you. We've told\nCharlie he can keep his house on Blackland Road, Turpmtine, and his\nbeloved N. C. Wyeth painting if he'll hand over the deeds to the\nPhoenix Center, the MossCo Tower, the TransEx Palladium, and\nCroker Concourse.\"\n\"Hand over the deeds?\"\n\"It's called 'deed in lieu of foreclosure.' In effect, he just gives us the\nproperties. That way he spares himself the humiliation of foreclosure\nproceedings and all the publicity that would generate, and he keeps\nhis home, the plantation, and the painting.\"\"What does he say to that?\" asked Martha. \"I hope you realize that\nhe's almost as fanatical about Croker Concourse as he is about\nTurpmtine and Jim Bowie on His Deathbed.\"\n\"Oh, he's got his back up,\" said Peepgass. \"He as much as dared us\nto try to come after Turpmtine. He's gonna have a big surprise\ncoming.\"\nBut Martha was still thinking about Croker Concourse. The very\nname set off a feeling in her, for it was when Charlie was in the thick\nof the Croker Concourse project that he had met Serena. She no\nlonger had to articulate the thought in her mind to feel the pain and\nhumiliation. She merely had to hear the name, and the feeling-which\nwas in fact worse than pain and humiliation-which, at bottom, was\nshame- swept over her in a scalding wave.\n\"What's the big thing about Croker Concourse, the fact that he has\nhis name on it?\"\n\"Partly that,\" said Martha, \"but mainly because he's always thought\nit was so clever, so shrewd, the way he put the deal together. People\ndon't think of Charlie as clever and shrewd, they think of him more\nas a force of nature, but in this case he pulled off something very\nclever. Not very admirable, if you want my opinion, but very clever.\"\n\"Oh?\" said Peepgass. \"What was that?\"\n\"Do you remember the racial protests in Cherokee County, the\ndemonstrations and all that business? It made the national news on\ntelevision for a couple of nights, do you remember?\"\n\"Ummm . . . yeah.\"\n\"That was all Charlie.\" Martha Croker had a tired smile.\n\"Whattaya mean, 'all Charlie'?\"\n\"Charlie orchestrated the whole thing!\"\"Aw, come on,\" said Peepgass. \"Charlie Croker? Orchestrated a\ndemonstration against Redneck racism? That's a little hard to\nbelieve.\"\n\"I know,\" said Martha. \"That's one reason it worked so well. What\nhappened was, Charlie had the theory that the next big growth in\nAtlanta was going to take place in the outer perimeter, the rural\ncounties north of the city, places like Gwinnett County, Forsyth,\nBartow, Cherokee. So Charlie goes out to Cherokee County, which\nwas all trees and pastures, and he thinks he's going to buy 150\nacres or whatnot for a song, except that he finds out people thought\nof all this before he did, and the land costs a fortune because it's\nalready investor land.\"\n\"What's investor land?\" asked Ray.\n\"That was another one of Charlie's terms. Investor land is land that's\ntoo valuable to be devoted to farming or timber but not yet ready for\ndeveloping. So investors buy it for a song, like Charlie thought he\nwas going to, and then they just sit on it, waiting for the time when\nthey can sell it for a big price for development. Charlie couldn't\nbelieve it. Cherokee County, or at least the southern part of it, was\nall investor land. He's driving around through these back roads up\nthere one day when he sees an old friend of his, or an old\nacquaintance, a real old Cracker named Darwell Scruggs. They'd\ngone to school together years ago down in Baker County. So Charlie\nstops the car and gets out, and he and Darwell Scruggs have a little\nreunion out by the side of the road. One thing Charlie always\nremembered about Darwell Scruggs was that he had joined the Ku\nKlux Klan back when he was seventeen or eighteen years old. So he\nasks him about the Klan, and sure enough, Darwell has organized a\nchapter, or a kave, or whatever they call it, of the Klan in Cherokee\nCount)'. It was really pathetic, Ray-\"\nRay!\"-I mean, I wonder if there were a dozen members, and most of\nthem were teenagers of the sort Darwell had been when he first\njoined. But there they were, and a lightbulb went on over Charlie's\nhead. He takes down Darwell's address and telephone number, and\nhe waits three or four weeks and calls up Darwell and tells him he\nhas it on good authority that a black group called Operation Higher\nis planning a march through Canton-that's the county seat of\nCherokee-protesting racism and de facto segregation in this old rural\ncounty that's practically all white.\"\n\"How did Charlie know that?\"\n\"He didn't! He had to find somebody! Now that he'd started the pot\nboiling, he had to find somebody to put in it, so to speak.\"\n\"Now wait a minute,\" said Peepgass. \"Are you telling me-this I find\nhard to believe-but go ahead.\" By now he had his elbows on the\ntable and was leaning forward, an utterly rapt expression on his\nface.\n\"This is the truth,\" said Martha. \"I pledge you my word. One day\nCharlie read in the papers that this fellow Andre Fleet was organizing\na rally for Operation Higher against something or other.\"\n\"Andre Fleet-the guy who's talking about running for Mayor.\"\n\"1 think so. I think it's the same person. So Charlie goes to the rally.\nHe was the only white person there, and he stood out like . . . like I\ndon't know what . . . this big, fifty-some-year-old white man wearing\na coat and tie. At the end of the rally Andre Fleet came over to\nCharlie and said, \"If you have a moment, brother, I'd like to see you\nbackstage after this is all over.' \"\nPeepgass, leaning forward even more, said, \"Were you there? Did\nyou see this?\"\n\"No,\" said Martha Croker, \"but I've heard Charlie tell the story a\nhundred times.\"\"So what happened next?\"\n\"I'm not sure exactly what happened next, but it wasn't too long\nbefore Andre Fleet was leading a march on poor little Canton. And\nDarwell Scruggs did his part. He had all ten or twelve of his Klan\nkave out on the sidewalk.\" She shook her head. \"Those poor pimply\nlittle boys-they didn't wear the pointy white hoods and all that, but\nthey did yell a lot of racial epithets, which the television crews were\ndelighted to record, of course, and for about three or four days the\nwhole country was looking at Cherokee County, Georgia, as this vile\nbastion of... of ... of bigotry, and so forth and so on. You may\nremember that Frank Farr filmed his talk show right on the main\nstreet of Canton. He acted as if he were doing something so\ncourageous, broadcasting a television show inside this benighted\nbackwater. He was talking about poor old Darwell Scruggs and a\ndozen children. Anyway, land values in Cherokee County suddenly\ndropped. Investors couldn't unload their investor land fast enough,\nand Charlie bought a 142-acre parcel for less than $200,000. Before\nthe march it would have brought four million easily.\"\n\"So he paid Fleet to march on Canton?\"\n\"I don't know,\" said Martha. \"He never said so. All I know is that he\npointed the man in the direction of Cherokee County. Maybe Fleet\nwas looking for someplace to have a demonstration. He's in that\nbusiness, after all. I just don't know.\"\n\"Godalmighty,\" said Peepgass, smiling a smile of wonderment and\nlooking into Martha Croker's eyes. He wasn't sure what it meant, but\nhe knew it meant something big and promising. \"Does anybody but\nyou know about all this?\"\n\"As I said, there are people who know how he met Andre Fleet,\nbecause I've heard him tell that story to people. But I doubt that\nmany people know about Charlie and Darwell Scruggs.\"\nA big loopy grin spread over Peepgass's face. Martha couldn't figure\nout why. Peepgass himself wasn't entirely sure. All he knew was thatwhat he had just learned was . . . dynamite.\nMartha said, \"Have some more coffee, Ray, and some more Sally\nLunn.\"\n\"I will!\" said Peepgass, taking another slice of the fabulous bread\nfrom the silver gondola. While he loaded the bread with margarine\nand damson preserves, Martha Croker poured him another cup of\ncoffee. Peepgass took a big bite of the bread, and as his tongue\nsavored the sharp but sweet taste of the preserves, he looked out\nthe middle window of the bay. The moldings around the window\nwere like a frame, and the view was like a perfect painting by . . .\nMillais ... no, Tissot ... or maybe Millais and Tissot... or maybe some\nPre-Raphaelite ... in the foreground, old Franklin down on his knees\n... the earth tones of his shoes, his ancient puttees, his old khaki\npants, his gray shirt, the faded gray-green Bemberg of the back\npanel of his vest seemed to blend into the earth into which he was\nso diligently troweling . . . then came a dazzling band of royal blue,\npink, and white flowers, then the dense dark green of the boxwood\nborder . . . and beyond that the big-breasted green lawn, suddenly\nradiant, almost chartreuse, with the sunlight that had made its way\nbetween two tall trees . . .\nA fellow could learn to like this.\nChapter 22Chambodia\nPopolo lolo popolo grind you brudda mocky die-dead no make ass no\nwant beef, pouring, gurgling out of Five-O's mouth as he lay pinned\nunder tons of concrete and the earth shifted and Conrad could feel\nhimself falling off the top bunk- \"Hunnhl\"-which woke him up.\nFor an instant he couldn't get his bearings. Couldn't be Santa Rita,\nbecause he was lying on a floor with a carpet, a filthy carpet, but a\ncarpet all the same. People-Asian faces standing over him and\nlooking down at him, and someone was saying, \"Lum loc mung ve\nnha pao poc, Conrad.\"\nHe propped bimself up on one elbow and rubbed his face with his\nhand. High-pitched giggling. Women. The tiny living room was now\npacked with people, with Vietnamese-must be fifteen or sixteen of\nthem at least. Last night not nearly so many-last night-and with the\nrecollection of last night, things began to sort themselves out in his\nmind.\nHe was on the floor of a shabby little modern apartment at ground\nlevel in a town called Chamblee, just outside Atlanta, Georgia. It had\nhappened just the way Mai had promised him it would. He was met\nat the airport, in the baggage claim area, by a Vietnamese named\nLum Loc, who recognized him by his Hi-Gro baseball cap. They got\ninto Lum Loc's pickup truck, and Lum Loc, a voluble little man,\nchattered in broken English all the way to Chamblee, to a two-story\nstucco apartment building with a sign out front reading meadow lark\nterrace. Lum Loc pointed it out and laughed and said:\n\"Better they call Saigon West! Know what they call Chamblee?\nChambodia.\" He convulsed with laughter. 'Tou in Chambodia! And\nthis Saigon West!\"\nHe had led him to the rear of the building, where he opened a\nsliding plate-glass door that also served as a picture window and\nswept aside some sort of rubbery plastic curtain-and Conrad hadfound himself in a room full of Vietnamese, ranging in age from five\nor six to eighty- something, the octogenarian being a wizened,\nshrunken woman who sat on the floor with her back propped up\nagainst a wall. There was a strong odor of fish cooking. Three\nmiddle-aged men were hunkered down and leaning forward with\ntheir arms between their knees, holding plastic deli plates up to their\nmouths and using chopsticks to shovel in some sort of rice dish. Two\nmen and a woman were stretched out on the floor on futons, fast\nasleep. Another woman lay sleeping on the bare carpet, and yet\nanother was asleep on the room's only piece of furniture, an old-\nfashioned porch \"glider,\" which was a couch with plastic-covered\ncushions set into a metal frame with a big rusting yellow metal\narmrest at either end. Children were scampering about between the\nbodies of the quick and the dead asleep, playing some form of stoop\ntag, and suddenly their eyes and the old woman's eyes and the eyes\nof the three squatting men were wide-open and pinned on Conrad.\nThe place was ripe with the smell of too many human bodies in a\nsmall space.\nLum Loc had put on a stern voice and barked out something, the\nonly part of which Conrad could make out was his own name,\nConrad. To Conrad he said, \"Morning I come back with ID.\" Then he\nleft via the sliding glass door.\nGingerly Conrad had made his way through the sleeping forms and\npast the hunkered-down men to investigate the rest of the\napartment. All eyes had followed him. No one had said a word. He\nhad had the impression that they didn't speak a word of English and\nwere almost as newly arrived at Meadow Lark Terrace, at Saigon\nWest, in Chambodia, as he was. The rest of the place consisted of\nnothing more than a kitchenette, where some sort of fish stew was\nsimmering, a tiny bathroom, and a tiny bedroom, no more than 12\nby 9 feet, with at least eight or nine Vietnamese crammed into it. In\nhere the carnal heat was even worse. Conrad had returned to the\nliving room, to the only unclaimed stretch of floor in the placc, and\nlain down, clutching his little traveling bag to his abdomen. 'I'heVietnamese had all stared at him, and he had no idea who they\nwere. He had thought he would never fall asleep, but within sixty\nseconds he had slid down that never-remembered, deep- folded\nslope of oblivion.\nAnd now it was morning and the room was lit by daylight that came\nin through the sliding door where the rubbery curtain had been\npulled back. The room was jammed with still more people. He\nstruggled to his feet. He was terribly stiff. . . and foggy, almost light-\nheaded. Vietnamese everywhere, standing up, lying down, hunkered\ndown. The old woman had at last gotten access to a futon and was\nstretched out, snoring. Once more they stared at Conrad, or many\ndid. Half a dozen men were engaged in a loud argument. One of\nthem kept saying what Conrad heard as \"Phao co nwha tong!\"\nConrad smiled at everyone whose eyes he met, to show that he was\na . . . friendly . . . alien ... in this strange place. He had an\noverwhelming urge to urinate. He made his way through the crowd,\nsmiling as he went toward the bathroom. There were four\nVietnamese already lined up in front of the bathroom door.\nHe waited his turn. The bathroom was a mess. There were footprints\non the toilet seat. He couldn't imagine why. He was just departing\nthe bathroom when he heard his name called out. It sounded like\nLum Loc. Smiling as he went, he threaded his way through all the\npeople. Now he could hear Lum Loc shouting something in\nVietnamese. The six men suddenly stopped arguing. Lum Loc was\nberating them. Then he spotted Conrad.\n\"Conrad, you come here!\" Sternly.\nConrad made his way through still more people and followed Lum\nLoc outside, through the sliding door. He looked this way and that,\nexpecting to find-he didn't know what. \"I'm an escaped convict,\" he\nsaid to himself. It was a thought so strange, he said it to himself\nagain: \"I'm an escaped convict.\"He could tell by the light that it was much earlier than he had\nthought. \"What time is it?\"\nLum Loc showed him the face of his wristwatch: 6:40.\nConrad said, \"It's early.\"\n\"Must deal all these people,\" said Lum Loc. \"Must deal you.\"\nBetween the buildings of Meadow Lark Terrace were wide swaths of\ngrass. Six or seven black-haired children were already playing on a\nlittle cluster of swings and jungle gyms. Two Vietnamese women,\nboth wearing black pa jama outfits, stood by. Lum Loc motioned for\nhim to step around the corner of the building, out of sight of the\nstreet.\n\"Okay, Conrad.\" Lum Loc twisted his arms out of his backpack straps\nand unzipped the backpack and withdrew a cluster of small paper\nbags, the sort a stationery store might put greeting cards in when\nyou buy them. He shuffled through them. Most of them had\nVietnamese ideographs drawn on them in felt-tip marker. Then he\ncame to the one marked \"Conrad.\" He opened it and withdrew three\nitems. One was a Social Security card bearing the name Cornelius\nAlonzo DeCasi. The second was a state of Georgia driver's license\nbearing a picture, a head shot, of Conrad and the name Cornelius\nAlonzo DeCasi. The third was a state of Michigan birth certificate,\nembossed with an official stamp, bearing the name Cornelius Alonzo\nDeCasi, born December 2, 1977, to Margaret Stuart DeCasi and\nDemetrio Giovanni de Bari DeCasi.\n\"My God . . .\" said Conrad. \"How'd you do this?\"\nLum Loc laughed. 'Tou don't need know that. Birth certificate- real.\"\nHe put the embossed seal between his thumb and forefinger and\ngave Conrad a look that invited appreciation of this wonder. \"Now\nyou Cornelius Alonzo DeCasi.\" This struck Lum Loc as extremely\nfunny. When he stopped laughing, he said, \"Cornelius Alonzo DeCasi\ndied in 1982. Sorry, but you don't get death certificate!\" This struckhim as even funnier, and he laughed and laughed. Then he turned\nserious. \"Now you get a job.\" He motioned toward the apartment.\n\"Cannot stay- here always.\"\n\"Where can I get a job?\"\n\"An American? Young as you? Hey, no problem. Those people\"-he\nmotioned toward the apartment again-\"they work in the chicken\nplant.\"\n\"Chicken plant?\"\n\"Very big chicken plant in Knowlton. Always they can get jobs in the\nchicken plant.\"\n\"Doing what?\"\n\"They work on the assembly line. Always they have jobs on the\nassembly line.\"\n\"Whattaya do on the assembly line?\"\nWith a mixture of words and pantomime Lum Loc described how\nsome slit chickens' throats all day and some slit their bellies and\ndisemboweled them all day and some took their feathers off all day\nand some sliced them into parts all day.\n\"Work hard and very smelly-but I have rule. I help you-then you get\nwork. These people, I tell them they stay inside the building until I\ngive them IDs and they get work. Cannot always walk around doing\nnothing in Chambodia.\" The term Chambodia made him laugh all\nover again. \"But you American, and you have ID, so you can walk\naround. But you must get job. That is Lum Loc's way.\"\nConrad said, \"Where can I get something to eat?\"\n\"You got money?\"\n\"I have . . . some.\"\"Ohhhhh . . . Buford Highway. Doraville. You can walk.\" Lum Loc\nwent on to explain how he should walk down the street in front of\nMeadow Lark Terrace and through the underpass beneath the\nMARTA railroad tracks-MARTA, he gathered, was a commuter\nrailroad-and up New Peachtree Road to the Buford Highway, which\napparently was a shopping strip of some sort. \"MARTA,\" he\nrepeated. \"This side, America. Other side, Chambodia.\" He laughed\nagain.\nSo Conrad headed off on foot, toward Buford Highway, carrying his\novernight bag and thrusting his hand into the pocket of his jeans for\nthe reassuring feel of the $700 he had left. The road out front of\nMeadow Lark Terrace was wide but ran through groves of trees and\nhad the sleepy feel of any rural road in the early morning. Soon he\ncame upon a cluster of apartment buildings up on a little knoll. A\nwooden sign out front read: hickory heights. Duplex Apts. Three\nblack-haired men, Latinos-Mexicans, it seemed to Conrad-were\nleaning on the railing of the outdoor walkway of the second floor of\nthe building nearest the road. They checked out Conrad, and he\nlooked straight ahead and kept on walking, just around a bend in the\nroad he came upon a little convenience store with a sign above the\nfront entrance that read b-kwik and, at each end, featured a picture\nof a bumblebee with a smiling human face. Out front was a pair of\ndecrepit-looking gasoline pumps and a group of six Mexicans, if\nthat's what they were, standing with their hands in the pockets of\ntheir jeans. They kept looking up and down the road. A pickup truck\ndriven by a middle-aged white man pulled up, and after a brief\nconversation, two of the Mexicans climbed in, and the truck took off,\nand now there were four Mexicans with their hands in their pockets,\nlooking up and down the road. They eyed Conrad suspiciously, and\nlie kept on walking. He figured he must be getting near the center of\ntown-Chamblee?-Doraville?-because of all the small commercial\nestablishments . . . Liza's Restaurant, which had flowers jigsawed\nout of wood and painted lilac stuck on the sign at the corners ... a\nlittle place called the 24-Hour Play Skool . . . antique shops with\nnames such as Hello Again, the Rust 'n' Dust, and Antique Junction .. . and then a small building housing the City Hall and the police\nstation . . . Chamblee this was . . . Two policemen, big meaty white\nmen, came out the door and walked toward a cruiser . . . Conrad's\nscalp suddenly seemed to be on fire . . . He was . . . an escaped\nconvict! . . . For the first time in his life any policeman he saw\nanywhere was a threat to his freedom! He was a fugitive! . . . Out of\nthe corner of his eye he could see that the two officers had stopped\nand were looking him up and down . . . Zeus! Give me coolness!\nGive me the . . . will to avoid! ... He kept walking at a steady pace,\neyes straight ahead, shoulders back ... He could hear the cruiser\nstarting off. . . and going the other way . . . What if they had\nstopped him? He hadn't even figured out what he would say. What\nwould he say his name was? He couldn't say Cornelius Alonzo\nDeCasi. It was too strange a mouthful. He'd say . . . he'd say ...\nConnie . . . Connie DeCasi was believable . . . Looking for work,\nwarehouse work . . . He'd make sure they saw his' big hands and\nforearms . . . They'd believe him ... He ran his hand over his face ...\nHe needed a shave . . . Needed to be spic-and-span ... An underpass\nup ahead . . . but it wasn't a railway line, it was a highway . . . Once\nhe went through the underpass, he could see the elevated MARTA\nline, which looked so strange rising up like a massive wall in this little\ncountry town. He walked through that underpass, and on the other\nside . . . another world! Just as Lum Loc said it would be! Ming's\nAuto Service . . . Kien Ngay Brake Land . . . Minh Ngoc Travel\nAgency . . . Le Phan Mini-Storage . . . and now he was on New\nPeachtree Road where it ran into a six- lane strip . . . the Buford\nHighway . . . Hoang Nhung Jewelry . . . Hong Kong Bakery . . .\nChuyen Tien Money Transactions . . . Quoc Hu'ong Chicken World . .\n. Pho Hoa Insurance Agency . . . Kim's Pharmacy . . . Kien Ngay\nMusic, which featured Vietnamese videos, CD's, and tape recordings\n. . . Many shops had no English at all in their signs. Instead,\nideographs such as Conrad had never laid eyes on before . . . Thai?\nCambodian? Laotian? Korean? Vietnamese? A big sign 011 a metal\nstanchion said asian square. The cars pulling in-all driven by black-\nhaired people-Asians. Barely ten feet away, a Pontiac Firebird,\ncustomized and painted lavender, nosed into a parking space, andfrom it emerged three young Asian males with long black hair,\ncombed back but extending all the way down the neck to the\nshoulder line, dressed entirely in black: black warmup jackets, black\nT-shirts, baggy black homey pants gathered at the ankles where\nthey met sneakers that were black with tongue-like white stripes.\nWith a pumping gait they walked into a restaurant called the Pho Ca\nDao.\nConrad was starving. On a corner of the shopping center,\noverlooking the highway, was a restaurant with a sign in English: mr.\nsaigon noodle parlor, with Vietnamese characters beneath it. He sat\nat a table by the window overlooking the highway. As far as he could\ntell, all of the smattering of customers in the place were Asian. The\nmenu was printed in Vietnamese with English translations in small\nletters to the right. He ordered Tranh Van Five Different Flavor\nSeafood Noodle Soup, even though it cost $5.95, an appalling sum\nto someone with $700 in his pocket that had to last him God knew\nhow long. But he couldn't hold out any longer. He had to eat. As he\nwaited for the noodle soup, he gazed out over the Buford Highway.\nExcept for the Asian signs rising skyward on aluminum stanchions, it\nwas the sort of stone Low Rent American retail strip that could be\nfound on the outskirts of almost every American city ... six lanes of\nblack hardtop bounded by blasted heaths of concrete and hard-\nbaked dirt studded with low tilt-up concrete buildings and wires\nstrung with fluttering Day-Glo pennants, signs that rose far above\nthe buildings on aluminum stanchions, and every other device that\nmight catch the eye of someone driving along a highway at 60 miles\nan hour beneath a broiling Georgia sun. Across the road . . . the\nPung Mie Chinese Restaurant, but also Collision City and an\nastonishing array of pawnshops . . . pawn Car Titles . . . pawn 50%\nOff Gold & Diamonds . . . and still more pawn Car Titles . . .\nemission tests, beneath which was always a quonset hut-shaped tan\ntent, in which you could have your car's emission system tested in\nkeeping with Georgia motor vehicle laws . . .All at once he could hear Lum Loc's voice inside his head: \"You get a\njob. That Lum Loc's way.\" Outside, on the sidewalk in front of Mr.\nSaigon Noodle Parlor, was a yellow metal box, about waist high, a\nvending machine for a newspaper, The Atlanta Journal-Constitution .\n. . The classifieds ... He wanted to go out, buy a newspaper, and go\nover the want ads at the table. But-mustn't do anything to make\nthem think he was stiffing them for their bill. So he paid the bill,\nthen went outside and dropped 60 cents into the vending machine\nand took a newspaper and returned to the restaurant, to the same\ntable, and ordered green tea . . . another 75 cents . . . and began\ngoing over the want ads. All at once a wave of fear: the\nearthquake!-Santa Rita!-escaped convicts! - perhaps even my very\npicture! He started on , devouring the headlines at a furious rate . . .\nThere!-!-a five-paragraph story beneath a headline reading\nearthquake declared worst in 20 years ... He read it ravenously . . .\n\"Long-dormant Hayward fault . . . The Governor asks President to\ndeclare Alameda and Livermore Counties disaster areas . . . Santa\nRita!\"-there were the words! Three blocks of downtown Pleasanton,\nthe Camp Parks Army Reserve training camp, and Santa Rita, the\nAlameda County jail, demolished . . . eight deaths, twenty inmates\nremain unaccounted for . . . But that was it ... No names ... no\nmention of a manhunt. . . But who knew? This was just an Atlanta\nnewspaper. If only he could call someone . . . didn't dare call Jill . . .\nDid he dare call Kenny? Or Mai? ... He was very disturbed . . . How\ndid they hunt for escapees? In an age like this-computers, the\nInternet-sitting here in the Mr. Saigon Noodle Parlor in the Georgia\ntown of Chamblee, now better known as Chambodia, he felt a hol-\nlowness that no amount of Tranh Van Five Different Flavor Seafood\nNoodle Soup could ever fill. He lifted his hands toward the heavens\nand beckoned Zeus into his solar plexus.\nNot even at Santa Rita had loneliness seemed so complete. At least\nat Santa Rita there had been others who, whether they liked it or\nnot, had to share his life with him . . . Five-O . . . Mutt . . . people\nwho, for better or for worse, he saw ever)' day and dealt with every\nday . . . And who was there now?-other than Lum Loc, who by nowprobably could not care less and was off with his latest batch of\n$750-a-head illegal aliens skulking into Atlanta, Georgia, from half a\nworld away . . . What was this craving for humanity, even, lacking all\nelse, for humanity in its lowest forms?\nas soon as Peepgass entered the room, Herb Richman rose from\nbehind a huge trapezoidal desk, beaming, and walked toward him\nacross a carpet of tango orange and aquamarine trapezoids and put\nout his hand and said, \"Ray! It's great to see you!\"\nRay! What an immense relief that simple exclamation was to\nRaymond Peepgass! It spoke volumes! It meant that in Richman's\neyes he was still the great banking authority-and social equal-he had\nbeen the other night under the aegis of the highly expensive, highly\nsocial Lapeth opening of the High Museum. Thank God! He hadn't\nturned back into a mid-level PlannersBanc functionary at midnight!\nRichman gestured toward an easy chair with an odd trapezoidal\nback, and he himself sat down in another one with an orange\nsunburst tufted into its back. Then Peepgass noticed the walls. Two\nof them were curved into waves. Not only that, they were tilted in\ntoward you, as if they were about to fall over. At the bottom they\nstopped three or four inches short of the floor. How this was\nachieved, Peepgass couldn't imagine. But he had heard of the style.\nIt was called Deconstructionist. Even Herb Rich- man's clothes were\nof the moment, when it came to CEO wardrobes. He wore a\nturquoise shirt, open at the neck, a white cashmere sweater cut very\nfull in the sleeves, and white flannel pants.\nPeepgass sank back into the eccentric chair. \"Well, Herb, how's\nMarsha?\"\n\"Oh, she's terrific,\" said Herb Richman. \"And by the way, we both\nenjoyed your note, especially the part about the widows of Buckhead\nwho run the High, and the real Wilson Lapeth.\"\n\"Ahh!\" said Peepgass with a confident smile. \"I only wish I could've\nbeen a fly on the wall when they were debating whether or not toput that show 011.\"\n\"Me, too,\" said Richman. \"You know, things have improved here in\nAtlanta, but they only make their little forays into the terra incognita\nof Culture when they're terrified somebody in New York will call\nthem provincial if they don't. That's the one thing they can't stand,\nthe idea that somebody in New York might be calling them Southern\nhicks.\"\nSo then they talked for a while about how provincial it was here in\nthe provinces.\nBehind Richman's trapezoidal desk, Peepgass noticed for the first\ntime, was an immense slab of slate, two or three inches thick,\nframed in walnut. Chiseled in high relief was a map of the United\nStates with orange and aquamarine pegs representing\nDefinitionAmerica fitness centers all over the country . . .\n\"I just noticed that,\" said Peepgass, nodding toward the huge map.\n\"There must be hundreds of them!\"\n\"One thousand one hundred and twelve,\" said Richman. \"We're\nopening new ones at a rate of a hundred and twenty-five a year.\"\n\"Amazing,\" said Peepgass. \"Looks like there's no limit.\"\n\"I wish that were true,\" said Richman. \"In this business you're\nalways limited by the threat of a collapse in taste.\"\n\"Taste?\"\nPeepgass mostly just listened as Herb Richman delivered some\nmildly cynical observations about the current mania for exercise, one\nthat DefinitionAmerica's founder and CEO obviously had never\nsuccumbed to.\n\"But currently,\" Richman said, \"more than 20 percent of adult\nAmericans follow some sort of exercise regimen-or tell themselves\nthey do.\"Peepgass saw that as a good opening. So he said, \"Well, our friend\nCharlie Croker has his own ideas when it comes to exercise.\" \"Oh?\"\n\"Yowza, yowza,\" said Peepgass. \"Atlanta magazine did a piece about\nhim, and they asked him what sort of exercise regimen he followed.\nAnd so he says\"-Peepgass decided to try his Croker mimicry again\nsince it seemed to have gone over well at PlannersBanc-\"he says,\n'Who the bale's got time fer'n exercise reg'men? On the other hand,\nwhen I need some farwood, I start with a tree.' \"\nRichman laughed and said, \"That's Croker all right. I'm sure he\nthinks he leads the natural life.\"\n\"I heard you telling Julius the other night\"-(our pal Julius)-\"you'd\nspent a weekend at Croker's plantation. How'd you happen to do\nthat?\"\n\"Aw ... I hardly know the man, but he invited me. I'm pretty sure I\nknow why. He probably knows we need more space, and he's having\ntrouble leasing that Croker Concourse of his.\"\n\"I'll say he's having trouble,\" said Peepgass with a knowing grin.\n\"Anyway, I'm glad I went,\" said Richman. \"He's a certain type of\nSoutherner you hear about but you can't really appreciate unless you\nsee him up close, on native ground, as they say. He has this\"-he\nshook his head-\"thing about Southern manhood. He hasn't got the\nfirst clue that this happens to be the beginning of a new century. He\nthinks he's a great patron of the African Americans who work on his\nplantation. You should've heard the way he brought his butler out\nand made him recite to the whole dinner table all the ways ol'\nmassa's helped him and his children out. He\"-he shook his head\nagain-\"you had to be there to believe it, it was all so patronizing.\nYou also had to hear him on the subject of gay rights. Gay rats, he\npronounced it. Him and this old buddy of his, Bass his name was.\"\n\"Billy Bass,\" said Peepgass. \"He's a developer, too, and he's also\nborrowed a lot of money from PlannersBanc, but he's paid his back.\"\"And Croker?\"\n\"Croker's one of those debtors-incidentally, we never use the word\ndebtor until a loan has stopped performing-Croker's one of those\ndebtors who are so egotistical, they just can't bring themselves to\nrecognize the obvious. He's hanging off the edge of a cliff, right, and\nhe doesn't seem to know it. We could force him into bankruptcy\nanytime we wanted to, like that\"-he snapped his fingers-\"but there\nare a number of reasons why that would not be to our advantage.\nAnyway, the biggest fiasco of all is this Croker Concourse of his. He\nspent $175 million of our money on the damned thing, and that loan\nwouldn't perform right even if he were able to lease it up fully at the\ntop dollar in the current market, which he can't.\"\nHerb Richman's mouth opened and remained that way, as if he were\nstruggling to find the right words. Finally he said, \"I don't see-how\ncould you lend him that much money? Surely you must have some\nsystem of internal controls, some way of going over a developer's\nplans and estimating construction costs in some fairly accurate way-\nor am I wrong?\"\n\"You're right,\" said Peepgass, \"but banks get caught up in the boom\nmentality, too. And that's one of the things I was talking about, one\nof the reasons why it wouldn't be to our advantage to just foreclose\non him. It would become perfectly obvious that we were fools, and\nthat's the last thing in the world any bank wants the shareholders to\nknow.\"\n\"So what are you going to do?\" said Herbert Richman.\n\"Ahhhh!\" Peepgass raised his forefinger, cocked his head to one side,\nand opened his eyes wide, as if to say, \"Now we're getting down to\ncases.\" Then he said, \"My plan-and I've got everybody's go-ahead\non this-is to force Croker to hand over the deeds to four of his\ndevelopments, including Croker Concourse. This is a procedure\nknown as 'deed in lieu of foreclosure.' If we went the foreclosure\nroute, it would all become very public, because then you'd have togo to auction, a public auction. This way, if he just hands over the\ndeeds, we can make our own deals very quietly-which we would\nwant to do quickly, because we're in no position to manage a bunch\nof commercial properties.\" He paused and stared into Herb\nRichman's puffy round face in a searching way. \"I think I can assure\nyou that PlannersBanc will unload Croker\nConcourse for about $50 million.\" He gazed even more searchingly.\n\"I'm not telling you that as a senior officer of PlannersBanc. My\nsuperiors at PlannersBanc would not be happy about my telling you\nwhat a low price they're prepared to sell at. I'm telling you that as a\nprivate individual, although I'm ready to help any person or\nsyndicate interested in such a deal. In the process, in fact, I think I\nwould be doing PlannersBanc a favor.\"\nHerb Richman gave Peepgass a searching gaze of his own and ran\nhis hand through the scarce red hair of his balding pate.\n\"I can deliver it,\" said Peepgass, \"if there's a buyer-let's say a\nsyndicate-a syndicate that can make a 20 percent down payment\nand has a credible likelihood of paying off the balance in a timely\nfashion. So we're talking about a down payment as low as $10\nmillion for a property which in two or three years is bound to bounce\nback up to its true valuation, which is about $120 million. Let's say\nwe're talking about a syndicate of four investors, with each investor\nputting up two and a half million. In two to three years they sell the\nbuilding for $120 million. Even leased up the way it is now, just 40\npercent, there'd be enough cash flow to operate the building and\nservice the debt, because the mortgage would be for only $40\nmillion instead of $175 million. In two or three years you sell the\nbuilding for $120 million, and each investor gets $27 million, for a\nlong-term gain of $24.5 million. Not bad, hunh?\"\n\"Wait a minute,\" said Richman. \"If we're talking about four investors,\nthen each one would get $30 million if it's sold for $120 million. Or\nam I missing something?\"Peepgass kept his expression as deadpan as he could. \"Well, at\nsale,\" he said, \"there'd have to be a brokerage fee of 6 percent.\"\n\"A brokerage fee?\"\n'Yes. For the firm that led the syndicate to the property and put the\ndeal together.\" Peepgass looked Herb Richman straight in the eye\nand steeled himself against blinking.\nHerb Richman eyed Peepgass in the same fashion and said, \"And\nthat firm would be . . .\" He let the question just dangle in the air.\n\"Arthur Wyndham & Son Realty,\" said Peepgass. \"Its home base is in\nthe Bahamas.\"\nNeither of them said a word for what seemed like an eternity. The\nway Richman's eyes remained fixed upon his, Peepgass knew\nRichman saw through the scheme straight to the bottom.\n\"A new firm?\" asked Herb Richman.\n\"No, a very old one, at least as far as real estate firms in the\nCaribbean go. It was founded forty-eight years ago. Very solid, well\nrespected.\"\nHerb Richman was still studying him . . . still studying him . . . Then\nhe broke eye contact and put on his modest smile again. \"I've never\nrun into a situation quite like this before, Ray, but you pique my\ninterest . . .\"\nT hen lie stared at Peepgass some more and kept the smile on, and\nthen Peepgass put on a smile of his own.\nT he feeling that swept through him, the feeling that suffused every\npore in his skin and made his hands turn cold, was one of fear-and\ngiddy elation.\nWell, he had done it now. He had let the red dog out for a romp, and\nthere was no slipping a leash back on him.roger and eareek fanon's white criminal lawyer, Julian Salisbury, and\nhis black criminal lawyer, Don Pickett, stood in an alcove of the\nWringer Fleasom & Tick library watching the shaggy beasts slouch\ninto the library's grand reading room. They were the raggediest,\nmaggotiest collection of men and women that had ever assembled\nhere on the fortieth floor of the Peachtree Olympus. Their name was\n. . . the Press. Wes Jordan had been right. In no time flat the Fareek\nFanon story- the name of the young woman was not mentioned-had\nbeen beamed up from the Internet into the newspapers, which, with\ntoothless courage, insisted they were merely reporting on the\nwidespread dissemination of the storv via the \"Chasing the Dragon\"\nWeb site. One ran a pious editorial entitled \"Chasing the Internet.\"\nRoger was nervous, never having taken part in a press conference\nbefore. But Julian Salisbury was smiling and humming to himself and\nrubbing his hands, as if to say, \"Lemme at 'em.\" Don Pickett, a lean,\ngraceful man about Roger's age who truly did know how to wear a\ndouble-breasted suit, leaned back nonchalantly against a bookcase,\nwatching Julian's mannerisms with amusement. Don was a dark-\nskinned man who reminded Roger of the Nicholas Brothers, the\ngreat acrobatic tap-dance team of the 1930s. He looked lithe and\nathletic and didn't seem to have a nerve in his body.\n\"Well, Rodge,\" said Julian with a big smile and holding up his left\nwrist, which bore his watch, \"looks like it's getting on towards time\"-\nlack it's gittin' on toads time-\"to go slop the hawgs.\" With that, he\ngestured toward the Press, who were still being seated and assigned\ncamera positions by Wringer Fleasom's office manager, Mercedes\nPrince.\nThere you had two of the things about Julian that annoyed Roger.\nMe kept calling him \"Rodge.\" No one had ever called him Rodge\nbefore, but Julian had called him that from the moment they met.\nAlso from the moment they met he had talked about hawgs and\nother barnyard creatures. Three years ago, Julian had become\nfamous locally by winning a murder trial for a defendant named\nSkeeter Loman with a summation that began: \"The district attorneyadmits that his case against Mr. Loman is based entirely 011\ncircumstantial evidence. Now, a case based on circumstantial\nevidence is like a hog.\" Hawg. \"Most folks don't even know a hawg is\ncovered with hair, because even' last\"-ever las- \"hair on a hawg is\nlying down, ever las one uv'em. Anytime you see a critter's got some\nhair standing up, you ain't looking at no hawg. It's the same thing\"-\nthang-\"with the district attorney and his circumstantial evidence. If\neven one piece a that circumstantial evidence is sticking up and\nwon't lie down, then you ain't looking at no guilt)' Skeeter Loman.\"\nEver since then he'd been strewin' slop-trough tropes and sententiae\nthick as hog swill. Julian was no more than five three or four. So he\nhad his white hair set in waves and puffed up into a three-inch-high\nmeringue on top and had one-and-a-half-inch elevators set in his\nankle- high boots down below. He had also begun affecting\nEdwardian dress, with four-button jackets and shirts with high, stiff,\nround-pointed collars that seemed to be made of plastic or celluloid.\nJulian was determined to be a Character, and the presence of the\nPress made him throb with excitement.\nNot so, Roger. Shook with trepidation was more like it in his case.\nNot even his flawless sartorial armor-a new hard-finished worsted\nnavy suit from Gus Carroll, a high-necked tab-collar shirt, and a\npale-blue crepe de chine necktie with a perfect dimple-could make\nhim feel secure. He would have to lead off. The three of them had\ndecided that Wringer Fleasom would be the best setting for the\npress conference, because it had such a grand and sedate decor and\nprecisely because it was not a firm that ordinarily handled criminal\ncases. So Roger would be the host. When Roger had asked the\nfirm's general partner, Zandy Scott, if it would be all right to use the\nlibrary for a press conference, Zand)' had ruminated for what\nseemed like four or five minutes-it was probably no more than\ntwenty or thirty seconds-before he said yes. That hadn't made Roger\nfeel any better.\nJulian must have detected Roger's shakiness, because he kept\nsidling up to him and, in a low voice, offering advice, as he wasdoing at this moment:\n\"One more thing,\" he said. \"Just remember: speak firmly but slowly\nand in a low voice, a normal voice. People take a loud, hurried voice\nto mean you're insecure. No matter what they say to you, don't rise\nto the bait. Don't argue-or if you have to, make it short. At a press\nconference, the more you argue, the shakier you sound. Above all,\nremember: we're not here to defend Fareek against charges-because\nnobody's made any charges, and so he don't need any defending\nyet. You don't have to shoo flies off a hawg in a shady sty.\"\nRoger nodded to show that he understood, but his eyes had drifted\nback toward the gathering press. Mercedes Prince was directing a\nfifth -or was it a sixth?-television camera crew toward a place in the\nrear of the throng. Ninety percent of this mangy collection of\nhumanity were white. They seemed to range in age from twenty-five\nto fifty. The older men's taste, if it could be called that, ran to gray\nbeards consisting of out-of-control ten-week stubbles that had\nspread like crabgrass on the undersides of their jowls and practically\ndown to their Adam's apples. Made you itchy just looking at it. They\nwore baggy polo shirts, completely unbuttoned at the neck, with\nshort sleeves hanging down to their elbows. There were no neckties;\nnot one. There were two jackets, one on the hunched-over back of a\npaunchy white man, a newspaper reporter, judging by his notebook.\nHe had on an ordinary cotton button- down shirt-the dignity of which\nhad been subverted by the fact that he had been one button off\nwhen he buttoned the shirt, causing the right side of the collar to\nwind up two and a half inches lower than the left. There were four\nblack members of this herd, two of whom he knew or knew of. One\nwas a woman, the only decently dressed person among the whole\nbunch of them. Her name was Melanie Wallace, and she lived at\nNiskey Lake, although he barely knew her to say hello. She was a\npretty, light-skinned woman who did on-camera reports for Channel\n11. She had relaxed hair that was . . . done ... in expensive-looking\nwaves . . . She wore toffee-colored pants with a matching silk\nblouse. The other was a heavyset dark man who wore a black chalk-striped suit over a black T-shirt. Just so; a suit and a T-shirt. Roger\nhad seen his picture many times in local black publications. He was\npart of the seemingly endless ranks of professional protesters and\ncomplainers, to Roger Too White's way of thinking. Just looking at\nthe man made Roger Too White's damnable nickname pop back into\nhis head. The man was Cedric Stifell, and he edited a weekly called\nAtlanta Alarm.\nThere he was, Cedric Stifell, posing insolently against a backdrop of\nthe library reading room at Wringer Fleasom & Tick. Wringer\nFleasom was paneled in mahogany from one end of its two floors\nhere in the Peachtree Olympus to the other. The mahogany-paneled\nhallways were so dark, you had to stand directly under a downlighter\nin order to read a letterhead. But the reading room of the library was\nthe firm's piece de resistance when it came to mahogany. It was a\nveritable mahogany theme park. Panels, pilasters, cornices, shelves,\ntables, chairs, and even light switch wall plates-all of it was\nmahogany. And down at that end was the mahogany chair Roger\nToo White would soon have to sit in, before a thicket of microphones\nalready in place on the big mahogany table. Six big television\ncameras would be aiming at him like lasers. He was consumed by\nfear. He had memorized what he was going to say, but suppose he\nbecame an ignominious casualty of nerves? What made his\nnervousness worse was the fear of suddenly appearing to white\nclients like Gerthland Fuller as just another black careerist riding the\n\"activist\" train-while in the eyes of the Cedric Stifells of Atlanta he\nwould always be . . . Roger Too White. Wringer Fleasom & Tick,\nindeed! He had informed Zandy Scott that he had Fareek Fanon as a\nclient as soon as he had been brought into the case, but he had\nnever told him the nature of the case in any detail, and certainly had\nnot told him it was a potential stick of dynamite. Zandy had not\nlooked happy an hour ago when Roger Too White sought him out to\nintroduce him to that sartorial curiosity, Julian Salisbury, and to a\nblack criminal lawyer, Don Pickett, a dark, dapper, smooth-looking\nfigure obviously not from the orbit of Wringer Fleasom or anythingclose to it. So Christ God!-what must he think of this rabble, the\nPress!\nNo sooner had Zandy Scott possessed Roger Too White's thoughts\nthan here he came, walking from the rear of the reading room\ntoward the alcove. Zandy was a tall white man, probably six four or\nso, in his early fifties, with red hair that was yielding to a rising tide\nof gray. He had the sort of full, smooth jowls and heft)' midsection\nthat used to denote prosperity and position in portraits by Copley. He\nwas capable of ferocious displays of temper. Roger's first thought\nwas: He's going to call off the press conference and throw\neverybody out! The entire damnable un-Wringer un-Fleasom & un-\nTicky rabble!\nInstead, when he reached the alcove, he broke into a smile. \"Hey,\nJulian! Hey, Don!\" Then lie looked at Roger Too White. \"Mercedes\ntells me the telephones are still ringing! People are coming in from\nall over the place! I hope you guys know what you're going to say!\"\nAn ingratiating grin. A beseeching grin! The man was thrilled to be a\npart of it all. It was through his law firm that the thrilling electric\ncurrent of the microphones and television cameras would soon run!\nAfter decades of contracts, briefs, wills, and codicils in this\nmahogany mausoleum, Wringer Fleasom was for this brief moment\npart of the hurly-burly of the gaudy world outside.\n\"Julian and Don know what they're doing, Zandy,\" said Roger. \"I'm\nthe one to worn' about. I've never done this before. I want you to sit\nup front and be my prompter.\"\n\"Awwww, you'll be fine,\" said Zandy.\n\"That's exactly what I told him, Zandy,\" said Julian. \"I think Roger\nhere's like the fella who tells you, 'Well, you know, I'm jes an ol'\ncountry lawyer? That's when you got to keep a good grip on your\nwatch fob!\" Then he held his wrist up again, the one with the watch\non it. It showed a few minutes past eleven. \"Speakin' a timepieces,\"he said, \"I think it's like I said. 'Bout time to go out there and slop\nthe hawgs.\"\nRoger could feel another uptick in the adrenaline as he entered the\nreading room, followed by Julian and Don. For a moment he was\nfrightened by the glare of the television lights. It was as if he were\nall at once in an entirely new atmosphere that his eyes and his lungs\nwere not used to. He was aware of small red lights turned his way.\nThey were the red lights that indicate television cameras are 011\nand filming. To Roger they seemed like eyes, and they followed him\nall the way to the table, where he sat down in a banker's chair, a\ncarved mahogany chair in which the arms and the backs created a\ngreat horseshoe curve. Julian took a seat to his right; Don, to his\nleft.\nRoger looked down at the surface of the table and then up at the\nmob of reporters and cameras and then became acutely aware of all\nthe microphones in front of his face. From one side to the other they\nwere pointed directly toward him, as if he generated some sort of\nmagnetic field. At first he could scarcely make out the people\nstanding before him. Because of the lighting, or something, they\nseemed to exist in a haze. He knew what he wanted to say, but he\nwondered if the words would come out if he opened his mouth.\nTelevision cameras! The thought first occurred to him: Those red-\neyed machines will expose me to thousands, millions! I'm not just in\nthis room! I'm streaming through the air in every direction! How can\nI do this? But in that instant he thought of Wes Jordan. He had\ncalled Wes early this morning to let him know what was about to\nhappen. But somehow Wes already knew. In any case, Wes would\nbe watching. It would be dreadful to look like a frightened fool in\nfront of Wes Jordan! So, like many another man before him, Roger\nWhite pulled himself together and gulped his fears back down mainly\nso as not to look like too great a ninny.\nHe surveyed the tiny red eyes and all the mangy faces looking at\nhim and managed to say:\"Ladies and gentlemen, I'm Roger White\"-it was strange to hear\nhimself uttering his own name in front of these people. \"I'm a\npartner here at Wringer Fleasom & Tick.\" Had he just told them\nmore than they needed to know? Did he sound as if he was\nbragging? These worrisome questions circulated in his skull even as\nhe opened his mouth again and said, \"On my right\"-he gave a\ntentative gesture-\"is Attorney Julian Salisbury, and on my left\"-a\nmore authoritative gesture-\"is Attorney Donald Pickett. We're\nrepresenting Mr. Fareek Fanon. Now, we'd like to say-\"\n\"Is he here?\"\nIt broke in-just like that-a deep gravelly voice. It was the white man\nwho had buttoned up his shirt wrong. It startled Roger Too White\nand made him angry. The man had thrown him offstride.\n\"Is who here?\"\n\"Fareek Fanon.\"\nRoger remembered Julian Salisbury's advice: \"A firm voice, low and\nslow.\" For a moment Roger's mouth hung open awkwardly as he\nstared at the man and his aging grayboy wattles, and then he said,\nlowly, slowly, firmly: \"Given the erroneous and completely\nirresponsible nature of the rumor that has brought us all here this\nmorning, there isn't the slightest reason why Mr. Fanon should even\nhave to think about being at this event.\" The fact that this went\ndown without any yammering or grumbling made Roger feel\nimmensely stronger. \"Now, as I was about to say, we're going to\nmake a statement, and then you can ask questions.\" He looked from\none end of the mangy crescent to the other, into the red eyes of the\ncameras, into the cynical mug of Cedric Stifell, into the pretty,\ninscrutable face of Melanie Wallace, and was aware of his heart\ndrumming away. \"This morning, as you know, an article was printed\nin a traditionally responsible organ concerning Fareek Fanon. The\nbasis of this article was the existence over the past week of an item\ncarried by a Web site'-pronounced pom shop-\"on the Internet. Now,the Internet is an uncontrollable medium and, in this case, an out-of-\ncontrol medium. That anyone could make an item carried by a Web\nsite on the Internet\"-pronounced pom shop in a massage parlor-\"the\nbasis of a printed article is disturbing. The fact of the matter is that\nthere are no facts and there is no matter. No charges of any sort\nhave been brought against Fareek Fanon in any forum whatsoever,\nnot the courts, not the police department, not Georgia Tech. Mr.\nFanon denies involvement in any act such as the one mentioned in\nthis story\"-rhymes with fairy tale-\"and no one has stepped forward\nto assert otherwise. We are here to enlist the help of the press in\nseeing to it that this talented young man's reputation is not stained\nin this wholly baseless, irresponsible fashion.\"\nWith that, Roger leaned back in his mahogany banker's chair and\ntook a deep breath, as if to say, \"That's the statement. That's that.\"\n\"Then are you saying,\" said the big man who had buttoned his shirt\nwrong, \"that there is 110 'leading Atlanta businessman' who has\nbeen leveling such a charge against Fanon?\"\nThat had Roger stumped, since in fact he did know of such a\ncreature. The moment grew longer and longer.\nJulian Salisbury spoke up. \" 'At's like asking if there's a brood sow\nout there somewhere dancing a minuet. Could be, I reckon, 'cause a\nhawg's smarter'n a hound dawg. But it's what I'd call a moot point!\nThere ain't no charges!\" By the time he got to a moot point,\nSalisbury was convulsed with laughter, which must have been why\nthe Press started laughing, too; either that or they were amused\nbecause the bouncy little lawyer worked his hawgs into every\nconversation.\nMelanie Wallace said, \"Then Fareek Fanon is denying these charges-\"\n\"There are no charges,\" said Roger. \"No one has made any charges.\"\n\"All right-is he saying that the events ... uh ... the matter referred to\nin the press today did not occur?\"\"Absolutely.\" Firmly, lowly, slowly. Roger was pleased to see that the\nPress was dancing coyly about the subject. So far no one had used\nthe word rape.\n\"If nothing happened,\" said the man who had buttoned his shirt\nwrong, \"then why are you here, Julian, and you, too, Don? You're\nboth criminal defense Jawyers.\"\n\"We're here ... if needed, Bryce,\" said Don Pickett, who had a slow,\npleasant voice. \"So far we haven't had anything to do, and in this\ncase we like it like that.\"\nA deep and indisputably black voice spoke up: \"How do you suppose\nrumors like this one get started, and why does anybody want to\ncirculate them?\" It was Cedric Stifell of Atlanta Alarm.\n\"I have no idea,\" said Roger Too White. His good sense told him to\nleave it at that. But Cedric Stifell was the black press-and he, Roger,\nwas Roger Too White, and contrary to all logic, it was important to\nhim, in this place, the white-as-white-can-be Wringer Fleasom &\nTick, to be liked by this man-yes, this man in his ludicrous outfit.\nBesides, he, Roger White II, just might want to let it be known that\nhe was a learned lawyer as well. So he didn't leave it at that. Instead\nhe continued: 'Tou know, Nietzsche once said that resentment is the\nleast explored of the primary human motivations. He said there are\ncertain types of people who can't improve their own place in the\nworld, and so they devote all their energies to tearing down others.\nHe called them 'the tarantulas.' I suppose there's a certain type of\nperson who resents a young man like Fareek Fanon rising up from\nEnglish Avenue, from the Bluff, and becoming a great sports star.\"\nAs soon as the words \"up from English Avenue\" passed Roger's lips\nhe wished he could pull them back from out of the air, from out of\nthe ether, from out of the electric gullets of all those microphones in\nfront of him. No matter how indirectly, he had now introduced the\nmatter of race into the discussion. There was probably not anotherneighborhood in Atlanta more completely identified with black folks\nthan English Avenue.\n\"Who do you have in mind?\" It was a white man, about thirty-five,\nwearing a shirt open almost to the waist, the better to reveal a T-\nshirt with the face of a grotesque clown on it and the name krusty.\nThe man wore his pale brown hair down over his ears, like the\nclown.\n\"I don't have anybody in mind,\" said Roger anxiously. \"I was just\nmaking a speculation that was probably not worth making. I doubt\nthat the fact that Fareek Fanon is from English Avenue has anything\nto do with . . . uh . . . uh . . . with anything.\" He was aware that his\nvoice now sounded terribly anxious, even a bit desperate. But\nsounding unnerved wasn't the end of the world. At least he had\nretracted . . . most of it. . . Had to show off your knowledge of late-\nnineteenth-century philosophy, didn't you! You vain, overreaching\nfool! You . . . Roger Too White!\nThe questions continued, but Julian and Don took most of them.\nRoger sat there in a daze, tuning in and out . . . Nietzsche and the\ntarantulas . . . Why had he said that? . . . Would anybody print it or\nbroadcast it? . . . Nahhhhhhhhh, who was going to quote Lawyer\nRoger White on the subject of Friedrich Nietzsche? But suppose they\ndid? How bad would it be? . . . But English Avenue, too! . . . Why in\nthe name of God had he ever mentioned English Avenue? Why had\nhe said \"rising up from English Avenue\"? Why couldn't he have left it\nwith \"becoming a great sports star\"? . . . Had to pander to Cedric\nStifell and the readers of Atlanta Alarm, didn't you! Had to prove you\nweren't really Too White, isn't that so? But none of that shaggy pack\nstanding before him was talking anymore about English Avenue or\nthe tarantulas, were they . . . They were talking about this, that, and\nthe other thing, aimlessly fishing for something substantial in this\ntitillating situation . . . The tarantulas and English Avenue were not\nsubstantial, either . . . Yet he couldn't help but notice that Julian and\nDon, no matter how many more hawgs Julian threw in, and no\nmatter how broad Don Pickett's smile became, stuck strictly to thetext: there are no charges, and so there's nothing to discuss-and no\nmatter how many times you have to say it, say it firmly, lowly,\nslowly.\nSuddenly a woman's voice: \"Mr. White, you mentioned 'tarantulas.'\nLet's suppose there's a tarantula out there who's the head of a very\nlarge corporation with headquarters in Atlanta, and he makes\ncharges openly, through some official public channel. Do you think\nyour client will be at a disadvantage because he comes from English\nAvenue and is black?\"\nRoger stared at her for a moment. She was a white woman with\nshort, bobbed blond hair, wearing a black jersey and pants and a\nblack canvas Cargo vest. She had an aggressive, terribly rapid-fire\ndelivery. Tarantulas! English Avenue! Black! The woman had hit\nevery single blunder he'd made right on the head!\n\"Please forget my tarantulas,\" he said. He tried to add a disarming\nsmile, the way Don Pickett did, but he could tell that his smile had\ncongealed right in the middle of his face, revealing his discomfort. \"I\nnever meant to introduce spiders into the discussion.\" Not a single\nlaugh. They could all tell how nervous he was. \"I was making a\nspeculation in answer to a question, and it was a pointless\nspeculation, and I apologize for that, since it was pointless\nspeculation that created the need for this press conference in the\nfirst place.\" The words were coming out right, but the tremor in his\nvoice was sending an entirely different sort of signal.\nBy the time the press conference was over, his head hung so low he\nhad to roll his eyes upward to see the raggedy pack he feared, the\nPress.\nAfterward, as the reporters were departing and the television crews\nwere packing up, Roger, Julian, and Don stood behind the table, and\nJulian said to Roger: \"See? Wasn't so bad, was it. You did great.\"\nHe didn't say it with the slightest bit of exhilaration, however, not the\nway you would with a rookie athlete who has just performedadmirably in the fray. No, he said it mechanically, as if he really\nmeant, \"See, that may have been bad, but it wasn't as bad as you\nwere afraid it was going to be.\"\n\"Just a couple things,\" he added. \"Stay away from things like\ntarantulas. We don't want to make Armholster any angrier than he\nalready is. Even a 800-pound liawg's cuddlier than a spider. And\nthere's no need to bring in English Avenue. We want to present\nFareek as a nice young man who goes to college at Georgia Tech.\nBut don't worry, you did fine.\"\nRoger stood there massaging his hands and worrying a lot.\nthe name \"nassau, the Bahamas\" had always conjured up in\nPeepgass's mind a tropical capital that looked like an enlarged\nversion of some posh resort such as the Pinehurst Inn in North\nCarolina or the Greenbrier in West Virginia-but with an ocean, palm\ntrees, manicured greenswards, white columns, shady verandas,\ngreen-and-white awnings, and trim black policemen clad in white\npith helmets, short-sleeved white officer's blouses, pleated white\nshorts, knee-high white socks, and white shoes, contrasting smartly\nwith their dark skin, standing on white platforms in the middle of the\nmain intersections, crisply directing traffic.\nIn fact, there was nothing crisp about Nassau at all, so far as\nPeepgass could tell, and it wasn't an enlarged version of anything, or\nnot anything in the U. S. A. It was a tiny, moldering old colonial\ncapital with a lot of patched-up, painted-over old buildings, cramped\nand crowded and leaning against one another for support. The\nwhole of downtown wasn't bigger than Normandy Lea, where he\nlived. Number 23 George Street, the official address of Colonial Real\nProperties, Ltd., was a laugh and a half. As he walked up the narrow\nstairs that began scarcely a yard inside the front entrance, he\ncouldn't help but smile. Staggering up the wall in a line parallel,\nmore or less, with the staircase were forty-one brass plaques bearing\nthe names of American and European banks and corporations,\nincluding, he couldn't help but be pleased to notice, First GouldGuaranty, one of the biggest banks in New York. The shiniest plaque\nof all, since it was the newest, was the forty-first: Colonial Real\nProperties, Ltd. And that was all his.\nIt was no use walking up any farther, because there was no office of\nColonial Real Properties to be found. But there wasn't one for First\nGould Guaranty, either. For the biggest-First Gould-as well as the\nsmallest-Colonial Real Properties-this was merely a dummy address\nthat enabled one to carry out so-called overseas financial operations.\nThe banks, for example, could use the Bahamas to set up Eurodollar\naccounts for their customers. Individuals could hide money here, in\nBahamian banks, with a secrecy that was tightly protected by\nBahamian banking laws. Not for nothing did Nassau call itself Little\nSwitzerland. Ever since the Civil War, when blockade runners-such as\nRhett Butler in Gone with the Wind-used the Bahamas as a safe\nharbor from which to do business with the Confederacy, Americans\nhad been using the Bahamas to get around American laws.\nBootleggers used the Bahamas _for warehousing during Prohibition.\nDrug dealers were using it for essentially the same purpose at this\nmoment. Nassau was so close to the U. S. mainland, it was only a\nthirty-minute flight from Miami and an hour from Atlanta. Peepgass\nwasn't so deluded as to compare himself with Rhett Butler, Frank\nNitti, or . . . or . . . or-he couldn't think of the names of any drug\nlords-nevertheless, there it was, etched in brass: colonial real\nproperties, ltd.\nPleased with himself, he walked slowly down the stairs, savoring his\nforty colleagues in brass all over again, and out onto the street. He\nglanced at his watch: almost 10 a. M.; only thirty more minutes to\nkill before his appointment. This was the beginning of the hot season\nin the Bahamas, but the streets were still jammed with cars, mostly\nsmall Japanese cars, or so it seemed to Peepgass, with motorbikes\nthat sounded like chainsaws, with exhausted barouches and horses\nthat went clop, clop, clop, clop, and policemen with no pith helmets\nwho kept blowing whistles. Somewhere a vendor kept crying out,\n\"Doctor Shells! I yemDoctor Shells!\" Tourists, many of them with pinned-on ID tags from\nsome cruise ship that had pulled into Prince George Docks, had\npoured onto the sidewalks in a hiving mass and were swarming over\nthe shops and arcades and emerging with straw hats, conch shells,\nand every imaginable knickknack of straw, wood, and glass. For an\ninstant Peepgass looked down his nose at this scene of frantically\nroiling indolence, but in the next instant he was grateful for it. He\nwas thankful for the protective coloration, having gone to\nconsiderable trouble and expense to dress like a tourist himself. He\nwas clad in a number of items he would never have been caught\ndead in otherwise, a straw hat with a floppy four-inch brim, black\nsunglasses, a pale blue short-sleeved sport shirt of the sort that is\ndesigned for wearing outside the pants and has a pair of big pleated\nbreast pockets and a pair of purely decorative buttons at the base of\neach side seam, a pair of Old People's checked pants-why was it that\nold people were so crazy about checked and plaid patterns?-and a\npair of putty-colored suede Sperry Top-Sider laced moccasins. The\noutlay for the clothes alone had come to close to $200; the bill for\nthree days and nights at the Carnival's Crystal Palace Resort and\nCasino would come to something in the neighborhood of $600, the\nround-trip airfare, Atlanta/Nassau, was $266 and would have been\nmore if it wasn't for the Saturday-night layover-in other words,\nawfully close to $1,000, a sum he couldn't begin to afford for a\nweekend in the Bahamas or anywhere else. But it was necessary. It\nwas an investment, an investment, an investment, he kept telling\nhimself. And if there ever came a day when anyone cared to check\nout his travels, it would look like a perfectly ordinary long weekend\nfor a lonely, middle-aged man, a perfectly ordinary member of that\nhive of American worker bees known as middle management,\nseparated from his wife and family, cut off from the familiar, cozy\nweekend chores associated with owning a middle-class house in\nSnellville with a basketball backboard and hoop set up on a\nstanchion near the garage on the edge of the driveway. A tourist he\nwas, a tourist rooting here and there with a whole swarm of tourists;\nonly that and nothing more.Like any other tourist, he made his way east on Marlborough Street\nand down Frederic Street and then walked along Shirley Street until\nhe reached the Public Library. He had already heard about this\ncurious place, but it was nothing like what he imagined. Like\neverything else in Nassau, it was tinier . . . and touched with the\ntaint of. . . seediness. It was a circular building, no more than twenty\nfeet in diameter, best\nPeepgass could judge, with seven or eight open cubicles along the\ncircumference. In the cubicles were shelves of books along two sides\nand a window on the third. In the center of the circle was a small\nwooden enclosure where a rather bored brown-skinned librarian sat.\nFrom her post she could see into every cubicle, although she\nseemed to have no particular interest in doing so. The building,\nwhich was now close to 200 years old, had originally been built as\nthe town jail. What were now library cubicles had originally been\ncells with barred windows and doors; and where now sat a librarian\nwho could see into every cubicle had been a warden who could see\ninto every cell. All at once it occurred to Peepgass-and probably to\nno one else in Nassau that day-that 200 years ago, at the turn of the\ncentury, the circular prison had been the very latest in modern\npenology. All at once he froze, staring fixedly at this odd little room,\nand his spirits plummeted. Modem penology . . . he'd learn about\nmodern penology, all right, at this turn of the century, if he took a\nmisstep in this little . . . overseas venture . . . But damn it, Peepgass,\nare you going to remain a wimp, a dork, a staff nerd until it's too\nlate to do anything about it? Are you going to keep your red dog\nchained up until PlannersBanc gives you a Steuben glass phoenix-\nwhich was already known, intramurally, as \"getting the bird\"-the\nbank was far too cheap to give retiring drudges something made of\nprecious metal, such as a gold watch, anymore-are you going to wait\nuntil Lomprey or some other hunchback gives you the bird and\nwaves bye-bye? That-your own willing self-imprisonment-would be a\nfar worse fate than any actual incarceration, is it not so?Thus, gradually, Peepgass bucked himself up, took a deep breath,\nand left the library to keep his appointment with his erstwhile\nHarvard Business School classmate, Harvey Wyndham, whose real\nestate office, Arthur Wyndham & Son, was just two blocks away. The\n\"& Son\" was Harvey's encoded sign of defeat, just as \"staff officer\"\nwas Peepgass's. Like almost everyone entering the Harvard Business\nSchool, like Peepgass himself, Harvey, with his father's blessing, had\nindulged in dreams of dazzling entrepreneurship or corporate\nleadership or, at the very least, getting stunningly rich through\ninvestment banking. But Harvey's temperament had been like his\nown: passive and, by the standards of the late twentieth century,\nfatally soft. Perhaps, without realizing it, that was why Harvey and\nhe had become such pals in Cambridge. Every month they saved up\nas much of their modest remittances from home as they could and\nsplurged on a big lobster dinner at Durgin Park, which to them was\nan absolutely Lucullan dining experience. Harvey's father, Arthur\nWyndham, ran a successful real estate business in the Bahamas and\nhad flourished in the 1960s when so many newly rich Americans\nbegan to discover the Bahamas' far-flung islands and clear (utterly)\nblue (truly) water. The \"& Son\" he had added to his firm's name in\nthe early 1960s, mainly to flatter and perhaps delight his little boy,\nonly six or seven at the time, on whom he absolutely doted, but also\nto give the firm an aura of venerable long-standing, which it in fact\ndid not yet have. He loved Harvey far too much to have ever\npressured him to stay in the Bahamas and take over the business.\nBut Harvey had found out soon enough, on his own, the hard way,\nthat he was not the sort of young man from a tiny oceanic colony\nwith a British accent who was going to set the business world on fire\nin the United States. Within eight years he had drifted back to the\nBahamas, him and his Harvard MBA degree, and become the \"&\nSon\" that had been merely his father's fond hope. And-you had to\ngive him credit-Son, with his mild manners and low-keyed charm,\nhad proved to be an able salesman of island real estate to status-\nhungry Americans and Brits and Germans, and the old man had\nhappily turned Arthur Wyndham & Son over to Son five years before\nhe died.Peepgass had not actually laid eyes on Harvey Wyndham since they\ngraduated from the Business School, but they had continued to\nexchange Christmas cards all these years and had talked on the\ntelephone half a dozen times. These calls had been occasioned by\nPeepgass's becoming aware of property that PlannersBanc needed to\nliquidate or have appraised in the Bahamas. Whenever he could, he\nhad steered the business Arthur Wyndham & Son's way.\nThe offices turned out to be on the second floor of a superannuated\nbut rather pretty three-story pink stucco building with white trim and\na white tile roof on a corner of two busy little streets not far from\nthe old Jacaranda and East Hill mansions. In the outer office were\neight to ten women at computer terminals or on the telephone and,\nalong a wall, a whole lineup of well-dressed men and women at\nhandsome wooden desks, salespeople and property management\npersonnel, presumably. God knew how many more employees there\nmust be on the floor above. This was an impressively large staff for\na real-estate firm. A plump woman with a heavy and, to Peepgass's\nears, somewhat mannered British accent immediately ushered him\ninto Harvey Wyndham's office, which was on the corner.\nThe room was not especially large, but the stylishness of it struck\nPeepgass right away. Walls of darkest aubergine that set off four\nmagnificent old-fashioned triple-hung windows that ran floor to\nceiling, framed by spanking white louvered shutters on the sides and\nornate white Victorian woodwork in the form of an ornate cornice at\nthe top and an ornate eighteen-inch-high skirting at the bottom.\nThrough the windows you could see the old-fashioned sloped roofs\nof Nassau, the tops of palms, and an infinite blue sky. Harvey\nWyndham stood up. Peepgass could notice the changes immediately.\nHis once-thick brown hair was no longer all that thick or all that\nbrown. On top were a few lonely strands that barely bridged the two\nremaining crops. He wore a long-sleeved white guayabera shirt,\nquite an exquisite one, that only halfway successfully hid his much\ntoo broad midsection and hips. But the greatest change of all, as he\nsmiled to greet his old MBA compatriot, was in his eyes. They werethe tired but amused eyes of a man who had been in on this\nsmuggler's paradise of an island for so long, he had by now seen it\nall and could no longer be surprised.\nAs Harvey gestured to indicate he should have a seat in a big old\nKing George armchair, Peepgass said, \"Well, Harvey, I don't know\nhow you do it. You haven't changed a bit.\"\n\"Oh my God, please,\" said Harvey, placing both hands on his big\nbelly where it swelled out against the guayabera shirt, \"there's an\nAmerican author I never heard of before I went to Harvard,\nWashington Irving, and do you know what he said? He said, There\nare three ages of man: youth, middle age, and you-haven't-\nchanged-a-bit.' \"\nPeepgass laughed as they sat down. \"Well, I guess I was talking\nabout the inner you, Harvey.\"\n\"The inner me likes to eat, too. Three times a day. Likes rum also.\nYou're the one who hasn't changed, Ray.\"\n\"Well . . . only in the Washington Irving sense,\" said Peepgass,\nalthough his honest feeling was that it was true, in his own case.\n\"My problem is that my career hasn't changed, either.\" He felt\ncomfortable enough with his old friend to say that right off the bat.\nSo they did a little Business School reminiscing and gossiping about\nwhat A had achieved, what B hadn't achieved, and C, who had never\nbeen heard from again. Then they briefed each other on their\nmarriages.\nFinally it was Harvey who narrowed the focus down to the present\nmoment. \"Look, Ray old boy, I have to admit I'm dying of curiosity.\nYou sounded . . . awfully . . . mysterious ... on the telephone.\"\nPeepgass smiled. \"I didn't mean to be mysterious. I was just\nbeing...\" -he paused and raised both hands as if trying to seize upon\nthe right word-\". . . discreet, I suppose. The thing is . . . I've formeda corporation, Harvey, right here in the Bahamas. It's called Colonial\nReal Properties.\"\n\"Oho!\" said Harvey. \"Competition!\"\n\"No,\" said Peepgass, \"I could never compete with you, Harvey, even\nif I were so ungrateful as to want to. No, the word isn't competition,\nit's cooperation. A little synergy, to use the current Business School\npatois.\"\nHarvey sat back in his chair, cocked his head, and gave him more of\nthe look he had detected when he first walked in the room, a smile\nsurmounted by a wrinkled and weary amusement about the eyes. He\nlifted his right hand languidly from his lap, palm up, and said, \"How\nso?\"\nPeepgass tried to look as relaxed as Harvey obviously was, but he\nknew he wasn't pulling it off. \"Entre nous, I've formed my company\nfor a single real estate deal. If I am correct-and I think I am correct-\nPlannersBanc is about to acquire a prime piece of property in\nsuburban Atlanta, a big mixed-use complex, via a deed in lieu of\nforeclosure. You follow me so far?\"\nHarvey nodded.\n\"Now, the bank,\" said Peepgass, \"will be ready to unload this piece\nof property for something in the neighborhood of $50 million, just to\nget it off its hands quickly and quietly and with a minimum of\nembarrassment. I mean, the loans we made to the developer for the\nconstruction of the tower were insane-the sort of nutty thing that\nhappens when you let yourself get caught up in the frenzy of a real\nestate bubble and you start talking about lending as 'marketing' and\nbig loans as 'big sales,' that sort of thing.\"\n\"How much did you lend him?\"\n\"A hundred and seventy-five million.\"\nHarvey made a whistling noise between his teeth.\"Exactly,\" said Peepgass, \"and nobody at the bank is particularly\nanxious to advertise this corpse to the shareholders. So I think\nthey're ready to unload it for something in the vicinity of $50 million\nand bury it and forget about it. Now, I know of a syndicate in\nAtlanta, made up of people with impeccable financial statements,\nand I think they'd love a little bottom-fishing like this. But they need\nto be led to the proposition by a real estate broker. I'd be happy to\ndo it myself, but A, I work for the bank, and B, I'm not a real estate\nbroker. Do you know what I'm going to say next?\"\n\"No,\" said Harvey with a jaded smile and regular crinkles of\namusement about the eyes, \"but I'm ail ears.\"\n\"The broker would have three tasks to perform,\" said Peepgass.\n\"First, he'd have to broker the initial transaction, the purchase of the\nbuilding for about $50 million. He'd get a 6 percent commission.\nThat's $3 million. Second, the syndicate would want to sell the\nbuilding within two to three years. And by then, I feel certain, such a\nbuilding will have regained its true and fair value on the market,\nwhich would be about $120 million. The brokerage commission on\nthat sale would be $7.2 million, making a total of $10.2 million in\nbrokerage fees over a hvo-to-three-year period. And third, the same\nfirm would be the broker of record for new leases. The building is\nless than half leased up now, and so 1 figure there's another\n$300,000 in leasing fees. That gives us a total of $10.5 million in\nfees altogether. Is all that clear so far?\"\nHarvey nodded, eyes atwinkle.\n\"Now ... I'd like for you to be the broker, Harvey, in cooperation with\na modest, retiring ... in fact, one might say silent . . . partner,\nColonial Real Properties, Ltd., of Nassau, the Bahamas.\"\nHarvey leaned back in his chair and interlaced his fingers and rested\nthem atop his capacious paunch and eyed Peepgass intently.\n\"In the first transaction,\" said Peepgass, \"the bank's sale of the\nproperty to the syndicate, you wouldn't have to do a thing otherthan pick up the telephone occasionally and come to Atlanta for the\nclosing. You could be back home in time for dinner. For that\ntransaction I propose that Wyndham & Son's share of the\ncommission be one-third and Colonial Real Properties' two-thirds.\nWhen you get home for dinner, you'll have a cashier's check for $3\nmillion in your pocket. In keeping with a contract that will have been\ndrawn up here in Nassau and executed here in Nassau, $2 million\nwill be transferred to Colonial Real Properties. But I'm not greedy,\nHarvey. When it comes to the resale of the property by the\nsyndicate-and, as I was saying, that should be in the neighborhood\nof $120 million-when it comes to that part, and when it comes to the\nleasing fees, we'll split it right down the middle, fifty- fifty.\"\nHarvey leaned back still farther, gazed off toward a corner of the\nceiling, and sighed, expelling such a long jet of air between his lips\nhe looked like the West Wind. Then he eyed Peepgass again. \"So all\ntold, you figure, Colonial Real Properties would receive five and\nthree- quarter million dollars and Wyndham & Son would receive\nfour and three-quarter million.\"\n\"Harvey, you always were nimble with mental calculations. You're\nright as rain. How does it all strike you?\"\n\"As the saying goes, like pennies from heaven,\" said Harvey. \"But\nwhy would such a syndicate agree to be represented by a real estate\ncompany in the Bahamas?\"\n\"Because they're not even going to be able to bottom-fish for the\nproperly in the first place, unless an agent of Colonial Real\nProperties, who shall go unnamed, paves the way for them. There'll\nbe no deal at all unless you're in on it. They won't give me any\ntrouble on that score, because they stand to make six or seven times\nas much out of this thing as we do.\"\n\"Where is this complex, Ray, and what's it called, if you don't mind\nmy asking?\"Peepgass opened his manila envelope and took out the elaborate\nfull- color brochure Croker Global had produced as the calling card\nfor its leasing campaign. He let Harvey take a good look at the\npicture on the front. It was one of those architectural photographs\nthat are so super- sharp in detail, they make you blink. The paper it\nwas printed on was so thick, rich, and creamy, it made you want to\neat it.\nBoth of them, Harvey and Ray, once again comrades in arms after all\nthese years, had leaned over so far to take a look at Croker's\ncathedral of Mammon that was going for a song, their heads were\nalmost touching. Each was thinking of the figures and building his\nown castles in the air.\nChapter 23The Deal\nOrdinarily, for roger, the very first moments of the day, when he\nwoke up and opened his eyes and glanced down toward the foot of\nthe bed and took a peek at the World of Roger White, as he was\nnow doing -these moments were . . . sublime. Ten or twelve feet\nfrom the foot of the bed were a pair of French doors that opened\nonto a balcony, and the balcony looked out over Niskey Lake, and\nbeyond the lake he could see the lordly pines on the opposite shore.\nTrue, no hardwood trees -he wished to hell Wes had never told him\nabout that -but the pines were lordly. Was there a more heavenly\nvista anywhere in all of Atlanta? Not very likely. Look at his beautiful\nhome! Look at his beautiful wife! Henrietta was next to him, still fast\nasleep, her head turned the other way. Hadn't he arranged things\nsublimely--\nHe sat bolt upright in bed, no longer aware of anything beyond his\nown head, which was suddenly feverish.\n\"What's wrong, honey?\" said Henrietta. The flexing of the mattress\nhad awakened her.\n\"Nothing,\" said Roger. \"I . . . must have woken up out of a dream.\"\nIn fact, it was no dream -the panic from last evening that now came\nsurging back into his brain.\nHe had uttered three unfortunate words at the press conference,\n\"tarantulas\" and \"English Avenue,\" all of which he had promptly\ntaken back. Nevertheless, they, the media, had fastened on them\nlike hyenas and put his face, Roger White H's, on television uttering\nthe vile imprecations. They made it sound as if he were referring to\nsome complex racist plot to ruin Fareek Fanon. On the news\nbroadcast he and Henrietta had watched, it was the lead story. From\nthe calls they got from friends later in the evening, he learned that\nhe and his insinuations had been the lead on at least two other\nchannels as well. Oh, they were all very upbeat, their friends were,\nand they all said the right things, but he knew what they werethinking . . . Old Roger, he's turned into a rabble-rouser or a\nparanoiac or both . . . Him! Roger Too White!-after years of tailoring\nevery detail of his speech and dress to his role as a partner in the\nimmaculately white firm of Wringer Fleasom & Tick!\nThe dining room, whose French doors opened out upon a deck,\noffered more smashing views of Niskey Lake, and Roger's seat, the\nseat of the master of this dream house, offered the best view of all.\nAbsent- mindedly he pushed his cereal (Alpen with raspberries and\nsliced bananas and skimmed milk) this way and that in his bowl with\nhis spoon. His eyes were fastened upon idyllic Niskey Lake, but it\ndidn't take a genius to realize that he was seeing nothing\nwhatsoever.\n\"Roger,\" said Henrietta, \"what's wrong?\"\nWithout so much as turning his head: \"Nothing.\"\n\"You're still stewing over the press conference, aren't you.\"\n\"I guess ... I just can't figure out why I said what I said.\" He wasn't\nabout to tell anybody, not even Henrietta, that he had spouted out\nall those Nietzschean tarantulas for no more profound reason than\nthat he wanted to sound acceptable to the likes of Cedric Stifell of\nAtlanta Alarm.\nHenrietta said softly, \"Roger?\"\nHe looked toward her.\n\"The press conference is over, honey,\" she said. \"That was\nyesterday. This is today. Besides, what you said was perfectly fine.\"\nWhat he heard: \"No use crying over spilt milk, and you spilled a lot\nof it.\"\nThe truth was, the press conference wasn't over. The damned thing\nwouldn't lie down. Right there on the table before him, on the frontpage of the morning newspaper - the bottom of the page but the\nfront page nonetheless -was a headline that read:\nLawyer says: \"\ntarantulas\"seek fareek\nLawyer was . . . him! It was him, Roger White, who had dropped the\nspiders in the soup!\nBy the time he drove his Lexus out of the driveway, heading for the\noffice, he had worked up a good case of nerves. Suddenly he heard\nthree beep beep beeps coming up from behind him and overtaking\nhim. Roger braked to a stop. A gunmetal-gray BMW sedan, a big\none, four doors, pulled up on his left. The passenger-side window\nrolled down, and the driver's smiling face leaned toward him and\nsaid, \"Hey, neighbor, I saw you on television last night!\"\nRoger knew that dark, rugged face with its gleaming teeth and its\nnarrow, flawlessly trimmed mustache just above the upper lip. It was\nGuy Thompson, whose radio station, WBBB, was one of the most\nsuccessful black-owned stations in the South. Roger knew he lived\non Niskey Lake, he knew he was the one with the fabulous gray\nBMW, he knew how well his athletic frame carried a suit like the gray\nnailhead worsted he had on this morning, and he wasn't surprised\nby how much crisp white cuff, fastened by gold cuff links, protruded\nfrom his sleeves. But he had never met the man -and he had no idea\nthat Thompson had the vaguest notion who he was.\nGuy Thompson's face grew serious. \"You said something that's\nneeded saying in this town for a long time. Keep it up!\" Then he\nflashed his wonderful smile again and gave Roger the thumbs-up\ngesture of approval and support ... as he cruised off in his steely\nBMW.\nWhat on earth had he said that needed saying? Roger wondered.\nNothing that he could think of. Nevertheless, this encounter with the\nestimable Mr. Guy Thompson, who now knew who he was and\napproved of him, left him with a warm feeling.\nAs usual, once he reached Midtown, Roger drove down into the\nunderground parking garage of the Peachtree Olympus building.Once you reached the stop here sign, there were eight or ten valet\nattendants available to park your car for you. This morning it was a\nyoung, slender, boyish-looking black man named Bo. Roger knew his\nname only because he had heard other attendants call him that. In\nthe random rotation Bo parked his car once every two or three\nweeks. Roger had never even spoken to him beyond the most\nperfunctory thank yous.\nThis morning, as he emerged from the car, he saw the young man\ndo a double take. He broke into a smile of gape-jawed wonderment,\nand his eyes opened wide, and he brought his forefinger up in front\nof his face. \"You ... you . . . you -you're Roger White, right?\"\nTentatively, not knowing where it was all leading: 'Tes . . .\"\n\"Awriiiighhhhhhhht!\" said the young man. \"I saw you on TV last\nnight!\" With that he extended his hand.\nRoger shook it, and then this Bo did something with his thumb and\nhis fist. It was like some sort of fraternal grip that, apparently, Roger\nshould know but didn't.\n\"This is an honor,\" said young Bo. Then he winked. \"You're gettin' it\nsaid, Mr. White!\"\n\"Thank you,\" said Roger.\nThe young man slid into the driver's seat of the Lexus to take it\ndown into the parking bowels of the building -then popped out again\nand said, \"Mr. White!\"\nRoger turned about.\n\"Gotcha back!\" said young Bo. Then he slipped back into the car and\ndrove down a ramp.\nGotcha back!\nAt first, of course, he thought of Andre Fleet. But this had nothing to\ndo with Andre Fleet. This was about Roger White, who had gotten itsaid. Did he dare even let himself speculate? Somehow he had\nreached ... his own people . . .\nThe lobby of the Peachtree Olympus was a fifty-foot-high\nextravaganza of marble carved into the columns, ribs, ogeed curves,\nraised panels, and interminable architraves and cornices of classical\narchitecture. The whole place glistened manically thanks to\ninnumerable down- lighters aimed at the polished marble walls. In\nthe wall opposite the main entrance was an arched niche of heroic\nproportions. In it was mounted a twelve-foot-high abstract sculpture\nby Henry Moore. To Roger it looked like a great melting doughnut.\nAtlanta's major developers, all of whom were white, looked upon\nHenry Moore as \"class\" when it came to sculpture. Look at the\ndamned thing . . . absolutely stupid and pointless. To that extent he\nagreed with Wes Jordan. Everything in this enormous lobby strove\nfor \"class.\" On one wall hung three enormous and almost threadbare\nBelgian tapestries. Not far from the elevator bank was the pianist at\na huge Yamaha concert grand. He was a slender, thirtyish black man\nwearing a tuxedo -at 8:30 in the morning. At the moment he was\nplaying Ravel's Bolero. Management wanted class, but nothing\nunnecessarily . . . taxing, especially during the morning rush. Old\nMaurice's sultry chords and aroused treble were pouring forth and\nricocheting off the marble and then ricocheting again and then\nricocheting, ricocheting, and ricocheting. Roger had walked within\ntwenty feet of the piano and its black pianist ever)' workday morning\nfor . . . how long now? . . . months . . . and they had never so much\nas exchanged glances . . . but this morning there was something\nironically lush, cleverly hammed up, about the way he was splashing\nold Maurice's gouts of sexuality off the classy marble walls . . . and\nso Roger looked at him - and he was staring back so intently that\nRoger couldn't break eye contact. Then the pianist gave him a big\nwink and a little smile. While his left hand dug deep into Bolero's\ntropical chords, he lifted his right hand and, still looking Roger in the\nface, opened the first two fingers into a V, the peace sign.\nHim, too! -the pianist in the lobby! What did it mean?On the elevator his spirits fell. In the mahogany halls of Wringer\nFleasom & Tick, all this approval -by the brethren -would mean\nliterally less than nothing. At Wringer Fleasom all these things that\nhave made you feel so warm, dear Roger, will have minus values.\nYou've been a bad lawyer -introducing \"tarantulas\" and \"English\nAvenue\" where there was absolutely no need for them -and you've\nshown your true color by gratuitously playing the race card.\nRoger entered those morose wooden corridors almost on the balls of\nhis feet. The first person he came upon was Bob Partridge, a well-\nbuilt man, fortyish, one of those white people who are so blond their\neyebrows look strange. After Zandy Scott, Bob Partridge ranked\nhighest in the firm.\nRoger eyed him warily-but Partridge broke into a grin and said\nheartily: \"Heyyyyy, Roger! How's our in-house celebrity this\nmorning?\"\nIt was the grin, more than what he said, that did it, and Roger\nrelaxed. Bob Partridge wouldn't go around beaming at Roger White\nII purely on his own, not after the events of yesterday. No, that grin\nmeant that Zandy and one and all had approved. Roger couldn't\nthink of any reason on earth why. But approve they did. He could\nscarcely believe it. The World of Roger White was intact, despite all.\nlike most people suffering from advanced, prolonged, and intractable\ninsomnia, Charlie found morning to be the worst part of the day.\nAll morning, no matter what he did, his head felt like a burnt-out\nhusk. His mind became a ravenous void, ravenous, that is, for sleep,\nbut sharply, cuttingly, aware that he, this big meaty organism known\nas Charles Earl Croker, was incapable of going to sleep. Gradually the\nevents of the day, meals, meetings, conversations, problems,\nrighteous anger, began to fill the void . . . somewhat ... and his\nenergy would build up to about 10 percent of normal. But now, this\nmorning, as he sat at his desk on the thirty-eighth floor of the towerat Croker Concourse, there was only the emptiness and\nhopelessness of the burnt-out husk.\nHe had told Marguerite to hold all calls except for those that truly\nrequired immediate attention. That way he could continue to do in\npeace precisely what he was doing at this moment: ignoring his\nmuch- vaunted view of half of Atlanta, its golden northern half, and\nits most sought-after great green tree-shaded suburbs, slumping\ndown in the very cockpit of the Croker Global Corporation . . . with\nhis head keeled over until his chin touched his clavicle, his chest\ncompressed down upon his belly, his eyes shut, eyelid movies\nforming and dissolving in his optic chiasma, hoping for hypnagogic\nhallucinations that might pass for a substitute for sleep . . . This far\nthe great Croker had sunk . . . nothing more than a poor beaten self-\ndeluding fool passing for the omnipotent Croker of old . . .\nHe thought of Inman, whom he had finally reached this morning.\nInman was feeling so sorry for himself. He couldn't let this big black\nanimal-he kept using the word \"animal\"-get away with what he had\ndone to Elizabeth, but Elizabeth, Inman kept saying, was still a\nfrightened creature who had made him swear not to press any\nformal charges that might force her to confront Fanon again or\nreveal to the world the monstrous defilement she had suffered ... Oh\nyes, Inman felt very sorry for himself-not realizing for a moment\nwhat a luxury it was to have your child's honor as your biggest\nworry, whereas he, Charlie, now stood to lose . . . everything.\nJust as the eyelid movies inside his drooped head began to take on\nthe contours of a great black and mauve abyss, a low beep-beep\nsounded on the telephone by his desk. That would be Marguerite,\nbuzzing him. He picked up the receiver and said, \"Teah.\"\n\"Charlie,\" said Marguerite, \"a lawyer from Wringer Fleasom, said he's\na partner there, a man named Roger White, just called to say he\nneeds to see you on an urgent matter.\"\n\"I already told you,\" said Charlie, \"refer all bill collectors to the Wiz.\"\"He said this had to do with a client of his, but he wouldn't tell me\nany more than that. He wanted to speak only to you.\"\n\"Roger White . . .\" said Charlie. \"Why does that name sound\nfamiliar?\"\n\"I don't know,\" said Marguerite. \"I guess it's a fairly common name.\"\n\"Ring up the Wiz for me,\" said Charlie. \"Maybe he'll know.\"\nSo Marguerite rang up the Wiz for him, and the Wiz said, \"Roger\nWhite ... I don't know. There's a lawyer named Roger White who's\nrepresenting this football player, Fareek Fanon, in this thing that's\nbeen in the news the past two days, this rape case or whatever it is?\nI'm pretty sure his name is Roger White.\"\n\"Is he from Wringer Fleasom & Tick?\"\n\"I don't know. I don't think it said. Why?\"\n\"Some lawyer named Roger White from Wringer Fleasom called me\nthis morning.\"\n\"Doesn't sound much like a Wringer Fleasom case, does it,\" said the\nWiz. \"But this is an age of anomalies.\"\nWhatever that's supposed to mean, thought Charlie. Aloud: \"Well,\nlook, do me a favor and see if you can find out who this guy is,\nRoger White, Wringer Fleasom & Tick-he wants to talk to me on\nsome 'urgent matter.' If this is some cheap bill-collecting dodge, I'll\nthrow the sonofabitch out the window.\"\n\"There's no fenestration in this building,\" said Wismer Stroock, \"only\nglass walls.\"\nAs often happened, Charlie didn't know whether this was Wiz biz-\nschool technogeekspeak literal-mindedness or just the Wiz having\nhis sallow, hollow-cheeked fun.In less than ten minutes the Wiz called back. \"He's one and the\nsame lawyer. He's representing Fareek Fanon. And by the way, just\nso you'll know, he's black.\"\n\"And he's a partner at Wringer Fleasom?\"\n\"Affirmative,\" said the Wiz.\n\"Well,\" said Charlie, \"it figures\"-although if pressed to say in so many\nwords why it figured, he wouldn't have been able to respond very\nwell.\nAfter hanging up, Charlie swiveled in his chair until he was looking\ndue north, away from the city. Another sunny day in May! He\nresented it. He resented God's or Nature's making it a sunny day. It\nreminded him too much of the optimism and energy of his youth,\nwhen he thought of life as a hill that led up to about age fifty-three\nor -four, a hill you climbed with gusto and boundless energy,\nsomehow sure that what you would see at the crest would be the\nfull glory of that dazzling Future you were always heading toward. In\nthose days he would have been irresistibly curious about what the\nlikes of Roger White, a black partner at Wringer Fleasom, wanted to\nsee him about. But now he was not curious, not in the least,\nbecause he now knew that the golden glow at the top of the hill was\nmerely the twilight at the rim of an abyss.\nNo, he only decided to go ahead and see the man out of loyalty to\nInman. He had promised to do whatever he could to help, and\nmaybe he would learn something Inman might want to know.\nGloomily, with no zest left for the city and its great frays, he told\nMarguerite to go ahead and have the man come over here this\nafternoon.\never since his conversation with Wes Jordan about Charlie Croker,\nRoger had been compiling a file on him, and quite a fat file it had\nbecome, a good two inches thick. Wringer Fleasom's research\ndepartment had retrieved everything available on Nexus and Lexus,\nwhich was a lot but went back only as far as 1976. There was evenmore from before that, starting with Croker's days of football glory\nas Georgia Tech's \"Sixty-Minute Man.\" You could tell by the endless\nphotographs in the Constitution and the Journal and, for that matter,\nin Time, Newsweek, Life, and Look, you could tell that back in those\ndays, the 1950s and early 1960s, Charlie Croker had seemed like a\ngiant. At six-foot- two, 215 pounds, he had hit the line \"like a\nrunaway Trailways bus,\" wrote someone in the Journal in a typical,\nchildishly exuberant sports- page simile of those days. The great\nSixty-Minute Man . . . oh yes . . . It was hard for any black person to\nreview all this adulation from forty years ago without getting into a\nresentful or at least a rueful state of mind. The great Charlie Croker\nhad been a great white athlete of that period . . . which wasn't\nsaying much. In retrospect it was obvious that up against any\naverage Grambling or Morgan State football team of those days, the\nGeorgia Tech Yellow Jackets and their Sixty-Minute Man wouldn't\nhave lasted sixty seconds. No, to realize just how many black lives,\nhow many black talents, had been wasted, doomed to obscurity\neven a full century after the Civil War, you only had to do what he\nhad been doing: go over the sports pages from forty years ago and\nreview all these inflated grayboy bubble reputations, such as Charlie\nCroker's. But that wasn't the worst of it. The worst of it had been\ngoing over a big article in Atlanta magazine that included a\ndescription of a visit to Croker's plantation, Turpmtine, down in\nBaker County, which was real Cracker country. There was a \"Big\nHouse,\" as in the days of slavery. There was an \"overseer\" as in the\ndays of slavery. There was a \"master\" of Turpmtine, as in the days of\nslavery. Croker's employees referred to him as \"Cap'm Charlie.\" The\nwriter was not so uncouth as to identify them as black, but it was\nperfectly clear that they were. No, this two- inch-thick Croker file\nmade Roger's blood boil.\nAnd now that the time had come to confront the man in person, his\ncontempt was commingled with a touch of . . . apprehension. (He\navoided using the word fear.) In photographs Croker reminded Roger\nof Coach Buck McNutter ... the same massive, muscular hulk madeeven bigger by a thick coating of lard . . . the huge body and the\ntiny evil eyes . . . like the cruel plantation lords of old.\nThis . . . apprehension . . . was amplified when Roger got off the\nelevator on the thirty-ninth floor of the tower at Croker Concourse\nand looked through a pair of floor-to-ceiling glass doors adorned\nwith great brass handles and saw the slab of granite or marble or\nwhatever it was in front of the receptionist's desk incised with the\nwords croker global and the corporation's logo: a globe-the world-\ndominated by the enormous curving forms of a C and a G. When the\nglass doors, which must have been an inch thick, closed behind him,\nhe felt he was now as deep into the alien country of Atlanta's white\nestablishment as he had ever been in his life. He began to wonder\njust how much fury Croker would dare unleash when he revealed in\nall its newborn nakedness the suggestion that he say a few good\nwords about Fareek \"the Cannon\" Fanon.\nRoger was thankful for the clothes he had chosen to wear today,\nbecause if there was ever a time when he needed sartorial armor, it\nwas right now. He had on a navy hard-finished worsted single-\nbreasted suit, a shirt with white collar and cuffs and a body of pale\nblue stripes, a medium blue crepe de chine necktie with tiny navy\npin dots at half- inch intervals, and cap-toed black shoes. From his\nbreast pocket debouched a plain white silk handkerchief. In Atlanta,\nwhite or black, north of Ponce de Leon or south of it, sartorial armor\ndidn't get much more bulletproof than this.\nThe receptionist, a young white woman, checked him out from face\nto necktie to cap-toes. When he announced his name, the young\nwoman smiled and told him to please take a seat; someone would\nbe out very soon. He had just sat down in a leather armchair and\nwas weighing the woman's promise to decide whether it was\nsincerity or a faux-polite runaround he had detected in her voice,\nwhen an older white woman did, indeed, emerge from somewhere\nbeyond the receptionist's desk and invite him in. She led him\nthrough a small, windowless gallery that suddenly opened onto an\nenormous room. Light poured in, seemingly from all sides. Behind adesk so big it seemed like a satire on the executive life, in a great\nleather-covered swivel chair, sat the unmistakable Cracker bulk of\nCharlie Croker. With a heave of his chest, Croker rose and came\nwalking-or, rather, limping-toward him. He seemed so much older\nthan his pictures, and wearier. He gave Roger a smile, but it was a\ntired smile, and he had circles under his eyes. Yet he radiated\nphysical power. He had on a white shirt and a dark red necktie, but\nno jacket. His neck, trapezius muscles, shoulders, and chest seemed\nto be a single unit-welded mass. They were so big, it was as if he\nwere wearing a chest protector beneath his shirt. His hands were so\nbig, Roger braced as they shook hands, for fear he might be another\nhearty bonecrusher, like Buck McNutter. Roger's hand disappeared\ninside this huge white man's, just as had been the case when he\nmet McNutter, but in fact there was nothing unusual about the\npressure Croker exerted.\nCroker indicated that they should go to an alcove that opened off\nthe big room and sit in a pair of low but plush leather swivel chairs.\nThere were floor-to-ceiling windows. Down below in the foreground\nwas a rolling thicket of green treetops that ran together so densely\nthere was no sign whatsoever of the earth below, let alone the\nhouses and roadways. The expanse of greenery was so vast and\nlush, it made you blink.\n\"Spectacular view!\" said Roger.\nCroker turned his head and looked at it himself for a moment, then\nturned back to Roger and said wearily, \"Yeah ... I reckon it is. The\ntrouble with views is, after the first coupla weeks they don't surprise\nyou anymore.\" Roger didn't know what to say to that, and so Croker\ncontinued: \"I'd like to write a history of views, if I could write, which\nI can't.\" Caint. \"If you look at Atlanta real estate long enough, you'll\nnotice there was a time, not all that long ago, when folks didn't care\nabout views one way or the other. Views came cheap as the air and\na lot cheaper than dirt. Then along about the 1960s, I reckon it was,\nfolks discovered views, and that gave everybody one more thing to\nget competitive about.\"The man sounded like the Old Philosopher, wiser but wearier, a note\nRoger found disarming.\nCroker sighed and said, \"So you and Zandy White are partners-I\nmean Scott!\" He shook his head and cast his eyes down, and said,\n\"Nothing wrong with mc. Godalmighty. Scott, Scott, Scott.\"\nRoger tried to analyze that one. Was it a simple transposition, his\nname for Zandv's, or was it a Freudian slip that said, \"He, Zandy, is\nwhite, but you're not\"?\nBy now Croker had started over. \"Okay, as I thought I was saying, so\nyou and Zandy Scott are partners.\"\n\"Well, yes,\" said Roger, smiling to show he didn't care about the slip.\n\"We're partners, although some partners are more equal than\nothers. I don't know whether you know Zandy or not. 1 haven't\nmentioned to him that I was coming to see you.\" This was by way of\nnotifying Croker that this was something Zandy Scott didn't know\nabout and didn't have to know about. That, in turn, made him\nwonder what was on Croker's mind at this moment.\nTo tell the truth, Charlie was thinking about the fact that this black\nman-whose name, like an idiot, he had just pinned on a white man -\nhad no black accent at all. He had begun to run across that more\nand more, especially since the Clarence Thomas Supreme Court\nhearings on television, when there you had one black person after\nanother, professional people, and if you closed your eyes you\ncouldn't tell if they were black or white.\n\"Well,\" Croker said, \"what can I do for you?\"\nHe said it with such a tired smile that Roger felt as if he was talking\nto someone who had come out on the losing end of a very long war.\n\"Mr. Croker,\" he said, realizing as soon as the words left his mouth\nthat the little speech he had rehearsed was going to come out\nsounding stilted, \"I represent a young athlete at Georgia Tech, a\nfootball player named Fareek Fanon.\"\"So I gather,\" said Croker. \"I read about it in the paper this\nmorning.\" He looked at Roger with a level and slightly suspicious\ngaze. Then he yawned and quickly covered his mouth with his hand.\nRoger was startled, taken aback, since he didn't realize that this was\na sign not of boredom but of advanced insomnia.\n\"I assure you,\" Roger said, \"that everything I've tried to do for my\nclient thus far has been with an eye toward avoiding this kind of\npublicity, but that battle I've already lost.\" He sounded terribly\npompous to himself. \"So now my main objective is to try to keep this\nthing from turning into a racial battleground.\"\nCharlie was busy trying to calculate where all this was leading. He\ndecided that this solemn, somewhat stiff, educated black man was\nnow going to ask him to intercede with Inman. The only interesting\npart would be listening to him trying to articulate the reasons why.\nLawyer White was sitting quite upright in the leather swivel chair. He\nhad begun massaging the knuckles of his left hand with the fingers\nof his right hand . . . nerves . . . trying to figure out just how to put\nit, no doubt . . . Bathed in the light that came flooding in through\nthe window wall, he didn't look very dark at all . . . almost pale, in\nfact . . .\n\"As you know,\" said Roger, \"Fareek Fanon is an all-American running\nback, probably the most famous Georgia Tech running back since\none named . . . Charles Croker.\" Just as he had rehearsed it, he\npaused and smiled warmly. To his dismay, Croker yawned again and\ncovered his mouth. He could think of nothing else to do but plow on:\n\"So I'm sure you're aware-probably more aware than anyone else I\ncan think of-of the pressures that suddenly converge on a young\nman when he has achieved fame of that magnitude, pressures of\nevery sort, social pressures, public pressures, personal pressures-so\nthat all at once you're vulnerable to forces you've never even\nthought about before, forces you were never even aware of.\"He paused and looked at Croker, hoping to coax at least a nod of\nagreement out of him concerning that broad, general principle. All\nhe saw was the big white man's mouth and mandibles twisting and\nstruggling mightily to avoid another yawn. So he put the question\nsquarely:\n\"Do you agree? Is that true, generally speaking?\"\n\"Awwww, I reckon,\" said Croker. Then he lifted his hands from his\nlap and gave them a little ironic toss in the air and said, \"And\ntherefore?\"\nIs he mocking me? Roger wondered. Aloud, somewhat flustered:\n\"Well, the thing is-we'd like for you to meet Fareek, spend a little\ntime with him if you can, see what he's like, see if you agree with\nus-see if you think he's the kind of young man who would do what\nall these rumors and anonymous reports accuse him of doing.\"\nCroker sighed, leaned back in his chair, and put on a big smile that\nwas without any doubt ironic . . . and disconcerting . . . and then he\nsaid, \"Who's we?\"\nRoger said, \"Well-Fareek and a great many backers of the Tech\nathletic program and a great many people who look upon Fareek as\na role model. This thing could turn into a very ugly situation even if-\nby the usual standards-the charge is proved to have no basis in fact,\nwhich in fact is the case.\" He was aware of tripping on his own\nverbal vines and thickets.\nCroker gave his smile a twist to one side. Definitely ironic. \"So . . .\nwe want me to spend some time with Fareek Fanon . . .\"\nRoger's heartbeat quickened. This was going to be the tricky part to\nput into words. \"We realize that. . . uh . . . this would be an\nimposition on you. It would be an imposition on anybody, but\nespecially you, since we realize that you . . . uh . . . have far more\nurgent problems right now than the fate of Fareek Fanon. But we\nthink we're in a position to clear the deck of those problems, so tospeak, so that you'll have the time to . . . uh . . . devote some time\nto what we hope you'll be able to do.\" He paused again, desperately\nhoping Croker would at least come out and meet him halfway on this\nmisty terrain he had just sketched in.\nCroker cocked his head to one side and said, \"What 'urgent\nproblems' are you talking about?\"\n\"May I speak frankly?\"\n\"Sure. Go ahead.\"\n\"We're very much aware of the fix you're in with PlannersBanc.\nWe're aware of what happened with your Gulfstream Five aircraft\nand other measures the bank is threatening to take.\" Croker still had\nhis head cocked to one side. \"Well-the fact is-if I can figure out the\nmost exact way to put this-the fact is that Fareek, as an Atlanta\ncelebrity with a big following, if you will, and various backers of\nTech's athletic program have enough friends so as to ... so as to . . .\nbe able to convince PlannersBanc that it's . . . uh\"-how the hell did\nthis part go? He'd gone over it a hundred times in his mind-\"that it's\n... in their interest-as a big part of the city themselves-in their long-\nterm interest-and possibly their short-term interest, even-since this\nthing has the potential to rip apart the entire fabric of the Atlanta\nWay in race relations-it's in their interest to put your financial\ntroubles behind you-and behind them-for good-so that you can\ndevote your time and your interests to the role that you can now\nplay in this crisis-or what could easily develop into a crisis, for the\nentire city.\" He was aware of the sweat that had begun to flow in his\narmpits, beneath his T-shirt, the striped body of his shirt, and his 12-\nounce navy worsted suit with its fashionably high-cut armholes.\n\"Put them behind me how?\" said Croker. He still had his head cocked\nto one side, but he wasn't giving him the ironic smile anymore.\nPerhaps he had taken a few baby steps out into the mist.\n\"Completely restructure the loans,\" said Roger. \"And call off the\nbank's workout department.\"Croker said, \"All this in return for my spending some time with\nFareek Fanon.\"\n\"And an expression of your sympathy and support for Fareek as\nsomeone who's been in precisely the same situation himself, at the\nsame college, someone who was once a young man with the same\npressures and vulnerabilities-I mean, if you genuinely feel that way\nafter getting to know Fareek. I realize that's a big if.\"\n\"And just how would I go about expressing my sympathy and\nsupport?\"\n\"A press conference.\"\n\"A press conference . . .\"\n\"Yes.\"\n\"And then my troubles will disappear . . .\"\n\"Well, obviously, it can't be as simple as that,\" said Roger, \"since\nwhat actually hangs in the balance here is the concern of many\nimportant players in the civic life of this city-their desire to defuse\nwhat could develop into a very ugly situation for them and the\nAtlanta Way and . . . well, the whole city-but in a word, to answer\nyour question . . . yes.\"\n\"So what would I do,\" said Croker, leaning forward in his seat and\nlowering his head slightly, \"just take your word for it that you can\ndeliver on such a promise?\"\n\"I know what you're saying,\" said Roger, \"and I don't blame you.\" All\nthe while thinking: Oh, yes! He's definitely out on that misty terrain\nnow! \"There'll be a very simple test. Once you've met with Fareek,\nyou decide whether or not to go ahead with the press conference. If\nyou say yes, then you let us know, and immediately all pressure\nfrom PlannersBanc will cease. If you then do your part at the press\nconference, it will cease for good, and the bank will restructure the\nloans on the most generous terms imaginable. If you say no\"-Rogerdrew in his chin and pulled a face that as much as said They'll sic\nthe dogs back on you.\nCroker put his tongue in his cheek and just stared at him for what\nseemed like an eternity. Then he said, \"If I'm hearing what I think\nI'm hearing, then this is the goddamnedest proposition I ever heard\nof.\"\n\"Well,\" said Roger, \"this is an unusual situation, and it could become\na critical situation in the life of this city, especially if the identity of\nthe young woman in this situation becomes known, and a lot of\npeople know it already. Do you know who it is?\"\nCroker hesitated. Then he said, \"Yes, I do.\"\nRoger said, \"A lot of people-a lot of people in a position to try to\nhead it off-they see this as a situation like the Rodney King case or\neven the death of Martin Luther King, a situation where the city\nbecomes polarized. Atlanta's claim is, we're the city that has put all\nthat behind us. So if this city lets itself get polarized again, the\nimplications, including the economic implications-there'd be just no\nend to it. So people are willing to go to great lengths to trv to head\nsuch a situation off.\"\n\"Okay,\" said Croker, \"let's say that's so.\" No more mocking smile.\n\"How do you-we-they-whoever you're talking about here-how do you\nexpect to put that kind of pressure on PlannersBanc?\"\nRoger said, \"That I'm not at liberty to go into. That's why we're\nproposing a test. We can either deliver or we can't.\"\nCroker crossed his arms over his chest and put on the sort of ironic\nsmile that says: This is all pretty far-fetched, but since we're playing\nthis little game of make-believe, let's play it out to the end. Aloud he\nsaid: \"Okay, let's suppose that you manage to call off the dogs and\nthen I go see Fareek Fanon and come away telling everybody what a\ngreat human being he is-how am I supposed to be sure\nPlannersBanc won't turn right around and come after me again?\"\"Then you'd disavow your support for Fareek.\"\n\"On what ground? That some very nice young man came by one\nday\"-Croker gestured toward Roger-\"representing Fareek Fanon, and\nhe told me he'd take care of everything if I said something nice\nabout his client?\"\n\"Whatever,\" said Roger. \"Anything you said at that point would make\nit look bad for us. We'd have the same sort of recourse. If you\nreneged on your support for Fareek, the bank would be turned loose\non you again. Look, Mr. Croker, even in the most tightly drawn\ncontract there's always the risk of one party committing an act of\nbetrayal that makes the contract meaningless. That's one of the first\nthings we were taught at the UGA law school. All agreements are\nfounded on the proposition that at the end of the day it doesn't pay\nto be known as someone who is utterly perfidious.\"\nAt the end of the day, thought Charlie. Even this black lawyer from\nUGA was lapsing into Wizspeak. Already his mind was churning. Was\nit even remotely possible that he could do what he claimed he could\ndo? Who would have that kind of leverage with PlannersBanc?\nCertainly not him. And not even Wringer Fleasom & Tick, which was\nnothing but a high-class valet service for corporate Atlanta. His\ncontempt for lawyers, people who made their living speaking out of\nany side of their mouths you paid them to speak out of, was\nprofound. Assuming it wasn't all bullshit, who was he talking about?\nIt had to be Georgia Tech itself. The Institute's leverage in Atlanta, if\nthey really wanted to exert it, was incalulable. But why would they\nchoose a relatively young black lawyer to rally the troops? That\nwould make no sense. Or was there something about racial PR that\nhe, Charlie, didn't comprehend? And was Fanon so important to\nthem that they would just hang Inman and his daughter out to dry?\nDid it really get back to what Billy Bass had told him that night at\nTurpmtine-namely, that Fareek Fanon was the cover boy for the\nInstitute's entire capital fund-raising campaign and that money talks\nand bullshit walks? Money talks and bullshit walks. Ruefully he\nrealized that he had picked up that little expression from thatcharacter with the big melon chin, Zale, at the PlannersBanc workout\nsession. And what if he did endorse Fareek Fanon? How could he\never look Inman in the face again? Twice he had offered Inman his\nsupport-offered it-once that night at the Driving Club and again\nyesterday morning. No, he could never turn his back on Inman . . .\nBut . . . still . . . think of the miracle that was being dangled before\nhim ... the obliteration of his entire mountain of debt!\nAs if reading his mind, the black lawyer said, \"I can't stress it too\nstrongly, Mr. Croker-the crux of the matter is that this thing involves\nfar more than any one person's reputation-more than Fareek\nFanon's, just to start with my client. You would be rendering a public\nservice by expressing sympathy for Fareek even if you didn't mean\nit, even if it turns out you don't like him, which I hope won't be the\nway it'll turn out. To have someone like yourself in his corner would\ndefuse the whole situation, keep it from turning into an outright\nblack versus white issue. We're not talking about any legal process\nhere. We're talking about the . . . the . . . the mental atmosphere of\nan entire city.\"\n\"But why me?\" said Charlie.\n\"I'm not gonna try to pussyfoot around the subject, Mr. Croker.\nYou're in a unique position. You're the Fareek Fanon of another\nperiod, a star running back for Georgia Tech and in some ways an\neven bigger star, since you also starred on defense, and you were\nknown as the Sixty- Minute Man and everything.\" (Even though it\nwas coming from a black mouthpiece, a special pleader, Charlie liked\nthis warm breeze wafting by his ears.) \"And you're a member of the\nwhite establishment in this city. You're a member of the Piedmont\nDriving Club and everything else that's worth belonging to. You're\nnot some push-button liberal. You're uniquely qualified to do what\nhas to be done.\"\nIn spite of himself, Charlie could feel himself weakening, feel himself\ntrying to believe all this arrant flattery pouring out of this slick black\nlawyer. So he fought back. His sense of loyalty, his sense of honor,his strength of character in the face of temptation-well, not counting\nsexual temptation, which a man really had no rational control over-\nhis personal courage, which had never deserted him, not even in the\ndeadliest moments on the field of battle in Vietnam-all of this would\nmake him do the right thing, and-but of course at the same time it\nwouldn't hurt, would it, as a matter of curiosity, as a sheer\nexperiment, to see if this lawyer dressed up like a British diplomat\nactually could control the workout department at PlannersBanc with\na mere snap of his fingers, implausible as that sounded-it wouldn't\nhurt to see if such a stunt could be pulled, would it?-wouldn't\ncompromise him in any way, wouldn't force him to support Fareek\n\"the Cannon\" Fanon if he didn't want to, wouldn't even force him to\nlay eyes on the man-\n-and so before he knew it, he heard himself saying: \"All right . . . If\nyou want my honest opinion, not you and not Fareek Fanon and not\nanybody who knows Fareek Fanon and not all of Georgia Tech and\nall of Georgia Tech's friends, working together, can pull off what you\nsay you can pull off. But maybe I'll give you a chance to prove me\nwrong.\" He smiled his biggest, broadest, most insinuating smile, to\nindicate that this was merely a little game he was interested in. \"I'll\ngo see Mr. Fanon, and then I'll let you know what I think. Fair\nenough?\"\n\"Fair enough, Mr. Croker. I hope you'll like Fareek and give him the\nbenefit of the doubt. For a kid from the Bluff, he's done pretty well.\nHe's not polished, he's not sophisticated, and he's susceptible to\ntemptation, like all of us, but he's been a good kid. Never been in\ntrouble with the law, never been in any kind of disciplinary trouble at\nTech--\ngiven the strikes he's had against him, he's done pretty well.\" To\nhimself he said: \"Jesus Christ . . . between now and then we gotta\nput Fareek in some kinda . . . Courtesy Boot Camp! We gotta get\nhim some new clothes-out of the Ralph Lauren catalogue! We gotta\nget the diamonds out of his ears!-the sneer off his lips!-the shanks-\nakimbo spread out of the way he sits in a chair!-the HomeboyHangin' in Fronta the 24- Hour Mini-Mart slouch out of his posture!-\nthe Rape! Pillage! Loot! leer out of his eyes! But something tells me\na cosmetic makeover is all we really need ... Something tells me the\nSixty-Minute Man has already taken the hook.\"\n\"Aw, hell, I'll give anybody the benefit of the doubt, far's that goes,\"\nsaid Croker. \"I didn't exactly grow up in any palace myself.\"\nHe smiled more broadly than ever, as if to show that he regarded all\nthis as nothing more than a game.\natlanta was not one of those older cities, such as New York, Boston,\nSeattle, or, for that matter, Paris, London, or Munich, in which the\nsmart restaurants were to be found in the middle of town or on the\nfringes of old residential districts. No, in Atlanta both Downtown and\nMidtown, as they were called, shut up tight at 6 p. M. Monday\nthrough Friday and all day Saturday and Sunday, with their soaring\ntowers standing there like glass ghosts. The only strollers on the\nstreets at night downtown were hotel guests utterly thwarted in their\ndesire to go window-shopping at the big city's glossy restaurants and\nboutiques-them and the muggers. The Atlanta police had their own\nname for areas where it wasn't advisable to walk if you looked like\nyou had more than two cents to rub together: \"dead zones\"; and\nDowntown was one of them.\nNo, in Atlanta the smart restaurants, like the smart boutiques,\nopened in Atlanta's Edge Cities (as the inimitable Joel Garreau had\ncalled them), commercial clusters that formed in and around\nshopping malls and other big mixed-use developments far removed\nfrom Downtown and its tired old problems. So it was that Peepgass\nhad decided to take Martha Croker to dinner at a restaurant all the\nway over at the West Paces Ferry Mall, a place called Mordecai's,\nwhich was recommended by all the restaurant guides.\nThis decision had presented Peepgass with two big problems. For a\nstart, he had to rent a car. At first he thought of having Martha meet\nhim at the restaurant. That way, presumably, she would never haveto know which of the cars in this mall full of cars was his. She\nwouldn't have to learn that he drove a five-year-old Ford Escort with\na big dent in the left front fender which he couldn't afford to have\nfixed because his insurance policy had a $500 deductible. But\nmaking her drive solo to a shopping mall at night would not create\nthe effect he needed to create. So he had started calling the car\nrental companies, Hertz, Avis, Budget, Alamo, the lot. The only\nvehicles they offered at even halfway humane rates were as dinky as\nhis Ford Escort, even if newer. If you elevated your sights to the\nplateau of full-size sedans, you were talking about a fortune and still\ngetting nothing more than a Ford Taurus or a Chevrolet Lumina. So\nhe had to go luxury full-size, an appalling $92 a day, for the car he\nhad tonight, a black Volvo 960 with veal-beige leather seats. Then\nthere was the restaurant. Mordecai's had just reopened after a\ncomplete renovation, and was the restaurant the social bees (le tout\nAtlanta) were currently \"hiving\" about-to use a term he had picked\nup the other day from Jack Shellnutt, his only live source of\ninformation about such matters-and so there was no way he was\ngoing to get out of there for less than $80 for two. So you had $172\nright there. A guy like Shellnutt, of course, would say, Big deal-$172,\nbut the plain fact was that to Peepgass it was yet another toehold\nmissing on the face of a cliff that was terrifyingly high and to which\nhe was already clinging for dear life. He now had twenty-two\ndifferent VISA cards, and nineteen of them he had already run out to\nthe absolute limit of their credit line. His only hope was that yet\nmore unsolicited VISA card applications would arrive in the mail-he\nseemed to receive at least two a month- and he would have a little\nmore rope to ponzi around with. The problem was that the monthly\ninterest nut all by itself was more than he could handle. He was\nhaving to kite checks between PlannersBanc, South- Bank,\nBancCharter, and BancoHijoChico, where he also had accounts, in\norder to keep halfway current on the interest owed the VISA\naccounts. One VISA card, he noticed, had been issued by a bank\ncalled JoshuaTree Federal, in Tempe, Arizona. He felt far more at\nease-irrationally so, he realized-dealing with pueblo desert lunaticslike that than with the many Delaware banks whose cards he also\nhad.\nAnd so this outing, ordinary as it might have seemed to a Jack\nShellnutt or to so many of his neighbors to the north of Collier Hills\nin the real Buckhead, was to Peepgass a dizzyingly wild leap that\nonly his red dog could have made him do.\nAttired in his one new shirt, his new Sincere necktie, and his one\nhalfway decent suit, the gray one he could get by with as long as he\nnever let her view it from the back, where the shiny spots were,\nPeepgass pulled up to Martha Croker's house on Valley Road in his\none-night- stand-$92-a-day Volvo 960. As soon as he escorted her\nout to the car, he noticed something different about her. She looked\ngreat, given what she had to work with, namely, her mileage, fifty-\nthree years, and the heft she had across her back and shoulders . . .\nWhen she got out of the Volvo at the West Paces Ferry Mall, he tried\nto study her a little more . . . There was something so damned\ngloomy about dinner at these fancy restaurants in the mall. It was so\ndamned dark, since all the shops were closed. The light of the\noverhead lamps was soaked up by the blacktop of the parking lot, so\nthat nothing more than a pallid gloaming remained. But in this\nAmerican Mall artificial twilight, once he got used to it, Martha\nCroker looked . . . not bad at all ... A white skirt . . . pretty short,\nthat skirt, for a woman her age, but you know what? Great legs ... If\nall you saw were her legs, you'd think she was twenty or twenty-five\nyears younger . . . And inside, when they sat down-at a pretty good\ntable, not too far back-she really looked different .. . leaner ... a\nlong-sleeved navy silk blouse with these sort of flame-like white\nshapes in it ... a choker of ivory ovals framed in gold . . . gold\nearrings . . . her blond hair done just so .. .\nHe was suddenly conscious of the way he was just sitting there\nstaring at her, and so he smiled and said, \"Well, what do you make\nof this Fareek Fanon business?\"Of the fifty-four tables at Mordecai's-and the place was packed-at\nleast forty-five accommodated white Atlantans who right now were,\nor just had been, or soon would be, talking about Fareek Fanon and\nwhat he had or had not done with an anonymous flower of Atlanta's\nwhite establishment. Christ, it was noisy in here! All restaurants\nthese days were noisy, but the noise in here was what he imagined\n(and intended never to find out) it would be like to go white-water\nrafting in some vicious river like the Columbia. Peepgass had to lean\nacross the table toward Martha to hear what she was saying.\n\"I don't know what to think,\" she said, \"but I must say it has me\ncurious about who this white 'business and civic leader' might be,\nthe one whose daughter she's supposed to be.\"\n\"I'll tell you what I'm curious about,\" said Peepgass. \"I'm curious\nabout why all these black athletes have such a thing for white\nwomen.\"\nMartha Croker just lifted her eyebrows and shrugged her shoulders.\nSo Peepgass figured he ought to get off that street . . . Talking about\nblack people was a delicate business in upper-stratum white Atlanta,\nparticularly if the subject moved onto the terrain of racial . . .\ntendencies . . . Even though everybody {le tout Atlanta) was wild\nabout the topic, you had to walk a very narrow, very academic,\nsociological, disinterested line, or else you were guilt)' of ... a breach\nof etiquette. It was sheer . . . bad manners. It showed poor . . .\nintellectual upbringing. But how could one not talk about the Fareek\nFanon case? And how easy it was for one's hunger for ever)' morsel\nabout the case to push one over that narrow line!\nPeepgass glanced about. So many animated white faces! The white-\nwater rush of the diners had reached something approaching a roar.\nIn decor, Mordecai's was curiously grand, stiff, gloomy, musty,\naustere, and ostentatious all at the same time, like one of those\ndoges' palaces in Venice, where everything seems to have beensoaked in the gray-green water of the canals five centuries ago and\nhung out to dry . . . slowly . . . century by century . . .\nAs for Martha, she wanted to talk about the Fareek Fanon case, too,\nbut Ray's-she already thought of him as \"Ray\"-Ray's comment had\nsuddenly reminded her of those Saturday nights at Turpmtine when\nCharlie and Billy Bass and Judge Opie McCorkle and the other good\nold Baker County boys would belt back a few bourbons and branch\nwater and get on the subject of race and lean forward toward each\nother and mouth the radioactive words in their discourse in the\nmistaken belief that what they were saying would not be picked up\nby the black help who went back and forth from the kitchen and so\nattentively attended to their every need.\nShe noticed Ray scanning the room with his eyes, and so she looked\nabout, too. Over near the entrance she noticed Mordecai's owner, a\nman named Jack Kashi, in a dark double-breasted suit and a very\nloud tie, hovering over a table for six and bathing it in his famous\nbonhomie. She, Martha, had walked right past him on the way in,\nhad looked him right in the eye, and his eyes had bounced a couple\nof times off hers. He knew he knew her, but he didn't know who she\nwas-so he had turned away suddenly as if responding to someone\nbehind him. She couldn't believe it! She had been at Charlie's side at\nleast a dozen times when they dined here, and the man had fawned\nover the two of them \"Mr. Croker! Mrs. Croker-and now he didn't\neven have a clue who she was! Well, who was he spending all his\ntime paying attention to tonight? A great big man with carefully\ncoiffed blond hair-could it be-that was exactly who it was!\n\"Ray!\" she exclaimed. \"You'll never guess who's here tonight!\"\n\"Who?\"\n\"Don't turn around all of a sudden, but right behind you, about four\ntables away, up near the entrance, a table for six-that's Buck\nMcNutter, Buck McNutter and his wife.\"Ray slowly turned about, then glanced back at Martha. \"Which one is\nhim?\"\n\"The immense one with the cute blond hairdo.\"\nRay took a good look, then turned back around. \"I'll be damned. I\nwouldn't mind listening in on that conversation. You know him?\"\n\"I've never met him, but I met his wife once.\"\nRay said, \"Which one's the wife?\"\n\"The youngest one,\" said Martha. \"With the hair.\"\nRay turned around again and took another good look. Then he\nturned back with a grin and said, \"I see what you mean. You think if\nwe sent them a bottle of champagne, they'd tell us the name of the\ngirl in the Fanon case?\"\nA terribly severe-looking waiter, or captain he probably was, arrived\nand asked if they'd like something to drink. Martha asked for a Kir\nroyale, which Peepgass had never heard of. All he knew was that it\nsounded expensive. He ordered a glass of red wine, figuring that\nwould be the cheapest thing in the house short of a split of sparkling\nwater. Mordecai's was the sort of restaurant in which, when you sit\ndown, there's an elaborate silver plate sitting right in front of you. As\nsoon as they bring you a drink, they take it away. Peepgass had no\nidea what that was all about, but to him it, too, spelled expensive.\nIn due course the dour-looking captain returned-he had to be a\ncaptain-returned with menus, very formal menus, which arrived\ninserted into stiff leather bindings. The oppressive atmosphere of\nexpense weighed even more heavily upon Peepgass. With dread he\ntook a glance at the entrees ... all over $20. He didn't kid himself. In\na place like this, when the entTees were more than $20, you knew\nyou were heading up toward . . . not a mere $80 for two, but more\nlike $100.Martha ordered smoked salmon on rectangles of ciabatta bread to\nstart-Peepgass winced: $8.50-and blackened red snapper on a bed\nof kale leaves and dilled mashed potatoes-winced again: $26.50-\nJesus Christ, no wonder she was hefty through the torso. He ordered\nthe cheapest first course he could get away with, which was tortellini\nal brodo, some kind of soup, apparently, for $5.50, and a pasta as\nhis main course: risotto with sectioned baby octopus-$18.50-but he\nknew he couldn't down the goddamned risotto and octopus without\na bottle of nice cold wine to take the edge off it, and so he suddenly\nfound himself ordering a bottle of Rushers Quarry California\nChardonnay for $36, which blew all his economizing right out of the\nwater-his facile mind, which had scored 780 out of a possible 800 on\nthe math SATs, realized immediately that they had now ordered $95\nworth of food and drink plus the Kir rovale and the glass of red wine,\nwhich would certainly bring it up over $100, and they hadn't even\ngotten to dessert and coffee and the tax-but-but-but . . . what the\nhell . . . Thank God he had a brand-new VISA card with him, from\nsome bank called FirstButte in Mission Creek, Colorado.\nHe knocked back two glasses of the Rushers Quarry California\nChardonnay, and she knocked back one, all so fast that he could\nforesee the necessity of ordering a second bottle in no time, at\nwhich point he decided to give up and maintain an even strain and\nlet FirstButte eat the bill. They talked a little more about the Fareek\nFanon case, which in turn got them to talking about how absolutely\nsports-crazed Atlanta was, and Martha told him about some\nNeanderthal judge down in Baker Count)' who had sat on the fifty-\nyard line for every Georgia Tech-University of Georgia football game\nfor the past fifty years, she was sure, and he asked her if Charlie had\nbeen hung up on his memories of gridiron greatness. Not really, she\nsaid, but other people were. Total strangers, older people mostly,\nstill recognized him on the street and referred to him as the Sixty-\nMinute Man, and Charlie did enjoy that. Peepgass had to lean farther\nand farther across the table, to within a foot of her face, just to hear\nher over the din of the place.\"Speaking of Charlie . . .\" said Peepgass. He figured that was a\nsmooth enough transition to what, for him, was the underlying\nagenda for this back-breakingly expensive evening. \"I have some\ninteresting news about Croker Concourse.\"\n\"Really?\" She didn't seem terribly keen about any protracted\ndiscussion of her former husband.\nPeepgass leaned forward and said, \"Charlie is about to hand over\nCroker Concourse and the other properties, and we'll let him keep\nTurpmtine and his house on Blackland Road and the Wyeth\npainting.\"\n\"What's he going to use for money? Do you have any idea what it\ncosts to run Turpmtine?\"\n\"Not exactly.\"\n\"Close to two million dollars a year.\"\n\"He has it on the books as an experimental farm,' \" said Peepgass.\n\"I don't doubt that,\" said Martha, \"but the only experiment I've ever\nseen at Turpmtine is Charlie trying to see if he can go through a\nwhole day of shooting quail, from dawn to dusk, and shoot only the\nmales.\"\n\"How do you tell the male from the female?\"\n\"It's not easy. The male has a little fleck of white on his neck.\" She\ntouched the front of her own neck.\nPeepgass said, \"I bet he's rolled ever)' cent he's spent on the place\nright into his corporate tax deductions.\"\n\"Probably,\" said Martha.\nPeepgass experienced the Aha! phenomenon. If necessary, he'd\nconfront Croker with an income tax problem. The IRS would nodoubt be delighted to learn that he had written off millions-millions!-\nin personal expenses in the form of a nonexistent experimental farm.\n\"Anyway,\" said Peepgass, \"there's been an interesting development\nregarding Croker Concourse. This I'm not supposed to be telling\nanybody, either, but I think you have a legitimate right to know. I\nguess the word has gotten out that Croker Concouse may be up for\nsale, because a syndicate is being formed to approach the bank with\nan offer.\"\n\"A syndicate?\"\n\"A group of investors,\" said Peepgass. \"The leading figures-but this\nreally does have to remain confidential.\" He looked at her inquiringly.\n\"All right.\"\n\"The leading figures, the people putting the whole thing together,\nare Herbert Richman and Julius Licht.\"\nBoth Jews, thought Martha, without even knowing why it occurred to\nher. She started to say so out loud but caught herself and thought\nbetter of it. What she said was \"I go to one of his gyms, Herbert\nRich- man's. DefinitionAmerica, on East Paces Ferry Road.\"\n\"Do you know Herb Richman?\" said Peepgass.\n\"No, I don't think I've ever met him,\" said Martha. She started to\nadd, \"He's Jewish, isn't he?\"-but once again she caught herself. All\nthis took place beneath the threshold of rational thought, in much\nthe same way that Herbert Richman, if someone had mentioned the\nname Martha\nCroker, would have said to himself, \"She's not Jewish.\" Such was the\nway things still went in Atlanta.\n\"Well, he's met Charlie,\" said Peepgass, \"just a couple of weeks ago.\nYou know Herb's Jewish, don't you?\"\"I suppose-no, I didn't.\" As if the thought had never crossed her\nmind.\n\"Charlie invited him down for a weekend at Turpmtine.\"\n\"Is that how Richman found out that Croker Concourse might be for\nsale, from Charlie?\"\n\"I don't know,\" said Peepgass, \"but I doubt it. I don't think Charlie\nhas fully faced up yet to the fact that he's gonna lose a lot of\nproperty. Anyway, here's what Herb Richman and his syndicate\nwould do-and again, I'm really not supposed to be telling anybody\nabout this, but I think it's something you might want to know.\"\nHe proceeded to outline the deal-leaving out only the matter of the\n$6.5 million he stood to make from it. \"Now, I don't know anything\nabout your financial situation, beyond Charlie's obligations to you\nunder the terms of the divorce agreement, but you might want to\nconsider getting in on this.\"\n\"Me?\"\n\"I think you ought to ask yourself where it leaves you if Charlie is to\nall intents and purposes dead broke.\"\nMartha didn't say anything. She just looked at him. Suddenly she\nwas acutely aware of the ecstatic hyperburble of all the voices in this\nweek's restaurant of the century. The fact was, she couldn't even\nimagine her own financial situation if there was no check for $50,000\neach month. That had always been the least of her concerns about\nCharlie. What was that compared to the fact that he had deceived\nand discarded her? Exactly!-nothing more or less than that-discarded\nher!-as a superannuated piece of baggage!\n\"Look at it this way,\" said Ray. \"The reason Charlie's going broke is\nthat he totally lost his head over this building of his, this great\nmonument to himself, Croker Concourse. Do you realize that no\nother developer in the history of Atlanta has ever named a building\nafter himself before!\"Martha started to tell him exactly why Charlie had suffered such an\ninflation of himself. He had just started his affair with Serena and\nwanted to show her that despite his age, he had the confidence and\npuissance of Youth. But she was loath to let Ray know just how\nprofoundly humiliated she had been. So all she said was:\n\"Oh, I know . . . When Charlie loses his head over something, he\nloses it all the way.\"\nRay said, \"What I'm suggesting is-and it may not interest you at all-\nbut what I'm suggesting is that if Charlie has created a situation in\nwhich he can't come through with what he owes you, in cash, you\nhave the right to follow his money where it's disappeared to, namely,\ninto that building.\"\nMartha's first reaction had nothing to do with the content of what he\nhad just said. Rather, it was that she . . . liked him more this way. He\nnow seemed . . . more of a man. He was no Charlie, but he had\nCharlie's passion for the deal, which was perhaps where the\ncontemporary male's passion for battle went these days. She studied\nhis face as his lips moved. He was actually a good-looking man, and\nhis passion for the deal put an edge on the softness that you initially\ndetected in a man like this. His clothes were a mixture of the slightly\nseedy and the slightly gaudy, but this was a period in which men's\nclothes were pretty dreadful all the way around. Charlie hadn't been\nmuch of a dresser, either, but his sheer massive physical presence\nhad made that not matter.\nPeepgass could see Martha Croker studying his face, and it made\nhim apprehensive. Was she merely confused or did she fear a trick,\nsome sort of swindle? Maybe she was thinking, If I'm going to be cut\noff from Charlie's money, why should I throw a lot of what I have\nleft into some speculative real estate deal? So he said:\n\"Look, I can't engrave anything in stone, but here's a chance to\ntriple or quadruple an investment in two to three years, and it would\nbe taxed as a long-term capital gain. Richman and Licht are ready toinvest $2.5 million each, and they're not speculators. As\nbusinessmen, they're both conservative. Richman won't even take\nDefinitionAmerica public, for fear of losing control, and do you have\nany idea of what that company would be worth as an IPO?\nWhahhhhhh,\" he added, by way of emphasizing the sheer visceral\nimpact of such an idea.\n\"Well, I couldn't begin to put up $2.5 million,\" Martha Croker said.\n\"No one would expect you to,\" said Peepgass. \"They're putting up\napproximately half the down payment themselves, and they're\nlooking for other investors to put up the rest. I'm sure it wouldn't\nmake any difference to them how big a share you went in for. And I\n...\" He hesitated and turned his eyes downward, then turned them\nup again, as if this ocular pitch and roll were a product of emotion.\n\"Well, frankly -I don't mean to say anything out of line, but I think it\nwould be poetic justice, arid no more than you deserve, if Charlie\nhad to give up the building entirely-and believe me, that he's going\nto have to do- and you became one of the owners.\" He looked at her\nwith Sincerity engraved upon his face.\nTo Martha the scheme-the investment-the odds-the risks-were\nremote matters she would have to think about later. What she\ncomprehended at this moment was that here was a man who\nseemed to care about her fate.\n\"I don't know,\" she said. \"I'd have to think about it. I'd have to think\nabout how much I could possibly commit to something like that.\"\nIt struck Peepgass that she said it sort of dreamily. What that could\nmean, he couldn't imagine. Well, she didn't say no! She held it out\nas a possibility! Suppose she put up one million ... His facile head for\nfigures ran it through the intracranial chemical analog computer in\nno time . . . She'd come away with $7 million, not counting the\ncommissions . . . He'd have $6.5 million . . . Add them together,\nalong with Martha's other $9 million, and you've got $22 million . . .\ninvest it conservatively, at 6 percent, and you'd have $1.3 million peryear in income . . . plus a house in the very best part of Buckhead\nalready paid for and decorated to the hilt . . . You could live a\ndamned good life in Atlanta ... A damned good life anywhere! . . .\nPeepgass! What are you thinking! The woman's fifty-three years old,\nfor Christ's sake! What about Priapus? Doesn't he have any say in all\nthis?\nPeepgass was suddenly aware that a couple, a man and a woman,\nwho were heading toward the entrance, had stopped by their table.\nHe looked up. Both were beaming down at Martha. Lots of teeth.\nThe woman, close to fifty, a carefully coiffed helmet of pineapple-\nblond hair, slender, nice angular features, handsome as opposed to\nbeautiful, which she once must have been, expensive-looking cream\ntweed jacket and skirt, about 500 watts of jewelry-the man, slightly\nolder, a big rectangular face resting upon a set of buttery jowls,\ngood head of silvery hair combed straight back, not one cilium out of\nplace, as if he just emerged from the locker room of the Augusta\nCountry Club, navy cashmere blazer and a striped tie lying as if they\nlived there on the heft of his sirloin midsection, lots of teeth-\n\"Martha!\" said the woman, shrieking to be heard above the roar of\nthe rapids.\n\"Why-Adele!\" said Martha Croker. \"And Jock!\"\n\"I thought that was you I saw across the room!\" said Adele. \"I feel\nlike I haven't seen you in ages!\" Then she glanced toward Peepgass.\n\"Adele!\" said Martha Croker, \"I'd like for you to meet Ray Peepgass!\nRay, Adele Gilchrist! ... and Jock Gilchrist!\"\nPeepgass struggled to his feet, while Adele Gilchrist made\nprotestations to the effect that he shouldn't get up. He put on a big\nsmile and shook hands with both of them. A hearty, deep-voiced\nJock Gilchrist began compressing Peepgass's knuckles in a manly\nhandshake.Meantime, Adele was shrieking to Martha Croker, \"Have you been\nhere before!\"\n\"No! . . . Have you?\"\n\"Once!\" said Adele. \"It's too noisy! But I love the food! Please, sit\ndown, Ray! I didn't mean for you-\"\n\"Oh, not at all!\" said Peepgass.\n\"Jock, we've got to let these people finish their dinner! But anyway,\nit's so nice to see you, Martha! You must give me a call! Ray, it's so\nnice to meet you! Have fun!\"\nAs the pair made their way toward the front, Martha Croker began\nlaughing soundlessly. This made Peepgass smile. \"What's funny?\"\n\"Oh, nothing,\" said Martha Croker. \"I was just thinking of the last\ntime I saw Adele Gilchrist. It's not very interesting, and it would take\ntoo long to go into.\"\n\"That's not Gilchrist of Cary Gilchrist, is it?\"\n\"Yes, it is. That's Jock.\"\nPeepgass whistled to himself. Cary Gilchrist was one of the biggest\ninvestment banking firms in the South.\nMartha began chuckling to herself again. Peepgass started to ask her\nwhy again, but he figured she would tell him if she wanted to. So he\njust stared at her quizzically.\nMartha was tempted to tell him . . . Two weeks ago, at\nDefinitionAmerica, she and Adele had been in Mustafa Gunt's class,\nand Adele had cut her dead. No, cut indicated an act of volition, and\nthis had not been a cruel and willful act. The truth was that she had\nceased to even see her, as if socially she, Martha, had disintegrated\nand no longer existed, all because she was no longer attached to the\ngreat Charlie Croker. But now that she had popped up in this week's\nrestaurant of the century with a rather good-looking man, she hadbecome resubstantiated, if there was such a word, was once again\ncorporeal, a woman whose life suddenly stimulated curiosity in the\nlikes of Adele Gilchrist, who no doubt wanted to ascertain just who it\nwas that the long since vanished and long since vanquished Martha\nCroker was out on the town with. Oh, she was tempted to tell Ray.\nBut if she cared to see more of Mr. Raymond Peepgass-and she\nrealized that indeed she did-it would be far wiser not to reveal the\ndepths of her humiliations.\nStill chuckling silently, she said to Ray, \"I'm sorry, it's just that\nAdele's so two-faced. But it's too petty to go into.\"\nPeepgass couldn't have cared less about Adele Gilchrist's two faces.\nMartha was on a first-name basis with people like jock Gilchrist. She\nnot only had a mansion on Valley Road, she could take a man\nimmediately, socially, into the upper strata of Atlanta. In an era like\nthis one, the twentieth century's fin de siecle, position was\neverything, and it was the hardest thing to get. Once you had\nposition . . . there were innumerable places to go for . . . life's\nmerely carnal delights.\nChapter 24Gridiron Heroes\nHabersham road . . . habersham. road ... it was only a stone's throw\nfrom his old house on Valley Road, where Martha still lived, but that\nwas only a fleeting thought. Much more on Charlie's mind was the\nfact that it was less than a quarter of a mile from Inman's house on\nTuxedo Road ... A stab of guilt, one among many he had endured\nsince promising to go to Buck McNutter's house to meet Fareek\nFanon ... He was slowly tooling along Habersham in his Cadillac, not\nin any hurry for this rendezvous, thankful that it was now almost\ndark by 8:30 p. M. He didn't want to have to think of any nosy souls\npeering out the windows of any of the palatial piles in this golden\nswath of Buckhead, just off West Paces Ferry Road, saying, \"There\ngoes Charlie Croker to Buck McNutter's house. I wonder why.\"\nHe realized that was paranoid of him, and he was not the paranoid\ntype. But that was what betrayal did to you; it made you run untrue\nto form. No! He kept telling himself, \"I'm not betraying Inman by\njust going to meet this clown. I haven't committed myself to any\nparticular course of action. I may even find out something that will\nhelp Inman.\" But in his heart he knew the plain truth: he was . . .\ntempted.\nHe flicked on the Cadillac's high beams, the better to see the house\nnumbers, which were always on or near the mailboxes at the foot of\nthe ever-green, ever-groomed lawns . . . There it was . . . Dogwood,\nmagnolias, chestnut trees, and Japanese maples adorned the lawn in\nsuch profusion he couldn't see the house at first. But as the Cadillac\nascended the steep, curving asphalt driveway and came closer-he\ncould scarcely believe it. Langhorn Epps's old house! Lang Epps, who\nhad inherited a fortune in Southern Railway stock and been\npresident of the Piedmont Driving Club and the chairman of ever)'\ncharity drive you could think of, possessor of the Oldest Money you\ncould find in Atlanta, no two ways about it-that was his old house,\nbuilt in the French chateau style-all those casement windows-andnow the Georgia Tech football coach had it! He, Charlie, loved the\ngame of football, but Jesus Christ!-the world was changing too fast-\n-a wave of self-loathing . . . He himself was changing too fast . . .\nInman-but he hadn't been disloyal to Inman in any way. He couldn't\ncontrol the future, but he could control his own conduct--\nHe stopped thinking about it, pushed it out of his mind. McNutter\nhad quite a border of liriope around the loop of asphalt in front of\nthe house. Charlie pulled up behind a silver-gray four-door Lexus\nsedan. A $65,000 car. He wondered whose it was. McNutter's?\nLawyer White's? Fareek Fanon's? Given the cockeyed nature of\neverything these days, it just might be Fanon's.\nLaboriously he got out of the car, wincing from the pain of his right\nknee as he tried to steady it beneath his 235 pounds, and went\nlimping over to the door, wondering how much of the pain was\npsychological, how much of it shot down to his knee from his guilt-\nriddled brain. He rang the doorbell, and in less than ten seconds the\ndoor opened-and there stood a startling vision: a young woman with\na head of blond hair as full and meticulously untamed as Serena's, a\nlong-sleeved chiffon silk blouse with sprays of many colors against a\ndeep purple background, open at the throat and plunging down to a\ndeep cleavage.\n\"Mr. Croker!\" She lowered her head, so that her eyes had to open a\nmile wide to look into his, and gave him a sly smile that promised\nthe devil knew what. \"Come in! I'm Val McNutter!\" She put out her\nhand, and he shook it.\n\"They're in there,\" she said, motioning to a doorway off to one side.\n\"But first I just have to tell you something.\" She paused, and her big\ninsinuating eyes compelled him to ask what. \"What's that?\"\n\"I had lunch at your Cosmos Club the other day-and I absolutely\nadored it! I could've stayed there all afternoon!\"\"Well,\" said Charlie, \"I'm glad to hear that. But I'm afraid that puts\nyou in the minority.\"\nShe looked at him as if his very words were an aphrodisiac. If he\nhadn't been in such a depressed frame of mind, he would have felt a\nbit of the old tingle.\nThen she said, \"May I get you something to drink?\"\nCharlie's throat was terribly dry, which he realized was a sign of\nnervousness. In his depressed state, alcohol helped at first, but after\nan hour or so only depressed him more. But he decided he needed\nhelp right now. The short-term gain-or the long-term loss? The hell\nwith the long term. He wasn't even sure he would last that long. He\nwanted help now.\n\"Well,\" he said as offhandedly as he could, \"wouldn't mind a tall\nScotch-and-soda, if'at idd'n too much trouble.\"\n\"Not a'tall. Come on in here and I'll go get it for you.\" She led him to\nthe doorway of a room off the hall, stuck her head inside, and said,\n\"Buck? Mr. Croker's here.\"\nThe doorway was suddenly filled with the huge familiar figure of\nBuck McNutter-familiar not because Charlie had once met him,\nliterally just that, met him, shook hands and exchanged a couple of\npleasantries at a Tech reunion, but because he had so often seen\nthe man's smooth bulk and curiously fussy silver-blond hairdo on\ntelevision and in the newspapers. The big man flashed him a grin\nand exclaimed, \"Hey, Charlie!\"-as if that one meeting had made\nthem lifelong but long-time-no-see friends-and thrust out his hand\nand gave him a handshake that made him think his knuckles were\nbeing crushed. Two could play that game. Charlie squeezed back,\nusing all the strength of his muscles. The two men stood there, an\nexquisitely balanced picture of giants in pain. McNutter unclenched\nfirst and said, \"Great to see you, Charlie! Come on in here and meet\nsome folks!\"The room was paneled in so much heavy, ornate dark wood it\nseemed to absorb every lumen of available light. It was a second or\ntwo before he fully took in the forms of the other two men. One, on\nhis feet and smiling cordially, was Lawyer Roger White, once again\ndecked out like an ambassador on an official visit. The other was a\nmuch younger, much darker black man with a shaved head, who sat\nsprawled on a tufted leather couch. McNutter turned toward him and\nglowered, and the young man slowly rose, as if weighed down by\nthe weariness of the ages, and stared at a point beyond Charlie and\nMcNutter as if his only interest in this wear)' world lay far removed\nfrom the walls of Chateau McNutter and the rolling green lawns of\nBuckhead.\n\"Charlie,\" McNutter was saying, \"I believe you know Roger White?\"\nSo Charlie and Lawyer White shook hands and smiled cordially.\n\"And, Charlie, this is Fareek Fanon. Fareek, Charlie Croker.\"\nAs he extended his hand, Charlie gave this now-notorious all-\nAmerican a once-over. The ears ... He had been told that the Cannon\nhad pierced ears with a diamond set in each lobe and wore a heavy\ngold necklace. But there was no jewelry at all. He was slightly taller\nthan Charlie and had very wide shoulders, made even wider by the\nsuit he was wearing, a dark blue double-breasted suit with the lapel\nrolled down to the bottom button. It looked to Charlie like a felony\nsuit, the sort of dark blue suit defense lawyers put on their clients\nwhen they go to trial. He wore a white shirt whose collar looked as if\nit had never been properly introduced to the big powerful neck it\nhad been buttoned around and a necktie with wavy navy-and-gray\nstripes running vertically. He was giving Charlie a wary look typical of\nhis generation, white, black, or whatever else: the Felony Hangdog.\nYou tuck your chin down toward your clavicle, turn your head fifteen\nor twenty degrees to the side, and look warily at the adult\nconfronting you, as if you've just committed a felony. You also offer\nonly your first name during the introduction, as if you might be adrug dealer. Gloriously bored, Fareek Fanon presented Charlie a limp\nhand.\n\"Hey, Fareek,\" said Charlie, \"nice to meetcha. Howya doin'?\"\nHis head still in the Hangdog, Fareek \"the Cannon\" Fanon didn't offer\nso much as a polite smile. He merely compressed his lips and\nnodded. He had everything but a sign around his neck reading don'\nwanna.\n\"Have a seat, Charlie!\" said McNutter in a voice about 20 percent\ncheerier than necessary, indicating an easy chair that had been\npulled up near one end of the couch. Roger White sat down in the\nchair at the other end, and McNutter sat in a chair facing the young\nathlete.\nStill beaming, McNutter looked at Charlie and said, \"I was just telling\nFareek how they used to call you the Sixty-Minute Man. How did that\nhappen?-I mean you playing the whole game, defense and offense.\"\nFareek broke in: \"That's the truth? That's what they called you, 'the\nSixty-Minute Man'?\" Fareek had a big grin on. At first Roger took this\nas a sign he was warming to the task.\n\"Well\" - wale - \"you know how the newspapers dream these things\nup,\" said that model of modesty Charlie Croker.\n\"Hunnnhhhh,\" said Fareek with a dismissive chortle, while his smile\nturned into a sneer. \"Then you be the one that song's about.\"\n\"What song?\" said Charlie.\n\" The Sixty-Minute Man,' \" said Fareek. He began to hum it. 'Hoo\nhanh hoo hum hah heyyyyyy, Sixty-Minute Man.'\"\n\"What's it about?\" said McNutter, who now had a desperate smile on\nhis face.\"It's about this dude can keep a bitch happy for sixty minutes\nwithout stopping. 'Hoo hanh hoo hum hah heyyyyyy, Sixty-Minute\nMan.' More sneering and grinning. \"Zat what they meant?\"\nLong silence.\nMcNutter turned back to Charlie and said, \"What was it like, playing\nsixty minutes of Division I football?-or what we'd call Division I\ntoday?\"\n\"Hoo hanh hoo hum hah heyyyyy, Sixty-Minute Man,\" Fareek sang\nsoftly, as if to himself.\n\"Oh, I wasn't the only one,\" said Charlie, looking toward McNutter.\n\"It was kind of a transition period between the old rules, when if you\nleft the game you couldn't come back in until the next quarter, and\nthe new rules, with platooning.\" Taking a chance and looking toward\nFanon with a Charlie Croker winning smile, he said, \"It helped to be\na little crazy, I mean wantin' to butt heads for the whole sixty\nminutes if you didn't have to.\" His gaze intersected with Fanon's only\nup to the word little. At that point the black youth's eyes strayed off\ninto the distance. No smile at all, not even a sneering one. So\nCharlie turned back toward McNutter as he said, \"For a little while\nthere were even guys in the NFL and the AFL-remember the AFL?-\nguys who did the same thing. I think the last one was Chuck\nBednarik. Used to play for the Philadelphia Eagles.\"\nMcNutter gave him a smile that indicated he found that the most\nfascinating piece of information that had come his way in a long\ntime. But his eyes betrayed a state of panic. He turned toward\nFanon, his face seemingly wreathed in merriment, and said, \"How'd\nyou like to play defense and offense, Fareek?\" Then to Charlie: 'Tou\nplayed linebacker on defense, idd'n'at right?\"\n\"Hum hah heyyyy,\" sang Fareek mock-softly.\nCharlie nodded yes.McNutter tried out the question on Fanon once more: \"How'd you\nlike that? I could arrange it!\" As if this were the merriest\nconversation in years.\nFanon lowered his head, cast his eyes downward, expelled a big\nsnort of air through his nose, looked up with a gaze that shot\nhalfway between McNutter and Lawyer White, and said, \"I 'unno.\nNever thought about it.\"\nMcNutter was speechless for a moment. Then he began twisting a\nhuge ring on his left hand - a college ring, a Super Bowl ring,\nwhatever it was -with his right hand. Then he said to Charlie, \"I was\ntrying to explain to Fareek and Roger here about that thing you were\nfamous for in'at game with the Bulldogs, the time you were playing\ndefense and took the ball from their quarterback, but I didn't know\nany of the details.\"\n\"Aw, it was mostly luck,\" said Charlie. \"We were down by six points\nwith about forty seconds in the game, and the Bulldogs had the ball\non their own twenty-five. So all they had to do was eat up the clock\nwith runs up the middle and they had the ballgame.\"\n\"Y'alI'd just kicked off to 'em, right?\"\n'Teah.\"\n\"Because you'd just broken loose on a 48-yard touchdown run,\nright?\" McNutter looked toward Fanon as he uttered the last part of\nthe sentence, frantically hoping he had ignited at least a show of\ninterest in his twenty-year-old all-American. But Fanon remained\nregally removed from the sphere of conversation.\n\"Hoo hanh hoo hum hah heyyyyy, Sixty-Minute Man . . .\"\nNow McNutter looked frantically toward Charlie: \"So how'd it\nhappen?\"\n\"Well,\" said Charlie, \"they had a quarterback named Rufus Smiley.\nHe was a smart quarterback, but sometimes he got a little toosmart.\" Charlie looked toward Fareek Fanon to see if this story was\nas yet engaging him. The Cannon looked as if he had just departed\nthe room via astral projection. So Charlie turned back toward\nMcNutter. \"On first down, he handed off to this big fullback they had,\nRudy Brauer, and he ran right up the middle. On second down, he\ndid the same thing. By now he's eaten up twenty seconds, and\nthere's only twenty seconds left on the clock. So I figured we got to\nmake something happen. That's the onlv chance we had. So I\ndecided to blitz, right between center and guard-hoping for a\nfumble? Well, this was when Smiley got a little too cute. This time,\non third down, to eat up more time, he fakes a handoff to their\nwingback, who's in motion between Smiley and Rudy Brauer.\"\nCharlie looked at Fanon again. No one there. So then he looked at\nLawyer Roger White. The man at least pretended to be engrossed.\nSo Charlie kept looking at him, meantime maintaining a vigil out of\nthe corner of his eye for the attention of Fareek \"the Cannon\" Fanon.\n\"So I'm blitzing between center and guard, hoping to dislodge the\nball from Smiley or Brauer, and I get there-and I can't believe it!\"\nCharlie faked as much animation as he could with this yarn, hoping\nagainst hope to draw the mighty Fanon back into the conversational\norbit. \"Smiley's still holding the ball out like this\"-he pantomimed a\nquarterback holding the ball out for a handoff-\"to hand it off to\nBrauer after the fake to the wingback. So instead of going for\nSmiley, I went for the ball-and I know this is hard to believe, but I\ntook it just the way I would've if I'da been on offense. It was a\nhandoff-a wrong-way handoff.\" He was still looking at Fareek's\nlawyer, Roger White, who was smiling and nodding encouragingly.\nFareek Fanon, meantime, had the look on his face that you get when\nyou're in line at a pay telephone kiosk and the fellow on the\ntelephone just won't get off. Charlie plowed on: \"A split second later\nhere comes Brauer charging forward to take the handoff, and bam!-I\nsmack right into him. Like I say, he was a big sonofabitch, but I had\nthe momentum, because I'd blitzed from all the way behind the line\na scrimmage, and he got knocked right on his back. There was\nnobody between me and the goal line, and so I scored and we got\nthe extra point and won the game 14-13. I'm tellin'ya, I couldn'thardly believe it myself! If Smiley hadn'a fooled around with'at fake\nto the wingback, we'da lost'at game.\"\nWith a big smile Charlie surveyed his audience. Roger White,\nsmiling, shook his head with the shake that says \"Wow, that's\namazing!\" Coach Buck McNutter was smiling and nodding, not at\nCharlie but at Fareek, as if he thought his big head might create\nsome psychokinetic vibrations and cause his shaved-pate young all-\nAmerican to smile and nod with him. As for Fanon himself-well, at\nleast he was looking at Charlie for a change. He wasn't smiling, he\nwasn't nodding, he wasn't showing any particular reaction to this bit\nof Tech sports lore as related by the hero himself. The look he gave\nCharlie was a cross between dubious and skeptical, but at least his\nattention had been engaged.\nSo Charlie said to him, \"Fareek, I saw you make'at seventy-yard run\nagainst Tulane\"-Tulane-\"last year, the one where you shook off six\ntacklers?\"\nFareek kept looking at him, twisting his lips and nodding his head up\nand down a few times, as if to say, \"That's true, that happened, and\nso what?\" Then he sprawled back even farther on the couch, his\nlong shanks akimbo, and said to Charlie: \"Tulane, they teach'em to\ntackle headfirst,\" and then he shrugged, as if to say, \"That explains\nthat,\" and looked to McNutter for confirmation, which McNutter gave\nwith enthusiastic nods of the head. His big star had at least deigned\nto speak to the Sixty-Minute Man of yore. Fanon turned back to\nCharlie. Challenging:\n\"Who'd you play against?\"\n\"Who'd I play against?\"\n\" 'At game you was talkin'bout, where you took the ball from the\nquarterback.\"\n\"Georgia,\" said Charlie. \"University a Georgia.\"\n\"But who'd they have?\" said Fanon.\"Who'd they have?\" said Charlie.\n\"Playin' for'em.\"\n\"Who'd they have playin' for'em?\" Out of the corner of his eye\nCharlie could see both McNutter and White. Their faces were\nsagging with concern.\n\"Yeah,\" said Fanon, \"who?\"\n\"Well, hell,\" said Charlie, \"I remember some uv'em . . . Smiley, Rudy\nBrauer . . . they had this end named Goodykoontz, I remember him .\n. .\"\n\"Unnh-hunnnh,\" said Fanon, \"but what'd they be?\"\n\"Wha'ya mean, what?\" said Charlie.\nFanon said, \"How many uv'em was African Americans?\"\nRoger sagged back in his chair and closed his eyes. He knew exactly\nwhere this little Socratic dialogue of Fareek's was heading. Why had\nhe, Roger Too White, been so foolish as to tell Fareek that all the\nrecords set by Southeastern Conference greats of long ago didn't\nmean but so much, because all black athletes were shut out of the\ncompetition by racial segregation? Why had he told Fareek that at\nthe very least all the records in the record books of that time should\nhave asterisks with a footnote reading \"Black athletes\"-or, rather,\n\"African-American athletes\"-Fareek had already picked up the new\nnomenclature on his own-\"African-American athletes denied access\nto Conference schools\"?\nWhy had he wanted Fareek to know that the likes of Charlie Croker\nwould have probably been mediocre in contemporary competition?\nHe knew why. Oh yes, he knew why ... He had been desperate to\ningratiate himself with Fareek, so he would seem black as thou, so\nhe would be treated as something other than a bitch in a suit by this\nego- maniacal all-American with the diamonds in his earlobes. But\nhe never dreamed the kid would be stupid enough to use it againstCroker! If he'd told the kid once, he'd told him ten times that Croker\nwas sympathetic to his plight, that even though he hadn't played\nagainst black athletes, he was a big star in his day and understood\nhow people always tried to take advantage of stars like him, Fareek.\nHe'd done everything but write the kid a script of how this meeting\nshould go! He'd told him a hundred times that Croker was an old\nman, a bit of a throwback, part of the old white establishment, but\nthat he could also help him a great deal for that very reason! All he,\nFareek, had to do was be polite and act interested! He didn't even\nhave to be nice! All he had to do was be agreeable! And now the kid\nwas throwing all the background information in the man's face and\nsaying the hell with the foreground-which was his chance to get free\nand clear of the mess he was now in.\nHow many uv'em was African Americans? The question rocked\nCharlie. He stared at Fanon for a moment with no expression at all.\nThen he cast a glance toward McNutter, who opened his eyes wide\nand pulled his mouth over to one side in the look that says \"Don't\nblame me! I can't control this situation!\" Then he cast a glance at\nLawyer White, who was leaning back with his eyes closed in the look\nthat says \"Aw shit! I give up!\" Then Charlie said, in as even a tone\nas he could manage, \"None uv'em.\"\n\"So all'em records in the record books, they oughta all have axericks\nand little things saying 'African-American athletes excluded.' \"\nGod damn, thought Roger, he even remembered the asterisks. He's\nthrowing the whole goddamned thing into Croker's face, asterisks\nand all!\nCharlie's consternation gave way to a surge of anger. \"Look, my\nfriend, let me tell you something.\" Tale you sump'm. \"I was a kid like\nyou back then. It wasn't me who wrote the history of the South, and\nit wasn't me who ran Tech and the University a Georgia. I played the\nhand they dealt me, but I can tell you this much: I woulda played\nagainst any sonofabitch they put out there on the field. I was\ntwenty- two, twenty-three years old, and I didn't give a shit. 1 wasready to crawl any asshole they put up in front a me. Right after that\n1 went off to fight in Vietnam.\"\nRoger pressed back as far in his chair as he could go and braced for\nan explosion from his uncontrollable client-who had just been called,\nby proxy, a sonofabitch and an asshole. Instead, Fareek was just\nstaring at Croker, frozen, his lips parted. He looked as if the wind\nhad been knocked out of him. And now, all of a sudden, Roger was\nafraid Croker would try to crawl Fareek. So he blurted out:\n\"That's more or less what I was telling Fareek!\"\n\"What was?\" said Croker with a cross, puzzled look on his face.\n\"About how you were decorated during the war,\" said Roger Too\nWhite.\n\"Decorations ain't the point,\" said Croker, whose diction was\nbecoming more and more Down Home Baker County, the angrier he\nbecame. He shot an accusing look at Fareek. 'Tou ever been in a\nwar? You ever been in a far fat?\"\n\"What's a far fat?\" said Fareek.\nIt took a moment for Roger to figure out that far fat meant firefight.\nHe said hastily to Fareek: \"A firefight. A fight with gunfire, in a war.\"\n\"Naw,\" said Fareek in a surly but at least not hostile way, \"I ain't\nbeen in a war, and if they tried to make me, I'd do what Muhammad\nAli did. He refused to fight for the Devil.\"\n'Teah,\" said Croker, still fuming, \"Muhammad Ali wunt the fust man\nto ton yalla inna face a gunfar.\"\nRoger Too White closed his eyes again. He wasn't about to translate\nthat line for the benefit of his client. The situation was degenerating\ntoo rapidly already.\nCroker bulled on: \"Prize fats-and football, too, fars'at's consunned,\nthey's nothin' but share-raids fuh far fats.\"It took Roger a moment or two to figure out that \"share-raids\"\nmeant \"charades.\" He just prayed that Fareek never would figure\nthat out. He shut his eyes tighter.\n\"Mr. Croker? One Scotch-and-soda!\"\nAt the sound of the woman's voice, Roger opened his eyes. Coming\nthrough the doorway was Val McNutter. She had her strange leering\nsmile across her face, as if this were the happiest bunch of Buck's\npals who had been in the house in a long time and they were all\npanting for the arrival of Venus in the flesh. She carried the tall glass\nof Scotch- and-soda as if it were a gift from the goddess.\nOne belligerent, Croker, was suddenly neutralized, as if a switch had\nbeen flipped. The other belligerent, Fareek, was speechless, all eyes.\n\"Thank you,\" said Croker in an oddly faint voice as he took the glass,\n\"thank you veil much.\"\nThen Val McNutter pivoted on her high-heeled pumps, and this and\nthat and them and those went hither, thither, whither, crevice,\ncrevasse.\n\"Anything I can get for any a you other gentlemen?\" Such an\ninsinuating leer!\n\"No,\" said Roger, almost meekly, \"no thanks.\"\n\"No thanks, Val,\" said Buck McNutter in the voice of a whipped male.\nFareek, drinking in this vision as if preparing for a trip across a\nterrible desert, just shook his head.\nThe goddess stood motionless for a moment, turned to leave, then\nturned back with the most suggestive grin yet, and said, \"If you\nchange your mind, just ... let me know.\"\nSay what you want about her, thought Roger, but Madame\nMcNutter's wiggle in her walk had just defused a bad situation.To Roger's surprise, Mme McNutter's mate, Buck, offered the\nfollowing soothing opinion as soon as his wife left the room: 'Tou\ngotta admit one thing, Charlie. Some things never change. I betcha\nthey were the same for you, they sure's hell were the same for me\nwhen I was at Ole Miss, and I know for a fact they're the same for\nFareek now. I'm talking about the way these little groupies come on\nto you if you're on a football team. Everybody talks about it as if it's\nsomething just happened yesterday.\" Sump'm jes happened yest'y.\nThe might)- McNutter had always been a Cracker, thought Roger, but\nnow he was trying to get right down on the same wavelength with\nCroker. \"But it's just more of the same.\" Jes motor same. \"Now, tell\"-\ntale-\"the truth, Charlie, ain't'at the case?\"\nCharlie looked away and sighed and took a sip of Scotch-and-soda\nand said, \"I spose . . .\" Charlie was still angry, but his more\ncalculating self said, \"This kid's an obnoxious arrogant asshole, but\nyou need this deal, Charlie, and McNutter's offering you a way back\ninto it.\" So he looked at McNutter and nodded, as if to say, \"That's\ntrue, that's true.\"\nEncouraged, McNutter said, \"The only difference today is that the\ngirls flaunt it so much. You know what I'm saying? When we're on\nthe road, I prack'ly have to keep these characters\"-he smiled slightly\nand nodded in the direction of Fanon-\"under lock and key, because\nall these little cookies, these little groupies, they'll come right into\nthe hotel lobby or wherever the hell else we're staying. They're not\neven subtle about it. Right, Fareek?\"\nFanon gave a couple of grudging nods, just like Charlie's. Maybe he\nwanted to get back in the deal, too.\n\"And at the same time,\" said McNutter, anxious not to lose the\nmomentum he seemed to have built up, \"at the same time'at these\nlittle cookies're more aggressive about it than anybody my age or\nyour age could even imagine, there's a lot more jailbait out there.\nYou know what I mean? I'm not just talkin'bout underage girls-\nalthough God knows there's them, too-I . N talking about sexualharassment. . . sexual assault . . . date rape ... I mean, in my day all\nthose terms, they didn't even exist . . . You either had rape or you\ndidn't have rape. There wud'n anything in between, the way they\nhave now. Iddn'at the truth, Charlie?\"\nCharlie nodded. He nodded dourly but with one more up-and-down\nof the chin than the last time, and another wavelet of guilt began\nrolling through his nervous system. Yes, the sad truth was ... he\nwanted back in.\n\"I mean, you get some kid twenty or twenty-one years old,\"\nMcNutter was saying, \"and he's in the season of the rising sap, and\nhe's a football player, and the college has pep rallies, whole stadiums\nfulla students the day before the game, cheering and carrying on\nand telling'em how wonderful they are-what's a kid that age\nsupposed to think? It's a goddamned sexual minefield out there,\nCharlie!\"\nAll at once Charlie thought of Serena-and Martha. McNutter had his\nown Serena, obviously. That little cupcake who was just here didn't\ncome marching out of Ole Miss with Buck McNutter . . . Maybe it was\nall just an inflammation ... an epidemic . . . Maybe he shouldn't\ncondemn this big black kid just because . . . Inman . . . Elizabeth\nArmholster . . . How did he know what Elizabeth Armholster was\nlike? As McNutter said, this was a different world put there today for\nkids Fareek Fanon's age--\nCrrrraaaccckkk- Fanon was leaning back on the couch, his weight\nresting on the base of his spine and his head hanging down, busy\nwrapping one massive hand around the other and cracking his\nknuckles. His legs were spread wide apart. Charlie noticed for the\nfirst time that the\nCannon had on a wristwatch with a massive gold band and gold\nrings on both hands. The hands were so huge, the cracking of the\nknuckles sounded like vertebrae breaking. He was so big, it was hard\nto fit him in with any general statement about \"kids.\"McNutter was leaning forward in his chair, looking at Charlie. The\ncoach's neck was wider than his head, and his head was so big his\neyes looked like two tiny peepholes. \"Fareek's a great football player,\nCharlie, the greatest I personally ever had the pleasure a coachin',\nbut he's a babe in the woods as far as bein' a celebrity's concerned.\"\nHe shot a glance toward the great lad. \"I'm just telling it like it is,\nFareek.\" Fanon hung his head down even farther and stared at his\nmentor through a pair of sinister upturned eyes. McNutter said,\n\"What example's he ever had, Charlie-I mean, to deal with all\nthiAtuff? Tell Charlie about your dad, Fareek.\"\nA whispery rumbling voice came out of the great hung shaved head:\n\"Never knowed him.\"\n\"Never knew your own father,\" said McNutter in a solicitous voice.\nMore whispery rumble: \"My mama, she point him out one time, but I\nnever knowed him.\"\nMcNutter said, \"Tell Charlie where ypu grew up. You grew up on\nEnglish Avenue, iddn'at right? In the Bluff?\"\n\"Yeah,\" said Fareek Fanon. His head still hung low, and he seemed\nto be staring through the floor.\n\"And your mama,\" said McNutter, \"she looks to you as the first child\nshe ever had, the first person in her whole life, far as'at's concerned,\nwho ever made something of himself. Iddn'at true?\"\nHangdog: \"Yeah . . .\" Suddenly he lifted his head and, eyes ablaze,\nsaid to McNutter: \"And now they be messing with my\nendorsements!\"\nRoger Too White attempted to head off this particular lament. \"I'm\nsure that's the least-\"\n\"Ironman and Mars and Mishima,\" said an indignant Fareek Fanon,\nrunning right over Roger's words, \"they be biddin'gainst each otherfor three months, and now I don't hear nothing from any uv'em ever\nsince this girl run this game on me!\"\nRoger closed his eyes again. Technically Fareek was still an amateur,\neven though amateurism in Division I intercollegiate football had\nbecome pretty much a joke. Fareek was not only not supposed to be\nencouraging three sneaker manufacturers like Ironman, Mars, and\nMishima to bid for his endorsement when he turned pro, he wasn't\neven supposed to know about such things. Worse, by presenting his\nplight as a matter of money, he was throwing away his sentimental\nadvantage as the put-upon Bov from the Ghetto Who Made Good.\n\"Muh'fuh . .\" said Fareek, \"all some hubba ho got to do is run a\ngame on you, and these bitches in suits'at run these companies,\nthey don' wanna know your name no more.\" Fareek shook his great\nshaved head as if human perfidiousness had never before been\npushed to such an extreme.\nRoger said, \"But that isn't really what bothers you, is it, Fareek.\"\nBitterly: \"Naw, it don't bother me, it just pisses me off totally.\"\nMcNutter said, \"A lotta girls hit on you, come on to you, iddn'at\nright? Black girls, white girls, Asian girls, Hispanic girls, every kinda\ngirl, iddn'at the truth?\"\nFareek wrapped his eyebrows around his nose and finally said, \"I\nnever knowed any Asian groupies.\"\n\"But plenty a all kinds a others, right?\" said McNutter.\nFanon's eyes blazed at McNutter again. \"What's'ese three white\nhubba ho's doing at a Freaknic party, 'cep'n they wanna hook up and\ndo some jookin'? This girl, I never even seen her before'at night. All\nshe's doin's trying to get her ownself off the hook-\"\nRoger broke in: \"We're not here to go into details, Fareek. We're just\nhere to share our experiences in general. Mr. Croker's in a unique\nposition to understand . . . uh . . . uh . . . your position.\" He wasfishing for words, anything to keep Fareek from saying something in\nCroker's presence that could be used against him, especially\nconsidering the fact that the hoped-for deal with Croker appeared to\nbe heading straight down the toilet.\nFareek gave his lawyer a petulant look. \"All I'm saying is, ain't no\nway you can call it rape.\"\n\"Charlie,\" said Buck McNutter, \"it's very important to Fareek that he\nnot be charged with any crime. He's never been in trouble with the\nlaw, and if you grew up in the Bluff, the way he did, that's saying\nsomething. Fareek, tell Mr. Croker about the boys you used to run\nwith in the Bluff.\"\n\"What about em?\" said Fareek, genuinely nonplussed.\n\"Tell him where they are now.\"\n\"Aw yeah,\" said Fareek, as if suddenly remembering the lines of a\nsong. \"They's in jail or they's dead, most uv'em.\" He looked not at\nCharlie but at McNutter, as if waiting for approval.\n\"I'm sure Mr. Croker can relate to that, Fareek,\" said McNutter. Then\nto Charlie: \"I know, from sump'm I read, you didn' have any picnic\ngrowin' up, either.\"\nI can relate to that . . . What bullshit! Charlie was offended, but all\nhe said was \"Relate to that? Let's see . . . From the time I was born\nto the day I went off to the Army, I knew one boy, Bobby Lee Kite,\nwho got arrested for disturbing the peace after the usual Saturday-\nnight rock fight outside a McCrory's store up at Newton.\" He gave\nMcNutter an annoyed look and wondered if he got the irony. But\nthen he asked himself, \"Why am I bothering to be ironic? Why don't\nI tell these clowns what I really mean? Am I that weak? Am I that\ndesperate to keep the deal alive?\"\nTo his surprise, Fanon turned toward him-he hadn't looked squarely\nat him since he entered this room-and said, \"He says\"-he motioned\ntoward Lawyer White with his head-and it occurred to Roger thatFareek had never referred to him by name-\"he says you own a\nplantation.\"\nCharlie gave him a dubious look and said, \"That's right.\"\nRoger said, \"I was showing Fareek the article about you, in Atlanta\nmagazine.\"\n\"I heard about em,\" said Fareek Fanon, \"but I never seen one.\"\nCharlie had no idea what to say to that, and so he said nothing.\nFanon said, \"He told me you be having these weekends down'eh\nwhere you invite a lotta people.\"\nCharlie shrugged.\n\"You know what I'd like?\" said Fanon. \"I'd like to see one. I'd like to\ncome down'eh for one a those weekends.\"\nCharlie studied him for a moment. Fareek Fanon now had his arms\nstretched out along the ridge of the couch's backrest. He was so big,\nhis fingertips reached almost from one end of the couch to the other.\nCharlie was taken aback by the proposal, which came from out of\nnowhere, so far as he was concerned. The moment lengthened . . .\nlengthened . . . lengthened . . .\nCharlie said to himself, \"If I'm around this sonofabitch much longer,\nI'm gonna have to tangle with him.\" But what he said was 'Tou\nwouldn't like it, my friend. This iddn' a good time to go to Turpmtine,\nnot when it gets hot like this.\"\nFanon smacked his fist into the palm of his hand, and he said with\ngreat animation, \" 'At's what he told me! He told me 'at's what it's\ncalled-Turpmtine! He told me you go there and shoot quail!\nWhattaya shoot'em with?\"\n\"Whattaya shoot'em with?\" Charlie studied the young black man's\nface. Was he taunting him-or what? \"You shoot'em with shotguns.\"\"Shotguns . . .\" Fanon had a strange, dreamy smile on his face. \"I'd\nlike to try that.\"\n\"Quail season's over,\" said Charlie. \"Only runs from Thanksgiving to\nthe end a February. Nothing to hunt down'eh now but mosquitoes,\ngnats, horseflies, yellow flies, and privy flies.\"\nFanon looked to McNutter instead of Charlie, as if McNutter were the\ndaddy in charge of what was going on here. \"I don't care. I wanna\ngo see it anyway.\" Once more he motioned his head toward Lawyer\nWhite. \" 'Told me's just like it was a hundred and fifty years ago,\nbefore the Civil War, when they still had slaves. I wanna see that.\"\nJesus Christ, thought Roger, his face turning hot with\nembarrassment, this kid's got the discretion of a flea!\nJesus Christ! thought Charlie, that's all I need! He tried to imagine it\n. . . introducing this big black oaf to Durwood as his guest of honor .\n. . Fareek \"the Cannon\" Fanon sitting at the great tupelo-wood table\nin the Gun House, while Auntie Bella, Uncle Bud, and Mason get a\nload of His Insolence . . . His Insolence slouched back in his chair,\nshanks akimbo, cracking his knuckles while the help gather after\ndinner and sing \"Just a Closer Walk with Thee\" .. . His Insolence on\nthe grand tour, pausing to appreciate the designs in scrip on the face\nof the plantation store . . . Everybody-Billy Bass, Judge Opey\nMcCorkle- Inman!-finding out-and they would find out!-that he had\nthe notorious ravager of Elizabeth Armholster as his guest of honor\nat Turpmtine . . . No! It was beyond imagining!-a plunge into\nunfathomable shame! He looked at McNutter, looked at Roger White-\nmaybe they would say something!-get him out of this!-but they just\nsat there as if it were a perfectly normal thing, Fareek Fanon inviting\nhimself to Turpmtine.\nFinally, Charlie heard himself saying, \"Sorry. No way. Place is closed\nfor the season. Couldn't open it if the King of England was coming\nby.\" Fleetingly it occurred to him that there was no King of England.\n\"I'd have to bring a whole lotta people in. Don't know if I could evenfind'em at this late date.\" All the while he thought to himself, You're\nweak! You're buckling under! You're implying that if the timing were\nbetter, you would invite the sonofabitch to Turpmtine! He could see\nBuck McNutter and Roger White casting glances at each other. Could\nthey be thinking the same thing? He felt himself plunging helplessly\ninto an icy lake of shame.\nHe slapped the tops of his knees in the way that says \"That wraps it\nup. It's time to go.\" Then he stood up, with a feeble lurch, wincing\nat the pain of one big bone grinding against another in his knee.\n\"I gotta go,\" he said.\nFareek Fanon said to McNutter, \"What's he saying? I get to go to the\nplace or not?\"\nMcNutter stood up without answering the question. Lawyer White\nstood up, too, and so, at last, did Fareek Fanon. White said, sotto\nvoce, to Fanon, \"Come here a minute,\" and led him out into the\nhallway.\nCharlie started to leave, too, but McNutter held up a forefinger and\nsaid, \"Oh, Charlie . . .\" Then he drew closer and said, \"There's just\none other thing, Charlie. We can't let this whole business become\njust an issue where you have a 120-pound white girl from a good\nfamily- or whatever she weighs-you can't have her saying one thing\nand this 225-pound black athlete from the Bluff saying another\nthing, and that's all it is, just some-you know-isolated sex crime\ncomplaint. We have to show there's a whole . . . whole . . . whole\ncommunity of support for this young man and that this support cuts\nacross the usual lines of race and class, and so forth and so on.\"\n\"So you don't think he did it,\" said Charlie.\n\"Look, Charlie,\" said McNutter, \"I can't prove anything one way or\nthe other, but Fareek's version of what happened makes sense to\nme, from everything I know about the way things go these days.\"\"And what's Fareek's version?\"\n\"Between you and me?\" asked McNutter, arching his eyebrows and\nwaiting for a reply.\n\"Okay, between you and me.\"\n\"Between you and me, what Fareek says happened is, he says the\ngirl's at this party and she comes on to him and so he takes her into\nthe bedroom, and bam-bam thank you ma'am, that's it, and he don't\nthink anything more about it.\"\n\"And you believe that?\" said Charlie.\n\"Like I say, I can't swear to anything, but I can tell you this much: I\nwasn't kidding when I said there's girls out there coming up to these\nathletes all day long and shakin' their little booties at'em and sayin'\n'Help yourself,' and a kid's being African-American don't make any\ndifference if he's a big enough star, and Fareek's real big-time so\nfar's being a star's concerned.\"\nCharlie studied McNutter all over again. It was the term African\nAmerican that got him. What the hell had happened to McNutter? He\nhad always figured the guy to be a good old boy from Mississippi,\nand here he was observing this new . . . etiquette ... or whatever it\nwas.\n\"Now, here's the thing, Charlie,\" McNutter was saying, \"it's real\nimportant for you to be a part of Fareek's defense.\"\n\"Me?\"\n\"Look, nobody's gonna ask you to say Fareek ain't guilty in this\nthing, because that you don't know. Just like 1 don't know. And\nnobody's even gonna ask you to say anything nice about Fareek. I\nknow he's not the easiest kid in the world to get along with.\nAlthough a lot of it is that nobody ever raised him to he polite.\nNobody ever taught him about everyday common courtesy. All you'd\nhave to do would be to tell what you do know, namely, that you'vebeen there before. You know the pressures being a football star for\nTech, in a town like this that goes crazy over the sport. You know\nhow people try to exploit you-or whatever-however you want to put\nit.\"\nCharlie was speechless. His lips were parted.\n\"And look at it this way,\" said McNutter. 'Tou wouldn't be speaking\nout on behalf of Fareek or even on behalf of Tech, although it would\nmean a lot to Tech, and I'm talking about from Welly Swindell all the\nway down. No, you'd be doing something for the whole city. You'd\nbe saying, 'Whoa! Slow down! Let's don't rush to any judgments\nhere! Let's don't tear ourselves apart along racial lines! And you\nknow what? The whole town will applaud you. Everybody'll talk\nabout your courage, including the Journal-Constitution. You can be\nsure that they'll be behind you a hundred percent. Your very\npresence there -a press conference is what we're thinking of-your\npresence, saying 'Stay cool, let's wait for the facts, let's have open\nminds, let's be fair'-the press will hail your very presence as an act of\nleadership and courage.\"\n\"Great,\" said Charlie. \"And what other courageous white people you\nthink are gonna show up for this?\"\n\"That's a fair question, Charlie,\" said McNutter, \"and I'm gonna\nanswer it as candidly as I can. So far all I know of is Herb Richman.\nYou know, the guy who owns all the fitness centers,\nDefinitionAmerica?\"\n'Yeah, I know,\" said Charlie. Jewish and a liberal; the phrase was by\nnow fixed in his brain.\n\"But he don't really carry much weight,\" said McNutter.\n\"And what about you?\" said Charlie.\n\"Me?\"\n'Yeah. Are you gonna speak out for Fareek?\"\"Well, we been thinking about whether I ought to or not. I'd come\nacross as an obviously interested party.\"\n\"Unnh-hunnnnh,\" said Charlie dubiously.\n\"So how about it?\" said Buck McNutter.\nCharlie just stood there staring at McNutter's huge head and its\nfussy silver-blond hairdo here in Langhorn Epps's old mahogany-\npaneled study. So he was to be the lone white person speaking out\non behalf of this lout! Inman ... It was impossible! Who could he\nlook in the face after that? Who of all the people he had entertained\nat Turpmtine would ever come again? On the other hand, if he\nrefused-then suppose he lost Turpmtine, lost everything he had,\nincluding his house on Black- land Road-was wiped out! demolished!-\nthe result would be the same, wouldn't it! No one would come visit\nhim then, either! All that which comprised the great Cap'm Charlie-\npunctured, deflated, humiliated abjectly, pitied . . . and not even that\nfor very long.\nChapter 25Starring Darwell Scruggs\nLate this particular afternoon, as usual, charlie drove home from\nCroker Concourse and went in the house and headed for the library-,\nwhere Jarmaine Woo always left his mail in a neat, squared-off pile\non his desk, right in front of his chair, an old walnut swivel chair\nupholstered in oxblood-red leather, the most comfortable chair in the\nhouse to Charlie's way of thinking. As usual, he took off his jacket,\nloosened his necktie, and opened his shirt at the collar as soon as he\nentered the room, sat in the chair, turned on the desk lamp, leaned\nback, exhaled a contented sigh, and eyed his stack of mail, which\nwas no greater and no smaller than usual. In an age of telephones,\nfaxes, and computers, the mail seldom required any true cogitation.\nFund- raising requests, invitations, bills, mail-order catalogues; and\nthere you had it. Charlie had come to look forward to this mindless\ninterlude. Mindlessness meant not thinking about PlannersBanc,\nFareek Fanon, Inman Armholster, perfidy, betrayal, or financial ruin.\nAnd then he noticed a package Jarmaine had placed to the left of\nthe stack of mail and slightly behind it. Idly he leaned forward and\npicked it up and sank back in the swivel chair again. No postage;\nmust have been delivered by a courier service. It was one of those\npadded manila mailers that books come in, and indeed the contours\nof what was inside looked like a book's. In the upper-left-hand\ncorner, in a typeface with a lot of bold flourishes that Charlie couldn't\nhave begun to describe, was the legend stone mountain productions,\nwith an address in Decatur. In the lower-left-hand corner was a large\ngold seal, almost three inches in diameter, bearing more fancy type,\nwhich said: Croker Concourse: A Vision of the Future. Then in\nsmaller letters: \"A Stone Mountain Production.\"\nCharlie sat upright in the chair. What the hell was this supposed to\nbe? Croker Concourse? A Vision of the Future?\nHe found the mailer's little opener tab and ripped it open and pulled\nout ... a videotape cassette. On one edge was a label in the sametypeface, but smaller, saying: \"Croker Concourse: A Vision of the\nFuture. A Stone Mountain Production.\" Various possibilities came\nchurning through his mind. His own publicity people? Had they made\na promotional tape without his knowledge? Or was he always so\ngroggy from insomnia he had forgotten?\nWearily he got up from his beloved chair and limped over to the\ntelevision set, a monster concealed in an old-fashioned cherry-wood\ncabinet the size of a closet, and inserted the tape in the VCR slot.\nThe set immediately came to life, and Charlie limped back to his\ndesk, withdrew a little remote-control gadget from a drawer, and\nsank back in his chair once more. At first, no sound: just an FBI\nwarning about unauthorized use of this material-Never saw a\npromotional tape with an FBI warning, thought Charlie-and then\n\"Croker Concourse: A Vision of the Future\" and \"A Stone Mountain\nProduction\" in bold white lettering against a black background, and\nthen music, just music at first, no picture. The music Charlie\nrecognized. BOOM boom BOOM boom-it was the same as the theme\nsong for that movie-what was it called?- 2001, that was the name of\nit, 2001: A Space Odyssey. BOOM boom BOOM boom DAH\ndahhhhhh-but wasn't that a little . . . bombastic for a real estate\nvideo? Then came the picture. The camera seemed to be swinging\nacross an infinite sea of green. The tops of trees were what you\nwere looking at, a lush forest stretching on toward the horizon, and\nthen, in the distance, a tower with a dome-like top: the tower at\nCroker Concourse. The 2001 music continued, and as the camera\ndrew slowly closer to the tower, a voice ... a solemn baritone voice .\n. . said: \"From out of the tangled trees and thickets of Cherokee\nCounty, Georgia, a land formerly devoted to hoed rows, lowing\ncattle, and country stores with Coca-Cola emblems at either end of\nthe sign out front, rises . . .\"\nThe camera now had the tower in a close-up-\"one man's vision of\nthe future ... for metro Atlanta ... if not, indeed, metro America.\"\nThe BOOM boom DAH dahhhhhhhh music swelled up into a veritable\nthunder of grandiloquence. The camera was now above CrokerConcourse and showed the roofs of the mall, the hotel, the\napartments, the tower, before lingering, for some unfathomable\nreason, over the immense blacktop of the parking area, which was\npractically empty. The camera lingered and lingered and lingered\nover all that empty asphalt. Charlie was going to have to have a few\nwords with whoever approved the editing of this damned thing.\nMeantime, the voice was saying: \"And that man is . . . Charles Earl\nCroker.\" A stock publicity shot of Charlie filled the screen. Earl? He\nnever used the Earl, and he had told them not to use it in publicity\nmaterial . . . Take your eye off the ball for a couple of seconds and\nthese people will find some way to screw up on you every time . . .\n\"And that development is . . . Croker Concourse . . .\" BOOM boom\nBOOM boom BOOM boom BOOM boom . . . Now the camera\nlingered lovingly on the tower itself, moving slowly down one side.\nFloor after floor . . . you could see clear through them . . . Looking\nthrough the window on this side you could see through the window\nwall on the far side . . . floor after floor after floor . . . because there\nwere no tenants in them . . . The damnable term see-through\nbuilding-the name for new developments that were desperately\nshort of tenants-popped unbidden into Charlie's brain. The solemn\nvoice said: \"And that future? ... a future free from leasehold\nobligations and, for that matter, leases.\" What the hell was that\nsupposed to mean?\nSuddenly-no more Croker Concourse, no more trees, no more music.\nInstead, a man in a gray suit sitting alone at a long plastic-laminate\nconference table in a practically bare room. The man was smiling\nand looking straight into the camera as he said:\n\"Good morning, Mr. Croker, or good afternoon or good evening,\nwhatever the case may be.\"\nHim! The insolent one with the big chin! Zale or Zell or whatever it\nis! What the hell was this? Charlie wanted to kill the picture with the\nclicker, the remote-control gadget, but he was too morbidly\nhypnotized by what he now saw.\"We've chosen this unconventional way of saying hello because our\nconventional attempts-I might mention innumerable telephone calls,\nletters, faxes, E-mail, FedEx envelopes, and in-person requests for\naudiences-have produced no response. But we feel sure that you will\nrespond to this documentary about the creation of Croker\nConcourse.\"\nNow Charlie recognized where this bastard was. The conference\ntable he was sitting at was the same one they had used for the\nworkout session. You could see the modular units that made up the\ntable but didn't meet truly. In the background, over there, was that\nsame dying dracaena plant with the drooping yellow fronds. And\nvisible on a side wall: one of the huge rude no smoking signs.\nZale's rasping, grinding voice was saying: \"Our story begins seven\nyears ago, when Charlie Croker was looking for land in the southern\npart of Cherokee Count)' for a grand outer perimeter mixed-use\ndevelopment. To his surprise, he learned that speculators had\nalready decided that the county had a great future and had bought\nup most of the land and were willing to sit on it until the moment for\nhigh-priced development arrived. As things now stood, the land was\nprohibitively expensive. The acreage Charlie Croker required for\nCroker Concourse would have cost approximately $4 million.\"\nThe sound of this man's grating voice, the cocksureness with which\nhe tilted his great melon of a chin up whenever he wanted to make\na particularly salient point, reminded Charlie all too grimly of how\nmuch this bastard had already humiliated him. Yet he couldn't turn\nhim off. He was spellbound. What nasty surprise did his nemesis\nhave for him this time?\nThe nemesis continued: \"One day Charlie Croker was driving slowly\nthrough a Cherokee County back road, looking for land the\nspeculators might have missed, when he came upon a familiar figure\nwalking along the side of the road. His name was Darwell Scruggs.\"Now a picture of Darwell filled the screen, but a picture from way\nback. It was from the high-school annual! No mistaking Darwell: that\nthin, hollow-cheeked face coupled with huge ears that stuck way out\nto here and a nose about twice too big for his face. Back then the\nannual was a homemade job. You got Ping-Pong pictures of yourself\nfor everybody in the class, and you wrote each other's captions, and\nyou pasted it all up in scrapbooks, and you made one extra, which\nthe school kept.\nThis man Zale was saying: \"Charlie Croker and Darwell Scruggs had\nbeen classmates in high school in Baker County thirty-five years ago,\nand so Croker stopped his car, greeted his old friend, and talked a\nbit. In high school Darwell Scruggs had been memorable mainly\nbecause he had joined the Ku Klux Klan as a teenager and bragged\nabout it openly. Darwell was now living in Cherokee County, where\nhe had formed a Klan kave himself. \"Aha!\" said Charlie Croker.\nThe wrenching, rasping voice of this man Zale proceeded to tell the\nwhole story of Charlie's oh-so-ingenious and oh-so-insidious scheme.\nThere was Andre Fleet leading his placard-carrying black protesters\nfrom Atlanta through Canton, the count)' seat. There was Darwell\nScruggs, albeit not in white raiment and point)' hood, screaming vile\nracial imprecations along with a pack of raggedy youths. There were\ntelevision crews from around the country, and there was Frank Farr's\nnetwork talk show boldly broadcast from the very main drag of\nCanton as a fist in the face of racism . . . And there was the\nreputation of lovely, leafy Cherokee Count)' being dragged through\nthe muck . . . And there were close-ups of deeds of transfer showing\nthat Charlie Croker had now been able to assemble his land in this\nviciously slandered count)' for about $200,000, one-twentieth of\nwhat it would have cost before Andre Fleet and Darwell Scruggs did\ntheir duet.\nThen this Zale's face grew larger on the screen, and his eyes seemed\nto pierce Charlie's. \"As far as we can tell, Mr. Croker, there is nothing\nillegal about any action you took. You merely manipulated public\nopinion. Happens ever)' day in this free country of ours.Congratulations. The citizens of Cherokee County will no doubt\nmarvel at your cleverness.\" He smiled broadly and, as the camera\npulled back, opened the jacket of his suit in order to adjust his belt\nwhere it went through the belt loops on the sides. And now you\ncould see his suspenders. Death's- heads ran up and down a black\nroad on either side. BOOM boom BOOM boom BOOM-and the music\nreached its finale as the picture of that impudent gladiola faded out\non the screen.\nCharlie felt as if he had just been kicked in the abdomen by a horse.\nHis head and shoulders keeled forward and he shut his eyes and\nslumped over. How did they know? Who could have possibly told\nthem? There were a few people who knew he had been \"friendly\nwith\" Andre Fleet at one time. But nobody knew about Darwell\nScruggs. Nobody would see it as just a shrewd move by a developer,\nwould they . . . They'd want his head. They'd want his very hide. It\nwould be worth his life to step across the county line-or to show up\nat the Piedmont Driving Club, as far as that went. Just let this tape\ncirculate and he'd be finished. How did they know! Too late to even\nask. The fact was, they knew\\\nSlumped over like a dead man, he opened his eyes and let them pan\naround the room. The Great Man's Library ... by the celebrated Mr.\nRonald Vine of New York ... all the carved wood, the $250-a-yard\nfabrics, the custom-made carpet from What-the-hell-was-the-name-\nof- that-place-in-New-York ... He was precisely where he had\ndreamed of being as a young man: living in a mansion in Buckhead,\nthe master builder of metro Atlanta, creator of a gleaming tower\nnamed after himself, a man whose footsteps made the halls of the\nmighty vibrate . . . and how hollow it all was! It meant only that\nwhen your egomania and the defects in your character finally\nplunged you into ruin, your collapse would provoke more and tastier\ngloating. That would be it! They'd chuckle, rub their hands together,\nand smack their lips-and that would be the great Charlie Croker's\nentire legacy. What a fraud he was! - sitting here in his oxblood\nleather throne as if any of it were still . . . his . . . Why couldn't heput an end to it all by . . . disintegrating, by vanishing, by walking\nout into the woods and never coming back? . . . Oh sure . . . With\nhis knee, he'd be lucky to walk a hundred yards . . . Why couldn't\nhe--\nDear Lord-take me away! Take me away in the night! I go to bed\nand never wake up, and it's all over . . . But shit, never wake up?-\nnever wake up, how? I have total insomnia, I 'never go to sleep in\nthe first place! . . . Besides, just how could the Lord take him away?\nVia a heart attack-or what? He was a logical enough candidate for a\nheart attack. He was way too heavy, and he hadn't taken care of\nhimself when it came to diet or exercise, and his was what they call\na type-what the hell kind of type was it?-he had that type of\npersonality. But if he just lay down at night and waited for God to\ncall him across the river Jordan via coronary ischemia, he might have\na long wait. Maybe he could induce a heart attack. He would start\nrunning, sprinting the way they used to sprint in training at Tech,\nand his heart couldn't take it-but neither could his knee. Jesus Christ\n... he could see it now . . . He's running like hell in order to kill\nhimself. . . and he has to discontinue killing himself because his knee\nhurts . . . Reminded him of the story he had read somewhere of the\nman who decided to kill himself by swimming out to sea until he was\nutterly exhausted and then would have no choice but to sink and\ndrown. So he starts out-and all of fifteen yards from shore he runs\ninto a flotilla of stinging nettles and can't stand it and turns back.\nWell-why not the sea? And in that moment he understood for the\nfirst time the death of Robert Maxwell, whose body had been found\nin the sea near where his yacht was moored. No one had ever been\nable to figure it out, but now Charlie . . . knew. Maxwell had faced\nbankruptcy, humiliation, and, likely as not, a prison sentence. So he\nclimbed over the railing of the yacht one night and hung from the\nedge of the deck by his fingertips. He hung on until he couldn't hang\non anymore. He hung on until his immense weight, almost three\nhundred pounds, began to tear the muscles of his shoulders and his\nupper back. T hen he let loose and hit the water and swallowed the\nocean and drowned. The torn muscles made it look as if he hadslipped overboard and had struggled mightily to clamber back to\nsafety. That way he didn't let the bastards have the satisfaction of\nknowing he had taken his own life. But he, Charlie, didn't have a\nyacht. Maybe-a shotgun. He handled shotguns all the time, and a\nshotgun could blow you away at short range. Fontaine Perry!\nFontaine Pern' had owned a big plantation near Thomasville, and\none day he was out hunting wild turkey. So he winged one, and the\nbird led him on one of those wild chases through the underbrush\nsuch as only turkeys can do. Fontaine is plunging down a slope after\nthe turkey, and he stumbles, and a vine rips the shotgun out of his\nhands and twists it about so that he falls on the muzzle, and the gun\ndischarges right into his belly. You don't survive a load of buckshot in\nyour intestines, and the accident would be easy enough to simulate.\nBut Jesus Christ, how Fontaine suffered! Hung on for three days-in\nmortal agony! And suppose, through some \"miracle,\" you didn't die,\nand you had to live as a cripple with a colostomy bag- and you still\nhad all your problems . . . and all the vultures were still circling . . .\nThere had to be some way to do it the way Maxwell did it . . . What\nwas he thinking--\nChrist, why didn't he just put the shotgun in his mouth and be done\nwith it? But then he would be right back where he started. The\nbastards would . . . gloat . . . and who was supposed to have the\nnice surprise of coming upon your body with your head exploded like\na melon and your brains all over the wallpaper?\nSo there really was only one hope. It would be hard to look Inman in\nthe eye afterward-it would be hard to look anybody in the eye\nafterward-but they'd get over it. He, Charlie, would call it \"saving the\ncity at a critical moment.\" Maybe he'd call Inman ahead of time and\ntell him what he was going to do, and Inman would understand . . .\nOh yeah, tell me another one! . . . But-this was his only hope, and\nmaybe it would be good for the city in the long run . . . Stop kidding\nyourself! ... He swiveled toward the credenza by his desk and picked\nup the telephone book, which had been outfitted with a stiff oxblood\nleather cover Ronald got from someplace in New York-Anthony's orsomething like that?-and looked for the number . . . Wringer\nFleasom & Tick . . . Wringer Fleasom & Tick . . . Wringer Fleasom &\nTick . . . Here it was ... Well... Here goes ... Christ... He didn't know\nwhether he wanted that sonofabitch with the British clothes to still\nbe at the office ... or not... He picked up the receiver and punched in\nthe numbers.\nat that very moment, it so happened, Conrad Hensley was making a\ntelephone call of his own. He had walked over to Asian Square, on\nthe Buford Highway, and gone into a Cambodian bank and had ten\ndollars of his remaining stash of cash changed into rolls of quarters,\nwhich he put into his overnight bag. What time was it in California?\nAbout 3:30. That should be about right. He went to a telephone\nbooth near the Vietnamese music store, punched in the numbers,\nand started pumping in quarters when the automated voice told him\nto. Three rings, four rings, five rings. Damn. Would he be up and out\nalready? Six rings-and then someone picked up.\n\"Hello.\" The fact that this consummate Okie pronounced even hello\non the first syllable blipped through Conrad's mind, but all he said\nwas:\n\"Kenny?\"\n\"Yeah.\"\n\"This is Conrad.\"\nA pause; then: \"I'll be damned! Crash'n'bum! Where you-naw, don't\ntell me where-I don't even wanna know. A couple neckties came by\nhere last week asking if I knew where you were.\"\n\"Neckties?\"\n\"FBI.\"\nA wave of neural alarm went through Conrad's solar plexus. \"The\nFBI? Are you sure?\" His voice was suddenly hoarse.\"That's what they said. I can't think of why anybody'd fake it.\"\n\"Where was this?\"\n\"Here. My house.\"\n\"What did they want?\"\n\"They wanted to know if I knew where you're at. So don't tell me.\"\n\"How did they connect you with me?\"\n\"I don't know. Maybe somebody at the freezer. Maybe somebody you\nknow.\"\n\"What did you tell them?\"\n\"I told them the truth. I said I hadn't seen you since the night you\ngot laid off. I said didn't even know you'd been in jail until I saw it\non the teevee after the earthquake.\"\nKenny's \"I told them the truth\" made Conrad wary. 'Tou think they\nmight be bugging your telephone?\"\n\"I doubt it. I mean, shit, this is a fucking nickel-and-dime case\nexcept for the fact that you're the only one at Santa Rita still\nunaccounted for. But you never know. So you might as well be\ncareful what you say.\"\n\"Look, Kenny, the last thing in the world I want is for you to get in\ntrouble over me.\"\n\"Fuck it. Crash'n'burn, old buddy! Sooner or later they'll hang me\nfrom the necktie on the bald man the same way they did you.\"\n\"All the same, I wouldn't want it to be because of me.\"\n\"Fuck it, old buddy. You can't spend your whole fucking life\ncringing.\"\"How much has there been on television about\"-he started to say\nme but changed his mind-\"all this?\"\nKenny laughed. \"Aw man, for six or seven days there, I'm telling\nyou, you were a media celebrity! My old buddy. I never knew you\nwere such an evil sonofabitch. They said you were in Santa Rita for\n'aggravated assault,' for beating up a repair shop employee and\ncausing him to suffer a nearly fatal heart attack. There you were, in\na mug shot, my old buddy, the only Ice Humper in the whole\nSuicidal Freezer Unit who still had his head on straight enough to\nwrestle eighty-pound blocks a ice and worry about his wife and kids\nat the same time. I had to fucking laugh.\"\n\"Did they say I'd escaped, or what?\"\n\"Well, lemme see . . . At first there musta been twenty or thirty\ninmates unaccounted for. They were going through the rubble and\nevery other goddamned thing. I mean, Santa Rita was like . . . wiped\nout. Pretty soon they'd found or captured all but nine, I think it was,\nand that was when they started showing the mug shots. There you\nwere. You were the only white man in the lineup. I think there was\none Chinese guy with these big eyeglasses. The rest of 'em, they\nwere East Oakland all the way. Then they caught three uv'em hiding\nout in Pleasanton. Man, how three Oakland homeboys could hide out\nfor two clays in Pleasanton I don't fucking know, but that's what\nthey did. Then they caught the Chinaman in Martinez and four\nhomeboys in Oakland. So that left you. You were the star, man! I\nmean, I about-\"\nA mechanical voice interrupted and asked for more money. Conrad\npumped in more quarters.\n\"Like I was saying,\" said Kenny, \"I about cracked up! If I'da hadda\npick out the last Ice Mumper at Croker Global Foods who was going\nto end up as an underworld escape artist, idda been you, bro! Man,\nwe talked about you in the freezer for musta been three weeks\nstraight.\"\"What'd the guys think?\"\n\"We were proud a you, Conrad! One a our mates had done it! We\nwere rooting for you! We're still rooting for you!\"\n\"God . . .\" said Conrad. \"Well, tell our friend in Oakland she's great.\nEverything's worked out just the way she said it would. Her people\nwere the best-straight shooters. And tell the guy who introduced me\nto her he's great, too. Without the . . . assets ... he gave me, I\ncouldn't have made it.\"\n'Tou in the place she was talking about now?\"\n'Teah. I'll move soon, but everything's fine. Soon's I get work, I'm\ngonna pay that guy back.\"\n\"Aw, forget about it, Conrad. I don't think the guy's lost any sleep\nover it. Crash'n'burn.\"\n\"Kenny . . . were you able to reach Jill?\"\n'Teah. I called her as soon as you-as soon as possible. I told her-\neverything I figured she'd need to know.\"\n\"Did she seem to know who you were?\"\n\"I guess so. I think she said you'd mentioned me.\"\n\"What did she say? How did she take it?\"\n\"She didn't say much. I think she was so surprised, she didn't know\nwhat to say. I remember she said, is he coming home?' \"\n\"So what'd you say?\"\n\"I said to her, 'Probably not right away.' \"\n\"Did she say anything about the kids?\"\n\"Naw, but you got to remember it was a pretty short conversation.\"\"Listen, Kenny . . . just one other thing. If you can call her again-\njust tell her I'm okay, and I am gonna come home when things are a\nlittle better. Tell her I think of her and Carl and Christy all the time.\nBut you wanna know something, Kenny? I can't even remember\nwhat my kids look like. In my mind it's like the sun's gone down and\nit's twilight, and all I can see is these two dim, blurred little children.\nWell-don't let me get started on all the things . . .\" He didn't finish\nthe sentence. \"But one thing I've gotta tell you. I used to think\nabout you guys, you and Light Bulb and Herbie Honda and Dom and\nNick Necktie and Tony when I was in Santa Rita. You remember how\nwe used to hump product for Santa Rita?\"\n\"Aw yeah,\" said Kenny. \"Nobody was sorry when the quake\ndemolished that fucking place. I used to hate those orders.\"\n\"Remember all those eighty-pound cartons of frozen chicken parts?\"\n\"Aw yeah.\"\n\"Well, at Santa Rita we used to practically live on pancakes and\nchicken. Ever)' time a trusty passed a paper plate with a chicken leg\nthrough a porthole in the door a the cell, I could feel it all over\nagain, what it felt like squatting down in the upper bin of Row W,\nSlot 9, and humping one a those eighty-pound blocks a ice.\"\n\"You know, Conrad,\" said Kenny, \"this may sound cra^y, but I envy\nyou. I'm not kidding. At least you're out there-living. I'm always\ntalking about crashing and burning, but all I'm really doing is\nhumping blocks of ice all night. What you're doing is cool, no matter\nhow it turns out.\"\nConrad said, \"You were right the first time-you sound crazy. One\nthing I can tell you, being down in Santa Rita was not cool.\"\n\"At least you're-\"\n\"At least nothing, Kenny. Santa Rita was a lunatic asylum where you\nlive like an animal in the wild, except that all the animals are cooped\nup in the same pod. Half a them are literally lunatics. They're sittingaround in their cells moaning, 'Mehhhhds . . . mehhhhds . . .\nmehhhhds . . .' That's what they called medicine, meds. These guys\nare so far gone, they need pills all day just to cool off enough to\nmake it to lights-out, and then they scream and moan all night.\nWhat you need isn't something cool. What you need is a plan. You\nneed to look down the road five years and say to yourself-\"\nKenny broke in: \"Hey! You're your old self, Conrad! You're still\nlooking down my road for me! I was afraid all this shit had fucked\nyou up -but you're normal! You're my old buddy!\"\nAll the way back to Meadow Lark Terrace the smile stayed on\nConrad's face.\n\"gladys?\"\nOnly after he said it did it occur to Roger that he had never called\nher by her first name before. But he was too excited to worry about\nthat now. His left hand, which held the receiver, was shaking so\nbadly he could feel it rocking on his ear. Nerves; but a good case of\nnerves.\n\"Yes?\" said Gladys Caesar.\n\"This is Roger White. I'd like to speak to the Mayor. I think this is\none call he'll want to take.\"\n\"Oh, hi, Mr. White. Let me see if I can get him.\"\nIn due course: \"Brother Roger?\"\n\"Brother Wes. We're in business. I just got a call from our friend the\nSixty-Minute Man. He'll do it.\"\n\"Way to go, Brother Roger! That's great. You're a mighty warrior!\nWhat was his mood?\"\n\"He sounded awful, if you want to know the truth. He sounded . . .\nmighty low.\" Roger said it in a put-on basso profundo. \"But he hasn'tforgotten how to bargain. He said the deal isn't on until we prove\nthat we can get PlannersBanc off his case.\"\n\"Well, it's too late to do anything today. But I can make a phone call\nin the morning. You sure he'll do what we say?\"\n\"Positive, Wes. The press conference-everything.\"\n\"Great, great, great. I'm not just saying this, Roger: you've done this\ncity a great service.\"\n\"Thanks.\"\nRoger hung up the telephone and gazed out over South Atlanta from\nhis high perch at Wringer Fleasom on Peachtree Street. Without\neven knowing he was doing it, he inhaled and expanded his chest.\nThe mighty warrior, fresh from the fray.\nChapter 26Holding Hands\nHow could harry accept it so nonchalantly? was this some kind of\npractical joke? Was Jack Shellnutt suddenly going to pop in from out\nin the corridor and say, \"Just kidding, Ray!\"? Peepgass actually\nflicked a glance toward Harry's interior glass wall, which looked out\nupon the corridor. Meantime, Harry continued to lounge back in the\nchair behind his desk with his hands interlaced behind his head and\nhis elbows sticking out on either side and the skulls and cross- bones\non his suspenders parading up and down his chesty torso. There was\nno way Peepgass could have struck a relaxed pose like that, even if\nhis desk chair had had leather upholstery as plush and creamy\nsmooth as Ham's, which looked edible. He wasn't that good an actor.\n\"What did he mean, 'lay off Croker for now'?\" said Peepgass, who\nwas standing on the other side of Harry's desk and lifting both hands\nin front of him, palms up, in the gesture that says \"Give me . . . a . .\n. breakl That's incredible.\" Aloud: \"What did he give as a reason?\"\nHarry, still totally at ease, said in his rasping voice, \"I'm sure you\nknow Plyers by now. He's a courier. He's not a great one for\nexplanations.\" On the organizational chart Morgan Plyers was a vice\npresident; in point of fact, he was Arthur Lomprey's aide-de-camp\nand frequently relayed the maximum leader's instructions. \"He said it\nwas a 'macro- decision.' \"\n\"A macro-decision?\" said Peepgass. \"What's that supposed to\nmean?\"\n\"You never heard Arthur talk about macro-decisions?\" said Harry.\n\"That means it doesn't have anything to do with the specific issue at\nhand. It's part of some larger strategy.\"\nPeepgass shook his head. \"I'd sure like to know what larger strategy\nhe's talking about, unless from now on we're supposed to let the\nshitheads take their sweet time paying us back in the hope that our\nkindness will stir them to dig deeper.\"Harry smiled. \"Ray! You really get worked up over this Croker case,\ndon't you! We may have to conscript you into the workout\ndepartment! That's what we need here, guys like you and Shellnutt\nwho see traitor branded on the brow of every shithead.\"\n\"Not every shithead, Harry, but Croker has lied, cheated, stolen,\nstalled us, laughed at us, played us for suckers-this particular\nshithead thinks he's too big to play by the rules.\"\n\"I don't think he's been feeling all that big, not since we took his G-5\naway from him,\" said Harry.\n\"That may be-what's Arthur mean, 'lay off for now'? How long is 'for\nnow'?\"\n\"Plyers didn't say,\" said Harry. \"Between you and me, I doubt that\nArthur lets him in on the answer to most of these things.\"\nPeepgass just stood there, speechless, incredulous. He couldn't\nbelieve Lomprey could have actually issued such an order, he\ncouldn't believe Croker was off the hook, regardless of what \"for\nnow\" meant, and he couldn't believe Harry, he who maintained he\nliked to see the cinders dance, could take it with such equanimity.\nPeepgass could already look two steps ahead. If \"for now\" dragged\non very long, his whole campaign to squeeze Croker into handing\nover his properties would lose its momentum. Croker might get his\nbrute aggressiveness back. And . . . how long could he, Peepgass,\nlet \"for now\" go on without informing Herb Richman and the other\nmembers of the syndicate about it?\nHarry continued to sit reared back, with his elbows winged up in the\nair. He was beginning to look at Peepgass the way you'd look at a\ncuriosity.\nPeepgass said, \"Well-I'm going to go talk to Arthur about it. This\nthing is too important to just let slide like this.\"\n\"Good luck,\" said Harry with a dubious arching of his eyebrows, \"but\nit's been my experience that when Arthur sends Plyers out with oneof his 'macro-decisions,' it's something he's not dying to discuss.\"\nIt was late afternoon by the time Arthur Lomprey finally deigned to\nsee Peepgass. Lomprey's office was on a corner from which you\ncould look north toward Buckhead, east toward Decatur, and south\ntoward Downtown and, assuming you wanted to, the vague expanse\nof the lower half of the city. Lomprey's office was so big, it had three\nseating areas: around a couch, around a table, and around his own\ngigantic desk. The decorators had been hard at work in here, with all\nsorts of leathers, fruitwoods, geometric carpeting, and fabrics that\nlooked as lugubriously grand as old tapestries. Lomprey, seated at\nhis desk with his head jutting forward like a dog's, looked up as\nPeepgass entered, but he didn't rise.\n\"Come in, Ray,\" he said pleasantly enough. But as Peepgass came\nwalking toward him across the great expanse of carpet, which\nlooked oddly like rows of campaign ribbons, the little eyes in the\nmaximum leader's jutting head returned to some reading matter on\nhis desk. Why should he waste valuable time waiting for a mere\nRaymond Peepgass to traverse twenty- or thirty feet of carpet?\nPeepgass knew then, if not before, that whatever he could do to\neuchre PlannersBanc out of Croker's remains was justified.\nIn due course Lomprey looked up again and gestured toward an\narmchair and said, \"Sit down.\" Then he leaned forward and put both\nelbows on top of his desk and began drumming his left palm with a\ngold ballpoint pen he held between the thumb and forefinger of his\nright hand and eyed Peepgass with a smile that was hard to\ninterpret. It was a smile either of amusement, over his underling's\npuzzlement, or of wonder, at this ant's insistence on seeing the\nmaximum leader face-to-face. In any event, it wasn't friendly.\n\"So-what's on your mind, Ray?\" Lomprey beamed once more, and\nPeepgass now had it figured out. It was a smile of simple contempt.\n\"Charlie Croker's on my mind, Arthur,\" he said so forcefully, in such\nan un-Peepgass manner, that Lomprey's smile faded quickly. \"Harrytells me you want us to put everything on hold where Croker is\nconcerned.\"\n\"That's correct,\" said Lomprey.\nPeepgass waited for some amplification, but all he got was a\nrenewed smile. This one had little twists of irritation in the corners.\nPeepgass said, \"Well, Arthur, I hope it wouldn't be out of place for\nme to ask why. I mean, we have that particular shithead right where\nwe want him. We've got him right on the edge of handing over\neverything he's got, deeds in lieu of foreclosure. But if we let up\nnow, he's liable to dig his heels in. Dragging this thing out is so\nunnecessary.\"\nThe smile, patient and irritated: \"I'm surprised Harry didn't explain it\nto you. This is a macro-decision, Ray. It has to do with matters over\nand above what we do in the short term with the Croker workout.\"\nIn the conversational vacuum that followed . . . nothing more than\nthe smile.\nDid he dare prod the maximum leader further? Such irritation and\ncontempt were in that smile! But given what was at stake-he dared:\n\"Do you mind if I ask you what matters, Arthur?\"\n\"I mind,\" snapped Lomprey, lowering his head still farther and\neyeing Peepgass carnivorously. \"I hope it won't astonish you unduly\nto know that I am from time to time called upon to deal with\nproblems broader in scope than what you and Harry would like to do\nwith Charlie Croker.\"\n\"Oh, I know!\" said Peepgass, backing down as quickly as he could.\n\"I realize that! It's just that here we have such a large asset in\nquestion and a workout that's matured to such a point-\" He kept\nsearching Lomprey's face, hoping for some glimmer of fellow feeling,\nand found none. \"I completely understand ... I completely\nunderstand ... I just wanted to make sure all the parameters-\" He\nnever could remember what one did with parameters.He retreated from Lomprey's office in a daze.\non the program of the Atlanta Symphony at the Woodruff Arts\nCenter that evening were Tchaikovsky's Piano Concerto No. 1,\nBeethoven's Symphony No. 6 (\"the Pastorale\"), Stravinsky's Rite of\nSpring, and Scott Joplin's \"Maple Leaf Rag\"-none of which had\nanything to do with the obvious excitement in the lobby of\nSymphony Hall. The ordinary buzz of the hive had reached the\nthreshold of a roar. Such looks these con- certgoers gave one\nanother! Such high beams they flicked on! How they showed their\nteeth when they smiled! And on all sides, on the crests of the waves\nof sound, Martha and Peepgass could hear the same names:\nArmholster . . . Inman . . . Elizabeth . . . Fanon . . . Fareek . . .\nFareek \"the Cannon\" . . .\nMartha and Peepgass had been talking about precisely the same\nthing on the way down from Buckhead in Peepgass's rented Volvo\n960. To Peepgass, even though he understood Inman Armholster's\neminence in the scheme of things in Atlanta, it was no more than\nany other piece of lush gossip. Martha took it far more personally.\nEllen! It was Ellen Armholster she kept thinking about. Imagine\nbeing in her place! The fact that Ellen had treated her like a non-\nperson ever since her divorce from Charlie made no difference. Poor\nEllen!\nMartha had very little appetite for talk of other people's misfortunes,\nand yet she felt rooted to this spot, here in the lobby, where all the\nfrenzied talk was.\n\"Martha!\"\nA beaming woman had materialized before her, a fortyish woman\nwith the usual pineapple-blond Palm Beach Crash Helmet-Maria-\npronounced the Southern way, Ma-rye-a-Maria Bunting. She flicked a\nglance-and Martha noticed it-at Ray Peepgass before she embraced\nMartha and swung her head past hers in a social kiss.\"Maria, I'd like for you to meet Ray Peepgass. Ray, this is Maria\nBunting.\"\n\"Hello, Ray!\" said the woman, giving him a big smile and extending\nher hand.\n\"It's very nice to meet you,\" said Peepgass, taking her hand. He\nstarted to call her Maria but thought better of it.\nMaria Bunting turned back toward Martha and said, \"Have you heard\nthe dreadful news about Elizabeth Armholster?\" Halfway through the\nquestion she flicked her eyes toward Peepgass for a split second\nbefore returning to Martha's face for a reply.\n\"I certainly have,\" said Martha. \"I was at Paolo's and some woman\ngot a call about it on her cell phone. I was bowled over! Poor Ellen-\nthat was all I could think about.\" Paolo's was a Buckhead hair salon.\n'Tou mean poor Elizabeth!\" said Maria Bunting.\nMartha said, \"I know-\" But by now Maria's eyes had settled on\nPeepgass.\n\"I didn't know a thing about it until Martha mentioned it on the way\nover,\" said Peepgass. \"What are they saying on the news?\"\n\"All I've heard-well, Ed and I-my husband, Ed-we listened to the\nradio on the way over, and they didn't use the name. All they said\nwas that this Web site on the Internet-what is it called?\"\n\"Chasing the Dragon?\" said Peepgass.\n\"I think that's it. I remember the Dragon part. Anyway, they'd\nbroken the rules and used the name, and the girl's father's one of\nthe most prominent businessmen in Atlanta. They were nice and\npious about not using the name themselves.\" She gave in to a smile\nbeneath her ecstatic eyes, but quickly turned down the corners of\nher mouth.All three of them gave the lobby a quick survey. Martha saw a black\ncouple over there near the wall. But they were light-skinned, and the\nman made you wonder if he was from England, the way he dressed.\n\"Well, I think it's just awful,\" said Martha. \"I don't care whether it's\nthe Internet or what. I think they ought to be ashamed.\"\n\"Well, at least it looks like the newspapers and the television stations\nwon't use it,\" said Maria Bunting.\n\"They don't have to,\" said Martha. A weary little gesture. \"Just look\naround this place. That's all anybody's talking about, me included.\nEverybody whose opinion Ellen and Inman care about already\nknows. I couldn't believe it. Somebody actually called somebody else\nat Paolo's on a cell phone-for no other reason than to spread the\nword.\"\nPeepgass and Maria Bunting shook their heads. Peepgass, in his\nheart of hearts, couldn't have cared less one way or the other. But\nMaria Bunting's eyes shone more ecstatically than ever.\nBy the time the lobby lights had dimmed and brightened, dimmed\nand brightened, dimmed and brightened to show the crowd it was\ntime to get to their seats, three other grand dames-Lettie Withers,\nLenore Knox, and Betty Morrissey-had made their way over to\nMartha to say hello and cluck and fume over the dreadful news\nconcerning Elizabeth Armholster. As for Martha, it was her\nconsidered and satisfied opinion that her becoming socially visible\nagain had nothing to do with the Armholster affair and everything to\ndo with the fact that this thatchy-haired, youngish, and presentable\nman, Mr. Ray Peepgass, was once again by her side. Now they could\nsee her again!\nAs for Peepgass, what rang a bell with him was the fact that he\nknew all these names-the names of the rich and influential-Bunting,\nWithers, Knox, Morrissey-only from afar, a far far far distance from\nthe world of Mr. Ray Peepgass of Unit XXX-A, Normandy Lea. In\nMartha Croker's company he was a mere snap of the fingers awayfrom a first- name familiarity with that world. If Lomprey knew that,\nhe'd change his insulting tune. Macro-decision-meeeyahhh.\ndeep into beethoven's sixth they were, this huge arc of human\nbeings up on the stage, all laboring so earnestly with their cellos and\noboes and English horns and flutes and whatnot. One moment\nthey'd be working away down deep in a cellar, and then suddenly a\nshower of notes would rise up and come drizzling down on the\naudience. The deep sounds resonated in Peepgass's belly, and then\nthe drizzle began again, and his mind wandered. It gave him a\nmildly headachy feeling. It reminded him of church. His mother had\ntrundled him off to Sunday school and the worship service at the\nLutheran church right up to the time he was ten and they moved\nfrom St. Paul, Minnesota, to San Jose, California. Somehow religion\nnever survived the trip, or maybe there was no Lutheran church to\nbe had out there. Whatever it was, he remembered the heavy\nheadachy feeling that used to come over him. His mind used to\nwander just the way it was wandering now. They would be teaching\nthem the catechism in Sunday school, and he'd be thinking about\nthe time he was four years old and he was going to demonstrate to\na boy and a girl from the neighborhood that you could walk on ice\nand he took three steps out on a pond and fell straight through into\nfreezing water and if his friends hadn't been there he would have\ndrowned or frozen to death. Oh, he was the smart one then, the\nsmartest in every class he ever took, even if he hadn't known about\nthe relative thicknesses of ice at age four. He was the brightest, the\nmost promising, ever}' step of the way. And so why was he in the\nspot he found himself in tonight?-wildly into debt, and into the most\nchildish form of debt, at that, credit-card debt, strapped for cash,\nunable to go to the Symphony or a High Museum opening unless\nsome female benefactor treated him to a ticket, barely able to\nassemble a pressed suit, a laundered shirt, and a decent necktie at\none and the same time, going nowhere in his career, scorned by that\ntop layer of humanity who make the macro-decisions, thwarted-\"for\nnow\"-in the most ambitious scheme of his entire life by a macro-\ndecisionmaker whose neck was thrust forward like a dog's . . . Whywas it so many \"business leaders\" were tall men like Lomprey, who\nwas six-foot-four or -five even with his scoliotic dog's posture? Was\nthat one of the host of things the aptitude tests didn't measure that\nhad done Raymond Peepgass in? How could he climb up out of this\nhole and save himself? Here in the darkness it wasn't so bad . . .\nThe cellos, the oboes, the bassoons, and a viola were sawing and\nmoaning and bassooning away in his midsection-then a huge\nprecipitation by the flutes, the trumpets, the clarinets, the violins,\nand the piano, which came raining down, like a sudden afternoon\nshower in the Bahamas . . . but all under the cozy cover of darkness.\nIn the darkness the woman beside him was not a thickset fifty-three-\nyear-old. She was a nice woman with tickets to all sorts of things.\nMartha's mind wandered onto the stage. Who on earth were these\npeople up there, playing their instruments with such dedication?\nThat one, the third violinist from the end, must be very close to her\nown age, a little bit heavy, pleasant-looking, didn't know what to do\nwith her hair . . . What was her story? A sad story, she decided. Had\nseemed like such a virtuoso when she was a girl, a slender,\nconfident, vivacious girl who seemed to have all the talent in the\nworld, the sort of free spirit who has an unerring instinct for falling\nfor the wrong man . . . and now she's in her fifties and one of a row\nof men and women playing the violin in Atlanta, Georgia. But at least\nshe has her talent! She can fill up even the loneliest house with\nmusic! ... Or maybe she, Martha, had it all wrong. She'd love for\nthem to put the music on hold, just a low, slightly melancholy\nsymphonic background, and have the musicians rise up, one by one,\nand tell their stories ... the dazzling promise of youth, the sag of\nmiddle age, and at the end ... At the end of the row of violinists was\na crumpled old man with wisps of hair and gray flesh that seemed to\nhave melted over the end of the violin where he had tucked it under\nhis chin. He lived alone, she decided. He and his wife had lived\nsolely for one another, but she had died. Every stroke of the bow\nbecame a cry of sorrow. He eked out a living giving violin lessons,\nbut to what end was all this would-be music? Meanwhile, his bow\nsobbed and sobbed. The thought brought a mist to Martha's eyes.Two or three thousand people in this one hall . . . and so much\nloneliness . . . and who besides herself paused long enough to pity\nthe lonely? No one that she knew of. They all saw loneliness as a\nstigma, as a sign of failure, as a gaffe. It was a violation of etiquette,\nloneliness was, a source of embarrassment. That was what she had\nbecome as soon as Charlie walked out on her, an embarrassment.\nMaria Bunting, Lettie Withers, Lenore Knox, Betty Morrissey-not one\nof them had the faintest notion who Ray Peepgass was.\nNevertheless, he had rendered her visible again. The violin section\nwas now still. The middle-aged violinist over here and the old man\nover there had lifted their cheeks and chins from their instruments.\nTheir eyes were downcast, following the progress of the scores- or\nwere their minds drifting? What would be left for them after the\nmusic stopped? What would they have to go home to? It was no\npicnic for Beethoven himself, from what little she could remember.\nThe drizzle was continuing steadily. In fact, it had become a regular\ndownpour. When Beethoven really got himself worked up, there was\nno end to it. Peepgass tried to imagine himself as a composer, sitting\nat a desk in front of those lines, those staffs, and trying to think up\nnotes . . . It was beyond him. Most of them had a bad time of it,\neven the great ones, as nearly as he could recall. But at least they\nleft something, something their children could point to ... If he got\nrun over by a Lincoln Navigator tomorrow, what could they write\nabout him? What they?-as far as that went. They would have to be\nsome loved ones who sent in a paid obituary to the journal-\nConstitution-and just who was going to do that? Beth'? Sirja? Master\nP. P. Peepgass? The boys? For one reason or another, he had hardly\nseen the boys since his separation from Betty. Wonder if they ever\nuse the basketball backboard out in the driveway anymore? Forty-six\nyears old, and he hadn't left so much as a footprint . . . whereas\nsomebody like Edward I. Bunting gives five million dollars he doesn't\nneed to the hospital and they name a whole pavilion for him and\nhe's the great philanthropist and nobody remembers that he made\nhis money as an agricultural insecticide broker. They liked to talk\nabout \"family\" here in the South, but money was what it all camedown to at the end of the clay. You could talk about family until you\nwere hoarse, but if you were living in a starter rental in Collier Hills\ninstead of a mansion in the West Paces Ferry section of Buckhead,\nwho cared about your \"family\"? What good was a great chain of\nbeing that led straight down a thirty-degree slope to a gully at the\nbase of the cliff that supported 1-75?\nWellllllll . . . hmmmmmmmmmmmm ... she worked out, didn't she?\nShe was always talking about DefinitionAmerica and a class taught\nby some Turk named Mustafa Somethingorother. So maybe she-what\nwas it Mickey Mantle said? The first thing he looked for in a woman\nwas good calves? If the calves were in good shape, then chances\nwere the thighs were in good shape; and if the thighs were in good\nshape, how bad could the abdominals and the rest of her be? And\nMartha had good calves ... But she's still fifty-three years old, for\nChrissake! . . . Relax, Peepgass . . . Think of it as a kind of arranged\nunion. She's not stupid. At her age it's not about children. She'll give\nyou some room, and you'll give her some room, assuming she has\nanything to do in that big space you'll give her . . . But what would\npeople say?-a woman seven years older than himself! Welllllllll . . .\nwhat do they say now? Harry Zale mocks him to his face for getting\nexcited about the Croker case, and when he asks Arthur if he minds\nhim asking a question, Arthur snaps, \"I mind\"-as if he, Peepgass,\nhas no business poking his nose into matters that are settled only on\nthe forty-ninth floor. As a matter of fact, he'd like to see the looks on\ntheir ugly mugs. Right now they treat him like a worker bee, don't\nthey . . . Well-all that's going to change, one way or the other!\nThe bows of the violins were swooping up and down like . . . cricket\nlegs. Why that image suddenly popped into her mind, she hadn't the\nfoggiest idea. She looked to see if the old man could keep up with\nthe lead violinist . . . Seemed to be holding his own . . . Ray was\nyounger than she was. She didn't know by how much, but there was\nsomething about his looks that was still a little babyish. There was\nsomething a little too soft and passive about him. He was the kind of\nman any formidable woman, formidable from ambition or just plainmeanness, would run right over. His wife had chucked him out of the\nhouse! Just told him to scat, and he scatted! Not that Martha\nconsidered herself formidable. It had been hard to be formidable\nwhen you had been in the company of Charlie Croker for twenty-\nnine years. But a woman might have to be formidable where Ray\nwas concerned. He was bright, quick, but not at all tough. He would\nrequire a lot of maintenance. But he was good company, relaxing\ncompany, considerate company. Charlie could be embarrassing,\nespecially when he was off on one of his tears. Ray would never be\nembarrassing. Not that this was a decision she would even have to\nmake. This was the fifth time they had gone out, and Ray had never\nbeen anything other than what he was right now . . . there. She\ncould make out only the vaguest of contours with her peripheral\nvision here in the darkness. It was entirely possible that he was\ninterested only in getting a gold star at PlannersBanc for creating his\nbeloved syndicate.\nBeethoven was going all-out now, bassooning and celloing and\ndrumming away in his belly and sending up a heavy drizzle of notes\nat the same time. Made him slightly woozy, foggy, and, come to\nthink of it, affectionate. Where would it lead? Hadn't the vaguest\nnotion. What would it cost? Not much. After all, how angry could she\nget? Not very. It would be a compliment. He was a young man. In\nfact, as far as he could see, his appearance hadn't changed in\ntwenty years. A couple of extra pounds. Still had his jawline.\nSomething happened to men when they got up into their fifties and\nsixties; their jawlines collapsed, melted, so that their cheeks began\nto puddle into their necks. No, the worst that could happen would be\nthat she would feel complimented. The best that could happen? That\nhe didn't have any clear picture of-since he had no real picture of\nwhere he wanted this to go. He'd have to wing it. Boom boom boom\ndrizzle drizzle drizzle went Beethoven, and yet more drizzle drizzle\ndrizzle. He felt warm and narcoleptic. He surveyed her out of the\ncorner of his eye. The light from the stage created soft, indistinct\nhighlights, which made her look roundish, as if she were made of ice\ncream. But that was just the play of light and shadow, thedistortions of chiaroscuro. The woman had good calves. Good calves,\ngood calves. Her hands were in her lap, which presented a problem.\nIf he tried to reach over her hand and engage it that way and\nreached too far, it might seem as if he was going after her crotch,\nwhich would turn the whole thing into abject farce. He turned his\nhead ever so slightly and swiveled both eyes toward her. A gloss of\nlight went down her forearm and stood at attention when it hit the\ngold of her wristwatch and her bracelets. Christ . . . she probably\nhad more money on her one wrist than he could get his hands on in\nthe form of discretionary income in two years. Anyway, the glistening\ngave him something visible to aim for. So-should I?-why not?-here\ngoes. He kept looking only long enough to make sure his hand\nwould be heading directly toward her wrist. He didn't want to be\nlooking at her when his hand touched hers. Why? It wasn't a\nquestion he had an answer for, beyond the fact that he had no idea\nin the world what he would have wanted such a look to say. His\nfingertips perceived all the highly wrought metal on her wrist, and in\nthe next moment they found the palm of her hand and slid up the\nfingers. She had her chance-and that hand was not flying away. Nor\nwas she turning toward him with a jerk of incredulity. Her hand\nyielded as he interlaced his fingers with hers.\nOho! Well-there he is. What, exactly, is he up to? Her mind spun, not\nwith emotion but with sheerly logical computations. I'm not sixteen\nany longer. If I accept this bit of handholding, I'm implying a whole\nlot more, even though of what I can't be sure. But if I withdraw my\nhand, even with a lighthearted jest, then I'm saying no to whatever\nRay can do for me by being at my side. If the lights suddenly came\non, and all the world could see me holding hands with Mr. Raymond\nPeepgass of\nPlannersBanc, I'd be mortified. Why? That I can't quite figure out. By\nnow his hand seemed terribly big and warm. Should she give it a\nslight squeeze? She decided . . . no; for the simple reason that she\nhad no idea what that squeeze would mean. Should she look at him?\nIn what way? Warmly? Gratefully? Tenderly? Or with an ironicarching of the eyebrows, as if to say, \"All in fun-okay, Ray?\" The\ntruth was, she had no idea what she even wanted to convey. She cut\nher eyes as far in his direction as she could without turning her\nhead. With peripheral vision she could see that he wasn't looking at\nher, either. There they sat, holding hands in the darkness of\nSymphony Hall at the Woodruff Center. All the lonely violinists were\npumping away like grasshoppers.\nat this end of the concert, as he and Henrietta were caught up in the\ntide of humanity in the lobby, Roger Too White put a big confident\nsmile on his face and said to her, 'i have to laugh. You know why\nthey tacked Scott Joplin on at the end?\" Talking about serious music,\neven to Henrietta, always made the dread nickname, Roger Too\nWhite, pop into his head.\n\"Why?\" asked Henrietta.\n\"It was a nice little piece of chocolate-\" He broke it off. He didn't\nwant Henrietta to attach a double meaning to \"chocolate.\" \"-dessert,\nsweets, candy, a little reward to all these folks\"-he swung his head\nabout to indicate the crowd about them-\"for sitting through the\nStravinsky.\"\nHe beamed at her, as if this was a terrifically amusing observation\nand he was enjoying himself hugely. Being the only black folks in the\nplace, so far as he could tell, he didn't want any of these folks, these\nwhite folks, thinking that he and Henrietta felt in any way ill at ease,\nout of place, subdued, intimidated.\nHenrietta said, \"A nice little piece of chocolate, hunh?\"\n\"I didn't mean it that way,\" said Roger Too White. Once again he\nbeamed grandly. \"I don't think they tacked him on because he's bl-\nAfrican-American\"-Henrietta had become so with-it, he had begun to\nbe careful with his terminology around her-\"I think it's because The\nMaple Leaf Rag' is familiar and happy, bouncy, good-humored. That\nwas their reward for enduring Rite of Spring. You'd've seen somelong faces if all these people got at the end was a big dose of\nStravinsky.\" He put another hundred watts into his smile.\n\"Oh, I don't know-\"\n\"In Atlanta, Stravinsky's still terribly modern, cutting edge.\"\n\"Oh, I don't know about-\"\n\"In Atlanta, it's as if this was the opening performance of Le Sacre\ndu Printemps. The only difference is that they're not courageous\nenough to boo. I don't know what they'd do if it was Schoenberg.\nCut a wrist or make somebody resign, maybe.\"\n\"I'm not sure they'd do anything different from what they're doing\nright now,\" said Henrietta. Then she drew closer to him, so as not to\nhave to raise her voice. \"They're not even thinking about the music.\nAll they're thinking about is Fareek and the Armholster girl.\"\n\"How do you know?\"\n\"Because I listen. That's all they were talking about when we got\nhere, and that's all they're talking about now.\"\nRoger looked about . . . I'll be damned . . . There was no doubt\nabout it . . . After all, his picture had been in the paper three times,\nand he'd been on every television channel you could think of after\nthe press conference . . . These people . . . recognized him! He\nstood as tall as he could. Over there, thirty or forty feet away-a\nwhite woman with puffed-up blond hair was staring right at him.\nThen she smiled. He didn't know whether to smile back or what.\nWithout turning her face away, the woman tugged on the arm of a\ntall white man next to her and said something to him, and he looked\nat Roger. Roger looked away, because it was getting embarrassing to\nbe looking at these people without knowing how to respond or even\nif he should ... He sighed. He guessed he had the virus, publicity, but\nhe wouldn't let it affect him. He had built up his career in an entirely\ndifferent way. He wanted to mention it to Henrietta, the way these\npeople were staring at him. He wanted to ask her, \"Do you thinksome of these white people you see whispering-don't you think it's\npossibly because they recognize . . . me?\" But he wasn't fool enough\nto actually ask her. What a horselaugh she'd give him!\nAs they moved ever so slowly in the tide of white people heading for\nthe exits, he cut his eyes this way and that . . . and now he was sure\npeople were looking at him . . . They recognized him. It was a\nfeeling he had never known before. He couldn't hold back any\nlonger. He began chuckling.\n\"What's funny?\" said Henrietta.\nHe looked at her and suddenly felt even happier because of how\npretty she was. He put his arm around her shoulder. He could feel\nthe warmth of Fate smiling upon him. Not a pretty wife-a gorgeous\nwife! Those big brown eyes of hers, set against her light tan skin,\nthe soft lushness of her Bout en Train hairdo-and all at once he was\n... famous, too.\nHe leaned over and whispered into her ear: \"Don't look now, but I'm\nafraid there are a lot of people in here who recognize the Defender\nof Fareek Fanon!\"\nHenrietta pulled back from him and gave him a look of the most\nsardonic bewilderment he had ever seen. \"Excuse me?\" she said.\n\"They're doing what to the Defender of Fareek Fanon?\"\nFeebly: \"Recognize . . .\"\n\"Are you serious?\"\n\"Well, I only-\"\n\"I don't doubt they're looking at you, Roger, but would you like to\nknow the real reason, by any chance?\"\n\"It's not a case of-\"\n\"It's because you're an African American.\"He was bewildered.\n\"We're an oddity to them, a curiosity. African Americans don't go to\nthe Symphony in Atlanta. These folks do everything but give away\ntickets at the MARTA stops to get African Americans to come here,\nso they can feel better about themselves-and they still don't come.\nJust take a look around. They're looking at us as ... as ... as aliens,\nto give it the kindest word I can think of.\"\n\"I don't believe . . .\" He didn't bother finishing the sentence. He was\ncrestfallen.\nHenrietta must have realized some of that, because she now took his\narm and snuggled up against him and said, \"I'm sorry. I didn't mean\nthat the way it sounded. It's just that you're doing so well, and I\ndon't want you to delude yourself. I'm very proud of you.\"\nRoger didn't say anything. For the first time he realized how much\nHenrietta detested these trips of theirs to the Woodruff Arts Center.\nIt made him feel like a blind fool-dragging her off to these white\n\"cultural\" events the way he had.\nBut she was wrong about one thing. They did recognize him, damn\nChapter 27The Screen\nSomehow charlie had thought the operating room would be a white\namphitheater, blazingly bright, with a large oval floor and a white\nwall six or seven feet high around the oval and, above the wall, high-\nbanked theater seats where doctors in white coats would sit to\nobserve this important operation, or \"procedure,\" as Emmo Nuchols\ncalled it. Instead, it looked like one of those small leftover pieces of\nmodern office space where office machines on casters are stored. It\nreminded him of the room at PlannersBanc where they had held the\nfirst workout session, and yet there was no feeling attached to the\nthought. It was as if all that . . . terrible stuff . . . was being held\nback by a dam or a levee . . . whatever . . .\nNot that he could see a great deal. He was lying on his back on what\nseemed to be a narrow padded table, and there was a screen about\na yard high that they had placed over his midsection so that he\ncouldn't see what they were doing to his knee. He had no feeling\nfrom the waist down. They had given him an epidural anesthetic. He\nhad no idea what \"epidural\" meant, but that didn't matter . . . There\nseemed to be numerous tubes, some of which came out of him and\nsome of which went into him . . . There was an oxygen mask over\nhis nose and mouth. Eeeeeeeyehhhhhhhhhhh ... a high-pitched\nwhine, like the whine of the rotary saws cutting into wood at the\npulp mill where his daddy worked, and a high-frequency vibration\nran up his upper spine . . . Emmo-or he assumed it was Emmo-was\ncutting off the tips of his right thighbone and right shinbone where\nthey came together in the knee to get rid of the \"osteoarthritic\ncrud,\" as Emmo seemed to enjoy calling it; but Charlie no longer\ncared whether Emmo called it that or not. Then they were supposed\nto fit pieces of titanic chromium cobalt -or was it cobalt chromium\ntitanium?-it made no particular difference-onto the ends of the\nbones to create a new knee joint, with a piece of polyethylene heavy\nmolecular . . . whatever-it-was. Couldn't remember, which was all\nright ... It was some piece of plastic some- thingorother that\nreplaced the cushion of cartilage between the two bones . . .Eeeeeeeeyehhhhhhhhh . . . They were sawing away down there,\nand he actually liked the vibration when it ran up his spine.\nHe could hear them talking on the other side of the screen, and\nevery now and then Emmo Nuchols would raise his voice, saying,\n\"How's he doing?\" A voice behind Charlie's head would say, \"He's\nfine.\"\nThen Emmo himself came out from behind the screen. He had some\nsort of plastic framework on his head, and over the frame came a\npale green tent with a picture window in it. His carpeted face was\nback behind the window.\n\"It's going well, Charlie.\" Emmo's voice was slightly muffled by the\ntent. \"How are we feeling?\"\nCharlie hated the patronizing medical \"we,\" but now-who cared?\nEmmo looked like an astronaut.\n\"Em-mo,\" said Charlie, conscious that his voice was slowing down,\n\"you look . . . like-\"\n\"An astronaut?\" said Emmo.\nIt wounded Charlie to learn in this manner that he had been about\nto say something that had obviously been said hundreds of times\nbefore, but a moment later he wasn't really bothered by it. 'Teah,\"\nhe said.\nEmmo turned around, and Charlie could see two big accordion-style\nrubber tubes running down his back. \"We have our own air supply,\njust like the astronauts,\" he said. \"Filtered air. Cuts down the risk of\nintroducing any infectious agent into the incision.\" Then he turned\nback toward Charlie and said, \"So how are we feeling?\"\n\"I feel good!\" said Charlie. \"I feel better than I did when I came in\nthis morning.\" He looked up at the surgeonaut behind his tent\nwindow and halfway expected a gold star for being so strong and\ncheery under the stress of major surgery.\"Now we're going to put in your new parts, your new joint,\" said the\ntent-muffled voice. \"You'll notice the hammering, but don't worry\nabout it. You won't feel any pain.\" Then Emmo disappeared on the\nother side of the screen.\nCharlie pondered upon the fact that he felt so . . . good. He was flat\non his back, he had tubes in the back of his hand, in the tip of a\nfinger, in his spine, in his urethra, a tube feeding him oxygen; he had\nno feeling in the lower half of his body-but he felt good. He would\nbe perfectly happy to prolong this moment . . . infinitely. Oh yes, not\njust indefinitely-infinitely . . . The screen over his midsection was\nprecisely what he wanted from this operation ... He couldn't see the\nworld, and the world couldn't see him, and time stood still . . . Oh,\nwhat a note of astonishment in Emmo's voice when he had called\nhim and said he wanted the operation . . . now! . . . soon as\npossible! . . . Surgery would take him out of this world for . . . weeks\n. . . There'd be nothing he could do, nothing he was expected to do,\nno dilemmas he could solve, no dilemmas he would have to solve ...\nNo Inman ... no Zale . . . This was a perfectly honorable and\nunderstandable withdrawal from the battle. Don't look at me! I have\nabandoned my fate to others! And if an \"infectious agent\" were\nintroduced into the incision, if particles of bone marrow caused clots,\nwhat was the worst that could happen? God might be so kind as to\ntake him away in the night . . .\nThen he could hear the hammering, and then he could feel it. It\ncame in painless dull thuds right up his spine and into the rear of his\nskull. The hammering was metal upon metal, but upon something\nbigger than a nail. They were driving the new metal ends of the\nfemur and the tibia straight into the live bones. This operation was\nlike a construction site ... the eeeeeeeyehhhhhhhhh of the electric\nsaws, the bing! bing! bing! bing! bing! of the hammer . . . like a\nconstruction site, and he, Charlie Croker, knew about construction\nsites ... His right knee was a construction site, and he had\ncontracted himself out-but he couldn't complete the comparison. Itmade his head hurt; and besides, what difference did it make, all\nthis mental activity?\nin the recovery room Serena and Wally were looking down at him ...\nin this horizontal life of his. He was lying on a narrow rolling bed\nwith side rails. His right knee created a mound under the covers. He\nstill couldn't feel a thing below the waist.\nWally said, 'Tou were awake the whole time, Dad?\"\n\"Yeah,\" said Charlie, \"I couldn't . . . feel anything, but I could hear .\n. . saws . . . hammers . . . regular construction site . . .\" He smiled.\nHe felt a compulsion to show that he had been a manly good sport.\n\"Pretty interesting.\"\n\"You know how long you were in there?\" said Serena.\n\"No, I guess I sorta . . . lost track of time.\"\n\"A little over three hours,\" said Serena. \"Emmo said it went very\nwell.\"\nSerena was gently stroking the side of his right hand, the one with\nthe IV tube inserted into a vein on the back of it. He still had a guilty\nfeeling whenever Wally saw Serena showing him any physical\naffection, but he guessed this little bit didn't matter. Beneath her\ncorona of black hair her blue eyes had a tender look such as he\nhadn't seen for a while.\n\"Did it make you nervous, Dad?\"\nWhether Wally was truly curious or just making conversation, Charlie\ncouldn't tell. And in that moment he realized he had never come to\nknow his son well enough to tell the difference; and never would;\nbut that was all right; we just do the best we can; whatever.\n\"Naw,\" said Charlie, \"I actually felt . . . good ... a little tired . . .\nHadda get up so early . . . couldn't have anything to eat . . . or\ndrink, far as that goes . . . but I felt good . . .\" All at once he feltgenerous, magnanimous, appreciative, like a good boy. \"I'll tell you\none thing . . . they got terrific nurses . . . You hear all these stories .\n. . but I got no complaints . . . This place, the nurses, they come in\nevery five minutes . . . see if there's anything I want. By the time I\nwent in ... I was so relaxed, it was like I was taking . . . uh uh . . . a\nwalk in the park.\"\nBy and by Emmo Nuchols appeared. He still had on his pale green\nscrubs, but without the surgeonaut's head frame and tent. It\noccurred to Charlie that surgeons probably liked to walk around in\nthe hospital with their scrubs, just to show the world that they were\nsurgeons only recently departed from the medical front. But it was\njust a passing thought. It was all the same to him one way or the\nother.\nEmmo peered down at him with a paternal smile, and then he said,\n\"Well, Charlie, you're a bionic man now.\"\nCharlie said, \"I could hear you sawing and hammering away in there.\nSounded like a regular construction site.\" He was vaguely aware that\nhe had just used this line with Serena and Wally-but who cared?\n\"Had to make sure all the parts were in there for keeps,\" said Emmo.\nHe still had his fatherly smile on.\n\"I could feel it in my backbone,\" said Charlie. \"The vibration came\nright up my backbone and into my head.\"\n\"That's normal,\" said Emmo. \"Everything went according to plan.\nThe only surprise was, wc found a little more necrotic tissue than we\nthought was there, but you're going to be fine. We'll have you out\njumping rope.\"\nCharlie felt another urge to demonstrate that he was a good boy, a\nstout fellow, a model patient who was mindful of the contributions of\nothers. \"Em-mo,\" he said in his slow voice, \"I want you to ... do\nsomething for me.\"\n\"What's that, Charlie?\"\"I want you to . . . thank the nurses for me.\"\n\"The nurses?\"\n\"Yeah . . . They were in . . . to see me . . . every five minutes before\n... 1 went into surgery. They made me feel so . . . relaxed ... by the\ntime I . . . went in there, I thought I was going ... for a walk in the\npark. They were fabulous. I want you to . . . telPem that for me.\"\nEmmo smiled. Then he pursed his lips and cast his eyes downward\nto one side and began to nod his head as if to agree with the\nprofound sentiment his model patient had just expressed. Then he\nlooked at Charlie and said, \"I'll do that, Charlie. They are fabulous,\nand I'll tell'em you said so. But Demerol's pretty fabulous, too.\"\nWally started laughing. Charlie didn't know why at first. He looked\nup at Serena, who was trying to suppress a smile. Then Emmo's\nwisecrack made its way through the Demerol dike in his brain. Wally\nwas laughing, Serena was trying not to laugh, and Emmo was\nsmiling the knowing smile of the fatherly wise man.\nThere was no reason he, Charlie, had to take that kind of mockery\nfrom Emmo Nuchols, but at the same time . . . whatever.\nnorth of the MARTA tracks Chamblee still looked like the old country\ntown it had always been. And it was in Old Chamblee that Conrad\nfound himself walking on this warm, bright June morning. He felt\ngroggy from lack of sleep and from tension. He wasn't sure he could\nspend another night at the Meadow Lark Terrace sweating,\nsweltering, along with a dozen, two dozen, God knew how many\nVietnamese. Lying on the floor curled up with his overnight bag\npressed into his midsection for safekeeping, listening to the\nincessant and incomprehensible unnnh- click<lack of the\nconversations around him, waking up four, five, six times a night\nwith a start.\nSoon enough eating would become just as big a problem. He had\nonly $272 left of the $1,500 Kenny had given him. If he continued toeat at restaurants on the Buford Highway, that would melt away all\ntoo quickly. Without intending to in the slightest, he thought about\nhow he had commandeered the Jeep at Camp Parks-even in his\nthoughts he avoided the word stolen-and experienced a wave of\nguilt. One might -Zeus might-forgive taking an Army Jeep in the\nmiddle of an earthquake, but 110 such commandeering,\nappropriating, or \"borrowing\" would be forgivable in a quiet little\ntown like Chamblee.\nIn turn the sense of guilt over something he had only briefly\nentertained the thought of doing made him wonder just what he\nmust look like to the residents of this little town ... A young man\nwith short hair, swarthy skin, delicate features, clean-shaven-he had\nmanaged to get into the bathroom for that long this morning-\nwearing blue jeans, a polo shirt, a navy windbreaker, construction\nboots that still looked new . . . carrying an overnight bag . . .\nnothing remarkable about his appearance, he concluded with\nsatisfaction ... except for one thing!-there was not another soul\nwalking along these streets--\nAll at once, as if it had been caused by his own premonition, he\ncould hear a car slowing down behind him. Then he could hear its\nhushed idle as it coasted closer. Didn't dare look around. Now, in his\nperipheral vision, he could tell that it was right beside him. Which\nwas the cooler thing to do, ignore it or turn toward it?-since the\ndriver would know you were bound to have noticed the car by now?\nDecide!\nHe turned his head. Sure enough, a police cruiser, with a gold badge\nand the legend chamblee town police painted on a white door. The\npoliceman, thickset, wearing aviator-style glasses, was smiling at\nhim . . . just that, smiling at him and letting the cruiser drift forward\nat the pace of Conrad's walk. Conrad was already ransacking his\nmemory for the answer to the inevitable question-Why? At the same\ntime, another decision: which was cooler, to maintain eye contact\nand stop, maintain eye contact and keep walking, or break eye\ncontact and keep walking? Decide!He nodded with a neutral and, he devoutly hoped, cool expression\non his face, turned his head, and kept walking. The cruiser kept\ndrifting along beside him. What now? Ignore him or not? O Zeus!\nDecide-\n\"Where you heading?\" Whirr ya headin'?\nConrad turned his head and then stopped. The man was still smiling.\nConrad fought the urge to swallow and to blink. A scrap of memory-\ncaught it!\n\"I'm looking for a shop, an antiques shop, called Hello Again.\"\nThe policeman, his big neck straining against his shirt collar, kept\nstaring at him and smiling. Conrad fought to keep control of his\neyes, his mouth, and his throat. It was precisely now that the man\nwas deciding whether to check him out or let him go. Finally:\n\"Up there at the next street?\" Up'irr't the next street? \"You take a\nright?\" You take a rat? \"And it's two blocks from there, that way.\" In\nit's two blocks fum'irr, 'at way. He pointed in that direction.\nThen he dropped the smile and said, \"Have a nice day,\" and . . .\nwinked and pulled away in the cruiser. Winked-as if to say, \"I don't\nbelieve a word of it, but I'm gonna let you be.\"\nConrad's heart was pounding. He figured he'd better head, for real,\nto Hello Again, a shop he'd had a single stray glimpse of the first day\nafter he arrived.\nThe shop was in an exhausted old wooden frame house on a corner.\nPart of the original clapboard facade had been cut away and framed\nto create a show window. The merchandise was above the level of a\nflea market, but not a great deal. The prize item was an old J. C.\nHiggins balloon-tire bicycle, unfortunately a bit rusty.\nInside, in a room that must not have been painted in a quarter\ncentury, were an old man and an old woman. Both were morbidly\nfat. The old man was sitting at a desk in the rear reading apamphlet. As he checked out Conrad, he opened his mouth and\nstuck his big bulbous tongue into a stretch of gums where there was\na row of teeth missing. His pants, an old pair of navy serge pants\nnow shiny at the knee and on his fat thighs, were zipped up as far\nas they would go, which was where his underbelly began bulging out\nin a thoroughly irreducible way. The old woman, who was standing\nin the front, wore a capacious shift, apparently homemade, with no\nsleeves, so that the pitted gobs, the garlands, of fat that jiggled on\nthe backs of her arms were exposed. Her skin was a livid white, and\nher hair was random wisps of gray, but on her face were red\nsplotches that spread or grew smaller according to how much she\nexerted herself. All around, on shelves, in freestanding glass cases\non the floor was . . . stuff. . . pieces of tarnished silverware, most of\nthem knives and spoons, wrinkled Victorian Christmas cards, a\npartial set of teacups with handles in the shape of nymphs doing\nback bends, teetering stacks of old Motional Geographies . . .\ninkstands with the silver plate wearing off... a pair of women's\nrubber galoshes with scalloped edges where one side closed and\nsnapped over the other . . . a moth-eaten fox stole in which the fox\nseemed to be holding his tail in his mouth ... In short, junk. Little as\nConrad knew about antiques, the thought of trying to sift for the\nprecious pieces possibly hidden among these heaps was too\ndemoralizing to be attempted. The room had a sharp, slightly sour\nsmell that reminded Conrad of something familiar, but he couldn't\nname it. A sooty gray-green wallpaper was torn away at the corners,\nrevealing a veritable archaeological dig of various wallpapers\nunderneath.\nThe old woman sized up Conrad, then cocked her head in a slightly\nchallenging way, and said, \"Help you, young man?\" Then she\nresumed chewing her cud.\n\"I was wondering about the bicycle in the window,\" said Conrad.\n\"That old J. C. Higgins?\" she said. \"Pretty thing.\"\n\"I was wondering how much it is,\" said Conrad.\"One hundred dollars,\" she said. \"Got good tires, too.\" Got good\ntars, too. 'Tou can ride it right outta here.\"\nThere was a lump in her cheek that she kept moving around with\nher tongue. Then she took a McDonald's paper cup out from behind\na lamp with four glass Ionic columns as a base, held it up to her face\nso that it covered her mouth, and spat into it. Chewing tobacco.\nConrad shook his head. \"Can't afford that much. I need a way to get\naround, but-\" Rather than try to finish the sentence, he shook his\nhead some more.\nShe said, \"How much can you afford, son?\"\nThe old man made a hawking sound in his throat. Conrad looked\nabout; the old man also had a McDonald's cup over his mouth. Then\nhe put that one down behind a framed sepia-tone picture of a\nbaseball player named Cecil Travis and picked up another one and\ntilted it back to his lips. The sweet smell of brown whiskey, bourbon\nor rye, spread through the room.\nIt was part of an even ranker odor, which was the odor of poverty.\nAs his eyes got used to the gloom of the place, he noticed a\npotbellied stove obscured by the great bulk of the old man. An old-\nfashioned stovepipe rose from the stove and curved into the wall.\nThat no doubt accounted for the sharp, sour smell: coal fumes.\n\"I don't exactly know,\" said Conrad, answering the old woman.\nSomehow-he couldn't have accounted for why-he trusted her. \"I\nneed a way to get around, but I also need a place to stay.\"\nThe old woman glanced at the old man and then said, \"What kinda\nplace you want?\"\n\"A room somewhere, I guess,\" said Conrad. \"I can't afford much.\"\n\"Where you staying now?\" she asked.\"With some friends over near the highway,\" said Conrad. \"But they\ndon't have enough room.\"\n\"Over'n Chambodia?\" said the old man with a chortle.\n\"I don't know,\" said Conrad, not wanting to get onto that topic. \"I\nthink they said it was Chamblee.\"\n\"Huh,\" said the old man, \"that's what we used to call it.\"\n\"We've lived in this house for four generations,\" said the woman. \"Us\nMungers I'm talking about. Our granddaddy, Brother'n'mine\"-she\nnodded in the direction of the old man-\"fought in the Civil War. He\nwasn't a drummer boy, either. He was in the infantry, started out as\na private, fought at Chickamauga, Atlanta, Jonesboro-finally got\nwounded at Jonesboro. He was a major by then. Battlefield\npromotions. Our mother went to Agnes Scott College; for two years.\"\nConrad could think of no adequate response to these revelations.\n\"Ummmmm,\" he said, nodding his head as if in pleasant surprise.\n\"I'll be switched if I know how this town suddenly went Oriental,\"\nsaid the woman.\n\"You know darn well, Sister,\" said Brother. \"It's'at chicken plant in\nKnowlton. Won't no white man work there and no black man, either,\nthese days. So they wants the Orientals, but they don't want'em\nliving in Knowlton, so they park'em in Chamblee and Doraville.\"\n\"Well, to tell the truth, that's another thing,\" said Conrad. \"I need a\njob, too. What about the chicken plant?\"\n\"Naw, naw, naw,\" said Brother, who always massaged the toothless\npart of his gums with his tongue before he spoke. \"The smelPJl finish\nyou off all by itself.\"\n\"What smell?\"\n\"The smell of thousands of chickens-and we're talking about\nf/iousands-the smell of thousands of chickens with their intestineshanging out.\"\n'Tou go to church?\" said Sister.\nConrad hesitated. He knew from the very question itself that the\nproper answer was yes. So he took a chance. \"I go to the Church of\nZeus.\"\n\"Church of Zeus?\" said Sister. \"That's a new one on me.\"\n'Tou sure it ain't the Church of the Zion Crossroads?\" said Brother.\n\"No, it's Zeus,\" said Conrad. \"Started up about the time of Nero.\"\n\"Where you gon' find one around here?\" said Sister.\n\"That's the problem,\" said Conrad, \"not many of'em anywhere.\"\n\"Sister'n'me's Methodists,\" said Brother. \"Our mama and papa were\nUB's, but we're Methodists.\"\n\"UB's?\" asked Conrad.\n\"United Brethren,\" said Brother, \"but Sister'n'me's Methodists. The\nonly thing I don't like about the Methodist Church is the hymns. John\nWesley wrote half uv'em, and he never had the knack for it, if you\nask me. The Episcopalians got the hymns. I'll give'em'at much.\" He\nburst into song:\n\"Lord God of hosts, Be with us yet, Lest we forget, Lest we for-get,\nForrrrr-gettttttt...\"\nHe had a surprisingly good tenor voice, which ranged over two\noctaves in those few lines. \"What kind of hymns your Church of Zeus\ngot?\"\n\"Not much,\" said Conrad.\n\"Well, it's like I say. When it comes to your hymns, the Episcopalians\nare the beatin'est.\" He burst into song once more:\"A mighty fortress is our God, A bulwark never failing.\nOur helper he amid the flood, O'er mortal ills prevailing.\"\nThen he said, \"That's another thing. If you're in the Episcopal\nChurch, they call you Episcopalians. If you're in the Methodist\nChurch, they call you a Methodist. Whatta they call you if you're in\nthe Church of Zeus? A Zeusian?\"\n\"No, a Stoic,\" said Conrad.\n\"A Stoic?\"\n\"Yeah. People tend to think of Stoics as people who are long-\nsuffering and don't complain. But it's a whole religion.\"\n\"Don't sound Christian,\" said Brother.\n\"It's pre-Christian,\" said Conrad. \"The Stoics influenced the early\nChristians.\"\n\"Unh-hunh.\" Brother gave Conrad a searching gaze. \"What kinda\nwork you done before?\"\n\"Trucker's helper, warehouse man, construction-but I don't have a\ntrade. I'll do anything, though.\"\n\"Truck loading-you don't look the type,\" said Brother. \"Let me see\nyour hands.\"\nConrad spread his fingers wide and offered his hands for inspection,\npalm-first.\n\"I take it back,\" said Brother. \"Sister, look at-what's your name\nanyway?\"\n\"Connie,\" said Conrad. \"Connie DeCasi.\"\n\"Well, thank the Lord for that,\" said Sister. \"A young man who\nvolunteers his last name! All these kids today, they only have firstnames. Makes you think they're drug dealers. Well, getting back to\nwhat we were saying- By the way, where're your folks?\"\nConrad hesitated. \"They're both dead.\"\n\"Where was you brought up?\" said Sister.\n\"All over the place. Macon most recently.\"\n\"WTiere'd you live in Macon?\"\nLuckily he remembered the address on his fake driver's license.\n\"Twenty-seven hundred block of Cypress.\"\n\"Don't know it,\" said Brother.\n\"Getting back to what we were saying,\" said Sister. 'Tou say you\nneed a room, eh?\"\n\"I sure do,\" said Conrad.\nSister looked toward Brother and must have gotten a sign of\napproval, because she said, \"Well, we have a room here we rent out\nsometimes. It's up on the third floor.\"\n\"How much is it?\" asked Conrad.\n\"Seventy-five dollars,\" said Sister.\n\"A week?\"\n\"No, a month. We like the rent in advance.\"\nSister led Conrad up a gloomy staircase, which had stacks of Atlantic\nMonthly's from God knew back when on every step, next to the wall.\nOn the second floor Conrad got a glimpse of two dismal bedrooms\nheaped so full of books, magazines, and bric-a-brac, the only part\nyou could see of their floors, which were linoleum, was the pathways\nthey had cleared from the doorways to the beds. In a corner of the\nhallway was a small bathroom with an old soapstone basin.By the time Sister headed up the stairway to the third floor, she was\nbreathing loudly. She had a way of moving from step to step by\nsidling her bulk this way and that. \"Stairs in 'is house . . . gon' finish\nme off . . . 'reckly ...\"\nThe third floor was underneath the eaves. There were several small\nrooms with dormer windows, but they were so chockablock with . . .\nstuff . . . the)' looked impenetrable. Such light as there was in the\ntiny hallway came from a bulb screwed into the ceiling with a\ndisintegrating parchment shade clipped to it upside down. Sister led\nConrad to a doorway. A narrow dormer window, bereft of curtain or\nshade, admitted a shaft of light into the room within. In this one the\nfloor was not absolutely choked with Sister'n'Brother Munger's Hello\nAgain collection, merely heavily littered. In a corner beneath an eave\nwas a narrow bed, the narrowest bed Conrad had ever seen, much\nnarrower than an ordinary twin-size, with an old painted metal\nbedstead and some sort of ornately handworked but dusty and\nyellowish-white counterpane. Half the counterpane was covered with\nceramic lamp bases lying on their sides.\n\"Things sorta need puttin' away in here,\" said Sister, panting hard\nfrom the climb, \"but that's a good old bed, and nobody's made a\nma- telasse counterpane like that one right there in a hundred\nyears.\" A hunnut years. \"Gettin' hot out already.\" She swept a\nperilously hanging droplet of sweat from the tip of her nose with the\nback of one hand and the sweat of her brow with the back of the\nother one.\nThe little room was stifling, and the eaves were pressing down from\nboth sides. But something told Conrad this was about as good as an\nexhausted unemployed escaped convict was going to be able to get\non short notice for $75 a month. And besides-although this yearning\nhe couldn't have put into words-here he would have . . . fellow\nhumans to talk to! . . . even if it was only this pair of old pack rats.\nEccentric they were, garrulous they were, inert they were, tobacco\nchewers they were, and McDonald's cup spitters, but they seemed to\nhave good hearts. He had already lived in a place where everyonewas young and bursting with energy to burn and even- heart was\nmalevolent. It was called Santa Rita.\nAfter completing his cash transaction with Sister, Conrad set about\nthe task of \"puttin' away.\" Even though it consisted of nothing more\nthan arranging all the sad old rubbish in orderly ranks beneath the\neave opposite the bed, it took him more than three hours. Then he\ntook off his boots and lay down on the dusty, yellowing old\nmatelasse counterpane and closed his eyes and listened to his\nheartbeat and sweated and congratulated himself. A bed of his\nown!-for the next thirty days! O Zeus!\nA bed of his own; and the grand sum of $197 left in his jeans.\nday 2. no more Demerol. No more immersion in the mindless sea of\nnarcosis, in the hemisphere of Whatever. Charlie was an enormous\naching knee with attachments: his upper and lower right leg, his\ntorso, his other leg, his arms, neck, his tormented head, and his\nbladder, which required him to undergo the indignity of a bedpan.\nAs armor against such insults to his status, all of which proceeded\nfrom the hospital patient's role as a frightened organism upon which\nsuperior beings practiced their medical arts, Charlie insisted on\nwearing a brilliant blue Thai silk robe with white Paisley designs\nupon it, as if it were a royal blue that would strike the hearts of one\nand all with fear of the king. In fact, regiphobia, if any, didn't seem\nto deter his keepers for a second. Emmo Nuchols kept coming by\nand treating Charlie, who was twenty years his senior, as if he,\nEmmo, were a parent who, while patient and forbearing, would be\nobeyed. Specifically, he ordered him to obey his physical therapist, a\nhawk-faced woman who refused to be charmed or amused. She\ncompelled him to do all sorts of painful things with his knee, even to\nthe point of making him get out of bed and support his weight with\nhis throbbing knee with only an aluminum walker to help him\nsupport his weight. The walker clanked and rattled in its aluminum\njoints with every tiny step he took. By the time he got back in bed,\nhe would be panting like a dog.He felt deceived. Emmo had always described the operation as if it\nwere a piece of carpentry. All the bones and cartilage in the model\non Emmo's desk had seemed so cleanly mechanical. Saw off a bit of\nthis nice white plastic part here, insert a nice gleaming titanium tip\nthere, tuck a nice inert piece of plastic padding between here and\nthere-in fact, the sonofabitch had cut through living tissue!-taken a\nbloody saw to his thighbone and his shinbone, which were full of\nliving blood, cells, nerves, molecules, DNA-he wasn't sure about\nDNA; nerves there were, for sure. The incision ran from way up here\nto way down there, and it looked as if it had a tight red tube running\nthe length of it and held in place by strips of flesh-colored plastic\ntape that ran crossways. The red tube was actually the flesh and\nblood where the incision had been closed, and the skin all around it\nfelt as if it were about to burst.\nCharlie tried to keep his mind focused on the knee, the suture, the\npain-surely the pain would be enough to keep his mind off\neverything else. There was a little machine called the CPM, for\n\"continual passive motion,\" which they had placed under his knee,\nand it flexed your knee for you, whether you wanted it to or not.\nHurt like hell. Why endure so much pain when all you wanted was\nfor God to take you away in the night? Somewhere out there,\nperhaps at this very moment, Fareek Fanon's lawyer, a black man\nwho dressed like a British diplomat, was making plans for a press\nconference at which he, Charlie, wearing a shabby mask of racial\nharmony, would hold forth in the insolent Cannon's behalf-in an\noutright betrayal of Inman Armholster. And if he reneged on that\ndeal, this guy Zell or Zale and PlannersBanc stood ready to strip him\nof even' piece of real estate he had, starting with Turpmtine.\nJust then the goddamned CPM under his knee went into action, and\nhis knee joint bent, and the pain shot through his entire nervous\nsystem until he grimaced and groaned: \"Unghhhh!\" But soon they\nwere back . . . Inman, Zell/Zale, and Lawyer Roger White . . .\nstamping around in his skull demanding attention.Charlie had private nurses on the 4 p. M. to midnight shift and from\nmidnight to 8 a. M., but not from 8 a. M. to 4 p. M. There was so\nmuch activity during the day, what with the doctors, nurses,\norderlies, visitors, and a fellow who swept and mopped the floors\ncoming by, he didn't need a private nurse. Not that he truly needed\none on the other shifts.\nBut they were like the brilliant blue robe. They showed that he was\nnot just some poor gork stretched out on his back. He couldn't roll\nover on his side for fear of twisting his knee. If he wanted to shift\nhis position, he could elevate his back by pushing a button that\ncaused the head of the bed to lift, or he could reach up and grab a\ncouple of handles that hung down above his chest and pull hard and\nshift his weight a few inches this way or that. That soon became his\nway of greeting visitors, his version of standing up out of politeness.\nNot that he was anxious to have visitors. He didn't want any more\nreminders of the world outside than were absolutely necessary,\nalthough he wasn't so far gone that he would couch it in those\nterms. Serena, Wally, the Wiz, Marguerite- they were the only people\nto be admitted to his room.\nEarly in the afternoon the Wiz arrived. He looked as gaunt as ever,\nwith his sunken cheeks and his neck that never quite filled up his\nshirt collar, but he had an un-Wiz-like smile spread out down below\nthe titanium rectangles of his eyeglasses.\nCharlie tugged on the handles above the bed, moved himself a\nfraction of an inch, groaned in a subdued way, and said, \"Hello,\nWiz.\" It was a dispirited voice, for in his present state Charlie\ncouldn't imagine anyone being pleased by anything.\nThe Wiz pulled up an armchair with hospital-plastic upholstery and\nsat down, the remnants of his smile still playing about the corners of\nhis mouth.\n\"Well, Charlie, how's it going?\"\n\"Slowly,\" said Charlie. \"They make it sound so simple beforehand.\"The Wiz said, \"I've always heard it requires a high pain threshold.\"\n'Teah, or whatever,\" said Charlie, \"that and the patience of a saint.\"\n\"Well, I've come to cheer you up, Charlie. Or I guess you could say I\nhave good news and bad news. Which would you like first?\"\n\"Surprise me.\"\n\"Okay, I will. For some reason-and I have not called them to ask\nwhy-PlannersBanc has suspended its campaign of rationalized\nharassment. They've called off the dogs. We haven't heard a sound\nfrom them all week.\" He beamed at Charlie.\nCharlie knew he ought to register pleasant surprise, if only to\nindulge the Wiz's excitement. But he couldn't playact. He felt\nsubmerged by a wave of guilt. They had called off the dogs because\nhe had agreed to betray Inman Armholster.\n\"Good,\" he said in a glum way that sent out the signal It's too late or\nIt's not enough.\nThe Wiz's smile receded. \"The bad news-it's not specifically bad\nnews for us. I suppose it falls under the heading of sad news. You\nknow the case of Fareek Fanon and the rape charge and so forth?\"\nCharlie nodded.\n\"Well, you'll never guess who the girl involved is.\" The Wiz's\nbarcode-scanner eyes were lit up with a thousand watts.\n\"Tell me,\" said Charlie tonelessly.\n\"Elizabeth Armholster. Inman Armholster's daughter.\" Two thousand\nwatts.\nCharlie shook his head and compressed his lips. The Wiz no doubt\ninterpreted it as a look of sympathy and regret. \"How did you learn\nthat?\" said Charlie.\"Some Internet Web site carried her name,\" said the Wiz. \"It's an\nodd situation, because nobody else is using her name. You don't see\nit in the Journal-Constitution, you don't hear it on television, and yet\nthe name's all over town, and it's all over the Internet. I've heard of\nplenty of situations where they don't publish a rape victim's name,\nbut I've never heard of one in which the victim was the daughter of\nsuch a well- known man.\"\nCharlie looked away and shook his head some more. Wave after\nwave of guilt.\n'You're really not feeling so hot, are you,\" said the Wiz.\n\"That's true,\" said Charlie. In fact, he felt profoundly depressed. He\nreached for the handles above his chest and pulled himself up a few\ninches. He wanted the Wiz to see that he still had strength. He\nwanted him to see more of his brilliant blue robe. But for what\nearthly reason? He couldn't think of one. \"I wouldn't attach too\nmuch significance to the PlannersBanc thing. It's hard to say what it\nmeans. It may not mean anything.\"\nHe couldn't believe he was actually going to betray Inman in order\nto get a bank off his back.\nJust then the telephone on his bedside table rang.\nImmediately up and on his feet, the Wiz said, 'You want me to get\nit?\"\n\"Would you?\" Wearily: \"And find out who it is.\"\nThe Wiz answered the telephone, listened a few moments, then put\nhis hand over the receiver's mouthpiece and said to Charlie, \"It's\nMarguerite.\"\nCharlie sighed and nodded and closed his eyes and lifted his hand,\nas if to say, \"I'm tired, and this is an imposition, but I'll take it.\"Marguerite's voice said, \"I'm really sorry to bother you, Charlie, but -\nhow you feeling?\"\n\"So-so. Not great.\"\n\"Listen, I'm really sorry, but that lawyer from Wringer Fleasom\ncalled, that-you know, Roger White-and he kept saying it was urgent\nthat he speak to you. Something about an appointment you had, or\nhave, with him next week?\"\nCharlie could feel his heart speeding up, taking off. \"What'd you tell\nhim?\"\n\"What I've been telling everybody. You're away and can't be\nreached, but you'll be checking in from time to time. Then he\nwanted to know 'Away-where?' He'd be happy to call you wherever.\nHe was really insistent.\"\n\"What'd you say to that?\"\n\"I told him you hadn't made your itinerary available.\"\n\"And he said?\"\n\"He said to remind you that this appointment was extremely\nimportant. Whattaya want me to do?-if anything.\"\n\"Nothing,\" said Charlie. 'Tou did the right thing. No need to tell\nanybody any more than that.\"\nHe said goodbye, sighed again, closed his eyes, and held the\nreceiver up in the air, thereby implicitly instructing the Wiz to put it\nback upon the telephone's cradle, which he did.\nCharlie kept his eyes closed. Should he open them? If he didn't, the\nWiz would think he was in pain or enduring some other form of\nsuffering. But for now he just wanted to . . . vanish. Certainly,\nsomehow, he could stretch this hospital stay on through next week,\nfinesse the press conference-all the while realizing it would be no\nsolution whatsoever. Why would they, whoever they were, be so kindas to keep PlannersBanc away from his throat in return for . . .\nnothing? Had he really become so weak and foolish as to think he\ncould . . . hide?\nSo he opened his eyes. The Wiz was standing there, looking at him\nwith a puzzled expression. \"Don't mind me, Wiz. I think it's the\nanesthetic. It really wipes you out. Makes you woozy.\" He hoisted his\nbody up an inch or so by pulling down on the handles. Wanted to\nshow the\nWiz he was still in control of himself. He sank back down on the\npillow and involuntarily let out a groan, and sweat broke out on his\nforehead. He made himself smile, but it was a rueful smile. \"My knee\nfeels like it's the size of a basketball, Wiz.\"\n\"I'm going to let you get back in the inert mode, Charlie. I just\nwanted to let you know about the bank and Inman Armholster.\"\n\"Thanks,\" said Charlie. \"Keep me posted.\" He attempted another\nsmile. \"You know where I'll be.\"\nChapter 28The Spark off Zeus\nIn his little attic room in old chamblee, conrad didn't need an alarm\nclock to wake up on time in the morning. The one window, the\ndormer, faced east and had no shade. By 5:30 a. M. the light was\nalready pouring in, even on cloudy days. On sunny days, like this\none, the sun shone through the dormer's tunnel as a beam,\nhighlighting this or that promiscuous heap of old books, magazines,\nknick- knacks, and exhausted furniture on the floor.\nConrad threw back the matelasse counterpane, started to get up,\nyawned, drew in an unhappy lungful of the house's ineradicable sour\nsmell of coal fires, kerosene heaters, and hurricane lamps, lost\nheart, and idly followed the path of the beam. It lit up an old three-\nshelf-high maple bookcase. Into the shelves were stuffed old books,\nmost without their dust jackets, and on top of it was laid out his\nuniform from Carter Home Care, a white polo shirt with the green\nCarter logo on the left breast pocket, and white ducks with a narrow\ngreen piping down the outseam of each leg. There were no closets\nup here on the third floor, and empty surfaces were hard to come by\nanywhere in the house. He sat on the edge of the bed in his boxer\nshorts and yawned some more. Well, this would be his fourth\nassignment working for Carter. He would be spending the day with\nan old couple named Gardner in a part of Atlanta called\nCabbagetown. According to the Carter office, the old man had been\nparalyzed on the left side of his body by a stroke. The old woman\nhad heart trouble and couldn't stay on her feet for much more than\nthirty minutes at a time. Many everyday chores-moving a chair,\nshopping for groceries-were beyond them. The job paid only seven\ndollars an hour (Carter charged the customer twelve), but he could\nget by on it.\nOne of the polo shirt's short sleeves was somehow drooping down\nover the edge of the top of the bookcase. It made no difference, of\ncourse, but it offended Conrad's sense of orderliness. He stood up\nand leaned forward and reached his arm out toward it-when hestopped and stared in astonishment. Behind the sleeve, on the top\nshelf of the bookcase, jammed in horizontally on top of a row of\nbooks, was a dark blue book, bereft of dust jacket, with faded letters\nstamped on the spine: the stoics.\nHis hand trembled violently. Such miracles never-there would be\nsome--\nThe book was jammed in so tightly that at first he couldn't budge it.\nSo now he placed the heel of his left hand against the top edge of\nthe bookcase and pulled the book with his right. It took every ounce\nof strength-but finally he got it out. Now both hands were trembling.\nHe closed his eyes before actually opening it, for fear that it would\nturn out to be a dreadful joke ... the novel he had originally wanted\n(The Stoics' Game) ... or God knew what. Since the deputy had torn\nthe cover off his book at Santa Rita, he had no idea of what the\nbinding had looked like. He opened the book to the title page- and\nthere it was! In that selfsame type, which he would know as well as\nhis own face: \"the stoics. The complete extant writings of Epictetus,\nMarcus Aurelius, C. Musonius Rufus, and Zeno.\" Dying to cry out\nwith joy, he riffled through the pages . . . Epictetus! . . . precisely\nwhere he was supposed to be! . .. Conrad opened the Epictetus\nsection at random and read: \"A disciple asked, 'How is it possible for\na man who has nothing, naked, without home or hearth, in squalor,\nwithout a city, without a slave, to live a tranquil life?'\n\"Epictetus said, 'Lo, Zeus has sent you one who shall show indeed\nthat it is possible. Look at me, I have no house or property. I sleep\non the ground, I have only earth and sky and one poor cloak. Yet\nwhat do\nI lack? Has any of you seen me with a gloomy face? How do I act\ntowards those of whom you stand in fear and awe? Do they not give\nway before me as if I were king and master?' \"\nconrad held the book with both hands, and he felt as if a current\nwere flowing straight up his arms and diffusing throughout his body.Lo, Zeus has sent you one who shall show indeed that it is possible.\nHe began laughing, but forced himself to stop, for fear of sounding\nlike a lunatic to his new landlords somewhere down below. The\nbook! The text! Lit by a sunbeam here in the attic of the Hello Again!\nWas there ever a clearer sign-that all this, the earthquake at Santa\nRita, Mai's army, Lum Loc, the trip across the continent to this little\nplace he had never heard of, Chamblee, all this was Zeus' design?\nFor what reason? To send forth a messenger who shall show indeed\nthat it is possible. That what is possible? To serve Zeus! To speak for\nZeus! He had suffered terrible pains, terrible losses-but what were\nthey? Zeus' trials! Zeus' training for the tasks ahead!\nBy the time he came downstairs to the kitchen, Conrad had on his\nCarter Home Care uniform, including a pair of white leatherette\nshoes. He carried The Stoics in his hand. Brother, wearing a long\nnightshirt and an old seersucker bathrobe over his immense bulk,\nwas at the stove cooking up a skillet full of fried apples.\n\"Good morning, Brother.\"\nCouldn't hear him. The frying apples. \"GOOD MORNING, BROTHER!\"\n\"Oh, Connie! Didn't even know you was there.\"\n\"I'm going to work, Brother, but I wanted to show you this book. I\nfound it up in my room. I'd like to buy it.\"\nBrother put the skillet down and picked up the book and looked at\nthe spine. \"The Stoics.\" Then he looked at Conrad. \"That's some a\nyou Zeusians, ain't it, Connie?\"\nConrad smiled in a bashful fashion and said, \"That's pretty much\nwhat it is.\"\n\"Well, I tell you what,\" said Brother, \"I'll make a deal with you. You\ncan have the book if you'll clean out the cellar for me when you get\nback from work.\"Given the chaos of the upper floors, Conrad hated to think about the\ncondition of the cellar. On the other hand, no price was too high.\ncharlie had lost track of what time it was. He was lying flat out on\nhis back with his eyes closed, watching eyelid movies and sinking\ninto daydreams in which things, innocuous things, were happening\nin bizarre locations ... a Coast Guard office on Sea Island, an empty\nwater cooler, a young man lifting up the cooler's enormous bottle,\ntinted aqua . . . and yet he knew he really wasn't asleep. His knee\nfelt gigantic and kept throbbing and throbbing. And then-what was\nit?-a shadow falling across an eyelid movie?-a sound?-he was aware\nthat someone was standing by the bed. He opened his eyes--\nA black man, a light-skinned black man, dressed to kill ... a striped\nhigh-collared shirt that made his mauve necktie pop out in a certain\nway ... a chalk-striped double-breasted suit . . . leaning against the\nstainless-steel railings of the bed so that his face seemed to be up\nabove him like an October moon . . . Who the hell was he? What\nwas he doing here-this black man, standing here, looking down at\nme in my bed? Then it dawned on him. Fareek Fanon's lawyer, Roger\nWhite.\n\"Mr. Croker,\" said the head above him. \"How we doing?\"\nHow we doing? Charlie resented everything about the question, the\ntone, the tone you used to talk to hopeless, aging invalids; the\nidiocy, the idiocy of asking someone stroked out on a hospital bed\nhow he's doing, and above all the presumption, the presumption\nthat the two of them were intertwined in any way whatsoever. What\nhe resented most of all was the fact that it was true, that he had let\nit become true, that he was intertwined with this man, in a\nperfidious union. All the same, how dare he come walking into his\nhospital room like this? Where was the nurse? Always out of the\nroom when he needed her. Wait a minute. She doesn't come on until\nfour.\"How'd you know where I was?\" He meant it to be intimidating, but\nit had a furtive, croaking quality to it. He reached for the handles\nand pulled himself up a few inches, so that the black man would be\naware of his strength. If he were well-if he were himself-if-if-he'd\ngive him a ... a ... a good tongue-lashing.\nRoger White smiled. 'Tour office was very protective. Wouldn't even\nhint where you were. Luckily an acquaintance of yours happened to\nrun into somebody in our firm and mention you'd undergone\nsurgery.\"\n\"What acquaintance?\" asked Charlie from deep down in his throat.\nHe'd gladly strangle whoever it was, if only he didn't feel so tired . . .\nand inert . . .\n\"I don't know,\" said Roger, \"he didn't say.\"\nHe could tell Croker was' not happy. But Wes Jordan was not happy\nthat Charlie Croker had suddenly disappeared on him, either. It was\nonly because one Emory Nuchols, Croker's surgeon, had name-\ndropped to Zandy Scott the fact that he had sawed away on this\neminent knee here-and because Zandy had passed this gossip along\nin a loud voice to a client named Howell Hendricks within Roger's\nearshot-that Roger had even gotten wind of where Croker had\ndisappeared to. Croker was no longer the might)- King of the\nCrackers. He looked weak enough for him, Roger, to berate for\npulling a disappearing act, for checking into the hospital without\nsaying a word. But Roger was not a Don Pickett. He was not\naggressive by nature, and he was afraid it wouldn't come out right.\nSo what he said was:\n\"You had us worried, Mr. Croker. Suddenly you . . . disappeared.\nWe're organizing the press conference. We can't wait much longer.\nWe've got the Mayor lined up-but what we need is you. I don't know\nwhat the Mayor is going to say, but I feel pretty sure he's going to\ncall for calm, so this thing doesn't spin out of control. Having\nsomebody as prominent as you are, somebody who's a member ofthe city's business establishment-having somebody like you at the\npress conference- somebody who happens to have been a great\nsports star for Georgia Tech in his own day-it's going to make all the\ndifference in the world.\"\nWhat was that in Croker's eyes? Fear? Pain? Anger?\nCharlie was horrified by this twist of fate. The sonofabitch had found\nhim. He couldn't even hide behind his knee. But he could try.\n\"I'm afraid I'm not much good for a while.\" He gestured toward his\nknee with his right hand and gave the black man a look of glum\nresignation.\n'Tou can't make it to a press conference next week?\"\nGloom: \"I don't see how.\"\nRoger had the strange, not at all unpleasant feeling that he had this\nsupposedly big powerful white man cowering. \"Well, I don't see how\nwe can continue to hold PlannersBanc at bay if you don't get up off\nthe sidelines. Or how about this? If you can't come to the press\nconference, we'll videotape your statement on behalf of Fareek. If\nwe have to, we can do it right here. How does that sound? We'll do\nit right here at your bed. Might even have a more dramatic effect.\nHow about it?\" \"Depends on how it's going,\" said Croker, mumbling.\n\"Mr. Croker,\" said Roger, \"no matter how it's going, it's got to go. You\nunderstand? The Mayor's going to be there, and we've assured him\nyou'll be there. The two of you can do something very important for\nthis city-I hope you realize that. One way or the other, you've got to\nbe there, in person or on tape.\"\nCroker, still flat on his back, looked up at him, blinking uncertainly.\nRoger looked down at him and felt like smiling, although he didn't.\nHe had begun treating the big man, the big developer and Piedmont\nDriving Club man, like a disobedient child.\njesus God, thought Charlie, this sonofabitch is jerking my chain.\nWell, I could change that in an instant, couldn't I ... All I have to dois say, \"The deal's off.\" One sentence is all it would take. I can\nsalvage my honor-and lose everything I have. Why kid myself? This\nis Atlanta-where your \"honor\" is the things you possess. Who's going\nto come visit a man who has salvaged his honor but lost his house\non Blackland Road? Nobody. His mind kept spinning, and suddenly\nthere was a flash of hope. He just said something, this sonofabitch\ndid. He said that I-or the Mayor and I-might save the city from . . .\nfrom what? A race riot maybe. Anyone objects, I can tell them that.\nIt was a strategy to save the city. It just might go down ... It just\nmight ... Is that what I tell Inman, too? But then he lost heart. What\nwould happen to the look on my face if I tried to tell that to Inman:\nInman, who's thinking in terms of the . . . the . . . the animal-that\nwas what he'd said-the animal who raped his daughter? On the\nother hand--\nHe became acutely aware of what a wretched, sickly face he was\npresenting to this black man who had been so insolent as to track\nhim down in his hospital bed. On the other hand, the man had the\nmagic ability to get PlannersBanc off his back-\n\"I'm tired,\" he said. He realized he was saying it imploringly. \"I'm\ngonna try to get a little sleep.\"\n\"That's fine, Mr. Croker,\" said Roger, \"but when the right time comes,\nyou've got to wake up. You understand?\" Croker nodded a feeble\nyes.\n\"Well, just make sure you do,\" said Roger, \"or there's no restraining\nPlannersBanc. They'll do whatever they want.\" Another feeble nod.\n\"We don't want you to turn forgetful the way you turned hard to\nfind. You know what I'm saying?\"\nAn even feebler nod-and eyes that begged and begged.\ncabbagetown, as it was universally known, struck Conrad as an\nentire village of dollhouses, an impression magnified by what he had\nfound inside the Gardners'. The neighborhood had been a mill villagefor the old Fulton Bag and Cotton plant until about a quarter of a\ncentury ago. The houses were little wooden bungalows, set on\nnarrow lots fronting the narrowest streets in all of Atlanta. Many of\nthem, like the Gardners', had no more than four rooms. Most had\nfront porches, and quite a few had gingerbread ornamentation such\nas was in vogue in the 1890s. Nobody seemed to know for sure\nwhere the name came from. It caught on about 1910, and it was\ntrue that about that time gangs of young toughs from South Atlanta,\nwhite boys, would walk along the railroad tracks and have rock fights\nwith the neighborhood's young toughs, whom they called \"cabbage\nheads.\" In any event, Cabbagetown it was, a doll- house village, and\nthe Gardners' dollhouse was a dollhouse squared.\nThe Gardners were in their late seventies. A therapist from Carter\nHome Care came once a week, and a nurse's helper-Conrad-would\ncome for half a day, four hours, twice a week. As far as the nurse's\nhelper was concerned, his main task was to do everyday things for\nthe old couple that they couldn't do themselves.\nMrs. Gardner answered the doorbell. She was a slender, erect\nwoman with her white hair pulled back into a bun. She was wearing\na summer dress of chiffon with large roses printed on it in swirls so\nsubtle that at first the pattern seemed to be abstract. She wore a\nlovely fragrance. Conrad found her entire presence startling,\nalthough at first he had no idea why. This day and age, to come\nacross a woman (or anyone) who had good posture, who had left\nher hair white, who wore it pulled back into a bun with hairpins, and\nwho wore a dressy dress and perfume in the middle of the day was\nenough to make any American twenty-three- year-old blink in\nastonishment. The only weak points in an otherwise impeccable\nappearance were her ankles, which were swollen.\n'Tou must be Mr. DeCyasi,\" she said, extending her hand. \"I'm Louise\nGyardner.\"\nAt first Conrad had taken this to be a speech defect. In fact, as he\nsoon deduced, it was merely an affectation, and a minor one at that.Anytime a word began with c or a g before a broad a, she inserted a\ny after the consonant. Soon she was telling him about the gyarden\nout back and the cyar they no longer possessed. She had such a\nlovely soft Southern voice-the sort of voice he always thought he\nwas going to hear in Atlanta-that Conrad felt like applauding and\ncheering her on with that or any other affectation she might care to\nindulge in.\n\"Come meet Mr. Gyardner, Mr. DeCyasi.\"\n\"Thank you,\" said Conrad, following her, \"but please just call me\nConnie.\"\nThe house had an awkward layout. It looked as if someone had\nbeen handed a rectangle on a sheet of paper and had drawn one\nline up and down in the middle of the rectangle and another line\nfrom side to side, making four rooms. To get to any room in the\nhouse, except the one where you entered, you had to go through\nanother one. But Conrad didn't notice that at first because of the\nextraordinary decoration of the walls.\nOn almost every wall surface of the house were . . . dolls and\nporcelain figurines. There were hundreds of them, possibly\nthousands. There were wooden knickknack shelves attached to the\nwalls and filled with dolls, old ones, new ones, astronaut dolls,\nAfrican dolls, Filipino dolls, Polynesian dolls. There were dolls resting\non little knickknack shelves that went around each doorframe and\nevery window, all chosen for the matching or harmonious colors of\ntheir clothes, dolls of old people as well as children, dolls of famous\npeople such as Mark Twain, Genghis Khan, and Albert Einstein. Still\nother knickknack shelves were devoted to the porcelain figurines. In\nevery room, up near the ceiling, which was no more than eight feet\nhigh, was a white shelf upon which were white figurines arranged so\ndensely that at first you thought you were looking at some sort of\nfrieze in high relief. The most beautifully colored ones-and some\nwere extravagant examples of the porcelain maker's art-were\narranged on wooden knickknack shelves, like the dolls. Thearrangements were precise. The gradations in size were pleasing.\nNothing was out of place. Despite the vast number of objects, you\nwere immediately struck by the unity and good taste of this\nexhibition of a lifetime of collecting. Conrad had no idea what the\ndolls might be worth, but he had only to look at the exquisite\nworkmanship of some of the porcelain figures to know they must be\nvaluable. Despite its dreadful layout, the little house's interior\nseemed like something lavish beyond all normal reckoning.\nMr. Gardner was in the bedroom, which was one of the two rooms in\nback, the other being the kitchen. He was sitting in an easy chair at\nthe foot of the bed, an old-fashioned four-poster canopy bed with an\narched ladder frame covered in a mauve, purple, and yellow ribbon\ncloth.\n\"Lewis,\" said Mrs. Gardner, \"this is Mr. DeCyasi. Mr. DeCyasi is from\nCyarter Home Care.\"\n\"Please call me Connie,\" said Conrad. He smiled.\n\"Welcome,\" said Mr. Gardner with a weary gesture of his right hand\nthat seemed to say \"Let's not bother shaking hands.\" \"So you're with\nCarter . . .\"\nHis speech was not so much slurred as it was slowed to an unnatural\ndrawl. The left side of his lips barely moved when he spoke. He was\na handsome man; or no doubt had been. He was tall and lean, but\nhis leanness was not the leanness you would call trim but the one\nyou would call wasted away. He wore a plaid bathrobe over a polo\nshirt and a pair of black flannel pants. On his feet were a pair of\nleather bedroom slippers that had dried out and were cracking.\nThere was a small table just to the right of the chair upon which\nrested seven or eight plastic vials of prescription medicines, a small\nKleenex dispenser, and a glass of water with a glass straw. The\nwater had been sitting there in the glass for so long it had begun to\nform stale bubbles.Conrad was dying to sweep the medicine vials off the table, toss out\nthe stale water, remove the bathrobe, and take Mr. Gardner for a\nwalk in the sun. What he said instead was:\n\"Mr. Gardner, Mrs. Gardner, I'm here to help you any way I can. Is\nthere something I can do right now?\"\n\"What I really need are some groceries.\" Her accent was so soft,\nsweet, and Southern, this seemed like the most sublime of\nblandishments. \"But I haven't even had time to make out my list\nyet.\"\n\"You go ahead and make your list,\" said Conrad, \"and in the\nmeantime I'll vacuum the house for you.\"\n'Tou will?\"\n\"I'll be glad to.\"\nThe floor and the rugs were filthy, so laden with dust and dustballs\nand hairballs, it was jarring, given the meticulous care with which\nthe couple had arranged the dolls and figurines and, for that matter,\ntheir furniture. Carting their old Electrolux vacuum cleaner around\nthese four rooms was very likely more than Mrs. Gardner was\ncapable of. Her husband, who was probably slightly older than she\nwas, couldn't help out with anything, heavy or light, so far as Conrad\ncould tell.\nBoth were retired members of the Emory University faculty. He had\ntaught English, with early-nineteenth-century poets and essayists as\nhis specialty. She had taught comparative literature and could read\nFrench, Spanish, Portuguese, Italian, and German. Her forte was\nEuropean literature between 1870 and 1914, which, she told Conrad,\nwas from the Franco-Prussian War to World War I. They had no\nchildren. Seven years ago, with their income at its peak, they had\nbought a big house in Inman Park-with scarcely a thought as to how\nthey would continue to pay off the mortgage once they retired.\nSomehow they would continue to make money; something wouldturn up; they would keep the house some way. Two years ago, their\nbacks against the wall, they had sold the house in Inman Park and\nbought this little box in Cabbagetown with the fond hope that they\ncould now live off the profits of the sale plus their modest pensions\nand Social Security. Every spare nickel they had ever had must have\ngone into the dolls and the figurines. They were dreamers, they\nwere children; but very polite and goodhearted children, children\nyou instinctively wanted to protect.\nWhen Conrad brought the vacuum cleaner into the bedroom, he said\nto Mr. Gardner, \"Is it all right if I vacuum in here now?\"\n\"Yes, yes, go ahead,\" said Mr. Gardner, drawling out of the right-\nhand corner of his mouth. He didn't even try to look at Conrad. He\nstared straight ahead, slumping back in the chair, seeming utterly\ndispirited.\nSomehow Conrad couldn't just leave it at that. He felt as if he just\nhad to engage this feeble old gentleman in . . . something ... He\nransacked his memory . . . nothing . . . no, a fragment, part of a\npoem.\n\"Mr. Gardner, excuse me. I've had the beginning of a poem running\nthrough my head, and I just can't think of who wrote it or what the\nrest of it is. They gave it to us in school.\"\nHe looked at the old man for encouragement in this line of\nintellectual inquiry, but he was staring straight ahead with his lips\nslightly parted in their skewed fashion.\nHaving begun it, Conrad decided to blunder on. \"It starts off, i strove\nwith none, for none was worth my strife; / Nature I loved; and next\nto Nature, Art.' That's all I can remember.\"\nConrad looked at Mr. Gardner again. He still didn't look his way, but\nfinally he said:\n\"I strove with none, for none was worth my strife;Nature I loved; and next to Nature, Art.\nI wanned both hands before the fire of life;\nIt sinks, and I am ready to depart.\n\"Walter Savage Landor, 1853. He was seventy-eight years old when\nhe wrote that.\"\nConrad was appalled. He had inadvertently brought up a poem\nabout the last embers of life. He was speechless.\nNot so, Mr. Gardner: \"Landor was a good poet, but not a great one.\nHe was too polite, too proper, too staid, too content with the comfort\nof what he already had to take a chance on his very best. How old\nare you?\"\n\"Twenty-three,\" said Conrad, forgetting that his age according to his\nrecently minted birth certificate and driver's license was twenty-four.\n\"Twenty-three,\" said the old man, still not looking at him. \"That's a\ngood age to be interested in literature. You have so much time . . .\nyou have so much, it must seem to be spilling out of your pockets.\nYou don't need to worry about what an incalculable luxury literature\nis. Entire civilizations are founded without any literature at all and\nwithout anybody missing it. It's only later on when there's a big\nenough class of indolent drones to write the stuff and read the stuff\nthat you have literature. When I saw all those eager hands sticking\nup as I taught, I always wanted to tell them what I've just told you,\nbut what right did I have to try to play the iconoclast after making a\nliving my whole life taking it seriously, or at least with a straight\nface?\"\n\"I disagree with you, Mr. Gardner,\" said Conrad. \"If anyone has a\nluxury, it's you. You know so much about literature.\"\n\"Hah. How do you know how much I know?\" But things had\nimproved slightly, at least to the point where Mr. Gardner was\nlooking at him.\"Well, I recited two lines of a poem, and you knew not only who the\npoet was, you also recited the entire stanza and told me what year\nthe poem was published and how old the poet was that year. I'd love\nto know that much.\"\n\"You're not aiming very high, my friend. Besides, that's a very well-\nknown poem.\"\n\"I don't know, Mr. Gardner, I'd love to know what's famous and what\nisn't-\"\n\"Literature's a sort of dessert.\" The old man's voice took on a shrill\ntone, and the left side of his lips began to quiver, and tears flowed\nfrom his left eye. \"Life's about things you know even less about.\nLife's about cruelty and intimidation.\"\nNow he was crying openly. His face was terribly contorted. Conrad\nfelt guilty. Had he driven him over the edge by bringing up those\nmorbid verses? Conrad stepped closer to the old man and said:\n\"I'm sorry, Mr. Gardner, I didn't mean to . . . say the wrong thing.\"\nThe old man looked up at him and shook his head, as if to say it\nwasn't Conrad's fault, and had a real cry for himself, blubbering and\nboo-hooing. Mrs. Gardner, who was in the kitchen making out her\ngrocery list, stuck her head in the door. Conrad opened his eyes wide\nand turned his palms up in the look that says \"I haven't a ghost of\nan idea why this happened.\" Mrs. Gardner nodded, as if to indicate\nshe understood, and then went over to comfort her husband.\nAbout ten minutes later, Conrad was in the kitchen with Mrs.\nGardner, going over her grocer)- list.\n\"Really,\" said Conrad, \"I have no idea what upset Mr. Gardner in\nthere. We were talking about a poem.\"\n\"It happens a lot,\" she said. \"It's the stroke. Emotions that ordinarily\nyou can control-they come right to the surface.\"Conrad said, \"Then all of a sudden he was telling me about 'cruelty\nand intimidation' and how that was what life was all about.\"\nMrs. Gardner said nothing at first, then looked toward the door that\nled into the bedroom and said, \"I think-I think he's talking about the\nstate of things in general, in the world. Did he say anything more to\nyou?\"\n\"No.\"\n\"Well, I think he's just talking about the world in general. He gets\nvery pessimistic sometimes.\" That sweet euphonious Southern\nquality had gone out of her voice.\nConrad was at the grocery store for close to fort)' minutes. He\nreturned to the Gardners' little Cabbagetown house with two\nprodigious white plastic bags full of groceries. Mrs. Gardner\nanswered the doorbell. She seemed highly agitated.\n\"Connie,\" she said, \"uhhh . . . just set those bags down here and go\nback to the store and get me some . . . sponges and dishwasher\ndetergent and Brillo.\"\n\"I got Brillo, Mrs. Gardner.\"\n\"I mean vacuum cleaner bags. Go get vacuum cleaner bags, too,\nwon't you?\"\nPuzzled, he stared at her for a moment. Then he heard the loud\nvoice of a man, from the bedroom. At first he thought it must be Mr.\nGardner with his emotions boiling over. But then he knew it couldn't\nbe. There was no way Mr. Gardner could be that loud or pugnacious.\nConrad put the grocery bags down and started walking through the\nliving room and toward the bedroom.\n\"Connie-no!\" said Mrs. Gardner in a loud whisper.\nThere was a tremendous crash and the sound of glass breaking.\nConrad knew immediately that it was the porcelain figurines on theshelf up near the ceiling.\nThe loud voice said, \"I've had enough excuses!\"\nMr. Gardner said something, but it was impossible to make it out,\nbecause he was crying. Conrad entered the bedroom. There was Mr.\nGardner in his easy chair, blubbering and boo-hooing down the right\nside of his face and as still as a stone on the left side. All over the\nfloor near the old man were shards of white porcelain, an\nastonishing amount, many of them jagged with a knife-like, even\nneedle-like, sharpness. Sitting on the bed, insouciantly, with one leg\nand one shoe cocked up on the counterpane was a beefy red-faced\nman who was now staring at Conrad in a challenging way. He had a\nsmall black beard and'mustache and long oily black hair that he\ncombed straight back and then let fall in a wild tangle down the back\nof his neck. He was probably in his mid- forties. He had a big chest,\nbut also an abdomen the size of a watermelon that protruded so far\nfrom beneath his sternum you couldn't see the waist of his blue\njeans when he sat down.\nApparently proud of his big arms, he wore a tight white T-shirt with\nsleeves short enough to reveal a crude black tattoo of a coiled\nrattlesnake with the letters B. T. K. beneath it. A truly botched\njailhouse job it was, Conrad could see at once, with colloidal scars all\nover the place. B. T. K. stood for \"born to kill.\" Across his lap he had\nthe sort of stout cane you see at cattle auctions, thick, unvarnished\ncanes used for prodding the beasts into or out of pens. Conrad\nlooked up at the ceiling. On the cornice shelf an entire battalion of\nthe figurines was missing-and were now nothing more than glassy\nfragments on the floor. It wasn't hard to figure out how they got\nthere.\nThe man glowered at Conrad and looked him up and down and\nturned to Mrs. Gardner, who had come in the room behind Conrad,\nand said, \"Who's he?\"In a tremulous voice Mrs. Gardner said, \"Connie's from the Cyarter\nHome Care. He helps out.\"\nThe man looked back toward Conrad, measured him once more with\nhis eyes, and said, \"Helps out, hunh,\" as if weighing this explanation\nfor rational content, if any. \"Well, I tell you what, Connie, we're kinda\nbusy now. Maybe you'd like to help out somewhere else.\"\n'Yes, Connie,\" said Mrs. Gardner, now highly nervous, \"I forgot to ask\nyou to get a couple of things, some . . . uh . . . filters for the vacuum\ncleaner and . . . uh . . . some Brillo pads, I mean detergent for the\ndishwasher. If you could just go back-\"\nConrad took a deep breath and prayed to Zeus for strength, even\nthough he never thought of what he was now doing as prayer. He\ncrossed his arms over his chest to give the man a good look at his\nbig forearms. He looked at Mrs. Gardner and then at Mr. Gardner,\nand then he said:\n\"I heard a crash. How'd all these figurines get broken?\"\nThe old couple turned toward each other with looks of terrifying\npremonition.\nThe man on the bed now held the cattle cane in his lap in his right\nhand and tapped the shaft up and down on the palm of his left\nhand. He smiled and spoke with a menacing sweetness: \"Didn't you\nhear, Connie, we're a little busy here at the moment. Do what the\nlady says. Go get some filters and some Brillo pads. Be a good\nfellow.\" He motioned toward the front door with his chin and looked\nat Conrad down his nose.\nConrad had no plan, but he could hear Five-O saying, \"Use da\nmouth.\" \"B. T. K., hunh?\" said Conrad. \"So you been down?\nCongratulations.\"\nThe man began to rap the shaft of the cattle cane into his palm\nmore forcefully. He stared at Conrad and cocked his head to one side\nand said, \"Look, pal-\"\"That downtime tattoo artist a yo's either blind or on crack. You\nknow what I'm sayin'?\"\n\"Okay, buddy-\"\n\"Why you tryin'a run a game on'ese good people?\" said Conrad,\ngesturing toward the old couple. \"Caintchoo find nobody better to\ndog? Whuffo' you be sweatin' the Gardners? Why you wanna be\ngittin' over on'em?\"\nWith that, the man on the bed pointed the cattle cane toward\nConrad and said, \"I don't know what-\"\nConrad's hands flew toward the cane. He grabbed the shaft and\njerked it back with such force that the man lost his grip. Conrad now\nheld it in front of himself as if he were a Dojo stick warrior.\n\"Now whatchoo gon' do? This game is over, lest you wants to gitcho\ncap peeled. You unnerstan' what I'm sayin'? Gitcho cap peeled.\"\nThe man on the bed straightened up a bit and slid his leg partly off\nthe bed, but he didn't dare indicate that he might be getting in a\nposition to fight.\nAnd in that moment Conrad knew he had him. It was as if the spark\nof Zeus filled the room. \"Look, you know what N. B. stands for?\"\nConrad was only barely aware that his teeth were showing and he\nwas seething. \"You know what N. B. stands for?\"\nThe man said nothing, but by the look in his eyes it was obvious that\nhe knew N. B. meant Nordic Bund.\n\"We got a motto,\" said Conrad. \"All for one and all on one. You\nunnerstan'? If you ever so much as cast a shadow on this house\nagain, we'll cut your peanuts off with a gelding knife and stuff 'em\ndown your throat. My shot caller from last time down lives two\nblocks from here. He'd just as soon peel your cap as look at'choo.\nFack, he be likin' it better, peelin' yo cap. Now git da hell outta here.\nYou know where the do' is.\"Slowly, warily, the man edged off the bed and stood up. Conrad kept\nthe cattle cane in front of him, but no longer stood seething. Now he\nhad a look of cold confidence. The man headed to the front door\nwith Conrad right behind him. The scraggly mane of black hair at the\nback of his head bounced on the hump of his back as he walked. He\nbegan wheezing terribly, as if he were asthmatic. As the man went\nthrough the doorway, Conrad said in an exaggerated whisper, \"We'll\nkill you, motherfucker. We'll peel yo' fuckin' cap.\"\nThe greaser said nothing.\nWhen Conrad returned to the bedroom, the old parties gave him\nincredulous looks, obviously wondering what sort of creature they\nhad on their hands here.\n\"I'm sorry,\" said Conrad. \"That's the way you have to talk to these\npeople. They're cheap thugs. It's the only language they'll take\nseriously.\"\n\"But where did you-\" Mrs. Gardner didn't quite know how to say it.\n\"Where did I learn all that moronic lingo?\" said Conrad. \"From a\nmovie, some movie about a prison. I figured this guy was all talk\nanyway. He's a little old to be out working as a hoodlum.\"\n\"But as soon as you're gone,\" said Mr. Gardner, \"he'll be back.\" The\n\"he'll be back\" was a pitiful whine.\n\"No, he won't,\" said Conrad. \"He thinks I'm part of a gang.\"\n\"What gang?\" said Mrs. Gardner.\n\"The Nordic Bund,\" said Conrad. \"And believe me, if I thought the\nNordic Bund was after me, I'd be frightened, too.\"\n'Tou mean it's actually over?\" said Mrs. Gardner. She put her face in\nher hands and looked up with a game smile. Then she recounted\nhow the greaser had first approached them, saying he was a burglar\nalarm salesman. When they said they weren't interested, hereturned, saying he was organizing a neighborhood security patrol.\nFoolishly they made a contribution, and he began to come back\nmore often. Soon it became obvious that it was pure extortion. He\nwould descend on Louise Gardner when she left the house to go\nshopping. He would turn up in the house, coming in through the\nlocked front door in ways they couldn't comprehend. They were\nterrified. He had been collecting $100 a week. Today he had said he\nwas upping it to $150. She said they couldn't possibly, and that was\nwhen he took his cattle cane and destroyed thirty or forty figurines.\n\"I couldn't believe the way you stood up to him,\" said Mrs. Gardner.\n\"That took such courage.\" She lowered her head and rubbed her\neyes and then looked up again. She was crying. \"How did you ever\ndo . . . what you just did?\"\n\"It's hard to believe,\" said Conrad, \"but most hoodlums are all talk.\nThe last thing in the world they want is to go to the trouble of\nfighting. They specialize in victims who won't fight. As soon as they\ncome up against somebody who might fight, they're ready to move\noff, particularly a guy like that one who's already up in his forties.\"\n\"But what do you do if you're confronted by a hoodlum who will\nfight,\" said Mrs. Gardner, \"what do you do then?\"\n\"If you run into one of those-then you better be ready to roll in the\ndirt,\" said Conrad, but in his mind he could hear Five-O saying, \"Use\nda mouth, bruddah, use da mouth.\"\nHe felt radiant. He had used da mouth, and it had worked. That- and\nthe spark of Zeus.\nChapter 29Epictetus in Buckhead\nBrother and sister's house was so old-fashioned it had only one\nbathroom, which was on the second floor. Conrad was at the mirror\nover the bathroom sink, half-finished shaving, when the telephone\ncall came in. He could barely hear the ring, because the house also\nhad only one telephone, which was in a tiny room downstairs, an\noffice, more or less, practically buried beneath Hello Again's\nstupefying clutter. To get his attention, Brother or Sister had to stand\nin the hall and yell up.\nThis time it was Sister, who had a curious way of singing out his\nname with a higher note on the second syllable: \"Coii-nie!\"\nHe wiped the shaving cream off his face and hurried downstairs. He\nalways knew who was calling, namely, his employer, Carter Home\nCare. He wasn't about to give the number out to anyone else.\nThe little office was in fact a windowless cubicle. The telephone was\nblack, the first black telephone Conrad, a child of the 1970s, had\never seen. On the line, sure enough, was his employer, in the person\nof a middle-aged Chinese, or Chinese-American, woman named Lucy\nNg, which was pronounced \"Eng.\" Conrad had only been to the\nCarter Home Care office once, the day he was hired or, strictly\nspeaking, put on their roster of nursing assistants, to be paid as\nused. The company, which was one of the biggest home-care\ncompanies in Atlanta in terms of hours billed, seemed to consist\nentirely of Lucy Ng, her husband, Victor, two Chinese bookkeepers\nand three Chinese secretaries, all of them women, who also\nanswered the telephone, which rang constantly, and five computers,\nin which was stored the roster of Carter Home Care's uniformed\nworkers, from registered nurses and licensed physical therapists to\nstrong backs, such as Conrad's. Victor Ng had chosen the name\nCarter because he thought it gave the company the aura of former\nPresident Jimmy Carter: American, Georgian, dignified, august,sympathetic, consoling, trustworthy, and old. The office was one\nflight up on Spring Street.\nLucy Ng, in a very cheery voice: \"Connie! How are . . . you!\"\n\"I'm fine, Mrs. Ng.\" He had never heard her so happy to be talking\nto him.\n\"I don't know what you do for people, but they love you!\"\n\"Really?\"\n\"Really! Mr. and Mrs. Gardner, they say you do very big things for\nthem! Everybody likes your work, but Mrs. Gardner went on and on.\"\n\"They're very nice people, Mrs. Ng-\"\n\"Lucy!\"\n\"Lucy. Thank you. I was glad to do whatever I could.\"\n\"They said you were brave, Connie, but they don't explain me.\"\n\"They're old, Mrs.-Lucy-and things you could do for yourself in a\nminute, to them it seems very hard.\"\n\"Well, anyway, Connie, I have a special assignment for you . . . Are\nyou there?\"\n\"Yes.\"\n\"We need a nursing assistant for a man who is coming home from\nthe hospital today, a sixty-year-old man, very prominent, very\ninfluential ... Are you there?\"\n'Yes. Who is he?\"\n\"He's a very big real estate developer, very well known. He's just had\nsurgery, knee replacement, and he's in a lot of pain. He lives in a big\nhouse in Buckhead. His name is Charles Croker.\"The name Croker registered with Conrad immediately, but this man\nwas a real estate developer, not somebody in the wholesale food\nbusiness. So he thought nothing more of it.\n\"This a very important client for us,\" said Lucy Ng. \"The saying goes,\n'Big men have big mouths.' If he has a good experience, it will be\nvery good for us.\"\n\"I understand,\" said Conrad. \"I'll do my best.\"\nHis new first-name friend, Lucy, went on to describe exactly where\nthe Croker house on Blackland Road was. He could take the MARTA\nline to Lenox Square and then the number 40 bus west on West\nPaces Fern- Road and another one north on Northside Drive.\n\"Could I walk from Lenox Square?\" asked Conrad.\n\"You could, but it's a long way, and today is very hot, and I don't\nwant you go to Crokcrs' very sweaty. You promise me?\"\n\"All right, I promise.\"\nCharlie had become a morose, irritable, and, from the nurses',\ndoctors', and therapists' point of view, stunningly ungrateful patient.\nAt first they attributed it to the CPM and the RRM. The RRM, for\n\"respiratory rate monitor,\" was strapped just beneath the chest.\nWhenever the patient's breathing became too slow, which was most\nlikely to happen during sleep, the machine sounded an alarm.\nThanks to the sedatives he was given, Charlie would begin to drop\noff to sleep-for the first time in months, and--\nBrannnnnnng!\n-the alarm would go off. Even so, few patients had complained so\nmuch about their care and shown so little gratitude to Mercy's\narchangels (the doctors, notably Emmo Nuchols) and angels (the\nnurses and physical therapists) as that ornery sonofabitch, Charlie\nCroker. So then they attributed it to a truism around hospitals, i. E.,\nthat it's always the big, authoritative leaders of men who make themost fearful, crotchety, and paranoid patients. None of them seemed\nto catch on to the fact that he was profoundly depressed. They told\nhim that if he didn't exercise his knee more, in addition to what the\nCPM did, he ran the risk of clots forming, clots that could lodge in his\nlungs or his heart. Charlie said to himself, \"Good. Let's have some\nclots. Maybe I can stay in here, insulated from the Roger Whites and\nPlannersBancs of Atlanta a little longer.\"\nAt this moment Charlie, all 235 pounds of him, was slouched over,\nshell-backed, in a wheelchair, while two orderlies struggled to push it\nup a ramp into a van provided, for hire, by the SaveWay Ambulance\nService. Serena and the Wiz stood by with expressions that\nreminded\nCharlie of pallbearers. Despite all his hopes for clots, infection, fever,\nbleeding, incomplete flexion, and other pathological conditions, he\nwas going home.\nIn strict point of fact, there was no reason why he should be going\nhome in a wheelchair or an ambulance. Emmo Nuchols hadn't\nwanted him to, the physical therapists didn't want him to, the nurses\ndidn't want him to; and least of all, the orderlies who were pushing\nhis bulk up the ramp. Everyone had urged him to use his knee, walk\nout of the hospital on an aluminum crutch, give his knee a workout,\nthat being the shortest route to recovery after knee replacement\nsurgery. That had let all the air out of Charlie's fondest wish-which\nwas to be submerged beneath his moribund knee, to be laid out flat\nbehind it, to drop out of life . . . until life improved.\n\"Mr. Croker,\" said one of the nurses, a twenty-three-year-old number\nnamed Stacey, who had accompanied him to the van, \"please\nremember what I said. The only way to get well is to use that knee!\nPlease do your exercises. If you don't it's going to tighten up on you,\nand you'll never be able to loosen it up.\"\nCharlie wondered for a moment if a permanently tightened knee\nwould be enough to keep him out of commission and let him dropout of sight . . . but realized pretty' quickly that it wouldn't . . .\n\"Okay,\" he said to the nurse. It came out as much like a groan as a\nword, and he didn't look at her. In a former life, not all that long\nago, he would have looked at her a lot. But depressed men do not\nbecome aroused.\n\"Charlie,\" said Serena, \"I'm going to drive our car home. I'll try to\nget there before you do, but Jarmaine and Nina will be there in any\ncase.\" There was nothing wrong with what she said, but he didn't\nlike the tone. It was the tone of frustration and suppressed rage with\nwhich you address a hopeless invalid who insists on making inroads\ninto your free time.\nAnother cross between a mutter and a moan: \"Okay.\"\nBy now the orderlies had pushed Charlie all the way onto the level\nfloor of the van. He could hear the Wiz's voice outside:\n\"So long, Serena. I should get back to the office. Tell Charlie to give\nme a ring if he thinks of anything.\"\nHe has to say all that to Serena. It's as if I've been written off with .\n. . Parkinson's or Huntington's chorea or Wegener's granulomatosis\nor whatever I heard them talking about in there. An ambulance\nattendant rode in the back of the van with him and kept asking him,\nthe way you ask a truly feeble old man, if everything was all right.\nat the house on Blackland Road the yard had the lushness of\nsummertime in Buckhead (north of West Paces Ferry). The trees, the\nmaples, the oaks, the sycamores, the birch, and the pine provided a\ncanopy up above that created a green-and-gold glow below. The\nmagnolias and the boxwood had never looked fatter or shinier.\nFabulous borders of ageratum, thrift, begonias, and anemones ran in\nwaves of color along the edges of the grass that provided the green\nfor the house's sumptuous green breast.\nAll of that Charlie appreciated in the abstract, but he did not find it\nthe least bit gratifying. Quite the opposite. His lawn, his trees, hisgrass, his shrubs and flowers had no business putting on such a\nshow when he felt so depressed. The depressed man longs for\nheavy clouds, fog, mist, chilly weather, downpours, hail.\nWith a good deal of panting and struggling, the SaveWay Ambulance\nService attendant and driver managed to get the wheelchair and its\n235- pound load up the two low rises of steps that led to the front\ndoor and then up across the threshold. Jarmaine and Nina had\nopened the door and were waiting with enormous smiles (totally\ninsincere, thought Charlie) and many Mister Crokers.\nJarmaine said, \"Bed ready in library, like you said.\" The ambulance\nmen started to leave, but one of them, the driver, a reedy white man\nwith bad posture, prematurely gray hair, and a mustache that was\nlonger on one side than the other, came around in front of the\nwheelchair and said to Charlie: \"I don't mean to put my two cents\nin-\" But you will, thought Charlie. \"Now, I'm no doctor-\"\nBut you're not about to let that stop you, thought Charlie, \"-but I\ndon't think you should stay on the first floor, Mr. Croker. I used to do\na lot of physical therapy, and I can tell you, going up and down\nthose stairs\"-he gestured toward the grand half-spiral sweep of\nCharlie's main staircase-\"is one of the best things you can do for\nyourself. I've worked with a lot of patients-\"\nCharlie cut him off with: \"Thank you.\" He was slumped forward in\nthe wheelchair, and his head was bent forward, and he looked up at\nMr. Almost A. Doctor with as malevolent a look as he could muster.\n\"I don't mean to be out of line,\" the man said, beginning to look\nflustered.\n\"Thank you,\" said an utterly unsmiling Charlie, and the man with the\nmismatched mustache beat a retreat out the front door.\nThe hell of it was, he knew the man was right. But what difference\ndid it make? Recuperate for-what? Why do a lot of exercises and putyourself through a lot of pain as if you're building toward some sort\nof future-when you know very well there is no future?\nThe depressed man realizes that all daily routines imply a belief in\nTomorrow and are cruel jokes since of course tomorrow no longer\nexists.\nAs Jarmaine pushed him toward the library, Charlie became suddenly\naware of the fortune-not just in money but also in time and care-\nthat had gone into the first floor of this house. Godalmighty. His eyes\nroamed. Jarmaine was saying something, and Nina was hovering, as\nonly- she could hover, but Charlie paid no attention to either of\nthem. He felt enormously sorry for himself ... an old man being\ntrundled in a wheelchair to a bed in his library. A sorry old man\nletting his eyes wander helplessly over his worldly goods ... Oh Lord,\nthe amboyna- wood breakfront, the eighteenth-century grandfather's\nclock that didn't come from any grandfather of either of them but\ncost more than either of his grandfathers had made in a lifetime of\njookin' at the jook houses and swamp-rattin' in the swamps in Baker\nCounty, the-how was it pronounced-fautooies?-the fauteuils, the\nfabrics from whatever-those- thieves-in-New-York-were-called, the\nlamps from that place in Nebraska, the cabinets-commodes Bombay-\nwas that what Serena called them? . . . all of these names came\nflooding back into the brain of the poor old hulk as he was being\nwheeled across a stretch of carpet, which was another wildly\nexpensive item introduced to North Georgia by Ronald Vine, the\ndecorator. Serena had been experiencing for the first time the\necstasy of having an unlimited budget with which to buy . . . things .\n. . objects . . . fabulous stuff. . . And what nonsense it all was! How\nvain and petty it all was, all this exulting over . . . things! One day-\nsoon enough!-we'll all be gone, and there'll be people rooting\nthrough all this . . . stuff . . . like maggots . . . What are antiques,\nafter all, but objects other maggots went over before you? And what\nis this whole house ... in the sacred Buckhead ... but a place he was\nrenting until the next group of renters, as desperate to live in\nBuckhead as he was, took over . . . Merely renting! Of course, wethink we've bought these things, we think we own them. What a\nmarvelous piece of self- deception! If you add up the cost of\nmaintaining a place like this plus the interest lost through tying up\ntwo or three million dollars in the so- called purchase, then there's\nyour rent. You're only in here for a short time. You're only occupying\nthe space until your mortal hide becomes hopelessly decrepit. Your\nchildren aren't going to keep the marvelous old place going. Don't\nkid yourself! They'll be off living with some dreadful creatures of\ntheir own generation in some hovel in Old Town in Chicago or North\nBeach in San Francisco or TriBeCa in New York or Coral Gables . . .\nThey won't waste two tears thinking about the old manse with all its\n. . . things . . . except to get their hands on the money that flows\nfrom all the new maggots rooting through the remains. He should\napprise Wally of all this, tell him how life is actually put together ...\nHe should . . . but he had the terrible feeling that the breach\nbetween him and Wally was already too great. They had long since\npassed the point when he could have put his arm around Wally's\nshoulders and had a man-to-man talk. It was this damnable\nboarding school Martha had packed him off to, Trinian. They stuff\nthese poor kids full of political correctness, and they end up pussies.\nHis own son! Christ, at Turpmtine the other weekend Wally was as\n... big a pussy ... as Herb Richman. He looks at me as if I'm some\nsort of . . . barbarian . . . These children have no standards. They\nonly know what they choose to be contemptuous of-\n\"Mr. Croker, you go to bed now?\" It was Jarmaine. She had pushed\nCharlie's wheelchair as far as the bed in the library. The bed really\nlooked terrible in here. The library looked gloomy enough to start\nwith (a thought that had never occurred to him before), what with\nall this dark carved wood, and now here's this musty old bed with a\npainted metal bedstead . . . Christ . . . made him think of Jim Bowie\non his deathbed just before the Mexicans ventilated him with their\nbayonets . . . Not only that, there were a couple of things he had\nfailed to figure out when he gave instructions about putting the bed\ndown here on the first floor. The only toilet was the powder room, a\nstaggeringly expensive little piece of nothing Ronald had fashionedout of marble, enamel, and brass. It was dazzling-and didn't have a\nshower or tub or even enough shelf space to line up all the vials of\npills Emmo had burdened him with, much less anything else. Then\nthere was no place to hang anything, such as a bathrobe or any\nother article of clothing he might want to wear ... But what other\narticle of clothing would he want to wear?\nNo other. He was an invalid, an invalid for the duration. He had a\nnurse's assistant, whatever that was, coming in to do all the physical\nchores he was too crippled to perform himself. The nurse's assistant\ncould hang up the goddamned bathrobe.\nFor the time being, he was going to sit in that big leather easy chair.\nHe didn't feel like having Jarmaine or Nina watch him struggle out of\nhis clothes and into pajamas. So they helped him out of the\nwheelchair, and he sank way back into the easy chair and stared at\nthe library' shelves with a hopeless, distracted gaze. The truth was,\nhis knee scarcely hurt at this moment. But it wouldl It would! It was\nhis screen against the world!\nSuch were his sentiments when Serena arrived. He could hear her\nsaying something to Jarmaine or Nina, although he couldn't tell\nwhat, and then he could hear the high heels of her shoes clack clack\nclacking across the marble floor of the entry hall. And now she\nappeared in the doorway of the library and stopped and put her\nhands on her hips. Charlie lowered his head like a guilt}' child who\nknows he's in for it.\n\"Charlie! For God's sake! What do you think you're doing? You\nhaven't walked one step since you got home. I was just talking to\nNina. She said you went straight from the wheelchair to that easy\nchair. You know what Emmo told you! You know, what the therapists\ntold you!\"\nWhat Charlie was thinking about had nothing to do with what she\nhad just said. He could only think of how . . . young . . . she was.\nBecause there was more light in the hall behind her than here in thelibrary, she existed mainly as a silhouette, a silhouette of Youth ...\nthe wild corona of hair . . . the long, straight narrow neck ... the\nwide shoulders . . . the tiny waist . . . the little silk dress that\nstopped a good six inches above her knees in a fashion only a young\nwoman with perfect legs would ever dare attempt . . . and hers were\nindeed perfect in every detail, even in the athletic way her thighs\ntapered down to where they inserted into the knees . . . the jaunty\nset of her hips . . . the curves the calves of her legs made . . . the\ntiny knobs of her ankles ... He couldn't really see her breasts,\nbecause the light was behind her, but he knew very well they were\nperfect, too . . . He knew it, but he didn't feel it, not for a moment.\nHe knew very well that he was impotent and had been for a while.\nHe had made sure he never had to put it to the test, but he knew it\nwas so ... an old, decrepit carcass was what he was . . . He was\nmoldering but he hadn't even had the decency to die yet. I'm rotting\nflesh-and she is the very picture of Youth! And she'll never nurse me.\nOh no.\n\"Charlie, are you with us? Are you listening to me?\" The flawless\nsilhouette rearranged its arms akimbo upon the sprockets of its\nperfect hips.\n\"Yes,\" said Charlie, \"I was just-just-just a little . . . fatigued . . . after\nthat ride.\" The penitent child drew his chin in even closer to his\ncollarbone. He no longer thought about his own rule: viz., that a\nleader never explains to his followers or to women. He was a child\nenjoying poor health.\n\"Fatigued?\" said the silhouette. \"From what? You haven't moved a\nmuscle all morning! Charlie-you've got to get going! You can't do this\nto yourself!\"\nCharlie didn't say anything. He knew he could ride this storm out.\nSerena would get tired of the Invalid, no matter what he did. In\nminutes, not days. She would persuade herself that it was utterly\nessential to go shopping, whether he flexed his miserable knee or\ndidn't.The front doorbell rang, and Serena immediately wheeled about and\nmarched into the entry hall to answer it. See? She doesn't wait for\nJarmaine or Nina. She answers it herself. Any excuse to get away\nfrom the Invalid.\nHe could hear her in conversation with someone, but he couldn't\nmake out what she was saying, except for \"Come in.\"\nconrad was stunned. She was the most gorgeous woman he had\never seen and not much older than himself, if at all. She wore an\napple- green dress with swirling floral patterns in it, a dress of such\na light filmy material and so short, it seemed like nothing more than\na mist hiding, but only halfway, a lissome young body. Her mouth\nhad an oddly playful smile. Playful about what?\nHe became terribly self-conscious. What an insignificant mortal he\nwas, standing before this house and this beautiful woman in his\nCarter Home Care getup, his white polo shirt with the green Carter\nlogo on the breast pocket, his white duck pants with the green\npiping down the side of each leg, the fake-leather white shoes.\n\"Hello, I'm Con-\" He hesitated. He had come close to saying\n\"Conrad.\" \"I'm Connie DeCasi. I'm from Carter Home Care.\"\n\"Oh yes,\" she said. \"Come in.\" She opened the screen door, and he\nhad taken two or three steps inside when she added, \"I'm Serena\nCroker.\"\nConrad assumed she was the old man's daughter or daughter-in-law.\nHe looked back to acknowledge her introduction, then looked away\nimmediately, for fear of seeming to want to stare at her, which he\ndid. The entry hall where he stood was enormous.\nThe beautiful young woman indicated that he should follow her. She\nled him to a doorway off the entry gallery and, just before entering,\nsaid, \"My husband will be staying in here temporarily.\"\nMy husband-should he take that to mean that this gorgeous young\nwoman was the wife of the sixty-year-old man named Croker?All at once she raised her hand in the gesture that means \"Stop\" and\nthen motioned to indicate that he should move away from the\ndoorway. In a hushed voice she said:\n\"The most important thing you can do for my husband is stay nearby\nand keep an eye on him and help him if he wants to move around or\ntake a shower or whatever. He has his moods. Right now he's pretty\nlow. He doesn't want to move at all, not even for therapy. But he's\nheadstrong. The next thing you know, he's going to want to go\ncharging up and down the stairs. The stairs and the shower are what\nworry me most. I don't want him to fall. Right now he doesn't even\nhave access to a shower. I told him not to set up a bed in the library.\nThere's no shower and no tub down here. But he's headstrong. If he\nhasn't changed his mind by this evening, I'll be surprised.\"\n\"I see,\" said Conrad. He was very much aware of the young\nwoman's perfume.\n\"One other thing,\" she said. \"If he gets obstreperous and tries to do\nsomething foolish, bark at him. That's the only thing he'll pay\nattention to. There's no use trying logical persuasion.\"\n\"I'll do my best,\" said Conrad. Somehow he didn't dare look her in\nthe eye. He kept his gaze on the zone of her mouth and her nose.\nShe beckoned him back to the doorway. Everywhere you looked . . .\nstately, lugubrious panels, shelves, and moldings of mahogany, and\nmatching leather-bound books that seemed to have been bought by\nthe yard. There was an enormous waist-high globe, supported by a\ndark wooden cradle inlaid with some other kind of wood that was\nlighter. In the next instant Conrad saw the bed, set up awkwardly in\nthe middle of the room. Only then did he see the big old man. He\nwas slumped back in a leather easy chair. The old man didn't even\nlook at him until his young wife went over to him and said, \"Charlie,\nhere's the, uh, the young man from the Carter people-you remember\nthat? He's come to help out.\"Then she looked at Conrad in a rather anxious way. It took a\nmoment before he realized that she hadn't caught his name.\n\"I'm Connie DeCasi, Mr. Croker,\" he said. \"But please call me\nConnie.\"\nNothing. The old man was staring between his knees at the floor,\napparently thinking of something unpleasant and a thousand miles\naway. Conrad thought he must be senile. But then he looked up\nslowly and said:\n\"Well, Connie, I'm going to bed. Maybe you can help me with that.\"\n\"Certainly.\"\n\"Please, Charlie,\" said his wife, \"don't just go from a bed in the\nhospital to a bed here. You're supposed to exercise your knee. You\nknow that.\"\n\"I know something else, too. I'm tired.\" Came out closer to tarred\nthan tired.\n\"Well, I'm afraid my husband's in a mood to be difficult, Connie. I\nwish you good luck.\" She tried to make it light without succeeding a\nhundred percent.\n\"Who's had the knee operation around here?\" said Charlie Croker,\nalso with a pretense of keeping it light, although anybody could see\nhow much he was fuming.\nSerena Croker departed the room, and now there were just the two\nof them.\n\"Help me up out of this chair, son,\" said the old man. \"This knee a\nmine hurts like a sonofabitch.\"\n\"Which knee is it?\" asked Conrad.\n\"The right one.\"\"Okay,\" said Conrad, standing to the old man's left, \"I'm going to put\nboth hands under this arm\"-the old man's left arm-\"and you take\nhold of my arm here\"-Conrad indicated his left forearm-\"with your\nother hand, and on three we'll both pull up.\"\nThe old man hooked his hand over Conrad's forearm, and then\nConrad said, \"One, two . . . three.\"\nThe old man rose, wincing in pain from the stiffness of his knee.\nConrad supported him until he got his balance, and then said, \"Put\nyour arm around my shoulder. That'll take the weight off your right\nleg, and we'll walk over to the bed\"-which was all of three steps\naway.\nAs the old man leaned against Conrad and hobbled, he said, \"I didn't\nthink you could do it.\"\n\"Do what, sir?\"\n\"Pull me up. I weigh 235 pounds. You must have a lot of arm\nstrength.\" \"You did half the pulling, Mr. Croker, don't forget that.\"\nWith considerable puffing and groaning, plus Conrad's help, Mr.\nCroker managed to get into bed. He sighed profoundly and sank\nback into the pillow with his chin up in the air.\n\"Sir,\" said Conrad, \"you want me to bring you the newspaper or\nanything?\"\nA long-drawn-out \"Nooooooo.\" The old man's eyes were closed.\nConrad had no idea how little interest a depressed man has in the\ndaily newspaper.\n\"Well, I'll be here when you need me, Mr. Croker,\" said Conrad. No\nreply.\nConrad sat down in a straight-backed chair near the doorway, where\nhe could steal enough light from the entry gallery to read, and\nopened The Stoics.Epictetus says, \"Your poor body, then, is it slavish or free?\"\nOne of his students says, \"We know not.\"\n\"Do you not know that it is a slave to fever, gout, ophthalmia,\ndysentery, the tyrant, fire, sword, everything stronger than itself?\"\n'Yes, it is a slave.\"\n\"How then can any part of the body be still free from hindrance?\nHow can that which is naturally dead-earth and clay-be great or\nprecious? What then? Have you no element of freedom?\"\n\"Perhaps none.\"\n\"Why, who can compel you to assent to what appears false?\"\n\"No one.\"\n\"And who to refuse assent to what appears true?\"\n\"No one.\"\n\"Here, too, then you have free and unhindered action. Miserable\nmen, develop this, set your minds on this, seek your good here.\"\nConrad cast a glance at old Mr. Croker. He would love to read to him\nwhat he had just read. The body! A slave to all sorts of things,\nincluding surgeons and their knives! How can that which is naturally\ndead-earth and clay-be great or precious? But he would resist that\nimpulse. What could the wisdom of Epictetus possibly mean to a\nhardbitten old real estate developer?\nCharlie opened his eyes into slits just big enough to survey the\nlibrary and make out its occupants. Serena was gone. Good. Nina\nand\nJarmaine were gone. Also good. Only the boy from the home-care\nservice was here. That was fine. The boy didn't know him and had\nno way of passing judgment on him for \"not being himself.\" The boywas sitting close to the doorway, bathed by the light fom the hall,\nreading a book.\nWhat a pair of arms the kid has! His forearms are huge; his forearms\nand his hands. Kid pulled me right up out of the chair . . . What a\ntime it is when you're that age-what?-twenty?-twenty-one?-and you\ncan build yourself up like an ox . . . like a Jersey bull. ... But this kid,\nhe doesn't look like a bodybuilder. He looks like he got his muscles\nfrom work. What's that on the ring finger of his left hand? Like a\ncrevice. Something really bit into the flesh. A ring? A wedding ring?\nWhat's it matter? It don't matter. He's polite, and he don't riddle you\nwith questions.\nCharlie was curious, in spite of himself. What brought a young man\nto a job like this?\nHe turned his head toward the boy, opened his eyes, and said, \"Well\n. . . whattaya reading?\"\n\"Sir?\" The boy looked startled and closed the book.\n\"Whattaya reading?\" His voice was so tired.\n\"It's a book called The Stoics, Mr. Croker.\"\n\"I see . . . What's it about?\"\n\"It's everything the Stoic philosophers wrote, or everything they said\nthat was written down by other people. Both.\"\n\"Hmmmm. Is it interesting?\"\n\"It is to me, Mr. Croker.\"\n\"What's the interesting part?\"\n\"Well, most philosophies-or from what I know about them-and I\ndon't know much, Mr. Croker . . . sure you want me to go into all\nthis?\"\"Yeah. Tell me what makes it interesting.\" Charlie managed to shift\nhis bulk and prop his head up against the headboard, so he wouldn't\nbe talking from out of a pillow.\n\"Well,\" said the boy, \"most philosophies assume that you're free,\nyou've got all these possibilities, and it's like you can design your\nown life any way you want.\"\nThe boy hesitated; so Charlie gave him a little encouragement. \"Go\nahead.\"\n\"The Stoics, they assumed the opposite. They said that in fact you\nhave very few choices. You're probably trapped in some situation,\nevery- tiling from being under somebody's thumb to being a slave to\ndisease to actually being in jail. They assumed that in all likelihood\nyou weren't free.\"\n\"What were they?\" said Charlie. \"Greeks?\"\n\"They were Romans,\" said the boy, \"although one of them,\nEpictetus, was a Greek living in Rome.\"\n\"When was all this?\"\n\"About the time of Nero. The first century a. D.\"\nWhat stuck in Charlie's mind was probably trapped in some situation.\n\"So tell me, do you consider yourself a Stoic?\"\n\"I'm just reading about it,\" said Conrad, \"but I wish there was\nsomebody around today, somebody you could go to, the way\nstudents went to Epictetus. Today people think of Stoics-like, you\nknow, like they're people who grit their teeth and tolerate pain and\nsuffering. But that's not it at all. What they are is, they're serene and\nconfident in the face of anything you can throw at them. If you say\nto a Stoic, 'Look, you do what I tell you or I'll kill you,' he'll look you\nin the eye and say, Tou do what you have to do, and I'll do what Ihave to do-and, by the way, when did I ever tell you I was\nimmortal?'\"\n\"And you'd like to be like that?\" asked Charlie.\n\"I-yes.\"\nCharlie could tell that the boy felt he had already said too much.\n\"All right,\" said Charlie, \"let's suppose somebody is in a dilemma. If\nhe chooses one thing, then he gains something valuable, but he\nloses something that may be even more valuable. And vice versa. If\nhe chooses the other thing, then it's the same problem. He gains\none thing of value and loses another thing that may be even more\nvaluable. What does your Stoic say to that?\"\n\"Well, for him, the Stoic-are you sure I'm not telling you more about\nStoicism than you want to know? Honest, I'm not a nut on the\nsubject. I just happen to be reading about it.\"\n\"No, no, no,\" said Charlie. \"Please go ahead. You can be sure it's a\nhell of a lot more interesting than listening to lectures about knee\nreplacements and being a good patient and how important it is to do\nyour therapy. They're the ones who tell you to just grit your teeth\nand take it. Which is easy for them to say. So what does your Stoic\nsay about dilemmas?\"\nThere was embarrassment on the boy's face. He hesitated . . . then\nsaid: \"To a Stoic there are no dilemmas. Thev don't exist.\"\n\"How can they not exist?\"\n\"I'll try to give you an example, Mr. Croker. Are you sure you don't\nmind hearing all this?\"\n\"No, go ahead. I'm interested.\"\nThe boy said, \"Well, there was a famous Stoic named Agrippinus, if\nthat's the way you pronounce it. I've never heard anybody say his\nname out loud. Anyway, one day-this was in Rome at the time Nerowas the emperor, about 95 A. D.-Nero loved to humiliate prominent\nRomans by ordering them to put on costumes and make fools of\nthemselves in these plays he used to write. So one day this well-\nknown Roman historian named Florus arrives at Agrippinus' house,\nand he's sweating and trembling, and he says to Agrippinus:\n\" The most terrible thing has happened. I've been summoned to\nappear in one of Nero's plays. If I do it, I'll be humiliated before\neverybody in Rome that I care about. If I don't, I'll be killed.'\n\" 'I've received the same summons,' says Agrippinus.\n\" 'My God,' says the historian, 'you, too! What do we do?'\n\" 'You go ahead and act in the play,' said Agrippinus. 'I'm not going\nto.'\n\" 'Why me and not you?' said the historian.\n\" 'Because you've considered it.' \"\n\"Christalmighty,\" said Charlie. \"That's-\" But he decided not to finish\nthe thought.\n\"I can give you another example from Epictetus' own life.\"\n\"Good,\" said Charlie.\n\"But if I'm rattling on too long,\" said the boy, \"you've got to say so.\"\n\"No, this interests me.\"\n\"You sure?\"\n\"I'm sure. Go ahead.\"\n\"Well, the emperor after Nero was Domitian, and the way he looked\nat it, the philosophers, particularly the Stoics, were good for nothing\nbut stirring up trouble. So he issued an ultimatum. All the Roman\nphilosophers either had to cut off their beards-the long beards were\nthe emblem, I guess you'd say, of the philosopher-you either cut offyour beard, which was like saying, T renounce being a philosopher,'\nor we'll kill you or send you into exile. A delegation from the\nemperor comes around to deliver the ultimatum to Epictetus, and he\ndoesn't even say, 'Let me think it over.' He says, right on the spot,\nTm not removing my beard.' And they say, Then we'll execute you.'\nEpictetus laughs and says, 'Are you talking about this vessel of clay\nand its quart of blood that is my body? Go ahead. I've only got it on\nloan for a little while anyway.'\"\n\"Okay,\" said Charlie, \"so what happened to them, Epi-teeter?-\"\n\"Epictetus.\"\n\"-and Ah-grippus?\"\n\"Agrippinus.\"\n\"Two brave men who say 'Fuck you' to the authorities. What\nhappened to them?\"\n\"It's interesting,\" said the boy, \"or I think it is. Both resisted the\nauthorities head-on, with no negotiation, and neither one of them\nwas executed. Both of them were exiled, which was a terrible\npunishment in those days, but nobody-I'm only guessing, of course-\nnobody wanted the death of such powerful spirits on their hands.\"\nCharlie lay there for a moment, trying to fit all this to his situation.\nSuppose he just said \"Fuck you\" to everybody who was putting the\nsqueeze on him, the bank, Fareek Fanon's lawyer, what would be the\noutcome? All he could see as the realistic answer to that question\nwas . . . utter desolation ... a disgraced Cap'm Charlie with no one to\nfollow his commands . . . and yet he wanted to know more.\n\"Well, let me ask you something, Connie-\"\nSuddenly Serena was back in the room. Flustered, she closed the\nlibrary door and hurried past the boy, Connie, and over to Charlie's\nbed.\"Charlie,\" she said, \"are you all right?\"\n'Teah, I guess,\" said Charlie.\n\"Charlie, there's this man who keeps calling. He says he's a lawyer\nand he insists he has to see you. His name is-\"\n\"Roger White,\" said Charlie in a weary voice.\n\"That's it. What do I tell him?\"\n\"Don't tell him anything. Let Jarmaine answer the telephone.\"\n\"All right,\" said Serena with a distracted air, \"but he kept saying he\nhad to have an answer from you very soon. That's what he kept\nsaying, over and over. An answer about what, Charlie?\"\n\"He's a lawyer,\" said Charlie. \"He wants me to testify in some case of\nhis.\"\n\"What kind of case?\"\n\"Oh, it dud'n matter,\" said Charlie. He tried to sink deeper, deeper,\nand yet deeper into the bed.\nChapter 30The Bull and the Lion\nPeepgass leaned way back in the chair to give himself enough room\nbetween his abdomen and the table to rustle back the first section of\nthe Journal-Constitution from to - much rustlerustlerustling of the\nnewspaper-so he could continue reading about the latest\ndevelopments in the case of Fareek Fanon and the as-yet-unnamed-\nin-print Elizabeth Armholster. In the midst of the big foldback he\nhappened to glance out the window. He couldn't believe it. There\nwas the gardener, Franklin, down on his knees, edging the flower\nbed with a trowel! Where had he come from? Five minutes ago he\nwasn't there! Peepgass hadn't seen him arrive and hadn't heard him\narrive, even though the window was wide open and Franklin was no\nmore than twelve feet away from him. Martha had opened the\nwindow, because it was such a nice cool morning you didn't need\nthe air conditioning. It was as if Franklin had grown up from out of\nthe earth like a tuber in his earth-colored work shirt and vest and his\nearth-colored skin when neither Peepgass nor Martha was paying\nattention.\nMartha looked up from the part of the Journal-Constitution she was\nreading, Section E, called \"Horizon\"-the newspaper's euphemism,\nPeepgass thought ruefully, for \"the suburbs,\" particularly poor old\nbasketball-backboard-and-hoop-in-the-driveway commuterburbs like\nSnellville-Martha looked up and smiled and asked, \"What on earth is\nthat headline about 'Fanon's Cannons' supposed to mean?\"\n\"Well, it's here,\" said Peepgass, extending the first section toward\nher. \"Take a look. It's interesting. Politics is rearing its mangy head.\"\n\"No, no, no,\" said Martha, \"I don't want to read it right now, I was\njust hoping it wasn't a double entendre.\"\n\"I don't think the Journal-Constitution goes in for double entendres,\nor at least not racy ones. That's r, a, c, y, not r, a, c, e, y.\"\n\"Is r, a, c, e, y a word?\"\"Please don't get technical on me. It seems that they've-I'm not\nreally sure who they are-they've started a defense fund for Fareek\nFanon, and a couple of black councilmen are saying that the whole\nthing is-you'll never guess what-a racist plot to discredit Fanon.\nThey're his 'cannons,' the councilmen. It's become very political. The\nMayor has announced he'll be holding a press conference and\nmaking a major statement about the whole thing.\"\nThat was what Peepgass was saying as he looked toward Martha\nacross this elegant round mahogany table with fruitwood banding,\naswarm with hand-crocheted place mats and a veritable flotilla of\nsilver and crystal, including a silver bread gondola, with' a damask\nnapkin lining it, currently empty because Peepgass had devoured\nevery last morsel of the toasted Sally Lunn that had been therein\nalong with his scrambled eggs, grits, hot country sausage, and New\nOrleans coffee. But what he was thinking was:\nDoes she look any better this morning? What could she do about\nthat. . . thickness in the neck and shoulders and upper back?\nAnything? Probably not. Would she be presentable? I'm only forty-\nsix. She's fifty- three. Would it be embarrassing to take her places as\nmy wife? She does have fabulous legs, but is there some kind of\nregimen or diet to get rid of that . . . thickness up top? What\nhappens when she's sixty and I'm only fifty-three? What then? On\nthe other hand . . . look at what's all around me here! This is . . .\nBuckhead! The real thoroughbred Buck- head! Look at this house!\nLook at that yard! Look at that faithful old Franklin! Look at what's\non this table! Enough silver to make a down payment on a four-\nbedroom house in Snellville, poor old Snellville! Jesus Christ ... If\nSirja wins her goddamned paternity suit, which no doubt she will,\nand I have to pay Christ knows how much in support payments, I'll\nbe flat as a flounder! Pietari Paivarinta Peepgass-\"Pawy! Pawy!\nPawy!\"-Little Pawy will get bigger and bigger, he'll eat and eat and\neat, thanks to me being squeezed ever)' month like a tube of old\ntoothpaste-for the next eighteen years! I'll be an old man, waiting toget the crystal phoenix from PlannersBanc, before it all ends! I won't\nhave lived, f'r Chrissake!\nHe looked at Martha again, as if he were about to say something\nmore about the Elizabeth Armholster business, but in fact he was\nstudying her and thinking:\nShe's actually pretty. Not too many lines. Nice hair. . . full . . . dyed?\n. . . Can't tell . . . Has all her makeup 011, even at breakfast. . .\nSimple, stylish cotton dress, navy with vertical white stripes, high in\nthe hem to show off those legs . . . But that neck . . . thick . . .\nChunky gold chain for a necklace . . . Casual, but must be a ton of\ngold in the damned thing . . . Sirja . . . destroying him as if she's\nGod's avenging angel . . . Kept thinking of Sirja last night . . . Only\nway he could get it done, wasn't it ... A vision of Sirja the way she\nwas that very first night at the Grand Tatar. She had stripped down\nto her stockings, the old-fashioned kind, not pantyhose . . . Medium-\nbrown sheer nylon stockings they were, held up by old-fashioned\ngarters with flowery little yellow and mint green bows on them . . .\nThat was all she had on! Not a stitch more! At first she was standing\nin the hotel room with only the stockings on, and then she had put\none foot up on a chair and tipped her vulva toward him. The labiae\nwere red-red!-with lust. She put her forefinger and her middle finger\nin her mouth and then took them out and stroked her labiae, while\nher hooters bulged and bulged and bulged with lubricity, and her\nface-but he had purposely blanked out her face, cut off her head, in\nhis emergency recollection, because the face was the outer mask of\nher vile and treacherous mind . . . but he needed those loins of hers,\nhad to bring them alive in his imagination or he couldn't have\nmanaged to get it done with Martha here, who's so thick through the\nshoulders . . . Would he have to think of a beheaded Sirja Tiramaki,\nmother of Pietari Paivarinta Peepgass . . . every time . . . from now\non? No use dwelling on that . . .\nThey were both embarrassed when they got up this morning. What\ndo you say to her at her age? Or his age, for that matter... His\nclothes were rumpled, especially his shirt, and he had no toothbrushor razor. Well, PlannersBanc would just have to take him unshaven\nfor the first time in his loyal dog's career there . . . Fuck it. . . The\nnewspaper had helped. Gave them something to talk about instead\nof what was on their minds ... He had offered to go down to get the\nnewspaper, which was delivered to a box at the bottom of the slope\nof Martha's big-breasted lawn, but she had said no, she'd better do it\n. . . Not that there were what you could really call next-door\nneighbors in this part of Buckhead . . . Nevertheless, she had gone\ndown the slope, wearing her striped cotton dress and a pair of navy\nBelgian slippers, and retrieved the newspaper-\n\"What's Jordan's opponent-what's his name?-Andre Fleet?-what's he\nhave to say about the whole thing?\"\nAt first Peepgass had no idea what Martha was talking about. He\nhad totally forgotten that he had just been talking to her about what\nthe Mayor and some councilmen had to say about the Elizabeth\nArmholster business. It took him a moment to sort it out.\n\"He's not quoted, I don't think,\" he said.\nAll at once you could hear laughs, real cackles and deep, deep\nbassoon belly laughs, from Valley Road, at the foot of the lawn. You\ncould hear heh heh heggggghhhhhhs and then a merry contralto\nvoice that sang out, \"Who you think's gon' believe 'at, girlfriend?\"\nThen more cackles and heh heh hegggghhhhhhhs.\nPeepgass looked quizzically at Martha.\n\"That's the maids,\" she said. \"They get off the bus down on West\nPaces Ferry and come walking up the street like a troupe.\"\nPeepgass shrugged. \"You think that's what's her name?-Carmen?\"\n\"Probably,\" said Martha, looking at her watch. \"That sounded like her\n. . . 'girlfriend.' I hear her saying that on the telephone all the time.\n'It's know-it time, girlfriend,' 'No glove, no love, girlfriend.' \"Peepgass said, 'Tou want me to-go anywhere? I mean, is it okay if\nshe sees me just-having breakfast with you like this?\"\nMartha smiled. \"I don't think she'll be scandalized, if that's what you\nmean.\"\n\"No, I didn't mean-\"\n\"Carmen is ladylike and polite, and I only hear bits and pieces of her\nconversations, but something tells me she's got a lot going on out in\nthe real world.\" She smiled again.\nBut she was thinking: Carmen doesn't matter, but what will people\nthink if I start going around with Mr. Raymond Peepgass? The name\nis one of those unfortunate names, like Cockburn or Hogg or Fogg,\nbut people soon get over that. I don't dare question him directly\nabout it, but he doesn't seem to have all that important a job at\nPlannersBanc, although, for whatever reason, he was important\nenough for somebody to invite him to the Lapeth show, and I know\nvery well how much those table seats cost. Well ... I think I could . .\n. relax with Ray. 1 don't think he would be very demanding. I don't\nthink he's the type who constantly has to have things whirling and\npopping, the way Charlie was.\nThen a cloud formed in her frontal lobes . . . Charlie . . . Last night\nthe only way she could go through with it was to visualize that first\nnight with Charlie. She and Nancy King Ambler-everybody called her\n\"Nancy King,\" Southern-style-were sharing a one-bedroom\napartment on Oakdale Road, near the Emory Medical School. Their\nagreement was that if either one invited a man up, the other would\nretire to the bedroom. But it was one of those apartments where you\ncould hear everything, no matter where you retired to, and Nancy\nKing knew very well that this was her first date with the great\nstrapping, handsome former football hero she had invited up\ntonight. Martha thought it was a bad idea even to kiss a boy on the\nfirst date, but with Charlie everything had progressed so fast she\ncould scarcely figure out what was happening, except that it was alltoo audible for that apartment, all too full of groans and sighs, and\nafter things had reached a certain point-they were lying on the rug\non the floor-she had started saying, \"No, Charlie, no,\" in what she\nhad imagined was a whisper that Nancy King couldn't possibly hear.\nThen Charlie practically raped her! She couldn't imagine how it had\nhappened! Martha Starling of Richmond, Virginia, going all the way\non her first date! Thank God, Nancy King was from Tallahassee and\ndidn't know anybody in Richmond! Me-a slut! She was convinced\nthat Charlie Croker would never invite her out again. Instead, he\ncalled her the next morning at eight o'clock. And no matter what\nMartha Starling's better self thought of what she had done, no\nmatter how much shame flooded her mind, she had a visceral\nmemory of the most intense ecstasy of her life. It was so taboo even\nto intimate that you could be aroused by male physical power that\nshe had never said a word about it to anyone, least of all Nancy\nKing. At first neither she nor Nancy King said a thing to each other,\naside from good morning and other routine things. Then, just before\nshe left for the medical school, Nancy King said, \"Oh, you didn't tell\nme what you thought of the famous Sixty-Minute Man.\" Her\neyebrows were lifted high and her eyes were wide-open in what\nMartha took to be an ironic expression. \"He was very nice.\" said\nMartha in a tone that precluded any further discussion. She didn't\nreally know Nancy King all that well, and even if she did, how could\nshe possibly describe to her how her smooth white body had felt last\nnight? That was thirty-three years ago. But that night three decades\nago was what she had to visualize in order to get through last night\nwith Ray. Charlie had betrayed her in the most egregious way, but\nshe had visualized Charlie last night. She visualized his massive\nmuscular body, which had scarcely an extra ounce on it back then.\nBut she had to decapitate him. She couldn't bear to visualize the\nface behind which he had hidden his perfidy. But for how long would\na faceless Charlie Croker from three decades ago work for her?\nThe next thing Ray heard was somebody walking across the floor of\nthe entry hall. Then a black woman-Carmen-was in the doorway of\nthe library. She was wearing black jeans with silvery metal studswhere the side pockets joined the outseams, a bold yellow T-shirt,\nand an open black nylon windbreaker with silvery metal snaps down\nthe front and on the sleeves.\n\"Good morning, Miz Croker.\"\n\"Good morning, Carmen!\" said Martha with considerable gusto.\n\"Carmen, you remember Mr. Peepgass, don't you?\" She made it\nsound as if it were the most ordinary and customary thing in the\nworld to have Mr. Peepgass stay over for breakfast.\n\"I surely do,\" said Carmen.\n\"Nice to see you again,\" said Peepgass, immediately wondering if he\nhad said the right thing. He was a lot more flustered than Martha,\nwho in fact didn't seem flustered at all.\nPeepgass gave Martha another once-over. What is it with me? he\nthought. She's just like Betty. Only she's four years older. Another big\nwoman, older than I am, built hefty, who has stronger nerves than I\ndo. Will she be as bossy as Betty? Am I like that character in that\nbook- he couldn't remember the name of it-Ivan Something, the one\nwhere the man gets a second life-and helplessly repeats the first\none?\nroger turned right off of West Paces Ferry and drove his Lexus up to\nBlackland Road, begrudging Buckhead every last oak, every last\nmaple, every last hickory and sycamore, every last hardwood tree\nthe lawns were blessed with. Hardwood . . . smug bastards . . .\nCroker had left the hospital, but he returned no telephone calls,\nneither to his home nor to his office. Two Federal Express envelopes\nhad brought no replies. Wes Jordan was putting the pressure on\nhim, and he was here to put it on Croker.\nGod . . . Croker's house looked like something from out of those\nmovies ... a stone wall, a stone courtyard, a stone fagade, a quarry's\nworth of stone for one family to live amid ... He pulled right up to\nthe front entrance. Why be diffident? He slammed his car door foremphasis and marched up the two little sets of steps that led to the\nthreshold. Because of the angle of the light, it wasn't until he was\nright at the doorway that he realized that the door itself, a massive\nthing with raised panels, was open, and only a screen door was\nbetween him and his quarry, probably because it was such a cool,\ndry morning, for a change. If the screen door was locked, he'd knock\nit right out of its slot. He knew how these damned screen door locks\nwere made, even in Buckhead. Couldn't really see inside. Damned\nscreen was like a scrim they use onstage; you can only see what's\non the lighted side of the scrim. But then his eyes grew accustomed\nto the dimnesss of the entry hall -\nChristalmighty! It was Croker! He was on his feet, wearing a\nnightshirt and a blue bathrobe, near as Roger could figure out.\nClackclack . . . clackclack . . . clackclack ... He was supporting\nhimself on a pair of aluminum crutches that clacked and rattled\nevery time they hit the floor. His back was to Roger. He seemed to\nbe heading for that grand staircase, the one that rose up like\nsomething from out of a movie. Beside him was some sort of\nattendant, in a white uniform.\nRoger yelled out, \"Mr. Croker!\"\nCroker stopped but didn't try to look around. The attendant,\nhowever, turned about and gave him a squinting look as if to figure\nout who it could be. Then he leaned in toward Croker and told him\nsomething, and Croker said, in a whisper so heavy you could hear it\nall the way to the front door:\n\"Tell him I'm in the middle of my therapy.\"\nThe young man turned toward Roger and said, \"Mr. Croker's in the\nmiddle of his therapy.\"\nThat made Roger furious. He grasped the screen-door handle,\nprepared to break the lock-and discovered it was not locked at all.\nSo he opened it and-here goes!-he stepped inside and started\nwalking across a vast expanse of marble floor. Made him think of hisfirst visit to a Buckhead home, the rendezvous with Fareek Fanon at\nBuck McNutter's.\n\"Mr. Croker!\" he said sharply. \"Mr. Croker!\"\nNow the young attendant stepped between Roger and the old man.\nHe stood there with his arms folded over his chest and his legs wide\napart in a stance that seemed to say \"You're not coming any closer.\"\nThere was something in the boy's stare that Roger found unnerving,\nand his arms suddenly looked terribly big. So he didn't try to get any\ncloser. And now Croker was slowly turning about on his crutches.\nUnlike the boy's, Croker's expression was that of someone who has\nbeen whipped and humbled by disease and Fate.\n\"I can't talk to you now.\" It was far from the Charlie Croker voice of\nyore. \"I've just been through surgery.\" Not three syllables, but two:\n\"surge-ry.\" It came out not as a statement of fact but as a plea. It\nwas pathetic. It made Roger bolder than ever.\n\"I don't mean to . . . barge . . . in,\" said Roger in a tone that\nconverted it into raillery, meaning \"I barged in because I felt like it,\"\n\"but I must have an answer from you. I've called you, I've left\ninnumerable messages, I've faxed you at your office, I've sent you\ntwo letters by Federal Express-I don't know of any other way to\nreach you other than to do what I'm doing right now. This isn't a\ngame, Mr. Croker. Are you going to appear at the press conference\nor are you going to let us videotape your statement, or neither? If\nit's neither, then a lot of things . . . have to be changed, and I think\nyou know one of them.\"\nCroker said, \"Well. . .\" and then he seemed to deflate before Roger's\nvery eyes.\n\"This is not going to be any ordinary press conference,\" said Roger.\n\"The Mayor's going to be there, and it's going to be more like a\nState of the City address, or a State of Race Relations in Atlanta,\nthan a press conference. I've been assuring him that you'd be there.If you double- cross me-and him-it won't be pleasant. That much I\ncan guarantee.\"\nWith that, he cocked his head and gave Croker the wry look you give\nsome underling who is wavering and quavering in the face of the job\nhe knows he has to do.\n\"Okay,\" said the old man. He let his head droop until his chin was on\ntop of his clavicle. He looked like the most thoroughly whipped brute\nRoger had ever seen. He looked up again, but only long enough to\ncroak out, \"I'll be there.\"\n\"Good,\" said Roger. \"I'm glad. I'll take that as a commitment. The\nMayor's not playing games. There's something dead serious at stake\nhere.\"\nBarely above a whisper: \"Yeah.\"\n\"All right,\" said Roger, \"it's a commitment, and our other ...\narrangement . . . will remain in place.\"\nRoger was now hearing his own words as if he were in a grandstand\nwatching and hearing himself perform in the arena. Had he ever\nbefore talked to anyone of this man's stature in such a hectoring,\nlecturing, patronizing manner? If he had, he couldn't remember it. It\nwas exhilarating. The Sixty-Minute Man, Croker the developer who\nhad helped shape the very skyline of Atlanta, Croker the Croker of\nCroker Concourse!\n\"Goodbye, Mr. Croker.\" He managed to make that one little word,\ngoodbye, sound like a thoroughly peremptory statement.\nCroker croaked out an exhausted \"Goodbye\" as he turned around to\ncontinue his rattling hobble to the staircase. The last thing Roger\ncould hear from inside the great mansion after he went outside,\nheading for his car, was clackclack . . . clackclack . . . clackclack . . .\nclackclack . . .conrad felt terribly embarrassed for Mr. Croker. He had just been\nhumiliated by a fancy-dressed black man who came barging into the\nhouse as if he owned it. Just like that he had come in. Conrad was\ntoo embarrassed for the old man even to ask what it was all about,\nathough he was dying to. Finally he figured out a way for the old\nman to tell him, if it suited him.\nHe said, \"Who was that, Mr. Croker?\"\n\"Aw, he's some lawyer,\" said the old man. \"Works for a law firm\ndowntown.\"\nConrad said nothing, waiting for more, but all he got was the\nclackclack clackclack clackclack of the aluminum crutches as the old\nman neared the staircase.\n\"Jesus God,\" Croker said under his breath, \"this thing hurts.\" Then\ndirectly to Conrad: \"What's gonna be the best way for me to do\nthis?\" He motioned with his head toward the stairs. \"These damned\nstaircases look terrific, but every step in the curve is bigger at one\nend than it is at the other.\"\nConrad said, \"Even so, Mr. Croker, just put your crutches up on the\nnext step and push off your left foot and swing your weight forward.\nIn case anything happens, I'm gonna be right behind you, but\nnothing's gonna happen, Mr. Croker.\"\n\"I'm 235 pounds,\" said Croker. \"Whattaya gonna do if I fall\nbackward?\"\n\"But you won't be falling out of a tree, Mr. Croker, you'd be falling at\nan angle. When it's at an angle, it isn't so much a matter of size and\nweight as position, or that's the way it's always seemed to me, Mr.\nCroker.\"\nGradually he was able to cajole and jolly the old man up the stairs.\nHe had plenty of strength-he was an ox of a man-and plenty of\ncoordination. But for whatever reason, he didn't want to make the\neffort.Mr. Croker had decided to move from the library to a guest bedroom.\nThis room, all by itself, was more luxurious than any room Conrad\nhad ever seen in his life. The centerpiece was a big four-poster bed\nwith silk curtains or something and some sort of frame over the bed,\ncovered in more silk, creating a canopy. At the head of the bed were\nabout a dozen pillows, at least a dozen, from big bolsters up against\nthe headboard to little children's pillows covered with lace and\nribbons, and a lot of other things Conrad didn't know the name for.\nCovering the bed was a white counterpane with all kinds of\ntrimmings. The floor was covered in a wall-to-wall carpet that looked\nlike needlepoint and was designed with flowers, tendrils, leaves, and\nstems that matched the colors of the silk that hung down the four\nposts of the bed. There were two easy chairs covered in a striped\nfabric and so many curtains on the windows he gave up trying to\nfigure it all out.\nCroker was panting from the exertion of the climb. His face was red,\nand there was sweat on his forehead.\n\"I need to go in there,\" said the old man, nodding his head toward\nthe bathroom. \"I gotta take a shower.\"\nConrad walked with him as he went clackclack . . . clackclack . . .\nclackclack clackclack ... on the aluminum crutches, over to the\nbathroom door.\n\"Want me to come in with you?\" said Conrad.\n\"I'll be all right,\" said the old man.\nMr. Croker went inside and began sighing and clackclacking, all of\nwhich Conrad could hear despite the thick door. Conrad was standing\njust outside, in case the old man needed him. All at once, out of the\ncorner of his eye, he noticed a form in the doorway to the hall. He\nturned his head, and there, for an instant, was Mrs. Croker, Serena\nCroker, wearing nothing but a short silk slip. It barely covered her\nbreasts, whose areolae welled out against the silk, and the hem was\nsomehow tucked between her thighs, creating a shadowy deltabeneath her mons veneris. Her black hair was tumbling down over\nher shoulders.\nShe immediately ducked back from the doorway and then extended\nonly her head into the opening and said, \"I didn't know you were\nhere! I'm very sorry!\" Amazing blue eyes she had.\nConrad swallowed and said, \"Mr. Croker's . . .\" He motioned toward\nthe bathroom.\nShe looked at Conrad for what seemed like several seconds too long\nand then pulled her head back and disappeared. A few rogue\nthoughts bubbled up into Conrad's brain, but he refused to dwell on\nthem.\nNow Conrad could hear Mr. Croker calling him from inside the\nbathroom: \"Connie, give me a hand with this!\"\nConrad opened the door, and there, on his crutches, was the old\nman, trying to lean into a shower stall and turn on the water.\n\"Let me help you off with your robe and your nightshirt,\" said\nConrad.\n\"Oh, yeah,\" said Croker.\nConrad slipped the blue robe off, one arm at a time, and then\nsupported Croker by putting his arm around his waist as he pulled\nhis nightshirt off up over his head. Now the old man stepped out of\nhis slippers, and Conrad steadied him as he hobbled over to the\nshower stall. Croker's chest, arms, shoulders, and back-especially the\nback- were massive, and yet the sight was not a picture of power\nbut of age and decrepitude. The flesh was loose, loose on the bone,\ngrayish, sagging, and nothing was ever going to make it tight again,\neither. He didn't have a potbelly, but nevertheless the flesh was\nloose, and it sagged, and his belly button was buried somewhere\nbeneath a two-inch-wide fold of skin in that loose, sagging old man's\nflesh. \"I'll never let that happen to me,\" Conrad vowed to himself. Hehad no way of knowing that the old man had made the same vow to\nhimself thirty-seven years ago.\nWith a big helping of moaning, groaning, sighing, and wincing, the\nold man managed to take his shower, and was more than willing to\nhave Conrad steady him and towel him off afterward. Then he\nwanted a fresh nightshirt, and so Conrad went into the \"dressing\nroom,\" as the old man called it. Conrad had never seen so many\nclosets in one room in his life! It was the size of a living room, a\nliving room lined with closets.\nThere was even a delicate little desk, chairs, and lamps. Traces of\nyoung Mrs. Croker's perfume hung in the air. So agog was Conrad\nover life lived in this way, he all but forgot why he was in here; but\nby and by he found the bureau the old man had told him about-you\nhad to open a pair of louvered maple doors to get to it-and took the\nnightshirt back to the guest room and helped the old man into it and\nthen into bed. just clearing the unnecessary pillows off the bed\nseemed to take ten minutes.\nConrad said, 'Tou want me to leave you alone, Mr. Croker, so you can\nrest?\"\nWith a great sigh and without looking at the boy, Charlie said, \"No.\"\nHe paused and then looked right at him and then said, \"You got that\nbook with you?\"\n\"You mean The Stoics?\" asked the boy.\n\"Yeah. You got it?\"\n\"Yes, sir, it's down in the library.\"\n\"Well-whyn't you go get it.\"\n\"Yes, sir.\" The boy went downstairs.\nOnce the boy was out of the room, Charlie pushed himself up toward\nthe head of the bed and propped two bolster pillows under his headand neck. He didn't want to be such an invalid in front of the boy. At\nleast now he was sort of halfway sitting up.\nThe boy returned with the book, and Charlie motioned toward an\neasy chair and said, \"Have a seat. Wait a minute. Close that door\nover there.\"\nSo the boy went over and closed the door to the hall. Then he went\nback near the bed and sat down in a striped easy chair. Charlie did a\ndouble take. It was strange to see him there, this lean, lithe,\nmuscular boy sinking down into this voluptuous, pink-and-green\nfleshpot's indulgence of an easy chair.\n\"The Stoics . . .\" said Charlie. He looked away from the boy and up\ntoward the canopy overhead. All this silk! That and the chair the boy\nwas in made him realize how many fashionable trifles this house was\nstuffed with.\nThen he looked back at the boy and said, \"Tell me about yourself,\nConnie. Where are you from?\"\nConrad had known someone would ask him this question sooner or\nlater, and so he was prepared, or so he thought. \"Well-there isn't a\nwhole lot to tell, Mr. Croker. I'm twenty-three. I grew up in Madison,\nWisconsin.\" He could remember enough of what his parents had\nmentioned about Madison to get by with anybody who hadn't\nactually lived there. \"My mom and dad both went to the University of\nWisconsin, and he had an okay job, but when I was sixteen, things\nwent very bad for him, and I had to drop out of high school and go\nto work.\"\n\"Whattaya mean, things went very bad for him?\"\n\"He was an alcoholic, Mr. Croker. He just left us. We never heard\nfrom him again.\"\n\"Jesus Christ,\" said the old man. \"What kind of job did he have?\"\"He was a dispatcher for a paper products company, a small\ncompany.\"\n\"Paper products?\"\n\"Yes, sir. I remember they used to make these sort of gray cartons\nthat eggs come in.\" Conrad figured that \"paper products\" and \"these\nsort of gray cartons that eggs come in\" would finish off discussions\nof his father's curriculum vitae pretty rapidly.\n\"What kind of work could you get at sixteen?\"\n\"Bagger and delivery boy for a supermarket.\"\n\"Your mother couldn't get a job?\"\n\"No, sir. Or rather she could, but she couldn't keep one. My mother\nwas not organized. She thought of herself as an artist, and she\nthought regular jobs were very square. That was a term she used to\nuse, very square. Mom used to be a hippie, an actual hippie. They\nhad hippies in Madison.\"\n\"Where's your mother now?\"\n\"She died three years ago, from something I'd never heard of\nbefore, tuberculosis of the brain.\"\n\"Jesus Christ,\" said Charlie. \"So you've been completely on your own\never since?\"\n\"If you really want to know the truth, Mr. Croker, even before then.\"\n\"What would you like to do, if you had your choice?\"\n\"Finish college. I finally got my high-school equivalency, and I\ncompleted my two years at a community college. Right now I'm\ntrying to save enough to finish up at a four-year college and get a\ndegree, Mr. Croker.\"\n\"How much can you save on this job?\" said the old man.\"Not much, Mr. Croker. But it'll do for now, and the hours are pretty\nflexible, so I got plenty of time to look for something that pays\nbetter.\"\n\"Well, hell . . . maybe I could help you,\" said Charlie, suddenly\nexcited by the prospect of doing something for the boy.\nBut then he sighed. His spirits deflated. After laying off 15 percent of\nthe workforce at Croker Global Foods, it wouldn't be very bright for\nhim to turn around and order them to hire somebody just because\nhe was a nice kid.\n\"Nawwwww, I don't think we're hiring, and it's a lousy job anyway.\"\nCharlie looked away from the boy as if he had already let him down.\nThen he turned back toward him. \"Tell me something, Connie.\nWhere the hcll'd you work to get those arms a yours\"-he made a\ngesture toward the boy-\"and those hands?\"\nThat was not a question Conrad had anticipated. His mind spun. The\nbest he could come up with was warehouse work-but he'd change\nthe industry. \"For about six months, Mr. Croker, I worked in a\nwholesale paint warehouse. All day long you'd be lifting cans of paint\nand drums of spackle and plaster mix that weighed anywhere from\nten pounds to eighty pounds. All day long you were giving your\nhands and your forearms a workout to da max. That was what one\nof the fellows I used to work with used to say, 'to da max.' \"\n\"Unh-hunh,\" said Charlie. He paused for five or six seconds, then\nsaid, \"I can tell you one a lot worse than that.\"\n\"One what, sir?\" said the boy.\n\"A warehouse job,\" said Charlie, \"a warehouse job worse than\nworking in a paint warehouse. I own some warehouses myself, food\nservice warehouses, wholesale food distribution. Maybe you've seen\none of our trucks. They're all over the place. Croker Global Foods is\nwhat it says on the side of them, white trucks with navy and gold\nlettering.\"Charlie couldn't figure out what had happened. The boy was\nspeechless. He stared at Charlie blankly, as if all his lights had gone\nout.\nSo Charlie repeated it in the form of a question: \"Have you ever\nseen our trucks?-Croker Global Foods?\"\nFinally the boy said, \"Yes ... I have.\"\n\"It would be hard to miss em,\" said Charlie. \"We're all over the\ncountry. Anyway, seeing as how we're food distributors, we handle a\nlot of stuff that's got to be kept frozen, especially meat. So in every\nwarehouse we have a freezer unit about the size of this house.\nMaybe not quite that big, but big. And we got people who work in\nthere called 'freezer pickers.' They work an eight-hour shift at about\nzero Fahrenheit, hauling product off these racks, out a these 'slots'\nthey call 'em, sixty-, seventy-, eighty-pound frozen cartons . . .\"\nCharlie averted his eyes again, lying there, and shook his head. Then\nhe looked at the boy once more. \"The worst of it is when they come\noutta the damn things with these icicles coming outta their noses.\nI'm not kidding!\" He tossed one hand up in a gesture of\nhelplessness. \"Outta their noses!\" Once more he turned away. \"Jesus\n. . .\" He turned back again. Big sigh. \"I'd like to sell the whole damn\nbusiness, but I've borrowed more money against the damn thing\nthan it's worth, if I tried to sell it now ... So anyway, you had a job in\na paint warehouse. Where was that?\"\nThe boy didn't say anything for the longest time. Finally he said,\n\"Milwaukee, Mr. Croker.\"\n\"So how'd you happen to come here?\"\n\"I'd read there were a lot of jobs available in Atlanta, and there are a\nlot of jobs available, but they don't pay much unless you're a college\ngraduate.\"\nThe old man said, \"So when did you get interested in the Stoics?\"\"A few weeks ago. I found this book I showed you in a secondhand\nstore in Chamblee.\" He held the book up so the old man could see it.\n\"The Stoics,\" Mr. Croker said once more. \"And what was the man's\nname again, Eppitetus?\"\n\"E-pic-te-tus.\"\n\"Oh yeah. Well . . . okay . . . what does Epictetus have to say about\nbankruptcy?-or is that something too mundane for a philosopher to\nthink about?\"\n\"Not too mundane for Epictetus, Mr. Croker. One place he says, 'You\nare all nervous and you can't sleep at night for fear you're going to\nrun out of money. You say, \"How will I even get enough to eat?\" But\nwhat you are really afraid of is not starvation but the prospect of not\nhaving a cook or somebody to wait on you at the dinner table or\nsomebody to take care of your clothes and your shoes and the\nlaundry and make up the beds and clean up the house. In other\nwords, you're afraid you may no longer be able to lead the life of an\ninvalid.'\"\n\"He really said that?\" asked Charlie. \"About insomnia and leading the\nlife of an invalid and all that?\"\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\"Okay . . . What else does he say?\"\n\"He says, 'Where does your fear of losing your worldly possessions\nlead you? To death. When Ulysses was shipwrecked and washed up\non shore with nothing left, it never broke his spirit. He approached\nthe fix he was in like a hill-bred lion, trusting in his might. He wasn't\ndepending on his reputation, his money, his official position, but on\nhis own might. What makes you free is what's inside you.' That's\nwhat he says, Mr. Croker.\"\nCharlie's lame knee wouldn't allow him to roll over in bed, but he\ntwisted his body as best he could, in order to look the boy squarelyin the face, this boy declaiming Stoicism from the downy billows of\nan easy chair custom-made for one of Serena's visions of luxury.\n\"What's he really getting at? This Epictetus?\"\n\"Well-I'm not the final word on this, Mr. Croker, but what he's saying,\nit seems to me, he's saying that the only real possession you'll ever\nhave is your character and your 'scheme of life,' he calls it. Zeus has\ngiven every person a spark from his own divinity, and no one can\ntake that away from you, not even Zeus, and from that spark comes\nyour character. Everything else is temporary and worthless in the\nlong run, your body included. You know what he calls your\npossessions? 'Trifles.' You know what he calls the human body? 'A\nvessel of clay containing a quart of blood.' If you understand that,\nyou won't moan and groan, you won't complain, you won't blame\nother people for your troubles, and you won't go around flattering\npeople. I think that's what he's saying, Mr. Croker.\"\nCharlie said, \"He talked about flattering people?\"\nThat caught his attention. The lies he had agreed to recite about\nFareek Fanon were flattery elevated to some sort of ultimate.\n\"Yes, sir,\" said the boy, \"that's what he said. 'The flatterer debases\nhimself and deceives the object of his fawning.' 'Dogs fawn over one\nanother,' he says, 'but throw a piece of meat between them, and see\nhow much friendship remains.' \"\nFor a moment Charlie tried to fit the piece of meat into his own\nrelationship with Fareek Fanon, but he couldn't come up with any\nreal analogy. Then he said to the boy:\n\"Let me ask you this. What would Epictetus say if a man made a\nspeech praising a prominent public figure-okay?-and he did admire\nthe man's, uh . . . power and skill in his line of work-but he didn't\nthink much of him as a person? Would it be okay to make the\nspeech as long as you stuck pretty much to the man's professional\nlife when you gave the talk?\"\"Is this someone the person giving the talk truly does not like?\"\nCharlie paused, sighed, let out his breath, and said dejectedly, 'Teah.\nHe can't stand the sonofabitch.\"\n\"Is the person giving the speech praising this public figure with the\nidea of gaining something' for himself?\"\nThe old man hesitated for a moment, then said, \"Yeah. You got it.\"\n\"Not much, then,\" said the boy. \"Epictetus says that selling out\nlowers you to the level of a beast, like the wolf or the fox. For some\nreason he thought that foxes were the lowest of all.\"\n\"He actually says 'selling out'?\"\n\"Practically,\" said the boy. \"Lemme see . . .\" He thumbed through\nthe book. \"Here it is, Book 1, Chapter 2. He says, 'Of one thing\nbeware, O man. See what is the price at which you sell your will. If\nyou do nothing else, do not sell your will cheap.' \"\nThe old man said, \"How do you know whether you're selling out too\ncheap or not?\"\n\"If you're selling out at all, it's too cheap,\" said Conrad, \"or at least\nthat's the way I interpret what he's saying, Mr. Croker, since the true\nStoic makes no compromises. Selling out and compromises are not\npart of his character.\"\n\"That's fine,\" said Charlie, \"but how do you know what your\ncharacter is? Let's say there's a crisis you've got to deal with. How\ndo you know what you're really made of?\"\n\"Epictetus talks about that,\" said Conrad. \"He says, how does a bull,\nwhen a lion's coming after him, and he has to protect the whole\nherd -how does he know what powers he's got? He knows because\nit has taken him a long time to become powerful. Like the bull, a\nman doesn't become heroic all of a sudden, either. Epictetus says,\n'He must train through the winter and make ready.' \"Like a bull!\nJesus Christ, thought Charlie, of all the animals he could've chosen,\nhe has to pick out the bull\\ The old folk song started ricocheting\naround in his skull so fast, he couldn't get rid of it:\nCharlie Croker was a man in full.\nHe had a back like a Jersey bull.\nDidn't like okra, didn't like pears.\nHe liked a gal that had no hairs.\nCharlie Croker! Charlie Croker! Charlie Croker!\nLike a Jersey bull! It was as if the boy, this Connie, could read his\nmind and knew exactly how to prod him, Charlie Croker-he who\nwould compare himself to a Jersey bull!\n\"This is all very noble,\" said Charlie, \"in the abstract, all this your\nman is saying, but what does it have to do with real life? Let's think\nabout real life for a second. Let's think about a situation in which you\nlose everything . . . you lose everything! You see what I'm saying?\nYou lose everything, the house where you live, your income, your\ncars- everything. You're out on the street. You don't know where\nyour next meal's coming from. What good do a lot of high-sounding\nideals mean then?\"\nThe boy said, \"Many of Epictetus' disciples asked him that exact\nsame thing, and you know what he told them?\"\n\"No, what?\"\n\"Have you ever seen an old beggar?\" The kid's eyes were boring\nright into him.\n\"You're asking me?\"\n\"Yes.\"\"Sure I have,\" said Charlie, \"plenty of them.\"\n\"See? They've gotten by,\" said the boy. \"They've managed to get\nfood to eat, 365 days a year, probably. They're not starving. What\nmakes you think they can all find food, and you wouldn't be able\nto?\"\n\"What kinda consolation is that supposed to be? I'd rather die than\ngo around with a cup in my hand.\"\nThe boy smiled, and his eyes brightened. \"Epictetus talks about\nexactly that, Mr. Croker. He says, 'You're not afraid of starving, you're\nafraid of losing face. He says, 'You don't have to have some high\nposition before you can be a great man. One of the great Stoic\nphilosophers, Cleanthes, hauled water to make a living. He was a\nday laborer, Mr. Croker. But nobody thought of him as someone who\ndidn't have a respectable job. Why? Because he radiated the power\nof the spark of Zeus.\"\nCharlie closed his eyes and tried to imagine it. He's out on the\nstreet. What street? Blackland Road? All he'd get there would be an\noccasional puff of BMW fumes or a piece of gravel dislodged from a\ntire tread. So where? Peachtree Street? Nobody even walks on\nPeachtree Street, and so who's going to stop his Mercedes or Infiniti\nto give Charlie Croker a quarter? Maybe he could take his tin cup\ninto the parking lot at the\nLenox Square mall. But they've probably got security personnel to\nchase hooples who come wandering in on foot out of there before\nthey can hunker clown on the pavement and set out their cup and a\nsign saying, \"Please help me. Need $28 more so I can get back\nhome to Mobile. No advice, enlightenment, or root-causes\nconversations, please.\" That was a sign Charlie had seen in-where\nthe hell was it? Lenox Square? Downtown near the CNN building?\nCharlie looked at the boy, Connie, and shook his head and said, \"I've\ntried, but I just can't see it.\"\"And vet if it happened,\" said the boy, \"it wouldn't be nearly as bad\nas you think, Mr. Croker. Epictetus would say that you-I'm just saying\nthis for the sake of argument, Mr. Croker-Epictetus would say you've\ngiven way to your animal impulses and think of yourself as all belly\nand flesh and animal desire, at the expense of that which Zeus has\ngiven you, that spark of the divine.\"\nThere was a knock on the door, and then it opened. It was Serena,\nwith a cross between anger and fear on her face. She wore a plain\nperiwinkle-blue sundress that was demure in concept but showed\nplenty of her bosom. Her thick black hair seemed to be tumbling\ndown in waves, and her eyes were all the more vivid because they\nmatched her dress.\nShe came toward the bed, saying, \"Charlie! Who is this-this man\nWhite? He's-\"\nCharlie cut her off: \"Serena, you remember Connie, don't you?\" It\nseemed terribly important somehow that she acknowledge the boy's\npresence.\nShe turned her head distractedly toward the boy, who by now had\nrisen to his feet, and she said, \"Yes ... of course.\"\nThen she turned back toward Charlie. \"This Mr. White, he keeps\ncalling, he keeps saying he wants to 'reconfirm your decision.'\n'Reconfirm your decision,' he keeps saying, and he doesn't care who\nhe's talking to, jarmaine, Nina, anybody. What are we supposed to\ndo about him? What's this all about?\"\nCharlie felt terribly embarrassed that she should be bringing all this\nup in front of Connie. He wanted to put her in her place, but he felt\n... so tired ... so vulnerable ... He felt as if he were sinking into the\nmattress, into the sanctuary of this bed with its thousands of dollars\nworth of fabric billowing down the four posters, there, there, there .\n. . and there ... He was living the life of an invalid, just as Epictetus\nhad said. And what was the name of the guy? Cleanthes? He hauledwater for a living, just like some wage mule's work, and he was still\na great man, and everybody knew it.\n\"Well?\" said Serena, who now actually had her hands on her hips.\nHer eyes were blazing. \"What do we do about him?\"\nCharlie pushed himself up by pressing the heels of his hands into the\nmattress, so that he was at least halfway sitting-and not such an\ninvalid. \"You're right,\" he said to Serena. \"So far I've been a fox, but\nit's against my nature. I feel lousy, and my knee hurts like hell, but\nI'm gonna be a ... a ... a bull. I'll deal with it.\"\nWithering scorn: \"What on earth are you talking about, Charlie?-a\nfox and a bull . . .\"\nCharlie realized he certainly didn't sound like a bull. His voice was\nbarely above the level and vitality of a croak, and nowhere in himself\ncould he find the will to even try to become a bull.\nHe looked at Serena, looked right into those eyes of hers, and said,\n\"I've descended\"-he decided not to mention the foxes or the wolves-\n\"I've descended to a certain level, but I'm gonna get back up. I'll\ndeal with it all.\"\nSerena, with her hands still on her hips, looked at him as if he were\nsenile and shook her head and spun about and marched out of the\nroom.\nNo, Charlie was no bull who had grown up with a consciousness of\nhis own powers. He didn't have a back like a Jersey bull any longer,\nand his only hope of getting one was in that book in the hands of a\nboy who stood beside the chair in his nurse's-aide outfit, that slim\nboy who, unaccountably, had the forearms and hands of a man\ntwice his size. The boy was like the man he told him about,\nCleanthes, who had a job as a day laborer but impressed all who\ncame in contact with him like \"a hill-bred lion, trusting in his might,\"\nlike Ulysses washed ashore, wherever the hell it was Ulysses waswashed ashore, and whoever the hell he was. The name summoned\nup a flicker of memory, but that was all.\nIt was humiliating, the way she had talked to him right in front of\nConnie ... He had never let a woman talk to him that way. So why\nnow? Because the source of his strength had always been his\nmoney, his reputation, his success in worldly affairs. But the one true\nsource of strength was his own might, his own will, to get or to\navoid, his own divine spark of reason, which enabled him to judge\nwhich things were in his power and which were beyond it.\nWell, Serena wasn't a rich woman-not without him she wasn't- they\nhad a prenuptial agreement and all the rest of it-and she wasn't\nexactly a despot, but she sure could be a bitch, and there you had\nthat little performance in front of Connie.\nEven though the very thought of it made him feel miserable, he said,\n\"Connie, I think I'm gonna get up and take a walk. Gimme a hand.\nGet me my bathrobe.\"\nGetting the knee off the bed and upright was a killer, but finally he\nwas out in the hallway clad in his blue robe and supported by his\naluminum crutches. The hallway was heavily carpeted, but the\ncrutches went clackclack . . . clackclack . . . clackclack . . . clackclack\n... all the same. Connie walked beside him.\nClackclack . . . clackclack . . . \"Connie?\" said the old man.\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\"Connie, I want you to do me a favor.\"\n\"If I can, Mr. Croker.\"\n\"You'll be coming back here tomorrow at eight, right?\"\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\"Well, what I want is, I want you to leave the book with me after\nyou finish work today, and I'll do some reading on my own and giveit back to you tomorrow morning.\"\nThe boy's eyes grew frightened, wary, and startled. He stood there\nwith his mouth open.\nHe didn't know what to say. There was no way he could explain to\nthe old man that the book was . . . alive with the spark of Zeus.\nTherein were the essential truths that had enabled him to withstand\nthe worst the beasts could throw at him in jail, withstand exile from\nhis own family, alienation from the law, a confrontation with a thug-\nhe could see the sneering face of the greaser at the Gardners'. And\nin that moment it all came together. He could see it as a\nforeordained pattern. The Book had arrived, seemingly by accident,\nat Santa Rita-and introduced him to Zeus, to Epictetus and the truth\nand the way, and given him the courage to fight and overcome the\nworst predators in the jail. Then Zeus uprooted the entire jail and\ncracked it open like a walnut shell so that he could escape. Then he\nmade the Army Reservists' Jeep available and somehow led him to\nKenny and Mai and the \"underground airline\" and sent him to\nAtlanta. And why Atlanta? Because in a hopelessly cluttered attic\nroom in a little town he had never heard of in his life, Chamblee,\nthere was a copy of the Book. And why should lie have a copy of the\nBook? To continue the work and testify to the glory of Zeus. And\nnow he had a chance-the very scalp of his head grew hot from the\nthought-now he had a chance to convert a man of money and power\nand renown. From the moment he was laid off by Croker Global\nFoods to this moment, standing beside a crippled Charlie Croker,\nthis-but of course!-this had been the pattern his life had been woven\ninto: not to punish Croker for throwing hundreds of people out of\nwork with a snap of his fingers, but to recruit him and all his\nresources into the service of Zeus.\nTo Charlie it seemed as if the boy stood there beside him for five\nminutes without saying a word. He looked as if he were off on a\ncloud somewhere. What the hell was the big deal about the book?\"All right, Mr. Croker,\" the boy said finally, \"I'll leave it with you when\nI go. But please look after it. Remember, it's . . . alive.\"\nA live. Charlie didn't know what the hell that was supposed to mean,\nbut there was no mistaking the drift of what the boy had said.\nChapter 31Roger Black\nAll at once it occurred to roger that the very first time lie had come\nhere to City Hall to talk to Wes about Fareek Fanon and Elizabeth\nArmholster, Wes was the one who hopped up and started pacing this\nbrown-and-whitc Yoruban phoenix rug with a puzzled but halogen-\nlike gleam in his eye. And this time it was him. Oh yes. Roger Not a\nBit Too White.\nHe couldn't stay seated. He kept marching up and down all those\ndeep-piled, tall-tufted birds, the phoenixes, with the adrenaline\nflowing. He felt as if his eyes were burning brighter and brighter with\nhis gradually dawning awareness of his new role in life. Not a Bit Too\nWhite.\nAs for Wes, he remained seated in his armchair, his excitement, if\nany, over the new Roger successfully contained.\n\"So I just opened the screen door and walked in!\" said Roger. \"Then\nI walked right up to him\\ He was standing there on his crutches with\nthis attendant, or whatever he was, a white kid, and I was no farther\nfrom him than I am from you right now, and I said, This isn't a\ngame, my friend. Are you going to appear at the press conference or\nare we going to videotape your statement, or neither? If it's neither,\nmy friend, a lot of things will have to be changed, starting with\nPlannersBanc.' \" Wes said, \"Did you really keep calling him 'my\nfriend'?\" \"Well, maybe not quite that often, but that's what I called\nhim.\"\n\"Okay,\" said the Mayor, \"go ahead.\"\n\"He didn't say anything at first,\" said Roger, and so I said, 'Do you\nunderstand? . . . Do-you-understand?' And finally this little peep\ncomes out of this great big man: 'Yes . . .' That's the way he said it:\n'Yes . . .' The great Sixty-Minute Man! Makes you wonder ... the way\nsome of these so-called powerful business interests turn out to be\nwhen you actually confront them. I said to him, 'You've made acommitment to me, and I've been assuring the Mayor you'll be\nthere. This press conference is going to be a crucial moment for the\ncity.' I said, 'You double-cross me-and the Mayor-it won't be\npleasant. You know that, don't you?' Meek as a kitten he says, 'I\nknow that. . .' That was the way he was talking! i know that.' You\nhad to be there, Wes!\"\nEven as he spoke, it occurred to Roger that he was embroidering the\nscene more than a tiny bit. But he decided that a little . . .\nenhancing ... of the truth was justified in this instance, since it\nhelped make up for the missing emotion, tension, and drama of the\nscene as it had actually occurred.\n\"Christ,\" said Wes, \"I hope the sonofabitch isn't in such bad shape\nhe's a basket case at the press conference.\"\nUh-oh, he'd gone too far. He hastened to reassure the Mayor: \"Not\nat all, Wes, not at all. It's just that Croker, if you ask me, is your\ntypical bully. When his bluff is called, he folds.\"\n\"So you feel sure he'll turn up for the press conference,\" said the\nMayor.\n\"Oh, absolutely,\" said Roger. \"He knows that if he doesn't, it all\ngoes\"-he snapped his fingers-\"like that, the plantation, the big house\nin Buckhead-incidentally, I wish you could set foot inside Croker's\nplace. There's this entry . . . hall ... or lobby ... or whatever you call\nit, that's bigger in square feet than most people's entire houses. I\nreally wish you could see it. The house is worth probably three or\nfour million in the current market. He'll sing any song you want\nbefore he'll give up the kind of life he's living now. Croker\nConcourse, the buildings in Midtown, this wholesale food operation\nhe has-it's all going to go if he doesn't come to that press\nconference.\"\n\"All right,\" said Wes, \"but just for good measure keep prodding him\nand reminding him, because I really do need the sonofabitch.\"\"Oh, don't worry about that, Wes,\" said Roger. \"He's going to get\ndaily reminders, and if I have to, I'll march right back into his\nhouse.\"\nThe Mayor looked up at Roger, who was still pacing, and smiled\nbroadly without saying a thing.\nRoger stopped and looked down at the Mayor and asked, \"What's\nfunny?\"\n\"You're really enjoying politics, aren't you,\" said the Mayor.\n\"Politics?\"\n\"That's what all this is, Roger, everything you've been doing-it's\npolitics as it's actually conducted. Please don't get me wrong. I'm\nimmensely grateful for what you've already done. I mean that. All\nI'm saying is that it gives me pleasure to see you enjoying politics as\nmuch as I do. There's nothing else in this world like it.\"\nRoger was busy mining Wes's remarks for irony, but all he said was\n\"I still don't know what you're talking about.\"\nWes said, \"Do you know what politicians really love about politics-\nwhat makes politics so hard to give up once you've had a taste of\nit?\"\n\"Oh, I don't know . . . Power? Fame? Money?\"\nWes laughed. \"It's certainly not money. Anybody who goes into\npolitics to make money has to be an idiot. I know some idiots have\ndone precisely that, but it's a stupid thing to try. Me, I actually lose\nmoney every year, because on my salary I can't do all the things I'm\nexpected to do. And it's not power, if by power you mean the power\nto get things done, change the life of the city, reduce crime,\nrehabilitate the South side, all those things. And it's not fame. You\nquickly get used to publicity. You get used to seeing yourself on\ntelevision, seeing your picture in the newspaper, even to having a\nspecial 'In Depth' segment done about you on the NBC nightly newsor articles written about you in national magazines or The New York\nTimes. You start to take all that as nothing more than a natural part\nof your life, your role. You start looking at it as something that's just\n. . . there . . . like the sky, the sun, the clouds, the night, the moon,\nthe stars, the traffic on Georgia 400. No, what really gets you, what\nreally grabs you, what really turns you into a political junkie is . . .\nseein'em jump.\"\n\"Seeing them jump?\"\n\"Exactly. Seein'em jump. Sometimes they're literally jumping up.\nAnytime I walk into a room, at least in Atlanta, everybody who's\nsitting down is going to jump up, even if it's the so-called business\ninterests, which is our current euphemism for prominent white\npeople. When it's time for me to sit down, somebody is going to\njump to get me a chair. People in stores-not that I go shopping very\noften-they drop whatever else they're doing and jump to see to it I\nhave whatever I want. On that score, white people are no different\nfrom African Americans.\"\n\"You've started saying 'African American'?\" asked Roger.\n\"Oh yes,\" said the Mayor. \"Anyway,\" he continued, \"if I'm going out\nto the airport to catch a flight, and I'm running late, they'll stop the\nwhole damned airport to make sure I catch my flight, if that's what it\ntakes, and if I'm walking through a public space, whether it's here\nnear City Hall or out at the airport or wherever, people-white people-\nwill jump to get near me and coo the sweet nothings of fandom and\nask for my autograph. Roger, that's what's addictive about politics:\nseein'em jump. And that's what you've had a little taste of. Or a big\ntaste. Charlie Croker has always been a big player in Atlanta, and\nyou've had him jumping ever since you first went to see him in his\noffice at Croker Concourse. So far you've been a great politician, and\nyou've done something very valuable for me and for your client. That\nhaving been said - it's fun, isn't it, it's funl\"Roger frowned. That was a skill Wes had, striking close to the bone\nbefore you even knew he was about to thrust. And as usual, Roger\nresented him even more for being right. Wes was always two steps\nahead of him when it came to things like understanding human\nmotivation, and Roger was in no mood to forgive him for it.\n\"I don't know that I'd call it fun,\" he said, more crossly than he\nmeant to.\n\"Well, anyway, you've done great work, Counselor. Having Croker at\nthat press conference is going to mean more to your client and to\nthis city than you can possibly imagine. I didn't tell you, but we had\na riot on our hands last night.\"\n\"A riot?\"\n\"Exactly. A bunch of the usual homeys are out on the street on\nEnglish Avenue, and they're talking shit about how their hero, Fareek\n'the Cannon' Fanon, has been framed by this wealthy white girl, and\ntheir emotions rise, and they start heading over toward the World\nCongress Center, yelling and breaking windows, and then they made\ntheir mistake. They saw a bunch of white men working late on that\nnew construction over there, and so they decided on a little brawling\nand pillaging. Their mistake was, they went after the wrong white\nworking- men. These white guys were the wire lathers. They're the\nwhite guys you see at these building sites with hard hats, five-day\ngrowths of beard, paunches, and sleeveless T-shirts out of which\nprotrude their eighteen- and twenty-inch biceps. They'd just as soon\nbrawl as drink beer. Either one's okay with them. Five minutes later\nthere was no more riot. The riot had been out-rioted, thank God. I\ncalled Elihu Yale\"-the police chief-\"and told him to put an absolute lid\non the whole thing, and nobody in the press ever got wind of it. But\nthat shows you where we are right now. We're nearing the boiling\npoint. Students have been making speeches at Morehouse-and\nSpelman, for that matter. The so- called Morehouse elite is all for\nsolidarity on an issue like this-if there's ever been an issue like this.\nThey're all convinced that Fanon was set up and framed.\"\"Is that what you believe?\"\n\"Not if you use 'framed' to mean a plot that's hatched ahead of time.\nIf you mean framed in the sense of did she use the R-word as an on-\nthe-spot excuse when her girlfriends find her balling a 225-pound\nAfrican American, that I find believable. That's Fareek the Cannon's\nstory, and it's believable.\"\n\"I'm sorry,\" said Roger, \"but it strikes me as funny, hearing you use\nthe term African American after all the things you said about Jesse\nJackson.\"\nThe Mayor put on his ironic smile. \"As I told you, times change and\nthings change. When Jesse hits a home run, there's no use grousing\nabout it. There's nothing to do but record the score. Come on, sit\ndown. You're making me nervous.\" The Mayor gestured toward the\ncouch.\nRoger Not a Bit Too White sat down, but before he knew it, he was\non his feet again, pacing the phoenix rug, looking at the patterns\nthat the ivory Yoruban ceremonial swords made against the ebony\npaneling, and musing to Wes about Charlie Croker and how he\nwouldn't be happy until he saw him jump straight through the hoop.\ncharlie had always used the term below the gnat line as a piece of\nDown Home humor. But this time it didn't strike him as funny. As he\nhobbled on his aluminum crutches from the Cadillac toward the Big\nHouse, black gnats were dive-bombing his eyes in waves, without\nany letup. Why the eyes? Probably the water. They wanted to drink\nthe water out of his eyes. Because of the crutches he couldn't lift his\nhands high enough to shoo them away. Now he could hear them\nsinging in his ears. Turpmtine was not the place to be in the\nsummertime. In the summertime South Georgia bowed down,\nhelplessly, abjectly, to her rulers, the insects.\n\"Owooooli!\" That was Serena, who was just behind him. \"Charlie! A\nbee stung me!\"\"Wasn't a bee,\" said Charlie, without looking around. \" 'Sa fly.\"\nProbably a black fly, thought Charlie. Mean little bastards. They were\nmottled, mostly black, in an unhealthy-looking way, and their wings\nwere swept back like a jet fighter's or a Stealth bomber's. They\nnever missed. But it could have been a yellow fly or a horsefly. All\nthree of them stung, but there was no need to go into all that with\nSerena. He turned his head about and said:\n\"Heidi! Cover up the baby's face with something.\" He almost never\nreferred to her as Kingsley.\n'Tou don't worry, Mr. Croker,\" said Heidi. \"I hold her-whuhhhhh\nwhuhhhhh whuhhhhh whuhhhhh-close to me-whuhhhhh whuhhhhh\nwhuhhhhh whuhhhhh-and I have chiffon.\"\nSerena again: \"Charlie! Damn it! Another one! How can a fly-\nwhuhhhhh whuhhhhh whuhhhhh whuhhhhh-how can a-damn it,\nCharlie, another one!\"\nCharlie knew that whuhhhhhh whuhhhhh sound from way back\nbefore the first word he ever knew. It was the sound of a human\nbeing, a hopelessly slow species, trying to blow the gnat swarms\naway from her eyes in Baker County in the summertime.\n\"Ughhhh!\" That was Connie, carrying the bags and bringing up the\nrear, muttering to himself. No doubt the flies attacked him, too, but\nhe was the Stoic.\nShit! One of them got Charlie in the back of the neck, and they still\nhad another thirty feet to go before they reached the front door.\n\"Charlie!\" said Serena. \"What are these Utile-whuhhhhh whuhhhhh\nwhuhhhhh whuhhhhh-white things? They're disgusting!\"\nCharlie saw them, too: another mottled fly, but mottled white\ninstead of black. \"They're privy flies,\" he said. \"They won't hurt you.\"\n\"What are privy flies?\"\"They swarm around-whuhhhhh whuhhhhh whuhhhhh whuhhhhh -\nprivies.\"\n\"What's a privy?\"\n\"An outhouse.\"\n\"That's-whuhhhhh whuhhhhh whuhhhhh whuhhhhh-disgusting!\nVckkkkkkkkkkkk-l just stepped on something disgusting, too!\"\nA foul odor rose from the path as these wayfarers struggled through\nthe badlands in the kingdom of the insects.\n\"There's millipedes on the walkway. That's what you smell there. Try\nnot to step on em.\"\n\"Mr. Croker!\" said Heidi. \"What happen to tree?\"\nCharlie craned his head about and saw her holding the baby with\none arm and pointing with the other toward a maple tree. The\nbranches appeared to be festering with some dreadful disease.\n\"Tent caterpillars,\" said Charlie.\nThey had infested the entire tree. They would strip it bare of leaves\nbefore they were through.\n\"That sound,\" said Serena, \"is that the-whuhhhhh whuhhhhh\nwhuhhhhh whuhhhhh-sound of them eating?\"\n'Tep,\" said Charlie. They did make a sort of crunch crunch sound. In\nfact, it was the sound of them defecating, the sound of the\ndroppings of tens of thousands of tent caterpillars hitting the\nground. But no use introducing that piece of information when\nthere's still fifteen feet to go before reaching the front door. And no\nuse mentioning that now, in June, in Baker Count}', right over there,\nin the shade beneath the live oaks and the magnolias, there'll be\nmosquitoes, jumbo mosquitoes, thoroughbreds of the family\nCulicidae, right in the middle of the day. It wasn't far from here to\nJookers Swamp, where the mosquitoes multiplied bv the billions inJune and grew up looking for blood to suck. And no use calling\nattention to that old live-oak stump over there in the shade. Try\nsitting on that for a moment to rest your weary bones and get a little\nrespite from the sun, or try lying down on this nice soft bed of pine\ntags over here. The mosquitoes, yellow flies, horseflies, black flies,\nand gnats will attack from above-and the chiggers will be after your\nankles, your thighs, your neck, and your big unsuspecting bottom\nfaster than you can pronounce the word. June was the chiggers'\nmonth. For the chiggers, June was Thanksgiving, Christmas, and the\nFourth of July all rolled into one. Nothing those vicious, fiery red\nmites liked better than a human bottom sitting on a tree stump in\nJune. A single chigger bite would give you a red welt that would\nburn and itch for a week.\nGodalmighty it was hot. The cicadas were up in the trees rattling\naway. They were big, as bugs went, the cicadas were; an inch and a\nhalf long, some of them; and ugly, too; and noisy. In Baker Count}',\nwhen the sun reaches its zenith in June, and the cicadas descend on\nthe trees and start that damned rattle of theirs, and you can't get\nthe vibrations out of your eardrums, that's when you start \"seeing\nthe monkey,\" as the field hands used to say. That was Charlie right\nnow. The black gnats and three kinds of sweptwing flies were after\nhim, and it was hot as hell, and he was seeing the monkey.\nHe glanced over his shoulder, and Connie was right behind him,\ncarrying in the bags. Connie had done the driving, and he, Charlie,\nhad sat in the back seat with Serena. Frankly, Connie had made him\nhalf-crazy, because he wouldn't go more than five miles an hour over\nthe speed limit, or maybe ten. Christ, it was bad enough to have to\ndrive all the way from Atlanta. Durwood and the boys would start\nbuzzing about that, all right. Cap'm Charlie always came to\nTurpmtine by airplane; not always the G-5, sometimes the Beechjet,\nbut always by airplane. What could he say? The bad leg made it too\nhard to go up and down the Beechjet's stairs? Aw, the hell with it.\nHe wasn't obliged to explain anything to anybody . . . although he\nfelt a tremendous need to.The Big House was set in a grove of live oaks, magnolias, and\ndogwoods. The white blossoms of the magnolias had never been\nmore profuse or more lush. But with the magnolias, it wasn't just the\nblossoms that got you. There were also the leaves, long, thick, deep\ngreen leaves, each one of which shone as if it had been waxed and\npolished by hand. The branches came all the way down to the\nground, and the tops rose to a point, like a Christmas tree, and\nwhen you saw a dozen of them, arranged on either side of the Big\nHouse like this, it made you catch your breath, no matter how many\ntimes you had seen them before. The porch, which went almost all\nthe way around the house, was about four feet above the ground,\nand the Confederate roses had grown on the trellises below the\nporch in such masses of blossoms, it seemed as if the house had\nbeen built atop a vast mound of flowers. Inside the house it was\nliable to be musty, since he hadn't used it for several weeks, and no\nplace on earth was hotter and more humid than Baker County,\nGeorgia, in the summertime. Thank God he had put in central air\nconditioning ten-or was it eleven?-years ago, back when a $110,000\nHVAC system seemed like nothing, a mere routine expense. Now he\ncouldn't put together $110,000 to buy anything. God ... if only he\ndidn't feel so tired. He never slept anymore. He was dead tired from\nthe moment he got up in the morning. He didn't want to get up. Not\nfor a minute. He only got up because he knew Serena would break\nhis balls if he didn't-that and the fact that he would look bad in\nConnie's eyes. So . . . clackclack . . . clackclack . . . clackclack . . .\nclackclack ... he made his way to the front stairs that led up to the\nporch. He looked at the stairs and delivered himself of a great sigh.\n\"Want me to give you a hand, Mr. Croker?\" asked Connie.\n\"Nawwww,\" said Charlie, \"I was jes . . . jes . . .\" Great weariness. \"I\nwas jes ... I don't know what I was jes doin',\" said Charlie.\n'Tou were jes feeling sorry for yourself, Charlie,\" said Serena. \"That's\nwhat you w ere jes doing. If you'd put that much energy into doing\nyour therapy, you could be over all this.\"By now she was right beside him. She wore a pair of white linen\nslacks that tapered down to a narrow cuff over the ankle and a white\nsilk blouse with yellow candy stripes. She was trying to chase the\ngnats away from her big blue eyes. She didn't have to say another\nword. It was plain that she resented this escape to Turpmtine. This\nwas the last place in the world she would choose to be in the\nsummer.\nCharlie started up the stairs, unaided. Clackclack . . . < lackclack . . .\n\"Why do they make that noise, Charlie?\" she said with exasperation,\nbrushing her hand in front of her eyes about ninety times a minute.\n\"Why does who make which noise?\" asked Charlie.\nObviously peeved: \"That clackclack . . . clackclack.\"\n\"Well, that's jes the-\"\n\"It's not jes anything, Charlie. It's those crutches.\"\n\"There's nothing-\"\n\"Are they loose? Were they clattering that way when you got them?\"\n\"I don't know, I s'pose-\"\n\"Well, let's just get inside before we all get bitten to death.\" By now\nSerena was flailing her hand before her eyes and screwing her face\nup into a Serena epitome of frustrated anger.\nSo Charlie headed up the stairs. Clackclack . . . clackclack . . .\nclackclack . . . Ever}' clackclack now sounded to Charlie like a pair of\nrifle shots. He was dead tired, his knee hurt like hell, his brain felt as\nif it were the black part of a tornado, he was seeing the monkey, and\nhis wife didn't like the way his crutches sounded. His crutches! If he\nhad had the energy and the confidence he used to have, he would\nhave cut off that line of remarks in an instant. As it was, her\nobservations about aluminum crutches became yet more trash\nsucked up by the tornado in his skull.the big house had always had a decor that was more feminine than\nnot. There were a lot of Chinese-yellow walls with delicate, spidery\nwhite plaster moldings, in the \"Adam mode,\" as Ronald Vine had\ncalled it, whatever that actually meant. These were apparently the\noriginal decorations of the house, so much a part of a bygone era\nthat no one, not even Ronald, had ever dared alter them. After all,\nBygone Era was very much on the mind of anyone who bought a\nSouth Georgia quail plantation. As a result the house also still had\nthings such as sliding pocket doors with elaborately etched glass\nwindows, with which you could close off the dining room from the\nback parlor, and bays in the front and back parlors with four\nwindows each, two of which had curved frames with curved glass to\nmatch. The interior of the Big House was where the woman,\npresumably the wife, could express her taste and refinement. The\nrest of the place was given over to Man the Hunter.\nEven though it was on no more than four hours' notice, Durwood\nhad managed to soldier up a house staff for Cap'm Charlie. Auntie\nBella would be there, along with two assistant cooks, and Mason\nwould be there with a couple of the boys to help out with errands,\nlifting, and suchlike, and of course Durwood himself would be\naround, and Connie would be there. So it wasn't exactly that Cap'm\nCharlie had been left to his own devices.\nWith Connie's help, he had had himself ensconced in an easy chair in\nthe Big House's \"den,\" as it was called, the room that had been the\nBig House's male redoubt before Charlie had built the Gun House.\nCompared to the big room of the Gun House, the den looked\npositively effete. No boars' heads, no stuffed snakes, no battalions of\nupright guns; instead, a rather subtle form of paneling: heart of\nvirgin pine with some School of Audubon paintings of quail adorning\nit. Charlie found the den peaceful. The roof of the porch outside\nshielded you from the sun. It was soothing. Heart of virgin pine and\nquail paintings were fine. He didn't particularly want to be reminded\nof tusks and fangs right now. He picked up the Book. Connie was off\nwith Durwood, with Charlie's blessing, taking a look at theplantation, or at least the outbuildings and the kennels and the\nhorses.\nHe opened the Book at random to a passage that said: \"Just as\nevery skill is strengthened by practice, so is every bad habit made\nworse by repetition. If you lie in bed for ten days, and then get up\nand try to take a walk, you will see how quickly your legs have lost\ntheir strength.\" Christalmighty, Epictetus had been reading his mail!\nHe had come as close to lying in bed for ten days as they'd let him,\nand it was true: his legs had no strength left!\nHis eyes came to rest on a painting of a covey of quail hiding in a\nhuddle in tall grass. The artist had managed to make it look as if the\nbirds were all crouching, frightened, ready to explode upward at the\nfirst sign of danger. That was what he, Charlie, was like now, hiding,\ncrouched, in the tall grass, panicked to the point of taking off in any\ndirection.\nAll right, suppose he went to the press conference and told the truth\nabout Fareek Fanon? Suppose he said that Fanon is the epitome of\nthe arrogant, obnoxious, swaggering athlete who thinks he is\nelevated above ordinary standards of right and wrong? As soon as\nthe words passed his lips his worldly possessions would be gone-and\nhe'd be branded as a racist bigot.\nHe was still staring at the covey of quail when Serena materialized in\nthe doorway. She came toward Charlie with a smile he couldn't\ndecipher. Pleasure? Sarcasm? He couldn't tell.\nShe sat down in an easy chair near his and said, \"So-how does it feel\nto be back at Turpmtine?\"\nCharlie couldn't read her expression or weigh her words at all. \"It's\nrelaxing,\" he said finally.\n\"Relaxing from what?\" said Serena. When he made no response, she\nsaid, \"Do you mind if I ask you something?\"\n\"Go ahead.\"\"What is going on, this whole business with Mr. Roger White?\"\n\"Well-\"\n\"And don't just tell me that he's trying to get you involved in some\ncase of his. That doesn't make sense, because here is this . . . this\nman who dares-dares!-to come marching into our house uninvited\nand insisting you give him an answer about something or other. The\nCharlie Croker I married would have picked him up bodily and\nthrown him out. I couldn't stand to see you . . . cringing like that!\"\nCharlie stared at her for a moment. \"Well, you're right, this is a lot\nmore than . . . than . . . I've made it out to be. In fact, it's a mess.\"\nHe didn't trust Serena, didn't trust his own wife, who had married\nhim for better, not for better or for worse, with the information he\nwas about to impart to her. He sighed and then resolved to tell her\nanyway. After all, she was his wife and had a right to know.\nHe told her step by step. Lawyer Roger White's initial offer to trade\nhim freedom from PlannersBanc's bankruptcy machinery in exchange\nfor a flattering public statement about Fareek Fanon, Georgia Tech's\nCharlie Croker of today . . . How White had demonstrated his side's\npower to keep PlannersBanc on a leash ... His appalling meeting\nwith Fareek Fanon, who got in as many insults and contemptuous\nsnorts as possible . . . How he wrestled with the angels over the\nwhole dilemma . . . How could he betray Inman, especially after\nvolunteering to help in any way he could in having Fanon punished\nfor what he had done? . . . But how could he turn down such a fairly\ninnocuous way of saving his entire empire from certain ruin?\nBesides, he would be doing something for the entire city by calming\ntroubled waters. The Journal- Constitution would no doubt give him\na pat on the back for that. . . But Inman would be furious, and\neverybody who knew and liked Inman, which was a lot of people,\nwould smell something fishy . . . And did he, Charlie, think Fanon\nwas capable of raping Elizabeth Armholster? He wouldn't put it past\nhim for a minute ... He told her how he swayed this way and that,wrestled with the angels, and finally called Lawyer White, who had\nturned out to be pretty obnoxious himself, and said yes, he agreed\nto the bargain . . . and how ever since then Lawyer White had\ntreated him in the most condescending manner you could imagine . .\n. how he, Charlie, who used to pride himself on making decisions\nand then putting the dilemmas behind him, was getting nowhere\nwith this one. On the one hand, if he came out in favor of Fanon, he\nwould save all his possessions and be safe from the bank but lose all\nhis friends, the Piedmont Driving Club set and every other set. But if\nhe refused, he would lose all his possessions, right down to the\nhouse they lived in and the cars they drove-and they would still lose\nall their friends, because the sort of friends they had made were the\nsort who couldn't stand people who couldn't afford to go out and\nblow $300 on dinner for four at Mordecai's. His dilemma was just as\nhopeless as it had ever been.\nAll the while, as he told the story, Serena stared at him, with her left\nelbow resting on an arm of the chair and one side of her face resting\non the heel of her hand. She scarcely even blinked. But toward the\nend she began to smile ever so slightly. It was a benign smile,\nhowever.\nWhen at last he finished, Serena surprised him. Instead of acting\nangry, sarcastic, or put out, she took the heel of her hand away from\nher face and rested her weight on her forearm and smiled-sweetly-\nand said in a sweet, low voice:\n\"Charlie, I only wish you'd told me all this before. This is a terrible\nthing to have bottled up inside yourself.\"\n\"Well-\"\n\"Really it is. And you probably thought there was no one who could\npossibly help you and therefore you didn't want anyone to know.\"\n\"That's true,\" said Charlie. \"When I think how I told Inman I'd do\nanything I could to help- him-shook his hand-practically swore ablood oath-on the other hand, I'm sixty years old and I'm about to\nbe wiped out.\"\n\"Charlie-\"\n\" - they've already taken the airplanes, three of the cars, and you\nknow what would-\"\n\"Charlie-\"\n\"-would be next-\"\n\"Charlie!\"\n\"What?\"\nOnce she had his attention, she returned to the small, soft, intimate\nvoice. \"I have something to tell you that may make it easier for you.\"\nCharlie looked at her, seriously doubting that what she said was true,\nbut all he said was: \"What is it?\"\n\"Elizabeth made me swear I wouldn't tell anyone, not even you.\"\n\"Elizabeth?\"\n\"Elizabeth Armholster. I told her-but I don't care, Charlie, this is\nsomething you have to know.\"\nHe just stared at her.\n\"You remember that night at the Driving Club, the night you and\nInman went off into the ballroom and had a talk?\"\n\"Yeah,\" said Charlie with a resigned twist to his lips, \"I remember.\nThat was the night I swore to Inman I'd back him up in this thing.\"\nHe shook his head.\n\"Well, before you start thinking you're bound by some sacred oath-\ndid you know I had a talk with Elizabeth that same night, at the\nDriving Club?\"\"I remember you going off into the Bamboo Room with her.\"\n\"Exactly. And you want to know what she told me?\"\n\"What?\"\n\"About that night? That Friday night of Freaknik? She hooked up\nwith Fanon.\"\n\"She what?\"\n\"Hooked up with him.\" She gave Charlie the sort of stare,\naccompanied by a slight parting of the lips, that you give people\nwhen you're unveiling a major revelation.\n\"What's hooked up?\"\n\"You don't know hooked up? That's something boys and girls do\nnow. You really never heard of it?\" \"No.\"\n\"Well, today they don't talk about 'dates' anymore. They go out in\ngroups, a group of girls over here and a group of boys over there, all\nlooking for a part)'. To find a party you go to places where boys and\ngirls hang out, such as the Wreck Room.\"\n\"What's that?\"\n\"It's a restaurant near the Tech campus. The Wreck Room, as in 'the\nRamblin' Wreck.' So here are five girls, including Elizabeth, squeezed\ninto a booth, and it's after eleven and they're still looking for a party.\nThe next thing they know, four black students slide into the booth\nopposite them, and everybody in the restaurant knows who one of\nthem is: Fareek Fanon. Pretty soon Fanon and his friends are hitting\non the white girls, but it's all very playful, not crude or suggestive.\"\n\"Hitting on?\"\n\"Flirting with, coming on to. That's what they say now, 'hitting on.'\nElizabeth said they-she and her friends-didn't want to appear\nstandoffish, since everybody in the restaurant is looking at them andFanon is Tech's poster boy, and so forth and so on. Anyway, Fanon\nsays there's a party going on at his apartment, which isn't all that far\naway. Naturally, you can say in hindsight, that should have started\nthe girls thinking. If there's a part)' going on at his apartment,\nwhat's he doing here? But the fact is, Elizabeth and two of the girls\ndecided to go to the party.\"\n\"What about the other two?\" said Charlie.\n\"They said, 'Unh-unh, not me,' and went home. One thing you ought\nto realize, Charlie. Elizabeth's not a bashful girl. She'll take you up on\na dare. In certain ways she's like Inman or, for that matter, Ellen,\nwho I think is a holy terror. So the three girls arrive at Fanon's\napartment, and of course there's nobody there. Elizabeth says, i\nthought you said there's a party.' To which Fanon says, 'Well, now\nthere is!' So now the boys and the girls have found a part)', and\nthat's when the hooking up can begin.\"\n\"But what the hell does it mean?\" said Charlie.\n\"That's what I'm getting to. The party's in progress, people are\ndrinking, and a boy is attracted to a particular girl-or a girl is\nattracted to a particular boy-remember one thing, Charlie, it can\nhappen that way, too-the girl can start it-and one of them nods\ntoward the back or wherever there's an empty room, and right\nthere, on the spur of the moment, the two of them go to that room\nand hook up.\"\n\"But what-\"\n\"I'm telling you,\" said Serena in the same soft, confidential voice. \"It\nalways refers to sex, but it can be anything from kissing, along with,\nyou know, some 'feeling up,' to going all the way, in which case it's\ncalled 'majorly hooking up.' Now, I'd heard of all that, but Elizabeth\nintroduced me to a term I'd never heard of. She's ten years younger\nthan I am-so I'd never heard of it. And that's score.\"\n\"Score?\"\"Not scored with but just score. It used to be that boys would brag\nabout 'scoring with' some girl, meaning getting her to go all the way.\nBut score is a word girls use. A girl will say, T scored Jack last night,\nas if she's 'gotten' the guy to go all the way and it's a terrific\naccomplishment. So anyway, Elizabeth hooked tip with Fanon. They\nwent into his bedroom.\"\n\"Jesus Christ!\" said Charlie. \"He asked her or she asked him?\"\n\"She says he asked her, but, Charlie, I'm not so sure.\"\n\"Godalmighty. What did she say went on?\"\n\"She says she didn't have anything but a little mild hooking up on\nher mind. But she'd been drinking, and things progressed a lot more\nmajorly than she'd intended. Meanwhile, the other two girls, her\nfriends, they're not having a very terrific time. They want to go\nhome, but they don't want to leave Elizabeth behind. By now,\naccording to Elizabeth, her underpants are off and Fanon is trying to\nget on top of her and she's protesting, she's saying no, she doesn't\nwant to go all the way. But Fanon-this is Elizabeth talking-Fanon\nused his superior strength and shoved her back flat on the bed and\nhad his way with her. Just about that time the door opens, and it's\nthe other two girls looking for her, and she starts saying, 'Make him\nstop! Get him off me!'\"\n\"Jesus God,\" said Charlie, \"had the guy actually . . . penetrated?\"\n\"I don't know,\" said Serena. \"I couldn't bring myself to ask her that.\nBut I don't believe her version of how it happened in the first place.\nI think she was just drunk enough to decide she wanted to score\nFareek Fanon. I can't think of any other reason why a girl would let a\nman remove her underpants.\"\n\"You mean-\"\n\"If you want to know what I think, I think she was the one who gave\nhim the eye to hook up, and she ended up doing exactly what she\nhad in mind.\"\"Are you saying-\"\n\"Exactly,\" said Serena. \"I think the only reason this whole 'rape'\nbusiness got started was she was surprised by those two girls and\nhad to come up with a quick explanation, and so she said, 'Make him\nstop!' and 'Get him off me!' or whatever it was she said. You'll notice\nshe didn't say anything to Inman and Ellen, not at first she didn't.\"\n\"She didn't?\"\n\"Not at first. It was one of the girls' mothers, Tanya Baehr's mother,\nwho called Ellen and Inman and got them so crazed. Tanya Baehr\nhad told her mother about it. So now Elizabeth was stuck with her\nstory- but she didn't want her parents to tell anybody, not the police,\nnot the university, not anybody. And why? She said she was too\ntraumatized to talk to anybody about it. If you want my opinion, she\nknew that she had concocted on the spur of the moment something\nthat was turning into a gigantic lie. She was afraid to even try filling\nin the details for a rape charge and actually bring it before the police\nor a court or somebody. What she was really telling her parents and\neverybody else was 'Let's forget about it. Please let's forget about it.'\nBut she has the wrong father, if that's what she thought was going\nto happen. So Inman's going around furiously trying to pull his\ntroops together-but he can't bring any charges because his\ndaughter's so 'traumatized.' Some 'traumatized.' She wasn't acting\ntraumatized that night at the Driving Club.\"\n\"I thought you said you liked Elizabeth.\"\n\"I do,\" said Serena. \"She's fun. We get along well. She confides in\nme. But do I think she's an angel? No, I don't. You don't understand\nwomen, Charlie, you really don't. Man at his most conniving is no\nmatch for Woman at hers. From the very beginning Elizabeth has\ntried to put a lid on this whole affair without ever admitting to Inman\nand Ellen that she was anything other than Little Miss Innocent. And\nnow it's gotten totally out of hand. Fanon's name is all over\ntelevision and the newspapers. You don't see Elizabeth's name, youjust see 'daughter of one of Atlanta's most powerful businessmen,'\nbut her name's all over the Internet, thanks to this Web site,\n'Chasing the Dragon,' and I don't know anybody who can't tell you\nright off the bat that it's Elizabeth Armholster.\"\nSerena's eyes were boring into Charlie's.\n\"All right,\" he said, \"let's assume all this is true. Where does it leave\nme?\"\n\"It's more 'where does it leave Fanon,' \" said Serena. \"He's the one\nwho stands to lose everything over some trumped-up accusations.\"\n\"So I should-\"\n\"You should give him a break, Charlie! You don't have to attack\nElizabeth. You don't even have to mention her, not even as the\ndaughter of a prominent whatever. You just tell everybody to give\nFanon the benefit of the doubt, because you know the hazards of\nsports celebrity, which you do.\"\nCharlie turned his head and stared up at the old pine paneling of the\nden and sighed.\n\"Charlie!\" said Serena in order to get him looking at her once more.\n\"It's not a question of making Fanon and his side happy. It's a\nquestion of coming clown on the side of the truth! I'm telling you, I\nknow Elizabeth, and she's perfectly capable of hooking up with any\nboy as famous as Fareek Fanon, black or not, and scoring him. You\ncan't say that, of course, you just give Fanon a little bit of a shield. It\nwould be true, and it would be the right thing to do.\"\nCharlie leaned back in the chair and put his head clown and began\nbreathing audibly through his mouth. The dilemma now roared in his\nhead more furiously than ever. He wanted to believe what Serena\nhad just told him. He wanted to be on the side of righteousness as\nwell as the side of Charlie Croker's bankrupt empire. He wanted to\nbelieve that Serena was devoted to truth and fair play and onlyincidentally to the preservation of Mr. and Mrs. Charles Croker's\nassets.\nAs if sensing she almost had him, Serena leaned toward him and\nsaid, \"Right now this is a hot piece of gossip. But six months, a year\nfrom now, who's going to remember the details? Who's going to\nremember that Charlie Croker made a generic statement about\nathletes and the pressure put upon them? Nobody.\"\nCharlie could think of somebody. He could see that swarthy fat face\nand that black hair combed straight back from low on his forehead\nand plastered down like a swath of asphalt. He could hear that low,\nangry, Camels-cured voice. He could see those small, unforgiving\neyes.\n\"I know they've got their own agenda,\" said Serena, \"but this Roger\nWhite is absolutely right when he says you will be doing something\nfor the city of Atlanta-doing a lot for it-if you stand up and say, 'Let's\nhold on a second. Let's take a breath. Let's not have a rush to\njudgment.'\nThat's all you'll really be saying: 'Let's not have a rush to judgment.'\nAnd given what I know about Elizabeth-and what a lot of other\npeople know about her-Elizabeth's not exactly tight-lipped-somebody\nneeds to say that, somebody like you. The Mayor can't do it all by\nhimself. But the two of you together, you'd be making an appeal\nacross racial lines. In the long run, people will praise you. Most\npeople, no matter what they knew about Elizabeth, would take the\neasy way out and say nothing. It takes courage to do what you're\ngoing to do. You won't be taking sides, you'll just be leveling out the\nplaying field a little bit.\"\nYes, thought Charlie, black people will praise me, the Herb Rich-\nmans of Atlanta will praise me. At the Piedmont Driving Club-he\ncould see the porte cochere and the front entrance and the\ndoorman, Gates, helping some tall, teetering white man out of his\nMercedes 600-maybe Lomprey: just as if he were right in front ofhim, he could see Arthur Lomprey's great height and bent-over dog's\nneck-and Lomprey would know that something smelled high in this\nsituation, since he had been pressured-by whom?-by someone-into\ncalling the dogs off Charlie and his holdings. But what would\nLomprey say? What could he say? Just how much did he know?\nSuddenly Charlie had an inspiration. He'd call Inman or go see him.\nHe'd tell him the dangers presented by this whole business.\nElizabeth herself might be at risk. He was going to make an\nappearance with the Mayor at a press conference to defuse the\nsituation until a real investigation could be made. What he would be\ndoing would be as much for Elizabeth, Ellen, and him, Inman, as\nanybody else. The high road ... the Business Interests' way in a town\nlike Atlanta .. . the Atlanta Way .. .\nThe only trouble was-as he made this little speech inside his head,\nhe tried to picture Inman right in front of him ... He tried to picture\nInman judiciously taking this all into account and finally nodding yes\n. . . The only trouble was, he couldn't picture Inman doing anything\njudicious in this situation ... He might get as far as \"defuse the\nsituation\"-and then he'd learn something about fuses and\nexplosions, all right.\nSo the tornado spun and spun and spun inside his skull.\n\"Charlie,\" asked Serena in a sweet, reasonable voice, \"how bad can\nit be to tell the truth?\"\neven with durwood as his guide-Durwood was so taciturn, it came\nacross as a bitterness toward life-Conrad immediately sensed the\nstaggering scale upon which life was lived at Turpmtine. The stable,\nwhich was grander than any building in the entire city of Pittsburg,\nCalifornia, housed fifty-nine horses. What could anybody do with\nfifty-nine horses? There was a snake house for snakes and a\nbreeding barn just for mating horses. There were kennels for forty\nclogs. There were employees all over the place; and if the subject ofCharlie Croker came up, they invariably referred to him as \"Cap'm\nCharlie.\"\nOnce he returned to the Big House, he helped the old man upstairs\nto a bedroom, another guest room by the looks of it. The old man\nwas already getting around much better on his aluminum crutches,\nso much so that Conrad suggested that he try just an aluminum\ncane, but he wasn't having any of that. He was determined to stick\nwith the crutches . . . clackclack . . . clackclack . . . clackclack . . .\nclackclack . . .\nWith Conrad's help, Mr. Croker deposited himself in an easy chair\nnear the bed. He was breathing too rapidly, and sweat had broken\nout on his forehead. He looked up at Conrad the way a disobedient\nstudent might look up at a teacher.\n\"I think I did too much,\" he said.\n\"Well, remember what we were talking about, Mr. Croker,\" said\nConrad. \"Much as you've been in bed, you're gonna be weak when\nyou try to walk.\"\n\"Pour me a glass of water there, if you don't mind,\" said the old\nman.\nHe downed almost half the tumbler at one gulp and went\n\"Whewwwww.\" Then he looked up at Conrad again. \"I'll tell you\nsomething I need worse than water.\" He paused. \"I'm talking about\nthe Book.\"\n\"All right,\" said Conrad, \"where is it?\" He looked about and then\nspotted it. It was on a bureau. Conrad picked up The Stoics and then\nstood facing Mr. Croker, who had by now sunk so deeply into the\neasy chair, he was all but supine.\n\"What would you like to know, Mr. Croker?\"\n\"All right,\" said Mr. Croker, \"suppose you've been asked to say\nsomething publicly that isn't literally true but is more nearly truethan if you said the opposite.\" He hesitated and looked at Conrad\nand said, \"Do you follow me so far?\"\n\"Not completely,\" said Conrad. \"But go ahead.\"\n\"But if you say this, you're going to lose a lot of friends. Maybe all\nyour friends. But if you don't say it, you're going to lose all your\nmoney-and you'll still lose your friends, because there's no way you\ncan separate their friendship toward you from the fact that you have\na certain place in society, which you wouldn't have in the first place\nwithout your money.\"\n\"I can tell you what Epictetus says,\" said Conrad. \"He says, 'No one\ncan make progress facing both ways.' \"\n\"Where does he say that?\" The old man began to sit up straighter.\n\"I can't remember exactly, Mr. Croker. I think it's in Book IV. But\nanyway, he says you can't be both a Stoic and a man who's liked by\nall his old friends. Half the time they like you because you share\ntheir bad habits. Now, if you exercise self-control and self-respect,\nthey'll shake their heads and say, 'He's just not himself anymore.' \"\nThe old man was nodding his head in vigorous assent. \"That's\nexactly it,\" he said in a low voice, \"that's exactly it.\"\n\"But, Mr. Croker, do you mind if I ask you something?\"\n\"No, go ahead.\"\n\"This is the second time you've mentioned making a public\nstatement about somebody. Could you be a little more specific? I'm\nsort of confused, Mr. Croker. You were talking about 'something that\nisn't literally true but is more nearly true than if you said the\nopposite.' Can you give me an example?\"\nThe old man hung his head forward and then looked up again at\nConrad. \"All right,\" he said, \"I'm gonna tell you exactly what's going\non. You're not gonna believe it, but I swear to God it's true.Incidentally, or not so incidentally, this is just between us. Okay,\nConnie?\"\n'Yes, sir. You have my word.\"\n\"I don't even know you,\" said the old man. \"All the same, I trust\nyou. Maybe it's because you don't know my friends. Anyway, I trust\nyou. Do you remember the first time we talked about Epictetus and\nthe Stoics and I said something to you about dilemmas?\"\nConrad nodded yes.\n\"And you told me a story about Agrippinus and what was his name,\nthe historian?\"\n\"Florus,\" said Conrad.\n\"Florus. Well, now I'm gonna tell you about a dilemma. My own.\nYou're gonna be surprised. I'm gonna tell you everything.\"\nThe boy cocked his head and looked at Charlie in such a curious\nway, for so long, Charlie snapped his fingers in front of his face, as if\nto say \"Snap out of it.\"\n\"Well-Mr. Croker,\" said the boy, \"in that case I'm gonna tell you\neverything, and you're gonna be even more surprised. I don't know\nany more about you than you know about me, but I trust you, too.\nIf I can't, I'm in a lot of trouble.\"\nThey started talking, both of them, and they held nothing back,\nnothing at all. It turned dark outside, and still they talked. Twice\nMason came up and knocked on the door and told them dinner was\nready, and then Serena came up to tell them, but they kept on\ntalking.\nIt was about quarter of ten when Charlie said, \"Connie-by the way,\nI'm gonna have to keep on calling you Connie. 'Conrad' just don't fit.\nI couldna had nobody named Conrad working in one of those damnfreezer units. I'm sorry. Anyway, I've made a decision. I'm going to\nthe press conference. That's my test.\"\n\"I'm glad,\" said Conrad. \"Remember Agrippinus, the Stoic who\nrefused to act in Nero's play?\"\n\"Yeah.\"\n\"I don't think I ever mentioned what happened to him. Several\nfriends came by his house and they told him, 'Your trial's going on\nright now in the Senate.' Agrippinus says, 'Oh? That's their business.\nIt's time for me to take my exercise.' Then he singles out one of his\nfriends and says, 'Come on, let's go exercise and then take a cold\nbath.' So that's what he does. When he gets back to the house,\nmore people are there, and they're saying, 'They've reached a\nverdict!' And Agrippinus says, 'Which is?' 'Guilty.' Agrippinus says,\n'What's the sentence, death or exile?' They answer, 'Exile.'\nAgrippinus says, 'My property-confiscated or not?' They answer,\n'Confiscated.' 'Thank you,' says Agrippinus. Then he turns to his\nfriend. 'It's time for dinner. Let's go dine at Acicia.' Which they did.\n\"Charlie-there was a man.\"\nChapter 32The Manager\nThe camera pulled way, way, way back-how do they do these things?\nPeepgass wondered-until on the television screen in Martha's library\nappeared a long shot of the City Hall rotunda from above ... all the\ngray-and-white marble . . . the marble walls ... the marble balcony\nwith its gleaming brass railing . . . the lower part of the rotunda's\ngreat Pantheon-like marble dome . . . the marble floor ... in the\nmiddle of the floor, a marble fountain ... off to the left, the window\nwhere you could pay your utility bills, if you had to . . . and Peepgass\nhad had to do exactly that more than once, scramble to that\ndamned window with cash, at the eleventh hour, to avoid having his\nelectricity cut off . . . Beyond the fountain was an enormous\ncrescent, almost a semicircle, of television cameras, looked like two\nor three dozen of them . . . and beyond the cameras, a mass of\nchairs filled with journalists . . . and beyond the journalists, a short\nflight of stairs leading up to a marble landing from whence the\nrotunda's two grand marble staircases led up to the second level . . .\nMore masses of humanity were sitting on the stairs, as if they were\ntiers at a stadium . . . The landing itself was like a stage or a dais ...\nOn it were a modernistic blond wood podium . . . looked like maple\nor ash . . . and behind the podium, one on each side, a pair of stout\nbanker's chairs, apparently made of the same wood . . . The podium\nwas no doubt where the Mayor would be holding forth.\nPeepgass looked at his watch. \"It's already 11:05,\" he said to\nMartha. And then to Wallace: \"Have you seen one of these before,\none of these press conferences?\"\n\"No, I haven't,\" Wallace said dully.\nWhen he moved in here, Peepgass had never considered the fact\nthat now that it was June, the boy, Wallace, would be home from\nschool. It was damned awkward. Peepgass never knew what to say\nto the boy, and the boy never seemed to want to say anything to\nhim. For a flickering instant he thought of his own two boys, whomhe hardly ever saw anymore. But quickly enough he returned to\nMartha, young Wallace, and Valley Road, in the real Buckhead. Only\nMartha seemed comfortable about it all.\nWithout taking her eyes off the screen, she said, \"Oh, these things\nnever start on time,\" but she was thinking of something else. To\nwatch television Ray always gravitated to the same easy chair that\nhad been Charlie's favorite. That was the only way she could think of\nin which the two men were alike.\nNow no more rotunda on the TV screen; instead, a man and a\nwoman seated side by side behind some sort of futuristic TV news\ndesk. An inch or so of coiled translucent wire was unfortunately\nvisible behind the left ear of the man, whose name was Roland\nBarris. He also had a hair problem. His hair had receded badly on\neither side, leaving a forelock at the front of his pate separated like\nan island from the mainland. The forelock had been artfully teased\nand brushed back and then sprayed so that it reconnected with the\nmainland, if only for the duration of a broadcast.\nYou poor bastard, thought Peepgass with a satisfying\nSchadenfreude, you'll never make it to the network nightly news\nanchor desk, not with that scarce-haired skull of yours. He decided\nnot to mention it to Martha, however, for fear of underscoring the\nfact that his own career in banking had nowhere to go, either.\nThe poor man, thought Martha, studying Roland Barris, he's had a\ncomplete dye job, every hair on his head. That always looks awful on\na man, because it's so obvious. She decided not to mention it to Ray,\nhowever, since it was not in her interest, as an eternal blonde, to\nbring up the matter of who did or didn't have a complete dye job.\nThe woman on the screen, the anchorette or whatever, Lynn Hinkle,\nwas a good fifteen years younger than Roland Barris. Her main\njournalistic assets, thought Martha, were her pretty face and her\nhead of straight blond hair, naturally blond no doubt-and how fast it\ngoes, my dear, you just wait.\". . . waiting for Mayor Jordan,\" Roland Barris was saying, \"who has\nnever held a press conference that has aroused more intense\nspeculation. But then this is an unusual situation all the way round,\nwouldn't you say so, Lynn?\"\n\"I certainly would,\" said Blondie, smiling instinctively and utterly\ninappropriately. \"No one we've talked to at City Hall can remember a\nmayor of Atlanta ever holding a press conference to address an\nalleged sexual assault, particularly in a case where no charges have\nbeen filed, Roland.\"\n\"That's a good point, Lynn,\" said Roland, without so much as a\nglance toward Lynn, as if his eyes had been magnetized by the\ncamera. \"Sources close to the Mayor have told us that what the\nMayor has been concerned about has been a mini-riot that erupted\nin Fareek Fanon's old neighborhood, English Avenue, last week. Over\non English Avenue and much of South Atlanta many people look\nupon Fareek Fanon as one of their own who has risen to national\nprominence as an all- American running back, and now they feel he's\nbeen set up and framed, or that's what many people believe, Lynn.\"\n\"That's about the size of it, Roland,\" said Lynn, without looking at\nRoland. \"And of course the entire case has taken on racial overtones,\nand that's what must be paramount-\" She broke off the sentence\nand cocked her head slightly, and for a moment appeared to be\ngazing toward someplace far, far away. \"I think the Mayor has\nappeared, and so we now rejoin Joe Mundy at City Hall.\"\nFor just an instant there was Joe Mundy talking into a microphone\nup on the balcony of the rotunda. \"That's right, Lynn, Mayor Jordan-\n\" Joe Mundy was younger than Roland Barris, but he had an\nunfortunate pair of ears that stuck way out on either side. You loser!\nthought Peepgass, stroking his own full head of thatchy light brown\nhair. You'll never even make it into the studio in Atlanta. They'll leave\nyou out there \"in the field\" until you get an ear job.On the screen was a medium shot of Mayor Wesley Dobbs Jordan\nwalking up the short flight of stairs toward the landing. The camera\nangle was from the rear.\n\"-and toward the podium,\" the voice of Joe Mundy was saying. The\ncamera stayed on the Mayor, then suddenly returned to the stairs.\nNow you saw the back of a big, bald white man laboriously climbing\nthe stairs by leaning upon the shoulder of a slender young white\nman, wearing a navy polo shirt and khaki pants, who walked at his\nside.\nThere was an awkward pause on the telecast, as the camera stayed\nfixed upon the gimping old man's progress. Not a peep from Mr. Joe\nMundv, who evidently didn't know who this burly old man was.\n\"Look, Mom!\" said Wallace. \"That's Dad!\"\nroger's seat in the front row had been assigned so that he would be\nlooking directly at Croker as he sat in his banker's chair on the\nlanding waiting for Wes to introduce him. Roger intended to give\nCroker the eye, the accusing, threatening, bankrupting eye, the\nentire time, to make sure he came through with his part of the\nmorning's recitation. Two seats away from Roger, here in the front\nrow, was Croker's wife, Serena. I wonder if she's even half his age,\nthought Roger. She's a number, and I bet she's trouble. With her\nshort skirt she had a way of crossing her legs that was enough to\ndrive you crazy . . . But practically every other seat in the place was\ngiven over to the Press, the usual pack of shaggy mutts. At this\nmoment a tremendous buzz was running through the pack. Some\nwondered why on earth the big developer Charlie Croker had come\nin gimping from the wings, unannounced, to accompany the Mayor\nas he delivered some sort of homily on racial unrest in Atlanta.\nOthers saw this big, hulking white man using a young white man as\na crutch and wondered who these people were and why they were\nhere.Croker leaned heavily on the boy's shoulder and grimaced as he\nclimbed the stairs up to the landing. He clung tightly to the boy's\nhand for support as he lowered himself into one of the ash-wood\nbanker's chairs. He sat there panting and red in the face, with his\nbad leg, the right leg, stiff as a length of lumber. The boy left the\nlanding and went back down the stairs and stood on the side with\nthe rest of the overflow crowd.\nNow Wes was at the podium. Standing there in his standard-issue\ngray single-breasted suit and his white shirt and his dark red tie, he\ndidn't look like much at first glance. He was about half the size of\nCroker. If he had a muscle in his plump body, it wasn't obvious. But\nwhen Wes seized you with his glittering eye-Coleridge, thought\nRoger-he had you. He had a stare that radiated sternness and irony\nall at once. He was now busy panning the members of the Press\nwith that glittering eye, and they grew quiet. Wes faced them down\na little longer, allowed just a hint of his familiar ironic smile to cross\nhis lips, then looked serious, serious to the point of stern, and said:\n\"I want to thank the members of the Press for coming here in such\nnumbers this morning, because I want to enlist your help-the city of\nAtlanta wants to enlist your help-in dealing with a situation that has\nbeen festering for two weeks now. I refer, as I'm sure you're aware,\nto the reports, the reports, that Georgia Tech's all-American running\nback, Fareek Fanon, has been accused, accused, of sexual assault.\n\"I want to emphasize here at the outset that we are talking about\n'reports' of an 'accusation' . . . reports of an accusation ... As of this\nmoment no one has filed any charges with the Atlanta Police\nDepartment or any other governmental department, organ, or\nbureau, or with Georgia Tech's administration or student\ngovernment. We have only reports of an accusation . . . reports of\nan accusation . . . and yet these reports have now been published in\nevery medium of the Press, including the Internet. Now, what is the\ndanger here? I'm sure you know. If a false rumor about you is\nprinted once, you can shrug it off as gossip. But if it's printed twice,\nit becomes- an accepted fact. That's the age we live in. That is whathas now happened in the case of Fareek Fanon, except that in his\ncase we aren't talking about 'twice,' we're talking about a\nthousandfold. Naturally every society is protective of a woman\nreputed to have been sexually assaulted. But let me remind you that\nmen have rights, too. Even celebrated young athletes have rights. A\nyoung man like Fareek Fanon should not have had to endure the\nrumors that he has had to endure over the past two weeks. Rumors\nof sexual crime cannot simply be washed away, whereupon you're\nclean again. Of course, I have no firsthand knowledge of what, if\nanything, if anything, if anything did or didn't happen on the night in\nquestion in this 'report' of an 'accusation,' but I do have firsthand\nknowledge of Fareek Fanon, and I want you to think about him for a\nmoment before anyone is tempted to continue to relish in this . . .\nreport of an accusation of sexual crime . . . Fareek grew up on\nEnglish Avenue at a time-I think we have to be frank about this-at a\ntime when English Avenue was one of the most unfortunate, most\nrun-down neighborhoods in Atlanta. Today English Avenue is turning\nitself around and is fast becoming the vibrant neighborhood it used\nto be. But it was a difficult time when Fareek was coming up, so\nmuch so that parents on English Avenue used to brag about it if they\nhad a teenage boy who didn't have a police record. That was\nconsidered an achievement ... an achievement . . . Well, that was an\nearly achievement of Fareek's. At the age of fourteen he was already\na powerful athlete, six foot one and 190 pounds, but he confined\nthat power to constructive pursuits in the arena of sports. And I\nknow of someone who can take credit for this constructive side of\nFareek Fanon. I'm talking about his mother, Thelma Fanon. She set\nherself against every obstacle a boy can run into in the ghetto, and\nshe prevailed. There's one thing every body who gets to know\nFareek remarks upon: not his size and power, not his talent, not his\ndetermination, but his thoughtfulness . . . his thoughtfulness ... a\nprecious gift that only a mother like Thelma Fanon can bestow.\"\njesus God, thought Roger, no more, Wes! You're gonna drown!\"The career of Fareek Fanon,\" the Mayor continued, \"is testimony to\na mother's love and a son's refusal to be frightened by the odds\nagainst him. I urge you to think about that before allowing this\nyoung man's reputation to be besmirched any further. The young\nwoman whose name is being mentioned behind the hand, as it\nwere\"-the Mayor brought the back of his hand up to his mouth-\"is\ndue the same consideration. The most sinister element in this entire\n'reported accusation,' however-let's face it and call it by its right\nname: race. There are those who have immediately seized upon the\nmost heinous and long-ago- discredited forms of racial stereotyping\nto explain this incident whose actual occurrence has never even\nbeen established. Would Fareek Fanon be capable of playing the role\nthat the stereotype-mongers have dreamed up for him? Not the\nFareek Fanon I know . . . not the Fareek Fanon I know . . . not the\nFareek Fanon I know . . .\" Wes leaned forward on the podium as he\nrepeated this phrase and slowly swept the audience with his eyes,\nuntil he seemed to be right across an intimate little table from them,\ntelling them the gospel truth at last. \"Nothing, least of all a vile\ncanard like that, should be allowed to tear this city asunder along\nracial lines. We have all come too far together for that. This is ... a\ncity too busy to hate. There is .. . an Atlanta Way. We do not .. . give\ncredence to hateful rumors-rumors full of hate-and let them destroy\nthe mutual respect that has brought Atlanta this far. And we do not\n.. . allow them to snuff out the hopes, the dreams, the shining\nsuccesses of fine young men like Fareek Fanon. Now, I am not alone\nin my concerns, I am happy to say.\" He turned toward Croker, then\nback toward the microphones. \"One of Atlanta's outstanding\nbusiness leaders\"-synonymous with \"rich white people,\" thought\nRoger- \"Charles E. Croker, has joined us. It's hard to say what\nCharlie Croker is more famous for, his success as a real estate\ndeveloper and creator of the Croker Global Corporation or his\nexploits as a running back and linebacker for the Georgia Tech\nfootball team. In his college years he was what Fareek is today: a\ngridiron star for the Yellow Jackets. He was known as 'the Sixty-\nMinute Man': the man who played entire games on both offense and\ndefense. Now, it's true that some things change in sports, but otherthings don't. The pressures on a successful young athlete, the\nexploitation of a successful young athlete, the resentment against a\nsuccessful young athlete-these are all things Charlie Croker can\nrecall vividly. Furthermore, he knows Fareek Fanon and, in fact, has\nvisited him recently. I think we can all learn a lot about this situation\nfrom his unique perspective. One of Atlanta's greatest builders of all\ntime, one of Atlanta's greatest athletes of all time, a man from one\ngeneration who knows the young man from another whose name\nhas been propelled into this 'reported accusation' \"-he gestured\ntoward the hulking white man sitting in the banker's chair-\"Charlie\nCroker.\"\nThere was a smattering of applause, thanks to the elaborate tricolon\nwith which the Mayor had introduced the man, but it quickly died\ndown. Soon enough everybody's attention was riveted upon Croker's\nstruggle to rise up from his chair. His right leg wouldn't bend enough\nat the knee. The boy, his attendant, started toward him from the\nside, but Croker motioned him back with a faint gesture, a low\ndownward pumping of his hand. Then he put his hands on the arms\nof the banker's chair and pushed down with all his might. Slowly his\nmassive body rose from the chair, and he managed to support\nhimself on his good leg and start hobbling over to the podium. It\nseemed to take forever. Roger was afraid he was going to collapse\nbefore he could ever get there. But finally he made it, grasping both\nsides of the podium's top surface in order to steady himself. He\nlooked down at the surface, and the moment began to lengthen,\nlengthen, lengthen. He looked out at the shaggy mutts and then this\nway and that way at the assorted lawyers, city officials, and\npoliticians sitting on the stairs, and he smiled-rather sadly, it seemed\nto Roger-and said:\n\"Thank you, Mr. Mayor. You're generous ... to a fault. That wasn't\nmuch of an athlete you just saw staggering from that chair over to\nhere. It's rust. If you live long enough, your body starts to rust, and\nso do your ideas.\"Roger didn't know what Croker was talking about, but his voice was\nstrong and he had made a seemly sortie out onto the terrain of self-\ndeprecation.\n\"As Mayor Jordan just mentioned,\" said Croker, \"I have met Mr.\nFareek Fanon.\" He pronounced Fareek Fdireek.\nThe use of \"Mister,\" a genteel honorific that did not fit Fareek Fanon\nunder any circumstances whatsoever, put Roger on guard and on\nedge.\n\"But before 1 talk about that,\" said Croker, \"I oughta tell you how 1\nhappened to meet Mr. Fanon, because it's sort of an interesting story\nall by itself. Mayor Jordan just called me a 'great builder' or sump'm\nlike'at. I s'pose'at's a polite name for real estate developer, and I'm\nnot even feeling like a great real estate developer along about right\nnow.\" Rat now. \"There is a great developer, from Chicago, named\nSam Zell, and he once said, 'Real estate development is a good\nbusiness to get into-and it's a good business to get out of,' meaning\nthat most uv'us don't know when to take our winnings off the table\nand stop betting. We're always determined to build one more office\ntower, one more mall, one more tower plus mall plus hotel plus\napartments-like the one I built in Cherokee County-^and named\nafter myself-no Atlanta developer ever had the newe\"-the nuv-\"to\nname a building after himself before-anyway, the time always comes\nwhen that one more development does it, and you wind up just one\nmore bleeding bankrupt son of a gun.\"\nRoger looked at Wes, who was seated expressionless in one of the\nbanker's chairs, and then Wes glanced toward him and arched his\neyebrows, and they both wondered, What in God's name is the man\ndoing?\n\"what's he doing?\" asked Peepgass. He glanced over at Martha.\nWallace looked at her, too, as if wondering the same thing. But\nMartha continued to look straight ahead at the screen . . . here in\ndeepest, lushest Buckhead.\"I don't know,\" she said, but in a dreamy, distracted way that\nindicated she hadn't really absorbed the question. In fact, she was\nafraid for Charlie, though she couldn't have told Ray or anybody else\nexactly why.\n\"right now,\" said croker, up on the landing in the rotunda, \"I'm about\nthis far from bankruptcy.\" He raised his right hand and put his\nforefinger a fraction of an inch from his thumb. \"Now, I'm telling you\nall this for a reason. One day 'bout ... oh ... two weeks ago ... a\nlawyer representing Mr. Faireek Fanon came to me with a right\ninteresting proposition.\" Rat innerestin'.\nRoger's heart began banging away. He looked to Wes up on the\nlanding for-for-for-for help. And Wes was looking at him. His\nexpression was impassive, but his eyes started darting all over the\nroom. He seemed to be searching for someone, some henchman,\nsome minion, some worker of wonders who could step up and put a\nhook around Croker and haul this great gimping hulk off the landing.\nRoger began looking about, too. He caught the eye of Don Pickett\nand Julian Salisbury, who were seated on the stairs. They looked as\nbewildered as he was.\n\"This lawyer,\" said Croker, \"he told me he could work some magic.\nHe told me he could make my troubles with the bank disappear,\novernight prack'ly. All I had to do, in return\"-retun-\"was grant him a\nsimple favor, a very easy favor.\" Veh easy favuh. \"All I had to do was\ngo meet Mr. Faireek Fanon and come away from that meeting\ntestifying- not in a court of law\"-a coat a law-\"but right here at this\npress conference right now\"-ratcheer at this press con'frence rat\nnow-\"testifying that he's a fine young man who's getting dogged by\nall the things that can dog you when you're a sports celebrity. Well, I\nwrestled with the angels ... for a little while. Then I said to myself,\n'Well, hell' \"-wale, hale-\"what's the big deal? I won't be swearing\nanything on the Bible. I'll just be indulging\"-j'n-dulgin'-\"in a little\nharmless flatter)' at a press conference. Who's gonna care? So I met\nFaireek Fanon. I met him at the home of Coach Buck McNutter. Oh,\nby then, hehhhhhh\"-Croker chuckled morosely-\"I was sump'm. I wasso eager to please, I started flattering Mr. Faireek Fanon right off the\nbat.\" Rat off the bat. \"One thing I got to give Faireek Fanon credit\nfor. He didn' bother flattering me, even though there was sump'm I\ncould do for him. I could show up at this press conference and\ncreate the impression that the business interests-everybody's always\ntalking about the 'business interests' in Atlanta-that the 'business\ninterests' were on Faireek Fanon's side, or at least they weren't\"-\nwunt-\"lined up against him. Nevertheless, Faireek Fanon's eagerness\nto please the Sixty-Minute Man here\"-Croker paused; a smile ran\nacross his face and disappeared, as if he had thought of something\namusing and then decided not to mention it-\"his eagerness to please\nmeasured about zero, or maybe it was down in minus territory,\nbecause I think I detected more than a little contempt. I\ncongratulate him for that, because he was in the presence of a man\nwho was undertaking a contemptible thing. Mr. Faireek Fanon struck\nme as a typical sports hero. I know the type, because I was once\none myself, or so the sports pages kept informing me. You get to the\npoint where you expect people to do whatever you want because\nthey've been lucky enough to breathe the same air you breathe.\nWhen you pass by people who are talking, you assume they're\ntalking about you. You think you're exempt from the rules of\nordinary conduct, since the world has been handed you on a platter,\nand therefore it's all yours. Money? There wasn't much money in\nfootball forty years ago, the way there is now, although then, like\nnow, you were likely to take the money mainly to show everybody\nhow wonderful you were. Sex? That hasn't changed much. It was\nyours for the asking. It was set at your feet like an offering. Did\nFaireek Fanon take part in the kind of incident that everybody's\" -\nevuhbuddy's-\"talking about? I ain't got a ghost of an idea. Would he\nbe capable of such a thing? Well, Faireek, he's arrogant, he's\nobnoxious, he's impertinent, he thinks the world owes him whatever\nhe wants-but you can't necessarily jump from that to say he'd do\nwhatever he wants. Besides, my information is that sexual customs\nare a lot different today from what they were when I was young.\"Charlie took a deep breath and lifted his eyes and looked about the\nrotunda ... the journalists in the seats just below him ... the great\ncrescent of television cameras at the rear of the seats ... the gray-\nand- white marble fountain in the middle of the rotunda and the\ntons of curved marble that created the rotunda wall... the people\nsitting shank to flank on the stairs to either side of the landing . . .\nand in the first row of the seats, Serena, slumped back on her chair,\ngiving him the same look of social horror as when he and Billy Bass\nand the others had gone on about AIDS benefits that night down at\nTurpmtine-Lawdy me, I got de HIV!-and Lawyer Roger White, who\nseemed to be trying to look daggers through him ... but in fact\nCharlie had never felt so impervious to criticism in his life. He felt like\na man free of all encumbrances. He felt whole again, as if he could\nstride up and down those stairs without the slightest limp.\nConrad could tell that Charlie was about to get to the message. He\nfelt exhilarated as he watched him. It was for this that he had\nundergone the trials of Hercules and traveled all the way across\nAmerica. Exhilarated! Yet dangers remained. He could see the Mayor\nlooking this way and that. He was looking for someone to come up\nwith a stratagem for getting the old man away from the podium.\nConrad bent his knees slightly and centered his weight over the balls\nof his feet. If anyone tried to move Charlie so much as an inch, he\nwas ready to intervene, even if it meant ending up in the hands of\nthe police.\n\"So I accepted the deal,\" Charlie was saying, \"and they delivered on\ntheir end of it right away. Every bit a pressure from a bank we owed\nhundreds of millions to-hundreds of millions-stopped all of a sudden,\nand on the day they said it would. How they did it, I don't know, but\nthey did it. Like I was saying, it was like magic ... All I had to do was\n. . .\"\nin buckhead, on Valley Road, in Martha Croker's house, in the library,\nPeepgass sprang to his feet from the easy chair-or for Peepgass it\nqualified as springing-and stared at the TV screen with his two\nhands raised before him as if he were about to strangle somebody.\"I knew it!\" he exclaimed. \"I knew the whole damned thing was\nstrange! Nobody ignores a defalcatory loan of that magnitude unless\nsomething very strange is going on!\"\nMartha looked at him, but said nothing. Inwardly she prayed that he\nwouldn't spell out this whole situation in front of Wallace. Ray gave\nway to his emotions too easily. He wasn't very dependable in that\nsense.\n\"For Christ's sake,\" Peepgass said bitterly, \"Arthur Lomprey and his\nmacro-decisions. Meeee-yahh! A humpbacked macro-weakling is all\nhe is if you ask me!\"\n. . say the right things at this press conference,\" Croker continued.\n\"But I haven't done that and I can't do that. One of the few\nfreedoms that we have as human beings that cannot be taken away\nfrom us is the freedom to assent to what is true and to deny what is\nfalse. Nothing you can give me is worth surrendering that freedom\nfor. At this moment I'm a man with complete tranquillity. After all,\nwhat is tranquillity? Tranquillity is a mind in accord with nature ... a\nmind in accord with nature . . . I've been a real estate developer for\nmost of my life, and I can tell you that a developer lives with the\nopposite of tranquillity, which is perturbation. You're perturbed about\nsomething all the time. You build your first development, and right\naway you want to build a bigger one, and you want a bigger house\nto live in, and if it ain't in Buckhead, you might as well cut your\nwrists. Soon's you got that, you want a plantation, tens of thousands\nof acres devoted solely to shooting quail, because you know of four\nor five developers who've already got that. And soon's you get that,\nyou want a place on Sea Island and a Hatteras cruiser and a spread\nnorthwest of Buckhead, near the Chattahoochee, where you can ride\na horse during the week, when you're not down at the plantation,\nplus a ranch in Wyoming, Colorado, or Montana, because truly\nsuccessful men in Atlanta and New York all got their ranches, and of\ncourse now you need a private plane, a big one, too, a jet, a\nGulfstream Five, because who's got the patience and the time and\nthe humility to fly commercially, even to the plantation, much lessout West to a ranch? What is it you're looking for in this endless\nquest? Tranquillity. You think if only you can acquire enough worldly\ngoods, enough recognition, enough eminence, you will be free,\nthere'll be nothing more to worry about, and instead you become a\nbigger and bigger slave to how you think others are judging you.\nTou have priceless silver and goblets of gold,' said the philosopher,\n'but your reason is of common clay.' As of this morning, I am as rich\nas the richest of you, for I am hereby handing over everything I\nown, the Croker Global Corporation, every last branch of it, my\nhouses, my plantation, my horses, my car, if anybody wants it-I'm\nhanding them all over to my creditors. They can rummage through\nthese trifles any way they see fit. My keys are on the table, boys. Go\nto it. They're all yours. I'm happily turning over these trifles to\nwhoever wants to claim them. I won't try to hold you back in\nChapter 11 or any other chapter of the bankruptcy code, either.\"\npeepgass was on his feet again, this time in a state of exultation. He\nheld both fists over his head, pumping them for all he was worth, his\neyes pinned on the screen.\n'Tes! Yes! Yes!\" he said. It was close to being a shout. Then he\nlooked at Martha and said, \"He's handing'em over! The buildings!\nCroker Concourse! Deeds in lieu of foreclosure! I can't believe it-the\nsyndicate lives!\"\nMartha tried to join in his happiness, but she couldn't. What she was\nwatching on that screen made her inexpressibly sad.\n\"i don't know what you're like,\" Croker was saying, \"but if you're like\nmost uv'us here in Atlanta, you're driving yourself crazy over\npossessions. Just think about that for a second.\"\nDespite himself, Roger thought of his gorgeous house on Niskey\nLake, that and his Lexus and the suit he had on today, a fabulous\nsingle- breasted blue-and-gray Glen plaid, which Gus Carroll had\ncharged $3,500 to make.\"I'm older than mosta you,\" Croker continued, \"and I can tell you\nthat the only real possession you'll ever have is your character, that\nand your 'scheme of life,' you might say. The Manager has given\nevery person a spark from His own divinity, and no one can take that\naway from you, not even the Manager himself, and from that spark\ncomes your character. Everything else is temporary and worthless in\nthe long run, including your body. What is the human body? It's a\nclever piece a crockery containing a quart a blood. And it's not even\nyours! One day you're gonna have to give it back! And where are\nyour possessions then? They're gonna be picked over by one bunch\na buzzards or another. What man's ever been remembered as great\nbecause of the possessions he devoted his life to 'cumulating? I can't\nthink of any. So why don't we pay more attention to the one\nprecious thing we possess, the spark the Manager has placed in our\nsouls?\"\nRoger looked at the Mayor, and the Mayor was looking at Roger. The\nMayor twisted his lips in a way that as much as said \"This dishonest\nbastard! Double-crossing us isn't enough! Now he's got to preach a\nsermon!\"\nMeantime, a low buzz had started in the ranks of those shaggy\nmutts, the Press. Roger turned his head and looked about. The\njournalists were pulling faces at one another and whispering. Maybe\nthey knew of the treachery Croker had been guilty of in this\nperformance of his, calling Fareek Fanon arrogant, obnoxious,\nimpertinent, and voracious, and maybe they didn't. But they could all\ntell he'd turned into some kind of religious nut. The Manager. The\nManager, indeed!\n\"But you say, 'Be serious, Croker. With no money, no possessions,\nhow am I supposed to eat? Where can I stay? Well-have you ever\nseen an old beggar? Of course you have. We've all seen'em. How'd\nthey get to be so old? They all ate somehow, 365 days a year, most\nlikely, and they all stayed somewhere, too. But you say, Td rather die\nthan sit down beside the road with a Dixie cup, begging.' Do you\nrealize what you're really saying? You're saying, it ain't what I'mgonna eat or where I'm gonna stay I'm worrying about, it's saving\nface, it's what everybody in Buckhead's gon' think about me, that's\nwhat I'm worrying about . . .\"\nCharlie's voice trailed off. He realized something was going terribly\nwrong. Far from winning his audience with the words of Epictetus\nand Zeus, he was losing them. They were restless, they were\nwhispering, they were smiling and sniggering. He looked over to the\nside. Connie had a look of grave concern and was slightly crouched,\nas if ready to spring into action. In the first row Serena looked\npetrified. She had shrunk back alarmingly into her chair. If there had\nbeen a crack in the marble, she would have gladly slipped through it.\nThe black lawyer, Roger White, was glaring pitchforks at him.\nCharlie's voice faltered as he tried to resume:\n\"What are we? We are born with two elements: the body, which we\nshare with the animals, including the lowest animals, the weasel and\nthe snake, and the mind and reason, which comes from that spark\nthe Manager has given us. Now, which-\"\nCharlie was suddenly aware of a firm, steady pressure against his\nleft arm and elbow. He glanced over-and there was Mayor Wesley\nDobbs Jordan. The Mayor was elbowing him aside! Amazed, Charlie\ngave way slightly-and that was all the Mayor needed. He leaned over\nthe podium and put his head between Charlie and the microphone\nand said, \"Thank you, Mr. Croker. Thank you very much, thank you,\nMr. Croker\"-all without looking at him even once.\nThe audience erupted with sniggers and ironic applause. Stupefied,\nCharlie began limping away from the podium. He felt no pain yet. He\nwas aware only of the crowd's scorn and the Mayor's scorn.\nConnie was by his side. \"Lean on my shoulder, Charlie, and watch\nout, we got some stairs coming up.\"\nNow people seemed to be rushing in from all over, blurting out\nquestions.'Tou said Fareek Fanon is obnoxious, arrogant, and a couple other\nthings like that. Then why wouldn't-\"\n'Tou say somebody put pressure on your creditors in exchange for\nyour appearance here today. Why do you think-\" \"What did you tell-\"\n'Tou really mean you're giving away-\" \"Mr. Croker, are you saying\nthat Fareek-\" \"Hey, Charlie, Sam Frye, Channel 9!\" \"Charlie! Over\nhere! Just one!\"\nThe press ... not yet capable of asking about the Manager and the\nmessage. And now Charlie could hear the voice of the Mayor over a\nspeaker:\n\"Thank you very much, Mr. Croker. I can't say I detected the voice of\nthe Manager. So it must have been one of the creatures you\nmentioned that just spoke here. Was it the weasel or the snake . . .\nthe weasel or the snake . . . the weasel or the snake that just\ndelivered that sneak attack on Fareek Fanon? What sort of creature\nwas it that would come here under one guise and then vilify that\nbeleaguered young man under another? Why would-\" Now the crush\nof the press around Charlie was so great, he couldn't even hear the\nMayor over the speakers. The reporters, or whatever they were,\nwere all yelling at him at once, \"-say actually happened?\" \"-didn't\nget along?\" \"-have any doubt that Fanon-\" \"-then what did you tell-\"\n\"-the one who set up-\"\nAnd Connie was saying into his ear: \"Don't worry, Charlie, you\ndelivered the message! They're not going to understand it all at\nonce!\"\nWhen Connie said that, Charlie knew he had failed as a speaker. But\nhe didn't care, for the spark had been in him as he stood at that\npodium. That's what he wanted to tell them, but he couldn't, not\nyet, although the day would come. He could see that much already.\nHe held his chin high. He looked through the mob, the blur of people\naround him, looked beyond this marble rotunda to a horizon moredistant than these people, with their earnest questions of this\nmoment, could possibly imagine.\nCharlie's arm rested on Conrad's shoulder as they made their way\nslowly through the crowd, and Conrad was filled with pity. They had\nlaughed at him, mocked him. And yet he had done it. It was only a\nmatter of time before thousands, millions, would know and\nunderstand. Epictetus had once spoken as Charlie spoke now. \"I\nhave not yet confidence in what I have learned and assented to.\nOnly let me gain confidence, and then I will show you the statue as\nit is when it is finished and polished. In such a way will I show\nmyself to you-faithful, self- respecting, noble, free from tumult.\"\nCharlie did have the spark within him! Only another couple of weeks,\nor maybe a month, Conrad would stay with him, and his work would\nbe done. He was only Zeus' courier. After that he could return to\nCalifornia, to Pittsburg or Walnut Creek or wherever Jill and his\nchildren were. He didn't have the slightest fear. He'd turn himself in\nto the authorities. In the very first chapter of the Book: \"I will\nimprison you,\" says Caesar. Epictetus says, \"What say you, fellow?\nImprison me? My bit of a body you will imprison-yes, but my will-no,\nnot even Zeus can conquer that.\"\nWhat was there to be afraid of, then? Epictetus and Agrippinus had\nbeen through much worse.' No, he would not groan or whine. He\nwould go with a smile, good courage, and tranquillity.\nroger was stunned but on his feet, torn between anger and guilt,\nguilt at having failed to deliver to Wes the fully broken Charlie Croker\nlie had promised, anger at Croker himself. The snake! Wes had that\npart right. Croker had attacked Fareek! Roger was so furious, he\nheaded toward that 235-pound reptile. The old man was going to\nget a tongue- lashing he'd never forget! But he couldn't get close\nenough to be heard. The crush of reporters was too great.\n\"Counselor!\" A big, hearty, cheery voice.Roger turned around. It was the congressman from the 5th District,\na rotund young man, very dark, named Gibley Berm. Roger had\nnever met him; he knew him only from his pictures.\n\"You're doing great work, brother! Oh, they're after Fareek now!\nThey'll try any trick! Oh yeah. Don't let up! You're doing great\nthings!\"\n\"Thanks, Mr. Congressman!\" said Roger, genuinely surprised. \"I\nwon't!\"\n\"Gotcha back, Counselor!\" said Gibley Berm with the warmest smile\nimaginable.\nGotcha backl You're doing great work, brother! From Representative\nGibley Berm, out of the blue! Gotcha back!\nThere had never been sweeter music-not from Mahler, not from\nStravinsky, not from Bach, Haydn, or Mozart-to Roger White's ears.\nGotcha hack! Gib Berm had said. Gotcha back!\nFor the first time in his life Roger entertained the thought of running\nfor office.\nthere seemed to be a thousand people jammed in around him, and\nyet Charlie felt serene. He no longer felt pain in his knee. He still had\nhis arm on Connie's shoulder, but only the way one comrade might\nhave his arm on another. Despite the shouts, which ricocheted off\nthe marble walls of the rotunda and doubled, tripled in volume,\nCharlie felt. . . tranquil. That was exactly what he had found:\ntranquillity. That was exactly what he was blessed with: a mind in\naccord with nature. He was not yet a good speaker, but that would\ncome with time, for as Epictetus had said, \"Like the bull, the man of\nnoble nature does not become noble all of a sudden; he must train\nthrough the winter and make ready.\" He felt tranquil and . . . light.\nHis feet only just barely touched the marble and the earth below. He\nfelt as if he could run a hundred yards just the way he had fort}-years ago. Wouldn't that amaze them all! He had shed all the shabby\nbaggage of this life. He had become a vessel of the Divine.\npkepgass was still on his feet, watching the television screen and\nrocking back and forth nervously, from his heels to his toes to his\nheels to his toes. The syndicate lives!\n\"He's gone gaga, Martha! Round the bend! Did you ever see\nanything like that in your life?\"\n\"No,\" said Martha, all too quietly. Her eyes were misting. She fought\nto keep the mist from turning into tears.\n\"What's Dad talking about, Mom?\" asked Wallace. \"What's gotten\ninto him? He sounded . . . crazy.\"\nPeepgass said, \"That spark the Manager has given us? Did you get\nthat part, Martha? . . . What's the matter, Martha?\" Peepgass hurried\nover to the easy chair where she sat. \"What's wrong?\" She didn't\nreply.\n\"It's Charlie, isn't it,\" said Peepgass. 'Tou still have that much feeling\nfor him, don't you?\"\n\"No, it's not that,\" said Martha, bringing a lacy little handkerchief to\nher eyes. \"It's just that I know what he used to be. It's hard to\nwatch the disintegration of a human being who . . . who . . .\"\nShe didn't dare try to finish the sentence, for fear she would actually\nbreak down and cry.*\nEPILOGUE:A Man of the World\nI won't stay long, wes,\" said roger, \"i know you've got a whole\nwaiting room full of people who want to see you, but I just had to\ncome by and shake your hand. It's just great. Congratulations. I\ncouldn't be happier if it was me who had done it.\"\n\"But you did do it,\" said the Mayor. The two of them were standing\nin the mayoral salon, and Wes gestured toward the familiar white\ncouch. \"Come on, sit down, have a seat.\" \"Are you sure?\"\n\"Of course I am.\" He gestured again. \"I've been thinking about you\nall morning.\"\n\"Me?\" said Roger as he took a seat. \"How do I rate that on this day\nof all days?\"\nAt first Wes just smiled, and not ironically, either. His face looked\nashen, despite his black-as-thou suntan. There were deep dark\ncircles under his eyes, which were bloodshot. He probably hadn't\nhad a real night's sleep for a week, maybe two weeks, and he must\nhave been up all night last night, since the final tally hadn't come in\nuntil 4 a. M. He had defeated Andr6 Fleet by less than one\npercentage point.\nFor a moment Wes gazed pensively out the big plate-glass window\nbehind the couch. It was a miserable November day with dark, low\nclouds, fog, and a dreadful level of humidity that made it seem warm\none minute and cold and clammy the next. Then he pulled up his\narmchair and sat down and smiled some more and said:\nT hope Gladys or Miss Beasley offered you something to drink.\nWe've even got champagne. You may not see champagne in here\nagain, unless you run for mayor.\"\nRoger gave a laughing snort, as if the idea were preposterous. In\nfact, he regarded it as merely unlikely. \"No, they were veryhospitable. But I'm not sure I can take champagne at eleven o'clock\nin the morning.\"\nThe Mayor raised his right hand as if it held a glass. \"Then I'll toast\nyou, one teetotaler to another. You were the turning point, brother.\"\n\"How so?\"\n\"The way you got the most hidebound Cracker in town to come to\nthat press conference. Charlie Croker. That turned this election\naround.\"\n\"Are you being funny? We've talked about this many times, but I still\nfeel terrible about what happened. I thought I was being so shrewd.\nI thought I had Croker right where we wanted him. And then he\ndouble- crosses us! He as much as calls Fareek the sort of young\nblack man who thinks with his groin and goes about deflowering the\nsweet young white flowers of the Piedmont Driving Club set. Frankly,\nI thought I'd managed to blow the election for you.\"\n\"Quite the opposite,\" said Wes. \"We now know-from the exit polling\nyesterday-we now know that every voter, or every African-American\nvoter-\"\nRoger interrupted. \"You're sticking with African American, even now\nthat the election's over?\"\n\"I'm sticking with it, brother, I'm sticking with it, sticking with it,\nsticking with it. In fact, I'm stuck with it.\"\nRoger said, \"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt.\"\n\"That's okay. Anyway, we now know that practically every African-\nAmerican voter looked upon Croker's performance as a betrayal of\nFareek. Obviously he had agreed to be at the press conference to\nsay something entirely different, and then, like a snake, he does all\nhe can to destroy Fareek's personal reputation. He calls him\narrogant, obnoxious, impertinent, and an animal who grabs\nwhatever he wants. I probably got more sympathy for that thananything else that happened in the whole campaign. It looked as if\nthe white business interests were out to sabotage me. And I don't\nget much sympathy as a rule, Roger. Oh, I think people look at me in\na generally good way, but I strike them as a little too . . . self-\nconfident, or whatever it is.\"\n\"Gee,\" said Roger, \"wonder why. Incidentally, I don't know if I ever\ntold you, but that line about the snake-Croker had said something\nabout 'the Manager, the weasel, and the snake'?-and you elbowed\nhim away from the microphone and said you hadn't heard the\nManager talking, so it must have been the weasel or the snake?-you\nremember that?\"\n\"Oh yes.\"\n\"Well, that was brilliant, Wes. It was one of the best ad lib lines I\never heard. But now, please explain something else to me. You had\nthought of getting Croker to support Fareek because you didn't want\nto alienate your white support by defending Fareek in a rape case\ninvolving Armholster's daughter. So what happened to your white\nvote?\"\n\"I did lose some white support. No question about it. But two things\nsoftened the blow. First, it brought me so much more black support.\nAnd Croker's performance was so crazy-all that talk about the\nManager and the two elements and how it's better to be a tranquil\nbeggar by the side of the road than a perturbed plutocrat in\nBuckhead- Godalmighty!-he was so crazy that day. Then he\nannounces he's giving away everything he has-I mean, he sounded\nso crazy, a lot of white voters ended up discounting everything he\nsaid, including his vilification of Fareek. Tens of thousands of people\nwatched that press conference on television, because the subject\nwas race and sex.\"\n\"What did happen to Croker? I never hear anything about him.\"\nWes smiled broadly. \"You don't? You've got to put your ear to the\nground, Brother Roger. Croker's out there stomping around. He didexactly what he said he was going to do. He said, 'Okay, boys' \"-Wes\nturned his palms up and then lifted them in the gesture that says\n\"empty\"-\" 'here it is. It's all yours. You fight over it.' I mean, he\nwalked away from a corporation worth hundreds of millions. Of\ncourse, his debts were even greater, by another couple of hundred\nmillion or so, but still-it was unbelievable. Now he's an evangelist.\"\n\"An evangelist?\"\n\"Exactly-and apparently doing very well.\"\n\"Oh-come-on! What in God's name is he preaching?\"\n\"Nothing in God's name. He's out there talking about the Manager _\n_ . him and Zeus. Apparently the two names are interchangeable.\nAnd there's Epi-something- I can't remember the name. And there's\nMessenger Connie, who'll soon be returning to Earth from wherever.\"\n\"Zeus?\"\n\"Yep. Zeus and the Manager-and he calls himself a Stoic.\"\n\"Where's he doing all this?\"\n\"He started off down in Baker County,\" said Wes, \"and now he's\nmoved into the Florida Panhandle and southern Alabama. Apparently\nhe's dynamite, at least among white folks who go in for that sort of\nthing. He can talk your socks off, and the bills out of your wallet, is\nwhat I hear. The fact that he gave up everything-and he had a lot-to\nwork for the Manager gives him tremendous credibility. He's about to\nsign a syndication deal with Fox Broadcasting.\"\n\"Fox Broadcasting?\"\n\"That's the word. It's going to be called The Stoic's Hour.\"\nRoger's mouth hung partway open. \"Dear God in heaven . . . The\nManager . . . Zeus . . . national television . . . The Stoic's Hour ... I\nthink I'm going crazy, Wes.\"The Mayor laughed. \"I'll tell you something. A lot of white folks look\nclown on the way we worship. They think we're too emotional and\ndemonstrative and so forth. Our choirs sway when they sing and\nclap their hands to the beat. Our preachers don't just preach, they\no-rate. Our congregations don't just sit there mumbling, they shout\n'Right on!' 'Hallelujah!' 'Say it, brother' and 'Amen.'\" But I'll tell you\nsomething. At least our people don't turn . . . weird. At least they\ndon't start praying to the Manager and Zeus and calling themselves\nStoics as soon as some old ox with a deep voice comes to town with\na tent. I mean, Godal might)'.\"\n\"What about-\"\n\"I don't mean to interrupt,\" said the Mayor, \"but I've just got to\nshow you this little footnote to Croker and Zeus and the Manager\nand all that.\" He got up, went into his little inner office, and came\nback with a small newspaper clipping, which he handed to Roger.\n\"Take a look at the headline.\"\nThe headline said: turn me loose, zeus.\n\"That's from some paper in Oakland, this summer. Anyway, as you'll\nsee there, it's about a young man named Hensley, a white kid. He\nescaped from jail in California during that earthquake last whenever\nit was, and he turns himself in sometime in July, and he's about to\nbe sentenced, and the judge asks him if he has anything to say, and\nth< kid says, it's up to you to do your part, Judge, and it's up to me\nto dc mine.' And so the judge says, 'You seem awfully relaxed about\nthe whole thing.' And the kid says, i'm completely tranquil.' That's\nthe word he uses, tranquil, i feel completely in accord with nature,'\nhe says. Then he says, right here\"-Wes pointed it out in the clipping-\n\"he says, 'My body, it's nothing but a clay bowl with a quart of blood,\nand it's only on loan in the first place. But Zeus has given each of us\na spark of his divinity, the ability to say yes to what is true, and no\nto what is false, and no one can take that away from you, not even\nin prison.' So the judge says, 'Zeus, hunh? Escape from custody is a\nserious offense, but I'm going to take a chance on you. I'm settingyou free on two years' probation, in the custody of Zeus.' You'll\nnever guess who this kid is.\"\n\"Zeus. Must be Charlie Croker's son or something. Who is it?\"\n\"Elihu Yale, the police chief, sent the clipping over last week. Seems\nthat last spring the California State Police, or whoever it was, asked\nour police department to be on the lookout for this kid who had\nbroken out of jail and was believed to be in the Atlanta area. The\nFBI had done some kind of phone taps. The kid had been in jail for\naggravated assault. By the time our department finally got a lead on\nhim, he was long gone from Atlanta. He'd been working here for an\noutfit called Carter Home Care as a sort of attendant for sick people.\nOne of the people he worked for-are you ready for this?-was Charlie\nCroker. I don't know if you remember, but he was the kid who\nhelped Croker up to the landing for the press conference.\"\n\"/ remember him\\\" said Roger. \"I saw him at Croker's house, too. He\nhad these huge forearms.\" He made a gesture over his left forearm\nwith his right hand.\n\"Oh sure,\" said Wes. \"All these convicts do is lift weights and make\nlicense plates. But you can see what happened. Croker converts the\npoor bastard to this weird Zeus religion of his, and the kid goes and\npulls this Zeus stuff on some California judge-and it worksl Can you\nbelieve that? I'll tell you what I said before. You can find fault with\nour people when it comes to faith, if you want to, but we-do-not-\nturn-weird on you. Isn't that a great headline? turn me loose, zeus?\nI don't know how they think up these things. Anyway, I'm sorry,\nRoger, I interrupted you.\"\nRoger said, 'Teah, uh . . . what the hell was I was going to ask you?\nOh yeah. What about Croker's wife? You remember that number?\"\n\"Oh yes,\" said the Mayor.\n\"So is she out on the camp-meeting circuit with Croker, too?\" asked\nRoger.\"Not that I know of,\" said the Mayor. \"I don't think young Mrs.\nCroker is very spiritual. I think she believes that everything that's\nsweet in this life ends when we die.\"\n\"Didn't they have a child?\"\n\"A little girl,\" said Wes. \"Her name is Kingsley Croker.\" He pulled a\nface, as if to say, \"Pretty outlandish name, hunh?\"\n\"And she's with her mother, I assume?\"\n\"I couldn't tell you,\" said Wes. \"You know, when these hot little\nvamps marry their rich old men, they often have a child as fast as\nthey can, as an insurance policy. What happens to the child when\nthere's nothing left to insure, I don't want to think about.\"\n\"What did happen to all his property?\"\n\"Oh, the creditors-you remember he said, The keys are on the table,\nthey're all yours, go to it,' or something like that? Well, PlannersBanc\nand all the other creditors were ecstatic at first. Croker wasn't going\nto tie them up in Chapter 11, which could've dragged on for years.\nSo they all had at it-and now they're busy suing each other, the\ncreditors are, and it'll probably drag on for decades. There's been\nsome funny fallout from this thing. You're a lawyer, you've probably\nheard of 'surrendering a deed in lieu of foreclosure'?\"\nRoger nodded to show that he had.\n\"Well, Croker just handed over his deeds, including the deed to the\nproperty that ruined him, Croker Concourse. You remember Croker\nConcourse?\"\nRoger nodded again.\n\"If you're handed the deed, in lieu of foreclosure, you don't have to\nhave an auction, but what happened was, Croker and his financial\ntroubles got so much publicity following the press conference, all\nsorts of vultures and bottom-fishers got interested in CrokerConcourse, figuring they could get it on the cheap. So they started\nbidding against each other, and pretty soon PlannersBanc had an\nauction going, all the same. They got $130 million for the thing.\nSome group from Dallas bought it. That was a lot less than they'd\nlent Croker for it, but at least they got away with their hides. In the\nmiddle of the whole thing they discover that one of their loan\nofficers, a guy named Peepgass, has secretly formed a syndicate to\nbuy the thing for $50 million, which he was going to talk his\nsuperiors into accepting. Of course they canned the guy-but th isn't\nthe interesting part. The interesting part is that just last month th\nPeepgass married Charlie Croker's first wifel I'm not kidding! And :\nnow he's living in a mansion in Buckhead that Croker paid for, with\nwoman who has millions Croker had to give her in the divorce sett]\nment. Meantime, the guy's involved in a paternity suit with som\nwoman in Decatur, but that didn't seem to bother the former Mr\nCroker.\" Wes shook his head and then smiled his best ironic smile an\nsaid, \"It's a great life, if you don't weaken.\"\nRoger laughed and said, \"Wes, I still don't see how that whole thin\nwith Croker turned the election around, or were you speaking i;\nhyperbole?\"\nWes maintained his ironic smile, but then looked through the plate\nglass window, as if toward the murky clouds outside. He stayed that\nwa for what seemed like a very long time.\nThen he turned back toward Roger, smiled faintly, and said, \"Do voi\nremember the first time you came in here, and I asked you if I coulc\nspeak to you as Brother Wes and Brother Roger? I never regretted\nthat incidentally.\"\n\"Oh, I remember.\"\n\"Can we do that again, just Brother Wes and Brother Roger?\"\n\"Absolutely.\"\"Okay. And do you also remember one time I told you that when you\nenter a citywide race, in the first month you're going to learn 100\npercent more about politics than you ever knew before and that in\nyour second month you'll learn 200 percent more, and so on?\"\n\"I sure do.\"\n\"Maybe I'm just vain, but I figure that just being privy to my\ncampaign as much as you were, you probably learned about 25\npercent more than you knew before. Am I close?\"\n\"No,\" said Roger, \"because I'm sure it was a lot more than that.\"\n\"Well now, Brother Roger, I'm going to tell you something that ought\nto raise your political IQ a little more. The first time you came to see\nme, you told me about how Inman Armholster was furious, and he\nwas going around to people at Tech saying that Fareek had raped his\ndaughter. Right?\" \"Right.\"\n\"And I told you Inman Armholster was the one who was putting up\nAndrPS Fleet's get-out-the-vote money.\"\n\"Right.\"\n\"I knew right away this was important information, but at first I\ncouldn't figure out anything to do with it. The news that Armholster\nwanted Fareek's hide was spreading pretty fast, but nobody was\nabout to run a newspaper story or something on the television about\na rape case in which no charges had been filed, particularly when\nthe male and female were Fareek Fanon and Inman Armholster's\ndaughter. Then from out of nowhere come these two nuts with their\n'Chasing the Dragon.' \"\n\"Who are they, anyway?\"\n\"A couple of Internet creeps, is my considered opinion,\" said the\nMayor. \"They look like two white noodles with hair. Makes you itch\nwhen you're in the same room with them. But they do put out an\nInternet gossip column. Atlanta's very short on gossip columns. InNew York all sorts of personal things about well-known people get\nslipped into gossip columns, but in Atlanta there's just these two\nnutcases.\"\n\"It sounds like you met them.\"\n\"Oh, sure,\" said Wes. \"After their big coup they began showing up at\nCity Hall as reporters in search of their due deference.\"\n\"For God's sake.\"\n\"Well, for about a week, Roger, they had this town humming. Once\nthey published the story, and then the newspapers published it, I\nknew what I had to do.\"\n\"Which was what?\" said Roger.\n\"Call my State of the City press conference. I was genuinely\nconcerned that the whole thing might blow up into something very\nugly, and that's exactly what I'd told Armholster when I met with\nhim. But the press conference was sort of a borderline call, to tell\nthe truth. Fareek is an admired figure in South Atlanta, but he's not\nwhat you'd call a beloved figure. Oh, people are for him, and\neverybody is proud that one of their own has made it big, and I'm\nsure there are lots of teenage boys who identify with him. But\nFareek is not warm, he's not good, he's not kind, he doesn't come\nback to do good deeds in the community, he's not charming-boy, is\nhe not charming. Our polls showed that African Americans in Atlanta\nbelieved Fareek was being railroaded, but it didn't amount to a\nwidespread anger with any real voltage to it. All we had was one\nhalfway riot, the one I told you about. But I had my own reason for\nhaving the press conference. It would be my only chance to speak\nout in behalf of your client.\"\n\"What do you mean?\"\n\"No politician can go around taking sides in sex cases, because tl\nfacts can come out and blow up in your face at any time. But when\ntl issue is not guilt or innocence but fairness, justice, individualrights, ar peace and calm in the city-then you can have your say, and\nI can down as hard in favor of Fareek Fanon as it was possible to do\nin th, context. And then when Croker turned on Fareek-it looked as if\nh was proving my point! The 'business interests' were determined to\nb unfair and unjust! Now I'm Fareek's one defender in public life! No'\nI'm right on top of what is known as a 'black issue'! And where dot\nthat leave Andre Fleet? Andre Fleet's off in the bleachers sucking hi\nthumb. He remained practically silent through the whole thing. Whc\ncould he say? He couldn't very well back Elizabeth Armholster the wa\nI backed Fareek, because that would cost him too much of the Soutl\nAtlanta vote he was counting on. But that's what Armholster wanted!\nA the very least he expected Fleet to attack Fareek! But Fleet just sat\n01 his hands. Armholster was so mad, he cut off Fleet's get-out-the-\nvot money! He had none! Zip!\" Wes started laughing as hard as\nRoger hat ever seen him laugh. \"Yesterday Fleet's out in the street\nwith his moutl open and his tongue hanging out! He's got nothing to\nbuy votes with Nothing!\" More laughter, to the point of tears. \"Roger,\nwhen you goi Croker to that press conference for me-you won the\nelection!\"\nRoger didn't even smile. \"What happened was very nice for you,\nWes, but not for Fareek. His name was dragged through the mud for\na long time.\"\n\"The mud?\" said Wes sharply. 'Tou don't Jknow mud, Brother Roger!\nMud is not when some girl's loudmouth father is going around saying\nyou raped his daughter. Mud is when you get arrested, fingerprinted,\nput in a cell, bailed out, arraigned, indicted, and then you sit in a\ncourtroom, all 225 pounds of you, with a shaved head and a neck\nthe size of a tree trunk, trying to look innocent while a pretty little\nwhite girl sobs out the story of how you ravaged her! That's . . .\nmud!\" \"Still-\"\n\"Through the mud,\" said Wes sardonically. \"But that hasn't\nhappened, has it?\"\n\"No, but-\"\"Don't No, but me, Brother Roger! No charges have ever been\nbrought, have they. And do you know why? Because the Armholsters\ngot a pretty good taste of just what kind of hell they'd have to go\nthrough if they made it a real case.\"\n\"Do you know that for a. fact?\"\n\"Well ... 1 don't know it for a fact, but what other explanation is\nthere? Armholster is a blowhard, but he's not just a blowhard. He'll\ndo something to Fareek sooner or later. God knows what. 1 just\nhope to hell it isn't within the Atlanta city limits and not on my\nwatch. But he didn't want to do it this way, not with the media going\ninto a frenzy over it. Or that's the way I see it. What I did was the\nbest thing for Fareek Fanon and the best thing for the city.\"\n\"Even accepting the part about Fareek, which I don't,\" said Roger,\n\"why 'the best thing for the city'?\"\n\"Because Atlanta needs me,\" said Wes. Not a touch of irony in his\nexpression. \"Have you any idea of what a catastrophe it would have\nbeen if Andre Fleet had been elected? It would have set Atlanta back\ntwo generations. The sum total of Andre Fleet's knowledge of\nstrategy here at the turn of the century is the pick, the give and go,\nand the Alley Oop.\"\nRoger smiled reluctantly. \"Well, I'll grant you Fareek has come out\nfree and clear of the whole thing. But you know, I don't think he\never lost a moment's sleep over it, even when it all looked very bad.\nHe thinks he lives on Olympus, with all the other gods.\"\n\"Like Zeus,\" said Wes. \"And how's he doing on the gridiron this\nseason?\"\nRoger smiled another reluctant smile. \"Even better than last year.\nBarring a complete shutdown, he'll be an all-American again. They're\nalready talking about him as the front-runner for the Heisman\nTrophy.\"\"See?\" said Wes. \"And how about you? How're you doing? How're\nthings down at Wringer Fleasom & Tick?\"\nRoger now smiled the smile of capitulation that says, Okay, you got\nme. \"I shouldn't give you the satisfaction, but I guess I have to tell\nyou I got quite a nice dividend at the end of the summer after all the\nFareek business.\"\n\"Dividend?\"\n\"Bonus.\"\n\"Did they say why?\"\n\"No, but it wasn't hard to figure out. The Fanon case made them\nlook good. It's one thing for an old Atlanta firm like that to have a\ncouple of token African-American lawyers. That's better than\nnothing, but everybody knows it's window dressing. But to get\ninvolved, successfully, in high-profile African-American case-now\nthat's the real thing. Nobod can go around calling you a stuffy, old-\nfashioned, white-glove firm an longer. 'Old-fashioned' is what gets\nthem. The white lawyers at Wringe Fleasom couldn't care less about\nAfrican Americans singly or in thi aggregate. But in Atlanta not even\nthe bigots want to look old-fashioned and acting like a bigot makes\nyou look old-fashioned. The general part ner, Zandy Scott, has been\ndining out on the Fanon case. He's probabh out there somewhere\nright now, casually referring to Fareek as if he wa; the one who\nmasterminded his defense. But that doesn't bother me.\"\n'Yeah, and just wait,\" said the Mayor. \"Pretty soon it won't just be\npublic relations. There are plenty of big African-American\ncorporation; in Atlanta and plenty of rich African Americans running\nthem, and Wringer Fleasom is going to like their business and\nthey're going to get it, all thanks to you, Brother Roger.\"\nRoger smiled in spite of himself. \"Well-I can't say you're wrong. We\njust got the Sweet Auburn account-you know Clarence Harrington's\nrestaurant chain?\"\"See?\"\n\"1 see that Booker T. was right all along,\" said Roger, \"that's what I\nsee. Wringer Fleasom & Tick, the most solemn old-line white law\nfirm in Atlanta is overjoyed to be doing business with a successful\nAfrican- American entrepreneur like Clarence Harrington.\"\n\"So this has all been very good for you,\" said the Mayor, smiling\nonce more. \"Admit it.\"\n\"Well, I suppose.\" Roger paused, opened his mouth to say\nsomething else, then thought better of it. He opened his mouth\nagain and finally screwed up his courage and said, \"We're still\nBrother Wes and Brother Roger, right?\" \"Right.\"\n\"And that applies just as much to what Brother Roger tells Brother\nWes as it does the other way around, right?\"\n\"Rest assured, Brother Roger.\"\n\"Well then, I'm going to tell you something I haven't even told\nHenrietta. I first got into this case with great trepidation. Fareek took\nan instant dislike to me. Obviously I was a Roger Too White for sure,\nas far as he was concerned. Then I worried that my involvement\nwith Fareek would alienate Wringer Fleasom's white clientele-and\nI've spent years looking good in the eyes of 'the business interests.'\nBut a funny thing happened. It started right after that press\nconference we held in the library at Wringer Fleasom. People on the\nstreet, our people, African Americans, recognized me, because the\npress conference had been on TV. They'd smile and say things like\n'Right on, brother' and 'Gotcha back.' Gotcha hack! Gibley Berm-you\nknow Gibley Berm?\"\n\"Sure.\"\n\"Well, at the big press conference-your press conference, Gibley\nBerm comes up to me-and you've got to understand, I never saw\nthe man in my life, except in newspaper pictures-and he says,\n'You're doing great work, Counselor! Gotcha back!' Gotcha back. Thebig admission I have to make here, Wes, is that... I loved it! I can't\ntell you how much I loved it!\"\n\"Of course,\" the Mayor said softly. \"You had just entered the political\narena. It's more intoxicating than any drug.\"\n\"Well, maybe that's it, but I loved the fact that I was no longer an\nAfrican American who had risen far above the level of his people. I\nwas with my own people at last.\"\n\"Welcome to the club,\" said the Mayor in the same soft way. \"That's\npolitics, too.\"\nNow Roger smiled what he realized was a sheepish smile. \"Brother\nWes, I even have to admit I've entertained thoughts of running for\noffice myself . . . someday. I'm not sure about running for what.\"\nThis he tried to pass off with a bigger, broader, all-in-fun smile.\n\"Aha! Don't think I didn't notice that you were saying 'African\nAmerican,' too. Well . . . you'd be good,\" the Mayor said matter-of-\nfactly. 'Tou have name recognition now, thanks to the Fanon case.\nYou're a family man living in South Atlanta. You can always leave\nNiskey Lake out of it. Besides, who the hell knows Niskey Lake is all\nmansions?\"\n\"Well, not really mansions . . .\"\n\"Anyway, it's no big deal,\" said Wes. \"And one other thing. Right off\nthe bat you'll have the support of a former mayor of Atlanta.\"\n\"Who?\"\n\"Me. As you know, a mayor of Atlanta can't serve but two\nconsecutive terms.\"\nWes had made it all seem so real, so possible, Roger realized too\nlate that he had allowed a gooey, dreamy smile to spread over his\nmug.\n\"Sounds good, hunh, Roger?\"A wave of embarrassment. Why had he revealed so much of\nhimself? He stood up abruptly and smiled and extended his hand to\nMayor Wesley Dobbs Jordan. \"I didn't mean to come in here and\nbore you wi my daydreams, Brother Wes! Congratulations. I'm so\nproud of you, ar I feel so fortunate, just knowing you. I'm not\nkidding. You were a gre Morehouse Man, and you're a great mayor,\nand you'll be even greah in the future.\"\nWes stood up, and they shook hands, and Wes said, \"Thanks, but\ndon't know about the future. There's no place for a black mayor of\nAtlanta to go. When you start talking about being governor or\nsenator the white folks' reluctance to appear old-fashioned somehow\nevaporate: Andy found that out.\"\n\"Well,\" said Roger, \"what about Congress?\"\n\"That'd be a step down,\" said Wes. \"Being Mayor of Atlanta is much\nbigger job than being Representative from the 5th District.\"\n\"Whatever you do, Brother Wes, you're the greatest man\"-but In\nwas afraid of sounding sappy, and so he smiled and said-\"the\ngreatest man whose time I've ever had the chance to take up too\nmuch of after a big election.\"\n\"Nonsense, Brother Roger,\" said Wes. \"Just remember one thing\nYou've got to start making the rounds and shaking hands. The\naward: dinners, the retirement dinners, die charity dinners, the fund-\nraisers, the community meetings, the church meetings. You got to\nget to know the ministers, like Ike Blakey, who has poisoned his own\ngoose, that snake.'\nRoger felt foolish. He had talked too much. \"I was just thinking out\nloud, Brother Wes.\"\n\"That's how we all start, Brother Roger,\" said the Mayor. \"We think\nout loud and hope the right people are listening.\"\nBrother Roger and Brother Wes embraced, and then Roger turned to\ngo, but his eye was caught by all the ivory Yoruban ceremonialswords on the ebony walls. He gestured toward them. \"I've got to\ntell you, those swords are fabulous. What's going to become of\nthem?\"\n\"I'll have to start sending them back, which is too bad. They were\njust a sly piece of campaigning when I got them. But now I think\nthey're fabulous, too. Roots, Brother Roger, roots.\"\nBy the time Roger emerged into the waiting room, the place looked\nlike a cocktail party. There must have been sixteen or seventeen\nmen standing around, most of them with glasses of champagne,\ntalking up a storm.\n\"Hey, Rodge!\"\nIt was Julian Salisbury, the one white face in the room other than\nthe usual policeman. Julian was with Don Pickett, and so Roger went\nover and shook hands with both of them and listened to a couple of\nwar stories from the late Fanon campaign. He was about to leave\nagain when a deep voice said:\n\"Mr. White!\"\nIt was Elihu Yale, the police chief. Roger had never dreamed the\nchief even knew who he was. But he did! Roger went over and\nshook hands with him and exchanged a few observations about the\ncloseness of the election and felt like a man of the world.\nFinally he was all but out of the mayoral offices for good when a\nyoung woman's voice sang out:\n\"Mis-ter White!\"\nRoger turned around, and there was Miss Beasley, who had been\nbusy serving the champagne. She was really quite lovely, beautiful,\nin fact, aglow with happiness and champagne and the presence of\nso many males, all of whom no doubt found her just as gorgeous as\nhe did.\"You can't leave without saying goodbye!\" she said.\n\"Wouldn't think of it,\" said Roger, \"and thanks for everything.\"\n\"Don't forget where we are, now!\"\n\"Oh, don't worry,\" said the man of the world, \"I'll be back.\""
    },
    {
        "title": "A Painted House",
        "content": "Chapter 1\n-------------\nThe hill people and the Mexicans arrived on the same day. It was\na Wednesday, early in September 1952. The Cardinals were five\ngames behind the Dodgers with three weeks to go, and the season\nlooked hopeless. The cotton, however, was waist-high to my father,\nover my head, and he and my grandfather could be heard before\nsupper whispering words that were seldom heard. It could be a\n“good crop.”\nThey were farmers, hardworking men who embraced pessimism\nonly when discussing the weather and the crops. There was too\nmuch sun, or too much rain, or the threat of floods in the lowlands,\nor the rising prices of seed and fertilizer, or the uncertainties of the\nmarkets. On the most perfect of days, my mother would quietly say\nto me, “Don't worry. The men will find something to worry about.”\nPappy, my grandfather, was worried about the price for labor\nwhen we went searching for the hill people. They were paid for\nevery hundred pounds of cotton they picked. The previous year,\naccording to him, it was $1.50 per hundred. He'd already heard\nrumors that a farmer over in Lake City was offering $1.60.\nThis played heavily on his mind as we rode to town. He never\ntalked when he drove, and this was because, according to my\nmother, not much of a driver herself, he was afraid of motorized\nvehicles. His truck was a 1939 Ford, and with the exception of our\nold John Deere tractor, it was our sole means of transportation. This\nwas no particular problem except when we drove to church and my\nmother and grandmother were forced to sit snugly together up front\nin their Sunday best while my father and I rode in the back, engulfed\nin dust. Modern sedans were scarce in rural Arkansas.\nPappy drove thirty-seven miles per hour. His theory was that\nevery automobile had a speed at which it ran most efficiently, and\nthrough some vaguely defined method he had determined that his\nold truck should go thirty-seven. My mother said (to me) that it wasridiculous. She also said he and my father had once fought over\nwhether the truck should go faster. But my father rarely drove it, and\nif I happened to be riding with him, he would level off at thirty-\nseven, out of respect for Pappy. My mother said she suspected he\ndrove much faster when he was alone.\nWe turned onto Highway 135, and, as always, I watched Pappy\ncarefully shift the gears-pressing slowly on the clutch, delicately\nprodding the stick shift on the steering column-until the truck\nreached its perfect speed. Then I leaned over to check the\nspeedometer: thirty-seven. He smiled at me as if we both agreed\nthat the truck belonged at that speed.\nHighway 135 ran straight and flat through the farm country of\nthe Arkansas Delta. On both sides as far as I could see, the fields\nwere white with cotton. It was time for the harvest, a wonderful\nseason for me because they turned out school for two months. For\nmy grandfather, though, it was a time of endless worry.\n----------------------\nOn the right, at the Jordan place, we saw a group of Mexicans\nworking in the field near the road. They were stooped at the waist,\ntheir cotton sacks draped behind them, their hands moving deftly\nthrough the stalks, tearing off the bolls. Pappy grunted. He didn't\nlike the Jordans because they were Methodists-and Cubs fans. Now\nthat they already had workers in their fields, there was another\nreason to dislike them.\nThe distance from our farm to town was fewer than eight miles,\nbut at thirty-seven miles an hour, the trip took twenty minutes.\nAlways twenty minutes, even with little traffic. Pappy didn't believe\nin passing slower vehicles in front of him. Of course, he was usually\nthe slow one. Near Black Oak, we caught up to a trailer filled to the\ntop with snowy mounds of freshly picked cotton. A tarp covered the\nfront half, and the Montgomery twins, who were my age, playfully\nbounced around in all that cotton until they saw us on the road\nbelow them. Then they stopped and waved. I waved back, but my\ngrandfather did not. When he drove, he never waved or nodded at\nfolks, and this was, my mother said, because he was afraid to take\nhis hands from the wheel. She said people talked about him behindhis back, saying he was rude and arrogant. Personally, I don't think\nhe cared how the gossip ran.\nWe followed the Montgomery trailer until it turned at the cotton\ngin. It was pulled by their old Massey Harris tractor, and driven by\nFrank, the eldest Montgomery boy, who had dropped out of school in\nthe fifth grade and was considered by everyone at church to be\nheaded for serious trouble.\nHighway 135 became Main Street for the short stretch it took to\nnegotiate Black Oak. We passed the Black Oak Baptist Church, one\nof the few times we'd pass without stopping for some type of\nservice. Every store, shop, business, church, even the school, faced\nMain Street, and on Saturdays the traffic inched along, bumper to\nbumper, as the country folks flocked to town for their weekly\nshopping. But it was Wednesday, and when we got into town, we\nparked in front of Pop and Pearl Watson's grocery store on Main.\nI waited on the sidewalk until my grandfather nodded in the\ndirection of the store. That was my cue to go inside and purchase a\nTootsie Roll, on credit. It only cost a penny, but it was not a\nforegone conclusion that I would get one every trip to town.\nOccasionally, he wouldn't nod, but I would enter the store anyway\nand loiter around the cash register long enough for Pearl to sneak\nme one, which always came with strict instructions not to tell my\ngrandfather. She was afraid of him. Eli Chandler was a poor man, but\nhe was intensely proud. He would starve to death before he took\nfree food, which, on his list, included Tootsie Rolls. He would've\nbeaten me with a stick if he knew I had accepted a piece of candy,\nso Pearl Watson had no trouble swearing me to secrecy.\nBut this time I got the nod. As always, Pearl was dusting the\ncounter when I entered and gave her a stiff hug. Then I grabbed a\nTootsie Roll from the jar next to the cash register. I signed the\ncharge slip with great flair, and Pearl inspected my penmanship. “It's\ngetting better, Luke,” she said.\n“Not bad for a seven-year-old,” I said. Because of my mother, I\nhad been practicing my name in cursive writing for two years.\n“Where's Pop?” I asked. They were the only adults I knew who\ninsisted I call them by their “first” names, but only in the store whenno one else was listening. If a customer walked in, then it was\nsuddenly Mr. and Mrs. Watson. I told no one but my mother this,\nand she told me she was certain no other child held such privilege.\n“In the back, putting up stock,” Pearl said. “Where's your\ngrandfather?”\nIt was Pearl's calling in life to monitor the movements of the\ntown's population, so any question was usually answered with\nanother.\n“The Tea Shoppe, checking on the Mexicans. Can I go back\nthere?” I was determined to out question her.\n“Better not. Y'all using hill people, too?”\n“If we can find them. Eli says they don't come down like they\nused to. He also thinks they're all half crazy. Where's Champ?”\nChamp was the store's ancient beagle, which never left Pop's side.\nPearl grinned whenever I called my grandfather by his first name.\nShe was about to ask me a question when the small bell clanged as\nthe door opened and closed. A genuine Mexican walked in, alone\nand timid, as they all seemed to be at first. Pearl nodded politely at\nthe new customer.\nI shouted, “Buenos dias, senor!”\nThe Mexican grinned and said sheepishly, “Buenos dias,” before\ndisappearing into the back of the store.\n“They're good people,” Pearl said under her breath, as if the\nMexican spoke English and might be offended by something nice she\nsaid. I bit into my Tootsie Roll and chewed it slowly while rewrapping\nand pocketing the other half.\n“Eli's worried about payin' them too much,” I said. With a\ncustomer in the store, Pearl was suddenly busy again, dusting and\nstraightening around the only cash register.\n“Eli worries about everything,” she said.\n“He's a farmer.”\n“Are you going to be a farmer?”\n“No ma'am. A baseball player.”\n“For the Cardinals?”\n“Of course.”Pearl hummed for a bit while I waited for the Mexican. I had\nsome more Spanish I was anxious to try.\nThe old wooden shelves were bursting with fresh groceries. I\nloved the store during picking season because Pop filled it from floor\nto ceiling. The crops were coming in, and money was changing\nhands.\nPappy opened the door just wide enough to stick his head in.\n“Let's go,” he said; then, “Howdy, Pearl.”\n“Howdy, Eli,” she said as she patted my head and sent me away.\n“Where are the Mexicans?” I asked Pappy when we were outside.\n“Should be in later this afternoon.”\nWe got back in the truck and left town in the direction of\nJonesboro, where my grandfather always found the hill people.\n-----------------------\nWe parked on the shoulder of the highway, near the intersection\nof a gravel road. In Pappy's opinion, it was the best spot in the\ncounty to catch the hill people. I wasn't so sure. He'd been trying to\nhire some for a week with no results. We sat on the tailgate in the\nscorching sun in complete silence for half an hour before the first\ntruck stopped. It was clean and had good tires. If we were lucky\nenough to find hill people, they would live with us for the next two\nmonths. We wanted folks who were neat, and the fact that this truck\nwas much nicer than Pappy's was a good sign.\n“Afternoon,” Pappy said when the engine was turned off.\n“Howdy,” said the driver.\n“Where y'all from?” asked Pappy.\n“Up north of Hardy.”\nWith no traffic around, my grandfather stood on the pavement, a\npleasant expression on his face, taking in the truck and its contents.\nThe driver and his wife sat in the cab with a small girl between\nthem. Three large teenaged boys were napping in the back.\nEveryone appeared to be healthy and well dressed. I could tell\nPappy wanted these people.\n“Y'all lookin' for work?” he asked.\n“Yep. Lookin' for Lloyd Crenshaw, somewhere west of Black Oak.”\nMy grandfather pointed this way and that, and they drove off. Wewatched them until they were out of sight.\nHe could've offered them more than Mr. Crenshaw was\npromising. Hill people were notorious for negotiating their labor. Last\nyear, in the middle of the first picking on our place, the Fulbrights\nfrom Calico Rock disappeared one Sunday night and went to work\nfor a farmer ten miles away.\nBut Pappy was not dishonest, nor did he want to start a bidding\nwar.\nWe tossed a baseball along the edge of a cotton field, stopping\nwhenever a truck approached.\nMy glove was a Rawlings that Santa had delivered the Christmas\nbefore. I slept with it nightly and oiled it weekly, and nothing was as\ndear to my soul.\nMy grandfather, who had taught me how to throw and catch and\nhit, didn't need a glove. His large, callused hands absorbed my\nthrows without the slightest sting.\nThough he was a quiet man who never bragged, Eli Chandler had\nbeen a legendary baseball player. At the age of seventeen, he had\nsigned a contract with the Cardinals to play professional baseball.\nBut the First War called him, and not long after he came home, his\nfather died. Pappy had no choice but to become a farmer.\nPop Watson loved to tell me stories of how great Eli Chandler had\nbeen-how far he could hit a baseball, how hard he could throw one.\n“Probably the greatest ever from Arkansas,” was Pop's assessment.\n“Better than Dizzy Dean?” I would ask.\n“Not even close,” Pop would say, sighing.\nWhen I relayed these stories to my mother, she always smiled\nand said, “Be careful. Pop tells tales.”\nPappy, who was rubbing the baseball in his mammoth hands,\ncocked his head at the sound of a vehicle. Coming from the west\nwas a truck with a trailer behind it. From a quarter of a mile away\nwe could tell they were hill people. We walked to the shoulder of the\nroad and waited as the driver downshifted, gears crunching and\nwhining as he brought the truck to a stop.\nI counted seven heads, five in the truck, two in the trailer.“Howdy,” the driver said slowly, sizing up my grandfather as we in\nturn quickly scrutinized them.\n“Good afternoon,” Pappy said, taking a step closer but still\nkeeping his distance.\nTobacco juice lined the lower lip of the driver. This was an\nominous sign. My mother thought most hill people were prone to\nbad hygiene and bad habits. Tobacco and alcohol were forbidden in\nour home. We were Baptists.\n“Name's Spruill,” he said.\n“Eli Chandler. Nice to meet you. Y'all lookin' for work?”\n“Yep.”\n“Where you from?”\n“Eureka Springs.”\nThe truck was almost as old as Pappy's, with slick tires and a\ncracked windshield and rusted fenders and what looked like faded\nblue paint under a layer of dust. A tier had been constructed above\nthe bed, and it was crammed with cardboard boxes and burlap bags\nfilled with supplies. Under it, on the floor of the bed, a mattress was\nwedged next to the cab. Two large boys stood on it, both staring\nblankly at me. Sitting on the tailgate, barefoot and shirtless, was a\nheavy young man with massive shoulders and a neck as thick as a\nstump. He spat tobacco juice between the truck and the trailer and\nseemed oblivious to Pappy and me. He swung his feet slowly, then\nspat again, never looking away from the asphalt beneath him.\n“I'm lookin' for field hands,” Pappy said.\n“How much you payin'?” Mr. Spruill asked.\n“One-sixty a hundred,” Pappy said.\nMr. Spruill frowned and looked at the woman beside him. They\nmumbled something.\nIt was at this point in the ritual that quick decisions had to be\nmade. We had to decide whether we wanted these people living with\nus. And they had to accept or reject our price.\n“What kinda cotton?” Mr. Spruill asked.\n“Stoneville,” my grandfather said. “The bolls are ready. It'll be\neasy to pick.” Mr. Spruill could look around him and see the bolls\nbursting. The sun and soil and rains had cooperated so far. Pappy, ofcourse, had been fretting over some dire rainfall prediction in the\nFarmers' Almanac.\n“We got one-sixty last year,” Mr. Spruill said.\nI didn't care for money talk, so I ambled along the center line to\ninspect the trailer. The tires on the trailer were even balder than\nthose on the truck. One was half flat from the load. It was a good\nthing that their journey was almost over.\nRising in one corner of the trailer, with her elbows resting on the\nplank siding, was a very pretty girl. She had dark hair pulled tightly\nbehind her head and big brown eyes. She was younger than my\nmother, but certainly a lot older than I was, and I couldn't help but\nstare.\n“What's your name?” she said.\n“Luke,” I said, kicking a rock. My cheeks were immediately warm.\n“What's yours?”\n“Tally. How old are you?”\n“Seven. How old are you?”\n“Seventeen.”\n“How long you been ridin' in that trailer?”\n“Day and a half.”\nShe was barefoot, and her dress was dirty and very tight-tight all\nthe way to her knees. This was the first time I remember really\nexamining a girl. She watched me with a knowing smile. A kid sat on\na crate next to her with his back to me, and he slowly turned around\nand looked at me as if I weren't there. He had green eyes and a\nlong forehead covered with sticky black hair. His left arm appeared\nto be useless.\n“This is Trot,” she said. “He ain't right.”\n“Nice to meet you, Trot,” I said, but his eyes looked away. He\nacted as if he hadn't heard me.\n“How old is he?” I asked her.\n“Twelve. He's a cripple.”\nTrot turned abruptly to face a corner, his bad arm flopping\nlifelessly. My friend Dewayne said that hill people married their\ncousins and that's why there were so many defects in their families.Tally appeared to be perfect, though. She gazed thoughtfully\nacross the cotton fields, and I admired her dirty dress once again.\nI knew my grandfather and Mr. Spruill had come to terms\nbecause Mr. Spruill started his truck. I walked past the trailer, past\nthe man on the tailgate who was briefly awake but still staring at the\npavement, and stood beside Pappy. “Nine miles that way, take a left\nby a burned-out barn, then six more miles to the St. Francis River.\nWe're the first farm past the river on your left.”\n“Bottomland?” Mr. Spruill asked, as if he were being sent into a\nswamp.\n“Some of it is, but it's good land.”\nMr. Spruill glanced at his wife again, then looked back at us.\n“Where do we set up?”\n“You'll see a shady spot in the back, next to the silo. That's the\nbest place.”\nWe watched them drive away, the gears rattling, the tires\nwobbling, crates and boxes and pots bouncing along.\n“You don't like them, do you?” I asked.\n“They're good folks. They're just different.”\n“I guess we're lucky to have them, aren't we?”\n“Yes, we are.”\nMore field hands meant less cotton for me to pick. For the next\nmonth I would go to the fields at sunrise, drape a nine-foot cotton\nsack over my shoulder, and stare for a moment at an endless row of\ncotton, the stalks taller than I was, then plunge into them, lost as far\nas anyone could tell. And I would pick cotton, tearing the fluffy bolls\nfrom the stalks at a steady pace, stuffing them into the heavy sack,\nafraid to look down the row and be reminded of how endless it was,\nafraid to slow down because someone would notice. My fingers\nwould bleed, my neck would burn, my back would hurt.\nYes, I wanted lots of help in the fields. Lots of hill people, lots of\nMexicans.\n--------------A Painted HouseChapter 2\n--------------\nWith the cotton waiting, my grandfather was not a patient man.\nThough he still drove the truck at its requisite speed, he was restless\nbecause the other fields along the road were getting picked, and\nours were not. Our Mexicans were two days late. We parked again\nnear Pop and Pearl's, and I followed him to the Tea Shoppe, where\nhe argued with the man in charge of farm labor.\n“Relax, Eli,” the man said. “They'll be here any minute.”\nHe couldn't relax. We walked to the Black Oak gin on the edge of\ntown, a long walk-but Pappy did not believe in wasting gasoline.\nBetween six and eleven that morning, he'd picked two hundred\npounds of cotton, yet he still walked so fast I had to jog to keep up.\nThe gravel lot of the gin was crowded with cotton trailers, some\nempty, others waiting for their harvest to be ginned. I waved again\nat the Montgomery twins as they were leaving, their trailer empty,\nheaded home for another load.\nThe gin roared with the chorus of heavy machines at work. They\nwere incredibly loud and dangerous. During each picking season, at\nleast one worker would fall victim to some gruesome injury inside\nthe cotton gin. I was scared of the machines, and when Pappy told\nme to wait outside, I was happy to do so. He walked by a group of\nfield hands waiting for their trailers without so much as a nod. He\nhad things on his mind.\nI found a safe spot near the dock, where they wheeled out the\nfinished bales and loaded them onto trailers headed for the\nCarolinas. At one end of the gin the freshly picked cotton was sucked\nfrom the trailers through a long pipe, twelve inches around; then it\ndisappeared into the building where the machines worked on it. It\nemerged at the other end in neat square bales covered in burlap and\nstrapped tightly with one-inch steel bands. A good gin produced\nperfect bales, ones that could be stacked like bricks.A bale of cotton was worth a hundred and seventy-five dollars,\ngive or take, depending on the markets. A good crop could produce\na bale an acre. We rented eighty acres. Most farm kids could do the\nmath.\nIn fact, the math was so easy you wondered why anyone would\nwant to be a farmer. My mother made sure I understood the\nnumbers. The two of us had already made a secret pact that I would\nnever, under any circumstances, stay on the farm. I would finish all\ntwelve grades and go play for the Cardinals.\nPappy and my father had borrowed fourteen thousand dollars in\nMarch from the owner of the gin. That was their crop loan, and the\nmoney was spent on seed, fertilizer, labor, and other expenses. So\nfar we'd been lucky-the weather had been nearly perfect, and the\ncrops looked good. If our luck continued through the picking, and\nthe fields yielded a bale an acre, then the Chandler farming\noperation would break even. That was our goal.\nBut, like most farmers, Pappy and my father carried debt from\nthe previous year. They owed the owner of the gin two thousand\ndollars from 1951, which had seen an average crop. They also owed\nmoney to the John Deere dealer in Jonesboro for parts, to Lance\nBrothers for fuel, to the Co-op for seed and supplies, and to Pop and\nPearl Watson for groceries.\nI certainly wasn't supposed to know about their crop loans and\ndebts. But in the summertime my parents often sat on the front\nsteps late into the night, waiting for the air to cool so they could\nsleep without sweating, and they talked. My bed was near a window\nby the porch. They thought I was sleeping, but I heard more than I\nshould have.\nThough I wasn't sure, I strongly suspected Pappy needed to\nborrow more money to pay the Mexicans and the hill people. I\ncouldn't tell if he got the money or not. He was frowning when we\nwalked to the gin, and he was frowning when we left it.\n------------------\nThe hill people had been migrating from the Ozarks for decades\nto pick cotton. Many of them owned their own homes and land, and\nquite often they had nicer vehicles than the farmers who hired themfor the harvest. They worked very hard, saved their money, and\nappeared to be as poor as we were.\nBy 1950 the migration had slowed. The postwar boom had finally\ntrickled down to Arkansas, at least to some portions of the state,\nand the younger hill people didn't need the extra money as badly as\ntheir parents. They simply stayed at home. Picking cotton was not\nsomething anyone would volunteer to do. The farmers faced a labor\nshortage that gradually grew worse; then somebody discovered the\nMexicans.\nThe first truckload arrived in Black Oak in 1951. We got six of\nthem, including Juan, my buddy, who gave me my first tortilla. Juan\nand forty others had traveled three days in the back of a long trailer,\npacked in tightly together, with little food, no shade from the sun or\nshelter from the rain. They were weary and disoriented when they\nhit Main Street. Pappy said the trailer smelled worse than a cattle\ntruck. Those who saw it told others, and before long the ladies at\nthe Baptist and Methodist churches were openly complaining about\nthe primitive manner in which the Mexicans had been transported.\nMy mother had been vocal, at least to my father. I heard them\ndiscuss it many times after the crops were in and the Mexicans had\nbeen shipped back. She wanted my father to talk to the other\nfarmers and receive assurances from the man in charge of labor that\nthose who collected the Mexicans and sent them to us would treat\nthem better. She felt it was our duty as farmers to protect the\nlaborers, a notion my father shared somewhat, though he seemed\nunenthusiastic about leading the charge. Pappy didn't give a damn.\nNor did the Mexicans; They just wanted to work.\nThe Mexicans finally arrived just after four o'clock. There had\nbeen rumors that they would be riding in a bus, and I certainly\nhoped this was true. I didn't want my parents straining at the issue\nfor another winter. Nor did I want the Mexicans to be treated so\npoorly.\nBut they were in a trailer again, an old one with planks for sides\nand nothing over the top to protect them. It was true that cattle had\nit better.They carefully hopped down out of the trailer bed and onto the\nstreet, three or four at a time, in one wave after another. They\nspilled forth, emptying in front of the Co-op, and gathered on the\nsidewalk in small bewildered groups. They stretched and bent and\nlooked around as if they had landed on another planet. I counted\nsixty-two of them. To my great disappointment, Juan was not there.\nThey were several inches shorter than Pappy, very thin, and they\nall had black hair and brown skin. Each carried a little bag of clothing\nand supplies.\nPearl Watson stood on the sidewalk in front of her store, hands\non hips, glaring. They were her customers, and she certainly didn't\nwant them mistreated. I knew that before church on Sunday the\nladies would be in an uproar again. And I knew my mother would\nquiz me as soon as we arrived home with our gang.\nHarsh words erupted between the man in charge of labor and\nthe driver of the truck. Somebody down in Texas had, in fact,\npromised that the Mexicans would be shipped in a bus. This was the\nsecond load to arrive in a dirty trailer. Pappy never shied away from\na fight, and I could tell he wanted to jump into the fray and finish off\nthe truck driver. But he was also angry with the labor man, and I\nguess he saw no point in whipping both of them. We sat on the\ntailgate of our truck and waited for the dust to clear.\nWhen the yelling stopped, the paperwork began. The Mexicans\nclung together on the sidewalk in front of the Co-op. Occasionally,\nthey would glance at us and the other farmers who were gathering\nalong Main Street. Word was out-the new batch had arrived.\nPappy got the first ten. The leader was Miguel. He appeared to\nbe the oldest and, as I noticed from my initial inspection, he had the\nonly cloth bag. The rest of them carried their belongings in paper\nsacks.\nMiguel's English was passable, but not nearly as good as Juan's\nhad been. I chatted him up while Pappy finished the paperwork.\nMiguel introduced me to the group. There was a Rico, a Roberto, a\nJose, a Luis, a Pablo, and several I couldn't understand. I\nremembered from a year earlier that it would take a week to\ndistinguish among them.Although they were clearly exhausted, each of them seemed to\nmake some effort to smile-except for one who sneered at me when I\nlooked at him. He wore a western-style hat, which Miguel pointed to\nand said, “He thinks he's a cowboy. So that's what we call him.”\nCowboy was very young, and tall for a Mexican. His eyes were\nnarrow and mean. He had a thin mustache that only added to the\nfierceness. He frightened me so badly that I gave a passing thought\nto telling Pappy. I certainly didn't want the man living on our farm\nfor the weeks to come. But instead I just backed away.\nOur group of Mexicans followed Pappy down the sidewalk to Pop\nand Pearl's. I trailed along, careful not to step close to Cowboy.\nInside the store, I assumed my position near the cash register,\nwhere Pearl was waiting for someone to whisper to.\n“They treat them like animals,” she said.\n“Eli says they're just happy to be here,” I whispered back. My\ngrandfather was waiting by the door, arms folded across his chest,\nwatching the Mexicans gather what few items they needed. Miguel\nwas rattling instructions to the rest of them.\nPearl was not about to criticize Eli Chandler. But she shot him a\ndirty look, though he didn't see it. Pappy wasn't concerned with\ncither me or Pearl. He was fretting because the cotton wasn't getting\n(licked.\n“It's just awful,” she said. I could tell Pearl couldn't wait for us to\nclear out so she could find her church friends and again stir up the\nissue. Pearl was a Methodist.\nAs the Mexicans, holding their goods, drifted to the cash register,\nMiguel gave each name to Pearl, who in turn opened a charge\naccount. She rang up the total, entered the amount in a ledger by\nthe worker's name, then showed the entry to both Miguel and the\ncustomer. Instant credit, American style.\nThey bought flour and shortening to make tortillas, lots of beans\nin both cans and bags, and rice. Nothing extra-no sugar or sweets,\nno vegetables. They ate as little as possible, because food cost\nmoney. Their goal was to save every cent they could and take it\nback home.Of course, these poor fellas had no idea where they were going.\nThey did not know that my mother was a devoted gardener who\nspent more time tending her vegetables than she did the cotton.\nThey were quite lucky, because my mother believed that no one\nliving within walking distance of our farm would ever go without\nfood.\nCowboy was last in line, and when Pearl smiled at him, I thought\nhe was going to spit on her. Miguel stayed close. He'd just spent\nthree days in the back of a trailer with the boy and probably knew all\nabout him.\nI said good-bye to Pearl for the second time that day, which was\nodd because I usually saw her only once a week.\nPappy led the Mexicans to the truck. They got into the bed and\nsat shoulder-to-shoulder, feet and legs intertwined. They were silent\nand stared blankly ahead as if they had no idea where their journey\nwould end.\nThe old truck strained with the load but eventually leveled out at\nthirty-seven, and Pappy almost smiled. It was late in the afternoon,\nand the weather was hot and dry, perfect for picking. Between the\nSp mills and the Mexicans we finally had enough hands to harvest\nour crop. I reached into my pocket, and pulled out the other half of\nmy Tootsie Roll.\nLong before we arrived at our house, we saw smoke and then a\ntent. We lived on a dirt road that was very dusty for most of the\nyear, and Pappy was just puttering along so the Mexicans wouldn't\nget choked.\n“What's that?” I asked.\n“Looks like a tent of some sort,” Pappy said.\nIt was situated near the road, at the far end of our front yard,\nunder a pin oak that was a hundred years old, very near the spot\nwhere home plate belonged. We slowed even more as we\napproached our mailbox. The Spruills had taken control of half our\nfront yard. The large tent was dirty white with a pointed roof and\nwas erected with a mismatched collection of hand-whittled sticks\nand metal poles. Two sides of the tent were open, and I could seeboxes and blankets lying on the ground under the roof. I could also\nsee Tally napping inside.\nTheir truck was parked beside it, and another canvas of some\nsort had been rigged over its bed. It was anchored with baling rope\nstaked to the ground so that the truck couldn't move without first\ngetting unhitched. Their old trailer had been partially unloaded, its\nboxes and burlap bags scattered on the grass as if a storm had hit.\nMrs. Spruill was tending a fire, hence the smoke. For some\nreason, she had chosen a slightly bare spot near the end of the yard.\nIt was the exact spot where Pappy or my father squatted almost\nevery afternoon and caught my fastballs and my curves. I wanted to\ncry. I would never forgive Mrs. Spruill for this.\n“I thought you told them to set up out behind the silo,” I said.\n“I did,” Pappy answered. He slowed the truck almost to a stop,\nthen turned into our place. The silo was out back, near the barn, a\nsufficient distance from our house. We'd had hill people camping\nback there before-never in the front yard.\nHe parked under another pin oak that was only seventy years\nold, according to my grandmother. It was the smallest of the three\nthat shaded our house and yard. We rolled to a stop near the house,\nin the same dry ruts Pappy'd parked in for decades. Both my mother\nand grandmother were waiting at the kitchen steps.\nRuth, my grandmother, did not like the fact that the hill people\nhad laid claim to our front yard. Pappy and I knew this before we\ngot out of the truck. She had her hands on her hips.\nMy mother was eager to examine the Mexicans and ask me\nabout their traveling conditions. She watched them pile out of the\ntruck as she walked to me and squeezed my shoulder.\n“Ten of them,” she said. “Yes ma'am.”\nGran met Pappy at the front of the truck and said, quietly but\nsternly, “Why are those people in our front yard?”\n“I asked them to set up by the silo,” Pappy said, never one to\nback down, not even from his wife. “I don't know why they picked\nthat spot.”\n“Can you ask them to move?”“I cannot. If they pack up, they'll leave. You know how hill people\nare.”\nAnd that was the end of Gran's questions. They were not about\nto argue in front of me and ten new Mexicans. She walked away,\ntoward the house, shaking her head in disapproval. Pappy honestly\ndidn't care where the hill people camped. They appeared to be able-\nbodied and willing to work, and nothing else mattered to him.\nI suspected Gran was not that concerned either. The picking was\nso crucial that we would've taken in a chain gang if they could've\naveraged three hundred pounds of cotton a day.\nThe Mexicans followed Pappy off to the barn, which was 352 feet\nfrom the back porch steps. Past the chicken coop, the water pump,\nthe clotheslines, and the tool shed, past a sugar maple that would\nturn bright red in October. My father had helped me measure the\nexact distance one day last January. It seemed like a mile to me.\nFrom home plate to the left field wall in Sportsman's Park, where the\nCardinals played, was 350 feet, and every time Stan Musial hit a\nhome run I would sit on the steps the next day and marvel at the\ndistance. In mid-July he'd hit a ball 400 feet against the Braves.\nPappy had said, “He hit it over the barn, Luke.”\nFor two days afterward, I'd sat on the steps and dreamed of\nhitting 'cm over the barn.\nWhen the Mexicans were past the tool shed, my mother said,\n“They look very tired.”\n“They rode in a trailer, sixty-two of them,” I said, eager, for some\nreason, to help stir things up.\n“I was afraid of that.”\n“An old trailer. Old and dirty. Pearl's already mad about it.”\n“It won't happen again,” she said, and I knew that my father was\nabout to get an earful. “Run along and help your grandfather.”\nI'd spent most of the previous two weeks in the barn, alone with\nmy mother, sweeping and cleaning the loft, trying to make a home\nfor the Mexicans. Most of the farmers put them in abandoned tenant\nhouses or barns. There'd been a rumor that Ned Shackleford three\nmiles south had made his live with the chickens.Not so on the Chandler farm. For lack of another shelter, the\nMexicans would be forced to live in the loft of our barn, but there\nwouldn't be a speck of dirt anywhere to be found. And it would have\na pleasant smell. For a year my mother had gathered old blankets\nand quilts for them to sleep on.\nI slipped into the barn, but stayed below, next to Isabel's stall.\nShe was our milk cow. Pappy claimed his life had been saved in the\nFirst War by a young French girl named Isabel, and to honor the\nmemory, he named our Jersey cow after her. My grandmother never\nbelieved that story.\nI could hear them up in the loft, moving around, settling in.\nPappy was talking to Miguel, who was impressed with how nice and\nclean the loft was. Pappy took the compliments as if he and he alone\nhad done the scrubbing.\nIn fact, he and Gran had been skeptical of my mother's efforts to\nprovide a decent place for the laborers to sleep. My mother had\nbeen raised on a small farm at the very edge of Black Oak, so she\nwas almost a town girl. She actually grew up with kids who were too\ngood to pick cotton. She never walked to school-her father drove\nher. She'd been to Memphis three times before she married my\nfather. She'd been raised in a painted house.\n-------------A Painted HouseChapter 3\n-------------\nWe Chandlers rented our land from Mr. Vogel of Jonesboro, a\nman I'd never seen. His name was rarely mentioned, but when it did\nslip into a conversation, it was uttered with respect and awe. I\nthought he was the richest man in the world.\nPappy and Gran had been renting the land since before the Great\nDepression, which arrived early and stayed late in rural Arkansas.\nAfter thirty years of backbreaking labor, they had managed to\npurchase\nfrom Mr. Vogel the house and the three acres around it. They\nalso owned the John Deere tractor, two disks, a seed planter, a\ncotton trailer, a flatbed trailer, two mules, a wagon, and the truck.\nMy father had a vague agreement that gave him an ownership\ninterest in some \"I these assets. The land deed was in the names of\nEli and Ruth Chandler.\nThe only farmers who made money were those who owned their\nland. The renters, like us, tried to break even. The sharecroppers\nhad i he worst and were doomed to eternal poverty. My father's goal\nwas to own forty acres of land, free and clear. My other's dreams\nwere tucked away, only to be shared with me as I grew older. But I\nalready knew she longed to leave the rural life and is determined\nthat I would not farm. By the time I was seven, she had made a\nbeliever out of me.\nWhen she was satisfied that the Mexicans were being properly\nsituated, she sent me to find my father. It was late, the sun was\nfalling beyond the trees that lined the St. Francis River, and it was\ntime for in to weigh his cotton sack for the final time and call it a\nday. I walked barefoot along a dirt path between two fields, looking\nfor him. The soil was dark and rich, good Delta farmland that\nproduced enough to keep you tied to it. Ahead, I saw the cotton\ntrailer, and I knew he was working his way toward it.Jesse Chandler was the elder son of Pappy and Gran. His\nyounger brother, Ricky, was nineteen and fighting somewhere in\nKorea. There were two sisters who'd fled the farm as soon as they'd\nfinished high school.\nMy father didn't flee. He was determined to be a farmer like his\nfather and grandfather, except he'd be the first Chandler to own his\nland. I didn't know if he had dreams of a life away from the fields.\nLike my grandfather, he had been an excellent baseball player, and\nI'm sure at one point he'd dreamed of major league glory. But he\ntook a German bullet through his thigh in Anzio in 1944, and his\nbaseball career came to an end.\nHe walked with a very slight limp, but then so did most people\nwho toiled in the cotton patch.\nI stopped at the trailer, which was almost empty. It sat on a\nnarrow cotton road, waiting to be filled. I climbed up on it. Around\nme, on all sides, neat rows of green and brown stalks stretched to\nthe tree lines that bordered our land. At the top of the stalks, puffy\nbolls of cotton were popping forth. The cotton was coming to life by\nthe minute, so when I stepped on the back of the trailer and\nsurveyed the fields, I saw an ocean of white. The fields were silent-\nno voices, no tractor engines, no cars on the road. For a moment,\nhanging on to the trailer, I could almost understand why my father\nwanted to be a farmer.\nI could barely see his old straw hat in the distance as he moved\nbetween rows. I jumped down and hurried to meet him. With dusk\napproaching, the gaps between the rows were even darker. Because\nthe sun and rain had cooperated, the leaves were full and thick and\nweaving together so that they brushed against me as I walked\nquickly toward my father.\n“Is that you, Luke?” he called, knowing full well that no one else\nwould be coming to find him.\n“Yes sir!” I answered, moving to the voice. “Mom says it's time to\nquit!”\n“Oh she does?”\n“Yes sir.” I missed him by one row. I cut through the stalks, and\nthere he was, bent at the waist, both hands moving through theleaves, adroitly plucking the cotton and stuffing it into the nearly full\nsack draped over his shoulder. He'd been in the fields since sunrise,\nbreaking only for lunch.\n“Did y'all find some help?” he asked without looking at me.\n“Yes sir,” I said proudly. “Mexicans and hill people.”\n“How many Mexicans?”\n“Ten,” I said, as if I'd personally rounded them up.\n“That's good. Who are the hill people?”\n“The Spruills. I forgot where they're from.”\n“How many?” He finished a stalk and crept forward, with his\nheavy sack inching along behind him.\n“A whole truckload. It's hard to tell. Gran's mad because they've\nset up camp in the front yard, even got a fire goin' where home\nplate is. Pappy told 'em to set up by the silo. I heard him. I don't\nthink they're real smart.”\n“Don't be sayin' that.”\n“Yes sir. Anyway, Gran's not too pleased.”\n“She'll be all right. We need the hill people.”\n“Yes sir. That's what Pappy said. But I hate they've messed up\nhome plate.”\n“Pickin' is more important than baseball these days.”\n“I guess.” Maybe in his opinion.\n“How are the Mexicans?”\n“Not too good. They stuffed 'em in a trailer again, and Mom's not\ntoo happy about it.”\nHis hands stopped for a second as he considered another winter\nof squabbles. “They're just happy to be here,” he said, his hands\nmoving again.\nI took a few steps toward the trailer in the distance, then turned\nto watch him again. “Tell that to Mom.”\nHe gave me a look before saying, “Did Juan make it?”\n“No sir.”\n“Sorry to hear that.”\nI'd talked about Juan for a year. He had promised me last fall\nthat he'd be back. “That's okay,” I said. “The new guy is Miguel. He's\nreal nice.”I told him about the trip to town, how we found the Spruills,\nabout Tally and Trot and the large young man on the tailgate, then\nback to i own where Pappy argued with the man in charge of labor,\nthen the nip to the gin, then about the Mexicans. I did all the talking\nbecause my day had certainly been more eventful than his.\nAt the trailer, he lifted the straps of his cotton sack and hung\nthem over the hook at the bottom of the scales. The needle settled\non fifty-eight pounds. He scribbled this in a ragged old ledger wired\nto the trailer.\n“How much?” I asked when he closed the book.\n“Four-seventy.”\n“A triple,” I said.\nHe shrugged and said, “Not bad.”\nFive hundred pounds equaled a home run, something he\naccomplished every other day. He squatted and said, “Hop on.”\nI jumped on his back, and we started for the house. His shirt and\noveralls were soaked with sweat, and had been all day, but his arms\nwere like steel. Pop Watson told me that Jesse Chandler once hit a\nbaseball that landed in the center of Main Street. Pop and Mr. Snake\nWilcox, the barber, measured it the next day and began telling\npeople that it had traveled, on the fly, 440 feet. But a hostile opinion\nquickly emerged from the Tea Shoppe, where Mr. Junior Barnhart\nclaimed, rather loudly, that the ball had bounced at least once before\nhitting Main Street.\nPop and Junior went weeks without speaking to each other. My\nmother verified the argument, but not the home run.\nShe was waiting for us by the water pump. My father sat on a\nbench and removed his boots and socks. Then he unsnapped his\noveralls and took off his shirt.\nOne of my chores at dawn was to fill a washtub with water and\nleave it in the sun all day so there'd be warm water for my father\nevery afternoon. My mother dipped a hand towel in the tub and\ngently rubbed his neck with it.\nShe had grown up in a house full of girls, and had been raised in\npart by a couple of prissy old aunts. I think they bathed more than\nfarm people, and her passion for cleanliness had rubbed off on myfather. I got a complete scrubbing every Saturday afternoon,\nwhether I needed it or not.\nWhen he was washed up and dried off, she handed him a fresh\nshirt. It was time to welcome our guests. In a large basket, my\nmother had assembled a collection of her finest vegetables, all\nhandpicked, of course, and washed within the past two hours.\nIndian tomatoes, Vidalia onions, red-skin potatoes, green and red\nbell peppers, ears of corn. We carried it to the back of the barn,\nwhere the Mexicans were resting and talking and waiting for their\nsmall fire to burn low so they could make their tortillas. I introduced\nmy father to Miguel, who in turn presented some of his gang.\nCowboy sat alone, his back to the barn, making no move to\nacknowledge us. I could see him watching my mother from under\nthe brim of his hat. It frightened me for a second; then I realized\nJesse Chandler would snap Cowboy's skinny little neck if he made\none wrong move.\nWe had learned a lot from the Mexicans the year before. They\ndid not eat butter beans, snap beans, squash, eggplant, or turnips,\nbut preferred tomatoes, onions, potatoes, peppers, and corn. And\nthey would never ask for food from our garden. It had to be offered.\nMy mother explained to Miguel and the other men that our\ngarden was full and that she would bring them vegetables every\nother day. They were not expected to pay for the food. It was part\nof the package.\nWe took another basket to the front of the house, where Camp\nSpruill seemed to be expanding by the hour. They had crept even\nfarther across the yard, and there were more cardboard boxes and\nburlap sacks strewn about. They'd laid three planks across a box on\none end and a barrel on the other to make a table, and they were\ncrowded around it eating dinner when we approached them. Mr.\nSpruill got to his feet and shook my father's hand.\n“Leon Spruill,” he said with food on his lip. “Nice to meet you.”\n“Happy to have you folks here,” my father said pleasantly.\n“Thank you,” Mr. Spruill said, pulling up his pants. “This here is\nmy wife, Lucy.” She smiled and kept chewing slowly.“This is my daughter, Tally,” he said, pointing. When she looked\nat me, I could feel my cheeks burning.\n“And these are my nephews, Bo and Dale,” he said, nodding to\nthe two boys who'd been resting on the mattress when they had\nstopped on the highway. They were teenagers, probably fifteen or\nso. And sitting next to them was the giant I'd first seen on the\ntailgate, half-asleep.\n“This is my son Hank,” Mr. Spruill said. Hank was at least twenty\nand was certainly old enough to stand up and shake hands. But he\nkept eating. Both jaws were ballooned with what appeared to be\ncorn bread. “He eats a lot,” Mr. Spruill said, and we tried to laugh.\n“And this here is Trot,” he said. Trot never looked up. His limp left\narm hung by his side. He clutched a spoon with his right hand. His\nstanding in the family was left undeclared.\nMy mother presented the large basket of vegetables, and for a\nsecond, Hank stopped his chomping and looked up at the fresh\nsupply. Then he returned to his beans. “The tomatoes and corn are\nespecially good this year,” my mother was saying. “And there's\nplenty. Just let me know what you like.”\nTally chewed slowly and stared at me. I studied my feet.\n“That's mighty nice of you, ma'am,” Mr. Spruill said, and Mrs.\nSpruill added a quick thanks. There was no danger of the Spruills\ngoing without food, not that they had missed any meals. Hank was\nburly with a thick chest that narrowed only slightly where it met his\nneck. Mr. and Mrs. Spruill were both stocky and appeared strong. Bo\nand Dale were lean but not thin. Tally, of course, was perfectly\nproportioned. Only Trot was gaunt and skinny.\n“Didn't mean to interrupt dinner,” my father said, and we began\nbacking away.\n“Thanks again,” Mr. Spruill said.\nI knew from experience that within a short time we would know\nmore than we wanted about the Spruills. They would share our land,\nour water, our outhouse. We would take them vegetables from the\ngarden, milk from Isabel, eggs from the coop. We would invite them\nto town on Saturday and to church on Sunday. We would work\nbeside them in the fields from sunrise until almost dark. And whenthe picking was over, they would leave and return to the hills. The\ntrees would turn, winter would come, and we would spend many\ncold nights huddled around the fire telling stories about the Spruills.\n-----------------\nDinner was potatoes, sliced thin and fried, boiled okra, corn on\nthe cob, and hot corn bread-but no meats because it was almost fall,\nand because we'd had a roast the day before. Gran fried chicken\ntwice a week, but never on Wednesdays. My mother's garden was\nproducing enough tomatoes and onions to feed all of Black Oak, so\nshe sliced a platter of them for every meal.\nThe kitchen was small and hot. A round oscillating fan rattled\naway on top of the refrigerator and tried to keep the air circulating\nas my mother and grandmother prepared dinner. Their movements\nwere slow but steady. They were tired, and it was too hot to hurry\nup.\nThey were not particularly fond of each other, but both were\ndetermined to exist in peace. I never heard them argue, never heard\nmy mother say anything bad about her mother-in-law. They lived in\nthe same house, cooked the same meals, did the same laundry,\npicked the same cotton. With so much work to do, who had time to\nbicker?\nBut Gran had been born and bred deep in the cotton patch. She\nknew she would be buried in the soil she worked. My mother longed\nfor an escape.\nThrough daily ritual, they had silently negotiated a method to\ntheir kitchen work. Gran hovered near the stove, checking the corn\nbread, stirring the potatoes, okra, and corn. My mother kept to the\nsink, where she peeled tomatoes and stacked the dirty dishes. I\nstudied this from the kitchen table, where I sat every night and\npeeled cucumbers with a paring knife. They both loved music, and\noccasionally one would hum while the other sang softly. The music\nkept the tension buried.\nBut not tonight. They were too preoccupied to sing and hum. My\nmother was stewing over the fact that the Mexicans had been\nhauled in like cattle. My grandmother was pouting because the\nSpruills had invaded our front yard.At exactly six o'clock, Gran removed her apron and sat across\nfrom me. The end of the table was flush against the wall and served\nas a large shelf that accumulated things. In the center was an RCA\nradio in a walnut casing. She turned on the switch and smiled at me.\nThe CBS news was delivered to us by Edward R. Murrow, live\nfrom New York. For a week there'd been heavy fighting in\nPyongyang, near the Sea of Japan, and from an old map that Gran\nkept on her night table, we knew that Ricky's infantry division was in\nthe area. His last letter had arrived two weeks earlier. It was a\nquickly written note, but between the lines it gave the impression\nthat he was in the thick of things.\nWhen Mr. Murrow got past his lead story about a spat with the\nRussians, he started on Korea, and Gran closed her eyes. She folded\nher hands together, put both index fingers to her lips, and waited.\nI wasn't sure what she was waiting for. Mr. Murrow was not going\nlo announce to the nation that Ricky Chandler was dead or alive.\nMy mother listened, too. She stood with her back to the sink,\nwiping her hands with a towel, staring blankly at the table. This\nhappened almost every night in the summer and fall of 1952.\nPeace efforts had been started, then abandoned. The Chinese\nwithdrew, then attacked again. Through Mr. Murrow's reports and\nRicky's letters, we lived the war.\nPappy and my father would not listen to the news. They busied\nthemselves outside, at the tool shed or the water pump, doing small\nchores that could've waited, talking about the crops, searching for\nsomething to worry about besides Ricky. Both had fought in wars.\nThey didn't need Mr. Murrow in New York to read some\ncorrespondent's cable from Korea and tell the nation what was\noccurring in one battle or the next. They knew.\nIn any case, it was a short report that night about Korea, and\nthis was taken in our little farmhouse as something good. Mr.\nMurrow moved along to other matters, and Gran finally smiled at\nme. “Ricky's okay,” she said, rubbing my hand. “He'll be home before\nyou know it.”\nShe'd earned the right to believe this. She had waited for Pappy\nduring the First War, and she had prayed long distance for my fatherand his wounds during the Second. Her boys always came home,\nand Ricky would not let us down.\nShe turned the radio off. The potatoes and okra needed her\nattention. She and my mother returned to cooking, and we waited\nfor Pappy to walk through the back screen door.\nI think Pappy expected the worst from the war. The Chandlers\nhad been lucky so far in the century. He wouldn't listen to the news,\nbut he wanted to know if things looked good or bad. When he heard\nthe radio go off, he usually made his way into the kitchen. That\nevening he stopped at the table and tousled my hair. Gran looked at\nhim. She smiled and said, “No bad news.”\nMy mother told me that Gran and Pappy often slept less than an\nhour or two before waking and worrying about their younger son.\nGran was convinced Ricky was coming home. Pappy was not.\nAt six-thirty, we sat around the table, held hands, and gave\nthanks for all the food and all the blessings. Pappy led the praying,\nat least over dinner. He thanked God for the Mexicans and for the\nSpruills, and for the fine crops around us. I prayed quietly, and only\nfor Ricky. I was grateful for the food, but it didn't seem nearly as\nimportant as he did.\nThe adults ate slowly and talked about nothing but cotton. I was\nnot expected to add much to the conversation. Gran in particular\nwas of the opinion that children should be seen and not heard.\nI wanted to go to the barn and check out the Mexicans. And I\nwanted to sneak around front and maybe catch a glimpse of Tally.\nMy mother suspected something, and when we finished eating, she\ntold me to help her with the dishes. I would've preferred a whipping,\nbut I had no choice.\n--------------------\nWe drifted to the front porch for our nightly sitting. It seemed\nlike a simple enough ritual, but it wasn't. First we would let the meal\nsettle, then we'd tend to baseball. We would turn on the radio and\nHarry Caray at KMOX in St. Louis would deliver the play-by-play of\nour beloved Cardinals. My mother and grandmother would shell peas\nor butter beans. Any loose ends of dinner gossip would be wrapped\nup. Of course, the crops were fretted over.But that night it was raining two hundred miles away in St. Louis,\nand the game had been canceled. I sat on the steps, holding my\nRawlings glove, squeezing my baseball inside it, watching the\nshadows of the Spruills in the distance and wondering how anyone\ncould be so thoughtless as to build a fire on home plate.\nThe outside radio was a small General Electric that my father had\nbought in Boston when he left the hospital during the war. Its sole\npurpose was to bring the Cardinals into our lives. We seldom missed\na game. It sat on a wooden crate near the creaking swing where the\nmen rested. My mother and grandmother sat in padded wooden\nchairs not far away, on the other side of the porch, shelling peas. I\nwas in the middle, on the front steps.\nBefore the Mexicans arrived, we'd had a portable fan we put near\nthe screen door. Each night it would hum away quietly and manage\nto push the heavy air around just enough to make things bearable.\nBut, thanks to my mother, it was now in the loft of our barn. This\nhad caused friction, though most of it had been kept away from me.\nAnd so the night was very quiet-no ball game, no fan-just the\nslow talk of weary farm people waiting for the temperature to drop a\nfew more degrees.\nThe rain in St. Louis inspired the men to worry about the\nweather. The rivers and creeks in the Arkansas Delta flooded with\nfrustrating regularity. Every four or five years they left their banks\nand washed away the crops. I couldn't remember a flood, but I'd\nheard so much about them I felt like a veteran. We would pray for\nweeks for a good rain. One would come, and as soon as the ground\nwas soaked, Pappy and my father would start watching the clouds\nand telling flood stories.\nThe Spruills were winding down. Their voices were fading. I\ncould see their shadows moving around the tents. Their fire flickered\nlow, then died.\nAll was quiet on the Chandler farm. We had hill people. We had\nMexicans. The cotton was waiting.\n--------------A Painted HouseChapter 4\n--------------\nAt some point in the vast darkness of the night, Pappy, our\nhuman alarm clock, awoke, put on his boots, and began stomping\naround the kitchen making the first pot of coffee. The house was not\nlarge- three bedrooms, a kitchen, a living room-and it was so old the\nplank floors sagged in places. If one person chose to wake up the\nrest, he or she could certainly do so.\nI was allowed to stay in bed until my father came after me. It\nwas difficult to sleep, though, with all those people on the farm and\nall that cotton to pick. I was already awake when he shook me and\nsaid it was time to go. I dressed quickly and met him on the back\nporch.\nThere was no hint of sunrise as we walked across the backyard,\nthe dew soaking our boots. We stopped at the chicken coop, where\nhe bent low and slipped inside. I was told to wait in front of it, since\nlast month while gathering eggs in the darkness, I'd stepped on a\nhuge rat snake and cried for two days. At first my father had not\nbeen sympathetic; rat snakes are harmless and just a part of life on\nthe farm. My mother, however, intervened with a fury, and for the\ntime being, I was not permitted to collect eggs alone.\nMy father filled a straw bowl with a dozen eggs and handed it to\nme. We headed to the barn, where Isabel was waiting. Now that\nwe'd roused the chickens, the roosters began crowing.\nThe only light came from a pale bulb hanging from the hayloft.\nThe Mexicans were awake. A fire had been lit behind the barn, and\nthey were huddled near it as if they were cold. I was already warm\nfrom the humidity.\nI could milk the cow, and on most mornings that chore belonged\nto me. But the rat snake still had me frightened, plus we were in a\nhurry because we had to be in the fields by sunrise. My father\nrapidly milked two gallons, which would've taken me half the\nmorning. We delivered the food to the kitchen, where the womenwere in charge. The ham was already in the skillet, its rich aroma\nthick in the air.\nBreakfast was fresh eggs, milk, salt-cured ham, and hot biscuits,\nwith sorghum optional. As they cooked, I settled into my chair, ran\nmy fingers across the damp, checkered oilcloth, and waited for my\ncup of coffee. It was the one vice my mother allowed me.\nGran placed the cup and saucer before me, then the sugar bowl\nand the fresh cream. I doctored the coffee until it was as sweet as a\nmalt, then sipped it slowly.\nAt breakfast, conversation in the kitchen was held to a minimum.\nIt was exciting to have so many strangers on our farm for the\nharvest, hut the enthusiasm was dampened by the reality that we\nwould spend most of the next twelve hours unshielded in the sun,\nbent over, picking until our fingers bled.\nWe ate quickly, the roosters making a ruckus in the side yard. My\ngrandmother's biscuits were heavy and perfectly round, and so\nwarm that when I carefully placed a slice of butter in the center of\none, it melted instantly. I watched the yellow cream soak into the\nbiscuit, then took a bite. My mother conceded that Ruth Chandler\nmade the best biscuits she'd ever tasted. I wanted so badly to eat\ntwo or three, like my father, but I simply couldn't hold them. My\nmother ate one, same as Gran. Pappy had two, my father three.\nSeveral hours later, in the middle of the morning, we would stop for\na moment under the shade of a tree or beside the cotton trailer to\neat the leftover biscuits.\nBreakfast was slow in the winter because there was little else to\ndo. The pace was somewhat faster in the spring when we were\nplanting, and in the summer when we were chopping. But during the\nfall harvest, with the sun about to catch us, we ate with a purpose.\nThere was some chatter about the weather. The rain in St. Louis\nthat had canceled last night's Cardinals game was weighing on\nPappy's mind. St. Louis was so far away that no one at the table,\nexcept for Pappy, had ever been there, yet the city's weather was\nnow a crucial element in the harvest of our crops. My mother\nlistened patiently. I didn't say a word.My father had been reading the almanac and offered the opinion\nthat the weather would cooperate throughout the month of\nSeptember. But mid-October looked ominous. Bad weather was on\nthe way. It was imperative that for the next six weeks we work until\nwe dropped. The harder we worked, the harder the Mexicans and\nthe Spruills would work. This was my father's version of a pep talk.\nThe subject of day laborers came up. These were locals who\nwent from farm to farm looking for the best deal. Most were town\npeople we knew. During the previous fall, Miss Sophie Turner, who\ntaught fifth and sixth grades, had bestowed a great honor on us\nwhen she had chosen our fields to pick in.\nWe needed all the day laborers we could get, but they generally\npicked wherever they wanted.\nWhen Pappy finished his last bite, he thanked his wife and my\nmother for the good food and left them to clean up the mess. I\nstrutted onto the back porch with the men.\nOur house faced south, the barn and crops were to the north and\nwest, and to the east I saw the first hint of orange peeking over the\nflat farmland of the Arkansas Delta. The sun was coming, undaunted\nby clouds. My shirt was already sticking to my back.\nA flatbed trailer was hitched to the John Deere, and the Mexicans\nhad already gotten on. My dad went up to speak to Miguel. “Good\nmorning. How did you sleep? Are you ready to work?” Pappy went to\nfetch the Spruills.\nI had a spot, a nook between the fender and the seat of the John\nDeere, and I had spent hours there firmly grasping the metal pole\nholding the umbrella that would cover the driver, either Pappy or my\nfather, when we chugged through the fields plowing or planting or\nspreading fertilizer. I took my place and looked down at the crowded\ntrailer, Mexicans on one side, Spruills on the other. At that moment I\nfelt very privileged because I got to ride on the tractor, and the\ntractor belonged to us. My haughtiness, however, would vanish\nshortly, because all things were level among the cotton stalks.\nI'd been curious as to whether poor Trot would go to the fields.\nPicking required two good arms. Trot had only one, as far as I'd\nbeen able to determine. But there he was, sitting at the edge of thetrailer, his back to everyone else, feet hanging over the side, alone in\nhis own world. And there was Tally, who didn't acknowledge me, but\njust looked into the distance.\nWithout a word, Pappy popped the clutch, and the tractor and\ntrailer lurched forward. I checked to make sure no one fell off.\nThrough the kitchen window I could see my mother's face, watching\nus as she cleaned the dishes. She would finish her chores, spend an\nhour in her garden, then join us for a hard day in the fields. Same\nfor Gran. No one rested when the cotton was ready.\nWe puttered past the barn, the diesel thumping, the trailer\ncreaking, and turned south toward the lower forty, a tract next to\nSiler's Creek. We always picked the lower forty first because the\nfloods would start there.\nWe had the lower forty and the back forty. Eighty acres was no\nsmall farming operation.\nIn a few minutes we arrived at the cotton trailer, and Pappy\nstopped the tractor. Before I jumped down, I looked to the east and\nsaw the lights of our house, less than a mile away. Behind it, the sky\nwas coming to life with streaks of orange and yellow. There wasn't a\ncloud to be seen, and this meant no floods in the near future. It also\nmeant no shelter from the scorching sun.\nTally said, “Good morning, Luke,” as she walked by.\nI managed to return her greeting. She smiled at me as if she\nknew some secret that she would never tell.\nPappy didn't give an orientation, and none was needed. Choose a\nrow in either direction, and start picking. No chitchat, no stretching\nof the muscles, no predictions about the weather. Without a word\nthe Mexicans draped their long cotton sacks over their shoulders,\nlined up, and went south. The Arkansans went north.\nFor a second, I stood there in the semidarkness of an already hot\nSeptember morning, staring down a very long, straight row of\ncotton, a row that had somehow been assigned to me. I thought, I'll\nnever get to the end of it, and I was suddenly tired.\nI had cousins in Memphis, sons and daughters of my father's two\nsisters, and they had never picked cotton. City kids, in the suburbs,\nin nice little homes with indoor plumbing. They returned to Arkansasfor funerals-sometimes for Thanksgiving. As I stared at my endless\nrow of cotton, I thought of those cousins.\nTwo things motivated me to work. First, and most important, I\nhad my father on one side and my grandfather on the other. Neither\ntolerated laziness. They had worked the fields when they were\nchildren, and I would certainly do the same. Second, I got paid for\npicking, same as the other field hands. A dollar sixty for a hundred\npounds. And I had big plans for the money.\n“Let's go,” my father said firmly in my direction. Pappy was\nalready settled among the stalks, ten feet into his row. I could see\nhis outline and his straw hat. I could hear the Spruills a few rows\nover chatting among themselves. Hill people sang a lot, and it was\nnot uncommon to hear them crooning some low, mournful tune as\nthey picked. Tally laughed about something, her luxurious voice\nechoing across the fields.\nShe was only ten years older than I was.\nPappy's father had fought in the Civil War. His name was\nJeremiah Chandler, and according to family lore, he'd almost single-\nhandedly won the Battle of Shiloh. When Jeremiah's second wife\ndied, he took a third, a local maiden thirty years his junior. A few\nyears later she gave birth to Pappy.\nA thirty-year gap for Jeremiah and his bride. Ten for Tally and\nme. It could work.\nWith solemn resolve, I flung my nine-foot cotton sack across my\nback, the strap over my right shoulder, and attacked the first boll of\ncotton. It was damp from the dew, and that was one reason we\nstarted so early. For the first hour or so, before the sun got too high\nand baked everything, the cotton was soft and gentle to our hands.\nLater, after it was dumped into the trailer, it would dry and could be\neasily ginned. Cotton soaked with rainwater could not be ginned,\nsomething every farmer had learned the hard way.\nI picked as fast as possible, with both hands, and stuffed the\ncotton into the sack. I had to be careful, though. Either Pappy or my\nfather, or possibly both of them, would inspect my row at some point\nduring the morning. If I left too much cotton in the bolls, then I\nwould be reprimanded. The severity of the scolding would bedetermined by how close my mother was to me at that particular\nmoment.\nAs deftly as I could, I worked my small hands through the maze\nof stalks, grabbing the bolls, avoiding if possible the burrs because\nthey were pointed and could draw blood. I bobbed and weaved and\ninched along, falling farther behind my father and Pappy.\nOur cotton was so thick that the stalks from each row\nintertwined. They brushed against my face. After the incident with\nthe rat snake, I watched every step around our farm, especially in\nthe fields, since there were cottonmouths near the river. I'd seen\nplenty of them from the back of the John Deere when we were\nplowing and planting.\nBefore long I was all alone, a child left behind by those with\nquicker hands and stronger backs. The sun was a bright orange ball,\nrising fast into position to sear the land for another day. When my\nfather and Pappy were out of sight, I decided to take my first break.\nTally was the nearest person. She was five rows over and fifty feet in\nfront of me. I could barely see her faded denim bonnet above the\ncotton.\nUnder the shade of the stalks, I stretched out on my cotton sack,\nwhich after an hour was depressingly flat. There were a few soft\nlumps, but nothing significant. The year before, I'd been expected to\npick fifty pounds a day, and my fear was that this quota was about\nto be increased.\nLying on my back, I watched through the stalks the perfectly\nclear sky, hoped for clouds, and dreamed of money. Every August\nwe received by mail the latest edition of the Sears, Roebuck catalog,\nand few events were more momentous, at least in my life. It came\nin a brown wrapper, all the way from Chicago, and was required by\nGran to be kept at the end of the kitchen table, next to the radio and\nthe family Bible. The women studied the clothes and the home\nfurnishings. The men scrutinized the tools and auto supplies. But I\ndwelt on the important sections-toys and sporting goods. I made\nsecret Christmas lists in my mind. I was afraid to write down all the\nthings I dreamed of. Someone might find such a list and think I was\neither hopelessly greedy or mentally ill.On page 308 of the current catalog was an incredible ad for\nbaseball warm-up jackets. There was one for almost every\nprofessional team. What made the ad so amazing was that the\nyoung man doing the modeling was wearing a Cardinals jacket, and\nit was in color. A bright Cardinal red, in some type of shiny fabric,\nwhite buttons down the front. Of all the teams, someone with\nuncanny wisdom at Sears, Roebuck had picked the Cardinals to\ndisplay.\nIt cost $7.50, plus shipping. And it came in children's sizes, which\npresented another quandary because I was bound to grow and I\nwanted to wear the jacket for the rest of my life.\nTen days of hard labor, and I'd have enough money to purchase\nthe jacket. I was certain nothing like it had ever been seen in Black\nOak, Arkansas. My mother said it was a bit gaudy, whatever that\nmeant. My father said I needed boots. Pappy thought it was a waste\nof money, but I could tell he secretly admired it.\nAt the first hint of cool weather I would wear the jacket to school\nevery day, and to church on Sundays. I would wear it to town on\nSaturdays; a bolt of bright red amid the drearily clad throngs\nloitering on the sidewalks. I would wear it everywhere, and I'd be\nthe envy of every kid in Black Oak (and a lot of adults, too).\nThey would never have the chance to play for the Cardinals. I, on\nthe other hand, would become famous in St. Louis. It was important\nto start looking the part.\n“Lucas!” a stern voice shot through the stillness of the fields.\nStalks were snapping nearby.\n“Yes sir,” I said, jumping to my feet, keeping low, thrusting my\nhands at the nearest bolls of cotton.\nMy father was suddenly standing over me. “What are you doing?”\nhe asked.\n“I had to pee,” I said, without stopping my hands.\n“It took a long time,” he said, unconvinced.\n“Yes sir. It's all that coffee.” I looked up at him. He knew the\ntruth.\n“Try to keep up,” he said, turning around and walking away.“Yes sir,” I said to his back, knowing I could never keep up with\nhim.\n---------------------\nA twelve-foot sack like the adults used held about sixty pounds of\ncotton, so by eight-thirty or nine o'clock the men were ready to\nweigh. Pappy and my father were in charge of the scales, which\nhung from the end of the trailer. The sacks were hoisted upward to\none of them. The straps were looped over the hooks at the bottom\nof the scales. The needle sprang around like the long hand of a large\nclock. Everyone could see how much each person picked.\nPappy recorded the data in a small book near the scales. Then\nthe cotton sack was shoved even higher and emptied into the trailer.\nNo time for a rest. You caught the empty sack when it was tossed\ndown. You selected another row and disappeared for another two\nhours.\nI was in the middle of an endless row of cotton, sweating, boiling\nin the sun, bending at the shoulders, trying to be fast with my\nhands, and stopping occasionally to monitor the movements of\nPappy and my father so that maybe I could arrange another nap.\nBut there was never an opportunity to drop my sack. Instead, I\nplowed ahead, working hard, waiting for the sack to get heavy, and\nwondering for the first time if I really needed the Cardinals jacket.\nAfter an eternity alone in the fields, I heard the John Deere fire\nup, and I knew it was time for lunch. Though I had not completed\nmy first row, I didn't really care about my lack of progress. We met\nat the tractor, and I saw Trot curled in a knot on the flat deck trailer.\nMrs. Spruill and Tally were patting him. At first I thought he might be\ndead, then he moved a little. “The heat got him,” my father\nwhispered to me, as he took my sack and whirled it around over his\nshoulder as if it were empty.\nI followed him to the scales, where Pappy quickly weighed it. All\nthat back-numbing labor for thirty-one pounds of cotton.\nWhen the Mexicans and Spruills were accounted for, we all\nheaded for the house. Lunch was at noon sharp. My mother and\nGran had left the fields an hour earlier to prepare it.From my perch on the John Deere, I clutched the umbrella stand\nwith my scratched and sore left hand and watched the field workers\nbounce along. Mr. and Mrs. Spruill were holding Trot, who was still\nlifeless and pale. Tally sat nearby, her long legs stretched across the\ndeck of the trailer. Bo, Dale, and Hank seemed unconcerned about\npoor Trot. Like everyone else, they were hot and tired and ready for\na break.\nOn the other side, the Mexicans sat in a row, shoulder to\nshoulder, feet hanging off the side and almost dragging the ground.\nA couple of them wore no shoes or boots.\nWhen we were nearly at the barn, I saw something that at first I\ncouldn't believe. Cowboy, sitting at the very end of the short trailer,\nturned quickly, and glanced at Tally. She seemed to have been\nwaiting for him to look, because she gave him one of her pretty little\nsmiles, similar to the ones I'd been getting. Though he didn't return\nthe smile, it was obvious he was pleased.\nIt happened in a flash, and nobody saw it but me.\n--------------A Painted HouseChapter 5\n--------------\nAccording to Gran and my mother, conspiring together, the early\nafternoon nap was crucial to the proper growth of a child. I believed\nthis only when we were picking cotton. For the rest of the year, I\nfought a nap with as much vigor as I put into planning my baseball\ncareer.\nBut during the harvest, everybody rested after lunch. The\nMexicans ate quickly and sprawled under a maple tree near the\nbarn. The Spruills ate leftover ham and biscuits and likewise found\nshade.\nI wasn't allowed to use my bed because I was dirty from the\nfields, so I slept on the floor in my bedroom. I was tired and stiff\nfrom my labors. I dreaded the afternoon session because it always\nseemed longer, and it was certainly hotter. I drifted away\nimmediately and was even stiffer when I awoke a half hour later.\nTrot was causing concern in the front yard. Gran, who fancied\nherself as some sort of country medicine woman, had gone to check\non him, no doubt with the intention of whipping up one of her\ndreadful concoctions to force down his throat. They had him on an\nold mattress under a tree with a wet cloth on his forehead. It was\nobvious he couldn't go back to the fields, and Mr. and Mrs. Spruill\nwere reluctant to leave him alone.\nThey, of course, had to pick cotton to earn money to live on. I\ndid not. A plan had been devised in my absence to require me to sit\nwith Trot while everybody else worked in the heat for the rest of the\nafternoon. If Trot somehow took a turn for the worse, I was\nsupposed to sprint to the lower forty and fetch the nearest Spruill. I\ntried to appear unhappy with this arrangement when my mother\nexplained it to me.\n“What about my Cardinals jacket?” I asked her with as much\nconcern as I could muster.“There's plenty of cotton left for you,” she said. “Just sit with him\nthis afternoon. He should be better tomorrow.”\nThere were, of course, eighty acres of cotton, all of which had to\nbe picked twice during the next two months or so. If I lost my\nCardinals jacket, it wouldn't be because of Trot.\nI watched the trailer leave again, this time with my mother and\nGran sitting with the field hands. It squeaked and rattled away from\nthe house, past the barn, down the field road, and was finally lost\namong the rows of cotton. I couldn't help but wonder whether Tally\nand Cowboy were making eyes at each other. If I found the courage,\nI would ask my mother about this.\nWhen I walked to the mattress, Trot was lying perfectly still with\nhis eyes closed. He didn't appear to be breathing.\n“Trot,” I said loudly, suddenly terrified that he had died on my\nwatch.\nHe opened his eyes, and very slowly sat up and looked at me.\nThen he glanced around, as if to make certain we were alone. His\nwithered left arm wasn't much thicker than a broom handle, and it\nhung from his shoulder without moving much. His black hair shot\nout in all directions.\n“Are you okay?” I asked. I'd yet to hear him speak, and I was\ncurious to know if he could do so.\n“I guess,” he grunted, his voice thick and his words blurred. I\ncouldn't tell if he had a speech impediment or if he was just tired\nand dazed. He kept looking around to make sure everyone else was\ngone, and it occurred to me that perhaps Trot had been faking a bit.\nI began to admire him.\n“Does Tally like baseball?” I asked, one of a hundred questions I\nwanted to drill him with. I thought it was a simple question, but he\nwas overcome by it and immediately closed his eyes and rolled to\none side, then curled his knees to his chest and began another nap.\nA breeze rustled the top of the pin oak. I found a thick, grassy\nspot in the shade near his mattress, and stretched out. Watching the\nleaves and branches high above, I considered my good fortune. The\nrest of them were sweating in the sun as time crept along. For amoment I tried to feel guilty, but it didn't work. My luck was only\ntemporary, so I decided to enjoy it.\nAs did Trot. While he slept like a baby, I watched the sky. Soon,\nthough, boredom hit. I went to the house to get a ball and my base-\nhall glove. I threw myself pop flies near the front porch, something I\ncould do for hours. At one point I caught seventeen in a row.\nThroughout the afternoon, Trot never left the mattress. He would\nsleep, then sit up and look around, then watch me for a moment. If\nI tried to strike up a conversation, he usually rolled over and\ncontinued his nap. At least he wasn't dying.\nThe next casualty from the cotton patch was Hank. He ambled in\nlate in the day, walking slowly and complaining about the heat. Said\nhe needed to check on Trot.\n“I picked three hundred pounds,” he said, as if this would\nimpress me. “Then the heat got me.” His face was red with sunburn.\nHe wore no hat, which said a lot about his intelligence. Every head\nwas covered in the fields.\nHe looked Trot over for a second, then went to the back of the\ntruck and began rummaging through their boxes and sacks like a\nstarving bear. He crammed a cold biscuit into his huge mouth, then\nstretched out under the tree.\n“Fetch me some water, boy,” he growled abruptly in my direction.\nI was too surprised to move. I'd never heard a hill person give an\norder to one of us. I wasn't sure what to do. But he was grown, and\nI was just a kid.\n“Sir?” I said.\n“Fetch me some water!” he repeated, his voice rising.\nI was certain they had water stored somewhere among their\nthings. I took a very awkward step toward their truck. This upset\nhim.\n“Cold water, boy! From the house. And hurry! I been workin' all\nday. You ain't.”\nI rushed into the house, to the kitchen, where Gran kept a gallon\njug of water in the refrigerator. My hands shook as I poured the\nwater into a glass. I knew that when I reported this, it would cause\ntrouble. My father would have words with Leon Spruill.I handed Hank the glass. He drained it quickly, smacked his lips,\nthen said, “Gimme another glass.”\nTrot was sitting and watching this. I ran back to the house and\nrefilled it. When Hank finished the second, he spat near my feet.\n“You're a good boy,” he said, and tossed me the glass.\n“Thanks,” I said, catching it.\n“Now leave us alone,” he said as he lay down on the grass. I\nretreated to the house and waited for my mother.\nYou could quit picking at five if you wanted. That was when\nPappy pulled the trailer back to the house. Or you could stay in the\nfields until dark, like the Mexicans. Their stamina was amazing. They\nwould pick until they couldn't see the bolls anymore, then walk a\nhalf mile with their heavy sacks to the barn, where they would build\na small fire and eat a few tortillas before sleeping hard.\nThe other Spruills gathered around Trot, who managed to look\neven sicker for the short minute or so they examined him. Once it\nwas determined that he was alive and somewhat alert, they\nhurriedly turned their attention to dinner. Mrs. Spruill built a fire.\nNext, Gran hovered over Trot. She appeared to be deeply\nconcerned, and I think the Spruills appreciated this. I knew,\nhowever, that she merely wanted to conduct experiments on the\npoor boy with one of her vile remedies. Since I was the smallest\nvictim around, I was usually the guinea pig for any new brew she\ndiscovered. I knew from experience that she could whip up a\nconcoction so curative that Trot would bolt from the mattress and\nrun like a scalded dog. After a few minutes, Trot got suspicious and\nbegan watching her closely. He now seemed more aware of things,\nand Gran took this as a sign that he didn't need any medicine, at\nleast not immediately. But she placed him under surveillance, and\nshe'd make her rounds again tomorrow.\nMy worst chore of the late afternoon was in the garden. I\nthought it was cruel to force me, or any other seven-year-old kid for\nthat matter, to awake before sunrise, work in the fields all day, and\nthen pull garden duty before supper. But I knew we were lucky to\nhave such a beautiful garden.At some point before I was born, the women had sectioned off\nlittle areas of turf, both inside the house and out, and laid claim to\nthem. I don't know how my mother got the entire garden, but there\nwas no doubt it belonged to her.\nIt was on the east side of our house, the quiet side, away from\nthe kitchen door and the barnyard and the chicken coop. Away from\nPappy's pickup and the small dirt drive where the rare visitor parked.\nIt was enclosed in a wire fence four feet tall, built by my father\nunder my mother's direction, and designed to keep out deer and\nvarmints.\nCorn was planted around the fence so that once you closed the\nrickety gate with the leather latch, you stepped into a secret world\nhidden by the stalks.\nMy job was to take a straw basket and follow my mother around\nas she gathered whatever she deemed ripe. She had a basket, too,\nand she slowly filled it with tomatoes, cucumbers, squash, peppers,\nonions, and eggplant. She talked quietly, not necessarily to me, but\nto the garden in general.\n“Look at the corn, would you? We'll eat those next week.”\n“Yes ma'am.”\n“The pumpkins should be just right for Halloween.”\n“Yes ma'am.”\nShe was constantly searching for weeds, little trespassers that\nsurvived only momentarily in our garden. She stopped, pointed, and\nsaid, “Pull those weeds there, Luke, by the watermelons.”\nI set the basket on the dirt trail and pulled with a vengeance.\nThe garden work was not as rough in the late summer as it was\nin the spring, when the ground had to be tilled and the weeds grew\nfaster than the vegetables.\nA long green snake froze us for a second, then it disappeared\ninto the butter bean vines. The garden was full of snakes, all\nharmless, but snakes nonetheless. My mother was not deathly afraid\nof them, but we gave them plenty of room. I lived in fear of reaching\nfor a cucumber and feeling fangs sink into the back of my hand.\nMy mother loved this little plot of soil because it was hers-no one\nelse really wanted it. She treated it like a sanctuary. When the housegot crowded, I could always find her in the garden, talking to her\nvegetables. Harsh words were rare in our family. When they\nhappened, I knew my mother would disappear into her refuge.\nI could hardly carry my basket by the time she'd finished her\nselections.\n---------------------\nThe rain had stopped in St. Louis. At exactly eight o'clock, Pappy\nturned on the radio, fiddled with the knobs and the antenna, and\nthere was colorful Harry Caray, the raspy voice of the Cardinals.\nThere were about twenty games remaining in the season. The\nDodgers were in front, and the Giants were in second place. The\nCards were in third. It was more than we could stand. Cardinal fans\nnaturally hated the Yankees, and trailing behind two other New York\nteams in our own league was unbearable.\nPappy was of the opinion that the manager, Eddie Stanky,\nshould've been fired months earlier. When the Cardinals won, it was\nbecause of Stan Musial. When they lost, with the same players on\nthe field, it was always the fault of the manager.\nPappy and my father sat side by side on the swing, its rusted\nchains squeaking as they rocked gently. Gran and my mother shelled\nbutter beans and peas on the other side of the small porch. I was\nlounging on the top step, within earshot of the radio, watching the\nSpruill show wind down, waiting with the adults for the heat to\nfinally relent. I missed the steady hum of the old fan, but I knew\nbetter than to bring up the subject.\nConversation arose softly from the women as they talked about\nchurch stuff-the fall revival and the upcoming dinner-on-the-\ngrounds. A Black Oak girl was getting married in Jonesboro, in a big\nchurch, supposedly to a boy with money, and this had to be\ndiscussed every night in some fashion. I could not imagine why the\nwomen were drawn back to the subject, night after night.\nThe men had virtually nothing to say, at least nothing unrelated\nto baseball. Pappy was capable of long stretches of silence, and my\nfather wasn't much better. No doubt, they were worrying about the\nweather or cotton prices, but they were too tired to fret aloud.I was content simply to listen, to close my eyes and try to picture\nSportsman's Park in St. Louis, a magnificent stadium where thirty\nthousand people could gather to watch Stan Musial and the\nCardinals. Pappy had been there, and during the season I made him\ndescribe the place to me at least once a week. He said when you\nsaw the field it seemed to expand. There was grass so green and\nsmooth you could roll marbles across it. The dirt on the infield was\nactually raked until it was perfect. The scoreboard in left-center was\nbigger than our house. And all those people, those unbelievably\nlucky people of St. Louis who got to see the Cardinals and didn't\nhave to pick cotton.\nDizzy Dean and Enos “Country” Slaughter and Red Schoendienst,\nall the great Cardinals, all the fabled Gashouse Gang, had played\nthere. And because my father and grandfather and uncle could play\nthe game, there was not the slightest doubt in my mind that I would\none day rule Sportsman's Park. I would glide across the perfect\noutfield grass in front of thirty thousand fans and personally grind\nthe Yankees into the dirt.\nThe greatest Cardinal of all time was Stan Musial, and when he\ncame to the plate in the second inning with a runner at first, I saw\nHank Spruill ease through the darkness and sit in the shadows, just\nclose enough to hear the radio.\n“Is Stan up?” my mother asked.\n“Yes ma'am,” I said. She pretended to take an interest in baseball\nbecause she knew nothing about it. And if she acted interested in\nStan Musial, then she could survive any conversation on the subject\naround Black Oak.\nThe soft snap and crunch of the butter beans and peas stopped.\nThe swing was still. I squeezed my baseball glove. My father held\nthe opinion that Harry Caray's voice took on an edge when Musial\nstepped in, but Pappy was not convinced.\nThe first pitch by the Pirates pitcher was a fastball low and away.\nFew pitchers challenged Musial with fastballs on the first pitch. The\nyear before, he'd led the National League with a .355 batting\naverage, and in 1952, he was running neck and neck with the Cubs'Frankie Baumholtz for the lead. He had power and speed, a great\nglove, and he played hard every day.\nI had a Stan Musial baseball card hidden in a cigar box in my\ndrawer, and if the house ever caught on fire, I would grab it before I\ngrabbed anything else.\nThe second pitch was a high curveball, and with the count of two\nballs, you could almost hear the fans get out of their seats. A\nbaseball was about to get ripped into some remote section of\nSportsman's Park. No pitcher fell behind Stan Musial and survived\nthe moment. The third pitch was a fastball, and Harry Caray\nhesitated just long enough for us to hear the crack of the bat. The\ncrowd exploded. I held my breath, waiting in that split second for old\nHarry to tell us where the ball was going. It bounced off the wall in\nright field, and the crowd roared even louder. The front porch got\nexcited, too. I jumped to my feet, as if by standing I could somehow\nsee St. Louis. Pappy and my father both leaned forward as Harry\nCaray yelled through the radio. My mother managed some form of\nexclamation.\nMusial was battling his teammate Schoendienst for the National\nLeague lead in doubles. The year before, he'd had twelve triples,\ntops in the majors. As he rounded second, I could barely hear Caray\nabove the crowd. The runner from first scored easily, and Stan slid\ninto third, in the dirt, his feet touching the base, the hapless third\nbaseman taking the late throw and tossing it back to the pitcher. I\ncould see him get to his feet as the crowd went nuts. Then with\nboth hands he slapped the dirt off his white uniform with the bright\nred trim.\nThe game had to go on, but for us Chandlers, at least the men,\nthe day was now complete. Musial had hit a bomb, and because we\nhad little hope that the Cardinals would win the pennant, we gladly\ntook our victories where we could get them. The crowd settled\ndown, Harry's voice lowered, and I sank back onto the porch, still\nwatching Stan at third.\nIf those damned Spruills hadn't been out there, I would've eased\ninto the darkness and taken my position at home plate. I would wait\nfor the fastball, hit it just like my hero, then race around the basesand slide majestically into third base, over by the shadows where\nthe monster Hank was loitering.\n“Who's winnin'?” Mr. Spruill asked from somewhere in the\ndarkness.\n“Cardinals. One to nothin'. Bottom of the second. Musial just hit a\ntriple,” Hank answered. If they were such baseball fans, why had\nthey built their fire on home plate and pitched their ragged tents\naround my infield? Any fool could look at our front yard, the trees\nnotwithstanding, and see that it was meant for baseball.\nIf not for Tally, I would have dismissed the entire bunch. And\nTrot. I did feel sympathy for the poor kid.\nI had decided not to bring up the issue of Hank and the cold\nwater. I knew that if I reported it to my father, or to Pappy, then a\nserious discussion would take place with Mr. Spruill. The Mexicans\nknew their place, and the hill people were expected to know theirs.\nThey did not ask for things from our house, and they did not give\norders to me or anyone else.\nHank had a neck thicker than any I'd ever seen. His arms and\nhands were also massive, but what scared me were his eyes. I\nthought they were blank and stupid most of the time, but when he\nbarked at me to fetch him the cold water, they narrowed and glowed\nwith evil.\nI didn't want Hank mad at me, nor did I want my father to\nconfront him. My father could whip anybody, except for maybe\nPappy, who was older but, when necessary, much meaner. I decided\nto set aside the incident for the time being. If it happened again,\nthen I would have no choice but to tell my mother.\nThe Pirates scored two in the fourth, primarily because,\naccording to Pappy, Eddie Stanky didn't change pitchers when he\nshould have. Then they scored three in the fifth, and Pappy got so\nmad he went to bed.\nIn the seventh inning, the heat broke just enough to convince us\nwe could get some sleep. The peas and butter beans had been\nshelled. The Spruills were all tucked away. We were exhausted, and\nthe Cardinals were going nowhere. It wasn't difficult to leave the\ngame.After my mother tucked me in and we said our prayers, I kicked I\nhe sheets off so I could breathe. I listened to the crickets sing their\nscreeching chorus, calling to each other across the fields. They\nserenaded us every night in the summer, unless it was raining. I\nheard a voice in the distance-a Spruill was rambling about, probably\nHank rummaging for one last biscuit.\nIn the living room we had a box fan, a large window unit, which\nin theory was supposed to suck the hot air through the house and\nblow it out across the barnyard. It worked about half the time. One\ndoor inadvertently closed or blown shut would disrupt the\nmovements of .nr, and you'd lie in your own sweat until you fell\nasleep. Wind from I he outside would somehow confuse the box fan,\nand the hot air would gather in the living room, then creep through\nthe house, smothering us. The fan broke down often-but it was one\nof Pappy's proudest possessions, and we knew of only two other\nfarm families at church who owned such a luxury.\nThat night it happened to be working.\nLying in Ricky's bed, listening to the crickets, enjoying the slight\ndraft over my body as the sticky summer air was pulled toward the\nliving room, I let my thoughts drift to Korea, a place I never wanted\nto see. My father would tell me nothing about war. Not a hint. There\nwere a few glorious adventures of Pappy's father and his victories in\nthe Civil War, but when it came to the wars of this century, he\noffered little. I wanted to know how many people he'd shot. How\nmany battles he'd won. I wanted to see his scars. There were a\nthousand questions I wanted to ask him.\n“Don't talk about war,” my mother had cautioned me many times.\n“It's too awful.”\nAnd now Ricky was in Korea. It had been snowing when he left\nus in February, three days after his nineteenth birthday. It was cold\nin Korea, too. I knew that much from a story on the radio. I was safe\nand warm in his bed while he was lying in a trench shooting and\ngetting shot at.\nWhat if he didn't come home?\nIt was a question I tortured myself with every night. I thought\nabout him dying until I cried. I didn't want his bed. I didn't want hisroom. I wanted Ricky home, so we could run the bases in the front\nyard and throw baseballs against the barn and fish in the St. Francis.\nHe was really more of a big brother than an uncle.\nBoys were getting killed over there, lots of them. We prayed for\nthem at church. We talked about the war at school. At the moment,\nRicky was the only boy from Black Oak in Korea, which bestowed\nupon us Chandlers some odd distinction I cared nothing about.\n“Have you heard from Ricky?” was the great question that\nconfronted us every time we went to town.\nYes or no, it didn't matter. Our neighbors were just trying to be\nthoughtful. Pappy wouldn't answer them. My father would give a\npolite response. Gran and my mother would chat quietly for a few\nminutes about his last letter.\nI always said, “Yeah. He's coming home soon.”\n--------------A Painted HouseChapter 6\n--------------\nShortly after breakfast, I followed Gran down the front steps and\nthrough the middle of the front yard. She was a woman on a\nmission: Dr. Gran making her early morning rounds, thrilled that a\nbona-fide sick person was present within her jurisdiction.\nThe Spruills were hunched over their makeshift table, eating\nquickly. Trot's lazy eyes came to life when Gran said, “Good mornin',”\nand went straight toward him.\n“How's Trot?” she said.\n“Much better,” said Mrs. Spruill.\n“He's fine,” said Mr. Spruill.\nGran touched the boy's forehead. “Any fever?” she demanded.\nTrot shook his head with a vengeance. There'd been no fever the\nday before. Why would there be one this morning?\n“Are you light-headed?”\nTrot wasn't sure what that meant, nor were the rest of the\nSpruills. I figured the boy went through life in a perpetual state of\nlight-headedness.\nMr. Spruill took charge, wiping a drip of sorghum from the corner\nof his mouth with a forearm. “We figure we'll take him to the fields\nand let him sit under the trailer, out of the sun.”\n“If a cloud comes up, then he can pick,” added Mrs. Spruill. It\nwas evident the Spruills had already made plans for Trot.\nDammit, I thought.\nRicky had taught me a few cuss words. I usually practiced them\nin I he woods by the river, then prayed for forgiveness as soon as I\nwas alone.\nI had envisioned another lazy day under the shade trees in the\nFront yard, guarding Trot while playing baseball and taking it easy.\n“I suppose,” said Gran as she took her thumb and index finger\nand pried one of his eyes wide open. Trot shot a frightened look with\nhis other eye.“I'll stay close by,” Gran said, clearly disappointed. Over breakfast\nI'd heard her tell my mother that she'd decided the proper remedy\nwould be a strong dose of castor oil, lemon, and some black herb\nshe grew in a window box. I'd stopped eating when I heard this. It\nwas her old standby, one she'd used on me several times. It was\nmore powerful than surgery. My ailments were instantly cured as the\ndosage burned from my tongue to my toes, and kept burning.\nShe once mixed a surefire remedy for Pappy because he was\nconstipated. He'd spent two days in the outhouse, unable to farm,\nbegging for water, which I hauled back and forth in a milk jug. I\nthought she'd killed him. When he emerged-pale, gaunt, somewhat\nthinner-he walked with a purpose to the house, angrier than anyone\nhad ever seen him. My parents threw me in the pickup, and we went\nfor a long drive.\nGran again promised Trot she'd watch him during the day. He\nsaid nothing. He'd stopped eating and was staring blankly across the\ntable, in the general direction of Tally, who was pretending I didn't\nexist.\nWe left and returned to the house. I sat on the front steps,\nwaiting for a glimpse of Tally, silently cussing Trot for being so\nstupid. Maybe he'd collapse again. Surely when the sun was\noverhead he'd succumb, and they'd need me to watch him on the\nmattress.\nWhen we gathered at the trailer, I greeted Miguel as his gang\nemerged from the barn and took their places on one side of the\ntrailer. The Spruills took the other side. My father sat in the middle,\ncrowded between the two groups. Pappy drove the tractor, and I\nobserved them from my prized perch next to his seat. Of particular\ninterest this morning was any activity between the loathsome\nCowboy and my beloved Tally. I didn't notice any. Everyone was in a\ndaze, eyes half-open and downcast, dreading another day of sun\nand drudgery.\nThe trailer rocked and swayed as we slowly made our way into\nthe white fields. As I gazed at the fields of cotton, I couldn't think of\nmy shiny red Cardinals baseball jacket. I tried mightily to pull up\nimages of the great Musial and his muscled teammates runningacross the manicured green grass of Sportsman's Park. I tried to\nimagine all of them clad in their red and white uniforms with some\nno doubt wearing baseball jackets just like the one in the Sears,\nRoebuck catalog. I tried to picture these scenes because they never\nfailed to inspire me, but the tractor stopped, and all I could see was\nthe looming cotton, just standing there, row after row, waiting.\n----------------\nLast year, Juan had revealed to me the pleasures of Mexican\nfood, especially tortillas. The workers ate them three times a day, so\nI figured they must be good. I'd eaten lunch one day with Juan and\nhis group, after I'd eaten in our house. He'd fixed me two tortillas,\nand I'd devoured them. Three hours later I was on hands and knees\nunder the cotton trailer, as sick as a dog. I was scolded by every\nChandler present, my mother leading the pack.\n“You can't eat their food!” she said with as much scorn as I'd\never heard.\n“Why not?” I asked.\n“Because it's not clean.”\nI was expressly forbidden to eat anything cooked by the\nMexicans. And this, of course, made the tortillas taste even better. I\ngot caught again when Pappy made a surprise appearance at the\nbarn to check on Isabel. My father took me behind the tool shed and\nwhipped me with his belt. I laid off the tortillas for as long as I\ncould.\nBut a new chef was with us, and I was eager to measure Miguel's\nfood against Juan's. After lunch, when I was certain everyone was\nasleep, I sneaked out the kitchen door and walked nonchalantly\ntoward the barn. It was a dangerous little excursion because Pappy\nand Gran did not nap well, even when they were exhausted from the\nfields.\nThe Mexicans were sprawled in the shade of the north end of the\nbarn, most of them sleeping on the grass. Miguel knew I was coming\nbecause we'd talked for a moment earlier in the morning when we\nmet to get our cotton weighed. His haul was seventy pounds, mine\nwas fifteen.He knelt over the coals of a small fire and warmed a tortilla in a\nskillet. He flipped it, and when it was brown on one side, he added a\nthin layer of salsa-finely chopped tomatoes and onions and peppers,\nall from our garden. It also contained jalapenos and chopped red\npeppers that had never been grown in the state of Arkansas. These\nthe Mexicans imported themselves in their little bags.\nA couple of the Mexicans were interested in the fact that I\nwanted a tortilla. The rest of them were working hard at their\nsiestas. Cowboy was nowhere to be seen. Standing at the corner of\nthe barn, with a full view of the house and any Chandler who might\ncome looking, I ate a tortilla. It was hot and spicy and messy. I\ncouldn't tell any difference between Juan's and Miguel's. They were\nboth delicious. Miguel asked if I wanted another, and I could easily\nhave eaten one. But I didn't want to take their food. They were all\nsmall and skinny and dirt-poor, and last year when I got caught and\nthe adults took turns scolding me and heaping untold measures of\nshame upon me, Gran had been creative enough to invent the sin of\ntaking food from the less fortunate. As Baptists, we were never short\non sins to haunt us.\nI thanked him and crept back to the house and onto the front\nporch without waking a single Spruill. I curled into the swing as if I'd\nbeen napping all along. No one was stirring, but I couldn't sleep. A\nbreeze came from nowhere, and I daydreamed of a lazy afternoon\non the porch, no cotton to be picked, nothing to do but maybe fish\nin the St. Francis and catch pop flies in the front yard.\nThe work almost killed me during the afternoon. Late in the day,\nI limped toward the cotton trailer, lugging my harvest behind me,\nhot and thirsty, soaked with sweat, my fingers swollen from the tiny\nshallow punctures inflicted by the burrs. I already had forty-one\npounds for the day. My quota was still fifty, and I was certain I had\nat least ten pounds in my sack. I was hoping my mother would be\nsomewhere near the scales because she would insist that I be\nallowed to quit and go to the house. Both Pappy and my father\nwould send me back for more, quota or not.\nOnly those two were allowed to weigh the cotton, and if they\nhappened to be deep in a row somewhere, then you got a breakwhile they worked their way back to the trailer. I saw neither of\nthem, and the idea of a nap flashed before me.\nThe Spruills had gathered at the east end of the trailer, in the\nshade. They were sitting on their bulky cotton sacks, resting and\nlooking at Trot, who, as far as I could tell, hadn't moved more than\nten feet during the entire day.\nI freed myself from the shoulder strap of my cotton sack and\nwalked to the end of the trailer. “Howdy,” one of the Spruills said.\n“How's Trot?” I asked.\n“Reckon he'll be all right,” Mr. Spruill said. They were eating\ncrackers and Vienna sausages, a favorite pick-me-up in the fields.\nSitting next to Trot was Tally, who completely ignored me.\n“You got anything to eat, boy?” Hank suddenly demanded, his\nliquid eyes flashing at me. For a second I was too surprised to say\nanything. Mrs. Spruill shook her head and studied the ground.\n“Do you?” he demanded, shifting his weight so that he faced me\nsquarely.\n“Uh, no,” I managed to say.\n“You mean 'No sir,' don't you, boy?” he said angrily.\n“Come on, Hank,” Tally said. The rest of the family seemed to\nwithdraw. All heads were lowered.\n“No sir,” I said.\n“No sir what?” His voice was sharper. It was obvious Hank\nenjoyed picking fights. They'd probably been through this many\ntimes.\n“No sir,” I said again.\n“You farm people are right uppity, you know that? You think\nyou're better than us hill folk 'cause you have this land and 'cause\nyou pay us to work it. Ain't that right, boy?”\n“That's enough, Hank,” Mr. Spruill said, but he lacked conviction.\nI suddenly hoped Pappy or my father would appear. I was ready for\nthese people to leave our farm.\nMy throat constricted, and my lower lip began to shake. I was\nhurt and embarrassed and didn't know what to say.\nHank wasn't about to be quiet. He reclined on an elbow, and with\na nasty smile said, “We're just one notch above them wetbacks, ain'twe, boy? Just hired labor. Just a bunch of hillbillies who drink\nmoonshine and marry our sisters. Ain't that right, boy?”\nHe paused for a split second as if he really wanted me to\nrespond. I was tempted to run away, but I just stared at my boots.\nThe rest of the Spruills may have felt sorry for me, but none of them\ncame to my rescue.\n“We got a house nicer than yours, boy. You believe that? A lot\nnicer.”\n“Quiet down, Hank,” Mrs. Spruill said.\n“It's bigger, got a long front porch, got a tin roof without tar\npatches, and you know what else it's got? You ain't gonna believe\nthis, boy, but our house's got paint on it. White paint. You ever see\npaint, boy?”\nWith that, Bo and Dale, the two teenagers who rarely made a\nsound, began chuckling to themselves, as if they wanted to appease\nHank while not offending Mrs. Spruill.\n“Make him stop, Momma,” Tally said, and my humiliation was\ninterrupted, if only for a second.\nI looked at Trot, and to my surprise he was resting on his elbows,\nhis eyes as wide as I'd ever seen them, absorbing this one-sided\nlittle confrontation. He seemed to be enjoying it.\nHank gave a goofy grin to Bo and Dale, and they laughed even\nlouder. Mr. Spruill also looked amused now. Perhaps he'd been called\na hillbilly once too often.\n“Why don't you sodbusters paint your houses?” Hank boomed in\nmy direction.\nThe word “sodbusters” hit their nerves. Bo and Dale shook with\nlaughter. Hank bellowed at his own punch line. The entire bunch\nseemed on the verge of knee-slapping when Trot said, with as much\nvolume as he could muster, “Stop it, Hank!”\nHis words were slurred slightly so that “Hank” came out “Hane,”\nbut he was clearly understood by the rest of them. They were\nstartled, and their little joke came to an abrupt end. Everyone looked\nat Trot, who was glaring at Hank with as much disgust as possible.\nI was on the verge of tears, so I turned and ran past the trailer\nand along the field road until I was safely out of their sight. Then Iducked into the cotton and waited for friendly voices. I sat on the\nhot ground, surrounded by stalks four feet tall, and I cried,\nsomething I really hated to do.\n---------------------\nThe trailers from the better farms had tarps to hold the cotton\nand keep it from blowing onto the roads leading to the gin. Our old\ntarp was tied firmly in place, securing the fruits of our labor, ninety\npounds of which had been picked by me over the past two days. No\nChandler had ever taken a load to the gin with bolls flying out like\nsnow and littering the road. Lots of other folks did, though, and part\nof the picking season was watching the weeds and ditches along\nHighway 135 slowly grow white as the farmers hurried to the gin\nwith their harvest.\nWith the loaded cotton trailer dwarfing our pickup, Pappy drove\nless than twenty miles an hour on the way to town. And he didn't\nsay anything. We were both digesting our dinner. I was thinking\nabout Hank and trying to decide what to do. I'm sure Pappy was\nworrying about the weather.\nIf I told him about Hank, I knew exactly what would happen.\nHe'd march me down the front yard to Spruillville, and we'd have an\nugly confrontation. Because Hank was younger and bigger, Pappy\nwould have in his hand a stick of some sort, and he'd be very happy\nto use it. He'd demand that Hank apologize, and when he refused,\nPappy would start the threats and insults. Hank would misjudge his\nopponent, and before long the stick would come into play. Hank\nwouldn't have a prayer. My father would be forced to cover the\nChandler flanks with his twelve-gauge. The women would be safe on\nthe porch, but my mother would once again be humiliated by\nPappy's penchant for violence.\nThe Spruills would lick their wounds and pack up their ragged\nbelongings. They'd move down the road to another farm where they\nwere needed and appreciated, and we'd be left short-handed.\nI'd be expected to pick even more cotton.\nSo I didn't say a word.\nWe drove slowly along Highway 135, stirring up the cotton on the\nright shoulder of the road, watching the fields where an occasionalgang of Mexicans was still working, racing against the dark.\nI decided I would simply avoid Hank and the rest of the Spruills\nuntil the picking was over and they went back to the hills, back to\ntheir wonderfully painted houses and their moonshine and sister-\nmarrying. And at some point late in the winter when we sat around\nthe fire in the living room and told stories about the harvest, I would\nfinally serve up all of Hank's misdeeds. I'd have plenty of time to\nwork on my stories, and would embellish where I deemed\nappropriate. It was a Chandler tradition.\nI had to be careful, though, when telling the painted house story.\nAs we neared Black Oak, we passed the Clench farm, home of\nFoy and Laverl Clench and their eight children, all of whom, I was\ncertain, were still in the fields. No one, not even the Mexicans,\nworked harder than the Clenches. The parents were notorious slave\ndrivers, but the children seemed to enjoy picking cotton and\npursuing even the most mundane chores around the farm. The\nhedge rows around the front yard were perfectly manicured. Their\nfences were straight and needed no repair. Their garden was huge\nand its yield legendary. Even their old truck was clean. One of the\nkids washed it every Saturday.\nAnd their house was painted, the first one on the highway into\ntown. White was the color, with gray trim around the edges and\ncorners. The porch and front steps were dark green.\nSoon all the houses were painted.\nOur house had been built before the First War, back when indoor\nplumbing and electricity were unheard of. Its exterior was one-by-six\nclapboards made of oak, probably cut from the land we now farmed.\nWith time and weather the boards had faded into a pale brown,\npretty much the same color as the other farmhouses around Black\nOak. Paint was unnecessary. The boards were kept clean and in\ngood repair, and besides paint cost money.\nBut shortly after my parents were married, my mother decided\nthe house needed an upgrade. She went to work on my father, who\nwas anxious to please his young wife. His parents, though, were not.\nPappy and Gran, with all the stubbornness that came from the soil\nflatly refused to even consider painting the house. The cost was theofficial reason. This was relayed to my mother through my father. No\nfight occurred-no words. Just a tense period one winter when four\nadults lived in a small unpainted house and tried to be cordial.\nMy mother vowed to herself that she would not raise her children\non a farm. She would one day have a house in a town or in a city, a\nhouse with indoor plumbing and shrubs around the porch, and with\npaint on the boards, maybe even bricks.\n“Paint” was a sensitive word around the Chandler farm.\n----------------------\nI counted eleven trailers ahead of us when we arrived at the gin.\nAnother twenty or so were empty and parked to one side. Those\nwere owned by farmers with enough money to have two. They could\nleave one to be ginned at night while the other stayed in the fields.\nMy father desperately wanted a second trailer.\nPappy parked and walked to a group of farmers huddled by a\ntrailer. I could tell by the way they were standing that they were\nworried about something.\nFor nine months the gin sat idle. It was a tall, long, box-like\nstructure, the biggest building in the county. In early September it\ncame to life when the harvest began. At the height of the picking\nseason it ran all day and all night, stopping only on Saturday evening\nand Sunday morning. Its compresses and mills roared with a noisy\nprecision that could be heard throughout Black Oak.\nI saw the Montgomery twins throwing rocks at the weeds beside\nthe gin, and I joined them. We compared stories about Mexicans\nand told lies about how much cotton we'd personally picked. It was\ndark, and the line of trailers moved slowly.\n“My pop says cotton prices are goin' down,” Dan Montgomery\nsaid as he tossed a rock into the darkness. “Says the cotton traders\nin Memphis are pushin' down prices 'cause there's so much cotton.”\n“It's a big crop,” I said. The Montgomery twins wanted to be\nfarmers when they grew up. I felt sorry for them.\nWhen the rains flooded the land and wiped out the crops, the\nprices went up because the traders in Memphis couldn't get enough\ncotton. But the farmers, of course, had nothing to sell. And when\nthe rains cooperated and the crops were huge, the prices went downbecause the traders in Memphis had too much cotton. The poor\npeople who labored in the fields didn't make enough to pay their\ncrop loans.\nGood crops or bad crops, it didn't make any difference.\nWe talked baseball for a while. The Montgomerys did not own a\nradio, so their knowledge of the Cardinals was limited. Again, I felt\nsorry for them.\nWhen we left the gin, Pappy had nothing to say. The wrinkles in\nhis forehead were closer together, and his chin was jutting out a bit,\nso I knew he'd heard bad news. I assumed it had something to do\nwith the price of cotton.\nI said nothing as we left Black Oak. When the lights were behind\nus, I laid my head on the window opening so the wind would hit my\nlace. The air was hot and still, and I wanted Pappy to drive faster so\nwe could cool off.\nI would listen more closely for the next few days. I'd give the\nadults time to whisper among themselves, then I'd ask my mother\nwhat was going on.\nIf it involved bad news about farming, she would eventually tell\nme.\n--------------A Painted HouseChapter 7\n-------------\nSaturday morning. At sunrise, with Mexicans on one side and the\nSpruills on the other, we were in the trailer moving toward the fields.\nI kept close to my father, for fear that the monster Hank might come\nafter me again. I hated all the Spruills that morning, perhaps with\nthe exception of Trot, my lone defender. They ignored me. I hoped\nthey were ashamed of themselves.\nI tried not to think about the Spruills as we moved through the\nfields. It was Saturday. A magical day for all the poor souls who\ntoiled the land. On the Chandler farm, we'd work half a day, then\nhead for town to join all the other farmers and their families who\nwent there .! to buy food and supplies, to mix and mingle along\nMain Street, to catch the gossip, to escape for a few hours the\ndrudgery of the cotton patch. The Mexicans and the hill people\nwent, too. The men would gather in groups in front of the Tea\nShoppe and the Co-op and compare crops and tell stories about\nfloods. The women would pack into Pop and Pearl's and take forever\nbuying a few groceries. The kids were allowed to roam the sidewalks\non Main Street and its neighboring alleys until four o'clock, that\nwonderful hour when the Dixie opened for the matinee.\nWhen the trailer stopped, we hopped off and found our cotton\nsacks. I was half asleep, not paying attention to anything in\nparticular, when the sweetest voice said, “Good mornin', Luke.” It\nwas Tally, just standing there smiling at me. It was her way of saying\nshe was sorry for yesterday.\nBecause I was a Chandler, I was capable of deep stubbornness. I\nturned my back to her and walked away. I told myself I hated all\nSpruills. I attacked the first row of cotton as if I might just wipe out\nforty acres before lunch. After a few minutes, though, I was tired. I\nwas lost in the stalks, in the dark, and I could still hear her voice and\nsee her smile.\nShe was only ten years older than I was.-----------------\nThe Saturday bath was a ritual I hated more than all others. It\ntook place after lunch, under the stern supervision of my mother.\nThe tub, hardly big enough for me, was used later in the day by\neach member of the family. It was kept in a remote corner of the\nback porch, shielded from view by an old bedsheets.\nFirst, I had to haul the water from the pump to the back porch,\nwhere I filled the tub about a third full. This took eight trips with a\nbucket, and I was exhausted before the bath began. Then I pulled\nthe bedsheets across the porch and stripped naked with remarkable\nspeed. The water was very cold.\nWith a bar of store-bought soap and a washcloth, I worked\nfuriously to remove dirt and make bubbles and otherwise cloud the\nwater so my mother couldn't see my privates when she came to\ndirect matters. She appeared first to collect my dirty clothes, then to\nbring me a clean change. Then she went straight for the ears and\nneck. In her hands the washcloth became a weapon. She scraped\nmy tender skin as if the soil I collected working in the fields offended\nher. Throughout the process, she continued to marvel at how dirty I\ncould get.\nWhen my neck was raw, she attacked my hair as if it were filled\nwith lice and gnats. She poured cold water from the bucket over my\nhead to rinse off the soap. My humiliation was complete when she\nfinished scouring my arms and feet-mercifully, she left the\nmidsection for me.\nThe water was muddy when I hopped out-a week's worth of dirt\ncollected from the Arkansas Delta. I pulled the plug and watched it\nseep through the cracks of the porch as I toweled off and stepped\ninto my clean overalls. I felt fresh and clean and five pounds lighter,\nand I was ready for town.\nPappy decided that his truck would make only one run to Black\n()ak. That meant that Gran and my mother would ride in the front\nwith him and my father and I would ride in the back with all ten\nMexicans. Getting packed into a box didn't bother the Mexicans at\nall, but it sure irritated me.As we drove away, I watched the Spruills as they knocked down\npoles and unhitched ropes and hurried about the business of freeing\ntheir old truck so they could get to town. Everyone was busy but\nHank, who was eating something in the shade.\nTo prevent the dust from boiling over the fenders and choking us\nin the back, Pappy drove less than five miles per hour down our\nroad. While it was thoughtful of him, it didn't help matters much. We\nwere hot and suffocating. The Saturday bath was a ritual in rural\nArkansas. In Mexico, apparently, it was not.\n----------------------\nOn Saturday, some farm families arrived in town by noon. Pappy\nthought it was sinful to spend too much time enjoying Saturday, so\nwe took our time getting there. During the winter, he even\nthreatened to avoid town, except for church on Sunday. My mother\nsaid he once went a month without leaving the farm, and this\nincluded a boycott of church because the preacher had somehow\noffended him. It didn't take much to offend Pappy. But we were\nlucky. A lot of sharecroppers never left the farm. They didn't have\nmoney for groceries and didn't have a car to get to town. And there\nwere some renters like us and landowners who seldom went to\ntown. Mr. Clovis Beckly from Caraway hadn't been to town in\nfourteen years, according to Gran. And he hadn't been to church\nsince before the First War. I'd heard folks openly praying for him\nduring revivals.\nI loved the traffic and the crowded sidewalks and the uncertainty\nof whom you might see next. I liked the groups of Mexicans camped\nunder shade trees, eating ice cream and greeting their countrymen\nfrom other farms in excited bursts of Spanish. I liked the crowds of\nstrangers, hill people who would be gone before long. Pappy told me\nonce that when he was in St. Louis before the First War, there were\nhalf a million other people there and that he got lost just walking\ndown a street.\nThat would never happen to me. When I walked down the\nstreets in St. Louis, everybody would know me.\nI followed my mother and Gran to Pop and Pearl Watson's. The\nmen went to the Co-op because that's where all the farmers went onSaturday afternoon. I could never determine exactly what they did\nthere, besides gripe about the price of cotton and fret over the\nweather.\nPearl was busy at the cash register. “Hi, Mrs. Watson,” I said\nwhen I could get close enough. The store was packed with women\nand Mexicans.\n“Well, hello, Luke,” she said as she winked at me. “How's the\ncotton?” she asked. It was the same question you heard over and\nover.\n“Pickin' well,” I said, as if I'd hauled in a ton.\nIt took Gran and my mother an hour to buy five pounds of flour,\ntwo pounds of sugar, two pounds of coffee, a bottle of vinegar, a\npound of table salt, and two bars of soap. The aisles were crowded\nwith women more concerned with saying hello than with buying\nfood. They talked about their gardens and the weather and church\nthe next day, and about who was definitely having a baby and who\nmight be. They prattled on about a funeral here, a revival there, an\nupcoming wedding.\nNot one word about the Cardinals.\nMy only chore in town was to haul the groceries back to the\ntruck. When this was accomplished, I was free to roam Main Street\nand its alleys without being supervised. I moved with the languid\nfoot traffic toward the north end of Black Oak, past the Co-op, past\nthe drugstore and the hardware store and the Tea Shoppe. Along\nthe sidewalk, packs of people stood gossiping, with no intention of\nmoving. Telephones were scarce, and there were only a few\ntelevisions in the county, so Saturday was meant for catching up on\nthe latest news and events.\nI found my friend Dewayne Pinter trying to convince his mother\nthat he should be free to roam. Dewayne was a year older than I\nwas but still in the second grade. His father let him drive their tractor\naround the farm, and this elevated his status among all second\ngraders at the Black Oak School. The Pinters were Baptists and\nCardinals fans, but for some unknown reason, Pappy still didn't like\nthem.\n“Good afternoon, Luke,” Mrs. Pinter said to me.“Hello, Mrs. Pinter.”\n“Where's your mother?” she asked, looking behind me.\n“I think she's still at the drugstore. I'm not sure.”\nWith that, Dewayne was able to tear himself away. If I could be\ntrusted to walk the streets alone, then so could he. As we walked\noff, Mrs. Pinter was still barking instructions. We went to the Dixie,\nwhere the older kids were hanging out and waiting for four o'clock.\nIn my pocket I had a few coins-five cents for the matinee, five cents\nfor a Coca-Cola, three cents for popcorn. My mother had given me I\nhe money as an advance against what I would earn picking cotton. I\nwas supposed to pay it back one day, but she and I both knew it\nwould never happen. If Pappy tried to collect it, he would have to\nstep around Mom.\nEvidently Dewayne had had a better week with the cotton than I\nhad. He had a pocket full of dimes and couldn't wait to show them\noff. His family also rented land, and they owned twenty acres\noutright, a lot more than the Chandlers.\nA freckle-faced girl named Brenda lingered near us, trying to\nstart a conversation with Dewayne. She'd told all of her friends that\nshe wanted to marry him. She was making his life unbearable by\nfollowing him around at church, shadowing him every Saturday up\nand down Main Street, and always asking if he would sit by her at\nthe movies.\nDewayne despised her. When a pack of Mexicans walked by, we\ngot lost in the middle of them.\nA fight erupted behind the Co-op, a popular spot for the older\nboys to gather and trade punches. It happened every Saturday, and\nnothing electrified Black Oak like a good fight. The crowd pushed its\nway through a wide alley next to the Co-op, and in the rush I heard\nsomeone say, “I'll bet it's a Sisco.”\nMy mother had warned me against watching fights behind the\nCo-op, but it wasn't a strict prohibition because I knew she wouldn't\nbe there. No proper female would dare to be caught watching a\nfight. Dewayne and I snaked our way through the mob, anxious to\nsee some violence.The Siscos were dirt-poor sharecroppers who lived less than a\nmile from town. They were always around on Saturday. No one was\nsure how many kids were in the family, but they could all fight. Their\nfather was a drunk who beat them, and their mother had once\nwhipped a fully armed deputy who was trying to arrest her husband.\nBroke his arm and his nose. The deputy left town in disgrace. The\noldest Sisco was in prison for killing a man in Jonesboro.\nThe Sisco kids didn't go to school or church, so I managed to\navoid them. Sure enough, when we got close and peeked through\nthe spectators, there was Jerry Sisco punching a stranger in the\nface.\n“Who's that?” I asked Dewayne. The crowd was yelling for each\nfighter to hurry up and maim the other.\n“Don't know,” Dewayne said. “Probably a hillbilly.”\nThat made sense. With the county full of hill people picking\ncotton, it was only logical that the Siscos would start a fight with\nsomeone who didn't know them. The locals knew better. The\nstranger's face was puffy, and there was blood dripping from his\nnose. Jerry Sisco ripped a sharp right to his teeth and knocked the\nman down.\nA whole gang of Siscos and their ilk were in one corner, laughing,\nand probably drinking. They were shaggy and dirty with ragged\nclothes and only a few had shoes. Their toughness was legendary.\nThey were lean and hungry and fought with every dirty trick in the\nhook. The year before, Billy Sisco had almost killed a Mexican in a\nfight behind the gin.\nOn the other side of the makeshift arena was a group of hill\npeople, all-yelling for their man-“Doyle,” it turned out-to get up and\ndo something. Doyle was rubbing his chin when he jumped up and\nmade a charge. He managed to ram his head into Jerry Sisco's\nstomach, sending both of them to the ground. This brought a cheer\nfrom the hill people. The rest of us wanted to cheer, too, but we\ndidn't want to upset the Siscos. This was their game, and they'd\ncome after anybody.\nThe two fighters clutched and clawed and rolled around in the\ndirt like wild animals, as the yelling got louder. Doyle suddenlycocked his right hand and landed a perfect punch in the middle of\nJerry Sisco's face, sending blood everywhere. Jerry was still for a\nsplit second, and we were all secretly hoping that perhaps a Sisco\nhad met his match. Doyle was about to land another punch when\nBilly Sisco abruptly charged from the pack and kicked Doyle square\nin the back. Doyle shrieked like a wounded dog and rolled to the\nground, where both Siscos were immediately on him, kicking and\npounding him.\nDoyle was about to be slaughtered. Though there was nothing\nfair about it, it was simply the risk you ran if you fought a Sisco. The\nhill people were silent, and the locals watched without taking a step\nforward.\nThen the two Siscos dragged Doyle to his feet, and with all the\npatience of an executioner, Jerry kicked him in the groin. Doyle\nscreamed and dropped to the ground. The Siscos were delirious with\nlaughter.\nThe Siscos were in the process of picking him up again when Mr.\nHank Spruill, he of the tree-trunk neck, stepped out from the crowd\nand hit Jerry hard, causing him to fall. Quick as a cat, Billy Sisco\nthrew a left jab that popped Hank in the jaw, but a curious thing\nhappened. The jab didn't phase Hank Spruill. He turned around and\ngrabbed Billy by his hair and without any apparent effort spun him\naround and flung him into the grouping of Siscos in the crowd. From\nthe strewn pack came a new Sisco, Bobby, aged no more than\nsixteen, but just as mean as his brothers.\nThree Siscos against Hank Spruill.\nAs Jerry was getting to his feet, Hank, with unbelievable speed,\nkicked him in the ribs so hard that we heard cracking. Then Hank\nturned and slapped Bobby with the back of his hand, knocking him\ndown, and kicked him in the teeth. By this time Billy was making\nanother lunge, and Hank, like a circus strongman, lifted the much\nskinnier boy into the air and flipped him into the side of the Co-op,\nwhere he crashed loudly, rattling the boards and windows, before\nfalling to the pavement on his head. I couldn't have tossed a\nbaseball any easier.When Billy hit the ground, Hank took him by the throat and\ndragged him back into the center of the arena, where Bobby was on\nall fours, struggling to get to his feet. Jerry was crumpled to one\nside, clutching his ribs and whimpering.\nHank kicked Bobby between the legs. When the boy yelped,\nHank let out a hideous laugh.\nHe then clutched Billy by the throat and began lashing his face\nwith the back of his right hand. Blood was spurting everywhere; it\ncovered Billy's face and was pouring down his chest.\nFinally, Hank released Billy and turned to the rest of the Siscos.\n“Anybody want some more!” he shouted. “Come on! Get you some!”\nThe other Siscos cowered behind one another while their three\nheroes floundered in the dirt.\nThe fight should've been over, but Hank had other plans. With\ndelight and deliberation, he kicked each of the three in their faces\nand heads until they stopped moving and groaning. The crowd\nbegan to disperse.\n“Let's go,” a man said from behind me. “You kids don't need to\nsee this.” But I couldn't move.\nThen Hank found a broken piece of an old two-by-four. For a\nmoment the crowd stopped its exit to watch with morbid curiosity.\nWhen Hank hit Jerry across the nose, someone in the crowd said,\n“Oh my God.”\nAnother voice in the mob said something about finding the\nsheriff.\n“Let's get outta here,” an old farmer said, and the crowd began\nleaving again, this time a little quicker.\nHank still wasn't finished. His face was red with anger; his eyes\nflashed like a demon's. He kept pounding them until the old two-by-\nfour began to shatter into small pieces.\nI didn't see any of the other Spruills in the crowd. As the beating\nbecame a butchering, everyone fled. No one in Black Oak wanted to\ntangle with the Siscos. And now nobody wanted to face this\nmadman from the hills.\nWhen we were back on the sidewalk, those of us who'd seen the\nfight were silent. It was still happening. I wondered if Hank wouldbeat them until they were dead.\nNeither Dewayne nor I said a word as we darted through the\ncrowd and ran toward the movie house.\n------------------------\nThe Saturday afternoon movie was a special time for all of us\nfarm kids. We didn't have televisions, and entertainment was\nconsidered sinful. For two hours we were transported from the\nharshness of life in the cotton patch to a fantasy land where the\ngood guys always won. Through the movies we learned how\ncriminals operated, how cops caught them, how wars were fought\nand won, how history was made in the Wild West. It was even\nthrough a movie that I learned the sad truth that the South had, in\nfact, not won the Civil War, contrary to what I'd been told both at\nhome and at school.\nBut this Saturday the Gene Autry western bored Dewayne and\nme. Every time there was a fistfight on the screen, I thought of\nHank Spruill and could see him still out there behind the Co-op\nhammering the Siscos. Autry's scuffles were tame compared to the\nreal-life carnage we'd just witnessed. The movie was almost over\nbefore I mustered the courage to tell Dewayne.\n“That big hillbilly we saw beat the Siscos?” I whispered. “He's\nworking on our farm.”\n“You know him?” he whispered back, disbelieving.\n“Yep. Know him real well.”\nDewayne was impressed and wanted to ask more questions, but\nthe place was packed and Mr. Starnes, the manager, enjoyed\npatrolling the aisles with his flashlight, just looking for trouble. Any\nkid caught talking would be yanked up by the ear and ejected. Also,\nBrenda with the freckles had managed to get the seat directly\nbehind Dewayne, making us both uncomfortable.\nThere were a few adults sprinkled throughout the audience, but\nthey were mostly town people. Mr. Starnes made the Mexicans sit in\nthe balcony, but it didn't seem to bother them. Only a handful would\nwaste money on a picture show.\nWe rushed out at the end, and within minutes we were behind\nthe Co-op again, half-expecting to see the bloody corpses of theSisco boys. But no one was there. There was no evidence of any\nfight-no blood, no limbs, no shattered two-by-four.\nPappy held the opinion that people with self-respect should leave\ntown on Saturday before dark. Bad things happened on Saturday\nnight. Other than the fights, though, I'd never witnessed any true\nevil. I'd heard there were drinking and dice games behind the gin,\nand even more fights, but all that was kept out of sight and was\nengaged in by very few people. Still, Pappy was afraid we'd\nsomehow be contaminated.\nRicky was the hell-raiser of the Chandler family, and my mother\ntold me that he had the reputation of staying in town too long on\nSaturday. There was an arrest somewhere in the recent family\nhistory, but I could never get the details. She said that Pappy and\nRicky had fought for years over what time they should leave. I could\nremember several occasions when we left without him. I'd cry\nbecause I was sure I'd never see him again, then Sunday morning\nhe would be sitting in the kitchen drinking coffee as if nothing had\nhappened. Ricky always came home.\nWe met at the truck, which was now surrounded by dozens of\nother vehicles parked haphazardly around the Baptist church\nbecause the farmers were still rolling in. The crowd was thicker\nalong Main Street and seemed to be congregating near the school,\nwhere fiddlers and banjo pickers sometimes broke out into bluegrass\nsessions. I didn't want to leave, and in my opinion there was no\nhurry to get home.\nGran and my mother had some last-minute business inside the\nchurch, where most of the women found something to do on the day\nbefore the Sabbath. From the other side of the truck, I overheard\nmy dad and Pappy talking about a fight. Then I heard the name\nSisco, and I became very still. Miguel and some of the Mexicans\narrived and wouldn't stop chattering in Spanish, so I missed any\nfurther gossip.\nA few minutes later, Stick Powers, one of Black Oak's two\ndeputies, walked over from the street and said hello to Pappy and\nmy father. Stick was supposed to have been a POW in the war, and\nhe walked with a limp, which he claimed was the result of abuse in aGerman camp. Pappy said he'd never left Craighead County, never\nheard a shot fired in anger.\n“One of them Sisco boys is near 'bout dead,” I heard him say as I\nmoved in closer. It was almost dark now, and no one was watching\nme.\n“Nothing wrong with that,” Pappy said.\n“They say that hillbilly is working out at your place.”\n“I didn't see the fight, Stick,” Pappy said, his quick temper\nalready rising. “You got a name?”\n“Hank something or other.”\n“We got lots of somethings and others.”\n“Mind if I ride out tomorrow and look around?” Stick asked.\n“I can't stop you.”\n“No, you can't.” Stick wheeled on his good leg and gave the\nMexicans a look as if they were guilty as sin.\nI eased around to the other side of the truck and said, “What\nwas that all about?”\nAs usual, when it was something I was not supposed to know or\nhear, they simply ignored me.\nWe rode home in the dark, the lights of Black Oak fading behind\nus, the cool wind from the road blowing our hair. At first, I wanted to\ntell my father about the fight, but I couldn't do it in front of the\nMexicans. Then I decided not to be a witness. I wouldn't tell\nanybody since there was no way to win. Any involvement with the\nSiscos would make my life dangerous, and I didn't want the Spruills\nto get mad and leave. The picking had hardly begun, and I was\nalready tired of it. And most important, I didn't want Hank Spruill\nangry with me or my father or Pappy.\nTheir old truck was not in our front yard when we arrived home.\nThey were still in town, probably visiting with other hill people.\nAfter supper, we took our places on the porch as Pappy fiddled\nwith his radio. The Cardinals were at Philadelphia, playing under the\nlights. Musial came to bat in the top of the second, and I began to\ndream.\n--------------A Painted HouseChapter 8\n--------------\nWe awoke at dawn Sunday to the crack of lightning and the\nrumble of low thunder. A storm blew from the southwest, delaying\nsunrise, and as I lay in the darkness of Ricky's room, I again asked\nthe great question of why it rained on Sundays. Why not during the\nweek, so I wouldn't be forced to pick cotton? Sunday was already a\nday of rest.\nMy grandmother came for me and told me to sit on the porch so\nwe could watch the rain together. She fixed my coffee, mixing it with\nplenty of milk and sugar, and we rocked gently in the swing as the\nwind howled. The Spruills were scurrying about, throwing things in\nboxes, trying to find shelter away from their leaking tents.\nThe rain fell in waves, as if trying to make up for two weeks of\ndry weather. A mist swirled around the porch like a fog, and above\nus the tin roof sang under the torrents.\nGran carefully picked her moments to speak. There were times,\nusually once a week, when she would take me for a walk, or meet\nme on the porch, just the two of us. Because she'd been married to\nPappy for thirty-five years, she'd learned the art of silence. She could\nwalk or swing for long periods of time while saying little.\n“How's the coffee?” she asked, barely audible above the storm.\n“It's fine, Gran,” I said.\n“What would you like for breakfast?”\n“Biscuits.”\n“Then I'll make us some biscuits.”\nThe Sunday routine was a little more relaxed. We generally slept\nlater, though the rain had awakened us early today. And for\nbreakfast we skipped the usual eggs and ham and somehow\nmanaged to survive on biscuits and molasses. The kitchen work was\na little lighter. It was, after all, a day of rest.\nThe swing moved slowly back and forth, going nowhere, its rusty\nchains squeaking softly above us. Lightning popped across the road,somewhere on the Jeter property.\n“I had a dream about Ricky last night,” she said.\n“A good dream?”\n“Yes, very good. I dreamed the war suddenly ended, but they\nforgot to tell us. And one night we were sitting here on the porch,\nlistening to the radio, and out there on the road we saw a man\nrunning toward us. It was Ricky. He was in his army uniform, and he\nstarted yelling about the war being over.”\n“I wish I could have a dream like that,” I said.\n“I think the Lord's telling us something.”\n“Ricky's coming home?”\n“Yes. Maybe not right away, but the war'll be over soon. We'll\nlook up one day and see him walking across the yard there.”\nI looked at the yard. Puddles and streams were beginning to\nform and run down toward the Spruills. The grass was almost gone,\nand the wind was blowing the first of the dead leaves from our oaks.\n“I pray for Ricky every night, Gran,” I said, quite proud.\n“I pray for him every hour,” she said, with a hint of mist in her\neyes.\nWe rocked and watched the rain. My thoughts about Ricky were\nrarely of a soldier in uniform, with a gun, under fire, hopping from\none safe place to another. Rather, my memories were of my best\nfriend, my uncle who was more like a brother, a buddy with a fishing\npole or a baseball glove. He was only nineteen, an age that seemed\nboth old and young to me.\nBefore long my mother came to the door. The Saturday bath was\nfollowed by the Sunday scrubbing, a quick but brutal ritual in which\nmy neck and ears were scraped by a woman possessed. “We need\nto get ready,” she said. I could already feel the pain.\nI followed Gran to the kitchen for more coffee. Pappy was at the\nkitchen table, reading the Bible and preparing his Sunday school\nlesson. My father was on the back porch, watching the storm and\ngazing into the distance at the river, no doubt beginning to worry\nthat floodwaters were coming.\n---------------------The rains stopped long before we left for church. The roads were\nmuddy, and Pappy drove even slower than usual. We puttered along,\nsometimes sliding in the ruts and puddles of the old dirt road. My\nfather and I were in the back, holding tightly to the sides of the bed,\nand my mother and Gran rode up front, everybody dressed in their\nbest. The sky had cleared, and now the sun was overhead, already\nbaking the wet ground so that you could see the humidity drifting\nlazily above the cotton stalks.\n“It's gonna be a hot one,” my father said, issuing the same\nforecast he uttered every day from May through September.\nWhen we reached the highway, we stood and leaned on the cab\nso the wind was in our faces. It was much cooler that way. The\nfields were vacant; not even the Mexicans were allowed to work on\nthe Sabbath. Every harvest season brought the same rumors of\nheathen farmers sneaking around and picking cotton on Sunday, but\nI personally had never witnessed such sinful behavior.\nMost things were sinful in rural Arkansas, especially if you were a\nBaptist. And a great part of our Sunday worship ritual was to be\npreached at by the Reverend Akers, a loud and angry man who\nspent too much of his time conjuring up new sins. Of course, I didn't\ncare for the preaching-most kids didn't-but there was more to\nSunday church than worship. It was a time for visiting, and\nspreading news and gossip. It was a festive gathering, with\neveryone in good spirits, or at least pretending to be. Whatever the\nworries of the world-the coming floods, the war in Korea, the\nfluctuating price of cotton-they were all put aside during church.\nThe Lord didn't intend for His people to worry, Gran always said,\nespecially when we were in His house. This forever struck me as\nodd, because she worried almost as much as Pappy.\nOther than the family and the farm, nothing was as important to\nus as the Black Oak Baptist Church. I knew every single person in\nour church, and they of course knew me. It was a family, for better\nor worse. Everybody loved one another, or at least professed to, and\nif one of our members was the slightest bit ill, then all manner of\nprayer and Christian caring poured forth. A funeral was a weeklong,\nalmost holy event. The fall and spring revivals were planned formonths and greatly anticipated. At least once a month we had some\nform of dinner-on-the-grounds-a potluck picnic under the trees\nbehind the church-and these often lasted until late afternoon.\nWeddings were important, especially for the ladies, but they lacked\nthe high drama of funerals and burials.\nThe church's gravel parking lot was almost full when we arrived.\nMost of the vehicles were old farmers' trucks like ours, all covered\nwith a fresh coat of mud. There were a few sedans, and these were\ndriven either by town folk or by farmers who owned their land.\nDown the street at the Methodist church, there were fewer trucks\nand more cars. As a general rule, the merchants and schoolteachers\nworshiped there. The Methodists thought they were slightly superior,\nbut as Baptists, we knew we had the inside track to God.\nI jumped from the truck and ran to find my friends. Three of the\nolder boys were tossing a baseball behind the church, near the\ncemetery, and I headed in their direction.\n“Luke,” someone whispered. It was Dewayne, hiding in the shade\nof an elm tree and looking scared. “Over here.”\nI walked to the tree.\n“Have you heard?” he said. “Jerry Sisco died early this mornin'.”\nI felt as if I'd done something wrong, and I couldn't think of\nanything to say. Dewayne just stared at me. Finally, I managed to\nrespond. “So?”\n“So they're tryin' to find people who saw what happened.”\n“Lot of folks saw it.”\n“Yeah, but nobody wants to say anything. Everybody's scared of\nthe Siscos, and everybody's scared of your hillbilly.”\n“Ain't my hillbilly,” I said.\n“Well, I'm scared of him anyway. Ain't you?”\n“Yep.”\n“What're we gonna do?”\n“Nothin'. We ain't sayin' a word, not now anyhow.”\nWe agreed that we would indeed do nothing. If we were\nconfronted, we would lie. And if we lied, we would say an extra\nprayer.The prayers were long and windy that Sunday morning. So were\nthe rumors and gossip of what had happened to Jerry Sisco. News\nspread quickly before Sunday school began. Dewayne and I heard\ndetails about the fight that we couldn't believe were being reported.\nHank grew larger by the moment. “Hands as big as a country ham,”\nsomebody said. “Shoulders like a Brahma bull,” said somebody else.\n“Had to weigh three hundred pounds.”\nThe men and older boys grouped near the front of the church,\nand Dewayne and I milled around, just listening. I heard it described\nas a murder, then a killing, and I wasn't clear about the difference\nuntil I heard Mr. Snake Wilcox say, “Ain't no murder. Good folks get\nmurdered. White trash like the Siscos get killed.”\nThe killing was the first in Black Oak since 1947, when some\nsharecroppers east of town got drunk and had a family war. A\nteenage boy found himself on the wrong end of a shotgun, but no\ncharges were filed. They fled during the night, never to be heard\nfrom again. No one could remember the last “real” murder.\nI was mesmerized by the gossip. We sat on the front steps of the\nchurch, looking down the sidewalk toward Main Street, and heard\nmen arguing and spouting off about what should or shouldn't be\ndone.\nDown the street, I could see the front of the Co-op, and for a\nmoment I thought I could see Jerry Sisco again, his face a mess, as\nHank Spruill clubbed him to death.\nI had watched a man get killed. Suddenly, I felt the urge to\nsneak back into the sanctuary and start praying. I knew I was guilty\nof something.\nWe drifted into the church, where the girls and women were also\nhuddled and whispering their versions of the tragedy. Among them,\nJerry's stature was rising. Brenda, the freckled girl with a crush on\nDewayne, lived only a quarter of a mile from the Siscos, and since\nthey were practically neighbors, she was receiving more than her\nshare of attention. The women were definitely more sympathetic\nthan the men.\nDewayne and I found the cookies in the fellowship hall, then\nwent to our little classrooms, listening every step of the way.Our Sunday school teacher, Miss Beverly Dill Cooley, who taught\nat the high school in Monette, started things off with a lengthy, and\nquite generous, obituary for Jerry Sisco, a poor boy from a poor\nfamily, a young man who never had a chance. Then she made us\nhold hands and close our eyes while she lifted her voice to heaven\nand for a very long time asked God to receive poor Jerry into His\nwarm and eternal embrace. She made Jerry sound like a Christian,\nand an innocent victim.\nI glanced at Dewayne, who had one eye on me.\nThere was something odd about this. As Baptists, we'd been\ntaught from the cradle that the only way you made it to heaven was\nby believing in Jesus and trying to follow His example in living a\nclean and moral Christian life. It was a simple message, one that\nwas preached from the pulpit every Sunday morning and every\nSunday night, and every revival preacher who passed through Black\nOak repeated the message loud and clear. We heard it at Sunday\nschool, at Wednesday night prayer service, and at Vacation Bible\nSchool. It was in our music, our devotionals, and our literature. It\nwas straightforward, unwavering, and without loopholes,\ncompromise, or wiggle room.\nAnd anyone who did not accept Jesus and live a Christian life\nsimply went to hell. That's where Jerry Sisco was, and we all knew\nit.\nBut Miss Cooley prayed on. She prayed for all the Siscos in this\ntime of grief and loss, and she prayed for our little town as it\nreached out to help this family.\nI couldn't think of a single soul in Black Oak who would reach out\nto the Siscos.\nIt was a strange prayer, and when she finally said “amen,” I was\ncompletely bewildered. Jerry Sisco had never been near a church,\nbut Miss Cooley prayed as if he were with God at that very moment.\nIf outlaws like the Siscos could make it to heaven, the pressure was\noff the rest of us.\nThen she started on Jonah and the whale again, and for a while\nwe forgot about the killing.\n--------------------An hour later, during worship, I sat in my usual spot, in the same\npew where the Chandlers always sat, halfway back on the left side,\nbetween Gran and my mother. The pews were not marked or\nreserved, but everyone knew where everybody else was supposed to\nsit. In three more years, when I was ten, my parents said I would be\nallowed to sit with my friends, providing of course that I could do so\nwithout misbehaving. This promise had been extracted by me from\nboth parents. It might as well have been twenty years.\nThe windows were up, but the heavy air was not moving. The\nladies fanned themselves while the men sat still and sweated. By the\ntime Brother Akers rose to preach, my shirt was stuck to my back.\nHe was angry, as usual, and he began shouting almost\nimmediately. He attacked sin right off the bat; sin had brought\ntragedy to Black Oak. Sin had brought death and destruction, as it\nalways had and always would. We sinners drank and gambled and\ncursed and lied and fought and killed and committed adultery\nbecause we allowed ourselves to be separated from God, and that's\nwhy a young man from our town had lost his life. God didn't intend\nfor us to kill one another.\nI was confused again. I thought Jerry Sisco got himself killed\nbecause he'd finally met his match. It had nothing to do with\ngambling and adultery and most of the other sins Brother Akers was\nso worked up over. And why was he yelling at us? We were the good\nfolks. We were in church!\nI seldom understood what Brother Akers was preaching about,\nand occasionally I'd hear Gran mumble over Sunday dinner that\nshe'd also been hopelessly confused during one of his sermons.\nRicky had once told me he thought the old man was half crazy.\nThe sins grew, one piling on top of the other until my shoulders\nbegan to sag. I had yet to lie about watching the fight, but I was\nalready beginning to feel the heat.\nThen Brother Akers traced the history of murder, beginning with\nCain slaying Abel, and he walked us through the bloody path of\nbiblical carnage. Gran closed her eyes, and I knew she was praying-\nshe always was. Pappy was staring at a wall, probably thinking abouthow a dead Sisco might affect his cotton crop. My mother seemed to\nbe paying attention, and mercifully I began to nod off.\nWhen I awoke, my head was in Gran's lap, but she didn't care.\nWhen she was worried about Ricky, she wanted me near her. The\npiano was now playing, and the choir was standing. It was time for\nthe invitation. We stood and sang five stanzas of “Just As I Am,” and\nthen the Reverend dismissed us.\nOutside, the men gathered under a shade tree and started a long\ndiscussion about something or other. Pappy was in the middle of\nthings, talking in a hushed voice, waving his hands in an urgent\nmanner. I knew better than to get close.\nThe women grouped in small clusters and gossiped along the\nfront lawn, where the children also played and the old folks said\ntheir farewells. There was never any hurry to leave church on\nSundays. There was little to do at home except eat lunch, take a\nnap, and get ready for another week of picking cotton.\nSlowly, we made our way to the parking lot. We said good-bye to\nour friends again, then waved as we pulled away. Alone in the back\nof the truck with my father, I tried to muster the courage to tell him\nabout watching the fight. The men at church had talked of nothing\nelse. I wasn't sure how I figured into the plot, but my instincts told\nme to confess it all to my father and then hide behind him. But\nDewayne and I had promised to keep quiet until confronted, then\nwe'd start squirming. I said nothing as we drove home.\nAbout a mile from our farm, where the gravel thinned and\neventually surrendered to dirt, the road met the St. Francis River,\nwhere a one-lane wooden bridge crossed over. The bridge had been\nbuilt in the thirties as a WPA project, so it was sturdy enough to\nwithstand the weight of tractors and loaded cotton trailers. But the\nthick planks popped and creaked every time we drove over, and if\nyou looked at the brown water directly below, you'd swear the\nbridge was swaying.\nWe crept across, and on the other side we saw the Spruills. Bo\nand Dale were in the river, shirtless, their pants rolled up to their\nknees, skipping rocks. Trot was sitting on a thick branch ofdriftwood, his feet dangling in the water. Mr. and Mrs. Spruill were\nhiding under a shade tree, where food was spread on a blanket.\nTally was also in the water, her legs bare up to her thighs, her\nlong hair loose and falling onto her shoulders. My heart pounded as\nI watched her kick the water, alone in her own world.\nDownriver, in a spot where few fish had ever been caught, was\nHank with a small cane pole. His shirt was off, and his skin was\nalready pink from the sun. I wondered if he knew that Jerry Sisco\nwas dead. Probably not. He would find out soon enough, though.\nWe waved slowly at them. They froze as if they had been caught\ntrespassing, then they smiled and nodded. But Tally never looked up.\nNeither did Hank.\n--------------A Painted HouseChapter 9\n--------------\nSunday lunch was always fried chicken, biscuits, and gravy, and\nthough the women cooked as fast as they could, it still took an hour\nto prepare. We were famished by the time we sat down to eat. I\noften thought, to myself of course, that if Brother Akers didn't bark\nand ramble so long, we wouldn't be nearly as hungry.\nPappy gave thanks. The food was passed around, and we were\njust beginning to eat when a car door slammed close to the house.\nWe stopped eating and looked at one another. Pappy stood silently\nand walked to the kitchen window. “It's Stick Powers,” he said,\nlooking out, and my appetite vanished. The law had arrived, and\nnothing good was about to happen.\nPappy met him at the back porch. We could hear every word.\n“Good afternoon, Eli.”\n“Stick. What can I do for you?”\n“I guess you heard that Sisco boy died.”\n“I heard,” Pappy said without the slightest hint of sadness.\n“I need to talk to one of your hands.”\n“It was just a fight, Stick. The usual Saturday foolishness that the\nSiscos have been doin' for years. You never stopped 'em. Now one\nof 'em bit off more'n he could chew.”\n“I still gotta investigate.”\n“You'll have to wait till after lunch. We just sat down. Some folks\ngo to church.”\nMy mother cringed when Pappy said this. Gran slowly shook her\nhead.\n“I been on duty,” Stick said.\nAccording to the gossip, Stick had a bout with the Spirit every\nfour years, when it was election time. Then for three and a half\nyears he didn't feel the need to worship. In Black Oak, if you didn't\ngo to church, folks knew it. We had to have somebody to pray for\nduring revivals.“You're welcome to sit on the porch,” Pappy said, then returned\nto the kitchen table. When he took his seat, the others began eating\nagain. I now had a knot in my throat the size of a baseball, and the\nfried chicken simply wouldn't go down.\n“Has he had lunch?” Gran whispered across the table.\nPappy shrugged as if he couldn't have cared less. It was almost\ntwo-thirty. If Stick hadn't found something to eat by then, why\nshould we worry?\nBut Gran cared. She stood and pulled a plate from the cabinet.\nAs we watched, she covered it with potatoes and gravy, sliced\ntomatoes and cucumbers, two biscuits that she carefully buttered,\nand a thigh and a breast. Then she filled a tall glass with iced tea\nand took it to the back porch. Again, we heard every word.\n“Here, Stick,” she said. “Nobody misses a meal around here.”\n“Thanks, Miss Ruth, but I've already ate.”\n“Then eat again.”\n“I really shouldn't.”\nWe knew that by then Stick's fleshy nostrils had caught a whiff of\nthe chicken and the biscuits.\n“Thank you, Miss Ruth. This is mighty kind.”\nWe were not surprised when she returned empty-handed. Pappy\nwas angry but managed to hold his tongue. Stick was there to cause\ntrouble, to interfere with our farmhands, which meant he was\nthreatening our cotton. Why feed him?\nWe ate in silence, which allowed me a few moments to collect\nmy thoughts. Since I didn't want to act suspiciously, I forced the\nfood into my mouth and chewed as slowly as possible.\nI wasn't sure what the truth was, nor could I distinguish right\nfrom wrong. The Siscos were ganging up on the poor hillbilly when\nHank went to his rescue. There were three Siscos, and Hank was\nalone. He had quickly stopped them, and the fight should've been\nover. Why did he pick up that piece of wood? It was easy to assume\nthe Siscos were always wrong, but Hank had won the fight long\nbefore he began clubbing them.\nI thought about Dewayne and our secret pact. Silence and\nignorance were still the best strategies, I decided.We didn't want Stick to hear us, so we said nothing throughout\nthe entire meal. Pappy ate slower than usual, because he wanted\nStick to sit and wait and stew, and maybe get mad and leave. I\ndoubted if the delay bothered Stick. I could almost hear him licking\nhis plate.\nMy father gazed at the table as he chewed, his mind seemingly\noff on the other side of the world, probably Korea. Both my mother\nand Gran looked very sad, which was not unusual after the verbal\nbeating we received each week from Brother Akers. That's another\nreason I always tried to sleep during his sermons.\nThe women had much more sympathy for Jerry Sisco. As the\nhours passed, his death became sadder. His meanness and other\nundesirable qualities were slowly forgotten. He was, after all, a local\nboy, someone we knew, if only in passing, and he'd met a terrible\nend.\nAnd his killer slept in our front yard.\nWe heard noises. The Spruills were back from the river.\n--------------------\nThe inquest took place under our tallest pin oak, about halfway\nbetween the front porch and Camp Spruill. The men gathered first,\nPappy and my father stretching and rubbing their stomachs, and\nStick looking particularly well fed. He carried a sizable belly, which\npulled his brown shirt at the buttons, and it was obvious that Stick\ndid not spend his days in the cotton fields. Pappy said he was lazy as\nhell and slept most of the time in his patrol car, under a shade tree\nnear Gurdy Stone's hot dog stand on the edge of town.\nFrom the other end of the yard came the Spruills, all of them,\nwith Mr. Spruill leading the pack and Trot bringing up the rear,\ntwisting and snuffling along in his now familiar gait. I walked behind\nGran and my mother, peeking between them and trying to keep my\ndistance. Only the Mexicans were absent.\nA loose huddle formed around Stick; the Spruills loitering on one\nside, the Chandlers hanging around the other, though when it came\ndown to it, we were all on the same side. I was not pleased to be\nallied with Hank Spruill, but the cotton was more important than\nanything else.Pappy introduced Stick to Mr. Spruill, who awkwardly shook\nStick's hand and then took a few steps back. It looked like the\nSpruills were expecting the worst, and I tried to remember if any of\nthem had witnessed the fight. There'd been a large crowd and\nthings had happened so fast. Dewayne and I had been mesmerized\nby the bloodletting. I couldn't recall really noticing the faces of the\nother spectators.\nStick worked a blade of grass that was protruding from one\ncorner of his mouth, and with both thumbs hung in his pants\npockets, he studied our hill people. Hank leaned against the pin oak,\nsneering at anybody who dared to look at him.\n“Had a big fight in town yesterday behind the Co-op,” Stick\nannounced in the direction of the Spruills. Mr. Spruill nodded but said\nnothing. “Some local boys got into it with a fella from the hills. One\nof 'em, Jerry Sisco, died this mornin' in the hospital in Jonesboro.\nFractured skull.”\nEvery Spruill began fidgeting, except Hank, who didn't move.\nThey obviously had not heard the latest on Jerry Sisco.\nStick spat and shifted his weight, and he seemed to enjoy being\nthe man in the middle, the voice of authority with a badge and a\ngun. “And so I'm lookin' around, askin' questions, just tryin' to find\nout who was involved.”\n“Ain't none of us,” Mr. Spruill said. “We're peaceful folks.”\n“Is that so?”\n“Yes sir.”\n“Did y'all go to town yesterday?”\n“We did.”\nNow that the lying had started, I peeked from between the two\nwomen for a better look at the Spruills. They were clearly frightened.\nBo and Dale stood close together, their eyes darting around. Tally\nstudied the dirt at her bare feet, unwilling to look at us. Mr. and Mrs.\nSpruill seemed to be looking for friendly faces. Trot, of course, was\nin another world.\n“You got a boy named Hank?” Stick asked.\n“Maybe,” Mr. Spruill said.“Don't play games with me,” Stick growled with sudden anger. “I\nask you a question, you give me a straight answer. We got a jail over\nin Jonesboro with lots of room. I can take the whole family in for\nquestions. You understand?”\n“I'm Hank Spruill!” came a thunderous voice. Hank strutted\nthrough the huddle and stood within striking distance of Stick, who\nwas much smaller but managed to maintain his cockiness.\nStick studied him for a second, then asked, “Did you go to town\nyesterday?”\n“I did.”\n“Did you get in a fight behind the Co-op?”\n“Nope. I stopped a fight.”\n“Did you beat up the Sisco boys?”\n“I don't know their names. There was two of 'em beatin' up a\nboy from the hills. I stopped it.”\nHank's face was smug. He showed no fear, and I grudgingly\nadmired him for the way he confronted the law.\nThe deputy looked around the crowd, and his eyes stopped with\nPappy. Stick was hot on the trail and quite proud of himself. With his\ntongue he moved the blade of grass to the other corner of his\nmouth, then looked up at Hank again.\n“Did you use a stick of wood?”\n“Didn't need to.”\n“Answer the question. Did you use a stick of wood?”\nWithout hesitating, Hank said, “Nope. They had a two-by-four.”\nThis, of course, conflicted with what someone else had reported\nto Stick. “I guess I better take you in,” Stick said, but made no move\nfor the handcuffs dangling from his belt.\nMr. Spruill took a step forward and said to Pappy, “If he leaves,\nwe leave, too. Right now.”\nPappy was prepared for this. Hill people were noted for their\nability to break camp and disappear quickly, and none of us doubted\nMr. Spruill meant what he said. They would be gone in an hour, back\nto Eureka Springs, back to their mountains and their moonshine. It\nwould be virtually impossible to harvest eighty acres of cotton with\njust the Mexicans to help us. Every pound was crucial. Every hand.“Slow down, Stick,” Pappy said. “Let's talk about this. You and I\nboth know the Siscos are good for no thin'. They fight often, and\nthey fight dirty. Seems to me they picked on the wrong fella.”\n“I got a dead body, Eli. You understand?”\n“Two against one sounds like self-defense to me. Nothin' fair\nabout two against one.”\n“But look how big he is.”\n“Like I said, the Siscos picked on the wrong fella. You and I both\nknow they had it comin'. Let the boy tell his story.”\n“I ain't no boy!” Hank snapped.\n“Tell what happened,” Pappy said, stalling for time. Drag it out,\nand maybe Stick would find some reason to leave and come back in\na few days.\n“Go ahead,” Stick said. “Let's hear your story. God knows ain't\nnobody else talkin'.”\nHank shrugged and said, “I walked up to the fight, saw these\ntwo little sodbusters beatin' up on Doyle, and so I broke it up.”\n“Who's Doyle?” Stick asked.\n“Boy from Hardy.”\n“You know him?”\n“Nope.”\n“Then how do you know where he's from?”\n“Just do.”\n“Damn it!” Stick said, then spat near Hank. “Nobody knows\nnothin'. Nobody saw nothin'. Half the town was behind the Co-op,\nbut nobody knows a damned thing.”\n“Sounds like two against one,” Pappy said again. “And watch your\nlanguage. You're on my property, and there're ladies present.”\n“Sorry,” Stick said, touching his hat and nodding in the direction\nof Mother and Gran.\n“He was just breakin' up a fight,” my father said, his first words.\n“There's more to it, Jesse. I've heard that after the fight was\nover, he picked up a piece of wood and beat the boys. I figure that's\nwhen the skull was fractured. Two against one ain't fair, and I know\nit's the Siscos, but I ain't sure one of 'em had to get killed.”“I didn't kill nobody,” Hank said. “I broke up a fight. And there\nwas three of 'em, not two.”\nIt was about time Hank set the record straight. It seemed odd to\nme that Stick didn't know that three of the Siscos had been maimed.\nAll he had to do was count the battered faces. But they had probably\nbeen hauled off by their kin and hidden back home.\n“Three?” Stick repeated in disbelief. The entire gathering seemed\nto freeze.\nPappy seized the moment. “Three against one, and there's no\nway you can take him in for murder. No jury in this county'll ever\nconvict if it's three against one.”\nFor a moment Stick seemed to agree, but he wasn't about to\nconcede. “That's if he's tellin' the truth. He'll need witnesses, and\nright now they're few and far between.” Stick turned to face Hank\nagain and said, “Who were the three?”\n“I didn't ask their names, sir,” Hank said with perfect sarcasm.\n“We didn't have a chance to say howdy. Three against one takes up\na lotta time, especially if you're the one.”\nLaughter would've upset Stick, and nobody wanted to run that\nrisk. So we just lowered our heads and grinned.\n“Don't get smart with me, boy!” Stick said, trying to reassert\nhimself. “Don't suppose you got any witnesses, do you?”\nThe humor vanished into a long period of silence. I was hoping\nthat maybe Bo or Dale would step forward and claim to be a\nwitness. Since the Spruills had just proved that they would lie under\npressure, it seemed sensible to me that one of them would quickly\nverify Hank's version. But nobody moved, nobody spoke. I slipped\nover a few inches and was directly behind my mother.\nThen I heard words that would change my life. With the air\nperfectly still, Hank said, “Little Chandler saw it.”\nLittle Chandler almost wet his pants.\nWhen I opened my eyes, everyone was staring at me, of course.\nGran and my mother looked particularly horrified. I felt guilty and\nlooked guilty, and I knew in an instant that every person there\nbelieved Hank. I was a witness! I'd seen the fight.“Come here, Luke,” Pappy said, and I walked as slowly as\nhumanly possible to a spot in the center. I glanced up at Hank, and\nhis eyes were glowing. He wore his usual smirk, and his face told me\nthat he knew I was caught. The crowd inched in as if surrounding\nme.\n“Did you see the fight?” Pappy asked.\nI'd been taught in Sunday school from the day I could walk that\nlying would send you straight to hell. No detours. No second\nchances. Straight into the fiery pit, where Satan was waiting with the\nlikes of Hitler and Judas Iscariot and General Grant. Thou shalt not\nbear false witness, which, of course, didn't sound exactly like a strict\nprohibition against lying, but that was the way the Baptists\ninterpreted it. And I'd been whipped a couple of times for telling\nlittle fibs. “Just tell the truth and get it over with” was one of Gran's\nfavorite sayings.\nI said, “Yes sir.”\n“What were you doin' there?”\n“I heard there was a fight, so I took off and watched it.” I wasn't\nabout to include Dewayne, at least not until I had to.\nStick dropped to one knee so that his chubby face was eye-level\nwith mine. “Tell me what you saw,” he said. “And tell the truth.”\nI glanced at my father, who was hovering over my shoulder. And\nI looked at Pappy, who, oddly, didn't seem at all angry with me.\nI sucked in air until my lungs were full, and I looked at Tally, who\nwas watching me very closely. Then I looked at Stick's flat nose and\nhis black, puffy eyes, and I said, “Jerry Sisco was fightin' some man\nfrom the hills. Then Billy Sisco jumped on him, too. They were\nbeatin' him up pretty bad when Mr. Hank stepped in to help the man\nfrom the hills.”\n“Right then, was it two against one, or two against two?” Stick\nasked.\n“Two against one.”\n“What happened to the first hill boy?”\n“I don't know. He just left. I think he was hurt pretty bad.”\n“All right. Keep goin'. And tell the truth.”\n“He's tellin' the truth!” Pappy snarled.“Go on.”\nI glanced around again to make sure Tally was still watching. Not\nonly was she studying me closely, but now she had a pleasant little\nsmile. “Then, all of a sudden, Bobby Sisco charged from the crowd\nand attacked Mr. Hank. It was three against one, just like Mr. Hank\nsaid.”\nHank's face did not relax. If anything, he looked at me with even\nmore viciousness. He was thinking ahead, and he wasn't finished\nwith me.\n“I guess that settles it,” Pappy said. “I ain't no lawyer, but I could\nsway a jury if it's three against one.”\nStick ignored him and leaned even closer to me. “Who had the\ntwo-by-four?” he asked, his eyes narrowing as if this were the most\nimportant question of all.\nHank suddenly exploded. “Tell him the truth, boy!” he shouted.\n“One of them Siscos picked up that stick of wood, didn't he?”\nI could feel the stares of Gran and my mother behind me. And I\nknew Pappy wanted to reach over and shake me by the neck and\nsomehow make the right words come out.\nIn front of me, not too far away, Tally was pleading with her\neyes. Bo and Dale, and even Trot, were looking at me.\n“Didn't he, boy!” Hank barked again.\nI met Stick's gaze and began nodding, slowly at first, a timid little\nlie delivered without a word. And I kept nodding, and kept lying, and\nin doing so, did more to harvest our cotton than six months of good\nweather.\nI was skirting around the edges of the fiery depths. Satan was\nwaiting, and I could feel the heat. I'd run to the woods and pray for\nforgiveness as soon as I could. I'd ask God to go easy on me. He'd\ngiven us the cotton; it was up to us to protect it and gather the\ncrops.\nStick slowly stood, but he kept staring at me, our eyes locked\ntogether, because both of us knew I was lying. Stick didn't want to\narrest Hank Spruill, not then anyway. First, he'd have to put the\nhandcuffs on him, a task that could turn ugly. Second, he'd upset all\nthe farmers.My father grabbed me by the shoulder and shoved me back\ntoward the women. “You've scared him to death, Stick,” he said with\nan awkward laugh, trying to break the tension and get me out of\nthere before I said something wrong.\n“Is he a good boy?” Stick asked.\n“He tells the truth,” my father said.\n“Of course he tells the truth,” Pappy said with a good dose of\nanger.\nThe truth had just been rewritten.\n“I'm gonna keep askin' around,” Stick said and began walking\ntoward his car. “I might be back later.”\nHe slammed the door of his old patrol car and left our yard. We\nwatched him drive away until he was out of sight.\n---------------A Painted HouseChapter 10\n---------------\nSince we didn't work on Sunday, the house became smaller as\nmy parents and grandparents busied themselves with the few light\nchores that were permitted. Naps were attempted, then abandoned\nbecause of the heat. Occasionally, when the moods were edgy, my\nparents tossed me in the back of the pickup, and we went for a long\ndrive. There was nothing to see-all the land was flat and covered\nwith cotton. The views were the same as those from our front porch.\nBut it was important to get away.\nNot long after Stick left, I was marched into the garden and\nordered to haul food. A road trip was in the making. Two cardboard\nboxes were filled with vegetables. They were so heavy that my\nfather had to place them in the back of the truck. As we drove off,\nthe Spruills were scattered across the front yard in various stages of\nrest. I didn't want to look at them.\nI sat in the back between the boxes of vegetables and watched\nthe dust boil from behind the truck, forming gray clouds that rose\nquickly and hung over the road in the heavy air before slowly\ndissipating from the lack of wind. The rain and the mud from the\nearly morning were long forgotten. Everything was hot again: the\nwooden planks of the truck bed, its rusted and unpainted frame,\neven the corn and potatoes and tomatoes my mother had just\nwashed. It snowed twice a year in our part of Arkansas, and I\nlonged for a thick, cold blanket of white across our winter fields,\ncottonless and barren.\nThe dust finally stopped at the edge of the river, and we crept\nacross the bridge. I stood to see the water below, the thick brown\nstream barely moving along the banks. There were two cane poles\nin the back of the truck, and my father had promised we'd fish for a\nwhile after the food was delivered.\nThe Latchers were sharecroppers who lived no more than a mile\nfrom our house, but they might as well have been in another county.Their run-down shack was in a bend of the river, with elms and\nwillows touching the roof and cotton growing almost to the front\nporch. There was no grass around the house, just a ring of dirt\nwhere a horde of little Latchers played. I was secretly happy that\nthey lived on the other side of the river. Otherwise, I might have\nbeen expected to play with them.\nThey farmed thirty acres and split the crop with the owner of the\nland. Half of a little left nothing, and the Latchers were dirt-poor.\nThey had no electricity, no car or truck. Occasionally, Mr. Latcher\nwould walk to our house and ask Pappy for a ride on the next trip to\nBlack Oak.\nThe trail to their house was barely wide enough for our truck,\nand when we rolled to a stop, the porch was already filled with dirty\nlittle faces. I had once counted seven Latcher kids, but an accurate\ntotal was impossible. It was hard to tell the boys from the girls; all\nhad shaggy hair, narrow faces with the same pale blue eyes, and\nthey all wore raggedy clothes.\nMrs. Latcher emerged from the decrepit porch, wiping her hands\non her apron. She managed to smile at my mother. “Hello, Mrs.\nChandler,” she said in a soft voice. She was barefoot, and her legs\nwere as skinny as twigs.\n“Nice to see you, Darla,” my mother said. My father busied\nhimself at the back of the truck, fiddling with the boxes, killing time\nwhile the ladies handled the chitchat. We did not expect to see Mr.\nLatcher. Pride would prevent him from coming forward and accepting\nfood. Let the women take care of it.\nAs they talked about the harvest and how hot it was, I moved\naway from the truck, under the watchful eyes of all those kids. I\nwalked to the side of the house, where the tallest boy was loafing in\nthe shade, trying to ignore us. His name was Percy, and he claimed\nto be twelve, though I had my doubts. He didn't look big enough to\nbe twelve, but since the Latchers didn't go to school, it was\nimpossible to lump him together with boys his own age. He was\nshirtless and barefoot, his skin a dark bronze from hours in the sun.\n“Hi, Percy,” I said, but he did not respond. Sharecroppers were\nfunny like that. Sometimes they would speak, other times they justgave you a blank look, as if they wanted you to leave them alone.\nI studied their house, a square little box, and wondered once\nmore how so many people could live in such a tiny place. Our tool\nshed was almost as large. The windows were open, and the torn\nremains of curtains hung still. There were no screens to keep the\nflies and mosquitoes out, and certainly no fans to push the air\naround.\nI felt very sorry for them. Gran was fond of quoting the\nScriptures: “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom\nof heaven,” and “The poor will always be with you.” But it seemed\ncruel for anyone to live in such conditions. They had no shoes. Their\nclothes were so old and worn, they were embarrassed to go to town.\nAnd because they had no electricity, they couldn't listen to the\nCardinals.\nPercy had never owned a ball or a glove or a bat, had never\nplayed catch with his dad, had never dreamed of beating the\nYankees. In fact, he'd probably never dreamed of leaving the cotton\npatch. That thought was almost overwhelming.\nMy father produced the first box of vegetables while my mother\ncalled out its contents, and the Latcher kids moved onto the front\nsteps, eagerly looking on but still keeping their distance. Percy didn't\nmove; he stared at something in the fields, something neither he nor\nI could see.\nThere was a girl in the house. Her name was Libby, age fifteen,\nthe oldest of the brood, and according to the latest rumors in Black\nOak, she was pregnant. The father had yet to be named; in fact, the\ngossip currently held that she was refusing to reveal to anyone,\nincluding her parents, the name of the boy who'd gotten her\npregnant.\nSuch gossip was more than Black Oak could stand. War news, a\nfist-fight, a case of cancer, a car wreck, a new baby on the way from\ntwo people lawfully wed-all these events kept the talk flying. A death\nfollowed by a good funeral, and the town buzzed for days. An arrest\nof even the lowliest of citizens was an event to be dissected for\nweeks. But a fifteen-year-old girl, even a sharecropper's daughter,\nhaving an illegitimate baby was something so extraordinary that thetown was beside itself. Problem was, the pregnancy had not been\nconfirmed. Only rumored. Since the Latchers never left the farm, it\nwas proving to be quite difficult to nail down the evidence. And since\nwe lived closest to them, it had apparently fallen upon my mother to\ninvestigate.\nShe had enlisted me to help with the verifying. She'd shared\nsome of the gossip with me, and because I'd been watching farm\nanimals breed and reproduce all my life, I knew the basics. But I\nwas still reluctant to get involved. Nor was I completely certain why\nwe had to confirm the pregnancy. It had been talked about so much\nthat the entire town already believed the poor girl was expecting.\nThe big mystery was the identity of the father. “They ain't gonna pin\nit on me,” I'd heard Pappy say at the Co-op, and all the old men\nroared with laughter.\n“How's the cotton?” I asked Percy. Just a couple of real farmers.\n“Still out there,” he said, nodding at the fields, which began just\na few feet away. I turned and stared at their cotton, which looked\nthe same as ours. I was paid $1.60 for every hundred pounds I\npicked. Sharecropper children were paid nothing.\nThen I looked at the house again, at the windows and the\ncurtains and the sagging boards, and I stared into the backyard,\nwhere their wash hung on the clothesline. I studied the stretch of\ndirt that led past their outhouse to the river, and there was no sign\nof Libby Latcher. They probably had her locked in a room, with Mr.\nLatcher guarding the door with a shotgun. One day she'd have the\nbaby, and no one would know it. Just another Latcher running\naround naked.\n“My sister ain't here,” he said, still lost in the distance. “That's\nwhat you're lookin' for.”\nMy mouth fell open, and my cheeks got very hot. All I could say\nwas, “What?”\n“She ain't here. Now get back to your truck.”\nMy father hauled the rest of the food onto the porch, and I\nwalked away from Percy.\n“Did you see her?” my mother whispered as we were leaving. I\nshook my head.As we drove away, the Latchers were crawling over and around\nthe two boxes as if they hadn't eaten in a week.\nWe'd return in a few days with another load of produce in a\nsecond attempt to confirm the rumors. As long as they kept Libby\nhidden, the Latchers would be well fed.\n----------------\nThe St. Francis River was fifty feet deep, according to my father,\nand around the bottom of the bridge pier there were channel catfish\nthat weighed sixty pounds and ate everything that floated within\nreach. They were large, dirty fish-scavengers that moved only when\nfood was nearby. Some lived for twenty years. According to family\nlegend, Ricky caught one of the monsters when he was thirteen. It\nweighed forty-four pounds, and when he slit its belly with a cleaning\nknife, all sorts of debris spilled onto the tailgate of Pappy's truck: a\nspark plug, a marble, lots of half-eaten minnows and small fish, two\npennies, and some suspicious matter that was eventually determined\nto be human waste.\nGran never fried another catfish. Pappy gave up river food\naltogether.\nWith red worms as bait, I fished the shallow backwaters around a\nsandbar for bream and crappie, two small species that were plentiful\nand easy to catch. I waded barefoot through the warm, swirling\nwaters and occasionally heard my mother yell, “That's far enough,\nLuke!” The bank was lined with oaks and willows, and the sun was\nbehind them. My parents sat in the shade, on one of the many quilts\nthe ladies at the church made during the winter, and shared a\ncantaloupe from our garden.\nThey talked softly, almost in whispers, and I didn't try to listen,\nbecause it was one of the few moments during the picking season\nwhen they could be alone. At night, after a day in the fields, sleep\ncame fast and hard, and I rarely heard them talk in bed. They\nsometimes sat on the porch in the darkness, waiting for the heat to\npass, but they weren't really alone.\nThe river scared me enough to keep me safe. I had not yet\nlearned to swim-I was waiting for Ricky to come home. He hadpromised to teach me the next summer, when I would be eight. I\nstayed close to the bank, where the water barely covered my feet.\nDrownings were not uncommon, and all my life I'd heard colorful\ntales of grown men caught in shifting sandbanks and being swept\naway while entire families watched in horror. Calm waters could\nsomehow turn violent, though I'd never witnessed this myself. The\nmother of all drownings supposedly took place in the St. Francis,\nthough the exact location varied according to the narrator. A small\nchild was sitting innocently on a sandbar when suddenly it shifted,\nand the child was surrounded by water and sinking fast. An older\nsibling saw it happen and dashed into the swirling waters, only to be\nmet with a fierce current that carried him away, too. Next, an even\nolder sibling heard the cries of the first two, and she charged into\nthe river and was waist-deep before she remembered she couldn't\nswim. Undaunted, she bravely thrashed onward, yelling at the\nyounger two to hold steady, she'd get there somehow. But the\nsandbar collapsed entirely, sort of like an earthquake, and new\ncurrents went in all directions.\nThe three children were drifting farther and farther away from\nshore. The mother, who may or may not have been pregnant, and\nwho may or may not have been able to swim, was fixing lunch under\na shade tree when she heard the screams of her children. She flung\nherself into the river, whereupon she, too, was soon in trouble.\nThe father was fishing off a bridge when he heard the\ncommotion, and rather than waste time running to the shore and\nentering from that venue, he simply jumped headlong into the St.\nFrancis and broke his neck.\nThe entire family perished. Some of the bodies were found.\nSome were not. Some were eaten by the channel cats, and the\nothers were swept out to sea, wherever the sea was. There was no\nshortage of theories as to what finally happened to the bodies of this\npoor family, which, oddly, had remained nameless through the\ndecades.\nThis story was repeated so that kids like myself would appreciate\nthe dangers of the river. Ricky loved to scare me with it, but often\ngot his versions confused. My mother said it was all fiction.Even Brother Akers managed to weave it through a sermon to\nillustrate how Satan was always at work spreading misery and\nheartache around the world. I was awake and listening very closely,\nand when he left out the part about the broken neck, I figured he\nwas exaggerating, too.\nBut I was determined not to drown. The fish were biting, small\nbream that I hooked and threw back. I found a seat on a stump\nnear a lagoon and caught one fish after another. It was almost as\nmuch fun as playing baseball. The afternoon passed slowly by, and I\nwas thankful for the solitude. Our farm was crowded with strangers.\nThe fields were waiting with the promise of backbreaking labor. I'd\nseen a man get killed, and I had somehow gotten myself in the\nmiddle of it.\nThe gentle rushing sound of the shallow water was soothing.\nWhy couldn't I just fish all day? Sit by the river in the shade?\nAnything but pick cotton. I wasn't going to be a farmer. I didn't need\nthe practice.\n“Luke,” came my father's voice from down the bank. I pulled in\nthe hook and worm, and walked to where they were sitting.\n“Yes sir,” I said.\n“Sit down,” he said. “Let's talk.”\nI sat at the very edge of the quilt, as far from them as possible.\nThey didn't appear to be angry; in fact, my mother's face was\npleasant.\nBut my father's voice was stern enough to worry me. “Why didn't\nyou tell us about the fight?” he asked.\nThe fight that wouldn't go away.\nI wasn't really surprised to hear the question. “I was scared, I\nguess.”\n“Scared of what?”\n“Scared of gettin' caught behind the Co-op watchin' a fight.”\n“Because I told you not to, right?” asked my mother.\n“Yes ma'am. And I'm sorry.”\nWatching a fight was not a major act of disobedience, and all\nthree of us knew it. What were boys supposed to do on Saturday\nafternoon when the town was packed and excitement was high? Shesmiled because I said I was sorry. I was trying to look as pitiful as\npossible.\n“I'm not too worried about you watchin' a fight,” my father said.\n“But secrets can get you in trouble. You shoulda told me what\nyou saw.”\n“I saw a fight. I didn't know Jerry Sisco was gonna die.”\nMy logic stopped him for a moment. Then he said, “Did you tell\nStick Powers the truth?”\n“Yes sir.” i\n“Did one of the Siscos pick up the piece of wood first? Or was it\nHank Spruill?”\nIf I told the truth, then I would be admitting that I had lied in my\nearlier version. Tell the truth or tell a lie, that was the question that\nalways remained. I decided to try to blur things a bit. “Well, to be\nhonest, Dad, things happened so fast. There were bodies fallin' and\nflyin' everywhere. Hank was just throwin' those boys around like\nlittle toys. And the crowd was movin' and hollerin'. Then I saw a\nstick ; of wood.” I\nSurprisingly, this satisfied him. After all, I was only seven years\nold, . and had been caught up in a mob of spectators, all watching a\nhorrible brawl unfold behind the Co-op. Who could blame me if I\nwasn't sure about what happened?\n“Don't talk to anyone about this, all right? Not a soul.”\n“Yes sir.”\n“Little boys who keep secrets from their parents get into big\ntrouble,” my mother said. “You can always tell us.”\n“Yes ma'am.”\n“Now go fish some more,” my father said, and I ran back to my\nspot.\n----------------A Painted HouseChapter 11\n----------------\nThe week began in the semidarkness of Monday morning. We\nmet at the trailer for the ride into the fields, a ride that grew shorter\neach day as the picking slowly moved away from the river back\ntoward the house.\nNot a word was spoken. Before us were five endless days of\noverwhelming labor and heat, followed by Saturday, which on\nMonday seemed as far away as Christmas.\nI looked down from my perch on the tractor and prayed for the\nday when the Spruills would leave our farm. They were grouped\ntogether, as dazed and sleepy as I was. Trot was not with them, nor\nwould he be joining us in the fields. Late Sunday, Mr. Spruill had\nasked Pappy if it would be all right if Trot hung around the front yard\nall day. “The boy can't take the heat,” Mr. Spruill said. Pappy didn't\ncare what happened to Trot. He wasn't worth a nickel in the fields.\nWhen the tractor stopped, we took our sacks and disappeared\ninto the rows of cotton. Not a word from anyone. An hour later, the\nsun was baking us. I thought of Trot, wasting the day under the\nshade tree, napping when he felt like it, no doubt happy about the\nwork he was missing. He might have been a little off in the head,\nbut right then he was the smartest of all the Spruills.\nTime stopped when we were picking cotton. The days dragged\non, each yielding ever so slowly to the next.\nOver supper on Thursday, Pappy announced, “We won't be goin'\nto town Saturday.”\nI felt like crying. It was harsh enough to labor in the fields all\nweek, but to do so without the reward of popcorn and a movie was\ndownright cruel. What about my weekly Coca-Cola?\nA long silence followed. My mother watched me carefully. She did\nnot seem surprised, and I got the impression that the adults had\nalready had this discussion. Now they were just going through the\nmotions for my benefit.I thought, What is there to lose? So I gritted my teeth and said,\n“Why not?”\n“Because I said so,” Pappy fired back at me, and I knew I was in\ndangerous territory.\nI looked at my mother. There was a curious grin on her face.\n“You're not scared of the Siscos, are you?” I asked, and I half-\nexpected one of the men to make a grab for me.\nThere was a moment of deathly silence. My father cleared his\nthroat and said, “It's best if the Spruills stay out of town for a while.\nWe've discussed it with Mr. Spruill, and we've agreed that we'll all\nstay put Saturday. Even the Mexicans.”\n“I ain't afraid of nobody, son,” Pappy growled down the table. I\nrefused to look at him. “And don't sass me,” he threw in for good\nmeasure.\nMy mother's grin was still firmly in place, and her eyes were\ntwinkling. She was proud of me.\n“I'll need a couple of things from the store,” Gran said. “Some\nflour and sugar.”\n“I'll run in,” Pappy said. “I'm sure the Mexicans'll need some\nthings, too.”\nLater, they moved to the front porch for our ritual of sitting, but I\nwas too wounded to join them. I lay on the floor of Ricky's room, in\nthe darkness, listening to the Cardinals through the open window\nand trying to ignore the soft, slow talk of the adults. I tried to think\nof new ways to hate the Spruills, but I was soon overwhelmed by\nthe sheer volume of their misdeeds. At some point in the early\nevening, I grew too still, and fell asleep on the floor.\n-------------------\nLunch on Saturday was usually a happy time. The work week\nwas over. We were going to town. If I could survive the Saturday\nscrubbing on the back porch, then life was indeed wonderful, if only\nfor a few hours.\nBut on this Saturday there was no excitement. “We'll work till\nfour,” Pappy said, as if he was doing us a real favor. Big deal. We'd\nknock off an hour early. I wanted to ask him if we were going to\nwork on Sunday, too, but I'd said enough on Thursday night. He wasignoring me and I was ignoring him. This type of pouting could go\non for days.\nSo we went back to the fields instead of going to Black Oak.\nEven the Mexicans seemed irritated by this. When the trailer\nstopped, we took our sacks and slowly disappeared into the cotton. I\npicked a little and stalled a lot, and when things were safe, I found a\nspot and went down for a nap. They could banish me from town,\nthey could force me into the fields, but they couldn't make me work\nhard. I think there were a lot of naps that Saturday afternoon.\nMy mother found me, and we walked to the house, just the two\nof us. She was not feeling well, and she also knew the injustice that\nwas being inflicted upon me. We gathered some vegetables from the\ngarden, but only a few things. I suffered through and survived the\ndreaded bath. And when I was clean, I ventured into the front yard,\nwhere Trot was spending his days guarding Camp Spruill. We had no\nidea what he did all day; no one really cared. We were too busy and\ntoo tired to worry about Trot. I found him sitting behind the wheel of\ntheir truck, pretending he was driving, making a strange sound with\nhis lips. He glanced at me and returned to his driving and sputtering.\nWhen I heard the tractor coming, I went into the house, where I\nfound my mother lying on her bed, something she never did during\nthe day. There were voices around, tired voices in the front, where\nthe Spruills were unwinding, and in the rear, where the Mexicans\nwere dragging themselves to the barn. I hid in Ricky's room for a\nwhile, a baseball in one hand, a glove on the other, and I thought of\nDewayne and the Montgomery twins and the rest of my friends all\nsitting in the Dixie watching the Saturday feature and eating\npopcorn.\nThe door opened and Pappy appeared. “I'm goin' to Pop and\nPearl's for a few things. You wanna go?”\nI shook my head no, without looking at him.\n“I'll buy you a Coca-Cola,” he said.\n“No thanks,” I said, still staring at the floor.\nEli Chandler wouldn't beg for mercy in front of a firing squad, and\nhe wasn't about to plead with a seven-year-old. The door closed,\nand seconds later the truck engine started.Wary of the front yard, I headed for the back. Near the silo,\nwhere the Spruills were supposed to be camping, there was a grassy\narea where baseball could be played. It wasn't as long and wide as\nmy field in the front, but it was open enough and ran to the edge of\nthe cotton. I tossed pop flies as high as I could, and I stopped only\nafter I'd caught ten in a row.\nMiguel appeared from nowhere. He watched me for a minute,\nand under the pressure of an audience, I dropped three in a row. I\ntossed him the ball, gently, because he had no glove. He caught it\neffortlessly and snapped it back to me. I bobbled it, dropped it,\nkicked it, then grabbed it and threw it back to him, this time a little\nharder.\nI had learned the previous year that a lot of Mexicans played\nbaseball, and it was obvious that Miguel knew the game. His hands\nwere quick and soft, his throws sharper than mine. We tossed the\nball for a few minutes, then Rico and Pepe and Luis joined us.\n“You have a bat?” Miguel asked.\n“Sure,” I said, and ran to the house to get it.\nWhen I returned, Roberto and Pablo had joined the others, and\nthe group was flinging my baseball in all directions. “You bat,” Miguel\nsaid, and he took charge. He put a piece of an old plank on the\nground, ten feet in front of the silo, and said, “Home plate.” The\nothers scattered throughout the infield. Pablo, in shallow center, was\nat the edge of the cotton. Rico squatted behind me, and I took my\nposition on the right side of the plate. Miguel performed a fierce\nwindup, scared me for a second, then tossed a soft one that I swung\nat mightily but missed.\nI also missed the next three, then ripped a couple. The Mexicans\ncheered and laughed when I made contact, but said nothing when I\ndidn't. After a few minutes of batting practice, I gave the bat to\nMiguel and we swapped places. I started him with fastballs, and he\ndidn't appear to be intimidated. He hit line drives and hot grounders,\nsome of which were fielded cleanly by the Mexicans, while others\nwere simply retrieved. Most of them had played before, but a couple\nhad never even thrown a baseball.The other four at the barn heard the commotion and they\nwandered over. Cowboy was shirtless, and his pants were rolled up\nto his knees. He seemed to be a foot taller than the rest.\nLuis hit next. He wasn't as experienced as Miguel, and I had no\ntrouble fooling him with my change-up. Much to my delight, I\nnoticed Tally and Trot sitting under an elm, watching the fun.\nThen my father strolled over.\nThe longer we played, the more animated the Mexicans became.\nThey hollered and laughed at one another's miscues. God only knew\nwhat they were saying about my pitching.\n“Let's play a game,” my father said. Bo and Dale had arrived, also\nshirtless and shoeless. Miguel was consulted, and after a few\nminutes of plotting, it was decided that the Mexicans would play the\nArkansans. Rico would catch for both teams, and again I was sent to\nthe house, this time to fetch my father's old catcher's mitt and my\nother ball.\nWhen I returned the second time, Hank had appeared and was\nready to play. I was not happy about being on the same team with\nhim, but I certainly couldn't say anything. Nor was I certain where\nTrot would fit in. And Tally was a girl. What a disgrace: a girl for a\nteammate. Still, the Mexicans had us outnumbered.\nAnother round of plotting, and it was somehow determined that\nwe would bat first. “You have little guys,” Miguel said with a smile.\nMore planks were laid around as bases. My father and Miguel\nestablished the ground rules, which were quite creative for such a\nmisshapen field. The Mexicans scattered around the bases, and we\nwere ready to play.\nTo my surprise, Cowboy walked out to the mound and began\nwarming up. He was lean but strong, and when he threw the ball,\nthe muscles in his chest and shoulders bulged and creased. The\nsweat made his dark skin shine. “He's good,” my father said softly.\nHis windup was smooth, his delivery seamless, his release almost\nnonchalant, but the baseball shot from his fingers and popped into\nRico's mitt. He threw harder and harder. “He's very good,” my father\nsaid, shaking his head. “That boy's played a lot of baseball.”“Girls first,” somebody said. Tally picked up the bat and walked to\nthe plate. She was shoeless, and wearing tight pants rolled up to her\nknees and a loose shirt with its tail tied in a knot. You could see her\nstomach. At first, she didn't look at Cowboy, but he was certainly\nstaring at her. He moved a few feet toward the plate and tossed the\nfirst pitch underhanded. She swung and missed, but it was an\nimpressive swing, at least for a girl.\nThen their eyes met briefly. Cowboy was rubbing the baseball,\nTally was swinging the bat, nine Mexicans were chattering like\nlocusts.\nThe second pitch was even slower, and Tally made contact. The\nball rolled by Pepe at third, and we had our first base runner. “Bat,\nLuke,” my father said. I strolled to the plate with all the confidence\nof Stan Musial, hoping that Cowboy wouldn't throw the hard stuff at\nme. He let Tally hit one, surely he'd do the same for me. I stood in\nthe box, listening as thousands of rabid Cardinal fans chanted my\nname. A packed house, Harry Caray yelling into the microphone-then\nI looked at Cowboy thirty feet away, and my heart stopped. He\nwasn't smiling, nothing close. He held the baseball with both hands\nand looked at me as if he could saw my head off with a fastball.\nWhat would Musial do? Swing the damned bat!\nThe first pitch was also underhanded, so I started breathing\nagain. It was high, and I didn't swing, and the Mexican chorus had a\nlot to say about that. The second pitch was down the middle, and I\nswung for the fence, for the left field wall, 350 feet away. I closed\nmy eyes and swung for the thirty thousand lucky souls in\nSportsman's Park. I also swung for Tally.\n“Strike one!” my father yelled, a little too loud, I thought. “You're\ntryin' to kill it, Luke,” he said.\nOf course I was. I tried to kill the third pitch, too, and when Rico\nthrew it back, I was faced with the horror of being down two strikes.\nA strikeout was unthinkable. Tally had just hit the ball nicely. She\nwas on first base, anxious for me to put the ball in play so she could\nadvance. We were playing on my field, with my ball and bat. All of\nthose people were watching.I stepped away from the plate and was stricken with the terror of\nstriking out. The bat was suddenly heavier. My heart was pounding,\nmy mouth was dry. I looked at my father for help, and he said, “Let's\ngo, Luke. Hit the ball.” I looked at Cowboy, and his nasty smile was\neven nastier. I did not know if I was ready for what he was going to\nthrow.\nI stutter-stepped back to the plate, gritted my teeth, and tried to\nthink of Musial, but my only thoughts were of defeat, and I swung at\na very slow pitch. When I missed for the third time, there was total\nsilence. I dropped the bat, picked it up, and heard nothing as I\nwalked back to my team, my lip quivering, already daring myself not\nto cry. I couldn't look at Tally, and I sure couldn't look at my father.\nI wanted to run into the house and lock the doors.\nTrot was next, and he held the bat with his right hand just under\nthe label. His left arm hung limp, as always, and we were a little\nembarrassed at the sight of this poor kid trying to swing. But he was\nsmiling and happy to be playing, and that was more important than\nanything else at the moment. He hacked at the first two, and I\nbegan to think the Mexicans would beat us by twenty runs.\nSomehow, though, he hit the third pitch, a gentle looping fly that\nlanded behind second base, where at least four Mexicans managed\nto miss it. Tally flew around second and made it to third, while Trot\nshuffled down to first.\nMy humiliation, already enormous, grew even greater. Trot on\nfirst, Tally on third, only one out.\nBo was next, and because he was a large teenager with no\nvisible handicaps, Cowboy stepped back and threw from a full\nwindup. His first pitch was not too fast, but poor Bo was already\nshaking by the time the ball crossed home plate. He swung after\nRico caught it, and Hank roared with laughter. Bo told him to shut\nup; Hank made some response, and I thought we might have a\nSpruill family brawl in the top of the first inning.\nThe second pitch was a little faster. Bo's swing was a little slower.\n“Make him throw it underhand!” Bo yelled at us, trying to laugh it\noff.“What a sissy,” Hank said. Mr. and Mrs. Spruill had joined the\nspectators, and Bo glanced at them.\nI expected the third pitch to be even faster; so did Bo. Cowboy\ninstead threw a change-up, and Bo swung long before the ball\narrived.\n“He's mighty good,” my father said of Cowboy.\n“I'm hittin' next,” Hank announced, stepping in front of Dale, who\ndidn't argue. “I'll show you boys how it's done.”\nThe bat looked like a toothpick as Hank hacked and chopped\nwith his practice swings, as if he might hit the ball across the river.\nCowboy's first pitch was a fastball away, and Hank didn't swing. It\npopped into Rico's glove, and the Mexicans erupted in another burst\nof Spanish jeering.\n“Throw the ball over the plate!” Hank yelled as he looked at us\nfor approval. I was hoping Cowboy would drill a fastball into his ear.\nThe second pitch was much harder. Hank swung and missed.\nCowboy caught the ball from Rico, and glanced over at third, where\nTally was waiting and watching.\nThen Cowboy threw a curve, a pitch that went straight for Hank's\nhead, but as he ducked and dropped the bat, the baseball broke and\nfell magically through the strike zone. The Mexicans roared with\nlaughter. “Strike!” Miguel yelled from second base.\n“Ain't no strike!” Hank yelled, his face red.\n“No umpires,” my father said. “It's not a strike unless he swings\nat it.”\nFine with Cowboy. He had another curve in his arsenal. It at first\nappeared quite harmless, a slow fat pitch headed toward the center\nof the plate. Hank reached back for a massive swing. The ball,\nhowever, broke down and away and bounced before Rico blocked it.\nHank hit nothing but air. He lost his balance and fell across the plate,\nand when the Spanish chorus exploded again, I thought he might\nattack all of them. He stood up, squinted at Cowboy and mumbled\nsomething, then resumed his position at the plate.\nTwo outs, two strikes, two on. Cowboy finished him off with a\nfast-ball. Hank speared the bat into the ground when he finishing\nflailing at the pitch.“Don't throw the bat!” my father said loudly. “If you can't be a\nsport, then don't play.” We were walking onto the field as the\nMexicans hurried off.\nHank gave my father a look of disgust, but he said nothing. For\nsome reason it was determined that I would pitch. “Throw the first\ninning, Luke,” my father said. I didn't want to. I was no match for\nCowboy. We were about to be embarrassed at our own game.\nHank was at first, Bo at second, Dale at third. Tally was in left-\ncenter, hands on hips, and Trot was in right field looking for four-leaf\nclovers. What a defense! With my pitching we needed to put all of\nour fielders as far away from home plate as possible.\nMiguel sent Roberto to the plate first, and I was sure this was\ndeliberate, because the poor guy had never seen a baseball. He hit a\nlazy pop-up that my father caught at shortstop. Pepe hit a fly ball\nthat my father caught behind second base. Two up, two outs, I was\non a roll, but my luck was about to run out. The serious sticks lined\nup, one after the other, and hit baseballs all over our farm. I tried\nfastballs, curveballs, change-ups, it didn't matter. They scored runs\nby the truckload, and had a delightful time doing it. I was miserable\nbecause I was getting shelled, but it was also amusing to watch the\nMexicans dance and celebrate as the rout hit full stride.\nMy mother and Gran were sitting under a tree, watching the\nspectacle with Mr. and Mrs. Spruill. Everyone was accounted for\nexcept Pappy, who was still in town.\nWhen they'd scored about ten runs, my father called time and\nwalked to the mound. “You had enough?” he asked.\nWhat a ridiculous question. “I suppose,” I said.\n“Take a break,” he said.\n“I can pitch,” Hank yelled from first base. My father hesitated for\na second, then tossed him the ball. I wanted to go to right field, out\nwith Trot, where there wasn't much happening, but my coach said,\n“Go to first.”\nI knew from experience that Hank Spruill had remarkable\nquickness. He had taken down the three Siscos in a matter of\nseconds. So it was no great surprise to see him throw a baseball as\nif he'd been throwing one for years. He looked confident taking hiswindup and catching the ball from Rico. He threw three nice fastballs\nby Luis, and the first inning massacre was over. Miguel informed my\nfather that they had scored eleven runs. It seemed like fifty.\nCowboy returned to the mound and took up where he left off.\nDale went down on strikes, and my father stepped to the plate. He\nanticipated a fastball, got one, and ripped it hard, a long fly ball that\ncurved foul and landed deep in the cotton patch. Pablo went to\nsearch for it while we used my other ball. Under no circumstances\nwould we leave the game until both baseballs were accounted for.\nThe second pitch was a hard curve, and my father's knees\nbuckled before he read the pitch. “That was a strike,” he said,\nshaking his head in wonder. “It was also a major league curveball,”\nhe said just loud enough to be heard but to no one in particular.\nHe flied to shallow center, where Miguel cradled the ball with\nboth hands, and the team from Arkansas was about to get shut out\nagain. Tally strolled to the plate. Cowboy stopped his scowling and\nwalked halfway in. He tossed a couple underhanded, trying to hit her\nbat, and she finally hit a slow roller to second, where two Mexicans\nfought over it long enough for the runner to be safe.\nI was next. “Choke up a little,” my father said, and I did. I\nwould've done anything. Cowboy tossed one even slower, a lazy\nlooping pitch that I smacked to center field. The Mexicans went wild.\nEveryone cheered. I was a little embarrassed by all the fuss, but it\nsure beat striking out. The pressure was off; my future as a Cardinal\nwas back on track.\nTrot swung at the first three and missed them all by at least a\nfoot. “Four strikes,” Miguel said, and the rules were changed again.\nWhen you're leading by eleven runs in the second inning, you can\nafford to be generous. Trot chopped at the pitch, and the ball rolled\nback to Cowboy, who just for the fun of it threw to third in a vain\neffort to catch Tally. She was safe; the bases were loaded. The\nMexicans were trying to give us runs. Bo walked to the plate, but\nCowboy did not retreat to the mound. He lobbed one underhanded,\nand Bo hit a scorching ground ball to short, where Pablo lunged to\navoid it. Tally scored, and I moved to third.Hank picked up the bat and ripped a few practice swings. With\nthe bases loaded, he was thinking of only one thing-a grand slam.\nCowboy had other plans. He stepped back and stopped smiling.\nHank hovered over the plate, staring down the pitcher, daring him to\nthrow something he could hit.\nThe infield noise died for a moment; the Mexicans crept forward,\non their toes, anxious to take part in this encounter. The first pitch\nwas a blistering fastball that crossed the plate a fraction of a second\nafter Cowboy released it. Hank never thought about swinging; he\nnever had the chance. He backed away from the plate and seemed\nto concede that he was overmatched. I glanced at my father, who\nwas shaking his head. How hard could Cowboy throw?\nThen he threw a fat curve, one that looked tempting but broke\nout of the strike zone. Hank ripped but never got close. Then a hard\ncurve, one that went straight at his head and, at the last second,\ndipped across the plate. Hank's face was blood-red.\nAnother fastball that Hank lunged at. Two strikes, bases loaded,\ntwo outs. Without the slightest hint of a smile, Cowboy decided to\nplay a little. He threw a slow curve that broke outside, then a harder\none that made Hank duck. Then another slow one that he almost\nchopped at. I got the impression that Cowboy could wrap a baseball\naround Hank's head if he wanted. The defense was chattering again,\nat full volume.\nStrike three was a knuckleball that floated up to the plate and\nlooked slow enough for me to hit. But it wobbled and dipped. Hank\ntook a mighty swing, missed by a foot, and again landed in the dirt.\nHe screamed a nasty word and threw the bat near my father.\n“Watch your language,” my father said, picking up the bat.\nHank mumbled something else and dusted himself off. Our half\nof the inning was over.\nMiguel walked to the plate in the bottom of the second. Hank's\nfirst pitch went straight for his head, almost hitting it. The ball\nbounced off the silo and rolled to a stop near third base. The\nMexicans were silent. The second pitch was even harder, and two\nfeet inside. Again, Miguel hit the dirt, and his teammates began\nmumbling.“Stop the foolishness!” my father said loudly from shortstop.\n“Just throw strikes.”\nHank offered him his customary sneer. He threw the ball over the\nplate, and Miguel slapped it to right field, where Trot was playing\ndefense with his back to home plate, staring at the distant tree line\nof the St. Francis River. Tally raced after the ball and stopped when\nshe reached the edge of the cotton. A ground rule triple.\nThe next pitch was the last of the game. Cowboy was the batter.\nHank reached back for all the juice he could find, and he hurled a\nfastball directly at Cowboy. He ducked but didn't move back fast\nenough, and the ball hit him square in the ribs with the sickening\nsound of a melon landing on bricks. Cowboy emitted a quick scream,\nbut just as quickly he threw my bat like a tomahawk, end over end\nwith all the speed he could muster. It didn't land where it should\nhave-between Hank's eyes. Instead, it bounced at his feet and\nricocheted off his shins. He screamed an obscenity and instantly\ncharged like a crazed bull.\nOthers charged, too. My father from shortstop. Mr. Spruill from\nbeside the silo. Some of the Mexicans. Me, I didn't move. I held my\nground at first base, too horrified to take a step. Everyone seemed\nto be yelling and running toward home plate.\nCowboy retreated not a step. He stood perfectly still for a\nsecond, his brown skin wet, his long arms taut and ready, and his\nteeth showing. When the bull was a few feet away, Cowboy's hands\nmoved quickly around his pockets and a knife appeared. He jerked\nit, and a very long switchblade popped free-shiny, glistening steel,\nno doubt very sharp. It snapped when it sprang open, a sharp click\nthat I would hear for years to come.\nHe held it high for all to see, and Hank skidded to a stop.\n“Put it down!” he yelled from five feet away.\nWith his left hand, Cowboy made a slight, beckoning motion, as if\nto say, Come on, big boy. Come and get it.\nThe knife shocked everyone, and for a few seconds there was\nsilence. No one moved. The only sound was heavy breathing. Hank\nwas staring at the blade, which seemed to grow. There was no\ndoubt in anyone's mind that Cowboy had used it before, knew howto use it well, and would happily behead Hank if he took another\nstep closer.\nThen my father, holding the bat, stepped between the two, and\nMiguel appeared beside Cowboy.\n“Put it down,” Hank said again. “Fight like a man.”\n“Shut up!” my father said, waving the bat around at both of\nthem. “Ain't nobody fightin'.”\nMr. Spruill grabbed Hank's arm and said, “Let's go, Hank.”\nMy father looked at Miguel and said, “Get him back to the barn.”\nSlowly, the other Mexicans grouped around Cowboy and sort of\nshoved him away. He finally turned and began walking, the\nswitchblade still very much in view. Hank, of course, wouldn't budge.\nHe stood and watched the Mexicans leave, as if by doing so he was\nclaiming victory.\n“I'm gonna kill that boy,” he said.\n“You've killed enough,” my father said. “Now leave. And stay\naway from the barn.”\n“Let's go,” Mr. Spruill said again, and the others-Trot, Tally, Bo,\nand Dale-began to drift toward the front yard. When the Mexicans\nwere out of sight, Hank stomped away. “I'm gonna kill him,” he\nmumbled, just loud enough for my father to hear.\nI collected the baseballs, the gloves, and the bat, and hurried\nafter my parents and Gran.\n---------------A Painted HouseChapter 12\n---------------\nLater that afternoon, Tally found me in the backyard. It was the\nfirst time I'd seen her walk around the farm, though as the days\npassed, the Spruills showed more interest in exploring the area.\nShe was carrying a small bag. She was barefoot but had changed\ninto the same tight dress she'd been wearing the first time I'd seen\nher.\n“Will you do me a favor, Luke?” she asked ever so sweetly. My\ncheeks turned red. I had no idea what favor she wanted, but there\nwas no doubt she'd get it from me.\n“What?” I asked, trying to be difficult.\n“Your grandma told my mom that there's a creek close by where\nwe can bathe. Do you know where it is?”\n“Yeah. Siler's Creek. 'Bout a half a mile that way,” I said, pointing\nto the north.\n“Are there any snakes?”\nI laughed like snakes shouldn't bother anyone. “Maybe just a\nlittle water snake or two. No cottonmouths.”\n“And the water's clear, not muddy?”\n“Should be clear. It hasn't rained since Sunday.”\nShe looked around to make sure no one was listening, then she\nsaid, “Will you go with me?”\nMy heart stopped, and my mouth was suddenly dry. “Why?” I\nmanaged to ask.\nShe grinned again and rolled her eyes away.\n“I don't know,” she cooed. “To make sure nobody sees me.”\nShe could've said, “Because I don't know where the creek is,” or\n“To make sure there are no snakes.” Or something, anything that\nhad nothing to do with seeing her bathe.\nBut she didn't.\n“Are you scared?” I asked.\n“Maybe a little.”We took the field road until the house and barn were out of\nsight, then turned onto a narrow path we used for spring planting.\nOnce we were alone, she began to talk. I had no idea what to say,\nand I was relieved that she knew how to handle the situation.\n“I'm real sorry 'bout Hank,” she said. “He's always causin'\ntrouble.”\n“Did you see the fight?” I asked.\n“Which one?”\n“The one in town.”\n“No. Was it awful?”\n“Yeah, pretty bad. He beat those boys so bad. He beat 'em long\nafter the fight was over.”\nShe stopped, then I stopped, too. She walked close to me, both\nof us breathing heavily. “Tell me the truth, Luke. Did he pick up that\nstick first?”\nLooking at her beautiful brown eyes, I almost said, “Yes.” But in a\nflash something caught me. I thought I'd better play it safe. He was,\nafter all, her brother, and in the midst of one of the many Spruill\nfights, she might tell him everything I said. Blood's thicker than\nwater, Ricky always said. I didn't want Hank coming after me.\n“It happened real fast,” I said, and started walking off. She\ncaught up immediately and said nothing for a few minutes.\n“Do you think they'll arrest him?” she asked.\n“I don't know.”\n“What does your grandpa think?”\n“Hell if I know.” I thought I might impress her by using some of\nRicky's words.\n“Luke, your language!” she said, quite unimpressed.\n“Sorry.” We walked on. “Has he ever killed anybody before?” I\nasked.\n“Not that I know of,” she said.\n“He went up North once,” she continued as we approached the\ncreek. “And there was some trouble. But we never knew what\nhappened.”\nI was certain there was trouble wherever Hank went.Siler's Creek ran along the northern boundary of our farm, where\nit snaked its way into the St. Francis, at a point you could almost see\nfrom the bridge. Heavy trees lined both sides, so in the summer it\nwas usually a cool place to swim and bathe. It would dry up, though,\nand quickly, and more often than not, there wasn't much water.\nI led her down the bank to a gravel bar, where the water was\ndeepest. “This is the best spot,” I said.\n“How deep is it?” she asked, looking around.\nThe water was clear. “ 'Bout here,” I said, touching a spot not far\nbelow my chin.\n“There's nobody around here, right?” She seemed a bit nervous.\n“No. Everybody's back at the farm.”\n“You go back up by the trail and look out for me, okay?”\n“Okay,” I said, without moving.\n“Go on, Luke,” she said, placing her bag on the bank.\n“Okay,” I said, and started away.\n“And, Luke, no peeking, okay?”\nI felt as if I'd just been caught. I waved her off as if the thought\nhadn't crossed my mind. “Of course not,” I said.\nI crawled up the bank and found a spot a few feet above the\nground, on the limb of an elm. Perched there, I could almost see the\ntop of our barn.\n“Luke!” she called.\n“Yes!”\n“Is everything clear?”\n“Yep!”\nI heard water splash but kept my eyes to the south. After a\nminute or two, I slowly turned around and looked down the creek. I\ncouldn't see her, and I was somewhat relieved. The gravel bar was\njust around a slight bend, and the trees and limbs were thick.\nAnother minute passed, and I began to feel useless. No one\nknew we were here, so no one would be trying to sneak up on her.\nHow often would I have the chance to see a pretty girl bathing? I\ncould recall no specific prohibition from the church or the Scriptures,\nthough I knew it was wrong. But maybe it wasn't terribly sinful.Because it involved mischief, I thought of Ricky. What would he\ndo in a situation like this?\nI climbed down from the elm and sneaked through weeds and\nbrush until I was above the gravel bar, then I slowly crawled through\nthe bushes.\nHer dress and underclothes were hung over a branch. Tally was\ndeep in the water, her head covered with white lather as she gently\nwashed her hair. I was sweating, but not breathing. Lying on my\nstomach in the grass, peering through two big limbs, I was invisible\nto her. The trees were moving more than I was.\nShe was humming, just a pretty girl bathing in a creek, enjoying\nthe cool water. She wasn't looking around in fear; she trusted me.\nShe dipped her head under the water, rinsing out the shampoo,\nsending the lather away in the slight current. Then she stood and\nreached for a bar of soap. Her back was to me, and I saw her rear\nend, all of it. She was wearing nothing, which was exactly what I\nwore during my weekly baths, and it was what I expected. But\nconfirming it sent a shudder throughout my body. Instinctively, I\nraised my head, I guess for a closer look, then ducked again when I\nregained my senses.\nIf she caught me, she'd tell her father, who'd tell my father,\nwho'd beat me until I couldn't walk. My mother would scold me for a\nweek. Gran wouldn't speak to me, she'd be so hurt. Pappy would\ngive me a tongue-lashing, but only for the benefit of the others. I'd\nbe ruined.\nIn water up to her waist, she bathed her arms and chest, which I\ncould see from the side. I had never seen a woman's breasts before,\nand I doubted if any seven-year-old boy in Craighead County had.\nMaybe some kid had stumbled upon his mother, but I was certain no\nboy my age had ever had this view.\nFor some reason, I thought of Ricky again, and a wicked idea\ncame from nowhere. Having seen most of her privates, I now\nwanted to see everything. If I yelled “Snake!” at the top of my voice,\nshe would scream in horror. She would forget the soap and the\nwashcloth and the nudity and all that, and she would scamper fordry land. She would go for her clothes, but for a few glorious\nseconds I would see it all.\nI swallowed hard, tried to clear my throat, but realized how dry\nmy mouth was. With my heart racing away, I hesitated, and in doing\nso learned a valuable lesson in patience.\nTo wash her legs, Tally stepped closer to the bank. She rose from\nthe creek until the water covered nothing but her feet. Slowly, with\nthe soap and cloth she bent and stretched and caressed her legs\nand buttocks and stomach. My heart pounded at the ground.\nShe rinsed by splashing water over her body. And when she was\nfinished, and still standing in ankle-deep water, wonderfully naked,\nTally turned and stared directly at the spot where I happened to be\nhiding.\nI dropped my head and burrowed even deeper into the weeds. I\nwaited for her to yell something, but she did not. This sin was\nunforgivable, I was now certain.\nI inched backward, very slowly, not making a sound, until I was\nnear the edge of the cotton. Then I crawled furiously along the tree\nline and resumed my position near the trail, as if nothing had\nhappened. I tried to look bored when I heard her coming.\nHer hair was wet; she'd changed dresses. “Thanks, Luke,” she\nsaid.\n“Uh, sure,” I managed to say.\n“I feel so much better.”\nSo do I, I thought.\nWe walked slowly back toward the house. Nothing was said at\nfirst, but when we were halfway home she asked, “You saw me,\ndidn't you, Luke?” Her voice was light and playful, and I didn't want\nto lie.\n“Yes,” I said.\n“That's okay. I'm not mad.”\n“You're not?”\n“No. I guess it's only natural, you know, for boys to look at girls.”\nIt certainly seemed natural. I could think of nothing to say.\nShe continued, “If you'll go with me to the creek the next time,\nand be my lookout, then you can do it again.”“Do what again?”\n“Watch me.”\n“Okay,” I said, a little too quickly.\n“But you can't tell anybody.”\n“I won't.”\nOver supper, I picked at my food and tried to behave as if\nnothing had happened. It was difficult eating, though, with my\nstomach still turning flips. I could see Tally just as clearly as if we\nwere still at the creek.\nI'd done a terrible thing. And I couldn't wait to do it again.\n“What're you thinkin' 'bout, Luke?” Gran asked.\n“Nothin' much,” I said, jolted back into reality.\n“Come on,” Pappy said. “Something's on your mind.”\nInspiration hit fast. “That switchblade,” I said.\nAll four adults shook their heads in disapproval.\n“Think pleasant thoughts,” Gran said.\nDon't worry, I thought to myself. Don't worry.\n---------------A Painted HouseChapter 13\n---------------\nFor the second Sunday in a row, death dominated our worship.\nMrs. Letha Haley Dockery was a large, loud woman whose husband\nhad left her many years earlier and fled to California. Not\nsurprisingly, there were a few rumors of what he did once he arrived\nthere, and the favorite, which I'd heard a few times, was that he had\ntaken up with a younger woman of another race-possibly Chinese,\nthough, like a lot of gossip around Black Oak, it couldn't be\nconfirmed. Who'd ever been to California?\nMrs. Dockery had raised two sons, neither of whom had received\nmuch distinction but who had the good sense to leave the cotton\npatch. One was in Memphis; the other out West, wherever, exactly,\nthat was.\nShe had other family scattered around northeastern Arkansas,\nand in particular there was a distant cousin who lived in Paragould,\ntwenty miles away. Very distant, according to Pappy, who didn't like\nMrs. Dockery at all. This cousin in Paragould had a son who was also\nfighting in Korea.\nWhen Ricky was mentioned in prayer in our church, an\nuncomfortable event that happened all the time, Mrs. Dockery was\nquick to jump forward and remind the congregation that she, too,\nhad family in the war. She'd corner Gran and would whisper gravely\nabout the burden of waiting for news from the front. Pappy talked to\nno one about the war, and he had rebuked Mrs. Dockery after one of\nher early attempts to commiserate with him. As a family, we simply\ntried to ignore what was happening in Korea, at least in public.\nMonths earlier, during one of her frequent plays for sympathy,\nsomeone had asked Mrs. Dockery if she had a photo of her nephew.\nAs a church, we'd been praying for him so much, somebody\nwanted to see him. She'd been humiliated when she couldn't\nproduce one.When he was first shipped off, his name had been Jimmy Nance,\nand he was a nephew of her fourth cousin-her “very close cousin.”\nAs the war progressed, he became Timmy Nance, and he also\nbecame not just a nephew, but a genuine cousin himself, something\nof the second or third degree. We couldn't keep it straight. Though\nshe preferred the name Timmy, occasionally Jimmy would sneak\nback into the conversation.\nWhatever his real name, he'd been killed. We heard the news in\nchurch that Sunday before we could get out of the truck.\nThey had her in the fellowship hall, surrounded by ladies from\nher Sunday school class, all of them bawling and carrying on. I\nwatched from a distance while Gran and my mother waited in line to\ncomfort her, and I truly felt sorry for Mrs. Dockery. However thick or\nthin the kinship, the woman was in great agony.\nDetails were discussed in whispers: He'd been driving a jeep for\nhis commander when they hit a land mine. The body wouldn't be\nhome for two months, or maybe never. He was twenty years old and\nhad a young wife at home, up in Kennett, Missouri.\nWhile all this conversation was going on, the Reverend Akers\nentered the room and sat beside Mrs. Dockery. He held her hand,\nand they prayed long and hard and silently. The entire church was\nthere, watching her, waiting to offer sympathies.\nAfter a few minutes, I saw Pappy ease out of the door.\nSo this is what it will look like, I thought, if our worst fears come\ntrue: From the other side of the world, they will send the news that\nhe's dead. Then friends will gather around us, and everybody will\ncry.\nMy throat suddenly ached and my eyes were beginning to\nmoisten. I said to myself, “This cannot happen to us. Ricky doesn't\ndrive a jeep over there, and if he did, he'd have better sense than to\nrun over a \\ land mine. Surely, he's coming home.”\nI wasn't about to get caught crying, so I sneaked out of the\nbuilding just in time to see Pappy get in his truck, where I joined\nhim. We sat and stared through the windshield for a long time; then\nwithout a word, he started the engine, and we left.We drove past the gin. Though it was silent on Sunday mornings,\nevery farmer secretly wanted it roaring at full throttle. It operated\nfor only three months out of the year.\nWe left town with no particular destination in mind, at least I\ncouldn't determine one. We stayed on the back roads, graveled and\ndusty with the rows of cotton just a few feet off the shoulders.\nHis first words were, “That's where the Siscos live.” He nodded to\nhis left, unwilling to take a hand off the wheel. In the distance, just\nbarely visible over the acres of cotton stalks, was a typical\nsharecropper's house. The rusted tin roof sagged, the porch sloped,\nthe yard was dirt, and the cotton grew almost to the clothesline. I\ndidn't see anyone moving around, and that was a relief. Knowing\nPappy, he might get the sudden urge to pull up in the front yard and\nstart a brawl.\nWe kept going slowly through the endlessly flat cotton fields. I\nwas skipping Sunday school, an almost unbelievable treat. My\nmother wouldn't like it, but she wouldn't argue with Pappy. It was\nmy mother who had told me that he and Gran reached out for me\nwhen they were most worried about Ricky.\nHe spotted something, and we slowed almost to a stop. “That's\nthe Embry place,” he said, nodding again. “You see them Mexicans?”\nI stretched and strained and finally saw them, four or five straw hats\ndeep in the sea of white, bending low as if they had heard us and\nwere hiding.\n“They're pickin' on Sunday?” I said.\n“Yep.”\nWe gained speed, and finally, they were out of sight. “What're\nyou gonna do?” I asked, as if the law were being broken.\n“Nothin'. That's Embry's business.”\nMr. Embry was a member of our church. I couldn't imagine him\nallowing his fields to be worked on the Sabbath. “Reckon he knows\nabout it?” I asked.\n“Maybe he doesn't. I guess it'd be easy for the Mexicans to sneak\nout there after he left for church.” Pappy said this without much\nconviction.“But they can't weigh their own cotton,” I said, and Pappy\nactually smiled.\n“No, I guess not,” he said. So it was determined that Mr. Embry\nallowed his Mexicans to pick on Sunday. There were rumors of this\nevery fall, but I couldn't imagine a fine deacon like Mr. Embry taking\npart in such a low sin. I was shocked; Pappy was not.\nThose poor Mexicans. Haul 'em like cattle, work 'em like dogs,\nand their one day of rest was taken away while the owner hid in\nchurch.\n“Let's keep quiet about this,” Pappy said, smug that he'd\nconfirmed a rumor.\nMore secrets.\n--------------------\nWe heard the congregation singing as we walked toward the\nchurch. I'd never been on the outside when I wasn't supposed to be.\n“Ten minutes late,” Pappy mumbled to himself as he opened the\ndoor. They were standing and singing, and we were able to slide into\nour seats without much commotion. I glanced at my parents, but\nthey were ignoring me. When the song was over, we sat down, and I\nfound myself sitting snugly between my grandparents. Ricky might\nbe in danger, but I would certainly be protected.\nThe Reverend Akers knew better than to touch on the subjects of\nwar and death. He began by delivering the solemn news about\nTimmy Nance, news everyone had already heard. Mrs. Dockery had\nbeen taken home to recover. Meals were being planned by her\nSunday school class. It was time, he said, for the church to close\nranks and comfort one of its own.\nIt would be Mrs. Dockery's finest hour, and we all knew it.\nIf he dwelt on war, he'd have to deal with Pappy when the\nservice was over, so he stuck to his prepared message. We Baptists\ntook great pride in sending missionaries all over the world, and the\nentire denomination was in the middle of a great campaign to raise\nmoney for their support. That's what Brother Akers talked about-\ngiving more money so we could send more of our people to places\nlike India, Korea, Africa, and China. Jesus taught that we should loveall people, regardless of their differences. And it was up to us as\nBaptists to convert the rest of the world.\nI decided I wouldn't give an extra dime.\nI'd been taught to tithe one tenth of my earnings, and I did so\ngrudgingly. It was there in the Scriptures, though, and hard to argue\nwith. But Brother Akers was asking for something above and\nbeyond, something optional, and he was flat out of luck as far as I\nwas concerned. None of my money was going to Korea. I'm sure the\nrest of the Chandlers felt the same way. Probably the entire church.\nHe was subdued that morning. He was preaching on love and\ncharity, not sin and death, and I don't think his heart was in it. With\nthings quieter than usual, I began to nod off.\nAfter the service, we were in no mood for small talk. The adults\nwent straight to the truck, and we left in a hurry. On the edge of\ntown, my father asked, “Where did you and Pappy go?”\n“Just drivin' around,” I said.\n“Whereto?”\nI pointed to the east and said, “Over there. Nowhere, really. I\nthink he just wanted to get away from church.” He nodded as if he\nwished he'd gone with us.\n-----------------\nAs we were finishing Sunday dinner, there was a slight knock at\nthe back door. My father was the closest to it, so he stepped onto\nthe back porch and found Miguel and Cowboy.\n“Mother, you're needed,” he said, and Gran hurried out of the\nkitchen. The rest of us followed.\nCowboy's shirt was off; the left side of his chest was swollen and\nlooked awful. He could barely raise his left arm, and when Gran\nmade him do it, he grimaced. I felt sorry for him. There was a small\nflesh wound where the baseball had struck. “I can count the seams,”\nGran said.\nMy mother brought a pan of water and a cloth. After a few\nminutes, Pappy and my father grew bored and left. I'm sure they\nwere worrying about how an injured Mexican might affect\nproduction.Gran was happiest when she was playing doctor, and Cowboy got\nthe full treatment. After she dressed the wound, she made him lie\non the back porch, his head on a pillow from our sofa.\n“He's got to be still,” she said to Miguel.\n“How much pain?” she asked.\n“Not much,” Cowboy said, shaking his head. His English surprised\nus.\n“I wonder if I should give him a painkiller,” she mused in the\ndirection of my mother.\nGran's painkillers were worse than any broken bone, and I gave\nCowboy a horrified look. He read me perfectly and said, “No, no\nmedicine.” She put ice from the kitchen into a small burlap bag and\ngently placed it on his swollen ribs. “Hold it there,” she said, putting\nhis left arm over the bag. When the ice touched him, his entire body\nwent rigid, but he relaxed as the numbness set in. Within seconds,\nwater was running down his skin and dripping onto the porch. He\nclosed his eyes and breathed deeply.\n“Thank you,” Miguel said.\n“Gracias,” I said, and Miguel smiled at me.\nWe left them there, and gathered on the front porch for a glass\nof iced tea.\n“His ribs are broken,” Gran said to Pappy, who was on the porch\nswing, digesting his dinner. He really didn't want to say anything, but\nafter a few seconds of silence he grunted and said, “That's too bad.”\n“He needs to see a doctor.”\n“What's a doctor gonna do?”\n“Maybe there's internal bleeding.”\n“Maybe there ain't.”\n“It could be dangerous.”\n“If he was bleedin' inside, he'd be dead by now, wouldn't he?”\n“Sure he would,” my father added.\nTwo things were happening here. First and foremost, the men\nwere terrified of having to pay a doctor. Second, and almost as\nsignificant, both had fought in the trenches. They had seen stray\nbody parts, mangled corpses, men with limbs missing, and they hadno patience with the small stuff. Routine cuts and breaks were\nhazards of life. Tough it out.\nGran knew she would not prevail. “If he dies, it'll be our fault.”\n“He ain't gonna die, Ruth,” Pappy said. “And even if he does, it\nwon't be our fault. Hank's the one who broke his ribs.”\nMy mother left and went inside. She was not feeling well again,\nand I was beginning to worry about her. Talk shifted to the cotton,\nand I left the porch.\nI crept around back, where Miguel was sitting not far from\nCowboy. Both appeared to be sleeping. I sneaked into the house and\nwent to check on my mother. She was lying on her bed, her eyes\nopen. “Are you okay, Mom?” I asked.\n“Yes, of course, Luke. Don't worry about me.”\nShe would've said that no matter how bad she felt. I leaned on\nthe edge of her bed for a few moments, and when I was ready to\nleave, I said, “You're sure you're okay?”\nShe patted my arm and said, “I'm fine, Luke.”\nI went to Ricky's room to get my glove and baseball. Miguel was\ngone when I walked quietly out of the kitchen. Cowboy was sitting\non the edge of the porch, his feet hanging off the boards, his left\narm pressing the ice to his wounds. He still scared me, but in his\npresent condition I doubted if he would do any harm.\nI swallowed hard and held out my baseball, the same one that\nhad broken his ribs. “How do you throw that curve?” I asked him.\nHis unkind face relaxed, then he almost smiled. “Here,” he said, and\npointed to the grass next to the porch. I hopped down, and stood\nnext to his knees.\nCowboy gripped the baseball with his first two fingers directly on\nthe seams. “Like this,” he said. It was the same way Pappy had\ntaught me.\n“And then you snap,” he said, twisting his wrist so that his fingers\nwere under the ball when it was released. It was nothing new. I took\nthe ball and did exactly as he said.\nHe watched me without a word. That hint of a smile was gone,\nand I got the impression he was in a lot of pain.\n“Thanks,” I said. He barely nodded.Then my eyes caught the tip of his switchblade protruding from a\nhole in the right front pocket of his work pants. I couldn't help but\nstare at it. I looked at him, and then we both looked down at the\nweapon. Slowly, he removed it. The handle was dark green and\nsmooth, with carvings on it. He held it up for me to see, then he\npressed the switch, and the blade sprang forth. It snapped, and I\njerked back.\n“Where'd you get that?” I asked. A dumb question, to which he\noffered no answer.\n“Do it again,” I said.\nIn a flash, he pressed the blade against his leg, folding it back\ninto the handle, then waved it near my face as he snapped the blade\nout again.\n“Can I do it?” I asked.\nNo, he shook his head firmly.\n“You ever stuck anybody with it?”\nHe drew it closer to himself and gave me a nasty look. “Many\nmen,” he said.\nI'd seen enough. I backed away, then trotted past the silo, where\nI could be alone. I threw pop flies to myself for an hour, hoping\ndesperately that Tally would happen by on her way to the creek\nagain.\n---------------A Painted HouseChapter 14\n---------------\nWe gathered in silence at the tractor early Monday morning. I\nwanted so badly to sneak back into the house and into Ricky's bed\nand sleep for days. No cotton, no Hank Spruill, nothing to make life\nunpleasant. “We can rest in the winter,” Gran was fond of saying,\nand it was true. Once the cotton was picked and the fields plowed\nunder, our little farm hibernated through the cold months.\nBut in the middle of September, cold weather was a distant\ndream. Pappy and Mr. Spruill and Miguel huddled near the tractor\nand spoke earnestly while the rest of us tried to listen. The Mexicans\nwere waiting in a group not far away. A plan was devised whereby\nthey would start with the cotton near the barn, so they could simply\nwalk to the fields. We Arkansans would work a little farther away,\nand the cotton trailer would act as a dividing line between the two\ngroups. Distance was needed between Hank and Cowboy, otherwise\nthere would be another killing.\n“I don't want any more trouble,” I heard Pappy say. Everyone\nknew the switchblade would never leave Cowboy's pocket, and we\ndoubted that Hank, dumb as he was, would be stupid enough to\nattack him again. Over breakfast that morning Pappy had ventured\nthe guess that Cowboy wasn't the only armed Mexican. One reckless\nmove by Hank, and there might be switchblades flying everywhere.\nThis had been shared with Mr. Spruill, who had assured Pappy that\nthere would be no more trouble. But by then no one believed that\nMr. Spruill, or anybody else, could control Hank.\nIt had rained late last night, but there was no trace of it in the\nfields; the cotton was dry, the soil almost dusty. But the rain had\nbeen seen by Pappy and my father as an ominous warning of the\ninevitable flooding, and there was an anxiousness about the two that\nwas contagious.\nOur crops were nearly perfect, and we had just a few more\nweeks to gather them before the skies opened. When the tractorstopped near the cotton trailer, we quickly grabbed our sacks and\ndisappeared among the stalks. There was no laughing or singing\nfrom the Spruills, not a sound from the Mexicans in the distance.\nAnd no napping on my part. I picked as fast as I could.\nThe sun rose quickly and cooked the dew from the bolls of\ncotton. The thick air clung to my skin and soaked my overalls, and\nsweat dripped from my chin. One slight advantage in being so small\nwas that most of the stalks were taller than me; I was partially\nshaded.\n-----------------------\nTwo days of heavy picking, and the cotton trailer was full. Pappy\ntook it to town; always Pappy, never my father. Like my mother and\n(he garden, it was one of those chores that had been designated\nlong before I came along. I was expected to ride with him,\nsomething I always enjoyed because it meant a trip to town, if only\nto the gin.\nAfter a quick dinner, we took the truck to the field and hitched up\nthe cotton trailer. Then we climbed along its edges and secured the\ntarp so that no bolls would blow away. It seemed a crime to waste a\nsingle ounce of something we'd worked so hard to gather.\nAs we drove back to the house, I saw the Mexicans behind the\nbarn, grouped tightly, slowly eating their tortillas. My father was at\nthe tool shed, patching an inner tube for a front tire on the John\nDeere. The women were washing dishes. Pappy abruptly stopped\nthe truck. “Stay here,” he said to me. “I'll be right back.” He'd\nforgotten something.\nWhen he returned from the house, he was carrying his twelve-\ngauge shotgun, which he slid under the seat without a word.\n“We goin' huntin'?” I asked, knowing full well that I would not\nget an answer.\nThe Sisco affair had not been discussed over dinner or on the\nfront porch. I think the adults had agreed to leave the subject alone,\nat least in my presence. But the shotgun suggested an abundance of\npossibilities.\nI immediately thought of a gunfight, Gene Autry style, at the gin.\nThe good guys, the farmers, of course, on one side, blasting awaywhile ducking behind and between their cotton trailers; the bad\nguys, the Siscos and their friends, on the other side returning fire.\nFreshly picked cotton flying through the air as the trailers took one\nhit after another. Windows crashing. Trucks exploding. By the time\nwe crossed the river, there were casualties all over the gin lot.\n“You gonna shoot somebody?” I asked, in an effort to force\nPappy to say something.\n“Tend to your own business,” he said gruffly as he shifted gears.\nPerhaps he had a score to settle with some offending soul. This\nbrought to mind one of the favorite Chandler stories. When Pappy\nwas much younger, he, like all farmers, worked the fields with a\nteam of mules. This was long before tractors, and all farming was\ndone by man and animal. A ne'er-do-well neighbor named\nWoolbright saw Pappy in the fields one day, and evidently Pappy was\nhaving a bad day with the mules. According to Woolbright, Pappy\nwas beating the poor beasts about their heads with a large stick. As\nWoolbright later told the story at the Tea Shoppe, he'd said, “If I'd\nhad a wet burlap sack, I'd've taught Eli Chandler a thing or two.”\nWord filtered back, and Pappy heard what Woolbright said. A few\ndays later, after a long hot day in the fields, Pappy took a burlap\nsack, put it in a bucket of water, and skipping dinner, walked three\nmiles to Woolbright's house. Or five miles or ten miles, depending on\nwho happened to be telling the story.\nOnce there, he called on Woolbright to come out and settle\nthings. Woolbright was just finishing dinner, and he may or may not\nhave had a houseful of kids. Anyway, Woolbright walked to the\nscreen door, looked out into his front yard, and decided things were\nsafer inside.\nPappy yelled at him repeatedly to come on out. “Here's your\nburlap sack, Woolbright!” he yelled. “Now come on out and finish the\njob.”\nWoolbright retreated deeper into his house, and when it was\nevident he wasn't coming out, Pappy threw the wet burlap sack\nthrough the screen door. Then he walked three or five or ten miles\nback home and went to bed, without dinner.I'd heard the story enough to believe it was true. Even my\nmother believed it. Eli Chandler had been a hot-tempered brawler in\nhis younger days, and at the age of sixty he still had a short fuse.\nBut he wouldn't kill anybody, unless it was in self-defense. And\nhe preferred to use his fists or less menacing weapons like burlap\nsacks. The gun was traveling with us just in case. The Siscos were\ncrazy people.\nThe gin was roaring when we arrived. A long line of trailers\nwaited ahead of us, and I knew we'd be there for hours. It was dark\nwhen Pappy turned off the engine and tapped his fingers on the\nwheel. The Cardinals were playing, and I was anxious to get home.\nBefore getting out of the truck, Pappy surveyed the trailers and\nthe trucks and tractors, and he watched the farmhands and gin\nworkers go about their business. He was looking for trouble, and\nseeing none, he finally said, “I'll go check in. You wait here.”\nI watched him shuffle across the gravel and stop at a group of\nmen outside the office. He stayed there awhile, talking and listening.\nAnother group was congregated near a trailer in the line ahead of\nus, young men smoking and talking and waiting. Though the gin was\nthe center of activity, things moved slowly.\nI caught a glimpse of a figure as it appeared from somewhere\nbehind our truck. “Howdy, Luke,” the voice said, giving me a start.\nWhen I jerked around, I saw the friendly face of Jackie Moon, an\nolder boy from north of town.\n“Hi, Jackie,” I said, very relieved. For a split second I thought one\nof the Siscos had started the ambush. He leaned on the front fender\nwith his back to the gin, and produced a cigarette, one that he'd\nalready rolled. “Y'all heard from Ricky?” he asked.\nI watched the cigarette. “Not lately,” I said. “We got a letter a\ncouple of weeks ago.”\n“How's he doin'?”\n“Fine, I guess.”\nHe scraped a match on the side of our truck and lit the cigarette.\nHe was tall and skinny and had been a basketball star at Monette\nHigh School for as long as I could remember. He and Ricky had\nplayed together, until Ricky got caught smoking behind the school.The coach, a veteran who'd lost a leg in the war, bounced Ricky from\nthe team. Pappy had stomped around the Chandler farm for a week\nthreatening to kill his younger son. Ricky told me privately that he\nwas tired of basketball anyway. He wanted to play football, but\nMonette couldn't have a team because of cotton picking.\n“I might be goin' over there,” Jackie said.\n“To Korea?”\n“Yep.”\nI wanted to ask why he thought he was needed in Korea. As\nmuch as I hated picking cotton, I would much rather do it than get\nshot at. “What about basketball?” I asked. There was a rumor that\nArkansas State was recruiting Jackie.\n“I'm quittin' school,” he said, and blew a cloud into the air.\n“Why?”\n\"I'm tired of it. Been goin' for twelve years already, on and off.\nThat's more 'an anybody else in my family. I figure I've learned\nenough.\"\nKids quit school all the time in our county. Ricky tried several\ntimes, and Pappy had become indifferent. Gran, on the other hand,\nlaid down the law, and he finally graduated.\n“Lot of boys gettin' shot over there,” he said, staring into the\ndistance.\nThat was not something I wanted to hear, so I said nothing. He\nfinished his cigarette and thrust his hands deep into his pockets.\n“They're tellin' that you saw that Sisco fight,” he said, again without\nlooking at me.\nI figured that somehow the fight would get discussed during this\ntrip to town. I remembered my father's stern warning not to discuss\nthe incident with anyone.\nBut I could trust Jackie. He and Ricky had grown up together.\n“Lots of folks saw it,” I said.\n“Yeah, but ain't nobody talkin'. Hillbillies ain't sayin' a word 'cause\nit's one of their own. Locals ain't talkin' 'cause Eli's told everybody to\nshut up. That's what they're tellin', anyway.”\nI believed him. I didn't doubt for a second that Eli Chandler had\nused the Baptist brethren to circle the wagons, at least until thecotton was in.\n“What about the Siscos?” I asked.\n“Ain't nobody seen 'em. They're layin' low. Had the funeral last\nFriday. Siscos dug the grave themselves; buried him out behind the\nBethel church. Stick's watchin' 'em real close.”\nThere was another long gap in the conversation as the gin\nhowled behind us. He rolled another cigarette, lit it, and finally said,\n“I saw you there, at the fight.”\nI felt like I'd been caught committing a crime. All I could think to\nsay was, “So.”\n“I saw you with the little Pinter boy. And when that hillbilly picked\nup that piece of wood, I looked at the two of you and thought to\nmyself, Those boys don't need to see this.' And I was right.”\n“I wish I hadn't seen it.”\n“I wish I hadn't, either,” he said, and discharged a neat circle of\nsmoke.\nI looked toward the gin to make sure Pappy wasn't close. He was\nstill inside somewhere, in the small office where the gin owner kept\nthe paperwork. Other trailers had arrived and were parked behind\nus. “Have you talked to Stick?” I asked.\n“Nope. Don't plan to. You?”\n“Yeah, he came out to the house.”\n“Did he talk to the hillbilly?”\n“Yeah.”\n“So Stick knows his name?”\n“I guess.”\n“Why didn't he arrest him?”\n“I'm not sure. I told him it was three against one.”\nHe grunted and spat into the weeds. “It was three against one all\nright, but nobody had to get killed. I don't like the Siscos, nobody\ndoes, but he didn't have to beat 'em like that.”\nI didn't say anything. He drew on the cigarette and began\ntalking, the smoke pouring out of his mouth and nose.\n“His face was blood-red and his eyes were glowin', and all 'a\nsudden he stopped and just looked down at 'em, as if a ghost\ngrabbed him and made him quit. Then he backed away andstraightened up, and looked at 'em again as if somebody else had\ndone it. Then he walked away, back onto Main Street, and all the\nother Siscos and their people ran up and got the boys. They\nborrowed Roe Duncan's pickup and hauled 'em home. Jerry never\nwoke up. Roe his self drove Jerry to the hospital in the middle of the\nnight, but Roe said he was already dead. Fractured skull. Lucky the\nother two didn't die. He beat 'em just as bad as he beat Jerry. Ain't\nnever seen nothin' like it.”\n“Me neither.”\n“I'd skip the fights for a while if I was you. You're too young.”\n“Don't worry.” I looked at the gin and saw Pappy. “Here comes\nPappy,” I said.\nHe dropped the cigarette and stepped on it. “Don't tell anybody\nwhat I said, all right?”\n“Sure.”\n“I don't want to get involved with that hillbilly.”\n“I won't say a word.”\n“Tell Ricky I said hello. Tell him to hold 'em off till I get there.”\n“I will, Jackie.” He disappeared as quietly as he had come.\nMore secrets to keep.\nPappy unhitched the trailer and got behind the wheel. “We ain't\nwaitin' three hours,” he mumbled, and started the engine. He drove\naway from the gin and left town. At some point late in the night, a\ngin worker would hitch a small tractor to our trailer and pull it\nforward. The cotton would be sucked into the gin, and an hour later\ntwo perfect bales would emerge. They would be weighed, and then\nsamples would be cut from each and set aside for the cotton buyer\nto evaluate. After breakfast, Pappy would return to the gin to get our\ntrailer.\nHe would examine the bales and the samples, and he would find\nsomething else to worry about.\n----------------------\nThe next day a letter arrived from Ricky. Gran had it lying on the\nkitchen table when we came through the back door, our feet\ndragging and our backs aching. I'd picked seventy-eight pounds of\ncotton that day, an all-time record for a seven-year-old, thoughrecords were impossible to monitor because so much lying went on.\nEspecially among kids. Both Pappy and my father were now picking\nfive hundred pounds every day.\nGran was humming and smiling, so we knew the letter had good\nnews. She snatched it up and read it aloud to us. By then she had it\nmemorized.\n-----------------------------------------------\nDear Mom and Dad and Jesse and Kathleen and Luke:\nI hope all is well at home. I never thought I'd miss the cotton\npicking, but I sure wish I was home right now. I miss everything-\nthe farm, the fried chicken, the Cardinals. Can you believe the\nDodgers will take the pennant? Makes me sick.\nAnyway, I'm doing fine over here. Things are quiet. We're not on\nthe front anymore. My unit is about five miles back, and we're\ncatching up on some sleep. We're warm and rested and eating good,\nand right now nobody is shooting at us and we're not shooting at\nanybody.\nI really think I'll be home soon. It seems like things are slowing\ndown a little. We hear some rumors about peace talks and such, so\nwe've got our fingers crossed.\nI got your last batch of letters, and they mean a lot to me. So\nkeep writing. Luke, your letter was a tad short, so write me a longer\none.\nGotta run. Love to all, Ricky\n------------------------------------------------\nWe passed it around and read it again and again, then Gran\nplaced it in a cigar box next to the radio. All of Ricky's letters were\nthere, and it was not uncommon to walk through the kitchen at\nnight and catch Pappy or Gran rereading them.\nThe new letter made us forget about our stiff muscles and\nburned skin, and we all ate in a hurry so we could sit around the\ntable and write to Ricky.\nUsing my Big Chief writing tablet and a pencil, I told him all\nabout Jerry Sisco and Hank Spruill, and I spared no detail. Blood,\nsplintered wood, Stick Powers, everything. I didn't know how to spell\na lot (if the words, so I simply guessed. If anyone would forgive mefor misspelling, it was Ricky. Since I didn't want them to know that I\nwas spreading gossip all the way to Korea, I covered my tablet as\nbest I could.\nFive letters were written at the same time, and I'm sure five\nversions of the same events were described to Ricky. The adults told\nfunny stories as we wrote. It was a happy moment in the midst of\nthe harvest. Pappy turned on the radio, and we got the Cardinals as\nour letters grew longer and longer.\nSitting around the kitchen table, laughing and writing and\nlistening to the game, there was not a single doubt that Ricky would\nsoon be home.\nHe said he would be.\n---------------A Painted HouseChapter 15\n---------------\nThursday afternoon, my mother found me in the fields and said\nthat I was needed in the garden. I happily unstrapped my picking\nsack and left the other laborers lost in the cotton. We walked to the\nhouse, both of us relieved that the workday was over.\n“We need to visit the Latchers,” she said along the way. “I worry\nabout them so. They might be hungry, you know.”\nThe Latchers had a garden, though not much of one. I doubted if\nanyone was going hungry. They certainly didn't have a crumb to\nspare, but starvation was unheard of in Craighead County. Even the\npoorest of the sharecroppers managed to grow tomatoes and\ncucumbers. Every farm family had a few chickens laying eggs.\nBut my mother was determined to see Libby so that the rumors\ncould be confirmed or denied.\nAs we entered our garden, I realized what my mother was doing.\nIf we hurried, and made it to the Latchers' before quitting time, then\nthe parents and all those kids would be in the fields. Libby, if she\nwas in fact pregnant, would be hanging around the house, most\nlikely alone. She would have no choice but to come out and accept\nour vegetables. We could blindside her, nail her with Christian\ngoodness while her protectors were away. It was a brilliant plan.\nUnder the strict supervision of my mother, I began picking\ntomatoes, cucumbers, peas, butter beans, corn-almost everything in\nthe garden. “Get that small red tomato there, Luke, to your right,”\nshe said. “No, no, those peas can wait.” And, “No, that cucumber\nisn't quite ready.”\nThough she often gathered the produce herself, she preferred to\noversee matters. A balance to the garden could be maintained if she\ncould keep her distance, survey the entire plot, and with the eye of\nan artist, direct my efforts, or my father's, in removing the food from\nthe vines.I hated the garden, but at that moment I hated the fields even\nmore. Anything was better than picking cotton.\nAs I reached for an ear of corn, I saw something between the\nstalks that stopped me cold. Beyond the garden was a small, shaded\nstrip of grass, too narrow to play catch on, and thus good for\nnothing. Next to it was the east wall of our house, the side away\nfrom any traffic. On the west side was the kitchen door, the parking\nplace for our truck, the footpaths that led to the barn, the\noutbuildings, and the fields. Everything happened on the west side;\nnothing on the cast.\nAt the corner, facing the garden and out of view of everyone,\nsomeone had painted a portion of the bottom board. Painted it\nwhite. The rest of the house was the same pale brown it had always\nbeen, the same drab color of old, sturdy oak planks.\n“What is it, Luke?” my mother asked. She was never in a hurry in\nthe garden, because it was her sanctuary, but today she was\nplanning an ambush, and time was crucial.\n“I don't know,” I said, still frozen.\nShe stepped beside me and peered through the cornstalks that\nbordered and secluded her garden, and when her eyes settled upon\nthe painted board, she, too, stood still.\nThe paint was thick at the corner, but thinned as the board ran\ntoward the rear of the house. It was obviously a work in progress.\nSomeone was painting our house.\n“It's Trot,” she said softly, a smile forming at the corners of her\nmouth.\nI hadn't thought of him, hadn't yet had time to consider a culprit,\nbut it immediately became clear that he was the painter. Who else\ncould it be? Who else loitered around the front yard all day with\nnothing to do while the rest of us slaved in the fields? Who else\nwould work at such a pitiful pace? Who else would be dense enough\nto paint another man's house without permission?\nAnd it had been Trot who'd yelled at Hank to stop torturing me\nabout our little unpainted, sodbuster house. Trot had come to my\nrescue.But where would Trot get the money to buy paint? And why\nwould he do it in the first place? Oh, there were dozens of questions.\nShe took a step back, then left the garden. I followed her to the\ncorner of the house, where we examined the paint. We could smell it\nthere, and it appeared to be sticky. She surveyed the front yard. Trot\nwas nowhere to be seen.\n“What're we gonna do?” I asked.\n“Nothing, at least not now.”\n“You gonna tell anybody?”\n“I'll talk to your father about it. In the meantime, let's keep it a\nsecret.”\n“You told me secrets were bad for boys.”\n“They're bad when you keep them from your parents.”\nWe filled two straw baskets with vegetables and loaded them into\nthe truck. My mother drove about once a month. She could certainly\nhandle Pappy's truck, but she could not relax behind the wheel. She\ngripped it fiercely, pumped the clutch and brakes, then turned the\nkey. We jerked and lurched in reverse, and even laughed as the old\ntruck slowly got turned around. As we left, I saw Trot lying under\nthe Spruill truck, watching us from behind a rear tire.\nThe frolicking stopped minutes later when we got to the river.\n“Hang on, Luke,” she said as she shifted into low and leaned over\nthe wheel, her eyes wild with fear. Hang on to what? It was a one-\nlane bridge with no guardrails. If she drove off, then we'd both\ndrown.\n“You can do it, Mom,” I said without much conviction.\n“Of course I can,” she said. I'd crossed the bridge with her\nbefore, and it was always an adventure. We crept over it, both afraid\nto look, down. We didn't breathe until we hit dirt on the other side.\n“Good job, Mom,” I said.\n“Nothin' to it,” she said, finally exhaling.\nAt first I couldn't see any Latchers in the fields, but as we\napproached the house, I saw a cluster of straw hats deep in the\ncotton, at the far end of their crop. I couldn't tell if they heard us,\nbut they did not stop picking. We parked close to the front porch as\nthe dust settled around the truck. Before we could get out, Mrs.Latcher was coming down the front steps, wiping her hands\nnervously on a rag of some sort. She seemed to be talking to herself\nand appeared very worried.\n“Hello, Mrs. Chandler,” she said, looking off. I never knew why\nshe didn't use my mother's first name. She was older and had at\nleast six more children.\n“Hello, Darla. We've brought some vegetables.”\nThe two women were facing each other. “I'm so glad you're\nhere,” Mrs. Latcher said, her voice very anxious.\n“What's the matter?”\nMrs. Latcher glanced at me, but only for a second. “I need you -\nhelp. It's Libby. I think she's about to have a baby.”\n“A baby?” my mother said, as if she hadn't a clue.\n“Yes. I think she's in labor.”\n“Then let's call the doctor.”\n“Oh no. We can't do that. No one can know about this. No one. It\nhas to be kept quiet.”\nI had moved to the rear of the truck, and I was crouching down\na bit so Mrs. Latcher couldn't see me. That way, I figured she'd talk\nmore. Something big was about to happen, and I didn't want to miss\nany of it.\n“We're so ashamed,” she said, her voice cracking. “She won't tell\nus who the father is, and right now I don't care. I just want the baby\nto get here.”\n“But you need a doctor.”\n“No ma'am. Nobody can know about this. If the doctor comes,\nthen the whole county'll know. You gotta keep it quiet, Mrs.\nChandler. Can you promise me?”\nThe poor woman was practically crying. She was desperate to\nkeep a secret that had been the talk of Black Oak for months.\n“Let me see her,” my mother said without answering the\nquestion, and the women started for the house. “Luke, you stay here\nat the truck,” she said over her shoulder.\nAs soon as they disappeared inside, I walked around the house\nand peeked into the first window I saw. It was a tiny living roomwith old, dirty mattresses on the floor. At the next window, I heard\ntheir voices. I froze and listened. The fields were behind me.\n“Libby, this is Mrs. Chandler,” Mrs. Latcher was saying. “She's\nhere to help you.”\nLibby whimpered something I couldn't understand. She seemed\nto be in great pain. Then I heard her say, “I'm so sorry.”\n“It's gonna be okay,” my mother said. “When did the labor start?”\n“About an hour ago,” Mrs. Latcher replied.\n“I'm so scared, Mama,” Libby said, much louder. Her voice was\npure terror. Both ladies tried to calm her.\nNow that I was no longer a novice on the subject of female\nanatomy, I was quite anxious to have a look at a pregnant girl. But\nshe sounded too close to the window, and if I got caught peeking in,\nmy father would beat me for a week. An unauthorized view of a\nwoman in labor was undoubtedly a sin of the greatest magnitude. I\nmight even be stricken blind on the spot.\nBut I couldn't help myself. I crouched and slinked just under the\nwindowsill. I removed my straw hat and was easing upward when a\nheavy clod of dirt landed less than two feet from my head. It\ncrashed onto the side of the house with a boom, rattling the rickety\nboards and scaring the women to the point of making them yell. Bits\nof dirt splattered and hit the side of my face. I hit the ground and\nrolled away from the window. Then I scrambled to my feet and\nlooked at the fields.\nPercy Latcher was not far away, standing between two rows of\ncotton, holding another clod of dirt with one hand, and pointing at\nme with another.\n“It's your boy,” a voice said.\nI looked at the window and got a glimpse of Mrs. Latcher's head.\nOne more look at Percy, and I raced like a scalded dog back to the\npickup. I jumped into the front seat, rolled up the window, and\nwaited for my mother.\nPercy disappeared into the fields. It would be quitting time soon,\nand I wanted to leave before the rest of the Latchers drifted in.\nA couple of toddlers appeared on the porch, both of them naked,\na boy and a girl, and I wondered what they thought of their bigsister having yet another one. They just stared at me.\nMy mother came out in a hurry, Mrs. Latcher on her heels, talking\nrapidly as they walked to the truck.\n“I'll get Ruth,” my mother said, meaning Gran.\n“Please do, and hurry,” Mrs. Latcher said.\n“Ruth's done this many times.”\n“Please get her. And please don't tell anyone. Can we trust you,\nMrs. Chandler?”\nMy mother was opening the door, trying to get inside. “Of course\nyou can.”\n“We're so ashamed,” Mrs. Latcher said, wiping tears. “Please\ndon't tell anyone.”\n“It's goin' to be all right, Darla,” my mother said, turning the key.\n“I'll be back in half an hour.”\nWe lunged into reverse, and after a few bolts and stops, we were\nturned around and leaving the Latcher place. She was driving much\nfaster, and this kept her attention, mostly.\n“Did you see Libby Latcher?” she finally asked.\n“No ma'am,” I said quickly and firmly. I knew the question was\ncoming, and I was ready with the truth.\n“Are you sure?”\n“Yes ma'am.”\n“What were you doin' beside the house?”\n“I was just walkin' around when Percy threw a dirt clod at me.\nThat's what hit the house. It wasn't my fault, it was Percy's.” My\nwords were fast and sure, and I know she wanted to believe me.\nMore important matters were on her mind.\nWe stopped at the bridge. She shifted into low, held her breath,\nand again said, “Hang on, Luke.”\n-----------------------\nGran was in the backyard, at the pump drying her face and\nhands and about to start supper. I had to run to keep up with my\nmother.\n“We have to go to the Latchers',” she said. “That girl is in labor,\nand her mother wants you to deliver it.”“Oh, dear,” Gran said, her weary eyes suddenly alive with\nadventure. “So she's really pregnant.”\n“Very much so. She's been in labor for over an hour.”\nI was listening hard and thoroughly enjoying my involvement,\nwhen suddenly and for no apparent reason, both women turned and\nstared at me. “Luke, go to the house,” my mother said rather sternly,\nand began pointing, as if I didn't know where the house was.\n“What'd I do?” I asked, wounded.\n“Just go,” she said, and I began to slink away. Arguing would get\nme nowhere. They resumed their conversation in hushed tones, and\nI was at the back porch when my mother called to me.\n“Luke, run to the fields and get your father! We need him!”\n“And hurry!” Gran said. She was thrilled with the prospect of\ndoctoring on a real patient.\nI didn't want to go back to the fields, and I would've argued but\nfor the fact that Libby Latcher was having a baby at that very\nmoment. I said, “Yes ma'am,” and sprinted past them.\nMy father and Pappy were at the trailer, weighing cotton for the\nlast time that day. It was almost five, and the Spruills had gathered\nwith their heavy sacks. The Mexicans were nowhere to be seen.\nI managed to pull my father aside and explain the situation. He\nsaid something to Pappy, and we trotted back to the house. Gran\nwas gathering supplies-rubbing alcohol, towels, painkillers, bottles of\nnasty remedies that would make Libby forget about child birthing.\nShe was arranging her arsenal on the kitchen table, and I had never\nseen her move so fast.\n“Get cleaned up!” she said sharply to my father. “You'll drive us\nthere. It might take some time.” I could tell he was less than excited\nabout getting dragged into this, but he wasn't about to argue with\nhis mother.\n“I'll get cleaned up, too,” I said.\n“You're not going anywhere,” my mother said to me. She was at\nthe kitchen sink, slicing a tomato. Pappy and I would get leftovers\nfor supper, in addition to the usual platter of cucumbers and\ntomatoes.They left in a rush, my father driving, my mother wedged\nbetween him and Gran, the three of them off to rescue Libby. I\nstood on the front porch and watched them speed away, a cloud of\ndust boiling behind the truck until it stopped at the river. I really\nwanted to go.\nSupper would be beans and cold biscuits. Pappy hated leftovers.\nHe thought the women should've prepared supper before tending to\nthe Latchers, but then, he was opposed to sending them food in the\nfirst place.\n“Don't know why both women had to go,” he mumbled as he sat\ndown. “They're as curious as cats, aren't they, Luke? They can't wait\nto get over there, and see that pregnant girl.”\n“Yes sir,” I said.\nHe blessed the food with a quick prayer, and we ate in silence.\n“Who are the Cardinals playin'?” he asked.\n“Reds.”\n“You wanna listen to it?”\n“Sure.” We listened to the game every night. What else was there\nto do?\nWe cleared the table and placed our dirty dishes in the sink.\nPappy would never consider washing them; that was work for the\nwomen. After dark, we sat on the porch in our usual positions and\nwaited for Harry Caray and the Cardinals. The air was heavy and still\ndreadfully hot.\n“How long does it take to have a baby?” I asked.\n“Depends,” Pappy said from his swing. That was all he said, and\nafter waiting long enough, I asked, “Depends on what?”\n“Oh, lots of things. Some babies pop right out, others take days.”\n“How long did I take?”\nHe thought for a moment. “Don't guess I remember. First babies\nusually take longer.”\n“Were you around?”\n“Nope. I was on a tractor.” The arrival of babies was not a subject\nPappy cared to dwell on, and the conversation lagged.\nI saw Tally ease away from the front yard and disappear into the\ndarkness. The Spruills were settling in; their cooking fire was justabout out.\nThe Reds scored four runs in the top of the first inning. Pappy\ngot so upset he went to bed. I turned off the radio and sat on the\nporch, watching for Tally. Before long, I heard Pappy snoring.\n---------------A Painted HouseChapter 16\n---------------\nI was determined to sit on the front steps and wait for my\nparents and Gran to return from the Latchers'. I could almost see\nthe scene over there; the women in the back room with Libby, the\nmen sitting outside with all those children, as far away from the\nbirthing as possible. Their house was just across the river, not far at\nall, and I was missing it.\nFatigue was hitting hard, and I almost fell asleep. Camp Spruill\nwas still and dark, but I hadn't seen Tally come back yet.\nI tiptoed through the house, heard Pappy in a deep sleep, and\nwent to the back porch. I sat on the edge with my legs hanging off.\nThe fields beyond the barn and the silo were a soft gray when the\nmoon broke through the scattered clouds. Otherwise, they were\nhidden in black. I saw her walking alone on the main field road, just\nas moonlight swept the land for a second. She was in no hurry. Then\neverything was black again. There was not a sound for a long time,\nuntil she stepped on a twig near the house.\n“Tally,” I whispered as loudly as I could.\nAfter a long pause, she answered, “Is that you, Luke?”\n“Over here,” I said. “On the porch.”\nShe was barefoot and made no sound when she walked.\n“What're you doin' out here, Luke?” she said, standing in front of\nme.\n“Where've you been?” I asked.\n“Just takin' a walk.”\n“Why are you takin' a walk?”\n“I don't know. Sometimes I have to get away from my family.”\nThat certainly made sense to me. She sat beside me on the\nporch, pulled her skirt up past her knees, and began swinging her\nlegs.\n“Sometimes I want to just run away from them,” she said, very\nsoftly. “You ever want to run away, Luke?”“Not really. I'm only seven. But I'm not gonna live here for the\nrest of my life.”\n“Where you gonna live?”\n“St. Louis.”\n“Why St. Louis?”\n“That's where the Cardinals play.”\n“And you're gonna be a Cardinal?”\n“Sure am.”\n“You're a smart boy, Luke. Only a fool would wanna pick cotton\nfor the rest of his life. Me, I wanna go up North, too, up where it's\ncool and there's lots of snow.”\n“Where?”\n“I'm not sure. Montreal, maybe.”\n“Where's that?”\n“Canada.”\n“Do they have baseball?”\n“I don't think so.”\n“Then forget it.”\n“No, it's beautiful. We studied it in school, in history. It was\nsettled by the French, and that's what everybody speaks.”\n“Do you speak French?”\n“No, but I can learn.”\n“It's easy. I can already speak Spanish. Juan taught me last year.”\n“Really?”\n“Si”\n“Say something else.”\n“Buenos dias. Por favor. Adios. Gracias. Senor. Como esta?”\n“Wow.”\n“See, I told you it was easy. How far away is Montreal?”\n“I'm not sure. A long way, I think. That's one reason I wanna go\nthere.”\nA light suddenly came on in Pappy's bedroom. It fell across the\nfar end of the porch and startled us. “Be quiet,” I whispered.\n“Who is it?” she whispered back, ducking as if bullets were about\nto come our way.“That's just Pappy getting some water. He's up and down all\nnight long.” Pappy went to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. I\nwatched him through the screen door. He drank two glasses of\nwater, then stomped back to his bedroom and turned off the light.\nWhen things were dark and silent again, she said, “Why is he up all\nnight?”\n“He worries a lot. Ricky's fightin' in Korea.”\n“Who's Ricky?”\n“My uncle. He's nineteen.”\nShe pondered this for a moment, then said, “Is he cute?”\n“I don't know. Don't really think about that. He's my best buddy,\nand I wish he'd come home.”\nWe thought about Ricky for a moment as our feet dangled off the\nporch and the night passed.\n“Say, Luke, the pickup left before dinner. Where'd it go?”\n“Over to the Latchers'.”\n“Who are they?”\n“Some sharecroppers just across the river.”\n“Why'd they go over there?”\n“I can't tell you.”\n“Why not?”\n“ 'Cause it's a secret.”\n“What kinda secret?”\n“Big one.”\n“Come on, Luke. We already have secrets, don't we?”\n“I guess.”\n“I haven't told anybody that you watched me at the creek, have\nI?”\n“I guess not.”\n“And if I did, you'd get in big trouble, wouldn't you?”\n“I reckon I would.”\n“So there. I can keep a secret, you can keep a secret. Now\nwhat's goin' on over at the Latchers'?”\n“You promise you won't tell.”\n“I promise.”The whole town already knew Libby was pregnant. What was the\nuse in pretending it was a secret anyway? “Well, there's this girl,\nLibby Latcher, and she's havin' a baby. Right now.”\n“How old is she?”\n“Fifteen.”\n“Gosh.”\n“And they're tryin' to keep it quiet. They wouldn't call a real\ndoctor 'cause then everybody would know about it. So they asked\nGran to come over and birth the baby.”\n“Why are they keepin' it quiet?”\n“ 'Cause she ain't married.”\n“No kiddin'. Who's the daddy?”\n“She ain't sayin'.”\n“Nobody knows?”\n“Nobody but Libby.”\n“Do you know her?”\n“I've seen her before, but there's a bunch of Latchers. I know her\nbrother Percy. He says he's twelve, but I'm not so sure. Hard to tell\n'cause they don't go to school.”\n“Do you know how girls get pregnant?”\n“I reckon not.”\n“Then I'd better not tell you.”\nThat was fine with me. Ricky had tried once to talk about girls,\nbut it was sickening.\nHer feet swung faster as she digested this wonderful gossip.\n“The river ain't far,” she said.\n“ 'Bout a mile.”\n“How far on the other side do they live?”\n“Just a little ways down a dirt trail.”\n“You ever see a baby birthed, Luke?”\n“Nope. Seen cows and dogs but not a real baby.”\n“Me neither.”\nShe dropped to her feet, grabbed my hand, and yanked me off\nthe porch. Her strength was surprising. “Let's go, Luke. Let's go see\nwhat we can see.” She was dragging me before I could think of\nanything to say.“You're crazy, Tally,” I protested, trying to stop her.\n“No, Luke,” she whispered. “It's an adventure, just like down at\nthe creek the other day. You liked that, didn't you?”\n“Sure did.”\n“Then trust me.”\n“What if we get caught?”\n“How we gonna get caught? Everybody's sound asleep around\nhere. Your grandpa just woke up and didn't think about lookin' in on\nyou. Come on, don't be a chicken.”\nI suddenly realized I would've followed Tally anywhere.\nWe crept behind the trees, through the ruts where the truck\nshould've been, along the short drive, staying as far away from the\nSpruills as possible. We could hear snoring and the heavy breathing\nof weary people asleep at last. We made it to the road without a\nsound. Tally was quick and agile, and she cut through the night. We\nturned toward the river, and the moon broke free and lit our path.\nThe one-lane road was barely wide enough for two trucks to\nsqueeze past each other, and cotton grew close to its edges. With no\nmoon we had to watch our steps, but with the light we could look up\nand see ahead. We were both barefoot. There was just enough\ngravel in the road to keep our steps short and quick, but the soles of\nour feet were like the leather of my baseball glove.\nI was scared but determined not to show it. She seemed to have\nno fear-no fear of getting caught, no fear of the darkness, no fear of\nsneaking up on a house where a baby was being born. At times Tally\nwas aloof, almost moody and dark, and seemed as old as my\nmother. Then she could be a kid who laughed when she played\nbaseball, liked being looked at when she bathed, took long walks in\nthe dark, and most important, enjoyed the company of a seven-\nyear-old.\nWe stopped in the center of the bridge and carefully looked over\nits side at the water below. I told her about the channel catfish\ndown there, about how big they were and the trash they fed on, and\nabout the forty-four-pound one that Ricky had caught. She held my\nhand as we crossed to the other side, a gentle squeeze, one of\naffection and not safeguarding.The trail to the Latchers' was much darker. We slowed\nconsiderably because we were trying to see the house while staying\non the trail. Since they had no electricity, there were no lights,\nnothing but blackness in their bend of the river.\nShe heard something and stopped cold. Voices, off in the\ndistance. We stepped to the edge of their cotton and waited\npatiently for the moon. I pointed here and there and gave her my\nbest guess as to the location of their house. The voices were of\nchildren, no doubt the Latcher brood.\nThe moon finally cooperated, and we got a look at the landscape.\nThe dark shadow of the house was the same distance as our barn\nwas to our back porch, about 350 feet, same as home plate is from\nthe outfield wall in Sportsman's Park. Most great distances in my life\nwere measured by that wall. Pappy's truck was parked in the front.\n“We'd better go around this way,” she said calmly, as if she'd led\nmany such raids. We sank into the cotton and followed one row and\nthen another as we silently moved in a great semicircle through their\ncrops. In most places, their cotton was almost as tall as I was. When\nwe came to a gap where the stalks were thin, we stopped and\nstudied the terrain. There was a faint light in the back room of the\nhouse, the room where they kept Libby. When we were directly east\nof it, we began cutting across rows of cotton, very quietly moving\ntoward the house.\nThe chances of someone seeing us were slim. We weren't\nexpected, of course, and they were thinking of other matters. And\nthe crops were thick and dark at night; a kid could crawl on hands\nand knees through the stalks without ever being seen.\nMy partner in crime moved deftly, as ably as any soldier I'd seen\nin the movies. She kept her eyes on the house and carefully brushed\nthe stalks aside, always clearing a path for me. Not a word was\nspoken. We took our time, slowly advancing on the side of the\nhouse. The cotton grew close to the narrow dirt yard, and when we\nwere ten rows away, we settled in a spot and surveyed the situation.\nWe could hear the Latcher kids gathered near our pickup, which\nwas parked as far away from the front porch as possible. My father\nand Mr. Latcher sat on the tailgate, talking softly. The children werequiet, and then they all talked at once. Everyone seemed to be\nwaiting, and after a few minutes I got the impression they'd been\nwaiting for a long time.\nBefore us was the window, and from our hiding place we were\ncloser to the action than the rest of the Latchers and my father. And\nwe were wonderfully hidden from everything; a searchlight from the\nroof of the house could not have spotted us.\nThere was a candle on a table of some sort just inside the\nwindow. The women moved around, and judging from the shadows\nthat rose and fell, I figured there were several candles in the room.\nThe light was dim, the shadows heavy.\n“Let's move forward,” Tally whispered. By then we'd been there\nfor five minutes, and though I was frightened, I didn't think we\nwould ever get caught.\nWe advanced ten feet, and then nestled down in another safe\nplace.\n“This is close enough,” I said.\n“Maybe.”\nThe light from the room fell to the ground outside. The window\nhad no screen, no curtains. As we waited, my heart slowed, and my\nbreathing returned to normal. My eyes focused on the surroundings,\nand I began to hear the sounds of the night-the crickets' chorus, the\nbullfrogs croaking down by the river, the murmuring of the deep\nvoices of the men in the distance.\nMy mother and Gran and Mrs. Latcher also talked in very low\nvoices. We could hear, but we couldn't understand.\nWhen all was quiet and still, Libby screamed in agony, and I\nnearly jumped out of my skin. Her pained voice echoed through the\nfields, and I was sure she had died. Silence engulfed the pickup.\nEven the crickets seemed to stop for a second.\n“What happened?” I asked.\n“A labor contraction,” Tally said, without taking her eyes off the\nwindow.\n“What's that?”\nShe shrugged. “Just part of it. It'll get worse.”\n“That poor girl.”“She asked for it.”\n“What do you mean?” I asked.\n“Never mind,” she said.\nThings were quiet for a few minutes, then we heard Libby crying.\nHer mother and Gran tried to console her. “I'm so sorry,” Libby said\nover and over.\n“It's gonna be all right,” her mother said.\n“Nobody'll know about it,” Gran said. It was obviously a lie, but\nmaybe it provided a little relief for Libby.\n“You're gonna have a beautiful baby,” my mother said.\nA stray Latcher wandered over, one of the mid-sized ones, and\nsneaked its way close to the window, the same way I'd crept upon it\njust a few hours earlier, just moments before Percy nearly maimed\nme with the dirt clod. He or she-I couldn't tell the difference-began\nsnooping and was getting an eyeful when an older sibling barked at\nthe end of the house, “Lloyd, get away from that window.”\nLloyd immediately withdrew and scurried away in the darkness.\nHis trespass was promptly reported to Mr. Latcher, and a vicious tail-\nwhipping ensued somewhere nearby. Mr. Latcher used a stick of\nsome variety. He kept saying, “Next time I'll get me a bigger stick!”\nLloyd thought the current one was more than enough. His screams\nprobably could be heard at the bridge.\nWhen the mauling was over, Mr. Latcher boomed, “I told you kids\nto stay close, and to stay away from the house!”\nWe could not see this episode, nor did we have to, to get the full\neffect.\nBut I was more horrified thinking about the severity and duration\nof the beating I'd get if my father knew where I was at that\nmoment. I suddenly wanted to leave.\n“How long does it take to have a baby?” I whispered to Tally. If\nshe was weary, she didn't show it. She rested on her knees, frozen,\nher eyes never leaving the window.\n“Depends. First one always takes longer.”\n“How long does the seventh one take?”\n“I don't know. By then they just drop out, I guess. Who's had\nseven?”“Libby's mom. Seven or eight. I think she drops one a year.”\nI was about to doze off when the next contraction hit. Again it\nrattled the house and led first to weeping and then to soothing\nwords inside the room. Then things leveled off once more, and I\nrealized this might go on for a long time.\n----------------------\nWhen I couldn't keep my eyes open any longer, I curled up on\nthe warm soil between the two rows of cotton. “Don't you think we\noughta leave?” I whispered.\n“No,” she said firmly, without moving.\n“Wake me up if anything happens,” I said.\nTally readjusted herself. She sat on her rear and crossed her legs,\nand gently placed my head in her lap. She rubbed my shoulder and\nmy head. I didn't want to go to sleep, but I just couldn't help it.\nWhen I awoke, I was at first lost in a strange world, lying in a\nfield, in total blackness. I didn't move. The ground around me wasn't\nwarm anymore, and my feet were cold. I opened my eyes and\nstared above, terrified until I realized there was cotton standing over\nme. I heard urgent voices nearby. Someone said, “Libby,” and I was\njolted back to reality. I reached for Tally, but she was gone.\nI rose from the ground and peered through the cotton. The\nscene hadn't changed. The window was still open, the candles still\nburning, but my mother and Gran and Mrs. Latcher were very busy.\n“Tally!” I whispered urgently, too loud, I thought, but I was more\nscared than ever.\n“Shhhhh!” came the reply. “Over here.”\nI could barely see the back of her head, two rows in front and\nover to the right. She had, of course, angled for a better view. I\nknifed through the stalks and was soon at her side.\nHome plate is sixty feet from the pitcher's mound. We were much\ncloser to the window than that. Only two rows of cotton stood\nbetween us and the edge of their side yard. Ducking low and looking\nup through the stalks, I could finally see the shadowy sweating faces\nof my mother and grandmother and Mrs. Latcher. They were staring\ndown, looking at Libby, of course, and we could not see her. I'm not\nsure I wanted to at this point, but my buddy certainly did.The women were reaching and shoving and urging her to push\nand breathe and push and breathe, all the while assuring her that\nthings were going to be fine. Things didn't sound fine. The poor girl\nwas bawling and grunting, occasionally yelling-high piercing shrieks\nthat were hardly muffled by the walls of the room. Her anguished\nvoice carried deep through the still night, and I wondered what her\nlittle brothers and sisters thought of it all.\nWhen Libby wasn't grunting and crying, she was saying, “I'm\nsorry. I'm so sorry.” It went on and on, time after time, a mindless\nchant from a suffering girl.\n“It's okay, sweetie,” her mother replied a thousand times.\n“Can't they do something?” I whispered.\n“Nope, not a thing. The baby comes when it wants to.”\nI wanted to ask Tally just exactly how she knew so much about\nchildbirthing, but I held my tongue. It was none of my business, and\nshe would probably tell me so.\nSuddenly, things were quiet and still inside the room. The\nChandler women backed away, then Mrs. Latcher leaned down with\na glass of water. Libby was silent.\n“What's the matter?” I asked.\n“Nothing.”\nThe break in the action gave me time to think of other things,\nnamely getting caught. I'd seen enough. This adventure had run its\ncourse. Tally had likened it to the trip to Siler's Creek, but it paled in\ncomparison with that little escapade. We'd been gone for hours.\nWhat if Pappy stumbled into Ricky's room to check on me? What if\none of the Spruills woke up and started looking for Tally? What if my\nfather got bored with it all and went home?\nThe beating I'd get would hurt for days, if in fact I survived it. I\nwas beginning to panic when Libby started heaving loudly again,\nwhile the women implored her to breathe and push.\n“There it is!” my mother said, and a frenzy followed as the\nwomen hovered frantically over their patient.\n“Keep pushin'!” Gran said loudly.\nLibby groaned even more. She was exhausted, but at least the\nend was in sight.“Don't give up, sweetie,” her mother said. “Don't give up.”\nTally and I were perfectly still, mesmerized by the drama. She\ntook my hand and squeezed it tightly. Her jaws were clenched, her\neyes wide with wonder.\n“It's comin'!” my mother said, and for a brief moment things\nwere quiet. Then we heard the cry of a newborn, a quick gurgling\nprotest, and a new Latcher had arrived.\n“It's a boy,” Gran said, and she lifted up the tiny infant, still\ncovered in blood and afterbirth.\n“It's a boy,” Mrs. Latcher repeated.\nThere was no response from Libby.\nI'd seen more than I bargained for. “Let's go,” I said, trying to\npull away, but Tally wasn't moving.\nGran and my mother continued working on Libby while Mrs.\nLatcher cleaned the baby, who was furious about something and\ncrying loudly. I couldn't help but think of how sad it would be to\nbecome a Latcher, to be born into that small, dirty house with a pack\nof other kids.\nA few minutes passed, and Percy appeared at the window. “Can\nwe see the baby?” he asked, almost afraid to look in.\n“In a minute,” Mrs. Latcher replied.\nThey gathered at the window, the entire collection of Latchers,\nincluding the father, who was now a grandfather, and waited to see\nthe baby. They were just in front of us, halfway between home and\nthe mound, it seemed, and I stopped breathing for fear they would\nhear us. But they weren't thinking about intruders. They were\nlooking at the open window, all still with wonder.\nMrs. Latcher brought the infant over and leaned down so he\ncould meet his family. He reminded me of my baseball glove; he was\nalmost as dark, and wrapped in a towel. He was quiet for the\nmoment and appeared unimpressed with the mob watching him.\n“How's Libby?” one of them asked.\n“She's fine,” Mrs. Latcher said.\n“Can we see her?”\n“No, not right now. She's very tired.” She withdrew the baby, and\nthe other Latchers retreated slowly to the front of the house. I couldnot see my father, but I knew he was hiding somewhere near his\ntruck. Hard cash could not entice him to look at an illegitimate\nnewborn.\nFor a few minutes, the women seemed as busy as they'd been\njust before the birth, but then they slowly finished their work.\nMy trance wore off, and I realized that we were a long way from\nhome. “We gotta go, Tally!” I whispered urgently. She was ready and\nI followed her as we backtracked, cutting our way through the stalks\nuntil we were away from the house, then turning south and running\nwith the rows of cotton. We stopped to get our bearings. The light\nfrom the window could not be seen. The moon had disappeared.\nThere were no shapes or shadows from the Latcher place. Total\ndarkness.\nWe turned west, again stepping across the rows, cutting through\nthe stalks, pushing them aside so they wouldn't scrape our faces.\nThe rows ended, and we found the trail leading to the main road. My\nfeet hurt, and my legs ached, but we couldn't waste time. We ran to\nthe bridge. Tally wanted to watch the waters swirling below, but I\nmade her keep going.\n“Let's walk,” she said, on our side of the bridge, and for a\nmoment we stopped running. We walked in silence, both of us trying\nto catch our breath. Fatigue was quickly gaining on us; the\nadventure had been worth it, but we were paying the price. We\nwere approaching our farm when there was a rumbling behind us.\nHeadlights! On the bridge! In terror, we bolted into high gear. Tally\ncould easily outrun me, which would've been humiliating except that\nI didn't have time for shame, and she held back a step so she\nwouldn't lose me.\nI knew my father would not drive fast, not at night, on our dirt\nroad, with Gran and my mother with him, but the headlights were\nstill gaining on us. When we were close to our house, we jumped\nthe shallow ditch and ran along a field. The engine was getting\nlouder.\n“I'll wait here, Luke,” she said, stopping near the edge of our\nyard. The truck was almost upon us. “You run to the back porch and\nsneak in. I'll wait till they go inside. Hurry.”I kept running, and darted around the back corner of the house\njust as the truck pulled into the yard. I crept into the kitchen without\na sound, then to Ricky's room, where I grabbed a pillow and curled\nup on the floor, next to the window. I was too dirty and wet to get\ninto bed, and I prayed they'd be too tired to check on me.\nThey made little noise as they entered the kitchen. They\nwhispered as they removed their shoes and boots. A ray of light\nslanted into my room. Their shadows moved through it, but no one\nlooked in on little Luke. Within minutes they were in bed, and the\nhouse was quiet. I planned to wait a bit, then slip into the kitchen\nand wash my face and hands with a cloth. Afterward I'd crawl into\nthe bed and sleep forever. If they heard me moving about, I'd simply\nsay that they had awakened me when they got home.\nFormulating this plan was the last thing I remember before falling\nfast asleep.\n---------------A Painted HouseChapter 17\n---------------\nI don't know how long I slept, but it felt like only minutes. Pappy\nwas kneeling over me, asking me why I was on the floor. I tried to\nanswer, but nothing worked. I was paralyzed from fatigue.\n“It's just me and you,” he said. “The rest of 'em's sleepin' in.” His\nvoice was dripping with contempt.\nStill unable to think or speak, I followed him to the kitchen,\nwhere the coffee was ready. We ate cold biscuits and sorghum in\nsilence. Pappy, of course, was irritated because he expected a full\nbreakfast. And he was furious because Gran and my parents were\nsleeping instead of preparing for the fields.\n“That Latcher girl had a baby last night,” he said, wiping his\nmouth. That Latcher girl and her new baby were interfering with our\ncotton, and our breakfast, and Pappy could barely control his\ntemper.\n“She did?” I said, trying to appear surprised.\n“Yeah, but they still ain't found the daddy.”\n“They haven't?”\n“No. They wanna keep it quiet, okay, so don't say anything about\nit.”\n“Yes sir.”\n“Hurry up. We gotta go.”\n“What time did they get in?”\n“Around three.”\nHe left and started the tractor. I placed the dishes in the sink and\nlooked in on my parents. They were deathly still; the only sounds\nwere of deep breathing. I wanted to shake off my boots, crawl into\nbed with them, and sleep for a week. Instead, I dragged myself\noutside. The sun was just breaking over the trees to the east. In the\ndistance, I could see the silhouettes of the Mexicans walking into the\nfields.The Spruills were trudging over from the front yard. Tally was\nnowhere to be seen. I asked Bo, and he said she was feeling bad.\nMaybe an upset stomach. Pappy heard this, and his frustration\njumped up another notch. Another picker in bed instead of in the\nfields.\nAll I could think was: Why hadn't I thought of an upset stomach?\nWe rode a quarter of a mile to a spot where the half-full cotton\ntrailer was parked, rising like a monument amid the flat fields and\ncalling us back for another day of misery. We slowly took our sacks\nand began picking. I waited for Pappy to move down his row, then I\nmoved far away from him, and far away from the Spruills.\nI worked hard for an hour or so. The cotton was wet and soft to\nthe touch, and the sun was not yet overhead. I was not motivated\nby money or fear; rather, I wanted a soft place to sleep. When I was\nso deep in the fields no one could find me, and there was enough\ncotton in my sack to make a nice little mattress, I hit the ground.\nMy father arrived mid-morning, and out of eighty acres of cotton,\njust happened to select the row next to mine. “Luke!” he said angrily\nas he stumbled upon me. He was too startled to scold me, and by\nthe time I came to my senses, I was complaining of an upset\nstomach, a headache, and for good measure I threw in the fact that\nI had not slept much the night before.\n“Why not?” he asked, hovering over me.\n“I was waitin' on y'all to get home.” There was an element of\ntruth in this.\n“And why were you waitin' on us?”\n“I wanted to know about Libby.”\n“Well, she had a baby. What else do you wanna know?”\n“Pappy told me.” I slowly got to my feet and tried to appear as\nsick as possible.\n“Go to the house,” he said, and I left without a word.\nChinese and North Korean troops ambushed an American convoy\nnear Pyongyang, killing at least eighty and taking many prisoners.\nMr. Edward R. Murrow opened his nightly news with the story, and\nGran started praying. As always, she was seated across the kitchen\ntable from me. My mother was leaning on the kitchen sink, and she,too, stopped everything and closed her eyes. I heard Pappy cough\non the back porch. He was also listening.\nPeace talks had been abandoned again, and the Chinese were\nmoving more troops into Korea. Mr. Murrow said that a truce, once\nso close, now seemed impossible. His words were a little heavier\nthat night, or maybe we were just more exhausted than usual. He\nbroke for a commercial, then returned with a story about an\nearthquake.\nGran and my mother were moving slowly around the kitchen\nwhen Pappy entered. He tousled my hair as if things were just fine.\n“What's for supper?” he asked.\n“Pork chops,” my mother answered.\nThen my father drifted in, and we took our places. After Pappy\nblessed the food, all of us prayed for Ricky. There was practically no\nconversation; everyone was thinking about Korea, but nobody\nwanted to mention it.\nMy mother was talking about a project her Sunday school class\nwas pondering, when I heard the faint squeaking of the screen door\nout on the back porch. No one heard the noise but me. There was\nno wind, nothing to shove the door one way or the other. I stopped\neating.\n“What is it, Luke?” Gran asked.\n“I thought I heard somethin',” I said.\nEveryone looked at the door. Nothing. They resumed eating.\nThen Percy Latcher stepped into the kitchen, and we froze. He\ntook two steps through the door and stopped, as if he were lost. He\nwas barefoot, covered with dirt from head to foot, and his eyes were\nred, as if he'd been crying for hours. He looked at us; we looked at\nhim. Pappy started to stand up and deal with the situation. I said,\n“It's Percy Latcher.”\nPappy remained in his seat, holding a knife in his right hand.\nPercy's eyes were glazed, and when he breathed, a low moaning\nsound came forth as if he were trying to suppress a rage. Or maybe\nhe was wounded, or somebody across the river was hurt and he'd\nraced to our house for help.“What is it, boy?” Pappy barked at him. “It's common courtesy to\nknock before you come in.”\nPercy fixed his unflinching eyes upon Pappy and said, “Ricky\ndone it.”\n“Ricky done what?” Pappy asked, his voice suddenly softer,\nalready in retreat.\n“Ricky done it.”\n“Ricky done what?” Pappy repeated.\n“That baby's his,” Percy said. “It's Ricky's.”\n“Shut up, boy!” Pappy snapped at him and clutched the edge of\nthe table as if he might bolt for the door to whip the poor kid.\n“She didn't wanna do it, but he talked her into it,” Percy said,\nstaring at me instead of Pappy. “Then he went off to the war.”\n“Is that what she's tellin'?” Pappy asked angrily.\n“Don't yell, Eli,” Gran said. “He's just a boy.” Gran took a deep\nbreath, and seemed to be the first to at least consider the possibility\nthat she had delivered her own grandchild.\n“That's what she's tellin',” Percy said. “And it's true.”\n“Luke, go to your room and shut the door,” my father said, jolting\nme out of a trance.\n“No,” my mother said before I could move. “This affects all of us.\nHe can stay.”\n“He shouldn't hear this.”\n“He's already heard it.”\n“He should stay,” Gran said, siding with my mother and settling\nthe matter. They were assuming I wanted to stay. What I really\nwanted to do at that moment was to run outside, find Tally, and go\nfor a long walk-away from her crazy family, away from Ricky and\nKorea, away from Percy Latcher. But I didn't move.\n“Did your parents send you over here?” my mother asked.\n“No ma'am. They don't know where I am. The baby cried all day.\nLibby's gone crazy, talkin' 'bout jumpin' off the bridge, killin' herself,\nstuff like that, and she told me what Ricky done to her.”\n“Did she tell your parents?”\n“Yes ma'am. Everybody knows now.”\n“You mean everybody in your family knows.”“Yes ma'am. We ain't told nobody else.”\n“Don't,” Pappy grunted. He was settling back into his chair, his\nshoulders beginning to sag, defeat sinking in rapidly. If Libby Latcher\nclaimed Ricky was the father, then everyone would believe her. He\nwasn't home to defend himself. And in a swearing contest, Libby\nwould likely have more supporters than Ricky, given his reputation\nas a hell-raiser.\n“Have you had supper, son?” Gran asked.\n“No ma'am.”\n“Are you hungry?”\n“Yes ma'am.”\nThe table was covered with food that would not be touched. We\nChandlers certainly had just lost our appetites. Pappy shoved back\nfrom the table and said, “He can have mine.” He bounced to his feet,\nleft the kitchen, and went to the front porch. My father followed him\nwithout a word.\n“Sit here, son,” Gran said, indicating Pappy's chair.\nThey fixed him a plate of food and a glass of sweet tea. He sat\ndown and ate slowly. Gran drifted to the front porch, leaving me and\nmy mother to sit with Percy. He did not speak unless he was spoken\nto.\n-------------------------\nAfter a lengthy discussion on the front porch, a meeting Percy\nand I missed because we were banished to the back porch, Pappy\nand my father loaded the boy up and took him home. I sat in the\nswing with Gran as they drove away, just as it was getting dark. My\nmother was shelling butter beans.\n“Will Pappy talk to Mr. Latcher?” I asked.\n“I'm sure he will,” my mother said.\n“What will they talk about?” I was full of questions because I\nassumed I now had the right to know everything.\n“Oh, I'm sure they'll talk about the baby,” Gran said. “And Ricky\nand Libby.”\n“Will they fight?”\n“No. They'll reach an agreement.”\n“What kind of agreement?”“Everybody'll agree not to talk about the baby, and to keep\nRicky's name out of it.”\n“That includes you, Luke,” my mother said. “This is a dark\nsecret.”\n“I ain't tellin' nobody,” I said, with conviction. The thought of\nfolks knowing that the Chandlers and the Latchers were somehow\nrelated horrified me.\n“Did Ricky really do that?” I asked.\n“Of course not,” Gran said. “The Latchers are not trustworthy\npeople. They're not good Christians; that's how the girl got\npregnant. They'll probably want some money out of the deal.”\n“Money?”\n“We don't know what they want,” my mother said.\n“Do you think he did it, Mom?”\nShe hesitated for a second before saying, softly, “No.”\n“I don't think he did, either,” I said, making it unanimous. I would\ndefend Ricky forever, and if anybody mentioned the Latcher baby,\nthen I'd be ready to fight.\nBut Ricky was the likeliest suspect, and we all knew it. The\nLatchers rarely left their farm. There was a Jeter boy about two\nmiles away, but I'd never seen him anywhere near the river. Nobody\nlived close to the Latchers but us. Ricky had been the nearest\ntomcat.\nChurch business suddenly became important, and the women\ntalked about it nonstop. I had many more questions about the\nLatcher baby, but I couldn't sneak in a word. I finally gave up and\nwent to the kitchen to listen to the Cardinals game.\nI sorely wanted to be in the back of our pickup over at the\nLatchers', eavesdropping on the men as they handled the situation.\n--------------------------\nLong after I'd been sent to bed, I lay awake, fighting sleep\nbecause the air was alive with voices. When my grandparents talked\nin bed, I could hear their soft, low sounds creeping down the narrow\nhallway. I couldn't understand a word, and they tried their best to\nmake sure no one heard them. But at times, when they were\nworried or when they were thinking about Ricky, they were forced totalk late at night. Lying in his bed, listening to their muted\nutterances, I knew things were serious.\nMy parents retreated to the front porch, where they sat on the\nsteps, waiting for a breeze and a break from the relentless heat. At\nfirst they whispered, but their burdens were too heavy, and their\nwords could not be suppressed. Certain that I was asleep, they\ntalked louder than they normally would have.\nI slipped out of bed and slid across the floor like a snake. At the\nwindow, I glanced out and saw them in their familiar spot, backs to\nme, a few feet away.\nI absorbed every sound. Things had not gone well at the\nLatchers'. Libby had been somewhere in the back of the house with\nthe baby, who cried nonstop. All the Latchers seemed frayed and\nworn out by the crying. Mr. Latcher was angry with Percy for coming\nto our house, but he was even angrier when he talked about Libby.\nShe was telling that she didn't want to fool around with Ricky, but he\nmade her anyway. Pappy denied this was the case, but he had\nnothing to stand on. He denied everything, and said he doubted if\nRicky had ever met Libby.\nBut they had witnesses. Mr. Latcher himself said that on two\noccasions, just after Christmas, Ricky pulled up in their front yard in\nPappy's pickup and took Libby for a ride. They drove to Monette,\nwhere Ricky bought her a soda.\nMy father speculated that if that really did happen, then Ricky\nchose Monette because fewer people would know him there. He'd\nnever be seen in Black Oak with the daughter of a sharecropper.\n“She's a beautiful girl,” my mother said.\nThe next witness was a boy of no more than ten. Mr. Latcher\nsummoned him from the pack huddled around the front steps. His\ntestimony was that he'd seen Pappy's truck parked at the end of a\nfield row, next to a thicket. He sneaked up on the truck, and got\nclose enough to see Ricky and Libby kissing. He kept it quiet\nbecause he was scared, and had come forth with the story only a\nfew hours earlier.\nThe Chandlers, of course, had no witnesses. On our side of the\nriver, there'd been no hint of a budding romance. Ricky certainlywould not have told anyone. Pappy would've hit him.\nMr. Latcher said he suspected all along that Ricky was the father,\nbut Libby had denied it. And in truth, there were a couple of other\nboys who'd shown an interest in her. But now she was telling\neverything-that Ricky had forced himself on her, that she didn't want\nthe baby.\n“Do they want us to take it?” my mother asked.\nI almost groaned in pain.\n“No, I don't think so,” my father said. “What's another baby\naround their house?”\nMy mother thought the baby deserved a good home. My father\nsaid it was out of the question until Ricky said it was his child. Not\nlikely, knowing Ricky.\n“Did you see the baby?” my mother asked.\n“No.”\n“He's the spittin' image of Ricky,” she said.\nMy one recollection of the newest Latcher was that of a small\nobject that reminded me, at the time, of my baseball glove. He\nbarely looked human. But my mother and Gran spent hours\nanalyzing the faces of people to determine who favored whom, and\nwhere the eyes came from, and the nose and hair. They'd look at\nbabies at church and say, “Oh, he's definitely a Chisenhall.” Or, “Look\nat those eyes, got 'em from his grandmother.”\nThey all looked like little dolls to me.\n“So you think he's a Chandler?” my father said.\n“No doubt about it.”\n-----------------A Painted HouseChapter 18\n-----------------\nIt was Saturday again, but Saturday without the usual excitement\nof going to town. I knew we were going because we had never\nskipped two Saturdays in a row. Gran needed groceries, especially\nflour and coffee, and my mother needed to go to the drugstore. My\nfather hadn't been to the Co-op in two weeks. I didn't have a vote in\nthe matter, but my mother knew how important the Saturday\nmatinee was to the proper development of a child, especially a farm\nkid with little contact with the rest of the world. Yes, we were going\nto town, but without the usual enthusiasm.\nA new horror was upon us, one that was far more frightening\nthan all this business about Hank Spruill. What if somebody heard\nwhat the Latchers were telling? It took just one person, one whisper\nat one end of Main Street, and the gossip would roar through the\ntown like a wildfire. The ladies in Pop and Pearl's would drop their\nbaskets and cover their mouths in disbelief. The old farmers hanging\naround the Co-op would smirk and say, “I'm not surprised.” The\nolder kids from church would point at me as if I were somehow the\nguilty one. The town would seize the rumor as if it were the gospel\ntruth, and Chandler blood would be forever tainted.\nSo I didn't want to go to town. I wanted to stay home and play\nbaseball and maybe go for a walk with Tally.\nLittle was said over breakfast. We were still very subdued, and I\nthink this was because we all knew the truth. Ricky had left behind a\nlittle memory. I wondered to myself if he knew about Libby and the\nbaby, but I wasn't about to bring up the subject. I'd ask my mother\nlater.\n“Carnival's in town,” Pappy said. Suddenly the day was better. My\nfork froze in midair.\n“What time are we goin'?” I asked.\n“The same. Just after lunch,” Pappy said.\n“How late can we stay?”“We'll see about that,” he said.\nThe carnival was a wandering band of gypsies with funny accents\nwho lived in Florida during the winter and hit the small farming\ntowns in the fall, when the harvest was in full swing and folks had\nmoney in their pockets. They usually arrived abruptly on a Thursday\nand then set up on the baseball field without permission, and stayed\nthrough the weekend. Nothing excited Black Oak like the carnival.\nA different one came to town each year. One had an elephant\nand a giant loggerhead turtle. One had no animals at all but\nspecialized in odd humans-tumbling midgets, the girl with six\nfingers, the man with an extra leg. But all carnivals had a Ferris\nwheel, a merry-go-round, and two or three other rides that\nsqueaked and rattled and generally terrified all the mothers. The\nSlinger had been such a ride, a circle of swings on chains that went\nfaster and faster until the riders were flying parallel to the ground\nand screaming and begging to stop. A couple of years earlier in\nMonette, a chain had snapped, and a little girl had been flung across\nthe midway and into the side of a trailer. The next week the Slinger\nwas in Black Oak, with new chains, and folks lined up to ride it.\nThere were booths where you threw rings and darts and shot\npellet pistols to win prizes. Some carnivals had fortune-tellers, others\nhad photo booths, still others had magicians. They were all loud and\ncolorful and filled with excitement. Word would spread quickly\nthrough the county, and people would flock in, and in a few hours\nBlack Oak would be packed. I was desperate to go.\nPerhaps, I thought, the excitement of the carnival would\nsuppress any curiosity about Libby Latcher. I choked down my\nbiscuits and ran outside.\n“The carnival's in town,” I whispered to Tally when we met at the\ntractor for the ride to the fields.\n“Y'all goin'?” she asked.\n“Of course. Nobody misses the carnival.”\n“I know a secret,” she whispered, her eyes darting around.\n“What is it?”\n“Somethin' I heard last night.”\n“Where'd you hear it?”“By the front porch.”\nI didn't like the way she was stringing me along. “What is it?”\nShe leaned even closer. “ 'Bout Ricky and that Latcher girl. Guess\nyou got a new cousin.” Her words were cruel, and her eyes looked\nmean. This was not the Tally I knew.\n“What were you doin' out there?” I asked.\n“None of your business.”\nPappy came from the house and walked to the tractor. “You'd\nbetter not tell,” I said through clenched teeth.\n“We keep our secrets, remember?” she said, moving away.\n“Yeah.”\nI ate lunch quickly, then hurried about the task of getting myself\nscrubbed and bathed. My mother knew I was anxious to get to\ntown, so she wasted no time with her scouring.\nAll ten Mexicans piled into the back of the truck with me and my\nfather, and we pulled away from our farm. Cowboy had picked\ncotton all week with broken ribs, a fact that had not gone unnoticed\nby Pappy and my father. They admired him greatly. “They're tough\npeople,” Pappy had said.\nThe Spruills were scurrying about, trying to catch us. Tally had\nspread the word about the carnival, and even Trot seemed to be\nmoving with a purpose.\nWhen we crossed the river, I looked long and hard down the field\nroad that led to the Latchers' place, but their little shack was not\nvisible. I glanced at my father. He was looking, too, his eyes hard,\nalmost angry. How could those people have intruded into our lives?\nWe crept along the gravel road, and soon the Latcher fields were\nbehind us. By the time we stopped at the highway, I was once again\ndreaming of the carnival.\nOur driver, of course, would never get in a hurry. With the truck\nso loaded with people, I doubted if it would do thirty-seven, and\nPappy certainly didn't push it. It took an hour, it seemed.\nStick's patrol car was parked by the Baptist church. Traffic on\nMain was already slow, the sidewalks brimming with activity. We\nparked, and the Mexicans scattered. Stick appeared from under a\nshade tree and walked straight for us. Gran and my mother headedfor the stores. I hung back with the men, certain that serious\nmatters were about to be discussed.\n“Howdy, Eli. Jesse,” Stick said, his hat tilted to one side, a blade\nof grass in the corner of his mouth.\n“Afternoon, Stick,” Pappy said. My father just nodded. They had\nnot come to town to spend time with Stick, and their irritation was\njust under the surface.\n“I'm thinkin' 'bout arrestin' that Spruill boy,” he said.\n“I don't care what you do,” Pappy shot back, his anger rising fast.\n“Just wait till the cotton's in.”\n“Surely you can wait a month,” my father said.\nStick chewed on the grass, spat, and said, “I suppose so.”\n“He's a good worker,” my father said. “And there's plenty of\ncotton. You take him now, and we'll lose six field hands. You know\nhow those people are.”\n“I suppose I could wait,” Stick said again. He seemed anxious to\nreach a compromise. “I been talkin' to a lot of people, and I ain't so\nsure your boy here is tellin' the truth.” He gave me a long look as he\nsaid this, and I kicked gravel.\n“Leave him out of it, Stick,” my father said. “He's just a kid.”\n“He's seven years old!” Pappy snapped. “Why don't you find you\nsome real witnesses.”\nStick's shoulders drew back as if he'd been hit.\n“Here's the deal,” Pappy said. “You leave Hank alone until the\ncotton's in, then I'll drive to town and let you know we're finished\nwith him. At that point, I don't care what you do with him.”\n“That'll work,” Stick said.\n“But I still think you ain't got a case. It was three against one,\nStick, and no jury will convict.”\n“We'll see,” Stick said smugly. He walked away, thumbs in his\npockets, with just enough of a swagger to annoy us.\n“Can I go to the carnival?” I asked.\n“Of course you can,” Pappy said.\n“How much money do you have?” my father asked.\n“Four dollars.”\n“How much you gonna spend?”“Four dollars.”\n“I think two's enough.”\n“How'bout three?”\n“Make it two-fifty, okay?”\n“Yes sir.” I ran from the church, along the sidewalk, darting\nbetween people, and was soon at the baseball field, which was\nacross the street from the Co-op, the Dixie theater, and the pool hall.\nThe carnival covered it all, from the backstop to the outfield fence.\nThe Ferris wheel stood in the middle, surrounded by the smaller\nrides, the booths, and the midway. Shrill music rattled from the\nloudspeakers on the merry-go-round and the carousel. Long lines of\npeople were already waiting. I could smell popcorn and corn dogs\nand something frying in grease.\nI found the trailer with the cotton candy. It cost a dime, but I\nwould've paid much more for it. Dewayne saw me at the midway as\nI was watching some older boys shoot air guns at little ducks that\nswam in a pool. They never hit them, and this was because,\naccording to Pappy, the gun sights were crooked.\nCandied apples were also a dime. We bought one apiece and\ntook our time inspecting the carnival. There was a witch in a long\nblack dress, black hair, black everything, and for twenty-five cents\nshe could tell your future. A dark-eyed old lady could do the same\nthing, for the same price, with tarot cards. A flamboyant man with a\nmicrophone could guess your age or your weight for a dime. If he\ndidn't get within three years or ten pounds you won a prize. The\nmidway had the usual collection of games-softballs thrown at milk\njugs, basketballs aimed at rims that were too small, darts at\nballoons, hoops over bottlenecks.\nWe strolled through the carnival, savoring the noise and\nexcitement. A crowd was gathering at the far end, near the\nbackstop, and we drifted over. A large sign proclaimed the presence\nof “Samson, the World's Greatest Wrestler, Direct from Egypt,” and\nunder it was a square mat with padded poles in the corners and\nropes around it. Samson was not in the ring, but his appearance was\nonly moments away, according to Delilah, a tall, shapely woman with\nthe microphone. Her costume revealed all of her legs and most ofher chest, and I was certain that never before had so much skin\nbeen exposed in public in Black Oak. She explained, to a silent\ncrowd mostly of men, that the rules were simple. Samson paid ten-\nto-one to any person who could stay in the ring with him for one\nminute. “Only sixty seconds!” she yelled. “And the money is yours!”\nHer accent was strange enough to convince us that they were\nindeed from another land. I'd never seen anybody from Egypt,\nthough I knew from Sunday school that Moses had had some\nadventures there.\nShe paraded back and forth in front of the ring, all eyes following\nher every move. “On his current tour, Samson has won three\nhundred matches in a row,” she said, tauntingly. “In fact, the last\ntime Samson lost was in Russia, when it took three men to beat him,\nand they had to cheat to do it.”\nMusic started blaring from a lone speaker hanging on the sign.\n“And now, ladies and gentlemen!” she shouted above the music, “I\npresent to you, the one, the only, the greatest wrestler in the world,\nthe incredible Samson!”\nI held my breath.\nHe bounded from behind a curtain and jumped into the ring amid\ntepid applause. Why should we clap for him? He was there to whip\nus. His hair was the first thing I noticed. It was black and wavy and\nfell to his shoulders like a woman's. I'd seen illustrations of Old\nTestament stories where the men had such hair, but that was five\nthousand years ago. He was a giant of a man, with a thick body and\nridges of muscles clumped around his shoulders and down his chest.\nHis arms were covered with black hair and looked strong enough to\nlift buildings. So that we might get the full benefit of his physique,\nSamson wasn't wearing a shirt. Even after we'd spent months in the\nfields, his skin was much darker than ours, and now I was really\nconvinced that he was from parts unknown. He had fought Russians!\nHe strutted around the ring in step with the music, curling his\narms and flexing his mammoth muscles. He performed like this until\nwe'd witnessed all he had, which was more than enough, in my\nopinion.“Who's first?” Delilah yelled into the microphone as the music\ndied. “Two-dollar minimum!”\nThe crowd was suddenly still. Only a fool would crawl into that\nring.\n“I ain't scared,” somebody yelled, and we watched in disbelief as\na young man I'd never seen before stepped forward and handed two\ndollars to Delilah. She took the money and said, “Ten-to-one. Stay in\nthe ring for sixty seconds, and you'll win twenty dollars.” She shoved\nthe microphone at the young man and said, “What's your name?”\n“Parley.”\n“Good luck, Parley.”\nHe climbed into the ring as if he had no fear of Samson, who'd\nbeen watching without the slightest hint of worry. Delilah took a\nmallet and struck a bell on the side of the ring. “Sixty seconds!” she\nsaid.\nParley moved around a bit, then retreated to a corner as Samson\ntook a step in his direction. Both men studied each other, Samson\nlooking down with contempt, Parley looking up with anticipation.\n“Forty-five seconds!” she called out.\nSamson moved closer, and Parley darted to the other side of the\nring. Being much smaller, he was also much quicker, and apparently\nwas using the strategy of flight. Samson stalked him; Parley kept\ndarting.\n“Thirty seconds!”\nThe ring was not big enough to run much, and Samson had\ncaught his share of scared rabbits. He tripped Parley during one of\nhis sprints, and when he picked him up, he wrapped an arm tightly\naround the boy's head and began a headlock.\n“Oh, looks like the Guillotine!” Delilah gushed, with a little too\nmuch drama. “Twenty seconds!”\nSamson twisted his prey and grimaced with sadistic pleasure,\nwhile poor Parley flailed at his side.\n“Ten seconds!”\nSamson whirled and then flung Parley across the ring. Before\nFarley could get up, the World's Greatest Wrestler grabbed him bythe foot, lifted him in the air, held him over the ropes, and with two\nseconds to go, dropped him to the ground for the victory.\n“Wow, that was close, Samson!” Delilah said into the microphone.\nParley was in a daze, but he walked away in one piece and\nseemed to be proud of himself. He had proved his manhood, had\nshown no fear, and had come within two seconds of winning twenty\nbucks. The next volunteer was likewise a stranger, a bulky young\nman named Claude, who paid three dollars for a chance to win\nthirty. He weighed twice as much as Parley but was much slower,\nand within ten seconds Samson had nailed him with a Flying\nDropkick and wrapped him into a Pretzel. With ten seconds to go, he\nhoisted Claude over his head, and in a magnificent display of\nstrength, walked to the edge of the ring and tossed him.\nClaude, too, walked away proudly. It was apparent that Samson,\ndespite his theatrics and menacing demeanor, was a good sport and\nwould not harm anyone. And since most young men wanted to have\nsome contact with Delilah, a line soon formed at her side.\nIt was quite a spectacle, and Dewayne and I sat for a long time\nwatching Samson dispose of one victim after another with all the\nmoves in his repertoire. The Boston Crab, the Scissors, the Piledriver,\nthe Jackhammer, the Body Slam. Delilah merely had to mention one\nof the maneuvers in her microphone and Samson would quickly\ndemonstrate it.\nAfter an hour, Samson was soaked with sweat and needed a\nbreak, so Dewayne and I scooted off to ride the Ferris wheel twice.\nWe were debating whether to get another helping of cotton candy\nwhen we heard some young men talking about the girlie show.\n“She takes off everything!” one of them said as he walked by,\nand we forgot about the cotton candy. We followed them to the end\nof the midway, where the gypsies' trailers were parked. Behind the\ntrailers was a small tent that had obviously been erected so that no\none would see it. A few men smoked and waited, and they all had a\nguilty look about them. There was music coming from the tent.\nSome carnivals had girlie shows. Ricky, not surprisingly, had been\nseen leaving one the year before, and this had caused quite an\nuproar in our house. He wouldn't have been caught if Mr. Ross LeeHart had not also been caught. Mr. Hart was a steward in the\nMethodist church, a farmer who owned his land, an upright citizen\nwho was married to a woman with a big mouth. She went searching\nfor him late on a Saturday night, in the midst of the carnival, and\nhappened to see him leaving the forbidden tent. She wailed at the\nsight of her wayward husband; he ducked behind the trailers. She\ngave chase, yelling and threatening, and Black Oak had a new story.\nMrs. Hart, for some reason, told everyone what her husband had\ndone, and the poor man was an outcast for many months. She also\nlet it be known that leaving the tent right behind him was Ricky\nChandler. We suffered in silence. Never go to a girlie show in your\nhometown was the unwritten rule. Drive to Monette or Lake City or\nCaraway, but don't do it in Black Oak.\nDewayne and I didn't recognize any of the men hanging around\nthe girlie tent. We circled through the trailers and flanked in from the\nopposite side, but a large dog had been chained to the ground,\nguarding against Peeping Toms like us. We retreated and decided to\nwait for darkness.\nAs four o'clock approached, we had to make a painful decision-\ngo to the matinee, or stay at the carnival. We were leaning toward\nthe picture show when Delilah appeared at the wrestling ring. She\nhad changed costumes, and was now wearing a two-piece red outfit\nthat revealed even more. The crowd flocked to her, and before long\nSamson was once again hurling farm boys and hillbillies and even an\noccasional Mexican out of the ring.\nHis only challenge came at dark. Mr. Horsefly Walker had a deaf\nand dumb son who weighed three hundred pounds. We called him\nGrunt, not out of disrespect or cruelty-he'd just always been called\nthat. Horsefly put up five dollars, and Grunt slowly climbed into the\nring.\n“He's a big one, Samson,” Delilah purred into the mike.\nSamson knew it might take a bit longer to shove three hundred\npounds out of the ring, so he attacked immediately. He went in low\nwith a Chinese Take-Down, a move designed to slap both ankles\ntogether and cause the opponent to collapse. Grunt fell all right, but\nhe fell on Samson, who couldn't help but groan in pain. Some of thecrowd yelled, too, and began cheering on Grunt, who, of course,\ncouldn't hear a thing. Both men rolled and kicked around the ring\nuntil Grunt pinned Samson for a second.\n“Forty seconds!” Delilah said, the clock running much slower with\nSamson flat on his back. He kicked a few times, to no avail, then\nemployed the Jersey Flip, a quick move in which his feet swung up\nand caught Grunt by the ears, then rolled him backward. Samson\nsprang to his feet as Delilah narrated the moves. A Flying Dropkick\nstunned Grunt.\n“Fifteen seconds!” she said, the clock once again moving quickly.\nGrunt charged like a mad bull, and both men went down again. The\ncrowd cheered again. Horsefly was hopping around the outside of\nthe ring, delirious. They grappled for a while, then Delilah said, “Ten\nseconds.”\nThere were some boos directed at the timekeeper. Samson\ntwisted and yanked Grunt's arm behind his back, grabbed a foot,\nand slid the poor boy across the ring and through the ropes. He\nlanded at his father's feet. Horsefly yelled, “You cheatin'\nsonofabitch!”\nSamson took offense to this language and motioned for Horsefly\nto enter the ring himself. Horsefly took a step forward and Samson\nspread the ropes. Delilah, who'd obviously seen such threats many\ntimes, said, “I wouldn't do that if I were you. He hurts people when\nhe's angry.”\nBy then Horsefly was looking for a reason to hold his ground.\nSamson looked ten feet tall standing at the edge of the ring,\nsneering down. Horsefly bent down to check on Grunt, who was\nrubbing his shoulder and appeared to be on the verge of tears.\nSamson laughed at them as they walked away, then to taunt us,\nbegan flexing his biceps as he strolled around the ring. A few in the\ncrowd hissed at him, and that was exactly what he wanted.\nHe handled a few more challengers, then Delilah announced that\nher man had to eat dinner. They'd be back in an hour for their final\nexhibition.\nIt was now dark. The air was filled with the sounds of the\ncarnival; the excited screams of kids on the rides, the whoops andhollers of the winners at the booths on the midway, the music\nshrieking forth from a dozen assorted speakers, all playing different\ntunes, the constant jabbering of the barkers as they enticed folks to\npart with their money to view the world's largest turtle or to win\nanother prize, and, above all, the overwhelming electricity of the\ncrowd. People were so thick you couldn't stir 'em with a stick, as\nGran liked to say. Mobs crowded around the booths, watching and\ncheering. Long lines snaked around the rides. Packs of Mexicans\nmoved slowly about, staring in amazement, but for the most part,\nhanging on to their money. I had never seen so many people in one\nplace.\nI found my parents near the street, drinking lemonade and\nwatching the spectacle from a safe distance. Pappy and Gran were\nalready at the truck, ready to leave but willing to wait. The carnival\ncame only once a year.\n“How much money you got?” my father asked.\n“ 'Bout a dollar,” I said.\n“That Ferris wheel doesn't look safe, Luke,” my mother said.\n“I've been on it twice. It's okay.”\n“I'll give you another dollar if you won't ride it again.”\n“It's a deal.”\nShe handed me a dollar bill. We agreed that I would check back\nin an hour or so. I found Dewayne again, and we decided it was\ntime to investigate the girlie show. We darted through the throng\nalong the midway and slowed near the gypsies' trailers. It was much\ndarker back there. In front of the tent were some men smoking\ncigarettes, and in the door was a young woman in a skimpy costume\nswinging her hips and dancing in a naughty way.\nAs Baptists, we knew that all manner of dancing was not only\ninherently evil but downright sinful. It was right up there with\ndrinking and cussing on the list of major transgressions.\nThe dancer was not as attractive as Delilah, nor did she reveal as\nmuch or move as gracefully. Of course, Delilah had years of\nexperience and had traveled the world.\nWe sneaked along the shadows, advancing slowly until a strange\nvoice from nowhere said, “That's far enough. You boys get outtahere.” We froze and looked around, and about that time we heard a\nfamiliar voice yell from behind us, “Repent, ye workers of iniquity!\nRepent!”\nIt was the Reverend Akers, standing tall with his Bible in one\nhand while a long, crooked finger pointed out from the fist of the\nother.\n“You brood of vipers!” he yelled at the top of his lungs.\nI don't know if the young lady stopped dancing or if the men\nscattered. I didn't bother to look. Dewayne and I hit the ground on\nall fours and crawled like hunted prey through the maze of trailers\nand trucks until we saw light between two of the booths on the\nmidway. We emerged and got lost in the crowd.\n“You think he saw us?” Dewayne asked when we were safe.\n“I don't know. I doubt it.”\nWe circled around and wandered back to a safe spot near the\ngypsies' trailers. Brother Akers was in fine form. He'd moved to\nwithin thirty feet of the tent and was casting out demons at the top\nof his voice. And he was having success. The dancer was gone, as\nwere the men who'd been hanging around smoking. He'd killed the\nshow, although I suspected they were all inside, hunkering down\nand waiting him out.\nBut Delilah was back, wearing yet another costume. It was made\nof leopard skin and barely covered the essentials, and I knew\nBrother Akers would have something to say about it the next\nmorning. He loved the carnival because it gave him so much\nmaterial for the pulpit.\nA regular mob crowded around the wrestling ring, gawking at\nDelilah and waiting for Samson. Again, she introduced him with the\nlines we'd already heard. He finally jumped into the ring, and he,\ntoo, had chosen leopard skin. Tight shorts, no shirt, shiny black\nleather boots. He strutted and posed and tried to get us to boo him.\nMy friend Jackie Moon crawled into the ring first, and like most\nvictims, engaged the strategy of dodging. He darted around\neffectively for twenty seconds until Samson had had enough. A\nGuillotine, then a Turkish Roll-Down, as Delilah explained, and Jackiewas on the grass not far from where I was standing. He laughed.\n“That wasn't so bad.”\nSamson wasn't about to hurt anybody; it would harm his\nbusiness. But as his final exhibition wore on, he became much\ncockier and yelled at us constantly, “Is there a man among you?” His\naccent was of some exotic variety; his voice was deep and\nfrightening. “Are there no warriors in Black Oak, Arkansas?”\nI wished I were seven feet tall. Then I'd hop up there and attack\nol' Samson while the crowd went wild. I'd whip him good, send him\nflying, and become the biggest hero in Black Oak. But, for now, I\ncould only boo him.\nHank Spruill entered the picture. He walked along the edge of\nthe ring between bouts, and stopped long enough to get Samson's\nattention. The crowd was silent as the two glared at each other.\nSamson walked to the edge of the ring and said, “Come on in, little\none.”\nHank, of course, just sneered. Then he walked over to Delilah\nand took money from his pocket.\n“Ooh la la, Samson,” she said, taking his cash. “Twenty-five\ndollars!”\nEveryone seemed to be mumbling in disbelief. “Twenty-five\nbucks!” said a man from behind. “That's a week's work.”\n“Yeah, but he might win two hundred fifty,” said another man.\nAs the crowd squeezed together, Dewayne and I moved to the\nfront so we could see through the grown-ups.\n“What's your name?” Delilah asked, shoving the microphone up.\n“Hank Spruill,” he growled. “You still payin' ten-to-one?”\n“That's the deal, big boy. Are you sure you want to bet twenty-\nfive dollars?”\n“Yep. And all I gotta do is stay in the ring for one minute?”\n“Yes, sixty seconds. You know Samson hasn't lost a fight in five\nyears. Last time he lost was in Russia, and they cheated him.”\n“Don't care 'bout Russia,” Hank said, taking off his shirt. “Any\nother rules?”\n“No.” She turned to the crowd, and with as much drama as she\ncould muster, she yelled, “Ladies and gentlemen. The great Samsonhas been challenged to his biggest fight of all time. Mr. Hank Spruill\nhas put up twenty-five dollars for a ten-to-one fight. Never before in\nhistory has someone made so large a challenge.”\nSamson was posturing around the ring, shaking his sizable locks\nand looking forward to the skirmish with great anticipation.\n“Lemme see the money,” Hank growled at Delilah.\n“Here it is,” she said, using the microphone.\n“No, I wanna see the two-fifty.”\n“We won't be needing it,” she said with a laugh, a chuckle with\njust a trace of nervousness. But she lowered the microphone, and\nthey haggled over the details. Bo and Dale appeared from the\ncrowd, and Hank made them stand next to the small table where\nDelilah kept the money. When he was convinced the money was in\nplace, he stepped into the ring, where the great Samson stood with\nhis massive arms folded over his chest.\n“Ain't he the one who killed that Sisco boy?” someone asked from\nbehind us.\n“That's him,” was the reply.\n“He's almost as big as Samson.”\nHe was a few inches shorter, and not as thick in the chest, but\nHank seemed oblivious to any danger. Samson started dancing\naround on one side of the ring while Hank watched him and\nstretched his arms.\n“Are you ready?” Delilah wailed into the microphone, and the\ncrowd pressed forward. She hit the bell. Both fighters eyed each\nother fiercely. Hank stayed in his corner, though. The clock was on\nhis side. After a few seconds, Samson, whom I suspected knew he\nhad his hands full, waded in, dancing and juking and bobbing like a\nreal wrestler is supposed to do. Hank was still.\n“Come on out, boy!” Samson boomed from five feet away, but\nHank kept to his corner.\n“Forty-five seconds,” Delilah said.\nSamson's mistake was to assume that it was a wrestling match,\ninstead of a brawl. He came in low, in an effort to apply one of his\nmany grips or holds, and for a split second left his face open. Hank\nstruck like a rattler. His right hand shot forward with a punch thatwas almost too quick to be seen, and it landed flush on the mighty\nSamson's jaw.\nSamson's head jerked sharply, his handsome hair slung in all\ndirections. The impact caused a cracking sound. Stan Musial could\nnot have hit a baseball any harder.\nSamson's eyes rolled back in his gigantic head. Because of its\nsize, it took Samson's body a second to realize that its head had\nbeen crippled. One leg went woozy and bent at the knee. Then the\nother leg collapsed, and the World's Greatest Wrestler, Direct from\nEgypt, landed on his back with a thud. The small ring bounced and\nits ropes shook. Samson appeared to be dead.\nHank relaxed in his corner by placing his arms on the top ropes.\nHe was in no hurry. Poor Delilah was speechless. She tried to say\nsomething to assure us that this was just part of the exhibition, but\nat the same time she wanted to jump into the ring and tend to\nSamson. The crowd was stunned.\nIn the center of the ring, Samson began groaning and trying to\nget to his feet. He made it to his hands and knees, and rocked back\nand forth a few times before he managed to pull a foot forward.\nWith one great lurch he tried to stand, but his feet weren't with him.\nHe lunged toward the ropes and managed to catch them to break\nhis fall. He was looking directly at us, but the poor guy saw nothing.\nHis eyes were red and wild, and he seemed to have no idea where\nhe was. He hung on the ropes, tottering, trying to regain his senses,\nstill searching for his feet.\nMr. Horsefly Walker ran up to the ring and yelled to Hank, “Kill\nthe sonofabitch! Go ahead, finish him off!”\nBut Hank didn't move. Instead, he just yelled, “Time!” but Delilah\nhad forgotten about the clock.\nThere were a few cheers and jeers from the crowd, but for the\nmost part, it was subdued. The spectators were shocked at the sight\nof Samson floundering, his senses knocked out of him.\nSamson turned and tried to focus his eyes on Hank. Clutching the\nropes for support, he stumbled a couple of steps, then made one\nlast, desperate lunge. Hank simply ducked out of the way, and\nSamson landed hard on the corner pole. The ropes strained with hisweight and the other three poles seemed ready to break. Samson\nwas groaning and thrashing about like a bear who'd been shot. He\npulled his feet under him and steadied himself enough to turn\naround. He should've stayed on the mat. Hank darted in and threw\nan overhand right, a punch that began in the center of the ring and\nlanded exactly where the first one did. Since his target was\ndefenseless, he reloaded and landed a third and final blow. Samson\nwent down in a heap. Delilah screamed and scrambled into the ring.\nHank relaxed in his corner, arms on the top ropes, grinning, no\nconcern whatsoever for his opponent.\nI wasn't sure what to do, and most of the other spectators were\nquiet, too. On the one hand, it was good to see an Arkansas boy so\nthoroughly crush this Egyptian giant. But on the other hand, it was\nHank Spruill, and he'd used his fists. His victory was tainted, not that\nit mattered to him. All of us would've felt better if a local boy had\nbattled Samson evenly.\nWhen Hank was certain that time had expired, he stepped\nthrough the ropes and jumped to the ground. Bo and Dale had the\nmoney, and the three of them disappeared.\n“He done killed Samson,” someone behind me said. The World's\nGreatest Wrestler was flat on his back, arms and legs spread wide,\nhis woman crouched over him, trying to wake him. I felt sorry for\nthem. They were wonderfully colorful, an act we wouldn't see again\nfor a long time, if ever. In fact, I doubted if Samson and Delilah\nwould ever return to Black Oak, Arkansas.\nWhen he sat up, we relaxed. A handful of good folks clapped\nsoftly for him, then the crowd began to break up.\nWhy couldn't Hank join the carnival? He could get paid for\nbeating up people, and it would get him off our farm. I decided to\nmention it to Tally.\nPoor Samson had worked hard all day in the heat, and in a split\nsecond had lost the day's wages. What a way to make a living. I'd\nfinally seen a worse job than picking cotton.\n---------------A Painted HouseChapter 19\n---------------\nIn the spring and winter, Sunday afternoons were often used as a\ntime for visiting. We'd finish lunch and take our naps, then load into\nthe pickup and drive to Lake City or Paragould and drop in\ncompletely unannounced on some relatives or old friends, who'd\nalways be delighted to see us. Or perhaps they'd drop in on us. “Y'all\ncome see us” was the common phrase, and folks took it literally. No\narrangements or forewarnings were necessary, or even possible. We\ndidn't have a telephone and neither did our relatives or friends.\nBut visiting was not a priority in the late summer and fall because\nthe work was heavier and the afternoons were so hot. We forgot\nabout aunts and uncles for a time, but we knew we'd catch up later.\nI was sitting on the front porch, listening to the Cardinals and\nwatching my mother and Gran shell peas and butter beans, when I\nsaw a cloud of dust coming from the bridge. “Car's comin',” I said,\nand they looked in that direction.\nTraffic on our road was rare. It was almost always one of the\nJeters from across the way or one of the Tollivers east of us.\nOccasionally a strange car or truck would pass, and we'd watch it\nwithout a word until the dust had settled, then we'd talk about it\nover dinner and speculate as to who it was and what they were\ndoing in our part of Craighead County. Pappy and my father would\nmention it at the Co-op, and my mother and Gran would tell all the\nladies before Sunday school, and sooner or later they'd find\nsomeone else who'd seen the strange vehicle. Usually the mystery\nwas solved, but occasionally one passed through and we never\nfound out where it came from.\nThis car moved slowly. I saw a hint of red that grew bigger and\nbrighter, and before too long a shiny two-door sedan was turning\ninto our driveway. The three of us were now standing on the porch,\ntoo surprised to move. The driver parked behind our pickup. From\nthe front yard the Spruills were gawking, too.The driver opened his door and got out. Gran said, “Well, it's\nJimmy Dale.”\n“It certainly is,” my mother said, losing some of her anticipation.\n“Luke, run and get Pappy and your father,” Gran said. I sprinted\nthrough the house yelling for the men, but they'd heard the door\nslam and were coming from the backyard.\nWe all met in front of the car, which was new and clean and\nundoubtedly the most beautiful vehicle I'd ever seen. Everybody\nhugged and shook hands and exchanged greetings, then Jimmy Dale\nintroduced his new wife, a thin little thing who looked younger than\nTally. Her name was Stacy. She was from Michigan, and when she\nspoke her words came through her nose. She clipped them quickly\nand efficiently, and within seconds she made my skin crawl.\n“Why does she talk like that?” I whispered to my mother as the\ngroup moved to the porch.\n“She's a Yankee” was the simple explanation.\nJimmy Dale's father was Ernest Chandler, Pappy's older brother.\nErnest had farmed in Leachville until a heart attack killed him a few\nyears earlier. I did not personally remember Ernest, or Jimmy Dale,\nthough I'd heard plenty of stories about them. I knew that Jimmy\nDale had fled the farm and migrated to Michigan, where he found a\njob in a Buick factory making three dollars an hour, an unbelievable\nwage by Black Oak standards. He'd helped other local boys get good\njobs up there. Two years earlier, after another bad crop, my father\nhad spent a miserable winter in Flint, putting windshields into new\nBuicks. He'd brought home a thousand dollars and had spent it all\non outstanding farm debts.\n“That's some car,” my father said as they sat on the front steps.\nGran was in the kitchen making iced tea. My mother had the\nunpleasant task of chatting up Stacy, a misfit from the moment she\nstepped out of the car.\n“Brand new,” Jimmy Dale said proudly. “Got it last week, just in\ntime to drive home. Me and Stacy here got married a month ago,\nand that's our wedding present.”\n“Stacy and I got married, not me and Stacy,” said the new wife,\ncutting in from across the porch. There was a slight pause in theconversation as the rest of us absorbed the fact that Stacy had just\ncorrected her husband's grammar in the presence of others. I'd\nnever heard this before in my life.\n“Is it a fifty-two?” Pappy asked.\n“No, it's a fifty-three, newest thing on the road. Built it myself.”\n“You don't say.”\n“Yep. Buick lets us custom order our own cars, then we get to\nwatch when they come down the line. I put the dashboard in that\none.”\n“How much did it cost?” I asked, and I thought my mother would\ncome for my throat.\n“Luke!” she shouted. My father and Pappy cast hard looks at me,\nand I was about to say something when Jimmy Dale blurted out,\n“Twenty-seven hundred dollars. It's no secret. Every dealer in the\ncountry knows how much they cost.”\nBy now the Spruills had drifted over and were inspecting the car-\nevery Spruill but Tally, who was nowhere to be seen. It was Sunday\nafternoon and time, in my way of thinking, for a cool bath at Siler's\nCreek. I had been hanging around the porch waiting for her to\nappear.\nTrot waddled around the car while Bo and Dale circled it, too.\nHank was peering inside, probably looking for the keys. Mr. and Mrs.\nSpruill were admiring it from a distance.\nJimmy Dale watched them carefully. “Hill people?”\n“Yeah, they're from Eureka Springs.”\n“Nice folks?”\n“For the most part,” Pappy said.\n“What's that big one doin'?”\n“You never know.”\nWe'd heard at church that morning that Samson had eventually\ngotten to his feet and walked from the ring, so Hank had not added\nanother casualty to his list. Brother Akers had preached for an hour\non the sinfulness of the carnival-wagering, fighting, lewdness, vulgar\ncostumes, mingling with gypsies, all sorts of filth. Dewayne and I\nlistened to every word, but our names were never mentioned.“Why do they live like that?” Stacy asked, looking at Camp\nSpruill. Her crisp words knifed through the air.\n“How else could they live?” Pappy asked. He, too, had already\nmade the decision that he did not like the new Mrs. Jimmy Dale\nChandler. She sat perched like a little bird on the edge of a rocker,\nlooking down on everything around her.\n“Can't you provide housing for them?” she asked.\nI could tell that Pappy was starting to burn.\n“Anyway, Buick'll let us finance the cars for twenty-four months,”\nJimmy Dale said.\n“Is that so?” said my father, still staring at it. “I think that's 'bout\nthe finest car I've ever seen.”\nGran brought a tray to the porch and served tall glasses of iced\ntea with sugar. Stacy declined. “Tea with ice,” she said. “Not for me.\nDo you have any hot tea?”\nHot tea? Who'd ever heard of such foolishness?\n“No, we don't drink hot tea around here,” Pappy said from his\nswing as he glared at Stacy.\n“Well, up in Michigan we don't drink it with ice,” she said.\n“This ain't Michigan,” Pappy shot back.\n“Would you like to see my garden?” my mother said abruptly.\n“Yeah, that's a great idea,” Jimmy Dale said. “Go on, sweetheart,\nKathleen has the prettiest garden in Arkansas.”\n“I'll go with you,” Gran said in an effort to shove the girl off the\nporch and away from controversy. The three women disappeared,\nand Pappy waited just long enough to say, “Where in God's name\ndid you find her, Jimmy Dale?”\n“She's a sweet girl, Uncle Eli,” he answered without much\nconviction.\n“She's a damned Yankee.”\n“Yankees ain't so bad. They were smart enough to avoid cotton.\nThey live in nice houses with indoor plumbing and telephones and\ntelevisions. They make good money and they build good schools.\nStacy's had two years of college. Her family's had a television for\nthree years. Just last week I watched the Indians and Tigers on it.\nCan you believe that, Luke? Watching baseball on television.”“No sir.”\n“Well, I did. Bob Lemon pitched for the Indians. Tigers ain't\nmuch; they're in last place again.”\n“I don't much care for the American League,” I said, repeating\nwords I'd heard my father and grandfather say since the day I\nstarted remembering.\n“What a surprise,” Jimmy Dale said with a laugh. “Spoken like a\ntrue Cardinal fan. I was the same way till I went up North. I've been\nto eleven games this year in Tiger Stadium, and the American\nLeague kinda grows on you. Yankees were in town two weeks ago;\nplace was sold out. They got this new guy, Mickey Mantle, 'bout as\nsmooth as I've seen. Good power, great speed, strikes out a lot, but\nwhen he hits it, it's gone. He'll be a great one. And they got Berra\nand Rizzuto.”\n“I still hate 'em,” I said, and Jimmy Dale laughed again.\n“You still gonna play for the Cardinals?” he asked.\n“Yes sir.”\n“You ain't gonna farm?”\n“No sir.”\n“Smart boy.”\nI'd heard the grown-ups talk about Jimmy Dale. He was quite\nsmug that he'd managed to flee the cotton patch and make a better\nliving up North. He liked to talk about his money. He'd found the\nbetter life and was quick with his advice to other farm boys around\nthe county.\nPappy thought that farming was the only honorable way a man\nshould work, with the possible exception of playing professional\nbaseball.\nWe sipped our tea for a while, then Jimmy Dale said, “So how's\nthe cotton?”\n“So far so good,” Pappy said. “The first pickin' went well.”\n“Now we'll go through it again,” my father added. “Probably be\ndone in a month or so.”\nTally emerged from the depths of Camp Spruill, holding a towel\nor some type of cloth. She circled wide around the red car, where\nher family still stood entranced; they didn't notice her. She looked atme from the distance but made no sign. I was suddenly bored with\nbaseball and cotton and cars and such, but I couldn't just race off. It\nwould be rude to leave company in such a manner, and my father\nwould suspect something. So I sat there and watched Tally\ndisappear past the house.\n“How's Luther?” my father asked.\n“Doin' well,” Jimmy Dale said. “I got 'im on at the plant. He's\nmakin' three dollars an hour, forty hours a week. Luther ain't never\nseen so much money.”\nLuther was another cousin, another Chandler from a distant\nstrain. I'd met him once, at a funeral.\n“So he ain't comin' home?” Pappy said.\n“I doubt it.”\n“Is he gonna marry a Yankee?”\n“I ain't asked him. I reckon he'll do whatever he wants to do.”\nThere was a pause, and the tension seemed to fade for a\nmoment. Then Jimmy Dale said, “You can't blame him for stayin' up\nthere. I mean, hell, they lost their farm. He was pickin' cotton\naround here for other people, makin' a thousand bucks a year, didn't\nhave two dimes to rub together. Now he'll make more than six\nthousand a year, plus a bonus and retirement.”\n“Did he join the union?” my father asked.\n“Damned right he did. I got all the boys from here in the union.”\n“What's a union?” I asked.\n“Luke, go check on your mother,” Pappy said. “Go on.”\nOnce again I had asked an innocent question, and because of it,\nI was banished from the conversation. I left the porch, then raced to\nthe back of the house in hopes of seeing Tally. But she was gone, no\ndoubt down at the creek bathing without her faithful lookout.\nGran was at the garden gate, resting on the fence, watching my\nmother and Stacy go from plant to plant. I stood beside her, and she\ntousled my hair. “Pappy said she's a damned Yankee,” I said softly.\n“Don't swear.”\n“I'm not swearin'. I'm just repeatin'.”\n“They're good people, they're just different.” Gran's mind was\nsomewhere else. At times that summer she would talk to me withoutseeing me. Her tired eyes would drift away as her thoughts left our\nfarm.\n“Why does she talk like that?” I asked.\n“She thinks we talk funny.”\n“She does?”\n“Of course.”\nI couldn't understand this.\nA green snake less than a foot long poked its head from the\ncucumber patch, then raced down a dirt trail directly at my mother\nand Stacy. They saw it at about the same instant. My mother\npointed and calmly said, “There's a little green snake.”\nStacy reacted in a different manner. Her mouth flew open, but\nshe was so horrified that it took a second or two for any sound to\ncome forth. Then she let loose with a scream that the Latchers\ncould've heard, a bloodcurdling shriek that was far more terrifying\nthan even the deadliest of snakes.\n“A snake!” she screamed again as she jumped behind my mother.\n“Jimmy Dale! Jimmy Dale!”\nThe snake had stopped dead on the trail and appeared to be\nlooking up at her. It was just a harmless little green snake. How\ncould anybody be afraid of it? I darted through the garden and\npicked him up, thinking I was helping matters. But the sight of a\nlittle boy holding such a lethal creature was more than Stacy could\nstand. She fainted and fell into the butter beans as the men came\nrunning from the front porch.\nJimmy Dale scooped her up as we tried to explain what had\nhappened. The poor snake was limp; I thought he'd fainted, too.\nPappy could not suppress a grin as we followed Jimmy Dale and his\nwife to the back porch, where he laid her on a bench while Gran\nwent to get remedies.\nStacy came to eventually, her face pale, her skin clammy. Gran\nhovered over her with wet cloths and smelling salts.\n“Don't they have snakes up in Michigan?” I whispered to my\nfather.\n“Reckon not.”\n“It was just a little green one,” I said.“Thank God she didn't see a rat snake. She'd be dead,” my father\nsaid.\nMy mother boiled water and poured it into a cup with a tea bag.\nStacy sat up and drank it, and for the first time in history hot tea\nwas consumed on our farm. She wanted to be alone, so we returned\nto the front porch while she rested.\nBefore long, the men were into the Buick. They had the hood up\nand were poking their heads around the engine. When no one was\npaying attention to me, I moved away from the porch and headed\nfor the rear of the house, looking for Tally. I hid by the silo, in a\nfavorite spot where I couldn't be seen. I heard an engine start, a\nsmooth powerful sound, and knew it wasn't our old truck. They were\ngoing for a ride, and I heard my father call my name. But when I\ndidn't respond, they left.\nI gave up on Tally and walked back to the house. Stacy was\nsitting on a stool under a tree, looking forlornly across our fields,\narms crossed as if she were very unhappy. The Buick was gone.\n“You didn't go for a ride?” she asked me.\n“No ma'am.”\n“Why not?”\n“Just didn't.”\n“Have you ever ridden in a car?” Her tone was mocking, so I\nstarted to lie.\n“No ma'am.”\n“How old are you?”\n“Seven.”\n“You're seven years old, and you've never ridden in a car?”\n“No ma'am.”\n“Have you ever seen a television?”\n“No ma'am.”\n“Have you ever used a telephone?”\n“No ma'am.”\n“Unbelievable.” She shook her head in disgust, and I wished I'd\nstayed by the silo. “Do you go to school?”\n“Yes ma'am.”\n“Thank God for that. Can you read?”“Yes ma'am. I can write, too.”\n“Are you going to finish high school?”\n“Sure am.”\n“Did your father?”\n“He did.”\n“And your grandfather?”\n“No ma'am.”\n“I didn't think so. Does anybody go to college around here?”\n“Not yet.”\n“What does that mean?”\n“My mother says I'm goin' to college.”\n“I doubt it. How can you afford college?”\n“My mother says I'm goin'.”\n“You'll grow up to be just another poor cotton farmer, like your\nfather and grandfather.”\n“You don't know that,” I said. She shook her head in total\nfrustration.\n“I've had two years of college,” she said very proudly.\nIt didn't make you any smarter, I wanted to say. There was a\nlong pause. I wanted to leave but wasn't sure how to properly\nremove myself from the conversation. She sat perched on the stool,\ngazing into the distance, gathering more venom.\n“I just can't believe how backward you people are,” she said.\nI studied my feet. With the exception of Hank Spruill, I had never\nmet a person whom I disliked as much as Stacy. What would Ricky\ndo? He'd probably cuss her, and since I couldn't get by with that, I\njust decided to walk away.\nThe Buick was returning, with my father at the wheel. He parked\nit, and all the adults got out. Jimmy Dale yelled for the Spruills to\ncome over. He loaded up Bo, Dale, and Trot in the backseat, Hank in\nthe front, and away they went, flying down our dirt road, headed for\nthe river.\nIt was late in the afternoon before Jimmy Dale made any\nmention of leaving. We were ready for them to go, and I was\nparticularly worried that they might hang around long enough for\nsupper. I couldn't imagine sitting around the dinner table trying toeat while Stacy commented on our food and habits. So far she had\ndespised everything else about our lives, why should she relent over\nsupper?\nWe moved slowly to the Buick, our languid good-byes taking\nforever, as usual.\nNo one was ever in a hurry when it was time to go. The\nannouncement was made that the hour was late, then repeated, and\nthen someone made the first move to the car or truck amid the first\nwave of farewells. Hands were shaken, hugs given, promises\nexchanged. Progress was made until the group got to the vehicle, at\nwhich time the entire procession came to a halt as someone\nremembered yet another quick story. More hugs, more promises to\ncome back soon. After considerable effort, the departing ones were\nsafely tucked away inside the vehicle, then those sending them off\nwould stick their heads in for another round of good-byes. Maybe\nanother quick story. A few protests would finally get the engine\nstarted, and the car or truck would slowly back up, everyone still\nwaving.\nWhen the house was out of sight, someone other than the driver\nwould say, “What was the hurry?”\nAnd someone standing in the front yard, still waving, would say,\n“Wonder why they had to rush off?”\nWhen we made it to the car, Stacy whispered something to\nJimmy Dale. He then turned to my mother and said softly, “She\nneeds to go to the bathroom.”\nMy mother looked worried. We didn't have bathrooms. You\nrelieved yourself in the outhouse, a small wooden closet sitting on a\ndeep hole, hidden out behind the toolshed, halfway between the\nback porch and the barn.\n“Come with me,” my mother said to her, and they left. Jimmy\nDale suddenly remembered another story, one about a local boy who\nwent to Flint and got arrested for public drunkenness outside a bar. I\neased away and walked through the house. Then I sneaked off the\nback porch and ran between two chicken coops to a point where I\ncould see my mother leading Stacy to the outhouse. She stoppedand looked at it and seemed very reluctant to enter. But she had no\nchoice.\nMy mother left her and retreated to the front yard.\nI struck quickly. As soon as my mother was out of range, I\nknocked on the door of the outhouse. I heard a faint shriek, then a\ndesperate, “Who is it?”\n“Miss Stacy, it's me, Luke.”\n“I'm in here!” she said, her usually clear words now hurried and\nmuffled in the stifling humidity of the outhouse. It was dark in there,\nthe only light coming from the tiny cracks between the planks.\n“Don't come out right now!” I said with as much panic as I could\nfake.\n“What?”\n“There's a big black snake out here!”\n“Oh my God!” she gasped. She would've fainted again, but she\nwas already sitting down.\n“Be quiet!” I said. “Otherwise, he'll know you're in there.”\n“Holy Jesus!” she said, her voice breaking. “Do something!”\n“I can't. He's big, and he bites.”\n“What does he want?” she begged, as if she were on the verge\nof tears.\n“I don't know. He's a shitsnake, he hangs around here all the\ntime.”\n“Get Jimmy Dale!”\n“Okay, but don't come out. He's right by the door. I think he\nknows you're in there.”\n“Oh my God,” she said again, and started crying. I ducked back\nbetween the chicken coops, then looped around the garden on the\neast side of the house. I moved slowly and quietly along the hedges\nthat were our property line until I came to a point in a thicket where\nI could hide and watch the front yard. Jimmy Dale was leaning on\nhis car, telling a story, waiting for his young bride to finish her\nbusiness.\nTime dragged on. My parents and Pappy and Gran listened and\nchuckled as one story led to another. Occasionally one of them\nwould glance toward the backyard.My mother finally became concerned and left the group to check\non Stacy. A minute later there were voices, and Jimmy Dale bolted\ntoward the outhouse. I buried myself deeper in the thicket.\n-------------\nIt was almost dark when I entered the house. I'd been watching\nfrom a distance, from beyond the silo, and I knew my mother and\nGran were preparing supper. I was in enough trouble-being late for a\nmeal would have only compounded the situation.\nThey were seated, and Pappy was about to bless the food when I\nwalked through the door from the back porch and quietly took my\nseat. They looked at me, but I chose instead to stare at my plate.\nPappy said a quick prayer, and the food was passed around. After a\nsilence sufficiently long enough to build tension, my father said,\n“Where you been, Luke?”\n“Down by the creek,” I said.\n“Doin' what?”\n“Nothin'. Just lookin' around.”\nThis sounded suspicious enough, but they let it pass. When all\nwas quiet, Pappy, with perfect timing and with the devil in his voice,\nsaid, “You see any shitsnakes at the creek?”\nHe barely got the words out before he cracked up.\nI looked around the table. Gran's jaws were clenched as if she\nwere determined not to smile. My mother covered her mouth with\nher napkin, but her eyes betrayed her; she wanted to laugh, too. My\nfather had a large bite of something in his mouth, and he managed\nto chew it while keeping a straight face.\nBut Pappy was determined to howl. He roared at the end of the\ntable while the rest of them fought to maintain their composure.\n“That was a good one, Luke!” he managed to say while catching his\nbreath. “Served her right.”\nI finally laughed, too, but not at my own actions. The sight of\nPappy laughing so hard while the other three so gamely tried not to\nstruck me as funny.\n“That's enough, Eli,” Gran said, finally moving her jaws.\nI took a large bite of peas and stared at my plate. Things grew\nquiet again, and we ate for a while with nothing said.--------------\nAfter dinner, my father took me for a walk to the tool shed. On its\ndoor he kept a wooden hickory stick, one that he'd cut himself and\npolished to a shine. It was reserved for me.\nI'd been taught to take my punishment like a man. Crying was\nforbidden, at least openly. In these awful moments, Ricky always\ninspired me. I'd heard horror stories of the beatings Pappy had given\nhim, and never, according to his parents and mine, had he been\nbrought to tears. When Ricky was a kid, a whipping was a challenge.\n“That was a mean thing you did to Stacy,” my father began. “She\nwas a guest on our farm, and she's married to your cousin.”\n“Yes sir.”\n“Why'd you do it?”\n“ 'Cause she said we were stupid and backward.” A little\nembellishment here wouldn't hurt.\n“She did?”\n“Yes sir. I didn't like her, neither did you or anybody else.”\n“That may be true, but you still have to respect your elders. How\nmany licks you think that's worth?” The crime and the punishment\nwere always discussed beforehand. When I bent over, I knew exactly\nhow many licks I'd receive.\n“One,” I said. That was my usual assessment.\n“I think two,” he said. “Now what about the bad language?”\n“I don't think it was that bad,” I said.\n“You used a word that was unacceptable.”\n“Yes sir.”\n“How many licks for that?”\n“One.”\n“Can we agree on three, total?” he asked. He never whipped me\nwhen he was angry, so there was usually a little room for\nnegotiation. Three sounded fair, but I always pushed a little. After\nall, I was on the receiving end. Why not haggle?\n“Two's more fair,” I said.\n“It's three. Now bend over.”\nI swallowed hard, gritted my teeth, turned around, bent over,\nand grabbed my ankles. He smacked my rear three times with thehickory stick. It stung like hell, but his heart wasn't in it. I'd received\nfar worse.\n“Go to bed, right now,” he said, and I ran to the house.\n---------------A Painted HouseChapter 20\n---------------\nNow that Hank had $250 of Samson's money in his pocket, he\nwas even less enthusiastic about picking cotton. “Where's Hank?”\nPappy asked Mr. Spruill as we took the sacks and began our work on\nMonday morning. “Sleepin', I reckon” was the abrupt response, and\nnothing else was said at that moment.\nHe arrived in the fields sometime in the middle of the morning. I\ndidn't know exactly when because I was at the far end of a row of\ncotton, but soon I heard voices and knew that the Spruills were once\nagain at war.\nAn hour or so before lunch, the sky began to darken, and a slight\nbreeze came from the west. When the sun disappeared, I stopped\npicking and studied the clouds. A hundred yards away I saw Pappy\ndo the same thing-hands on hips, straw hat cocked to one side, face\nfrowning upward. The wind grew stronger and the sky darker, and\nbefore long the heat was gone. All of our storms came from\nJonesboro, which was known as Tornado Alley.\nHail hit first, hard tiny specks the size of pea gravel, and I\nheaded for the tractor. The sky to the southwest was dark blue,\nalmost black, and the low clouds were bearing down on us. The\nSpruills were moving quickly down their rows, all heading for the\ntrailer. The Mexicans were running toward the barn.\nI began to run, too. The hail stung the back of my neck and\nprompted me to run even faster. The wind was howling through the\ntrees along the river and pushing the cotton stalks to their sides.\nLightning cracked somewhere behind me, and I heard one of the\nSpruills, Bo, probably, give a yell.\n“We don't need to get near the cotton trailer,” Pappy was saying\nas I arrived. “Not with that lightnin'.”\n“Better get to the house,” my father said.\nWe loaded onto the flatbed trailer, all of us scrambling in a great\nhurry, and just as Pappy turned the tractor around, the rain hit witha fury. It was cold and sharp and falling sideways in the fierce wind.\nWe were instantly soaked; I wouldn't have been wetter if I'd jumped\nin the creek.\nThe Spruills huddled together with Tally in the center. Just a few\nfeet away, my father clutched me to his chest, as if the wind might\ntake me away. My mother and Gran had left the fields not long\nbefore the storm hit.\nThe rain beat us in waves. It was so thick I could barely see the\nrows of cotton just a few feet in front of me. “Hurry up, Pappy!” I\nkept saying. The storm was so loud I couldn't hear the familiar knock\nof the tractor engine. Lightning cracked again, this time much closer,\nso close that my ears hurt. I thought we were going to die.\nIt took forever to get to the house, but when we did, the rain\nsuddenly stopped. The sky was even darker, black in every direction.\n“It's a funnel!” Mr. Spruill said loudly as we were just getting off the\ntrailer. To the west, far beyond the river and high above the tree\nline, a slim funnel cloud dipped downward. It was light gray, almost\nwhite against the black sky, and it grew larger and louder as it made\nits way very slowly toward the ground. It was several miles away,\nand because of the distance it didn't seem too dangerous.\nTornadoes were common in our part of Arkansas, and I'd heard\nstories about them all of my life. Decades earlier Gran's father had\nsupposedly survived a horrible twister, one that had run in circles\nand struck the same small farm more than once. It was a tall tale,\none that Gran told without much conviction. Twisters were a way of\nlife, but I'd not seen one until now.\n“Kathleen!” my father yelled toward the house. He didn't want\nmy mother to miss such a spectacle. I glanced at the barn, where\nthe Mexicans were as still and as amazed as we were. A couple of\nthem were pointing.\nWe watched the funnel in muted fascination, without fear or\nterror, because it was nowhere near our farm and going away, to the\nnorth and east. It moved slowly, as if it were searching for the\nperfect place to touch down. Its tail was clearly visible above the\nhorizon, way above the land, and it skipped along in midair, dancing\nat times while it decided where and when to strike. The bulk of thefunnel spun tightly, a perfect upside-down cone whirling in a fierce\nspiral.\nThe screen door slammed behind us. My mother and Gran were\non the steps, both of them wiping their hands with dish towels.\n“It's headed for town,” Pappy said with great authority, as if he\ncould predict where tornadoes would hit.\n“I think so,” my father added, suddenly another expert\nweatherman.\nThe twister's tail sank lower and stopped skipping. It appeared as\nif it had indeed touched down somewhere far away, because we\ncould no longer see the end of it.\nThe church, the gin, the movie theater, Pop and Pearl's grocery- I\nwas tallying the damage when suddenly the twister lifted itself up\nand seemed to disappear completely.\nThere was another roar behind us. Across the road, deep into the\nJeter property, another tornado had arrived. It had crept up on us\nwhile we were watching the first one. It was a mile or two away and\nseemed headed straight for our house. We watched in horror, unable\nto move for a second or two.\n“Let's get in the barn!” Pappy shouted. Some of the Spruills were\nalready running toward their camp, as if they'd be safe inside a tent.\n“Over here!” Mr. Spruill shouted and pointed to the barn.\nSuddenly everyone was yelling and pointing and scurrying about. My\nfather grabbed my hand, and we began running. The ground was\nshaking and the wind was screaming. The Mexicans were scattering\nin all directions; some thought it best to hide in the fields, others\nwere headed toward our house until they saw us running to the\nbarn. Hank flew past me with Trot on his back. Tally outran us, too.\nBefore we made it to the barn, the twister left the ground and\nrose quickly into the sky. Pappy stopped and watched, and then so\ndid everybody else. The funnel went slightly to the east of our farm,\nand instead of a frontal assault, it left behind only a sprinkling of\nthick brown rainwater and specks of mud. We watched it jump along\nin midair, looking for another site to drop down in, just like the first\none.For a few minutes we were too stunned and too frightened to say\nmuch.\nI studied the clouds in all directions, determined not to be blind-\nsided again. I wasn't the only one cutting my eyes around.\nThen it started raining once more, and we went to the house.\n--------------\nThe storm raged for two hours and threw almost everything in\nnature's arsenal at us: gale-force winds and blinding rains, twisters,\nhail, and lightning so quick and so close that we hid under our beds\nat times. The Spruills took refuge in our living room, while we\ncowered throughout the rest of the house. My mother kept me\nclose. She was deathly afraid of storms and that made the entire\nordeal even worse. I wasn't exactly sure how we would die-blown\naway by the wind or seared by a lightning bolt or swept away by the\nwater-but it was obvious to me that the end had come. My father\nslept through most of it, though, and his indifference was a great\ncomfort. He'd lived in foxholes and been shot at by the Germans, so\nnothing frightened him. The three of us lay on the floor of their\nbedroom-my father snoring, my mother praying, and me in the\nmiddle listening to the sounds of the storm. I thought of Noah and\nhis forty days of rain, and I waited for our little house to simply lift\nup and begin floating.\n---------------\nWhen the rain and wind finally passed, we went outside to\nsurvey the destruction. Other than wet cotton, there was surprisingly\nlittle damage-several scattered tree branches, the usual washed-out\ngullies, and some ripped-up tomato plants in the garden. The cotton\nwould be dry by the next morning, and we'd be back in business.\nDuring a late lunch Pappy said, “I reckon I better go check on\nthe gin.” We were anxious to get to town. What if it had been\nleveled by the twister?\n“I'd like to see the church,” Gran said.\n“Me, too,” I said.\n“Why do you wanna see the church?” my father asked.\n“To see if the twister got it.”“Let's go,” Pappy said, and we jumped from our chairs. The\ndishes were piled into the sink and left unwashed, something I'd\nnever seen before.\nOur road was nothing but mud, and in places large sections had\nbeen washed away. We slipped and slid for a quarter of a mile until\nwe came to a crater. Pappy rammed it in low and tried to plow\nthrough the ditch on the left side, next to the Jeters' cotton. The\ntruck stopped and settled, and we were hopelessly stuck. My father\nhiked back to the house to get the John Deere while we waited. As\nusual, I was in the back of the truck, and so I had plenty of room to\nmove around. My mother was packed in the front with Pappy and\nGran. I think it was Gran who said something to the effect that\nperhaps it wasn't such a good idea to go to town after all. Pappy just\nstewed.\nWhen my father returned, he hooked a twenty-foot log chain to\nthe front bumper and slowly pulled us out of the ditch. The men had\ndecided it was best for the tractor to drag us all the way to the\nbridge. When we got there, Pappy unhitched the chain, and my\nfather rode over on the tractor. Then we crossed in the truck. The\nroad on the other side was even worse, according to the men, so\nthey rehitched the chain, and the tractor pulled the truck for two\nmiles until we came to a gravel road. We left the John Deere there\nand headed for town, if, in fact, it was still there. God only knew\nwhat carnage awaited us. I could barely conceal my excitement.\nWe finally made it to the highway, and when we turned toward\nBlack Oak, we left a long trail of mud on the asphalt. Why couldn't\nall roads be paved? I asked myself.\nThings appeared normal as we drove along. No flattened trees or\ncrops, no debris slung for miles, no gaping holes through the\nlandscape. All the houses seemed to be in order. The fields were\nempty because the cotton was wet, but other than that, life had not\nbeen disturbed.\nStanding in the back of the truck, looking over the cab with my\nfather, I strained my eyes for the first glimpse of town. It arrived\nsoon enough. The gin was roaring as usual. God had protected the\nchurch. The stores along Main Street were intact. “Thank God,” myfather said. I was not unhappy to see the buildings untouched, but\nthings could've been more interesting.\nWe weren't the only curious ones. Traffic was heavy on Main\nStreet, and people crowded the sidewalks. This was unheard of for a\nMonday. We parked at the church, and once we determined that it\nhad not been hit, I scampered down to Pop and Pearl's, where the\nfoot traffic appeared to be particularly thick. Mr. Red Fletcher had a\ngroup going, and I got there just in time.\nAccording to Mr. Red, who lived west of town, he had known a\ntwister was about to appear because his old beagle was hiding\nunder the kitchen table, a most ominous sign. Taking his cue from\nhis dog, Mr. Red began studying the sky, and before long was not\nsurprised to see it turn black. He heard the twister before he saw it.\nIt dipped down from nowhere, came straight for his farm, and\nstayed on the ground long enough to flatten two chicken coops and\npeel the roof off his house. A piece of glass struck his wife and drew\nblood, so we had a bona fide casualty. Behind me I heard folks\nwhisper excitedly about driving out to the Fletcher place to inspect\nthe destruction.\n“What'd it look like?” somebody asked.\n“Black as coal,” Mr. Red said. “Sounded like a freight train.”\nThis was even more exciting because our twisters had been a\nlight gray in color, almost white. His had been black. Apparently, all\nmanner of tornadoes had ravaged our county.\nMrs. Fletcher appeared at his side, her arm heavily bandaged and\nin a sling, and we couldn't help but stare. She looked as though she\nmight just pass out on the sidewalk. She displayed her wound and\nreceived plenty of attention until Mr. Red realized he'd lost the\naudience, so he stepped forward and resumed his narrative. He said\nhis tornado left the ground and began hopping about. He jumped in\nhis truck and tried to follow it. He gave it a good chase through a\ndriving hailstorm and almost caught up with it as it circled back.\nMr. Red's truck was older than Pappy's. Some of those in the\ncrowd began looking around in disbelief. I wanted one of the adults\nto ask, “What were you gonna do if you caught it, Red?” Anyway, he\nsaid he soon gave up the chase and returned home to see aboutMrs. Fletcher. When he had seen it last, his tornado was headed\nstraight for town.\nPappy told me later that Mr. Red Fletcher would tell a lie when\nthe truth sounded better.\nThere was a lot of lying that afternoon in Black Oak, or perhaps\njust a lot of exaggerating. Twister stories were told and retold from\none end of Main Street to the other. In front of the Co-op, Pappy\ndescribed what we'd seen, and for the most part he stuck to the\nfacts. The double-twister story carried the moment and had\neveryone's attention until Mr. Dutch Lamb stepped forward and\nclaimed to have seen three! His wife verified it, and Pappy went to\nthe truck.\nBy the time we left town, it was a miracle that hundreds hadn't\nbeen killed.\nThe last of the clouds were gone by dark, but the heat did not\nreturn. We sat on the porch after supper and waited for the\nCardinals. The air was clear and light-the first hint of autumn.\nSix games were left, three against the Reds and three against the\nCubs, all to be played at home at Sportsman's Park, but with the\nDodgers seven games in first place, the season was over. Stan the\nMan Musial was leading the league in batting and slugging, and he\nalso had more hits and doubles than anybody else. The Cardinals\nwould not win the pennant, but we still had the greatest player in\nthe game. At home after a road trip to Chicago, the boys were\nhappy to be back in St. Louis, according to Harry Caray, who often\npassed along greetings and gossip as if all the players lived in his\nhouse.\nMusial hit a single and a triple, and the score was tied at three\nafter nine innings. It was late, but we weren't tired. The storm had\nchased us from the fields, and the cool weather was something to\nbe savored. The Spruills were sitting around a fire, talking softly and\nenjoying a moment without Hank. He often disappeared after\nsupper.\nIn the bottom of the tenth, Red Schoendienst singled, and when\nStan Musial came to the plate, the fans went wild, according to\nHarry Caray, who, as Pappy said, often watched one game anddescribed another. The attendance was fewer than ten thousand; we\ncould tell the crowd was slim. But Harry was making enough noise\nfor the other twenty thousand. After 148 games, he was just as\nexcited as he'd been on opening day. Musial ripped a double, his\nthird hit of the game, scoring Schoendienst and winning it four to\nthree.\nA month earlier we would have celebrated, along with Harry, on\nthe front porch. I would have sprinted around the bases in the yard,\nsliding into second, just like Stan the Man. Such a dramatic victory\nwould have sent us all to bed happy, though Pappy would still want\nto fire the manager.\nBut things were different now. The win meant little; the season\nwas ending with the Cardinals in third place. The front yard had\nbeen overwhelmed by the Spruills. Summer was gone.\nPappy turned off the radio with Harry winding down. “There's no\nway Baumholtz can catch him,” Pappy said. Frankie Baumholtz of the\nCubs was six points behind Musial in the race for the hitting title.\nMy father grunted his agreement. The men had been quieter\nthan usual during the game. The storms and cool weather had\nstruck them like an illness. The seasons were changing, yet nearly\none third of the cotton was still out there. We'd had near perfect\nweather for seven months; surely it was time for a change.\n---------------A Painted HouseChapter 21\n---------------\nAutumn lasted less than twenty-four hours. By noon the next day\nthe heat was back, the cotton was dry, the ground was hard, and all\nthose pleasant thoughts about cool days and blowing leaves were\nforgotten. We had returned to the edge of the river for the second\npicking. A third one might materialize later in the fall, a “Christmas\npicking,” as it was known, in which the last remnants of cotton were\ngathered. By then the hill people and the Mexicans would be long\ngone.\nI stayed close to Tally for most of the day and worked hard to\nkeep up with her. She had become aloof for some reason, and I was\ndesperate to learn why. The Spruills were a tense bunch, no more\nsinging or laughing in the fields, very few words spoken among\nthem. Hank came to work mid-morning and began picking at a\nleisurely pace. The rest of the Spruills seemed to avoid him.\nLate in the afternoon I dragged myself back to the trailer-for the\nfinal time, I hoped. It was an hour before quitting time, and I was\nlooking for my mother. Instead I saw Hank with Bo and Dale at the\nopposite end of the trailer, waiting in the shade for either Pappy or\nmy father to weigh their cotton. I ducked low in the stalks so they\nwouldn't see me and waited for friendlier voices.\nHank was talking loudly, as usual. “I'm tired of pickin' cotton,” he\nsaid. “Damned tired of it! So I been thinkin' about a new job, and I\ndone figured a new way to make money. Lots of it. I'm gonna follow\nthat carnival around, go from town to town, sorta hide in the\nshadows while ol' Samson and his woman rake in the cash. I'll wait\ntill the money piles up; I'll watch him fling them little sodbusters\noutta the ring, and then late at night, when he's good and tired, I'll\njump up outta nowhere, lay down fifty bucks, whip his ass again,\nand walk away with all his money. If I do it once a week, that's two\nthousand dollars a month, twenty-four thousand bucks a year. All\ncash. Hell, I'll get rich.”There was mischief in his voice, and Bo and Dale were laughing\nby the time he finished. Even I had to admit it was funny.\n“What if Samson gets tired of it?” Bo asked.\n“Are you kiddin'? He's the world's greatest wrestler, straight from\nEgypt. Samson fears no man. Hell, I might take his woman, too. She\nlooked pretty good, didn't she?”\n“You'll have to let him win every now and then,” Bo said.\n“Otherwise he won't fight you.”\n“I like the part about takin' his woman,” Dale said. “I really liked\nher legs.”\n“Rest of her wasn't bad,” Hank said. “Wait-I got it! I'll run 'im off\nand become the new Samson! I'll grow my hair down to my ass, dye\nit black, get me some little leopard-skin shorts, talk real funny, and\nthese ignorant rednecks 'round here'll think I'm from Egypt, too.\nDelilah won't be able to keep her hands off me.”\nThey laughed hard and long, and their amusement was\ncontagious. I chuckled to myself at the notion of Hank strutting\naround the ring in tight shorts, trying to convince people he was\nfrom Egypt. But he was too stupid to be a showman. He would hurt\npeople and scare away his challengers.\nPappy arrived at the trailer and started weighing the cotton. My\nmother drifted in, too, and whispered to me that she was ready to\ngo to the house. So was I. We made the long walk together, in\nsilence, both happy that the day was almost over.\n----------------\nThe house painting had resumed. We noticed it from the garden,\nand upon closer inspection saw where our painter-Trot, we still\npresumed-had worked his way up to the fifth board from the bottom\nand had applied the first coat to an area about the size of a small\nwindow. My mother touched it gently; the paint stuck to her finger.\n“It's fresh,” she said, glancing toward the front yard, where, as\nusual, there was no sign of Trot.\n“You still think it's him?” I asked.\n“Yes, I do.”\n“Where does he get the paint?”\n“Tally buys it for him, out of her pickin' money.”“Who told you?”\n“I asked Mrs. Foley at the hardware store. She said a crippled\nboy from the hills and his sister bought two quarts of white enamel\nhouse paint and a small brush. She thought it was strange-hill\npeople buyin' house paint.”\n“How much will two quarts paint?”\n“Not very much.”\n“You gonna tell Pappy?”\n“I am.”\nWe made a quick pass through the garden, gathering just the\nessentials-tomatoes, cucumbers, and two red peppers that caught\nher eye. The rest of the picking crew would be in from the fields in a\nshort while, and I was anxious for the fireworks to start once Pappy\nlearned that his house was getting painted.\nIn a few minutes, there were whispers and brief conversations\noutside. I was forced to slice cucumbers in the kitchen, a tactic to\nkeep me away from the controversy. Gran listened to the news on\nthe radio while my mother cooked. At some point, my father and\nPappy walked to the east side of the house and inspected Trot's\nwork in progress.\nThen they came to the kitchen, where we sat and blessed the\nfood and began eating without a word about anything but the\nweather. If Pappy was angry about the house painting, he certainly\ndidn't show it. Maybe he was just too tired.\nThe next day my mother kept me behind and puttered around\nthe house for as long as she could. She did the breakfast dishes and\nsome laundry, and together we watched the front yard. Gran left and\nheaded for the cotton, but my mother and I stayed back, doing\nchores and keeping busy.\nTrot was not to be seen. He'd vanished from the front yard. Hank\nstumbled from a tent around eight and knocked over cans and jugs\nuntil he found the leftover biscuits. He ate until there was nothing\nleft, then he belched and looked at our house as if he might raid it\nfor food. Eventually he lumbered past the silo on his way to the\ncotton trailer.We waited, peeking through the front windows. Still no sign of\nTrot. We finally gave up and walked to the fields. When my mother\nreturned three hours later to prepare lunch, there was a small area\nof fresh paint on some boards under the window of my room. Trot\nwas painting slowly toward the rear of the house, his work limited by\nhis reach and by his desire for privacy. At the current rate of\nprogress, he'd finish about half the east side before it was time for\nthe Spruills to pack up and head for the hills.\n---------------\nAfter three days of peace and hard work, it was time for more\nconflict. Miguel met Pappy at the tractor after breakfast, and they\nwalked in the direction of the barn, where some of the other\nMexicans were waiting. In the semidarkness of the dawn I tagged\nalong, just close enough to hear but not get noticed. Luis was sitting\non a stump, his head low as if he were sick. Pappy examined him\nclosely. He had suffered some type of injury.\nThe story, as Miguel explained it in rapid, broken English, was\nthat during the night someone had thrown clods of dirt at the barn.\nThe first one landed against the side of the hayloft just after the\nMexicans had bedded down. It sounded like a gunshot-planks\nrattled, and the whole barn seemed to shake. A few minutes passed,\nand then another one landed. Then another. About ten minutes went\nby, and they thought perhaps it was over, but yet another one hit,\nthis one on the tin roof just above their heads. They were angry and\nscared, and sleep became impossible. Through the cracks in the\nwall, they watched the cotton field behind the barn. Their tormentor\nwas out there somewhere, deep in the cotton, invisible in the\nblackness of the night, hiding like a coward.\nLuis had slowly opened the loft door for a better look, and when\nhe did a missile landed squarely in his face. It was a rock from the\nroad in front of our house. Whoever threw it had saved it for such an\noccasion, a direct shot at one of the Mexicans. Dirt clods were fine\nfor making noise, but the rock was used to maim.\nLuis's nose was cut, broken, and swollen to twice its normal size.\nPappy yelled for my father to fetch Gran.Miguel continued the story. Once they tended to Luis and got him\nsomewhat comfortable, the shelling resumed. Every ten minutes or\nso, just as they were settling down again, another volley would\ncrash in from the darkness. They watched carefully through the\ncracks but saw no movements in the field. It was just too dark to\nsee anything. Finally their assailant grew tired of his fun and games\nand stopped the assault. For most of them, sleep had been fitful.\nGran arrived and took over. Pappy stomped away, cursing under\nhis breath. I was torn between the two dramas: Did I want to watch\nGran doctor on Luis, or did I want to listen as Pappy blew off steam?\nI followed Pappy back to the tractor, where he growled at my\nfather in words I could not understand. Then he charged the flatbed\ntrailer where the Spruills were waiting, still half-asleep.\n“Where's Hank?” he snarled at Mr. Spruill.\n“Sleepin', I reckon.”\n“Is he gonna work today?” Pappy's words were sharp.\n“Go ask him,” Mr. Spruill said, getting to his feet to address Pappy\nface-to-face.\nPappy took a step closer. “The Mexicans couldn't sleep last night\n'cause somebody's throwin' dirt clods against the barn. Any idea who\nit was?”\nMy father, with a much cooler head, stepped between the two.\n“Nope. You accusin' somebody?” Mr. Spruill asked.\n“I don't know,” Pappy said. “Ever'body else's workin' hard,\nsleepin' hard, dead tired at night. Ever'body but Hank. Seems to me,\nhe's the only one with plenty of time on his hands. And it's the sorta\nstupid thing Hank would do.”\nI didn't like this open conflict with the Spruills. They were as tired\nof Hank as we were, but they were still his family. And they were hill\npeople, too-make them mad and they'd simply leave. Pappy was on\nthe verge of saying too much.\n“I'll speak to him,” Mr. Spruill said, somewhat softer, as if he\nknew Hank was the likely culprit. His chin dropped an inch or two,\nand he looked at Mrs. Spruill. The family was in turmoil because of\nHank, and they were not ready to defend him.“Let's get to work,” my father said. They were anxious for the\nconfrontation to end. I glanced at Tally, but she was looking away,\nlost in her thoughts, ignoring me and everybody else. Pappy climbed\nonto the tractor, and we left to pick cotton.\nLuis lay on the back porch all morning with an ice pack on his\nface. Gran buzzed around and tried repeatedly to force her remedies\nupon him, but Luis held firm. By noon he'd had enough of this\nAmerican style of doctoring and was anxious to return to the fields,\nbroken nose or not.\n-------------------\nHank's cotton production had fallen from about four hundred\npounds a day to less than two hundred. Pappy was livid about this.\nAs the days dragged on, the situation festered, and there were more\nwhispers among the adults. Pappy had never owned $250 free and\nclear.\n“How much did he pick today?” he asked my father over supper.\nWe had just finished the blessing and were passing around the food.\n“Hundred and ninety pounds.”\nMy mother closed her eyes in frustration. Supper was supposed\nto be a pleasant time for families to visit and reflect. She hated\ncontroversy during our meals. Idle gossip-chitchat about the goings-\non of people we knew or perhaps didn't know-was okay, but she\ndidn't like conflict. Food was not properly digested unless your body\nwas relaxed.\n“I've a good mind to drive to town tomorrow, find Stick Powers,\nand tell him I'm finished with the boy,” Pappy said, waving a fork at\nthe air.\nThere was no way he would do this, and we knew it. He knew it,\ntoo. If Stick somehow managed to get Hank Spruill handcuffed and\nshoved into the back of his patrol car, which was a showdown I\nwould've loved to witness, the rest of the Spruills would be packed\nand gone in a matter of minutes. Pappy wasn't about to risk a crop\nover an idiot like Hank. We'd grit our teeth and just try to survive his\npresence on our farm. We'd hope and pray he wouldn't kill anyone\nelse and that no one killed him, and in a few short weeks the\nharvest would be completed, and he'd be gone.“You're not sure it's him,” Gran said. “No one saw him throwin' at\nthe barn.”\n“Some things you ain't gotta see,” Pappy fired back. “We ain't\nseen Trot with a paintbrush, but we're perfectly happy to believe\nhe's doin' the paintin'. Right?”\nMy mother, with perfect timing, said, “Luke, who are the\nCardinals playin'?” It was her standard line, a not-too-subtle way of\nletting the others know that she wanted to eat in peace.\n“The Cubs,” I said.\n“How many more games?” she asked.\n“Just three.”\n“How far ahead is Musial?”\n“Six points. He's at three-thirty-six. Baumholtz is at three-thirty.\nHe can't catch him.”\nAt this point my father was always expected to come to the aid\nof his wife and keep the conversation away from heavier matters. He\ncleared his throat and said, “I bumped into Lou Jeffcoat last\nSaturday-I forgot to tell you. He said the Methodists have a new\npitcher for Sunday's game.”\nPappy had cooled off enough to say, “He's lyin'. That's what they\nsay every year.”\n“Why would they need a new pitcher?” Gran asked with a faint\nsmile, and I thought my mother was going to laugh.\nSunday was the Fall Picnic, a glorious event that engulfed Black\nOak. After worship, usually a very long worship, at least for us\nBaptists, we would meet at the school, where the Methodists would\nbe gathering. Under the shade trees the ladies would set up enough\nfood to feed the entire state, and after a long lunch the men would\nplay a baseball game.\nIt was no ordinary game, because bragging rights were at stake.\nThe winners ribbed the losers for an entire year. In the dead of\nwinter I had heard men at the Tea Shoppe ride each other about\nThe Game.\nThe Methodists had won it for the last four years, yet they always\nstarted rumors about having a new pitcher.“Who's pitchin' for us?” my father asked. Pappy coached the\nBaptist team every year, though after four straight losses, folks were\nbeginning to grumble.\n“Ridley, I guess,” Pappy said without hesitation. He'd been\nthinking about the game for a year.\n“I can hit Ridley!” I said.\n“You got a better idea?” Pappy shot at me.\n“Yes sir.”\n“Well, I can't wait to hear it.”\n“Pitch Cowboy,” I said, and everybody smiled. What a wonderful\nidea.\nBut the Mexicans couldn't play in The Game, nor could the hill\npeople. Each roster was made up of certified church members only-\nno farm laborers, no relatives from Jonesboro, no ringers of any\nvariety. There were so many rules that if they'd been put down in\nwriting, the rule book would've been thicker than the Bible. The\numpires were brought in from Monette and were paid five dollars a\ngame plus all the lunch they could eat. Supposedly, no one knew the\numpires, but after last year's loss there were rumors, at least around\nour church, that they were either Methodists or married to\nMethodists.\n“That would be nice, wouldn't it?” my father said, dreaming of\nCowboy mowing down our rivals. One strikeout after another. Curve-\nballs dropping in from all directions.\nWith the conversation back in pleasant territory, the women took\nover. Baseball was pushed aside as they talked about the picnic, the\nfood, what the Methodist women would be wearing, and so on.\nSupper came to the usual quiet close, and we headed for the porch.\n---------------------\nI had decided that I would write Ricky a letter and tell him about\nLibby Latcher. I was certain that none of the adults would do so;\nthey were too busy burying the secret. But Ricky needed to know\nwhat Libby had accused him of. He needed to respond in some way.\nIf he knew what was happening, then maybe he could get himself\nsent home to deal with the situation. And the sooner the better. TheLatchers were staying to themselves, telling no one, as far as we\nknew, but secrets were hard to keep around Black Oak.\nBefore Ricky left for Korea, he'd told us the story of a friend of\nhis, a guy from Texas he'd met in boot camp. This guy was only\neighteen, but he was already married, and his wife was pregnant.\nThe army sent him to California to shuffle papers for a few months\nso he wouldn't get shot. It was a hardship case of some variety, and\nthe guy would be back in Texas before his wife gave birth.\nRicky now had a hardship; he just didn't know it. I would be the\none to tell him. I excused myself from the porch under the pretense\nof fatigue and went to Ricky's room, where I kept my Big Chief\nwriting tablet. I took it to the kitchen table-the light was better\nthere- and began writing slowly in large printed letters.\nI dwelt briefly on baseball, the pennant race, then the carnival\nand Samson, and I wrote a couple of sentences about the twisters\nearlier in the week. I had neither the time nor the stomach to talk\nabout Hank, so I got to the meat of the story. I told him that Libby\nLatcher had had a baby, though I did not confess that I had actually\nbeen nearby when the thing arrived.\nMy mother wandered in from the porch and asked what I was\ndoing. “Writin' Ricky,” I said.\n“How nice,” she said. “You need to go to bed.”\n“Yes ma'am.” I had written a full page and was quite proud of\nmyself. Tomorrow I would write another page. Then maybe another.\nI was determined that it would be the longest letter Ricky had so far\nreceived.\n---------------A Painted HouseChapter 22\n---------------\nI was nearing the end of a long row of cotton, close to the\nthicket that bordered Siler's Creek, when I heard voices. The stalks\nwere especially tall, and I was lost amid the dense foliage. My sack\nwas half-full, and I was dreaming of the afternoon in town, of a\nmovie at the Dixie with a Coca-Cola and popcorn. The sun was\nalmost overhead; it had to be approaching noon. I planned to make\nthe turn and then head back to the trailer, working hard and\nfinishing the day with a flourish.\nWhen I heard people talking, I dropped to one knee, and then I\nslowly sat on the ground without making another sound. For a long\ntime I heard nothing at all, and I was beginning to think that maybe\nI had been wrong, when the voice of a girl barely made it through\nthe stalks to where I was hiding. She was somewhere to my right; I\ncouldn't tell how far away.\nI slowly stood and peeked through the cotton but saw nothing.\nThen I crouched again and began creeping down the row toward the\nend, my cotton sack abandoned for the moment. Silently, I crawled\nand stopped, crawled and stopped, until I heard her again. She was\nseveral rows over, hiding, I thought, in the cotton. I froze for a few\nminutes until I heard her laugh, a soft laugh that was muffled by the\ncotton, and I knew it was Tally.\nFor a long time I rocked gently on all fours and tried to imagine\nwhat she was doing hiding in the fields, as far away from the cotton\ntrailer as possible. Then I heard another voice, that of a man. I\ndecided to move in closer.\nI found the widest gap between two stalks and cut through the\nfirst row without a sound. There was no wind to rustle the leaves\nand bolls, so I had to be perfectly still. And patient. Then I made it\nthrough the second row and waited for the voices.\nThey were quiet for a long time, and I began to worry that\nmaybe they'd heard me. Then there was giggling, both voicesworking at once, and low, hushed conversation that I could barely\nhear. I stretched out flat on my stomach and surveyed the situation\nfrom the ground, down where the stalks were thickest and there\nwere no bolls and leaves. I could almost see something several rows\naway, maybe the darkness of Tally's hair, maybe not. I decided I was\nclose enough.\nThere was no one nearby. The others-the Spruills and the\nChandlers-were working their way back to the trailer. The Mexicans\nwere far away, nothing visible but their straw hats.\nThough shaded, I was sweating profusely. My heart was racing,\nmy mouth dry. Tally was hiding deep in the cotton with a man, doing\nsomething bad, or if not, then why was she hiding? I wanted to do\nsomething to stop them, but I had no right. I was just a little kid, a\nspy who was trespassing on their business. I thought about\nretreating, but the voices held me.\nThe snake was a water moccasin, a cottonmouth, one of many in\nour part of Arkansas. They lived around the creeks and rivers and\noccasionally ventured inland to sun or to feed. Each spring when we\nplanted, it was common to see them ground up behind our disks and\nplows. They were short, black, thick, aggressive, and filled with\nvenom. Their bites were rarely fatal, but I'd heard many tall tales of\nhorrible deaths.\nIf you saw one, you simply killed it with a stick or a hoe or\nanything you could grab. They weren't as quick as rattlers, nor did\nthey have the striking range, but they were mean and nasty.\nThis one was crawling down the row directly at me, less than five\nfeet away. We were eyeball-to-eyeball. I'd been so occupied with\nTally and whatever she was doing that I'd forgotten everything else.\nI uttered something in horror and bolted upright, then I ran through\na row of cotton, then another.\nA man said something in a louder voice, but for the moment I\nwas more concerned with the snake. I hit the ground near my cotton\nsack, strapped it over my shoulder, and began crawling toward the\ntrailer. When I was certain the cottonmouth was far away, I stopped\nand listened. Nothing. Complete silence. No one was chasing me.Slowly, I stood and peeked through the cotton. To my right,\nseveral rows away and already with her back to me, was Tally, her\ncotton sack strapped over her shoulder and her straw hat cocked to\none side, steadily making her way along as if nothing had happened.\nAnd to my left, cutting low through the cotton and escaping like\na thief, was Cowboy.\n--------------------\nOn most Saturday afternoons Pappy could find some reason to\ndelay our trip to town. We'd finish lunch, and I'd suffer the indignity\nof the bath, then he'd find something to do because he was\ndetermined to make us wait. The tractor had some ailment that\nsuddenly needed his attention. He'd crawl around with his old\nwrenches, making a fuss about how it had to be repaired right then\nso he could buy the necessary parts in town. Or the truck wasn't\nrunning just right, and Saturday after lunch was the perfect time to\npoke around the engine. Or the water pump needed his attention.\nSometimes he sat at the kitchen table and attended to the small\namount of paperwork it took to run the farming operation.\nFinally, when everyone was good and mad, he'd take a long bath,\nand then we'd head to town.\nMy mother was anxious to see the newest member of Craighead\nCounty, even though he was a Latcher, so while Pappy piddled in the\ntool shed, we loaded four boxes of vegetables and headed across\nthe river. My father somehow avoided the trip. The baby's alleged\nfather was his brother, and that, of course, made my father the\nbaby's alleged uncle, and that was something my father simply\nwasn't ready to accept. And I was sure he had no interest in another\nencounter with Mr. Latcher.\nMy mother drove, and I prayed, and we somehow made it safely\nover the bridge. We rolled to a stop on the other side of the river.\nThe truck stalled, and the engine died. As she was taking a deep\nbreath, I decided to say, “Mom, there's somethin' I need to tell you.”\n“Can it wait?” she asked, reaching for the ignition.\n“No.”\nWe were sitting in a hot truck, just off the bridge, on a one-lane\ndirt road without a house or another vehicle in sight. It struck me asthe perfect place and time for an important conversation.\n“What is it?” she said, folding her arms across her chest as if\nshe'd already decided I'd done something terrible.\nThere were so many secrets. Hank and the Sisco beating. Tally at\nthe creek. The birth of Libby's baby. But those had been tucked\naway for a while. I'd become adept at keeping them private. The\ncurrent one, though, had to be shared with my mother.\n“I think Tally and Cowboy like each other,” I said, and\nimmediately I felt lighter.\n“Is that so?” she said with a smile, as if I didn't know much\nbecause I was just a kid. Then the smile slowly vanished as she\nconsidered this. I wondered if she, too, knew something about the\nsecret romance.\n“Yes ma'am.”\n“And what makes you think this?”\n“I caught them in the cotton patch this mornin'.”\n“What were they doing?” she asked, seeming a little frightened\nthat maybe I'd seen something I shouldn't have.\n“I don't know, but they were together.”\n“Did you see them?”\nI told her the story, beginning with the voices, then the cotton-\nmouth, then their escape. I omitted no details, and, amazingly, I did\nnot exaggerate anything. Maybe the size of the snake, but for the\nmost part I clung to the truth.\nShe absorbed it and seemed genuinely astounded.\n“What were they doin', Mom?” I asked.\n“I don't know. You didn't see anything, did you?”\n“No ma'am. Do you think they were kissin'?”\n“Probably,” she said quickly.\nShe reached for the ignition again and said, “Oh well, I'll talk to\nyour father about it.”\nWe drove away in a hurry. After a moment or two I really\ncouldn't tell if I felt any better. She'd told me many times that little\nboys shouldn't keep secrets from their mothers. But every time I\nconfessed one, she was quick to shrug it off and tell my father what\nI'd told her. I'm not sure how I benefited from being so candid. Butit was all I could do. Now the adults knew about Tally and Cowboy.\nLet them worry about the problem.\nThe Latchers were picking near their house, so by the time we\nrolled to a stop, we had an audience. Mrs. Latcher emerged from the\nhouse and managed a smile, then she helped us haul the food to the\nfront porch.\n“I guess you wanna see the baby,” she said softly to my mother.\nI wanted to see it also, but I knew my chances were slim. The\nwomen went into the house. I found a spot under a tree near our\ntruck, and I planned to loiter, alone, just minding my own business\nwhile I waited for my mother. I didn't want to see any of the\nLatchers. The fact that we were now probably related by blood made\nme ill.\nThree of them suddenly appeared from around the truck-three\nboys, with Percy leading the group. The other two were younger and\nsmaller but just as lean and wiry as Percy. They approached me\nwithout a word.\n“Howdy, Percy,” I said, trying to at least be polite.\n“What're you doin' here?” he growled. He had a brother on each\nside, all three of them lined up against me.\n“My mother made me come,” I said.\n“You ain't got no business here.” He was practically hissing\nthrough his teeth, and I wanted to back up. In fact, I wanted to tuck\ntail and run.\n“I'm waitin' for my mother,” I said.\n“We're gonna whup your ass,” Percy said, and all three of them\nclenched their fists.\n“Why?” I managed to say.\n“ 'Cause you're a Chandler, and your Ricky did that to Libby.”\n“Wasn't my fault,” I said.\n“Don't matter.” The smallest one looked particularly fierce. He\nwas squinting and twisting his mouth up at the corners, sort of\nsnarling at me, and I figured the first punch would come from him.\n“Three on one ain't fair,” I said.\n“Wasn't fair what happened to Libby,” Percy said and then, quick\nas a cat, he punched me in the stomach. A horse could not havekicked any harder, and I went down with a shriek.\nI'd had a few scuffles at school-playground push-and-shoves that\nwere broken up by the teachers before serious blows were landed.\nMrs. Emma Enos, the third-grade teacher, gave me three licks for\ntrying to fight Joey Stallcup, and Pappy could not have been prouder.\nAnd Ricky used to be rough with me, wrestling and boxing and such.\nI was no stranger to violence. Pappy loved to fight, and when I hit\nthe ground, I thought of him. Somebody kicked me; I grabbed a\nfoot, and instantly there was a pile of little warriors, all kicking and\nclawing and cussing in the dirt. I grabbed the hair of the midsized\none while the other two pounded my back. I was determined to\nyank his head off when Percy landed a nasty shot to my nose. I\nwent blind for a second, and they, squealing like wild animals, piled\non again.\nI heard the women yell from the porch. It's about time! I\nthought. Mrs. Latcher arrived first and began pulling boys from the\nheap, scolding them loudly as she flung them around. Since I was on\nthe bottom, I got up last. My mother looked at me in horror. My\nclean clothes were covered with dirt. My nose was oozing warm\nblood.\n“Luke, are you all right?” she said, grabbing my shoulders.\nMy eyes were watery, and I was beginning to ache. I nodded my\nhead yes, no problem.\n“Cut me a switch!” Mrs. Latcher yelled at Percy. She was growling\nand still flinging the two smaller ones around. “Whatta you mean\nbeatin' up that little boy like that? He ain't done nothin'.”\nThe blood was really flowing now, dripping off my chin and\nstaining my shirt. My mother made me lie down and tilt my head\nback to stop the bleeding, and while we were doing this, Percy\nproduced a stick.\n“I want you to watch this,” Mrs. Latcher said in my direction.\n“No, Darla,” my mother said. “We're leaving.”\n“No, I want your boy to see this,” she said. “Now bend over,\nPercy.”\n“I ain't gonna do it, Ma,” Percy said, obviously scared.“Bend over, or I'll get your father. I'll teach you some manners.\nBeatin' up that little boy, a visitor to our place.”\n“No,” Percy said, and she hit him in the head with the stick. He\nscreamed, and she whacked him across the ear.\nShe made him bend over and grab his ankles. “You let go and I'll\nbeat you for a week,” she threatened him. He was already crying\nwhen she started flogging away. Both my mother and I were\nstunned by her anger and brutality. After eight or ten very hard licks,\nPercy started yelping. “Shut up!” she shouted.\nHer arms and legs were as thin as the stick, but what she lacked\nin size she made up for in quickness. Her blows landed like machine-\ngun fire, fast and crisp, popping like a bullwhip. Ten, twenty, thirty\nshots, and Percy was bawling, “Please stop it, Ma! I'm sorry!”\nThe beating went on and on, far past the point of punishment.\nWhen her arm was tired, she shoved him to the ground, and Percy\ncurled into a tight ball and wept. By then the other two were already\nin tears. She grabbed the middle one by the hair. She called him\nRay-ford and said, “Bend over.” Rayford slowly clutched his ankles\nand somehow withstood the assault that followed.\n“Let's go,” my mother whispered to me. “You can lie down in the\nback.”\nShe helped me up to the bed of the truck, and by then Mrs.\nLatcher was pulling on the other boy, yanking him by the hair. Percy\nand Rayford were lying in the dirt, victims of the battle they'd\nstarted. My mother turned the truck around, and as we drove off,\nMrs. Latcher was battering the youngest one. There were loud\nvoices, and I sat up just enough to see Mr. Latcher running around\nthe house with a trail of children behind him. He yelled at his wife;\nshe ignored him and kept hammering away. When he reached her,\nhe grabbed her. Kids were swarming everywhere; everyone seemed\nto be either screaming or crying.\nThe dust boiled behind us, and I lost sight of them. As I lay down\nagain and tried to get comfortable, I prayed that I would never\nagain set foot on their farm. I never wanted to see any of those\npeople for the rest of my life. And I prayed long and hard that noone would ever hear the rumor that the Chandlers and the Latchers\nwere related.\nMy return home was triumphant. The Spruills were cleaned up\nand ready for town. They were sitting under a tree, drinking iced tea\nwith Pappy and Gran and my father, when we rolled to a stop less\nthan twenty feet away. As dramatically as I could, I stood in the\nback of the truck, and with great satisfaction watched them react in\nshock at the sight of me. There I was-beaten, bloodied, dirty, clothes\nripped, but still standing.\nI climbed down, and everyone gathered around me. My mother\nstormed forward and very angrily said, “You're not gonna believe\nwhat happened! Three of them jumped Luke! Percy and two others\ncaught him when I was in the house. The little criminals! We're\ntakin' food over, and they pull a stunt like this.”\nTally was concerned, too, and I think she wanted to reach out\nand touch me, to make sure I was all right.\n“Three of 'em?” Pappy repeated, his eyes dancing.\n“Yes, and they were all bigger than Luke,” my mother said, and\nthe legend began to grow. The size of my three attackers would\nincrease as the days and months went by.\nGran was in my face, staring at my nose, which had a small cut\non it. “Might be broken,” she said, and though I was thrilled to hear\nit, I was not looking forward to her treatment.\n“You didn't run, did you?” Pappy asked. He, too, was moving in\ncloser.\n“No sir,” I said proudly. I'd still be running if given half a chance.\n“He did not,” my mother said sternly. “He was kickin' and clawin'\njust as hard as they were.”\nPappy beamed, and my father smiled.\n“We'll go back tomorrow and finish 'em off,” Pappy said.\n“You'll do no such thing,” my mother said. She was irritated\nbecause Pappy loved a brawl. But then, she came from a house full\nof girls. She did not understand fighting.\n“Did you land a good punch?” Pappy asked.\n“They were all cryin' when I left,” I said.\nMy mother rolled her eyes.Hank shoved his way through the group and bent down to\ninspect the damage. “Say there was three of 'em, huh?” he growled\nat me.\n“Yes sir,” I said, nodding.\n“Good for you, boy. It'll make you tough.”\n“Yes sir,” I said.\n“If you want me to, I'll show you some tricks on how to handle a\nthree-on-one situation,” he said with a smile.\n“Let's get cleaned up,” my mother said.\n“I think it's broken,” Gran said.\n“You okay, Luke?” Tally asked.\n“Yep,” I said, as tough as I could.\nThey led me away in a victory march.\n---------------A Painted HouseChapter 23\n---------------\nThe Fall Picnic was always held on the last Sunday in September,\nthough no one knew exactly why. It was simply a tradition in Black\nOak, a ritual as ingrained as the carnival and the spring revival. It\nwas supposed to somehow link the coming of a new season, the\nbeginning of the end of the harvest, and the end of baseball. It\nwasn't clear if all this was accomplished with one picnic, but at least\nthe effort was made.\nWe shared the day with the Methodists, our friends and friendly\nrivals. Black Oak was too small to be divided. There were no ethnic\ngroups, no blacks or Jews or Asians, no permanent outsiders of any\nvariety. We were all of Anglo-Irish stock, maybe a strain or two of\nGerman blood, and everybody farmed or sold to the farmers. Every\nbody was a Christian or claimed to be. Disagreements flared up\nwhen a Cubs fan said too much at the Tea Shoppe, or when some\nidiot declared John Deere to be inferior to another brand of tractor,\nbut for the most part life was peaceful. The older boys and younger\nmen liked to fight behind the Co-op on Saturdays, but it was more\nsport than anything else. A beating like the one Hank gave the\nSiscos was so rare that the town was still talking about it.\nIndividual grudges lasted a lifetime; Pappy carried more than his\nshare. But there were no serious enemies. There was a clear social\norder, with the sharecroppers at the bottom and the merchants at\nthe top, and everyone was expected to know his place. But folks got\nalong.\nThe line between Baptists and Methodists was never straight and\ntrue. Their worship was slightly different, with the ritual of sprinkling\nlittle babies being their most flagrant deviation from the Scriptures,\nas we saw things. And they didn't meet as often, which, of course,\nmeant that they were not as serious about their faith. Nobody met\nas much as us Baptists. We took great pride in constant worship.Pearl Watson, my favorite Methodist, said she'd like to be a Baptist,\nbut that she just wasn't physically able.\nRicky told me once in private that when he left the farm he might\nbecome a Catholic because they only met once a week. I didn't\nknow what a Catholic was, and so he tried to explain things, but\nRicky on theology was a shaky discussion at best.\nMy mother and Gran spent more time than usual ironing our\nclothes that Sunday morning. And I certainly got scrubbed with more\npurpose. Much to my disappointment, my nose had not been\nbroken, there was no swelling, and the cut was barely noticeable.\nWe had to look our very best because the Methodist ladies had\nslightly nicer dresses. In spite of all the fuss, I was excited and\ncouldn't wait to get to town.\nWe had invited the Spruills. This was done out of a sense of\nfriendliness and Christian concern, though I wanted to pick and\nchoose. Tally would be welcome; the rest could stay in the front yard\nfor all I cared. But when I surveyed their camp after breakfast, I saw\nlittle movement. Their truck had not been disconnected from the\nmyriad of wires and ropes that held their shelters upright. “They\nain't comin',” I reported to Pappy, who was studying his Sunday\nschool lesson.\n“Good,” he said quietly.\nThe prospect of Hank milling about the picnic, grazing from table\nto table, gorging himself on food and looking for a fight, was not\nappealing.\nThe Mexicans really had no choice. My mother had extended an\ninvitation to Miguel early in the week, then followed it up with a\ncouple of gentle reminders as Sunday grew near. My father had\nexplained to him that a special worship service would be held in\nSpanish, then there would be plenty of good food. They had little\nelse to do on Sunday afternoons.\nNine of them piled into the back of our truck; only Cowboy was\nabsent. This set my imagination on fire. Where was he and what\nwas he doing? Where was Tally? I didn't see her in the front yard as\nwe drove away. My heart sank as I thought of them back in the\nfields, hiding and doing whatever they wanted to do. Instead ofgoing to church with us, Tally was probably sneaking around again,\ndoing bad things. What if she now used Cowboy as her lookout while\nshe bathed in Siler's Creek? I couldn't stand that thought, and I\nworried about her all the way to town.\n---------------------\nBrother Akers, with a rare smile on his face, took the pulpit. The\nsanctuary was packed, and people were sitting in the aisles and\nstanding along the back wall. The windows were open, and on the\nnorth side of the church, under a tall oak, the Mexicans were\ngrouped together, hats off, dark heads making a sea of brown.\nHe welcomed our guests, our visitors from the hills, and also the\nMexicans. There were a few hill people, but not many. As always, he\nasked them to stand and identify themselves. They were from places\nlike Hardy, Mountain Home, and Calico Rock, and they were as\nspruced up as we were.\nA loudspeaker had been placed in a window, so Brother Akers's\nwords were broadcast out of the sanctuary and into the general\ndirection of the Mexicans, where Mr. Carl Durbin picked up the words\nand translated them into Spanish. Mr. Durbin was a retired\nmissionary from Jonesboro. He'd worked in Peru for thirty years\namong some real Indians up in the mountains, and every so often\nhe'd come and talk to us during missions week and show us photos\nand slides of the strange land he'd left behind. In addition to\nSpanish, he also spoke an Indian dialect, and this forever fascinated\nme.\nMr. Durbin stood under the shade tree with Mexicans seated on\nthe grass all around him. He wore a white suit and a white straw\nhat, and his voice carried back to the church with almost as much\nvolume as old Brother Akers's did with the loudspeaker. Ricky'd once\nsaid that Mr. Durbin had a lot more sense than Brother Akers, and\nhe'd offered this opinion over Sunday dinner and created trouble yet\nagain. It was a sin to criticize your preacher, at least out loud.\nI sat at the end of the pew, next to the window, so I could watch\nand listen to Mr. Durbin. I couldn't understand a word he was saying,\nbut I knew his Spanish was slower than the Mexicans'. They talked\nso fast that I often wondered how they understood each other. Hissentences were smooth and deliberate and laden with a heavy\nArkansas accent. Though I had not a clue as to what he was saying,\nhe was still more captivating than Brother Akers.\nNot surprisingly, with such a large crowd, the morning's sermon\ntook on a life of its own and became a marathon. Small crowd,\nshorter sermon. Big crowd, like Easter and Mother's Day and the Fall\nPicnic, and Brother Akers felt the need to perform. At some point, in\nthe midst of his ramblings, Mr. Durbin seemed to get bored with it\nall. He ignored the message being broadcast from inside the\nsanctuary and began to deliver his own sermon. When Brother Akers\npaused to catch his breath, Mr. Durbin kept right on preaching. And\nwhen Brother Akers's hellfire and brimstone was at its fever pitch,\nMr. Durbin was resting with a glass of water. He took a seat on the\nground with the Mexicans and waited for the shouting to stop inside\nthe sanctuary.\nI waited, too. I passed the time by dreaming of the food that\nwe'd soon have-heaping plates of fried chicken and gallons of\nhomemade ice cream.\nThe Mexicans began glancing at the church windows. I'm sure\nthey thought Brother Akers had gone crazy. “Relax,” I wanted to tell\nthem, “it happens all the time.”\nWe sang five stanzas of “Just As I Am” for the benediction. No\none walked down the aisle, and Brother Akers reluctantly dismissed\nus. I met Dewayne at the front door, and we raced down the street\nto the baseball field to see if the Methodists were there. Of course\nthey were; they never worshiped as long as we did.\nBehind the backstop, under three elm trees that had caught a\nmillion foul balls, the food was being arranged on picnic tables\ncovered with red- and-white checkerboard cloths. The Methodists\nwere swarming around, the men and children hauling food while the\nladies organized the dishes. I found Pearl Watson and chatted her\nup. “Brother Akers still goin'?” she asked with a grin.\n“He just turned us loose,” I said. She gave Dewayne and me two\nchocolate cookies. I ate mine in two bites.\nFinally, the Baptists started arriving, amid a chorus of “Hello” and\n“Where you been?” and “What took so long?” Cars and trucks werepulled close, and soon were parked bumper to bumper along the\nfences around the field. At least one and maybe two would get hit\nwith foul balls. Two years earlier, Mr. Wilber Shifflett's brand-new\nChrysler sedan lost a windshield when Ricky hit a home run over the\nleft-field fence. The explosion had been terrific-a loud thud, then the\nracket of glass bursting. But Mr. Shifflett had money, so no one got\ntoo worried. He knew the risks when he parked there. The\nMethodists beat us that year, too, seven to five, and Ricky was of the\nopinion that the manager, Pappy, should've changed pitchers in the\nthird inning.\nThey didn't speak to each other for some time.\nThe tables were soon covered with large bowls of vegetables,\nplatters heaped with fried chicken, and baskets filled with corn\nbread, rolls, and other breads. Under the direction of the Methodist\nminister's wife, Mrs. Orr, dishes were moved here and there until a\ncertain order took shape. One table had nothing but raw vegetables-\ntomatoes of a dozen varieties, cucumbers, white and yellow onions\nin vinegar. Next to it were the beans-black-eyed peas, crowder peas,\ngreen beans cooked with ham, and butter beans. Every picnic had\npotato salad, and every chef had a different recipe. Dewayne and I\ncounted eleven large bowls of the dish, and no two looked the same.\nDeviled eggs were almost as popular, and there were plates of them\nthat covered half a table. Last, and most important, was the fried\nchicken. There was enough to feed the town for a month.\nThe ladies scurried about, fussing over the food while the men\ntalked and laughed and greeted each other, but always with one eye\non the chicken. Kids were everywhere, and Dewayne and I drifted to\none tree in particular, where some ladies were arranging the\ndesserts. I counted sixteen coolers of homemade ice cream, all\ncovered tightly with towels and packed with ice.\nOnce the preparations had met the approval of Mrs. Orr, her\nhusband, the Reverend Vernon Orr, stood in the center of the tables\nwith Brother Akers, and the crowd grew still and quiet. The year\nbefore, Brother Akers had thanked God for His blessings; this year\nthe honor went to the Methodists. The picnic had an unspoken\npattern to it. We bowed our heads and listened as the Reverend Orrthanked God for His goodness, for all the wonderful food, for the\nweather, the cotton, and on and on. He left out nothing; Black Oak\nwas indeed grateful for everything.\nI could smell the chicken. I could taste the brownies and ice\ncream. Dewayne kicked me, and I wanted to lay him out. I didn't,\nthough, because I'd get whipped for fighting during a prayer.\nWhen the Reverend Orr finally finished, the men corralled the\nMexicans and lined them up to be served. This was a tradition;\nMexicans first, hill people second, children third, then the adults.\nStick Powers appeared from nowhere, in uniform, of course, and\nmanaged to cut in line between the Mexicans and the hill folks. I\nheard him explain that he was on duty and didn't have much time.\nHe carried away two plates-one covered with chicken and one\ncovered with everything else he could pile on. We knew he'd eat\nuntil he was stuffed, then find a tree on the edge of town and sleep\noff his lunch.\nSeveral of the Methodists asked me about Ricky-how was he\ndoing, had we heard from him. I tried to be nice and answer their\nquestions, but as a family we Chandlers did not enjoy this attention.\nAnd now that we were horrified over the Latcher secret, any\nmention of Ricky in public scared us.\n“Tell him we're thinkin' about him,” they said. They always said\nthis, as if we owned a phone and called him every night.\n“We're prayin' for him,” they said.\n“Thank you,” I always replied.\nA perfectly wonderful moment like the Fall Picnic could be ruined\nwith an unexpected question about Ricky. He was in Korea, in the\ntrenches, in the thick of the war, dodging bullets and killing people,\nnot knowing if he would ever come home to go to church with us, to\npicnic with the town, to play against the Methodists again. In the\nmidst of the excitement I suddenly felt very alone, and very\nfrightened.\n“Get tough,” Pappy would say. The food helped immensely.\nDewayne and I took our plates and sat behind the first-base dugout,\nwhere there was a small sliver of shade. Quilts were being placed all\naround the outfield, and families were sitting together in the sun.Umbrellas were popping up; the ladies were fanning their faces,\ntheir small children, and their plates. The Mexicans were squeezed\nunder one tree, down the right- field foul line, away from the rest of\nus. Juan had confessed to me the year before that they weren't sure\nif they liked fried chicken. I'd never heard such nonsense. It was a\nheck of a lot better than tortillas, I'd thought at the time.\nMy parents and grandparents ate together on a quilt near third\nbase. After much haggling and negotiating, I'd been granted\npermission to eat with my buddies, a huge step for a seven-year-old.\nThe line never stopped. By the time the men reached the last\ntable, the teenaged boys were back for more. One plate was enough\nfor me. I wanted to save room for the ice cream. Before long we\nwandered over to the dessert table, where Mrs. Irene Flanagan was\nstanding guard, preventing vandalism from the likes of us.\n“How many chocolates you got?” I asked, looking at the\ncollection of ice cream coolers just waiting in the shade.\nShe smiled and said, “Oh, I don't know. Several.”\n“Did Mrs. Cooper bring her peanut butter ice cream?” Dewayne\nasked.\n“She did,” Mrs. Flanagan said and pointed to a cooler in the\nmiddle of the pack. Mrs. Cooper somehow mixed chocolate and\npeanut butter in her ice cream, and the results were incredible. Folks\nclamored for it all year round. The year before, two teenaged boys,\none a Baptist and one a Methodist, almost came to blows over who\nwould get the next serving. While peace was being restored by the\nReverend Orr, Dewayne managed to grab two bowls of the stuff. He\ncharged down the street with them and hid behind a shed, where he\ndevoured every drop. He talked of little else for a month.\nMrs. Cooper was a widow. She lived in a pretty little house two\nblocks behind Pop and Pearl's store, and when she needed yard\nwork done she'd simply make a cooler of peanut butter ice cream.\nTeenagers would materialize from nowhere, and she had the neatest\nyard in town. Even grown men had been known to stop by and pull\na few weeds.\n“You'll have to wait,” Mrs. Flanagan said.\n“Till when?” I asked.“Till everyone is finished.”\nWe waited forever. Some of the older boys and the younger men\nbegan stretching their muscles and tossing baseballs in the outfield.\nThe adults talked and visited and talked and visited, and I was\ncertain the ice cream was melting. The two umpires arrived from\nMonette, and this sent a ripple of excitement through the crowd.\nThey, of course, had to be fed first, and for a while they were more\nconcerned with fried chicken than with baseball. Slowly, the quilts\nand umbrellas were taken from the outfield. The picnic was ending.\nIt was almost time for the game.\nThe ladies gathered around the dessert table and began serving\nus. Finally Dewayne got his peanut butter ice cream. I opted for two\nscoops of chocolate over one of Mrs. Lou Kiner's fudge brownies. For\ntwenty minutes there was a near-riot around the dessert table, but\norder was maintained. Both preachers stood in the midst of the\npack, both eating as much ice cream as anybody else. The umpires\ndeclined, citing the heat as the reason that they should finally stop\neating.\nSomeone shouted, “Play ball!” and the crowd moved toward the\nbackstop. The Methodists were coached by Mr. Duffy Lewis, a farmer\nout west of town and, according to Pappy, a man of limited baseball\nintelligence. But after four losses in a row, Pappy's low opinion of Mr.\nLewis had become almost muted. The umpires called the two\ncoaches to a meeting behind home plate, and for a long time they\ndiscussed Black Oak's version of the rules of baseball. They pointed\nto fences and poles and limbs overhanging the field-each had its\nown rules and its own history. Pappy disagreed with most of what\nthe umpires said, and the haggling went on and on.\nThe Baptists had been the home team the year before, so we hit\nfirst. The Methodist pitcher was Buck Prescott, son of Mr. Sap\nPrescott, one of the largest landowners in Craighead County. Buck\nwas in his early twenties and had attended Arkansas State for two\nyears, something that was quite rare. He had tried to pitch in\ncollege, but there had been some problems with the coach. He was\nleft-handed, threw nothing but curveballs, and had beaten us the\nyear before, nine to two. When he walked out to the mound, I knewwe were in for a long day. His first pitch was a slow, looping\ncurveball that was high and outside but called a strike anyway, and\nPappy was already yapping at the umpire. Buck walked the first two\nbatters, struck out the next two, then retired my father on a fly ball\nto center field.\nOur pitcher was Duke Ridley, a young farmer with seven kids and\na fastball even I could hit. He claimed he once pitched in Alaska\nduring the war, but this had not been verified. Pappy thought it was\na lie, and after watching him get shelled the year before, I had\nserious doubts, too. He walked the first three batters while throwing\nonly one strike, and I thought Pappy might charge the mound and\nmaim him. Their cleanup batter popped up to the catcher. The next\nguy flied out to shallow left. We got lucky when their number-six\nbatter, Mr. Lester Hurdle, at age fifty-two the oldest player on either\nroster, hit a long fly ball to right, where our fielder, Bennie Jenkins,\ngloveless and shoeless, caught it with his bare hands.\nThe game settled into a pitcher's duel, not necessarily because\nthe pitching was sharp, but more because neither team could hit.\nWe drifted back to the ice cream, where the last melting remnants\nwere being dished out. By the third inning the ladies of both\ndenominations had grouped into small clusters of conversation and,\nfor them, the game was of lesser importance. Somewhere not far\naway, a car radio was on, and I could hear Harry Caray. The\nCardinals were playing the Cubs in the final game of the season.\nAs Dewayne and I retreated from the dessert table with our last\ncups of ice cream, we walked behind a quilt where half a dozen\nyoung women were resting and talking. “Well, how old is Libby?” I\nheard one of them say.\nI stopped, took a bite, and looked beyond them at the game as if\nI weren't the least bit interested in what they were saying.\n“She's just fifteen,” another said.\n“She's a Latcher. She'll have another one soon.”\n“Is it a boy or a girl?”\n“Boy's what I heard.”\n“And the daddy?”\n“Not a clue. She won't tell anybody.”“Come on,” Dewayne said, hitting me with his elbow. We moved\naway and walked to the first-base dugout. I wasn't sure if I was\nrelieved or scared. Word was out that the Latcher baby had arrived,\nbut its father had not been identified.\nIt wouldn't be long, I thought. And we'd be ruined. I'd have a\ncousin who was a Latcher, and everybody would know it.\nThe tight pitching duel ended in the fifth inning when both teams\nerupted for six runs. For thirty minutes baseballs were flying\neverywhere-line drives, wild throws, balls in the outfield gaps. We\nchanged pitchers twice, and I knew we were in trouble when Pappy\nwent to the mound and pointed at my father. He was not a pitcher,\nbut at that point there was no one left. He kept his pitches low,\nthough, and we were soon out of the inning.\n“Musial's pitching!” someone yelled. It was either a joke or a\nmistake. Stan Musial was a lot of things, but he'd never pitched\nbefore. We ran behind the bleachers to where the cars were parked.\nA small crowd was closing in on a '48 Dodge owned by Mr. Rafe\nHenry. Its radio was at full volume, and Harry Caray was wild-Stan\nthe Man was indeed on the mound, pitching against the Cubs,\nagainst Frankie Baumholtz, the man he'd battled all year for the\nhitting title. The crowd at Sportsman's Park was delirious. Harry was\nyelling into the microphone. We were shocked at the thought of\nMusial on the mound.\nBaumholtz hit a ground ball to third, and they sent Musial back to\ncenter field. I ran to the first-base dugout and told Pappy that Stan\nthe Man had actually pitched, but he didn't believe me. I told my\nfather, and he looked suspicious, too. The Methodists were up eight\nto six, in the bottom of the seventh, and the Baptist dugout was\ntense. A good flood would have caused less concern, at least at that\nmoment.\nIt was at least ninety-five degrees. The players were soaked with\nsweat, their clean overalls and white Sunday shirts stuck to their\nskin. They were moving slower-paying the price for all that fried\nchicken and potato salad-and not hustling enough to suit Pappy.\nDewayne's father wasn't playing, so they left after a couple of\nhours. A few others drifted away. The Mexicans were still under theirtree by the right-field foul pole, but they were sprawled out now and\nappeared to be sleeping. The ladies were even more involved with\ntheir shade-tree gossip; they could not have cared less who won the\ngame.\nI sat alone in the bleachers and watched the Methodists score\nthree more in the eighth. I dreamed of the day when I'd be out\nthere, hitting home runs and making incredible plays in center field.\nThose wretched Methodists wouldn't have a chance when I got big\nenough.\nThey won eleven to eight, and for the fifth year in a row Pappy\nhad led the Baptists to defeat. The players shook hands and laughed\nwhen the game was over, then headed to the shade, where iced tea\nwas waiting. Pappy didn't smile or laugh, nor did he shake hands\nwith anybody. He disappeared for a while, and I knew he would pout\nfor a week.\nThe Cardinals lost, too, three to zero. They finished the season\nfour games behind the Giants and eight games behind the Brooklyn\nDodgers, who would face the Yankees in an all-New York World\nSeries.\nThe leftovers were gathered and hauled back to the cars and\ntrucks. The tables were cleaned, and the litter was picked up. I\nhelped Mr. Duffy Lewis rake the mound and home plate, and when\nwe finished, the field looked as good as ever. It took an hour to say\ngoodbye to everyone. There were the usual threats from the losing\nteam about what would happen next year, and the usual taunts from\nthe winners. As far as I could tell, no one was upset but Pappy.\nAs we left town I thought about the end of the season. Baseball\nbegan in the spring, when we planted and when hopes were high. It\nsustained us through the summer, often our only diversion from the\ndrudgery of the fields. We listened to each game, then talked about\nthe plays and the players and the strategies until we listened to the\nnext one. It was very much a part of our daily lives for six months,\nthen it was gone. Just like the cotton.\nI was sad by the time we arrived home. No games to listen to on\nthe front porch. Six months without the voice of Harry Caray. Six\nmonths with no Stan Musial. I got my glove and went for a long walkdown a field road, tossing the ball in the air, wondering what I would\ndo until April.\nFor the first time in my life, baseball broke my heart.\n---------------A Painted HouseChapter 24\n---------------\nThe heat broke in the first few days of October. The nights\nbecame cool, and the rides to the fields in the early morning were\nchilly. The stifling humidity was gone, and the sun lost its glare. By\nmidday it was hot again, but not August-hot, and by dark the air was\nlight. We waited, but the heat did not return. The seasons were\nchanging; the days grew shorter.\nSince the sun didn't sap our strength as much, we worked harder\nand picked more. And, of course, the change in weather was all\nPappy needed to embrace yet another level of concern. With winter\njust around the corner, he now remembered tales of staring at rows\nand rows of muddy, rotting, and unpicked cotton on Christmas Day.\nAfter a month in the fields, I missed school. Classes would\nresume at the end of October, and I began thinking of how nice it\nwould be to sit at a desk all day, surrounded by friends instead of\ncotton stalks, and with no Spruills to worry about. Now that baseball\nwas over, I had to dream about something. It was a tribute to my\ndesperation to be left with only school to long for.\nMy return to school would be glorious because I would be\nwearing my shiny new Cardinals baseball jacket. Hidden inside my\ncigar box in the top drawer of my bureau was the grand sum of\n$14.50, the result of hard work and frugal spending. I was\nreluctantly tithing money to the church and investing wisely in\nSaturday movies and popcorn, but for the most part my wages were\nbeing tucked safely away next to my Stan Musial baseball card and\nthe pearl-handled pocketknife that Ricky gave me the day he left for\nKorea.\nI wanted to order the jacket from Sears, Roebuck, but my\nmother insisted I wait until the harvest was over. We were still\nnegotiating this. Shipping took two weeks, and I was determined to\nreturn to class decked out in Cardinal red.\n---------------------Stick Powers was waiting for us late one afternoon. I was with\nGran and my mother, and we had left the fields a few minutes ahead\nof the others. As always, Stick was sitting under a tree, the one next\nto Pappy's truck, and his sleepy eyes betrayed the fact that he'd\nbeen napping.\nHe tipped his hat to my mother and Gran and said, “Afternoon,\nRuth, Kathleen.”\n“Hello, Stick,” Gran said. “What can we do for you?”\n“Lookin' for Eli or Jesse.”\n“They'll be along shortly. Somethin' the matter?”\nStick chewed on the blade of grass protruding from his lips and\ntook a long look at the fields as if he were burdened with heavy\nnews that might or might not be suitable for women.\n“What is it, Stick?” Gran asked. With a boy off in the war, every\nvisit by a man in a uniform was frightening. In 1944 one of Stick's\npredecessors had delivered the news that my father had been\nwounded at Anzio.\nStick looked at the women and decided they could be trusted. He\nsaid, “That eldest Sisco boy, Grady, the one in prison for killin' a man\nover in Jonesboro, well, he escaped last week. They say he's back in\nthese parts.”\nFor a moment the women said nothing. Gran was relieved that\nthe news wasn't about Ricky. My mother was bored with the whole\nSisco mess.\n“You'd better tell Eli,” Gran said. “We need to fix supper.”\nThey excused themselves and went into the house. Stick\nwatched them, no doubt thinking about supper.\n“Who'd he kill?” I asked Stick as soon as the women were inside.\n“I don't know.”\n“How'd he kill him?”\n“Beat 'im with a shovel's what I heard.”\n“Wow, must've been some fight.”\n“I guess.”\n“You think he's comin' after Hank?”\n“Look, I'd better go see Eli. Where exactly is he?”I pointed to a spot deep in the fields. The cotton trailer was\nbarely visible.\n“That's a far piece,” Stick mumbled. “Reckon I can drive down\nthere?” ;\n“Sure,” I said, already heading for the patrol car. We got in.\n“Don't touch anything,” Stick said when we were settled into the\nfront seat. I gawked at the switches and radio, and of course Stick\nhad to make the most of the moment. “This here's the radio,” he\nsaid, picking up the mike. “This here flips on the siren, this the\nlights.” He grabbed a handle on the dash and said, “This here's the\nspotlight.”\n“Who do you talk to on the radio?” I asked.\n“HQ mainly. That's headquarters.”\n“Where's headquarters?”\n“Over in Jonesboro.”\n“Can you call 'em right now?”\nStick reluctantly grabbed the mike, stuck it to his mouth, cocked\nhis head sideways, and, with a frown, said, “Unit four to base. Come\nin.” His voice was lower, and his words were faster, with much more\nimportance.\nWe waited. When HQ didn't respond, he cocked his head to the\nother side, pressed the button on the mike, and repeated, “Unit four\nto base. Come in.”\n“You're unit four?” I asked.\n“That's me.”\n“How many units are there?”\n“Depends.”\nI stared at the radio and waited for HQ to acknowledge Stick. It\nseemed impossible to me that a person sitting in Jonesboro could\ntalk directly to him, and that Stick could talk back.\nIn theory that was how it was supposed to work, but evidently\nHQ wasn't too concerned with Stick's whereabouts. For the third\ntime he said into the mike, “Unit four to base. Come in.” His words\nhad a little more bite to them now.\nAnd for the third time HQ ignored him. After a few long seconds,\nhe slapped the mike back onto the radio and said, “It's probably ol'Theodore, asleep again.”\n“Who's Theodore?” I asked.\n“One of the dispatchers. He sleeps half the time.”\nSo do you, I thought to myself. “Can you turn on the siren?” I\nasked.\n“Nope. It might scare your momma.”\n“What about the lights?”\n“Nope, they burn up the battery.” He reached for the ignition; the\nengine grunted and strained but wouldn't turn over.\nHe tried again, and just before the engine quit completely, it\nturned over and started, sputtering and kicking. HQ had obviously\ngiven Stick the worst leftover of the fleet. Black Oak was not exactly\na hotbed of criminal activity.\nBefore he could put it into gear, I saw the tractor moving slowly\ndown the field road. “Here they come,” I said. He squinted and\nstrained, then turned off the engine. We got out of the car and\nwalked back to the tree.\n“You think you wanna be a deputy?” Stick asked.\nAnd drive a ragged patrol car, nap half the day, and deal with the\nlikes of Hank Spruill and the Siscos? “I'm gonna play baseball,” I\nsaid.\n“Where?”\n“St. Louis.”\n“Oh, I see,” he said with one of those funny smiles adults give to\nlittle kids who are dreaming. “Ever' little boy wants to be a Cardinal.”\nI had many more questions for him, most of which dealt with his\ngun and the bullets that went into it. And I had always wanted to\ninspect his handcuffs, to see how they locked and unlocked. As he\nwatched the trailer draw nearer, I studied his revolver and holster,\neager to grill him.\nBut Stick had spent enough time with me. He wanted me to\nleave. I held my barrage of questions.\nWhen the tractor stopped, the Spruills and some of the Mexicans\ncrawled off the trailer. Pappy and my father came straight for us, and\nby the time they stopped under the tree there was already tension.\n“What do you want, Stick?” Pappy snarled.Pappy in particular was irritated with Stick and his nagging\npresence in our lives. We had a crop to harvest; little else mattered.\nStick was shadowing us, in town and on our own property.\n“What is it, Stick?” Pappy said. Contempt was evident in his tone.\nHe had just spent ten hours picking five hundred pounds of cotton,\nand he knew our deputy hadn't broken a sweat in years.\n“That oldest Sisco boy, Grady, the one in prison for murder, he\nescaped last week sometime, and I think he's back home.”\n“Then go get him,” Pappy said.\n“I'm lookin' for him. I've heard they might start some trouble.”\n“Such as?”\n“Who knows with the Siscos. But they might come after Hank.”\n“Let 'em come,” Pappy said, anxious for a good fight.\n“I've heard they've got guns.”\n“I got guns, Stick. You get word to the Siscos that if I see one of\n'em anywhere near this place, I'll blow his stupid head off.” Pappy\nwas practically hissing at Stick by the time he finished. Even my\nfather seemed to warm to the idea of protecting his property and\nfamily.\n“It won't happen out here,” Stick said. “Tell your boy to stay away\nfrom town.”\n“You tell him,” Pappy shot back. “He ain't my boy. I don't care\nwhat happens to 'im.”\nStick looked around at the front yard, where the Spruills were\ngoing about the business of preparing supper. He had no desire to\nventure over there.\nHe looked at Pappy and said, “Tell him, Eli.” He turned and\nwalked to his car.\nIt groaned and sputtered and finally started, and we watched\nhim back into the road and drive away.\n--------------------\nAfter supper I was watching my father patch an inner tube from\nour tractor when Tally appeared in the distance. It was late but not\nyet dark, and she seemed to cling to the long shadows as she\nmoved toward the silo. I watched her carefully until she stopped and\nwaved for me to follow. My father was mumbling, the patching wasnot going well, and I slipped away toward the house. Then I ran\nbehind our truck, found the shadows, and within seconds we were\nwalking along a field row in the general direction of Siler's Creek.\n“Where you goin'?” I finally asked, after it became apparent she\nwas not going to speak first.\n“I don't know. Just walkin'.”\n“You goin' to the creek?”\nShe laughed softly and said, “You'd like that, wouldn't you, Luke?\nYou wanna see me again, don't you?”\nMy cheeks burned, and I couldn't think of anything to say.\n“Maybe later,” she said.\nI wanted to ask her about Cowboy, but that subject seemed so\nugly and private that I didn't have the nerve to go near it. And I\nwanted to ask her how she knew that Libby Latcher was telling that\nRicky was the father of her baby, but again, it was something else I\njust couldn't bring up. Tally was always mysterious, always moody,\nand I adored her completely. Walking with her along the narrow\npath made me feel twenty years old.\n“What did that deputy want?” she asked.\nI told her everything. Stick had delivered no forbidden secrets.\nThe Siscos were talking big, and they were crazy enough to try\nsomething. I relayed it all to Tally.\nShe thought about it as we walked, then asked, “Is Stick gonna\narrest Hank for killin' that boy?”\nI had to be careful here. The Spruills were at war with each\nother, but any hint of an outside threat and they'd close ranks.\n“Pappy's worried about y'all leavin',” I said.\n“What's that gotta do with Hank?”\n“If he gets arrested, then y'all might leave.”\n“We ain't leavin', Luke. We need the money.”\nWe had stopped walking. She was looking at me, and I was\nstudying my bare feet. “I think Stick wants to wait till the cotton's\nin,” I said.\nShe absorbed this without a word, then turned and started back\ntoward the house. I tagged along, certain I'd said too much. She\nsaid good night at the silo and disappeared into the darkness.Hours later, when I was supposed to be asleep, I listened\nthrough the open window as the Spruills growled and snapped at\neach other. Hank was in the middle of every fight. I could not always\nhear what they were saying or bickering about, but it seemed as\nthough each new skirmish was caused by something Hank had said\nor done. They were tired; he was not. They woke before sunrise and\nspent at least ten hours in the fields; he slept as late as he wanted,\nthen picked cotton at a languid pace.\nAnd evidently he was roaming at night again. Miguel was waiting\nby the back steps when my father and I opened the kitchen door on\nour way to gather eggs and milk for breakfast. He pleaded for help.\nThe shelling had resumed; someone had bombed the barn with\nheavy clods of dirt until after midnight. The Mexicans were\nexhausted and angry, and there was about to be a fight of some\nvariety.\nThis was our sole topic of conversation over breakfast, and Pappy\nwas so angry he could barely eat. It was decided that Hank had to\ngo, and if the rest of the Spruills left with him, then we'd somehow\nmanage. Ten well-rested and hardworking Mexicans were far more\nvaluable than the Spruills.\nPappy started to leave the table and go straight to the front yard\nwith his ultimatum, but my father calmed him. They decided that we\nwould wait until quitting time, thereby getting a full day of labor out\nof the Spruills. Plus they'd be less likely to break camp with darkness\nupon them.\nI just listened. I wanted to jump in and describe my conversation\nwith Tally, especially the part about her family needing the money. In\nmy opinion, they wouldn't leave at all, but would be delighted to get\nrid of Hank. My opinions, however, were never welcome during these\ntense family discussions. I chewed my biscuit and hung on every\nword.\n“What about Stick?” Gran asked.\n“What about him?” Pappy fired in her direction.\n“You were gonna tell Stick when you were finished with Hank.”\nPappy took a bite of ham and thought about this.Gran was a step ahead, but then she had the advantage of\nthinking without being angry. She sipped her coffee and said,\n“Seems to me the thing to do is tell Mr. Spruill that Stick is comin'\nafter Hank. Let the boy sneak away at night. He'll be gone, that's all\nthat matters, and the Spruills'll be thankful you kept him from gettin'\narrested.”\nGran's plan made perfect sense. My mother managed a slight\ngrin. Once again the women had analyzed a situation more quickly\nthan the men.\nPappy didn't say another word. My father quickly finished eating\nand went outside. The sun was barely above the distant trees, yet\nthe day was already eventful.\n-----------------------\nAfter lunch Pappy said abruptly, “Luke, we're goin' to town. The\ntrailer's full.”\nThe trailer wasn't completely full, and we never took it to the gin\nin the middle of the day. But I wasn't about to object. Something\nwas up.\nThere were only four trailers ahead of us when we arrived at the\ngin. Usually, at this time of the harvest, there would be at least ten,\nbut then we always came after supper, when the place was crawling\nwith farmhands. “Noon's a good time to gin,” Pappy said.\nHe left the keys in the truck, and as we were walking away he\nsaid, “I need to go to the Co-op. Let's head to Main Street.” Sounded\ngood to me.\nThe town of Black Oak had three hundred people, and virtually\nall of them lived within five minutes of Main Street. I often thought\nhow wonderful it would be to have a neat little house on a shady\nstreet, just a stone's throw from Pop and Pearl's and the Dixie\ntheater, with no cotton anywhere in sight.\nHalfway to Main, we took an abrupt turn. “Pearl wants to see\nyou,” he said, pointing at the Watsons' house just to our right. I'd\nnever been in Pop and Pearl's house, never had any reason to enter,\nbut I'd seen it from the outside. It was one of the few houses in\ntown with some bricks on it.\n“What?” I asked, completely bewildered.He said nothing, and I just followed.\nPearl was waiting at the door. When we entered I could smell the\nrich, sweet aroma of something baking, though I was too confused\nto realize she was preparing a treat for me. She gave me a pat on\nthe head and winked at Pappy. In one corner of the room, Pop was\nbent at the waist, his back to us, fiddling with something. “Come\nhere, Luke,” he said, without turning around.\nI'd heard that they owned a television. The first one in our\ncounty had been purchased a year earlier by Mr. Harvey Gleeson,\nthe owner of the bank, but he was a recluse, and no one had yet\nseen his television, as far as we knew. Several church members had\nkinfolks in Jonesboro who owned televisions, and whenever they\nwent there to visit they came back and talked nonstop about this\nwonderful new invention. Dewayne had seen one inside a store\nwindow in Blytheville, and he'd strutted around school for an\ninsufferable period of time.\n“Sit here,” Pop said, pointing to a spot on the floor, right in front\nof the set. He was still adjusting knobs. “It's the World Series,” he\nsaid. “Game three, Dodgers at Yankee Stadium.”\nMy heart froze; my mouth dropped open. I was too stunned to\nmove. Three feet away was a small screen with lines dancing across\nit. It was in the center of a dark, wooden cabinet with the word\nMotorola scripted in chrome just under a row of knobs. Pop turned\none of the knobs, and suddenly we heard the scratchy voice of an\nannouncer describing a ground ball to the shortstop. Then Pop\nturned two knobs at once, and the picture became clear.\nIt was a baseball game. Live from Yankee Stadium, and we were\nwatching it in Black Oak, Arkansas!\nChairs moved behind me, and I could feel Pappy inching closer.\nPearl wasn't much of a fan. She busied herself in the kitchen for a\nfew minutes, then emerged with a plate of chocolate cookies and a\nglass of milk. I took them and thanked her. They were fresh from\nthe oven and smelled delicious. But I couldn't eat, not right then.\nEd Lopat was pitching for the Yankees, Preacher Roe for the\nDodgers. Mickey Mantle, Yogi Berra, Phil Rizzuto, Hank Bauer, Billy\nMartin with the Yankees, and Pee Wee Reese, Duke Snider, RoyCampanella, Jackie Robinson, and Gil Hodges with the Dodgers.\nThey were all there in Pop and Pearl's living room, playing before\nsixty thousand fans in Yankee Stadium. I was mesmerized to the\npoint of being mute. I simply stared at the television, watching but\nnot believing.\n“Eat the cookies, Luke,” Pearl said as she passed through the\nroom. It was more of a command than an invitation, and I took a\nbite of one.\n“Who are you pullin' for?” asked Pop.\n“I don't know,” I mumbled, and I really didn't. I had been taught\nto hate both teams. And it had been easy hating them when they\nwere away in New York, in another world. But now they were in\nBlack Oak, playing the game I loved, live from Yankee Stadium. My\nhatred vanished. “Dodgers, I guess,” I said.\n“Always pull for the National League,” Pappy said behind me.\n“I suppose,” Pop said reluctantly. “But it's mighty hard to pull for\nthe Dodgers.”\nThe game was broadcast into our world by Channel 5 out of\nMemphis, an affiliate of the National Broadcasting Company,\nwhatever that meant. There were commercials for Lucky Strike\ncigarettes, Cadillac, Coca-Cola, and Texaco. Between innings the\ngame would vanish and there would be a commercial, and when it\nwas over, the screen would change again, and we'd be back inside\nYankee Stadium. It was a dizzying experience, one that captivated\nme completely. For an hour I was transported to another world.\nPappy had business and at some point left the house and walked\nto Main Street. I did not hear him leave, but during a commercial I\nrealized he was gone.\nYogi Berra hit a home run, and as I watched him circle the bases\nin front of sixty thousand fanatics, I knew I would never again be\nable to properly hate the Yankees. They were legends, the greatest\nplayers on the greatest team the game had known. I softened up\nconsiderably but vowed to keep my new feelings to myself. Pappy\nwould not allow Yankee sympathizers in his house.\nIn the top of the ninth, Berra let a pitch get past him. The\nDodgers scored two runs and won the game. Pearl wrapped thecookies in foil and sent them with me. I thanked Pop for allowing me\nto share this unbelievable adventure, and I asked him if I could\ncome back when the Cardinals were playing.\n“Sure,” he said, “but it might be a long time.”\nWalking back to the gin, I asked Pappy a few questions about the\nbasics of television broadcasting. He talked about the signals and\ntowers in very vague and confusing terms and finally admitted that\nhe knew little about it, being as how it was such a new invention. I\nasked when we might get one. “One of these days,” he said, as if it\nwould never happen. I felt ashamed for asking.\nWe pulled our empty trailer back to the farm, and I picked cotton\nuntil quitting time. During supper the adults gave me the floor. I\ntalked nonstop about the game and the commercials and everything\nI'd seen on Pop and Pearl's television.\nModern America was slowly invading rural Arkansas.\n---------------A Painted HouseChapter 25\n---------------\nJust before dark my father and Mr. Leon Spruill went for a short\nwalk past the silo. My father explained that Stick Powers was\npreparing to arrest Hank for the murder of Jerry Sisco. Since Hank\nwas causing so much trouble anyway, it might be the perfect time\nfor him to ease away into the night and return to, the hills. Evidently\nMr. Spruill took it well and made no threats to leave. Tally was right;\nthey needed the money. And they were sick of Hank. It appeared as\nthough they would stay and finish the harvest.\nWe sat on the front porch and watched and listened. There were\nno sharp words, no signs of breaking camp. Nor was there any\nevidence that Hank might be leaving. Through the shadows we\ncould see him every now and then, moving around their camp,\nsitting by the fire, rummaging for more leftovers. One by one the\nSpruills went to bed. So did we.\nI finished my prayers and was lying in Ricky's bed, wide awake,\nthinking about the Yankees and Dodgers, when an argument started\nin the distance. I slid across the floor and peeked through the\nwindow. All was dark and still, and for a moment I couldn't see\nanyone. The shadows shifted, and next to the road I could see Mr.\nSpruill and Hank standing face-to-face, both talking at once. I\ncouldn't understand what they were saying, but they were obviously\nangry.\nThis was too good to miss. I crawled into the hallway and\nstopped long enough to make sure all the adults were asleep. Then I\ncrept across the living room, through the front screen door, onto the\nporch, down the steps, and scooted to the hedgerow on the east\nside of our property. There was a half-moon and scattered clouds,\nand after a few minutes of silent stalking I was close to the road.\nMrs. Spruill had joined the discussion. They were arguing about the\nSisco beating.Hank was adamant about his innocence. His parents didn't want\nhim arrested.\n“I'll kill that fat deputy,” he growled.\n“Just go back home, son, let things cool down,” Mrs. Spruill kept\nsaying.\n“The Chandlers want you to leave,” Mr. Spruill said at one point.\n“I got more money in my pocket than these sodbusters'll ever\nhave,” Hank snarled.\nThe argument was spinning in several directions. Hank said harsh\nthings about us, the Mexicans, Stick Powers, the Siscos, the general\npopulation of Black Oak, and he even had a few choice words for his\nparents and Bo and Dale. Only Tally and Trot went unscathed. His\nlanguage grew worse and his voice louder, but Mr. and Mrs. Spruill\ndid not retreat.\n“All right, I'll leave,” he finally said, and he stormed toward a tent\nto fetch something. I sneaked to the edge of the road, then\nscampered across it and fell into the depths of the Jeter cotton on\nthe other side. I had a perfect view of our front yard. Hank was\nstuffing an old canvas bag with food and clothes. My guess was that\nhe would walk to the highway and start hitchhiking. I cut through\nthe rows and crept along the side of the shallow ditch, in the\ndirection of the river. I wanted to see Hank when he walked by.\nThey had more words, then Mrs. Spruill said, “We'll be home in a\nfew weeks.” The talking stopped, and Hank stomped by me, in the\ncenter of the road, a bag slung over his shoulder. I inched my way to\nthe end of the row and watched as he headed for the bridge.\nI couldn't help but smile. Peace would be restored to our farm. I\nsquatted there for a long time, long after Hank had disappeared, and\nthanked the stars above that he was finally gone.\nI was about to begin my backtracking when something suddenly\nmoved directly across the road from me. The cotton stalks rustled\njust slightly, and a man rose and stepped forward. He was low and\nquick, obviously trying to avoid being seen. He glanced back down\nthe road, in the direction of our house, and for an instant the\nmoonlight hit his face. It was Cowboy.For a few seconds I was too scared to move. It was safe on the\nJeter side of the road, hidden by their cotton. I wanted to retrace my\nsteps, hurry to the house, crawl into Ricky's bed.\nAnd I also wanted to see what Cowboy was up to.\nCowboy stayed in the knee-deep ditch and moved quickly,\nwithout a sound. He would advance, then stop and listen. Move\nforward, then halt. I was a hundred feet behind him, still on Jeter\nproperty, moving as fast as I dared. If he heard me, then I would\nduck into the thick cotton.\nBefore long I could see the hulking figure of Hank, still in the\ncenter of the road, going home in no particular hurry. Cowboy\nslowed his chase, and I, too, slowed my pursuit.\nI was barefoot, and if I stepped on a cottonmouth I would die a\nhorrible death. Go home, something told me. Get out of there.\nIf Cowboy wanted to fight, why was he waiting? Our farm was\nnow out of sight and sound. But the river was just ahead, and\nmaybe that's what Cowboy wanted.\nAs Hank neared the bridge, Cowboy quickened his pace and\nstarted walking in the center of the road. I stayed at the edge of the\ncotton, sweating and out of breath and wondering why I was being\nso foolish.\nHank got to the river and started over the bridge. Cowboy began\nrunning. When Hank was about halfway over, Cowboy stopped long\nenough to cock his arm and throw a rock. It landed on the boards\nnear Hank, who stopped and whirled around. “Come on, you little\nwetback,” he growled.\nCowboy never stopped walking. He was on the bridge, heading\nup the slight incline, showing no fear whatsoever as Hank waited\nand cursed him. Hank looked twice as big as Cowboy. They would\nmeet in the middle of the bridge, and there was no doubt that one\nof them was about to get wet.\nWhen they were close, Cowboy suddenly cocked his arm again\nand threw another rock, almost at point-blank range. Hank ducked,\nand somehow it missed him. Then he charged at Cowboy. The\nswitchblade snapped open, and in a flash it was introduced into the\nfray. Cowboy held it high. Hank caught himself long enough to swingwildly with his bag. It brushed Cowboy and knocked off his hat. The\ntwo circled each other on the narrow bridge, both looking for an\nadvantage. Hank growled and cursed and kept his eye on the knife,\nthen he reached into the bag and removed a small jar of something.\nHe gripped it like a baseball and got ready to hurl it. Cowboy kept\nlow, bending at the knees and waist, waiting for the perfect\nmoment. As they circled slowly, each came within inches of the edge\nof the bridge.\nHank gave a mighty grunt and threw the jar as hard as he could\nat Cowboy, who was less than ten feet away. It hit him somewhere\nin the neck or throat, I couldn't tell exactly, and for a second Cowboy\nwobbled as if he might fall. Hank threw the bag at him and charged\nin. But with amazing quickness Cowboy switched hands with the\nknife, pulled a rock from his right pants pocket, and threw it harder\nthan any baseball he'd ever pitched. It hit Hank somewhere in the\nface. I couldn't see it, but I certainly heard it. Hank screamed and\nclutched his face, and by the time he could recover it was too late.\nCowboy ducked and hooked low and drove the blade up through\nHank's stomach and chest. Hank let loose with a painful squeal, one\nof horror and shock.\nThen Cowboy yanked it out and thrust it in again and again.\nHank dropped to one knee, then two. His mouth was open, but\nnothing came out. He just stared at Cowboy, his face frozen in terror.\nWith strokes that were quick and vicious, Cowboy slashed away\nand finished the job. When Hank was down and still, Cowboy quickly\nwent through his pants pockets and robbed him. Then he dragged\nhim to the side of the bridge and shoved him over. The corpse\nlanded with a splash and immediately went under. Cowboy went\nthrough the bag, found nothing he wanted, and threw it over, too.\nHe stood at the edge of the bridge and watched the water for a long\ntime.\nI had no desire to join Hank, so I burrowed between two rows of\ncotton and hid so low that I couldn't have found myself. My heart\nwas pounding faster than ever before. I was shaking and sweating\nand crying and praying, too. I should've been in bed, safe and\nasleep with my parents next door and my grandparents just downthe hall. But they seemed so far away. I was alone in a shallow\nfoxhole, alone and frightened and in great danger. I'd just seen\nsomething that I still didn't believe.\nI don't know how long Cowboy stood there on the bridge,\nwatching the water, making sure Hank was gone. The clouds would\nmove over the half-moon, and I could barely see him. They'd move\nagain, and there he was, still standing, his dirty cowboy hat cocked\nto one side. After a long time, he walked off the bridge and stopped\nby the edge of the river to wash his knife. He watched the river\nsome more, then turned and started walking down the road. When\nhe passed me he was twenty feet away, and I felt like I was buried\nat least two feet in the ground.\nI waited forever, until he was long out of sight, until there was no\npossible way he could hear me, then I crawled out of my little hole\nand began my journey home. I wasn't sure what I would do once I\ngot there, but I'd be safe. I'd think of something.\nI stayed low, moving through the tall Johnson grass along the\nedge of the field. As farmers we hated Johnson grass, but for the\nfirst time in my life I was thankful for it. I wanted to hurry, to sprint\ndown the middle of the road and get home as fast as possible, but I\nwas terrified, and my feet were heavy. Fatigue and fear gripped me,\nand I could hardly move at times. It took forever before I saw the\noutlines of our house and barn. I watched the road in front of me,\ncertain that Cowboy was up there somewhere, watching his rear,\nwatching his flanks. I tried not to think about Hank. I was too\nconcerned with getting to the house.\nWhen I stopped to catch my breath, I picked up the\nunmistakable smell of a Mexican. They seldom bathed, and after a\nfew days of picking cotton they took on their own particular odor.\nIt passed quickly, and after a minute or two of heavy breathing I\nwondered if I was just imagining things. Not taking chances, I\nretreated once again to the depths of the Jeter cotton and slowly\nheaded east, cutting through row after row without a sound. When I\ncould see the white tents of Camp Spruill, I knew I was almost\nhome.What would I tell about Hank? The truth, nothing but. I was\nburdened with enough secrets; there was room for no more,\nespecially one as heavy as this. I'd crawl into Ricky's room, try and\nget some sleep, and when my father woke me to collect eggs and\nmilk I'd tell the whole story. Every step, every move, every cut of the\nknife-my father would hear it all. He and Pappy would head to town\nto report the killing to Stick Powers, and they'd have Cowboy in jail\nbefore lunch. They'd probably hang him before Christmas.\nHank was dead. Cowboy would be in jail. The Spruills would pack\nup and leave, but I didn't care. I never wanted to see another\nSpruill, not even Tally. I wanted everybody off our farm and out of\nour lives.\nI wanted Ricky to come home and the Latchers to move away,\nthen everything would be normal again.\nWhen I was within sprinting distance of our front porch, I\ndecided to make my move. My nerves were frayed, my patience\ngone. I'd been hiding for hours, and I was tired of it. I scooted to\nthe very end of the cotton rows and stepped over the ditch into the\nroad. I ducked low, listened for a second, then started to run. After\ntwo steps, maybe three, there was a sound from behind, then a\nhand slapped my feet together and down I went. Cowboy was on\ntop of me, a knee in my chest, the switchblade an inch from my\nnose. His eyes were glowing. “Silence!” he hissed.\nWe were both breathing hard and sweating profusely, and his\nodor hit me hard; no doubt the same one I'd smelled just minutes\nearlier. I stopped wiggling and gritted my teeth. His knee was\ncrushing me.\n“Been to the river?” he asked.\nI shook my head no. Sweat from his chin dripped into my eyes\nand burned. He waved the blade a little, as if I couldn't see it\nalready.\n“Then where you been?” he asked.\nI shook my head again; I couldn't speak. Then I realized my\nwhole body was shaking, trembling in rigid fear.\nWhen it was apparent I could not utter a word, he took the tip of\nthe blade and tapped my forehead. “You speak one word abouttonight,” he said slowly, his eyes doing more talking than his mouth,\n“and I will kill your mother. Understand?”\nI nodded fiercely. He stood and walked away, quickly\ndisappearing into the blackness and leaving me in the dust and dirt\nof our road. I started crying, and crawling, and I made it to our truck\nbefore I passed out.\n---------------------\nThey found me under their bed. In the confusion of the moment,\nwith my parents yelling at me and quizzing me about everything-my\ndirty clothes, the bloody nicks on my arms, why exactly was I\nsleeping under their bed-I managed to conjure up the tale that I'd\nhad a horrible dream. Hank had drowned! And I had gone to check\non him.\n“You were sleepwalkin'!” my mother said in disbelief, and I seized\nthis immediately.\n“I guess,” I said, nodding. Everything after that was a blur-I was\ndead tired and scared and not sure if what I'd seen at the river had\nreally happened or had in fact been a dream. I was horrified at the\nthought of ever facing Cowboy again.\n“Ricky used to do that,” Gran added from the hallway. “Caught\n'im one night out past the silo.”\nThis helped calm things somewhat. They led me to the kitchen\nand sat me at the table. My mother scrubbed me while Gran\ndoctored the Johnson grass cuts on my arms. The men saw that\nmatters were under control, so they left to gather eggs and milk.\nA loud thunderstorm hit just as we were about to eat, and the\nsounds were a great relief to me. We wouldn't be going to the fields\nfor a few hours. I wouldn't be near Cowboy.\nThey watched me as I picked at my food. “I'm okay,” I said at\none point.\nThe rain fell heavy and loud onto our tin roof, drowning out\nconversation so that we ate in silence, the men worrying about the\ncotton, the women worrying about me.\nI had enough worries to crush us all.\n“Could I finish later?” I asked, slightly shoving my plate away.\n“I'm really sleepy.”My mother decided that I would go back to bed and rest for as\nlong as I needed to. As the women were clearing the table, I\nwhispered to my mother and asked her if she would lie down with\nme. Of course she would.\nShe fell asleep before I did. We were in my parents' bed, in their\nsemidark bedroom, still and cool and listening to the rain, with the\nmen in the kitchen not far away, drinking coffee and waiting, and I\nfelt safe.\nI wanted it to rain forever. The Mexicans and the Spruills would\nleave. Cowboy would be shipped home, back to where he could cut\nand slash all he wanted, and I'd never know about it. And sometime\nnext summer, when plans were made for the harvest, I'd make sure\nMiguel and his band of Mexicans were not hauled back to our\ncounty.\nI wanted my mother next to me, with my father nearby. I wanted\nto sleep, but when I closed my eyes I saw Hank and Cowboy on the\nbridge. I was suddenly hopeful that Hank was still there, still in\nCamp Spruill rummaging for a biscuit, still throwing rocks at the barn\nat midnight. Then it would all be a dream.\n---------------A Painted HouseChapter 26\n---------------\nI clung to my mother throughout the day, after the storm passed,\nafter lunch, after the rest of them went to the fields and we stayed\naround the house. There were whispers between my parents and a\nfrown from my father, but she was adamant. There were times when\nlittle boys just needed to be with their mothers. I was afraid to let\nher out of my sight.\nThe very thought of telling what I saw on the bridge made me\nweak. I tried not to think about either the killing or the telling of it,\nbut it was impossible to think of anything else.\nWe gathered vegetables from the garden. I followed her with the\nstraw basket, my eyes cutting in all directions, ready for Cowboy to\nleap from nowhere and slaughter both of us. I could smell him, feel\nhim, hear him. I could see his nasty liquid eyes watching every move\nwe made. The weight of his switchblade on my forehead grew\nheavier.\nI thought of nothing but him, and I stayed close to my mother.\n“What's the matter, Luke?” she asked more than once. I was\naware that I wasn't talking, but I couldn't force words out. There\nwas a faint ringing in my ears. The world was moving slower. I just\nwanted a place to hide.\n“Nothin',” I said. Even my voice was different-low and scratchy.\n“You still tired?”\n“Yes ma'am.”\nAnd I'd be tired for a month if it kept me out of the fields and\naway from Cowboy.\nWe stopped to examine Trot's house painting. Since we were\nthere and not picking cotton, Trot was nowhere to be seen. If we left\nthe house, then he would return to his project. The east wall now\nhad a white strip about three feet high, running from the front\nalmost to the rear. It was clean and neat, obviously the work of\nsomeone who wasn't burdened with time.At his current pace there was no way Trot would finish the house\nbefore the Spruills left. What would happen after they left? We\ncouldn't live in a house with a two-toned east wall.\nI had more important things to worry about.\nMy mother decided she would “put up,” or can, some tomatoes.\nShe and Gran spent hours during the summer and early fall putting\nup vegetables from our garden-tomatoes, peas, beans, okra,\nmustard greens, and corn. By the first of November the pantry\nshelves would be packed four-deep with quart jars of food, enough\nto get us through the winter and early spring. And, of course, they\nalso put up enough for anyone who might need a little help. I was\ncertain that we'd be hauling food to the Latchers in the months to\ncome, now that we were kinfolk.\nThe very thought made me furious, but again, I wasn't worried\nabout the Latchers anymore.\nMy job was to peel tomatoes. Once peeled they would be\nchopped and placed into large pots and cooked just enough to\nsoften them, then packed into Kerr quart jars, with a tablespoon of\nsalt, and secured with new lids. We used the same jars from year to\nyear, but we always bought new lids. A slight leak around the seal\nand a jar would spoil, and it was always a bad moment during the\nwinter when Gran or my mother opened ajar and its contents\ncouldn't be eaten. It didn't happen often.\nOnce properly packed and sealed, the jars were placed in a row\ninside a large pressure cooker half-filled with water. There they\nwould boil for half an hour, under pressure, to remove any remaining\nair and to further seal the lid. Gran and my mother were very fussy\nabout their canning. It was a source of pride among the women, and\nI often heard the ladies around the church boast of putting up so\nmany jars of butter beans or of this and that.\nThe canning began as soon as the garden started producing. I\nwas forced to help with it occasionally and always hated it. Today\nwas different. Today I was quite happy to be in the kitchen with my\nmother, with Cowboy out in the fields far away.\nI stood at the kitchen sink with a sharp paring knife, and when I\ncut the first tomato I thought of Hank on the bridge. The blood, theswitchblade, the painful cry with the first cut, then the silent look of\nhorror as other cuts followed. In that first instant, I think Hank knew\nhe was about to be carved up by someone who'd done it before. He\nknew he was dead.\nMy head hit the leg of a kitchen chair. When I awoke on the sofa,\nmy mother was holding ice on a knot above my right ear. She smiled\nand said, “You fainted, Luke.”\nI tried to say something but my mouth was too dry. She gave me\na sip of water and told me I wasn't going anywhere for a while. “Are\nyou tired?” she asked.\nI nodded and closed my eyes.\n-------------------------\nTwice a year the county sent a few loads of gravel to our road.\nThe trucks dumped it, and right behind them a road grader came\nalong and leveled things out. The grader was operated by an old\nman who lived near Caraway. He had a black patch over one eye,\nand the left side of his face was scarred and disfigured to the point\nof making me cringe when I saw it. He'd been injured in the First\nWar, according to Pappy, who claimed to know more about the old\nman than he was willing to tell. Otis was his name.\nOtis had two monkeys that helped him grade the roads around\nBlack Oak. They were little black things with long tails, and they ran\nalong the frame of the grader, sometimes hopping down on the\nblade itself, just inches above the dirt and gravel. Sometimes they\nsat on his shoulder, or on the back of his seat, or on the long rod\nthat ran from the steering wheel to the front end. As Otis motored\nup and down the road, working the levers, changing the angle and\npitch of the blade, spitting tobacco juice, the monkeys jumped and\nswung without fear and seemed to have a delightful time.\nIf, for some dreadful reason, we kids didn't make it to the\nCardinals, many of us wanted to be road grader operators. It was a\nbig, powerful machine under the control of one man, and all those\nlevers had to be worked with such precision-hands and feet moving\nwith great coordination. Plus, level roads were crucial to the farmers\nof rural Arkansas. Few jobs were more important, at least in our\nopinion.We had no idea what it paid, but we were certain it was more\nprofitable than farming.\nWhen I heard the diesel engine, I knew Otis was back. I walked\nhand in hand with my mother to the edge of the road, and sure\nenough, between our house and the bridge were three mounds of\nnew gravel. Otis was spreading it, slowly working his way toward us.\nWe stepped back under a tree and waited.\nMy head was clear, and I felt strong. My mother kept tugging at\nmy shoulder, as if she thought I might faint again. As Otis drew near,\nI stepped closer to the road. The engine roared; the blade churned\nup dirt and gravel. We were getting our road fixed, a most important\nevent.\nSometimes Otis waved, sometimes he did not. I saw his scars\nand his black eye patch. Oh, the questions I had for that man!\nAnd I saw only one monkey. He was sitting on the main frame,\njust beyond the steering wheel, and he looked very sad. I scanned\nthe grader for his little partner, but there were no other monkeys.\nWe waved at Otis, who glanced at us but did not wave back. This\nwas a terrible sign of rudeness in our world, but then Otis was\ndifferent. Because of his war wounds, he had no wife, no children,\nnothing but isolation.\nSuddenly the grader stopped. Otis turned and looked down at me\nwith his good eye, then motioned for me to climb aboard. I instantly\nmoved toward him, and my mother rushed forward to say no. Otis\nyelled, “It's okay! He'll be fine.” It didn't matter: I was already\nclimbing up.\nHe yanked my hand and pulled me up to the platform where he\nsat. “Stand here,” he said gruffly, pointing to a little spot next to him.\n“Hold on here,” he growled, and I clutched a handle next to an\nimportant-looking lever that I was terrified to touch. I looked down\nat my mother, who had her hands on her hips. She was shaking her\nhead as if she could choke me, but then I saw a hint of a smile.\nHe hit the throttle, and the engine behind us roared to life. He\npushed the clutch with his foot, moved a gearshift, and we were off.\nI could've walked faster, but with the noise from the diesel it seemed\nas if we were racing along.I was on Otis's left side, very close to his face, and I tried not to\nlook at his scars. After a couple of minutes, he seemed oblivious to\nmy presence. The monkey, however, was quite curious. He watched\nme as if I were an intruder, then he slinked along on all fours, slowly,\nprepared to lunge at me at any moment. He jumped onto Otis's right\nshoulder, walked around the back of his neck, and settled onto his\nleft shoulder, staring at me.\nI was staring at him. He was no bigger than a baby squirrel, with\nfine black fur and little black eyes barely separated by the bridge of\nhis nose. His long tail fell down the front of Otis's shirt. Otis was\nworking the levers, moving the gravel, mumbling to himself,\nseemingly unaware of the monkey on his shoulder.\nWhen it was apparent that the monkey was content just to study\nme, I turned my attention to the workings of the road grader. Otis\nhad the blade down in the shallow ditch, tilted at a steep angle so\nthat mud and grass and weeds were being dug out and shoved into\nthe road. I knew from previous observations that he would go up\nand down several times, cleaning the ditches, grading the center,\nspreading the gravel. Pappy was of the opinion that Otis and the\ncounty should fix our road more often, but most farmers felt that\nway.\nHe turned the grader around, ran the blade into the other ditch,\nand headed back toward our house. The monkey hadn't moved.\n“Where's the other monkey?” I said loudly, not far from Otis's ear.\nHe pointed down at the blade and said, “Fell off.”\nIt took a second for this to register, and then I was horrified at\nthe thought of that poor little monkey falling over the blade and\nmeeting such an awful death. It didn't seem to bother Otis, but the\nsurviving monkey was undoubtedly mourning the loss of his buddy.\nHe just sat there, sometimes looking at me, sometimes gazing away,\nvery much alone. And he certainly stayed away from the blade.\nMy mother hadn't moved. I waved at her, and she waved at me,\nand again Otis took no part in any of it. He spat every so often, a\nlong stream of brown tobacco juice that hit the ground in front of\nthe rear wheels. He wiped his mouth with a dirty sleeve, both right\nand left, depending on which hand happened to be engaged with alever. Pappy said that Otis was very levelheaded-tobacco juice ran\nout of both corners of his mouth.\nPast our house I could see, from my lofty position, the cotton\ntrailer in the middle of a field and a few straw hats scattered about. I\nsearched until I found the Mexicans, in the same general area as\nusual, and I thought of Cowboy out there, switchblade in his pocket,\nno doubt quite proud of his latest killing. I wondered if he'd told his\npals about it. Probably not.\nFor a moment I was frightened because my mother was back\nbehind us, alone. This didn't make any sense, and I knew it, but\nmost of my thoughts were irrational.\nWhen I saw the tree line along the river, a new fear gripped me.\nI was suddenly afraid to see the bridge, the scene of the crime.\nSurely there were bloodstains, evidence that something awful had\nhappened. Did the rain wash them away? Days often went by\nwithout a car or truck passing over the bridge. Had anyone seen\nHank's blood? There was a good chance the evidence would be\ngone.\nHad there really been bloodshed? Or was it all a bad dream?\nNor did I want to see the river. The water moved slowly this time\nof the year, and Hank was such a large victim. Could he be ashore\nby now? Washed up on a gravel bar like a beached whale? I\ncertainly didn't want to be the one to find him.\nHank had been cut to pieces. Cowboy had the nearest\nswitchblade and plenty of motive. It was a crime that even Stick\nPowers could solve.\nI was the only eyewitness, but I'd already decided I would take it\nto my grave.\nOtis shifted gears and turned around, no small feat with a road\ngrader, as I was learning. I caught a glimpse of the bridge, but we\nwere too far away to see much. The monkey grew weary of staring\nat me and shifted shoulders. He peeked at me around Otis's head\nfor a minute or so, then just sat there, perched like an owl, studying\nthe road.\nOh, if Dewayne could see me now! He'd burn with envy. He'd be\nhumiliated. He'd be so overcome with defeat that he wouldn't speakto me for a long time. I couldn't wait for Saturday. I'd spread the\nword along Main Street that I'd spent the day with Otis on the road\ngrader-Otis and his monkey. Just one monkey, though, and I'd be\nforced to tell what happened to the other. And all those levers and\ncontrols that, from the ground, looked so thoroughly intimidating but\nin reality were no problem for me at all. I'd learned how to operate\nthem! It would be one of my finest moments.\nOtis stopped in front of our house. I climbed down and yelled,\n“Thank you!” but he was off without a nod or word of any sort.\nI suddenly thought about the dead monkey, and I started crying.\nI didn't want to cry, and I tried not to, but the tears were pouring\nout, and I couldn't control myself. My mother came running from the\nhouse, asking what was wrong. I didn't know what was wrong; I\nwas just crying. I was scared and tired, almost faint again, and I just\nwanted everything to be normal, with the Mexicans and the Spruills\nout of our lives, with Ricky home, with the Latchers gone, with the\nnightmare of Hank erased from my memory. I was tired of secrets,\ntired of seeing things I was not supposed to see.\nAnd so I just cried.\nMy mother held me tightly. When I realized she was frightened, I\nmanaged to tell her about the dead monkey.\n“Did you see it?” she asked in horror.\nI shook my head and kept explaining. We walked back to the\nporch and sat for a long time.\n--------------------\nHank's departure was confirmed at some point during the day.\nOver supper my father said that Mr. Spruill had told him that Hank\nhad left during the night. He was hitchhiking back to their home in\nEureka Springs.\nHank was floating at the bottom of the St. Francis River, and\nwhen I thought about him down there with the channel catfish, I\nlost my appetite. The adults were watching me closer than usual.\nDuring the past twenty-four hours I'd fainted, had nightmares, cried\nseveral times, and, as far as they knew, gone for a long walk in my\nsleep. Something was wrong with me, and they were concerned.“Wonder if he'll make it home,” Gran said. This launched a round\nof stories about folks who'd disappeared. Pappy had a cousin who\nhad been migrating with his family from Mississippi to Arkansas.\nThey were traveling in two old trucks. They came to a railroad\ncrossing. The first truck, the one driven by the cousin in question,\ncrossed first. A train came roaring by, and the second truck waited\nfor it to pass. It was a long train, and when it finally cleared, there\nwas no sign of the first truck on the other side. The second truck\ncrossed and came to a fork in the road. The cousin was never seen\nagain, and that had been thirty years ago. No sign of him or the\ntruck.\nI'd heard this story many times. I knew Gran would go next, and\nsure enough, she told the tale about her mother's father, a man\nwho'd sired six kids then hopped on a train and fled to Texas.\nSomeone in the family stumbled across him twenty years later. He\nhad another wife and six more kids.\n“You okay, Luke?” Pappy said when the eating was over. All of his\ngruffness was gone. They were telling stories for my benefit, trying\nto amuse me because I had them worried.\n“Just tired, Pappy,” I said.\n“You want to go to bed early?” my mother asked, and I nodded.\nI went to Ricky's room while they washed the dishes. My letter to\nhim was now two pages long, a monumental effort. It was still in my\nwriting tablet, hidden under the mattress, and it covered most of the\nLatcher conflict. I read it again and was quite pleased with myself. I\ntoyed with the idea of telling Ricky about Cowboy and Hank, but\ndecided to wait until he came home. By then the Mexicans would be\ngone, things would be safe again, and Ricky would know what to do.\nI decided that the letter was ready to be mailed, then started\nworrying about how I might accomplish mailing it. We always sent\nour letters at the same time, often in the same large manila\nenvelope. I decided that I'd consult with Mr. Lynch Thornton at the\npost office on Main Street.\nMy mother read me the story of Daniel in the lions' den, one of\nmy favorites. Once the weather broke and the nights became cool,\nwe spent less time on the porch and more time reading before bed.My mother and I read, the others did not. She preferred Bible\nstories, and this suited me fine. She would read awhile, then explain\nthings. Then read some more. There was a lesson in every story,\nand she made sure I understood each one. Nothing irritated me\nmore than for Brother Akers to screw up the details in one of his\nlong-winded sermons.\nWhen I was ready for bed, I asked her if she would stay there, in\nRicky's bed with me, until I fell asleep.\n“Of course I will,” she said.\n----------------A Painted HouseChapter 27\n----------------\nAfter a day of rest, there was no way my father would tolerate\nfurther absence from the fields. He pulled me out of bed at five, and\nwe went about our routine chores of gathering eggs and milk.\nI knew I couldn't continue to hide in the house with my mother,\nso I bravely went through the motions of getting ready to pick\ncotton. I'd have to face Cowboy at some point before he left. It was\nbest to get it over with and to do it with plenty of folks around.\nThe Mexicans were walking to the fields, skipping the morning\nride on the flatbed trailer. They could start picking a few minutes\nearlier, plus it kept them away from the Spruills. We left the house\njust before dawn. I held firm to Pappy's seat on the tractor and\nwatched my mother's face slowly disappear in the kitchen window.\nI'd prayed long and hard the night before, and something told me\nshe would be safe.\nAs we made our way along the field road, I studied the John\nDeere tractor. I'd spent hours on it, plowing, disking, planting, even\nhauling cotton to town with my father or Pappy, and its operation\nhad always seemed sufficiently complex and challenging. Now, after\nthirty minutes on the road grader, with its puzzling array of levers\nand pedals, the tractor seemed quite simple. Pappy just sat there,\nhands on the wheel, feet still, half-asleep-while Otis had been a\nstudy in constant motion-another reason why I should grade roads\nand not farm if, of course, the baseball career did not work out, a\nmost unlikely event.\nThe Mexicans were already half a row down, lost in the cotton\nand oblivious to our arrival. I knew Cowboy was with them, but in\nthe early light I couldn't tell one Mexican from the other.\nI avoided him until we broke for lunch. Evidently he'd seen me\nduring the morning, and I guess he figured a little reminder would\nbe appropriate. While the rest of his pals ate leftovers under the\nshade of the cotton trailer, Cowboy rode in with us. He sat alone onone side of the flatbed, and I ignored him until we were almost to\nthe house.\nWhen I finally mustered the courage to look at him, he was\ncleaning his fingernails with his switchblade, and he was waiting for\nme. He smiled-a wicked grin that conveyed a thousand words-and\nhe gently waved the knife at me. No one else saw it, and I looked\naway immediately.\nOur agreement had just been solidified even further.\nBy late afternoon the cotton trailer was full. After a quick dinner\nPappy announced that he and I would haul it to town. We went to\nthe fields and hooked it to the truck, then left the farm on our newly\ngraded road. Otis was quite a craftsman. The road was smooth,\neven in Pappy's old truck.\nAs usual, Pappy said nothing as he drove, and this was fine with\nme because I also had nothing to say. Lots of secrets but no way to\nunload them. We crossed the bridge slowly, and I scanned the thick,\nslow waters below but saw nothing out of the ordinary-no sign of\nblood or of the crime I'd witnessed.\nMore than a full day had passed since the killing, a normal day of\nwork and drudgery on the farm. I thought about the secret with\nevery breath, but I was masking it well, I thought. My mother was\nsafe, and that was all that mattered.\nWe passed the road to the Latchers', and Pappy glanced their\nway. For the moment, they were just a minor nuisance.\nOn the highway, farther away from the farm, I began to think\nthat one day soon I might be able to unload my burden. I could tell\nPappy, alone, just the two of us. Before long Cowboy would be back\nin Mexico, safe in that foreign world. The Spruills would return\nhome, and Hank wouldn't be there. I could tell Pappy, and he would\nknow what to do.\nWe entered Black Oak behind another trailer and followed it to\nthe gin. When we parked I scrambled out and stuck close to Pappy's\nside. Some farmers were huddled just outside the gin office, and a\nserious discussion had been under way for a while. We walked up on\nthem and listened.The news was somber and threatening. The night before, heavy\nrains had hit Clay County, north of us. Some places reported six\ninches in ten hours. Clay County was upstream on the St. Francis.\nThe creeks and streams were flooded up there and pouring into the\nriver.\nThe water was rising.\nThere was a debate as to whether this would affect us. The\nminority opinion was that the storm would have little impact on the\nriver near Black Oak. We were too far away and, absent more rains,\na small rise in the St. Francis wouldn't flood anything. But the\nmajority view was far more pessimistic, and since the bulk of them\nwere professional worriers anyway, the news was accepted with\ngreat concern.\nOne farmer said his almanac called for heavy rains in mid-\nOctober.\nAnother said his cousin in Oklahoma was getting flooded, and\nsince our weather came from the West, he felt it was a sure sign\nthat the rains were inevitable.\nPappy mumbled something to the effect that the weather from\nOklahoma traveled faster than any news.\nThere was much debate and lots of opinions, and the overall tone\nwas one of gloom. We'd been beaten so many times by the weather,\nor by the markets, or by the price of seed and fertilizer, that we\nexpected the worst.\n“We ain't had a flood in October in twenty years,” declared Mr.\nRed Fletcher, and this set off a heated debate on the history of\nautumn floods. There were so many different versions and\nrecollections that the issue was hopelessly confused.\nPappy didn't join the fray, and after half an hour of listening we\nbacked away. He unhooked the trailer, and we headed home, in\nsilence, of course. A couple of times I cut my eyes at him and found\nhim just as I expected-mute, worried, driving with both hands,\nforehead wrinkled, his mind on nothing but the coming flood.\nWe parked at the bridge and walked through the mud to the\nedge of the St. Francis River. Pappy inspected it for a moment as if\nhe might see it rise. I was terrified that Hank would suddenly float tothe top and come ashore right in front of us. Without a word, Pappy\npicked up a stick of driftwood about an inch in diameter and three\nfeet long. He knocked a small limb off it and drove it with a rock into\nthe sandbar where the water was two inches deep. With his\npocketknife, he notched it at water level. “We'll check it in the\nmornin',” he said, his first words in a long time.\nWe studied our new gauge for a few moments, both certain that\nwe would see the river rise. When it didn't happen, we returned to\nthe truck.\nThe river scared me and not because it might flood. Hank was\nout there, cut and dead and bloated with river water, ready to wash\nashore where someone would find him. We'd have a real murder on\nour hands, not a just a killing like the Sisco beating, but a genuine\nslaying.\nThe rains would get rid of Cowboy. And the rains would swell the\nriver and move it faster. Hank, or what was left of him, would get\nswept downstream to another county or maybe even another state\nwhere someday someone would find him and not have the slightest\nclue as to who he was.\nBefore I fell asleep that night, I prayed for rain. I prayed as hard\nas I possibly could. I asked God to send the biggest flood since\nNoah.\nWe were in the middle of breakfast on Saturday morning when\nPappy stomped in from the back porch. One look at his face satisfied\nour curiosity. “River's up four inches, Luke,” he said to me as he took\nhis seat and began reaching for food. “And there's lightnin' to the\nwest.”\nMy father frowned but kept chewing. When it came to the\nweather, he was always pessimistic. If the weather was fine, then it\nwas just a matter of time before it turned bad. If it was bad, then\nthat's what he'd expected all along. Gran took the news with no\nexpression at all. Her younger son was fighting in Korea, and that\nwas far more important than the next rain. She had never left the\nsoil, and she knew that some years were good, some bad, but life\ndidn't stop. God gave us life and health and plenty of food, and that\nwas more than most folks could say. Plus, Gran had little patience forall the fretting over the weather. “Can't do anything about it,” she\nsaid over and over.\nMy mother didn't smile or frown, but she had a curious look of\ncontentment. She was determined not to spend her life scratching a\nmeager existence from the land. And she was even more determined\nthat I would not farm. Her days on the farm were numbered, and\nanother lost crop could only hasten our departure.\nBy the time we finished eating, we heard thunder. Gran and my\nmother cleared the dishes, then made another pot of coffee. We sat\nat the table, talking and listening, waiting to see how rough the\nstorm would be. I thought my prayer was about to be answered,\nand I felt guilty for such a devious wish.\nBut the thunder and lightning moved to the north. No rain fell. By\n7 A.M. we were in the fields, picking hard and longing for noon.\n-------------------------\nWhen we left for town, only Miguel hopped in the back of the\ntruck. The rest of the Mexicans were working, he explained, and he\nneeded to buy a few things for them. I was relieved beyond words. I\nwouldn't be forced to ride in with Cowboy crouched just a few feet\naway from me.\nWe hit rain at the edge of Black Oak, a cool drizzle instead of a\nfierce storm. The sidewalks were busy with folks moving slowly\nunder the store canopies and balconies, trying, but failing, to stay\ndry.\nThe weather kept many farm families away from town. This was\nevident when the four o'clock matinee began at the Dixie theater.\nHalf the seats were empty, a sure sign that it was not a normal\nSaturday. Halfway through the first show the aisle lights flickered,\nthen the screen went blank. We sat in the darkness, ready to panic\nand bolt, and listened to the thunder.\n“Power's out,” said an official voice in the rear. “Please leave\nslowly.”\nWe huddled into the cramped lobby and watched the rain fall in\nsheets along Main Street. The sky was dark gray, and the few cars\nthat passed by used their headlights.Even as kids we knew that there was too much rain, too many\nstorms, too many rumors of rising waters. Floods happened in the\nspring, rarely during the harvest. In a world where everyone either\nfarmed or traded with farmers, a wet season in mid-October was\nquite depressing.\nWhen it slacked off a little, we ran down the sidewalk to find our\nparents. Heavy rains meant muddy roads, and the town would soon\nbe empty as the farm families left for home before dark. My father\nhad mentioned buying a saw blade, so I ducked into the hardware\nstore in hopes of finding him. It was crowded with people waiting\nand watching the weather outside. In little pockets of conversation,\nold men were telling stories of ancient floods. Women were talking\nabout how much rain there'd been in other towns-Paragould,\nLepanto, and Manila. The aisles were filled with people who were\njust talking, not buying or looking for merchandise.\nI worked my way through the crowd, looking for my father. The\nhardware store was ancient, and toward the rear it became darker\nand cavern-like. The wooden floors were wet from the traffic and\nsagged from years of use. At the end of an aisle, I turned and came\nface-to-face with Tally and Trot. She was holding a gallon of white\npaint. Trot was holding a quart. They were loitering like everybody\nelse, waiting for the storm to pass. Trot saw me and tried to hide\nbehind Tally. “Hello, Luke,” she said with a smile.\n“Howdy,” I said, looking at the paint bucket. She set it on the\nfloor beside her. “What's the paint for?”\n“Oh, it's nothin',” she said, smiling again. Once again I was\nreminded that Tally was the prettiest girl I'd ever met, and when she\nsmiled at me my mind went blank. Once you've seen a pretty girl\nnaked, you feel a certain attachment to her.\nTrot wedged himself tightly behind her, like a toddler hiding\nbehind his mother. She and I talked about the storm, and I relayed\nthe exciting news about the power going out in the middle of the\nmatinee. She listened with interest, and the more I talked the more I\nwanted to talk. I told her about the rumors of rising waters and\nabout the gauge Pappy and I had set at the river. She asked about\nRicky, and we talked about him for a long time.Of course I forgot about the paint.\nThe lights flickered, and the power returned. It was still raining,\nthough, and no one left the store.\n“How's that Latcher girl?” she asked, her eyes darting around as\nif someone might hear her. It was one of our great secrets.\nI was about to say something, when it suddenly hit me that\nTally's brother was dead, and she knew nothing about it. The Spruills\nprobably thought Hank was home by now, back in Eureka Springs,\nback in their nice little painted house. They'd see him in a few\nweeks, sooner if it kept raining. I looked at her and tried to speak,\nbut all I could think about was how shocked she'd be if I said what I\nwas thinking.\nI adored Tally, in spite of her moods and her secrets, in spite of\nher funny business with Cowboy. I couldn't help but adore her, and I\ncertainly didn't want to hurt her. The very thought of blurting out\nthat Hank was dead made me weak in the knees.\nI stuttered and stammered and looked at the floor. I was\nsuddenly cold and scared. “See you later,” I managed to say, then\nturned and backtracked to the front.\nDuring a break in the rain, the stores emptied and folks scurried\nalong the sidewalks, heading for the cars and trucks. The clouds\nwere still dark, and we wanted to get home before the showers hit\nagain.\n---------------A Painted HouseChapter 28\n---------------\nSunday was gray and overcast, and my father didn't care for the\nnotion of getting wet while riding in the back of the truck on the way\nto church. Plus, our truck was not exactly waterproof, and the\nwomen usually got dripped on while riding in the cab during a good\nshower. We rarely missed a Sunday worship, but the threat of rain\noccasionally kept us at home. We hadn't missed a service in months,\nand so when Gran suggested we eat a late breakfast and listen to\nthe radio we quickly agreed. Bellevue Baptist was the largest church\nin Memphis, and its services were broadcast on station WHBQ.\nPappy didn't like the preacher, said he was too liberal, but we\nenjoyed hearing him nonetheless. And the choir had a hundred\nvoices, which was about eighty more than the one at the Black Oak\nBaptist Church.\nLong after breakfast, we sat at the kitchen table, sipping coffee\n(myself included), listening to a sermon being delivered to a\ncongregation of three thousand members, and worrying about the\ndrastic change in the weather. The adults were worrying; I was only\npretending.\nBellevue Baptist had an orchestra, of all things, and when it\nplayed the benediction, Memphis seemed a million miles away. An\norchestra in a church. Gran's older daughter, my aunt Betty, lived in\nMemphis, and though she didn't worship at Bellevue she knew\nsomeone who did. All the men wore suits. All the families drove nice\ncars. It was indeed a different world.\nPappy and I drove to the river to check our gauge. The rains\nwere taking a toll on Otis's recent grade work. The shallow ditches\nbeside the road were full, gullies were forming from the runoff, and\nmud holes were holding water. We stopped in the middle of the\nbridge and studied the river on both sides. Even I could tell the\nwater was up. The sandbars and gravel bars were covered. The\nwater was thicker and a lighter shade of brown, evidence ofdrainage from the creeks that ran through the fields. The current\nswirled and was moving faster. Debris-driftwood and logs and even a\ngreen branch or two- floated atop the water.\nOur gauge was still standing, but barely. Just a few inches\nremained above the water. Pappy had to get his boots wet to\nretrieve the stick. He pulled it up, examined it as if it had done\nsomething wrong, and said, almost to himself, “Up 'bout ten inches\nin twenty-four hours.” He squatted and tapped the stick on a rock.\nWatching him, I became aware of the noise of the river. It wasn't\nloud, but the water was rushing by and streaming over the gravel\nbars and against the bridge piers. The current splashed through the\nthick shrubs hanging over the banks and pecked away at the roots\nof a nearby willow tree. It was a menacing noise. One I'd never\nheard.\nPappy was hearing it all too well. With the stick he pointed at the\nbend in the river, far to the right, and said, “It'll get the Latchers\nfirst. They're on low ground.”\n“When?” I asked.\n“Depends on the rain. If it stops, then it might not flood at all.\nKeeps rainin' though, and it'll be over the banks in a week.”\n“When's the last time it flooded?”\n“Three years ago, but that was in the spring. Last fall flood was a\nlong time ago.”\nI had plenty of questions about floods, but it was not a subject\nPappy liked to dwell on. We studied the river for a while, and\nlistened to it, then we walked back to the truck and drove home.\n“Let's go to Siler's Creek,” he said. The field roads were too\nmuddy for the truck, so Pappy fired up the John Deere, and we\npulled out of the farmyard with most of the Spruills and all of the\nMexicans watching us with great curiosity. The tractor was never\noperated on Sunday. Surely Eli Chandler was not about to work on\nthe Sabbath.\nThe creek had been transformed. Gone were the clear waters\nwhere Tally liked to bathe. Gone were the cool little rivulets running\naround rocks and logs. Instead the creek was much wider and filled\nwith muddy water rushing to the St. Francis, half a mile away. Wegot off the tractor and walked to the bank. “This is where our floods\ncome from,” Pappy said. “Not the St. Francis. The ground's lower\nhere, and when the creek runs over, it heads straight for our fields.”\nThe water was at least ten feet below us, still safely contained in\nthe ravine that had been cut through our farm decades earlier. It\nseemed impossible that the creek could ever rise high enough to\nescape.\n“You think it'll flood, Pappy?” I asked.\nHe thought long and hard, or maybe he wasn't thinking at all. He\nwatched the creek and finally said, with no conviction whatsoever,\n“No. We'll be fine.”\nThere was thunder to the west.\n---------------------------\nI walked into the kitchen early Monday morning, and Pappy was\nat the table, drinking coffee, fiddling with the radio. He was trying to\npick up a station in Little Rock to check on the weather. Gran was at\nthe stove, frying bacon. The house was cold, but the heat and smell\nfrom the skillet warmed things considerably. My father handed me\nan old flannel coat, a hand-me-down from Ricky, and I reluctantly\nput it on.\n“We pickin' today, Pappy?” I asked.\n“We'll know directly,” he said, without taking his eyes off the\nradio.\n“Did it rain last night?” I asked Gran, who had leaned over to kiss\nmy forehead.\n“All night long,” she said. “Now go fetch some eggs.”\nI followed my father out of the house, down the back steps, until\nI saw something that stopped me cold. The sun was barely up, but\nthere was plenty of light. There was no mistake in what I was\nseeing.\nI pointed and managed to say only, “Look.”\nMy father was ten steps away, heading for the chicken coops.\n“What is it, Luke?” he asked.\nIn the spot under the oak tree where Pappy had parked his truck\nevery day of my life, the ruts were bare. The truck was gone.\n“The truck,” I said.My father walked slowly to my side, and for a long time we\nstared at the parking spot. The truck had always been there, forever,\nlike one of the oaks or one of the sheds. We saw it every day, but\nwe didn't notice it because it was always there.\nWithout a word, he turned and walked up the back steps, across\nthe porch, and into the kitchen. “Any reason why the truck would be\ngone?” he asked Pappy, who was trying desperately to hear a\nscratchy report from some faraway place. Gran froze and cocked her\nhead sideways as if she needed the question repeated. Pappy turned\nthe radio off. “Say what?” he said.\n“The truck's gone,” my father said.\nPappy looked at Gran, who looked at my father. They all looked\nat me as if I'd once again done something wrong. About this time\nmy mother entered the kitchen, and the entire family marched single\nfile out of the house and right up to the muddy ruts where the truck\nshould've been.\nWe searched the farm, as if the truck could have somehow\nmoved itself to another location.\n“I left it right here,” Pappy said in disbelief. Of course he'd left it\nright there. The truck had never been left overnight anywhere else\non the farm.\nIn the distance Mr. Spruill yelled, “Tally!”\n“Somebody took our truck,” Gran said, barely audible.\n“Where was the key?” my father asked.\n“By the radio, same as always,” Pappy said. There was a small\npewter bowl at the end of the kitchen table, next to the radio, and\nthe truck key was always left there. My father went to inspect the\nbowl. He returned promptly and said, “The key's gone.”\n“Tally!” Mr. Spruill yelled again, louder. There was a flurry of\nactivity in and around the Spruills' camp. Mrs. Spruill emerged and\nbegan walking quickly toward our front porch. When she saw us\nstanding beside the house, gawking at the empty parking space, she\nran over and said, “Tally's gone. We can't find her nowhere.”\nThe other Spruills were soon behind her, and before long the two\nfamilies were looking at each other. My father explained that ourtruck was missing. Mr. Spruill explained that his daughter was\nmissing.\n“Can she drive a truck?” Pappy asked.\n“No, she can't,” Mrs. Spruill said, and this complicated matters.\nThere was silence for a moment as everybody pondered the\nsituation.\n“You don't suppose Hank could've come back and got it, do you?”\nPappy asked.\n“Hank wouldn't steal your truck,” Mr. Spruill said with a mix of\nanger and confusion. At that moment almost anything seemed both\nlikely and impossible.\n“Hank's home by now,” Mrs. Spruill said. She was on the verge of\ntears.\nI wanted to scream, “Hank's dead!” and then run into the house\nand hide under a bed. Those poor people didn't know their son\nwould never make it home. This secret was becoming too heavy to\ncarry alone. I took a step behind my mother.\nShe leaned close to my father and whispered, “Better go check\non Cowboy.” Because I had told her about Tally and Cowboy, my\nmother was ahead of the rest of them.\nMy father thought for a second, then looked in the direction of\nthe barn. So did Pappy, Gran, and finally the rest of the group.\nMiguel was slowly making his way to us, taking his time, leaving\ntracks in the wet grass. His dirty straw hat was in his hand, and he\nwalked in such a way that made me think that he had no desire to\ndo whatever he was about to do.\n“Mornin', Miguel,” Pappy said, as if the day was off to the same\nold beginning.\n“Senor,” he said, nodding.\n“Is there a problem?” Pappy asked.\n“Si, senor. A little problem.”\n“What is it?”\n“Cowboy is gone. I think he sneaked away in the night.”\n“Must be contagious,” Pappy mumbled, then spat into the grass.\nIt took a few seconds for the Spruills to add things together. At first\nTally's disappearance had nothing to do with Cowboy's, at least tothem. Evidently they knew nothing about the couple's secret little\nromance. The Chandlers figured things out long before the Spruills,\nbut then we had the benefit of my inside knowledge.\nReality slowly settled in.\n“You think he took her?” Mr. Spruill said, almost in panic. Mrs.\nSpruill was sniffling now, trying to hold back her tears.\n“I don't know what to think,” Pappy said. He was much more\nconcerned with his pickup than with the whereabouts of Tally and\nCowboy.\n“Did Cowboy take his things with him?” my father asked Miguel.\n“Si, senor.”\n“Did Tally take her things with her?” my father asked Mr. Spruill.\nHe didn't answer, and the question hung in the air until Bo said,\n“Yes sir. Her bag's gone.”\n“What's in her bag?”\n“Clothes and such. And her money jar.”\nMrs. Spruill cried harder. Then she wailed, “Oh my baby!” I\nwanted to crawl under the house.\nThe Spruills were a beaten bunch. All heads were down,\nshoulders shrunk, eyes half-closed. Their beloved Tally had run away\nwith someone they considered low-bred, a dark-skinned intruder\nfrom a godforsaken country. Their humiliation before us was\ncomplete, and very painful.\nI was hurting, too. How could she have done such a terrible\nthing?\nShe was my friend. She treated me like a confidant, and she\nprotected me like a big sister. I loved Tally, and now she had run off\nwith a vicious killer.\n“He took her!” Mrs. Spruill bawled. Bo and Dale led her away,\nleaving only Trot and Mr. Spruill to tend to the matter. Trot's normally\nvacant look had been replaced with one of great confusion and\nsadness. Tally had been his protector, too. Now she was gone.\nThe men launched into a windy discussion of what to do next.\nThe top priority was to find Tally, and the truck, before she could get\ntoo far. There was no clue as to when the two left. They had\nobviously used the storm to cover their getaway. The Spruills hadheard nothing during the night, nothing but thunder and rain, and\nthe driveway passed within eighty feet of their tents.\nThey could've been gone for hours, certainly enough time to\ndrive to Jonesboro or Memphis or even Little Rock.\nBut the men seemed optimistic that Tally and Cowboy could be\nfound, and quickly. Mr. Spruill left to unhitch his truck from the tents\nand tables. I begged my father to let me go with them, but he said\nno. Then I went to my mother, and she held firm, too. “It's not your\nplace,” she said.\nPappy and my father squeezed into the front seat with Mr. Spruill,\nand off they went, sliding on our road, tires spinning, mud slinging\nbehind them.\nI went past the silo to the weedy remains of an old smoke shed\nand sat for an hour under the rotted tin roof, watching rain drip in\nfront of me. I was relieved that Cowboy had left our farm, and for\nthis I thanked God in a short but sincere prayer. But any relief in his\ndeparture was overshadowed by my disappointment in Tally. I\nmanaged to hate her for what she had done. I cursed her, using\nwords Ricky had taught me, and when I had spewed forth all the\nfoul language I could remember, I asked God to forgive me.\nAnd I asked Him to protect Tally.\n----------------------\nIt took the men two hours to find Stick Powers. He said he'd\nbeen en route from headquarters in Jonesboro, but Pappy said he\nlooked as if he'd been sleeping for a week. Stick was plainly thrilled\nto have such a high crime within his jurisdiction. Stealing the truck\nof a farmer was only a notch below murder in our code, and Stick\nkicked into high gear. He radioed every jurisdiction he could pick up\non his old radio, and before long most of northeast Arkansas was\nbuzzing with the news.\nAccording to Pappy, Stick was not too worried about Tally's\nwhereabouts. He guessed correctly that she had voluntarily run off\nwith a Mexican, which was a low-class and disgraceful thing to do,\nbut not exactly a felony, even though Mr. Spruill kept using the word\n“kidnapping.”It was doubtful that the two lovebirds would venture a long\njourney in our truck. They most certainly wanted to flee Arkansas,\nand Stick reasoned that their most likely means would be by bus.\nThey would be too suspicious as hitchhikers; Arkansas drivers were\nnot likely to pick up such a swarthy character as Cowboy, especially\nwith a young white girl at his side. “They're probably on a bus\nheaded North,” Stick said.\nWhen Pappy told us this, I remembered Tally's dream of living in\nCanada, a long way from the heat and humidity. She wanted lots of\nsnow, and for some reason she had chosen Montreal as her place in\nthe world.\nThe men discussed money. My father did the math and guessed\nthat Cowboy had earned close to four hundred dollars picking\ncotton. No one knew, though, how much he'd sent home. Tally had\nearned about half that much and had probably saved most of it. We\nknew she'd been buying house paint for Trot, but we had no idea of\nher other expenditures.\nIt was at this point in Pappy's narrative that I wanted to bare my\nsoul about Hank. Cowboy had robbed him after he killed him. There\nwas no way of knowing how much picking money Hank had saved,\nbut I knew for certain that there was $250 of Samson's money now\nin Cowboy's pocket. I almost blurted this out as we sat around the\nkitchen table, but I was simply too frightened. Cowboy was gone,\nbut they might catch him somewhere.\nWait, I kept telling myself. Just wait. The moment will come\nwhen I can unload my burdens.\nWhatever their finances, it was obvious that Tally and Cowboy\nhad enough money to ride a bus for a long time.\nAnd we were broke, as usual. There was a brief conversation\nabout how to replace the truck in the event that it was never found,\nbut the subject was too painful to pursue. Plus, I was listening.\nWe ate an early lunch, then sat on the back porch and watched\nthe rain.\n---------------A Painted HouseChapter 29\n---------------\nStick's old, loud patrol car came rolling into the front yard, with\nour stolen truck right behind it. Stick got out, full of importance\nbecause he'd solved the most urgent part of the crime. Black Oak's\nother deputy was driving the truck, which, as far as we could tell,\nhad not changed at all. The Spruills ran over, anxious for some word\nabout Tally.\n“Found it at the bus station in Jonesboro,” Stick announced as\nthe small crowd gathered around him. “Just like I figured.”\n“Where was the key?” asked Pappy.\n“Under the seat. And the tank's full of gas. Don't know if it was\nfull when they left here, but it's full now.”\n“It was half empty,” Pappy said, astonished. We were all\nsurprised, not only to see the truck again but to see it unchanged in\nany way. We'd spent the day worrying about a future with no truck,\nwith no means of transportation. We'd be in the same boat as the\nLatchers, forced to bum rides to town from anybody passing by. I\ncouldn't imagine such a plight, and I was now more determined than\never to someday live in a city where folks had cars.\n“I guess they just borrowed it,” Mr. Spruill said, almost to himself.\n“That's the way I see it,” Stick said. “You still want to press\ncharges?” he asked Pappy.\nHe and my father exchanged frowns. “I guess not,” Pappy said.\n“Did anybody see them?” Mrs. Spruill asked quietly.\n“Yes ma'am. They bought two tickets for Chicago, then hung\naround the bus station for five hours. The clerk knew somethin' was\nup, but figured it wasn't his business. Runnin' off with a Mexican\nain't the smartest thing in the world, but it ain't no crime. The clerk\nsaid he watched them through the night, and they tried to ignore\neach other as if nothin' was happenin'. They wouldn't sit together.\nBut when the bus loaded they got on together.”\n“What time did the bus leave?” Mr. Spruill asked.“Six this mornin'.” Stick removed a folded envelope from his\npocket and handed it to Mr. Spruill. “Found this on the front seat. I\nthink it's a note from Tally to y'all. I ain't read it.”\nMr. Spruill handed it to Mrs. Spruill, who quickly opened it and\nremoved a sheet of paper. She started reading, and she began\nwiping her eyes. Everybody watched her, waiting without a sound.\nEven Trot, who was hiding behind Bo and Dale, leaned forward and\nwatched the letter being read.\n“Ain't none o' my business, ma'am,” Stick said, “but if there's any\nuseful information, then maybe I need to know.”\nMrs. Spruill kept reading, and when she finished, she looked at\nthe ground and said, “She says she ain't comin' home. She says she\nand Cowboy are gonna get married and live up North, where they\ncan find good jobs and such.” The tears and sniffles had suddenly\nvanished. Mrs. Spruill was now more angry than anything else. Her\ndaughter hadn't been kidnapped; she'd run off with a Mexican, and\nshe was going to marry him.\n“They gonna stay in Chicago?” Stick asked.\n“Don't say. Just says up North.”\nThe Spruills began drifting away, backpedaling in retreat. My\nfather thanked Stick and the other deputy for bringing our truck\nhome.\n“You're gettin' more rain than most folks,” Stick said as he\nopened the door to his patrol car.\n“It's wet all over,” Pappy shot back.\n“River's risin' to the north,” Stick said, as if he were an expert.\n“More rain's on the way.”\n“Thanks, Stick,” Pappy said.\nStick and the other deputy got into the patrol car, Stick settling\nhimself behind the wheel. Just as he was about to close the door he\njumped out and said, “Say, Eli, I called the sheriff up at Eureka\nSprings. He ain't seen the big one, Hank. The boy shoulda been\nhome by now, don't you think?”\n“I reckon. He left a week ago.”\n“Wonder where he is?”\n“Ain't none of my concern,” Pappy said.“I ain't through with him, you know. When I find him, I'm gonna\nput his big ass in the jail in Jonesboro, and we're gonna have us a\ntrial.”\n“You do that, Stick,” Pappy said, then turned around. “You do\nthat.”\nStick's bald tires slipped and spun in the mud, but he finally got\nto the road. My mother and Gran returned to the kitchen to start\ncooking.\nPappy got his tools and spread them on the tailgate of the truck.\nHe opened the hood and began a thorough inspection of the engine\nI sat on the fender, handing him wrenches, watching every move.\n“Why would a nice girl like Tally want to marry a Mexican?” I\nasked.\nPappy was tightening a fan belt. There was little doubt that\nCowboy hadn't bothered to stop, open the hood, and meddle with\nthe engine while he was fleeing with Tally, but Pappy nonetheless\nwas compelled to adjust and fix and tinker as if the vehicle had been\nsabotaged. “Women,” he said.\n“What do you mean?”\n“Women do stupid things.”\nI waited for clarification, but his answer was complete.\n“I don't understand,” I finally said.\n“Neither do I. Neither will you. You're not supposed to\nunderstand women.”\nHe removed the air filter and gazed with suspicion at the\ncarburetor. For a moment it looked as if he'd found evidence of\ntampering, but then he turned a screw and seemed content.\n“You think they'll ever find her?” I asked.\n“They ain't lookin'. We got the truck back, so there's no crime, no\npolice tryin' to find 'em. I doubt if the Spruills'll go look for 'em. Why\nbother? If they got lucky and found 'em, what're they gonna do?”\n“Can't they make her come home?”\n“No. Once she gets married, then she's an adult. You can't make\na married woman do a damned thing.”\nHe cranked the engine and listened to it idle. It sounded the\nsame to me, but Pappy thought he heard a new rattle. “Let's take itfor spin,” he said. Wasting gasoline was a sin in Pappy's book, but he\nseemed anxious to burn a little of the free stuff Tally and Cowboy\nhad left behind.\nWe got in and backed onto the road. I was sitting where Tally\nhad been, just hours earlier, when they'd sneaked away during the\nstorm. I thought of nothing but her, and I was as bewildered as ever.\nThe road was too wet and muddy to allow Pappy to reach his\nperfect speed of thirty-seven miles an hour, but he still thought he\ncould tell that something was wrong with the engine. We stopped at\nthe bridge and looked at the river. The gravel bars and sandbars\nwere gone; there was nothing but water between the banks-water\nand debris from upriver. It rushed by, faster than I had ever seen it.\nPappy's stick, his flood gauge, was long gone, washed away by the\nswirling currents. We didn't need it to tell us that the St. Francis was\nabout to flood.\nPappy seemed mesmerized by the water and its noise. I couldn't\ntell if he wanted to curse or cry. Neither would've helped, of course,\nand I think that Pappy, for perhaps the first time, realized he was\nabout to lose another crop.\nWhatever was wrong with the engine had fixed itself by the time\nwe returned home. Pappy announced over supper that the truck was\nas good as ever, whereupon we launched into a long and creative\ndiscussion about Tally and Cowboy and where they might be and\nwhat they might be doing. My father had heard that there were a lot\nof Mexicans up in Chicago, and he guessed that Cowboy and his new\nbride would simply blend into that vast city and never be seen again.\nI was so worried about Tally that I could barely force down my\nfood.\n-----------------------\nLate the next morning, with the sun trying its best to peek\nthrough the clouds, we returned to the fields to pick cotton. We\nwere tired of sitting around the house watching the skies. Even I\nwanted to go to the fields.\nThe Mexicans were especially anxious to work. They were, after\nall, two thousand miles from home and not getting paid.But the cotton was too wet and the ground was too soft. Mud\ncaked on my boots, and it stuck to my picking sack, so that after an\nhour I felt as if I were dragging a tree trunk. We quit after two hours\nand left for the house, a sad and dispirited group.\nThe Spruills had had enough. It came as no surprise to see them\nbreaking camp. They did so slowly, as if they were only reluctantly\nadmitting defeat. Mr. Spruill told Pappy that there was no use in their\nstaying if they couldn't work. They were tired of the rains and we\ncouldn't blame them. They'd been camping out for six weeks in our\nfront yard. Their old tents and tarps were sagging under the weight\nof all the rain. The mattresses they slept on were half-exposed to\nthe weather and splattered with mud. I would've left a long time\nbefore.\nWe sat on the porch and watched them gather their junk and\npack it all haphazardly into the truck and trailer. There would be\nmore room now with Hank and Tally gone.\nI was suddenly frightened by their leaving. They would be home\nsoon, and Hank wouldn't be there. They would wait, then search,\nthen start asking questions. I wasn't sure if and how this might one\nday affect me, but I was scared just the same.\nMy mother forced me into the garden, where we gathered\nenough food for twenty people. We washed the corn, cucumbers,\ntomatoes, okra, and greens in the kitchen sink, then she carefully\narranged it all in a cardboard box. Gran put together a dozen eggs,\ntwo pounds of country ham, a pound of butter, and two quart jars of\nstrawberry preserves. The Spruills would not leave without food for\nthe trip.\nBy mid-afternoon they had finished packing. Their truck and\ntrailer were hopelessly overloaded-boxes and burlap sacks clung to\nthe sides, loosely secured by baling wire and destined to fall off.\nWhen it was apparent they were about to leave, we walked as a\nfamily down the front steps and across the yard to say our farewells.\nMr. and Mrs. Spruill met us and accepted our food. They apologized\nfor leaving before the cotton was picked, but we all knew there was\na good chance the crops were finished anyway. They tried to smile\nand be gracious, but their pain was obvious. Watching them, Icouldn't help but think that they would always regret the day they\ndecided to work on our farm. If they had picked another one, Tally\nwouldn't have met Cowboy. And Hank might still be alive, though\ngiven his lust for violence he was probably doomed to an early\ndeath. “He who lives by the sword dies by the sword,” Gran was\nfond of quoting.\nI felt guilty about all the evil thoughts I'd held against them. And\nI felt like a thief because I knew the truth about Hank, and they\ndidn't.\nI said good-bye to Bo and Dale, neither of whom had much to\nsay. Trot was hiding behind the trailer. As the farewells were winding\ndown, he shuffled toward me and mumbled something I did not\nunderstand. Then he stuck out his hand and offered me his\npaintbrush. I had no choice but to take it.\nThe exchange was witnessed by the adults, and for a moment\nnothing was said.\n“Over here,” Trot grunted, and he pointed to their truck. Bo took\nthe cue and reached for something just inside the tailgate. He pulled\nforward a gallon of white enamel, a clean unopened bucket with a\nbright Pittsburgh Paint logo across the front. He set it on the ground\nin front of me, then produced another one.\n“It's for you,” Trot said.\nI looked at the two gallons of paint, then I looked at Pappy and\nGran. Though the house painting had not been discussed in days,\nwe had known for some time that Trot would never finish the\nproject. Now he was passing the job to me. I glanced at my mother\nand saw a curious smile on her lips.\n“Tally bought it,” Dale said.\nI tapped the brush on my leg and finally managed to say,\n“Thanks.” Trot gave me a goofy grin, which made the rest of them\nsmile. Once again they headed toward their truck, but this time they\nmanaged to get in. Trot was in the trailer, alone now. Tally had been\nwith him when we first saw them. He looked sad and deserted.\nTheir truck started with great reluctance. The clutch whined and\nscraped, and when it finally released, the entire assemblage lurched\nforward. The Spruills were off, pots and pans rattling, boxes shakingfrom side to side, Bo and Dale bouncing on a mattress, and Trot\ncurled into a corner of the trailer, bringing up the rear. We waved\nuntil they were out of sight.\nThere'd been no talk of next year. The Spruills were not coming\nback. We knew we'd never see them again.\nWhat little grass was left in the front yard had been flattened,\nand when I surveyed the damage I was instantly glad they were\ngone. I kicked the ashes where they'd built their fires on home plate\nand once again marveled at how insensitive they'd been. There were\nruts from their truck and holes from their tent poles. Next year I'd\nput up a fence to keep hill people off my baseball field.\nMy immediate project, however, was to finish what Trot had\nbegun. I hauled the paint to the front porch, one gallon at a time,\nand was surprised by the weight. I was expecting Pappy to say\nsomething, but the situation drew no comment from him. My\nmother, however, gave some orders to my father, who quickly\nerected a scaffold on the east side of the house. It was a two-by-six\noak plank, eight feet long, braced by a sawhorse on one end and an\nempty diesel drum on the other. It tilted slightly toward the drum,\nbut not enough to unbalance the painter. My father opened the first\ngallon, stirred it with a stick, and helped me onto the scaffold. There\nwere some brief instructions, but since he knew so little about house\npainting I was let loose to learn on my own. I figured if Trot could do\nit, so could I.\nMy mother watched me carefully and offered such wisdom as\n“Don't let it drip” and “Take your time.” On the east side of the\nhouse, Trot had painted the first six boards from the bottom, from\nthe front of the house to the rear, and with my scaffold I was able to\nreach another three feet above his work. I wasn't sure how I would\npaint up to the roof, but I decided I would worry about it later.\nThe old boards soaked up the first layer of paint. The second one\nwent on smooth and white. After a few minutes I was fascinated by\nmy work because the results were immediate.\n“How am I doin'?” I asked without looking down.\n“It's beautiful, Luke,” my mother said. “Just work slow, and take\nyour time. And don't fall.”“I'm not gonna fall.” Why did she always warn me against\ndangers that were so obvious?\nMy father moved the scaffold twice that afternoon, and by\nsupper-time I had used an entire gallon of paint. I washed my hands\nwith lye soap, but the paint was stuck to my fingernails. I didn't\ncare. I was proud of my new craft. I was doing something no\nChandler had ever done.\nThe house painting was not mentioned over supper. Weightier\nmatters were at hand. Our hill people had packed up and left, and\nthey had done so with a large amount of the cotton still unpicked.\nThere had been no rumors of other workers leaving because of wet\nfields. Pappy didn't want folks to know we were yielding anything to\nthe rains. The weather was about to change, he insisted. We'd never\nhad so many storms this late in the year.\nAt dusk we moved to the front porch, which was now even\nquieter. The Cardinals were a distant memory, and we rarely listened\nto anything else after supper. Pappy didn't want to waste electricity\nso I sat on the steps and looked out at our front yard, still and\nempty. For six weeks it had been covered with all manner of shelter\nand storage. Now there was nothing.\nA few leaves dropped and scattered across the yard. The night\nwas cool and clear, and this prompted my father to predict that\ntomorrow would be a fine opportunity to pick cotton for twelve\nhours. All I wanted to do was paint.\n---------------A Painted HouseChapter 30\n---------------\nI glanced at the clock above the stove as we ate. It was ten\nminutes after four, the earliest breakfast I could remember. My\nfather spoke only long enough to give his weather forecast-cool,\nclear, not a cloud anywhere, with the ground soft but firm enough to\npick cotton.\nThe adults were anxious. Much of our crop was still unharvested,\nand if it remained so, our little farming operation would fall farther\ninto debt. My mother and Gran finished the dishes in record time,\nand we left the house in a pack. The Mexicans rode with us to the\nfields. They huddled together on one side of the trailer and tried to\nstay warm.\nClear, dry days had become rare, and we attacked this one as if it\nmight be the last. I was exhausted by sunrise, but complaining\nwould only get me a harsh lecture. Another crop disaster was\nlooming, and we needed to work until we dropped. The desire for a\nbrief nap arose, but I knew my father would whip me with his belt if\nhe caught me sleeping.\nLunch was cold biscuits and ham, eaten hurriedly in the shade of\nthe cotton trailer. It was warm by midday, and a siesta would have\nbeen appropriate. Instead, we sat on our picking sacks, nibbled our\nbiscuits, and watched the sky. Even when we talked, our eyes were\nlooking up.\nAnd, of course, a clear day meant that the storms were on the\nway, so after twenty minutes of lunch, my father and Pappy declared\nthe break to be over. The women jumped up as quickly as the men,\nanxious to prove they could work just as hard. I was the only\nreluctant one.\nIt could've been worse: The Mexicans didn't even stop to eat.\nI spent the tedious afternoon thinking about Tally, then Hank,\nthen back to Tally. I also thought about the Spruills and envied them\nfor escaping. I tried to imagine what they would do when theyarrived home and Hank wasn't there waiting for them. I tried to tell\nmyself that I didn't really care.\nWe had not received a letter from Ricky in several weeks. I had\nheard the adults whisper about this around the house. I had not yet\nsent my long narrative to him, primarily because I wasn't sure how\nto mail it without getting caught. And I was having second thoughts\nabout burdening him with the Latcher news. He had enough on his\nmind. If Ricky were home, we'd go fishing and I'd tell him\neverything. I'd begin with the Sisco killing and spare no details-the\nLatcher baby, Hank and Cowboy, everything. Ricky would know what\nto do. I longed for him to come home.\nI don't know how much cotton I picked that day, but I'm sure it\nwas a world record for a seven-year-old. When the sun fell behind\nthe trees along the river, my mother found me, and we walked to\nthe house. Gran stayed behind, picking as fast as the men.\n“How long they gonna work?” I asked my mother. We were so\ntired that walking was a challenge.\n“Till dark, I guess.”\nIt was almost dark when we got to the house. I wanted to\ncollapse on the sofa and sleep for a week, but my mother asked me\nto wash my hands and help with supper. She made corn bread and\nwarmed up leftovers while I peeled and sliced tomatoes. We listened\nto the radio-not a word about Korea.\nIn spite of a brutal day in the fields, Pappy and my father were in\ngood spirits when we sat down to eat. Between them, they had\npicked eleven hundred pounds. The recent rains had driven up the\nprice of cotton in the Memphis market, and if we could just get a\nfew more days of dry weather, then we might survive another year.\nGran listened from a distance. She listened but did not hear, and I\nknew she was off in Korea again. My mother was too tired to talk.\nPappy hated leftovers, but he still thanked the Lord for them. He\nalso gave thanks for the dry weather and asked for more of it. We\nate slowly; the day's exhaustion finally settled in. Conversation was\nsoft and short.\nI heard the thunder first. It was a low rumble, far away, and I\nglanced around the table to see if the adults had heard it, too. Pappywas talking about the cotton markets. A few minutes later the\nrumbling was much closer, and when lightning cracked in the\ndistance, we stopped eating. The winds picked up, and the tin roof\non the back porch began to gently rattle. We avoided eye contact.\nPappy folded his hands together and rested his elbows on the\ntable as if he might pray again. He had just asked God for more\ngood weather. Now we were about to get another drenching.\nMy father's shoulders dropped a few inches. He rubbed his\nforehead and gazed at a wall. The rain began pecking the roof, a\nlittle too loudly, and Gran said, “It's hail.”\nHail meant high winds and fierce rain, and sure enough a storm\nroared across our farm. We sat at the table for a long time listening\nto the thunder and rain, ignoring the half-eaten supper before us,\nwondering how many inches would fall and how long it would be\nbefore we could pick again. The St. Francis couldn't hold much\nmore, and when it spilled out, the crops would be finished.\nThe storm passed, but the rain continued, heavy at times. We\nfinally left the kitchen. I walked to the front porch with Pappy and\nsaw nothing but a pool of water between our house and the road. I\nfelt sorry for him as he sat in the swing and gazed in disbelief at the\nwaves of water God was sending us.\nLater my mother read Bible stories to me, her voice barely\naudible above the rain on the roof. The tale of Noah and the flood\nwas off-limits. I fell asleep before young David slew Goliath.\n-------------------------\nThe next day my parents announced that they were driving into\ntown. I was invited-it would've been too cruel to deny me the trip-\nbut Pappy and Gran were not included. It was a little family outing.\nIce cream was mentioned as a possibility. Thanks to Cowboy and\nTally, we had some free gasoline, and there was nothing to do\naround the farm. Water was standing between the rows of cotton.\nI sat in the front with them and paid close attention to the\nspeedometer. Once we turned onto the main highway and headed\nnorth toward Black Oak, my father finished shifting and sped up to\nforty-five miles an hour. As far as I could tell, the truck ran the same\nas it did at thirty-seven, but I wasn't about to mention this to Pappy.It was oddly comforting to see the other farms idled by the rain.\nNo one was trudging through the fields, trying to pick. Not a single\nMexican could be seen.\nOur land was low, prone to early flooding, and we'd lost crops\nbefore when other farmers had not. Now it appeared as if everybody\nwas getting soaked in equal measure.\nIt was midday with nothing to do but wait, and so families were\ngathered on porches, watching the traffic. The women were shelling\npeas. The men were talking and worrying. The children were either\nsitting on the steps or playing in the mud. We knew them all, every\nhouse. We waved, they waved back, and we could almost hear them\nsay, “Reckon why the Chandlers are headin' to town?”\nMain Street was quiet. We parked in front of the hardware store.\nThree doors down at the Co-op, a group of farmers in overalls was\nengaged in serious conversation. My father felt obliged to report\nthere first, or at least to listen to their thoughts and opinions on\nwhen the rain might end. I followed my mother to the drugstore,\nwhere they sold ice cream at a soda fountain in the rear. A pretty\ntown girl named Cindy had worked there for as long as I could\nremember. Cindy had no other customers at the moment, and I\nreceived an especially generous helping of vanilla ice cream covered\nwith cherries. It cost my mother a nickel. I perched myself on a\nstool. When it was clear that I had found my spot for the next thirty\nminutes, my mother left to buy a few things.\nCindy had an older brother who'd been killed in a gruesome car\nwreck, and every time I saw her I thought about the stories I'd\nheard. There'd been a fire, and they couldn't get her brother out of\nthe wreckage. And there'd been a crowd, which, of course, meant\nthere were many versions of just how awful it really was. She was\npretty, but she had sad eyes, and I knew this was because of the\ntragedy. She didn't want to talk, and that was fine with me. I ate\nslowly, determined to make the ice cream last a long time, and\nwatched her move around behind the counter.\nI'd heard enough whispers between my parents to know that\nthey were planning to make some sort of telephone call. Since wedidn't own a phone, we'd have to borrow one. I was guessing it\nwould be the phone at Pop and Pearl's store.\nMost of the homes in town had phones, as did all the businesses.\nAnd the farmers who lived two or three miles from town had\nphones, too, since the lines ran that far. My mother once told me it\nwould be years before they strung phone lines out to our place.\nPappy didn't want one anyway. He said that if you had a phone then\nyou had to talk to folks whenever it was convenient for them, not\nyou. A television might be interesting, but forget a phone.\nJackie Moon came through the door and made his way back to\nthe soda counter. “Hey, little Chandler,” he said, then tousled my hair\nand sat down beside me. “What brings you here?” he asked.\n“Ice cream,” I said, and he laughed.\nCindy stepped in front of us and said, “The usual?”\n“Yes ma'am,” he said. “And how are you?”\n“I'm fine, Jackie,” she cooed. They studied each other carefully,\nand I got the impression that something was going on. She turned\nto prepare the usual, and Jackie examined her from head to toe.\n“Y'all heard from Ricky?” he asked me, his eyes still on Cindy.\n“Not lately,” I said, staring too.\n“Ricky's a tough guy. He'll be all right.”\n“I know,” I said.\nHe lit a cigarette and puffed on it for a moment. “Y'all wet out\nthere?” he asked.\n“Soaked.”\nCindy placed a bowl of chocolate ice cream and a cup of black\ncoffee in front of Jackie.\n“They say it's supposed to rain for the next two weeks,” he said.\n“I don't doubt it.”\n“Rain, rain, rain,” Cindy said. “That's all people talk about these\ndays. Don't you get tired of talkin' about the weather?”\n“Ain't nothin' else to talk about,” Jackie said. “Not if you're\nfarmin'.”\n“Only a fool would farm,” she said, then tossed her hand towel\non the counter and walked to the front register.Jackie finished a bite of ice cream. “She's probably right about\nthat, you know.”\n“Probably so.”\n“Your daddy goin' up North?” he asked.\n“Goin' where?”\n“Up North, to Flint. I hear some of the boys are already makin'\ncalls, tryin' to get on at the Buick plant. They say the jobs are tight\nthis year, can't take as many as they used to, so folks are already\nscramblin' to get on. Cotton's shot to hell again. Another good rain\nand the river's over the banks. Most farmers'll be lucky to make half\na crop. Kind of silly, ain't it? Farm like crazy for six months, lose\neverything, then run up North to work and bring back enough cash\nto pay off debts. Then plant another crop.”\n“You goin' up North?” I asked.\n“Thinkin' about it. I'm too young to get stuck on a farm for the\nrest of my life.”\n“Yeah, me too.”\nHe sipped his coffee, and for a few moments we silently\ncontemplated the foolishness of farming.\n“I hear that big hillbilly took off,” Jackie finally said.\nFortunately I had a mouthful of ice cream, so I just nodded.\n“I hope they catch him,” he said. “I'd like to see him go to trial,\nget what's comin' to him. I already told Stick Powers that I'd be a\nwitness. I saw the whole thing. Other folks are comin' out now,\ntellin' Stick what really happened. The hillbilly didn't have to kill that\nSisco boy.”\nI shoveled in another scoop and kept nodding. I had learned to\nshut up and look stupid when the subject of Hank Spruill came up.\nCindy was back, snuffling behind the counter, wiping this and\nthat and humming all the while. Jackie forgot about Hank. “You 'bout\nfinished?” he said, looking at my ice cream. I guess he and Cindy\nhad something to discuss.\n“Just about,” I said.\nShe hummed, and he stared until I finished. When I'd eaten the\nlast bit, I said good-bye and went to Pop and Pearl's, where I hoped\nto learn more about the telephone call. Pearl was alone by theregister, her reading glasses on the tip of her nose, her gaze meeting\nmine the second I walked in. It was said that she knew the sound of\neach truck that passed along Main Street and that she could not only\nidentify the farmer driving it but also could tell how long it had been\nsince he'd been to town. She missed nothing.\n“Where's Eli?” she asked after we'd exchanged pleasantries.\n“He stayed at home,” I said, looking at the bin of Tootsie Rolls.\nShe pointed and said, “Have one.”\n“Thanks. Where's Pop?”\n“In the back. Just you and your parents, huh?”\n“Yes ma'am. You seen 'em?”\n“No, not yet. They buyin' groceries?”\n“Yes ma'am. And I think my dad needs to borrow a phone.” This\nstopped her cold as she thought of all the reasons why he needed to\ncall someone. I unwrapped the Tootsie Roll.\n“Who's he callin'?” she asked.\n“Don't know.” Pity the poor soul who borrowed Pearl's phone and\nwanted to keep the details private. She'd know more than the\nperson on the other end.\n“Y'all wet out there?”\n“Yes ma'am. Pretty wet.”\n“That's such bad land anyway. Seems like y'all and the Latchers\nand the Jeters always get flooded first.” Her voice trailed off as she\ncontemplated our misfortune. She glanced out the window, slowly\nshaking her head at the prospect of another bleak harvest.\nI'd yet to see a flood-at least not one that I could remember-so I\nhad nothing to say. The weather had dampened everyone's spirits,\nincluding Pearl's. With heavy clouds hanging over our part of the\nworld, it was hard to be optimistic. Another gloomy winter was\ncoming.\n“I hear some people are goin' up North,” I said. I knew Pearl\nwould have the details if the rumors were indeed true.\n“I hear that, too,” she said. “They're tryin' to line up jobs just in\ncase the rains stay.”\n“Who's goin'?”“Hadn't heard,” she said, but I could tell from the tone of her\nvoice that she had the latest gossip. The farmers had probably used\nher phone.\nI thanked her for the Tootsie Roll and left the store. The\nsidewalks were empty. It was nice to have the town to myself. On\nSaturdays you could hardly walk for all the people. I caught a\nglimpse of my parents in the hardware store buying something, so I\nwent to investigate.\nThey were buying paint, lots of it. Lined up perfectly on the\ncounter, along with two brushes still in their plastic wrappers, were\nfive one-gallon buckets of white Pittsburgh Paint. The clerk was\ntotaling the charges when I walked up. My father was fumbling for\nsomething in his pocket. My mother stood close to his side, straight\nand proud. It was obvious to me that she had pushed the buying of\nthe paint. She smiled down at me with great satisfaction.\n“That's fourteen dollars and eighty cents,” the clerk said.\nMy father withdrew his cash and began counting bills.\n“I can just put it on your account,” the clerk said.\n“No, this doesn't go there,” my mother said. Pappy would have a\nheart attack if he got a monthly statement showing that much spent\nfor paint.\nWe hauled it to the truck.\n---------------A Painted HouseChapter 31\n---------------\nThe buckets of paint were lined along the back porch, like\nsoldiers poised for an ambush. Under my mother's supervision, the\nscaffolding was moved by my father and rigged at the northeast\ncorner of the house, enabling me to paint from the bottom almost to\nthe roofline. I had turned the first corner. Trot would've been proud.\nAnother gallon was opened. I removed the wrapper from one of\nthe new brushes and worked the bristles back and forth. It was five\ninches wide and much heavier than the one Trot had given me.\n“We're gonna work in the garden,” my mother said. “We'll be\nback directly.” And with that she left with my father in tow, carrying\nthree of the largest baskets on the farm. Gran was in the kitchen\nmaking strawberry preserves. Pappy was off worrying somewhere. I\nwas left alone.\nThe investment by my parents in this project added weight to my\nmission. The house would now be painted in its entirety, whether\nPappy liked it or not. And the bulk of the labor would be supplied by\nme. There was, however, no hurry. If the floods came, I would paint\nwhen it wasn't raining. If we finished the crop, I'd have all winter to\ncomplete my masterpiece. The house had never been painted in its\nfifty years. Where was the urgency?\nAfter thirty minutes I was tired. I could hear my parents talking\nin the garden. There were two more brushes-another new one and\nthe one Trot had given me-just lying there on the porch beside the\nbuckets of paint. Why couldn't my parents pick up the brushes and\nget to work? Surely they planned to help.\nThe paintbrush was really heavy. I kept my strokes short and\nslow and very neat. My mother had cautioned me against trying to\napply too much at once. “Don't let it drip.” “Don't let it run.”\nAfter an hour I needed a break. Lost in my own world, facing\nsuch a mammoth project, I began to think ill of Trot for dumping it\non me. He'd painted about a third of one side of the house then fled.I was beginning to think that perhaps Pappy was right after all. The\nhouse didn't need painting.\nHank was the reason. Hank had laughed at me and insulted my\nfamily because our house was unpainted. Trot had risen to my\ndefense. He and Tally had conspired to start this project, not\nknowing that the bulk of it would fall on my shoulders.\nI heard voices close behind me. Miguel, Luis, and Rico had\nwalked up and were eyeing me with curiosity. I smiled and we\nexchanged buenas tardes. They moved in closer, obviously puzzled\nas to why the smallest Chandler had been given such a large task.\nFor a few minutes, I concentrated on my work and inched my way\nalong. Miguel was at the porch inspecting the unopened gallons and\nthe other brushes. “Can we play?” he asked.\nWhat an absolutely wonderful idea!\nTwo more gallons were opened. I gave Miguel my brush, and\nwithin seconds, Luis and Rico were sitting on the scaffold, their bare\nfeet hanging down, painting as if they'd been doing it all their lives.\nMiguel started on the back porch. Before long the other six Mexicans\nwere sitting on the grass in the shade watching us.\nGran heard the noise, and she stepped outside, wiping her hands\nwith a dish towel. She looked at me and laughed, then went back to\nher strawberry preserves.\nThe Mexicans were delighted to have something to do. The rains\nhad forced them to kill long hours in and around the barn. They had\nno truck to take them to town, no radio to listen to, no books to\nread. (We weren't even sure if they knew how to read.) They rolled\ndice occasionally, but they would stop the moment one of us drew\nnear.\nThey attacked the unpainted house with a vengeance. The six\nnon-painters offered endless advice and opinions to those with the\nbrushes. Evidently some of their suggestions were hilarious because\nat times the painters laughed so hard they couldn't work. The\nSpanish grew faster and louder, all nine laughing and talking. The\nchallenge was to convince one with a brush to relinquish it for a spell\nand allow the next one to improve on the work. Roberto emerged as\nthe expert. With a dramatic flair, he instructed the novices, Pabloand Pepe especially, on proper technique. He walked behind the\nothers as they worked, quick with advice or a joke or a rebuke. The\nbrushes changed hands, and through the ridicule and abuse, a\nsystem of teamwork emerged.\nI sat under the tree with the other Mexicans, watching the\ntransformation of the back porch. Pappy returned on the tractor. He\nparked it by the tool shed and, from a distance, he watched for a\nmoment. Then he circled wide to the front of the house. I couldn't\ntell if he approved or not, and I'm not sure that it mattered\nanymore. There was no spring in his step, no purpose to his\nmovement. Pappy was just another beaten farmer in the midst of\nlosing yet another cotton crop.\nMy parents returned from the garden with the baskets laden with\nproduce. “Well, if it isn't Tom Sawyer,” my mother said to me.\n“Who's he?” I asked.\n“I'll tell you the story tonight.”\nThey placed the baskets on the porch, careful to avoid the\npainting area, and went inside. All the adults were gathered in the\nkitchen, and I wondered if they were talking about me and the\nMexicans. Gran appeared with a pitcher of iced tea and a tray of\nglasses. That was a good sign. The Mexicans took a break and\nenjoyed their tea. They thanked Gran, then immediately started\nbickering over who got the brushes.\nThe sun battled the clouds as the afternoon passed. There were\nmoments when its light was clear and unbroken and the air was\nwarm, almost summerlike. Inevitably, we would look up at the sky in\nhopes that the clouds were finally leaving Arkansas, never to return,\nor at least not until the spring. Then the earth turned dark again,\nand cooler.\nThe clouds were winning, and we all knew it. The Mexicans\nwould soon be leaving our farm, just as the Spruills had. We couldn't\nexpect people to sit around for days, watching the sky, trying to stay\ndry, and not getting paid.\nThe paint was gone by late afternoon. The rear of our house,\nincluding the porch, was finished, and the difference was\nastounding. The brilliant, shiny boards contrasted sharply with theunpainted ones at the corner. Tomorrow we would attack the west\nside, assuming I could somehow negotiate more paint.\nI thanked the Mexicans. They laughed all the way back to the\nbarn. They would fix and eat their tortillas, go to bed early, and hope\nthey could pick cotton tomorrow.\nI sat in the cool grass, admiring their work, not wanting to go\ninside because the adults were not in good spirits. They would force\na smile at me and try to say something amusing, but they were\nworried sick.\nI wished I had a brother-younger or older, I didn't care. My\nparents wanted more children, but there were problems of some\nsort. I needed a friend, another kid to talk with, play with, conspire\nwith. I was tired of being the only little person on the farm.\nAnd I missed Tally. I tried valiantly to hate her, but it simply\nwasn't working.\nPappy walked around the corner of the house and inspected the\nnew coat of paint. I couldn't tell if he was upset or not.\n“Let's ride down to the creek,” he said, and without another word\nwe walked to the tractor. He started it, and we followed the ruts in\nthe field road. Water was standing where the tractor and cotton\ntrailer had gone many times. The front tires splashed mud as we\nchugged along. The rear tires chewed up the ground and made the\nruts deeper. We were slogging through a field that was fast\nbecoming a marsh.\nThe cotton itself looked pitiful. The bolls sagged from the weight\nof the rainfall. The stalks were bent from the wind. A week of\nblazing sunshine might dry the ground and the cotton and allow us\nto finish picking, but such weather was long gone.\nWe turned north and crept along an even soggier trail, the same\none Tally and I had walked a few times. The creek was just ahead.\nI stood slightly behind Pappy, clutching the umbrella stand and\nthe brace above the left rear tire, and I watched the side of his face.\nHis jaws were clenched, his eyes were narrowed. Other than the\noccasional flare of temper, he was not one to show emotion. I'd\nnever seen him cry or even come close. He worried because he was\na farmer, but he did not complain. If the rains washed away ourcrops, then there was a reason for it. God would protect us and\nprovide for us through good years and bad. As Baptists we believed\nGod was in control of everything.\nI was certain there was a reason the Cardinals lost the pennant,\nbut I couldn't understand why God was behind it. Why would God\nallow two teams from New York to play in the World Series? It\ncompletely baffled me.\nThe water was suddenly deeper in front of us, six inches up the\nfront tires. The trail was flooded, and for a moment I was puzzled by\nthis. We were near the creek. Pappy stopped the tractor and\npointed. “It's over the banks,” he said matter-of-factly, but there was\ndefeat in his voice. The water was coming through a thicket that\nonce sat high above the creek bed. Somewhere down there Tally\nhad bathed in a cool, clear stream that had disappeared.\n“It's flooding,” he said. He turned off the tractor, and we listened\nto the sounds of the current as it came over the sides of Siler's\nCreek and ran onto the bottomland that was our lower forty acres. It\ngot lost between the rows of cotton as it crept down the slight\nvalley. It would stop somewhere in the middle of the field, about\nhalfway to our house, at a point where the land began a gentle\nslope upward. There it would gather and gain depth before\nspreading east and west and covering most of our acreage.\nI was finally seeing a flood. There had been others but I'd been\ntoo young to remember them. All of my young life I'd heard tall tales\nof rivers out of control and crops submerged, and now I was\nwitnessing it for myself, as if for the first time. It was frightening\nbecause once it started no one knew when it would end. Nothing\nheld the water; it ran wherever it wanted. Would it reach our house?\nWould the St. Francis spill over and wipe out everyone? Would it rain\nfor forty days and forty nights and cause us to perish like the ones\nwho'd laughed at Noah?\nProbably not. There was something in that story about the\nrainbow as God's promise to never again flood the earth.\nIt was certainly flooding now. The sight of a rainbow was almost\na holy event in our lives, but we hadn't seen one in weeks. I didn't\nunderstand how God could allow such things to happen.Pappy had been to the creek at least three times during the day,\nwatching and waiting and probably praying.\n“When did it start?” I asked.\n“I reckon an hour ago. Don't know for sure.”\nI wanted to ask when it would stop, but I already knew the\nanswer.\n“It's backwater,” he said. “The St. Francis is too full, there's no\nplace for it to go.”\nWe watched it for a long time. It poured forth and came toward\nus, rising a few inches on the front tires. After a while I was anxious\nto head back. Pappy, however, was not. His worries and fears were\nbeing confirmed, and he was mesmerized by what he was seeing.\nIn late March, he and my father had begun plowing the fields,\nturning over the soil, burying the stalks and roots and leaves from\nthe previous crop. They were happy then, pleased to be outdoors\nafter a long hibernation. They watched the weather and studied the\nalmanac, and they had begun hanging around the Co-op to hear\nwhat the other farmers were saying. They planted in early May if the\nweather was right. May 15 was an absolute deadline for putting the\ncotton seeds in the ground. My contribution to the operation began\nin early June, when school was out and weeds began sprouting.\nThey gave me a hoe, pointed me in the right direction, and for many\nhours a day I chopped cotton, a task almost as hard and mind-\nnumbing as picking the stuff. All summer as the cotton and the\nweeds around it grew, we chopped. If the cotton bloomed by July 4,\nthen it was going to be a bumper crop. By late August we were\nready to pick. By early September we were searching for hill people\nand trying to line up some Mexicans.\nAnd now, in mid-October, we were watching it get swept away.\nAll the labor, the sweat and sore muscles, all the money invested in\nseed and fertilizer and fuel, all the hopes and plans, everything was\nnow being lost to the backwaters of the St. Francis River.\nWe waited, but the flood did not stop. In fact the front tires of\nthe tractor were half-covered with water when Pappy at last started\nthe engine. There was barely enough light to see. The trail wascovered with water, and at the rate the flood was spreading we'd\nlose the lower forty by sunrise.\nI had never witnessed such silence over supper. Not even Gran\ncould find anything pleasant to say. I played with my butter beans\nand tried to imagine what my parents were thinking. My father was\nprobably worried about the crop loan, a debt that would now be\nimpossible to repay. My mother was working on her escape from the\ncotton patch. She was not nearly as disappointed as the other three\nadults. A disastrous harvest, following such a promising spring and\nsummer, gave her an arsenal of artillery to use against my father.\nThe flood kept my mind off heavier matters-Hank, Tally, Cowboy-\nand for this reason it was not an unpleasant subject to think about.\nBut I said nothing.\n----------------------\nSchool would reopen soon, and my mother decided I should\nbegin a nightly routine of reading and writing. I was longing for the\nclassroom, something I would never admit, and so I enjoyed the\nhomework. She commented on how rusty my cursive writing had\nbecome and declared that I needed a lot of practice. My reading\nwasn't too smooth either.\n“See what pickin' cotton'll do to you?” I said.\nWe were alone in Ricky's room, reading to each other before I\nwent to bed. “I have a secret for you,” she whispered. “Can you\nkeep a secret?”\nIf you only knew, I thought. “Sure.”\n“Promise?”\n“Sure.”\n“You can't tell anybody, not even Pappy and Gran.”\n“Okay, what is it?”\nShe leaned even closer. “Your father and I are thinkin' about goin'\nup North.”\n“What about me?”\n“You're goin', too.”\nThat was a relief. “You mean to work like Jimmy Dale?”\n“That's right. Your father has talked to Jimmy Dale, and he can\nget him a job at the Buick plant in Flint, Michigan. There's goodmoney up there. We're not stayin' forever, but your father needs to\nfind somethin' steady.”\n“What about Pappy and Gran?”\n“Oh, they'll never leave here.”\n“Will they keep farmin'?”\n“I suppose. Don't know what else they'd do.”\n“How can they farm without us?”\n“They'll manage. Listen, Luke, we can't sit here year after year\nlosin' money while we borrow more. Your father and I are ready to\ntry somethin' else.”\nI had mixed emotions about this. I wanted my parents to be\nhappy, and my mother would never be content on a farm, especially\nwhen forced to live with her in-laws. I certainly didn't want to be a\nfarmer, but then my future was already secure with the Cardinals.\nBut the thought of leaving the only place I'd ever lived was\nunsettling. And I couldn't imagine life without Pappy and Gran.\n“It'll be excitin', Luke,” she said, her voice still a whisper. “Trust\nme.”\n“I guess so. Ain't it cold up there?”\n“Isn't,” she corrected me. “There's a lot of snow in the\nwintertime, but I think that'll be fun. We'll make a snowman and\nsnow ice cream, and we'll have us a white Christmas.”\nI remembered Jimmy Dale's stories about watching the Detroit\nTigers play and how folks had good jobs and televisions and the\nschools were better. Then I remembered his wife, the rotten Stacy\nwith her whiny nasal voice, and how I'd scared her in the outhouse.\n“Don't they talk funny up there?” I asked.\n“Yes, but we'll get used to it. It'll be an adventure, Luke, and if\nwe don't like it, then we'll come home.”\n“We'll come back here?”\n“We'll come back to Arkansas, or somewhere in the South.”\n“I don't want to see Stacy.”\n“Neither do I. Look, you go to bed and think about it. Remember,\nit's our secret.”\n“Yes ma'am.”\nShe tucked me in and turned off the light.More news to file away.\n---------------A Painted HouseChapter 32\n---------------\nAs soon as Pappy took his last bite of scrambled eggs, he wiped\nhis mouth and looked through the window over the sink. There was\nenough light to see what we wanted. “Let's take a look,” he said,\nand the rest of us followed him out of the kitchen, off the back\nporch, and across the rear yard in the direction of the barn. I was\nhuddled under a sweater, trying to keep up with my father. The\ngrass was wet, and after a few steps so were my boots. We stopped\nat the nearest field and stared at the dark tree line in the distance,\nat the edge of Siler's Creek, almost a mile away. There were forty\nacres of cotton in front of us, half our land. There were also\nfloodwaters; we just didn't know how much.\nPappy began walking between two rows of cotton, and soon we\ncould only see his shoulders and straw hat. He would stop when he\nfound the creek's advance. If he walked for a while, then the creek\nhad not done the damage we feared. Perhaps it was retreating, and\nmaybe the sun would come out. Maybe we could salvage something.\nAt about sixty feet, the distance from the mound to home plate,\nhe stopped and looked down. We couldn't see the ground or what\nwas covering it, but we knew. The creek was still moving toward us.\n“It's already here,” he said over his shoulder. “Two inches of it.”\nThe field was flooding faster than the men had predicted. And\ngiven their talent for pessimism, this was no small feat.\n“This has never happened in October,” Gran said, wringing her\nhands on her apron.\nPappy watched the action around his feet. We kept our eyes on\nhim. The sun was rising, but it was cloudy, and the shadows came\nand went. I heard a voice and looked to the right. The Mexicans had\nassembled in a quiet group, watching us. A funeral couldn't have\nbeen more somber.\nWe were all curious about the water. I'd personally witnessed it\nthe day before, but I was anxious to see it creeping through ourfields, inching its way toward our house, like some giant snake that\ncouldn't be stopped. My father stepped forward and walked between\ntwo rows of cotton. He stopped near Pappy and put his hands on his\nhips, just like his father. Gran and my mother were next. I followed,\nand not far away, the Mexicans joined in as we fanned out through\nthe field in search of the floodwaters. We stopped in a neat line, all\nof us staring at the thick, brown overflow from Siler's Creek.\nI broke off a piece of stalk and stuck it in the ground at the edge\nof the advancing water. Within a minute, the stick was engulfed by\nthe current.\nWe retreated slowly. My father and Pappy talked to Miguel and\nthe Mexicans. They were ready to leave, either to go home or to\nanother farm where the cotton could be picked. Who could blame\nthem? I hung around, just close enough to listen. It was decided\nthat Pappy would go with them to the back forty, where the ground\nwas slightly higher, and there they would try to pick for a while. The\ncotton was wet, but if the sun broke through, then maybe they could\nget a hundred pounds each.\nMy father would go to town, for the second day in a row, and\ncheck with the Co-op to see if there was another farm where our\nMexicans might work. There was much better land in the\nnortheastern part of the county, higher fields away from creeks and\naway from the St. Francis. And there had been rumors that the folks\nup near Monette had not received as much rain as those of us in the\nsouthern end of the county.\nI was in the kitchen with the women when my father relayed the\nnew plans for the day.\n“That cotton's soakin' wet,” Gran said with disapproval. “They\nwon't pick fifty pounds. It's a waste of time.”\nPappy was still outside and didn't hear these comments. My\nfather did, but he was in no mood to argue with his mother. “We'll\ntry and move them to another farm,” he said.\n“Can I go to town?” I asked both parents. I was quite anxious to\nleave because the alternative might be a forced march with the\nMexicans to the back forty, where I'd be expected to drag a pickingsack through mud and water while trying to pluck off soaked cotton\nbolls.\nMy mother smiled and said, “Yes, we need some paint.”\nGran gave another look of disapproval. Why were we spending\nmoney we didn't have on house paint when we were losing another\ncrop? However, the house was about half and half-a striking contrast\nbetween new white and old pale brown. The project had to be\nfinished.\nEven my father seemed uneasy about the idea of parting with\nmore cash, but he said to me, “You can go.”\n“I'll stay here,” my mother said. “We need to put up some okra.”\nAnother trip to town. I was a happy boy. No pressure to pick\ncotton, nothing to do but ride down the highway and dream of\nsomehow obtaining candy or ice cream once I arrived in Black Oak. I\nhad to be careful, though, because I was the only happy Chandler.\nThe St. Francis seemed ready to burst when we stopped at the\nbridge. “Reckon it's safe?” I asked my father.\n“Sure hope so.” He shifted into first, and we crept over the river,\nboth of us too afraid to look down. With the weight of our truck and\nthe force of the river, the bridge shook when we reached the middle.\nWe picked up speed and were soon on the other side. We both\nexhaled.\nLosing the bridge would be a disaster. We'd be isolated. The\nwaters would rise around our house, and we would have no place to\ngo. Even the Latchers would be better off. They lived on the other\nside of the bridge, the same side as Black Oak and civilization.\nWe looked at the Latchers' land as we drove past. “Their house is\nflooded,” my father said, though we couldn't see that far. Their crops\nwere certainly gone.\nCloser to town, there were Mexicans in the fields, though not as\nmany as before. We parked by the Co-op and went inside. Some\ngrim-faced farmers were sitting in the back, sipping coffee and\ntalking about their problems. My father gave me a nickel for a Coca-\nCola, then he joined the farmers.\n“Y'all pickin' out there?” one asked him.\n“Maybe a little.”“How's that creek?”\n“She came over last night. Moved more than half a mile before\nsunrise. The lower forty's gone.”\nThey observed a moment of silence for this terrible news, each of\nthem staring at the floor and feeling pity for us Chandlers. I hated\nfarming even more.\n“I guess the river's holdin',” another man said.\n“It is out our way,” my father said. “But it won't be long.”\nThey all nodded and seemed to share this prediction. “Anybody\nelse got water over the banks?” my father asked.\n“I hear the Tripletts lost twenty acres to Deer Creek, but I ain't\nseen it myself,” said one farmer.\n“All the creeks are backin' up,” another said. “Puttin' a lot of\npressure on the St. Francis.”\nMore silence as they contemplated the creeks and the pressure.\n“Anybody need some Mexicans?” my father finally asked. “I got\nnine of 'em with nothin' to do. They're ready to head home.”\n“Any word from number ten?”\n“Nope. He's long gone, and we ain't had time to worry about\nhim.”\n“Riggs knows some farmers up north of Blytheville who'll take the\nMexicans.”\n“Where's Riggs?” my father asked.\n“He'll be back directly.”\nHill people were leaving in droves, and the conversation settled\non them and the Mexicans. The exodus of labor was further\nevidence that the crops were finished. The dreary mood in the rear\nof the Co-op grew even darker, so I left to check on Pearl and\nperhaps cajole a Tootsie Roll out of her.\nPop and Pearl's grocery store was closed, a first for me. A small\nsign gave its hours as nine to six, Monday through Friday, and nine\nto nine on Saturday. Closed on Sundays, but that went without\nsaying. Mr. Sparky Dillon, the mechanic down at the Texaco place,\ncame up behind me and said, “Ain't open till nine, son.”\n“What time is it?” I asked.\n“Eight-twenty.”I'd never been in Black Oak at such an early hour. I looked up\nand down Main Street, uncertain as to where I should shop next. I\nsettled on the drugstore, with the soda fountain in the rear, and I\nwas walking toward it when I heard traffic. Two trucks were\napproaching from the south, from our end of the county. They were\nobviously hill people, going home, with their belongings stacked high\nand strapped to the frames of the trucks. The family in the first truck\ncould have passed for the Spruills, with teenagers squatting on an\nold mattress and gazing sadly at the stores as they passed. The\nsecond truck was much nicer and cleaner. It, too, was loaded with\nwooden boxes and burlap bags, but they were packed neatly\ntogether. The husband drove, and the wife sat in the passenger's\nseat. From the woman's lap a small child waved at me as they\npassed. I waved back.\nGran always said that some of the hill people had nicer homes\nthan we did. I could never understand why they packed up and\ncame down from the Ozarks to pick cotton.\nI saw my father go into the hardware store, so I followed him.\nHe was in the back, near the paint, talking with the clerk. Four\ngallons of white Pittsburgh Paint were on the counter. I thought\nabout the Pittsburgh Pirates. They had finished last again in the\nNational League. Their only great player was Ralph Kiner, who'd hit\nthirty-seven home runs.\nSomeday I would play in Pittsburgh. I would proudly wear my\nCardinal red and crush the lowly Pirates.\nIt had taken all the paint we had left to finish the rear of the\nhouse the day before. The Mexicans were about to leave. To me it\nmade sense to buy more paint and take advantage of the free labor\npresent on our farm. Otherwise they'd be gone, and I'd once again\nget stuck with the entire project.\n“That's not enough paint,” I whispered to my father as the clerk\nadded the bill.\n“It'll do for now,” he said with a frown. The issue was money.\n“Ten dollars plus tax of thirty-six cents,” the clerk said. My father\nreached into his pocket and pulled out a thin roll of bills. He slowly\ncounted them out, as if he didn't want to let go.He stopped at ten-ten one-dollar bills. When it was painfully clear\nhe didn't have enough, he faked a laugh and said, “Looks like I just\nbrought ten bucks. I'll pay you the tax next time I'm in.”\n“Sure, Mr. Chandler,” the clerk said.\nThey carried two gallons each and loaded the paint into the back\nof our truck. Mr. Riggs was back at the Co-op, so my father went to\nhave their talk about our Mexicans. I returned to the hardware store\nand went straight to the clerk.\n“How much is two gallons?” I asked.\n“Two-fifty a gallon, total of five dollars.”\nI reached into my pocket and pulled out my money. “Here's five,”\nI said as I handed him the bills. At first he didn't want to take it.\n“Did you pick cotton for that money?” he asked.\n“Yes sir.”\n“Does your daddy know you're buyin' paint?”\n“Not yet.”\n“What're y'all paintin' out there?”\n“Our house.”\n“Why you doin' that?”\n“ 'Cause it ain't never been painted.”\nHe reluctantly took my money. “Plus eighteen cents for tax,” he\nsaid. I handed him a dollar bill and said, “How much does my daddy\nowe for the tax?”\n“Thirty-six cents.”\n“Take it out of this.”\n“Okay.” He gave me the change, then loaded two more gallons\ninto our truck. I stood on the sidewalk watching our paint as if\nsomeone might try to steal it.\nNext to Pop and Pearl's I saw Mr. Lynch Thornton, the\npostmaster, unlock the door to the post office and step inside. I\nwalked toward him, keeping a watchful eye on the truck. Mr.\nThornton was usually a cranky sort, and many believed that this was\nbecause he was married to a woman who had a problem with\nwhiskey. All forms of alcohol were frowned upon by almost everyone\nin Black Oak. The county was dry. The nearest liquor store was in\nBlytheville, though there were some bootleggers in the area who didquite well. I knew this because Ricky'd told me. He'd said he didn't\nlike whiskey, but he had a beer every now and then. I'd heard so\nmany sermons on the evils of alcohol that I was worried about\nRicky's soul. And while it was sinful enough for men to sneak around\nand drink, for women to do so was scandalous.\nI wanted to ask Mr. Thornton how I could go about mailing my\nletter to Ricky, and do so in a way that no one would know it. The\nletter was three pages long, and I was quite proud of my effort. But\nit had all the Latcher baby details, and I still wasn't sure I should\nsend it to Korea.\n“Howdy,” I said to Mr. Thornton, who was behind the counter\nadjusting his visor and settling in for the morning.\n“You that Chandler boy?” he said, barely looking up.\n“Yes sir.”\n“Got somethin' for you.” He disappeared for a second, then\nhanded me two letters. One was from Ricky.\n“That all?” he said.\n“Yes sir. Thank you.”\n“How's he doin'?”\n“He's fine, I guess.”\nI ran from the post office back to our truck, clutching the letters.\nThe other was from the John Deere place in Jonesboro. I studied the\none from Ricky. It was addressed to all of us: Eli Chandler and\nFamily, Route 4, Black Oak, Arkansas. In the upper left corner was\nthe return address, a confusing collection of letters and numbers\nwith San Diego, California, on the last line.\nRicky was alive and writing letters; nothing else really mattered.\nMy father was walking toward me. I ran to meet him with the letter,\nand we sat in the doorway of the dry goods store and read every\nword. Ricky was again in a hurry, and his letter was only one page.\nHe wrote us that his unit had seen little action, and though he\nseemed frustrated by this, it was music to our ears. He also said that\nrumors of a ceasefire were everywhere, and that there was even talk\nof being home by Christmas.\nThe last paragraph was sad and frightening. One of his buddies,\na kid from Texas, had been killed by a land mine. They were thesame age and had gone through boot camp together. When Ricky\ngot home, he planned to go to Fort Worth to see his friend's mother.\nMy father folded the letter and stuck it in his overalls. We got in\nthe truck and left town.\nHome by Christmas. I couldn't think of a finer gift.\n--------------------------\nWe parked under the pin oak, and my father went to the back of\nthe truck to collect the paint. He stopped, counted, then looked at\nme.\n“How'd we end up with six gallons?”\n“I bought two,” I said. “And I paid the tax.”\nHe didn't seem sure what to say. “You use your pickin' money?”\nhe finally asked.\n“Yes sir.”\n“I wish you hadn't done that.”\n“I want to help.”\nHe scratched his forehead and studied the issue for a minute or\nso, then said, “I reckon that's fair enough.”\nWe hauled the paint to the back porch, and then he decided he\nwould go to the back forty to check on Pappy and the Mexicans. If\nthe cotton could be picked, then he'd stay there. I was given\npermission to start painting the west side of the house. I wanted to\nwork alone. I wanted to seem outmatched and undermanned by the\nenormity of the job before me so that when the Mexicans returned,\nthey'd feel sorry for me.\nThey arrived at noon, muddy and tired and with little to show for\ntheir morning. “Cotton's too wet,” I heard Pappy say to Gran. We ate\nfried okra and biscuits, then I went back to my work.\nI kept one eye on the barn, but for an eternity I labored with no\nrelief in sight. What were they doing back there? Lunch was over,\nthe tortillas long since put away. Surely their siestas were also\ncomplete. They knew the house was half-painted. Why wouldn't they\ncome help?\nThe sky darkened in the west, but I didn't notice it until Pappy\nand Gran stepped onto the back porch. “Might rain, Luke,” Pappy\nsaid. “Better stop paintin'.”I cleaned my brush and put the paint under a bench on the back\nporch as if the storm might damage it. I sat above it, with Pappy on\none side and Gran on the other, and we once again listened to the\nlow rumblings in the southwest. We waited for more rain.\n-------------A Painted HouseChapter 33\n-------------\nOur new ritual was repeated the next day after a late breakfast.\nWe walked across the rain-soaked grass between our house and our\nbarn, and we stood at the edge of the cotton field and saw water,\nnot rainfall that had collected during the night, but the same thick\nfloodwater from the creek. It stood three inches deep, and seemed\nready to swell beyond the field and begin its slow march toward the\nbarn, the tool shed, the chicken coops, and, eventually, the house.\nThe stalks were slanted to the east, permanently bent by the\nwind that had laid siege to our farm last night. The bolls were\nsagging under the weight of the water.\n“Will it flood our house, Pappy?” I asked.\nHe shook his head and put his arm around my shoulders. “No,\nLuke, it's never got to the house. Come close a time or two, but the\nhouse is a good three feet above where we're standin' right now.\nDon't you worry about the house.”\n“It got in the barn once,” my father said. “The year after Luke\nwas born, wasn't it?”\n“Forty-six,” Gran said. She never missed a date. “But it was in\nMay,” she added. “Two weeks after we'd planted.”\nThe morning was cool and windy with high, thin clouds and little\nchance of rain. A perfect day for painting, assuming, of course, that\nI could find some help. The Mexicans drifted close, but not close\nenough to speak.\nThey would be leaving soon, perhaps within hours. We'd haul\nthem to the Co-op and wait for them to be picked up by a farmer\nwith drier land. I heard the adults discussing this over coffee before\nsunrise, and I almost panicked. Nine Mexicans could paint the west\nside of our house in less than a day. It would take me a month.\nThere was no time to be timid.\nAs we retreated, I headed for the Mexicans. “Buenos dias,” I said\nto the group. “Como estd?”All nine answered in some fashion. They were going back to the\nbarn after another wasted day. I walked along with them until I was\nfar enough away that my parents couldn't hear. “Y'all want to paint\nsome?” I asked.\nMiguel rattled the translation, and the entire group seemed to\nsmile.\nTen minutes later three of the six paint buckets were open and\nthere were Mexicans hanging all over the west side of our house.\nThey fought over the three brushes. Another crew was rigging a\nscaffold. I was pointing here and there, giving instructions that no\none seemed to hear. Miguel and Roberto were spitting forth their\nown commands and opinions in Spanish. Both languages were being\nignored in equal measure.\nMy mother and Gran peeked at us through the kitchen window as\nthey washed the breakfast dishes. Pappy went to the tool shed to\nfiddle with the tractor. My father was off on a long walk, probably\nsurveying the crop damage and wondering what to do next.\nThere was an urgency to the painting. The Mexicans joked and\nlaughed and badgered one another, but they worked twice as fast as\ntwo days earlier. Not a second was wasted. The brushes changed\nhands every half hour or so. The reinforcements were kept fresh. By\nmid-morning they were halfway to the front porch. It was not a\nlarge house.\nI was happy to retreat and stay out of the way. The Mexicans\nworked so fast it seemed downright inefficient for me to take up a\nbrush and stall the momentum. Besides, the free labor was\ntemporary. The hour was soon approaching when I'd be left alone to\nfinish the job.\nMy mother brought iced tea and cookies, but the painting did not\nstop. Those under the shade tree with me ate first, then three of\nthem changed places with the painters.\n“Do you have enough paint?” my mother whispered to me.\n“No ma'am.”\nShe returned to the kitchen.\nBefore lunch, the west side was finished, a thick, shiny coat\nsparkling in the intermittent sun. There was a gallon left. I tookMiguel to the east side, where Trot had begun a month earlier, and\npointed up to an unpainted strip that I'd been unable to reach. He\nbarked some orders, and the crew moved to the opposite side of the\nhouse.\nA new method was employed. Instead of makeshift scaffolding,\nPepe and Luis, two of the smaller ones, balanced themselves on the\nshoulders of Pablo and Roberto, the two heaviest ones, and began\npainting just below the roofline. This, of course, drew an endless\nstream of comments and jokes from the others.\nWhen the paint was gone, it was time to eat. I shook hands with\nall of them and thanked them profusely. They laughed and chattered\nall the way back to the barn. It was midday, the sun was out, and\nthe temperature was rising. As I watched them walk away, I looked\nat the field beside the barn. The floodwaters were in sight. It\nseemed odd that the flood could advance when the sun was shining.\nI turned and inspected the work. The back and both sides of our\nhouse looked almost new. Only the front remained unpainted, and\nsince by now I was a veteran, I knew that I could complete the job\nwithout the Mexicans.\nMy mother stepped outside and said, “Lunchtime, Luke.” I\nhesitated for a second, still admiring the accomplishment, so she\nwalked to where I was standing, and together we looked at the\nhouse. “It's a very good job, Luke,” she said.\n“Thanks.”\n“How much paint is left?”\n“None. It's all gone.”\n“How much do you need to paint the front?”\nThe front was not as long as the east or west side, but it had the\nadded challenge of a porch, as did the rear. “I reckon four or five\ngallons,” I said, as if I'd been house painting for decades.\n“I don't want you to spend your money on paint,” she said.\n“It's my money. Y'all said I could spend it on whatever I wanted.”\n“True, but you shouldn't have to spend it on somethin' like this.”\n“I don't mind. I want to help.”\n“What about your jacket?”I'd lost sleep worrying about my Cardinals jacket, but now it\nseemed unimportant. Plus, I'd been thinking about another way to\nget one. “Maybe Santa Claus'll bring one.”\nShe smiled and said, “Maybe so. Let's have lunch.”\nJust after Pappy thanked the Lord for the food, saying nothing\nabout the weather or the crops, my father grimly announced that\nthe backwaters had begun trickling across the main field road into\nthe back forty acres. This development was absorbed with little\ncomment. We were numb to bad news.\nThe Mexicans gathered around the truck and waited for Pappy.\nThey each had a small sack with their belongings, the same items\nthey'd arrived with six weeks earlier. I shook hands with each one\nand said goodbye. As always, I was anxious for another ride to\ntown, even though this little trip was not a pleasant one.\n“Luke, go help your mother in the garden,” my father said as the\nMexicans were loading up. Pappy was starting the engine.\n“I thought I was goin' to town,” I said.\n“Don't make me repeat myself,” he said sternly.\nI watched them drive away, all nine of the Mexicans waving sadly\nas they looked at our house and farm for the last time. According to\nmy father, they were headed to a large farm north of Blytheville, two\nhours away, where they would work for three or four weeks,\nweather permitting, and then go back to Mexico. My mother had\ninquired as to how they would be shipped home, by cattle truck or\nbus, but she did not press the issue. We had no control over those\ndetails, and they seemed much less important with floodwaters\ncreeping through our fields.\nFood was important, though: food for a long winter, one that\nwould follow a bad crop, one in which everything we ate would\ncome from the garden. There was nothing unusual about this,\nexcept that there wouldn't be a spare dime to buy anything but flour,\nsugar, and coffee. A good crop meant there was a little money\ntucked away under a mattress, a few bills rolled up and saved and\nsometimes used for luxuries like Coca-Cola's, ice cream, saltines, and\nwhite bread. A bad crop meant that if we didn't grow it, we didn't\neat.In the fall we gathered mustard greens, turnips, and peas, the\nlate-producing vegetables that had been planted in May and June.\nThere were a few tomatoes left, but not many.\nThe garden changed with each season, except for winter, when it\nwas finally at rest, replenishing itself for the months to come.\nGran was in the kitchen boiling purple hull peas and canning\nthem as fast as she could. My mother was in the garden waiting for\nme.\n“I wanted to go to town,” I said.\n“Sorry, Luke. We have to hurry. Much more rain and the greens'll\nrot. And what if the water reaches the garden?”\n“They gonna buy some paint?”\n“I don't know.”\n“I wanted to go buy some more paint.”\n“Maybe tomorrow. Right now we have to get these turnips out of\nthe ground.” Her dress was pulled up to her knees.\nShe was barefoot with mud up to her ankles. I'd never seen my\nmother so dirty. I fell to the ground and attacked the turnips. Within\nminutes I was covered in mud from head to foot,\nI pulled and picked vegetables for two hours, then cleaned them\nin the washtub on the back porch. Gran carried them into the\nkitchen, where they got cooked and packed away in quart jars.\nThe farm was quiet-no thunder or wind, no Spruills in the front or\nMexicans out by the barn. We were alone again, just us Chandlers,\nleft to battle the elements and to try to stay above water. I kept\ntelling myself that life would be better when Ricky came home\nbecause I'd have someone to play with and talk to.\nMy mother hauled another basket of greens to the porch. She\nwas tired and sweating, and she began cleaning herself with a rag\nand a bucket of water. She couldn't stand to be dirty, a trait she had\nbeen trying to pass along to me.\n“Let's go to the barn,” she said. I hadn't been in the loft in six\nweeks, since the Mexicans had arrived.\n“Sure,” I said, and we headed that way.\nWe spoke to Isabel, the milk cow, then climbed the ladder to the\nhayloft. My mother had worked hard to prepare a clean place for theMexicans to live. She had spent the winter collecting old blankets\nand pillows for them to sleep on. She had taken a fan, one that for\nyears had found good use on the front porch, and placed it in the\nloft. She had coerced my father into running an electrical line from\nthe house to the barn.\n“They're humans, regardless of what some people around here\nthink,” I'd heard her say more than once.\nThe loft was as clean and neat as the day they'd arrived. The\npillows and blankets were stacked near the fan. The floor had been\nswept. Not a piece of trash or litter could be found. She was quite\nproud of the Mexicans. She had treated them with respect, and they\nhad returned the favor.\nWe shoved open the loft door, the same one Luis had stuck his\nhead through when Hank was bombing the Mexicans with rocks and\ndirt clods, and we sat on the ledge with our feet hanging down.\nThirty feet up, we had the best view of any place on our farm. The\ntree line far to the west was the St. Francis, and straight ahead,\nacross our back field, was the water from Siler's Creek.\nIn places the water was almost to the tops of the cotton stalks.\nFrom this view we could much better appreciate the advancing\nflood. We could see it between the perfect rows running directly\ntoward the barn, and we could see it over the main field road,\nseeping into the back forty.\nIf the St. Francis River left its banks, our house would be in\ndanger.\n“I guess we're done pickin',” I said.\n“Sure looks like it,” she said, just a little sad.\n“Why does our land flood so quick?”\n“Because it's low and close to the river. It's not very good land,\nLuke, never will be. That's one reason we're leavin' here. There's not\nmuch of a future.”\n“Where we goin'?”\n“North. That's where the jobs are.”\n“How long-”\n“Not long. We'll stay until we can save some money. Your father'll\nwork in the Buick plant with Jimmy Dale. They're payin' three dollarsan hour. We'll make do, tough it out, you'll be in a school up there, a\ngood school.”\n“I don't want to go to a new school.”\n“It'll be fun, Luke. They have big, nice schools up North.”\nIt didn't sound like fun. My friends were in Black Oak. Other than\nJimmy Dale and Stacy, I didn't know a soul up North. My mother put\nher hand on my knee and rubbed it, as if this would make me feel\nbetter.\n“Change is always difficult, Luke, but it can also be excitin'. Think\nof it as an adventure. You wanna play baseball for the Cardinals,\ndon't you?”\n“Yes ma'am.”\n“Well, you'll have to leave home and go up North, live in a new\nhouse, make new friends, go to a new church. That'll be fun, won't\nit?”\n“I guess so.”\nOur bare feet were dangling, gently swinging back and forth. The\nsun was behind a cloud, and a breeze shifted into our faces. The\ntrees along the edge of our field were changing colors to yellow and\ncrimson, and leaves were falling.\n“We can't stay here, Luke,” she said softly, as if her mind were\nalready up North.\n“When we come back what're we gonna do?”\n“We're not gonna farm. We'll find a job in Memphis or Little Rock,\nand we'll buy us a house with a television and a telephone. We'll\nhave a nice car in the driveway, and you can play baseball on a team\nwith real uniforms. How does that sound?”\n“Sounds pretty good.”\n“We'll always come back and visit Pappy and Gran and Ricky. It'll\nbe a new life, Luke, one that's far better than this.” She nodded\ntoward the field, toward the ruined cotton out there drowning.\nI thought of my Memphis cousins, the children of my father's\nsisters. They rarely came to Black Oak, only for funerals and maybe\nfor Thanksgiving, and this was fine with me because they were city\nkids with nicer clothes and quicker tongues. I didn't particularly like\nthem, but I was envious at the same time. They weren't rude orsnobbish, they were just different enough to make me ill at ease. I\ndecided then and there that when I lived in Memphis or Little Rock I\nwould not, under any circumstances, act like I was better than\nanybody else.\n“I have a secret, Luke,” my mother said.\nNot another one. My troubled mind could not hold another\nsecret. “What is it?”\n“I'm goin' to have a baby,” she said and smiled at me.\nI couldn't help but smile, too. I enjoyed being the only child, but,\ntruth was, I wanted somebody to play with.\n“You are?”\n“Yes. Next summer.”\n“Can it be a boy?”\n“I'll try, but no promises.”\n“If you gotta have one, I'd like a little brother.”\n“Are you excited?”\n“Yes ma'am. Does Daddy know about it?”\n“Oh yes, he's in on the deal.”\n“Is he happy, too?”\n“Very much so.”\n“That's good.” It took some time to digest this, but I knew right\naway that it was a fine thing. All of my friends had brothers and\nsisters.\nAn idea hit, one that I couldn't shake. Since we were on the\nsubject of having babies, I was overcome with an urge to unload\none of my secrets. It seemed like a harmless one now, and an old\none, too. So much had happened since Tally and I sneaked off to the\nLatchers' house that the episode was now sort of funny.\n“I know all about how babies are born,” I said, a little defensively.\n“Oh you do?”\n“Yes ma'am.”\n“How's that?”\n“Can you keep a secret, too?”\n“I certainly can.”\nI began the story, laying sufficient blame on Tally for everything\nthat might get me in trouble. She'd planned it. She'd begged me togo. She'd dared me. She'd done this and that. Once my mother\nrealized where the story was leading, her eyes began to dance, and\nshe said every so often, “Luke, you didn't!”\nI had her. I embellished here and there, to help move the story\nand build tension, but for the most part I stuck to the facts. She was\nhooked.\n“You saw me in the window?” she asked in disbelief.\n“Yes ma'am. Gran, too, and Mrs. Latcher.”\n“Did you see Libby?”\n“No ma'am, but we sure heard her. Does it always hurt like that?”\n“Well, not always. Keep going.”\nI spared no detail. As Tally and I raced back to the farm, the\nheadlights in pursuit, my mother clutched my elbow almost hard\nenough to break it. “We had no idea!” she said.\n“Of course not. I barely beat y'all in the house. Pappy was still\nsnorin', and I was afraid y'all would come check on me and see that\nI was covered with sweat and dirt.”\n“We were too tired.”\n“It was a good thing. I slept about two hours, then Pappy woke\nme up to go to the fields. I've never been so sleepy in my life.”\n“Luke, I can't believe you did that.” She wanted to scold, but she\nwas too caught up in the story.\n“It was fun.”\n“You shouldn't have.”\n“Tally made me do it.”\n“Don't blame Tally.”\n“I wouldn't've done it without her.”\n“I can't believe the two of you did it,” she said, but I could tell\nshe was impressed with the story. She grinned and shook her head\nin amazement. “How often did y'all go roamin' around at night?”\n“I think that was it.”\n“You liked Tally, didn't you?”\n“Yes ma'am. She was my friend.”\n“I hope she's happy.”\n“Me too.”I missed her, but I hated to admit it to myself. “Mom, do you\nthink we'll see Tally up North?”\nShe smiled and said, “No, I don't think so. Those cities up there-\nSt. Louis, Chicago, Cleveland, Cincinnati-have millions of people.\nWe'll never see her.”\nI thought about the Cardinals and the Cubs and the Reds. I\nthought about Stan Musial racing around the bases in front of thirty\nthousand fans at Sportsman's Park. Since the teams were up North,\nthen that was where I was headed anyway. Why not leave a few\nyears early?\n“I guess I'll go,” I said.\n“It'll be fun, Luke,” she said again.\n----------------------\nWhen Pappy and my father returned from town, they looked as\nthough they'd been whipped. I guess they had. Their labor was\ngone, their cotton was soaked. If the sun broke through and the\nfloodwaters receded, they didn't have enough hands to work the\nfields. And they weren't sure if the cotton would dry out. This time,\nthe sun was not to be seen, and the water was still rising.\nAfter Pappy went into the house, my father unloaded two gallons\nof paint and set them on the front porch. He did this without saying\na word, though I was watching his every move. When he was\nfinished, he went to the barn.\nTwo gallons would not paint the front of the house. I was\nirritated by this, then I realized why my father had not bought more.\nHe didn't have the money. He and Pappy had paid the Mexicans, and\nthere was nothing left.\nI suddenly felt rotten because I had kept the painting alive after\nTrot had gone. I had pushed the project along, and in doing so had\nforced my father to spend what little money he had.\nI stared at the two buckets set side by side, and tears came to\nmy eyes. I hadn't realized how broke we were.\nMy father had poured his guts into the soil for six months, and\nnow he had nothing to show for it. When the rains came, I, for some\nreason, had decided that the house should be painted.My intentions had been good, I thought. So why did I feel so\nawful?\nI got my brush, opened a can, and began the final phase of the\njob. As I slowly made the short strokes with my right hand, I wiped\ntears with my left.\n---------------A Painted HouseChapter 34\n---------------\nThe first frost would kill what was left of our garden. It usually\ncame in the middle of October, though the almanac that my father\nread as devoutly as he read the Bible had already missed its\npredicted date twice. Undaunted, he kept checking the almanac\nevery morning with his first cup of coffee. It provided endless\nopportunities for worry.\nSince we couldn't pick cotton, the garden got our attention. All\nfive of us marched to it just after breakfast. My mother was certain\nthat the frost was coming that very night and, if not, then for sure\nthe next night. And so on.\nFor a miserable hour I pulled black-eyed peas off vines. Pappy,\nwho hated garden work more than I did, was nearby picking butter\nbeans and doing so with commendable effort. Gran was helping my\nmother pick the last of the tomatoes. My father hauled baskets back\nand forth, under the supervision of my mother. When he walked by\nme, I said, “I really want to go paint.”\n“Ask your mother,” he said.\nI did, and she said I could after I picked one more basket of\npeas. The garden was getting harvested like never before. By noon\nthere wouldn't be a stray bean anywhere.\nI soon returned to the solitude of house painting. With the clear\nexception of operating a road grader, it was a job I preferred over all\nothers. The difference between the two was that I couldn't actually\noperate a road grader, and it would be years before I'd be able to.\nBut I could certainly paint. After watching the Mexicans, I'd learned\neven more and improved my technique. I applied the paint as thinly\nas possible, trying my best to stretch the two gallons.\nBy mid-morning one bucket was empty. My mother and Gran\nwere now in the kitchen, washing and canning the vegetables.\nI didn't hear the man walk up behind me. But when he coughed\nto get my attention, I jerked around and dropped my paintbrush.It was Mr. Latcher, wet and muddy from the waist down. He was\nbarefoot, and his shirt was torn. He'd obviously walked from their\nplace to ours.\n“Where's Mr. Chandler?” he asked.\nI wasn't sure which Mr. Chandler he wanted. I picked up my\nbrush and ran to the east side of the house. I yelled for my father,\nwho poked his head through some vines. When he saw Mr. Latcher\nbeside me, he stood up quickly. “What is it?” he asked as he hurried\ntoward us.\nGran heard voices and was suddenly on the front porch, my\nmother right behind her. A glance at Mr. Latcher told us something\nwas very wrong.\n“The water's up in the house,” he said, unable to look my father\nin the eye. “We gotta get out.”\nMy father looked at me, then at the women on the porch. Their\nwheels were already spinning.\n“Can you help us?” Mr. Latcher said. \"We ain't got no place to\ngo.\"\nI thought he was going to cry, and I felt like it myself.\n“Of course we'll help,” Gran said, instantly taking charge of the\nsituation. From that point on, my father would do precisely what his\nmother told him. So would the rest of us.\nShe sent me to find Pappy. He was in the tool shed, trying to stay\nbusy puttering with an old tractor battery. Everyone gathered by the\ntruck to formulate a plan.\n“Can we drive up to the house?” Pappy asked.\n“No sir,” Mr. Latcher said. “Water's waist-deep down our road. It's\nup on the porch now, six inches in the house.”\nI couldn't imagine all those Latcher kids in a house with half a\nfoot of floodwater.\n“How's Libby and the baby?” Gran asked, unable to contain\nherself.\n“Libby's fine. The baby's sick.”\n“We'll need a boat,” my father said. “Jeter keeps one up at the\nCockleburr Slough.”\n“He won't mind if we borrow it,” Pappy said.For a few minutes the men discussed the rescue-how to get the\nboat, how far down the road the truck could go, how many trips it\nwould take. What was not mentioned was just exactly where the\nLatchers would go once they had been rescued from their house.\nAgain Gran was very much in charge. “You folks can stay here,”\nshe said to Mr. Latcher. “Our loft is clean-the Mexicans just left. You'll\nhave a warm bed and plenty of food.”\nI looked at her. Pappy looked at her. My father glanced over, then\nstudied his feet. A horde of hungry Latchers living in our barn! A sick\nbaby crying at all hours of the night. Our food being given away. I\nwas horrified at the thought, and I was furious with Gran for making\nsuch an offer without first discussing it with the rest of us.\nThen I looked at Mr. Latcher. His lips were trembling, and his\neyes were wet. He clutched his old straw hat with both hands at his\nwaist, and he was so ashamed that he just looked at the ground. I'd\nnever seen a poorer, dirtier, or more broken man.\nI looked at my mother. She, too, had wet eyes. I glanced at my\nfather. I'd never seen him cry, and he wasn't about to at that\nmoment, but he was clearly touched by Mr. Latcher's suffering. My\nhard heart melted in a flash.\n“Let's get a move on,” Gran said with authority. “We'll get the\nbarn ready.”\nWe sprang into action, the men loading into the truck, the\nwomen heading for the barn. Just as she was walking away, Gran\npulled Pappy by the elbow and whispered, “You bring Libby and that\nbaby first.” It was a direct order, and Pappy nodded.\nI hopped into the back of the truck with Mr. Latcher, who\nsquatted on his skinny legs and said nothing to me. We stopped at\nthe bridge, where my father got out and began walking along the\nedge of the river. His job was to find Mr. Jeter's boat at the\nCockleburr Slough, then float it downstream to where we'd be\nwaiting at the bridge. We crossed over, turned onto the Latchers'\nroad, and went less than a hundred feet before we came to a\nquagmire. Ahead of us was nothing but water.\n“I'll tell 'em you're comin',” Mr. Latcher said, and with that he was\noff through the mud, then the water. Before long it was up to hisknees. “Watch out for snakes!” he yelled over his shoulder. “They're\neverywhere.” He was trudging through a lake of water, with flooded\nfields on both sides.\nWe watched him until he disappeared, then we returned to the\nriver and waited for my father.\n------------------------\nWe sat on a log near the bridge, the rushing water below us.\nSince we had nothing to say, I decided it was time to tell Pappy a\nstory. First, I swore him to secrecy.\nI began where it started, with voices in our front yard late at\nnight. The Spruills were arguing, Hank was leaving. I followed in the\nshadows, and before I knew what was happening, I was trailing not\nonly Hank but Cowboy as well. “They fought right up there,” I said,\npointing to the center of the bridge.\nPappy's mind was no longer on floods or farming or even\nrescuing the Latchers. He glared at me, believing every word but\nquite astonished. I recounted the fight in vivid detail, then pointed\nagain. “Hank landed over there, right in the middle of the river.\nNever came up.”\nPappy grunted but did not speak. I was on my feet in front of\nhim, nervous and talking rapidly. When I described my encounter\nwith Cowboy minutes later on the road near our house, Pappy\ncursed under his breath. “You should've told me then,” he said.\n“I just couldn't. I was too scared.”\nHe got to his feet and walked around the log a few times. “He\nmurdered their son and stole their daughter,” he said to himself. “My\noh my.”\n“What're we gonna do, Pappy?”\n“Let me think about it.”\n“Do you think Hank'll float to the top somewhere?”\n“Nope. That Mexican gutted him. His body sank straight to the\nbottom, probably got eaten by those channel cats down there.\nThere's nothin' left to find.”\nAs sickening as this was, I was somewhat relieved to hear it. I\nnever wanted to see Hank again. I'd thought about him every time Icrossed the bridge. I'd dreamed of his bloated corpse popping up\nfrom the depths of the river and scaring the daylights out of me.\n“Did I do anything wrong?” I asked.\n“No.”\n“Are you gonna tell anybody?”\n“Nope, I don't think so. Let's keep it quiet. We'll talk about it\nlater.”\nWe took our positions on the log and studied the water. Pappy\nwas deep in thought. I tried to convince myself that I should feel\nbetter now that I'd finally told one of the adults about Hank's death.\nAfter a spell Pappy said, “Hank got what was comin' to him. We\nain't tellin' nobody. You're the only witness, and there's no sense in\nyou worryin' about it. It'll be our secret, one we'll take to our\ngraves.”\n“What about Mr. and Mrs. Spruill?”\n“What they don't know won't hurt 'em.”\n“You gonna tell Gran?”\n“Nope. Nobody. Just me and you.”\nIt was a partnership I could trust. I did indeed feel better. I'd\nshared my secret with a friend who could certainly carry his portion\nof it. And we had decided that Hank and Cowboy would be put\nbehind us forever.\n---------------------\nMy father finally arrived in Mr. Jeter's flat-bottomed johnboat.\nThe outboard was missing, but navigation was easy because of the\nstrong current. He used a paddle as a rudder and came ashore\nunder the bridge, right below us. He and Pappy then lifted the boat\nfrom the river and manhandled it up the bank to the truck. Then we\ndrove back to the Latchers' road, where we unloaded the boat and\nshoved it to the edge of the floodwaters. All three of us hopped in,\nour feet covered with mud. The adults paddled as we moved along\nthe narrow road, two feet above the ground, rows of ruined cotton\npassing by.\nThe farther we went, the deeper the water became. The wind\npicked up and blew us into the cotton. Both Pappy and my father\nlooked at the sky and shook their heads.Every Latcher was on the front porch, waiting in fear, watching\nevery move we made as the boat cut through the lake that\nsurrounded their house. The front steps were submerged. At least a\nfoot of water covered the porch. We maneuvered the boat up to the\nfront of the house, where Mr. Latcher took it and pulled it in. He was\nchest-deep in the water.\nI looked at all of the frightened and sad faces on the porch. Their\nclothes were even more ragged than the last time I'd been there.\nThey were skinny and gaunt, probably starving. I saw a couple of\nsmiles from the younger ones, and I suddenly felt very important.\nFrom out of the crowd stepped Libby Latcher, holding the baby, who\nwas wrapped in an old blanket. I'd never actually seen Libby before,\nand I couldn't believe how pretty she was. Her light brown hair was\nlong and pulled tightly behind in a ponytail. Her eyes were pale blue\nand had a glow to them. She was tall and as skinny as the rest.\nWhen she stepped into the boat, both Pappy and my father steadied\nher. She sat beside me with her baby, and suddenly I was face-to-\nface with my newest cousin.\n“I'm Luke,” I said, though it was an odd time to make\nintroductions.\n“I'm Libby,” she said, with a smile that made my heart race. Her\nbaby was asleep. He had not grown much since I'd seen him in the\nwindow the night he was born. He was tiny and wrinkled and likely\nhungry, but Gran was waiting for him.\nRayford Latcher came aboard and sat as far away from me as\npossible. He was one of the three who'd beaten me the last time I\nwas on their property. Percy, the oldest boy and the ringleader of\nthat assault, was hiding on the porch. Two more children were put\ninto the boat, then Mr. Latcher jumped in. “We'll be back in a few\nminutes,” he said to Mrs. Latcher and the others still on the porch.\nThey looked as if they were being left to die.\nThe rain hit fast, and the winds shifted. Pappy and my father\npaddled as hard as they could, but the boat barely moved. Mr.\nLatcher jumped into the water, and for a second he completely\nvanished. Then he found his footing and stood up, covered from thechest down in water. He grabbed a rope attached to the bow and\nbegan pulling us down the road.\nThe wind kept blowing us into the cotton, so my father crawled\nout of the boat and began pushing from the rear. “Watch for\nsnakes,” Mr. Latcher warned again. Both men were soaking wet.\n“Percy almost got bit by one,” Libby said to me. “It floated up on\nthe porch.” She was leaning over the baby, trying to keep him dry.\n“What's his name?” I asked.\n“Don't have one yet.”\nI'd never heard of such nonsense. A baby without a name. Most\nof the ones born into the Baptist Church had two or three names\nbefore they ever got into the world.\n“When's Ricky coming home?” she whispered.\n“I don't know.”\n“Is he okay?”\n“Yes.”\nShe seemed anxious for any news about him, and this made me\nuncomfortable. However, it was not unpleasant sitting next to such a\npretty girl who wanted to whisper to me. Her younger siblings were\nwild-eyed with the adventure.\nAs we neared the road, the water became shallow and the boat\nfinally hit mud. We all scrambled out, and the Latchers were loaded\ninto our truck. Pappy got behind the wheel.\n“Luke, you stay with me,” my father said. As the truck backed\naway, Mr. Latcher and my father turned the boat around and began\npushing and pulling it back to the house. The wind was so strong\nthey had to lean into it. I rode alone, with my head bowed, trying to\nstay dry. The rain came down in cold pellets that grew harder by the\nminute.\nThe lake around the house was churning as we drew close. Mr.\nLatcher pulled the boat in again and began yelling instructions to his\nwife. A small Latcher was handed down from the porch and almost\ndropped when a gust of wind hit the boat and knocked it away.\nPercy thrust forward a broom handle, which I grabbed to help pull\nthe boat back to the porch. My father was yelling this and that, and\nMr. Latcher was doing the same. There were four remaining children,and all of them wanted to board at once. I helped them in, one at a\ntime. “Steady, Luke!” my father said a dozen times.\nWhen the children were in the boat, Mrs. Latcher flung over a\nburlap sack stuffed with what appeared to be clothing. I figured it\nwas a collection of their only possessions. It landed at my feet, and I\nclutched it as if it had a lot of value. Next to me was a shoeless little\nLatcher girl-not a one of them had shoes-with no sleeves on her\nshirt to cover her arms. She was freezing, and she clung to my leg\nas if she might be taken away by the wind. She had tears in her\neyes, but when I looked at her she said, “Thank you.” Mrs. Latcher\nclimbed in, stepping among her children, yelling at her husband\nbecause he was yelling at her. With the boat fully loaded and all the\nLatchers accounted for, we turned around and headed back toward\nthe road. Those of us on board cowered low to shield our faces from\nthe rain.\nMy father and Mr. Latcher labored furiously to push the boat\nagainst the wind. In places they were only knee-deep in water, but\nwithin a few steps it would be up to their chests, making it hard for\nthem to get any leverage. They fought to keep us in the center of\nthe road and out of the cotton. The return leg of our little voyage\nwas much slower.\nPappy wasn't waiting. He had not had enough time to drop off\nthe first load and come back for the second. When we got to the\nmud, my father tied Mr. Jeter's johnboat to a fence post, then said,\n“No sense waitin' here.” We trudged through more mud and fought\nthe wind and rain until we came to the river. The Latcher children\nwere terrified of the bridge, and I'd never heard such bawling as we\ncrossed over. They clung to their parents. Mr. Latcher was now\ncarrying the burlap sack. Halfway over the St. Francis, I looked down\nat the planks in front of me and noticed that, like her children, Mrs.\nLatcher had no shoes.\nWhen we were safe on our side of the river, we saw Pappy\ncoming to get us.\n--------------------------\nGran and my mother were waiting on the back porch, where they\nhad set up a makeshift assembly line of sorts. They welcomed thesecond wave of Latchers and directed them to the far end of the\nporch, where there was a pile of clothes. The Latchers stripped\ndown, some concerned about privacy, others not, and got dressed in\nChandler hand-me-downs that had been in the family for decades.\nOnce outfitted in dry, warm clothing, they were ushered into the\nkitchen, where there was enough food for several meals. Gran had\nsausage and country ham. She'd made two pans of homemade\nbiscuits. The table was covered with large bowls rilled with every\nvegetable my mother , had grown in the last six months.\nThe Latchers packed around the table, all ten of them-the baby\nwas asleep somewhere. For the most part they were silent, and I\ncouldn't tell if it was because they were ashamed or relieved or just\ndownright hungry. They passed around the bowls and occasionally\nsaid thanks to one another. My mother and Gran poured tea and\nmade a fuss over them. I observed them from a doorway. Pappy and\nmy father were on the front porch, sipping coffee and watching the\nrain dwindle down.\nWhen the meal was well under way, we drifted to the living\nroom, where Gran had built a fire in the fireplace. The five of us sat\nclose to it, and for a long time we listened to the Latchers in the\nkitchen. Their voices were muted, but their knives and forks rattled\naway. They were warm and safe and no longer hungry. How could\npeople be so poor?\nI found it impossible to dislike the Latchers anymore. They were\nfolks just like us who'd had the misfortune of being born\nsharecroppers. It was wrong of me to be scornful. Besides, I was\nquite taken with Libby.\nI was already hoping that perhaps she liked me.\nAs we were basking in the satisfaction of our goodness, the baby\nerupted from somewhere in the house. Gran jumped to her feet and\nwas gone in a flash. “I'll see about him,” I heard her say in the\nkitchen. “You finish lunch.”\nI didn't hear a single Latcher move from the table. That baby had\nbeen crying since the night he was born, and they were used to it.\nWe Chandlers, however, were not. It cried all the way through\nwhat was left of lunch. Gran walked the floor with it for an hour asmy parents and Pappy moved the Latchers into their new\naccommodations in the loft. Libby returned with them to check on\nthe baby, who was still bawling. The rain had stopped, so my mother\ntook it for a walk around the house, but the outdoors did nothing to\nsatisfy it. I had never heard anything cry so violently without end.\nBy mid-afternoon we were rattled. Gran had tried several of her\nhome remedies, mild little concoctions that only made matters\nworse. Libby rocked the baby in the swing, with no success. Gran\nsang to it as she waltzed around the house; more bawling, even\nlouder, I thought. My mother walked the floor with it. Pappy and my\nfather were long gone. I wanted to run and hide in the silo.\n“Worst case of colic I've ever seen,” I heard Gran say.\nLater, while Libby was again rocking the baby on the front porch,\nI heard another conversation. Seems that when I was a baby I'd had\na rough bout with colic. My mother's mother, my grandmother, who\nwas now dead and who'd lived in town in a painted house, had given\nme a few bites of vanilla ice cream. I had immediately stopped\ncrying, and within a few days the colic was gone.\nAt some point later in my babyhood I'd had another bout. Gran\ndid not normally keep store-bought ice cream in her freezer. My\nparents had loaded me up in the truck and headed for town. Along\nthe way I'd stopped crying and fallen asleep. They figured the\nmotion of the moving vehicle had done the trick.\nMy mother sent me to find my father. She took the baby from\nLibby, who was quite anxious to get rid of it, and before long we\nwere heading for the truck.\n“Are we goin' to town?” I asked.\n“Yes,” my mother said.\n“What about him?” my father asked, pointing to the baby. “He's\nsupposed to be a secret.”\nMy mother had forgotten about that. If we were spotted in town\nwith a mysterious baby, the gossip would be so thick it would stop\ntraffic.\n“We'll worry about that when we get there,” she said, then\nslammed the door. “Let's go.”My father cranked the engine and shifted into reverse. I was in\nthe middle, the baby just inches from my shoulder. After a brief\npause, the baby erupted again. By the time we got to the river I was\nready to pitch the damned thing out the window.\nOnce over the bridge, though, a curious thing happened. The\nbaby slowly grew quiet and still. It closed its mouth and eyes and fell\nsound asleep. My mother smiled at my father as if to say, “See, I\ntold you so.”\nAs we made our way to town, my parents whispered back and\nforth. They decided that my mother would get out of the truck down\nby our church, then hurry to Pop and Pearl's to buy the ice cream.\nThey worried that Pearl would be suspicious as to why she was\nbuying ice cream, and only ice cream, since we didn't need anything\nelse at the moment, and why exactly my mother was in town on a\nWednesday afternoon. They agreed that Pearl's curiosity could not\nbe satisfied under any circumstances and that it would be somewhat\namusing to let her suffer from her own nosiness. As clever as she\nwas, Pearl would never guess that the ice cream was for an\nillegitimate baby we were hiding in our truck.\nWe stopped at our church. No one was watching so my mother\nhanded the baby to me with strict instructions on how to properly\ncradle such a creature. By the time she closed the door, its mouth\nwas wide open, its eyes glowing, its lungs filled with anger. It wailed\ntwice and nearly scared me to death before my father popped the\nclutch and we were off again, loose on the streets of Black Oak. The\nbaby looked at me and stopped crying.\n“Just don't stop,” I said to my father.\nWe drove by the gin, a depressing sight with its lack of activity.\nWe circled behind the Methodist church and the school, then turned\nsouth onto Main Street. My mother came out of Pop and Pearl's with\na small paper bag, and, not surprisingly, Pearl was right behind her,\ntalking away. They were chatting as we drove past. My father waved\nas if nothing were out of the ordinary.\nI just knew we were about to get caught with the Latcher baby.\nOne loud shriek from its mouth and the whole town would learn our\nsecret.We looped around the gin again, and when we headed toward\nthe church we saw my mother waiting for us. As we rolled to a stop\nto get her, the baby's eyes came open. His lower lip trembled. He\nwas ready to scream when I thrust him at her and said, “Here, take\nhim.”\nI scrambled out of the truck before she could get in. My\nquickness surprised them. “Where you goin', Luke?” my father\ndemanded.\n“Y'all ride around for a minute. I need to buy some paint.”\n“Get in the truck!” he said.\nThe baby cried out, and my mother quickly jumped in. I ducked\nbehind the truck and ran as fast as I could toward the street.\nBehind me I heard another cry, one not nearly as loud, then the\ntruck started moving.\nI ran to the hardware store, back to the paint counter, where I\nasked the clerk for three gallons of white Pittsburgh Paint.\n“Only got two,” he said.\nI was too surprised to say anything. How could a hardware store\nrun out of paint? “I should have some in by next Monday,” he said.\n“Gimme two,” I said.\nI was sure two gallons wouldn't finish the front of the house, but\nI gave him six one-dollar bills, and he handed me the change. “Let\nme get these for you,” he said.\n“No, I can do it,” I said, reaching for the two buckets. I strained\nto lift them, then waddled down the aisle, almost tipping over. I\nlugged them out of the store and to the sidewalk. I looked both\nways for traffic, and I listened for the wail of a sick baby. Thankfully\nthe town was quiet.\nPearl reappeared on the sidewalk in front of her store, eyes\ndarting in all directions. I hid behind a parked car. Then I saw our\ntruck coming south, barely moving, looking very suspicious. My\nfather saw me and rolled to a stop in the middle of the street. I\nyanked the two buckets up with all the might I could muster and ran\nto the truck. He jumped out to help me. I leapt into the back of the\ntruck, and he handed me the paint. I preferred to ride back there,away from the littlest Latcher. Just when my father got behind the\nwheel again, the baby let out a yelp.\nThe truck lurched forward, and the baby was quiet. I yelled,\n“Howdy, Pearl!” as we sped past.\nLibby was sitting on the front steps with Gran, waiting for us.\nWhen the truck stopped, the baby began bawling. The women\nrushed it to the kitchen, where they began stuffing it with ice cream.\n“Ain't enough gasoline in Craighead County to keep that thing\nquiet,” my father said.\nFortunately, the ice cream soothed it. Little Latcher fell asleep in\nhis mother's arms.\nBecause vanilla ice cream had worked when I'd had colic, this\ncure was taken as further evidence that the baby was part Chandler.\nI was not exactly comforted by this.\n---------------A Painted HouseChapter 35\n---------------\nHaving a barn full of Latchers was an event that we certainly had\nnot planned on. And while we were at first comforted by our own\nChristian charity and neighborliness, we were soon interested in how\nlong they might be with us. I broached the subject first over supper\nwhen, after a long discussion about the day's events, I said, “Reckon\nhow long they'll stay?”\nPappy had the opinion that they would be gone as soon as the\nfloodwaters receded. Living in another farmer's barn was tolerable\nunder the most urgent of circumstances, but no one with an ounce\nof self-respect would stay a day longer than necessary.\n“What are they gonna eat when they go back?” Gran asked.\n“There's not a crumb of food left in that house.” She went on to\npredict that they'd be with us until springtime.\nMy father speculated that their dilapidated house couldn't\nwithstand the flood, and that there'd be no place for them to return\nto. Plus, they had no truck, no means of transportation. They'd been\nstarving on their land for the last ten years. Where else would they\ngo? Pappy seemed a little depressed by this view.\nMy mother mainly listened, but at one point she did say that the\nLatchers were not the type of people who'd be embarrassed by living\nin someone else's barn. And she worried about the children, not only\nthe obvious problems of health and nutrition, but also their\neducation and spiritual growth.\nPappy's prediction of a swift departure was batted around the\ntable and eventually voted down. Three against one. Four, if you\ncounted my vote.\n“We'll survive,” Gran said. “We have enough food to feed us and\nthem all winter. They're here, they have no place else to go, and\nwe'll take care of them.” No one was about to argue with her.\n“God gave us a bountiful garden for a reason,” she added,\nnodding at my mother. “In Luke, Jesus said, 'Invite the poor, thecrippled, the lame, the blind, and you will be blessed.'”\n“We'll kill two hogs instead of one,” Pappy said. “We'll have plenty\nof meat for the winter.”\nThe hog-killing would come in early December, when the air was\ncold and the bacteria dead. Every year a hog was shot in the head,\ndipped in boiling water, and hung from a tree next to the tool shed,\nthen gutted and butchered into a thousand pieces. From it we got\nbacon, ham, loin, sausage, and ribs. Everything was used-tongue,\nbrains, feet. “Everything but the squeal” was a line I'd heard all my\nlife. Mr. Jeter from across the road was a fair butcher. He would\nsupervise the gutting, then perform the delicate removals. For his\ntime he took a fourth of the best cuts.\nMy first memory of a hog-killing was that I ran behind the house\nand puked. With time, though, I'd come to look forward to it. If you\nwanted ham and bacon, you had to kill a hog. But it would take\nmore than two hogs to feed the Latchers until spring. There were\neleven of them, including the baby, who at the moment was living\noff vanilla ice cream.\nAs we talked about them, I began to dream of heading North.\nThe trip now seemed more appealing. I had sympathy for the\nLatchers, and I was proud that we'd rescued them. I knew that as\nChristians we were expected to help the poor. I understood all that,\nbut I could not imagine living through the winter with all those little\nkids running around our farm. I'd start back to school very soon.\nWould the Latchers go with me? Since they would be new students,\nwould I be expected to show them around? What would my friends\nthink? I saw nothing but humiliation.\nAnd now that they lived with us, it was just a matter of time\nbefore the big secret got out. Ricky would be fingered as the father.\nPearl would figure out where all the vanilla ice cream was going.\nSomething would leak somehow, and we'd be ruined.\n“Luke, are you finished?” my father asked, jolting me from my\nthoughts.\nMy plate was clean. Everyone looked at it. They had adult\nmatters to discuss. It was my cue to go find something to do.“Supper was good. May I be excused?” I said, reciting my\nstandard lines.\nGran nodded and I went to the back porch and pushed the\nscreen door so that it would slam. Then I slid back into the darkness\nto a bench by the kitchen door. From there I could hear everything.\nThey were worried about money. The crop loan would be “rolled\nover” until next spring, and they would deal with it then. The other\nfarming bills could be delayed, too, though Pappy hated the thought\nof riding his creditors.\nSurviving the winter was much more urgent. Food was not a\nconcern. We had to have money for such necessities as electricity,\ngas and oil for the truck, and staples like coffee, flour, and sugar.\nWhat if someone got sick and needed a doctor or medicine? What if\nthe truck broke down and needed parts?\n“We haven't given anything to the church this year,” Gran said.\nPappy estimated that as much as thirty percent of the crop was\nstill out there, standing in water. If the weather broke and things got\ndry, we might be able to salvage a small portion of it. That would\nprovide some income, but the gin would keep most of it. Neither he\nnor my father was optimistic about picking any more cotton in 1952.\nThe problem was cash. They were almost out of it, and there\nwas no hope of any coming in. They barely had enough to pay for\nelectricity and gasoline until Christmas.\n“Jimmy Dale's holdin' a job for me at the Buick plant,” my father\nsaid. “But he can't wait long. The jobs are tight right now. We need\nto get on up there.”\nAccording to Jimmy Dale, the current wage was three dollars an\nhour, for forty hours a week, but overtime was available, too. “He\nsays I can earn close to two hundred dollars a week,” my father said.\n“We'll send home as much as we can,” my mother added.\nPappy and Gran went through the motions of protesting, but\neveryone knew the decision had been made. I heard a noise in the\ndistance, a vaguely familiar sound. As it drew closer, I cringed and\nwished I'd hidden on the front porch.\nThe baby was back, upset again and no doubt craving vanilla ice\ncream. I sneaked off the porch and walked a few steps toward thebarn. In the shadows I saw Libby and Mrs. Latcher approaching the\nhouse. I ducked beside the chicken coop and listened as they went\nby. The constant wailing echoed around our farm.\nGran and my mother met them at the back porch. A light was\nswitched on, and I watched as they huddled around the little\nmonster then carried him inside. Through the window I could see\nmy father and Pappy scramble for the front porch.\nWith four women working on him, it took only a few minutes to\nstop the crying. Once things were quiet Libby left the kitchen and\nwent outside. She sat on the edge of the porch in the same place\nCowboy had occupied the day he had shown me his switchblade. I\nwalked to the house and said, “Hi, Libby,” when I was a few feet\naway.\nShe jumped, then caught herself. Poor girl's nerves were rattled\nby her baby's colic. “Luke,” she said. “What're you doin'?”\n“Nothin'.”\n“Come sit here,” she said, patting the spot next to her. I did as I\nwas told.\n“Does that baby cry all the time?” I asked.\n“Seems like it. I don't mind, though.”\n“You don't?”\n“No. He reminds me of Ricky.”\n“He does?”\n“Yes, he does. When's he comin' home? Do you know, Luke?”\n“No. His last letter said he might be home by Christmas.”\n“That's two months away.”\n“Yeah, but I ain't so sure about it. Gran says every soldier says\nhe's comin' home by Christmas.”\n“I just can't wait,” she said, visibly excited by the prospect.\n“What's gonna happen when he gets home?” I asked, not sure if\nI wanted to hear her answer.\n“We're gonna get married,” she said with a big, pretty smile. Her\neyes were filled with wonder and anticipation.\n“You are?”\n“Yes, he promised.”I certainly didn't want Ricky to get married. He belonged to me.\nWe would fish and play baseball, and he'd tell war stories. He'd be\nmy big brother, not somebody's husband.\n“He's the sweetest thang,” she said, gazing up at the sky.\nRicky was a lot of things, but I'd never call him sweet. Then\nagain, there was no telling what he'd done to impress her.\n“You can't tell anybody, Luke,” she said, suddenly serious. “It's\nour secret.”\nThat's my specialty, I felt like saying. “Don't worry,” I said, “I can\nkeep one.”\n“Can you read and write, Luke?”\n“Sure can. Can you?”\n“Pretty good.”\n“But you don't go to school.”\n“I went through the fourth grade, then my mother kept havin' all\nthem babies, so I had to quit. I've written Ricky a letter, tellin' him all\nabout the baby. Do you have his address?”\nI wasn't sure Ricky wanted to receive her letter, and for a second\nI thought about playing dumb. But I couldn't help but like Libby. She\nwas so crazy about Ricky that it seemed wrong not to give her the\naddress.\n“Yeah, I got it.”\n“Do you have an envelope?”\n“Sure.”\n“Could you mail my letter for me? Please, Luke. I don't think\nRicky knows about our baby.”\nSomething told me to butt out. This was between them. “I guess\nI can mail it,” I said.\n“Oh, thank you, Luke,” she said, almost squealing. She hugged\nmy neck hard. “I'll give you the letter tomorrow,” she said. “And you\npromise you'll mail it for me?”\n“I promise.” I thought about Mr. Thornton at the post office and\nhow curious he'd be if he saw a letter from Libby Latcher to Ricky in\nKorea. I'd figure it out somehow. Perhaps I should ask my mother\nabout it.The women brought baby Latcher to the back porch, where Gran\nrocked it while it slept. My mother and Mrs. Latcher talked about\nhow tired the little fellow was-all that nonstop crying had worn it\nout-so that when it did fall off, it slept hard. I was soon bored with\nall the talk about the baby.\n---------------------\nMy mother woke me just after sunrise, and instead of scolding\nme out of bed to face another day on the farm, she sat next to my\npillow and talked. “We're leavin' tomorrow mornin', Luke. I'm going\nto pack today. Your father will help you paint the front of the house,\nso you'd better get started.”\n“Is it rainin'?” I asked, sitting up.\n“No. It's cloudy, but you can paint.”\n“Why are we leavin' tomorrow?”\n“It's time to go.”\n“When're we comin' back?”\n“I don't know. Go eat your breakfast. We have a busy day.”\nI started painting before seven, with the sun barely above the\ntree line in the east. The grass was wet and so was the house, but I\nhad no choice. Before long, though, the boards dried, and my work\nwent smoothly. My father joined me, and together we moved the\nscaffold so he could reach the high places. Then Mr. Latcher found\nus, and after watching the painting for a few minutes he said, “I'd\nlike to help.”\n“You don't have to,” my father said from eight feet up.\n“I'd like to earn my keep,” he said. He had nothing else to do.\n“All right. Luke, go fetch that other brush.”\nI ran to the tool shed, delighted that I'd once again attracted\nsome free labor. Mr. Latcher began painting with a fury, as if to prove\nhis worth.\nA crowd gathered to watch. I counted seven Latchers on the\nground behind us, all of the kids except Libby and the baby, just\nsitting there studying us with blank looks on their faces.\nI figured they were waiting for breakfast. I ignored them and\nwent about my work.Work, however, would prove difficult. Pappy came for me first. He\nsaid he wanted to ride down to the creek to inspect the flood. I said\nI really needed to paint. My father said, “Go ahead, Luke,” and that\nsettled my protest.\nWe rode the tractor away from the house, through the flooded\nfields until the water was almost over the front wheels. When we\ncould go no farther, Pappy turned off the engine. We sat for a long\ntime on the tractor, surrounded by the wet cotton we'd worked so\nhard to grow.\n“You'll be leavin' tomorrow,” he finally said.\n“Yes sir.”\n“But you'll be comin' back soon.”\n“Yes sir.” My mother, not Pappy, would determine when we came\nback. And if Pappy thought we'd one day return to our little places\non the family farm and start another crop, he was mistaken. I felt\nsorry for him, and I missed him already.\n“Been thinkin' more 'bout Hank and Cowboy,” he said, his eyes\nnever moving from the water in front of the tractor. “Let's leave it\nbe, like we agreed. Can't nothin' good come from tellin' anybody. It's\na secret we'll take to our graves.” He offered his right hand for me to\nshake. “Deal?” he said.\n“Deal,” I repeated, squeezing his thick, callused hand.\n“Don't forget about your pappy up there, you hear?”\n“I won't.”\nHe started the tractor, shifted into reverse, and backed through\nthe floodwaters.\nWhen I returned to the front of the house, Percy Latcher had\ntaken control of my brush and was hard at work. Without a word, he\nhanded it to me and went to sit under a tree. I painted for maybe\nten minutes, then Gran walked onto the porch and said, “Luke, come\nhere. I need to show you somethin'.”\nShe led me around back, in the direction of the silo. Mud puddles\nwere everywhere, and the flood had crept to within thirty feet of the\nbarn. She wanted to take a stroll and have a chat, but there was\nmud and water in every direction. We sat on the edge of the flatbed\ntrailer.“What're you gonna show me?” I said after a long silence.\n“Oh, nothin'. I just wanted to spend a few minutes alone. You're\nleavin' tomorrow. I was tryin' to remember if you'd ever spent a\nnight away from here.”\n“I can't remember one,” I said. I knew that I'd been born in the\nbedroom where my parents now slept. I knew Gran's hands had\ntouched me first, she'd birthed me and taken care of my mother. No,\nI had never left our house, not even for one night.\n“You'll do just fine up North,” she said, but with little conviction.\n“Lots of folks from here go up there to find work. They always do\njust fine, and they always come home. You'll be home before you\nknow it.”\nI loved my Gran as fiercely as any kid could love his\ngrandmother, yet somehow I knew I'd never again live in her house\nand work in her fields.\nWe talked about Ricky for a while, then about the Latchers. She\nput her arm around my shoulders and held me close, and she made\nme promise more than once that I'd write letters to her. I also had to\npromise to study hard, obey my parents, go to church and learn my\nScriptures, and to be diligent in my speech so I wouldn't sound like a\nYankee.\nWhen she was finished extracting all the promises, I was\nexhausted. We walked back to the house, dodging puddles.\nThe morning dragged on. The Latcher horde dispersed after\nbreakfast, but they were back in time for lunch. They watched as my\nfather and their father tried to out paint each other across the front\nof our house.\nWe fed them on the back porch. After they ate, Libby pulled me\naside and handed over her letter to Ricky. I had managed to sneak a\nplain white envelope from the supply we kept at the end of the\nkitchen table. I'd addressed it to Ricky, via the army mail route in\nSan Diego, and I'd put a stamp on it. She was quite impressed. She\ncarefully placed her letter inside, then licked the envelope twice.\n“Thank you, Luke,” she said and kissed me on the forehead.\nI put the envelope under my shirt so no one could see it. I had\ndecided to mention it to my mother but hadn't found theopportunity.\nEvents were moving quickly. My mother and Gran spent the\nafternoon washing and pressing the clothes we would take with us.\nMy father and Mr. Latcher painted until the buckets were empty. I\nwanted time to slow down, but for some reason the day became\nhurried.\nWe endured another quiet supper, each of us worried about the\ntrip North, but for different reasons. I was sad enough to have no\nappetite.\n“This'll be your last supper here for a spell, Luke,” Pappy said. I\ndon't know why he said that, because it sure didn't help matters.\n“They say the food up North is pretty bad,” Gran said, trying to\nlighten things up. That, too, fell flat.\nIt was too chilly to sit on the porch. We gathered in the living\nroom and tried to chat as if things were the same. But no topic\nseemed appropriate. Church matters were dull. Baseball was over.\nNo one wanted to mention Ricky. Not even the weather could hold\nour attention.\nWe finally gave up and went to bed. My mother tucked me in and\nkissed me good night. Then Gran did the same. Pappy stopped for a\nfew words, something he'd never done before.\nWhen I was finally alone, I said my prayers. Then I stared at the\ndark ceiling and tried to believe that this was my last night on the\nfarm.\n---------------A Painted HouseChapter 36\n---------------\nMy father had been wounded in Italy in 1944. He was treated\nthere, then on a hospital boat, then shipped to Boston, where he\nspent time in physical rehabilitation. When he arrived at the bus\nstation in Memphis, he had two U.S. Army duffel bags stuffed with\nclothes and a few souvenirs. Two months later he married my\nmother. Ten months after that, I arrived on the scene.\nI'd never seen the duffel bags. To my knowledge they hadn't\nbeen used since the war. When I walked into the living room early\nthe next morning, they were both half-filled with clothing, and my\nmother was busy arranging the other necessities to be packed. The\nsofa was covered with her dresses, quilts, and some shirts she'd\npressed the day before. I asked her about the duffel bags, and she\ntold me that they'd spent the last eight years in a storage attic above\nthe tool shed.\n“Now hurry and eat breakfast,” she said, folding a towel.\nGran was holding nothing back for our final meal. Eggs, sausage,\nham, grits, fried potatoes, baked tomatoes, and biscuits. “It's a long\nbus ride,” she said.\n“How long?” I asked. I was sitting at the table, waiting for my\nfirst cup of coffee. The men were out of the house somewhere.\n“Your father said eighteen hours. Heaven knows when you'll get\na good meal again.” She delicately placed the coffee in front of me,\nthen kissed me on the head. For Gran, the only good meal was one\ncooked in her kitchen with ingredients that came straight off the\nfarm.\nThe men had already eaten. Gran sat next to me with her coffee\nand watched as I plowed into the feast she'd laid on the table. We\nwent through the promises again-to write letters, to obey my\nparents, to read the Bible, to say my prayers, to be diligent so as not\nto become a Yankee. It was a virtual roll call of commandments. I\nchewed my food and nodded at the appropriate moments.She explained that my mother would need help when the new\nbaby arrived. There would be other Arkansas people up there in\nFlint, good Baptist souls who could be depended on, but I had to\nhelp with chores around the house.\n“What kind of chores?” I asked with a mouthful of food. I'd\nthought the notion of chores was confined to the farm. I'd thought I\nwas leaving them behind.\n“Just house stuff,” she said, suddenly vague. Gran had never\nspent a night in a city. She had no idea where we would be living,\nnor did we. “You just be helpful when the baby gets here,” she said.\n“What if it cries like that Latcher baby?” I asked.\n“It won't. No baby has ever cried like that.”\nMy mother passed through with a load of clothes. Her steps were\nquick. She'd been dreaming of this day for years. Pappy and Gran\nand perhaps even my father thought that our leaving was just a\ntemporary departure. To my mother it was a milestone. The day was\na turning point not only in her life but especially in mine. She had\nconvinced me at an early age that I would not be a farmer, and in\nleaving we were cutting ties.\nPappy wandered into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of\ncoffee. He sat in his chair at the end of the table, next to Gran, and\nwatched me eat. He was not good at greetings, and he certainly\ncouldn't handle farewells. The less said the better in his book.\nWhen I had stuffed myself to the point of being uncomfortable,\nPappy and I walked to the front porch. My father was hauling the\nduffel bags to the truck. He was dressed in starched khaki work\npants, a starched white shirt, no overalls. My mother was wearing a\npretty Sunday dress. We didn't want to look like refugees from the\ncotton fields of Arkansas.\nPappy led me into the front yard, down to a point where second\nbase used to be, and from there we turned and looked at the house.\nIt glowed in the clear morning sun. “Good job, Luke,” he said. “You\ndone a good job.”\n“Just wish we'd finished,” I said. To the far right, at the corner\nwhere Trot had begun, there was an unpainted section. We'dstretched the last four gallons as far as possible and had come up a\nlittle short.\n“I figure another half gallon,” Pappy said.\n“Yes sir. That's about right.”\n“I'll get it done this winter,” he said.\n“Thanks, Pappy.”\n“When y'all come home, it'll be finished.”\n“I'd like that.”\nWe all converged at the truck, and everyone hugged Gran for the\nlast time. For a second I thought she was going to run through the\nlist of promises again, but she was too choked up. We got ourselves\nloaded-Pappy behind the wheel, me in the middle, my mother by the\nwindow, my father in the back with the duffel bags-and we backed\nonto the road.\nWhen we pulled away, Gran was sitting on the front steps, wiping\nher face. My father had told me not to cry, but I couldn't help it. I\nclutched my mother's arm and hid my face.\nWe stopped in Black Oak. My father had a small matter at the\nCo-op. I wanted to say good-bye to Pearl. My mother had Libby's\nletter to Ricky, which she took to the post office and sent on its way.\nShe and I had discussed it at length, and she, too, felt that it was\nnone of our business. If Libby wanted to write a letter to Ricky and\nbreak the news about their baby, we shouldn't stop her.\nPearl, of course, knew we were leaving. She hugged my neck\nuntil I thought it was going to break, then she produced a small\npaper sack filled with candy. “You'll need this for the trip,” she said. I\ngawked at the endless supply of chocolate and mints and\njawbreakers in the bag. The trip was already a success. Pop\nappeared, shook my hand as if I were an adult, and wished me luck.\nI hurried back to the truck with my candy and showed it to\nPappy, who was still behind the wheel. My parents came back\nquickly, too. We were not in the mood for a grand send-off. Our\nleaving was due to frustration and crop failure. We weren't exactly\nanxious for the town to know we were fleeing North. It was mid-\nmorning, though, and the town was still quiet.I watched the fields along the highway to Jonesboro. They were\nas wet as ours. The road ditches were overflowing with brown water.\nThe creeks and streams were over their banks.\nWe passed the gravel road where Pappy and I had waited to find\nhill people. There we had met the Spruills, and I had seen Hank and\nTally and Trot for the first time. If another farmer had been there\nearlier, or if we'd arrived later, then the Spruills would now be back\nin Eureka Springs with their family intact.\nWith Cowboy driving, Tally had made this same trip in this same\ntruck in the middle of a storm at night. Running away to a better life\nup North, just like us. It was still hard to believe she had fled like\nthat.\nI didn't see a single person picking cotton until we reached\nNettleton, a small town close to Jonesboro. There the ditches were\nnot as full; the ground wasn't as wet. Some Mexicans were hard at\nwork.\nTraffic slowed us at the edge of the city. I sat up high to take in\nthe sights: the stores and nice homes and clean cars and people\nwalking about. I could not remember my last visit to Jonesboro.\nWhen a farm kid made it to the city, he talked about it for a week. If\nhe made it to Memphis, then he might go on for a month.\nPappy became visibly nervous in traffic. He gripped the wheel, hit\nthe brakes, mumbled just under his breath. We turned onto a street,\nand there was the Greyhound station, a busy place with three shiny\nbuses parked in a row to the left. We stopped at the curb near a\nDEPARTURES sign and quickly unloaded. Pappy wasn't much for\nhugs, so it didn't take long to say good-bye. But when he pinched\nmy cheek, I saw moisture in his eyes. For that reason he hustled\nback to the truck and made a hasty getaway. We waved until he was\nout of sight. My heart ached as I watched his old truck turn the\ncorner and disappear. It was headed back to the farm, back to the\nfloods, back to the Latchers, back to a long winter. But at the same\ntime, I was relieved not to be going back.\nWe turned and walked into the station. Our adventure was now\nbeginning. My father placed the duffel bags near some seats, then\nhe and I went to the ticket counter.“I need three tickets to St. Louis,” he said.\nMy mouth fell open, and I looked at him in complete amazement.\n“St. Louis?” I said.\nHe grinned but said nothing.\n“Bus leaves at noon,” the clerk said.\nMy father paid for the tickets, and we took our seats next to my\nmother. “Mom, we're goin' to St. Louis!” I said.\n“It's just a stop, Luke,” my father said. “From there we catch a\nbus to Chicago, then to Flint.”\n“You think we'll see Stan Musial?”\n“I doubt it.”\n“Can we see Sportsman's Park?”\n“Not this trip. Maybe the next one.”\nAfter a few minutes I was released to roam around the station\nand inspect things. There was a small cafe where two army boys\nwere drinking coffee. I thought of Ricky and realized I would not be\nthere when he came home. I saw a family of Negroes, a rare sight in\nour part of Arkansas. They were clutching their bags and looked as\nlost as we did. I saw two more farm families, more refugees from\nthe flood.\nWhen I rejoined my parents they were holding hands and were\ndeep in conversation. We waited forever, it seemed, then finally they\ncalled for us to board. The duffel bags were packed in the cargo\nsection under the bus, and we, too, climbed on.\nMy mother and I sat together, with my father right behind us. I\ngot the window seat, and I stared through it, missing nothing as we\nmaneuvered through Jonesboro and then got on the highway,\nspeeding along, going North, still surrounded by nothing but wet\ncotton fields.\nWhen I could pull my eyes away from the window, I looked at my\nmother. Her head was resting on the back of her seat. Her eyes were\nclosed, and a grin was slowly forming at the corners of her mouth."
    },
    {
        "title": "Airframe",
        "content": "ABOARD TPA 545\n5:18 . .\nA M\nEmily Jansen sighed in relief. The long flight was nearing an end.\nMorning sunlight streamed through the windows of the airplane. In\nher lap, little Sarah squinted in the unaccustomed brightness as she\nnoisily sucked the last of her bottle, and pushed it away with tiny\nfists. \"That was good, wasn't it?\" Emily said. \"Okay ... up we go...\"\nShe raised the infant onto her shoulder, began to pat her back.\nThe baby gave a gurgling belch, and her body relaxed.\nIn the next seat, Tim Jansen yawned and rubbed his eyes. He\nhad slept through the night, all the way from Hong Kong. Emily\nnever slept on planes; she was too nervous.\n\"Morning,\" Tim said, looking at his watch. \"Just a couple of hours\nmore, hon. Any sign of breakfast?\"\n\"Not yet,\" Emily said, shaking her head. They had taken\nTranspacific Airlines, a charter from Hong Kong. The money they\nsaved would be useful when they set up housekeeping at the\nUniversity of Colorado, where Tim was going to be an assistant\nprofessor. The flight had been pleasant enough—they were in the\nfront of the plane—but the stewardesses seemed disorganized, the\nmeals coming at odd times. Emily had turned down dinner because\nTim was asleep, and she couldn't eat with Sarah sleeping in her lap.\nAnd even now, Emily was surprised by the casual behavior of the\ncrew. They left the cockpit door open during the flight. She knew\nAsian crews often did that, but it still struck her as inappropriate; too\ninformal, too relaxed. The pilots strolled around the plane at night,\nkibitzing with the stewardesses. One was leaving right now, walking\nto the back of the plane. Of course, they were probably stretching\ntheir legs. Stay alert, all of that And certainly the fact that the crew\nwas Chinese didn't trouble her. After a year in China, she admired\nthe efficiency and attention to detail of the Chinese. But somehow,\nthe whole flight just made her nervous.Emily put Sarah back down in her lap. The baby stared at Tim\nand beamed.\n\"Hey, I should get this,\" Tim said. Fumbling in the bag under his\nseat, he brought out a video camera, trained it on his daughter. He\nwaggled his free hand to get her attention. \"Sarah... Sar-ah... Smile\nfor Daddy. Smi-le...\"\nSarah smiled, and made a gurgling sound.\n\"How does it feel to be going to America, Sarah? Ready to see\nwhere your parents are from?'\nSarah gurgled again. She waved her tiny hands in the air.\n\"She'd probably think everybody in America looks weird,\" Emily\nsaid. Their daughter had been bom seven months ago in Hunan,\nwhere Tim had studied Chinese medicine.\nEmily saw the camera lens pointed at her. \"And what about you,\nMom?\" Tim said. \"Are you glad to be going home?'\n\"Oh, Tim,\" she said. \"Please.\" She must look like hell, she\nthought All those hours.\n\"Come on, Em. What are you thinking?\"\nShe needed to comb her hair. She needed to pee.\nShe said, \"Well, what I really want—what I have dreamed about\nfor months—is a cheeseburger.\"\n\"With Xu-xiang hot bean sauce?\" Tim said.\n\"God no. A cheeseburger,\" she said, \"with onions and tomatoes\nand lettuce and pickles and mayonnaise. Mayonnaise, God. And\nFrench's mustard.\"\n\"You want a cheeseburger too, Sarah?' Tim said, turning the\ncamera back to their daughter.\nSarah was tugging at her toes with one tiny fist. She pulled her\nfoot into her mouth, and looked up at Tim.\n'Taste good?\" Tim said, laughing. The camera shook as he\nlaughed. \"Is that breakfast for you, Sarah? Not waiting for the\nstewardess on this flight?'\nEmily heard a low rumbling sound, almost a vibration, that\nseemed to come from the wing. She snapped her head around.\n\"What was that?'\n'Take it easy, Em,\" Tim said, still laughing.Sarah laughed, too, giggling delightfully.\n\"We're almost home, honey,\" Tim said.\nBut even as he spoke, the plane seemed to shudder, the nose of\nthe plane turning down. Suddenly everything tilted at a crazy angle.\nEmily felt Sarah sliding forward off her lap. She clutched at her\ndaughter, pulling her close. Now it felt like the plane was going\nstraight down, and then suddenly it was going up, and her stomach\nwas pressed into the seat. Her daughter was a lead weight against\nher.\nTim said, \"What the hell?'\nAbruptly she was lifted off the seat, her seat belt cutting into her\nthighs. She felt light and sick to her stomach. She saw Tim bounce\nout of his seat, his head slamming into the luggage compartments\noverhead, the camera flying past her face.\nFrom the cockpit, Emily heard buzzing, insistent alarms and a\nmetallic voice that said, \"Stall! Stall!\" She glimpsed the blue-suited\narms of the pilots moving swiftly over the controls; they were\nshouting in Chinese. All over the aircraft, people were screaming,\nhysterical. There was the sound of shattering glass.\nThe plane went into another steep dive. An elderly Chinese\nwoman slid down the aisle on her back, screaming. A teenage boy\nfollowed, tumbling head over heels. Emily looked at Tim, but her\nhusband wasn't in his seat any more. Yellow oxygen masks were\ndropping, one swinging in front of her face, but she could not reach\nfor it because she was clutching her baby.\nShe was pressed back into her seat as the plane descended\nsteeply, an incredibly loud whining dive. Shoes and purses ricocheted\nacross the cabin, clanging and banging; bodies thumped against\nseats, the floor.\nTim was gone. Emily turned, looking for him, and suddenly a\nheavy bag struck her in the head—a sudden jolt, pain, blackness,\nand stars. She felt dizzy and faint. The alarms continued to sound.\nThe passengers continued to scream. The plane was still in a dive.\nEmily lowered her head, clutched her infant daughter to her\nchest, and for the first time in her life, began to pray.SOCAL APPROACH CONTROL\n5:43 . .\nA M\n\"Socal Approach, this is Transpacific 545. We have an\nemergency.\"\nIn the darkened building that housed Southern California Air\nTraffic Approach Control, senior controller Dave Marshall heard the\npilot's call and glanced at his radar screen. Trans-Pacific 545 was\ninbound from Hong Kong to Denver. The flight had been handed\nover to him from Oakland ARINC a few minutes earlier: a perfectly\nnormal flight. Marshall touched the microphone at his cheek and\nsaid, \"Go ahead, 545.\"\n\"Request priority clearance for emergency landing in Los\nAngeles.\"\nThe pilot sounded calm. Marshall stared at the shifting green\ndata blocks that identified each aircraft in the air. TPA 545 was\napproaching the California coastline. Soon it would pass over Marina\nDel Rey. It was still half an hour out of LAX.\nMarshall said, \"Okay, 545, understand you request priority\nclearance to land. Say the nature of your emergency.\"\n\"We have a passenger emergency,\" the pilot said. \"We need\nambulances on the ground. I would say thirty or forty ambulances.\nMaybe more.\"\nMarshall was stunned. 'TPA 545, say again. Are you asking for\nforty ambulances?\"\n\"Affirmative. We encountered severe turbulence during flight. We\nhave injuries of passengers and flight crew.\"\nMarshall thought, Why the hell didn't you tell me this before? He\nspun in his chair, beckoned to his supervisor, Jane Levine, who\npicked up the extra headset, punched in, and listened.\nMarshall said, 'Transpacific, I copy your ground request for forty\nambulances.\"\n\"Jesus,\" Levine said, making a face. \"Forty?\"\nThe pilot was still calm as he replied, \"Ah, roger, Approach.\nForty.\"\"Do you need medical personnel, too? What is the nature of the\ninjuries you are bringing in?\"\n\"I am not sure.\"\nLevine made a spinning gesture: Keep the pilot talking. Marshall\nsaid, \"Can you give us an estimate?\"\n\"I am sorry, no. An estimate is not possible.\"\n\"Is anyone unconscious?\"\n\"No, I do not think so,\" the pilot answered. \"But two are dead.\"\n\"Holy shit,\" Jane Levine said. \"Nice of him to tell us. Who is this\nguy?\"\nMarshall hit a key on his panel, opening a data block in the upper\ncorner of the screen. It listed the manifest for TPA 545. \"Captain's\nJohn Chang. Senior pilot for Transpacific.\"\n\"Let's not have any more surprises,\" Levine said. \"Is the aircraft\nall right?\"\nMarshall said, 'TPA 545, what is the condition of your aircraft?\"\n\"We have damage to the passenger cabin,\" the pilot said. \"Minor\ndamage only.\"\n\"What is the condition of the flight deck?\" Marshall said.\n\"Right deck is operational. FDAU is nominal.\" That was the Flight\nData Acquisition Unit, which tracked faults within the aircraft. If it\nsaid the plane was okay, it probably was.\nMarshall said, \"I copy that, 545. What is the condition of your\nflight crew?\"\n\"Captain and first officer in good condition.\"\n\"Ah, 545, you said there were injuries to the crew.\"\n\"Yes. Two stewardesses have been hurt.\"\n\"Can you specify the nature of the injuries?\"\n\"I am sorry, no. One is not conscious. The other one, I don't\nknow.\"\nMarshall was shaking his head \"He just told us nobody was\nunconscious.\"\n\"I'm not buying any of this,\" Levine said. She picked up the red\nphone. \"Put a fire crew on level one alert. Get the ambulances.\nOrder neuro and ortho teams to meet the plane and have Medicalnotify the Westside hospitals.\" She looked at her watch. \"I'll call the\nLA FSDO. This'll make his damn day.\"LAX\n5:57 . .\nA M\nDaniel Greene was the duty officer at the FAA Flight Standards\nDistrict Office on Imperial Highway, half a mile from LAX. The local\nFSDOs—or Fizdos, as they were called— supervised the flight\noperations of commercial carriers, checking everything from aircraft\nmaintenance to pilot training. Greene had come in early to clear the\npaper off his desk; his secretary had quit the week before, and the\noffice manager refused to replace her, citing orders from Washington\nto absorb attrition. So now Greene went to work, muttering.\nCongress was slashing the FAA budget, telling them to do more with\nless, pretending the problem was productivity and not workload. But\npassenger traffic was up four percent a year, and the commercial\nfleet wasn't getting younger. The combination made for a lot more\nwork on the ground: Of course, the FSDOs weren't the only ones\nwho were strapped. Even the NTSB was broke; the Safety Board\nonly got a million dollars a year for aircraft accidents, and—\nThe red phone on his desk rang, the emergency line. He picked it\nup; it was a woman at traffic control.\n\"We've just been informed of an incident on an inbound foreign\ncarrier,\" she said.\n\"Uh-huh.\" Greene reached for a notepad. \"Incident\" had a\nspecific meaning to the FAA, referring to the lower category of flight\nproblems that carriers were required to report. \"Accidents\" involved\ndeaths or structural damage to the aircraft and were always serious,\nbut with incidents, you never knew. \"Go ahead.\"\n\"It's Transpacific Flight 545, incoming from Hong Kong to Denver.\nPilot's requested emergency landing at LAX. Says they encountered\nturbulence during flight.\"\n\"Is the plane airworthy?'\n\"They say it is,\" Levine said. \"They've got injuries, and they've\nrequested forty ambulances.\"\"Forty?\"\n\"They've also got two stiffs.\"\n\"Great.\" Greene got up from his desk. \"When's it due in?\"\n\"Eighteen minutes.\"\n\"Eighteen minutes—Jeez, why am I getting this so late?\"\n\"Hey, the captain just told us, we're telling you. I've notified EMS\nand alerted the fire crews.\"\n\"Fire crews? I thought you said the plane's okay.\"\n\"Who knows?\" the woman said. \"The pilot is not making much\nsense. Sounds like he might be in shock. We hand off to the tower in\nseven minutes.\"\n\"Okay,\" Greene said. \"I'm on my way.\"\nHe grabbed his badge and his cell phone and went out the door.\nAs he passed Karen, the receptionist, he said, \"Have we got anybody\nat the international terminal?\"\n\"Kevin's there.\"\n\"Beep him,\" Greene said. 'Tell him to get on TPA 545, inbound\nHong Kong, landing in fifteen. Tell him to stay at the gate—and don't\nlet the flight crew leave.\"\n\"Got it,\" she said, reaching for the phone.\nGreene roared down Sepulveda Boulevard toward the airport.\nJust before the highway ran beneath the runway, he looked up and\nsaw the big Transpacific Airlines widebody, identifiable by its bright\nyellow tail insignia, taxiing toward the gate. Transpacific was a Hong\nKong-based charter carrier. Most of the problems the FAA had with\nforeign airlines occurred with charters. Many were low-budget\noperators that didn't match the rigorous safety standards of the\nscheduled carriers. But Transpacific had an excellent reputation.\nAt least the bird was on the ground, Greene thought. And he\ncouldn't see any structural damage to the widebody. The plane was\nan N-22, built by Norton Aircraft in Burbank. The plane had been in\nrevenue service five years, with an enviable dispatch and safety\nrecord.\nGreene stepped on the gas and rushed into the tunnel, passing\nbeneath the giant aircraft.He sprinted through the international building. Through the\nwindows, he saw the Transpacific jet pulled up to the gate, and the\nambulances lined up on the concrete below. The first of them was\nalready driving out, its siren whining.\nGreene came to the gate, flashed his badge, and ran down the\nramp. Passengers were disembarking, pale and frightened. Many\nlimped, their clothes torn and bloody. On each side of die ramp,\nparamedics clustered around the injured.\nAs he neared the plane, the nauseating odor of vomit grew\nstronger. A frightened TransPac stewardess pushed him back at the\ndoor, chartering at him rapidly in Chinese. He showed her his badge\nand said, \"FAA! Official business! FAA!\" The stewardess stepped\nback, and Greene slid past a mother clutching an infant and stepped\ninto the plane.\nHe looked at the interior, and stopped. \"Oh my God,\" he said\nsoftly. \"What happened to this plane?\"GLENDALE, CALIFORNIA\n6:00 . .\nA M\n\"Mom? Who do you like better, Mickey Mouse or Minnie Mouse?\"\nStanding in the kitchen of her bungalow, still wearing her jogging\nshorts from her five-mile morning run, Casey Singleton finished\nmaking a tuna sandwich and put it in her daughter's lunch box.\nSingleton was thirty-six years old, a vice-president at Norton Aircraft\nin Burbank. Her daughter sat at the breakfast table, eating cereal.\n\"Well?\" Allison said. \"Who do you like better, Mickey Mouse or\nMinnie Mouse?' She was seven, and she ranked everything.\n\"I like them both,\" Casey said.\n\"I know, Mom,\" Allison said, exasperated. \"But who do you like\nbetter?'\n\"Minnie.\"\n\"Me, too,\" she said, pushing the carton away.\nCasey put a banana and a thermos of juice in the lunch box,\nclosed the lid. \"Finish eating, Allison, we have to get ready.\"\n\"What's quart?\"\n\"Quart? It's a measure of liquid.\"\n\"No, Mom, Qua-urt\" she said.\nCasey looked over and saw that her daughter had picked up her\nnew laminated plant ID badge, which had Casey's picture, and\nbeneath that C. SINGLETON and then in large blue letters, QA/IRT.\n\"What's Qua-urt\n\"It's my new job at the plant. I'm the Quality Assurance rep on\nthe Incident Review Team.\"\n\"Are you still making airplanes?\" Ever since the divorce Allison\nhad been extremely attentive to change. Even a minor alteration in\nCasey's hairstyle prompted repeated discussions, the subject\nbrought up again and again, over many days. So it wasn't surprising\nshe had noticed the new badge.\"Yes, Allie,\" she said, \"I'm still making airplanes. Everything's the\nsame. I just got a promotion.\"\n\"Are you still a BUM?\" she said.\nAllison had been delighted, the year before, to learn that Casey\nwas a Business Unit Manager, a BUM. \"Mom's a bum,\" she'd tell her\nfriends' parents, to great effect.\n\"No, Allie. Now get your shoes on. Your dad'll be picking you up\nany minute.\"\n\"No, he won't,\" Allison said. \"Dad's always late. What's your\npromotion?\"\nCasey bent over and began pulling on her daughter's sneakers.\n\"Well,\" she said, \"I still work at QA, but I don't check the planes in\nthe factory any more. I check them after they leave the plant.\"\n'To make sure they fly?\"\n\"Yes, honey. We check them and fix any problems.\"\n\"They better fly,\" Allison said, \"or else they'll crash!\" She began\nto laugh. \"They'll all fall out of the sky! And hit everybody in their\nhouses, right while they're eating their cereal! That wouldn't be too\ngood, would it, Mom?\"\nCasey laughed with her. \"No, that wouldn't be good at all. The\npeople at the plant would be very upset.\" She finished tying the\nlaces, swung her daughter's feet away. \"Now where's your\nsweatshirt?\"\n\"I don't need it.\"\n\"Allison—\"\n\"Mom, it's not even cold!\"\n\"It may be cold later in the week. Get your sweatshirt, please.\"\nShe heard a horn honk on the street outside, saw Jim's black\nLexus in front of the house. Jim was behind the wheel, smoking a\ncigarette. He was wearing a jacket and tie. Perhaps he had a job\ninterview, she thought.\nAllison stomped around her room, banging drawers. She came\nback looking unhappy, the sweatshirt hanging from the comer of her\nbackpack. \"How come you're always so tense when Dad picks me\nup?\"Casey opened the door, and they walked to the car in the hazy\nmorning sunshine. Allison cried, \"Hi, Daddy!\" and broke into a run.\nJim waved back, with a boozy grin.\nCasey walked over to Jim's window. \"No smoking with Allison in\nthe car, right?\"\nJim stared at her sullenly. \"Good morning to you, too.\" His voice\nwas raspy. He looked hung over, his face puffy and sallow.\n\"We had an agreement about smoking around our daughter,\nJim.\"\n\"Do you see me smoking?\"\n\"I'm just saying.\"\n\"And you've said it before, Katherine,\" he said. \"I've heard it a\nmillion times. For Christ's sake.\"\nCasey sighed. She was determined not to fight in front of Allison.\nThe therapist had said that was the reason Allison had begun\nstuttering. The stuttering was better now, and Casey always made\nan effort not to argue with Jim, even though he didn't reciprocate.\nOn the contrary: he seemed to take special pleasure in making every\ncontact as difficult as possible.\n\"Okay,\" Casey said, forcing a smile. \"See you Sunday.\"\nTheir arrangement was that Allison stayed with her father one\nweek a month, leaving Monday and returning the following Sunday.\n\"Sunday.\" Jim nodded curtly. \"Same as always.\"\n\"Sunday at six.\"\n\"Oh, Christ.\"\n\"I'm just checking, Jim.\"\n\"No, you're not. You're controlling, the way you always do — \"\n\"Jim,\" she said. \"Please. Let's not\"\n\"Fine with me,\" he snapped.\nShe bent over. \"Bye, Allie.\"\nAllison said, \"Bye, Mom,\" but her eyes were already distant, her\nvoice cool; she had transferred her allegiance to her father, even\nbefore her seat belt was fastened. Then Jim stepped on the gas, and\nthe Lexus drove away, leaving her standing there on the sidewalk.\nThe car rounded the comer, and was gone.Down at the end of the street, she saw the hunched figure of her\nneighbor Amos, taking his snarly dog for a morning walk. Like Casey,\nAmos worked at die plant. She waved to him, and he waved back.\nCasey was turning to go back inside to dress for work, when her\neye caught a blue sedan parked across the street There were two\nmen inside. One was reading a newspaper; the other stared out the\nwindow. She paused: her neighbor Mrs. Alvarez had been robbed\nrecently. Who were these men? They weren't gang bangers; they\nwere in their twenties with a clean-cut, vaguely military appearance.\nCasey was thinking about taking down the license plate when her\nbeeper went off, with an electronic squeal. She undipped it from her\nshorts and read:\nShe sighed. Three stars signaled an urgent message: John\nMarder, who ran the factory, was calling an IRT meeting for 7 . . in\nA M\nthe War Room. That was a full hour before the regular Morning Call;\nsomething was up. The final notation confirmed it, in plant slang—\nBTOYA. Be There Or It's Your Ass.BURBANK AIRPORT\n6:32 . .\nA M\nRush hour traffic crept forward in the pale morning light. Casey\ntwisted her rearview mirror, and leaned over to check her makeup.\nWith her short dark hair, she was appealing in a tomboyish sort of\nway—long limbed and athletic. She played first base on the plant\nsoftball team. Men were comfortable around her; they treated her\nlike a kid sister, which served her well at the plant.\nIn fact, Casey had had few problems there. She had grown up in\nthe suburbs of Detroit, the only daughter of an editor at the Detroit\nNews. Her two older brothers were both engineers at Ford. Her\nmother died when she was an infant, so she had been raised in a\nhousehold of men. She had never been what her father used to call\n\"a girly girl.\"\nAfter she graduated from Southern Illinois in journalism, Casey\nhad followed her brothers to Ford. But she found writing press\nreleases uninteresting, so she took advantage of the company's\ncontinuing education program to get an MBA from Wayne State.\nAlong the way, she married Jim, a Ford engineer, and had a child.\nBut Allison's arrival had ended the marriage: confronted by\ndiapers and feeding schedules, Jim started drinking, staying out late.\nEventually they separated. When Jim announced he was moving to\nthe West Coast to work for Toyota, she decided to move out, too.\nCasey wanted Allison to grow up seeing her father. She was tired of\nthe politics at Ford, and the bleak Detroit winters. California offered\na fresh start: she imagined herself driving a convertible, living in a\nsunny house near the beach, with palm trees outside her window;\nshe imagined her daughter growing up tanned and healthy.\nInstead, she lived in Glendale, an hour and a half inland from the\nbeach. Casey had indeed bought a convertible, but she never put\nthe top down. And although the section of Glendale where they lived\nwas charming, gang territories began only a few blocks away.Sometimes at night, while her daughter slept, she heard the faint\npop of gunfire. Casey worried about Allison's safety. She worried\nabout her education in a school system where fifty languages were\nspoken. And she worried about the future, because the California\neconomy was still depressed, jobs scarce. Jim had been out of work\nfor two years now, since Toyota fired him for drinking. And Casey\nhad survived wave after wave of layoffs at Norton, where production\nhad slumped thanks to the global recession.\nShe had never imagined she would work for an aircraft company,\nbut to her surprise she had found that her plain-spoken, midwestern\npragmatism was perfectly suited to the culture of engineers that\ndominated the company. Jim considered her rigid and \"by the book,\"\nbut her attention to detail had served her well at Norton, where she\nhad for the last year been a vice-president of Quality Assurance.\nShe liked QA, even though the division had a nearly impossible\nmission. Norton Aircraft was divided into two great factions—\nproduction and engineering—which were perpetually at war. Quality\nAssurance stood uneasily between the two. QA was involved in all\naspects of production; the division signed off every step of\nfabrication and assembly. When a problem emerged, QA was\nexpected to get to the bottom of it. That rarely endeared them to\nmechanics on the line, or the engineers.\nAt the same time, QA was expected to deal with customer\nsupport problems. Customers were often unhappy with decisions\nthey themselves had made, blaming Norton if the galleys they had\nordered were in the wrong place, or if there were too few toilets on\nthe plane. It took patience and political skill to keep everybody\nhappy and get the problems resolved. Casey, a born peacemaker,\nwas especially good at this.\nIn return for walking a political tightrope, workers in QA had the\nrun of the plant. As a vice-president, Casey was involved in every\naspect of the company's work; she had a lot of freedom and wide-\nranging responsibility.\nShe knew her title was more impressive than the job she held;\nNorton Aircraft was awash in vice-presidents. Her division alone had\nfour veeps, and competition among them was fierce. But now JohnMarder had just promoted her to liaison for the IRT. This was a\nposition of considerable visibility— and it put her in line to head the\ndivision. Marder didn't make such appointments casually. She knew\nhe had a good reason for doing it.\nShe turned her Mustang convertible off the Golden State Freeway\nonto Empire Avenue, following the chain-link fence that marked the\nsouth perimeter of Burbank Airport. She headed toward the\ncommercial complexes—Rockwell, Lockheed, and Norton Aircraft.\nFrom a distance, she could see the rows of hangars, each with the\nwinged Norton logo painted above—\nHer car phone rang.\n\"Casey? It's Norma. You know about the meeting?\"\nNorma was her secretary. \"I'm on my way,\" she said. \"What's\ngoing on?\"\n\"Nobody knows anything,\" Norma said. \"But it must be bad.\nMarder's been screaming at the engineering heads, and he's pushed\nup the IRT.\"\nJohn Marder was the chief operating officer at Norton. Marder\nhad been program manager on the N-22, which meant he\nsupervised the manufacture of that aircraft. He was a ruthless and\noccasionally reckless man, but he got results. Marder was also\nmarried to Charley Norton's only daughter. In recent years, he'd had\na lot to say about sales. That made Marder the second most\npowerful man in the company after the president. It was Marder\nwho had moved Casey up, and it was—\n\"... do with your assistant?\" Norma said.\n\"My what?\"\n\"Your new assistant. What do you want me to do with him? He's\nwaiting in your office. You haven't forgotten?\"\n\"Oh, right.\" The truth was, she had forgotten. Some nephew of\nthe Norton family was working his way through the divisions. Marder\nhad assigned the kid to Casey, which meant she'd have to babysit\nhim for the next six weeks. \"What's he like, Norma?\"\n\"Well, he's not drooling.\"\n\"Norma.\"\n\"He's better than the last one.\"That wasn't saying much: the last one had fallen off a wing in\nmajor join and had nearly electrocuted himself in radio rack. \"How\nmuch better?\"\n\"I'm looking at his resume,\" Norma said. \"Yale law school and a\nyear at GM. But he's been in Marketing for the last three months,\nand he doesn't know anything about production. You're going to\nhave to start him from the beginning.\"\n\"Right,\" Casey said, sighing. Marder would expect her to bring\nhim to the meeting. \"Have the kid meet me in front of Administration\nin ten minutes. And make sure he doesn't get lost, okay?\"\n\"You want me to walk him down?\"\n\"Yeah, you better.\"\nCasey hung up and glanced at her watch. Traffic was moving\nslowly. Still ten minutes to the plant. She drummed her fingers on\nthe dashboard impatiently. What could the meeting be about? There\nmight have been an accident, or a crash.\nShe turned on the radio to see if it was on the news. She got a\ntalk station, a caller saying, \"—not fair to make kids wear uniforms\nto school. It's elitist and discriminatory—\"\nCasey pushed a button, changing the station.\n\"—trying to force their personal morality on the rest of us. I don't\nbelieve a fetus is a human being—\"\nShe pushed another button.\n\"—these media attacks are all coming from people who don't like\nfree speech—\"\nWhere, she thought, is the news? Had an airplane crashed or\nnot?\nShe had a sudden image of her father, reading a big stack of\nnewspapers from all over the country every Sunday after church,\nmuttering to himself, \"That's not the story, that's not the story!\" as\nhe dropped the pages in an untidy heap around his living room chair.\nOf course, her father had been a print journalist, back in the 1960s.\nIt was a different world now. Now, everything was on television.\nTelevision, and the mindless chatter on the radio.\nUp ahead, she saw the main gate of the Norton plant. She\nclicked the radio off.Norton Aircraft was one of the great names of American aviation.\nThe company had been started by aviation pioneer Charley Norton in\n1935; during World War II it made the legendary B-22 bomber, the\nP-27 Skycat fighter, and the C-12 transport for the Air Force. In\nrecent years, Norton had weathered the hard times that had driven\nLockheed out of the commercial transport business. Now it was one\nof just four companies that still built large aircraft for the global\nmarket. The others were Boeing in Seattle, McDonnell Douglas in\nLong Beach, and the European consortium Airbus in Toulouse.\nShe drove through acres of parking lots to Gate 7, pausing at the\nbarrier while security checked her badge. As always, she felt a lift\ndriving into the plant, with its three-shift energy, the yellow tugs\nhauling bins of parts. It wasn't a factory so much as a small city,\nwith its own hospital, newspaper, and police force. Sixty thousand\npeople had worked here when she first came to the company. The\nrecession had trimmed that to thirty thousand, but the plant was still\nhuge, covering sixteen square miles. Here they built the N-20, the\nnarrow-body twinjet; the N-22, the widebody; and the KC-22, the Air\nForce fuel tanker. She could see the principal assembly buildings,\neach more than a mile in length.\nShe headed for the glass Administration building, in the center of\nthe plant. Pulling into her parking space, she left the engine running.\nShe saw a young man, looking collegiate in a sport coat and tie,\nkhaki slacks, and penny loafers. The kid waved diffidently as she got\nout of the car.BLDG 64\n6:45 . .\nA M\n\"Bob Richman,\" he said. \"I'm your new assistant.\" His handshake\nwas polite, reserved. She couldn't remember which side of the\nNorton family he was from, but she recognized the type. Plenty of\nmoney, divorced parents, an indifferent record at good schools, and\nan unshakable sense of entitlement.\n\"Casey Singleton,\" she said. \"Get in. We're late.\"\n\"Late,\" Richman said, as he climbed into the car. \"It's not even\nseven.\"\n\"First shift starts at six,\" Casey said. \"Most of us in QA work the\nfactory schedule. Don't they do that at GM?\"\n\"I wouldn't know,\" he said. \"I was in Legal.\"\n\"Spend any time on the floor?\"\n\"As little as possible.\"\nCasey sighed. It was going to be a long six weeks with this guy,\nshe thought. \"You've been over in Marketing so far?\"\n\"Yeah, a few months.\" He shrugged. \"But selling isn't really my\nthing.\"\nShe drove south toward Building 64, the huge structure where\nthe widebody was built. Casey said, \"By the way, what do you\ndrive?\"\n\"A BMW,\" Richman said.\n\"You might want to trade it in,\" she said, \"for an American car.\"\n\"Why? It's made here.\"\n\"It's assembled here,\" she said. \"It's not made here. The value’s\nadded overseas. The mechanics in the plant know the difference;\nthey're all UAW. They don't like to see a Beamer in the parking lot.\"\nRichman stared out the window. \"What are you saying,\nsomething might happen to it?'\n\"Guaranteed,\" she said. \"These guys don't screw around.\"\"I'll think about it,\" Richman said He suppressed a yawn. \"Jesus,\nit's early. What are we rushing to?\"\n\"The IRT. It's been pushed up to seven,\" she said.\n'The Incident Review Team. Every time something happens to\none of our planes, the IRT meets to figure out what happened, and\nwhat we should do about it\"\n\"How often do you meet?'\n\"Roughly every two months.\"\n\"That often,\" the kid said.\nYou 're going to have to start him from the beginning.\n\"Actually,\" Casey said, \"two months is pretty infrequent. We have\nthree thousand aircraft in revenue service around the world. With\nthat many birds in the air, things happen. And we're serious about\ncustomer support. So every morning we hold a conference call with\nthe service reps around the world. They report everything that\ncaused a dispatch delay the day before. Most of it's minor stuff: a\nlav door jammed; a cockpit light failed. But we track it in QA, do a\ntrend analysis, and pass that on to Product Support.\"\n\"Uh-huh . . .\" He sounded bored.\n\"Then,\" Casey said, \"once in a while, we hit a problem that\nwarrants an IRT. It has to be serious, something that affects flight\nsafety. Apparently we've got one today. If Marder's pushed the\nmeeting up to seven, you can bet it's not a bird strike.\"\n\"Marder?\"\n\"John Marder was the program manager for the widebody, before\nhe became chief operating officer. So it's probably an incident\ninvolving the N-22.\"\nShe pulled over and parked in the shadow of Building 64.\nThe gray hangar loomed above them, eight stories high and\nnearly a mile long. The asphalt in front of the building was strewn\nwith disposable earplugs, which the mechanics wore so they\nwouldn't go deaf from the rivet guns.\nThey walked through the side doors and entered an interior\ncorridor that ran around the perimeter of the building. The corridor\nwas dotted with food dispensers, in clusters a quarter of a mile apart\nRichman said, \"We got time for a cup of coffee?\" She shook herhead. \"Coffee's not allowed on the floor.\" \"No coffee?\" He groaned.\n\"Why not? It's made overseas?\" \"Coffee's corrosive. Aluminum\ndoesn't like it.\" Casey led Richman through another door, onto the\nproduction floor. \"Jesus,\" Richman said.\nThe huge, partially assembled widebody jets gleamed under\nhalogen lights. Fifteen aircraft in various stages of construction were\narranged in two long rows under the vaulted roof. Directly ahead of\nthem, she saw mechanics installing cargo doors in the fuselage\nsections. The barrels of the fuselage were surrounded by scaffolding.\nBeyond the fuselage stood a forest of assembly jigs—immense tools,\npainted bright blue. Richman walked under one of the jigs and\nlooked up, open-mouthed. It was as wide as a house and six stories\ntall.\n\"Amazing,\" he said. He pointed upward at a broad flat surface.\n\"Is that the wing?\"\n\"The vertical stabilizer,\" Casey said.\n\"The what?\"\n\"It's the tail, Bob.\"\n\"That's the tail' Richman said.\nCasey nodded. \"The wing is over there,\" she said, pointing across\nthe floor. \"It's two hundred feet long—almost as long as a football\nfield.\"\nA Klaxon sounded. One of the overhead cranes began to move.\nRichman turned to look.\n\"This your first time on the floor?\"\n\"Yeah ...\" Richman was turning around, looking in all directions.\n\"Awesome,\" he said.\n\"They're big,\" Casey said.\n\"Why are they all lime green?\"\n\"We coat the structural elements with epoxy to prevent\ncorrosion. And the aluminum skins are covered so they don't get\ndinged during assembly. The skins are highly polished and very\nexpensive. So we leave that coating on until Paint Shed.\"\n\"Sure doesn't look like GM,\" Richman said, still turning and\nlooking.\"That's right,\" Casey said. \"Compared to these aircraft, cars are a\njoke.\"\nRichman turned to her, surprised. \"A joke!\"\n\"Think about it,\" she said. \"A Pontiac has five thousand parts,\nand you can build one in two shifts. Sixteen hours. That's nothing.\nBut these things\"—she gestured to the aircraft looming high above\nthem—\"are a completely different animal. The widebody has one\nmillion parts and a span time of seventy-five days. No other\nmanufactured product in the world has the complexity of a\ncommercial aircraft. Nothing even comes close. And nothing is built\nto be as durable. You take a Pontiac and run it all day every day and\nsee what happens. It'll fall apart in a few months. But we design our\njets to fly for twenty years of trouble-free service, and we build them\nto twice the service life.\"\n\"Forty years?\" Richman said, incredulous. \"You build them to last\nforty years?\"\nCasey nodded. \"We've still got lots of N-5s in service around the\nworld—and we stopped building them in 1946. We've got planes that\nhave accumulated four times their design life—the equivalent of\neighty years of service. Norton planes will do that. Douglas planes\nwill do that. But no one else's birds will do that. You understand\nwhat I'm saying?\"\n\"Wow,\" Richman said, swallowing.\n\"We call this the bird farm,\" Casey said. \"The planes're so big, it's\nhard to get a sense of the scale.\" She pointed to one aircraft to their\nright, where small clusters of people worked at various positions,\nwith portable lights shining up on the metal. \"Doesn't look like many\npeople, right?\"\n\"No, not many.\"\n\"There's probably two hundred mechanics working on that plane\n—enough to run an entire automobile line. But this is just one\nposition on our line—and we have fifteen positions in all. There's five\nthousand people in this building, right now.\"\nThe kid was shaking his head, amazed. \"It looks sort of empty.\"\n\"Unfortunately,\" Casey said, \"it is sort of empty. The wide-body\nline's running at sixty percent capacity—and three of those birds arewhite-tails.\"\n\"White-tails?\"\n\"Planes we're building without customers. We build at a minimum\nrate to keep the line open, and we haven't got all the orders we\nwant. The Pacific Rim's the growth sector but with Japan in\nrecession, that market's not placing orders. And everybody else is\nflying their planes longer. So business is very competitive. This way.\"\nShe started up a flight of metal stairs, walking quickly. Richman\nfollowed her, footsteps clanging. They came to a landing, went up\nanother flight. \"I'm telling you this,\" she said, \"so you'll understand\nthe meeting we're going into. We build the hell out of these planes.\nPeople here are proud of what they do. And they don't like it when\nsomething s wrong.\"\nThey arrived at a catwalk high above the assembly floor, and\nwalked toward a glass-walled room that seemed to be suspended\nfrom the roof. They came to the door. Casey opened it.\n\"And this,\" she said, \"is the War Room.\"\nWAR ROOM\n7:01 . .\nA M\nShe saw it freshly, through his eyes: a large conference room\nwith gray indoor-outdoor carpeting, a round Formica table, tubular\nmetal chairs. The walls were covered with bulletin boards, maps,\nand engineering charts. The far wall was glass, and overlooked the\nassembly line.\nFive men in ties and shirtsleeves were there, a secretary with a\nnotepad, and John Marder, wearing a blue suit. She was surprised he\nwas here; the COO rarely chaired IRTs. In person, Marder was dark,\nintense, in his mid forties, with slicked-back hair. He looked like a\ncobra about to strike.\nCasey said, 'This is my new assistant, Bob Richman.\"\nMarder stood up and said, \"Bob, welcome,\" and shook the kid's\nhand. He gave a rare smile. Apparently Marder, with his finely tuned\nsense of corporate politics, was ready to fawn over any Norton\nfamily member, even a nephew on loan. It made Casey wonder if\nthis kid was more important than she thought he was.Marder introduced Richman to the others at the table. \"Doug\nDoherty, in charge of structure and mechanical...\" He gestured to an\noverweight man of forty-five, with a potbelly, bad complexion, and\nthick glasses. Doherty lived in a state of perpetual gloom; he spoke\nin a mournful monotone, and could always be counted on to report\nthat everything was bad, and getting worse. Today he wore a\nchecked shirt and a striped tie; he must have gotten out of the\nhouse before his wife saw him. Doherty gave Richman a sad,\nthoughtful nod.\n\"Nguyen Van Trung, avionics ...\" Trung was thirty, trim and quiet,\nself-contained. Casey liked him. The Vietnamese were the hardest-\nworking people at the plant. The avionics guys were MIS specialists,\ninvolved with the aircraft computer programs. They represented the\nnew wave at Norton: younger, better educated, better manners.\n\"Ken Burne, powerplant ...\" Kenny was red haired and freckled;\nhis chin thrust forward, ready to fight. Notoriously profane and\nabusive, he was known in the plant as Easy Burne because of his\nquick temper.\n\"Ron Smith, electrical...\" Bald and timid, nervously fingering pens\nin his pocket. Ron was extremely competent; it often seemed he\ncarried the schematics for the aircraft around in his head. But he\nwas painfully shy. He lived with his invalid mother in Pasadena.\n\"Mike Lee, who represents the carrier ...\" A well dressed man of\nfifty, gray hair cropped short, in a blue blazer with a striped tie. Mike\nwas a former Air Force pilot, a retired one-star general. He was\nTransPacific's rep at the plant.\n\"And Barbara Ross, with the notepad.\" The IRT secretary was in\nher forties, and overweight. She glared at Casey with open hostility.\nCasey ignored her.\nMarder waved the kid to a seat, and Casey sat down beside him.\n\"First item,\" Marder said \"Casey is now liaising QA to the IRT.\nConsidering the way she handled the RTO at DFW, she'll be our\npress spokesman from now on. Any questions?\"\nRichman looked bewildered, shaking his head. Marder turned to\nhim, and explained: \"Singleton did a good job with the press on a\nrejected takeoff at Dallas-Fort Worth last month. So she'll handle anypress inquiries we get. Okay? We all on the same page? Let's get\nstarted. Barbara?\" The secretary handed around stapled packets of\npaper.\n'Transpacific Flight 545,\" Marder said. \"An N-22, fuse number\n271. Flight originated at Kaitak Hong Kong at 2200 hours yesterday.\nUneventful takeoff, uneventful flight until approximately 0500 hours\nthis morning, when the aircraft encountered what the pilot described\nas severe turbulence—\"\nThere were groans throughout the room. \"Turbulence!\" The\nengineers shook their heads.\n\"—severe turbulence, producing extreme pitch excursions in\nflight.\"\n\"Ah, Christ,\" Burne said.\n\"The aircraft,\" Marder continued, \"made an emergency landing at\nLAX, and medical units were on hand. Our preliminary report\nindicates fifty-six injured, and three dead.\"\n\"Oh that's very bad,\" Doug Doherty said in a sad monotone,\nblinking behind his thick glasses. \"I suppose this means we've got\nthe NTSB on our backs,\" he said.\nCasey leaned over to Richman and whispered, \"National\nTransportation Safety Board usually gets involved when there are\nfatalities.\"\n\"Not in this case,\" Marder said. \"This is a foreign carrier, and the\nincident occurred in international airspace. NTSB has its hands full\nwith the Colombia crash. We think they're going to pass on this\none.\"\n'Turbulence,\" Kenny Burne said, snorting. \"Is there any\nconfirmation?\"\n\"No,\" Marder said. \"The plane was at thirty-seven thousand feet\nwhen the incident took place. No other aircraft at that altitude and\nposition reported weather problems.\"\n\"Satellite weather maps?\" Casey said.\n\"Coming.\"\n\"What about the passengers?\" she said. \"Did the captain make\nan announcement? Was the seat-belt sign on?\"\"Nobody's interviewed the passengers yet. But our preliminary\ninformation suggests no announcement was made.\"\nRichman was looking bewildered again. Casey scribbled a note\non her yellow pad, tilted it so he could read: No Turbulence.\nTrung said, \"Have we debriefed the pilot?\"\n\"No,\" Marder said. \"The flight crew caught a connecting flight\nout, and left the country.\"\n\"Oh great,\" Kenny Burne said, throwing his pencil on the table.\n\"Just great. We got a damn hit-and-run.\"\n\"Hold on, now,\" Mike Lee said, in a cool tone. \"On behalf of the\ncarrier, I think we have to recognize the flight crew acted\nresponsibly. They have no liability here; but they face possible\nlitigation from the civil aviation authorities in Hong Kong, and they\nwent home to deal with it\"\nCasey wrote: Flight Crew Unavailable.\n\"Do, uh, we know who the captain was?' Ron Smith asked\ntimidly.\n\"We do,\" Mike Lee said. He consulted a leather notebook. \"His\nname is John Chang. Forty-five years old, resident of Hong Kong, six\nthousand hours' experience. He's Trans-Pacific's senior pilot for the\nN-22. Very skilled.\"\n\"Oh yeah?\" Burne said, leaning forward across the table. \"And\nwhen was he last recertified?\"\n\"Three months ago.\"\n\"Where?\"\n\"Right here,\" Mike Lee said. \"On Norton flight simulators, by\nNorton instructors.\"\nBurne sat back, snorting unhappily.\n\"Do we know how he was rated?\" Casey asked.\n\"Outstanding,\" Lee said. \"You can check your records.\"\nCasey wrote: Not Human Error (?)\nMarder said to Lee, \"Do you think we can get an interview with\nhim, Mike? Will he talk to our service rep at Kaitak?\"\n\"I'm sure the crew will cooperate,\" Lee said. \"Especially if you\nsubmit written questions ... I'm sure I can get them answered within\nten days.\"\"Hmm,\" Marder said, distressed. \"That long...\"\n\"Unless we get a pilot interview,\" Van Trung said, \"we may have\na problem. The incident occurred one hour prior to landing. The\ncockpit voice recorder only stores the last twenty-five minutes of\nconversation. So in this case the CVR is useless.\"\n'True. But you still have the FDR.\"\nCasey wrote: Flight Data Recorder.\n\"Yes, we have the FDR,\" Trung said. But this clearly didn't\nassuage his concerns, and Casey knew why. Flight recorders were\nnotoriously unreliable. In the media, they were the mysterious black\nboxes that revealed all the secrets of a flight. But in reality, they\noften didn't work.\n\"I'll do what I can,\" Mike Lee promised.\nCasey said, \"What do we know about the aircraft?\"\n\"Aircraft's brand-new,\" Marder said. \"Three years' service. It's got\nfour thousand hours and nine hundred cycles.\"\nCasey wrote: Cycles = Takeoffs and Landings.\n\"What about inspections?\" Doherty asked gloomily. \"I suppose\nwe'll have to wait weeks for the records...\"\n\"It had a C check in March.\"\n\"Where?'\n\"LAX.\"\n\"So maintenance was probably good,\" Casey said.\n\"Correct,\" Marder said. \"As a first cut, we can't attribute this to\nweather, human factors, or maintenance. So we're in the trenches.\nLet's run the fault tree. Did anything about this aircraft cause\nbehavior that looks like turbulence? Structural?\"\n\"Oh sure,\" Doherty said miserably. \"A slats deploy would do it.\nWe'll function hydraulics on all the control surfaces.\"\n\"Avionics?\"\nTrung was scribbling notes. \"Right now I'm wondering why the\nautopilot didn't override the pilot. Soon as I get the FDR download,\nI'll know more.\"\n\"Electrical?'\n\"It's possible we got a slats deploy from a sneak circuit,\" Ron\nSmith said, shaking his head. \"I mean, it's possible...\"\"Powerplant?'\n\"Yeah, powerplant could be involved,\" Burne said, running his\nhand through his red hair. \"The thrust reversers could have deployed\nin flight. That'd make the plane nose over and roll. But if the\nreversers deployed, there'll be residual damage. We'll check the\nsleeves.\"\nCasey looked down at her pad. She had written:\nStructural — Slats Deploy\nHydraulics — Slats Deploy\nAvionics—Autopilot\nElectrical — Sneak Circuit\nPowerplant — Thrust Reversers\nThat was basically every system on the aircraft.\n\"You've got a lot of ground to cover,\" Marder said, standing and\ngathering his papers together. \"Don't let me keep you.\"\n\"Oh hell,\" Burne said. \"We'll nail this in a month, John. I'm not\nworried.\"\n\"I am,\" Marder said. \"Because we don't have a month. We have a\nweek.\"\nCries around the table. \"A week!\"\n\"Jeez, John!\"\n\"Come on, John, you know an IRT always takes a month.\"\n\"Not this time,\" Marder said. \"Last Thursday our president, Hal\nEdgarton, received an LOI from the Beijing government to purchase\nfifty N-22s, with an option for another thirty. First delivery in\neighteen months.\"\nThere was stunned silence.\nThe men all looked at each other. A big China sale had been\nrumored for months. The deal had been reported as \"imminent\" in\nvarious news accounts. But nobody at Norton really believed it.\n\"It's true,\" Marder said. \"And I don't need to tell you what it\nmeans. It's an eight-billion-dollar order from the fastest-growing\nairframe market in the world. It's four years of full-capacity\nproduction. It'll put this company on solid financial footing into the\ntwenty-first century. It'll fund development for the N-22 stretch and\nthe advanced N-XX widebody. Hal and I agree: this sale means thedifference between life and death for the company.\" Marder placed\nthe papers in his briefcase and snapped it shut.\n\"I fly to Beijing Sunday, to join Hal and sign the letter of intent\nwith the minister of transport. He's going to want to know what\nhappened to Flight 545. And I better be able to tell him, or he'll turn\naround and sign with Airbus. In which case I'm in deep shit, this\ncompany is in deep shit—and everybody at this table is out of a job.\nThe future of Norton Aircraft is riding on this investigation. So I don't\nwant to hear anything but answers. And I want them inside a week.\nSee you tomorrow.\"\nHe turned on his heel and walked out of the room.\nWAR ROOM\n7:27 . .\nA M\n\"What an asshole,\" Burne said. \"This is his idea of motivating the\ntroops? Fuck him.\"\nTrung shrugged. \"It's the way he always is.\"\n\"What do you think?\" Smith said. \"I mean, this could be great,\ngreat news. Has Edgarton really got an LOI from China?\"\n\"I bet he does,\" Trung said. \"Because the plant's been quietly\ngearing up. They've made another set of tools to fab the wing; the\ntools are about to be shipped to Atlanta. I'll bet he's got a deal.\"\n\"What he's got,\" said Burne, \"is a major case of cover my ass.\"\n\"Meaning?\"\n\"Edgarton might have a tentative from Beijing. But eight billion\ndollars is a big order from a big gorilla. Boeing, Douglas, and Airbus\nare all chasing that order. The Chinese could give it to any of them\nat the last minute. That's their style. They do it all the time. So\nEdgarton's shitting rivets, worrying he won't close the deal and he'll\nhave to tell the board he lost the big one. So what does he do? He\nlays it on Marder. And what does Marder do?\"\n\"Makes it our fault,\" Trung said.\n\"Right. This TPA flight puts them in perfect position. If they close\nwith Beijing, they're heroes. But if the deal falls apart...\"\n\"It's because we blew it,\" Trung said.\n\"Right. We're the reason an eight-billion-dollar deal cratered.\"\"Well,\" Trung said, standing, \"I think we better look at that\nplane.\"\nADMINISTRATION\n9:12 . .\nA M\nHarold Edgarton, the newly appointed president of Norton\nAircraft, was in his office on the tenth floor, staring out the window\noverlooking the plant, when John Marder walked in. Edgarton was a\nbig man, an ex-fullback, with a ready smile and cold, watchful eyes.\nHe had previously worked at Boeing, and had been brought in three\nmonths earlier to improve Norton's marketing.\nEdgarton turned, and frowned at Marder. \"This is a hell of a\nmess,\" he said. \"How many died?\"\n\"Three,\" Marder said.\n\"Christ,\" Edgarton said. He shook his head. \"Of all the times for\nthis to happen. Did you brief the investigation team on the LOI? Tell\nthem how urgent this is?\"\n\"I briefed them.\"\n\"And you'll clear it up this week?\"\n\"I'm chairing the group myself. I'll get it done,\" Marder said.\n\"What about press?\" Edgarton was still worried. \"I don't want\nMedia Relations handling this one. Benson's a drunk, the reporters\nall hate him. And the engineers can't do it. They don't speak English,\nfor Christ's sake—\"\n\"I've got it handled, Hal.\"\n\"You do? I don't want you talking to the fucking press. You're\ngrounded.\"\n\"I understand,\" Marder said. \"I've arranged for Singleton to do\nthe press.\"\n\"Singleton? That QA woman?\" Edgarton said. \"I looked at that\ntape you gave me, where she talked to the reporters about the\nDallas thing. She's pretty enough, but she comes off as a straight\narrow.\"\n\"Well, that's what we want, isn't it?\" Marder said. \"We want\nhonest all-American, no-nonsense. And she's good on her feet, Hal.\"\"She'd better be,\" Edgarton said. \"If the shit hits the fan, she has\nto perform.\"\n\"She will,\" Marder said.\n\"I don't want anything to undermine this China deal.\"\n\"Nobody does, Hal.\"\nEdgarton looked at Marder thoughtfully for a moment. \"You\nbetter be real clear about that,\" he said. \"Because I don't give a\ndamn who you're married to—if this deal doesn't close, a lot of\npeople are going to get taken out. Not just me. A lot of other heads\nwill roll.\"\n\"I understand,\" Marder said.\n\"You picked the woman. She's your call. The Board knows it. If\nanything goes wrong with her, or the IRT—you're out on your ass.\"\n\"Nothing will go wrong,\" Marder said. \"It's under control.\"\n\"It damn well better be,\" Edgarton said, and turned away again\nto look out the window.\nMarder left the room.\nLAX MAINTENANCE HANGAR 21\n9:48 . .\nA M\nThe blue minivan crossed the runway and raced toward the line\nof maintenance hangars at Los Angeles Airport. From the rear of the\nnearest hangar, the yellow tail of the Transpacific widebody\nprotruded, its emblem shining in the sun.\nThe engineers began to talk excitedly as soon as they saw the\nplane. The minivan rolled into the hangar and came to a stop\nbeneath the wing; the engineers piled out. The RAMS team was\nalready at work, a half-dozen mechanics up on the wing, wearing\nharnesses, scrabbling on their hands and knees.\n\"Let's do it!\" Burne shouted, as he climbed a ladder to the wing.\nHe made it sound like a battle cry. The other engineers scrambled up\nafter him. Doherty followed last, climbing the ladder with a dejected\nair.\nCasey stepped out of the van with Richman. \"They all go right to\nthe wing,\" Richman said.\"That's right. The wing's the most important part of an aircraft,\nand the most complicated structure. They'll look at it first, then do a\nvisual inspect on the rest of the exterior. This way.\"\n\"Where are we going?\"\n\"Inside.\"\nCasey walked to the nose, and climbed a roll-in staircase to the\nforward cabin door, just behind the cockpit. As she came to the\nentrance, she smelled the nauseating odor of vomit.\n\"Jesus,\" Richman said, behind her.\nCasey went inside.\nShe knew the forward cabin would have the least damage, but\neven here some of the seat backs were broken. Armrests had torn\nfree and swung into the aisles. Overhead luggage bins were cracked,\nthe doors hanging open. Oxygen masks dangled from the ceiling,\nsome missing. There was blood on the carpet, blood on the ceiling.\nPuddles of vomit on the seats.\n\"My God,\" Richman said, covering his nose. He looked pale. \"This\nhappened because of turbulence?\"\n\"No,\" she said. \"Almost certainly not.\"\n\"Then why would the pilot—\"\n\"We don't know yet,\" she said.\nCasey went forward to the flight deck. The cockpit door was\nlatched open, and the flight deck appeared normal. All the logs and\npaperwork were missing. A tiny infant's shoe was on the floor.\nBending to look at it, she noticed a mass of crumpled black metal\nwedged beneath the cockpit door. A video camera. She pulled it free,\nand it broke apart in her hands, an untidy heap of circuit boards,\nsilver motors, and loops of tape hanging from a cracked cassette.\nShe gave it to Richman.\n\"What do I do with this?\"\n\"Keep it.\"\nCasey headed aft, knowing it would be worse in the back.\nAlready she was forming a picture in her mind of what had\nhappened on this flight. \"There's no question: this aircraft\nunderwent severe pitch oscillations. That's when the plane noses up\nand down,\" she explained.\"How do you know?\" Richman said.\n\"Because that's what makes passengers vomit. They can take\nyaw and roll. But pitching makes them puke.\"\n\"Why are the oxygen masks missing?\" Richman said.\n\"People grabbed them as they fell,\" she said. It must have\nhappened that way. \"And the seat backs are broken—do you know\nhow much force it takes to break an airplane seat? They're designed\nto withstand an impact of sixteen Gs. People in this cabin bounced\naround like dice in a cup. And from the damage, it looks like it went\non for a while.\"\n\"How long?\"\n\"At least two minutes,\" she said. An eternity for an incident like\nthis, she thought.\nPassing a shattered midships galley, they came into the center\ncabin. Here damage was much worse. Many seats were broken.\nThere was a broad swath of blood across the ceiling. The aisles were\ncluttered with debris—shoes, torn clothing, children's toys.\nA cleanup crew in blue uniforms marked NORTON IRT was\ncollecting the personal belongings, putting them into big plastic\nbags. Casey turned to a woman. \"Have you found any cameras?\"\n\"Five or six, so far,\" the woman said. \"Couple of video cameras.\nThere's all sorts of stuff here.\" She reached under a seat, came out\nwith a brown rubber diaphragm. \"Like I said.\"\nStepping carefully over the litter in the aisles, Casey moved\nfarther aft. She passed another divider and entered the aft cabin,\nnear the tail.\nRichman sucked in his breath.\nIt looked as if a giant hand had smashed the interior. Seats were\ncrushed flat. Overhead bins hung down, almost touching the floor;\nceiling panels had split apart, exposing wiring and silver insulation.\nThere was blood everywhere; some of the seats were soaked deep\nmaroon. The aft lavs were ripped apart, minors shattered, stainless-\nsteel drawers hanging open, twisted.\nCasey's attention was drawn to the left of the cabin, where six\nparamedics were struggling to hold a heavy shape, wrapped in white\nnylon mesh, that hung near a ceiling bin. The paramedics adjustedtheir position, the nylon webbing shifted, and suddenly a man's head\nflopped out of the mesh— the face gray, mouth open, eyes sightless,\nwisps of hair dangling.\n\"Oh God,\" Richman said. He turned and fled.\nCasey went over to the paramedics. The corpse was a middle-\naged Chinese man. \"What's the problem here?\" she said.\n\"Sorry, ma'am,\" one of the medics said. \"But we can't get him\nout. We found him wedged here, and he's stuck pretty good. His left\nleg.\"\nOne of the paramedics shined a light upward. The left leg was\njammed through the overhead bin, into the silver insulation above\nthe window panel. She tried to remember what cabling ran there,\nwhether it was flight critical. \"Just be careful getting him out,\" she\nsaid.\nFrom the galley, she heard a cleanup woman say, \"Strangest\ndamn thing I ever saw.\"\nAnother woman said, \"How'd it get here?\"\n\"Damned if I know, honey.\"\nCasey went over to see what they were talking about. The\ncleaning woman was holding a blue pilot's cap. It had a bloody\nfootprint on the top.\nCasey reached for it. \"Where'd you find this?\"\n\"Right here,\" the cleaning woman said. \"Outside the aft galley.\nLong way from the cockpit, isn't it?\"\n\"Yes.\" Casey turned the cap in her hands. Silver wings on the\nfront, the yellow Transpacific medallion in the center. It was a pilot's\ncap, with a stripe for a captain, so it probably belonged to one of the\nbackup crew. If this plane carried a backup crew; she didn't know\nthat yet.\n\"Oh dear me this is awful just awful.\"\nShe heard the distinctive monotone, and looked up to see Doug\nDoherty, the structural engineer, striding into the aft cabin.\n\"What did they do to my beautiful plane?\" he moaned Then he\nsaw Casey. \"You know what this is, don't you. It's not turbulence.\nThey were porpoising.\"\"Maybe,\" Casey said. \"Porpoising\" was the term for a series of\ndives and climbs. Like a porpoise leaping in water.\n\"Oh yes,\" Doherty said, gloomily. \"That's what happened. They\nlost control. Terrible, just terrible...\"\nOne of the paramedics said, \"Mr. Doherty?\"\nDoherty looked over. \"Oh don't tell me,\" he said. \"This is where\nthe guy got wedged?\"\n\"Yes, sir...\"\n\"Wouldn't you know,\" he said, gloomily, moving closer. \"It had to\nbe the aft bulkhead. Right where every flight-critical system comes\ntogether to—okay, let me see. What is it, his foot?\"\n\"Yes, sir.\" They shone the light for him. Doherty pushed up\nagainst the body, which swayed in the harness.\n\"Can you hold him? Okay... anybody got a knife or something?\nYou probably don't but—\"\nOne of the paramedics gave him a pair of scissors, and Doherty\nbegan to cut Bits of silver insulation floated to the ground. Doherty\ncut again and again, his hand moving quickly. Finally he stopped.\n\"Okay. He missed the A59 cable run. He missed the A47 cable run.\nHe's left of the hydraulic lines, left of the avionics pack... Okay, I\ncan't see he hurt the plane in any way.\"\nThe paramedics, holding the dead body, stared at Doherty. One\nof them said, \"Can we cut him out, sir?\"\nDoherty was still looking intently. \"What? Oh yeah sure. Cut him\nout\"\nHe stepped back, and the paramedics applied the big metal jaws\nto the upper portion of the plane. They wedged the jaws between\nthe overhead luggage bins and the ceiling, then opened them. There\nwas a loud cracking sound as the plastic broke.\nDoherty turned away. \"I can't watch,\" he said. \"I can't watch\nthem tear up my beautiful aircraft.\" He headed back to the nose.\nThe paramedics stared as he left\nRichman came back, looking slightly embarrassed. He pointed\nout the windows. \"What're those guys doing on the wing?\"\nCasey bent down, looked through the windows at the engineers\non the wing. \"They're inspecting the slats,\" she said. \"Leading edgecontrol surfaces.\"\n\"And what do slats do?\"\nYou'II have to start him from the beginning.\nCasey said, \"You know anything about aerodynamics? No? Well,\nan aircraft flies because of the shape of the wing.\" The wing looked\nsimple, she explained, but it was actually the most complicated\nphysical component of the aircraft, and it took the longest to build.\nBy comparison, the fuse—the fuselage—was simple, just a lot of\nround barrels riveted together. And the tail was just a fixed vertical\nvane, with control surfaces. But a wing was a work of art. Nearly\ntwo hundred feet long, it was incredibly strong, capable of bearing\nthe weight of the plane. But at the same time, precisely shaped to\nwithin a hundredth of an inch.\n\"The shape,\" Casey said, \"is what's crucial: it's curved on top, flat\non the bottom. That means air going across the top of the wing has\nto move faster, and because of Bernoulli's principle—\"\n\"I went to law school,\" he reminded her.\n\"Bernoulli's principle says the faster a gas moves, the lower its\npressure. So the pressure within a moving stream is less than the air\nsurrounding it\" she said. \"Since air moves faster across the top of\nthe wing, it creates a vacuum which sucks the wing upward. The\nwing is strong enough to support the fuselage, so the whole plane is\nlifted up. That's what makes a plane fly.\"\n\"Okay.. .\"\n\"Now. Two factors determine how much lift is created— the\nspeed the wing moves through the air, and the amount of curvature.\nThe greater the curvature, the greater the lift.\"\n\"Okay.\"\n\"When the wing is moving fast, during flight, going maybe point\neight Mach, it doesn't need much curvature. It actually wants to be\nalmost flat. But when the aircraft is moving slower, during takeoff\nand landing, the wing needs greater curvature to maintain lift. So, at\nthose times we increase the curvature, by extending sections in the\nfront and back—flaps at the back, and slats at the leading edge.\"\n\"Slats are like flaps, but in the front?\"\n\"Right.\"\"I never noticed them before,\" Richman said, looking out the\nwindow.\n\"Smaller planes don't have them,\" Casey said. \"But this aircraft\nweighs close to three-quarters of a million pounds, fully loaded.\nYou've got to have slats on a plane this size.\"\nAs they watched, the first of the slats moved outward, then tilted\ndown. The men on the wing stuck their hands in their pockets and\nwatched.\nRichman said, \"Why are the slats so important?\"\n\"Because,\" Casey said, \"one possible cause of 'turbulence' is slat\nextension in mid flight. Remember at cruise speed, the wing should\nbe almost flat. If the slats extend, the plane may become unstable.\"\n\"And what would make the slats extend?\"\n\"Pilot error,\" Casey said. \"That's the usual cause.\"\n\"But supposedly this plane had a very good pilot.\"\n\"Right. Supposedly.\"\n\"And if it wasn't pilot error?\"\nShe hesitated. \"There is a condition called uncommanded slats\ndeployment. It means the slats extend without warning, all by\nthemselves.\"\nRichman frowned. \"Can that happen?'\n\"It's been known to occur,\" she said. \"But we don't think it's\npossible on this aircraft.\" She wasn't going to get into the details\nwith this kid. Not now.\nRichman still frowned. \"If it's not possible, why are they\nchecking?'\n\"Because it might have happened, and our job is to check\neverything. Maybe there's a problem with this particular aircraft.\nMaybe the control cables aren't properly rigged. Maybe there's an\nelectrical fault in the hydraulics actuators. Maybe the proximity\nsensors failed. Maybe the avionics code is buggy. We'll check every\nsystem, until we find out what happened, and why. And right now,\nwe haven't got a clue.\"\nFour men were squeezed into the cockpit, hunched over the\ncontrols. Van Trung, who was certified for the aircraft, sat in the\ncaptain's seat; Kenny Bume was in the first officer's seat on theright. Trung was functioning the control surfaces, one after another\n—flaps, slats, elevators, rudder. With each test, the flight deck\ninstrumentation was verified visually.\nCasey stood outside the cockpit with Richman. She said, \"You got\nanything, Van?\"\n\"Nothing yet,\" Trung said.\n\"We've got diddly-squat,\" Kenny Burne said. \"This bird is cherry.\nThere's nothing wrong with this plane.\"\nRichman said, \"Then maybe turbulence caused it, after all.\"\n'Turbulence my ass,\" Burne said. \"Who said that? Is that the\nkid?\"\n\"Yes,\" Richman said.\n\"Straighten the kid out, Casey,\" Burne said, glancing over his\nshoulder.\n'Turbulence,\" Casey said to Richman, \"is a famous catchall for\nanything that goes wrong on the flight deck. Turbulence certainly\noccurs, and in the old days, planes had some rough times. But these\ndays turbulence bad enough to cause injuries is unusual.\"\n\"Because?\"\n\"Radar, pal,\" Burne snapped. \"Commercial aircraft are all\nequipped with weather radar. Pilots can see weather formations\nahead and avoid them. They've also got much better\ncommunications between aircraft. If a plane hits rough weather at\nyour flight level two hundred miles ahead of you, you'll hear about\nthe sigmet, and get a course change. So the days of serious\nturbulence are over.\"\nRichman was annoyed by Burne's tone. \"I don't know,\" he said\n\"I've been on planes where turbulence got pretty rough—\"\n\"Ever see anybody get killed on one of those planes?\"\n\"Well, no...\"\n\"Seen people thrown from their seats?\"\n\"No...\"\n\"Seen injuries of any kind?\"\n\"No,\" Richman said, \"I haven't\"\n\"That's right,\" Burne said.\n\"But surely it is possible that—\"\"Possible?\" Bume said. \"You mean like in court, where anything is\npossible?'\n\"No, but—\"\n\"You're a lawyer, right?\"\n\"Yes, I am, but—\"\n\"Well you better get one thing straight, right now. We're not\ndoing law, here. Law is a bunch of bullshit. This is an aircraft. It's a\nmachine. And either something happened to this machine, or it\ndidn't. It's not a matter of opinion. So why don't you shut the fuck\nup and let us work?\"\nRichman winced, but didn't back down. \"Fine,\" he said, \"but if it\nwasn't turbulence, there'll be evidence—\"\n\"That's right,\" Burne said, \"the seat-belt sign. Pilot hits\nturbulence, the first thing he does is flash the seat-belt sign, and\nmake an announcement. Everybody buckles up, and nobody gets\nhurt. This guy never made an announcement\"\n\"Maybe the sign doesn't work.\"\n\"Look up.\" With a ping, the seat-belt sign came on above their\nheads.\n\"Maybe the announcement doesn't—\"\nBurne's amplified voice said, \"Working, working, you better\nbelieve it's working.\" The PA clicked off.\nDan Greene, the chubby operations inspector from the IFSDO,\ncame on board, puffing from the climb up the metal stairs. \"Hey,\nguys, I got your certificate to ferry the plane to Burbank. I figured\nyou want to take the bird to the plant.\"\n\"Yeah, we do,\" Casey said.\n\"Hey, Dan,\" Kenny Burne called. \"Nice job keeping the flight crew\nhere.\"\n\"Fuck you,\" Greene said. \"I had my guy at the gate a minute\nafter the plane arrived. The crew was already gone.\" He turned to\nCasey. \"They get the stiff out?\"\n\"Not yet, Dan. He's wedged in pretty tight.\"\n\"We got the other dead bodies off, and sent the seriously injured\nto Westside hospitals. Here's the list.\" He handed a sheet of paper to\nCasey. \"Only a few are still at the 'port infirmary.\"Casey said, \"How many are still here?\"\n\"Six or seven. Including a couple of stewardesses.\"\nCasey said, \"Can I talk to them?\"\n\"Don't see why not,\" Greene said.\nCasey said, \"Van? How much longer?\"\n\"Figure an hour, minimum.\"\n\"Okay,\" she said. \"I'm going to take the car.\"\n\"And take fucking Clarence Darrow with you,\" Bume said.\nLAX\n10:42 . .\nA M\nDriving in the van, Richman gave a long exhale. \"Jeez,\" he said.\n\"Are they always so friendly?\"\nCasey shrugged. \"They're engineers,\" she said. She was thinking,\nWhat did he expect? He must have dealt with engineers at GM.\n\"Emotionally, they're all thirteen years old, stuck at the age just\nbefore boys stop playing with toys, because they've discovered girls.\nThey're all still playing with toys. They have poor social skills, dress\nbadly—but they're extremely intelligent and well trained, and they\nare very arrogant in their way. Outsiders are definitely not allowed to\nplay.\"\n\"Especially lawyers ...\"\n\"Anybody. They're like chess masters. They don't waste time with\namateurs. And they're under a lot of pressure now.\"\n\"You're not an engineer?\"\n\"Me? No. And I'm a woman. And I'm from QA. Three reasons\nwhy I don't count Now Marder's made me IRT liaison to the press,\nwhich is another strike. The engineers all hate the press.\"\n\"Will there be press on this?\"\n\"Probably not,\" she said. \"It's a foreign carrier, foreigners died,\nthe incident didn't occur in the United States. And they don't have\nvisuals. They won't pay any attention.\"\n\"But it seems so serious...\"\n\"Serious isn't a criterion,\" she said. \"Last year, there were twenty-\nfive accidents involving substantial airframe damage. Twenty-three\noccurred overseas. Which ones do you remember?\"Richman frowned.\n\"The crash in Abu Dhabi that killed fifty-six people?\" Casey said.\n\"The crash in Indonesia that killed two hundred? Bogota, that killed\na hundred and fifty-three? You remember any of those?\"\n\"No,\" Richman said, \"but wasn't there something in Atlanta?\"\n\"That's right,\" she said. \"A DC-9 in Atlanta. How many people\nwere killed? None. How many were injured? None. Why do you\nremember it? Because there was film at eleven.\"\nThe van left the runway, went through the chain-link gate, and\nout onto the street. They turned onto Sepulveda, and headed\ntoward the rounded blue contours of the Centinela Hospital.\n\"Anyway,\" Casey said. \"We have other things to worry about\nnow.\" She handed Richman a tape recorder, clipped a microphone to\nhis lapel, and told him what they were going to do.\nCENTINELA HOSPITAL\n12:06 . .\nP M\n\"You want to know what happened?\" the bearded man said, in\nan irritable voice. His name was Bennett; he was forty years old, a\ndistributor for Guess jeans; he had gone to Hong Kong to visit the\nfactory; he went four times a year, and always flew Transpacific.\nNow he was sitting up in bed, in one of the curtained-off infirmary\ncubicles. His head and right arm were bandaged. \"The plane almost\ncrashed, that's what happened.\"\n\"I see,\" Casey said. \"I was wondering if—\"\n\"Who the hell are you people, anyway?' he said.\nShe handed him her card, introduced herself again.\n\"Norton Aircraft? What do you have to do with it?\"\n\"We build the airplane, Mr. Bennett.\"\n\"That piece of shit? Fuck you, lady.\" He threw the card back at\nher. \"Get the fuck out of here, both of you.\"\n\"Mr. Bennett—\"\n\"Go on, get out! Get out!\"\nOutside the curtained cubicle, Casey looked at Richman. \"I have\na way with people,\" she said ruefully.Casey went to the next cubicle, and paused. Behind the curtain,\nshe heard Chinese being spoken rapidly, first a woman's voice, and\nthen a man's voice responding.\nShe decided to move on to the next bed. She opened the\ncurtains and saw a sleeping Chinese woman in a plaster neck brace.\nA nurse in the room looked up, held her finger to her lips. Casey\nwent on to the next cubicle.\nIt was one of the flight attendants, a twenty-eight-year-old\nwoman named Kay Liang. She had a large abrasion on her face and\nneck, the skin raw and red. She sat in a chair by the empty bed,\nthumbing through a six-month-old issue of Vogue. She explained\nthat she had remained in the hospital to stay with Sha-Yan Hao,\nanother stewardess, who was in the next cubicle.\n\"She is my cousin,\" she said. \"I'm afraid she was hurt badly. They\nwill not let me be in the room with her.\" She spoke English well, with\na British accent.\nWhen Casey introduced herself, Kay Liang looked confused.\n\"You're from the manufacturer?\" she said. \"But a man was just\nhere...\"\n\"What man?\"\n\"A Chinese man. He was here a few minutes ago.\"\n\"I don't know about that,\" Casey said, frowning. \"But we'd like to\nask you some questions.\"\n\"Of course.\" She put the magazine aside, folded her hands in her\nlap, composed.\n\"How long have you been with Transpacific?\" Casey asked.\nThree years, Kay Liang answered. And before that, three years\nwith Cathay Pacific. She always flew international routes, she\nexplained, because she had languages, English and French, as well\nas Chinese.\n\"And where were you when this incident occurred?\"\n\"In the midcabin galley. Just behind business class.\" The flight\nattendants were preparing breakfast, she explained. It was about\nfive . ., perhaps a few minutes later.\nA M\n\"And what happened?\"\"The plane began to climb,\" she said. \"I know that, because I\nwas setting out drinks, and they started to slide off the trolley. Then\nalmost immediately, there was a very steep descent\"\n\"What did you do?\"\nShe could do nothing, she explained, except hold on. The\ndescent was steep. All the food and drinks fell. She thought the\ndescent lasted about ten seconds, but she wasn't sure. Then there\nwas another climb, extremely steep, and then another steep\ndescent. On the second descent, she struck her head against the\nbulkhead.\n\"Did you lose consciousness?\"\n\"No. But that was when I scraped my face.\" She gestured to her\ninjury.\n\"And what happened next?\"\nShe was not sure, she said. She was confused because the\nsecond stewardess in the galley, Miss Jiao, fell against her, and they\nwere both knocked to the floor. \"We could hear the cries of the\npassengers,\" she said. \"And of course we saw them in the aisles.\"\nAfterward, she said, the plane became level again. She was able\nto get up and help the passengers. The situation was very bad, she\nsaid, particularly aft. \"Many injured and many bleeding, in pain. The\nflight attendants were overwhelmed. Also, Miss Hao, my cousin, was\nnot conscious. She had been in the aft galley. This upset the other\nstewardesses. And three passengers were dead. The situation was\nvery distressing.\"\n\"What did you do?\"\n\"I got the emergency medical kits to care for the passengers.\nThen I went to the cockpit.\" She wanted to see if the flight crew was\nall right. \"And I wanted to tell them the first officer had been injured\nin the aft galley.\"\n\"The first officer was in the aft galley when the incident\noccurred?\" Casey said\nKay Liang blinked. \"Of the relief crew, yes.\"\n\"Not the flight crew?\"\n\"No. The first officer of the relief crew.\"\n\"You had two crews on board?\"\"Yes.\"\n\"When did the crews change?\"\n\"Perhaps three hours earlier. During the night.\"\n\"What was the name of the injured first officer?\" Casey asked.\nAgain, she hesitated. \"I ... I am not sure. I had not flown with\nthe relief crew before.\"\n\"I see. And when you went to the cockpit?\"\n\"Captain Chang had the plane in control. The crew was shaken,\nbut not injured. Captain Chang told me that he had requested an\nemergency landing at Los Angeles.\"\n\"You've flown with Captain Chang before?\"\n\"Yes. He is a very good captain. Excellent captain. I like him very\nmuch.\"\nProtesting too much, Casey thought. The stewardess, previously\ncalm, now appeared uneasy. Liang glanced at Casey, then looked\naway.\n\"Did there appear to be any damage to the flight deck?\" Casey\nasked.\nThe stewardess frowned, thinking. \"No,\" she said. \"The flight\ndeck appeared normal in every respect.\"\n\"Did Captain Chang say anything else?\"\n\"Yes. He said they had an uncommanded slats deployment,\" she\nsaid. \"He said that had caused the upset, and the situation was now\nunder control.\"\nUh-oh, Casey thought. This was not going to make the engineers\nhappy. But Casey was troubled by the stewardess's technical\nphrasing. She thought it unlikely that a flight attendant would know\nabout uncommanded slats deployment. But perhaps she was just\nrepeating what the captain had said.\n\"Did Captain Chang say why the slats deployed?\"\n\"He just said, uncommanded slats deployment.\"\n\"I see,\" Casey said. \"And do you know where the slats control is\nlocated?\"\nKay Liang nodded. \"It is a lever in the center pillar, between the\nchairs.\"\nThat was correct, Casey thought.\"Did you notice the lever at that time? While you were in the\ncockpit?\"\n\"Yes. It was in the up and locked position.\"\nAgain, Casey noted the terminology. A pilot would say, Up and\nlocked. Would a flight attendant?\n\"Did he say anything else?\"\n\"He was concerned about the autopilot. He said the autopilot\nkept trying to cut in, to take over the plane. He said 'I had to fight\nthe autopilot for control.'\"\n\"I see. And what was Captain Chang's manner at this time?\"\n\"He was calm, as always. He is a very good captain.\"\nThe girl's eyes flickered nervously. She twisted her hands in her\nlap. Casey decided to wait for a moment. It was an old interrogator's\ntrick: let the subject break the silence.\n\"Captain Chang comes from a distinguished family of pilots,\" Kay\nLiang said, swallowing. \"His father was a pilot during the war, and\nhis son is a pilot as well.\"\n\"I see ...\"\nThe flight attendant lapsed into silence again. There was a\npause. She looked down at her hands, then back up. \"So. Is there\nanything else I can tell you?\"\nOutside the cubicle, Richman said, \"Isn't this the thing you said\ncouldn't happen? Uncommanded slats deployment?\"\n\"I didn't say it couldn't happen. I said I didn't believe it was\npossible on this aircraft. And if it did, it raises more questions than it\nanswers.\"\n\"And what about the autopilot—\"\n'Too early to tell,\" she said, and went into the next cubicle.\n\"It must have been around six o'clock,\" Emily Jansen said,\nshaking her head. She was a slender woman of thirty, with a purple\nbruise on her cheek. An infant slept on her lap. Her husband lay in\nthe bed behind her; a metal brace ran from his shoulders to his chin.\nShe said his jaw was broken.\n\"I had just fed the baby. I was talking to my husband. And then I\nheard a sound.\"\n\"What sort of a sound?\"\"A rumbling or a grinding sound. I thought it came from the\nwing.\"\nNot good, Casey thought.\n\"So I looked out the window. At the wing.\"\n\"Did you see anything unusual?\"\n\"No. It all looked normal. I thought the sound might be coming\nfrom the engine, but the engine looked normal, too.\"\n\"Where was the sun that morning?\"\n\"On my side. Shining in on my side.\"\n\"So was there sunlight on the wing?\"\n\"Yes.\"\n\"Reflecting back at you?\"\nEmily Jansen shook her head. \"I don't really remember.\"\n\"Was the seat-belt sign on?'\n\"No. Never.\"\n\"Did the captain make an announcement?\"\n\"No.\"\n\"Going back to this sound—you described it as a rumble?\"\n\"Something like that. I don't know if I heard it, or felt it. It was\nalmost like a vibration.\"\nLike a vibration.\n\"How long did this vibration last?\"\n\"Several seconds.\"\n\"Five seconds?\"\n\"Longer. I would say ten or twelve seconds.\"\nA classic description of a slats deployment in flight, Casey\nthought.\n\"Okay,\" she said. \"And then?\"\n\"The plane started going down.\" Jansen gestured with the flat of\nher hand. \"Like that.\"\n* * *\nCasey continued to make notes, but she no longer really listened.\nShe was trying to put together the sequence of events, trying to\ndecide how the engineers should proceed. There was no question\nthat both witnesses were telling a story consistent with slatsdeployment. First, rumbling for twelve seconds— exactly the time it\ntook the slats to extend. Then a slight nose up, which would occur\nnext. And then porpoising, as the crew tried to stabilize the aircraft.\nWhat a mess, she thought.\nEmily Jansen was saying, \"Since the cockpit door was open, I\ncould hear all the alarms. There were warning sounds—and voices in\nEnglish that sounded recorded.\"\n\"Do you remember what they said?\"\n\"It sounded like 'Fall... fall.' Something like that.\"\nIt was the stall alarm, Casey thought. And the audio reminder\nwas saying, \"Stall, stall.\"\nDamn.\nShe stayed with Emily Jansen a few minutes more and then went\nback outside.\nIn the corridor, Richman said, \"Does that rumbling sound mean\nthe slats deployed?\"\n\"It might,\" she said. She was tense, edgy. She wanted to get\nback to the aircraft, and talk to the engineers.\nFrom one of the curtained cubicles farther down .the corridor,\nshe saw a stocky gray-haired figure emerge. She was surprised to\nsee it was Mike Lee. She felt a burst of irritation: What the hell was\nthe carrier rep doing talking to passengers? It was very\ninappropriate. Lee had no business being here.\nShe remembered what Kay Liang had said: A Chinese man was\njust here.\nLee came up toward them, shaking his head.\n\"Mike,\" she said. \"I'm surprised to see you here.\"\n\"Why? You should give me a medal,\" he said \"A couple of the\npassengers were considering lawsuits. I talked them out of it.\"\n\"But Mike,\" she said. \"You talked to crew members before we\ndid. That's not right.\"\n\"What do you think, I fed them a story? Hell, they gave me the\nstory. And there's not much doubt about what happened.\" Lee\nstared at her. \"I'm sorry, Casey, but Flight 545 had an uncommanded\nslats deploy, and that means you've still got problems on the N-22.\"Walking back to the van, Richman said, \"What did he mean,\nyou've still got problems?\"\nCasey sighed. No point in holding back now. She said, \"We've\nhad some incidents of slats deployment on the N-22.\"\n\"Wait a minute,\" Richman said. \"You mean this has happened\nbefore?\"\n\"Not like this,\" she said. \"We've never had serious injuries. But\nyes, we've had problems with slats.\"\nEN ROUTE\n1:05 . .\nP M\n\"The first episode occurred four years ago, on a flight to San\nJuan,\" Casey said, as they drove back. \"Slats extended in mid-flight.\nAt first, we thought it was an anomaly, but then there were two\nadditional incidents within a couple of months. When we\ninvestigated, we found that in every case the slats had deployed\nduring a period of flight deck activity: right after a crew change, or\nwhen they punched in coordinates for the next leg of the flight, or\nsomething like that. We finally realized the slats lever was getting\nknocked loose by the crews, banged by clipboards, caught on\nuniform sleeves—\"\n\"You're kidding,\" Richman said.\n\"No,\" she said. \"We'd built a locking slot for the lever, like 'park'\non an automobile transmission. But despite the slot, the lever was\nstill being accidentally dislodged.\"\nRichman was staring at her with the skeptical expression of a\nprosecuting attorney. \"So the N-22 does have problems.\"\n\"It was a new aircraft,\" she said, \"and all aircraft have problems\nwhen they're first introduced. You can't build a machine with a\nmillion parts and not have snags. We do everything we can to avoid\nthem. First we design, then we test the design. Then we build, then\nwe flight test. But there are always going to be problems. The\nquestion is how to resolve them.\"\n\"How do you resolve them?\"\n\"Whenever we discover a problem, we send the operators a\nheads-up, called a Service Bulletin, which describes ourrecommended fix. But we don't have the authority to mandate\ncompliance. Some carriers implement, some don't If the problem\npersists, the FAA gets into the act and issues an Airworthiness\nDirective to the carriers, requiring them to fix the planes in service\nwithin a specified time. But there are always ADs, for every model\naircraft. We're proud of the fact that Norton has fewer than anyone\nelse.\"\n\"So you say.\"\n\"Go look it up. They're all on file at Oak City.\"\n\"At what?\"\n\"Every AD that's ever been issued is on file at the FAA's Technical\nCenter in Oklahoma City.\"\n\"So you had one of these ADs on the N-22? Is that what you're\ntelling me?\"\n\"We issued a Service Bulletin recommending the carriers install a\nhinged metal cover that sits over the lever. That meant the captain\nhad to flip up the cover before he could deploy the slats, but it\nsolved the problem. As usual, some carriers made the fix, others\ndidn't. So the FAA issued an AD making it mandatory. That was four\nyears ago. There's been only one incident since then, but that\ninvolved an Indonesian carrier who didn't install the cover. In this\ncountry, the FAA requires carriers to comply, but abroad ...\" She\nshrugged. \"The carriers do what they want.\"\n\"That's it? That's the whole history?\"\n\"That's the whole history. The IRT investigated, the metal covers\nwere installed on the fleet, and there haven't been any more slats\nproblems on the N-22.\"\n\"Until now,\" Richman said.\n\"That's right. Until now.\"\nLAX MAINTENANCE HANGAR\n1:22 .\nPM\n\"A what?\" Kenny Burne said, shouting from the cockpit of\nTranspacific 545. \"They said it was what!\"\n\"Uncommanded slats deployment,\" Richman said.\"Aw, blow me,\" Burne said. He started climbing out of the seat.\n\"What a crock of shit. Hey! Clarence, come in here. See that seat?\nThat's the first officer's seat. Sit down there.\"\nRichman was hesitant.\n\"Come on, Clarence, get in the damn seat.\"\nAwkwardly, Richman squeezed between the other men in the\ncockpit, and got into the first officer's chair on the right.\n\"Okay,\" Burne said. \"You comfy in there, Clarence? You're not a\npilot, by any chance?\"\n\"No,\" Richman said.\n\"Okay, good. So, here you are, all set to fly the plane. Now, you\nsee straight ahead\"—he pointed to the control panel directly in front\nof Richman, which consisted of three video screens, each four inches\nsquare—\"you got your three color CRTs showing your primary flight\ndisplay, navigation display, and on the left, systems display. All those\nlittle semicircles represent a different system. All green, meaning\neverything's fine. Now, on the roof above your head, that's your\noverhead instrument panel. All the lights are out, which means\neverything is fine. It's dark unless there's a problem. Now, to your\nleft is what we call the pedestal.\"\nBurne pointed to a boxy structure that protruded between the\ntwo seats. There were a half-dozen levers in slots on the pedestal.\n\"Now, from right to left, flaps—slats, two throttles for the engines,\nspoilers, brakes, thrusters. Slats and flaps are controlled by that\nlever nearest you, the one with the little metal cover over it. See it?\"\n\"I see it,\" Richman said.\n\"Good. Flip up the cover, and engage the slats.\"\n\"Engage the ...\"\n\"Pull the slats lever down,\" Burne said.\nRichman flicked up the cover, and struggled for a moment to\nmove the lever.\n\"No, no. Grab it firmly, pull it up, then right, then down,\" Burne\nsaid. \"Just like a gearshift on a car.\"\nRichman closed his fingers around the handle. He pulled the\nlever up, across, and down. There was a distant hum.\"Good,\" Burne said. \"Now, look at your display. See that amber\nSLATS EXTD indicator? It's telling you the slats are coming out of the\nleading edge. Okay? Takes twelve seconds to fully extend. Now\nthey're out, and the indicator is white and says SLATS.\"\n\"I see,\" Richman said.\n\"Okay. Now retract the slats.\"\nRichman reversed his actions, pushing the lever up, sliding it left\nand down to locked position, then closing the cover over the handle.\n\"That,\" Bume said, \"is a commanded slats extension.\"\n\"Okay,\" Richman said.\n\"Now, let's perform an uncommanded slats extension.\"\n\"How do I do that?\"\n\"Any way you can, pal. For starters, hit it with the side of 'your\nhand.\"\nRichman reached across the pedestal, brushing the lever with his\nleft hand. But the cover protected it. Nothing happened.\n\"Come on, hit that sucker.\"\nRichman swung his hand laterally back and forth, banging\nagainst the metal. He hit it harder and harder each time, but nothing\nhappened. The cover protected the handle; the slats lever remained\nup and locked.\n\"Maybe you could knock it with your elbow,\" Burne said. \"Or tell\nyou what, try this clipboard here,\" he said, pulling a clipboard from\nbetween the seats, and giving it to Richman. \"Go on, give it a good\nwhack. I'm looking for an accident here.\"\nRichman struck the lever with the clipboard. It clanged against\nthe metal. He turned the clipboard and pushed the lever with one\nedge. Nothing happened.\n\"You want to keep trying?\" Burne said. \"Or are you starting to\nget the point? It can't be done, Clarence. Not with that cover in\nplace.\"\n\"Maybe the cover wasn't in place,\" Richman said.\n\"Hey,\" Burne said, \"that's good thinking. Maybe you can knock\nthe cover up, by accident. Try that with your clipboard, Clarence.\"\nRichman swung the clipboard at the edge of the cover. But the\nsurface was smoothly curved, and the clipboard just slid off. Thecover remained closed.\n\"No way to do it,\" Burne said. \"Not by accident. So. What's the\nnext thought?\"\n\"Maybe the cover was already up.\"\n\"Good idea,\" Burne said. \"They're not supposed to be flying with\nthe cover up, but who the hell knows what they did. Go ahead and\nlift die cover up.\"\nRichman lifted the cover up on its hinge. The handle was now\nexposed.\n\"Okay, Clarence. Go to it.\"\nRichman swung his clipboard at the handle, banging it hard, but\nwith most lateral movements, the raised cover still acted as a\nprotection. The clipboard hit die cover before it struck the handle.\nSeveral times on impact, the cover dropped back down again.\nRichman had to keep stopping to lift the cover up again before he\ncould proceed.\n\"Maybe if you used your hand,\" Burne suggested.\nRichman tried swiping at the handle with his palm. In a few\nmoments, the side of his hand was red, and the lever remained\nfirmly up and locked.\n\"Okay,\" he said, sitting back in the seat. \"I get the point.\"\n\"It can't be done,\" Bume said. \"It simply can't be done. An\nuncommanded slats deploy is impossible on this aircraft. Period.\"\nFrom outside the cockpit, Doherty said, \"Are you guys finished\nscrewing around? Because I want to pull the recorders and go\nhome.\"\nAs they came out of the cockpit, Burne touched Casey on the\nshoulder and said, \"See you a minute?\"\n\"Sure,\" she said.\nHe led her back in the plane, out of earshot of the others. He\nleaned close to her and said, \"What do you know about that kid?\"\nCasey shrugged. \"He's a Norton relative.\"\n\"What else?\"\n\"Marder assigned him to me.\"\n\"You check him out?\"\n\"No,\" Casey said. \"If Marder sent him, I assume he's fine.\"\"Well, I talked to my friends in Marketing,\" Burne said. \"They say\nhe's a weasel. They say, don't turn your back on him.\"\n\"Kenny...\"\n\"I'm telling you, something's wrong with that kid, Casey. Check\nhim out.\"\nWith a metallic whir from the power screwdrivers, the floor\npanels came away, revealing a maze of cables and boxes under the\ncockpit.\n\"Jesus,\" Richman said, staring.\nRon Smith was directing the operation, running his hand over his\nbald head nervously. \"That's fine,\" he said. \"Now get the panel to\nthe left.\"\n\"How many boxes we got on this bird, Ron?\" Doherty said.\n\"A hundred and fifty-two,\" Smith said. Anybody else, Casey\nknew, would have to thumb through a thick sheaf of schematics\nbefore he answered. But Smith knew the electrical system by heart.\n\"What're we pulling?\" Doherty said.\n\"Pull the CVR, the DFDR, and the QAR if they got one,\" Smith\nsaid.\n\"You don't know if there's a QAR?\" Doherty said, teasing him.\n\"Optional,\" Smith said. \"It's a customer install. I don't think they\nput one in. Usually on the N-22 it's in the tail, but I looked, and\ndidn't find one.\"\nRichman turned to Casey; he was looking puzzled again. \"I\nthought they were getting the black boxes.\"\n\"We are,\" Smith said.\n\"There's a hundred and fifty-two black boxes?\"\n\"Oh hell,\" Smith said, \"they're all over the aircraft. But we're only\nafter the main ones now—the ten or twelve NVMs that count.\"\n\"NVMs,\" Richman repeated.\n\"You got it,\" Smith said, and he turned away, bending over the\npanels.\nIt was left to Casey to explain. The public perception of an\naircraft was that it was a big mechanical device, with pulleys and\nlevers that moved control surfaces up and down. In the midst of this\nmachinery were two magic black boxes, recording events in theflight. These were the black boxes that were always talked about on\nnews programs. The CVR, the cockpit voice recorder, was essentially\na very sturdy tape deck; it recorded the last half hour of cockpit\nconversation on a continuous loop of magnetic tape. Then there was\nthe DFDR, the digital flight data recorder, which stored details of the\nbehavior of the airplane, so that investigators could discover what\nhad happened after an accident\nBut this image of an aircraft, Casey explained, was inaccurate for\na large commercial transport. Commercial jets had very few pulleys\nand levers—indeed, few mechanical systems of any sort. Nearly\neverything was hydraulic and electrical. The pilot in the cockpit didn't\nmove the ailerons or flaps by force of muscle. Instead, the\narrangement was like power steering on an automobile: when the\npilot moved the control stick and pedals, he sent electrical impulses\nto actuate hydraulic systems, which in turn moved the control\nsurfaces.\nThe truth was that a commercial airliner was controlled by a\nnetwork of extraordinarily sophisticated electronics—dozens of\ncomputer systems, linked together by hundreds of miles of wiring.\nThere were computers for flight management, for navigation, for\ncommunication. Computers regulated the engines, the control\nsurfaces, the cabin environment.\nEach major computer system controlled a whole array of sub-\nsystems. Thus the navigation system ran the ILS for instrument\nlanding; the DME for distance measuring; the ATC for air traffic\ncontrol; the TCAS for collision avoidance; the GPWS for ground\nproximity warning.\nIn this complex electronic environment, it was relatively easy to\ninstall a digital flight data recorder. Since all the commands were\nalready electronic, they were simply routed through the DFDR and\nstored on magnetic media. \"A modern DFDR records eighty separate\nflight parameters every second of the flight.\"\n\"Every second? How big is this thing?\" Richman said.\n\"It's right there,\" Casey said, pointing. Ron was pulling an\norange-and-black striped box from the radio rack. It was the size ofa large shoe box. He set it on the floor, and replaced it with a new\nbox, for the ferry flight back to Burbank.\nRichman bent over, and lifted the DFDR by one stainless-steel\nhandle. \"Heavy.\"\nThat's the crash-resistant housing,\" Ron said. \"The actual\ndoohickey weighs maybe six ounces.\"\n\"And the other boxes? What about them?\"\nThe other boxes existed, Casey said, to facilitate maintenance.\nBecause the electronic systems of the aircraft were so complicated,\nit was necessary to monitor' the behavior of each system in case of\nerrors, or faults, during flight. Each system tracked its own\nperformance, in what was called Non Volatile Memory. \"That's NVM \"\nThey would download eight NVM systems today: the Flight\nManagement Computer, which stored data on the flight plan and the\npilot-entered waypoints; the Digital Engine Controller, which\nmanaged fuel bum and powerplant; the Digital Air Data Computer,\nwhich recorded airspeed, altitude, and overspeed warnings ...\n\"Okay,\" Richman said. \"I think I get the point.\"\n\"None of this would be necessary,\" Ron Smith said, \"if we had\nthe QAR.\"\n\"QAR?\"\n\"It's another maintenance item,\" Casey said. \"Maintenance crews\nneed to come on board after the plane lands, and get a fast readout\nof anything that went wrong on the last leg.\"\n\"Don't they ask the pilots?\"\n\"Pilots will report problems, but with a complex aircraft, there\nmay be faults that never come to their attention, particularly since\nthese aircraft are built with redundant systems. For any important\nsystem like hydraulics, there's always a backup—and usually a third\nas well. A fault in the second or third backup may not show in the\ncockpit So the maintenance crews come on board, and go to the\nQuick Access Recorder, which spits out data from the previous flight\nThey get a fast profile, and do the repairs on the spot\"\n\"But there's no Quick Access Recorder on this plane?\"\n\"Apparently not\" she said. \"It's not required. FAA regulations\nrequire a CVR and a DFDR. The Quick Access Recorder is optional.Looks like the carrier didn't put one on this plane.\"\n\"At least I can't find it\" Ron said. \"But it could be anywhere.\"\nHe was down on his hands and knees, bent over a\nlaptopcomputer plugged into the electrical panels. Data scrolled\ndown the screen.\nA/S PWR TEST 00000010000\nAIL SERVO 00001001000\nCOMP\nADA INV 10200010001\nCFDS SENS 00000010000\nFAIL\nCRZ CMD MON 10000020100\nINV\nEL SERVO 00000000010\nCOMP\nEPR/N1 TRA-1 00000010000\nFMS SPEED INV 00000040000\nPRESS ALT INV 00000030000\nG/S SPEED ANG 00000010000\nSLAT XSIT T/0 00000000000\nG/S DEV INV 00100050001\nGND SPD INV 00000021000\nTAS INV 00001010000\n\"This looks like data from the flight control computer,\" Casey\nsaid. \"Most of the faults occurred on one leg, when the incident\noccurred.\"\n\"But how do you interpret this?\" Richman said.\n\"Not our problem,\" Ron Smith said. \"We just offload it and bring\nit back to Norton. The kids in Digital feed it to mainframes, and\nconvert it to a video of the flight.\"\n\"We hope,\" Casey said. She straightened. \"How much longer,\nRon?\"\n'Ten minutes, max,\" Smith said.\"Oh sure,\" Doherty said, from inside the cockpit. 'Ten minutes\nmax, oh sure. Not that it matters. I wanted to beat rush hour traffic\nbut now I guess I can't. It's my kid's birthday, and I won't be home\nfor the party. My wife's going to give me hell.\"\nRon Smith was starting to laugh. \"Can you think of anything else\nthat might go wrong, Doug?\"\n\"Oh sure. Lots of things. Salmonella in the cake. All the kids\npoisoned,\" Doherty said.\nCasey looked out the door. The maintenance people had all\nclimbed off the wing. Burne was finishing up his inspection of the\nengines. Trung was loading the DFDR into the van.\nIt was time to go home.\nAs she started down the stairs, she noticed three Norton Security\nvans parked in a corner of the hangar. There were about twenty\nsecurity guards standing around the plane, and in various parts of\nthe hangar.\nRichman noticed, too. \"What's this about?\" he said, gesturing to\nthe guards.\n\"We always put security on the plane, until it's ferried to the\nplant,\" she said.\n\"That's a lot of security.\"\n\"Yeah, well.\" Casey shrugged. \"It's an important plane.\"\nBut she noticed that the guards all wore sidearms. Casey couldn't\nremember seeing armed guards before. A hangar at LAX was a\nsecure facility. There wasn't any need for the guards to be armed.\nWas there?\nBLDG 64\n4:30 P.M.\nCasey was walking through the northeast corner of Building 64,\npast the huge tools on which the wing was built. The tools were\ncrisscrossed blue steel scaffolding, rising twenty feet above the\nground. Although they were the size of a small apartment building,\nthe tools were precisely aligned to within a thousandth of an inch.\nUp on the platform formed by the tools, eighty people were walking\naround, putting the wing together.To the right, she saw groups of men packing tools into large\nwooden crates. \"What's all that?\" Richman said.\n\"Looks like rotables,\" Casey said.\n\"Rotables?\"\n\"Spare tooling that we rotate into the line if something goes\nwrong with the first set We built them to gear up for the China sale.\nThe wing's the most time-consuming part to build; so the plan is to\nbuild the wings in our facility in Atlanta, and ship them back here.\"\nShe noticed a figure in a shirt and tie, shirtsleeves rolled up,\nstanding among the men working on the crates. It was Don Brull,\nthe president of the UAW local. He saw Casey, called to her, and\nstarted toward her. He made a flicking gesture with his hand; she\nknew what he wanted.\nCasey said to Richman, \"Give me a minute. I'll see you back at\nthe office.\"\n\"Who is that?\" Richman said.\n\"I'll meet you back at the office.\"\nRichman remained standing there, as Brull came closer. \"Maybe\nyou want me to stay and — \"\n\"Bob,\" she said. \"Get lost.\"\nReluctantly, Richman headed back toward the office. He kept\nglancing over his shoulder as he walked away.\nBrull shook her hand. The UAW president was a short and solidly\nbuilt man, an ex-boxer with a broken nose. He spoke in a soft voice.\n\"You know, Casey, I always liked you.\"\n\"Thanks, Don,\" she said. \"Feeling's mutual.\"\n\"Those years when you were on the floor, I always kept my eye\non you. Kept you out of trouble.\"\n\"I know that, Don.\" She waited. Brull was notorious for long\nwindups.\n\"I always thought, Casey isn't like the others.\"\n\"What's going on, Don?\" she said.\n\"We got some problems with this China sale,\" Brull said.\n\"What kind of problems?\"\n\"Problems with the offset.\"\"What about it?\" she said, shrugging. \"You know there's always\noffset with a big sale.\" In recent years, airframe manufacturers had\nbeen obliged to send portions of the fabrication overseas, to the\ncountries ordering planes. A country that ordered fifty planes\nexpected to get a piece of the action. It was standard procedure.\n\"I know,\" Brull said. \"But in the past, you guys sent part of the\ntail, maybe the nose, maybe some interior fab. Just parts.\"\n\"That's right.\"\n\"But these tools we're crating up,\" he said, \"are for the wing. And\nthe Teamsters on the loading dock are telling us these crates aren't\ngoing to Atlanta — they're going to Shanghai. The company's going\nto give the wing to China.\"\n\"I don't know the details of the agreement,\" she said. \"But I\ndoubt that—\"\n\"The wing, Casey,\" he said. \"That's core technology. Nobody ever\ngives away the wing. Not Boeing, nobody. You give the Chinese the\nwing, you give away the store. They don't need us any more. They\ncan build the next generation of planes on their own. Ten years from\nnow, nobody here has a job.\"\n\"Don,\" she said, \"I'll check into this, but I can't believe the wing\nis part of the offset agreement.\"\nBrull spread his hands. \"I'm telling you it is.\"\n\"Don. I'll check for you. But right now I'm pretty busy with this\n545 incident, and—\"\n\"You're not listening, Casey. The local's got a problem with the\nChina sale.\"\n\"I understand that, but—\"\n\"A big problem\" He paused, looked at her. \"Understand?'\nShe did. The UAW workers on the floor had absolute control over\nproduction. They could slow down, sick out, break tooling, and\ncreate hundreds of other intractable problems. \"I'll talk to Marder,\"\nshe said. \"I'm sure he doesn't want a problem on the line.\"\n\"Marder is the problem.\"\nCasey sighed. Typical union misinformation, she thought. The\nChina sale had been made by Hal Edgarton and the Marketing team.Marder was just the COO. He ran the plant. He didn't have anything\nto do with sales.\n\"I'll get back to you tomorrow, Don.\"\n\"That's fine,\" Brull said. \"But I'm telling you, Casey. Personally. I'd\nhate to see anything happen.\"\n\"Don,\" she said. \"Are you threatening me?\"\n\"No, no,\" Brull said quickly, with a pained expression. \"Don't\nmisunderstand. But 1 hear that if the 545 thing isn't cleared up fast,\nit could kill the China sale.\"\n\"That's true.\"\n\"And you're speaking for the IRT.\"\n\"That's true, too.\"\nBrull shrugged. \"So, I'm telling you. Feelings are strong against\nthe sale. Some of the guys are pretty hot about it. I was you, I'd\ntake a week off.\"\n\"I can't do that. I'm right in the middle of the investigation.\"\nBrull looked at her.\n\"Don. I'll talk to Marder about the wing,\" she said. \"But I have to\ndo my job.\"\n\"In that case,\" Brull said, putting his hand on her arm, \"you take\nreal good care, honey.\"\nADMINISTRATION\n4:40 . .\nP M\n\"No, no,\" Marder said, pacing in his office. \"This is nonsense,\nCasey. There's no way we'd send the wing to Shanghai. What do\nthey think, we're crazy? That'd be the end of the company.\"\n\"But Brull said—\"\n\"The Teamsters are screwing with the UAW, that's all. You know\nhow rumors run through the plant. Remember when they all decided\ncomposites made you sterile? Damn guys wouldn't come to work for\na month. But it wasn't true. And this one's not true, either. Those\ntools are going to Atlanta,\" he said. \"And for one very good reason.\nWe're fabbing the wing in Atlanta so that the senator from Georgia\nwill stop messing with us every time we go to the Ex-Im Bank for abig loan. It's a jobs program for the senior senator from Georgia.\nGot it?\"\n\"Then somebody better get the word out,\" Casey said.\n\"Christ,\" Marder said. \"They know this. The union reps sit in on\nall the management meetings. It's usually Brull himself.\"\n\"But he didn't sit in on the China negotiations.\"\n\"I'll speak to him,\" Marder said.\nCasey said, \"I'd like to see the offset agreement.\"\n\"And you will, as soon as it's final.\"\n\"What are we giving them?\"\n\"Part of the nose, and the empennage,\" Marder said. 75\n\"Same as we did for France. Hell, we can't give them anything\nelse, they're not competent to build it.\"\n\"Brull was talking about interfering with the IRT. To stop the\nChina sale.\"\n\"Interfering how?\" Marder said, frowning at her. \"Did he threaten\nyou?\"\nCasey shrugged.\n\"What did he say?\"\n\"He recommended a week's vacation.\"\n\"Oh, for Christ's sake,\" Marder said, throwing up his hands. \"This\nis ridiculous. I'll talk to him tonight, straighten him out. Don't worry\nabout this. Just stay focused on the job. Okay?\"\n\"Okay.\"\n\"Thanks for the heads-up. I'll take care of this for you.\"\nNORTON QA\n4:53 P.M.\nCasey rode the elevator from the ninth floor down to her own\noffices, on the fourth floor. She replayed the meeting with Marder,\nand decided he wasn't lying. His exasperation had been genuine.\nAnd it was true what Marder said—rumors flew through the plant, all\nthe time. A couple of years back, there was a week when the UAW\nguys had all come up to her, asking solicitously, \"How do you feel?' It\nwas days before she learned there was a rumor she had cancer.\nJust a rumor. Another rumor.She walked down the corridor, past the photographs of famous\nNorton aircraft from the past, with a celebrity posed in front:\nFranklin Delano Roosevelt beside the B-22 that carried him to Yalta;\nErrol Flynn, with smiling girls in the tropics, in front of an N-5; Henry\nKissinger, on the N-12 that had taken him to China in 1972. The\nphotographs were sepia-toned, to convey a sense of age, and the\nstability of the company.\nShe opened the doors to her offices: frosted glass, with raised\nlettering: \"Quality Assurance Division.\" She came into a large open\nroom. The secretaries sat in the bullpen; executive offices lined the\nwalls.\nNorma sat by the door, a heavyset woman of indeterminate age,\nwith blue-rinse hair, and a cigarette dangling from her mouth. It was\nagainst regulations to smoke in the building, but Norma did as she\npleased. She had been with the company as long as anyone could\nremember; it was rumored that she had been one of the girls in the\npicture with Errol Flynn, and that she had had a hot affair with\nCharley Norton back in the fifties. Whether any of that was true or\nnot, she certainly knew where all the bodies were buried. Within the\ncompany, she was treated with a deference bordering on fear. Even\nMarder was cautious around her.\nCasey said, \"What've we got, Norma?\"\n\"The usual panic,\" Norma said. 'Telexes are flying.\" She handed a\nstack to Casey. \"The Fizer in Hong Kong phoned three times for you,\nbut he's gone home now. Fizer in Vancouver was on the horn half an\nhour ago. You can probably still get him.\"\nCasey nodded. It was not surprising that the Flight Service\nRepresentatives in the major hubs would be checking in. The FSRs\nwere Norton employees assigned to the carriers, and the carriers\nwould be worried about the incident.\n\"And, let's see,\" Norma said. \"The Washington office is all\natwitter, they've heard the JAA is going to exploit this on Airbus's\nbehalf. What a surprise. Fizer in Dusseldorf wants a confirm it was\npilot error. Fizer in Milan wants information. Fizer in Abu Dhabi wants\na week in Milan. Fizer in Bombay heard engine failure. I straightenedhim out. And your daughter said to tell you she did not need her\nsweatshirt.\"\n\"Great.\"\nCasey took the faxes back to her office. She found Richman\nsitting at her desk. He looked up in surprise, and rose quickly from\nher chair. \"Sorry.\"\nCasey said, \"Didn't Norma find you an office?\"\n\"Yes, I have one,\" Richman said, walking around the desk. \"I was\njust, ah, just wondering what you wanted me to do with this.\" He\nheld up a plastic bag with the video camera they had found on the\nplane.\n\"I'll take it.\"\nHe gave it to her. \"So. What happens now?\"\nShe dropped the stack of telexes on her desk. \"I'd say you're\nthrough for the day,\" she said. \"Be here tomorrow at seven.\"\nHe left, and she sat down in her chair. Everything seemed to be\nas she had left it. But she noticed that the second drawer on the\ndesk was not quite closed. Had Richman been going through her\ndesk?\nCasey pulled the drawer open, revealing boxes of computer\ndisks, stationery, a pair of scissors, some felt-tip pens in a tray. It all\nlooked undisturbed. But still...\nShe heard Richman leave, then went back down the hall to\nNorma's desk. \"That kid,\" she said, \"was sitting behind my desk.\"\n'Tell me,\" Norma said. \"The little twerp asked me to get him\ncoffee.\"\n\"I'm surprised Marketing didn't straighten him out,\" Casey said.\n\"They had him a couple of months.\"\n\"As a matter of fact,\" Norma said, \"I was talking to Jean over\nthere, and she says they hardly ever saw him. He was always on the\nroad.\"\n\"On the road? A new kid, a Norton relative? Marketing would\nnever send him on the road. Where'd he go?\"\nNorma shook her head. \"Jean didn't know. You want me to call\nTravel, and find out?\"\n\"Yeah,\" Casey said. \"I do.\"Back in her office, she turned to the plastic bag on the desk,\nopened it, and pulled the videotape from the shattered camera. She\nset the tape to one side. Then she dialled Jim's number, hoping to\ntalk to Allison, but she got the answering machine. She hung up\nwithout leaving a message.\nShe thumbed through the telexes. The only one that interested\nher was from the FSR in Hong Kong. As always, he was way behind\nthe curve.\nFROM: RICK RAKOSKI, FSR HK TO: CASEY SINGLETON, QA/IRT\nNORTON BBK\nTRANSPACIFIC AIRLINES TODAY REPORTS FLIGHT 545, AN N-\n22, FUSE 271, FOREIGN REGISTRY 098/443/HB09, FLYING FROM\nHK TO DENVER EXPERIENCED A TURBULENCE UPSET DURING\nCRUISE FL370 APPROXIMATELY 0524 UTC POSITION 39 NORTH/170\nEAST. SOME PASSENGERS AND CREW SUFFERED MINOR INJURIES.\nAIRCRAFT MADE EMERGENCY LANDING LAX.\nFLIGHT PLAN, PASSENGER AND CREW MANIFEST ATTACHED.\nPLS ADVISE SOONEST.\nThe telex was followed by four pages of passenger manifest and\ncrew list. She glanced at the crew list:\nJOHN ZHEN CHANG, CAPTAIN 5/7/51\nLEU ZAN PING, FIRST OFFICER 3/11/59\nRICHARD YONG, FIRST OFFICER 9/9/61\nGERHARD REIMANN, FIRST\nOFFICER 7/23/49\nHENRI MARCHAND, ENGINEER 4/25/69\nTHOMAS CHANG, ENGINEER 6/29/70\nROBERT SHENG, ENGINEER 6/13/62\nHARRIET CHANG, FLIGHT\nATTENDANT 5/12/77\nLINDA CHING, FLIGHT\nATTENDANT 5/18/76\nNANCY MORLEY, FLIGHTATTENDANT 7/19/75\nKAY LIANG, FLIGHT ATTENDANT 6/4/67\nJOHN WHITE, FLIGHT ATTENDANT 1/30/70\nM. V. CHANG, FLIGHT\nATTENDANT 4/1/77\nSHA YAN HAO, FLIGHT\nATTENDANT 3/13/73\nYEE JIAO, FLIGHT ATTENDANT 11/18/76\nHARRIET KING, FLIGHT\nATTENDANT 10/10/75\nB. CHOI, FLIGHT ATTENDANT 11/18/76\nYEE CHANG, FLIGHT ATTENDANT 1/8/74\nIt was an international crew, of the kind that often flew for\ncharter companies. Hong Kong crews had often flown for the Royal\nAir Force and were extremely well trained.\nShe counted the names: eighteen in all, including seven flight\ncrew. Such a large flight crew was not strictly necessary. The N-22\nwas designed to be flown by a two-man crew, just a captain and\nfirst officer. But all the Asian carriers were expanding rapidly, and\nthey generally carried larger crews for extra training hours.\nCasey went on. The next telex was from the FSR in Vancouver.\nFROM: S. NIETO, FSR VANC TO: C. SINGLETON, QA/IRT\nFYI FLIGHT CREW TPA 545 DEADHEAD ON TPA 832, FROM LAX\nTO VANCOUVER, FIRST OFFICER LU ZAN PING TAKEN OFF THE\nAIRCRAFT AT VANCOUVER MEDICAL EMERGENCY DUE TO\nPREVIOUSLY UNRECOGNIZED HEAD INJURY. F/0 COMATOSE IN\nVANC GEN HOSP, DETAILS TF. REMAINING CREW OF TPA 545\nTRANSIT BACK TO HONG KONG TODAY.\nSo the first officer had been seriously injured, after all. He must\nhave been in the tail when the incident occurred. The man whose\ncap they had found.\nCasey dictated a telex to the FSR in Vancouver, asking him to\ninterview the first officer as soon as possible. She dictated anotherto the FSR in Hong Kong, suggesting an interview with Captain\nChang on his return.\nNorma buzzed her. \"No luck on the kid,\" she said.\n\"Why not?\"\n\"I talked to Maria in Travel. They didn't make Richman's\narrangements. His trips were charged to a special company account,\na set-aside for foreign, off-budget stuff. But she heard the kid ran up\na hell of a big charge.\"\n\"How big?\" Casey said.\n\"She didn't know.\" Norma sighed. \"But I'm having lunch\ntomorrow with Evelyn in Accounting. She'll give me everything.\"\n\"Okay. Thanks, Norma.\"\nCasey turned back to the telexes on her desk. They were all\nother business:\nSteve Young, from the FAA's Certification office, asking about\nfire-retardant test results on seat cushions the previous December.\nA query from Mitsubishi about burnouts of then- five-inch\ndisplays in the first-class section of American N-22 widebodies.\nA list of revisions to the N-20 Aircraft Maintenance Manual (MR\n06-62-02).\nA revision of the prototype Virtual Heads-Up Display units, to be\ndelivered in the next two days.\nA memo from Honeywell advising replacement of die D-2\nelectrical bus on all FDAU units numbered A-505/9 through A-609/8.\nCasey sighed, and went to work.\nGLENDALE\n7:40 . .\nP M\nShe was tired when she got home. The house seemed empty\nwithout Allison's lively chatter. Too tired to cook, Casey went into the\nkitchen and ate a cup of yogurt. Allison's colorful drawings were\ntaped on the refrigerator door. Casey considered calling her; but it\nwas right around her bedtime, and she didn't want to interrupt if Jim\nwas putting her to sleep.\nShe also didn't want Jim to think she was checking up on him.\nThat was a sore point between them. He always felt she waschecking.\nCasey went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. She\nheard the phone ring, and went back into the kitchen to answer it. It\nwas probably Jim. She picked up the receiver. \"Hello, Jim—\"\n\"Don't be stupid, bitch,\" a voice said. \"You want trouble, you'll\nget it. Accidents happen. We're watching you right now.\"\nClick.\nShe stood in the kitchen, holding the phone in her hand. Casey\nhad always thought of herself as levelheaded, but her heart was\npounding. She forced herself to take a deep breath as she hung up\nthe receiver. She knew these calls happened sometimes. She'd heard\nof other vice-presidents getting threatening calls at night. But it had\nnever happened to her, and she was surprised at how frightened she\nfelt. She took another deep breath, tried to shrug it off. She picked\nup her yogurt, stared at it, put it down. She was suddenly aware\nthat she was alone in a house with all the blinds open.\nShe went around the living room, closing the blinds. When she\ncame to the front window, she looked out at the street. In the light\nof the overhead street lamps, she saw a blue sedan parked a few\nyards up from her house.\nThere were two men inside.\nShe could see their faces clearly, through the windshield. The\nmen stared at her as she stood at the window.\nShit.\nShe went to the front door, bolted it, locked the security chain.\nShe set the burglar alarm, her ringers trembling and clumsy as she\npunched in the code. Then she flicked off the living room lights,\npressed her body to the wall, and peered out the window.\nThe men were still in the car. They were talking now. As she\nwatched, one of them pointed toward her house.\nShe went back to the kitchen, fumbled in her purse, found her\npepper spray. She clicked off the safety. With her other hand she\ngrabbed the phone, and pulled it on the long cord back to the dining\nroom. Still watching the men, she called the police.\n\"Glendale police.\"She gave her name and address. \"There are men parked outside\nmy house. They've been here since this morning. I've just gotten a\nthreatening call.\"\n\"Okay, ma'am. Is anybody in the house with you now?\"\n\"No. I'm alone.\"\n\"Okay, ma'am. Lock your door and set the alarm if you have one.\nA car is on the way.\"\n\"Hurry,\" she said.\nOn the street, the men were getting out of the car.\nAnd walking toward her house.\nThey were dressed casually, in polo shirts and slacks, but they\nlooked grim and tough. As they came forward they split up, one\nwalking onto the lawn, the other heading toward the back of the\nhouse. Casey felt her heart thump in her chest. Had she locked the\nback door? Gripping the pepper spray, she moved back to the\nkitchen, turning off the light there, then past the bedroom to the\nback door. Looking through the window in the door, she saw one of\nthe men standing in the back alley. He was looking around\ncautiously. Then his gaze turned toward the back door. She crouched\ndown, slipped the chain across the door.\nShe heard the sound of soft footsteps, coming closer to the\nhouse. She looked up at the wall, just above her head. There was a\nkeypad for the alarm, and a big red button marked EMERGENCY. If\nshe hit that button, a screeching alarm would sound. Would that\nscare him away? She wasn't sure. Where were the damned police,\nanyway? How long had it been?\nShe realized she could not hear the footsteps any more.\nCautiously, she raised her head until she could peer out the bottom\ncorner of the window.\nThe man was walking down the alley away from her now. Then\nhe turned, circling the house. Heading back to the street.\nStaying low, Casey ran back to the front of the bungalow, to the\ndining room. The first man was no longer on her lawn. She felt\npanic: Where was he? The second man appeared on the lawn,\nsquinted at the front of her house, then headed back toward the car.\nShe saw the first man was already in the car, sitting in the passengerseat. The second man opened the door and got in behind the wheel.\nMoments later, a black-and-white squad car pulled up behind the\nblue sedan. The men in the car seemed surprised, but they didn't do\nanything. The squad car turned on its spotlight, and one officer got\nout, moving cautiously forward. He talked to the men in the sedan\nfor a moment. Then the two men got out. They all walked up the\nsteps to her front door—the policeman and the two men from the\ncar.\nShe heard the doorbell ring, and answered it.\nA young police officer said, \"Ma'am, is your name Singleton?\"\n\"Yes,\" she said.\n\"You work for Norton Aircraft?\" \"Yes, I do...\" \"These gentlemen\nare Norton Security. They say they're guarding you.\"\nCasey said,\n\"What?\"\n\"Would you like to see their credentials?\"\n\"Yes,\" she said. \"I would.\"\nThe policeman shone a flashlight while the two men each held\nout their wallets for her. She recognized credentials for Norton\nSecurity Services.\n\"We're sorry, ma'am,\" one of the guards said. \"We thought you\nknew. We've been told to check the house every hour. Is that all\nright with you?\"\n\"Yes,\" she said. \"It's fine.\"\nThe policeman said to her, \"Is there anything else?\"\nShe felt embarrassed; she mumbled thanks, and went back\ninside.\n\"Make sure you lock that door, ma'am,\" the guards said politely.\n\"Yeah, I got 'em parked in front of my house, too,\" Kenny Burne\nsaid. \"Scared the hell out of Mary. What's going on, anyway? Labor\nnegotiations aren't for another two years.\" \"I'll call Marder,\" she said.\n\"Everybody gets guards,\" Marder said, on the phone. \"The union\nthreatens one of our team, we detail guards. Don't worry about it.\"\n\"Did you talk to Brull?\" she said.\n\"Yeah, I straightened him out. But it'll take a while for the word\nto filter down to the rank and file. Until it does, everybody getsguards.\"\n\"Okay,\" she said.\n\"This is a precaution,\" Marder said. \"Nothing more.\"\n\"Okay,\" she said.\n\"Get some sleep,\" Marder said, and hung up.\nTUESDAY\nGLENDALE\n5:45 . .\nA M\nShe awoke uneasily, before the alarm went off. She pulled on a\nbathrobe, walked to the kitchen to turn on the coffee, and looked\nout the front window. The blue sedan was still parked on the street,\nthe men inside. She considered taking her five-mile run, she needed\nthat exercise to start her day, but decided against it. She knew she\nshouldn't feel intimidated. But there was no point in taking chances.\nShe poured a cup of coffee, sat in the living room. Everything\nlooked different to her today. Yesterday, her little bungalow felt cozy;\ntoday, it felt small, defenseless, isolated. She was glad Allison was\nspending the week with Jim.\nCasey had lived through periods of labor tension in the past; she\nknew that the threats usually came to nothing. But it was wise to be\ncautious. One of the first lessons Casey had learned at Norton was\nthat the factory floor was a very tough world— tougher even than\nthe assembly line at Ford. Norton was one of the few remaining\nplaces where an unskilled high school graduate could earn $80,000 a\nyear, with overtime. Jobs like that were scarce, and getting scarcer.\nThe competition to get those jobs, and to keep them, was fierce. If\nthe union thought the China sale was going to cost jobs, they could\nvery well act ruthlessly to stop it.\nShe sat with the coffee cup on her lap and realized she dreaded\ngoing to the factory. But of course she had to go. Casey pushed the\ncup away, and went into the bedroom to dress.\nWhen she came outside and got into her Mustang, she saw a\nsecond sedan pull up behind the first. As she drove down the street,\nthe first car pulled out, following her.So Marder had ordered two sets of guards. One to watch her\nhouse, and one to follow her.\nThings must be worse than she thought.\nShe drove into the plant with an uncharacteristic feeling of\nunease. First shift had already started; the parking lots were full,\nacres and acres of cars. The blue sedan stayed right behind her as\nCasey pulled up to the security guard at Gate 7. The guard waved\nher through and, by some unseen signal, allowed the blue sedan to\nfollow directly, without putting the barrier down. The sedan stayed\nbehind her until she parked at her spot in Administration.\nShe got out of the car. One of the guards leaned out the window.\n\"Have a nice day, ma'am,\" he said.\n\"Thanks. I will.\"\nThe guard waved. The sedan sped off.\nCasey looked around at the huge gray buildings: Building 64 to\nthe south. Building 57 to the east, where the twinjet was built.\nBuilding 121, the Paint Shed. The maintenance hangars in a row off\nto the west, lit by the sun rising over the San Fernando Mountains. It\nwas a familiar landscape; she'd spent five years here. But today she\nwas uncomfortably aware of the vast dimensions, the emptiness of\nthe place in early morning. She saw two secretaries walking into the\nAdministration building. No one else. She felt alone.\nShe shrugged her shoulders, shaking off her fears. She was\nbeing silly, she told herself. It was time to go to work.\nNORTON AIRCRAFT\n6:34 . .\nA M\nRob Wong, the young programmer at Norton Digital Information\nSystems, turned away from the video monitors and said, \"Sorry,\nCasey. We got the flight recorder data—but there's a problem.\"\nShe sighed. \"Don't tell me.\"\n\"Yeah. There is.\"\nShe was not really surprised to hear it. Flight data recorders\nrarely performed correctly. In the press, these failures were\nexplained as the consequence of crash impacts. After an airplane hitthe ground at five hundred miles an hour, it seemed reasonable to\nthink that a tape deck might not be working.\nBut within the aerospace industry, the perception was different.\nEveryone knew flight data recorders failed at a very high rate, even\nwhen the aircraft didn't crash. The reason was that the FAA did not\nrequire they be checked before every flight. In practice, they were\nusually function-checked about once a year. The consequence was\npredictable: the flight recorders rarely worked.\nEverybody knew about the problem: the FAA, the NTSB, the\nairlines, and the manufacturers. Norton had conducted a study a few\nyears back, a random check of DFDRs in active service. Casey had\nbeen on that study committee. They'd found that only one recorder\nin six worked properly.\nWhy the FAA would mandate the installation of FDRs, without\nalso requiring that they be in working order before each flight, was a\nfrequent subject of late-night discussion in aerospace bars from\nSeattle to Long Beach. The cynical view was that malfunctioning\nFDRs were in everybody's interest. In a nation besieged by rabid\nlawyers and a sensational press, the industry saw little advantage to\nproviding an objective, reliable record of what had gone wrong.\n\"We're doing the best we can, Casey,\" Rob Wong said. \"But the\nflight recorder data is anomalous.\"\n\"Meaning what?\"\n\"It looks like the number-three bus blew about twenty hours\nbefore the incident, so the frame syncs are out on the subsequent\ndata.\"\n\"The frame syncs?\"\n\"Yeah. See, the FDR records all the parameters in rotation, in\ndata blocks called frames. You get a reading for, say, airspeed, and\nthen you get another reading four blocks later. Airspeed readings\nshould be continuous across the frames. If they're not, the frames\nare out of sync, and we can't build the flight. I'll show you.\"\nHe turned to the screen, pressing keys. \"Normally, we can take\nthe DFDR and generate the airplane in' tri-axis. There's the plane,\nready to go.\"A wire-frame image of the Norton N-22 widebody appeared on\nthe screen. As she watched, the wire frame filled in, until it took on\nthe appearance of an actual aircraft in flight.\n\"Okay, now we feed it your flight recorder data...\"\nThe airplane seemed to ripple. It vanished from the screen, then\nreappeared. It vanished again, and when it reappeared the left wing\nwas separated from the fuselage. The wing twisted ninety degrees,\nwhile the rest of the airplane rolled to the right. Then the tail\nvanished. The entire plane vanished, reappeared again, vanished\nagain.\n\"See, the mainframe's trying to draw the aircraft,\" Rob said, \"but\nit keeps hitting discontinuities. The wing data doesn't fit the fuse\ndata which doesn't fit the tail data. So it breaks up.\"\n\"What do we do?\" she said.\n\"Resync the frames, but that'll take time.\"\n\"How long? Marder's on my back.\"\n\"It could be a while, Casey. The data's pretty bad. What about\nthe QAR?\"\n\"There isn't one.\"\n\"Well, if you're really stuck, I'd take this data to Flight Sims. They\nhave some sophisticated programs there. They may be able to fill in\nthe blanks faster, and tell you what happened.\"\n\"But Rob—\"\n\"No promises, Casey,\" he said. \"Not with this data. Sorry.\"\nBLDG 64\n6:50 . .\nA M\nCasey met Richman outside Building 64. They walked together in\nthe early-morning light toward the building. Richman yawned.\n\"You were in Marketing, weren't you?\"\n\"That's right,\" Richman said. \"We sure didn't keep these hours.\"\n\"What did you do there?\"\n\"Not much,\" he said. \"Edgarton had the whole department doing\na full court press on the China deal. Very hush-hush, no outsiders\nallowed. They threw me a little legal work on the Iberian\nnegotiation.\"\"Any travel?\"\nRichman smirked. \"Just personal.\"\n\"How's that?\" she said.\n\"Well, since Marketing had nothing for me to do, I went skiing.\"\n\"Sounds like fun. Where'd you go?\" Casey said.\n\"You ski?\" Richman said. \"Personally, I think the best skiing\noutside of Gstaad is Sun Valley. That's my favorite. You know, if you\nhave to ski in the States.\"\nShe realized he hadn't answered her question. By then they had\nwalked through the side door, into Building 64. Casey noticed the\nworkers were openly hostile, the atmosphere distinctly chilly.\n\"What's this?\" Richman said. \"We got rabies today?\"\n\"Union thinks we're selling them out on China.\" 96\n\"Selling them out? How?\"\n\"They think management's shipping the wing to Shanghai. I\nasked Marder. He says no.\"\nA Klaxon sounded, echoing through the building. Directly ahead,\nthe big yellow overhead crane cranked to life, and Casey saw the\nfirst of the huge crates containing the wing tooling rise five feet up\ninto the air on thick cables. The crate was constructed of reinforced\nplywood. It was as broad as a house, and probably weighed five\ntons. A dozen workers walked alongside the crate like pallbearers,\nhands up, steadying the load as it moved toward one of the side\ndoors and a waiting flatbed truck.\n\"If Marder says no,\" Richman said, \"then what's the problem?\"\n\"They don't believe him.\"\n\"Really? Why not?\"\nCasey glanced to her left, where other tools were being crated\nfor shipment. The huge blue tools were first packed in foam, then\nbraced internally, and then crated. All that padding and bracing was\nessential, she knew. Because even though the tools were twenty\nfeet in length, they were calibrated to thousandths of an inch.\nTransporting them was an art in itself. She looked back at the crate,\nmoving on the hoist.\nAll the men standing beneath it were gone.The crate was still moving laterally, ten yards from where they\nstood.\n\"Uh-oh,\" she said.\n\"What?\" Richman said.\nShe was already pushing him. \"Go!\" she said, shoving Richman\nto the right, toward the shelter of the scaffolding that stood beneath\na partially assembled fuselage. Richman resisted; he didn't seem to\nunderstand that—\n\"Run!' she shouted. \"It's going to break loose!\"\nHe ran. Behind her, Casey heard the creak of rending plywood,\nand a metallic twang! as the first of the hoist cables snapped, and\nthe giant crate began to slide from its harness.\nThey had just reached the fuselage scaffolding when she heard\nanother twang! and the crate smashed down onto the concrete floor.\nSlivers of plywood exploded in all directions, whistling through the\nair. They were followed by a thunderous whomp! as the crate\ntoppled over on its side. The sound reverberated through the\nbuilding.\n\"Jesus Christ,\" Richman said, turning to look back at her. \"What\nwas that!\"\n\"That,\" she said, \"is what we call a job action.\"\nMen were running forward, hazy forms in the cloud of lingering\ndust There were shouts, and calls for help. The medic alarm\nsounded, ringing through the building. At the opposite side of the\nbuilding, she saw Doug Doherty, shaking his head mournfully.\nRichman looked over his shoulder, and pulled a four-inch splinter\nof plywood from the back of his jacket. \"Jeez,\" he said. He took the\njacket off, inspected the tear, putting his finger through the hole.\n\"That was a warning,\" Casey said. \"And they've also wrecked the\ntool. Now it'll have to be uncrated and rebuilt. This means weeks of\ndelay.\"\nFloor supervisors in white shirts and ties ran forward into the\ngroup around the fallen crate. \"What happens now?\" Richman said.\n\"They'll take names and kick ass,\" Casey said. \"But it won't do\nany good. There'll be another incident tomorrow. There's no way to\nstop it\"\"This was a warning?\" Richman said. He put the jacket back on.\n'To the IRT,\" she said. \"A clear signal: Watch your backs, watch\nyour heads. We'll see falling wrenches, all sorts of accidents,\nwhenever we're on the floor. We'll have to be careful.\"\nTwo workmen broke away from the group around the crate, and\nstarted walking toward Casey. One man was burly, wearing jeans\nand a red-checked work shirt. The other was taller, and wore a\nbaseball cap. The man in the work shirt held a steel drill-press\nstanchion in his hand, swinging it at his side like a metal club.\n\"Uh, Casey,\" Richman said.\n\"I see them,\" she said. She was not going to get rattled by a\ncouple of floor goons.\nThe men walked steadily toward her. Suddenly a supervisor\nappeared in front of them, holding his clipboard, demanding the\nmen show their badges. The men stopped to talk to the supervisor,\nglaring at Casey over his head.\n\"We won't have any trouble with them,\" she said. \"An hour from\nnow, they'll be gone.\" She went back to the scaffolding, picked up\nher briefcase. \"Come on,\" she said to Richman. \"We're late.\"\nBLDG 64/IRT\n7:00 . .\nA M\nChairs scraped as everyone pulled up to the Formica table.\n\"Okay,\" Marder said, \"let's get started. We're having some union\nactivity, aimed at stalling this investigation. Don't let it get to you.\nKeep your eye on the ball. First item: weather data.\"\nThe secretary passed sheets around the room. It was a report\nfrom the LA Traffic Control Center on a form marked \"Federal\nAviation Administration / .\"\nREPORT OF AIRCRAFT ACCIDENT\nCasey read:\nWEATHER DATA\nCONDITIONS IN ACCIDENT AREA AT TIME OF ACCIDENT\nJAL054 a B747/R was 15 minutes ahead of TPA545 on the same\nroute and 1000' above. JAL054 made no report of turbulence.REPORT JUST PRIOR TO ACCIDENT\nUAL829 a B747/R reported moderate chop at the FIR 40.00\nNorth/165.00 East at FL350. This was 120 miles north and 14\nminutes ahead of TPA545. UAL829 made no other reports of\nturbulence. 100\nFIRST REPORT SUBSEQUENT TO ACCIDENT\nAAL722 reported continuous light chop at 39 North/170 East at\nFL350. AAL722 was on the same route, 2000' below, and\napproximately 29 minutes behind TPA545. AAL722 made no report\nof turbulence.\n\"We still have satellite data coming, but I think the evidence\nspeaks for itself. The three aircraft nearest in time and location to\nTranspacific report no weather except light chop. I'm ruling out\nturbulence as a cause of this accident.\"\nThere were nods around the table. No one disagreed.\n\"Anything else for the record?\"\n\"Yes,\" Casey said. \"Passenger and crew interviews agree the\nseat-belt sign was never illuminated.\"\n\"Okay. Then we're done with weather. Whatever happened to\nthat plane wasn't turbulence. Flight recorder?\"\n\"Data's anomalous,\" Casey said. \"They're working on it.\"\n\"Visual inspection of the plane?\"\n\"The interior was severely damaged,\" Doherty said, \"but the\nexterior was fine. Cherry.\"\n\"Leading edge?\"\n\"No problem we could see. We'll have the aircraft here today, and\nI'll look at the drive tracks and latches. But so far, nothing.\"\n\"You test the control surfaces?\"\n\"No problem.\"\n\"Instrumentation?\"\n\"Bravo Zulu.\"\n\"How many times you test \"em?\"\n\"After we heard the passenger's story from Casey, we did ten\nextensions. Trying to get a disagree. But everything's normal.\"\"What story? Casey? You got something from the interviews?\"\n\"Yes,\" she said. \"One passenger gave a report of a slight rumble\ncoming from the wing, lasting ten to twelve seconds...\"\n\"Shit,\" Marder said.\n\"... followed by a slight nose up, then a dive...\"\n\"Goddamn it!\"\n\"... and then a series of violent pitch excursions.\"\nMarder glared at her. \"Are you telling me it's the slats again?\nHave we still got a slats problem on this aircraft?\"\n\"I don't know,\" Casey said. \"One of the flight attendants reported\nthat the captain said he had an uncommanded slats deployment,\nand that he'd had problems with the autopilot.\"\n\"Christ. And problems with the autopilot?\"\n\"Screw him,\" Burne said. \"This captain changes his story every\nfive minutes. Tells Traffic Control he's got turbulence, tells the\nstewardess he's got slats. Right now I bet he's telling the carrier a\nwhole different story. Fact is, we don't know what happened in that\ncockpit.\"\n\"It's obviously slats,\" Marder said.\n\"No, it's not,\" Bume said. \"The passenger Casey talked to said\nthe rumbling sound came from the wing or the engines, isn't that\nright?\"\n\"Right,\" Casey said.\n\"But when she looked at the wing, she didn't see the slats\nextend. Which she would have seen, if it happened.\"\n\"Also true,\" Casey said.\n\"But she couldn't have seen the engines, because they'd be\nhidden by the wing. It's possible the thrust reversers deployed,\"\nBurne said. \"At cruise speed that'd produce a definite rumble.\nFollowed by a sudden drop in airspeed, probably a roll. The pilot\nshits, tries to compensate, overreacts—bingo!\"\n\"Any confirmation thrusters deployed?' Marder said. \"Damage to\nthe sleeves? Unusual rubstrips?\"\n\"We looked yesterday,\" Bume said, \"and we didn't find anything.\nWe'll do ultrasound and X rays today. If there's something there,\nwe'll find it.\"\"Okay,\" Marder said. \"So we're looking at slats and thrusters, and\nwe need more data. What about the NVMs? Ron? The faults suggest\nanything?\"\nThey turned to Ron Smith. Under their gaze, Ron hunched lower\nin his seat, as if trying to pull his head between his shoulders. He\ncleared his throat.\n\"Well?\" Marder said.\n\"Uh, yeah, John. We have a slats disagree on the FDAU printout.\"\n\"So the slats did deploy.\"\n\"Well, actually—\"\n\"And the plane started porpoising, beat hell out of the\npassengers, and killed three. Is that what you're telling me?\"\nNo one spoke.\n\"Jesus,\" Marder said. \"What is the matter with you people? This\nproblem was supposed to be fixed four years ago! Now you're telling\nme it wasn't!\"\nThe group fell silent and stared at the table, embarrassed and\nintimidated by Marder's rage.\n\"Goddamn it!\" Marder said.\n\"John, let's not get carried away.\" It was Trung, the avionics\nhead, speaking quietly. \"We're overlooking a very important factor.\nThe autopilot.\"\nThere was a long silence.\nMarder glared at him. \"What about it?\" he snapped.\n\"Even if the slats extend in cruise flight,\" Trung said, \"the\nautopilot will maintain perfect stability. It's programmed to\ncompensate for errors like that. The slats extend; the AP adjusts;\nthe captain sees the warning and retracts them. Meanwhile the\nplane continues, no problem.\"\n\"Maybe he went out of autopilot.\"\n\"He must have. But why?\"\n\"Maybe your autopilot's screwed up,\" Marder said. \"Maybe you\ngot a bug in your code.\"\nTrung looked skeptical.\n\"It's happened,\" Marder said. \"There was an autopilot problem\non that USAir flight in Charlotte last year. Put the plane into anuncommanded roll.\"\n\"Yes,\" Trung said, \"but that wasn't caused by a bug in the code.\nMaintenance pulled the 'A' flight control computer to repair it, and\nwhen they reinstalled it, they didn't push it in the shelf far enough to\nfully engage the connector pins. The thing kept making intermittent\nelectrical connection, that's all.\"\n\"But on Flight 545, the stewardess said the captain had to fight\nthe autopilot for control.\"\n\"And I'd expect that,\" Trung said. \"Once the aircraft exceeds\nflight params, the autopilot actively attempts to take over. It sees\nerratic behavior, and assumes nobody is flying the plane.\"\n\"Did that show up on the fault records?\"\n\"Yes. They indicate the autopilot tried to kick in, every three\nseconds. I assume the captain kept overriding it, insisting on flying\nthe plane himself.\"\n\"But this is an experienced captain.\"\n\"Which is why I think Kenny is right,\" Trung said. \"We have no\nidea what took place in that cockpit.\"\nThey all turned to Mike Lee, the carrier representative. \"How\nabout it, Mike?\" Marder said. \"Can we get an interview or not?\"\nLee sighed philosophically. \"You know,\" he said, \"I've spent a lot\nof time in meetings like this. And the tendency is always to blame\nthe guy who's not there. It's human nature. I've already explained to\nyou why the flight crew left the country. Your own records confirm\nthe captain is a first-rate pilot. It's possible he made an error. But\ngiven the history of problems with this aircraft—slats problems—I'd\nlook first at the aircraft. And I'd look hard.\"\n\"We will,\" Marder said. \"Of course we will, but—\" \"Because it's to\nno one's advantage,\" Lee said, \"to get into a pissing match. You are\nfocused on your pending deal with Beijing. Fine, I understand. But I\nwould remind you Trans-Pacific is also a valued customer of this\ncompany. We've bought ten planes to date, and we have twelve\nmore on order. We're expanding our routes, and we are negotiating\na feeder deal with a domestic carrier. We don't need any bad press\nat the moment. Not for the planes we've bought from you, and\ncertainly not for our pilots. I hope I'm being clear.\"\"Clear as a fucking bell,\" Marder said. \"I couldn't have said it\nbetter myself. Guys, you have your marching orders. Get on with it. I\nwant answers.\"\nBLDG 2O2/FSIM\n7:59 . .\nA M\n\"Flight 545?\" Felix Wallerstein said. \"It's very disturbing. Very\ndisturbing indeed.\" Wallerstein was a silver-haired, courtly man from\nMunich. He ran the Norton Flight Simulator and Pilot Training\nprogram with Germanic efficiency.\nCasey said, \"Why do you say 545 is disturbing?\"\n\"Because,\" he shrugged. \"How could it happen? It does not seem\npossible.\"\nThey walked through the large main room of Building 202. The\ntwo flight simulators, one for each model in service, stood above\nthem. They appeared to be truncated nose sections of the aircraft,\nheld up by a spidery array of hydraulic lifts.\n\"Did you get the data from the flight recorder? Rob said you\nmight be able to read it.\"\n\"I tried,\" he said. \"With no success. I hesitate to say it is useless,\nbut—what about the QAR?\"\n\"No QAR, Felix.\"\n\"Ah.\" Wallerstein sighed.\nThey came to the command console, a series of video screens\nand keyboards to one side of the building. Here the instructors sat\nwhile they monitored the pilots being trained in the simulator. Two of\nthe simulators were being used as they watched.\nCasey said, \"Felix, we're concerned the slats extended in cruise\nflight. Or possibly the thrust reversers.\"\n\"So?\" he said. \"Why should that matter?\"\n\"We've had problems with slats before...\"\n\"Yes, but that is long since fixed, Casey. And slats cannot explain\nsuch a terrible accident Where people are killed? No, no. Not from\nslats, Casey.\"\n\"You're sure\"\"Absolutely. I will show you.\" He turned to one of the instructors\nat the console. \"Who's flying the N-22 now?\"\n\"Ingram. First officer from Northwest\"\n\"Any good?\"\n\"Average. He's got about thirty hours.\"\nOn the closed-circuit video screen, Casey saw a man in his mid\nthirties, sitting in the pilot's seat of the simulator.\n\"And where is he now?\" Felix said.\n\"Uh, let's see,\" the instructor said, consulting his panels. \"He's\nover the mid-Atlantic, FL three-thirty, point eight Mach.\"\n\"Good,\" Felix said. \"So he's at thirty-three thousand feet, eight-\ntenths the speed of sound. He's been there awhile, and everything\nseems to be fine. He's relaxed, maybe a little lazy.\"\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\"Good. Deploy Mr. Ingram's slats.\"\nThe instructor reached over and pushed a button.\nFelix turned to Casey. \"Watch carefully, please.\"\nOn the video screen, the pilot remained casual, unconcerned. But\na few seconds later, he leaned forward, suddenly alert, frowning at\nhis controls.\nFelix pointed to the instructor's console, and the array of screens.\n\"Here you can see what he is seeing. On his Flight Management\ndisplay, the slats indicator is flashing. And he's noticed it. Meanwhile,\nyou see the plane gives a slight nose up...\"\nThe hydraulics whirred, and the big cone of the simulator tilted\nupward a few degrees.\n\"Mr. Ingram now checks his slats lever, as he should. He finds it\nis up and locked, which is puzzling, since it means he has an\nuncommanded slats deploy ...\"\nThe simulator remained tilted up.\n\"So Mr. Ingram is thinking it over. He has plenty of time to decide\nwhat to do. The aircraft is quite stable on autopilot Let's see what he\ndecides. Ah. He decides to play with his controls. He pulls the slats\nlever down, then up... He's trying to clear the warning. But that\ndoesn't change anything. So. He now realizes he has a system\nproblem on his aircraft. But he remains calm. He's still thinking ...What will he do? ... He changes the autopilot params ... he descends\nto a lower altitude, and reduces his airspeed... absolutely correct...\nHe is still in the nose-up attitude, but now at more favorable\nconditions of altitude and speed. He decides to try the slats lever\nagain...\"\nThe instructor said, \"Should I let him off the hook?'\n\"Why not?\" Felix said \"I believe we have made the point.\"\nThe instructor punched a button. The simulator tilted back to\nlevel.\n\"And so,\" Felix said, \"Mr. Ingram is restored to normal flight. He\nmakes a note of his problem for the maintenance crews, and he\ncontinues on his way to London.\"\n\"But he stayed in the autopilot\" Casey said. \"What if he went out\nof it?\"\n\"Why should he do that? He's in cruise flight; the autopilot has\nbeen operating the plane for at least half an hour.\"\n\"But suppose he did.\"\nFelix shrugged, turned to the instructor. \"Fail his autopilot.\"\n\"Yes, sir.\"\nAn audible alarm sounded. On the video screen, they saw the\npilot look at the controls and take the stick in his hands. The audible\nalarm ended; the cockpit became silent. The pilot continued to hold\nthe stick.\n\"Is he flying the plane now?\" Felix asked.\n\"Yes, sir,\" the instructor said. \"He's at FL two-ninety, point seven-\none Mach, with autopilot disabled.\"\n\"Okay,\" Felix said. \"Deploy his slats.\"\nThe instructor pushed a button.\nOn the systems monitor in the training console, the slats warning\nflashed, first amber, then white. Casey looked at the adjacent video\nscreen and saw the pilot leaning forward. He had noticed the\nwarning in the cockpit.\n\"Now,\" Felix said. \"Once again we see the aircraft nose-up, but\nthis time Mr. Ingram must control it himself ... So he brings the stick\nback ... very slightly, very delicately ... Good... and now he is stable.\"He turned to Casey. \"You see?\" He shrugged. \"It is very puzzling.\nWhatever happened to that Transpacific flight, it cannot be the slats.\nAnd not thrusters either. In either case, the autopilot will\ncompensate and maintain control. I tell you, Casey, what happened\nto that aircraft is a mystery.\"\nBack in the sunlight, Felix walked over to his Jeep, with a\nsurfboard on top. \"I have a new Henley board,\" he said. \"Like to see\nit?\"\n\"Felix,\" she said. \"Marder is starting to scream.\"\n\"So? Let him. He enjoys it.\"\n\"What do you think happened to 545?\"\n\"Well. Let us be frank. Flight characteristics of an N-22 are such\nthat if slats deploy at cruise speed, and the captain goes out of the\nautopilot the aircraft is rather sensitive. You remember, Casey. You\ndid the study on it, three years ago. Right after we made the final fix\non the slats.\"\n\"That's right\" she said, thinking back. \"We put together a special\nteam to review flight stability issues on the N-22. But we concluded\nthere wasn't a control-sensitivity problem, Felix.\"\n\"And you were correct\" Felix said. \"There is no problem. All\nmodern aircraft maintain flight stability with computers. A jet fighter\ncannot be flown at all without computers. Fighters are inherently\nunstable. Commercial transports are less sensitive, but even so,\ncomputers shift fuel, adjust attitude, adjust CG, adjust thrust on the\nengines. Moment to moment the computers continuously make small\nchanges, to stabilize the aircraft.\"\n\"Yes,\" Casey said, \"but the planes can be flown out of autopilot\nas well.\"\n\"Absolutely,\" Felix said. \"And we train our captains to do that.\nBecause the aircraft is sensitive, when the nose goes up, the captain\nmust very gently bring it back again. If he corrects too strongly, the\nplane noses over. In that case he must pull up, but again, very\ngently, or he is likely to overcorrect, so the plane would climb\nsharply then nose down once more. And this is precisely the pattern\nthat occurred on the Transpacific flight.\"\n\"You're saying it was pilot error.\"\"Ordinarily I would think so, except the pilot was John Chang.\"\n\"He's a good pilot?'\n\"No,\" Felix said. \"John Chang is a superb pilot. I see a lot of\npilots here, and some are truly gifted. It's more than quick reflexes\nand knowledge and experience. It's more than skill. It's a kind of\ninstinct. John Chang is one of the five or six best captains I have\never trained on this aircraft, Casey. So whatever happened to Flight\n545, it cannot be pilot error. Not with John Chang in the chair. I am\nsorry, but in this case, it has to be a problem with the aircraft, Casey.\nIt has to be that aircraft.\"\nTO HANGAR 5\n9:15A.M.\nAs they walked back across the vast parking lot, Casey was lost\nin thought.\n\"So,\" Richman said, after a while. \"Where are we?\"\n\"Nowhere.\"\nNo matter how she put the evidence together, that was the\nconclusion she came to. They had nothing solid so far. The pilot had\nsaid it was turbulence, but it wasn't turbulence. A passenger gave a\nstory consistent with slats deployment, but slats deployment couldn't\nexplain the terrible damage to the passengers. The stewardess said\nthe captain fought the autopilot, which Trung said only an\nincompetent captain would do. Felix said the captain was superb.\nNowhere.\nThey were nowhere.\nBeside her, Richman trudged along, not saying anything. He had\nbeen quiet all morning. It was as if the puzzle of Flight 545, so\nintriguing to him yesterday, had now proven too complex.\nBut Casey was not discouraged. She had come to this point many\ntimes before. It was no surprise the early evidence appeared to\nconflict. Because aircraft accidents were rarely caused by a single\nevent or error. The IR teams expected to find event cascades: one\nthing leading to another, and then another. In the end, the final story\nwould be complex: a system failed; a pilot responded; the aircraft\nreacted unexpectedly, and the plane got in trouble.Always a cascade.\nA long chain of small errors and minor mishaps.\nShe heard the whine of a jet. Looking up, she saw a Norton\nwidebody silhouetted against the sun. As it passed over her, she saw\nthe yellow Transpacific insignia on the tail. It was the ferry flight\nfrom LAX. The big jet landed gently, puffed smoke at the wheels,\nand headed toward Maintenance Hangar 5.\nHer beeper went off. She unclipped it from her belt.\n••• N-22 ROTR BURST MIAMI TV NOW BTOYA\n\"Oh hell,\" she said. \"Let's find a TV.\" \"Why? What's the matter?\"\nRichman said. \"We have trouble.\"\nBLDG 64/IRT\n9:20 . .\nA M\n'This was the scene just moments ago at Miami International\nAirport when a Sunstar Airlines jet burst into flames, after its left\nstarboard engine exploded without warning, showering the crowded\nrunway with a hail of deadly shrapnel.\"\n\"Aw, blow me!\" Kenny Burne shouted. A half-dozen engineers\nwere crowded around the TV set, blocking Casey's view as she came\ninto the room.\n\"Miraculously, none of the two hundred and seventy passengers\non board were injured. The N-22 Norton widebody was revving for\ntakeoff when passengers noticed clouds of black smoke coming from\nthe engine. Seconds later, the plane was rocked by an explosion as\nthe left starboard engine literally blew to pieces, and was quickly\nengulfed in flames.\"\nThe screen didn't show that, it just showed an N-22 aircraft, seen\nfrom a distance, with dense black smoke gushing from beneath the\nwing.\n\"Left starboard engine,\" Burne snarled. \"As opposed to the right\nstarboard engine, you silly twit?\"\nThe TV now showed close-ups of passengers milling around the\nterminal. There were quick cuts. A young boy of seven or eight said,\"All the people got excited, because of the smoke.\" Then they cut to\na teenage girl who shook her head, tossing her hair over her\nshoulder, and said, \"It was rully, rully scary. I just saw the smoke\nand, like, I was rully scared.\" The interviewer said, \"What were your\nthoughts when you heard the explosion?\" \"I was rully scared,\" the\ngirl said. \"Did you think it was a bomb?\" she was asked.\n\"Absolutely,\" she said. \"A terrorist bomb.\"\nKenny Burne spun on his heel, throwing his hands in the air. \"Do\nyou believe this shit? They're asking kids what they thought. This is\nthe news. 'What did you think?' 'Golly, I swallowed my popsicle.'\" He\nsnorted. \"Airplanes that kill— and the travelers who love them!\"\nOn the screen, the TV program now showed an elderly woman\nwho said, \"Yes, I thought I was going to die. Of course, you have to\nthink that.\" Then a middle-aged man: \"My wife and I prayed. Our\nwhole family knelt down on the runway and thanked the Lord.\"\n\"Were you frightened?\" the interviewer asked. \"We thought we were\ngoing to die,\" the man said. \"The cabin was filled with smoke—it's a\nmiracle we escaped with our lives.\"\nBume was yelling again: \"You asshole! In a car you would have\ndied. In a nightclub you would have died. But not in a Norton\nwidebody! We designed it so you'd escape with your miserable\nfucking life!\"\n\"Calm down,\" Casey said. \"I want to hear this.\" She was listening\nintently, waiting to see how far they'd take the story.\nA strikingly beautiful Hispanic woman in a beige Armani suit\nstood facing the camera, holding up a microphone: \"While\npassengers now appear to be recovering from their ordeal, their fate\nwas far from certain earlier this afternoon, when a Norton widebody\nblew up on the runway, orange flames shooting high into the sky ...\"\nThe TV again showed the earlier telephoto shot of the plane on\nthe runway, with smoke billowing from under the wing. It looked\nabout as dangerous as a doused campfire.\n\"Wait a minute, wait a minute!\" Kenny said. \"A Norton widebody\nexploded? A Sunstar piece-of-shit engine exploded.\" He pointed to\nthe screen image. \"That's a goddamn rotor burst, and the bladefragments broke through the cowling which is just what I told them\nwould happenl\"\nCasey said, \"You told them?\"\n\"Hell yes,\" Kenny said. \"I know all about this. Sunstar bought six\nengines from AeroCivicas last year. I was the Norton consultant on\nthe deal. I borescoped the engines and found a shitload of damage\n—blade notch breakouts and vane cracks. So I told Sunstar to reject\nthem.\" Kenny was waving his hands. \"But why pass up a bargain?\"\nhe said. \"Sunstar rebuilt them instead. During teardown, we found a\nlot of corrosion, so the paper on the overseas overhauls was\nprobably faked. I told them again: Junk 'em. But Sunstar put them\non the planes. So now the rotor blows—big fucking surprise— and\nthe fragments cut into the wing, so that nonflammable hydraulic\nfluid is smoking. It ain't on fire because the fluid won't burn. And it's\nour fault?'\nHe spun, pointing back to the screen.\n\"... seriously frightening all two hundred and seventy passengers\non board. Fortunately, there were no injuries ...\"\n\"That's right,\" Burne said. \"No penetration of the fuse, lady. No\ninjury to anybody. The wing absorbed it—our wing!\"\n\"... and we are waiting to speak to officials from the airline about\nthis frightening tragedy. More later. Back to you, Ed.\"\nThe camera cut back to the newsroom, where a sleek anchorman\nsaid, \"Thank you, Alicia, for that up-to-the-minute report on the\nshocking explosion at Miami Airport. We'll have more details as they\nemerge. Now back to our regularly scheduled program.\"\nCasey sighed, relieved.\n\"I can't believe this horseshitl\" Kenny Burne shouted. He turned\nand stomped out of the room, banging the door behind him.\n\"What's his problem?\" Richman said.\n\"For once, I'd say he's justified,\" Casey said. \"The fact is, if\nthere's an engine problem, it's not Norton's fault.\"\n\"What do you mean? He said he was the consultant—\"\n\"Look,\" Casey said. \"You have to understand: We build airframes.\nWe don't build engines and we don't repair them. We have nothing\nto do with engines.\"\"Nothing? I hardly think—\"\n\"Our engines are supplied by other companies—GE, Pratt and\nWhitney, Rolls-Royce. But reporters never understand that\ndistinction.\"\nRichman looked skeptical. \"It seems like a fine point...\"\n\"It's nothing of the sort. If your electricity goes out, do you call\nthe gas company? If your tires blow, do you blame the car maker?\"\n\"Of course not,\" Richman said, \"but it's still your airplane—\nengines and all.\"\n\"No, it's not,\" Casey said. \"We build the plane, and then install\nthe brand of engine the customer selects. Just the way you can put\nany one of several brands of tires on your car. But if Michelin makes\na batch of bad tires, and they blow out, that's not Ford's fault. If you\nlet your tires go bald and get in an accident, that's not Ford's fault\nAnd it's exactly the same with us.\"\nRichman was still looking unconvinced.\n\"All we can do,\" Casey said, \"is certify that our planes fly safely\nwith the engines we install. But we can't force carriers to maintain\nthose engines properly over the life of the aircraft. That's not our job\n—and understanding that is fundamental to knowing what actually\noccurred. The fact is, the reporter got the story backward.\"\n\"Backward? Why?'\n\"That aircraft had a rotor burst\" Casey said. \"Fan blades broke off\nthe rotor disk and the cowling around the engine didn't contain the\nfragments. The engine blew because it wasn't correctly maintained.\nIt should never have happened. But our wing absorbed the flying\nfragments, protecting passengers in the cabin. So the real meaning\nof this event is that Norton aircraft are so well built that they\nprotected two hundred and seventy passengers from a bad engine.\nWe're actually heroes—but Norton stock will fall tomorrow. And\nsome of the public may be afraid to fly on a Norton aircraft. Is that\nan appropriate response to what actually happened? No. But it's an\nappropriate response to what's being reported. That's frustrating for\npeople here.\"\n\"Well,\" Richman said, \"at least they didn't mention Trans-Pacific.\"Casey nodded. That had been her first concern, the reason she\nhad rushed across the parking lot to the TV set. She wanted to know\nif the news reports would link the Miami rotor burst to the TPA in-\nflight incident the day before. That hadn't happened—at least not\nyet. But sooner or later, it would.\n\"We'll start getting calls now,\" she said. \"The cat is out of the\nbag.\"\nHANGAR 5\n9:40 . .\nA M\nThere were a dozen security guards standing outside Hangar 5,\nwhere the Transpacific jet was being inspected. But this was\nstandard procedure whenever a RAMS team from Recovery and\nMaintenance Services entered the plant. RAMS teams circled the\nglobe, troubleshooting stranded aircraft; they were FAA-licensed to\nrepair them in the field. But since members were chosen for\nexpertise rather than seniority, they were non-union; and there was\noften friction when they came into the factory.\nWithin the hangar, the Transpacific widebody stood in the glare of\nhalogen lights, nearly hidden behind a gridwork of roll-up\nscaffolding. Technicians swarmed over every part of the plane. Casey\nsaw Kenny Burne working the engines, cursing his powerplant crew.\nThey had deployed the two thrust reverser sleeves that flared out\nfrom the nacelle, and were doing fluorescent and conductivity tests\non the curved metal cowls.\nRon Smith and the electrical team were standing on a raised\nplatform beneath the midships belly. Higher up, she saw Van Trung\nthrough the cockpit windows, his crew testing the avionics.\nAnd Doherty was out on the wing, leading the structure team.\nHis group had used a crane to remove an eight-foot aluminum\nsection, one of the inboard slats.\n\"Big bones,\" Casey said to Richman. \"They inspect the biggest\ncomponents first.\"\n\"It looks like they're tearing it apart,\" Richman said.\nA voice behind them. \"It's called destroying the evidence!\"Casey turned. Ted Rawley, one of the flight test pilots, sauntered\nup. He was wearing cowboy boots, a western shirt, dark sunglasses.\nLike most of the test pilots, Teddy cultivated an air of dangerous\nglamour.\n\"This is our chief test pilot,\" Casey said. 'Teddy Rawley. They call\nhim Rack 'em Rawley.\"\n\"Hey,\" Teddy protested. \"I haven't drilled a hole yet. Anyway, it's\nbetter than Casey and the Seven Dwarfs.\"\n\"Is that what they call her?\" Richman said, suddenly interested.\n\"Yeah. Casey and her dwarfs.\" Rawley gestured vaguely to the\nengineers. \"The little fellas. Heigh-ho, heigh-ho.\" He turned away\nfrom the plane, punched Casey on the shoulder. \"So: How you\ndoing, kid? I called you the other day.\"\n\"I know,\" she said. \"I've been busy.\"\n\"I'll bet you have,\" Teddy said. \"I bet Marder's got the screws on\neverybody. So: What've the engineers found? Wait a minute, let me\nguess—they found absolutely nothing, right? Their beautiful plane is\nperfect. So: Must be pilot error, am I right?\"\nCasey said nothing. Richman looked uncomfortable.\n\"Hey,\" Teddy said. \"Don't be shy. I've heard it all before. Let's\nface it, the engineers are all card-carrying members of the Screw the\nPilots Club. That's why they design planes to be practically\nautomatic. They just hate the idea that somebody might actually fly\nthem. It's so untidy, to have a warm body in the seat. Makes 'em\ncrazy. And of course, if anything bad happens, it must be the pilot.\nGotta be the pilot. Am I right?\"\n\"Come on, Teddy,\" she said. \"You know the statistics. The\noverwhelming majority of accidents are caused by—\"\nIt was at that point that Doug Doherty, crouched on the wing\nabove them, leaned over and said dolefully, \"Casey, bad news. You'll\nwant to see this.\"\n\"What is it?\"\n\"I'm pretty sure I know what went wrong on Flight 545.\"\nShe climbed the scaffolding and walked out on the wing. Doherty\nwas crouched over the leading edge. The slats were now removed,\nexposing the innards of the wing structure.She got down on her hands and knees next to him, and looked.\nThe space for the slats was marked by a series of drive tracks—\nlittle rails, spaced three feet apart, that the slats slid out on, driven\nby hydraulic pistons. At the forward end of the rail was a rocker pin,\nwhich allowed the slats to tilt downward. At the back of the\ncompartment she saw the folding pistons which drove the slats\nalong the tracks. With the slats removed, the pistons were just metal\narms poking out into space. As always, whenever she saw the\ninnards of an aircraft, she had a sense of enormous complexity.\n\"What is it?\" she said.\n\"Here,\" Doug said.\nHe bent over one of the protruding arms, pointing to a tiny metal\nflange at the back, curved into a hook. The part was not much larger\nthan her thumb.\n\"Yes?\"\nDoherty reached down, pushed the flange back with his hand. It\nflicked forward again. \"That's the locking pin for the slats,\" he said.\n\"It's spring-loaded, actuated by a solenoid back inside. When the\nslats retract, the pin snaps over, holds them in place.\"\n\"Yes?\"\n\"Look at it,\" he said, shaking his head. \"It's bent\"\nShe frowned. If it was bent, she couldn't see it. It looked straight\nto her eye. \"Doug...\"\n\"No. Look.\" He set a metal ruler against the pin, showing her that\nthe metal was bent a few millimeters to the left. \"And that's not all,\"\nhe said. \"Look at the action surface of the hinge. It's been worn. See\nit?\"\nHe handed her a magnifying glass. Thirty feet above the ground,\nshe leaned over the leading edge and peered at the part. There was\nwear, all right. She saw a ragged surface on the locking hook. But\nyou would expect a certain amount of wear, where the metal of the\nlatch engaged the slats. \"Doug, do you really think this is\nsignificant?\"\n\"Oh yes,\" he said, in a funereal tone. \"You got maybe two, three\nmillimeters of wear here.\"\n\"How many pins hold the slat?\"\"Just one,\" he said.\n\"And if this one is bad?\"\n\"The slats could pop loose in flight. They wouldn't necessarily\nfully extend. They wouldn't have to. Remember, these are low-speed\ncontrol surfaces. At cruise speed the effect magnifies: a slight\nextension would change the aerodynamics.\"\nCasey frowned, squinting at the little part through the magnifying\nglass. \"But why would the lock suddenly open, two-thirds of the way\nthrough the flight?\"\nHe was shaking his head. \"Look at the other pins,\" Doherty said,\npointing down the wing. \"There's no wear on the action surface.\"\n\"Maybe the others were changed out, and this one wasn't?\"\n\"No,\" he said. \"I think the others are original. This one was\nchanged. Look at the next pin down. See the parts stamp at the\nbase?'\nShe saw a tiny embossed figure, an H in a triangle, with a\nsequence of numbers. All parts manufacturers stamped their parts\nwith these symbols. \"Yeah ...\"\n\"Now look at this pin. See the difference? On this part, the\ntriangle is upside down. This is a counterfeit part, Casey.\"\nFor aircraft manufacturers, counterfeiting was the single biggest\nproblem they faced as they approached the twenty-first century.\nMedia attention focused mostly on counterfeit consumer items, like\nwatches, CDs, and computer software. But there was a booming\nbusiness in all sorts of manufactured items, including auto parts and\nairplane parts. Here the problem of counterfeiting took a new and\nominous turn. Unlike a phony Cartier watch, a phony airplane part\ncould kill you.\n\"Okay,\" she said. \"I'll check the maintenance records, find out\nwhere it came from.\"\nThe FAA required commercial carriers to keep extraordinarily\ndetailed maintenance records. Every time a part was changed out, it\nwas noted in a maintenance log. In addition, the manufacturers,\nthough not required to, maintained an exhaustive ship's record of\nevery part originally on the plane, and who had manufactured it. All\nthis paperwork meant that every one of the aircraft's one millionparts could be traced back to its origin. If a part was swapped out\nfrom one plane to another, that was known. If a part was taken off\nand repaired, that was known. Each part on a plane had a history of\nits own. Given enough time, they could find out exactly where this\npart had come from, who had installed it, and when.\nShe pointed to the locking pin in the wing. \"Have you\nphotographed it?\"\n\"Oh sure. We're fully documented.\"\n\"Then pull it,\" she said. \"I'll take it to Metals. By the way, could\nthis situation give you a slats disagree warning?\"\nDoherty gave a rare smile. \"Yes, it could. And my guess is, it did.\nYou got a nonstandard part, Casey, and it failed the aircraft.\"\nComing off the wing, Richman was chattering excitedly. \"So, is\nthat it? It's a bad part? Is that what happened? It's solved?\" He was\ngetting on her nerves. \"One thing at a time,\" she said. \"We have to\ncheck.\"\n\"Check? What do we have to check? Check how?\"\n\"First of all, we have to find out where that part came from,\" she\nsaid. \"Go back to the office. Tell Norma to make sure the\nmaintenance records are coming from LAX. And have her telex the\nFizer in Hong Kong to ask for the carrier's records. Tell him the FAA\nrequested them and we want to look at them first.\"\n\"Okay,\" Richman said.\nHe headed off toward the open doors of Hangar 5, out into the\nsunlight. He walked with a sort of swagger, as if he were a person of\nimportance, in possession of valuable information.\nBut Casey wasn't sure that they knew anything at all.\nAt least, not yet.\nOUTSIDE HANGAR 5\n10:00 . .\nA M\nShe came out of the hangar, blinking in the morning sun. She\nsaw Don Brull getting out of his car, over by Building 121. She\nheaded toward him.\n\"Hello, Casey,\" he said, as he slammed the door. \"I was\nwondering when you'd get back to me.\"\"I talked to Marder,\" she said. \"He swears the wing isn't being\noffset to China.\"\nBrull nodded. \"He called me last night. Said the same thing.\" He\ndidn't sound happy.\n\"Marder insists it's just a rumor.\"\n\"He's lying,\" Brull said. \"He's doing it.\"\n\"No way,\" Casey said. \"It doesn't make sense.\"\n\"Look,\" Brull said. \"It doesn't matter to me, personally. They\nclose this plant in ten years, I'll be retired. But that'll be about the\ntime your kid starts college. You'll be looking at those big tuition\npayments, and you won't have a job. You thought about that?\"\n\"Don,\" she said \"You said it yourself, it doesn't make sense to\noffset the wing. It'd be pretty reckless to—\"\n\"Marder's reckless.\" He squinted at her in the sunlight \"You know\nthat. You know what he's capable of.\"\n\"Don—\"\n\"Look,\" Brull said. \"I know what I'm talking about. Those tools\naren't being shipped to Atlanta, Casey. They're going to San Pedro—\nto the port. And down in San Pedro, they're building special marine\ncontainers for shipment.\"\nSo that was how the union was putting it together, she thought.\n\"Those are oversize tools, Don,\" she said. \"We can't ship them by\nroad or rail. Big tools always go by boat. They're building containers\nso they can send them through the Panama Canal. That's the only\nway to get them to Atlanta.\"\nBrull was shaking his head. \"I've seen the bills of lading. They\ndon't say Atlanta. They say Seoul, Korea.\"\n\"Korea?\" she said, frowning.\n\"That's right.\"\n\"Don, that really doesn't make sense—\"\n\"Yes, it does. Because it's a cover,\" Brull said. \"They'll send them\nto Korea, then transship from Korea to Shanghai.\"\n\"You have copies of the bills?\" she said.\n\"Not with me.\"\n\"I'd like to see them,\" she said.Brull sighed. \"I can do that, Casey. I can get them for you. But\nyou're putting me in a very difficult situation here. The guys aren't\ngoing to let this sale happen. Marder tells me to calm 'em down—but\nwhat can I do? I run the local, not the plant.\"\n\"What do you mean?\"\n\"It's out of my hands,\" he said.\n\"Don—\"\n\"I always liked you, Casey,\" he said. \"But you hang around here,\nI can't help you.\"\nAnd he walked away.\nOUTSIDE HANGAR 5\n10:04 . .\nA M\nThe morning sun was shining; the plant around her was\ncheerfully busy, mechanics riding their bicycles from one building to\nanother. There was no sense of threat, or danger. But Casey knew\nwhat Brull had meant: she was now in no-man's land. Anxious, she\npulled out her cell phone to call Marder when she saw the heavyset\nfigure of Jack Rogers coming toward her.\nJack covered aerospace for the Telegraph-Star, an Orange County\npaper. In his late fifties, he was a good, solid reporter, a reminder of\nan earlier generation of print journalists who knew as much about\ntheir beat as the people they interviewed. He gave her a casual\nwave.\n\"Hi, Jack,\" she said. \"What's up?'\n\"I came over,\" he said, \"about that wing tool accident this\nmorning in 64. The one the crane dropped.\"\n'Tough break,\" she said.\n'They had another accident with the AJs this morning. Tool was\nloaded onto the flatbed truck, but the driver took a turn too fast over\nby Building 94. Tool slid off onto the ground. Big mess.\"\n\"Uh-huh,\" Casey said.\n\"This is obviously a job action,\" Rogers said. \"My sources tell me\nthe union's opposed to the China sale.\"\n\"I've heard that,\" she said, nodding.\"Because the wing's going to be offset to Shanghai as part of the\nsales agreement?\"\n\"Come on, Jack,\" she said. \"That's ridiculous.\"\n\"You know that for a fact?\"\nShe took a step back from him. \"Jack,\" she said. \"You know I\ncan't discuss the sale. No one can, until the ink's dry.\"\n\"Okay,\" Rogers said. He took out his notepad. \"It does seem like\na pretty crazy rumor. No company's ever offset the wing. It'd be\nsuicide.\"\n\"Exactly,\" she said. In the end, she kept coming back to that\nsame question. Why would Edgarton offset the wing? Why would\nany company offset the wing? It just made no sense.\nRogers glanced up from his pad. \"I wonder why the union thinks\nthe wing's being sent offshore?\"\nShe shrugged. \"You'll have to ask them.\" He had sources in the\nunion. Certainly Brail. Probably others as well.\n\"I hear they've got documents that prove it.\"\nCasey said, \"They show them to you?\"\nRogers shook his head. \"No.\"\n\"I can't imagine why not, if they have them.\"\nRogers smiled. He made another note. \"Shame about the rotor\nburst in Miami.\"\n\"All I know is what I saw on television.\"\n\"You think it will affect the public perception of the N-22?\" He\nhad his pen out, ready to take down what she said.\n\"I don't see why. The problem was powerplant, not air-frame. My\nguess is, they're going to find it was a bad compressor disk that\nburst.\"\n\"I wouldn't doubt it,\" he said. \"I was talking to Don Peterson over\nat the FAA. He told me that incident at SFO was a sixth-stage\ncompressor disk that blew. The disk had brittle nitrogen pockets.\"\n\"Alpha inclusions?' she said.\n\"That's right,\" Jack said. \"And there was also dwell-time fatigue.\"\nCasey nodded. Engine parts operated at a temperature of 2500\ndegrees Fahrenheit, well above the melt temperature of most alloys,\nwhich turned to soup at 2200 degrees. So they were manufacturedof titanium alloys, using the most advanced procedures. Fabricating\nsome of the parts was an art—the fan blades were essentially\n\"grown\" as a single crystal of metal, making them phenomenally\nstrong. But even in skilled hands, the manufacturing process was\ninherently delicate. Dwell-time fatigue was a condition in which the\ntitanium used to make rotor disks clumped into microstructure\ncolonies, rendering them vulnerable to fatigue cracks.\n\"And how about the Transpacific flight,\" Rogers said. \"Was that\nan engine problem, too?\"\n'Transpacific happened yesterday, Jack. We just started our\ninvestigation.\"\n\"You're QA on the IRT, right?\"\n\"Right, yes.\"\n\"Are you pleased with how the investigation is going?\"\n\"Jack, I can't comment on the Transpacific investigation. It's\nmuch too early.\"\n\"Not too early for speculation to start,\" Rogers said. \"You know\nhow these things go, Casey. Lot of idle talk. Misinformation that can\nbe difficult to clear up later. I'd just like to set the record straight.\nHave you ruled out engines?\"\n\"Jack,\" she said, \"I can't comment.\"\n\"Then you haven't ruled out engines?\"\n\"No comment, Jack.\"\nHe made a note on his pad. Without looking up, he said, \"And I\nsuppose you're looking at slats, too.\"\n\"We're looking at everything, Jack,\" she said.\n\"Given the 22 has a history of slats problems ...\"\n\"Ancient history,\" she said. \"We fixed the problem years ago. You\nwrote a story about it, if I recall.\"\n\"But now you've had two incidents in two days. Are you worried\nthat the flying public will start to think the N-22 is a troubled\naircraft?\"\nShe could see the direction his story was going to take. She\ndidn't want to comment, but he was telling her what he would write\nif she didn't. It was a standard, if minor, form of press blackmail.\"Jack,\" she said, \"we've got three hundred N-22s in service\naround the world. The model has an outstanding safety record.\" In\nfact, in five years of service there had been no fatalities involving the\naircraft until yesterday. That was a reason for pride, but she decided\nnot to mention it, because she could see his lead: The first fatalities\nto occur on a Norton N-22 aircraft happened yesterday...\nInstead she said, \"The public is best served by getting accurate\ninformation. And at the moment, we have no information to offer. To\nspeculate would be irresponsible.\"\nThat did it. He took his pen away. \"Okay. You want to go off?\"\n\"Sure.\" She knew she could trust him. \"Off the record, 545\nunderwent very severe pitch oscillations. We think the plane\nporpoised. We don't know why. The FDR's anomalous. It'll take days\nto reconstruct the data. We're working as fast as we can.\"\n\"Will it affect the China sale?\"\n\"I hope not.\"\n\"Pilot was Chinese, wasn't he? Chang?\"\n\"He was from Hong Kong. I don't know his nationality.\"\n\"Does that make it awkward if it's pilot error?\"\n\"You know how these investigations are, Jack. Whatever the\ncause turns out to be, it's going to be awkward for somebody. We\ncan't worry about that. We just have to let the chips fall where they\nfall.\"\n\"Of course,\" he said. \"By the way, is that China sale firm? I keep\nhearing it's not.\"\nShe shrugged. \"I honestly don't know.\"\n\"Has Marder talked to you about it?\"\n\"Not to me personally,\" she said. Her reply was carefully worded;\nshe hoped he wouldn't follow up on it. He didn't\n\"Okay, Casey,\" he said. \"I'll leave this alone, but what've you got?\nI need to file today.\"\n\"How come you're not doing Cheapskate Airlines?\" she said,\nusing the derogatory in-house term for one of the low-cost carriers.\n\"Nobody's done that story yet.\"\n\"Are you kidding?\" Rogers said. \"Everybody and his brother's\ncovering mat one.\"\"Yeah, but nobody's doing the real story,\" she said. \"Super-cheap\ncarriers are a stock scam.\"\n\"A stock scam?\"\n\"Sure,\" Casey said. \"You buy some aircraft so old and poorly\nmaintained no reputable carrier will use them for spares. Then you\nsubcontract maintenance to limit your liability. Then you offer cheap\nfares, and use the cash to buy new routes. It's a pyramid scheme\nbut on paper it looks great. Volume's up, revenue's up, and Wall\nStreet loves you. You're saving so much on maintenance that your\nearnings skyrocket. Your stock price doubles and doubles again. By\nthe time the bodies start piling up, as you know they will, you've\nmade your fortune off the stock, and can afford the best counsel.\nThat's the genius of deregulation, Jack. When the bill comes, nobody\npays.\"\n\"Except the passengers.\"\n\"Exactly,\" Casey said. \"Flight safety's always been an honor\nsystem. The FAA's set up to monitor the carriers, not to police them.\nSo if deregulation's going to change the rules, we ought to warn the\npublic. Or triple FAA funding. One or the other.\"\nRogers nodded. \"Barry Jordan over at the LA Times told me he's\ndoing the safety angle. But that takes a lot of resources—lead time,\nlawyers going over your copy. My paper can't afford it. I need\nsomething I can use tonight.\"\n\"Off the record,\" Casey said, \"I've got a good lead, but you can't\nsource it.\"\n\"Sure,\" Rogers said.\n\"The engine that blew was one of six that Sunstar bought from\nAeroCivicas,\" Casey said. \"Kenny Burne was our consultant. He\nborescoped the engines and found a lot of damage.\"\n\"What kind of damage?\"\n\"Blade notch breakouts and vane cracks.\"\nRogers said, \"They had fatigue cracks in the fan blades!\"\n\"That's right,\" Casey said. \"Kenny told them to reject the\nengines, but Sunstar rebuilt them and put them on the planes. When\nthat engine blew, Kenny was furious. So you might get a name atSunstar from Kenny. But we can't be the source, Jack. We have to\ndo business with these people.\"\n\"I understand,\" Rogers said. \"Thanks. But my editor's going to\nwant to know about the accidents on the floor today. So tell me. Are\nyou convinced the China offset stories are groundless?\"\n\"Are we back on?\" she said.\n\"Yes.\"\n\"I'm not the person to ask,\" she said. \"You'll have to talk to\nEdgarton.\"\n\"I called, but his office says he's out of town. Where is he?\nBeijing?\"\n\"I can't comment.\"\n\"And what about Marder?\" Rogers said.\n\"What about him?\"\nRogers shrugged. \"Everybody knows Marder and Edgarton are at\neach other's throats. Marder expected to be named president, but\nthe Board passed him over. But they gave Edgarton a one-year\ncontract—so he's got only twelve months to produce. And I hear\nMarder's undercutting Edgarton, every way he can.\"\n\"I wouldn't know about that,\" she said. Casey had, of course,\nheard such rumors. It was no secret that Marder was bitterly\ndisappointed about Edgarton's appointment. What Marder could do\nabout it was another story. Marder's wife controlled eleven percent\nof company stock. With Marder's connections, he could probably pull\ntogether five percent more. But sixteen percent wasn't enough to\ncall the shots, particularly since Edgarton had the strong support of\nthe Board.\nSo most people in the plant thought that Marder had no choice\nexcept to go along with Edgarton's agenda—at least for the moment.\nMarder might be unhappy, but he had no option. The company had\na cash-flow problem. They were already building planes without\nbuyers. Yet they needed billions of dollars, if they hoped to develop\nthe next generation of planes, and stay in business in the future.\nSo the situation was clear. The company needed the sale. And\neverybody knew it. Including Marder.Rogers said, \"You haven't heard Marder's undercutting\nEdgarton?\"\n\"No comment,\" Casey said. \"But off the record, it makes no\nsense. Everybody in the company wants this sale, Jack. Including\nMarder. Right now, Marder's pushing us hard to solve 545, so the\nsale goes through.\"\n\"Do you think the image of the company will be hurt by the\nrivalry between its two top officers?\"\n\"I couldn't say.\"\n\"Okay,\" he said finally, closing his notepad. \"Call me if you get a\nbreak on 545, okay?\"\n\"Sure, Jack.\"\n\"Thanks, Casey.\"\nWalking away from nun, she realized she was exhausted by the\neffort of the interview. Talking to a reporter these days was like a\ndeadly chess match; you had to think several steps ahead; you had\nto imagine all the possible ways a reporter might distort your\nstatement. The atmosphere was relentlessly adversarial.\nIt hadn't always been that way. There was a time when reporters\nwanted information, their questions directed to an underlying event\nThey wanted an accurate picture of a situation, and to do that they\nhad to make the effort to see things your way, to understand how\nyou were thinking about it. They might not agree with you in the\nend, but it was a matter of pride that they could accurately state\nyour view, before rejecting it. The interviewing process was not very\npersonal, because the focus was on the event they were trying to\nunderstand.\nBut now reporters came to the story with the lead fixed in their\nminds; they saw their job as proving what they already knew. They\ndidn't want information so much as evidence of villainy. In this\nmode, they were openly skeptical of your point of view, since they\nassumed you were just being evasive. They proceeded from a\npresumption of universal guilt, in an atmosphere of muted hostility\nand suspicion. This new mode was intensely personal: they wanted\nto trip you up, to catch you in a small error, or in a foolish statement—or just a phrase that could be taken out of context and made to\nlook silly or insensitive.\nBecause the focus was so personal, the reporters asked\ncontinuously for personal speculations. Do you think an event will be\ndamaging? Do you think the company will suffer? Such speculation\nhad been irrelevant to the earlier generation of reporters, who\nfocused on the underlying events. Modem journalism was intensely\nsubjective—\"interpretive\"— and speculation was its lifeblood. But\nshe found it exhausting.\nAnd Jack Rogers, she thought, was one of the better ones. The\nprint reporters were all better. It was the television reporters you\nreally had to watch out for. They were the really dangerous ones.\nOUTSIDE HANGAR 5\n10:15 . .\nA M\nCrossing the plant, she fished her cell phone out of her purse,\nand called Marder. His assistant, Eileen, said he was in a meeting. \"I\njust left Jack Rogers,\" Casey said. \"I think he's planning a story that\nsays we're shipping the wing to China, and there's trouble in the\nexecutive suite.\" \"Uh-oh,\" Eileen said. \"That's not good.\" \"Edgarton\nbetter talk to him, and put it to rest.\" \"Edgarton isn't doing any\npress,\" Eileen said. \"John will be back at six o'clock. You want to talk\nto him then?\" \"I better, yes.\" \"I'll put you down,\" Eileen said.\nPROOF TEST\n10:19 . .\nA M\nIt looked like an aviation junkyard: old fuselages, tails, and wing\nsections littered the landscape, raised up on rusty scaffolding. But\nthe air was filled with the steady hum of compressors, and heavy\ntubing ran to the airplane parts, like intravenous lines to a patient\nThis was Proof Test, also known as Twist-and-Shout, the domain of\nthe infamous Amos Peters.\nCasey saw him off to the right, a hunched figure in shirtsleeves\nand baggy pants, bent over a readout stand, beneath an aft fuselage\nsection of the Norton widebody.\n\"Amos,\" she called, waving as she walked over to him.He turned, glanced at her. \"Go away.\"\nAmos was a legend at Norton. Reclusive and obstinate, he was\nnearly seventy, long past mandatory retirement age, yet he\ncontinued to work because he was vital to the company. His\nspecialty was the arcane field of damage tolerance, or fatigue\ntesting. And fatigue testing was of vastly greater importance than it\nhad been ten years before.\nSince deregulation, the carriers were flying aircraft longer than\nanybody ever expected. Three thousand aircraft in the domestic fleet\nwere now more than twenty years old. That number would double in\nfive years. Nobody really knew what would happen to all those\naircraft as they continued to age.\nExcept Amos.\nIt was Amos who had been brought in by the NTSB as a\nconsultant on the famous Aloha 737 accident, back in 1988. Aloha\nwas an inter-island carrier in Hawaii. One of their airplanes was\ncruising at 24,000 feet when suddenly eighteen feet of the airplane's\nouter skin peeled off the fuselage, from the cabin door to the wing;\nthe cabin decompressed, and a stewardess was sucked out and\nkilled. Despite the explosive pressure loss, the plane managed to\nland safely at Maui, where it was scrapped on the spot.\nThe rest of Aloha's fleet was examined for corrosion and fatigue\ndamage. Two more high-time 737s were scrapped, and a third\nunderwent months of repairs. All three had extensive skin cracks and\nother corrosion damage. When the FAA issued an Airworthiness\nDirective mandating inspections of the rest of the 737 fleet, forty-\nnine more planes, operated by eighteen different carriers, were\nfound to have extensive cracking.\nIndustry observers were perplexed by the accident, because\nBoeing, Aloha, and the FAA were supposedly all watching the\ncarrier's 737 fleet. Corrosion cracking was a known problem on some\nearly-production 737s; Boeing had already warned Aloha that the\nsalty, humid Hawaiian climate was a \"severe\" corrosion environment.\nAfterward, the investigation found multiple causes for the\naccident. It turned out that Aloha, making short hops between\nislands, was accumulating flight cycles of takeoff and landing at afaster rate than maintenance was scheduled to handle. This stress,\ncombined with corrosion from ocean air, produced a series of small\ncracks in the aircraft skin. These were unnoticed by Aloha, because\nthey were short of trained personnel. The FAA didn't catch them\nbecause they were overworked and understaffed. The FAA's principal\nmaintenance inspector in Honolulu supervised nine carriers and\nseven repair stations around the Pacific, from China to Singapore to\nthe Philippines. Eventually, a flight occurred in which the cracks\nextended and the structure failed.\nFollowing the incident, Aloha, Boeing, and the FAA formed a\ncircular firing squad. The undetected structural damage in Aloha's\nfleet was variously attributed to poor management, poor\nmaintenance, poor FAA inspection, poor engineering. Accusations\nricocheted back and forth for years afterward.\nBut the Aloha flight had also focused industry attention on the\nproblem of aging aircraft, and it had made Amos famous within\nNorton. He'd convinced management to begin buying more old\naircraft, turning wings and fuselages into proof test articles. Day\nafter day, his test fixtures applied repetitive pressures to aging\naircraft, stressing them to simulate takeoffs and landings, wind shear\nand turbulence, so Amos could study how and where they cracked.\n\"Amos,\" she said, coming up to him, \"it's me. Casey Singleton.\"\nHe blinked myopically. \"Oh. Casey. Didn't recognize you.\" He\nsquinted at her. \"Doctor gave me a new prescription ... Oh. Huh.\nHow are you?\" He gestured for her to walk with him, and he headed\ntoward a small building a few yards away.\nNo one at Norton could understand how Casey was able to get\nalong with Amos, but they were neighbors; he lived alone with his\npug dog, and she had taken to cooking him a meal every month or\nso. In return, Amos regaled her with stories of aircraft accidents he'd\nworked on, going back to the first BO AC Comet crashes in the\n1950s. Amos had an encyclopedic knowledge of airplanes. She had\nlearned a tremendous amount from him, and he had become a sort\nof adviser to her.\n\"Didn't I see you the other morning?\" he said.\n\"Yes. With my daughter.\"\"Thought so. Want coffee?\" He opened the door to a shed, and\nshe smelted the sharp odor of burned grounds. His coffee was\nalways terrible.\n\"Sounds great, Amos,\" she said.\nHe poured her a cup. \"Hope black is okay. Ran out of that\ncreamer stuff.\"\n\"Black is fine, Amos.\" He hadn't had creamer for a year.\nAmos poured a cup for himself in a stained mug, and waved her\nto a battered chair, facing his desk. The desk was piled high with\nthick reports. FAA/NASA International Symposium on Advanced\nStructural Integrity. Airframe Durability and Damage Tolerance.\nThermographic Inspection Techniques. Corrosion Control and\nStructures Technology.\nHe put his feet up on the desk, cleared a path through the\njournals, so he could see her. \"I tell you, Casey. It's tedious working\nwith these old hulks. I long for the day when we have another T2\narticle in here.\"\n\"T2?\" she said.\n\"Of course you wouldn't know,\" Amos said. \"You've been here\nfive years, and we haven't made a new model aircraft in all that\ntime. But when there's a new aircraft, the first one off the line is\ncalled Tl. Test Article 1. It goes to Static Test—we put it on the test\nbed and shake it to pieces. Find out where the weaknesses are. The\nsecond plane off the line is T2. It's used for fatigue testing—a more\ndifficult problem. Over time, metal loses tensile strength, gets brittle.\nSo we take T2, put it in a jig, and accelerate fatigue testing. Day\nafter day, year after year, we simulate takeoffs and landings.\nNorton's policy is we fatigue test to more than twice the design life\nof the aircraft. If the engineers design an aircraft for a twenty-year\nlife span— say, fifty thousand hours and twenty thousand cycles—\nwe'll do more than twice that in the pit, before we ever deliver to a\ncustomer. We know the planes will stand up. How's your coffee?\"\nShe took a small sip, managed not to wince. Amos ran water\nthrough the same old grinds, all day long. That was how it got this\ndistinctive flavor. \"Good, Amos.\"\"Just ask. There's more where that came from. Anyway, most\nmanufacturers test to twice the design life. We test up to four times\nthe spec. That's why we always say, the other companies make\ndoughnuts, Norton makes croissants.\"\nCasey said, \"And John Marder always says, That's why the others\nmake money, and we don't.\"\n\"Marder.\" Amos snorted. \"It's all money with him, all bottom line.\nIn the old days, the front office told us, Make the best damn airplane\nyou can. Now they say, Make the best airplane you can for a price.\nDifferent instruction, you know what I mean?\" He slurped his coffee.\n\"So. What is it, Casey— 545?\"\nShe nodded.\n\"Can't help you there,\" he said.\n\"Why do you say that?\"\n\"The plane's new. Fatigue's not a factor.\"\n\"There's a question about a part, Amos,\" she said. She showed\nhim the pin, in a plastic bag.\n\"Hmm.\" He turned it over in his hands, held it up to the light.\n'This would be—don't tell me—this would be an anterior locking pin\nfor the second inboard slat.\"\n\"That's right.\"\n\"Of course it's right.\" He frowned. \"But this part's bad.\"\n\"Yes, I know.\"\n\"So what's your question?'\n\"Doherty thinks it failed the aircraft. Could it?\"\n\"Well...\" Amos stared at the ceiling, thinking. \"No. I got a\nhundred bucks says it didn 't fail the aircraft.\"\nCasey sighed. She was back to square one. They had no leads.\n\"Discouraged?\" Amos said.\n\"Yes, frankly.\"\n\"Then you're not paying attention,\" he said. \"This is a very\nvaluable lead.\"\n\"But why? You just said yourself—it didn't fail the aircraft.\"\n\"Casey, Casey.\" Amos shook his head. \"Think.\"\nShe tried to think, sitting there, smelling his bad coffee. She tried\nto see what he was driving at. But her mind was blank. She lookedat him across the desk. \"Just tell me. What am I missing?\"\n\"Were the other locking pins replaced?'\n\"No.\"\n\"Just this one?'\n\"Yes.\"\n\"Why just this one, Casey?\" he said.\n\"I don't know.\"\n\"Find out,\" he said.\n\"Why? What good will that do?\"\nAmos threw up his hands. \"Casey. Come on, now. Think it\nthrough. You have a problem with slats on 545. That's a wing\nproblem.\"\n\"Correct.\"\n\"Now you've found a part that's been replaced on the wing.\"\n\"Correct.\"\n\"Why was it replaced?\"\n\"I don't know...\"\n\"Was that wing damaged in the past? Did something happen to\nit, so that this part had to be replaced? Were other parts replaced as\nwell? Are there other bad parts on the wing? Is there residual\ndamage to the wing?\"\n\"Not that you can see.\"\nAmos shook his head impatiently. \"Forget what you can see,\nCasey. Look at the ship's record and the maintenance records. Trace\nthis part, and get a history of the wing. Because something else is\nwrong.\"\n\"My guess is you'll find more fake parts.\" Amos stood, sighing.\n\"More and more planes have fake parts, these days. I suppose it's to\nbe expected. These days, everybody seems to believe in Santa\nClaus.\"\n\"How's that?\"\n\"Because they believe in something for nothing,\" Amos said. \"You\nknow: government deregulates the airlines, and everybody cheers.\nWe got cheaper fares: everybody cheers. But the carriers have to cut\ncosts. So the food is awful. That's okay. There are fewer direct\nflights, more hubs. That's okay. The planes look grubby, becausethey redo the interiors less often. That's okay. But still the carriers\nhave to cut more costs. So they run the planes longer, buy fewer\nnew ones. The fleet ages. That'll be okay—for a while. Eventually it\nwon't be. And meanwhile, cost pressures continue. So where else do\nthey cut? Maintenance? Parts? What? It can't go on indefinitely. Just\ncan't. Of course, now Congress is helping them out, by cutting\nappropriations for the FAA, so there'll be less oversight. Carriers can\nease up on maintenance because nobody's watching. And the public\ndoesn't care, because for thirty years this country's had the best\naviation safety record in the world. But the thing is, we paid for it.\nWe paid to have new, safe planes and we paid for the oversight to\nmake sure they were well maintained. But those days are over. Now,\neverybody believes in something for nothing.\"\n\"So where's it going to end?\" she said.\n\"I got a hundred bucks,\" he said, \"they'll reregulate within ten\nyears. There'll be a string of crashes, and they'll do it. The free\nmarketeers will scream, but the fact is, free markets don't provide\nsafety. Only regulation does that. You want safe food, you better\nhave inspectors. You want safe water, you better have an EPA. You\nwant a safe stock market, you better have the SEC. And you want\nsafe airlines, you better regulate them, too. Believe me, they will.\"\n\"And on 545 ...\"\nAmos shrugged. \"Foreign carriers operate with much less\nstringent regulation. It's pretty loosey-goosey out there. Look at the\nmaintenance records—and look hard at the paper for any part you're\nsuspicious of.\"\nShe started to leave.\n\"But Casey ...\"\nShe turned back. \"Yes?\"\n\"You understand the situation, don't you? To check that part,\nyou'll have to start with the ship's record.\"\n\"I know.\"\n\"That's in Building 64. I wouldn't go there, right now. At least not\nalone.\"\n\"Come on, Amos,\" she said. \"I used to work on the floor. I'll be\nokay.\"Amos was shaking his head. \"Flight 545's a hot potato. You know\nhow the guys think. If they can mess up the investigation, they will\n—any way they can. Be careful.\"\n\"I will.\"\n\"Be very, very careful.\"\nBLD6 64\n11:45 . .\nA M\nRunning down the center of Building 64 was a series of one-story\nchain-link cages that housed parts for the line, and terminal\nworkstations. The workstations were placed inside small partitions,\neach containing a microfiche reader, a parts terminal, and a main\nsystem terminal.\nIn the parts cage, Casey bent over a microfiche reader, scrolling\nthrough photocopies of the ship's record for Fuse 271, which was\nthe original factory designation for the aircraft involved in the TPA\naccident.\nJerry Jenkins, the parts flow control manager on the floor, stood\nbeside her nervously, tapping his pen on the table and saying, \"Find\nit yet? Find it yet?\"\n\"Jerry,\" she said, \"take it easy.\"\n\"I'm easy,\" he said, glancing around the floor. \"I'm just thinking,\nyou know, you could have done this between shifts.\"\nBetween shifts would have drawn less attention.\n\"Jerry,\" she said, \"we're in kind of a rush here.\"\nHe tapped his pen. \"Everybody's pretty hot about the China sale.\nWhat do I tell the guys?\"\n\"You tell the guys,\" she said, \"that if we lose that China sale,\nthen this line will shut down, and everybody will be out of a job.\"\nJerry swallowed. \"That true? Because I hear—\"\n\"Jerry, let me look at the record, will you?\"\nThe ship's record consisted of the mass of documentation—a\nmillion pieces of paper, one for every part on the aircraft—used to\nassemble the aircraft. This paper, and the even more extensive\ndocumentation required for FAA type certification, contained Norton\nproprietary information. So the FAA didn't store these records,because if they did, competitors could obtain it under the Freedom\nof Information Act. So Norton warehoused five thousand pounds of\npaper, running eighty feet of shelf space for each aircraft, in a vast\nbuilding in Compton. All this was copied onto microfiche, for access\nat these readers on the floor. But finding the paper for a single part\nwas time-consuming, she thought, and—\n\"Find it yet? Find it?\"\"Yeah,\" she said at last. \"I got it\"\nShe was staring at a photocopy of a sheet of paper from\nHoffman Metal Works, in Montclair, California The slats locking pin\nwas described in a code that matched the engineering drawings:\nA/908/B-2117L (2) Ant SI Lteh. SS/HT. A typed date of manufacture,\na stamped date of delivery to the factory, and a date of installation.\nFollowed by two stamps— one signed by the mechanic who installed\nthe part on the aircraft, and a second by the QA inspector who\napproved the work.\n\"So,\" he said. \"That the OEM or what?\"\n\"Yeah, it's the OEM.\" Hoffman was the original equipment\nmanufacturer. The part had come direct from them. No distributor\nwas involved.\nJerry was looking out through the chain link at the factory floor\nbeyond. Nobody seemed to be paying any attention, but Casey knew\nthat they were being watched.\nJerry said, \"You leaving now?\"\n\"Yes, Jerry. I'm leaving now.\"\nShe headed across the floor, staying on the aisle that ran by the\nparts cages. Away from the overhead cranes. Glancing up at the\noverhead walkways to be sure nobody was up there. Nobody was.\nSo far, they were leaving her alone.\nWhat she had learned so far was clear The original installed part\non TPA 545 had come direct from a reputable supplier. The original\npart was good; the part Doherty found on the wing was bad.\nSo Amos was right.\nSomething had happened to that wing, causing it to be repaired,\nsometime in the past.\nBut what?\nShe still had more work to do.\nAnd very little time to do it.\nNORTON QA\n12:30 . .\nP M\nIf the part was bad, where had it come from? She needed\nmaintenance records, and they hadn't arrived yet. Where wasRichman? Back in her office, she flipped through a stack of telexes.\nAll the FSRs around the world were asking for information about the\nN-22. One from the Right Service Rep in Madrid was typical.\nFROM: S. RAMONES, FSR MADRID TO: C. SINGLETON, QA/IRT\nPERSISTENT REPORTS VIA MY IBERIA CONTACT B. ALONSO\nTHAT DUE TO MIAMI INCIDENT JAA WILL ANNOUNCE CONTINUED\nDELAY OF CERTIFICATION OF N-22 AIRCRAFT CITING\n\"AIRWORTHINESS CONCERNS\"\nPLS ADVISE.\nShe sighed. What the FSR was reporting was entirely predictable.\nThe JAA was the Joint Aviation Authorities, the European equivalent\nof the FAA. Recently, American manufacturers had had a good deal\nof difficulty with it. The JAA was flexing new regulatory muscles, and\nthe agency had many bureaucrats who didn't clearly distinguish\nbetween negotiated trade advantage and airworthiness issues. For\nsome time now, the JAA had been making special efforts to force the\nAmerican manufacturers to use European jet engines. The\nAmericans had resisted, so it was logical that the JAA would take\nadvantage of the rotor burst in Miami to put greater pressure on\nNorton, by withholding certification.\nBut in the end, it was a political problem, not her area. She went\nto the next telex:\nFROM: S. NIETO, FSR VANC TO: C. SINGLETON, QA/IRT\nFIRST OFFICER LU ZAN PING UNDERWENT EMERGENCY\nSURGERY FOR SUBDURAL HEMATOMA AT VANC GEN HOSPITAL\n0400 HRS TODAY. F/O NOT AVAILABLE FOR QUESTIONS AT LEAST\n48 HRS. FURTHER DETAILS TF.\nCasey had been hoping for an interview with the injured first\nofficer sooner than that. She wanted to know why he was in theback of the plane, and not in the cockpit. But it seemed an answer\nto that question would have to wait until the end of the week.\nShe came to the next telex, and stared in astonishment.\nFROM: RICK RAKOSKI, FSR HK TO: CASEY SINGLETON, QA/IRT\nRECEIVED YOUR REQUEST MAINTENANCE RECORDS FOR TPA\nFLIGHT 545, FUSE 271, FOREIGN REGISTRY 098/443/HB09 AND\nPASSED IT ON TO THE CARRIER.\nIN RESPONSE TO FAA REQUEST TRANSPACIFIC RELEASED ALL\nRECORDS FROM REPAIR STATION KAITAK HK, REPAIR STATION\nSINGAPORE, REPAIR STATION MELBOURNE. THESE UPLOADED TO\nNORTON ONLINE SYSTEMS AS OF 2210 LOCAL TIME. STILL\nWORKING ON CREW INTERVIEWS. MUCH MORE DIFFICULT.\nDETAILS TF.\nA smart move by the carrier, she thought. Since they didn't want\nto grant crew interviews, they had decided to provide everything\nelse, in an apparent display of cooperation.\nNorma came into her office. \"Records from LAX are corning in\nnow,\" she said. \"And Hong Kong already delivered.\"\n\"I see that. Have you got the storage address?\"\n\"Right here.\" She handed her a slip of paper, and Casey typed it\ninto the terminal behind her desk. There was a delay for the call to\nthe mainframe, and then a screen flashed up.\nMAINT REC N-22 / FUSE 271 / FR 098/443/HB09\nDD 5/14 AS 6/19 MOD 8/12\n< RS KAITAK - MAINT REC (A-C)\n< RS SNGPOR - MAINT REC (B ONLY)\n< RS MELB - MAINT REC (A, B ONLY)\n\"All right,\" she said. She went to work.\nIt was the better part of an hour before Casey had her answers.\nBut at the end of mat time, she had a good picture of what had\nhappened to the slats locking pin on the Transpacific aircraft.On November 10 of the previous year, on a flight from Bombay to\nMelbourne, the Transpacific aircraft had experienced a problem with\nradio communications. The pilot made an unscheduled stop on the\nisland of Java, in Indonesia. There, the radio was repaired without\ndifficulty (a blown circuit panel was changed out), and Javanese\nground crews refueled the plane for the continuing flight to\nMelbourne.\nAfter the aircraft landed in Melbourne, Australian ground crews\nnoted that the right wing was damaged.\nThank you, Amos.\nThe wing was damaged.\nMechanics in Melbourne noted that the fuel coupling was bent on\nthe right wing, and the adjacent slats locking pin was slightly\ndamaged. This was thought to have been caused by ground\npersonnel in Java during the previous fueling stop.\nThe fuel line couplings on the N-22 were located on the\nunderside of the wing, just behind the leading edge. An\ninexperienced ground person had used the wrong power lift truck for\nthe N-22 and had jammed the platform railing into the fuel hose\nwhile the hose was hooked into the wing. This bent the hose bracket\ninto the wing coupler, bent the coupler plate, and damaged the\nnearby slats pin.\nSlats locking pins were an infrequent change item, and\nMelbourne repair station did not have one in stock. Rather than\ndelay the aircraft in Australia, it was decided to allow the plane to\ncontinue to Singapore and change the part there. However, a sharp-\neyed maintenance person in Singapore noticed that the paper on\ntheir replacement locking pin appeared suspect. Maintenance crews\nwere uncertain whether the replacement pin was genuine or not.\nSince the part already in place functioned normally, Singapore\nelected not to replace it, and the aircraft was sent on to Hong Kong,\nthe home terminal for Transpacific, where a genuine replacement\npart was assured. Hong Kong Repair Station—fully aware they were\nlocated in a world center for counterfeiting—took special precautions\nto insure their spare aviation parts were genuine. They ordered parts\ndirectly from the original equipment manufacturers in the UnitedStates. On November 13 of the previous year, a brand-new slats\nlocking pin was installed on the aircraft.\nPaper for the part appeared to be proper; a photocopy came up\non Casey's screen. The part had come from Hoffman Metal Works in\nMontclair, California—Norton's original supplier. But Casey knew the\npaper was fake, because the part itself was fake. She would run it\ndown later, and find out where the part had actually come from.\nBut right now, the only question was the one Amos had posed:\nWere other parts replaced, as well?\nSitting at her terminal, Casey scrolled through the maintenance\nsummary records for Hong Kong Repair Station for November 13, to\nfind what else had been done to the aircraft mat day.\nIt was slow going; she had to look at photocopies of\nmaintenance cards, with scrawled handwritten notations after each\ncheckbox. But eventually she found a list of work that had been\ndone on the wing.\nThere were three notations.\nCHG RT LDLT FZ-7. Change the right landing light fuse 7.\nCHG RT SLTS LK PIN. Change the right slats locking pin.\nCK ASS EQ PKG. Check the associated equipment package. This\nwas followed by a mechanic's notation NRML. Meaning it was\nchecked and normal.\nThe associated equipment package was a maintenance sub-\ngrouping of related parts that had to be checked whenever a faulty\npart was detected. For example, if seals on the right fuel lines were\nfound to be worn, it was standard practice to check' seals on the left\nside as well, since they were part of the associated equipment\npackage.\nChanging the slats locking pin had triggered a maintenance\ncheck of associated equipment.\nBut which equipment?\nShe knew the associated equipment packages were specified by\nNorton. But she couldn't pull up the list on her office computer. To\ndo that, she would have to go back to the terminal on the floor.\nShe pushed away from her desk.BLD6 64\n2:40 . .\nP M\nBuilding 64 was nearly deserted, the widebody line seemingly\nabandoned between shifts. There was a one-hour delay between\nfirst and second shifts, because it took that long for the parking lots\nto clear. First shift ended at 2:30 . . Second shift started at 3:30.\nP M\nThis was the time that Jerry Jenkins had said she should examine\nthe records because there wouldn't be an audience. She had to\nadmit he was right. There was nobody around now.\nCasey went directly to the parts cage, looking for Jenkins, but he\nwasn't there. She saw the QA section manager, and asked where\nJerry Jenkins was.\n\"Jerry? He went home,\" the manager said.\n\"Why?\"\n\"Said he wasn't feeling good.\"\nCasey frowned. Jenkins shouldn't have left until after five. She\nwent to the terminal to bring up the information herself.\nTyping at the keyboard, she soon had called up the database of\nassociated maintenance packages. She keyed in RT SLATS LK PIN\nand got the answer she was looking for.\nRT SLATS ERV TRK (22 / RW / 2-5455 / SLS)\nRT SLATS LVR (22 / RW / 2-5769 / SLS)\nRT SLATS HVD ACT (22 / RW / 2-7334 / SLS)\nRT SLATS PSTN (22 / RW / 2-3444 / SLS)\nRT SLATS FD CPLNG (22 / RW / 2-3445 / SLC)\nRT PRX SNSR (22 / RW / 4-0212 / PRC)\nRT PRX SNSR CPLNG (22 / RW / 4-0445 / PRC)\nRT PRX SNSR PLT (22 / RW / 4-0343 / PRC)\nRT PRX SNSR WC (22 / RW / 4-0102 / PRW)\nIt made sense. The associated parts package consisted of the\nother five elements of the slats drive track: the track, the lever, the\nhydraulic actuator, the piston, the forward coupling.\nIn addition, the list instructed mechanics to check the nearby\nproximity sensor, its coupling, cover plate, and wiring.She knew Doherty had already inspected the drive track. If Amos\nwas right, they ought to look very carefully at that proximity sensor.\nShe didn't think anybody had done that yet.\nThe proximity sensor. It was located deep in the wing. Difficult to\nget to. Difficult to inspect.\nCould that have caused a problem?\nYes, she thought, it was possible.\nShe shut down the terminal and crossed the plant floor, heading\nback to her office. She needed to call Ron Smith, to tell him to check\nthe sensor. She walked beneath deserted aircraft toward the open\ndoors at the north end of the building.\nAs she neared the doors, she saw two men enter the hangar.\nThey were silhouetted against the midday sunlight, but she could\nsee that one wore a red checked shirt. And the other had on a\nbaseball cap.\nCasey turned to ask the QA floor manager to call Security. But he\nwas gone; the wire cage stood empty. Casey looked around, and\nsuddenly realized the floor was deserted. She saw no one except an\nelderly black woman at the far end of the building, pushing a broom.\nThe woman was half a mile away.\nCasey looked at her watch. It would be another fifteen minutes\nbefore people started showing up.\nThe two men were walking toward her.\nCasey turned and started to walk away from them, heading back\nthe way she had come. She could handle this, she thought.\nCalmly, she opened her purse, pulled out her cell phone to call\nSecurity.\nBut the phone didn't work. She didn't get a signal. She realized\nshe was in the center of the building, which was hung with copper\nmesh along the ceiling to block extraneous radio transmissions while\nthe aircraft systems were being tested.\nShe wouldn't be able to use her cell phone until she reached the\nother side of the building.\nHalf a mile away.\nShe walked faster. Her shoes clicked on the concrete. The sound\nseemed to echo through the building. Could she really be alonehere? Of course not. There were several hundred people in the\nbuilding with her, right now. It was just that she couldn't see them.\nThey were inside the airplanes, or standing behind the big tools\naround the planes. Hundreds of people, all around her. Any minute,\nshe'd see some of them.\nShe glanced over her shoulder.\nThe men were gaining on her.\nShe picked up her pace, almost starting to jog, unsteady in her\nlow heels. And she suddenly thought, This is ridiculous. I'm an\nexecutive of Norton Aircraft and I am running through this plant in\nthe middle of the day.\nShe slowed to a normal walk.\nShe took a deep breath.\nShe glanced back: the men were closer now.\nShould she confront them? No, she thought. Not unless other\npeople were around.\nShe walked faster.\nTo her left was a parts staging area. Ordinarily, there would be\ndozens of men inside there, fetching parts kits, working the bins. But\nnow the cage was empty. .\nDeserted.\nShe looked over her shoulder. The men were fifty yards behind,\nand closing.\nShe knew that if she started to scream, a dozen mechanics would\nsuddenly appear. The goons would slip away, vanishing behind tools\nand scaffolding, and she'd look like a fool. She'd never live it down.\nThe girl who lost it that day on the floor.\nShe wouldn't scream.\nNo.\nWhere the hell were the fire alarms? The medic alert alarms? The\nhazardous materials alarms? She knew they were scattered all over\nthe building. She'd spent years working in this building. She ought to\nbe able to remember where they were located.\nShe could hit one and say it was an accident...\nBut she saw no alarms.The men were now thirty yards behind. If they broke into a run,\nthey'd reach her in a few seconds. But they were being cautious—\napparently they, too, expected to see people at any moment.\nBut she saw nobody.\nOn her right, she saw a forest of blue beams—the big industrial\njigs that held the fuselage barrels in place, while they were riveted\ntogether. The last place she might hide.\nI'm an executive of Norton Aircraft. And it's—\nThe hell with it.\nShe turned right, ducking among the beams, scrambling through\nthem. She passed staircases and hanging lamps. She heard the men\nbehind her shout in surprise, and start to follow. But by then she\nwas moving in near darkness through the girders. Moving fast.\nCasey knew her way around here. She moved quickly, with\nassurance, always glancing up, hoping to see someone above.\nUsually there were twenty or thirty men at each position on the\nscaffolding overhead, joining the barrels in a glare of fluorescent\nlight. Now she saw nobody.\nBehind her, she heard the men grunt, heard them bang into the\ncrossbeams, swearing.\nShe started to run, dodging low-hanging beams, jumping over\ncables and boxes, and then suddenly she came out into a clearing.\nStation fourteen: a plane stood on its landing gear, high above the\nfloor. And higher still, all around the tail, she saw the hanging\ngardens, rising sixty feet into the air.\nShe looked up at the widebody, and she saw the silhouette of\nsomeone inside. Someone in the window.\nSomeone inside the plane.\nFinally! Casey climbed the stairs to the plane, her feet clanging\non the steel steps. She went two stones up, then paused to look.\nHigh above her, in the hanging gardens, she saw three burly\nmechanics in hard hats. They were only ten feet below the ceiling,\nworking on the topmost hinge of the rudder; she heard the quick,\nsputtering buzz of power tools.\nShe looked down and saw the two men following her on the floor\nbelow. They broke clear of the forest of blue jigs, looked up, sawher, and started after her.\nShe continued up.\nShe reached the aft door of the plane, and ran inside. The\nunfinished widebody was huge and empty, a succession of dully\ngleaming curved arcs, like the belly of a metal whale. Halfway down,\nshe saw a solitary Asian woman, attaching silver insulation blankets\nto the walls. The woman looked at Casey timidly.\n\"Is anybody else working here?\" she said.\nThe woman shook her head, No. She looked frightened, as if\nshe'd been caught doing something wrong.\nCasey turned, ran back out the door.\nDown below, she saw the men just one level beneath her.\nShe turned and ran up the stairs.\nInto the hanging gardens.\nThe metal staircase had been ten feet wide when she started.\nNow it narrowed to two feet in width. And it was steeper, more like a\nladder climbing into the air, surrounded by a dizzying crosswork of\nscaffolding. Power lines hung down like jungle vines on all sides; her\nshoulders banged into metal junction boxes as she scrambled higher.\nThe staircase swayed beneath her feet. It turned abruptly at right\nangles every ten steps or so. Casey was now forty feet above the\nground, looking down on the broad crown of the fuselage. And up at\nthe tail, rising above her.\nShe was high up, and suddenly flooded with panic. Looking up at\nthe men working on the rudder above, she shouted: \"Hey! Hey!\"\nThey ignored her.\nBelow, she saw the other two men pursuing her, their bodies\nintermittently visible through the scaffolding as they climbed.\n\"Hey! Hey!\"\nBut the men still ignored her. Continuing upward, she saw why\nthey had not responded. They were wearing audiopads, black plastic\ncups like earmuffs, over their ears.\nThey couldn't hear anything through them.\nShe climbed.\nFifty feet above the floor, the stairs abruptly angled right, around\nthe black horizontal surface of the elevators, protruding from thevertical tail. The elevators obscured her view-of the men above.\nCasey worked her way around the elevators; the surfaces were black\nbecause they were made of composite resin, and she remembered\nshe must not touch them with her bare hands.\nShe wanted to grab on to them; the stairs up here were not\nconstructed for running. They swayed wildly and her feet slipped off\nthe steps; she clutched at the railing with sweaty hands as she slid\nfive feet down, before coming to a stop.\nShe continued upward.\nShe could no longer see the floor below; it was obscured by the\nlayers of scaffolding beneath her. She couldn't see if the second shift\nhad arrived or not.\nShe continued up.\nAs she went higher, she began to feel the thick, hot air trapped\nbeneath the roof of Building 64. She remembered what they called\nthis high perch: the sweatbox.\nWorking her way upward, she finally reached the elevators. As\nshe continued above them, the stairs angled back now, close to the\nbroad, flat, vertical surface of the tail, blocking her view of the men\nworking on the other side. She no longer wanted to look down; she\nsaw the wooden beams of the ceiling above her. Only five more feet\n... one more turn of the stairs ... coming around the rudder ... and\nthen she would be—\nShe stopped, stared.\nThe men were gone.\nShe looked down and saw the three yellow hard hats beneath\nher. They were on a motorized lift, descending to the factory floor.\n\"Hey! Hey!\"\nThe hard hats did not look up.\nCasey looked back, hearing the clang of the two men still racing\nup the stairs toward her. She could feel the vibration of their\nfootsteps. She knew they were close.\nAnd she had nowhere to go.\nDirectly ahead of her, the stairs ended in a metal platform, four\nfeet square, set alongside the rudder. There was a railing around the\nplatform, and nothing beyond.She was sixty feet up in the air on a tiny platform astride the\nhuge expanse of the widebody tail.\nThe men were coming.\nAnd she had nowhere to go.\nShe should never have started to climb, she thought. She should\nhave stayed on the ground. Now she had no choice.\nCasey swung her foot over the platform railing. She reached for\nthe scaffolding, gripped it. The metal was warm in the high air. She\nswung her other leg over.\nAnd then she began to climb down the outside of the scaffolding,\nreaching for handholds, working her way down.\nAlmost immediately Casey realized her mistake. The scaffolding\nwas constructed of X-angled girders. Wherever she grabbed, her\nhands slid down, jamming her fingers into the crossjoint with searing\npain. Her feet slipped along the angled surfaces. The scaffolding\nbars were sharp edged, difficult to hold. After only a few moments\nof climbing, she was gasping for air. She hooked her arms through\nthe bars, bending her elbows, and caught her breath.\nShe did not look down.\nLooking to her left, she saw the two men on the small high\nplatform. The man in the red shirt, and the man in the baseball cap.\nThey were standing there, staring at her, trying to decide what to\ndo. She was about five feet below them, on the outside of the\ngirders, hanging on.\nShe saw one of the men pull on a pair of heavy work gloves.\nShe realized she had to get moving again. Carefully, she\nunhooked her arms, and started down. Five feet. Another five feet.\nNow she was level with the horizontal elevators, which she could see\nthrough the crisscrossed girders.\nBut the girders were shaking.\nLooking up, she saw the man in the red shirt climbing down after\nher. He was strong, and moved quickly. She knew he would reach\nher in just a few moments.\nThe second man was climbing back down the stairs, pausing now\nand again to peer at her through the girders.\nThe man in the red shirt was only about ten feet above her.Casey went down.\nHer arms burned. Her breath came in ragged gasps. The\nscaffolding was greasy in unexpected places; her hands kept\nslipping. She felt the man above her, descending toward her. Looking\nup she saw his big orange work boots. Heavy crepe soles.\nIn a few moments he would be stomping on her fingers.\nAs Casey continued to scramble down, something banged against\nher left shoulder. She looked back and saw a power cable, dangling\nfrom the ceiling. It was about two inches thick, covered in gray\nplastic insulation. How much weight would it support?\nAbove her, the man was descending.\nThe hell with it.\nShe reached out, tugged at the cable. It held firm. She looked\nup, saw no junction boxes above her. She pulled the cable close,\nwrapping her arm around it. Then her legs. Just as the man's boots\ncame down, she released the scaffolding and swung out on the\ncable.\nAnd began to slide.\nShe tried to go hand over hand, but her arms were too weak.\nShe slid, hands burning.\nShe was going down fast.\nShe couldn't control it.\nThe pain from the friction was intense. She went ten feet,\nanother ten feet. She lost track. Her feet slammed into a junction\nbox and she stopped, swinging in the air. She lowered her legs\naround the junction box, gripped the cable between her feet, let her\nbody weight go down—\nShe felt the cable pull away.\nA shower of sparks flared from the box, and emergency alarms\nbegan to sound loudly throughout the building. The cable was\nswinging back and forth. She heard shouts from below. Looking\ndown, she realized with a shock that she was only about seven or\neight feet above the floor. Hands were reaching up to her. People\nshouting.\nShe let go, and fell.She was surprised how quickly she recovered, getting right to her\nfeet, embarrassed, brushing herself off. \"I'm fine,\" she kept saying to\nthe people around her. \"I'm fine. Really.\" The paramedics ran over;\nshe waved them away. \"I'm fine.\"\nBy now the workers on the floor had seen her badge, seen the\nblue stripe, and were confused—why was an executive hanging from\nthe gardens? They were hesitant, stepping away a little, unsure\nwhat to do.\n\"I'm fine. Everything is fine. Really. Just ... go on with what\nyou're doing.\"\nThe paramedics protested, but she pushed through the crowd,\nmoving away, until suddenly Kenny Burne was at her side, his arm\naround her shoulder.\n\"What the hell is going on?\"\n\"Nothing,\" she said.\n\"This is no time to be on the floor, Casey. Remember?\"\n\"Yeah, I remember,\" she said.\nShe let Kenny walk her out of the building, into the afternoon\nsun. She squinted in the glare. The huge parking lot was now filled\nwith cars for the second shift. Sunlight glinting off row after row of\nwindshields.\nKenny turned to her. \"You want to be more careful, Casey. You\nknow what I mean?\"\n\"Yeah,\" she said. \"I do.\"\nShe looked down at her clothes. There was a big streak of grease\nrunning across her blouse and skirt.\nBume said, \"You got a change of clothes here?\"\n\"No. I have to go home.\"\n\"I better drive you,\" Burne said.\nShe was about to protest, but didn't. \"Thanks, Kenny,\" she said.\nADMINISTRATION\n6:00 P.M.\nJohn Marder looked up from behind his desk. \"I heard there was\na little upset in 64. What was that about?\"\n\"Nothing. I was checking something.\"He nodded. \"I don't want you on the floor alone, Casey. Not after\nthat nonsense with the crane today. If you need to go down there,\nhave Richman or one of the engineers go with you.\"\n\"Okay.\"\n\"This is no time to take chances.\"\n\"I understand.\"\n\"Now.\" He shifted in his chair. \"What's this about a reporter?\"\n\"Jack Rogers is working on a story that might turn ugly,\" Casey\nsaid. \"Union allegations we're sending the wing offshore. Leaked\ndocuments that allegedly say we're offsetting the wing. And he's\nrelating the leaks to, ah, friction in the executive suite.\"\n\"Friction?\" Marder said. \"What friction?\"\n\"He's been told that you and Edgarton are at loggerheads. He\nasked if I thought management conflicts would affect the sale.\"\n\"Oh, Christ,\" Marder said. He sounded annoyed. \"That's\nridiculous. I'm behind Hal one hundred percent on this. It's essential\nfor the company. And nobody's leaked anything. What did you tell\nhim?\"\n\"I stalled him,\" Casey said. \"But if we want to kill the story, we\nhave to give him something better. An interview with Edgarton, or an\nexclusive on the China sale. It's the only way to do it.\"\n\"That's fine,\" Marder said. \"But Hal won't do any press. I can ask\nhim, but I know he won't do it.\"\n\"Well, somebody needs to,\" Casey said. \"Maybe you should.\"\n\"That could be difficult,\" Marder said. \"Hal has instructed me to\navoid the media until the sale is finalized. I have to be careful here.\nIs this guy trustworthy?\"\n\"In my experience, yes.\"\n\"If I give him something on deep background, he'll cover me?\"\n\"Sure. He just needs something to file.\"\n\"All right. Then I'll talk to him.\" Marder scribbled a note. \"Was\nthere anything else?\"\n\"No, that's all.\"\nShe turned to leave.\n\"By the way, how's Richman working out?\"\n\"Fine,\" she said. \"He's just inexperienced.\"\"He seems bright,\" Marder said. \"Use him. Give him something to\ndo.\"\n\"All right,\" Casey said.\n\"That was the problem with Marketing. They didn't give him\nanything to do.\"\n\"Okay,\" she said.\nMarder stood. \"See you tomorrow at the IRT.\"\nAfter Casey had gone, a side door opened. Richman walked in.\n\"You dumb fuck,\" Marder said. \"She almost got hurt in 64 this\nafternoon. Where the hell were you?'\n\"Well, I was—\"\n\"Get this straight,\" Marder said. \"I don't want anything to happen\nto Singleton, you understand me? We need her in one piece. She\ncan't do this job from a hospital bed\"\n\"Got it, John.\"\n\"You better, pal. I want you next to her at all times, until we\nfinish this thing.\"\nQA\n6:20 . .\nP M\nShe went back down to her fourth floor offices. Norma was still\nat her desk, a cigarette dangling from her lip. \"You got another stack\non your desk, waiting for you.\"\n\"Okay.\"\n\"Richman's gone home for the day.\"\n\"Okay.\"\n\"He seemed eager to leave, anyway. But I talked to Evelyn in\nAccounting.\"\n\"And?\"\n\"Richman's travel at Marketing was billed to customer services in\nthe program office. That's a slush fund they use for baksheesh. And\nthe kid spent a fortune.\"\n\"How much?\"\n\"Are you ready? Two hundred and eighty-four thousand dollars.\"\n\"Wow,\" Casey said. \"In three months?'\n\"Right.\"\"That's a lot of ski trips,\" Casey said. \"How were the charges\nbilled?\"\n\"Entertainment. Customer not specified.\"\n\"Then who approved the charges?\"\n\"It's a production account,\" Norma said. \"Which means it's\ncontrolled by Marder.\"\n\"Marder approved these charges?\"\n\"Apparently. Evelyn's checking for me. I'll get more later.\" Norma\nshuffled papers on her desk. \"Not much else here ... FAA's going to\nbe late with the transcript of the CVR. There's a lot of Chinese\nspoken, and their translators are fighting about the meaning. The\ncarrier's also doing their own translation, so...\"\nCasey sighed. \"What else is new,\" she said. In incidents like this\none, the cockpit voice recorders were sent to the FAA, which\ngenerated a written transcript of the cockpit conversation, since the\npilots' voices were owned by the carrier. But disputes over the\ntranslation were the rule on foreign flights. It always happened.\n\"Did Allison call?\"\n\"No, honey. The only personal call you got was from Teddy\nRawley.\"\nCasey sighed. \"Never mind.\"\n\"That'd be my advice,\" Norma said.\nIn her office, she thumbed through the files on her desk. Most of\nit was paper on Transpacific 545. The first sheet summarized the\nstack that followed:\nFAA 8020-9, /\nFORM ACCIDENT INCIDENT PRELIMINARY NOTICE\nFAA 8020-6,\nFORM REPORT OF AIRCRAFT ACCIDENT\nFAA 8020-6-1, ( )\nFORM REPORT OF AIRCRAFT ACCIDENT CONTINUATION\nFAA 7230-10, Loos\nFORM POSITION\nARINC\nHONOLULU\nLos ARTCC\nANGELES\nATAC\nSOUTHERN CALIFORNIA\n- / -\nAUTOMATIC SIGN IN SIGN OFF LOG\nATAC\nSOUTHERN CALIFORNIA\nFAA 7230-4,\nFORM DAILY RECORD OF FACILITY OPERATIONLos ARTCC\nANGELES\nATAC\nSOUTHERN CALIFORNIA\nFAA 7230-8,\nFORM FLIGHT PROGRESS STRIP\nLos ARTCC\nANGELES\nATAC\nSOUTHERN CALIFORNIA\n, ICAO\nFLIGHT PLAN\nShe saw a dozen pages of flight path charts; transcriptions of air\ntraffic control voice recordings; and more weather reports. Next was\nmaterial from Norton, including a sheaf of fault record data—so far\nthe only hard data they had to work with.\nShe decided to take it home. She was tired; she could look at it\nat home.\nGLENDALE\n10:45 . .\nP M\nHe sat up in bed abruptly, turned, put his feet on the floor. \"So.\nListen babe,\" he said, not looking at her.\nShe stared at the muscles of his bare back. The ridge of his\nspine. The strong lines of his shoulders.\n\"This was great,\" he said. \"It's great to see you.\"\n\"Uh-huh,\" she said.\n\"But you know, big day tomorrow.\"\nShe would have preferred he stay. The truth was, she felt better\nhaving him here at night. But she knew he was going to go. He\nalways did. She said, \"I understand. It's okay, Teddy.\"\nThat made him turn back to her. He gave her his charming,\ncrooked smile. \"You're the best, Casey.\" He bent over and kissed her,\na long kiss. She knew this was because she wasn't begging him to\nstay. She kissed him back, smelling the faint odor of beer. She ran\nher hand around his neck, caressing the fine hairs.\nAlmost immediately, he pulled away again. \"So. Anyway. Hate to\nrun.\"\n\"Sure, Teddy.\"\n\"By the way,\" Teddy said, \"I hear you toured the gardens,\nbetween shifts ...\"\"Yeah, I did.\"\n\"You don't want to piss off the wrong people.\"\n\"I know.\"\nHe grinned. \"I'm sure you do.\" He kissed her cheek, then bent\nover, reaching for his socks. \"So, anyway, I probably should be\nheading out...\"\n\"Sure, Teddy,\" she said. \"You want coffee, before you go?\"\nHe was pulling on his cowboy boots. \"Uh, no, babe. This was\ngreat. Great to see you.\"\nNot wanting to be left alone in the bed, she got up, too. She put\non a big T-shirt, walked him to the door, kissed him briefly as he left.\nHe touched her nose, grinned. \"Great,\" he said.\n\"Good night, Teddy,\" she said.\nShe locked the door, set the alarm.\nWalking back through the house, she turned off the stereo,\nglanced around to see if he had left anything. Other men usually left\nsomething behind, because they wanted a reason to come back.\nTeddy never did. All trace of his presence was gone. There was only\nthe unfinished beer on the kitchen table. She threw it in the trash,\nwiped away the ring of moisture.\nShe had been telling herself for months to end it (End what? End\nwhat? a voice said), but she somehow never got around to saying\nthe words. She was so busy at work, it was such an effort to meet\npeople. Six months earlier she had gone with Eileen, Marder's\nassistant, to a country-and-western bar in Studio City. The place was\nfrequented by young movie people, Disney animators—a fun crowd,\nEileen said. Casey found it agonizing. She wasn't beautiful, and she\nwasn't young; she didn't have the effortless glamour of the girls that\nglided through the room in tight jeans and crop tops.\nThe men were all too young for her, their smooth faces\nunformed. And she couldn't make small talk with them. She felt\nherself too serious for this setting. She had a job, a child, she was\nlooking at forty. She never went out with Eileen again.\nIt wasn't that she had no interest in meeting someone. But it was\njust so difficult. There was never enough time, never enough energy.\nIn the end, she didn't bother.So when Teddy would call, say he was in the neighborhood,\nshe'd go unlock the door for him, and get in the shower. Get ready.\nThat was how it had been for a year, now.\nShe made tea, and got back in bed. She propped herself up\nagainst the headboard, reached for the stack of papers, and began\nto review the records from the fault data recorders. She started to\nthumb through the printout:\nA/S PWR TEST 00000010000\nAIL SERVO COMP 00001001000\nAOA INV 10200010001\nCFDS SENS FAIL 00000010000\nCRZ CMD MON 10000020100\nEL SERVO COMP 00000000010\nEPR/N1 TRA- 00000010000\nFMS SPEED INV 00000040000\nPRESS ALT INV 00000030000\nG/S SPEED ANG 00000010000\nSLAT XSIT T/O 00000000000\nG/S DEV INV 00100050001\nGND SPD INV 00000021000\nTAS INV 00001010000\nTAT INV 00000010000\nAUX 1 00000000000\nAUX 2 00000000000\nAUX 3 00000000000\nAUX COA 01000000000\nA/S ROX-P 00000010000\nRDR PROX-1 00001001000\nThere were nine more pages of dense data. She wasn't sure\nwhat all the readings represented, particularly the AUX fault checks.\nOne was probably the auxiliary power unit, the gas turbine in the\nrear of the fuselage which provided power when the plane was on\nthe ground, and backup power in the event of electrical failureduring flight. But what were the others? Auxiliary line readings?\nChecks of redundant systems? And what was AUX COA?\nShe'd have to ask Ron.\nShe flipped ahead to the DEU listing, which stored faults by each\nleg of the flight. She scanned them quickly, yawning, and then\nsuddenly she stopped:\nDEU FAULT REVIEW\nLEG 04 FAULTS 01\nR/L SIB PROX SENS MISCOMPARE\n8 APR 00:36\nFLT 180 FC052606H\nALT 37000\nA/S 320\nShe frowned.\nShe could hardly believe what she was seeing.\nA fault in the proximity sensor.\nExactly what her check of maintenance records told her to look\nfor.\nMore than two hours into the flight, a proximity sensor error was\nnoted on the inboard electrical bus. The wing had many proximity\nsensors—little electronic pads which detected the presence of metal\nnearby. The sensors were needed to confirm that the slats and flaps\nwere in the proper position on the wing, since the pilots couldn't see\nthem from the cockpit.\nAccording to this fault, a \"miscompare\" had occurred between\nsensors on the right and left sides. If the main electrical box in the\nfuselage had had a problem, faults would have been generated on\nboth wings. But the right wing alone had generated the miscompare.\nShe looked ahead, to see if the fault repeated. She skipped through\nthe listing quickly, shuffling papers. She didn't see anything at once.\nBut a single fault in the sensor meant it should be checked. Again,\nshe would have to ask Ron...\nIt was so difficult to try and assemble a picture of the flight from\nthese bits and pieces. She needed the continuous data from theflight recorder. She'd call Rob Wong in the morning, and see how he\nwas coming with that.\nMeanwhile...\nCasey yawned, settled lower on the pillows, and continued to\nwork.\nWEDNESDAY\nGLENDALE\n6:12 . .\nA M\nThe telephone was ringing. She awoke, groggy, and rolled over,\nhearing the crunch of paper beneath her elbow. She looked down\nand saw the data sheets scattered all over the bed.\nThe phone continued to ring. She picked it up.\n\"Mom.\" Solemn, close to tears.\n\"Hi, Allie.\"\n\"Mom. Dad is making me wear the red dress, and I want to wear\nthe blue one with the flowers.\"\nShe sighed. \"What did you wear yesterday?\"\n\"The blue one. But it's not dirty or anything!\"\nThis was an ongoing battle. Allison liked to wear the clothes she\nhad worn the day before. Some innate, seven-year-old conservatism\nat work. \"Honey, you know I want you to wear clean clothes to\nschool.\"\n\"But it is clean, Mom. And I hate the red dress.\"\nLast month, the red dress had been her favorite. Allison had\nfought to wear it every day.\nCasey sat up in bed, yawned, stared at the papers, the dense\ncolumns of data. She heard her daughter's complaining voice on the\nphone and thought, Do I need this? She wondered why Jim didn't\nhandle it. Everything was so difficult, over the phone. Jim didn't hold\nup his end—he wasn't firm with her— and the kid's natural tendency\nto play one parent against the other led to an interminable string of\nlong-distance encounters like this.\nTrivial problems, childish power plays.\"Allison,\" she said, interrupting her daughter. \"If your father says\nto wear the red dress, you do what he says,\"\n\"But Mom—\"\n\"He's in charge now.\"\n\"But Mom—\"\n\"That's it, Allison. No more discussion. The red dress.\"\n\"Oh, Mom...\" She started to cry. \"I hate you.\"\nAnd she hung up.\nCasey considered calling her daughter back, decided not to. She\nyawned, got out of bed, walked into the kitchen and turned on the\ncoffeemaker. Her fax machine was buzzing in the comer of the living\nroom. She went over to look at the paper coming out.\nIt was a copy of a press release issued by a public relations firm\nin Washington. Although the firm had a neutral name— the Institute\nfor Aviation Research—she knew it was a PR firm representing the\nEuropean consortium that made Airbus. The release was formatted\nto look like a breaking wire-service story, complete with headline at\nthe top. It said:\nJAA DELAYS CERTIFICATION OF N-22\nWIDEBODY JET CITING CONTINUED\nAIRWORTHINESS CONCERNS\nShe sighed.\nIt was going to be a hell of a day.\nWAR ROOM\n7:00 . .\nA M\nCasey climbed the metal stairs to the War Room. When she\nreached the catwalk John Marder was there, pacing back and forth,\nwaiting for her.\n\"Casey.\"\n\"Morning, John.\"\n\"You've seen this JAA thing?\" He held up the fax.\n\"Yes, I have.\"\"It's nonsense, of course, but Edgarton drilled a hole. He's very\nupset. First, two N-22 incidents in two days, and now this. He's\nworried we're going to get creamed in the press. And he has no\nconfidence that Benson's Media Relations people will handle this\nright.\"\nBill Benson was one of the old Norton hands; he had handled\nmedia relations since the days when the company lived on military\ncontracts and didn't tell the press a damned thing. Testy and blunt,\nBenson had never adjusted to the post-Watergate world, where\njournalists were celebrities who brought down governments. He was\nfamous for feuding with reporters.\n\"This fax may generate press interest, Casey. Especially among\nreporters who don't know how screwed up the JAA is. And let's face\nit, they won't want to talk to press flacks. They'll want an executive\nin the company. So Hal wants all the inquiries on the JAA routed to\nyou.\"\n'To me,\" she said. She was thinking, Forget it. She already had a\njob. \"Benson won't be very happy if you do that—\"\n\"Hal's talked to him personally. Benson's on board.\"\n\"Are you sure?\"\n\"I also think,\" Marder said, \"we ought to prepare a decent press\npackage on the N-22. Something besides the usual PR crap. Hal\nsuggested you compile a comprehensive package to refute the JAA\nstuff—you know, service hours, safety record, dispatch reliability\ndata, SDRs, all of that.\"\n\"Okay ...\" That was going to be a lot of work, and—\n\"I told Hal you were busy, and that this was an added burden,\"\nMarder said. \"He's approved a two-grade bump in your IC.\"\nIncentive compensation, the company's bonus package, was a\nlarge part of every executive's income. A two-grade increase would\nmean a substantial amount of money for her.\n\"Okay,\" she said.\n\"The point is,\" Marder said, \"we've got a good response to this\nfax—a substantive response. And Hal wants to make sure we get it\nout. Can I count on you to help us?\"\n\"Sure,\" Casey said.\"Good,\" Marder said. And he walked up the stairs, into the room.\nRichman was already in the room, looking preppy in a sport coat\nand tie. Casey slipped into a chair. Marder shifted into high gear,\nwaving the JAA fax in the air, berating the engineers. \"You've\nprobably already seen that the JAA is playing games with us.\nPerfectly timed to jeopardize the China sale. But if you read the\nmemo, you know that it's all about the engine in Miami and nothing\nabout Transpacific. At least not yet...\"\nCasey tried to pay attention, but she was distracted, calculating\nwhat the change in 1C would mean. A two-grade bump was ... she\ndid the figures in her head ... something like a twenty-percent raise.\nJesus, she thought. Twenty percent! She could send Allison to\nprivate school. And they could vacation someplace nice, Hawaii or\nsomeplace like that. They'd stay in a nice hotel. And next year, move\nto a bigger house, with a big yard so Allison could run around, and—\nEveryone at the table was staring at her.\nMarder said, \"Casey? The DFDR? When can we expect the data?\"\n\"Sorry,\" she said. \"I talked to Rob this morning. The calibration's\ngoing slowly. He'll know more tomorrow.\"\n\"Okay. Structure?\"\nDoherty began in his unhappy monotone. \"John it's very difficult\nvery difficult indeed. We found a bad locking pin on the number-two\ninboard slat. It's a counterfeit part and—\"\n\"We'll verify it at Flight Test,\" Marder said, interrupting him.\n\"Hydraulics?\"\n\"Still testing, but so far they check out. Cables rigged to spec.\"\n\"You'll finish when?\"\n\"End of first shift today.\"\n\"Electrical?\"\nRon said, \"We've checked the principal wiring pathways. Nothing\nyet. I think we should schedule a CET on the entire aircraft.\"\n\"I agree. Can we run it overnight to save time?\"\nRon shrugged. \"Sure. It's expensive, but—\"\n\"The hell with expense. Anything else?\"\n\"Well, there's one funny thing, yes,\" Ron said. \"The DEU faults\nindicate there may have been a problem with proximity sensors inthe wing. If the sensors failed, we might get a slats misread in the\ncockpit.\"\nThis was what Casey had noticed the night before. She made a\nnote to ask Ron about it later. And also the matter of the AUX\nreadings on the printout.\nHer mind drifted again, thinking of the raise. Allison could go to a\nreal school, now. She saw her at a low desk, in a small classroom—\nMarder said: \"Powerplant?\"\n\"We're still not sure he deployed the thrust reversers,\" Kenny\nBurne said. \"It'll be another day.\"\n\"Go until you can rule it out. Avionics?\"\nTrung said, \"Avionics check out so far.\"\n\"This autopilot thing...\"\n\"Haven't gotten to autopilot yet. It's the last thing in the\nsequence that we confirm. We'll know by Flight Test.\"\n\"All right,\" Marder said. \"So: new question regarding proximity\nsensors, check that today. Still waiting on flight recorder, powerplant,\navionics. That cover it?\"\nEveryone nodded.\n\"Don't let me keep you,\" Marder said. \"I need answers.\" He held\nup the JAA fax. \"This is the tip of the iceberg, people. I don't have to\nremind you what happened to the DC-10. Most advanced aircraft of\nits time, a marvel of engineering. But it had a couple of incidents,\nand some bad visuals, and bang— the DC-10's history. History. So\nget me those answers!\"\nNORTON AIRCRAFT\n9:31 . .\nA M\nWalking across the plant toward Hangar 5, Richman said,\n\"Marder seemed pretty worked up, didn't he? Does he believe all\nthat?\"\n\"About the DC-10? Yes. One crash finished the aircraft.\"\n\"What crash?\"\n\"It was an American Airlines flight from Chicago to LA,\" Casey\nsaid. \"May, 1979. Nice day, good weather. Right after takeoff the left\nengine fell off the wing. The plane stalled and crashed next to theairport, killing everybody on board. Very dramatic, it was all over in\nthirty seconds. A couple of people taped the flight, so the networks\nhad film at eleven. The media went crazy, called the plane a winged\ncoffin. Travel agents were flooded with calls canceling DC-10\nbookings. Douglas never sold another one of them.\"\n\"Why did the engine fall off?\"\n\"Bad maintenance,\" Casey said. \"American hadn't followed\nDouglas's instructions on how to remove the engines from the plane.\nDouglas told them to first remove the engine, and then the pylon\nthat holds the engine to the wing. But to save time, American took\nthe whole engine-pylon assembly off at once. That's seven tons of\nmetal on a forklift. One fork-lift ran out of gas during the removal,\nand cracked the pylon. But the crack wasn't noticed, and eventually\nthe engine fell off the wing. So it was all because of maintenance.\"\n\"Maybe so,\" Richman said, \"but isn't an airplane still supposed to\nfly, even missing an engine?\"\n\"Yes, it is,\" Casey said. \"The DC-10 was built to survive that kind\nof failure. The plane was perfectly airworthy. If the pilot had\nmaintained airspeed, he'd have been fine. He could have landed the\nplane.\"\n\"Why didn't he?\"\n\"Because, as usual, there was an event cascade leading to the\nfinal accident,\" Casey said. \"In this case, electrical power to the\ncaptain's cockpit controls came from the left engine. When the left\nengine fell off, the captain's instruments were shut off, including the\ncockpit stall warning and the backup warning, called a stick shaker.\nThat's a device that shakes the stick to tell the pilot the plane is\nabout to stall. The first officer still had power and instruments, so\nthe first officer's chair didn't have a stick shaker. It's a customer\noption for the first officer, and American hadn't ordered it. And\nDouglas hadn't built any redundancy into their cockpit-stall warning\nsystem. So when the DC-10 began to stall, the first officer didn't\nrealize he had to increase throttle.\"\n\"Okay,\" Richman said, \"but the captain shouldn't have lost his\npower in the first place.\"\"No, that was a designed-in safety feature,\" Casey said. \"Douglas\nhad designed and built the aircraft to survive those failures. When\nthe left engine tore off, the aircraft deliberately shut down the\ncaptain's power line, to prevent further shorts in the system.\nRemember, all aircraft systems are redundant. If one fails, the\nbackup kicks in. And it was easy to get the captain's instrumentation\nback again; all the flight engineer had to do was trip a relay, or turn\non emergency power. But he didn't do either one.\"\n\"Why not?'\n\"No one knows,\" Casey said. \"And the first officer, lacking the\nnecessary information on his display, intentionally reduced his\nairspeed, which caused the plane to stall and crash.\"\nThey were silent for a moment, walking.\n\"Consider all the ways this might have been avoided,\" Casey\nsaid. \"The maintenance crews could have checked the pylons for\nstructural damage after servicing them improperly. But they didn't.\nContinental had already cracked two pylons using forklifts, and they\ncould have told American the procedure was dangerous. But they\ndidn't. Douglas had told American about Continental's problems, but\nAmerican didn't pay any attention.\"\nRichman was shaking his head.\n\"And after the accident, Douglas couldn't say it was a\nmaintenance problem, because American was a valued customer. So\nDouglas wasn't going to put the story out. In all these incidents, it's\nalways the same story—the story never gets out unless the media\ndigs it out. But the story's complicated, and that's difficult for\ntelevision ... so they just run the tape. The tape of the accident\nwhich shows the left engine falling off, the plane veering left, and\ncrashing. The visual implies the aircraft was poorly designed, that\nDouglas hadn't anticipated a pylon failure and hadn't built the plane\nto survive it. Which was completely inaccurate. But Douglas never\nsold another DC-10.\"\n\"Well,\" Richman said. \"I don't think you can blame the media for\nthat. They don't make the news. They just report it.\"\n\"That's my point,\" Casey said. \"They didn't report it, they just ran\nthe film. The Chicago crash was a kind of turning point in ourindustry. The first time a good aircraft was destroyed by bad press.\nThe coup de grace was the NTSB report. It came out on December\n21. Nobody paid any attention.\n\"So now, when Boeing introduces their new 777, they arrange a\ncomplete press campaign to coincide with the launch. They allow a\nTV company to film the years of development, and at the end there's\na six-part show on public television. There's a book to go with it.\nThey've done everything they can think of to create a good image\nfor the plane in advance. Because the stakes are too high.\"\nRichman walked along beside her. \"I can't believe the media has\nthat much power,\" he said.\nCasey shook her head. \"Marder is right to be worried,\" she said.\n\"If anybody in the media gets onto Flight 545, then the N-22 will\nhave had two incidents in two days. And we're in big trouble.\"\nNEWSLINE/NEW YORK\n1:54 . .\nP M\nIn midtown Manhattan, in the twenty-third-floor offices of the\nweekly news show Newsline, Jennifer Malone was in the editing bay,\nreviewing tape of an interview with Charles Manson. Her assistant\nDeborah walked in, dropped a fax on her desk, and said casually,\n\"Pacino dumped.\"\nJennifer hit her pause button. \"What?\"\n\"Al Pacino just dumped.\"\n\"When?\"\n'Ten minutes ago. Blew Marty off, and walked.\"\n\"What? We shot four days of B-roll on the set in Tangier. His\npicture opens this weekend—and he's slated for the full twelve.\" A\ntwelve minute segment on Newsline, the most-watched news show\non television, was the kind of publicity that money couldn't buy.\nEvery star in Hollywood wanted on the show. \"What happened?\"\n\"Marty was chatting with him during makeup, and mentioned\nthat Pacino hadn't had a hit in four years. And I guess he got\noffended, and walked.\"\n\"On camera?\"\n\"No. Before.\"\"Jesus,\" Jennifer said. \"Pacino can't do that. His contract calls for\nhim to do publicity. This was set up months ago.\"\n\"Yeah, well. He did.\"\n\"What's Marty say?\"\n\"Marty is pissed. Marty is saying, What did he expect, this is a\nnews show, we ask hard-hitting questions. You know, typical Marty.\"\nJennifer swore. \"This was just what everyone was worried\nabout.\"\nMarty Reardon was a notoriously abrasive interviewer. Although\nhe had left the news division to work on Newsline— at a much\nhigher salary—two years before, he still viewed himself as a hard-\nhitting newsman, tough but fair, no-holds-barred—though in practice\nhe liked to embarrass interviewees, putting them on the spot with\nintensely personal questions, even if the questions weren't relevant\nto the story. Nobody wanted to use Marty on the Pacino shoot,\nbecause he didn't like celebrities, and didn't like doing \"puff pieces.\"\nBut Frances, who usually did the celeb pieces, was in Tokyo\ninterviewing the princess.\n\"Has Dick talked to Marty? Can we salvage this?\" Dick Shenk was\nthe executive producer of Newsline. In just three years, he had\nskillfully built the show from a throwaway summer replacement, into\na solid prime-time success. Shenk made all the important decisions,\nand he was the only person with enough clout to handle a prima\ndonna like Marty.\n\"Dick is still at lunch with Mr. Early.\" Shenk's lunches with Early,\nthe president of the network, always lasted late into the afternoon.\n\"So Dick doesn't know?\"\n\"Not yet.\"\n\"Great,\" Jennifer said. She glanced at her watch: it was 2 . . If\nP M\nPacino had dumped, they had a twelve-minute hole to fill, and less\nthan seventy-two hours to do it. \"What've we got in the can?\"\n\"Nothing. Mother Teresa's being recut. Mickey Mantle isn't in yet.\nAll we have is that wheelchair Little League segment.\"\nJennifer groaned. \"Dick will never go with that.\"\n\"I know,\" Deborah said. \"It sucks.\"Jennifer picked up the fax her assistant had dropped on the\nconsole. It was a press release from some PR group, one of\nhundreds that every news show received each day. Like all such\nfaxes, this one was formatted to look like a breaking news story,\ncomplete with a headline at the top. It said:\nJAA DELAYS CERTIFICATION OF N-22\nWIDEBODY JET CITING CONTINUED\nAIRWORTHINESS CONCERNS\n\"What's this?\" she said, frowning.\n\"Hector said give it to you.\"\n\"Why?\"\n\"He thought there might be something in it.\"\n\"Why? What the fuck's the JAA?\" Jennifer scanned the text; it\nwas a lot of aerospace babble, dense and impenetrable. She\nthought: No visuals.\n\"Apparently,\" Deborah said, \"it's the same plane that caught fire\nin Miami.\"\n\"Oh. Hector wants to do a safety segment? Good luck.\nEverybody's seen the tape of the burning plane already. And it\nwasn't that good to begin with.\" Jennifer tossed the fax aside. \"Ask\nhim if he has anything else.\"\nDeborah went away. Alone, Jennifer stared at the frozen image of\nCharles Manson on the screen in front of her. Then she clicked the\nimage off, and decided to take a moment to think.\nJennifer Malone was twenty-nine years old, the youngest\nsegment producer in the history of Newsline. She had advanced\nquickly because she was good at her job. She had shown talent\nearly; while still an undergraduate at Brown, working as a summer\nintern like Deborah, she had done research late into the night,\nhammering away at the Nexis terminals, combing the wire services.\nThen, with her heart in her mouth, she had gone in to see Dick\nShenk, to propose a story about this strange new virus in Africa, and\nthe brave CDC doctor on the scene. That led to the famous Ebolasegment, the biggest Newsline break of the year, and another\nPeabody Award for Dick Shenk's Wall of Fame.\nIn short order, she had followed with the Darryl Strawberry\nsegment, the Montana strip-mining segment, and the Iroquois\ngambling segment. No college intern in memory had ever gotten a\nsegment on air before; Jennifer had four. Shenk announced he liked\nher spunk, and offered her a job. The fact that she was bright,\nbeautiful, and an Ivy Leaguer did not hurt, either. The following\nJune, when she graduated, she went to work for Newsline.\nThe show had fifteen producers doing segments. Each was\nassigned to one of the on-camera talent; each was expected to\ndeliver a story every two weeks. The average story took four weeks\nto build. After two weeks of research, producers met with Dick, to\nget the go-ahead. Then they visited the locations, shot B-roll for\nbackground, and did the secondary interviews. The story was\nshaped by the producer, and narrated by the on-air star, who flew in\nfor a single day, did the stand-ups and the major interviews, and\nthen flew on to the next shoot, leaving the producer to cut the tape.\nSometime before air, the star would come into the studio, read the\nscript the producer had prepared, and do the voice-overs for visuals.\nWhen the segment finally aired, the on-camera star would come\noff as a real reporter: Newsline jealously protected the reputations of\nits stars. But in fact the producers were the real reporters. The\nproducers picked the stories, researched and shaped them, wrote\nthe scripts and cut the tape. The on-camera talent just did as they\nwere told.\nIt was a system Jennifer liked. She had considerable power, and\nshe liked working behind the scenes, her name unknown. She found\nthe anonymity useful. Often, when she conducted interviews, she\nwould be treated as a flunky, the interviewees speaking freely, even\nthough tape was rolling. At some point, the interviewee would say,\n\"When will I get to meet Marty Reardon?\" She would solemnly\nanswer that that hadn't been decided yet, and continue with her\nquestions. And in the process, nail the stupid bozo who thought she\nwas just a dress rehearsal.The fact was, she made the story. She didn't care if the stars got\nthe credit. \"We never say they do the reporting,\" Shenk would\nintone. \"We never imply they are interviewing someone they didn't\nactually interview. On this show, the talent is not the star. The star is\nthe story. The talent is just a guide— leading the audience through\nthe story. The talent is someone they trust, someone they're\ncomfortable inviting into their home.\"\nThat was true, she thought. And anyway, there wasn't time to do\nit any other way. A media star like Marty Reardon was more heavily\nbooked than the president, and arguably more famous, more\nrecognizable on the street. You couldn't expect a person like Marty\nto waste his valuable time doing spade-work, stumbling over false\nleads, putting together a story.\nThere just wasn't time.\nThis was television: there was never enough time.\nShe looked again at her watch. Dick wouldn't return from lunch\nuntil three or three-thirty. Marty Reardon was not going to apologize\nto Al Pacino. So when Dick came back from lunch, he was going to\nblow his top, rip Reardon a new one— and then be desperate for a\npackage to fill the hole.\nJennifer had an hour to find him one.\nShe turned on her TV, and started idly flipping channels. And she\nlooked again at the fax on her desk.\nJAA DELAYS CERTIFICATION OF N-22\nWIDEBODY JET CITING CONTINUED\nAIRWORTHINESS CONCERNS\nWait a minute, she thought. Continued airworthiness concerns?\nDid that mean an ongoing safety problem? If so, there might be a\nstory here. Not air safety—that had been done a million times. Those\nendless stories about air traffic control, how they were using 1960s\ncomputers, how outdated and risky the system was. Stories like mat\njust made people anxious. The audience couldn't relate because\nthere was nothing they could do about it. But a specific aircraft witha problem? That was a product safety story. Don't buy this product.\nDon't fly this airplane.\nThat might be very, very effective, she thought.\nShe picked up the phone and dialed.\nHANGAR 5\n11:15 . .\nA M\nCasey found Ron Smith with his head in the forward accessory\ncompartment, just back of the nose wheel. All around him, his\nelectrical team was hard at work.\n\"Ron,\" she said, \"tell me about this fault list.\" She had brought\nthe list with her, all ten pages.\n\"What about it?\"\n\"There's four AUX readings here. Lines one, two, three, and COA.\nWhat do they service?\"\n\"Is this important?\"\n\"That's what I'm trying to determine.\"\n\"Well.\" Ron sighed. \"AUX 1 is the auxiliary power generator, the\nturbine in the tail. AUX 2 and AUX 3 are redundant lines, in case the\nsystem gets an upgrade and needs them later. AUX COA is an\nauxiliary line for Customer Optional Additions. That's the line for\ncustomer add-ons, like a QAR. Which this plane doesn't have.\"\nCasey said, \"These lines are registering a zero value. Does that\nmean they're being used?\"\n\"Not necessarily. The default is zero, so you'd have to check\nthem.\"\n\"Okay.\" She folded up the data sheets. \"And what about the\nproximity sensor faults?\"\n\"We're doing that now. We may turn up something. But look. The\nfault readings are snapshots of a moment in time. We'll never figure\nout what happened to this flight with snapshots. We need the DFDR\ndata. You've got to get it for us, Casey.\"\n\"I've been pushing Rob Wong...\"\n\"Push him harder,\" Smith said. \"The flight recorder is the key.\"\nFrom the back of the airplane, she heard a pained shout \"Fuck a\nhairy duck! I don't believe this!\"It had come from Kenny Burne.\nHe was standing on a platform behind the left engine, waving his\narms angrily. The other engineers around him were shaking their\nheads.\nCasey went over. \"You found something?\"\n\"Let me count the ways,\" Bume said, pointing to the engine.\n\"First off, the coolant seals are installed wrong. Some maintenance\nidiot put them in backward.\"\n\"Affecting flight?'\n\"Sooner or later, yeah. But that's not all. Take a look at this\ninboard cowl on the reversers.\"\nCasey climbed the scaffolding to the back of the engine, where\nthe engineers were peering inside the open cowls of the thrust\nreversers.\n\"Show her, guys,\" Burne said.\nThey shone a work light on the interior surface of one cowl.\nCasey saw a solid steel surface, precisely curved, covered with fine\nsoot from the engine. They held the light close to the Pratt and\nWhitney logo, which was embossed near the leading edge of the\nmetal sleeve.\n\"See it?\" Kenny said.\n\"What? You mean the parts stamp?\" Casey said. The Pratt and\nWhitney logo was a circle with an eagle inside it, and the letters P\nand W.\n\"That's right. The stamp.\"\n\"What about it?\"\nBurne shook his head. \"Casey,\" he said. \"The eagle is backward.\nIt's facing the wrong way.\"\n\"Oh.\" She hadn't noticed that.\n\"Now, do you think Pratt and Whitney put their eagle on\nbackward? No way. This is a goddamn counterfeit part, Casey.\"\n\"Okay,\" she said. \"But did it affect flight?\"\nThat was the critical point. They'd already found counterfeit parts\non the plane. Amos had said there would be more, and he was\nundoubtedly right. But the question was, Did any of them affect the\nbehavior of the plane during the accident?\"Could have,\" Kenny said, stomping around. \"But I can't tear\ndown this engine, for Chrissakes. That'd be two weeks right there.\"\n\"Then how will we find out?'\n\"We need that flight recorder, Casey. We've got to have that\ndata.\"\nRichman said, \"You want me to go over to Digital? See how\nWong is coming?\"\n\"No,\" Casey said. \"It won't do any good.\" Rob Wong could be\ntemperamental. Putting more pressure on him wouldn't accomplish\nanything; he was likely to walk out, and not return for two days.\nHer cell phone rang. It was Norma.\n\"It's starting,\" she said. \"You got calls from Jack Rogers, from\nBarry Jordan at the LA Times, from somebody named Winslow at the\nWashington Post. And a request for background material on the N-\n22, from Newsline.\"\n\"Newsline? That TV show?\"\n\"Yeah.\"\n\"They doing a story?\"\n\"I don't think so,\" Norma said. \"It sounded like a fishing\nexpedition.\"\n\"Okay,\" Casey said. \"I'll call you back.\" She sat down in a corner\nof the hangar and took out her notepad. She began to write out a\nlist of documents to be included in a press package. Summary of\nFAA certification procedures for new aircraft. Announcement of FAA\ncertification of the N-22; Norma would have to dig that up from five\nyears ago. Last year's FAA report on aircraft safety. The company's\ninternal report on N-22 safety in flight from 1991 to present—the\nrecord was outstanding. The annual updated history of die N-22.\nThe list of ADs issued for the aircraft to date—there were very few.\nThe one-sheet features summary on the plane, basic stats on speed\nand range, size and weight. She didn't want to send too much. But\nthat would cover the bases.\nRichman was watching her. \"What now?\" he said.\nShe tore off the sheet, gave it to him. \"Give this to Norma. Tell\nher to prepare a press packet, and send it to whoever asks for it.\"\n\"Okay.\" He stared at the list. \"I'm not sure I can read—\"\"Norma will know. Just give it to her.\"\n\"Okay.\"\nRichman walked away, humming cheerfully.\nHer phone rang. It was Jack Rogers, calling her directly. \"I keep\nhearing the wing's being offset. I'm told Norton is shipping the tools\nto Korea, but they're going to be transshipped from there to\nShanghai.\"\n\"Did Marder talk to you?\"\n\"No. We've traded calls.\"\n'Talk to him,\" Casey said, \"before you do anything.\"\n\"Will Marder go on the record?\"\n\"Just talk to him.\"\n\"Okay,\" Rogers said. \"But he'll deny it, right?\"\n'Talk to him.\"\nRogers sighed. \"Look, Casey. I don't want to sit on a story that\nI've got right—and then read it two days from now in the LA Times.\nHelp me out, here. Is there anything to the wing tooling story, or\nnot?'\n\"I can't say anything.\"\n'Tell you what,\" Rogers said. \"If I were to write that several high-\nlevel Norton sources deny the wing is going to China, I assume you\nwouldn't have a problem with that?\"\n\"I wouldn't, no.\" A careful answer, but then it was a careful\nquestion.\n\"Okay, Casey. Thanks. I'll call Marder.\" He hung up.\nNEWSLINE\n2:25 , .\nP M\nJennifer Malone dialed the number on the fax, and asked for the\ncontact: Alan Price. Mr. Price was still at lunch, and she spoke to his\nassistant, Ms. Weld.\n\"I understand there's a delay in European certification of the\nNorton aircraft. What's the problem?'\n\"You mean the N-22?\"\n\"That's right.\"\"Well, this is a contentious issue, so I'd prefer to go off the\nrecord.\"\n\"How far off?\"\n\"Background.\"\n\"Okay.\"\n\"In the past, the Europeans accepted FAA certification of a new\naircraft, because that certification was thought to be very rigorous.\nBut lately JAA has been questioning the U.S. certification process.\nThey feel that the American agency, the FAA, is in bed with the\nAmerican manufacturers, and may have relaxed its standards.\"\n\"Really?\" Perfect, Jennifer thought. Inept American bureaucracy.\nDick Shenk loved those stories. And the FAA had been under attack\nfor years; there must be plenty of skeletons there. \"What\" s the\nevidence?\" she asked.\n\"Well, the Europeans find the whole system unsatisfactory. For\nexample, the FAA doesn't even store certification documents. They\nallow the aircraft companies to do that It seems entirely too cozy.\"\n\"Uh-huh.\" She wrote:\n—FAA in bed with mfrs. Corrupt!\n\"Anyway,\" the woman said, \"if you want more information, I\nsuggest you call the JAA directly, or maybe Airbus. I can give you\nthe numbers.\"\nShe called the FAA instead. She got put through to their public\naffairs office, a man named Wilson.\n\"I understand the JAA is refusing to validate certification of the\nNorton N-22.\"\n\"Yes,\" Wilson said. \"They've been dragging their feet for a while\nnow.\"\n\"The FAA has already certified the N-22?\"\n\"Oh sure. You can't build an airplane in this country without FAA\napproval and certification of the design and manufacturing process\nfrom start to finish.\"\n\"And do you have the certification documents?\"\n\"No. They're kept by the manufacturer. Norton has them.\"\nAh-ha, she thought. So it was true.\n—Norton keeps certification, not FAA.—Fox guarding chicken coop?\n\"Does it bother you that Norton holds the documentation?\"\n\"No, not at all.\"\n\"And you're satisfied that the certification process was proper?\"\n\"Oh sure. And like I said, the plane was certified five years ago.\"\n\"I've been hearing that the Europeans are dissatisfied with the\nentire process of certification.\"\n\"Well, you know,\" Wilson said, adopting a diplomatic tone, \"the\nJAA's a relatively new organization. Unlike the FAA, they have no\nstatutory authority. So, I think they're still trying to decide how they\nwant to proceed.\"\nShe called the information office for Airbus Industries in\nWashington, and got put through to a marketing guy named\nSamuelson. He reluctantly confirmed that he had heard of the JAA\nconfirmation delays, though he didn't have any details.\n\"But Norton's having a lot of problems these days,\" he said. \"For\nexample, I think the China sale is not as firm as they pretend it is.\"\nThis was the first she had heard of a China sale. She wrote:\n—China sale N-22?\nShe said, \"Uh-huh...\"\n\"I mean, let's face it,\" Samuelson continued, \"The Airbus A-340 is\na superior plane in every way. It's newer than the Norton widebody.\nBetter range. It's better in every way. We've been trying to explain\nthis to the Chinese, and they are starting to understand our\nperspective. Anyway, if I had to guess, I'd guess the Norton sale to\nthe People's Republic is going to fall apart. And of course safety\nconcerns are part of that decision. Off the record, I think the\nChinese are very concerned the plane is unsafe.\"\n—C thinks airplane unsafe.\n\"Who would I talk to about that?\" she said.\n\"Well, as you know, the Chinese are generally reluctant to discuss\nnegotiations in progress,\" Samuelson said. \"But I know a guy over at\nCommerce who may be able to help you. He's with the Ex-Im Bank,\nwhich provides long-term financing for overseas sales.\"\n\"What's his name?\" she said.His name was Robert Gordon. It took fifteen minutes for the\noperator at the Commerce Department to find him. Jennifer doodled.\nFinally the secretary said, \"I'm sorry, Mr. Gordon is in a meeting.\"\n\"I'm calling from Newsline\" she said.\n\"Oh.\" A pause. \"Just a minute, please.\"\nShe smiled. It never failed.\nGordon came on, and she asked him about the JAA certification,\nand the Norton sale to the People's Republic. \"Is it true the sale is in\njeopardy?\"\n\"Every airplane sale is in jeopardy until it's concluded, Ms.\nMalone,\" Gordon said. \"But as far as I know, the China sale is in\ngood standing. I did hear a rumor that Norton is having trouble with\nJAA certification for Europe.\"\n\"What's the trouble there?\"\n\"Well,\" Gordon said, \"I'm not really an aircraft expert, but the\ncompany's had an awful lot of problems.\"\n—Norton has problems.\nGordon said, \"There was that thing in Miami yesterday. And of\ncourse you heard about that incident in Dallas.\"\n\"What's that?\"\n\"Last year, they had an engine flameout on the runway. And\neverybody jumped off the plane. A bunch of people broke their legs\njumping off the wings.\"\n—Dallas incident—engine/broken legs. Tape?\nShe said, \"Uh-huh...\"\n\"I don't know about you,\" Gordon said, \"but I don't like to fly\nvery much, and uh, Jesus Christ, people are jumping off the\nairplane, that's not a plane I'd want to be on.\"\nShe wrote:\n—jumping off plane YOW!\n—unsafe aircraft.\nAnd beneath it, in large block letters, she wrote:\nDEATHTRAP.\nShe called Norton Aircraft for their version of the story. She got a\nPR guy named Benson. He sounded like one of those drawling, half-asleep corporate guys. She decided to hit him right between the\neyes. \"I want to ask you about the Dallas incident.\"\n\"Dallas?\" His voice sounded startled.\nGood.\n\"Last year,\" she said. \"You had a flameout of the engine, and\npeople jumped off the plane. Broke their legs.\"\n\"Oh, right. That incident involved a 737,\" Benson said.\n—incident w/737.\n\"Uh-huh. Well, what can you tell me about it?\"\n\"Nothing,\" Benson said. \"That wasn't our plane.\"\n\"Oh, come on,\" she said. \"Look, I already know about the\nincident.\"\n\"That's a Boeing plane.\"\nShe sighed. \"Jesus. Give me a break.\" It was so tedious, the way\nthese PR types stonewalled. As if a good investigative reporter would\nnever find out the truth. They seemed to think if they didn't tell her,\nno one would.\n\"I'm sorry, Ms. Malone, but we don't make that plane.\"\n\"Well, if that's really true,\" she said, her tone openly sarcastic, \"I\nsuppose you can tell me how I can confirm it?\"\n\"Yes ma'am,\" Benson said. \"You dial area code 206 and ask for\nBoeing. They'll help you.\"\nClick.\nJesus! What a prick! How could these companies treat the media\nthis way? You piss off a reporter, you'll always get paid back. Didn't\nthey understand that?\nShe called Boeing, asked for the PR department. She got an\nanswering machine, some bitch reciting a fax number and saying\nquestions should be faxed, and they would get back to her.\nUnbelievable, Jennifer thought. A major American corporation, and\nthey didn't even answer the phone.\nIrritably, she hung up. There was no point in waiting. If the\nDallas incident involved a Boeing plane, she had no story.\nNo damn story.\nShe drummed her fingers on the desk, trying to decide what to\ndo.She called Norton back, saying she wanted to talk to someone in\nmanagement, not PR. She was put through to the president's office,\nthen was transferred to some woman named Singleton. \"How can I\nhelp you?\" the woman said. \"I understand there's been a delay in\nEuropean certification of the N-22. What's the problem with the\nplane?\" Jennifer asked.\n\"No problem at all,\" Singleton said. \"We've been flying the N-22\nin this country for five years.\"\n\"Well, I've been hearing from sources that this is an unsafe\naircraft,\" Jennifer said. \"You had an engine flameout on the runway\nat Miami yesterday ...\"\n\"Actually, we had a rotor burst. That's being investigated now.\"\nThe woman was speaking smoothly, calmly, as if it was the most\nnormal thing in the world for an engine to blow up.\n—\"rotor burst\"!\n\"Uh-huh,\" Jennifer said. \"I see. But if it's true your plane has no\nproblems, why is the JAA withholding certification?\"\nThe woman at the other end paused. \"I can only give you\nbackground on this,\" she said. \"Off the record.\"\nShe sounded unsettled, tense.\nGood. Getting somewhere.\n\"There is no problem with the aircraft, Ms. Malone. The issue\nconcerns powerplant. In this country, the plane flies with Pratt and\nWhitney engines. But the JAA is telling us that if we want to sell the\nplane in Europe, we're going to have to equip it with IAE engines.\"\n\"IAE?\"\n\"A European consortium that makes engines. Like Airbus. A\nconsortium.\"\n\"Uh-huh,\" Jennifer said\n—IAE = consortium Europe\n\"Now allegedly,\" Singleton continued, \"the JAA wants us to equip\nthe aircraft with the IAE engine to meet European noise and\nemission standards, which are more stringent than those in the U.S.\nBut the reality is we make airframes, not engines, and we believe\nthe engine decision should be left up to the customer. We install the\nengine the customer asks for. If they want an IAE, we put an IAE on.If they want a Pratt and Whitney, we put Pratt and Whitney on. They\nwant GE, we put GE on. That's the way it's always been in this\nbusiness. The customer picks the engine. So we consider this an\nunwarranted regulatory intrusion by the JAA. We're happy to put on\nIAE engines, if Lufthansa or Sabena tells us to do it. But we don't\nthink JAA should dictate the terms of market entry. In other words,\nthe issue has nothing to do with airworthiness.\"\nListening, Jennifer frowned. \"You're saying it's a regulatory\ndispute?\"\n\"Exactly. This is a trading bloc issue. The JAA is trying to force us\nto use European engines. But if that's their goal, we think they\nshould force it on the European airlines, not us.\"\n—regulatory dispute!!!\n\"And why haven't they forced it on the Europeans?\"\n\"You'd have to ask JAA. But frankly, I imagine they've already\ntried, and been told to go to hell. Aircraft are custom built to the\ncarrier's specs. The operators choose the engines, the electronics\npackages, the interior configuration. It's their choice.\"\nJennifer was now doodling. She was listening to the tone of the\nwoman's voice at the other end of the line, trying to sense the\nemotion. This woman sounded slightly bored, like a schoolteacher at\nthe end of the day. Jennifer detected no tension, no hesitation, no\nhidden secrets.\nFuck, she thought No story.\nShe made one last try: she called the National Transportation\nSafety Board in Washington. She got put through to a man named\nKenner in public affairs. \"I'm calling about the JAA certification of the\nN-22.\" Kenner sounded surprised. \"Well, you know, that's really not\nour area. You probably want to talk to someone at the FAA.\"\n\"Can you give me anything on background?\" \"Well, FAA aircraft\ncertification is extremely rigorous and has served as the model for\nforeign regulatory bureaucracies. As long as I can remember, foreign\nagencies around the world have accepted FAA certification as\nsufficient. Now the JAA has broken that tradition, and I don't think\nit's any secret why. It's politics, Ms. Malone. The JAA wants the\nAmericans to use European engines, so they're threatening towithhold certification. And, of course, Norton's about to make a sale\nof N-22s to China, and Airbus wants that sale.\"\n\"So the JAA is trashing the plane?\"\n\"Well. They're certainly raising doubts.\"\n\"Legitimate doubts?\"\n\"Not as far as I'm concerned. The N-22's a good plane. A proven\nplane. Airbus says they have a brand-new plane; Norton says they\nhave a proven plane. The Chinese are probably going to take the\nproven product. It's also somewhat less expensive.\"\n\"But is the plane safe?\"\n\"Oh, absolutely.\"\n—NTSB says plane is safe.\nJennifer thanked him, and hung up. She sat back in her chair,\nand sighed. No story.\nNothing.\nPeriod.\nThe end.\n\"Shit,\" she said.\nShe punched the intercom. \"Deborah,\" she said. \"About this\naircraft thing—\"\n\"Are you watching?\" Deborah said, squealing.\n\"Watching what?\"\n\"CNN. It's un-fucking-believable.\"\nJennifer grabbed her remote.\nEL TORITO RESTAURANT\n12:05 . .\nP M\nThe El Torito offered acceptable food at a reasonable price, and\nfifty-two kinds of beer; it was a local favorite of the engineers. The\nIRT members were all sitting at a center table in the main room,\nright off the bar. The waitress had taken their order and was leaving,\nwhen Kenny Burne said, \"So, I hear Edgarton's got a few problems.\"\n\"Don't we all,\" Doug Doherty said, reaching for the chips and\nsalsa.\n\"Marder hates him.\"\n\"So what?\" Ron Smith said. \"Marder hates everybody.\"\"Yeah but the thing is,\" Kenny said, \"I keep hearing Marder is not\ngoing to—\"\n\"Oh Jesus! Look!\" Doug Doherty pointed across the room, toward\nthe bar.\nThey all turned to stare at the television set mounted above the\nbar. The sound was down, but the image was unmistakable: the\ninterior of a Norton widebody jet, as seen by a badly shaking video\ncamera. Passengers were literally flying through the air, bouncing off\nluggage racks and wall panels, tumbling over the seats.\n\"Holy shit\" Kenny said.\nThey got up from the table, ran into the bar shouting, \"Sound!\nTurn up the sound!\" The horrifying images continued.\nBy the time Casey got into the bar, the video segment had\nended. The television now showed a thin man with a moustache,\nwearing a carefully cut blue suit which somehow suggested a\nuniform. She recognized Bradley King, an attorney who specialized in\nairline accidents.\n\"Well that figures,\" Burne said, \"it's Sky King.\"\n\"I think this footage speaks for itself,\" Bradley King was saying.\n\"My client, Mr. Song, provided it to us, and it vividly portrays the\nterrible ordeal passengers were subjected to on this doomed flight.\nThis aircraft went into an unprovoked and uncontrolled dive—it came\nwithin five hundred feet of crashing in the Pacific Ocean!\"\n\"What?\" Kenny Burne said. \"It did what!\"\n\"As you know, I'm a pilot myself, and I can say with absolute\nconviction that what occurred is a result of well-known design flaws\non the N-22 jet. Norton has known about these design flaws for\nyears and has done nothing. Pilots, operators, and FAA specialists\nhave all complained bitterly about the aircraft. I personally know\npilots who refuse to fly the N-22 because it is so unsafe.\"\n\"Especially the ones on your payroll,\" Burne said.\nOn the television, King was saying, \"Yet the Norton Aircraft\nCompany has done nothing substantive to address these safety\nconcerns. It's inexplicable, really, that they could know about these\nproblems and do nothing. Given their criminal negligence, it was\nonly a matter of time until a tragedy like this occurred. Now threepeople are dead, two passengers paralyzed, the copilot in a coma as\nwe speak. All together, fifty-seven passengers required\nhospitalization. That's a disgrace to aviation.\"\n\"That sleazebag,\" Kenny Burne said. \"He knows it's not true!\"\nBut the television was showing the CNN tape again, this time in\nslow motion, the bodies spiraling through the air, alternately blurred\nand sharp. Watching it, Casey started to sweat. She felt dizzy and\ncold, her chest tight. The restaurant around her became dim, pale\ngreen. She dropped quickly to a bar stool, took a deep breath. Now\nthe television showed a bearded man with a scholarly air, standing\nnear one of the runways at LAX. Aircraft were taxiing in the\nbackground. She couldn't hear what the man was saying because\nthe engineers around her were screaming at the image.\n\"You asshole!\"\n\"Fuckface!\"\n\"Weenyprick!\"\n\"Lying dipshit!\"\n\"Will you guys shut up?\" she said. The bearded man on the\nscreen was Frederick Barker, a former FAA official, no longer with the\nagency. Barker had testified in court against the company several\ntimes in recent years. The engineers all hated him.\nBarker was saying, \"Oh yes, I'm afraid there's no question about\nthe problem.\" About what problem? she thought, but now the\ntelevision cut back to the CNN studio in Atlanta, the female anchor in\nfront of a photograph of the N-22. Beneath the photograph it said,\nUNSAFE? in huge red letters.\n\"Christ, do you believe that shit,\" Burne said. \"Sky King and then\nthat scumbag Barker. Don't they know Barker works for King?\"\nThe television now showed a bombed-out building in the Middle\nEast. Casey turned away, got off the bar stool, took a deep breath.\n\"Goddamn, I want a beer,\" Kenny Burne said. He headed back to\nthe table. The others followed him, muttering about Fred Barker.\nCasey picked up her purse, got her cell phone out, and called the\noffice. \"Norma,\" she said, \"call CNN and get a copy of the tape they\njust ran on the N-22.\"\n\"I was just going out to—\"\"Now,\" Casey said. \"Do it right now.\"\nNEWSLINE\n3:06 . .\nP M\n\"Deborah!\" Jennifer screamed, watching the tape. \"Call CNN and\nget a copy of that Norton tape!\" Jennifer watched, transfixed. Now\nthey were running it again, this time in slow motion, six frames a\nsecond. And it held up! Fantastic!\nShe saw one poor bastard tumble through the air like a diver out\nof control, arms and legs flailing in all directions. The guy smashed\ninto a seat, and his neck snapped, the body twisting, before he\nbounced up in the air again and hit the ceiling ... Incredible! His\nneck being broken, right on tape!\nIt was the greatest piece of tape she'd ever seen. And the sound!\nFabulous! People screaming in pure terror—sounds you couldn't fake\n—people shouting in Chinese, which made it very exotic, and all\nthese incredible crashing noises as people and bags and shit\nsmashed into the walls and ceilings—Jesus!\nIt was fabulous tape! Unbelievable! And it went on for an\neternity, forty-five seconds—and all of it good! Because even when\nthe camera wobbled, when it streaked and blurred, that just added\nto it! You couldn't pay a cameraman to do that!\n\"Deborah!\" she screamed. \"Deborah!\"\nShe was so excited her heart was pounding. She felt like she was\ngoing to jump out of her skin. She was dimly aware of the guy on\ncamera now, some weasel lawyer, feeding the segment his opening\narguments; it must be his tape. But she knew he would give it to\nNewsline, he'd want the exposure, which meant—they had a story!\nFantastic! A little frill and build, and they were there!\nDeborah came in, flushed, excited. Jennifer said, \"Get me the\nclips on Norton Aircraft for the last five years. Do a Nexis search on\nthe N-22, on a guy named Bradley King, and a guy named\"—she\nlooked back at the screen—\"Frederick Barker. Download it all. I want\nit now!\"\nTwenty minutes later, she had the outlines of the story, and the\nbackground on the key figures. LA Times story from five years agoon the roll-out, certification, and maiden flight for the launch\ncustomer of the Norton N-22. Advanced avionics, advanced\nelectronic control systems and autopilot, blah blah blah.\nNew York Times story on Bradley King, the controversial plaintiffs\nattorney, under fire for approaching the families of crash victims\nbefore they had been officially informed of their relatives' death by\nthe airlines. Another LA Times story on Bradley King, settling a class-\naction suit after the Atlanta crash. Long Beach Independent Press-\nTelegram, Bradley King, \"the King of Aviation Torts,\" censured by the\nOhio bar for misconduct in contacting victims' families; King denies\nwrongdoing. New York Times story, has Bradley King gone too far?\nLA Times story on \"whistle-blower\" Frederick Barker's\ncontroversial departure from the FAA. Barker, an outspoken critic,\nsays he quit in dispute over the N-22. Supervisor says Barker was\nfired for leaking reports to media Barker sets up private practice as\n\"aviation consultant.\"\nLong Beach Independent Press-Telegram, Fred Barker launches\ncrusade against Norton N-22, which he claims has a \"history of\nunacceptable safety incidents.\" Orange County Telegraph-Star, Fred\nBarker's campaign to make airlines safe. Orange County Telegraph-\nStar, Barker accuses FAA of failing to clamp down on \"unsafe Norton\naircraft.\" Orange County Telegraph-Star, Barker key witness for\nBradley King lawsuit, settled out of court.\nJennifer was beginning to see the shape that the story would\ntake. Clearly they should stay away from the ambulance chaser,\nBradley King. But Barker, a former FAA official, would be useful. He\nwould probably also be able to criticize certification practices by the\nFAA.\nAnd she noticed that Jack Rogers, the reporter for the Orange\nCounty Telegraph-Star, took a particularly critical view of Norton\nAircraft. She noted several recent stories under Rogers's byline:\nOrange County Telegraph-Star, Edgarton under pressure to make\nnew sales for troubled company. Dissension among directors, top\nmanagement. Doubts he will succeed.\nOrange County Telegraph-Star, drug and gang activity on Norton\ntwinjet assembly line.Orange County Telegraph-Star, rumors of union trouble. Workers\noppose the China sale, which they say will ruin the company.\nJennifer smiled.\nThings were definitely looking up.\nShe called Jack Rogers at his newspaper. \"I've been reading your\npieces on Norton. They're excellent. I gather you think the\ncompany's got some problems.\"\n\"A lot of problems,\" Rogers said.\n\"You mean with the airplanes?\"\n\"Well, yes, but they're also having union problems.\"\n\"What's that about?\"\n\"It's not clear. But the plant's in turmoil, and management's not\nleading. The union's angry about the China sale. Thinks it shouldn't\nhappen.\"\n\"Will you talk about this on camera?\"\n\"Sure. I can't give you my sources, but I'll tell you what I know.\"\nOf course he would, Jennifer thought. It was the dream of every\nprint reporter to somehow get on television. The print guys all\nunderstood the real money came from appearing on the box. No\nmatter how successful you were in print, you were nothing unless\nyou could get on TV. Once you had name recognition from TV, you\ncould migrate to the lucrative lecture circuit, getting five, ten\nthousand dollars just to speak at a lunch.\n\"I'll probably be out later in the week ... My office will contact\nyou.\"\n\"Just tell me when,\" Rogers said.\nShe called Fred Barker in Los Angeles. He almost seemed to be\nexpecting her call. \"That's pretty dramatic videotape,\" she said.\n\"It's frightening,\" Barker said, \"when an aircraft's slats deploy at\nnearly the speed of sound. That's what happened on the Transpacific\nflight. It's the ninth such incident since the aircraft entered service.\"\n\"The ninth?'\n\"Oh yes. This is nothing new, Ms. Malone. At least three other\ndeaths are attributable to Norton's shoddy design, and yet the\ncompany has done nothing.\"\n\"You have a list?\"\"Give me your fax number.\"\nShe stared at the list. It was a little too detailed for her taste, but\nstill compelling:\nNorton N-22 Slats Deployment Incidents\n1. January 4,1992. Slats deployed at FL350, at .84 Mach. The\nflap/slat handle moved inadvertently.\n2. April 2,1992. Slats deployed while the airplane was in cruise\nat .81 Mach. A clipboard reportedly fell on the flap/slat handle.\n3. July 17,1992. Initially reported as severe turbulence;\nhowever it was later learned that the slats had extended as a result\nof inadvertent flap/slat handle movement. Five passenger injuries,\nthree serious.\n4. December 20,1992. Slats extended in cruise flight without\nmovement of the flap/slat handle in cockpit. Two passenger injuries.\n5. March 12,1993. Airplane entered a prestall buffet at .82\nMach. The slats were found to be extended and the handle was not\nin the up and locked position.\n6. April 4,1993. First officer rested his arm on the flap/slat\nhandle, moved the handle down, extending the slats. Several\npassenger injuries.\n7. July 4,1993. Pilot reported the flap/slat handle moved and\nslats extended. Aircraft was in cruise flight at .81 Mach.\n8. June 10,1994. The slats extended while the airplane was in\ncruise flight without movement of the flap/slat handle.\nShe picked up the phone and called Barker back. \"Will you talk\nabout these incidents on camera?\"\n\"I've testified in court about this on numerous occasions,\" Barker\nsaid. \"I'll be happy to speak to you on the record. The fact is, I want\nthis airplane fixed before more people die. And nobody has been\nwilling to do it—not the company, and not the FAA. It's a disgrace.\"\n\"But how can you be so sure this flight was a slats accident?\"\n\"I have a source inside Norton,\" Barker said. \"A disgruntled\nemployee who is tired of all the lying. My source tells me it is slats,\nand the company is covering up.\"Jennifer got off the phone with Barker, and pushed the intercom\nbutton. \"Deborah!\" she screamed. \"Get me Travel!\"\nJennifer closed the door to her office, and sat quietly. She knew\nshe had a story.\nA fabulous story.\nThe question now was: What's the angle? How do you frame it?\nOn a show like Newsline, the frame was all-important. Older\nproducers on the show talked about \"context,\" which to them meant\nputting the story in a larger setting. Indicating what the story meant,\nby reporting what had happened before, or reporting similar things\nthat had occurred. The older guys thought context so important,\nthey seemed to regard it as a kind of moral or ethical obligation.\nJennifer disagreed. Because when you cut out all the\nsanctimonious bullshit, context was just spin, a way of pumping the\nstory—and not a very useful way, because context meant referring to\nthe past\nJennifer had no interest in the past; she was one of the new\ngeneration that understood that gripping television was now, events\nhappening now, a flow of images in a perpetual unending electronic\npresent. Context by its very nature required something more than\nnow, and her interest did not go beyond now. Nor, she thought, did\nanyone else's. The past was dead and gone. Who cared what you\nate yesterday? What you did yesterday? What was immediate and\ncompelling was now.\nAnd television at its best was now.\nSo a good frame had nothing to do with the past. Fred Barker's\ndamning list of prior incidents was actually a problem, because it\ndrew attention to the fading, boring past. She'd have to find a way\naround it—give it a mention and go on.\nWhat she was looking for was a way to shape the story so that it\nunfolded now, in a pattern that the viewer could follow. The best\nframes engaged the viewer by presenting the story as a conflict\nbetween good and bad, a morality story. Because the audience got\nthat. If you framed a story that way, you got instant acceptance. You\nwere speaking their language.But because the story also had to unfold quickly, this morality\ntale had to hang from a series of hooks that did not need to be\nexplained. Things the audience already knew to be true. They\nalready knew big corporations were corrupt, their leaders greedy\nsexist pigs. You didn't have to prove that; you just had to mention it.\nThey already knew that government bureaucracies were inept and\nlazy. You didn't have to prove that, either. And they already knew\nthat products were cynically manufactured with no concern for\nconsumer safety.\nFrom such agreed-upon elements, she must construct her\nmorality story.\nA fast-moving morality story, happening now.\nOf course, there was still another requirement for the frame.\nBefore anything else, she must sell the segment to Dick Shenk. She\nhad to come up with an angle that would appeal to Shenk, that\nwould fit his view of the world. And that was no easy matter: Shenk\nwas more sophisticated than the audience. More difficult to please.\nWithin the Newsline offices Shenk was known as the Critic, for\nthe harsh way he shot down proposed segments. Walking around\nthe office, Shenk adopted an affable air, playing the grand old man.\nBut all that changed when he listened to a proposal. Then he\nbecame dangerous. Dick Shenk was well educated and smart—very\nsmart—and he could be charming when he wanted to. But at bottom\nhe was mean. He had grown meaner with age, cultivating his nasty\nstreak, regarding it as a key to his success.\nNow she was going to take a proposal in to him. She knew Shenk\nwould want a story badly. But he would also be angry about Pacino,\nangry about Marty, and his anger could quickly turn against Jennifer,\nand her proposed segment.\nTo avoid his anger, to sell him this segment, she would have to\nproceed carefully. She would have to fashion the story into a shape\nthat, more than anything else, gave vent to Dick Shenk's hostility\nand anger, and turned it in a useful direction. She reached for a\nnotepad, and began to sketch the outlines of what she would say.\nADMINISTRATION1:04 . .\nP M\nCasey got into the elevator in Administration, Richman following\nher. \"I don't understand,\" he said. \"Why is everybody so angry with\nKing?\"\n\"Because he's lying,\" Casey said. \"He knows the aircraft didn't\ncome within five hundred feet of the Pacific Ocean. Everybody'd be\ndead if it did. The incident happened at thirty-seven thousand feet.\nAt most the aircraft dropped three or four thousand feet. That's bad\nenough.\"\n\"So? He's getting attention. Making the case for his client He\nknows what he's doing.\"\n\"Yes, he does.\"\n\"Hasn't Norton settled out of court with him in the past?\"\n\"Three times,\" she said.\nRichman shrugged. \"If you have a strong case, take him to trial.\"\n\"Yes,\" Casey said. \"But trials are very expensive, and the publicity\ndoesn't do us any good. It's cheaper to settle, and just add the cost\nof his greenmail to the price of our aircraft. The carriers pay that\nprice, and pass it on to the customer. So in the end, every airline\npassenger pays a few dollars extra for their ticket, in a hidden tax.\nThe litigation tax. The Bradley King tax. That's how it works in the\nreal world.\"\nThe doors opened, and they came out on the fourth floor. She\nhurried down the corridor toward her department.\n\"Where are we going now?' Richman said. 'To get something\nimportant mat I forgot all about.\" She looked at him. \"And you did,\ntoo.\"\nNEWSLINE\n4:45 . .\nP M\nJennifer Malone headed toward Dick Shenk's office. On the way,\nshe passed his Wall of Fame, a tight arrangement of photographs,\nplaques, and awards. The photographs showed intimate moments\nwith the rich and famous: Shenk riding horses with Reagan; Shenk\non a yacht with Cronkite; Shenk in a Southampton softball game\nwith Tisch; Shenk with Clinton; Shenk with Ben Bradlee. And in thefar corner, a photograph of an absurdly young Shenk with shoulder-\nlength hair, an Arriflex mounted on his shoulder, filming John\nKennedy in the Oval Office.\nDick Shenk had begun his career in the sixties as a scrappy\ndocumentary producer, back in the days when the news divisions\nwere prestige loss leaders for the networks— autonomous,\nhandsomely budgeted, and lavishly staffed. Those were the great\ndays of the CBS White Papers and NBC Reports. Back then, when\nShenk was a kid running around with an Arri, he was in the world,\ngetting real stuff that mattered. With age and success, Shenk's\nhorizons had narrowed. His world was now limited to his weekend\nhouse in Connecticut and his brownstone in New York. If he went\nanywhere else, it was in a limousine. But despite his privileged\nupbringing, his Yale education, his beautiful ex-wives, his\ncomfortable existence, and his worldly success, Shenk at sixty was\ndissatisfied with his life. Riding around in his limousine, he felt\nunappreciated: not enough recognition, not enough respect for his\naccomplishments. The questing kid with the camera had aged into a\nquerulous and bitter adult. Feeling he had been denied respect\nhimself, Shenk in turn denied it to others—adopting a pervasive\ncynicism toward everything around him. And that was why, she felt\ncertain, he would buy her frame on the Norton story.\nJennifer entered the outer office, stopped by Marian's desk.\n\"Going to see Dick?\" Marian said. \"Is he in?\"\nShe nodded. \"You want company?\" \"Do I need it?\" Jennifer said,\nraising an eyebrow. \"Well,\" Marian said \"He's been drinking.\" \"It's\nokay,\" Jennifer said. \"I can handle him.\"\nDick Shenk listened to her, eyes closed, fingers pressed together\nto make a steeple. From time to time, he nodded slightly as she\nspoke.\nShe ran through the proposed segment, hitting all the beats: the\nMiami incident, the JAA certification story, the Trans-Pacific flight, the\njeopardized China sale. The former FAA expert who says the plane\nhas a long history of uncorrected design problems. The aviation\nreporter who says the company is mismanaged, drugs and gangactivity on the factory floor, a controversial new president, trying to\nboost flagging sales. Portrait of a once-proud company in trouble.\nThe way to frame the piece, she said, was Rot Beneath the\nSurface. She laid it out: badly run company makes a shoddy product\nfor years. Knowledgeable people complain, but the company never\nresponds. FAA is in bed with the company and won't force the issue.\nNow, at last, the truth comes out. The Europeans balk at\ncertification; the Chinese have cold feet; the plane continues to kill\npassengers, just as critics said it would. And there's tape, riveting\ntape, showing the agonies passengers went through as several died.\nAt the close, it's obvious to all: the N-22 is a deathtrap.\nShe finished. There was a long moment of silence. Then Shenk\nopened his eyes.\n\"Not bad,\" he said.\nShe smiled.\n\"What's the company's response?\" he asked, in a lazy voice.\n\"Stonewall. The plane's safe; the critics are lying.\"\n\"Just what you'd expect,\" Shenk said, shaking his head.\n\"American stuff is so shitty.\" Dick drove a BMW; his tastes ran to\nSwiss watches, French wines, English shoes. \"Everything this country\nmakes is crap,\" he said. He slumped back in his chair, as if fatigued\nby the thought. Then his voice became lazy again, thoughtful: \"But\nwhat can they offer as proof?\"\n\"Not much,\" Jennifer said. \"The Miami and Transpacific incidents\nare still under investigation.\"\n\"Reports due when?\"\n\"Not for weeks.\"\n\"Ah.\" He nodded slowly. \"I like it. I like it very much. It's\ncompelling journalism—and it beats the shit out of 60 Minutes. They\ndid unsafe airplane parts last month. But we're talking about a whole\nunsafe aircraft! A deathtrap. Perfect! Scare the hell out of\neverybody.\"\n\"I think so, too,\" she said. She was smiling broadly now. He had\nbought it!\n\"And I'd love to stick it to Hewitt,\" Dick said. Don Hewitt, the\nlegendary producer of 60 Minutes, was Shenk's nemesis. Hewittconsistently got better press than Shenk, which rankled. 'Those\njerkoffs,\" he said. \"Remember when they did their hard-hitting\nsegment on off-season golf pros?\"\nShe shook her head. \"Actually, no ...\"\n\"It was a while back,\" Dick said. He got fuzzy for a moment,\nstaring into space, and it was clear to her that he had been drinking\nheavily at lunch. \"Never mind. Okay, where are we? You got the FAA\nguy, you got the reporter, you got tape of Miami. The peg is the\nhome video, we lead with that.\"\n\"Right,\" she said, nodding.\n\"But CNN is going to run it day and night,\" he said. \"By next\nweek, it'll be ancient history. We have to go with this story\nSaturday.\"\n\"Right,\" she said.\n\"You got twelve minutes,\" he said. He spun in his chair, looked at\nthe colored strips on the wall, representing the segments in\nproduction, where the talent was going to be. \"And you got uh,\nMarty. He's doing Bill Gates in Seattle on Thursday; we'll shuttle him\nto LA Friday. You'll have him six, seven hours.\"\n\"Okay.\"\nHe spun back. \"Go do it.\"\n\"Okay,\" she said. \"Thanks, Dick.\"\n\"You sure you can put it together in time?'\nShe started collecting her notes. 'Trust me.\"\nAs she headed out through Marian's office, she heard him shout,\n\"Just remember, Jennifer—don't come back with a parts story! I\ndon't want a fucking parts story!\"\nQA/NORTON\n2:21 . .\nP M\nCasey came into the QA office with Richman. Norma was back\nfrom lunch, lighting another cigarette. \"Norma,\" she said, \"have you\nseen a videotape around here? One of those little eight-millimeter\nthings?\"\n\"Yeah,\" Norma said, \"you left it on your desk the other night. I\nput it away.\" She rummaged in her drawer, brought it out. Sheturned to Richman. \"And you got two calls from Marder. He wants\nyou to call him right away.\"\n\"Okay,\" Richman said. He walked down the hall to his office.\nWhen he was gone, Norma said, \"You know, he talks to Marder a lot.\nI heard it from Eileen.\"\n\"Marder's getting in with the Norton relatives?\"\nNorma was shaking her head. \"He's already married Charley's\nonly daughter, for Christ's sake.\"\n\"What're you saying?\" Casey said. \"Richman's reporting to\nMarder?\"\n\"About three times a day.\"\nCasey frowned. \"Why?\"\n\"Good question, honey. I think you're being set up.\"\n\"For what?\"\n\"I have no idea,\" Norma said.\n\"Something about the China sale?\"\nNorma shrugged. \"I don't know. But Marder is the best corporate\ninfighter in the history of the company. And he's good at covering his\ntracks. I'd be real careful around this kid.\" She leaned across her\ndesk, lowered her voice. \"When I got back from lunch,\" she said,\n\"nobody was around. The kid keeps his briefcase in his office. So I\nhad a look.\"\n\"And?\"\n\"Richman's copying everything in sight. He's got a copy of every\nmemo on your desk. And he's Xeroxed your phone logs.\"\n\"My phone logs? What's the point of that?\"\n\"I couldn't begin to imagine,\" Norma said. \"But there's more. I\nalso found his passport. He's been to Korea five times in the last two\nmonths.\"\n\"Korea?\" Casey said.\n\"That's right, honey. Seoul. Went almost every week. Short trips.\nOne, two days only. Never more than that.\"\n\"But—\"\n\"There's more,\" Norma said. \"The Koreans mark entry visas with\na flight number. But the numbers on Richman's passport weren't\ncommercial flight numbers. They were tail numbers.\"\"He went on a private jet?\"\n\"That's what it looks like.\"\n\"A Norton jet?\"\nNorma shook her head. \"No. I talked to Alice in Flight Ops. None\nof the company jets has been to Korea in the last year. They've been\nshuttling back and forth from Beijing for months. But none to\nKorea.\"\nCasey frowned.\n\"There's more,\" Norma said. \"I talked to the Fizer in Seoul. He's\nan old beau of mine. Remember when Marder had that dental\nemergency last month, and took three days off?\"\n\"Yeah...\"\n\"He and Richman were together in Seoul. Fizer heard about it\nafter they'd gone, and was annoyed to be kept out of the loop.\nWasn't invited to any of the meetings they attended. Took it as a\npersonal insult.\"\n\"What meetings?\" Casey said.\n\"Nobody knows.\" Norma looked at her. \"But be careful around\nthat kid.\"\nShe was in her office, going through the most recent pile of\ntelexes, when Richman poked his head in. \"What's next?\" he said\ncheerfully.\n\"Something's come up,\" Casey said. \"I need you to go to the\nFlight Standards District Office. See Dan Greene over there, and get\ncopies of the flight plan and the crew list for TPA 545.\"\n\"Don't we already have that?\"\n\"No, we just have the preliminaries. By now Dan will have the\nfinals. I want them in time for the meeting tomorrow. The office is in\nEl Segundo.\"\n\"El Segundo? That'll take me the rest of the day.\"\n\"I know, but it's important.\"\nHe hesitated. \"I think I could be more help to you if I stayed here\n—\"\n\"Get going,\" she said. \"And call me when you have them.\"\nVIDEO IMAGING SYSTEMS4:30 . .\nP M\nThe back room of Video Imaging Systems in Glendale was\npacked with row after row of humming computers, the squat purple-\nstriped boxes of Silicon Graphics Indigo machines. Scott Harmon, his\nleg in a cast, hobbled over the cables that snaked across the floor.\n\"Okay,\" he said, \"we should have it up in a second.\"\nHe led Casey into one of the editing bays. It was a medium-size\nroom with a comfortable couch along the back wall, beneath movie\nposters. The editing console wrapped around the other three walls\nof the room; three monitors, two oscilloscopes, and several\nkeyboards. Scott began punching the keys. He waved her to a seat\nalongside him. I\n\"What's the material?\" he said.\n\"Home video.\"\n\"Plain vanilla high eight?\" He was looking at an oscilloscope as he\nspoke. \"That's what it looks like. Dolby encoded. Standard stuff.\"\n\"I guess so...\"\n\"Okay. According to this, we got nine-forty on a sixty-minute\ncassette.\"\nThe screen flickered, and she saw mountain peaks shrouded in\nfog. The camera panned to a young American man in his early\nthirties, walking up a road, carrying a small baby on his shoulder. In\nthe background was a village, beige roofs. Bamboo on both sides of\nthe road.\n\"Where's this?' Harmon said.\nCasey shrugged. \"Looks like China. Can you fast-forward?\"\n\"Sure.\"\nThe images flicked quickly past, streaked with static. Casey\nglimpsed a small house, the front door open; a kitchen, black pots\nand pans; an open suitcase on a bed; a train station, a woman\nclimbing on the train; busy traffic in what looked like Hong Kong; an\nairport lounge at night, the young man holding the baby on his\nknees, the baby crying, writhing. Then a gate, tickets being taken by\na flight attendant—\n\"Stop,\" she said.\nHe punched buttons, ran at normal speed. \"This what you want?\"\"Yes.\"\nShe watched as the woman, holding the baby, walked down the\nramp to the aircraft. Then there was a cut, and the image showed\nthe baby in the woman's lap. The camera panned up and showed\nthe woman, giving a theatrical yawn. They were on the aircraft,\nduring the flight; the cabin was lit by night lights; windows in the\nbackground were black. The steady whine of the jet engines.\n\"No kidding,\" Casey said. She recognized the woman she had\ninterviewed in the hospital. What was her name? She had it in her\nnotes.\nBeside her at the console, Harmon shifted his leg, grunted.\n\"That'll teach me,\" he said.\n\"What's that?\"\n\"Not to ski black-diamond runs in chowder.\"\nCasey nodded, kept her eyes on the video monitor. The camera\npanned back to the sleeping baby again, then blurred, before\nturning black. Harmon said, \"Guy couldn't turn off the camera.\"\nThe next image showed glaring daylight. The baby was sitting\nup, smiling. A hand came into the frame, wiggling to get the baby's\nattention. The man's voice said, \"Sarah ... Sar-ah ... Smile for Daddy.\nSmi-le...\"\nThe baby smiled and made a gurgling sound\n\"Cute kid,\" Harmon said.\nOn the monitor, the man's voice said, \"How does it feel to be\ngoing to America, Sarah? Ready to see where your parents are\nfrom?\"\nThe baby gurgled and waved her hands in the air, reaching for\nthe camera.\nThe woman said something about everybody looking weird, and\nthe lens panned up to her. The man said, \"And what about you,\nMom? Are you glad to be going home?\"\n\"Oh, Tim,\" she said, turning her head away. \"Please.\"\n\"Come on, Em. What are you thinking?\"\nThe woman said, \"Well, what I really want—what I have\ndreamed about for months—is a cheeseburger.\"\n\"With Xu-xiang hot bean sauce?\"\"God no. A cheeseburger,\" she said, \"with onions and tomatoes\nand lettuce and pickles and mayonnaise.\"\nNow the camera panned back down to the kid, who was tugging\nher foot into her mouth, slobbering over her toes.\n'Taste good?\" the man said, laughing. \"Is that breakfast for you,\nSarah? Not waiting for the stewardess on this flight?\"\nAbruptly, the wife jerked her head around, looking past the\ncamera. \"What was that?\" she said in a worried tone.\n'Take it easy, Em,\" the man answered, still laughing.\nCasey said, \"Stop the tape.\"\nHarmon hit a key. The image froze on the wife's anxious\nexpression.\n\"Run it back five seconds,\" Casey said.\nThe white frame counter appeared at the bottom of the screen.\nThe tape ran backward, streaking jags again.\n\"Okay,\" Casey said. \"Now turn the sound up.\"\nThe baby sucked its toes, the slobbering so loud, it almost\nsounded like a waterfall. The hum inside the cabin became a steady\nroar. 'Taste good?\" the man said, laughing very loudly, his voice\ndistorted. \"Is that breakfast for you, Sarah? Not waiting for the\nstewardess on this flight?\"\nCasey tried to listen between the man's sentences. To hear the\nsounds of the cabin, the soft murmur of other voices, rustle of fabric\nmoving, the intermittent clink of knives and forks from the forward\ngalley...\nAnd now something else.\nAnother sound?\nThe wife's head jerked around. \"What was that?\"\n\"Damn,\" Casey said.\nShe couldn't be sure. The roar of ambient cabin sound drowned\nout anything else. She leaned forward, straining to hear.\nThe man's voice broke in, his laugh booming: 'Take it easy, Em.\"\nThe baby giggled again, a sharp earsplitting noise.\nCasey was shaking her head in frustration. Was there a low-\npitched rumble or not? Perhaps they should go back, and try to hear\nit again. She said, \"Can you put this through an audio filter?'The husband said, \"We're almost home, honey.\"\n\"Oh my God,\" Harmon said, staring at the tape.\nOn the monitor, everything seemed to be crazy angles. The baby\nslid forward on the mother's lap; she grabbed at the kid, clutched it\nto her chest. The camera was shaking and twisting. Passengers in\nthe background were yelling, grabbing the armrests, as the plane\nwent into a steep descent.\nThen the camera twisted again, and everybody seemed to sink in\nthe seats, the mother slumping down under the G-force, her cheeks\nsagging, shoulders falling, baby crying. Then the man shouted,\n\"What the hell?\" and the wife rose into the air, restrained only by the\nseat belt.\nThen the camera flew up in the air, and there was an abrupt,\ncrunching sound, after which the image began to spiral rapidly.\nWhen the image became steady again, it showed something white,\nwith lines. Before she could register what it was, the camera moved\nand she saw an armrest from below, fingers gripping the pad. The\ncamera had fallen in the aisle and was shooting straight up. The\nscreams continued.\n\"My God,\" Harmon said again.\nThe video image began to slide, gaining speed, moving past seat\nafter seat. But it was going aft, she realized: the plane must be\nclimbing again. Before she could get her bearings, the camera lifted\ninto the air.\nWeightless, she thought. The plane must have reached the end\nof the climb, and now it was nosing over again, for a moment of\nweightlessness before—\nThe image crashed down, twisting and tumbling rapidly. There\nwas a thunkl and she glimpsed a blurred gaping mouth, teeth. Then\nit was moving again, and apparently landed on a seat. A large shoe\nswung toward the lens, kicked it.\nThe image spun rapidly, settled again. It was back in the aisle,\nfacing the rear of the plane. The briefly steady image was horrifying:\narms and legs stuck out into the aisle from the rows of seats. People\nwere screaming, clutching anything they could. The cameraimmediately began to slide again, this time\nforward.\nThe plane was in a dive.\nThe camera slid faster and faster, banging into a midships\nbulkhead, spinning so it was now facing forward. It raced toward a\n:\nbody lying in the aisle. An elderly Chinese woman looked up in time\nfor the camera to strike her in the forehead, and then the camera\nflew into the air, tumbling crazily, and came down again.\nThere was a close view of something shiny, like a belt buckle,\nand then it was sliding forward once more, into the forward\ncompartment, still going, banging into a woman's shoe in the aisle,\ntwisting, racing forward.\nIt went into the forward galley, where it lodged for a moment. A\nwine bottle rolled across the floor, banged into it, and the camera\nspun several times, then began to fall end over end, the image\nflipping as the camera went all the way past the forward galley to\nthe cockpit.\nThe cockpit door was open; she had a brief glimpse of sky\nthrough the flight deck windows, blue shoulders and a cap, and then\nwith a crash the camera came to rest, giving a steady view of a\nuniform gray field. After a moment, she realized the camera had at\nthis point lodged beneath the cockpit door, right where Casey had\nfound it, and it was taping the carpet There was nothing more to\nsee, just the gray blur of carpet, but she could hear the alarms in\nthe cockpit, the electronic warnings, and the voice reminders coming\none after another, \"Airspeed ... Airspeed,\" and \"Stall ... Stall.\" More\nelectronic warnings, excited voices shouting in Chinese.\n\"Stop the tape,\" she said.\nHarmon stopped it.\n\"Jesus Christ,\" he said.\nShe ran through the tape once more, and then did it in slow\nmotion. But even in slow motion, she realized, much of the\nmovement was an indistinguishable blur. She kept saying, \"I can't\nsee, I can't see what's happening.\"Harmon, who had by now become accustomed to the sequence,\nsaid, \"I can do an enhanced frame analysis for you.\"\n\"What's that?'\n\"I can use the computers to go in and interpolate frames where\nthe movement is too fast.\"\n\"Interpolate?\"\n\"The computer looks at the first frame, and the frame following,\nand generates an intermediate frame between the two. It's a point-\nmapping decision, basically. But it will slow down—\"\n\"No,\" she said. \"I don't want anything added by the computers.\nWhat else can you do?\"\n\"I can double or triple the frames. In fast segments, it would give\nyou a little jerkiness, but at least you'd be able to see. Here, look.\"\nHe went to one segment, where the camera was tumbling through\nthe air, then slowed it down. \"Now here, all these frames are just a\nblur—it's camera movement, not subject movement—but here. See\nthis one frame here? You get a readable image.\"\nIt showed a view looking back down the aircraft. Passengers\nfalling over the seats, their arms and legs streaks from swift\nmovement.\n\"So that's a usable frame,\" Harmon said. She saw what he was\ndriving at. Even in rapid movement the camera was steady enough\nto create a useful image, every dozen frames or so.\n\"Okay,\" she said, \"do it.\"\n\"We can do more,\" he said. \"We can send it out, and—\"\nShe shook her head. \"Under no circumstances does this tape\nleave this building,\" she said.\n\"Okay.\"\n\"I need you to run me two copies of this videotape,\" she said.\n\"And make sure you run it all the way to the end.\"\nIAA/HANGAR 4\n5:25 . .\nP M\nThe RAMS team was still swarming over the Transpacific aircraft\nin Hangar 5. Casey walked past to the next hangar in the line, andwent inside. There, working in near silence in the cavernous space,\nMary Ringer's team was doing Interior Artifact Analysis.\nAcross the concrete floor, strips of orange tape nearly three\nhundred feet long marked the interior walls of the Transpacific N-22.\nCrosswise strips indicated the principal bulkheads; parallel strips\nwere placed for each row of seats. Here and there, white flags stood\nin wooden blocks, indicating various critical points.\nSix feet overhead, still more strips had been pulled taut,\ndemarcating the ceiling and upper luggage compartments of the\naircraft. The total effect was a ghostly orange outline of the\ndimensions of the passenger cabin.\nWithin this outline, five women, all psychologists and engineers,\nmoved carefully and quietly. The women were placing articles of\nclothing, carry-on bags, cameras, children's toys, and other personal\nobjects on the floor. In some cases, thin blue tape ran from the\nobject to some other location, indicating how the object had moved\nduring the accident.\nAll around them on the hangar walls hung large, blowup\nphotographs of the interior, taken on Monday. The IAA team worked\nin near silence, thoughtfully, referring to the photos and notes.\nInterior Artifact Analysis was rarely done. It was a desperation\neffort, seldom yielding useful information. In the case of TPA 545,\nRinger's team had been brought in from the start, because the large\nnumber of injuries carried with it the threat of litigation. Passengers\nliterally would not know what happened to them; assertions were\noften wild. IAA attempted to make sense of the movement of people\nand objects within the cabin. But it was a slow and difficult\nundertaking.\nShe saw Mary Ringer, a heavyset, gray-haired woman of fifty,\nnear the aft section of the plane. \"Mary,\" she said. \"Where are we on\ncameras?\"\n\"I figured you'd want to know.\" Mary consulted her notes. \"We\nfound nineteen cameras. Thirteen still and six video. Of the thirteen\nstill cameras, five were broken, the film exposed. Two others had no\nfilm. The remaining six were developed, and three had shots, all\ntaken before the incident. But we're using the pictures to try andplace passengers, because Transpacific still hasn't provided a seating\nchart.\"\n\"And videos?\"\n\"Uh, let's see ...\" She consulted her notes, sighing again. \"Six\nvideo cameras, two with footage on board the aircraft, none during\nthe incident. I heard about the video on television. I don't know\nwhere that came from. Passenger must have carried it off at LAX.\"\n\"Probably.\"\n\"What about the flight data recorder? We really need it to—\"\n\"You and everybody else,\" Casey said. \"I'm working on it.\" She\nglanced around the aft compartment, laid out by tape. She saw the\npilot's cap lying on the concrete, in the corner. \"Wasn't there a name\nin that cap?\"\n\"Yeah, on the inside,\" Mary said. \"It's Zen Ching, or something\nlike that. We got the label translated.\"\n\"Who translated it?\"\n\"Eileen Han, in Marder's office. She reads and writes Mandarin,\nhelps us out. Why?\"\n\"I just had a question. Not important.\" Casey headed for the\ndoor.\n\"Casey,\" Mary said. \"We need that flight recorder.\" \"I know,\"\nCasey said. \"I know.\"\nShe called Norma. \"Who can translate Chinese for me?\"\n\"You mean, besides Eileen?\"\n\"Right. Besides her.\" She felt she should keep this away from\nMarder's office.\n\"Let me see,\" Norma said. \"How about Ellen Fong, in Accounting?\nShe used to work for the FAA, as a translator.\"\n\"Isn't her husband in Structure with Doherty?\"\n\"Yeah, but Ellen's discreet.\"\n\"You sure?\"\n\"I know,\" Norma said, in a certain tone.\nBLDG 1O2/ACCOUNTING\n5:50 . .\nP MShe went to the accounting department, in the basement of\nBuilding 102, arriving just before six. She found Ellen Fong getting\nready to go home.\n\"Ellen,\" she said, \"I need a favor.\"\n\"Sure.\" Ellen was a perpetually cheerful woman of forty, a mother\nof three.\n\"Didn't you used to work for the FAA as a translator?\"\n\"A long time ago,\" Ellen said.\n\"I need something translated.\"\n\"Casey, you can get a much better translator—\"\n\"I'd rather you do it,\" she said. \"This is confidential.\"\nShe handed Ellen the tape. \"I need the voices in the last nine\nminutes.\"\n\"Okay...\"\n\"And I'd prefer you not mention this to anybody.\"\n\"Including Bill?\" That was her husband.\nCasey nodded. \"Is that a problem?\"\n\"Not at all.\" She looked at the tape in her hand. \"When?\"\n'Tomorrow? Friday at the latest?\"\n\"Done,\" Ellen Fong said.\nNAIL\n5:55 . .\nP M\nCasey took the second copy of the tape to the Norton Audio\nInterpretation Lab, in the back of Building 24. NAIL was run by a\nformer CIA guy from Omaha, a paranoid electronics genius named\nJay Ziegler, who built his own audio filter boards and playback\nequipment because, he said, he didn't trust anyone to do it for him.\nNorton had constructed NAIL to help the government agencies\ninterpret cockpit voice recorder tapes. After an accident, the\ngovernment took CVRs and analyzed them in Washington. This was\ndone to prevent them from being leaked to the press before an\ninvestigation was completed. But although the agencies had\nexperienced staff to transcribe the tapes, they were less skilled at\ninterpreting sounds inside the cockpit—the alarms and audioreminders that often went off. These sounds represented proprietary\nNorton systems, so Norton had built a facility to analyze them.\nThe heavy soundproof door, as always, was locked. Casey\npounded on it, and after a while a voice on the speaker said, \"Give\nthe password.\"\n\"It's Casey Singleton, Jay.\"\n\"Give the password.\"\n\"Jay, for Christ's sake. Open the door.\"\nThere was a click, and silence. She waited. The thick door\npushed open a crack. She saw Jay Ziegler, hair down to his\nshoulders, wearing dark sunglasses. He said, \"Oh. All right. Come\nahead, Singleton. You're cleared for this station.\"\nHe opened the door a fraction wider, and she squeezed past him\ninto a darkened room. Ziegler immediately slammed the door shut,\nthrew three bolts in succession.\n\"Better if you call first, Singleton. We have a secure line in. Four-\nlevel scramble encoded.\"\n\"I'm sorry, Jay, but something's come up.\"\n\"Security's everybody's business.\"\nShe handed him the spool of magnetic tape. He glanced at it.\n\"This is one-inch mag, Singleton.\"\n\"We don't often see this, at this station.\"\n\"Can you read it?\"\nZiegler nodded. \"Can read anything, Singleton. Anything you\nthrow at us.\" He put the tape on a horizontal drum and threaded it.\nThen he glanced over his shoulder. \"Are you cleared for the contents\nof this?\"\n\"It's my tape, Jay.\"\n\"Just asking.\"\nShe said, \"I should tell you that this tape is—\"\n\"Don't tell me anything, Singleton. Better that way.\"\nOn all the monitors in the room, she saw oscilloscope squiggles,\ngreen lines jumping against black, as the tape began to play. \"Uh ...\nokay,\" Ziegler said. \"We got high-eight audio track, Dolby D\nencoded, got to be a home video camera ...\" Over the speaker, she\nheard a rhythmic crunching sound.Ziegler stared at his monitors. Some of them were now\ngenerating fancy data, building three-dimensional models of the\nsound, which looked like shimmering multicolored beads on a string.\nThe programs were also generating slices at various hertz.\n\"Footsteps,\" Ziegler announced \"Rubber-soled feet on grass or\ndirt. Countryside, no urban signature. Footsteps probably male. And,\nuh, slight dysrhythmic, he's probably carrying something. Not too\nheavy. But consistently off-balance.\"\nCasey remembered the first image on the videotape: a man\nwalking up the path, away from a Chinese village, with the child on\nhis shoulder.\n\"You're right,\" she said, impressed.\nNow there was a tweeting sound—some sort of birdcall. \"Hold\non, hold on,\" Ziegler said, punching buttons. The tweet replayed,\nagain and again, the beads jumping on the string. \"Huh,\" Ziegler\nsaid finally. \"Not in the database. Foreign locale?\"\n\"China.\"\n\"Oh well. I can't do everything.\"\nThe footsteps continued. There was the sound of wind. On the\ntape, a male voice said, \"She's fallen asleep...\"\nZiegler said, \"American, height five-nine to six-two, mid thirties.\"\nShe nodded, impressed again.\nHe pushed a button, and one of the monitors showed the video\nimage, the man walking up the path. The tape froze. \"Okay,\" Ziegler\nsaid. \"So what am I doing here?\"\nCasey said, \"The last nine minutes of tape were shot on Flight\n545. This camera recorded the whole incident.\"\n\"Really,\" Ziegler said, rubbing his hands together. \"That should be\ninteresting.\"\n\"I want to know what you can tell me about unusual sounds in\nthe moments just prior to the event. I have a question about—\"\n\"Don't tell me,\" he said, holding up his hand. \"I don't want to\nknow. I want to take a clean look.\"\n\"When can you have something?\"\n'Twenty hours.\" Ziegler looked at his watch. 'Tomorrow\nafternoon.\"\"Okay. And Jay? I'd appreciate if you'd keep this tape to\nyourself.\"\nZiegler looked at her blankly. \"What tape?\" he said.\nQA\n6:10 P.M.\nCasey was back at her desk a little after 6 . . There were more\nP M\ntelexes waiting for her.\nFROM: S. NIETO, FSR VANC TO: C. SINGLETON, QA/IRT\nF/O ZAN PING AT VANC GEN HOSPITAL FOLLOWING\nCOMPLICATIONS FROM SURGERY REPORTED UNCONSCIOUS BUT\nSTABLE. CARRIER REP MIKE LEE WAS AT THE HOSPITAL TODAY. I\nWILL TRY TO SEE F/O TOMORROW TO VERIFY HIS CONDITION\nAND INTERVIEW HIM IF POSSIBLE.\n\"Norma,\" she called, \"remind me to call Vancouver tomorrow\nmorning.\"\n\"I'll make a note,\" she said. \"By the way, you got this.\" She\nhanded Casey a fax.\nThe single sheet appeared to be a page from an in-flight\nmagazine. The top read: \"Employee of the Month,\" followed by an\ninky, unreadable photograph.\nUnderneath the photo was a caption: \"Captain John Zhen Chang,\nSenior Pilot for Transpacific Airlines, is our employee of the month.\nCaptain Chang's father was a pilot, and John himself has flown for\ntwenty years, seven of those with Transpacific. When not in the\ncockpit, Captain Chang enjoys biking and golf. Here he relaxes on\nthe beach at Lantan Island with his wife, Soon, and his children,\nErica and Tom.\"\nCasey frowned. \"What's this?\"\n\"Beats me,\" Norrna said.\n\"Where'd it come from?\" There was a phone number at the top\nof the page, but no name.\n\"A copy shop on La Tijera,\" Norma said.\n\"Near the airport,\" Casey said.\"Yes. It's a busy place, they had no idea who sent it.\"\nCasey stared at the photo. \"It's from an in-flight magazine?'\n\"TransPacific's. But not this month. They pulled the contents of\nthe seat pockets—you know, passenger announcements, safety\ncards, barf bags, monthly magazine—and sent it over. But that page\nisn't in the magazine.\"\n\"Can we get back copies?\"\n\"I'm working on it,\" she said.\n\"I'd like to get a better look at this picture,\" Casey said.\n\"I figured,\" Norma said.\nShe went back to the other papers on her desk.\nFROM: T. Korman, PROD SUPPORT TO: C. Singleton, QA/IRT\nWe have finalized the design parameters of the N-22 Virtual\nHeads-Up Display (VHUD) for use by ground personnel at domestic\nand foreign repair stations. The CD-ROM player now clips to the belt,\nand the goggles have been reduced in weight. The VHUD allows\nmaintenance personnel to scroll Maintenance Manuals 12A/102-12\nA/406, including diagrams and parts cutaways. Preliminary articles\nwill be distributed for comments tomorrow. Production will begin\n5/1.\nThis Virtual Heads-Up Display was part of Norton's ongoing effort\nto help the customers improve maintenance. Airframe manufacturers\nhad long recognized that the majority of operational problems were\ncaused by bad maintenance. In general, a properly maintained\ncommercial aircraft would run for decades; some of the old Norton\nN-5s were sixty years old and still in service. On the other hand, an\nimproperly maintained aircraft could get in trouble — or crash —\nwithin minutes.\nUnder financial pressure from deregulation, the airlines were\ncutting personnel, including maintenance personnel. And they were\nshortening the turnaround time between cycles; time on the ground\nhad in some cases gone from two hours to less than twenty minutes.\nAll this put intense pressure on maintenance crews. Norton, like\nBoeing and Douglas, saw it as in their interest to help crews workmore effectively. That was why the Virtual Heads-Up Display, which\nprojected the repair manuals on the inside of a set of glasses for\nmaintenance people, was so important.\nShe went on.\nNext she saw the weekly summary of parts failures, compiled to\nenable the FAA to track parts problems more carefully. None of the\nfailures in the previous week was serious. An engine compressor\nstalled; an engine EOT indicator failed; an oil filter clog light\nilluminated incorrectly; a fuel heat indicator went on erroneously.\nThen there were more IRT follow-up reports from past incidents.\nProduct Support checked all incident aircraft every two weeks for the\nnext six months, to make sure that the assessment of the Incident\nReview Team had been accurate, and that the aircraft was not\nexperiencing further trouble. Then they issued a summary report,\nlike the one she now saw on her desk:\nAIRCRAFT INCIDENT REPORT\nPRIVILEGED INFORMATION — FOR INTERNAL USE ONLY\nNo: IRT-8-2776 ' : 08 April\nREPORT TODAY S DATE\n: N-20 : 04 March\nMODEL INCIDENT DATE\n: Jet Atlantic No: 1280\nOPERATOR FUSELAGE\nNFA : J. Ramones : PS Portugal\nREPORTED BY LOCATION\nFSR\n: a) AVN-SVC-08774/ADH\nREFERENCE\nSubject: Main Landing Gear Wheel Failure During Takeoff\n:\nDESCRIPTION OF EVENT\nIt was reported that during takeoff roll the \"Wheel Not Turning\"\nalert came on and the flight crew aborted the takeoff. The nose\nlanding gear (NLG) tires blew and there was a fire in the wheel well\nwhich was extinguished by fire trucks on the ground. Passengers\nand flight crew exited via evacuation slides. No reported injuries.\n:\nACTION TAKEN\nInspection of the aircraft revealed the following damage:\n1. Both flaps sustained significant damage.2. The Number 1 engine sustained heavy soot damage.\n3. The inboard flap hinge fairing sustained minor damage.\n4. The Number 2 wheel was flat spotted with approximately 30\npercent missing. There was no damage to NLG axle or piston.\nReview of human factors revealed the following:\n1. Flight deck procedures require added carrier scrutiny.\n2. Foreign repair procedures require added carrier scrutiny.\nThe aircraft is in the process of being repaired. Internal\nprocedures are being reviewed by the carrier.\nDavid Levine\nTechnical Integration\nProduct Support\nNorton Aircraft Company\nBurbank,CA\nSummary reports were always diplomatic; in this incident, she\nknew, ground maintenance had been so inept that the nose wheel\nlocked on takeoff, blowing the tires, causing what was very nearly a\nserious incident. But the report didn't say that; you had to read\nbetween the lines. The problem lay with the carrier, but the carrier\nwas also the customer—and it was bad form to knock the customer.\nEventually, Casey knew, Transpacific Flight 545 would end up\nsummarized in an equally diplomatic report. But there was much to\ndo before then.\nNorma came back. 'Transpacific's office is closed. I'll have to find\nthat magazine tomorrow.\"\n\"Okay.\"\n\"Hon?\"\n\"What.\"\n\"Go home.\"\nShe sighed. \"You're right, Norma.\"\n\"And get some rest, will you?\"\nGLENDALE\n9:15P.M.Her daughter had left a message saying she was having a sleep-\nover at Amy's house, and that Dad said it was all right. Casey wasn't\nhappy about it, she thought her daughter shouldn't have sleep-overs\non school nights, but there was nothing she could do now. She got\ninto bed, pulled her daughter's photograph on the bedside table over\nto look at it, and then turned to her work. She was going through\nthe flight tapes of TPA 545, checking the waypoint coordinates for\neach leg against the written radio transcripts from Honolulu ARINC\nand Oakland Center, when the phone rang.\n\"Casey Singleton.\"\n\"Hello, Casey. John Marder here.\"\nShe sat up in bed. Marder never called her at home. She looked\nat the clock; it was after 9 . .\nP M\nMarder cleared his throat. \"I just got a call from Benson in PR.\nHe's had a request from a network news crew to film inside the\nplant. He turned them down.\"\n\"Uh-huh ...\" That was standard; news crews were never allowed\ninside the plant\n\"Then he got a call from a producer on that program Newsline\nnamed Malone. She said Newsline was making the request for plant\naccess, and insisted they be allowed in. Very pushy and full of\nherself. He told her to forget it.\"\n\"Uh-huh.\"\n\"He said he was nice about it.\"\n\"Uh-huh.\" She was waiting.\n\"This Malone said Newsline was doing a story on the N-22, and\nshe wanted to interview the president. He told her Hal was overseas,\nand unavailable.\"\n\"Uh-huh.\"\n\"Then she suggested we reconsider her request, because the\nNewsline story was going to focus on flight safety concerns, two\nproblems in two days, an engine problem and slats deployment,\nseveral passengers killed. She said she'd spoken to critics—no\nnames, but I can guess—and she wanted to give the president\nan opportunity to respond.\"\nCasey sighed.Marder said, \"Benson said he might be able to get her an\ninterview with the president next week, and she said no, that\nwouldn't work, Newsline was running the story this weekend.\"\n\"This\nweekend?\"\n\"That's right,\" Marder said. 'Timing couldn't be worse. The day\nbefore I leave for China. It's a very popular show. The whole\ndamned country will see it.\"\n\"Yes,\" she said.\n\"Then the woman said she wanted to be fair, that it always\nlooked bad if the company didn't respond to allegations. So if the\npresident wasn't available to talk to Newsline, maybe some other\nhighly placed spokesman would.\"\n\"Uh-huh...\"\n\"So I'm seeing this twit in my office tomorrow at noon,\" Marder\nsaid.\n\"On camera?\" Casey said.\n\"No, no. Background only, no cameras. But we'll cover the IRT\ninvestigation, so I think you'd better be there.\"\n\"Of course.\"\n\"Apparently they're going to do some terrible story on the N-22,\"\nMarder said. \"It's that damn CNN tape. That's what's started it all.\nBut we're in it now, Casey. We have to handle this as best we can.\"\n'I'll be there,\" she said.\nTHURSDAY\nAIRPORT MARINA\n6:30 . .\nA M\nJennifer Malone awoke to the soft, insistent buzz of the bedside\nalarm. She turned it off, and looked over at the tanned shoulder of\nthe man next to her, and felt a burst of annoyance. He was a\nstuntman on a TV series, she'd met him a few months back. He had\na craggy face and a nice muscular body and he knew how to\nperform ... but Jeez, she hated it when guys stayed over. She hadhinted politely, after the second time. But he'd just rolled over and\ngone to sleep. And now here he was, snoring away.\nJennifer hated to wake up with some guy in the room. She hated\neverything about it, the sounds they made breathing, the smell\ncoming off their skin, their greasy hair on the pillow. Even the\ncatches, the celebrities who made her heart skip over candlelight,\nlooked like soggy beached whales the next day.\nIt was like the guys didn't know their place. They came over;\nthey got what they wanted; she got what she wanted; everyone was\nhappy. So why didn't they go the fuck home?\nShe'd called him from the plane: Hi, I'm coming into town, what\nare you doing tonight? And he said, without hesitation, Doing you.\nWhich was fine with her. It was sort of funny, sitting in an airplane\nseat next to some accountant bent over his laptop, the voice in her\near saying, I'm doing you tonight, in every room of your suite.\nWhich, to his credit, he did. Not subtle, this guy, but he had lots of\nenergy, that pure California body energy that you never found in\nNew York. No reason to talk about anything. Just fuck.\nBut now, sunlight streaming through the windows ...\nDamn.\nShe got up from the bed, feeling the cold air-conditioned air on\nher naked skin, and went to the closet to choose the clothes she\nwould wear. She was doing pretty straight types, so she picked\njeans, a white Agnes B. T-shirt, and a navy Jil Sander jacket. She\ncarried them into the bathroom, ran a shower. While the water was\ngetting warm, she called the cameraman and told him to have the\ncrew ready in the lobby in an hour.\nWhile she took her shower, she reviewed the coming day. Barker\nfirst at nine, she'd film him briefly with some aviation background to\nwarm him up, then break to do the rest at his office.\nNext the reporter, Rogers. No time to do him at his newsroom in\nOrange County; she'd start him at Burbank, another airport, different\nlook. He'd talk about Norton with the Norton buildings behind him.\nThen at noon, she'd talk to the Norton guy. By then she'd already\nknow the arguments from the other two guys, and she'd try to scare\nNorton enough that they'd give her access to the presidentAnd then . . . let's see. The ambulance chaser later in the day,\nbriefly. Someone from the FAA on Friday, for balance. Someone from\nNorton on Friday, as well. Marty would do a stand-up outside\nNorton, the script wasn't prepared but all she needed was the intro\nand the rest was voice-over. B-roll of passengers boarding, going to\ntheir doom. Takeoffs and landings, then some good crash shots.\nAnd she was done.\nThis segment was going to work, she thought, as she stepped\nout of the shower. There was only one thing that troubled her.\nThat damned guy in the bed.\nWhy didn't he go home?\nQA\n6:40 . .\nA M\nAs Casey came into the QA offices, Norma glanced up at her,\nthen pointed down the hall.\nCasey frowned.\nNorma jerked her thumb. \"He was here when I came in this\nmorning,\" she said. \"Been on the phone for an hour solid. Mr.\nSleepyhead's suddenly not so sleepy.\"\nCasey went down the hall. As she came to Richman's office, she\nheard him say, \"Absolutely not. We are very confident of how this\nwill turn out No. No. I'm sure. Hasn't a clue. No idea.\"\nCasey stuck her head in.\nRichman was leaning back in his chair, with his feet up on the\ndesk, while he spoke on the phone. He appeared startled when he\nsaw her. He put his hand over the phone. \"I'll just be a minute here.\"\n\"Fine.\" She went back to her office, shuffled through papers. She\ndidn't want him around. It was time for another errand, she thought\n\"Good morning,\" he said as he came in. He was very cheerful,\nbig smile. \"I got those FAA documents you wanted. I left them on\nyour desk.\"\n\"Thank you,\" she said. 'Today I need you to go to Trans-Pacific's\nmain office.\"\n'Transpacific? Isn't that at the airport?'\"Actually, I think they're in downtown LA. Norma will get you the\naddress. I need you to pick up back issues of their inflight magazine.\nAs far back as they go. At least a year.\"\n\"Gee,\" Richman said. \"Couldn't we have a messenger do that?\"\n\"This is urgent,\" Casey said.\n\"But I'll miss the IRT.\"\n\"You're not needed at the IRT. And I want these magazines as\nsoon as possible.\"\n\"In-flight magazines? What are they for?\" he said.\n\"Bob,\" she said. \"Just get them.\"\nHe gave a crooked smile. \"You're not trying to get rid of me, are\nyou?\"\n\"Pick up the magazines, get them to Norma, and call me.\"\nWAR ROOM\n7:30 . .\nA M\nJohn Marder was late. He came striding into the room with an\nirritable, distracted look, and dropped into a seat. \"All right,\" he said.\n\"Let's have it Where are we on Flight 545? Flight recorder?\"\n\"Nothing yet,\" Casey said.\n\"We need that data—make it happen, Casey. Structure?'\n\"Well it's very difficult very difficult indeed,\" Doherty said,\ndolefully. \"I still worry about that bad locking pin. I think we ought\nto be more cautious—\"\n\"Doug,\" Marder said. \"I already told you. We'll check it at Flight\nTest. Now what about hydraulics?\"\n\"Hydraulics are fine.\"\n\"Cable rigging?\"\n\"Fine. Of course we're at ambient. Have to cold soak to be sure.\"\n\"Okay. We'll do that at Right Test. Electrical?\"\nRon said, \"We've scheduled the Cycle Electrical Test beginning at\n6 . ., running through the night. If there's a problem we'll know in\nP M\nthe morning.\"\n\"Any suspicions now?\"\n\"Just those proximity sensors, in the right wing.\"\n\"Have we functioned them?\"\"Yes, and they appear normal. Of course, to really check them\nwe'd have to remove the sensors from the housings, take them out\nof the wing, and that means—\"\n\"Delaying everything,\" Marder said. \"Forget it. Powerplant?\"\n\"Zip,\" Kenny Burne said. \"Engines are fine. Some seals on the\ncooling system were installed backward. And we got a counterfeit\nreverser cowl. But it's nothing that would cause the accident.\"\n\"Okay. Powerplant is eliminated. Avionics?\"\nTrung said, \"Avionics check out within normal limits.\"\n\"What about the autopilot? The pilot fighting to override?\"\n\"Autopilot is fine.\"\n\"I see.\" Marder looked around the room. \"So we have nothing, is\nthat right? Seventy-two hours into this investigation and we have no\ndamned idea what happened to Flight 545? Is that what you're\ntelling me?\"\nThere was silence around the table.\n\"Christ,\" Marder said, disgusted. He pounded the table. \"Don't\nyou people understand? I want this fucking thing solved?'\nSEPULVEDA BLVD\n10:10 . .\nA M\nFred Barker was solving all her problems.\nTo start, Jennifer needed a walk-to-work shot for Marty's voice-\nover intro (\"We talked to Frederick Barker, a former FAA official, now\na controversial crusader for aircraft safety\"). Barker suggested a\nlocation on Sepulveda, with a sweeping view of the south runways\nof Los Angeles International Airport. It was perfect, and he was\ncareful to mention that no other film crew had used it before.\nNext she needed an at-work shot, again for voice-over (\"Since\nleaving the FAA, Barker has worked tirelessly to bring defective\naircraft designs to the public's attention— particularly the design of\nthe Norton N-22\"). Barker suggested a corner of his office, where he\nplaced himself in front of a bookshelf of thick FAA documents, at a\ndesk heaped nigh with technical-looking pamphlets, which he\nthumbed through for camera.Next she needed his basic spiel, in the kind of detail that Reardon\nwouldn't have time to bother with during the interview. Barker was\nready for this, too. He knew where the switches were for the air-\nconditioning, the refrigerator, the telephones, and all the other noise\nsources they'd need to turn off for filming. Barker also had a video\nmonitor ready, to replay the CNN tape from Flight 545 while he\ncommented on it. The monitor was a studio-grade Trinitron, placed\nin a dark corner of the room, so they could get an image off it.\nThere was a V-plug so they could take the feed directly, to sync his\naudio comments. And Barker was running one-inch tape, so image\nquality was excellent. He even had a large model of the N-22\naircraft, with moving parts on the wing and tail that he could use to\ndemonstrate what had gone wrong in flight. The model sat on a\nstand on his desk, so it didn't look like a prop. And Barker was\ndressed for the part: informal shirtsleeves and tie, reminiscent of an\nengineer, an authoritative look.\nBarker was good on camera, too. He appeared relaxed. He didn't\nuse jargon; his answers were short. He seemed to understand how\nshe would cut the tape together, so he didn't lock her into anything.\nFor example, he didn't reach for the model airplane in the middle of\nan answer. Instead, he gave his answer, then said, \"At this point, I'd\nlike to refer to the model.\" When she agreed, he repeated the\nprevious answer, picking up the model at the same time. Everything\nhe did was smooth, with no fumbling or awkwardness.\nOf course Barker was experienced, not only on television but in\nthe courtroom. The only problem was that he didn't give her strong\nemotion—no shock, no outrage. On the contrary, his tone, his\nmanner, his body language, suggested profound regret. It was\nunfortunate that this situation arose. It was unfortunate that steps\nhadn't been taken to correct the problem. It was unfortunate that\nauthorities hadn't listened to him for all these years.\n\"There have been eight previous problems with slats on the\nairplane,\" he said. He held the model up, near his face, turned it so\nthat it didn't gleam in the crew lights. \"These are the slats,\" he said,\npulling out a sliding panel from the front of the wing. He took his\nhand away, and said, \"You get that in close-up?\"\"I was late,\" the cameraman said \"Could you do it again?'\n\"Sure. Are you starting wide?\"\n'Two Ts,\" the cameraman said.\nBarker nodded. He paused, then began again. \"There have been\neight previous problems with slats on this airplane.\" Again he held\nthe model up, this time already correctly turned so it didn't reflect in\nthe light. \"These are the slats,\" he said, and pulled out the panel in\nfront of the wing. Then he paused again.\n\"Got it that time,\" the cameraman said.\nBarker continued. \"The slats are only deployed for takeoff and\nlanding. During flight, they are tucked back in the wing. But on the\nNorton N-22, the slats have been known to extend by themselves\nduring flight. It's a design error.\" Another pause. \"I'm going to\ndemonstrate what happens now, so you may want to be wide\nenough to see the whole plane.\"\n\"Widening,\" the cameraman said.\nBarker waited patiently for a moment, then said, \"The\nconsequence of this design error is that when the slats extend, the\nairplane noses upward, like this, threatening to stall.\" He tilted the\nmodel up slightly. \"At this point, it is almost impossible to control. If\nthe pilot tries to restore the plane to level flight, the plane\novercompensates, and goes into a dive. Again, the pilot corrects, to\ncome out of the dive. The plane climbs. Then dives. Then climbs\nagain. That is what happened to Flight 545. That is why people\ndied.\"\nBarker paused.\n\"Now we're through with the model,\" he said. \"So I'm going to\nput it down.\"\n\"Okay,\" Jennifer said She had been watching Barker on the\nmonitor on the floor, and now she was thinking that she might nave\ndifficulty cutting from the wider shot to a shot of putting the model\ndown. What she really needed was a repetition of—\nBarker said, \"The plane dives. Then climbs. Then dives again.\nThat is what happened to Flight 545. That is why people died.\" With\na regretful look, he put the model down. Although he did it gently,\nhis very gesture seemed to suggest a crash.Jennifer had no illusions about what she was watching. This\nwasn't an interview; it was a performance. But a skilled approach\nwas not rare these days. More and more interview subjects seemed\nto understand camera angles and editing sequences. She had seen\nexecutives show up in full makeup for an interview. At first,\ntelevision people had been alarmed by this new sophistication. But\nlately, they'd become used to it. There was never enough time; they\nwere always rushing from one location to the next. A prepared\nsubject made their work so much easier.\nBut just because Barker was smooth and camera savvy, she\nwasn't going to let him get away without a little probing. The final\npart of her job today was to cover the basic questions, in case Marty\nran out of time, or forgot to ask them.\nShe said, \"Mr. Barker?\"\n\"Yes?\" He turned toward her.\n\"Check the look,\" she said to the cameraman.\n\"His look is wide. Move a little closer to camera.\"\nJennifer slid her chair over so she was right beside the lens.\nBarker turned slightly to face her, at her new position.\n\"His look is fine, now.\"\n\"Mr. Barker,\" Jennifer said, \"you are a former FAA employee...\"\n\"I used to work for the FAA,\" Barker said, \"but I left the agency\nbecause I disagreed with their hands-off attitude toward\nmanufacturers. The Norton plane is a result of those lax policies.\"\nBarker was again demonstrating his skill: his answer was a\ncomplete statement. He knew that he was more likely to get his\ncomments on camera if they were not responses to a question.\nJennifer said, \"There is some controversy surrounding your\ndeparture.\"\n\"I am familiar with some of the allegations about why I left the\nFAA,\" Barker said, again making a statement \"But the fact is my\ndeparture was an embarrassment to the agency. I criticized the way\nthey worked, and when they refused to respond, I left. So I'm not\nsurprised they are still trying to discredit me.\"\nShe said, \"The FAA claims you leaked materials to the press.\nThey say they fired you for that.\"\"There's never been any proof of the allegations the FAA has\nmade about me. I have never seen any FAA official produce one\nshred of evidence to back their criticisms of me.\"\n\"You work for Bradley King, the attorney?'\n\"I have served as an expert aviation witness on a number of legal\ncases. I think it's important that somebody with knowledge speak\nout.\"\n\"You are paid by Bradley King?'\n\"Any expert witness is reimbursed for time and expenses. That's\nstandard procedure.\"\n\"Isn't it true that you're a full-time employee of Bradley King?\nThat your office, everything in this room, everything we see here, is\npaid for by King?'\n\"I am funded by the non-profit Institute for Aviation Research in\nWashington. My job is to promote safety in civil aviation. I do\nwhatever I can to make the skies safe for travelers.\"\n\"Mr. Barker, come on: Aren't you an expert for hire?'\n\"I certainly have strong opinions about air safety. It's only natural\nthat I would be hired by employers who share my concerns.\"\n\"What is your opinion of the FAA?'\n\"The FAA is well intentioned, but it has a dual mandate, both to\nregulate air travel and to promote it. The agency needs complete\nreform. It is much too cozy with the manufacturers.\"\n\"Can you give me an example?' It was a feed; she knew from\nprevious conversations what he would say.\nAgain, Barker made a statement. \"One good example of this cozy\nrelationship is the way the FAA treats certification. The documents\nrequired to certify a new airplane are not maintained by the FAA, but\nby the manufacturers themselves. This hardly seems proper. The fox\nis guarding the chicken coop.\"\n\"Is the FAA doing a good job?\"\n\"I'm afraid the FAA is doing a very poor job. American lives are\nneedlessly put at risk. Frankly it's time for a thorough overhaul.\nOtherwise I am afraid passengers will continue to die, as they did on\nthis Norton aircraft.\" He gestured—slowly, so the camera couldfollow—to the model on his desk. \"In my opinion,\" he said, \"what\nhappened on that airplane ... is a disgrace.\"\nThe interview ended. While her crew was packing up, Barker\ncame over to her. \"Who else are you seeing?\"\n\"Jack Rogers is next.\"\n\"He's a good man.\"\n\"And someone from Norton.\" She consulted her notes. \"A John\nMarder.\"\n\"Ah.\"\n\"What does that mean?'\n\"Well, Marder is a fast-talker. He'll give you a lot of double-talk\nabout Airworthiness Directives. A lot of FAA jargon. But the fact is\nthat he was the program manager on the N-22. He supervised the\ndevelopment of that aircraft. He knows there's a problem—he's part\nof it.\"\nOUTSIDE NORTON\nAfter the practiced smoothness of Barker, the reporter, Jack\nRogers, was a bit of a shock. He showed up wearing a lime-green\nsport coat that screamed Orange County, and his check-patterned tie\njumped on the monitor. He looked like a golf pro, spruced up for a\njob interview.\nJennifer said nothing at first; she just thanked the reporter for\ncoming, and positioned him in front of the chain-link fence, with\nNorton Aircraft in the background. She went over her questions with\nhim; he gave tentative little answers, excited, eager to please.\n\"Gee, it's hot,\" she said. She turned to the cameraman. \"How we\ncoming, George?\"\n\"Almost there.\"\nShe turned back to Rogers. The sound guy unbuttoned Rogers's\nshirt, threaded the microphone up to his collar. As preparations\ncontinued, Rogers began to sweat. Jennifer called for the makeup\ngirl to wipe him down. He seemed relieved. Then, pleading the heat,\nshe convinced Rogers to remove his sport coat and sling it over his\nshoulder. She said it would give him a working-journalist look. He\ngratefully agreed. She suggested he loosen his tie, which he did.She went back to the cameraman. \"How is it?\"\n\"Better without the jacket. But that tie is a nightmare.\"\nShe returned to Rogers, smiled. \"This is working so well,\" she\nsaid. \"How would it be if you take off the tie, and roll up your\nsleeves?\"\n\"Oh, I never do that,\" Rogers said. \"I never roll up my sleeves.\"\n\"It would give you that strong but casual look. You know, rolled-\nup shirtsleeves, ready to fight. Hard-hitting journalist. That idea.\"\n\"I never roll up my sleeves.\"\nShe frowned. \"Never?\"\n\"No. I never do.\"\n\"Well, it's just a look we're talking about here. You'd come off\nstronger on camera. More emphatic, more forceful.\"\n\"I'm sorry.\"\nShe thought: What is this? Most people would do anything to get\non Newsline. They'd do the interview in their underwear, if she asked\nthem to. Several had. And here was this fucking print journalist,\nwhat did he make, anyway? Thirty grand a year? Less than Jennifer's\nmonthly expense account.\n\"I, uh, can't,\" Rogers said, \"because, uh, I have psoriasis.\"\n\"No problem. Makeup!\"\nStanding with his jacket slung over his shoulder, his tie removed,\nshirtsleeves rolled up. Jack Rogers answered her questions. He\nrambled, speaking thirty, forty seconds at a time. If she asked him\nthe same question twice, hoping for a shorter answer, he just started\nto sweat, and gave a longer answer.\nThey had to keep breaking for makeup to wipe him down. She\nhad to reassure him again and again that he was doing great, just\ngreat. That he was giving her really good stuff.\nAnd he was, but he couldn't punch it. He didn't seem to\nunderstand she was making an assembled piece, that the average\nshot would be less than three seconds, and they would cut to him\nfor a sentence, or a fragment of a sentence, before they cut to\nsomething else. Rogers was earnest, trying to be helpful, but he was\nburying her in detail she couldn't use, and background she didn't\ncare about.Finally she began to worry that she couldn't use any of the\ninterview, that she was wasting her time with this guy. So she\nfollowed her usual procedure in a situation like this.\n\"That's all perfect,\" she said. \"Now we're coming to the\nconclusion of the piece. We need something punchy\"—she made a\nfist—\"to close. So I'll ask you a series of questions, and you answer\nthem with one punchy sentence.\"\n\"Okay,\" Rogers said.\n\"Mr. Rogers, could the N-22 cost Norton the China sale?\"\n\"Given the frequency of incidents involving—\"\n\"I'm sorry,\" she said. \"I just need a simple sentence. Could the\nN-22 cost Norton the China sale?\"\n\"Yes, it certainly could.\"\n\"I'm sorry,\" she said again. \"Jack, I need a sentence like, 'The N-\n22 might very well cost Norton the China sale.'\"\n\"Oh. Okay.\" He swallowed.\n\"Could the N-22 cost Norton the China sale?\"\n\"Yes, I'm afraid I have to say that it might cost the China sale.\"\nJesus, she thought.\n\"Jack, I need you to say 'Norton' in the sentence. Otherwise we\nwon't know what you're referring to.\"\n\"Oh.\"\n\"Go ahead.\"\n\"The N-22 might very well cost Norton the China sale, in my\nopinion.\"\nShe sighed. It was dry. No emotional force. He might as well be\ntalking about his phone bill. But she was running out of time.\n\"Excellent,\" Jennifer said. \"Very good. Let's go on. Tell me: Is Norton\na troubled company?\"\n\"Absolutely,\" he said, nodding and swallowing.\nShe sighed. \"Jack.\"\n\"Oh. Sorry.\" He took a breath. Then, standing there, he said, \"I\nthink that—\"\n\"Wait a minute,\" she said. \"Put your weight on your forward foot.\nSo you're leaning in toward camera.\"\n\"Like this?\" He shifted his body weight, turned slightly.\"Yeah, that's it. Perfect. Now go ahead.\"\nStanding there, in front of the fence outside Norton Aircraft, with\nhis jacket slung over his shoulder, and his shirtsleeves rolled up,\nreporter Jack Rogers said, \"I think there's no doubt that Norton\nAircraft is a company in serious trouble.\"\nThen he paused. He looked at her.\nJennifer smiled. \"Thank you very much,\" she said. \"You were\ngreat.\"\nNORTON ADMINISTRATION\n11:55A.M.\nCasey came into John Marder's office a few minutes before noon,\nand found him smoothing his tie, shooting his cuffs. \"I thought we\nwould sit here,\" he said, pointing to a coffee table with chairs in the\ncorner of his office. \"You all set for this?\"\n\"I think so,\" Casey said.\n\"Just let me take it, at the beginning,\" Marder said. \"I'll turn to\nyou for assistance if I need it.\"\n\"Okay.\"\nMaider continued to pace. \"Security says there was a film crew\nout by the south fence,\" he said. \"They were doing an interview with\nJack Rogers.\"\n\"Uh-huh,\" Casey said.\n\"That idiot Christ. I can imagine what he had to say.\"\n\"Did you ever talk to Rogers?\" Casey said.\nThe intercom buzzed. Eileen said, \"Ms. Malone is here, Mr.\nMarder.\"\n\"Send her in,\" Marder said.\nAnd he strode to the door, to greet her.\nCasey was shocked by the woman who walked in. Jennifer\nMalone was a kid, hardly older than Richman. She couldn't be more\nthan twenty-eight or -nine, Casey thought. Malone was blond, and\nquite pretty—in an uptight. New York sort of way. She had short\nbobbed hair that downplayed her sexuality, and she was dressed\nvery casually: jeans and a white T-shirt, and a blue blazer with a\nweird collar. The trendy Hollywood look.Casey felt uncomfortable, just looking at her. But now Marder\nhad turned, and was saying, \"Ms. Malone, I'd like to introduce Casey\nSingleton, our Quality Assurance specialist on the Incident Review\nTeam.\"\nThe blond kid smirked.\nCasey shook her hand.\nYou got to be kidding, Jennifer Malone thought. This is a captain\nof industry? This jumpy guy with slicked back hair and a bad suit?\nAnd who was this woman out of a Talbots catalog? Singleton was\ntaller than Jennifer—which Jennifer resented— and good-looking in a\nwholesome, midwestern way. She looked like an athlete, and she\nseemed to be in pretty good shape—although she was long past the\nage where she could get by with the minimal makeup she wore. And\nher features were strained, tense. Under pressure.\nJennifer felt disappointed. She had been preparing for this\nmeeting all day, honing her arguments. But she had imagined a\nmuch more commanding adversary. Instead, she was back in high\nschool—with the assistant principal and the timid librarian. Little\npeople with no style.\nAnd this office! Small, with gray walls and cheap, utilitarian\nfurniture. It had no character. It was just as well she wasn't filming\nhere, because this room wouldn't photograph. Did the president's\noffice look like this, too? If so, they would have to tape his interview\nsomewhere else. Outside, or on the assembly line. Because these\nshabby little offices just didn't work for the show. Airplanes were big\nand powerful. The audience wouldn't believe that they were made\nby crummy little people in drab offices.\nMarder led her to a seating arrangement, to one side. He\ngestured grandly, as if he were taking her to a banquet. Since he\ngave her a choice of where to sit, she took a chair with her back to\nthe window, so the sun would be in their eyes.\nShe got out her notes, shuffled through them. Marder said,\n\"Would you like something to drink? Coffee?\"\n\"Coffee would be great.\"\n\"How do you take it?\"\n\"Black,\" Jennifer said.Casey watched as Jennifer Malone set out her notes. \"I'll be\nfrank,\" Malone said. \"We've gotten some damning material on the N-\n22 from critics. And on the way this company operates. But there are\ntwo sides to every story. We want to make sure we include your\nresponse to the criticism.\"\nMarder said nothing, just nodded. He was sitting with his legs\ncrossed, a notepad on his lap.\n'To begin,\" Malone said, \"we know what happened on the\nTranspacific flight.\"\nReally? Casey thought. Because we don't.\nMalone said, \"The slats came out—deployed?—in midair, and the\nairplane became unstable, went up and down, killing passengers.\nEveryone has seen the film of that tragic accident We know\npassengers have filed lawsuits against the company. We also know\nthe N-22 has a long history of slats problems, which neither the FAA\nnor the company has been willing to deal with. This, despite nine\nseparate incidents in recent years.\"\nMalone paused for a moment, then went on. \"We know that the\nFAA is so lax in its regulatory policies that it doesn't even require\ncertification documents to be submitted. The FAA has allowed\nNorton to keep the certification documents here.\"\nJesus, Casey thought She doesn't understand anything.\n\"Let me dispose of your last point first,\" Marder said. \"The FAA\ndoesn't have physical possession of certification documents from any\nmanufacturer. Not Boeing, not Douglas, not Airbus, not us. Frankly,\nwe'd prefer the FAA do the warehousing. But the FAA can't store\nthem, because the documents contain proprietary information. If\nthey were in possession of the FAA, our competitors could obtain\nthis information under the Freedom of Information Act. Some of\nour competitors would like nothing better. Airbus in particular has\nbeen lobbying for a change in FAA policy—for the reasons I've just\nexplained. So I presume you got this idea about the FAA from\nsomeone at Airbus.\"\nCasey saw Malone hesitate, glance down at her papers. It was\ntrue, she thought. Marder had nailed her source. Airbus had fed her\nthat tidbit, probably through its publicity arm, the Institute forAviation Research. Did Malone realize the Institute was an Airbus\nfront?\n\"But don't you agree,\" Malone said coolly, \"that the arrangement\nis a little too cozy if the FAA lets Norton store its own documents?\"\n\"Ms. Malone,\" Marder said, \"I've already told you we'd prefer the\nFAA do the storage. But we didn't write the Freedom of Information\nAct. We don't make the laws. We do think that if we spend billions of\ndollars developing a proprietary design, it should not be made\navailable free of charge to our competitors. As I understand it, FOIA\nwasn't enacted to enable foreign competitors to pillage American\ntechnology.\"\n\"So you oppose the Freedom of Information Act?'\n\"Not at all. I'm simply saying that it was never designed to\nfacilitate industrial espionage.\" Marder shifted in his chair. \"Now, you\nmentioned Flight 545.\"\n\"Yes.\"\n\"First of all, we don't agree that the accident was the result of\nslats deployment.\"\nUh-oh, Casey thought. Marder was going out on a limb. What he\nwas saying wasn't true, and it might very well—\nMarder said, \"We're currently investigating this situation, and\nalthough it's premature for me to discuss the findings of our inquiry,\nI believe you have been misinformed on the situation. I presume\nyou've gotten this slats information from Fred Barker.\"\n\"We are talking to Mr. Barker, among others...\"\n\"Have you spoken to the FAA about Mr. Barker?\" Marder said.\n\"We know he's controversial...\"\n'To put it mildly. Let's just say he adopts an advocacy position\nthat is factually incorrect\"\n\"You believe it is incorrect\"\n\"No, Ms. Malone. It is factually incorrect,\" Marder said, testily. He\npointed to the papers Malone had spread out on the table. \"I\ncouldn't help noticing your list of slats incidents. Did you get that\nfrom Barker?\"\nMalone hesitated a fraction. \"Yes.\"\n\"May I see it?'\"Sure.\"\nShe handed the paper to Marder. He glanced at it.\nMalone said, \"Is it factually incorrect, Mr. Marder?'\n\"No, but it's incomplete and misleading. This list is based on our\nown documents, but it is incomplete. Do you know about\nAirworthiness Directives, Ms. Malone?\"\n\"Airworthiness Directives?\"\nMarder got up, went to his desk. \"Every time there is an inflight\nincident involving our aircraft, we review the incident thoroughly, to\nfind out what happened and why. If there's a problem with the\naircraft, we issue a Service Bulletin; if the FAA feels compliance with\nour bulletin should be mandatory, it then issues an Airworthiness\nDirective. After the N-22 went into active service, we discovered a\nslats problem, and an Airworthiness Directive was issued to correct\nthe problem. Domestic carriers are required by law to fix the\nairplanes, to prevent further occurrences.\"\nHe came back with another sheet of paper, which he handed to\nMalone. \"This is a complete list of incidents.\"Slats Events of Norton N-22\n1. January 4,1992. (DO) Slats deployed at FL350, at .84 Mach.\nThe flap/slat handle moved inadvertently. A/D 44-8 was issued as a\nresult of this incident\n2. April 2,1992. (DO) Slats deployed while the airplane was in\ncruise at .81 Mach. A clipboard reportedly fell on the flap/slat\nhandle. A/D 44-8 was not accomplished but would have prevented\nthis occurrence.\n3. July 17,1992. (DO) Initially reported as severe turbulence, it\nwas later learned that the slats had extended as a result of\ninadvertent flap/slat handle movement. A/D 44-8 was not\nincorporated and would have prevented this occurrence.\n4. December 20,1992. (DO) Slats extended in cruise flight\nwithout movement of the flap/slat handle in cockpit. Confirmed slat\ncable rigging was out of tolerance in three places. A/D 51-29 was\nissued as a result of this incident.\n5. March 12,1993. (FO) Airplane entered a prestall buffet at\n.82 Mach. The slats were found to be extended and the handle was\nnot in the up and locked position. A/D 51-29 was not incorporated\nand would have prevented this occurrence.\n6. April 4,1993. (FO) First officer rested his arm on the\nflap/slat handle as he was operating the autopilot and the action\nmoved the handle down, extending the slats. A/D 44-8 was not\nincorporated and would have prevented this occurrence.\n7. July 4,1993. (FO) Pilot reported the flap/slat handle moved\nand slats extended. Aircraft was in cruise flight at .81 Mach. A/D 44-\n8 was not incorporated and would have prevented this occurrence.\n8. June 10,1994. (FO) The slats extended while the airplane\nwas in cruise flight without movement of the flap/slat handle.\nConfirmed slat cable rigging was out of tolerance. A/D 51-29 was not\nincorporated and would have prevented this occurrence.\"The underlined sentences,\" Marder said, \"are what Mr. Barker\nomitted from the document he gave you. After the first slats\nincident, the FAA issued an Airworthiness Directive to change cockpit\ncontrols. The airlines had a year to comply. Some did it immediately,\nothers didn't. As you can see, the subsequent incidents all occurred\nin aircraft which had not yet made the change.\"\n\"Well, not quite...\"\n\"Please let me finish. In December of 1992, we discovered a\nsecond issue. The cables running to the slats sometimes became\nslack. Maintenance crews weren't catching the problem. So we\nissued a second Service Bulletin, and added a tension measurement\ndevice, so ground crews could check more easily whether cable\nrigging was within spec. That solved it. By December, everything was\nresolved.\"\n\"Clearly not, Mr. Marder,\" Malone said, pointing to the list \"You\nhave more incidents in 1993 and in 1994.\"\n\"Only on foreign carriers,\" Marder said. \"You see that notation,\nDO and FO? That stands for 'domestic operator' or 'foreign operator.'\nThe domestic operators must make the changes called for in the FAA\nAirworthiness Directives. But foreign operators aren't under FAA\njurisdiction. And they don't always make the changes. Since 1992, all\nincidents have involved foreign carriers that hadn't made the\nretrofits.\"\nMalone scanned the list. \"So you knowingly allow carriers to fly\nunsafe airplanes? You just sit back and let it happen, is that what\nyou're telling me?\"\nMarder sucked in his breath. Casey thought he was going to\nblow, but he didn't. \"Ms. Malone, we build airplanes, we don't\noperate them. If Air Indonesia or Pakistani Air won't follow the\nAirworthiness Directives, we can't force them to.\"\n\"All right. If all you do is build airplanes, let's talk about how well\nyou do that,\" Malone said. \"Looking at this list here, you had how\nmany design changes on the slats? Eight?\"\nCasey thought, She doesn't understand. She's not listening. She\ndoesn't get what she's being told.\n\"No. Two retrofits,\" Marder said.\"But there are eight incidents here. You'd agree to that...\"\n\"Yes,\" Marder said irritably, \"but we're not talking about\nincidents, we're talking about ADs, and there are only two ADs.\" He\nwas getting angry, his face flushed.\n\"I see,\" Malone said. \"So. Norton had two design problems on\nthe slats for this aircraft.\"\n\"There were two corrections.\"\n\"Two corrections of your original erroneous design,\" Malone said.\n\"And that's just for slats. We haven't gotten to the flaps or the\nrudder or the fuel tanks and the rest of the airplane. Just in this one\ntiny system, two corrections. Didn't you test this aircraft, before you\nsold it to unsuspecting customers?\"\n\"Of course we tested it,\" Marder said, through clenched teeth.\n\"But you have to realize—\"\n\"What I realize,\" Malone said, \"is that people have died because\nof your design errors, Mr. Marder. That plane is a deathtrap. And you\ndon't seem to care about that at all.\"\n\"Oh for Christ's fucking sake!\" Marder threw up his hands and\njumped out of his seat. He stomped around the room. \"I can't\nfucking believe this!\"\nIt was almost too easy, Jennifer thought. In fact, it was too easy.\nShe was suspicious of Marder's histrionic outburst. During the\ninterview, she'd formed a different impression of this man. He wasn't\nthe assistant principal. He was much smarter than that. She realized\nit from watching his eyes. Most people made an involuntary eye\nmovement when asked a question. They looked up, down, or\nsideways. But Marder's gaze was steady, calm. He was completely in\ncontrol.\nAnd she suspected he was in control now, deliberately losing his\ntemper. Why?\nShe didn't really care. Her goal from the beginning had been to\nblow these people out. To make them worried enough to pass her\non to the president. Jennifer wanted Marty Reardon to interview the\npresident.\nThis was vital to her story. It would undermine the segment if\nNewsline made serious charges against the N-22, and the companyfielded a middle-level flunky or a press nerd to respond. But if she\ncould get the president on camera, her whole segment attained a\nnew level of credibility.\nShe wanted the president.\nThings were going well.\nMarder said, \"You explain it, Casey.\"\nCasey had been appalled by Marder's explosion. Marder was\nfamously bad tempered, but it was a major tactical error to blow up\nin front of a reporter. And now, still red faced and huffing behind his\ndesk, Marder said, \"You explain it, Casey.\"\nShe turned to face Malone.\n\"Ms. Malone,\" Casey said, \"I think everyone here is deeply\ncommitted to flight safety.\" She hoped that would explain Marder's\noutburst. \"We're committed to product safety, and the N-22 has an\nexcellent safety record. And if something does go wrong with one of\nour planes—\"\n\"Something did go wrong,\" Malone said, looking evenly at Casey.\n\"Yes,\" Casey said. \"And we're investigating that incident now. I'm\non the team conducting that investigation, and we are working\naround the clock to understand what happened.\"\n\"You mean why the slats extended? But you must know. It's\nhappened so many times before.\"\nCasey said, \"At this point—\"\n\"Listen,\" Marder said, breaking in, \"it wasn't the damn slats.\nFrederick Barker is a hopeless alcoholic and a paid liar who works for\na sleazebag lawyer. No one in his right mind would listen to him.\"\nCasey bit her lip. She couldn't contradict Marder in front of the\nreporter, but—\nMalone said, \"If it wasn't the slats—\"\n\"It wasn't the slats,\" Marder said firmly. \"We'll issue a preliminary\nreport in the next twenty-four hours that will conclusively\ndemonstrate that.\"\nCasey thought: What? What was he saying? There was no such\nthing as a preliminary report.\n\"Really,\" Malone said, softly.\"That's right,\" Marder said. \"Casey Singleton's the press liaison\non the IRT. We'll be getting back to you, Ms. Malone.\"\nMalone seemed to realize that Marder was terminating the\ninterview. She said, \"But there's much more, we need to go over, Mr.\nMarder. There is also the Miami rotor burst. And union opposition to\nthe China sale—\"\n\"Oh, come on,\" Marder said.\n\"Given the seriousness of these charges,\" she continued, \"I think\nthat you may want to consider our offer to give your president, Mr.\nEdgarton, an opportunity to respond.\"\n\"That's not going to happen,\" Marder said.\n\"It's for your own benefit,\" Malone said. \"If we have to say that\nthe president refused to talk to us, that sounds—\"\n\"Look,\" Marder said. \"Let's cut the crap. Without Trans-Pacific,\nyou have no story. And we are going to issue a preliminary report on\nTranspacific tomorrow. You'll be informed when. That's all we have\nfor the moment, Ms. Malone. Thank you for coming by.\"\nThe interview was over.\nNORTON ADMINISTRATION\n12:43 . .\nP M\n\"I can't believe that woman,\" Marder said, after Malone had\ngone. \"She isn't interested in the facts. She isn't interested in the\nFAA. She isn't interested in how we build airplanes. She's just doing\na hatchet job. Is she working for Airbus? That's what I want to\nknow.\"\n\"John,\" Casey said, \"about the preliminary finding—\" \"Forget it,\"\nMarder snapped. \"I'll deal with it. You go back to work. I'll talk to the\ntenth floor, get some input, arrange a few things. We'll talk later\ntoday.\" \"But John,\" Casey said, \"you told her it wasn't the slats.\" \"It's\nmy problem,\" Marder said. \"You go back to work.\"\nWhen Casey was gone, Marder called Edgarton.\n\"My flight's in an hour,\" Edgarton said. \"I'm going to Hong Kong\nto show my concern for the families of the deceased by personally\nvisiting them. Talk to the carrier, express my sympathies to the\nrelatives.\"\"Good idea, Hal,\" Marder said.\n\"Where are we on this press thing?\"\n\"Well, it's as I suspected,\" Marder said. \"Newsline is putting\ntogether a story that's extremely critical of the N-22.\"\n\"Can you stop it?'\n\"Absolutely. No question,\" Marder said.\n\"How?\" Edgarton said.\n\"We'll issue a preliminary report that it wasn't slats. Our\npreliminary will say the accident was caused by a counterfeit cowl on\nthe thrust reversers.\"\n\"Is there a bad cowl on the plane?\"\n\"Yes. But it didn't cause the accident\"\n\"That's fine,\" Edgarton said. \"A bad part is fine. Just so it's not a\nNorton problem.\"\n\"Right,\" Marder said.\n\"And the girl's going to say that?\"\n\"Yes,\" Marder said.\n\"She better,\" Edgarton said. \"Because it can be tricky talking to\nthese pricks.\"\n\"Reardon,\" Marder said. \"It's Marty Reardon.\"\n\"Whatever. She knows what to say?\"\n\"Yes.\"\n\"You've briefed her?\"\n\"Yes. And I'll go over it with her again later.\"\n\"Okay,\" Edgarton said. \"I also want her to see that media training\nwoman.\"\n\"I don't know, Hal, do you really think—\"\n\"Yes, I do,\" Edgarton said, cutting in. \"And so do you. Singleton\nshould be fully prepared for the interview.\"\n\"Okay,\" Marder said.\n\"Just remember,\" Edgarton said. \"You fuck this up, you're dead.\"\nHe hung up.\nOUTSIDE NORTON ADMINISTRATION\n1:04 . .\nP MOutside the Administration building, Jennifer Malone got into her\ncar, more distressed than she cared to admit. She now felt it was\nunlikely the company would produce the president. And she was\nworried—she had the feeling—that they might make Singleton their\nspokesperson.\nThat could alter the emotional tenor of the segment. The\naudience wanted to see beefy, arrogant captains of industry get their\njust deserts. An intelligent, earnest, attractive woman wouldn't play\nnearly as well. Were they smart enough to know that?\nAnd, of course, Marty would attack her.\nThat wouldn't look so good, either.\nJust imagining the two of them together gave Jennifer the\nshivers. Singleton was bright, with an appealing, open quality.\nMarty'd be attacking motherhood and apple pie. And you couldn't\nhold Marty back. He'd go for the throat.\nBut beyond that, Jennifer was starting to worry that the entire\nsegment was weak. Barker had been so convincing when she\ninterviewed him; she had felt elated afterward. But if these ADs\nwere for real, then the company was on solid ground. And she\nworried about Barker's record. If the FAA had the goods on him,\nthen his credibility was shot. They'd look foolish giving him airtime.\nThe reporter, Jack Whatshisname, was disappointing. He didn't\nplay well on camera, and his material was thin. Because in the end,\nnobody gave a damn about drugs on the factory floor. Every\ncompany in America had drug problems. That wasn't news. And it\ndidn't prove the airplane was bad—which was what she needed. She\nneeded vivid, persuasive visuals to demonstrate that airplane was a\ndeathtrap.\nShe didn't have them.\nSo far, all she had was the CNN tape, which was old news, and\nthe Miami rotor burst, which was not very compelling visually. Smoke\ncoming out from a wing.\nBig deal.\nWorst of all, if the company really was going to issue a\npreliminary finding that contradicted Barker—\nHer cell phone rang.\"Speak to me,\" Dick Shenk said.\n\"Hi, Dick,\" she said.\n\"So? Where are we?\" Shenk said. \"I'm looking at the board right\nnow. Marty finishes with Bill Gates in two hours.\"\nSome part of her wanted to say, Forget it. The story's flaky. It\nisn't coming together. I was dumb to think I could nail it in two days.\n\"Jennifer? Do I send him, or not?\"\nBut she couldn't say no. She couldn't admit she had been wrong.\nHe'd kill her if she backed off the story now. Everything about the\nway she had made her proposal, and the cool way she had walked\nout of his office, forced her hand now. There was only one possible\nanswer.\n\"Yes, Dick. I want him.\"\n\"You'll have the piece for Saturday?\"\n\"Yes, Dick.\"\n\"And it's not a parts story?\"\n\"No, Dick.\"\n\"Because I don't want sloppy seconds on 60 Minutes, Jennifer. It\nbetter not be a parts story.\"\n\"It's not, Dick.\"\n\"I don't hear confidence,\" he said.\n\"I'm confident, Dick. I'm just tired.\"\n\"Okay. Marty leaves Seattle at four. He'll be at the hotel about\neight. Have the shoot schedule ready when he arrives and fax me a\ncopy at home. You've got him all tomorrow.\"\n\"Okay, Dick.\"\n\"Nail it, babe,\" he said, and hung up.\nShe flipped the phone shut, and sighed.\nShe turned on the ignition, and put the car in reverse.\nCasey saw Malone backing out of the parking lot. She was driving\na black Lexus, the same car Jim drove. Malone didn't see her, which\nwas just as well. Casey had a lot on her mind.\nShe was still trying to figure out what Marder was doing. He had\nblown up at the reporter, told her it wasn't a slats incident, and told\nher there was going to be a preliminary finding from the IRT. Howcould he say that? Marder had bravado to spare, but this time he\nwas digging a hole. She didn't understand how his behavior could do\nanything but damage the company—and himself.\nAnd John Marder, she knew, never damaged himself.\nQA\n2:10P.M.\nNorma listened to Casey for several minutes without interruption.\nFinally she said, \"And what's your question?'\n\"I think Marder's going to make me the spokesman for the\ncompany.\"\n\"Par for the course,\" Norma said. \"The big guys always run for\ncover. Edgarton will never do it. And Marder won't, either. You're the\npress liaison for the IRT. And you're a vice-president of Norton\nAircraft. That's what it will say at the bottom of the screen.\"\nCasey was silent.\nNorma looked at her. \"What's your question?\" she said again.\n\"Marder told the reporter that TPA 545 wasn't a slats problem,\"\nshe said, \"and that we were going to have a preliminary report by\ntomorrow.\"\n\"Hrnmm.\"\n\"It's not true.\"\n\"Hmmm.\"\n\"Why is Marder doing this?\" Casey said. \"Why did he set me up\nfor this?\"\n\"Saving his skin,\" Norma said. \"Probably avoiding a problem he\nknows about, and you don't.\"\n\"What problem?\"\nNorma shook her head. \"My guess is something about the plane.\nMarder was program manager on the N-22. He knows more about\nthat aircraft than any other person in the company. There may be\nsomething he doesn't want to come out.\"\n\"So he announces a phony finding?\"\n\"That's my guess.\"\n\"And I'm the one carrying the water?\"\n\"Looks like it,\" Norma said.Casey was silent. \"What should I do?'\n\"Figure it out,\" Norma said, squinting through the smoke of her\ncigarette.\n\"There's no time...\"\nNorma shrugged. \"Find out what happened to that flight.\nBecause your tail is on the line, honey. That's how Marder's set it\nup.\"\nWalking down the hall, she saw Richman.\n\"Well, hi—\"\n\"Later,\" she said.\nShe went into her office and shut the door. She picked up a\nphotograph of her daughter and stared at it In the picture, Allison\nhad just emerged from a neighbor's swimming pool. She stood with\nanother girl her age, both of them in swimming suits, dripping water.\nSleek young bodies, smiling gap-toothed faces, carefree and\ninnocent.\nCasey pushed the picture aside, turned to a large box on her\ndesk; opening it, she removed a black portable CD player, with a\nneoprene sling. There were wires that ran to a strange pair of\ngoggles. They were oversize, and looked like safety goggles, except\nthey didn't wrap around. And there was a funny coating on the\ninside of the lenses, sort of shimmery in the light This, she knew,\nwas the maintenance Heads-Up Display. A card from Tom Korman\nfell out of the box'. It said, \"First test of VHUD. Enjoy!\"\nEnjoy.\nShe pushed the goggles aside, looked at the other papers on her\ndesk. The CVR transcript of cockpit communications had finally come\nin. She also saw a copy of Transpacific Flight-lines. There was a\npostit on one page.\nShe flipped it open to the picture of John Chang, employee of the\nmonth. The picture was not what she had imagined from the fax.\nJohn Chang was a very fit man in his forties. His wife stood beside\nhim, heavier, smiling. And the children, crouched at the parents' feet,\nwere fully grown: a girl in her late teens, and a boy in his early\ntwenties. The son resembled his father, except he was a little morecontemporary; he had extremely closely cropped hair, a tiny gold\nstud in his ear.\nShe looked at the caption: \"Here he relaxes on the beach at\nLantan Island with his wife, Soon, and his children, Erica and Tom.\"\nIn front of the family a blue towel was spread across the sand;\nnearby, a wicker picnic basket, with blue-checked cloth peeking out.\nThe scene was mundane and uninteresting.\nWhy would anyone fax this to her?\nShe looked at the date on the magazine. January, three months\nago.\nBut someone had had a copy of that magazine, and had faxed it\nto Casey. Who? An employee of the airline? A passenger? Who?\nAnd why?\nWhat was it supposed to tell her?\nAs Casey looked at the magazine picture, she was reminded of\nthe unresolved threads of the investigation. There was a great deal\nof checking still to do, and she might as well get started.\nNorma was right.\nCasey didn't know what Marder was up to. But maybe it didn't\nmatter. Because her job was still the same as it had always been: to\nfind out what happened to Flight 545.\nShe came out of the office. \"Where's Richman?\" Norma smiled. \"I\nsent him over to Media Relations to see Benson. Pick up some\nstandard press packets, in case we need them.\"\n\"Benson's got to be pissed off about this,\" Casey said.\n\"Uh-huh,\" Norma said. \"Might even give Mr. Richman a hard\ntime.\" She smiled, looked at her watch. \"But I'd say you've got an\nhour or so, to do what you want. So get going.\"\nNAIL\n3:05 . .\nP M\n\"So. Singleton,\" Ziegler said, waving her to a seat. After five\nminutes of pounding on the soundproof door, she had been admitted\nto the Audio Lab. \"I believe we found what you were looking for,\"\nZiegler said.On the monitor in front of her she saw a freeze-frame of the\nsmiling baby, sitting on the mother's lap.\n\"You wanted the period just prior to the incident,\" Ziegler said.\n\"Here we're approximately eighteen seconds prior. I'll start with full\naudio, and then cut in the filters. Ready?\"\n\"Yes,\" she said.\nZiegler ran the tape. At high volume, the baby's slobbering was\nlike a bubbling brook. The hum inside the cabin was a constant roar.\n'Taste good?\" the man's voice said to the baby, very loudly.\n\"Cutting in,\" Ziegler said. \"High-end bypass.\"\nThe sound got duller.\n\"Cabin ambient bypass.\"\nThe slobbering was suddenly loud against a silent background,\nthe cabin roar gone.\n\"High delta-V bypass.\"\nThe slobbering was diminished. What she heard now were mostly\nbackground sounds—silverware clinking, fabric movement.\nThe man said, \"Is—at—akfast—or you—arah?\" His voice cut in\nand out.\n\"Delta-V bypass is no good for human speech,\" Ziegler said. \"But\nyou don't care, right?\"\n\"No,\" Casey said.\nThe man said, \"Not—ailing—or—ewardess—on—is— ightr\nWhen the man finished, the screen became almost silent again,\njust a few distant noises.\n\"Now,\" Ziegler said. \"It starts.\"\nA counter appeared on the screen. The timer ran forward, red\nnumerals flickering fast, counting tenths and hundredths of a\nsecond.\nThe wife jerked her head around. \"What—wa—at?\"\n\"Damn,\" Casey said.\nShe could hear it now. A low rumble, a definite shuddering bass\nsound.\n\"It's been thinned by the bypass,\" Ziegler said. \"Deep, low\nrumble. Down in the two to five hertz range. Almost a vibration.\"No question, Casey thought. With the filters in place, she could\nhear it. It was there.\nThe man's voice broke in, a booming laugh: \"Ake it— easy—Em.\"\nThe baby giggled again, a sharp earsplitting crackle.\nThe husband said,\"—ost—ome—oney.\"\nThe low-pitched rumbling ended.\n\"Stop!\" Casey said.\nThe red numerals froze. The numbers were big on the screen—\n11:59:32.\nNearly twelve seconds, she thought. And twelve seconds was the\ntime it took for the slats to fully deploy.\nThe slats had deployed on Flight 545.\nBy now, the tape was showing the steep descent, the baby\nsliding on the mother's lap, the mother clutching it, her panicked\nface. The passengers anxious in the background. With the filters in\nplace, all their shouts produced unusual clipped-off noise, almost like\nstatic.\nZiegler stopped the tape.\n\"There's your data, Singleton. Unequivocal, I'd say.\"\n\"The slats deployed.\"\n\"Sure sounds like it. It's a fairly unique signature.\"\n\"Why?\" The aircraft was in cruise flight. Why would they deploy?\nWas it uncommanded, or had the pilot done it? Casey wished again\nfor the flight data recorder. All these questions could be answered in\na few minutes, if they just had the data from the FDR. But it was\ngoing very slowly.\n\"Did you look at the rest of the tape?\"\n\"Well, the next point of interest is the cockpit alarms,\" Ziegler\nsaid. \"Once the camera jams in the door, I can listen to the audio,\nand assemble a sequence of what the aircraft was telling the pilot.\nBut that'll take me another day.\"\n\"Stay with it,\" she said. \"I want everything you can give me.\"\nThen her beeper went off. She pulled it off her belt, looked at it.\n••• JM ADMIN ASAP BTOYAJohn Marder wanted to see her. In his office. Now.\nNORTON ADMINISTRATION\n5:00 . .\nP M\nJohn Marder was in his calm mood—the dangerous one.\n\"Just a short interview,\" he said. 'Ten, fifteen minutes at most.\nYou won't have time to go into specifics. But as the head of the IRT,\nyou're in the perfect position to explain the company's commitment\nto safety. How carefully we review accidents. Our commitment to\nproduct support. Then you can explain that our preliminary report\nshows the accident was caused by a counterfeit thruster cowl,\ninstalled at a foreign repair station, so it could not have been a slats\nevent. And blow Barker out of the water. Blow Newsline out of the\nwater.\"\n\"John,\" she said. \"I just came from Audio. There's no question—\nthe slats deployed.\"\n\"Well, audio's circumstantial at best,\" Marder said. \"Ziegler's a\nnut. We have to wait for the flight data recorder to know precisely\nwhat happened. Meanwhile, the IRT has made a preliminary finding\nwhich excludes slats.\"\nAs if hearing her own voice from a distance, she said, \"John, I'm\nuncomfortable with this.\"\n\"We're talking about the future, Casey.\"\n\"I understand, but—\"\n\"The China sale will save the company. Cash flow, stretch\ndevelopment, new aircraft, bright future. That's what we're talking\nabout here, Casey. Thousands of jobs.\"\n\"I understand, John, but—\"\n\"Let me ask you something, Casey. Do you think there's anything\nwrong with the N-22?\"\nAbsolutely not.\"\n\"You think it's a deathtrap?\"\n\"No.\"\n\"What about the company? Think it's a good company?\"\n\"Of course.\"He stared at her, shaking his head. Finally he said, \"There's\nsomeone I want you to talk to.\"\nEdward Fuller was the head of Norton Legal. He was a thin,\nungainly man of forty. He sat uneasily in the chair in Marder's office.\n\"Edward,\" Marder said, \"we have a problem. Newsline is going to\nrun a story on the N-22 this weekend on prime-time television, and\nit is going to be highly unfavorable.\"\n\"How unfavorable?\"\nThey're calling the N-22 a deathtrap.\"\n\"Oh dear,\" Fuller said. \"That's very unfortunate.\"\n\"Yes, it is,\" Marder said. \"I brought you in because I want to\nknow what I can do about it.\"\n\"Do about it?\" Fuller said, frowning.\n\"Yes,\" Marder said. \"We feel Newsline is being crudely\nsensationalistic. We regard their story as uninformed, and prejudicial\nto our product. We believe they are deliberately and recklessly\ndefaming us.\"\n\"I see.\"\n\"So,\" Marder said. \"What can we do? Can we prevent them from\nrunning the story?'\n\"No.\"\n\"Can we get a court injunction barring them?\"\n\"No. That's prior restraint. And from a publicity standpoint, it's ill\nadvised.\"\n\"You mean it'd look bad.\"\n\"An attempt to muzzle the press? Violate the First Amendment?\nThat would suggest you have something to hide.\"\n\"In other words,\" Marder said, \"they can run the story, and we\nare powerless to stop them.\"\n\"Yes.\"\n\"Okay. But I think Newsline's information is inaccurate and\nbiased. Can we demand they give equal time to our evidence?\"\n\"No,\" Fuller said. \"The fairness doctrine, which included the\nequal-time provision, was scrapped under Reagan. Television news\nprograms are under no obligation to present all sides of an issue.\"\"So they can say anything they want? No matter how\nunbalanced?\"\n\"That's right.\"\n\"That doesn't seem proper.\"\n\"It's the law,\" Fuller said, with a shrug.\n\"Okay,\" Marder said. \"Now, this program is going to air at a very\nsensitive moment for our company. Adverse publicity may very well\ncost us the China sale.\"\n\"Yes, it might.\"\n\"Suppose we lost business as a result of their show. If we can\ndemonstrate that Newsline presented an erroneous view— and we\ntold them it was erroneous—can we sue them for damages?\"\n\"As a practical matter, no. We would probably have to show they\nproceeded with 'reckless disregard' for the facts known to them.\nHistorically, that has been extremely difficult to prove.\"\n\"So Newsline is not liable for damages?\"\n\"No.\"\n\"They can say whatever they want, and if they put us out of\nbusiness, it's our tough luck?\"\n\"That's correct.\"\n\"Is there any restraint at all on what they say?\"\n\"Well.\" Fuller shifted in the chair. \"If they falsely portrayed the\ncompany, they might be liable. But in this instance, we have a\nlawsuit brought by an attorney for a passenger on 545.\nSo Newsline is able to say they're just reporting the facts: that an\nattorney has made the following accusations about us.\"\n\"I understand,\" Marder said. \"But a claim filed in a court has\nlimited publicity. Newsline is going to present these crazy claims to\nforty million viewers. And at the same time, they'll automatically\nvalidate the claims, simply by repeating them on television. The\ndamage to us comes from their exposure, not from the original\nclaims.\"\n\"I take your point,\" Fuller said. \"But the law doesn't see it that\nway. Newsline has the right to report a lawsuit.\"\n\"Newsline has no responsibility to independently assess the legal\nclaims being made, no matter how outrageous? If the lawyer said,for example, that we employed child molesters, Newsline could still\nreport that, with no liability to themselves?\"\n\"Correct.\"\n\"Let's say we go to trial and win. It's clear that Newsline\npresented an erroneous view of our product, based on the attorney's\nallegations, which have been thrown out of court. Is Newsline\nobligated to retract the statements they made to forty million\nviewers?\"\n\"No. They have no such obligation.\"\n\"Why not?\"\n\"Newsline can decide what's newsworthy. If they think the\noutcome of the trial is not newsworthy, they don't have to report it.\nIt's their call.\"\n\"And meanwhile, the company is bankrupt,\" Marder said. \"Thirty\nthousand employees lose their jobs, houses, health benefits, and\nstart new careers at Burger King. And another fifty thousand lose\ntheir jobs, when our suppliers go belly up in Georgia, Ohio, Texas,\nand Connecticut. All those fine people who've devoted their lives\nworking to design, build, and support the best airframe in the\nbusiness get a firm handshake and a swift kick in the butt. Is that\nhow it works?\"\nFuller shrugged. \"That's how the system works. Yes.\"\n\"I'd say the system sucks.\"\n\"The system is the system,\" Fuller said.\nMarder glanced at Casey, then turned back to Fuller. \"Now Ed,\"\nhe said. \"This situation sounds very lopsided. We make a superb\nproduct, and all the objective measures of its performance\ndemonstrate that it's safe and reliable. We've spent years developing\nand testing it. We've got an irrefutable track record. But you're\nsaying a television crew can come in, hang around a day or two, and\ntrash our product on national TV. And when they do, they have no\nresponsibility for their acts, and we have no way to recover\ndamages.\"\nFuller nodded.\n\"Pretty lopsided,\" Marder said.Fuller cleared his throat. \"Well, it wasn't always that way. But for\nthe last thirty years, since Sullivan in 1964, the First Amendment has\nbeen invoked in defamation cases. Now the press has a lot more\nbreathing room.\"\n\"Including room for abuse,\" Marder said.\nFuller shrugged. \"Press abuse is an old complaint,\" he said. \"Just\na few years after the First Amendment was passed, Thomas\nJefferson complained about how inaccurate the press was, how\nunfair—\"\n\"But Ed,\" Marder said. \"We're not talking about two hundred\nyears ago. And we're not talking about a few nasty editorials in\ncolonial newspapers. We're talking about a television show with\ncompelling images that goes instantaneously to forty, fifty million\npeople—a sizable percentage of the whole country—and murders our\nreputation. Murders it. Unjustifiably. That's the situation we're talking\nabout here. So,\" Marder said, \"what do you advise us to do, Ed?\"\n\"Well.\" Fuller cleared his throat again. \"I always advise my clients\nto tell the truth.\"\n\"That's fine, Ed. That's sound counsel. But what do we doT\n\"It would be best,\" he said, \"if you were prepared to explain\nwhat occurred on Flight 545.\"\n\"It happened four days ago. We don't have a finding yet.\" Fuller\nsaid, \"It would be best if you did.\"\nAfter Fuller had left, Marder turned to Casey. He didn't say\nanything. He just looked at her.\nCasey stood there for a moment. She understood what Marder\nand the lawyer were doing. It had been a very effective\nperformance. But the lawyer was also right, she thought. It would\nbe best if they could tell the truth, and explain the flight. As she\nlistened to him, she had begun to think that somehow she might\nfind a way to tell the truth—or enough of the truth—to make this\nwork. There were enough loose ends, enough uncertainties, that she\nmight pull them together to form a coherent story.\n\"All right, John,\" she said. \"I'll do the interview.\" \"Excellent,\"\nMarder said, smiling and rubbing his hands together. \"I knew you'd\ndo the right thing, Casey. Newsline has scheduled a slot at four . .\nP Mtomorrow. Meantime I want you to work briefly with a media\nconsultant, someone from outside the company—\" \"John,\" she said.\n\"I'll do it my way.\" \"She's a very nice woman, and—\" \"I'm sorry,\"\nCasey said. \"I don't have time.\" \"She can help you, Casey. Give you\na few pointers.\" \"John,\" she said. \"I have work to do.\" And she left\nthe room.\nDIGITAL DATA CENTER\n6:15 . .\nP M\nShe had not promised to say what Marder wanted her to say; she\nhad only promised to do the interview. She had less than twenty-\nfour hours to make significant progress in the investigation. She was\nnot so foolish as to imagine she could determine what had happened\nin that time. But she could find something to tell the reporter.\nThere were still many dangling leads: the possible problem with\nthe locking pin. The possible problem with the proximity sensor. The\npossible interview with the first officer in Vancouver. The videotape\nat Video Imaging. The translation Ellen Fong was doing. The fact\nthat the slats had deployed, but had been stowed immediately\nafterward—what exactly did that mean?\nStill so much to check.\n\"I know you need the data,\" Rob Wong said, spinning in his chair.\n\"I know, believe me.\" He was in the Digital Display Room, in front of\nthe screens filled with data. \"But what do you expect me to do?\"\n\"Rob,\" Casey said. \"The slats deployed. I have to know why—and\nwhat else happened on the flight. I can't figure it out without the\nflight recorder data.\"\n\"In that case,\" Wong said, \"you better face the facts. We've been\nrecalibrating all the one hundred and twenty hours of data. The first\nninety-seven hours are okay. The last twenty-three hours are\nanomalous.\"\n\"I'm only interested in the last three hours.\"\n\"I understand,\" Wong said. \"But to recalibrate those three hours,\nwe have to go back to where the bus blew, and work forward. We\nhave to calibrate twenty-three hours of data. And it's taking us about\ntwo minutes a frame to recalibrate.\"She frowned. \"What are you telling me?\" But she was already\ncalculating it in her head.\n'Two minutes a frame means it'll take us sixty-five weeks.\"\n\"That's more than a year!\"\n\"Working twenty-four hours a day. Real world, it'd take us three\nyears to generate the data.\"\n\"Rob, we need this now.\"\n\"It just can't be done, Casey. You're going to have to work this\nwithout the FDR. I'm sorry, Casey. That's the way it is.\"\nShe called Accounting. \"Is Ellen Fong there?\"\n\"She didn't come in today. She said she was working at home.\"\n\"Do you have her number?\"\n\"Sure,\" the woman said. \"But she won't be there. She had to go\nto a formal dinner. Some charity thing with her husband.\"\n'Tell her I called,\" Casey said.\nShe called Video Imaging in Glendale, the company that was\nworking on the videotape for her. She asked for Scott Harmon.\n\"Scott's gone for the day. He'll be in at nine tomorrow morning.\"\nShe called Steve Nieto, the Fizer in Vancouver, and got his\nsecretary. \"Steve's not here,\" she said. \"He had to leave early. But I\nknow he wanted to talk to you. He said he had bad news.\"\nCasey sighed. That seemed to be the only kind of news she was\ngetting. \"Can you reach him?\"\n\"Not until tomorrow.\" \"Tell him I called.\"\nHer cell phone rang.\n\"Jesus, that Benson is unpleasant,\" Richman said. \"What's his\nproblem? I thought he was going to hit me.\"\n\"Where are your\n\"At the office. Want me to come to you?\"\n\"No,\" Casey said. \"It's after six. You're done for today.\"\n\"But—\"\n\"See you tomorrow, Bob.\"\nShe hung up.\nOn the way out of Hangar 5, she saw the electrical crews rigging\nTPA 545 for the CET that night. The entire aircraft had been raised\nten feet into the air, and now rested on heavy blue metal fixturesbeneath each wing, and fore and aft on the fuselage. The crews had\nthen slung black safety webbing beneath the underside of the\naircraft, some twenty feet above the ground. All along the fuselage,\ndoors and accessory panels were open, and electricians standing on\nthe webbing were running cables from the junction boxes back to\nthe main CET test console, a six-foot square box that was placed in\nthe center of the floor to one side of the aircraft.\nThe Cycle Electrical Test, as it was known, consisted of sending\nelectrical impulses to all parts of the aircraft's electrical system. In\nrapid succession, every component was tested—everything from\ncabin lights to reading lights, cockpit display panels, engine ignition,\nand landing-gear wheels. The full test cycle ran two hours. It would\nbe repeated a dozen times, throughout the night\nAs she passed the console, she saw Teddy Rawley. He gave her a\nwave, but didn't approach her. He was busy; undoubtedly he'd heard\nthat Flight Test was scheduled three days from now, and he would\nwant to be sure the electrical test was performed correctly.\nShe waved to Teddy, but he had already turned away. Casey\nheaded back to her office.\nOutside, it was growing dark, the sky a deep blue. She walked\nback toward Administration, hearing the distant rush of take-offs\nfrom Burbank airport. On the way, she saw Amos Peters, shuffling\ntoward his car, carrying a stack of papers under his arm. He looked\nback and saw her.\n\"Hey, Casey.\"\n\"Hi, Amos.\"\nHe dropped his papers with a thud on the roof of his car, bent to\nunlock the door. \"I hear they're putting the screws to you.\"\n\"Yeah.\" She was not surprised he knew. The whole plant\nprobably knew by now. It was one of the first things she had learned\nat Norton. Everyone knew everything, minutes after it happened.\n\"You going to do the interview?\"\n\"I said I would.\"\n\"You going to say what they want you to say?\"\nShe shrugged.\"Don't get high and mighty,\" he said. \"These are television\npeople. They're beneath pond scum on the evolutionary scale. Just\nlie. Hell with it\"\n\"We'll see.\"\nHe sighed. \"You're old enough to know how it works,\" he said.\n\"You going home now?\"\n\"Not for a while.\"\n\"I wouldn't be hanging around the plant at night Casey.\"\n\"Why not?\"\n\"People are upset\" Amos said. \"Next few days, it'd be better to\ngo home early. You know what I mean?\"\n\"I'll bear it in mind.\"\n\"Do that Casey. I mean it\"\nHe got in his car, and drove off.\nQA\n7:20 . .\nP M\nNorma was gone. The QA office was deserted. The cleaning\ncrews had already started in the back offices; she heard a tinny\nportable radio playing \"Run Baby Run.\"\nCasey went to the coffeemaker, poured a cup of cold coffee, and\ntook it into her own office. She flicked on the lights, stared at the\nstack of papers waiting on her desk.\nShe sat down and tried not to be discouraged by the way things\nwere going. She had twenty hours until the interview, and her leads\nwere falling apart\nJust lie. Hell with it.\nShe sighed. Maybe Amos was right\nShe stared at the papers, pushing aside the picture of John\nChang and his smiling family. She didn't know what to do, except go\nthrough the papers. And check.\nShe again came to the charts of the flight plan. Again, they\nteased her. She remembered she had had an idea, just before\nMarder called her the night before. She had a feeling ... but what\nwas it?Whatever it was, it was gone now. She set the flight plan aside,\nincluding the General Declaration (Outward/Inward) that had been\nfiled with it which listed the crew:\nJohn Zhen Chang, Captain 5/7/51 M\nLeu Zan Ping, First Officer 3/11/59 M\nRichard Yong, First Officer 9/9/61 M\nGerhard Reimann, First Officer 7/23/49 M\nThomas Chang, First Officer 6/29/70 M\nHenri Marchand, Engineer 4/25/69 M\nRobert Sheng, Engineer 6/13/62 M\nHarriet Chang, Flight Attendant 5/12/77 F\nLinda Ching, Flight Attendant 5/18/76 F\nNancy Morley, Flight Attendant 7/19/75 F\nKay Liang, Flight Attendant 6/4/67 F\nJohn White, Flight Attendant 1/30/70 M\nM. V. Chang, Flight Attendant 4/1/77 F\nSha Van Hao, Flight Attendant 3/13/73 F\nY. Jiao, Flight Attendant 11/18/76 F\nHarriet King, Flight Attendant 10/10/75 F\nB. Choi, Flight Attendant 11/18/76 F\nYee Chang, Flight Attendant 1/8/74 F\nShe paused, sipped the cold coffee. There was something odd\nabout this list she thought. But she couldn't put her finger on it\nShe set the list aside.\nNext a transcript of communications from Southern California Air\nTraffic Approach Control. As usual it was printed without\npunctuation, the transmission to 545 intermixed with transmissions\nto several other aircraft:\n0543:12 UAH198 three six five ground\nthirty five thousand\n0543:17 USA2585 on frequency again\nchanged radios sorry about that\n0543:15 ATAC one nine eight copy0543:19 AAL001 fuel remaining four two\nzero one\n0543:22 ATAC copy that two five eight\nfive no problem we have you now\n0543:23 TPA545 this is transpacific five\nfour five we have an emergency\n0543:26 ATAC affirmative zero zero\none\n0543:29 ATAC go ahead five four five\n0543:31 TPA545 request priority\nclearance for emergency landing in los angeles\n0543:32 AAL001 down to twenty nine\nthousand\n0543:35 ATAC okay five four five\nunderstand you request priority clearance to land\n0543:40 TPA545 affirmative\n0543:41 ATAC say the nature of your\nemergency\n0543:42 UAH 198 three two one ground\nthirty two thousand\n0543:55 AALOOl holding two six nine\n0544:05 TPA545 we have a passenger emergency\nwe need ambulances on the ground i would say thirty or forty\nambulances maybe more\n0544:10 ATAC tpa five four five say\nagain are you asking for forty ambulances\n0544:27 UAH 198 turn one two four point\nniner\n0544:35 TPA545 affirmative we encountered severe\nturbulence during flight we have injuries of passengers and flight\ncrew\n0544:48 ATAC copy one nine eight\ngood day\n0544:50 ATAC transpacific i copy your\nground request for forty ambulances\n0544:52 UAH198 thank youCasey puzzled over the exchanges. Because they suggested very\nerratic behavior by the pilot.\nFor example, the Transpacific incident had occurred shortly after\nfive in the morning. At that time, the plane was still in radio contact\nwith Honolulu ARINC. With so many injuries, the captain could have\nreported an emergency to Honolulu.\nBut he hadn't done that.\nWhy not?\nInstead, the pilot continued to Los Angeles. And he had waited\nuntil he was about to land before reporting an emergency.\nWhy had he waited so long?\nAnd why would he say the incident had been caused by\nturbulence? He knew that wasn't true. The captain had told the\nstewardess the slats deployed. And she knew, from Ziegler's audio,\nthat the slats had deployed. So why hadn't the pilot announced it?\nWhy lie to approach control?\nEveryone agreed John Chang was a good pilot. So what was the\nexplanation for his behavior? Was he in shock? Even the best pilots\nsometimes behaved oddly in a crisis. But there seemed to be a\npattern here—almost a plan. She looked ahead:\n0544:59 ATAC do you need medical\npersonnel too what is the nature of the injuries you are bringing in\n0545:10 TPA545 i am not sure\n0545:20 ATAC can you give us an estimate\n0545:30 TPA545 i am sorry no an estimate is not\npossible\n0545:32 AALOOl two one two niner clear\n0545:35 ATAC is anyone unconscious\n0545:40 TPA545 no i do not think so but two are dead\nThe captain seemed to report the fatalities as an afterthought.\nWhat was really going on?\n0545:43 ATAC copy zero zero one0545:51 ATAC tpa five four five what is\nthe condition of your aircraft\n0545:58 TPA545 we have damage to the passenger\ncabin minor damage only\nCasey thought, Minor damage only? That cabin had sustained\nmillions of dollars of damage. Hadn't the captain gone back to look\nfor himself? Did he not know the extent of the damage? Why would\nhe say what he did?\n0546:12 ATAC what is the condition of\nthe flight deck\n0546:22 TPA545 flight deck is operational fdau is\nnominal\n0546:31 ATAC copy that five four five\nwhat is the condition of your flight crew\n0546:38 TPA545 captain and first officer in good\ncondition\nAt that moment one of the first officers had been covered in\nblood. Again, did the pilot not know? She glanced at the rest of the\ntranscript, then pushed it aside. She'd show it to Felix tomorrow, and\nget his opinion.\nShe went on, looking through the Structure Reports, the Interior\nCabin Reports, the relevant PMA records for the counterfeit slats\nlocking pin and the counterfeit thruster cowl. Steadily, patiently, she\nworked on into the night\nIt was after ten o'clock when she again turned to the faults\nprintout from Flight 545. She had been hoping she could skip this,\nand use the flight recorder data instead. But now there was nothing\nto do but slog through it.\nYawning, tired, she stared at the columns of numbers on the first\npage:\nA/S PWR TEST 00000010000\nAIL SERVO COMP 00001001000\nAOA INV 10200010001CFDS SENS FAIL 00000010000\nCRZ CMD MON INV 10000020100\nEL SERVO COMP 00000000010\nEPR/N1 TRA-1 00000010000\nFMS SPEED INV 00000040000\n.PRESS ALT INV 00000030000\nG/S SPEED ANG 00000010000\nSLAT XSIT T/O 00000000000\nG/S DEV INV 00100050001\nGND SPD INV 00000021000\nTAS INV 00001010000\nTAT INV 00000010000\nAUX 1 00000000000\nAUX 2 00000000000\nAUX 3 00000000000\nAUX COA 01000000000\nA/S ROX-P 00000010000\nRDR PROX-1 00001001000\nAOA BTA 10200000001\nFDS RG 00000010000\nF-CMD MON 10000020100\nShe didn't want to do this. She hadn't eaten dinner yet, and she\nknew she should eat. Anyway, the only questions she had about\nthese fault listings were the AUX readings. She had asked Ron, and\nhe had said the first was the auxiliary power unit, the second and\nthird were unused, and the fourth, AUX COA, was a customer\ninstalled line. But there wasn't anything on those lines, Ron said,\nbecause a zero reading was normal. It was the default reading.\nSo she was really finished with this listing.\nShe was done.\nCasey stood up at her desk, stretched, looked at her watch. It\nwas ten-fifteen. She'd better get some sleep, she thought. After all,\nshe was going to appear on television tomorrow. She didn't want her\nmother to call afterward saying, \"Dear, you looked so\ntired...\"Casey folded up the printout, and put it away.\nZero, she thought, was the perfect default value. Because that\nwas what she was coming up with, on this particular night's work.\nA big zero.\nNothing.\n\"A big fat zero,\" she said aloud. \"Means nothing on the line.\"\nShe didn't want to think what it meant—that time was running\nout, that her plan to push the investigation had failed, and that she\nwas going to end up in front of a television camera tomorrow\nafternoon, with the famous Marty Reardon asking her questions, and\nshe would have no good answers to give him. Except the answers\nthat John Marder wanted her to give.\nJust lie. Hell with it.\nMaybe that was how it was going to turn out.\nYou 're old enough to know how it works.\nCasey turned out her desk light, and started for the door.\nShe said good night to Esther, the cleaning woman, and went out\ninto the hallway. She got into the elevator, and pushed the button to\ngo down to the ground floor.\nThe button lit up when she touched it.\nGlowing\"1\"\nShe yawned as the doors started to close. She was really very\ntired. It was silly to work this late. She'd make foolish mistakes,\noverlook things.\nShe looked at the glowing button.\nAnd then it hit her.\n\"Forget something?\" Esther said, as Casey came back into the\noffice.\n\"No,\" Casey said.\nShe rifled through the sheets on her desk. Fast, searching.\nTossing papers in all directions. Letting them flutter to the floor.\nRon had said the default was zero, and therefore when you got a\nzero you didn't know if the line was used or not. But if there was a 1\n... then that would mean . . . She found the listing, ran her finger\ndown the columns of numbers:AUX 1 00000000000\nAUX 2 00000000000\nAUX 3 00000000000\nAUX COA 01000000000\nThere was a numeral 1! AUX COA had registered a fault, on the\nsecond leg of the flight That meant the AUX COA line was being\nused by the aircraft.\nBut what was it used for?\nShe sucked in her breath.\nShe hardly dared to hope.\nRon said that AUX COA was a line for Customer Optional\nAdditions. The customer used it for add-ons, like a QAR.\nThe QAR was the Quick Access Recorder, another flight data\nrecorder installed to help the maintenance crews. It recorded many\nof the same parameters as a regular DFDR. If a QAR was on this\naircraft, it could solve all her problems.\nBut Ron insisted this plane didn't have a QAR.\nHe said he'd looked in the tail, which was where it was usually\ninstalled on an N-22. And it wasn't there.\nHad he ever looked anywhere else?\nHad he really searched the plane?\nBecause Casey knew an optional item like the QAR was not\nsubject to FAA regulation. It could be anyplace in the aircraft the\noperator wanted it—in the aft accessory compartment, or the cargo\nhold, or the radio rack beneath the cockpit ... It could be just about\nanywhere.\nHad Ron really looked?\nShe decided to check for herself.\nShe spent the next ten minutes thumbing through thick Service\nRepair Manuals for the N-22, without any success. The manuals\ndidn't mention the QAR at all, or at least she couldn't find any\nreference. But the manuals she kept in her office were her personal\ncopies; Casey wasn't directly involved in maintenance, and she didn't\nhave the latest versions. Most of the manuals dated back to her own\narrival at the company; they were five years old.That was when she noticed the Heads-Up Display, sitting on her\ndesk.\nWait a minute, she thought. She grabbed the goggles, slipped\nthem on. She plugged them into the CD player. She pressed the\npower switch.\nNothing happened.\nShe fiddled with the equipment for a few moments, until she\nrealized there was no CD-ROM in the machine. She looked in the\ncardboard box, found a silver platter, and slid it into the player. She\npressed the power button again.\nThe goggles glowed. She was staring at a page from the first\nmaintenance manual, projected onto the inside of the goggles. She\nwasn't quite sure how the system worked, because the goggles were\njust an inch from her eyes, but the projected page appeared to float\nin space, two feet in front of\nher. The page was almost transparent; she could see right\nthrough it.\nKorman liked to say that virtual reality was virtually useless,\nexcept for a few specialized applications. One was maintenance.\nBusy people working in technical environments, people who had\ntheir hands full, or covered in grease, didn't have the time or\ninclination to look through a thick manual. If you were thirty feet up\nin the air trying to repair a jet engine, you couldn't carry a stack of\nfive-pound manuals around with you. So virtual displays were\nperfect for those situations.. And Korman had built one.\nBy pressing buttons on the CD player, Casey found that she could\nscroll through the manuals. There was also a search function, that\nflashed up a keyboard hanging in space; she had to repeatedly press\nanother button to move a pointer to the letter Q, then A, then R. It\nwas clumsy.\nBut it worked.\nAfter a moment of whirring, a page hung in the air before her:\nN-22\nQUICK ACCESS RECORDER (QAR)\nRECOMMENDED LOCATIONSPressing more buttons, she scrolled through a sequence of\ndiagrams, showing in detail all the places where the QAR could be\nlocated on the N-22 aircraft.\nThere were about thirty places in all.\nCasey clipped the player onto her belt, and headed for the door.\nAIRPORT MARINA\n10:20 . .\nP M\nMarty Reardon was still in Seattle.\nHis interview with Gates had run long, and he'd missed his plane.\nNow he was coming down in the morning. Jennifer had to revise the\nschedule.\nIt was going to be a difficult day, she realized She'd hoped to\nstart at nine. Now she couldn't begin until ten at the earliest. She sat\nin the hotel room with her laptop, figuring it out.\n9:00-10:00 Transfer from LAX\n10:00-10:45 Barker at ofc\n11:00-11:30 King at airport\n11:30-12:00 FAA at airport\n12:15-1:45 Transfer to Burbank\n2:00-2:30 Rogers at Burbank\n2:30-3:30 Stand-up outside Norton\n4:00-4:30 Singleton at Norton\n4:30-6:00 Transfer to LAX\nToo tight. No time for lunch, for traffic delays, for normal\nproduction screwups. And tomorrow was Friday; Marty would want\nto make the six o'clock plane back to New York. Marty had a new\ngirlfriend, and he liked to spend the weekend with her. Marty would\nbe very pissy if he missed the flight.\nAnd he was definitely going to miss it.\nThe problem was that by the time Marty finished with Singleton\nin Burbank, it would be rush hour. He'd never make his plane. He\nreally should leave Burbank by two-thirty. Which meant pushingSingleton up, and holding off the lawyer. She was afraid she'd lose\nthe FAA guy if she changed him at the last minute. But the lawyer\nwould be flexible. He'd wait until midnight if they asked him to.\nShe'd talked with the lawyer earlier. King was a blowhard, but he\nwas plausible in short bites. Five, ten seconds. Punchy. Worth doing.\n9:00-10:00 Transfer from LAX\n10:00-10:45 Barker at ofc\n11:00-11:30 FAA at airport\n11:30-12:30 Transfer to Burbank\n12:30-1:00 Rogers at Burbank\n1:00-2:00 Stand-up outside Norton\n2:00-2:30 Singleton at Norton\n2:30-4:00 Transfer to LAX\n4:00-4:30 King at airport\n5:00-6:00 Pad\nThat would work. In her mind, she reviewed her pullouts. If the\nFAA guy was good (Jennifer hadn't met him yet, just talked on the\nphone), then Marty might run over with him. If it took too long to\ntransfer to Burbank, she'd blow off Rogers, who was weak anyway,\nand go right to Marty's stand-up. Singleton would be fast—Jennifer\nwanted to keep Marty moving there, so he didn't attack the woman\ntoo much. A tight schedule would help.\nBack to LAX, finish with King, Marty'd leave at six, and Jennifer\nwould have her tape. She'd go to an editing bay at the O and O, cut\nthe segment, and uplink to New York that night. She'd call in and get\nDick's comments Saturday morning, revise it, and uplink it again\nabout noon. That was plenty of time to make air.\nShe made a note to call Norton in the morning and tell them she\nneeded to move Singleton up two hours.\nFinally she turned to the stack of faxed background documents\nNorton had sent her office, for Deborah's research. Jennifer had\nnever bothered to look at these, and she wouldn't bother now,\nexcept she had nothing better to do. She thumbed through them\nquickly. It was what she expected— self-justifying papers that said\nthe N-22 was safe, that it had an excellent record ...Flipping from page to page, she suddenly stopped.\nShe stared.\n\"They've got to be kidding,\" she said.\nAnd she closed the file.\nHANGAR 5\n10:30 . .\nP M\nAt night, the Norton plant appeared deserted, the parking lots\nnearly empty, the perimeter buildings silent. But it was brightly lit.\nSecurity kept floodlights on all night. And there were video monitors\nmounted on the corners of all the buildings. As she crossed from\nAdministration to Hangar 5, she heard her footsteps clicking on the\nasphalt.\nThe big doors to Hangar 5 were pulled down and locked. She\nsaw Teddy Rawley, standing outside, talking to one of the electrical\nteam. A wisp of cigarette smoke rose up toward the floodlights. She\nwent over to the side door.\n\"Hey, babe,\" Teddy said. \"Still here, huh?\"\n\"Yeah,\" she said.\nShe started through the door. The electrical guy said, \"The\nbuilding's closed. Nobody's allowed in. We're doing the GET now.\"\n\"It's okay,\" she said.\n\"I'm sorry, you can't,\" the guy said. \"Ron Smith gave strict\norders. Nobody's to go inside. If you touch anything on the airplane\n—\"\n\"I'll be careful,\" she said.\nTeddy looked at her, walked over. \"I know you will,\" he said, \"but\nyou're going to need this.\" He handed her a heavy flashlight, three\nfeet long. \"It's dark in there, remember?\"\nThe electrical guy said, \"And you can't turn the lights on, we\ncan't have change in the ambient flux—\"\n\"I understand,\" she said The test equipment was sensitive;\nturning on the overhead fluorescents might change readings.\nThe electrician was still fretting. \"Maybe I better call Ron and tell\nhim you're going in.\"\n\"Call whoever you want,\" Casey said.\"And don't touch the handrails, because—\"\n\"I won't,\" she said. \"For Christ's sake, I know what I'm doing.\"\nShe went into the hangar.\nTeddy was right; it was dark inside. She felt, rather than saw, the\nlarge space around her. She could barely discern the outlines of the\nplane, looming above her, all its doors and compartments were\nopen, cabling hanging down everywhere. Beneath the tail, the test\nbox sat in a pool of faint blue light. The CRT screen flickered, as\nsystems were activated in sequence. She saw the cockpit lights go\non, then off. Then the forward cabin lights, brightly lit, thirty feet\nabove her. Then darkness again. A moment later, the beacon lights\non the wing tips and the tail came on, sending hot white strobe\nflashes through the room. Then darkness again.\nThe front headlights suddenly glared brightly from the wing, and\nthe landing gear began to retract. Because the plane was mounted\nabove the ground, the landing gear was free to retract and extend.\nIt would happen a dozen times that night.\nOutside the hangar, she heard the electrician, still talking in a\nworried tone. Teddy laughed, and the electrician said something\nelse.\nCasey turned on her flashlight and moved forward. The flashlight\ncast a powerful glow. She twisted the rim, spreading the beam\nwider.\nNow the landing gear was fully raised. Then the gear doors\nopened, and the landing gear began to extend, the big rubber\nwheels coming down flat, then turning with a hydraulic whine. A\nmoment later, the insignia light shone up at the rudder, illuminating\nthe tail. Then it went off again.\nShe headed for the aft accessory compartment in the tail.\nShe knew Ron had said the QAR wasn't there, but she felt she\nhad to check again. She climbed the broad stairs rolled up to the\nback of the plane, being careful not to touch the handrails. Electrical\ntest cables were taped to the handrails; she didn't want to disturb\nthem, or to cause field fluctuation from the presence of her hand.\nThe aft accessory compartment, built into the upward slope of\nthe tail, was directly above her head. The compartment doors wereopen. She shone her light in. The upper surface of the compartment\nwas taken up by the underside of the APU, the turbine generator\nthat served as the auxiliary power unit: a maze of semicircular pipes\nand white couplings wrapped around the main unit. Below was a\ncramped series of readout meters, rack slots, and black PCS boxes,\neach with the milled vanes for heat transfer. If there was a QAR in\nhere as well, she might easily miss it; the QARs were only about\neight inches square.\nShe paused to put on her goggles, and turned on the CD player.\nImmediately a diagram of the aft accessory compartment hung in\nspace before her eyes. She could see through the diagram to the\nactual compartment behind. The rectangular block marking the QAR\nwas outlined in red on the diagram. In the actual compartment, the\nspace was taken up by an extra readout meter: hydraulic pressure\nfor a flight control system.\nRon was right.\nThere was no QAR here.\nCasey climbed back down the stairs to the floor, and walked\nbeneath the plane to the forward accessory compartment, just\nbehind the nose wheel. It, too, was open. Standing on the ground,\nshe shone her flashlight up into the compartment, and flicked to the\ncorrect manual page. A new image hung in the air. It snowed the\nQAR located in the right anterior electrical rack, next to the hydraulic\nactivator buses.\nIt wasn't there. The slot was empty, the round connector plug\nexposed at the back, the shiny metal contact points glinting.\nIt had to be somewhere inside the plane.\nShe headed off to the right, where a roll-up staircase led up\nthirty feet to the passenger door, just behind the cockpit. She heard\nher feet ring on the metal as she entered the aircraft.\nIt was dark; she shone her flashlight aft, the beam moving over\nthe cabin. The passenger cabin looked worse than before; hi many\nplaces her beam caught the dull silver of the insulation pads. The\nelectrical crews had pulled the ulterior panels around the windows,\nto get at junction boxes along the walls. She noticed a lingering faintodor of vomit; someone had tried to mask it with a sweet floral\nspray.\nBehind her, the cockpit suddenly glowed. The overhead map\nlights came on, softly illuminating the two seats; then the row of\nvideo display screens, the twinkling lights of the overhead panels.\nThe FDAU printer on the pedestal buzzed, printing out a couple of\ntest lines, then was silent. All the cockpit lights went out\nDark again.\nCycling.\nImmediately, the forward galley lights just ahead of her came on;\nthe illuminators for heating and microwaves flashed; the overheat\nand timer warnings beeped. Then everything went off. Silence.\nDark again.\nCasey was still standing just inside the door, fiddling with the CD\nplayer at her waist when she thought she heard footsteps. She\npaused, listening.\nIt was difficult to tell; as the electrical systems cycled through,\nthere was a continuous succession of soft buzzes and clicks from\nrelays and solenoids in the avionics racks around her. She listened\nhard.\nYes, she was sure of it now.\nFootsteps.\nSomeone was walking slowly, steadily, through the hangar.\nFrightened, she leaned out the door and called loudly, 'Teddy? Is\nthat you?\"\nShe listened.\nNo more footsteps.\nSilence.\nThe clicking of the relays.\nThe hell with it she decided. She was up here, alone inside this\ntorn-up airplane, and it was getting on her nerves. She was tired.\nShe was imagining things.\nShe walked around the galley to the left side, where the display\nshowed an additional electrical storage panel, down near the floor.\nThe panel cover had already been removed. She looked at it throughthe transparent diagram. This was mostly taken up with secondary\navionics boxes, and there was little room...\nNo QAR.\nShe moved down the cabin, to the midships bulkhead. There was\na small storage compartment here, built into the bulkhead frame,\njust below a slot for magazines. It was a foolish place to install a\nQAR, she thought, and she was not surprised when she didn't find\none there, either.\nFour down. Twenty-six to go.\nNow she moved toward the tail, to the aft interior storage\ncompartment. This was a more likely place: a square service panel\nthat was just to the left of the rear exit door, on the side of the\naircraft. The panel didn't screw down; it flipped up on a hinge, which\nmade it more accessible for crews in a hurry.\nShe came to the door, which was open. She felt a cool breeze.\nDarkness outside: she couldn't see the ground, forty feet below. The\npanel was just to the left of the door, and it was already open. She\nlooked, seeing it through the diagram. If the QAR was there, it\nwould be in the lower-right corner, next to the breaker switches for\nthe cabin lights and the crew intercom.\nIt wasn't there.\nThe wing tip lights came on, brilliant strobes flashing repeatedly.\nThey cast harsh shadows in the interior, through the open door and\nthe row of windows. Then off again.\nClink.\nShe froze.\nThe sound had come from somewhere near the cockpit. It was a\nmetallic sound, like a foot kicking a tool.\nShe listened again. She heard a soft tread, a creak.\nSomeone was in the cabin,\nShe pulled the goggles off her head, leaving them hanging\naround her neck. Silently, she slid to her right, crouching behind a\nrow of seats at the rear of the plane.\nShe heard footsteps coming closer. A complicated pattern of\nsound. A murmur. Was there more than one?\nShe held her breath.The cabin lights came on, first in front, then midships, then aft.\nBut most of the ceiling lights were hanging, so they cast odd\nshadows, then went off again.\nShe gripped the flashlight. The weight felt comforting in her\nhand. She moved her head to the right, so she could peer between\nthe seats.\nShe heard the footsteps again, but could see nothing.\nThen the landing lights came on, and in their reflected glare, a\nrow of hot ovals appeared on the ceiling, from the windows along\nboth sides. And a shadow, blotting out the ovals, one after another.\nSomeone walking down the aisle.\nNot good, she thought.\nWhat could she do? She had the flashlight in her hand, but she\nhad no illusions about her ability to defend herself. She had her cell\nphone. Her beeper. Her—\nShe reached down, and silently flicked the beeper off.\nThe man was close now. She edged forward, her neck aching,\nand she saw him. He was almost to the rear of the plane, looking in\nevery direction. She could not see his face, but in the reflected\nlanding lights, she could see his red-checked shirt.\nThe landing lights went out.\nDarkness in the cabin.\nShe held her breath.\nShe heard the faint thunk of a relay, coming from somewhere in\nthe forward compartment. She knew it was electrical, but apparently\nthe man in the red shirt did not. He grunted softly, as if surprised,\nand moved forward quickly.\nShe waited.\nAfter a while, she thought she heard the sound of footsteps on\nthe metal stairs, going down. She wasn't sure, but she thought so.\nThe airplane was silent around her.\nCautiously, she came out from behind the seat. It was time to get\nout of here, she thought. She moved to the open door, listening.\nThere was no question, the footsteps walking away, the sound\ndiminishing. The nose lights came on, and she saw a long streak of\nshadow. A man.Walking away.\nA voice inside said, Get out of here, but she felt the goggles\naround her neck, and hesitated. She ought to give the man plenty of\ntime to leave the hangar—she didn't want to go down and find him\non the floor. So she decided to look in another compartment.\nShe pulled on the goggles, pressed the button on the unit. She\nsaw the next page.\nThe next compartment was nearby, located just outside the rear\ndoor, where she was standing. She leaned out the door and, holding\non with her right hand, found she could easily look into the panel\nbox. The cover was already open. There were three vertical rows of\nelectrical buses, which probably controlled the two rear doors; they\nwere overrides. And at the bottom...\nYes.\nThe Quick Access Recorder.\nIt was green, with a white stripe around the top. Stenciled\nlettering: MAINT QAR 041/B MAINT. A metal box about eight inches\nsquare, with a plug facing outward. Casey reached in, gripped the\nbox, and pulled gently. With a metallic click it came free of the inner\ncoupling. And she had it in her hand.\nAll right!\nShe stepped back inside the doorway, holding die box in both\nhands now. She was so excited she was trembling. This changed\neverything!\nShe was so excited, she did not hear the rush of footsteps behind\nher until it was too late. Strong hands shoved against her, she\ngrunted, and her hands slipped away, and then her body fell through\nthe door, into space.\nFalling.\nTo the floor thirty feet below.\nToo soon—much too soon—she felt a sharp pain on her cheek—\nand then her body landed, but something was wrong. There were\nstrange pressure points all over her body. She was no longer falling,\nbut rising. Then falling again. It was like a giant hammock.\nThe webbing.\nShe'd hit the safety webbing.She couldn't see it in the darkness, but the black safety webbing\nwas hung beneath the plane, and she had fallen into it. Casey rolled\nover onto her back, saw a silhouette at the door. The figure turned\nand ran through the airplane. She scrambled to her feet, but it was\ndifficult to balance. The webbing was slowly undulating.\nShe moved forward, toward the dull metal expanse of the wing.\nShe heard footsteps clattering on the metal stairs, somewhere\nforward. The man was coming.\nShe had to get out.\nShe had to get off the webbing before he caught her. She moved\ncloser to the wing, and then she heard a cough. It had come from\nthe far edge of the wing, somewhere off to her left.\nSomeone else was here.\nDown on the floor.\nWaiting.\nShe paused, feeling the gentle swaying of the webbing beneath\nher. In a moment, she knew, more lights would come on. Then she\ncould see where the man was.\nSuddenly, the hot strobe lights above the tail flickered rapidly.\nThey were so bright, they illuminated the entire hangar.\nNow she could see who had coughed.\nIt was Richman.\nHe wore a dark blue windbreaker and dark slacks. The lazy,\ncollegiate manner was gone. Richman stood near the wing, tense,\nalert. He looked left and right carefully, scanning the floor.\nAbruptly, the strobe lights went out, plunging the hangar into\ndarkness. Casey moved forward, hearing the webbing creak beneath\nher feet. Would Richman hear? Could he figure out where she was?\nShe came to the wing, stretching forward in darkness.\nShe grabbed it with her hand, moved outward to the edge.\nSooner or later, she knew, the webbing would end. Her foot struck a\nthick cord; she bent down, felt knots.\nCasey lay down on the webbing, gripped the edge in both hands,\nand rolled over the side, falling. For a moment she hung by one arm,\nthe webbing stretching downward. She was surrounded byblackness. She did not know how far it was to the floor. Six feet? Ten\nfeet?\nRunning footsteps.\nShe released the webbing, and fell.\nShe hit the ground standing, dropped to her knees. Sharp pain in\nher kneecap as she banged into concrete. She heard Richman cough\nagain. He was very close, off to her left. She got up and began to\nrun toward the exit door. The landing lights came on again, harsh\nand strong. In their glare she saw Richman throw up his hands to\ncover his eyes. She knew he would be blinded for a few seconds.\nNot long.\nBut perhaps enough. Where was the other man? She ran.\nShe hit the wall of the hangar with a dull metallic thud. Someone\nbehind her said, \"Hey!\" She moved along the wall feeling for the\ndoor. She heard running footsteps.\nWhere? Where?\nBehind her, running footsteps.\nHer hand touched wood, vertical runners, more wood, then the\nmetal bar. The door latch. She pushed.\nCool air.\nShe was outside.\nTeddy turned. \"Hey, babe,\" he said, smiling. \"How's it going\nShe fell to her knees, gasping for breath. Teddy and the electrical\nguy came running over. \"What is it? What's the matter?\"\nThey were standing over her, touching her, solicitous. She tried to\ncatch her breath. She managed to gasp, \"Call Security.\"\n\"What?\"\n\"Call Security! Someone's inside!\"\n- The electrical guy ran to the phone. Teddy stayed with her.\nThen she remembered the QAR. She had a moment of sudden\npanic. Where was it?\nShe stood. \"Oh no,\" she said. \"I dropped it.\"\n\"Dropped what, babe?\"\n\"That box . . .\" She turned, looking back at the hangar. She'd\nhave to get them to go back inside, to—\n\"You mean the one in your hand?\" Teddy said.She looked at her left hand.\nThe QAR was there, clutched so tightly her fingers were white.\nGLENDALE\n11:30 . .\nP M\n\"Come on, now,\" Teddy said, arm around her, walking her into\nthe bedroom. \"Everything's fine, babe.\"\n'Teddy,\" she said, \"I don't know why ...\"\n\"We'll find out tomorrow,\" he said soothingly.\n\"But what was he doing ...\"\n'Tomorrow,\" Teddy said.\n\"But what was he ...\"\nShe couldn't finish her sentences. She sat on the bed, suddenly\nfeeling her exhaustion, overwhelmed by it.\n\"I'll stay on the couch,\" he said. \"I don't want you alone tonight.\"\nHe looked at her, chucked her on the chin. \"Don't worry about a\nthing, babe.\"\nHe reached over, and took the QAR out of her hand. She released\nit unwillingly. \"We'll just put this right here,\" he said, setting it on the\nbedside table. He was talking to her as to a child\n'Teddy, it's important...\"\n\"I know. It'll be there, when you wake up. Okay?\"\n\"Okay.\"\n\"Call if you need anything.\" He left, closing the door.\nShe looked at the pillow. She had to get out of her clothes, to get\nready for bed. Her face hurt; she didn't know what had happened to\nit She needed to look at her face.\nShe picked up the QAR and stuck it behind the pillow. She stared\nat the pillow, then lay down on it, and closed her eyes.\nJust for a moment, she thought.\nFRIDAY\nGLENDALE\n6:30 . .\nA M\nSomething was wrong.Casey sat up quickly. Pain streaked through her body; she\ngasped. She felt a burning sensation in her face. She touched her\ncheek, and winced.\nSunlight poured through her window onto the foot of the bed.\nShe looked down at twin arcs of grease on the bedspread. She still\nhad her shoes on. She still had her clothes on.\nShe was lying on top of the bedspread, fully dressed.\nGroaning, she twisted her body, swung her feet to the floor.\nEverything hurt. She looked down at the bedside table. The clock\nsaid six-thirty.\nShe reached behind the pillow, brought out the green metal box\nwith a white stripe.\nThe QAR.\nShe smelled coffee.\nThe door opened, and Teddy came in in his boxer shorts,\nbringing her a mug. \"How bad is it?\"\n\"Everything hurts.\"\n\"I figured.\" He held the coffee out to her. \"Can you handle this?\"\nShe nodded, took the mug gratefully. Her shoulders hurt as she\nlifted it to her lips. The coffee was hot and strong.\n\"Face isn't too bad,\" he said, looking at her critically. \"Mostly on\nthe side. I guess that's where you hit the mesh...\"\nShe suddenly remembered: the interview.\n\"Oh Jesus,\" she said. She got off the bed, groaning again.\n\"Three aspirins,\" Teddy said, \"and a very hot bath.\"\n\"I don't have time.\"\n\"Make time. Hot as you can stand.\"\nShe went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. She\nlooked in the mirror. Her face was streaked with grime. There was a\npurple bruise that started by her ear and ran back behind her neck.\nHer hair would cover it, she thought. It wouldn't show.\nShe took another drink of coffee, removed her clothes, got into\nthe shower. She had bruises on her elbow, on her hip, on her knees.\nShe couldn't remember how she had gotten them. The stinging hot\nspray felt good.When she came out of the shower, the telephone was ringing.\nShe pushed open the door.\n\"Don't answer that,\" Casey said.\n\"Are you sure?\"\n\"There's no time,\" she said. \"Not today.\"\nShe went into the bedroom to dress.\nShe had only ten hours until her interview with Marty Reardon.\nBetween now and then, she had only one thing she wanted to do.\nClear up Flight 545.\nNORTON/DOS\n7:40 . .\nA M\nRob Wong placed the green box on the table, attached a cable,\npressed a key on his console. A small red light glowed on the QAR\nbox.\n\"It's got power,\" Wong said. He sat back in his chair, looked at\nCasey. \"You ready to try this?\"\n\"I'm ready,\" she said.\n\"Keep your fingers crossed,\" Wong said. He pushed a single key\non the keyboard.\nThe red light on the QAR box began to flicker rapidly.\nUneasily, Casey said, \"Is that...\"\n\"It's okay. It's downloading.\"\nAfter a few seconds, the red light glowed steadily again.\n\"Now what?\"\n\"It's done,\" Wong said. \"Let's see the data.\" His screen began to\nshow columns of numbers. Wong leaned forward, looking closely.\n\"Uh ... looks pretty good, Casey. This could be your lucky day.\" He\ntyped rapidly at the keyboard for several seconds. Then he sat back.\n\"Now we see how good it is.\"\nOn the monitor, a wire-frame aircraft appeared and rapidly filled\nin, becoming solid, three-dimensional. A sky-blue background\nappeared. A silver aircraft, seen horizontally in profile. The landing\ngear down.\nWong punched keys, moving the aircraft around so they saw it\nfrom the tail. He added a green field running to the horizon, and agray runway. The image was schematic but effective. The airplane\nbegan to move, going down the runway. It changed attitude, the\nnose raising up. The landing gear folded into the wings.\n\"You just took off,\" Wong said. He was grinning.\nThe aircraft was still rising. Wong hit a key, and a rectangle\nopened on the right side of the screen. A series of numbers\nappeared, changing quickly. \"It's not a DFDR, but it's good enough,\"\nWong said. \"All the major stuff is here. Altitude, airspeed, heading,\nfuel, deltas on control surfaces—flaps, slats, ailerons, elevators,\nrudder. Everything you need. And the data's stable, Casey.\"\nThe aircraft was still climbing. Wong hit a button, and white\nclouds appeared. The plane continued upward, through the clouds.\n\"I figure you don't want to real time this,\" he said. \"You know\nwhen the accident occurred?\"\n\"Yes,\" she said. \"It was about nine-forty into the flight.\"\n\"Nine-forty elapsed?\"\n\"Right.\"\n\"Coming up.\"\nOn the monitor, the aircraft was level, the rectangle of numbers\non the right stable. Then a red light began to flash among the\nnumbers.\n\"What's that?\"\n\"Fault recording. It's, uh, slats disagree.\"\nShe looked at the aircraft on the screen. Nothing changed.\n\"Slats extending?\"\n\"No,\" Wong said. \"Nothing. It's just a fault.\"\nShe watched a moment longer. The aircraft was still level. Five\nseconds passed. Then the slats emerged from the leading edge.\n\"Slats extending,\" Wong said, looking at the numbers. And then,\n\"Slats fully extended.\"\nCasey said, \"So there was a fault first? And then the slats\nextended afterward?\"\n\"Right.\"\n\"Uncommanded extension?\"\n\"No. Commanded. Now, plane goes nose up, and— uh-oh—\nexceeding buffet boundary—now here's the stall warning, and—\"On the screen, the airplane nosed over into a steep dive. The\nwhite clouds streaked past, faster and faster. Alarms began to beep,\nflashing on the screen.\n\"What's that?\" Casey said.\n\"The plane's exceeding the G-load envelope. Jeez, look at him.\"\nThe airplane pulled out of the dive, and began a steep climb.\n\"He's going up at sixteen ... eighteen ... twenty-one degrees,\" Wong\nsaid, shaking his head. 'Twenty-one degrees!\"\nOn commercial flights, a standard rate of climb was three to five\ndegrees. Ten degrees was steep, used only in takeoffs. At twenty-\none degrees, passengers would feel as if the plane were going\nstraight up.\nMore alarms.\n\"Exceedences,\" Wong said again, in a flat voice. \"He's stressing\nthe hell out of the airframe. It's not built to take that. You guys do a\nstructure inspect?\"\nAs they watched, the plane went into a dive again.\n\"I can't believe this,\" Wong said. \"The autopilot's supposed to\nprevent that—\"\n\"He was on manual.\"\n\"Even so, these wild oscillations would kick in the autopilot.\"\nWong pointed to the box of data to one side. \"Yeah, there it is. The\nautopilot tries to take over. Pilot keeps punching it back to manual.\nThat's crazy.\"\nAnother climb.\nAnother dive.\nIn all, they watched aghast as the aircraft went through six\ncycles of dive and climb, until suddenly, abruptly, it returned to\nstable flight.\n\"What happened?\" she said.\n\"Autopilot took over. Finally.\" Rob Wong gave a long sigh. \"Well,\nI'd say you know what happened to this airplane, Casey. But I'm\ndamned if I know why.\"\nWAR ROOM\n9:00 . .\nA MA cleaning crew was at work in the War Room. The big windows\noverlooking the factory floor were being washed, the chairs and the\nFormica table wiped down. In the far corner, a woman was\nvacuuming the carpet.\nDoherty and Ron Smith were standing near the door, looking at a\nprintout.\n\"What's going on?\" she said.\n\"No IRT today,\" Doherty said. \"Marder canceled it.\"\nCasey said, \"How come nobody told me that—\"\nThen she remembered. She'd turned her beeper off, the night\nbefore. She reached down, turned it back on.\n\"CET test last night was damn near perfect,\" Ron said. \"Just as\nwe said all along, that's an excellent airplane. We only got two\nrepeated faults. We got a consistent fault on AUX COA, starting five\ncycles in, around ten-thirty; I don't know why that happened.\" He\nlooked at her, waiting. He must have heard that she had been inside\nthe hangar the night before, at about that time.\nBut she wasn't going to explain it to him. At least, not right now.\nShe said, \"And what about the proximity sensor?\"\n\"That was the other fault,\" Smith said. \"Out of twenty-two cycles\nwe ran during the night, the wing proximity sensor faulted six times.\nIt's definitely bad.\"\n\"And if that proximity sensor faulted during flight...\"\n\"You'd get a slats disagree in the cockpit.\"\nShe turned to leave.\n\"Hey,\" Doherty said. \"Where are you going?\"\n\"I've got to look at some video.\"\n\"Casey: Do you know what the hell is going on?\"\n\"You'll be the first to know,\" she said. And she walked away.\nAs swiftly as the investigation had stalled the day before, she felt\nit coming together. The QAR had been the key. At last she could\nreconstruct the sequence of events on Right 545. And with that, the\npieces of the puzzle were falling rapidly into place.\nAs she walked to her car, she called Norma on her cell phone.\n\"Norma, I need a route schedule for Transpacific.\"\"Got one right here,\" Norma said. \"It came over with the FAA\npacket. What do you want to know?\"\n\"Flight schedule to Honolulu.\"\n\"I'll check.\" There was a pause. \"They don't go into Honolulu,\"\nNorma said. \"They only go to—\"\n\"Never mind,\" Casey said. \"That's all I need to know.\" It was the\nanswer she had expected.\n\"Listen,\" Norma said, \"Marder has called three times for you\nalready. He says you're not answering your pager.\"\n'Tell him you can't reach me.\"\n\"And Richman has been trying to—\"\n\"You can't reach me,\" Casey said.\nShe hung up, and hurried to her car.\nDriving in the car, she called Ellen Fong in Accounting. The\nsecretary said Ellen was working at home again today. Casey got the\nnumber, and called.\n\"Ellen, it's Casey Singleton.\"\n\"Oh yes, Casey.\" Her voice was cool. Careful.\n\"Did you do the translation?\" Casey said.\n\"Yes.\" Flat. No expression.\n\"Did you finish it?'\n\"Yes. I finished it.\"\n\"Can you fax it to me?\" Casey said. There was a pause. \"I don't\nthink I should do that,\" Ellen said. \"All right...\"\n\"Do you know why?\" Ellen Fong asked. \"I can guess.\"\n\"I will bring it to your office,\" Ellen said. 'Two o'clock?\" \"Fine,\"\nCasey said.\nThe pieces were coming together. Fast.\nCasey was now pretty sure she could explain what happened on\nFlight 545. She could almost lay out the entire chain of causal\nevents. With luck, the tape at Video Imaging would give her final\nconfirmation.\nOnly one question remained.\nWhat was she going to do about it?\nSEPULVEDA BOULEVARD10:45 . .\nA M\nFred Barker was sweating. The air conditioner was turned off in\nhis office, and now, under Marty Reardon's insistent questioning,\nsweat trickled down his cheeks, glistened in his beard, dampened his\nshirt\n\"Mr. Barker,\" Matty said, leaning forward. Marty was forty-five,\nhandsome in a thin-lipped, sharp-eyed way. He had the air of a\nreluctant prosecutor, a seasoned man who'd seen it all. He spoke\nslowly, often in short fragments, with the appearance of\nreasonableness. He was giving the witness every possible break. And\nhis favorite tone was that of disappointment. Dark eyebrows up:\nHow could this be? Marty said, \"Mr. Barker, you've described\n'problems' with the Norton N-22. But the company says\nAirworthiness Directives were issued that fixed the problems. Are\nthey right?\"\n\"No.\" Under Marty's probing, Barker had dropped the full\nsentences. He now said as little as possible.\n\"The Directives didn't work?'\n\"Well, we just had another incident, didn't we. Involving slats.\"\n\"Norton told us it wasn't slats.\"\n\"I think you'll find it was.\"\n\"So Norton Aircraft is lying?\"\n\"They're doing what they always do. They come up with some\ncomplicated explanation that conceals the real problem.\"\n\"Some complicated explanation,\" Marty repeated. \"But aren't\naircraft complicated?\"\n\"Not in this case. This accident is the result of their failure to\nredress a long-standing design flaw.\" \"You're confident of that.\"\n\"Yes.\"\n\"How can you be so sure? Are you an engineer?\" \"No.\"\n\"You have an aerospace degree?\" \"No.\"\n\"What was your major in college?\" \"That was a long time ago...\"\n\"Wasn't it music, Mr. Barker? Weren't you a music major?\"\n\"Well, yes, but, uh...\"\nJennifer watched Marty's attack with mixed feelings. It was\nalways fun to see an interview squirm, and the audience loved towatch pompous experts cut down to size. But Marty's attack\nthreatened to devastate her entire segment. If Marty I destroyed\nBarker's credibility...\nOf course, she thought, she could work around him. She didn't\nhave to use him.\n\"A Bachelor of Arts. In music,\" Marty said, in his reasonable tone.\n\"Mr. Barker, do you think that qualifies you to judge aircraft?\"\n\"Not in itself, but—\" \"You have other degrees?\"\n\"No.\"\n\"Do you have any scientific or engineering training at all?\" Barker\ntugged at his collar. \"Well, I worked for the FAA...\"\n\"Did the FAA give you any scientific or engineering training? Did\nthey teach you, say, fluid dynamics?\" \"No.\"\n\"Aerodynamics?\" \"Well, I have a lot of experience—\"\n\"I'm sure. But do you have formal training in aerodynamics,\ncalculus, metallurgy, structural analysis, or any of the other subjects\ninvolved in making an airplane?\"\n\"Not formally, no.\"\n\"Informally?\"\n\"Yes, certainly. A lifetime of experience.\"\n\"Good. That's fine. Now, I notice those books behind you, and on\nyour desk.\" Reardon leaned forward, touched one of the books that\nlay open. \"This one here. It's called Advanced Structural Integrity\nMethods for Airframe Durability and Damage Tolerance. Pretty\ndense. You understand this book?\"\n\"Most of it, yes.\"\n\"For example.\" Reardon pointed to the open page, turned it to\nread. \"Here on page 807, it says, 'Leevers and Radon introduced a\nbiaxiality parameter B that relates the magnitude of the T stress as\nin equation 5.' You see that?\"\n\"Yes.\" Barker swallowed.\n\"What is a 'biaxiality parameter'?\"\n\"Uh, well, it's rather difficult to explain briefly ...\"\nMarty jumped: \"Who are Leevers and Radon?\"\n\"They're researchers in the field.\"\n\"You know them?\"\"Not personally.\"\n\"But you're familiar with their work.\"\n\"I've heard their names.\"\n\"Do you know anything about them at all?\"\n\"Not personally, no.\"\n\"Are they important researchers in the field?\"\n\"I've said I don't know.\" Barker tugged at his collar again.\nJennifer realized she had to put a stop to this. Marty was doing\nhis attack-dog routine, snarling at the smell of fear. Jennifer couldn't\nuse any of this stuff; the significant fact was that Barker had been\non a crusade for years, he had a track record, he was committed to\nthe fight. In any case she already had his slats explanation from the\nday before, and she had softball answers to the questions she had\nasked herself. She tapped Marty on the shoulder. \"We're running\nlate,\" she said.\nMarty responded instantly; he was bored. He jumped up. \"I'm\nsorry, Mr. Barker, we have to cut this short. We appreciate your time.\nYou've been very helpful.\"\nBarker appeared to be in shock. He mumbled something. The\nmakeup girl came up to him with wipes in her hand and said, \"I'll\nhelp you get the makeup off...\"\nMarty Reardon turned to Jennifer. In a low voice he said, \"What\nthe fuck are you doing?\"\n\"Marty,\" she said, answering him in the same low tones, \"the\nCNN tape is dynamite. The story's dynamite. The public's scared to\nget on airplanes. We're fleshing out the controversy. Performing a\npublic service.\"\n\"Not with this clown you're not,\" Reardon said. \"He's a litigator's\nstooge. All he's good for is an out-of-court settlement. He doesn't\nknow what the fuck he's talking about.\"\n\"Marty. Whether you like this guy or not, the plane has a history\nof problems. And the tape is fabulous.\"\n\"Yes, and everybody's seen the tape,\" Reardon said. \"But what's\nthe story! You better show me something, Jennifer.\"\n\"I will, Marty.\"\n\"You better.\"Left unstated was the rest of the sentence: Or I'm going to call\nDick Shenk and pull the plug.\nAVIATION HIGHWAY\n11:15A.M.\nFor a different look, they shot the FAA guy on the street, with the\nairport as background. The FAA guy was skinny and wore glasses.\nHe blinked rapidly in the sun. He looked weak and bland. He was\nsuch a non-entity, Jennifer couldn't even remember his name. She\nfelt confident he wouldn't hold up well.\nUnfortunately, he was devastating about Barker.\n\"The FAA handles a great deal of sensitive information. Some is\nproprietary. Some is technical. Some is industry sensitive, and some\nis company sensitive. Since the candor of all parties is critical to our\nfunction, we have very strict rules about the dissemination of this\ninformation. Mr. Barker violated those rules. He seemed to have a\ngreat desire to see himself on television, and his name in the\nnewspapers.\"\n\"He says, not true,\" Marty replied. \"He says, the FAA wasn't\ndoing its job, and he had to speak out.\"\n'To attorneys?\"\nMarty said, \"Attorneys?\"\n\"Yes,\" the FAA guy said. \"Most of his leaks were to attorneys\nbringing cases against carriers. He released confidential information\nto attorneys, incomplete information about investigations in\nprogress. And that's illegal.\"\n\"Did you prosecute?\"\n\"We're not able to prosecute. We don't have that authority. But it\nwas clear to us that he was being paid under the table by lawyers to\ngive them information. We turned his case over to the Justice\nDepartment, which failed to pursue it. We were pretty upset about\nit. We thought he should go to jail, and the attorneys with him.\"\n\"Why didn't that happen?\"\n\"You'd have to ask Justice. But the Justice Department is made\nup of attorneys. And attorneys don't like to send other attorneys to\njail. Sort of professional courtesy. Barker worked for attorneys, andthey got him off. Barker still works for attorneys. Everything he says\nis designed to support or incite a frivolous lawsuit. He has no real\ninterest in aviation safety. If he did, he'd still be working for us.\nTrying to serve the public, instead of trying to make a lot of money.\"\nMarty said, \"As you know, the FAA is currently under fire...\"\nJennifer thought she'd better stop Marty now. There wasn't any\npoint in continuing. She already intended to drop most of this\ninterview. She'd use just the early statement where the FAA guy said\nBarker wanted publicity. That was the least damaging comment, and\nit would constitute a balanced response in the segment.\nBecause she needed Barker.\n\"Marty, I'm sorry, we have to get across town.\"\nMarty nodded, thanked the guy immediately—another indication\nhe was bored—signed an autograph for the guy's kid, and climbed\ninto the limo ahead of Jennifer.\n\"Jesus,\" Marty said, as the limo pulled away.\nHe waved good-bye to the FAA guy through the window, smiled\nto him. Then he flopped back in the seat. \"I don't get it, Jennifer,\" he\nsaid ominously. \"Correct me if I'm wrong. But you don't have a story.\nYou got some bullshit allegations by lawyers and their paid stooges.\nBut you've got nothing of substance.\"\n\"We've got a story,\" she said. \"You'll see.\" She tried to sound\nconfident.\nMarty grunted unhappily.\nThe car pulled out, and headed north to the Valley, toward\nNorton Aircraft.\nVIDEO IMAGING SYSTEMS\n11:17 . .\nA M\n'Tape's coming up now,\" Harmon said. He drummed his fingers\non the console.\nCasey shifted her body in the chair, feeling twinges of pain. She\nstill had several hours before the interview. And she still couldn't\ndecide how she would handle it.\nThe tape began to run.Harmon had tripled the frames, the image moving in a jerky slow\nmotion. The change made the sequence appear even more\nhorrifying. She watched in silence as the bodies tumbled, the camera\nspun and fell, and finally came to rest at the cockpit door.\n\"Go back.\"\n\"How far?\"\n\"As slow as you can.\"\n\"One frame at a time?\"\n\"Yes.\"\nThe images ran backward. The gray carpet. The blur as the\ncamera jumped away from the door. The glint of light off the open\ncockpit door. The hot glare from the cockpit windows, the shoulders\nof the two pilots on either side of the pedestal, captain on the left,\nfirst officer on the right\nThe captain reaching toward the pedestal.\n\"Stop.\"\nShe stared at the frame. The captain was reaching, no hat, the\nface of the first officer turned forward, away from him.\nThe captain reaching his hand out.\nCasey rolled her chair toward the console, and peered at the\nmonitor. Then she stood, moved very close to the screen, seeing the\nscan lines.\nThere it is, she thought. In living color.\nBut what was she going to do about it?\nNothing, she realized. There was nothing she could do. She had\nthe information now, but she could not possibly release it, and hold\non to her job. But she realized she was probably going to lose her\njob anyway. Marder and Edgarton had set her up to do the press.\nWhether she lied, as Marder wanted her to do, or whether she told\nthe truth, she was in trouble. There was no way out.\nThe only possible solution that Casey could see was not to do the\ninterview. But she had to do it. She was caught in the middle.\n\"Okay,\" she said, sighing. \"I've seen enough.\"\n\"What do you want to do?'\n\"Run another copy.\"Harmon pressed a button on the console. He shifted in his chair,\nlooking uncomfortable. \"Ms. Singleton,\" he said. \"I feel I have to\nmention something. The people who work here have seen this tape,\nand frankly, they're pretty upset.\"\n\"I can imagine,\" Casey said.\n\"They've all seen that guy on television, the attorney, who says\nyou're covering up the real cause of the accident...\"\n\"Uh-huh...\"\n\"And one person in particular, a woman in reception, dunks we\nshould turn this tape over to the authorities, or to the television\nstations. I mean, it's like the Rodney King thing. We're sitting on a\nbomb here. People's lives are at risk.\"\nCasey sighed. She was not really surprised. But it presented a\nnew issue, and she would have to deal with it. \"Has that already\nhappened? Is that what you're telling me?'\n\"No,\" Harmon said. \"Not yet\"\n\"But people are concerned\"\n\"Yes.\"\n\"And what about you? What do you think?\"\n\"Well. To tell you the truth, I'm bothered, as well,\" Harmon said.\n\"I mean, you work for the company, you have your loyalties. I\nunderstand that. But if there really is something wrong with this\nairplane and people died because of it...\"\nCasey's mind was working fast again, thinking through the\nsituation. There was no way to know how many copies of the tape\nhad already been made. There was no way to contain or control\nevents, now. And she was tired of the intrigue—with the carrier, with\nthe engineers, with the union, with Marder, with Richman. All these\nconflicting agendas, while she was caught in the middle, trying to\nhold it together.\nAnd now the damn tape company!\nShe said, \"What's the name of the woman in reception?\"\n\"Christine Barron.\"\n\"Does she know your company has signed a non-disclosure\nagreement with us?'\"Yeah, but ... I guess she thinks her conscience takes\nprecedence.\"\n\"I need to make a call,\" Casey said. \"On a private line.\"\nHe took her to an office that wasn't being used. She made two\ntelephone calls. When she came back, she said to Harmon, \"The\ntape is Norton property. It is not to be released to anyone without\nour authorization. And you have signed a nondisclosure agreement\nwith us.\"\n\"Doesn't your conscience bother you?' Harmon said.\n\"No,\" Casey said. \"It doesn't. We're investigating this, and we'll\nget to the bottom of it. All you're doing is talking about things you\ndon't understand. If you release this tape, you'll help a bottom-\nfeeder lawyer sue us for damages. You signed an NDA with us. You\nviolate it, and you're out of business. Keep it in mind.\"\nShe took her copy of the tape, and walked out of the room.\nNORTON QA\n11:50 . .\nA M\nFrustrated and angry, Casey stormed into her office at QA. An\nelderly woman was waiting for her. She introduced herself as Martha\nGershon, in \"media training.\" In person, she looked like a kindly\ngrandmother: gray hair, tied up in a bun, and a beige, high-necked\ndress.\nCasey said, \"I'm sorry, I'm very busy. I know Marder asked you to\nsee me, but I'm afraid that—\"\n\"Oh, I realize how busy you are,\" Martha Gershon said. Her voice\nwas calm, reassuring. \"You don't have time for me, especially today.\nAnd you don't really want to see me, do you? Because you don't\nmuch care for John Marder.\"\nCasey paused.\nShe looked again at this pleasant lady, standing there in her\noffice, smiling.\n\"You must feel you've been manipulated by Mr. Marder. I\nunderstand. Now that I've met him, I must say I don't get a strong\nfeeling of integrity from him. Do you?\"\n\"No,\" Casey said.\"And I don't think he likes women much,\" Gershon continued.\n\"And I suspect he's arranged for you to speak to the television\ncameras, in the hope that you would fail. Gosh, I'd hate to see that\nhappen.\"\nCasey stared at her. \"Please sit down,\" she said.\n\"Thank you, dear.\" The woman sat on the couch, her beige dress\nbillowing around her. She folded her hands neatly in her lap. She\nremained utterly calm. \"I won't take long,\" she said.\n\"But perhaps you'd be more comfortable if you sat down, too.\"\nCasey sat down.\n\"There's just a few things I'd like to remind you of,\" Gershon\nsaid, \"before your interview. You know you'll be speaking to Martin\nReardon.\"\n\"No, I didn't.\"\n\"Yes,\" she said, \"which means you'll be dealing with his\ndistinctive interviewing style. That will make it easier.\"\n\"I hope you're right.\"\n\"I am, dear,\" she said. \"Are you comfortable now?\"\n\"I think so.\"\n\"I'd like to see you sit back in your chair. There you go. Sit back.\nWhen you lean forward you appear too eager, and your body gets\ntense. Sit back, so you can take in what is said to you, and be\nrelaxed. You might want to do that in the interview. Sit back, I\nmean. And be relaxed.\"\n\"All right,\" Casey said, sitting back.\n\"Relaxed now?\"\n\"I think so,\" Casey said.\n\"Do you clasp your hands together like that on the desk, usually?\nI'd like to see what happens if you place your hands apart. Yes. Rest\nthem on the desk, just like you're doing. If you close your hands, it\nmakes you tense. It's so much better when you just stay open.\nGood. Does that feel natural?\"\n\"I guess so.\"\n\"You must be under great strain now,\" Gershon said, clucking\nsympathetically. \"But I've known Martin Reardon since he was a\nyoung reporter. Cronkite disliked him. Thought Martin was cocky andinsubstantial. I fear that assessment has proved accurate. Martin is\nall tricks and no substance. He's not going to give you any trouble,\nKatharine. Not a woman of your intelligence. You'll have no trouble\nat all.\"\nCasey said, \"You're making me feel wonderful.\"\n\"I'm just telling you how it is,\" Gershon said lightly. \"The most\nimportant thing to remember with Reardon is that you know more\nthan he does. You've worked in this business for years. Reardon has\nliterally just arrived. He probably flew in this morning, and he will fly\nout again tonight. He's bright, facile, and a quick study, but he does\nnot have your depth of knowledge. Remember that: you know more\nthan he does.\"\n\"Okay,\" Casey said.\n\"Now, because Reardon has almost no information at his\ndisposal, his chief skill is manipulating the information you give him.\nReardon has a reputation as a hatchet man, but if you watch how he\nbehaves, he's actually a one-trick performer. And this is his trick. He\ngets you to agree with a series of statements, so you are nodding,\nyes, yes—and then he hits you with something out of left field.\nReardon's done that his whole life. It's amazing people haven't\ncaught on.\n\"He'll say, You're a woman. Yes. You live in California. Yes. You\nhave a good job. Yes. You enjoy life. Yes. So why did you steal the\nmoney? And you've been nodding along, and suddenly you're\nflustered, you're off-balance—and he's got a reaction he can use.\n\"Remember, all he wants is that one-sentence reaction. If he\ndoesn't get it, he'll double back, and ask the question another way.\nHe may return to a subject again and again. If he keeps raising a\nparticular topic, you'll know he hasn't gotten what he wants.\"\n\"Okay.\"\n\"Martin has another trick. He will make a provocative statement,\nand then pause, waiting for you to fill the vacuum. He'll say, Casey,\nyou make airplanes, so you must know the planes are unsafe ... And\nwait for you to answer. But notice he hasn't actually asked a\nquestion.\"\nCasey nodded.\"Or he will repeat what you say, in a tone of disbelief.\"\n\"I understand,\" Casey said.\n\"You understand!\" Gershon said, surprised, raising her eyebrows.\nIt was a pretty good imitation of Reardon. \"You see what I mean.\nYou will be goaded to defend yourself. But you don't have to. If\nMartin doesn't ask a question, you needn't say anything.\"\nCasey nodded. Not saying anything.\n\"Very good.\" Gershon smiled. \"You'll do just fine. Just remember\nto take all the time you want. The interview is taped, so they'll cut\nout any pauses. If you don't understand a question, ask him to\nclarify it. Martin is extremely good at asking vague questions that\nprovoke specific answers. Remember: he doesn't really know what\nhe's talking about. He's just here for the day.\"\n\"I understand,\" Casey said.\n\"Now. If you're comfortable looking at him, do that. If you're not,\nyou might choose a point somewhere near his head, like the corner\nof a chair, or a picture on the wall behind him. And focus on that\ninstead. The camera won't be able to tell you're not really looking at\nhim. Just do whatever you need to do to keep your concentration.\"\nCasey tried it, looking just past Gershon's ear.\n\"That's good,\" Gershon said. \"You'll do fine. There's only one\nmore thing I can tell you, Katherine. You work in a complex\nbusiness. If you try to explain that complexity to Martin, you'll be\nfrustrated. You'll feel he isn't interested. He'll probably cut you off.\nBecause he isn't interested. A lot of people complain that television\nlacks focus. But that's the nature of the medium. Television's not\nabout information at all. Information is active, engaging. Television is\npassive. Information is disinterested, objective. Television is\nemotional. It's entertainment. Whatever he says, however he acts, in\ntruth Martin has absolutely no interest in you, or your company, or\nyour airplanes. He's paid to exercise his one reliable talent:\nprovoking people, getting them to make an emotional outburst, to\nlose their temper, to say something outrageous. He doesn't really\nwant to know about airplanes. He wants a media moment. If you\nunderstand that, you can deal with him.\"And she smiled, her grandmotherly smile. \"I know you'll do just\nfine, Casey.\"\nCasey said, \"Will you be there? At the interview?' \"Oh no,\"\nGershon said, smiling. \"Martin and I have a long history. We don't\nmuch care for each other. On the rare occasions we find ourselves in\nthe same location, I'm afraid we tend to spit.\"\nADMINISTRATION\n1:00 P.M.\nJohn Marder was sitting at his desk, arranging the documents—\nprops—for Casey to use in her interview. He wanted them complete,\nand he wanted them in order. First, the parts record for the\ncounterfeit thruster cowl on the number-two engine. Finding that\npart had been a stroke of luck. Kenny Burne, for all his bluster, had\ndone something right. A thruster cowl was a big-bone part,\nsomething everybody could relate to. And it was definitely\ncounterfeit. Pratt and Whitney would scream when they saw it: the\nfamous eagle on their logo had been printed backward. More\nimportant, the presence of a counterfeit part could throw the entire\nstory in that direction, and it would take the heat off—\nHis private phone rang.\nHe picked it up. \"Marder.\"\nHe heard the hissing crackle of a satellite phone. Hal Edgarton,\ncalling from the company jet on his way to Hong Kong. Edgarton\nsaid, \"Has it happened yet?\"\n\"Not yet, Hal. Another hour.\"\n\"Call me, as soon as it's over.\"\n\"I will, Hal.\"\n\"And it better be good news,\" Edgarton said, and he hung up.\nBURBANK\n1:15P.M.\nJennifer was fretting. She had had to leave Marty alone for a\nwhile. And it was never a good idea to leave Marty alone during a\nshoot: he was a restless, high-energy guy, and he needed constant\nattention. Someone had to hold his hand and fuss over him. Martywas like all the on-camera talent at Newsline—they might once have\nbeen reporters, but now they were actors, and they had all the traits\nof actors. Self-centered, vain, demanding. They were a pain in the\nass, is what they were.\nShe also knew that Marty, for all his bitching about the Norton\nstory, was at bottom just worried about appearances. He knew the\nsegment had been put together fast. He knew it was down and dirty.\nAnd he was afraid that when the segment was cut, he'd be fronting\na lame story. He was afraid his friends would make snide comments\nabout the story over lunch at the Four Seasons. He didn't care about\njournalistic responsibility. He just cared about appearances.\nAnd the proof, Jennifer knew, was in her hands. She had only\nbeen gone twenty minutes, but as her Town Car rolled up to the\nlocation, she saw Marty pacing, head down. Troubled and unhappy.\nTypical Marty.\nShe got out of the car. He came right over to her, started to make\nhis complaint, started to say he thought they should bail on the\nsegment, call Dick, tell him it wasn't working ... She cut him off.\n\"Marty. Look at this.\"\nShe took the videotape she was carrying, gave it to the\ncameraman, and told him to play it back. The cameraman popped it\ninto the camera while she went over to the small playback monitor\nthat sat on the grass.\n\"What is it?\" Marty said, standing over the monitor.\n\"Watch.\"\nThe tape began to play. It started with a baby on the mother's\nlap. Goo-goo. Ga-ga. Baby sucking her toes.\nMarty looked at Jennifer. His dark eyebrows went up.\nShe said nothing.\nThe tape continued.\nWith the glare of the sun on the monitor, it was hard to see in\ndetail, but it was clear enough. Bodies suddenly tumbling through\nthe air. Marty sucked in his breath as he watched, excited.\n\"Where did you get this?\"\n\"Disgruntled employee.\"\n\"An employee of?\"\"A video shop that does work for Norton Aircraft. A solid citizen\nwho thought it should be released. She called me.\"\n\"This is a Norton tape?\"\n\"They found it on the plane.\"\n\"Unbelievable,\" Marty said, watching the tape. \"Unbelievable.\"\nBodies tumbling, the camera moving. \"This is shocking.\"\n\"Isn't it fabulous?\"\nThe tape continued. It was good. It was all good—even better\nthan the CNN tape, more kinetic, more radical. Because the camera\nbroke free and bounced around, this tape conveyed a better sense\nof what must have happened on the flight.\n\"Who else has this?\" Marty said.\n\"Nobody.\"\n\"But your disgruntled employee may ...\"\n\"No,\" Jennifer said. \"I promised we'd pay her legal bills, as long\nas she didn't give it to anybody else. She'll sit tight.\"\n\"So this is our exclusive.\"\"Right.\"\n\"An actual tape from inside Norton Aircraft.\"\n\"Right.\"\n\"Then we've got a fabulous segment here,\" Marty said.\nBack from the dead! Jennifer thought, as she watched Marty go\nover to the fence, and start to prepare for his stand-up. The\nsegment was saved!\nShe knew she could count on Marty to cut the crap. Because, of\ncourse, this new tape added nothing to the information already in\nthe can. But Marty was a pro. He knew their segments lived and\ndied on the visuals. If the visuals worked, nothing else mattered.\nAnd this tape was a grabber.\nSo Marty was cheerful now, pacing back and forth, glancing at\nNorton Aircraft through the fence. The whole situation was perfect\nfor Marty, a tape obtained from inside the company, with all the\ninnuendo of stonewall and cover-up. Marty could milk that for all it\nwas worth.\nWhile the makeup girl retouched his neck, Marty said, \"We\nshould probably send that tape to Dick. So he can tease it.\"\n\"Done,\" Jennifer said, pointing to one of the cars heading down\nthe road.\nDick would have it within an hour. And he would cream when he\nsaw it.\nOf course he would tease it He'd use bits of it to promote\nSaturday's show. \"Shocking new film of the Norton disaster!\nTerrifying footage of death in the skies! Only on Newsline, Saturday\nat ten!\"\nThey'd run that sucker every half hour until showtime. By\nSaturday night, the whole country would be watching.\nMarty ad-libbed his stand-up, and he did it well. Now they were\nback in the car, heading toward the Norton gate. They were even a\nfew minutes ahead of schedule.\n\"Who's the company contact?\" he said.\n\"Woman named Singleton.\"\n\"A woman?\" Dark eyebrows up again. \"What's the deal?\"\"She's a vice-president. Late thirties. And she's on the\ninvestigation team.\"\nMarty held out his hand. \"Give me the file and the notes.\" He\nstarted to read through them, in the car. \"Because you realize what\nwe have to do now, don't you, Jennifer? The segment's all moved\naround. That tape runs maybe four, four-thirty. And you may show\nparts of it twice—I would. So you won't have much time for Barker\nand the others. It's going to be the tape, and the Norton\nspokesman. That's the core of the piece. So there isn't any choice.\nWe have to nail this woman cold.\"\nJennifer said nothing. She waited, while Marty thumbed through\nthe file.\n\"Wait just a minute here,\" Marty said. He was staring at the file.\n\"Are you kidding me?\"\n\"No,\" Jennifer said.\n\"This is dynamite,\" Reardon said. \"Where'd you get it?\"\n\"Norton sent it to me in a background package, three days ago,\nby accident.\"\n\"Bad accident,\" Marty said. \"Especially for Ms. Singleton.\"\nWAR ROOM\n2:15P.M.\nCasey was crossing the plant, heading over to IAA, when her cell\nphone rang. It was Steve Nieto, the Fixer in Vancouver.\n\"Bad news,\" Nieto said. \"I went to the hospital yesterday. He's\ndead. Cerebral edema. Mike Lee wasn't around, so they asked me if\nI could identify the body, and—\"\n\"Steve,\" she said. \"Not on a cell phone. Send me a telex.\"\n\"Okay.\"\n\"But don't send it here. Send it to FT in Yuma.\"\n\"Really?\"\n\"Yes.\"\n\"Okay.\"\nShe hung up and entered Hangar 4, where the tape strips were\nlaid out on the floor. She wanted to talk to Ringer about the pilot'shat they'd found. That hat was critical to the story, as it was now\nbecoming clear to Casey.\nShe had a sudden thought, and called Norma. \"Listen, I think I\nknow where that fax came from about the in-flight magazine.\"\n\"Does it matter?\"\n\"Yes. Call Centinela Hospital at the airport. Ask for a stewardess\nnamed Kay Liang. And this is what I want you to ask her. Better\nwrite it down.\"\nShe spoke to Norma for several minutes, then hung up.\nImmediately, her cell phone rang again.\n\"Casey Singleton.\"\nMarder screamed, \"Where are you, for Chrissakes?\"\n\"Hangar Four,\" she said, \"I'm trying to—\"\n\"You're supposed to be here\" Marder screamed. \"For the\ninterview.\"\n\"The interview's four o'clock.\"\n\"They moved it up. They're here now\"\n\"Now?\"\n\"Yes, they're all here, the crew, everybody, they're setting up.\nThey're all waiting for you. It's now, Casey.\"\nWhich was how she found herself in the War Room, sitting in a\nchair, with a makeup woman daubing at her face. The War Room\nwas full of people, there were guys setting up big lights on stands,\nand taping sheets of cardboard to the ceiling. Other men were\ntaping microphones to the table, and to the walls. There were two\ncamera crews setting up, each with two cameras—four cameras in\nall, pointing in opposite directions. Two chairs had been arranged at\nopposite sides of the table, one for her, one for the interviewer.\nShe thought it was inappropriate that they were taping in the\nWar Room; she didn't know why Marder had agreed to it. She\nthought it was disrespectful that this room, where they worked and\nargued and struggled to understand what happened to planes in\nflight, had been turned into a prop for a television show. And she\ndidn't like it.\nCasey was off-balance; everything was happening too fast. The\nmakeup woman kept asking her to keep her head still, to close hereyes, then open them. Eileen, Marder's secretary, came over and\nthrust a manila folder in her hands. \"John wanted to make sure you\nhad this,\" she said.\nCasey tried to look at the folder.\n\"Please,\" the makeup woman said, \"I need you to look up for a\nminute. Just a minute, then you can go.\"\nJennifer Malone, the producer, came over with a cheerful smile.\n\"How's everything today, Ms. Singleton?\"\n\"Fine, thanks,\" Casey said. Still looking up for makeup.\n\"Barbara,\" Malone said, to the makeup woman. \"Make sure you\nget the, uh ...\" And she waved her hand toward Casey, a vague\ngesture.\n\"I will,\" the makeup woman said.\n\"Get the what?\" Casey said.\n\"A touchup,\" the makeup woman said. \"Nothing.\"\nMalone said, \"I'll give you a minute to finish here, and then Marty\nshould be in to meet you, and we'll go over the general areas we're\ncovering, before we start.\"\n\"Okay.\"\nMalone went away. The makeup woman, Barbara, continued to\ndaub at Casey's face. \"I'm going to give you a little under the eyes,\"\nshe said. \"So you don't look so tired.\"\n\"Ms. Singleton?\"\nCasey recognized the voice at once, a voice she'd heard for\nyears. The makeup woman jumped back, and Casey saw Marty\nReardon standing in front of her. Reardon was in shirtsleeves and a\ntie. He had Kleenex around his collar. He held out his hand. \"Marty\nReardon. Nice to meet you.\"\n\"Hi,\" she said.\n\"Thanks for your help with this,\" Reardon said. \"We'll try to make\nit as painless as possible.\"\n\"Okay...\"\n\"You know of course we're on tape,\" Reardon said. \"So if you\nhave a bobble or something, don't worry; we'll just cut it. If at any\ntime you want to restate an answer, go ahead and do that. You can\nsay exactly what you want to say.\"\"Okay.\"\n\"Primarily we'll be talking about the Transpacific flight. But I'm\ngoing to have to touch on some other matters as well. Somewhere\nalong the line, I'll ask about the China sale. And there'll probably be\nsome questions about the union response, if we have time. But I\ndon't really want to get into those other issues. I want to stay with\nTranspacific. You're a member of the investigation\nteam?\"\n\"Yes.\"\n\"All right, fine. I have a tendency to jump around in my\nquestions. Don't let that bother you. We're really here to understand\nthe situation as best we can.\"\n\"Okay.\"\n\"I'll see you later, then,\" Reardon said. He smiled, and turned\naway.\nThe makeup woman moved back in front of her again. \"Look up,\"\nshe said. Casey stared at the ceiling. \"He's very nice,\" the makeup\nwoman said. \"A sweet man, underneath it all. Dotes on his children.\"\nShe heard Malone call out, \"How much more time, guys?\"\nSomeone said, \"Five minutes.\"\n\"Sound?\"\n\"We're ready. Just give us the bodies.\"\nThe makeup woman began to powder Casey's neck. Casey\nwinced, feeling twinges of pain. \"You know,\" the woman said, \"I\nhave a number you can call.\"\n\"For what?\"\n\"It's a very good organization, very good people. Psychologists\nmostly. And extremely discreet. They can help you.\"\n\"With what?\"\n\"Look left, please. He must have hit you pretty hard.\"\nCasey said, \"I fell.\"\n\"Sure, I understand. I'll leave my card, in case you change your\nmind,\" the makeup woman said, using the powder puff. \"Hmm. I\nbetter get some base on that, to take the blue out.\" She turned back\nto her box, got a piece of sponge with makeup on it. She began to\ndaub it onto Casey's neck. \"I can't tell you how much I see, in myline of work, and the woman always denies it. But domestic violence\nhas to be stopped.\"\nCasey said, \"I live alone.\"\n\"I know, I know,\" the makeup woman said. \"Men count on your\nsilence. My own husband, Jeez, he wouldn't go into counseling. I\nfinally left with the kids.\"\nCasey said, \"You don't understand.\"\n\"I understand that when this violence is going on, you think\nthere's nothing you can do. That's part of the depression, the\nhopelessness,\" the makeup woman said. \"But sooner or later, we all\nface the truth.\"\nMalone came over. \"Did Marty tell you? We're mostly doing the\naccident, and he'll probably start with that. But he may mention the\nChina sale, and the unions. Just take your time. And don't worry if\nhe jumps around from one thing to another. He does that.\"\n\"Look right,\" the makeup woman said, doing the other side of\nher neck. Casey turned to the right. A man came over and said,\n\"Ma'am? Can I give you this?\" and he thrust a plastic box into her\nhands, with a dangling wire.\n\"What is it?\" Casey said.\n\"Look right, please,\" the makeup woman said. \"It's the radio\nmike. I'll help you with it in a minute.\"\nHer cell phone rang, in her purse on the floor beside her chair.\n'Turn that off!\" someone shouted.\nCasey reached for it, flipped it open. \"It's mine.\"\n\"Oh, sorry.\"\nShe brought the phone to her ear. John Marder said, \"Did you get\nthe folder from Eileen?\"\n\"Yes.\"\n\"Did you look at it?\"\n\"Not yet,\" she said.\n\"Just lift your chin a little,\" the makeup woman said.\nOn the telephone, Marder said, \"The folder documents everything\nwe talked about Parts report on the reverser cowl, everything. It's all\nthere.\"\n\"Uh-huh ... Okay ...\"\"Just wanted to make sure you're all set.\"\n\"I'm all set,\" she said.\n\"Good, we're counting on you.\"\nShe clicked the phone off, turning the power switch off.\n\"Chin up,\" the makeup woman said. 'That's a girl.\"\nWhen makeup was finished, Casey stood, and the woman\nbrushed her shoulders with a little brush, and put hair spray in her\nhair. Then she took Casey into the bathroom, and showed her how\nto thread the mike wire up under her blouse, through her bra, and\nclip it to her lapel. The wire ran back down inside her skirt, then\nback up to the radio box. The woman hooked the box to the\nwaistband of Casey's skirt, and turned the power on.\n\"Remember,\" she said. \"From now on, you're live. They can hear\nwhatever you say.\"\n\"Okay,\" Casey said. She adjusted her clothes. She felt the box\npinching at her waist, the wire against the skin of her chest She felt\ncramped and uncomfortable.\nThe makeup woman led her back into the War Room, holding her\nby the elbow. Casey felt like a gladiator being taken into the arena.\nInside the War Room, the lights were glaring. The room was very\nhot. She was led to her seat at the table, told to watch she didn't\ntrip over the camera cables, and helped to sit down. There were two\ncameras behind her. There were two cameras facing her. The\ncameraman behind her asked her to please move her chair an inch\nto the right. She did. A man came over and adjusted her microphone\nclip, because he said there was clothing noise.\nOn the opposite side, Reardon was attaching his own microphone\nwithout assistance, chatting with the cameraman. Then he slipped\neasily into his chair. He looked relaxed, and casual. He faced her,\nsmiled at her.\n\"Nothing to worry about,\" he said. \"Piece of cake.\"\nMalone said, \"Let's go, guys, they're in the chairs. It's hot in\nhere.\"\n\"A camera ready.\"\n\"B camera ready.\"\n\"Sound ready.\"\"Let's have the lights,\" Malone said.\nCasey had thought the lights were already on, but suddenly, new\nharsh lights blazed down at her, from all directions. She felt as if she\nwere in the middle of a glaring furnace.\n\"Camera check,\" Malone said.\n\"Fine here.\"\n\"We're fine.\"\n\"All right,\" Malone said. \"Roll tape.\"\nThe interview began.\nWAR ROOM\n2:33 . .\nP M\nMarty Reardon met her eyes, smiled, and gestured to the room.\n\"So. This is where it all happens.\"\nCasey nodded.\n\"This is where the Norton specialists meet to analyze aircraft\naccidents.\"\n\"Yes.\"\n\"And you're part of that team.\"\n\"Yes.\"\n\"You're vice-president of Quality Assurance at Norton Aircraft.\"\n\"Yes.\"\n\"Been with the company five years.\"\n\"Yes.\"\n\"They call this room the War Room, don't they?\"\n\"Some do, yes.\"\n\"Why is that?\"\nShe paused. She couldn't think of any way to describe the\narguments in this room, the flares of temper, the outbursts that\naccompanied every attempt to clarify an aircraft incident, without\nsaying something he could take out of context.\nShe said, \"It's just a nickname.\"\n\"The War Room,\" Reardon said. \"Maps, charts, battle plans,\npressure. Tension under siege. Your company, Norton Aircraft, is\nunder siege at the moment, isn't it?\"\n\"I'm not sure what you're referring to,\" Casey said.Reardon's eyebrows went up. \"The JAA, Europe's Joint Aviation\nAuthority, is refusing to certify one of your aircraft, the N-22,\nbecause they say it's unsafe.\"\n\"Actually, the plane's already certified but—\"\n\"And you're about to sell fifty N-22s to China. But now the\nChinese, too, are said to be concerned about the safety of the\nplane.\"\nShe didn't get angry at the innuendo; she focused on Reardon.\nThe rest of the room seemed to fade away.\nShe said, \"I'm not aware of any Chinese concerns.\"\n\"But you are aware,\" Reardon said, \"of the reason behind these\nsafety concerns. Earlier this week, a very serious accident. Involving\nan N-22 aircraft.\"\n\"Yes.\"\n'Transpacific Flight 545. An accident in midair, over the Pacific\nOcean.\"\n\"Yes.\"\n\"Three people died. And how many injured?\"\n\"I believe fifty-six,\" she said. She knew it sounded awful, no\nmatter how she said it\n\"Fifty-six injured,\" Reardon intoned. \"Broken necks. Broken limbs.\nConcussions. Brain damage. Two people paralyzed for life ...\"\nReardon trailed off, looking at her.\nHe hadn't asked a question. She said nothing. She waited, in the\nglaring heat of the lights.\n\"How do you feel about that?\"\nShe said, \"I think everyone at Norton feels very great concern for\nair safety. That's why we test our airframes to three times the design\nlife—\"\n\"Very great concern. Do you think that's an adequate response?\"\nCasey hesitated. What was he saying? \"I'm sorry,\" she said. \"I'm\nafraid I don't follow—\"\n\"Doesn't the company have an obligation to build safe aircraft?\"\n\"Of course. And we do.\"\n\"Not everyone agrees,\" Reardon said. \"The JAA doesn't agree.\nThe Chinese may not agree ... Doesn't the company have anobligation to fix the design of an aircraft which it knows to be\nunsafe?\"\n\"What do you mean?\"\n\"What I mean,\" Reardon said, \"is that what happened to Flight\n545 has happened before. Many times before. On other N-22s. Isn't\nthat true?'\n\"No,\" Casey said.\n\"No?\" Reardon's eyebrows shot up.\n\"No,\" Casey said, firmly. This was the moment, she thought. She\nwas stepping off the cliff.\n\"This is the first time?\"\n\"Yes.\"\n\"Well then,\" Reardon said, \"perhaps you can explain this list.\" He\nproduced a sheet of paper, held it up. She knew from across the\nroom what it was. \"This is a list of slats episodes on the N-22, going\nback to 1992, right after the plane was introduced. Eight episodes.\nEight separate episodes. Transpacific is the ninth.\"\n\"That's not accurate.\"\n\"Well, tell me why.\"\nCasey went through, as briefly as she could, the way\nAirworthiness Directives worked. She explained why they had been\nissued for the N-22. How the problem had been solved, except for\nforeign carriers that had failed to comply. How there had not been a\ndomestic incident since 1992.\nReardon listened with continuously raised eyebrows, as if he had\nnever heard such an outlandish thing before.\n\"So let me see if I understand,\" he said. \"In your view, the\ncompany has followed the rules. By issuing these air directives,\nwhich are supposed to fix the problem.\"\n\"No,\" Casey said. \"The company has fixed the problem.\"\n\"Has it? We're told slats deployment is the reason people died on\nFlight 545.\"\n\"That's incorrect\" She was now dancing on a tightrope, working a\nfine and technical line, and she knew it If he asked her, Did the slats\ndeploy? she would be in trouble. She waited breathlessly for the\nnext question.Reardon said, \"The people who told us the slats deployed are\nwrong?\"\n\"I don't know how they'd know,\" Casey said. She decided to go\nfarther. \"Yes, they're wrong.\"\n\"Fred Barker, former FAA investigator, is wrong.\"\n\"Yes.\"\n\"The JAA is wrong.\"\n\"Well, as you know, the JAA is actually delaying certification over\nnoise emissions, and—\"\n\"Let's just stay with this for a moment,\" Reardon said.\nShe remembered what Gershon had said: He's not interested in\ninformation.\n\"The JAA is wrong?\" he said, repeating the question.\nThis called for a complicated answer, she thought. How could she\nput it briefly? \"They're wrong to say the aircraft is unsafe.\"\n\"So in your opinion,\" Reardon said, \"there is absolutely no\nsubstance to these criticisms of the N-22.\"\n\"That's correct. It is an excellent aircraft.\"\n\"A well-designed aircraft.\"\n\"Yes.\"\n\"A safe aircraft.\"\n\"Absolutely.\"\n\"You'd fly in it\"\n\"Whenever possible.\"\n\"Your family, your friends ...\"\n\"Absolutely.\"\n\"No hesitation whatsoever?\"\n\"That's right.\"\n\"So what was your reaction, when you saw the tape on television\nfrom Flight 545?\"\nHe 'II get you saying yes, then hit you from left field,\nBut Casey was ready for it. \"All of us here knew that it was a\nvery tragic accident. When I saw the tape, I felt very sad for the\npeople involved.\"\n\"You felt sad.\"\n\"Yes.\"\"Didn't it shake your conviction about the aircraft? Make you\nquestion the N-22?\"\n\"No.\"\n\"Why not?\"\n\"Because the N-22 has a superb safety record. One of the best in\nthe industry.\"\n\"One of the best in the industry...\" Reardon smirked.\n\"Yes, Mr. Reardon,\" she said. \"Let me ask you. Last year, forty-\nthree thousand Americans died in automobile accidents. Four\nthousand people drowned. Two thousand people choked to death on\nfood. Do you know how many died in domestic commercial\ntransports?\"\nReardon paused. He chuckled. \"I must admit you've stumped the\npanel.\"\n\"It's a fair question, Mr. Reardon. How many died in commercial\naircraft last year?\"\nReardon frowned. \"I'll say ... I'll say a thousand.\"\n\"Fifty,\" Casey said. \"Fifty people died. Do you know how many\ndied the year before that? Sixteen. Fewer than were killed on\nbicycles.\"\n\"And how many of those died on the N-22?\" Reardon asked, eyes\nnarrowed, trying to recover.\n\"None,\" Casey said.\n\"So your point is ...\"\n\"We have a nation in which forty-three thousand people die every\nyear in cars, and nobody worries about it at all. They get into cars\nwhen they're drunk, when they're tired—without a second thought.\nBut these same people are panicked at the thought of getting on an\nairplane. And the reason,\" Casey said,\"is that television consistently\nexaggerates the real dangers involved. That tape will make people\nafraid to fly. And for no good reason.\"\n\"You think the tape shouldn't have been shown?\"\n\"I didn't say that.\"\n\"But you said it will make people afraid—for no good reason.\"\n\"Correct.\"\n\"Is it your view tapes such as these should not be shown?\"She thought: Where is he going? Why is he doing this?\n\"I didn't say that\"\n\"I'm asking you now.\"\n\"I said,\" Casey replied, \"that those tapes create an inaccurate\nperception of the danger of air travel.\"\n\"Including the danger of the N-22?\"\n\"I've already said I think the N-22 is safe.\"\n\"So you don't think such tapes should be shown to the public.\"\nWhat the hell was he doing? She still couldn't figure it out. She\ndidn't answer him; she was thinking hard. Trying to see where he\nwas going with this. She had a sinking feeling she knew.\n\"In your view, Ms. Singleton, should such tapes be suppressed?\"\n\"No,\" Casey said.\n\"They should not be suppressed.\"\n\"No.\"\n\"Has Norton Aircraft ever suppressed any tapes?\"\nUh-oh, she thought She was trying to figure out how many\npeople knew of the tape. A lot, she decided: Ellen Fong, Ziegler, the\npeople at Video Imaging. Maybe a dozen people, maybe more...\n\"Ms. Singleton,\" Reardon said, \"are you personally aware of any\nother tape of this accident?\"\nJust lie, Amos had said.\n\"Yes,\" she said. \"I know of another tape.\"\n\"And have you seen the tape?\"\n\"I have.\"\nReardon said, \"It's upsetting. Horrifying. Isn't it?'\nShe thought: They have it. They'd gotten the tape. She would\nhave to proceed very carefully now.\n\"It's tragic,\" Casey said. \"What happened on Flight 545 is a\ntragedy.\" She felt tired. Her shoulders ached from tension.\n\"Ms. Singleton, let me put it to you directly: Did Norton Aircraft\nsuppress this tape?\"\n\"No-Eyebrows up, the look of surprise. \"But you certainly didn't\nrelease it, did you.\"\n\"No.\"\n\"Why not?\"\"That tape was found on the aircraft,\" Casey said, \"and is being\nused in our ongoing investigation. We didn't feel it appropriate to\nrelease it until our investigation is completed.\"\n\"You weren't covering up the well-known defects of the N-22?\"\n\"No.\"\n\"Not everyone agrees with you about that, Ms. Singleton.\nBecause Newsline obtained a copy of that tape, from a conscience-\nstricken Norton employee who felt that the company was covering\nup. Who felt the tape should be made public.\"\nCasey held herself rigid. She didn't move.\n\"Are you surprised?\" Reardon said, his lips in a curl.\nShe didn't answer. Her mind was spinning. She had to plan her\nnext move.\nReardon was smirking, a patronizing smile. Enjoying the moment.\nNow.\n\"Have you yourself actually seen this tape, Mr. Reardon?\" She\nasked the question in a tone that implied the tape didn't exist, that\nReardon was making it all up.\n\"Oh yes,\" Reardon said solemnly, \"I have seen the tape. It's\ndifficult, painful to watch. It is a terrible, damning record of what\nhappened on that N-22 aircraft.\"\n\"You've seen it all the way through?\"\n\"Of course. So have my associates in New York.\"\nSo it had already gone to New York, she thought.\nCareful.\nCareful.\n\"Ms. Singleton, was Norton ever planning to release that taper\n\"It's not ours to release. We'd return it to the owners, after the\ninvestigation was completed. It would be up to the owners to decide\nwhat to do with it.\"\n\"After the investigation was completed ...\" Reardon was shaking\nhis head. \"Forgive me, but for a company you say is committed to\nflight safety, there seems to be a consistent pattern of cover-ups\nhere.\"\n\"Cover-ups?\"\"Ms. Singleton, if there was a problem with the airplane—a\nserious problem, an ongoing problem, a problem the company knew\nabout—would you tell us?\"\n\"But there is no problem.\"\n\"Isn't there?' Reardon was looking down now, at the papers in\nfront of him. \"If the N-22 is really as safe as you say, Ms. Singleton,\nthen how do you explain this?\"\nAnd he handed her a sheet of paper.\nShe took it, glanced at the paper.\n\"Jesus Christ,\" she said.\nReardon had his media moment. He had gotten her unguarded,\noff-balance reaction. She knew it would look bad. She knew there\nwas no way for her to recover from it, no matter what she said from\nthis point on. But she was focused on the paper in front of her,\nstunned to see it now.\nIt was a Xerox of the cover sheet of a report done three years\nago.\n-\n—\nPRIVILEGED INFORMATION FOR INTERNAL USE ONLY\nNORTON AIRCRAFT\nINTERNAL REVIEW ACTION COMMITTEE\nEXECUTIVE SUMMARY\nN-22\nUNSTABLE FLIGHT CHARACTERISTICS OF AIRCRAFT\nAnd following was a list of the names of the committee members.\nBeginning with her name, since she had chaired the committee.\nCasey knew that there was nothing improper about the study,\nnothing improper in its findings. But everything about it, even the\nname—\"Unstable Flight Characteristics\"— appeared damning. It was\ngoing to be very difficult for her to explain.\nHe's not interested in information.\nAnd this was an internal company report, she thought. It should\nnever have been released. It was three years old—not that many\npeople would even remember it existed. How had Reardon gotten it?\nShe glanced at the top of the page, saw a fax number, and the\nname of the sending station: NORTON QA.\nIt had come from her own office.How?\nWho had done it?\nRichman, she thought, grimly.\nRichman had placed this report in the packet of press material on\nher desk. The material Casey had told Norma to fax to Newsline.\nHow had Richman known about it?\nMarder.\nMarder knew all about the study. Marder had been program\nmanager on the N-22; he'd ordered it. And now Marder had\narranged for the study to be released while she was on television,\nbecause—\n\"Ms. Singleton?\" Reardon said.\nShe looked up. Back into the lights. \"Yes.\" \"Do you recognize this\nreport?\" \"Yes, I do,\" she said.\n\"Is that your own name at the bottom?\"\n\"Yes.\"\nReardon handed her three other sheets, the rest of the executive\nsummary. \"In fact, you were the chairman of a secret committee\ninside Norton that investigated 'flight instabilities' of the N-22. Isn't\nthat right?\"\nHow was she going to do this? she thought.\nHe's not interested in information.\n\"It wasn't a secret,\" she said. 'It's the kind of study we frequently\nconduct on operational aspects of our aircraft, once they're in\nservice.\"\n\"By your own admission, it's a study of flight instabilities.\"\n\"Look,\" she said, \"this study is a good thing.\"\n\"A good thing?\" Eyebrows up, astonished.\n\"Yes,\" she said. \"After the first slats incident four years ago, there\nwas a question about whether the aircraft had unstable handling\ncharacteristics, in certain configurations. We didn't avoid that\nquestion. We didn't ignore it. We addressed it head-on—by forming\na committee, to test the aircraft in various conditions, and see if it\nwere true. And we concluded—\"\n\"Let me read,\" Reardon said, \"from your own report. \"The aircraft\nrelies upon computers for basic stabilization.'\"\"Yes,\" she said. \"All modern aircraft use—\"\n'\"The aircraft has demonstrated marked sensitivity to manual\nhandling during attitude change!'\"\nCasey was looking at the pages now. Following his quotes. \"Yes,\nbut if you'll read the rest of the sentence, you will—\"\nReardon cut in: \" 'Pilots have reported the aircraft cannot be\ncontrolled.'\"\n\"But you're taking all this out of context\"\n\"Am I?\" Eyebrows up. \"These are all statements from your\nreport. A secret Norton report.\"\n\"I thought you said you wanted to hear what I had to say.\" She\nwas starting to get angry. She knew it showed, and didn't care.\nReardon leaned back in his chair, spread his hands. The picture\nof reason. \"By all means, Ms. Singleton.\"\n\"Then let me explain. This study was carried out to determine\nwhether the N-22 had a stability problem. We concluded it did not,\nand—\"\n\"So you say.\"\n\"I thought I was going to be allowed to explain.\"\n\"Of course.\"\n\"Then let me put your quotes in context,\" Casey said. \"The report\nsays the N-22 relies on computers. All modem aircraft rely on\ncomputers for stabilization in flight. The reason is not because they\ncan't be flown by pilots. They can. There's no problem with that But\nthe carriers now want extremely fuel-efficient aircraft. Maximum fuel\nefficiency comes from minimal drag, as the aircraft flies through the\nair.\"\nReardon was waving his hand, a dismissing gesture. \"I'm sorry,\nbut all this is beside—\"\n'To minimize drag,\" Casey continued, \"the aircraft has to hold a\nvery precise altitude, or position in the air. The most efficient\nposition is slightly nose up. The computers hold the aircraft in this\nposition during ordinary flight. None of this is unusual.\"\n\"Not unusual? Flight instabilities!\" Reardon said.\nHe was always shifting the subject never letting her catch up.\n\"I'm coming to that.\"\"We're eager to hear.\" Open sarcasm.\nShe struggled to control her temper. However bad things were\nnow, it would be worse if she lost her temper. \"You read a sentence\nbefore,\" she said. \"Let me finish it. 'The aircraft has demonstrated\nmarked sensitivity to manual handling during attitude change, but\nthis sensitivity is entirely within design parameters and presents no\ndifficulty to properly certified pilots.' That's the rest of the sentence.\"\n\"But you've admitted there is sensitive handling. Isn't that just\nanother word for instability?\"\n\"No,\" she said. \"Sensitive does not mean unstable.\"\n\"The plane can't be controlled,\" Reardon said, shaking his head\n\"It can.\"\n\"You did a study because you were worried.\"\n\"We did a study because it's our job to make sure the aircraft is\nsafe,\" she said. \"And we are sure: it is safe.\"\n\"A secret study.\"\n\"It wasn't secret.\"\n\"Never distributed. Never shown to the public ...\"\n\"It was an internal report,\" she said.\n\"You have nothing to hide?\"\n\"No,\" she said.\n\"Then why haven't you told us the truth about Transpacific Flight\n545?'\n\"The truth?\"\n\"We're told your accident team already has a preliminary finding\non the probable cause. Is that not true?\"\n\"We're close,\" she said.\n\"Close... Ms. Singleton, do you have a finding, or not?\"\nCasey stared at Reardon. The question hung in the air.\n\"I'm very sorry,\" the cameraman said, behind her. \"But we have\nto reload.\"\n\"Camera reloading!\"\n\"Reloading!\"\nReardon looked as if he had been slapped. But almost\nimmediately he recovered. 'To be continued,\" he said, smiling at\nCasey. He was relaxed; he knew he had beaten her. He got up fromhis chair, turned his back to her. The big lights clicked off; the room\nseemed suddenly almost dark. Somebody turned the air-conditioning\nback on.\nCasey got up, too. She pulled the radio mike off her waist. The\nmakeup woman came running over to her, holding out a powder\npuff. Casey held up her hand. \"In a minute,\" she said.\nWith the lights off, she saw Richman, heading for the door.\nCasey hurried after him.\nBLDG 64\n3:01 . .\nP M\nShe caught him in the hallway, grabbed him by the arm, spun\nhim around. \"You son of a bitch.\"\n\"Hey,\" Richman said. 'Take it easy.\" He smiled, nodded past her\nshoulder. Looking back, she saw the soundman and one of the\ncameramen coming out into the hallway.\nFurious, Casey pushed Richman backward, shoving him through\nthe door to the women's room. Richman started to laugh. \"Jeez,\nCasey, I didn't know you cared—\"\nThen they were in the bathroom. She pushed him back against\nthe row of sinks. \"You little bastard,\" she hissed, \"I don't know what\nthe hell you think you're doing, but you released that report, and I'm\ngoing to—\"\n\"You're going to do nothing,\" Richman said, his voice suddenly\ncold. He threw her hands off him. \"You still don't get it, do you? It's\nover, Casey. You just blew the China sale. You're finished.\"\nShe stared at him, not understanding. He was strong, confident—\na different person.\n\"Edgarton's finished. The China sale's finished. And you're\nfinished.\" He smiled. \"Just the way John said it would happen.\"\nMarder, she thought. Marder was behind it. \"If the China sale\ngoes, Marder will go, too. Edgarton will see to that.\"\nRichman was shaking his head, pityingly. \"No, he won't.\nEdgarton's sitting on his ass in Hong Kong, he'll never know what hit\nhim. By noon Sunday, Marder'll be the new president of Norton\nAircraft. It'll take him ten minutes with the Board. Because we'vemade a much bigger deal with Korea. A hundred and ten aircraft\nfirm, and an option on thirty-five more. Sixteen billion dollars. The\nBoard will be thrilled.\"\n\"Korea,\" Casey said. She was trying to put it together. Because it\nwas a huge order, the biggest in the history of the company. \"But\nwhy would—\"\n\"Because he gave them the wing,\" Richman said. \"And in return,\nthey're more than happy to buy a hundred and ten aircraft. They\ndon't care about sensationalistic American press. They know the\nplane's safe.\"\n\"He's giving them the wing?\"\n\"Sure. It's a killer deal.\"\n\"Yeah,\" Casey said. \"It kills the company.\"\n\"Global economy,\" Richman said. \"Get with the program.\"\n\"But you're gutting the company,\" she said,\n\"Sixteen billion dollars,\" Richman said. \"The minute that's\nannounced, Norton stock'll go through the roof. Everybody gets\nwell.\"\nEverybody but the people in the company, she thought.\n\"This is a done deal,\" Richman said. \"All we needed was\nsomebody to publicly trash the N-22. And you just did that for us.\"\nCasey sighed. Her shoulders dropped.\nLooking past Richman, she saw herself in the mirror. Makeup was\npancaked around her neck, and now it was cracking. Her eyes were\ndark. She looked haggard, exhausted. Defeated.\n\"So I suggest,\" Richman said, \"that you ask me, very politely,\nwhat you should do next. Because your only choice now is to follow\norders. Do as you're told, be a good girl, and maybe John will give\nyou severance. Say, three months. Otherwise, you're out on your\nfucking ass.\"\nHe leaned close to her.\n\"Do you understand what I'm saying?\"\n\"Yes,\" Casey said.\n\"I'm waiting. Ask politely.\"\nIn her exhaustion, her mind raced, examining the options, trying\nto see a way out But she could see no way out. Newsline would runthe story. Marder's plan would succeed. She was defeated. She had\nbeen defeated from the very beginning. Defeated from the first day\nRichman had shown up.\n\"I'm still waiting,\" Richman said.\nShe looked at his smooth face, smelled his cologne. The little\nbastard was enjoying this. And in a moment of fury, of deep outrage,\nshe suddenly saw another possibility.\nFrom the beginning, she had tried so hard to do the right thing,\nto solve the problem of 545. She had been honest, she had been\nstraight, and it had just gotten her into trouble.\nOr had it?\n\"You have to face facts, here,\" Richman said. \"It's over. There's\nnothing you can do.\"\nShe pushed away from the sink.\n\"Watch me,\" she said.\nAnd she walked out of the room.\nWAR ROOM\n3:15P.M.\nCasey slipped into her seat. The soundman came over and\nclipped the radio pack to the waist of her dress. \"Say a few words\nfor me, will you please? Just for level.\"\n'Testing, testing, I'm getting tired,\" she said.\n\"That's fine. Thank you.\"\nShe saw Richman slip into the room, and stand with his back to\nthe far wall. He had a faint smile on his face. He didn't look worried.\nHe was confident there was nothing she could do. Marder had made\na huge deal, he was shipping the wing, he was gutting the company,\nand he'd used Casey to do it.\nReardon dropped into his seat opposite her, shrugged his\nshoulders, adjusted his tie. He smiled at her. \"How you holding up?\"\n\"I'm okay.\"\n\"Hot in here, isn't it?\" he said. He glanced at his watch. \"We're\nalmost finished.\"\nMalone came over, and whispered in Reardon's ear. The\nwhispering continued for some time. Reardon said, \"Really?\" and hiseyebrows went up, then he nodded several times. Finally he said,\n\"Got it.\" He began to shuffle his papers, going through the folder in\nfront of him.\nMalone said, \"Guys? We ready?\"\n''A camera ready.\"\n\"B camera ready.\"\n\"Sound ready.\"\n\"Roll tape,\" she said.\nThis is it Casey thought She took a deep breath, looked\nexpectantly at Reardon.\nReardon smiled at her.\n\"You're an executive at Norton Aircraft\"\n\"Yes.\"\n\"Been here five years.\"\n\"Yes.\"\n\"You're a trusted, highly placed executive.\"\nShe nodded. If he only knew.\n\"Now there is an incident Flight 545. Involving an aircraft you say\nis perfectly safe.\"\n\"Correct\"\n\"Yet three people died, and more than fifty were injured.\"\n\"Yes.\"\n\"The footage, which we've all seen, is horrifying. Your Incident\nReview Team has been working around the clock. And now we hear\nyou have a finding.\"\n\"Yes,\" she said\n\"You know what happened on that flight\"\nCareful.\nShe had to do this very, very carefully. Because the truth was she\ndidn't know; she just had a very strong suspicion. They still had to\nput the sequence together, to verify that things had happened in a\ncertain order, the chain of causation. They didn't know for sure.\n\"We are close to a finding,\" Casey said.\n\"Needless to say, we're eager to hear.\"\n\"We will announce it tomorrow,\" Casey saidBehind the lights, she saw Richman's startled reaction. He hadn't\nbeen expecting that The little bastard was trying to see where she\nwas going.\nLet him try.\nAcross the table from her, Reardon turned aside, and Malone\nwhispered in his ear. Reardon nodded turned back to Casey. \"Ms.\nSingleton, if you know now, why wait?\"\n\"Because this was a serious accident, as you yourself said.There's\nalready been a great deal of unwarranted speculation from many\nsources. Norton Aircraft feels it is important to act responsibly.\nBefore we say anything publicly, we have to confirm our findings at\nflight Test using the same aircraft that was involved in the accident.\"\n\"When will you flight test?'\n'Tomorrow morning.\"\n\"Ah.\" Reardon sighed regretfully. \"But that's too late for our\nbroadcast. You understand that you're denying your company the\nopportunity to respond to these serious charges.\"\nCasey had her answer ready. \"We've scheduled the flight test for\nfive . .,\" she said. \"We'll hold a press conference immediately\nA M\nafterward—tomorrow at noon.\"\n\"Noon,\" Reardon said.\nHis expression was bland, but she knew he was working it out\nNoon in LA was 3:00 . . in New York. Plenty of time to make the\nP M\nevening news in both New York and Los Angeles. Norton's\npreliminary finding would be widely reported on both local and\nnetwork news. And Newsline, which aired at 10:00 . . Saturday\nP M\nnight, would be out-of-date. Depending on what emerged from the\npress conference, the Newsline segment, edited the night before,\nwould be ancient history. It might even be embarrassing.\nReardon sighed. \"On the other hand,\" he said, \"we want to be\nfair to you.\"\n\"Naturally,\" Casey said.\nNORTON ADMINISTRATION\n4:15P.M.\"I don't know,\" Richman said. \"I think she may be planning\nsomething. She's pretty smart, John.\" \"Not smart enough,\" Marder\nsaid.\n\"Fuck her,\" Marder said to Richman. \"It doesn't make any\ndifference what she does now.\"\n\"But if she's scheduling a flight test—\"\n\"Who cares?\" Marder said.\n\"And I think she's going to let the news crews film it\"\n\"So what? Flight Test will only make the story worse. She has no\nidea what caused the accident And she has no idea what will happen\nif she takes that Transpacific plane up. They probably can't\nreproduce the event And there may be problems nobody knows\nabout\"\n\"Like what?\"\n_ \"That aircraft went through very severe G-force loads,\" Marder\nsaid. \"It may have undetected structural damage. Anything can\nhappen, when they take that plane up.\" Marder made a dismissive\nwave. \"This changes nothing. Newsline airs from ten to eleven\nSaturday night. Early Saturday evening I'll notify the Board that\nsome bad publicity is coming our way, and we have to schedule an\nemergency meeting Sunday morning. Hal can't get back from Hong\nKong in time. And his friends on the Board will drop him when they\nhear about a sixteen-billion-dollar deal. They've all got stock. They\nknow what the announcement will do to their shares. I'm the next\npresident of this company, and nobody can do a thing to stop it. Not\nHal Edgarton. And certainly not Casey Singleton.\"\nWAR ROOM\n4:20 . .\nP M\nThe cameras were packed up; the white foam sheets removed\nfrom the ceiling, the microphones unclipped; the electrical boxes and\ncamera cases removed. But the negotiations dragged on. Ed Fuller,\nthe lanky head of Legal, was there; so was Teddy Rawley, the pilot;\nand two engineers who worked on FT, to answer technical questions\nthat arose.For Newsline, Malone now did all of the talking; Reardon paced in\nthe background, occasionally stopping to whisper in her ear. His\ncommanding presence seemed to have vanished with the bright\nlights; he now appeared tired, fretful, and impatient.\nMalone began by saying that since Newsline was doing an entire\nsegment on the Norton N-22, it was in the interest of the company\nto allow Newsline to film the flight test.\nCasey said that presented no problem. Flight tests were\ndocumented with dozens of video cameras, mounted both inside and\noutside the plane; the Newsline people could watch the entire test\non monitors, on the ground. They could have the film afterward, for\ntheir broadcast\nNo, Malone said. That wouldn't be sufficient. Newsline's crews\nhad to actually be on the plane.\nCasey said mat was impossible, that no airframe manufacturer\nhad ever allowed an outside crew on a flight test. She was, she said,\nalready making a concession to let them see the video on the\nground\nNot good enough, Malone said.\nEd Fuller broke in to explain it was a question of liability. Norton\nsimply couldn't allow uninsured nonemployees on the test. \"You\nrealize, of course, there is inherent danger in flight test. It's simply\ninescapable.\"\nMalone said that Newsline would accept any risk, and sign\nwaivers of liability.\nEd Fuller said he would have to draw up the waivers, but that\nNewsline's lawyers would have to approve them, and there wasn't\ntime for that.\nMalone said she could get approval from Newsline's lawyers in an\nhour. Any time of the day or night.\nFuller shifted ground. He said if Norton was going to let Newsline\nsee the flight test, he wanted to be sure that the results of that test\nwere accurately reported. He said he wanted to approve the edited\nfilm.\nMalone said that journalistic ethics forbade that, and in any case\nthere wasn't time. If the flight test ended around noon, she wouldhave to cut film in the truck and transmit it to New York at once.\nFuller said the problem for the company remained. He wanted\nthe flight test portrayed accurately.\nThey went back and forth. Finally Malone said she would include\nthirty seconds of unedited comment on the outcome of the flight by\na Norton spokesperson. This would be taken from the press\nconference.\nFuller demanded a minute.\nThey compromised on forty seconds.\n\"We have another problem,\" Fuller said. \"If we let you film the\nflight test, we don't want you to use the tape you obtained today,\nshowing the actual incident.\"\nNo way, Malone said. The tape was going to be aired.\n\"You characterized the tape as having been obtained from a\nNorton employee,\" Fuller said. \"That's incorrect. We want the\nprovenance accurately stated.\"\n\"Well, we certainly got it from someone who works for Norton.\"\n\"No,\" Fuller said, \"you didn't\"\n\"It's one of your subcontractors.\"\n\"No, it's not I can provide you with the IRS definition of a\nsubcontractor, if you like.\"\n\"This is a fine point...\"\n\"We have already obtained a sworn statement from the\nreceptionist, Christine Barron. She is not an employee of Norton\nAircraft. She is not, in fact, an employee of Video Imaging. She is a\ntemp from an agency.\"\n\"What's the point here?\"\n\"We want you to state the facts accurately: that you obtained the\ntape from sources outside the company.\"\nMalone shrugged. \"As I said, this is a fine point.\"\n\"Then what's the problem?\"\nMalone thought for a minute. \"Okay,\" she said.\nFuller slid a piece of paper across the table. \"This brief document\nconveys that understanding. Sign it.\"\nMalone looked at Reardon. Reardon shrugged.Malone signed it. \"I don't understand what all the fuss is about.\"\nShe started to push it back to Fuller, and paused.\n'Two crews, on the aircraft, during the flight test. Is that our\nagreement?\"\n\"No,\" Fuller said. \"That was never the agreement. Your crews will\nwatch the test on the ground.\"\n\"That won't work for us.\"\nCasey said that the Newsline crews could come to the test area;\nthey could film the preparations, the takeoff and landing. But they\ncouldn't actually come on the plane during the flight.\n\"Sorry,\" Malone said.\nTeddy Rawley cleared his throat. \"I don't think you understand\nthe situation, Ms. Malone,\" he said. \"You can't be walking around\nfilming inside the airplane, during a flight test. Everybody on board\nhas to be strapped in in a four-point harness. You can't even get up\nto pee. And you can't have lights or batteries, because they generate\nmagnetic fields that might disrupt our readings.\"\n\"We don't need lights,\" she said. \"We can shoot available light.\"\n\"You don't understand,\" Rawley said. \"It can get pretty hairy up\nthere.\"\n\"That's why we have to be mere,\" Malone said.\nEd Fuller cleared his throat. \"Let me be entirely clear, Ms.\nMalone,\" he said. \"Under no circumstances is this company going to\nallow your film crew on board that aircraft. It is absolutely out of the\nquestion.\"\nMalone's face was rigid, set.\n\"Ma'am,\" Rawley said, \"you've got to realize, there's a reason we\ntest over the desert. Over large uninhabited spaces?\"\n\"You mean it might crash.\"\n\"I mean we don't know what might happen. Trust me on this:\nyou want to be on the ground.\"\nMalone shook her head. \"No. We must have our crews on board.\"\n\"Ma'am, there's going to be big G-forces—\"\nCasey said, \"There'll be thirty cameras all over the plane. They'll\ncover every possible angle—cockpit, wings, passenger cabin,everywhere. You're getting exclusive use of the film. No one will\nknow your cameras aren't getting the footage.\"\nMalone glowered, but Casey knew that she had made the point.\nThe woman only cared about the visuals.\n\"I want to place the cameras,\" she said.\n\"Uh-uh,\" Rawley said.\n\"I have to be able to say our cameras are on board,\" Malone\nsaid. \"I have to be able to say that.\"\nIn the end, Casey hammered out a compromise. Newsline would\nbe allowed to position two locked-down cameras, anywhere in the\nplane, to cover the test flight They would take the feed directly from\nthese cameras. In addition, they would be allowed to use footage\nfrom other cameras mounted in the interior. Finally, Newsline would\nbe allowed to shoot a stand-up with Reardon outside Building 64,\nwhere the assembly line was located.\nNorton would provide transportation for the Newsline crews to\nthe Arizona test facility later in the day; would put them up in a local\nmotel; would transport them to the test facility in the morning; and\nback to LA in the afternoon.\nMalone pushed the paper back to Fuller. \"Deal,\" she said.\nReardon was looking fretfully at his watch as he left with Malone\nto shoot the stand-up. Casey was alone with Rawley and Fuller in\nthe War Room.\nFuller sighed. \"I hope we've made the right decision.\" He turned\nto Casey. \"I did what you asked, when you called me earlier from\nthe video company.\"\n\"Yes, Ed,\" she said. \"You were perfect.\"\n\"But I saw the tape,\" he said. \"It's dreadful. I'm afraid that\nwhatever the flight test shows, that tape will be the only thing\nanybody remembers.\"\nCasey said, \"If anybody ever sees that tape.\"\n\"My concern,\" Fuller said, \"is that Newsline will run that tape no\nmatter what.\"\n\"I think they won't,\" Casey said. \"Not when we get through with\nthem.\"\nFuller sighed. \"I hope you're right. High stakes.\"\"Yes,\" she said. \"High stakes.\"\nTeddy said, \"You better tell them to bring warm clothing. You,\ntoo, babe. And another thing: I watched that woman. She thinks\nshe's going to get on the plane tomorrow.\"\n\"Yeah, probably.\"\n\"And you, too, right?\" Teddy said.\n\"Maybe,\" Casey said.\n\"You better think about this real good,\" Teddy said. \"Because you\nsaw the QAR video, Casey. That airplane exceeded its design G-loads\nby a hundred and sixty percent. That guy subjected the airframe to\nforces it was never built to withstand. And tomorrow I'm going to go\nup and do it again.\"\nShe shrugged. \"Doherty checked the fuse,\" she said, \"they've X-\nrayed and—\"\n\"Yeah, he checked,\" Teddy said. \"But not thoroughly. Ordinarily,\nwe'd go over that fuselage for a month, before we put it back in\nactive service. We'd X-ray every join on the plane. That hasn't been\ndone.\"\n\"What are you saying?\"\n\"I'm saying,\" Teddy said, \"that when I put that aircraft through\nthose same G-force loads, there's a chance that the airframe will\nfail.\"\n\"You trying to scare me?\" Casey said.\n\"No, I'm just telling you. This is serious, Casey. Real world. It\ncould happen.\"\nOUTSIDE BLDG 64\n4:55 . .\nP M\n\"No aircraft company in history,\" Reardon said, \"has ever\npermitted a television crew on a flight test. But so important is this\ntest to the future of Norton Aircraft, so confident are they of the\noutcome, that they have agreed to allow our crews to film. So today,\nfor the first time, we will be seeing footage of the actual plane\ninvolved in Flight 545, the controversial Norton N-22 aircraft. Critics\nsay it's a deathtrap. The company says it's safe. The flight test will\nprove who's right\"Reardon paused.\n\"Done,\" Jennifer said.\n\"You need something for the cut?'\n\"Yeah.\"\n\"Where do they do the test, anyway?\"\n\"Yuma.\"\n\"Okay,\" Reardon said.\nStanding in afternoon sun, before Building 64, he looked down at\nhis feet and said, in a low, confidential voice, \"We are here, at the\nNorton test facility in Yuma, Arizona. It's five o'clock in the morning,\nand the Norton team is making final preparations to take Flight 545\ninto the air.\" He looked up. \"What time's dawn?\"\n\"Damned if I know,\" Jennifer said. \"Cover it.\"\n\"All right,\" Reardon said. He looked down at his feet again, and\nintoned. \"In the early predawn, tension mounts. In the predawn\ndarkness, tension mounts. As dawn breaks, tension mounts.\"\n\"That should do it,\" Jennifer said.\n\"How do you want to handle the wrap?\" he said.\n\"You've got to cover it both ways, Marty.\"\n\"I mean do we win, or what?\"\n\"Cover it both ways to be sure.\"\nReardon looked down at his feet again. \"As the aircraft lands, the\nteam is jubilant. Happy faces all around. The flight is successful.\nNorton has made its point. At least for now.\" He took a breath. \"As\nthe aircraft lands, the team is muted. Norton is devastated. The\ndeadly controversy over the N-22 continues to rage.\" He looked up.\n\"Enough?\"\nShe said, \"You better give me an on-camera about the\ncontroversy continues to rage. We can close with that.\"\n\"Good idea.\"\nMarty always thought it was a good idea for him to appear on\ncamera. He stood erect, set his jaw, and faced the camera.\n\"Here, in this building where the N-22 is built, no ... Behind me is\nthe building where ... no. Hold on.\" He shook his head, faced the\ncamera again.\"And yet, the bitter controversy over the N-22 will not die. Here,\nin this building where the aircraft is made, workers are confident\nthat it is a safe, reliable aircraft. But critics of the N-22 remain\nunconvinced. Will there be another harvest of death in the skies?\nOnly time will tell. This is Martin Reardon, for Newsline, Burbank,\nCalifornia.\"\nHe blinked.\n'Too corny? Too much on the money?\"\n\"Great, Marty.\"\nHe was already unclipping his mike, removing the radio pack\nfrom his belt. He pecked Jennifer on the cheek. \"I'm out of here,\" he\nsaid, and sprinted to the waiting car.\nJennifer turned to her crew. \"Pack up, guys,\" she said. \"We're\ngoing to Arizona.\"\nSATURDAY\nNORTON TEST FACILITY YUMA, ARIZONA\n4:45 . .\nA M\nA thin streak of red was starting to appear behind the flat range\nof the Gila Mountains to the east. The sky overhead was deep\nindigo, a few stars still visible. The air was very cold; Casey could\nsee her breath. She zipped up her windbreaker and stamped her\nfeet, trying to stay warm.\nOn the runway, lights shone up at the Transpacific wide-body, as\nthe FT team finished installing the video cameras. There were men\non the wings, around the engines, by the landing gear.\nThe Newsline crew was already out, filming the preparations.\nMalone stood alongside Casey, watching them. \"Jesus it's cold,\" she\nsaid.\nCasey went into the Right Test Station, a low Spanish-style\nbungalow beside the tower. Inside, the room was filled with\nmonitors, each displaying the feed from a single camera. Most of the\ncameras were focused on specific parts—she found the camera on\nthe right locking pin—and so the room had a technical, industrial\nfeeling. It was not very exciting.\"This isn't what I expected,\" Malone said.\nCasey pointed around the room. \"There's the cockpit. High\nmount down. Cockpit, facing back at the pilot. You see Rawley there,\nin the chair. The interior cabin, looking aft Interior cabin, looking\nforward. Looking out on right wing. The left wing, Those are your\nmain interiors. And we'll also have the chase plane.\"\n\"Chase plane?\"\n\"An F-14 fighter follows the widebody all through the flight, so\nwe'll have those cameras, too.\"\nMalone frowned. \"I don't know,\" she said, in a disappointed\nvoice. \"I thought it would be more, you know, glitzy.\"\n\"We're still on the ground.\"\nMalone was frowning, unhappy. \"These angles on the cabin,\" she\nsaid. \"Who will be in there, during the flight?\"\n\"Nobody.\"\n\"You mean the seats will be empty?\"\n\"Right. It's a test flight.\"\n\"That isn't going to look very good,\" Malone said.\n\"But that's how it is on a test flight,\" Casey said. \"This is how it's\ndone.\"\n\"But it doesn't look good,\" Malone said. \"This isn't compelling.\nThere should be people in the seats. At least, in some of them. Can't\nwe put some people on board? Can't I go on board?\"\nCasey shook her head. \"It's a dangerous flight,\" she said. \"The\nairframe was badly stressed by the accident. We don't know what\nwill happen.\"\nMalone snorted. \"Oh, come on. There aren't any lawyers here.\nHow about it?\"\nCasey just looked at her. She was a foolish kid who knew nothing\nabout the world, who was just interested in a look, who lived for\nappearances, who skimmed over surfaces. She knew she should\nrefuse.\nInstead, she heard herself say, \"You won't like it.\"\n\"You're telling me it's not safe?\"\n\"I'm telling you that you won't like it.\"\"I'm going on,\" Malone said. She looked at Casey, her expression\nan open challenge. \"So: How about you?'\nIn her mind, Casey could hear Marty Reardon's voice, as he said,\nDespite her repeated insistence that the N-22 was safe, Norton's\nown spokesperson, Casey Singleton, refused to board the plane for\nthe flight test. She said that the reason she wouldn't fly on it was...\nWhat?\nCasey didn't have an answer, at least not an answer that would\nwork for television. Not an answer that would play. And suddenly the\ndays of strain, the effort to try and solve the incident, the effort to\ncontrive an appearance for television, the effort to make sure she\ndidn't say a single sentence that could be taken out of context, the\ndistortion of everything in her life for this unwarranted intrusion of\ntelevision, made her furious. She knew exactly what was coming.\nMalone had seen the videos, but she didn't understand they were\nreal.\n\"Okay,\" Casey said. \"Let's go.\"\nThey went out to the plane.\nABOARD TPA 545\n5:05 . .\nA M\nJennifer shivered: it was cold inside the airplane, and under\nfluorescent lights, the rows of empty seats, the long aisles, made it\nseem even colder. She was faintly shocked when she recognized, in\nplaces, the damage that she had seen on the videotape. This was\nwhere it happened, she thought. This was the plane. There were still\nbloody footprints on the ceiling. Broken luggage bins. Dented\nfiberglass panels. And a lingering odor. Even worse, in some places\nthe plastic panels had been pulled off around the windows, so that\nshe could see the naked silver padding, the bundles of wires. It was\nsuddenly all too clear that she was in a big metal machine. She\nwondered if she had made a mistake, but by then Singleton was\ngesturing for her to take a seat, right in the front of the center\ncabin, facing a locked-down video camera.\nJennifer sat beside Singleton and waited as one of the Norton\ntechnicians, a man in coveralls, tightened the shoulder harnessaround her body. It was one of those harnesses like the\nstewardesses wore on regular flights. Two green canvas straps came\nover each shoulder, meeting at the waist. Then there was another\nwide canvas strap that went across her thighs. Heavy metal buckles\nclamped it all in place. It looked serious.\nThe man in coveralls pulled the straps tight, grunting.\n\"Jeez,\" Jennifer said. \"Does it have to be that tight?'\n\"Ma'am, you need it as tight as you can stand it,\" the man said.\n\"If you can breathe, it's too loose. Can you feel the way it is now?'\n\"Yes,\" she said.\n\"That's how you want it when you put it back on. Now here's\nyour release here...\" He showed her. \"Pull that now.\"\n\"Why do I need to know—\"\n\"Case of emergency. Pull it, please.\"\nShe pulled the release. The straps sprang away from her body,\nthe pressure released.\n\"And just do it up again yourself, if you don't mind.\"\nJennifer put the contraption back together, just as he had done it\nbefore. It wasn't difficult. These people made such a fuss about\nnothing.\n\"Now tighten it, please, ma'am.\"\nShe pulled the straps.\n'Tighter.\"\n\"If I need it tighter, I'll tighten it later.\"\n\"Ma'am,\" he said, \"by the time you realize you need it tighter, it'll\nbe too late. Do it now, please.\"\nAlongside her, Singleton was calmly putting the harness on,\ncinching it down brutally. The straps dug into Singleton's thighs,\npulled hard on her shoulders. Singleton sighed, sat back.\n\"I believe you ladies are prepared,\" the man said. \"You have a\npleasant flight.\"\nHe turned, and went out the door. The pilot, that Rawley\ncharacter, came back from the cockpit, shaking his head.\n\"Ladies,\" he said. \"I urge you not to do this.\" He was looking\nmostly at Singleton. He almost seemed to be angry at her.\nSingleton said, \"Fly the plane, Teddy.\"\"That's your best offer?\"\n\"Best and final.\"\nHe disappeared. The intercom clicked. \"Prepare to close, please.\"\nThe doors were closed, clicked shut. Thunk, thank. The air was still\ncold. Jennifer shivered in her harness.\nShe looked over her shoulder at the rows of empty seats. Then\nshe looked at Singleton.\nSingleton stared straight ahead.\nJennifer heard the whine of the jet engines as they started up, a\nlow moan at first, then rising in pitch. The intercom clicked. She\nheard the pilot say, 'Tower this is Norton zero one, request clearance\nfor FT station check.\"\nClick. \"Roger zero one, taxi across runway two left contact point\nsix.\"\nClick. \"Roger, tower.\"\nThe plane began to move, rolling forward. Out the windows she\nsaw the sky was lightening. After a few moments, the plane stopped\nagain.\n\"What are they doing?\" Jennifer asked.\n\"Weighing it,\" Singleton answered. \"They weigh before and after,\nto guarantee we've simulated flying conditions.\"\n\"On some kind of scale?\"\n\"Built into the concrete.\"\nClick. 'Teddy. Need, uh, about two feet more on nose.\"\nClick. \"Hangon.\"\nThe whine of the engines increased. Jennifer felt the plane inch\nforward slowly. Then it stopped again.\nClick. \"Thank you. Got it You're at fifty-seven two seven GW and\nCO is thirty-two percent MAC. Right where you want to be.\"\nClick. \"Bye, guys.\" Click. 'Tower zero one request clearance for\ntakeoff.\"\nClick. \"Cleared runway three contact ground point six three when\noff the runway.\"\nClick. \"Roger.\"\nThen the plane began to roll forward, the engines increasing\nfrom a whine to a full deep roar, the sound building until it soundedlouder to Jennifer than any engines she had beard before. She felt\nthe thump of me wheels going over the cracks in the runway. And\nthen suddenly they had lifted off, the plane going up, the sky blue\nout the windows.\nAirborne.\nClick. \"Oh-kay, ladies, we are going to proceed to flight level\nthree seven zero, that's thirty-seven thousand feet, and we are\ngoing to circle there between Yuma station and Carstairs, Nevada,\nfor the duration of this excursion. Everybody comfy? If you look to\nyour left, you will see our chase plane coming alongside.\"\nJennifer looked out and saw a silver jet fighter, glinting in the\nmorning light It was very close to their aircraft, close enough to see\nthe pilot wave. Then suddenly it slid backward.\nClick. \"Uh, you probably won't see much more of him, he'll be\nstaying high and behind us, out of our wake, the safest place to be.\nRight now we are coming up on twelve thousand feet, you may want\nto swallow, Ms. Malone, we're not creeping up like the airlines.\"\nJennifer swallowed, heard her ears pop loudly. She said, \"Why\nare we going up so fast?\"\n\"He wants to get to altitude quickly, to cold soak the plane.\"\n\"Cold soak?\"\n\"At thirty-seven thousand feet, the air temperature is minus fifty\ndegrees. The airplane is warmer than that right now, and different\nparts will cool off at different rates, but eventually on a long flight—\nsuch as a long Pacific crossing—all the parts of the plane will reach\nthat temperature. One of the questions for the IRT is whether the\ncable rigging behaves differently at cold temperature. Cold soaking\nmeans putting the plane up at altitude long enough to cool it down.\nThen we begin the test\"\n\"How long are we talking?\" Jennifer said.\n\"Standard cold soak is two hours.\"\n\"We have to sit here for two hours?\"\nSingleton looked at her. \"You wanted to come.\"\n\"You mean we spend two hours doing nothing?\"\nClick. \"Oh, we'll try to amuse you, Ms. Malone,\" the pilot said.\n\"We're now at twenty-two thousand feet and climbing. It'll beanother few minutes to cruise altitude. We are at two eighty-seven\nKIAS and we will stabilize at three forty KIAS which is point eight\nMach, eighty percent of the speed of\nsound. That's the usual cruise speed for commercial aircraft\nEverybody comfy?\"\nJennifer said, \"Can you hear us?\"\n\"I can hear you and see you. And if you look to your right, you\ncan see me.\"\nA monitor in the cabin in front of them came on. Jennifer saw the\npilot's shoulder, his head, the controls arrayed in front of him. Bright\nlight out the window.\nNow they were high enough that full sunlight streamed in\nthrough the windows. But the ulterior of the plane was still cold.\nBecause she was sitting in the center of the cabin, Jennifer could not\nsee the ground out the windows.\nShe looked at Singleton.\nSingleton smiled.\nClick. \"Ah, okay, we are now at flight level three seven zero,\nDoppler clear, no turbulence, a beautiful day in the neighborhood.\nWould you ladies please unbuckle your harnesses, and come to the\ncockpit\"\nWhat? Jennifer thought But Singleton was already taking hers off,\nstanding up in the cabin.\n\"I thought we couldn't walk around.\"\n\"It's okay right now,\" Singleton said.\nJennifer climbed out of her harness, and walked with Singleton\nup through first class, to the cockpit. She felt the faint vibration of\nthe airplane beneath her feet. But it was quite stable. The door to\nthe cockpit was open. She saw Rawley in there, with a second man\nhe didn't introduce, and a third who was working with some\ninstrumentation. Jennifer stood with Singleton just outside the\ncockpit looking in.\n\"Now Ms. Malone,\" Rawley said. \"You interviewed Mr. Barker,\ndidn't you?\"\n\"Yes.\"\n\"What did he say was the cause of the accident?\"\"He said the slats deployed.\"\n\"Uh-huh. Okay, please watch carefully. This is the flaps slats\nhandle here. We are at cruise speed, cruise altitude. I am now going\nto deploy the slats.\" He reached his hand forward to the thing\nbetween the seats.\n\"Wait a minute! Let me get strapped in!\"\n\"You're perfectly safe, Ms. Malone.\"\n\"I want to sit down, at least.\"\n\"Then sit down.\"\nJennifer started back, then realized that Singleton was remaining\nstanding by the cockpit door. Staring at her. Feeling foolish, Jennifer\nwent back and stood by Singleton.\n\"Deploying slats now.\"\nRawley pushed the lever down. She heard a faint rumble that\nlasted a few seconds. Nothing else. The nose tilted, steadied.\n\"Slats are extended.\" Rawley pointed to the instrument panel.\n\"You see the speed? You see the altitude? And you see that indicator\nthat says SLATS? We have just duplicated the exact conditions that\nMr. Barker insists caused the death of three people, on this very\nsame aircraft. And as you see, nothing happened. The attitude is\nrock solid. Want to try again?\"\n\"Yes,\" she said. She didn't know what else to say.\n\"Okay. Slats retracting. This time, maybe you'd like to do it\nyourself, Ms. Malone. Or maybe you'd like to walk over and look at\nthe wings, see what actually happens when the slats extend. It's\nkind of neat.\"\nRawley pressed a button. \"Ah, Norton station, this is zero one,\ncan I have a monitor check?\" He listened a moment. \"Okay, fine. Ms.\nMalone, move a little forward, so your friends can see you on that\ncamera up there.\" He pointed up to the ceiling of the cockpit. \"Give\n'em a wave.\"\nJennifer waved, feeling foolish.\n\"Ms. Malone, how many more times would you like us to extend\nand retract the slats to satisfy your cameras?\"\n\"Well, I don't know ...\" She was feeling more foolish by the\nminute. The flight test was starting to seem like a trap. The footagewould make Barker look like a fool. It would make the whole\nsegment look ridiculous. It would make—\n\"We can do this all day, if you like,\" Rawley was saying. \"That's\nthe point. No problem deploying the slats at cruise speed on the N-\n22. Plane can handle it fine.\"\n'Try it once more,\" she said, tightly.\n\"That's the handle there. Just flip that little metal cover up, and\npull it down about an inch.\"\nShe knew what he was doing. Putting her in the shot.\n\"I think you'd better do it.\"\n\"Yes, ma'am. Whatever you say.\"\nRawley pulled the lever down. The rumbling occurred again. The\nnose went up slightly. Exactly as before.\n\"Now,\" Rawley said, \"we've got the chase plane getting views for\nyou showing the slats extending, so you'll have exterior angles\nshowing all the action. Okay? Slats retracting.\"\nShe watched impatiently. \"Well,\" she said. \"If the slats didn't\ncause this accident, what did?\"\nSingleton spoke for the first time. \"How long has it been now,\nTeddy?\"\n\"We've been up twenty-three minutes.\"\n\"Is that long enough?\"\n\"Maybe. Could happen any minute now.\"\n\"What could happen?\" Jennifer said.\n\"The first part of the sequence,\" Singleton said, \"that caused the\naccident.\"\n\"The first part of the sequence?\"\n\"Yes,\" Singleton said. \"Nearly all aircraft accidents are the result\nof a sequence of events. We call it a cascade. It's never one thing.\nThere's a chain of events, one after another. On this aircraft, we\nbelieve the initiating event was an erroneous fault reading, caused\nby a bad part.\"\nWith a sense of dread, Jennifer said, \"A bad part?'\nShe was immediately recutting the tape in her mind. Getting\naround this awkward point. Singleton had said it was the initiating\nevent. That didn't have to be emphasized, especially if it was just alink in the chain of events. The next link in the chain was equally\nimportant—probably more important After all, what had happened\non 545 was terrifying and spectacular, it involved the whole airplane,\nand it was surely unreasonable to blame it on a bad part.\n\"You said there was a chain of events...\"\n\"That's right,\" Singleton said. \"Several events in a sequence that\nwe believe led to the final outcome.\"\nJennifer felt her shoulders drop.\nThey waited.\nNothing happened.\nFive minutes went by. Jennifer was cold. She kept glancing at her\nwatch. \"What exactly are we waiting for?'\n\"Patience,\" Singleton said.\nThen there was an electronic ping, and she saw amber words\nflash on the instrument panel. It said .\nSLATS DISAGREE\n\"There it is,\" Rawley said.\n\"There what is?'\n\"An indication that the FDAU believes the slats are not where\nthey're supposed to be. As you see, the slats lever is up, so the slats\nshould be stowed. And we know they are. But the airplane is picking\nup a reading that they are not stowed. In this case, we know the\nwarning is coming from a bad proximity sensor in the right wing.\nThe proximity sensor should read the presence of the retracted slat.\nBut this sensor's been damaged. And when the sensor gets cold, it\nbehaves erratically. Tells the pilot the slats are extended, when\nthey're not.\"\nJennifer was shaking her head. \"Proximity sensor ... I'm not\nfollowing you. What does this have to do with Flight 5457'\nSingleton said, 'The cockpit on 545 got a warning that something\nwas wrong with the slats. Warnings like that happen fairly\nfrequently. The pilot doesn't know whether something is really\nwrong, or whether the sensor is just acting up. So the pilot tries to\nclear the warning; he runs out the slats and retracts them.\"\n\"So the pilot on 545 deployed the slats, to clear the warning?\"\n\"Yes.\"\n\"But deploying the slats didn't cause the accident...\"\"No. We' ve just demonstrated that.\"\n\"What did?\"\nRawley said, \"Ladies, if you will please take your seats, we will\nnow attempt to reproduce the event.\"\nABOARD TPA 545\n6:25 . .\nA M\nIn the center passenger cabin, Casey pulled the harness straps\nover her shoulders and cinched them tight She looked over at\nMalone, who was sweating, her face pale.\n'Tighter,\" Casey said\n\"I already did—\"\nCasey reached over, grabbed her waist strap, and pulled as hard\nas she could.\nMalone grunted. \"Hey, for Christ's—\"\n\"I don't much like you,\" Casey said, \"but I don't want your little\nass getting hurt on my watch.\"\nMalone wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. Although\nthe cabin was cold, sweat was running down her face.\nCasey took out a white paper bag, and shoved it under Malone's\nthigh. \"And I don't want you throwing up on me,\" she said.\n\"Do you think we'll need that?\"\n\"I guarantee it,\" Casey said.\nMalone's eyes were flicking back and forth. \"Listen,\" she said,\n\"maybe we should call this off.\"\n\"Change the channel?\"\n\"Listen,\" Malone said, \"maybe I was wrong.\"\n\"About what?\"\n\"We shouldn't have come on the plane. We should have just\nwatched.\"\n'Too late now,\" Casey said.\nShe knew she was being tough with Malone because she was\nfrightened herself. She didn't think Teddy was right about the\nairframe cracking; she didn't think he was foolish enough to go up in\na plane that hadn't been thoroughly checked. He had hung around\nevery minute of the tests, during the structural work, the CET,because he knew in a few days he was going to have to fly it. Teddy\nwasn't stupid.\nBut he was a test pilot, she thought.\nAnd all test pilots were crazy.\nClick. \"All right, ladies, we are initiating the sequence. Everybody\nstrapped in tight?\"\n\"Yes,\" Casey said.\nMalone said nothing. Her mouth was moving, but she wasn't\nsaying anything.\nClick. \"Ah, chase alpha, this is zero one, initiating pitch\noscillations now.\"\nClick. \"Roger zero one. We have you. Initiate on your mark.\"\nClick. \"Norton ground, this is zero one. Monitor check.\"\nClick. \"Check confirm. One to thirty.\"\nClick. \"Here we go, fellas. Mark.\"\nCasey watched on the side monitor, which snowed Teddy in the\ncockpit His movements were calm, assured. His voice relaxed.\nClick. \"Ladies, I have received my slats disagree warning, and I\nam now extending the slats to clear the warning. Slats are now\nextended. I am out of the autopilot now. Nose is up, speed\ndecreases... and I now have a stall...\"\nCasey heard the harsh electronic alarm, sounding again and\nagain. Then the audio warning, the recorded voice flat and insistent:\n\"Stall... Stall... Stall...\"\nClick. \"I am bringing the nose down to avoid the stall\ncondition...\"\nThe plane nosed over, and began to dive.\nIt was as if they were going straight down.\nOutside the scream of the engines became a shriek. Casey's body\nwas pressing hard against the harness straps. Sitting beside her,\nJennifer Malone began to scream, her mouth open, a single\nunvarying scream that merged with the scream of the engines.\nCasey felt dizzy. She tried to count how long it was lasting. Five...\nsix ... seven... eight seconds... How long had the initial descent\nbeen?Bit by bit, the plane began to level, to come out of the dive. The\nscream of die engines faded, changed to a lower register. Casey felt\nher body grow heavy, then heavier still, then amazingly heavy, her\ncheeks sagging, her arms pressed down to the armrests. The G-\nforces. They were at more than two Gs. Casey now weighed two\nhundred and fifty pounds. She sank lower in the seat, pressed down\nby a giant hand.\nBeside her, Jennifer had stopped screaming, and now was\nmaking a continuous low groan.\nThe sensation of weight decreased as the plane started to climb\nagain. At first the climb was reasonable, then uncomfortable—then it\nseemed to be straight up. The engines were screaming. Jennifer was\nscreaming. Casey tried to count the seconds but couldn't She didn't\nhave the energy to focus.\nAnd suddenly she felt the pit of her stomach begin to rise,\nfollowed by nausea, and she saw the monitor lift off the floor for a\nmoment held in place by the straps. They were weightless at the\npeak of the climb. Jennifer threw her hand over her mouth. Then the\nplane was going over... and down again.\nClick. \"Second pitch oscillation...\"\nAnother steep dive.\nJennifer took her hand away from her mouth and screamed,\nmuch louder man before. Casey tried to hold on to the armrests,\ntried to occupy her mind. She had forgotten to count she had\nforgotten to—\nThe weight again.\nSinking. Pressing.\nDeep into the chair.\nCasey couldn't move. She couldn't turn her head.\nThen they were climbing again, steeper than before, the shriek of\nthe engines loud in her ears, and she felt Jennifer reach for her,\nJennifer grabbing her arm. Casey turned to look at her, and Jennifer,\npale and wild-eyed, was shouting:\n\"Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!\"\nThe plane was coming to the top of the rise. Her stomach lifting,\na sickening sensation. Jennifer's stricken look, hand clapped to hermouth. Vomit spurting through her fingers.\nThe plane going over.\nAnother dive.\nClick. \"Releasing the luggage bins. Give you a sense of how it\nwas.\"\nAlong both aisles, the luggage bins above the seats sprang open,\nand two-foot white blocks spilled out They were harmless neoprene\nfoam, but they bounced around the cabin like a dense blizzard.\nCasey felt them strike her face, the back of her head.\nJennifer was retching again, trying to pull the bag from under her\nleg. The blocks tumbled forward, moving down the cabin toward the\ncockpit. They obscured their view on all sides, until one by one, they\nbegan to fall to the floor, roll over, and remain mere. The whine of\nthe engines changed.\nThe sinking drag of added weight.\nThe plane was going up again.\nThe pilot in the F-14 chase plane watched as the big Norton\nwidebody streaked upward through the clouds, climbing at twenty-\none degrees.\n'Teddy,\" he said over the radio. \"What the hell are you doing?\"\n\"Just reproducing what's on the flight recorder.\"\n\"Christ,\" the pilot said.\nThe huge passenger jet roared upward, breaking through cloud\ncover at thirty-one thousand feet. Going up another thousand feet,\nbefore losing speed. Approaching stall. Then nosing over again.\nJennifer vomited explosively into the bag. It spilled out over her\nhands, dribbled onto her lap. She turned to Casey, her face green,\nweak, contorted.\n\"Stop it, please. . .\"\nThe plane had started to nose over again. Going down.\nCasey looked at her. \"Don't you want to reproduce the full event\nfor your cameras? Great visuals. Two more cycles to go.\"\nThe plane was diving steeply now. Still looking at Jennifer, Casey\nsaid, 'Teddy! Teddy, take your hands off the controls!\"\nJennifer's eyes widened. Horrified.\nClick. \"Roger. Taking my hands off now.\"Immediately the plane leveled out. Smoothly, gently. The scream\nof the engines abated to a constant, steady roar. The foam blocks\nfell to the carpet, tumbled once, and did not move.\nLevel flight.\nSunlight streamed through the windows.\nJennifer wiped vomit from her lips with the back of her hand. She\nstared around the cabin in a daze. \"What . . . what happened?\"\n\"The pilot took his hands off the stick.\"\nJennifer shook her head, not understanding. Her eyes were\nglazed. In a weak voice she said, \"He took his hands off?\"\nCasey nodded. \"That's right.\"\n\"Well then ...\"\n\"The autopilot is flying the plane.\"\nMalone collapsed back in her seat, put her head back. Closed her\neyes. \"I don't understand,\" she said.\n'To end the incident on Right 545, all the pilot had to do was take\nhis hands off the column. If he had taken his hands away, it would\nhave ended immediately.\"\nJennifer sighed. \"Then why didn't he?\"\nCasey didn't answer her. She turned to the monitor. 'Teddy,\" she\nsaid, \"let's go back.\"\nYUMA TEST STATION\n9:45 . .\nA M\nBack on the ground, Casey went through the main room of the\nFlight Test Station, and into the pilots' room. It was an old, wood-\npaneled lounge for test pilots from the days when Norton still made\nmilitary aircraft. A lumpy green couch, faded gray from sunlight. A\ncouple of metal flight chairs, pulled up to a scratched Formica table.\nThe only new object in the room was a small television, with a built-\nin tape deck. It stood beside a battered Coke machine, with a taped\ncard that said OUT OF ORDER. In the window, a grinding air\nconditioner. It was already blazing hot on the airfield, and the room\nwas uncomfortably warm.\nCasey looked through the window at the Newsline crew, walking\naround Flight 545, filming it as it sat on the runway. The aircraftgleamed in the bright desert sun. The crew seemed lost, not certain\nwhat to do. They aimed their cameras as if composing a shot, then\nlowered them again immediately. They seemed to be waiting.\nCasey opened the manila folder she had brought with her, and\nlooked through the sheets of paper inside. The color Xeroxes she\nasked Norma to make had turned out rather well. And the telexes\nwere satisfactory. Everything was in order.\nShe went to the television, which she had ordered brought out\nhere. She pushed a tape into the deck, and waited.\nWaited for Malone.\nCasey was tired. Then she remembered the scope. She rolled up\nher sleeve, and pulled off the four circular bandages arranged in a\nrow on the skin of her arm. Scopolamine patches, for motion\nsickness. That was why she had not vomited on the plane. She had\nknown what she was in for, Malone had not.\nCasey had no sympathy for her. She just wanted to be finished.\nThis would be the last step. This would end it.\nThe only person at Norton who really knew what she was doing\nwas Fuller. Fuller had understood immediately when Casey had\ncalled him from Video Imaging. Fuller recognized the implications of\nreleasing the tape to Newsline. He saw what it would do to them,\nhow they might be boxed in.\nFlight Test had done that\nShe waited for Malone.\nFive minutes later, Jennifer Malone came in, slamming the door\nbehind her. She was wearing a pair of flight test coveralls. Her face\nwas washed, her hair pulled back.\nAnd she was very angry.\n\"I don't know what you think you proved up there,\" she said.\n\"You had your fun. Taped the show. Scared the shit out of me. I\nhope you enjoyed it, because it isn't going to change a fucking thing\nin our story. Barker is right. Your plane has slats problems, just like\nhe says. The only thing he's missing is that the problem occurs when\nthe autopilot's off. That's all your little exercise demonstrated today.\nBut our story isn't changed. Your plane's a deathtrap. And by the\ntime we air our story, you won't be able to sell one of those planeson Mars. We're going to bury your shitty little airplane, and we're\ngoing to bury you.\"\nCasey did not speak. She thought: She's young. Young and\nstupid. The harshness of her own judgment surprised her. Perhaps\nshe'd learned something from the tough older men at the plant. Men\nwho knew about power, as opposed to posturing and strutting.\nShe let Malone rant awhile longer, and then she said, \"Actually,\nyou're not going to do any of that.\"\n\"You fucking watch me.\"\n\"The only thing you can do is report what actually happened on\nFlight 545. You may not want to do that.\"\n\"You wait,\" Malone said, hissing. \"You fucking wait. It's a fucking\ndeathtrap.\"\nCasey sighed. \"Sit down.\"\n\"I'll be goddamned if I will—\"\n\"Did you ever wonder,\" Casey said, \"how a secretary at a video\nhouse in Glendale knew you were doing a story on Norton? Had your\ncell phone number, and knew to call you?\"\nMalone was silent.\n\"Did you ever wonder,\" Casey said, \"how Norton's attorney could\nhave found out so quickly you had the tape? And then have gotten a\nsworn statement from the receptionist that she'd given it to you?'\nMalone was silent.\n\"Ed Fuller walked in the door of Video Imaging just a few\nminutes after you walked out, Ms. Malone. He was worried about\nrunning into you.\"\nMalone frowned. \"What is this?\"\n\"Did you ever wonder,\" Casey said, \"why Ed Fuller was so\ninsistent you sign a document saying you didn't obtain the tape from\na Norton employee?\"\n\"It's obvious. The tape's damaging. He doesn't want the\ncompany to be blamed.\"\n\"Blamed by whom?'\n\"By ... I don't know. The public.\"\n\"You better sit down,\" Casey said. She opened the file.\nSlowly, Malone sat.She frowned.\n\"Wait a minute,\" Malone said \"You're saying that secretary didn't\ncall me, about the tape?\" Casey looked at her. \"Then who called?'\nMalone said. Casey said nothing. \"It was you!\" Casey nodded.\n\"You wanted me to have that tape?' \"Yes.\" \"Why?\" Casey smiled\nShe handed Malone the first sheet of paper. \"This is a parts\ninspection record, stamped off by a PMI at the FAA yesterday, for\nthe number two inboard slats proximity sensor on Flight 545. The\npart is noted to be cracked and defective. The crack is old.\"\n\"I'm not doing a parts story,\" Malone said\n\"No,\" Casey said \"You're not Because what flight test showed you\ntoday is that any competent pilot could have handled the slats\nwarning initiated by the bad part All the pilot had to do is leave the\nplane in autopilot. But on Flight 545, he didn't.\"\nMalone said, \"We already checked that. The captain of 545 was\nan outstanding pilot.\"\n\"That's right,\" Casey said.\nShe passed her the next piece of paper.\n\"This is the crew manifest submitted to the FAA with the flight\nplan, on the date of departure of Flight 545.\"\nJohn Zhen Chang, Captain 5/7/51 M\nLeu Zan Ping, First Officer 3/11/59 M\nRichard Yong, First Officer 9/9/61 M\nGerhard Reimann, First Officer 7/23/49 M\nThomas Chang, First Officer 6/29/70 M\nHenri Marchand, Engineer 4/25/69 M\nRobert Sheng, Engineer 6/13/62 M\nMalone glanced at it, pushed it aside. \"And this is the crew\nmanifest we got from Transpacific the day after the incident.\"\nJOHN ZHEN CHANG, CAPTAIN 5/7/51\nLEU ZAN PING, FIRST OFFICER 3/11/59\nRICHARD YONG, FIRST OFFICER 9/9/61\nGERHARD REIMANN, FIRST OFFICER 7/23/49\nHENRI MARCHAND, ENGINEER 4/25/69THOMAS CHANG, ENGINEER 6/29/70\nROBERT SHENG, ENGINEER 6/13/62\nMalone scanned it, shrugged \"It's the same.\"\n\"No, it's not. In one, Thomas Chang is listed as a first officer. In\nthe second list, he appears as an engineer.\"\nMalone said, \"A clerical error.\"\nCasey shook her head. \"No.\"\nShe passed another sheet.\n\"This is a page from the Transpacific in-flight magazine, showing\nCaptain John Chang and his family. It was sent to us by a\nTranspacific flight attendant, who wanted us to know the real story.\nYou will notice his children are Erica and Thomas Chang. Thomas\nChang is the pilot's son. He was among the flight crew of Flight\n545.\"\nMalone frowned.\n\"The Changs are a family of pilots. Thomas Chang is a pilot,\nqualified on several commuter aircraft. He is not type certified to fly\nthe N-22.\"\n\"I don't believe this,\" Malone said.\n\"At the time of the incident,\" Casey continued \"the captain, John\nChang, had left the cockpit and walked to the back of the plane for\ncoffee. He was aft when the accident occurred, and severely injured.\nHe underwent brain surgery in Vancouver two days ago. The\nhospital thought it was the first officer, but his identity has now been\nconfirmed as John Zhen Chang.\"\nMalone was shaking her head\nCasey handed her a memo:\nFROM: S. NIETO, FSR VANC\nTO: C. SINGLETON, YUMA TEST FAC\nHIGHLY CONFIDENTIAL\nAUTHORITIES NOW CONFIRM THE POSTMORTEM\nIDENTIFICATION OF INJURED CREW MEMBER IN VANCOUVER\nHOSPITAL AS JOHN ZHEN CHANG THE CAPTAIN OF TRANSPACIFIC\nFLIGHT 545.\"Chang wasn't in the cockpit,\" Casey said. \"He was in the back of\nthe plane. His hat was found mere. So someone else was in the\ncaptain's chair, when the incident occurred.\"\nCasey turned on the television, started the tape. \"These are the\nconcluding moments of the videotape which you obtained from the\nreceptionist. You see the camera falling toward the front of the\nplane, and twisting to eventually lodge in the cockpit door. But\nbefore it does ... here!\" She froze the frame. \"You can see the flight\ndeck.\"\n\"I can't see much,\" Malone said. \"They're both looking away.\"\n\"You can see that the pilot has extremely short hair,\" Casey said.\n\"Look at the picture. Thomas Chang has close-cropped hair.\"\nMalone was shaking her head, strongly now. \"I just don't believe\nthis. That visual is not good enough, you have a three-quarter\nprofile, it doesn't identify, it doesn't say anything.\"\n\"Thomas Chang has a small stud in his ear. You can see it in this\nmagazine photo. And on the video, you can see the same stud catch\nthe light, right there.\"\nMalone was silent.\nCasey pushed another piece of paper across to her.\n\"This is a translation of the Chinese voice communications in the\ncockpit as recorded on the tape you have. A great deal of it is\nunintelligible because of the cockpit alarms. But the relevant\npassage is marked for you.\"\n0544:59 ALM stall stall stall\n0545:00 F/O what (unintelligible) you\n0545:01 CPTN am (unintelligible) correct the\n0545:02 ALM stall stall stall\n0545:03 F/O torn release die (unintelligible)\n0545:04 CPTN what do (unintelligible) it\n0545:11 F/O tommy (unintelligible) when\n(unintelligible) must (unintelligible) the\nCasey took the paper back. \"That's not for you to keep, or refer\nto publicly. But it corroborates the videotape in your possession.\"Malone said, in a stunned voice, \"He let his kid fly the plane?\"\n\"Yes,\" Casey said. \"John Chang permitted a pilot who was not\ntype certified to fly the N-22. As a result, fifty-six people were\ninjured and four people died—including John Chang himself. We\nbelieve that the aircraft was on autopilot, and Chang left his son\nmomentarily in charge of the flight. That was when the disagree\nwarning occurred, and the son extended the slats to clear it But the\nson panicked, overcorrected, and porpoised. Eventually we believe\nThomas Chang was knocked unconscious by the severe movements\nof the airplane, and the autopilot took over.\"\nMalone said, \"On a commercial flight, some guy lets his fucking\nkid fly the plane?\"\n\"Yes,\" Casey said.\n\"That's the story?'\n\"Yes,\" Casey said. \"And you have the tape in your possession\nthat proves it. Therefore you are aware of the facts. Mr. Reardon\nstated on camera that both he and his colleagues in New York have\nwatched the tape in its entirety. So you have seen this shot of the\ncockpit. I have now informed you what that shot represents. We\nhave provided you with corroborating evidence—not all the\nevidence, there's more. We have also demonstrated in flight test\nthat there is nothing wrong with the aircraft itself.\"\n\"Not everyone agrees...\" she began.\n\"This is no longer a matter of opinion, Ms. Malone. It is a matter\nof fact. You are undeniably in possession of the facts. If Newsline\ndoes not report these facts, which you are now aware of, and if it\nmakes any suggestion whatsoever that there is anything wrong with\nthe N-22 aircraft based on this incident, we will sue you for reckless\ndisregard and malicious intent. Ed Fuller is very conservative, but he\nthinks we will certainly win. Because you acquired the tape that\nproves our case. Now, would you like Mr. Fuller to call Mr. Shenk and\nexplain the situation, or would you prefer to do it yourself?\"\nMalone said nothing.\n\"Ms. Malone?\"\n\"Where's a phone?\" she said.\n\"There's one in the corner.\"Malone got up, and walked over to the phone. Casey headed for\nthe door.\n\"Jesus Christ,\" Malone said, shaking her head. \"The guy lets his\nkid fly a plane full of people? I mean, how can that happen?\"\nCasey shrugged. \"He loves his son. We believe he's allowed him\nto fly on other occasions. But there's a reason why commercial pilots\nare required to train extensively on specific equipment, to be type\ncertified. He didn't know what he was doing, and he got caught.\"\nCasey closed the door, and thought: And so did you.\nYUMA\n10:05 . .\nA M\n\"Jesus fucking Christ,\" Dick Shenk said. \"I got a hole in the show\nthe size of Afghanistan and you're telling me you've got a bad parts\nstory? Featuring Yellow Peril Pilots? Is that what you're telling me,\nJennifer? Because I'm not going to run with that. I'll get murdered.\nI'm not going to be the Pat Buchanan of the airwaves. Fuck that\nnoise.\"\n\"Dick,\" she said. \"It doesn't really play that way. It's a family\ntragedy, the guy loves his son, and—\"\n\"But I can't use it,\" Shenk said. \"He's Chinese. I can't even go\nnear it.\"\n\"The kid killed four people and injured fifty-six—\"\n\"What difference does that make? I'm very disappointed in you,\nJennifer,\" he said. \"Very, very disappointed. Do you realize what this\nmeans? This means I have to go with the gimp Little League\nsegment.\"\n\"Dick,\" she said. \"I didn't cause the accident, I'm just reporting\nthe story ...\"\n\"Wait a minute. What fresh bullshit is this?\"\n\"Dick, I—\"\n\"You're reporting your ineptitude, is what you're reporting,\"\nShenk said. \"You fucked up, Jennifer. You had a hot story, a story I\nwanted, a story about a crappy American product, and two days\nlater you come back with some horseshit about a whack. It's not the\nairplane, it's the pilot. And maintenance. And bad parts.\"\"Dick—\"\n\"I warned you, I didn't want bad parts. You fucked this one to\ndeath, Jennifer. We'll talk Monday.\" And he hung up.\nGLENDALE\nll:00 p.m.\nNewsline's closing credits were running when Casey's phone\nrang. An unfamiliar, gruff voice said, \"Casey Singleton?\"\n\"Speaking.\"\n\"Hal Edgarton here.\"\n\"How are you, sir?\"\n\"I'm in Hong Kong, and I've just been told by one of my board\nmembers that Newsline did not run a Norton story tonight.\"\n\"That's right, sir.\"\n\"I'm very pleased,\" he said. \"I wonder why they didn't run it?\"\n\"I have no idea,\" Casey said.\n\"Well, whatever you did, it was obviously effective,\" Edgarton\nsaid. \"I'm leaving for Beijing in a few hours, to sign the sales\nagreement. John Marder was supposed to meet me there, but I'm\ntold that, for some reason, he hasn't left California.\"\n\"I don't know anything about that,\" she said.\n\"Good,\" Edgarton said. \"Glad to hear it. We'll be making some\nchanges at Norton in the next few days. Meanwhile I wanted to\ncongratulate you, Casey. You've been under a lot of pressure. You've\ndone an outstanding job.\"\n\"Thank you, sir.\"\n\"Hal.\"\n\"Thank you, Hal.\"\n\"My secretary will call to arrange lunch when I get back,\" he said.\n\"Keep up the good work.\"\nEdgarton hung up, and then there were other calls. From Mike\nLee, congratulating her, in guarded tones. Asking how she managed\nto kill the story. She said she had nothing to do with it, that Newsline\nfor some reason had decided not to run it.\nThen there were more calls, from Doherty, and Burne, and Ron\nSmith. And Norma, who said, \"Honey, I'm proud of you.\"And finally Teddy Rawley, who said he happened to be in the\nneighborhood, and wondered what she was doing.\n\"I'm really tired,\" Casey said \"Another time, okay?\"\n\"Aw, babe. It was a great day. Your day.\"\n\"Yeah, Teddy. But I'm really tired.\"\nShe took her phone off the hook, and went to bed.\nGLENDALE\nSunday, 5:45 . .\nP M\nIt was a clear evening. She was standing outside her bungalow,\nin the twilight, when Amos came up with his dog. The dog slobbered\non her hand.\n\"So,\" Amos said. \"You dodged a bullet.\"\n\"Yes,\" she said. \"I guess so.\"\n\"Whole plant's talking. Everyone's saying you stood up to Marder.\nWouldn't lie about 545. That true?\"\n\"More or less.\"\n\"Then you were stupid,\" Amos said. \"You should have lied. They\nlie. It's just a question of whose lie gets on the air.\"\n\"Amos...\"\n\"Your father was a journalist; you think there's some kind of truth\nto be told. There isn't. Not for years, kid. I watched those scum on\nthe Aloha incident. All they wanted was the gory details. Stewardess\ngets sucked out of the plane, did she die before she hit the water?\nWas she still alive? That's all they wanted to know.\"\n\"Amos,\" she said. She wanted him to stop.\n\"I know,\" he said. \"That's entertainment. But I'm telling you,\nCasey. You were lucky this time. You might not be as lucky next\ntime. So don't let this become a habit. Remember: they make the\nrules. And the game's got nothing to do with accuracy, or the facts,\nor reality. It's just a circus.\"\nShe wasn't going to argue with him. She petted the dog.\n\"Fact is,\" Amos said, \"everything's changing. Used to be—in the\nold days—the media image roughly corresponded to reality. But now\nit's all reversed. The media image is the reality, and by comparison\nday-to-day life seems to lack excitement. So now day-to-day life isfalse, and the media image is true. Sometimes I look around my\nliving room, and the most real thing in the room is the television. It's\nbright and vivid, and the rest of my life looks drab. So I turn the\ndamn thing off. That does it every time. Get my life back.\"\nCasey continued to pet the dog. She saw headlights in the\ndarkening night swing around the corner, and come up the street\ntoward them. She walked to the curb.\n\"Well, I'm rambling,\" Amos said.\n\"Good night, Amos,\" she said.\nThe car came to a stop. The door flung open.\n\"Mom!\"\nHer daughter jumped into her arms, wrapping her legs around\nher. \"Oh, Mom, I missed you!\"\n\"Me too, honey,\" she said. \"Me too.\"\nJim got out of the car, handed Casey the backpack. In the near\ndarkness, she couldn't really see his face.\n\"Good night,\" he said to her.\n\"Good night, Jim,\" she said.\nHer daughter took her hand. They started back inside. It was\ngrowing dark, and the air was cool. When she looked up, she saw\nthe straight contrail of a passenger jet. It was so high, it was still in\ndaylight, a thin white streak across the darkening sky.\n5TH STORY of Level 1 printed in\nFULL format\nCOPYRIGHT TELEGRAPH-STAR, INC.\nHEADLINE: NORTON SELLS 50 WIDEBODY\nJETS TO CHINA\nTAILS TO BE MANUFACTURED IN SHANGHAI\nCASH FLOW AIDS DEVELOPMENT OF FUTURE\nJET. UNION LEADERS CRITICIZE LOSS OF\nJOBS.\nBYLINE: JACK ROGERS\nBODY:Norton Aircraft today announced an eight-billion-dollar sale of\nfifty N-22 widebody jets to the People's Republic of China. Norton\nPresident Harold Edgarton said the agreement signed yesterday in\nBeijing calls for delivery of the jets over the next four years. The\nagreement also offsets fabrication work to China, requiring the N-22\ntails to be constructed in Shanghai.\nThe sale represents a coup for the beleaguered Burbank\nmanufacturer, and a bitter defeat for Airbus, which had lobbied\nheavily, both in Beijing and Washington, for the sale. Edgarton said\nthe fifty Chinese jets, combined with the further sale of twelve N-22s\nto Transpacific Airlines, will give Norton the cash flow it needs to\ncontinue development of the N-XX widebody, its hope for the\ntwenty-first century.\nNews of the offset agreement produced anger in some quarters\nof the Burbank company. UAW Local 1214 President Don Brull\ncriticized the offset agreement, noting, \"We're losing thousands of\njobs every year. Norton is exporting the jobs of American workers in\norder to make foreign sales. I don't think that's good for our future.\"\nWhen asked about the alleged job loss, Edgarton stated that\n\"offsets are a fact of life in our industry, and have been for many\nyears. The fact is, if we don't make the agreement, Boeing or Airbus\nwill. I think it is important to look to the future, and the new jobs\nthat will be created by the N-XX widebody line.\"\nEdgarton also noted that China had signed an option for thirty\nadditional jets. The Shanghai factory will begin its work in January of\nnext year.\nNews of the sale ends industry speculation that much-publicized\nrecent incidents involving the N-22 might terminate the Chinese\npurchase. Edgarton noted, \"The N-22 is a proven aircraft with an\nexcellent safety record. I think the Chinese sale is a tribute to that\nrecord.\"\nDOCUMENT ID; C\\LEX 40\\DL\\NORTON\nTRANSPACIFIC BUYS NORTON JETSTranspacific Airlines, the Hong Kong-based carrier, today ordered\ntwelve Norton N-22 widebody jets, giving further proof that the\nAsian market is the growth segment for the aircraft industry.\nEXPERT WITNESS BITES HAND THAT DIDN'T FEED HIM\nControversial aviation expert Frederick \"Fred\" Barker sued\nBradley King for failing to pay promised \"holding fees\" for his\nanticipated courtroom appearances. King could not be reached for\ncomment.\nAIRBUS CONSIDERS KOREAN PARTNERSHIP Songking\nIndustries, the industrial conglomerate based in Seoul, has\nannounced they are negotiating with Airbus Industrie of Toulouse to\nmanufacture major subassembly components of the new A-340B\nstretch derivative. Recent speculation has centered on Songking's\ncontinuing efforts to establish an aerospace presence in world\nmarkets, now that long-rumored secret negotiations with Norton\nAircraft in Burbank have apparently broken down.\nSHENK TO BE HONORED AT HUMANITARIAN FETE\nRichard Shenk, producer of \"Newsline, \" has been named\nHumanitarian Producer of the Year by the American Interfaith\nCouncil. The Council promotes \"humane understanding among the\npeoples of the world\" in contemporary media. Shenk, cited for his\n\"outstanding life-long commitment to tolerance, \" will be honored at\na banquet on June 10 at the Waldorf Astoria. A star-studded industry\naudience is expected to turn out.\nJAA CERTIFIES N-22 WIDEBODY The JAA today accepted\ncertification of the Norton N-22 widebody commercial aircraft. A JAA\nspokesman said there was \"no substance\" to rumors that\ncertification had been delayed for political reasons.\nMARDER TAKES CONSULTING POST In a surprise move, John\nMarder, 46, has left Norton Aircraft to head The Aviation Institute, an\naerospace consulting firm with close ties to European carriers.Marder assumes his new position effective immediately. Coworkers\nat Norton praised the departing Marder as \"a leader of deep\nintegrity.\"\nU.S. JOBS EXPORTED—A DISTURBING TREND?\nResponding to the recent sale of fifty Norton jets to China,\nWilliam Campbell claimed that American aviation companies will\nexport 250,000 jobs over the next five years. Since much of this\nexport is financed by the Commerce Department's Ex-Im Bank, he\nsays, \"It's unconscionable. U.S. workers aren't paying taxes to have\nthe government assist American companies to take away American\njobs.* Campbell cites the Japanese corporate concern for their\nworkers as strikingly different from the behavior of American\nmultinationals.\nRICHMAN ARRESTED IN SINGAPORE A youthful member of the\nNorton clan was arrested today by police in Singapore on charges of\nnarcotics possession. Bob Richman, 28, is being held by authorities\nawaiting arraignment. If convicted under the nation's draconian drug\nlaws, he faces the death penalty.\nSINGLETON HEADS DIVISION Harold Edgarton today, named\nKatherine C. Singleton as the new head of Norton Aircraft's Media\nRelations Division. Singleton was formerly a vice-president for\nQuality Assurance at Norton, which is headquartered in Burbank.\nMALONE TO JOIN \"HARD COPY\" STAFF Veteran news producer\nJennifer Ma-lone, 29, ends four years with \"Newsline\" to join the\nstaff of \"Hard Copy,\" it was announced today. Malone 's departure\nwas described as resulting from a contract dispute. Malone said,\n\"'Hard Copy' is what's happening now, and I am just thrilled to be\npart of it.\"\nAIRCRAFT INCIDENT REPORT\nPRIVILEGED INFORMATION —FOR INTERNAL USE ONLY\nREPORT No: IRT-96-42 TODAY'S DATE: 18 April"
    },
    {
        "title": "Armageddon",
        "content": "ONE\nFOR THE FIRST TIME since takeoff, Rayford Steele had second\nthoughts about his and Abdullah Smith's passenger. \"We shouldn't\nhave brought her, Smitty,\" he said. He stole a glance at Abdullah\nbehind the controls.\nThe Jordanian shook his head. \"That's on you, Captain, I am sorry to\nsay. I tried to tell you how important she was to Petra.\"\nThe darkness enveloping only New Babylon, but visible from more\nthan a hundred miles, was unlike anything Rayford had ever seen.\nBy the time Abdullah initiated the descent of the Gulfstream IX\ntoward Iraq, the clock read 1200 hours, Palace Time. Normally the\nmagnificent structures of the new world capital gleamed stunningly\nin the noonday sun. Now a stark and isolated column of blackness\nrose from New Babylon's expansive borders into the cloudless\nheavens as high as the eye could see. Chang Wong was Rayford's\nmole inside the palace. Trusting the young man's assurances that\nthey would be able to see where others could not, Rayford traded\nglances with Abdullah as he guided the craft into the dark from the\nwhiteness reflecting off the desert sand. Abdullah flipped on his\nlanding lights. Rayford squinted. \"Do we need an ILS approach?\"\n\"Instrument landing system?\" Abdullah said. \"Don't think so,\nCaptain. I can see enough to fly.\" Rayford compared the freakish\ndarkness to the beautiful day they had left in Petra. He peeked over\nhis shoulder at the young woman, whom he expected to look afraid.\nShe didn't. \"We can still turn back,\" he said. \"Your father looked\nreluctant when we boarded.\" \"That was probably for your benefit,\"\nNaomi Tiberias said. \"He knows I'll be fine.\" The teenage computer\nwhiz's humor and selfconfidence were legendary. She seemed shy\nand selfconscious around adults until she got to know them; then\nshe interacted like a peer. Rayford knew she had brought Abdullah\nup to speed in computer savvy, and she had been in nearly constant\ntouch with Chang since the lights went out in New Babylon. \"Why isit dark only here?\" Naomi said. \"It's so strange.\" \"I don't know,\"\nRayford said. \"The prophecy says it affects `the throne of the beast,\nand his kingdom became full of darkness.' That's all we know.\"\nRayford's every visit to Petra had found Naomi growing in influence\nand responsibility among the Remnant. She had emerged early as a\ntechnological prodigy, and as she taught others, Naomi had become\nthe de facto head of the vast computer center. Quickly rising from\ngoto person to the one in charge, she'd finally become the teacher\nwho taught teachers. The center that had been designed by Chang's\npredecessor, the late David Hassid, was now the hub that kept Petra\nin touch with more than a billion souls every day. Thousands of\ncomputers allowed that many mentors to keep up with Tsion\nBenJudah's universal cyberaudience. Naomi personally coordinated\nthe contact between Chang in New Babylon and the Tribulation\nForce around the world. Having her join the flight to rescue him from\nNew Babylon had been Chang's idea. Rayford had initially rejected it.\nHe had enough trouble assigning himself the task of traveling more\nthan seventyfive hundred miles from San Diego to Petra, then having\nAbdullah fly him the last five hundred miles to New Babylon.\nCombattrained George Sebastian was better suited, but Rayford\nthought the big man had been through enough for a while. There\nwas plenty for him to do in San Diego, and anyway, Rayford wanted\nto save George for what Dr. BenJudah called the \"battle of that great\nday of God Almighty,\" now less than a year off.\nMac McCullum and Albie, stationed in Al Basrahlittle more than two\nhundred miles south of New Babylonstood ready. But Rayford had\nother things in mind for them. Rayford's soninlaw and daughter,\nBuck and Chloe Williams, both wanted in on the extraction of Chang\nfrom the enemy lairno surprisebut Rayford was convinced Buck\nwould soon be more valuable in Israel. As for Chloe, the\nInternational Commodity Coop always suffered when she was away.\nAnd somebody had to be there for little Kenny. \"Store and grab all\nthe equipment you need while I'm en route, Chang,\" Rayford had\nsaid, the phone tucked between his shoulder and ear as he packed.\n\"Smitty and I will come get you in a couple of days.\" Chang hadexplained that the job was too big and that he and Naomi working\ntogether could get him out of there that much faster. \"I don't want\nto miss a thing. She can help. I want to be able to monitor this place\nfrom anywhere.\"\n\"Don't worry,\" Rayford said. \"You'll get to see her facetoface soon\nenough.\" \"I don't know what you're talking about.\" \"Her father is\none of the Petra elders, you know.\" \"So?\"\n\"Only the two of them are left in the family. He's very protective.\"\n\"We both have too much work to do.\"\n\"Uhhuh.\"\n\"I'm not kidding, Captain Steele. Please bring her along. It's not like\nI haven't seen her onscreen already.\"\n\"So, what do you think?\"\n\"I told you. We have a lot of work to do.\"\nRayford felt a tug on the back of his copilot's chair as Naomi pulled\nherself forward. \"Can Mr. Smith see to land?\"\n\"Not sure yet,\" Rayford said. \"It's as if someone painted our\nwindows brown. See if you can raise our boy.\"\nChang was to be sure the New Babylon runways were clear, but he\ncouldn't talk by phone from there for fear someone would overhear.\nNaomi pulled a small, thin computer from an aluminum box and\nattacked the keys.\n\"Avoid runways 3 left and 3 right,\" she said. \"And he wants to know\nwhich you choose so he can be there to meet us.\"\nRayford glanced at Abdullah. \"He's serious, Naomi)\" She nodded.\n\"Tell him the tower is closed, and it's not like we were going to\nannounce our arrival anyway. We can't see which runway is which\nfrom up here, so he's going to have to give us coordinates and\"\"Hold on,\" Naomi said, keyboarding again. \"He's attached everything\nyou need.\" She passed the machine to Rayford and pointed at the\nattachment. \"It is voice activated. Just tell it what you want.\" \"It'll\nrecognize my voice?\" Rayford said, studying the screen. \"Yes,\" the\ncomputer intoned.\nNaomi chuckled.\n\"Attachment, please,\" Rayford said.\nA detailed grid appeared with an aerial view of the New Babylon\nairfield. \"I'll set the coordinates for you, Smitty,\" Rayford said,\nreaching to program the flight management system.\n\"This thing will do everything but cook a meal for you, Captain\nSteele,\" Naomi said. \"You have an infrared port?\"\n\"I assume. Do we, Smitty?\"\nAbdullah pointed to a spot on the control panel. \"Here,\" Naomi said.\n\"Let me.\" She leaned over Rayford's shoulder and pointed the back\nof the computer at the port. \"Ready to land, Captain?\" she said.\n\"Roger.\"\n\"Initiate landing sequence,\" she said and hit a button. \"Runway\nchoice?\" the computer asked.\nNaomi looked at Rayford, who looked to Abdullah. \"Does that thing\nrecognize even my accent?\" the Jordanian said.\n\"Yes,\" the computer said. \"Congestion on runways 3 left and 3 right.\nPlease select from runways 11 or 16.\"\n\"Eleven,\" Abdullah said.\n\"Left or right?\" the computer said.\n\"Left,\" Abdullah said. \"Why not?\"Abdullah engaged the left autopilot and lifted his hands from the\ncontrols. \"Thank you,\" he said. \"You're welcome,\" the computer said.\nSix minutes later the Gulfstream touched down.\nAt just after one o'clock in the morning in San Diego, Buck bolted\nupright in bed. Chloe stirred. \"Go back to sleep, hon,\" she said. \"You\nstood watch three straight nights. Not tonight.\" He held up a hand.\n\"You need your sleep, Buck.\"\n\"Thought I heard something.\"\nThe tiny walkietalkie on the nightstand chirped. Sebastian's telltale\ncode. Buck grabbed it. \"Yeah, George.\"\n\"Motion detector,\" Sebastian whispered. Now Chloe sat up too.\n\"I'll check the periscope,\" Buck said.\n\"Carefully,\" Sebastian said. \"Don't raise or rotate it.\" \"Roger. Anybody\nelse aware?\"\n\"Negative.\"\n\"On it.\"\nChloe was already out of bed and had pulled on a sweatshirt. She\nunlocked a cabinet, removed two Uzis, and tossed one to Buck as he\nheaded for the periscope next to Kenny's tiny chamber. He set the\nweapon on the floor, dropped the walkietalkie into his pajama\npocket, and bent to peer into the viewer. As his eyes adjusted to the\ndarkness he was aware of Chloe opening and closing Kenny's door.\nGoing on four years old, Kenny slept longer but less soundly than he\nused to. \"He out?\" Buck said, eyes still glued to the scope.\n\"Dead to the world,\" Chloe said, draping a sweater around Buck's\nshoulders. \"As you should be.\"\n\"Wish I was,\" Buck said.\"I should think so.\" She rested her palms on his shoulders. \"What do\nyou see?\" \"Nothing. George doesn't think I ought to rotate the\nscope. It's facing west at ground level. I'd love to elevate it about six\ninches and let it give me a threesixty.\" \"He's right, babe,\" she said.\n\"You know it's got that whine when it moves. Anybody out there\ncould hear it.\"\n\"I don't think anybody is out there,\" Buck said, pulling away and\nrubbing his eyes. She sighed. \"Want a chair?\"\nHe nodded and returned to the periscope. \"Could have been an\nanimal. Maybe the wind.\" Chloe pressed a chair behind his knees\nand guided him into it. \"That's why you should just let me\" \"Oh no,\"\nhe said.\n\"What?\"\nHe put a finger to his lips and pulled out the walkietalkie. \"George,\"\nhe whispered. \"Six, seven, eight, nine. Nine uniformed, armed GC\ndirectly above to the west.\" \"Doing?\"\n\"Not much. Kicking at the vents. They look bored. Maybe something\ncaught their eye on the way by.\" \"Vehicles?\"\n\"I'd have to raise or rotate.\"\n\"Negative. Any more?\"\n\"Can't tell from this angle. No more coming past. Only three left in\nsight now.\" \"Listen for engines.\"\nBuck sat silent a moment. Then, \"Yeah, there's one. And another.\" \"I\nhear 'em,\" George said. \"Must be leaving. Can I come over?\" \"Tell\nhim no,\" Chloe whispered.\nWhat palace personnel Rayford could make out in the eerie\nsepiatoned landscape through the cockpit window appeared to be in\nagony. Chang had told him that the people writhed and moaned, but\na jet screaming onto the runway also clearly terrified them. Theyhad to think it was about to crash, as some had on runways 3 left\nand 3 right.\nIt was as if the people had given up trying to see. Anyone near the\nGulfstream IX had stumbled in the darkness to get away from it, and\nnow they huddled here and there. \"That has to be Chang,\" Rayford\nsaid, pointing to a slight Asian hurrying toward them and gesturing\nwildly to open the door.\n\"Let me get that, Miss Naomi,\" Abdullah said, unstrapping himself\nand climbing past her. As he pushed the door open and lowered the\nsteps, Rayford saw Chang turn to a small group of men and women\nin dark jumpsuits feeling their way along behind him. \"Keep your\ndistance!\" he shouted. \"Danger! Hot engines! Leaking fuel!\" They\nturned and hurried away in all directions. \"How did it land?\"\nsomeone shouted. \"It's a miracle,\" another said.\n\"Did you all remember rubbersoled shoes?\" Chang said, reaching to\nhelp them off the plane. \"Nice to meet you too, Mr. Wong,\" Abdullah\nsaid. Chang shushed him. \"They're blind,\" he whispered. \"Not deaf.\"\n\"Chang,\" Rayford began, but the boy was shyly greeting Naomi. \"All\nright, you two, get acquainted back at the ranch. Let's do what we\nhave to and get out of here.\"\n\"Should I change?\" Buck said when he saw Sebastian in fatigues.\n\"Nah. I always wear these on watch. Let me have a look.\" He peered\nthrough the periscope. \"Nothing. Want to raise and rotate it, Buck?\"\n\"Be my guest.\"\n\"Clear. False alarm.\"\nChloe snorted. \"Don't be saying that to put me at ease. At least nine\nGC were out there, and for all we know there were more, and they'll\nbe back.\" \"Hey,\" Sebastian said, \"why not assume the best and not\nthe worst?\" \"Maybe I am,\" she said. \"Priscilla and Beth Ann sleep\nthrough this?\" He nodded. \"I might not even tell Priss, so I'd\nappreciate it\"\"If I didn't either? Makes sense, George. Let the little woman carry\non, oblivious to the fact that it's time to move,\" said Chloe.\n\"Move?\" Buck said. \"I can't even imagine it.\" \"Then we sit here and\nwait till they find us, which they may already have?\" \"Chloe, listen,\"\nBuck said. \"I should have let you take a look at those guys. They\nweren't even suspicious. They were probably talking about how this\nused to be a military base. They weren't tense, weren't really\nlooking. They just saw the vents and checked them out, that's all.\"\nChloe shook her head and slumped in a chair. \"I hate living like this.\"\n\"Me too,\" Sebastian said. \"But what're our options? GC found an\nenclave of people without the mark yesterday in what's left of LA.\nExecuted more'n two dozen.\" Chloe gasped. \"Believers?\"\n\"Don't think so. Usually they'll say if it's Judahites. I got the\nimpression it was some militia holdouts, something like that.\"\n\"Those are the people we're trying to reach,\" Chloe said. \"And here\nwe all sit, unable to show our faces, raising babies who hardly ever\nsee the sun. Isn't there somewhere in the middle of nowhere where\nthe GC wouldn't even know we were around?\"\n\"The next best thing is Petra,\" Buck said. \"They know who's there,\nbut they can't do a thing about it.\" \"That's starting to sound more\nattractive all the time. Anyway, what are we going to do about what\njust happened?\"\nBuck and Sebastian looked at each other. \"Come on, guys,\" Chloe\nsaid. \"You think Priscilla doesn't know you're gone and isn't going to\nask where you've been?\"\n\"She knows I was on watch.\"\n\"But you don't come over here unless something's up.\" \"I'm hoping\nshe slept through it.\"\nChloe stood and moved to Buck's lap. \"Look, I'm not trying to be\ncantankerous. Buck, tell him.\" \"Chloe Steele Williams is not trying to\nbe cantankerous,\" he announced. \"Good,\" Sebastian muttered.\"Coulda fooled me.\" Chloe shook her head. \"George, please. You\nknow I think you're one of the best things that's ever happened to\nthe Trib Force. You bring gifts nobody else has, and you've kept us\nfrom disaster more than once. But everyone living here deserves to\nknow what you guys saw tonight. Not telling people, pretending it\ndidn't happen, isn't going to change that we came this close to being\nfound out.\"\n\"But we didn't, Chloe,\" Sebastian said. \"Why stir up everybody?\"\n\"We're already stirred up! I'm with these wives and kids all day. Even\nwithout bands of GC nosing around right over our heads in the\nmiddle of the night, we live like prairie dogs. The kids get fresh air\nonly if they happen to wake up before the sun and someone herds\nthem out the vehicle bay door. You guys have to sneak around and\ndrive thirty miles, hoping you're not followed, to get to your planes.\nAll I'm saying is that if we're going to have to defend ourselves, we\nhave a right to be prepared.\"\nRayford would have to ask Tsion about this one. What was it about\nthe darkness that was so oppressive it left victims in agony? He had\nheard of disaster scenestrain wrecks, earthquakes, battleswhere\nwhat haunted the rescue workers for years had been the shrieks and\nmoans of the injured. As he and Abdullah and the two young people\ntiptoed across the massive runways, around heavy equipment and\nbetween writhing personnel, it was clear these people would rather\nbe dead. And some had already died. Two crashed planes lay in\npieces, still smoldering, many charred bodies still in their seats. As\nhe moved from the dead to the suffering, Rayford was overcome.\nThe wailing pierced him and he slowed, desperate to help. But what\ncould he do? \"Oh! Someone!\" It was the shriek of a middleaged\nwoman. \"Anyone, please! Help me!\" Rayford stopped and stared.\nShe lay on her side on the tarmac near the terminal. Others shushed\nher. A man cried out, \"We are all lost and blind, woman! You don't\nneed more help than we do!\" \"I'm starving!\" she whined. \"Does\nanyone have anything?\" \"We're all starving! Shut up!\"\n\"I don't want to die.\"\"I do!\"\n\"Where is the potentate? He will save us!\" \"When was the last time\nyou saw the potentate? He has his own concerns.\" Rayford was\nunable to pull away. He looked ahead, but even he had but twenty\nfeet of visibility, and he had lost the others. Here came Abdullah. \"I\ndare not call you by name, Captain, but you must come.\" \"Comrade,\nI cannot.\"\n\"Can you make it back to the plane?\"\n\"Yes.\"\n\"Then we will meet you there.\"\nAbdullah was off again, but their muffled conversation had caused a\nlull in the cacophony of agony. Now someone called out, \"Who is\nthat?\"\n\"Where is he going?\"\n\"Who has a plane?\"\n\"Can you see?\"\n\"What can you see?\"\nThe woman again: \"Oh, God, save me. Now I lay me down to sleep\"\n\"Shut up over there!\"\n\"God is great; God is good. Now I thank him\" \"Put a sock in it! If you\ncan't produce light, shut your mouth!\"\n\"God! Oh, God! Save me!\"\nRayford knelt and touched the woman's shoulder. She wrenched\naway with a squeal. \"Wait!\" he said, reaching for her again.\n\"Oh! The pain!\"\"I don't mean to hurt you,\" he said quietly. \"Who are you?\" she\ngroaned, and he saw the United European States' number 6 tattooed\non her forehead. \"An angel?\"\n\"No.\"\n\"I prayed for an angel.\"\n\"You prayed?\"\n\"Promise you'll tell no one, sir. I'm begging you.\" \"You prayed to\nGod?\"\n\"Yes!\"\n\"But you bear Carpathia's mark.\"\n\"I despise that mark! I know the truth. I always have. I just didn't\nwant to have anything to do with it.\" \"God loved you.\"\n\"I know, but it's too late.\"\n\"Why didn't you ask his forgiveness and accept his gift? He wanted\nto save you.\" She sobbed. \"How can you be here and say that?\" \"I\nam not from here.\"\n\"You are my angel!\"\n\"No, but I am a believer.\"\n\"And you can see?\"\n\"Enough to get around.\"\n\"Oh, sir, take me to food! Get me inside the terminal to the snack\nmachines. Please!\" Rayford tried to help her up, but she reacted as if\nher body were afire. \"Please, don't touch me!\" \"I'm sorry.\"\n\"Just let me hold your sleeve. Can you see the terminal?\" \"Barely,\"\nhe said. \"I can get you there.\" \"Please, sir.\" She struggled to her feet\nand gingerly clasped the cuff of his sleeve between her thumb andforefinger. \"Slowly, please.\" She mincestepped behind Rayford. \"How\nfar?\" she said. \"Not a hundred yards.\"\n\"I don't know if I can make it,\" she said, tears streaming. \"Let me go\nget you something,\" he said. \"What would you like?\"\n\"Anything,\" she said. \"A sandwich, candy, wateranything.\" \"Wait\nright here.\"\nShe chuckled pitifully. \"Sir, all I see is black. I could go nowhere.\" \"I'll\nbe right back. I'll find you.\"\n\"I've been praying that God will save my soul. And when he does, I\nwill be able to see.\" Rayford didn't know what to say. She had said\nherself it was too late. \"In the beginning,\" she said. \"For God so\nloved the world. The Lord is my shepherd. Oh, God. ..\" Rayford\njogged toward the terminal, stepping between ailing people. He\nwanted to help them all, but he knew he could not. A man lay across\nthe inside of the automatic door, not moving. Rayford stepped close\nenough to trip the electric eye, and the door opened a few inches\nand bumped the man.\n\"Please move away from the door,\" Rayford said. The man was\nasleep or dead. Rayford pushed harder, but the door barely budged.\nFinally he lowered his shoulder and put his weight behind it. He bent\nand drove with his legs, feeling the pressure on his quads as the\ndoor slowly rolled the man away. Rayford heard him groan.\nInside, Rayford found a bank of vending machines, but as he\nreached in his pocket for Nick coins, he saw that the machines had\nbeen trashed. Enough people had felt their way here to tear the\nmachines open and loot them for every last vestige of food. Rayford\nsearched and searched for something, anything, they had missed. All\nhe found were empty bottles and cans and wrappers. \"Who goes\nthere?\" someone demanded. \"Where are you going? Can you see? Is\nthere light anywhere? What has happened? Are we all going to die?\nWhere is the potentate?\" Rayford hurried back outside. \"Where're\nyou going?\" someone shouted. \"Take me with you!\" He found thewoman on her stomach, face buried in her arms. She was wracked\nwith sobs so deep and mournful he could barely stand to watch. \"I'm\nback, ma'am,\" he said quietly. \"No food. I'm sorry.\" \"Oh, God, oh,\nGod and Jesus, help me!\"\n\"Ma'am,\" he said, reaching for her. She shrieked when he touched\nher, but he pulled at the sides of her head until he could see her\nhollow, unseeing, terrified eyes. \"I knew before everybody\ndisappeared,\" she said pitifully. \"And then I knew for sure. With\nevery plague and judgment, I shook my fist in God's face. He tried\nto reach me, but I had my own life. I wasn't going to be subservient\nto anybody.\n\"But I've always been afraid of the dark, and my worst nightmare is\nstarving. I've changed my mind, want to take it all back....\"\n\"But you can't.\"\n\"I can't! I can't! I waited too long!\"\nRayford knew the prophecythat people would reject God enough\ntimes that God would harden their hearts and they wouldn't be able\nto choose him even if they wanted to. But knowing it didn't mean\nRayford understood it. And it certainly didn't mean he had to like it.\nHe couldn't make it compute with the God he knew, the loving and\nmerciful one who seemed to look for ways to welcome everyone into\nheaven, not keep them out.\nRayford stood and felt the blood rush from his head. And that's\nwhen he heard the loudspeakers. \"This is your potentate!\" came the\nbooming voice. \"Be of good cheer. Have no fear. Your torment is\nnearly past. Follow the sound of my voice to the nearest loudspeaker\ntower. Food and water will be delivered there, along with further\ninstructions.\"\n\"I'll make a deal with you,\" Chloe said. \"I'll take over the rest of the\nwatch, and you agree that we tell everybody in the morning that we\nhad visitors tonight.\" Buck looked to George, who pointed at him.\"You're in charge when your fatherinlaw is away, pal.\" \"Only because\nof seniority. I defer to you on military stuff.\" \"This isn't combat, man.\nIt's public relations. If you want my advice, I'd say do what you want\nbut do it right. Tell them, `It's only fair we tell you people we saw\nGC around here last night, but as far as we know there's nothing to\nbe concerned about yet.\"' \"Fair enough, Chlo'?\" Buck said.\nShe nodded. \"I'd rather pray and pass the ammunition, but yes.\nTreat everybody like adults and you'll get the best out of them.\"\n\"If you're really taking watch, Chloe,\" Sebastian said, \"I'm going\nhome and turning off my walkietalkie.\" \"Deal.\"TWO\nWHOEVER HAD figured out how to rally the panicked souls in New\nBabylon thought playing music over the sound system would draw\nthem to the loudspeaker towers. So while Nicolae Carpathia's\nrighthand man, Leon Fortunato, spoke soothingly\"Tread carefully,\nloyal subjects. Help one another. Avoid danger.\"a recorded version of\n\"Hail Carpathia,\" sung by the 500voice Carpathianism Chorale,\nplayed in the background:\nHail Carpathia, our lord and risen king; Hail Carpathia, rules o'er\neverything.\nWe'll worship him until we die;\nHe's our beloved Nicolae.\nHail Carpathia, our lord and risen king.\nRayford hated that song and the infernal penchant of the Global\nCommunity Broadcasting System to play it over the radio at least\nevery two hours. Carpathia insisted upon its performance at his\nevery public appearance. The staged parades and rallies in his honor\nalways began and ended with it. Something strange was happening\nhere, though. While the people seemed to rouse and slowly,\nagonizingly move toward the sound, no one sang along.\n\"Remember,\" Fortunato intoned, his words pinched when he\ngrimaced from his own pain, \"those of us servicing you, bringing you\nwater and food, are also following the sound to the right places.\nPlease be patient and allow pushcarts to pass. There is plenty for\neveryone if we all work together. Now, sing along with the chorale.\nThis takes the place of your worshiping our supreme potentate's\nimage, currently not visible.\"\nThe people around Rayford were not encouraged. \"I'm not singing,\"\none said. \"Death to the potentate!\" \"Watch your mouth,\" another\nsaid. \"You'll get yourself killed.\" \"Carpathia can't see any more thanwe can! He doesn't know who's talking.\" \"He's no mere mortal. I\nwouldn't be tempting fate.\" \"What has he done for you lately?\"\nPersonnel inside the palace had a better time of it, Rayford assumed.\nThey could at least feel their way to familiar places, including\nshowers, beds, and refrigerators. Many outside couldn't even find\ntheir way back in. Rayford could only imagine the disorientation of\nzero light anywhere. It was frustrating enough to have been granted\neven diminished vision. \"There are twelve separate loudspeaker\ntowers,\" Fortunato said, the music mercifully subdued as he spoke.\n\"When supplies have arrived, please be as orderly as possible. State\nyour name so our personnel can record it on audiodisc, and take\nyour ration of food and water.\" \"We want answers too!\" someone\nshouted as if Fortunato could hear. \"What is this? How long will it\nlast? Why does it hurt?\"\nChloe knew what Ming Toy's response to this new danger would be\nin the morning. She and Ree Woo would want to marry right away.\nEveryone but Chloe had been trying to talk them out of it, but Ming\nhad it all planned. She wanted Tsion BenJudah to officiate from Petra\nvia video cam. \"I know it's a lot to ask of such an important and\nbusy man,\" she confided to Chloe. \"But I have designed the\nceremony to last just a few minutes.\"\n\"I think he'd do it,\" Chloe had told her. \"I would if I were him.\"\nThe same people who urged Ming and Ree not to marry, given\nwhere things stood on the prophetic calendar, were the ones who\nhad advised against Chloe and Buck having a child during the\nTribulation. But certain matters were private issues of the heart.\nChloe couldn't imagine not having married Buck, despite knowing\nhow little time they had. And she couldn't get her mind around the\nconcept of life without their precious little one.\nIf Ming and Ree wanted a year of marriage before the Glorious\nAppearing, whose business was it but theirs? It wasn't as if they\nwere unaware of the hardships. Starting a family at this stage was\nanother thing, of course, but Chloe figured that was none of herbusiness either, unless Ming asked. It seemed Buck was asleep again\nin seconds. She assumed George was right about his wife sleeping\nthrough his leaving their quarters. Priscilla was one of the busiest\npeople in the compound, always up before dawn and rarely fully\nhealthy. She often appeared groggy soon after dinner and was\nusually in bed by nine.\nChloe was glad to stand watch, if for no other reason than to keep\nBuck from having to do it for the fourth night in a row. She enjoyed\nthe routinechecking the motion detector, surveying the area with the\nperiscope. Her daily job was hectic and demanding, spent almost\nentirely at the computer, contacting and coordinating suppliers and\nshippers of supplies and foodstuffs around the globe. That was also\nher way of keeping up with the news, only the news kept getting\nworse. More and more of her contacts were being found out, caught\nby the GC in nighttime raids or at surprise checkpoints. As soon as it\nwas discovered that these delivery people did not bear the mark of\nloyalty to Carpathia, they were executed.\nOne eyewitness reported that the Coop driver of an eighteenwheeler,\nladen with copies of Buck's The Truth magazine translated into\nNorwegian, refused to let his cargo fall into GC hands. Distracting\ncheckpoint guards long enough for his backup driver to escape, he\nset the rig to roll out of control and plunge down a hundredfoot\nembankment into a deep fjord. Morale Monitors shot him to death.\nChloe also heard of dissidents around the world, Jews mostly, who,\nrather than being put to death, were transported to concentration\ncamps where they were mercilessly tortured while purposely kept\nalive. Occasional reports of miraculous interventions came, like an\nangel appearing at a guillotine site to warn the uncommitted of the\nconsequences of choosing Carpathia's mark. Besides the fact that by\nnow even the lastminute decision to take the mark was futiletardy\nones were put to death anywaythe angel had pleaded with the\nundecideds to choose Christ and be saved. And many did. Chloe\nwrapped an afghan around her shoulders and moseyed to Kenny's\nroom. His breathing was still deep and slow, and she draped anotherblanket over him. He did not stir. Closing his door, she checked the\nmotion detector, then sat before the periscope. With no evidence of\nanyone in the area, she could raise and rotate it for a full view. She\nrather liked having the contraption in the middle of her home. It\nsatisfied some inner need to protectcontrol, Buck would have\nteasedher friends and loved ones, the more than two hundred who\nnow lived underground in San Diego. All hoped to survive until the\nGlorious Appearing, but more than that, to also somehow make a\ndifference from their claustrophobic warren.\nA unique feature of the periscope was that the viewer did not have\nto move when it did. A simple control on the handgrips raised and\nlowered the contraption, as well as made it scan in a circle in either\ndirection. Chloe didn't want to think about the series of mirrors\nrequired for that.\nAs she rested her forehead on the eyepiece and relaxed, letting her\neyes adjust to the low light outside, she noticed that George\nSebastian had left the scope at ground level and pointing west. The\ntopside lens was camouflaged with fake shrubbery. It could be raised\nas much as five feet, but it was crucial to do a 360degree scan at\nground level first to be sure no one was in the vicinity who might\nnotice. The scan could be done all in one smooth motion at virtually\nany speed, but of course the San Diego Trib Force had learned that\nslower was better and easier on the eyes and equilibrium. Chloe's\nmethod of choice, however, was to move the mechanism one inch at\na time. With each mash of a tiny red plunger on the lefthand grip,\nanother oneinch turn of the lens brought a new 45degree view; thus\neight moves covered 360 degrees.\nSeeing nothing due west, Chloe began her incremental scan to the\nright. It was just past three o'clock in the morning in California.\nRayford had walked perhaps a quarter of a mile north from the\nterminal, easily slipping past men and women clearly younger than\nhe but who shuffled along with the painful gait of the elderly. \"In our\neffort to keep you totally informed,\" Fortunato announced, \"we bringsome encouraging news. While it remains true that no light is being\nemitted in New Babylon, this puzzling phenomenon has not affected\ntelephone or radio transmission. Our heating and cooling systems\nremain functional. Your stoves even work, unless they are solar\npowered. Electric and gas stoves will still burn and radiate heat,\nthough you will not see it, so be extremely careful. \"Pilots flying from\nNew Babylon or toward her when this darkness occurred report that\nit is confined to the city. As we do not know how long this will last,\nbe assured that if you can follow a path that leads you beyond our\nborders, you will eventually reach light.\" From all around, Rayford\nheard determination on the parts of the sufferers. \"I'm going,\" one\nsaid. \"Me too. I don't know where or how, but I'm getting to the\nlight somehow.\" \"Does anyone have a Braille compass? We'll wander\nin circles without one.\" \"Attention,\" Fortunato broke in again, \"all\nsenior command personnel are to meet in the potentate's office at\n1500 hours.\"\nRayford studied his watch. It's onefifteen. How are they going to pull\nthat off by three in the afternoon?\n\"Use audio clocks,\" Fortunato said. \"It is now 1315 hours. At 1430\nhours we shall turn off all loudspeakers except for the ones on the\ntower near the west entrance of the palace. Follow the sound there\nand you should be able to make your way to the meeting. Elevators\nare operational. The bottom right button is the top floor. Attendance\nis mandatory but limited to commandlevel personnel.\" \"I'm going\nanyway,\" someone said.\n\"So am I. Get to the bottom of this.\"\n\"Find out what the deal is.\"\n\"He's supposed to be god incarnate; why can't he do something?\"\nRayford blinked, then blinked again. In the distance he thought he\nsaw light. He was getting farther from the plane and from where\nChang and Naomi and Abdullah were, but if worse came to worst, he\ncould follow command personnel to the palace entrance at twothirtyand find his people from there. For now, he had to investigate the\nlight.\nChloe was four clicks into her intermittent scan now, looking due\neast. As she studied the dark landscape she detected a pair of\npinpricks of light. She held her breath as they became larger.\nWhatever they represented was drawing closer. Soon it became clear\nit was a car or truck. It rolled to within a block of the compound,\nstopped, and turned around. Now she saw only the red taillights.\nAnd there it sat. For ten minutes, then another five. Chloe hurriedly\nscanned the rest of the way around. Nothing. One more click and\nshe was back to the east section and the idle vehicle. No way she\nwas going to wake Buck for this. It wasn't as if those in the\ncompound expected no traffic outside. But there wasn't much else in\nthe area, certainly nothing worth stopping for at this time of the\nnight.\nChloe wished the periscope had a telescope feature so she could\nhome in on the vehicle and see whether anyone was emerging. The\ncompound's hidden vehicle bay, used only at night when they knew\nthe area was clear, opened to the east. Dare she head that way for a\ncloser look? An individual service door, hidden next to the big one,\nwould allow her to peek out if she kept the inside lights off. She\nwould be a hundred yards closer. And it wasn't like she was planning\nto actually venture outside. Chloe pulled a black sweat suit with a\nhood from the closet and put it on over her pajamas and sweatshirt.\nOver thick woolen socks she laced hightop hiking boots. She took\nthe Uzi but not the walkietalkie. She didn't want any unintended\ntransmission to give her away. And she did not intend to get herself\ninto a situation where she'd need to call for help. The Uzi was just\nfor peace of mind. So was the prayer: \"Lord, help me or forgive me,\none of the two.\" Chloe quietly opened Kenny's door yet again. He\nhadn't moved. She felt his cheek. Moist with sleep but comfortably\nwarm. She kissed his forehead. Cool and soft. Shutting his door, she\nmade her way to where Buck slept and planted a knee on the\nmattress next to his midsection. She leaned to kiss him, holding hishead. If he were anything but sound asleep, that would have roused\nhim. In the darkness Chloe was struck by the contrast between her\ndark clothing and her skin, which hardly ever saw the sun.\nShe found gloves and a ski mask, and by the time she was in the\ncorridor that led past other underground quarters to the vehicle bay,\nChloe was sweating. Their place was in the center of the complex,\nand four wings led to everyone else's places. She crept past the\nSebastians', three other families' places, a bank of single men's\nresidencesincluding Ree Woo's and her own father'stwo more family\nplaces, then a mixture of family and single quarters, including\nMing's.\nEverybody knew Big George was on watch tonight and that Buck\nWilliams, in charge when Rayford was gone, was first alternate. That\nmust have been why everyone seemed to be sleeping so soundly.\nRayford broke away from the tentative crowd and headed toward\nthe light. Was it his imagination? Past twenty feet all was foggy\nanyway, and no one near him seemed able to see anything, let alone\nwhat he saw. The closer he got, the more the light appeared to be\nthe silhouette of a person, but he saw nothing else and guessed it\nwas still fifty yards away. When he had worked at the palace and\nlived nearby, the garages and motor pool had been in that area. Had\nsomeone figured a way to produce light? Rayford had passed\nthrough small groups of limping people, and now it appeared\nnothing stood between him and this ... this what? Apparition? It\nlooked merely bright from a distance, but soon the color became\nmore distinct. First red, then yellowish, and finally, a deep burnt\norange. Yes, clearly a person, specifically a man, tall and lithe. And\nmoving. Others were within a few feet of the man, using his light to\nwork on vehicles. They seemed in pain like everyone else, but they\nworked with dispatch, as if invigorated by the light. The glowing man\nappeared to be able to see as far as he radiated, about three feet.\nAnyone who needed light had to be that close to him.Rayford realized it was Carpathia. Dr. BenJudah had often taught\nthat this same person came first as a lying snake, then as a roaring\nlion, and finally as an angel of light. Rayford had to stifle a chuckle.\nThe devil in Nicolae surely wished he could emit more than this\npathetic glow that allowed him to identify only those within a few\nfeet of him.\nRayford moved until he was among a small crowd just outside the\ncircle of mechanics trying to ready several vehicles for some purpose\nhe did not yet understand. \"All systems are functional?\" Carpathia\nsaid. \"Yes, Potentate. The jeep is operational.\" \"Turn on the lights.\"\nThe mechanic did. \"You can hear the drain on the electrical system,\nso juice is flowing, Excellency, but as you can see\"\n\"As we can all see or not,\" Carpathia said, \"no lights. Well, if I must,\nI will walk ahead of the convoy until we pass through the darkness\non the way to Al Hillah. I do not care how long it takes.\" What kind\nof a strategy was this? The brass will meet in Carpathia's office, and\nthen he will lead them to Al Hillah? For what? And what about the\nthousands remaining in New Babylon? Wouldn't they want to follow,\nto find relief?\n\"What's in Al Hillah?\" Rayford said.\n\"Who is asking?\" Carpathia said. \"And why do you not address me\nwith a title of honor?\"\nNicolae was looking in Rayford's direction, but it was obvious he\ncould see no farther than anyone else within range of his hellish\naura. As Nicolae moved forward, Rayford moved back and to his left,\nthen circled around behind Carpathia.\n\"Yeah,\" Rayford said in a slightly different tone. \"What is in Al Hillah,\n0 Great One?\" Nicolae whirled around, and Rayford slipped away\nagain. \"I was speaking to the original questioner! Who is asking?\"\n\"Perhaps he fled in fear,\" Rayford said with a gravelly voice,\n\"Excellency.\" This could be fun.Chloe had known the long passageway to the vehicle bay to be cold\nand damp most of the time, and perhaps it was now. But in her\ngetup and in her state of mind, moving quickly up the incline past\nthe vehicles and toward where the doors opened to ground level,\nshe had grown uncomfortably warm. She removed her gloves and\nski mask, chiding herself for having them on before she needed\nthem anyway. Chloe lowered the zipper on the sweatshirt, then\nsquatted to cool down and catch her breath with her back against\nthe dirt wall between the bay door and the service door. Being that\nclose to the surface and the outside gave Chloe a delicious feeling of\nfreedom. Less than a year to real freedom.\nHer knees soon burned, so she slid to the earthen floor and\nstraightened her legs. Setting her weapon aside, she reached for the\ntoes of her boots, alternately stretching her right and left sides.\nDespite her many serious injuries, she was proud that her duties in\nGreece had proved she was still in remarkable shape. She zipped her\nsweatshirt to her neck, pulled the ski mask over her face, raised the\nhood over that, tugged on her gloves, put the strap of the Uzi over\nher head so the weapon rested on her right hip and in her right\nhand, then stood and turned to the service door. There could be no\nslight opening of the bay door. That was an all or nothing deal. The\ngluedon sand and dirt and greenery moved as one, and the thing\nwas either fully open or shut. But the service door, though\ncamouflaged the same way, she could open as slowly and slightly as\nshe wanted. She flipped off the light and gripped the doorknob.\nRayford hurried toward the palace. He wanted to check on the\nothers and tell them of his plan. He had experienced more bizarre\nevents in six years than he ever could have imagined, and while\nmany had been bigger and louder and wilder, this was unique. These\npoor people! Yes, they had made their choices, and yes, they had\nhad their opportunities to turn to God. But what a price! They were\nin agony. Everywhere he went, more and more people came into the\ntwentyfoot limit of his visibility. Many were dead. More sat rocking or\nlay weeping. All had given up looking for ways to see anything but ablackness so thick it disoriented them. Those who tried to follow the\nmusic or Fortunato's voice limped or shuffled with arms extended to\nthe front or sides, tipping one way and then the other as if drunk or\ndizzy. They ran into each other, into buildings, tripped over debris,\nand many simply seemed to run out of gas, slowing, stopping, and\ntumbling. Rayford wished he could help, but there was nothing he\ncould do.\nOn his way to Chang's quarters, Rayford came up with an idea and\nchanged course. He stayed on the elevator and reached the top floor\nof the palace. There he tiptoed past several executives and their\naides, who talked on phones or sat before computers, trying to\ndictate but unable to see whether their messages were getting\nthrough.\nThe phone calls all had the same theme and tone. Carpathia had a\nnew assistant since the time when Rayford had worked with him.\nChang had told him her name. He assumed she was the one on the\nphone at the desk outside Carpathia's new office. Rayford noticed\nher double take when she heard him sit on a couch across from her\narea, but he said nothing and she continued her conversation. \"I\ndon't know,\" she said with a whine. \"He wants me to try to carry on\nas if I am not suffering like all the others. But I am, Mom. There are\nlittle things I can do when he is in here, because he emits this glow\nof some sort and I can at least find a few things. But he's called a\nmeeting of the brass and they're planning some sort of a\npilgrimage.... No, I don't get to go, and I don't want to. He's not\neven telling the rank and file that their bosses are leaving.\n\"Ooh! Ouch ... oh, I don't know how to describe it. Cramps, I guess.\nA headache like nothing I've ever had, and I've had some\ndoozies....\"\nShe sounded American, but her back was to Rayford and he could\nnot see the number on her forehead or hand.\"And it feels as if I'm carrying a huge weight on my shoulders,\npressing on my spine. My hips hurt, my knees, ankles, feet. Like\nyour arthritis, I suppose. But, Mom, I'm thirtysix years old. I feel like\nI'm seventyfive.... Yes, I'm eating. I feel my way back to my\napartment and I can manage, but when I lie down, I want to sleep\nfor a hundred years. But I can't.... Well, because of the pain! No\nposition relieves it. It's like this darkness itself is pushing on me and\ncausing all this, and it's the same for everybody.\" Rayford shifted his\nweight and the woman froze. \"Hold a minute, Mom.\" She turned and\nRayford saw the 6 on her forehead, confirming his guess. The United\nNorth American States. \"Is someone there? May I help you?\"\nHe was tempted to tell her he had some questions about the\nmeeting but that he would wait until she was off the phone. But he\nknew she knew who was left on the decimated senior staff, and she\nwould not recognize his voice. He wished he could speak soothingly\nto her, to say something Jesus would say. But she was beyond help\nnow. Rayford had never felt so hogtied. \"Sorry, Mom,\" she said.\n\"Now I'm hearing things. I'd better get off. This meeting's coming\nup, and I don't even know what he's going to want. No one will be\nable to read anything unless they hold it up to his light, and there\nare twenty expected.... Yes, twenty.... I know. ... Yeah, we're down\nfrom thirtysix. Imagine.\n\"Exciting? No. Not for a long time. He is not the man I thought he\nwas.... Oh, in every way. Mean, cruel, vicious, egotistical, selfish. I\nswear, I'd need a thesaurus. ... Well, I can't! ... No! Of course I\ncan't! Where would I go? What would I do? He knows what I know,\nand he wouldn't be able to let me out of his control.... No, now I just\nhave to live with it.... I don't know, Mom. It can't end well. I don't\ncare anymore. Death will be a relief.... Well, I'm sorry, but I mean\nit.... Now don't, Mom. I'm not planning anything rash.... I know you\nhave. We all have. All but Uncle Gregory, I guess. He's still holding\nout, is he? ... How does he live? You know what happens if he's\nfound out.... No, don't tell me. I don't want to know. That way if\nsomebody asks, I'll be able to tell them I don't know. Just tell himI'm proud of him and keep it up, but be careful. You and Dad be\ncareful too. If you're caught aiding him in any way...\" Rayford heard\nfootsteps in the hall, and it was clear she did too. \"Gotta go, Mom.\nStay well.\" She hung up and turned when the door swung open. A\nbig, bony man of about fifty looked wideeyed at Rayford and his\nmouth fell open. He pointed at Rayford's forehead, and Rayford\nnoticed the mark of the believer on him too.\n\"May I help you?\" Carpathia's assistant said. \"Who is it?\" Rayford\nheld a finger to his lips and pointed down the hall. He mouthed,\n\"Five minutes,\" and the man shut the door and ran off.\nThe woman shrugged. \"Thanks for dropping by,\" she muttered,\n\"whoever you were.\" \"Whoever it was has left,\" Rayford said. She\njumped. \"And how long have you been here?\" \"Long enough to\nknow about Uncle Gregory.\" \"I'm so stupid! I don't know you, do I?\"\n\"No.\"\n\"You're not senior staff.\"\n\"I'm not.\"\n\"Is anyone with you?\"\n\"No, Krystall.\"\n\"How do you know my name?\"\n\"I can help your uncle.\"\n\"Tell a soul, I'll deny every word.\"\n\"Don't you want him helped?\"\n\"You're trying to trap me.\"\n\"I'm not. If I was GC, I would not be able to see, would l?\" \"You\ncan't see.\"\n\"I can. And I can prove it. Your colors don't match.\"\"You couldn't prove that by me, idiot. I can't see them either. I dress\nby sense of touch these days, like everybody else.\"\n\"My mistake. Hold up some fingers; I'll tell you how many.... Three,\nand your right hand is facing me, and the three fingers are your\npinkie, ring, and middle.\" \"How do you know that?\"\n\"You mean how can I see?\"\n\"You can't see.\"\n\"Then how do I know you're showing me six fingers now, all five on\nyour left and the index on your right, the backs of your hands\ntoward me? I can see by your face you're starting to be convinced.\nYou're hiding your hands under the desk now.\"\nKrystall pressed her lips together and looked as if she was about to\ncry. Rayford stood. \"Stay where you are,\" she said, voice quavery,\nhands in her lap. Rayford slipped around behind her. \"That would be\nno fun,\" he said, and she jumped and spun in her chair. \"Now I can\nsee your hands again,\" he said. \"They're balled in your lap, thumbs\npointing.\" \"Okay, so you can see me. How?\"\n\"Because this darkness is a curse from God, and I am one of his.\"\n\"Are you serious?\"\n\"I can help your uncle, Krystall.\"\n\"How?\"\n\"Were you implying he has not yet taken the mark?\" \"What if I\nwas?\"\n\"Then it's not too late for him. Is he a believer in Christ?\" \"I don't\nthink so. I think he's just a rebel.\" \"A lucky one, if he acts quickly.\"\n\"If you think you're going to trick me into telling you where he's\nhiding, you're\" \"I don't need to know that. You'd be foolish to risk\ntelling me, and anyway, didn't you tell your mother not to even tell\nyou where he was?\"She didn't respond.\n\"If you really want to help him, tell him to log on to the Web site of\nDr. Tsion BenJudah. Can you remember it if I spell it for you?\"\n\"You think I don't know that name and how to spell it?\" \"Sorry.\"\n\"It's from his Web site that I know it's too late for me and my\nparents, my whole family ... who were so proud of me.\"\n\"I'm sorry, Krystall.\"\n\"You're sorry? How do you think I feel?\" \"Ma'am, you're not going to\ntell anyone I was here, are you?\" \"Why would I? They couldn't see\nyou anyway, and what would they do? Feel around for you?\" \"Good\npoint.\"\n\"What are you doing here?\"\n\"Business. The prospect of helping your uncle was just a bonus.\"\n\"Well, thanks for that. You're a Judahite, eh?\" \"A believer in Christ,\nto be more precise.\" \"Tell me something then: what's the deal with it\nbeing too late for people who already took Carpathia's mark? We\ndon't still have our own free will?\" Rayford felt his throat tighten.\n\"Apparently not,\" he managed. \"I don't quite understand it myself,\nbut you have to admit, you had plenty of reasons to choose the\nother way.\" \"For years.\"\n\"You said it, Krystall.\"\n\"So the statute of limitations ran out on me when I made the big\nchoice.\" \"Well, then for sure. Maybe even before that. Who knows\nthe mind of God?\" \"I'm starting to, sir.\"\n\"How's that?\"\n\"This hurts. It hurts worse than the pain from the darkness. Just\nlearned it too late, I guess, that you don't mess with God.\"THREE\nTHE PROBLEM with the camouflaged service door open just a sliver\nwas that it did not give Chloe the view she needed. While the door\nfaced east, where the suspicious vehicle had stood idling just a block\naway last time she looked, the opening in the door gave her only a\nnortheast view. The door would have to swing open to at least\nfortyfive degrees to confirm that the car or truck or whatever it was\nwas still there. Dare she risk the door catching a glint from a street\nlamp or making a sound or triggeringsome portable motion detector\nthe GC might have brought along? Chloe allowed herself to wish that\nthe vehicle brought good news rather than bad. Maybe it bore a\nband of other underground believers who had heard about the Trib\nForce contingent that had burrowed itself beneath a former military\nbase. Wouldn't that be heaven, to discover more brothers and sisters\nwho could come alongside to help, encourage, and defend? It was\nChloe who had stumbled upon The Place in Chicago with its exciting\nband of selftaught believers. On the other hand, all that activity,\ntheir moving in with the Trib Force, was the first step in\ncompromising the safe house. That many warm bodies moving\nabout in an area the GC had believed was quarantined tipped them\noff and brought them sniffing. If Chloe was to take credit for the\nnew friends, she had to accept the heat for the end of a great safe\nhouse. She couldn't let that happen again. There were too many\nhere, and though the place was under the earth, it had all the\nadvantages the Strong Building had. For one thing, it had George\nSebastian, who had expanded on what Chloeand anyone else who\nwas interestedhad learned about combat training from Mac\nMcCullum on their mission to Greece. The rickety exercise equipment\nGeorge and Priscilla had salvaged from the military base was\nanything but stateoftheart, but George thought that was an\nadvantage.\n\"The newfangled machines do all the work for ya, anyway,\" he said.\nHe had refurbished and lubricated what was available, and within sixweeks several Trib Forcers had spent enough time in a makeshift\nworkout room to start toning neglected muscles. That was just a\nprerequisite, of course. What Chloe enjoyed most was George's\ntraining. A lot of it was just common sense, but a lot of it wasn't. He\nhad been trained at the highest levels and proved to be an excellent\nteacher. Chloe felt she could handle herself and a weapon in almost\nany situation. That training was what niggled at the back of her\nbrain now and told her she was making a fundamental mistake. Not\nonly was she away from her post, but no one would have a clue\nwhere she was. She had no way of communicating from a remote\nlocation. So if she was going to open the service door wide enough\nto see a potential enemy a block away orfor all she knewstanding\ndirectly in front of her, she had to make a decision. Was she opening\nthe door quickly to step outside and shut it again, or was she going\nto keep a hand on the doorknob in case she needed to retreat fast?\nShe pressed her ear against the door to see if she could detect\nmovement nearby, but her Uzi clattered against it, and her ear was\ncovered by her sweatshirt hood and ski mask anyway. She pulled\nback, feeling like an idiot. Deep breath. Calm down. Let's just step\noutside in one smooth motion and shut the door behind us.\nReferring to herself in the collective we made her feel less alone, but\nshe knew she was kidding herself.\nCareful to take full, quiet strides, rolling heel to toe, Chloe pushed\nthe door open, moved out, and shut it behind her. Was the vehicle\nstill there? She'd have to wait a beat. If it was, its taillights were off.\nChloe moved to a row of tall bushes that hid her from the east, then\nspun silently to be sure no enemy had flanked her from another\ndirection. She paused for a moment to drink in the freedom of\nsimply being out in the crisp weehour air.\nAs her eyes adjusted to the dim light provided only by street lamps,\nChloe peered through the shrubbery and saw the white GC\npersonnel carrier parked where she had seen it from inside. Not only\nwere its lights off, but it also didn't appear to be idling. The questionwas whether it was empty, and if so, how many troops had it\nbrought, and where were they?\nRayford quickly tiptoed to the end of the corridor and found the big\nman rocking on the balls of his feet and wringing his hands.\n\"English?\" he said with a thick German accent. \"Yes. I'm an\nAmerican.\"\n\"Brother, brother, brother!\" the man whispered, grabbing Rayford in\na fierce embrace. \"Who are you? What is your name? What are you\ndoing here?\" The man felt solid, as if he could have been a manual\nlaborer. \"I have the same questions for you, friend,\" Rayford said,\nextricating himself. \"But let's make sure we won't be overheard.\"\n\"Good, good, yes. Where?\"\n\"I have colleagues in private quarters here. You need to meet them.\nWe can talk there.\" \"I'm not sure I can wait that long! This is so\nexciting. How far?\" \"Six stories down and a wing the other way,\"\nRayford said, leading him toward the elevator. \"You live here? In the\npalace, I mean? You work here?\" \"Used to.\" Rayford looked around\nand then leaned close. \"I'm with the underground in San Diego with\nconnections in Petra. We're getting our mole out of here while we\ncan.\" \"I was going to ask if you were the mole!\" \"Used to be one of\nseveral. We are down to just this one, or at least that's what we\nthought. You're from here?\"\n\"Not six miles away, can you believe it?\" At the bank of elevators\nthree executives stood lightly touching each other and feeling for the\nbuttons. Rayford and his new friend looked at each other knowingly\nand merely moved behind them into the first available elevator car.\n\"Got to be back up here on time,\" one executive said.\n\"Yes,\" another said. \"Wish I had an audible watch.\"\n\"I took the crystal off mine. I'm learning to feel what time it is.\nProblem is, I keep snagging the hands on who knows what, and for\nall I know, I don't have the right time anymore myself.\" He pressedtwo fingers lightly on his watch. \"I'm guessing 2:50. Gives us ten\nminutes.\" Rayford noticed the German check his own watch and\nraise his eyebrows. The elevator stopped two floors down, and the\nthree felt their way off. But as the doors were shutting, Rayford's\ncompanion reached out with both hands, tapped the timekeeper on\na shoulder, and rubbed his thumb against the man's watch at the\nsame time. The tap made him hesitate, which made the man behind\nhim bump into him. He said, \"Hm?\" and the third man said, \"What?\"\nThe big man pulled his arms back in, in time for the doors to shut\nunimpeded, and when it was just he and Rayford on the elevator, he\nburst into laughter. \"I think that was the last time he'll have the time\nright, you know? Now, may I introduce myself?\"\n\"Not just yet,\" Rayford said. He mouthed, \"Most of the elevators and\ncorridors are bugged.\"\nFoolhardy or brave? Chloe knew that was a matter of opinion and\nthat she would likely hear from many who assumed the former. But\nshe was desperately curious about that personnel carrier, and even\nmore, about the personnel. Keeping to the tree line and away from\nstreet lamps, she circled left and headed a block west, moving\nsilently in the night as she had been taught. She slowed as she came\neven with the vehicle from about thirty yards to the left of it,\nchastising herself for not bringing binoculars. And the walkietalkie.\nShe could have left it off until she needed it, avoiding an\ninopportune transmission while still having the ability to\ncommunicate with Buck or anyone else in a pinch.\nSo far though, no pinch. Chloe moved closer, telling herself that if\nanyone sat in the truck the engine would be running or one or more\nwindows would be open. None of that was so, but she didn't want to\nthink she could simply advance past it without knowing for sure.\nFirst turning in a slow circle to be sure no one was approaching or\nthat she had not missed anyone, Chloe finally reached the truck and\npeered in the back windows. No one.But from there she could not tell if anyone was in the front seat. If\nanyone was waiting, he or she would most likely be behind the\nwheel. She approached from the other side, staying below the\nwindow level until she could stand quickly and take her prey by\nsurprise, if necessary.\nRayford was stunned by the increased number of ailing residents\nwho filled the halls as he and his new buddy left the elevator and\nheaded toward Chang's quarters. Couples huddled in corners,\nweeping. Others crawled, feeling their way to various rooms, pulling\nthemselves up by door handles and running their fingers across\nnumbers before knocking, pleading with friends to be let in.\n\"This breaks my heart,\" he whispered to the German.\n\"Not mine,\" the man said, \"but I'm working on it.\" Rayford knocked\nlightly on Chang's door and heard the conversation inside die. \"It's\nme,\" he said, just above a whisper. \"And don't be alarmed. I have\nsomeone with me.\" Abdullah opened the door just wide enough to\naccommodate one eye and the barrel of a .45caliber Glock. That\neye, satisfied with seeing Rayford, surveyed the German side to side\nand head to toe. Apparently noticing the mark of the believer on the\nman's forehead, Abdullah swung the door open. Once inside, it\nseemed the man couldn't be still. After looking at everyone and the\ncomputers and stacks of miniature disks, he said, \"I can talk? We are\nokay here?\" Chang nodded and, though he seemed overwhelmed by\nthe man's effusiveness, he and Naomi kept working.\n\"Otto Weser is my name,\" he said. \"German timberman, Judahite,\nhead of a small band of believers right here in New Babylon.\"\nHe embraced Abdullah. \"Watch that side arm now, would you?\" Otto\nsaid, laughing. He nearly lifted Chang off the floor. \"Look at us! You\nare Asian. Our turbaned friend is, what, Egyptian?\" Abdullah\ncorrected him. \"Ah, Jordanian. I was close. I am German. Mr. Steele,\nyour name is Western and you told me you were American, but your\nappearance is Egyptian also.\" \"A disguise.\"\"And the young lady, you are Middle Eastern too, are you not? Of\ncourse you are. I will not hug you without the permission of your\nfather.\"\nOtto pointed first to Rayford, who shook his head, and then to\nAbdullah, who looked insulted. \"Oh, you are old enough even if she\nis not yours.\" He turned to Chang. \"I know she does not belong to\nyou, unless by marriage.\"\nNaomi approached him, arms spread. \"My father is not here, but if\nthe permission is mine to give, you have it.\"\n\"Ah, I love the young ones who appreciate the old movies.\" When he\nhad learned everyone's name, Otto said, \"I will be brief. I know you\nare on a mission and you must go. I did not know if I would find any\nbrothers or sisters inside the palace, but I am so glad I did. My\nfriends and I, we consider ourselves fulfillments of prophecy. Do you\nwant to know why? We were holed up in Germany, hiding mostly but\nfighting the GC when we could, and Godwho else?led me to\nRevelation 18. It dumbfounded me; what else can I say? You know\nthe passage. I have it memorized. \"I'm no scholar, no student, no\ntheologian, but I try to stay a step ahead of my people so I can\nteach them a little. Well, Revelation 18 talks about the coming\ndestruction of this city, this one right here. Beginning at the fourth\nverse it says, `I heard another voice from heaven saying, \"Come out\nof her, my people, lest you share in her sins, and lest you receive of\nher plagues. For her sins have reached to heaven, and God has\nremembered her iniquities. Render to her just as she rendered to\nyou, and repay her double according to her works; in the cup which\nshe has mixed, mix double for her. In the measure that she glorified\nherself and lived luxuriously, in the same measure give her torment\nand sorrow; for she says in her heart, `I sit as queen, and am no\nwidow, and will not see sorrow.' Therefore her plagues will come in\none daydeath and mourning and famine. And she will be utterly\nburned with fire, for strong is the Lord God who judges her.\"'\"Well, you could have knocked me over. `Come out of her, my\npeople'? What were we to make of that except the obvious? People\nof Godat least somewere going to be here until just before this\nhappens! Who were they? I could not imagine believers being here,\nand if they were, not for long. How could they be? If the GC and the\nMorale Monitors are killing people all over the world for not bearing\nthe mark of Carpathia, what chance would someone stand here?\n\"We didn't know, but we wanted to find out, and I tell you, playing\nhideandseek with the GC in Germany was getting old. Nearly forty of\nus packed up and headed this wayno easy trip, I want to say. It has\nnot been easy living here either, but we knew it would not be when\nwe came. We have lost six of our members since we have been\nherefour all at once, and two, I have to say, were my fault, to my\neternal shame. But we will see them again, will we not? And I\ncannot wait. \"Something else I could not wait for was this plague of\ndarkness. When it came and we realized that everyone was blind but\nus, I got it in my head I wanted to see this placethe compound, the\ncourtyard, the palace and allespecially the potentate's office. I could\nnot get any of the others to come with me, so here I am, and who\nshould I run into but you? Well, if we are fulfilling prophecy by being\nat least some of God's people who must come out of here before the\nend, you are an answer to prayer if I ever saw one. We need a place\nto go if we are to come out, and what better place than where we\nwill finally be safe? If you have connections at Petra, that is where\nwe want to be, if they will have us.\" \"Excuse me, Rayford,\" Chang\nsaid. \"This is all very interesting and exciting, but I need to show\nNaomi the, you know, inner workings David set up here, and then I\nthink we need to get going.\" \"Right,\" Rayford said, \"and I'll feel\nmore comfortable if Abdullah stays with you two. I want to head\nback to Carpathia's office and see if Otto and I can crash the big\nmeeting and see what's going on.\" \"Oh! I'd love that! As I said, I\nwanted to see his office anyway. That's why I was there when you\nwere, but I was so startled to see someone with the mark of the be\"\n\"Otto,\" Rayford said, \"we've got to move.\"Chloe had crouched by the passengerside door long enough to\nalmost talk herself out of what she planned. What if she rose into\nview of a driver waiting for his charges? She likely had the drop on\nhim, and then what was she going to do? Disarm him? Keep him\nfrom the radio? Make him tell her where his people were and what\nthey were up to? That would do nothing but give away the\nunderground compound unless Chloe was willing to kill the man and\ntry to run off the rest of themprovided he told the truth about where\nthey were.\nShe finally told herself that if the truck was empty, she would merely\nmake one wide reconnaissance loop around the compound to make\nsure the GC weren't close or on to them or about to be; then she\nwould head back for help.\nChloe released the safety on the Uzi, put her right index finger on\nthe trigger, cradled the barrel in her other palm, and rose quickly.\nEmpty.\nAnd so was she. She had been unaware of the effects of the\nadrenaline on her since she had ventured out of the service door, but\nthe resultant crash of her system left her nearly immobile. She\nslumped by the truck to gather herself. Her arms and legs felt\nrubbery, and had Chloe's senses not been on such high alert, she\nbelieved she could have tucked her chin to her chest and slept.\nThough she couldn't escape the feeling she was being watchedshe\nimagined at least nine GC with scopes trained on hershe felt\nremarkably lucky, given how serendipitous her plan had been. That\nis to say, she hardly had a plan. And while she agreed with the\nTribulation Force's motto\"We don't do luck\"it was difficult to attribute\nher safety so far to God when she felt so foolish for how she had\nagain tested her destiny.\nChloe rose and began her scouting ring of the perimeter. As she\nmoved silently in the darkness, feeling vulnerable and trying to bemore thorough than quick, all she was aware of was the pace of her\nbreathing and her thundering pulse.\nBy the time Rayford and Otto reached Carpathia's suite of offices,\nthe meeting had begun and the stragglers spilled out of the doorway\nof his conference room. Rayford saw Carpathia's wretched glow, but\nit was obvious that only Leon Fortunato stood close enough to the\nman to take advantage of it. Rayford gently put his hands on men in\nthe doorway, and they gave way to let him slip through, Otto\nfollowing. To be safe, ,they moved to the far end of the room, away\nfrom Carpathia. The potentate asked Krystall to call the roll, which\nshe did almost entirely from memory. When she drew a blank on the\nlast three names, she asked if she could read the rest of the list in\nCarpathia's light. \"Better simply to have those whose names have\nnot been called identify themselves,\" Nicolae said. As they were\ndoing that, Otto touched Rayford's arm and mouthed that he was\ntempted to call out his own name and see what kind of havoc that\nmight wreak. \"If you gentlemen would kindly attempt to keep your\noutbursts to a minimum,\" Carpathia began, \"Director of Security and\nIntelligence Suhail Akbar has the first item.\" \"Thank you, Excellency.\nOh! Forgive me, sir, but I am in pain as well. Ah!\" \"Suhail, please!\"\n\"Apologies, Highness, but I don't know what to\" \"Control yourself,\nman!\"\n\"I shall try, sir. Our primary concern, ladies and gentlemen, besides\nthe obvious, is that a\"\n\"What's more important than the obvious?\" someone with an Indian\naccent said. \"We've got to find a solution to this\"\n\"Who is that?\" Carpathia demanded. \"Raman Vajpayee, is that you?\"\n\"Yes, sir, I simply want to know\"\n\"Raman, I simply want you to be quiet. How dare you interrupt a\nmember of my cabinet?\" \"Well, sir, it is most important that\" \"What\nis most important is that the only response to your offense is an\nabject apology, and it had better be immediately forthcoming.\"\"I am sorry, Potentate, but\"\n\"That was hardly abject. At a time of international crisis, I cannot\nimagine such insubordination. I am of a mind\"\n\"To what?\" Vajpayee said. \"To put me to death as you do anyone\nwho speaks his mind? I tell you, I would rather be dead than to live\nlike this! In the dark! In pain! No relief in sight. And yet you carry\non\" \"Show yourself, Raman! Do it now!\"\nThe Indian rushed forward, pushing others out of his way. It was\nclear to Rayford that he was simply following the sound of\nCarpathia's voice, unable to see even the glow. \"I am here, within\narm's length of you! Kill me for daring to speak my mind, or reveal\nyourself as a coward!\" \"Suhail,\" Carpathia said, \"take this man out\nand execute him!\" \"So you are a coward! You will not do it yourself!\nAt least give me that much respect.\" \"I have only contempt for you,\nRaman. You have disgraced your position with the Global Community\nand I\"\n\"Kill me yourself, you impotent\"\nAnd with that, Carpathia thrust himself toward the Indian, finally\nallowing both to see one another. As the others listened in horror,\nthe two men struggled, and Carpathia succeeded in getting the\nman's head in his hands. With a violent twist he broke Vajpayee's\nneck, and the dead man slid to the floor. \"Any other dissidents?\"\nCarpathia said. \"Anyone who would rather be dead than suffer for\nthe cause? Hmm? If not, Suhail, proceed, and when you are\nfinished, get this corpse out of here.\" Somehow a shaken Akbar was\nable to control his own outcries of pain as he reported that an\naircraft had landed at the New Babylon airstrip that very afternoon.\n\"We can only assume it was a miracle of autopiloting \" he said, \"but\nwe have no record of what plane it is and urge caution on\neveryone's part, as we may have subversives among us.\"\n\"If we cannot accomplish having the occupants of that plane identify\nthemselves,\" Carpathia said, \"I will personally inspect it at the end ofthis meeting.\"\n\"That's our cue,\" Rayford whispered to Otto. \"We've got to be out of\nhere before then.\"\nAs they began to surreptitiously make their way out of the room,\nCarpathia continued. \"As you know, I am determined to put an end\nto our Jewish problem, and if that includes the cowardly Judahites\nwho remain hidden in the mountains, so much the better. I am\nhereby calling for a meeting of all ten heads of the global regions in\nsix months' time. We shall meet in Baghdad to map our strategy to\nrid the world of our enemies. Meanwhile, we will move our command\npost into the light at Al Hillah. As many of you knowand if this is\nnews to you, I expect full confidentialityAl Hillah is the location of\nour vast storehouse of nuclear weaponry, voluntarily surrendered to\nus by the rest of the world as a condition of my accepting my\nposition. That will prove most useful to us in this ultimate effort and\nfinal solution. \"Until the rest of the world is on the same page with\nme, I plan to begin amassing fighting forces in Israel. All available\nmilitary personnel in the United Carpathian States who are not\nalready assigned as Peacekeepers or Morale Monitors will be\nexpected to report for duty in the Jezreel Valley for combat training.\n\"As for our relocation to Al Hillah, be ready to move out in\ntwentyfour hours. Take anything that will assist you in this transfer.\"\n\"What about our workers, our departments?\" \"They will stay, and\nthey must not know where we are going or even that we are going.\nIs that understood?\"\nRayford was just outside the door when he heard that no one had\nresponded. \"Understood?\"\n\"Yes,\" a few muttered.\n\"Then go about your business. Mr. Akbar, Reverend Fortunato, and I\nwill make our way to the airstrip.\" Rayford motioned for Otto to\nfollow, and he began running toward the elevators. \"Call every carand push every button on each. Stall those elevators for as long as\nyou can. I'll take the stairs. I have no idea where my friends are, but\nI need to leave a note at Chang's place in case they head back\nthere. We have to be out of here before Carpathia finds out the\nidentity of our plane and where we are. Got it?\" \"Got it. Thanks for\ntrusting me.\"\n\"Were you hoping to come with us? Because unless you can get\"\n\"No, we'll arrange that later. I wouldn't come without my people\nanyway.\" \"If you happen to see any of my friends before I do, send\nthem to the plane.\" Rayford bounded down the stairs, drawing\nscreams and squeals from people suffering in the stairwells. They\ncalled out, asking how he could run like that in the dark. He hated\nignoring them. He reached the main level, vaulted over several\npeople, and zigzagged between others. He burst out the door and\nsprinted across the runways toward the plane. If he could get it\nstarted and turned around, all he could do was hope and pray that\nChang, Naomi, and Abdullah were on their way.\nBuck had been sound asleep for hours before something began\ntroubling him. He grew fitful and was suddenly wide awake. It was\nguilt. Letting Chloe take watch duty when she worked so hard all day\nwith the Coop and their son. What kind of a husband was he? He\nran his hands through his hair and sat up, calling out. \"How's it\ngoing, babe?\" Maybe she was checking on Kenny. Or getting herself\nsome tea in the kitchen. He padded out of the bedroom, stretching.\n\"Chlo'!\" he called out. \"You've got something on the motion detector\nhere!\" He bent over the periscope and scanned quickly. He saw\nnothing until he got to the southwest, where he saw a lone figure,\narmed. He scowled. \"Chloe!\" he called. \"Better call George. I've got\na bogey at eight o'clock. Chloe?\"\nHe froze. He stood and moved toward the kitchen. It was dark. And\nKenny was crying. Buck grabbed the phone on his way to Kenny's\nroom and punched in Ming's number. \"Hey, big boy,\" Buck said,\nfinding the boy standing in his bed, quickly going from crying to\nsmiling. \"Mama?\"\"In a minute,\" he said. \"Why don't you lie down and go back to\nsleep. It's still night.\" Ming answered.\n\"I'm so sorry to wake you, Ming, but I've got a little emergency\nhere.\" \"Anything, Buck.\"\n\"Could you watch Kenny for a little while? I think Chloe is outside.\"\n\"Be there in less than a minute.\"\nHe thanked her and got on the walkietalkie. \"George, you up?\"FOUR\nRAYFORD HAD the engines started and the plane turned around\nwhen he saw Carpathia's glow in the distance. The potentate\nseemed in a hurry, but he was apparently leading Suhail Akbar and\nLeon Fortunato, and he had to go slowly to light the way for them a\nfew feet at a time. That would not have been as much help without\nthe sounds of the jet engines, however, so Rayford shut down and\nprayed that this mostly blind threesome would veer off course before\nhis own trio found him. Rayford turned on his cell phone and called\nMac McCullum in Al Basrah to debrief him. \"Can you and Albie leave\nfor Al Hillah today?\"\n\"We been sittin' here like a pastdue hen.\" \"I'll take that as a yes.\nYou're pretty hot since Greece. How are you going to get around?\"\n\"With bluster, charm, and only at night, of course. I figure you pretty\nmuch just want to know what NC and his boys are up to.\" \"Ideal\nwould be your finding out where they're meeting in Baghdad and\nbugging the place for us.\" \"Oh, sure. I'll just tell 'em I'm his new\nvalet and can I have a few hours in the meeting room before\neveryone else gets there.\"\n\"If I thought it was easy, I'd do it myself,\" Rayford said. \"Albie knows\neverybody. If it's gonna get done, he'll get it done.\"\nChang, Naomi, and Abdullah appeared, each laden with boxes and\ncases. Naomi looked ashen. Rayford opened the door and lowered\nthe steps. \"Good timing,\" he said. \"We were on it all the way,\nCaptain,\" Abdullah said. \"Thanks to this young genius.\" \"Just\nshowing off,\" Chang said, handing cargo in and helping Naomi\naboard. \"I wanted to show her how David had bugged the whole\nplace and that we could actually listen in on Carpathia.\" \"So you\nknew he was coming,\" Rayford said, letting Abdullah edge past to\nthe pilot's chair. \"Could we please talk about something else?\" Naomi\nsaid. That made everyone uncomfortably quiet. Rayford sneaked a\npeek. The pale orange silhouette was moving more quickly now. Hemust have abandoned Akbar and Fortunato or they were ailing\nanew. The pain didn't seem to reach Carpathia. Maybe God was\nsaving his best till last for him. Rayford and Abdullah eschewed a\nformal checklist for a quick confirmation of the cockpit flow by\nchecking the critical switch positions. \"Crank 'er up,\" Rayford said.\nBut Abdullah just sat there, craning his neck to watch the glow grow\nlarger as it neared the plane. \"What're you waiting on, Smitty? Let's\nmove out.\" \"A moment, please, Captain. How far do you assume he\ncan see?\" \"About as far as he glows. Now let's go.\"\n\"A moment, please.\"\n\"What are you doing, Mr. Smith?\" Naomi called out. \"Isn't that\nCarpathia?\" \"He does not know where he is going. But I do.\" \"Once\nwe start up, he can do nothing,\" Rayford said. \"But I'd rather he not\nknow who we are.\" \"He won't,\" Abdullah said.\nRayford leaned past Abdullah and saw Carpathia hurry across the\nrunway about twenty feet behind the craft.\n\"Here we go,\" Abdullah said, firing up the engines and blowing the\norange glow to the ground over and over until Nicolae was just an\nember in the distance. Once in the air, Naomi leaned forward. \"Can I\ntalk to you?\" she said. Rayford removed his headphones. \"Is that\nstuff normal for you guys?\" she said. \"Nothing's normal anymore,\nNaomi. You've been through a lot yourself.\" \"I never heard a man\nbeing murdered before. And I've never walked by so many hurting\npeople without a thing I could do for them. We're isolated in Petra,\nand I wanted to be where the action is. But if I never see anything\nelse like this, it'll be all right with me. And we can do more from our\ncomputer center than anywhere I can think of.\"\n\"I'm sorry it was hard,\" Rayford said. \"It was for me too.\" He told\nher of the woman he had tried to help and of his conversation with\nNicolae's assistant. \"We'll watch for her uncle's name on the\nsystem,\" she said. \"And I suppose we'll hear from Mr. Weser too.\"\n\"Hope so. What a character.\"She leaned closer, and while she had to raise her voice over the\nengines, Naomi seemed to speak so only Rayford could hear.\n\"Chang's not doing well, you know.\" \"Why's that?\"\n\"This has been his home, crazy as it's had to have been. It's got to\nbe strange leaving.\" \"I should think he'd be glad to be gone.\" \"I wish\nI could have met Mr. Hassid, the one Chang talks about so much.\nWhat they did in the palace and the setup at our place ...\"\nRayford nodded. \"You going to be able to do the same thingmonitor\nthis placefrom Petra now?\" \"With Chang, yes. It's going to be\nwonderful to have him in our shop.\"\n\"Is he going to be competition?\"\n\"Hardly. I'll just let him do what he wants. He likes the technical\nstuff, keyboarding and inside the box, more than managing people.\nBut he can teach if he wants to.\" Rayford's phone chirped. It was\nGeorge Sebastian. \"Been trying to get hold of you. Your phone\ndown?\" \"Had it off for the palace mission. I was going to report in\nwhen I knew you guys were up. It's still early there, isn't it?\"\n\"We've got a situation.\"\n\"Why are you whispering? Where are you?\" \"Outside.\" \"What time is\nit there?\"\n\"Just before five in the morning. We can't find Chloe.\"\nIt hit Buck that the figure on the periscope had been Chloe, so\nwhere was she? It was just like her to be out without a walkietalkie\nor a phone, which he attributed to strategy rather than\nimpetuousness. He would have a hard time convincing anyone else\nof that, though. He and George had split up, fully armed and in\nconstant touch with each other. George had found the empty GC\npersonnel carrierwhich had to be some sort of a decoybut no GC or\nChloe. Buck hoped he wouldn't have to call for more help and\nfurther expose his people or their location. Two hours later, when the\nsun left Buck and George with no choice but to retreat inside, theyhad covered two square miles with nothing to show for it. In the\ncompound, everybody was up, worried, praying, and eager to be\nbrought up to speed. Ming Toy took Kenny and George's daughter,\nBeth Ann, to her place \"for as long as is necessary.\" George and\nPriscilla set up a command center in the workout room. Ree Woo sat\nat a small folding table in the corner, digging through files to see if\nany of their aliases had been underused or uncompromised.\nBuck admitted he was going to be of little help. \"I'm paralyzed.\"\n\"Snap out of it,\" George said. \"You do Chloe and us no good that\nway.\" Buck glared at him, knowing he was right. \"Easy for you to\nsay, Sebastian. It's not your wife out there.\" Priscilla looked away.\nGeorge let his papers fall on a table and approached Buck. He put a\nhand on each arm of Buck's chair and leaned close to his face. \"I'm\nonly gonna say it once. If it was my wife out there, I wouldn't be\nsitting in here with my hands in my lap. I owe your wife big time.\nShe risked her life for me in Greece. I can only imagine how you\nfeel. Not knowing anything is worse than knowing the worst, but we\nknow nothing. Maybe you're just a little mad at her because she\ndidn't seem to follow protocol and skipped a lot of steps here.\n\"Maybe you're feeling guilty about being angry with her because\nyou're scared to death she's into something over her head. I don't\nblame you. I don't. I'm telling you, we need everybody on this,\nespecially somebody with your brain. Now, you want to find her so\nwe can get her back safe and sound, or you want to assume the\nworst and start grieving now?\" \"George!\" Priscilla scolded.\n\"I'm not trying to be a hard case,\" George said. \"It's just that there's\nnothing we can do outside in the daylight unless we know the coast\nis clear and we've got someone with a good disguise and alias.\nMeanwhile, we've got to rest and strategize, and we don't need Buck\nsitting here feeling sorry for hims\" \"All right, George, I got it! Okay?\"\n\"You and I are all right then?\"\n\"Of course.\"\"I mean, you think I was out there in the middle of the night for my\nhealth?\" \"Not so good news,\" Ree said. \"Chloe's 'Chloe Irene' and\nMac's 'Howie Johnson' are no good after Greece. Hannah's 'Indira\nJinnah' might still be okay, but only she can use it and she's too far\naway. Rayford and Abdullah's Middle Eastern brothers IDs may still\nbe okay, but Abdullah is staying in Petra and Rayford will need R and\nR when he gets here.\" \"Don't be so sure,\" George said. \"He'll go till\nhe drops.\" \"Tell me about it,\" Buck said.\n\"Has Albie's `Commander Elbaz' been exposed yet?\" Ree asked.\nBuck nodded. \"Unfortunately, yes.\"\n\"Too far away too,\" George said. \"What else have we got?\" \"One\nmore. Ming's guy persona, 'Chang Chow.\"' \"Let's not risk Ming,\" Buck\nsaid.\n\"Why not?\" George said. \"She's still got the uniform. She can cut her\nhair and\" \"Hey!\" Ree said. \"You're talking about my fiancee.\" \"So?\"\n\"She at least ought to be consulted.\"\n\"No, Ree,\" George said. \"I thought we'd just drag her in here, hold\nher down, and cut her hair.\" \"Cool down, boys,\" Priscilla said.\n\"Nobody knows who I am. I could be given an alias and\"\n\"No you don't,\" George said.\n\"Shoe's on the other foot now, eh?\" Buck said. \"Prospect of sending\nyour wife out there\" \"Stop it!\" George said. \"I'm just saying she's\ninexperienced and not all that healthy.\" \"Ming is not very physical,\"\nRee said. \"Not trained in weapons.\" \"Don't give me that,\" Buck said.\n\"She worked at Buffer.\" \"Handling inmates at a women's prison is\nnot like rescuing one of our people from the local GC.\" \"We wouldn't\nbe looking for her to do that anyway,\" George said. \"Buck and I and\nmaybe you, Ree, would have to go get Chloe. We need Ming, or\nsomebody, just to find out where she is.\"\nChloe had caught sight of two more GC vehicles, both moving, to the\nsouth as she was in the middle of her loop around the compound. Asshe watched, both trucks stopped and more than half a dozen troops\ndisembarked from each. It became clear that they were walking a\ncarefully planned grid to check for hidden encampments. And the\nunderground safe house was in their path. They may have looked\nbored to Buck through the periscope a few hours before, but\nsomething had sent them for reinforcements. These guys were\nserious. They had metal detectors, probes, and what appeared to be\nGeiger counters. Chloe debated whether she had time to race back\nto the compound to alert the others. If she erred, she could lead\nthese guys right to her door. Determined to distract them and knock\nthem off course, she started moving again. She had to make them\nsee her without appearing to want that. She moved stealthily, but\nwith a purpose. Rather than take a right at the edge of the property\nand circle back to the entrance, Chloe continued west on the south\nside. When she heard at least one of the vehicles heading her way,\nshe broke into a trot, then a jog, then a full run. She was not going\nto outrun a truck, but maybe she could go where it couldn't.\nThe Uzi, light as it was, weighed her down. Unless she believed she\ncould take on an entire platoon or two of GC with it, it made more\nsense to ditch it and come back for it later. She would never be able\nto explain a weapon like that. With the sound of a truck, and maybe\ntwo of them, just a block south and closing fast, Chloe detoured and\nflung the Uzi and her ski mask behind some trees. She picked up her\npace and sprinted about a quarter of a mile, succeeding in getting\nboth trucks to bear down on her. Chloe was out of sight of the\nunderground complex and decided the best approach was\nindifference, so she kept her head down and kept running. The lead\ntruck pulled up beside her, but she didn't even turn to look.\nFrom the passengerside window a young woman called out, \"Need a\nlift?\"\n\"No thanks.\"\n\"Get in.\"\"No thanks. I'm good.\"\n\"We want to ask you a few questions.\"\n\"Go ahead.\"\n\"C'mon, stop and let us talk to you.\"\n\"Talk to me anyway.\"\n\"Where you from?\"\n\"About six miles west.\"\n\"That was underwater from the tsunami not that long ago.\" \"How\nwell I know.\"\n\"What're you doing down here?\"\n\"Running.\"\n\"How'd you get here?\"\n\"Ran.\"\n\"Where you going?\"\n\"Home.\"\n\"What's your name?\"\n\"Phoebe.\"\nIt sounds biblical.\n\"Phoebe what?\"\n\"Phoebe Evangelista.\"\n\"Ethnic?\"\n\"Husband is.\" He's a WASP.\"Have any ID?\"\n\"Not on me.\"\n\"Okay, ma'am, I'm going to have to ask you to stop and let us talk\nwith you a minute.\" \"No thanks. You can follow me home if you\nwant.\" I'll run as far from the underground as I can until I drop. \"I\nneed to know your original region and see your mark.\" \"I'm not\ntaking off my hood or my gloves in this weather after working up a\nsweat.\" \"What, you've got marks both places?\"\nChloe waved her off and kept running. The truck veered off the road\nin front of her and stopped. Chloe swerved around it and kept going.\nShe heard doors opening and boots on pavement. Soon armed GC in\nfull uniform flanked her, a man on each side, keeping pace. \"Okay,\"\none said, \"fun's over. Stop or we'll have to put you in the truck.\nCome on now, ma'am, you know we can take you down, and there's\nno need for that.\" Chloe kept running. The man on her right tossed\nhis weapon to the one on the left, and the next thing she knew he\nhad both arms around her neck and was drawing his knees up into\nthe middle of her back. He had to weigh two hundred pounds. She\nstaggered and fell. He shifted his weight just before she hit the\nground and drove her face into the dirt. Chloe knew she had been\nscraped deep, and blood ran down her forehead. He slid up and\npressed his knee behind her neck, pulled her hands behind her, and\nhandcuffed her.\nDesperate to stall them, Chloe let herself go limp. \"Have it your\nway,\" one of the men said. He grabbed the cuffs to drag her toward\nthe truck. She purposely kept her face down, letting sand and\npebbles and pavement tear at her face.\nOn her stomach next to the truck, she could not be lifted by the\nhandcuffs without wrenching her shoulders out of place, which the\nGC almost did. \"There's an easier way,\" a young guard said, \"if that's\nwhat she wants.\"He grabbed her feet and bent her legs up to where he could bind\nher ankles to the handcuffs with a plastic band. He tossed her into\nthe truck. Chloe was sure she had cracked a rib. During the\ntwentyfiveminute ride to the local GC headquarters, Chloe began to\npray. \"God, give me strength. Let me die before I give away\nanything. Be with Kenny and Buck and Dad.\"\nShe remembered George regaling them with stories about how he\nhad said absolutely nothing to his captors in Greece. If only she had\nthat kind of fortitude. She would rather banter, anger them, mislead\nthem. Was it better to sit and take it or to shoot back, to let them\nknow she was no pushover? Torture. Could she handle that? \"With\nyour strength, God. Let me trade my body for the ones I love.\" At\nheadquarters she was uncuffed, searched, and again asked her\nname and home region. Chloe said nothing. She gingerly pressed a\npalm against her face and felt the abrasions on her forehead and\ncheeks.\n\"She already told us. Phoebe Evangelista, American.\"\n\"Then there ought to be a 6 somewhere under that blood. Get a wet\ncloth and wash that off.\" Someone held Chloe by the back of her\nhead and dragged the cloth across her face. She cried out.\n\"I don't see anything. Doesn't mean it's not there. We running her\nname and description?\" \"Yeah. Nothing so far.\"\n\"Jock will be in at nine. Get her cleaned up and in a jumpsuit. And\nfingerprinted.\" Chloe was tempted to go limp again and make the GC\nundress her, hose her down, and dress her, but she did what she\nwas told. She came out of the shower with her face stinging,\nchanged into the dark green jumpsuit, and clenched her fists.\nWhen she was led to the photo area and printing station, she kept\nher hands balled. Chloe looked so different from the girl who had\nbeen at Stanford six years before, she wasn't worried about her\nphoto giving anything away.A matronly Mexican guard reached for Chloe's hand and said, \"Right\nfirst, please.\" Chloe shook her head.\n\"Come on, honey. You don't want to fight me. You're going to get\nyourself fingerprinted, so you might as well just let me do it.\"\nChloe shook her head again.\n\"I'm going to do this, so how's it going to happen? Do I have to get\na couple of guys in here to hold you down? Because If I do, here's\nwhat I'm going to use.\" The woman showed Chloe an ugly\nadjustable metal cord similar to the tool dogcatchers use at the ends\nof poles to snag puppies. \"I wrap this about three inches above your\nwrist. When it tightens, your hand comes open. I don't know who\nyou are or why you're in here, but you don't want to endure this.\"\nChloe shook her head again, and the woman spoke into her radio,\nasking for help. Chloe resisted the two young men, but as the\nmatron had said, it was hardly worth the effort. When that metal\nloop tightened around her arm, her fingers popped open, and the\nGC had fingerprints that were sent via the Internet to their\ndatabases all over the world. \"We also read your eyes with the\ncamera, honey. If you've ever had a driver's license, been to college,\ngotten married, anything, we'll find a match.\" Chloe only hoped the\nGC were as shorthanded as everyone else. Maybe it would take long\nenough that Buck and George and the rest could bust her out. Who\nam I kidding?\nRayford had hoped for a day or two of rest before jetting back to\nSan Diego, but he had no choice but to leave Petra as soon as he\ncould refuel. He was stunned to find Mac McCullum waiting for him.\n\"Got the word from Buck,\" Mac said. \"Thought Tsion and Chaim\nought to know so they could get the folks here praying. Albie's\nalready got a contact on the Al Hillah thing, so he doesn't need me.\nI'll be your pilot.\"\n\"Mac, I can't ask you to\"\"You didn't. I volunteered. Now unless you're gonna be a mule and\npull rank on me, saddle up.\" Rayford was more grateful than he\ncould express. In the air Mac told him, \"You can think, pray, sleep, or\ntalk. I've got this baby on a path to San Diego, and I'm looking\nforward to seeing those people again and meeting some new ones.\nMy prediction is that Chloe will be there waiting for us.\" \"I was with\nyou right up until that last,\" Rayford said. \"I've got a bad, bad\nfeeling about this. If Buck and George don't find her soon, or if they\nfind out the GC has her, we've got to get those people out of there.\"\n\"And take them where?\"\n\"Petra is the only place I know anymore.\" \"Chloe ain't gonna give the\nGC a thing. Unless they saw her coming out of the underground,\nwhat've they got?\"\n\"She had to be in the area. Unless she can convince them she came\nfrom somewhere else, she sure gives them a place to start looking.\"\nRayford buried his head in his hands and tried to sleep. No dice. All\nhe could do was pray. Chloe had been Daddy's girl from day one.\nShe loved school, was inquisitive, singleminded, stubborn. She was\nthe last person in the family to come to Christ, and Rayford had no\nillusions that he was responsible for that. He had taught her to\nbelieve only in what she could see and smell and touch. Chloe\nalways wanted to be in the middle of the action, and if someone\nwouldn't put her there, she'd put herself there. He wanted to resent\nher for it, especially now, but he was overwhelmed with worry and\nfear. All he wanted was to know she was safe and back with Buck\nand Kenny. He knew that no matter what happened, they would be\nreunited someday, and that it would be less than a year from now.\nBut somehow that wasn't as comforting as he thought it might be.\nThey were destined to be with Christ when they died, and should\nthey survive, they would be with him on earth for a thousand years.\nBut the prospect of dying was still a fearful thing. It was likely that\nany of the Tribulation Force who died during the next year would be\nmartyrs to the cause of Christ, but their loved ones would still mournthem, still miss them. Worst of all, Rayford realized, he didn't want\nto think about how his loved ones might die.\nThe suffering might be shortlived, but no one wants to think of his\nbeloved going through anything terrifying or torturous or agonizing.\n\"Father,\" Rayford said, \"let this be a mission of relocation at worst. I\nhave no reason more valid than anyone else to deserve special\ntreatment, to have my daughter supernaturally protected. You don't\nneed her; you don't need any of us. But we have pledged ourselves\nto you and trust you know what you're doing.\" Jock turned out to be\na tall, heavy man with a uniform that may once have fit him but now\nencased him like a sausage. He had his underlings bring Chloe from\na small cell to a slightly larger room. He pointed to a chair and she\nsat directly across from him at a metal table. Jock dropped an\naccordion file on the table and took off his jacket, draping it over the\nback of the chair. He sat wearily and let out a loud sigh. \"So, Phoebe\nEvangelista. Where'd you come up with that one?\" Chloe stared at\nhim. She detected an Australian accent and noticed the number 18\non his forehead. On the back of his right hand was a tattoo of\nNicolae Carpathia's face. \"Mind if I smoke?\"\nChloe raised her eyebrows and nodded.\n\"Well, what do I care whether you mind or not? I've got a lot of\nwork to do today, young lady, and you're keeping me from it.\"\n\"Go do it,\" Chloe said.\n\"So, she talks,\" Jock said, pulling a small cigar from his pocket. \"I\nthought you were going to be one of those\nnamerankandserialnumber types, minus the last two. Well, you are\nmy work, and you've been a bad girl. You've been lying to my\npeople, haven't you?\" \"Yes.\"\n\"You want to fess up, or you want me to tell you what we found?\"\nChloe shrugged.\n\"We're not getting a thing out of you, are we?\" \"No.\"\"Took a while, but we got it. Besides being short of people, our\nsystems are crashing, and\" \"You're breaking my heart.\"\nJock reached for his file. \"Yeah, well, from what we found, I can\nimagine. I have good news and bad news this morning, Mrs.\nWilliams. Which would you like?\" So, there it was. In a matter of\nhours, the prints or the eye reading had given her away. \"Nothing\nyou can say will be good news.\"\n\"Don't be rash. We're reasonable people, much as you and yours\nwould like to think otherwise and persuade all the sheep who follow\nthat kook BenJudah.\" Tsion has more brains in his eyebrows than\nany ten GCs I've ever met.\n\"I have a proposition for you, ma'am.\"\n\"I don't want to hear it.\"\n\"Sure you do.\"\n\"Let me guess. My freedom for a few leads?\" \"Well, you can play\nhighandmighty all you want, Mom, but I'd think you'd be open to\nhearing me out when the benefit to you deals with your own child.\"FIVE\nALBIE'S BLACKMARKET world was a shadowy landscape of operators\nwho largely went by nicknames and initials. Albie himself had\nfashioned his name from his hometown, Al Basrah. People who\nneeded to know who he was knew enough to reach him. Before he\nbecame a believer, Albie had been one of the top three black\nmarketers in the Middle East. His conversion to Christ had left only\ntwo, and the death of one of them, reputedly at the hands of the\nother in a deal gone bad, left one. And that was who Albie needed\nto get ahold of.\nHe had never liked DoubleM, or Mainyu Mazda, even when Albie was\nof the same ilk and character. Killing was nothing new for Mainyu. It\nwas how he maintained his reputation and control. You wanted\nsomething, anything, he was the man. But pity anyone who ever,\never tried to swindle or even shortchange the man. Legend had it\nthat he had personally murdered a dozen peopleone of them one of\nhis own wiveswho had not lived up to their end of some bargain.\nNone dared calculate how many he may have hired others to\neliminate.\nThose who claimed to know said Mainyu celebrated each personal\nkilling by adding a tattooed doubleM to his neck. He had begun\ntwenty years before when he had strangled a guard in a Kuwaiti\nprison. He applied the first tattoo himself, the ink a concoction of\nrubber shavings from the soles of his shoes, paint chips from the\nprison bars, and blood. A sharpened paper clip heated by a cigarette\nlighter was his applicator. He put that first doubleM directly under his\nAdam's apple. He added one on either side of the original for each\nsubsequent murder, so people could tell whether he was on an odd\nor even number by whether or not his tattooed necklace was even\non both sides. The last time Albie had seen Mainyu, his necklace had\none more doubleM on the left than on the right and his count stood\nat twelve. The more recent tattoos were clearer and moreprofessionally done, and supposedly the one for his wife had a\nfeminine flair. Albie put the word on the street that he wanted an\naudience with Mainyu, and within two hours a note was slipped\nunder his door with an address deep in the street markets on\nAbadan Island on the Shatt al Arab River in southwestern Iran.\nIt was like MM to follow the money. Pipelines connected Abadan's\nhuge refinery to the oil fields of Iran.\nOf course Mainyu did his black marketing in the city's underbelly.\nLike anyone anywhere who didn't bear a mark of loyalty to\nCarpathia, Albie had become nocturnal. He and Mac shared a flat in\na forsaken corner of Al Basrah, where the landlord didn't know or\ncare about one's loyalty to the Global Community provided the rent\nenvelope was full and waiting the first of every month. Albie had\ntaught Mac that the best way to get around was on motor scooters\nsmall and light enough to be stored indoors or hidden in the woods\nnear where they hid their small plane. Albie would wait for the sun\nto disappear before venturing out to a ferry that would get him and\nhis scooter to the island, where he would find the address some\nthirty miles from home.\nWhen big Jock said something about it probably being past Chloe's\nbreakfast time, her mouth watered. \"But as you can understand,\nma'am, we don't feed uncooperative prisoners. Oh, at some point,\nyou'll get some sort of nutrition bar that'll keep you alive until your\nexecution.\" He patted the big file. \"I can't say for sure until I hear\nfrom International, but this has all the makings of a spectacle.\nWouldn't you say?\" \"That's not my call.\"\n\"But your babywhat's the name?\"\nChloe leveled her eyes at Jock and pressed her lips together. How\nshe loved to say her baby's name. Kenneth Bruce Williams. Kenny\nBruce. Kenny B. But she would not tell this man. There was no\nofficial record of Kenny's birth, and the GC didn't even know whether\nshe'd had a boy or a girl. \"Surely there's no harm in my knowing thename.\" \"Phoebe Evangelista Jr.\" Jock looked at the ceiling. \"You\nknow what? I am not the least bit amused. I'm not surprised either,\nbecause I've dealt with enough of your type. Some say there's\nsomething admirable about you people, sticking with something this\nlong even though in the end you're going to lose, and you know it.\nBut I would have thought a religious personand come on, that's\nwhat you are, isn't it?I would have thought you'd care a little more\nabout the disposition of your child. Is it a girl? How old is she now?\"\n\"Look,\" Chloe said, \"you know who I am and what I am and what\nI'm not, which is a Carpathia loyalist. That's punishable by death, so\nwhy don't you just\" \"Oh, now hold on, ma'am. These things are still\nnegotiable. Don't be jumping to concl\" \"I will not be providing you\nany information to reduce my sentence. I'm not interested in life in\nprison. I would not take the mark even if you promised freedom for\nmy family. And everybody knows that even those who take the mark\nnow are executed anyway.\" \"Oh, where did you hear that? That's\nterrible. And a lie.\" \"Whatever you say.\"\nJock leaned back in his chair and called out, \"Nigel?\" \"Sir?\"\n\"Could you open a window? It's stuffy in here.\"\nThe young guard entered and opened a window behind heavy bars.\nThere would be no escaping. \"It's only fair that I outline what I have\nto offer,\" Jock said. \"You see, we know more than your name. We\nknow you dropped out of Stanford University six years ago. We know\nyou're the daughter of Potentate Carpathia's first pilot. We know that\nyou know that your father became a subversive and may have either\nconspired or participated in the assassination of the potentate. \"Your\nhusband is also a former employee of His Excellency and now\npublishes a contraband magazine. They're deeply connected with\nTsion BenJudah and the traitor assassin Rosenzweig. And you, Mrs.\nWilliams, are no retiring bride either. No. You run the Judahite black\nmarket, keeping alive millions without the mark, who have no legal\nright to buy or sell.. \"No ma'am, you should be offered nothing, no\nplea bargain, no break, nothing even for your child. Because morethan that, you were involved in an operation in Greece where you\nimpersonated a Global Community officer.\"\n\"How did you know that?\" It was out before Chloe could think. Was\nthere a mole in their own operation? She couldn't have been\nrecognized. \"I'll tell you if you'll tell me something.\" \"Never mind.\"\n\"It's the beauty of irisscan technology. Normal security cameras, like\nthe ones in our headquarters in PtolemaIs, can get a good enough\nread on your iris to match it with the one recorded when you\nenrolled at Stanford. It has four times as many points of reference\nas a fingerprint, and there has never been a recorded error. Lucky\nfor the one among your number who murdered one of our\noperatives in that very building that we weren't able to trace you to\nhim. But he's from right here in town, isn't he? How far away can he\nbe? How far from where you were jogging?\"\nBuck could barely believe what he was hearing. And from Sebastian,\nof all people, who was sitting there because of the selfless, heroic\nefforts of the Tribulation Force, Chloe in particular. \"It's not easy to\nsay, Buck,\" George said. \"But we have to weigh the welfare of two\nhundred people against springing one person in the face of almost\nimpossible odds.\" \"First,\" Buck said, \"you're assuming the GC has\nher. She could be anywhere. But even if you're right, how is that any\nmore impossible than the situation you were in?\" \"Buck, I know,\nokay? And there's no way I want to just do nothing. But there's one\nbig difference here too. The prisoner in that situation was a very big\nand strong man, trained to kill. And, you'll recall, for all Mac and\nHannah and Chloe did on my behalf, it came down to me against\none of my captors. Even then the odds were bad, and it could have\ngone either way. Let's say I'd failed and the three of them had been\ncompromised. We lose four people. We blast into local headquarters\nhere, we could wind up giving away everything.\"\n\"So, what, we let her rot while we move to Petra?\"\"Here's what I have in mind for your child, Mrs. Williams,\" Jock said,\n\"in the event you come to your senses and help us a little. I'm\nguessing you would prefer your son or daughter to remain in the\ntradition you and your husband have begun. Obviously, that would\nbe counterproductive to our aims. We would like to see all children\nenrolled in Junior GC before they start school. \"But in your case,\nwe're willing to treat your child as a nonentity until he or she is\ntwelve years old.\" \"And who would raise him?\" Chloe said, wincing,\nrealizing hunger was an effective tactic after all. \"So we're talking\nabout a boy, then. Fair enough. Want to give me a name to make it\nless awkward to carry out negotiations?\"\nChloe didn't answer. These weren't negotiations. All she had to do\nwas protect Kenny for one more year and the GC wouldn't have a\nchance at him. \"Come now, Mrs. Williams. You're a bright woman.\nYou have to see what a prize you are to us. We have been\ninconvenienced and, I'll admit it, embarrassed by the Judahites.\nThere is little doubt you people are somehow behind our little\nproblem in New Babylon right now. You can help us. I'm not naive\nenough to think you want to do that, but I'm trying to give you a\nreason. You have some huge bargaining chips.\"\n\"May I stand?\"\n\"You may, but I need to warn you that we are locked in. I'm three\ntimes your size, but just for smiles, let's say you overpower me, get\nthe drop on me. You could break my neck and kill me, but you're not\ngetting out of here.\"\n\"I just want to move a little, sir.\"\n\"Feel free. And call me Jock.\"\nYeah, you're my best friend now.\n\"Hey, you want some breakfast?\"\n\"Of course.\"\"Me too. What do you like?\"\n\"I'm not fussy.\"\n\"I am. I go for the old arteryclogger special. Eggs, bacon, sausage,\ntoast, pancakes with lotsa syrup. Want some?\"\nHe had to be kidding. Chloe stood with her arms folded and turned\naway.\n\"Come on! Can't get you to call me by my first name. Can't get you\nto tell me what you want to eat. How 'bout it? Will you join me? Will\nyou have what I'm having?\" \"I told you, I'm not fussy.\"\n\"You also told me you were hungry. I'll order for us, eh, Chloe? You\nmind if I call you Chloe?\" \"Actually, I'd rather you not.\"\n\"Oh, well, then, by all means. It's all about you. Just let me know all\nyour desires and preferences. If the pillow in your cell is not soft\nenough, give me a holler. Or call the front desk.\" So the gloves were\noff. Chloe had convinced him she wasn't going to cooperate, so he\nwas done playing good cop.\nOr was he? Jock moved past her and summoned Nigel again, and\nshe overheard him ordering the very breakfasts he had described.\nHe turned back to her. \"Food service here is about the same as at\nany jail, Chloe, but even a hash stinger is hardpressed to mess up\nbreakfast. Now listen, while we wait ... I can see you're no pushover.\nI didn't expect you to be and wouldn't have respected you if you had\nbeen. Here's the deal. You know nothing you give us is going to set\nyou free. How would we look to the public? But I can get your\nexecution commuted to a life sentence, and I can get that in a\nlivable facility. You'd have my word on it. It'd be maximum security,\nof course, but you would have full custody of your son until he's\ntwelve years old.\" The fact was, Kenny was safe with Buck, and if\nshe could maintain her sanity, that might not have to change. If only\nshe could get word to Buck to get everyone out of there and to\nPetra. Chloe felt lightheaded and hunger gnawed. \"And that deal isin exchange for ... ?\" \"Taking the mark of loyalty would be a given.\nNo way we would have any credibility otherwise. That gets you life\ninstead of death. But what gets you the nice facility and custody of\nyour son is information.\" \"You think I'm going to flip on my people.\"\n\"I do, and you know why? Because you're a loving mother. You think\nyour people wouldn't give you up in a second to keep their necks out\nfrom under that blade? Give me a break.\"\nAlbie shuddered, tooling through Abadan on his scooter, cap pulled\nlow over his eyes. Al Basrah was no better, but this had to be what\nSodom and Gomorrah had been like before God torched them. Every\nform of sin and debauchery was displayed right on the street. What\nwas once the seedy side of town now was the town. Row after row\nof bars, fortunetelling joints, bordellos, sex shops, and clubs\npandering to every persuasion and perversion teemed with drunk\nand high patrons. Hashish permeated the air. Cocaine and heroin\ndeals went down in plain sight.\nThe GC Peacekeepers and Morale Monitors had once made a noisy\nbust or two weekly to keep up appearances. But with their ranks\nshrunk, they now concentrated on crimes against the government.\nSkip one of your thricedaily bowings and scrapings before the image\nof Carpathia and you could be hauled off to jail. Caught without the\nmark of loyalty? Zero tolerance. They enjoyed playing with people's\nminds and telling them they had one last chance. When a gratefully\nweeping soul eagerly approached the mark application site, he or\nshe was pushed or dragged screaming to the guillotine as an\nexample. Bad as Abadan had become, there was a worse part of\ntown, and it was where Mainyu Mazda and his kind plied their trade.\nIn the openair market, where loud haggling and swindling were the\ndaytime sport, were makeshift dens of clapboard squares, which\nconsisted of just walls and a locking door, no roof. A tarp in the\ncorner could be hastily attached to corner posts in the event of rain,\nbut otherwise, black marketers and their henchmen (one always\nstanding guard outside) held court inside, meeting with people who\nwanted something, anything, and were willing to pay a lot to get it.Albie cut the engine but stayed aboard his scooter, straddling the\nseat and pushing it along with his feet through the narrow\nalleyways. Amid the sleeping drunks were also crazy men, women of\nill repute, men and women with all kinds of wares for sale. All\nbeckoned to the leatherclad, smallish man walking the quiet scooter.\nAlbie looked neither right nor left, catching no one's eye. He knew\nwhere he was going and wanted it to appear so. He couldn't avoid a\nmodicum of pride that his business had never sunk this low. What he\nhad done for years was illegal, of course, and no circumstance\njustified it. But compared to this, he had had class. He had run an\nairstripthat was his front. And his clientele had been made up as\nmuch of wealthy businessmen and pilots as it was lowlifes and\ncrooks. But he knew this world and its language. He needed a bad\nguy, someone who knew someone. Someone who had an inside\ntrack at the palace and knew where the meetings were to be held in\nAl Hillah. Someone who might even know where the largest ever\ncache of nuclear warheads was stored. Someone who, before\nCarpathia and his minions arrived, could get into the meeting room\nand bug the place, transmitting everything to a frequency accessed\nby only one person in the world. Only Albie and his people knew that\nwould be Chang in Petra. Had he more than a day to get this done,\nAlbie might have been able to do it himself with his own contacts,\npeople less risky, less volatile. But there were times in a man's life\nwhen he had to weigh his options and throw the dice. And while that\nanalogy was foreign to his new life, this was one of those times.\n\"Please sit at the table while the door is opened briefly, Chloe,\" Jock\nsaid. The smell of the breakfasts overwhelmed her, and she sat with\nher back to the door. \"Right over here, Nigel, if you would.\" Jock sat\nfacing her. He tossed her a cloth napkin and made a show of tucking\nhis over his tie and spreading it to cover the expanse of his chest\nand belly. Chloe opened her napkin and laid it in her lap as Nigel set\nthe heaping tray between them.\nNigel put a stack of pancakes in front of Jock. A pitcher of syrup. A\nplate of toast with butter and jelly.A large coffee cup, into which he poured steaming black coffee, and\nhe left the pot there too. A massive plate of scrambled eggs with\nbacon and sausage links. He set Jock's silver on either side of his\nmain plate, then put knife, fork, and spoon in front of Chloe. And\nthere she sat, only silver before her and napkin in her lap. Nigel\nremoved the tray and left, locking the door. Jock rubbed his hands\ntogether, grinning. \"Does this look great or what? I hardly know\nwhere to begin.\" He pulled each plate a little closer, then picked up\nhis knife and fork and began manipulating the eggs into a huge first\nbite.\n\"I'm sorry,\" he said. \"Where are my manners? Did you want to say\ngrace? Ask a blessing? No? I will then. Thank you, Excellency, for\nwhat I am about to enjoy.\" Jock shoveled the bite of eggs into his\nmouth, stored it in his right cheek, followed it with half a link of\nsausage, and spoke with his mouth full. \"Nigel must have forgot\nyours, eh, Chloe? Oh, that's right. You haven't been a cooperative\nprisoner yet, have you? Well, that's your call.\" The big man sat\nthere, knifing, forking, spooning, smacking his lips, chugging coffee,\nand grinning. \"Sure you don't want some? Huh? It's good. I mean it.\n'Sup to you. Otherwise, Nigel will keep an eye on you and that\nenergy bar will be delivered to your cell, oh, I'd say about an hour,\nmaybe two, after you've given up on it. And energy may not be the\nright word. It's designed to keep you alive until we can put you to\ndeath. There's nutrition, but not energy per se. You'll get to love it\nthough, look forward to it. I mean, come on, it's not bacon and\neggs, but it's going to be your only treat.\"\nAlbie rolled up in front of a tiny structure that appeared to be a mass\nof incongruously faded yellow boards wired and nailed together. The\npadlock was conspicuous on the door, which was guarded by a tall,\nthin rasp of a man Albie recognized from years before. In fact, if he\nwasn't mistaken, the name was Sahib and he was Mainyu's former\nbrotherinlaw. Former because he was the brother of the wife Mainyu\nhad murdered. Talk about loyalty. Albie stepped off the scooter and\nthrust out a hand. Sahib ignored it and squinted at him in thedarkness. \"Looking to sell that bike? You came to the right place.\"\n\"No. I want to see Mainyu, Sahib.\"\nThat provoked a double take. \"Albie?\"\nAnd now the man shook his hand. He held up a finger, unlocked the\ndoor, and disappeared. Albie heard a low, intense conversation. A\nstranger emerged, hard and cold eyes darting before he hurried off.\nSahib came out, shutting the door behind him. \"Two minutes, Albie,\"\nhe said, and made a motion indicating Mainyu was on the phone.\n\"Fifty Nicks to guard your bike.\" \"Twenty.\"\n\"Twentyfive.\"\n\"Deal. And if it is not as I left it, I split your skull.\"\n\"I know, Albie. Pay in advance.\"\n\"Ten now, fifteen later.\"\n\"Fifteen now.\"\nAlbie peeled off the Nicks. The negotiation, even the threats, was\nexpected. A throat clearing from behind the door spurred Sahib to\nusher Albie in, but as Albie followed, he saw a small woman striding\ntheir way from a similar cubbyhole a hundred feet away. \"Wait,\" he\nsaid. \"Sahib. Watch the bike.\" \"I said I would. Oh, this is just a guest\nwho will be joining you.\" The young woman, robed head to toe, big\neyed and severe looking with a 42 on her forehead, carried a\nsatchel. Sahib pulled her in as he slid out, locking the door. Mainyu,\nilluminated by a batterypowered lamp, sat behind a flimsy wood\ndesk, a mug of something before him, his smile exhibiting\nsurprisingly white teeth. \"Albie, my friend, how are you?\" he said,\nreaching with both hands.\n\"I am well, Mainyu. But I must insist that my business with you is\nprivate.\" \"As usual, of course. Please, sit.\"Albie sat in a rusted metal folding chair while the woman went\naround the desk and pulled a wood box from a corner and sat on it,\nopening her satchel. Albie looked into Mainyu's eyes and cocked his\nhead at the woman.\n\"Her?\" Mainyu said dismissively. \"Tattoo artist. She has neither ears\nnor tongue.\" The woman smiled as she removed her instruments\nand reached in front of Mainyu to direct the lamp more squarely\ntoward him. He lifted his chin, and she swabbed a small area on his\nneck where a tattoo would even the number on both sides.\n\"You know what they say about my tattoos, do you not, old friend?\"\nAlbie smiled. \"Everybody knows what they say.\" \"So, true or not, it is\neffective, no?\" \"Effective. Is it true, Mainyu?\"\n\"Of course.\"\n\"Who was your latest victim?\"\n\"You mean who will be?\"\n\"Sorry?\"\n\"Sometimes I get the tattoo in advance.\"\nIn spite of himself, Rayford had been dozing. And as the Gulfstream\nrocketed toward the States, he began digging through his bags.\n\"What's up, Ray?\" Mac said.\n\"What time is it in New Babylon?\"\n\"Coming up on ten o'clock in the evening.\" \"That makes it late\nmorning in San Diego, and still no word. Buck promised to call even\nif they just found out where she was. You remember the main\nnumber at the palace?\" \"Never knew it. Did you?\"\n\"Once upon a time.\"\"Should be easy enough to get. But no one is still there, Ray. Need\nsomeone at Petra?\" \"No. Now do you remember what David or\nChang said about making these phones impossible to trace?\"\n\"That I do remember.\" He told Rayford the combination of symbols\nand numbers that made the satellite phones appear to be coming\nfrom anywhere. Rayford punched in the number for an international\noperator. \"The Global Community Palace in New Babylon, please,\" he\nsaid.\n\"I'm ringing it for you,\" the operator said, \"but they have no light\nthere just now, and you may encounter delays.\"\n\"Thank you.\"\n\"You have reached the Global Community Headquarters Palace in\nNew Babylon. Please bear with us as technical difficulties may make\nit impossible to answer your call immediately.\" And there came \"Hail\nCarpathia\" by the big choir again. \"Agh!\"\n\"Global Community, how may I direct your call?\" \"Krystall, please.\"\n\"In the potentate's office?\"\n\"Of course.\"\n\"Sir, it's after hours here. Those offices are closed.\"\n\"I know that. Her quarters, please.\"\n\"Who may I say is calling?\"\n\"I'll tell her.\"\n\"I need to know, sir, or I won't ring someone at this time of the\nnight.\" \"If you have to know, it's her uncle Gregory.\" \"One moment.\"\nMac shot Rayford a look. \"Uncle Gregory?\" \"Long story.\"\n\"Long flight. I'll look forward to it.\" \"Uncle Gregory?\" Krystall said,\nher voice thick from sleep. \"Is this line secure?\" Rayford said.\"I think so. I don't know. This isn't my uncle, is it?\" \"You know who it\nis.\"\n\"You never told me.\"\n\"You know I'm a friend.\"\n\"I'll know for sure if you can really help my uncle. I passed along\nyour message.\" \"You did? Is he following up?\"\n\"I think he is.\"\n\"Believe me, if he makes contact, our people will get him everything\nhe needs.\" \"I'm grateful, but why are you call\"\n\"A favor.\"\n\"I knew it. I can't\"\n\"Hear me out. I had no idea I would need anything when I talked to\nyou. I just need information that only you can give me.\"\n\"I can't be giving you inf\"\n\"I'm not asking for much, but I don't want to get you in trouble.\"\n\"Oh, what's the difference?\" she said. \"Being in trouble is no worse\nthan being in his good graces around here.\"\n\"I need to know if there's been any talk of an important arrest in the\nUnited North American States. It would be a young wom\"\n\"Yes! Yes! Late in the day, a couple of hours after quitting timewe\nwere still working because of the move tomorrow afternoonMr. Akbar\ncame in excited about some break in San Diego. Local GC there\narrested someone connected with the Judahites.\" \"Any idea whether\nthey are planning to\" \"That's all I know. Really.\"\n\"I appreciate this more than I can say, Krystall. Is there anything I\ncan do for you?\" \"What could you possibly do for me?\"\"I just wish\"\n\"If you can't send me a pair of eyes, I can't think of a thing.\"SIX\nTHE TATTOO artist snapped on her rubber gloves and asked Mainyu\nMazda in an Indian accent if he wanted anesthetic. He pulled back\nand looked at her. \"You never do,\" she said. \"Head back, chin up.\"\nAlbie did not expect a meeting with this man in this part of this town\nto be other than bizarre, but neither did he dream he would have to\ncompete with a dermatological procedure. \"Go ahead, my friend,\"\nMainyu said, gesturing. \"You come to me why?\" Albie leaned\nforward, forearms on the desk, and told MM of his urgent need in Al\nHillah. The woman's batterypowered applicator emitted a loud, rapid\nclicking as she worked. Mainyu winced but managed to encourage\nAlbie with \"Uhhuhs\" and \"Hmms.\" Finally he said, \"A moment,\nKashmir.\" The woman pulled away and busied herself with the\nneedle in the glow of the lamp. \"It is no secret that you are not a\nfriend of the potentate,\" MM said. Albie smiled. \"I hope it is a secret\nin some places.\" \"Why do you not let me have Kashmir give you a\nloyalty mark? Any number you wish.\"\n\"You know I cannot do that, Mainyu.\"\n\"Oh yes. You are now a Judahite and believe in the evil spirits.\" \"The\nevil sp?\"\nMainyu waved with the back of his hand. \"Don't you people believe\nthat anyone who takes the mark of Carpathia goes to hell,\nsomething like that?\" \"More important is where our loyalty lies.\" MM\nlooked at Kashmir, then leaned back and grinned at Albie. He\nlaughed loudly. \"You are not going to start in on me now, are you,\nold friend? I wondered.\" \"No, you have made your choice. I am\ncurious as to why you have a 72 and not a 216, though.\" \"You think\nI am a friend of the international regime?\" \"Well, I wond\" \"You think\nmy mark is real? You know me better than that.\" He spat. \"But the\npenalty for a fake mark is worse than death,\" Albie said. \"Public\ntorture, I know,\" Mainyu said. \"But the GC is not interested in me\nexcept in how I can benefit them. If I were to bear the mark of theone to whom I am loyal, it would have to be the number 1. What is\nit our Mexican friends say, Albie? `Look out for numeeo uno!' And if\nI was not a benefit to the GC, I would be assigned to the Plain of\nJezreel like so many millions of others. What kind of business could I\ndo there?\"\n\"How do you benefit the GC?\"\nKashmir dabbed at a tiny stream of blood on Mainyu's neck. \"I am a\nbusinessman, Albie. I look for the biggest profit for the smallest\nexpense, and right now that is bounty money.\"\n\"You\"\n\"Deliver the disloyal to the Peacekeepers. Of course I do. Tell me,\nwhat is the cost of doing that kind of business? Twenty thousand\nNicks a head, same price dead or alive. I find the dead more\nmanageable. Once the victim is still, there is no danger, no escape\nattempt, nothing messy. With the right size plastic bag, even the car\nstays clean. Follow?\"\n\"So, you are a supplier\"\n\"To the GC, yes, of course. If low overhead and high profit is the\nbusinessman's mantra, what better business is there than something\nfor nothing? They are willing to pay for something I can provide.\"\nAlbie wondered how many unmarked victims of Mainyu's were\nJudahites. \"My request, then,\" Albie said, \"does it constitute a\nconflict of interest for you?\"\n\"Of course not, my friend! Not if you brought the money. I am not a\nfriend of the GC. I am merely a business associate. My interest is\nprofit.\" \"I wasn't sure what such services would cost.\" \"Oh yes, you\nwere. You are not out of the business that long. And surely you\ndidn't expect me to commit to this without all the money up front,\nnot when it has to be done almost immediately.\" \"You have the\npeople, the hardware, the?\" \"You know I have everything. It will be\ndone. Provided you have the money.\" \"Such a job would have costtwenty thousand Nicks a few years ago,\" Albie said. \"So I assume\nyou brought more, due to inflation and the urgent nature of the\nrequest.\" Albie hesitated.\n\"Sure you did, and you will not make the mistake of holding out on\nme, because you know how easy it would be for me to find out how\nmuch you have with you.\" \"Of course. I brought thirty thousand\nNicks.\" \"Hmm.\"\n\"Surely that's enough. Fifty percent more than before has to cover\ninflation and the rush.\" \"It's not enough,\" Mainyu said. \"It's twenty\nthousand short.\" Albie assumed the deal was about to go down.\nThey were in the haggling stage, and anything other than a vigorous\nargument from both sides would show disrespect. \"Thirty thousand\nis all I brought, and all I am willing to pay.\"\n\"Uhhuh. And is it all on your person or did you leave some on your\nbike?\" \"You know better than that, Mainyu. Who leaves cash in the\nalley here?\" Mainyu laughed. \"Sahib!\"\nThe tall man unlocked the door and entered. \"How much is our\nfriend paying you to watch his bike?\" \"Twentyfive.\"\n\"How much does he owe?\" \"Ten.\"\nMainyu turned to Albie. \"Do you have thirty thousand plus the ten\nyou owe Sahib?\" \"Yes.\"\n\"Any more?\"\n\"Spare change for the trip home.\"\n\"Let me see the thirty thousand.\"\nAble reached inside his jacket and produced a brick of bills wrapped\nin cellophane. \"Now the ten you owe Sahib.\" Albie slapped a ten on\nthe table. \"Now your spare change.\" From his left pocket Albie\nproduced a wad of bills and coins. \"Maybe another fifteenplus,\" hesaid. Mainyu pressed his lips together and cocked his head, arching\nhis eyebrows at Albie. \"We are still twenty thousand apart,\" he said.\n\"I said thirty thousand is all I'm willing to pay.\" \"Then we have a\nproblem. What are we going to do about the other twenty?\"\nAlbie fought a grin. Mainyu had always driven a hard bargain.\n\"You're serious,\" Albie said. \"You won't do it for thirty? You want me\nto take my business elsewhere?\" \"Oh no! And pass up what's before\nme? No!\" \"It'll be done, then?\"\n\"It's already done, my friend. Something for nothing. Fifty thousand\nand change for virtually no overhead.\"\n\"Fifty?\"\n\"Kashmir, call the palace for me, will you? Get Mr. Akbar. Sahib?\nRemember what I have been teaching you about the business?\nCreative solutions for getting to where a deal makes sense?\" Sahib\nnodded. \"Yes, Mr. Mazda.\"\n\"Your handgun, please.\"\nSahib produced a .44 revolver.\nMainyu Mazda hefted it and turned it over in his hands. \"My old\nfriend and I are twenty thousand Nicks apart, and he is the solution.\nWhat is the bounty on unmarked citizens again, Sahib?\" \"Twenty\nthousand.\"\n\"That makes fifty. And we don't even have to do the job.\" He pointed\nthe barrel between Albie's eyes and pulled the trigger.\nHer cell, Chloe thought, was in a strange location. It consisted of a\ncage in the corner of a larger room.\nA metal shelf protruded from the wall. Her bed, she imagined. And a\ncombination sink and toilet stood in plain sight. It was what wasn't\nthere that concerned her. Nothing was movable or removable. There\nwasn't so much as a toilet seat, a blanket, or a pillow. No readingmaterial. Nothing. Faint from hunger, Chloe crawled onto the shelf\nand lay on her side, facing the door. She was supported by woven\nstrips of metal about four inches wide that might have given a bit if\nshe weighed a hundred more pounds. Not even the formerly\nubiquitous Nigel was anywhere to be seen. The outer room was\nbright enough, the sun streaming through the windows and bars.\nBut the room was otherwise drab, all tile and linoleum and steel in\ninstitutional greens. Chloe wanted to call out, to tell someone she\nwas hungry, but her pride overcame her discomfort. She sat up\nquickly when she heard the door open, and a man in a custodialtype\nuniform hurried in. Cleaning bottles hung from his belt next to his\ncell phone. He carried a rag and had another in his back pocket.\n\"Oh, hi,\" he said. \"Didn't know we had somebody in custody.\"\n\"You're not supposed to,\" she said, dying to be charming. \"Pardon?\"\n\"I just wandered in here. Locked myself in like an idiot.\" He laughed,\na smile radiating. \"And you had the bad fortune of wearing a\njumpsuit today that makes you look like an inmate too. Unlucky.\"\n\"Yeah, that's me,\" she said.\n\"Maybe they locked you up for your taste in clothes, huh?\" \"Must\nhave.\"\n\"Well, I'm just getting a bucket over here. Best of luck to ya.\"\n\"Thanks.\"\nHe grabbed a bucket from the corner under a suspended TV set and\nheaded back toward the door. Then he stopped and turned on his\nheel. \"They gave you your phone call, didn't they?\" \"Oh, sure. I've\nbeen treated like a queen. I called Santa Claus.\" He set the bucket\ndown and moved to within a few feet of the cage. He looked over\nhis shoulder at the door, then turned back and lowered his voice.\n\"No, I'm serious. That's the one thing I don't like here. I mean,\npeople get what they deserve, not taking the mark and all, like you.\nI'm not so naive as to think there'd still be a trial for that after allthese years, but what ever happened to one phone call? I mean, this\nis still America, isn't it?\"\n\"Not the one I remember.\"\n\"Me either. Hey, you wanna make a phone call?\"\n\"What?\"\n\"You gotta promise not to tell. I'd be in a lot of trouble.\" \"What, with\nyour phone?\"\n\"Sure. Here.\" He slid it from his belt and angled it so it would fit\nbetween the wires of the cage. \"But just one, and you gotta make it\nquick. Then hide it. Or slide it across the floor like I dropped it or\nsomething. I'll come back for it in a while.\"\n\"You're serious?\"\n\"Sure. What's the harm? Go ahead. Knock yourself out. Pretty little\nthing like you. I'll be back.\" Chloe's hands shook as she went to a\ncorner with her back to the door. How dumb do they think I am?\nThing probably doesn't even work, and if it does, not from here. She\ndidn't care. It was worth a try. She had to talk with someone. She\ndidn't dare risk calling the safe house, assuming this was a setup\nand that any call would be traced.\nChloe dialed her dad's phone number. He had to be back in Petra by\nnow. Rayford had awakened Krystall in the palace yet again. \"I've\nbeen thinking about your request,\" he said. \"My request?\"\n\"For eyes.\"\n\"Don't play with me.\"\n\"No, it kept working on me, and I might just know of a pair you\ncould use. You remember, just before you and I spoke, someone\nopened the door, then shut it again and ran off?\" \"How could I\nforget? That's when you scared the life out of me.\" \"He's a believer\ntoo, and he can see in New Babylon.\" \"I'm listening.\"\"I might be able to talk him into coming back and helping you when\neveryone else is gone. He can tell you where stuff is, do all sorts of\nthings for you.\" \"What's in it for you?\"\n\"There might be things in the files I'd like to know about.\" \"More\nthan you know.\"\n\"See? He helps you for a few days, or for however long you want,\nand you give him access to things that might help me. Deal?\"\n\"What's in it for him?\"\n\"I'll take care of that. In fact, I'll call him right now and see if I can\nset it up. Well, I'll call him tomorrow. No sense waking him.\"\n\"No, why should I be the only one up at this hour?\" \"Sorry.\" Rayford\nheard a tone that told him he had a call coming in. \"Hang on just a\nsecond, Krystall.\" He checked the caller ID. A San Diego area code,\nbut a number he didn't recognize. \"I'd better take this. If I can get\nthis deal arranged, I'll have the guy call you.\" He punched his call\nbutton twice, ending one call and picking up the other. \"Steele here.\"\n\"Daddy, it's me.\"\n\"Chloe!\"\n\"Please, just listen. You still have that record feature on your\nphone?\" \"Yes, but\"\n\"Turn it on right now. Do it. Did you? Is it on?\" \"Yes, but\" \"I know\nthis call is being traced and your phone is going to be useless after\nthis, but I couldn't call anyone else. I'm in the San Diego GC jail, and\nthey're trying to bargain with me to get to the others. Tell Buck and\nKenny I love them with all my heart and that if I don't see them\nagain before heaven, I'll be waiting for them there. Dad, this was all\nmy fault, but I was jogging within thirty miles of our place and, oh,\nlisten, I just wanted to tell you that I'm all right for now. I've just\nbeen sitting here reminiscing about that wonderful trip you and Mom\nand I took to Colorado when I was five or six. Remember?\" \"Vaguely.\nChloe, listen\"\"Dad, I don't dare stay on long. It's important to me that you\nremember that trip!\" \"Honey, that had to be more than twenty years\nago. I\" \"It was! But it was so special, and I wish everybody could go\nthere again. If I had one dream, it's that we could all go there right\nnow, as soon as possible.\" \"Chloe\"\n\"Dad, don't. You know they have to be listening. Just please give my\nlove to everybody and tell them to pray that I'll be strong to the end.\nI will give nothing away. Nothing. And, Dad, think of the Colorado\ntrip so I know we'll both be thinking of the same thing at the same\ntime. I love you, Dad. Don't ever forget that.\"\n\"I love you too, honey. I\"\n\"Bye, Daddy.\"\nAnd she was gone.\n\"You're supposed to be the combat guy, George,\" Buck said. \"And all\nyou want to talk about is packing.\"\n\"I just want you to know, Buck, that I'm not going to hold you\nresponsible for any mean thing you say to me until Chloe is back\nsafe and sound. Then I'm going to tell on you.\" \"Yeah, and she'll\nground you,\" Priscilla said. Buck owed George a smile, and it never\nceased to amuse him when Priscilla vainly tried to add to or improve\non her husband's humor. It was just that Buck's spirits could not be\nlifted. His fatherinlaw had confirmed where Chloe was through his\ncontact at the palace, and the local GC headquarters simply was not\na place vulnerable to a raid.\n\"The best thing we have going for us,\" Sebastian said, \"is that as\nsoon as they determine who she is, she's most valuable to them\nalive.\"\nBuck knew it was true, but talking about his beloved as a commodity\nof war left a bad taste. Late in the afternoon Ming brought Beth Ann\nSebastian and Kenny into the workout room. Ree leaped to his feet\nand uncharacteristically embraced Ming. Buck knew the Chloesituation had sobered him. He wondered if it had even given Ree\nsecond thoughts about marriage. Beth Ann ran back and forth\nbetween her parents, showing off. Kenny, frowning, trudged to Buck\nand climbed in his lap.\n\"He didn't nap,\" Ming said.\nBuck nodded and held Kenny's cheek to his chest. \"Sleepy, bud?\" he\nsaid. Kenny shook his head. \"I want Mommy.\"\n\"She'll be back later.\"\nThe boy closed his eyes.\nBuck looked at Priscilla, biting his lip and unable to stanch the tears.\n\"This is the part I'm going to hate,\" he mouthed, his chest\nconvulsing. Kenny roused, but Buck tucked the boy's head under his\nchin and wrapped both arms around him, rocking. And weeping.\nPriscilla pushed Beth Ann toward her dad and leaned close to Buck.\n\"Don't you dare give up, Buck. None of us are.\"\nChloe wanted to call everybody she knew, but she had little question\nshe'd been set up. It had all been too easy. The global positioning\nsystem in her father's phone would tell the GC right where he was.\nShe had assumed Petra, but from the ambient sounds, he was in the\nair. How long had he and Abdullah been in New Babylon if he was\njust heading back now? It didn't compute. Of course he would have\nbeen informed of her disappearance. Maybe he was on his way\nhome. She only hoped he could get rid of the phone before getting\nclose to California. The last thing she wanted was to lead the GC\nright to the safe house.\nChloe reached as high as she could and pushed the phone through\nan opening in the cage. It flew about eight feet before landing on\nthe floor and breaking into pieces. \"Oops,\" she said. \"And after that\nnice man entrusted it to me.\"\nInside a minute Custodian returned, still dressed the same but this\ntime with no props. No bucket, no cleansers, no rags. No smileeither. He knelt to pick up the pieces. \"Thanks for the use of your\nphone. That was most thoughtful. Maybe you could smuggle me in a\ncake with a file in it or get word to my people. Sorry about the\ndamage.\" \"That's all right, doll,\" he said, not looking at her. \"We got\nwhat we needed. Looks like Daddy's just off the East Coast. Gotta\nthink he's due to refuel by now. Should be able to alert the most\nlikely airports. You wanna do yourself a favor, work with Jock. He's a\nfair guy. No, he really is. I'm not saying he's got your best interests\nat heart, but he's a realist. You've got what he wants, and he knows\nthat's going to cost him.\"\n\"Well, then by all means, friend, tell Jock I'm ready to wheel and\ndeal. I'll give him everything he wants, now that I know he's fair. I\nmean, I heard that from you, and I've known you long enough to\ntrust you completely.\"\n\"Be as much of a smart aleck as you want, kid. See where it gets ya.\nOh, by the way, Nigel's got your energy bar. Should I tell him you're\nhungry?\" Chloe sat on the metal bed. She was famished but still\nmore proud than desperate. \"Nah. I had a big breakfast. I couldn't\neat another thing just yet.\" \"Maybe some television then.\"\n\"Spare me. I've heard enough propaganda to last a lifetime.\" \"But\nit's time for the news.\"\n\"Oh yes, the eminently objective Global Community News Network.\nHey, okay, all right! That's plenty loud enough!\"\nHe ignored her, leaving the volume up and heading for the door.\n\"Turn it down, please! Sir?\"\n\"Can't hear you,\" he said. \"TV's too loud.\" Jock must have been\nchoreographing everything. The five o'clock news was just coming\non, Anika Janssen anchoring live from Detroit.\n\"Good evening. Darkness continues to plague Global Community\nInternational Headquarters in New Babylon at this hour. It isconfined to the borders of the city and is believed to be an act of\naggression on the part of dissidents against the New World Order.\n\"GC Chief of Security and Intelligence Suhail Akbar spoke with us by\nphone earlier from the beleaguered capital. In spite of the turmoil\nthere, he reports good news, constituting our top story tonight.\"\n\"Yes, Anika,\" Akbar said, \"following months of careful planning and\ncooperation between the various law enforcement branches of the\nGlobal Community, we are happy to report that a combined task\nforce of crack agents from both our Peacekeeping and Morale\nMonitor divisions has succeeded in apprehending one of the top\nechelon Judahite terrorists in the world. \"The arrest was made\nbefore dawn today in San Diego after months of planning. I'd rather\nnot go into the details of the operation, but the suspect was\ndisarmed and arrested without incident. Her name is Chloe Steele\nWilliams, twentysix, a former campus radical at Stanford University\nin Palo Alto, California, from which she was expelled six years ago\nafter making threats on the lives of the administration.\"\n\"Thank you, Chief Akbar. We have further learned that Mrs. Williams\nis the daughter of Rayford Steele, who once served as pilot for\nGlobal Community Supreme Potentate Nicolae Carpathia. He was\nfired some years ago for insubordination and drinking while on duty,\nand GC intelligence believes his resentment led to his current role as\nan international terrorist. He was implicated in the conspiracy to\nassassinate Potentate Carpathia and is a known associate of former\nIsraeli statesman and now leading Judahite Dr. Chaim Rosenzweig.\nBoth are known to serve on the cabinet of Rabbi Tsion BenJudah,\nhead of the Judahites, the last holdouts in opposition to the New\nWorld Order. \"Mrs. Williams is the wife of Cameron Williams,\nformerly a celebrated American journalist who also worked directly\nfor the potentate before losing his job due to differences in\nmanagement style. He edits a subversive cyber and printed\nmagazine with a limited circulation. \"Williams, his wife, and her\nfather are international fugitives in exile, wanted for more than three\ndozen murders around the world. Mrs. Williams herself heads ablackmarket operation suspected of hijacking billions of Nicks' worth\nof goods around the world and selling them for obscene profits to\nothers who cannot legally buy and sell due to their refusal to pledge\nloyalty to the potentate. \"The Williamses, who have amassed a\nfortune on the black market, have one child remaining after Mrs.\nWilliams apparently aborted two fetuses and an older daughter died\nunder questionable circumstances. The son, whom they have named\nJesus Savior Williams, pictured here, is two years old. Acquaintances\nreport that the Williamses believe he is the reincarnation of Jesus\nChrist, who will one day conquer Nicolae Carpathia and return the\nglobe to Christianity.\" Chloe sat staring at a toddler, clearly not\nKenny Bruce, who had a Bible in his lap and wore a tiny Tshirt that\nread \"Kill Carpathia!\"\n\"Chief Akbar reports that his forces traced the leading cell of the\nJudahites in the United North American States to San Diego, where\nMrs. Williams was apprehended today. Local GC operatives there say\nshe is already, quote, `singing like a bird, offering all kinds of\ninformation on her colleagues, including her own family, to avoid a\ndeath sentence.' \"Here's San Diego GCNN reporter Sue West with\nColonel Jonathan `Jock' Ashmore. Sue?\" \"Thank you, Anika. Colonel\nAshmore, how important would you say this arrest is?\"\n\"It's almost inestimable,\" Jock said, nervously tugging at his uniform\njacket, which came short of covering his middle. \"And Mrs. Williams\nhas proved to be the typical terrorist who knows when it's time to\nbargain. When the reality hit her that she had been positively\nidentified and we informed her of the overwhelming charges against\nher, it was only a matter of minutes before she began offering\nvarious deals to save her skin.\"\n\"Are you at liberty to say what some of those might be?\" \"Not\nentirely, though she has already pledged to enroll her son in junior\nGC as soon as possible. She did reveal the whereabouts of a lowlevel\nMiddle Eastern black marketer named Al Basrah, after the Iranian\ncity of the same name.\"\"I believe that's in Iraq, Colonel, but go ahead.\" \"What?\"\n\"Al Basrah is in Iraq, sir.\"\n\"Whatever. Anyway, this character shot himself to death rather than\nbe arrested.\" \"We are about to show a picture of the dead Al\nBasrah,\" Sue West said, \"but we warn you that the picture is very\ngraphic.\"\nChloe stood and stared as the photo was displayed. It showed Albie\nwith a black hole between lifeless eyes, a pool of blood behind his\nhead. It was clearly him. But was it real or doctored? Chloe shouted,\n\"Jock! Jock! Nigel! Get Jock!\" Her screams became sobs, and she\ndemanded, \"Is that true? I want to know if that's true! Is Albie\ndead? Tell me Albie's not dead!\" But no one came. No one\nresponded. As the TV blared, Chloe slid to the floor, wailing, \"God,\nplease! No!\"SEVEN\n\"GOT ME a friend in Florida,\" Mac said. \"Jacksonville. Coop guy. We\ncan refuel there and avoid the normal spots.\"\n\"And I can put this phone under one of the wheels before we take\noff,\" Rayford said. \"If they find a mass of metal and plastic on the\ntarmac, what're they going to do with it?\" \"Wouldn't you rather\ndrown it? Won't take but a minute to drop it in the drink.\" \"What'm I\ngoing to do, Mac, roll down my window and toss it out?\" \"Nah.\nThere's a dandy little thing we used to do in the military when we\nwanted to drop something from altitude. You stick it in the speed\nbrake well, which is, of course, closed on the ground. When we get\nback in the air, I'll activate the speed brake\" \"Which will open the\npanel. Beautiful.\" \"Yes,\" Mac said. \"You just take her up, throttle up,\nactivate the brake, and send that phone into the wild blue yonder.\"\n\"I don't want to lose any time fooling around.\" \"Gimme that thing.\nI'll do it. Won't take more'n sixty seconds.\"\n\"I've got to copy Chloe's message first. She's trying to tell me\nsomething, that's for sure.\" \"It's about my turn for a break anyway,\nRay. Once you get it ciphered, switch seats with me and I'll study it.\"\nChang had arrived at Petra in the middle of the afternoon, and\nNaomi offered to give him his first look at the place. \"I will leave\nword at the computer center to let us know when they learn\nanything about Chloe,\" she said, \"but I don't want you to see that\nplace until the end, okay?\" He shrugged.\n\"Abdullah got someone to take your things to your new quarters,\nwhich are not far from his. He will take you there so you can get\nsettled, and then I will come by to give you your first day's tour.\"\nChang had been determined not to let anyone immediately pair him\noff with somebody. Especially not Naomi. She had to still be a\nteenager, which was all right. He was just twenty himself. And whilethere was no question about her intellect and technical brilliance,\nthey were going to have to work closely over the next year. Why\ncomplicate things?\nAnd yet ... in person she was stunning. Olive skin and welcoming\ndark eyes were set off by her long, black hair. Chang found it difficult\nnot to stare. She had a beautiful, shy smile, and she seemed so\nfriendly and selfless. He had never even had a girlfriend, only girls\nhe had been interested in in high school but whom he would never\nhave dared let know it. On the way to Chang's prefabricated\nquarters, Abdullah seemed to know everybody and wanted them to\nmeet him. They treated Chang like royalty, but he was so ashamed\nof bearing the mark of Carpathia that he kept his baseball cap pulled\nlow. His instinct was to remove it and bow each time, but he could\nnot.\n\"Our man inside the palace,\" Abdullah called him, and people\nembraced him or shook his hand, and many blessed him.\nTo Chang it was a foretaste of heaven. \"I wonder what the chances\nare of meeting Dr. BenJudah and Dr. Rosenzweig,\" he said.\n\"Oh, I am so sorry,\" Abdullah said. \"I was supposed to tell you. They\nsend their most abject apologies for not greeting you appropriately.\nThey have been meeting with the elders about the issue of Chloe's\ndisappearance, and they have a council meeting later. They request\nthat you join them over manna in the morning.\"\n\"Good, yes. Thank you, Mr. Smith. I have something I must consult\nwith Dr. BenJudah about.\"\n\"I believe Naomi's father would like to meet you too.\" He could tell\nfrom Abdullah's inflection that he was trying to say something, but\nChang would not bite. \"Well, I will look forward to meeting him as\nwell.\" When they reached the dwellings, shipped in and assembled\nby a team led by Lionel Whalum, Abdullah first showed Chang his\nown place. \"You can see that I like to live close to the ground. I sit\noutside near a fire when I eat my manna. And inside, I sleep on thefloor. If that is not your custom, you need not do that. Your place is\nnot much different in size from what you had at the palace, but of\ncourse it is much plainer and simpler.\"\n\"It's perfect,\" Chang said when they arrived. His luggage lay next to\nhis cot and his computers and file boxes sat by the door. \"I will sleep\ntonight a free man, worried about nothing but the welfare of our\ncomrades.\"\n\"I'll leave you to unpack. If you need anything, you can see my place\nfrom here. Do you need anything at all?\"\n\"Just one thing. I am a little nervous about the manna. Does\neveryone care for it?\" \"Yes, they do. I am confident you will enjoy it.\nImagine, being fed by the King. Yes, it is just sustenance, and yes, it\nappears to be merely bread. But it comes from the kitchens of\nheaven. How can it be anything but glorious? We are due a portion\njust before sundown, so you will know before you join the doctors\nfor breakfast whether you like it or not.\" Half an hour later, when\nChang had his place situated just the way he wanted it, he heard a\nknock. \"Come in!\" he said, but no one did. As he approached the\ndoor, he said, \"It's open!\" Still nothing. He opened the door to\nNaomi. \"Come in, come in!\" he said. \"Oh, I must not,\" she said. \"In\nmy culture it is improper.\" \"I'm sorry.\"\n\"You'll learn. Come, let me show you Petra.\" \"No word yet on\nChloe?\" he said as they ventured out. She shook her head. \"It's not\ngoing to come to a good end, you know.\" \"That's my fear,\" he said.\n\"But we can hope and pray.\" Naomi explained that the city was so\nspread out that it would take days to see it all. \"We'll get ATVs near\nthe tech center. Then let me take you to the Treasury first, then to a\nfew of the nearby tombsthere are many. Finally I'd like to take you\nto the high place where the missile hit and the spring still bubbles,\nproviding daily water for more than a million people. If I have timed\nit right, it should then be close to sundown, and we can enjoy our\nmanna with water directly from the source.\" Chang was not used to\nthis much walking and climbing, so he was glad when they werefinally aboard fourwheelers. He was stunned by Petra's beautiful\narchitecture and wondered how anyone could have carved such\nstructures out of solid rock. When they finally reached the crest of\nthe high place, where the spring cascaded into cisterns and\naqueducts to the entire area, Naomi cut her engine and signaled\nChang to do the same. \"Are you thirsty?\" she said.\n\"Always. But mostly I'm trying to get used to not worrying who is\nwatching.\" \"I cannot imagine. Are you willing to drink from my\nhands?\" Chang, usually quick and flippant, only smiled. \"Whatever is\nproper in your culture.\" She knelt and washed her hands in a brook,\nshaking them dry. Chang did the same. She took him as close as\nthey could get to the center of the spring. \"Ready?\" she said. He\nnodded, and she thrust her cupped hands into the water, bringing\nthem up to just under his chin. \"Hurry,\" she said, laughing. \"My\nhands are not watertight.\" He lowered his face into her hands and\ntook a huge gulp. His throat had been more parched than he knew,\nand though the water could have been only a few degrees cooler\nthan the air, it felt almost icy. He coughed and laughed and said,\n\"More.\"\nHe drank from her hands again, and she said, \"My turn.\" Chang\nmade a bowl of his palms and let her drink. \"Enough?\" he said,\nwhen his hands were empty. She nodded, and he cupped her face\nand wiped the dust from under her shining eyes. He spread his\nfingers and extended his hands, brushing through her hair. Naomi\nclosed her eyes and lifted her face to the setting sun, spreading her\narms and holding her hands palms up. \"Here it comes, Chang.\nReceive your daily bread from the God of heaven.\" Chang stepped\nback, looked up, and extended his arms as the skies seemed to\nsnow bits of soft bread that covered the entire area. Below, the\nmillion strong emerged from their quarters with jars and baskets,\nand gathered what they needed for dinner. \"Just like in the Bible,\"\nNaomi said, \"we are to take what we need but not store any. It will\nspoil and we will have shown our lack of faith in God to provide\nevery day.\" Chang sat beside her and scooped manna into his hand.\"Do you ask God to bless food that he has just personally delivered?\"\nhe said.\nShe laughed. \"Would you like me to?\"\n\"Please.\" He quickly removed his cap as she began. \"To the great\nGod of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, and to the Father of our Lord\nand Savior Jesus Christ, we offer our humble thanks for everything\nyou provide.\" Her young voice was so pure and sweet and her words\nso perfect, Chang found his face contorting as tears welled.\n\"Thank you for safety for our mission today and for allowing us to\nbring Chang here. May he find refreshing peace and rest in you. In\nthe name of Jesus we ask you to bless to our nourishment this gift\nyou have given. Amen.\"\nWith tears streaming, Chang turned away and tugged his cap back\non. He sat with the warm manna in his hand, unable to eat for\ncrying. He felt Naomi caressing his shoulder. \"God bless you, Chang,\"\nshe said. \"Bless you.\"\nHe gathered himself and wiped his face with his free hand. \"Don't\nwait for me,\" he managed. \"Go ahead.\"\n\"I just might,\" she said lightly. \"I never grow tired of this.\" \"What\ndoes it taste like?\" he said.\n\"Oh no, that is not for me to tell you. I know only what it tastes like\nto me.\" Chang picked two of the small, white disks from his hand\nand laid them on his tongue. \"Well?\" she said. It was as if he had\nbeen struck dumb. \"Oh,\" he said. \"Oh.\" \"That's all you can say?\"\nHe took several more at once. \"Oh!\"\n\"I'm guessing you approve.\"\n\"I taste honey. Honey for sure.\" \"Yes.\" \"Almost like cookies, those\nsweet wafer things. And they're so filling. I want more and yet I've\nhad enough.\"\"Imagine,\" Naomi said. \"Everything we need for twentyfour hours\ncomes in three helpings of this.\" \"Miraculous.\"\n\"Exodus 16:31 says, `And the house of Israel called its name\nManna. And it was like white coriander seed, and the taste of it was\nlike wafers made with honey.\"' \"I'm impressed,\" he said. \"What, you\nhave the whole Old Testament memorized?\" She laughed. \"Hardly,\nbut you know for all of my childhood, I didn't call it the Old\nTestament. It was my Bible. I studied it every day. I still do, but it's a\nwhole different thing now, now that I really know God.\" \"I memorize\nScripture too,\" Chang said. \"But I've never owned a Bible. I was\nraised an atheist, so I have to memorize off the Internet.\"\n\"But you do memorize?\"\n\"Doesn't everybody? I mean, Dr. BenJudah only reminds us to about\nfive times with every daily message.\"\n\"What are you memorizing?\"\n\"New Testament. John. I'm up to chapter three. I'm slow.\" \"But you\nhave it memorized up to there?\" she said. \"That's good.\" \"Well,\nyeah, I think. But don't test me. I mean, you could test me on\nchapter three, because that's right where I am, but. ..\"\nHis voice trailed off. Chang could have sat there next to Naomi all\nnight, but she stood and took another drink from the spring. \"Let me\nshow you something,\" she said, reaching for him. He offered his\nhand and she pulled him up. \"You see my garment?\" He shrugged\nand nodded. Did he see her garment? He had been stealing glances\nall day. He wouldn't have known what to call it. It was more robe\nthan dress, like something he imagined women wearing in Bible\ntimes.\n\"It is the only thing I have ever worn here. I had it on when we\narrived.\" \"It looks brandnew.\"\n\"I wash it out every night, and it is new every morning, like the\nLord's compassion.\" \"Another memorized passage?\"\"Yes. Only that was one my father led me to after we survived the\nbombs.\" \"You were here for that?\"\n\"We were among the first.\"\n\"What was that like?\"\n\"Like a dream, Chang. Sometimes I cannot imagine it really\nhappened.\" \"What was the passage?\"\n\"Lamentations 3:2224: `Through the Lord's mercies we are not\nconsumed, because His compassions fail not. They are new every\nmorning; great is Your faithfulness. \"The Lord is my portion,\" says\nmy soul, \"Therefore I hope in Him!\"\"'\n\"That's beautiful.\"\n\"Isn't it? Well, I promised my father we would be back at the tech\ncenter at least by sundown. It's near the amphitheater, so we'll have\nto hurry.\" \"Am I going to get to hear your story?\" he said.\n\"Of course. And I want to hear yours. Maybe after breakfast\ntomorrow.\"\nChang found the tech center much as he might have expected,\nexcept that it was so incongruous to see the massive network of\ncomputers in a building cut from rock. By that time, however, he was\nmuch more impressed with Naomi than with hardware and software.\n\"Can you find your way to your quarters?\" she said. \"We retire early\nhere and rise with the sun.\" \"I can, but I'd rather not,\" he said. \"I\nthink I need a guide just one more time, you know, being my first\nnight here.\"\n\"I can find you one. Hold on.\"\n\"Naomi!\" he said. \"I'm kidding. Of course I can find it. I'd just rather\nyou walked me there.\" \"In my cul\"\n\"Inappropriate, of course. How about my walking you home?\" \"That\nwould be acceptable and even chivalrous. My father is waiting forme, and it will be dark by the time I arrive. He will appreciate that I\nhad an escort.\" Like Abdullah, Naomi's father tended a small fire\noutside their place. He was a tall, rotund man with a thick, curly\nbeard. Chang approached shyly, took off his cap in the darkness, and\nbowed. \"Chang Wong,\" he said.\nNaomi's father grasped him by the shoulders and pressed his right\ncheek to Chang's, then his left. \"Eleazar Tiberias,\" he said with a\ngreat, deep voice. \"Perhaps you know my lake.\" Chang scratched his\nhead and looked at Naomi, which seemed to bring no end of mirth\nto her and her father.\n\"I have heard so much about you, young man,\" the elder said. \"I am\ngrateful to you for looking after my daughter, and I look forward with\ngreat anticipation to getting to know you better.\" Chang breathed\ndeeply of the crisp night air on his way to his quarters. Abdullah's\nfire was just smoldering now, and the smoke permeated Chang's\nclothes. He felt so free, so happy, and so enamored that he was sure\nhe would not be able to sleep. He knelt by his bed, hardly knowing\nwhat to pray. He tried to remember the verse Naomi quoted, but all\nhe could come up with was \"Great is Your faithfulness,\" so he\nrepeated that over and over as he climbed into the cot. Through the\nopen window he stared at skies so clear he felt as if he could see\nevery star in the universe. But after fewer than sixty seconds he saw\nnothing but Naomi in his dreams.\nMac studied Rayford's scribblings. \"You copied every last word of this\nconversation, didn't you?\" \"I didn't know what else to do,\" Rayford\nsaid. \"Clearly the clue is in that Colorado business.\"\n\"What do you remember about it, Ray?\"\n\"It was so long ago, Mac. Just one of those summer things you do\nwhen the kids are little. Raymie wasn't even born yet. It was just the\nthree of us.\" \"Yeah, but after she tells you what to say to Buck and\nKenny, she says something about this being her fault. And then the\njogging stuff, she's not serious about that, is she?\" \"Being thirtymiles from home? Nah. Trying to mislead the GC, no doubt, but\nthey're not going to fall for that.\"\n\"She promises not to give anything away, and you know, I believe\nevery word of that.\" \"Me too. They won't get anything out of Chloe.\"\n\"So she says the trip was `so special and I wish everybody could go\nthere again.' But you say it was just the three of you.\"\n\"Right. So she, what, wants everybody in San Diego to go to\nColorado?\" \"Can't be,\" Mac said. \"She says herself she knows the GC\nis listening in. But she says her dream is that `we could all go there\nright now, as soon as possible.' Where did you go in Colorado, Ray?\"\nRayford shook his head. \"I don't remember. Where do you go\nthere?\" \"Been there lots of times,\" Mac said. \"What cities were you\nin?\" \"Just the Springs and Denver, I think.\" \"You do the cog railway\nthing?\"\n\"Pikes Peak, sure.\"\n\"The place with all those big rock formations?\" \"Yeah, Garden of the\nGods.\"\n\"That cowboy place, the ranch?\"\n\"Flying W, of course. Wouldn't miss that.\" \"Air Force Academy?\"\n\"Drove by it but didn't have time. We were going to a concert.\"\n\"Where?\"\n\"Outside of Denver. And it was outside too. Seemed like we climbed\nforever, and I had to carry Chloe. I was so out of breath at that\naltitude.\" \"Red Rocks?\"\n\"Yes! That was the place. Some countrymusic deal. Chloe loved it.\"\n\"You got it yet, Ray?\"\n\"Got what?\"\n\"What she's trying to tell you.\"\"No, but apparently you do, Mac. Spill it.\" \"Red Rocks.\"\n\"That's what I said.\"\n\"Umhm. \"\n\"Oh! Petra! The GC is on to the safe house, and we've got to get\nthose people out and to Petra.\" In the morning Abdullah ushered\nChang toward an area near where the elders' council met daily.\nFresh manna covered the ground all along the way, and many were\nout gathering their breakfasts. \"I will not be joining you today,\"\nAbdullah said, \"as Miss Naomi has need of me in the computer\ncenter. She requests that you come and help when you are free as\nwell.\" \"Is there a problem?\"\n\"I'm afraid there is.\"\nChang stopped. Abdullah sounded so sad, so ominous. \"What is it?\"\n\"I'd rather not spoil your breakfast, Master Chang.\" \"It would spoil\nmy breakfast? I am meeting with my heroes, and I am here where I\ncan go where I please and do what I want, and still there is news\nthat intrudes enough to ruin my day?\" \"Please hurry. Let us not be\nlate.\"\n\"I need to know, Mr. Smith. Tell me it's not Chloe Williams.\" \"She is\nalive for the moment, and except for the fact that the Global\nCommunity News Network is spreading the most heinous lies about\nher, everyone involved speculates that the GC will not execute her as\nlong as they think they can get information from her.\" Chang shook\nhis head as they continued walking. \"So she would be better off to\npretend to be about to cave, to at least be considering giving them\nsomething, than to make plain from the beginning that she will not.\"\n\"Have you met Mrs. Williams?\"\n\"Of course not.\"\n\"But you have dealt with her by phone and via the Internet enough\nto know\"\"Her personality. Yes. Not only will she not be betraying a thing, but\nshe will also enjoy telling them so.\" \"My fear,\" Abdullah said, \"is that\nthis will shorten her potential benefit to the GC and thus shorten her\nlife.\"\n\"Surely the San Diego Trib Force is planning a raid.\" \"I do not know.\nKnowing Cameron, it must be all he can do to keep from trying to\nblast in there on his own. George Sebastian will want to lead such an\neffort, and he's the man for it, but this is not like surprising a band\nof amateurs in the woods, as they did in Greece. You can imagine\nthat the San Diego GC is alert to just such an effort.\"\n\"You're not telling me everything, are you, Mr. Smith?\" \"I should\nsave some for you to learn at the tech center, not that Naomi is\neager to tell you either.\" Chang stopped again and put a hand on\nAbdullah's shoulder. \"Forgive my familiarity, but there is no point in\nwithholding information. Please, I must know. Don't make me go in\nthere unprepared.\" Abdullah appeared to study the ground. He\nstooped and scooped a handful of manna but just held it. \"The\nGCNN says Chloe gave up Albie and that he committed suicide rather\nthan be taken in.\" \"Come on, Mr. Smith. We know that's not true.\nShe would never\" Abdullah took Chang's elbow and urged him to\nkeep moving. \"No one suspects Chloe of having anything to do with\nit, and anyone who knows Albie does not believe he killed himself.\"\n\"Then what is the probl?\"\n\"There is evidence that Albie may be dead. He and Mr. McCullum\nhad grown close, as you know, and when word reached Mac, he\ntried several different ways to get in touch with Albie.\" \"It could be\ncoincidence. He may have been away from his phone. Maybe he\"\n\"He is never away from his phone. Mac has always been able to\nreach him.\" \"But Mac and Captain Steele should be in San Diego by\nnow. Maybe the satellite phone acts up at that distance and\"\nNow it was Abdullah's turn to stop. \"We are almost there. Around\nthe next bend, Drs. BenJudah and Rosenzweig await you. Mr.\nTiberias will make the introductions and attend to the meal. Mealsare short here because we eat only one food and enjoy springwater\nwith it.\" \"Thank you, Mr. Smith. I am going to go believing that Albie\nwill still call back.\" \"All right, if you insist on knowing.... Albie's phone\nwas answered, but not by Albie. As you may know, he was on a\ndangerous mission and may have erred terribly by going alone. The\nman who answered the phone told Mac that if he wanted to see his\nfriend one more time, he should watch the news. We have watched\nand recorded that newscast, Master Chang. Naomi will show it to\nyou after breakfast. Now go.\"\nAt 9 P. M. in San Diego, Chloe lay whimpering on the steel bed in her\ncell. With the setting of the sun the big room had faded to darkness,\nand now the only light came from the blaring TV. No one had visited\nher since the phony custodian had come back for what was left of\nhis phone. She had heard her segment of the news a dozen more\ntimesonly because she had no choicebut she refused to watch again.\nShe didn't care about the lies. No Judahites would believe any of\nthat, and if they did, Buck could straighten them out in the next\nissue of The Truth. But Albie, poor precious Albie. She hoped and\nprayed that was a lie too, but how could they have so quickly\nconcocted such a vivid image of a dead man who looked so much\nlike him?\nChloe had not eaten since seven o'clock the night before. She drew\nher knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around her shins.\nShe rocked, trying to ease the pain in her stomach. She tried to\ncomfort herself by imagining the operation George and Buck and her\nfather had to be planning that very minute.\nChloe tried to force from her mind thoughts of Kenny, because she\nso longed for him that her arms ached. Would she ever see him\nagain? How would Buck answer their son's questions about her?\nWho would take care of Kenny when Buck was away? She wondered\nif sleep would ease the hunger pangs and whether it was possible to\nsleep. She had learned enough about such things from George to\nknow that any attempt to free her would have to come when the GC\nleast expected it, so it could be days, maybe longer. She had to learnto sleep. Somehow Chloe had to keep her sanity in spite of how she\nwas treated. Any vestige of prisoners' rights had disappeared with\nthe rise of Nicolae Carpathia. Here we are, a year to go to the end of\nhistory, and I could be shot in my cell for not bearing the mark.\nLonely, hungry, aching for her loved ones, grieving for Albie, Chloe\nclosed her eyes in the darkness, covered her ears, and hummed to\ndrown out the TV. That, she realized, was why she didn't hear the\nnight matron until she was standing at the cage. Chloe flinched and\nsat up quickly, terrified of the stocky silhouette.EIGHT\nNAOMIS FATHER greeted Chang the same way he had the night\nbefore, cheek to cheek, and while Chang bowed, he did not remove\nhis cap in the light of day. \"A word to the wise,\" Elder Tiberias\nrumbled in his ear during their embrace, \"just about any culture\nconsiders it impolite not to remove one's hat in the presence of one's\nelder.\"\n\"Forgive me, sir,\" Chang whispered, \"but removing it would reveal a\ndisgrace.\"\nEleazar Tiberias shut his eyes and nodded knowingly, as if\nremembering that he had been told of Chang's dual marks. \"I\nunderstand.\"\nThe older man reached for a basket filled with manna. \"Dr. BenJudah\nwill be a few moments, but let me introduce you to Dr. Rosenzweig.\nCome, come.\" Chang followed the big man into his quarters, where\nhe was surprised to see the diminutive Chaim Rosenzweig, who\nlooked more like Albert Einstein than the famous Micah who had\nstood up to the potentate. Rosenzweig had apparently been in Petra\nlong enough for his hair to grow back, his pigmentation to return to\nnormal, and to look like his old self. Rosenzweig leaped to his feet, a\nbundle of energy for such an elderly man. \"So you are Chang Wong,\nthe genius mole!\"\n\"Well, I\"\n\"Do not feign modesty, my young friend. God has used you. Oh, he\nhas used you so mightily! Ah, the rewards that await you in heaven.\"\nHe took Chang's arm and pressed it against his own side. \"Come, let\nus wait outside for Dr. BenJudah. Eleazar, join us, please. Dr.\nBenJudah, as you know, is the leader here, though he is my junior\nby many years. Oh yes, at least twenty years. He was a student of\nmine many, many years ago. It is true. Well, Mr. Wong, welcome,welcome, welcome. It is unfortunate you join us on a day of sadness\nover the loss of one of our members and the capture of another, but\nwe are happy that you are with us.\"\nFrom a distance, Chang saw the commotion as Dr. BenJudah\napproached. He was flanked by several of the other elders, and they\nwere coming from the direction of the tech center. Dr. Rosenzweig\nconfided, \"Those men will not be joining us, and they are not\nbodyguards per se. None are needed here, of course. But Dr.\nBenJudah is so popular and beloved, if he is not surrounded by the\nelders, he would never get anywhere. Everyone wants a moment of\nhis time, but those moments add up. They just want to express their\nappreciation and their love, but he has so much to do and such a\nheavy schedule.\"\n\"I'm honored that he would take a little time with me,\" Chang said.\n\"Like everyone else, I want a moment of his time.\"\n\"Oh, trust me, young friend, I know him well, and he has been\nlooking forward to this.\" The other elders peeled away as Dr.\nBenJudah arrived. \"I am so sorry to have postponed and then to be\nlate on top of that,\" he said. \"But it could not be helped. Well,\nsomeone introduce me to our newest resident.\"\nEleazar Tiberias chuckled loudly as Dr. Rosenzweig said, \"Oh, I\nbelieve you know who this is. Dr. Tsion BenJudah, may I present\nChang Wong.\"\nDr. BenJudah eschewed the customary Jewish greeting, first\nreturning Chang's bow, then stepping forward to embrace the boy\ntightly. \"Sit, sit,\" he said. \"Sit right here between Dr. Rosenzweig and\nme. You know, years ago he was my prof\"\n\"I have told him all about it, Tsion,\" Chaim said. \"Let us pray and\neat.\"\nTsion leaned close and whispered, though loud enough for Chaim's\nbenefit too, \"The elderly have no patience!\"Tsion held one of Chang's hands and reached across him to take one\nof Chaim's too. \"Eleazar, join us and take a hand, please.\"\nAs the four sat holding hands, Dr. BenJudah lifted his face and\nChang bowed his head. \"Great Father, creator, master, and friend,\"\nhe began, \"as we begin yet another day leading to the glorious\nappearing of our Lord and Savior, we bless your name. We thank you\nfor our daily bread. And we are humbled as we think of where we\nwere so few scant years ago. Mr. Tiberias, a businessman and\ndevout man of religion. Dr. Rosenzweig, a statesman and scholar\nand agnostic. I, a student of the Bible but blind to the truth. And Mr.\nWong, a brilliant young atheist. Who but a good God would give us\nall a second chance and redeem us by the blood of your precious\nSon? We praise you in his name.\" Tsion held out the basket of\nmanna to Chang, who took a small handful. The older men all took\ngoodly portions, and Tsion said, \"Allow me to show you how I eat\nmy daily provision. I am grateful that mealtime does not consume\nthe time it once did, though I confess there are days when I miss\neverything that used to go with it. Often my meals here last but five\nminutes.\" He allowed the manna to settle in his right palm, wrapped\nhis fingers gently around it, and formed a circle with his thumb and\nforefinger. \"Like peanuts, no?\" he said, smiling, and tapped his\nthumb knuckle on his chin until the wafers popped into his mouth.\n\"A handful,\" he said, chewing, \"and I am nourished.\" Mr. Tiberias\nstood and gathered leftovers into the basket, then tossed them to\nthe wind, where they scattered on the ground.\n\"Tell me, Dr. BenJudah,\" Chang said, \"is it true about Albie?\" \"That\nhe is dead? I am afraid so,\" Tsion said. \"Selfinflicted, no, none of us\nbelieves that.\" After a few moments, Chaim said, \"Tsion, we really\nmust be going.\" \"Oh, sir,\" Chang said, \"I hesitate to ask because I\nhave been told by everyone how busy you are and how everyone\nwants a bit of your time....\" \"Please, Chang. We feel so indebted to\nyou. Ask anything of me, and if I can comply, I will.\" \"I need just a\nmoment alone, sir. No offense, Dr. Rosenzweig.\" \"None taken. Mr.\nTiberias and I will prepare for our meeting.\" Tsion took Changbehind an outcropping of rock. \"What can I do for you?\" Chang took\noff his cap, exposing the 30 emblazoned on his forehead and the\nthin, pink line where the Global Community biochip had been\ninserted. He caught the pity in the older man's eyes. \"I confess it is\nstrange, Mr. Wong, to see that when I also see the mark of the\nbeliever on you.\" \"I can't stand to look in the mirror,\" Chang said.\n\"I don't dare take off my hat here. Yes, it may have kept me alive\nand yes, I had access where no believer would have dreamed. But it\nmocks me, curses me. I hate it.\" \"It was forced on you, son. It was\nnot your choice or your fau\" \"I know all that, sir, but I want it gone.\nIs that possible?\" \"I do not know.\"\n\"Sir, I study your teachings every day. You say that with God all\nthings are possible. Why would he not remove this now?\"\n\"I do not know, Chang. I just do not want to promise that he will.\"\n\"But what if I believe he will? And if you believe?\" \"We can agree in\nfaith on this, Chang, but as much as we believe and trust and study,\nno one can claim to know the mind of God. If you want me to pray\nthat God will remove it, I will. And I believe he can and will do what\nhe chooses. But I want you to pledge that you will accept his\ndecision either way.\" \"Of course.\"\n\"Do not say that glibly. I can see how much you want this, and if\nGod does not grant it, I do not want to see your faith threatened.\"\n\"I will be disappointed and I will wonder why, but I will accept it.\nWill you pray for me?\" Dr. BenJudah seemed to study Chang's face.\nHe pressed his lips together, then looked away. Finally, he said, \"I\nwill. Come, sit over here and wait. Much as you want to do this in\nprivate, I prefer having men of God agree together in prayer. Do you\nmind?\" \"Of course not. I just hate to have them see me with this\"\n\"There is no getting around that. It may be part of the price.\" Chang\nnodded, and Tsion moved away to call for Eleazar and Chaim. They\ncame, looking somberly at Chang, who sat on a rock and had begun\nto weep. Tsion briefed them and asked them to join him in the effortof prayer. The three approached, BenJudah in the middle, Tiberias\non his left, and Rosenzweig on his right.\nTsion placed his left hand behind Chang's head and the heel of his\nright hand on Chang's forehead. The other two each took one of\nChang's hands and put their free hands on his shoulders. Chang\nshuddered at the gentle touch from these three men of God, and he\nfelt loved by them and by God. His body stiffened and then relaxed.\n\"Creator God,\" Tsion began, so softly Chang could barely hear him,\n\"we acknowledge that you made this young man. You have known\nhim and loved him since before the earth was formed. You, who are\nrich in mercy, loved us even when we were dead in trespasses,\nmade us alive together with Christ and raised us up together, and\nmade us sit together in the heavenly places in Christ Jesus, that in\nthe ages to come he might show the exceeding riches of his grace in\nhis kindness toward us in Christ Jesus. For by grace we have been\nsaved through faith, and that not of ourselves; it is the gift of God,\nnot of works, lest anyone should boast. For we are his workmanship,\ncreated in Christ Jesus....\n\"Now, Chang Wong, knowing that you were not redeemed with\ncorruptible things like silver or gold but with the precious blood of\nChrist, as of a lamb without blemish and without spot, believe in\nGod. He raised Christ from the dead and gave him glory so that your\nfaith and hope are in God. We now come together in faith, believing.\nWe pray to the God for whom anything is possible, the God who\nspared us like Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego of old from the fire\nof the enemy and made it so that we were people on whose bodies\nthe fire had no power; the hair of our heads was not singed, nor\nwere our garments affected, and the smell of fire was not on us.\n\"God, according to your will, we ask that you remove from this boy\nany sign of the evil one.\" Chang went limp and felt as if his limbs\nweighed a hundred pounds apiece. He perspired profusely from\nevery pore and felt sweat run down his face and arms and torso.\nThe men's hands were wet, but they remained still, unmoving in thesilence. Just when Chang felt that if the men let go he would slide\noff the rock, Tsion said, \"Thank you, gentlemen.\"\nThey squeezed Chang's hands and shoulders and stepped back. Now\nhe was supported only by Tsion, who still cupped the back of his\nhead and had his right hand over Chang's forehead. He pressed with\nthat hand and let it slide around to the right so that now he had\nboth hands behind Chang's head. Chang opened his eyes, blinking\nagainst the sun and studying the face of Dr. BenJudah as Tsion\nstudied his. Tsion smiled. \"Gentlemen,\" he said, \"what do you see?\"\nTiberias leaned in from one side and Rosenzweig from the other.\n\"Praise God!\" Chaim said.\nEleazar lifted his head and roared with laughter in his deep bass\nvoice. \"I see only the mark of the believer! I have a mirror in my\nhouse. Come, see for yourself!\"\nRayford had never seen Mac so despondent. Or so resolute. \"If\nsomebody's killed that old boy, I'm gonna have to do something\nabout it, Ray,\" Mac said. \"Find me something to do that puts me\nright in the middle of it, and I'm not kidding.\" \"Albie and I go way\nback too,\" Rayford said. \"I know you do. And I feel like I've known\nhim forever.\" \"What's your gut tell you, Mac? This just part of the\nGC's propaganda, or is he gone?\" Mac sighed. \"Well, no way he\nkilled himself, but I feel like they got him.\" Rayford used Mac's\nphone to call Buck and tell him they would be putting down at about\n10 P. M., San Diego time.\n\"Buck's phone. Hey, Mac, this is George.\"\n\"Well, this is Mac's phone, but it's Rayford. How's it going there,\nGeorge?\" \"Like you'd imagine. Buck's in pretty bad shape. It's all we\ncan do to keep him from heading to GC headquarters by himself.\"\n\"Can you guys come get us at ten?\"\n\"Ten? You made good time.\"\"Not bad. Only stopped once, then detoured a bit to drown my\nphone. Make Buck come with you. Maybe we can all help keep him\ncool.\"\n\"You make him come with me. He's not listening to me, and he\nshouldn't have to.\" \"Is he there?\"\n\"He's down with Kenny. The little guy's having trouble getting to\nsleep without his mom.\" \"Well, tell Buck I said it's a directive. The\nfour of us need to talk as soon as we hit the ground. Can somebody\nwatch Kenny?\"\n\"Sure. For right now we've got more babysitting volunteers than we\ncan use.\" \"Hey, you think it's too late to call Lionel Whalum in\nIllinois?\" \"Nah. He's a night owl. 'Sup?\"\n\"I figured out Chloe's message. She's convinced we've got to get\neverybody out of San Diego and to Petra.\" \"I was afraid of that,\"\nSebastian said. \"Lionel's the only guy I know with enough planes,\nenough contacts, and enough experience to pull off something like\nthatand fast.\"\n\"This place was so perfect.\"\n\"Every safe house we've had has been perfect until it all of a sudden\nwasn't safe, George.\" \"Can't argue with that.\"\n\"Call Lionel for me, would you? I need to try to get hold of Zeke. See\nif he's ready to come out of mothballs and help us in Petra.\"\n\"What're you thinking, Captain?\"\n\"Something for Buck to do so he doesn't go crazy, and something for\nMac and me to do so we feel like we're doing something for Albie.\"\n\"Hope I'm part of that.\"\n\"We wouldn't dream of trying anything without you, George.\"\"Tired of that TV?\" the night matron asked Chloe. \"Yeah. I hope I\ndon't miss it though.\" Chloe had been watching the congregating of\narmies from every country in the United Carpathian States, excluding\nonly the city of New Babylon, which was largely ignored on the\nnews. In the flickering light of the TV, Chloe could see the woman\nwas black. \"I'm Florence,\" she said, jangling to the TV and turning it\noff with her nightstick. \"I'll be the one feeding you tonight if you've\nbeen good. You been good?\" \"I'm officially hungry, if that's what you\nmean.\" \"That's not what I asked you, but I do have your daily\nenergy bar in my pocket if you want it.\" \"I want it.\"\n\"Didn't take long for your tune to change. I heard you was all uppity\nand smartalecky before, like nobody had nothin' you needed or\nwanted.\" \"I'd like to stay alive.\"\n\"For how long? You better be coming up with something Jock can\nuse or you won't make your first hosing down.\"\n\"And when is that?\"\n\"Once a week. A week from now.\"\n\"I don't bathe for a week?\"\n\"Bathe all you want in that sink. How's that water taste?\" \"Not like\nwater.\"\nFlorence cackled. \"Ain't that the truth. You'll get to like it though.\nYou got to have it. That two hundred fifty calories a day will keep\nyou alive, but you won't be good for much else.\" \"What else is there\nin here?\"\n\"Oh, you know, a guard or two might take a liking to you, want a\ndate. You know what I mean.\" Chloe laughed. She couldn't help it.\n\"You think it's funny? What you going to do?\"\n\"That would be worth dying for,\" Chloe said. \"They'd have to kill me\nfirst.\"\"You say that now. But you ain't going to kill me. Look at the size I\ngot on you.\" \"One of us wouldn't come out of here alive.\" \"Big talk.\nYou'll be singing a different song when your body weight drops and\nyou be stinking and that jumpsuit is falling off you.\"\n\"I'll warn you right now, while I'm lucid, you and anybody else\naround here would regret trying anything with me.\"\n\"That so?\"\n\"That's so, and that includes Jock.\"\n\"Jock don't do that kind of thing, but he knows when to look the\nother way.\" \"Well, he'll look back to find somebody dead. One of his\npeople or his star prisoner.\" \"Why don't you just give a little, girl? Tell\nJock something. He's not asking for much. And you'd be getting\nbreaks nobody else has got for months. Come in here with no mark\nand still be alive? That should tell you something. You're in a\nbargaining position.\" \"They might as well kill me now.\"\n\"Don't think I wouldn't like to.\"\n\"You? You don't even know me. I wouldn't want to kill you.\" \"You\njust said you would, missus. If I came in that cage.\" \"Well, yes, if\nyou intended me any harm, I'd defend myself.\" \"I mean you all kinds\nof harm. You're either with us or against us now, honey.\" \"Well, I'm\nagainst you,\" Chloe said.\n\"Tell me something I don't know.\"\n\"Tell me what form these two hundred fifty calories come in.\" \"You\nknow. The energy bar.\"\n\"And that's all I get?\"\n\"That's it. Once a day.\"\n\"A person can't live on that.\"\"You said it, not me. 'Course, the more you tell, maybe the more you\nget.\"\n\"Maybe?\"\n\"But not likely. Like since you didn't earn it today, I'm in charge of it\ntonight. And you only get one every twentyfour hours. Way you\nbeen sassing me, I might just pass it on to Nigel for tomorrow.\"\nChloe wanted to beg for it, but she would not. She would just fall\nsilent and hope Florence would get some fun out of being the one in\ncharge of the food each day. \"If you're still awake and don't tick me\noff anymore, I'll bring it by about midnight. Now, in case you want to\nread or do your makeup, paint your toes, whatever, I'll turn the\nlights on. And since the TV's off, I'll pipe in a little music to help you\nsleep.\" Oh, please, leave the lights and music off. Florence waddled\nto the door, elbows resting on her leather equipment belt, which had\neverything but a gunnightstick, can of Mace, ring of keys, empty\nholster, and for whatever reason, a supply of bullets. She flipped the\nlights on, all of them, and it seemed to Chloe it was brighter than\nwhen the sun had shone through the windows.\nShe could deal with that. She would turn her face to the wall. And\ndespite her deep, private regret that she had cost herself a bit of\nfood for a few more hours, Chloe would handle that as well. She\nwould pray, think of her loved ones, rehearse her Bible memory\nverses, and hope to drift off to sleep. But then came the music,\nlouder than it needed to be. Much too loud. And of course it was\n\"Hail Carpathia\" on a loop that would no doubt play all night. Buck\nhad taught her his alternate words. That might amuse her for a few\nminutes. What were they again? She walked them through her mind,\nthen began to hum along, then softly sing:\nFail Carpathia, you fake and stupid thing; Fail Carpathia, fool o f\neverything.\nI'll hassle you until you die;\nYou're headed for a lake o f fire.Fail Carpathia, you fake and stupid thing.\nChang had raced from Eleazar Tiberias's mirror to the tech center,\nwhere he leaped and shouted, exulting with Abdullah and Naomi.\nEventually, however, they showed him the tape of Albie, which\nsobered him. And despite being fresh from the palace, even Chang\nwas stunned at the gall of the GC to air a socalled news story about\nChloe that was so patently invented. He wondered how even GC\nsympathizers could buy such poppycock.\nBut Naomi showed him samples of emails coming in from Judahites\naround the world that showed many were going to need reassurance\nand to be reminded that the devil is the father of lies. \"Our writers,\"\nNaomi told Chang, \"here in this section, are composing boilerplate\nresponses, answers to the most common questions. These will be\ntransmitted to the keypunch people, who can pick and choose and\nshoot them out immediately.\"\nShe asked a writer to print out his current list of responses, then\npulled it from the printer to show Chang.\nThe only thing the news seemed to get right was Chloe's name and\nage and the fact that she is the daughter of Rayford and the wife of\nCameron \"Buck\" Williams. While it's true she attended Stanford\nUniversity, neither was she a campus radical nor was she expelled.\nShe dropped out after the Rapture but had a grade point average of\n3.4 and had been active in student affairs. Rayford Steele did serve,\nwhile already a believer, as pilot on the staff of Nicolae Carpathia,\nproviding invaluable information to the cause of Christ's followers\neverywhere. He was never fired and never charged with\ninsubordination or drinking while on duty. He left after his second\nwife was killed in a plane crash.\nThe Judahites are anything but \"the last holdouts in opposition to\nthe New World Order.\" Many Jewish and Muslim factions, as well as\nformer militia groups primarily in the United North American States,still have refused to accept the mark of loyalty to the supreme\npotentate and must live clandestinely in fear for their lives.\nCameron Williams was indeed formerly a celebrated American\njournalist who also worked directly for the potentate, but he quit\nrather than \"losing his job due to differences in management style.\"\nAs for his subversive cyber and printed magazine's \"limited\ncirculation,\" that, of course, is a matter of opinion. The Truth is\ncirculated to the same audience that is ministered to daily by Dr.\nTsion BenJudah, at last count still more than a billion.\nRayford Steele, Cameron Williams, and Chloe Williams are not\n\"wanted for more than three dozen murders around the world.\" The\nTribulation Force acknowledges one kill for Cameron Williams and\ntwo for Rayford Steele, both in selfdefense. The International\nCommodity Coop, headed by Mrs. Williams, has never hijacked any\ngoods, nor does it sell for any kind of profit, but rather trades for the\nbenefit of its members. The Williamses have amassed no fortune on\nthe black market or otherwise. In fact if not for the generosity of its\nmembers, no such Coop could exist. Mrs. Williams has never had an\nabortion or lost a child, and has had but one pregnancy, resulting in\na son, now threeandahalf years old. The Williamses have never\nclaimed deity or special powers for their son, though they do believe\nNicolae Carpathia is the Antichrist and that Jesus Christ will one day\nconquer Carpathia and bring his own kingdom to earth. Limited\ncontact with Mrs. Williams since her capture has confirmed that she\nis committed to not bargaining with the GC, and that is the policy of\nthe Tribulation Force. Not only is she not offering anything to avoid a\ndeath sentence, but she has also been on the record many times in\nthe past regarding her willingness to die for the cause of Christ.\nThere is no evidence that Mrs. Williams provided any information\nabout Tribulation Force activist Al Basrah, and neither is there\nevidence to support that he committed suicide. \"Will this do any\ngood?\" Chang said.\"Among our people it will,\" Naomi said. \"Even people who know\nbetter want to be reassured. Everybody else is preoccupied with\ntroop buildup in the Jezreel Valley anyway.\" \"What's happening in\nSan Diego?\"\n\"Not much until Captain Steele and Mr. McCullum get there, which\nshould be any minute now. We are gearing up for at least two\nhundred new arrivals over the next few days, so that should tell you\nsomething. Have you talked with your sister lately?\" \"No. But I've\nbeen meaning to, and now, of course, I have news for her.\" \"Well,\nshe has news for you too.\"\n\"What?\"\n\"Oh, I can't spoil it for her.\"\n\"Naomi!\"\n\"Now, no. I can't wait to meet her, and I don't want to start off on\nthe wrong foot by breaking her confidence.\"\n\"She told you something she hasn't told me?\" \"Not exactly. But my\njob makes me privy to information I might not otherwise know.\"\n\"Such as . . .\"\n\"Such as messages to the leadership. Rather than have them come\nand read them off the computer, often we print them out and deliver\nthem ourselves.\" \"And so from one of those you learned something\nabout my sister that she would want to tell me herself.\" Naomi\nnodded.\n\"Well, I can take care of that in short order,\" he said, pulling out his\nphone. \"And then when will you have a few minutes?\"\n\"Right now,\" she said. \"But only a few. It's going to be a hectic day.\"\n\"You owe me a story.\"\n\"My story, you mean? It's really my father's and my story, but it's not\na long one, so yes, I'll have time to tell it.\"\"I'll see you in ten minutes then,\" Chang said, punching his sister's\nnumber.\n\"Hello, Chang,\" Ming said when she answered. \"Forgive me for\nwhispering, but I am babysitting Kenny Bruce, and he is finally\nasleep.\"\n\"Just wondering how you were and how things are going out there.\"\n\"I'm sure you know.\"\n\"Yes. I have news for you.\"\n\"Tell me, Brother.\"\n\"God has removed the mark of the beast from my forehead.\" \"Praise\nGod! Tell me all about it! I can't wait to see you.\" He told her what\nhad happened.\n\"That's too wonderful for words, Chang. Too bad it had to happen on\nan otherwise unhappy day.\" \"Yes, and you have news for me, no?\"\n\"What are you talking about?\"\n\"I have no idea. It's just a hunch.\"\n\"Oh, Chang. Ree has asked me to marry him, and I have asked Dr.\nBenJudah to officiate when we arrive.\"NINE\n\"LET ME SCOUT the area,\" Buck said, \"make sure they're clear to\nland.\" George, behind the wheel of the Hummer, shot Buck a\nsideward glance. \"Nobody was in the area when we left the\ncompound, there's been no one suspicious along the way, and no\none followed us. We came the last half mile in the dirt, using the\nlights only to make sure we were on track. Buck, the airstrip is as\nsecure as it's ever been.\"\nBuck sighed and shook his head. \"When did I become the cautious\none? You're the military guy.\" \"There's cautious and prepared, and\nthere's paranoid,\" Sebastian said. \"I know they've got Chloe, but\nthat wasn't because of some vast stakeout. It was her fault. I'm\nsorry, but your fatherinlaw said she admitted that herself. And she\nhas a history of venturing out\"\n\"But why was she out? I saw guys. She must have seen 'em too.\nAnd they got her.\"\n\"Routine reconnaissance. You said yourself they looked bored.\"\n\"Well, they're not bored now, are they?\" \"No, Buck, they're not\nbored now. I'm parking at the end of the runway. You want to go\ntraipsing around in the woods till they get here, be my guest.\"\n\"You're not coming?\"\n\"You're the boss. If you tell me to come, I'll come. But you distinctly\nsaid, `Let me scout the area.' Well, I'm letting you scout the area.\"\n\"Come with me.\"\n\"You're making me?\"\n\"I'm asking you as a friend.\"\n\"That's not fair, Buck. Don't play that card.\" \"Come on. What if I find\nsomething? You'll never forgive yourself.\" \"You're incurable.\"Buck knew Sebastian was right. The fact was, he was frazzled and\nneeded something to do. He was ready to head straight to San\nDiego GC headquarters, guns blazing, and bust Chloe out. \"You\nknow Rayford will be up for going after Chloe,\" Buck said as they\ntramped through the woods in their fatigues, Uzis at their sides.\n\"C'mon, he and Mac will have just spent nearly sixteen hours in the\nair, probably splitting the piloting duties. These guys are going to\nneed to sack out.\" \"You know Mac's heard about Albie. He'll be wired\nand ready to go.\" \"He'll be looking to get back to Al Basrah and find\nout what happened. Anyway, Buck, even if we do plan a raid, when\nare we going to do it, and who's going to get our people to Petra in\nthe meantime?\" \"I thought Rayford was getting Lionel on that.\"\n\"Lionel will organize and supply it, sure. But we've got to lead these\npeople and see the work gets done.\"\nBuck slapped a mosquito. \"What're we doing? There's nothing out\nhere. Whose idea was this anyway? You hear a jet?\"\n\"No. Now we're out here like you said, so let's do a job.\"\n\"Now you want to look for something?\" \"I just don't want to waste\ntime, that's all. Let's not get too far from the landing strip.\" Buck\nwas suddenly swarmed by bugs. He let his Uzi dangle and smacked\nhis head and face with both hands. \"Let's get out into the open.\"\nThey emerged at about the midpoint of the strip. \"Now we're going\nto have to go all the way down to that end when they get here,\"\nGeorge said. \"Let's head that way now,\" Buck said. \"You can occupy\nyour time helping me plan the attack.\" \"On GC headquarters?\"\n\"Where else?\"\n\"What do you know about the place?\"\n\"What do you mean? We've been past there. You've seen it.\" \"Buck,\nneither of us has ever been inside. I know it's four floors plus a\nbasement, but I don't even know if they use the basement for\nprisoners. Do you?\" \"Nope, but I remember they have bars on thewindows down there.\" \"Well, that's good. That's helpful. But the\nmore you know, the more you should realize you don't know.\" \"What\nkind of GI mumbo jumbo is that?\"\nThe big man stopped. \"All right,\" George said, \"look. Here's my take\non San Diego GC headquarters. I know it's one of the biggest in\nNorth America, but I have no idea how many personnel they have.\nDo you?\"\n\"No.\"\n\"Of the four floors and the basement, I don't know which houses the\njail. Do you?\" \"No.\"\n\"I'm guessing they segregate men and women prisoners, but I don't\nknow for sure. Do you?\" \"No.\"\n\"Well, if they do, are they all on the same floor or different floors?\"\n\"Couldn't tell you.\"\n\"You see where we are, Buck? Nowhere. A military operation,\nespecially a surprise first strike, is a complicated, highly planned\nmaneuver. We'd have one objective and one only, and that is to get\nChloe out alive. To accomplish that, we'd have to have someone\ninside.\" \"We can't get someone inside!\"\n\"Then how are we going to do this, Buck? Think, man. Think what\nwe'd have to know before we go charging in there. Do they keep\nhighprofile prisoners separate from the general population, and if\nthey do, where?\"\n\"All right. You've made your point.\"\n\"I haven't even started, Buck. You guys are all enamored with my\nmilitary training, but you don't know the half of it. Most of this is just\ncommon sense. Besides knowing exactly where Chloe is, we'd have\nto know the shortest distance in and out. We'd have to know what\ndoors or windows might be vulnerable. We'd have to know howmuch firepower we'd need, and, Buck, you tell me what that means.\nWhat will determine our munitions needs?\"\n\"The size and strength of the doors and windows?\" \"Well, that, yeah.\nBut it's their personnel, buddy. How many of them are we going to\nrun into, and what will their resources be? If you could tell me Chloe\nwas in the northeast corner of the second floor and how many GC\nI'd have to get through to get there, then how many are guarding\nher and what kind of weapons they are toting, I might be able to\nplan a mission for you. Otherwise, we're messing around, guessing,\nand we're likely to get a strike mission force wiped out.\" They\nreached the end of the runway and sat in the grass in the darkness.\n\"Then how does anybody ever pull off a raid like that?\"\nGeorge cradled his weapon in his lap. \"It's never easy, but there are\nprerequisites, and in the good old days when people weren't\nidentified by a mark, you could usually get somebody into a place.\nSomebody has to have a thorough working knowledge of the\nbuilding, maybe even access to the blueprint, the floor plan, the\nutility systems.\"\n\"I can't just do nothing, George. What're we going to do?\" Buck saw\nthe landing lights before he heard the roar of the Gulfstream's\nengines. He signaled with a powerful flashlight that the area was\nclear, and within minutes the plane was down and hidden, and\nRayford and Mac were disembarking.\nThe four shook hands without a word; then Buck and Rayford\nembraced. Neither was much for showing emotion, but they held\neach other tight for longer than Buck could remember doing before.\nThey loaded the Hummer, but before they got in, Mac said, \"I feel\ntwenty years older. Do we have to sit in a cramped space again right\naway?\"\n\"We're in no hurry,\" Rayford said. \"Stretch your legs.\" \"I don't mind\ngetting back a little late anyway,\" Buck said. \"We've had no GC\nactivity today, but they'll be snooping around later for sure.\"Rayford said, \"You don't suppose Chloe got them started in a whole\nnew direction by claiming she was thirty miles from home?\"\nBuck chuckled. \"Hardly, but you got to hand it to her for trying.\nActually, it'll be interesting to see where they are tonight. That\nshould give us an idea where they picked her up.\" \"Now you're\nthinking,\" George said. \"It'll also give us an idea how long it'll take\nthem to discover the compound and how much time we've got to\nget out of there.\"\n\"I really mustn't be gone too long,\" Naomi said. Chang sat with her\nbeside a pillar that made up part of the portico in the courtyard of\nthe Urn Tomb. \"Now if I had someone like you who could fill in for\nme, I could be gone longer.\"\n\"But with who?\" he said, and she laughed. \"Seriously, though, I'm\ncurious about your background.\" \"I love remembering, Chang,\nthough it is also a sad story. My father was a businessman, a\nrestauranteur. He owned several eateries in the area around Teddy\nKollek Stadium. Do you know Jerusalem?\" \"No.\"\n\"He was honest and good and people liked him, respected him. That\nis very important in my culture.\" \"Mine too.\"\n\"I suppose in all cultures a person's reputation is paramount. But my\nfather took great pride in his many friends and his successful\nbusinesses. He provided well for my mother and me. He was also a\ndevoutly religious man, and so our family was too. Synagogue every\nSabbath. We knew the Scriptures. We loved God. I believe my father\nwas proud of that, but not in a bad wayyou know what I mean?\"\nChang nodded.\n\"About eight years agothis was when I was eleven my mother fell ill.\nCancer. Cancer of the ... well, you'll forgive me if I am too shy to\nmention it. We do not know each other well enough for me to be\ncomfortable about it.\"\n\"It's all right.\"\"She was very ill. My father was so good to her. He had the money\nto hire help for her, fulltime help. But he would not do that. He hired\nparttime help, but he cut his workday in half and spent every\nafternoon and all night with her. He was a wonderful example to me\nand made me want to help even more. We loved my mother, and my\nfather said we should consider it a privilege to serve her the way she\nhad served us for so many years. He made her happy despite her\npain.\" \"He seems like a wonderful man.\"\n\"Oh, he is, Chang. He always has been. Even before. Well, just after\nmy twelfth birthday, my mother, she took a turn for the worse and\nhe had to put her in the hospital. The doctors told him there was no\nhope. But my father did not believe in `no hope.' He believed in\nGod. He told the doctors and anyone who wanted to grieve my\nmother too early that we would show themhe and his little girl would\nshow them. And how were we going to show them? We were going\nto pray, and God was going to work, and my mother was going to be\nhealed.\"\nChang heard the anguish in Naomi's voice, and then she fell silent.\n\"It's okay,\" he said. \"You can finish another time.\"\n\"No,\" she said, wiping her eyes. \"It's just that it does not seem so\nlong ago now. I can finish. I want to. One night my father came\nhome from the hospital late, and he was upset. I did not go with him\non school nights, only in the afternoons. I asked him, `Father, what\nis it? Is Mother worse?' and he said, `No, but she might as well be.'\n\"That frightened me. He had never had a cross word with her, never\nsaid a bad thing about her, at least not in front of me. But she told\nhim something that he said was only because of all the drugs she\nhad been prescribed. She wept and told him that wasn't true, that\nshe really believed it. I said, `What, Father, what?' But he burst into\ntears and said he had raised his voice and told her that she should\nstop talking nonsense.\"`I made her weep,' he told me, crying, crying his eyes out. `The\nwoman I love with all my soul, who is dying before my eyes, I upset\nher.' And I said, `But, Father, she upset you too. What did she say?'\nHe said, `She told me, \"Jesus is Messiah.\" I demanded to know\nwhere she had heard such heresy, but she would not tell me for fear\nI would get someone in trouble, which I would have!' \"I did not\nknow what to think. I gasped when he repeated what she had said.\nHe told me that he had told her that he would not allow me to see\nher again if she kept up with such nonsense, but that only made me\ncry. That very night we were called to the hospital, told that if we\nwanted to see her alive, we must come now.\n\"All the way he wept and blamed himself for being cross with her. `I\ncaused this!' he said over and over. He pleaded with God to spare\nher, made promises to him. I had never seen him so pitiful. We were\nwith her when she died. Her last words to usand they were to us\nboth, Chang, because she looked directly into my eyes and spoke,\nand then she looked at my father and said the same thingher last\nwords were, `I go to be with God. Study the prophecies. Study the\nprophecies.\"' \"Wow!\"\n\"I did not come to Jesus in the way you might think. The tidy\nconclusion might be that my father and I went home and studied the\nprophecies and came to believe the way my mother did. But it didn't\nhappen that way. My father was so heartbroken that he became\nangry with God and quit studying the Scriptures at all. We stopped\npraying. We stopped going to synagogue.\n\"He still loved me and took care of me, but he tried to lose himself in\nhis work. His friends only pitied him, because he was not the same\nman he had been. \"I could not get my mother's last words out of my\nhead, but my father forbade me to study anything in the Bible, let\nalone the prophecies. I was sad, so sad, because my life had\nchanged radically with the loss of my mother and, really, the loss of\nmy father as I had known him. Whenever I suggested that God\ncould help us or the synagogue might comfort us or we might find\nsome answers in the Bible, he would not hear of it.\"I was thirteen when the disappearances happened. That got\neveryone's attention, even my father's.\nScared to death, we turned back to God, back to synagogue, back to\nthe Scriptures. I began studying the prophecies, and though I was\nyoung, I couldn't avoid seeing what Mother had seen when someone\npointed them out to her. My father wouldn't admit it, but I think he\nstarted to see it too. \"When we heard that the renowned biblical\nscholar, Dr. Tsion BenJudah, was going to speak on international\ntelevision about his conclusion about Messiah from the Bible\nprophecies, we watched it together. The next day everyone was\ntalking about the trouble Dr. BenJudah had gotten himself into by\ndeclaring that Messiah had already come, but my dad and I were\nexcited about more than that. He found a New Testament, and we\nbegan reading it every night. \"When we got to the story of the\nJewish man Saul, who became Paul, my father was overwhelmed.\nWe read faster and faster and more and more, and we came to\nbelieve that Jesus was Messiah and that he could save us from our\nsins. We memorized First Corinthians 15:14: `Brethren, I declare to\nyou the gospel which I preached to you, which also you received and\nin which you stand, by which also you are saved, if you hold fast\nthat word which I preached to youunless you believed in vain. For I\ndelivered to you first of all that which I also received: that Christ\ndied for our sins according to the Scriptures, and that He was\nburied, and that He rose again the third day according to the\nScriptures.' \"All my father and I wanted to do was what Paul had\ndone. Receive. Receive that truth by which Paul said we could be\nsaved. We didn't know what to say or do, so we just prayed and told\nGod we believed it and wanted to receive it. It was weeks before we\nread enough and knew enough to understand what we had done\nand what it all meant. Father finally found in the back of the New\nTestament a guide to salvation that talked about accepting and\nbelieving and confessing. We studied what it called the road to\nsalvationall those verses that tell that all have sinned and come short\nof the glory of God, that the wages of sin is death, but that the gift\nof God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord.\" Chang satlooking at her. \"It's always something different,\" he said. \"I can't tell\nyou how many stories I've heard about people becoming believers,\nand each one is unique. I mean, they all get to the same place, but\nfor some it was the disappearances. For you, it was your mother,\nreally.\" \"We just can't wait to see her again, Chang. And it won't be\nlong.\"\nChloe couldn't tell whether she had actually been dozing or was just\nzoned out when Florence made a loud entrance about midnight. She\nunceremoniously poked the energy bar through the cage and let it\ndrop. Chloe wanted to leap on it, tear it open, and gobble it down,\nbut her pride was still working. She turned to look, but she didn't\nmove.\n\"Dinner, honey,\" Florence said. \"I recommend a white wine, like tap\nwater.\" Chloe didn't move until she left. She ate half the bar, which\nwas flat and tasteless. But Chloe had always been told the greatest\nseasoning was hunger. She wrapped the rest, determined to save it\nfor breakfast. But the few calories she had just ingested merely\ntriggered her appetite. She was able to hold out for about another\nhalf hour, then ate the rest. Though she was still hungry, the bar had\ntaken enough of the edge off that she was able to doze. She\ndreamed first of her family. Buck and Kenny were close enough to\nsmell, but she couldn't reach to hold them, to touch or kiss them.\nThen images danced of their horrified faces, repulsed by her. Did she\nhave the mark? Was she hideously ugly? They grimaced and turned\naway. Chloe ran to a mirror and found herself headless. She fainted,\nand when she hit the floor, she woke up. She sat on the cot, her face\nin her hands, rocking. This was going to be harder than she had\never imagined. She would not for an instant be fooled or even\ntortured into giving the GC an iota of what they wanted. She just\nprayed that if she was not going to be sprung somehow and she\ncouldn't imagine how anyone could pull that offher execution would\nbe quick.\n\"I've come to a hard decision, Buck,\" Rayford said. It was two\no'clock in the morning in the underground compound. Rayford satwith Buck in Rayford's quarters, where Buck would spend the night.\nMing was staying at his and Chloe's place so Kenny could be in his\nown bed. Sebastian and a young associate were on watch.\n\"I don't want to hear it, do I?\" Buck said. \"Probably not. But for\nsome reason God put me in this position, and even though I'm\nbiased and have almost as much vested interest as you do, I need to\ntake leadership on this one. Mac is asleep. When he is fully rested,\nhe's going to Wisconsin to pick up Zeke. He'll drop him in Petra to\nstart work on our next assignment.\"\nBuck hung his head. \"Our next assignment is not right here?\" \"Hear\nme out. Mac is going to go on to clear out of Al Basrah and move to\nPetra. On the way I'll have him call Otto Weser, the guy I told you\nabout. He'll be in the palace and should be able to dig up what's\ngoing on in Al Hillah. Carpathia's assistant knows Nicolae's planning\na meeting in Baghdad of the ten heads of state from around the\nworld. We believe that's when he'll add all the other regions'\nmanpower to the armies he's already marshaling in Israel.\" \"Dad,\nI'm sorry, but I don't really care about anywhere but right here at\nthe moment. It looks like everything is coming together for all kinds\nof activity over there, but meanwhile, we're hanging Chloe out to\ndry.\"\n\"Buck, we've both been without sleep way too long. Believe me, I've\ndone as much crying and praying and worrying as you have, which\nis\"\n\"I doubt that.\"\n\"exhausting. I need to rest, and so do you.\" \"Dad, I'm not going to\nbe able to sleep.\" \"I didn't say anything about sleeping. Get your\nclothes off, stretch out, put your feet up. Give your body a break\neven if you can't turn your brain off. We need you sharp, Buck.\"\n\"You're telling me I'm not going out with George tonight.\"\n\"I'm not even letting George go, Buck. Talk about somebody we\ndon't want to burn out. He's got a good team that can track the GCif they show tonight. All we want to know is where they're starting\ntheir canvasing. I'm impressed that people have already started\npacking, getting ready to go. Lionel's got planes and pilots lined up.\nWe have to be ready to go at a moment's notice.\" Buck leaned\nforward and rested his elbows on his knees. \"I trust you, Dad, and I\nknow you have Chloe's and my best interests at heart. But I don't\nget this. When do we start scoping out headquarters, figuring how\nto get in there or how to get next to somebody who would know\nsomething about the place?\"\n\"You and I can see how close we can get tomorrow night. If George\nis available, we'll take him.\" \"But time's wasting.\"\nRayford sat back and sighed. \"Job one with me is conserving\nresources, and that includes human ones. Our minds tell us we have\nenergy because we can think of nothing else, but running on\nadrenaline like that will wear us down quicker, make us rash,\nineffective. Trust me on this, Buck. I want her out of there as much\nas you do, but she's not the only person we're accountable for.\" \"But\nI want to know as soon as the reconnaissance party knows anything\nabout\" \"No, now I've left word that we are not to be disturbed until\nmidmorning except in an emergency.\" \"Dad!\"\n\"Knowing something you can't act on right away anyway is no help.\nNow no more talk. Let's get some rest.\"\nLike everyone else in Petra at high noon, Chang preferred working\ninside. He had discovered, through much trial and error, that he was\nable to tap into everything in New Babylon from where he was. The\nproblem was, all the decision makers were gone to Al Hillah. When\nthe plan to beat them there and bug the place had fizzled, he had\nbeen assigned to come up with a way that Otto Weser could feed\nhim information. That all depended on what hardware might have\nbeen left that could be tapped from Petra. Chang worried that he\nmight have become too obvious in his interest in Naomi, wanting to\nspend every spare minute with her. He decided not to assume\nanything and stayed at his computer over lunchtime. He was hungry,but he could also wait for the evening manna. Chang was thrilled\nwhen Naomi approached shyly with a basket. \"Hey, workaholic,\" she\nsaid. \"Don't go starving on me.\"\n\"Hi,\" he said.\n\"Brought you some honey wafers.\"\n\"Hail Carpathia\" had become just part of the background for Chloe\nby now. She guessed it was about four o'clock in the morning. She\nhad tried to keep her ears covered as she dozed, but when she\ndrifted off, her hands fell away. That was why she heard the door\nand held her breath. From the heavy footsteps and the jangling\nkeys, she could tell it was Florence. What could she want? It\nsounded as if she was close to the cage, and Chloe smelled food. A\nburger with all the trimmings. And the sound of a straw, probably in\na cold soft drink. Right then it all hit Chloe as the nectar of the gods.\nShe slowly turned and in the low light saw Florence sit on the floor\nand lean back against the cage. Chloe rested on one elbow and let\nout her breath. \"You awake?\" Florence said.\n\"'Fraid so.\"\n\"Want me to turn off that music?\"\n\"Do you care what I want?\"\n\"Don't be sassin' me again.\"\n\"If you really want to know what I want, yes, I want the music off.\"\n\"I'm not all bad, you know,\" Florence said. She set next to the cage\nher halfeaten burger and soft drink and another tall paper cup with a\nlid and moved to the door. The music stopped.\nWhen Florence returned, Chloe said, \"Thank you.\" \"Mmhm,\" she\nsaid, sliding to the floor again. \"Just having a burger.\" \"So I\ngathered.\"\n\"Brought you something.\"\"You did not.\"\n\"See, why you wanna be that way all the time? Can't a person do\nsomething nice for somebody?\" \"I wish.\"\n\"Well, your wish has been granted, if you like chocolate.\" \"Who\ndoesn't?\" \"How about a chocolate shake?\"\n\"I'm still dreaming, right? No more music, and now a chocolate\nshake in the middle of the night. What's gotten into you?\"\n\"I told you. Ain't all bad. Nobody is.\"\nI can think of someone.\"If you're really going to give me a chocolate\nshake, all I can say is I'm grateful.\" \"I'm a mama too, you know.\"\n\"That so?\"\n\"Mmhm. Brewster. Almost three.\"\n\"Have a picture?\"\n\"I do! You wanna see it, really?\"\n\"'Course I do.\"\n\"Jes' a minute. Can't get in trouble turning on the lights when it's\nonly just us.\" She finished her meal, leaving the chocolate shake on\nthe floor while throwing away the trash. Chloe wanted the shake so\nbadly she trembled. Was it possible she could get next to this\nwoman somehow, mother to mother? Florence went out again and\nturned on the lights. When she returned and shut the door, it clearly\nlocked behind her, which Chloe had already learned was protocol.\nThe shake was not going to fit through the mesh of the cage, so if\nthe cage door was going to be open, of course the outer door could\nnot be unlocked. But that also told Chloe that Florence was lying\nabout being there alone. Otherwise, how would she get back out?\n\"Now if I unlock this cage, which is totally against the rules, you're\nnot going to pay back my kindness by trying something, are you?I'm bigger and stronger than you, but even if you\" \"Yeah, I know.\nHeard it from Jock. We're still both locked in.\" \"Exactly.\"\n\"So if I behave and take the shake and you lock me back in here,\nhow are you getting out?\" \"I buzz 'em, and they let me out.\"\n\"So we're not really alone.\"\n\"Well, no, not after I buzz 'em.\"\n\"What if they see what you gave me?\"\n\"Then I'm in trouble, so if you want it, you better take it now.\" \"I\nwant it.\"\n\"Stay right where you are. Don't be standing up when this door\nopens or I'll be shutting it again.\" Florence unlocked the cage,\nhanded Chloe the shake, then quickly locked it again. It was the first\ntime\nChloe had noticed emotion in her. Florence looked excited, maybe\nscared. Maybe flush with the feeling of doing something nice when\nshe wasn't supposed to. Chloe sucked eagerly at the straw and was\nnot disappointed. The shake was still cold, thick, rich, andif\nanythingtoo chocolaty. Which, as she used to laugh about with her\nfriends, was like saying something tasted too rich.\nFlorence stood watching her. \"Whoa, girl. 'Member you're doing that\non an empty stomach. Better pace yourself.\"\n\"I will. And I don't want brain freeze.\" Florence laughed. \"And don't\nforget to show me the picture of Brewster.\" \"Oh, I will. Soon as\nyou're finished.\"\nWhy not now?Chloe wondered as she attacked the straw again. The\nsugar and caffeine were going to keep her awake, but it wasn't like\nshe had anything to look forward to in the morning. Maybe jock\nwould show up and eat his breakfast in front of her again. \"Jock,\"\nshe said, giggling.\"What?\" Florence said.\n\"Eggs in front of me.\"\n\"What you going on about?\"\n\"Jock. Jack. Jick. Jeck ...\"\n\"Hm?\"\nChloe was dizzy. The cup was slipping. She reached with her other\nhand to steady it, but the shake fell to the floor and splashed. It hit\nher as the greatest tragedy she could recall, and she began to weep.\nHer eyes were trying to shut. She forced herself to keep them open\nand deliberately lifted her chin so she could see Florence, who just\nstood watching. Florence pressed her buzzer. The outer door\nopened, and both Nigel and Jock entered, pushing a gurney. \"I'll get\nthis cleaned up,\" Florence said, unlocking the cage. \"Great work,\nFlo,\" Jock said. \"Loved the bit about you having a kid.\" \"Oh, honey,\nthey easy when they hungry.\"TEN\nBUCK WAS awakened midmorning by soft but insistent knocking on\nRayford's door. He reached up from the foldout couch and opened it.\n\"I was kinda hoping I'd wake your fatherinlaw,\" Sebastian said.\nSuddenly Buck was wide awake. \"What time is it?\" \"Almost 1000\nhours.\" \"What's the deal? What'd your guys find?\" \"Buck, I got to go\nthrough channels.\" \"What're you, kidding me? You can't tell me\nanything about my wife?\" \"I report to Rayford, Buck. So do you.\"\n\"You beat all, George. You know that?\" Buck rocked himself up off\nthe couch and banged on Rayford's door.\n\"Sebastian's here with a briefing, Dad. Let's go.\" Rayford emerged,\nlooking foggy. \"Hey, guys,\" he said. \"How'd you sleep?\"\n\"Same way you did,\" Buck said. \"Now let's get to this.\" Buck stuffed\nsheets and blankets between the mattress and the back of the\ncouch, closed it, and sat. Rayford joined him.\n\"I have my guy in the hall,\" Sebastian said. \"Wanted to make sure\nyou two were presentable.\" \"Your call,\" Rayford said. \"Here we sit in\nour Skivvies.\" George opened the door. \"Razor?\" he said. \"You're\non.\" Razor was Hispanic, early twenties, and very military. He\nsaluted everybody and Buck waved him off. \"Come on, come on,\" he\nsaid. \"It's just us. What've you got?\" \"Sirs, I was on watch, as you\nknow, and noticed motiondetector activity at approximately 0300\nhours. One of my team of three is a female, so I asked if she would\ncheck the periscope in the Williamses' quarters, due to the fact that\na female was in there alonewell, with a baby, and I didn't want to\nbreach protocol by\"\n\"We know why, Mr. Razor,\" Buck said. \"Please.\" \"Yes, sir. She\nchecked and reported enemy activity within two blocks of the\ncompound and secured permission from Mrs. Toy for me to enteryour domicile.\" Buck glanced at Rayford, shook his head, and stared\nat the floor. For the love of all things sacred ...\n\"I personally observed similar activity and so marshaled my team.\nWe went out in fatigues and greasepainted faces, armed with\nlightweight, highpowered automatic weapons. Our objective was to\nobserve, get close enough to listen, if possible, andif necessary\neither defend the compound or somehow misdirect the enemy to a\nneutral area, thus giving the occupants of said compound\" \"Time to\nevade,\" Buck said. \"Yeah, what happened?\" \"We observed two\nseparate platoons of GC canvassing the area; however, they\nappeared to have started about two blocks west of us and were\nproceeding in a westerly direction.\" \"Meaning they were moving\naway from us rather than toward us?\" \"Yes, sir, but that is not all\nentirely good news. Observing their direction and relative speed, we\nwere able to flank them, and the two of my party on their south side\nhad enough floraandfauna coverage to get close enough to hear\nthem. They came away with the distinct impression that the\nobjective for that particular mission was to begin where they had\nrecently left off in my estimation, Mr. Williams, what you and Mr.\nSebastian had observed approximately twentyfour hours beforeand\nwere to survey a wide area leading to where Mrs. Williams was\napprehended.\" \"I'm praying you followed them to that point,\" Buck\nsaid. \"We did, sir. We also overheard them saying that tomorrow\nnight at the same time, they would be backtracking and going past\nwhere they started, which obviously would include our compound\nagain. We expect them to be quite thorough, and thus if at all\npossible, we should be evacuated before hours tomorrow.\"\n\"You have informed the right people, and the move is on pace?\"\n\"Yes, sir, but there's more. Near where they indicated Mrs. Williams\nwas apprehended, our people recovered her Uzi and ski mask.\"\n\"What's that tell you, Buck?\" Sebastian said. \"She ditched them.\"\n\"But we alsoat least my peopleheard two GC discussing her\ndisposition.\" It was all Buck could do to contain himself. \"Please,Officer Razor, tell me what you heard about the disposition of my\nwife.\"\n\"They seemed to indicate that she was to be moved, sir.\" \"When?\"\n\"Within the hour, sir. Something about getting it done before\nCarpathia starts calling for troops from this region.\"\n\"Back to the `within the hour' business, Razor,\" Buck said. \"Within\nan hour from now or then?\" \"Then, sir.\"\n\"All right, quit with the `sir' stuff, please. I know you were in the\nmilitary, but I wasn't and it makes me crazy. You're telling me Chloe\nwas to be moved at about four this morning?\"\n\"Yes, s\"\n\"To where?\"\n\"The best my people could gather, sMr. Williams, was `somewhere\nback east.\"' \"Somewhere back east.\" Buck stood and held his open\npalms to Rayford and George. \"They moved her somewhere back\neast, which implies an aircraft\" he looked at his watch\"going on six\nhours ago. Tell me, Razor, did anyone think to get to GC\nheadquarters and see if there was a chance to abort this move?\"\n\"No, sir.\"\n\"No one thought this might be an emergency worth waking Mr.\nSteele or Sebastian or me?\" \"By the time I got the report, sir, um,\nsorry, the move would have been already in progress.\" \"You\nassume.\"\n\"Yes, that's an assumption.\"\n\"The one time they might be more vulnerable than another, taking a\nwoman out of a cell, out of a building, into the open air to a vehicle\nso they could get her on an airplane, and we all sleep through it.\" \"I\napologize, sir, but in my judgment nothing effective could have been\naccomplished, given when we overheard this and the, ah, assumedtiming of the maneuver.\" Buck could not stand still. He paced the\napartment, looking expectantly at the three others. \"We sat on it,\"\nhe said. \"We had a window of opportunity, and we were asleep.\"\n\"Buck, please,\" Rayford said, but Buck would not be appeased.\n\"Somewhere back east,\" Buck parroted. \"That narrows it down,\ndoesn't it? Maybe if we all just start walking east, we'll overtake\nthem, huh?\" \"Thank you, Razor,\" Sebastian said. \"If there's nothing\nelse, you may go.\" \"Thank you, sirs,\" Razor said.\n\"Yeah, thanks for nothing,\" Buck said. \"I apologize, sir, if\" \"Oh, just\ngo,\" Buck said.\nRayford nodded at the young man, and he hurried out. \"Buck,\"\nGeorge said, \"he probably made the right decision. Racing down\nthere in the wee hours, hoping to get there in time to do something\nwithout a plan\" \"Would have at least been an effort, wouldn't it?\"\nBuck kicked a chair that flew into the kitchen and banged off the\ntable and a cabinet. \"I guess if I ever want to see my wife again, I'm\ngoing to have to be a oneman commando unit.\"\n\"And get yourself killed,\" Rayford said. \"Now you've vented. That's\nenough.\" \"It'll never be enough until I have Chloe back.\" Chloe had\nfallen off the metal shelf and into the chocolate mess on the floor.\nSince she was unable to break her fall, her head banged on the tile.\nShe lay there with one leg tucked awkwardly beneath her, her head\nlolling, and fighting sleep. Whatever had been in the shake had\ntranquilized her so thoroughly that she wanted only to go with the\nfeeling and sleep the deep sleep of the drugged. It reminded her of\nhow she felt after giving birth to Kenny.\nFlorence unlocked the cage and knelt to clean up the spill. She rolled\nChloe onto her side and pulled her foot down so both legs were\nstraight. She held Chloe with one hand as she cleaned the floor, then\nlet go, and Chloe rolled onto her back.\nHer eyes fell shut and her breathing became deep and regular, but\nshe prayed desperately. \"God, let me stay conscious. Let me hear.Help me listen.\" \"That floor dry?\" Jock said.\n\"Give it a second,\" Florence said.\n\"Put the sheet down there, Nigel, and take her ankles. \" Chloe felt\nJock's hands under her armpits and Nigel's at her feet. \"On three,\"\nJock said, and they lifted her off the floor and a few inches over to\nthe sheet. Then they lifted the sheet to the gurney, and Chloe was\nglad her eyes were closed. She had lost equilibrium and felt as if she\ncould pitch off the cart any second.\n\"Out to the truck quickly now.\"\nThe gurney rolled across the big room, through the door, and\nstopped. Chloe heard elevator doors open. She was rolled aboard,\nand the car lifted one floor. Soon she was outside and could not\nopen her eyes as hard as she tried. Uncovered, she felt the cold air,\nbut something didn't allow her even to shiver. She wanted to press\nher legs together and rub them and massage her arms with her\nhands, but she couldn't move.\n\"Lord, please. Keep me awake.\"\n\"A hearse?\" Nigel said. \"Whose idea was that?\" \"Mine,\" Jock said,\nchuckling. \"People don't want to look if they think there's a stiff in\nhere.\" \"You going with her?\" Florence said.\n\"Yup,\" Jock said, and Chloe heard pride. \"It's my deal right up to the\nend.\" \"When's that going to be?\" Florence said, and Chloe felt the\nvehicle moving. \"Not sure. They're going to milk it. We may still get\nsome information out of her. Truth serum is next.\"\n\"That always works, doesn't it?\"\n\"Usually.\"\nNot this time.\"God, don't let me say anything you don't want me to.\"\nChloe was immobile from her toes to her scalp, yet God seemed to\ngrant her wish of consciousness. She could hear and she couldsmell. Touch and sight were a different matter, but she had certainly\nfelt the chill of the predawn air. She guessed the mostly smooth ride\nat a little less than an hour. Then the gurney was lifted out of the\nhearse, rolled maybe a hundred yards, and carried by hand up some\nstairs and into what she assumed was a plane. And when the\nengines began to whine, she knew she was right. Chloe heard the\ncongratulations and goodbyes from Nigel and Florence. Then Jock\nand, she assumed, another man laid her out along several seats with\narmrests raised. The men somehow belted her in at the torso and\nthe knees by using parts of seat belts from adjoining seats. From\ntheir voices she could tell they sat in the row ahead of hers. She had\nthe impression it was just the three of them and the pilots on a\njumbo jet. She didn't know of another plane that had enough seats\ntogether to allow her to stretch out.\n\"How long is this flight anyway?\" a man with a Spanish accent said.\n\"Four hours, I think, Jess,\" Jock said. \"Then we've got about a\nfiftymile drive from the southwest. Whole Chicago area was nuked,\nyou know, so we'll be about as far north as we dare.\" The\nconversation deteriorated into the mundane, and Chloe succumbed\nto the drowsiness.\nBuck knew he was being a nuisance, but he couldn't help himself.\nWhile everyone else in the compound was preparing for the big\nmove, he badgered people. Had anyone worked at GC headquarters\nbefore becoming a believer? Did anyone know anybody who had or\ndid now? Any connections, any leads, any inside information?\nSomebody, anybody to talk to who might know someone who could\nbe bluffed into giving out information about Chloe's whereabouts?\nHe tried calling headquarters himself from a secure phone,\npretending to be from GC International. Nobody was buying. He\nscripted a speech for Ming to try while he played with Kenny. She\nstruck out too.\nRayford finally tracked Buck down and told him, \"Do what you have\nto do, but be ready to go when everybody else is.\"\"I'll be traveling light anyway, boss,\" Buck said. \"Don't suppose one\nof Lionel's guys could just drop me back east somewhere?\"\nRayford shook his head and moved on.\n\"Hey, Dad,\" Buck said, \"your place unlocked?\"\n\"Yep. And empty except for your stuff.\"\n\"I'll clear it out now.\"\nOn his way to Rayford's place, Buck passed Razor in the corridor.\n\"Sir,\" the young man said, saluting selfconsciously.\n\"Hey, son, hold up. I owe you an apology.\" \"No, that's all right. I\nunderstand what you're going through.\" \"That's a reason, but it's not\nan excuse. I want you to forgive me. I was way out of line.\" \"Of\ncourse, sir. Don't give it a second thought.\" \"Well, thank you. And\ncan I ask you a question?\" \"Anything.\"\n\"Where's the name come from?\"\nRazor flushed and looked down. \"Snowmobile accident.\" \"Ouch. Do I\nwant to hear it?\"\n\"First time on. In Minnesota. Not exactly like Mexico, you know?\nDidn't see the razor wire. Should have been killed. It caught my\nhelmet and luckily dug in rather than sliding down and slicing my\nhead off. It ripped that helmet off as I went underneath. People\nwatching said the wire somehow wrapped itself around the helmet.\nThe wire never broke, and after I had stretched it as far as it would\ngo, it flew back and came forward again like a slingshot and flung\nthe helmet at me, hit me in the back of the head, and knocked me\nout.\"\n\"But here you are. And no matter how I sounded earlier, I'm glad to\nhave you with us.\" Of all things, that crazy story got Buck obsessing\nabout decapitation. Losing Chloe was his main concern, of course,\nand he worried about her suffering. He couldn't stand to think of herbeing violated, abused, torturedhe didn't want to even consider all\nthe possibilities. It was no consolation to know that even if she was\nmartyred, he would see her in less than a year. What would that\nmean to Kenny? Worst of all, all he could think of was how Chloe\nwould most likely die. Death was death and it shouldn't make any\ndifference, he knew. But if it came to that, if the GC made a public\nspectacle of her, as they certainly would, there was no way he could\nwatch it. The idea of his beloved dying such an ugly, grotesque\ndeath made him ill.\nNo question she would stay true to her faith to the end. He had\nheard stories of others, even watched as his old friend Steve Plank\nthumbed his nose at Carpathia and honored God before he died.\nBuck also knew that if it came to that, Chloe's body would be new\none day in heaven. But still, he was repulsed by the idea that the\nperson most precious to him in the world might die in the worst\npossible way he could imagine.\nIf he couldn't push it from his mind's eye now, how would it be if it\nactually happened? He sought out\nRayford.\n\"I'm really busy,\" his fatherinlaw told him, \"and you should be too.\nI'm not saying it'd take your mind off Chloe; it sure hasn't mine. But\nyou'd be more productive.\" \"I know, but I need a minute.\"\nHe told Rayford of his tormenting daydreams. To his surprise,\nRayford's lip began to quiver. His voice was thick. \"I've been going\nthrough the same thing, Buck. I didn't want to tell you.\" \"Really?\nThis whole idea?\"\n\"Exactly. A father has a different take, you know. Imagine how you\nfeel about Kenny. I was there when Chloe was born. Seems like\nyesterday she was a little red ball of squealing girl who could be\ncomforted only by being tightly wrapped in a blanket and put on her\nmother's chest. Then, to us, she was the most beautiful creature we\nhad ever seen. We would have done anything for her, anything toprotect her. That's never changed. She's grown up to be a beautiful\nwoman, and somehow, even with all her injuries and disfigurements,\nI still see her that way.\" \"So do I.\"\n\"So, yes, Buck, I know what you're thinking. We just have to be\nstrong and try not to dwell on it. I don't know what else to do.\"\nChang was walking Naomi to her quarters late at night. \"I want to\nshow you something on my computer tomorrow,\" he said. \"I\ndiscovered that the GCNN production chief's solution to the plague\nof darkness was, I guess, to feel his way into the control room and\nfind the switch that allows the international network feed to be\nremotely accessed by three or four of the major affiliates.\"\n\"Ingenious,\"Naomi said. \"Isn't it?\"\n\"Oh, I was impressed. But I'm also excited. There is no block on my\naccessing it too, and I can override the affiliates with the system\nDavid Hassid had set up in New Babylon.\" \"I can't wait to see it.\"\n\"It has unlimited capabilities, Naomi. When Cameron Williams gets\nhere, we'll work together and counteract the lies that the GC\nbroadcasts, and we can do it immediately.\" \"Nothing they can do\nabout it?\"\n\"Not that I can think of, short of starting a whole new network. They\nmay think they have time to do that, but the end is closer than they\nknow.\"\n\"So you drew the short straw, eh there, pardner?\" Mac said.\n\"I am sorry, Mr. McCullum,\" Ree said, \"but I do not understand that\nexpression.\" \"Well, without getting into specifics, it means you got\ngrunt duty.\" They had studied the area through the periscope an\nhour before and determined they could get the Hummer out of the\nvehicle bay without being detected. \"Driving you to the plane? No\nproblem. I like to do it. I only wish I was flying you to Wisconsin. I\nhave flown a Gulfstream only once before, and I liked it.\" \"If you've\ngot so little experience, I'm glad you're not flying me, know what Imean?\" A little more than three hours later, Mac touched down in\nHudson, Wisconsin, where he was met by the hulking Gustaf\nZuckermandel Jr., better known as Zeke. \"I wish you could meet\neverybody in Avery,\" the twentyfiveyearold said. \"But even the guy\nwho drove me has already headed back. Took us an hour to drag my\nstuff into the underbrush.\" Mac followed him to his cache of boxes\nand trunks. \"You sure we want to be lugging this stuff all the way to\nthe plane in broad daylight, Zeke?\" \"Unless you want to wait till\ndark, but there's no need. This is the part of the country the GC\nforgot. I haven't seen a Peacekeeper since I got here.\" As they were\nloading, Mac said, \"No second thoughts about leaving? You must be\nclose to these people.\"\n\"Lots of second thoughts, but I figure a guy's got to go where he's\ncalled. I was called here, and now I'm being called there. Who\nwoulda thought a noaccount like me would ever get called\nanywhere?\" \"Well, you're the best document and appearance man I\never saw, and I hear you really blossomed here.\" \"Oh, that's not true\nif you want to know the actual fact, Mr. McCullum. Thing is, there\nwasn't anything for me to do here as far as disguises and documents\nand such, because we flat didn't need 'em. So I got real involved in\nthe Bible studies, improved my reading and all that, and pretty soon\nthe leader took me under his wing. I never got to teaching or\npreaching, but I helped out all I could. I liked it, like to stay busy.\nThey gave me that assistant pastor title sort of as a gift.\" \"Honorary,\neh?\"\n\"Yeah, like that.\"\n\"Well, I hope you were honored, because that really means\nsomething.\" \"I'm gonna miss everybody, but I got to tell you, I'm\nready to get to Petra and just see the place. And to hook up again\nwith Dr. BenJudah and Dr. Rosenzweig and you and all the others,\nwell ...\"\n\"And you've got a big job.\"\"You're supposed to tell me about it.\"\nChloe more than woke up after almost four hours in the air. The\ndrugs had worn off and she came to. And she was ravenous. An\nenergy bar and whatever portion of shake she ingested before the\nMickey kicked in had been all she'd eaten since seven the evening\nbefore she was abducted. That made it easy to pretend she was still\nunconscious.\n\"What time is it here?\" Jock's companion said as the plane landed.\n\"Coming up on noon, and I'm hungry,\" Jock said. \"You?\" \"Oh yeah.\"\n\"I'm going to feed the prisoner finally. Play a little good cop. Shoot\nher a little truth juice. See if we can't get her to sing.\"\n\"She's been a tough bird, hasn't she?\"\n\"Tell me about it, Jess. I'd have been doing the 'Hallelujah Chorus'\nsolo by now.\" \"What if she doesn't flip? How long do you give it?\" \"If\nyou can't get to 'em somehow in the first fortyeight hours, more of\nthe same isn't going to be any more effective.\"\n\"Starvation isn't a motivator?\"\n\"Would be for me, but I guess they've proved it with prisoners of\nwar. The ones who can survive that first round of psychological and\nphysical torture aren't likely to ever break, no matter how long you\nkeep it up.\"\nAs Chloe was being carried down the jetway, Jock said, \"This facility\nnever had woman prisoners before we took it over. We'll keep her in\nsolitary. That's the only real way to keep her separate from the rest\nof the population.\"\nChloe was laid out across the backseat of a large SUV, which she\nnoticed had wire mesh on the windows and no locks or door handles\non the inside. Jock handcuffed her anyway. \"She'll be coming to\nsoon,\" he explained. \"Can't be too careful.\" When they stopped\nalong the way, Chloe racked her brain for any idea of escape. Jocksaid, \"I'll get the food. You stay with her.\" Chloe sat up. \"I need to\nuse the rest room.\" Jock stared at her. \"Seriously.\"\n\"I'd say.\"\n\"Well, I got no matron who can go with you. You'd have to use the\nmen's, and one of us would have to be in there with ya.\"\n\"Forget 'it.\"\n\"You want me to buy you one of those adult diapers?\" \"How far are\nwe from where I can go?\" \"Half an hour.\"\n\"I'll wait.\"\nWhile jock was inside, she tried to strike up a conversation with the\nman she had not gotten a look at until now. His mark was a 0, which\nmeant he was from the United South American States. He was\nstrikingly dark with perfect teeth. \"You remind me of my husband,\"\nshe said. \"That so?\" he said.\n\"Yeah, except he's not ugly.\"\nThe man found that hilarious and turned to face her. \"You're funny,\"\nhe said. \"Why would you want to antagonize me?\" \"You're one of the\npeople who are going to wind up killing me. Doesn't look like I'm\ngoing to get to fight back, do any physical damage, so ...\"\n\"Makes sense.\" \"Jock calls you Jess.\" \"Yeah. Jesse,\" he said. \"Hmm.\nNamed after Jesus. That your real name? Jesus?\" Chloe pronounced\nit in Spanish. \"Matter of fact, yes, and I have a sister Maria.\" \"Is she\nalso a Carpathianist?\"\n\"Of course.\"\n\"How disappointing that must be to your namesake.\" Jock brought\nfood and uncuffed her. The men tore into theirs, while Chloe sat\nbehind the cage that separated her from the front seat. She said\naloud, \"Lord, thank you for this food. I pray that you will help me eat\nit slowly so it doesn't make me sick, and that you will override anypoisons Jock might have put in it. Give me strength to resist any\nefforts on the part of Jock or Jesse to get me to say anything I\nshouldn't. In Jesus' name I pray, amen.\"ELEVEN\n\"I LIKED ALBIE a lot,\" Zeke said as Mac piloted them across the\nAtlantic. \"He was a good man.\" \"You got that right, Z,\" Mac said.\n\"And for the life of me I can't understand it, but I'm afraid he did\nsomething royally foolish to get himself killed.\" \"Doesn't sound like\nhim. You and Captain Steele and everybody used to listen to his\nideas all the time.\" \"But everybody's human. Let your guard down\nfor a second, get overconfident, who knows? He was determined to\nsee this lowlife he used to know, and even when he and I agreed I\nshould go on to Petra and fly Rayford back to the States, Albie still\nwanted to go through with his little mission. It's just as much my\nfault. Both of us thought it was something that had to get doneand\nfast. Now look where we are.\" \"Rayford said Tsion and Chaim are\ntaking it hard.\" \"We all are. As much of this as we've gone through,\nit never gets easier. They're planning a little service for Albie at Petra\nonce everybody gets there from San Diego.\" \"When will that be?\"\n\"Oh, first wave ought to be arriving around three in the morning\ntomorrow. You and I got about a thirteenhour jump on 'em. Once I\ndrop you off, I got to get to Al Basrah and clear out Albie's and my\napartment, make sure we didn't leave any clues for anybody. I'll be\ntaking a bigger plane from Petra 'cause I got to bring back this Otto\nWeser guy and his people.\" \"Captain Steele told me about him. So\nyou're bringing them back to Petra because of that Scripture about\nGod's people getting out of Babylon before God destroys it?\"\n\"Exactly.\"\nZ sat staring at the ocean seven and a half miles below. \"What must\nthat have looked like when it was all blood?\"\n\"You can't imagine.\"\n\"Hey, Mac, you think Rayford ought to be trusting Carpathia's\nsecretary?\" \"The way he tells the story, I guess. You don't think so?\"\"I don't trust anybody who isn't a believer. What if she has second\nthoughts, sets a trap, gets you and this Otto ambushed?\"\n\"A pleasant thought.\"\n\"You said yourself, you can't be too careful.\" \"Well,\" Mac said, \"we've\ngot to know what's happening in Al Hillah, and as much as possible\nwhat's coming after that, and we don't know how else to do it.\" An\nhour later, Zeke dug through one of his bags and brought out a\nbook. He looked selfconscious.\n\"Something I wouldn't even have been able to read when you knew\nme in Chicago.\"\n\"I was gonna say\"\n\"But now that I'm reading better, I think I can do more things, you\nknow, scientifically.\" \"Such as?\"\n\"Such as I'm guessing you guys are asking me to come up with new\nlooks and identities for a bunch of people.\"\n\"Right. All our old aliases and appearances have been\ncompromised.\" \"Found this book in an abandoned library just across\nthe Minnesota border. There's all kinds of stuff in here I never even\nheard of before. New ways to change skin and eye color and all that.\nFake scars and blemishes. How many people are we talking about?\"\n\"I think just five,\" Mac said. \"I think Ray wants get ups for him and\nBuck and Sebastian and Smitty and me.\"\n\"Really? That's it? I brought way too much stuff.\" \"What'd you\nbring?\"\n\"Everything I had left over from Chicago. GC uniforms at all levels,\nIDs, documents, stuff for women and men. This is going to be easy.\nI mean, it'll take time, but I was afraid you'd need ten or twelve. The\nhardest one is going to be Mr. Sebastian, but I've already got an idea\nfor him.\" \"Tell me.\"Zeke put his book down, apparently so he could gesture with both\nhands. \"The problem with your big people is that no matter what\nyou do with them, you can't make 'em smaller. You can make a small\nperson big with padding and whatnot, but you can't take pounds off\nthe big ones. \"But what I can do, see, is give George a whole new\nlook, the look of an older man. So his size doesn't look so\nthreatening. It looks like it came on him from getting old, rather\nthan from working out and military training. Might even give him a\ncane, glasses. Make him look like one of those old middleaged guys\nwho have gone to seed. Chop off that blond hair, give him a rim of\nwhite, put some lines in his face. All of a sudden instead of being a\nguy in his late twenties in perfect shape and huge, he's thirty years\nolder, slowed down by food, maybe diabetes, bad knees, bad feet,\nstooped a little. Add some padding around his middle, front and\nback, so he waddles. He's not gonna threaten anybody.\" \"Brilliant.\nWhat do you do with me?\"\n\"Biggest giveaway with you is your Southern accent. Can you fake\nothers? Can you be a Yank or a Brit?\"\n\"A Brit easier than a Yankee, that's for sure.\" \"If you can be British, I\ncan make you look that way. Tweeds and all.\"\nChloe's guess about where she was headed was confirmed when\nJock radioed ahead and the SUV was met by a phalanx of GC\nmotorcycles and squad cars. They escorted the celebrated prisoner\nto the grounds of what had once been known as Stateville\nCorrectional Center in Joliet, Illinois. The place was a gothic house of\nhorror that had been converted from a state penitentiary to one of\nthe GC's largest international prisons. It had both male and female\nprisoners. In fact, the female population was second largest only to\nthe Belgium Facility for Female Rehabilitation (Buffer). The first thing\nto hit Chloe was the crowd of media trucks jamming the entrance.\nCameras pointed toward the SUV from every conceivable perch, and\nonce the vehicle had passed, she looked back to see the crews\nscrambling for position in the vast courtyard. The yard had become\nlegendary at Stateville during the last two and a half years. Prisonerswere allowed there for only two reasons. They were herded past a\ngigantic bronze statue of Carpathia three times a day, where they\nwere stopped in groups of thirty to fifty and allowed to kneel and\nworship, or they were in the yard to be executed. The yard had\nseven guillotines about thirty feet apart and positioned so that the\nsun baked them from dawn to dusk. Jock stopped the SUV just\ninside the yard. \"Look at 'em there, sweetie,\" he said. \"Those blades\nget sharpened every night, but not a one of 'em's ever been\ncleaned. No scraping, no washing, no rust inhibitors.\n\"And you know those slots on each side, where the big blades slide\ndown? Back when we were more humane, those were lubricated\nevery time they were used. No more. Now the blades scrape along\nthe sides, sometimes get hung up, get crooked, slow down. I mean,\nthey still weigh enough that, even on a bad day, by the time they\nreach your neck, they're gonna dig in at least three inches. \"In the\nold days, a blade didn't do its job, too bad for us. The sentence was\nto stick your head in there until the blade dropped. If it somehow\ndidn't kill you, well, you had taken your punishment. And don't think\nthat didn't happen more than once. Lots of people walking around\nwith severe neck wounds. \"But now, blade doesn't kill ya, we just\nhoist 'er again and let 'er go. Two, three times with a rusty,\nbloodcaked blade that, like I say, is sharpened every nightthat'll do\nthe trick.\" About twenty feet before each guillotine stood a rickety\nwood table, also gray and weathered by the sun and wind. Each had\ntwo incongruous Bank of England chairs behind it, burnished\nredwood significantly less wind worn.\n\"Processors and mark applicators get to sit,\" Jock said. \"The\ncondemned stand in lines. Once their information is recorded and\nany personal belongings have been confiscated, they're issued a\nplastic laundry basket they hand to the executioner. He or she sets it\non the other side of where the blade comes down.\n\"Head drops in the basket, body stays where it knelt. Lifers without\nparole do collection duty. Come on, I'll show you.\"\"Spare me.\"\n\"Oh, you'd like that, wouldn't you?\"\nJock got out. \"Cuff her, Jess,\" he said.\nJesse turned and opened the cage. \"Hands,\" he said.\n\"Better dope me again,\" Chloe said.\n\"Say what?\"\n\"You think I'm going to voluntarily be cuffed so you guys can take\nme somewhere I don't want to go?\" Jock opened the back door.\n\"Hold on, Jock!\" Jesse hollered. \"She's not cuffed yet!\" \"What the?\"\nJock, seeming to Chloe to show off for the cameras, leaped into the\nbackseat. Chloe sat with her fists balled under her thighs. \"You like\nto be difficult, don't you?\" he said. Jock grabbed her wrists and\njerked her hands up and together where Jesse could reach them. As\nsoon as she was cuffed, Jock slid back out of the car, pulling her by\nthe cuffs and letting his body weight drag her out. She came out\nhands first, head banging the door, knees scraping the floor and\nthen the ground. Jock pulled her to her feet.\nChloe hurt all over, but she was glad she had made them work.\nSomeone else could go gently into that good, good night of death.\nNot her. Jock clamped a hand around her elbow and led her to the\nmiddle death machine. \"This is going to be yours tomorrow if you\ndon't cooperate today.\" The stench overwhelmed her, and both men\ncovered their mouths and noses with handkerchiefs. Chloe,\nmercifully cuffed in front this time, bent her elbows and held her\nnose closed with her fingers. \"As you can see,\" Jock said, \"we don't\nwash the platforms or the ground either. I mean, who would that\nbenefit?\"\nThe area around the middle machine, like the others along the\nsixtyyard row, looked to Chloe like a slaughterhouse. The groundaround it was black, caked with blood. \"See that Dumpster back\nthere?\" Directly behind the middle machine, maybe a hundred feet\nback, sat a Dumpster that looked half the size of a boxcar. It had no\nlid. \"One collector takes the basket and dumps the head in there.\nTwo collectors drag the body to the same place. See those black\ntrails from each station to the Dumpster? You know what that is.\"\nChloe knew all right. She tried to hold her breath, but Jock kept\npulling her arm so her hands came away from her nose. She prayed\nhe would not take her out and make her look in the Dumpster. \"It\ngets emptied about once a week.\"\nThe GC held the media back, but they yelled questions. \"What's that\non her jumpsuit? Did she soil herself?\"\nChloe, mortified, hollered, \"Chocolate!\" Jock whirled and batted her\nin the forehead with the back of his hand. \"You say nothing to\nanyone but us, understand?\"\n\"They drugged me with a choco!\"\nJock slipped around behind her and clamped his hand over her\nmouth. When she tried to bite him, he drove a knee into her lower\nback, knocking the wind from her. \"Give me the tape, Jess.\" \"It\ndidn't have to come to this, ma'am,\" Jesse said, pulling a threeinch\nroll of duct tape from his jacket pocket. \"I was hoping we wouldn't\nhave to.\" Jock reached to pull a length of tape off the roll, freeing\nChloe's mouth. \"Tell the truth for once! I was drugged! They\"\nJock pressed the tape under her nose so tight her upper lip bulged,\nand when he pressed the sides against her cheeks, she couldn't\nmove her jaw, let alone speak. \"God,\" Chloe prayed silently, \"help\nme be strong. I don't want to go easy. I don't want to be beat or\nscared into submission. And if they kill me, let me speak first.\nRemind me of all the verses I've memorized. Please, God, let me\nspeak your words.\" Jock and Jesse took her back across the yard\ntoward a steel door in the wall of one of the cell blocks. The doorwas at ground level, but she assumed stairs would lead below the\nground to solitary confinement.\nThey stopped about ten yards from the door, and the media was\nabout the same distance away on the other side. \"Has she spilled\nany more?\" a woman called out. \"Oh yes,\" Jock said. Chloe\nvigorously shook her head. \"More all the time,\" he continued. \"Of\ncourse we had to tell her there would be no trading leniency for, ah,\nphysical favors as it were. She can only help herself by telling the\ntruth. I'm confident we'll get there. We've already gained more\nknowledge about the Judahite underground and the illegal\nblackmarket coop from her than from any other source we've ever\nhad. And as you know, she gave up Mr. Al Basrah, the leading\nsubversive in the Middle East, and he is already dead.\"\nChloe continued to shake her head, but she had no illusions that\nwould be shown on GCNN that evening.\n\"That's all for now, folks. We have a few more prerequisites for Mrs.\nWilliams to qualify her for a life sentence rather than death, but our\ndaily executions here will be held tomorrow at ten A. M., regardless.\nWe do not foresee having the full house they did yesterday, with\nevery machine busy for nearly half an hour, but the latest count is\nthirtyfive on the docket, so five for each machine.\" The press began\nto disperse, but still Jock and Jesse stood there with Chloe. \"I am\ngoing to finish my tour guide speech, little lady, and you're going to\nhear me out,\" Jock said. \"Some of the best days of my life have\nbeen spent in this yard, seeing people get what's coming to them.\nFrankly, I was disappointed when I was transferred to San Diego,\nbut the brass assured me a huge Judahite cell was suspected there.\nThey told me I could cart them back here if we rooted them out.\nHere's hoping you're just the first.\"\nMac was glad to have Zeke for company on the long flight. Though\nuneducated, the young man was smart and inquisitive. He never ran\nout of questions or things to talk about. \"Abdullah's kinda tough\nbecause he's already so ethnic. He's not good with accents, so I'vegot to keep him Middle Eastern but obviously something different\nthan Jordanian. Rayford's pretty easy, 'cause I can go any direction\nwith him. Buck's the hardest, with all the facial scars. But anyway,\nlet's say I make you five guys into totally different people. What're\nyou gonna do?\" \"I'm not totally sure myself, Z,\" Mac said. \"Rumor\nhas it Carpathia's calling in the ten kings'course, he calls 'em\nregional potentates, but we know what's going down, don't we?\" \"I\ndo.\"\n\"If Otto succeeds in New Babylon, we find out where the big shindig\nis gonna be before it happens, and we get in there and bug the\nplace. We're not going to try to stop prophesied events, of course,\nbut it'll be good to know exactly what's happening.\"\n\"What happens to Carpathia's secretary?\" \"Krystall? If I had a vote,\nI'd say we convince her we know what's going to happen to New\nBabylon and get her out of there.\"\n\"To Petra?\"\nMac shook his head. \"Much as we might like to do that, God has set\nthat city aside as a city of refuge for his people only. Sad as it is, she\nmade her decision, took her stand, and accepted the mark. Getting\nher out of New Babylon just keeps her from dying in that mess when\nGod finally judges the city. She's going to die anyway, sometime\nbetween then and the Glorious Appearing, and when she does, she's\nnot going to like what eternal life looks like. \"That doesn't mean we\ncan't befriend her and be grateful for her help. Or that we can't feel\nsorry that she waited too long to see the truth.\" \"I still wonder if we\ncan trust her though,\" Zeke said.\nThe San Diego evacuation deadline was moved up to midnight,\npartly because preparations were ahead of schedule and partly to be\nsafe. No one knew for sure when the GC would begin their next\nround of canvasing.\nBuck was in the vehicle bay on a walkietalkie with Ming, who was in\nhis apartment watching Kenny and also manning the periscope.When she said the coast was clear, Buck sent loaded vehicles to the\nairstrip, where planes and pilots arranged by Lionel Whalum met\nthem. At 6 P. M. Ming radioed. \"Buck, Chloe's on TV.\" \"Kenny\nwatching?\"\n\"I'll get him into his room.\"\nBuck sprinted back, and by the time he got to his quarters, Rayford\nhad shown up too. The news showed Chloe trying to communicate\nto the press and Jock backhanding her. Buck felt murderous,\nespecially when they taped her mouth shut. He was used to the lies,\nbut he couldn't stand to see her mistreated.\n\"Where's that look like to you, Ray?\" he said. Rayford shook his\nhead. \"Studying it.\"\nOne of the woman reporters said, \"Here in Louisiana prisons are\nnotoriously hard, and none harder than Angola. International\nterrorist Chloe Williams will rue the day she pushed the Global\nCommunity to the point where she was sent here. The guillotine will\nbe sweet relief compared to hard labor for the rest of her life.\"\n\"Angola, Louisiana!\" Buck said. \"That's where I'm going. I want to\ntake Sebastian and Razor, and you'll want to come, of course, Dad.\nWho else do you think we should?\" \"Hold on, Buck,\" Rayford said.\n\"We're not going to Louisiana.\" \"What? You send three of your top\npeople to Greece to get George, and you're going to let the GC do\nwhat they want with Chloe?\"\n\"No way she's in Louisiana.\"\n\"You just heard it!\"\n\"Think, Buck. They want us to believe she's in Louisiana. They\nmoved her from San Diego to keep away from a raid. They wouldn't\nbe announcing where they took her.\" Buck knew Rayford was right.\n\"She's at a prison though, isn't she? They're not faking that.\" \"I\nwouldn't put anything past them.\"\"Ray, I can't fly to Petra and leave her here. If I stay somewhere\ncloser to back east, at least I'd have a chance to.\"\n\"But how are we going to find out where she is?\" \"I'd never forgive\nmyself if I jetted off to safety and left her to die alone. I don't know\nhow you could either.\" \"I'm not about to, if you must know.\" \"C'mon,\nDad, we're in this thing together. Don't be holding out on me.\" \"I've\ngot a call in to Krystall to see if she's heard anything. Problem is, it's\nfour in the morning over there, and she doesn't think anybody has a\nclue anyway. The people who would know are in Al Hillah, and we\nhave no access to them. It's going to look pretty suspicious if Krystall\nstarts asking them about Chloe.\" It was the middle of the evening in\nIllinois, and Chloe was surprised to have been left alone for hours.\nShe had been right about solitary. The stairs led below ground, and\nshe had been ushered into a small cell with no cot, no sink, no toilet,\nno chair, no bench, no nothing. Including no light or window. The\nduct tape had been removed from her mouth, and when the solid\nmetal door was shut, she was in pitch darkness.\nA small square hole in the door opened and was filled with Jock's\nface. \"I'm going to let you get some rest,\" he said, \"and I'm going to\nget some too. Think about anything you can tell me that will benefit\nyou, because when I come back, we're going to see if we need to\ngive you an injection to help you open up. Your little shenanigans\ntoday bought you this. You're not going to like it in there if you're\nclaustrophobic or afraid of the dark.\"\nChloe was both, but she was not about to admit it. She feared she\nwould panic or go mad, but as she heard Jock's footsteps retreat,\nshe was overcome with a sense of peace. \"Thank you, Lord,\" she\nsaid. \"I need you. I'm willing to die, but I don't want to shame you. I\nneed you to override the truth serum. Don't let me give away\nanything or anybody, and keep me strong so I won't worry so much\nabout myself. Help me keep my mind, my focus, and my priorities.\nAnd be with Kenny and Buck and Dad.\" Just thinking about them\nbrought a sob to her throat. Chloe pressed her back against the wall\nand lowered herself to the cold floor. \"God, please, bring to mindScriptures you want me to hear right now. Don't let hunger or\nfatigue or fear keep me from remembering. You know who I am and\nwho I'm not. I just want to be what you want me to be. You know\nbetter than I that you're working with imperfection here.\"\nShe lay on her side with no heart palpitations from the closedin\nspace or the darkness. That alone was evidence that God was\nhearing her. She began rehearsing in her mind her memory verses,\nstarting as far back in the Bible as she could remember. But when\nshe stalled, she panicked. \"Lord, keep my mind fresh. Don't let me\nforget. I want to be quoting you when I see you.\" Her mind became\na jumble. How will I remember? What if my mind goes blank? \"Lord,\nplease.\" And suddenly, light. Was she dreaming? She blinked. The\nrusted, filthy chamber was bright enough to make her shield her\neyes. A vision? A dream? A hallucination? Then a voice. Quoting her\nfavorite verses. She repeated them, word for word. \"Is this your\nanswer, God? You'll speak them and I'll repeat them? Thank you!\nThank you!\" Loud banging on the door. \"Keep it down in there!\"\n\"Yes, peace, be still.\" That voice came from the corner! Chloe pulled\nher hands from her eyes and jumped at a figure, sitting, a finger to\nhis lips. \"Is it you, Lord?\" she said, breathless. \"No one can see God\nand live,\" he whispered. \"Then who are you?\" \"He sent me.\"\n\"Praise God.\"\n\"Yes, please.\"\n\"Can anyone else see you?\"\n\"Tomorrow. Not until then.\"\n\"You'll remind me of what God has promised?\" \"I will.\"\n\"You make me want to sing.\"\n\"Do so.\"\n\"Sing with me.\"\"I am not here to sing but to speak. You sing.\" Chloe began singing.\n\"`When we walk with the Lord in the light of his word, what a glory\nhe sheds on our way!\nWhile we do his good will, he abides with us still, and with all who\nwill trust and obey.\"'\n\"Shut up in there!\"\nChloe sang louder. \"`Trust and obey, for there's no other way to be\nhappy in Jesus, but to trust and obey.\"'\n\"If I have to open this door, you're going to wish I hadn't!\" \"`Then in\nfellowship sweet we shall sit at his feet....\"' That brought knockingit\nsounded like with a stick and Chloe laughed aloud. \"They don't like\nmy voice,\" she told her new friend.\n\"Or the words,\" he said, and she laughed all the more. \"You going\ncrazy in there?\"\n\"No! Do you have any requests?\"\n\"Only that you knock it off!\"\n\"Sorry!\" And she began again.\n\"`Standing on the promises of Christ my King, through eternal ages\nlet his praises ring; glory in the highest I will shout and sing,\nstanding on the promises of God.\"'\n\"All right!\" The small door flew open. The room went dark again.\n\"You got a light in there?\" \"Sure! The light of God.\"\n\"I'm serious! What've you got in there?\" \"Just the light of his\npresence.\" \"If Jock gets back and finds you with something in there,\nyou'll regret it.\" \"Regret the chance to surprise him? I don't think so.\nDo you know how to sing harmony? Sing with me.\n`Standing on the promises that cannot fail ...\"'The guard slammed the door.TWELVE\nRAYFORD HAD only an inkling of what Buck must be going through.\nIt had to be different for a husband than for a father. But he couldn't\nput his finger on it. \"Here's what we'll do,\" he told his soninlaw. \"I\nhave arranged with Lionel to leave us a twoseater. It's fast, but it\nholds only so much fuel. We'll have to take on more en route, maybe\nin Cypress. We'll help get everyone else out of here; then we can sit\nat the airstrip for all I care. Fly to the Midwest somewhere, the\nSouth. Wherever you think we'd be closest to Chloe.\" \"And do\nwhat?\"\n\"We can take that little satellite TV and keep in touch with Mac and\nOtto and Krystall, see if we can get a clue,\" Rayford said.\n\"You just want to be on the same continent when she dies, is that\nwhat you're telling me?\"\n\"Well, uh, no\"\n\"Dad, think about it. I don't fly planes. You don't have a backup\npilot. Neither of us is military. You've got a twoseat plane for two\nguys, so there's no thought of springing Chloe and bringing her\nalong.\" Rayford sat and held his head in his hands. \"I don't know\nwhat else to do, Buck. I'm not leaving the States with her still in\ncustody. But unless we find out where she is, I'm not putting a crew\non it either.\" \"Where're we going to go?\"\n\"How about Wisconsin, where Zeke was? He tells me the GC never\nnose around. It's fairly central, so if we do get word, we can be on\nour way quick.\"\nJock led Chloe to a dimly lit room about a hundred paces from her\ncell. \"It's just you and me tonight, ma'am. No playing off the other\ncop, no bright lights in your eyes, no pressure.\" But when she saw\nwhere she was supposed to sit, a steel chair bolted to the floor withleather straps on the legs and armrests, she said, \"No, it won't be\njust you and me, Jock.\" \"What do you mean?\"\n\"You alone cannot strap me into that chair.\" \"I think I could, but you\nwouldn't like it.\" \"And I'd make you wish you hadn't done it alone.\nI'm not getting strapped down for any reason unless I'm\noverpowered. Uhuh.\" \"How about we try this the easy way?\" he\nsaid. \"How about we just talk awhile and see if you need\nrestraining?\"\n\"No truth serum?\"\n\"Not if you cooperate.\"\n\"I can tell you right now I won't.\"\n\"I can't persuade you to rethink this, be nice, help yourself?\" \"No sir.\nFor one thing, I have to use the ladies' room, and I won't even be\nsitting, let alone strapped in, until then.\" Jock sighed and walked her\nfarther down the hall. \"As you can imagine,\" he said, \"there's no\nwindow in a prison john. The only way out is the way in, and I'll be\nwaiting.\"\nMac was on the phone to Rayford from high over the Atlantic in the\nmiddle of the night. \"When is Weser going to be at the palace?\"\n\"By eight A. M. their time.\"\n\"I'm guessing top priority is anything on Chloe.\" \"Right.\"\n\"And then Carpathia's plans.\" \"Exactly.\" \"I'll try him a half hour after\nhe's supposed to have gotten there. I'll call you as soon as I know\nanything.\"\nChloe emerged from the dingy Stateville bathroom to find Jock with\nthree guards, a woman and two men.\n\"So it's not just the two of us, Jock?\" \"Could have been. When you're\nall strapped in and not happy, look in the mirror. At least by tellingme up front, you saved wasting my time trying to talk you into\nanything and then having to rassle you into the chair.\"\nAs Chloe walked down the hall, the woman grabbed her right hand\nand twisted it up behind her, while one of the men did the same with\nher left. She thought about protesting; she had made it clear to Jock\nshe wasn't going easy. As soon as they entered the small room, the\nthird guard bent and scooped her off the floor by her ankles. The\nwrenching pressure on her shoulders made her cry out, but within\nseconds she was strapped in the chair.\nThe guards left, leaving a hypodermic with Jock. He shut the door\nand approached. \"Last chance,\" he said. \"You're not going to tell the\ntruth without this?\" Chloe's pulse sprinted until she noticed her\nfriend from solitary sitting in Jock's chair. \"I'm not going to tell you\nthe truth with it,\" she said.\n\"Oh, this has broken stronger subjects than you,\" Jock said. He\nbegan by inserting a receptacle in a vein in her forearm. He did it\nwith such precision it was clear he had experience. Chloe felt no\npain, and he deftly taped it in place. Then he inserted a tube that\nran to his side of the desk.\nJock sat and Chloe's new friend stood behind him. She fought a grin,\npeeking at him over Jock's head. \"What are you looking at?\" Jock\nsaid.\n\"Nobody you know,\" Chloe said. There was some truth, if he wanted\nit.\nJock inserted the hypodermic into the tube. \"When I push the\nplunger, it will inject 15 cc's of serum, half an ounce, into your veins.\nYou should feel little more than a relaxed mood. You probably know\nhow this stuff works. It counteracts a chemical in your brain that\ninhibits overfrankness. But, of course, that is precisely what I want\nfrom you.\"\"I can't wait to hear what I have to say.\" \"Say enough, and it's life\nrather than death for you.\" \"Oh, Jock, I think someone else here\nneeds truth serum more than I do.\" \"You doubt me?\"\n\"You know as well as I do that no matter what I say, I still die.\" \"Not\nnecessarily.\"\n\"You're a liar. I know that, and that's the truth, and if I'm not\nmistaken, you haven't even injected me yet.\"\n\"No, but enough of this. Here we go.\"\nChloe's visitor motioned from behind Jock like a music director, and\nChloe began to hum. Then she sang quietly. \"\n`There shall be showers of blessing; this is the promise of love.\nThere shall be seasons refreshing, sent from the Savior above.\"'\n\"The serum doesn't act that quickly, so don't assume you're singing\nthe truth.\"\n\"`Showers of blessing, showers of blessing we need.\nMercy drops round us are falling, but for the showers we plead.\"'\n\"Nice tune.\"\n\"Thanks. Nice lyrics too.\"\nWithin a few minutes, Chloe felt the effects of the serum. It was\nstrange. A sense of wellbeing, of trust, that she could feel free to say\nanything, anything at all. If she didn't know better, she would want\nto help this man by answering his questions. No harm would come\nto her, and everything would be all right. Except that she knew\nbetter. She looked past Jock. \"How long will you be with me?\" she\nsaid. \"As long as necessary,\" the invisible man said. \"Hm?\" Jock said.\n\"As long as this takes. I got some rest. I can hang in here as long as\nyou can.\" \"Bet you can't.\"\"Try me.\"\nChloe smiled. \"I think you'll find me very trying.\" \"How are you\nfeeling?\" \"Mellow.\"\n\"Good. That's progress. What is your name?\" \"Chloe Steele Williams,\nand proud of it.\" \"What is your father's name?\"\n\"Rayford Steele.\"\n\"And your husband?\"\n\"Cameron Williams. I call him Buck.\"\n\"Do you have a child?\"\n\"Yes.\"\n\"What is his name?\"\n\"His name is very special to Buck and me, because he was named\nafter two dear, dear friends and compatriots who died.\"\n\"And what were their names?\"\n\"If I answer that, you will know the name of my son.\" \"And why\nshould I not know the name of your son?\" \"The less you know about\nhim, the harder it will befor you to gain access to him.\"\n\"I have told you we mean your son no harm.\"\n\"That is a lie.\"\n\"Anyway, you mentioned his name to your father on the phone.\nKenny.\" Jock pushed the hypodermic plunger again, and maybe it\nwas psychological, but Chloe seemed to feel an immediate rush.\nStrange, but the stuff did seem to be making her tell the truth, even\nif the answers were not what Jock wanted.\nHe was more redfaced than usual. Was she making him mad? She\nhoped so. \"Are you a member of an underground group subversiveto the Global Community government and its supreme potentate,\nNicolae Jetty Carpathia?\" \"Yes.\"\n\"Is it true that you do not believe the potentate is worthy to be\ncalled a deity?\" \"Yes, and beyond that, we believe he is the Antichrist\nof the Bible.\" \"Are you aware that that statement alone is punishable\nby death?\" \"Yes, as well as I know that God desires truth, God's law\nis truth, Jesus is the truth, and if you know the truth, it can set you\nfree.\"\nWhere did that come from? Thank you, Lord. \"Are you a member of\na Judahite faction with a large cell group residing in San Diego,\nCalifornia?\" \"Are you asking me who I am?\"\n\"I am asking you are you a\"\n\"I am a follower of Christ, the Son of the living God. He is the one\nwho is mightier than I, whose sandal strap I am not worthy to stoop\ndown and loose.\" \"What?\"\n\"Did you not hear me?\"\n\"Did the Judahites or a faction of the Judahites called the Tribulation\nForce have anything to do with the darkness that envelops New\nBabylon?\" \"That was the work of God himself.\"\n\"Do you or the group you represent seek to overthrow the\ngovernment of this world?\" \"That has already been done. It has\nsimply not been played out yet.\"\n\"The Global Community government has been overthrown?\"\n\"It shall become known.\"\n\"Do you worship the image of Nicolae Carpathia at least three times\na day?\" \"Never.\"\n\"Will you tell me the whereabouts of your compatriots or any\ninformation leading to their capture? Primarily I am talking aboutyour father, your husband, Dr. Tsion BenJudah, and Dr. Chaim\nRosenzweig.\"\n\"I would die first.\"\nJock pushed the rest of the serum through the apparatus and sat\npicking at his fingernails for about five minutes. Chloe sang, \"\n`Amazing grace! How sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me!\nI once was lost but now am found, was blind but now I see.\"'\nJock stood and looked out the door, breathing heavily. Presently he\nmoved to Chloe's chair and removed the surgical tubing and\nreceptacle. He unstrapped her. \"We're finished?\" she said.\n\"No, but you have ingested the maximum dose. I've never seen\nanything like it. We can sit and chat for a few minutes, and if that\nlast hit kicks in and makes you come to your senses, you let me\nknow.\" \"Let's talk about you, Jock. What got you so fired up about\nCarpathia?\" \"Oh no, we're not going there. You can just leave me\nalone. You obviously believe what you believe. That's impressive, I'll\ngive you that. Misguided, but impressive. That's the problem with\nreligious extremists.\"\n\"Oh, that's what we are?\" she said.\n\"Of course.\"\n\"You'd like to lump us with people who kill in the name of their faith,\nwouldn't you?\" \"You're as extreme as they come, ma'am.\"\n\"We don't kill people who don't agree with us. We don't erect statues\nof our God everywhere and require by law that everyone bow and\nscrape before them three times a day. We offer the truth, show\npeople the way, call them to God. But we don't force them.\" Jock sat\nheavily. \"Do you realize you're going to die tomorrow?\" \"I had an\ninkling.\"\n\"And that doesn't bother you?\"\"Of course it does. I'm scared.\"\n\"And you're never going to see your husband, your baby, your loved\nones and friends again.\" \"If I thought that was true, that would be a\ndifferent story.\" \"I get it. Pie in the sky byandby. You're all going to\nbe floating around on clouds someday, playing your harps and\nwearing white robes.\"\n\"I hope you're right about the pie but not the harps.\" Jock shook his\nhead. \"You know we're going to televise this to the world.\"\n\"Spread some more lies about me first?\" \"We say what we have to\nsay to save face.\" \"And you need to save face with me because this\noperation was a colossal failure, wasn't it?\"\n\"Could have gone better.\"\n\"Could have? It couldn't have gone worse! What'd you accomplish?\"\n\"Well, when we find out where the rest of the cowards are hiding,\nwe'll have accomplished something.\" \"You calling them cowards\nbecause they're in hiding, or do you mean the rest of the cowards\nlike me? You find me cowardly?\"\n\"Actually no.\"\n\"Do I get any last words tomorrow?\"\n\"In your case we might not allow that. I can just hear you trying to\npreach a sermon, going off on Carpathia, trying to get people\nsaved.\"\n\"So, I get to say my last words only if they pass muster with the\nGlobal Community.\" \"Something like that.\"\n\"We'll see about that.\"\n\"We? Who's we?\"\nChloe stood and realized her friend was gone. She plunged on.\n\"Jock, do you realize that the day is comingand much sooner thanyou thinkwhen everyone will have to acknowledge God and his\nSon?\" \"Think so?\"\n\"`It is written: \"As I live, says the Lord, every knee shall bow to Me,\nand every tongue shall confess to God.\"\"' \"Well, honey, not me.\"\n\"Sorry, Jock. `Each of us shall give account of himself to God.\"' \"My\ngod is Carpathia. That's good enough for me.\" \"What about when\nJesus wins?\" \"He wins?\"\n\"`Therefore God also has highly exalted Him and given Him the\nname which is above every name, that at the name of Jesus every\nknee should bow, of those in heaven, and of those on earth, and of\nthose under the earth, and that every tongue should confess that\nJesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father.\"' \"I hope all that\ngives you some comfort when you're standing in the hot sun\ntomorrow morning, smelling that smell, seeing heads roll, and\nknowing yours will be next. Maybe I'm not the interrogator I thought\nI was, and maybe you paid a lot of money to be trained and prepped\nfor truth serum. But there's nothing that brings clarity to the mind\nlike knowing you're next in the guillotine line. \"I'll be watching you in\nthe morning, girl. My money says you'll be shaking and wailing and\npleading for one more chance to save yourself.\"\nAt 8:30 A. M. Palace Time, Mac was still about seven hours from\nPetra. He called the number Rayford had given him for Otto Weser\nand identified himself. \"He is risen,\" the German said.\n\"Christ is risen indeed,\" Mac said. \"What've you got for me?\" \"I gotta\ntell you, Miss Krystall has been a gem. I wish she was on our side.\nShe let me listen in on a conversation from a man named Suhail\nAkbar, head of Sec\"\n\"I know who he is, Mr. Weser. All due respect, cut to the chase.\"\n\"Carpathia has assigned him and his people to do two things. First,\nget the government running in Al Hillah, and second, prepare for a\nreal Oktoberfest for all the leaders of the world in Baghdad six\nmonths from now.\"\"So, not in October?\"\n\"That was just an expression. It's going to be what you Yanks would\ncall a big blowout. All the pomp and circumstance, flags, banners,\nlight shows, bands, dancers, everything. If the lights come back on\nin New Babylon, the government goes home. But even if they do,\nthe big deal still happens in Baghdad.\" \"Exactly where? Do we\nknow?\"\n\"It's a brandnew building, Mr. McCullum. On the site where the Iraq\nMuseum used to be, before the war. It's supposed to be\nstateoftheart, plush accommodations, room for the meetings and the\npageantry. I mean, there are only ten other heads of state, but\napparently besides the private meetings with his cabinet, Carpathia\nwants some festivities open to the public. \"To his people he is\nreferring to the meetings with the subpotentates, however, as the\nfinal solution to the Jewish problem.\"\n\"To a German, that has to resonate with your history books, eh, Mr.\nWeser?\" \"Frankly, sir, our history books don't read the same as those\nof others who write about us, but I know what you mean, yes.\nWe've been down this road before.\" \"Anything on Chloe Williams?\"\n\"Krystall says she's at Angola Prison in Louisiana.\" \"She basing that\non the same news we saw, or does she have inside information?\"\n\"Let me ask.\"\nOtto came back on a few seconds later. \"Both. She says she heard\nthat newscast but that she's also heard Security and Intelligence\npeople talking about Chloe being there. Latest word is that she is to\nbe executed at 1000 hours Central Time.\"\n\"We've got to go and take George and a few others with us,\nRayford,\" Buck said. \"It still makes no sense,\" Rayford said. \"Why\nwould they broadcast where she is?\" \"Maybe to trap us.\"\n\"Then it's less likely she's there.\" \"You think they're on to Krystall?\"\nBuck said. \"Giving her bogus info to test her?\"\"Let's get Sebastian in on this.\"\nSince before dawn, Chang had been at his computer in the tech\ncenter. When Naomi arrived, she stood behind him, hands resting\nlightly on his shoulders.\n\"Troops, troops, and more troops,\" he said. \"The ones from Greece\ncould overpower Israel, let alone those from all over the Carpathian\nStates. And this is just the beginning.\" \"What's the latest on Mr.\nWilliams's wife?\" \"Everything I'm getting from communications going\ninto the palace from Al Hillah puts Chloe in Louisiana and sentenced\nto death at six P. M. our time.\" \"Oh no.\"\n\"That's not the worst of it, Naomi. They let that out over\ninternational television, and they never tell the truth. If they want to\nlure the Trib Force, they could have left her in San Diego. Rayford\nand Buck are in the thick of the evac from San Diego, but they're not\ngoing to know what to do now. I hope they can see through this. For\nall we know, Chloe is an hour from San Diego. All the GC has to do is\nhave her somewhere where a GCNN affiliate can send a live feed.\"\nNaomi pulled up a chair and sat next to Chang. \"If ever there was a\nnewscast you'd want to interfere with, it has to be that one, doesn't\nit?\" \"No way I want the world to see it.\"\n\"But we would want them to see and hear what Chloe might say.\"\n\"Definitely. I'll just be ready to flip it when they've lost patience with\nher.\"\nRayford found that Sebastian agreed with him. \"No way they're\nletting out where she really is,\" he said. \"It would be a major gaffe.\"\n\"Then where are we?\" Buck said. \"I'd rather know the worst than\nnot know anything.\" \"Let's see if Krystall's ready to take a chance,\"\nRayford said. \"I'll call her.\" When she came on the line, Rayford said,\n\"I need to ask you to do something bold for me.\" \"I could be\nexecuted for what I've given you people already.\" \"I'm going to trade\ninformation with you that will prolong your life.\" \"What are you\ntalking about?\"\"You're a visitor to Dr. BenJudah's Web site, right?\" \"I told you I\nwas.\"\n\"Then you know he has shown from the Bible, in advance, all these\nplagues and judgments that have hit the earth.\"\n\"Yeah, it's spooky.\"\n\"It's spooky, but it's real, and we know the next thing that's going to\nhappen in New Babylon, only we don't know exactly when.\"\n\"And what is that?\"\n\"God is going to destroy the entire city in the space of one hour.\"\n\"Oh my\"\n\"He will call his own peoplelike Otto and his friendsout of there so\nthey will be spared. You need to get out too.\"\n\"Where will I go?\"\n\"Anywhere but New Babylon.\"\n\"And you're sure this is going to happen?\" \"If it doesn't, it will be the\nfirst time one of these prophesied events hasn't happened. Now,\nKrystall, I can't promise you'll be safe just because you leave New\nBabylon. The rest of the world will suffer as well, but maybe not as\nseverely and quickly as New Babylon. Getting out of there will be\nyour only hope.\"\n\"Is Carpathia sending all these armies into Israel one of the\nprophecies too?\" Krystall said. \"Ever hear of Armageddon? This is it.\nBut the end of New Babylon comes first.\" \"And for that fair warning,\nyou want me to do what?\" \"Call someone. Someone who would\nknow. And I want you somehow to work Chloe Williams into the\nconversation. Tell him you saw it on the news or whatever, but\nyou're just curious. Is she really going to be executed and where?\nCan you do that?\" \"You don't believe it's going to be in Louisiana?\"\nshe said. \"Finding that hard to swallow.\"\"No promises, but I'll see what I can find out.\"\n\"What're you doing tonight, Jock?\" Chloe said as he walked her back\nto solitary. \"Sleeping like a baby. Big day tomorrow. We tell the world\nyou sang like a canary, but that in the end you refused the mark and\nwouldn't pledge allegiance to Carpathia. Our hand was forced.\" \"And\nyou're the hero.\"\n\"Probably promoted. Shipped off to International.\"\n\"Which is where now?\"\n\"What do you care? You can't tell anybody or do anything about it.\"\n\"Then what's the harm in telling me?\"\nHe cocked his head at her. \"Rumors say I'll be assigned to the\nJezreel Valley.\" \"Oh? What's going on there?\"\n\"Not at liberty to say.\"\n\"But you know?\"\n\"Well, yeah, 'course I do.\"\n\"Congratulations.\"\n\"Thank you.\"\n\"Sky's the limit, huh?\"\n\"I guess,\" he said.\n\"Want a little inside information?\"\n\"You're a little tardy with that, but I'm listening.\" \"New Babylon is\nnever getting back to normal.\" \"And you know that for a fact.\"\n\"Sure as I'm standing here,\" Chloe said. \"Well, I doubt you're right,\nbut you won't be around to find out. And I will.\" \"I wouldn't be so\nsure of that either.\" \"See you in the morning, ma'am.\"Chloe sat in the dark chamber and asked quietly, \"Are you still here\nwith me?\"\n\"Always,\" came the reply. \"To the end of the age.\" Chloe prostrated\nherself on the floor and prayed the rest of the time, unable to sleep.\nShe sang, she quoted Scripture, she praised God, and she listened.\nMostly she listened. As he comforted her heart.THIRTEEN\n\"I'M NEVER going to let this happen again, Dad,\" Buck said. They\nstood outside their twoseater jet in remote western Wisconsin at\ndawn, monitoring a miniature TV and a radio and waiting for\nKrystall's call. \"We could find out Chloe was half an hour away in St.\nPaul, and there wouldn't be a blessed thing we could do about it. No\ncar, no disguises, no IDs, nothing. Never again, Dad, and I mean it.\"\nRayford didn't appear to have anything to say, and Buck felt sorry for\nhim. \"I don't know what else could have been done,\" Buck said. \"But\nanything more than sitting on our hands, waiting for something to\nhappen.\"\n\"I don't know why Krystall hasn't called,\" Rayford said. \"She's had all\nday.\" He looked at his watch. \"It's the middle of the afternoon in\nNew Babylon.\" \"You'd better hope they're not on to her, haven't\nbugged her phone or something. They'd know about Otto, know we\nknow where the big confab is going to be, everything.\" \"I don't\nknow,\" Rayford said. \"David and Chang have always said the GC\ndoesn't tap its own phones.\" \"So everybody in Al Hillah's been in\nmeetings all day and there's no one to tell Krystall the truth about\nwhere Chloe is? You should have given her some kind of a time\nframe. Doesn't she assume we'd like to know before the execution?\"\n\"It's not like she works for us, Buck. She's been a godsend.\"\n\"Interesting thing to say about someone bearing the mark of the\nbeast.\" Mac dropped off Zeke in Petra at about two in the afternoon.\nAbdullah had already readied the bigger plane for Mac and then took\ncharge of getting Zeke settled. \"I plan to get in and get out of that\napartment as fast as I can,\" Mac said. \"Then I'm picking up Weser\nand his clan and getting back here. I'd like to get all that done\nbefore the GCNN goes on the air with Chloe. I won't watch 'em kill\nher, but I want to see what leads up to it anyway.\"\nIn pervasive darkness, Chloe had no idea of the passage of time.\nOccasionally she pressed her ear against the steel door to listen foractivity in the solitary unit. So far, nothing. She thought waiting for\none's execution would be like waiting to see the principal or facing a\npunishment you knew was coming, only multiplied on a mortal scale.\nAnd yet she found herself relatively calm. Her heart broke for Buck,\nnot so much for the prospect of his missing her, but for how\nwrenching it would be to have to explain this to Kenny.\nHe was too young, and there would be no explaining it, she knew.\nBut the daily questions, the need of a boy for his mother, the fact\nthat no surrogate could love him like she did ... all that worked on\nher. Chloe felt the presence of God, though she didn't see the\nmessenger she had the night before. Her muscles ached from the\npositions she found herself in for prayer and then just trying to get\ncomfortable. Hunger was a distraction she succeeded in pushing\nfrom her mind. Soon, she told herself, she would be dining at the\nbanquet table of the King of kings. Most gratifying was that she had\nfewer doubts and more assurance as the hours passed. She had put\nall her eggs in this basket, she had always liked to say. If she was\nwrong, she was wrong. If it was all a big story, she had bought it in\nits entirety. But for her the days of questioning and misgivings were\ngone. Chloe had seen too much, experienced too much. She had\nbeen shown, like everyone else on the planet, that God was real, he\nwas in control, he was the archenemy of Antichrist, and in the end\nGod would win. Early on in her spiritual walk, Chloe had entertained\na smugness, particularly when people berated or derided her for her\nbeliefs. She was too polite to gloat, but she couldn't deny some\nprivate satisfaction in knowing that one day she would be proved\nright. But that attitude too had mercifully been taken from her. The\nmore she learned and the more she knew and the more she saw\nexamples of other believers with true compassion for the\npredicaments of lost people, the more Chloe matured in her faith.\nThat was manifest in a sorrow over people's souls, a desperation\nthat they see the truth and turn to Christ before it was too late. She\ndidn't even know what to do with her feelings of love and concern\nand sympathy for people who had already taken Carpathia's mark\nand were condemned for eternity. They were beyond help and hope,and yet still she grieved for them. Flashes of humanity in Florence, in\nNigel, in Jesse, in Jock ... what did those mean? She couldn't expect\nunbelievers to live like believers, and so she was left without the\noption to judge themonly to love them. Yet it was hopeless now.\nWhile Chloe couldn't understand how there could still be\nuncommitted people in the world, she knew there were. Those were\nthe ones she would try to reach with whatever freedom God made\nthe GC give her to make a last comment. How someone could see all\nthat had gone on during the last six years and not realize that the\nonly options were God or Satanor worse, could know the options\nand yet choose Satanshe could not fathom.\nBut no doubt this was true. Ming had told her of Muslims who were\nantiCarpathia because they were so devout in their own faith. Some\npracticing Jews who did not believe in Jesus as Messiah also rejected\nCarpathia as god of this world. George knew of militia types who\nrefused to give allegiance to a dictator yet had not trusted Christ for\ntheir salvation either. Was it possible, after all this time, that there\nwere still spiritually uncommitted people who simply hadn't chosen\nyet? Chloe couldn't imagine, but she knew it had to be true. Some\nsimply chose to pursue their own goals, their own lusts.\nChloe wondered about the others in Stateville who would die that\nmorning. Many would be bearers of Carpathia's mark, but surely\nmany would not. Would she, as the prize arrest, be last on the\ndocket? \"Clarity, Lord,\" she said. \"That's all I ask for. You have\nalready promised grace and strength. Just let my mind work better\nthan it should under the circumstances.\"\nMac dug through his luggage and found his wino outfit. No one\ncared to look for the mark of Carpathia under the stocking cap of a\nsmelly man down on his luck. It had become the only ensemble Mac\ndared go out in during the day. He found his scooter where he had\nleft it in the underbrush near the airstrip and rode to the outskirts of\nAl Basrah, chaining it securely before staggering into town. Mac was\ngreeted only by real drunks. He acted as if he was just wandering,\nbut he was on a clear route. And when he got to within a block ofhis and Albie's place, he ducked into an alley and found himself\nalone. He jogged the rest of the way and started up the stairs when\nhe heard voices. Mac stopped and sat on the landing at the top of\nthe stairs. Two men stood in front of his and Albie's dingy rooms.\n\"You can't be in here, old man!\" one of them shouted. \"Get out.\"\nMac mumbled and let his head fall back, snoring. The men laughed.\n\"Anyway,\" one said quietly, \"I'm guessing he'll come after dark.\nDoubleM wants him alive.\"\nMac recognized the nickname.\n\"I got two guys who can watch the entrance starting about an hour\nbefore sundown. You're sure he wouldn't come earlier?\"\n\"He's got no mark, man! Who would risk that?\" When the men\nmoved on and Mac was sure the way was clear, he sprang to his feet\nand unlocked his door. The place was empty. Not a lick of furniture.\nNone of their stuff. Now it just sat as a trap for him to return to.\nMac bounded down the stairs and ran back to his scooter, sped to\nthe airstrip, and headed for New Babylon. He had arranged with\nOtto that he bring his people to the New Babylon airstrip. \"Better to\nload up where no one can see us,\" he said.\nThe thirty or so men and women in Otto's charge tried individually to\nthank Mac, but he just smiled and kept moving them into the plane.\nHe wasn't going to feel at ease again until he was in Petra. Then,\nwith a new identity courtesy of Zeke, he'd be ready for any caper\nRayford could think of. Otto was bouncing on the balls of his feet at\nthe back of the crowd. \"Once you're on,\" Mac said, \"we're off.\"\n\"Mac, we can't go yet.\"\n\"Why? What now?\"\n\"She's dead.\"\n\"Who?\"\"Krystall.\"\n\"What are you talking about?\"\n\"Go see for yourself. After I was here this morning, I went back to\nour underground place and helped get everybody ready to meet you.\nWhen we got here, I told them to wait for you and that you would\nbe the only person who could see enough to land. I went to thank\nKrystall, and that's when I found her.\" \"How do you know she's\ndead?\"\n\"I'm not a doctor, sir, but there was a stench like someone had\ntossed something in there. She was on the floor with the phone\nbuzzing. I let it lie. I checked her pulse. Come see for yourself.\" \"Mr.\nWeser, we don't have time. If she's dead, she's dead, and I'm sorry.\nAnd Rayford getting her mixed up in all this may have caused it. But\nthere's nothing I can do for her, and we might jeopardize this\nmission if you and I go running off with all your people waiting on\nthe plane.\" \"You think they were on to her? Sent somebody to kill\nher?\" \"I don't know how they would do that if they couldn't see.\" \"I\nwas thinking maybe they had someone who knew the palace come\nback and feel his way up there, make sure she was there by talking\nto her, and then toss poison gas or something in there.\" \"Could be.\nThat explains why Rayford never heard from her. Did you let him\nknow?\" \"I should have, shouldn't I? I didn't know what to do. I was\nso upset.\" \"Get aboard. I'll call Rayford.\"\nBuck looked on as Rayford took a call from Mac and covered his eyes\nwith a hand. \"What is it?\" Buck said.\nRayford held up a finger to tell Buck to wait, and his knees buckled.\n\"What? Is Chloe already gone?\"\n\"No, Buck,\" Rayford said, on his knees in the grass. \"But she might\nas well be.\" He told him the news. Buck sat and pulled his knees to\nhis chest. \"I can't believe I'm stuck here in the middle of nowhere,\nwaiting for my wife to die, not even knowing where she is.\" Rayfordlooked ashen. \"We should get started for Petra.\" \"But what if\nsomeone\"\n\"No one who knows is going to tell us, Buck. It's time to give it up.\"\n\"Give up, you mean.\"\n\"Yes, Buck,\" Rayford said, standing, emotion in his voice. \"I have\ngiven up. She's in God's hands now. If he chooses to spare her\nsomehow, he's apparently decided to do it without our help.\" As\nRayford boarded, Buck stood and spread his palms on the fuselage\nof the aircraft, his head hanging. \"Chloe,\" he rasped, \"wherever you\nare, I love you.\" After a long night of praying, Chloe actually drifted\noff. She was awakened, she wasn't sure how long later, by the\nunmistakable thwockthwockthwock of helicopter blades. More than\none chopper. Maybe as many as three. For an instant she allowed\nherself to wonder if her deliverance had come. Deep inside she knew\nher husband and her father, and perhaps many in the Trib Force,\nwould work to free her until the end. But she also knew that without\na miracle there was no way they could know where she was. That\nhad been the whole point of her transfer. Had they somehow found\nout? She never ceased to be amazed at the resources available to so\nmany of her compatriots. Should she prepare to flee in the event\nthey did break in and look for her? Did they know more than where\nshe was? Did they know the architecture and layout of the prison,\nwhere solitary was, somehow which cell she might be in? And how\nmany were there? Could they overpower the GC? Her questions\nwere answered in an instant when her friend reappeared and the\ndarkness of her cell was turned to noonday.\n\"May I know your name?\" she said.\n\"You may call me Caleb.\"\n\"I am not to be rescued today, am I, Caleb?\" \"You will be delivered,\nbut not in the manner you mean.\" \"Delivered?\"\"Today you will be with Christ in paradise.\" That drove Chloe to her\nknees. \"I can't wait,\" she said. \"There are so many here I will miss\ndesperately, but not much else. How I long to be with Jesus!\"\nBesides the choppers, Chloe heard only the loudest noises from\noutside and none from inside. Vehicles. Metallic hammering. Shouts.\nConstruction of some sort. In spite of herself, she began to grow\nnervous. \"I want to be the picture of a child of God,\" she said, trying\nto control her emotions. \"God will keep you in perfect peace if your\nmind is stayed on him.\" \"Thank you, Caleb. But suddenly I feel so\nfragile.\" Finally Chloe heard sounds from inside solitary. A rap on the\nsteel door, the smaller door sliding open. Jock's face appeared.\n\"How we doing this morning, missy? Bathroom break.\"\n\"Give me a minute, please.\"\n\"Oh, tough girl.\"\nShe looked desperately to Caleb.\n\"`Peace I leave with you,' says your Lord Christ,\" he said. \"`My\npeace I give to you; not as the world gives do I give to you. Let not\nyour heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.\"' Chloe knocked on\nthe steel door. \"I'm ready,\" she said. A guard opened the door. When\nChloe emerged, she found Jock in his dress blues, gold buttons, the\nwhole bit. She also faced a woman wearing a GCNN blazer and\ncarrying a leather bag. \"My, my,\" the woman said. \"That won't do.\nLet me know when I can join you in the bathroom. And, Jock, get\nher a clean jumpsuit.\"\n\"Dressing me for the kill?\" Chloe said. \"All pageantry, my dear,\" the\nwoman said. \"Justice will be served, but it will be clear you were not\nmistreated.\"\n\"I see,\" Chloe said, as the woman followed her. \"Snatched from my\nfamily, starved, drugged, flown halfway across the country, injected\nwith truth serum, and held in solitary confinement overnight is your\nidea of fair treatment?\"\"Hey, I'm just the makeup artist. Call for me when you're ready.\"\n\"For what?\"\n\"I'll fix your hair, make you up a little.\" \"Don't bother.\"\n\"Oh, I have to.\"\n\"You don't have a choice?\" Chloe said.\n\"If you were presentable, maybe, but look at you.\" \"Surely I have a\nchoice. I ought to be able to look however I want.\" \"You'd think. But\nno.\"\nChloe caught a glimpse of herself on the way past the mirror. She\ndid look awful. Her face was greasy and smudged. Her hair a tangle.\nBizarre. When was the last time someone fixed me up? And here it\nwas, free, when her appearance was the last thing on her mind.\n\"Don't dawdle,\" the woman called out. \"We're on a TV schedule, you\nknow.\"\nChloe shook her head. TV people. They expected even the\ncondemned to play team ball.\n\"I'm putting a fresh jumpsuit on the sink! Tell me when you've\nchanged!\" Chloe changed but said nothing. When she came out, the\nwoman said, \"You were going to tell me when you were ready.\"\n\"No, I wasn't.\"\n\"Let's go back in there so I can use the mirror.\" \"Feel free. I don't\nneed it.\" \"Come on! I have to get you ready.\"\n\"I'm ready.\"\n\"Wait, stop! Hold still.\"\nChloe looked the woman full in the face. \"Do you not see the\nabsurdity of this? It's not bad enough that I'm to be put to death?\nYou have to make a spectacle of it?\" \"I have a job and I'm going to\ndo it.\"\"Then you're going to do it right here and right now.\" The woman\nbent to set her bag on the floor and rose with a comb and brush.\nShe worked vigorously on Chloe's hair. Then she used a wetnap to\nwash Chloe's face and dabbed rouge on her cheeks. When she\nproduced mascara, Chloe said, \"No. Now that's it. No mascara, no\nlipstick. We're done.\" \"You know, you're really quite an attractive\ngirl.\" Chloe arched an eyebrow. \"Well, thank you so much. When I\nlook back on this, that's going to be the highlight of my morning.\"\nWhat a comforting thought. I have a chance at having the\nbestlooking head in the Dumpster.\nWhen Chloe was delivered back to Jock, he said, \"Do I need to cuff\nyou, restrain you?\" \"No.\"\n\"That's my girl.\"\nShe gave him a look.\n\"Nothing personal,\" he said. \"I'm just doing what I have to do.\"\n\"Then make sure I get a few last words.\" \"If it was up to me\"\nShe spun and faced him. \"It is up to you, Jock, and you know it.\nAnybody who could tell you what to do is thousands of miles away.\nTake responsibility once, would you? Make a decision here.\nAnnounce that I'm going to speak and then let me. In the end I'm\ngone, and you're headed for your promotion.\nWhat's the harm?\"\nJock avoided her gaze. He led her up the stairs and into the morning\nsun. She shielded her eyes. Not only was the Carpathiarun press out\nin full force, but stands had been set up and apparently the public\ninvited. Chloe wondered what all the noise was about until she\nrealized the crowd apparently recognized she was the main\nattraction and was applauding and cheering. The other prisoners,\nmostly men, were already in their respective rows, waiting behind\nthe tables. Some bounced nervously. Others seemed to\nhyperventilate. Officials sat at each table, one with a mark applicator.What was the point? At this stage, even the ones who took the mark\nstill endured the blade. Did they think the mark gave them some sort\nof an advantage in whatever afterlife Carpathia offered? Crosslegged\non the ground around each guillotine sat prisoners in dark denim.\nThese, Chloe realized, were the lifers Jock described as collectors.\nThey would dispose of the remains. They looked excited, smiling,\njoshing with each other.\nJock led her to the back of the line at the middle table. \"Well, I\nguess this is it,\" he said, and to Chloe he sounded apologetic. \"You\ncan still\"\n\"We should have made it a bet yesterday,\" she said. \"Ma'am?\"\n\"You were sure I would be making lastminute pleas about now.\"\n\"You win that one,\" he said. \"You're a strange woman.\" Chloe was\naware of lights on high poles, scaffolding that supported cameras\nand cameramen, technicians wearing headphones running here and\nthere, people checking their watches. In line at the table to her\nright, a middleaged man bearing Carpathia's markwhich meant he\nhad been sentenced for some other capital crimehad fallen to his\nknees, shuddering and sobbing. He grasped the pant legs of the\nman in front of him, who laid a tentative hand on his shoulder and\nlooked ill at ease. An older woman, yet another line beyond, stood\nwith her face buried in her hands, swaying. Praying, Chloe assumed.\nIn every line were Jews, identified with stenciled Stars of David or\nwearing selfmade yarmulkes, some made of scraps of cloth, some of\ncardboard. The people were wasted, scarred, having been starved,\nbeaten, sunburned.\nChloe knew enough from Buck's research and the inside stuff from\nDavid Hassid and Chang to know that Carpathia wanted these to be\ntortured to within an inch of their lives but not allowed to die before\ntheir public beheadings.\nChloe had been as alarmed as anyone when television had gone\nfrom bad to worse and from worse to unconscionable. The worstpossible perversions were available on certain channels twentyfour\nhours a day, and literally nothing was limited. But when studies\nshowed that by far the mostwatched television shows every day of\nthe week were the public executions, she knew there had been one\nmore far corner for society to turn after all, and it had turned. The\nbloodlust was apparently insatiable. It had come to the point where\nthe most popular of the liveexecution shows were those that lasted\nan hour and included slowmotion replays of the most gruesome\ndeaths. When guillotines malfunctioned and blades stuck, victims\nwere left mortally wounded and screaming but not dead.... This was\nwhat the public wanted to see, and the more the better.\nEach execution was preceded by a rehearsal of the misdeeds of the\nrecalcitrant. The more sordid the past, the more satisfying the\njustice, the logic went. Chloe knew what kinds of stories circulated\nabout her. She could only imagine what was said about the truly\nguilty. Chloe watched Jock make his way back toward the stands and\na single microphone. What appeared to be a stage manager quieted\nthe crowd, waited for a cue, then signaled them to applaud while he\nread from a script, introducing Jock Ashmore. He called him one of\nthe Global Community's crack lead investigators, singlehandedly\nresponsible for the capture and arrest of Chloe Steele Williams, the\nhighest level antiCarpathian terrorist apprehended to date. The\npeople cheered. \"Thank you,\" Jock began. \"We have thirtysix\nexecutions to carry out for you todaytwentyone for murder, ten for\nrefusing to take the mark of loyalty, four for miscellaneous crimes\nagainst the state, and one for all those charges and many, many\nmore.\" The crowd cheered and shouted and whooped and whistled.\n\"I am happy to say that though Chloe Steele Williams did not in the\nend agree to accept the mark of loyalty to our supreme potentate,\nshe did provide us with enough detailed information on her\ncounterparts throughout the world to help us virtually eradicate the\nJudahites outside of Petra and put an end to the blackmarket coop.\"\nThe crowd went wild again.\"But more on her when she becomes today's thirtysixth patient of Dr.\nGuillotine.\" When the crowd finally settled, Jock said, \"We begin this\nmorning in line 7 with a man who murdered his wife and two infant\nsons.\"\nChloe caught a glimpse of a monitor where the mutilated bodies of\nthe boys were shown in ghastly detail. \"God, give me strength,\" she\nsaid silently. \"Keep me focused on you.\" A woman directly in front of\nher, pale and sickly and with no mark of loyalty, turned suddenly.\n\"Are you Williams?\" she said.\nChloe nodded.\n\"I don't want to die, and I don't know what to do!\" Thank you, Lord.\n\"If you know who I am,\" Chloe said, \"you know what I stand for.\"\n\"Yes.\"\n\"Your only hope is to put your faith in Christ. Admit you're a sinner,\nseparated from God. You can't save yourself. Jesus died on the cross\nfor your sins, so if you believe that, tell God and ask him to save you\nby the blood of Christ.\"\n\"I will still die?\"\n\"You will die, but you will be with God.\"\nThe woman fell to her knees and folded her hands, crying out to\nGod. A guard pointed to a collector and then to the woman, and the\nman jumped up and ran toward her. Just as it appeared he was\nabout to bowl her over, Chloe lowered her shoulder and sprang\ntoward him. Her elbow caught him flush in the mouth and snapped\nhis head back. He flopped in the dirt, screaming and spitting teeth\nand blood. The woman continued to pray. Finally she stood. The\nman made a move toward the woman again, but Chloe merely\npointed at him and he skulked away.\n\"I prayed,\" the woman said, \"but I am still scared. How do I know it\nworked?\" \"Let me have a look at you,\" Chloe said, and she saw themark of the believer on her forehead. \"What do you see on my\nforehead, ma'am?\" Chloe said. \"A mark, as if in 3D.\" She reached to\ntouch it. \"I see the same on you,\" Chloe said. \"Only the children of\nGod are sealed with this mark. No matter what happens to you\ntoday, you belong to God.\" The crowed roared as collectors dragged\nthe first man to the guillotine by his hair. He dug in his heels; he\nkicked and screamed. He let his legs go limp and had to be carried\ninto position. The man squirmed and fought so much that extra\ncollectors were called in to hold him down. When the executioner\nmade sure everyone's extremities were clear, he pulled the cord and\nthe great blade fell. The rusty thing, blackened by blood, flipped at\nan angle just before it bit into the victim's neck. Chloe recoiled as it\nsliced only halfway into the man, causing him to lurch and pull back,\nflailing at the collectors who tried to hold him.\nHe somehow broke free and spun and staggered, flinging blood and\ngore. The collectors ducked and laughed and made sport of him as\nthe executioner quickly banged at the blade, straightened it, and\nraised it again.\nTwo collectors grabbed the man and pushed him headlong into\nposition again, whereupon the cord was pulled yet again and the job\ndone right this time. The reaction of the crowd showed they thought\nit was the perfect way to start the day.\n\"Next,\" Jock said, \"we begin with the first of ten in a row who\nrefused to take the mark, minus our guest of honor, of course, as we\nsave the best till last.\" But before he could say anything else, Caleb\nappeared in all his brightness in the middle of the courtyard,\nbetween Chloe and Jock. He appeared fifteen or sixteen feet tall in\nraiment so white that when Chloe turned to see the crowd's\nreaction, it was clear it hurt people's eyes. They shrieked and froze.\nChloe saw Jock turn to see what scared them so. He fell, holding the\nmicrophone, and stared, seemingly unable to move. When Caleb\nspoke, the ground shook and a wind blew dust about. Chloe was\nsure everyone wanted to flee, but they could not.\"I come in the name of the most high God,\" he began. \"Hearken\nunto my voice and hear my words.\nIgnore me at your peril. `Oh, that men would give thanks to the\nLord for His goodness, and for His wonderful works to the children of\nmen!' \"For He satisfies the longing soul and fills the hungry soul with\ngoodness. You who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death are\nbound in affliction because you rebelled against the words of God\nand despised the counsel of the Most High.\n\"Cry out to the Lord in your trouble, and he will save you out of your\ndistress. He will bring you out ofdarkness and the shadow of death\nand break your chains in pieces. \"Thus says the Son of the most\nhigh God: `I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in\nMe, though he may die, he shall live. And whoever lives and believes\nin Me shall never die.' \"But woe to you who do not heed my warning\nthis day. Thus says the Lord: `If anyone worships the beast and his\nimage, and receives his mark on his forehead or on his hand, he\nhimself shall also drink of the wine of the wrath of God, which is\npoured out full strength into the cup of His indignation. He shall be\ntormented with fire and brimstone in the presence of the holy angels\nand in the presence of the Lamb. \"`And the smoke of their torment\nascends forever and ever; and they have no rest day or night, who\nworship the beast and his image, and whoever receives the mark of\nhis name.\"'FOURTEEN\nCHANG SAT deep in the bowels of the tech center at Petra, finally\nunderstanding the Western expression about having one's eyes\nglued to the TV screen. He was prepared to take over the broadcast,\nto yank it off the air before anyone anywhere saw Chloe's execution.\nYet the appearance of this messenger of God, warning the\nundecided against taking the mark, pleading with them to receive\nChristthis was something the globe needed to see and hear yet\nagain. For months reports had come from around the world that\nangels were showing up at mark application and guillotine sites.\nSome accounts were hard to believe, but Tsion BenJudah said they\nfit perfectly with the lovingkindness he knew of God.\nChang glanced over to where the elders sat before a big screen, and\nbeyond them, hundreds of computer keyboarders awaited\ninstructions. The fading lateafternoon sun cast slanted rays through\nthe door a hundred feet from Chang, and he was moved nearly to\ntears by the gently falling manna. Providing food for his chosen,\nprotecting and thrilling Chang, comforting Chloe, and sending\nmessengers with the everlasting gospel ... God was the ultimate\nmultitasker. A phone rang and Naomi answered. Chang read her lips\nas she leaned close to Tsion. \"It's Buck for you.\"\n\"Cameron, my friend! How difficult this must be for you.... No, I am\nsorry, son. I know of no instance where the bearer of the everlasting\ngospel has intervened in the sentencing.... Yes, of course God could\nmiraculously deliver, but I caution you to be prepared for either\nresult....\"\nRayford secondguessed his decision to be in the air during the\nbroadcast. He put the jet on autopilot and watched, but he dreaded\nthe moment that was surely to come and wondered when he would\nrecover enough to trust himself with the controls. Well, he decided,\nhe had no choice. Maybe this was the best therapy. Unless he waswilling to see Chloe and Buck and himself die the same day, he had\nto stay disciplined regardless.\nPoor Buck. On the phone with Tsion and apparently not hearing\nwhat he hoped. Rayford wanted to comfort him, but Buck was not\nthe type who took soothing until well after a crisis was over. Right\nnow he was arguing his case. As the messenger of God stared down\nat the apoplectic crowd and saw the nine remaining undecideds on\ntheir knees, weeping, Buck pressed Tsion. \"But he has his man right\nthere, Doctor! How hard would it be to intervene? Why can't he just\nsweep her out of there and deliver her back to us? You know he\ncould! He could have arranged for us to get word of where she was\ntoo. What have I done or not done that makes me so unworthy of a\nlittle consideration?\"\nChang turned back to the screen to be sure he didn't miss anything,\nbut he could still hear Tsion earnestly counseling Buck.\n\"Cameron,\" Tsion said, \"that is your emotion talking. You know as\nwell as anyone that this whole period, the entire Tribulation, is not\nabout us individually. God has a master plan. It is the culmination of\nthe battle between good and evil that has spanned millennia. He is\nreconciling his people to himself. We should be grateful we have\nbeen included. He has a bigger picture in mind, but it is also\nevidence of his eternal love for us. Trust him, my friend. Trust him\nno matter what.\"\nChloe felt as if she were already in heaven. Caleb's glow had blocked\nfrom her vision the hideous death of the first victim. She watched\nJock struggle to his feet and dust himself off. \"Please, people, no\none leave. We have had reports of these apparitions at other sites,\nthough this is the first visit we have had here. This is a trick\nperpetrated by the spiritualists within the camp of the rebellion.\nPerhaps we should ask permission of the intruder if we may proceed\nwith our program.\" He turned to look at Caleb, pretending to be\neven more afraid than he was. Chloe could tell he had not persuaded\nthe crowd that this was other than real.\"Kind sir,\" Jock said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, \"may we\ncontinue?\" Caleb's voice, louder than ever, resounded off the prison\nwalls. \"You have been tried and found guilty for your crimes against\nthe most high God. That you bear the mark of the evil one\ncondemns you to death. Nothing you do can improve your fate.\nBecause you have worshiped the beast and his image and received\nhis mark, you shall drink of the wine of the wrath of God. You shall\nbe tormented with fire and brimstone in the presence of the holy\nangels and in the presence of the Lamb. And you shall have no rest\nday or night.\n\"That which the Lord God even thinks shall surely happen, and what\nhe decides shall never change, for as the Scripture says, `The Lord\nof hosts has sworn, saying, \"Surely, as I have thought, so it shall\ncome to pass, and as I have purposed, so it shall stand.\"\"'\nJock stared up at Caleb with brows raised, then looked back at the\ncrowd with a shrug. \"Ask a simple question\" he said, and they\nlaughed nervously. \"I'll take that as an indication that we may\nproceed, because, hey, bottom line, if he's right and God's got us in\nhis sights, he can pull the trigger anytime he wants. But look who's\ndying here today. Huh? Are you with me? Who's dying? Let me hear\nyou!\" No one responded.\n\"The socalled people of God!\" Jock said. \"The ones who chose him\ninstead of the real god and our supreme potentate, Nicolae J.\nCarpathia! Come on, people, don't be intimidated by big, shiny,\ntransparent ghosts. Yeah, he's scary. But all he's done is interrupt a\nTV show andget thismake it better! Is this great theater or what?\nThe enemy shows up to rattle his saber, but he hasn't changed a\nthing! You came to see heads chopped off, and that's what you'll\nsee. These people can cry and pray and beg all they want, but\nthey're still gonna die!\" Chloe was thrilled to see the formerly\nundecided nine rise and find that six of them had the mark of the\nbeliever on their foreheads. Something within them must have\nconfirmed this, because they lifted their hands and smiled despite\ntheir impending fate. The other three looked miserable, and Chloeassumed they were among the hardhearted who may have been\ndesperate to change their minds but had waited too long.\nJock, for all his bluster, was either more intimidated by Caleb than he\nlet on or he still had the TV schedule in mind. \"Let's shake things up\na little, shall we?\" he said. \"I want one of the ten without the mark\nof Carpathia at each of the guillotines, all at the same time. Now!\nMove! Collectors, see to it! We'll do them all at once and get back on\nschedule. Any of you who still want the mark, say so now.\" The\nwoman ahead of Chloe and the six others she had seen with the\nmark of the believer stayed where they were, while the other three\nscrambled to the mark applicators. The collectors grabbed the\nremaining seven without Carpathia's mark, including the woman\nahead of Chloe. She turned and they embraced. \"Be strong and trust\nGod,\" Chloe said. They dragged the woman to the middle machine.\nNot one of the seven struggled or fought or had to be forced to\nkneel and lay their necks in place. \"We'll do it on three!\" Jock\nshouted, and the crowd, though still clearly wary of the huge,\nglowing stranger, began to come alive with anticipation.\nChloe lowered her head and closed her eyes, determined not to be\none who watched the execution of children of God. But even with\nher eyes shut, she noticed something and looked up to see that\nCaleb had filled the entire courtyard with a light so bright that no\none could see anything. It wreaked havoc on the TV cameras, and\ncameramen and technicians began hollering for help, pleading with\nJock to wait. \"We will not be delayed by this trick of the enemy!\"\nJock said and counted to three. The sickening sound of the heavy\nblades echoed, and the people cheered, but because of the blinding\nlight, no one saw the deaths, there or on television anywhere in the\nworld. Chang sat back and studied the screen. He signaled to Naomi\nto come over. \"Did you see that?\" he said. \"If the angel does that for\nChloe as well, we won't need to switch the feed. He'll accomplish the\nsame thing for us.\"\n\"But he's gone,\" Naomi said. \"Look.\"She was right. The prison courtyard looked normal again. The\nexecutions proceeded on schedule for the next half hour, each death\npreceded by the typical preliminariesgraphic depictions of the\ncondemned's crimes.\nWith the absence of Caleb, the crowd had returned\nfullthroatedhissing, booing, cheering, applauding. The collectors\nwere filthy with splattered blood and dust, and they seemed drunk\nwith the thrill of their task.\nChloe had stood in the hot sun for more than an hour, mostly\naverting her eyes from the ghastly panorama of horror. Weak from\nhunger, parched with thirst, and dizzy from standing, she fought to\nmaintain her emotions. She prayed and prayed that God would grant\nher an opportunity to speak for him, and that she would be able to\narticulate what was in her mind. Chloe missed Caleb. When he was\nthere it seemed she basked in the glow of glory and felt the\npresence of God. Now she knew God was with her, but it took more\nfaith. She tried to anticipate that she was just moments from the\npresence of almighty God, and she thrilled to the idea that she\nwould soon fall at Jesus' feet.\nBut now she stood in the heat of the day, dust kicking up around\nher, and noticed the sympathetic looks of the mark applicators and\nthe other officials at each desk who had processed the condemned.\nThey had been through this before, had seen the socalled guest of\nhonor ridiculed and humiliated, as if beheading weren't enough.\nMore than thirty minutes after Caleb had interrupted him, Jock was\nfull of himself. He had warmed to the task and, Chloe assumed,\ncould taste his promotion, could picture himself in the corridors of\npower in Al Hillah with the potentate himself.\nStill facing the crowd, Jock switched to a cordless microphone and\nbegan moving toward Chloe. \"And now the moment we have all\nbeen waiting for,\" he announced, and the people began to clap. As\nhe reached Chloe, he touched her shoulder and turned her to facethe stands. He stood there with his arm around her, and though\nrepulsed, Chloe was struck by how gentle he was. His fingers were\nspread, palm open, as he enveloped her shoulder. In her flesh she\nwanted to wrench away and spit at him, but she was aware of the\ninternational television audience and that this was her last\nopportunity to impact anyone for Christ.\n\"It's often customary to give a celebrated case a few last words,\"\nJock said. \"But I have been debating this. What do you think?\"\nSome screamed, \"Get it over with! Kill her! Let's see that pretty little\nhead in a basket!\" Others clapped and yelled, \"Let her speak!\" Jock\nlooked at a stage manager, and Chloe saw the woman signal that he\nhad time to fill. \"I don't know,\" he said. \"Should I or shouldn't I?\"\nThe crowd started in again. \"While we're thinking about that,\" Jock\ncontinued, \"let's watch this tape of the crimes we're avenging\ntoday.\" The assembled hooted and hollered as monitors showed a\nlavishly produced history attributing all sorts of evils to Chloe, the\nJudahites, the Tribulation Force, and the International Commodity\nCoop. Chloe was surprised to see that many of the plagues and\njudgments that had come from heaven the past six years were\nsomehow charged against her and her compatriots' accounts. Finally,\nthe phony charges against her father and her husband were shown,\nalong with the bogus picture of a twoyearold boy she had\nsupposedly named after Jesus and claimed was God reincarnate.\n\"Despite all this,\" Jock said, \"this little lady did an almost complete\naboutface when confronted with her own mortality. In order to take\nsome of the heat off her family, particularly her godinhumanflesh\nchild, she sang like a canary behind closed doors. She gave us so\nmuch information that we have to concede that Chloe Steele\nWilliams has done more than we ever could to help wipe out the last\nvestiges of the most significant rebellion the New World Order has\never faced.\" The people cheered.\n\"So, maybe she's said enough! Maybe she's said too much already!\nMaybe we should just get on with this! What do you say?\"More applause, stomping, shouting.\n\"Mrs. Williams gave up her friends and relatives and coconspirators,\nbut in the end she still refused to pledge her loyalty to the real god\nof this world, the resurrected Nicolae Carpathia.\" Boos filled the\ncourtyard.\n\"And so, Mrs. Williams,\" Jock said, turning toward her, \"unless you're\nready to change your mind about that, I believe we're ready to\nproceed with justice.\" Chloe reached for the microphone, but Jock\nheld it tight. \"Ah, ah, ah!\" he said. \"No speaking privileges for you\nunless you're ready to take the mark of loyalty to the throne of the\nleader of the Global Community.\"\nBut she continued to reach, and now both their hands were on the\nmike. \"Are we witnessing a historic moment here, folks?\" Jock said.\n\"You understand, Mrs. Williams, that taking this microphone also\nmeans taking the mark of Carpathia?\"\nShe took the microphone, and Jock turned to the crowd with both\narms extended, then led them in a huge ovation.\n\"Sir, you told me if it were up to you, I would get to say a few\nwords. Is it up to you?\" Jock reached for the mike. \"That is not the\narrangement! You may speak only if you surrender to the mark.\"\nCaleb appeared behind Chloe again and merely raised a finger and\ngestured no to Jock. Jock froze in place and toppled backward, his\narm outstretched, still reaching. In spite of themselves, the crowd\nlaughed while Jock reddened and perspired, rigid. Chloe turned to\nthe people and spoke softly. \"A famous martyr once said he\nregretted he had but one life to give. That is how I feel today. On\nthe cross, dying for the sins of the world, my own Savior, Jesus the\nChrist, prayed, `Father, forgive them, for they do not know what\nthey do.'\n\"My personal preference? My choice? I wish I could stay with my\nfamily, my loved ones, my friends, until the glorious appearing ofJesus, who is coming yet again. But if this is my lot, I accept it. I\nwant to express my undying love to my husband and to my son. And\neternal thanks to my father, who led me to Christ.\n\"A famous missionary statesman, eventually martyred, once wrote,\n`He is no fool who gives what he cannot keep to gain what he\ncannot lose.' He was talking about his life on earth versus eternal life\nwith God. In my flesh I do not look forward to a death the likes of\nwhich you have already witnessed thirtyfive times here today. But to\ntell you the truth, in my spirit, I cannot wait. For to be absent from\nthe body is to be present with the Lord. And as Jesus himself said to\nhis Father at his own death, `Into Your hands I commit My spirit.'\n\"And now, `according to my earnest expectation and hope that in\nnothing I shall be ashamed, but with all boldness, as always, so now\nalso Christ will be magnified in my body, whether by life or by death.\nFor to me, to live is Christ, and to die is gain.... For I am hard\npressed between the two, having a desire to depart and be with\nChrist, which is far better.' \"And to my compatriots in the cause of\nGod around the world, I say, `Let this mind be in you which was also\nin Christ Jesus, who, being in the form of God, did not consider it\nrobbery to be equal with God, but made Himself of no reputation,\ntaking the form of a bondservant, and coming in the likeness of\nmen. And being found in appearance as a man, He humbled Himself\nand became obedient to the point of death, even the death of the\ncross.\n\"`Therefore God also has highly exalted Him and given Him the\nname which is above every name, that at the name of Jesus every\nknee should bow, of those in heaven, and of those on earth, and of\nthose under the earth, and that every tongue should confess that\nJesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father. \"`Now to Him\nwho is able to do exceedingly abundantly above all that we ask or\nthink, according to the power that works in us ... and to present us\nfaultless before the presence of His glory with exceeding joy, to God\nour Savior, who alone is wise, be glory and majesty, dominion and\npower, both now and forever.'\"Buck and our precious little one, know that I love you and that I will\nbe waiting just inside the Eastern Gate.\"\nChloe bent and laid the microphone on Jock's unmoving chest and\nwithout escort found her way to the base of the middle guillotine. As\nshe knelt and laid her head under the blade, Caleb's glow blinded\nthe eyes of the world. Chloe heard only the pull of the cord and the\ndrop of the sharpened edge of death that led to life eternal.INTERLUDE\nFIFTEEN HOURS later Buck staggered from Rayford's plane,\njetlagged and blearyeyed, but more than anything aching to hold his\nson. Abdullah had driven to the airstrip just outside Petra, and Ming\nhad ridden along, holding the boy. Buck gathered him up and held\nhim tight, his tears streaming down Kenny's back.\nAs the five rode toward the Siq that led into Petra, Abdullah radioed\nahead their estimated time of arrival. \"I hope you don't mind, Buck,\"\nhe said, \"but Dr. BenJudah would like to hold the memorial as soon\nas you and Rayford get there.\"\nBuck was overwhelmed at the turnout. Several hundred had\ngathered at the high place, within the sound of rushing water from\nthe stream. Acquaintances had made way for Buck's and Chloe's\nclosest friends to gather in the front. Hard as it was with Kenny's\narms still wrapped tightly around his neck, Buck sat on a rock shelf\nand took in the scene.\nTsion and Chaim stood in the middle, waiting for people to settle. In\nan inner half circle, facing Buck and Kenny and Rayford, were\nGeorge and Priscilla Sebastian and Beth Ann. Ree Woo and Ming Toy\nheld hands close by. And fresh in from Illinois were Lionel Whalum\nand his wife, Felicia, along with Leah Rose and Hannah Palemoon.\nBuck nodded to Zeke, who stood near Abdullah and Mac. Not far\naway Chang sat on a rock with his new friend Naomi. They appeared\nvery comfortable with each other already, which Buck noticed\nseemed to catch the eye of Naomi's father, Eleazar Tiberias, standing\nnearby. Tsion raised a hand for silence. He began quietly, but Buck\ngot the impression everyone could hear him over the rushing water.\n\"I brought with me today my personal Bible. As you can understand,\nthe elders and particularly Dr. Rosenzweig and I are constantly\nstudying the Scriptures and commentaries and Bible dictionaries,\ntrying to make sense of what is happening in these last days. \"Theseare academic pursuits, and while they bear on everyday life here,\nthey can also be devotional exercises. Every day on every page we\nsee the fingerprints of God himself, working his will in our midst and\nin this world.\n\"But today I bring the Word of God that is not just part of my\ntheological library but rather is the text I have studied since a few\nyears before the Rapture. As you know, my life changed when I\ndiscovered that Jesus was the Messiah I had so long sought, and I\ndiscovered that not only because of the Rapture, but also because I\nhad been commissioned to study the prophecies concerning\nMessiah. \"To do this, I had to purchase a copy of both the Old and\nNew Testaments, which was to meat the time of the purchasemore\nthan an embarrassment. I worried I would be an anathema not just\nto my colleagues but to my God as well.\n\"I was on to the truth before it was proved to me by the Rapture,\nand soon after that I made the knowledge of the true Messiah my\nown faith. And suddenly this book\" he held it aloft\"became my very\nlife's bread. It had gone from a necessary piece of textual research,\nwhich I bought apologetic and redfaced, to my most prized\npossession. \"When my family was massacred, I clung desperately to\nit for life. It became a physical symbol, a talisman if you will, of the\nWord of God that signified to me Jesus, the Christ, the Messiah, the\nSon of the living God, the Lamb who was slain to take away the sins\nof the world. I once read of a great theologian whose personal Bible\nbecame so precious to him that at times he found himself reaching\nout and patting it, almost caressing it as he would a son or daughter\nor spouse. That seemed strange to me, but I grew to understand it,\nto identify with it.\n\"I love this book! I love this Word! I love its author, and I love the\nLord it represents. Why do I speak of the Word of God today when\nwe have come with heavy, heavy hearts to remember two dear\ncomrades and loved ones?\"Because both Albie and Chloe were people of the Word. Oh, how\nthey loved God's love letter to them and to us! Albie would be the\nfirst to tell you he was not a scholar, hardly a reader. He was a man\nof street smarts, knowledgeable in the ways of the world, quick and\nshrewd and sharp. But whenever the occasion arose when he could\nsit under the teaching of the Bible, he took notes, he asked\nquestions, he drank it in. The Word of God was worked out in his\nlife. It changed him. It helped mold him into the man he was the\nday he died.\n\"And Chloe, our dear sister and one of the original members of the\ntiny Tribulation Force that has grown so large today. Who could\nknow her and not love her spirit, her mind, her spunk? What a wife\nand mother she was! Young yet brilliant, she grew the International\nCommodity Coop into an enterprise that literally kept alive millions\naround the globe who refused the mark of Antichrist and lost their\nlegal right to buy and sell.\n\"In various safehouse locations over the past halfdozen years, I lived\nin close proximity to Chloe and to her family. It was common to find\nher reading her Bible, memorizing verses, trying them out on people.\nOften she would hand me her Bible and ask me to check her to see\nif she had a verse correct, word for word. And she always wanted to\nknow exactly what it meant. It was not enough to know the text;\nshe wanted it to come alive in her heart and mind and life. \"To those\nwho will miss Chloe the most, the deepest, and the most painfully\nuntil we see her again in glory, I give you the only counsel that kept\nme sane when my own beloved were so cruelly taken from me. Hold\nto God's unchanging hand. Cling to his Word. Fall in love with the\nWord of God anew. Grasp his promises like a puppy sinks its teeth\ninto your pant legs, and never let go. \"Buck, Kenny, Rayford, we do\nnot understand. We cannot. We are finite beings. The Scripture says\nknowledge is so fleeting that one day it will vanish. `For we know in\npart and we prophesy in part. But when that which is perfect has\ncome,' and oh, beloved, it is coming, `then that which is in part will\nbe done away.\"`When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I\nthought as a child; but when I became a man, I put away childish\nthings. For now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then face to face.' \"Did\nyou hear that promise? `But then . . .' How we can rejoice in the but\nthens of God's Word! The then is coming, dear ones! The then is\ncoming.\"\nTsion sat and opened his Bible in his lap. \"Let me close with this, as\nwe mourn, not as the heathen, but as we mourn the loss of our\nbeloved brother and sister in Christ. The psalmist writes: `Precious\nin the sight of the Lord is the death of His saints. 0 Lord, truly I am\nYour servant; I am Your servant, the son of Your maidservant; You\nhave loosed my bonds. I will offer to You the sacrifice of\nthanksgiving, and will call upon the name of the Lord.\n\"`I will pay my vows to the Lord now in the presence of all His\npeople, in the courts of the Lord's house, in the midst of you, 0\nJerusalem. Praise the Lord! \"`Praise the Lord ... laud Him, all you\npeoples! \"`For His merciful kindness is great toward us, and the\ntruth of the Lord endures forever. Praise the Lord!\n\"`Oh, give thanks to the Lord, for He is good! For His mercy endures\nforever.\n\"`Let Israel now say, \"His mercy endures forever.\"\"'FIFTEEN\nSix Years, Five and a Half Months, into the Tribulation A FEW DAYS\nafter the memorial service, Ree and Ming had been married in a\nsmall ceremony officiated by Tsion. Chang and Naomi's relationship\nhad blossomed, but they were counseled to delay their engagement\nuntil after the Glorious Appearing. Over several months, Rayford had\nreorganized the Tribulation Force. Mac, Abdullah, and Ree became\nthe principal pilots. Lionel Whalum, after months of duty in the air,\nvolunteered to take over the direction of the Coop with Ming\nassisting and Leah and Hannah joining the staff. Chang had come up\nwith a brilliant plan to bug the Baghdad site of the international\nconfab of GC heads of state. By checking the main computer in New\nBabylon daily, he discovered that Leon Fortunato was having\nsomeone remotely transmit records of the daily activity of the\ngovernment for duplication and dissemination. The big break came\nwhen Chang learned the government was bidding out the job of\nwiring the conference hall for sound for the big event. He told Naomi\nof his scheme. \"It's brilliant,\" she said, \"and I think Captain Steele\nwill think so too. You'd better include him in your thinking soon,\ndon't you think?\" Late one night, Chang invited Rayford to the tech\ncenter. \"Here's my plan,\" he told him. \"Ree Woo's identity has never\nbeen compromised, and his name is not known to the GC. I have\nformulated a dossier on him that tells his entire background in\ntechnological college and his small soundengineering firm in South\nKorea, Woo and Associates.\"\n\"Which I assume does not exist.\"\n\"Of course. As you can see, I have him registered as a loyalist in\ngood standing from Region 30, with a list of satisfied customers. If\nyou crosscheck those customers, their endorsements are all in order.\nI already know what all the other bids are on the sound job, so I can\neasily underbid them and get Woo the job.\"\n\"Then what?\"\"I put in a bunch of caveats about how he prefers to use a small\ncrew and work quickly at night when no other sounds would\ninterfere with his adjustments. Setting up the main room and\nworking with GCNN will be easy. I can teach Ree and you how to do\nthat in a day or two. We tell the GC the job will take about twice as\nlong as it really will, giving you access to the main conference room\noff the big hall, where we know Carpathia and his cabinet plan to\nmeet with the regional potentates. Bugging that room is trickier, but\nI can also teach you that. \"I'd love to come and do it myself, but it\nwould take too much for Zeke to make me unrecognizable to people\nI worked with for so long. So I propose teaching Buck and George\nhow to do the bugging work, and while you and Ree are doing the\nbasic sound stuff in the big hall, they can slip into the conference\nroom and get that done.\"\n\"Ree's the only one who's going to look Korean, Chang. The rest of\nus are too big.\" \"That's easy. The whole crew has to be approved in\nadvance anyway, so whatever looks and nationalities Zeke can come\nup with, I can plug them in and have them cleared. I'll have Mr. Woo\nexplain that he's using his allstar international crew to do the best\njob possible.\" \"I like it, Chang. Let me make sure everybody's on\nboard, especially Zeke. He's going to have to make company\nuniforms and get everyone's disguises and documents in order.\" It\nwent off without a hitch. Zeke was masterful in turning both George\nand Rayford into much older men. Buck he made a ruddyfaced\nAussie. All were quick studies in electronics. Chang found Buck the\neasiest to teach because, he believed, Buck so badly needed to\nimmerse himself in a new project. It seemed a small break at the\ntime, but in retrospect, Rayford believed it was major. The only\nrepresentative of the GC cabinet responsible for letting Woo and\nAssociates into the conference hall was a woman who had not been\nin place when Rayford and Buck had worked for Carpathia. She was\nnot suspicious anyway, but interacting with a stranger put them both\nat ease. The rest of the government was still ensconced at Al Hillah,\nbut the woman let on that as soon as the hall was ready for the big\nmeetings in a few weeks, the government would move there andprepare. Rayford was impressed by Ree's ability to bluff about\nelectronics. He had learned enough from Chang to know the lingo,\nand he made sure to keep it over the head of the woman with the\nkeys. She rarely stayed long, and since the Woo crew all had ID tags\nand company caps riding low on their foreheads, they were never\ncarefully checked, and the job went smoothly. Chang had worked\nclosely with Lionel in bartering for parts, and the men lugged in with\nthem everything they needed to transmit from every station around\nthe big conference table, as well as put video transmitters in half the\nlight fixtures. Ree Woo and his associates finished the job ahead of\nschedule, and to their credit, the GC electronically deposited full\npayment via the Internet. \"We are now on Carpathia's payroll,\"\nChang told Rayford. Nicolae's cabinet moved from Al Hillah to\npalatial quarters near the conference hall in Baghdad, and in a\nmatter of days, the heads of the ten regions would join them.\nRayford told Buck one night, \"It's been months since the world has\nheard directly from Carpathia. Now at least we'll know what's in that\nmind of his.\"\nCarpathia had lain low since the darkening of New Babylon. The\ngovernment was in chaos and many employees had died. The\npotentate seemed to have done little but instigate the massive troop\nbuildup in Israel. Rayford speculated that Nicolae was actually\nembarrassed and humiliated by his inability to counteract the latest\nplague.\n\"That's when he's most dangerous though, right?\" Buck said. \"When\ngiven time to think and plot. You can bet he's cooking up something\nspectacular.\" Carpathia hinted at that \"something\" the first time\nChang tapped into the conference room when it was just Nicolae\nand his inner circle. Chang recorded it for Rayford. \"I have news,\"\nthe potentate said. \"And it is so dynamic and delicious, I can hardly\nwait to share it. But I must. I will make you wait until our colleagues\nfrom around the globe are here. I have a trio I want to introduce to\neveryone, three who will help us accomplish our goals.\"\"Where are they from, Excellency?\" came the clear voice of Viv Ivins.\n\"That is also a secret for now.\"\n\"Oh, Lordship, why must you toy with us?\" Leon said. \"Be glad I only\ntoy with you, confrere. The rebel forces will rue the day they ever\ndreamed of opposing me.\"\nRayford was about to retire late one evening when he received word\nthat Tsion wanted to see him. \"He's willing to come to your\nquarters,\" Rayford was told. \"Oh no, I'm happy to go to his.\"\nWhen Rayford arrived, Tsion began, \"Before I get to my request, I\nwant you to know that I am at your disposal. The elders and I are\nfully aware that when you are in Petra, you are the head of the\nTribulation Force, and I am merely, how shall we say it, the chaplain\nof that.\" \"I'm glad you raised this, Tsion, because I had been\nmeaning to talk to you about your deference to me. It makes me\nuncomfortable. I do not see Petra as the headquarters for the\nTribulation Force. Yes, I feel God has put the mantle of leadership on\nme in regard to them, but clearly he has chosen you to lead the\nRemnant of his people, now a million strong. You must not feel you\nanswer to me. You have your elders and your colleague Chaim, and\nhowever the Lord leads you through them is fine with me. In fact I\nprefer it.\"\nTsion reached and squeezed Rayford's shoulder. \"I very much\nappreciate your confidence, Captain Steele. But you must not\ndenigrate your own leadership responsibilities. I was about to ask\nyou about my next internationally televised message.\" Rayford was\npuzzled. \"Your messages have been going out daily via the Internet,\nhaven't they?\" \"Of course. But occasionally God lays on my heart a\nmessage that I believe he wants addressed to believers and\nunbelievers alike. And while I know the Web site is available to all\nand that many unbelievers stumble across it, if we were again able\nto pirate the international airwaves, I would be grateful for the\nopportunity. I believe God has given me a message he wants even\nthe god of this world and his minions to hear. When people hear thetruth of God preached on the Carpathiaowned networks, well, it is\nlike taking the gospel into the very pit of hell.\"\n\"`And the gates of hell shall not prevail against it,\"' Rayford quoted.\n\"Excellent. So, what do you think? Can we do this, and when?\"\n\"First, Tsion, you don't need my permission.\" \"Consider it informing\nyou then.\"\n\"Fair enough. Just know that we have the best techies in the world\nhere, and that means more than just Chang. He's tops, but Naomi is\nright there, and they've developed a team that can do anything.\nThey work as much for you as they do for me, so anytime you want\nthem to do anything, just say so.\" \"You have such wonderful rapport\nwith them, Rayford. And with me. I would prefer to go through you.\"\n\"As you wish. All I'm saying, Tsion, is that no matter when we do\nthis, it is pirating. It is illegal.\" \"You have a problem with that?\"\n\"None whatsoever. Not even a second thought. We are at war, and I\nam prepared to use any means necessary to gain an advantage. All\nI'm saying is that this does not have to be planned. Chang has built\nhis system in such a way that it's simply a matter of throwing a\nswitch. Then they're off and we're on. Say when and say the word.\"\n\"Well, I should think we would want to do this at a most opportune\ntime, when the most people are watching. Maybe during some\nofficial pronouncement from Carpathia, or one of the most popular\nprograms.\"\n\"You know what those are.\"\n\"Don't remind me. I suppose one time is as good as another. How\nabout tomorrow at noon, our time?\" \"Consider it done.\"\n\"I shall call a meeting of everyone, as I am energized by a live\naudience.\" \"A million strong? I can't imagine why. We'll have the\ncameras set up and Chang in position.\" The next day Tsion found\nhimself uncharacteristically nervous. Petra had many newcomers,\nand he never knew what to expect from the crowd. The elders hadprayed for him and encouraged him, and Chaim had introduced him.\nAnd sure enough, when he emerged to speak and Master Chang\ngave the cue that he was on live international television, Petra\nerupted into an ovation. It was just what Tsion had feared, and\nthough he called for quiet and tried to transfer this outpouring of\nemotion to the Lord by pointing up, the people would not be\ndeterred until they got it out of their system. Rayford must have\nnoticed how uncomfortable and displeased Tsion was, for he rushed\nto the rabbi and whispered, \"They are just loving you and thanking\nyou, Tsion! They are so grateful for what you have meant to them.\nJust acknowledge it and it will subside.\" \"But Captain Steele! In\nIsaiah 42:8 God is clear! He says, `I am the Lord, that is My name;\nand My glory I will not give to another.\"'\n\"And I'm telling you these people are not trying to glorify you. They\nare merely thanking you for pointing them to him.\"\nBut Tsion could not acknowledge the people, as much as he wanted\nto believe Rayford was right. He'd rather the earth had swallowed\nhim right then. He merely hung his head and stared at the ground\nfor several minutes until the people apparently grew tired of\ncheering. Chang had ducked back into the tech center once the\ntransfer was made, and he enjoyed listening in on the chaos in\nBaghdad. \"What is going on?\" someone shouted. \"How did this\nhappen? It's impossible!\" Someone else ordered the control team to\nshut off all the affiliates. \"We can't,\" came the reply. \"All our systems\nhave been overridden.\"\nAnd so it wasn't just the million strong at Petra who heard the\nmessage of God through Tsion that day. It was billions around the\nworld.\n\"God has laid on my heart a message that I believe he would have\nme share with you,\" Tsion began. \"I shall not whitewash or\nsugarcoat it, as we are at the most perilous time in the history of\nmankind. We are nearly into the last six months of life as we know\nit. The battle of the ages that has raged since the beginning of timeis about to reach its climax. \"The evil ruler of this world, the\nAntichrist, is spewing his anger and vengeance primarily on God's\nchosen people. All over the world innocent men and women are\nbeing tortured, even as we speak. Their crime? They are Jewish.\nSome are believers in Jesus as Messiah, and many are not.\nRegardless, they refuse the mark of loyalty to Nicolae Carpathia, and\nhe makes them pay every day. \"You have seen the footage, and you\nknow the glee with which the evil one watches his plan carried out.\n\"Many years ago I began proving the truth of God's Word by telling\nyou in advance of the judgments and plagues to come, things clearly\nprophesied hundreds, yea thousands of years ago. We saw the\nfruition of the prophecy of a rider on a white horse, promising peace\nbut bringing a sword. The red horse, World War III, followed that.\nThat brought the black horse of famine, then the ashen horse of\ndeath. Next came the martyrdom of many saints before the Wrath of\nthe Lamb earthquake. \"Those six judgments had been foretold in\nScripture, and the seventh ushered in the next seven. Hail and fire\nrained on the earth. Then the burning mountain fell into the sea.\nWormwood poisoned the waters, and then the sun, moon, and stars\nwere dimmed by onethird. Demonic locusts attacked those who were\nnot sealed by God, and then we were plagued by an army, two\nhundred million strong, of demonic horsemen who slew much of the\npopulation. The fourteenth judgment ushered in the last seven, five\nof which have already befallen us.\n\"Millions suffered from boils, and then the sea turned to blood, then\nthe rivers. The sun scorched people to death and burned a third of\nthe earth's greenery. The darkness that has fallen on New Babylon\nhas been defended, rationalized, and explained away. But no one\ncan account for the fact that it is so pervasive that it causes those\ncaught in it to gnaw their tongues from the pain. \"Many have\nspeculated how long this will last. I tell you nothing in Scripture\nindicates it will abate before the end. That is why the ruler of this\nworld has moved out of his own kingdom. He may think the day will\ncome when he and his people can move back in, but I proclaim he\nnever will. Two more judgments await before the glorious appearingof our Lord and Savior, Jesus the Christ. \"Hear me! The Euphrates\nRiver will become as dry land! Scoff today but be amazed when it\nhappens, and remember it was foretold. The last judgment will be\nan earthquake that levels the entire globe. This judgment will bring\nhail so huge it will kill millions. \"I am asked every day, how can\npeople see all these things and still choose Antichrist over Christ? It\nis the puzzle of the ages. For many of you, it is already too late to\nchange your mind. You may now see that you have chosen the\nwrong side in this war. But if you pledged your allegiance to the\nenemy of God by taking his mark of loyalty, it is too late for you. \"If\nyou have not taken the mark yet, it may still be too late, because\nyou waited so long. You pushed the patience of God past the\nbreaking point. \"But there may be a chance for you. You will know\nonly if you pray to receive Christ, tell God you recognize that you are\na sinner and separated from him, and that you acknowledge that\nyour only hope is in the blood of Christ, shed on the cross for you.\n\"Remember this: If you do not turn to Christ and are not saved from\nthe coming judgment, this awful earth you endure right now is as\ngood as your life will ever get. If you do turn to Christ and your\nheart has not already been hardened, this world is the worst you'll\nsee for the rest of eternity. \"For those of you who are already my\nbrothers and sisters in Christ around the world, I urge you to be\nfaithful unto death, for Jesus himself said, `Do not fear any of those\nthings which you are about to suffer. Indeed, the devil is about to\nthrow some of you into prison, that you may be tested.... Be faithful\nuntil death, and I will give you the crown of life.' \"What a promise!\nChrist himself will give you the crown of life. It shall be a thrill to see\nJesus come yet again, but oh, what a privilege to die for his sake.\n\"The good news is that I believe that the enemy, whether he admits\nit or not, knows his time is limited. That too has been prophesied.\nRevelation 12:12 says, `Therefore rejoice, 0 heavens, and you who\ndwell in them! Woe to the inhabitants of the earth and the sea! For\nthe devil has come down to you, having great wrath, because he\nknows that he has a short time.' Lest you doubt me, remember that\neverything this man has done was foretold. Revelation 13:58 says,\n`He was given a mouth speaking great things and blasphemies, andhe was given authority to continue for fortytwo months. Then he\nopened his mouth in blasphemy against God, to blaspheme His\nname, His tabernacle, and those who dwell in heaven. It was\ngranted to him to make war with the saints and to overcome them.\nAnd authority was given him over every tribe, tongue, and nation. All\nwho dwell on the earth will worship him, whose names have not\nbeen written in the Book of Life of the Lamb slain from the\nfoundation of the world.' \"You can have your name written in the\nBook of Life! That is the good news. \"Now I must tell you there is\nalso bad news. The wrath of the evil one will reach a fever pitch\nfrom now until the end. There will be increasing demands for all\npeople to worship him and take his mark. To you who share my faith\nand are willing to be faithful unto death, remember the promise in\nJames 5:8 that `the coming of the Lord is at hand.'\n\"Oh, believer, share your faith and live your life boldly in such a way\nthat others can receive Christ by faith and be saved. Think of it,\nfriend. You could pray to be led to those who have not yet heard the\ntruth. You may be the one who leads the very last soul to Christ.\n\"Second Peter 3:1014 says that `the day of the Lord will come as a\nthief in the night, in which the heavens will pass away with a great\nnoise, and the elements will melt with fervent heat; both the earth\nand the works that are in it will be burned up.\n\"`Therefore, since all these things will be dissolved, what manner of\npersons ought you to be in holy conduct and godliness, looking for\nand hastening the coming of the day of God, because of which the\nheavens will be dissolved, being on fire, and the elements will melt\nwith fervent heat? Nevertheless we, according to His promise, look\nfor new heavens and a new earth in which righteousness dwells.\n\"`Therefore, beloved, looking forward to these things, be diligent to\nbe found by Him in peace, without spot and blameless.'\n\"I urge you to imitate our Lord and Savior and say with him, `I must\nbe about My Father's business.' \"Some have legitimately questioned\nhow a loving and merciful God could shower the earth with such\nhorrible plagues and judgments. Yet I ask you, what else could hehave done after so many millennia to shake men and women from\ntheir false sense of security and get them to look to him for mercy\nand forgiveness?\n\"Think of how merciful he has been. He removed his church before\nthe Tribulation began. He sent two supernatural witnessing\npreachers to Jerusalem to communicate his love. He poured out his\nHoly Spirit in power, as he promised through the prophet Joel, to\nconvince mankind of its need to receive Christ rather than serve\nSatan and his demons.\n\"He sealed 144,000 Jewish evangelists to fan out across the globe\nand reach what the Bible calls `a great multitude which no one\ncould number' with the saving knowledge of the Son of God. He sent\nthree angels of mercy to help people make their decision for Christ.\nAnd he has promised to supernaturally warn mankind before he\ndestroys Babylon. \"Most of all, in his mercy, God still allows people\nto decide their own eternal destiny, whether to choose Jesus Christ\nas Lord and Savior or to believe Satan. \"The most wonderful news I\ncan share with you today is that God has prompted us to use the\nbrilliant minds and technology we have been blessed with here.\nAnyone who communicates with us via the Internet will get a\npersonal response with everything you need to know about how to\nreceive Christ. \"Yes, I know the ruler of this world has outlawed even\nvisiting our site, but we can assure you that it is secure and that\nyour visit cannot be traced. We have thousands of Internet\ncounselors who can answer any question and lead you to Christ.\n\"We also have teams of rescuers who can transport you here if you\nare being persecuted for the sake of Christ. This is a dangerous\ntime, and many will be killed. Many of our own loved ones have lost\ntheir lives in the pursuit of righteousness. But we will do what we\ncan until the end to keep fighting for what is right. For in the end,\nwe win, and we will be with Jesus.\" Near the end of Tsion's\nmessage, Rayford picked his way through the throng and made his\nway to the tech center. He stood behind Chang, watching as the\nyoung man chuckled and kept track of the frustration in Baghdadand at the affiliate stations around the world. When he noticed\nRayford, Chang said, \"Here, listen to this.\" He clicked on a session\nhe had recorded in the conference room where Nicolae was\ndemanding to know whom to fire or kill because of the TV disaster.\n\"Where is Figueroa?\"\n\"He has not been seen since we left New Babylon, Excellency.\"\n\"What about his people? The Asian kid. The Scandinavian young\nman.\" \"The Asian is unaccounted for. The Scandinavian died from\nthe heat, remember?\" \"I cannot keep track of everyone who dies\nfrom one of these plagues. Who is running television now?\" \"It has\nbeen farmed out to the affiliates. Things are impossible in New\nBabylon.\" \"I knowthat, Leon! I want someone assigned who can put\nan end to this. What will people think?\" Fortunato cleared his throat.\n\"Begging your pardon, Highness, but they will wonder what some on\nthe cabinet are wondering. They are asking, `What about the fact\nthat so many of these things we have suffered through were\nforetold? Is there some truth to all this? Who is Carpathia anyway?\"'\n\"They want to know who Carpathia is?\" Nicolae said, his voice rising.\n\"My own cabinet?\" \"Yes, sir.\"\n\"And what about you, Leon? Who do you say that I am?\" \"I know\nwho you are, sir, and I worship you.\" \"Are you implying there are\nthose in my inner circle who do not?\" \"I am telling you only what I\nhear, Majesty.\" \"Maybe it is time we tell them, Leon. Maybe it is time\nthey know who I am, if they truly do not know.\"\nChang knew he would be unable to sleep. He and Naomi walked\ntoward her quarters, their pace slowing more and more the closer\nthey got. \"What an incredible time to be alive,\" he said. \"Really?\"\nshe said. \"If I could choose, I'd rather have known Jesus earlier and\ngone to be with him at the Rapture.\"\n\"Well, sure, if we had that choice.\"\n\"We had it.\"\"Yeah.\"\n\"Actually, Chang, in my mind the greatest time to be alive will be\nafter the Glorious Appearing. Besides getting to be with Jesus in a\ntime of peace on earth, I'll get to live with you for a thousand\nyears.\"\nChang was staggered by the thought. He stopped and took both her\nhands in his. \"I wonder what I'll look like when I'm a thousand and\ntwenty years old,\" he said. \"A wrinkledup little old Chinese man, I\nguess.\"\n\"You'll still be cute to me. I'll be an old Jewish lady with lots of kids\nbetween the ages of five hundred and nine hundredandsomething\nyears old.\" He cupped her face in the moonlight. \"I am so grateful to\nhave found you.\"\nBuck lay on his cot, across the room from Kenny's, his arms aching\nfrom holding his Bible up to read it. He was studying everything he\ncould find on the coming battle. Rayford had promised he would be\nassigned to Jerusalem, and at first he was disappointed, thinking all\nthe action would be outside Petra or in the Jezreel Valley. But from\nwhat he could tell, those were just staging areas for the armies of\nthe world. Much of the conflict would be in Jerusalem. And there\nwas no place he would rather be.SIXTEEN\nRAYFORD WAS astounded that things could get worse. Just when he\nthought there was nothing Carpathia could do to top his evil exploits,\nreports flooded into the computer center that made it clear\nCarpathia had turned up the heat all over the world. More\npersecution, more torture, more beheadings. Tsion's appeal to\npeople to contact the Internet counselors at Petra had generated an\noverwhelming response. This necessitated that the elders train more\ncounselors and Naomi and Chang train more teachers to get more\npeople up to speed on the computers. Tsion had been preaching for\nages that the world was speeding headlong toward Armageddon,\nbut Rayford had never felt it so personally. He began really looking\nforward to seeing his Savior facetoface and to reuniting with his\nloved ones and friends. But there was much to do yet. Mac,\nAbdullah, and Ree recruited pilots and planes from all over the world\nto continue the massive airlift to Petra. There were days when\nRayford wondered if they could even begin to catch up to the\ndemand. The only prerequisite for a free ride to safety was the mark\nof the believer. It was assumed a person without the mark of\nCarpathia would be persecuted or executed. Most amazing to\nRayford, as he studied the Scriptures every day, was that the end of\nthe strange prediction in Revelation 16:1011 regarding the plague in\nNew Babylon proved true of Carpathia's followers all over the world:\n\"His kingdom became full of darkness; and they gnawed their\ntongues because of the pain. They blasphemed the God of heaven\nbecause of their pains and their sores, and did not repent of their\ndeeds.\"\nHow could it be, Rayford wondered, that all these plagues and\njudgments could fall and yet the vast majority of people would not\nchange their ways? Chang had, of course, mercifully ceded control of\ninternational television back to the Global Community. And it was\nclear from Carpathia's public pronouncements that he was taking the\ncredit for \"finally having this thing under control.\"\"The next time he says that,\" Chang told Rayford, \"I'm going to\nimmediately switch to this commercial we devised last week.\"\nThe tape showed a particularly strong clip from Tsion's last\nbroadcast speech and closed with a voiceover: \"Proclamations from\nyour potentate are allowed only by the goodwill of Tsion BenJudah\nand your friends at Petra.\"\nChang had for several days been testing the bugging job Buck and\nGeorge had done in the private conference room in Baghdad. He got\nto where he could coordinate the video with the audio, switch to\nwhoever was talking, and even follow Carpathia as he moved at the\nhead of the table. Two of the hidden video devices had the ability to\nfollow a person around the room. The arrival of the ten regional\npotentates from around the world was broadcast by GCNN, and Buck\ncouldn't remember such pomp and circumstance since Carpathia had\nmocked the Stations of the Cross in Jerusalem. Parades, marching\nbands, light shows, dancing girls, announcements, and\npronouncements. Stands full of cheering supplicants lined the\nroutes, as representatives from each of the regions preceded their\npotentate.\nFinally the dignitaries and a few thousand sycophants lucky enough\nto get tickets were ushered into the great room of the new\nconference hall, where Carpathia was to hold forth on an exciting\nnew chapter in world history.\nThe Most High Reverend Father of Carpathianism, Leon Fortunato,\nwas tapped to make the royal introduction, of course. He was in full\nregalia, which started at the top with a brimless fez of cardinalred\nfelt with a flat top adorned by a tassel of alternating gold and silver\nstrings with mirrored bits that reflected the stage lights all over the\nauditorium. He wore a new robe of purple and iridescent yellow with\nsix bars of brocade on each sleeve.\nFortunato was so obsequious and fawning in his introduction that\nanyone but Antichrist himself would have been ill withembarrassment. Carpathia stood in mock humility, clearly fighting a\nsmile, and bathed in the worship from his toadies.\n\"Thank you, thank you, thank you, one and all,\" Carpathia said,\narms outstretched. \"You are too kind to this humble servant from\nmodest beginnings who has found himself thrust into a responsibility\nfar beyond what he ever dreamed, only to discover by a spark of the\ndivine that he was truly godeven to the point that he resurrected\nhimself from the dead. \"And yet youyes, each and every one of\nyouhave made my task easier, in spite of crushing opposition and\nobstacles on every side. Every region has been well served by\ndynamic subpotentates who have pulled together in times of crisis\nand helped make our fractious world a truly global community.\"\nCarpathia was interrupted countless times by tumultuous applause,\nand each time he seemed to bask in the glow of it. \"This,\" he said,\n\"may be the most momentous and historic occasion in the history of\nour world. Despite the decimation of our citizenryand our\ngovernmentby relentless plagues and what our enemies glibly refer\nto as `judgments from heaven,' I have called the top leaders\ntogether from every corner of the earth. Tomorrow, in a highly\nsecure, private meeting, I will outline my marvelous, truly inspired\nplan to once and for all lead us to our goal of true global harmony.\n\"Our detractors have been given ample opportunity to see the error\nof their ways and to join our international family. I truly believed for\ntoo long that they were merely misunderstanding our aim and were\nignorant of the benefits of standing shoulder to shoulder with us.\nImagine what we could accomplish with everyone on board!\n\"Well, that day will soon come, my friends. We shall work together\nto enlist our enemies as fellow laborers, or we will eradicate them\nfrom our midst and be left with only loyalists ... loyalists who share a\ncommon goal and purpose: true utopia, paradise on earth. \"No\ndoubt alleven the oppositionhave to agree that we have been fair.\nWe have been patient. We have tried. But the time for tolerance has\ncome to an end. Do you detect an end of patience? I freely admit it.\nIt is time to get on board or be eliminated. Within half a year, Ipledge to every loyal citizen of our Global Community, the opposition\nto peace will be destroyed. You will be living in the peaceful\nwonderland of your dreams.\"\nRepresentatives of the subpotentates from the ten regions, when\ninterviewed by TV reporters, all played a variation of the same tune:\n\"This is the privilege of a lifetime. What I wouldn't give to be in the\nprivate conference that follows this.\"\nWhen the ceremonies were over, so was the broadcast. But the best\npart would come early the next morning at the meeting of\npotentateswhich everybody in the Global Community assumed,\nbecause it was a closeddoor session, was also private. But it was as\nif selected members of the Trib Force were in the room. Gathered\naround a bigscreen TV deep in the caverns of Petra, Rayford's\nhandselected lineup of colleagues watched every moment through\nthe miracle of technology and Chang's expert manevering. Chang sat\nin the back, manning the controls. Rayford sat with Buck on one side\nand George on the other. Tsion and Chaim were also there. All would\nfill in the other key members, who were busy with Coop and airlift\nduties.\nAs the room in Baghdad was filling, Rayford asked Chang to pan the\nroom. \"Let's get a look at who's there.\"\nThe big conference table had room for three at each end and six on\neach side. Each spot had a microphone, and all but the three at the\nfar end also had a name card. Only two places were set at the head\nof the table, one for Carpathiawho was not there yeton the left and\nthe other for Fortunatowho was nervously tapping his gigantic ruby\nring on the first of two luxurious leather notebooks to his right. To\nthe left of Carpathia's spot and proceeding to the other end were the\npotentates from the United African States, the United European\nStates, the United Great Britain States, the United South American\nStates, the United North American States, and Viv Ivins. Each wore\nthe epitome of a themed outfit from his or her respective region,\nfrom the colorful dashiki of the African potentate to the widesombrero and gauchos of the South American and the tengallon hat\nand embroidered cowboy suit of the North American. Viv Ivins wore\nher customary powderblue suit, which nearly matched her hair color,\nbut for the first time her outfit was completed by a gigantic diamond\nbrooch and a blouse so white it played havoc with the video feed.\nTo Fortunato's right and extending to the other end of the table were\nthe potentates from the United Carpathian States, the United\nRussian States, the United Indian States, the United Asian States,\nthe United Pacific States, and Suhail Akbar. Again, these potentates\nwere dressed in their finest regional garb, the most dramatic of\nwhich was a jetblackandsilver kimono worn by the Asian leader.\nSuhail wore his most formal dress uniform of the Global Community\nmilitary Peacekeeping forces, topped by a navy cap with gleaming\ngold braid. The three chairs at the end of the table opposite\nCarpathia and Fortunato were filled with three males who looked to\nRayford like triplet manikins. All wore plain black suits, buttoned up,\nwith black ties. No jewelry, no headwear, nothing else. They sat with\ntheir hands clasped before them on the table, not moving and\nlooking neither right nor left. \"I don't recognize those three, Tsion,\"\nRayford said. \"You?\" The rabbi shook his head. \"Oddly, they seem to\nbe not even blinking. Everyone else certainly seems to be stealing\nglances at them frequently. Do you think they are real? Could they\nbe cardboard cutouts?\" \"Chang,\" Rayford said, \"focus on just them,\ncould you?\" He did, and also reported, \"They are real. I taped them\nsitting down. You want to see it?\" \"As long as we don't miss\nCarpathia's entrance.\" \"You won't.\"\nChang ran back the tape, showing the three taking their seats. They\nseemed to be one, moving in unison. \"Which door did they come\nin?\" Rayford said. \"I missed that part. They seemed to simply\nappear.\" \"Okay, back to live.\" A short buzz made Fortunato jump and\nreach inside his robe, as if to turn off a pager. He stood quickly and\nstraightened his robe, removing his fez. \"Ladies and gentlemen,\" he\nsaid, \"please rise for your supreme potentate, His Highness, His\nMajesty, His Excellency, our lord and risen king, Nicolae Carpathia,the first and last, world without end, amen.\" Except for the three\nmystery men, who still didn't budge, all stood, removing headwear. A\nmilitary man in dress blues opened the door and Carpathia entered,\nwhereupon Fortunato fell, rather loudly, to his knees. Nicolae was\ndressed in a black, pinstriped suit with a white shirt and a bright\nturquoise tie. While Leon knelt, face buried in his hands on the floor\nand rear end aloft, displaying more expanse of his robe than anyone\nmight have wished to see, Nicolae stopped a couple of feet behind\nhis own chair and allowed the assembled to approach him one by\none.\nIndividually they bowed and shook his hand with both of their own.\nMany kissed his hand or his ring, and more than one briefly knelt like\nLeon, whispering expressions of devotion and deference. They\nreturned to stand behind their chairs.\nWhen all had finished there was an awkward silence, as apparently\nLeon was next on the docket and unaware of his cue. Finally\nCarpathia cleared his throat, Leon looked up suddenly and\nclambered to his feet, catching the hem of his robe under the toe of\nhis shoe. A distinct rip could be heard as he straightened up,\nstumbling and catching himself on Carpathia's chair, which was on\nrollers and nearly pitched him into his lord and risen king, first and\nlast, world without end, amen. Fortunato grabbed Nicolae's hand\nand pulled it toward his lips, almost making Carpathia leave his feet.\nAt the last instant, Leon realized he had grabbed the wrong hand,\ndropped it, grabbed the other, and loudly kissed the potentate's ring.\n\"Your Excellency, sir,\" he said, pulling Carpathia's chair out with one\nhand and grandly gesturing toward it with the other.\n\"Thank you most kindly, Reverend,\" Carpathia said, sitting. \"And,\nladies and gentlemen, you may be seated.\"\nLeon had left him a foot from the table, so Carpathia grabbed the\nedge and pulled himself forward. Fortunato, realizing his gaffe,\nquickly reached behind to push, and now Carpathia's chest pressedagainst the table. While Leon busily opened one of the leather\nnotebooks and slid it in front of His Highness, Carpathia backed\naway to a more comfortable distance. Nicolae thanked them all for\ncoming, as if they had a choice, and said, \"Down to business. Let me\nbegin by reminding you that this is not a democracy. We are not\nhere to vote, and neither are you here to give me input. If there is\nsomething you believe I need to know, feel free to say so. If you\nhave a problem with my leadership or have any questions about why\nI have done anything or about the plans I will reveal today, I remind\nyou of the disposition of three former potentates to the south who\nhave been replaced due to their untimely deaths.\n\"Questions? I thought not. Let us proceed. \"Ladies and gentlemen,\nthe time has come for me to take you into my confidence. We must\nall be on the same page in order to win the ultimate battle. Look into\nmy eyes and listen, because what you hear today is truth and you\nwill have no trouble believing every word of it. I am eternal. I am\nfrom everlasting to everlasting. I was there at the beginning, and I\nwill remain through eternity future.\" Nicolae stood and began to\nslowly circle the table as he spoke. No one present followed him with\ntheir eyes. They just sat as if catatonic. \"Here is the problem,\" he\nsaid. \"The one who calls himself God is not God. I will concede that\nhe preceded me. When I evolved out of the primordial ooze and\nwater, he was already there. But plainly, he had come about in the\nsame manner I did. Simply because he preceded me, he wanted me\nto think he created me and all the other beings like him in the vast\nheavens. I knew better. Many of us did.\n\"He tried to tell us we were created as ministering servants. We had\na job to do. He said he had created humans in his own image and\nthat we were to serve them. Had I been there first, I could have told\nhim that I had created him and that it was he who would serve me\nby ministering to my other creations. \"But he did not create\nanything! We, all of usyou, me, the other heavenly hosts, men and\nwomenall came from that same primordial soup. But no! Not\naccording to him! He was there with another evolved being likemyself, and he claimed that one as his favored son. He was the\nspecial one, the chosen one, the only begotten one.\n\"I knew from the beginning it was a lie and that Iall of uswas being\nused. I was a bright and shining angel. I had ambition. I had ideas.\nBut that was threatening to the older one. He called himself the\ncreator God, the originator of life. He took the favored position. He\ndemanded that the whole earth worship and obey him. I had the\naudacity to ask why. Why not me? \"Did I incite insurrection? You bet\nI did. And why not? What does seniority have to do with anything\nwhen we all evolved from the same source? There is plenty for\neveryone, but if preeminence is to be gained, I shall have it! About a\nthird of the other evolved beings agreed with me and took my side,\npromised to remain loyal. The other twothirds were weaklings, easily\nswayed. They took the side of the socalled father and his socalled\nson.\n\"Am I Antichrist? Well, if he is Christ, then yes! Yes! I am against the\nChrist who was falsely crowned by the pretend creator. I will ascend\ninto heaven; I will exalt my throne above the stars of God. I will\nascend above the heights of the clouds; I will be like the Most High.\n\"But because he got there first and I was the one with the audacity\nto challenge him, I got cast out! Where is the justice in that? We\nhave been mortal enemies ever since, that father and that son and I.\nHe even persuaded the evolved humans that he created them! But\nthat could not be true, because if he had, they would not have free\nwill. And if he created me, I would not have been able to rebel. It\nonly makes sense.\n\"Once I figured that out, I began enjoying my role as the outcast. I\nfound humans, the ones he liked to call his own, the easiest to sway.\nThe woman with the fruit! She did not want to obey. It took nothing,\nmere suggestion, to get her to do what she really wanted. That\nhappened not far from right here, by the way.\n\"And the first human siblingsthey were easy! The younger was\ndevoted to the one who called himself the only true God, but theother ... ah, the other wanted only what I wanted. A little something\nfor himself. Before you know it, I am proving beyond doubt that\nthese creatures are not really products of the older angel's creativity.\nWithin a few generations I have them so confused, so selfish, so full\nof themselves that the old man no longer wants to claim they were\nmade in his image. \"They get drunk; they fight; they blaspheme.\nThey are stubborn; they are unfaithful. They kill each other. The only\nones I cannot get through to are Noah and his kin. Of course, the\ngreat creator decides the rest of history depends on them and wipes\nout everyone else with a flood. I eventually got to Noah, but he had\nalready started repopulating the earth. \"Yes, I will admit it. The\nfather and the son have been my formidable foes over the\ngenerations. They have their favoritesthe Jews, of all people. The\nJews are the apples of the elder's eye, but therein lies his weakness.\nHe has such a soft spot for them that they will be his undoing. \"My\nforces and I almost had them eradicated not so many generations\nago, but father and son intervened, gave them back their own land,\nand foiled us again. Fate has toyed with us many times, my friends,\nbut in the end we shall prevail. \"Father and son thought they were\ndoing the world a favor by putting their intentions in writing. The\nwhole plan is there, from sending the son to die and resurrectwhich\nI proved I could do as wellto foretelling this entire period. Yes, many\nmillions bought into this great lie. Up to now I would have to\nacknowledge that the other side has had the advantage. \"But two\ngreat truths will be their undoing. First, I know the truth. They are\nnot greater or better than I or anyone else. They came from the\nsame place we all did. And second, they must not have realized that\nI can read. I read their book! I know what they are up to! I know\nwhat happens next, and I even know where!\n\"Let them turn the lights off in the great city that I loved so much!\nAh, how beautiful it was when it was the center for commerce and\ngovernment, and the great ships and planes brought in goods from\nall over the globe. So it is dark now. And so what if it is eventually\ndestroyed? I will build it back up, because I am more powerful than\nfather and son combined. \"Let them shake the earth until it is leveland drop hundredpound chunks of ice from the skies. I will win in\nthe end because I have read their battle plan. The old man plans to\nsend the son to set up the kingdom he predicted more than three\nhundred times in his book, and he even tells where the son will land!\nLadies and gentlemen, we will have a surprise waiting for him. \"The\nson and I have been battling for the souls of men and women from\nthe beginning. If you rulers and I join forces from all over the world\nand act in unison from a single staging area, we can once and for all\nrid ourselves of those forces that have hindered our total victory up\nto now. \"The socalled Messiah loves the city of Jerusalem above all\ncities in the world. He even calls it the Eternal City. Well, we shall\nsee about that. That is where he supposedly died and came back to\nlife. \"This strange affection for the Jews resulted in what he tells\nthem is an eternal covenant of blessing. If we, the rulers of the\nearth, combine all our resources and attack the Jews, the son has to\ncome to their defense. That is when we turn our sights on him and\neliminate him. That will give us total control of the earth, and we will\nbe ready to take on the father for mastery of the universe.\" Nicolae\nhad made two rounds of the table and returned to his chair, looking\nspent. \"It is in their Bible,\" he said. \"And they claim never to lie. We\nknow right where he will be. Are you with me?\" \"We are with you,\nExcellency,\" the South American said, \"but where will that be?\" \"We\nrally everyoneall of our tanks and planes and weapons and armiesin\nthe Plain of Megiddo. This area in northern Israel, also known as the\nPlain of Esdraelon or the Plain of Jezreel, is about thirty kilometers\nsoutheast of Haifa and one hundred kilometers north of Jerusalem.\nAt the appointed time we will dispatch onethird of our forces to\noverrun the stronghold at Petra, and I shall do it this time without so\nmuch as one nuclear device. We shall overcome them with sheer\nnumbers, perhaps even on horseback.\n\"The rest of our forces will march on the socalled Eternal City and\nblast through those infernal walls, destroying all the Jews. And that\nis where we shall be, joined by our victorious forces from Petra, in\nfull force to surprise the son when he arrives.\" Fortunato sat shakinghis head as if overcome with the brilliance of the strategy.\n\"Questions for the potentate?\" he said. \"Anyone?\"\nThe potentate of the United Asian States timidly raised his hand. \"I\ndon't know about the rest of you,\" he said, \"but our army of\nhundreds of millions is led by many independent generals who are\nnot easy to meld. Their staffs and their platoons have been\ndevastated and greatly reduced by plagues, boils, and many other\nunbelievable tortures. Over half my population is dead or missing.\nHow are we going to get these armies and their leaders to follow\nus?\" Many heads nodded.\n\"That is a question I do not shrink from, my friends,\" Carpathia said.\n\"But before I tell you how together we shall accomplish that, let me\ntell you what your military leaders' first order of business will be. As\nyou will remember, when I first came to power nearly seven years\nago, I collected from all the world governments 90 percent of their\nweaponry. This was stored at a secret location I am now willing to\nreveal. In massive armories in and around Al Hillah, just under one\nhundred kilometers to the south of us, we have enough firepower to\ndestroy the planet. \"Needless to say, we do not want or need to\ndestroy the planet. We simply want your soldiers to have more than\nwhat they need to wipe out the Jews and destroy the son I have so\nlong opposed. So once I tell you how we will get your military\nleaders on board, your next assignment will be to get them to Al\nHillah, where our Security and Intelligence director, Mr. Suhail Akbar,\nwill see that they are more than fully equipped.\"\n\"How long will this take?\" the Indian potentate asked. \"You have less\nthan half a year, ladies and gentlemen, so begin today. I have had\nCarpathian States troops pouring into Israel for months already. And\nwhen our Global Community army is in place, I want the armories of\nAt Hillah empty. Is that understood?\" \"Understood,\" the Russian\npotentate said, \"but like my colleagues, I am eager to hear how we\nare to persuade discouraged, sick, and injured leaders and troops.\"\n\"Reverend Fortunato,\" Nicolae said, rising. Leon leaped to his feet,\nhis chair rolling back. \"Ladies and gentlemen, the time has come tointroduce you to three of my most trusted aides. No doubt you have\nbeen wondering about the three at the end of the table.\"\n\"Wondering why they seem not to have so much as blinked since we\nsat down,\" the British potentate said.\nCarpathia laughed. \"These three are not of this world. They use\nthese shells only when necessary. Indeed, these are spirit beings\nwho have been with me from the beginning. They were among the\nfirst who believed in me and saw the lie the father and son were\ntrying to perpetrate in heaven and on earth.\" \"Leon,\" Carpathia said,\nand they walked down either side of the table to the other end.\n\"Excuse me, Ms. Ivins,\" Nicolae said, and she stood and pulled her\nchair out of his way. \"Excuse me, Director Akbar,\" Leon said, and\nSuhail did the same. Rayford jumped when Tsion snapped everyone\nto attention by calling out, \"Chang, get this! This is Revelation 16:13\nand 14!\"\nThe camera angle changed, and those assembled in Petra had a\nclear view of both Nicolae and Leon from behind the three seemingly\nlifeless bodies at the end of the table. The Antichrist and the False\nProphet leaned in from either side, resting their elbows on the table\nand looking into the eyes of the robotlike creatures. Leon and\nNicolae exhaled hideous, slimy, froglike beingsone from Leon and\ntwo from Nicolaethat leaped into the mouths of the three. The three\nsuddenly became animated. Nicolae smiled. \"Let's see them from the\nfront, Chang,\" Buck hollered, and Chang made the adjustment. The\nthree now bore a striking resemblance to Carpathia. They sat back\ncasually, smiling, nodding to the potentates all around. The leaders\nlooked stunned and frightened at first, but soon warmed to the\npersonable strangers.\n\"Please meet Ashtaroth, Baal, and Cankerworm. They are the most\nconvincing and persuasive spirits it has ever been my pleasure to\nknow. I am going to ask now that we, all of us, gather round them\nand lay hands on them, commissioning them for this momentous\ntask.\" The three backed up their chairs to make room for thepotentates, Viv, Suhail, Leon, and Nicolae to surround and touch\nthem.\nNicolae said, \"And now go, you three, to the ends of the earth to\ngather them to the final conflict in Jerusalem, where we shall once\nand for all destroy the father and his socalled Messiah. Persuade\neveryone everywhere that the victory is ours, that we are right, and\nthat together we can destroy the son before he takes over this\nworld. Once he is gone, we will be the undisputed, unopposed\nleaders of the world.\n\"I confer upon you the power to perform signs and heal the sick and\nraise the dead, if need be, to convince the world that victory is ours.\nAnd now go in power. . . .\" Ashtaroth, Baal, and Cankerworm\ndisappeared amid a huge bolt of lightning that struck the middle of\nthe conference table and temporarily blacked out the TV monitor in\nPetra. As the picture returned, a huge peal of thunder made Chang\nrip off his headphones. Nicolae and Leon returned to stand behind\ntheir chairs, as did the rest of the potentates and Viv and Suhail. As\nthey stood there calmly, Nicolae said, \"Farewell, one and all. I will\nsee you in six months in the Plain of Megiddo on that great day\nwhen victory shall be in sight.\" Buck sat stunned but quickly came to\nhis senses. \"Somebody read that passage Tsion mentioned!\" \"I've\ngot it right here,\" Chaim said. \"Revelation 16:13 and 14 say, `And I\nsaw three unclean spirits like frogs coming out of the mouth of the\ndragon, out of the mouth of the beast, and out of the mouth of the\nfalse prophet. For they are spirits of demons, performing signs,\nwhich go out to the kings of the earth and of the whole world, to\ngather them to the battle of that great day of God Almighty.\"' \"Read\nthe next two verses too, Chaim,\" Tsion said. \"The first quotes Jesus\nhimself,\" Chaim continued. \"\"`Behold, I am coming as a thief.\nBlessed is he who watches, and keeps his garments, lest he walk\nnaked and they see his shame.\" And they gathered them together to\nthe place called in Hebrew, Armageddon.\"'SEVENTEEN\nRAYFORD TOLD Buck and George to scout out a new meeting room,\nsomewhere in Petra that would not draw curiosity seekers. \"It needs\nto hold maybe twenty, at most,\" he told them, though he knew it\nwas unlikely to see half that.\nHe met with Tsion in the tiny living room in Tsion's quarters. \"I need\nyou to teach my top guys,\" he said. \"They all know by now what\nwent on in Baghdad, and everybody has questions about what it all\nmeans and what our roles should be. Nobody wants to just sit here\nin safety while the rest of the world goes to hell.\"\n\"I can identify with that, Rayford, and I will gladly do it. I have just\nthis morning turned over all administrative and teaching duties of\nthe Remnant here to Chaim.\" Rayford shot him a double take. \"You\ndid what?\" \"I do not want to stay here either.\"\n\"What are you saying?\"\n\"If I am to teach your top little military band, I want to be part of it.\nI want to be taught to fight, to use a weapon, to defend myself, to\nkeep my comrades and my fellow Jews alive.\" Rayford stood and\nwalked to the unscreened window that looked out on endless skies.\n\"I'm dumbfounded,\" he said.\n\"Do not think I have not consulted the Lord on this.\" \"It's not\nenough you're a rabbi, a teacher, a preacher? Now you want to be a\nsoldier?\" \"Rayford, listen to me. I identify with my Lord, my Messiah.\nI cannot sit here when Antichrist and his worldwide forces are\nclosing in on Jerusalem. I will not stand by as innocent Jews are\nkilled. The Bible teaches that a third of the remaining Jews will turn\nto Messiah before the end. That means many, many more than there\nare now, and they need to be reached. I want to preach in\nJerusalem, Rayford. That is what I am trying to tell you.\"\n\"You'll get yourself killed.\"\"I would rather wake up in heaven a few days early and join the\narmy coming the other way with Messiah, knowing I died with my\nboots on, than sit here in Petra watching it on television.\" \"I don't\nknow if I can allow it.\"\n\"If the Lord allows it, I do not see that you have a choice. Oh,\nRayford, sit down. I do not want to go foolishly, to go unprepared. I\nam just into my fifties now, not an old man. Not young, I know, but\nI am in shape. If Mac McCullum can do these kinds of things at his\nage, surely I can too. I know my hands are soft like those of a\nscholar, but how long can it take to develop calluses and learn to\nhandle a weapon?\"\n\"You're serious.\"\n\"I will not be dissuaded. I am more than willing to teach your team\nwhat I know about what is going on. But my price is to also become\na student of your Mr. Sebastian.\" Rayford sat and shook his head.\n\"You may not be an old coot, but you're stubborn.\" \"Is that not part\nof the makeup of the warrior?\" \"Oh, you're a warrior now.\"\n\"I hope to be.\"\n\"Have you consulted the elders?\"\n\"Did I inform them? Yes. Were they happy? No. Will they pray about\nit? Yes. Do I care what they come back with? Only if it is a yes.\"\nBuck couldn't believe it. \"But I have to admire his spunk. I'll never\nforget the night he and I first talked to the two witnesses at the\nWailing Wall. That was before I even knew Dr. BenJudah was a\nbeliever. I was pretty new at this stuff myself, but I recognized John\n3 and the nighttime conversation between Jesus and Nicodemus. It\nwas moving.\"\n\"I'd never forgive myself if I let him go and something happened to\nhim,\" Rayford said. \"He's a tough guy. He stood up to Carpathia on\ninternational television, telling what he thought about Jesus being\nthe Messiah. And after his family was massacred, I know he'd ratherhave been carrying an Uzi than a Bible. He could be a valuable\naddition to this team. And the only one who can preach and teach.\nI'd vote for him.\"\n\"I'm not taking any vote.\"\n\"You just got one. Anybody voting against?\" \"I might,\" Rayford said.\n\"You're more of a coward than he is.\"\nMac got a kick out of the whole thing. He was all for Tsion learning\nto be a soldier and coming with them to Jerusalem. He sat under\nTsion's teaching in the private chamber every week for the next\nseveral months and learned more about the very last days than he\nthought there was to imagine. He saw the fire in the rabbi's eyes\nand knew, Rayford's misgivings aside, that Tsion was going. Tsion\nbegan one evening's lesson by reading Jude 1:1415: \"`Now Enoch,\nthe seventh from Adam, prophesied about these men also, saying,\n\"Behold, the Lord comes with ten thousands of His saints, to execute\njudgment on all, to convict all who are ungodly among them of all\ntheir ungodly deeds which they have committed in an ungodly way,\nand of all the harsh things which ungodly sinners have spoken\nagainst Him.\"'\n\"Did you catch that, people? The word he repeats so many times? It\nsinks in, doesn't it, when a prophet of God refers to the ungodly four\ntimes in one sentence? These enemies of ours are the enemies of\nGod. They are out to steal and kill and destroy anything that is of\nGod. But Jesus himself says in John 10: and 11, `I have come that\nthey may have life, and that they may have it more abundantly. I am\nthe good shepherd. The good shepherd gives His life for the sheep.'\nOh, to be a shepherd called to give your life for your flock!\n\"Many of you have asked where I get the idea that onethird of God's\nchosen people will turn to him before the end. Turn in your Bibles to\nZechariah 13. That is the secondtolast book in your Old Testament.\nIn verses 8 and 9 the prophet is talking about the Remnant of Israel:\n\"`And it shall come to pass in all the land,\" says the Lord, \"thattwothirds in it shall be cut off and die, but onethird shall be left in it:\nI will bring the onethird through the fire, will refine them as silver is\nrefined, and test them as gold is tested. They will call on My name,\nand I will answer them. I will say, `This is My people'; and each one\nwill say, `The Lord is my God.\"\"\n\"Now as I have told you before, calling this final conflict the Battle of\nArmageddon is really a misnomer, as this is just the staging area of\nthe world's armies. The actual conflicts will take place here at Petra,\nor near here, as God has proved this city is impenetrable, and at\nJerusalem. To be precise, this should be called the War of the Great\nDay of God the Almighty.\" Buck raised his hand. \"I've been hearing\nyou teach this stuff for years, and I still don't think I have the\nsequence down. What's going to happen when?\" Tsion chuckled.\n\"Scholars have debated that since time immemorial. I found that the\nonly way I could make sense of it was to have my Bible and all my\nbooks and commentaries open at the same time and try to make a\nlist of the various stages of the events. \"In my opinion, eight events\nwill take place sometime after the sixth Bowl judgment, the drying\nup of the Euphrates River. That event, by the way, makes it possible\nfor the kings of the East to bring their armaments of war directly into\nthe plain of Megiddo on dry land, saving them the time of shipping\nthem all the way around the continents. There is no biblical\ncorroboration for this next assertion, but in my humble opinion, this\nis a trap set by almighty God. He's luring these rulers and their\narmies right to where he wants them.\n\"Regardless, once the Euphrates has dried up, we see the\nassembling of the allies of the Antichrist. Next, I believe, comes the\ndestruction of Babylon. Isaiah 13:69 says, `Wail, for the day of the\nLord is at hand! It will come as destruction from the Almighty.\nTherefore all hands will be limp, every man's heart will melt, and\nthey will be afraid. Pangs and sorrows will take hold of them; they\nwill be in pain as a woman in childbirth; they will be amazed at one\nanother; their faces will be like flames. \"`Behold, the day of the Lord\ncomes, cruel, with both wrath and fierce anger, to lay the landdesolate; and He will destroy its sinners from it.\"' \"Wow,\" Buck said.\n\"I don't know if I want to be there to see that.\" \"You're going to be\nin Jerusalem by then, Buck,\" Rayford said. \"Me too,\" Tsion said.\n\"Following the destruction of Babylon comes the fall of Jerusalem.\nThat will encourage the allied troops of Antichrist, and they will\nsurge to join their compatriots here at what the Bible calls Bozrah.\nImmediately following that comes what I call the national\nregeneration of Israel. \"In Romans 11:2527 the apostle Paul writes,\n`For I do not desire, brethren, that you should be ignorant of this\nmystery, lest you should be wise in your own opinion, that blindness\nin part has happened to Israel until the fullness of the Gentiles has\ncome in. And so all Israel will be saved, as it is written: \"The\nDeliverer will come out of Zion, and He will turn away ungodliness\nfrom Jacob; for this is My covenant with them, when I take away\ntheir sins.\"\"'\n\"Then comes the good stuff,\" George said. \"At least the way I read\nit.\" \"Exactly,\" Tsion said. \"The Glorious Appearing. Jesus Christ\nappears on a white horse with ten thousand of his saintly army, and\nregardless of what Antichrist thinks is going to happen, his end is\nnear. \"Want to hear a bizarre word picture? When John talks about\nthis in his Revelation, he says in verses and 20 of the fourteenth\nchapter: `So the angel thrust his sickle into the earth and gathered\nthe vine of the earth, and threw it into the great winepress of the\nwrath of God. And the winepress was trampled outside the city, and\nblood came out of the winepress, up to the horses' bridles, for one\nthousand six hundred furlongs.'\n\"Think of that! When Jesus and his holy army finally slay the world\nallies of Antichrist, the slaughter will be so great that the flow of\nblood in Israel's central valley could be as high as a horse's bridle.\nHow high is that? Four feet or more.\"\n\"And how far is one thousand six hundred furlongs?\" \"I am so glad\nyou asked, George,\" Tsion said, \"because I happen to have studied\nit. It is about one hundred and eightyfour miles, the approximate\ndistance from Armageddon to Edom.\" \"But that's only six events,\"Buck said. \"Are there really two more?\" \"Yes. There is the end of the\nfighting in the Jehoshaphat Valley, which is basically the area from\nhere to just south of Jerusalem, west of the Dead Sea. Because\nPetra is safe, all Antichrist's armies can do is fight outside.\n\"Then, finally, comes Jesus' victory ascent up the Mount of Olives. I\nwant to be there for that.\" \"You may be there,\" Rayford said. \"But\nwhether you'll still be alive is a different story.\"EIGHTEEN\nSix Years, Eleven Months, into the Tribulation WITH JUST WEEKS to\ngo to the culmination of the final events, Rayford had finally gotten\nused to the idea that Tsion was going to Jerusalem.\n\"That I'm acceding to this doesn't imply that I support it, does it,\nTsion?\" \"I know you better than that. But I may also know you\nbetter than you know yourself. After all this talk, you would be\ndisappointed if I pulled out now.\"\n\"Disappointed? Relieved. I somehow feel I'm going to have to\nanswer to God for what happens to you.\"\n\"Trust me. I will let you off the hook.\" \"Let me see those hands, old\nman.\"\n\"I told you,\" Tsion said, extending his hands. \"I am not that old.\"\n\"Older than I am, so ancient in my book,\" Rayford said. \"But those\nare impressive calluses. And George and Razor tell me you're\nactually starting to hit targets with that Uzi.\" \"I do not see how\nanyone can miss. It shoots so many bullets in so short a time, to me\nit is like using a garden hose. If you miss your mark, just swing it\nback and forth until you hit it.\" \"What do you plan to do, seriously,\nDoctor? Stand somewhere and preach with a weapon hanging from\nyour shoulder?\"\n\"If I must. Rayford, we have known each other long enough that we\nshould be free to be frank. I feel such a compulsion to plead with my\nfellow countrymen to give their lives to Messiah that I do not believe\nit would be physically possible for me not to. I must get there, and I\nmust preach. I do not want a disguise. I cannot imagine the GC even\ncaring about me anymore.\" \"Are you serious? The leader of the\ninternational Judahites\" \"That is their term for us, not ours, and\ncertainly not mine.\" \"But, Tsion, everybody knows you. If theythought my daughter was a prime catch, imagine if they got hold of\nyou.\"\nTsion shook his head. \"But if God has laid this so heavily on my\nheart, maybe he is telling me that I will be supernaturally protected.\"\n\"Well, is he or isn't he?\"\n\"All I know is that I must go.\"\n\"I'm sending Buck with you. I promised him duty in Jerusalem. I\ncan't think of a role with more action than what you're going to\ndraw.\"\n\"I would be honored to have him as my bodyguard. Is he the\nmilitary man George is?\" \"Who is? But George is otherwise engaged,\nyou know.\" \"Defending the perimeter here, yes, he told me. My\nquestion is, why don't we ignore the perimeter if our borders are\nimpregnable?\"\n\"Because people are seeking refuge here all the time, and they are\nnot safe until they get inside.\" \"And yet they are safe in the air. How\ndo you figure that?\"\n\"I've quit trying to figure out God, Tsion. I'm surprised you haven't.\"\n\"Oh, Rayford, you have just stepped into one of my traps. You know\nhow I love to quote the Word of God.\"\n\"Of course.\"\n\"Your mention of figuring out God reminds me of one of my favorite\npassages. Ironically, it leads into a verse that justifies my going in\nspite of the danger.\" \"I'm listening.\"\n\"Romans 11:3336: `Oh, the depth of the riches both of the wisdom\nand knowledge of God! How unsearchable are His judgments and\nHis ways past finding out! \"For who has known the mind of the\nLord? Or who has become His counselor? Or who has first given to\nHim and it shall be repaid to him?\" For of Him and through Him andto Him are all things, to whom be glory forever. Amen.\"'\n\"Impressive.\"\n\"But, my friend, that leads into the first verse of the twelfth chapter,\nwhich is my justification: `I beseech you therefore, brethren, by the\nmercies of God, that you present your bodies a living sacrifice, holy,\nacceptable to God, which is your reasonable service.\"' \"Just hope it's\na living sacrifice, Tsion.\"\nChang had concluded that Carpathia believed the prophecy about\nthe drying up of the Euphrates, because he had sanctioned sensitive\ndevices in the river that recorded information that was fed into and\nevaluated by the GC mainframe computer. Chang, of course, was\nmonitoring that from Petra. Nearly four weeks later, he knew when\nthe event occurred before the GC did. \"It's happened!\" he shouted,\nstanding at his computer. Everyone nearby jumped and stared, and\nNaomi came running. \"There was water in the Euphrates a minute\nago, and now it is as dry as a bone. You can bet tomorrow it will be\non the newssomeone standing in the dry, cracking riverbed, showing\nthat you can walk across without fear of mud or quicksand.\" \"That is\namazing,\" Naomi said. \"I mean, I knew it was coming, but isn't it\njust like God to do it all at once? And isn't that a fifteenhundredmile\nriver?\" \"It used to be.\"\nMac's and Abdullah's reconnaissance flights over the area showed\nthat weaponry had been taken from the armories in Al Hillah until\nthey had to be empty. Within days, great columns of soldiers, tanks,\ntrucks, and armaments began rolling west from as far away as Japan\nand China and India. \"And here,\" Chang told Naomi, \"is the break\nTsion has been looking for, whether he knew it or not. Look at this.\"\nHe printed out a directive from Suhail Akbar himself, instructing\nGlobal Community Peacekeepers and Morale Monitors to cease and\ndesist with all current assignments and consider themselves\nredeployed to the GC One World Unity Army. \"Your superiors have\nbeen similarly assigned, and you will report to them in the staging\narea in twentyfour hours or face AWOL charges.\" \"What happens to\nthe streets?\" Naomi said. \"I can't imagine, love. The inmates will berunning the asylum. But that means people without Carpathia's mark\ncan come out from hiding.\"\n\"If they dare. There's still a bounty on their heads. The loyalists will\nkill them and stack their bodies, waiting for the end of the war to\ncash in.\" \"Won't they be disappointed.\"\n\"I must go as soon as possible,\" Tsion told Rayford. \"What is the\nfastest way Cameron and I can get to Jerusalem?\"\n\"Helicopter, I suppose, if I can find you a pilot.\" \"What are you doing\nright now?\"\n\"Uh, wellI guess nothing. Anything else?\" Tsion laughed. \"I cannot\nwait. I have packed foodstuffs and a change of clothes, and if\nCameron has done as I requested, he will have done the same. Who\nwould know if a chopper is available?\" \"Meet me at the helipad in\nhalf an hour.\" Priscilla Sebastian made a valiant effort to distract\nKenny Bruce as Buck tried to extract himself from the boy's embrace.\n\"I'll be back soon,\" Buck said. \"Got to go with Uncle Tsion.\" Kenny\nsaid nothing. He just hung on.\n\"Grandpa's going to come see you after he drops us off, okay? You're\ngoing to stay with him while I'm gone.\"\nKenny lightened his grip and pulled back to look at Buck. \"Grandpa?\"\n\"That's right.\"\n\"Plane ride?\"\n\"I bet so.\"\n\"When?\"\n\"Soon. Soon as he gets back.\"\n\"I wanna go.\"\"Not enough room. Now you be a good boy and play with Beth Ann,\nand Grandpa will be here soon.\nOkay?\" ay.*\nMac was working with Otto Weser and George on planning the\nevacuation from New Babylon, as soon as the word came that\nbelievers were to move out. No one, not even Tsion, seemed to\nknow how that would be supernaturally announced or even whether\nanyone outside New Babylon would hear it. \"I know of a few other\ncells there,\" Otto said. \"I have left instructions with one of the\nleaders to call me once she gets the word. I don't know what else\nwe can do. I'll tell them to meet us at the palace airstrip and hope\nwe have a plane big enough to get them all out of there.\" \"All we\ncan do is all we can do,\" Mac said. Naomi interrupted their meeting.\n\"Want to say goodbye to Tsion? Everyone is turning out for the\nfarewell.\"\n\"He's going already?\"\nShe told Mac why.\n\"Tsion never lets any grass grow on an idea, does he?\" He and\nGeorge and Otto followed Naomi to a clearing near the helipad,\nwhere it seemed hundreds of thousands had shown up. \"Word\ntravels quick round here, doesn't it, Otto?\" \"Mr. McCullum, many of\nthese people are weeping. He's only going to Jerusalem, isn't he?\nThat can't be more'n a hundred miles, can it? And surely he's coming\nback.\" \"That's what they're cryin' about, Otto. Most folks wonder if\nhe will be back.\" Rayford waited on firing up the chopper so Tsion\ncould be heard. The rabbi pulled a white cloth from his pocket and\nwaved it vigorously at the people as Buck boarded behind him.\n\"These people are going to want your neck when you come back\nwithout him, Rayford,\" Buck said. \"Which, of course, I plan to do in\nan hour or less.\" \"I'djust better not come back without him,\" Buck\nsaid. \"People! People!\" Tsion shouted. \"I am overwhelmed at your\nkindness. Pray for me, won't you, that I will be privileged to ushermany more into the kingdom. We are just days away now from the\nbattle, and you know what that means. Be waiting and watching. Be\nready for the Glorious Appearing! If I am not back before then, we\nwill be reunited soon thereafter. \"You will be in my thoughts and\nprayers, and I know I go with yours. Thank you again! You are in\ngood hands with Chaim 'Micah' Rosenzweig, and so I bid you\nfarewell!\" He continued waving as he boarded. Rayford noticed the\nrabbi's tears as he buckled himself in.\n\"Something's on your mind,\" Naomi said, as she and Chang walked\nhand in hand. He had just finished transmitting to Rayford's\nhelicopter a schematic of Jerusalem with various potential putdown\nspots. Chang shrugged. \"Sometimes I'm glad I'm here and safe and\ncan sleepunlike at the palacebut other times I feel I'm taking the\neasy way out. Everyone else is gearing up for the battle.\" \"Oh,\nChang. Don't say that. You put in your years of frontline work. And\nanyway, you know full well you're much more valuable here in the\ncenter than out there shooting or being shot at. I don't know what\nwe'd do without you.\"\n\"You were getting along fine before I got here.\" She dropped his\nhand and put her hands on her hips, cocking her head at him. \"You\nhave a short memory, Chang Wong. How can you forget that I spent\na good portion of every day on the computer with you, though we\nwere more than five hundred miles apart? I would have been\nnowhere without your teaching me, which is the way I feel now.\"\n\"Everything's up and running here. I could be gone a few weeks.\" \"I\nwasn't talking technically, Chang. Call me selfish, but I'm glad you're\nnot venturing out. Father loves me, but not like you do.\"\n\"I should hope not.\"\nShe smiled. \"And I enjoy spending time with him, which is\nsomething a lot of women my age can't say about their fathers. But\nI would rather be with you. Remember, we want to survive so we\ncan be together for a millennium. Let's not risk that for the sake of\nyour conscience.\" \"You don't think I'd be good in combat.\" \"ActuallyI do, Chang. I know you're half the size of that Sebastian character\nand much more rational than Buck Williams. But I believe a person's\npersonality and character come out when the pressure is on, and\nI've seen you under pressure. With a little training, you could hold\nyour own.\"\nRayford was studying Chang's transmissions and trying to discuss\nwith Buck the best place to land. Buck was busy digging through\nwhat he'd brought and said, \"It's your call, Ray. I can't imagine one\nspot is going to be any less treacherous than another.\" \"Remember\nthat all these GC are expected to be in Megiddo tomorrow,\" Rayford\nsaid. \"Not today. They might still like a plum arrest.\"\n\"I disagree,\" Buck said. \"Their directive told them to immediately\ncease and desist and head toward where they had to be. I don't\nknow a guy in uniform who wouldn't take them up on that.\" \"Just\ntake me to the Wailing Wall, Rayford,\" Tsion said. \"I want to be\npreaching when I get off this thing.\"\n\"Could you think of a more dangerous place?\"\n\"Danger is not the issue now, Captain. Time is. The Day of the Lord\nis at hand. Let us not be setting up camp when the enemy attacks.\"\n\"Easy for you to say,\" Rayford said.\n\"Not unless I am on the ground. Now, for once, do what I ask.\"\nRayford came within sight of the Temple Mount. It was crawling with\npeople. \"Agh!\" \"They will move,\" Tsion said. \"Trust me. Put this thing\ndown, and they will get out of the way. Wouldn't you?\"NINETEEN\nTHE INSTANTANEOUS drying up of the Euphrates proved good news\nto only the kings of the East, who transported their weapons directly\ninto Israel across dry land. The rest of the Fertile Crescent was no\nlonger fertile. Irrigation dried up, hydroelectric plants shut down,\nfactories closed. In short, everything that depended on the massive\npower of the great river was immediately diagnosed as terminal.\nChang's prediction of GCNN's carrying accounts of reporters standing\nin the middle of the dry riverbed proved accurate. But all the fancy\npronouncements and\nisn'titsomethingthatI'mstandingherewhereyesterdayIwouldhavebeen\nahundredfeetbelowth esurface did not amuse millions who depended\nupon the Euphrates for their very existence.\nIt didn't surprise Buck that Tsion proved to be right. When Rayford\nlowered the chopper into a clearing at the Temple Mount, hundreds\nof angry people scattered, raising their fists at him. Buck grabbed his\nbag and tucked his Uzi behind his back and under his jacket. He\nleaped from the chopper and scampered to safety in underbrush\nnear the Wall. He looked back to see Tsion doing the same and was\namazed at the agility of this newly trained guerilla. They knelt,\ncatching their breath and watching Rayford lift off. The chopper\nwhirling out of sight took the attention off them. Buck looked\naround. \"This is where I saw the two witnesses taken into heaven\nthree and a half years ago,\" he said.\nThat old curiosity was back. Rayford couldn't shake it. No way he\ncould be this close to Armageddonhe guessed less than seventy\nmilesand not do a flyover. It was crazy, he knew. He might find\nhimself in an air traffic jam. But the possibility of seeing an aerial\nview of what he had been hearing and reading and praying about\ndrew him like an undertow. And if the result was that he plunged\ninto the abyss like a rafter over the falls, it was worth the risk.\"Cameron, look,\" Tsion said. \"Look at all the unmarked men! They\nproudly parade around, beaming at each other, as if defying the GC.\"\nGlobal Community Peacekeeping and Morale Monitor forces were\nnowhere to be seen, of course. But war was in the air. For all the\nposturing of the devout Jews at the Temple Mount, it was clear that\nterror pervaded the place. These people knew where the GC were,\nand they knew they would soon be Carpathia's targets.\n\"The old men are at the Wall,\" Tsion said, \"praying fervently and\nopenly as they have not been able to do for so long. How my heart\nbreaks for them. The young men are talking, planning, looking for\narms. They are determined to defend this city, as I am.\" \"But the city\nis to fall, Tsion,\" Buck said. \"You've said so yourself.\" \"Only\ntemporarily, and the more of these people we can keep alive, the\nmore can come into the kingdom. That is all I care about.\"\nMac was still not sure what to make of Otto Weser. He was a good\nman, no doubt, but he was amateur in his thinking. He may have\nbeen a successful timber businessman in Germany, but Mac would\nnot want to have served under him in combat.\n\"But don't you see, Mr. McCullum,\" Otto was saying, \"if we are\nalready on the ground at the palace airstrip when the supernatural\nannouncement comes, we'll be that much more ready to quickly get\npeople on board and out of there.\"\n\"And what if we never hear that announcement, or people can't get\nto the airstrip? There we sit with the city coming down around us.\"\n\"But will we not be protected as believers?\" \"Think, man! If believers\nwere protected, why would God be calling his own people out of\nthere before he levels the place?\"\n\"I want to wait no longer, Cameron. I'm going to the Wall and I will\nsimply begin preaching.\" \"But what if\"\n\"There is no more time to think things through,\" Tsion said. \"We are\nhere for one purpose, and I am going to do it. Now are you going tocover me? Go with me? What?\" \"I'll go with you. No one will give me\na second glance, once you open your mouth.\" Tsion pressed a\nyarmulke onto his head and handed one to Buck. \"No sense getting\nstoned for a technicality,\" Tsion said. \"We are going to a holy place.\"\nThey stuffed their bags between a tree and a black wroughtiron\nfence. Wearing loosefitting, canvastype clothing and jackets, Uzis at\ntheir sides, they crawled out of the bushes and jogged toward the\nWall.\n\"Hey, old man, two hundred Nicks for that gat!\" \"I'll go three\nhundred!\" someone else said. \"The weapon is not for sale!\" Tsion\nhollered. \"Come hear what I have to offer!\" The area before the\nWailing Wall was crowded with people in traditional garb, eager to\npush their prayers into the cracks between the stones. Many began\npraying even before they got close. The place would have been\ndeserted the day before. And anyone caught in religious clothing,\neven with the mark of Carpathia, would have been sent to a\nconcentration camp or executed. As soon as Buck and Tsion began\nto shoulder their way toward the Wall, men glared at them and\ngrumbled. Tsion did not hesitate. He bellowed, \"Men of Israel, hear\nme! I am one of you! I come with news!\"\nIt was clear people thought it was news of the impending attack, as\nthey immediately began gathering. Tsion climbed a short precipice,\nwhere he could better be seen and heard. \"We will fight to the\ndeath!\" someone shouted. \"I know you will, and so will I!\" Tsion\nsaid. \"You see me with my head covered and no mark on my\nforehead or hand.\"\nThe men cheered.\n\"Many of us will die in this conflict,\" Tsion continued. \"I am willing to\ngive my life for Jerusalem!\" \"So are we!\" many shouted in unison.\n\"We need arms!\"\n\"We need information!\"\"What you need,\" Tsion boomed, \"is Messiah!\" The men cheered and\nmany laughed. Others murmured. This was plainly not what they\nexpected to hear. \"Many of you know me! I am Tsion BenJudah. I\nbecame persona non grata when I broadcast my findings after being\ncommissioned to study the prophecies concerning Messiah.\" Many\nremembered and applauded. Although they obviously disagreed with\nhis conclusions or they would have been believers, they seemed to\nadmire him. \"My family was slaughtered. I was exiled. A bounty\nremains on my head.\" \"Then why are you here, man? Do you not\nknow the Global Community devils are coming back?\"\n\"I do not fear them, because Messiah is coming too! Do not scoff!\nDo not turn your backs on me!\"\nMany did not. \"Listen to our own Scriptures. What do you think this\nmeans?\" He read Zechariah 12:810: \"`In that day the Lord will\ndefend the inhabitants of Jerusalem; the one who is feeble among\nthem in that day shall be like David, and the house of David shall be\nlike God, like the Angel of the Lord before them. It shall be in that\nday that I will seek to destroy all the nations that come against\nJerusalem. \"`And I will pour on the house of David and on the\ninhabitants of Jerusalem the Spirit of grace and supplication; then\nthey will look on Me whom they pierced. Yes, they will mourn for\nHim as one mourns for his only son, and grieve for Him as one\ngrieves for a firstborn.\"'\n\"You tell us what it means!\"\n\"God is saying he will make the weakest among us as strong as\nDavid. And he will destroy the nations that come against us. My dear\nfriends, that is all the other nations of the earth!\" \"We know.\nCarpathia has made it no secret!\" \"But God says we will finally look\nupon `Me whom they pierced,' and that we will mourn him as we\nwould mourn the loss of a firstborn son. Messiah was pierced! And\nGod refers to the pierced one as `Me'! Messiah is also God.\"Beloved, my exhaustive study of the hundreds of prophecies\nconcerning Messiah brought me to the only logical conclusion.\nMessiah was born of a virgin in Bethlehem. He lived without sin. He\nwas falsely accused. He was slain without cause. He died and was\nburied and was raised after three days. Those prophecies alone\npoint to Jesus of Nazareth as Messiah. He is the one who is coming\nto fight for Israel. He will avenge all the wrongs that have been\nperpetrated upon us over the centuries. \"The time is short. The day\nof salvation is here. You may not have time to study this for\nyourselves. Messiah is God's promise to us. Jesus is the fulfillment of\nthat promise. He is coming. Let him find you ready!\"\nRayford's was not the only craft over the Plain of Megiddo. It was all\nhe could do to pick his way through the traffic, but he also found it\ndifficult to avert his eyes from the ground. He climbed to where he\ncould see the 14by25mile valley in its entirety, some 350 square\nmiles. The dust seemed to rise a mile as tanks, trucks, personnel\ncarriers, missile launchers, cavalries, and ground troops moved into\nthe area. Rayford had never seen as large an assembly of people in\none place. It appeared as if an army of millions was marshaling in\nthe vast staging area. From there he could also see the bustling\nseaport at Haifa, where great ships filled the harbor and fanned out\nin massive lines, waiting to disgorge armaments and troops.\nFrom every direction personnel and equipment flooded into the\nregion. Massive as it was, there seemed no way it could hold more.\nAnd yet the armies kept coming.\nBuck feared at first that Tsion was only offending the devoutly\nJewish crowd. Many tried to shout him down and many walked\naway, but others tried to hush the rest, and still others called more\nto come and hear him. The crowd kept growing, despite the noise\nand confusion. Tsion seemed energized. He began quoting Scripture\nand explaining it, not waiting for the crowd's response. His message\nwent from dialogue to monologue, and yet people seemed riveted.\n\"Yes, the armies of the world are coming. Even as we speak, they\nare rallying to the north. They aim to destroy Jerusalem and destroyus. But I beg of you, `do not fear those who kill the body but cannot\nkill the soul. But rather fear Him who is able to destroy both soul and\nbody in hell.' Yes, you know of whom I speak. Messiah is coming!\nMessiah shall overcome! Be ready for his arrival! \"If you want to\nknow how to be prepared for him, gather here to my left and my\nassociate will tell you. Please! Come now! Do not delay! Now is the\naccepted time. Today is the day of salvation.\" Buck was stunned. He\nhad not been prepared for this, but as the Jews gathered around\nhim, looking expectant, he breathed a desperate silent prayer, and\nGod gave him the words. \"When Jewish people such as yourselves\ncome to see that Jesus is your longsought Messiah,\" he said, \"you\nare not converting from one religion to another, no matter what\nanyone tells you. You have found your Messiah, that is all. Some\nwould say you have been completed, fulfilled. Everything you have\nstudied and been told all your life is the foundation for your\nacceptance of Messiah and what he has done for you.\"\nBuck moved into the plan of salvation, telling these hungry and\nthirsty men to tell God they acknowledged that Jesus was Messiah.\n\"He comes not only to avenge Jerusalem but to save your soul, to\nforgive your sins, to grant you eternal life with God.\" \"Naomi!\"\nChang called out. \"Come watch this.\" She joined him to see\nCarpathia being interviewed by GCNN. It was clear he was not at\nArmageddon yet, but he was on a colossal black stallion and\nbrandishing a sword so wide and long it appeared its weight alone\nwould have pulled a smaller man from the saddle. He wore thighhigh\nboots and leathers, and he seemed unable to quit grinning.\n\"We have the absolute latest in technology and power at our\nfingertips,\" he shouted as the reporter reached as high as she could\nwith her microphone. \"My months of strategy are over, and we have\na foolproof plan. That frees me to encourage the troops, to be flown\nto the battle sites, to mount up, to be a visual reminder that victory\nis in sight and will soon be in hand. \"It will not be long, my brothers\nand sisters in the Global Community, until we shall reign victorious. Ishall return to rebuild my throne as conquering king. The world shall\nfinally be as one! It is not too early to rejoice!\"\nAs word spread that Tsion BenJudah was at the Wailing Wall\npreaching to the Jews, more and more streamed in.\n\"These Scriptures foretell what is going to happen soon!\" he said.\n\"Listen again to the words of Peter: `The day of the Lord will come\nas a thief in the night, in which the heavens will pass away with a\ngreat noise, and the elements will melt with fervent heat; both the\nearth and the works that are in it will be burned up. Therefore, since\nall these things will be dissolved, what manner of persons ought you\nto be in holy conduct and godliness, looking for and hastening the\ncoming of the day of God, because of which the heavens will be\ndissolved, being on fire, and the elements will melt with fervent\nheat? Nevertheless we, according to His promise, look for new\nheavens and a new earth in which righteousness dwells.' \"That is our\npromise, what we have been looking for! For how many generations\nhave we prayed for peace? Soon, after the conflict, eternal peace!\n\"Messiah will return as King of kings. He promised to return, to\nconquer Satan, and to set up his millennial kingdom, reestablishing\nIsrael and making Jerusalem the capital forever! \"With probably a\nbillion of Messiah's followers already removed from this earth, and\nwith the disappearances of seven years ago that were predicted\nmore than two thousand years before, many Jews and Gentiles have\nturned to Jesus Christ as the true Messiah. \"Our own prophet Joel\nforetold of these very days. Listen to the words of Holy Scripture: `It\nshall come to pass afterward that I will pour out My Spirit on all\nflesh; your sons and your daughters shall prophesy, your old men\nshall dream dreams, your young men shall see visions. And also on\nMy menservants and on My maidservants I will pour out My Spirit in\nthose days. \"`And I will show wonders in the heavens and in the\nearth: blood and fire and pillars of smoke. The sun shall be turned\ninto darkness, and the moon into blood, before the coming of the\ngreat and awesome day of the Lord. And it shall come to pass that\nwhoever calls on the name of the Lord shall be saved. For in MountZion and in Jerusalem there shall be deliverance, as the Lord has\nsaid, among the remnant whom the Lord calls.'\n\"You are that remnant, people of Israel. Turn to Messiah today!\nListen further to the prophecy of Joel and see if it does not reflect\nthese very days! `For behold, in those days and at that time, when I\nbring back the captives of Judah and Jerusalem, I will also gather all\nnations, and bring them down to the Valley of Jehoshaphat; and I\nwill enter into judgment with them there on account of My people,\nMy heritage Israel.'\n\"This massive international force that the evil ruler of this world calls\nthe One World Unity Army will break up from its staging area and\npass through the very Valley of Jehoshaphat Joel writes of, and\nwhen they find the city of refuge impossible to overthrow, the\nfighting will spill back into that valley.\"\nRayford had to head back. There was nothing he could do high\nabove the assembled hordes of Antichrist. He knew it was from this\narea that the great mass would divide twothirds and onethird, and\nthat the latter would begin its inexorable march toward Petra. His\nbest guess was that it would take almost a full day for the force to\ncover that much ground and begin its offensive. In just a few hours,\nhowever, the twothirds assigned to Jerusalem might already be\nengaged in battle.\nBuck was answering questions, praying with people, and all the\nwhile trying to listen to Tsion, who seemed to have found a second\nwind.\n\"The Day of the Lord is upon us,\" he said. \"And lest there be any\namong you who still doubt, let me tell you what the prophecies say\nwill happen after the armies of the world have gathered at\nArmageddonwhich, as we all know, they are now doing. How many\nof you know Peacekeepers and Morale Monitors who have been\ncalled there? See? Yes, many of you. We have no illusions. They are\nrallying now, planning our destruction.\"And yet the Scriptures say that when they have gathered there, it\nwill be time for the seventh angel to pour out his bowl into the air.\nDo you know what this refers to, men of Israel? The drying of the\nEuphrates was the sixth Bowl Judgment of God on the earth, the\ntwentieth of his judgments since the Rapture.\n\"This seventh Bowl judgment shall be the last, and do you know\nwhat it entails? When this bowl has been poured out, the Bible says\n`a loud voice came out of the temple of heaven, from the throne,\nsaying, \"It is done!\"' How like the pronouncement of the spotless\nLamb of God on the cross when he cried out, `It is finished.'\n\"`And there were noises and thunderings and lightnings; and there\nwas a great earthquake, such a mighty and great earthquake as had\nnot occurred since men were on the earth.' \"Let me warn you, my\ncountrymen. This earthquake will cover the entire world. Think of it!\nThe Bible says that `every island fled away, and the mountains were\nnot found.' The mountains were not found! The elevation of the\nentire globe will be sea level! Who can survive such a catastrophe?\n\"The prophecy goes on to say that `great hail from heaven fell upon\nmen, each hailstone about the weight of a talent.' Beloved, a talent\nweighs between seventyfive and one hundred pounds! Who has ever\nheard of such hailstones? They will crush men and women to death!\nAnd the Scriptures say men will blaspheme God because of the\nplague of the hail `since that plague was exceedingly great.' Well, I\nshould say it will be! Turn and repent now! Be counted among the\narmy of God, not that of his enemy. \"Do you know what will happen\nhere, right here in Jerusalem? It will be the only city in the world\nspared the devastating destruction of the greatest earthquake ever\nknown to man. The Bible says, `Now the great city'that's\nJerusalem'was divided into three parts, and the cities of the nations\nfell.' \"That, my brothers, is good news. Jerusalem will be made more\nbeautiful, more efficient. It will be prepared for its role as the new\ncapital in Messiah's thousandyear kingdom.\" By now the crowds at\nthe Temple Mount had ballooned as word of Tsion's preaching\ncontinued to spread. Hundreds and soon thousands wept aloud andfell to their knees, repenting before God, acknowledging Jesus Christ\nas Messiah, pledging themselves to the King of kings. Buck was\nweary but kept ministering, amazed at so many, steeped in their\ncenturiesold religion, finally seeing that Jesus Christ fulfilled all the\nOld Testament prophecies concerning the coming Messiah.\nTsion thundered, \"How will we know when this is about to come to\npass? It will be preceded by the destruction of Babylon. Yes, the\ndestruction of Babylon! Listen: `And great Babylon was remembered\nbefore God, to give her the cup of the wine of the fierceness of His\nwrath.'\n\"Awful! It will be horrible! The loving, merciful patience of God will\nhave been pushed beyond the brink by that wicked city, and he will\nnot hold back his anger. The plague of darkness has not been\nenough to satisfy his wrath. He will allow her to be attacked and\nplundered, destroyed in but one hour's time. So great will be the\npower of the calamity that befalls it that its repercussions will be felt\naround the entire globe as all nations mourn the death of what had\nbecome the capital of the world.\"\nKnowing the time was short and what Buck had promised Kenny,\nRayford radioed ahead to Petra and had Abdullah bring the boy to\nthe helipad. He gave Kenny a quick ride, pretty much straight up and\nstraight down, which Kenny loved.\nRayford was grateful the boy didn't ask about the ragtag platoons\nGeorge and Razor were amassing below at the perimeter of the rock\ncity. Compared to what Rayford had seen north of Jerusalem, it was\nplain that the few thousand Petra troops would not have a chance\nwithout supernatural intervention. Rayford spent the next couple of\nhours with Kenny, then ventured out to check on George and his\nfighting band.\n\"Mac, come quick,\" Otto said. \"I've got a colleague on\nspeakerphone, but she's nearly speechless.\" When Mac arrived at\nOtto's quarters, he heard the woman try to recount what hadhappened. \"I don't know how much time we have,\" she said, out of\nbreath, \"but it's time to go.\" \"How do you know?\" Mac said. \"An\nangel,\" she said. \"You're sure?\"\n\"Bright, white, shiny, big, very big. And it was a man, at least this\none was. He was so bright that the darkness in this city is gone. It is\nas bright as noon here still.\" \"What did he say?\"\n\"He spoke so loud that everyone here had to hear it, and I will never\nforget one word of it. He said, `Babylon the great is fallen, is fallen,\nand has become a dwelling place of demons, a prison for every foul\nspirit, and a cage for every unclean and hated bird! \"`For all the\nnations have drunk of the wine of the wrath of her fornication, the\nkings of the earth have committed fornication with her, and the\nmerchants of the earth have become rich through the abundance of\nher luxury.\"'\n\"We're on our way, ma'am. Get everybody to the palace airstrip, and\nif you hear from any more groups of believers, send them there\ntoo.\"\n\"That's not all, sir.\"\n\"Excuse me?\"\n\"I heard another voice from heaven. It said, `Come out of her, my\npeople, lest you share in her sins, and lest you receive of her\nplagues. For her sins have reached to heaven, and God has\nremembered her iniquities.\"'\n\"I hardly have enough people to encircle this place,\" Sebastian said.\nRayford avoided George's eyes. \"I don't know what to say. The way I\nread it, we aren't expected to even hold our own.\"\n\"I don't want men and women to suffer, though, Captain. I'd rather\nwe just line up above and pick a few off.\"\n\"Look at it this way, George. This is where Jesus is supposed to\ncome first. We could be among the first to witness the GloriousAppearing.\"\n\"Tell that to a fighting force outnumbered a thousand to one. They\nmay be in heaven before Jesus leaves there.\"\nMac had no idea what to expect in New Babylon, so at the last\nminute he enlisted Lionel to also bring in a large jet. Between the\ntwo of them he figured he could evacuate up to two hundred people.\nWhen they landed at the palace, he found it eerie. The place was no\nlonger dark, but the wounded souls within the boundaries didn't\nknow what to make of it. They had been in pain and darkness for so\nlong they were disoriented and still hadn't found their bearings. Most\nstill limped and staggered around. But waiting for the planes of\nrefuge were more than one hundred and fifty believers, cheering\ntheir arrival. They carried their belongings in sacks and boxes and\nwere eager to get aboard, which made the whole process quick and\neasy. Mac and Lionel had their planes loaded and turned around and\nheaded down the runways when two invading armies attacked.\nBefore Mac was even out of New Babylon airspace, black smoke\nbillowed into the heavens. He circled the area for an hour, and Lionel\nfollowed, as their charges watched the utter destruction of the once\ngreat city. Within those sixty minutes every building was leveled, and\nMac knew that every resident was slaughtered. When the mysterious\narmies who had invaded from the north and northwest pulled out,\nthey left the entire metropolis aflame. By the time Mac turned\ntoward Petra, the only thing left of New Babylon was ash and smoke.\nChang watched, confused, as GCNN reports came in of fighting\nwithin the ranks of the One World Unity Army. Carpathia's forces\napparently had to strike back at nations who became drunk with\npower and ambition when armed with resources that had been\nstored at Al Hillah. The majority of Nicolae's allies banded together\nto crush the resistance, and by the time all were assembled at\nArmageddon, they had all been persuaded, by the demons or by\nCarpathia or by the realities of war, to join together against the\npeople of God.The sheer number of troops swelled well beyond the Valley of\nMegiddo and spilled north and south and east and west, past\nJerusalem and down toward Edom. Some estimates included an\nalmost unimaginable mounted army alone of more than two hundred\nthousand. Aerial views shot by GCNN aircraft could show only a\nmillion or so troops at a time, but dozens and dozens of separate\nsuch pictures were broadcast.\nChang sensed panic on the part of the people at Petra. Those who\nsaw the news could not imagine standing against such an\noverwhelming force. Those who didn't see the news heard it from\nothers, and the word swept the camp. Many ran to the high places\nand could make out the clouds of dust and the dark masses of\nhumanity, beasts, and weaponry slowly making their way across the\ndesert. Chaim took the occasion to call the people together, just\nbefore the evening manna was expected. \"My dear people, brothers\nand sisters in Messiah. Be of good cheer. Fear not. I am hearing\nwonderful reports out of Jerusalem, where our brother Tsion\npreaches the gospel of Jesus Christ with great boldness and, I am\nhappy to report, great results as well. \"I only ten minutes ago talked\nwith a very exhausted and still very busy Cameron Williams. He tells\nme thousands are repenting of their sins and turning to Christ,\nacknowledging Jesus of Nazareth as Messiah. Praise the Lord God\nAlmighty, maker of heaven and earth!\" The people seemed\nencouraged and cheered and wept and raised their hands. \"We are\nnot ignorant,\" Chaim continued, \"of what is to come. New Babylon\nhas fallen, utterly destroyed in one hour, fulfilling the prophecies.\nThat leaves only two events on the prophetic calendar, my friends.\nThe first is?\"\nAnd the people shouted, \"The seventh Bowl Judgment!\" \"And the\nsecond, oh, praise God?\" \"The Glorious Appearing!\" Chaim\nconcluded, \"We serve the great God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob,\nthe deliverer of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego. We lived\nthrough the fires of the Antichrist, and we have been delivered from\nthe snare of the fowler. Do not be afraid. Stand still, and see thesalvation of the Lord, which he will accomplish for you. For the\nenemy whom you see today, you shall soon see no more forever.\nThe Lord will fight for you, and you shall hold your peace.\"TWENTY\nDARKNESS HAD fallen in Jerusalem, yet still the Temple Mount\nteemed with people. Buck thought Tsion appeared weak and tired,\nso he broke away and went to their stash to bring him some\nfoodstuffs. But their bags were gone. He ran back to where Tsion\nheld forth, but now he himself felt dizzy with hunger.\n\"I need something with which to feed the rabbi!\" he called out. \"I\nam fine!\" Tsion said and continued preaching. \"Someone, please. A\nmorsel. Bread, fruit.\" \"Five loaves and two fishes?\" someone\nsuggested, and everyone laughed. An elderly man tossed an apple\nto Buck. Others passed him a round of bread, crusty and warm.\nSomeone donated a block of cheese. Someone else a couple of\noranges. \"Help me persuade this stubborn teacher to take a break!\"\nBuck said, and many urged Tsion to at least sit. And so he did.\nTalking now, teaching rather than preaching, Tsion took questions\nand nibbled between answers. The crowd only grew. \"I had no idea\nhow hungry I was,\" Tsion said. He looked at Buck. \"I am grateful,\nmy friend.\" Someone passed him a container of water, and he drank\ndeeply. Suddenly someone held up both hands to shush the crowd,\nand everyone fell silent. The rumble of a moving army was clear.\nBuck felt the vibration throughout his body. \"We need to get the\nrabbi to shelter,\" someone said. \"We can meet over there.\" Tsion\nappeared to start to protest, but the audience was leaving en masse,\nso he and Buck followed. They were led into a massive stone\nstructure that could easily have accommodated a thousand people.\nAbout half that many crowded near the front. \"What are we to do\nwhen the enemy arrives?\" someone asked. \"We are more\noutnumbered than Gideon.\"\n\"We can do only what we can do,\" Tsion said. \"If you have an inkling\nwhat I am trying to do here today, it is to usher as many of my\nfellow Jews into the kingdom of Messiah as possible before it is too\nlate. Because of that I feel a compulsion to keep as many candidatesalive as I can. If you agree with my mission, go out into the city\nproper and invite anyone who wants to, to come and join us. The\nenemy will begin to conquer Jerusalem and plunge people into\ncaptivity, but I believe their main objective is the Old City. What\nbetter meat to his pride than for Carpathia to think he can invade\nthis holy place and set up his headquarters here?\n\"If we are attacked before you can return, take what you have\nlearned here and tell everyone you know. They need not come back\nhere to pray the prayer of faith and become a member of Messiah's\nkingdom.\" Someone shouted, \"Better yet to have them come back\nalready decided and carrying a weapon!\" \"Well,\" Tsion said. \"Yes.\"\nAs was so often true when spending the night at Rayford's, Kenny\nwas nearly impossible to get to sleep unless he began by lying atop\nhis grandfather. Rayford lay gingerly on the small cot designated for\nthe boy and reached for him. Kenny climbed aboard and laid his\ncheek just under Rayford's chin.\nRayford fought fatigue, not wanting to fall asleep with Kenny asking\nquestions, singing, praying.\n\"Mommy's in heaven,\" Kenny said.\n\"That's right. And we miss her, don't we?\" \"I do.\"\n\"I do too.\"\n\"Gonna see her real soon.\"\n\"Very, very soon, Kenny.\" Rayford knew Buck had been showing him\nthe calendar. \"Tomorrow?\"\n\"Maybe. Or the next day. Not too many days.\" \"Where's heaven,\nGrandpa?\"\n\"With God.\"\n\"And God is with Mommy?\"\"Yes.\"\n\"And Jesus?\"\n\"And Jesus.\"\n\"I want them to come here.\"\n\"Soon.\"\nRayford had arranged with Priscilla Sebastian that she would come\nby for Kenny before dawn, when Rayford was expected to join the\ntroops on the perimeter. Kenny soon stopped talking and moving,\nand his breathing became regular and deep. Rayford prayed for him\nand waited a few more minutes before delicately sliding out from\nunder him. A few minutes later Rayford lay on his own cot across the\nroom and studied the boy. How thrilled Irene would have been with\nher grandson. Had Kenny grown up during any other period of\nhistory, he would be starting school within the year. Rayford\nwondered what form education would take in the millennial\nkingdom.\nHe also wondered how it worked. Would he and Buck and Kenny\ngrow old while Irene and Raymie and Chloe remained the age they\nwere when they went to heaven? And what about Amanda? He\nfeared that reunion with his wife might be awkward, but would those\nsituations matter when everyone was in the presence of Jesus?\nRayford had been so busy for so long that he had not allowed\nhimself the luxury of daydreaming about it. What would it be like to\nsee the Glorious Appearing and then to actually be with Christ?\nRayford was more emotional than he had been as a younger man,\nand often the mere thought of the change Christ had made in him\nmade him choke up.\nTo imagine the sinless Son of God caring enough about him to die\nfor his sins ... Rayford could still hardly fathom it. And to have the\nopportunity to thank him, to worship him, facetoface. For a thousandyears. And then for eternity. He hadn't even begun trying to imagine\nwhat heaven would be like.\nIn the wee hours of the morning in Jerusalem, Buck and Tsion found\nthemselves taken in by an elderly father named Shivte and his two\nsons in their forties. They were all thick, beefy men, and softspoken.\nAs soon as Shivte's wife opened the door to her husband's coded\nknock, she blanched and nearly fainted. \"Praise God! Praise God!\"\nshe said. \"You are Tsion BenJudah! And you!\" she added, looking\nfirst at her husband and then at her sons. \"You have the mark of\nGod on you! Can you finally see mine?\" They smiled and nodded,\nembracing her one by one. \"I cannot tell you how much we\nappreciate this,\" Tsion said. \"Our belongings have disappeared, and\nwe made no provisions for lodging.\"\nShivte's wife told him, \"We made no provisions for lodging either. But\nwe have blankets and some food.\"\n\"The Lord will reward you,\" Tsion said. \"He already has,\" she said.\n\"To see you with my men when they came through the door, that is\nenough for me. I am humbled to offer hospitality to God's servants.\"\n\"Tell me how you came to Messiah, ma'am,\" Tsion said. She sat\nheavily. \"Micah,\" she said, and Tsion and Buck looked at each other.\n\"I had waited so long to take the mark of Carpathia. I did not want\nto. My men were not going to. They were going to hide out here\nduring the day so as not to be detected by the GC. But I believed\nsomeone had to take the mark in order to buy and sell and keep us\nalive. I was willing, but the idea of worshiping that statue made me\nwant to vomit. Forgive me.\"\n\"Please, continue.\"\n\"I was at the Temple Mount, planning to go through with it, even\nthough in my heart I believed in the one true God. I did not know\nwhat else to do. I worried about my eternal soul, but I believed I\nwas laying down my life for my family, and I could think of no nobleract. I did not realize at that time that I would be selling my soul to\nthe evil one. Not even these men are worth that.\"\nHer husband and sons smiled.\n\"I was in line that day, Rabbi, actually in line. I don't know how\nmany people were between me and the mark applicator. But I saw a\ncommotion and slipped out of line. I watched from the back of the\ncrowd. I saw the gunshots that did not kill the man of God. I\nescaped back to our home, and my men will admit they ridiculed\nme. They had liked my plan of one of usmehaving the mark so we\ncould eat. Now what were we going to do?\n\"I told them they could go out in the dark of night and find food, but\nI was going to find out more about the man of God. One of my\nyoung friends had a computer, and we found your Web site. That is\nhow I came to believe Jesus was Messiah. Now I was an outcast in\nmy own home. My men were devout enough Jews to resist\nCarpathia, but they were not ready for Messiah. \"I tried and prayed\nand pleaded and begged, but finally we agreed to quit talking about\nit. Enough, they said, and I had had enough of their rejection and\nridicule anyway. But still I could pray. And God answers prayer. Here\nyou are, and here they are, with the mark of God.\"\nRayford had trouble sleeping and felt compelled to check in with\nBuck. He tiptoed to the other room so as not to wake Kenny and\nplaced the call. After asking about Kenny, Buck brought him up to\ndate. \"Amazing,\" Rayford said. \"What's Tsion saying about timing\nnow?\" \"He expects a predawn attack. Maybe there as well.\" \"We're\nkind of on that schedule too, Buck, but the combat part of this is so\nfutile.\" \"Temporarily, you mean.\"\n\"Of course, but I just don't know that I see the value of risking\npeople's lives when they could stay inside here and\"\n\"and wait for Jesus?\"\n\"Exactly.\"\"Come on, Dad. Who wants to do that? I'd kinda like to have him\nfind me on the job. Wouldn't you?\" \"I know, but you should see the\ncrew we're going to have on the perimeter. A couple of thousand I\ndon't know at all. Then Otto and a few of his people, none of them\nwith any business manning a weapon. Ree, Ming, Lionel, Hannah,\nZeke. Not exactly soldiers. Mac, of course, and Smitty. They can take\ncare of themselves, and there's no question about Razor and\nGeorge. Unless George tries to be a hero. He's so military, Buck, you\nshould see him, trying to make the best of it. You can just tell he\nthinks his street smarts ought to carry the day, but then he realizes\nhow few soldiers are under his command, and those eyes go glassy.\"\n\"You've got directed energy weapons and fiftycalibers yet, right?\"\n\"Yeah, but against nuclear power? Come on.\"\n\"Do some damage. Stall till the Calvary cavalry gets here.\" \"The\nwhat?\"\n\"Thought of that the other day. Jesus is going to appear from\nheaven on a horse. That's literal, according to Tsion. Ten thousand\nsaints with him. The Calvary cavalry.\" \"Too much time on your\nhands.\"\n\"Hey, Rayford?\"\n\"Yeah.\"\n\"We can hear the armies coming. Can you?\" \"Not the way this city is\nlaid out. Maybe when they get closer. They're sure easy to spot from\nthe high places, though. Pretty ominous. I'd be looking for a way out\nof here if I didn't know better.\" \"Sort of like watching a delayed ball\ngame where you already know the final score, isn't it?\" \"I guess,\"\nRayford said. \"That's the kind of thing only a mind like yours would\ncome up with.\" \"Thanks, I think.\"\nUnable to sleep, Chang made his way to the tech center and his\ncomputer at about four in the morning. Idly checking the GCNN\naffiliate feed out of Haifa, he heard a report of troop deployments.\"Supreme Potentate Nicolae Carpathia has made no secret of his\nstrategy,\" the reporter intoned. \"In fact, it seems as if he would just\nas soon enemy targets know what's coming. I spoke with him late\nlast night at his bunker, somewhere near the Sea of Galilee.\" \"You\nsee,\" Carpathia said, \"we have such an overwhelming advantage in\nmanpower, firepower, and technology, it really makes little difference\nwhat we encounter. I have not hidden that we have two main\nobjectives aiming toward the same goal. We want to lay siege to the\ncity of Jerusalem, where the majority of the remaining Jews reside.\nAnd we want to eliminate Petra once and for all, where what they\nlike to call `the Remnant' remains in hiding like scared children.\n\"They know we are coming, and they will see us coming, and there\nis little they can do about it.\" \"You expect no casualties?\"\n\"Oh, there are always casualties,\" Carpathia sniffed. \"But my people\nare honored to give their lives in service to me and the Global\nCommunity. I will see that they are appropriately rewarded. Of\ncourse, there is the possibility of no loss of life or limb on our part.\nThat is, if the enemy sees what is coming and realizes it has no\nhope. An unconditional surrender would be the prudent course, and\nnaturally I would accept that with utmost facesaving respect for\nthem.\"\n\"Seriously? What accommodations would you make in that case?\"\nCarpathia could not answer over his gales of laughter.\nRayford was up, dressed, and armed before dawn. He opened the\ndoor before Priscilla knocked. \"I'll stay here with him until he wakes\nup, Rayford, if that's okay.\" \"Perfect. Thanks, Priss. Make yourself at\nhome.\" \"Uh, Ray? You're going to be sure my husband comes home\ntonight, aren't you?\" \"As much as it's up to me.\"\n\"That's not very reassuring.\"\n\"Well, I take it that was a serious question. A serious answer is that\nthere are no guarantees. I'm hoping he'll make sure I come back.\"\"He feels obligated to everybody,\" Priscilla said, sitting. Rayford\nstood by the open door. \"Price of leadership. He volunteered for this\ncommand.\" \"Like there was another choice.\"\n\"There wasn't in my mind, Priscilla.\"\n\"Well, I'm just saying\"\n\"I know. Sometimes, though, seems a guy like me trying to keep an\neye on a guy who knows what he's doing can just get in the way.\nYou know, of course, that even \"Don't say it, Rayford. Too many of\nthe wives try to comfort themselves with that stuff about how their\nman will only be in heaven a day or two, maybe less, then he's\ncoming back. That doesn't help.\" \"It's true.\"\n\"I know. But it isn't the living without him that worries me right now.\nIt's his getting hurt, suffering, dying a hard way.\"\nBuck and Tsion and their hosts drank the thickest, bitterest coffee\nBuck had ever had. It was still pitchblack outside. Shivte's wife was\nalready sniffling and trying to hide it. \"Cameron,\" Tsion whispered, \"I\nwould like you to go with the old man, Shivte, at first.\" \"Now, wait. I\ncame here to be your bodyguard, no one else's.\"\n\"Do me this favor. I worry about him. Even his weapon is ancient.\nThe sons believe the invaders will come from the northwest and try\nto come through the Damascus Gate.\" \"Based on what?\"\n\"The Unity Army could probably easily overrun any of the gates, but\nthe Jaffa Gate and the Citadel are well fortified with many rebel\ntroops.\"\n\"But beyond that,\" Buck said, \"they could try to storm any of the\ngates, and the most likely, in my opinion, would be the Golden Gate.\nTheir first priority has to be the Temple Mount, no?\" \"I don't know,\nCameron. Just do this for me, please. Take the old man to the\nCitadel. Once he is settled there, then come and find me. I will be\nwith the other two near the Damascus Gate.\" Buck would rather\nhave followed his hunch and gone straight to the Golden Gate, buthe was here for Tsion, and he would do him this favor. He didn't\nknow why the brothers were even guessing. If twothirds of\nCarpathia's troops were concentrating on Jerusalem, it wouldn't take\nmany of them to take over the tiny Old City.\nAs soon as he and Tsion and the other three men were out the door,\nthey heard gunfire. Tsion and the brothers jogged northwest, Buck\nand Shivte, west. Rebels ran everywhere, shouting what they knew.\nThe enemy was on the Jaffa Road. Damascus Gate was under siege.\nThe Yad Vashem Historical Museum to the Holocaust victims had\nbeen destroyed. Hebrew University, the Jewish National and\nUniversity Library, and Israel Museum were in flames. The Old City\nwould be next. Thousands were dead and many more captured and\nheld. Buck knew, if the rumors could be believed, that he and Shivte\nwere in the worst possible place. In essence, they had cornered\nthemselves inside the walls of the Old City.\nRayford was impressed with Sebastian's strategy, though they both\nknew tactics were out the window in the face of such odds. The third\nof Carpathia's troops assigned to Petra carried every type of weapon\nin the potentate's arsenal. At least two hundred thousand mounted\ntroops slowly moved into position, far outflanking Sebastian's forces\nand virtually surrounding them and the city. \"I have so few DEWs,\"\nGeorge told Rayford. \"In retrospect, if I had known they were going\nto start with this horse trick, I'd have had Lionel find me more.\"\n\"What do horses have to do with it?\"\n\"Horses are not armored, and the riders can't really hide. See how\nlazily they're moving into position?\" Rayford took the field glasses\nand saw thousands of horsemen cantering into place. They were a\nmile from Petra's massed troops. \"They act like they've got all day.\"\nSuddenly, George seemed animated. \"We're going to get in the first\nblow in this thing, and we're going to have the advantage, at least\ntemporarily.\"\n\"How?\"\"Those horses are trained to not spook under artillery fire. We could\npop a few fiftycaliber rounds at 'em and get them stirred up a bit.\nMaybe take out a few horses and a few riders. But I'll bet they\nhaven't dealt with DEWs yet. You ready for some action?\" \"Sure.\"\n\"I've got only about a hundred DEWs, but at least I was smart\nenough to assign them all positions inside on the rim. I need them\npretty evenly spaced, all around the top of the city. Can you handle\nthat?\" \"On it. Then what?\"\n\"Tell them all to wait for my command. If we can hit anywhere close\nto a hundred horses or riders with DEWs from this distance, we\ncould cause a stampede that would put all their horses out of\ncommission for a while.\"\n\"Brilliant.\"\n\"Only if it works. Thing is, we've got to do this before they really\nknow where we are. We could have them on the run right off the bat\nand see how they like being on their heels.\"\nBuck got Shivte settled well inside the crowded Citadel, where it\nappeared many scared younger men had decided to hole up as well.\nWhile Buck could hear activity on the Jaffa Road, the invaders had\nindeed ignored the Jaffa Gate for the very reason Buck guessed.\nWhy do more work than you had to? Buck guessed the Damascus\nGate was a little over a quarter of a mile away, but getting there\nthrough the crowd of petrified and wildeyed rebels made it seem\nfarther. And of course, Tsion and the brothers were nowhere in sight.\n\"Lord, come quickly.\"\nRayford scampered to a fourwheeldrive ATV and charged to the\nnearest high place. It took nearly half an hour with the vehicle and\nhis walkietalkie to get the hundred or so DEW operators spread out\nevenly and coordinated.\nAt George's command, they would fire invisible beams of directed\nenergy at the enemy. In essence, they heated soft tissue past thetolerance point in less than a second, and if the rider or horse didn't\nelude the ray, their flesh would burn.\nWith Petra surrounded by a couple of brigades of mounted troops,\nthe result had the potential to be maddeningly confusing to the\nenemy. The strategy was to try to hit horses only, making them bolt\naway and causing the steeds around them to do the same. No\nquestion some riders, especially their legs, would be hit in the\nprocess, hopefully causing them to kick and achieve the same result.\nIf the beam hit higher on a rider's body, he would likely scream and\nyank the reins. George, Rayford thought, was a genius.\n\"Dung Gate is giving way!\" someone shouted. \"Let's kill us some\nOne World Army!\" Buck prayed it wasn't true. The Dung Gate was\nthe southern gate closest to the Western Wall. It was the long way\naround to get to the Temple Mount, and that's why he had assumed\nthe Golden Gate on the east side would be the Unity Army's first\nchoice. If they got through the Dung Gate, they might try battering\nthrough the Wailing Wall to get to pay dirt. Unable to raise Tsion by\nphone or find him or either of the brothers at the Damascus Gate,\nwhich seemed to be holding for the time being, Buck ran toward the\nDung Gate, a mile away. All along the route he heard rumors and\nfears. If any of it was to be believed, it wouldn't be long before half\nthe greater city of Jerusalem was in captivity. His goal was to stay\nalive until the good guys showed up.\nRayford figured Petra was fewer than fifteen minutes from sunrise\nwhen he let George know the directed energy weapons were in\nplace and awaiting his command. \"I'd really like to make sure the\ntargets are where I want them before we commence,\" George said.\n\"Only one way to do that as fast as you need it done,\" Rayford said.\n\"ATV?\"\n\"Too much ground to cover. You'd have to circle the whole perimeter\nup top.\" \"Helicopter?\"\n\"Bingo. If you want to risk it.\"\"They wouldn't believe it was us,\" George said. \"Who'd be stupid\nenough to make himself that kind of a target?\"\n\"You would.\"\nBuck had run almost half a mile and was sucking wind when he saw\nCarpathia's Unity Army troops coming the other way. Now he was\ndesperate to find Tsion and get him out of the Old City. Rebels, some\nshooting over their shoulders, ran past him for their lives, but Buck\nnoticed the GC were not firing. They were moving in a colossal\nbattering ram that looked as if it would make short work of the\nWailing Wall. Now that was a tragedy. After millennia of prayer, could\nsuch a sacred site be wasted in just moments?\nSuddenly, all those rebels who had flooded past Buck turned and\ncame back. Shouts resounded: \"Not the Wailing Wall!\" \"Not the\nWall!\" \"Sacrifice yourselves!\" \"Fight to the death!\"\nThe word spread throughout the Jewish Quarter and into the center\nof the Old City, and instantly hundreds became thousands. Buck\njoined the fray. They charged the GC, shooting, throwing rocks,\nfighting hand to hand. The rebels overcame those on the battering\nram and turned it back toward the Dung Gate.\nAs more and more rebels joined, at least for that brief skirmish, the\nJews had the Unity Army on the run. They pushed the battering ram\nup to the Dung Gate, chased out the army, and managed to shut the\ngate with the ram inside. Great cheers rose, and so, it seemed, did\nthe rebellion's confidence. Someone assigned a large group to guard\nthe gate, while others were sent to the Golden and Lion's Gates on\nthe east side.\nBuck's phone chirped. \"Tsion! Where are you? I tried to call you!\"\n\"My phone is dead. I am borrowing this one. Is it true the rebels\nturned the army away from the Dung Gate?\"\n\"Yes! I'm here now! Where shall we meet?\" \"Do you know the\nChurch of the Flagellation?\" \"Near the Muslim Quarter?\"\"Just west of there, yes!\" Tsion said. \"Hurry! I have lost the\nbrothers.\"\n\"You know we've always been protected in the airspace around\nhere,\" Rayford said as he lifted off. \"I'd rather not test that,\"\nSebastian said. \"Just straight up and give me a threesixty so I can\nsee if the horses are where I want them. Then straight back down.\"\n\"Oh no!\" Rayford said. \"Incoming!\"\n\"What?\"\nA missile was streaking right at the chopper. Rayford tried to evade\nit, knowing that was hopeless. A whirlybird simply didn't have the\nmaneuverability or speed to dodge a missile. \"My idea and a bad\none, George. Sorry.\" \"Just stay away from the city, Ray!\" Rayford\nhad toyed with the idea of dropping onto a high place, but if the\nmissile tracked him, it could injure or kill more than just the two of\nthem. He banked and let the chopper roll out past where Petra\ntroops were stationed, which only brought him facetoface with the\nmissile that much faster.\n\"Sorry, Priscilla,\" Rayford muttered, shutting his eyes as the warhead\nmet the chopper.\nIt didn't make sense to Buck that he should get to the rendezvous\npoint before Tsion, despite the difference in their ages. Buck figured\nTsion had started from at least twice as close. He searched the\ncrowded church, but once again, no Tsion. This was getting old.\n\"Herod's Gate!\" someone shouted, and hundreds of rebels headed\ntoward the northernmost gate in the city. It was amazing to see the\nzeal in their eyes when their ancient holy sites were threatened.\nThat had to be where Tsion went too. Buck couldn't think of another\noption. It was just over an eighth of a mile from the church, but\nthere was no running this time. Buck found himself pressed on all\nsides, walltowall rebels. Maybe it was for the best. He was\nexhausted already, and his pulse raced uncontrollably.He couldn't call Tsion if the rabbi's phone was dead. All he could\nthink to do was bend his knees occasionally and leap high enough to\nsee over the crowd. But when he spotted Tsion BenJudah, he didn't\nlike where he found him.TWENTYONE\nTHE CHOPPER shuddered and stayed on course. \"Thought we were\ngoners,\" Rayford said. \"I never get used to that.\"\n\"Where'd that missile go?\"\n\"Right through us, as usual.\"\n\"Nothing usual about that,\" Sebastian said. He scanned the horizon.\n\"Over there.\" Rayford saw a plume of black smoke about a mile\nsouth of Petra. \"They may have hit their own people!\" George said\nand got on his radio. \"Big Dog 1 to southern perimeter, over.\"\n\"Mac here, Dog. What was that?\"\n\"Just missed us. What did it do?\"\n\"Found one of their transports just beyond the equestrian line. Had\nto have some casualties. They look pretty exercised.\"\n\"Wait till they find out it was friendly fire. Attention all DEW\noperators, open fire immediately!\" George ordered.\nWithin seconds, the black rim of horses and horsemen surrounding\nPetra disintegrated, and steeds charged away in all directions.\n\"A masterpiece, George,\" Rayford said. \"Well done.\" \"Some of that\nhorse meat is probably well done. Hey, Ray, did I hear you mention\nmy wife's name when we were about to buy it?\"\n\"Guilty.\"\n\"What's that about?\"\n\"I told her I'd look out for you as much as was possible.\" \"And that's\nyour idea of looking out for me?\" \"As much as was possible. What\nsay we bounce back up and see if we can get them to shoot at usagain, maybe take out some more of their munitions on the other\nside?\" \"Not funny, Rayford.\"\nEvery time Buck leaped over the heads of the crowd, he caught sight\nof Tsion being borne along on the shoulders of zealots. He wanted to\nscream at them to put him down, but no one would be able to hear\nabove the din. What were they trying to do, get him killed? Maybe\nthey saw him as a hero. Maybe they thought by getting him to the\nhead of the pack he could inspire the troops. Regardless, it was\ninsanity. Buck lowered his shoulder and bulled his way through until\nhe was almost up to Tsion. \"Hey!\" he shouted. \"Hey! Put him down!\"\n\"He will lead us to victory!\"\n\"He is our leader!\"\n\"Well, he's my responsibility, and you're going to get him killed!\"\nBuck grabbed Tsion's ankle, which slowed the crowd, and as they\nlost their grip, Tsion tumbled headfirst. Buck dived beneath him to\nbreak his fall, and now both of them were being trampled. It was\nprovidential, however, as Unity Army troops had scaled the wall\nabove Herod's Gate and opened fire. Rebels fell all around Tsion and\nBuck, heads slamming the ground, blood spattering. Buck wrapped\nhis arms around Tsion's head and buried his own, waiting out the\nfusillade. With the zing of bullets ricocheting and the explosion of\nthe pavement around him, he tensed for the killing round that would\nhit his or Tsion's head or neck or spine.\nBut they were spared.\nWhen the burst let up, Buck dragged Tsion to his feet and hustled\nhim toward the legendary healing pool of Bethesda. \"I was not hit,\nCameron! No need for healing!\" Millimeters from death and the rabbi\njokes.\nRayford and George landed and were racing down to George's post\nvia ATV. \"They've got to retaliate,\" Rayford said. \"What form will that\ntake, and what do we do?\" \"They've got mortar launchers in range. Iwant to see if the riders can persuade their horses to return. If they\ncan't, that's going to be chaos. The key is keeping them out of the\nSiq. I don't want a one of 'em thinking he can infiltrate this place.\"\n\"You'd think Carpathia would have learned his lesson. Imagine how\nmuch money he wasted trying to get at us here,\" Rayford said.\n\"Yeah, but every military commander thinks he's better than\nanybody else, so whoever's in charge of this offensive is going to\nhave to learn for himself.\" \"The DEWs and his own missile should\nhave taught him something.\" \"Should have,\" George said. \"But you\ncan bet he'll try everything in his arsenal before he gives up.\" \"What\nwould be the hardest to defend against?\" \"Sheer numbers. When\nthey start rolling this way, we're going to be chased back inside.\"\n\"Where, so far, it's been safe.\"\n\"True. But retreating is not my idea of warfare. That missile was\nGod's protection, but wasn't it fun to attack with the directed energy\nweapons?\" A young woman gestured frantically from a small cavelike\nstructure near the pools, and Buck hustled Tsion to her. \"There is\nroom for two more,\" she said. As they pushed their way in to safety,\nBuck realized about twenty others were in the echoing chamber. \"Is\nit the rabbi?\" someone called out.\n\"I am here,\" Tsion said.\n\"Praise God. When do you expect Messiah?\" \"Actually, I expected\nhim about five minutes ago. Or maybe I should say he should have\nbeen expecting me.\"\n\"I want to believe he is coming to save the day and rescue us.\n\"He is if you are ready,\" Tsion said.\n\"I am ready. I just want to be alive when he gets here.\" \"So do I,\"\nTsion said. \"But we did not choose the best place to ensure that, did\nwe?\" \"What is this talk of Messiah?\" someone grumbled. \"We have\nbeen waiting for him to rescue us for generations.\"Tsion ran through his teaching as fast as he could. Three of the\nterrified men and the young woman prayed to accept Jesus as\nMessiah, but the skeptic did not. \"When he comes,\" he said, \"I will\nbelieve.\" \"`Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have\nbelieved,\"' Tsion said. The gunfire suddenly ceased. Buck peered out\npast the woman. Was this it? Had Messiah returned and saved the\nday?\nYoung men raced by, screaming. \"We have won! We have won! They\nare pulling back! The gates are secure!\"\n\"Wait! It's a trap! Don't believe it! They are just regrouping!\" Buck\nand Tsion's bunker mates piled out and warily looked around,\nweapons at the ready. \"I don't like it,\" someone said. \"They have\nbombs that could annihilate us. What are they doing?\" \"Toying with\nus.\"\n\"We should go on the offensive! Open the gates and attack! Kill\nthem while they are retreating.\" \"They are not retreating. This is a\ntrap. They want us to open the gates. We should regroup while they\nare regrouping. Be ready for them.\"\nThere was a lull at Petra too, and Rayford took a call from Mac\nMcCullum. \"Can you and Razor spare me a minute, George?\" Rayford\nsaid. \"Mac wants me to come and see something.\" It was half an\nhour's ride by allterrain vehicle to get to Mac, and when Rayford\narrived, Mac was studying the enemy through powerful field glasses.\n\"You know they can see us plain as day by now, Ray, just like we\ncan see them. What are they waitin' on?\" He handed Rayford the\nbinoculars. \"Looks like they've got most of the horses under control.\nThat must have been a mess. And I know, Ray, that our DEWs\ncaused the stampede. But what's making them squirrelly now? I\ndon't get it.\"\nRayford studied the enemy in the distance. It didn't appear it was as\nsimple as horses being shy of where they had been burned. They\nweren't even close to that. It was more like the riders could not getthe horses to do anything they wanted them to. \"It reminds me of a\nverse, Ray. Something Tsion taught us. What was it?\"\n\"I don't recall. Want to ask him? I need to check in on him and Buck\nanyway.\"\nThe silence was more than eerie. Buck and Tsion moved close to the\nwall by Herod's Gate. Buck answered the phone and handed it to\nTsion. \"Yes, here too,\" Tsion said. \"I have the strange feeling it is the\nlull before the storm. Horses? Yes. Zechariah 12:4: \"`In that day,\"\nsays the Lord, \"I will strike every horse with confusion, and its rider\nwith madness; I will open My eyes on the house of Judah, and will\nstrike every horse of the peoples with blindness.\"' You know, Mac,\nthat may be what has happened here too.\" As soon as Tsion was off\nthe phone, people around him wanted to know what he was talking\nabout. He told them.\n\"Let's check it out,\" one said. \"The rabbi believes the Unity Army is\nblind or mad.\" \"Could be,\" Tsion said. \"That is the only explanation I\ncan think of for what is going on.\" Some of the younger men\nboosted each other and began climbing. Two reached the top of the\nwall. \"I see nothing! They're hiding, maybe.\"\n\"Rabbi! Teach us some more.\"\nBuck looked to Tsion, who shrugged. \"That is why I came. If they\nwant to listen, I want to preach.\" As soon as he began, curious\ncrowds gathered again. And as Buck watched and listened, he was\novercome with the privilege of being where he was and when it was.\nHe sensed he could see Jesus at any time. And Chloe.\nTo hear God's man in God's place at God's timewhat an unspeakable\nprivilege. Scared? Of course he was. Wondering if Jesus would really\ncome when he said he would? Not even a question. Buck couldn't\nwait. He just couldn't wait.\nBack with George, Rayford was out of ideas. \"Don't ask me,\" he said.\n\"If you want to fire the Fifties, fire them.\"\"I know we could kill horses and men from this distance and take\nout a few of their vehicles,\" George said. \"But I also know that\nwould bring return fire. I'm not concerned about inside the city. But\nI'm afraid we're vulnerable out here at the perimeter.\" \"What would\nbe the purpose of going on the offensive when you know you can't\nwin?\" \"Exactly. But I just hate sitting here, waiting for stuff to\nhappen. We need to make something happen.\" \"Fire a Fifty or two\nand plenty will happen.\" One of the young men on the wall\ninterrupted Tsion, yelling, \"They're raising some kind of a giant\nbullhorn. Maybe they want to negotiate.\"\n\"You don't want to negotiate with the devil,\" Tsion said, and the\ncrowd roared.\n\"Maybe he's offering a truce!\"\n\"A truce,\" Tsion said, \"is worth the character of the man on the other\nside of the table.\" \"Attention, people of Jerusalem! This is your\nsupreme potentate!\" \"Boo! Boo! Our only potentate is the God of\nIsrael!\" \"Shut up! Hear him out!\"\n\"Please listen, citizens. I come in peace.\" \"No! You come with\nweapons!\"\n\"Come, let us reason together!\"\n\"Listen. Shh! Listen to him!\"\n\"I come to offer pardon. I am willing to compromise. I wish you no\nill. If you are willing to serve me and be obedient, you shall eat the\ngood of the land; but if you refuse and rebel, you shall be devoured\nby the sword. I will rid myself of my adversaries and take vengeance\non my enemies. I will turn my hand against you and thoroughly\npurge you.\n\"But it does not have to be this way, citizens of the Global\nCommunity. If you will lay down your arms and welcome me into\nyour city, I will guarantee your peace and safety. \"This will be your\nsign to me. If at the count of three I hear silence for fifteen seconds,I will assume you are willing to accede to my requests. A single\ngunshot into the air during that time will be your signal that you\nwould rather oppose me. But I warn you, half of Jerusalem is in\ncaptivity already. The entire city could be overthrown easily within an\nhour. The choice is yours at the count of three.\" But before\nCarpathia could utter the first number, thousands of weapons fired\ninto the air, including Buck's and Tsion's.\nThe enemy's attempt to control the horses and surround Petra was\nstill not working. Rayford stood on a precipice and watched through\nbinoculars as more Unity vehicles were deployed. The horizon was\nfull of dust and smoke, and the mass of munitions and hardware\nlooked like a black, roiling mass, filling his vision and oozing toward\nhim like lava.\n\"I'm going to let them advance only so far,\" George said. \"Then it's\nDEWs again and fiftycalibers.\" \"Like trying to dam a tsunami with\nBBs,\" Rayford said. When the shooting stopped in Jerusalem, the\nghostly silence returned. The One World Unity Army did not\nimmediately attack, but Buck almost wished they had. The quiet was\ndisquieting. He feared the next sound would be the proverbial freight\ntrain that tornado victims always mentioned, only this twister would\nconsist of an unending horde of marauders who would stomp\nJerusalem to dust. But if that's what it took to usher in Jesus, well,\nbring it on. Strangely, the crowd wanted to hear more from Tsion,\nand Buck was impressed that the rabbi was ready. \"It is not too\nlate!\" Tsion cried. \"Make your stand for Messiah now! Repent,\nchoose, and be saved!\" And many did.\nNow even Sebastian seemed alarmed. The massive flow of horses,\nmen, and weaponry advancing toward Petra was so enormous that\nas it spread and separated and filled in again, it blocked out the\nhorizon, the desert sands, the rocks.\nIt was as if a cloud of locusts were blotting out the sun. No human\ncould have imagined the scope of the enemy. They had somehowrallied, somehow overcome their madness and blindness, somehow\nbroken out of their lull. And here they came.\nThey fanned out and flanked Petra on all sides, slowly filling in as far\nas the eye could see. And while their front lines were still a mile or\nso from the perimeter, there was no end to the swarm. The eye\ncould not reach the back of column after column after column of\nmillions strong that kept coming and coming and coming.\nAnd when they were in place, they merely stopped and waited. For\nwhat was anybody's guess. But even when they stopped, there was\nno gap, no holes in their coverage, no end of their ranks. \"That,\nRayford,\" Sebastian said, \"is just a whole lot of army. If every one of\nour weapons fired every one of its bullets and each one was a\nflatout kill, we wouldn't put a dent in that wave.\" \"What do you think\nabout riding out there about a half mile and seeing if you can smoke\na peace pipe with somebody?\"\n\"You watch too much TV, Captain.\"\n\"Seriously, how about another round of DEW rays? See if we can\npush 'em back a bit.\" \"If I thought they'd react like dominoes I\nwould. There really isn't far for them to go, because they'll run into\ntheir own replacements. Think we can get millions to stampede?\"\nRayford shook his head. \"I wouldn't mind seeing what that would do\nto them. Maybe they wouldn't be so eager to get closer.\"\n\"But, Ray, there's so many of them.\"\nTsion was still holding forth when a sound like a bomb shook the\narea, and people scattered for cover. Within seconds came the report\nthat a second battering ram had penetrated the Old City. This time\nthe Unity Army had eschewed any gate and had broken through the\nnortheastern wall of the Old City, about halfway between the Lion's\nGate and the northeast corner.\nHundreds of Jewish rebels raced toward the site, and to Buck's\ndismay Tsion took off behind them, not even discussing options.Buck had no choice but to follow, trying to catch Tsion in the melee.\nBy the time he caught up, the battle was in full swing, and\namazingly, the Jews seemed to have the upper hand again. They\nwere pushing the army back, and fierce handtohand combat over\nthe battering ram almost saw it fall into rebel hands again.\nJust as the rebellion was forcing the army back through the wall,\nseveral on the Unity front line turned and opened fire with\nhighpowered automatic weapons, a grenade launcher, and what\nlooked to Buck like a bazooka. He joined in returning fire, and the\ninvasion was briefly squelched, but he was horrified to see more\nthan a hundred dead or wounded Israelis all around him. He\nwondered how close he had come to deadly fire himself.\nThe hole in the wall seemed to be secure for the moment, so Buck\nturned to grab Tsion and pull him back toward the Bethesda pool.\nBut the rabbi was on his knees, feet tucked awkwardly beneath him.\nHis Uzi had slipped off his shoulder, the strap near his elbow now,\nthe weapon dragging. Buck grabbed the shoulder of his jacket to\nhelp him up, but when he pulled, Tsion pivoted on one knee and\nflopped to the pavement. \"Tsion! Come on! Let's go!\" But he was a\ndeadweight.\n\"Are you all right?\" Buck demanded, turning Tsion's face toward him.\n\"I do not think so, friend.\"\n\"Are you hit?\"\n\"I am afraid I am.\"\n\"Where?\"\n\"I am not sure.\"\n\"Can you move?\"\n\"No.\"\n\"Can I move you?\"\"Please. You had better try.\"\nBuck didn't have time to even think about being fancy. He grabbed\nTsion's weapon and strapped it on his left shoulder, then got around\nbehind the rabbi's head and thrust both hands under his arms. He\nbent his knees and lifted, walking backward, dragging the older man\nthrough the streets. He was grateful the shooting had stopped, if\nonly temporarily. Buck was cramping, having pulled his friend about\nan eighth of a mile, but he didn't want to stop until they were safe in\nthe little chamber he remembered at Bethesda. He kept looking\nbehind him to make sure the way was clear, but when he turned\nback he realized Tsion was also leaving a thick trail of blood.\nBuck stopped to rest and check Tsion. He hurried around and\nopened the man's jacket. There he found the source of blood. Tsion\ncould not have been shot in the heart or he would be dead already.\nBut he had lost a lot of blood, which had flowed from near his\nsternum, down his belly, under his jacket, over his crotch, and into\nthe street.\nTsion was pale, and his eyes threatened to roll back in his head.\nBuck leaned close to hear his shallow breathing.\n\"Stay with me, friend,\" he said.\n\"Let me go, Cameron. Find shelter. I could do worse than die in the\nstreets of my beloved city.\" \"You're not going to die, Tsion. You're\ngoing to hang on to see this victory, all right?\" \"I wish.\"\n\"Don't wish! Work with me!\"\nBuck whipped off his jacket and his shirt, rolled up his shirt, and\nstuffed it into the wound. The hole was nearly the size of Buck's fist.\n\"I have to get you to shelter,\" he said. \"You up for a few more feet?\"\n\"I am feeling nothing anymore, Cameron. You go. Please.\" \"I will not\nleave you here.\"\n\"Come, come. I will not be here long. We both know that.\" \"I'm\ntaking you to the shelter.\"\"Do not do it for my sake.\"\n\"Then for mine.\"\nBuck knew he was doing Tsion no good. The shirt popped out, and a\ngreat mass of blood gushed. Tsion moaned. Life seemed to be\nescaping him. His eyes were watery and pale, his lips blue. He had\nbegun to shake all over.\nBuck wrestled him into the shelter and tried stanching the blood flow\nagain, but Tsion reached for him with weak, fluttery hands. He finally\ngot hold of one of Buck's hands and pulled it toward him. \"Do not,\nfriend. Please. It is too late.\" \"I don't want to lose you here, Tsion!\"\n\"Come close,\" he whispered. \"Listen to me.\" He was rasping now,\ntaking labored breaths between words.\n\"I can say ... with Paul, `I am already ... being poured out ... as a\ndrink offering, and the time of my departure is at hand.... I have\nfought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the\nfaith.... Finally, there is laid up for me ... the crown of righteousness,\nwhich the Lord, the righteous judge, will give to me on that Day, and\nnot to me only ... but also to all who have loved His appearing.\"'\n\"Tsion, don't! Stay with me!\"\n\"Cameron ... because of Jesus ... my wife and children ... forev\"\nSebastian had ordered another round from the DEWs, and Rayford\nhad to admit it was something to watch as the front line of the\npervasive mass fell back in agony, and the ripple effect could be\nseen for miles. Razor had the fiftycalibers ready in the event of a\ncounterattack, but none came. That just made things weirder. The\ncity of refuge, a million strong, sat like a pea in the middle of an\nocean of enemies that seemed waiting to squash it.\nRayford's phone chirped, and he saw on the readout it was Buck.\n\"Talk to me.\" Buck's voice was thick. \"He's gone.\" \"Tsion?\" \"Hit in the\nchest. Nothing I could do.\" \"You need to get back here, Buck. We'll\nsend somebody.\" \"They'll never get in, and I can't leave him.\" \"Buck!Come on. He's gone. I hate it too, but like you said, there was\nnothing you could do, and certainly nothing you can do now.\"\n\"Nobody could get in here, and I can't imagine getting out.\" \"You all\nright?\"\n\"Didn't foresee this, frankly.\"\n\"Keep your phone handy. No sense doing anything foolish now.\nWe've got to be very close to the end.\" Buck crossed Tsion's feet at\nthe ankles. He closed his jacket over the death wound and pulled\nTsion's hands together, interlocking the fingers at his waist. Buck\nsmoothed Tsion's hair, closed his eyes, and took a last look at his\nface. \"You almost made it, friend,\" he said. He draped his jacket over\nTsion's torso and face.\nBrandishing both Uzis now, he headed for Herod's Gate, where two\nyoung rebels seemed to have a decent vantage point. It wasn't the\nsafest spot, and it sure didn't fit Rayford's advice of not doing\nanything foolish. But Buck didn't know what else to do.\nMac was on the phone from the other side of the perimeter.\n\"Rayford, if I was to ask Sebastian to lend you to us, you think that\nwould be doable?\"\n\"He'd probably be glad to get rid of me. Let me ask.\"\n\"What's he need?\" George said.\n\"Mac? Sebastian wants to know what for.\" \"Don't want to say.\"\n\"That's not going to cut it with him; you know that.\" \"I'm supposed\nto tell him the truth?\"\n\"Never hurts.\"\nMac whispered, \"I need somebody to talk to. Smitty's about two\nhundred yards to the west, and Otto's drivin' me bats. Plus, for real,\nwe could use some manpower here. Like I could use an ATV to\ncheck on my troops, east and west. You got as many Carpathiatroops out your way as we do back here?\" \"There's no end to them,\nMac.\"\n\"I'm countin' on Jesus real soon. But in the meantime, could you\ncome?\"TWENTYTWO\nGETTING TO THE top of the wall of the Old City, particularly by\nHerod's Gate, was no easy task. Buck didn't feel that old, but the\ntwo rebels already there were at least fifteen years younger. They\nnodded to him and pointed in the distance. Unity Army troops were\namassing on Jericho Road, on Suleiman Street, and in the garden\nwhere the traditional site of Jesus' tomb lay. Foot soldiers stretched\nas far as Buck could seefrom the Rockefeller Museum on his right to\nthe Church of St. Stephen past the garden, even as far as Hel Ha\nHandasa. He and the two rebels were in plain sight, but the enemy\nseemed content to let them stay there. Buck wondered if Christ\nwould return only in the middle of an active siege, or if he might\nappear any moment. He hoped the Remnant at Petra would not\neven have to know about Tsion until after the Glorious Appearing.\nBuck worried about the troops behind the Rockefeller Museum. They\nseemed quieter, more clandestine than the others. And they were\nharder to see. He detected movement, but it was not hurried. He\nwould have to keep an eye on that area.\nBuck watched the sky. At the coming of Jesus he expected a heavy\ncloud cover to roll in, the sun to go dark, the earth to convulse. All\nthat could happen in an instant, he knew, and when he allowed\nhimself to dwell on it, the atmosphere seemed to crackle with\ntension.\nSebastian told Rayford to \"go ahead and hold Mac's hand. I swear,\nsometimes he's like an old woman. But let him wait. Go see Chang\non your way. You can go up and in and then down and out and avoid\nthe long way around.\"\n\"What's Chang need?\"\n\"Just buck him up. The way he was talking to me the last few days,\nit was obvious he'd rather be out here than in the tech center. Tellhim how crucial he is to us, all that. 'Course it's true, you know.\" The\nroute Sebastian suggested was tougher than Rayford expected. He\nhad become fairly proficient on the machine, but the terrain was\ntreacherous. He used the brake and lower gears more than ever and\na couple of times found himself in rock formations that didn't allow\nhim through. He had to put the ATV in neutral, ease back down, and\ntry an other route. By the time he got to the tech center, he was\nexhausted and glad to have a break. A lot of quiet talk and planning\nseemed to be going on inside the Old City. Buck noticed several\ngroups of particularly young rebels making their way toward the\nwalls. He liked his perch and what he could see, but he wasn't so\nsure it was a good idea to put the front lines up top all the way\naround. And the more he watched, the clearer it became that that\nwas precisely the decision someone had come to. There was still a\ngood strike force in the center of the city as well, but it was made up\nof the older men and some women. The prime fighting men, the\nteenagers and those in their early twenties, were taking their places\nat the top of the wall. Something about it niggled at the back of\nBuck's brain. There was a vulnerability about it, an allornothing\nquality. He liked the idea of having options, but that was just for\nhimself. He wasn't charged with defending the whole place. Chang\nhad resigned himself to his role, but still he appreciated Rayford's\ncomments and the fact that he had taken the time to stop in. Naomi\ncame by, and the three sat before Chang's screen. \"We all believe\nthe Millennium starts soon,\" Rayford said. \"No later than tomorrow.\nThat's why it's important the populace here not know what's\nhappened to Tsion.\" \"Tsion?\"\n\"He was killed.\"\n\"No!\"\nRayford told what he had heard from Buck. Naomi hid her face in\nher hands, and while Chang wanted to comfort her, he too was\novercome. \"And Buck is all right?\" \"So far, but they were in a very\nprecarious location, and Buck still is.\" \"Can we get him out?\"\"Wouldn't be worth the risk. He's pretty selfsufficient. Like everybody\nelse, he's trying to keep Jews alive and, of course, himself, until the\nevent the world has been anticipating for thousands of years.\"\nChang pointed to the screen, and they watched the latest GCNN\nnewscast.\n\"Global Community Supreme Potentate Nicolae J. Carpathia has\nassembled the largest army in the history of mankind. As you can\nsee in this aerial view, the One World Unity Army consists of all the\nsoldiers, livestock, rolling stock, and munitions available anywhere.\nThe fighting force of untold millions covers the plains of Israel from\nthe Plain of Megiddo in the north to Bozrah in Edom in the south and\nstretches east to west almost the entire breadth of what was once\nknown as the Holy Land. \"The ground forces are supported by air\nbases as far away as Cyprus and by aircraft carriers in the\nMediterranean Sea, and troop transport ships in both the Gulf of\nSuez and the Gulf of Aqaba off the Red Sea.\n\"At this hour onethird of Carpathia's forces have surrounded Petra in\nEdom to the southeast in Jordan, hideout of the Judahite rebels.\nGlobal Community Security and Intelligence Director Suhail Akbar\nsays Tsion BenJudah himself is ensconced at that location, and while\nthe goal of the Unity Army is annihilation, there may be value in\ntaking the leader alive. \"The other twothirds of the Unity Army is\npoised to overtake the city of Jerusalem. Potentate Carpathia himself\nreports that nearly half the city has been occupied and that it is just\na matter of time before the Old City is overrun.\n\"Earlier today in a press conference held while on horseback, the\npotentate was upbeat about the potential outcome.\"\nCarpathia's face appeared on the monitor. \"We are confident that\nthese are the last two rebel enclaves in the world,\" he said, \"and\nthat once they have been thoroughly defeated and our enemies\nscattered, we will realize what we have so long dreamed of: an\nentire world of peace and harmony. There is no place in a true global\ncommunity for rebellion. If our government was anything butbenevolent or did not have the attitude of `citizen first,' there might\nbe cause for dissention. But all we have ever attempted to do was\ncreate a utopia for society.\n\"It is most unfortunate that it comes to this, that we have to resort\nto bloodshed to achieve our goals. But we will do what we have to\ndo.\"\nSomeone asked, \"Doesn't the size of your global army seem like\noverkill?\" \"An excellent question,\" Carpathia cooed, his leathers\nsqueaking as he reset himself on his horse. \"No effort in the cause of\nworld peace is wasted. The rebel factions have proved surprisingly\nformidable. We have decided at the highest levels to be sure we\nleave nothing to chance this time. We will use whatever we need,\neverything that is at our disposal, to succeed.\" \"Is there any truth to\nthe speculation that you are overarmed in anticipation of running\ninto surprising support for the opposition, that perhaps their God\nmight intervene on their behalf?\"\nCarpathia chuckled. \"I do not worry about fairy tales, but even if\nthey did have supernatural help, they would be no match for our\nfighting machine. By our numbers alone, even unarmed, we could\nwin any war by continuing to replenish our ranks. But we also\nhappen to be fully equipped with the best and latest technology.\"\n\"Why not win this war all at once? What's the delay?\" \"I am a man\nof peace. I always believe first in diplomacy and negotiation. The\nwindow of opportunity for settling this peacefully is always open. I\nhad hoped that the enemies of peace would be persuaded by our\nsize and would come to the bargaining table. But our patience is\nrunning out. They seem markedly uninterested in any reasonable\nsolution, and we are prepared to use any means necessary. So it is\njust a matter of time now.\"\nBy midday, with the sun riding high, Buck was famished. He gingerly\nmade his way down from the wall when volunteers brought\nfoodstuffs in for the fighters. He gulped fruit and bread and cheese,and climbed up again. The army seemed to be taking a lunch break\ntoo. Buck wished the rebels had larger weapons. Maybe a surprise\nattack would do some damage. On the other hand, a sleeping giant\nwas a gentler giant, and perhaps it made sense to leave things as\nthey were. He hated the idea of just waiting for the other side to\nattack, but with the front lines atop the wall now, at least that\nwouldn't be a surprise when it came. Rayford started down the back\nside of Petra, finding it even more harrowing than coming up. He\nhad stayed with Chang and Naomi a little longer than he had\nplanned, so he assumed Mac would be looking for him and that\nGeorge thought he had already arrived. From his vantage point he\nhad a good view of the army a mile off. He was reaching for his\nphone to reassure Mac when it became clear something had\nhappened. The front lines were recoiling again, so George must have\ninitiated another burst of the directed energy weapons. This time,\nhowever, despite the ensuing chaos, the Unity Army didn't take it\nsitting down. Rayford heard the booms of retaliatory fire, like\nthunder from a storm head a hundred miles wide. He knew enough\nabout munitions to know that Carpathia's forces were a little far\naway to be using the mortar cannons and shooting at high angles.\nHe guessed the shells would drop short of the Petra perimeter. He\nwas wrong. Maybe their cannons were bigger than the typical\nunrifled short barrels. The shells flew past the perimeter and began\ndropping all around him. When one exploded right in front of him,\nRayford was nearly pitched off the ATV. Grabbing for the handlebar\nwith his free hand, he saw his phone go flying, bouncing a hundred\nyards down the rocky steep. And now his vehicle was out of control.\nHe bounced high off the seat and realized he was soaring through\nthe air with only his hands attached to the ATV. He came down hard,\nand the contraption bounced and rolled sideways. To hang on or not\nwas the only thing on his mind, and quickly that option was gone\ntoo. The fourwheeler hit yet again, ripping his grip away. As he\nbounced and rolled, he kept picking up the sight of the vehicle\ndisintegrating as it smashed into rocks all the way into a valley.\nRayford reminded himself not to try to break his own fall. He tucked\nhands and arms in and tried to relax, fighting his natural instinct forall he was worth. The grade was too steep and his speed too fast to\ncontrol himself. The best he could wish for was a soft landing place.\nA shell deafened him from about ten feet to his right, knocking him\ninto a sideways roll. Rayford felt his temple smash into a sharp rock\nand was aware of what sounded like rushing water as he rolled\ntoward thorny overgrowth. Scary as the thorns looked, they had to\nbe softer than what he had been hitting. Rayford was able to shift\nhis body weight as he slowed and backed into the thorns. It was\nthen he realized what the liquid sound was. With each beat of his\nheart, galloping now, his life's blood spurted six feet from the wound\nin his temple.\nHe pressed his palm hard against his head and felt the gush against\nhis hand. He pressed with all his might and felt he might be\ncontaining it somewhat. But Rayford was in danger nowmortal\ndanger. No one knew exactly where he was. He was without\ncommunications or transportation. He didn't even want to inventory\nhis injuries, because regardless, they were minor compared to the\nhole in his head. He had to get helpand fastor he would be dead in\nminutes. Rayford's arms were gashed, and he felt sharp pains in\nboth knees and one ankle. He reached with his free hand to pull up\nhis pant leg and wished he hadn't. Not only had something sliced the\nflesh from his ankle, but something had taken part of the bone too.\nCould he walk? Dare he try? He was too far from anywhere to crawl.\nHe waited for his pulse to abate and for his equilibrium to return. He\nhad to be a mile from Mac and his people, and he could not see\nthem. There was no going back up. He rolled up onto his feet,\nsquatting, one hand desperately trying to keep himself from bleeding\nto death.\nRayford tried to stand. Only one leg worked, and it was the one with\nthe nearly totaled ankle. He may have broken a shinbone in the\nother. He tried to hop, but the incline was so great, he found himself\npitching forward again. And now he was out of control one more\ntime, trying to hop to keep from falling but picking up speed with\nevery bounce. Whatever he did, he could not take his hand from histemple, and he dared not land on one more hard thing. \"Lord, now\nwould be a most appropriate time for you to come.\"\nChang sensed something was about to give. He had succeeded in\nintercepting signals from geosynchronous satellites that supported\ncommunications among the millions of troops. They were about to\nmove, and his key people needed to know. He called George.\n\"Expect an advance within sixty seconds,\" he said. \"We've already\nbeen shelled,\" George yelled. \"You mean more than that?\"\n\"Yes, they will be coming.\"\n\"Rayford see you?\"\n\"Left a little while ago. On his way to see Mac.\" \"Thanks. Call Mac,\nwould you? I'll inform the others.\"\nChang called and told Mac the same.\n\"Hey,\" Mac said, \"I can't raise Sebastian, and Ray is overdue.\" \"On\nhis way,\" Chang said.\nHe called Buck. \"Expect ad\"\nBut he was cut off. He redialed. Nothing. \"They're coming! They're\ncoming!\"\nBuck heard a young rebel shrieking just as his phone chirped and he\nsaw an incendiary device hurled over the Rockefeller Museum, right\nat his position. He saw Unity Army troop movement from every side,\nand he grabbed his phone and held it up to his ear just as the bomb\nhit the wall right in front of him and clattered to the ground outside.\nHe recognized Chang's voice just before the bomb blew a hole in the\nwall. Rock and shrapnel slammed his whole right side, killed his\nphone, and made him drop one Uzi. He felt something give way in\nhis hip and his neck as his perch disintegrated. One of the young\nboys near him had been blown into the air and cartwheeled to the\npavement. Buck was determined to ride the wall as it fell. Hereached for his neck and felt a torrent of blood. He was no medical\nstudent, but he could tell something had sliced his carotid arteryno\nsmall problem. As the wall crumbled, he danced and highstepped to\nstay upright, but he had to keep a hand on his neck. The remaining\nUzi slid down into his left hand, but when he stabbed it into\nsomething to keep his balance, it fell away. He was unarmed, falling,\nand mortally wounded. And the enemy was coming.\nRayford could break his fall only with his free hand, not daring to\ntake pressure off his temple. His chin took as much of the brunt as\nthe heel of his hand as he slid at what he guessed was a\nfortyfivedegree angle. There would be no walking. All he could do\nwas crawl now and try to stay alive.\nBuck's feet caught in a crevasse of shifting rock, and his upper body\nflopped forward. He was hanging upside down from the crumbling\nwall over the Old City. His hip was torn and bleeding too, and blood\nrushed to his head.\nEven inside the tech center of a city made of rock, Chang felt the\nvibration of the millions of soldiers advancing on Petra. He was\nclicking here and there, flipping switches, and trying to make calls.\nHow far would God let this go before sending the conquering King?\nFighting unconsciousness, he tried gingerly edging along, one hand\nahead of him, the other occupied. Each inch made the angle seem\nsteeper, the way more unstable. With every beat of his heart, every\nrush of blood, every stab of pain, he wondered what was the use.\nHow important was it to stay alive? For what? For whom? \"Come,\nLord Jesus.\"\nDizziness overwhelmed, pain stabbed. A lung had to be punctured.\nHis breath came in wheezes, agonizing, piercing. The first hint of the\nend was the crazy rhythm of his heart. Racing, then skipping, then\nfluttering. Too much blood loss. Not enough to the brain. Not\nenough oxygen. Drowsiness overtook panic. Unconsciousness wouldbe such a relief. And so he allowed it. The lung was ready to burst.\nThe heart fluttered and stopped. The pulsing blood became a pool.\nHe saw nothing through wideopen eyes. \"Lord, please.\" He heard\nthe approach of the enemy. He felt it. But soon he felt nothing. With\nno blood pumping, no air moving, he fell limp and died."
    },
    {
        "title": "Bag of Bones",
        "content": "to Susan Mold w, Nan Graham, Jack Roman s, and Carolyn Reidy at\nScribner\nfor care and feeding. And thanks to Tabby, who was there for me\nagain\nwhen things got hard. I love you, hon.\nS.K.\nThis is for Naomi.\nStill.\nYes, Bartleby, stay there behind your screen, thought I;\nI shall persecute you no more; you are harmless and noiseless as\nany of\nthese old chairs; in short, I never feel so private as when I know you\nare here.\n\"Bartleby,\"\nHERMAN MELVILLE\nLast night I dreamt I went to Manderley again... As I stood there,\nhushed and still, I could swear that the house was not an empty\nshell\nbut lived and breathed as it had lived before.\nRebecca,\nDAPHNE DU MAURIER\nMars is heaven.\nRAY BRADBURY\nOn a very hot day in August of 1994, my wife told me she was going\ndownto the Derry Rite Aid to pick up a refill on her sinus medicine\nprescription--this is stuff you can buy over the counter these days, I\nbelieve. I'd finished my writing for the day and offered to pick it up\nfor her. She said thanks, but she wanted to get a piece of fish at the\nsupermarket next door anyway; two birds with one stone and all of\nthat.\nShe blew a kiss at me off the palm of her hand and went out. The\nnext\ntime I saw her, she was on TV. That's how you identify the dead\nhere in\nDerry--no walking down a subterranean corridor with green tiles on\nthe\nwalls and long fluorescent bars overhead, no naked body rolling out\nof a\nchilly drawer on casters; you just go into an office marked PRIVATE\nand\nlook at a TV screen and say yep or nope.\nThe Rite Aid and the Shopwell are less than a mile from our house,\nin a\nlittle neighborhood strip mall which also supports a video store, a\nused-book store named Spread It Around (they do a very brisk\nbusiness in\nmy old paperbacks), a Radio Shack, and a Fast Foto. It's on Up-Mile\nHill, at the intersection of Witcham and Jackson.\nShe parked in front of Blockbuster Video, went into the drugstore,\nand\ndid business with Mr. Joe Wyzer, who was the druggist in those days;\nhe has since moved on to the Rite Aid in Bangor. At the checkout\nshe\npicked up one of those little chocolates with marshmallow inside,\nthisone in the shape of a mouse. I found it later, in her purse. I\nunwrapped\nit and ate it myself, sitting at the kitchen table with the contents of\nher red handbag spread out in front of me, and it was like taking\nCommunion. When it was gone except for the taste of chocolate on\nmy\ntongue and in my throat, I burst into tears. I sat there in the litter\nof her Kleenex and makeup and keys and half-finished rolls of Certs\nand\ncried with my hands over my eyes, the way a kid cries. The sinus\ninhaler\nwas in a Rite Aid bag. It had cost twelve dollars and eighteen cents.\nThere was something else in the bag, too--an item which had cost\ntwenty-two-fifty. I looked at this other item for a long time, seeing it\nbut not understanding it. I was surprised, maybe even stunned, but\nthe\nidea that Johanna Arlen Noonan might have been leading another\nlife, one\nI knew nothing about, never crossed my mind. Not then.\nJo left the register, walked out into the bright, hammering sun again,\nswapping her regular glasses for her prescription sunglasses as she\ndid,\nand just as she stepped from beneath the drugstore's slight\noverhang (I\nam imagining a little here, I suppose, crossing over into the country\nof\nthe novelist a little, but not by much; only by inches, and you can\ntrust me on that), there was that shrewish howl of locked tires on\npavement that means there's going to be either an accident or a\nvery\nclose call. This time it happened--the sort of accident which\nhappened\nat that stupid X-shaped intersection at least once a week, it seemed.\nA1989 Toyota was pulling out of the shopping-center parking lot and\nturning left onto Jackson Street. Behind the wheel was Mrs. Esther\nEasterling of Barrett's Orchards. She was accompanied by her friend\nMrs.\nIrene Deorsey, also of Barrett's Orchards, who had shopped the\nvideo\nstore without finding anything she wanted to rent. Too much\nviolence,\nIrene said. Both women were cigarette widows. Esther could hardly\nhave\nmissed the orange Public Works dump truck coming down the hill;\nalthough\nshe denied this to the police, to the newspaper, and to me when I\ntalked\nto her some two months later, I think it likely that she just forgot to\nlook. As my own mother (another cigarette widow) used to say, \"The\ntwo\nmost common ailments of the elderly are arthritis and forgetfulness.\nThey can't be held responsible for neither.\" Driving the Public Works\ntruck was William Fraker, of Old Cape. Mr. Fraker was thirty-eight\nyears\nold on the day of my wife's death, driving with his shirt off and\nthinking how badly he wanted a cool shower and a cold beer, not\nnecessarily in that order. He and three other men had spent eight\nhours\nputting down asphalt patch out on the Harris Avenue Extension near\nthe\nairport, a hot job on a hot day, and Bill Fraker said yeah, he might\nhave been going a little too fast--maybe forty in a thirty-mile-an-hour\nzone. He was eager to get back to the garage, sign off on the truck,\nand\nget behind the wheel of his own F-150, which had air conditioning.\nAlso,\nthe dump truck's brakes, while good enough to pass inspection,\nwere a\nlong way from tip-top condition.Fraker hit them as soon as he saw the Toyota pull out in front of him\n(he hit his horn, as well), but it was too late. He heard screaming\ntires--his own, and Esther's as she belatedly realized her danger--\nand\nsaw her face for just a moment. \"That was the worst part,\nsomehow,\" he\ntold me as we sat on his porch, drinking beers--it was October by\nthen,\nand although the sun was warm on our faces, we were both wearing\nsweaters. \"You know how high up you sit in one of those dump\ntrucks? \" I\nnodded. \"Well, she was looking up to see me---craning up, you'd\nsay--and\nthe sun was full in her face. I could see how old she was. I\nremember\nthinking, \"Holy shit, she's gonna break like glass if I can't\nstop.' But old people are tough, more often than not. They can\nsurprise\nyou. I mean, look at how it turned out, both those old biddies still\nalive, and your wife...\" He stopped then, bright red color dashing\ninto\nhis cheeks, making him look like a boy who has been laughed at in\nthe\nschoolyard by girls who have noticed his fly is unzipped. It was\ncomical, but if I'd smiled, it only would have confused him. \"Mr.\nNoonan, I'm sorry. My mouth just sort of ran away with me.\"\n\"It's all right,\" I told him. \"I'm over the worst of it, anyway.\" That\nwas a lie, but it put us back on track. \"Anyway,\" he said, \"we hit.\nThere was a loud bang, and a crumping sound when the driver's\nside of\nthe car caved in. Breaking glass, too. I was thrown against the\nwheel\nhard enough so I couldn't draw a breath without it hurting for a\nweek ormore, and I had a big bruise right here.\" He drew an arc on his\nchest\njust below the collarbones. \"I banged my head on the windshield\nhard\nenough to crack the glass, but all I got up there was a little purple\nknob.., no bleeding, not even a headache.\nMy wife says I've just got a naturally thick skull. I saw the woman\ndriving the Toyota, Mrs. Easterling, thrown across the console\nbetween\nthe front bucket seats. Then we were finally stopped, all tangled\ntogether in the middle of the street, and I got out to see how bad\nthey\nwere. I tell you, I expected to find them both dead.\" Neither of them\nwas dead, neither of them was even unconscious, although Mrs.\nEasterling\nhad three broken ribs and a dislocated hip. Mrs. Deorsey, who had\nbeen a\nseat away from the impact, suffered a concussion when she rapped\nher\nhead on her window. That was all; she was \"treated and released at\nHome\nHospital,\" as the Derry News always puts it in such cases. My wife,\nthe\nformer Johanna Arlen of Malden, Massachusetts, saw it all from\nwhere she\nstood outside the drugstore, with her purse slung over her shoulder\nand\nher prescription bag in one hand. Like Bill Fraker, she must have\nthought the occupants of the Toyota were either dead or seriously\nhurt.\nThe sound of the collision had been a hollow, authoritative bang\nwhich\nrolled through the hot afternoon air like a bowling ball down an alley.The sound of breaking glass edged it like jagged lace. The two\nvehicles\nwere tangled violently together in the middle of Jackson Street, the\ndirty orange truck looming over the pale-blue import like a bullying\nparent over a cowering child. Johanna began to sprint across the\nparking\nlot toward the street. Others were doing the same all around her.\nOne of\nthem, Miss Jill Dun-barry, had been window-shopping at Radio Shack\nwhen\nthe accident occurred. She said she thought she remembered\nrunning past\nJohanna--at least she was pretty sure she remembered someone in\nyellow\nslacks--but she couldn't be sure. By then, Mrs. Easterling was\nscreaming\nthat she was hurt, they were both hurt, wouldn't somebody help her\nand\nher friend Irene.\nHalfway across the parking lot, near a little cluster of newspaper\ndispensers, my wife fell down. Her purse-strap stayed over her\nshoulder,\nbut her prescription bag slipped from her hand, and the sinus inhaler\nslid halfway out. The other item stayed put. No one noticed her lying\nthere by the newspaper dispensers; everyone was focused on the\ntangled\nvehicles, the screaming women, the spreading puddle of water and\nantifreeze from the Public Works truck's ruptured radiator. (\"That's\ngas!\" the clerk from Fast Foto shouted to anyone who would listen.\n\"That's gas, watch out she don't blow, fellas!\") I suppose one or two\nof\nthe would-be rescuers might have jumped right over her, perhaps\nthinkingshe had fainted. To assume such a thing on a day when the\ntemperature\nwas pushing ninety-five degrees would not have been unreasonable.\nRoughly two dozen people from the shopping center clustered\naround the\naccident; another four dozen or so came running over from\nStrawford\nPark, where a baseball game had been going on. I imagine that all\nthe\nthings you would expect to hear in such situations were said, many\nof\nthem more than once. Milling around. Someone reaching through\nthe\nmisshapen hole which had been the driver's-side window to pat\nEsther's\n.trembling old hand. People immediately giving way for Joe Wyzer;\nat\nsuch moments anyone in a white coat automatically becomes the\nbelle of\nthe ball. In the distance, the warble of an ambulance siren rising like\nshaky air over an incinerator. All during this, lying unnoticed in the\nparking lot, was my wife with her purse still over her shoulder\n(inside,\nstill wrapped in foil, her uneaten chocolate-marshmallow mouse) and\nher\nwhite prescription bag near one outstretched hand. It was Joe\nWyzer,\nhurrying back to the pharmacy to get a compression bandage for\nIrene Deorsey's\nhead, who spotted her. He recognized her even though she was lying\nface-down. He recognized her by her red hair, white blouse, and\nyellow\nslacks. He recognized her because he had waited on her not fifteen\nminutes before. \"Mrs. Noonan?\" he asked, forgetting all about thecompression bandage for the dazed but apparently not too badly\nhurt Irene Deorsey.\n\"Mrs. Noonan, are you all right?\" Knowing already (or so I suspect;\nperhaps I am wrong) that she was not.\nHe turned her over. It took both hands to do it, and even then he\nhad to\nwork hard, kneeling and pushing and lifting there in the parking lot\nwith the heat baking down from above and then bouncing back up\nfrom the\nasphalt. Dead people put on weight, it seems to me; both in their\nflesh\nand in our minds, they put on weight. There were red marks on her\nface.\nWhen I identified her I could see them clearly even on the video\nmonitor. I started to ask the assistant medical examiner what they\nwere,\nbut then I knew. Late August, hot pavement, elementary, my dear\nWatson.\nMy wife died getting a sunburn. Wyzer got up, saw that the\nambulance had\narrived, and ran toward it. He pushed his way through the crowd\nand\ngrabbed one of the attendants as he got out from behind the wheel.\n\"There's a woman over there,\" Wyzer said, pointing toward the\nparking\nlot. \"Guy, we've got two women right here, and a man as well,\" the\nattendant said. He tried to pull away, but Wyzer held on. \"Never\nmind\nthem right now,\" he said. \"They're basically okay. The woman over\nthereisn't.\" The woman over there was dead, and I'm pretty sure Joe\nWyzer\nknew it... but he had his priorities straight. Give him that. And he\nwas\nconvincing enough to get both paramedics moving away from the\ntangle of\ntruck and Toyota, in spite of Esther Easterling's cries of pain and the\nrumbles of protest from the Greek chorus. When they got to my\nwife, one\nof the paramedics was quick to confirm what Joe Wyzer had already\nsuspected. \"Holy shit,\" the other one said. \"What happened to her?\"\n\"Heart, most likely,\" the first one said. \"She got excited and it just\nblew out on her.\" But it wasn't her heart. The autopsy revealed a\nbrain\naneurysm which she might have been living with, all unknown, for\nas long\nas five years. As she sprinted across the parking lot toward the\naccident, that weak vessel in her cerebral cortex had blown like a\ntire,\ndrowning her control-centers in blood and killing her. Death had\nprobably not been instantaneous, the assistant medical examiner\ntold me,\nbut it had still come swiftly enough.., and she wouldn't have\nsuffered.\nJust one big black nova, all sensation and thought gone even before\nshe\nhit the pavement.\n\"Can I help you in any way, Mr. Noonan?\" the assistant ME asked,\nturning\nme gently away from the still face and closed eyes on the video\nmonitor.\n\"Do you have questions? I'll answer them if I can.\"\"Just one,\" I said.\nI told him what she'd purchased in the drugstore just before she\ndied.\nThen I asked my question.\nThe days leading up to the funeral and the funeral itself are\ndreamlike\nin my memory--the clearest memory I have is of eating Jo's\nchocolate\nmouse and crying.., crying mostly, I think, because I knew how soon\nthe\ntaste of it would be gone. I had one other crying fit a few days after\nwe buried her, and I will tell you about that one shortly. I was glad\nfor the arrival of Jo's family, and particularly for the arrival of her\noldest brother, Frank. It was Frank Arlen--fifty, red-cheeked, portly,\nand with a head of lush dark hair--who organized the\narrangements.., who\nwound up actually dickering with the funeral director. \"I can't believe\nyou did that,\" I said later, as we sat in a booth at Jack's Pub,\ndrinking beers. \"He was trying to stick it to you, Mikey,\" he said. \"I\nhate guys like that.\" He reached into his back pocket, brought out a\nhandkerchief, and wiped absently at his cheeks with it. He hadn't\nbroken\ndown--none of the Arlens broke down, at least not when I was with\nthem--but Frank had leaked steadily all day; he looked like a man\nsuffering from severe conjunctivitis. There had been six Arlen sibs in\nall, Jo the youngest and the only girl. She had been the pet of her\nbig\nbrothers. I suspect that if I'd had anything to do with her death, the\nfive of them would have torn me apart with their bare hands. As it\nwas,\nthey formed a protective shield around me instead, and that was\ngood. Isuppose I might have muddled through without them, but I don't\nknow how.\nI was thirty-six, remember. You don't expect to have to bury your\nwife\nwhen you're thirty-six and she herself is two years younger. Death\nwas\nthe last thing on our minds. \"If a guy gets caught taking your stereo\nout of your car, they call it theft and put him in jail,\" Frank said.\nThe Arlens had come from Massachusetts, and I could still hear\nMalden in\nFrank's voice--caught was coowat, car was cah, call was caul. \"If the\nsame guy is trying to sell a grieving husband a three-thousand-dollar\ncasket for forty-five hundred dollars, they call it business and ask\nhim\nto speak at the Rotary Club luncheon. Greedy asshole, I fed him his\nlunch, didn't I?\"\n\"Yes. You did.\"\n\"You okay, Mikey?\"\n\"I'm okay.\"\n\"Sincerely okay?\"\n\"How the fuck should I know?\" I asked him, loud enough to turn\nsome\nheads in a nearby booth. And then: \"She was pregnant.\" His face\ngrew\nvery still. \"What?\" I struggled to keep my voice down.\n\"Pregnant. Six or seven weeks, according to the.., you know, the\nautopsy. Did you know? Did she tell you?\"\"No! Christ, no!\" But there was a funny look on his face, as if she\nhad\ntold him something. \"I knew you were trying, of course.., she said\nyou\nhad a low sperm count and it might take a little while, but the doctor\nthought you guys'd probably.., sooner or later you'd probably...\" He\ntrailed off, looking down at his hands. \"They can tell that, huh? They\ncheck for that?\"\n\"They can tell.\nAs for checking, I don't know if they do it automatically or not. I\nasked.\"\n\"Why?\"\n\"She didn't just buy sinus medicine before she died. She also bought\none\nof those home pregnancy-testing kits.\"\n\"You had no idea?\nNo clue?\" I shook my head. He reached across the table and\nsqueezed my\nshoulder. \"She wanted to be sure, that's all. You know that, don't\nyou?\"\nA refill on my sinus medicine and a piece of fish, she'd said. Looking\nlike always. A woman off to run a couple of errands. We had been\ntrying\nto have a kid for eight years, but she had looked just like always.\n\"Sure,\" I said, patting Frank's hand. \"Sure, big guy. I know.\"\nIt was the Arlens--led by Frank who handled Johanna's sen doff. As\nthewriter of the family, I was assigned the obituary. My brother came up\nfrom Virginia with my mom and my aunt and was allowed to tend\nthe\nguest-book at the viewings. My mother--almost completely ga-ga at\nthe\nage of sixty-six, although the doctors refused to call it\nAlzheimer's--lived in Memphis with her sister, two years younger and\nonly slightly less wonky. They were in charge of cutting the cake and\nthe pies at the funeral reception. Everything else was arranged by\nthe\nArlens, from the viewing hours to the components of the funeral\nceremony. Frank and Victor, the second-youngest brother, spoke\nbrief\ntributes. Jo's dad offered a prayer for his daughter's soul. And at the\nend, Pete Breedlove, the boy who cut our grass in the summer and\nraked\nour yard in the fall, brought everyone to tears by singing \"Blessed\nAssurance,\" which Frank said had been Jo's favorite hymn as a girl.\nHow\nFrank found Pete and persuaded him to sing at the funeral is\nsomething I\nnever found out. We got through it--the afternoon and evening\nviewings\non Tuesday, the funeral service on Wednesday morning, then the\nlittle\npray-over at Fairlawn Cemetery. What I remember most was thinking\nhow\nhot it was, how lost I felt without having Jo to talk to, and that I\nwished I had bought a new pair of shoes. Jo would have pestered\nme to\ndeath about the ones I was wearing, if she had been there. Later on\nI\ntalked to my brother, Sid, told him we had to do something about\nour\nmother and Aunt Francine before the two of them disappeared\ncompletelyinto the Twilight Zone. They were too young for a nursing home;\nwhat did\nSid advise? He advised something, but I'll be damned if I know what\nit\nwas. I agreed to it, I remember that, but not what it was. Later that\nday, Siddy, our mom, and our aunt climbed back into Siddy's rental\ncar\nfor the drive to Boston, where they would spend the night and then\ngrab\nthe Southern Crescent the following day. My brother is happy\nenough to\nchaperone the old folks, but he doesn't fly, even if the tickets are on\nme. He claims there are no breakdown lanes in the sky if the engine\nquits. Most of the Arlens left the next day. Once more it was dog-\nhot,\nthe sun glaring out of a white-haze sky and lying on everything like\nmelted brass. They stood in front of our house--which had become\nsolely\nmy house' by then--with three taxis lined up at the curb behind\nthem,\nbig galoots hugging one another amid the litter of tote-bags and\nsaying\ntheir goodbyes in those foggy Massachusetts accents. Frank stayed\nanother day. We picked a big bunch of flowers behind the house--\nnot\nthose ghastly-smelling hothouse things whose aroma I always\nassociate\nwith death and organ-music but real flowers, the kind Jo liked best--\nand\nstuck them in a couple of coffee cans I found in the back pantry. We\nwent out to Fairlawn and put them on the new grave. Then we just\nsat\nthere for awhile under the beating sun. \"She was always just the\nsweetest thing in my life,\" Frank said at last in a strange, muffled\nvoice. \"We took care of Jo when we were kids. Us guys. No one\nmessedwith Jo, I'll tell you. Anyone tried, we'd feed em their lunch.\"\n\"She told me a lot of stories.\"\n\"Good ones?\"\n\"Yeah, real good.\"\n\"I'm going to miss her so much.\"\n\"Me, too,\" I said. \"Frank... listen... I know you were her favorite\nbrother. She never called you, maybe just to say that she missed a\nperiod or was feeling whoopsy in the morning? You can tell me. I\nwon't\nbe pissed.\"\n\"But she didn't. Honest to God. Was she whoopsy in the morning?\"\n\"Not that I saw.\" And that was just it. I hadn't seen anything. Of\ncourse I'd been writing, and when I write I pretty much trance out.\nBut\nshe knew where I went in those trances. She could have found me\nand\nshaken me fully awake. Why hadn't she? Why would she hide good\nnews? Not\nwanting to tell me until she was sure was plausible.., but it somehow\nwasn't Jo. \"Was it a boy or a girl?\" he asked. \"A girl.\"\nWe'd had names picked out and waiting for most of our marriage. A\nboy\nwould have been Andrew. Our daughter would have been Kia. Kia\nJane\nNoonan.\nFrank, divorced six years and on his own, had been staying with me.\nOnour way back to the house he said, \"I worry about you, Mikey. You\nhaven't got much family to fall back on at a time like this, and what\nyou do have is far away.\"\n\"I'll be all right,\" I said. He nodded.\n\"That's what we say, anyway, isn't it?\"\n\"We?\"\n\"Guys. Tll be all right.'\nAnd if we're not, we try to make sure no one knows it.\" He looked at\nme,\neyes still leaking, handkerchief in one big sunburned hand. \"If you're\nnot all right, Mikey, and you don't want to call your brother--I saw\nthe\nway you looked at him--let me be your brother. For Jo's sake if not\nyour\nown.\"\n\"Okay,\" I said, respecting and appreciating the offer, also knowing I\nwould do no such thing. I don't call people for help. It's not because\nof the way I was raised, at least I don't think so; it's the way I was\nmade. Johanna once said that if I was drowning at Dark Score Lake,\nwhere\nwe have a summer home, I would die silently fifty feet out from the\npublic beach rather than yell for help. It's not a question of love or\naffection. I can give those and I can take them. I feel pain like\nanyone\nelse. I need to touch and be touched. But if someone asks me, \"Are\nyou\nall right?\" I can't answer no. I can't say help me. A couple of hours\nlater Frank left for the southern end of the state. When he opened\nthecar door, I was touched to see that the taped book he was listening\nto\nwas one of mine. He hugged me, then surprised me with a kiss on\nthe\nmouth, a good hard smack. \"If you need to talk, call,\" he said. \"And\nif\nyou need to be with someone, just come.\" I nodded. \"And be\ncareful.\"\nThat startled me. The combination of heat and grief had made me\nfeel as\nif I had been living in a dream for the last few days, but that got\nthrough. \"Careful of what?\"\n\"I don't know,\" he said. \"I don't know, Mikey.\" Then he got into his\ncar--he was so big and it was so little that he looked as if he were\nwearing it--and drove away. The sun was going down by then. Do\nyou know\nhow the sun looks at the end of a hot day in August, all orange and\nsomehow squashed, as if an invisible hand were pushing down on\nthe top\nof it and at any moment it might just pop like an overfilled mosquito\nand splatter all over the horizon? It was like that. In the east, where\nit was already dark, thunder was rumbling. But there was no rain\nthat\nnight, only a dark that came down as thick and stifling as a blanket.\nAll the same, I slipped in front of the word processor and wrote for\nan\nhour or so. It went pretty well, as I remember. And you know, even\nwhen\nit doesn't, it passes the time.\nMy second crying fit came three or four days after the funeral. That\nsense of being in a dream persisted--I walked, I talked, I answered\nthephone, I worked on my book, which had been about eighty percent\ncomplete when Jo died--but all the time there was this clear sense of\ndisconnection, a feeling that everything was going on at a distance\nfrom\nthe real me, that I was more or less phoning it in.\nDenise Breedlove, Pete's mother, called and asked if I wouldn't like\nher\nto bring a couple of her friends over one day the following week and\ngive the big old Edwardian pile I now lived in alone--rolling around in\nit like the last pea in a restaurant-sized can--a good stem-to-stern\ncleaning. They would do it, she said, for a hundred dollars split even\namong the three of them, and mostly because it wasn't good for me\nto go\non without it. There had to be a scrubbing after a death, she said,\neven\nif the death didn't happen in the house itself.\nI told her it was a fine idea, but I would pay her and the women she\nbrought a hundred dollars each for six hours' work. At the end of the\nsix hours, I wanted the job done. And if it wasn't, I told her, it would\nbe done, anyway.\n\"Mr. Noonan, that's far too much,\" she said.\n\"Maybe and maybe not, but it's what I'm paying,\" I said. \"Will you\ndo\nit?\"\nShe said she would, of course she would.\nPerhaps predictably, I found myself going through the house on the\nevening before they came, doing a pre-cleaning inspection. I guess I\ndidn't want the women (two of whom would be complete strangers\nto me)finding anything that would embarrass them or me: a pair of\nJohanna's\nsilk panties stuffed down behind the sofa cushions, perhaps (\"We\nare\noften overcome on the sofa, Michael,\" she said to me once, \"have\nyou\nnoticed?\"), or beer cans under the loveseat on the sunporch, maybe\neven\nan unfiushed toilet. In truth, I can't tell you any one thing I was\nlooking for; that sense of operating in a dream still held firm control\nover my mind. The clearest thoughts I had during those days were\neither\nabout the end of the novel I was writing (the psychotic killer had\nlured\nmy heroine to a high-rise building and meant to push her off the\nroof)\nor about the Norco Home Pregnancy Test Jo had bought on the day\nshe\ndied. Sinus prescription, she had said. Piece of fish for supper, she\nhad said. And her eyes had shown me nothing else I needed to look\nat\ntwice.\nNear the end of my \"pre-cleaning,\" I looked under our bed and saw\nan\nopen paperback on Jo's side. She hadn't been dead long, but few\nhousehold lands are so dusty as the Kingdom of Underbed, and the\nlight-gray coating I saw on the book when I brought it out made me\nthink\nof Johanna's face and hands in her coffin--Jo in the Kingdom of\nUnderground. Did it get dusty inside a coffin? Surely not, but- I\npushed\nthe thought away. It pretended to go, but all day long it kept\ncreeping\nback, like Tolstoy's white bear.Johanna and I had both been English majors at the University of\nMaine,\nand like many others, I reckon, we fell in love to the sound of\nShakespeare and the Tilbury Town cynicism of Edwin Arlington\nRobinson.\nYet the writer who had bound us closest together was no college-\nfriendly\npoet or essayist but W. Somerset Maugham, that elderly\nglobetrotting\nnovelist-playwright with the reptile's face (always obscured by\ncigarette smoke in his photographs, it seems) and the romantic's\nheart.\nSo it did not surprise me much to find that the book under the bed\nwas\nThe &loon and Sixpence. I had read it myself as a late teenager, not\nonce but twice, identifying passionately with the character of Charles\nStrickland. (It was writing I wanted to do in the South Seas, of\ncourse,\nnot painting.)\nShe had been using a playing card from some defunct deck as her\nplace-marker, and as I opened the book, I thought of something she\nhad\nsaid when I was first getting to know her. In Twentieth-Century\nBritish\nLit, this had been, probably in 1980. Johanna Arlen had been a fiery\nlittle sophomore. I was a senior, picking up the Twentieth-Century\nBrits\nsimply because I had time on my hands that last semester. \"Sk\nhundred\nyears from now,\" she had said, \"the shame of the mid-twentieth-\ncentury\nliterary critics will be that they embraced Lawrence and ignoredMaugham.\" This was greeted with contemptuously good-natured\nlaughter\n(they all knew Women in Love was one of the greatest damn books\never\nwritten), but I didn't laugh. I fell in love.\nThe playing card marked pages 102 and 103--Dirk Stroeve has just\ndiscovered that his wife has left him for Strickland, Maugham's\nversion\nof Paul Gauguin. The narrator tries to buck Stroeve up. My\ndearj3llow,\ndon't be unhappy. She'll come back...\n\"Easy for you to say,\" I murmured to the room which now belonged\njust to\nme.\nI turned the page and read this: Strickland's injurious calm robbed\nStroeve of his self-control Blind rage seized him, and without\nknowing\nwhat he was doing he flung himself on Strickland. Strickland was\ntaken\nby surprise and he staggered, but he was very strong, even after his\nillness, and in a moment, he did not exactly know how, Stroeve Jund\nhimself on the floor.\n\"tau funny little man,\" said Strickland.\nIt occurred to me that Jo was never going to turn the page and hear\nStrickland call the pathetic Stroeve a funny little man. In a moment\nof\nbrilliant epiphany I have never forgotten--how could I? it was one of\nthe worst moments of my life--I understood it wasn't a mistake that\nwould be rectified, or a dream from which I would awaken. Johanna\nwas\ndead.My strength was robbed by grief. If the bed hadn't been there, I\nwould\nhave fallen to the floor. We weep from our eyes, it's all we can do,\nbut\non that evening I felt as if every pore of my body were weeping,\nevery\ncrack and cranny. I sat there on her side of the bed, with her dusty\npaperback copy of The Moon and Sixpence in my hand, and I\nwailed. I\nthink it was surprise as much as pain; in spite of the corpse I had\nseen\nand identified on a high-resolution video monitor, in spite of the\nfuneral and Pete Breedlove singing \"Blessed Assurance\" in his high,\nsweet tenor voice, in spite of the graveside service with its ashes to\nashes and dust to dust, I hadn't really believed it. The Penguin\npaperback did for me what the big gray coffin had not: it insisted\nshe\nwas dead.\nYou funny little man, said Strickland.\nI lay back on our bed, crossed my forearms over my face, and cried\nmyself to sleep that way as children do when they're unhappy. I had\nan\nawful dream. In it I woke up, saw the paperback of The Moon and\nSixpence\nstill lying on the coverlet beside me, and decided to put it back\nunder\nthe bed where I had found it. You know how confused dreams are--\nlogic\nlike Dall clocks gone so soft they lie over the branches of trees like\nthrow-rugs.\nI put the playing-card bookmark back between pages 102 and 103--\na turnof the index finger away from IOUJNNY little man, said Strickland\nnow\nand forever--and rolled onto my side, hanging my head over the\nedge of\nthe bed, meaning to put the book back exactly where I had found it.\nJo was lying there amid the dust-kitties. A strand of cobweb hung\ndown\nfrom the bottom of the box spring and caressed her cheek like a\nfeather.\nHer red hair looked dull, but her eyes were dark and alert and\nbaleful\nin her white face. And when she spoke, I knew that death had\ndriven her\ninsane.\n\"Give me that,\" she hissed. \"It's my dust-catcher.\" She snatched it\nout\nof my hand before I could offer it to her. For a moment our fingers\ntouched, and hers were as cold as twigs after a frost. She opened\nthe\nbook to her place, the playing card fluttering out, and placed\nSomerset\nMaugham over her face--a shroud of words. As she crossed her\nhands on\nher bosom and lay still, I realized she was wearing the blue dress I\nhad\nburied her in. She had come out of her grave to hide under our bed.\nI awoke with a muffled cry and a painful jerk that almost tumbled\nme off\nthe side of the bed. I hadn't been asleep long--the tears were still\ndamp on my cheeks, and my eyelids had that funny stretched feel\nthey getafter a bout of weeping. The dream had been so vivid that I had to\nroll\non my side, hang my head down, and peer under the bed, sure she\nwould be\nthere with the book over her face, that she would reach out with her\ncold fingers to touch me.\nThere was nothing there, of course--dreams are just dreams.\nNevertheless, I spent the rest of the night on the couch in my study.\nIt\nwas the right choice, I guess, because there were no more dreams\nthat\nnight. Only the nothingness of good sleep.\nI never suffered from writer's block during the ten years of my\nmarriage, and did not suffer it immediately after Johanna's death. I\nwas\nin fact so unfamiliar with the condition that it had pretty well set in\nbefore I knew anything out of the ordinary was going on. I think this\nwas because in my heart I believed that such conditions only\naffected\n\"literary'' types of the sort who are discussed, deconstructed, and\nsometimes dismissed in the New York Review of Books. My writing\ncareer\nand my marriage covered almost exactly the same span. I finished\nthe\nfirst draft of my first novel, Being Two, not long after Jo and I\nbecame\nofficially engaged (I popped an opal ring on the third finger of her\nleft hand, a hundred and ten bucks at Day's Jewellers, and quite a\nbit\nmore than I could afford at the time.., but Johanna seemed utterly\nthrilled with it), and I finished my last novel, All the Pay from the\n3p, about a month after she was declared dead. This was the one\naboutthe psychotic killer with the love of high places. It was published in\nthe fall of 1995. I have published other novels since then--a paradox\nI\ncan explain--but I don't think there'll be a Michael Noonan novel on\nany\nlist in the foreseeable future. I know what writer's block is now, all\nright. I know more about it than I ever wanted to.\nWhen I hesitantly showed Jo the first draft of Being Two, she read it\nin\none evening, curled up in her favorite chair, wearing nothing but\npanties and a tee-shirt with the Maine black bear on the front,\ndrinking\nglass after glass of iced tea. I went out to the garage (we were\nrenting\na house in Bangor with another couple on as shaky financial ground\nas we\nwere. . and no, Jo and I weren't quite married at that point,\nalthough\nas far as I know, that opal ring never left her finger) and puttered\naimlessly, feeling like a guy in a New Yorker cartoon one of those\nabout\nfunny fellows in the delivery waiting room. As I remember, I fucked\nup a\nso-simple-a-child-can-do-it birdhouse kit and almost cut off the index\nfinger of my left hand. Every twenty minutes or so I'd go back inside\nand peek at Jo. If she noticed, she gave no sign. I took that as\nhopeful. I was sitting on the back stoop, looking up at the stars and\nsmoking, when she came out, sat down beside me, and put her\nhand on the\nback of my neck. \"Well?\" I said. \"It's good,\" she said. \"Now why\ndon't\nyou come inside and do me?\" And before I could answer, the panties\nshe\nhad been wearing dropped in my lap in a little whisper of nylon.Afterward, lying in bed and eating oranges (a vice we later\noutgrew), I\nasked her: \"Good as in publishable?\"\n\"Well,\" she said, \"I don't know anything about the glamorous world\nof\npublishing, but I've been reading for pleasure all my life--Curious\nGeorge was my first love, if you want to know--\"\n\"I don't.\" She leaned over and popped an orange segment into my\nmouth,\nher breast warm and provocative against my arm. \"--and I read this\nwith\ngreat pleasure. My prediction is that your career as a reporter for the\nDevry News is never going to survive its rookie stage.\nI think I'm going to be a novelist's wife.\"\nHer words thrilled me--actually brought goosebumps out on my\narms. No,\nshe didn't know anything about the glamorous world of publishing,\nbut if\nshe believed, I believed.., and belief turned out to be the right\ncourse. I got an agent through my old creative-writing teacher (who\nread\nmy novel and damned it with faint praise, seeing its commercial\nqualities as a kind of heresy, I think), and the agent sold Being Two\nto\nRandom House, the first publisher to see it.\nJo was right about my career as a reporter, as well. I spent four\nmonths\ncovering flower shows, drag races, and bean suppers at about a\nhundred a\nweek before my first check from Random House came in--$27,000,\nafter theagent's commission had been deducted. I wasn't in the newsroom\nlong\nenough to get even that first minor bump in salary, but they had a\ngoing-away party for me just the same. At Jack's Pub, this was, now\nthat\nI think of it. There was a banner hung over the tables in the back\nroom\nwhich said GOOD LUC: MIKE--WRITE ON! Later, when we got home,\nJohanna\nsaid that if envy was acid, there would have been nothing left of me\nbut\nmy belt-buckle and three teeth.\nLater, in bed with the lights out--the last orange eaten and the last\ncigarette shared--I said, \"No one's ever going to confuse it with Look\nHomeward, Angel, are they?\" My book, I meant. She knew it, just as\nshe\nknew I had been fairly depressed by my old creative-writing\nteacher's\nresponse to Two.\n\"You aren't going to pull a lot of frustrated-artist crap on me, are\nyou?\" she asked, getting up on one elbow. \"If you are, I wish you'd\ntell\nme now, so I can pick up one of those do-it-yourself divorce kits first\nthing in the morning.\"\nI was amused, but also a little hurt. \"Did you see that first press\nrelease from Random House?\" I knew she had. \"They're just about\ncalling\nme V. C. Andrews with a prick, for God's sake.\"\n\"Well,\" she said, lightly grabbing the object in question, \"you do\nhave\na prick. As far as what they're calling you... Mike, when I was in\nthirdgrade, Patty Banning used to call me a booger-hooker. But I wasn't.\"\n\"Perception is everything.\"\n\"Bullshit.\" She was still holding my dick and now gave it a formidable\nsqueeze that hurt a little and felt absolutely wonderful at the same\ntime. That crazy old trouser mouse never really cared what it got in\nthose days, as long as there was a lot of it. \"Happiness is everything.\nAre you happy when you write, Mike?\"\n\"Sure.\" It was what she knew, anyway.\n\"Sknd does your conscience bother you when you write?\"\n\"When I write, there's nothing I'd rather do except this,\" I said, and\nrolled on top of her.\n\"Oh dear,\" she said in that prissy little voice that always cracked me\nup. \"There's a penis between us.\"\nAnd as we made love, I realized a wonderful thing or two: that she\nhad\nmeant it when she said she really liked my book (hell, I'd known she\nliked it just from the way she sat in the wing chair reading it, with a\nlock of hair falling over her brow and her bare legs tucked beneath\nher), and that I didn't need to be ashamed of what I had written..,\nnot\nin her eyes, at least. And one other wonderful thing: her perception,\njoined with my own to make the true binocular vision nothing but\nmarriage allows, was the only perception that mattered.\nThank God she was a Maugham fan.\nI was V. C. Andrews with a prick for ten years.., fourteen, if you add\nin the post-Johanna years. The first five were with Random; then myagent got a huge offer from Putnam and I jumped.\nYou've seen my name on a lot of bestseller lists. .. if, that is, your\nSunday paper carries a list that goes up to fifteen instead of just\nlisting the top ten. I was never a Clancy, Ludlum, or Grisham, but I\nmoved a fair number of hardcovers (V. C. Andrews never did, Harold\nOblowski, my agent, told me once; the lady was pretty much a\npaperback\nphenomenon) and once got as high as number five on the 'mes list..,\nthat\nwas with my second book, The Red-Shirt Man. Ironically, one of the\nbooks\nthat kept me from going higher was Sted Machine, by Thad\nBeaumont\n(writing as George Stark). The Beaumonts had a summer place in\nCastle\nRock back in those days, not even fifty miles south of our place on\nDark\nScore Lake. Thad's dead now. Suicide. I don't know if it had\nanything to\ndo with writer's block or not.\nI stood just outside the magic circle of the mega-bestsellers, but I\nnever minded that. We owned two homes by the time I was thirty-\none: the\nlovely old Edwardian in Derry and, in western Maine, a lakeside log\nhome\nalmost big enough to be called a lodge--that was Sara Laughs, so\ncalled\nby the locals for nearly a century. And we owned both places free\nand\nclear at a time of life when many couples consider themselves lucky\njust\nto have fought their way to mortgage approval on a starter home.\nWe were\nhealthy, faithful, and with our fun-bones still fully attached. I wasn'tThomas Wolfe (not even Tom Wolfe or Tobias Wolff), but I was\nbeing paid\nto do what I loved, and there's no gig on earth better than that; it's\nlike a license to steal.\nI was what midlist fiction used to be in the forties: critically\nignored, genre-oriented (in my case the genre was Lovely Young\nWoman on\nHer Own Meets Fascinating Stranger), but well compensated and\nwith the\nkind of shabby acceptance accorded to state-sanctioned\nwhorehouses in\nNevada, the feeling seeming to be that some outlet for the baser\ninstincts should be provided and someone had to do That Sort of\nThing. I\ndid That Sort of Thing enthusiastically (and sometimes with Jo's\nenthusiastic connivance, if I came to a particularly problematic plot\ncrossroads), and at some point around the time of George Bush's\nelection, our accountant told us we were millionaires.\nWe weren't rich enough to own a jet (Grisham) or a pro football\nteam\n(Clancy), but by the standards of Derry, Maine, we were quite rolling\nin\nit. We made love thousands of times, saw thousands of movies, read\nthousands of books (Jo storing hers under her side of the bed at the\nend\nof the day, more often than not). And perhaps the greatest blessing\nwas\nthat we never knew how short the time was.\nMore than once I wondered if breaking the ritual is what led to the\nwriter's block. In the daytime, I could dismiss this as supernatural\ntwaddle but at night that was harder to do. At night your thoughts\nhave\nan unpleasant way of slipping their collars and running free. And ifyou've spent most of your adult life making fictions, I'm sure those\ncollars are even looser and the dogs less eager to wear them. Was it\nShaw or Oscar Wilde who said a writer was a man who had taught\nhis mind\nto misbehave?\nAnd is it really so far-fetched to think that breaking the ritual might\nhave played a part in my sudden and unexpected (unexpected by\nme, at\nleast) silence? When you make your daily bread in the land of\nmake-believe, the line between what is and what seems to be is\nmuch\nfiner. Painters sometimes refuse to paint without wearing a certain\nhat,\nand baseball players who are hitting well won't change their socks.\nThe ritual started with the second book, which was the only one I\nremember being nervous about--I suppose I'd absorbed a fair\namount of\nthat sophomore-jinx stuff; the idea that one hit might only be a\nfluke.\nI remember an American Lit lecturer's once saying that of modern\nAmerican writers, only Harper Lee had found a foolproof way of\navoiding\nthe second-book blues.\nWhen I reached the end of The Red-Shirt Man, I stopped just short\nof\nfinishing. The Edwardian on Benton Street in Derry was still two\nyears\nin the future at that point, but we had purchased Sara Laughs, the\nplace\non Dark Score (not anywhere near as furnished as it later became,\nand\nJo's studio not yet built, but nice), and that's where we were.I pushed back from my typewriter--I was still clinging to my old IBM\nSelectric in those days--and went into the kitchen. It was\nmid-September, most of the summer people were gone, and the\ncrying of\nthe loons on the lake sounded inexpressibly lovely. The sun was\ngoing\ndown, and the lake itself had become a still and heatless plate of\nfire.\nThis is one of the most vivid memories I have, so clear I sometimes\nfeel\nI could step right into it and live it all again. What things, if any,\nwould I do differently? I sometimes wonder about that.\nEarly that evening I had put a bottle of Taittinger and two flutes in\nthe fridge. Now I took them out, put them on a tin tray that was\nusually\nemployed to transport pitchers of iced tea or Kool-Aid from the\nkitchen\nto the deck, and carried it before me into the living room.\nJohanna was deep in her ratty old easy chair, reading a book (not\nMaugham that night but William Denbrough, one of her\ncontemporary\nfavorites). \"Ooo,\" she said, looking up and marking her place. \"Cham\npagne, what's the occasion?\" As if, you understand, she didn't know.\n\"I'm done,\" I said. \"Mon livre est tout fini.\"\n\"Well,\" she said, smiling and taking one of the flutes as I bent down\nto\nher with the tray, \"then that's all right, isn't it?\"\nI realize now that the essence of the ritual--the part that was alive\nand powerful, like the one true magic word in a mouthful ofgibberish--was that phrase. We almost always had champagne, and\nshe\nalmost always came into the office with me afterward for the other\nthing, but not always. Once, five years or so before she died, she\nwas\nin Ireland, vacationing with a girlfriend, when I finished a book. I\ndrank the champagne by myself that time, and entered the last line\nby\nmyself as well (by then I was using a Macintosh which did a billion\ndifferent things and which I used for only one) and never lost a\nminute's sleep over it. But I called her at the inn where she and her\nfriend Bryn were staying; I told her I had finished, and listened as\nshe\nsaid the words I'd called to hear--words that slipped into an Irish\ntelephone line, travelled to a microwave transmitter, rose like a\nprayer\nto some satellite, and then came back down to my ear: \"Well, then\nthat's\nall right, isn't it?\" This custom began, as I say, after the second\nbook. When we'd each had a glass of champagne and a refill, I took\nher\ninto the office, where a single sheet of paper still stuck out of my\nforest-green Selectric. On the lake, one last loon cried down dark,\nthat\ncall that always sounds to me like something rusty turning slowly in\nthe\nwind. \"I thought you said you were done,\" she said. \"Everything but\nthe\nlast line,\" I said. \"The book, such as it is, is dedicated to you, and I\nwant you to put down the last bit.\" She didn't laugh or protest or get\ngushy, just looked at me to see if I really meant it. I nodded that I\ndid, and she sat in my chair. She had been swimming earlier, and her\nhair was pulled back and threaded through a white elastic thing. It\nwas\nwet, and two shades darker red than usual. I touched it. It was like\ntouching damp silk. \"Paragraph indent?\" she asked, as seriously as agirl from the steno pool about to take dictation from the big boss.\n\"No,\" I said, \"this continues.\" And then I spoke the line I'd been\nholding in my head ever since I got up to pour the champagne.\"\n\"He slipped the chain over her head, and then the two of them\nwalked\ndown the steps to where the car was parked.'\" She typed it, then\nlooked\naround and up at me expectantly. \"That's it,\" I said. \"You can write\nThe\nEnd, I guess.\"\n: Jo hit the Tt3m-4 button twice, centered the carriage, and typed\nThe\nEnd under the last line of prose, the IBM's Courier type ball (my\nfavorite) spinning out the letters in their obedient dance. \"What's the\nchain he slips over her head?\" she asked me. \"You'll have to read\nthe\nbook to find out.\" With her sitting in my desk chair and me standing\nbeside her, she was in perfect position to put her face where she did.\nWhen she spoke, her lips moved against the most sensitive part of\nme.\nThere were a pair of cotton shorts between us and that was all. \"Ve\nhaffvays off making you talk,\" she said. \"I'll just bet you do,\" I said.\nI at least made a stab at the ritual on the day I finished All the Pay\nfrom the bp. It felt hollow, form from which the magical substance\nhad\ndeparted, but I'd expected that. I didn't do it out of superstition but\nout of respect and love. A kind of memorial, if you will. Or, if you\nwill, Johanna's real funeral service, finally taking place a month after\nshe was in the ground. It was the last third of September, and stillhot--the hottest late summer I can remember. All during that final\nsad\npush on the book, I kept thinking how much I missed her. .. but\nthat\nnever slowed me down. And here's something else: hot as it was in\nDerry,\nso hot I usually worked in nothing but a pair of boxer shorts, I never\nonce thought of going to our place at the lake. It was as if my\nmemory\nof Sara Laughs had been entirely wiped from my mind. Perhaps that\nwas\nbecause by the time I finished 3p, that truth was finally sinking in.\nShe wasn't just in Ireland this time. My office at the lake is tiny, but\nhas a view. The office in Derry is long, book-lined, and windowless.\nOn\nthis particular evening, the overhead fans--there are three of\nthem--were on and paddling at the soupy air. I came in dressed in\nshorts, a tee-shirt, and rubber thong sandals, carrying a tin Coke\ntray\nwith the bottle of champagne and the two chilled glasses on it. At\nthe\nfar end of that railroad-car room, under an eave so .steep I'd had to\nalmost crouch so as not to bang my head when I got up (over the\nyears\nI'd also had to withstand Jo's protests that I'd picked the absolute\nworst place in the room for a workstation), the screen of my\nMacintosh\nglowed with words.\nI thought I was probably inviting another storm of grief---maybe the\nworst storm--but I went ahead anyway.., and our emotions always\nsurprise\nus, don't they? There was no weeping and wailing that night; I\nguess allthat was out of my system. Instead there was a deep and wretched\nsense\nof loss--the empty chair where she used to like to sit and read, the\nempty table where she would always set her glass too close to the\nedge.\nI poured a glass of champagne, let the foam settle, then picked it\nup.\n\"I'm done, Jo,\" I said as I sat there beneath the paddling fans. \"So\nthat's all right, isn't it?\"\nThere was no response. In light of all that came later, I think that's\nworth repeating--there was no response. I didn't sense, as I later\ndid,\nthat I was not alone in a room which appeared empty.\nI drank the champagne, put the glass back on the Coke tray, then\nfilled\nthe other one. I took it over to the Mac and sat down where\nJohanna\nwould have been sitting, if not for everyone's favorite loving God. No\nweeping and wailing, but my eyes prickled with tears. The words on\nthe\nscreen were these:\ntoday wasn't so bad, she supposed. She crossed the grass to her car,\nand\nlaughed when she saw the white square of paper under the\nwindshield. Cam\nDelancey, who refused to be discouraged, or to take no for an\nanswer,\nhad invited her to another of his Thursday-night wine-tasting parties.\nShe took the paper, started to tear it up, then changed her mind and\nstuck it in the hip pocket of her jeans, instead.\"No paragraph indent,\" I said, \"this continues.\" Then I keyboarded\nthe\nline I'd been holding in my head ever since I got up to get the\nchampagne. There was a whole world out there; Cam Delancey's\nwine-tasting was as good a place to start as any.\nI stopped, looking at the little flashing cursor. The tears were still\nprickling at the corners of my eyes, but I repeat that there were no\ncold drafts around my ankles, no spectral fingers at the nape of my\nneck. I hit omx/twice. I clicked on ENTEM I typed The End below the\nlast\nline of prose, and then I toasted the screen with what should have\nbeen\nJo's glass of champagne.\n\"Here's to you, babe,\" I said. \"I wish you were here. I miss you like\nhell.\" My voice wavered a little on that last word, but didn't break. I\ndrank the Taittinger, saved my final line of copy, transferred the\nwhole\nworks to floppy disks, then backed them up. And except for notes,\ngrocery lists, and checks, that was the last writing I did for four\nyears.\nMy publisher didn't know, my editor Debra Weinstock didn't know,\nmy\nagent Harold Oblowski didn't know. Frank Arlen didn't know, either,\nalthough on more than one occasion I had been tempted to tell him.\nLet\nme be your brother. For Jo's sake if not your own, he told me on the\nday\nhe went back to his printing business and mostly solitary life in the\nsouthern Maine town of Sanford. I had never expected to take him\nup on\nthat, and didn't--not in the elemental cry-for-help way he might have\nbeen thinking about--but I phoned him every couple of weeks or so.Guy-talk, you know--How's it going, Not too bad, cold as a witch's\ntit,\n\"Yah, here, too, IOU want to go down to Boston if I can get Bruins\ntickets, Maybe next year, pretty busy right now, Iah, I know how\nthat\nis, seeya, Mikey, Okay, Frank, keep your wee-wee in the teepee.\nGuy-talk. I'm pretty sure that once or twice he asked me if I was\nworking on a new book, and I think I said-Oh, fuck it--that's a lie,\nokay? One so ingrown that now I'm even telling it to myself. He\nasked,\nall right, and I always said yeah, I was working on a new book, it\nwas\ngoing good, real good. I was tempted more than once to tell him I\ncan't\nwrite two paragraphs without going into total mental and physical\ndoglock--my heartbeat doubles, then triples, I get short of breath\nand\nthen start to pant, my eyes jel like they're going to pop out of my\nhead\nand hang there on my cheeks. I'm like a claustrophobe in a sinking\nsubma-tine. That's how it's going, thanksjr asking, but I never did. I\ndon't call for help. I can't call for help. I think I told you that.\nFrom my admittedly prejudiced standpoint, successful novelists--\neven\nmodestly successful novelists-have got the best gig in the creative\narts. It's true that people buy more CDS than books, go to more\nmovies,\nand watch a lot more T. But the arc of productivity is longer for\nnovelists, perhaps because readers are a little brighter than fans of\nthe non-written arts, and thus have marginally longer memories.\nDavid\nSoul of Starsky and Hutch is God knows where, same with that\npeculiarwhite rapper Vanilla Ice, but in 1994, Herman Wouk, James\nMichener, and\nNorman Mailer were all still around; talk about when dinosaurs\nwalked\nthe earth. Arthur Hailey was writing a new book (that was the rumor,\nanyway, and it turned out to be true), Thomas Harris could take\nseven\nyears between Lecters and still produce bestsellers, and although\nnot\nheard from inalmost forty years, J. D. Salinger was still a hot topic in\nEnglish classes and informal coffee-house literary groups. Readers\nhave\na loyalty that cannot be matched anywhere else in the creative arts,\nwhich explains why so many writers who have run out of gas can\nkeep\ncoasting anyway, propelled onto the bestseller lists by the magic\nwords\n^utov, of on the covers of their books. What the publisher wants in\nreturn, especially from an author who can be counted on to sell\n500,000\nor so copies of each novel in hardcover and a million more in\npaperback,\nis perfectly simple: a book a year. That, the wallahs in New York\nhave\ndetermined, is the optimum. Three hundred and eighty pages bound\nby\nstring or glue every twelve months, a beginning, a middle, and an\nend,\ncontinuing main character like Kinsey Millhone or Kay Scarpetta\noptional\nbut very much preferred. Readers love continuing characters; it's like\ncoming back to family. Less than a book a year and you're screwing\nup\nthe publisher's investment in you, hampering your business\nmanager'sability to continue floating all of your credit cards, and jeopardizing\nyour agent's ability to pay his shrink on time. Also, there's always\nsome fan attrition when you take too long. Can't be helped. Just as,\nif\nyou publish too much, there are readers who'll say, \"Phew, I've had\nenough of this guy for awhile, it's all starting to taste like beans.\" I\ntell you all this so you'll understand how I could spend four years\nusing my computer as the world's most expensive Scrabble board,\nand no\none ever suspected. Writer's block? What writer's block? We don't\ngot no\nsteenkin writer's block. How could anyone think such a thing when\nthere\nwas a new Michael Noonan suspense novel appearing each fall just\nlike\nclockwork, perfect for your late-summer pleasure reading, folks, and\nby\nthe way, don't forget that the holidays are coming and that all your\nrelatives would also probably enjoy the new Noonan, which can he\nhad at\nBorders at a thirty percent discount, oy way, such a deal. The secret\nis simple, and I am not the only popular novelist in America who\nknows\nit--if the rumors are correct, Danielle Steel (to name just one) has\nbeen using the Noonan Formula for decades. You see, although I\nhave\npublished a book a year starting with Being Two in 1984, I wrote\ntwo\nbooks in four of those ten years, publishing one and ratholing the\nother. I don't remember ever talking about this with Jo, and since\nshe\nnever asked, I always assumed she understood what I was doing:\nsaving up\nnuts. It wasn't writer's block I was thinking of, though. Shit, I was\njust having fun. By February of 1995, after crashing and burning\nwith atleast two good ideas (that particular function--the Eureka./ thing--\nhas\nnever stopped, which creates its own special version of hell), I could\nno longer deny the obvious: I was in the worst sort of trouble a\nwriter\ncan get into, barring Alzheimer's or a cataclysmic stroke. Still, I had\nfour cardboard manuscript boxes in the big safe-deposit box I keep\nup at\nFidelity Union. They were marked Promise, Threat, Darcy, and %p.\nAround\nValentine's Day, my agent called, moderately nervous--I usually\ndelivered my latest masterpiece to him by January, and here it was\nalready half-past February. They would have to crash production to\nget\nthis year's Mike Noonan out in time for the annual Christmas buying\norgy. Was everything all right? This was my first chance to say things\nwere a country mile from all but Mr. Harold Oblowski of 225 Park\nAvenue\nwasn't the sort of man you said such things to. He was a fine agent,\nboth liked and ,loathed in publishing circles (sometimes by the same\npeople at the same time), but he didn't adapt well to bad news from\nthe\ndark and oil.treaked levels where the goods were actually produced.\nHe\nwould have ireaked and been on the next plane to Derry, ready to\ngive me\ncreative mouth-to-mouth, adamant in his resolve not to leave until\nhe\nhad yanked me out of my fugue. No, I liked Harold right where he\nwas, in\nhis thirty-eighth-floor office with its kickass view of the East Side. I\ntold him what a coincidence, Harold, you calling on the very day I '\nfinished the new one, gosharooty, how 'bout that, I'll send it out\nFedex, you'll have it tomorrow. Harold assured me solemnly that\ntherewas no coincidence about it, that where his writers were concerned,\nhe\nwas telepathic. Then he congratulated me and hung up. Two hours\nlater I\nreceived his bouquet-every bit as fulsome and silky as one of his\nJimmy\nHollywood ascots. After putting the flowers in the dining room,\nwhere I\nrarely went since Jo died, I went down to Fidelity Union. I used my\nkey,\nthe bank manager used his, and soon enough I was on my way to\nFedex with\nthe manuscript of All the yfrom the 3p. I took the most recent book\nbecause it was the one closest to the front of the box, that's all. In\nNovember it was published just in time for the Christmas rush. I\ndedicated it to the memory of my late, beloved wife, Johanna. It\nwent to\nnumber eleven on the Times bestseller list, and everyone went home\nhappy. Even me.\nBecause things would get better, wouldn't they? No one had terminal\nwriter's block, did they (well, with the possible exception of Harper\nLee)? All I had to do was relax, as the chorus girl said to the\narchbishop. And thank God I'd been a good squirrel and saved up\nmy nuts.\nI was still optimistic the following year when I drove down to the\nFederal Express office with Threatening Behavior. That one was\nwritten\nin the fall of 1991, and had been one of Jo's favorites. Optimism had\nfaded quite a little bit by March of 1997, when I drove through a wet\nsnowtorrn with Darcy's Admirer, although when people asked me\nhow it was\ngoing (\"Writing any good books lately?\" is the existential way most\n,mto phrase the question), I still answered good, fine, yeah, writing\nlots\nof good books lately, they're pouring out of me like shit out of a\nCOW'S\nass. After Harold had read Darcy and pronounced it my best ever, a\nbest-seller which was also serious, I hesitantly broached the idea of\ntaking a year off. He responded immediately with the question I\ndetest\nabove all others: was I all right? Sure, I told him, fine as freckles,\njust thinking about easing off a little. There followed one of those\npatented Harold Oblowski silences, which were meant to convey that\nyou\nwere being a terrific asshole, but because Harold liked you so much,\nhe\nwas trying to think of the gentlest possible way of telling you so.\nThis\nis a wonderful trick, but one I saw through about six years ago.\nActually, it was Jo who saw through it. \"He's only pretending\ncompassion,\" she said. \"Actually, he's like a cop in one of those\nold film noir movies, keeping his mouth shut so you'll blunder ahead\nand\nend up confessing to everything.\" This time I kept my mouth shut--\njust\nswitched the phone from my right ear to my left, and rocked back a\nlittle further in my office chair. When I did, my eye fell on the framed\nphotograph over my computer--Sara Laughs, our place on Dark\nScore Lake.\nI hadn't been there in eons, and for a moment I consciously\nwondered\nwhy. Then Harold's voice--cautious, comforting, the voice of a sane\nman\ntrying to talk a lunatic out of what he hopes will be no more than a\npassing delusion--was back in my ear. \"That might not be a good\nidea,Mike--not at this stage of your career.\"\n\"This isn't a stage,\" I said.\n\"I peaked in 1991--since then, my sales haven't really gone up or\ndown.\nThis is aplateau, Harold.\"\n\"Yes,\" he said, \"and writers who've reached that steady state really\nonly have two choices in terms of sales--they can continue as they\nare,\nor they can go down.\" So I go down, I thought of saying.., but\ndidn't. I\ndidn't want Harold to know exactly how deep this went, or how\nshaky the\nground under me was. I didn't want him to know that I was now\nhaving\nheart palpitations-yes, I mean this literally--almost every time I\nopened the Word Six program on my computer and looked at the\nblank\nscreen and flashing cursor.\n\"Yeah,\" I said. \"Okay. Message received.\"\n\"You're sure you're all right?\"\n\"Does the book read like I'm wrong, Harold?\"\n\"Hell, no--it's a helluva yarn. Your personal best, I told you. A great\n'!.'i., read but also fucking serious shit. If Saul Bellow wrote\nromantic suspense fiction, this is what he'd write. But... you're not\nhaving any trouble with :the next one, are you? I know you're still\nmissing Jo, hell, we all are--\" \"No,\" I said. \"No trouble at\nall.\" Another of those long silences ensued. I endured it. At last\nHarold .:iid, \"Grisham could afford to take a year off. Clancy could.Thomas \" Harris, the long silences are a part of his mystique. But\nwhere\nyou are, :life is even tougher than at the very top, Mike. There are\nfive writers for , e' ery one of those spots down on the list, and you\nknow who they are--\"hell, they're your neighbors three months a\nyear.\nSome are going up, the :way Patricia Cornwell went up with her last\ntwo\nbooks, some are going ..:down, and some are staying steady, like\nyou. If\nTom Clancy were to go 'on hiatus for five years and then bring Jack\nRyan\nback, he'd come back i. strong, no argument. If you go on hiatus for\nfive years, maybe you don't \"Come back at all. My advice is--\"\n\"Make hay while the sun shines.\"\n\"Took the words right out of my mouth.\"\nWe talked a little more, then said our goodbyes. I leaned back\nfurther\nI. .. m my office chair--not all the way to the tip over point but\nclose--and looked at the photo of our western Maine retreat. Sara\nLaughs, sort of like .the title of that hoary old Hall and Oates ballad.\nJo had loved it more, i: true enough, but only by a little, so why had\nI\nbeen staying away? Bill . \"Dean, the caretaker, took down the storm\nshutters every spring and put \",them back up every fall, drained the\npipes in the fall and made sure the '. Pump was running in the\nspring,\nchecked the generator and took care to .., see that all the\nmaintenancetags were current, anchored the swimming ttoat fifty yards or so\noffour\nlittle lick of beach after each Memorial Day. i Bill, had the chimney\ncleaned in the early summer of '96, although there hn t been a fire\nin\nthe fireplace for two years or more. I paid him quariterly, as is the\ncustom with caretakers in that part of the world; Bill Dean, old\nYankee\nfrom a long line of them, cashed my checks and didn't ask why I\nnever\nused my place anymore. I'd only been down two or three times\nsince Jo\ndied, and not a single overnight. Good thing Bill didn't ask, because I\ndon't know what answer I would have given him. I hadn't even\nreally\nthought about Sara Laughs until my conversation with Harold.\nThinking of Harold, I looked away from the photo and back at the\nphone.\nImagined saying to him, So I go down, so what? The world comes to\nan\nend? Please. It isn't as if I had a wij and family to support the wij\ndied in a drugstore parking lot, if you please (or even if you don't\nplease), and the kid we wanted so badly and tried jr so long went\nwith\nher, I don't crave the fame, either--if writers who fill the lower slots\non the Times bestseller list can be said to be famous--and I don't fall\naskep dreaming of book club sales. So why? Why does it even\nbother me?\nBut that last one I could answer. Because it felt like giving up.\nBecause without my wife and my work, I was a superfluous man\nliving\nalone in a big house that was all paid for, doing nothing but thenewspaper crossword over lunch.\nI pushed on with what passed for my life. I forgot about Sara\nLaughs (or\nsome part of me that didn't want to go there buried the idea) and\nspent\nanother sweltering, miserable summer in Derry. I put a cruciverbalist\nprogram on my Powerbook and began making my own crossword\npuzzles. I\ntook an interim appointment on the local YMCA's board of directors\nand\njudged the Summer Arts Competition in Waterville. I did a series of\nTV\nads for the local homeless shelter, which was staggering toward\nbankruptcy, then served on that board for awhile. (At one public\nmeeting\nof this latter board a woman called me a friend of degenerates, to\nwhich\nI replied, \"Thanks! I needed that.\" This resulted in a loud outburst of\napplause which I still don't understand.) I tried some one-on-one\ncounselling and gave it up after five appointments, deciding that the\ncounsellor's problems were far worse than mine. I sponsored an\nAsian\nchild and bowled with a league. Sometimes I tried to write, and\nevery\ntime I did, I locked up. Once, when I tried to force a sentence or\ntwo\n(any sentence or two, just as long as they came fresh-baked out of\nmy\nown head), I had to grab the wastebasket and vomit into it. I\nvomited\nuntil I thought it was going to kill me... and I did have to literally\ncrawl away from the desk and the computer, pulling myself across\nthe\ndeep-pile rug on my hands and knees.By the time I got to the other side of the room, it was better. I could\neven look back over my shoulder at the VDT screen. I just couldn't\nget\nnear it. Later that day, I approached it with my eyes shut and turned\nit\noff. More and more often during those late-summer days I thought\nof\nDennison Carville, the creative-writing teacher who'd helped me\nconnect\nwith Harold and who had damned Being Two with such faint praise.\nCamille\nonce said something I never forgot, attributing it to Thomas Hardy,\nthe\nVictorian novelist and poet. Perhaps Hardy did say it, but I've never\nfound it repeated, not in Bartlett's, not in the Hardy biography I read\nbetween the publications of All the Way from the 7bp and\nThreatening\nBehavior. I have an idea Carville may have made it up himself and\nthen\nattributed it to Hardy in order to give it more weight. It's a ploy I\nhave used myself from time to time, I'm ashamed to say. In any\ncase, I\nthought about this quote more and more as I struggled with the\npanic in\nmy body and the frozen feeling in my head, that awful locked-up\nfeeling.\nIt seemed to sum up my despair and my growing certainty that I\nwould\nnever be able to write again (what a tragedy, V. C. Andrews with a\nprick\nfelled by writer's block). It was this quote that suggested any effort I\nmade to better my situation might be meaningless even if it\nsucceeded.According to gloomy old Dennison Carville, the aspiring novelist\nshould\nunderstand from the outset that fiction's goals were forever beyond\nhis\nreach, that the job was an exercise in futility. \"Compared to the\ndullest human being actually walking about on the face of the earth\nand\ncasting his shadow there,\" Hardy supposedly said, \"the most\nbrilliantly\ndrawn character in a novel is but a bag of bones.\" I understood\nbecause\nthat was what I felt like in those interminable, dissembling days: a\nbag\nof bones.\nLast night I dreamt I went to Manderley again. If there is any more\nbeautiful and haunting first line in English fiction, I've never read\nit. And it was a line I had cause to think of a lot during the fall of\n1997 and the winter of 1998. I didn't dream of Manderley, of course,\nbut\nof Sara Laughs, which Jo sometimes called \"the hideout.\" A fair\nenough\ndescription, I guess, for a place so far up in the western Maine\nwoods\nthat it's not really even in a town at all, but in an unincorporated\narea designated on state maps as RR-90. The last of these dreams\nwas a\nnightmare, but until that one they had a kind of surreal simplicity.\nThey were dreams I'd awake from wanting to turn on the bedroom\nlight so\nI could reconfirm my place in reality before going back to sleep. You\nknow how the air feels before a thunderstorm, how everything gets\nstill\nand colors seem to stand out with the brilliance of things seen\nduring ahigh fever? My winter dreams of Sara Laughs were like that, each\nleaving\nme with a feeling that was not quite sickness.\nI've dreamt again ofmanderley, I would think sometimes, and\nsometimes I\nwould lie in bed with the light on, listening to the wind outside,\nlooking into the bedroom's shadowy corners, and thinking that\nRebecca de\nWinter hadn't drowned in a bay but in Dark Score Lake. That she\nhad gone\ndown, gurgling and flailing, her strange black eyes full of water,\nwhile\nthe loons cried out indifferently in the twilight. Sometimes I would\nget\nup and drink a glass of water. Sometimes I just turned off the light\nafter I was once more sure of where I was, rolled over on my side\nagain,\nand went back to sleep. In the daytime I rarely thought of Sara\nLaughs\nat all, and it was only much later that I realized something is badly\nout of whack when there is such a dichotomy between a person's\nwaking\nand sleeping lives. I think that Harold Oblowski's call in October of\n1997 was what kicked off the dreams. Harold's ostensible reason for\ncalling was to congratulate me on the impending release of Darcy's\nAdmirer, which was entertaining as hell and which also contained\nsome\nextremely thought-provoking shit. I suspected he had at least one\nother\nitem on his agenda--Harold usually does--and I was right. He'd had\nlunch\nwith Debra Weinstock, my editor, the day before, and they had\ngotten\ntalking about the fall of 1998. \"Looks crowded,\" he said, meaning\nthefall lists, meaning specifically the fiction half of the fall lists.\n\"And there are some surprise additions. Dean Koontz--\"\n\"I thought he usually published in January,\" I said.\n\"He does, but Debra hears this one may be delayed. He wants to\nadd a\nsection, or something. Also there's a Harold Robbins, The Predators-\n-\"\n\"Big deal.\"\n\"Robbins still has his fans, Mike, still has his fans. As you yourself\nhave pointed out on more than one occasion, fiction writers have a\nlong\narc.\"\n\"Uh-huh.\" I switched the telephone to the other ear and leaned back\nin\nmy chair. I caught a glimpse of the framed Sara Laughs photo over\nmy\ndesk when I did. I would be visiting it at greater length and\nproximity\nthat night in my dreams, although I didn't know that then; all I knew\nthen was that I wished like almighty fuck that Harold Oblowski\nwould\nhurry up and get to the point. \"I sense impatience, Michael my boy,\"\nHarold said. \"Did I catch you at your desk?\nAre you writing?\"\n\"Just finished for the day,\" I said. \"I am thinking about lunch,\nhowever.\"\n\"I'll be quick,\" he promised, \"but hang with me, this is important.There may be as many as five other writers that we didn't expect\npublishing next fall: Ken Follett... it's supposed to be his best since\nEye of the Needle... Belva Plain... John Jakes...\"\n\"None of those guys plays tennis on my court,\" I said, although I\nknew\nthat was not exactly Harold's point; Harold's point was that there are\nonly fifteen slots on the Times list. \"How about Jean Auel, finally\npublishing the next of her sex-among-the-cave-people epics?\" I sat\nup.\n\"Jean Auel? Really?\"\n\"Well... not a hundred percent, but it looks good.\nLast but not least is a new Mary Higgins Clark. I know what tennis\ncourt\nshe plays on, and so do you.\" If I'd gotten that sort of news six or\nseven years earlier, when I'd felt I had a great deal more to protect,\nI\nwould have been frothing; Mary Hig-gins Clark did play on the same\ncourt, shared exactly the same audience, and so far our publishing\nschedules had been arranged to keep us out of each other's way..,\nwhich\nwas to my benefit rather than hers, let me assure you. Going nose\nto\nnose, she would cream me. As the late Jim Croce so wisely\nobserved, you\ndon't tug on Superman's cape, you don't Ipit into the wind, you don't\npull the mask off that old Lone Ranger, ·\nand you don't mess around with Mary Higgins Clark. Not if you're\nMichael\nNoonan, anyway. \"How did this happen?\" I asked. I don't think my\ntone\nwas particularly ominous, but Harold replied in the nervous,stumbling-all-over-his-own-words fashion of a man who suspects he\nmay be\nfired or even beheaded for bearing evil tidings. \"I don't know. She\njust\nhappened to get an extra idea this year, I guess. That does happen,\nI've\nbeen told.\" As a fellow who had taken his share of double-dips I\nknew it\ndid, so I simply asked Harold what he wanted. It seemed the\nquickest and\neasiest way to get him to relinquish the phone. The answer was no\nsurprise; what he and Debra both wanted--not to mention all the\nrest of\nmy Putnam pals--was a book they could publish in late summer of\n'98,\nthus getting in front of Ms. Clark and the rest of the competition by\na\ncouple of months. Then, in November, the Putnam sales reps would\ngive\nthe novel a healthy second push, with the Christmas season in mind.\n\"So\nthey say,\" I replied. Like most novelists (and in this regard the\nsuccessful are no different from the unsuccessful, indicating there\nmight be some merit to the idea as well as the usual free-floating\nparanoia), I never trusted publishers' promises. \"I think you can\nbelieve them on this, Mike--Darcy's Admirer was the last book of\nyour\nold contract, remember.\" Harold sounded almost sprightly at the\nthought\nof forthcoming contract negotiations with Debra Weinstock and\nPhyllis\nGrann at Putnam. \"The big thing is they still like you. They'd like you\neven more, I think, if they saw pages with your name on them\nbefore\nThanksgiving.\"\"They want me to give them the next book in November?\nNext month?\" I injected what I hoped was the right note of\nincredulity\ninto my voice, just as if I hadn't had Helen's Promise in a safe-\ndeposit\nbox for almost eleven years. It had been the first nut I had stored; it\nwas now the only nut I had left. \"No, no, you could have until\nJanuary\nfifteenth, at least,\" he said, trying to sound magnanimous. I found\nmyself wondering where he and Debra had gotten their lunch. Some\nfly\nplace, I would have bet my life on that. Maybe Four Seasons.\nJohanna\nalways used to call that place Valli and the Four Seasons. \"It means\nthey'd have to crash proseriously crash it, but they're willing to do\nthat. The real ques-is whether or not you could crash production.\"\n\"I think I could, but it'll cost em,\" I said. \"Tell them to think of it\nas :being like same-day service on your dry-cleaning.\"\n\"Oh what a rotten shame for them!\" Harold sounded as if he were\nmaybe\njacking off and had reached the point where Old Faithful splurts and\neverybody snaps their Instamatics. \"How much do you think--\"\n\"A surcharge tacked on to the advance is probably the way to go,\"\nhe\nsaid. \"They'll get pouty of course, claim that the move is in your\ninterest, too. Primarily in your interest, even. But based on the\nextra-work '\" argument.., the midnight oil you'll have to burn...\"\n\"The mental agony of creation.., the pangs of premature birth...\"\n\"Right...right... I think a ten percent surcharge sounds about right.\" lie spoke\njudiciously, like a man trying to be just as damned fair as he possibly\ncould. Myself, I was wondering how many women would induce birth\na month\nor so early if they got paid two or three hundred grand extra for\ndoing\nso. Probably some questions are best left unanswered. And in my\ncase,\nwhat difference did it make? The goddam thing was written, wasn't\nit?\n\"Well, see if you can make the deal,\" I said. \"Yes, but I don't think\nwe\nwant to be talking about just a single book here, okay? I think--\"\n\"Harold, what I want right now is to eat some lunch.\"\n\"You sound a little tense, Michael. Is everything--\"\n\"Everything is fine. Talk to them about just one book, with a\nsweetener\nfor speeding up production at my end. Okay?\" ,\"Okay,\" he said after\none\nof his most significant pauses. \"But I hope this doesn't mean that\nyou\nwon't entertain a three- or four-book contract later on. Make hay\nwhile\nthe sun shines, remember. It's the motto Of champions.\" , Cross\neach\nbridge when you come to it is the motto of champions,\" I . laid, and\nthat night I dreamt I went to Sara Laughs again.\nIn that dream--in all the dreams I had that fall and winter--I am\nwalking up the lane to the lodge. The lane is a two-mile loop\nthroughthe woods with ends opening onto Route 68. It has a number at\neither end\n(Lane Forty-two, if it matters) in case you have to call in a fire, but\nno name. Nor did Jo and I ever give it one, not even between\nourselves.\nIt is narrow, really just a double rut with timothy and witchgrass\ngrowing on the crown. When you drive in, you can hear that grass\nwhispering like low voices against the undercarriage of your car or\ntruck.\nI don't drive in the dream, though. I never drive. In these dreams I\nwalk. The trees huddle in close on either side of the lane. The\ndarkening sky overhead is little more than a slot. Soon I will be able\nto see the first peeping stars. Sunset is past. Crickets chirr. Loons\ncry on the lake. Small things-chipmunks, probably, or the occasional\nsquirrel--rustle in the woods.\nNow I come to a dirt driveway sloping down the hill on my right. It is\nour driveway, marked with a little wooden sign which reads s^,\nUGHS. I\nstand at the head of it, but I don't go down. Below is the lodge. It's\nall logs and added-on wings, with a deck jutting out behind.\nFourteen\nrooms in all, a ridiculous number of rooms. It should look ugly and\nawkward, but somehow it does not. There is a brave-dowager\nquality to\nSara, the look of a lady pressing resolutely on toward her hundredth\nyear, still taking pretty good strides in spite of her arthritic hips\nand gimpy old knees.\nThe central section is the oldest, dating back to 1900 or so. Other\nsections were added in the thirties, forties, and sixties. Once it was a\nhunting lodge; for a brief period in the early seventies it was home\ntoa small commune of transcendental hippies. These were lease or\nrental\ndeals; the owners from the late forties until 1984 were the\nHingermans,\nDarren and Marie... then Marie alone when Darren died in 1971. The\nonly\nvisible addition from our period of ownership is the tiny DSS dish\nmounted on the central roofpeak. That was Johanna's idea, and she\nnever\nreally got a chance to enjoy it.\nBeyond the house, the lake glimmers in the afterglow of sunset. The\ndriveway, I see, is carpeted with brown pine needles and littered\nwith\nfallen branches. The bushes which grow on either side of it have run\nwild, reaching out to one another like lovers across the narrowed\ngap\nwhich separates If you brought a car down here, the branches would\nscrape and unpleasantly against its sides. Below, I see, there's moss\ngrowing logs of the main house, and three large sunflowers with\nfaces\nlike have grown up through the boards of the little driveway-side .\nThe\noverall feeling is not neglect, exactly, butjrgottenness.\nThere is a breath of breeze, and its coldness on my skin makes me\nthat I\nhave been sweating. I can smell pine--a smell which is sour and\nclean at\nthe same time--and the faint but somehow smell of the lake. Dark\nScore\nis one of the cleanest, deepest in Maine.\nIt was bigger until the late thirties, Marie Hingerman us; that was\nwhen\nWestern Maine Electric, working hand in hand the mills and paperoperations around Rumford, had gotten state to dam the Gessa\nRiver.\nMarie also showed us some charming ;raphs of white-frocked ladies\nand\nvested gentlemen in canoes--snaps were from the time of the First\nWorld\nWar, she said, and to one of the young women, frozen forever on\nthe rim\nof the with a dripping paddle upraised. \"That's my mother,\" she said,\nthe man she's threatening with the paddle is my father.\"\ntheir voices like loss. Now I can see Venus in the dark-sky. Star light,\nstar bright, wish I may, wish I might.., in these I always wish for\nJohanna.\nmy wish made, I try to walk down the driveway. Of course I do.\nhouse,\nisn't it? Where else would I go but my house, now that dark and\nnow that\nthe stealthy rustling in the woods seems closer and somehow more\npurposeful? Where else can I go? It's . and it will be frightening to\ngo\ninto that dark place alone (suppose been left so long alone? suppose\nshe's angry?), but I electricity's off, I'll light one of the hurricane\nlamps we keep ' kitchen cabinet.\nI can't go down. My legs won't move. It's as if my body knows about\nthe\nhouse down there that my brain does not. The rises again, chilling\ngooseflesh out onto my skin, and I wonder I have done to get\nmyself all\nsweaty like this. Have I been run-And if so, what have I been\nrunning\ntoward? Or from?hair is sweaty, too; it lies on my brow in an unpleasantly heavy\nclump.\nI raise my hand to brush it away and see there is a shallow cut,\nfairly\nrecent, running across the back, just beyond the knuckles.\nSometimes this cut is on my right hand, sometimes it's on the left. I\nthink, If this is a dream, the details are good. Always that same\nthought: If this is a dream, the details are good. It's the absolute\ntruth. They are a novelist's details.., but in dreams, perhaps\neveryone\nis a novelist. How is one to know? Now Sara Laughs is only a dark\nhulk\ndown below, and I realize I don't want to go down there, anyway. I\nam a\nman who has trained his mind to misbehave, and I can imagine too\nmany\nthings waiting for me inside. A rabid raccoon crouched in a corner of\nthe kitchen. Bats in the bath-room--if disturbed they'll crowd the air\naround my cringing face, squeaking and fluttering against my cheeks\nwith\ntheir dusty wings. Even one of William Denbrough's famous\nCreatures from\nBeyond the Universe, now hiding under the porch and watching me\napproach\nwith glittering, pus-rimmed eyes. \"Well, I can't stay up here,\" I say,\nbut my legs won't move, and it seems I will be staying up here,\nwhere\nthe driveway meets the lane; that I will be staying up here, like it or\nnot. Now the rustling in the woods behind me sounds not like small\nanimals (most of them would by then be nested or burrowed for the\nnight,\nanyway) but approaching footsteps. I try to turn and see, but I can't\neven do that... .. and that was where I usually woke up. The first\nthing\nI always did was to turn over, establishing my return to reality bydemonstrating to myself that my body would once more obey my\nmind.\nSometimes--most times, actually--I would find myself thinking\nManderley,\nI have dreamt again of Manderley. There was something creepy\nabout this\n(there's something creepy about any repeating dream, I think, about\nknowing your subconscious is digging obsessively at some object\nthat\nwon't be dislodged), but I would be lying if I didn't add that some\npart\nof me enjoyed the breathless summer calm in which the dream\nalways\nwrapped me, and that part also enjoyed the sadness and foreboding\nI felt\nwhen I awoke. There was an exotic strangeness to the dream that\nwas\nmissing from my waking life, now that the road leading out of my\nimagination was so effectively blocked.\nThe only time I remember being really frightened (and I must tell I\ndon't completely trust any of these memories, because for so long\ndidn't\nseem to exist at all) was when I awoke one night speaking clearly\ninto\nthe dark of my bedroom: \"Something's behind me, let it get me,\nsomething\nin the woods, please don't let it get me.\" wasn't the words\nthemselves\nthat frightened me so much as the tone I which they were spoken.\nIt was\nthe voice of a man on the raw edge of and hardly seemed like my\nown\nvoice at all.days before Christmas of 1997, I once more drove down to Fidelity\nwhere\nonce more the bank manager escorted me to my safe-box in the\nfluorescent-lit catacombs. As we walked down the he assured me\n(for the\ndozenth time, at least) that his wife was a fan of my work, she'd\nread\nall my books, couldn't get enough For the dozenth time (at least) I\nreplied that now I must get him in my He responded with his usual\nchuckle I thought of this oft-exchange as Banker's Communion ;..i\nMr.\nQuinlan inserted his key in Slot A and turned it. Then, as dis: i\nirreetly as a pimp who has conveyed a customer to a whore's crib,\nhe\nleft. :!'.I inserted my own key in Slot B, turned it, and opened the\ndrawer. It very vast now. The one remaining manuscript box seemed\nto\nquail in the far corner, like an abandoned puppy who some-knows\nhis sibs\nhave been taken off and gassed. Promise was scrawled ,!?8cross the\ntop in\nfat black letters I could barely remember what the story was about.\nsnatched that time-traveller from the eighties and slammed the box\nshut\nNothing left in there now but dust Give me that, i had hissed in my\ndream--it was the first time I'd thought of that one ?i years. Give me\nthat, it's my dust-catcher. Mr Quinlan, I'm finished,\" I called. My\nvoice sounded rough and i,! }.tmsteady to my own ears, but Quinlan\nseemed to sense nothing wrong or perhaps he was just being\ndiscreet. I\ncan't have been the only cusafter all, who found his or her visits to\nthis financial version of emotionally distressful. \"I'm really going to\nread one of your books,\" he said, dropping an involuntary little\nglanceat the box I was holding (I suppose I could have brought a briefcase\nto\nput it in, but on those expeditions I never did).\n\"In fact, I think I'll put it on my list of New Year's resolutions.\"\n\"You do that,\" I said. \"You just do that, Mr. Quinlan.\"\n\"Mark,\" he said.\n\"Please.\" He'd said this before, too.\nI had composed two letters, which I slipped into the manuscript box\nbefore setting out for Federal Express. Both had been written on my\ncomputer, which my body would let me use as long as I chose the\nNote Pad\nfunction. It was only opening Word Six that caused the storms to\nstart.\nI never tried to compose a novel using the Note Pad function,\nunderstanding that if I did, I'd likely lose that option, too. .. not\nto mention my ability to play Scrabble and do crosswords on the\nmachine.\nI had tried a couple of times to compose longhand, with spectacular\nlack\nof success. The problem wasn't what I had once heard described as\n\"screen shyness\"; I had proved that to myself.\nOne of the notes was to Harold, the other to Debra Weinstock, and\nboth\nsaid pretty much the same thing: here's the new book, Helen's\nPromise,\nhope you like it as much as I do, if it seems a little rough it's\nbecause I had to work a lot of extra hours to finish it this soon,\nMerryChristmas, Happy Hanukkah, Erin Go Bragh, trick or treat, hope\nsomeone\ngives you a fucking pony.\nI stood for almost an hour in a line of shuffling, bitter-eyed late\nmailers (Christmas is such a carefree, low-pressure time--that's one\nof\nthe things I love about it), with Helen's Promise under my left arm\nand\na paperback copy of Nelson Demille's The Charm School in my right\nhand.\nI read almost fifty pages before entrusting my final unpublished\nnovel\nto a harried-looking clerk. When I wished her a Merry Christmas she\nshuddered and said nothing.\nC H ;P T E.:. R he phone was ringing when I walked in my front\ndoor. It\nwas asking me if I'd like to join him for Christmas. Join them, as\nmatter of fact; all of his brothers and their families were coming.\nI opened my mouth to say no--the last thing on earth I needed was\na\nIrish Christmas with everybody drinking whiskey and waxing\nntimental\nabout Jo while perhaps two dozen snotcaked rugrats around the\nfloor--and\nheard myself saying I'd come.\nFrank sounded as surprised as I felt, but honestly delighted. \"Fantas-\nhe\ncried. \"When can you get here?\" was in the hall, my galoshes\ndripping on\nthe tile, and from where I standing I could look through the arch\nandinto the living room. was no Christmas tree; I hadn't bothered with\none\nsince Jo died. looked both ghastly and much too big to me... a roller\nrink ;?,i:fttmished in Early American.\n\"I've been out running errands,\" I said. \"How about I throw some in\na\nbag, get back into the car, and come south while the still blowing\nwarm\nair?\"\n\"Tremendous,\" Frank said without a moment's hesitation. \"We can\nhave us\na sane bachelor evening before the Sons and Daughters of East\nMalden\nstart arriving. I'm pouring you a drink as soon as I get off the\ntelephone.\"\n\"Then I guess I better get rolling,\" I said.\nThat was hands down the best holiday since Johanna died. The only\ngood\nholiday, I guess. For four days I was an honorary Arlen. I drank too\nmuch, toasted Johanna's memory too many times.., and knew,\nsomehow, that\nshe'd be pleased to know I was doing it. Two babies spit up on me,\none\ndog got into bed with me in the middle of the night, and Nicky\nArlen's\nsister-in-law made a bleary pass at me on the night after Christmas,\nwhen she caught me alone in the kitchen making a turkey sandwich.\nI\nkissed her because she clearly wanted to be kissed, and an\nadventurous\n(or perhaps \"mischievous\" is the word I want) hand groped me for amoment in a place where no one other than myself had groped in\nalmost\nthree and a half years. It was a shock, but not an entirely\nunpleasant\none. It went no further--in a houseful of Arlens and with Susy\nDonahue\nnot quite officially divorced yet (like me, she was an honorary Arlen\nthat Christmas), it hardly could have done--but I decided it was time\nto\nleave.., unless, that was, I wanted to go driving at high speed down\na\nnarrow street that most likely ended in a brick wall. I left on the\ntwenty-seventh, very glad that I had come, and I gave Frank a fierce\ngoodbye hug as we stood by my car. For four days I hadn't thought\nat all\nabout how there was now only dust in my safe-deposit box at\nFidelity\nUnion, and for four nights I had slept straight through until eight in\nthe morning, sometimes waking up with a sour stomach and a\nhangover\nheadache, but never once in the middle of the night with the\nthought\nManderley, I have dreamt again of Manderley going through my\nmind. I got\nback to Derry feeling refreshed and renewed. The first day of 1998\ndawned clear and cold and still and beautiful. I got up, showered,\nthen\nstood at the bedroom window, drinking coffee. It suddenly occurred\nto\nme--with all the simple, powerful reality of ideas like up is over your\nhead and down is under your feet--that I could write now. It was a\nnew\nyear, something had changed, and I could write now if I wanted to.\nThe\nrock had rolled away.i I went into the study, sat down at the computer, and turned it on.\nMy\nwas beating normally, there was no sweat on my forehead or the of\nmy\nneck, and my hands were warm. I pulled down the main the one\nyou get\nwhen you click on the apple, and there was my Word Six. I clicked\non it.\nThe pen-and-parchment logo came up, . when it did I suddenly\ncouldn't\nbreathe. It was as if iron bands had clamped around my chest. I\npushed\nback from the desk, gagging and clawing at the round neck the\nsweatshirt\nI was wearing. The wheels of my office chair caught on little throw\nrug--one of Jo's finds in the last year of her life and I tipped over\nbackward. My head banged the floor and I saw a fountain of ,arks\ngo\nwhizzing across my field of vision. I suppose I was lucky to black\nout,\nbut I think my real luck on New Year's Morning of 1998 that I tipped\nover the way I did. If I'd only pushed back from the desk that I was\nstill looking at the logo---and at the hideous blank screen followed\nit--I think I might have choked to death.\n,, \"When I staggered to my feet, I was at least able to breathe. My\nthroat the size of a straw, and each inhale made a weird screaming\nsound, I was breathing. I lurched into the bathroom and threw up in\nthe\nwith such force that vomit splashed the mirror. I grayed out and\nknees\nbuckled. This time it was my brow I struck, thunking it the lip of the\nbasin, and although the back of my head didn't there was a very\nrespectable lump there by noon, though), my did, a little. This latterbump also left a purple mark, which I lied about, telling folks who\nasked that I'd run into the bath-door in the middle of the night, silly\nme, that'll teach a fella to get at two A.M. without turning on a lamp.\n,\"When I regained complete consciousness (if there is such a state),\nI\nfloor. I got up, disinfected the cut on my forehead, and on the lip of\nthe tub with my head lowered to my knees until I felt enough to\nstand\nup. I sat there for fifteen minutes, I guess, that space of time I\ndecided that barring some miracle, my career Harold would scream\nin pain\nand Debra would moan in disbut what could they do? Send out the\nPublication Police? me with the Book-of-the-Month-Club Gestapo?\nEven if\nthey could, what difference would it make? You couldn't get sap out\nof a\nbrick or blood out of a stone. Barring some miraculous recovery, my\nlife\nas a writer was over. And if it is? I asked myself. What's on for the\nback jrty, Mike? You can play a lot of Scrabble in jrty years, go on a\nlot of Crossword Cruises, drink a lot of whiskey. But is that enough?\nWhat else are you going to put on your back jrty? I didn't want to\nthink\nabout that, not then. The next forty years could take care of\nthemselves; I would be happy just to get through New Year's Day of\n1998.\nWhen I felt I had myself under control, I went back into my study,\nshuffled to the computer with my eyes resolutely on my feet, felt\naround\nfor the right button, and turned off the machine. You can damage\nthe\nprogram shutting down like that without putting it away, but under\nthecircumstances, I hardly thought it mattered. That night I once again\ndreamed I was walking at twilight on Lane Forty-two, which leads to\nSara\nLaughs; once more I wished on the evening star as the loons cried\non the\nlake, and once more I sensed something in the woods behind me,\nedging\never closer. It seemed my Christmas holiday was over.\nThat was a hard, cold winter, lots of snow and in February a flu\nepidemic that did for an awful lot of Derry's old folks. It took them\nthe way a hard wind will take old trees after an ice storm. It missed\nme\ncompletely. I hadn't so much as a case of the sniffles that winter. In\nMarch, I flew to Providence and took part in Will Weng's New\nEngland\nCrossword Challenge. I placed fourth and won fifty bucks. I framed\nthe\nuncashed check and hung it in the living room. Once upon a time,\nmost of\nmy framed Certificates of Triumph (Jo's phrase; all the good phrases\nare\nJo's phrases, it seems to me) went up on my office walls, but by\nMarch\nof 1998, I wasn't going in there very much. When I wanted to play\nScrabble against the computer or do a tourney-level crossword\npuzzle, I\nused the Powerbook and sat at the kitchen table. I remember sitting\nthere one day, opening the Powerbook's main menu, going down to\nthe\ncrossword puzzles.., then dropping the cur 'two or three items\nfurther,\nuntil it had highlighted my old pal, Word What swept over me then\nwasn't\nfrustration or impotent, balked (I'd experienced a lot of both sincefinishing All the yfrom the p), sadness and simple longing. Looking\nat\nthe Word Six icon was sud-like looking at the pictures of Jo I kept in\nmy wallet. Studying I'd sometimes think that I would sell my\nimmortal\nsoul in order have her back again.., and on that day in March, I\nthought\nI would soul to be able to write a story again. Go on and try it, then,\na voice whispered. Maybe things have changed. Except that nothing\nhad\nchanged, and I knew it. So instead of openword Six, I moved it\nacross to\nthe trash barrel in the lower right.\ncorner of the screen, and dropped it in. Goodbye, old pal. Weinstock\ncalled a lot that winter, mostly with good news. in March she\nreported\nthat Helen's Promise had been picked as one the Literary Guild's\nmain\nselection for August, the other half a legal thriller by Steve Martini,\nanother veteran of the eight-tosegment of the 5'mes bestseller list.\nAnd\nmy British publisher, loved Helen, was sure it would be my\n\"breakthrough\nbook.\" ' British sales had always lagged.) ..,Promise is sort of a new\ndirection for you,\" Debra said. \"Wouldn't you kind of thought it was,\"\nI\nconfessed, and wondered how Debbie respond if I told her my\nnew-direction book had been written a dozen years ago.\nil'it's got... I don't know.., a kind of maturity.\"\nI think the connection's going. You sound muffled.\" I did. I was\nbiting\ndown on the side of my hand to keep from with laughter. Now,\ncautiously,I took it out of my mouth and . bite-marks. \"Better?\" lots. So what's\nthe new one about? Give me a hint.\" know the answer to that one,\nkiddo.\"\n\"\"You'll have to read the book to find out, Josephine,'\"\n\"Right?\"\n\"Yessum.\"\n\"Well, keep it coming. Your pals at Putnam are crazy about the way\nyou're taking it to the next level.\" I said goodbye, I hung up the\ntelephone, and then I laughed wildly for about ten minutes. Laughed\nuntil I was crying. That's me, though. Always taking it to the next\nlevel.\nDuring this period I also agreed to do a phone interview with a\nNewsweek\nwriter who was putting together a piece on The New American\nGothic\n(whatever that was, other than a phrase which might sell a few\nmagazines), and to sit for a Publishers lekly interview which would\nappear just before publication of Helen's Promise. I agreed to these\nbecause they both sounded softball, the sort of interviews you could\ndo\nover the phone while you read your mail. And Debra was delighted\nbecause\nI ordinarily say no to all the publicity. I hate that part of the job\nand always have, especially the hell of the live TV chat-show, where\nnobody's ever read your goddam book and the first question is\nalways\n\"Where in the world do you get those wacky ideas?\" The publicity\nprocess\nis like going to a sushi bar where you're the sushi, and it was great\nto\nget past it this time with the feeling that I'd been able to give Debrasome good news she could take to her bosses. \"Yes,\" she could say,\n\"he's\nstill being a booger about publicity, but I got him to do a couple of\nthings.\" All through this my dreams of Sara Laughs were going on--\nnot\nevery night but every second or third night, with me never thinking\nof\nthem in the daytime. I did my crosswords, I bought myself an\nacoustic\nsteel guitar and started learning how to play it (I was never going to\nbe invited to tour with Patty Loveless or Alan Jackson, however), I\nscanned each day's bloated obituaries in the Derry News for names\nthat I\nknew. I was pretty much dozing on my feet, in other words. What\nbrought\nall this to an end was a call from Harold Oblowski not more than\nthree\ndays after Debra's book-club call. It was storming out-side--a vicious\nsnow-changing-over-to-sleet event that proved to be the last and\nbiggest\nblast of the winter. By mid-evening the power would be off all over\nDerry, but when Harold called at five P.M., things were just getting\ncranked up.\n\"I just had a very good conversation with your editor,\" Harold said.\nvery enlightening, very energizing conversation. Just got off the in\nfact.\"\n\"Oh?\"\n: \"Oh indeed. There's a feeling at Putnam, Michael, that this latest of\nyours may have a positive effect on your sales position in the It's\nvery\nstrong.\"\"Yes,\" I said, \"I'm taking it to the next level.\"\n\"Huh?\"\n\"I'm just blabbing, Harold. Go on.\"\n\"Well... Helen Nearing's a great lead character, and Skate is your\nvillain ever.\" I said nothing. \"Debra raised the possibility of making\nHelen's Promise the opener of a book contract. A very lucrative\nthree-book contract. All without prompting from me. Three is one\nmore\nthan any publisher has to commit to 'til now.\nI mentioned nine million dollars, three per book, in other words,\nexpecting her to laugh. .. but an has to start somewhere, and I\nalways\nchoose the highest ground I I think I must have Roman military\nofficers\nsomewhere back in r family tree.\" Ethiopian rug-merchants, more\nlike/t,\nI thought, but didn't say. I felt the do when the dentist has gone a\nlittle heavy on the Novocain your lips and tongue as well as your bad\ntooth and the patch surrounding it. If I tried to talk, I'd probably\nonly flap and spit. Harold was almost purring. A three-book contract\nfor\nthe mature Michael Noonan. Tall tickets, baby. time I didn't feel like\nlaughing. This time I felt like screaming. went on, happy and\noblivious.\nHarold didn't know the book-tree had died. Harold didn't know the\nnew\nMike Noonan had shortness of breath and projectile-vomiting fits\nevery\ntime write. want to hear how she came back to me, Michael?\" it on\nme.\"\"Well, nine's obviously high, but it's as good a place to start as any.\nWe feel this new book is a big step forward for him.' This is\nextraordinary. Extraordinary. Now, I haven't given anything away,\nwanted\nto talk to you first, of course, but I think we're looking at\nseven-point-five, minimum. In fact--\"\n\"No.\" He paused a moment. Long enough for me to realize I was\ngripping\nthe phone so hard it hurt my hand. I had to make a conscious effort\nto\nrelax my grip. \"Mike, if you'll just hear me out--\"\n\"I don't need to hear you out. I don't want to talk about a new\ncontract.\"\n\"Pardon me for disagreeing, but there'll never be a better time.\nThink\nabout it, for Christ's sake. We're talking top dollar here. If you wait\nuntil after Helen's Promise is published, I can't guarantee that the\nsame offer--\"\n\"I know you can't,\" I said. \"I don't want guarantees, I don't want\noffers, I don't want to talk contract.\"\n\"You don't need to shout, Mike, I can hear you.\" Had I been\nshouting?\nYes, I suppose I had been. \"Are you dissatisfied with Putnam?\nI think Debra would be very distressed to hear that. I also think\nPhyllis Grann would do damned near anything to address any\nconcerns you\nmight have.\" Are you sleeping with Debra, Harold? I thought, and all\nat\nonce it seemed like the most logical idea in the world--that dumpy,\nfiftyish, balding little Harold Oblowski was making it with my blonde,aristocratic, Smith-educated editor. Are you sleeping with her, do you\ntalk about my future while you're lying in bed together in a reom at\nthe\nPlaza? Are the pair of you trying to figure how many golden eggs\nyou can\nget out of this tired old goose bejre you finally wring its neck and\nturn it into paltg? Is that what you're up to? \"Harold, I can't talk\nabout this now, and I won't talk about this now.\"\n\"What's wrong? Why are you so upset? I thought you'd be pleased.\nHell, I\nthought you'd be over the fucking moon.\"\n\"There's nothing wrong. It's just a bad time for me to talk long-term\ncontract. You'll have to pardon me, Harold. I have something coming\nout\nof the oven.\"\n\"Can we at least discuss this next w--\"\n;\"No,\" I said, and hung up. I think it was the first time in my adult\nlife I'd hung up on someone who wasn't a telephone salesman. ,I\nhad\nnothing coming out of the oven, of course, and I was too upset to\nthink\nabout putting something in. I went into the living room instead,\nshort\nwhiskey, and sat down in front of the T. I sat there : almost four\nhours, looking at everything and seeing nothing. Outside, storm\ncontinued cranking up. Tomorrow there would be trees down over\nDerry and\nthe world would look like an ice sculpture. At quarter past nine the\npower went out, came back on for thirty sec-or so, then went out\nand\nstayed out. I took this as a suggestion to stop about Harold's useless\ncontract and how Jo would have chortled the idea of nine milliondollars. I got up, unplugged the blacked-out TV it wouldn't come\nblaring\non at two in the morning (I needn't have wor-the power was off in\nDerry\nfor nearly two days), and went upstairs; my clothes at the foot of\nthe\nbed, crawled in without even both-to brush my teeth, and was\nasleep in\nless than five minutes. I don't how long after that it was that the\nnightmare came.\n:was the last dream I had in what I now think of as my \"Manderley\nthe\nculminating dream. It was made even worse, I suppose, by\nunrelievable\nblackness to which I awoke. It started like the others. I'm walking up\nthe lane, listening to the crick-the loons, looking mostly at the\ndarkening slot of sky overhead. the driveway, and here something\nhas\nchanged; someone has put the s^LAUGHS sign. I lean closer and\nsee it's a\nradio sta- WBLM, it says. 102.9, PORTLAND'S ROCK AND ROLL\nBLIMP. sticker\nI look back up into the sky, and there is Venus. I wish her as I\nalways\ndo, I wish for Johanna with the dank and vaguely smell of the lake in\nmy\nnose. .g lumbers in the woods, rattling old leaves and breaking a It\nsounds big. there, a voice in my head tells me. Something has taken\nout\nyou, Michael. A three-book contract, and that's the worst kind. I can\nnever move, I can only standhere. I've got walker's block. that's just\ntalk. I can walk. This time I can walk. I am delighted.\nI have had a major breakthrough. In the dream I think This changeseverything/This changes everything! Down the driveway I walk,\ndeeper and\ndeeper into the clean but sour smell of pine, stepping over some of\nthe\nfallen branches, kicking others out of the way. I raise my hand to\nbrush\nthe damp hair off my forehead and see the little scratch running\nacross\nthe back of it. I stop to look at it, curious. No time r that, the\ndream-voice says. Get down there. You've got a book to write. I\ncan't\nwrite, I reply. Thatpart's over. I'm on the backjrty now. No, the voice\nsays. There is something relentless about it that scares me. I3u had\nwriter's walk, not writer's block, and as you can see, it's gone. Now\nhurry up and get down there. I'm ajaid, I tell the voice. Afraid of\nwhat? Well... what if Mrs. Danvers is down there? The voice doesn't\nanswer. It knows I'm not afraid of Rebecca de Winter's housekeeper,\nshe's just a character in an old book, nothing but a bag of bones. So\nI\nbegin walking again. I have no choice, it seems, but at every step\nmy\nterror increases, and by the time I'm halfway down to the shadowy\nsprawling bulk of the log house, fear has sunk into my bones like\nfever.\nSomething is wrong here, something is all twisted up. I'll run away, I\nthink. I'll run back the way I came, like the gingerbread man I'll run,\nrun all the way back to Derry, if that's what it takes, and I'll never\ncome here anymore. Except I can hear slobbering breath behind me\nin the\ngrowing gloom, and padding footsteps. The thing in the woods is\nnow the\nthing in the driveway. It's right behind me. if I turn around the sight\nof it will knock the sanity out of my head in a single roundhouse\nslap.Something with red eyes, something slumped and hungry. The\nhouse is my\nonly hope of safety. I walk on. The crowding bushes clutch like\nhands.\nIn the light of a rising moon (the moon has never risen before in this\ndream, but I have never stayed in it this long before), the rustling\nleaves look like sardonic faces. I see winking eyes and smiling\nmouths.\nBelow me are the black of the house and I know that there will be\nno\npower when I get the storm has knocked the power out, I will flick\nthe\nlightswitch down, up and down, until something reaches out and\ntakes my\nand pulls me like a lover deeper into the dark. I am three quarters of\nthe way down the driveway now. I can see the steps leading down\nto the\nlake, and I can see the float out on the water, a black square in a\ntrack of moonlight. Bill Dean has it out. I can also see an oblong\nsomething lying at the place where driveway ends at the stoop.\nThere has\nnever been such an object What can it be? Another two or three\nsteps,\nand I know. It's a coffin, the one Frank Arlen for.., because, he said,\nthe mortician was trying to stick it to me. and lying on its side with\nthe top partway open, enough for . to see it's empty. I think I want\nto\nscream. I think I mean to turn around and run back :the driveway--I\nwill\ntake my chances with the thing behind me. But I can, the back door\nof\nSara Laughs opens, and a terrible figure darting out into the growing\ndarkness. It is human, this figure, it's not. It is a crumpled white\nthing with baggy arms upraised.no face where its face should be, and yet it is shrieking in a glot.\nloonlike voice. It must be Johanna. She was able to escape her\ncoffin,\nher winding shroud. She is all tangled up in it. )usly speedy this\ncreature is! It doesn't drift as one imagines drifting, but races across\nthe stoop toward the driveway. It has wating down here during all\nthe\ndreams when I had been frozen, that I have finally been able to\nwalk\ndown, it means to have scream when it wraps me in its silk arms,\nand I\nwill scream when its rotting, bug-raddled flesh and see its dark\nstaring\neyes fine weave of the cloth. I will scream as the sanity leaves my\nforever. I will scream.., but there is no one out here to hear me. the\nloons will hear me. I have come again to Manderley, and this I will\nnever leave.\n.g white thing reached for me and I woke up on the floor of crying\nout\nin a cracked, horrified voice and slamming my head repeatedly\nagainst\nsomething. How long before I finally realized I was no longer asleep,\nthat I wasn't at Sara Laughs? How long before I realized that I had\nfallen out of bed at some point and had crawled across the room in\nmy\nsleep, that I was on my hands and knees in a corner, butting my\nhead\nagainst the place where the walls came together, doing it over and\nover\nagain like a lunatic in an asylum? I didn't know, couldn't with the\npower out and the bedside clock dead. I know that at first I couldn't\nmove out of the corner because it felt safer than the wider room\nwouldhave done, and I know that for a long time the dream's force held\nme\neven after I woke up (mostly, I imagine, because I couldn't turn on a\nlight and dispel its power). I was afraid that if I crawled out of my\ncorner, the white thing would burst out of my bathroom, shrieking its\ndead shriek, eager to finish what it had started. I know I was\nshivering\nall over, and that I was cold and wet from the waist down, because\nmy\nbladder had let go. I stayed there in the corner, gasping and wet,\nstaring into the darkness, wondering if you could have a nightmare\npowerful enough in its imagery to drive you insane. I thought then\n(and\nthink now) that I almost found out on that night in March. Finally I\nfelt able to leave the corner. Halfway across the floor I pulled off my\nwet pajama pants, and when I did that, I got disoriented. What\nfollowed\nwas a miserable and surreal five minutes in which I crawled\naimlessly\nback and forth in my familiar bedroom, bumping into stuff and\nmoaning\neach time I hit something with a blind, flailing hand. Each thing I\ntouched at first seemed like that awful white thing.\nNothing I touched felt like anything I knew. With the reassuring\ngreen\nnumerals of the bedside clock gone and my sense of direction\ntemporarily\nlost, I could have been crawling around a mosque in Addis Ababa. At\nlast\nI ran shoulder-first into the bed. I stood up, yanked the pillowcase\noff\nthe extra pillow, and wiped my groin and upper legs with it. Then I\ncrawled back into bed, pulled the blankets up, and lay there\nshivering,listening to the steady tick of sleet on the windows. There was no\nsleep\nfor me the rest of that night, and the dream didn't fade as dreams\nusually do upon waking. I lay on my side, the shivers slowly\nsubsiding,\nthinking of her coffin there in the driveway, think ' that it made a\nkind of mad sense--Jo had loved Sara, and if she were haunt\nanyplace, it\nwould be there. But why would she want to hurt Why would my Jo\never want\nto hurt me? I could think of no reason. Somehow the time passed,\nand\nthere came a moment when I realized the air had turned a dark\nshade of\ngray; the shapes of the furniture in it like sentinels in fog. That was\na little better. That was more it. I would light the kitchen woodstove,\nI decided, and make strong Begin the work of getting this behind\nme. I\nswung my legs out of bed and raised my hand to brush my sweat-\nhair off\nmy forehead. I froze with the hand in front of my eyes. I have\nscraped\nit while I was crawling, disoriented, in the dark and to find my way\nback to bed. There was a shallow, clotted cut across the back, just\nbelow the knuckles.\nC H P T E.:. R Oace, when I was sixteen, a plane went supersonic\ndirectly over my head.\nI was walking in the woods when it happened, thinking of some\nstory I\nwas going to write, perhaps, or how great it would be if Doreen\nFournier\nweakened some Friday night and let me take off her panties while\nwe were\nparked at the end of Cushman Road.In any case I was travelling far roads in my own mind, and when\nthat\nboom went off, I was caught totally by surprise. I went flat on the\nleafy ground with my hands over my head and my heart drumming\ncrazily,\nsure I'd reached the end of my life (and while I was still a virgin). In\nmy forty years, that was the only thing which equalled the final\ndream\nof the \"Manderley series\" for utter terror.\nI lay on the ground, waiting for the hammer to fall, and when thirty\nseconds or so passed and no hammer did fall, I began to realize it\nhad\njust been some jet-jockey from the Brunswick Naval Air Station, too\neager to wait until he was out over the Atlantic before going to Mach\n1.\nBut, holy shit, who ever could have guessed that it would be so\nloud?\nI got slowly to my feet and as I stood there with my heart finally\nslowing down, I realized I wasn't the only thing that had been\nscared\nwitless by that sudden clear-sky boom. For the first time in my\nmemory,\nthe little patch of woods behind our house in Prout's Neck was\nentirely\nsilent. I stood there in a dusty bar of sunlight, crumbled leaves all\nover my tee-shirt and jeans, holding my breath, listening. I had\nnever\nheard a silence like it. Even on a cold day in January, the woods\nwould\nhave been full of conversation.\nAt last a finch sang. There were two or three seconds of silence, andthen a jay replied. Another two or three seconds went by, and then a\ncrow added his two cents' worth. A woodpecker began to hammer\nfor grubs.\nA chipmunk bumbled through some underbrush on my left. A minute\nafter I\nhad stood up, the woods were fully alive with little noises again; it\nwas back to business as usual, and I continued with my own. I never\nforgot that unexpected boom, though, or the deathly silence which\nfollowed it.\nI thought of that June day often in the wake of the nightmare, and\nthere\nwas nothing so remarkable in that. Things had changed, somehow,\nor could\nchange.., but first comes silence while we assure ourselves that we\nare\nstill unhurt and that the danger--if there was danger--is gone.\nDerry was shut down for most of the following week, anyway. Ice\nand high\nwinds caused a great deal of damage during the storm, and a\nsudden\ntwenty-degree plunge in the temperature afterward made the\ndigging out\nhard and the cleanup slow. Added to that, the atmosphere after a\nMarch\nstorm is always dour and pessimistic; we get them up this way every\nyear\n(and two or three in April for good measure, if we're not lucky), but\nwe\nnever seem to expect them. Every time we get clouted, we take it\npersonally.\nOn a day toward the end of that week, the weather finally started tobreak. I took advantage, going out for a cup of coffee and a mid-\nmorning\npastry at the little restaurant three doors down from the Rite Aid\nwhere\nJohanna did her last errand. I was sipping and chewing and working\nthe\nnewspaper crossword when someone asked, \"Could I share your\nbooth, Mr.\nNoonan? It's pretty crowded in here today.\"\nI looked up and saw an old man that I knew but couldn't quite\nplace.\n\"Ralph Roberts,\" he said. \"I volunteer down at the Red Cross. Me\nand my\nwife, Lois.\"\n\"Oh, okay, sure,\" I said. I give blood at the Red Cross every six\nweeks\nor so. Ralph Roberts was one of the old parties who passed out juice\nand\ncookies afterward, telling you not to get up or make any sudden\nmovements if you felt woozy. \"Please, sit down.\" He looked at my\npaper,\nfolded open to the crossword and lying in a patch of sun, as he slid\ninto the booth. \"Don't you find that doing the crossword in the Derry\nNews is sort of like striking out the pitcher in a baseball game?\" he\nasked. I laughed and nodded. \"I do it for the same reason folks\nclimb\nMount Everest, Mr. Roberts... because it's there. Only with the News\ncrossword, no one ever falls off.\"\n\"Call me Ralph. Please.\"\n\"Okay. And I'm Mike.\"\"Good.\" He grinned, revealing teeth that were crooked and a little\nyellow, but all his own. \"I like getting to the first names. It's like\nbeing able to take off your tie. Was quite a little cap of wind we had,\nwasn't it?\"\n\"Yes,\" I said, \"but it's warming up nicely now.\" The thermometer had\nmade one of its nimble March leaps, climbing from twenty-five\ndegrees\nthe night before to fifty that morning. Better than the rise in\nair-temperature, the sun was warm again on your face. It was that\nwarmth\nthat had coaxed me out of the house. \"Spring'll get here, I guess.\nSome\nyears it gets a little lost, but it always seems to find its way back\nhome.\" He sipped his coffee, then set the cup down. \"Haven't seen\nyou at\nthe Red Cross lately.\"\n\"I'm recycling,\" I said, but that was a fib; I'd come eligible to give\nanother pint two weeks ago. The reminder card was up on the\nrefrigerator. It had just slipped my mind.\n\"Next week, for sure.\"\n\"I only mention it because I know you're an A, and we can always\nuse\nthat.\"\n\"Save me a couch.\"\n\"Count on it. Everything going all right? I only ask because you look\ntired. If it's insomnia, I can sympathize, believe me.\" He did have\nthe\nlook of an insomniac, I thought--too wide around the eyes,\nsomehow. But\nhe was also a man in his mid- to late seventies, and I don't thinkanyone gets that far without showing it. Stick around a little while,\nand life maybe only jabs at your cheeks and eyes. Stick around a\nlong\nwhile and you end up looking like Jake La Motta after a hard fifteen.\nI\nopened my mouth to say what I always do when someone asks me\nif I'm all\nright, then wondered why I always felt I had to pull that tiresome\nMarlboro Man shit, just who I was trying to fool. What did I think\nwould\nhappen if I told the guy who gave me a chocolate-chip cookie down\nat the\nRed Cross after the nurse took the needle out of my arm that I\nwasn't\nfeeling a hundred percent? Earthquakes? Fire and flood? Shit. \"No,\" I\nsaid, \"I really haven't been feeling so great, Ralph.\"\n\"Flu? It's been going around.\"\n\"Nah. The flu missed me this time, actually. And I've been sleeping\nall\nright.\" Which was truemthere had been no recurrence of the Sara\nLaughs\ndream in either the normal or the high-octane version. \"I think I've\njust got the blues.\"\n\"Well, you ought to take a vacation,\" he said, then sipped his coffee.\nWhen he looked up at me again, he frowned and set his cup down.\n\"What?\nIs something wrong?\" No, I thought of saying. You were just the\nfirst\nbird to sing into the silence, Ralph, that's all. \"No, nothing wrong,\" I\nsaid, and then, because I sort of wanted to see how the words\ntasted\ncoming out of my own mouth, I repeated them. \"A vacation.\"\"Ayuh,\" he said, smiling. \"People do it all the time.\"\nPeople do it allthe time. He was right about that; even people who\ncouldn't strictly afford to went on vacation. When they got tired.\nWhen\nthey got all balled up in their own shit. When the world was too\nmuch\nwith them, getting and spending. I could certainly afford a vacation,\nand I could certainly take the time off from work--what work,\nha-ha?--and yet I'd needed the Red Cross cookie-man to point out\nwhat\nshould have been self-evident to a college-educated guy like me:\nthat I\nhadn't been on an actual vacation since Jo and I had gone to\nBermuda,\nthe winter before she died. My particular grindstone was no longer\nturning, but I had kept my nose to it all the same.\nIt wasn't until that summer, when I read Ralph Roberts's obituary in\nthe\nNews (he was struck by a car), that I fully realized how much I owed\nhim. That advice was better than any glass of orange juice I ever got\nafter giving blood, let me tell you.\nWhen I left the restaurant, I didn't go home but tramped over half of\nthe damned town, the section of newspaper with the partly\ncompleted\ncrossword puzzle in it clamped under one arm. I walked until I was\nchilled in spite of the warming temperatures. I didn't think about\nanything, and yet I thought about everything. It was a special kind\nof\nthinking, the sort I'd always done when I was getting close to\nwriting a\nbook, and although I hadn't thought that way in years, I fell into it\neasily and naturally, as if I had never been away. It's like some guyswith a big truck have pulled up in your driveway and are moving\nthings\ninto your basement. I can't explain it any better than that. You can't\nsee what these things are because they're all wrapped up in padded\nquilts, but you don't need to see them. It's furniture, everything you\nneed to make your house a home, make it just right, just the way\nyou\nwanted it. When the guys have hopped back into their truck and\ndriven\naway, you go down to the basement and walk around (the way I\nwent\nwalking around Derry that late morning, slopping up hill and down\ndale\nin my old galoshes), touching a padded curve here, a padded angle\nthere.\nIs this one a sofa? Is that' one a dresser? It doesn't matter.\nEverything is here, the movers didn't forget a thing, and although\nyou'll have to get it all upstairs yourself (straining your poor old\nback in the process, more often than not), that's okay. The\nimportant\nthing is that the delivery was complete. This time I\nthought--hoped---the delivery truck had brought the stuff I needed\nfor\nthe back forty: the years I might have to spend in a No Writing\nZone. To\nthe cellar door they had come, and they had knocked politely, and\nwhen\nafter several months there was still no answer, they had finally\nfetched\na battering ram. HEY BUDDY, HOPE THE NOISE DIDN'T SCARE YOU\nTOO BAD,\nSORRY ABOUT THE DOOR/\nI didn't care about the door; I cared about the furniture. Any piecesbroken or missing? I didn't think so. I thought all I had to do was\nget\nit upstairs, pull off the furniture pads, and put it where it belonged.\nOn my way back home, I passed The Shade, Derry's charming little\nrevival\nmovie house, which has prospered in spite of (or perhaps because\nof) the\nvideo revolution. This month they were showing classic SF from the\nfifties, but April was dedicated to Humphrey Bogart, Jo's all-time\nfavorite. I stood under the marquee for several moments, studying\none of\nthe Coming Attractions posters. Then I went home, picked a travel\nagent\npretty much at random from the phone book, and told the guy I\nwanted to\ngo to Key Largo. Key West, you mean, the guy said. No, I told him, I\nmean Key Largo, just like in the movie with Bogie and Bacall. Three\nweeks. Then I rethought that. I was wealthy, I was on my own, and\nI was\nretired. What was this \"three weeks\" shit? Make it six, I said. Find\nme\na cottage or something. Going to be expensive, he said. I told him I\ndidn't care. When I came back to Derry, it would be spring. In the\nmeantime, I had some furniture to unwrap.\nI was enchanted with Key Largo for the first month and bored out of\nmy\nmind for the last two weeks. I stayed, though, because boredom is\ngood.\nPeople with a high tolerance for boredom can get a lot of thinking\ndone.\nI ate about a billion shrimp, drank about a thousand margaritas, andread twenty-three John D. MacDonald novels by actual count. I\nburned,\npeeled, and finally tanned. I bought a long-billed cap with\nPARROTHEAD\nprinted on it in bright green thread. I walked the same stretch of\nbeach\nuntil I knew everybody by first name. And I unwrapped furniture. A\nlot\nof it I didn't like, but there was no doubt that it all fit the house. I\nthought about Jo and our life together. I thought about saying to her\nthat no one was ever going to confuse Being Two with Look\nHomeward,\nAngel. \"You aren't going to pull a lot of frustrated-artist crap on me,\nare you, Noonan?\" she had replied.., and during my time on Key\nLargo,\nthose words kept coming back, always in Jo's voice: crap,\nfrustrated-artist crap, all that fucking schoolboy frustrated-artist\ncrap. I thought about her long red woods apron, coming to me with\na hatful of black trumpet mushrooms, laughing and triumphant:\n\"Nobody on\nthe TR eats better than the Noonans tonight/\" she'd cried. I thought\nof\nher painting her toenails, bent over between her own thighs in the\nway\nonly women doing that particular piece of business can manage. I\nthought\nof her throwing a book at me because I laughed at some new\nhaircut. I\nthought of her trying to learn how to play a breakdown on her banjo\nand\nof how she looked braless in a thin sweater. I thought of her crying\nand\nlaughing and angry. I thought of her telling me it was crap, all that\nfrustrated-artist crap.\nAnd I thought about the dreams, especially the culminating dream. Icould do that easily, because it never faded as the more ordinary\nones\ndo. The final Sara Laughs dream and my very first wet dream\n(coming upon\na girl lying naked in a hammock and eating a plum) are the only two\nthat\nremain perfectly clear to me, year after year; the rest are either hazy\nfragments or completely forgotten.\nThere were a great many clear details to the Sara dreams--the\nloons, the\ncrickets, the evening star and my wish upon it, just to name a few--\nbut\nI thought most of those things were just verisimilitude. Scene-\nsetting,\nif you will. As such, they could be dismissed from my considerations.\nThat left three major elements, three large pieces of furniture to be\nunwrapped.\nAs I sat on the beach, watching the sun go down between my sandy\ntoes, I\ndidn't think you had to be a shrink to see how those three things\nwent\ntogether.\nIn the Sara dreams, the major elements were the woods behind me,\nthe\nhouse below me, and Michael Noonan himself, frozen in the middle.\nIt's\ngetting dark and there's danger in the woods. It will be frightening\nto\ngo to the house below, perhaps because it's been empty so long, but\nI\nnever doubt I must go there; scary or not, it's the only shelter I\nhave.Except I can't do it. I can't move. I've got writer's walk.\nIn the nightmare I am finally able to go toward shelter, only the\nshelter proves false. Proves more dangerous than I had ever\nexpected in\nmy .. well, yes, in my wildest dreams. My dead wife rushes out,\nscreaming and still tangled in her shroud, to attack me. Even five\nweeks\nlater and almost three thousand miles from Derry, remembering that\nspeedy white thing with its baggy arms would make me shiver and\nlook\nback over my shoulder.\nBut was it Johanna? I didn't really know, did I? The thing was all\nwrapped up. The coffin looked like the one in which she had been\nburied,\ntrue, but that might just be misdirection.\nWriter's walk, writer's block.\nI can't write, I told the voice in the dream. The voice says I can. The\nvoice says the writer's block is gone, and I believe it because the\nwriter's walk is gone, I'm finally headed down the driveway, going to\nshelter. I'm afraid, though. Even before the shapeless white thing\nmakes\nits appearance, I'm terrified. I say it's Mrs. Danvers I'm afraid of,\nbut that's just my dreaming mind getting Sara Laughs and\nManderley all\nmixed up. I'm afraid of- \"I'm afraid of writing,\" I heard myself saying\nout loud. \"I'm afraid to even try.\"\nThis was the night before I finally flew back to Maine, and I was\nhalf-past sober, going on drunk. By the end of my vacation, I was\ndrinking a lot of evenings. \"It's not the block that scares me, it's\nundoing the block. I'm really fucked, boys and girls. I'm fuckedbig-time.\"\nFucked or not, I had an idea I'd finally reached the heart of the\nmatter. I was afraid of undoing the block, maybe afraid of picking up\nthe strands of my life and going on without Jo. Yet some deep part\nof my\nmind believed I must do it; that's what the menacing noises behind\nme in\nthe woods were about. And belief counts for a lot. Too much,\nmaybe,\nespecially if you're imaginative. When an imaginative person gets\ninto\nmental trouble, the line between seeming and being has a way of\ndisappearing.\nThings in the woods, yes, sir. I had one of them right there in my\nhand\nas I was thinking these things. I lifted my drink, holding it toward\nthe\nwestern sky so that the setting sun seemed to be burning in the\nglass. I\nwas drinking a lot, and maybe that was okay on Key Largo hell,\npeople\nwere supposed to drink a lot on vacation, it was almost the law--but\nI'd\nbeen drinking too much even before I left. The kind of drinking that\ncould get out of hand in no time at all. The kind that could get a\nman\nin trouble.\nThings in the woods, and the potentially safe place guarded by a\nscary\nbugbear that was not my wife, but perhaps my wife's memory. It\nmade\nsense, because Sara Laughs had always been Jo's favorite place on\nearth.That thought led to another, one that made me swing my legs over\nthe\nside of the chaise I'd been reclining on and sit up in excitement.\nSara\nLaughs had also been the place where the ritual had begun. ..\nchampagne,\nlast line, and the all-important benediction: Well, then, that's all\nright, isn't it? Did I want things to be all right again? Did I truly\nwant that? A month or a year before I mightn't have been sure, but\nnow I\nwas. The answer was yes. I wanted to move on--let go of my dead\nwife,\nrehab my heart, move on. But to do that, I'd have to go back. Back\nto\nthe log house. Back to Sara Laughs. \"Yeah,\" I said, and my body\nbroke\nout in gooseflesh. \"Yeah, you got it.\" So why not? The question\nmade me\nfeel as stupid as Ralph Roberts's observation that I needed a\nvacation.\nif I needed to go back to Sara Laughs now that my vacation was\nover,\nindeed why not? It might be a little scary the first night or two, a\nhangover from my final dream, but just being there might dissolve\nthe\ndream faster. And (this last thought I allowed in only one humble\ncorner\nof my conscious mind) something might happen with my writing. It\nwasn't\nlikely.., but it wasn't impossible, either. Barring a miracle, hadn't\nthat been my thought on New Year's Day as I sat on the rim of the\ntub,\nholding a damp washcloth to the cut on my forehead? Yes.Barring a miracle. Sometimes blind people fall down, knock their\nheads,\nand regain their sight. Sometimes maybe cripples are able to throw\ntheir\ncrutches away when they get to the top of the church steps. I had\neight\nor nine months before Harold and Debra started really bugging me\nfor the\nnext novel. I decided to spend the time at Sara Laughs. It would\ntake me\na little while to tie things up in Derry, and awhile for Bill Dean to\nget the house on the lake ready for a year-round resident, but I\ncould\nbe down there by the Fourth of July, easily. I decided that was a\ngood\ndate to shoot for, not just the birthday of our country, but pretty\nmuch\nthe end of bug season in western Maine. By the day I packed up my\nvacation gear (the John D. MacDonald paperbacks I left for the\ncabin's\nnext inhabitant), shaved a week's worth of stubble off a face so\ntanned\nit no longer looked like my own to me, and flew back to Maine, I\nwas\ndecided: I'd go back to the place my subconscious mind had\nidentified\nas shelter against the deepening dark; I'd go back even though my\nmind\nhad also suggested that doing so would not be without risks. I would\nnot\ngo back expecting Sara to be Lourdes... but I would allow myself to\nhope, and when I saw the evening star peeping out over the lake for\nthe\nfirst time, I would allow myself to wish on it.\nOnly one thing didn't fit into my neat deconstruction of the Saradreams, and because I couldn't explain it, I tried to ignore it. I\ndidn't have much luck, though; part of me was still a writer, I guess,\nand a writer is a man who has taught his mind to misbehave. It was\nthe\ncut on the back of my hand. That cut had been in all the dreams, I\nwould\nswear it had.., and then it had actually appeared. You didn't get that\nsort of shit in the works of Dr. Freud; stuff like that was strictly for\nthe Psychic Friends hotline. It was a coincidence, that's all, I thought\nas my plane started its descent. I was in seat A-2 (the nice thing\nabout\nflying up front is that if the plane goes down, you're first to the\ncrash site) and looking at pine forests as we slipped along the\nglidepath toward Bangor International Airport. The snow was gone\nfor\nanother year; I had vacationed it to death. Only coincidence. How\nmany\ntimes have you cut your hands? I mean, they're always out\nfront, aren't they, waving themselves around? Practically begging for\nit. All that should have rung true, and yet somehow it didn't, quite. It\nshould have, but.., well... It was the boys in the basement. They\nwere\nthe ones who didn't buy it. The boys in the basement didn't buy it at\nall. At that point there was a thump as the 737 touched down, and I\nput\nthe whole line of thought out of my mind.\nOne afternoon shortly after arriving back home, I rummaged the\nclosets\nuntil I found the shoeboxes containing Jo's old photographs. I sorted\nthem, then studied my way through the ones of Dark Score Lake.\nThere\nwere a staggering number of these, but because Johanna was the\nshutterbug, there weren't many with her in them. I found one,\nthough,that I remembered taking in 1990 or '91. Sometimes even an\nuntalented\nphotographer can take a good picture----if seven hundred monkeys\nspent\nseven hundred years bashing away at seven hundred typewriters,\nand all\nthat--and this was good. In it Jo was standing on the float with the\nsun\ngoing down red-gold behind her.\nShe was just out of the water, dripping wet, wearing a two-piece\nswimming suit, gray with red piping. I had caught her laughing and\nbrushing her soaked hair back from her forehead and temples. Her\nnipples\nwere very prominent against the cups of her halter. She looked like\nan\nactress on a movie poster for one of those guilty-pleasure B-pictures\nabout monsters at Party Beach or a serial killer stalking the campus.\nI\nwas sucker-punched by a sudden powerful lust for her. I wanted her\nupstairs just as she was in that photograph, with strands of her hair\npasted to her cheeks and that wet bathing suit clinging to her. I\nwanted\nto suck her nipples through the halter top, taste the cloth and feel\ntheir hardness through it. I wanted to suck water out of the cotton\nlike\nmilk, then yank the bottom of her suit off and fuck her until we both\nexploded. Hands shaking a little, I put the photograph aside, with\nsome\nothers I liked (although there were no others I liked in quite that\nsame\nway). I had a huge hard-on, one of those ones that feel like stone\ncovered with skin. Get one of those and until it goes away you are\ngood\nfor nothing. The quickest way to solve a problem like that when\nthere'sno woman around willing to help you solve it is to masturbate, but\nthat\ntime the idea never even crossed my mind. Instead I walked\nrestlessly\nthrough the upstairs rooms of my house with my fists opening and\nclosing\nand what looked like a hood ornament stuffed down the front of my\njeans.\nAnger may be a normal stage of the grieving process--I've read that\nit\nis--but I was never angry at Johanna in the wake of her death until\nthe\nday I found that picture. Then, wow. There I was, walking around\nwith a\nboner that just wouldn't quit, furious with her. Stupid bitch, why had\nshe been running on one of the hottest days of the year? Stupid,\ninconsiderate bitch to leave me alone like this, not even able to\nwork.\nI sat down on the stairs and wondered what I should do. A drink\nwas what\nI should do, I decided, and then maybe another drink to scratch the\nfirst one's back. I actually got up before deciding that wasn't a very\ngood idea at all. I went into my office instead, turned on the\ncomputer,\nand did a crossword puzzle. That night when I went to bed, I\nthought of\nlooking at the picture of Jo in her bathing suit again. I decided that\nwas almost as bad an idea as a few drinks when I was feeling angry\nand\ndepressed. But I'll have the dream tonight, I thought as I turned off\nthe light. I'll have the dreamier sure. I didn't, though. My dreams of\nSara Laughs seemed to be finished.A week's thought made the idea of at least summering at the lake\nseem\nbetter than ever. So, on a Saturday afternoon in early May when I\ncalculated that any self-respecting Maine caretaker would be home\nwatching the Red Sox, I called Bill Dean and told him I'd be at my\nlake\nplace from the Fourth of July or so. .. and that if things went as I\nhoped, I'd be spending the fall and winter there as well. \"Well, that's\ngood,\" he said. \"That's real good news. A lot of folks down here've\nmissed you, Mike. Quite a few that want to condole with you about\nyour\nwife, don't you know.\" Was there the faintest note of reproach in his\nvoice, or was that just my imagination? Certainly Jo and I had cast a\nshadow in the area; we had made significant contributions to the\nlittle\nlibrary which served the Motton-Kashwakamak-Castle View area, and\nJo had\nheaded the successful fund drive to get an area bookmobile up and\nrunning. In addition to that, she had been part of a ladies' sewing\ncircle (afghans were her specialty), and a member in good standing\nof\nthe Castle County Crafts Co-op. Visits to the sick.., helping out with\nthe annual volunteer fire department blood drive.., womaning a\nbooth\nduring Summerfest in Castle Rock... and stuff like that was only\nwhere\nshe had started. She didn't do it in any ostentatious Lady Bountiful\nway, either, but unobtrusively and humbly, with her head lowered\n(often\nto hide a rather sharp smile, I should add--my Jo had a Biercean\nsense\nof humor). Christ, I thought, maybe old Bill had a right to sound\nreproachful. \"People miss her,\" I said. \"Ayuh, they do.\"\n\"I still miss her a lot myself. I think that's why I've stayed away from\nthe lake.That's where a lot of our good times were.\"\n\"I s'pose so. But it'll be damned good to see you down this way. I'll\nget busy. The place is all right--you could move into it this afternoon,\nif you was a mind--but when a house has stood empty the way Sara\nhas, it\ngets stale.\"\n\"I know.\"\n\"TII get Brenda Meserve to clean the whole shebang from top to\nbottom.\nSame gal you always had, don't you know.\"\n\"Brenda's a little old for comprehensive spring cleaning, isn't she?\"\nThe lady in question was about sixty-five, stout, kind, and gleefully\nvulgar. She was especially fond of jokes about the travelling\nsalesman\nwho spent the night like a rabbit, jumping from hole to hole. No Mrs.\nDan-vets she. \"Ladies like Brenda Meserve never get too old to\noversee\nthe festivities,\" Bill said. \"She'll get two or three girls to do the\nvacuuming and heavy lifting. Set you back maybe three hundred\ndollars.\nSound all right?\"\n\"Like a bargain.\"\n\"The well needs to be tested, and the gennie, too, although I'm sure\nboth ofem's okay. I seen a hornet's nest by Jo's old studio that I\nwant\nto smoke before the woods get dry.Oh, and the roof of the old house--you know, the middle piece--\nneeds to\nbe reshingled. I shoulda talked to you about that last year, but with\nyou not using the place, I let her slide. You stand good for that,\ntoo?\"\n\"Yes, up to ten grand. Beyond that, call me.\"\n\"If we have to go over ten, I'll smile and kiss a pig.\"\n\"Try to have it all done before I get down there, okay?\"\n\"Coss. You'll want your privacy, I know that. .. just so long's you\nknow\nyou won't get any right away. We was shocked when she went so\nyoung; all\nof us were. Shocked and sad. She was a dear.\" From a Yankee\nmouth, that\nword rhymes with Leah. \"Thank you, Bill.\" I felt tears prickle my\neyes.\nGrief is like a drunken house guest, always coming back for one\nmore\ngoodbye hug. \"Thanks for saying.\"\n\"You'll get your share of carrot-cakes, chummy.\" He laughed, but a\nlittle doubtfully, as if afraid he was committing an impropriety. \"I can\neat a lot of carrot-cake,\" I said, \"and if folks overdo it, well, hasn't\nKenny Auster still got that big Irish wolfhound?\"\n\"Yuh, that thing'd eat cake til he busted!\" Bill cried in high good\nhumor. He cackled until he was coughing. I waited, smiling a little\nmyself. \"Blueberry, he calls that dog, damned if I know why. Ain't he\nthe gormiest thing!\" I assumed he meant the dog and not the dog's\nmaster. Kenny Auster, not much more than five feet tall and neatly\nmade,\nwas the opposite of gormy, that peculiar Maine adjective that meansclumsy, awkward, and clay-footed. I suddenly realized that I missed\nthese people--Bill and Brenda and Buddy Jellison and Kenny Auster\nand\nall the others who lived year-round at the lake. I even missed\nBlueberry, the Irish wolfhound, who trotted everywhere with his\nhead up\njust as if he had half a brain in it and long strands of saliva\ndepending from his jaws. \"I've also got to get down there and clean\nup\nthe winter blowdown,\" Bill said. He sounded embarrassed. \"It ain't\nbad\nthis year--that last big storm was all snow over our way, thank God--\nbut\nthere's still a fair amount of happy crappy I ain't got to yet. I\nshoulda put it behind me long before now. You not using the place\nain't\nan excuse. I been cashing your checks.\" There was something\namusing\nabout listening to the grizzled old fart beating his breast; Jo would\nhave kicked her feet and giggled, I'm quite sure. \"If everything's\nright\nand running by July Fourth, Bill, I'll be happy.\"\n\"You'll be happy as a clam in a mudflat, then. That's a promise.\" Bill\nsounded as happy as a clam in a mudflat himself, and I was glad.\n\"Going-ter come down and write a book by the water? Like in the\nold days?\nNot that the last couple ain't been fine, my wife couldn't put that last\none down, but--\"\n\"I don't know,\" I said, which was the truth. And then an idea struck\nme.\n\"Bill, would you do me a favor before you clean up the driveway and\nturn\nBrenda Meserve loose?\"\"Happy to if I can,\" he said, so I told him what I wanted.\nFour days later, I got a little package with this laconic return\naddress: DEN/GEN DELV/Tg-90 (DAVA scoa0. I opened it and shook\nout\ntwenty photographs which had been taken with one of those little\ncameras\nyou use once and then throw away.\nBill had filled out the roll with various views of the house, most\nconveying that subtle air of neglect a place gets when it's not used\nenough . . even a place that's caretook (to use Bill's word) gets that\nneglected feel after awhile. I barely glanced at these. The first four\nwere the ones I wanted, and I lined them up on the kitchen table,\nwhere\nthe strong sunlight would fall directly on them. Bill had taken these\nfrom the top of the driveway, pointing the disposable camera down\nat the\nsprawl of Sara Laughs. I could see the moss which had grown not\nonly on\nsouth\nwings, as well. I could see the litter of fallen branches and the drifts\nof pine needles on the driveway. Bill must have been tempted to\nclear\nall that away before taking his snaps, but he hadn't. I'd told him\nexactly what I wanted--\"warts and all\" was the phrase I had used--\nand\nBill had given it to me. The bushes on either side of the driveway\nhad\nthickened a lot since Jo and I had spent any significant amount of\ntime\nat the lake; they hadn't exactly run wild, but yes, some of the longer\nbranches did seem to yearn toward each other across the asphalt\nlikeseparated lovers. Yet what my eye came back to again and again\nwas the\nstoop at the foot of the driveway. The other resemblances between\nthe\nphotographs and my dreams of Sara Laughs might only be\ncoincidental (or\nthe writer's often surprisingly practical imagination at work), but I\ncould explain the sunflowers growing out through the boards of the\nstoop\nno more than I had been able to explain the cut on the back of my\nhand.\nI turned one of the photos over. On the back, in a spidery script, Bill\nhad written: These jgllows are way early.., and trespassing./ I flipped\nback to the picture side. Three sunflowers, growing up through the\nboards of the stoop. Not two, not four, but three large sunflowers\nwith\nfaces like searchlights. Just like the ones in my dream.\nOn July 3rd of 1998, I threw two suitcases and my Powerbook in the\ntrunk\nof my mid-sized Chevrolet, started to back down the driveway, then\nstopped and went into the house again. It felt empty and somehow\nforlorn, like a faithful lover who has been dropped and cannot\nunderstand why. The furniture wasn't covered and the power was\nstill on\n(I understood that The Great Lake Experiment might turn out to be\na\nswift and total failure), but 14 Benton Street felt deserted, all the\nsame. Rooms too full of furniture to echo still did when I walked\nthrough them, and everywhere there seemed to be too much dusty\nlight. In\nmy study, the VDT was hooded like an executioner against the dust.\nI\nknelt before it and opened one of the desk drawers. Inside were fourreams of paper. I took one, started away with it under my arm, then\nhad\na second thought and turned back. I had put that provocative photo\nof Jo\nin her swimsuit in the wide center drawer. Now I took it, tore the\npaper\nwrapping from the end of the ream of paper, and slid the photo\nhalfway\nin, like a bookmark. if I did perchance begin to write again, and if\nthe\nwriting marched, I would meet Johanna right around page two\nhundred and\nfifty.\nI left the house, locked the back door, got into my car, and drove\naway.\nI have never been back.\nI'd been tempted to go down to the lake and check out the work--\nwhich\nturned out to be quite a bit more extensive than Bill Dean had\noriginally expected--on several occasions. What kept me away was a\nfeeling, never quite articulated by my conscious mind but still very\npowerful, that I wasn't supposed to do it that way; that when I next\ncame to Sara, it should be to unpack and stay.\nBill hired out Kenny Auster to shingle the roof, and got Kenny's\ncousin,\nTimmy Larribee, to \"scrape the old girl down,\" a cleansing process\nakin\nto pot-scrubbing that is sometimes employed with log homes. Bill\nalso\nhad a plumber in to check out the pipes, and got my okay to replace\nsome\nof the older plumbing and the well-pump.Bill fussed about all these expenses over the telephone; I let him.\nWhen\nit comes to fifth- or sixth-generation Yankees and the expenditure of\nmoney, you might as well just stand back and let them get it out of\ntheir systems. Laying out the green just seems wrong to a Yankee,\nsomehow, like petting in public. As for myself, I didn't mind the\noutgo\na bit. I live frugally, for the most part, not out of any moral code but\nbecause my imagination, very lively in most other respects, doesn't\nwork\nvery well on the subject of money. My idea of a spree is three days\nin\nBoston, a Red Sox game, a trip to Tower Records and Video, plus a\nvisit\nto the Wordsworth bookstore in Cambridge. Living like that doesn't\nmake\nmuch of a dent in the interest, let alone the principal; I had a good\nmoney manager down in Waterville, and on the day I locked the\ndoor of\nthe Derry house and headed west to TR-90, I was worth slightly\nover five\nmillion dollars. Not much compared to Bill Gates, but big numbers\nfor\nthis area, and I could afford to be cheerful about the high cost of\nhouse repairs.\nThat was a strange late spring and early summer for me. What I did\nmostly was wait, close up my town affairs, talk to Bill Dean when he\ncalled with the latest round of problems, and try not to think. I did\nthe Publishers Ig3ekly interview, and when the interviewer asked me\nif\nI'd had any trouble getting back to work \"in the wake of my\nbereavement,\" I said no with an absolutely straight face. Why not? It\nwas true. My troubles hadn't started until I'd finished All the yfrom\nthe bp; until then, I had been going on like gangbusters.In mid-June, I met Frank Arlen for lunch at the Starlite Cafe. The\nStarlite is in Lewiston, which is the geographical midpoint between\nhis\ntown and mine. Over dessert (the Starlite's famous strawberry\nshortcake), Frank asked if I was seeing anyone. I looked at him with\nsurprise.\n\"What are you gaping at?\" he asked, his face registering one of the\nnine\nhundred unnamed emotions--this one of those somewhere between\namusement\nand irritation. \"I certainly wouldn't think of it as two-timing Jo.\nShe'll have been dead four years come August.\"\n\"No,\" I said. \"I'm not seeing anybody.\"\nHe looked at me silently. I looked back for a few seconds, then\nstarted\nfiddling my spoon through the whipped cream on top of my\nshortcake. The\nbiscuits were still warm from the oven, and the cream was melting.\nIt\nmade me think of that silly old song about how someone left the\ncake out\nin the rain.\n\"Have you seen anybody, Mike?\"\n\"I'm not sure that's any business of yours.\"\n\"Oh for Christ's sake. On your vacation? Did you--\"\nI made myself look up from the melting whipped cream. \"No,\" I said.He was silent for another moment or two. I thought he was getting\nready\nto move on to another topic. That would have been fine with me.\nInstead,\nhe came right out and asked me if I had been laid at all since\nJohanna\ndied. He would have accepted a lie on that subject even if he didn't\nentirely believe it--men lie about sex all the time. But I told the\ntruth.., and with a certain perverse pleasure.\n\"No.\"\n\"Not a single time?\"\n\"Not a single time.\"\n\"What about a massage parlor? You know, to at least get a--\"\nHe sat there tapping his spoon against the rim of the bowl with his\ndessert in it. He hadn't taken a single bite. He was looking at me as\nthough I were some new and oogy specimen of bug. I didn't like it\nmuch,\nbut I suppose I understood it.\nI had been close to what is these days called \"a relationship\" on two\noccasions, neither of them on Key Largo, where I had observed\nroughly\ntwo thousand pretty women walking around dressed in only a stitch\nand a\npromise. Once it had been a red-haired waitress, Kelli, at a\nrestaurant\nout on the Extension where I often had lunch. After awhile we got\ntalking, joking around, and then there started to be some of that\neye-contact, you know the kind I'm talking about, looks that go on\njust\na little too long. I started to notice her legs, and the way her uniformpulled against her hip when she turned, and she noticed me\nnoticing.\nAnd there was a woman at Nu You, the place where I used to work\nout. A\ntall woman who favored pink jog-bras and black bike shorts. Quite\nyummy.\nAlso, I liked the stuff she brought to read while she pedalled one of\nthe stationary bikes on those endless aerobic trips to nowhere--not\nMademoiselle or Cosmo, but novels by people like John Irving and\nEllen\nGilchrist. I like people who read actual books, and not just because I\nonce wrote them myself. Book-readers are just as willing as anyone\nelse\nto start out with the weather, but as a general rule they can actually\ngo on from there.\nThe name of the blonde in the pink tops and black shorts was Adria\nBundy. We started talking about books as we pedalled side by side\never\ndeeper into nowhere, and there came a point where I was spotting\nher one\nor two mornings a week in the weight room. There's something\noddly\nintimate about spotting. The prone position of the lifter is part of it,\nI suppose (especially when the lifter is a woman), but not all or even\nmost of it. Mostly it's the dependence factor. Although it hardly ever\ncomes to that point, the lifter is trusting the spotter with his or her\nlife. And, at some point in the winter of 1996, those looks started as\nshe lay on the bench and I stood over her, looking into her upside-\ndown\nface. The ones that go on just a little too long.\nKelli was around thirty, Adria perhaps a little younger. Kelli wasdivorced, Adria never married. In neither case would I have been\nrobbing\nthe cradle, and I think either would have been happy to go to bed\nwith\nme on a provisional basis. Kind of a honey-bump test-drive. Yet what\nI\ndid in Kelli's case was to find a different restaurant to eat my lunch\nat, and when the YMCA sent me a free exercise-tryout offer, I took\nthem\nup on it and just never went back to Nu You. I remember walking\npast\nAdria Bundy one day on the street six months or so after I made the\nchange, and although I said hi, I made sure not to see her puzzled,\nslightly hurt gaze.\nIn a purely physical way I wanted them both (in fact, I seem to\nremember\na dream in which I had them both, in the same bed and at the same\ntime),\nand yet I wanted neither. Part of it was my inability to write--my life\nwas quite fucked up enough, thank you, without adding any\nadditional\ncomplications. Part of it was the work involved in making sure that\nthe\nwoman who is returning your glances is interested in you and not\nyour\nrather extravagant bank account.\nMost of it, I think, was that there was just too much Jo still in my\nhead and heart. There was no room for anyone else, even after four\nyears. It was sorrow like cholesterol, and if you think that's funny or\nweird, be grateful.\n\"What about friends?\" Frank asked, at last beginning to eat his\nstrawberry shortcake. \"You've got friends you see, don't you?\"\"Yes,\" I said. \"Plenty of friends.\" Which was a lie, but I did have lots\nof crosswords to do, lots of books to read, and lots of movies to\nwatch\non my VCR at night; I could practically recite the FBI warning about\nunlawful copying by heart. When it came to real live people, the only\nones I called when I got ready to leave Derry were my doctor and\nmy\ndentist, and most of the mail I sent out that June consisted of\nchange-of address cards to magazines like Harper's and National\nGeographic. \"Frank,\" I said, \"you sound like a Jewish mother.\"\n\"Sometimes when I'm with you IJEL like a Jewish mother,\" he said.\n\"One\nwho believes in the curative powers of baked potatoes instead of\nmatzo\nballs. You look better than you have in a long time, finally put on\nsome\nweight, I think--\"\n\"Too much.\"\n\"Bullshit, you looked like Ichabod Crane when you came for\nChristmas.\nAlso, you've got some sun on your face and arms.\"\n\"I've been walking a lot.\"\n\"So you look better.., except for your eyes. Sometimes you get this\nlook\nin your eyes, and I worry about you every time I see it. I think Jo\nwould be glad someone's worrying.\"\n\"What look is that?\" I asked.\"Your basic thousand-yard stare. Want the truth? You look like\nsomeone\nwho's caught on something and can't get loose.\"\nI left Derry at three-thirty, stopped in Rumford for supper, then\ndrove\nslowly on through the rising hills of western Maine as the sun\nlowered.\nI had planned my times of departure and arrival carefully, if not\nquite\nconsciously, and as I passed out of Motton and into the\nunincorporated\ntownship of TR-90, I became aware of the heavy way my heart was\nbeating.\nThere was sweat on my face and arms in spite of the car's air\nconditioning. Nothing on the radio sounded right, all the music like\nscreaming, and I turned it off.\nI was scared, and had good reason to be. Even setting aside the\npeculiar\ncross-pollination between the dreams and things in the real world\n(as I\nwas able to do quite easily, dismissing the cut on my hand and the\nsunflowers growing through the boards of the back stoop as either\ncoincidence or so much psychic fluff), I had reason to be scared.\nBecause they hadn't been ordinary dreams, and my decision to go\nback to\nthe lake after all this time hadn't been an ordinary decision. I didn't\nfeel like a modern fin-de-millgnaire man on a spiritual quest to face\nhis fears (I'm okay, you're okay, let's all have an emotional\ncircle-jerk while William Acker-man plays softly in the background); I\nfelt more like some crazy Old Testament prophet going out into thedesert to live on locusts and alkali water because God had\nsummoned him\nin a dream.\nI was in trouble, my life was a moderate-going-on-severe mess, and\nnot\nbeing able to write was only part of it. I wasn't raping kids or\nrunning\naround Times Square preaching conspiracy theories through a\nbullhorn,\nbut I was in trouble just the same. I had lost my place in things and\ncouldn't find it again. No surprise there; after all, life's not a book.\nWhat I was engaging in on that hot July evening was self-induced\nshock\ntherapy, and give me at least this much credit--I knew it.\nYou come to Dark Score this way: 1-95 from Derry to Newport;\nRoute 2 from Newport to Bethel (with a stop in Rumford, which used\nto\nstink like hell's front porch until the paper-driven economy pretty\nmuch\nground to a halt during Reagan's second term); Route 5 from Bethel\nto\nWaterford. Then you take Route 68, the old County Road, across\nCastle\nView, through Motton (where downtown consists of a converted\nbarn which\nsells videos, beer, and second-hand rifles), and then past the sign\nwhich reads TR-90 and the one reading GAME WARDEN IS BEST\nASSISTANCE IN\nEMERGENCY, DIAL 1-800-555-GAME OR * 72 ON CELLULAR PHONE.\nTo this, in\nspray paint, someone has added FUCK THE EAGLES.Five miles past that sign, you come to a narrow lane on the right,\nmarked only by a square of tin with the faded number 42 on it.\nAbove\nthis, like umlauts, are a couple of. 22 holes.\nI turned into this lane just about when I had expected to---it was\n7:16\nP.M., EDT, by the clock on the Chevrolet's dashboard.\nAnd the feeling was coming home.\nI drove in two tenths of a mile by the odometer, listening to the\ngrass\nwhich crowned the lane whickering against the undercarriage of my\ncar,\nlistening to the occasional branch which scraped across the roof or\nknocked on the passenger side like a fist.\nAt last I parked and turned the engine off. I got out, walked to the\nrear of the car, lay down on my belly, and began pulling all of the\ngrass which touched the Chevy's hot exhaust system. It had been a\ndry\nsummer, and it was best to take precautions. I had come at this\nexact\nhour in order to replicate my dreams, hoping for some further\ninsight\ninto them or for an idea of what to do next. What I had not come to\ndo\nwas start a forest fire.\nOnce this was done I stood up and looked around. The crickets\nsang, as\nthey had in my dreams, and the trees huddled close on either side of\nthe\nlane, as they always did in my dreams. Overhead, the sky was a\nfadingstrip of blue.\nI set off, walking up the right hand wheelrut. Jo and I had had one\nneighbor at this end of the road, old Lars Washburn, but now Lars's\ndriveway was overgrown with juniper bushes and blocked by a rusty\nlength\nof chain. Nailed to a tree on the left of the chain was NO\nTrespassing.\nNailed to one on the right was NEXT CENTURY REAL ESTATE, and a\nlocal\nnumber. The words were faded and hard to read in the growing\ngloom.\nI walked on, once more conscious of my heavily beating heart and of\nthe\nway the mosquitoes were buzzing around my face and arms. Their\npeak\nseason was past, but I was sweating a lot, and that's a smell they\nlike.\nIt must remind them of blood.\nJust how scared was I as I approached Sara Laughs? I don't\nremember. I\nsuspect that fright, like pain, is one of those things that slip our\nminds once they have passed. What I do remember is a feeling I'd\nhad\nbefore when I was down here, especially when I was walking this\nroad by\nmyself. It was a sense that reality was thin. I think it is thin, you\nknow, thin as lake ice after a thaw, and we fill our lives with noise\nand light and motion to hide that thinness from ourselves. But in\nplaces\nlike Lane Forty-two, you find that all the smoke and mirrors have\nbeenremoved. What's left is the sound of crickets and the sight of green\nleaves darkening toward black; branches that make shapes like\nfaces; the\nsound of your heart in your chest, the beat of the blood against the\nbacks of your eyes, and the look of the sky as the day's blue blood\nruns\nout of its cheek.\nWhat comes in when daylight leaves is a kind of certainty: that\nbeneath\nthe skin there is a secret, some mystery both black and bright. You\nfeel\nthis mystery in every breath, you see it in every shadow, you expect\nto\nplunge into it at every turn of a step. It is here; you slip across it\non a kind of breathless curve like a skater turning for home.\nI stopped for a moment about half a mile south of where I'd left the\ncar, and still half a mile north of the driveway. Here the road curves\nsharply, and on the right is an open field which slants steeply down\ntoward the lake. Tidwell's Meadow is what the locals call it, or\nsometimes the Old Camp. It was here that Sara Tidwell and her\ncurious\ntribe built their cabins, at least according to Marie Hingerman (and\nonce, when I asked Bill Dean, he agreed this was the place. ..\nalthough\nhe didn't seem interested in continuing the conversation, which\nstruck\nme at the time as a bit odd).\nI stood there for a moment, looking down at the north end of Dark\nScore.\nThe water was glassy and calm, still candy-colored in the afterglow\nof\nsunset, without a single ripple or a single small craft to be seen. Theboat-people would all be down at the marina or at Warrington's\nSunset\nBar by now, I guessed, eating lobster rolls and drinking big mixed\ndrinks. Later a few of them, buzzed on speed and martinis, would go\nbolting up and down the lake by moonlight. I wondered if I would be\naround to hear them. I thought there was a fair chance that by then\nI'd\nbe on my way back to Derry, either terrified by what I'd found or\ndisillusioned because I had found nothing at all.\n\"You funny little man, said Strickland.\"\nI didn't know I was going to speak until the words were out of my\nmouth,\nand why those words in particular I had no idea. I remembered my\ndream\nof Jo under the bed and shuddered. A mosquito whined in my ear. I\nslapped it and walked on.\nIn the end, my arrival at the head of the driveway was almost too\nperfectly timed, the sense of having re-entered my dream almost too\ncomplete. Even the balloons tied to the SARA LAUGHS sign (one\nwhite and\none blue, both with WELCOME BACK MIKE./ carefully printed on\nthem in\nblack ink) and floating against the ever-darkening backdrop of the\ntrees\nseemed to intensify the dji vu I had quite deliberately induced, for\nno\ntwo dreams are exactly the same, are they? Things conceived by\nminds and\nmade by hands can never be quite the same, even when they try\ntheir best\nto be identical, because we're never the same from day to day or\neven\nmoment to moment.I walked to the sign, feeling the mystery of this place at twilight. I\nsqueezed down on the board, feeling its rough reality, and then I ran\nthe ball of my thumb over the letters, daring the splinters and\nreading\nwith my skin like a blind man reading braille: S and A and R and A; L\nand A and U and G and H and S.\nThe driveway had been cleared of fallen needles and blown-down\nbranches,\nbut Dark Score glimmered a fading rose just as it had in my dreams,\nand\nthe sprawled hulk of the house was the same. Bill had thoughtfully\nleft\nthe light over the back stoop burning, and the sunflowers growing\nthrough the boards had long since been cut down, but everything\nelse was\nthe same.\nI looked overhead, at the slot of sky over the lane. Nothing. .. I\nwaited.., and nothing.., waiting still.., and then there it was, right\nwhere the center of my gaze had been trained. At one moment\nthere was\nonly the fading sky (with indigo just starting to rise up from the\nedges\nlike an infusion of ink), and at the next Venus was glowing there,\nbright and steady. People talk about watching the stars come out,\nand I\nsuppose some people do, but I think that was the only time in my\nlife\nthat I actually saw one appear. I wished on it, too, but this time it\nwas real time, and I did not wish for Jo. \"Help me,\" I said, looking at\nthe star. I would have said more, but I didn't know what to say. I\ndidn't know what kind of help I needed.That's enough, a voice in my mind said uneasily. That's enough,\nnow. Go\non back and get your car. Except that wasn't the plan. The plan was\nto\ngo down the driveway, just as I had in the final dream, the\nnightmare.\nThe plan was to prove to myself that there was no shroud-wrapped\nmonster\nlurking in the shadows of the big old log house down there. The plan\nwas\npretty much based on that bit of New Age wisdom which says the\nword\n\"fear\" stands for Face Everything And Recover. But, as I stood there\nand\nlooked down at that spark of porch light (it looked very small in the\ngrowing darkness), it occurred to me that there's another bit of\nwisdom,\none not quite so good-morning-starshine, which suggests fear is\nactually\nan acronym for Fuck Everything And Run. Standing there by myself\nin the\nwoods as the light left the sky, that seemed like the smarter\ninterpretation, no two ways about it. I looked down and was a little\namused to see that I had taken one of the balloons--untied it\nwithout\neven noticing as I thought things over. It floated serenely up from\nmy\nhand at the end of its string, the words printed on it now impossible\nto\nread in the growing dark. Maybe it's all moot, anyway; maybe I\nwon't be\nable to move. Maybe that old devil writer's walk has got hold of me\nagain, and I'll just stand here like a statue until someone comes\nalongand hauls me away. But this was real time in the real world, and in\nthe\nreal world there was no such thing as writer's walk. I opened my\nhand.\nAs the string I'd been holding floated free, I walked under the rising\nballoon and started down the driveway. Foot followed foot, pretty\nmuch\nas they had ever since I'd first learned this trick back in 1959. I went\ndeeper and deeper into the clean but sour smell of pine, and once I\ncaught myself taking an extra-big step, avoiding a fallen branch that\nhad been in the dream but wasn't here in reality. My heart was still\nthudding hard, and sweat was still pouring out of me, oiling my skin\nand\ndrawing mosquitoes. I raised a hand to brush the hair off my brow,\nthen\nstopped, holding it splay-fingered out in front of my eyes. I put the\nother one next to it. Neither was marked; there wasn't even a\nshadow of\nscar from the cut I'd given myself while crawling around my\nbedroom\nduring the ice storm. \"I'm all right,\" I said. \"I'm all right.\" You\nfunny little man, said Strickland, a voice answered. It wasn't mine,\nwasn't Jo's; it was the UFO voice that had narrated my nightmare,\nthe\none which 'had driven me on even when I wanted to stop. The voice\nof\nsome outsider. I started walking again. I was better than halfway\ndown\nthe driveway now. I had reached the point where, in the dream, I\ntold\nthe voice that I was afraid of Mrs. Danvers. \"I'm afraid of Mrs. D.,\" I\nsaid, trying the words aloud in the growing dark. \"What if the bad\nold\nhousekeeper's down there?\" A loon cried on the lake, but the voicedidn't answer. I suppose it didn't have to. There was no Mrs.\nDanvers,\nshe was only a bag of bones in an old book, and the voice knew it. I\nbegan walking again. I passed the big pine that Jo had once banged\ninto\nin our Jeep, trying to back up the driveway. How she had sworn!\nLike a\nsailor! I had managed to keep a straight face until she got to \"Fuck a\nduck,\" and then I'd lost it, leaning against the side of the Jeep with\nthe heels of my hands pressed against my temples, howling until\ntears\nrolled down my cheeks, and Jo glaring hot blue sparks at me the\nwhole\ntime. I could see the mark about three feet up on the trunk of the\ntree,\nthe white seeming to float above the dark bark in the gloom. It was\njust\nhere that the unease which pervaded the other dreams had skewed\ninto\nsomething far worse.\nEven before the shrouded thing had come bursting out of the house,\nI had\nfelt something was all wrong, all twisted up; I had felt that somehow\nthe house itself had gone insane. It was at this point, passing the\nold\nscarred pine, that I had wanted to run like the gingerbread man.\nI didn't feel that now. I was afraid, yes, but not in terror. There was\nnothing behind me, for one thing, no sound of slobbering breath.\nThe\nworst thing a man was likely to come upon in these woods was an\nirritated moose. Or, I supposed, if he was really unlucky, a pissed-off\nbear.\nIn the dream there had been a moon at least three quarters full, butthere was no moon in the sky above me that night. Nor would there\nbe; in\nglancing over the weather page in that morning's Derry News, I had\nnoticed that the moon was new.\nEven the most powerful d6j? vu is fragile, and at the thought of that\nmoonless sky, mine broke. The sensation of reliving my nightmare\ndeparted so abruptly that I even wondered why I had done this,\nwhat I\nhad hoped to prove or accomplish. Now I'd have to go all the way\nback\ndown the dark lane to retrieve my car.\nAll right, but I'd do it with a flashlight from the house. One of them\nwould surely still be just inside the- A series of jagged explosions ran\nthemselves off on the far side of the lake, the last loud enough to\necho\nagainst the hills. I stopped, drawing in a quick breath. Moments\nbefore,\nthose unexpected bangs probably would have sent me running back\nup the\ndriveway in a panic, but now I had only that brief, startled moment.\nIt\nwas firecrackers, of course, the last one--the loudest one--maybe an\nM-80. Tomorrow was the Fourth of July, and across the lake kids\nwere\ncelebrating early, as kids are wont to do.\nI walked on. The bushes still reached like hands, but they had been\npruned back and their reach wasn't very threatening. I didn't have to\nworry about the power being out, either; I was now close enough to\nthe\nback stoop to see moths fluttering around the light Bill Dean had left\non for me. Even if the power had been out (in the western part of\nthe\nstate a lot of the lines are still above ground, and it goes out a lot),the gennie would have kicked in automatically.\nYet I was awed by how much of my dream was actually here, even\nwith the\npowerful sense of repetition--of reliving--departed. Jo's planters\nwere\nwhere they'd always been, flanking the path which leads down to\nSara's\nlittle lick of beach; I suppose Brenda Meserve had found them\nstacked in\nthe cellar and had had one of her crew set them out again. Nothing\nwas\ngrowing in them yet, but I suspected that stuff would be soon. And\neven\nwithout the moon of my dream, I could see the black square on the\nwater,\nstanding about fifty yards offshore. The swimming float.\nNo oblong shape lying overturned in front of the stoop, though; no\ncoffin. Still, my heart was beating hard again, and I think if more\nfirecrackers had gone off on the Kashwakamak side of the lake just\nthen,\nI might have screamed.\nYou funny little man, said Strickland.\nGive me that, it's my dust-catcher.\nWhat if death drives us insane? What if we survive, but it drives us\ninsane? What then?\nI had reached the point where, in my nightmare, the door banged\nopen and\nthat white shape came hurtling out with its wrapped arms upraised.\nItook one more step and then stopped, hearing the harsh sound of\nmy\nrespiration as I drew each breath down my throat and then pushed\nit back\nout over the dry floor of my tongue. There was no sense of dji vu,\nbut\nfor a moment I thought the shape would appear anyway--here in the\nreal\nworld, in real time. I stood waiting for it with my sweaty hands\nclenched. I drew in another dry breath, and this time I held it.\nThe soft lap of water against the shore.\nA breeze that patted my face and rattled the bushes.\nA loon cried out on the lake; moths battered the stoop light.\nNo shroud-monster threw open the door, and through the big\nwindows to\nthe left and right of the door, I could see nothing moving, white or\notherwise. There was a note above the knob, probably from Bill, and\nthat\nwas it. I let out my breath in a rush and walked the rest of the way\ndown the driveway to Sara Laughs.\nThe note was indeed from Bill Dean. It said that Brenda had done\nsome\nshopping for me; the supermarket receipt was on the kitchen table,\nand I\nwould find the pantry well stocked with canned goods. She'd gone\neasy\nwith the perishables, but there was milk, butter, half-and-half, and\nhamburger, that staple of single-guy cuisine. I will see you next\nMon.,\nBill had written. if I had my druthers I'd be here to say hello in\nperson but the good wi3 says it's our turn to do the holiday trottingand so we are going down to l'rginia (hot!!) to spend the 4th with\nher\nsister. If you need anything or run into problems... He had jotted his\nsister-in-law's phone number in Virginia as well as Butch Wiggins's\nnumber in town, which locals just call \"the TR,\" as in \"Me and\nmother\ngot tired of Bethel and moved our trailer over to the TR.\" There were\nother numbers, as well--the plumber, the electrician, Brenda\nMeserve,\neven the TV guy over in Harrison who had repositioned the DSS dish\nfor\nmaximum reception. Bill was taking no chances. I turned the note\nover,\nimagining a final P.S.: Say, Mike, if nuclear war should break out\nbej3re me and Yvette get back from l, qrginia-Something moved\nbehind me.\nI whirled on my heels, the note dropping from my hand. It fluttered\nto\nthe boards of the back stoop like a larger, whiter version of the\nmoths\nbanging the bulb overhead. In that instant I was sure it would be\nthe\nshroud-thing, an insane revenant in my wife's decaying body, Give\nme my\ndust-catcher, give it to me, how dare you come down here and\ndisturb my\nrest, how dam you come to Manderley again, and now that you're\nhere, how\nwill you ever get away? Into the mystery with you, you silly little\nman.\nInto the mystery with you. Nothing there. It had just been the\nbreeze\nagain, stirring the bushes around a little.., except I had felt nobreeze against my sweaty skin, not that time. \"Well it must have\nbeen,\nthere's nothing there,\" I said. The sound of your voice when you're\nalone can be either scary or reassuring. That time it was the latter. I\nbent over, picked up Bill's note, and stuffed it into my back pocket.\nThen I rummaged out my keyring. I stood under the stoop light in\nthe\nbig, swooping shadows of the light-struck moths, picking through my\nkeys\nuntil I found the one I wanted. !t had a funny disused look, and as I\nrubbed my thumb along its serrated edge, I wondered again why I\nhadn't\ncome down here-except for a couple of quick broad daylight\nerrands--in\nall the months and years since Jo had died. Surely if she had been\nalive, she would have insisted- But then a peculiar realization came\nto\nme: it wasn't just a matter of since Jo died. It was easy to think of it\nthat way--never once during my six weeks on Key Largo had I\nthought of\nit any other way--but now, actually standing here in the shadows of\nthe\ndancing moths (it was like standing under some weird organic disco\nball)\nand listening to the loons out on the lake, I remembered that\nalthough\nJohanna had died in August of 1994, she had died in Derry. It had\nbeen\nmiserably hot in the city.., so why had we been there? Why hadn't\nwe\nbeen sitting out on our shady deck on the lake side of the house,\ndrinking iced tea in our bathing suits, watching the boats go back\nandforth and commenting on the form of the various water-skiers? What\nhad\nshe been doing in that damned Rite Aid parking lot to begin with,\nwhen\nduring any other August we would have been miles from there? Nor\nwas\nthat all. We usually stayed at Sara until the end of September--it was\na\npeaceful, pretty time, as warm as summer. But in '93 we'd left with\nAugust only a week gone. I knew, because I could remember\nJohanna going\nto New York with me later that month, some kind of publishing deal\nand\nthe usual attendant publicity crap. It had been dog-hot in\nManhattan,\nthe hydrants spraying in the East Village and the uptown streets\nsizzling. On one night of that trip we'd seen The Phantom of the\nOpera.\nNear the end Jo had leaned over to me and whispered, \"Oh fuck!\nThe\nPhantom is snivelling again!\" I had spent the rest of the show trying\nto\nkeep from bursting into wild peals of laughter. Jo could be evil that\nway. Why had she come with me that August? Jo didn't like New\nYork even\nin April or October, when it's sort of pretty. I didn't know. I couldn't\nremember. All I was sure of was' that she had never been back to\nSara\nLaughs after early August of 1993... and before long I wasn't even\nsure\nof that.\nI slipped the key into the lock and turned it. I'd go inside, flip on\nthe kitchen overheads, grab a flashlight, and go back for the car. If Ididn't, some drunk guy with a cottage at the far south end of the\nlane\nwould come in too fast, rear-end my Chevy, and sue me for a billion\ndollars. The house had been aired out and didn't smell a bit musty;\ninstead of still, stale air, there was a faint and pleasing aroma of\npine. I reached for the light inside the door, and then, somewhere in\nthe blackness of the house, a child began to sob. My hand froze\nwhere it\nwas and my flesh went cold. I didn't panic, exactly, but all rational\nthought left my mind. It was weeping, a child's weeping, but I\nhadn't a\nclue as to where it was coming from. Then it began to fade. Not to\ngrow\nsofter but to fade, as if someone had picked that kid up and was\ncarrying it away down some long corridor.., not that any such\ncorridor\nexisted in Sara Laughs.\nEven the one running through the middle of the house, connecting\nthe\ncentral section to the two wings, isn't really long. Fading... faded..,\nalmost gone. I stood in the dark with my cold skin crawling and my\nhand\non the lightswitch. Part of me wanted to boogie, to just go flying out\nof there as fast as my little legs could carry me, running like the\ngingerbread man. Another part, however--the rational part--was\nalready\nreasserting itself. I flicked the switch, the part that wanted to run\nsaying forget it, it won't work, it's the dream, stupid, it's your dream\ncoming true. But it did work. The foyer light came on in a\nshadow-dispelling rush, revealing Jo's lumpy little pottery collection\nto the left and the bookcase to the right, stuff I hadn't looked at in\nfour years or more, but still here and still the same. On a middle\nshelfof the bookcase I could see the three early Elmore Leonard\nnovelswag,\nThe Big Bounce, and Mr. Majestyk--that I had put aside against a\nspell\nof rainy weather; you have to be ready for rain when you're at\ncamp.\nWithout a good book, even two days of rain in the woods can be\nenough to\ndrive you bonkers. There was a final whisper of weeping, then\nsilence.\nIn it, I could hear ticking from the kitchen. The clock by the stove,\none of Jo's rare lapses into bad taste, is Felix the Cat with big eyes\nthat shift from side to side as his pendulum tail flicks back and forth.\nI think it's been in every cheap horror movie ever made. \"Who's\nhere?\" I\ncalled. I took a step toward the kitchen, just a dim space floating\nbeyond the foyer, then stopped. In the dark the house was a cavern.\nThe\nsound of the weeping could have come from anywhere. Including\nmy own\nimagination. \"Is someone here?\"\nNo answer.., but I didn't think the sound had been in my head. If it\nhad\nbeen, writer's block was the least of my worries. Standing on the\nbookcase to the left of the Elmore Leonards was a long-barrelled\nflashlight, the kind that holds eight D-cells and will temporarily blind\nyou if someone shines it directly into your eyes. I grasped it, and\nuntil it nearly slipped through my hand I hadn't really realized how\nheavily I was sweating, or how scared I was. I juggled it, heart\nbeating\nhard, half-expecting that creepy sobbing to begin again, half-\nexpectingthe shroud-thing to come floating out of the black living room with\nits\nshapeless arms raised; some old hack of a politician back from the\ngrave\nand ready to give it another shot. Vote the straight Resurrection\nticket, brethren, and you will be saved. I got control of the light and\nturned it on. It shot a bright straight beam into the living room,\npicking out the moosehead over the fieldstone fireplace; it shone in\nthe\nhead's glass eyes like two lights burning under water. I saw the old\ncane-and-bamboo chairs; the old couch; the scarred dining-room\ntable you\nhad to balance by shimming one leg with a folded playing card or a\ncouple of beer coasters; I saw no ghosts; I decided this was a\nseriously\nfucked-up carnival just the same. In the words of the immortal Cole\nPorter, let's call the whole thing off. If I headed east as soon as I\ngot back to my car, I could be in Derry by midnight. Sleeping in my\nown\nbed. I turned out the foyer light and stood with the flash drawing its\nline across the dark. I listened to the tick of that stupid cat-clock,\nwhich Bill must have set going, and to the familiar chugging cycle of\nthe refrigerator. As I listened to them, I realized that I had never\nexpected to hear either sound again. As for the crying... Had there\nbeen\ncrying? Had there really? Yes. Crying or something. Just what now\nseemed\nmoot. What seemed germane was that coming here had been a\ndangerous idea\nand a stupid course of action for a man who has taught his mind to\nmisbehave. As I stood in the foyer with no light but the flash and the\nglow falling in the windows from the bulb over the back stoop, I\nrealized that the line between what I knew was real and what I\nknew was\nonly my imagination had pretty much disappeared.I left the house, checked to make sure the door was locked, and\nwalked\nback up the driveway, swinging the flashlight beam from side to side\nlike a pendulum--like the tail of old Felix the Krazy Kat in the\nkitchen. It occurred to me, as I struck north along the lane, that I\nwould have to make up some sort of story for Bill Dean. It wouldn't\ndo\nto say, \"Well, Bill, I got down there and heard a kid bawling in my\nlocked house, and it scared me so bad I turned into the gingerbread\nman\nand ran back to Derry. I'll send you the flashlight I took; put it back\non the shelf next to the paperbacks, would you?\" That wasn't 'any\ngood\nbecause the story would get around and people would say, \"Not\nsurprised.\nWrote too many books, probably. Work like that has got to soften a\nman's\nhead. Now he's scared of his own shadow. Occupational hazard.\"\nEven if I\nnever came down here again in my life, I didn't want to leave people\non\nthe TR with that opinion of me, that half-contemptuous,\nsee-what-you-get-for-thinking-too-much attitude. It's one a lot of\nfolks\nseem to have about people who live by their imaginations. I'd tell Bill\nI got sick. In a way it was true. Or no... better to tell him someone\nelse got sick.., a friend.., someone in Derry I'd been seeing.., a\nlady-friend, perhaps. \"Bill, this friend of mine, this lady-friend of\nmine got sick, you see, and so...\" I stopped suddenly, the light\nshining\non the front of my car. I had walked the mile in the dark without\nnoticing many of the sounds in the woods, and dismissing even the\nbigger\nof them as deer settling down for the night. I hadn't turned around\ntosee if the shroud-thing (or maybe some spectral crying child) was\nfollowing me. I had gotten involved in making up a story and then\nembellishing it, doing it in my head instead of on paper this time but\ngoing down all the same well-known paths. I had gotten so involved\nthat\nI had neglected to be afraid. My heartbeat was back to normal, the\nsweat\nwas drying on my skin, and the mosquitoes had stopped whining in\nmy\nears. And as I stood there, a thought occurred to me. It was as if my\nmind had been waiting patiently for me to calm down enough so it\ncould\nremind me of some essential fact. The pipes. Bill had gotten my go-\nahead\nto replace most of the old stuff, and the plumber had done so. Very\nrecently he'd done so.\n\"Air in the pipes,\" I said, running the beam of the eight-cell\nflashlight over the grille of my Chevrolet. \"That's what I heard.\" I\nwaited to see if the deeper part of my mind would call this a stupid,\nrationalizing lie. It didn't.., because, I suppose, it realized it could\nbe true. Airy pipes can sound like people talking, dogs barking, or\nchildren crying. Perhaps the plumber had bled them and the sound\nhad\nbeen something else.., but perhaps he hadn't. The question was\nwhether\nor not I was going to jump in my car, back two tenths of a mile to\nthe\nhighway, and then return to Derry, all on the basis of a sound I had\nheard for ten seconds (maybe only five), and while in an excited,\nstressful state of mind. I decided the answer was no. It might take\nonly\none more peculiar thing to turn me around--probably gibbering like a\ncharacter on Tales from the Crypt--but the sound I'd heard in the\nfoyerwasn't enough. Not when making a go of it at Sara Laughs might\nmean so\nmuch. I hear voices in my head, and have for as long as I can\nremember.\nI don't know if that's part of the necessary equipment for being a\nwriter or not; I've never asked another one. I never felt the need to,\nbecause I know all the voices I hear are versions of me. Still, they\noften seem like very real versions of other people, and none is more\nreal to me-or more familiar--than Jo's voice. Now that voice came,\nsounding interested, amused in an ironic but gentle way.., and\napproving. Going to fight, Mike? \"Yeah,\" I said, standing there in the\ndark and picking out gleams of chrome with my flashlight. \"Think so,\nbabe.\" Well, then--that's all right, isn't it? Yes. It was. I got into\nmy car, started it up, and drove slowly down the lane. And when I\ngot to\nthe driveway, I turned in.\nThere was no crying the second time I entered the house. I walked\nslowly\nthrough the downstairs, keeping the flashlight in my hand until I had\nturned on every light I could find; if there were people still boating\non the north end of the lake, old Sara probably looked like some\nweird\nSpielbergian flying saucer hovering above them. I think houses live\ntheir own lives along a time-stream that's different from the ones\nupon\nwhich their owners float, one that's slower. In a house, especially an\nold one, the past is closer. In my life Johanna had been dead nearly\nfour years, but to Sara, she was much nearer than that.\nIt wasn't until I was actually inside, with all the lights on and the\nflash returned to its spot on the bookshelf, that I realized how much\nI\nhad been dreading my arrival. Of having my grief reawakened by\nsigns ofJohanna's interrupted life. A book with a corner turned down on the\ntable at one end of the sofa, where Jo had liked to recline in her\nnightgown, reading and eating plums; the cardboard cannister of\nQuaker\nOats, which was all she ever wanted for breakfast, on a shelf in the\npantry; her old green robe hung on the back of the bathroom door\nin the\nsouth wing, which Bill Dean still called \"the new wing,\" although it\nhad\nbeen built before we ever saw Sara Laughs. Brenda Meserve had\ndone a\ngood job--a humane job-of removing these signs and signals, but\nshe\ncouldn't get them all. Jo's hardcover set of Sayers's Peter Wimsey\nnovels still held pride of place at the center of the living-room\nbookcase. Jo had always called the moosehead over the fireplace\nBunter,\nand once, for no reason I could remember (certainly it seemed a\nvery\nun-Bunterlike accessory), she had hung a bell around the moose's\nhairy\nneck. It hung there still, on a red velvet ribbon. Mrs. Meserve might\nhave puzzled over that bell, wondering whether to leave it up or take\nit\ndown, not knowing that when Jo and I made love on the living-room\ncouch\n(and yes, we were often overcome there), we referred to the act as\n\"ringing Bunter's bell.\" Brenda Meserve had done her best, but any\ngood\nmarriage is secret territory, a necessary white space on society's\nmap.\nWhat others don't know about it is what makes it yours. I walked\naround,\ntouching things, looking at things, seeing them new. Jo seemedeverywhere to me, and after a little while I dropped into one of the\nold\ncane chairs in front of the TV. The cushion wheezed under me, and I\ncould hear Jo saying, \"Well excuse yourself, Michael!\" I put my face\nin\nmy hands and cried. I suppose it was the last of my mourning, but\nthat\nmade it no easier to bear. I cried until I thought something inside me\nwould break if I didn't stop. When it finally let me go, my face was\ndrenched, I had the hiccups, and I thought I had never felt so tired\nin\nmy life. I felt strained all over my body--partly from the walking I'd\ndone, I suppose, but mostly just from the tension of getting here..,\nand\ndeciding to stay here. To fight. That weird phantom crying I'd heard\nwhen I first stepped into the place, although it seemed very distant\nnow, hadn't helped. I washed my face at the kitchen sink, rubbing\naway\nthe tears with the heels of my hands and clearing my clogged nose.\nThen\nI carried my suitcases down to the guest bedroom in the north wing.\nI\nhad no intention of sleeping in the south wing, in the master\nbedroom\nwhere I had last slept with Jo. That was a choice Brenda Meserve\nhad\nforeseen. There was a bouquet of fresh wildflowers on the bureau,\nand a\ncard: WELCOME BACK, MR. NOONAN. If I hadn't been emotionally\nexhausted,\nI suppose looking at that message, in Mrs. Meserve's spiky\ncopperplate\nhandwriting, would have brought on another fit of the weeps. I put\nmy\nface in the flowers and breathed deeply. They smelled good, likesunshine. Then I took off my clothes, leaving them where they\ndropped,\nand turned back the coverlet on the bed. Fresh sheets, fresh\npillowcases; same old Noonan sliding between the former and\ndropping his\nhead onto the latter. I lay there with the bedside lamp on, looking up\nat the shadows on the ceiling, almost unable to believe I was in this\nplace and this bed. There had been no shroud-thing to greet me, of\ncourse.., but I had an idea it might well find me in my dreams.\nSometimes--for me, at least--there's a transitional bump between\nwaking\nand sleeping. Not that night. I slipped away without knowing it, and\nwoke the next morning with sunlight shining in through the window\nand\nthe bedside lamp still on. There had been no dreams that I could\nremember, only a vague sensation that I had awakened sometime\nbriefly in\nthe night and heard a bell ringing, very thin and far away.\nThe little girl--actually she wasn't much more than a baby-came\nwalking\nup the middle of Route 68, dressed in a red bathing suit, yellow\nplastic\nflip-flops, and a Boston Red Sox baseball cap turned around\nbackward. I\nhad just driven past the Lakeview General Store and Dickie Brooks's\nAll-Purpose Garage, and the speed limit there drops from fifty-five to\nthirty-five. Thank God I was obeying it that day, otherwise I might\nhave\nkilled her. It was my first day back. I'd gotten up late and spent most\nof the morning walking in the woods which run along the lakeshore,\nseeing what was the same and what had changed. The water looked\na little\nlower and there were fewer boats than I would have expected,\nespeciallyon summer's biggest holiday, but otherwise I might never have been\naway.\nI even seemed to be slapping at the same bugs. Around eleven my\nstomach\nalerted me to the fact that I'd skipped breakfast. I decided a trip to\nthe Village Cafe was in order. The restaurant at Warrington's was\ntrendier by far, but I'd be stared at there. The Village Cafe would be\nbetter--if it was still doing business. Buddy Jelli-son was an\nill-tempered fuck, but he had always been the best fry-cook in\nwestern\nMaine and what my stomach wanted was a big greasy Vil-\nlageburger. Now\nthis little girl, walking straight up the white line and looking like a\nmajorette leading an invisible parade. At thirty-five miles per hour I\nsaw\nher in plenty of time, but this road was busy in the summer, and\nvery\nfew people bothered creeping through the reduced-speed zone.\nThere were\nonly a dozen Castle County police cruisers, after all, and not many of\nthem bothered with the TR unless they were specifically called there.\nI\npulled over to the shoulder, put the Chevy in t,^vac, and was out\nbefore\nthe dust had even begun to settle. The day was muggy and close\nand\nstill, the clouds seeming Low enough to touch. The kid--a little\nblondie\nwith a snub nose and scabbed knees--stood on the white line as if it\nwere a tightrope and watched me approach with no more fear than\na fawn.\n\"Hi,\" she said. \"I go beach. Mummy 'on't take me and I'm mad as\nhell.\"She stamped her foot to show she knew as well as anybody what\nmad as\nhell was all about. Three or four was my guess. Well-spoken in her\nfashion and cute as hell, but still no more than three or four. \"Well,\nthe beach is a good place to go on the Fourth, all right,\" I said,\n\"but--\"\n\"Fourth of July and fireworks too,\" she agreed, making \"too\"\nsound exotic and sweet, like a word in Vietnamese. \"--but if you try\nto\nwalk there on the highway, you're more apt to wind up in Castle\nRock\nHospital.\" I decided I wasn't going to stand there playing Mister\nRogers\nwith her in the middle of Route 68, not with a curve only fifty yards\nto\nthe south and a car apt to come wheeling around it at sixty miles an\nhour at any time. I could hear a motor, actually, and it was revving\nhard. I picked the kid up and carried her over to where my car was\nidling, and although she seemed perfectly content to be carried and\nnot\nfrightened a bit, I felt like Chester the Molester the second I had my\narm locked under her bottom. I was very aware that anyone sitting\naround\nin the combined office and waiting room of Brooksie's Garage could\nlook\nout and see me. This is one of the strange midlife realities of my\ngeneration: we can't touch a child who isn't our own without fearing\nothers will see something lecherous in our touching. .. or without\nthinking, way down deep in the sewers of our psyches, that there\nprobably is something lecherous in it. I got her out of the road,\nthough. I did that much. Let the Marching Mothers of Western Maine\ncome\nafter me and do their worst. \"You take me beach?\" the little girl\nasked.She was bright-eyed, smiling. I figured that she'd probably be\npregnant\nby the time she was twelve, especially given the cool way she was\nwearing her baseball cap. \"Got your suitie?\"\n\"Actually I think I left my suitie at home. Don't you hate that?\nHoney,\nwhere's your mom?\" As if in direct answer to my question, the car\nI'd\nheard came busting out of a road on the near side of the curve. It\nwas a\nJeep Scout with mud splashed high up on both sides. The motor was\ngrowling like something up a tree and pissed off about it. A woman's\nhead\nwas poked out the side window. Little curie's mom must have been\ntoo\nscared to sit down; she was driving in a mad crouch, and if a car\nhad\nbeen coming around that particular curve in Route 68 when she\npulled\nout, my friend in the red bathing suit would likely have become an\norphan on the spot. The Scout fishtailed, the head dropped back\ndown\ninside the cab, and there was a grinding as the driver upshifted,\ntrying\nto take her old heap from zero to sixty in maybe nine seconds. If\npure\nterror could have done the job, I'm sure she would have succeeded.\n\"That's Mattie,\" the girl in the bathing suit said. \"I'm mad at her. I'm\nrunning away to have a Fourth at the beach. If she's mad I go to my\nwhite nana.\" I had no idea what she was talking about, but it did\ncross\nmy mind that Miss Bosox of 1998\ncould have her Fourth at the beach; I would settle for a fifth ofsomething whole-grain at home. Meanwhile, I was waving the arm\nnot under\nthe kid's butt back and forth over my head, and hard enough to\nblow\naround wisps of the girl's fine blonde hair. \"Hey!\" I shouted. \"Hey,\nlady! I got her!\" The Scout sped by, still accelerating and still\nsounding pissed off about it. The exhaust was blowing clouds of blue\nsmoke. There was a further hideous grinding from the Scout's old\ntransmission. It was like some crazy version of Let's Make a Deal.'\n\"Mattie, you've succeeded in getting into second gear--would you\nlike to\nquit and take the Maytag washer, or do you want to try for third?\" I\ndid\nthe only thing I could think of, which was to step out onto the road,\nturn toward the Jeep, which was now speeding away from me (the\nsmell of\nthe oil was thick and acrid), and hold the kid up high over my head,\nhoping Mattie would see us in her rearview mirror. I no longer felt\nlike\nChester the Molester;\nnow I felt like a cruel auctioneer in a Disney cartoon, offering the\ncutest li'l piglet in the litter to the highest bidder. It worked,\nthough. The Scout's mudcaked taillights came on and there was a\ndemonic\nhowling as the badly used brakes locked. Right in front of Brooksie's,\nthis was. If there were any old-timers in for a good Fourth of July\ngossip, they would now have plenty to gossip about. I thought they\nwould\nespecially enjoy the part where Mom screamed at me to unhand her\nbaby.\nWhen you return to your summer home after a long absence, it's\nalways\nnice to get off on the right foot. The backup lights flared and the\nJeepbegan reversing down the road at a good twenty miles an hour. Now\nthe\ntransmission sounded not pissed off but panicky--please, it was\nsaying,\nplease stop, you're killing me. The Scout's rear end wagged from\nside to\nside like the tail of a happy dog. I watched it coming at me,\nhypnotized--now in the northbound lane, now across the white line\nand\ninto the southbound lane, now overcorrecting so that the left-hand\ntires\nspumed dust off the shoulder. \"Mattie go fast,\" my new girlfriend\nsaid\nin a conversational, isn't-this-interesting voice. She had one arm\nslung\naround my neck; we were chums, by God. But what the kid said\nwoke me up.\nMattie go fast, all right, too fast. Mattie would, more likely than not,\nclean out the rear end of my Chevrolet. And if I just stood here,\nBaby\nSnooks and I were apt to end up as toothpaste between the two\nvehicles.\nI backed the length of my car, keeping my eyes fixed on the Jeep\nand\nyelling, \"Slow down, Mattie! Slow down!\" Curie-pie liked that. \"S'yo\ndown!\" she yelled, starting to laugh. \"S'yo down, you old Mattie, s'yo\ndown!\"\nThe brakes screamed in fresh agony. The Jeep took one last\nwalloping,\nunhappy jerk backward as Mattie stopped without benefit of the\nclutch.\nThat final lunge took the Scout's rear bumper so close to the rearbumper of my Chevy that you could have bridged the gap with a\ncigarette.\nThe smell of oil in the air was huge and furry. The kid was waving a\nhand in front of her face and coughing theatrically. The driver's door\nflew open; Mattie Devore flew out like a circus acrobat shot from a\ncannon, if you can imagine a circus acrobat dressed in old paisley\nshorts and a cotton smock top. My first thought was that the little\ngirl's big sister had been babysitting her, that Mattie and Mummy\nwere\ntwo different people. I knew that little kids often spend a period of\ntheir development calling their parents by their first names, but this\npale-cheeked blonde girl looked all of twelve, fourteen at the\noutside.\nI decided her mad handling of the Scout hadn't been terror for her\nchild\n(or not just terror) but total automotive inexperience. There was\nsomething else, too, okay? Another assumption that I made. The\nmuddy\nfour-wheel-drive, the baggy paisley shorts, the smock that all but\nscreamed Kmart, the long yellow hair held back with those little red\nelastics, and most of all the inattention that allows the three-year-old\nin your care to go wandering off in the first place... all those things\nsaid trailer-trash to me. I know how that sounds, but I had some\nbasis\nfor it. Also, I'm Irish, goddammit. My ancestors were trailer-trash\nwhen\nthe trailers were still horse-drawn caravans. \"Stinky-phew!\" the little\ngirl said, still waving a pudgy hand at the air in front of her face.\n\"Scoutie stink I\" Where Scoutie's bathing suitie? I thought, and then\nmy\nnew girlfriend was snatched out of my arms. Now that she was\ncloser, my\nidea that Mattie was the bathing beauty's sister took a hit. Mattiewouldn't be middle-aged until well into the next century, but she\nwasn't\ntwelve or fourteen, either. I now guessed twenty, maybe a year\nyounger.\nWhen she snatched the baby away, I saw the wedding ring on her\nleft\nhand. I also saw the dark circles under her eyes, gray skin dusting to\npurple. She was young, but I thought it was a mother's terror and\nexhaustion I was looking at. I expected her to swat the tot, because\nthat's how trailer-trash moms react to being tired and scared. When\nshe\ndid, I would stop her, one way or another distract her into turning\nher\nanger on me, if that was what it took. There was nothing very noble\nin\nthis, I should add; all I really wanted to do was to postpone the\nfanny-whacking, shoulder-shaking, and in-your-face shouting to a\ntime\nand place where I wouldn't have to watch it. It was my first day\nback in\ntown; I didn't want to s. pend any of it watching an inattentive slut\nabuse her child. Instead of shaking her and shouting \"Where did you\nthink you were going, you little bitch?\" Mattie first hugged the child\n(who hugged back enthusiastically, showing absolutely no sign of\nfear)\nand then covered her face with kisses. \"Why did you do that?\" she\ncried.\n\"What was in your head? When I couldn't find you, I died.\" Mattie\nburst\ninto tears. The child in the bathing suit looked at her with an\nexpression of surprise so big and complete it would have been\ncomicalunder other circumstances. Then her own face crumpled up. I stood\nback,\nwatched them crying and hugging, and felt ashamed of my\npreconceptions.\nA car went by and slowed down. An elderly couple--Ma and Pa Kettle\non\ntheir way to the store for that holiday box of Grape-Nuts--gawked\nout. I\ngave them an impatient wave with both hands, the kind that says\nwhat\nareyou staring at, go on, put an egg in your shoe and beat it. They\nsped\nup, but I didn't see an out-of-state license plate, as I'd hoped I\nmight. This version of Ma and Pa were locals, and the story would be\nfleeting its rounds soon enough: Mattie the teenage bride and her\nlittle\nbundle of joy (said bundle undoubtedly conceived in the back seat of\na\ncar or the bed of a pickup truck some months before the legit-\nimizing\nceremony), bawling their eyes out at the side of the road. With a\nstranger. No, not exactly a stranger. Mike Noonan, the writer fella\nfrom\nupstate. \"I wanted to go to the beach and suh-suh-swim!\" the little\ngirl\nwept, and now it was \"swim\" that sounded exotic--the Vietnamese\nword for\n\"ecstasy,\" perhaps. \"I said I'd take you this afternoon.\" Mattie was\nstill sniffing, but getting herself under control. \"Don't do that again,\nlittle guy, please don't you ever do that again, Mommy was so\nscared.\"\n\"I won't,\" the kid said \"I really won't.\" Still crying, she hugged the\nolder girl tight, laying her head against the side of Mattie's neck. Her\nbaseball cap fell off. I picked it up, beginning to feel very much likean outsider here. I poked the blue-and-red cap at Mattie's hand until\nher fingers closed on it.\nI decided I also felt pretty good about the way things had turned\nout,\nand maybe I had a right to. I've presented the incident as if it was\namusing, and it was, but it was the sort of amusing you never see\nuntil\nlater. When it was happening, it was terrifying. Suppose there had\nbeen\na truck coming from the other direction? Coming around that curve,\nand\ncoming too fast?\nA vehicle did come around it, a pickup of the type no tourist ever\ndrives. Two more locals gawked their way by.\n\"Ma'am?\" I said. \"Mattie? I think I'd better get going. Glad your little\ngirl is all right.\" The minute it was out, I felt an almost irresistible\nurge to laugh. I could picture me drawling this speech to Mattie (a\nname\nthat belonged in a movie like The Unj3rgiven or? ue Grit if any name\never did) with my thumbs hooked into the belt of my chaps and my\nStetson\npushed back to reveal my noble brow. I felt an insane urge to add,\n\"You're right purty, ma'am, ain't you the new schoolmarm?\"\nShe turned to me and I saw that she was right purty. Even with\ncircles\nunder her eyes and her blonde hair sticking off in gobs to either side\nof her head. And I thought she was doing okay for a girl probably\nnot\nyet old enough to buy a drink in a bar. At least she hadn't belted the\nbaby.\n\"Thank you so much,\" she said. \"Was she right in the road?\" Say shewasn't, her eyes begged. At least say she was walking along the\nshoulder. \"Well--\"\n\"I walked on the line,\" the girl said, pointing. \"It's like the\ncross-mock.\" Her voice took on a faintly righteous tone. \"Crossmock\nis\nsafe.\"\nMattie's cheeks, already white, turned whiter. I didn't like seeing her\nthat way, and didn't like to think of her driving home that way,\nespecially with a kid.\n\"Where do you live, Mrs.--?\"\n\"Devore,\" she said. \"I'm Mattie Devore.\" She shifted the child and\nput\nout her hand. I shook it. The morning was warm, and it was going\nto be\nhot by mid-afternoon--beach weather for sure--but the fingers I\ntouched\nwere icy. \"We live just there.\"\nShe pointed to the intersection the Scout had shot out of, and I\ncould\nsee--surprise, surprise--a doublewide trailer set off in a grove of\npines about two hundred feet up the little feeder road. Wasp Hill\nRoad,\nI recalled. It ran about half a mile from Route 68 to the water--what\nwas known as the Middle Bay. Ah yes, doc, it's all coming back to me\nnow. I'm once more riding the Dark Score range. Saving little kids is\nmy\nspecialty.\nStill, I was relieved to see that she lived close by--less than a\nquarter of a mile from the place where our respective vehicles wereparked with their tails almost touching--and when I thought about it,\nit\nstood to reason. A child as young as the bathing beauty couldn't\nhave\nwalked far .. although this one had already demonstrated a fair\ndegree\nof determination.\nI thought Mother's haggard look was even more suggestive of the\ndaughter's will. I was glad I was too old to be one of her future\nboyfriends; she would have them jumping through hoops all through\nhigh\nschool and college. Hoops of fire, likely.\nWell, the high-school part, anyway. Girls from the doublewide side of\ntown did not, as a general rule, go to college unless there was a juco\nor a voke-tech handy. And she would only have them jumping until\nthe\nright boy (or more likely the wrong one) came sweeping around the\nGreat\nCurve of Life and ran her down in the highway, her all the while\nunaware\nthat the white line and the crossmock were two different thngs.\nThen the\nwhole cycle would repeat itself.\nChrist almighty, Noonan, quit it, I told myself. She's three years old\nand you've already got her with three kids of her own, two with\nringworm\nand one retarded.\n\"Thank you so much,\" Mattie repeated.\n\"That's okay,\" I said, and snubbed the little girl's nose. Although her\ncheeks were still wet with tears, she grinned at me sunnily enough\ninresponse. \"This is a very verbal little girl.\"\n\"Very verbal, and very willful.\" Now Mattie did give her child a little\nshake, but the kid showed no fear, no sign that shaking or hitting\nwas\nthe order of most days. On the contrary, her smile widened. Her\nmother\nsmiled back. And yes-once you got past the slopped-together look of\nher,\nshe was most extraordinarily pretty. Put her in a tennis dress at the\nCastle Rock Country Club (where she'd likely never go in her life,\nexcept maybe as a maid or a waitress), and she would maybe be\nmore than\npretty. A young Grace Kelly, perhaps. Then she looked back at me,\nher\neyes very wide and grave. \"Mr. Noonan, I'm not a bad mother,\" she\nsaid.\nI felt a start at my name coming from her mouth, but it was only\nmomentary. She was the right age, after all, and my books were\nprobably\nbetter for her than spending her afternoons in front of General\nhospital\nand One Life to Live. A little, anyway. \"We had an argument about\nwhen\nwe were going to the beach. I wanted to hang out the clothes, have\nlunch, and go this afternoon. Kyra wanted--\" She broke off. \"What?\nWhat\ndid I say?\"\n\"Her name is Kia? Did--\" Before I could say anything else, the most\nextraordinary thing happened: my mouth was full of water. So full I\nfelt\na moment's panic, like someone who is swimming in the ocean and\nswallowsa wave-wash. Only this wasn't a salt taste; it was cold and fresh,\nwith\na faint metal tang like blood. I turned my head aside and spat. I\nexpected a gush of liquid to pour out of my mouth--the sort of gush\nyou\nsometimes get when commencing artificial respiration on a near-\ndrowning\nvictim. What came out instead was what usually comes out when\nyou spit\non a hot day: a little white pellet. And that sensation was gone even\nbefore the little white pellet struck the dirt of the shoulder. In an\ninstant, as if it had never been there. \"That man spirted,\" the girl\nsaid matter-of-factly. \"Sorry,\" I said. I was also bewildered. What in\nGod's name had that been about? \"I guess I had a little delayed\nreaction.\" Mattie looked concerned, as though I were eighty instead\nof\nforty. I thought that maybe to a girl her age, forty is eighty. \"Do you\nwant to come up to the house? I'll give you a glass of water.\"\n\"No, I'm fine now.\"\n\"All right. Mr. Noonan... all I mean is that nothing like this has ever\nhappened to me before. I was hanging sheets.., she was inside\nwatching a\nMighty Mouse cartoon on the VCR...\nthen, when I went in to get more pins...\" She looked at the girl, who\nwas no longer smiling. It was starting to get through to her now. Her\neyes were big, and ready to fill with tears. \"She was gone. I thought\nfor a minute I'd die of fear.\" Now the kid's mouth began to tremble,\nand\nher eyes filled up right on schedule. She began to weep. Mattie\nstroked\nher hair, soothing the small head until it lay against the Kmart smock\ntop. \"That's all right, Ki,\" she said. \"It turned out okay this time,\nbut you can't go out in the road. It's dangerous. Little things get runover in the road, and you're a little thing. The most precious little\nthing in the world.\" She cried harder. It was the exhausted sound of\na\nchild who needed a nap before any more adventures, to the beach\nor\nanywhere else. \"Kia bad, Kia bad,\" she sobbed against her mother's\nneck.\n\"No, honey, only three,\" Mattie said, and if I had harbored any\nfurther\nthoughts about her being a bad mother, they melted away then. Or\nperhaps\nthey'd already gone--after all, the kid was round, comely, well-kept,\nand unbruised. On one level, those things registered. On another I\nwas\ntrying to cope with the strange thing that had just happened, and\nthe\nequally strange thing I thought I was hearing--that the little girl I\nhad carried off the white line had the name we had planned to give\nour\nchild, if our child turned out to be a girl. \"Kia,\" I said. Marvelled,\nreally. As if my touch might break her, I tentatively stroked the back\nof her head. Her hair was sun-warm and fine. \"No,\" Mattie said.\n\"That's\nthe best she can say it now. Kyra, not Kia. It's from the Greek. It\nmeans ladylike.\" She shifted, a little self-conscious. \"I picked it out\nof a baby-name book. While I was pregnant, I kind of went Oprah.\nBetter\nthan going postal, I guess.\"\n\"It's a lovely name,\" I said. \"And I don't think you're a bad mom.\"\nWhat\nwent through my mind right then was a story Frank Arlen had told\nover a\nmeal at Christmas--it had been about Petie, the youngest brother,\nandFrank had had the whole table in stitches. Even Petie, who claimed\nnot\nto remember a bit of the incident, laughed until tears streamed\ndown his\ncheeks. One Easter, Frank said, when Petie was about five, their\nfolks\nhad gotten them up for an Easter-egg hunt. The two parents had\nhidden\nloo lol over a hundred colored hard-boiled eggs around the house\nthe\nevening before, after getting the kids over to their grandparents'. A\nhigh old Easter morning was had by all, at least until Johanna looked\nup\nfrom the patio, where she was counting her share of the spoils, and\nshrieked.\nThere was Petie, crawling gaily around on the second-floor overhang\nat\nthe back of the house, not six feet from the drop to the concrete\npatio.\nMr. Arlen had rescued Petie while the rest of the family stood below,\nholding hands, frozen with horror and fascination. Mrs. Arlen had\nrepeated the Hail Mary over and over (\"so fast she sounded like one\nof\nthe Chipmunks on that old \"Witch Doctor' record,\" Frank had said,\nlaughing harder than ever) until her husband had disappeared back\ninto\nthe open bedroom window with Petie in his arms. Then she had\nswooned to\nthe pavement, breaking her nose. When asked for an explanation,\nPetie\nhad told them he'd wanted to check the rain-gutter for eggs. I\nsuppose\nevery family has at least one story like that; the survival of the\nworld's Peties and Kyras is a convincing argument--in the minds ofparents, anyway for the existence of God. \"I was so scared,\" Mattie\nsaid, now looking fourteen again. Fifteen at most.\n\"But it's over,\" I said. \"And Kyra's not going to go walking in the road\nanymore. Are you, Kyra?\" She shook her head against her mother's\nshoulder without raising it. I had an idea she'd probably be asleep\nbefore Mattie got her back to the good old doublewide. \"You don't\nknow\nhow bizarre this is for me,\" Mattie said. \"One of my favorite writers\ncomes out of nowhere and saves my kid. I knew you had a place on\nthe TR,\nthat big old log house everyone calls Sara Laughs, but folks say you\ndon't come here anymore since your wife died.\"\n\"For a long time I didn't,\" I said. \"If Sara was a marriage instead of a\nhouse, you'd call this a trial reconciliation.\"\nShe smiled fleetingly, then looked grave again. \"I want to ask you for\nsomething. A favor.\"\n\"Ask away.\"\n\"Don't talk about this. It's not a good time for Ki and me.\"\n\"Why not?\"\nShe bit her lip and seemed to consider answering the question---one\nI\nmight not have asked, given an extra moment to consider--and then\nshook\nher head. \"It's just not. And I'd be so grateful if you didn't talk\nabout what just happened in town. More grateful than you'll ever\nknow.\"\n\"No problem.\"\"You mean it?\"\n\"Sure. I'm basically a summer person who hasn't been around for\nawhile.\n.. which means I don't have many folks to talk to, anyway.\" There\nwas\nBill Dean, of course, but I could keep quiet around him. Not that he\nwouldn't know. If this little lady thought the locals weren't going to\nfind out about her daughter's attempt to get to the beach by shank's\nmare, she was fooling herself. \"I think we've been noticed already,\nthough. Take a look up at Brooksie's Garage. Peek, don't stare.\" She\ndid, and sighed. Two old men were standing on the tarmac where\nthere had\nbeen gas pumps once upon a time. One was very likely Brookshe\nhimself; I\nthought I could see the remnants of the flyaway red hair which had\nalways made him look like a downeast version of Bozo the Clown.\nThe\nother, old enough to make Brooksie look like a wee slip of a lad, was\nleaning on a gold-headed cane in a way that was queerly vulpine. \"I\ncan't do anything about them,\" she said, sounding depressed.\n\"Nobody can\ndo anything about them. I guess I should count myself lucky it's a\nholiday and there's only two of them.\"\n\"Besides,\" I added, \"they probably didn't see much.\" Which ignored\ntwo\nthings: first, that half a dozen cars and pick-em-ups had gone by\nwhile\nwe had been standing here, and second, that whatever Brooksie and\nhis\nelderly friend hadn't seen, they would be more than happy to make\nup. On\nMattie's shoulder, Kyra gave a ladylike snore. Mattie glanced at her\nandgave her a smile full of rue and love. \"I'm sorry we had to meet\nunder\ncircumstances that make me look like such a dope, because I really\nam a\nbig fan. They say at the bookstore in Castle Rock that you've got a\nnew\none coming out this summer.\" I nodded. \"It's called Helen's\nPromise.\"\nShe grinned. \"Good title.\"\n\"Thanks. You better get your buddy back home before she breaks\nyour\narm.\"\n\"Yeah.\" There are people in this world who have a knack for asking\nembarrassing, awkward questions without meaning to--it's like a\ntalent\nfor walking into doors. I am one of that tribe, and as I walked with\nher\ntoward the passenger side of the Scout, I found a good one. And yet\nit\nwas hard to blame myself too enthusiastically. I had seen the\nwedding\nring on her hand, after all. \"Will you tell your husband?\" Her smile\nstayed on, but it paled somehow. And tightened. If it were possible\nto\ndelete a spoken question the way you can delete a line of type when\nyou're writing a story, I would have done it. \"He died last August.\"\n\"Mattie, I'm sorry. Open mouth, insert foot.\"\n\"You couldn't know. A girl my age isn't even supposed to be married,\nis\nshe? And if she is, her husband's supposed to be in the army, orsomething.\" There was a pink baby-seat--also Kmart, I guessed in\nthe\npassenger side of the Scout.\nMattie tried to boost Kyra in, but I could see she was struggling. I\nstepped forward to help her, and for just a moment, as I reached\npast\nher to grab a plump leg, the back of my hand brushed her breast.\nShe\ncouldn't step back unless she wanted to risk Kyra's slithering out of\nthe seat and onto the floor, but I could feel her recording the touch.\nMy husband's dead, not a threat, so the big-deal writer thinks it's\nokay\nto cop a little feel on a hot summer morning. And what can I say?\nMr.\nBig Deal came along and hauled my kid out of the road, maybe\nsaved her\nlife. No, Mattie, I may be forty going on a hundred, but I was not\ncopping a el. Except I couldn't say that; it would only make things\nworse. I felt my cheeks flush a little. \"How old are you?\" I asked,\nwhen\nwe had the baby squared away and were back at a safe distance.\nShe gave\nme a look. Tired or not, she had it together again. \"Old enough to\nknow\nthe situation I'm in.\" She held out her hand. \"Thanks again, Mr.\nNoonan.\nGod sent you along at the right time.\"\n\"Nah, God just told me I needed a hamburger at the Village Cafe,\" I\nsaid. \"Or maybe it was His opposite number. Please say Buddy's still\ndoing business at the same old stand.\" She smiled. It warmed her\nface\nback up again, and I was happy to see it. \"He'll still be there whenKi's kids are old enough to try buying beer with fake IDS. Unless\nsomeone wanders in off the road and asks for something like shrimp\ntetrazzini. If that happened he'd probably drop dead of a heart\nattack.\"\n\"Yeah. Well, when I get copies of the new book, I'll drop one off.\"\nThe\nsmile continued to hang in there, but now it shaded toward caution.\n\"You\ndon't need to do that, Mr. Noonan.\"\n\"No, but I will. My agent gets me fifty comps. I find that as I get\nolder, they go further.\" Perhaps she heard more in my voice than I\nhad\nmeant to put there--people do sometimes, I guess. '11 right. I'll look\nforward to it.\" I took another look at the baby, sleeping in that\nqueerly casual way they have--her head tilted over on her shoulder,\nher\nlovely little lips pursed and blowing a bubble. Their skin is what kills\nme--so fine and perfect there seem to be no pores at all. Her Sox\nhat\nwas askew. Mattie watched me reach in and readjust it so the visor's\nshade fell across her closed eyes. \"Kyra,\" I said. Mattie nodded.\n\"Ladylike.\"\n\"Kia is an African name,\" I said. \"It means 'season's beginning.' \"I\nleft her then, giving her a little wave as I headed back to the driver's\nside of the Chevy. I could feel her curious eyes on me, and I had the\noddest feeling that I was going to cry. That feeling stayed with me\nlong\nafter the two of them were out of sight; was still with me when I got\nto\nthe Village Cafe. I pulled into the dirt parking lot to the left of the\noff-brand gas pumps and just sat there for a little while, thinking\nabout Jo and about a home pregnancy-testing kit which had cost\ntwenty-two-fifty. A little secret she'd wanted to keep until she wasabsolutely sure. That must have been it; what else could it have\nbeen?\n\"Kia,\" I said. \"Season's beginning.\" But that made me feel like crying\nagain, so I got out of the car and slammed the door hard behind\nme, as\nif I could keep the sadness inside that way.\nBuddy Jellison was just the same, all right--same dirty cooks' whites\nand splotchy white apron, same black hair under a paper cap stained\nwith\neither beef-blood or strawberry juice. Even, from the look, the same\noatmeal-cookie crumbs caught in his ragged mustache. He was\nmaybe\nfifty-five and maybe seventy, which in some genetically favored men\nseems to be still within the farthest borders of middle age. He was\nhuge\nand shambly--probably six-four, three hundred pounds--and just as\nfull\nof grace, wit, and joie de vivre as he had been four years before.\n\"You\nwant a menu or do you remember?\" he grunted, as if I'd last been in\nyesterday. \"You still make the Villageburger Deluxe?\"\n\"Does a crow still shit in the pine tops?\" Pale eyes regarding me. No\ncondolences, which was fine by me. \"Most likely. I'll have one with\neverything--a Villageburger, not a crow--plus a chocolate frappe.\nGood\nto see you again.\" I offered my hand. He looked surprised but\ntouched it\nwith his own. Unlike the whites, the apron, and the hat, the hand\nwas\nclean. Even the nails were clean. \"Yuh,\" he said, then turned to the\nsallow woman chopping onions beside the grill. \"Villageburger,\nAudrey,\"\nhe said.\"Drag it through the garden.\" I'm ordinarily a sit-at-the-counter kind\nof guy, but that day I took a booth near the cooler and waited for\nBuddy\nto yell that it was ready--Audrey short-orders, but she doesn't\nwaitress. I wanted to think, and Buddy's was a good place to do it.\nThere were a couple of locals eating sandwiches and drinking sodas\nstraight from the can, but that was about it; people with summer\ncottages would have to be starving to eat at the Village Cafe, and\neven\nthen you'd likely have to haul them through the door kicking and\nscreaming. The floor was faded green linoleum with a rolling\ntopography\nof hills and valleys. Like Buddy's uniform, it was none too clean (the\nsummer people who came in probably failed to notice his hands).\nThe\nwoodwork was greasy and dark. Above it, where the plaster started,\nthere\nwere a number of bumper-stickers--Buddy's idea of decoration.\nHORN BROKEN--WATCH FOR FINGER.\nWIFE AND DOG MISSING. REWARD FOR DOG.\nTHERE'S NO TOWN DRUNK HERE, WE ALL TAKE TURNS. Humor is\nalmost always\nanger with its makeup on, I think, but in little towns the makeup\ntends\nto be thin. Three overhead fans paddled apathetically at the hot air,\nand to the left of the soft-drink cooler were two dangling strips of\nflypaper, both liberally stippled with wildlife, some of it still\nstruggling feebly. If you could look at those and still eat, your\ndigestion was probably doing okay. I thought about a similarity of\nnames\nwhich was surely, had to be, a coincidence. I thought about a young,pretty girl who had become a mother at sixteen or seventeen and a\nwidow\nat nineteen or twenty. I thought about inadvertently touching her\nbreast, and how the world judged men in their forties who suddenly\ndiscovered the fascinating world of young women and their\naccessories.\nMost of all I thought of the queer thing that had happened to me\nwhen\nMattie had told me the kid's name--that sense that my mouth and\nthroat\nwere suddenly flooded with cold, mineral-tangy water. That rush.\nWhen my\nburger was ready, Buddy had to call twice. When I went over to get\nit,\nhe said: \"You back to stay or to clear out?\"\n\"Why?\" I asked. \"Did you miss me, Buddy?\"\n\"Nup,\" he said, \"but at least you're from in-state. Did you know that\n\"Massachusetts' is Piscataqua for 'asshole'?\"\n\"You're as funny as ever,\" I said. \"Yuh. I'm going on fuckin\nLetterman.\nExplain to him why God gave seagulls wings.\"\n\"Why was that, Buddy?\"\n\"So they could beat the fuckin Frenchmen to the dump.\" I got a\nnewspaper\nfrom the rack and a straw for my frappe. Then I detoured to the pay\nphone and, tucking my paper under my arm, opened the phone\nbook. You\ncould actually walk around with it if you wanted; it wasn't tethered\ntothe phone. Who, after all, would want to steal a Castle County\ntelephone\ndirectory? There were over twenty Devores, which didn't surprise me\nvery\nmuch--it's one of those names, like Pelkey or Bowie or Toothaker,\nthat\nyou kept coming across if you lived down here. I imagine it's the\nsame\neverywhere--some families breed more and travel less, that's all.\nThere\nwas a Devore listing for \"RD Wsp HI1 Rd,\" but it wasn't for a Mattie,\nMathilda, Martha, or M. It was for Lance. I looked at the front of the\nphone book and saw it was a 1997 model, printed and mailed while\nMattie's husband was still in the land of the living.\nOkay... but there was something else about that name. Devote,\nDevote,\nlet us now praise famous Devores; wherefore art thou Devore? But it\nwouldn't come, whatever it was. I ate my burger, drank my liquefied\nice\ncream, and tried not to look at what was caught on the flypaper.\nWhile I was waiting for the sallow, silent Audrey to give me my\nchange\n(you could still eat all week in the Village Cafe for fifty dollars..,\nif your blood-vessels could stand it, that was), I read the sticker\npasted to the cash register. It was another Buddy Jellison special:\nCYBERSPACE SCARED ME SO BAD I DOWNLOADED IN MY PANTS.\nThis didn't\nexactly convulse me with mirth, but it did provide the key for solving\none of the day's mysteries: why the name Devore had seemed not\njust\nfamiliar but evocative. I was financially well off, rich by the\nstandards of many. There was at least one person with ties to their,however, who was rich by the standards of everybody, and filthy rich\nby\nthe standards of most year-round residents of the lakes region. If,\nthat\nwas, he was still eating, breathing, and walking around. \"Audrey, is\nMax\nDevore still alive?\" She gave me a little smile. \"Oh, ayuh. But we\ndon't\nsee him in here too often.\" That got the laugh out of me that all of\nBuddy's joke stickers hadn't been able to elicit. Audrey, who had\nalways\nbeen yellowish and who now looked like a candidate for a liver\ntransplant, snickered herself. Buddy gave us a librarian's prim glare\nfrom the far end of the counter, where he was reading a flyer about\nthe\nholiday NASCAR race at Oxford Plains. I drove back the way I had\ncome. A\nbig hamburger is a bad meal to eat in the middle of a hot day; it\nleaves\nyou feeling sleepy and heavy-witted. All I wanted was to go home\n(I'd\nbeen there less than twenty-four hours and was already thinking of\nit as\nhome), flop on the bed in the north bedroom under the revolving\nfan, and\nsleep for a couple of hours. When I passed Wasp Hill Road, I slowed\ndown. The laundry was hanging listlessly on the lines, and there was\na\nscatter of toys in the front yard, but the Scout was gone. Mattie and\nKyra had donned their suities, I imagined, and headed on down to\nthe\npublic beachie. I'd liked them both, and quite a lot. Mattie's\nshort-lived marriage had probably hooked her somehow to Max\nDevote. ..\nbut looking at the rusty doublewide trailer with its dirt driveway andbalding front yard, remembering Mat-tie's baggy shorts and Kmart\nsmock\ntop, I had to doubt that the hook was a strong one. Before retiring\nto\nPalm Springs in the late eighties, Maxwell William Devote had been a\ndriving force in the computer revolution. It's primarily a young\npeople's revolution, but Devore did okay for a golden oldie--knew\nthe\nplaying-field and understood the rules. He started when memory\nwas\nstored on magnetic tape instead of in computer chips and a\nwarehouse-sized cruncher called UNIVAC was state-of-the-art. He\nwas\nfluent in COBOL and spoke FORTRAN like a native. As the field\nexpanded\nbeyond his ability to keep up, expanded to the point where it began\nto\ndefine the world, he bought the talent he needed to keep growing.\nHis company, Visions, had created scanning programs which could\nupload\nhard copy onto floppy disks almost instantaneously; it created\ngraphic-imaging programs which had become the industry standard;\nit\ncreated Pixel Easel, which allowed laptop users to mouse-paint. .. to\nactually fingerpaint, if their gadget came equipped with what Jo had\ncalled \"the clitoral cursor.\" Devore had invented none of this later\nstuff, but he'd understood that it could be invented and had hired\npeople to do it. He held dozens of patents and co-held hundreds\nmore. He\nwas supposedly worth something like six hundred million dollars,\ndepending on how technology stocks were doing on any given day.\nOn the TR he was reputed to be crusty and unpleasant. No surprise\nthere;to a Nazarene, can any good thing come out of Nazareth? And folks\nsaid\nhe was eccentric, of course. Listen to the old-timers who remember\nthe\nrich and successful in their salad days (and all the old-timers claim\nthey do), and you'll hear that they ate the wallpaper, fucked the dog,\nand showed up at church suppers wearing nothing but their pee-\nstained\nBVDS. Even if all that was true in Devore's case, and even if he was\nScrooge Mcduck in the bargain, I doubted that he'd allow two of his\ncloser relatives to live in a doublewide trailer.\nI drove up the lane above the lake, then paused at the head of my\ndriveway, looking at the sign there: SAK LAUGHS burned into a\nlength of\nvarnished board nailed to a handy tree. It's the way they do things\ndown\nhere. Looking at it brought back the last dream of the Manderley\nseries.\nIn that dream someone had slapped a radio-station sticker on the\nsign,\nthe way you're always seeing stickers slapped on turnpike\ntoll-collection baskets in the exact-change lanes.\nI got out of my car, went to the sign, and studied it. No sticker. The\nsunflowers had been down there, growing out of the stoop--I had a\nphoto\nin my suitcase that proved it--but there was no radio-station sticker\non\nthe house sign. Proving exactly what? Come on, Noonan, get a grip.\nI started back to the car--the door was open, the Beach Boys spilling\nout of the speakers--then changed my mind and went back to the\nsignagain. In the dream, the sticker had been pasted just above the of\nSAK\nand the LAU of LAUGHS. I touched my fingers to that spot and\nthought\nthey came away feeling slightly sticky. Of course that could have\nbeen\nthe feel of varnish on a hot day. Or my imagination.\nI drove down to the house, parked, set the emergency brake (on the\nslopes around Dark Score and the dozen or so other lakes in western\nMaine, you always set your brake), and listened to the rest of \"Don't\nWorry, Baby,\" which I've always thought was the best of the Beach\nBoys'\nsongs, great not in spite of the sappy lyrics but because of them. If\nyou knew how much I love you, baby, Brian Wilson sings, nothing\ncould go\nwrong with you. And oh folks, wouldn't that be a world.\nI sat there listening and looked at the cabinet set against the right\nside of the stoop. We kept our garbage in there to foil the\nneighborhood\nraccoons. Even cans with snap-down lids won't always do that; if the\ncoons are hungry enough, they somehow manage the lids with their\nclever\nlittle hands.\nYou're not going to do what you're thinking of doing, I told myself. I\nmean.., are you?\nIt seemed I was-or that I was at least going to have a go. When the\nBeach Boys gave way to Rare Earth, I got out of the car, opened the\nstorage cabinet, and pulled out two plastic garbage cans. There was\na\nguy named Stan Proulx who came down to yank the trash twice a\nweek (orthere was four years ago, I reminded myself), one of Bill Dean's\nfarflung network of part-timers working for cash off the books, but I\ndidn't think Stan would have been down to collect the current\naccumulation of swill because of the holiday, and I was right. There\nWere two plastic garbage bags in each can. I hauled them out\n(cursing\nmyself for a fool even while I was doing it) and untwisted the yellow\nties.\nI really don't think I was so obsessed that I would have dumped a\nbunch\nof wet garbage out on my stoop if it had come to that (of course I'll\nnever know for sure, and maybe that's for the best), but it didn't. No\none had lived in the house for four years, remember, and it's\noccupancy\nthat produces garbage--everything from coffee-grounds to used\nsanitary\nnapkins. The stuff in these bags was dry trash swept together and\ncarted\nout by Brenda Meserve's cleaning crew.\nThere were nine vacuum-cleaner disposal bags containing forty-eight\nmonths of dust, dirt, and dead flies. There were wads of paper\ntowels,\nsome smelling of aromatic furniture polish and others of the sharper\nbut\nstill pleasant aroma of Windex. There was a moldy mattress pad and\na\nsilk jacket which had that unmistakable dined-upon-by-moths look.\nThe\njacket certainly caused me no regrets; a mistake of my young\nmanhood, it\nlooked like something from the Beatles' \"I Am the Walrus\" era.\nGoo-goo-joob, baby. There was a box filled with broken glass..,\nanotherfilled with unrecognizable (and presumably out-of-date) plumbing\nfixtures. .. a torn and filthy square of carpet. .. done-to-death\ndishtowels, faded and ragged. .. the old oven-gloves I'd used when\ncooking burgers and chicken on the barbecue... The sticker was in a\ntwist at the bottom of the second bag. I'd known I would find it--\nfrom\nthe moment I'd felt that faintly tacky patch on the sign, I'd known--\nbut\nI'd needed to see it for myself. The same way old Doubting Thomas\nhad\nneeded to get the blood under his fingernails, I suppose. I placed\nmy\nfind on a board of the sunwarmed stoop and smoothed it out with\nmy hand.\nIt was shredded around the edges. I guessed Bill had probably used\na\nputty-knife to scrape it off. He hadn't wanted Mr. Noo-nan to come\nback\nto the lake after four years and discover some beered-up kid had\nslapped\na radio-station sticker on his driveway sign. Gorry, no, 't'wouldn't be\nproper, deah. So off it had come and into the trash it had gone and\nhere\nit was again, another piece of my nightmare unearthed and not\nmuch the\nworse for wear. I ran my fingers over it. WBLM, 102.9, PORTLAND'S\nROCK\nAND ROLL BLIMP. I told myself didn't have to be afraid. That it\nmeant\nnothing, just as all the rest of it meant nothing. Then I got the\nbroom\nout of the cabinet, swept all the trash together, and dumped it back\nin\nthe plastic bags. The sticker went in with the rest.I went inside meaning to shower the dust and grime away, then\nspied my\nown bathing suitie, still lying in one of my open suitcases, and\ndecided\nto go swimming instead. The suit was a jolly number, covered with\nspouting whales, that I had purchased in Key Largo. I thought my\npal in\nthe Bosox cap would have approved. I checked my watch and saw\nthat I had\nfinished my Villageburger forty-five minutes ago. Close enough for\ngovernment work, kemo sabe, especially after engaging in an\nenergetic\ngame of Trash-Bag Treasure Hunt. I pulled on my suit and walked\ndown the\nrailroad-tie steps which lead from Sara to the water. My flip-flops\nsnapped and flapped. A few late mosquitoes hummed. The lake\ngleamed in\nfront of me, still and inviting under that low humid sky. Running\nnorth\nand south along its edge, bordering the entire east side of the lake,\nwas a right-of-way path (it's called \"common property\" in the deeds)\nwhich folks on the TR simply call The Street. If one were to turn left\nonto The Street at the foot of my steps, one could walk all the way\ndown\nto the Dark Score Marina, passing Warrington's and Buddy Jellison's\nscuzzy little eatery on the way. .. not to mention four dozen summer\ncottages, discreetly tucked into sloping groves of spruce and pine.\nTurn\nright and you could walk to Halo Bay, although it would take you a\nday\nto do it with The Street overgrown the way it is now. I stood there\nfor\na moment on the path, then ran forward and leaped into the water.\nEven\nas I flew through the air with the greatest of ease, it occurred to methat the last time I had jumped in like this, I had been holding my\nwife's hand. Touching down was almost a catastrophe. The water\nwas cold\nenough to remind me that I was forty, not fourteen, and for a\nmoment my\nheart stopped dead in my chest. As Dark Score Lake closed over my\nhead,\nI felt quite sure that I wasn't going to come up alive. I'd be found\ndrifting facedown between the swimming float and my little stretch\nof\nThe Street, a victim of cold water and a greasy Villageburger. They'd\ncarve Your Mother Always Said To Wait At Least An Hour on my\ntombstone.\nThen my feet landed in the stones and slimy weedstuffgrowing along\nthe\nbottom, my heart kick-started, and I shoved upward like a guy\nplanning\nto slam-dunk home the last score of a close basketball game. As I\nreturned to the air, I gasped. Water went in my mouth and I\ncoughed it\nback out, patting one hand against my chest in an effort to\nencourage my\nheart--come on, baby, keep going, you can do it. I came back down\nstanding waist-deep in the lake and with my mouth full of that cold\ntaste--lakewater with an undertinge of miner als, the kind you'd\nhave to\ncorrect for when you washed your clothes. It was exactly what I had\ntasted while standing on the shoulder of Route 68. It was what I had\ntasted when Mattie Devore told me her daughter's name. I made\na psychological connection, that's all. From the similarity of the\nnames\nto my dead wi) to this lake. Which-\"Which I have tasted a time or\ntwo\nbefore,\" I said out loud. As if to underline the fact, I scooped up a\npalmful of water--some of the cleanest and clearest in the state,according to the analysis reports I and all the other members of the\nso-called Western Lakes Association get each year--and drank it\ndown.\nThere was no revelation, no sudden weird flashes in my head. It was\njust\nDark Score, first in my mouth and then in my stomach. I swam out\nto the\nfloat, climbed the three-rung ladder on the side, and flopped on the\nhot\nboards, feeling suddenly very glad I had come. In spite of\neverything.\nTomorrow I would start putting together some sort of life down\nhere..,\ntrying to, anyway. For now it was enough to be lying with my head\nin the\ncrook of one arm, on the verge of a doze, confident that the day's\nadventures were over. As it happened, that was not quite true.\nDuring our first summer on the TR, Jo and I discovered it was\npossible\nto see the Castle Rock fireworks show from the deck overlooking the\nlake. I remembered this just as it was drawing down toward dark,\nand\nthought that this year I would spend that time in the living room,\nwatching a movie on the video player. Reliving all the Fourth of July\ntwilights we had spent out there, drinking beer and laughing as the\nbig\nones went off, would be a bad idea. I was lonely enough without\nthat,\nlonely in a way of which I had not been conscious in Derry. Then I\nwondered what I had come down here for, if not to finally face\nJohanna's\nmemory--all of it--and put it to loving rest. Certainly the possibilityof writing again had never seemed more distant than it did that\nnight.\nThere was no beer--I'd forgotten to get a sixpack either at the\nGeneral\nStore or at the Village Cafe--but there was soda, courtesy of Brenda\nMeserve. I got a can of Pepsi and settled in to watch the lightshow,\nhoping it wouldn't hurt too much. Hoping, I supposed, that I\nwouldn't cry.\nNot that I was kidding myself; there were more tears here, all right.\nI'd just have to get through them. The first explosion of the night\nhad\njust gone off a spangly burst of blue with the bang travelling far\nbehind--when the phone rang. It made me jump as the faint\nexplosion from\nCastle Rock had not. I decided it was probably Bill Dean, calling\nlong-distance to see if I was settling in all right. In the summer\nbefore Jo died, we'd gotten a wireless phone so we could prowl the\ndownstairs while we talked, a thing we both liked to do. I went\nthrough\nthe sliding glass door into the living room, punched the pickup\nbutton,\nand said, \"Hello, this is Mike,\" as I went back to my deck-chair and\nsat\ndown. Far across the lake, exploding below the low clouds hanging\nover\nCastle View, were green and yellow starbursts, followed by\nsoundless\nflashes that would eventually reach me as noise. For a moment\nthere was\nnothing from the phone, and then a man's raspy voice--an elderly\nvoice\nbut not Bill Dean's--said, \"Noonan? Mr. Noonan?\"\"Yes?\" A huge spangle of gold lit up the west, shivering the low\nclouds\nwith brief filigree.\nIt made me think of the award shows you see on television, all those\nbeautiful women in shining dresses. \"Devore.\"\n\"Yes?\" I said again, cautiously. \"Max Devore.\" don't see him in here\ntoo\noften, Audrey had said. I had taken that for Yankee wit, but\napparently\nshe'd been serious. Wonders never ceased. Okay, what next? I was\nat a\ntotal loss for conversational gambits. I thought of asking him how\nhe'd\ngotten my number, which was unlisted, but what would be the\npoint? When\nyou were worth over half a billion dollars--if this really was the Max\nDevore I was talking to--you could get any old unlisted number you\nwanted. I settled for saying yes again, this time without the little\nuptilt at the end. Another silence followed. When I broke it and\nbegan\nasking questions, he would be in charge of the conversation.., if we\ncould be said to be having a conversation at that point. A good\ngambit,\nbut I had the advantage of my long association with Harold Oblowski\nto\nfall back on,Harold, master of the pregnant pause. I sat tight,\ncunning\nlittle cordless phone to my ear, and watched the show in the west.\nRed\nbursting into blue, green into gold; unseen women walked the\nclouds in\nglowing award-show evening dresses. \"I understand you met my\ndaughter-in-law today,\" he said at last. He sounded annoyed. \"I may\nhavedone,\" I said, trying not to sound surprised. \"May I ask why you're\ncalling, Mr. Devore?\"\n\"I understand there was an incident.\" White lights danced in the\nsky--they could have been exploding spacecraft. Then, trailing after,\nthe bangs. I've discovered the secret of time travel, I thought.\nIt's an auditory phenomenon. My hand was holding the phone far\ntoo\ntightly, and I made it relax. Maxwell Devore. Half a billion dollars.\nNot in Palm Springs, as I had supposed, but close--right here on the\nTR,\nif the characteristic under-hum on the line could be trusted. \"I'm\nconcerned for my granddaughter.\" His voice was raspier than ever.\nHe was\nangry, and it showed---this was a man who hadn't had to conceal his\nemotions in a lot of years. \"I understand my daughter-in-law's\nattention\nwandered again. It wanders often.\" Now half a dozen colored\nstarbursts\nlit the night, blooming like flowers in an old Disney nature film. I\ncould imagine the crowds gathered on Castle View sitting cross-\nlegged on\ntheir blankets, eating ice cream cones and drinking beer and all\ngoing\nOooooh at the same time. That's what makes any successful work of\nart, I\nthink-everybody goes Oooooh at the same time. \"You're scared of\nthis\nguy, aren't you? Jo asked. Okay, maybe you're right to be scared. A\nman\nwho feels he can be angry whenever he wants to at whoever he\nwants to...that's a man who can be dangerous. Then Mattie's voice: Mr.\nNoonan, I'm\nnot a bad mother. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before.\nOf\ncourse that's what most bad mothers say in such circumstances, I\nimagined.., but I had believed her.\nAlso, goddammit, my number was unlisted. I had been sitting here\nwith a\nsoda, watching the fireworks, bothering nobody, and this guy had-\n\"Mr.\nDevore, I don't have any idea what--\"\n\"Don't give me that, with all due respect don't give me that, Mr.\nNoonan, you were seen talking to them.\"\nHe sounded as I imagine Joe Mccarthy sounded to those poor\nschmucks who\nended up being branded dirty commies when they came before his\ncommittee. Be careful, Mike, Jo said. Beware of Maxwell's silver\nhammer.\n\"I did see and speak to a woman and a little girl this morning,\" I\nsaid.\n\"I presume they're the ones you're talking about.\"\n\"No, you saw a toddler walking on the road alone,\" he said. \"And\nthen\nyou saw a woman chasing after her. My daughter-in-law, in that old\nthing\nshe drives. The child could have been run down. Why are you\nprotecting\nthat young woman, Mr. Noonan? Did she promise you something?\nYou're\ncertainly doing the child no favors, I can tell you that much.\" Shepromised to take me back to her trailer and then take me around the\nworld, I thought of saying.\nShe promised to keep her mouth open the whole time if I'd keep\nmine\nshut--is that what you want to hear? Is, Jo said. Very likely that is\nwhat he wants to hear. Very likely what he wants to believe. Don't\nlet\nhim provoke you into a burst of your sophomore sarcasm, Mike--you\ncould\nregret it. Why was I bothering to protect Mattie Devore, anyway? I\ndidn't know. Didn't have the slightest idea of what I might be getting\ninto here, for that matter. I only knew that she had looked tired, and\nthe child hadn't been bruised or frightened or sullen. \"There was a\ncar.\nAn old Jeep.\"\n\"That's more like it.\" Satisfaction. And sharp interest.\nGreed, almost. \"What did--\"\n\"I guess I assumed they came in the car together,\" I said. There was\na\ncertain giddy pleasure in discovering my capacity for invention had\nnot\ndeserted me--I felt like a pitcher who can no longer do it in front of\na\ncrowd, but who can still throw a pretty good slider in the old back\nyard. \"The little girl might have had some daisies.\" All the careful\nqualifications, as if I were testifying in court instead of sitting on\nmy deck. Harold would have been proud.\nWell, no. Harold would have been horrified that I was having such a\nconversation at all. \"I think I assumed they were picking wildflowers.My memory of the incident isn't all that clear, unfortunately. I'm a\nwriter, Mr. Devore, and when I'm driving I often drift off into my own\nprivate--\"\n\"You're lying.\" The anger was right out in the open now, bright and\npulsing like a boil. As I had suspected, it hadn't taken much effort to\nescort this guy past the social niceties. \"Mr. Devore. The computer\nDevore, I assume?\"\n\"You assume correctly.\" Jo always grew cooler in tone and\nexpression as\nher not inconsiderable temper grew hotter. Now I heard myself\nemulating\nher in a way that was frankly eerie. \"Mr. Devore, I'm not accustomed\nto\nbeing called in the evening by men I don't know, nor do I intend to\nprolong the conversation when a man who does so calls me a liar.\nGood\nevening, sir.\"\n\"If everything was fine, then why did you stop?\"\n\"I've been away from the TR for some time, and I wanted to know if\nthe\nVillage Cafe was still open. Oh, by the way--I don't know where you\ngot\nmy telephone number, but I know where you can put it. Good\nnight.\" I\nbroke the connection with my thumb and then just looked at the\nphone, as\nif I had never seen such a gadget in my life. The hand holding it was\ntrembling. My heart was beating hard; I could feel it in my neck and\nwrists as well as my chest. I wondered if!\ncould have told Devote to stick my phone number up his ass if I\nhadn'thad a few million rattling around in the bank myself. The Battle of\nthe\nTitans, dear, Jo said in her cool voice. And all over a teenage girl in\na trailer. She didn't even have any breasts to speak off I laughed out\nloud. War of the Titans? Hardly. Some old robber baron from the\nturn of\nthe century had said, \"These days a man with a million dollars thinks\nhe's rich.\" Devore would likely have the same opinion of me, and in\nthe\nwider scheme of things he would be right. Now the western sky was\nalight\nwith unnatural, pulsing color. It was the finale.\n\"What was that all about?\" I asked. No answer; only a loon calling\nacross the lake. Protesting all the unaccustomed noise in the sky, as\nlikely as not. I got up, went inside, and put the phone back in its\ncharging cradle, realizing as I did that I was expecting it to ring\nagain, expecting Devore to start spouting movie cliches: If you get in\nmy way 17l and I'm warning you, friend, not to and Let me give you\na\npiece of good advice here you. The phone didn't ring. I poured the\nrest\nof my soda down my gullet, which was understandably dry, and\ndecided to\ngo to bed. At least there hadn't been any weeping and wailing out\nthere\non the deck; Devore had pulled me out of myself. In a weird way, I\nwas\ngrateful to him. I went into the north bedroom, undressed, and lay\ndown.\nI thought about the little girl, Kyra, and the mother who could have\nbeen her older sister. Devote was pissed at Mattie, that much was\nclear,\nand if I was a financial nonentity to the guy, what must she be to\nhim?And what kind of resources would she have if he had taken against\nher?\nThat was a pretty nasty thought, actually, and it was the one I fell\nasleep on. I got up three hours later to eliminate the can of soda I\nhad\nunwisely downed before retiring, and as I stood before the bowl,\npissing\nwith one eye open, I heard the sobbing again. A child somewhere in\nthe\ndark, lost and frightened.., or perhaps just pretending to be lost and\nfrightened. \"Don't,\" I said. I was standing naked before the toilet\nbowl, my back alive with gooseflesh. \"Please don't start up with this\nshit, it's scary.\" The crying dwindled as it had before, seeming to\ndiminish like something carried down a tunnel. I went back to bed,\nturned on my side, and closed my eyes. \"It was a dream,\" I said.\n\"Just\nanother Manderley dream.\" I knew better, but I also knew I was\ngoing\nback to sleep, and right then that seemed like the important thing.\nAs I\ndrifted off, I thought in a voice that was purely my own: She is alive.\nSara is alive. And I understood something, too: she belonged to me.\nI\nhad reclaimed her. For good or ill, I had come home.\nCHAPTER At nine o'clock the following morning I filled a squeeze-\nbottle\nwith grapefruit juice and set out for a good long walk south along\nThe\nStreet. The day was bright and already hot. It was also silent--the\nkind\nof silence you experience only after a Saturday holiday, I think, onecomposed of equal parts holiness and hangover. I could see two or\nthree\nfishermen parked far out on the lake, but not a single power boat\nburred, not a single gaggle of kids shouted and splashed. I passed\nhalf\na dozen cottages on the slope above me, and although all of them\nwere\nlikely inhabited at this time of year, the only signs of life I saw were\nbathing suits hung over the deck rail at the Passendales' and a\nhalf-deflated fluorescent-green seahorse on the Batchelders' stub of\na\ndock. But did the Passendales' little gray cottage still belong to the\nPassendales? Did the Batchelders' amusing circular summer-camp\nwith its\nCinerama picture-window pointing at the lake and the mountains\nbeyond\nstill belong to the Batchelders? No way of telling, of course. Four\nyears can bring a lot of changes. I walked and made no effort to\nthink--an old trick from my writing days. Work your body, rest your\nmind, let the boys in the basement do their jobs I made my way\npast\ncamps where Jo and I had once had drinks and barbecues and\nattended the\noccasional card-party, I soaked up the silence like a sponge, I drank\nmy\njuice, I armed sweat offmy forehead, and I waited to see what\nthoughts\nmight come. The first was an odd realization: that the crying child in\nthe night seemed somehow more real than the call from Max\nDevore. Had I\nactually been phoned by a rich and obviously bad-tempered techno-\nmogul\non my first full evening back on the TR? Had said mogul actually\ncalled\nme a liar at one point? (I was, considering the tale I had told, butthat was beside the point.) I knew it had happened, but it was\nactually\neasier to believe in The Ghost of Dark Score Lake, known around\nsome\ncampfires as The Mysterious Crying Kiddie. My next thought--this\nwas\njust before I finished my juice--was that I should call Mattie Devore\nand tell her what had happened. I decided it was a natural impulse\nbut\nprobably a bad idea. I was too old to believe in such simplicities as\nThe Damsel in Distress Versus The Wicked Stepfather .. or, in this\ncase,\nFather-in-Law. I had my own fish to fry this summer, and I didn't\nwant\nto complicate my job by getting into a potentially ugly dispute\nbetween\nMr. Computer and Ms. Doublewide. Devore had rubbed my fur the\nwrong\nway--and vigorously--but that probably wasn't personal, only\nsomething\nhe did as a matter of course. Hey, some guys snap bra-straps. Did I\nwant\nto get in his face on this? No. I did not. I had saved Little Miss Red\nSox, I had gotten myself an inadvertent feel of Mom's small but\npleasantly firm breast, I had learned that Kyra was Greek for\nladylike.\nAny more than that would be gluttony, by God. I stopped at that\npoint,\nfeet as well as brain, realizing I'd walked all the way to Warrington's,\na vast barnboard structure which locals sometimes called the\ncountry\nclub. It was, sort of--there was a six-hole golf course, a stable and\nriding trails, a restaurant, a bar, and lodging for perhaps three dozen\nin the main building and the eight or nine satellite cabins. There was\neven a two-lane bowling alley, although you and your competition\nhad totake turns setting up the pins.\nWarrington's had been built around the beginning of World War I.\nThat\nmade it younger than Sara Laughs, but not by much. A long dock led\nout\nto a smaller building calle/unset Bar. It was there that Warrington's\nsummer guests would gather for drinks at the end of the day (and\nsome\nfor Bloody Marys at the beginning). And when I glanced out that\nway, I\nrealized I was no longer alone. There was a woman standing on the\nporch\nto the left of the floating bar's door, watching me.\nShe gave me a pretty good jump. My nerves weren't in their best\ncondition right then, and that probably had something to do with it...\nbut I think she would have given me a jump in any case. Part of it\nwas\nher stillness. Part was her extraordinary thinness. Most of it was her\nface. Have you ever seen that Edvard Munch drawing, The Cry?\nWell, if\nyou imagine that screaming face at rest, mouth closed and eyes\nwatchful,\nyou'll have a pretty good image of the woman standing at the end of\nthe\ndock with one long-fingered hand resting on the rail. Although I\nmust\ntell you that my first thought was not Edvard Munch but Mrs.\nDanvers.\nShe looked about seventy and was wearing black shorts over a black\ntank\nbathing suit. The combination looked strangely formal, a variation onthe ever-popular little black cocktail dress. Her skin was cream-\nwhite,\nexcept above her nearly flat bosom and along her bony shoulders.\nThere\nit swam with large brown age-spots. Her face was a wedge featuring\nprominent skull-like cheekbones and an unlined lamp of brow.\nBeneath\nthat bulge, her eyes were lost in sockets of shadow. White hair hung\nscant and lank around her ears and down to the prominent shelf of\nher\njaw.\nGod, she's thin, I thought. She's nothing but a bag of- A shudder\ntwisted through me at that. It was a strong one, as if someone were\nspinning a wire in my flesh. I didn't want her to notice it--what a\nway\nto start a summer day, by revolting a guy so badly that he stood\nthere\nshaking and grimacing in front of you--so I raised my hand and\nwaved. I\ntried to smile, as well. Hello there, lady standing out by the floating\nbar. Hello there, you old bag of bones, you scared the living shit out\nof me but it doesn't take much these days and I forgive you. How\nthe\nfuck ya doin? I wondered if my smile looked as much like a gri mace\nto\nher as it felt to me.\nShe didn't wave back.\nFeeling quite a bit like a fooi--THERE'S NO VILLAGE IDIOT HERE, WE\nALL\nTA: Tt3Veas--I ended my wave in a kind of half-assed salute and\nheaded\nback the way I'd come. Five steps and I had to look over my\nshoulder;the sensation of her watching me was so strong it was like a hand\npressing between my shoulderblades.\nThe dock where she'd been was completely deserted. I squinted my\neyes,\nat first sure she must have just retreated deeper into the shadow\nthrown\nby the little boozehaus, but she was gone. As if she had been a\nghost\nherself.\nShe stepped into the bar, hon, Jo said. You know that, don't you? I\nmean... you do know it, right?\n\"Right, right,\" I murmured, setting off north along The Street toward\nhome. \"Of course I do. Where else?\" Except it didn't seem to me\nthat\nthere had been time; it didn't seem to me that she could have\nstepped\nin, even in her bare feet, without me hearing her. Not on such a\nquiet\nmorning.\nJo again: Perhaps she's stealthy.\n\"Yes,\" I murmured. I did a lot of talking out loud before that summer\nwas over. \"Yes, perhaps she is. Perhaps she's stealthy.\" Sure. Like\nMrs.\nDanvers.\nI stopped again and looked back, but the right-of-way path had\nfollowed\nthe lake around a little bit of cu(ve, and I could no longer see either\nWarrington's or The Sunset Bar. And really, I thought, that was just\nas\nwell. On my way back, I tried to list the oddities which had precededand then surrounded my return to Sara Laughs: the repeating\ndreams; the\nsunflowers; the radio-station sticker; the weeping in the night. I\nsupposed that my encounter with Mattie and Kyra, plus the follow-up\nphone-call from Mr. Pixel Easel, also qualified as passing strange..,\nbut not in the same way as a child you heard sobbing in the night.\nAnd what about the fact that we had been in Derry instead of on\nDark\nScore when Johanna died? Did that qualify for the list? I didn't know.\nI\ncouldn't even remember why that was. In the fall and winter of 1993\nI'd\nbeen fiddling with a screenplay for The Red-Shirt Man. In February\nof\n'94 I got going on All the Vy from the 7bp, and that absorbed most\nof my\nattention. Besides, deciding to go west to the TR, west to Sara...\n\"That was Jo's job,\" I told the day, and as soon as I heard the words\nI\nunderstood how true they were. We'd both loved the old girl, but\nsaying\n\"Hey Irish, let's get our asses over to the TR for a few days\" had\nbeen\nJo's job. She might say it any time.., except in the year before her\ndeath she hadn't said it once. And I had never thought to say it for\nher. Had somehow forgotten all about Sara Laughs, it seemed, even\nwhen\nsummer came around. Was it possible to be that absorbed in a\nwriting\nproject? It didn't seem likely.., but what other explanation was\nthere?\nSomething was very wrong with this picture, but I didn't know what\nitwas. Not from nothin. That made me think of Sara Tidwell, and the\nlyrics\nto one of her songs. She had never been recorded, but I owned the\nBlind\nLemon Jefferson version of this particular tune. One verse went:\nIt ain't nuthin but a barn-dance sugar It ain't nuthin but a\nround-and-round Let me kiss you on your sweet lips sugar You the\ngood\nthing that I Jund.\nI loved that song, and had always wondered how it would have\nsounded\ncoming out of a woman's mouth instead of from that whiskey-voiced\nold\ntroubadour. Out of Sara Tidwell's mouth. I bet she sang sweet. And\nboy,\nI bet she could swing it. I had gotten back to my own place again. I\nlooked around, saw no one in the immediate vicinity (although I\ncould\nnow hear the day's first ski-boat burring away downwater), stripped\nto\nmy underpants, and swam out to the float. I didn't climb it, only lay\nbeside it holding onto the ladder with one hand and lazily kicking my\nfeet. It was nice enough, but what was I going to do with the rest of\nthe day? I decided to spend it cleaning my work area on the second\nfloor. When that was done, maybe I'd go out and look around in Jo's\nstudio. if I didn't lose my courage, that was. I swam back, kicking\neasily along, raising my head in and out of water which flowed along\nmy\nbody like cool silk. I felt like an otter. I was most of the way to the\nshore when I raised my dripping face and saw a woman standing on\nThe\nStreet, watching me. She was as thin as the one I'd seen down at\nWarrington's... but this one was green. Green and pointing north\nalongthe path like a dryad in Some old legend. I gasped, swallowed water,\ncoughed it back out. I stood up in chest-deep water and wiped my\nstreaming eyes. Then I laughed (albeit a little doubtfully).\nThe woman was green because she was a birch growing a little to\nthe\nnorth of where my set of railroad-tie steps ended at The Street. And\neven with my eyes clear of water, there was something creepy about\nhow\nthe leaves around the ivory-streaked-with-black trunk almost made a\npeering face. The air was perfectly still and so the face was perfectly\nstill (as still as the face of the woman in the black shorts and bathing\nsuit had been), but on a breezy day it would seem to smile or\nfrown..,\nor perhaps to laugh. Behind it there grew a sickly pine. One bare\nbranch\njutted off to the north. It was this I had mistaken for a skinny arm\nand\na bony, pointing hand. It wasn't the first time I'd spooked myself like\nthat. I see things, that's all. Write enough stories and every shadow\non\nthe floor looks like a footprint, every line in the dirt like a secret\nmessage. Which did not, of course, ease the task of deciding what\nwas\nreally peculiar at Sara Laughs and what was peculiar only because\nmy\nmind was peculi r. I glanced around, saw I still had this part of the\n[ake to myself (although not for much longer; the bee-buzz of the\nfirst\npber boat had been joined by a second and third), and stripped off\nmy\nsoggy underpants. I wrung them out, put them on top of my shorts\nand\ntee-shirt, and walked naked up the railroad-tie steps with my clothes\nheld against my chest. I pretended I was Bunter, bringing breakfast\nandthe morning paper to Lord Peter Wimsey. By the time I got back\ninside\nthe house I was grinning like a fool.\nThe second floor was stifling in spite of the open windows, and I\nsaw\nwhy as soon as I got to the top of the stairs. Jo and I had shared\nspace\nup here, she on the left (only a little room, really just a cubby, which\nwas all she needed with the studio north of the house), me on the\nright.\nAt the far end of the hall was the grilled snout of the monster\nair-conditioning unit we'd bought the year after we bought the\nlodge.\nLooking at it, I realized I had missed its characteristic hum without\neven being aware of it. There was a sign taped to it which said, Mr.\nNoonan: Broken. Blows hot air when you turn it on & sounds full of\nbroken glass. Dean says the part it needs is promised Fom lstern\nAuto in\nCastle Rock. I'll believe it when I see it. B. Meserve. I grinned at\nthat last---it was Mrs. M. right down to the ground--and then i tried\nthe switch. Machinery often responds favorably when it senses a\npenis-equipped human in the vicinity, Jo used to claim, but not this\ntime. I listened to the air conditioner grind for five seconds or so,\nthen snapped it off. \"Damn thing shit the bed,\" as TR folks like to\nsay.\nAnd until it was fixed, I wouldn't even be doing crossword puzzles up\nhere. I looked in my office just the same, as curious about what I\nmight\nfeel as about what I might find. The answer was next to nothing.\nThere\nwas the desk where I had finished The Red-Shirt Man, thus proving\nto\nmyself that the first time wasn't a fluke; there was the photo ofRichard Nixon, arms raised, flashing the double V-for-Victory sign,\nwith\nthe caption WOULD YOU BUY A USED CAR FROM THIS MAN?\nrunning beneath;\nthere was the rag rug Jo had hooked for me a winter or two before\nshe\nhad discovered the wonderful world of afghans and pretty much\ngave up\nhooking. It wasn't quite the office of a stranger, but every item\n(most\nof all, the weirdly empty surface of the desk) said that it was the\nwork-space of an earlier-generation Mike Noonan. Men's lives, I had\nread\nonce, are usually defined by two primary forces: work and marriage.\nIn\nmy life the marriage was over and the career on what appeared to\nbe\npermanent hiatus. Given that, it didn't seem strange to me that now\nthe\nspace where I'd spent so many days, usually in a state of real\nhappiness\nas I made up various imaginary lives, seemed to mean nothing. It\nwas\nlike looking at the office of an employee who had been fired.., or\nwho\nhad died suddenly. I started to leave, then had an idea. The filing\ncabinet in the corner was crammed with papers--bank statements\n(most\neight or ten years out of date), correspondence (mostly never\nanswered),\na few story fragments-but I didn't find what I was looking for. I\nmoved\non to the closet, where the temperature had to be at least a\nhundred and\nten degrees, and in a cardboard box which Mrs. M. had marked\nG^DOE'rs, Iunearthed it--a Sanyo Memo-Scriber Debra Weinstock gave me at\nthe\nconclusion of our work on the first of the Putnam books. It could be\nset\nto turn itself on when you started to talk; it dropped into its? ^use\nmode when you stopped to think. I never asked Debra if the thing\njust\ncaught her eye and she thought, \"Why, I'll bet any self-respecting\npopular novelist would enjoy owning one of these babies,\" or if it\nwas\nsomething a little more specific.., some sort of hint, perhaps?\nVerbalize those little faxes from your subconscious while they're still\nfresh, Noonan? I hadn't known then and didn't now. But I had it, a\ngenuine pro-quality dictating-machine, and there were at least a\ndozen\ncassette tapes in my car, home dubs I'd made to listen to while\ndriving.\nI would insert one in the Memo-Scriber tonight, slide the volume\ncontrol\nas high as it would go, and put the machine in its DICTATE mode.\nThen,\nif the noise I'd heard at least twice now repeated itself, I would have\nit on tape. I could play it for Bill Dean and ask him what he thought\nit\nwas. What if I hear the sobbing child tonight and the machine never\nkicks on? \"Well then, I'll know something else,\" I told the empty,\nsunlit office. I was standing there in the doorway with the Memo-\nScriber\nunder my arm, looking at the empty desk and sweating like a pig.\n\"Or at\nleast suspect it.\" Jo's nook across the hall made my office seem\ncrowded\nand homey by comparison. Never overfull, it was now nothing but a\nsquareroom-shaped space. The rug was gone, her photos were gone, even\nthe desk\nwas gone. This looked like a do-it-yourself project which had been\nabandoned after ninety percent of the work had been done. Jo had\nbeen\nscrubbed/ out of it--scraped out of it--and I felt a moment's\nunreasonable anger a Brenda Meserve. I thought of what my mother\nusually\nsaid when I'd done something on my own initiative of which she\ndisapproved: \"You took a little too much on y'self, didn't you?\" That\nwas my feeling about Jo's little bit of office: that in emptying it to\nthe walls this way, Mrs. Meserve had taken a little too much on\nherself.\nMaybe it wasn't Mrs. M. who cleaned it out, the UFO voice said.\nMaybe Jo\ndid it herselfi Ever think of that, sport? \"That's stupid,\" I said.\n\"Why would she? I hardly think she had a premonition of her own\ndeath.\nConsidering she'd just bought--\"\nBut I didn't want to say it. Not out loud. It seemed like a bad idea\nsomehow.\nI turned to leave the room, and a sudden sigh of cool air, amazing in\nthat heat, rushed past the sides of my face. Not my body; just my\nface.\nIt was the most extraordinary sensation, like hands patting briefly\nbut\ngently at my cheeks and forehead. At the same time there was a\nsighing\nin my ears.., except that's not quite right. It was a susurrus that\nwentpast my ears, like a whispered message spoken in a hurry.\nI turned, expecting to see the curtains over the room's window in\nmotion.., but they hung perfectly straight.\n\"Jo?\" I said, and hearing her name made me shiver so violently that\nI\nalmost dropped the Memo-Scriber. \"Jo, was that you?\"\nNothing. No phantom hands patting my skin, no motion from the\ncurtains.., which there certainly would have been if there had been\nan\nactual draft. All was quiet. There was only a tall man with a sweaty\nface and a tape-recorder under his arm standing in the doorway of a\nbare\nroom.., but that was when I first began to really believe that I wasn't\nalone in Sara Laughs.\nSo what? I asked myself. Even if it should be true, so what? Ghosts\ncan't hurt anyone.\nThat's what I thought then.\nWhen I visited Jo's studio (her air-conditioned studio) after lunch, I\nfelt quite a lot better about Brenda Meserve--she hadn't taken too\nmuch\non herself after all. The few items I especially remembered from Jo's\nlittle office--the framed square of her first afghan, the green rag rug,\nher framed poster depicting the wildflowers of Maine--had been put\nout\nhere, along with almost everything else I remembered. It was as if\nMrs.\nM. had sent a message--/can't ease your pain or shorten your\nsadness,\nand I can't prevent the wounds that oming back here may re-open,\nbut Ican put all the stuff that may hurt you in one place, so you won't be\nstumbling over it unexpected or unprepared. I can do that much.\nOut here were no bare walls; out here the walls jostled with my\nwife's\nspirit and creativity. There were knitted things (some serious, many\nwhimsical), batik squares, rag dolls popping out of what she called\n\"my\nbaby collages,\" an abstract desert painting made from strips of\nyellow,\nblack, and orange silk, her flower photographs, even, on top of her\nbookshelf, what appeared to be a construction-in-progress, a head\nof\nSara Laughs herself. It was made out of toothpicks and lollipop\nsticks.\nIn one corner was her little loom and a wooden cabinet with a sign\nreading jo's KNITTING STUFF! NO TRESPASSING! hung over the\npull-knob.\nIn another was the banjo she had tried to learn and then given up\non,\nsaying it hurt her fingers too much. In a third was a kayak paddle\nand a\npair of Rollerblades with scuffed toes and little purple pompoms on\nthe\ntips of the laces.\nThe thing which caught and held my eye was sitting on the old roll-\ntop\ndesk in the center of the room. During the many good summers,\nfalls, and\nwinter weekends we had spent here, that desktop would have been\nlittered\nwith spools of thread, skeins of yarn, pincushions, sketches, maybe\nabook about the Spanish Civil War or famous American dogs. Johanna\ncould\nbe aggravating, at least to me, because she imposed no real system\nor\norder on what she did. She could also be daunting, even\noverwhelming at\ntimes. She was a brilliant scatterbrain, and her desk had always\nreflected that.\nBut not now. It was possible to think that Mrs. M. had cleared the\nlitter from the top of it and plunked down what was now there, but\nimpossible to believe. Why would she? It made no sense.\nThe object was covered with a gray plastic hood. I reached out to\ntouch\nit, and my hand faltered an inch or two short as a memory of an old\ndream (give me that it's my dust-catcher) slipped across my mind\nmuch as\nthat queer draft ad slipped across my face. Then it was gone, and I\npulled the plastic, over off. Underneath it was my old green IBM\nSelectric, which I hadn'o ees.sgpr thought of in years. I leaned\ncloser,\nknowing that the typewriter ball would be Courier--my old favorite--\neven\nbefore I saw it.\nWhat in God's name was my old typewriter doing out here? Johanna\npainted\n(although not very well), she took photographs (very good ones\nindeed)\nand sometimes sold them, she knitted, she crocheted, she wove and\ndyed\ncloth, she could play eight or ten basic chords on the guitar. She\ncouldwrite, of course; most English majors can, which is why they\nbecome\nEnglish majors. Did she demonstrate any blazing degree of literary\ncreativity? No. After a few experiments with poetry as an undergrad,\nshe\ngave up that particular branch of the arts as a bad job. You writejr\nboth of us, Mike, she had said once. That's allyours,' I'll just take a\nlittle taste of everything else. Given the quality of her poems as\nopposed to the quality of her silks, photographs, and knitted art, I\nthought that was probably wise.\nBut here was my old IBM. Why?\n\"Letters,\" I said. \"She found it down cellar or something, and\nrescued\nit to write letters on.\"\nExcept that wasn't Jo. She showed me most of her letters, often\nurging\nme to write little postscripts of my own, guilt-tripping me with that\nold saying about how the shoemaker's kids always go barefoot (\"and\nthe\nwriter's friends would never hear from him if it weren't for Alexander\nGraham Bell,\" she was apt to add). I hadn't seen a typed personal\nletter\nfrom my wife in all the time we'd been married--if nothing else, she\nwould have considered it shitty etiquette. She could type, producing\nmistake-free business letters slowly yet methodically, but she always\nused my desktop computer or her own Powerbook for those chores.\n\"What were you up to, hon?\" I asked, then began to investigate her\ndesk\ndrawers.\nBrenda Meserve had made an effort with these, but Jo's\nfundamentalnature had defeated her. Surface order (spools of thread segregated\nby\ncolor, for instance) quickly gave way to Jo's old dear jumble. I found\nenough of her in those drawers to hurt my heart with a hundred\nunexpected memories, but I found no paperwork which had been\ntyped on my\nold IBM, with or without the Courier ball. Not so much as a single\npage.\nWhen I was finished with my hunt, I leaned back in my chair (her\nchair)\nand looked at the little framed photo on her desk, one I couldn't\nremember ever having seen before. Jo had most likely printed it\nherself\n(the original might have come out of some local's attic) and then\nhand-tinted the result. The final product looked like a wanted poster\ncol-orized by Ted Turner.\nI picked it up and ran the ball of my thumb over the glass facing,\nbemused. Sara Tidwell, the turn-of-the-century blues shouter whose\nlast\nknown port of call had been right here in TR-90. When she and her\nfolks--some of them friends, most of them relatives--had left the TR,\nthey had gone on to Castle Rock for a little while.., then had simply\ndisappeared, like a cloud over the horizon or mist on a summer\nmorning.\nShe was smiling just a little in the picture, but the smile was hard to\nread. Her eyes were half-closed. The string of her guitar--not a strap\nbut a string--was visible over one shoulder. In the background I\ncould\nsee a black man wearing a derby at a killer angle (one thing about\nmusicians: they really know how to wear hats) and standing beside\nwhat\nappeared to be a washtub bass.Jo had tinted Sara's skin to a card-all-lair shade, maybe based on\nother\npictures she'd seen (there are quite a few knocking around, most\nshowing\nSara with her head thrown back and her hair hanging almost to her\nwaist\nas she bellows out her famous carefree yell of a laugh), although\nnone\nwould have been in color. Not at the turn of the century. Sara Tid-\nwell\nhadn't just left her mark in old photographs, either. I recalled Dickie\nBrooks, owner of the All-Purpose Garage, once telling me that his\nfather\nclaimed to have won a teddybear at the Castle County Fair's\nshooting-pitch, and to have given it to Sara Tidwell. She had\nrewarded\nhim, Dickie said, with a kiss. According to Dickie the old man never\nforgot it, said it was the best kiss of his life.., although I doubt ifhe said it in his wife's hearing.\nIn this photo she was only smiling. Sara Tidwell, known as Sara\nLaughs.\nNever recorded, but her songs had lived just the same. One of them,\n\"Walk Me Baby,\" bears a remarkable resemblance to \"Walk This\nWay,\" by\nAerosmith. Today the lady would be known as an African-American.\nIn\n1984, when Johanna and I bought the lodge and consequently got\ninterested in her, she would have been known as a Black. In her own\ntime\nshe would have been called a Negress or a darkie or possibly an\noctoroon. And a nigger, of course. There would have been plenty of\nfolks\nfree with that one. And did I believe that she had kissed Dickie\nBrooks's father--a white man--in front of half of Castle County? No, I\ndid not. Still, who could say for sure? No one. That was the\nentrancing\nthing about the past.\n\"It ain't nuthin but a barn-dance sugar,\" I sang, putting the picture\nback on the desk. \"It ain't nuthin but a round-and-round.\"\nI picked up the typewriter cover, then decided to leave it off. As I\nstood, my eyes went back to Sara, standing there with her eyes\nclosed\nand the string which served her as a guitar strap visible over one\nshoulder. Something in her face and smile had always struck me as\nfamiliar, and suddenly it came to me. She looked oddly like Robert\nJohnson, whose primitive licks hid behind the chords of almost every\nLed\nZeppelin and Yardbirds song ever recorded. Who, according to the\nlegend,had gone down to the crossroads and sold his soul to Satan for\nseven\nyears of fast living, high-tension liquor, and streetlife babies. And\nfor a jukejoint brand of immortality, of course. Which he had gotten.\nRobert Johnson, supposedly poisoned over a woman.\nIn the late afternoon I went down to the store and saw a good-\nlooking\npiece of flounder in the cold-case. It looked like supper to me. I\nbought a bottle of white wine to go with it, and while I was waiting\nmy\nturn at the cash register, a trembling old man's voice spoke up\nbehind\nme. \"See you made a new friend yes'ty.\" The Yankee accent was so\nthick\nthat it sounded almost like a joke.., except the accent itself is only\npart of it; mostly, I've come to believe, it's that singsong tone--real\nMainers all sound like auctioneers.\nI turned and saw the geezer who had been standing out on the\ngarage\ntarmac the day before, watching along with Dickie Brooks as I got to\nknow Kyra, Mattie, and Scoutie. He still had the gold-headed cane,\nand I\nnow recognized it. Sometime in the 1950s, the Boston Post had\ndonated\none of those canes to every county in the New England states. They\nwere\ngiven to the oldest residents and passed along from old fart to old\nfart. And the joke of it was that the Post had gone toes-up years\nago.\n\"Actually two new friends,\" I replied, trying to dredge up his name. I\ncouldn't, but I remembered him from when Jo had been alive,\nholding downone of the overstuffed chairs in Dickie's waiting room, discussing\nweather and politics, politics and weather, as the hammers whanged\nand\nthe air-compressor chugged. A regular. And if something happened\nout\nthere on Highway 68, eye-God, he was there to see it.\n\"I hear Mattie Devore can be quite a dear,\" he said heah, Devoah,\ndeah--and one of his crusty eyelids drooped. I have seen a fair\nnumber\nof salacious winks in my time, but none that was a patch on the one\ntipped me by that old man with the gold-headed cane. I felt a strong\nurge to knock his waxy beak of a nose off. The sound of it parting\ncompany from his face would be like the crack of a dead branch\nbroken\nover a bent knee.\n\"Do you hear a lot, old-timer?\" I asked.\n\"Oh, ayuh!\" he said. His lips--dark as strips of liver--parted in a\ngrin. His gums swarmed with white patches. He had a couple of\nyellow\nteeth still planted in the top one, and a couple more on the bottom.\n\"And she gut that little one--cunnin, she is! Ayuh!\"\n\"Cunnin as a cat a-runnin,\" I agreed.\nHe blinked at me, a little surprised to hear such an old one out of my\npresumably newfangled mouth, and then that reprehensible grin\nwidened.\n\"Her don't mind her, though,\" he said. \"Baby gut the run of the\nplace,\ndon'tcha know.\"I became aware--better belated than never--that half a dozen people\nwere\nwatching and listening to us. \"That wasn't my impression,\" I said,\nraising my voice a bit. \"No, that wasn't my impression at all.\"\nHe only grinned. .. that old man's grin that says Oh, ayuh, deah; I\nknow one worth two of that.\nI left the store feeling worried for Mattie Devore. Too many people\nwere\nminding her business, it seemed to me.\nWhen I got home, I took my bottle of wine into the kitchen--it could\nchill while I got the barbecue going out on the deck. I reached for\nthe\nfridge door, then paused. Perhaps as many as four dozen little\nmagnets\nhad been scattered randomly across the front--vegetables, fruits,\nplastic letters and numbers, even a good selection of the California\nRaisins--but they weren't random anymore. Now they formed a circle\non\nthe front of the refrigerator. Someone had been in here. Someone\nhad\ncome in and...\nRearranged the magnets on the fridge? If so, that was a burglar who\nneeded to do some heavy remedial work. I touched one of them--\ngingerly,\nwith just the tip of my finger. Then, suddenly angry with myself, I\nreached out and spread them again, doing it with enough force to\nknock a\ncouple to the floor. I didn't pick them up.\nThat night, before going to bed, I placed the Memo-Scriber on the\ntablebeneath Bunter the Great Stuffed Moose, turning it on and putting it\nin\nthe DCTATE mode. Then I slipped in one of my old home-dubbed\ncassettes,\nzeroed the counter, and went to bed, where I slept without dreams\nor\nother interruption for eight hours.\nThe next morning, Monday, was the sort of day the tourists come to\nMaine\nfor--the air so sunny-clean that the hills across the lake seemed to\nbe\nunder subtle magnification. Mount Washington, New England's\nhighest,\nfloated in the farthest distance.\nI put on the coffee, then went into the living room, whistling. All my\nimaginings of the last few days seemed silly this morning. Then the\nwhistle died away. The Memo-Scriber's counter, set to 000 when I\nwent to\nbed, was now at 012.\nI rewound it, hesitated with my finger over the PLAY button, told\nmyself(in Jo's voice) not to be a fool, and pushed it.\n\"Oh Mike,\" a voice whispered--mourned, almost-on the tape, and I\nfound\nmyself having to press the heel of one hand to my mouth to hold\nback a\nscream. It was what I had heard in Jo's office when the draft rushed\npast the sides of my face. .. only now the words were slowed down\njust\nenough for me to understand them. \"Oh Mike,\" it said again. There\nwas a\nfaint click. The machine had shut down for some length of time. Andthen, once more, spoken in the living room as I had slept in the\nnorth\nwing: \"Oh Mike.\"\nThen it was gone.\nAround nine o'clock, a pickup came down the driveway and parked\nbehind\nmy Chevrolet. The truck was new--a Dodge Ram so clean and\nchrome-shiny\nit looked as if the ten-day plates had just come off that morning--but\nit was the same shade of off-white as the last one and the sign on\nthe\ndriver's door was the one I remembered: WILLIAM \"BILI' DEAN\nCAMP\nCHECKING CARETAKING LIGHT CARPENTRYPLUS his telephone\nnumber. I went out\non the back stoop to meet him, coffee cup in my hand.\n\"Mike!\" Bill cried, climbing down from behind the wheel. Yankee men\ndon't hug--that's a truism you can put right up there with tough guys\ndon't dance and real men don't eat quiche--but Bill pumped my hand\nalmost hard enough to slop coffee from a cup that was three-\nquarters\nempty, and gave me a hearty clap on the back. His grin revealed a\nsplendidly blatant set of false teeth--the kind which used to be called\nRoebuckers, because you got them from the catalogue. It occurred\nto me\nin passing that my ancient interlocutor from the Lakeview General\nStore\ncould have used a pair. It certainly would have improved mealtimes\nfor\nthe nosy old fuck. \"Mike, you're a sight for sore eyes!\"\n\"Good to see you, too,\" I said, grinning. Nor was it a false grin; I\nfelt all right. Things with the power to scare the living shit out ofyou on a thundery midnight in most cases seem only interesting in\nthe\nbright light of a summer morning. \"You're looking well, my friend.\" It\nwas true. Bill was four years older and a little grayer around the\nedges, but otherwise the same. Sixty-five? Seventy? It didn't matter.\nThere was no waxy look of ill health about him, and none of the\nfalling-away in the face, principally around the eyes and in the\ncheeks,\nthat I associate with encroaching infirmity. \"So're you,\" he said,\nletting go of my hand. \"We was all so sorry about Jo, Mike. Folks in\ntown thought the world of her. It was a shock, with her so young.\nMy\nwife asked if I'd give you her condolences special. Jo made her an\nafghan the year she had the pneumonia, and Yvette ain't never\nforgot\nit.\"\n\"Thanks,\" I said, and my voice wasn't quite my own for a moment or\ntwo.\nIt seemed that on the TR my wife was hardly dead at all. \"And thank\nYvette, too.\"\n\"Yuh. Everythin okay with the house? Other'n the air conditioner, I\nmean. Buggardly thing! Them at the Western Auto promised me that\npart\nlast week, and now they're saying maybe not until August first.\"\n\"It's okay. I've got my Powerbook. If I want to use it, the kitchen\ntable will do fine for a desk.\" And I would want to use it--so many\ncrosswords, so little time. \"Got your hot water okay?\"\n\"All that's fine, but there is one problem.\" I stopped. How did you\ntell\nyour caretaker you thought your house was haunted? Probably there\nwas nogood way; probably the best thing to do was to go at it head-on. I\nhad\nquestions, but I didn't want just to nibble around the edges of the\nsubject and be coy. For one thing, Bill would sense it. He might\nhave\nbought his false teeth out of a catalogue, but he wasn't stupid.\n\"What's\non your mind, Mike? Shoot.\"\n\"I don't know how you're going to take this, but--\" He smiled in the\nway\nof a man who suddenly understands and held up his hand. \"Guess\nmaybe I\nknow already.\"\n\"You do?\" I felt an enormous sense of relief and I could hardly wait\nto\nfind out what he had experienced in Sara, perhaps while checking\nfor\ndead lightbulbs or making sure the roof was holding the snow all\nright.\n\"What did you hear?\"\n\"Mostly what Royce Merrill and Dickie Brooks have been telling,\" he\nsaid. \"Beyond that, I don't know much. Me and mother's been in\nVirginia,\nremember. Only got back last night around eight o'clock. Still, it's\nthe\nbig topic down to the store.\" For a moment I remained so fixed on\nSara\nLaughs that I had no idea what he was talking about. All I could\nthink\nwas that folks were gossiping about the strange noises in my house.\nThen\nthe name Royce Merrill clicked and everything else clicked with it.Merrill was the elderly possum with the gold-headed cane and the\nsalacious wink. Old Four-Teeth. My caretaker wasn't talking about\nghostly noises; he was talking about Mattie Devore.\n\"Let's get you a cup of coffee,\" I said. \"I need you to tell me what\nI'm\nstepping in here.\"\nWhen we were seated on the deck, me with fresh coffee and Bill\nwith a\ncup of tea (\"Coffee burns me at both ends these days,\" he said), I\nasked\nhim first to tell me the Royce Merrill-Dickie Brooks version of my\nencounter with Mattie and Kyra. It turned out to be better than I\nhad\nexpected. Both old men had seen me standing at the side of the\nroad with\nthe little girl in my arms, and they had observed my Chevy parked\nhalfway into the ditch with the driver's-side door open, but\napparently\nneither of them had seen Kyra using the white line of Route 68 as a\ntightrope. As if to compensate for this, however, Royce claimed that\nMattie had given me a big my hero hug and a kiss on the mouth.\n\"Did he\nget the part about how I grabbed her by the ass and slipped her\nsome\ntongue?\" I asked. Bill grinned. \"Royce's imagination ain't stretched\nthat far since he was fifty or so, and that was forty or more year\nago.\"\n\"I never touched her.\" Well. .. there had been that moment when\nthe\nback of my hand went sliding along the curve of her breast, but that\nhad\nbeen inadvertent, whatever the young lady herself might think about\nit.\"Shite, you don't need to tell me that,\" he said. \"But...\" He said that\nbut the way my mother always had, letting it trail off on its own,\nlike\nthe tail of some ill-omened kite. \"But what?\"\n\"You'd do well to keep your distance from her,\" he said. \"She's nice\nenough--almost a town girl, don't you know--but she's trouble.\" He\npaused. \"No, that ain't quite fair to her. She's in trouble.\"\n\"The old man wants custody of the baby, doesn't he?\" Bill set his\nteacup\ndown on the deck rail and looked at me with his eyebrows raised.\nReflections from the lake ran up his cheek in ripples, giving him an\nexotic look. \"How'd you know?\"\n\"Guesswork, but of the educated variety. Her father-in-law called\nme\nSaturday night during the fireworks. And while he never came right\nout\nand stated his purpose, I doubt if Max Devore came all the way back\nto\nTR-90 in western Maine to repo his daughter-in-law's Jeep and\ntrailer.\nSo what's the story, Bill?\" For several moments he only looked at\nme. It\nwas almost the look of a man who knows you have contracted a\nserious\ndisease and isn't sure how much he ought to tell you. Being looked\nat\nthat way made me profoundly uneasy. It also made me feel that I\nmight be\nputting Bill Dean on the spot. Devore had roots here, after all. And,\nas\nmuch as Bill might like me, I didn't. Jo and I were from away. It\ncouldhave been worse--it could have been Massachusetts or New York--\nbut\nDerry, although in Maine, was still away. \"Bill? I could use a little\nnavigational help if you--\"\n\"You want to stay out of his way,\" he said.\nHis easy smile was gone. \"The man's mad.\" For a moment I thought\nBill\nonly meant Devore was pissed off at me, and then I took another\nlook at\nhis face. No, I decided, he didn't mean pissed off; he had used the\nword\n\"mad\" in the most literal way. \"Mad how?\" I asked. \"Mad like Charles\nManson? Like Hannibal Lecter? How?\"\n\"Say like Howard Hughes,\" he said.\n\"Ever read any of the stories about him? The lengths he'd go to to\nget\nthe things he wanted? It didn't matter if it was a special kind of hot\ndog they only sold in L.A. or an airplane designer he wanted to steal\nfrom Lockheed or Mcdonnell-Douglas, he had to have what he\nwanted, and\nhe wouldn't rest until it was under his hand. Devore is the same way.\nHe\nalways was--even as a boy he was willful, according to the stories\nyou\nhear in town. \"My own dad had one he used to tell. He said little\nMax\nDevore broke into Scant Larribee's tack-shed one winter because he\nwanted the Flexible Flyer Scant give his boy Scooter for Christmas.\nBack\naround 1923, this would have been.\nDevore cut both his hands on broken glass, Dad said, but he got thesled. They found him near midnight, sliding down Sugar Maple Hill,\nholding his hands up to his chest when he went down. He'd bled all\nover\nhis mittens and his snowsuit. There's other stories you'll hear about\nMaxie Devore as a kid--if you ask you'll hear fifty different ones--and\nsome may even be true. That one about the sled is true, though. I'd\nbet\nthe farm on it. Because my father didn't lie. It was against his\nreligion.\"\n\"Baptist?\"\n\"Nosir, Yankee.\"\n\"1923 was many moons ago, Bill.\nSometimes people change.\"\n\"Ayuh, but mostly they don't. I haven't seen Devore since he come\nback\nand moved into Warrington's, so I can't say for sure, but I've heard\nthings that make me think that if he has changed, it's for the worse.\nHe\ndidn't come all the way across the country 'cause he wanted a\nvacation.\nHe wants the kid. To him she's just another version of Scooter\nLarribee's Flexible Flyer. And my strong advice to you is that you\ndon't\nwant to be the window-glass between him and her.\" I sipped my\ncoffee and\nlooked out at the lake. Bill gave me time to think, scraping one of his\nworkboots across a splatter of birdshit on the boards while I did it.\nCrowshit, I reckoned; only crows crap in such long and exuberant\nsplatters. One thing seemed absolutely sure: Mattie Devore was\nroughly\nnine miles up Shit Creek with no paddle.I'm not the cynic I was at twenty--is anyone?--but I wasn't naive\nenough\nor idealistic enough to believe the law would protect Ms. Doublewide\nagainst Mr. Computer... not if Mr. Computer decided to play dirty. As\na\nboy he'd taken the sled he wanted and gone sliding by himself at\nmidnight, bleeding hands not a concern. And as a man? An old man\nwho had\nbeen getting every sled he wanted for the last forty years or so?\n\"What's the story with Mattie, Bill? Tell me.\"\nIt didn't take him long. Country stories are, by and large, simple\nstories. Which isn't to say they're not often interesting. Mattie\nDevore\nhad started life as Mattie Stanchfield, not quite from the TR but from\njust over the line in Motton. Her father had been a logger, her\nmother a\nhome beautician (which made it, in a ghastly way, the perfect\ncountry\nmarriage). There were three kids. When Dave Stanch-field missed a\ncurve\nover in Lovell and drove a fully loaded pulptruck into Kewadin Pond,\nhis\nwidow \"kinda lost heart,\" as they say. She died soon after. There had\nbeen no insurance, other than what Stanchfield had been obliged to\ncarry\non his Jimmy and his skidder. Talk about your Brothers Grimm, huh?\nSubtract the Fisher-Price toys behind the house, the two pole\nhairdryers\nin the basement beauty salon, the old rustbucket Toyota in the\ndriveway,\nand you were right there: Once upon a time there lived a poor\nwidow and\nher three children. Mattie is the princess of the piece--poor butbeautiful (that she was beautiful I could personally testify). Now\nenter\nthe prince. In this case he's a gangly stuttering redhead named\nLance\nDevore. The child of Max Devore's sunset years. When Lance met\nMattie,\nhe was twenty-one. She had just turned seventeen. The meeting\ntook place\nat Warrington's, where Mattie had landed a summer job as a\nwaitress.\nLance Devore was staying across the lake on the Upper Bay, but on\nTuesday nights there were pickup softball games at Warrington's,\nthe\ntownies against the summer folks, and he usually canoed across to\nplay.\nSoftball is a great thing for the Lance Devores of the world; when\nyou're standing at the plate with a bat in your hands, it doesn't\nmatter\nif you're gangly. And it sure doesn't matter if you stutter. \"He\nconfused em quite considerable over to Warrington's,\" Bill said.\n\"They\ndidn't know which team he belonged on--the Locals or the Aways.\nLance\ndidn't care; either side was fine with him. Some weeks he'd play for\none, some weeks t'other. Either one was more than happy to have\nhim,\ntoo, as he could hit a ton and field like an angel. They'd put him at\nfirst base a lot because he was tall, but he was really wasted there.\nAt\nsecond or shortstop. .. my! He'd jump and twirl around like that guy\nNoriega.\"\n\"You might mean Nureyev,\" I said. He shrugged. \"Point is, he wassomethin to see. And folks liked him. He fit in. It's mostly young\nfolks\nthat play, you know, and to them it's how you do, not who you are.\nBesides, a lot of em don't know Max Devore from a hole in the\nground.\"\n\"Unless they read the Wall Street Journal and the computer\nmagazines,''\nI said. \"In those, you run across the name Devore about as often as\nyou\nrun across the name of God in the Bible.\"\n\"No foolin?\"\n\"Well, I guess that in the computer magazines God is more often\nspelled\nGates, but you know what I mean.\"\n\"I s'pose. But even so, it's been sixty-five years since Max Devore\nspent any real time on the TR. You know what happened when he\nleft,\ndon't you?\"\n\"No, why would I?\" He looked at me, surprised. Then a kind of veil\nseemed to fall over his eyes. He blinked and it cleared. \"Tell you\nanother time--it ain't no secret--but I need to be over to the\nHarrimans' by eleven to check their sump-pump. Don't want to get\nsidetracked. Point I was tryin to make is just this: Lance Devore was\naccepted as a nice young fella who could hit a softball three hundred\nand fifty feet into the trees if he struck it just right. There was no\none old enough to hold his old man against him--not at Warrington's\non\nTuesday nights, there wasn't--and no one held it against him that his\nfamily had dough, either. Hell, there are lots of wealthy people here\ninthe summer. You know that. None worth as much as Max Devore,\nbut being\nrich is only a matter of degree.\" That wasn't true, and I had just\nenough money to know it. Wealth is like the Richter scale-once you\npass\na certain point, the jumps from one level to the next aren't double or\ntriple but some amazing and ruinous multiple you don't even want to\nthink about. Fitzgerald had it straight, although I guess he didn't\nbelieve his own insight: the very rich are different from you and me.\nI\nthought of telling Bill that, and decided to keep my mouth shut. He\nhad\na sump-pump to fix.\nKyra's parents met over a keg of beer stuck in a mudhole. Mattie\nwas\nrunning the usual Tuesday-night keg out to the softball field from the\nmain building on a handcart. She'd gotten it most of the way from\nthe\nrestaurant wing with no trouble, but there had been heavy rain\nearlier\nin the week, and the cart finally bogged down in a soft spot. Lance's\nteam was up, and Lance was sitting at the end of the bench, waiting\nhis\nturn to hit. He saw the girl in the white shorts and blue Warrington's\npolo shirt struggling with the bogged handcart, and got up to help\nher.\nThree weeks later they were inseparable and Mattie was pregnant;\nten\nweeks later they were married; thirty-seven months later, Lance\nDevote\nwas in a coffin, done with softball and cold beer on a summer\nevening,\ndone with what he called \"woodsing,\" done with fatherhood, done\nwithlove for the beautiful princess. Just another early finish, hold the\nhappily-ever-after.\nBill Dean didn't describe their meeting in any detail; he only said,\n\"They met at the field--she was runnin out the beer and he helped\nher\nout of a boghole when she got her handcart stuck.\"\nMattie never said much about that part of it, so I don't know much.\nExcept I do. .. and although some of the details might be wrong, I'd\nbet you a dollar to a hundred 1 got most of them right. That was my\nsummer for knowing things I had no business knowing.\nIt's hot, for one thing--'94 is the hottest summer of the decade and\nJuly is the hottest month of the summer. President Clinton is being\nupstaged by Newt and the Republicans. Folks are saying old Slick\nWillie\nmay not even run for a second term. Boris Yeltsin is reputed to be\neither dying of heart disease or in a dry-out clinic. The Red Sox are\nlooking better than they have any right to. In Derry, Johanna Arlen\nNoonan is maybe starting to feel a little whoopsy in the morning. If\nso,\nshe does not speak of it to her husband.\nI see Mattie in her blue polo shirt with her name sewn in white script\nabove her left breast. Her white shorts make a pleasing contrast to\nher\ntanned legs. I also see her wearing a blue gimme cap with the red\nW for\nWarrington's above the long bill. Her pretty dark-blonde hair is pulled\nthrough the hole at the back of the cap and falls to the collar of her\nshirt. I see her trying to yank the handcart out of the mud without\nupsetting the keg of beer. Her head is down; the shadow thrown by\nthe\nbill of the cap obscures all of her face but her mouth and small setchin.\n\"Luh-let m-me h-h-help,\" Lance says, and she looks up. The shadow\ncast\nby the cap's bill falls away, he sees her big blue eyes--the ones she'll\npass on to their daughter. One look into those eyes and the war is\nover\nwithout a single shot fired; he belongs to her as surely as any young\nman ever belonged to any young woman.\nThe rest, as they say around here, was just courtin.\nThe old man had three children, but Lance was the only one he\nseemed to\ncare about. (\"Daughter's crazier'n a shithouse mouse,\" Bill said\nmatter-of-factly. \"In some laughin academy in California. Think I\nheard\nshe caught her a cancer, too.\") The fact that Lance had no interest\nin\ncomputers and software actually seemed to please his father. He had\nanother son who was capable of running the business. In another\nway,\nhowever, Lance Devore's older half-brother wasn't capable at all:\nthere\nwould be no grandchildren from that one.\n\"Rump-wrangler,\" Bill said. \"Understand there's a lot of that going\naround out there in California.\"\nThere was a fair amount of it going around on the TR, too, I\nimagined,\nbut thought it not my place to offer sexual instruction to my\ncaretaker.\nLance Devore had been attending Reed College in Oregon, majoring\ninforestry--the kind of guy who falls in love with green flannel pants,\nred suspenders, and the sight of condors at dawn. A Brothers Grimm\nwoodcutter, in fact, once you got past the academic jargon. In the\nsummer between his junior and senior years, his father had\nsummoned him\nto the family compound in Palm Springs, and had presented him\nwith a\nboxy lawyer's suitcase crammed with maps, aerial photos, and legal\npapers. These had little order that Lance could see, but I doubt that\nhe\ncared. Imagine a comic-book collector given a crate crammed with\nrare\nold copies of Donald Duck. Imagine a movie collector given the\nrough cut\nof a never-released film starring Humphrey Bogart and Marilyn\nMonroe.\nThen imagine this avid young forester realizing that his father owned\nnot just acres or square miles in the vast unincorporated forests of\nwestern Maine, but entire realms.\nAlthough Max Devore had left the TR in 1933, he'd kept a lively\ninterest\nin the area where he'd grown up, subscribing to area newspapers\nand\ngetting magazines such as Down East and the Maine Times. In the\nearly\neighties, he had begun to buy long columns of land just east of the\nMaine-New Hampshire border. God knew there had been plenty for\nsale; the\npaper companies which owned most of it had fallen into a\nrecessionary\npit, and many had become convinced that their New England\nholdings and\noperations would be the best place to begin retrenching. So this\nland,stolen from the Indians and clear-cut ruthlessly in the twenties and\nfifties, came into Max Devore's hands. He might have bought it just\nbecause it was there, a good bargain he could afford to take\nadvantage\nof. He might have bought it as a way of demonstrating to himself\nthat he\nhad really survived his childhood; had, in point of fact, triumphed\nover\nit.\nOr he might have bought it as a toy for his beloved younger son. In\nthe\nyears when Devore was making his major land purchases in western\nMaine,\nLance would have been just a kid. .. but old enough for a perceptive\nfather to see where his interests were tending.\nDevore asked Lance to spend the summer of 1994 surveying\npurchases which\nwere, for the most part, already ten years old. He wanted the boy to\nput\nthe paperwork in order, but he wanted more than that--he wanted\nLance to\nmake sense of it. It wasn't a land-use recommendation he was\nlooking\nfor, exactly, although I guess he would have listened if Lance had\nwanted to make one; he simply wanted a sense of what he had\npurchased.\nWould Lance take a summer in western Maine trying to find out\nwhat his\nsense of it was? At a salary of two or three thousand dollars a\nmonth?\nI imagine Lance's reply was a more polite version of Buddy Jellison's\n\"Does a crow shit in the pine tops?\"The kid arrived in June of 1994 and set up shop in a tent on the far\nside of Dark Score Lake. He was due back at Reed in late August.\nInstead, though, he decided to take a year's leave of absence. His\nfather wasn't pleased. His father smelled what he called \"girl\ntrouble.\"\n\"Yeah, but it's a damned long sniff from California to Maine,\" Bill\nDean\nsaid, leaning against the driver's door of his truck with his sunburned\narms folded. \"He had someone a lot closer than Palm Springs doin\nhis\nsniffin for him.\"\n\"What are you talking about?\" I asked.\n\"\"Bout talk. People do it for free, and most are willing to do even\nmore\nif they're paid.\"\n\"People like Royce Merrill?\"\n\"Royce might be one,\" he agreed, \"but he wouldn't be the only one.\nTimes\naround here don't go between bad and good; if you're a local, they\nmostly go between bad and worse. So when a guy like Max Devore\nsends a\nguy out with a supply of fifty- and hundred-dollar bills...\"\n\"Was it someone local? A lawyer?\"\nNot a lawyer; a real-estate broker named Richard Osgood (\"a greasy\nkind\nof fella\" was Bill Dean's judgment of him) who denned and did\nbusinessin Motton. Eventually Osgood had hired a lawyer from Castle Rock.\nThe\ngreasy fella's initial job, when the summer of '94 ended and Lance\nDevote remained on the TR, was to find out what the hell was going\non\nand put a stop to it.\n\"And then?\" I asked.\nBill glanced at his watch, glanced at the sky, then centered his gaze\non\nme. He gave a funny little shrug, as if to say, \"We're both men of the\nworld, in a quiet and settled sort of way--you don't need to ask a\nsilly\nquestion like that.\"\n\"Then Lance Devore and Mattie Stanchfield got married in the Grace\nBaptist Church right up there on Highway 68. There were tales made\nthe\nrounds about what Osgood might've done to keep it from comin off I\nheard\nhe even tried to bribe Reverend Gooch into refusin to hitch em, but I\nthink that's stupid, they just would have gone someplace else.\n\"Sides, I\ndon't see much sense in repeating what I don't know for sure.\"\nBill unfolded an arm and began to tick items off on the leathery\nfingers\nof his right hand.\n\"They got married in the middle of September, 1994, I know that.\"\nOut\npopped the thumb. \"People looked around with some curiosity to see\nif\nthe groom's father would put in an appearance, but he never did.\"Out popped the forefinger. Added to the thumb, it made a pistol.\n\"Mat-tie had a baby in April of '95, making the kiddie a dight\npremature... but not enough to matter. I seen it in the store with my\nown eyes when it wasn't a week old, and it was just the right size.\"\nOut\nwith the second finger. \"I don't know that Lance Devore's old man\nabsolutely refused to help em financially, but I do know they were\nliving in that trailer down below Dickie's Garage, and that makes me\nthink they were havin a pretty hard skate.\"\n\"Devore put on the choke-chain,\" I said. \"It's what a guy used to\ngetting his own way would do... but if he loved the boy the way you\nseem\nto think, he might have come around.\"\n\"Maybe, maybe not.\" He glanced at his watch again. \"Let me finish\nup\nquick and get out of your sunshine.., but you ought to hear one\nmore\nlittle story, because it really shows how the land lies.\n\"In July of last year, less'n a month before he died, Lance Devore\nshows\nup at the post-office counter in the Lakeview General. He's got a\nmanila\nenvelope he wants to send, but first he needs to show Carla\nDecinces\nwhat's inside. She said he was all fluffed out, like daddies sometimes\nget over their kids when they're small.\"\nI nodded, amused at the idea of skinny, stuttery Lance Devore all\nfluffed out. But I could see it in my mind's eye, and the image was\nalso\nsort of sweet.\"It was a studio pitcher they'd gotten taken over in the Rock.\nShowed\nthe kid.., what's her name? Kayla?\"\n\"Kyra.\"\n'55yuh, they call em anything these days, don't they? It showed Kyra\nsittin in a big leather chair, with a pair of joke spectacles on her\nlittle snub of a nose, lookin at one of the aerial photos of the woods\nover across the lake in TR-100 or TR-110--part of what the old man\nhad\npicked up, anyway. Carla said the baby had a surprised look on her\nface,\nas if she hadn't suspected there could be so much woods in the\nwhole\nworld. Said it was awful cunnin, she did.\"\n\"Cunnin as a cat a-runnin,\" I murmured.\n\"Sknd the envelope--Registered, Express Mail was addressed to\nMaxwell\nDevore, in Palm Springs, California.\"\n\"Leading you to deduce that the old man either thawed enough to\nask for\na picture of his only grandchild, or that Lance Devore thought a\npicture\nmight thaw him.\"\nBill nodded, looking as pleased as a parent whose child has\nmanaged a\ndifficult sum. \"Don't know if it did,\" he said. \"Wasn't enough time to\ntell, one way or the other. Lance had bought one of those little\nsatellite dishes, like what you've got here. There was a bad storm\ntheday he put it up--hail, high wind, blowdowns along the lakeshore,\nlots\noflightnin. That was along toward evening. Lance put his dish up in\nthe\nafternoon, all done and safe, except around the time the storm\ncommenced\nhe remembered he'd left his socket wrench on the trailer roof. He\nwent\nup to get it so it wouldn't get all wet n rusty--\"\n\"He was struck by lightning? Jesus, Bill!\"\n\"Lightnin struck, all right, but it hit across the way. You go past the\nplace where Wasp Hill Road runs into 68 and you'll see the stump of\nthe\ntree that stroke knocked over. Lance was comin down the ladder\nwith his\nsocket wrench when it hit. If you've never had a lightnin bolt tear\nright over your head, you don't know how scary it is--it's like havin a\ndrunk driver veer across into your lane, headed right for you, and\nthen\nswing back onto his own side just in time. Close lightnin makes your\nhair stand up--makes your damned prick stand up. It's apt to play\nthe\nradio on your steel fillins, it makes your ears hum, and it makes the\nair taste roasted. Lance fell off the ladder. If he had time to think\nanything before he hit the ground, I bet he thought he was\nelectrocuted.\nPoor boy.\nHe loved the TR, but it wasn't lucky for him.\"\n\"Broke his neck?\"\n\"Ayuh. With all the thunder, Mattie never heard him fall or yell oranything. She looked out a minute or two later when it started to\nhail\nand he still wasn't in. And there he was, layin on the ground and\nlookin\nup into the friggin hail with his eyes open.\"\nBill looked at his watch one final time, then swung open the door to\nhis\ntruck. \"The old man wouldn't come for their weddin, but he came for\nhis\nson's funeral and he's been here ever since. He didn't want nawthin\nto\ndo with the young woman--\"\n\"But he wants the kid,\" I said. It was no more than what I already\nknew,\nbut I felt a sinking in the pit of my stomach just the same. Don't talk\nabout this, Mattie had asked me on the morning of the Fourth. It's\nnot a\ngood time Jar Ki and me. \"How far along in the process has he\ngotten?\"\n\"On the third turn and headin into the home stretch, I sh'd say.\nThere'll be a hearin in Castle County Superior Court, maybe later this\nmonth, maybe next. The judge could rule then to hand the girl over,\nor\nput it off until fall. I don't think it matters which, because the one\nthing that's never going to happen on God's green earth is a rulin in\nfavor of the mother. One way or another, that little girl is going to\ngrow up in California.'' Put that way, it gave me a very nasty little\nchill. Bill slid behind the wheel of his truck. \"Stay out of it, Mike,\"\nhe said. \"Stay away from Mattie Devore and her daughter. And if you\nget\ncalled to court on account of seem the two of em on Saturday, smile\na\nlot and say as little as you can.\"\"Max Devore's charging that she's unfit to raise the child.\" 'yuh.\"\n\"Bill, I saw the child, and she's fine.\" He grinned again, but this time\nthere was no amusement in it.\n\"\"Magine she is. But that's not the point. Stay clear of their business,\nold boy. It's my job to tell you that; with Jo gone, I guess I'm the\nonly caretaker you got.\" He slammed the door of his Ram, started\nthe\nengine, reached for the gearshift, then dropped his hand again as\nsomething else occurred to him. \"If you get a chance, you ought to\nlook\nfor the owls.\"\n\"What owls?\"\n\"There's a couple of plastic owls around here someplace. They might\nbe\nin y'basement or out in Jo's studio. They come in by mail-order the\nfall\nbefore she passed on.\"\n\"The fall of 19937\"\n\"Ayuh.\"\n\"That can't be right.\" We hadn't used Sara in the fall of 1993. \"\"Tis,\nthough. I was down here puttin on the storm doors when Jo showed\nup. We\nhad us a natter, and then the UPS truck come. I lugged the box into\nthe\nentry and had a coffee--I was still drinkin it then--while she took the\nowls out of the carton and showed em off to me. Gorry, but they\nlookedreal! She left not ten minutes after. It was like she'd come down to\ndo\nthat errand special, although why anyone'd drive all the way from\nDerry\nto take delivery of a couple of plastic owls I don't know.\"\n\"When in the fall was it, Bill? Do you remember?\"\n\"Second week of November,\" he said promptly. \"Me n the wife went\nup to\nLewiston later that afternoon, to \"Vette's sister's. It was her\nbirthday. On our way back we stopped at the Castle Rock Agway so\n\"Vette\ncould get her Thanksgiving turkey.\" He looked at me curiously. \"You\nreally didn't know about them owls?\"\n\"No.\"\n\"That's a touch peculiar, wouldn't you say?\"\n\"Maybe she told me and I forgot,\" I said. \"I guess it doesn't matter\nmuch now in any case.\" Yet it seemed to matter. It was a small\nthing,\nbut it seemed to matter. \"Why would Jo want a couple of plastic owls\nto\nbegin with?\"\n\"To keep the crows from shittin up the woodwork, like they're doing\nout\non your deck. Crows see those plastic owls, they veer off.\" I burst\nout\nlaughing in spite of my puzzlement.., or perhaps because of it.\n\"Yeah?\nThat really works?\"\"Ayuh, long's you move em every now and then so the crows don't\nget\nsuspicious. Crows are just about the smartest birds going, you know.\nYou\nlook for those owls, save yourself a lot of mess.\"\n\"I will,\" I said. Plastic owls to scare the crows away--it was exactly\nthe sort of knowledge Jo would come by (she was like a crow herself\nin\nthat way, picking up glittery pieces of information that happened to\ncatch her interest) and act upon without bothering to tell me. All at\nonce I was lonely for her again--missing her like hell. \"Good. Some\nday\nwhen I've got more time, we'll walk the place all the way around.\nWoods\ntoo, if you want. I think you'll be satisfied.\"\n\"I'm sure I will. Where's Devore staying?\" The bushy eyebrows went\nup.\n\"Warrington's. Him and you's practically neighbors. I thought you\nmust\nknow.\" I remembered the woman I'd seen---black bathing-suit and\nblack\nshorts somehow combining to give her an exotic cocktail-party\nlookand\nnodded. \"I met his wife.\"\nBill laughed heartily enough at that to feel in need of his\nhandkerchief. He fished it off the dashboard (a blue paisley thing the\nsize of a football pennant) and wiped his eyes.\n\"What's so funny?\" I asked.\n\"Skinny woman? White hair? Face sort of like a kid's Halloween\nmask?\"It was my turn to laugh. \"That's her.\"\n\"She ain't his wife, she's his whatdoyoucallit, personal assistant.\nRogette Whitmore is her name.\" He pronounced it roGET, with a\nhard G.\n\"Devore's wives're all dead. The last one twenty years.\"\n\"What kind of name is Rogette? French?\"\n\"California,\" he said, and shrugged as if that one word explained\neverything. \"There's people in town scared of her.\"\n\"Is that so?\"\n'kyuh.\" Bill hesitated, then added with one of those smiles we put on\nwhen we want others to know that we know we're saying something\nsilly:\n\"Brenda Meserve says she's a witch.\"\n\"And the two of them have been staying at Warrington's almost a\nyear?\"\n\"Ayuh. The Whitmore woman comes n goes, but mostly she's been\nhere.\nThinkin in town is that they'll stay until the custody case is finished\noff, then all go back to California on Devore's private jet. Leave\nOsgood to sell Warrington's, and--\"\n\"Sell it? What do you mean, sell it?\"\n\"I thought you must know,\" Bill said, dropping his gearshift into\nDVAV.\"When old Hugh Emerson told Devore they closed the lodge after\nThanksgiving, Devore told him he had no intention of moving. Said\nhe was\ncomfortable right where he was and meant to stay put.\"\n\"He bought the place.\" I had been by turns surprised, amused, and\nangered over the last twenty minutes, but never exactly\ndumbfounded. Now\nI was. \"He bought Warrington's Lodge so he wouldn't have to move\nto\nLookout Rock Hotel over in Castle View, or rent a house.\"\n\"Ayuh, so he did. Nine buildins, includin the main lodge and The\nSunset\nBar; twelve acres of woods, a six-hole golf course, and five hundred\nfeet of shorefront on The Street. Plus a two-lane bowlin alley and a\nsoftball field. Four and a quarter million. His friend Osgood did the\ndeal and Devore paid with a personal check. I wonder how he found\nroom\nfor all those zeros. See you, Mike.\"\nWith that he backed up the driveway, leaving me to stand on the\nstoop,\nlooking after him with my mouth open.\nPlastic owls.\nBill had told me roughly two dozen interesting things in between\npeeks\nat his watch, but the one which stayed on top of the pile was the\nfact\n(and I did accept it as a fact; he had been too positive for me not\nto)\nthat Jo had come down here to take delivery on a couple of plasticgod-dam owls.\nHad she told me?\nShe might have. I didn't remember her doing so, and it seemed to\nme that\nI would have, but Jo used to claim that when I got in the zone it was\nno\ngood to tell me anything; stuff went in one ear and out the other.\nSometimes she'd pin little notes---errands to run, calls to make--to\nmy\nshirt, as if I were a first-grader. But wouldn't I recall if she'd said\n\"I'm going down to Sara, hon, UPS is delivering something I want to\nreceive personally, interested in keeping a lady company?\" Hell\nwouldn't\nI have gone? I always liked an excuse to go to the TR. Except I'd\nbeen\nworking on that screenplay.., and maybe pushing it a little.., notes\npinned to the sleeve of my shirt... If you go out when you're\nfinished,\nwe need mi& and orange juice....\nI inspected what little was left of Jo's vegetable garden with the July\nsun beating down on my neck and thought about owls, the plastic\ngod-dam\nowls. Suppose Jo had told me she was coming down here to Sara\nLaughs?\nSuppose I had declined almost without hearing the offer because I\nwas in\nthe writing zone? Even if you granted those things, there was\nanother\nquestion: why had she felt the need to come down here personally\nwhenshe could have just called someone and asked them to meet the\ndelivery\ntruck? Kenny Auster would have been happy to do it, ditto Mrs. M.\nAnd\nBill Dean, our caretaker, had actually been here. This led to other\nquestions--one was why she hadn't just had UPS deliver the damned\nthings\nto Derry--and finally I decided I couldn't live without actually seeing\na bona fide plastic owl for myself. Maybe, I thought, going back to\nthe\nhouse, I'd put one on the roof of my Chew when it was parked in\nthe\ndriveway. Forestall future bombing runs. I paused in the entry, struck\nby a sudden idea, and called Ward Han-kins, the guy in Waterville\nwho\nhandles my taxes and my few non-writing-related business affairs.\n\"Mike,\" he said heartily. \"How's the lake?\"\n\"The lake's cool and the weather's hot, just the way we like it,\" I\nsaid. \"Ward, you keep all the records we send you for five years,\ndon't\nyou? Just in case IRS decides to give us some grief?.\"\n\"Five is accepted practice,\" he said, \"but I hold your stuff for\nseven--in the eyes of the tax boys, you're a mighty fat pigeon.\"\nBetter\nafatpigeon than ap/astic owl, I thought but didn't say. What I said\nwas\n\"That includes desk calendars, right? Mine and. Jo's, up until she\ndied?\"\n\"You bet. Since neither of you kept diaries, it was the best way to\ncross-reference receipts and claimed expenses with--\"\n\"Could you find Jo's desk calendar for 1993 and see what she had\ngoingin the second week of November?\"\n\"Td be happy to.\nWhat in particular are you looking for?\" For a moment I saw myself\nsitting at my kitchen table in Derry on my first night as a widower,\nholding up a box with the words Norco Home Pregnancy Test printed\non the\nside. Exactly what was I looking for at this late date? Considering\nthat\nI had loved the lady and she was almost four years in her grave,\nwhat\nwas I looking for? Besides trouble, that was? \"I'm looking for two\nplastic owls,\" I said. Ward probably thought I was talking to him, but\nI'm not sure I was. \"I know that sounds weird, but it's what I'm\ndoing.\nCan you call me back?\"\n\"Within the hour.\"\n\"Good man,\" I said, and hung up. Now for the actual owls\nthemselves.\nWhere was the most likely spot to store two such interesting\nartifacts?\nMy eyes went to the cellar door. Elementary, my dear Watson.\nThe cellar stairs were dark and mildly dank. As I stood on the\nlanding\ngroping for the lightswitch, the door banged shut behind me with\nsuch\nforce that I cried out in surprise. There was no breeze, no draft, the\nday was perfectly still, but the door banged shut just the same. Or\nwas\nsucked shut. I stood in the dark at the top of the stairs, feeling for\nthe lightswitch, smelling that oozy smell that even good concretefoundations get after awhile if there is no proper airing-out. It was\ncold, much colder than it had been on the other side of the door. I\nwasn't alone and I knew it. I was afraid, I'd be a liar to say I wasn't.\n.. but I was also fascinated. Something was with me. Something\nwas in\nhere with me. I dropped my hand away from the wall where the\nswitch was\nand just stood with my arms at my sides. Some time passed. I don't\nknow\nhow much. My heart was beating furiously in my chest; I could feel\nit in\nmy temples. It was cold. \"Hello?\" I asked. Nothing in response. I\ncould\nhear the faint, irregular drip of water as condensation fell from one\nof\nthe pipes down below, I could hear my own breathing, and faintly--\nfar\naway, in another world where the sun was out--I could hear the\ntriumphant caw of a crow. Perhaps it had just dropped a load on the\nhood\nof my car. I really need an owl, I thought. In fact, I don't know how\nI\never got along without one. \"Hello?\" I asked again. \"Can you talk?\"\nNothing. I wet my lips. I should have felt silly, perhaps, standing\nthere in the dark and calling to the ghosts. But I didn't. Not a bit.\nThe damp had been replaced by a coldness I could feel, and I had\ncompany. Oh, yes. \"Can you tap, then? If you can shut the door, you\nmust\nbe able to tap.\" I stood there and listened to the soft, isolated drips\nfrom the pipes. There was nothing else. I was reaching out for the\nlightswitch again when there was a soft thud from not far below me.\nThe\ncellar of Sara Laughs is high, and the upper three feet of theconcrete--the part which lies against the ground's frost-belt--had\nbeen\ninsulated with big silver-backed panels of Insu-Gard. The sound that\nI\nheard was, I am quite sure, a fist striking against one of these. Just\na\nfist hitting a square of insulation, but every gut and muscle of my\nbody\nseemed to come unwound. My hair stood up. My eyesockets seemed\nto be\nexpanding and my eyeballs contracting, as if my head were trying to\nturn\ninto a skull. Every inch of my skin broke out in gooseflesh.\nSomething was in here with me. Very likely something dead. I could\nno\nlonger have turned on the light if I'd wanted to. I no longer had the\nstrength to raise my arm. I tried to talk, and at last, in a husky\nwhisper I hardly recognized, I said: \"Are you really there?\" Thud.\n\"Who\nare you?\" I could still do no better than that husky whisper, the voice\nof a man giving last instructions to his family as he lies on his\ndeathbed. This time there was nothing from below. I tried to think,\nand\nwhat came to my struggling mind was Tony Curtis as Harry Houdini\nin some\nold movie. According to the film, Houdini had been the Diogenes of\nthe\nOuija board circuit, a guy who spent his spare time just looking for\nan\nhonest medium. He'd attended one sance where the dead\ncommunicated\nby-\"Tap once for yes, twice for no,\" I said. \"Can you do that?\" Thud.\nIt\nwas on the stairs below me. .. but not too far below. Five steps\ndown,six or seven at most. Not quite close enough to touch if I should\nreach\nout and wave my hand in the black basement air. .. a thing I could\nimagine, but not actually imagine doing. \"Are you...\" My voice trailed\noff. There was simply no strength in my diaphragm. Chilly air lay on\nmy\nchest like a flatiron. I gathered all my will and tried again. \"Are you\nJo?\" Thud. That soft fist on the insulation. A pause, and then:\nThud-thud. Yes and no. Then, with no idea why I was asking such\nan inane\nquestion: \"Tkre the owls down here?\" Thud-thud. \"Do you know\nwhere they\nare?\" Thud. \"Should I look for them?\" Thud! Very hard.\nWhy didshe want them? I could ask, but the thing on the stairs had\nno\nway to an-Hot fingers touched my eyes and I almost screamed\nbefore\nrealizing it was sweat. I raised my hands in the dark and wiped the\nheels of them up my face to the hairline. They skidded as if on oil.\nCold or not, I was all but bathing in my own sweat. \"Are you Lance\nDevore?\" Thud-thud, at once. \"Is it safe for me at Sara? Am I safe?\"\nThud. A pause. And I knew it was a pause, that the thing on the\nstairs\nwasn't finished. Then: Thud-thud. Yes, I was safe. No, I wasn't safe.\nI\nhad regained marginal control of my arm. I reached out, felt along\nthe\nwall, and found the lightswitch. I settled my fingers on it. Now the\nsweat on my face felt as if it were turning to ice. \"Are you the\nperson\nwho cries in the night?\" I asked. Thud-thud from below me, and\nbetweenthe two thuds, I flicked the switch. The cellar globes came on. So\ndid a\nbrilliant hanging bulb at least a hundred and twenty-five watts--over\nthe landing. There was no time for anyone to hide, let alone get\naway,\nand no one there to try, either. Also, Mrs. Meserve--admirable in so\nmany ways--had neglected to sweep the cellar stairs. When I went\ndown to\nwhere I estimated the thudding sounds had been coming from, I left\ntracks in the light dust. But mine were the only ones. I blew out\nbreath\nin front of me and could see it. So it had been cold, still was cold..,\nbut it was warming up fast. I blew out another breath and could see\njust\na hint of fog. A third exhale and there was nothing. I ran my palm\nover\none of the insulated squares. Smooth. I pushed a finger at it, and\nalthough I didn't push with any real force, my finger left a dimple in\nthe silvery surface. Easy as pie. If someone had been thumping a\nfist\ndown here, this stuff should be pitted, the thin silver skin perhaps\neven broken to reveal the pink fill underneath. But all the squares\nwere\nsmooth. \"Are you still there?\" I asked. No response, and yet I had a\nsense that my visitor was still there. Somewhere.\n\"I hope I didn't offend you by turning on the light,\" I said, and now I\ndid feel slightly odd, standing on my cellar stairs and talking out\nloud, sermonizing to the spiders. \"I wanted to see you if I could.\" I\nhad no idea if that was true or not. Suddenly--so suddenly I almost\nlost\nmy balance and tumbled down the stairs--I whirled around,\nconvinced the\nshroud-creature was behind me, that it had been the thing knocking,\nit,\nno polite M. R. James ghost but a horror from around the rim of theuniverse. There was nothing. I turned around again, took two or\nthree\ndeep, steadying breaths, and then went the rest of the way down\nthe\ncellar stairs. Beneath them was a perfectly serviceable canoe,\ncomplete\nwith paddle. In the corner was the gas stove we'd replaced after\nbuying\nthe place; also the claw-foot tub Jo had wanted (over my objections)\nto\nturn into a planter. I found a trunk filled with vaguely recalled\ntable-linen, a box of mildewy cassette tapes (groups like the\nDelfonics,\nFunkadelic, and. 38 Special), several cartons of old dishes. There\nwas a\nlife down here, but ultimately not a very interesting one. Unlike the\nlife I'd sensed in Jo's studio, this one hadn't been cut short but\nevolved out of, shed like old skin, and that was all right. Was, in\nfact, the natural order of things. There was a photo album on a shelf\nof\nknickknacks and I took it down, both curious and wary. No\nbombshells\nthis time, however; nearly all the pix were landscape shots of Sara\nLaughs as it had been when we bought it. I found a picture of Join\nbellbottoms, though (her hair parted in the middle and white lipstick\non\nher mouth), and one of Michael Noonan wearing a flowered shirt\nand\nmuttonchop sideburns that made me cringe (the bachelor Mike in\nthe photo\nwas a Barry White kind of guy I didn't want to recognize and yet\ndid). I\nfound Jo's old broken treadmill, a rake I'd want if I was still around\nhere come fall, a snowblower I'd want even more if I was around\ncome\nwinter, and several cans of paint. What I didn't find was any plasticowls. My insulation-thumping friend had been right. Upstairs the\ntelephone started ringing. I hurried to answer it, going out through\nthe\ncellar door and then reaching back in to flick off the lightswitch. This\namused me and at the same time seemed like perfectly normal\nbehavior..,\njust as being careful not to step on sidewalk cracks had seemed like\nperfectly normal behavior to me when I was a kid. And even if it\nwasn't\nnormal, what did it matter? I'd only been back at Sara for three\ndays,\nbut already I'd postulated Noonan's First Law of Eccentricity: when\nyou're on your own, strange behavior really doesn't seem strange at\nall.\nI snagged the cordless. \"Hello?\"\n\"Hi, Mike. It's Ward.\"\n\"That was quick.\"\n\"The file-room's just a short walk down the hall,\" he said. \"Easy as\npie.\nThere's only one thing on Jo's calendar for the second week of\nNovember\nin 1993. It says \"S-Ks of Maine, Freep, 11 A.M.' That's on Tuesday\nthe\nsixteenth. Does it help?\"\n\"Yes,\" 1 said. \"Thank you, Ward. It helps a lot.\" I broke the\nconnection\nand put the phone back in its cradle. Yes, it helped. S-Ks of Maine\nwas\nSoup Kitchens of Maine. Jo had been on their board of directors\nfrom\n1992 until her death. Freep was Freeport.It must have been a board meeting. They had probably discussed\nplans for\nfeeding the homeless on Thanksgiving. .. and then Jo had driven\nthe\nseventy or so miles to the TR in order to take delivery of two plastic\nowls. It didn't answer all the questions, but aren't there always\nquestions in the wake of a loved one's death? And no statute of\nlimitations on when they come up. The UFO voice spoke up then.\nWhile\nyou're right here by the phone, it said, why not call Bonnie\nAmudson?\nSay hi, see how she's doing? Jo had been on four different boards\nduring\nthe nineties, all of them doing charitable work. Her friend Bonnie\nhad\npersuaded her onto the Soup Kitchens board when a seat fell\nvacant. They\nhad gone to a lot of the meetings together. Not the one in November\nof\n1993, presumably, and Bonnie could hardly be expected to\nremember that\none particular meeting almost five years later.., but if she'd saved\nher\nold minutes-of-the-meeting sheets... Exactly what the fuck was I\nthinking of?. Calling Bonnie, making nice, then asking her to check\nher\nDecember 1993 minutes? Was I going to ask her if the attendance\nreport\nhad my wife absent from the November meeting? Was I going to ask\nif\nmaybe Jo had seemed different that last year of her life? And when\nBonnie asked me why I wanted to know, what would I say? Give me\nthat, Jo\nhad snarled in my dream of her.In the dream she hadn't looked like Jo at all, she'd looked like some\nother woman, maybe like the one in the Book of Proverbs, the\nstrange\nwoman whose lips were as honey but whose heart was full of gall\nand\nwormwood. A strange woman with fingers as cold as twigs after a\nfrost.\nGive me that, it's my dust-catcher. I went to the cellar door and\ntouched the knob. I turned it... then let it go. I didn't want to look\ndown there into the dark, didn't want to risk the chance that\nsomething\nmight start thumping again. It was better to leave that door shut.\nWhat\nI wanted was something cold to drink. I went into the kitchen,\nreached\nfor the fridge door, then stopped. The magnets were back in a circle\nagain, but this time four letters and one number had been pulled\ninto\nthe center and lined up there. They spelled a single lower-case\nword:\nhello There was something here. Even back in broad daylight I had\nno\ndoubt of that. I'd asked if it was safe for me to be here and had\nreceived a mixed message.., but that didn't matter. if I left Sara now,\nthere was nowhere to go. I had a key to the house in Derry, but\nmatters\nhad to be resolved here. I knew that, too. \"Hello,\" I said, and\nopened\nthe fridge to get a soda. \"Whoever or whatever you are, hello.\"\nC H P T E.:. R I woke in the early hours of the following morning\nconvinced that there was someone in the north bedroom with me. I\nsat upagainst the pillows, rubbed my eyes, and saw a dark, shouldery\nshape\nstanding between me and the window. \"Who are you?\" I asked,\nthinking\nthat it wouldn't reply in words; it would, instead, thump on the wall.\nOnce for yes, twice for no--what's on your mind, Houdini? But the\nfigure\nstanding by the window made no reply at all. I groped up, found the\nstring hanging from the light over the bed, and yanked it. My mouth\nwas\nturned down in a grimace, my midsection tensed so tight it felt as if\nbullets would have bounced off. \"Oh shit,\" I said. \"Fuck me til I cry.\"\nDangling from a hanger I'd hooked over the curtain rod was my old\nsuede\njacket. I'd parked it there while unpacking and had then forgotten to\nstore it away in the closet. I tried to laugh and couldn't. At three in\nthe morning it just didn't seem that funny. I turned off the light and\nlay back down with my eyes open, waiting for Bunter's bell to ring or\nthe childish sobbing to start. I was still listening when I fell asleep.\nSeven hours or so later, as I was getting ready to go out to Jo's\nstudio\nand see if the plastic owls were in the storage area, where I hadn't\nchecked the day before, a late-model Ford rolled down my driveway\nand\nstopped nose to nose with my Chevy. I had gotten as far as the\nshort\npath between the house and the studio, but now I came back. The\nday was\nhot and breathless, and I was wearing nothing but a pair of cut-off\njeans and plastic flip-flops on my feet. Jo always claimed that the\nCleveland style of dressing divided itself naturally into two\nsubgenres:\nFull Cleveland and Cleveland Casual. My visitor that Tuesday morning\nwaswearing Cleveland Casual--you had your Hawaiian shirt with\npineapples\nand monkeys, your tan slacks from Banana Republic, your white\nloafers.\nSocks are optional, but white footgear is a necessary part of the\nCleveland look, as is at least one piece of gaudy gold jewelry. This\nfellow was totally okay in the latter department: he had a Rolex on\none\nwrist and a gold-link chain around his neck. The tail of his shirt was\nout, and there was a suspicious lump at the back. It was either a\ngun or\na beeper and looked too big to be a beeper. I glanced at the car\nagain.\nBlackwall tires. And on the dashboard, oh look at this, a covered\nblue\nbubble. The better to creep up on you unsuspected, Gramma.\n\"Michael\nNoonan?\" He was handsome in a way that would be attractive to\ncertain\nwomen--the kind who cringe when anybody in their immediate\nvicinity\nraises his voice, the kind who rarely call the police when things go\nwrong at home because, on some miserable secret level, they\nbelieve they\ndeserve things to go wrong at home. Wrong things that result in\nblack\neyes, dislocated elbows, the occasional cigarette burn on the booby.\nThese are women who more often than not call their husbands or\nlovers\ndaddy, as in \"Can I bring you a beer, daddy?\" or \"Did you have a\nhard\nday at work, daddy?\"\"Yes, I'm Michael Noonan. How can I help you?\" This version of\ndaddy\nturned, bent, and grabbed something from the litter of paperwork on\nthe\npassenger side of the front seat. Beneath the dash, a two-way radio\nsquawked once, briefly, and fell silent. He turned back to me with a\nlong, buff-colored folder in one hand. Held it out. \"This is yours.\"\nWhen I didn't take it, he stepped forward and tried to poke it into\none\nof my palms, which would presumably cause me to close my fingers\nin a\nkind of reflex. Instead I raised both hands to shoulder-level, as if he\nhad just told me to put em up, Muggsy. He looked at me patiently,\nhis\nface as Irish as the Arlen brothers' but without the Arlen look of\nkindness, openness, and curiosity. What was there in place of those\nthings was a species of sour amusement, as if he'd seen all of the\nworld's pissier behavior, most of it twice. One of his eyebrows had\nbeen\nsplit open a long time ago, and his cheeks had that reddish\nwindburned\nlook that indicates either ruddy good health or a deep interest in\ngrain-alcohol products. He looked like he could knock you into the\ngutter and then sit on you to keep you there. I been good, daddy,\nget\noff me, don't be mean. \"Don't make this tough. You're gonna take\nservice\nof this and we both know it, so don't make this tough.\"\n\"Show me some ID first.\" He sighed, rolled his eyes, then reached\ninto\none of his shirt pockets. He brought out a leather folder and flipped\nit\nopen. There was a badge and a photo ID. My new friend was\nGeorgeFootman, Deputy Sheriff, Castle County. The photo was flat and\nshadowless, like something an assault victim would see in a\nmugbook.\n\"Okay?\" he asked. I took the buff-backed document when he held it\nout\nagain. He stood there, broadcasting that sense of curdled\namusement as I\nscanned it. I had been subpoenaed to appear in the Castle Rock\noffice of\nElmer Dur-gin, Attorney-at-Law, at ten o'clock on the morning of July\n10, 1998-Friday, in other words. Said Elmer Durgin had been\nappointed\nguardian ad litem of Kyra Elizabeth Devore, a minor child. He would\ntake\na deposition from me concerning any knowledge I might have of\nKyra\nElizabeth Devore in regard to her well-being. This deposition would\nbe\ntaken on behalf of Castle County Superior Court and Judge Noble\nRan-court. A stenographer would be present. I was assured that this\nwas\nthe court's depo, and nothing to do with either laintit{ or etennnt.\nFootman said, \"It's my job to remind you of the penalties should you\nfail--\"\n\"Thanks, but let's just assume you told me all about those, okay? I'll\nbe there.\" I made shooing gestures at his car. I felt deeply\ndisgusted... and I felt inter, red with. I had never been served with a\nprocess before, and I didn't care for it. He went back to his car,\nstarted to swing in, then stopped with one hairy arm hung over the\ntop\nof the open door. His Rolex gleamed in the hazy sunlight. \"Let me\ngive\nyou a piece of advice,\" he said, and that was enough to tell me\nanything\nelse I needed to know about the guy. \"Don't fuck with Mr. Devore.\"\"Or he'll squash me like a bug,\" I said. \"Huh?\"\n\"Your actual lines are, \"Let me give you a piece of advice--don't fuck\nwith Mr. Devore or he'll squash you like a bug.'\" I could see by his\nexpression--half past perplexed, going on angry--that he had meant\nto\nsay something very much like that. Obviously we'd seen the same\nmovies,\nincluding all those in which Robert De Niro plays a psycho. Then his\nface cleared. \"Oh sure, you're the writer,\" he said. \"That's what they\ntell me.\"\n\"You can say stuff like that 'cause you're a writer.\"\n\"Well, it's a free country, isn't it?\"\n\"Ain't you a smartass, now.\"\n\"How long have you been working for Max Devore, Deputy? And\ndoes the\nCounty Sheriffs office know you're moonlighting?\"\n\"They know. It's not a problem. Ybu're the one that might have the\nproblem, Mr. Smartass Writer.\" I decided it was time to quit this\nbefore\nwe descended to the kaka-poopie stage of name-calling. \"Get out of\nmy\ndriveway, please, Deputy.\" He looked at me a moment longer,\nobviously\nsearching for that perfect capper line and not finding it. He needed a\nMr. Smartass Writer to help him, that was all. \"I'll be looking for you\non Friday,\" he said. \"Does that mean you're going to buy me lunch?\nDon't\nworry, I'm a fairly cheap date.\"His reddish cheeks darkened a degree further, and I could see what\nthey\nwere going to look like when he was sixty, if he didn't lay off the\nfirewater in the meantime. He got back into his Ford and reversed\nup my\ndriveway hard enough to make his tires holler. I stood where I was,\nwatching him go. Once he was headed back out Lane Forty-two to\nthe\nhighway, I went into the house. It occurred to me that Deputy\nFootman's\nextracurricular job must pay well, if he could afford a Rolex. On the\nother hand, maybe it was a knockoff. Settle down, Michael, Jo's\nvoice\nadvised. The red rag is gone now, no one's waving anything in front\nof\nyou, so just settle-I shut her voice out. I didn't want to settle down;\nI wanted to settle up. I had been interjred with. I walked over to the\nhall desk where Jo and I had always kept our pending documents\n(and our\ndesk calendars, now that I thought about it), and tacked the\nsummons to\nthe bulletin board by one corner of its buff-colored jacket. With that\nmuch accomplished, I raised my fist in front of my eyes, looked at\nthe\nwedding ring on it for a moment, then slammed it against the wall\nbeside\nthe bookcase. I did it hard enough to make an entire row of\npaperbacks\njump. I thought about Mattie Devore's baggy shorts and Kmart\nsmock, then\nabout her father-in-law paying four and a quarter million dollars for\nWarrington's. Writing a personal goddamned check. I thought about\nBill\nDean saying that one way or another, that little girl was going to\ngrowup in California. I walked back and forth through the house, still\nsimmering, and finally ended up in front of the fridge. The circle of\nmagnets was the same, but the letters inside had changed. Instead\nof\nhell o they now read help r \"Helper?\" I said, and as soon as I heard\nthe\nword out loud, I understood. The letters on the fridge consisted of\nonly\na single alphabet (no, not even that, I saw; g and x had been lost\nsomeplace), and I'd have to get more. If the front of my Kenmore\nwas\ngoing to become a Ouija board, I'd need a good supply of letters.\nEspecially vowels. In the meantime, I moved the hand the e in front\nof\nthe r. Now the message read Ip her I scattered the circle of fruit and\nvegetable magnets with my palm, spread the letters, and resumed\npacing.\nI had made a decision not to get between Devore and his daughter-\nin-law,\nbut I'd wound up between them anyway. A deputy in Cleveland\nclothing had\nshown up in my driveway, complicating a life that already had its\nproblems.., and scaring me a little in the bargain. But at least it was\na fear of something I could see and understand. All at once I\ndecided I\nwanted to do more with the summer than worry about ghosts,\ncrying kids,\nand what my wife had been up to four or five years ago. .. if, in\nfact,\nshe had been up to anything. I couldn't write books, but that didn't\nmean I had to pick scabs.\nHelp her.\nI decided I would at least try.\"Harold Oblowski Literary Agency.\"\n\"Come to Belize with me, Nola,\" I said. \"I need you. We'll make\nbeautiful love at midnight, when the full moon turns the beach to a\nbone.\"\n\"Hello, Mr. Noonan,\" she said. No sense of humor had Nola. No\nsense of\nromance, either. In some ways that made her perfect for the\nOblowski\nAgency. \"Would you like to speak to Harold?\"\n\"If he's in.\"\n\"He is. Please hold.\"\nOne nice thing about being a best selling author--even one whose\nbooks\nonly appear, as a general rule, on lists that go to fifteen--is that\nyour agent almost always happens to be in. Another is if he's\nvacationing on Nantucket, he'll be in to you there. A third is that the\ntime you spend on hold is usually quite short.\n\"Mike!\" he cried. \"How's the lake? I thought about you all weekend!\"\nI3ah, I thought, and pigs will whistle.\n\"Things are fine in general but shitty in one particular, Harold. I need\nto talk to a lawyer. I thought first about calling Ward Hankins for a\nrecommendation, but then I decided I wanted somebody a little\nmore\nhigh-powered than Ward was likely to know. Someone with filed\nteeth and\na taste for human flesh would be nice.\"This time Harold didn't bother with the long-pause routine. \"What's\nup,\nMike? Are you in trouble?\"\nThump once r yes, twice jr no, I thought, and for one wild moment\nthought of actually doing just that. I remembered finishing Christy\nBrown's memoir, Down All the Days, and wondering what it would be\nlike\nto write an entire book with the pen grasped between the toes of\nyour\nleft foot. Now I wondered what it would be like to go through\neternity\nwith no way to communicate but rapping on the cellar wall. And\neven then\nonly certain people would be able to hear and understand you.., and\nonly\nthose certain people at certain times.\nJo, was it you? And if it was, why did you answer both ways?\n\"Mike? Are you there?\"\n\"Yes. This isn't really my trouble, Harold, so cool your jets. I do have\na problem, though. Your main guy is Goldacre, right?\"\n\"Right. I'll call him right aw--\"\n\"But he deals primarily with contracts law.\" I was thinking out loud\nnow, and when I paused, Harold didn't fill it. Sometimes he's an\nall-right guy. Most times, really. \"Call him for me anyway, would you?\nTell him I need to talk to an attorney with a good working\nknowledge of\nchild-custody law. Have him put me in touch with the best one who's\nfreeto take a case immediately. One who can be in court with me Friday,\nif\nthat's necessary.\"\n\"Is it paternity?\" he asked, sounding both respectful and afraid. \"No,\ncustody.\" I thought about telling him to get the whole story from the\nLawyer to Be Named Later, but Harold deserved better.., and would\ndemand\nto hear my version sooner or later anyway, no matter what the\nlawyer\ntold him. I gave him an account of my Fourth of July morning and its\naftermath. I stuck with the Devores, mentioning nothing about\nvoices,\ncrying children, or thumps in the dark. Harold only interrupted once,\nand that was when he realized who the villain of the piece was.\n\"You're asking for trouble,\" he said. \"You know that, don't you?\"\n\"I'm in for a certain measure of it in any case,\" I said. \"I've decided\nI want to dish out a little as well, that's all.\"\n\"You will not have the peace and quiet that a writer needs to do his\nbest work,\" Harold said in an amusingly prim voice. I wondered what\nthe\nreaction would be if I said that was okay, I hadn't written anything\nmore riveting than a grocery list since Jo died, and maybe this would\nstir me up a little. But I didn't. Never let em see you sweat, the\nNoonan clan's motto. Someone should carve DON'T WORRY I'M\nFINE on the\ndoor of the family crypt.\nThen I thought: help r.\n\"That young woman needs a friend,\" I said, \"and Jo would have\nwanted me\nto be one to her. Jo didn't like it when the little folks got steppedon.\"\n\"You think?\"\n\"Yeah.\"\n\"Okay, I'll see who I can find. And Mike... do you want me to come\nup on\nFriday for this depo?\"\n\"No.\" It came out sounding needlessly abrupt and was followed by a\nsilence that seemed not calculated but hurt. \"Listen, Harold, my\ncaretaker said the actual custody hearing is scheduled soon. If it\nhappens and you still want to come up, I'll give you a call. I can\nalways use your moral support--you know that.\"\n\"In my case it's immoral support,\" he replied, but he sounded cheery\nagain.\nWe said goodbye. I walked back to the fridge and looked at the\nmagnets.\nThey were still scattered hell to breakfast, and that was sort of a\nrelief. Even the spirits must have to rest sometimes.\nI took the cordless phone, went out onto the deck, and plonked\ndown in\nthe chair where I'd been on the night of the Fourth, when Devote\ncalled.\nEven after my visit from \"daddy,\" I could still hardly believe that\nconversation. Devote had called me a liar; I had told him to stick my\ntelephone number up his ass. We were off to a great start as\nneighbors.\nI pulled the chair a little closer to the edge of the deck, whichdropped a giddy forty feet or so to the slope between Sara's\nbackside\nand the lake. I looked for the green woman I'd seen while\nswimming,\ntelling myself not to be a dope--things like that you can see only\nfrom\none angle, stand even ten feet off to one side or the other and\nthere's\nnothing to look at. But this was apparently a case of the exception's\nproving the rule. I was both amused and a little uneasy to realize\nthat\nthe birch down there by The Street looked like a woman from the\nland\nside as well as from the lake. Some of it was due to the pine just\nbehind it--that bare branch jutting off to the north like a bony\npointing arm--but not all of it. From back here the birch's white limbs\nand narrow leaves still made a woman's shape, and when the wind\nshook\nthe lower levels of the tree, the green and silver swirled like long\nskirts.\nI had said no to Harold's well-meant offer to come up almost before\nit\nwas fully articulated, and as I looked at the tree-woman, rather\nghostly\nin her own right, I knew why: Harold was loud, Harold was\ninsensitive to\nnuance, Harold might frighten off whatever was here. I didn't want\nthat.\nI was scared, yes--standing on those dark cellar stairs and listening\nto\nthe thumps from just below me, I had been fucking terrified--but I\nhad\nalso felt fully alive for the first time in years. I was touching\nsomething in Sara that was entirely beyond my experience, and itfascinated me.\nThe cordless phone rang in my lap, making me jump. I grabbed it,\nexpecting Max Devore or perhaps Footman, his overgolded minion.\nIt\nturned out to be a lawyer named John Storrow, who sounded as if\nhe might\nhave graduated from law school fairly recently--like last week. Still,\nhe worked for the firm of Avery, Mclain, and Bernstein on Park\nAvenue,\nand Park Avenue is a pretty good address for a lawyer, even one\nwho\nstill has a few of his milk-teeth. If Henry Goldacre said Storrow was\ngood, he probably was. And his specialty was custody law.\n\"Now tell me what's happening up there,\" he said when the\nintroductions\nwere over and the background had been sketched in.\nI did my best, feeling my spirits rise a little as the tale wound on.\nThere's something oddly comforting about talking to a legal guy\nonce the\nbillable-hours clock has started running; you have passed the\nmagical\npoint at which a lawyer becomes your lawyer. Your lawyer is warm,\nyour\nlawyer is sympathetic, your lawyer makes notes on a yellow pad and\nnods\nin all the right places. Most of the questions your lawyer asks are\nquestions you can answer. And if you can't, your lawyer will help you\nfind a way to do so, by God. Your lawyer is always on your side.\nYour\nenemies are his enemies. To him you are never shit but always\nShinola.When I had finished, John Storrow said: \"Wow. I'm surprised the\npapers\nhaven't gotten hold of this.\"\n\"That never occurred to me.\" But I could see his point. The Devore\nfamily saga wasn't for the New York 'mes or Boston Globe, probably\nnot\neven for the Derry News, but in weekly supermarket tabs like the\nNational Enquirer or Inside l'ew, it would fit like a glove--instead of\nthe girl, King Kong decides to snatch the girl's innocent child and\ncarry it with him to the top of the Empire State Building. Oh, eek,\nunhand that baby, you brute. It wasn't front-page stuff, no blood or\ncelebrity morgue shots, but as a page nine shouter it would do\nnicely.\nIn my mind I composed a headline blaring over side-by-side pix of\nWarrington's Lodge and Mattie's rusty doublewide: COMPU-KING\nLIVES IN\nSPLENDOR AS HE TRIES TO TAKE YOUNG BEAUTY'S ONLY CHILD.\nProbably too\nlong, I decided. I wasn't writing anymore and still I needed an\neditor.\nThat was pretty sad when you stopped to think about it. \"Perhaps at\nsome\npoint we'll see that they do get the story,\" Storrow said in a musing\ntone. I realized that this was a man I could grow attached to, at\nleast\nin my present angry mood. He grew brisker. \"Who'm I representing\nhere,\nMr. Noonan? You or the young lady? I vote for the young lady.\"\n\"The young lady doesn't even know I've called you. She may think\nI've\ntaken a bit too much on myself. She may, in fact, give me the rough\nside\nof her tongue.\"\"Why would she do that?\"\n\"Because she's a Yankee--a Maine Yankee, the worst kind. On a\ngiven day,\nthey can make the Irish look logical.\"\n\"Perhaps, but she's the one with the target pinned to her shirt. I\nsuggest that you call and tell her that.\" I promised I would. It wasn't\na hard promise to make, either. I'd known I'd have to be in touch\nwith\nher ever since I had accepted the summons from Deputy Footman.\n\"And who\nstands for Michael Noonan come Friday morning?\"\nStorrow laughed dryly. \"I'll find someone local to do that. He'll go\ninto this Durgin's office with you, sit quietly with his briefcase on\nhis lap, and listen. I may be in town by that point--I won't know until\nI talk to Ms. Devore--but I won't be in Durgin's office. When the\ncustody hearing comes around, though, you'll see my face in the\nplace.\"\n\"All right, good. Call me with the name of my new lawyer. My other\nnew\nlawyer.\"\n\"Uh-huh. In the meantime, talk to the young lady. Get me a job.\"\n\"I'll try.\"\n\"Also try to stay visible if you're with her,\" he said. \"If we give the\nbad guys room to get nasty, they'll get nasty.\nThere's nothing like that between you, is there? Nothing nasty?\nSorry to\nhave to ask, but I do have to ask.\"\"No,\" I said. \"It's been quite some time since I've been up to\nanything\nnasty with anyone.\"\n\"I'm tempted to commiserate, Mr. Noonan, but under the\ncircumstances-''\n\"Mike. Make it Mike.\"\n\"Good. I like that. And I'm John. People are going to talk about your\ninvolvement anyway. You know that, don't you?\"\n\"Sure. People know I can afford you. They'll speculate about how\nshe can\nafford me. Pretty young widow, middle-aged widower. Sex would\nseem the\nmost likely.\"\n\"You're a realist.\"\n\"I don't really think I am, but I know a hawk from a handsaw.\"\n\"I hope you do, because the ride could get rough. This is an\nextremely\nrich man we're going up against.\" Yet he didn't sound scared.\nHe sounded almost.., greedy. He sounded the way part of me had\nfelt when\nI saw that the magnets on the fridge were back in a circle. \"I know\nhe\nis.\"\n\"In court that won't matter a whole helluva lot, because there's a\ncertain amount of money on the other side. Also, the judge is going\nto\nbe very aware that this one is a powderkeg. That can be useful.\"\"What's the best thing we've got going for us?\" I asked this thinking\nof\nKyra's rosy, unmarked face and her complete lack of fear in the\npresence of her mother. I asked it thinking John would reply that the\ncharges were clearly unfounded. I thought wrong. \"The best thing?\nDevore's age. He's got to be older than God.\"\n\"Based on what I've heard over the weekend, I think he must be\neighty-five. That would make God older.\"\n\"Yeah, but as a potential dad he makes Tony Randall look like a\nteenager,\" John said, and now he sounded positively gloating. \"Think\nof\nit, Michael--the kid graduates from high school the year Gramps\nturns\none hundred. Also there's a chance the old man's overreached\nhimself. Do\nyou know what a guardian ad/item is?\"\n\"No.\"\n\"Essentially it's a lawyer the court appoints to protect the interests\nof the child. A fee for the service comes out of court costs, but it's a\npittance. Most people who agree to serve as guardian ad//item have\nstrictly altruistic motives.., but not all of them. In any case, the\nad/item puts his own spin on the case.\nJudges don't have to take the guy's advice, but they almost always\ndo.\nIt makes a judge look stupid to reject the advice of his own\nappointee,\nand the thing a judge hates above all others is looking stupid.\"\n\"Devore will have his own lawyer?\" John laughed. \"How about half a\ndozenat the actual custody hearing?\"\n\"Are you serious?\"\n\"The guy is eighty-five.\nThat's too old for Ferraris, too old for bungee jumping in Tibet, and\ntoo old for whores unless he's a mighty man. What does that leave\nfor\nhim to spend his money on?\"\n\"Lawyers,\" I said bleakly. \"Yep.\"\n\"And Mattie Devore? What does she get?\"\n\"Thanks to you, she gets me,\" John Storrow said. \"It's like a John\nGrisham novel, isn't it? Pure gold.\nMeantime, I'm interested in Durgin, the ad/item. If Devore hasn't\nbeen\nexpecting any real trouble, he may have been unwise enough to put\ntemptation in Durgin's way. And Durgin may have been stupid\nenough to\nsuccumb. Hey, who knows what we might find?\" But I was a turn\nback. \"She\ngets you,\" I said. \"Thanks to me. And if I wasn't here to stick in my\noar? What would she get then?\"\n\"Bubkes. That's Yiddish. It means--\"\n\"I know what it means,\" I said.\n\"That's incredible.\"\n\"Nope, just American justice. You know the lady with the scales? The\nonewho stands outside most city courthouses?\"\n\"Uh-huh.\"\n\"Slap some handcuffs on that broad's wrists and some tape over her\nmouth\nto go along with the blindfold, rape her and roll her in the mud. You\nlike that image? I don't, but it's a fair representation of how the law\nworks in custody cases where the plaintiff is rich and the defendant\nis\npoor. And sexual equality has actually made it worse, because while\nmothers still tend to be poor, they are no longer seen as the\nautomatic\nchoice for custody.\"\n\"Mattie Devore's got to have you, doesn't she?\"\n\"Yes,\" John said simply. \"Call me tomorrow and tell me that she will.\"\n\"I hope I can do that.\"\n\"So do I. And listen--there's one more thing.\"\n\"What?\"\n\"You lied to Devore on the telephone.\"\n\"Bullshit!\"\n\"Nope, nope, I hate to contradict my sister's favorite author, but you\ndid and you know it. You told Devote that mother and child were out\ntogether, the kid was picking flowers, everything was fine. You put\neverything in there except Bambi and Thumper.\" I was sitting up\nstraight\nin my deck-chair now. I felt sandbagged. I also felt that my owncleverness had been overlooked. \"Hey, no, think again. I never came\nout\nand said anything. I told him I assumed. I used the word more than\nonce.\nI remember that very clearly.\"\n\"Uh-huh, and if he was taping your conversation, you'll get a chance\nto\nactually count how many times you used it.\" At first I didn't answer.\nI\nwas thinking back to the conversation I'd had with him,\nremembering the\nunderhum on the phone line, the characteristic underhum I\nremembered\nfrom all my previous summers at Sara Laughs. Had that steady low\nmmmmm\nbeen even more noticeable on Saturday night? \"I guess maybe there\ncould\nbe a tape,\" I said reluctantly.\n\"Uh-huh. And if Devore's lawyer gets it to the ad litem, how do you\nthink you'll sound?\"\n\"Careful,\" I said. \"Maybe like a man with something to hide.\"\n\"Or a man spinning yarns. And you're good at that, aren't you?\nAfter all, it's what you do for a living. At the custody hearing,\nDevore's lawyer is apt to mention that. If he then produces one of\nthe\npeople who passed you shortly after Mattie arrived on the scene.., a\nperson who testifies that the young lady seemed upset and\nflustered..,\nhow do you think you'll sound then?\"\n\"Like a liar,\" I said, and then:\"Ah, fuck.\"\n\"Fear not, Mike. Be of good cheer.\"\n\"What should I do?\"\n\"Spike their guns before they can fire them. Tell Durgin exactly what\nhappened. Get it in the depo. Emphasize the fact that the little girl\nthought she was walking safely. Make sure you get in that\n'crossmock'\nthing. I love that.\"\n\"Then if they have a tape they'll play it and I'll look like a\nstory-changing schmuck.\"\n\"I don't think so. You weren't a sworn witness when you talked to\nDevore, were you? There you were, sitting out on your deck and\nminding\nyour own business, watching the fireworks show. Out of the blue\nthis\ngrouchy old asshole calls you.\nStarts ranting. Didn't even give him your number, did you?\"\n\"No.\"\n\"Your unlisted number.\"\n\"No.\"\n\"And while he said he was Maxwell Devore, he could have been\nanyone,\nright?\"\"Right.\"\n\"He could have been the Shah of Iran.\"\n\"No, the Shah's dead.\"\n\"The Shah's out, then. But he could have been a nosy neighbor.., or\na\nprankster.\"\n\"Yes.\"\n\"And you said what you said with all those possibilities in mind. But\nnow that you're part of an official court proceeding, you're telling the\nwhole truth and nothing but.\"\n\"You bet.\" That good my-lawyer feeling had deserted me for a bit,\nbut it\nwas back full-force now. \"You can't do better than the truth, Mike,\"\nhe\nsaid solemnly. \"Except maybe in a few cases, and this isn't one. Are\nwe\nclear on that?\"\n\"Yes.\"\n\"All right, we're done. I want to hear from either you or Mattie\nDevore\naround elevenish tomorrow. It ought to be her.\"\n\"I'll try.\"\n\"If she really balks, you know what to do, don't you?\"\n\"I think so. Thanks, John.\"\"One way or another, we'll talk very soon,\" he said, and hung up.\nI sat where I was for awhile. Once I pushed the button which\nopened the\nline on the cordless phone, then pushed it again to close it. I had to\ntalk to Mattie, but I wasn't quite ready yet. I decided to take a walk\ninstead. If she really balks, you know what to do, don't you? Of\ncourse.\nRemind her that she couldn't afford to be proud. That she couldn't\nafford to go all Yankee, refusing charity from Michael Noonan, author\nof\nBeing Two, The Red-Shirt Man, and the soon-to-be-published Helen's\nPromise. Remind her that she could have her pride or her daughter,\nbut\nlikely not both. Hey, Mattie, pick one.\nI walked almost to the end of the lane, stopping at Tidwell's Meadow\nwith its pretty view down to the cup of the lake and across to the\nWhite\nMountains. The water dreamed under a hazy sky, looking gray when\nyou\ntipped your head one way, blue when you tipped it the other. That\nsense\nof mystery was very much with me. That sense of Manderley. Over\nforty\nblack people had settled here at the turn of the century--lit here for\nawhile, anyway--according to Marie Hingerman (also according to A\nHistory of Castle County and Castle Rock, a weighty tome published\nin\n1977, the county's bicentennial year). Pretty special black people,\ntoo:\nmost of them related, most of them talented, most of them part of a\nmusical group which had first been called The Red-Top Boys and\nthen SaraTidwell and the Red-Top Boys. They had bought the meadow and a\ngood-sized tract of lakeside land from a man named Douglas Day.\nThe\nmoney had been saved up over a period of ten years, according to\nSonny\nTidwell, who did the dickering (as a Red-Top, Son Tidwell had played\nwhat was then known as \"chickenscratch guitar\").\nThere had been a vast uproar about it in town, and even a meeting\nto\nprotest \"the advent of these darkies, which come in a Horde.\"\nThings had\nsettled down and turned out okay, as things have a way of doing,\nmore\noften than not. The shanty town most locals had expected on Day's\nHill\n(for so Tidwell's Meadow was called in 1900, when Son Tid-well\nbought\nthe land on behalf of his extensive clan) had never appeared.\nInstead, a\nnumber of neat white cabins sprang up, surrounding a larger\nbuilding\nthat might have been intended as a group meeting place, a\nrehearsal\narea, or perhaps, at some point, a performance hall.\nSara and the Red-Top Boys (sometimes there was a Red-Top Girl in\nthere,\nas well; membership in the band was fluid, changing with every\nperformance) played around western Maine for over a year, maybe\ncloser\nto two years. In towns all up and down the Western Line--\nFarmington,\nSkowhegan, Bridgton, Gates Falls, Castle Rock, Morton, Fryeburg--\nyou'll\nstill come across their old show-posters at barn bazaars andjunk-atoriums. Sara and the Red-Tops were great favorites on the\ncircuit, and they got along all right at home on the TR, too, which\nnever surprised me. At the end of the day Robert Frost--that\nutilitarian\nand often unpleasant poet--was right: in the northeastern three we\nreally do believe that good fences make good neighbors. We squawk\nand\nthen keep a miserly peace, the kind with gimlet eyes and a tucked-\ndown\nmouth. \"They pay their bills,\" we say. \"I ain't never had to shoot one\na\ntheir dogs,\" we say. \"They keep themselves to themselves,\" we say,\nas if\nisolation were a virtue. And, of course, the defining virtue: \"They\ndon't take charity.\"\nAnd at some point, Sara Tidwell became Sara Laughs.\nIn the end, though, TR-90 mustn't have been what they wanted,\nbecause\nafter playing a county fair or two in the late summer of 1901, the\nclan\nmoved on. Their neat little cabins provided summer-rental income\nfor the\nDay family until 1933, when they burned in the summer fires which\ncharred the east and north sides of the lake. End of story.\nExcept for her music, that was. Her music had lived.\nI got up from the rock I had been sitting on, stretched my arms and\nmy\nback, and walked back down the lane, singing one of her songs as I\nwent.\nDring my hike back down the lane to the house, I tried to think\naboutnothing at all. My first editor used to say that eighty-five percent of\nwhat goes on in a novelist's head is none of his business, a\nsentiment\nI've never believed should be restricted to just writers. So-called\nhigher thought is, by and large, highly overrated. When trouble\ncomes\nand steps have to be taken, I find it's generally better to just stand\naside and let the boys in the basement do their work. That's blue-\ncollar\nlabor down there, non-union guys with lots of muscles and tattoos.\nInstinct is their specialty, and they refer problems upstairs for actual\ncogitation only as a last resort.\nWhen I tried to call Mattie Devote, an extremely peculiar thing\nhappened--one that had nothing at all ro do with spooks, as far as I\ncould tell. Instead of an open-hum line when I pushed the cordless's\non\nbutton, I got silence. Then, just as I was thinking I must have left\nthe\nphone in the north bedroom off the hook, I realized ir wasn't\ncomplete\nsilence. Distant as a radio transmission from deep space, cheerful\nand\nquacky as an animated duck, some guy with a fair amount of\nBrooklyn in\nhis voice was singing: \"He followed her to school one day, school\none\nday, school one day. Followed her to school one day, which was\nagainst\nthe rule...\" I opened my mouth to ask who was there, but before I\ncould,\na woman's voice said \"Hello?\" She sounded perplexed and doubtful.\n\"Mattie?\" In my confusion it never occurred to me to call her\nsomethingmore formal, like Ms. or Mrs. Devore. Nor did it seem odd that I\nshould\nknow who it was, based on a single word, even though our only\nprevious\nconversation had been relatively brief. Maybe the guys in the\nbasement\nrecognized the background music and made the connection to Kyra.\n\"Mr.\nNoonan?\" She sounded more bewildered than ever. \"The phone\nnever even\nrang!\"\n\"I must have picked mine up just as your call was going through,\" I\nsaid. \"That happens from time to time.\" But how many times, I\nwondered,\ndid it happen when the person calling you was the one you yourself\nhad\nbeen planning to call? Maybe quite often, actually.\nTelepathy or coincidence? Live or Memorex? Either way, it seemed\nalmost\nmagical. I looked across the long, low living room, into the glassy\neyes\nof Bunter the moose, and thought: I3s, but maybe this is a magic\nplace\nnow. \"I suppose,\" she said doubtfully. \"I apologize about calling in\nthe\nfirst place--it's a presumption. Your number's unlisted, I know.\" Oh,\ndon't worry about that, I thought. Everyone's got this old number by\nnow. In fact, I'm thinking aboutputting it in the Illow Pages. \"I got it\nfrom your file at the library,\" she went on, sounding embarrassed.\n\"That's where I work.\" In the background, \"Mary Had a Little Lamb\"\nhad\ngiven way to \"The Farmer in the Dell.\"\"It's quite all right,\" I said.\n\"Especially since you're the person I was picking up the phone to\ncall.\"\n\"Me? Why?\"\n\"Ladies first.\" She gave a brief, nervous laugh. \"I wanted to invite\nyou\nto dinner. That is, Ki and I want to invite you to dinner. I should have\ndone it before now. You were awfully good to us the other day. Will\nyou\ncome?\"\n\"Yes,\" I said with no hesitation at all. \"With thanks. We've got some\nthings to talk about, anyway.\"\nThere was a pause. In the background, the mouse was taking the\ncheese.\nAs a kid I used to think all these things happened in a vast gray\nfactory called The Hi-Ho Dairy-O. \"Mattie? Still there?\"\n\"He's dragged you into it, hasn't he? That awful old man.\" Now her\nvoice\nsounded not nervous but somehow dead. \"Well, yes and no. You\ncould argue\nthat fate dragged me into it, or coincidence, or God. I wasn't there\nthat morning because of Max Devore; I was chasing the elusive\nVillageburger.\" She didn't laugh, but her voice brightened a little, and\nI was glad. People who talk in that dead, affectless way are, by and\nlarge, frightened people. Sometimes people who have been outright\nterrorized. \"I'm still sorry for dragging you into my trouble.\" I had an\nidea she might start to wonder who was dragging whom after I\npitched her\non John Storrow, and was glad it was a discussion I wouldn't have tohave with her on the phone. \"In any case, I'd love to come to dinner.\nWhen?\"\n\"Would this evening be too soon?\"\n\"Absolutely not.\"\n\"That's wonderful. We have to eat early, though, so my little guy\ndoesn't fall asleep in her dessert.\nIs six okay?\"\n\"Yes.\"\n\"Ki will be excited. We don't have much company.\"\n\"She hasn't been wandering again, has she?\" I thought she might be\noffended. Instead, this time she aid laugh. \"God, no. All the fuss on\nSaturday scared her. Now she comes in to tell me if she's switching\nfrom\nthe swing in the side yard to the sandbox in back. She's talked about\nyou a lot, though. She calls you 'that tall guy who carrot me.' I think\nshe's worried you might be mad at her.\"\n\"Tell her I'm not,\" I said. \"No, check that. I'll tell her myself. Can I\nbring anything?\"\n\"Bottle of wine?\" she asked, a little doubtfully. \"Or maybe that's\npretentious--I was only going to cook hamburgers on the grill and\nmake\npotato salad.\"\n\"I'll bring an unpretentious bottle.\"\n\"Thank you,\" she said. \"This is sort of exciting. We never have\ncompany.\"I was horrified to find myself on the verge of saying that I thought it\nwas sort of exciting, too, my first date in four years and all. \"Thanks\nso much for thinking of me.\" As I hung up I remembered John\nStorrow\nadvising me to try and stay visible with her, not to hand over any\nextra\ngrist for the town gossip mill. If she was barbecuing, we'd probably\nbe\nout where people could see we had our clothes on. .. for most of\nthe\nevening, anyway. She-would, however, likely do the polite thing at\nsome\npoint and invite me inside. I would then do the polite thing and go.\nAdmire her velvet Elvis painting on the wall, or her commemorative\nplates from the Franklin Mint, or whatever she had going in the way\nof\ntrailer decoration; I'd let Kyra show me her bedroom and exclaim\nwith\nwonder over her excellent assortment of stuffed animals and her\nfavorite\ndolly, if that was required. There are all sorts of priorities in life.\nSome your lawyer can understand, but I suspect there are quite a\nfew he\ncan't. \"Am I handling this right, Bunter?\" I asked the stuffed moose.\n\"Bellow once for yes, twice for no.\" I was halfway down the hall\nleading\nto the north wing, thinking of nothing but a cool shower, when from\nbehind me, very soft, came a brief ring of the bell around Bunter's\nneck. I stopped, head cocked, my shirt held in one hand, waiting for\nthe\nbell to ring again. It didn't. After a minute, I went the rest of the\nway to the bathroom and flipped on the shower.The Lakeview General had a pretty good selection of wines tucked\naway in\none corner--not much local demand for it, maybe, but the tourists\nprobably bought a fair quantity--and I selected a bottle of Mondavi\nred.\nIt was probably a bit more expensive than Mattie had had in mind,\nbut I\ncould peel the price-sticker off and hope she wouldn't know the\ndifference. There was a line at the checkout, mostly folks with damp\ntee-shirts pulled on over their bathing suits and sand from the public\nbeach sticking to their legs. While I was waiting my turn, my eye\nhappened on the impulse items which are always stocked near the\ncounter.\nAmong them were several plastic bags labeled ^C, NABET, each bag\nshowing\na cartoon refrigerator with the message BACK SOON stuck to it.\nAccording\nto the written info, there were two sets of consonants in each\nMagnabet,\nPLUS EXTRA VOWELS. I grabbed two sets.., then added a third,\nthinking\nthat Mattie Devore's kid was probably just the right age for such an\nitem.\nKyra saw me pulling into the weedy dooryard, jumped off the slumpy\nlittle swingset beside the trailer, bolted to her mother, and hid behind\nher. When I approached the hibachi which had been set up beside\nthe\ncinderblock front steps, the child who'd spoken to me so fearlessly\non\nSaturday was just a peeking blue eye and a chubby hand grasping a\nfoldof her mother's sundress below the hip. Two hours brought\nconsiderable\nchanges, however. As twilight deepened, Kyra sat on my lap in the\ntrailer's living room, listening carefully--if with growing\nwooziness--as I read her the ever-enthralling story of Cinderella. The\ncouch we were on was a shade of brown which can by law only be\nsold in\ndiscount stores, and extremely lumpy into the bargain, but I still felt\nashamed of my casual preconceptions about what I would find\ninside this\ntrailer. On the wall above and behind us there was an Edward\nHopper\nprint--that one of a lonely lunch counter late at night--and across the\nroom, over the small Formica-topped table in the kitchen nook, was\none\nof Vincent van Gogh's Sunflowers series. Even more than the\nHopper, it\nlooked at home in Mattie Devore's doublewide. I have no idea why\nthat\nshould have been true, but it was. \"Glass slipper will cut her footie,\"\nKi said in a muzzy, considering way. \"No way,\" I said. \"Slipper-glass\nwas specially made in the Kingdom of Grimoire. Smooth and\nunbreakable,\nas long as you didn't sing high C while wearing them.\"\n\"I get a pair?\"\n\"Sorry, Ki,\" I said, \"no one knows how to make slipper-glass\nanymore.\nIt's a lost art, like Toledo steel.\" It was hot in the trailer and she\nwas hot against my shirt, where her upper body lay, but I wouldn't\nhave\nchanged it. Having a kid on my lap was pretty great. Outside, her\nmotherwas singing and gathering up dishes from the card table we'd used\nfor\nour picnic. Hearing her sing was also pretty great. \"Go on, go on,\"\nKyra\nsaid, pointing to the picture of Cinderella scrubbing the floor. The\nlittle girl peeking nervously around her mother's leg was gone; the\nangry I'm-going-to-the-damn-beach girl of Saturday morning was\ngone;\nhere was only a sleepy kid who was pretty and bright and trusting.\n\"Before I can't hold it anymore.\"\n\"Do you need to go pee-pee?\"\n\"No,\" she said, looking at me with some disdain. \"Besides, that's\nyou-rinating.\nPeas are what you eat with meatloaf, that's what Mattie says. And I\nalready went. But if you don't go fast on the story, I'll fall to\nsleep.\"\n\"You can't hurry stories with magic in them, Ki.\"\n\"Well go as fast as you can.\"\n\"Okay.\" I turned the page. Here was Cinderella, trying to be a good\nsport, waving goodbye to her asshole sisters as they went off to the\nball dressed like starlets at a disco.\"\n\"No sooner had Cinderella said goodbye to Tammy Faye and Vanna--\n'\"\n\"Those are the sisters' names?\"\n\"The ones I made up for them, yes. Is that okay?\"\"Sure.\" She settled more comfortably on my lap and dropped her\nhead\nagainst my chest again. \"\"No sooner had Cinderella said goodbye to\nTammy\nFaye and Vanna than a bright light suddenly appeared in the corner\nof\nthe kitchen. Stepping out of it was a beautiful lady in a silver gown.\nThe jewels in her hair glowed like stars.'\"\n\"Fairy godmother,\" Kyra said matter-of-factly. \"Yes.\" Mattie came in\ncarrying the remaining half-bottle of Mondavi and the blackened\nbarbecue\nimplements. Her sundress was bright red. On her feet she wore low-\ntopped\nsneakers so white that they seemed to flash in the gloom. Her hair\nwas\ntied back and although she still wasn't the gorgeous country-club\nbabe I\nhad briefly envisioned, she was very pretty. Now she looked at Kyra,\nlooked at me, raised her eyebrows, made a lifting gesture with her\narms.\nI shook my head, sending back a message that neither of us was\nready\nquite yet. I resumed reading while Mattie went to work scrubbing\nher few\ncooking tools. She was still humming. By the time she had finished\nwith\nthe spatula, Ki's body had taken on an additional relaxation which I\nrecognized at once--she'd conked out, and hard. I closed the Little\nGolden Treasury of Fairy Tales and put it on the coffee-table beside a\ncouple of other stacked books--whatever Mattie was reading, I\npresumed.\nI looked up, saw her looking back at me from the kitchen, and\nflickedher the V-for-Victory sign. \"Noonan, the winner by a technical\nknockout\nin the eighth round,\" I said. Mattie dried her hands on a dishtowel\nand\ncame over. \"Give her to me.\" I stood up with Kyra in my arms\ninstead.\n\"I'll carry. Where?\" She pointed. \"On the left.\" I carried the baby\ndown\nthe hallway, which was narrow enough so I had to be careful not to\nbump\nher feet on one side or the top of her head on the other. At the end\nof\nthe hall was the bathroom, stringently clean. On the right was a\nclosed\ndoor which led, I assumed, into the bedroom Mattie had once\nshared with\nLance Devore and where she now slept alone. If there was a\nboyfriend who\novernighted even some of the time, Mattie had done a good job of\nerasing\nhis presence from the trailer. I slid carefully through the door on the\nleft and looked at the little bed with its ruffled coverlet of cabbage\nroses, the table with the doll-house on it, the picture of the Emerald\nCity on one wall, the sign (done in shiny stick-on letters) on another\none that read CASA KYRA. Devore wanted to take her away from\nhere, a\nplace where nothing was wrong--where, to the contrary, everything\nwas\nperfectly right. Casa Kyra was the room of a little girl who was\ngrowing\nup okay. \"Put her on the bed and then go pour yourself another\nglass of\nwine,\" Mattie said. \"I'll zip her into her pj's and join you. I know\nwe've got stuff to talk about.\"\"Okay.\" I put her down, then bent a little farther, meaning to plant a\nkiss on her nose. I almost thought better of it, then did it anyway.\nWhen I left, Mattie was smiling, so I guess it was okay.\nI poured myself a little more wine, walked back into the scrap of\nliving\nroom with it, and looked at the two books beside Ki's fairy-tale\ncollection. I'm always curious about what people are reading; the\nonly\nbetter insight into them is the contents of their medicine cabinets,\nand\nrummaging through your host's drugs and nostrums is frowned upon\nby the\nbetter class.\nThe books were different enough to qualify as schizoid. One, with a\nplaying-card bookmark about three quarters of the way through,\nwas the\npaperback edition of Richard North Patterson's Silent Witness. I\napplauded her taste; Patterson and Demille are probably the best of\nthe\ncurrent popular novelists. The other, a hardcover tome of some\nweight,\nwas The Collected Short Works of Herman Melville. About as far\nfrom\nRichard North Patterson as you could get. According to the faded\npurple\nink stamped on the thickness of the pages, this volume belonged to\nFour\nLakes Community Library. That was a lovely little stone building\nabout\nfive miles south of Dark Score Lake, where Route 68 passes off the\nTR\nand into Motton. Where Mattie worked, presumably. I opened to her\nbookmark, another playing card, and saw she was reading\n\"Bartleby.\"\"I don't understand that,\" she said from behind me, startling me so\nbadly that I almost dropped the books. \"I like it--it's a good enough\nstory--but I haven't the slightest idea what it means. The other one,\nnow, I've even figured out who did it.\"\n\"It's a strange pair to read in tandem,\" I said, putting them back\ndown.\n\"The Patterson I'm reading for pleasure,\" Mattie said. She went into\nthe\nkitchen, looked briefly (and with some longing, I thought) at the\nbottle\nof wine, then opened the fridge and took out a pitcher of Kool-Aid.\nOn\nthe fridge door were words her daughter had already assembled\nfrom her\nMagnabet bag: KI and MATTIE and HOHO (Santa Claus, I\npresumed). \"Well,\nI'm reading them both for pleasure, I guess, but we're due to\ndiscuss\n\"Bartleby' in this little group I'm a part of. We meet Thursday nights\nat the library. I've still got about ten pages to go.\"\n\"A readers' circle.\"\n\"Uh-huh. Mrs. Briggs leads. She formed it long before I was born.\nShe's\nthe head librarian at Four Lakes, you know.\"\n\"I do. Lindy Briggs is my caretaker's sister-in-law.\" Mattie smiled.\n\"Small world, isn't it?\"\n\"No, it's a big world but a small town.\" She started to lean back\nagainst the counter with her glass of Kool-Aid, then thought better\nofit. \"Why don't we go outside and sit? That way anyone passing can\nsee\nthat we're still dressed and that we don't have anything on inside-\nout.\"\nI looked at her, startled She looked back with a kind of cynical good\nhumor. It wasn't an expression that looked particularly at home on\nher\nface. \"I may only be twenty-one, but I'm not stupid,\" she said. \"He's\nwatching me. I know it, and you probably do, too. On another night\nI\nmight be tempted to say fuck him if he can't take a joke, but it's\ncooler out there and the smoke from the hibachi will keep the worst\nof\nthe bugs away. Have I shocked you? If so, I'm sorry.\"\n\"You haven't.\" She had, a little. \"No need to apologize.\" We carried\nour\ndrinks down the not-quite-steady cinderblock steps and sat side-by-\nside\nin a couple of lawn-chairs. To the left of us the coals in the hibachi\nglowed soft rose in the growing gloom. Mattie leaned back, placed\nthe\ncold curve of her glass briefly against her forehead, then drank most\nof\nwhat was left, the ice cubes sliding against her teeth with a click and\na rattle.\nCrickets hummed in the woods behind the trailer and across the\nroad.\nFarther up Highway 68, I could see the bright white fluorescents\nover\nthe gas island at the Lakeview General. The seat of my chair was a\nlittle baggy, the interwoven straps a little frayed, and the old girl\ncanted pretty severely to the left, but there was still no place I'drather have been sitting just then. This evening had turned out to be\na\nquiet little miracle. . at least, so far. We still had John Storrow to\nget to. \"I'm glad you came on a Tuesday,\" she said. \"Tuesday nights\nare\nhard for me. I'm always thinking of the ballgame down at\nWarrington's.\nThe guys'll be picking up the gear by now--the bats and bases and\ncatcher's mask---and putting it back in the storage cabinet behind\nhome\nplate. Drinking their last beers and smoking their last cigarettes.\nThat's where I met my husband, you know. I'm sure you've been\ntold all\nthat by now.\" I couldn't see her face clearly, but I could hear the\nfaint tinge of bitterness which had crept into her voice, and guessed\nshe was still wearing the cynical expression. It was too old for her,\nbut I thought she'd come by it honestly enough. Although if she\ndidn't\nwatch out, it would take root and grow. \"I heard a version from Bill,\nyes--Lindy's brother-in-law.\"\n\"Oh ayuh--our story's on retail. You can get it at the store, or the\nVillage Cafe, or at that old blabbermouth's garage.., which my\nfather-in-law rescued from Western Savings, by the way. He stepped\nin\njust before the bank could foreclose. Now Dickie Brooks and his\ncronies\nthink Max Devore is walking talking Jesus. I hope you got a fairer\nversion from Mr. Dean than you'd get at the All-Purpose. You\nmust've, or\nyou wouldn't have risked eating hamburgers with Jezebel.\" I wanted\nto\nget away from that, if I could--her anger was understandable but\nuseless. Of course it was easier for me to see that;it wasn't my kid who had been turned into the handkerchief tied at\nthe\ncenter of a tug-of-war rope. \"They still play softball at Warrington's?\nEven though Devore bought the place?\"\n\"Yes indeed. He goes down to the field in his motorized wheelchair\nevery\nTuesday evening and watches.\nThere are other things he's done since he came back here that are\njust\nattempts to buy the town's good opinion, but I think he genuinely\nloves\nthe softball games. The Whit-more woman goes, too. Brings an\nextra\noxygen tank along in a little red wheelbarrow with a whitewall tire\non\nthe front. She keeps a fielder's mitt in there, too, in case any foul\npops come up over the backstop to where he sits. He caught one\nnear the\nstart of the season, I heard, and got a standing O from the players\nand\nthe folks who come to watch.\"\n\"Going to the games puts him in touch with his son, you think?\"\nMattie\nsmiled grimly. \"I don't think Lance so much as crosses his mind, not\nwhen he's at the ballfield. They play hard at Warrington's--slide into\nhome with their feet up, jump into the puckerbrush for the flyballs,\ncurse each other when they do something wrong--and that's what\nold Max\nDevore enjoys, that's why he never misses a Tuesdayevening game.\nHe\nlikes to watch them slide and get up bleeding.\"\"Is that how Lance played?\" She thought about it carefully.\n\"He played hard, but he wasn't crazed. He was there just for the fun\nof\nit. We all were. We women--shit, really just us girls, Barney\nTherriault's wife, Cindy, was only sixteen--we'd stand behind the\nbackstop on the first-base side, smoking cigarettes or waving punks\nto\nkeep the bugs away, cheering our guys when they did something\ngood,\nlaughing when they did something stupid. We'd swap sodas or share\na can\nof beer. I'd admire Helen Geary's twins and she'd kiss Ki under the\nchin\nuntil Ki giggled. Sometimes we'd go down to the Village Cafe\nafterward\nand Buddy'd make us pizzas, losers pay. All friends again, you know,\na\nter the game. We'd sit there laughing and yelling and blowing\nstraw-wrappers around, some of the guys half-loaded but nobody\nmean. In\nthose days they got all the mean out on the ballfield. And you know\nwhat? None of them come to see me. Not Helen Geary, who was my\nbest\nfriend. Not Richie Lattimore, who was Lance's best riend--the two of\nthem would talk about rocks and birds and the kinds of trees there\nwere\nacross the lake for hours on end. They came to the uneral, and for a\nlittle while a ter, and then.., you know what it was like? When I was\na\nkid, our well dried up. For awhile you'd get a trickle when you turned\non the tap, but then there was just air. Just air.\" The cynicism was\ngone and there was only hurt in her voice. \"I saw Helen at\nChristmas,\nand we promised to get together for the twins'birthday, but we never did. I think she's scared to come near me.\"\n\"Because of the old man?\"\n\"Who else? But that's okay, life goes on.\" She sat up, drank the rest\nof\nher Kool-Aid, and set the glass aside. \"What about you, Mike? Did\nyou\ncome back to write a book? Are you going to name the TR?\" This\nwas a\nlocal bon mot that I remembered with an almost painful twinge of\nnostalgia. Locals with great plans were said to be bent on naming\nthe\nTR. \"No,\" I said, and then astonished myself by saying: \"I don't do\nthat\nanymore. I think I expected her to leap to her feet, overturning her\nchair and uttering a sharp cry of horrified denial. All of which says a\ngood deal about me, I suppose, and none of it flattering. \"You've\nretired?\" she asked, sounding calm and remarkably unhorri-fled. \"Or\nis\nit writer's block?\"\n\"Well, it's certainly not chosen retirement.\" I realized the\nconversation had taken a rather amusing turn. I'd come primarily to\nsell\nher on John Storrow--to shove John Storrow down her throat, if that\nwas\nwhat it tookand instead I was for the first time discussing my\ninability\nto work. For the first time with anyone. \"So it's a block.\"\n\"I used to think so, but now I'm not so sure. I think novelists may\ncome\nequipped with a certain number of stories to tell--they're built into\nthe software. And when they're gone, they're gone.\"\"I doubt that,\" she said. \"Maybe you'll write now that you're down\nhere.\nMaybe that's part of the reason you came back.\"\n\"Maybe you're right.\"\n\"Are you scared?\"\n\"Sometimes. Mostly about what I'll do for the rest of my life. I'm no\ngood at boats in bottles, and my wife was the one with the green\nthumb.\"\n\"I'm scared, too,\" she said. \"Scared a lot. All the time now, it seems\nlike.\"\n\"That he'll win his custody case? Mattie, that's what I--\"\n\"The custody case is only part of it,\" she said. \"I'm scared just to be\nhere, on the TR. It started early this summer, long after I knew\nDevore\nmeant to get Ki away from me if he could. And it's getting worse. In\na\nway it's like watching thunderheads gather over New Hampshire and\nthen\ncome piling across the lake. I can't put it any better than that,\nexcept...\" She shifted, crossing her legs and then bending forward to\npull the skirt of her dress against the line of her shin, as if she were\ncold. \"Except that I've woken up several times lately, sure that I\nwasn't in the bedroom alone. Once when I was sure I wasn't in the\nbed\nalone. Sometimes it's just a feeling--like a headache, only in your\nnerves--and sometimes I think I can hear whispering, or crying. I\nmade acake one night--about two weeks ago, this was--and forgot to put\nthe\nflour away. The next morning the cannister was overturned, and the\nflour\nwas spilled on the counter. Someone had written 'hello' in it. I\nthought\nat first it was Ki, but she said she didn't do it. Besides, it wasn't\nher printing, hers is all straggly. I don't know if she could even write\nhello. Hi, maybe, but... Mike, you don't think he could be sending\nsomeone around to try and freak me out, do you? I mean that's just\nstupid, right?\"\n\"I don't know,\" I said. I thought of something thumping the\ninsulation\nin the dark as I stood on the stairs. I thought of hello printed with\nmagnets on my refrigerator door, and a child sobbing in the dark. My\nskin felt more than cold; it felt numb. A headache in the nerves, that\nwas good, that was exactly how you felt when something reached\naround\nthe wall of the real world and touched you on the nape of the neck.\n\"Maybe it's ghosts,\" she said, and smiled in an uncertain way that\nwas\nmore frightened than amused. I opened my mouth to tell her about\nwhat\nhad been happening at I IZIR'!FI IZIN IX 1 IN k..x Sara Laughs,\nthen\nclosed it again. There was a clear choice to be made here: either we\ncould be sidetracked into a discussion of the paranormal, or we\ncould\ncome back to the visible world. The one where Max Devore was\ntrying to\nsteal himself a kid. \"Yeah,\" I said. \"The spirits are about to speak.\"\n\"I wish I could see your face better. There was something on it just\nthen. What?\"\"I don't know,\" I said. \"But right now I think we'd better talk about\nKyra. Okay?\"\n\"Okay.\" In the faint glow of the hibachi I could see her settling\nherself in her chair, as if to take a blow. \"I've been subpoenaed to\ngive a deposition in Castle Rock on Friday. Before Elmer Durgin, who\nis\nKyra's guardian ad litem--\"\n\"That pompous little toad isn't Ki's anything!\" she burst out. \"He's in\nmy father-in-law's hip pocket, just like Dickie Osgood, old Max's pet\nreal-estate guy! Dickie and Elmer Durgin drink together down at The\nMellow Tiger, or at least they did until this business really got going.\nThen someone probably told them it would look bad, and they\nstopped.\"\n\"The papers were served by a deputy named George Footman.\"\n\"Just one more of the usual suspects,\" Mattie said in a thin voice.\n\"Dickie Osgood's a snake, but George Footman's a junkyard dog.\nHe's been\nsuspended off the cops twice. Once more and he can work for Max\nDevore\nfull-time.\"\n\"Well, he scared me. I tried not to show it, but he did. And people\nwho\nscare me make me angry. I called my agent in New York and then\nhired a\nlawyer. One who makes a specialty of child-custody cases.\"\nI tried to see how she was taking this and couldn't, although we\nwere\nsitting fairly close together. But she still had that set look, like awoman who expects to take some hard blows. Or perhaps for Mattie\nthe\nblows had already started to fall. Slowly, not allowing myself to rush,\nI went through my conversation with John Storrow. I emphasized\nwhat\nStorrow had said about sexual equality--that it was apt to be a\nnegative\nforce in her case, making it easier for Judge Rancourt to take Kyra\naway. I also came down hard on the fact that Devore could have all\nthe\nlawyers he wanted--not to men tion sympathetic witnesses, with\nRichard\nOsgood running around the TR and spreading Devore's dough--but\nthat the\ncourt wasn't obligated to treat her to so much as an ice cream cone.\nI\nfinished by telling her that John wanted to talk to one of us\ntomorrow\nat eleven, and that it should be her. Then I waited. The silence spun\nout, broken only by crickets and the faint revving of some kid's\nunmuffled truck. Up Route 68, the white fluorescents went out as\nthe\nLakeview Market finished another day of summer trade. I didn't like\nMattie's quiet; it seemed like the prelude to an explosion. A Yankee\nexplosion. I held my peace and waited for her to ask me what gave\nme the\nright to meddle in her business. When she finally spoke, her voice\nwas\nlow and defeated. It hurt to hear her sounding that way, but like the\ncynical look on her face earlier, it wasn't surprising. And I hardened\nmyself against it as best I could. Hey, Mattie, tough old world. Pick\none. \"Why would you do this?\" she asked. \"Why would you hire an\nexpensive New York lawyer to take my case? That is what you're\noffering,\nisn't it? It's got to be, because I sure can't hire him. I got thirtythousand dollars' insurance money when Lance died, and was lucky\nto get\nthat. It was a policy he bought from one of his Warrington's friends,\nalmost as a joke, but without it I would have lost the trailer last\nwinter. They may love Dickie Brooks at Western Savings, but they\ndon't\ngive a rat's ass for Mattie Stanchfield Devore. After taxes I make\nabout\na hundred a week at the library. So you're offering to pay. Right?\"\n\"Right.\"\n\"Why? You don't even know us.\"\n\"Because...\" I trailed off. I seem to remember wanting Jo to step in\nat\nthat point, asking my mind to supply her voice, which I could then\npass\non to Mattie in my own. But Jo didn't come. I was flying solo.\n\"Because\nnow I do nothing that makes a difference,\" I said at last, and once\nagain the words astonished me.\n\"And I do know you. I've eaten your food, I've read Ki a story and\nhad\nher fall asleep in my lap.., and maybe I saved her life the other day\nwhen I grabbed her out of the road. We'll never know for sure, but\nmaybe\nI did. You know what the Chinese say about something like that?\" I\ndidn't expect an answer, the question was more rhetorical than real,\nbut\nshe surprised me. Not for the last time, either. \"That if you save\nsomeone's life, you're responsible for them.\"\n\"Yes. It's also about what's fair and what's right, but I think mostlyit's about wanting to be part of something where I make a\ndifference. I\nlook back on the four years since my wife died, and there's nothing\nthere. Not even a book where Marjorie the shy typist meets a\nhandsome\nstranger.\" She sat thinking this over, watching as a fully loaded\npulptruck snored past on the highway, its headlights glaring and its\nload of logs swaying from side to side like the hips of an overweight\nwoman. \"Don't you root for us,\" she said at last. She spoke in a low,\nunexpectedly fierce voice.\n\"Don't you root for us like he roots for his team-of-the-week down at\nthe softball field. I need help and I know it, but I won't have that. I\ncan't have it. We're not a game, Ki and me. You understand?\"\n\"Perfectly.\"\n\"You know what people in town will say, don't you?\"\n\"Yes.\"\n\"I'm a lucky girl, don't you think? First I marry the son of an\nextremely rich man, and after he dies, I fall under the protective\nwing\nof another rich guy. Next I'll probably move in with Donald Trump.\"\n\"(]ut it out.\"\n\"I'd probably believe it myself, if I were on the other side. But I\nwonder if anyone notices that lucky Mattie is still living in a Modair\ntrailer and can't afford health insurance. Or that her kid got most of\nher vaccinations from the County Nurse. My parents died when I was\nfifteen. I have a brother and a sister, but they're both a lot older and\nboth out of state. My parents were drunks--not physically abusive,\nbut\nthere was plenty of the other kinds. It was like growing up in a... aroach motel. My dad was a pulper, my mom was a bourbon\nbeautician whose\none ambition was to own a Mary Kay pink Cadillac. He drowned in\nKewadin\nPond. She drowned in her own vomit about six months later. How do\nyou\nlike it so far?\"\n\"Not very much. I'm sorry.\"\n\"After Mom's funeral my brother, Hugh, offered to take me back to\nRhode\nIsland, but I could tell his wife wasn't exactly nuts about having a\nfifteen-year-old join the family, and I can't say that I blamed her.\nAlso, I'd just made the jv cheering squad. That seems like supreme\ndiddlyshit now, but it was a very big deal then.\" Of course it had\nbeen\na big deal, especially to the child of alcoholics. The only one still\nliving at home. Being that last child, watching as the disease really\ndigs its claws in, can be one of the world's loneliest jobs. Last one\nout of the sacred ginmill please turn off the lights. \"I ended up going\nto live with my aunt Florence, just two miles down the road. It took\nus\nabout three weeks to discover we didn't like each other very much,\nbut\nwe made it work for two years. Then, between my junior and senior\nyears,\nI got a summer job at Warrington's and met Lance. When he asked\nme to\nmarry him, Aunt Flo refused to give permission. When I told her I\nwas\npregnant, she emancipated me so I didn't need it.\"\n\"You dropped out of school?\" She grimaced, nodded. \"I didn't want\ntospend six months having people watch me swell up like a balloon.\nLance\nsupported me. He said I could take the equivalency test. I did last\nyear. It was easy. And now Ki and I are on our own. Even if my aunt\nagreed to help me, what could she do? She works in the Castle Rock\nGore-Tex factory and makes about sixteen thousand dollars a year.\" I\nnodded again, thinking that my last check for French royalties had\nbeen\nabout that. My last quarterly check.\nThen I remembered something Ki had told me on the day I met her.\n\"When I\nwas carrying Kyra out of the road, she said that if you were mad,\nshe'd\ngo to her white nana. If your folks are dead, who did she--\" Except I\ndidn't really have to ask; I only had to make one or two simple\nconnections. \"Rogette Whitmore's the white nana? Devore's\nassistant? But\nthat means...\"\n\"That Ki's been with them. Yes, you bet. Until late last month, I\nallowed her to visit her grandpa--and Rogette by association, of\ncourse--quite often. Once or twice a week, and sometimes for an\novernight. She likes her 'whita poppa'--at least she did at first--and\nshe absolutely adores that creepy woman.\" I thought Mattie shivered\nin\nthe gloom, although the night was still very warm. \"Devore called to\nsay\nhe was coming east for Lance's funeral and to ask if he could see his\ngranddaughter while he was here. Nice as pie, he was, just as if he'd\nnever tried to buy me off when Lance told him we were going to get\nmarried.\"\n\"Did he?\"\"Uh-huh. The first offer was a hundred thousand. That was in\nAugust of\n1994, after Lance called him to say we were getting married in\nmid-September. I kept quiet about it. A week later, the offer went up\nto\ntwo hundred thousand.\"\n\"For what, precisely?\"\n\"To remove my bitch-hooks and relocate with no forwarding address.\nThis\ntime I did tell Lance, and he hit the roof. Called his old man and said\nwe were going to be married whether he liked it or not.\nTold him that if he ever wanted to see his grandchild, he had better\ncut\nthe shit and behave.\" With another parent, I thought, that was\nprobably\nthe most reasonable response Lance Devore could have made. I\nrespected\nhim for it. The only problem was that he wasn't dealing with a\nreasonable man; he was dealing with the fellow who, as a child, had\nstolen Scooter Larribee's new sled. \"These offers were made by\nDevore\nhimself, over the telephone. Both when Lance wasn't around. Then,\nabout\nten days before the wedding, I had a visit from Dickie Osgood. I was\nto\nmake a call to a number in Delaware, and when I did. .. \" Mattie\nshook\nher head. \"You wouldn't believe it. It's like something out of one of\nyour books.\"\n\"May I guess?\"\n\"If you want.\"\"He tried to buy the child.\nHe tried to buy Kyra.\" Her eyes widened. A scantling moon had\ncome up\nand I could see that look of surprise well enough. \"How much?\" I\nasked.\n\"I'm curious. How much for you to give birth, leave Devore's\ngrandchild\nwith Lance, then scat?\"\n\"Two million dollars,\" she whispered. \"Deposited in the bank of my\nchoice, as long as it was west of the Mississippi and I signed an\nagreement to stay away from her--and from Lance--until at least\nApril\ntwentieth, 2016.\"\n\"The year Ki turns twenty-one.\"\n\"And Osgood doesn't know any of the details, so Devore's skirts\nremain\nclean here in town.\"\n\"Uh-huh. And the two million was only the start.\nThere was to be an additional million on Ki's fifth, tenth, fifteenth,\nand twentieth birthdays.\" She shook her head in a disbelieving way.\n\"The\nlinoleum keeps bubbling up in the kitchen, the showerhead keeps\nfalling\ninto the tub, and the whole damn rig cants to the east these days,\nbut I\ncould have been the six-million-dollar woman.\" Did you ever\nconsider\ntaking the ofr, Mattie? I wondered. .. but that was a question I'dnever ask, a sign of curiosity so unseemly it deserved no\nsatisfaction.\n\"Did you tell Lance?\"\n\"I tried not to. He was already furious with his father, and I didn't\nwant to make it worse. I didn't want that much hate at the start of\nour\nmarriage, no matter how good the reasons for hating might be...\nand I\ndidn't want Lance to... later on with me, you know...\"\nShe raised her hands, then dropped them back on her thighs. The\ngesture\nwas both weary and oddly endearing. \"You didn't want Lance turning\non\nyou ten years later and saying \"You came between me and my\nfather, you\nbitch.'\"\n\"Something like that. But in the end, I couldn't keep it to myself. I\nwas just this kid from the sticks, didn't own a pair of pantyhose until\nI was eleven, wore my hair in nothing but braids or a ponytail until I\nwas thirteen, thought the whole state of New York was New York\nCity...\nand this guy.., thisphantomfather.., had offered me six million bucks.\nIt terrified me. I had dreams about him coming in the night like a\ntroll\nand stealing my baby out of her crib. He'd come wriggling through\nthe\nwindow like a snake...\"\n\"Dragging his oxygen tank behind him, no doubt.\" She smiled. \"I\ndidn't\nknow about the oxygen then.Or Rogette Whit-more, either. All I'm trying to say is that I was only\nseventeen and not good at keeping secrets.\" I had to restrain my\nown\nsmile at the way she said this--as if decades of experience now lay\nbetween that naive, frightened child and this mature woman with\nthe\nmail-order diploma.\n\"Lance was angry.\"\n\"So angry he replied to his father by e-mail instead of calling. He\nstuttered, you see, and the more upset he was, the worse his stutter\nbecame. A phone conversation would have been impossible.\"\nNow, at last, I thought I had a clear picture. Lance Devore had\nwritten\nhis father an unthinkable letter--unthinkable, that was, if you\nhappened\nto be Max Devore. The letter said that Lance didn't want to hear\nfrom\nhis father again, and Mattie didn't, either. He wouldn't be welcome in\ntheir home (the Modair trailer wasn't quite the humble woodcutter's\ncottage of a Brothers Grimm tale, but it was close enough for\nkissing).\nHe wouldn't be welcome to visit following the birth of their baby, and\nif he had the gall to send the child a present then or later, it would\nbe returned. Stay out of my life, Dad. This time you've gone too far\nto\nforgive. There are undoubtedly diplomatic ways of handling an\noffended\nchild, some wise and some crafty. .. but ask yourself this: would a\ndiplomatic father have gotten himself into such a situation to begin\nwith? Would a man with even minimal insight into human nature\nhave\noffered his son's fiancee a bounty (one so enormous it probably hadlittle real sense or meaning to her) to give up her firstborn child?\nAnd\nhe'd offered this devil's bargain to a girl-woman of seventeen, an\nage\nwhen the romantic view of life is at absolute high tide. If nothing\nelse, Devore should have waited awhile before making his final offer.\nYou could argue that he didn't know if he had awhile, but it wouldn't\nbe\na persuasive argument. I thought Mattie was right--deep in that\nwrinkled\nold prune which served him as a heart, Max Devore thought he was\ngoing\nto live forever. In the end, he hadn't been able to restrain himself.\nThere was the sled he wanted, the sled he just had to have, on the\nother\nside of the window. All he had to do was break the glass and take it.\nHe'd been doing it all his life, and so he had reacted to his son's\ne-mail not craftily, as a man of his years and abilities should have\ndone, but furiously, as the child would have done if the glass in the\nshed window had proved immune to his hammering fists. Lance\ndidn't want\nhim meddling? Fine! Lance could live with his backwoods Daisy Mae\nin a\ntent or a trailer or a goddamned cowbarn. He could give up the\ncushy\nsurveying job, as well, and find real employment. See how the other\nhalf\nlived! In other words, you can't quit on me, son. You're fired. \"We\ndidn't fall into each other's arms at the funeral,\" Mattie said, \"don't\nget that idea. But he was decent to me--which I didn't expect--and I\ntried to be decent to him. He offered me a stipend, which I refused.\nI\nwas afraid there might be legal ramifications.\"\"I doubt it, but I like your caution. What happened when he saw\nKyra for\nthe first time, Mattie?\nDo you remember?\"\n\"I'll never forget it.\" She reached into the pocket of her dress, found\na battered pack of cigarettes, and shook one out. She looked at it\nwith\na mixture of greed and disgust. \"I quit these because Lance said we\ncouldn't really afford them, and I knew he was right. But the habit\ncreeps back. I only smoke a pack a week, and I know damned well\neven\nthat's too much, but sometimes I need the comfort. Do you want\none?\" I\nshook my head. She lit up, and in the momentary flare of the match,\nher\nface was way past pretty. What had the old man made of her? I\nwondered.\n\"He met his granddaughter for the first time beside a hearse,\" Mattie\nsaid. \"We were at Dakin's Funeral Home in Motton. It was the\n'viewing.'\nDo you know about that?\"\n\"Oh yes,\" I said, thinking of Jo.\n\"The casket was closed but they still call it a viewing. Weird. I came\nout to have a cigarette. I told Ki to sit on the funeral parlor steps so\nshe wouldn't get the smoke, and I went a little way down the walk.\nThis\nbig gray limo pulled up. I'd never seen anything like it before, except\non TV. I knew who it was right away. I put my cigarettes back in my\npurse and told Ki to come. She toddled down the walk and took hold\nof myhand. The limo door opened, and Rogette Whitmore got out. She\nhad an\noxygen mask in one hand, but he didn't need it, at least not then.\nHe\ngot out after her. A tall man--not as tall as you, Mike, but\ntall--wearing a gray suit and black shoes as shiny as mirrors.\" She\npaused, thinking. Her cigarette rose briefly to her mouth, then went\nback down to the arm of her chair, a red firefly in the weak\nmoonlight.\n\"At first he didn't say anything. The woman tried to take his arm and\nhelp him climb the three or four steps from the road to the walk, but\nhe\nshook her off. He got to where we were standing under his own\npower,\nalthough I could hear him wheezing way down deep in his chest. It\nwas\nthe sound a machine makes when it needs oil. I don't know how\nmuch he\ncan walk now, but it's probably not much. Those few steps pretty\nwell\ndid him in, and that was almost a year ago. He looked at me for a\nsecond\nor two, then bent forward with his big, bony old hands on his knees.\nHe\nlooked at Kyra and she looked up at him.\" Yes. I could see it...\nexcept\nnot in color, not in an image like a photograph. I saw it as a\nwoodcut,\njust one more harsh illustration from Grimm's Fairy Tales. The little\ngirl looks up wide-eyed at the rich old man--once a boy who went\ntriumphantly sliding on a stolen sled, now at the other end of his life\nand just one more bag of bones. \"In my imagining, Ki was wearing a\nhooded jacket and Devore's grandpa mask was slightly askew,\nallowing meto see the tufted wolf-pelt beneath. What big eyes you have,\nGrandpa,\nwhat a big nose you have, Grandpa, what big teeth you have, too.\n\"He\npicked her up. I don't know how much effort it cost him, but he did.\nAnd--the oddest thing--Ki let herself be picked up. He was a\ncomplete\nstranger to her, and old people always seem to scare little children,\nbut she let him pick her up. \"Do you know who I am?' he asked her.\nShe\nshook her head, but the way she was looking at him.., it was as if\nshe\nalmost knew. Do you think that's possible?\"\n\"Yes.\"\n\"He said, Tm your grandpa.' And I almost grabbed her back, Mike,\nbecause\nI had this crazy idea... I don't know...\"\n\"That he was going to eat her up?\" Her cigarette paused in front of\nher\nmouth. Her eyes were round. \"How do you know that? How can you\nknow\nthat?\"\n\"Because in my mind's eye it looks like a fairy tale. Little Red Riding\nHood and the Old Gray Wolf. What did he do then?\" 'te her up with\nhis\neyes. Since then he's taught her to play checkers and Candyland and\nbox-dots. She's only three, but he's taught her to add and subtract.\nShe\nhas her own room at Warrington's and her own little computer in it,\nandGod knows what he's taught her to do with that.., but that first time\nhe\nonly looked at her. It was the hungriest look I've ever seen in my\nlife.\n'5nd she looked back. It couldn't have been more than ten or twenty\nseconds, but it seemed like forever. Then he tried to hand her back\nto\nme. He'd used up all his strength, though, and if I hadn't been right\nthere to take her, I think he would have dropped her on the cement\nwalk.\n\"He staggered a little, and Rogette Whitmore put an arm around\nhim. That\nwas when he took the oxygen mask from her--there was a little air-\nbottle\nattached to it on an elastic--and put it over his mouth and nose. A\ncouple of deep breaths and he seemed more or less all right again.\nHe\ngave it back to Rogette and really seemed to see me for the first\ntime.\nHe said, \"I've been a fool, haven't I?' I said, \"Yes, sir, I think youhave.' He gave me a look, very black, when I said that. I think if\nhe'd\nbeen even five years younger, he might have hit me for it.\"\n\"But he wasn't and he didp.'t.\"\n\"No. He said, \"I want to go inside. Will you help me do that?' I said I\nwould. We went up the mortuary steps with Rogette on one side of\nhim, me\nt sort of like a harem\ngirl. It wasn't a very nice feeling. When we got into the vestibule, he\nsat down to catch his breath and take a little more oxygen. Rogette\nturned to Kyra. I think that woman's got a scary face, it reminds me\nof\nsome painting or other--\"\n\"The Cry? The one by Munch?\"\n\"I'm pretty sure that's the one.\" She dropped her cigarette--she'd\nsmoked it all the way down to the filter--and stepped on it, grinding\nit\ninto the bony, rock-riddled ground with one white sneaker. \"But Ki\nwasn't scared of her a bit. Not then, not later. She bent down to Kyra\nand said, \"What rhymes with lady?' and Kyra said \"Shady!' right off.\nEven at two she loved rhymes. Rogette reached into her purse and\nbrought\nout a Hershey's Kiss.\nKi looked at me to see if she had permission and I said, \"All right,\nbut\njust one, and I don't want to see any of it on your dress.' Ki popped\nit\ninto her mouth and smiled at Rogette as if they'd been friends since\nforever. \"By then Devore had his breath back, but he looked tired--\nthemost tired man I've ever seen. He reminded me of something in the\nBible,\nabout how in the days of our old age we say we have no pleasure in\nthem.\nMy heart kind of broke for him. Maybe he saw it, because he\nreached for\nmy hand. He said, \"Don't shut me out.' And at that moment I could\nsee\nLance in his face. I started to cry. I said, \"I won't unless you make\nme.'\" I could see them there in the funeral home's foyer, him sitting,\nher standing, the little girl looking on in wide-eyed puzzlement as\nshe\nsucked the sweet Hershey's Kiss. Canned organ music in the\nbackground.\nPoor old Max Devore had been crafty enough on the day of his son's\nviewing, I thought. Don't shut me out, indeed. I tried to buy you off\nand\nwhen that didn't work I upped the stakes and tried to buy the baby.\nWhen\nthat also failed, I told my son that you and he and my grandchild\ncould\nchoke on the dirt of your own decision. In a way, I'm the reason he\nwas\nwhere he was when hejll and broke his neck, but don't shut me out,\nMattie, I'm just a poor old geezer, so don't shut me out. \"I was\nstupid,\nwasn't I?\"\n\"You expected him to be better than he was. If that makes you\nstupid,\nMattie, the world could use more of it.\"\n\"I did have my doubts,\" she said. \"It's why I wouldn't take any of his\nmoney, and by last October he'd quit asking. But I let him see her. Isuppose, yeah, part of it was the idea there might be something in it\nfor Ki later on, but I honestly didn't think about that so much. Mostly\nit was him being her only blood link to her father. I wanted her to\nenjoy that the way any kid enjoys having a grandparent. What I\ndidn't\nwant was for her to be infected by all the crap that went on before\nLance died. \"At first it seemed to be working. Then, little by little,\nthings changed. I realized that Ki didn't like her 'white poppa' so\nmuch; for one thing. Her feelings about Rogette are the same, but\nMax\nDevore's started to make her nervous in some way I don't\nunderstand and\nshe can't explain. I asked her once if he'd ever touched her\nanywhere\nthat made her feel funny. I showed her the places I meant, and she\nsaid\nno. I believe her, but. . he said something or did something. I'm\nalmost\nsure of it.\"\n\"Could be no more than the sound of his breathing getting worse,\" I\nsaid. \"That alone might be enough to scare a child. Or maybe he\nhad some\nkind of spell while she was there. What about you, Mattie?\"\n\"Well. .. one day in February Lindy Briggs told me that George\nFootman\nhad been in to check the fire extinguishers and the smoke detectors\nin\nthe library. He also asked if Lindy had found any beer cans or liquor\nbottles in the trash lately. Or cigarette butts that were obviously\nhomemade.\"\n\"Roaches, in other words.\"\n\"Uh-huh. And Dickie Osgood has been visiting my old friends, I hear.Chatting. Panning for gold.\nDigging the dirt.\"\n\"Is there any to dig?\"\n\"Not much, thank God.\" I hoped she was right, and I hoped that if\nthere\nwas stuff she wasn't telling me, John Storrow would get it out of her.\n\"But through all this you let Ki go on seeing him.\"\n\"What would pulling the plug on the visits have accomplished? And I\nthought that allowing them to go on would at least keep him from\nspeeding up any plans he might have.\" That, I thought, made a\nlonely\nkind of sense. \"Then, in the spring, I started to get some extremely\ncreepy, scary feelings.\"\n\"Creepy how? Scary how?\"\n\"I don't know.\" She took out her cigarettes, looked at them, then\nstuffed the pack back in her pocket. \"It wasn't just that my\nfather-in-law was looking for dirty laundry in my closets, either. It\nwas Ki. I started to worry about ICI all the time she was with him..,\nwith them. Rogette would come in the BMW they'd bought or leased,\nand Ki\nwould be sitting out on the steps waiting for her. With her bag of\ntoys\nif it was a day-visit, with her little pink Minnie Mouse suitcase if it\nwas an overnight. And she'd always come back with one more thing\nthan\nshe left with. My father-in-law's a great believer in presents. Before\npopping her into the car, Rogette would give me that cold little smile\nof hers and say, \"Seven o'clock then, we'll give her supper' or \"Eight\no'clock then, and a nice hot breakfast before she leaves.' I'd say\nokay,and then Rogette would reach into her bag and hold out a Hershey's\nKiss\nto Ki just the way you'd hold a biscuit out to a dog to make it shake\nhands. She'd say a word and Kyra would rhyme it. Rogette would\ntoss her\nher treat--woof-woof, good dog, I always used to think--and off\nthey'd\ngo. Come seven in the evening or eight in the morning, the BMW\nwould\npull in right where your car's parked now. You could set your clock\nby\nthe woman. But I got worried.\"\n\"That they might get tired of the legal process and just snatch her?\"\nThis seemed to me a reasonable concern--so reasonable I could\nhardly\nbelieve Mattie had ever let her little girl go to the old man in the\nfirst place. In custody cases, as in the rest of life, possession tends\nto be nine tenths of the law, and ifmattie was telling the truth about\nher past and present, a custody hearing was apt to turn into a\ntiresome\nproduction even for the rich Mr. Devore. Snatching might, in the end,\nlook like a more efficient solution. \"Not exactly,\" she said. \"I guess\nit's the logical thing, but that wasn't really it. I just got afraid.\nThere was nothing I could put my finger on. It would get to be\nquarter\npast six in the evening and I'd think, \"This time that white-haired\nbitch isn't going to bring her back. This time she's going to...'\" I\nwaited. When nothing came I said, \"Going to what?\"\n\"I told you, I don't know,\" she said. \"But I've been afraid for Ki since\nspring. By the time June came around, I couldn't stand it anymore,\nand I\nput a stop to the visits. Kyra's been off-and-on pissed at me eversince. I'm pretty sure that's most of what that Fourth of July\nescapade\nwas about. She doesn't talk about her grandfather very much, but\nshe's\nalways popping out with \"What do you think the white nana's doing\nnow,\nMat-tie?' or \"Do you think the white nana would like my new dress?'\nOr\nshe'll run up to me and say \"Sing, ring, king, thing,' and ask for a\ntreat.\"\n\"What was the reaction from Devore?\"\n\"Complete fury. He called again and again, first asking what was\nwrong,\nthen making threats.\"\n\"Physical threats?\"\n\"Custody threats. He was going to take her away, when he was\nfinished\nwith me I'd stand before the whole world as an unfit mother, I didn't\nhave a chance, my only hope was to relent and let me see my\ngranddaughter, goddammit. \" I nodded.\"\n\"Please don't shut me out'\ndoesn't sound like the guy who called while I was watching the\nfireworks, but that does.\"\n\"I've also gotten calls from Dickie Osgood, and a number of other\nlocals,\" she said. \"Including Lance's old friend Richie Lattimore.\nRichie said I wasn't being true to Lance's memory.\"\n\"What about George Footman?\"\"He cruises by once in awhile. Lets me know he's watching. He\nhasn't\ncalled or stopped in. You asked about physical threats--just seeing\nFootman's cruiser on my road feels like a physical threat to me.\nHe scares me. But these days it seems as if everything does.\"\n\"Even though Kyra's visits have stopped.\"\n\"Even though. It feels.., thundery.\nLike something's going to happen. And every day that feeling seems\nto\nget stronger.\"\n\"John Storrow's number,\" I said. \"Do you want it?\" She sat quietly,\nlooking into her lap. Then she raised her head and nodded.\n\"Give it to me. And thank you. From the bottom of my heart.\" I had\nthe\nnumber on a pink memo-slip in my front pocket. She grasped it but\ndid\nnot immediately take it. Our fingers were touching, and she was\nlooking\nat me with disconcerting steadiness. It was as if she knew more\nabout my\nmotives than I did myself. \"What can I do to repay you?\" she asked,\nand\nthere it was. \"Tell Storrow everything you've told me.\" I let go of the\npink slip and stood up. \"That'll do just fine. And now I have to get\nalong. Will you call and tell me how you made out with him?\"\n\"Of course.\" We walked to my car. I turned to her when we got\nthere. Fora moment I thought she was going to put her arms around me and\nhug me, a\nthank-you gesture that might have led anywhere in our current\nmood--one\nso heightened it was almost melodramatic. But it was a\nmelodramatic\nsituation, a fairy tale where there's good and bad and a lot of\nrepressed sex running under both. Then headlights appeared over\nthe brow\nof the hill where the market stood and swept past the All-Purpose\nGarage. They moved toward us, brightening. Mattie stood back and\nactually put her hands behind her, like a child who has been scolded.\nThe car passed, leaving us in the dark again.., but the moment had\npassed, too. If there had been a moment. \"Thanks for dinner,\" I\nsaid.\n\"It was wonderful.\"\n\"Thanks for the lawyer, I'm sure he'll be wonderful, too,\" she said,\nand\nwe both laughed. The electricity went out of the air. \"He spoke of\nyou\nonce, you know. Devore.\"\nI looked at her in surprise. \"I'm amazed he even knew who I was.\nBefore\nthis, I mean.\"\n\"He knows, all right. He spoke of you with what I think was genuine\naffection.\"\n\"You're kidding. You must be.\"\n\"I'm not. He said that your great-grandfather and his great-\ngrandfatherworked the same camps and were neighbors when they weren't in\nthe\nwoods--I think he said not far from where Boyd's Marina is now.\n\"They\nshit in the same pit,' is the way he put it. Charming, huh? He said he\nguessed that if a couple of loggers from the TR could produce\nmillionaires, the system was working the way it was supposed to.\n\"Even\nif it took three generations to do it,' he said. At the time I took it\nas a veiled criticism of Lance.\"\n\"It's ridiculous, however he meant it,\" I said. \"My family is from the\ncoast. Prout's Neck. Other side of the state. My dad was a fisherman\nand\nso was his father before him. My great-grandfather, too. They\ntrapped\nlobsters and threw nets, they didn't cut trees.\" All that was true, and\nyet my mind tried to fix on something. Some memory connected to\nwhat she\nwas saying. Perhaps if I slept on it, it would come back to me.\n\"Could he have been talking about someone in your wife's family?\"\n\"Nope.\nThere are Arlens in Maine--they're a big family--but most are still in\nMassachusetts. They do all sorts of things now, but if you go back to\nthe eighteen-eighties, the majority would have been quarrymen and\nstonecutters in the Malden-Lynn area. Devore was pulling your leg,\nMattie.\" But even then I suppose I knew he wasn't. He might have\ngotten\nsome part of the story wrong--even the sharpest guys begin to lose\nthe\nedge of their recollection by the time they turn eighty-five--but Max\nDevore wasn't much of a leg-puller. I had an image of unseen cablesstretching beneath the surface of the earth here on the TR---\nstretching\nin all directions, unseen but very powerful.\nMy hand was resting on top of my car door, and now she touched it\nbriefly. \"Can I ask you one other question before you go? It's stupid,\nI\nwarn you.\"\n\"Go ahead. Stupid questions are a specialty of mine.\"\n\"Do you have any idea at all what that \"Bartleby' story is about?\"\nI wanted to laugh, but there was enough moonlight for me to see\nshe was\nserious, and that I'd hurt her feelings if I did. She was a member of\nLindy Briggs's readers' circle (where I had once spoken in the late\neighties), probably the youngest by at least twenty years, and she\nwas\nafraid of appearing stupid.\n\"I have to speak first next time,\" she said, \"and I'd like to give more\nthan just a summary of the story so they know I've read it. I've\nthought\nabout it until my head aches, and I just don't see. I doubt if it's one\nof those stories where everything comes magically clear in the last\nfew\npages, either. And I feel like I should see--that it's right there in\nfront of me.\"\nThat made me think of the cables again--cables running in every\ndirection, a subcutaneous webwork connecting people and places.\nYou\ncouldn't see them, but you could feel them. Especially if you tried to\nget away.Meanwhile Mattie was waiting, looking at me with hope and anxiety.\n\"Okay, listen up, school's in session,\" I said. \"I am. Believe me.\"\n\"Most critics think Huckleberry Finn is the first modern American\nnovel,\nand that's fair enough, but if'bartleby' were a hundred pages longer,\nI\nthink I'd put my money there. Do you know what a scrivener was?\"\n\"A secretary?\"\n\"That's too grand. A copyist. Sort of like Bob Cratchit in A Christmas\nCarol Only Dickens gives Bob a past and a family life. Melville gives\nBartleby neither. He's the first existential character in American\nfiction, a guy with no ties.., no ties to, you know...\"\nA couple of loggers who couldproduce millionaires. They shit in the\nsamepit. \"Mike?\"\n\"What?\"\n\"Are you okay?\"\n\"Sure.\" I focused my mind as best I could. \"Bartleby is tied to life\nonly by work. In that way he's a twentieth-century American type,\nnot\nmuch different from Sloan Wilson's Man in the Gray Flannel Suit, or--\nin\nthe dark version--Michael Corleone in The Godfather. But then\nBartleby\nbegins to question even work, the god of middle-class American\nmales.\"\nShe looked excited now, and I thought it was a shame she'd missed\nherlast year of high school. For her and also for her teachers. \"That's\nwhy\nhe starts saying \"I prefer not to'?\"\n\"Yes. Think of Bartleby as a... a hot-air balloon. Only one rope still\ntethers him to the earth, and that rope is his scrivening. We can\nmeasure the rot in that last rope by the steadily increasing number\nof\nthings Bartleby prefers not to do. Finally the rope breaks and\nBartleby\nfloats away. It's a goddam disturbing story, isn't it?\"\n\"One night I dreamed about him,\" she said. \"I opened the trailer\ndoor\nand there he was, sitting on the steps in his old black suit. Thin. Not\nmuch hair. I said, \"Will you move, please? I have to go out and hang\nthe\nclothes now.' And he said, \"I prefer not to.' Yes, I guess you could\ncall it disturbing.\"\n\"Then it still works,\" I said, and got into my car. \"Call me. Tell me\nhow it goes with Je, hn Storrow.\"\n\"I will. And anything I can do to repay, just ask.\" Just ask. How\nyoung\ndid you have to be, how beautifully ignorant, to issue that kind of\nblank check? My window was open. I reached through it and\nsqueezed her\nhand.\nShe squeezed back, and hard. \"You miss your wife a lot, don't you?\"\nshe\nsaid. \"It shows?\"\n\"Sometimes.\" She was no longer squeezing, but she was still holding\nmyhand. \"When you were reading to Ki, you looked both happy and sad\nat the\nsame time. I only saw her once, your wife, but I thought she was\nvery\nbeautiful.\" I had been thinking about the touch of our hands,\nconcentrating on that. Now I forgot about it entirely. \"When did you\nsee\nher? And where? Do you remember?\" She smiled as if those were\nvery silly\nquestions. \"I remember. It was at the ballfield, on the night I met\nmy\nhusband.\" Very slowly I withdrew my hand from hers. So far as I\nknew,\nneither Jo nor I had been near TR-90 all that summer of '94. .. but\nwhat I knew was apparently wrong. Jo had been down on a Tuesday\nin early\nJuly. She had even gone to the softball game. \"Are you sure it was\nJo?\"\nI asked. Mattie was looking off toward the road. It wasn't my wife\nshe\nwas thinking about; I would have bet the house and lot on it--either\nhouse, either lot. It was Lance. Maybe that was good.\nIf she was thinking about him, she probably wouldn't look too\nclosely at\nme, and I didn't think I had much control of my expression just\nthen.\nShe might have seen more on my face than I wanted to show. \"Yes,\"\nshe\nsaid. \"I was standing with Jenna McCoy and Helen Geary--this was\nafter\nLance helped me with a keg of beer I got stuck in the mud and then\nasked\nif I was going for pizza with the rest of them after the game--and\nJennasaid, \"Look, it's Mrs. Noonan,' and Helen said, \"She's the writer's\nwife, Mattie, isn't that a cool blouse?' The blouse was all covered\nwith\nblue roses.\" I remembered it very well. Jo liked it because it was a\njoke--there are no blue roses, not in nature and not in cultivation.\nOnce when she was wearing it she had thrown her arms\nextravagantly\naround my neck, swooned her hips forward against mine, and cried\nthat\nshe was my blue rose and I must stroke her until she turned pink.\nRemembering that hurt, and badly. \"She was over on the third-base\nside,\nbehind the chickenwire screen,\" Mattie said, \"with some guy who\nwas\nwearing an old brown jacket with patches on the elbows. They were\nlaughing together over something, and then she turned her head a\nlittle\nand looked right at me.\" She was quiet for a moment, standing there\nbeside my car in her red dress. She raised her hair off the back of\nher\nneck, held it, then let it drop again. \"Right at me. Really seeing me.\nAnd she had a look about her.., she'd just been laughing but this\nlook\nwas sad, somehow. It was as if she knew me. Then the guy put his\narm\naround her waist and they walked away.\" Silence except for the\ncrickets\nand the far-off drone of a truck. Mattie only stood there for a\nmoment,\nas if dreaming with her eyes open, and then she felt something and\nlooked back at me. \"Is something wrong?\"\n\"No. Except who was this guy with his arrfi around my wife?\"She laughed a little uncertainly. \"Well I doubt if he was her\nboyfriend,\nyou know. He was quite a bit older. Fifty, at least.\" So what? I\nthought. I myself was forty, but that didn't mean I had missed the\nway\nMattie moved inside her dress, or lifted her hair from the nape of her\nneck. \"I mean.., you're kidding, right?\"\n\"I don't really know. There's a lot of things I don't know these days,\nit seems. But the lady's dead in any case, so how can it matter?\"\nMattie\nwas looking distressed. \"If I put my foot in something, Mike, I'm\nsorry.\"\n\"Who was the man? Do you know?\" She shook her head. \"I thought\nhe was a\nsummer person--there was that feeling about him, maybe just\nbecause he\nwas wearing a jacket on a hot summer evening--but if he was, he\nwasn't\nstaying at Warrington's. I knew most of them.\"\n\"And they walked off together?\"\n\"Yes.\" Sounding reluctant. \"Toward the parking lot?\"\n\"Yes.\" More reluctant still. And this time she was lying. I knew it with\na queer certainty that went far beyond intuition; it was almost like\nmind-reading. I reached through the window and took her hand\nagain. \"You\nsaid if I could think of anything you could do to repay me, to just\nask.\nI'm asking. Tell me the truth, Mattie.\" She bit her lip, looking down\natmy hand lying over hers. Then she looked up at my face. \"He was a\nburly\nguy. The old sportcoat made him look a little like a college professor,\nbut he could have been a carpenter for all I know. His hair was\nblack.\nHe had a tan. They had a laugh together, a good one, and then she\nlooked\nat me and the laugh went out of her face. After that he put an arm\naround her and they walked away.\" She paused. \"Not toward the\nparking\nlot, though. Toward The Street.\"\nThe Street. From there they could have walked north along the edge\nof\nthe lake until they came to Sara Laughs. And then? Who knew? \"She\nnever\ntold me she came down here that summer,\" I said. Mattie seemed to\ntry\nseveral responses and find none of them to her liking. I gave her her\nhand back. It was time for me to go. In fact I had started to wish I'd\nleft five minutes sooner. \"Mike, I'm sure--\"\n\"No,\" I said. \"You're not.\nNeither am I. But I loved her a lot and I'm going to try and let this\ngo. It probably signifies nothing, and besides--what else can I do?\nThanks for dinner.\"\n\"You're welcome.\" Mattie looked so much like crying that I picked\nher\nhand up again and kissed the back of it. \"I feel like a dope.\"\n\"You're not a dope,\" I said. I gave her hand another kiss, then drove\naway. And that was my date, the first one in four years.Driving home I thdught of an old saying about how one person can\nnever\ntruly know another. It's easy to give that idea lip service, but it's a\njolt--as horrible and unexpected as severe air turbulence on a\npreviously calm airline flight--to discover it's a literal fact in one's\nown life. I kept remembering our visit to a fertility doc after we'd\nbeen trying to make a baby for almost two years with no success.\nThe\ndoctor had told us I had a low sperm count--not disastrously low,\nbut\ndown enough to account for Jo's failure to conceive. \"If you want a\nkid,\nyou'll likely have one without any special help,\" the doc had said.\n\"Both the odds and time are still on your side. It could happen\ntomorrow\nor it could happen four years from now. Will you ever fill the house\nwith babies? Probably not. But you might have two, and you'll\nalmost\ncertainly have one if you keep doing the thing that makes them.\"\nShe had\ngrinned. \"Remember, the pleasure is in the journey.\" There had been\na\nlot of pleasure, all right, many ringings of Bunter's bell, but there\nhad been no baby. Then Johanna had died running across a\nshopping-center\nparking lot on a hot day, and one of the items in her bag had been a\nNorco Home Pregnancy Test which she had not told me she had\nintended to\nbuy. No more than she'd told me she had bought a couple of plastic\nowls\nto keep the crows from shitting on the lakeside deck. What else\nhadn't\nshe told me? \"Stop,\" I muttered. \"For Christ's sake stop thinking\nabout\nit.\" But I couldn't.When I got back to Sara, the fruit and vegetable magnets on the\nrefrigerator were in a circle again. Three letters had been clustered\nin\nthe middle:\ng d I moved the 0 up to where I thought it belonged, making \"god\"\nor\nmaybe an abridged version of \"good.\" Which meant exactly what? \"I\ncould\nspeculate about that, but I prefer not to,\" I told the empty house. I\nlooked at Bunter the moose, willing the bell around his moth-eaten\nneck\nto ring. When it didn't, I opened my two new Magnabet packages\nand stuck\nthe letters on the fridge door, spreading them out. Then I went\ndown to\nthe north wing, undressed, and brushed my teeth. As I bared my\nfangs for\nthe mirror in a sudsy cartoon scowl, I considered calling Ward\nHankins\nagain tomorrow morning. I could tell him that my search for the\nelusive\nplastic owls had progressed from November of 1993 to July of 1994.\nWhat\nmeetings had Jo put on her calendar for that month? What excuses\nto be\nout of Derry? And once I had finished with Ward, I could tackle Jo's\nfriend Bonnie Amudson, ask her if anything had been going on with\nJo in\nthe last summer of her life. Let her rest in peace, why don't you? It\nwas the UFO voice. What good will it do you to do otherwise?\nAssume she\npopped over to the TR after one of her board meetings, maybe just\non awhim, met an old friend, took him back to the housejr a bite of\ndinner.\nJust dinner. And never told me? I asked the UFO voice, spitting out a\nmouthful of toothpaste and then rinsing. Never said a single word?\nHow\ndo you know she didn't? the voice returned, and that froze me in the\nact\nof putting my toothbrush back in the medicine cabinet. The UFO\nvoice had\na point. I had been deep into All the Wayjqom the 3p by July of '94.\nJo\ncould have come in and told me she'd seen Lon Chaney Junior\ndancing with\nthe queen, doing the Werewolves of London, and I probably would\nhave\nsaid \"Uh-huh, honey, that's nice\" as I went on proofing copy.\n\"Bullshit,\" I said to my reflection. \"That's just bullshit.\"\nExcept it wasn't. When I was really driving on a book I more or less\nfell out of the world; other than a quick scan of the sports pages, I\ndidn't even read the newspaper. So yes--it was possible that Jo had\ntold\nme she'd run over to the TR after a board meeting in Lewiston or\nFreeport, it was possible that she'd told me she'd run into an old\nfriend--perhaps another student from the photography seminar she'd\nattended at Bates in 1991--and it was possible she'd told me they'd\nhad\ndinner together on our deck, eating black trumpet mushrooms she'd\npicked\nherself as the sun went down. It was possible she'd told me these\nthings\nand I hadn't registered a word of what she was saying. And did I\nreallythink I'd get anything I could trust out of Bonnie Amudson? She'd\nbeen\nJo's friend, not mine, and Bonnie might feel the statute of limitations\nhadn't run out on any secrets my wife had told her. The bottom line\nwas\nas simple as it was brutal: Jo was four years dead. Best to love her\nand\nlet all troubling questions lapse. I took a final mouthful of water\ndirectly from the tap, swished it around in my mouth, and spat it\nout.\nWhen I returned to the kitchen to set the coffee-maker for seven\nA.M., I\nsaw a new message in a new circle of magnets. It read blue rose liar\nha\nha I looked at it for a second or two, wondering what had put it\nthere,\nand why. Wondering if it was true. I stretched out a hand and\nscattered\nall the letters far and wide. Then I went to bed.\nI caught the measles when I was eight, and I was very ill. \"I thought\nyou were going to die,\" my father told me once, and he was not a\nman\ngiven to exaggeration. He told me about how he and my mother had\ndunked\nme in a tub of cold water one night, both of them at least\nhalf-convinced the shock of it would stop my heart, but both of them\ncompletely convinced that I'd burn up before their eyes if they didn't\ndo something. I had begun to speak in a loud, monotonously\ndiscursive\nvoice about the bright figures I saw in the room--angels come to\nbear me\naway, my terrified mother was sure--and the last time my father took\nmytemperature before the cold plunge, he said that the mercury on the\nold\nJohnson 8: Johnson rectal thermometer had stood at a hundred and\nsix\ndegrees. After that, he said, he didn't dare take it anymore.\nI don't remember any bright figures, but I remember a strange\nperiod of\ntime that was like being in a funhouse corridor where several\ndifferent\nmovies were showing at once. The world grew elastic, bulging in\nplaces\nwhere it had never bulged before, wavering in places where it had\nalways\nbeen solid. People--most of them seeming impossibly talldarted in\nand\nout of my room on scissoring, cartoonish legs. Their words all came\nout\nbooming, with instant echoes. Someone shook a pair of baby-shoes\nin my\nface. I seem to remember my brother, Siddy, sticking his hand into\nhis\nshirt and making repeated arm-fart noises. Continuity broke down.\nEverything came in segments, weird wieners on a poison string.\nIn the years between then and the summer I returned to Sara\nLaughs, I\nhad the usual sicknesses, infections, and insults to the body, but\nnever\nanything like that feverish interlude when I was eight. I never\nexpected\nto--believing, I suppose, that such experiences are unique to\nchildren,\npeople with malaria, or maybe those suffering catastrophic mentalbreakdowns. But on the night of July seventh and the morning of\nJuly\neighth, I lived through a period of time remarkably like that\nchildhood\ndelirium. Dreaming, waking, moving--they were all one. I'll tell you\nas\nbest I can, but nothing I say can convey the strangeness of that\nexperience. It was as if I had found a secret passage hidden just\nbeyond\nthe wall of the world and went crawling along it.\nFirst there was music. Not Dixieland, because there were no horns,\nbut\nlike Dixieland. A primitive, reeling kind of bebop. Three or four\nacoustic guitars, a harmonica, a stand-up bass (or maybe a pair).\nBehind\nall of this was a hard, happy drumming that didn't sound as if it was\ncoming from a real drum; it sounded as if someone with a lot of\npercussive talent was whopping on a bunch of boxes. Then a\nwoman's voice\njoined in--a contralto voice, not quite mannish, roughing over the\nhigh\nnotes. It was laughing and urgent and ominous all at the same time,\nand\nI knew at once that I was hearing Sara Tidwell, who had never cut a\nrecord in her life. I was hearing Sara Laughs, and man, she was\nrocking.\n\"You know we're going back to MANDERLEY, We're gonna dance on\nthe\nSANDERLEY, I'm gonna sing with the BANDERLEY, We gonna ball all\nwe\nCANDERLEY- Ball me, baby, yeah,t\"\nThe basses--yes, there were two--broke out in a barnyard shuffle\nlikethe break in Elvis's version of \"Baby Let's Play House,\" and then\nthere\nwas a guitar solo: Son Tidwell playing that chickenscratch thing.\nLights gleamed in the dark, and I thought of a song from the\nfifties--Claudine Clark singing \"Party Lights.\" And here they were,\nJapanese lanterns hung from the trees above the path of railroad-tie\nsteps leading from the house to the water. Party lights casting mystic\ncircles of radiance in the dark: red blue and green. Behind me, Sara\nwas\nsinging the bridge to her Manderley song--mama likes it nasty,\nmama\nlikes it strong, mama likes to party all night long--but it was fading.\nSara and the Red-Top Boys had set up their bandstand in the\ndriveway by\nthe sound, about where George Footman had parked when he came\nto serve\nme with Max Devore's subpoena. I was descending toward the lake\nthrough\ncircles of radiance, past party lights surrounded by soft-winged\nmoths.\nOne had found its way inside a lamp and it cast a monstrous, batlike\nshadow against the ribbed paper. The flower-boxes Jo had put\nbeside the\nsteps were full of night-blooming roses. In the light of the Japanese\nlanterns they looked blue. Now the band was only a faint murmur; I\ncould\nhear Sara shouting out the lyric, laughing her way through it as\nthough\nit were the funniest thing she'd ever heard, all that\nManderley-sanderley-canderley stuff, but I could no longer make out\nthe\nindividual words. Much clearer was the lap of the lake against the\nrocksat the foot of the steps, the hollow clunk of the cannisters under the\nswimming float, and the cry of a loon drifting out of the darkness.\nSomeone was standing on The Street to my right, at the edge of the\nlake.\nI couldn't see his face, but I could see the brown sportcoat and the\ntee-shirt he was wearing beneath it. The lapels cut off some of the\nletters of the message, so it looked like this:\nORMA ER OUN I knew what it said anyway--in dreams you almost\nalways\nknow, don't you?\nNOV&tar SPERM COUNT, a Village Cafe yuck-it-up special if ever\nthere was\none. I was in the north bedroom dreaming all this, and here I woke\nup\nenough to know I was dreaming. .. except it was like waking into\nanother dream, because Bunter's bell was ringing madly and there\nwas\nsomeone standing in the hall. Mr. Normal Sperm Count? No, not him.\nThe\nshadow-shape falling on the door wasn't quite human. It was\nslumped, the\narms indistinct. I sat up into the silver shaking of the bell, clutching\na loose puddle of sheet against my naked waist, sure it was the\nshroud-thing out there--the shroud-thing had come out of its grave\nto\nget me. \"Please don't,\" I said in a dry and trembling voice. \"Please\ndon't, please.\" The shadow on the door raised its arms. \"It ain't\nnuthin\nbut a barn-dance sugar/\" Sara Tidwell's laughing, furious voice\nsang..\"It ain't nuthin but a round-and-round/\" I lay back down and pulled\nthe\nsheet over my face in a childish act of denial.., and there I stood on\nour little lick of beach, wearing just my undershorts. My feet were\nankle-deep in the water. It was warm the way the lake gets by\nmidsummer.\nMy dim shadow was cast two ways, in one direction by the scantling\nmoon\nwhich rode low above the water, in another by the Japanese lantern\nwith\nthe moth caught inside it. The man who'd been standing on the path\nwas\ngone but he had left a plastic owl to mark his place. It stared at me\nwith frozen, gold-ringed eyes. \"Hey Irish!\" I looked out at the\nswimming\nfloat. Jo stood there. She must have just climbed out of the water,\nbecause she was still dripping and her hair was plastered against her\ncheeks. She was wearing the two-piece swimsuit from the photo I'd\nfound,\ngray with red piping. \"It's been a long time, Irish--what do you say?\"\n\"Say about what?\" I called back, although I knew. \"About this!\" She\nput\nher hands over her breasts and squeezed. Water ran out between\nher\nfingers and trickled across her knuckles. \"Come on, Irish,\" she said\nfrom beside and above me, \"come on, you bastard, let's go.\" I felt\nher\nstrip down the sheet, pulling it easily out of my sleep-numbed\nfingers.\nI shut my eyes, but she took my hand and placed it between her\nlegs. As\nI found that velvety seam and began to stroke it open, she began to\nrubthe back of my neck with her fingers.\n\"You're not Jo,\" I said. \"Who are you?\"\nBut no one was there to answer. I was in the woods. It was dark,\nand on\nthe lake the loons were crying. I was walking the path to Jo's studio.\nIt wasn't a dream; I could feel the cool air against my skin and the\noccasional bite of a rock into my bare sole or heel. A mosquito\nbuzzed\naround my ear and I waved it away. I was wearing Jockey shorts,\nand at\nevery step they pulled against a huge and throbbing erection.\n\"What the hell is this?\" I asked as Jo's little barnboard studio loomed\nin the dark. I looked behind me and saw Sara on her hill, not the\nwoman\nbut the house, a long lodge jutting toward the nightbound lake.\n\"What's\nhappening to me?\"\n\"Everything's all right, Mike,\" Jo said. She was standing on the float,\nwatching as I swam toward her. She put her hands behind her neck\nlike a\ncalendar model, lifting her breasts more fully into the damp halter.\nAs\nin the photo, I could see her nipples poking out the cloth. I was\nswimming in my underpants, and with the same huge erection.\n\"Everything's all right, Mike,\" Mattie said in the north bedroom, and I\nopened my eyes. She was sitting beside me on the bed, smooth and\nnaked\nin the weak glow of the nightlight. Her hair was down, hanging to\nher\nshoulders. Her breasts were tiny, the size of teacups, but the nippleswere large and distended. Between her legs, where my hand still\nlingered, was a powderpuff of blonde hair, smooth as down. Her\nbody was\nwrapped in shadows like moth-wings, like rose-petals. There was\nsomething desperately attractive about her as she sat there--she\nwas\nlike the prize you know you'll never win at the carny shooting gallery\nor the county fair ringtoss. The one they keep on the top shelf. She\nreached under the sheet and folded her fingers over the stretched\nmaterial of my undershorts.\nEverything's all right, it ain't nuthin but a round-and-round, said the\nUFO voice as I climbed the steps to my wife's studio. I stooped,\nfished\nfor the key from beneath the mat, and took it out.\nI climbed the ladder to the float, wet and dripping, preceded by my\nengorged sex--is there anything, I wonder, so unintentionally comic\nas a\nsexually aroused man? Jo stood on the boards in her wet bathing\nsuit. I\npulled Mattie into bed with me. I opened the door to Jo's studio. All\nof\nthese things happened at the same time, weaving in and out of each\nother\nlike strands of some exotic rope or belt. The thing with Jo felt the\nmost like a dream, the thing in the studio, me crossing the floor and\nlooking down at my old green IBM, the least. Mattie in the north\nbedroom\nwas somewhere in between.\nOn the float Jo said, \"Do what you want.\" In the north bedroom\nMattie\nsaid, \"Do what you want.\" In the studio, no one had to tell me\nanything.In there I knew exactly what I wanted.\nOn the float I bent my head and put my mouth on one of Jo's\nbreasts and\nsucked the cloth-covered nipple into my mouth. I tasted damp fabric\nand\ndank lake. She reached for me where I stuck out and I slapped her\nhand\naway. If she touched me I would come at once. I sucked, drinking\nback\ntrickles of cotton-water, groping with my own hands, first caressing\nher\nass and then yanking down the bottom half of her suit. I got it off\nher\nand she dropped to her knees. I did too, finally getting rid of my\nwet,\nclinging underpants and tossing them on top of her bikini panty. We\nfaced each other that way, me naked, her almost.\n\"Who was the guy at the game?\" I panted. \"Who was he, Jo?\"\n\"No one in particular, Irish. Just another bag of bones.\"\nShe laughed, then leaned back on her haunches and stared at me.\nHer\nnavel was a tiny black cup. There was something queerly,\nattractively\nsnakelike in her posture. \"Everything down there is death,\" she said,\nand pressed her cold palms and white, pruney fingers to my cheeks.\nShe\nturned my head and then bent it so I was looking into the lake.\nUnder\nthe water I saw decomposing bodies slipping by, pulled by some\ndeep\ncurrent. Their wet eyes stared. Their fish-nibbled noses gaped. Theirtongues lolled between white lips like tendrils of waterweed. Some\nof\nthe dead trailed pallid balloons of jellyfish guts; some were little\nmore than bone. Yet not even the sight of this floating charnel\nparade\ncould divert me from what I wanted. I shrugged my head free of her\nhands, pushed her down on the boards, and finally cooled what was\nso\nhard and contentious, sinking it deep. Her moon-silvered eyes stared\nup\nat me, through me, and I saw that one pupil was larger than the\nother.\nThat was how her eyes had looked on the TV monitor when I had\nidentified\nher in the Derry County Morgue. She was dead. My wife was dead\nand I was\nfucking her corpse. Nor could even that realization stop me. \"Who\nwas\nhe?\" I cried at her, covering her cold flesh as it lay on the wet\nboards. \"Who was he, Jo, for Christ's sake tell me who he was!\" In\nthe\nnorth bedroom I pulled Mattie on top of me, relishing the feel of\nthose\nsmall breasts against my chest and the length of her entwining legs.\nThen I rolled her over on the far side of the bed. I felt her hand\nreaching for me, and slapped it away--if she touched me where she\nmeant\nto touch me, I would come in an instant. \"Spread your legs, hurry,\" I\nsaid, and she did. I closed my eyes, shutting out all other sensory\ninput in favor of this. I pressed forward, then stopped. I made one\nlittle adjustment, pushing at my engorged penis with the side of my\nhand, then rolled my hips and slipped into her like a finger in a\nsilk-lined glove. She looked up at me, wide-eyed, then put a hand on\nmycheek and turned my head. \"Everything out there is death,\" she\nsaid, as\nif only explaining the obvious. In the window I saw Fifth Avenue\nbetween\nFiftieth and Sixtieth--all those trendy shops, Bijan and Bally, Tiffany\nand Bergdortts and Steuben Glass. And here came Harold Oblowski,\nnorthbound and swinging his pigskin briefcase (the one Jo and I had\ngiven him for Christmas the year before she died). Beside him,\ncarrying\na Barnes and Noble bag by the handles, was the bountiful,\nbeauteous\nNola, his secretary. Except her bounty was gone. This was a\ngrinning,\nyellow-jawed skeleton in a Donna Karan suit and alligator pumps;\nscrawny, beringed bones instead of fingers gripped the bag-handles.\nHarold's teeth jutted in his usual agent's grin, now extended to the\npoint of obscenity. His favorite suit, the doublebreasted charcoal-\ngray\nfrom Paul Stuart, flapped on him like a sail in a fresh breeze. All\naround them, on both sides of the street, walked the living dead--\nmommy\nmummies leading baby corpses by the hands or wheeling them in\nexpensive\nprams, zombie doormen, reanimated skateboarders. Here a tall black\nman\nwith a last few strips of flesh hanging from his face like cured\ndeer-hide walked his skeletal Alsatian. The cab-drivers were rotting\nto\nraga music. The faces looking down from the passing buses were\nskulls,\neach wearing its own version of Harold's grin--Hey, how are ya,\nhow's\nthe wij, how's the kids, writing any good books lately? The peanutvendors were putrefying. Yet none of it could quench me. I was on\nfire.\nI slipped my hands under her buttocks, lifting her, biting at the sheet\n(the pattern, I saw with no surprise, was blue roses) until I pulled it\nfree of the mattress to keep from biting her on the neck, the\nshoulder,\nthe breasts, anywhere my teeth could reach. \"Tell me who he was!\"\nI\nshouted at her. \"You know, I know you do!\" My voice was so muffled\nby my\nmouthful of bed-linen that I doubted if anyone but me could have\nunderstood it. \"Tell me, you bitch!\" On the path between Jo's studio\nand\nthe house I stood in the dark with the typewriter in my arms and\nthat\ndream-spanning erection quivering below its metal bulk--all that\nready\nand nothing willing. Except maybe for the night breeze. Then I\nbecame\naware I was no longer alone. The shroud-thing was behind me,\ncalled like\nthe moths to the party lights. It laughed-a brazen, smoke-broken\nlaugh\nthat could belong to only one woman. I didn't see the hand that\nreached\naround my hip to grip me--the typewriter was in the way--but I\ndidn't\nneed to see it to know its color was brown. It squeezed, slowly\ntightening, the fingers wriggling. \"What do you want to know,\nsugar?\"\nshe asked from behind me. Still laughing. Still teasing. \"Do you really\nwant to know at all? Do you want to know or do you want to feel?\"\"Oh, you're killing me!\" I cried. The typewriter--thirty or so pounds\nof\nIBM Selectric--was shaking back and forth in my arms. I could feel\nmy\nmuscles twanging like guitar strings. \"Do you want to know who he\nwas,\nsugar? That nasty man?\" 'just do me, you bitch!\" I screamed. She\nlaughed\nagain--that harsh laughter that was almost like a cough--and\nsqueezed me\nwhere the squeezing was best. \"You hold still, now,\" she said. \"You\nhold\nstill, pretty boy, 'less you want me to take fright and yank this thing\nof yours right out by the...\" I lost the rest as the whole world\nexploded in an orgasm so deep and strong that I thought it would\nsimply\ntear me apart. I snapped my head back like a man being hung and\nejaculated looking up at the stars. I screamed--I had to--and on the\nlake, two loons screamed back. At the same time I was on the float.\nJo\nwas gone, but I could faintly hear the sound of the band---Sara and\nSonny and the Red-Top Boys tearing through \"Black Mountain Rag.\"\nI sat\nup, dazed and spent, fucked hollow. I couldn't see the path leading\nup\nto the house, but I could discern its switchback course by the\nJapanese\nlanterns. My underpants lay beside me in a little wet heap. I picked\nthem up and started to put them on, only because I didn't want to\nswim\nback to shore with them in my hand. I stopped with them stretched\nbetween my knees, looking at my fingers. They were slimed with\ndecaying\nflesh. Puffing out from beneath several of the nails were clumps of\ntorn-out hair. Corpsehair. \"Oh Jesus,\" I moaned. The strength went\noutof me. I flopped into wetness. I was in the north-wing bedroom.\nWhat I\nhad landed in was hot, and at first I thought it was come. The dim\nglow\nof the nightlight showed darker stuff, however. Mattie was gone and\nthe\nbed was full of blood.\nLying in the middle of that soaking pool was something I at first\nglance\ntook to be a clump of flesh or a piece of organ. I looked more\nclosely\nand saw it was a stuffed animal, a black-furred object matted red\nwith\nblood. I lay on my side looking at it, wanting to bolt out of the bed\nand flee from the room but unable to do it. My muscles were in a\ndead\nswoon. Who had I really been having sex with in this bed? And what\nhad I\ndone to her? In God's name, what? \"I don't believe these lies,\" I\nheard\nmyself say, and as though it were an incantation, I was slapped back\ntogether. That isn't exactly what happened, bur it's the only way of\nsaying that seems to come close to whatever did. There were three\nof\nme--one on the float, one in the north bedroom, one on the path--\nand\neach one felt that hard slap, as if the wind had grown a fist. There\nwas\nrushing blackness, and in it the steady silver shaking of Bunter's bell.\nThen it faded, and I faded with it. For a little while I was nowhere at\nall.\nI came back to the casual chatter of birds on summer vacation and\ntothat peculiar red darkness that means the sun is shining through\nyour\nclosed eyelids. My neck was stiff, my head was canted at a weird\nangle,\nmy legs were folded awkwardly beneath me, and I was hot. I lifted\nmy\nhead with a wince, knowing even as I opened my eyes that I was no\nlonger\nin bed, no longer on the swimming float, no longer on the path\nbetween\nthe house and the studio. It was floorboards under me, hard and\nuncompromising.\nThe light was dazzling. I squinched my eyes closed again and\ngroaned\nlike a man with a hangover. I eased them back open behind my\ncupped\nhands, gave them time to adjust, then cautiously uncovered them,\nsat all\nthe way up, and looked around. I was in the upstairs hall, lying\nunder\nthe broken air conditioner. Mrs. Meserve's note still hung from it.\nSitting outside my office door was the green IBM with a piece of\npaper\nrolled into it. I looked down at my feet and saw that they were dirty.\nPine needles were stuck to my soles, and one toe was scratched. I\ngot\nup, staggered a little (my right leg had gone to sleep), then braced a\nhand against the wall and stood steady. I looked down at myself. I\nwas\nwearing the Jockeys I'd gone to bed in, and I didn't look as if I'd had\nan accident in them. I pulled out the waistband and peeked inside.\nMy\ncock looked as it usually did; small and soft, curled up and asleep inits thatch of hair. If Noonan's Folly had been adventuring in the\nnight,\nthere was no sign of it now. \"It sure felt like an adventure,\" I\ncroaked. I armed sweat off my forehead. It was stifling up here.\n\"Not\nthe kind I ever read about in The Hardy Boys, though.\" Then I\nremembered\nthe blood-soaked sheet in the north bedroom, and the stuffed\nanimal\nlying on its side in the middle of it. There was no sense of relief\nattached to the memory, that thank-God-it-was-only-a-dream feeling\nyou\nget after a particularly nasty nightmare. It felt as real as any of the\nthings I'd experienced in my measles fever-delirium.., and all those\nthings had been real, just distorted by my overheated brain. I\nstaggered\nto the stairs and limped down them, holding tight to the bannister in\ncase my tingling leg should buckle. At the foot I looked dazedly\naround\nthe living room, as if seeing it for the first time, and then limped\ndown the north-wing corridor. The bedroom door was ajar and for a\nmoment\nI couldn't bring myself to push it all the way open and go in. I was\nvery badly scared, and my mind kept trying to replay an old episode\nof\nAlfred Hitchcock Presents, the one about the man who strangles his\nwife\nduring an alcoholic blackout. He spends the whole half hour looking\nfor\nher, and finally finds her in the pantry, bloated and open-eyed. Kyra\nDevore was the only kid of stuffed-animal age I'd met recently, but\nshe\nhad been sleeping peacefully under her cabbage-rose coverlet when\nI left\nher mother and headed home. It was stupid to think I had driven all\ntheway back to Wasp Hill Road, probably wearing nothing but my\nJockeys,\nthat I had-Il/hat? Raped the woman? Brought the child here? In my\nsleep? I got the typewriter, in my sleep, didn't I? It's sitting right\nupstairs in the god-dam hallway. Big difference between going thirty\nyards through the woods and five miles down the road to-I wasn't\ngoing\nto stand out here listening to those quarrelling voices in my head. If\nI\nwasn't crazy--and I didn't think I was--listening to those contentious\nassholes would probably send me there, and by the express. I\nreached out\nand pushed the bedroom door open. For a moment I actually saw a\nspreading octopus-pattern of blood soaking into the sheet, that's\nhow\nreal and focused my terror was. Then I closed my eyes tight, opened\nthem, and looked again. The sheets were rumpled, the bottom one\nmostly\npulled free. I could see the quilted satin hide of the mattress. One\npillow lay on the far edge of the bed.\nThe other was scrunched down at the foot. The throw rug--a piece\nof Jo's\nwork--was askew, and my water-glass lay overturned on the\nnighttable.\nThe bedroom looked as if it might have been the site of a brawl or\nan\norgy, but not a murder. There was no blood and no little stuffed\nanimal\nwith black fur. I dropped to my knees and looked under the bed.\nNothing\nthere--not even dust-kitties, thanks to Brenda Meserve. I looked at\nthe\nground-sheet again, first passing a hand over its rumpled\ntopography,then pulling it back down and resecuring the elasticized corners.\nGreat\ninvention, those sheets; if women gave out the Medal of Freedom\ninstead\nof a bunch of white politicians who never made a bed or washed a\nload of\nclothes in their lives, the guy who thought up fitted sheets would\nundoubtedly have gotten a piece of that tin by now. In a Rose\nGarden\nceremony. With the sheet pulled taut, I looked again. No blood, not\na\nsingle drop. There was no stiffening patch of semen, either. The\nformer\nI hadn't really expected (or so I was already telling myself), but\nwhat\nabout the latter? At the very least, I'd had the world's most creative\nwet-dream--a triptych in which I had screwed two women and\ngotten a\nhandjob from a third, all at the same time. I thought I had that\nmorning-after feeling, too, the one you get when the previous\nnight's\nsex has been of the headbusting variety. But if there had been\nfireworks, where was the burnt gunpowder? \"In Jo's studio, most\nlikely,\"\nI told the empty, sunny room. \"Or on the path between here and\nthere.\nJust be glad you didn't leave it in Mattie Devore, bucko. An affair\nwith\na post-adolescent widow you don't need.\" A part of me disagreed; a\npart\nof me thought Mattie Devore was exactly what I did need. But I\nhadn't\nhad sex with her last night, any more than I had had sex with my\ndead\nwife out on the swimming float or gotten a handjob from Sara\nTidwell.Now that I saw I hadn't killed a nice little kid either, my thoughts\nturned back to the typewriter. Why had I gotten it? Why bother? Oh\nman.\nWhat a silly question. My wife might have been keeping secrets from\nme,\nmaybe even having an affair; there might be ghosts in the house;\nthere\nmight be a rich old man halfa mile south who wanted to put a sharp\nstick\ninto me and then break it off; there might be a few toys in my own\nhumble attic, for that matter. But as I stood there in a bright shaft of\nsunlight, looking at my shadow on the far wall, only one thought\nseemed\nto matter: I had gone out to my wife's studio and gotten my old\ntypewriter, and there was only one reason to do something like that.\nI\nwent into the bathroom, wanting to get rid of the sweat on my body\nand\nthe dirt on my feet before doing anything else. I reached for the\nshower-handle, then stopped. The tub was full of water. Either I had\nfor\nsome reason filled it during my sleepwalk.., or something else had. I\nreached for the drain-lever, then stopped again, remembering that\nmoment\non the shoulder of Route 68 when my mouth had filled up with the\ntaste\nof cold water. I realized I was waiting for it to happen again. When it\ndidn't, I opened the bathtub drain to let out the standing water and\nstarted the shower.\nI could have brought the Selectric downstairs, perhaps even lugged\nit\nout onto the deck where there was a little breeze coming over the\nsurface of the lake, but I didn't. I had brought it all the way to the\ndoor of my office, and my office was where I'd work.., if I could\nwork.I'd work in there even if the temperature beneath the roofpeak built\nto\na hundred and twenty degrees.., which, by three in the afternoon, it\njust might.\nThe paper rolled into the machine was an old pink-carbon receipt\nfrom\nClick!, the photo shop in Castle Rock where Jo had bought her\nsupplies\nwhen we were down here. I'd put it in so that the blank side faced\nthe\nCourier type-ball. On it I had typed the names of my little harem, as\nif\nI had tried in some struggling way to report on my three-faceted\ndream\neven while it was going on:\nJo Sara Mattie Jo Sara Mattie Mattie Mattie Sara Sara Jo Johanna\nSara Jo\nMattiesarajo.\nBelow this, in lower case:\nnormal sperm count sperm norm all's rosy I opened the office door,\ncarried the typewriter in, and put it in its old place beneath the\nposter of Richard Nixon. I pulled the pink slip out of the roller,\nballed it up, and tossed it into the wastebasket.\nThen I picked up the Selectric's plug and stuck it in the baseboard\nsocket. My heart was beating hard and fast, the way it had when I\nwas\nthirteen and climbing the ladder to the high board at the Y-pool. I\nhad\nclimbed that ladder three times when I was twelve and then slunk\nbackdown it again; once I turned thirteen, there could be no chickening\nout--I really had to do it.\nI thought I'd seen a fan hiding in the far corner of the closet, behind\nthe box marked GADGETS. I started in that direction, then turned\naround\nagain with a ragged little laugh. I'd had moments of confidence\nbefore,\nhadn't I? Yes. And then the iron bands had clamped around my\nchest. It\nwould be stupid to get out the fan and then discover I had no\nbusiness\nin this room after all.\n\"Take it easy,\" I said, \"take it easy.\" But I couldn't, no more than\nthat narrow-chested boy in the ridiculous purple bathing suit had\nbeen\nable to take it easy when he walked to the end of the diving board,\nthe\npool so green below him, the upraised faces of the boys and girls in\nit\nso small, so small.\nI bent to one of the drawers on the right side of the desk and pulled\nso\nhard it came all the way out. I got my bare foot out of its landing\nzone\njust in time and barked a gust of loud, humorless laughter. There\nwas\nhalfa ream of paper in the drawer. The edges had that faintly crispy\nlook paper gets when it's been sitting for a long time. I no more\nthan\nsaw it before remembering I had brought my own supply--stuff a\ngood deal\nfresher than this. I left it where it was and put the drawer back in its\nhole. It took several tries to get it on its tracks; my hands wereshaking.\nAt last I sat down in my desk chair, hearing the same old creaks as it\ntook my weight and the same old rumble of the casters as I rolled it\nforward, snugging my legs into the kneehole. Then I sat facing the\nkeyboard, sweating hard, still remembering the high board at the Y,\nhow\nspringy it had been under my bare feet as I walked its length,\nremembering the echoing quality of the voices below me,\nremembering the\nsmell of chlorine and the steady low throb of the air-exchangers:\nfwung-fwung-fwung-fwung, as if the water had its own secret\nheartbeat. I\nhad stood at the end of the board wondering (and not for the first\ntime!) if you could be paralyzed if you hit the water wrong. Probably\nnot, but you could die of fear. There were documented cases of that\nin\nRipley's Believe It or Not, which served me as science between the\nages\nof eight and fourteen.\nGo on/Jo's voice cried. My version of her voice was usually calm and\ncollected; this time it was shrill. Stop dithering andgo on!\nI reached for the IBM's rocker-switch, now remembering the day I\nhad\ndropped my Word Six program into the Powerbook's trash. Goodbye,\noldpal,\nI had thought.\n\"Please let this work,\" I said. \"Please.\"\nI lowered my hand and flicked the switch. The machine came on.\nThe\nCourier ball did a preliminary twirl, like a ballet dancer standing inthe wings, waiting to go on. I picked up a piece of paper, saw my\nsweaty\nfingers were leaving marks, and didn't care. I rolled it into the\nmachine, centered it, then wrote Chapter One and waited for the\nstorm to\nbreak.\nC H P T E.:. R Te ringing of the phone--or, more accurately, the way\nI\nreceived the ringing of the phone--was as familiar as the creaks of\nmy\nchair or the hum of the old IBM Selectric. It seemed to come from\nfar\naway at first, then to approach like a whistling train coming down on\na\ncrossing.\nThere was no extension in my office or Jo's; the upstairs phone, an\nold-fashioned rotary-dial, was on a table in the hall between them--\nin\nwhat Jo used to call \"no-man's-land.\" The temperature out there\nmust\nhave been at least ninety degrees, but the air still felt cool on my\nskin after the office. I was so oiled with sweat that I looked like a\nslightly pot-bellied version of the muscle-boys I sometimes saw\nwhen I\nwas working out.\n\"Hello?\"\n\"Mike? Did I wake you? Were you sleeping?\" It was Mattie, but a\ndifferent one from last night. This one wasn't afraid or even\ntentative;\nthis one sounded so happy she was almost bubbling over. It was\nalmostcer tainly the Mattie who had attracted Lance Devore. \"Not\nsleeping,\" I\nsaid. \"Writing a little.\"\n\"Get out! I thought you were retired.\"\n\"I thought so, too,\" I said, \"but maybe I was a little hasty. What's\ngoing on? You sound over the moon.\"\n\"I just got off the phone with John Storrow--\"\nReally? How long had I been on the second floor, anyway? I looked\nat my\nwrist and saw nothing but a pale circle. It was half-past freckles and\nskin o'clock, as we used to say when we were kids; my watch was\ndownstairs in the north bedroom, probably lying in a puddle of water\nfrom my overturned night-glass.\n\"--his age, and that he can subpoena the other son!\"\n\"Whoa,\" I said. \"You lost me. Go back and slow down.\"\nShe did. Telling the hard news didn't take long (it rarely does):\nStor-row was coming up tomorrow. He would land at County Airport\nand\nstay at the Lookout Rock Hotel in Castle View. The two of them\nwould\nspend most of Friday discussing the case. \"Oh, and he found a\nlawyer for\nyou,\" she said. \"To go with you to your deposition. I think he's from\nLewiston.\"\nIt all sounded good, but what mattered a lot more than the bare\nfacts\nwas that Mattie had recovered her will to fight. Until this morning (ifit was still morning; the light coming in the window above the\nbroken\nair conditioner suggested that if it was, it wouldn't be much longer) I\nhadn't realized how gloomy the young woman in the red sundress\nand tidy\nwhite sneakers had been. How far down the road to believing she\nwould\nlose her child.\n\"This is great. I'm so glad, Mattie.\"\n\"And you did it. If you were here, I'd give you the biggest kiss you\never had.\"\n\"He told you you could win, didn't he?\"\n\"Yes.\"\n\"And you believe him.\"\n\"Yes!\" Then her voice dropped a little. \"He wasn't exactly thrilled\nwhen\nI told him I'd had you over to dinner last night, though.\"\n\"No,\" I said. \"I didn't think he would be.\"\n\"I told him we ate in the yard and he said we only had to be inside\ntogether for sixty seconds to start the gossip.\"\n\"I'd say he's got an insultingly low opinion of Yankee lovin,\" I said,\n\"but of course he's from New York.\" She laughed harder than my\nlittle\njoke warranted, I thought. Out of semi-hysterical relief that she now\nhad a couple of protectors? Because the whole subject of sex was a\ntender one for her just now? Best not to speculate. \"He didn't paddle\nmetoo hard about it, but he made it clear that he would if we did it\nagain. When this is over, though, I'm having you for a real meal.\nWe'll\nhave everything you like, just the way you like it.\" Everything you\nlike, just the way you like it. And she was, by God and Sonny Jesus,\ncompletely unaware that what she was saying might have another\nmeaning--I would have bet on it. I closed my eyes for a moment,\nsmiling.\nWhy not smile? Everything she was saying sounded absolutely great,\nespecially once you cleared the confines of Michael Noonan's dirty\nmind.\nIt sounded like we might have the expected fairy-tale ending, if we\ncould keep our courage and hold our course. And if I could restrain\nmyself from making a pass at a girl young enough to be my\ndaughter..,\noutside of my dreams, that was. If I couldn't, I probably deserved\nwhatever I got. But Kyra wouldn't. She was the hood ornament in all\nthis, doomed to go wherever the car took her. If I got any of the\nwrong\nideas, I'd do well to remember that. \"If the judge sends Devore\nhome\nempty-handed, I'll take you out to Renoir Nights in Portland and buy\nyou\nnine courses of French chow,\" I said. \"Storrow, too. I'll even spring\nfor the legal beagle I'm dating on Friday. So who's better than me,\nhuh?\"\n\"No one I know,\" she said, sounding serious. \"I'll pay you back for\nthis, Mike. I'm down now, but I won't always be down. If it takes me\nthe\nrest of my life, I'll pay you back.\"\n\"Mattie, you don't have to--\"\"I do,\" she said with quiet vehemence. \"I do. And I have to do\nsomething\nelse today, too.\"\n\"What's that?\" I loved hearing her sound the way she did this\nmorn-ing--so happy and free, like a prisoner who has just been\npardoned\nand let out of jail--but already I was looking longingly at the door to\nmy office. I couldn't do much more today, I'd end up baked like an\napple\nif I tried, but I wanted another page or two, at least. Do what you\nwant, both women had said in my dreams. Do what you want. \"I\nhave to buy\nKyra the big teddybear they have at the Castle Rock Wal-Mart,\" she\nsaid.\n\"I'll tell her it's for being a good girl because I can't tell her it's\nfor walking in the middle of the road when you were coming the\nother\nway.\"\n\"Just not a black one,\" I said. The words were out of my mouth\nbefore I\nknew they were even in my head. \"Huh?\" Sounding startled and\ndoubtful.\n\"I said bring me back one,\" I said, the words once again out and\ndown\nthe wire before I even knew they were there. \"Maybe I will,\" she\nsaid,\nsounding amused. Then her tone grew serious again. \"And if I said\nanything last night that made you unhappy, even for a minute, I'm\nsorry.\nI never for the world--\"\n\"Don't worry,\" I said. \"I'm not unhappy. A little confused, that's all.\nIn fact I'd pretty much forgotten about Jo's mystery date.\" A lie, butin what seemed to me to be a good cause. \"That's probably for the\nbest.\nI won't keep you--go on back to work. It's what you want to do, isn't\nit?\" I was startled. \"What makes you say that?\"\n\"I don't know, I just. .. \" She stopped. And I suddenly knew two\nthings:\nWhat she had been about to say, and that she wouldn't say it. I\ndreamed\nabout you last night. I dreamed about us together. were going to\nmake\nlove and one of us said \"Do what you want.\"\nOr maybe, I don't know, maybe we both said it. Perhaps sometimes\nghosts\nwere alive--minds and desires divorced from their bodies, unlocked\nimpulses floating unseen. Ghosts from the id, spooks from low\nplaces.\n\"Mattie? Still there?\"\n\"Sure, you bet. Do you want me to stay in touch?\nOr will you hear all you need from John Storrow?\"\n\"If you don't stay in touch, I'll be pissed at you. Royally.\" She\nlaughed. \"I will, then. But not when you're working. Goodbye, Mike.\nAnd\nthanks again. So much.\" I told her goodbye, then stood there for a\nmoment looking at the old fashioned Bakelite phone handset after\nshe had\nhung up. She'd call and keep me updated, but not when I was\nworking. How\nwould she know when that was? She just would. As I'd known last\nnightthat she was lying when she said Jo and the man with the elbow\npatches\non the sleeves of his sportcoat had walked off toward the parking\nlot.\nMattie had been wearing a pair of white shorts and a halter top\nwhen she\ncalled me, no dress or skirt required today because it was\nWednesday and\nthe library was closed on Wednesday. You don't know any of that.\nIOU 're\njust making it up. But I wasn't. If I'd been making it up, I probably\nwould have put her in something a little more suggestive--a Merry\nWidow\nfrom Victoria's Secret, perhaps. That thought called up another. Do\nwhat\nyou want, they had said. Both of them. Do what you want. And that\nwas a\nline I knew.\nWhile on Key Largo I'd read an Atlantic Monthly essay on\npornography by\nsome feminist. I wasn't sure which one, only that it hadn't been\nNaomi\nWolf or Camille Paglia. This woman had been of the conservative\nstripe,\nand she had used that phrase. Sally Tisdale, maybe? Or was my\nmind just\nhearing echo-distortions of Sara Tidwell? Whoever it had been, she'd\nclaimed that \"do what I want\" was the basis of erotica which\nappealed to\nwomen and \"do what you want\" was the basis of pornography which\nappealed\nto men. Women imagine speaking the former line in sexual\nsituations; men\nimagine having the latter line spoken to them. And, the writer went\non,when real-world sex goes bad--sometimes turning violent,\nsometimes\nshaming, sometimes just unsuccessful from the female partner's\npoint of\nview--porn is often the unindicted co-conspirator. The man is apt to\nround on the woman angrily and cry, \"You wanted me to! Quit lying\nand\nadmit it! You wanted me to!\" The writer claimed it was what every\nman\nhoped to hear in the bedroom: Do what you want. Bite me,\nsodomize me,\nlick between my toes, drink wine out of my navel, give me a\nhairbrush\nand raise your ass for me to paddle, it doesn't matter. Do what you\nwant. The door is closed and we are here, but really onlyyou are\nhere, I\nam just a willing extension of your fantasies and onlyyou are here. I\nhave no wants of my own, no needs of my own, no taboos. Do what\nyou want\nto this shadow, this fantasy, this ghost.\nI'd thought the essayist at least fifty per cent full of shit; the\nassumption that a man can find real sexual pleasure only by turning\na\nwoman into a kind of jackoff accessory says more about the\nobserver than\nthe participants. This lady had had a lot of jargon and a fair amount\nof\nwit, but underneath she was only saying what Somerset Maugham,\nJo's old\nfavorite, had had Sadie Thompson say in \"Rain,\" a story written\neighty\nyears before: men are pigs, filthy, dirty pigs, all of them. But we are\nnot pigs, as a rule, not beasts, or at least not unless we are pushed\nto\nthe final extremity. And if we are pushed to it, the issue is rarelysex; it's usually territory. I've heard feminists argue that to men sex\nand territory are interchangeable, and that is very far from the truth.\nI padded back to the office, opened the door, and behind me the\ntelephone rang again. And here was another familiar sensation, back\nfor\na return visit after four years: that anger at the telephone, the urge\nto simply rip it out of the wall and fire it across the room. Why did\nthe whole world have to call while I was writing? Why couldn't they\njust.., well. . let me do what I wanted? I gave a doubtful laugh and\nreturned to the phone, seeing the wet handprint on it from my last\ncall.\n\"Hello?\"\n\"I said to stay visible while you were with her.\"\n\"Good morning to you, too, Lawyer Storrow.\"\n\"You must be in another time-zone up there, chum. I've got one-\nfifteen\ndown here in New York.\"\n\"I had dinner with her,\" I said. \"Outside. It's true that I read the\nlittle kid a story and helped put her to bed, but--\"\n\"I imagine half the town thinks you're bopping each other's brains\nout\nby now, and the other half will think it if I have to show up for her in\ncourt.\" But he didn't sound really angry; I thought he sounded as\nthough\nhe was having a happy-face day. \"Can they make you tell who's\npaying for\nyour services?\" I asked.\n\"At the custody hearing, I mean?\"\"Nope.\"\n\"At my deposition on Friday?\"\n\"Christ, no. Durgin would lose all credibility as guardian adlitem if he\nwent in that direction. Also, they have reasons to steer clear of the\nsex angle. Their focus is on Mattie as neglectful and perhaps\nabusive.\nProving that Mom isn't a nun quit working around the time Kramer\nvs.\nKramer came out in the movie theaters. Nor is that the only problem\nthey\nhave with the issue.\" He now sounded positively gleeful.\n\"Tell me.\"\n\"Max Devore is eighty-five and divorced. Twice divorced, in point of\nfact. Before awarding custody to a single man of his age, secondary\ncustody has to be taken into consideration. It is, in fact, the single\nmost important issue, other than the allegations of abuse and\nneglect\nlevelled at the mother.\"\n\"What are those allegations? Do you know?\"\n\"No. Mattie doesn't either, because they're fabrications. She's a\nsweetie, by the way--\"\n\"Yeah, she is.\"\n\"--and I think she's going to make a great witness. I can't wait to\nmeet\nher in person. Meantime, don't sidetrack me. We're talking aboutsecondary custody, right?\"\n\"Right.\"\n\"Devore has a daughter who has been declared mentally\nincompetent and\nlives in an institution somewhere in California--Modesto, I think.\nNot a good bet for custody.\"\n\"It wouldn't seem so.\"\n\"The son, Roger, is...\" I heard a faint fluttering of notebook pages.\n\"... fifty-four. So he's not exactly a spring chicken, either. Still,\nthere are lots of guys who become daddies at that age nowadays;\nit's a\nbrave new world. But Roger is a homosexual.\"\nI thought of Bill Dean saying, Rump-wrangler. Understand there's a\nlot\nof that going around out them in Calij3rnia.\n\"I thought you said sex doesn't matter.\"\n\"Maybe I should have said hetero sex doesn't matter. In certain\nstates--California is one of themhomo sex doesn't matter, either.., or\nnot as much. But this case isn't going to be adjudicated in California.\nIt's going to be adjudicated in Maine, where folks are less\nenlightened\nabout how well two married men--married to each other, I meanan\nraise a\nlittle girl.\"\n\"Roger Devore is married?\" Okay. I admit it. I now felt a certainhorrified glee myself. I was ashamed of it--Roger Devore was just a\nguy\nliving his life, and he might not have had much or anything to do\nwith\nhis elderly dad's current enterprise--but I felt it just the same.\n\"He and a software designer named Morris Ridding tied the knot in\n1996,\"\nJohn said. \"I found that on the first computer sweep. And if this\ndoes\nwind up in court, I intend to make as much of it as I possibly can. I\ndon't know how much that will be--at this point it's impossible to\npredict--but if I get a chance to paint a picture of that bright-eyed,\ncheerful little girl growing up with two elderly gays who probably\nspend\nmost of their lives in computer chat-rooms speculating about what\nCaptain Kirk and Mr. Spock might have done after the lights were out\nin\nofficers' country.., well, if I get that chance, I'll take it.\"\n\"It seems a little mean,\" I said. I heard myself speaking in the tone\nof\na man who wants to be dissuaded, perhaps even laughed at, but\nthat\ndidn't happen.\n\"Of course it's mean. It feels like swerving up onto the sidewalk to\nknock over a couple of innocent bystanders. Roger Devote and\nMorris\nRidding don't deal drugs, traffic in little boys, or rob old ladies. But\nthis is custody, and custody does an even better job than divorce of\nturning human beings into insects. This one isn't as bad as it could\nbe,\nbut it's bad enough because it's so naked. Max Devore came up\nthere tohis old hometown for one reason and one reason only: to buy a kid.\nThat\nmakes me mad.\"\nI grinned, imagining a lawyer who looked like Elmer Fudd standing\noutside of a rabbit-hole marked DEVO with a shotgun.\n\"My message to Devore is going to be very simple: the price of the\nkid\njust went up. Probably to a figure higher than even he can afford.\"\n\"/fit goes to court--you've said that a couple of times now. Do you\nthink there's a chance Devore might just drop it and go away?\"\n'gk pretty good one, yeah. I'd say an excellent one if he wasn't old\nand\nused to getting his own way. There's also the question of whether or\nnot\nhe's still sharp enough to know where his best interest lies. I'll try\nfor a meeting with him and his lawyer while I'm up there, but so far\nI\nhaven't managed to get past his secretary..\"\n\"Rogette Whitmore?\"\n\"No, I think she's a step further up the ladder. I haven't talked to her\nyet, either. But I will.\"\n\"Try either Richard Osgood or George Footman,\" I said. \"Either of\nthem\nmay be able to put you in touch with Devore or Devore's chief\ncounsel.\"\n\"I'll want to talk to the Whitmore woman in any case. Men like\nDevoretend to grow more and more dependent on their close advisors as\nthey\ngrow older, and she could be a key to getting him to let this go. She\ncould also be a headache for us. She might urge him to fight,\npossibly\nbecause she really thinks he can win and possibly because she\nwants to\nwatch the fur fly. Also, she might marry him.\"\n\"Marry him?\"\n\"Why not? He could have her sign a pre-nup--I could no more'\nintroduce\nthat in court than his lawyers could go fishing for who hired Mattie's\nlawyer--and it would strengthen his chances.\"\n\"John, I've seen the woman. She's got to be seventy herself.\"\n\"But she's a potential female player in a custody case involving a\nlittle girl, and she's a layer between old man Devore and the married\ngay couple. We just need to keep it in mind.\"\n\"Okay.\" I looked at the office door again, but not so longingly. There\ncomes a point when you're done for the day whether you want to be\nor\nnot, and I thought I had reached that point. Perhaps in the\nevening...\n\"The lawyer I got for you is named Romeo Bissonette.\" He paused.\n\"Can\nthat be a real name?\"\n\"Is he from Lewiston?\"\n\"Yes, how did you know?\"\"Because in Maine, especially around Lewiston, that can be a real\nname.\nAm I supposed to go see him?\" I didn't want to go see him. It was\nfifty\nmiles to Lewiston over two-lane roads which would now be crawling\nwith\ncampers and Winnebagos. What I wanted was to go swimming and\nthen take a\nlong nap. A long dream/ess nap. \"You don't need to. Call him and\ntalk to\nhim a little. He's only a safety net, really--he'll object if the\nquestioning leaves the incident on the morning of July Fourth. About\nthat incident you tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the\ntruth. Got it?\"\n\"Talk to him before, then meet him on Friday at... wait.., it's right\nhere...\" The notebook pages fluttered again. \"Meet him at the Route\n120\nDiner at nine-fifteen. Coffee. Talk a little, get to know each other,\nmaybe flip for the check. I'll be with Mattie, getting as much as I\ncan.\nWe may want to hire a private dick.\"\n\"I love it when you talk dirty.\"\n\"Uh-huh. I'm going to see that bills go to your guy Goldacre. He'll\nsend\nthem to your agent, and your agent can--\"\n\"No,\" I said. \"Instruct Goldacre to send them directly here. Harold's\na\nJewish mother. How much is this going to cost me?\"\"Seventy-five thousand dollars, minimum,\" he said with no hesitation\nat\nall. With no apology in his voice, either.\n\"Don't tell Mattie.\"\n\"LALL right. Are you having any fun yet, Mike?\"\n\"You know, I sort of am,\" I said thoughtfully. \"For seventy-five\ngrand,\nyou should.\" We said our goodbyes and John hung up. As I put my\nown\nphone back into its cradle, it occurred to me that I had lived more in\nthe last five days than I had in the last four years.\nThis time the phone didn't ring and I made it all the way back into\nthe\noffice, but I knew I was definitely done for the day. I sat down at\nthe\nIBM, hit the TU,N key a couple of times, and was beginning to write\nmyself a next-note at the bottom of the page I'd been working on\nwhen\nthe phone interrupted me. What a sour little doodad the telephone\nis,\nand what little good news we get from it! Today had been an\nexception,\nthough, and I thought I could sign off with a grin. I was working,\nafter\nall-working. Part of me still marvelled that I was sitting here at all,\nbreathing easily, my heart beating steadily in my chest, and not even\na\nglimmer of an anxiety attack on my personal event horizon. I wrote:\n[NEXT: Drake to 1Zaiford. Stops on the way at vegetable stand to\ntalk tothe guy who runs it, old source, needs a good & colorful name.\nStraw\nhat. Disneyworld tee-shirt. They talk about Shackleford. ]\nI turned the roller until the IBM spat this page out, stuck it on top of\nthe manuscript, and jotted a final note to myself: \"Call Ted\nRosencrief\nabout Raiford.\" Rosencriefwas a retired Navy man who lived in\nDerry. I\nhad employed him as a research assistant on several books, using\nhim on\none project to find out how paper was made, what the migratory\nhabits of\ncertain common birds were for another, a little bit about the\narchitecture of pyramid burial rooms for a third. And it's always \"a\nlittle bit\" I want, never \"the whole damn thing.\" As a writer, my\nmotto\nhas always been don't confuse me with the facts. The Arthur Hailey\ntype\nof fiction is beyond me--I can't read it, let alone write it. I want to\nknow just enough so I can lie colorfully. Rosie knew that, and we\nhad\nalways worked well together.\nThis time I needed to know a little bit about Florida's Raiford Prison,\nand what the deathhouse down there is really like. I also needed a\nlittle bit on the psychology of serial killers. I thought Rosie would\nprobably be glad to hear from me... almost as glad as I was to\nfinally\nhave something to call him about.\nI picked up the eight double-spaced pages I had written and fanned\nthrough them, still amazed at their existence. Had an old IBM\ntypewriter\nand a Courier type-ball been the secret all along? That was certainly\nhow it seemed.What had come out was also amazing. I'd had ideas during my four-\nyear\nsabbatical; there had been no writer's block in that regard. One had\nbeen really great, the sort of thing which certainly would have\nbecome a\nnovel if I'd still been able to write novels. Half a dozen to a dozen\nwere of the sort I'd classify \"pretty good,\" meaning they'd do in a\npinch.., or if they happened to unexpectedly grow tall and\nmysterious\novernight, like Jack's beanstalk. Sometimes they do. Most were\nglimmers,\nlittle \"what-ifs\" that came and went like shooting stars while I was\ndriving or walking or just lying in bed at night and waiting to go to\nsleep.\nThe Red-Shirt &lan was a what-if. One day I saw a man in a bright\nred\nshirt washing the show windows of the JCPENNEY store in Derry--\nthis was\nnot long before Penney's moved out to the mall. A young man and\nwoman\nwalked under his ladder.., very bad luck, according to the old\nsuperstition. These two didn't know where they were walking,\nthough--they were holding hands, drinking deeply of each other's\neyes,\nas completely in love as any two twenty-year-olds in the history of\nthe\nworld. The man was tall, and as I watched, the top of his head came\nwithin an ace of clipping the window-washer's feet. If that had\nhappened, the whole works might have gone over.\nThe entire incident was history in five seconds. Writing The Red-Shirt\n&lan took five months. Except in truth, the entire book was done in\na\nwhat-if second. I imagined a collision instead of a near-miss.Everything else followed from there. The writing was just secretarial.\nThe idea I was currently working on wasn't one of Mike's Really\nGreat\nIdeas (Jo's voice carefully made the capitals), but it wasn't a what-if,\neither. Nor was it much like my old gothic suspense yarns; V. C.\nAndrews\nwith a prick was nowhere in sight this time. But it felt solid, like the\nreal thing, and this morning it had come out as naturally as a breath.\nAndy Drake was a private investigator in Key Largo. He was forty\nyears\nold, divorced, the father of a three-year-old girl. At the open he was\nin the Key West home of a woman named Regina Whiting. Mrs.\nWhiting also\nhad a little girl, hers five years old. Mrs. Whiting was married to an\nextremely rich developer who did not know what Andy Drake knew:\nthat\nuntil 1992, Regina Taylor Whiting had been Tiffany Taylor, a high-\npriced\nMiami call-girl.\nThat much I had written before the phone started ringing. Here is\nwhat I\nknew beyond that point, the secretarial work I'd do over the next\nseveral weeks, assuming that my marvellously recovered ability to\nwork\nheld up:\nOne day when Karen Whiting was three, the phone had rung while\nshe and\nher mother were sitting in the patio hot tub. Regina thought of\nasking\nthe yard-guy to answer it, then decided to get it herself-their regularman was out with the flu, and she didn't feel comfortable about\nasking a\nstranger for a favor. Cautioning her daughter to sit still, Regina\nhopped out to answer the phone. When Karen put up a hand to\nkeep from\nbeing splashed as her mother left the tub, she dropped the doll she\nhad\nbeen bathing. When she bent to pick it up, her hair became caught\nin one\nof the hot tub's powerful intakes. (It was reading of a fatal acci dent\nlike this that had originally kicked the story off in my mind two or\nthree years before.)\nThe yard-man, some no-name in a khaki shirt sent over by a day-\nlabor\noutfit, saw what was happening. He raced across the lawn, dove\nheadfirst\ninto the tub, and yanked the child from the bottom, leaving hair and\na\ngood chunk of scalp clogging the jet when he did. He'd give her\nartificial respiration until she began to breathe again. (This would be\na wonderful, suspenseful scene, and I couldn't wait to write it.) He\nwould refuse all of the hysterical, relieved mother's offers of\nrecompense, although he'd finally give her an address so that her\nhusband could talk to him. Only both the address and his name,\nJohn\nSanborn, would turn out to be a fake.\nTwo years later the ex-hooker with the respectable second life sees\nthe\nman who saved her child on the front page of the Miami paper. His\nname\nis given as John Shackleford and he has been arrested for the\nrape-murder of a nine-year-old girl. And, the article goes on, he is\nsuspected in over forty other murders, many of the victims children.\"Have you caught Baseball Cap?\" one of the reporters would yell at\nthe\npress conference. \"Is John Shackleford Baseball Cap?\"\n\"Well,\" I said,going downstairs, \"they sure think he is.\"\nI could hear too many boats out on the lake this afternoon to make\nnude\nbathing an option. I pulled on my suit, slung a towel over my\nshoulders,\nand started down the path--the one which had been lined with\nglowing\npaper lanterns in my dream--to wash off the sweat of my\nnightmares and\nmy unexpected morning's labors.\nThere are twenty-three railroad-tie steps between Sara and the lake.\nI\nhad gone down only four or five before the enormity of what had\njust\nhappened hit me. My mouth began to tremble. The colors of the\ntrees and\nthe sky mixed together as my eyes teared up. A sound began to\ncome out\nof me--a kind of muffled groaning. The strength ran out of my legs\nand I\nsat down hard on a railroad tie. For a moment I thought it was over,\nmostly just a false alarm, and then I began to cry. I stuffed one end\nof\nthe towel in my mouth during the worst of it, afraid that if the\nboaters\non the lake heard the sounds coming out of me, they'd think\nsomeone up\nhere was being murdered.\nI cried in grief for the empty years I had spent without Jo, withoutfriends, and without my work. I cried in gratitude because those\nwork-less years seemed to be over. It was too early to tell for\nsure--one swallow doesn't make a summer and eight pages of hard\ncopy\ndon't make a career resuscitation--but I thought it really might be\nso.\nAnd I cried out of fear, as well, as we do when some awful\nexperience is\nfinally over or when some terrible accident has been narrowly\naverted. I\ncried because I suddenly realized that I had been walking a white\nline\never since Jo died, walking straight down the middle of the road. By\nsome miracle, I had been carried out of harm's way. I had no idea\nwho\nhad done the carrying, but that was all right--it was a question that\ncould wait for another day.\nI cried it all out of me. Then I went on down to the lake and waded\nin.\nThe cool water felt more than good on my overheated body; it felt\nlike a\nresurrection.\nState your name for the record.\"\n\"Michael Noonan.\"\n\"Your address?\"\n\"Derry is my permanent address, 14 Benton Street, but I also\nmaintain a\nhome in TR-90, on Dark Score Lake. The mailing address is Box 832.\nTheactual house is on Lane Forty-two, off Route 68.\" Elmer Durgin, Kyra\nDevore's guardian aa'/item, waved a pudgy hand in front of his face,\neither to shoo away some troublesome insect or to tell me that was\nenough. I agreed that it was. I felt rather like the little girl in Our\n7aw, who gave her address as Grover's Corner, New Hampshire,\nAmerica,\nthe Northern Hemisphere, the World, the Solar System, the Milky\nWay\nGalaxy, the Mind of God. Mostly I was nervous. I'd reached the age\nof\nforty still a virgin in the area of court proceedings, and although we\nwere in the conference room of Durgin, Peters, and Jarrette on\nBridge\nStreet in Castle Rock, this was still a court proceeding. There was\none\nmentionably odd detail to these festivities. The stenographer wasn't\nusing one of those keyboards-on-a-post that look like adding\nmachines,\nbut a Stenomask, a gadget which fit over the lower half of his face. I\nhad seen them before, but only in old black-and-white crime movies,\nthe\nones where Dan Duryea or John Payne is always driving around in a\nBuick\nwith portholes on the sides, looking grim and smoking a Camel.\nGlancing\nover into the corner and seeing a guy who looked like the world's\noldest\nfighter-pilot was weird enough, but hearing everything you said\nimmediately repeated in a muffled monotone was even weirder.\n\"Thank you,\nMr. Noonan. My wife has read all your books and says you are her\nfavorite author. I just wanted to get that on the record.\" Durgin\nchuckled fatly. Why not? He was a fat guy. Most fat people I like--\nthey\nhave expansive natures to go with their expansive waistlines. But\nthereis a subgroup which I think of as the Evil Little Fat Folks. You don't\nwant to fuck with the ELFFS if you can help it; they will burn your\nhouse and rape your dog if you give them half an excuse and a\nquarter of\nan opportunity. Few of them stand over five-foot-two (Durgin's\nheight, I\nestimated), and many are under five feet. They smile a lot, but their\neyes don't smile. The Evil Little Fat Folks hate the whole world.\nMostly\nthey hate folks who can look down the length of their bodies and\nstill\nsee their own feet. This included me, although just barely. \"Please\nthank your wife for me, Mr. Durgin. I'm sure she could recommend\none for\nyou to start on.\" Durgin chuckled. On his right, Durgin's assistant--a\npretty young woman who looked approximately seventeen minutes\nout of law\nschool--chuckled. On my left, Romeo Bissonette chuckled. In the\ncorner,\nthe world's oldest IF- 111 pilot only went on muttering into his\nStenomask. \"I'll wait for the big-screen version,\" he said. His eyes\ngave an ugly little gleam, as if he knew a feature film had never\nbeen\nmade from one of my books--only a made-for-TV movie of Being\nTwo that\npulled ratings roughly equal to the National Sofa Refinishing\nChampionships. I hoped that we'd completed this chubby little fuck's\nidea of the pleasantries. \"I am Kyra Devore's guardian aa'/item,\" he\nsaid. \"Do you know what that means, Mr. Noonan?\"\n\"I believe I do.\"\n\"It means,\" Durgin rolled on, \"that I've been appointed by Judge\nRancourt to decide--if I can--where Kyra Devore's best interests lie,\nshould a custody judgment become necessary. Judge Rancourt\nwould not, insuch an event, be required to base his decision on my conclusions,\nbut\nin many cases that is what happens.\" He looked at me with his\nhands\nfolded on a blank legal pad. The pretty assistant, on the other hand,\nwas scribbling madly. Perhaps she didn't trust the fighter-pilot.\nDurgin\nlooked as if he expected a round of applause. \"Was that a question,\nMr.\nDurgin?\" I asked and Romeo Bissonette delivered a light, practiced\nchip\nto my ankle. I didn't need to look at him to know it wasn't an\naccident.\nDurgin pursed lips so smooth and damp that he looked as if he were\nwearing a clear gloss on them. On his shining pate, roughly two\ndozen\nstrands of hair were combed in smooth little arcs. He gave me a\npatient,\nmeasuring look. Behind it was all the intransigent ugliness of an Evil\nLittle Fat Folk. The pleasantries were over, all right. I was sure of\nit. \"No, Mr. Noonan, that was not a question. I simply thought you\nmight\nlike to know why we've had to ask you to come away from your\nlovely lake\non such a pleasant morning. Perhaps I was wrong. Now, if\" There\nwas a\nperemptory knock on the door, followed by your friend and his,\nGeorge\nFootman. Today Cleveland Casual had been replaced by a khaki\nDeputy\nSheriff's uniform, complete with Sam Browne belt and sidearm. He\nhelped\nhimself to a good look at the assistant's bustline, displayed in a blue\nsilk blouse, then handed her a folder and a cassette tape recorder.\nHegave me one brief gander before leaving. I remember you, buddy,\nthat\nglance said. The smartass writer, the cheap date. Romeo Bissonette\ntipped his head toward me. He used the side of his hand to bridge\nthe\ngap between his mouth and my ear. \"Devore's tape,\" he said. I\nnodded to\nshow I understood, then turned to Durgin again. \"Mr. Noonan,\nyou've met\nKyra Devore and her mother, Mary Devore, haven't you?\" How did\nyou get\nMattie out of Mary, I wondered.., and then knew, just as I had\nknown\nabout the white shorts and halter top. Mattie was how Ki had first\ntried\nto say Mary. \"Mr. Noonan, are we keeping you up?\"\n\"There's no need to be sarcastic, is there?\" Bissonette asked. His\ntone\nwas mild, but Elmer Durgin gave him a look which suggested that,\nshould\nthe ELFFS succeed in their goal of world domination, Bissonette\nwould be\naboard the first gulag-bound boxcar. \"I'm sorry,\" I said before Durgin\ncould reply. \"I just got derailed there for a second or two.\"\n\"New story idea?\" Durgin asked, smiling his glossy smile. He looked\nlike\na swamp-toad in a sportcoat. He turned to the old jet pilot, told him\nto\nstrike that last, then repeated his question about Kyra and Mattie.\nYes,\nI said, I had met them. \"Once or more than once?\"\n\"More than once.\"\"How many times have you met them?\"\n\"Twice.\"\n\"Have you also spoken to Mary Devore on the phone?\" Already these\nquestions were moving in a direction that made me uncomfortable.\n\"Yes.\"\n\"How many times?\"\n\"Three times.\" The third had come the day before, when she had\nasked if\nI would join her and John Storrow for a picnic lunch on the town\ncommon\nafter my deposition. Lunch right there in the middle of town before\nGod\nand everybody. .. although, with a New York lawyer to play\nchaperone,\nwhat harm in that? \"Have you spoken to Kyra Devore on the\ntelephone?\"\nWhat an odd question! Not one anybody had prepared me for, either.\nI\nsupposed that was at least partly why he had asked it. \"Mr.\nNoonan?\"\n\"Yes, I've spoken to her once.\"\n\"Can you tell us the nature of that conversation?\"\n\"Well...\" I looked doubtfully at Bissonette, but there was no help\nthere. He obviously didn't know, either. \"Mattie--\"\n\"Pardon me?\" Durgin leaned forward as much as he could. His eyes\nwere\nintent in their pink pockets of flesh. \"Mattie?\"\"Mattie Devore.\nMary Devore.\"\n\"You call her Mattie?\"\n24o \"Yes,\" I said, and had a wild impulse to add: In bed/In bed I call\nher that/\"Oh Mattie, don't stop, don't stop,\" I cry/\"It's the name she\ngave me when she introduced herself. I met her--\"\n\"We may get to that, but right now I'm interested in your telephone\nconversation with Kyra Devote. When was that?\"\n\"It was yesterday.\"\n\"July ninth, 1998.\"\n\"Yes.\"\n\"Who placed that call?\"\n\"Ma... Mary Devote.\" Now he'll ask why she called, I thought, and I'll\nsay she wanted to have yet another sex marathon, JSREPLAY to\nconsist of\nsgeding each other chocolate-dipped strawberries while we look at\npictures of naked mai-firmed dwarves. \"How did Kyra Devote happen\nto\nspeak to you?\"\n\"She asked if she could. I heard her saying to her mother that she\nhad\nto tell me something.\"\n\"What was it she had to tell you?\"\n\"That she had her first bubble bath.\"\"Did she also say she coughed?\" I was quiet, looking at him. In that\nmoment I understood why people hate lawyers, especially when\nthey've\nbeen dusted over by one who's good at the job. \"Mr. Noonan, would\nyou\nlike me to repeat the question?\"\n\"No,\" I said, wondering where he'd gotten his information. Had\nthese\nbastards tapped Mattie's phone? My phone? Both?\nPerhaps for the first time I understood on a gut level what it must be\nlike to have half a billion dollars. With that much dough you could\ntap\na lot of telephones. \"She said her mother pushed bubbles in her face\nand\nshe coughed. But she was--\"\n\"Thank you, Mr. Noonan, now let's turn to--\"\n\"Let him finish,\" Bissonette said. I had an idea he had already taken\na\nbigger part in the proceedings than he had expected to, but he\ndidn't\nseem to mind. He was a sleepy-looking man with a bloodhound's\nmournful,\ntrustworthy face. \"This isn't a courtroom, and you're not\ncross-examining him.\"\n\"I have the little girl's welfare to think of,\" Durgin said. He sounded\nboth pompous and humble at the same time, a combination that\nwent\ntogether like chocolate sauce on creamed corn. \"It's a responsibility I\ntake very seriously. If I seemed to be badgering you, Mr. Noonan, Iapologize.\" I didn't bother accepting his apology--that would have\nmade\nus both phonies. \"All I was going to say is that Ki was laughing when\nshe said it. She said she and her mother had a bubble-fight. When\nher\nmother came back on, she was laughing, too.\" Durgin had opened\nthe\nfolder Footman had brought him and was paging rapidly through it\nwhile I\nspoke, as if he weren't hearing a word. \"Her mother... Mattie, as you\ncall her.\"\n\"Yes. Mattie as I call her. How do you know about our private\ntelephone\nconversation in the first place?\"\n\"That's none of your business, Mr. Noonan.\" He selected a single\nsheet\nof paper, then closed the folder. He held the paper up briefly, like a\ndoctor studying an X-ray, and I could see it was covered with\nsingle-spaced typing. \"Let's turn to your initial meeting with Mary\nand\nKyra Devore. That was on the Fourth of July, wasn't it?\"\n\"Yes.\" Durgin was nodding. \"The morning of the Fourth. And you\nmet Kyra\nDevote first.\"\n\"Yes.\"\n\"You met her first because her mother wasn't with her at that time,\nwas\nshe?\"\n\"That's a badly phrased question, Mr. Durgin, but I guess the answer\nisyes.\"\n\"I'm flattered to have my grammar corrected by a man who's been\non the\nbestseller lists,\" Durgin said, smiling. The smile suggested that he'd\nlike to see me sitting next to Romeo Bissonette in that first\ngulag-bound boxcar. \"Tell us about your meeting, first with Kyra\nDevore\nand then with Mary Devore. Or Mattie, if you like that better.\" I told\nthe story. When I was finished, Durgin centered the tape player in\nfront\nof him. The nails of his pudgy fingers looked as glossy as his lips.\n\"Mr. Noonan, you could have run Kyra over, isn't that true?\"\n\"Absolutely not. I was going thirty-five--that's the speed limit there\nby the store.\nI saw her in plenty of time to stop.\"\n\"Suppose you had been coming the other way, though--heading\nnorth\ninstead of south. Would you still have seen her in plenty of time?\"\nThat was a fairer question than some of his others, actually.\nSomeone\ncoming the other way would have had a far shorter time to react.\nStill... \"Yes,\" I said. Durgin went up with the eyebrows. \"You're sure\nof that?\"\n\"Yes, Mr. Durgin. I might have had to come down a little harder on\nthe\nbrakes, but--\" '5t thirty-five.\"\n\"Yes, at thirty-five. I told you, that's the speed limit--\"\"---on that particular stretch of Route 68. Yes, you told me that. You\ndid. Is it your experience that most people obey the speed limit on\nthat\npart of the road?\"\n\"I haven't spent much time on the TR since 1993, so I can't--\"\n\"Come on, Mr. Noonan--this isn't a scene from one of your books.\nJust\nanswer my questions, or we'll be here all morning.\"\n\"I'm doing my best, Mr. Durgin.\" He sighed, put-upon. \"You've\nowned your\nplace on Dark Score Lake since the eighties, haven't you? And the\nspeed\nlimit around the Lakeview General Store, the post office, and Dick\nBrooks's All-Purpose Garage-what's called The North Village--hasn't\nchanged since then, has it?\"\n\"No,\" I admitted. \"Returning to my original question, then--in your\nobservation, do most people on that stretch of road obey the\nthirty-five-mile-an-hour limit?\"\n\"I can't say if it's most, because I've never done a traffic survey, but\nI guess a lot don't.\"\n\"Would you like to hear Castle County Sheriffs Deputy Footman\ntestify on\nwhere the greatest number of speeding tickets are given out in TR-\n90,\nMr. Noonan?\"\n\"No,\" I said, quite honestly. \"Did other vehicles pass you while you\nwere speaking first with Kyra Devore and then with Mary Devore?\"\"How many?\"\n\"I don't know exactly. A couple.\"\n\"Could it have been three?\"\n\"I guess.\"\n\"Five?\"\n\"No, probably not so many.\"\n\"But you don't know, exactly, do you?\"\n\"Because Kyra Devore was upset.\"\n\"Actually she had it together pretty well for a--\"\n\"Did she cry in your presence?\"\n\"Well... yes.\"\n\"Did her mother make her cry?\"\n\"That's unfair.\"\n\"As unfair as allowing a three-year-old to go strolling down the\nmiddle\nof a busy highway on a holiday morning, in your opinion, or perhaps\nnot\nquite as unfair as that?\"\n\"Jeepers, lay off,\" Mr. Bissonette said mildly. There was distress on\nhis bloodhound's face. \"I withdraw the question,\" Durgin said.\n\"Which\none?\" I asked. He looked at me tiredly, as if to say he had to put upwith assholes like me all the time and he was used to how we\nbehaved.\n\"How many cars went by from the time you picked the child up and\ncarried\nher to safety to the time when you and the Devores parted\ncompany?\" I\nhated that \"carried her to safety\" bit, but even as I formulated my\nanswer, the old guy was muttering the question into his Stenomask.\nAnd\nit was in fact what I had done. There was no getting around it. \"I\ntold\nyou, I don't know for sure.\"\n\"Well, give me a guesstimate.\" Guesstimate. One of my all-time least\nfavorite words. A Paul Harvey word. \"There might have been three.\"\n\"Including Mary Devore herself?. Driving a--\" He consulted the paper\nhe'd taken from the folder. \"--a 1982 Jeep Scout?\" I thought of Ki\nsaying Mattie go fast and understood where Durgin was heading\nnow. And\nthere was nothing I could do about it. \"Yes, it was her and it was a\nScout. I don't know what year.\"\n\"Was she driving below the posted speed limit, at the posted speed\nlimit, or above the posted speed limit when she passed the place\nwhere\nyou were standing with Kyra in your arms?\"\nShe'd been doing at least fifty, but I told Durgin I couldn't say for\nsure. He urged me to try-/know you are unfamiliar with the\nhangman's\nknot, Mr. Noonan, but I'm sure you can make one if you really work\nat\nit--and I declined as politely as I could.He picked up the paper again. \"Mr. Noonan, would it surprise you to\nknow\nthat two witnesses--Richard Brooks, Junior, the owner of Dick's\nAll-Purpose Garage, and Royce Merrill, a retired carpenter--claim that\nMrs. Devore was doing well over thirty-five when she passed your\nlocation?\"\n\"I don't know,\" I said. \"I was concerned with the little girl.\"\n\"Would it surprise you to know that Royce Merrill estimated her\nspeed at\nsixty miles an hour?\"\n\"That's ridiculous. When she hit the brakes she would have skidded\nsideways and landed upside down in the ditch.\"\n\"The skid-marks measured by Deputy Footman indicate a speed of\nat least\nfifty miles an hour,\" Durgin said. It wasn't a question, but he looked\nat me almost roguishly, as if inviting me to struggle a little more and\nsink a little deeper into this nasty pit. I said nothing. Durgin folded\nhis pudgy little hands and leaned over them toward me. The roguish\nlook\nwas gone.\n\"Mr. Noonan, if you hadn't carried Kyra Devore to the side of the\nroad--if you hadn't rescued her--mightn't her own mother have run\nher\nover?\"\nHere was the really loaded question, and how should I answer it?\nBis-sonette was certainly not flashing any helpful signals; he seemed\nto\nbe trying to make meaningful eye-contact with the pretty assistant. Ithought of the book Mattie was reading in tandem with \"Bartleby\"-\nSilent\nWitness, by Richard North Patterson. Unlike the Grisham brand,\nPatterson's lawyers almost always seemed to know what they were\ndoing.\nObjection, Your Honor, calls j$r speculation on the part of the\nwitness.\nI shrugged. \"Sorry, counsellor, can't say--left my crystal ball home.\"\nAgain I saw the ugly flash in Durgin's eyes. \"Mr. Noonan, I can\nassure\nyou that if you don't answer that question here, you are apt to be\ncalled back from Malibu or Fire Island or wherever it is you're going\nto\nwrite your next opus to answer it later on.\"\nI shrugged. \"I've already told you I was concerned with the child. I\ncan't tell you how fast the mother was going, or how good Royce\nMerrill's vision is, or if Deputy Footman even measured the right set\nof\nskid-marks. There's a whole bunch of rubber on that part of the\nroad, I\ncan tell you. Suppose she was going fifty? Even fifty-five, let's say\nthat. She's twenty-one years old, Durgin. At the age of twenty-one,\na\nperson's driving skills are at their peak. She probably would have\nswerved around the child, and easily.\"\n\"I think that's quite enough.\"\n\"Why? Because you're not getting what you wanted?\" Bissonette's\nshoe\nclipped my ankle again, but I ignored it. \"If you're on Kyra's side,\nwhydo you sound as though you're on her grandfather's?\"\nA baleful little smile touched Durgin's lips. The kind that says Okay,\nsmart guy, you want top/ay? He pulled the tape-recorder a little\ncloser\nto him. \"Since you have mentioned Kyra's grandfather, Mr. Maxwell\nDevore\nof Palm Springs, let's talk about him a little, shall we?\"\n\"It's your show.\"\n\"Have you ever spoken with Maxwell Devore?\"\n\"Yes.\"\n\"In person or on the phone?\"\n\"Phone.\" I thought about adding that he had somehow gotten hold\nof my\nunlisted number, then remembered that Mattie had, too, and decided\nto\nkeep my mouth shut on that subject.\n\"When was this?\"\n\"Last Saturday night. The night of the Fourth. He called while I was\nwatching the fireworks.\"\n\"And was the subject of your conversation that morning's little\nadventure?'' As he asked, Durgin reached into his pocket and\nbrought out\na cassette tape. There was an ostentatious quality to this gesture; in\nthat moment he looked like a parlor magician showing you both\nsides of a\nsilk handkerchief. And he was bluffing. I couldn't be sure of that..,\nand yet I was. Devore had taped our conversation, all right--thatunderhum really had been too loud, and on some level I'd been\naware of\nthat fact even while I was talking to him--and I thought it really was\non the cassette Durgin was now slotting into the cassette player..,\nbut\nit was a bluff.\n\"I don't recall,\" I said. Durgin's hand froze in the act of snapping the\ncassette's transparent loading panel shut. He looked at me with\nfrank\ndisbelief.., and something else. I thought the something else was\nsurprised anger. \"You don't recall? Come now, Mr. Noonan. Surely\nwriters\ntrain themselves to recall conversations, and this one was only a\nweek\nago. Tell me what you talked about.\"\n\"I really can't say,\" I told him in a stolid, colorless voice. For a\nmoment Durgin looked almost panicky.\nThen his features smoothed. One polished fingernail slipped back\nand\nforth over keys marked EW, it, PLAY and P, EC. \"How did Mr. Devore\nbegin\nthe conversation?'' he asked. \"He said hello,\" I said mildly, and there\nwas a short muffled sound from behind the Stenomask. It could\nhave been\nthe old guy clearing his throat; it could have been a suppressed\nlaugh.\nSpots of color were blooming in Durgin's cheeks. \"After hello? What\nthen?\"\n\"I don't recall.\"\n\"Did he ask you about that morning?\"\"I don't recall.\"\n\"Didn't you tell him that Mary Devore and her daughter were\ntogether,\nMr. Noonan? That they were together picking flowers? Isn't that\nwhat you\ntold this worried grandfather when he inquired about the incident\nwhich\nwas the talk of the township that Fourth of July?\"\n\"Oh boy,\" Bissonette said. He raised one hand over the table, then\ntouched the palm with the fingers of the other, making a re s T.\n\"Time\nOUT.\"\nDurgin looked at him. The flush in his cheeks was more pronounced\nnow,\nand his lips had pulled back enough to show the tips of small, neatly\ncapped teeth. \"What do you want?\" he almost snarled, as if Bis-\nsonette\nhad just dropped by to tell him about the Mormon Way or perhaps\nthe\nRosicrucians.\n\"I want you to stop leading this guy, and I want that whole thing\nabout\npicking flowers stricken from the record,\" Bissonette said. \"Why?\"\nDurgin snapped. \"Because you're trying to get stuff on the record\nthat\nthis witness won't say. If you want to break here for awhile so we\ncan\nmake a conference call to Judge Rancourt, get his opinion--\"\"I withdraw the question,\" Durgin said. He looked at me with a kind\nof\nhelpless, surly rage. \"Mr. Noonan, do you want to help me do my\njob?\"\n\"I want to help Kyra Devore if I can,\" I said. \"Very well.\" He nodded\nas\nif no distinction had been made. \"Then please tell me what you and\nMaxwell Devote talked about.\"\n\"I can't recall.\" I caught his eyes and held them.\n\"Perhaps,\" I said, \"you can refresh my recollection.\" There was a\nmoment\nof silence, like that which sometimes strikes a high-stakes poker\ngame\njust after the last of the bets have been made and just before the\nplayers show their hands. Even the old fighter-pilot was quiet, his\neyes\nunblinking above the mask. Then Durgin pushed the cassette player\naside\nwith the heel of his hand (the set of his mouth said he felt about it\njust then as I often felt about the telephone) and went back to the\nmorning of July Fourth. He never asked about my dinner with Mattie\nand\nKi on Tuesday night, and never returned to my telephone\nconversation\nwith Devore--the one where I had said all those awkward and easily\ndisprovable things. I went on answering questions until eleven-thirty,\nbut the interview really ended when Durgin pushed the tape-player\naway\nwith the heel of his hand. I knew it, and I'm pretty sure he did, too.\n\"Mike! Mike, over here!\" Mattie was waving from one of the tables in\nthepicnic area behind the town common's bandstand. She looked\nvibrant and\nhappy. I waved back and made my way in that direction, weaving\nbetween\nlittle kids playing tag, skirting a couple of teenagers making out on\nthe grass, and ducking a Frisbee which a leaping German shepherd\ncaught\nsmartly. There was a tall, skinny redhead with her, but I barely got a\nchance to notice him. Mattie met me while I was still on the gravel\npath, put her arms around me, hugged me--it was no prudey little\nass-poking-out hug, either--and then kissed me on the mouth hard\nenough\nto push my lips against my teeth. There was a hearty smack when\nshe\ndisengaged. She pulled back and looked at me with undisguised\ndelight.\n\"Was it the biggest kiss you've ever had?\"\n\"The biggest in at least four years,\" I said. \"Will you settle for\nthat?\" And if she didn't step away from me in the next few seconds,\nshe\nwas going to have physical proof of how much I had enjoyed it.\n\"I guess I'll have to.\" She turned to the redheaded guy with a funny\nkind of defiance. \"Was that all right?\"\n\"Probably not,\" he said, \"but at least you're not currently in view of\nthose old boys at the All-Purpose Garage. Mike, I'm John Storrow.\nNice\nto meet you in person.\"\nI liked him at once, maybe because I'd come upon him dressed in\nhis\nthree-piece New York suit and primly setting out paper plates on a\npicnic table while his curly red hair blew around his head like kelp.His skin was fair and freckled, the kind which would never tan, only\nburn and then peel in great eczemalike patches. When we shook, his\nhand\nseemed to be all knuckles. He had to be at least thirty, but he looked\nMattie's age, and I guessed it would be another five years before he\nwas\nable to get a drink without showing his driver's license.\n\"Sit down,\" he said. \"We've got a five-course lunch, courtesy of\nCastle\nRock Variety--grinders, which are for some strange reason called\n\"Italian sandwiches' up here. .. mozzarella sticks. .. garlic fries.\n.. Twinkies.\"\n\"That's only four,\" I said.\n\"I forgot the soft-drink course,\" he said, and pulled three long-neck\nbottles of S'OK birch beer out of a brown bag. \"Let's eat. Mattie runs\nthe library from two to eight on Fridays and Saturdays, and this\nwould\nbe a bad time for her to be missing work.\"\n\"How did the readers' circle go last night?\" I asked. \"Lindy Briggs\ndidn't eat you alive, I see.\"\nShe laughed, clasped her hands, and shook them over her head. \"I\nwas a\nhit! An absolute smashola! I didn't dare tell them I got all my best\ninsights from you--\"\n\"Thank God for small favors,\" Storrow said. He was freeing his own\nsandwich from its string and butcher-paper wrapping, doing it\ncarefully\nand a little dubiously, using just the tips of his fingers.\"--so I said I looked in a couple of books and found some leads\nthere.\nIt was sort of wonderful. I felt like a college kid.\"\n\"Good.\"\n\"Bissonette?\" John Storrow asked. \"Where's he? I never met a guy\nnamed\nRomeo before.\"\n\"Said he had to go right back to Lewiston. Sorry.\"\n\"Actually it's best we stay small, at least to begin with.\" He bit into\nhis sandwich--they come tucked into long sub rolls--and looked at\nme,\nsurprised. \"This isn't bad.\"\n\"Eat more than three and you're hooked for life,\" Mattie said, and\nchomped heartily into her own.\n\"Tell us about the depo,\" John said, and while they ate, I talked.\nWhen\nI finished, I picked up my own sandwich and played a little catch-up.\nI'd forgotten how good an Italian can be--sweet, sour, and oily all at\nthe same time. Of course nothing that tastes that good can be\nhealthy;\nthat's a given. I suppose one could formulate a similar postulate\nabout\nfull-body hugs from young girls in legal trouble.\n\"Very interesting,\" John said. \"Very interesting indeed.\" He took a\nmozzarella stick from its grease-stained bag, broke it open, and\nlookedwith a kind of fascinated horror at the clotted white gunk inside.\n\"People up here eat this?\" he asked.\n\"People in New York eat fish-bladders,\" I said. \"Raw.\"\n\"Touch&\" He dipped a piece into the plastic container of spaghetti\nsauce\n(in this context it is called \"cheese-dip\" in western Maine), then ate\nit.\n\"Well?\" I asked.\n\"Not bad. They ought to be a lot hotter, though.\"\nYes, he was right about that. Eating cold mozzarella sticks is a little\nlike eating cold snot, an observation I thought I would keep to\nmyself\non this beautiful midsummer Friday.\n\"If Durgin had the tape, why wouldn't he play it?\" Mattie asked. \"I\ndon't understand.\"\n25o John stretched his arms out, cracked his knuckles, and looked at\nher\nbenignly. \"We'll probably never know for sure,\" he said. He thought\nDevore was going to drop the suit--it was in every line of his\nbody-language and every inflection of his voice. That was hopeful,\nbut\nit would be good if Mattie didn't allow herself to become too hopeful.\nJohn Storrow wasn't as young as he looked, and probably not as\nguileless, either (or so I fervently hoped), but he was young. And\nneither he nor Mattie knew the story of Scooter Larribee's sled. Or\nhad\nseen Bill Dean's face when he told it. \"Want to hear somepossibilities?\"\n\"Sure,\" I said. John put down his sandwich, wiped his fingers, and\nthen\nbegan to tick off points. \"First, he made the call.\nTaped conversations have a highly dubious value under those\ncircumstances. Second, he didn't exactly come off like Captain\nKangaroo,\ndid he?\"\n\"No.'\n\"Third, your fabrication impugns you, Mike, but not really very much,\nand it doesn't impugn Mattie at all. And by the way, that thing about\nMattie pushing bubbles in Kyra's face, I love that. If that's the best\nthey can do, they better give it up right now. Last--and this is where\nthe truth probably lies--I think Devore's got Nixon's Disease.\"\n\"Nixon's Disease?\" Mattie asked. \"The tape Durgin had isn't the only\ntape. Can't be. And your father-in-law is afraid that if he introduces\none tape made by whatever system he's got in Warrington's, we\nmight\nsubpoena all of them. And I'd damn well try.\" She looked\nbewildered.\n\"What could be on them? And if it's bad, why not just destroy\nthem?\"\n\"Maybe he can't,\" I said. \"Maybe he needs them for other reasons.\"\n\"It doesn't really matter,\" John said. \"Durgin was bluffing, and that's\nwhat matters.\" He hit the heel of his hand lightly against the picnic\ntable. \"I think he's going to drop it. I really do.\"\n\"It's too early to start thinking like that,\" I said at once, but I\ncould tell by Mattie's face--shining more brightly than ever--that thedamage was done.\n\"Fill him in on what else you've been doing,\" Mattie told John. \"Then\nI've got to get to the library.\"\n\"Where do you send Kyra on your workdays?\" I asked. \"Mrs.\nCullum's. She\nlives two miles up the Wasp Hill Road. Also in July there's V.B.S. from\nten until three. That's Vacation Bible School. Ki loves it, especially\nthe singing and the flannel-board stories about Noah and Moses.\nThe bus\ndrops her off at Arlene's, and I pick her up around quarter of nine.\"\nShe smiled a little wistfully. \"By then she's usually fast asleep on the\ncouch.\" John held forth for the next ten minutes or so. He hadn't\nbeen\non the case long, but had already started a lot of balls rolling. A\nfellow in California was gathering facts about Roger Devore and\nMorris\nRidding (\"gathering facts\" sounded so much better than \"snooping\").\nJohn\nwas particularly interested in learning about the quality of Roger\nDevore's relations with his father, and if Roger was on record\nconcerning his little niece from Maine. John had also mapped out a\ncampaign to learn as much as possible about Max Devore's\nmovements and\nactivities since he'd come back to TR-90. To that end he had the\nname of\na private investigator, one recommended by Romeo Bissonette, my\nrent-a-lawyer. As he spoke, paging rapidly through a little notebook\nhe\ndrew from the inside pocket of his suitcoat, I remembered what he'd\nsaid\nabout Lady Justice during our telephone conversation: Slap some\nhandcuf25 on that broad's wrists and some tape over her mouth to\ngo\nalong with the blindjld, rape her and roll her in the mud. That wasmaybe a bit too strong for what we were doing, but I thought at the\nvery\nleast we were shoving her around a little. I imagined poor Roger\nDevore\nup on the stand, having flown three thousand miles in order to be\nquestioned about his sexual preferences. I had to keep reminding\nmyself\nthat his father had put him in that position, not Mattie or me or John\nStorrow. \"Have you gotten any closer to a meeting with Devore and\nhis\nchief legal advisor?\" I asked. \"Don't know for sure.\nThe line is in the water, the offer is on the table, the puck's on the\nice, pick your favorite metaphor, mix em and match em if you\ndesire.\"\n\"Got your irons in the fire,\" Mattie said.\n\"Your checkers on the board,\" I added. We looked at each other and\nlaughed. John regarded us sadly, then sighed, picked up his\nsandwich,\nand began to eat again. \"You really have to meet him with his\nlawyer\nmore or less dancing attendance?\" I asked. \"Would you like to win\nthis\nthing, then discover Devore can do it all again based on unethical\nbehavior by Mary Devore's legal resource?\" John returned. \"Don't\neven\njoke about it!\" Mattie cried. \"I wasn't joking,\" John said. \"It has to\nbe with his lawyer, yes. I don't think it's going to happen, not on this\ntrip. I haven't even got a look at the old cockuh, and I have to tell\nyou my curiosity is killing me.\"\n\"If that's all it takes to make you happy, show up behind the\nbackstop\nat the softball field next Tuesday evening,\" Mattie said. \"He'll bethere in his fancy wheelchair, laughing and clapping and sucking his\ndamned old oxygen every fifteen minutes or so.\"\n\"Not a bad idea,\" John said. \"I have to go back to New York for the\nweekend--I'm leaving apres Osgood--but maybe I'll show up on\nTuesday. I\nmight even bring my glove.\" He began clearing up our litter, and\nonce\nagain I thought he looked both prissy and endearing at the same\ntime,\nlike Stan Laurel wearing an apron. Mattie eased him aside and took\nover.\n\"No one ate any Twinkles,\" she said, a little sadly. \"Take them home\nto\nyour daughter,\" John said. \"No way. I don't let her eat stuff like this.\nWhat kind of mother do you think I am?\" She saw our expressions,\nreplayed what she'd just said, then burst out laughing. We joined\nher.\nMattie's old Scout was parked in one of the slant spaces behind the\nwar\nmemorial, which in Castle Rock is a World War I soldier with a\ngenerous\nhelping of birdshit on his pie-dish helmet. A brand-new Taurus with a\nHertz decal above the inspection sticker was parked next to it. John\ntossed his briefcase--reassuringly thin and not very ostentatious--\ninto\nthe back seat.\n\"if I can make it back on Tuesday, I'll call you,\" he told Mattie. \"If\nI'm able to get an appointment with your father-in-law through this\nman\nOsgood, I will also call you.\"\"I'll buy the Italian sandwiches,\" Mattie said. He smiled, then\ngrasped\nher arm in one hand and mine in the other.\nHe looked like a newly ordained minister getting ready to marry his\nfirst couple. \"You two talk on the telephone if you need to,\" he said,\n\"always remembering that one or both lines may be tapped. Meet in\nthe\nmarket if you happen to. Mike, you might feel a need to drop by the\nlocal library and check out a book.\"\n\"Not until you renew your card, though,\" Mattie said, giving me a\ndemure\nglance. \"But no more visits to Mattie's trailer. Is that understood?\" I\nsaid yes; she said yes; John Storrow looked unconvinced. It made\nme\nwonder if he was seeing something in our faces or bodies that\nshouldn't\nbe there. \"They are committed to a line of attack which probably\nisn't\ngoing to work,\" he said. \"We can't risk giving them the chance to\nchange\ncourse. That means innuendos about the two of you; it also means\ninnuendos about Mike and Kyra.\" Mattie's shocked expression made\nher\nlook twelve again. \"Mike and Kyra! What are you talking about?\"\n\"Allegations of child molestation thrown up by people so desperate\nthey'll try anything.\"\n\"That's ridiculous,\" she said. \"And if my father-in-law wanted to sling\nthat kind of mud--\" John nodded. \"Yes, we'd be obligated to sling it\nright back. Newspaper coverage from coast to coast would follow,\nmaybe\neven Court TV, God bless and save us. We want none of that if we\ncanavoid it. It's not good for the grownups, and it's not good for the\nchild. Now or later.\"\nHe bent and kissed Mattie's cheek. \"I'm sorry about all this,\" he said,\nand he did sound genuinely sorry. \"Custody's just this way.\"\n\"I think you warned me. It's just that. .. the idea someone might\nmake\na thing like that up just because there was no other way for them to\nwin...\"\n\"Let me warn you again,\" he said. His face came as close to grim as\nits\nyoung and good-natured features would probably allow. \"What we\nhave is a\nvery rich man with a very shaky case. The combination could be like\nworking with old dynamite.\" I turned to Mattie. \"Are you still worried\nabout Ki? Still feel she's in danger?\" I saw her think about hedging\nher\nresponse--out of plain old Yankee reserve, quite likely--and then\ndeciding not to. Deciding, perhaps, that hedging was a luxury she\ncouldn't afford. \"Yes. But it's just a feeling, you know.\" John was\nfrowning. I supposed the idea that Devore might resort to extralegal\nmeans of obtaining what he wanted had occurred to him, as well.\n\"Keep\nyour eye on her as much as you can,\" he said. \"I respect intuition. Is\nyours based on anything concrete?\"\n\"No,\" Mattie answered, and her quick glance in my direction asked\nme to\nkeep my mouth shut. \"Not really.\" She opened the Scout's door and\ntossed\nin the little brown bag with the Twinkies in it--she had decided to\nkeep\nthem after all. Then she turned to John and me with an expression\nthatwas close to anger. \"I'm not sure how to follow that advice, anyway.\nI\nwork five days a week, and in August, when we do the microfiche\nupdate,\nit'll be six. Right now Ki gets her lunch at Vacation Bible School and\nher dinner from Arlene Cullum. I see her in the mornings. The rest\nof\nthe time...\" I knew what she was going to say before she said it; the\nexpression was an old one.\n\"... she's on the TR.\"\n\"I could help you find an all pair,\" I said, thinking it would be a hell\nof a lot cheaper than John Storrow. \"No,\" they said in such perfect\nunison that they glanced at each other and laughed. But even while\nshe\nwas laughing, Mattie looked tense and unhappy. \"We're not going to\nleave\na paper trail for Durgin or Devore's custody team to exploit,\" John\nsaid. \"Who pays me is one thing. Who pays Mattie's child-care help\nis\nanother.\"\n\"Besides, I've taken enough from you,\" Mattie said. \"More than I can\nsleep easy on. I'm not going to get in any deeper just because I've\nbeen\nhaving megrims.\" She climbed into the Scout and closed the door. I\nrested my hands on her open window. Now we were on the same\nlevel, and\nthe eye-contact was so strong it was disconcerting. \"Mattie, I don't\nhave anything else to spend it on. Really.\"\n\"When it comes to John's fee, I accept that. Because John's fee is\nabout\nKi.\" She put her hand over mine and squeezed briefly. \"This other is\nabout me. All right?\"\"Yeah. But you need to tell your babysitter and the people who run\nthis\nBible thing that you've got a custody case on your hands, a\npotentially\nbitter one, and Kyra's not to go anywhere with anyone, even\nsomeone they\nknow, without your say-so.\" She smiled. \"It's already been done. On\nJohn's advice. Stay in touch, Mike.\" She lifted my hand, gave it a\nhearty smack, and drove away. \"What do you think?\" I asked John\nas we\nwatched the Scout blow oil on its way to the new Prouty Bridge,\nwhich\nspans Castle Street and spills outbound traffic onto Highway 68. \"I\nthink it's grand she has a well-heeled benefactor and a smart\nlawyer,\"\nJohn said. He paused, then added: \"But I'll tell you some-thing--she\nsomehow doesn't feel lucky to me at all. There's a feeling I get... I\ndon't know...\"\n\"That there's a cloud around her you can't quite see.\"\n\"Maybe. Maybe that's it.\" He raked his hands through the restless\nmass\nof his red hair. \"I just know it's something sad.\" I knew exactly what\nhe meant.., except for me there was more. I wanted to be in bed\nwith\nher, sad or not, right or not. I wanted to feel her hands on me,\ntugging\nand pressing, patting and stroking. I wanted to be able to smell her\nskin and taste her hair. I wanted to have her lips against my ear, her\nbreath tickling the fine hairs within its cup as she told me to do what\nI wanted, whatever I wanted.\nI got back to Sara Laughs shortly before two o'clock and let myself\nin,thinking about nothing but my study and the IBM with the Courier\nball. I\nwas writing again--writing. I could still hardly believe it. I'd work\n(not that it felt much like work after a four-year layoff) until maybe\nsix o'clock, swim, then go down to the Village Cafe for one of\nBuddy's\ncholesterol-rich specialties. The moment I stepped through the door,\nBunter's bell began to ring stridently. I stopped in the foyer, my hand\nfrozen on the knob. The house was hot and bright, not a shadow\nanywhere,\nbut the gooseflesh forming on my arms felt like midnight.\n\"Who's here?\" I called. The bell stopped ringing. There was a\nmoment of\nsilence, and then a woman shrieked. It came from everywhere,\npouring out\nof the sunny, mote-laden air like sweat out of hot skin. It was a\nscream\nof outrage, anger, grief.., but mostly, I think, of horror. And I\nscreamed in response. I couldn't help it. I had been frightened\nstanding\nin the dark cellar stairwell, listening to the unseen fist thump on the\ninsulation, but this was far worse. It never stopped, that scream. It\nfaded, as the child's sobs had faded; faded as if the person\nscreaming\nwas being carried rapidly down a long corridor and away from me.\nAt last\nit was gone. I leaned against the bookcase, my palm pressed against\nmy\ntee-shirt, my heart galloping beneath it. I was gasping for breath,\nand\nmy muscles had that queer exploded feel they get after you've had a\nbad\nscare. A minute passed. My heartbeat gradually slowed, and my\nbreathingslowed with it. I straightened up, took a tottery step, and when my\nlegs\nheld me, took two more. I stood in the kitchen doorway, looking\nacross\nto the living room. Above the fireplace, Bunter the moose looked\nglassily back at me. The bell around his neck hung still and\nchimeless.\nA hot sunpoint glowed on its side. The only sound was that stupid\nFelix\nthe Cat clock in the kitchen. The thought nagging at me, even then,\nwas\nthat the screaming woman had been Jo, that Sara Laughs was being\nhaunted\nby my wife, and that she was in pain. Dead or not, she was in pain.\n\"Jo?\" I asked quietly. \"Jo, are you--\" The sobbing began again--the\nsound of a terrified child. At the same moment my mouth and nose\nonce\nmore filled with the iron taste of the lake. I put one hand to my\nthroat, gagging and frightened, then leaned over the sink and spat.\nIt\nwas as it had been before--instead of voiding a gush of water,\nnothing\ncame out but a little spit. The waterlogged feeling was gone as if it\nhad never been there. I stayed where I was, grasping the counter\nand\nbent over the sink, probably looking like a drunk who has finished\nthe\nparty by upchucking most of the night's bottled cheer. I felt like that,\ntoo--stunned and bleary, too overloaded to really understand what\nwas\ngoing on. At last I straightened up again, took the towel folded over\nthe dishwasher's handle, and wiped my face with it. There was tea\nin the\nfridge, and I wanted a tall, ice-choked glass of it in the worst way. Ireached for the doorhandle and froze.\nThe fruit and vegetable magnets were drawn into a circle again. In\nthe\ncenter was this:\nhelp im drown That's it, I thought. I'm getting out of here. Right\nnow.\n%day. Yet an hour later I was up in my stifling study with a glass of\ntea on the desk beside me (the cubes in it long since melted),\ndressed\nonly in my bathing trunks and lost in the world I was making--the\none\nwhere a private detective named Andy Drake was trying to prove\nthat John\nShackleford was not the serial killer nicknamed Baseball Cap. This is\nhow we go on: one day at a time, one meal at a time, one pain at a\ntime,\none breath at a time. Dentists go on one root-canal at a time;\nboat-builders go on one hull at a time. If you write books, you go on\none page at a time. We turn from all we know and all we fear. We\nstudy\ncatalogues, watch football games, choose Sprint over AT&T. We\ncount the\nbirds in the sky and will not turn from the window when we hear the\nfootsteps behind us as something comes up the hall; we say yes, I\nagree\nthat clouds often look like other things--fish and unicorns and men\non\nhorseback--but they are really only clouds. Even when the lightning\nflashes inside them we say they are only clouds and turn our\nattention\nto the next meal, the next pain, the next breath, the next page. This\nis\nhow we go on.The book was big, okay? The book was major. I was afraid to\nchange\nrooms, let alone pack up the typewriter and my slim just-begun\nmanuscript and take it back to Derry. That would be as dangerous as\ntaking an infant out in a windstorm. So I stayed, always reserving\nthe\nright to move out if things got too weird (the way smokers reserve\nthe\nright to quit if their coughs get too heavy), and a week passed.\nThings\nhappened during that week, but until I met Max Devore on The\nStreet the\nfollowing Friday--the seventeenth of July, it would have been--the\nmost\nimportant thing was that I continued to work on a novel which\nwould, if\nfinished, be called My Childhood Friend. Perhaps we always think\nwhat\nwas lost was the best.., or would have been the best. I don't know\nfor\nsure. What I do know is that my real life that week had mostly to do\nwith Andy Drake, John Shackleford, and a shadowy figure standing\nin the\ndeep background. Raymond Garraty, John Shackle-ford's childhood\nfriend.\nA man who sometimes wore a baseball cap. During that week, the\nmanifestations in the house continued, but at a lower level--there\nwas\nnothing like that bloodcurdling scream. Sometimes Bunter's bell\nrang,\nand sometimes the fruit and vegetable magnets would re-form\nthemselves\ninto a circle.., never with words in the middle, though; not that\nweek.One morning I got up and the sugar cannister was overturned,\nmaking me\nthink of Mattie's story about the flour. Nothing was written in the\nspill, but there was a squiggle- --as though something had tried to\nwrite and failed. If so, I sympathized. I knew what that was like.\nMy depo before the redoubtable Elmer Durgin was on Friday the\ntenth. On\nthe following Tuesday I took The Street down to Warrington's\nsoftball\nfield, hoping for my own peek at Max Devore. It was going on six\no'clock\nwhen I got within hearing range of the shouts, cheers, and batted\nballs.\nA path marked with rustic signs (curlicued W's burned into oak\narrows)\nled past an abandoned boathouse, a couple of sheds, and a gazebo\nhalf-buried in blackberry creepers. I eventually came out in deep\ncenter\nfield. A litter of potato-chip bags, candy-wrappers, and beer cans\nsuggested that others sometimes watched the games from this\nvantage-point. I couldn't help thinking about Jo and her mysterious\nfriend, the guy in the old brown sportcoat, the burly guy who had\nslipped an arm around her waist and led her away from the game,\nlaughing, back toward The Street. Twice over the weekend I'd come\nclose\nto calling Bonnie Amudson, seeing if maybe I could chase that guy\ndown,\nput a name on him, and both times I had backed off. Sleeping dogs,\nI\ntold myself each time. Sleeping dogs, Michael. I had the area\nbeyond\ndeep center to myself that evening, and it felt like the right distancefrom home plate, considering the man who usually parked his\nwheelchair\nbehind the backstop had called me a liar and I had invited him to\nstore\nmy telephone number where the sunshine grows dim. I needn't have\nworried\nin any case. Devore wasn't in attendance, nor was the lovely\nRogette. I\ndid spot Mattie behind the casually maintained chickenwire barrier\non\nthe first-base line. John Storrow was beside her, wearing jeans and a\npolo shirt, his red hair mostly corralled by a Mets cap. They stood\nwatching the game and chatting like old friends for two innings\nbefore\nthey saw me--more than enough time for me to feel envious of\nJohn's\nposition, and a little jealous as well.\nFinally someone lofted a long fly to center, where the edge of the\nwoods\nserved as the only fence. The center fielder backed up, but it was\ngoing\nto be far over his head. It was hit to my depth, off to my right. I\nmoved in that direction without thinking, high-footing through the\nshrubs that formed a zone between the mown outfield and the trees,\nhoping I wasn't running through poison ivy. I caught the softball in\nmy\noutstretched left hand, and laughed when some of the spectators\ncheered.\nThe center fielder applauded me by tapping his bare right hand into\nthe\npocket of his glove. The batter, meanwhile, circled the bases\nserenely,\nknowing he had hit a ground-rule home run.I tossed the ball to the fielder and as I returned to my original post\namong the candy-wrappers and beer cans, I looked back in and saw\nMattie\nand John looking at me.\nIf anything confirms the idea that we're just another species of\nanimal,\none with a slightly bigger brain and a much bigger idea of our own\nimportance in the scheme of things, it's how much we can convey by\ngesture when we absolutely have to. Mattie clasped her hands to her\nchest, tilted her head to the left, raised her eyebrows--My hero. I\nheld\nmy hands to my shoulders and flipped the palms skyward Shucks,\nma'am,\n't'warn't nothin. John lowered his head and put his fingers to his\nbrow,\nas if something there hurt--Iu lucky sonofabitch.\nWith those comments out of the way, I pointed at the backstop and\nshrugged a question. Both Mattie and John shrugged back. An\ninning later\na little boy who looked like one giant exploding freckle ran out to\nwhere I was, his oversized Michael Jordan jersey churning around\nhis\nshins like a dress.\n\"Guy down there gimme fifty cent to say you should call im later on\nat\nhis hotel over in the Rock,\" he said, pointing at John. \"He say you\ngimme another fifty cent if there was an answer.\"\n\"Tell him I'll call him around nine-thirty,\" I said. \"I don't have any\nchange, though. Can you take a buck?\"\n\"Hey, yeah, swank.\" He snatched it, turned away, then turned back.He grinned, revealing a set of teeth caught between Act I and Act II.\nWith the softball players in the background, he looked like a Norman\nRockwell archetype. \"Guy also say tell you that was a bullshit catch.\"\n\"Tell him people used to say the same thing about Willie Mays all the\ntime.\"\n\"Willie who?\"\nAh, youth. Ah, mores. \"Just tell him, son. He'll know.\"\nI stayed another inning, but by then the game was getting drunk,\nDevore\nstill hadn't shown, and I went back home the way I had come. I met\none\nfisherman standing out on a rock and two young people strolling\nalong\nThe Street toward Warrington's, their hands linked. They said hi and\nI\nhi'd them back. I felt lonely and content at the same time. I believe\nthat is a rare kind of happiness.\nSome people check their phone answering machines when they get\nhome;\nthat summer I always checked the front of the fridge.\nEenie-meenie-chili-beanie, as Bullwinkle Moose used to say, the\nspirits\nare about to speak. That night they hadn't, although the fruit and\nvegetable magnets had re-formed into a sinuous shape like a snake\nor\nperhaps the letter S taking a nap:A little later I called John and asked him where Devore had been,\nand he\nrepeated in words what he had already told me, and much more\neconomically, by gesture. \"It's the first game he's missed since he\ncame\nback,\" he said. \"Mattie tried asking a few people if he was okay, and\nthe consensus seemed to be that he was.., at least as far as anyone\nknew.\"\"What do you mean she tried asking a few people?\"\n\"I mean that several wouldn't even talk to her. \"Cut her dead,' my\nparents' generation would have said.\" Watch it, buddy, I thought but\ndidn't say, that's only ha/fa stepjom my generation. \"One of her old\ngirlfriends spoke to her finally, but there's a general attitude about\nMattie Devore. That man Osgood may be a shitty salesman, but as\nDevore's\nMr. Moneyguy he's doing a wonderful job of separating Mattie from\nthe\nother folks in the town. Is it a town, Mike? I don't quite get that\npart.\"\n\"It's just the TR,\" I said absently. \"There's no real way to explain it.\nDo you actually believe Devore's bribing everyone? That doesn't say\nmuch\nfor the old Wordsworthian idea of pastoral innocence and goodness,\ndoes\nit?\"\n\"He's spreading money and using Osgood--maybe Footman, too--to\nspread\nstories. And the folks around here seem at least as honest as honest\npoliticians.\"\n\"The ones who stay bought?\"\n\"Yeah. Oh, and I saw one of Devore's potential star witnesses in the\nCase of the Runaway Child. Royce Merrill. He was over by the\nequipment\nshed with some of his cronies. Did you happen to notice him?\" I said\nI\nhad not. \"Guy must be a hundred and thirty,\" John said. \"He's got a\ncane\nwith a gold head the size of an elephant's asshole.\"\"That's a Boston Post cane. The oldest person in the area gets to\nkeep\nit.\" '5nd I have no doubt he came by it honestly. If Devore's lawyers\nput him on the stand, I'll debone him.\"\nThere was something chilling in John's gleeful confidence. \"I'm\nsure,\" I\nsaid. \"How did Mattie take getting cut dead by her old friends?\" I\nwas\nthinking of her saying that she hated Tuesday nights, hated to think\nof\nthe softball games going on as they always had at the field where\nshe\nhad met her late husband. \"She did okay,\" John said. \"I think she's\ngiven most of them up as a lost cause, anyway.\" I had my doubts\nabout\nthat--I seem to remember that at twenty-one lost causes are sort of\na\nspecialty--but I didn't say anything. \"She's hanging in. She's been\nlonely and scared, I think that in her own mind she might already\nhave\nbegun the process of giving Kyra up, but she's got her confidence\nback\nnow. Mostly thanks to meeting you. Talk about your fantastically\nlucky\nbreaks.\" Well, maybe. I flashed on Jo's. brother Frank once saying to\nme\nthat he didn't think there was any such thing as luck, only fate and\ninspired choices. And then I remembered that image of the TR\ncriss-crossed with invisible cables, connections that were unseen but\nas\nstrong as steel. \"John, I forgot to ask the most important question of\nall the other day, after I gave my depo. This custody case we're all\nso\nconcerned about .. has it even been scheduled?\"D-k3 k. Jltm Dk-/IN,O \"Good question. I've checked three ways to\nSunday,\nand Bissonette has, too. Unless Devore and his people have pulled\nsomething really slippery, like filing in another court district, I\ndon't think it has been.\"\n\"Could they do that? File in another district?\"\n\"Maybe. But probably not without us finding out.\"\n\"So what does it mean?\"\n\"That Devore's on the verge of giving up,\" John said promptly. \"As of\nnow I see no other way of explaining it. I'm going back to New York\nfirst thing tomorrow, but I'll stay in touch. If anything comes up\nhere,\nyou do the same.\" I said I would and went to bed. No female visitors\ncame to share my dreams.\nThat was sort of a relief.\nWhen I came downstairs to recharge my iced-tea glass late\nWednesday\nmorning, Brenda Meserve had erected the laundry whirligig on the\nback\nstoop and was hanging out my clothes. This she did as her mother\nhad no\ndoubt taught her, with pants and shirts on the outside and undies on\nthe\ninside, where any passing nosyparkers couldn't see what you chose\nto\nwear closest to your skin. \"You can take these in around four\no'clock,\"\nMrs. M. said as she prepared to leave. She looked at me with the\nbrightand cynical eye of a woman who has been \"doing for\" well-off men\nher\nentire life. \"Don't you forget and leave em out all night--dewy\nclothes\ndon't ever feel fresh until they're warshed again.\" I told her most\nhumbly that I would remember to take in my clothes. I then asked\nher--feeling like a spy working an embassy party for infor-mation-if\nthe\nhouse felt all right to her. \"L&ll right how?\" she asked, cocking one\nwild eyebrow at me. \"Well, I've heard funny noises a couple of\ntimes. In\nthe night.\" She sniffed. \"It's a log house, ennit? Built in relays, so\nto speak. It setties, one wing against t'other. That's what you hear,\nmost likely.\"\n\"No ghosts, huh?\" I said, as if disappointed. \"Not that I've ever\nseen,\"\nshe said, matter-of-fact as an accountant, \"but my ma said there's\nplenty down here. She said this whole lake is haunted. By the\nMicmacs\nthat lived here until they was driven out by General Wing, by all the\nmen who went away to the Civil War and died there--over six\nhundred went\nfrom this part of the world, Mr. Noonan, and less than a hundred\nand\nfifty came back.., at least in their bodies. Ma said this side of Dark\nScore's also haunted by the ghost of that Negro boy who died here,\npoor\ntyke. He belonged to one of the Red-Tops, you know.\"\n\"No--I know about Sara and the Red-Tops, but not this.\" I paused.\n\"Did\nhe drown?\"\n\"Nawp, caught in an animal trap. Struggled there for most of a\nwholeday, screaming for help. Finally they found him. They saved the foot,\nbut they shouldn't have. Blood-poisoning set in, and the boy died.\nSummer of ought-one, that was. It's why they left, I guess--it was\ntoo\nsad to stay. But my ma used to claim the little fella, he stayed. She\nused to say that he's still on the TR.\"\nI wondered what Mrs. M. would say if I told her that the little fella\nhad very likely been here to greet me when I arrived from Derry,\nand had\nbeen back on several occasions since.\n\"Then there was Kenny Auster's father, Normal,\" she said. \"You know\nthat\nstory, don't you? Oh, that's a terrible story.\" She looked rather\npleased--either at knowing such a terrible story or at having the\nchance\nto tell it.\n\"No,\" I said. \"I know Kenny, though. He's the one with the\nwolfhound.\nBlueberry.\"\n\"Ayuh. He carpenters a tad and caretakes a tad, just like his father\nbefore him. His dad caretook many of these places, you know, and\nback\njust after the Second World War was over, Normal Auster drownded\nKenny's\nlittle brother in his back yard. This was when they lived on Wasp Hill,\ndown where the road splits, one side going to the old boat-landin\nand the\nother to the marina. He didn't drown the tyke in the lake, though.\nHeput him on the ground under the pump and just held him there until\nthe\nbaby was full of water and dead.\"\nI stood there looking at her, the clothes behind us snapping on their\nwhirligig. I thought of my mouth and nose and throat full of that\ncold\nmineral taste that could have been well-water as well as lakewater;\ndown\nhere all of it comes from the same deep aquifers. I thought of the\nmessage on the refrigerator: help im drown.\n\"He left the baby laying right under the pump. He had a new\nChevrolet,\nand he drove it down here to Lane Forty-two. Took his shotgun,\ntoo.\"\n\"You aren't going to tell me Kenny Auster's dad committed suicide in\nmy\nhouse, are you, Mrs. Meserve?\"\nShe shook her head. \"Nawp. He did it on the Brickers' lakeside deck.\nSat\ndown on their porch glider and blew his damned baby-murdering\nhead off.\"\n\"The Brickers? I don't--\"\n\"You wouldn't. Hasn't been any Brickers on the lake since the sixties.\nThey were from Delaware. Quality folks. You'd think of it as the\nWarsh-burn place, I guess, although they're gone, now, too. Place is\nempty. Every now and then that stark naturalborn fool Osgood\nbrings\nsomeone down and shows it off, but he'll never sell it at the price\nhe'sasking. Mark my words.\"\nThe Washburns I had known--had played bridge with them a time or\ntwo.\nNice enough people, although probably not what Mrs. M., with her\nqueer\nbackcountry snobbishness, would have called \"quality.\" Their place\nwas\nmaybe an eighth of a mile north of mine along The Street. Past that\npoint, there's nothing much--the drop to the lake gets steep, and the\nwoods are massed tangles of second growth and blackberry bushes.\nThe\nStreet goes on to the tip of Halo Bay at the far north end of Dark\nScore, but once Lane Forty-two curves back to the highway, the path\nis\nfor the most part used only by berry-picking expeditions in the\nsummer\nand hunters in the fall.\nNormal, I thought. Hell of a name for a guy who had drowned his\ninfant\nson under the backyard pump.\n\"Did he leave a note? Any explanation?\"\n\"Nawp. But you'll hear folks say he haunts the lake, too. Little towns\nare most likely full of haunts, but I couldn't say aye, no, or maybe\nmyself; I ain't the sensitive type. All I know about your place, Mr.\nNoo-nan, is that it smells damp no matter how much I try to get it\naired\nout. I 'magine that's logs. Log buildins don't go well with lakes. The\ndamp gets into the wood.\"\nShe had set her purse down between her Reeboks; now she bent\nand pickedit up. It was a countrywoman's purse, black, styleless (except for the\ngold grommets holding the handles on), and utilitarian. She could\nhave\ncarried a good selection of kitchen appliances in there if she had\nwanted to.\n\"I can't stand here natterin all day long, though, much as I might\nlike\nto. I got one more place to go before I can call it quits. Summer's\nha'vest time in this part of the world, you know. Now remember to\ntake\nthose clothes in before dark, Mr. Noonan. Don't let em get all dewy.\"\n\"I won't.\" And I didn't. But when I went out to take them in, dressed\nin\nmy bathing trunks and coated with sweat from the oven I'd been\nworking\nin (I had to get the air conditioner fixed, just had to), I saw that\nsomething had altered Mrs. M.'s arrangements. My jeans and shirts\nnow\nhung around the pole. The underwear and socks, which had been\ndecorously\nhidden when Mrs. M. drove up the driveway in her old Ford, were\nnow on\nthe outside. It was as if my unseen guest--one of my unseen guests-\n-was\nsaying ha ha ha.\nI went to the library the next day, and made renewing my library\ncard my\nfirst order of business. Lindy Briggs herself took my four bucks and\nentered me into the computer, first telling me how sorry she had\nbeen to\nhear about Jo's death. And, as with Bill, I sensed a certain reproach\ninher tone, as if I were to blame for such improperly delayed\ncondolences.\nI supposed I was.\n\"Lindy, do you have a town history?\" I asked when we had finished\nthe\nproprieties concerning my wife.\n\"We have two,\" she said, then leaned toward me over the desk, a\nlittle\nwoman in a violently patterned sleeveless dress, her hair a gray\npuffball around her head, her bright eyes swimming behind her\nbifocals.\nIn a confidential voice she added, \"Neither is much good.\"\n\"Which one is better?\" I asked, matching her tone.\n\"Probably the one by Edward Osteen. He was a summer resident\nuntil the\nmid-fifties and lived here full-time when he retired. He wrote Dark\nScore Days in 1965 or '66. He had it privately published because he\ncouldn't find a commercial house that would take it. Even the\nregional\npublishers passed.\" She sighed. \"The locals bought it, but that's not\nmany books, is it?\"\n\"No, I suppose not,\" I said.\n\"He just wasn't much of a writer. Not much of a photographer,\neither--those little black-and-white snaps of his make my eyes hurt.\nStill, he tells some good stories. The Micmac Drive, General Wing's\ntrick horse, the twister in the eighteen-eighties, the fires in the\nnine-teen-thirties...\"\"Anything about Sara and the Red-Tops?\"\nShe nodded, smiling. \"Finally got around to looking up the history of\nyour own place, did you? I'm glad to hear it. He found an old photo\nof\nthem, and it's in there. He thought it was taken at the Fryeburg Fair\nin\n1900. Ed used to say he'd give a lot to hear a record made by that\nbunch.\"\n\"So would I, but none were ever made.\" A haiku by the Greek poet\nGeorge\nSeferis suddenly occurred to me: Are these the voices of our dead\nfriends / or just the gramophone? \"What happened to Mr. Osteen? I\ndon't\nrecall the name.\"\n\"Died not a year or two before you and Jo bought your place on the\nlake,\" she said. \"Cancer.\"\n\"You said there were two histories?\"\n\"The other one you probably know-A History of Castle County and\nCastle\nRock. Done for the county centennial, and dry as dust. Eddie\nOsteen's\nbook isn't very well written, but he wasn't dry. You have to give him\nthat much. You should find them both over there.\" She pointed to\nshelves\nwith a sign over them which read of MAINE INTEREST. \"They don't\ncirculate.\" Then she brightened. \"Although we will happily take any\nnickels you should feel moved to feed into our photocopy machine.\"\nMattie was sitting in the far corner next to a boy in a turned-aroundbaseball cap, showing him how to use the microfilm reader. She\nlooked up\nat me, smiled, and mouthed the words Nice catch. Referring to my\nlucky\ngrab at Warrington's, presumably. I gave a modest little shrug before\nturning to the of MAINE INTEREST shelves. But she was right--lucky\nor\nnot, it had been a nice catch.\n\"What are you looking for?\"\nI was so deep into the two histories I'd found that Mattie's voice\nmade\nme jump. I turned around and smiled, first aware that she was\nwearing\nsome light and pleasant perfume, second that Lindy Briggs was\nwatching\nus from the main desk, her welcoming smile put away.\n\"Background on the area where I live,\" I said. \"Old stories. My\nhousekeeper got me interested.\" Then, in a lower voice: \"Teacher's\nwatching. Don't look around.\"\nMattie looked startled--and, I thought, a little worried. As it turned\nout, she was right to be worried. In a voice that was low-pitched yet\nstill designed to carry at least as far as the desk, she asked if she\ncould reshelve either book for me. I gave her both. As she picked\nthem\nup she said in what was almost a con's whisper: \"That lawyer who\nrepresented you last Friday got John a private detective. He says\nthey\nmay have found something interesting about the guardian ad/item.\"\nI walked over to the of M^NE INTEST shelves with her, hoping I\nwasn't\ngetting her in trouble, and asked if she knew what the somethinginteresting might be. She shook her head, gave me a professional\nlittle\nlibrarian's smile, and I went away.\nOn the ride back to the house, I tried to think about what I'd read,\nbut\nthere wasn't much. Osteen was a bad writer who had taken bad\npictures,\nand while his stories were colorful, they were also pretty thin on the\nground. He mentioned Sara and the Red-Tops, all right, but he\nreferred\nto them as a \"Dixie-Land octet,\" and even I knew that wasn't right.\nThe\nRed-Tops might have played some Dixieland, but they had primarily\nbeen a\nblues group (Friday and Saturday nights) and a gospel group\n(Sunday\nmornings). Osteen's two-page summary of the Red-Tops' stay on the\nTR\nmade it clear that he had heard no one else's covers of Sara's tunes.\nHe confirmed that a child had died of blood-poisoning caused by a\ntraphold wound, a story which sounded like Brenda Meserve's... but\nwhy\nwouldn't it? Osteen had likely heard it from Mrs. M.'s father or\ngrandfather. He also said that the boy was Son Tidwell's only child,\nand\nthat the guitar-player's real name was Reginald. The Tidwells had\nsupposedly drifted north from the whorehouse district of New\nOrleans--the fabled crib-and-club streets which had been known\naround\nthe turn of the century as Storyville.\nThere was no mention of Sara and the Red-Tops in the more formal\nhistory\nof Castle County, and no mention of Kenny Auster's drownded littlebrother in either book. Not long before Mattie came over to speak to\nme,\nI'd had a wild idea: that Son Tidwell and Sara Tidwell were man and\nwife, and that the little boy (not named by Osteen) had been their\nson.\nI found the picture Lindy had mentioned and studied it closely. It\nshowed at least a dozen black people standing in a stiff group in\nfront\nof what looked like a cattle exhibition. There was an old-fashioned\nFerris wheel in the background. It could well have been taken at the\nFryeburg Fair, and as old and faded as it was, it had a simple,\nelemental power that all Osteen's own photos put together could not\nmatch. You have seen photographs of western and Depression-era\nbandidos\nthat have that same look of eerie truth--stern faces above tight ties\nand collars, eyes not quite lost in the shadows of antique hatbrims.\nSara stood front and center, wearing a black dress and her guitar.\nShe\nwas not outright smiling in this picture, but there seemed to be a\nsmile\nin her eyes, and I thought they were like the eyes in some paintings,\nthe ones that seem to follow you wherever you move in the room. I\nstudied the photo and thought of her almost spiteful voice in my\ndream:\nWhat do you want to know, sugar? I suppose I wanted to know\nabout her\nand the others--who they had been, what they were to each other\nwhen\nthey weren't singing and playing, why they'd left, where they'd\ngone.\nBoth of her hands were clearly visible, one posed on the strings of\nherguitar, the other on the frets, where she had been making a G-chord\non\nan October Fair-day in the year 1900. Her fingers were long, artistic,\nbare of rings. That didn't necessarily mean that she and Son Tidwell\nweren't married, of course, and even if they hadn't been, the little\nboy\nwho'd been caught in the trap could have been born on the wrong\nside of\nthe blanket. Except the same ghost of a smile lurked in Son Tidwell's\neyes. The resemblance was remarkable. I had an idea that the two\nof them\nhad been brother and sister, not man and wife.\nI thought about these things on my way home, and I thought about\ncables\nthat were felt rather than seen. .. but mostly I found myself\nthinking\nabout Lindy Briggs--the way she had smiled at me, the way, a little\nlater on, she had not smiled at her bright young librarian with the\nhigh-school certification. That worried me.\nThen I got back to the house, and all I worried about was my story\nand\nthe people in it--bags of bones which were putting on flesh daily.\nMichael Noonan, Max Devore, and Rogette Whitmore played out\ntheir\nhorrible little comedy scene Friday evening. Two other things which\nbear\nnarrating happened before that.\nThe first was a call from John Storrow on Thursday night. I was\nsitting\nin front of the TV with a baseball game running soundlessly in front\nofme (the MUTE button with which most remote controls come\nequipped may be\nthe twentieth century's finest invention). I was thinking about Sara\nTidwell and Son Tidwell and Son Tidwell's little boy. I was thinking\nabout Storyville, a name any writer just had to love. And in the back\nof\nmy mind I was thinking about my wife, who had died pregnant.\n\"Hello?\" I said.\n\"Mike, I have some wonderful news,\" John said. He sounded near to\nbursting. \"Romeo Bissonette may be a weird name, but there's\nnothing\nweird about the detective-guy he found for me. His name is George\nKennedy, like the actor. He's good, and he's fast. This guy could\nwork\nin New York.\"\n\"If that's the highest compliment you can think of, you need to get\nout\nof the city more.\"\nHe went on as if he hadn't heard. \"Kennedy's real job is with a\nsecurity\nfirm--the other stuff is strictly in the moonlight. Which is a great\nloss, believe me. He got most of this on the phone. I can't believe\nit.\"\n\"What specifically can't you believe?\"\n\"Jackpot, baby.\" Again he spoke in that tone of greedy satisfaction\nwhich I found both troubling and reassuring. \"Elmer Durgin has done\nthe\nfollowing things since late May: paid off his car; paid off his camp in\nRangely Lakes; caught up on about ninety years of child support--\"\"Nobody pays child support for ninety years,\" I said, but I was just\nrunning my mouth to hear it go... to let off some of my own building\nexcitement, in truth. \"\"T'ain't possible, Mcgee.\"\n\"It is if you have seven kids,\" John said, and began howling with\nlaughter.\nI thought of the pudgy self-satisfied face, the cupid-bow mouth, the\nnails that looked polished and prissy. \"He don't,\" I said.\n\"He do,\" John said, still laughing. He sounded like a complete\nlunatic--manic, hold the depressive. \"He really do! Ranging in ages\nfrom\nf-fourteen to th-th-three! What a b-busy p-p-potent little prick he\nmust\nhave!\" More helpless howls. And by now I was howling right along\nwith\nhim--I'd caught it like the mumps. \"Kennedy is going to f-f-fax me\np-pictures of the whole. .. fam'. .. damily!\" We broke up\ncompletely,\nlaughing together long-distance. I could picture John Stor-row sitting\nalone in his Park Avenue office, bellowing like a lunatic and scaring\nthe cleaning ladies.\n\"That doesn't matter, though,\" he said when he could talk coherently\nagain. \"You see what matters, don't you?\"\n\"Yes,\" I said. \"How could he be so stupid?\" Meaning Durgin, but also\nmeaning Devore. John understood, I think, that we were talking\nabout\nboth he's at the same time.\n\"Elmer Durgin's a little lawyer from a little township tucked away in\nthe big woods of western Maine, that's all. How could he know that\nsomeguardian angel would come along with the resources to smoke him\nout? He\nalso bought a boat, by the way. Two weeks ago. It's a twin\noutboard. A\nbig 'un. It's over, Mike. The home team scores nine runs in the\nbottom\nof the ninth and the fucking pennant is ours.\"\n\"If you say so.\" But my hand went off on its own expedition, made a\nloose fist, and knocked on the good solid wood of the coffee-table.\n\"And hey, the softball game wasn't a total loss.\" John was still\ntalking\nbetween little giggling outbursts like helium balloons.\n\"No?\"\n\"I'm taken with her.\"\n\"Her?\"\n\"Mattie,\" he said patiently. \"Mattie Devore.\" A pause, then: \"Mike?\nAre\nyou there?\"\n\"Yeah,\" I said. \"Phone slipped. Sorry.\" The phone hadn't slipped as\nmuch\nas an inch, but it came out sounding natural enough, I thought. And\nif\nit hadn't, so what? When it came to Mattie, I would be--in John's\nmind,\nat least--below suspicion. Like the country-house staff in an Agatha\nChristie. He was twenty-eight, maybe thirty. The idea that a man\ntwelve\nyears older might be sexually attracted to Mattie had probably never\ncrossed his mind.., or maybe just for a second or two there on thecommon, before he dismissed it as ludicrous. The way Mattie herself\nhad\ndismissed the idea of Jo and the man in the brown sportcoat.\n\"I can't do my courtship dance while I'm representing her,\" he said,\n\"wouldn't be ethical. Wouldn't be safe, either. Later, though.., you\ncan\nnever tell.\"\n\"No,\" I said, hearing my voice as you sometimes do in moments\nwhen you\nare caught completely fiat-footed, hearing it as though it were\ncoming\nfrom someone else. Someone on the radio or the record-player,\nmaybe. Are\nthese the voices of our dead friends, or just the gramophone? I\nthought\nof his hands, the fingers long and slender and without a ring on any\nof\nthem. Like Sara's hands in that old photo. \"No, you can never tell.\"\nWe\nsaid goodbye, and I sat watching the muted baseball game. I\nthought\nabout getting up to get a beer, but it seemed too far to the\nrefrigerator--a safari, in fact. What I felt was a kind of dull hurt,\nfollowed by a better emotion: rueful relief, I guess you'd call it. Was\nhe too old for her? No, I didn't think so. Just about right. Prince\nCharming No. 2, this time in a three-piece suit. Mattie's luck with\nmen\nmight finally be changing, and if so I should be glad. I would be\nglad.\nAnd relieved. Because I had a book to write, and never mind the\nlook of\nwhite sneakers flashing below a red sundress in the deepening\ngloom, or\nthe ember of her cigarette dancing in the dark.Still, I felt really lonely for the first time since I saw Kyra marching\nup the white line of Route 68 in her bathing suit and flip-flops. \"You\nfunny little man, said Strickland,\" I told the empty room. It came out\nbefore I knew I was going to say anything, and when it did, the\nchannel\non the TV changed. It went from baseball to a rerun of All in the\nFamily\nand then to Ren 0 Stimpy. I glanced down at the remote control. It\nwas\nstill on the coffee-table where I'd left it. The TV channel changed\nagain, and this time I was looking at Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid\nBergman. There was an airplane in the background, and I didn't\nneed to\npick up the remote and turn on the sound to know that Humphrey\nwas\ntelling Ingrid that she was getting on that plane. My wife's all-time\nfavorite movie. She bawled at the end without fail. \"Jo?\" I asked.\n\"Are\nyou here?\" Bunter's bell rang once. Very faintly. There had been\nseveral\npresences in the house, I was sure of it... but tonight, for the first\ntime, I was positive it was Jo who was with me. \"Who was he, hon?\"\nI\nasked. \"The guy at the softball field, who was he?\" Bunter's bell\nhung\nstill and quiet. She was in the room, though. I sensed her, something\nlike a held breath. I remembered the ugly, gibing little message on\nthe\nrefrigerator after my dinner with Mattie and Ki: blue rose liar ha ha.\n\"Who was he?\" My voice was unsteady, sounding on the verge of\ntears.\n\"What were you doing down here with some guy? Were you...\" But I\ncouldn't bring myself to ask if she had been lying to me, cheating onme. I couldn't ask even though the presence I felt might be, let's\nface\nit, only in my own head. The TV switched away from Casablanca and\nhere\nwas everybody's favorite lawyer, Perry Mason, on Nick at Nite.\nPerry's\nnemesis, Hamilton Burger, was questioning a distraught-looking\nwoman,\nand all at once the sound blared on, making me jump. \"I am not a\nliar!\"\nsome long-ago TV actress cried. For a moment she looked right out\nat me,\nand I was stunned breathless to see Jo's eyes in that black-and-\nwhite\nfifties face. \"I never lied, Mr. Burger, never!\"\n\"I submit that you did!\" Burger responded. He moved in on her,\nleering\nlike a vampire. \"I submit that you--\" The TV suddenly went off.\nBunter's\nbell gave a single brisk shake, and then whatever had been here was\ngone. But I felt better. I am not a liar... I never lied, never. I could\nbelieve that if I chose to. If I chose. I went to bed, and there were\nno\ndreams.\nI had taken to starting work early, before the heat could really get a\nhold on the study. I'd drink some juice, gobble some toast, then sit\nbehind the IBM until almost noon, watching the Courier ball dance\nand\ntwirl as the pages floated through the machine and came out with\nwriting\non them.That old magic, so strange and wonderful. It never really felt like\nwork\nto me, although I called it that; it felt like some weird kind of mental\ntrampoline I bounced on. Those were springs that took away all the\nweight of the world for awhile. At noon I'd break, drive down to\nBuddy\nJellison's greaseatorium for something nasty, then return and work\nfor\nanother hour or so. After that I would swim and take a long\ndreamless\nnap in the north bedroom. I had barely poked my head into the\nmaster\nbedroom at the south end of the house, and if Mrs. M. thought this\nwas\nodd, she kept it to herself. On Friday the seventeenth, I stopped at\nthe\nLakeview General on my way back to the house to gas up my\nChevrolet.\nThere are pumps at the All-Purpose Garage, and the go-juice was a\npenny\nor two cheaper, but I didn't like the vibe. Today, as I stood in front\nof the store with the pump on automatic feed, looking off toward the\nmountains, Bill Dean's Dodge Ram pulled in on the other side of the\nisland. He climbed down and gave me a smile. \"How's it going,\nMike?\"\n\"Pretty fair.\"\n\"Brenda says you're writin up a storm.\"\n\"I am,\" I said, and it was on the tip of my tongue to ask for an\nupdate\non the broken second-floor air conditioner. The tip of my tongue was\nwhere it stayed.I was still too nervous about my rediscovered ability to want to\nchange\nanything about the environment in which I was doing it. Stupid,\nmaybe,\nbut sometimes things work just because you think they work. It's as\ngood\na definition of faith as any. \"Well, I'm glad to hear it. Very glad.\" I\nthought he was sincere enough, but he somehow didn't sound like\nBill.\nNot the one who had greeted me back, anyway. \"I've been looking\nup some\nold stuff about my side of the lake,\" I said. \"Sara and the Red-Tops?\nYou always were sort ofint'rested in them, I remember.\"\n\"Them, yes, but not just them. Lots of history. I was talking to Mrs.\nM., and she told me about Normal Auster. Kenny's father.\" Bill's smile\nstayed on, and he only paused a moment in the act of unscrewing\nthe cap\non his gas tank, but I still had a sense, quite clear, that he had\nfrozen inside. \"You wouldn't write about a thing like that, would you,\nMike? Because there's a lot of people around here that'd feel it bad\nand\ntake it wrong. I told Jo the same thing.\"\n\"Jo?\" I felt an urge to step between the two pumps and over the\nisland\nso I could grab him by the arm. \"What's Jo got to do with this?\" He\nlooked at me cautiously and long. \"She didn't tell you?\"\n\"What are you talking about?\"\n\"She thought she might write something about Sara and the Red-\nTops forone of the local papers.\" Bill was picking his words very slowly. I\nhave\na clear memory of that, and of how hot the sun was, beating down\non my\nneck, and the sharpness of our shadows on the asphalt. He began to\npump\nhis gas, and the sound of the pump's motor was also very sharp. \"I\nthink\nshe even mentioned Yankee magazine. I c'd be wrong about that,\nbut I\ndon't think I am.\" I was speechless. Why would she have kept quiet\nabout\nthe idea to try her hand at a little local history? Becahse she might\nhave thought she was poaching on my territory? That was ridiculous.\nShe\nhad known me better than that.., hadn't she? \"When did you have\nthis\nconversation, Bill? Do you remember?\"\n\"Coss I do,\" he said. \"Same day she come down to take delivery of\nthose\nplastic owls. Only I raised the subject, because folks had told me she\nwas asking around.\"\n\"Prying?\"\n\"I didn't say that,\" he said stiffly, \"you did.\" True, but I thought\nprying was what he meant.\n\"Go on.\"\n\"Nothing to go on about. I told her there were sore toes here and\nthere\non the TR, same as there are anyplace, and asr her not to tread on\nany\ncorns if she could help it. She said she understood. Maybe she did,maybe she didn't. All I know is she kep' on asking questions.\nListenin to stories from old fools with more time than sense.\"\n\"When was this?\"\n\"Fall of '93, winter and spring of '94. Went all around town, she did\neven over to Motton and Harlow--with her notebook and little\ntape-recorder. Anyway, that's all I know.\"\nI realized a stunning thing: Bill was lying. If you'd asked me before\nthat day, I'd have laughed and told you Bill Dean didn't have a lie in\nhim. And he must not have had many, because he did it badly.\nI thought of calling him on it, but to what end? I needed to think,\nand\nI couldn't do it here--my mind was roaring. Given time, that roar\nmight\nsubside and I'd see it was really nothing, no big deal, but I needed\nthat time. When you start finding out unexpected things about a\nloved\none who's been dead awhile, it rocks you. Take it from me, it does.\nBill's eyes had shifted away from mine, but now they shifted back.\nHe\nlooked both earnest and--I could have sworn it--a little scared.\n\"She ast about little Kerry Auster, and that's a good example of what\nI\nmean about steppin on sore toes. That's not the stuff for a\nnewspaper\nstory or a magazine article. Normal just snapped. No one knows\nwhy. It\nwas a terrible tragedy, senseless, and there's still people who could\nbe\nhurt by it. In little towns things are kind of connected under thesurface--\"\nYes, like cables you couldn't quite see.\n\"--and the past dies slower. Sara and those others, that's a little\ndifferent. They were just. .. just wanderers. .. from away. Jo could\nhave stuck to those folks and it would've been all right. And say--for\nall I know, she did. Because I never saw a single word she ever\nwrote.\nIf she did write.\"\nAbout that he was telling the truth, I felt. But I knew something\nelse,\nknew it as surely as I'd known Mattie had been wearing white shorts\nwhen\nshe called me on her day off. Sara and those others were just\nwanderers\nfrom away, Bill had said, but he hesitated in the middle of his\nthought,\nsubstituting wanderers for the word which had come naturally to\nmind.\nNiggers was the word he hadn't said. Sara and those others were\njust\nniggers Jgom away.\nAll at once I found myself thinking of an old story by Ray Bradbury,\n\"Mars Is Heaven.\" The first space travellers to Mars discover it's\nGreen\nTown, Illinois, and all their well-loved friends and relatives are\nthere. Only the friends and relatives are really alien monsters, and in\nthe night, while the space travellers think they are sleeping in the\nbeds of their long-dead kinfolk in a place that must be heaven, they\nare\nslaughtered to the last man.\"Bill, you're sure she was up here a few times in the off-season?\"\n\"Ayuh. \"T'wasn't just a few times, either. Might have been a dozen\ntimes\nor more. Day-trips, don't you know.\"\n\"Did you ever see a fellow with her? Burly guy, black hair?\"\nHe thought about it. I tried not to hold my breath. At last he shook\nhis\nhead. \"Few times I saw her, she was alone. But I didn't see her\nevery\ntime she came. Sometimes I only heard she'd been on the TR after\nshe 'us\ngone again. Saw her in June of '94, headed up toward Halo Bay in\nthat\nlittle car a hers. She waved, I waved back. Went down to the house\nlater\nthat evenin to see if she needed anythin, but she'd gone. I didn't see\nher again. When she died later on that summer, me and \"Vette were\nso\nshocked.\"\nWhatever she was looking sr, she must never have written any of it\ndown.\nI would have J3und the manuscript, Was that true, though? She had\nmade\nmany trips down here with no apparent attempts at concealment, on\none of\nthem she had even been accompanied by a strange man, and I had\nonly\nfound out about these visits by accident.\n\"This is hard to talk about,\" Bill said, \"but since we've gotten startedhard, we might as well go the rest of the way. Livin on the TR is like\nthe way we used to sleep four or even five in a bed when it was\nJanuary\nand true cold. If everyone rests easy, you do all right. But if one\nperson gets restless, gets tossing and turning, no one can sleep.\nRight\nnow you're the restless one. That's how people see it.\"\nHe waited to see what I'd say. When almost twenty seconds passed\nwithout\na word from me (Harold Oblowski would have been proud), he\nshuffled his\nfeet and went on.\n\"There are people in town uneasy about the interest you've taken in\nMattie Devore, for instance. Now I'm not sayin there's anythin going\non\nbetween the two of you--although there's folks who do say it--but if\nyou\nwant to stay on the TR you're makin it tough on yourself.\"\n\"Why?\"\n\"Comes back to what I said a week and a half ago. She's trouble.\"\n\"As I recall, Bill, you said she was in trouble. And she is. I'm trying\nto help her out of it. There's nothing going on between us but that.\"\n\"I seem to recall telling you that Max Devore is nuts,\" he said. \"If\nyou\nmake him mad, we all pay the price.\" The pump clicked off and he\nracked\nit up. Then he sighed, raised his hands, dropped them. \"You think\nthis\nis easy for me to say?\"\"You think it's easy for me to listen to?\"\n\"All right, ayuh, we're in the same skiff. But Mattie Devore isn't the\nonly person on the TR livin hand-to-mouth, you know. There's others\ngot\ntheir woes, as well. Can't you understand that?\"\nMaybe he saw that I understood too much and too well, because his\nshoulders slumped.\n\"If you're asking me to stand aside and let Devore take Mattie's baby\nwithout a fight, you can forget it,\" I said. \"And I hope that's not it.\nBecause I think I'd have to be quits with a man who'd ask another\nman to\ndo something like that.\"\n\"I wouldn't ask it now anywise,\" he said, his accent thickening\nalmost\nto the point of contempt. \"It'd be too late, wouldn't it?\" And then,\nunexpectedly, he softened. \"Christ, man, I'm worried about you. Let\nthe\nrest of it go hang, all right? Hang high where the crows can pick it.\"\nHe was lying again, but this time I didn't mind so much, because I\nthought he was lying to himself. \"But you need to have a care. When\nI\nsaid Devore was crazy, that was no figure of speech. Do you think\nhe'll\nbother with court if court can't get him what he wants? Folks died in\nthose summer fires back in 1933. Good people. One related to me.\nThey\nburned over half the goddam county and Max Devore set em. That\nwas his\ngoing-away present to the TR. It could never be proved, but he did\nit.Back then he was young and broke, not yet twenty and no law in his\npocket. What do you think he'd do now?\"\nHe looked at me searchingly. I said nothing.\nBill nodded as if I had spoken. \"Think about it. And you remember\nthis,\nMike: no man who didn't care for you would ever talk to you straight\nas\nI have.\"\n\"How straight was that, Bill?\" I was faintly aware of some tourist\nwalking from his Volvo to the store and looking at us curiously, and\nwhen I replayed the scene in my mind later on, I realized we must\nhave\nlooked like guys on the verge of a fistfight. I remember that I felt\nlike crying out of sadness and bewilderment and an incompletely\ndefined\nsense of betrayal, but I also remember being furious with this lanky\nold\nman--him in his shining-clean cotton undershirt and his mouthful of\nfalse teeth. So maybe we were close to fighting, and I just didn't\nknow\nit at the time.\n\"Straight as I could be,\" he said, and turned away to go inside and\npay\nfor his gas.\n\"My house is haunted,\" I said.\nHe stopped, back to me, shoulders hunched as if to absorb a blow.\nThen,\nslowly, he turned back. \"Sara Laughs has always been haunted,\nMike.You've stirred em up. P'raps you should go back to Derry and let em\nsettle. That might be the best thing.\" He paused, as if replaying this\nlast to see if he agreed with it, then nodded. He nodded as slowly as\nhe\nhad turned. \"Ayuh, that might be best all around.\"\nWhen I got back to Sara I called Ward Hankins. Then I finally made\nthat\ncall to Bonnie Amudson. Part of me was rooting for her not to be in\nat\nthe travel agency in Augusta she co-owned, but she was. Halfway\nthrough\nmy talk with her, the fax began to print out xeroxed pages from Jo's\nappointment calendars. On the first one Ward had scrawled, \"Hope\nthis\nhelps.\"\nI didn't rehearse what I was going to say to Bonnie; I felt that to do\nso would be a recipe for disaster. I told her that Jo had been writing\nsomething--maybe an article, maybe a series of them--about the\ntownship\nwhere our summerhouse was located, and that some of the locals\nhad\napparently been cheesed off by her curiosity. Some still were. Had\nshe\ntalked to Bonnie? Perhaps showed her an early draft?\n\"No, huh-uh.\" Bonnie sounded honestly surprised. \"She used to\nshow me\nher photos, and more herb samples than I honestly cared to see, but\nshe\nnever showed me anything she was writing. In fact, I remember her\nonce\nsaying that she'd decided to leave the writing to you and just--\"\"--take a little taste of everything else, right?\"\n\"Yes.\"\nI thought this was a good place to end the conversation, but the\nguys in\nthe basement seemed to have other ideas. \"Was she seeing anyone,\nBonnie?\"\nSilence from the other end. With a hand that seemed at least four\nmiles\ndown my arm, I plucked the fax sheets out of the basket. Ten of\nthem--November of 1993 to August of 1994. Jottings everywhere in\nJo's\nneat hand. Had we even had a fax before she died? I couldn't\nremember.\nThere was so fucking much I couldn't remember.\n\"Bonnie? If you know something, please tell me. Jo's dead, but I'm\nnot.\nI can forgive her if I have to, but I can't forgive what I don't\nunderst--\"\n\"I'm sorry,\" she said, and gave a nervous little laugh. \"It's just that\nI didn't understand at first. \"Seeing anyone,' that was just so... so\nforeign to Jo.... the Jo I knew.., that I couldn't figure out what you\nwere talking about. I thought maybe you meant a shrink, but you\ndidn't,\ndid you? You meant seeing someone like seeing a guy. A boyfriend.\"\n\"That's what I meant.\" Thumbing through the faxed calendar sheets\nnow,\nmy hand not quite back to its proper distance from my eyes but\ngettingthere, getting there. I felt relief at the honest bewilderment in\nBonnie's voice, but not as much as I'd expected. Because I'd known.\nI\nhadn't even needed the woman in the old Perry Mason episode to\nput in\nher two cents, not really. It was Jo we were talking about, after all.\nJ0.\n\"Mike,\" Bonnie was saying, very softly, as if I might be crazy, \"she\nloved you. She loved you. 'i \"Yes. I suppose she did.\" The calendar\npages showed how busy my wife had been. How productive. S-Ks of\nMaine.\n.. the soup kitchens. Womshel, a county-to-county network of\nshelters\nfor battered women. Teenshel.\nFriends of Me. Libes. She had been at two or three meetings a\nmonth-two\nor three a week at some points --and I'd barely noticed. I had been\ntoo\nbusy with my women in jeopardy. \"I loved her too, Bonnie, but she\nwas up\nto something in the last ten months of her life. She didn't give you\nany\nhint of what it might have been when you were riding to meet ings\nof the\nSoup Kitchens board or the Friends of Maine Libraries?\" Silence from\nthe\nother end. \"Bonnie?\"\nI took the phone away from my ear to see if the red LOW BATTERY\nlight\nwas on, and it squawked my name. I put it back.\n\"Bonnie, what is it?\"\"There were no long drives those last nine or ten months. We talked\non\nthe phone and I remember once we had lunch in Waterville, but\nthere were\nno long drives. She quit.\"\nI thumbed through the fax-sheets again. Meetings noted everywhere\nin\nJo's neat hand, Soup Kitchens of Maine among them.\n\"I don't understand. She quit the Soup Kitchens board?\"\nAnother moment of silence. Then, speaking carefully: \"No, Mike. She\nquit\nall of them. She finished with Woman Shelters and Teen Shelters at\nthe\nend of '93--her term was up then. The other two, Soup Kitchens and\nFriends of Maine Libraries... she resigned in October or November of\n1993.\"\nMeetings noted on all the sheets Ward had sent me. Dozens of\nthem.\nMeetings in 1993, meetings in 1994. Meetings of boards to which\nshe'd no\nlonger belonged. She had been down here. On all those supposed\nmeeting-days, Jo had been on the TR. I would have bet my life on it.\nBut why?\nDevore was mad, all right, mad as a hatter, and he couldn't have\ncaught\nme at a worse, weaker, more terrified moment. And I think that\neverything from that moment on was almost pre-ordained. From\nthere tothe terrible storm they still talk about in this part of the world, it\nall came down like a rockslide.\nI felt fine the rest of Friday afternoon--my talk with Bonnie left a lot\nof questions unanswered, but it had been a tonic just the same. I\nmade a\nvegetable stir-fry (atonement for my latest plunge into the Fry-O-\nLator\nat the Village Cafe) and ate it while I watched the evening news. On\nthe\nother side of the lake the sun was sliding down toward the\nmountains and\nflooding the living room with gold. When Tom Brokaw closed up\nshop, I\ndecided to take a walk north along The Street--I'd go as far as I\ncould\nand still be assured of getting home by dark, and as I went I'd think\nabout the things Bill Dean and Bonnie Amudson had told me. I'd\nthink\nabout them the way I sometimes walked and thought about plot-\nsnags in\nwhatever I was working on.\nI walked down the railroad-tie steps, still feeling perfectly fine\n(confused, but fine), started off along The Street, then paused to\nlook\nat the Green Lady. Even with the evening sun shining fully upon her,\nit\nwas hard to see her for what she actually was--just a birch tree with\na\nhalf-dead pine standing behind it, one branch of the latter making a\npointing arm. It was as if the Green Lady were saying go north,\nyoung\nman, go north. Well, I wasn't exactly young, but I could go north, all\nright. For awhile, at least.Yet I stood a moment longer, uneasily studying the face I could see\nin\nthe bushes, not liking the way the little shake of breeze seemed to\nmake\nwhat was nearly a mouth sneer and grin. I think perhaps I started to\nfeel a little bad then, was too preoccupied to notice it. I set off\nnorth, wondering what, exactly, Jo might have written.., for by then\nI\nwas starting to believe she might have written something, after all.\nWhy\nelse had I found my old typewriter in her studio? I would go through\nthe\nplace, I decided. I would go through it carefully and...\nhelp im drown The voice came from the woods, the water, from\nmyself. A\nwave of lightheadedness passed through my thoughts, lifting and\nscattering them like leaves in a breeze. I stopped. All at once I had\nnever felt so bad, so blighted, in my life. My chest was tight. My\nstomach folded in on itself like a cold flower. My eyes filled with\nchilly water that was nothing like tears, and I knew what was\ncoming.\nNo, I tried to say, but the word wouldn't come out.\nMy mouth filled with the cold taste of lakewater instead, all those\ndark\nminerals, and suddenly the trees were shimmering before my eyes\nas if I\nwere looking up at them through clear liquid, and the pressure on\nmy\nchest had become dreadfully localized and taken the shapes of\nhands.\nThey were holding me down.\"Won't it stop doing that?\" someone asked--almost cried. There was\nno\none on The Street but me, yet I heard that voice clearly. \"Won't it\never\nstop doing that?\"\nWhat came next was no outer voice but alien thoughts in my own\nhead.\nThey beat against the walls of my skull like moths trapped inside a\nlight-fixture. .. or inside a Japanese lantern.\nhelp I'm drown help I'm drown blue-cap man say git me blue-cap\nman say\ndassn't let me ramble help I'm drown lost my berries they on the\npath he\nholdin me he face shimmer n look bad lemme up lemme up 0 sweet\nJesus\nlemme up oxen free allee allee oxen free? pounds, SE OXEN FREE\nyou go\non and stop now ALLEE OXEN FREE she scream my name she\nscream it so LOUD\nI bent forward in an utter panic, opened my mouth, and from my\ngaping,\nstraining mouth there poured a cold flood of...\nNothing at all.\nThe horror of it passed and yet it didn't pass. I still felt terribly\nsick to my stomach, as if I had eaten something to which my body\nhad\ntaken a violent offense, some kind of ant-powder or maybe a killer\nmushroom, the kind Jo's fungi guides pictured inside red borders. I\nstaggered forward halfa dozen steps, gagging dryly from a throat\nwhich\nstill believed it was wet. There was another birch where the bankdropped to the lake, arching its white belly gracefully over the water\nas if to see its reflection by evening's flattering light. I grabbed it\nlike a drunk grabbing a lamp-post.\nThe pressure in my chest began to ease, but it left an ache as real\nas\nrain. I hung against the tree, heart fluttering, and suddenly I\nbecame\naware that something stank--an evil, polluted smell worse than a\nclogged\nseptic pool which has simmered all summer under the blazing sun.\nWith it\nwas a sense of some hideous presence giving off that odor,\nsomething\nwhich should have been dead and wasn't.\nOh stop, allee allee oxen free, I'll do anything only stop, I tried to\nsay, and still nothing came out. Then it was gone. I could smell\nnothing\nbut the lake and the woods.., but I could see something: a boy in\nthe\nlake, a little drowned dark boy lying on his back. His cheeks were\npuffed out. His mouth hung slackly open. His eyes were as white as\nthe\neyes of a statue.\nMy mouth filled with the unmerciful iron of the lake again. Help me,\nlemme up, help I'm drown. I leaned out, screaming inside my head,\nscreaming down at the dead face, and I realized I was looking up at\nmyself, looking up through the rose-shimmer of sunset water at a\nwhite\nman in blue jeans and a yellow polo shirt holding onto a trembling,\nbirch and trying to scream, his liquid face in motion, his eyes\nmomentarily blotted out by the passage of a small perch coursing\nafter atasty bug, I was both the dark boy and the white man, drowned in\nthe\nwater and drowning in the air, is this right, is this what's happening,\ntap once for yes twice for no.\nI retched nothing but a single runner of spit, and, impossibly, a fish\njumped at it. They'll jump at almost anything at sunset; something\nin\nthe dying light must make them crazy. The fish hit the water again\nabout\nseven feet from the bank, spanking out a circular silver ripple, and it\nwas gone--the taste in my mouth, the horrible smell, the shimmering\ndrowned face of the Negro child--a Negro, that was how he would\nhave\nthought of himself whose name had almost surely been Tidwell.\nI looked to my right and saw a gray forehead of rock poking out of\nthe\nmulch. I thought, There, right there, and as if in confirmation, that\nhorrible putrescent smell puffed at me again, seemingly from the\nground.\nI closed my eyes, still hanging onto the birch for dear life, feeling\nweak and sick and ill, and that was when Max Devore, that madman,\nspoke\nfrom behind me. \"Say there, whoremaster, where's your whore?\"\nI turned and there he was, with Rogette Whitmore by his side. It\nwas the\nonly time I ever met him, but once was enough. Believe me, once\nwas more\nthan enough.\nHis wheelchair hardly looked like a wheelchair at all. What it looked\nlike was a motorcycle sidecar crossed with a lunar lander. Half a\ndozenchrome wheels ran along both sides. Bigger wheels four of them, I\nthink--ran in a row across the back. None looked to be exactly on\nthe\nsame level, and I realized each was tied into its own suspension-\nbed.\nDevore would have a smooth ride over ground a lot rougher than\nThe\nStreet. Above the back wheels was an enclosed engine\ncompartment. Hiding\nDevore's legs was a fiberglass nacelle, black with red pinstriping,\nthat\nwould not have looked out of place on a racing car. Implanted in the\ncenter of it was a gadget that looked like my DSS satellite dish..,\nsome\nsort of computerized avoidance system, I guessed. Maybe even an\nautopilot.\nThe armrests were wide and covered with controls. Holstered on the\nleft\nside of this machine was a green oxygen tank four feet long. A hose\nwent\nto a clear plastic accordion tube; the accordion tube led to a mask\nwhich rested in Devore's lap. It made me think of the old guy's\nStenomask. Coming on the heels of what had just happened, I might\nhave\nconsidered this Tom Clancyish vehicle a hallucination, except for the\nbumper-sticker on the nacelle, below the dish. I BLEED DODGER\nBLUE, it\nsaid.\nThis evening the woman I had seen outside The Sunset Bar at\nWar-rington's was wearing a white blouse with long sleeves and\nblack\npants so tapered they made her legs look like sheathed swords. Hernarrow face and hollow cheeks made her resemble Edvard Munch's\nscreamer\nmore than ever. Her white hair hung around her face in a lank cowl.\nHer\nlips were painted so brightly red she seemed to be bleeding from the\nmouth.\nShe was old and she was ugly, but she was a prize compared to\nMattie's\nfather-in-law. Scrawny, blue-lipped, the skin around his eyes and the\ncorners of his mouth a dark exploded purple, he looked like\nsomething an\narcheologist might find in the burial room of a pyramid, surrounded\nby\nhis stuffed wives and pets, bedizened with his favorite jewels. A few\nwisps of white hair still clung to his scaly skull; more tufts sprang\nfrom enormous ears which seemed to have melted like wax\nsculptures left\nout in the sun. He was wearing white cotton pants and a billowy\nblue\nshirt. Add a little black beret and he would have looked like a French\nartist from the nineteenth century at the end of a very long life.\nAcross his lap was a cane of some black wood. Snugged over the\nend was a\nbright red bicycle grip. The fingers grasping it looked powerful, but\nthey were going as black as the cane itself. His circulation was\nfailing, and I couldn't imagine what his feet and his lower legs must\nlook like.\n\"Whore run off and left you, has she?\"\nI tried to say something. A croak came out of my mouth, nothing\nmore. I\nwas still holding the birch. I let go of it and tried to straighten up,\nbut my legs were still weak and I had to grab it again.He nudged a silver toggle switch and the chair came ten feet closer,\nhalving the distance between us. The sound it made was a silky\nwhisper;\nwatching it was like watching an evil magic carpet. Its many wheels\nrose\nand fell independent of one another and flashed in the declining sun,\nwhich had begun to take on a reddish cast. And as he came closer, I\nfelt\nthe sense of the man. His body was rotting out from under him, but\nthe\nforce around him was undeniable and daunting, like an electrical\nstorm.\nThe woman paced beside him, regarding me with silent amusement.\nHer eyes\nwere pinkish. I assumed then that they were gray and had picked up\na bit\nof the coming sunset, but I think now she was an albino.\n\"I always liked a whore,\" he said. He drew the word out, making it\nhorrrrrrr. \"Didn't I, Rogette?\"\n\"Yes, sir,\" she said. \"In their place.\"\n\"Sometimes their place was on my face!\" he cried with a kind of\ninsane\nperkiness, as if she had contradicted him. \"Where is she, young\nman?\nWhose face is she sitting on right now? I wonder. That smart lawyer\nyou\nfound? Oh, I know all about him, right down to the Unsatisfactory\nConduct he got in the third grade. I make it my business to know\nthings.It's the secret of my success.\"\nWith an enormous effort, I straightened up. \"What are you doing\nhere?\"\n\"Having a constitutional, same as you. And no law against it, is\nthere?\nThe Street belongs to anyone who wants to use it. You haven't been\nhere\nlong, young whoremaster, but surely you've been here long enough\nto know\nthat. It's our version of the town common, where good pups and vile\ndogs\nmay walk side-by-side.\"\nOnce more using the hand not bunched around the red bicycle grip,\nhe\npicked up the oxygen mask, sucked deeply, then dropped it back in\nhis\nlap. He grinned--an unspeakable grin of complicity that revealed\ngums\nthe color of iodine.\n\"She good? That little horrrrrr of yours? She must be good to have\nkept\nmy son prisoner in that nasty little trailer where she lives. And then\nalong comes you even before the worms had finished with my boy's\neyes.\nDoes her cunt suck?\"\n\"Shut up.\"\nRogette Whitmore threw back her head and laughed. The sound was\nlike thescream of a rabbit caught in an owl's talons, and my flesh crawled. I\nhad an idea she was as crazy as he was. Thank God they were old.\n\"You\nstruck a nerve there, Max,\" she said.\n\"What do you want?\" I took a breath.., and caught a taste of that\nputrescence again. I gagged. I didn't want to, but I couldn't help it.\nDevore straightened in his chair and breathed deeply, as if to mock\nme.\nIn that moment he looked like Robert Duvall in Apocalypse Now,\nstriding\nalong the beach and telling the world how much he loved the smell\nof\nnapalm in the morning. His grin widened. \"Lovely place, just here,\nisn't\nit? A cozy spot to stop and think, wouldn't you say?\" He looked\naround.\n\"This is where it happened, all right. Ayuh.\"\n\"Where the boy drowned.\" I thought Whitmore's smile looked\nmomentarily\nuneasy at that. Devore didn't. He clutched for his translucent oxygen\nmask with an old man's overwide grip, fingers that grope rather than\nreach. I could see little bubbles of mucus clinging to the inside. He\nsucked deep again, put it down again. \"Thirty or more folks have\ndrowned\nin this lake, and that's just the ones they know about,\" he said.\n\"What's one boy, more or less?\"\n\"I don't get it. Were there two Tidwell boys who died here? The one\nthat\ngot blood-poisoning and the one--\"\"Do you care about your soul, Mr. Noonan? Your immortal soul?\nGod's\nbutterfly caught in a cocoon of flesh that will soon stink like mine?\" I\nsaid nothing. The strangeness of what had happened before he\narrived was\npassing. What replaced it was his incredible personal magnetism. I\nhave\nnever in my life felt so much raw force. There was nothing\nsupernatural\nabout it, either, and raw is exactly the right word. I might have run.\nUnder other circumstances, I'm sure I would have. It certainly\nwasn't\nbravery that kept me where I was;\nmy legs still felt rubbery, and I was afraid I might fall down. \"I'm\ngoing to give you one chance to save your soul,\" Devore said. He\nraised\na bony finger to illustrate the concept of one. \"Go away, my fine\nwhoremaster. Right now, in the clothes you stand up in. Don't bother\nto\npack a bag, don't even stop to make sure you turned off the\nstoveburners. Go. Leave the whore and leave the whorelet.\"\n\"Leave them to you.\"\n\"Ayuh, to me. I'll do the things that need to be done. Souls are for\nliberal arts majors, Noonan. I was an engineer.\"\n\"Go fuck yourself.\" Rogette Whitmore made that screaming-rabbit\nsound\nagain. The old man sat in his chair, head lowered, grinning sallowly\nup\nat me and looking like something raised from the dead. \"Are you\nsure you\nwant to be the one, Noonan? It doesn't matter to her, you know--\nyou orme, it's all the same to her.\"\n\"I don't know what you're talking about.\"\nI drew another deep breath, and this time the air tasted all right. I\ntook a step away from the birch, and my legs were all right, too.\n\"And I\ndon't care. You're never getting Kyra. Never in what remains of your\nscaly life. I'll never see that happen.\"\n\"Pal, you'll see plenty,\" Devore said, grinning and showitg me his\niodine gums. \"Before July's done, you'll likely have seen so much\nyou'll\nwish you'd ripped the living eyes out of your head in June.\"\n\"I'm going home. Let me pass.\"\n\"Go home then, how could I stop you?\" he asked. \"The Street\nbelongs to\neveryone.\" He groped the oxygen mask out of his lap again and took\nanother healthy pull. He dropped it into his lap and settled his left\nhand on the arm of his Buck Rogers wheelchair. I stepped toward\nhim, and\nalmost before I knew what was happening, he ran the wheelchair at\nme. He\ncould have hit me and hurt me quite badly--broken one or both of\nmy\nlegs, I don't doubt--but he stopped just short. I leaped back, but\nonly\nbecause he allowed me to. I was aware that Whitmore was laughing\nagain.\n\"What's the matter, Noonan?\"\n\"Get out of my way. I'm warning you.\"\"Whore made you jumpy, has she?\" I started to my left, meaning to\ngo by\nhim on that side, but in a flash he had turned the chair, shot it\nforward, and cut me off. \"Get out of the TR, Noonan. I'm giving you\ngood\nad--\" I broke to the right, this time on the lake side, and would have\nslipped by him quite neatly except for the fist, very small and hard,\nthat hammered the left side of my face. The white-haired bitch was\nwearing a ring, and the stone cut me behind the ear. I felt the sting\nand the warm flow of blood. I pivoted, stuck out both hands, and\npushed\nher. She fell to the needle-carpeted path with a squawk of surprised\noutrage. At the next instant something clouted me on the back of\nthe\nhead. A momentary orange glow lit up my sight. I staggered\nbackward in\nwhat felt like slow motion, waving my arms, and Devote came into\nview\nagain. He was slued around in his wheelchair, scaly head thrust\nforward,\nthe cane he'd hit me with still upraised. If he had been ten years\nyounger, I believe he would have fractured my skull instead of just\ncreating that momentary orange light. I ran into my old friend the\nbirch\ntree. I raised my hand to my ear and looked unbelievingly at the\nblood\non the tips of my fingers. My head ached from the blow he had\nfetched\nme. Whitmore was struggling to her feet, brushing pine needles\nfrom her\nslacks and looking at me with a furious smile. Her cheeks had filled\nin\nwith a thin pink flush. Her too-red lips were pulled back to show\nsmall\nteeth. In the light of the setting sun her eyes looked as if they were\nburning.\"Get out of my way,\" I said, but my voice sounded small and weak.\n\"No,\"\nDevote said, and laid the black barrel of his cane on the nacelle that\ncurved over the front of his chair. Now I could see the little boy who\nhad been determined to have the sled no matter how badly he cut\nhis\nhands getting it. I could see him very clearly. \"No, you whore-fucking\nsissy. I won't.\" He shoved the silver toggle switch again and the\nwheelchair rushed silently at me. If I had stayed where I was, he\nwould\nhave run me through with his cane as surely as any evil duke was\never\nrun through in an Alexandre Dumas story. He probably would have\ncrushed\nthe fragile bones in his right hand and torn his right arm clean out of\nits socket in the collision, but this man had never cared about such\nthings; he left cost-counting to the little people. If I had hesitated\nout of shock or incredulity, he would have killed me, I'm sure of it.\nInstead, I rolled to my left. My sneakers slid on the needle-slippery\nembankment for a moment. Then they lost contact with the earth\nand I was\nfalling.\nI hit the water awkwardly and much too close to the bank. My left\nfoot\nstruck a submerged root and twisted. The pain was huge, something\nthat\nfelt like a thunderclap sounds. I opened my mouth to scream and\nthe lake\npoured in--that cold metallic dark taste, this time for real. I coughed\nit out and sneezed it out and floundered away from where I had\nlanded,\nthinking The boy, the dead boy's down here, what if he reaches up\nandgrabs me? I turned over on my back, still flailing and coughing, very\naware of my jeans clinging clammily to my legs and crotch, thinking\nabsurdly about my wallet--I didn't care about the credit cards or\ndriver's license, but I had two good snapshots of Jo in there, and\nthey\nwould be ruined. Devote had almost run himself over the\nembankment, I\nsaw, and for a moment I thought he still might go. The front of his\nchair jutted over the place where I had fallen (I could see the short\ntracks of my sneakers just to the left of the bitch's partially exposed\nroots), and although the forward wheels were still grounded, the\ncrumbly\nearth was running out from beneath them in dry little avalanches\nthat\nrolled down the slope and pit-a-patted into the water, creating\ninterlocking ripple patterns. Whitmore was clinging to the back of\nthe\nchair, yanking on it, but it was much too heavy for her; if Devote\nwas\nto be saved, he would have to save himself. Standing waist-deep in\nthe\nlake with my clothes floating around me, I rooted for him to go over.\nThe purplish claw of his left hand recaptured the silver toggle switch\nafter several attempts. One finger hooked it backward, and the chair\nreversed away from the embankment with a final shower of stones\nand\ndirt. Whitmore leaped prankishly to one side to keep her feet from\nbeing\nrun over. Devote fiddled some more with his controls, turned the\nchair\nto face me where I stood in the water, some seven feet out from the\noverhanging birch, and then nudged the chair forward until he was\non the\nedge of The Street but safely away from the drop off. Whitmore had\nturnedaway from us entirely; she was bent over with her butt poking in my\ndirection. If I thought about her at all, and I can't remember that I\ndid, I suppose I thought she was getting her breath back. Devote\nappeared to be in the best shape of the three of us, not even\nneeding a\nhit from the oxygen mask sitting in his lap. The late light was full in\nhis face, making him look like a half-rotted jack-o'-lantern which has\nbeen soaked with gas and set on fire. \"Enjoying your swim?\" he\nasked,\nand laughed.\nI looked around, hoping to see a strolling couple or perhaps a\nfisherman\nlooking for a place where he could wet his line one more time before\ndark.., and yet at the same time I hoped I'd see no one. I was\nangry,\nhurt, and scared. Most of all I was embarrassed. I had been dunked\nin\nthe lake by a man of eighty-five.., a man who showed every sign of\nhanging around and making sport of me. I began wading to my\nright--south, back toward my house. The water was about waist-\ndeep, cool\nand almost refreshing now that I was used to it. My sneakers\nsquelched\nover rocks and submerged tree-branches. The ankle I'd twisted still\nhurt, but it was supporting me. Whether it would continue to once I\ngot\nout of the lake was another question. Devore twiddled his controls\nsome\nmore. The chair pivoted and came rolling slowly along The Street,\nkeeping pace with me easily. \"I didn't introduce you properly to\nRogette, did I?\" he said. \"She was quite an athlete in college, you\nknow. Softball and field hockey were her specialties, and she's held\nonto at least some of her skills. Rogette, demonstrate your skills for\nthis young man.\" Whitmore passed the slowly moving wheelchair on\ntheleft. For a moment she was blocked out by it. When I could see her\nagain, I could also see what she was holding. She hadn't been bent\nover\nto get her breath. Smiling, she strode to the edge of the\nembankment\nwith her left arm curled against her midriff, cradling the rocks she\nhad\npicked up from the edge of the path. She selected a chunk roughly\nthe\nsize of a golfball, drew her hand back to her ear, and threw it at me.\nHard. It whizzed by my left temple and splashed into the water\nbehind\nme. \"Hey!\" I shouted, more startled than afraid. Even after\neverything\nthat had preceded it, I couldn't believe this was happening. \"What's\nwrong with you, Rogette?\" Devore asked chidingly. \"You never used\nto\nthrow like a girl. Get him!\" The second rock passed two inches over\nmy\nhead. The third was a potential tooth-smasher. I batted it away with\nan\nangry, fearful shout, not noticing until later that it had bruised my\npalm. At the moment I was only aware of her hateful, smiling face--\nthe\nface of a woman who has plunked down two dollars in a carny\nshooting-pitch and means to win the big stuffed teddybear even if\nshe\nhas to blast away all night.\nAnd she threw fast. The rocks hailed down around me, some\nsplashing into\nthe ruddy water to my left or right, creating little geysers. I began to\nbackpedal, afraid to turn and swim for it, afraid that she would\nthrow a\nreally big one the minute I did. Still, I had to get out of her range.Devore, meanwhile, was laughing a wheezy old man's laugh, his\nwretched\nface crunched in on itself like the face of a malicious apple-doll. One\nof her rocks struck me a hard, painful blow on the collarbone and\nbounced high into the air. I cried out, and she did, too: \"Hai!,\" like a\nkarate fighter who's gotten in a good kick. So much for orderly\nretreat.\nI turned, swam for deeper water, and the bitch brained me. The first\ntwo\nrocks she threw after I began to swim seemed to be range-finders.\nThere\nwas a pause when I had time to think I'm doing it, I'm getting\nbeyond\nher area of... and then something hit the back of my head. I felt it\nand\nheard it the same way--it went CLONI(!, like something you'd read in\na\nBatman comic. The surface of the lake went from bright orange to\nbright\nred to dark scarlet. Faintly I could hear Devore yelling approval and\nWhitmore squealing her strange laugh. I took in another mouthful of\niron-tasting water and was so dazed I had to remind myself to spit it\nout, not swallow it. My feet now felt too heavy for swimming, and\nmy\ngoddam sneakers weighed a ton. I put them down to stand up and\ncouldn't\nfind the bottom--I had gotten beyond my depth. I looked in toward\nthe\nshore. It was spectacular, blazing in the sunset like stage-scenery lit\nwith bright orange and red gels. I was probably twenty feet out from\nthe\nshore now. Devore and Whitmore were at the edge of The Street,\nwatching.They looked like Dad and Mom in a Grant Wood painting. Devore\nwas using\nthe mask again, but I could see him grinning inside it. Whitmore was\ngrinning, too. More water sloshed in my mouth. I spit most of it out,\nbut some went down, making me cough and half-retch. I started to\nsink\nbelow the surface and fought my way back up, not swimming but\nonly\nsplashing wildly, expending nine times the energy I needed to stay\nafloat. Panic made its first appearance, nibbling through my dazed\nbewilderment with sharp little rat teeth. I realized I could hear a\nhigh, sweet buzzing. How many blows had my poor old head taken?\nOne from\nWhitmore's fist.., one from Devore's cane.., one rock.., or had it been\ntwo?\nChrist, I couldn't remember. Get hold of yourself, Jr God's sake--\nyou're\nnot going to let him beat you this way, are you? Drown you like that\nlittle boy was drowned? No, not if I could help it. I trod water and\nran\nmy left hand down the back of my head. Not too far above the nape\nI\nencountered a goose-egg that was still rising. When I pressed on it\nthe\npain made me feel like throwing up and fainting at the same time.\nTears\nrose in my eyes and rolled down my cheeks. There were only traces\nof\nblood on the tips of my fingers when I looked at them, but it was\nhard\nto tell about cuts when you were in the water. \"You look like a\nwoodchuck caught out in the rain, Noonan!\" Now his voice seemed\nto roll\nto where I was, as if across a great distance. \"Fuck you!\" I called.\"I'll see you in jail for this!\" He looked at Whitmore. She looked back\nwith an identical expression, and they both laughed. If someone had\nput\nan Uzi in my hands at that moment, I would have killed them both\nwith no\nhesitation and then asked for a second clip so I could machine-gun\nthe\nbodies. With no Uzi to hand, I began to dogpaddle south, toward my\nhouse. They paced me along The Street, he rolling in his whisper-\nquiet\nwheelchair, she walking beside him as solemn as a nun and pausing\nevery\nnow and then to pick up a likely-looking rock. I hadn't swum enough\nto\nbe tired, but I was. It was mostly shock, I suppose. Finally I tried to\ndraw a breath at the wrong time, swallowed more water, and\npanicked\ncompletely. I began to swim in toward the shore, wanting to get to\nwhere\nI could stand up. Rogette Whitmore began to fire rocks at me\nimmediately, first using the ones she' had lined up between her left\narm\nand her midriff, then those she'd stockpiled in Devore's lap. She was\nwarmed up, she wasn't throwing like a girl anymore, and her aim\nwas\ndeadly. Stones splashed all around me. I batted another away--a big\none\nthat likely would have cut open my forehead if it had hit--but her\nfollow-up struck my bicep and tore a long scratch there. Enough. I\nrolled over and swam back out beyond her range, gasping for\nbreath,\ntrying to keep my head up in spite of the growing ache in the back\nof my\nneck.When I was clear, I trod water and looked in at them. Whitmore had\ncome\nall the way to the edge of the embankment, wanting to get every\nfoot of\ndistance she could. Hell, every damned inch. Devore was parked\nbehind\nher in his wheelchair. They were both still grinning, and now their\nfaces were as red as the faces of imps in hell. Red sky at night,\nsailor's delight. Another twenty minutes and it would be getting\ndark.\nCould I keep my head above water for another twenty minutes? I\nthought\nso, if I didn't panic again, but not much longer. I thought of\ndrowning\nin the dark, looking up and seeing Venus just before I went under\nfor\nthe last time, and the panic-rat slashed me with its teeth again. The\npanic-rat was worse than Rogette and her rocks, much worse.\nMaybe not\nworse than Devore. I looked both ways along the lakefront, checking\nThe\nStreet wherever it wove out of the trees for a dozen feet or a dozen\nyards. I didn't care about being embarrassed anymore, but I saw no\none.\nDear God, where was everybody? Gone to the Mountain View in\nFryeburg for\npizza, or the Village Cafe for milkshakes? \"What do you want?\" I\ncalled\nin to Devore. \"Do you want me to tell you I'll butt out of your\nbusiness? Okay, I'll butt out!\" He laughed.\nWell, I hadn't expected it to work. Even if I'd been sincere about it,\nhe wouldn't have believed me. \"We just want to see how long you\ncanswim,\" Whitmore said, and threw another rock---a long, lazy toss\nthat\nfell about five feet short of where I was. They mean to kill me, I\nthought. They really do. Yes. And what was more, they might well\nget\naway with it. A crazy idea, both plausible and implausible at the\nsame\ntime, rose in my mind. I could see Rogette Whitmore tacking a\nnotice to\nthe COMMUNITY DOIN'S board outside the Lakeview General Store.\nTO THE MARTIANS OF TR-90, GREETINGS!\nMr, MAXWELL DEVORE, everyone's favorite Martian, will give each\nresident\nof the TR ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS if no one will use The Street on\nFRIDAY\nEVENING, THE 17th OF JULY, between the hours of SEVEN and NINE\nRM. Keep\nour \"SUMMER FRIENDS\" away, too! And remember: GOOD\nMARTIANS are like\nGOOD MONKEYS: they SEE no evil, HEAR no evil, and SPEAK no evil!\nI couldn't really believe it, not even in my current situation.., and\nyet I almost could. At the very least I had to grant him the luck of\nthe\ndevil. Tired. My sneakers heavier than ever. I tried to push one of\nthem\noff and succeeded only in taking in another mouthful of lakewater.\nThey\nstood watching me, Devore occasionally picking the mask up from\nhis lap\nand having a revivifying suck. I couldn't wait until dark. The sun\nexits\nin a hurry here in western Maine--as it does, I guess, in mountain\ncountry everywhere--but the twilights are long and lingering. By thetime it got dark enough in the west to move without being seen, the\nmoon\nwould have risen in the east. I found myself imagining my obituary\nin\nthe New York 'mes, the headline reading POPULAR ROMANTIC\nSUSPENSE\nNOVELIST DROWNS IN M^INE. Debra Weinstock would provide\nthem with the\nauthor photo from the forthcoming Helen's Promise. Harold Oblowski\nwould\nsay all the right things, and he'd also remember to put a modest\n(but\nnot tiny) death notice in Publishers lek/y. He would go half-and-half\nwith Putnam on it, and-I sank, swallowed more water, and spat it\nout. I\nbegan pummelling the lake again and forced myself to stop. From\nthe\nshore, I could hear Rogette Whitmore's tinkling laughter. IOU bitch, I\nthought, tau scrawny bi--Mike, Jo said. Her voice was in my head,\nbut it\nwasn't the one I make when I'm imagining her side of a mental\ndialogue\nor when I just miss her and need to whistle her up for awhile. As if\nto\nunderline this, something splashed to my right, splashed hard. When\nI\nlooked in that direction I saw no fish, not even a ripple. What I saw\ninstead was our swimming float, anchored about a hundred yards\naway in\nthe sunset-colored water. \"I can't swim that far, baby,\" I croaked.\n\"Did\nyou say something, Noonan?\" Devore called from the shore. He\ncupped a\nmocking hand to one of his huge waxlump ears. \"Couldn't quite\nmake itout! You sound all out of breath!\" More tinkling laughter from\nWhitmore.\nHe was Johnny Carson; she was Ed Mcmahon. I3u can make it. I'll\nhelp\nyou. The float, I realized, might be my only chance--there wasn't\nanother one on this part of the shore, and it was at least ten yards\nbeyond Whit-more's longest rockshot so far. I began to dogpaddle in\nthat\ndirection, my arms now as leaden as my feet. Each time I felt my\nhead on\nthe verge of going under I paused, treading water, telling myself to\ntake it easy, I was in pretty good shape and doing okay, telling\nmyself\nthat if I didn't panic I'd be all right. The old bitch and the even\nolder bastard resumed pacing me, but they saw where I was headed\nand the\nlaughter stopped. So did the taunts. For a long time the swimming\nfloat\nseemed to draw no closer. I told myself that was just because the\nlight\nwas fading, the color of the water draining from red to purple to a\nnear-black that was the color of Devore's gums, but I was able to\nmuster\nless and less conviction for this idea as my breath shortened and my\narms grew heavier. When I was still thirty yards away a cramp struck\nmy\nleft leg. I rolled sideways like a swamped sailboat, trying to reach\nthe\nbunched muscle. More water poured down my throat. I tried to\ncough it\nout, then retched and went under with my stomach still trying to\nheave\nand my fingers still looking for the knotted place above the knee. I'm\nreally drowning, I thought, strangely calm now that it was\nhappening.This is how it happens, this is it. Then I felt a hand seize me by the\nnape of the neck. The pain of having my hair yanked brought me\nback to\nreality in a flash--it was better than an epinephrine injection. I felt\nanother hand clamp around my left leg; there was a brief but terrific\nsense of heat. The cramp let go and I broke the surface swimming--\nreally\nswimming this time, not just dog-paddling, and in what seemed like\nseconds I was clinging to the ladder on the side of the float,\nbreathing\nin great, snatching gasps, waiting to see if I was going to be all right\nor if my heart was going to detonate in my chest like a hand\ngrenade. At\nlast my lungs started to overcome my oxygen debt, and everything\nbegan\nto calm down. I gave it another minute, then climbed out of the\nwater\nand into what was now the ashes of twilight. I stood facing west for\na\nlittle while, bent over with my hands on my knees, dripping on the\nboards. Then I turned around, meaning this time to flip them not\njust a\nsingle bird but that fabled double eagle. There was no one to flip it\nto. The Street was empty. Devore and Rogette Whitmore were gone.\nMaybe they were gone. I'd do well to remember there was a lot of\nStreet\nI couldn't see. I sat cross-legged on the float until the moon rose,\nwaiting and watching for any movement. Half an hour, I think.\nMaybe\nforty-five minutes. I checked my watch, but got no help there; it had\nshipped some water and stopped at 7:30? .M. To the other\nsatisfactions\nDevore owed me I could now add the price of one Timex Indiglo--\nthat's$29.95, asshole, cough it up. At last I climbed back down the ladder,\nslipped into the water, and stroked for shore as quietly as I could. I\nwas rested, my head had stopped aching (although the knot above\nthe nape\nof my neck still throbbed steadily), and I no longer felt off-balance\nand incredulous. In some ways, that had been the worst of it--trying\nto\ncope not just with the apparition of the drowned boy, the flying\nrocks,\nand the lake, but with the pervasive sense that none of this could be\nhappening, that rich old software moguls did not try to drown\nnovelists\nwho strayed into their line of sight. Had tonight's adventure been a\ncase of simple straying into Devore's view, though? A coincidental\nmeeting, no more than that? Wasn't it likely he'd been having me\nwatched\never since the Fourth of July. .. maybe from the other side of the\nlake,\nby people with high-powered optical equipment? Paranoid bullshit, I\nwould have said.., at least I would have said it before the two of\nthem\nalmost sank me in Dark Score Lake like a kid's paper boat in a\nmudpuddle. I decided I didn't care who might be watching from the\nother\nside of the lake. I didn't care if the two of them were still lurking on\none of the tree-shielded parts of The Street, either. I swam until I\ncould feel strands of waterweed tickling my ankles and see the\ncrescent\nof my beach. Then I stood up, wincing at the air, which now felt cold\non\nmy skin. I limped to shore, one hand raised to fend off a hail of\nrocks,\nbut no rocks came. I stood for a moment on The Street, my jeans\nand polo\nshirt dripping, looking first one way, then the other. It seemed I had\nthis little part of the world to myself. Last, I looked back at thewater, where weak moonlight beat a track from the thumbnail of\nbeach out\nto the swimming float. \"Thanks, Jo,\" I said, then started up the\nrailroad ties to the house. I got about halfway, then had to stop and\nsit down. I had never been so utterly tired in my whole life.\nI climbed the stairs to the deck instead of going around to the front\ndoor, still moving slowly and marvelling at how my legs felt twice\ntheir\nnormal weight. When I stepped into the living room I looked around\nwith\nthe wide eyes of someone who has been away for a decade and\nreturns to\nfind everything just as he left it--Bunter the moose on the wall, the\nBoston Globe on the couch, a compilation of 7bgh Stffcrossword\npuzzles\non the end-table, the plate on the counter with the remains of my\nstir-fry still on it. Looking at these things brought the realization\nhome full force--I had gone for a walk, leaving all this normal light\nclutter behind, and had almost died instead. Had almost been\nmurdered.\nI began to shake. I went into the north-wing bathroom, took off my\nwet\nclothes, and threw them into the tub--sd/at. Then, still shaking, I\nturned and stared at myself in the mirror over the washbasin. I\nlooked\nlike someone who has been on the losing side in a barroom brawl.\nOne\nbicep bore a long, clotting gash. A blackish-purple bruise was\nunfurling\nwhat looked like shadowy wings on my left collarbone. There was a\nbloody\nfurrow on my neck and behind my ear, where the lovely Rogette had\ncaught\nme with the stone in her ring.I took my shaving mirror and used it to check the back of my head.\n\"Can't you get that through your thick skull?\" my mother used to\nshout\nat me and Sid when we were kids, and now I thanked God that Ma\nhad\napparently been right about the thickness factor, at least in my case.\nThe spot where Devore had struck me with his cane looked like the\ncone\nof a recently extinct volcano. Whitmore's bull's-eye had left a red\nwound that would need stitches if I wanted to avoid a scar. Blood,\nrusty\nand thin, stained the nape of my neck all around the hairline. God\nknew\nhow much had flowed out of that unpleasant-looking red mouth and\nbeen\nwashed away by the lake.\nI poured hydrogen peroxide into my cupped palm, steeled myself,\nand\nslapped it onto the gash back there like aftershave. The bite was\nmonstrous, and I had to tighten my lips to keep from crying out.\nWhen\nthe pain started to fade a little, I soaked cotton balls with more\nperoxide and cleaned my other wounds.\nI showered, threw on a tee-shirt and a pair of jeans, then went into\nthe\nhall to phone the County Sheriff. There was no need for directory\nassistance; the Castle Rock P.D. and County Sheriff's numbers were\non\nthe N CASE OF EMEV, GENCY card thumbtacked to the bulletin\nboard, alongwith numbers for the fire department, the ambulance service, and\nthe\n900-number where you could get three answers to that day's Times\ncrossword puzzle for a buck-fifty.\nI dialled the first three numbers fast, then began to slow down. I got\nas far as 955-960 before stopping altogether. I stood there in the\nhall\nwith the phone pressed against my ear, visualizing another headline,\nthis one not in the decorous 7}'roes but the rowdy New York Post.\nNOVEI\nIST TO AGING COMPU-KING: \"YOU BIG BULLY!\" Along with side-by-\nside\npictures of me, looking roughly my age, and Max Devore, looking\nroughly\na hundred and six. The Post would have great fun telling its readers\nhow\nDevore (along with his companion, an elderly lady who might weigh\nninety\npounds soaking wet) had lumped up a novelist half his age--a guy\nwho\nlooked, in his photograph, at least, reasonably trim and fit.\nThe phone got tired of holding only six of the required seven\nnumbers in\nits rudimentary brain, double-clicked, and dumped me back to an\nopen\nline. I took the handset away from my ear, stared at it for a moment,\nand then set it gently back down in its cradle. I'm not a sissy about\nthe sometimes whimsical, sometimes hateful attention of the press,\nbut\nI'm wary, as I would be around a bad-tempered fur-bearing\nmammal.\nAmerica has turned the people who entertain it into weird high-classwhores, and the media jeers at any \"celeb\" who dares complain\nabout his\nor her treatment. \"Quitcha bitchin!\" cry the newspapers and the TV\ngossip shows (the tone is one of mingled triumph and indignation).\n\"Didja really think we paid ya the big bucks just to sing a song or\nswing a Louisville Slugger? Wrong, asshole! We pay so we can be\namazed\nwhen you do it well--whatever 'it' happens to be in your particular\ncase--and also because it's gratifying when you fuck up. The truth is\nyou're supplies. If you cease to be amusing, we can always kill you\nand\neat you.\" They can't really eat you, of course. They can print\npictures\nof you with your shirt off and say you're running to fat, they can talk\nabout how much you drink or how many pills you take or snicker\nabout the\nnight you pulled some starlet onto your lap at Spago and tried to\nstick\nyour tongue in her ear, but they can't really eat you. So it wasn't the\nthought of the Post calling me a crybaby or being a part of Jay\nLeno's\nopening monologue that made me put the phone down; it was the\nrealization that I had no proof. No one had seen us. And, I realized,\nfinding an alibi for himself and his personal assistant would be the\neasiest thing in the world for Max Devore. There was one other\nthing,\ntoo, the capper: imagining the County Sheriff sending out George\nFootman, aka daddy, to take my statement on how the mean man\nhad knocked\nli'l Mikey into the lake. How the three of them would laugh later\nabout\nthat! I called John Storrow instead, wanting him to tell me I was\ndoing\nthe right thing, the only thing that made any sense. Wanting him toremind me that only desperate men were driven to such desperate\nlengths\n(I would ignore, at least for the time being, how the two of them\nhad\nlaughed, as if they were having the time of their lives), and that\nnothing had changed in regard to Ki Devore--her grandfather's\ncustody\ncase still sucked bogwater.\nI got John's recording machine at home and left a message--just call\nMike Noonan, no emergency, but feel free to call late. Then I tried\nhis\noffice, mindful of the scripture according to John Grisham: young\nlawyers work until they drop. I listened to the firm's recording\nmachine, then followed instructions and punched sto on my phone\nkeypad,\nthe first three letters of John's last name. There was a click and he\ncame on the line--another recorded version, unfortunately. \"Hi, this\nis\nJohn Storrow. I've gone up to Philly for the weekend to see my mom\nand\ndad. I'll be in the office on Monday; for the rest of the week, I'll be\nout on business. From Tuesday to Friday you'll probably have the\nmost\nluck trying to reach me at...\" The number he gave began 207-955,\nwhich\nmeant Castle Rock. I imagined it was the hotel where he'd stayed\nbefore,\nthe nice one up on the View. \"Mike Noonan,\" I said. \"Call me when\nyou\ncan. I left a message on your apartment machine, too.\" I went in\nthe\nkitchen to get a beer, then only stood there in front of the\nrefrigerator, playing with the magnets. Whoremaster, he'd called me.\nSaythere, whoremaster, where's your whore? A minute later he had\noffered to\nsave my soul. Quite funny, really. Like an alcoholic offering to take\ncare of your liquor cabinet. He spoke of you with what I think was\ngenuine ajkction, Mattie had said. Your great-grandfather and his\ngreat-grandfather shit in the same pit. I left the fridge with all the\nbeer still safe inside, went back to the phone, and called Mattie.\n\"Hi,\"\nsaid another obviously recorded voice. I was on a roll. \"It's me, but\neither I'm out or not able to come to the phone right this minute.\nLeave\na message, okay?\" A pause, the mike rustling, a distant whisper, and\nthen Kyra, so loud she almost blew my ear off: \"Leave a HAM'\nmessage!\"\nWhat followed was laughter from both of them, cut off by the beep.\n\"Hi,\nMattie, it's Mike Noonan,\" I said. \"I just wanted--\" I don't know how\nI\nwould have finished that thought, and I didn't have to. There was a\nclick and then Mattie herself said, \"Hello, Mike.\" There was such a\ndifference between this dreary, defeated-sounding voice and the\ncheerful\none on the tape that for a moment I was silenced. Then I asked her\nwhat\nwas wrong.\n\"Nothing,\" she said, then began to cry. \"Everything. I lost my job.\nLindy fired me.\"\nFiring wasn't what Lindy had called it, of course. She'd called it\n\"belt-tightening,\" but it was firing, all right, and I knew that if I\nlooked into the funding of the Four Lakes Consolidated Library, I\nwoulddiscover that one of the chief supporters over the years had been\nMr.\nMax Devore. And he'd continue to be one of the chief supporters. ..\nif,\nthat was, Lindy Briggs played ball. \"We shouldn't have talked where\nshe\ncould see us doing it,\" I said, knowing I could have stayed away\nfrom\nthe library completely and Mattie would be just as gone. \"And we\nprobably should have seen this coming.\"\n\"John Storrow did see it.\" She was still crying, but making an effort\nto\nget it under control. \"He said Max Devore would probably want to\nmake\nsure I was as deep in the corner as he could push me, come the\ncustody\nhearing. He said Devore would want to make sure I answered Tm\nunemployed, Your Honor' when the judge asked where I worked. I\ntold John\nMrs. Briggs would never do anything so low, especially to a girl\nwho'd\ngiven such a brilliant talk on Melville's \"Bartleby.' Do you know what\nhe told me?\"\n\"He said, \"You're very young.' I thought that was a patronizing thing\nto\nsay, but he was right, wasn't he?\"\n\"Mattie--\"\n\"What am I going to do, Mike? What am I going to do?\" The panic-\nrat had\nmoved on down to Wasp Hill Road, it sounded like. I thought, quite\ncoldly: Why not become my mistress? I3ur title will be \"research\nassistant, \"aperfictlyjake occupation as far as the IRS is concerned,I'll throw in clothes, a couple of charge cards, a house--say goodbye\nto\nthe rustbucket doublewide on Isp Hill Road--and a two-week\nvacation: how\ndoes February on Maul sound? Plus Ki's education, of course, and a\nhejgy\ncash bonus at the end of the year. I'll be considerate, too.\nConsiderate\nand discreet.\nOnce or twice a week, and never until your little girl is fast asleep.\nAll you have to do is say yes and give me a key. All you have to do is\nslide over when I slide in. All you have to do is let me do what I\nwant--all through the dark, all through the night, let me touch where\nI\nwant to touch, let me do what I want to do, never say no, never say\nstop. I closed my eyes. \"Mike? Are you there?\"\n\"Sure,\" I said. I touched the throbbing gash at the back of my head\nand\nwinced. \"You're going to do just fine, Mattie. You--\"\n\"The trailer's not paid for!\" she nearly wailed. \"I have two overdue\nphone bills and they're threatening to cut off the service! There's\nsomething wrong with the Jeep's transmission, and the rear axle, as\nwell! I can pay for Ki's last week of Vacation Bible School, I\nguess--Mrs. Briggs gave me three weeks' pay in lieu of notice--but\nhow\nwill I buy her shoes? She outgrows everything so fast.\n.. there's holes in all her shorts and most of her g-g-goddam\nunderwear...\" She was starting to weep again. \"I'm going to take\ncare of\nyou until you get back on your feet,\" I said. \"No, I can't let--\"\"You can. And for Kyra's sake, you will. Later on, if you still want to,\nyou can pay me back. We'll keep tabs on every dollar and dime, if\nyou\nlike.\nBut I'm going to take care of you.\" And you'll never take off your\nclothes when I'm with you. That's a promise, and I'm going to keep\nit.\n\"Mike, you don't have to do this.\"\n\"Maybe, maybe not. But I am going to do it. You just try and stop\nme.\"\nI'd called meaning to tell her what had happened to me--giving her\nthe\nhumorous version--but that now seemed like the worst idea in the\nworld.\n\"This custody thing is going to be over before you know it, and if\nyou\ncan't find anyone brave enough to put you to work down here once\nit is,\nI'll find someone up in Derry who'll do it. Besides, tell me the\ntruth--aren't you starting to feel that it might be time for a change of\nscenery?\" She managed a scrap of a laugh. \"I guess you could say\nthat.\"\n\"Heard from John today?\"\n\"Actually, yes. He's visiting his parents in Philadelphia but he gave\nme\nthe number there. I called him.\" He'd said he was taken with her.\nPerhaps she was taken with him, as well. I told myself the thorny\nlittle\ntug I felt across my emotions at the idea was only my imagination.\nTriedto tell myself that, anyway. \"What did he say about you losing your\njob\nthe way you did?\"\n\"The same things you said. But he didn't make me feel safe. You do.\nI\ndon't know why.\" I did. I was an older man, and that is our chief\nattraction to young women: we make them feel safe. \"He's coming\nup again\nTuesday morning. I said I'd have lunch with him.\" Smoothly, not a\ntremor\nor hesitation in my voice, I said: \"Maybe I could join you.\" Mattie's\nown voice warmed at the suggestion; her ready acceptance made\nme feel\nparadoxically guilty.\n\"That would be great! Why don't I call him and suggest that you\nboth\ncome over here? I could barbecue again. Maybe I'll keep Ki home\nfrom\nV.B.S. and make it a foursome. She's hoping you'll read her another\nstory. She really enjoyed that.\"\n\"That sounds great,\" I said, and meant it. Adding Kyra made it all\nseem\nmore natural, less of an intrusion on my part. Also less like a date on\ntheirs. John could not be accused of taking an unethical interest in\nhis\nclient. In the end he'd probably thank me. \"I believe Ki might be\nready\nto move on to \"Hansel and Gretel.' How are you, Mattie? All right?\"\n\"Much better than I was before you called.\"\n\"Good. Things are going to be all right.\"\"Promise me.\"\n\"I think I just did.\" There was a slight pause. \"Areyou all right, Mike?\nYou sound a little. . I don't know.., a little strange.\"\n\"I'm okay,\" I said, and I was, for someone who had been pretty sure\nhe\nwas drowning less than an hour ago. \"Can I ask you one question\nbefore I\ngo? Because this is driving me crazy.\"\n\"Of course.\"\n\"The night we had dinner, you said Devore told you his great-\ngrandfather\nand mine knew each other.\nPretty well, according to him.\"\n\"He said they shit in the same pit. I thought that was elegant.\"\n\"Did he say anything else? Think hard.\" She did, but came up with\nnothing. I told her to call me if something about that conversation\ndid\noccur to her, or if she got lonely or scared, or if she started to feel\nworried about anything. I didn't like to say too much, but I had\nalready\ndecided I'd have to have a frank talk with John about my latest\nadventure. It might be prudent to have the private detective from\nLewiston George Kennedy, like the actor--put a man or two on the\nTR to\nkeep an eye on Mattie and Kyra. Max Devote was mad, just as my\ncaretaker\nhad said. I hadn't understood then, but I did now. Any time I started\ntodoubt, all I had to do was touch the back of my head. I returned to\nthe\nfridge and once more forgot to open it. My hands went to the\nmagnets\ninstead and again began moving them around, watching as words\nformed,\nbroke apart, evolved. It was a peculiar kind of writing.., but it was\nwriting. I could tell by the way I was starting to trance out.\nThat half-hypnotized stare is one you cultivate until you can switch it\non and off at will.., at least you can when things are going well. The\nintuitive part of the mind unlocks itself when you begin work and\nrises\nto a height of about six feet (maybe ten on good days). Once there,\nit\nsimply hovers, sending black-magic messages and bright pictures.\nFor the\nbalance of the day that part is locked to the rest of the machinery\nand\ngoes pretty much forgotten.., except on certain occasions when it\ncomes\nloose on its own and you trance out unexpectedly, your mind making\nassociations which have nothing to do with rational thought and\nglaring\nwith unexpected images. That is in some ways the strangest part of\nthe\ncreative process. The muses are ghosts, and sometimes they come\nuninvited. My house is haunted. Sara Laughs has always been\nhaunted..,\nyou've stirred em up. stirred, I wrote on the refrigerator. But it\ndidn't look right, so I made a circle of fruit and vegetable magnets\naround it. That was better, much. I stood there for a moment, hands\ncrossed over my chest as I crossed them at my desk when I was\nstuck for\na word or a phrase, then took off stirr and put on haunt, making\nhaunted. \"It's haunted in the circle,\" I said, and barely heard thefaint chime of Bunter's bell, as if in agreement. I took the letters\noff, and as I did found myself thinking how odd it was to have a\nlawyer\nnamed Romeo--(romeo went in the circle)\n--and a detective named George Kennedy. (george went up on the\nfridge) I\nwondered if Kennedy could help me with Andy Drake(drake on the\nfridge)\n--maybe give me some insights. I'd never written about a private\ndetective before and it's the little stuff (rake off, leave the d, add\netaih) --that makes the difference. I turned a 3 on its back and put\nan\nI beneath it, making a pitchfork. The devil's in the details. From\nthere\nI went somewhere else. I don't know where, exactly, because I was\ntranced out, that intuitive part of my mind up so high a search-party\ncouldn't have found it. I stood in front of my fridge and played with\nthe letters, spelling out little pieces of thought without even thinking\nabout them. You mightn't believe such a thing is possible, but every\nwriter knows it is. What brought me back was light splashing across\nthe\nwindows of the foyer. I looked up and saw the shape of a car pulling\nto\na stop behind my Chevrolet. A cramp of terror seized my belly. That\nwas\na moment when I would have given everything I owned for a loaded\ngun.\nBecause it was Footman. Had to be. Devore had called him when he\nand\nWhitmore got back to Warrington's, had told him Noonan refuses to\nbe a\ngood Martian so get over there and fix him. When the driver's door\nopened and the dome-light in the visitor's car came on, I breathed aconditional sigh of relief. I didn't know who it was, but it sure wasn't\n\"daddy.\" This fellow didn't look as if he could take care of a housefly\nwith a rolled-up newspaper.., although, I supposed, there were\nplenty of\npeople who had made that same mistake about Jeffrey Dahmer.\nAbove the\nfridge was a cluster of aerosol cans, all of them old and probably not\nozone-friendly. I didn't know how Mrs. M. had missed them, but I\nwas\npleased she had. I took the first one my hand touched--Black Flag,\nexcellent choice--thumbed off the cap, and stuck the can in the left\nfront pocket of my jeans. Then I turned to the drawers on the right\nof\nthe sink. The top one contained silverware. The second one held\nwhat Jo\ncalled \"kitchenshit\"--everything from poultry thermometers to those\ngadgets you stick in corncobs so you don't burn your fingers off. The\nthird one down held a generous selection of mismatched steak\nknives. I\ntook one, put it in the right front pocket of my jeans, and went to\nthe\ndoor.\nThe man on my stoop jumped a little when I turned on the outside\nlight,\nthen blinked through the door at me like a nearsighted rabbit. He\nwas\nabout five-four, skinny, pale. He wore his hair cropped in the sort of\ncut known as a wiffle in my boyhood days. His eyes were brown.\nGuarding\nthem was a pair of horn-rimmed glasses with greasy-looking lenses.\nHis\nlittle hands hung at his sides. One held the handle of a flat leather\ncase, the other a small white oblong. I didn't think it was my destiny\nto be killed by a man with a business card in one hand, so I opened\nthedoor. The guy smiled, the anxious sort of smile people always seem\nto\nwear in Woody Allen movies. He was wearing a Woody Allen outfit\ntoo, I\nsaw--faded plaid shirt a little too short at the wrists, chinos a little\ntoo baggy in the crotch. Someone must have told him about the\nresemblance, I thought. That's got to be it. \"Mr. Noonan?\"\n\"Yes?\" He handed me the card. NEXV CENTURY REAL ESTATE, it\nsaid in\nraised gold letters. Below this, in more modest black, was my\nvisitor's\nname. \"I'm Richard Osgood,\" he said as if I couldn't read, and held\nout\nhis hand.\nThe American male's need to respond to that gesture in kind is\ndeeply\ningrained, but that night I resisted it. He held his little pink paw out\na moment longer, then lowered it and wiped the palm nervously\nagainst\nhis chinos. \"I have a message for you. From Mr. Devote.\" I waited.\n\"May\nI come in?\"\n\"No,\" I said. He took a step backward, wiped his hand on his pants\nagain, and seemed to gather himself. \"I hardly think there's any\nneed to\nbe rude, Mr. Noonan.\" I wasn't being rude. If I'd wanted to be rude,\nI\nwould have treated him to a faceful of roach-repellent. \"Max Devote\nand\nhis minder tried to drown me in the lake this evening. If my manners\nseem a little off to you, that's probably it.\" Osgood's look of shock\nwas real, I think. \"You must be working too hard on your latest\nproject,Mr. Noonan. Max Devore is going to be eighty-six on his next\nbirthday--if he makes it, which now seems to be in some doubt. Poor\nold\nfella can hardly even walk from his chair to his bed anymore. As for\nRogette--\"\n\"I see your point,\" I said. \"In fact I saw it twenty minutes ago,\nwithout any help from you. I hardly believe it myself, and I was\nthere.\nGive me whatever it is you have for me.\"\n\"Fine,\" he said in a prissy little \"all right, be that way\" voice. He\nunzipped a pouch on the front of his leather bag and brought out a\nwhite\nenvelope, business-sized and sealed. I took it, hoping Osgood\ncouldn't\nsense how hard my heart was thumping. Devore moved pretty\ndamned fast\nfor a man who travelled with an oxygen tank.\nThe question was, what kind of move was this? \"Thanks,\" I said,\nbeginning to close the door. \"I'd tip you the price of a drink, but I\nleft my wallet on the dresser.\"\n\"Wait! You're supposed to read it and give me an answer.\" I raised\nmy\neyebrows. \"I don't know where Devore got the notion that he could\norder\nme around, but I have no intention of allowing his ideas to influence\nmy\nbehavior. Buzz off.\" His lips turned down, creating deep dimples at\nthe\ncorners of his mouth, and all at once he didn't look like Woody Allen\nat\nall. He looked like a fifty-year-old real-estate broker who had sold hissoul to the devil and now couldn't stand to see anyone yank the\nboss's\nforked tail. \"Piece of friendly advice, Mr. Noonan--you want to watch\nit. Max Devore is no man to fool around with.\"\n\"Luckily for me, I'm not fooling around.\" I closed the door and stood\nin\nthe foyer, holding the envelope and watching Mr. Next Century Real\nEstate. He looked pissed off and con-fused--no one had given him\nthe\nbum's rush just lately, I guessed. Maybe it would do him some good.\nLend\na little perspective to his life. Remind him that, Max Devore or no\nMax\nDevore, Richie Osgood would still never stand more than five-feet-\nseven.\nEven in cowboy boots.\n\"Mr. Devore wants an answer!\" he called through the closed door.\n\"I'll\nphone,\" I called back, then slowly raised my middle fingers in the\ndouble eagle I'd hoped to give Max and Rogette earlier. \"In the\nmeantime, perhaps you could convey this.\" I almost expected him to\ntake\noff his glasses and rub his eyes. He walked back to his car instead,\ntossed his case in, then followed it. I watched until he had backed\nup\nto the lane and I was sure he was gone. Then I went into the living\nroom\nand opened the envelope. Inside was a single sheet of paper, faintly\nscented with the perfume my mother had worn when I was just a\nkid. White\nShoulders, I think it's called. Across the top--neat, ladylike, printed\nin slightly raised letters--was ROGETTE Do WHITMORE Below it was\nthis\nmessage, written in a slightly shaky feminine hand:8.'30 P.M. Dear Mr. Noonan, Max wishes me to convey how glad he\nwas to\nmeet you! I must echo that sentiment. You are a very amusing and\nentertaining jllow! We enjoyed your antics ever so much. Now to\nbusiness. M. ofrs you a very simple deal.' if you promise to cease\nasking questions about him, and if you promise to cease all legal\nmaneuvering--if you promise to let him rest in peace, so to speak\nthen\nMr. Devore promises to cease erts to gain custody of his\ngranddaughter.\nIf this suits, you need only tell Mr. Osgood \"I agree.\" He will carry\nthe message! Max hopes to return to Calijrnia by private jet very\nsoon--he has business which can be put off no longer, although he\nhas\nenjoyed his time here and has J3und you particularly interesting. He\nwants me to remind you that custody has its responsibilities, and\nurges\nyou not to J$rget he said so.\nRogette P.S. He reminds me that you didn't answer his question--\ndoes her\ncunt suck? Max is quite curious on that point.\nI read this note over a second time, then a third. I started to put it\non the table, then read it a fourth time. It was as if I couldn't get\nthe sense of it. I had to restrain an urge to fly to the telephone and\ncall Mattie at once. It's over, Mattie, I'd say. Taking your job and\ndunking me in the lake were the last two shots of the war. He's\ngiving\nup. No. Not until I was absolutely sure. I called Warrington's instead,\nwhere I got my fourth answering machine of the night. Devore and\nWhitmore hadn't bothered with anything warm and fuzzy, either; a\nvoice\nas cold as a motel ice-machine simply told me to leave my message\nat thesound of the beep. \"It's Noonan,\" I said. Before I could go any\nfurther\nthere was a click as someone picked up. \"Did you enjoy your swim?\"\nRogette Whitmore asked in a smoky, mocking voice. if I hadn't seen\nher\nin the flesh, I might have imagined a Barbara Stanwyck type at her\nmost\ncoldly attractive, coiled on a red velvet couch in a peach-silk dressing\ngown, telephone in one hand, ivory cigarette holder in the other. \"If\nI'd caught up with you, Ms. Whitmore, I would have made you\nunderstand\nmy feelings perfectly.\"\n\"Oooo,\" she said. \"My thighs are a-tingle.\"\n\"Please spare me the image of your thighs.\"\n\"Sticks and stones, Mr. Noonan,\" she said. \"To what do we owe the\npleasure of your call?\"\n\"I sent Mr. Osgood away without a reply.\"\n\"Max thought you might. He said, \"Our young whoremaster believes\nin the\nvalue of a personal response. You can tell that just looking at him.'\"\n\"He gets the uglies when he loses, doesn't he?\"\n\"Mr. Devore doesn't lose.\" Her voice dropped at least forty degrees\nand\nall the mocking good humor bailed out on the way down. \"He may\nchange\nhis goals, but he doesn't lose. You were the one who looked like a\nlosertonight, Mr. Noonan, paddling around and yelling out there in the\nlake.\nYou were scared, weren't you?\"\n\"Yes. Badly.\"\n\"You were right to be. I wonder if you know how lucky you are?\"\n\"May I tell you something?\"\n\"Of course, Mike--may I call you Mike?\"\n\"Why don't you just stick with Mr. Noonan.\nNow--are you listening?\"\n\"With bated breath.\"\n\"Your boss is old, he's nutty, and I suspect he's past the point where\nhe could effectively manage a Yahtzee scorecard, let alone a custody\nsuit. He was whipped a week ago.\"\n\"Do you have a point?\"\n\"As a matter of fact I do, so get it right: if either of you ever tries\nanything remotely like that again, I'll come after that old fuck and\njam\nhis snot-smeared oxygen mask so far up his ass he'll be able to\naerate\nhis lungs from the bottom. And if I see you on The Street, Ms.\nWhitmore,\nI'll use you for a shotput. Do you understand me?\" I stopped,\nbreathing\nhard, amazed and also rather disgusted with myself. If you had told\nmeI'd had such a speech in me, I would have scoffed. After a long\nsilence\nI said: \"Ms. Whitmore? Still there?\"\n\"I'm here,\" she said. I wanted her to be furious, but she actually\nsounded amused. \"Who has the uglies now, Mr. Noonan?\"\n\"I do,\" I said, \"and don't you forget it, you rock-throwing bitch.\"\n\"What is your answer to Mr. Devore?\"\n\"We have a deal. I shut up, the lawyers shut up, he gets out of\nMattie\nand Kyra's life. If, on the other hand, he continues to--\"\n\"I know, I know, you'll bore him and stroke him. I wonder how you'll\nfeel about all this a week from now, you arrogant, stupid creature?\"\nBefore I could reply--it was on the tip of my tongue to tell her that\neven at her best she still threw like a girl--she was gone.\nI stood there with the telephone in my hand for a few seconds, then\nhung\nit up. Was it a trick? It felt like a trick, but at the same time it\ndidn't. John needed to know about this. He hadn't left his parents'\nnumber on his answering machine, but Mattie had it. If I called her\nback, though, I'd be obligated to tell her what had just happened. It\nmight be a good idea to put off any further calls until tomorrow. To\nsleep on it.\nI stuck my hand in my pocket and damned near impaled it on the\nsteak\nknife hiding there. I'd forgotten all about it. I took it out, carried\nit back into the kitchen, and returned it to the drawer. Next I fishedout the aerosol can, turned to put it back on top of the fridge with\nits\nelderly brothers, then stopped. Inside the circle of fruit and\nvegetable\nmagnets was this:\nd go w 19n Had I done that myself?. Had I been so far into the\nzone, so\ntranced out, that I had put a mini-crossword on the refrigerator\nwithout\nremembering it? And if so, what did it mean?\nMaybe someone else put it up, I thought. One of my invisible\nroommates.\n\"Go down 19n,\" I said, reaching out and touching the letters. A\ncompass\nheading? Or maybe it meant Go 19 Down. That suggested\ncrosswords again.\nSometimes in a puzzle you get a clue which reads simply See 19\nAcross or\nSee 19 Down. If that was the meaning here, what puzzle was I\nsupposed to\ncheck?\n\"I could use a little help here,\" I said, but there was no answer--not\nfrom the astral plane, not from inside my own head. I finally got the\ncan of beer I'd been promising myself and took it back to the sofa. I\npicked up my %ugh Stuff crossword book and looked at the puzzle I\nwas\ncurrently working. \"Liquor Is Quicker,\" it was called, and it was filled\nwith the stupid puns which only crossword addicts find amusing.\nTipsy\nactor? Marion Brandy. Tipsy southern novel? Tequila Mockingbird.\nDrivesthe D.A. to drink? Bourbon of proof. And the definition of Down was\nOriental nurse, which every cruciverbalist in the universe knows is\namah. Nothing in \"Liquor Is Quicker\" connected to what was going\non in\nmy life, at least that I could see.\nI thumbed through some of the other puzzles in the book, looking at\n19\nDowns. Marble worker's tool (chisel). CNN's favorite howler, 2 wds\n(wolfblitzer). Ethanol and dimethyl ether, e.g. (isomers). I tossed the\nbook aside in disgust. Who said it had to be this particular crossword\ncollection, anyway? There were probably fifty others in the house,\nfour\nor five in the drawer of the very end-table on which my beer can\nstood.\nI leaned back on the sofa and closed my eyes.\nI always likeda whore.., sometimes theirplace was on my face. This\nis\nwhere good pups and vile dogs may walk side-by-side. There's no\ntown\ndrunk here, we all take turns. This is where it happened. Ayuh.\nI fell asleep and woke up three hours later with a stiff neck and a\nterrible throb in the back of my head. Thunder was rumbling thickly\nfar\noff in the White Mountains, and the house seemed very hot. When I\ngot up\nfrom the couch, the backs of my thighs more or less peeled away\nfrom the\nfabric. I shuffled down to the north wing like an old, old man, looked\nat my wet clothes, thought about taking them into the laundry room,\nand\nthen decided if I bent over that far, my head might explode.\"You ghosts take care of it,\" I muttered. \"If you can change the\npants\nand the underwear around on the whirligig, you can put my clothes\nin the\nhamper.\"\nI took three Tylenol and went to bed. At some point I woke a second\ntime\nand heard the phantom child sobbing.\n\"Stop,\" I told it. \"Stop it, Ki, no one's going to take you anywhere.\nYou're safe.\" Then I went back to sleep again.\nTe telephone was ringing. I climbed toward it from a drowning\ndream\nwhere I couldn't catch my breath, rising into early sunlight, wincing\nat\nthe pain in the back of my head as I swung my feet out of bed. The\nphone\nwould quit before I got to it, they almost always do in such\nsituations,\nand then I'd lie back down and spend a fruitless ten minutes\nwondering\nwho it had been before getting up for good. Ringgg...\nringgg... ringgg...\nWas that ten? A dozen? I'd lost count. Someone was really\ndedicated. I\nhoped it wasn't trouble, but in my experience people don't try that\nhard\nwhen the news is good. I touched my fingers gingerly to the back of\nmy\nhead. It hurt plenty, but that deep, sick ache seemed to be gone.And there was no blood on my fingers when I looked at them.\nI padded down the hall and picked up the phone. \"Hello?\"\n\"Well, you won't have to worry about testifyin at the kid's custody\nhearin anymore, at least.\"\n\"Bill?\"\n\"Ayuh.\"\n\"How did you know...\" I leaned around the corner and peered at the\n:\nwaggy, annoying cat-clock. Twenty minutes past seven and already\nsweltering. Hotter'n a bugger, as us TR Martians like to say. \"How do\nyou know he decided--\"\n\"I don't know nothing about his business one way or t'other.\" Bill\nsounded touchy. \"He never called to ask my advice, and I never\ncalled to\ngive him any.\"\n\"What's happened? What's going on?\"\n\"You haven't had the TV on yet?\"\n\"I don't even have the coffee on yet.\"\nNo apology from Bill; he was a fellow who believed that people who\ndidn't get up until after six a.M. deserved whatever they got. I was\nawake now, though. And had a pretty good idea of what was\ncoming.\n\"Devore killed himself last night, Mike. Got into a tub of warm waterand pulled a plastic bag over his head. Mustn't have taken long, with\nhis lungs the way they were.\"\nNo, I thought, probably not long. In spite of the humid summer heat\nthat\nalready lay on the house, I shivered. \"Who found him? The woman?\"\n\"Ayuh, sure.\"\n\"What time?\"\n\"\"Shortly before midnight,' they said on the Channel 6 news.\"\nRight around the time I had awakened on the couch and taken\nmyself\nstiffly off to bed, in other words.\n\"Is she implicated?\"\n\"Did she play Kevorkian, you mean? The news report I saw didn't\nsay\nnothin about that. The gossip-mill down to the Lakeview General will\nbe\nturnin brisk by now, but I ain't been down yet for my share of the\ngrain. If she helped him, I don't think she'll ever see trouble for it,\ndo you? He was eighty-five and not well.\"\n\"Do you know if he'll be buried on the TR?\"\n\"California. She said there'd be services in Palm Springs on Tuesday.\"\nA\nsense of surpassing oddness swept over me as I realized the source\nof\nMattie's problems might be lying in a chapel filled with flowers at the\nsame time The Friends of Kyra Devore were digesting their lunches\nandgetting ready to start throwing the Frisbee around. It's going to be a\ncele bration, I thought wonderingly. I don't know how they're going\nto\nhandle it in The Little Chapel of the Microchips in Palm Springs, but\non\nIrsp Hill Road they're going to be dancing and throwing their arms in\nthe sky and hollering I3s, Lawd. I'd never been glad to hear of\nanyone's\ndeath before in my life, but I was glad to hear ofdevore's. I was\nsorry\nto feel that way, but I did. The old bastard had dumped me in the\nlake.\n.. but before the night was over, he was the one who had drowned.\nInside a plastic bag he had drowned, sitting in a tub of tepid water.\n\"Any idea how the TV guys got onto it so fast?\" It wasn't superfast,\nnot\nwith seven hours between the discovery of the body and the seven\no'clock\nnews, but TV news people have a tendency to be lazy. \"Whitmore\ncalled\nem. Had a press conference right there in Warrin'-ton's parlor at two\no'clock this morning. Took questions settin on that big maroon plush\nsofa, the one Jo always used to say should be in a saloon oil paintin\nwith a naked woman lyin on it. Remember?\"\n\"Yeah.\"\n\"I saw a coupla County deputies walkin around in the background,\nplus a\nfella I reckonized from Jaquard's Funeral Home in Motton.\"\n\"That's bizarre,\" I said. \"Ayuh, body still upstairs, most likely, whileWhitmore was runnin her gums. .. but she claimed she was just\nfollowin\nthe boss's orders. Said he left a tape sayin he'd done it on Friday\nnight so as not to affect the cump'ny stock price and wanted Rogette\nto\ncall in the press right off and assure folks that the cump'ny was\nsolid,\nthat between his son and the Board of Directors, everythin was\ngoing to\nbe just acey-deucey. Then she told about the services in Palm\nSprings.\"\n\"He commits suicide, then holds a two A.M. press conference by\nproxy to\nsoothe the stockholders.\"\n\"Ayuh.\nAnd it sounds just like him.\" A silence fell between us on the line. I\ntried to think and couldn't. All I knew was that I wanted to go\nupstairs\nand work, aching head or no aching head. I wanted to rejoin Andy\nDrake,\nJohn Shackleford, and Shackleford's childhood friend, the awful Ray\nGarraty. There was madness in my story, but it was a madness I\nunderstood.\n\"Bill,\" I said at last, \"are we still friends?\"\n\"Christ, yes,\" he said promptly. \"But if there's people around who\nseem\na little stand-offy to you, you'll know why, won't you?\" Sure I'd\nknow.\nMany would blame the old man's death on me. It was crazy, given\nhisphysical condition, and it would by no means be a majority opinion,\nbut\nthe idea would gain a certain amount of credence, at least in the\nshort\nrun--I knew that as well as I knew the truth about John\nShackleford's\nchildhood friend.\nKiddies, once upon a time there was a goose that flew back to the\nlittle\nunincorporated township where it had lived as a downy gosling. It\nbegan\nlaying lovely golden eggs, and the townsfolk all gathered around to\nmarvel and receive their share. Now, however, that goose was\ncooked and\nsomeone had to take the heat. I'd get some, but Mattie's kitchen\nmight\nget a few degrees toastier than mine; she'd had the temerity to fight\nfor her child instead of silently handing Ki over. \"Keep your head\ndown\nthe next few weeks,\" Bill said. \"That'd be my idea. In fact, if you had\nbusiness that took you right out of the TR until all this settles down,\nthat might be for the best.\"\n\"I appreciate the sense of what you're saying, but I can't. I'm writing\na book. If I pick up my shit and move, it's apt to die on me. It's\nhappened before, and I don't want it to happen this time.\"\n\"Pretty good yarn, is it?\"\n\"Not bad, but that's not the important thing. It's... well, let's just\nsay this one's important to me for other reasons.\"\n\"Wouldn't it travel as far as Derry?\"\n\"Are you trying to get rid of me, William?\"\"I'm tryin to keep an eye out, that's all--caretakin's my job, y'know.\nAnd don't say you weren't warned: the hive's gonna buzz. There's\ntwo\nstories going around about you, Mike. One is that you're shacking\nwith\nMattie Devore. The other is that you came back to write a hatchet-\njob on\nthe TR. Pull out all the old skeletons you can find.\"\n\"Finish what Jo started, in other words. Who's been spreading that\nstory, Bill?\" Silence from Bill. We were back on earthquake ground\nagain, and this time that ground felt shakier than ever.\n\"The book I'm working on is a novel,\" I said. \"Set in Florida.\"\n\"Oh, ayuh?\" You wouldn't think three little syllables could have so\nmuch\nrelief in them. \"Think you could kind of pass that around?\"\n\"I think I could,\" he said. \"If you tell Brenda Meserve, it'd get around\neven faster and go even farther.\"\n\"Okay, I will. As far as Mattie goes--\"\n\"Mike, you don't have to\"\n\"I'm not shacking with her. That was never the deal. The deal was\nlike\nwalking down the street, turning the corner, and seeing a big guy\nbeating up a little guy.\" I paused. \"She and her lawyer are planning\na\nbarbecue at her place Tuesday noon. I'm planning to join them. Are\npeople from town going to think we're dancing on Devore's grave?\"\n\"Some will. Royce Merrill will. Dickie Brooks will. Old ladies in pants,Yvette calls em.\"\n\"Well fuck them,\" I said. \"Every last one.\"\n\"I understand how you feel, but tell her not to shove it in folks'\nfaces,\" he almost pleaded. \"Do that much, Mike. It wouldn't kill her\nto\ndrag her grill around back of her trailer, would it? At least with it\nthere, folks lookin out from the store or the garage wouldn't see\nnothing but the smoke.\"\n\"I'll pass on the message. And if I make the party, I'll put the\nbarbecue around back myself.\"\n\"You'd do well to stay away from that girl and her child,\" Bill said.\n\"You can tell me it's none of my business, but I'm talkin to you like a\nDutch uncle, tellin you for your own good.\" I had a flash of my\ndream\nthen. The slick, exquisite tightness as I slipped inside her. The little\nbreasts with their hard nipples. Her voice in the darkness, telling me\nto do what I wanted. My body responded almost instantly. \"I know\nyou\nare,\" I said.\n'2kll right.\" He sounded relieved that I wasn't going to scold him--\ntake\nhim to school, he would have said. \"I'll let you go n have your\nbreakfast.\"\n\"I appreciate you calling.\"\n\"Almost didn't. Yvette talked me into it. She said, \"You always liked\nMike and Jo Noonan best of all the ones you did for. Don't you get in\nbad with him now that he's back home.'\"\"Tell her I appreciate it,\" I said. I hung up the phone and looked at it\nthoughtfully. We seemed to be on good terms again.., but I didn't\nthink\nwe were exactly friends.\nCertainly not the way we had been. That had changed when I\nrealized Bill\nwas lying to me about some things and holding back about others; it\nhad\nalso changed when I realized what he had almost called Sara and\nthe\nRed-Tops. You can't condemn a manor what may only be a figment\nof your\nown imagination. True, and I'd try not to do it... but I knew what I\nknew. I went into the living room, snapped on the TV, then snapped\nit\noff again. My satellite dish got fifty or sixty different channels, and\nnot a one of them local. There was a portable TV in the kitchen,\nhowever, and if I dipped its rabbit-ears toward the lake I'd be able to\nget WMTW, the ABC affiliate in western Maine. I snatched up\nRogette's\nnote, went into the kitchen, and turned on the little Sony tucked\nunder\nthe cabinets with the coffee-maker. Good Morning America was on,\nbut\nthey would be breaking for the local news soon. In the meantime I\nscanned the note, this time concentrating on the mode of expression\nrather than the message, which had taken all of my attention the\nnight\nbefore. Hopes to return to Calij3rnia by private jet very soon, she\nhad\nwritten. Has business which can beput off no longer, she had\nwritten. If\nyou promise to let him rest in peace, she had written. It was a\ngoddam\nsuicide note. \"You knew,\" I said, rubbing my thumb over the raisedletters of her name. \"You knew when you wrote this, and probably\nwhen\nyou were chucking rocks at me. But why?\" Custody has its\nresponsibilities, she had written. Don't jrget he said so. But the\ncustody business was over, right? Not even a judge that was bought\nand\npaid for could award custody to a dead man. GMA finally gave way\nto the\nlocal report, where Max Devore's suicide was the leader. The TV\npicture\nwas snowy, but I could see the maroon sofa Bill had mentioned, and\nRogette Whitmore sitting on it with her hands folded composedly in\nher\nlap. I thought one of the deputies in the background was George\nFootman,\nalthough the snow was too heavy for me to be completely sure. Mr.\nDevore\nhad spoken frequently over the last eight months of ending his life,\nWhitmore said. He had been very unwell.\nHe had asked her to come out with him the previous evening, and\nshe\nrealized now that he had wanted to look at one final sunset. It had\nbeen\na glorious one, too, she added. I could have corroborated that; I\nremembered the sunset very well, having almost drowned by its\nlight.\nRogette was reading Devore's statement when my phone rang\nagain. It was\nMattie, and she was crying in hard gusts. \"The news,\" she said,\n\"Mike,\ndid you see.., do you know...\" At first that was all she could manage\nthat was coherent. I told her I did know, Bill Dean had called me and\nthen I'd caught some of it on the local news. She tried to reply and\ncouldn't speak. Guilt, relief, horror, even hilarity--I heard all thosethings in her crying. I asked where Ki was. I could sympathize with\nhow\nMattie felt--until turning on the news this morning she'd believed old\nMax Devore was her bitterest enemy--but I didn't like the idea of a\nthree-year-old girl watching her mom fall apart. \"Out back,\" she\nmanaged. \"She's had her breakfast. Now she's having a d-doll p-p-\np..,\ndoll pi-p-pic--\"\n\"Doll picnic. Yes. Good. Let it go, then. All of it.\nLet it out.\" She cried for two minutes at least, maybe longer. I stood\nwith the telephone pressed to my ear, sweating in the July heat,\ntrying\nto be patient. I'm going to give you one chance to save your soul,\nDevore had told me, but this morning he was dead and his soul was\nwherever it was. He was dead, Mattie was free, I was writing. Life\nshould have felt wonderful, but it didn't. At last she began to get her\ncontrol back. \"I'm sorry. I haven't cried like that--really, really\ncried--since Lance died.\"\n\"It's understandable and you're allowed.\"\n\"Come to lunch,\" she said. \"Come to lunch please, Mike. Ki's going\nto\nspend the afternoon with a friend she met at Vacation Bible School,\nand\nwe can talk. I need to talk to someone... God, my head is spinning.\nPlease say you'll come.\"\n\"I'd love to, but it's a bad idea. Especially with Ki gone.\" I gave her\nan edited version of my conversation with Bill Dean. She listened\ncarefully. I thought there might be an angry outburst when I\nfinished,but I'd forgotten one simple fact: Mattie Stanchfield Devore had\nlived\naround here all her life. She knew how things worked.\n\"I understand that things will heal quicker if I keep my eyes down,\nmy\nmouth shut, and my knees together,\" she said, \"and I'll do my best\nto go\nalong, but diplomacy only stretches so far. That old man was trying\nto\ntake my daughter away, don't they realize that down at the goddam\ngeneral store?\"\n\"I realize it.\"\n\"I know. That's why I wanted to talk to you.\"\n\"What if we had an early supper on the Castle Rock common? Same\nplace as\nFriday? Say five-ish?\"\n\"I'd have to bring Ki--\"\n\"Fine,\" I said.\n\"Bring her. Tell her I know \"Hansel and Gretel' by heart and am\nwilling\nto share. Will you call John in Philly? Give him the details?\"\n\"Yes.\nI'll wait another hour or so. God, I'm so happy. I know that's wrong,\nbut I'm so happy I could burst!\"\n\"That makes two of us.\" There was a pause on the other end. I\nheard along, watery intake of breath.\n\"Mattie? All right?\"\n\"Yes, but how do you tell a three-year-old her grandfather died?\" ll\nher\nthe old fuck slipped and jll headfirst into a Glad Bag, I thought, then\npressed the back of my hand against my mouth to stifle a spate of\nlunatic cackles. \"I don't know, but you'll have to do it as soon as she\ncomes in.\"\n\"I will? Why?\"\n\"Because she's going to see you. She's going to see your face.\"\nI lasted exactly two hours in the upstairs study, and then the heat\ndrove me out--the thermometer on the stoop read ninety-five\ndegrees at\nten o'clock. I guessed it might be five degrees warmer on the\nsecond\nfloor.\nHoping I wasn't making a mistake, I unplugged the IBM and carried\nit\ndownstairs. I was working without a shirt, and as I crossed the\nliving\nroom, the back of the typewriter slipped in the sweat coating my\nmidriff\nand I almost dropped the outdated sonofabitch on my toes. That\nmade me\nthink of my ankle, the one I'd hurt when I fell into the lake, and I\nset\nthe typewriter aside to look at it. It was colorful, black and purple\nand reddish at the edges, but not terribly inflated. I guessed my\nimmersion in the cool water had helped keep the swelling down. I\nput thetypewriter on the deck table, rummaged out an extension cord,\nplugged in\nbeneath Bunter's watchful eye, and sat down facing the hazy blue-\ngray\nsurface of the lake. I waited for one of my old anxiety attacks to\nhit--the clenched stomach, the throbbing eyes, and, worst of all,\nthat\nsensation of invisible steel bands clamped around my chest, making\nit\nimpossible to breathe. Nothing like that happened. The words flowed\nas\neasily down here as they had upstairs, and my naked upper body\nwas\nloving the little breeze that puffed in off the lake every now and\nagain. I forgot about Max Devore, Mattie Devore, Kyra Devore. I\nforgot\nabout Jo Noonan and Sara Tidwell. I forgot about myself. For two\nhours I\nwas back in Florida. John Shackleford's execution was nearing. Andy\nDrake was racing the clock. It was the telephone that brought me\nback,\nand for once I didn't resent interruption. If undisturbed, I might\nhave\ngone on writing until I simply melted into a sweaty pile of goo on\nthe\ndeck. It was my brother. We talked about Mom--in Siddy's opinion\nshe was\nnow short an entire roof instead of just a few shingles--and her\nsister,\nFrancine, who had broken her hip in June. Sid wanted to know how I\nwas\ndoing, and I told him I was doing all right, I'd had some problems\ngetting going on a new book but now seemed to be back on track\n(in my\nfamily, the only permissible time to discuss trouble is when it's\nover).And how was the Sidster? Kickin, he said, which I assumed meant\njust\nfine--Siddy has a twelve-year-old, and consequently his slang is\nalways\nup-to-date. The new accounting business was starting to take hold,\nalthough he'd been scared for awhile (first I knew of it, of course).\nHe\ncould never thank me enough for the bridge loan I'd made him last\nNovember. I replied that it was the least I could do, which was the\nabsolute truth, especially when I considered how much more time--\nboth in\nperson and on the phone--he spent with our mother than I did.\n\"Well,\nI'll let you go,\" Siddy told me after a few more pleasantries--he\nnever\nsays goodbye or so long when he's on the phone, it's always well, I'll\nletyou go, as if he's been holding you hostage. \"You want to keep\ncool\nup there, Mike--Weather Channel says it's going to be hotter than\nhell\nin New England all weekend.\"\n\"There's always the lake if things get too bad. Hey Sid?\"\n\"Hey what?\" Like I'll let you go, Hey what went back to childhood. It\nwas sort of comforting; it was also sort of spooky. \"Our folks all\ncame\nfrom Prout's Neck, right? I mean on Daddy's side.\" Mom came from\nanother\nworld entirely--one where the men wear Lacoste polo shirts, the\nwomen\nalways wear full slips under their dresses, and everyone knows the\nsecond verse of \"Dixie\" by heart. She had met my dad in Portland\nwhile\ncompeting in a college cheerleading event.Materfamilias came from Memphis quality, darling, and didn't let you\nforget it. \"I guess so,\" he said. \"Yeah. But don't go asking me a lot\nof\nfamily-tree questions, Mike--I'm still not sure what the difference is\nbetween a nephew and a cousin, and I told Jo the same thing.\"\n\"Did you?\"\nEverything inside me had gone very still.., but I can't say I was\nsurprised. Not by then. \"Uh-huh, you bet.\"\n\"What did she want to know?\"\n\"Everything I knew. Which isn't much. I could have told her all about\nMa's great-great-grandfather, the one who got killed by the Indians,\nbut\nJo didn't seem to care about any of Ma's folks.\"\n\"When would this have been?\"\n\"Does it matter?\"\n\"It might.\"\n\"Okay, let's see. I think it was around the time Patrick had his\nappendectomy. Yeah, I'm sure it was. February of '94. It might have\nbeen\nMarch, but I'm pretty sure it was February.\" Six months from the\nRite\nAid parking lot. Jo moving into the shadow of her own death like a\nwoman\nstepping beneath the shade of an awning. Not pregnant, though,\nnot yet.\nJo making day-trips to the TR. Jo asking questions, some of the sortthat made people feel bad, according to Bill Dean. .. but she'd gone\non\nasking just the same. Yeah. Because once she got onto something,\nJo was\nlike a terrier with a rag in its jaws. Had she been asking questions of\nthe man in the brown sport-coat?\nWho was the man in the brown sportcoat?\n\"Pat was in the hospital, sure. Dr. Alpert said he was doing fine, but\nwhen the phone rang I jumped for it--I half-expected it to be him,\nAlpert, saying Pat had had a relapse or something.\"\n\"Where in God's name did you get this sense of impending doom,\nSid?\"\n\"I dunno, buddy, but it's there. Anyway, it's not Alpert, it's Johanna.\nShe wants to know if we had any ancestors--three, maybe even four\ngenerations back who lived there where you are, or in one of the\nsurrounding towns. I told her I didn't know, but you might. Know, I\nmean. She said she didn't want to ask you because it was a surprise.\nWas\nit a surprise?\"\n\"A big one,\" I said. \"Daddy was a lobsterman--\"\n\"Bite your tongue, he was an artist--'a seacoast primitive.' Ma still\ncalls him that.\" Siddy wasn't quite laughing.\n\"Shit, he sold lobster-pot coffee-tables and lawn-puffins to the\ntourists when he got too rheumatic to go out on the bay and haul\ntraps.\"\n\"I know that, but Ma's got her marriage edited like a movie for\ntelevision.''How true. Our own version of Blanche Du Bois. \"Dad was a lobster-\nman in\nProut's Neck. He--\"\nSiddy interrupted, singing the first verse of \"Papa Was a Rollin'\nStone\"\nin a horrible offkey tenor.\n\"Come on, this is serious. He had his first boat from his father,\nright?\"\n\"That's the story,\" Sid agreed. \"Jack Noonan's Lazy Betty, original\nowner Paul Noonan. Also of Prout's. Boat took a hell of a pasting in\nHurricane Donna, back in 1960. I think it was Donna.\"\nTwo years after I was born. \"And Daddy put it up for sale in '63.\"\n\"Yep.\nI don't know whatever became of it, but it was Grampy Paul's to\nbegin\nwith, all right. Do you remember all the lobster stew we ate when\nwe\nwere kids, Mikey?\"\n\"Seacoast meatloaf,\" I said, hardly thinking about it. Like most kids\nraised on the coast of Maine, I can't imagine ordering lobster in a\nrestau-rant-that's for fiatlanders. I was thinking about Grampy Paul,\nwho had been born in the 1890s. Paul Noonan begat Jack Noonan,\nJack\nNoonan begat Mike and Sid Noonan, and that was really all I knew,\nexcept\nthe Noonans had all grown up a long way from where I now stood\nsweating\nmy brains out.They shit in the same pit.\nDevore had gotten it wrong, that was all--when we Noonans weren't\nwearing polo shirts and being Memphis quality, we were Prout's\nNeckers.\nIt was unlikely that Devore's great-grandfather and my own would\nhave\nhad anything to do with each other in any case; the old rip had been\ntwice my age, and that meant the generations didn't match up.\nBut if he had been totally wrong, what had Jo been on about?\n\"Mike?\" Sid\nasked. \"Are you there?\"\n\"Yeah.\"\n\"Are you okay? You don't sound so great, I have to tell you.\"\n\"It's the heat,\" I said. \"Not to mention your sense of impending\ndoom.\nThanks for calling, Siddy.\"\n\"Thanks for being there, brother.\"\n\"Kickin,\" I said.\nI went out to the kitchen to get a glass of cold water. As I was filling\nit, I heard the magnets on the fridge begin sliding around. I whirled,\nspilling some of the water on my bare feet and hardly noticing. I was\nas\nexcited as a kid who thinks he may glimpse Santa Claus before he\nshoots\nback up the chimney.I was barely in time to see nine plastic letters drawn into the circle\nfrom all points of the compass. CARLADEAN, they spelled. .. but\nonly\nfor a second. Some presence, tremendous but unseen, shot past\nme. Not a\nhair on my head stirred, but there was still a strong sense of being\nbuffeted, the way you're buffeted by the air of a passing express\ntrain\nif you're standing near the platform yellow-line when the train bolts\nthrough. I cried out in surprise and groped my glass of water back\nonto\nthe counter, spilling it. I no longer felt in need of cold water,because the temperature in the kitchen of Sara Laughs had dropped\noff\nthe table.\nI blew out my breath and saw vapor, as you do on a cold day in\nJanuary.\nOne puff, maybe two, and it was gone--but it had been there, all\nright,\nand for perhaps five seconds the film of sweat on my body turned to\nwhat\nfelt like a slime of ice.\nCARLADEAN exploded outward in all directions--it was like watching\nan\natom being smashed in a cartoon. Magnetized letters, fruits, and\nvegetables flew off the front of the refrigerator and scattered across\nthe kitchen. For a moment the fury which fuelled that scattering was\nsomething I could almost taste, like gunpowder.\nAnd something gave way before it, going with a sighing, rueful\nwhisper I\nhad heard before: \"Oh Mike. Oh Mike.\" It was the voice I'd caught\non the\nMemo-Scriber tape, and although I hadn't been sure then, I was\nnow--it\nwas Jo's voice.\nBut who was the other one? Why had it scattered the letters?\nCarla Dean. Not Bill's wife; that was Yvette. His mother? His\ngrandmother?\nI walked slowly through the kitchen, collecting fridge-magnets like\nprizes in a scavenger hunt and sticking them back on the Kenmore\nby thehandful. Nothing snatched them out of my hands; nothing froze the\nsweat\non the back of my neck; Bunter's bell didn't ring. Still, I wasn't\nalone, and I knew it.\nCARLADEAN: Jo had wanted me to know.\nSomething else hadn't. Something else had shot past me like the\nWabash\nCannonball, trying to scatter the letters before I could read them.\nJo was here; a boy who wept in the night was here, too.\nAnd what else?\nWhat else was sharing my house with me?\nI didn't see them at first, which wasn't surprising; it seemed that half\nof Castle Rock was on the town common as that sultry Saturday\nafternoon\nedged on toward evening. The air was bright with hazy midsummer\nlight,\nand in it kids swarmed over the playground equipment, a number of\nold\nmen in bright red vests--some sort of club, I assumed--played chess,\nand\na group of young people lay on the grass listening to a teenager in a\nheadband playing the guitar and singing one I remembered from an\nold lan\nand Sylvia record, a cheery tune that went \"Ella Speed was havin\nher.\nlovin fun, John Martin shot Ella with a Colt jrty-one...\"\nI saw no joggers, and no dogs chasing Frisbees. It was just too god-\ndam\nhot.I was turning to look at the bandshell, where an eight-man combo\ncalled\nThe Castle Rockers was setting up (I had an idea \"In the Mood\"\n33o was about as close as they got to rock and roll), when a small\nperson hit me from behind, grabbing me just above the knees and\nalmost\ndumping me on the grass. \"Gotcha!\" the small person cried gleefully.\n\"Kyra Devore!\" Mattie called, sounding both amused and irritated.\n\"You'll knock him down!\" I turned, dropped the grease-spotted\nMcdonald's\nbag I had been carrying, and lifted the kid up. It felt natural, and it\nfelt wonderful. You don't realize the weight of a healthy child until\nyou hold one, nor do you fully comprehend the life that runs through\nthem like a bright wire. I didn't get choked up (\"Don't go all corny\non\nme, Mike,\" Siddy would sometimes whisper when we were kids at\nthe movies\nand I got wet-eyed at a sad part), but I thought of Jo, yes. And the\nchild she had been carrying when she fell down in that stupid\nparking\nlot, yes to that, too. Ki was squealing and laughing, her arms\noutspread\nand her hair hanging down in two amusing clumps accented by\nRaggedy Ann\nand Andy barrettes. \"Don't tackle your own quarterback!\" I yelled,\ngrinning, and to my delight she yelled it right back at me: \"Don't\ntaggle yer own quarter-mack! Don't taggle yer own quartermack!\" I\nset\nher on her feet, both of us laughing. Ki took a step backward,\ntripped\nherself, and sat down on the grass, laughing harder than ever. I had\na\nmean thought, then, brief but oh so clear: if only the old lizard couldsee how much he was missed. How sad we were at his passing.\nMattie\nwalked over, and tonight she looked as I'd half-imagined her when I\nfirst met her--like one of those lovely children of privilege you see at\nthe country club, either goofing with their friends or sitting seriously\nat dinner with their parents. She was in a white sleeveless dress and\nlow heels, her hair falling loose around her shoulders, a touch of\nlipstick on her mouth. Her eyes had a brilliance in them that hadn't\nbeen there before.\nWhen she hugged me I could smell her perfume and feel the press\nof her\nfirm little breasts. I kissed her cheek; she kissed me high up on the\njaw, making a smack in my ear that I felt all the way down my back.\n\"Say\nthings are going to be better now,\" she whispered, still holding me.\n\"Lots better now,\" I said, and she hugged me again, tight. Then she\nstepped away \"You better have brought plenty food, big boy,\nbecause we\nplenty hungry womens. Right, Kyra?\"\n\"I taggled my own quartermack,\" Ki said, then leaned back on her\nelbows,\ngiggling deliciously at the bright and hazy sky. \"Come on,\" I said,\nand\ngrabbed her by the middle I toted her that way to a nearby picnic\ntable,\nKi kicking her legs and waving her arms and laughing I set her down\non\nthe bench; she slid off it and beneath the table, boneless as an eel\nand\nstill laughing '?dl right, Kyra Elizabeth,\" Mattie said. \"Sit up and\nshow the other side\"\"Good girl, good girl,\" she said, clambering up beside me. \"That's\nthe\nother side to me, Mike\"\n\"I'm sure,\" I said. Inside the bag there were Big Macs and fries for\nMattie and me. For Ki there was a colorful box upon which Ronald\nMcdonald and his unindicted co-conspirators capered \"Mattie, I got a\nHappy Meal! Mike got me a Happy Meal! They have toys!\"\n\"Well see what yours is.\" Kyra opened the box, poked around, then\nsmiled\nIt lit up her whole face She brought out something that I at first\nthought was a big dust-ball For one horrible second I was back in\nmy\ndream, the one of Jo under the bed with the book over her face Give\nme\nthat, she had snarled It's my dust-catcher. And something else,\ntoo--some other association, perhaps from some other dream I\ncouldn't\nget hold of it. \"Mike?\" Mattie asked Curiosity in her voice, and maybe\nborderline concern. \"It's a doggy!\" Ki said \"I won a doggy in my\nHappy\nMeal!\" Yes; of course A dog. A little stuffed dog. And it was gray, not\nblack .. although why I'd care about the color either way I didn't\nknow.\n\"That's a pretty good prize,\" I said, taking it. It was soft, which was\ngood, and it was gray, which was better Being gray made it all right,\nsomehow Crazy but true I handed it back to her and smiled. \"What's\nhis\nname?\" Ki asked, jumping the little dog back and forth across her\nHappy\nMeal box. \"What doggy's name, Mike?\" And, without thinking, I said,\n\"Strickland.\"\nI thought she'd look puzzled, but she didn't. She looked delighted.\"Stricken!\" she said, bouncing the dog back and forth in ever-higher\nleaps over the box. \"Stricken! Stricken! My dog Stricken!\"\n\"Who's this guy Strickland?\" Mattie asked, smiling a little. She had\nbegun to unwrap her hamburger.\n'5 character in a book I read once,\" I said, watching Ki play with the\nlittle puffball dog. \"No one real.\"\n\"My grampa died,\" she said five minutes later.\nWe were still at the picnic table but the food was mostly gone.\nStrick-land the stuffed puffball had been set to guard the remaining\nfrench fries. I had been scanning the ebb and flow of people,\nwondering\nwho was here from the TR observing our tryst and simply burning to\ncarry\nthe news back home. I saw no one I knew, but that didn't mean a\nwhole\ntot, considering how long I'd been away from this part of the world.\nMattie put down her burger and looked at Ki with some anxiety, but\nI\nthought the kid was okay--she had been giving news, not expressing\ngrief.\n\"I know he did,\" I said.\n\"Grampa was awful old.\" Ki pinched a couple of french fries between\nher\npudgy little fingers. They rose to her mouth, then gloop, all gone.\n\"He's with Lord Jesus now. We had all about Lord Jesus in V.B.S.\"I3s, Ki, I thought, right now Grampy's probably teaching Lord Jesus\nhow\nto use Pixel Easel and asking if there might be a whore handy.\n\"Lord Jesus walked on water and also changed the wine into\nmacaroni.\"\n\"Yes, something like that,\" I said. \"It's sad when people die, isn't\nit?\"\n\"It would be sad if Mattie died, and it would be sad if you died, but\nGrampy was old.\" She said it as though I hadn't quite grasped this\ncon\ncept the first time. \"In heaven he'll get all fixed up.\"\n\"That's a good way to look at it, hon,\" I said.\nMattie did maintenance on Ki's drooping barrettes, working carefully\nand\nwith a kind of absent love. I thought she glowed in the summer\nlight,\nher skin in smooth, tanned contrast to the white dress she had\nprobably\nbought at one of the discount stores, and I understood that I loved\nher.\nMaybe that was all right.\n\"I miss the white nana, though,\" Ki said, and this time she did look\nsad. She picked up the stuffed dog, tried to feed him a french fry,\nthen\nput him down again. Her small, pretty face looked pensive now, and\nI\ncould see a whisper of her grandfather in it. It was far back but it\nwasthere, perceptible, another ghost. \"Mom says white nana went back\nto\nCalifornia with Grampy's early remains.\"\n\"Earthly remains, Ki-bird,\" Mattie said. \"That means his body.\"\n\"Will white nana come back and see me, Mike?\"\n\"I don't know.\"\n\"We had a game. It was all rhymes.\" She looked more pensive than\never.\n\"Your mom told me about that game,\" I said.\n\"She won't be back,\" Ki said, answering her own question. One very\nlarge\ntear rolled down her right cheek. She picked up \"Stricken,\" stood\nhim on\nhis back legs for a second, then put him back on guard-duty. Mattie\nslipped an arm around her, but Ki didn't seem to notice. \"White nana\ndidn't really like me. She was just pretending to like me. That was\nher\njob.\"\nMattie and I exchanged a glance.\n\"What makes you say that?\" I asked.\n\"Don't know,\" Ki said. Over by where the kid was playing the guitar,\na\njuggler in whiteface had started up, working with half a dozen\ncolored\nballs. Kyra brightened a little. \"Mommy-bommy, may I go watch that\nfunny\nwhite man?\"\"Are you done eating?\"\n\"Yeah, I'm full.\"\n\"Thank Mike.\"\n\"Don't taggle yer own quartermack,\" she said, then laughed kindly\nto\nshow she was just pulling my leg. \"Thanks, Mike.\"\n\"Not a problem,\" I said, and then, because that sounded a little\nold-fashioned: \"Kickin.\"\n\"You can go as far as that tree, but no farther,\" Mattie said. \"And you\nknow why.\"\n\"So you can see me. I will.\"\nShe grabbed Strickland and started to run off, then stopped and\nlooked\nover her shoulder at me. \"I guess it was the fridgeafator people,\"\nshe\nsaid, then corrected herself very carefully and seriously.\n\"The ree fridge-a-rator people.\" My heart took a hard double beat in\nmy\nchest. \"It was the refrigerator people what, Ki?\" I asked.\n\"That said white nana didn't really like me.\" Then she ran off toward\nthe juggler, oblivious to the heat.\nMattie watched her go, then turned back to me. \"I haven't talked to\nanybody about Ki's fridgeafator people. Neither has she, until now.\nNotthat there are any real people, but the letters seem to move around\nby\nthemselves. It's like a Ouija board.\"\n\"Do they spell things?\"\nFor a long time she said nothing. Then she nodded. \"Not always, but\nsometimes.\" Another pause. \"Most times, actually. Ki calls it mail\nfrom\nthe people in the refrigerator.\" She smiled, but her eyes were a little\nscared. \"Are they special magnetic letters, do you think? Or have we\ngot\na poltergeist working the lakefront?\"\n\"I don't know. I'm sorry I brought them, if they're a problem.\"\n\"Don't be silly. You gave them to her, and you're a tremendously big\ndeal to her right now. She talks about you all the time. She was\nmuch\nmore interested in picking out something pretty to wear for you\ntonight\nthan she was in her grandfather's death. I was supposed to wear\nsomething pretty, too, Kyra insisted. She's not that way about\npeople,\nusually--she takes them when they're there and leaves them when\nthey're\ngone. That's not such a bad way for a little girl to grow up, I\nsometimes think.\"\n\"You both dressed pretty,\" I said. \"That much I'm sure of.\"\n\"Thanks.\" She looked fondly at Ki, who stood by the tree watching\nthe\njuggler. He had put his rubber balls aside and moved on to Indian\nclubs.\nThen she looked back at me. \"Are we done eating?\"I nodded, and Mattie began to pick up the trash and stuff it back\ninto\nthe take-out bag. I helped, and when our fingers touched, she\ngripped my\nhand and squeezed. \"Thank you,\" she said. \"For everything you've\ndone.\nThank you so damn much.\"\nI squeezed back, then let go.\n\"You know,\" she said, \"it's crossed my mind that Kyra's moving the\nletters around herself. Mentally.\"\n\"Telekinesis?\"\n\"I guess that's the technical term. Only Ki can't spell much more\nthan\n'dog' and 'cat.'\"\n\"What's showing up on the fridge?\"\n\"Names, mostly. Once it was yours. Once it was your wife's.\"\n\"jo?\"\n\"The whole thing--JOHANNA. And NANA. Rogette, I presume. JARED\nshows up\nsometimes, and BRIDGET. Once there was KITO.\" She spelled it.\n\"Kito,\" I said, and thought: Kyra, Kia, Kito. What is this? \"A boy's\nname, do you think?\"\n\"I know it is. It's Swahili, and means precious child. I looked it up in\nmy baby-name book.\" She glanced toward her own precious child as\nwewalked across the grass to the nearest trash barrel.\n\"Any others that you can remember?\"\nShe thought. \"G has showed up a couple of times. And once there\nwas\nCARLA. You understand that Ki can't even read these names as a\nrule,\ndon't you? She has to ask me what they say.\"\n\"Has it occurred to you that Kyra might be copying them out of a\nbook or\na magazine? That she's learning to write using the magnetic letters\non\nthe fridge instead of paper and pencil?\"\n\"I suppose that's possible. .. \" She didn't look as if she believed it,\nthough. Not surprising. I didn't believe it myself.\n\"I mean, you've never actually seen the letters moving around by\nthemselves on the front of the fridge, have you?\" I hoped I sounded\nas\nunconcerned asking this question as I wanted to. She laughed a bit\nnervously. \"God, no!\"\n\"Anything else?\"\n\"Sometimes the fridgeafator people leave messages like HI and BYE\nand\nGOOD GIRL. There was one yesterday that I wrote down to show\nyou. Kyra\nasked me to. It's really weird.\"\n\"What is it?\"\n\"I'd rather show you, but I left it in the glove compartment of theScout. Remind me when we go.\"\nYes. I would.\n\"This is some spooky shit, segor,\" she said. \"Like the writing in the\nflour that time.\" I thought about telling her I had my own\nfridgeafator\npeople, then didn't. She had enough to worry about without that. ..\nor\nso I told myself. We stood side-by-side on the grass, watching Ki\nwatch\nthe juggler. \"Did you call John?\" I asked. \"You bet.\"\n\"His reaction?\"\nShe turned to me, laughing with her eyes. \"He actually sang a verse\nof\n\"Ding Dong, the Witch Is Dead.'\"\n\"Wrong sex, right sentiment.\" She nodded, her eyes going back to\nKyra. I\nthought again how beautiful she looked, her body slim in the white\ndress, her features clean and perfectly made. \"Was he pissed at me\ninviting myself to lunch?\" I asked.\n\"Nope, he loved the idea of having a party.\" A party. He loved the\nidea.\nI began to feel rather small. \"He even suggested we invite your\nlawyer\nfrom last Friday. Mr. Bis-sonette? Plus the private detective John\nhired\non Mr. Bissonette's recommendation. Is that okay with you?\"\n\"Fine. How about you, Mattie? Doing okay?\"\"Doing okay,\" she agreed, turning to me.\n\"I did have several more calls than usual today. I'm suddenly quite\npopular.\"\n\"Uh-oh.\"\n\"Most were hangups, but one gentleman took time enough to call\nme a\ncunt, and there was a lady with a very strong Yankee accent who\nsaid,\n\"Theah, you bitch, you've killed him. Aaa you satisfied?' She hung up\nbefore I could tell her yes, very satisfied, thanks.\" But Mattie didn't\nlook satisfied; she looked unhappy and guilty, as if she had literally\nwished him dead. \"I'm sorry.\"\n\"It's okay. Really. Kyra and I have been alone for a long time, and\nI've\nbeen scared for most of it. Now I've made a couple of friends. If a\nfew\nanonymous phone calls are the price I have to pay, I'll pay it.\"\nShe was very close, looking up at me, and I couldn't stop myself. I\nput\nthe blame on summer, her perfume, and four years without a\nwoman. In\nthat order, i slipped my arms around her waist, and remember\nperfectly\nthe texture of her dress beneath my hands; the slight pucker at the\nback\nwhere the zipper hid in its sleeve. I remember the sensation of the\ncloth moving against the bare skin beneath. Then I was kissing her,\nvery\ngently but very thoroughly--anything worth doing is worth doing\nright--and she was kissing me back in exactly the same spirit, her\nmouthcurious but not afraid. Her lips were warm and smooth and held\nsome\nfaint sweet taste. Peaches, I think. We stopped at the same time\nand\npulled back a little from each other. Her hands were still on my\nshoulders. Mine were on the sides of her waist, just above her hips.\nHer\nface was composed enough, but her eyes were more brilliant than\never,\nand there were slants of color in her cheeks, rising along the\ncheekbones. \"Oh boy,\" she said. \"I really wanted that. Ever since Ki\ntackled you and you picked her up I've wanted ir.\"\n\"John wouldn't think much of us kissing in public,\" I said. My voice\nwasn't quite even, and my heart was racing. Seven seconds, one\nkiss, and\nevery system in my body was red-lining. \"In fact, John wouldn't\nthink\nmuch of us kissing at all. He fancies you, you know.\"\n\"I know, but I fancy you.\" She turned to check on Ki, who was still\nstanding obediently by the tree, watching the juggler. Who might be\nwatching us? Someone who had come over from the TR on a hot\nsummer\nevening to get ice cream at Frank's Tas-T-Freeze and enjoy a little\nmusic and society on the common? Someone who traded for fresh\nvegetables\nand fresh gossip at the Lakeview General? A regular at the All-\nPurpose\nGarage? This was insanity, and it stayed insanity no matter how you\ncut\nit. I dropped my hands from her waist. \"Mattie, they could put our\npicture next to 'indiscreet' in the dictionary.\" She took her hands\noffmy shoulders and stepped back a pace, but her brilliant eyes\nnever\nleft mine. \"I know that. I'm young but not entirely stupid.\"\"I didn't mean--\" She held up a hand to stop me. \"Ki goes to bed\naround\nnine--she can't seem to sleep until it's mostly dark. I stay up later.\nCome and visit me, if you want to. You can park around back.\" She\nsmiled\na little. It was a sweet smile; it was also incredibly sexy. \"Once the\nmoon's down, that's an area of discretion.\"\n\"Mattie, you're young enough to be my daughter.\"\n\"Maybe, but I'm not. And sometimes people can be too discreet for\ntheir\nown good.\"\nMy body knew so emphatically what it wanted. If we had been in\nher\ntrailer at that moment it would have been no contest. It was almost\nno\ncontest anyway. Then something recurred to me, something I'd\nthought\nabout Devore's ancestors and my own: the generations didn't match\nup.\nWasn't the same thing true here? And I don't believe that people\nautomatically have a right to what they want, no matter how badly\nthey\nwant it. Not every thirst should be slaked. Some things are just\nwrong--I guess that's what I'm trying to say. But I wasn't sure this\nwas\none of them, and I wanted her, all right. So much. I kept thinking\nabout\nhow her dress had slid when I put my arms around her waist, the\nwarm\nfeel of her skin just beneath. And no, she wasn't my daughter.\"You said your thanks,\" I told her in a dry voice. \"And that's enough.\nReally.\"\n\"You think this is gratitude?\" She voiced a low, tense laugh. \"You're\nforty, Mike, not eighty. You're not Harrison Ford, but you're a\ngood-looking man. Talented and interesting, too. And I like you such\nan\nawful lot. I want you to be with me. Do you want me to say please?\nFine.\nPlease be with me.\"\nYes, this was about more than gratitude--I suppose I'd known that\neven\nwhen I was using the word. I'd known she was wearing white shorts\nand a\nhalter top when she called on the phone the day I went back to\nwork. Had\nshe also known what I was wearing? Had she dreamed she was in\nbed with\nme, the two of us screwing our brains out while the party lights\nshone\nand Sara Tidwell played her version of the white nana rhyming\ngame, all\nthat crazy Manderley-sanderley-canderley stuff?. Had Mattie\ndreamed of\ntelling me to do what she wanted?\nAnd there were the fridgeafator people. They were another kind of\nsharing, an even spookier kind. I hadn't quite had nerve enough to\ntell\nMattie about mine, but she might know anyway. Down low in her\nmind. Down\nbelow in her mind, where the blue-collar guys moved around in the\nzone.Her guys and my guys, all part of the same strange labor union. And\nmaybe it wasn't an issue of morality per se at all. Some thing about\nit--about us--just felt dangerous.\nAnd oh so attractive.\n\"I need time to think,\" I said.\n\"This isn't about what you think. What do youj%/for me?\"\n\"So much it scares me.\"\nBefore I could say anything else, my ears caught a familiar series of\nchord-changes. I turned toward the kid with the guitar. He had been\nworking through a repertoire of early Dylan, but now he swung into\nsomething chuggy and up-tempo, something that made you want to\ngrin and\npat your hands together.\n\"Do you want to go fishin here in my fishin hole?\nSaid do you want to fish some, honey, here in my fishin hole?\nYou want to fish in my pond, baby, you better have a big long pole.\"\n\"Fishin Blues.\" Written by Sara Tidwell, originally performed by Sara\nand the Red-Top Boys, covered by everyone from Ma Rainey to the\nLovin'\nSpoonful. The raunchy ones had been her specialty, double-entendre\nso\nthin you could read a newspaper through it. .. although reading\nhadn't\nbeen Sara's main interest, judging by her lyrics.Before the kid could go on to the next verse, something about how\nyou\ngot to wiggle when you wobble and get that big one way down\ndeep, The\nCastle Rockers ran off a brass flourish that said \"Shut up, everybody,\nwe're comin atcha.\" The kid quit playing his guitar; the juggler\nbegan\ncatching his Indian clubs and dropping them swiftly onto the grass in\na\nline. The Rockers launched themselves into an extremely evil Sousa\nmarch, music to commit serial murders by, and Kyra came running\nback to\nus.\n\"The jugster's done. Will you tell me the story, Mike? Hansel and\nPanzel?\"\n\"It's Hansel and Gretel,\" I said, \"and I'll be happy to. But let's go\nwhere it's a little quieter, okay? The band is giving me a headache.\"\n\"Music hurt your headie?\" '5 little bit.\"\n\"We'll go by Mattie's car, then.\"\n\"Good thought.\" Kyra ran ahead to stake out a bench on the edge of\nthe\ncommon. Mattie gave me a long warm look, then her hand. I took it.\nOur\nfingers folded together as if they had been doing it for years. I\nthought, I'd like it to be slow, both of us hardly moving at all. At\nfirst, anyway. And would I bring my nicest, longest pole? I think you\ncould count on that. And then, afterward, we'd talk.\nMaybe until we could see the furniture in the first early light. When\nyou're in bed with someone you love, particularly for the first time,\nfive o'clock seems almost holy. \"You need a vacation from your ownthoughts,\" Mattie said. \"I bet most writers do from time to time.\"\n\"That's probably true.\"\n\"I wish we were home,\" she said, and I couldn't tell if her fierceness\nwas real or pretend. \"I'd kiss you until this whole conversation\nbecame\nirrelevant. And if there were second thoughts, at least you'd be\nhaving\nthem in my bed.\" I turned my face into the red light of the westering\nsun. \"Here or there, at this hour Ki would still be up.\"\n\"True,\" she said, sounding uncharacteristically glum. \"True.\"\nKyra reached a bench near the sign reading TOWN COMMON\nPARKING and\nclimbed up on it, holding the little stuffed dog from Mickey D's in one\nhand. I tried to pull my hand away as we approached her and Mat-\ntie held\nit firm. \"It's all right, Mike. At V.B.S. they hold hands with their\nfriends everywhere they go. It's big people who make it into a big\ndeal.\" She stopped, looked at me. \"I want you to know something.\nMaybe\nit won't matter to you, but it does to me. There wasn't anyone\nbefore\nLance and no one after. If you come to me, you'll be my second. I'm\nnot\ngoing to talk with you about this again, either. Saying please is all\nright, but I won't beg.\"\n\"I don't--\"\n\"There's a pot with tomato plants in it by the trailer steps.\nI'll leave a key under it. Don't think. Just come.\"\"Not tonight, Mattie. I can't.\"\n\"You can,\" she replied. \"Hurry up, slowpokes!\" Kyra cried, bouncing\non\nthe bench. \"He's the slow one!\" Mattie called back, and poked me in\nthe\nribs. Then, in a much lower voice: \"You are, too.\"\nShe unwound her hand from mine and ran toward her daughter, her\nbrown\nlegs scissoring below the hem of the white dress.\nIn my version of \"Hansel and Gretel\" the witch was named Depravia.\nKyra\nstared at me with huge eyes when I got to the part where Depravia\nasks\nHansel to poke out his finger so she can see how plump he's getting.\n\"Is\nit too scary?\" I asked. Ki shook her head emphatically. I glanced at\nMattie to make sure. She nodded and waved a hand for me to go\non, so I\nfinished the story. Depravia went into the oven and Gretel found her\nsecret stash of winning lottery tickets. The kids bought a Jet Ski and\nlived happily ever after on the eastern side of Dark Score Lake. By\nthen\nThe Castle Rockers were slaughtering Gershwin and sunset was\nnigh. I\ncarried Kyra to Scoutie and strapped her in. I remembered the first\ntime\nI'd helped put the kid into her car-seat, and the inadvertent press of\nMattie's breast. \"I hope there isn't a bad dream for you in that\nstory,\"\nI said. Until I heard it coming out of my own mouth, I hadn't\nrealized\nhow fundamentally awful that one is. \"I won't have bad dreams,\"\nKyrasaid matter-of-factly. \"The fridgeafator people will keep them away.\"\nThen, carefully, reminding herself: \"Ree-fridge-a-rator.\" She turned\nto\nMattie. \"Show him the crosspatch, Mommy-bommy.\"\n\"Crossword. But thanks, I would've forgotten.\" She thumbed open\nthe\nglove compartment and took out a folded sheet of paper. \"It was on\nthe\nfridge this morning. I copied it down because Ki said you'd know\nwhat it\nmeant. She said you do crossword puzzles. Well, she said\ncrosspatches,\nbut I got the idea.\"\nHad I told Kyra that I did crosswords? Almost certainly not. Did it\nsurprise me that she knew? Not at all. I took the sheet of paper,\nunfolded it, and looked at what was printed there:\nd go W \"Is it a crosspatch puzzle, Mike?\" Kyra asked.\n\"I guess so--a very simple one. But if it means something, I don't\nknow\nwhat it is. May I keep this?\"\n\"Yes,\" Mattie said.\nI walked her around to the driver's side of the Scout, reaching for\nher\nhand again as we went. \"Just give me a little time. I know that's\nsupposed to be the girl's line, but--\"\n\"Take the time,\" she said. \"Just don't take too much.\"I didn't want to take any, which was just the problem. The sex would\nbe\ngreat, I knew that. But after?\nThere might be an after, though. I knew it and she did, too. With\nMattie, \"after\" was a real possibility. The idea was a little scary, a\nlittle wonderful.\nI kissed the corner of her mouth. She laughed and grabbed me by\nthe\nearlobe. \"You can do better,\" she said, then looked at Ki, who was\nsitting in her car-seat and gazing at us interestedly. \"But I'll let you\noffthis time.\"\n\"Kiss Ki!\" Kyra called, holding out her arms, so I went around and\nkissed Ki. Driving home, wearing my dark glasses to cut the glare of\nthe\nsetting sun, it occurred to me that maybe I could be Kyra Devore's\nfather. That seemed almost as attractive to me as going to bed with\nher\nmother, which was a measure of how deep I was in. And going\ndeeper,\nmaybe.\nDeeper still.\nSara Laughs seemed very empty after having Mattie in my arms--a\nsleeping\nhead without dreams. I checked the letters on the fridge, saw\nnothing\nthere but the normal scatter, and got a beer. I went out on the deck\nto\ndrink it while I watched the last of the sunset. I tried to think about\nthe refrigerator people and crosspatches that had appeared on both\nrefrigerators: \"go down nineteen\" on Lane Forty-two and \"go down\nninety-two\" on Wasp Hill Road. Different vectors from the land to thelake? Different spots on The Street? Shit, who knew?\nI tried to think about John Storrow and how unhappy he was apt to\nbe if\nhe found out there was--to quote Sara Laughs, who got to the line\nlong\nbefore John Mellencamp--another mule kicking in Mattie Devore's\nstall.\nBut mostly what I thought about was holding her for the first time,\nkissing her for the first time. No human instinct is more powerful\nthan\nthe sex-drive when it is fully aroused, and its awakening images are\nemotional tattoos that never leave us. For me, it was feeling the soft\nbare skin of her waist just beneath her dress. The slippery feel of the\nfabric...\nI turned abruptly and hurried through the house to the north wing,\nalmost running and shedding clothes as I went. I turned the shower\non to\nfull cold and stood under it for five minutes, shivering. When I got\nout\nI felt a little more like an actual human being and a little less like a\ntwitching bundle of nerve endings. And as I toweled dry, something\nelse\nrecurred to me. At some point I had thought of Jo's brother Frank,\nhad\nthought that if anyone besides myself would be able to feel Jo's\npresence in Sara Laughs, it would be him. I hadn't gotten around to\ninviting him down yet, and now wasn't sure I wanted to. I had come\nto\nfeel oddly possessive, almost jealous, about what was happening\nhere.\nAnd yet if Jo had been writing something on the quiet, Frank might\nknow.Of course she hadn't confided in him about the pregnancy, but- I\nlooked\nat my watch. Quarter past nine. In the trailer near the intersection of\nWasp Hill Road and Route 68, Kyra was probably already asleep. ..\nand\nher mother might already have put her extra key under the pot near\nthe\nsteps. I thought of her in the white dress, the swell of her hips just\nbelow my hands and the smell of her perfume, then pushed the\nimages\naway. I couldn't spend the whole night taking cold showers.\nQuarter past nine was still early enough to call Frank Arlen. He\npicked\nup on the second ring, sounding both happy to hear from me and as\nif\nhe'd gotten three or four cans further into the six-pack than I had so\nfar done. We passed the usual pleasantries back and forth--most of\nmy\nown almost entirely fictional, I was dismayed to find--and he\nmentioned\nthat a famous neighbor of mine had kicked the bucket, according to\nthe\nnews. Had I met him? Yes, I said, remembering how Max Devote\nhad run his\nwheelchair at me. Yes, I'd met him. Frank wanted to know what he\nwas\nlike. That was hard to say, I told him. Poor old guy was stuck in a\nwheelchair and suffering from emphysema. \"Pretty frail, huh?\" Frank\nasked sympathetically. \"Yeah,\" I said. \"Listen, Frank, I called about\nJo. I was out in her studio looking around, and I found my\ntypewriter.\nSince then I've kind of gotten the idea she was writing something. Itmight have started as a little piece about our house, then widened.\nThe\nplace is named after Sara Tidwell, you know. The blues singer.\" A\nlong\npause. Then Frank said, \"I know.\" His voice sounded heavy, grave.\n\"What\nelse do you know, Frank?\"\n\"That she was scared. I think she found out something that scared\nher. I\nthink that mostly because--\" That was when the light finally broke. I\nprobably should have known from Mattie's description, would have\nknown\nif I hadn't been so upset. \"You were down here with her, weren't\nyou? In\nJuly of 1994. You went to the softball game, then you went back up\nThe\nStreet to the house.\"\n\"How do you know that?\" he almost barked. \"Someone saw you. A\nfriend of\nmine.\" I was trying not to sound mad and not succeeding. I was\nmad, but\nit was a relieved anger, the kind you feel when your kid comes\ndragging\ninto the house with a shamefaced grin just as you're getting ready to\ncall the cops. \"I almost told you a day or two before we buried her.\nWe\nwere in that pub, do you remember?\" Jack's Pub, right after Frank\nhad\nbeaten the funeral director down on the price of Jo's coffin. Sure I\nremembered. I even remembered the look in his eyes when I'd told\nhim Jo\nhad been pregnant when she died. He must have felt the silence\nspinningout, because he came back sounding anxious. \"Mike, I hope you\ndidn't get\nany--\"\n\"What? Wrong ideas? I thought maybe she was having an affair,\nhow's that\nfor a wrong idea? You can call that ignoble if you want, but I had my\nreasons. There was a lot she wasn't telling me. What did she tell\nyou?\"\n\"Next to nothing.\"\n\"Did you know she quit all her boards and committees? Quit and\nnever\nsaid a word to me?\"\n\"No.\" I didn't think he was lying. Why would he, at this late date?\n\"Jesus, Mike, if I'd known that--\"\n\"What happened the day you came down here? Tell me.\"\n\"I was at the printshop in Sanford. Jo called me from. .. I don't\nremember, I think a rest area on the turnpike.\"\n\"Between Derry and the TR?\"\n\"Yeah. She was on her way to Sara Laughs and wanted me to meet\nher\nthere. She told me to park in the driveway if I got there first, not to\ngo in the house.., which I could have; I know where you keep the\nspare\nkey.\" Sure he did, in a Sucrets tin under the deck. I had shown him\nmyself. \"Did she say why she didn't want you to go inside?\"\n\"It'll sound crazy.\"\"No it won't. Believe me.\"\n\"She said the house was dangerous.\" For a moment the words just\nhung\nthere. Then I asked, \"Did you get here first?\"\n\"Uh-huh.\"\n\"And waited outside?\"\n\"Yes.\"\n\"Did you see or sense anything dangerous?\" There was a long\npause. At\nlast he said, \"There were lots of people out on the lake--\nspeedboaters,\nwater-skiers, you know how it is--but all the engine-noise and the\nlaughter seemed to kind of... stop dead when it got near the house.\nHave\nyou ever noticed that it seems quiet there even when it's not?\" Of\ncourse I had; Sara seemed to exist in its own zone of silence. \"Did it\nfeel dangerous, though?\"\n\"No,\" he said, almost reluctantly. \"Not to me, anyway. But it didn't\nfeel exactly empty, either. I felt.., fuck, I felt watched. I sat on one\nof those railroad-tie steps and waited for my sis. Finally she came.\nShe\nparked behind my car and hugged me... but she never took her eyes\noff\nthe house. I asked her what she was up to and she said she couldn't\ntell\nme, and that I couldn't tell you we'd been there. She said something\nlike, \"If he finds out on his own, then it's meant to be. I'll have to\ntell him sooner or later, anyway. But I can't now, because I need his\nwhole attention. I can't get that while he's working.'\" I felt a flush\ncrawl across my skin. \"She said that, huh?\"\"Yeah. Then she said she had to go in the house and do something.\nShe\nwanted me to wait outside. She said if she called, I should come on\nthe\nrun. Otherwise I should just stay where I was.\"\n\"She wanted someone there in case she got in trouble.\"\n\"Yeah, but it had to be someone who wouldn't ask a lot of questions\nshe\ndidn't want to answer. That was me. I guess that was always me.\"\n\"And?\"\n\"She went inside. I sat on the hood of my car, smoking cigarettes. I\nwas\nstill smoking then. And you know, I did start to feel something then\nthat wasn't right. As if there might be someone in the house who'd\nbeen\nwaiting for her, someone who didn't like her. Maybe someone who\nwanted\nto hurt her. Probably I just picked that up from Jo--the way her\nnerves\nseemed all strung up, the way she kept looking over my shoulder at\nthe\nhouse even while she was hugging me--but it seemed like something\nelse.\nLike a... I don't know...\"\n\"Like a vibe.\"\n\"Yes!\" he almost shouted. \"A vibration. But not a good vibration, like\nin the Beach Boys song. A bad vibration.\"\"What happened?\"\n\"I sat and waited. I only smoked two cigarettes so I don't guess it\ncould have been longer than twenty minutes or half an hour, but it\nseemed longer. I kept noticing how the sounds from the lake\nseemed to\nmake it most of the way up the hill and then just kind of... quit. And\nhow there didn't seem to be any birds, except far off in the distance.\n\"Once she came out. I heard the deck door bang, and then her\nfootsteps\non the stairs over on that side. I called to her, asked if she was okay,\nand she said fine. She said for me to stay where I was. She sounded\na\nlittle short of breath, as if she was carrying something or had been\ndoing some chore.\"\n\"Did she go to her studio or down to the lake?\"\n\"I don't know. She was gone another fifteen minutes or so--time\nenough\nfor me to smoke another butt--and then she came back out the front\ndoor.\nShe checked to make sure it was locked, and then she came up to\nme. She\nlooked a lot better. Relieved. The way people look when they do\nsome\ndirty job they've been putting off, finally get it behind them. She\nsuggested we walk down that path she called The Street to the\nresort\nthat's down there--\"\n\"Warrington's.\"\n\"Right, right. She said she'd buy me a beer and a sandwich. Which\nshedid, out at the end of this long floating dock.\" The Sunset Bar, where\nI\nhad first glimpsed Rogette.\n\"Then you went to have a look at the softball game.\"\n\"That was Jo's idea. She had three beers to my one, and she\ninsisted.\nSaid someone was going to hit a longshot homer into the trees, she\njust\nknew it.\" Now I had a clear picture of the part Mattie had seen and\ntold\nme about.\nWhatever Jo had done, it had left her almost giddy with relief. She\nhad\nventured into the house, for one thing. Had dared the spirits in order\nto do her business and survived. She'd had three beers to celebrate\nand\nher discretion had slipped. .. not that she had behaved with any\ngreat\nstealth on her previous trips down to the TR. Frank remembered her\nsaying if I found out on my own then it was meant to be-que sera,\nsera.\nIt wasn't the attitude of someone hiding an affair, and I realized now\nthat all her behavior suggested a woman keeping a short-term\nsecret. She\nwould have told me when I finished my stupid book, if she had lived.\nIf.\n\"You watched the game for awhile, then went back to the house\nalong The\nStreet.\"\n\"Yes,\" he said.\"Did either of you go in?\"\n\"No. By the time we got there, her buzz had worn off and I trusted\nher\nto drive. She was laughing while we were at the softball game, but\nshe\nwasn't laughing by the time we got back to the house. She looked at\nit\nand said, \"I'm done with her. I'll never go through that door again,\nFrank.'\"\nMy skin first chilled, then prickled.\n\"I asked her what was wrong, what she'd found out. I knew she was\nwriting something, she'd told me that much--\"\n\"She told everyone but me,\" I said.., but without much bitterness. I\nknew who the man in the brown sportcoat had been, and any\nbitterness or\nanger--anger at Jo, anger at myself--paled before the relief of that. I\nhadn't realized how much that fellow had been on my mind until\nnovq.\n\"She must have had her reasons,\" Frank said. \"You know that, don't\nyou?\"\n\"But she didn't tell you what they were.\"\n'gkll I know is that it started--whatever it was--with her doing\nresearch for an article. It was a lark, Jo playing Nancy Drew. I'm\npretty sure that at first not telling you was just to keep it a\nsurprise. She read books but mostly she talked to people--listened to\ntheir stories of the old days and teased them into looking for old\nletters.., diaries.., she was good at that part of it, I think. Damned\ngood. You don't know any of this?\"\"No,\" I said heavily. Jo hadn't been having an affair, but she could\nhave had one, if she'd wanted. She could have had an. affair with\nTom\nSelleck and been written up in Inside 'ew and I would have gone on\ntapping away at the keys of my Powerbook, blissfully unaware.\n\"Whatever she found out,\" Frank said, \"I think she just stumbled\nover\nit.\"\n\"And you never told me. Four years and you never told me any of\nit.\"\n\"That was the last time I was with her,\" Frank said, and now he 35O\ndidn't sound apologetic or embarrassed at all. \"And the last thing\nshe\nasked of me was that I not tell you we'd been to the lake house. She\nsaid she'd tell you everything when she was ready, but then she\ndied.\nAfter that I didn't think it mattered. Mike, she was my sister. She was\nmy sister and I promised.\"\n'gkll right. I understand.\" And I did--just not enough. What had Jo\ndiscovered? That Normal Auster had drowned his infant son under a\nhandpump? That back around the turn of the century an animal trap\nhad\nbeen left in a place where a young Negro boy would be apt to come\nalong\nand step into it? That another boy, perhaps the incestuous child of\nSon\nand Sara Tidwell, had been drowned by his mother in the lake, she\nmaybe\nlaughing that smoke-broken, lunatic laugh as she held him down?\nYougotta wiggle when you wobble, honey, and hold that young 'un way\ndown\ndeep.\n\"If you need me to apologize, Mike, consider it done.\"\n\"I don't. Frank, do you remember anything else she might have said\nthat\nnight? Anything at all?\"\n\"She said she knew how you found the house.\"\n\"She said what?\"\n\"She said that when it wanted you, it called you.\"\nAt first I couldn't reply, because Frank Arlen had completely\ndemolished\none of the assumptions I'd made about my married life--one of the\nbiggies, one of those that seem so basic you don't even think about\nquestioning them. Gravity holds you down. Light allows you to see.\nThe\ncompass needle points north. Stufflike that.\nThis assumption was that Jo was the one who had wanted to buy\nSara\nLaughs back when we saw the first real money from my writing\ncareer,\nbecause Jo was the \"house person\" in our marriage, just as I was\nthe\n\"car person.\" Jo was the one who had picked our apartments when\napartments were all we could afford, Jo who hung a picture here\nand\nasked me to put up a shelf there. Jo was the one who had fallen in\nlovewith the Derry house and had finally worn down my resistance to\nthe idea\nthat it was too big, too busy, and too broken to take on. Jo had been\nthe nest-builder.\nShe said that when it wanted you, it called you.\nAnd it was probably true. No, I could do better than that, if I was\nwilling to set aside the lazy thinking and selective remembering It\nwas\ncertainly true. I was the one who had first broached the idea of a\nplace\nin western Maine. I was the one who collected stacks of real-estate\nbrochures and hauled them home. I'd started buying regional\nmagazines\nlike Down East and always began at the back, where the real-estate\nads\nwere. It was I who had first seen a picture of Sara Laughs in a\nglossy\nhandout called Maine Retreats, and it was I who had made the call\nfirst\nto the agent named in the ad, and then to Marie Hingerman after\nbadgering Marie's name out of the Realtor.\nJohanna had also been charmed by Sara Laughs--I think anyone\nwould have\nbeen charmed by it, seeing it for the first time in autumn sunshine\nwith\nthe trees blazing all around it and drifts of colored leaves blowing up\nThe Street--but it was I who had actively sought the place out.\nExcept that was more lazy thinking and selective remembering.\nWasn't it?\nSara had sought me out.Then how could I not have known it until now? And how was I led\nhere in\nthe firstplace, full of unknowing happy ignorance?\nThe answer to both questions was the same. It was also the answer\nto the\nquestion of how Jo could have discovered something distressing\nabout the\nhouse, the lake, maybe the whole TR, and then gotten away with\nnot\ntelling me. I'd been gone, that's all. I'd been zoning, tranced out,\nwriting one of my stupid little books. I'd been hypnotized by the\nfantasies going on in my head, and a hypnotized man is easy to\nlead.\n\"Mike? Are you still there?\"\n\"I'm here, Frank. But I'll be goddamned if I know what could have\nscared\nher so.\"\n\"She mentioned one other name I remember: Royce Merrill. She said\nhe was\nthe one who remembered the most, because he was so old. And she\nsaid, \"I\ndon't want Mike to talk to him. I'm afraid that old man might let the\ncat out of the bag and tell him more than he should know.' Any idea\nwhat\nshe meant?\"\n\"Well... it's been suggested that a splinter from the old family tree\nwound up here, but my mother's people are from Memphis. The\nNoo-nans are\nfrom Maine, but not from this part.\" Yet I no longer entirely believed\nthis.\"Mike, you sound almost sick.\"\n\"I'm okay. Better than I was, actually.\"\n\"And you understand why I didn't tell you any of this until now? I\nmean,\nif I'd known the ideas you were getting.., if I'd had any clue...\"\n\"I think I understand. The ideas didn't belong in my head to begin\nwith,\nbut once that shit starts to creep in...\"\n\"When I got back to Sanford that night and it was over, I guess I\nthought it was just more of Jo's \"Oh fuck, there's a shadow on the\nmoon,\nnobody go out until tomorrow.' She was always the superstitious\none, you\nknow--knocking on wood, tossing a pinch of salt over her shoulder if\nshe\nspilled some, those four-leaf-clover earrings she used to have...\"\n\"Or the way she wouldn't wear a pullover if she put it on backward\nby\nmistake,\" I said. \"She claimed doing that would turn around your\nwhole\nday.\"\n\"Well? Doesn't it?\" Frank asked, and I could hear a little smile in his\nvoice.\nAll at once I remembered Jo completely, right down to the small gold\nflecks in her left eye, and wanted nobody else. Nobody else would\ndo.\n\"She thought there was something bad about the house,\" Frank\nsaid. \"Thatmuch I do know.\"\nI drew a piece of paper to me and jotted Kia on it. \"Yes. And by then\nshe may have suspected she was pregnant. She might have been\nafraid of\n.. influences.\" There were influences here, all right. \"You think she\ngot most of this from Royce Merrill?\"\n\"No, that was just a name she mentioned. She probably talked to\ndozens\nof people. Do you know a guy named Kloster? Gloster? Something\nlike\nthat?\"\n\"Skuster,\" I said. Below Kia my pencil was making a series of fat\nloops\nthat might have been cursive letter l's or hair ribbons. \"Kenny Auster.\nWas that it?\"\n\"It sounds right. In any case, you know how she was once she really\ngot\ngoing on a thing.\"\nYes. Like a terrier after rats.\n\"Mike? Should I come up there?\"\nNo. Now I was sure. Not Harold Oblowski, not Frank, either. There\nwas a\nprocess going on in Sara, something as delicate and as organic as\nrising\nbread in a warm room. Frank might interrupt that process.., or be\nhurt\nby it. \"No, I just wanted to get it cleared up. Besides, I'm writing.\nIt's hard for me to have people around when I'm writing.\"\"Will you call if I can help?\"\n\"You bet,\" I said. I hung up the telephone, thumbed through the\nbook,\nand found a listing for R. MERRILL on the Deep Bay Road. I called\nthe\nnumber, listened to it ring a dozen times, then hung up. No\nnewfangled\nanswering machine for Royce. I wondered idly where he was.\nNinety-five\nseemed a little too old to go dancing at the Country Barn in\nHarrison,\nespecially on a close night like this one. I looked at the paper with\nKia written on it. Below the fat/-shapes I wrote Kyra, and\nremembered\nhow, the first time I'd heard Ki say her name, I'd thought it was\n\"Kia\"\nshe was saying. Below Kyra I wrote Kito, hesitated, then wrote\nCarla. I\nput these names in a box. Beside them I jottedjohanna, Bridget,\nandjared. The fridgeafator people. Folks who wanted me to go down\nnineteen and go down ninety-two. \"Go down, Moses, you bound for\nthe\nPromised Land,\" I told the empty house. I looked around. Just me\nand\nBunter and the waggy clock .. except it wasn't.\nWhen it wanted you, it called you. I got up to get another beer. The\nfruits and vegetables were in a circle again. In the middle, the letters\nnow spelled:\nlye stille As on some old tombstones--Godgrant she lye stille. I\nlooked\nat these letters for a long time. Then I remembered the IBM was still\nout on the deck. I brought it in, plonked it on the dining-room table,and began to work on my current stupid little book. Fifteen minutes\nand\nI was lost, only faintly aware of thunder someplace over the lake,\nonly\nfaintly aware of Bunter's bell shivering from time to time. When I\nwent\nback to the fridge an hour or so later for another beer and saw that\nthe\nwords in the circle now said ony lye stille I hardly noticed At that\nmoment I didn't care if they lay stille or danced the hucklebuck by\nthe\nlight of the silvery moon. John Shackleford had begun to remember\nhis\npast, and the child whose only friend he, John, had been. Little\nneglected Ray Garraty. I wrote until midnight came. By then the\nthunder\nhad faded away but the heat held on, as oppressive as a blanket. I\nturned off the IBM and went to bed.., thinking, so far as I can\nremember, nothing at all--not even about Mattie, lying in her own\nbed\nnot so many miles away. The writing had burned off all thoughts of\nthe\nreal world, at least temporarily. I think that, in the end, that's what\nit's for. Good or bad, it passes the time.\nI was walking north along The Street. Japanese lanterns lined it, but\nthey were all dark because it was daylight4right daylight. The\nmuggy,\nsmutchy look of mid-July was gone; the sky was that deep sapphire\nshade\nwhich is the sole property of October. The lake was deepest indigo\nbeneath it, sparkling with sunpoints. The trees were just past the\npeak\nof their autumn colors, burning like torches. A wind out of the south\nblew the fallen leaves past me and between my legs in rattly,\nfragrantgusts. The Japanese lanterns nodded as if in approval of the season.\nUp\nahead, faintly, I could hear music. Sara and the Red-Tops. Sara was\nbelting it out, laughing her way through the lyric as she always\nhad..,\nonly, how could laughter sound so much like a snarl? \"White boy, I'd\nnever kill a child of mine. That you'd even think it!\" I whirled,\nexpecting to see her right behind me, but there was no one there.\nWell... The Green Lady was there, only she had changed her dress\nof\nleaves for autumn and become the Yellow Lady. The bare pine-\nbranch\nbehind her still pointed the way: go north, young man, go north. Not\nmuch far ther down the path was another birch, the one I'd held\nonto\nwhen that terrible drowning sensation had come over me again. I\nwaited\nfor it to come again now--for my mouth and throat to fill up with the\niron taste of the lake--but it didn't happen. I looked back at the\nYellow Lady, then beyond her to Sara Laughs. The house was there,\nbut\nmuch reduced: no north wing, no south wing, no second story. No\nsign of\nJo's studio off to the side, either. None of those things had been built\nyet. The ladybirch had travelled back with me from 1998; so had the\none\nhanging over the lake. Otherwise-\"Where am I?\" I asked the Yellow\nLady\nand the nodding Japanese lanterns. Then a better question occurred\nto\nme. \"When am I?\" No answer. \"It's a dream, isn't it? I'm in bed and\ndreaming.\" Somewhere out in the brilliant, gold-sparkling net of the\nlake, a loon called. Twice. Hoot once jr yes, twice jr no, I thought.\nNot a dream, Michael. I don't know exactly what it is--spiritualtime-travel, maybebut it's not a dream. \"Is this really happening?\" I\nasked the day, and from somewhere back in the trees, where a track\nwhich\nwould eventually come to be known as Lane Forty-two ran toward a\ndirt\nroad which would eventually come to be known as Route 68, a crow\ncawed.\nJust once. I went to the birch hanging over the lake, slipped an arm\naround it (doing it lit a trace memory of slipping my hands around\nMattie's waist, feeling her dress slide over her skin), and peered into\nthe water, half-wanting to see the drowned boy, half-fearing to see\nhim.\nThere was no boy there, but something lay on the bottom where he\nhad\nbeen, among the rocks and roots and waterweed. I squinted and\njust then\nthe wind died a little, stilling the glints on the water. It was a cane,\none with a gold head. A Boston Post cane. Wrapped around it in a\nrising\nspiral, their ends waving lazily, were what appeared to be a pair of\nribbons--white ones with bright red edges. Seeing Royce's cane\nwrapped\nthat way made me think of high-school graduations, and the baton\nthe\nclass marshal waves as he or she leads the gowned seniors to their\nseats. Now I understood why the old crock hadn't answered the\nphone.\nRoyce Merrill's phone-answering days were all done. I knew that; I\nalso\nknew I had come to a time before Royce had even been born. Sara\nTidwell\nwas here, I could hear her singing, and when Royce had been born\nin1903, Sara had already been gone for two years, she and her whole\nRed-Top family.\n\"Go down, Moses,\" I told the ribbon-wrapped cane in the water. \"You\nbound for the Promised Land.\"\nI walked on toward the sound of the music, invigorated by the cool\nair\nand rushing wind. Now I could hear voices as well, lots of them,\ntalking\nand shouting and laughing. Rising above them and pumping like a\npiston\nwas the hoarse cry of a sideshow barker: \"Come on in, folks, hurray,\nhurr-ay, hurr-ay! It's all on the inside but you've got to hurr-ay, next\nshow starts in ten minutes! See Angelina the Snake-Woman, she\nshimmies,\nshe shakes, she'll bewitch your eye and steal your heart, but don't\nget\ntoo close for her bite ispoy-son! See Hando the Dog-Faced Boy,\nterror of\nthe South Seas! See the Human Skeleton! See the Human Gila\nMonster,\nrelic of a time God forgot! See the Bearded Lady and all the Killer\nMartians! It's on the inside, yessirree, so hurr-ay, hurr-ay, hurr-ay!\"\nI could hear the steam-driven calliope of a merry-go-round and the\nbang\nof the bell at the top of the post as some lumberjack won a stuffed\ntoy\nfor his sweetie. You could tell from the delighted feminine screams\nthat\nhe'd hit it almost hard enough to pop it off the post. There was the\nsnap of. 22s from the shooting gallery, the snoring moo of\nsomeone's\nprize cow.., and now I began to smell the aromas I have associated\nwithcounty fairs since I was a boy: sweet fried dough, grilled onions and\npeppers, cotton candy, manure, hay. I began to walk faster as the\nstrum\nof guitars and thud of double basses grew louder. My heart kicked\ninto a\nhigher gear. I was going to see them perform, actually see Sara\nLaughs\nand the Red-Tops live and on stage. This was no crazy three-part\nfever-dream, either. This was happening right now, so hurr-ay, hurr-\nay,\nburr-ay.\nThe Washburn place (the one that would always be the Bricker place\nto\nMrs. M.) was gone. Beyond where it would eventually be, rising up\nthe\nsteep slope on the eastern side of The Street, was a flight of broad\nwooden stairs. They reminded me of the ones which lead down from\nthe\namusement park to the beach at Old Orchard. Here the Japanese\nlanterns\nwere lit in spite of the brightness of the day, and the music was\nlouder\nthan ever. Sara was singing \"Jimmy Crack Corn.\"\nI climbed the stairs toward the laughter and shouts, the sounds of\nthe\nRed-Tops and the calliope, the smells of fried food and farm animals.\nAbove the stairhead was a wooden arch with WELCOME TO\nFRYEBURG FAIR\nWELCOME TO THE 20TH CENTURY printed on it. As I watched, a\nlittle boy in\nshort pants and a woman wearing a shirtwaist and an ankle-length\nlinenskirt walked under the arch and toward me. They shimmered, grew\ngauzy.\nFor a moment I could see their skeletons and the bone grins which\nlurked\nbeneath their laughing faces. A moment later and they were gone.\nTwo farmers--one wearing a straw hat, the other gesturing\nexpansively\nwith a corncob pipe--appeared on the Fair side of the arch in exactly\nthe same fashion. In this way I understood that there was a barrier\nbetween The Street and the Fair. Yet I did not think it was a barrier\nwhich would affect me. I was an exception.\n\"Is that right?\" I asked. \"Can I go in?\"\nThe bell at the top of the Test Your Strength pole banged loud and\nclear. Bong once for yes, twice for no. I continued on up the stairs.\nNow I could see the Ferris wheel turning against the brilliant sky, the\nwheel that had been in the background of the band photo in\nOsteen's Dark\nScore Days. The framework was metal, but the brightly painted\ngondolas\nwere made of wood. Leading up to it like an aisle leading up to an\naltar\nwas a broad, sawdust-strewn midway. The sawdust was there for a\npurpose;\nalmost every man I saw was chewing tobacco.\nI paused for a few seconds at the top of the stairs, still on the lake\nside of the arch. I was afraid of what might happen to me if I passed\nunder. Afraid of dying or disappearing, yes, but mostly of never\nbeing\nable to return the way I had come, of being condemned to spend\neternityas a visitor to the turn-of-the-century Fryeburg Fair. That was also\nlike a Ray Bradbury story, now that I thought of it.\nIn the end what drew me into that other world was Sara Tidwell. I\nhad to\nsee her with my own eyes. I had to watch her sing. Had to.\nI felt a tingling as I stepped beneath the arch, and there was a\nsighing\nin my ears, as of a million voices, very far away. Sighing in relief?.\nDismay? I couldn't tell. All I knew for sure was that being on the\nother\nside was dif-ferent-the difference between looking at a thing through\na\nwindow and actually being there; the difference between observing\nand\nparticipating.\nColors jumped out like ambushers at the moment of attack. The\nsmells\nwhich had been sweet and evocative and nostalgic on the lake side\nof the\narch were now rough and sexy, prose instead of poetry. I could smell\ndense sausages and frying beef and the vast shadowy aroma of\nboiling\nchocolate. Two kids walked past me sharing a paper cone of cotton\ncandy.\nBoth of them were clutching knotted hankies with their little bits of\nchange in them. \"Hey kids!\" a barker in a dark blue shirt called to\nthem. He was wearing arm-garters and his smile revealed one\nsplendid\ngold tooth. \"Knock over the milk-bottles and win a prize! I en't had a\nloser all day!\"Up ahead, the Red-Tops swung into \"Fishin Blues.\" I'd thought the\nkid on\nthe common in Castle Rock was pretty good, but this version made\nthe\nkid's sound old and slow and clueless. It wasn't cute, like an antique\npicture of ladies with their skirts held up to their knees, dancing a\ndecorous version of the black bottom with the edges of their\nbloomers\nshowing. It wasn't something Alan Lomax had collected with his\nother\nfolk songs, just one more dusty American butterfly in a glass case\nfull\nof them; this was smut with just enough shine on it to keep the\nwhole\nstruttin bunch of them out of jail. Sara Tidwell was singing about the\ndirty boogie, and I guessed that every overalled, straw-hatted,\nplug-chewing, callus-handed, clod-hopper-wearing farmer standing\nin\nfront of the stage was dreaming about doing it with her, getting right\ndown to where the sweat forms in the crease and the heat gets hot\nand\nthe pink comes glimmering through.\nI started walking in that direction, aware of cows mooing and sheep\nblatting from the exhibition barns--the Fair's version of my childhood\nHi-Ho Dairy-O. I walked past the shooting gallery and the ringtoss\nand\nthe penny-pitch; I walked past a stage where The Handmaidens of\nAngelina\nwere weaving in a slow, snakelike dance with their hands pressed\ntogether as a guy with a turban on his head and shoepolish on his\nface\ntooted a flute. The picture painted on stretched canvas suggested\nthat\nAngelina--on view inside for just one tenth of a dollar, neigh 36O\nbor--would make these two look like old boots. I walked past theentrance to Freak Alley, the corn-roasting pit, the Ghost House,\nwhere\nmore stretched canvas depicted spooks coming out of broken\nwindows and\ncrumbling chimneys. Everything in there is death, I thought.., but\nfrom\ninside I could hear children who were very much alive laughing and\nsquealing as they bumped into things in the dark. The older among\nthem\nwere likely stealing kisses. I passed the Test Your Strength pole,\nwhere\nthe gradations leading to the brass bell at the top were marked\nBABY\nNEEDS HIS BOTTLE, SISSY, TRY AGAIN, BIG BOY, HE-MAN, and, just\nbelow the\nbell itself, in red: HERCOLF. S! Standing at the center of a little\ncrowd a young man with red hair was removing his shirt, revealing a\nheavily muscled upper torso. A cigar-smoking carny held a hammer\nout to\nhim. I passed the quilting booth, a tent where people were sitting on\nbenches and playing Bingo, the baseball pitch. I passed them all and\nhardly noticed. I was in the zone, tranced out. \"You'll have to call\nhim\nback,\" Jo had sometimes told Harold when he phoned, \"Michael is\ncurrently in the Land of Big Make-Believe.\" Only now nothing felt like\npretend and the only thing that interested me was the stage at the\nbase\nof the Ferris wheel. There were eight black folks up there on it,\nmaybe\nten. Standing at the front, wearing a guitar and whaling on it as she\nsang, was Sara Tidwell. She was alive. She was in her prime. She\nthrew\nback her head and laughed at the October sky.\nWhat brought me out of this daze was a cry from behind me: \"Wait\nup,Mike! Wait up!\"\nI turned and saw Kyra running toward me, dodging around the\nstrollers\nand gamesters and midway gawkers with her pudgy knees pumping.\nShe was\nwearing a little white sailor dress with red piping and a straw hat\nwith\na navy-blue ribbon on it. In one hand she clutched Strickland, and\nwhen\nshe got to me she threw herself confidently forward, knowing I\nwould\ncatch her and swing her up. I did, and when her hat started to fall\noffi\ncaught it and jammed it back on her head.\n\"I taggled my own quartermack,\" she said, and laughed. \"Again.\"\n\"That's right,\" I said. \"You're a regular Mean Joe Green.\" I was\nwearing\noveralls (the tail of a wash-faded blue bandanna stuck out of the bib\npocket) and manure-stained workboots. I looked at Kyra's white\nsocks and\nsaw they were homemade. I would find no discreet little label\nreading\nMade in Mexico or Made in China if I took off her straw hat and\nlooked\ninside, either. This hat had been most likely Made in Motton, by\nsome\nfarmer's wife with red hands and achy joints.\n\"Ki, where's Mattie?\"\n\"Home, I guess. She couldn't come.\"\n\"How did you get here?\"\"Up the stairs. It was a lot of stairs. You should have waited for me.\nYou could have carrot me, like before. I want to hear the music.\"\n\"Me too. Do you know who that is, Kyra?\"\n\"Yes,\" she said, \"Kito's mom. Hurry up, slowpoke!\"\nI walked toward the stage, thinking we'd have to stand at the back\nof\nthe crowd, but they parted for us as we came forward, me carrying\nKyra\nin my arms--the lovely sweet weight of her, a little Gibson Girl in her\nsailor dress and ribbon-accented straw hat. Her arm was curled\naround my\nneck and they parted for us like the Red Sea had parted for Moses.\nThey didn't turn to look at us, either. They were clapping and\nstomping\nand bellowing along with the music, totally involved. They stepped\naside\nunconsciously, as if some kind of magnetism were at work here--\nours\npositive, theirs negative. The few women in the crowd were blushing\nbut\nclearly enjoying themselves, one of them laughing so hard tears\nwere\nstreaming down her face. She looked no more than twenty-two or -\nthree.\nKyra pointed to her and said matter-of-factly: \"You know Mattie's\nboss\nat the liberry? That's her nana.'\nLindy Briggs's grandmother, and fresh as a daisy, I thought. GoodChrist. The Red-Tops were spread across the stage and under swags\nof\nred, white, and blue bunting like some time-travelling rock band. I\nrecognized all of them from the picture in Edward Osteen's book.\nThe men\nwore white shirts, arm-garters, dark vests, dark pants. Son Tidwell,\nat\nthe far end of the stage, was wearing the derby he'd had on in the\nphoto. Sara, though...\n\"Why is the lady wearing Mattie's dress?\" Kyra asked me, and she\nbegan\nto tremble.\n\"I don't know, honey. I can't say.\" Nor could I argue--it was the\nwhite\nsleeveless dress Mattie had been wearing on the common, all right.\nOn stage, the band was smoking through an instrumental break.\nReginald\n\"Son\" Tidwell strolled over to Sara, feet ambling, hands a brown blur\non\nthe strings and frets of his guitar, and she turned to face him. They\nput their foreheads together, she laughing and he solemn; they\nlooked\ninto each other's eyes and tried to play each other down, the crowd\ncheering and clapping, the rest of the Red-Tops laughing as they\nplayed.\nSeeing them together like that, I realized that I had been right: they\nwere brother and sister. The resemblance was too strong to be\nmissed or\nmistaken. But mostly what I looked at was the way her hips and butt\nswitched in that white dress. Kyra and I might be dressed in\nturn-of-the-century country clothes, but Sara was thoroughly\nmodernMillie. No bloomers for her, no petticoats, no cotton stockings. No\none\nseemed to notice that she was wearing a dress that stopped above\nher\nknees--that she was all but naked by the standards of this time. And\nunder Mattie's dress she'd be wearing garments the like of which\nthese\npeople had never seen: a Lycra bra and hip-hugger nylon panties. If\nI\nput my hands on her waist, the dress would slip not against an\nunwet-coming corset but against soft bare skin. Brown skin, not\nwhite.\nWhat do you want, sugar?\nSara backed away from Son, shaking her ungirdled, unbustled fanny\nand\nlaughing. He strolled back to his spot and she turned to the crowd\nas\nthe band played the turnaround. She sang the next verse looking\ndirectly\nat me.\n\"Bejsre you start in fishin you better check your line.\nSaid bqre you start in fishin, honey, you better check on your line.\nI'll pull on yours, darling, and you best tug on mine.\"\nThe crowd roared happily. In my arms, Kyra was shaking harder\nthan ever.\n\"I'm scared, Mike,\" she said. \"I don't like that lady. She's a scary\nlady. She stole Mattie's dress. I want to go home.\"\nIt was as if Sara heard her, even over the rip and ram of the music.\nHerhead cocked back on her neck, her lips peeled open, and she\nlaughed at\nthe sky. Her teeth were big and yellow. They looked like the teeth of\na\nhungry animal, and I decided I agreed with Kyra: she was a scary\nlady.\n\"Okay, hon,\" I murmured in Ki's ear. \"We're out of here.\"\nBut before I could move, the sense of the woman--I don't know how\nelse\nto say it--fell upon me and held me. Now I understood what had\nshot past\nme in the kitchen to knock away the CARLADEAN letters; the chill\nwas the\nsame. It was almost like identifying a person by the sound of their\nwalk.\nShe led the band to the turnaround once more, then into another\nverse.\nNot one you'd find in any written version of the song, though:\n\"I ain't gonna hurt her, honey, not jsr all the treasure in the worl'.\nSaid I wouldn't hurt your baby, not Jr diamonds or jor pearls. Only\none\nblack-hearted bastard dare to touch that little girl.\"\nThe crowd roared as if it were the funniest thing they'd ever heard,\nbut\nKyra began to cry. Sara saw this and stuck out her breasts--much\nbigger\nbreasts than Mattie's--and shook them at her, laughing her\ntrademark\nlaugh as she did. There was a parodic coldness about this gesture..,\nandan emptiness, too. A sadness. Yet I could feel no compassion for her.\nIt\nwas as if the heart had been burned out of her and the sadness\nwhich\nremained was just another ghost, the memory of love haunting the\nbones\nof hate.\nAnd how her laughing teeth leered.\nSara raised her arms over her head and this time shook it all the way\ndown, as if reading my thoughts and mocking them. Just like jelly on\na\nplate, as some other old song of the time has it. Her shadow\nwavered on\nthe canvas backdrop, which was a painting of Fryeburg, and as I\nlooked\nat it I realized I had found the Shape from my Manderley dreams. It\nwas\nSara. Sara was the Shape and always had been.\nNo, Mike. That's close, but it's not right.\nRight or wrong, I'd had enough. I turned, putting my hand on the\nback of\nKi's head and urging her face down against my chest. Both her arms\nwere\naround my neck now, clutching with panicky tightness.\nI thought I'd have to bull my way back through the crowd--they had\nlet\nme in easily enough, but they might be a lot less amenable to letting\nme\nback out. Don't fuck with me, boys, I thought. %u don't want to do\nthat.And they didn't. On stage Son Tidwell had taken the band from E to\nG,\nsomeone began to bang a tambourine, and Sara went from \"Fishin\nBlues\" to\n\"Dog My Cats\" without a single pause. Out here, in front of the stage\nand below it, the crowd once more drew back from me and my little\ngirl\nwithout looking at us or missing a beat as they clapped their\nwork-swollen hands together. One young man with a port-wine stain\nswimming across the side of his face opened his mouth--at twenty\nhe was\nalready missing half his teeth--and hollered \"I3e-HAW!\" around a\nmelting\nglob of tobacco. It was Buddy Jellison from the Village Cafe, I\nrealized... Buddy Jellison magically rolled back in age from sixty-\neight\nto twenty. Then I realized the hair was the wrong shade--light brown\ninstead of black (although he was pushing seventy and looking it in\nevery other way, Bud hadn't a single white hair in his head). This\nwas\nBuddy's grandfather, maybe even his great-grandfather. I didn't give\na\nshit either way. I only wanted to get out of here.\n\"Excuse me,\" I said, brushing by him.\n\"There's no town drunk here, you meddling son of a bitch,\" he said,\nnever looking at me and never missing a beat as he clapped. \"We all\njust\ntake turns.\"\nIt's a dream after all, I thought. It's a dream and that proves it.\nBut the smell of tobacco on his breath wasn't a dream, the smell of\nthecrowd wasn't a dream, and the weight of the frightened child in my\narms\nwasn't a dream, either. My shirt was hot and wet where her face was\npressed. She was crying.\n\"Hey, Irish!\" Sara called from the stage, and her voice was so like\nJo's\nthat I could have screamed. She wanted me to turn back--I could\nfeel her\nwill working on the sides of my face like fingers--but I wouldn't do it.\nI dodged around three farmers who were passing a ceramic bottle\nfrom\nhand to hand and then I was free of the crowd. The midway lay\nahead,\nwide as Fifth Avenue, and at the end of it was the arch, the steps,\nThe\nStreet, the lake. Home. If I could get to The Street we'd be safe. I\nwas\nsure of it. \"Almost done, Irish!\" Sara shrieked after me.\nShe sounded angry, but not too angry to laugh. \"You gonna get\nwhat you\nwant, sugar, all the comfort you need, but you want to let me finish\nmy\nbi'ness. Do you hear me, boy? Just stand clear! Mind me, now!\" I\nbegan\nto hurry back the way I had come, stroking Ki's head, still holding\nher\nface against my shirt. Her straw hat fell off and when I grabbed for\nit,\nI got nothing but the ribbon, which pulled free of the brim. No\nmatter.\nWe had to get out of here. On our left was the baseball pitch and\nsomelittle boy shouting \"Willy hit it over the fence, Ma! Willy hit it over\nthe fence!\" with monotonous, brain-croggling regularity. We passed\nthe\nBingo, where some woman howled that she had won the turkey, by\nglory,\nevery number was covered with a button and she had won the\nturkey.\nOverhead, the sun dove behind a cloud and the day went dull. Our\nshadows\ndisappeared. The arch at the end of the midway drew closer with\nmaddening slowness. \"Are we home yet?\" Ki almost moaned. \"I\nwant to go\nhome, Mike, please take me home to my mommy.\"\n\"I will,\" I said.\n\"Everything's going to be all right.\" We were passing the Test Your\nStrength pole, where the young man with the red hair was putting\nhis\nshirt back on. He looked at me with stolid dislike--the instinctive\nmistrust of a native for an interloper, per-haps--and I realized I knew\nhim, too. He'd have a grandson named Dickie who would, toward\nthe end of\nthe century to which this fair had been dedicated, own the All-\nPurpose\nGarage on Route 68. A woman coming out of the quilting booth\nstopped and\npointed at me. At the same moment her upper lip lifted in a dog's\nsnarl.\nI knew that face, too. From where? Somewhere around town. It\ndidn't\nmatter, and I didn't want to know even if it did. \"We never should\nhavecome here,\" Ki moaned. \"I know how you feel,\" I said. \"But I don't\nthink\nwe had any choice, hon. We--\"\nThey came out of Freak Alley, perhaps twenty yards ahead. I saw\nthem and\nstopped. There were seven in all, long-striding men dressed in\ncutters'\nclothes, but four didn't matter--those four looked faded and white\nand\nghostly. They were sick fellows, maybe dead fellows, and no more\ndangerous than daguerreotypes. The other three, though, were real.\nAs\nreal as the rest of this place, anyway. The leader was an old man\nwearing a faded blue Union Army cap. He looked at me with eyes I\nknew.\nEyes I had seen measuring me over the top of an oxygen mask.\n\"Mike? Why\nwe stoppin?\"\n\"It's all right, Ki. Just keep your head down. This is all a dream.\nYou'll wake up tomorrow morning in your own bed.\"\n\"\"Kay.\" The jacks spread across the midway hand to hand and boot\nto\nboot, blocking our way back to the arch and The Street. Old Blue-\nCap was\nin the middle.\nThe ones on either side of him were much younger, some by maybe\nas much\nas half a century. Two of the pale ones, the almost-not-there ones,\nwerestanding side-by-side to the old man's right, and I wondered if I\ncould\nburst through that part of their line. I thought they were no more\nflesh\nthan the thing which had thumped the insulation of the cellar wall..,\nbut what if I was wrong? \"Give her over, son,\" the old man said. His\nvoice was reedy and implacable. He held out his hands. It was Max\nDevore, he had come back, even in death he was seeking custody.\nYet it\nwasn't him. I knew it wasn't. The planes of this man's face were\nsubtly\ndifferent, the cheeks gaunter, the eyes a brighter blue. \"Where am\nI?\" I\ncalled to him, accenting the last word heavily, and in front of\nAngelina's booth, the man in the turban (a Hindu who perhaps\nhailed from\nSandusky, Ohio) put down his flute and simply watched. The snake-\ngirls\nstopped dancing and watched, too, slipping their arms around each\nother\nand drawing together for comfort. \"Where am/, Devore? If our\ngreat-grandfathers shit in the same pit, then where am I?\"\n\"Ain't here to answer your questions. Give her over.\"\n\"I'll take her, Jared,\" one of the younger men-one of those who were\nreally there--said. He looked at Devore with a kind of fawning\neagerness\nthat sickened me, mostly because I knew who he was: Bill Dean's 1\nbfhen\nKINL father. A man who had grown up to be one of the most\nrespected\nelders in Castle County was all but licking Devore's boots. Don't think\ntoo badly of him, Jo whispered. Don't think too badly of any of them.\nThey were very young. \"You don't need to do nothing,\" Devore said.\nHisreedy voice was irritated; Fred Dean looked abashed. \"He's going to\nhand\nher over on his own. And if he don't, we'll take her together.\" I\nlooked\nat the man on the far left, the third of those that seemed totally real,\ntotally there. Was this me? It didn't look like me. There was\nsomething\nin the face that seemed familiar but-\"Hand her over, Irish,\" Devore\nsaid. \"Last chance.\"\nDevore nodded as if this was exactly what he had expected. \"Then\nwe'll\ntake her. This has got to end. Come on, boys.\" They started toward\nme\nand as they did I realized who the one on the end--the one in the\ncaulked treewalker boots and flannel loggers' pants--reminded me\nof:\nKenny Auster, whose wolfhound would eat cake 'til it busted. Kenny\nAuster, whose baby brother had been drowned under the pump by\nKenny's\nfather. I looked behind me. The Red-Tops were still playing, Sara was\nstill laughing, shaking her hips with her hands in the sky, and the\ncrowd was still plugging the east end of the midway. That way was\nno\ngood, anyway. if I went that way, I'd end up raising a little girl in\nthe early years of the twentieth century, trying to make a living by\nwriting penny dread-fuls and dime novels. That might not be so bad.\n..\nbut there was a lonely young woman miles and years from here who\nwould\nmiss her. Who might even miss us both. I turned back and saw the\njackboys were almost on me. Some of them more here than others,\nmorevital, but all of them dead. All of them damned. I looked at the\ntowhead\nwhose descendants would include Kenny Auster and asked him,\n\"What did\nyou do? What in Christ's name did you men do?\" He held out his\nhands.\n\"Give her over, Irish. That's allyou have to do. You and the woman\ncan\nhave more. All the more you want. She's young, she'll pop em out\nlike\nwatermelon seeds.\"\nI was hypnotized, and they would have taken us if not for Kyra.\n\"What's\nhappening?\" she screamed against my shirt. \"Something smells!\nSomething\nsmells so bad./ Oh Mike, make it stop/\" And I realized I could smell\nit,\ntoo. Spoiled meat and swampgas. Burst tissue and simmering guts.\nDevore\nwas the most alive of all of them, generating the same crude but\npowerful magnetism I had felt around his great-grandson, but he\nwas as\ndead as the rest of them, too: as he neared I could see the tiny\nbugs\nwhich were feeding in his nostrils and the pink corners of his eyes.\nEverything down here is death, I thought. Didn't my own wij9 tell\nme so?\nThey reached out their tenebrous hands, first to touch Ki and then to\ntake her. I backed up a step, looked to my right, and saw more\nghosts--some coming out of busted windows, some slipping from\nredbrickchimneys. Holding Kyra in my arms, I ran for the Ghost House. \"Get\nhim!\"\nJared Devore yelled, startled. \"Get him, boys! Get that punk!\nGoddamnit!\" I sprinted up the wooden steps, vaguely aware of\nsomething\nsoft rubbing against my cheek--Ki's little stuffed dog, still clutched\nin one of her hands. I wanted to look back and see how close they\nwere\ngetting, but I didn't dare. if I stumbled-\"Hey!\" the woman in the\nticket\nbooth cawed. She had clouds of gingery hair, makeup that appeared\nto\nhave been applied with a garden-trowel, and mercifully resembled\nno one\nI knew. She was just a carny, just passing through this benighted\nplace.\nLucky her. \"Hey, mister, you gotta buy a ticket!\" No time, lady, no\ntime. \"Stop him!\" Devore shouted. \"He's a goddam punk thief! That\nain't\nhis young 'un he's got! Stop him!\" But no one did and I rushed into\nthe\ndarkness of the Ghost House with Ki in my arms.\nBeyond the entry was a passage so narrow I had to turn sideways to\nget\ndown it. Phosphorescent eyes glared at us in the gloom. Up ahead\nwas a\ngrowing wooden rumble, a loose sound with a clacking chain\nbeneath it.\nBehind us came the clumsy thunder of caulk-equipped loggers'\nbootsrushing up the stairs outside. The ginger-haired carny was hollering\nat\nthem now, she was telling them that if they broke anything inside\nthey'd\nhave to give up the goods. \"You mind me, you damned rubes!\" she\nshouted.\n\"That place is for kids, not the likes of you!\" The rumble was\ndirectly\nahead of us. Something was turning. At first I couldn't make out\nwhat it\nwas. \"Put me down, Mike!\" Kyra sounded excited. \"I want to go\nthrough by\nmyselfl\" I set her on her feet, then looked nervously back over my\nshoulder. The bright light at the entryway was blocked out as they\ntried\nto cram in. \"You asses!\" Devore yelled. \"Not all at the same time!\nSweet\nweeping Jesus!\" There was a smack and someone cried out. I faced\nfront\njust in time to see Kyra dart through the rolling barrel, holding her\nhands out for balance. Incredibly, she was laughing. I followed, got\nhalfway across, then went down with a thump. \"Ooops!\" Kyra called\nfrom\nthe far side, then giggled as I tried to get up, fell again, and was\ntumbled all the way over. The bandanna fell out of my bib pocket. A\nbag\nof horehound candy dropped from another pocket. I tried to look\nback, to\nsee if they had got themselves sorted out and were coming. When I\ndid,\nthe barrel hurled me through another inadvertent somersault. Now I\nknew\nhow clothes felt in a dryer. I crawled to the end of the barrel, got\nup,took Ki's hand, and let her lead us deeper into the Ghost House. We\ngot\nperhaps ten paces before white bloomed around her like a lily and\nshe\nscreamed. Some animal--something that sounded like a huge cat--\nhissed\nheavily. Adrenaline dumped into my bloodstream and I was about to\njerk\nher backward into my arms again when the hiss came once more. I\nfelt hot\nair on my ankles, and Ki's dress made that bell-shape around her\nlegs\nagain. This time she laughed instead of screaming. \"Go, Ki!\" I\nwhispered. \"Fast.\" We went on, leaving the steam-vent behind.\nThere was\na mirrored corridor where we were reflected first as squat dwarves\nand\nthen as scrawny ectomorphs with long white vampire features. I had\nto\nurge Kyra on again; she wanted to make faces at herself. Behind us,\nIheard cursing lumberjacks trying to negotiate the barrel. I could\nhear\nDevore cursing, too, but he no longer seemed so... well, so eminent.\nThere was a sliding-pole that landed us on a big canvas pillow. This\nmade a loud farting noise when we hit it, and Ki laughed until fresh\ntears spilled down her cheeks, rolling around and kicking her feet in\nglee. I got my hands under her arms and yanked her up. \"Don't\ntaggle yer\nown quartermack,\" she said, then laughed again. Her fear seemed\nto have\nentirely departed. We went down another narrow corridor. It smelled\nof\nthe fragrant pine from which it had been constructed. Behind one of\nthese walls, two \"ghosts\" were clanking chains as mechanically as\nmen\nworking on a shoe-factory assembly line, talking about where they\nwere\ngoing to take their girls tonight and who was going to bring some\n\"red-eye engine,\" whatever that was. I could no longer hear anyonebehind us. Kyra led the way confidently, one of her little hands\nholding\none of my big ones, pulling me along. When we came to a door\npainted\nwith glowing flames and marked THIS WAY TO HADES, she pushed\nthrough it\nwith no hesitation at all. Here red isinglass topped the passage like a\ntinted skylight, imparting a rosy glow I thought far too pleasant for\nHades. We went on for what felt like a very long time, and I realized\nI\ncould no longer hear the calliope, the hearty bong/of the Test Your\nStrength bell, or Sara and the Red-Tops. Nor was that exactly\nsurprising. We must have walked a quarter of a mile. How could any\ncounty fair Ghost House be so big? We came to three doors then,\none on\nthe left, one on the right, and one set into the end of the corridor.\nOn\none a little red tricycle was painted. On the door facing it was mygreen IBM typewriter. The picture on the door at the end looked\nolder,\nsomehow--faded and dowdy. It showed a child's sled. That's Scooter\nLarribee's, I thought. That's the one Devore stole. A rash of\ngooseflesh\nbroke out on my arms and back. \"Well,\" Kyra said brightly, \"here are\nour\ntoys.\" She lifted Strickland, presumably so he could see the red trike.\n\"Yeah,\" I said. \"I guess so.\"\n\"Thank you for taking me away,\" she said.\n\"Those were scary men but the spookyhouse was fun. Nighty-night.\nStricken says nighty-night, too.\" It still came out sounding\nexotic--tiu--like the Vietnamese word for sublime happiness.\nBefore I could say another word, she had pushed open the door with\nthetrike on it and stepped through. It snapped shut behind her, and as\nit\ndid I saw the ribbon from her hat. It was hanging out of the bib\npocket\nof the overalls I was wearing. I looked at it a moment, then tried the\nknob of the door she had just gone through. It wouldn't turn, and\nwhen I\nslapped my hand against the wood it was like slapping some hard\nand\nfabulously dense metal. I stepped back, then cocked my head in the\ndirection from which we'd come. There was nothing. Total silence.\nThis\nis the between-time, I thought. When people talk about \"slipping\nthrough\nthe cracks,\" this is what they really mean. This is the place where\nthey\nreally go. I3u better get going yourself, Jo told me. If you don't want\nto find yourself trapped here, maybe )$rever, you better get going\nyourself. I tried the knob of the door with the typewriter painted onit. It turned easily. Behind it was another narrow corridor--more\nwooden\nwalls and the sweet smell of pine. I didn't want to go in there,\nsomething about it made me think of a long coffin, but there was\nnothing\nelse to do, nowhere else to go. I went, and the door slammed shut\nbehind\nme. Christ, I thought. I'm in the dark, in a closed-in place. .. it's\ntimej$r one of Michael Noonan' s world-famous panic attacks. But no\nbands clamped themselves over my chest, and although my heart-\nrate was\nhigh and my muscles were still jacked on adrenaline, I was under\ncontrol. Also, I realized, it wasn't entirely dark. I could only see a\nlittle, but enough to make out the walls and the plank floor. I\nwrapped\nthe dark blue ribbon from Ki's hat around my wrist, tucking one end\nunderneath so it wouldn't come loose. Then I began to move\nforward. I\nwent on for a long time, the corridor turning this way and that,seemingly at random. I felt like a microbe slipping through an\nintestine. At last I came to a pair of wooden arched doorways. I\nstood\nbefore them, wondering which was the correct choice, and realized I\ncould hear Bunter's bell faintly through the one to my left. I went\nthat\nway and as I walked, the bell grew steadily louder. At some point the\nsound of the bell was joined by the mutter of thunder. The autumn\ncool\nhad left the air and it was hot again--stifling. I looked down and saw\nthat the biballs and clodhopper shoes were gone. I was wearing\nthermal\nunderwear and itchy socks. Twice more I came to choices, and each\ntime I\npicked the opening through which I could hear Bunter's bell. As I\nstood\nbefore the second pair of doorways, I heard a voice somewhere in\nthe\ndark say quite clearly: \"No, the President's wife wasn't hit. That's hisblood on her stockings.\" I walked on, then stopped when I realized\nmy\nfeet and ankles no longer itched, that my thighs were no longer\nsweating\ninto the longjohns. I was wearing the Jockey shorts I usually slept\nin.\nI looked up and saw I was in my own living room, threading my way\ncarefully around the furniture as you do in the dark, trying like hell\nnot to stub your stupid toe. I could see a little better; faint milky\nlight was coming in through the windows. I reached the counter\nwhich\nseparates the living room from the kitchen and looked over it at the\nwaggy-cat clock. It was five past five. I went to the sink and turned\non\nthe water. When I reached for a glass I saw I was still wearing the\nribbon from Ki's straw hat on my wrist. I unwound it and put it on\nthe\ncounter between the coffee-maker and the kitchen TV. Then I drew\nmyselfsome cold water, drank it down, and made my way cautiously along\nthe\nnorth-wing corridor by the pallid yellow glow of the bathroom\nnightlight. I peed (y0u-rinated, I could hear Ki saying), then went\ninto\nthe bedroom. The sheets were rumpled, but the bed didn't have the\norgiastic look of the morning after my dream of Sara, Mattie, and Jo.\nWhy would it? I'd gotten out of it and had myself a little sleepwalk.\nAn\nextraordinarily vivid dream of the Fryeburg Fair. Except that was\nbullshit, and not just because I had the blue silk ribbon from Ki's hat.\nNone of it had the quality of dreams on waking, where what seemed\nplausible becomes immediately ridiculous and all the colors--both\nthose\nbright and those ominous--fade at once. I raised my hands to my\nface,\ncupped them over my nose, and breathed deeply. Pine. When I\nlooked, Ieven saw a little smear of sap on one pinky finger. I sat on the bed,\nthought about dictating what I'd just experienced into the Memo-\nScriber,\nthen flopped back on the pillows instead. I was too tired. Thunder\nrumbled. I closed my eyes, began to drift away, and then a scream\nripped\nthrough the house. It was as sharp as the neck of a broken bottle. I\nsat\nup with a yell, clutching at my chest.\nIt was Jo. I had never heard her scream like that in our life together,\nbut I knew who it was, just the same. \"Stop hurting her!\" I shouted\ninto\nthe darkness. \"Whoever you are, stop hurting her!\"\nShe screamed again, as if something with a knife, clamp, or hot\npoker\ntook a malicious delight in disobeying me. It seemed to come from a\ndistance this time, and her third scream, while just as agonized as\nthefirst two, was farther away still. They were diminishing as the little\nboy's sobbing had diminished.\nA fourth scream floated out of the dark, then Sara was silent.\nBreathless, the house breathed around me. Alive in the heat, aware\nin\nthe faint sound of dawn thunder.\nII C PI ;P T E-: R I was finally able to get into the zone, but couldn't\ndo anything once I got there. I keep a steno pad handy for\nnotes--character lists, page references, date chronologies--and I\ndoodled in there a little bit, but the sheet of paper in the IBM\nremained blank. There was no thundering heartbeat, no throbbing\neyes or\ndifficulty breathing--no panic attack, in other words--but there was\nno\nstory, either. Andy Drake, John Shackleford, Ray Garraty, the\nbeautifulRegina Whiting... they stood with their backs turned, refusing to\nspeak\nor move. The manuscript was sitting in its accustomed place on the\nleft\nside of the typewriter, the pages held down with a pretty chunk of\nquartz I'd found on the lane, but nothing was happening. Zilch.\nI recognized an irony here, perhaps even a moral. For years I had\nfled\nthe problems of the real world, escaping into various Narnias of my\nimagination. Now the real world had filled up with bewildering\nthickets,\nthere were things with teeth in some of them, and the wardrobe was\nlocked against me.\nKyra, I had printed, putting her name inside a scalloped shape that\nwas\nsupposed to be a cabbage rose. Below it I had drawn a piece of\nbread\nwith a beret tipped rakishly on the top crust. Noonan's conception ofFrench toast. The letters L.B. surrounded with curlicues. A shirt with\na\nrudimentary duck on it. Beside this I had printed QUACK QUACK.\nBelow\nQUACK QUACK I had written Ought toffy away \"Bon 14yage.\"\nAt another spot on the sheet I had written Dean, Auster, and\nDevore.\nThey were the ones who had seemed the most there, the most\ndangerous.\nBecause they had descendants? But surely all seven of those jacks\nmust,\nmustn't they? In those days most families were whoppers. And\nwhere had I\nbeen? I had asked, but Devore hadn't wanted to say.\nIt didn't feel any more like a dream at nine-thirty on a sullenly hot\nSunday morning. Which left exactly what? Visions? Time-travel? And\nifthere was a purpose to such travel, what was it? What was the\nmessage,\nand who was trying to send it? I remembered clearly what I'd said\njust\nbefore passing from the dream in which I had sleepwalked out to\nJo's\nstudio and brought back my typewriter: I don't believe these lies.\nNor\nwould I now. Until I could see at least some of the truth, it might be\nsafer to believe nothing at all.\nAt the top of the sheet upon which I was doodling, in heavily stroked\nletters, I printed the word Danoevd, then circled it. From the circle I\ndrew an arrow to Kyra's name. From her name I drew an arrow to\nOught\ntoffy away \"Bon [4yage\" and added MATTI.\nBelow the bread wearing the beret I drew a little telephone. Above it\nI\nput a cartoon balloon with R-R-RINGGG! in it. As I finished this, thecordless phone rang. It was sitting on the deck rail. I circled :rsrle\nand picked up the phone.\n\"Mike?\" She sounded excited. Happy. Relieved.\n\"Yeah,\" I said. \"How are you?\"\n\"Great!\" she said, and I circled L.B. on my pad.\n\"Lindy Briggs called ten minutes ago--I just got off the phone with\nher.\nMike, she's giving me my job back! Isn't that wonderful?\"\nSure. And wonderful how it would keep her in town. I crossed out\nOught\nto fly away \"Bon [4yage,\" knowing that Mattie wouldn't go. Not now.\nAnd\nhow could I ask her to? I thought again If only I knew a little more...\n\"Mike? Are you--\"\"It's very wonderful,\" I said. In my mind's eye I could see her\nstanding\nin the kitchen, drawing the kinked telephone cord through her\nfingers,\nher legs long and coltish below her denim shorts. I could see the\nshirt\nshe was wearing, a white tee with a yellow duck paddling across the\nfront. \"I hope Lindy had the good grace to sound ashamed of\nherself.\" I\ncircled the tee-shirt I'd drawn.\n\"She did. And she was frank enough to kind of... well, disarm me.\nShe\nsaid the Whitmore woman talked to her early last week. Was very\nfrank\nand to the point, Lindy said. I was to be let go immediately. If that\nhappened, the money, computer equipment, and software Devore\nfunnelled\ninto the library would keep coming. If it didn't, the flow of goods andmoney would stop immediately. She said she had to balance the\ngood of\nthe community against what she knew was wrong.., she said it was\none of\nthe toughest decisions she ever had to make...\"\n\"Uh-huh.\" On the pad my hand moved of its own volition like a\nplanchette\ngliding over a Ouija board, printing the words PLEASE CAN'T I\nPLEASE.\n\"There's probably some truth in it, but Mattie... how much do you\nsuppose Lindy makes?\"\n\"I don't know.\"\n\"I bet it's more than any three other small-town librarians in the\nstate\nof Maine combined.\"\nIn the background I heard Ki: \"Can I talk, Mattie? Can I talk to Mike?Please can't I please?\"\n\"In a minute, hon.\" Then, to me: \"Maybe. All I know is that I have\nmy\njob back, and I'm willing to let bygones be bygones.\"\nOn the page, I drew a book. Then I drew a series of interlocked\ncircles\nbetween it and the duck tee-shirt.\n\"Ki wants to talk to you,\" Mattie said, laughing. \"She says the two of\nyou went to the Fryeburg Fair last night.\"\n\"Whoa, you mean I had a date with a pretty girl and slept through\nit?\"\n\"Seems that way. Are you ready for her?\"\n\"Ready.\"\"Okay, here comes the chatterbox.\"\nThere was a rustling as the phone changed hands, then Ki was\nthere. \"I\ntaggled you at the Fair, Mike! I taggled my own quartermack!\"\n\"Did you?\" I asked \"That was quite a dream, wasn't it, Ki?\" There\nwas a\nlong silence at the other end. I could imagine Mattie wondering what\nhad\nhappened to her telephone chatterbox. At last Ki said in a hesitating\nvoice: \"You there too.\" Tiu. \"We saw the snake-dance ladies.., the\npole\nwith the bell on top.., we went in the spookyhouse. . you fell down\nin\nthe barrel! It wasn't a dream.., was it?\" I could have convinced her\nthat it was, but all at once that seemed like a bad idea, one that was\ndangerous in its own way. I said: \"You had on a pretty hat and a\npretty\ndress.\"\"I3ah!\" Ki sounded enormously relieved. \"And you had on--\"\n\"Kyra, stop. Listen to me.\" She stopped at once. \"It's better if you\ndon't talk about that dream too much, I think. To your mom or to\nanyone\nexcept me.\"\n\"Except you.\"\n\"Yes. And the same with the refrigerator people. Okay?\"\n\"Okay. Mike, there was a lady in Mattie's clothes.\"\n\"I know,\" I said. It was all right for her to talk, I was sure of it,\nbut I asked anyway: \"Where's Mattie now?\"\n\"Waterin the flowers. We got lots of flowers, a billion at least. I have\nto clean up the table. It's a chore.I don't mind, though. I like chores. We had French toast. We always\ndo\non Sundays. It's yummy, 'specially with strawberry syrup.\"\n\"I know,\" I said, drawing an arrow to the piece of bread wearing the\nberet. \"French toast is great. Ki, did you tell your mom about the\nlady\nin her dress?\"\n\"No. I thought it might scare her.\" She dropped her voice. \"Here she\ncomes I\"\n\"That's all right.., but we've got a secret, right?\"\n\"Yes.\"\n\"Now can I talk to Mattie again?\"\n\"Okay.\" Her voice moved off a little.\"Mommy-bommy, Mike wants to talk to you.\" Then she came back.\n\"Will you\nbizzit us today? We could go on another picnic.\"\n\"I can't today, Ki. I have to work.\"\n\"Mattie never works on Sunday.\"\n\"Well, when I'm writing a book, I write every day. I have to, or else\nI'll forget the story. Maybe we'll have a picnic on Tuesday, though. A\nbarbecue picnic at your house.\"\n\"Is it long 'til Tuesday?\"\n\"Not too long. Day after tomorrow.\"\n\"Is it long to write a book?\"\n\"Medium-long.\" I could hear Mattie telling Ki to give her the phone.\n\"I\nwill, just one more second. Mike?\"\"I'm here, Ki.\"\n\"I love you.\" I was both touched and terrified. For a moment I was\nsure\nmy throat was going to lock up the way my chest used to when I\ntried to\nwrite. Then it cleared and I said, \"Love you, too, Ki.\"\n\"Here's Mattie.\"\nAgain there was the rustly sound of the telephone changing hands,\nthen\nMattie said: \"Did that refresh your recollection of your date with my\ndaughter, sir?\"\n\"Well,\" I said, \"it certainly refreshed hers.\" There was a link between\nMattie and me, but it didn't extend to this--I was sure of it. She was\nlaughing. I loved the way she sounded this morning and I didn't\nwant tobring her down.., but I didn't want her mistaking the white line in\nthe\nmiddle of the road for the crossmock, either. \"Mattie, you still need\nto\nbe careful, okay? Just because Lindy Briggs offered you your old job\nback doesn't mean everyone in town is suddenly your friend.\"\n\"I understand that,\" she said. I thought again about asking if she'd\nconsider taking Ki up to Derry for awhile--they could live in my\nhouse,\nstay for the duration of the summer if that was what it took for\nthings\nto return to normal down here. Except she wouldn't do it. When it\ncame\nto accepting my offer of high-priced New York legal talent, she'd had\nno\nchoice. About this she did. Or thought she did, and how could I\nchange\nher mind? I had no logic, no connected facts; all I had was a vague\ndark\nshape, like something lying beneath nine inches of snowblind ice.\"I want you to be careful of two men in particular,\" I said. \"One is\nBill Dean. The other is Kenny Auster. He's the one--\"\n\"--with the big dog who wears the neckerchief. He--\"\n\"That's Booberry!\" Ki called from the middle distance. \"Booberry\nlicked\nmy facie!\"\n\"Go out and play, hon,\" Mattie said. \"I'm clearun the table.\"\n\"You can finish later. Go on outside now.\" There was a pause as she\nwatched Ki go out the door, taking Strickland with her. Although the\nkid\nhad left the trailer, Mattie still spoke in the lowered tone of someone\nwho doesn't want to be overheard. \"Are you trying to scare me?\"\n\"No,\" I said, drawing repeated circles around the word DANGER.\n\"But Iwant you to be careful. Bill and Kenny may have been on Devore's\nteam,\nlike Footman and Osgood. Don't ask me why I think that might be,\nbecause\nI have no satisfactory answer.\nIt's only a feeling, but since I got back on the TR, my feelings are\ndifferent.\"\n\"What do you mean?\"\n\"Are you wearing a tee-shirt with a duck on it?\"\n\"How do you know that? Did Ki tell you?\"\n\"Did she take the little stuffed dog from her Happy Meal out with her\njust now?\" A long pause. At last she said \"My God\" in a voice so Low\nI\ncould hardly hear it. Then again: \"How--\"\n\"I don't know how. I don't know if you're still in a... a bad situation,either, or why you might be, but I feel that you are. That you both\nare.\" I could have said more, but I was afraid she'd think I'd gone\nentirely off the rails. \"He's dead!\" she burst out.\n\"That old man is dead! Why can't he leave us alone?\"\n\"Maybe he has.\nMaybe I'm wrong about all this. But there's no harm in being careful,\nis\nthere?\"\n\"No,\" she said. \"Usually that's true.\"\n\"Usually?\"\n\"Why don't you come and see me, Mike? Maybe we could go to the\nFair\ntogether.\"D-k3 %.31IDK31NE \"Maybe this fall we will. All three of us.\"\n\"I'd like that.\"\n\"In the meantime, I'm thinking about the key.\"\n\"Thinking is half your problem, Mike,\" she said, and laughed again.\nRuefully, I thought. And I saw what she meant. What she didn't\nseem to\nunderstand was that feeling was the other half. It's a sling, and in\nthe\nend I think it rocks most of us to death.\nI worked for a while,' then carried the IBM back into the house and\nleft\nthe manuscript on top. I was done with it, at least for the time\nbeing.\nNo more looking for the way back through the wardrobe; no more\nAndy\nDrake and John Shackleford until this was over. And, as I dressed inlong pants and a button-up shirt for the first time in what felt like\nweeks, it occurred to me that perhaps something--some force--had\nbeen\ntrying to sedate me with the story I was telling. With the ability to\nwork again. It made sense; work had always been my drug of\nchoice, even\nbetter than booze or the Mellaril I still kept in the bathroom medicine\ncabinet. Or maybe work was only the delivery system, the hypo with\nall\nthe dreamy dreams inside it. Maybe the real drug was the zone.\nBeing in\nthe zone. Feeling it, you sometimes hear the basketball players say. I\nwas in the zone and I was really feeling it. I grabbed the keys to the\nChevrolet off the counter and looked at the fridge as I did. The\nmagnets\nwere circled again. In the middle was a message I'd seen before,\none\nthat was now instantly understandable, thanks to the extra\nMagnabet\nletters:help her \"I'm doing my best,\" I said, and went out.\nThree miles north on Route 68--by then you're on the part of it\nwhich\nused to be known as Castle Rock Road-there's a greenhouse with a\nshop in\nfront of it. Slips 'n Greens, it's called, and Jo used to spend a fair\namount of time there, buying gardening supplies or just noodling\nwith\nthe two women who ran the place. One of them was Helen Auster,\nKenny's\nwife.\nI pulled in there at around ten o'clock that Sunday morning (it was\nopen, of course; during tourist season almost every Maine\nshopkeeper\nturns heathen) and parked next to a Beamer with New York plates. I\npaused long enough to hear the weather forecast on the\nradio---contin-ued hot and humid for another forty-eight hours atleast--and then got out. A woman wearing a bathing suit, a skort,\nand a\ngiant yellow sunhat emerged from the shop with a bag of peat moss\ncradled in her arms. She gave me a little smile. I returned it with\neighteen per cent interest. She was from New York, and that meant\nshe\nwasn't a Martian. The shop was even hotter and' damper than the\nwhite\nmorning outside. Lila Proulx, the co-owner, was on the phone. There\nwas\na little fan beside the cash register and she was standing directly in\nfront of it, flapping the front of her sleeveless blouse. She saw me\nand\ntwiddled her fingers in a wave. I twiddled mine back, feeling like\nsomeone else. Work or no work, I was still zoning. Still feeling it. I\nwalked around the shop, picking up a few things almost at random,\nwatching Lila out of the corner of my eye and waiting for her to get\noff\nthe phone so I could talk to her.., and all the time my own privatehyperdrive was humming softly away. At last she hung up and I\ncame to\nthe counter. \"Michael Noonan, what a sight for sore eyes you are!\"\nshe\nsaid, and began ringing up my purchases. \"I was awfully sorry to\nhear\nabout Johanna. Got to get that right up front. Jo was a pet.\"\n\"Thanks, Lila.\"\n\"Welcome. Don't need to say any more about it, but with a thing like\nthat it's best to put it right up front. I've always believed it, always\nwill believe it. Right up front. Going to do a little gardening, are\nyou?\" Gointer do a little ga'adnin, aaa you? \"If it ever cools off.\"\n\"Ayuh! Isn't it wicked?\" She flapped the top of her blouse again to\nshow\nme how wicked it was, then pointed at one of my purchases. \"Want\nthis\none in a special bag? Always safe, never sorry, that's my motto.\" Inodded, then looked at the little blackboard tilted against the\ncounter.\nFRESH BLUEBERRYS, the chalked message read. THE CROP IS IN!\n\"I'll have a pint of berries, too,\" I said. \"As long as they're not\nFriday's. I can do better than Friday.\" She nodded vigorously, as if to\nsay she knew damned well I could. \"These were on the bush yest'y.\nThat\nfresh enough for you?\"\n\"Good as gold,\" I said. \"Blueberry's the name of Kenny's dog, isn't\nit?\"\n\"Ain't he a funny one? God, I love a big dog, if he's behaved.\" She\nturned, got a pint of berries from her little fridge, and put them in\nanother bag for me. \"Where's Helen?\" I asked. \"Day off?.\"\n\"Not her,\" Lila said. \"If she's in town, you can't get her out of thisplace 'less you beat her with a stick. She and Kenny and the kids\nwent\ndown Taxachusetts. Them and her brother's family club together and\nget a\nseaside cottage two weeks every summer. They all went. Old\nBlueberry,\nhe'll chase seagulls until he drops.\" She laughed--it was a loud and\nhearty one. It made me think of Sara Tidwell. Or maybe it was the\nway\nLila looked at me as she did it. There was no laughter in her eyes.\nThey\nwere small and considering, coldly curious. Would youj3r Christ's\nsake\nquit it? I told myself. They can't all be in on it together, Mike/\nCouldn't they, though? There is such a thing as town\nconsciousness--anyone who doubts it has never been to a New\nEngland town\nmeeting. Where there's a consciousness, is there not likely to be a\nsubconscious? And if Kyra and I were doing the old mind-meld thing,could not other people in TR-90 also be doing it, perhaps without\neven\nknowing it? We all shared the same air and land; we shared the lake\nand\nthe aquifer which lay below everything, buried water tasting of rock\nand\nminerals. We shared The Street as well, that place where good pups\nand\nvile dogs could walk side-by-side. As I started out with my purchases\nin\na cloth carry-handle bag, Lila said: \"What a shame about Royce\nMerrill.\nDid you hear?\"\n\"No,\" I said. \"Fell down his cellar stairs yest'y evening. What a man\nhis age was doing going down such a steep flight of steps is beyond\nme,\nbut I suppose once you get to his age, you have your own reasons\nfor\ndoing things.\"Is he dead? I started to ask, then rephrased. It wasn't the way the\nquestion was expressed on the TR. \"Did he pass?\"\n\"Not yet. Motton Rescue took him to Castle County General. He's in\na\ncoma.\" Comber, she said it.\n\"They don't think he'll ever wake up, poor fella. There's a piece of\nhistory that'll die with him.\"\n\"I suppose that's true.\" Goodriance, I thought. \"Does he have\nchildren?\"\n\"No. There have been Merrills on the TR for two hundred years; one\ndied\nat Cemetery Ridge. But all the old families are dying out now. You\nhave\na nice day, Mike.\" She smiled. Her eyes remained flat and\nconsidering. Igot into my Chevy, put the bag with my purchases in it on the\npassenger\nseat, then simply sat for a moment, letting the air conditioner pour\ncool air on my face and neck.\nKenny Auster was in Taxachusetts. That was good. A step in the\nright\ndirection. But there was still my caretaker.\n\"Bill's not here,\" Yvette said. She stood in the door, blocking it as\nwell as she could (you can only do so much in that regard when\nyou're\nfive-three and weigh roughly a hundred pounds), studying me with\nthe\ngimlet gaze of a nightclub bouncer denying re-entry to a drunk\nwho's\nbeen tossed out on his ear once already. I was on the porch of the\nneat-as-ever-you-saw Cape Cod which stands at the top of Peabody\nHill\nand looks all the way across New Hampshire and into Vermont's\nback yard.Bill's equipment sheds were lined up to the left of the house, all of\nthem painted the same shade of gray, each with its own sign: DEAN\nCARETAKING, No. 1, No. 2, and No. 3. Parked in front of No. 2 was\nBill's\nDodge Ram. I looked at it, then back at Yvette. Her lips tightened a\nlittle more. Another notch and I figured they'd be gone entirely. \"He\nwent to North Conway with Butch Wiggins,\" she said. \"They went in\nButch's truck. To get--\"\n\"No need lying for me, dear heart,\" Bill said from behind her. It was\nstill over an hour shy of noon, and on the Lord's Day to boot, but I\nhad\nnever heard a man who sounded more tired.\nHe clumped down the hall, and as he came out of its shadows and\ninto the\nlight--the sun was finally burning through the murk--I saw that Bill\nnowlooked his age. Every year of it, and maybe ten more to grow on. He\nwas\nwearing his usual khaki shirt and pants--Bill Dean would be a Dickies\nman until the day he died--but his shoulders looked slumped, almost\nsprained, a-s if he'd spent a week lugging buckets that were too\nheavy\nfor him. The falling-away of his face had finally begun, an\nindefinable\nsomething that makes the eyes look too big, the jaw too prominent,\nthe\nmouth a bit loose. He looked old. There were no children to carry on\nthe\nfamily line of work, either; all the old families were dying out, Lila\nProulx had said. And maybe that was a good thing. \"Bill--\" she\nbegan,\nbut he raised one of his big hands to stop her. The callused\nfingertips\nshook a little. \"Go in the kitchen a dight,\" he told her. \"I need to\ntalk to my corn-padre here. \"T'won't take long.\" Yvette looked at\nhim,and when she looked back at me, she had indeed reached zero lip-\nsurface.\nThere was just a black line where they had been, like a mark dashed\noff\nwith a pencil. I saw with woeful clarity that she hated me. \"Don't\nyou\ntire him out,\" she said to me. \"He hasn't been sleepin. It's the heat.\"\nShe walked back down the hall, all stiff back and high shoulders,\ndisappearing into shadows that were probably cool. It always seems\nto be\ncool in the houses of old people, have you noticed? Bill came out\nonto\nthe porch and put his big hands into the pockets of his pants without\noffering to shake with me. \"I ain't got nothin to say to you. You and\nme's quits.\"\n\"Why, Bill? Why are we quits?\" He looked west, where the hills\nstepped\ninto the burning summer haze, disappearing in it before they could\nbecome mountains, and said nothing. \"I'm trying to help that youngwoman.\" He gave me a look from the corners of his eyes that I\ncould read\nwell enough. 'gkyuh. Help y'self right into her pants. I see men come\nup\nfrom New York and New Jersey with their young girls. Summer\nweekends,\nski weekends, it don't matter. Men who go with girls that age always\nlook the same, got their tongues run out even when their mouths\nare\nshut. Now you look the same.\"\nI felt both angry and embarrassed, but I resisted the urge to chase\nhim\nin that direction. That was what he wanted. \"What happened here?\"\nI\nasked him. \"What did your fathers and grandfathers and\ngreat-grandfathers do to Sara Tidwell and her family? You didn't just\nmove them on, did you?\"\n\"Didn't have to,\" Bill said, looking past me at the hills. His eyes weremoist almost to the point of tears, but his jaw was set and hard.\n\"They\nmoved on themselves. Never was a nigger who didn't have an itchy\nfoot,\nmy dad used to say.\"\n\"Who set the trap that killed Son Tidwell's boy? Was it your father,\nBill? Was it Fred?\" His eyes moved; his jaw never did. \"I dunno what\nyou're talking about.\"\n\"I hear him crying in my house. Do you know what it's like to hear a\ndead child crying in your house? Some bastard trapped him like a\nweasel\nand I hear him crying in my fucking house./\"\n\"You're going to need a new caretaker,\" Bill said. \"I can't do for you\nno more. Don't want to. What I want is for you to get off my porch.\"\n\"What's happening? Help me, for Christ's sake.\"\"I'll help you with the toe of my shoe if you don't get going on your\nown.\nI looked at him a moment longer, taking in the wet eyes and the set\njaw,\nhis divided nature written on his face.\n\"I lost my wife, you old bastard,\" I said. \"A woman you claimed to\nNow\nhis jaw moved at last. He looked at me with surprise and injury.\n\"That didn't happen here,\" he said. \"That didn't have anything to do\nwith here. She might've been off the TR because.., well, she\nmight've\nhad her reasons to be off the TR... but she just had a stroke. Would\nhave happened anywhere. Anywhere.\"\n\"I don't believe that. I don't think you do, either. Somethingjllowedher to Derry, maybe because she was pregnant...\" Bill's eyes\nwidened. I\ngave him a chance to say something, but he didn't take it. \"... or\nmaybe\njust because she knew too much.\"\n\"She had a stroke.\" Bill's voice wasn't quite even. \"I read the\nobituary\nmyself. She had a damn stroke.\"\n\"What did she find out? Talk to me, Bill. Please.\" There was a long\npause. Until it was over I allowed myself the luxury of thinking I\nmight\nactually be getting through to him. \"I've only got one more thing to\nsay\nto you, Mike--stand back. For the sake of your immortal soul, stand\nback\nand let things run their course. They will whether you do or don't.\nThis\nriver has almost come to the sea; it won't be dammed by the likes ofyou. Stand back. For the love of Christ.\" Do you care about your\nsoul,\nMr. Noonan? God's butterfly caught in a cocoon of flesh that will\nsoon\nstink like mine?\nBill turned and walked to his door, the heels of his workboots clod-\nding\non the painted boards. \"Stay away from Mattie and Ki,\" I said. \"If\nyou\nso much as go near that trailer--\" He turned back, and the hazy\nsunshine\nglinted on the tracks below his eyes. He took a bandanna from his\nback\npocket and wiped his cheeks. \"I ain't stirrin from this house. I wish\nto\nGod I'd never come back from my vacation in the first place, but I\ndid\nmostly on your account, Mike. Those two down on Wasp Hill have\nnothing\nto fear from me. No, not from me.\" He went inside and closed the\ndoor. Istood there looking at it, feeling unreal--surely I could not have had\nsuch a deadly conversation with Bill Dean, could I? Bill who had\nreproached me for not letting folks down here share--and perhaps\nease--my grief for Jo, Bill who had welcomed me back so warmly?\nThen I\nheard a clack sound. He might not have locked his door while he\nwas at\nhome in his entire life, but he had locked it now. The clack was very\nclear in the breathless July air. It told me everything I had to know\nabout my long friendship with Bill Dean. I turned and walked back to\nmy\ncar, my head down. Nor did I turn when I heard a window run up\nbehind\nme. \"Don't you ever come back here, you town bastard!\" Yvette\nDean cried\nacross the sweltering dooryard. \"You've broken his heart! Don't you\never\ncome back! Don't you ever! Don't you ever!\"\"Please,\" Mrs. M. said. \"Don't ask me any more questions, Mike. I\ncan't\nafford to get in Bill Dean's bad books, any more'n my ma could\nafford to\nget into Normal Auster's or Fred Dean's.\" I shifted the phone to my\nother ear. '11 1 want to know is--\"\n\"In this part of the world caretakers pretty well run the whole show.\nIf\nthey say to a summer fella that he should hire this carpenter or that\n'lectrician, why, that's who the summer fella hires. Or if a caretaker\nsays this one should be fired because he ain't proving reliable, he is\nfired. Or she. Because what goes once for plumbers and landscapers\nand\n'lectri-cians has always gone twice for housekeepers. If you want to\nbe\nrecom-mended-and stay recommended--you have to keep on the\nsunny side of\npeople like Fred and Bill Dean, or Normal and Kenny Auster. Don't\nyousee?\" She was almost pleading. \"When Bill found out I told you\nabout\nwhat Normal Auster did to Kerry, oooo he was so mad at me.\"\n\"Kenny Auster's brother--the one Normal drowned under the pump--\nhis name\nwas Kerry?\"\n\"Txyuh. I've known a lot of folks name their kids alike, think it's\ncute. Why, I went to school with a brother and sister named Roland\nand\nRolanda Therriault, I think Roland's in Manchester now, and Rolanda\nmarried that boy from--\"\n\"Brenda, just answer one question. I'll never tell. Please?\" I waited,\nmy breath held, for the click that would come when she put her\ntelephone\nback in its cradle. Instead, she spoke three words in a soft, almost\nregretful voice. \"What is it?\"\"Who was Carla Dean?\" I waited through another long pause, my\nhand\nplaying with the ribbon that had come off Ki's turn-of-the-century\nstraw\nhat. \"You dassn't tell anyone I told you anything,\" she said at last. \"I\nwon't.\"\n\"Carla was Bill's twin sister.\nShe died sixty-five years ago, during the time of the fires.\" The fires\nBill claimed had been set by Ki's grand-father--his going-away\npresent\nto the TR. \"I don't know just how it happened. Bill never talks about\nit. If you tell him I told you, I'll never make another bed in the TR.\nHe'll see to it.\" Then, in a hopeless voice, she said: \"He may know\nanyway.\"\nBased on my own experiences and surmises, I guessed she might be\nrightabout that. But even if she was, she'd have a check from me every\nmonth\nfor the rest of her working life. I had no intention of telling her that\nover the telephone, though--it would scald her Yankee soul. Instead\nI\nthanked her, assured her again of my discretion, and hung up. I sat\nat\nthe table for a moment, staring blankly at Bunter, then said: \"Who's\nhere?\" No answer. \"Come on,\" I said. \"Don't be shy. Let's go\nnineteen or\nninety-two down. Barring that, let's talk.\" Still no answer. Not so\nmuch\nas a shiver of the bell around the stuffed moose's neck. I spied the\nscribble of notes I'd made while talking to Jo's brother and drew\nthem\ntoward me. I had put Kia, Kyra, Kito, and Carla in a box. Now I\nscribbled out the bottom line of that box and added the name Kerry\nto\nthe list. I've known a lot ofsolks name their kids alike, Mrs. M. had\nsaid. They think it's cute. I didn't think it was cute; I thought it wascreepy. It occurred to me that at least two of these soundalikes had\ndrowned--Kerry Auster under a pump, Kia Noonan in her mother's\ndying\nbody when she wasn't much bigger than a sunflower seed. And I\nhad seen\nthe ghost of a third drowned child in the lake. Kito? Was that one\nKito?\nOr was Kito the one who had died of blood-poisoning? They name\ntheir\nkids alike, they think it's cute. How many soundalike kids had there\nbeen to start with? How many were left? I thought the answer to the\nfirst question didn't matter, and that I knew the answer to the\nsecond\none already. This river has almost come to the sea, Bill had said.\nCarla, Kerry, Kito, Kia... all gone. Only Kyra Devote was left. I got up\nso fast and hard that I knocked over my chair. The clatter in the\nsilence made me cry out. I was leaving, and right now. No more\ntelephonecalls, no more playing Andy Drake, Private Detective, no more\ndepositions or half-assed wooings of the lady fair. I should have\nfollowed my instincts and gotten the fuck out of Dodge that first\nnight.\nWell, I'd go now, just get in the Chevy and haul ass for Der-Bunter's\nbell jangled furiously. I turned and saw it bouncing around his neck\nas\nif batted to and fro by a hand I couldn't see. The sliding door giving\non the deck began to fly open and clap shut like something hooked\nto a\npulley. The book of ugh Stuff crossword puzzles on the end-table\nand the\nDSS program guide blew open, their pages riffling.\nThere was a series of rattling thuds across the floor, as if something\nenormous were crawling rapidly toward me, pounding its fists as it\ncame.A draft--not cold but warm, like the rush of air produced by a\nsubway\ntrain on a summer night--buffeted past me. In it I heard a strange\nvoice\nwhich seemed to be saying Bye-BY, bye-BY, bye-BY, as if wishing me\na\ngood trip home. Then, as it dawned on me that the voice was\nactually\nsaying Ki-Ki, Ki-Ki, Ki-Ki, something struck me and knocked me\nviolently\nforward. It felt like a large soft fist. I buckled over the table,\nclawing at it to stay up, overturning the lazy susan with the salt and\npepper shakers on it, the napkin holder, the little vase Mrs. M. had\nfilled with daisies. The vase rolled off the table and shattered. The\nkitchen TV blared on, some politician talking about how inflation was\non\nthe march again. The CD player started up, drowning out the\npolitician;\nit was the Rolling Stones doing a cover of Sara Tidwell's \"I Regret\nYou,Baby.\" Upstairs, one smoke alarm went off, then another, then a\nthird.\nThey were joined a moment later by the warble-whoop of the\nChevy's car\nalarm. The whole world was cacophony. Something hot and pillowy\nseized\nmy wrist. My hand shot forward like a piston and slammed down on\nthe\nsteno pad. I watched as it pawed clumsily to a blank page, then\nseized\nthe pencil which lay nearby. I gripped it like a dagger and then\nsomething wrote with it, not guiding my hand but raping it. The\nhand\nmoved slowly at first, almost blindly, then picked up speed until it\nwas\nflying, almost tearing through the sheet:\nI!I had almost reached the bottom of the page when the cold\ndescended\nagain, that outer cold that was like sleet in January, chilling my skin\nand crackling the snot in my nose and sending two shuddery puffs of\nwhite air from my mouth. My hand clenched and the pencil snapped\nin two.\nBehind me, Bunter's bell rang out one final furious convulsion before\nfalling silent. Also from behind me came a peculiar double pop, like\nthe\nsound of champagne corks being drawn. Then it was over. Whatever\nit had\nbeen or however many they had been, it was finished. I was alone\nagain.\nI turned off the CD player just as Mick and Keith moved on to a\nwhite-boy version of Howling Wolf, then ran upstairs and pushed the\nreset buttons on the smoke-detectors. I leaned out the window of\nthe big\nguest bedroom while I was up there, aimed the fob of my keyring\ndown atthe Chevrolet, and pushed the button on it. The alarm quit. With the\nworst of the noise gone I could hear the TV cackling away in the\nkitchen. I went down, killed it, then froze with my hand still on the\nOFF button, looking at Jo's annoying waggy-cat clock. Its tail had\nfinally stopped switching, and its big plastic eyes lay on the floor.\nThey had popped right out of its head.\nI went down to the Village Cafe for supper, snagging the last Sunday\nlegram from the rack (COMPUTER MOGUL DEVORE DIES IN\nWESTERN MAINE TOWN\nWHERE HE GREW UP, the headline read) before sitting down at the\ncounter.\nThe accompanying photo was a studio shot of Devore that looked\nabout\nthirty years old. He was smiling. Most people do that quite naturally.\nOn Devore's face it looked like a learned skill. I ordered the beansthat were left over from Buddy Jellison's Satur-day-night beanhole\nsupper. My father wasn't much for aphorisms--in my family\ndispensing\nnuggets of wisdom was Mom's job--but as Daddy warmed up the\nSaturday-night yelloweyes in the oven on Sunday afternoon, he\nwould\ninvariably say that beans and beef stew were better the second day.\nI\nguess it stuck. The only other piece of fatherly wisdom I can\nremember\nreceiving was that you should always wash your hands after you\ntook a\nshit in a bus station.\nWhile I was reading the story on Devore, Audrey came over and told\nme\nthat Royce Merrill had passed without recovering consciousness. The\nfuneral would be Tuesday afternoon at Grace Baptist, she said. Most\nof\nthe town would be there, many folks just to see Ila Meserve\nawarded theBoston Post cane. Did I think I'd get over? No, I said, probably not. I\nthought it prudent not to add that I'd likely be attending a victory\nparty at Mattie Devore's while Royce's funeral was going on down\nthe\nroad.\nThe usual late-Sunday-afternoon flow of customers came and went\nwhile I\nate, people ordering burgers, people ordering beans, people\nordering\nchicken salad sandwiches, people buying sixpacks. Some were from\nthe TR,\nsome from away. I didn't notice many of them, and no one spoke to\nme. I\nhave no idea who left the napkin on my newspaper, but when I put\ndown\nthe A section and turned to find the sports, there it was. I picked it\nup, meaning only to put it aside, and saw what was written on the\nback\nin big dark letters: GET OFF THE TR.I never found out who left it there. I guess it could have been any of\nthem.\nI!\nTe murk came back and transformed that Sunday night's dusk into a\nthing\nof decadent beauty. The sun turned red as it slid down toward the\nhills\nand the haze picked up the glow, turning the western sky into a\nnosebleed. I sat out on the deck and watched it, trying to do a\ncrossword puzzle and not getting very far. When the phone rang, I\ndropped gh Stuff on top of my manuscript as I went to answer it. I\nwas\ntired of looking at the title of my book every time I passed.\n\"Hello?\"\"What's going on up there?\" John Storrow demanded. He didn't even\nbother\nto say hi. He didn't sound angry, though; he sounded totally\npumped.\n\"I'm missing the whole goddam soap opera!\"\n\"I invited myself to lunch on Tuesday,\" I said. \"Hope you don't\nmind.\"\n\"No, that's good, the more the merrier.\" He sounded as if he\nabsolutely\nmeant it. \"What a summer, huh? What a summer! Anything happen\njust\nlately? Earthquakes? Volcanoes? Mass suicides?\"\n\"No mass suicides, but the old guy died,\" I said.\n\"Shit, the whole world knows Max Devore kicked it,\" he said.\n\"Surprise\nme, Mike! Stun me! Make me holler boy-howdy!\"\"No, the other old guy. Royce Merrill.\"\n\"I don't know who you--oh, wait. The one with the gold cane who\nlooked\nlike an exhibit from Jurassic Park?\"\n\"That's him.\"\n\"Bummer. Otherwise. ..?\"\n\"Otherwise everything's under control,\" I said, then thought of the\npopped-out eyes of the cat-clock and almost laughed. What stopped\nme was\na kind of surety that Mr. Good Humor Man was just an act--John had\nreally called to ask what, if anything, was going on between me and\nMattie. And what was I going to say? Nothing yet? One kiss, one\ninstant\nblue-steel ham-on, the fundamental things apply as time goes by?\nBut John had other things on his mind. \"Listen, Michael, I calledbecause I've got something to tell you. I think you'll be both amused\nand amazed.\"\n\"A state we all crave,\" I said. \"Lay it on me.\"\n\"Rogette Whitmore called, and.., you didn't happen to give her my\nparents' number, did you? I'm back in New York now, but she called\nme in\nPhilly.\"\n\"I didn't have your parents' number. You didn't leave it on either of\nyour machines.\"\n\"Oh, right.\" No apology; he seemed too excited to think of such\nmundanities. I began to feel excited myself, and I didn't even know\nwhat\nthe hell was going on. \"I gave it to Mattie. Do you think the Whit-\nmore\nwoman called Mattie to get it? Would Mattie give it to her?\"\"I'm not sure that if Mattie came upon Rogette flaming in a\nthoroughfare, she'd piss on her to put her out.\"\n\"Vulgar, Michael, trs vulgarino.\" But he was laughing. \"Maybe Whit-\nmore\ngot it the same way Devore got yours.\"\n\"Probably so,\" I said. \"I don't know what'll happen in the months\nahead,\nbut right now I'm sure she's still got access to Max Devore's personal\ncontrol panel. And if anyone knows how to push the buttons on it,\nit's\nprobably her. Did she call from Palm Springs?\"\n\"Uh-huh. She said she'd just finished a preliminary meeting with\nDevore's attorneys concerning the old man's will. According to her,\nGrampa left Mattie Devote eighty million dollars.\"\nI was struck silent. I wasn't amused yet, but I was certainly amazed.\"Gets ya, don't it?\" John said gleefully.\n\"You mean he left it to Kyra,\" I said at last. \"Left it in trust to\nKyra.\"\n\"No, that's just what he did not do. I asked Whitmore three times,\nbut\nby the third I was starting to understand. There was method in his\nmadness. Not much, but a little. You see, there's a condition. If he\nleft the money to the minor child instead of to the mother, the\ncondition would have no weight. It's funny when you consider that\nMattie\nisn't long past minor status herself.\"\n\"Funny,\" I agreed, and thought of her dress sliding between my\nhands and\nher smooth bare waist. I also thought of Bill Dean saying that men\nwho\nwent with girls that age always looked the same, had their tongues\nrunout even if their mouths were shut.\n\"What string did he put on the money?\"\n\"That Mattie remain on the TR for one year following Devore's\ndeath--until July 17, 1999. She can leave on day-trips, but she has to\nbe tucked up in her TR-90 bed every night by nine o'clock, or else\nthe\nlegacy is forfeit. Did you ever hear such a bullshit thing in your life?\nOutside of some old George Sanders movie, that is?\"\n\"No,\" I said, and recalled my visit to the Fryeburg Fair with Kyra.\nEven\nin death he's seeking custody, I had thought, and of course this was\nthe\nsame thing. He wanted them here. Even in death he wanted them\non the TR.\n\"It won't fly?\" I asked.\n\"Of course it won't fly. Fucking crackpot might as well have writtenhe'd give her eighty million dollars if she used blue tampons for a\nyear. But she'll get the eighty mil, all right. My heart is set on it.\nI've already talked to three of our estate guys, and.., you don't think\nI should bring one of them up with me on Tuesday, do you? Will\nStevenson'll be the point man in the estate phase, if Mattie agrees.\"\nHe\nwas all but babbling. He hadn't had a thing to drink, I'd'ye bet the\nfarm on it, but he was sky-high on all the possibilities. We'd gotten\nto\nthe happily-ever-after part of the fairy tale, as far as he was\nconcerned; Cinderella comes home from the ball through a cash\ncloudburst.\n\"... course Will's a little bit old,\" John was saying, \"about three\nhundred or so, which means he's not exactly a fun guy at a party,\nbut...\"\"Leave him home, why don't you?\" I said. \"There'll be plenty of time\nto\ncarve up Devore's will later on. And in the immediate future, I don't\nthink Mattie's going to have any problem observing the bullshit\ncondition. She just got her job back, remember?\"\n\"Yeah, the white buffalo drops dead and the whole herd scatters!\"\nJohn\nexulted. \"Look at em go! And the new multimillionaire goes back to\nfiling books and mailing out overdue notices! Okay, Tuesday we'll\njust\nparty.\"\n\"Good.\"\n\"Party 'til we puke.\"\n\"Well... maybe us older folks will just party until we're mildly\nnauseated, would that be all right?\"\"Sure. i've already called Romeo Bissonette, and he's going to bring\nGeorge Kennedy, the private detective who got all that hilarious shit\non\nDurgin.\nBissonette says Kennedy's a scream when he gets a drink or two in\nhim. I\nthought I'd bring some steaks from Peter Luger's, did I tell you\nthat?\"\n\"I don't believe you did.\"\n\"Best steaks in the world. Michael, do you realize what's happened\nto\nthat young woman? Eighty million dollars!\"\n\"She'll be able to replace Scoutie.\"\n\"Huh?\"\n\"Nothing. Will you come in tomorrow night or on Tuesday?\"\"Tuesday morning around ten, into Castle County Airport. New\nEngland\nAir. Mike, are you all right? You sound odd.\"\n\"I'm all right. I'm where I'm supposed to be. I think.\"\n\"What's that supposed to mean?\" I had wandered out onto the deck.\nIn the\ndistance thunder rumbled. It was hotter than hell, not a breath of\nbreeze stirring. The sunset was fading to a baleful afterglow. The sky\nin the west looked like the white of a bloodshot eye. \"I don't know,\"\nI\nsaid, \"but I have an idea the situation will clarify itself. I'll meet\nyou at the airport.\"\n\"Okay,\" he said, and then, in a hushed, almost reverential voice:\n\"Eighty million motherfucking American dollars.\"\n\"It's a whole lotta lettuce,\" I agreed, and wished him a good night.I drank black coffee and ate toast in the kitchen the next morning,\nwatching the TV weatherman. Like so many of them these days, he\nhad a\nslightly mad look, as if all those Doppler radar images had driven\nhim\nto the brink of something. I think of it as the Millennial Video Game\nlook. \"We've got another thirty-six hours of this soup to work\nthrough\nand then there's going to be a big change,\" he was saying, and\npointed\nto some dark gray scum lurking in the Midwest. Tiny animated\nlightning-bolts danced in it like defective sparkplugs. Beyond the\nscum\nand the lightning-bolts, America looked clear all the way out to the\ndesert country, and the posted temperatures were fifteen degrees\ncooler.\n\"We'll see temps in the mid-nineties today and can't look for muchrelief tonight or tomorrow morning. But tomorrow afternoon these\nfrontal\nstorms will reach western Maine, and I think most of you are going\nto\nwant to keep updated on weather conditions. Before we get back to\ncooler\nair and bright clear skies on Wednesday, we're probably going to see\nviolent thunderstorms, heavy rain, hail in some locations. Tornados\nare\nrare in Maine, but some towns in western and central Maine could\nsee\nthem tomorrow. Back to you, Earl.\" Earl, the morning news guy, had\nthe\ninnocent beefy look of a recent retiree from the Chippendales and\nread\noff the Teleprompter like one. \"Wow,\" he said. \"That's quite a\nforecast,\nVince. Tornados a possibility.\"\n\"Wow,\" I said. \"Say wow again, Earl. Do it 'til I'm satisfied.\"\"Holy cow,\" Earl said just to spite me, and the telephone rang. I\nwent\nto answer it, giving the waggy clock a look as I went by. The night\nhad\nbeen quiet--no sobbing, no screaming, no nocturnal adventures--but\nthe\nclock was disquieting, just the same. It hung there On the wall\neyeless\nand dead, like a message full of bad news. \"Hello?\"\n\"Mr. Noonan?\" I knew the voice, but for a moment couldn't place it.\nIt\nwas because she had called me Mr. Noonan. To Brenda Meserve I'd\nbeen\nMike for almost fifteen years. \"Mrs. M.? Brenda? What--\"\n\"I can't work for you anymore,\" she said, all in a rush. \"I'm sorry I\ncan't give you proper notice--I never stopped work for anyone\nwithout\ngiving notice, not even that old drunk Mr. Croyden--but I have to.Please understand.\"\"Did Bill find out I called you? I swear to God, Brenda, I never said a\nword--\"\n\"No. I haven't spoken to him, nor he to me. I just can't come back\nto\nSara Laughs. I had a bad dream last night. A terrible dream. I\ndreamed\nthat.., something's mad at me. If I come back, I could have an\naccident.\nIt would look like an accident, at least, but.., it wouldn't be.\"\nThat's silly, Mrs. M., I wanted to say. You're surely past the age\nwhere\nyou believe in campfire stories about ghoulies and ghosties and\nlong-leggedy beasties.\nBut of course I could say no such thing. What was going on in my\nhouse\nwas no campfire story. I knew it, and she knew I did.\"Brenda, if I've caused you any trouble, I'm truly sorry.\"\n\"Go away, Mr. Noonan. .. Mike. Go back to Derry and stay for\nawhile.\nIt's the best thing you could do.\"\nI heard the letters sliding on the fridge and turned. This time I\nactually saw the circle of fruits and vegetables form. It stayed open\nat\nthe top long enough for four letters to slide inside. Then a little\nplastic lemon plugged the hole and completed the circle.\nyats the letters said, then swapped themselves around, making stay\nThen\nboth the circle and the letters broke up.\n\"Mike, p/ease.\" Mrs. M. was crying. \"Royce's funeral is tomorrow.\nEveryone in the TR who matters--the old-timers--will be there.\"Yes, of course they would. The old ones, the bags of bones who\nknew what\nthey knew and kept it to themselves. Except some of them had\ntalked to\nmy wife. Royce himself had talked to her. Now he was dead. So was\nshe.\n\"It would be best if you were gone. You could take that young\nwoman with\nyou, maybe. Her and her little girl.\"\nBut could I? I somehow didn't think so. I thought the three of us\nwere\non the TR until this was over.., and I was starting to have an idea of\nwhen that would be. A storm was coming. A summer storm. Maybe\neven a\ntornado.\n\"Brenda, thanks for calling me. And I'm not letting you go. Let's just\ncall it a leave of absence, shall we?\"\"Fine. .. whatever you want. Will you at least think about what I\nsaid?\"\n\"Yes. In the meantime, I don't think I'd tell anyone you called me, all\nright?\"\n\"No!\" she said, sounding shocked. Then: \"But they'll know. Bill and\nYvette... Dickie Brooks at the garage.., old Anthony Weyland and\nBuddy\nJellison and all the others.., they'll know. Goodbye, Mr. Noo-nan. I'm\nso sorry. For you and your wife. Your poor wife. I'm so sorry.\" Then\nshe\nwas gone.\nI held the phone in my hand for a long time. Then, like a man in a\ndream, I put it down, crossed the room, and took the eyeless clock\noff\nthe wall. I threw it in the trash and went down to the lake for a\nswim,remembering that W. E Harvey story \"August Heat,\" the one that\nends with\nthe line \"The heat is enough to drive a man mad.\"\nI'm not a bad swimmer when people aren't pelting me with rocks,\nbut my\nfirst shore-to-float-to-shore lap was tentative and\nunrhythmic--ugly--because I kept expecting something to reach up\nfrom\nthe bottom and grab me. The drowned boy, maybe. The second lap\nwas\nbetter, and by the third I was relishing the increased kick of my heart\nand the silky coolness of the water rushing past me. Halfway\nthrough the\nfourth lap I pulled myself up the float's ladder and collapsed on the\nboards, feeling better than I had since my encounter with Devore\nand\nRogette Whit-more on Friday night. I was still in the zone, and on\ntop\nof that I was experiencing a glorious endorphin rush. In that state,even the dismay I'd felt when Mrs. M. told me she was resigning her\nposition ebbed away. She would come back when this was over; of\ncourse\nshe would. In the meantime, it was probably best she stay away.\nSomething's mad at me. I could have an accident.\nYes indeed. She might cut herself. She might fall down a flight Of cel\nlar stairs. She might even have a stroke running across a hot parking\nlot. I sat up and looked at Sara on her hill, the deck jutting out over\nthe drop, the railroad ties descending. I'd only been out of the water\nfor a few minutes, but already the day's sticky heat was folding over\nme, stealing my rush. The water was still as a mirror. I could see the\nhouse reflected in it, and in the reflection Sara's windows became\nwatchful eyes.\nI thought that the focus of all the phenomena--the epicenter--was\nverylikely on The Street between the real Sara and its drowned image.\nThis\nis where it happened, Devore had said. And the old-timers? Most of\nthem\nprobably knew what I knew: that Royce Merrill had been murdered.\nAnd\nwasn't it possible--wasn't it likely--that what had killed him might\ncome among them as they sat in their pews or gathered afterward\naround\nhis grave? That it might steal some of their force--their guilt, their\nmemories, their T/-ness--to help it finish the job?\nI was very glad that John was going to be at the trailer tomorrow,\nand\nRomeo Bissonette, and George Kennedy, who was so amusing when\nhe got a\ndrink or two in him. Glad it was going to be more than just me with\nMattie and Ki when the old folks got together to give Royce Merrill\nhis\nsen doff. I no longer cared very much about what had happened to\nSara andthe Red-Tops, or even about what was haunting my house. What I\nwanted\nwas to get through tomorrow, and for Mattie and Ki to get through\ntomorrow. We'd eat before the rain started and then let the\npredicted\nthunderstorms come. I thought that, if we could ride them out, our\nlives\nand futures might clarify with the weather.\n\"Is that right?\" I asked. I expected no answer--talking out loud was\na\nhabit I had picked up since returning here--but somewhere in the\nwoods\neast of the house, an owl hooted. Just once, as if to say it was right,\nget through tomorrow and things will clarify. The hoot almost\nbrought\nsomething else to mind, some association that was ultimately too\ngauzy\nto grasp. I tried once or twice, but the only thing I could come up\nwithwas the title of a wonderful old novel I Heard the Owl Call Rly Name.\nI rolled forward off the float and into the water, grasping my knees\nagainst my chest like a kid doing a cannonball. I stayed under as\nlong\nas I could, until the air in my lungs started to feel like some hot\nbottled liquid, and then I broke the surface. I trod water about thirty\nyards out until I had my breath back, then set my sights on the\nGreen\nLady and stroked for shore.\nI waded out, started up the railroad ties, then stopped and went\nback to\nThe Street. I stood there for a moment, gathering my courage, then\nwalked to where the birch curved her graceful belly out over the\nwater.\nI grasped that white curve as I had on Friday evening and looked\ninto\nthe water. I was sure I'd see the child, his dead eyes looking up at\nmefrom his bloating brown face, and that my mouth and throat would\nonce\nmore fill with the taste of the lake: help I'm drown, lemme up, oh\nsweet\nJesus lemme up. But there was nothing. No dead boy, no ribbon-\nwrapped\nBoston Post cane, no taste of the lake in my mouth.\nI turned and peered at the gray forehead of rock poking out of the\nmulch. I thought There, right there, but it was only a conscious and\nunspontaneous thought, the mind voicing a memory. The smell of\ndecay and\nthe certainty that something awful had happened right there was\ngone.\nWhen I got back up to the house and went for a soda, I discovered\nthe\nfront of the refrigerator was bare and clean. Every magnetic letter,\nevery fruit and vegetable, was gone. I never found them. I might\nhave,probably would have, if there had been more time, but on that\nMonday\nmorning time was almost up.\nI dressed, then called Mattie. We talked about the upcoming party,\nabout\nhow excited Ki was, about how nervous Mattie was about going back\nto\nwork on Friday--she was afraid that the locals would be mean to her,\nbut\nin an odd, womanly way she was even more afraid that they would\nbe cold\nto her, snub her. We talked about the money, and I quickly\nascertained\nthat she didn't believe in the reality of it. \"Lance used to say his\nfather was the kind of man who'd show a piece of meat to a starving\ndog\nand then eat it himself,\" she said. \"But as long as I have my job\nback,\nI won't starve and neither will Ki.\"\"But if there really are big bucks...?\"\n\"Oh, gimme-gimme-gimme,\" she said, laughing. \"What do you think\nI am,\ncrazy?\"\n\"Nah. By the way, what's going on with Ki's fridgeafator people? Are\nthey writing any new stuff?.\"\n\"That is the weirdest thing,\" she said.\n\"They're gone.\"\n\"The fridgeafator people?\"\n\"I don't know about them, but the magnetic letters you gave her\nsure\nare. When I asked Ki what she did with them, she started crying and\nsaid\nAllamagoosalum took them. She said he ate them in the middle of\nthenight, while everyone was sleeping, for a snack.\"\n\"Allama-wh0-salum?' \"Allamagoosalum,\" Mattie said, sounding\nwearily\namused. \"Another little legacy from her grandfather. It's a corruption\nof the Micmac word for 'boogeyman' or 'demon'--I looked it up at\nthe\nlibrary. Kyra had a good many nightmares about demons and\nwendigos and\nthe allama-goosalum late last winter and this spring.\"\n\"What a sweet old grandpa he was,\" I said sentimentally.\n\"Right, a real pip. She was miserable over losing the letters; I barely\ngot her calmed down before her ride to V.B.S. came. Ki wants to\nknow if\nyou'll come to Final Exercises on Friday afternoon, by the way. She\nand\nher friend Billy Turgeon are going to flannelboard the story of baby\nMoses.\"\"I wouldn't miss it,\" I said.., but of course I did. We all did.\n'gkny idea where her letters might have gone, Mike?\"\n\"No.\"\n\"Yours are still okay?\"\n\"Mine are fine, but of course mine don't spell anything,\" I said,\nlooking at the empty door of my own fridgeafator. There was sweat\non my\nforehead. I could feel it creeping down into my eyebrows like oil.\n\"Did you... I don't know.., sense anything?\"\n\"You mean did I maybe hear the evil alphabet-thief as he slid\nthrough\nthe window?\"\n\"You know what I mean.\"\"I suppose so.\" A pause \"I thought I heard something in the night,\nokay?\nAbout three this morning, actually. I got up and went into the hall.\nNothing was there. But... you know how hot it's been lately?\"\n\"Yes.\"\n\"Well, not in my trailer, not last night. It was cold as ice. I swear I\ncould almost see my breath.\" I believed her. After all, I had seen\nmine.\n\"Were the letters on the front of the fridge then?\"\n\"I don't know. I didn't go up the hall far enough to see into the\nkitchen. I took one look around and then went back to bed. I almost\nran\nback to bed.\nSometimes bed feels safer, you know?\" She laughed nervously. \"It's\na kidthing. Covers are boogeyman kryptonite. Only at first, when I got\nin...\nI don't know... I thought someone was in there already. Like\nsomeone had\nbeen hiding on the floor underneath and then .. when I went to\ncheck the\nhall.,, they got in. Not a nice someone, either.\" Give me my\ndust-catcher, I thought, and shuddered. \"What?\"\nMattie asked sharply. \"What did you say?\"\n\"I asked who did you think it was? What was the first name that\ncame\ninto your mind?\"\n\"Devore,\" she said. \"Him. But there was no one there.\" A pause. \"I\nwish\nyou'd been there.\"\n\"I do, too.\"\"I'm glad. Mike, do you have any ideas at all about this? Because it's\nvery freaky.\"\n\"I think maybe...\" For a moment I was on the verge of telling her\nwhat\nhad happened to my own letters. But if I started talking, where\nwould it\nstop? And how much could she be expected to believe? \"... maybe Ki\ntook\nthe letters herself. Went walking in her sleep and chucked them\nunder\nthe trailer or something. Do you think that could be?\"\n\"I think I like the idea of Kyra strolling around in her sleep even less\nthan the idea of ghosts with cold breath taking the letters off the\nfridge,\" Mattie said. \"Take her to bed with you tonight,\" I said, and\nfelt her thought come back like an arrow: I'd rather take you. What\nshe\nsaid, after a brief pause, was: \"Will you come by today?\"\"I don't think so,\" I said. She was noshing on flavored yogurt as we\ntalked, eating it in little nipping bites. \"You'll see me tomorrow,\nthough. At the party.\"\n\"I hope we get to eat before the thunderstorms. They're supposed\nto be\nbad.\"\n\"I'm sure we will.\"\n\"And are you still thinking? I only ask because I dreamed of you\nwhen I\nfinally fell asleep again. I dreamed of you kissing me.\"\n\"I'm still thinking,\" I said. \"Thinking hard.\"\nBut in fact I don't remember thinking about anything very hard that\nday.\nWhat I remember is drifting further and further into that zone I'veexplained so badly. Near dusk I went for a long walk in spite of the\nheat--all the way out to where Lane Forty-two joins the highway.\nComing\nback I stopped on the edge of Tidwell's Meadow, watching the light\nfade\nout of the sky and listening to thunder rumble somewhere over New\nHampshire. Once more there was that sense of how thin reality was,\nnot\njust here but everywhere; how it was stretched like skin over the\nblood\nand tissue of a body we can never know clearly in this life. I looked\nat\ntrees and saw arms; I looked at bushes and saw faces. Ghosts,\nMattie had\nsaid. Ghosts with cold breath.\nTime was also thin, it seemed to me. Kyra and I had really been at\nthe\nFryeburg Fair--some version of it, anyway; we had really visited theyear 1900. And at the foot of the meadow the Red-Tops were almost\nthere\nnow, as they once had been, in their neat little cabins. I could\nalmost\nhear the sound of their guitars, the murmur of their voices and\nlaughter; I could almost see the gleam of their lanterns and smell\ntheir\nbeef and pork frying. \"Say baby, do you remember me?\" one of her\nsongs\nwent, \"in I ain't your honey like I used to be.\"\nSomething rattled in the underbrush to my left. I turned that way,\nexpecting to see Sara step out of the woods wearing Mattie's dress\nand\nMattie's white sneakers. In this gloom, they would seem almost to\nfloat\nby themselves, until she got close to me...\nThere was no one there, of course, it had undoubtedly been nothing\nbutChuck the Woodchuck headed home after a hard day at the office,\nbut I no\nlonger wanted to be out here, watching as the light drained out of\nthe\nday and the mist came up from the ground. I turned for home.\nInstead of going into the house when I got back, I made my way\nalong the\npath to Jo's studio, where I hadn't been since the night I had taken\nmy\nIBM back in a dream. My way was lit by intermittent flashes of heat\nlightning.\nThe studio was hot but not stale. I could smell a peppery aroma that\nwas\nactually pleasant, and wondered if it might be some of Jo's herbs.\nThere\nwas an air conditioner out here, and it worked--I turned it on and\nthen\njust stood in front of it a little while. So much cold air on my\noverheated body was probably unhealthy, but it felt wonderful.I didn't feel very wonderful otherwise, however. I looked around with\na\ngrowing sense of something too heavy to be mere sadness; it felt\nlike\ndespair. I think it was caused by the contrast between how little of\nJo\nwas left in Sara Laughs and how much of her was still out here. I\nimagined our marriage as a kind of playhouse--and isn't that what\nmarriage is, in large part? playing house?--where only half the stuff\nwas held down. Held down by little magnets or hidden cables.\nSomething\nhad come along and picked up our playhouse by one corner--easiest\nthing\nin the world, and I supposed I should be grateful that the something\nhadn't decided to draw back its foot and kick the poor thing all the\nway\nover. It just picked up that one corner, you see. My stuff stayed put,\nbut all of Jo's had slid...Out of the house and down here.\n\"Jo?\" I asked, and sat down in her chair. There was no answer. No\nthumps\non the wall. No crows or owls calling from the woods. I put my hand\non\nher desk, where the typewriter had been, and slipped my hand\nacross it,\npicking up a film of dust.\n\"I miss you, honey,\" I said, and began to cry.\nWhen the tears were over--again--I wiped my face with the tail of\nmy\ntee-shirt like a little kid, then just looked around. There was the\npicture of Sara Tidwell on her desk and a photo I didn't remember\non the\nwall--this latter was old, sepia-tinted, and woodsy. Its focal point\nwas\na man-high birchwood cross in a little clearing on a slope above thelake. That clearing was gone from the geography now, most likely,\nlong\nsince filled in by trees.\nI looked at her jars of herbs and mushroom sections, her filing cabi\nnets, her sections of afghan. The green rag rug on the floor. The pot\nof\npencils on the desk, pencils she had touched and used. I held one of\nthem poised over a blank sheet of paper for a moment or two, but\nnothing\nhappened. I had a sense of life in this room, and a sense of being\nwatched.., but not a sense of being helped. \"I know some of it but\nnot\nenough,\" I said. \"Of all the things I don't know, maybe the one that\nmatters most is who wrote 'help her' on the fridge. Was it you, Jo?\"\nNo\nanswer. I sat awhile longer--hoping against hope, I suppose--then\ngot\nup, turned off the air conditioning, turned off the lights, and wentback to the house, walking in soft bright stutters of unfocused\nlightning. I sat on the deck for a little while, watching the night. At\nsome point I realized I'd taken the length of blue silk ribbon out of\nmy\npocket and was winding it nervously back and forth between my\nfingers,\nmaking half-assed cat's cradles. Had it really come from the year\n19007\nThe idea seemed perfectly crazy and perfectly sane at the same\ntime. The\nnight hung hot and hushed. I imagined old folks all over the TR--\nperhaps\nin Motton and Harlow, too--laying out their funeral clothes for\ntomorrow. In the doublewide trailer on Wasp Hill Road, Ki was sitting\non\nthe floor, watching a videotape of The Jungle Book--Baloo and\nMowgli\nwere singing \"The Bare Necessities.\" Mattie was on the couch with\nherfeet up, reading the new Mary Higgins Clark and singing along. Both\nwere\nwearing shorty pajamas, Ki's pink, Mattie's white. After a little while\nI lost my sense of them; it faded the way radio signals sometimes do\nlate at night. I went into the north bedroom, undressed, and crawled\nonto the top sheet of my unmade bed. I fell asleep almost at once. I\nwoke in the middle of the night with someone running a hot finger\nup and\ndown the middle of my back. I rolled over and when the lightning\nflashed, I saw there was a woman in bed with me. It was Sara Tid-\nwell.\nShe was grinning. There were no pupils in her eyes. \"Oh sugar, I'm\nalmost back,\" she whispered in the dark. I had a sense of her\nreaching\nout for me again, but when the next flash of lightning came, that\nside\nof the bed was empty.Inspiration isn't always a matter of ghosts moving magnets around\non\nrefrigerator doors, and on Tuesday morning I had a flash that was a\nbeaut. It came while I was shaving and thinking about nothing more\nthan\nremembering the beer for the party. And like the best inspirations, it\ncame out of nowhere at all. I hurried into the living room, not quite\nrunning, wiping the shaving cream off my face with a towel as I\nwent. I\nglanced briefly at the %ugh Stuff crossword collection lying on top\nof\nmy manuscript. That had been where I'd gone first in an effort to\ndecipher \"go down nineteen\" and \"go down ninety-two.\" Not an\nunreasonable starting-point, but what did %ugh Stuff have to do\nwith\nTR-90? I had purchased the book at Mr. Paperback in Derry, and of\nthe\nthirty or so puzzles I'd completed, I'd done all but half a dozen in\nDerry. TR ghosts could hardly be expected to show an interest in myDerry crossword collection. The telephone book, on the other hand-I\nsnatched it off the dining-room table. Although it covered the whole\nsouthern part of Castle County-Motton, Harlow, and Kash-wakamak\nas well\nas the TR--it was pretty thin. The first thing I did was check the\nwhite\npages to see if there were at least ninety-two. There were. The Y's\nand\nZ's finished up on page ninety-seven. This was the answer. Had to\nbe. \"I\ngot it, didn't I?\" I asked Bunter. \"This is it.\"\nNothing. Not even a tinkle from the bell. \"Fuck you--what does a\nstuffed\nmoosehead know about a telephone book?\" Go down nineteen. I\nturned to\npage nineteen of the telephone book, where the letter IF was\nprominently\nshowcased. I began to slip my finger down the first column and as it\nwent, my excitement faded. The nineteenth name on page nineteen\nwasHarold Failles. It meant nothing to me. There were also Feltons and\nFenners, a Filkersham and several Finneys, half a dozen Flahertys\nand\nmore Fosses than you could shake a stick at. The last name on page\nnineteen was Framingham. It also meant nothing to me, but-\nFramingham,\nKenneth P. I stared at that for a moment. A realization began to\ndawn.\nIt had nothing to do with the refrigerator messages. You're not\nseeing\nwhat you think you're seeing, I thought. This is like when you buy a\nblue Buick-\"You see blue Buicks everywhere,\" I said. \"Practically got\nto\nkick em out of your way. Yeah, that's it.\" But my hands were shaking\nas\nI turned to page ninety-two. Here were the T's of southern Castle\nCounty, along with a few U's like Alton Ubeck and Catherine Udell\njustto round things out. I didn't bother checking the ninety-second entry\non\nthe page; the phone book wasn't the key to the magnetic\ncrosspatches\nafter all. It did, however, suggest something enormous. I closed the\nbook, just held it in my hands for a moment (happy folks with\nblueberry\nrakes on the front cover), then opened it at random, this time to the\nM's. And once you knew what you were looking for, it jumped right\nout at\nyou. All those K's. Oh, there were Stevens and Johns and Marthas;\nthere\nwas Meserve, G., and Messier, V., and Jayhouse, T. And yet, again\nand\nagain, I saw the initial K where people had exercised their right not\nto\nlist their first name in the book. There were at least twenty K-initials\non page fifty alone, and another dozen C-initials. As for the actual\nnames themselves...There were twelve Kenneths on this random page in the M-section,\nincluding three Kenneth Moores and two Kenneth Munters. There\nwere four\nCatherines and two Katherines. There were a Casey, a Kiana, and a\nKiefer. \"Holy Christ, it's like fallout,\" I whispered. I thumbed through\nthe book, not able to believe what I was seeing and seeing it\nanyway.\nKenneths, Katherines, and Keiths were everywhere. I also saw\nKimberly,\nKim, and Kym. There were Cammie, Kia (yes, and we had thought\nourselves\nso original), Kiah, Kendra, Kaela, Keil, and Kyle. Kirby and Kirk.\nThere\nwas a woman named Kissy Bowden, and a man named Kito Rennie--\nKito, the\nsame name as one of Kyra's fridgeafator people. And everywhere,\noutnumbering such usually common initials as S and T and E, were\nthose\nK's. My eyes danced with them. I turned to look at the clock-didn't\nwantto stand John Storrow up at the airport, Christ no--and there was no\nclock there. Of course not. Old Krazy Kat had popped his peepers\nduring\na psychic event. I gave a loud, braying laugh that scared me a\nlittle--it wasn't particularly sane. \"Get hold of yourself, Mike,\" I\nsaid. \"Take a deep breath, son.\" I took the breath. Held it. Let it out.\nChecked the digital readout on the microwave. Quarter past eight.\nPlenty\nof time for John. I turned back to the telephone book and began to\nriffle rapidly through it. I'd had a second inspiration--not a megawatt\nblast like the first one, but a lot more accurate, it turned out.\nWestern Maine is a relatively isolated area--it's a little like the hill\ncountry of the border South--but there has always been at least\nsome\ninflow of folks from away (\"fiatlanders\" is the term the locals use\nwhenthey are feeling contemptuous), and in the last quarter of the\ncentury\nit has become a popular area for active seniors who want to fish and\nski\ntheir way through retirement. The phone book goes a long way\ntoward\nseparating the newbies from the long-time residents. Babickis,\nParettis,\nO'Quindlans, Donahues, Smolnacks, Dvoraks, Blindermeyers--all\nfrom away.\nAll fiatlanders. Jalberts, Meserves, Pillsburys, Spruces, Ther-riaults,\nPerraults, Stanchfields, Starbirds, Dubays--all from Castle County.\nYou\nsee what I'm saying, don't you? When you see a whole column of\nBowies on\npage twelve, you know that those folks have been around long\nenough to\nrelax and really spread those Bowie genes.\nThere were a few K-initials and K-names among the Parettis and theSmolnacks, but only a few. The heavy concentrations were all\nattached to\nfamilies that had been here long enough to absorb the atmosphere.\nTo\nbreathe the fallout. Except it wasn't radiation, exactly, it l suddenly\nimagined a black headstone taller than the tallest tree on the lake, a\nmonolith which cast its shadow over half of Castle County. This\npicture\nwas so clear and so terrible that I covered my eyes, dropping the\nphone\nbook on the table. I backed away from it, shuddering. Hiding my\neyes\nactually seemed to enhance the image further: a grave-marker so\nenormous\nit blotted out the sun; TR-90 lay at its foot like a funeral bouquet.\nSara Tidwell's son had drowned in Dark Score Lake. .. or been\ndrowned\nin it. But she had marked his passing. Memorialized it. I wondered if\nanyone else in town had ever noticed what I just had. I didn't\nsupposeit was all that likely; when you open a telephone book you're looking\nfor a specific name in most cases, not reading whole pages line by\nline.\nI wondered if Jo had noticed--if she'd known that almost every\nlongtime\nfamily in this part of the world had, in one way or another, named at\nleast one child after Sara Tidwell's dead son.\nJo wasn't stupid. I thought she probably had.\nI returned to the bathroom, relathered, started again from scratch.\nWhen\nI finished, I went back to the phone and picked it up. I poked in\nthree\nnumbers, then stopped, looking out at the lake. Mattie and Ki were\nup\nand in the kitchen, both of them wearing aprons, both of them in a\nfine\nfroth of excitement. There was going to be a party! They would\nwearpretty new summer clothes, and there would be music from Mat-tie's\nboombox CD player! Ki was helping Mattie make biscuits for\nstrewberry\nsnortcake, and while the biscuits were baking they would make\nsalads. If\nI called Mattie up and said Pack a couple of bags, you and Ki are\ngoing\nto spend a week at Disney World, Mattie would assume I was joking,\nthen\ntell me to hurry up and finish getting dressed so I'd be at the airport\nwhen John's plane landed. If I pressed, she'd remind me that Lindy\nhad\noffered her her old job back, but the offer would close in a hurry if\nMattie didn't show up promptly at two P.M. on Friday. If I continued\nto\npress, she would just say no.\nBecause I wasn't the only one in the zone, was I? I wasn't the only\none\nwho was really feeling it.I returned the phone to its recharging cradle, then went back into\nthe\nnorth bedroom. By the time I'd finished dressing, my fresh shirt was\nalready feeling wilted under the arms; it was as hot that morning as\nit\nhad been for the last week, maybe even hotter. But I'd be in plenty\nof\ntime to meet the plane. I had never felt less like partying, but I'd be\nthere. Mikey on the spot, that was me. Mikey on the goddam spot.\nJohn hadn't given me his flight number, but at Castle County Airport,\nsuch niceties are hardly necessary. This bustling hub of transport\nconsists of three hangars and a terminal which used to be a Flying A\ngas\nsta-tion-when the light's strong on the little building's rusty north\nside, you can still see the shape of that winged Ao There's one\nrunway.\nSecurity is provided by Lassie, Breck Pellerin's ancient collie, whospends her days crashed out on the linoleum floor, cocking an ear at\nthe\nceiling whenever a plane lands or takes off.\nI popped my head into Pelterin's office and asked him if the ten from\nBoston was on time. He said it 'twas, although he hoped the paa'ty I\nwas\nmeetin planned to either fly back out before mid-afternoon or stay\nthe\nnight. Bad weather was comin in, good gorry, yes. What Breck\nPellerin\nreferred to as 'lectrical weather. I knew exactly what he meant,\nbecause\nin my nervous system that electricity already seemed to have\narrived.\nI went out to the runway side of the terminal and sat on a bench\nadvertising Cormier's Market (FLY INTO OUR DELI FOR THE BEST\nMEATS IN\nMAINE). The sun was a silver button stuck on the eastern slope of a\nhotwhite sky. Headache weather, my mother would have called it, but\nthe\nweather was due to change. I would hold onto the hope of that\nchange as\nbest I could.\nAt ten past ten I heard a wasp-whine from the south. At quarter\npast,\nsome sort of twin-engine plane dropped out of the murk, flopped\nonto the\nrunway, and taxied toward the terminal. There were only four pas\nsengers, and John Storrow was the first one off. I grinned when I\nsaw\nhim. I had to grin. He was wearing a black tee-shirt with wu ^ THE\nCI-IAM?IOSS printed across the front and a pair of khaki shorts\nwhich\ndisplayed a perfect set of city shins: white and bony. He was trying\nto\nmanage both a Styrofoam cooler and a briefcase. I grabbed the\ncoolermaybe four seconds before he dropped it, and tucked it under my\narm.\n\"Mike!\"\nhe cried, lifting one hand palm out.\n\"John!\" I returned in much the same spirit (evoe is the word that\ncomes\nimmediately to the crossword aficionado's mind), and slapped him\nfive.\nHis homely-handsome face split in a grin, and I felt a little stab of\nguilt. Mattie had expressed no preference for John--quite the\nopposite,\nin fact--and he really hadn't solved any of her problems; Devore had\ndone that by topping himself before John had so much as a chance\nto get\nstarted on her behalf. Yet still I felt that nasty little poke.\n\"Come on,\" he said. \"Let's get out of this heat. You have air condi\ntioning in your car, I presume?\"\"Absolutely.\"\n\"What about a cassette player? You got one of those? If you do, I'll\nplay you something that'll make you chortle.\"\n\"I don't think I've ever heard that word actually used in\nconversation,\nJohn.\"\nThe grin shone out again, and I noticed what a lot of freckles he\nhad.\nSheriffandy's boy Opie grows up to serve at the bar. \"I'm a lawyer. I\nuse words in conversation that haven't even been invented yet. You\nhave\na tape-player?\"\n\"Of course I do.\" I hefted the cooler. \"Steaks?\"\n\"You bet. Peter Luger's. They're--\"\"--the best in the world. You told me.\"\nAs we went into the terminal, someone said, \"Michael?\"\nIt was Romeo Bissonette, the lawyer who had chaperoned me\nthrough my\ndeposition. In one hand he had a box wrapped in blue paper and\ntied with\na white ribbon. Beside him, just rising from one of the lumpy chairs,\nwas a tall guy with a fringe of gray hair. He was wearing a brown\nsuit,\na blue shirt, and a string tie with a golf-club on the clasp. He looked\nmore like a farmer on auction day than the sort of guy who'd be a\nscream\nwhen you got a drink or two into him, but I had no doubt this was\nthe\nprivate detective. He stepped over the comatose collie and shook\nhands\nwith me. \"George Kennedy, Mr. Noonan. I'm pleased to meet you.\nMy wifehas read every single book you ever wrote.\"\n\"Well thank her for me.\"\n\"I will. I have one in the car--a hardcover...\" He looked shy, as so\nmany people do when they get right to the point of asking. \"I\nwonder if\nyou'd sign it for her at some point.\"\n\"I'd be delighted to,\" I said. \"Right away's best, then I won't forget.\"\nI turned to Romeo. \"Good to see you, Romeo.\"\n\"Make it Rommie,\" he said. \"Good to see you, too.\" He held out the\nbox.\n\"George and I clubbed together on this. We thought you deserved\nsomething nice for helping a damsel in distress.\"\nKennedy now did look like a man who might be fun after a few\ndrinks. Thekind who might just take a notion to hop onto the nearest table, turn\na\ntablecloth into a kilt, and dance. I looked at John, who gave the kind\nof shrug that means hey, don't ask me.\nI pulled off the satin bow, slipped my finger under the Scotch tape\nholding the paper, then looked up. I caught Rommie Bissonette in\nthe act\nof elbowing Kennedy. Now they were both grinning.\n\"There's nothing in here that's going to jump out at me and go\nbooga-booga, is there, guys?\" I asked.\n\"Absolutely not,\" Rommie said, but his grin widened.\nWell, I can be as good a sport as the next guy. I guess. I unwrapped\nthe\npackage, opened the plain white box inside, revealed a square pad\nof\ncotton, lifted it out. I had been smiling all through this, but now Ifelt the smile curl up and die on my mouth. Something went twisting\nup\nmy spine as well, and I think I came very close to dropping the box.\nIt was the oxygen mask Devore had had on his lap when he met me\non The\nStreet, the one he'd snorted from occasionally as he and Rogette\npaced\nme, trying to keep me out deep enough to drown. Rommie Bis-\nsonette and\nGeorge Kennedy had brought it to me like the scalp of a dead enemy\nand I\nwas supposed to think it wasfunny- \"Mike?\" Rommie asked\nanxiously.\n\"Mike, are you okay? It was just a joke--\"\nI blinked and saw it wasn't an oxygen mask at all--how in God's\nname\ncould I have been so stupid? For one thing, it was bigger than\nDevore'smask; for another, it was made of opaque rather than clear plastic.\nIt\nwas-I gave a tentative chuckle. Rommie Bissonette looked\ntremendously\nrelieved. So did Kennedy. John only looked puzzled. \"Funny,\" I said.\n\"Like a rubber crutch.\" I pulled out the little mike from inside the\nmask and let it dangle. It swung back and forth on its wire,\nreminding\nme of the waggy clock's tail. \"What the hell is it?\" John asked. \"Park\nAvenue lawyer,\" Rommie said to George, broadening his accent so it\ncame\nout Paa-aak Avenew lawyah. \"Ain't nevah seen one of these, have\nya,\nchummy? Nossir, coss not.\" Then he reverted to normal-speak,\nwhich was\nsort of a relief. I've lived in Maine my whole life, and for me the\namusement value of burlesque Yankee accents has worn pretty thin.\n\"It's\na Stenomask. The stenog keeping the record at Mike's depo was\nwearingone. Mike kept looking at him--\"\n\"It freaked me out,\" I said. \"Old guy sitting in the corner and\nmumbling\ninto the Mask of Zorro.\"\n\"Gerry Bliss freaks a lot of people out,\" Kennedy said. He spoke in a\nlow rumble.\n\"He's the last one around here who wears em. He's got ten or\neleven left\nin his mudroom. I know, because I bought that one from him.\"\n\"I hope he stuck it to you,\" I said. \"I thought it would make a nice\nmemento,\" Rommie said, \"but for a second there I thought I'd given\nyou\nthe box with the severed hand in it--I hate it when I mix up my\ngift-boxes like that. What's the deal?\"\n\"It's been a long hot July,\" I said. \"Put it down to that.\" I hung theStenomask's strap over one finger, dangling it that way. \"Mattie said\nto\nbe there by eleven,\" John told us. \"We're going to drink beer and\nthrow\nthe Frisbee around.\"\n\"I can do both of those things quite well,\" George Kennedy said.\nOutside\nin the tiny parking lot George went to a dusty Altima, rummaged in\nthe\nback, and came out with a battered copy of The Red-Shirt Man.\n\"Frieda\nmade me bring this one. She has the newer ones, but this is her\nfavorite. Sorry about how it looks--she's read it about six times.\"\nII \"It's my favorite, too,\" I said, which was true. \"And I like to see a\nbook with mileage.\" That was also true. I opened the book, looked\napprovingly at a smear of long-dried chocolate on the flyleaf, and\nthenwrote: For Frieda Kennedy, whose husband was there to lend a\nhand.\nThanks jr sharing him, and thanks For reading, Mike Noonan. That\nwas a\nlong inscription for me--usually I just stick to Best wishes or Good\nluck, but I wanted to make up for the curdled expression they had\nseen\non my face when I opened their innocent little gag present. While I\nwas\nscribbling, George asked me if I was working on a new novel. \"No,\" I\nsaid. \"Batteries currently on recharge.\" I handed the book back.\n\"Frieda\nwon't like that.\"\n\"No. But there's always Red-Shirt.\"\n\"We'll follow you,\" Rommie said, and a rumble came from deep in\nthe\nwest. It was no louder than the thunder which had rumbled on and\noffforthe last week, but this wasn't dry thunder. We all knew it, and we all\nlooked in that direction. \"Think we'll get a chance to eat before it\nstorms?\" George asked me. \"Yeah. Just about barely.\"\nI drove to the gate of the parking lot and glanced right to check for\ntraffic. When I did, I saw John looking at me thoughtfully. \"What?\"\n\"Mattie said you were writing, that's all. Book go tits-up on you or\nsomething?\" My Childhood Friend was just as lively as ever, in fact..,\nbut it would never be finished. I knew that this morning as well as I\nknew there was rain on the way. The boys in the basement had for\nsome\nreason decided to take it back. Asking why might not be such a good\nidea--the answers might be unpleasant. \"Something. I'm not sure\njust\nwhat.\" I pulled out onto the highway, checked behind me, and saw\nRommie\nand George following in George's little Altima. America has become acountry full of big men in little cars. \"What do you want me to listen\nto? If it's home karaoke, I pass. The last thing on earth I want to\nhear\nis you singing \"Bubba Shot the Jukebox Last Night.'\"\nI I51\"UIISIN IXLLNKJ D.?-k k)U Dk..Jlnis \"Oh, it's better than that,\"\nhe\nsaid. \"Miles better.\"\nHe opened his briefcase, rooted through it, and came out with a\nplastic\ncassette box. The tape inside was marked 7-20-98--yesterday. \"I\nlove\nthis,\" he said. He leaned forward, turned on the radio, then popped\nthe\ncassette into the player.\nI was hoping I'd already had my quota of nasty surprises for the\nmorning, but I was wrong.\n\"Sorry, I just had to get rid of another call,\" John said from myChevy's speakers in his smoothest, most lawyerly voice. I'd have bet\na\nmillion dollars that his bony shins hadn't been showing when this\ntape\nwas made.\nThere was a laugh, both smoky and grating. My stomach seized up\nat the\nsound of it. I remembered seeing her for the first time standing\noutside\nThe Sunset Bar, wearing black shorts over a black tank-style\nswimsuit.\nStanding there and looking like a refugee from crash-diet hell.\n\"You mean you had to turn on your tape-recorder,\" she said, and\nnow I\nremembered how the water had seemed to change color when she\nnailed me\nthat really good one in the back of the head. From bright orange to\ndarkscarlet it had gone. And then I'd started drinking the lake. \"That's\nokay. Tape anything you want.\"\nJohn reached out suddenly and ejected the cassette. \"You don't\nneed to\nhear this,\" he said. \"It's not substantive. I thought you'd get a kick\nout of her blather, but. .. man, you look terrible. Do you want me to\ndrive? You're white as a fucking sheet.\"\n\"I can drive,\" I said. \"Go on, play it. Afterward I'll tell you about a\nlittle adventure I had Friday night.., but you're going to keep it to\nyourself. They don't have to know\"--I jerked my thumb over my\nshoulder\nat the Altima--\"and Mattie doesn't have to know. Especially Mattie.\"\nHe\nreached for the tape, then hesitated. \"You're sure?\"\n\"Yeah. It was just hearing her again out of the blue like that. The\nquality of her voice. Christ, the reproduction is good.\"\"Nothing but the best for Avery, Mclain, and Bernstein. We have very\nstrict protocols about what we can tape, by the way. If you were\nwondering.\"\n\"I wasn't. I imagine none of it's admissible in litigation anyway, is\nit?\"\n\"In certain rare cases a judge might let a tape in, but that's not why\nwe do it. A tape like this saved a man's life four years ago, right\naround the time I joined the firm. That guy is now in the Witness\nProtection Program.\"\n\"Play it.\"\nHe leaned forward and pushed the button.\nJohn: \"How is the desert, Ms. Whitmore?\"Whitmore: \"Hot.\"\nJohn: \"Arrangements progressing nicely? I know how difficult times\nlike\nthis can--\"\nWhitmore: \"You know very little, counsellor, take it from me. Can we\ncut\nthe crap?\"\nJohn: \"Consider it cut.\"\nWhitmore: \"Have you conveyed the conditions of Mr. Devore's will to\nhis\ndaughter-in-law?\"\nJohn: \"Yes ma'am.\"\nWhitmore: \"Her response?\"\nJohn: \"I have none to give you now. I may have after Mr. Devore's\nwillhas been probated. But surely you know that such codicils are rarely\nif\never accepted by the courts.\"\nWhitmore.' \"Well, if that little lady moves out of town, we'll see,\nwon't we?\"\nJohn.' \"I suppose we will.\"\nWhitmore: \"When is the victory party?\"\nJohn: \"Excuse me?\"\nWhitmore: \"Oh please. I have sixty different appointments today,\nplus a\nboss to bury tomorrow. You're going up there to celebrate with her\nand\nher daughter, aren't you? Did you know she's invited the writer? Her\nfuck-buddy?\"John turned to me gleefully. \"Do you hear how pissed she sounds?\nShe's\ntrying to hide it, but she can't. It's eating her up inside!\"\nI barely heard him. I was in the zone with what she was saying (the\nwriter her fuck-buddy)\nand what was under what she was saying. Some quality beneath the\nwords.\nWe just want to see how long you can swim, she had called out to\nme.\nJohn: \"I hardly think what I or Mattie's friends do is any of your\nbusiness, Ms. Whitmore. May I respectfully suggest that you party\nwith\nyour friends and let Mattie Devore party with Whitmore: \"Give him a\nmessage.\"\nMe. She was talking about me. Then I realized it was even more\npersonalthan that--she was talking to me. Her body might be on the other\nside of\nthe country, but her voice and spiteful spirit were right here in the\ncar with us.\nAnd Max Devore's will. Not the meaningless shit his lawyers had put\ndown\non paper but his will. The old bastard was as dead as Damocles, but\nyes,\nhe was definitely still seeking custody.\nJohn.' \"Give who a message, Ms. Whitmore?\"\nWhitmore.' \"Tell him he never answered Mr. Devore's question.\"\nJohn.' \"What question is that?\"\nDoes her cunt suck?\nWhitmore: \"Ask him. He'll know.\"John: \"If you mean Mike Noonan, you can ask him yourself. You'll\nsee him\nin Castle County Probate Court this fall.\"\nWhitmore: \"I hardly think so. Mr. Devore's will was made and\nwitnessed\nout here.\"\nJohn: \"Nevertheless, it will be probated in Maine, where he died. My\nheart is set on it. And when you leave Castle County the next time,\nRogette, you will do so with your education in matters of the law\nconsiderably broadened.\"\nFor the first time she sounded angry, her voice rising to a reedy\ncavq.\nWhitmore: \"If you think--\"\nJohn.' \"I don't think. I know. Goodbye, Ms. Whitmore.\" Whitmore:\n\"You\nmight do well to stay away from--\"There was a click, the hum of an open line, then a robot voice\nsaying\n\"Nine-forty A.M. ... Eastern Daylight. .. July. .. twentieth.\" John\npunched U pounds T, collected his tape, and stored it back in his\nbriefcase.\n\"I hung up on her.\" He sounded like a man telling you about his first\nskydive. \"I actually did. She was mad, wasn't she? Wouldn't you say\nshe\nwas seriously pissed?\"\n\"Yeah.\" It was what he wanted to hear but not what I really\nbelieved.\nPissed, yes. Seriously pissed? Maybe not. Because Mattie's location\nand\nstate of mind hadn't been her concern; Rogette had called to talk to\nme.To tell me she was thinking of me. To bring back memories of how it\nfelt\nto tread water with the back of your head gushing blood. To freak\nme\nout. And she had succeeded.\n\"What was the question you didn't answer?\" John asked me.\n\"I don't know what she meant by that,\" I said, \"but I can tell you\nwhy\nhearing her turned me a little white in the gills. If you can be\ndiscreet, and if you want to hear.\"\n\"We've got eighteen miles to cover; lay it on me.\"\nI told him about Friday night. I didn't clutter my version with visions\nor psychic phenomena; there was just Michael Noonan out for a\nsunset\nwalk along The Street. I'd been standing by a birch tree which hung\noverthe lake, watching the sun drop toward the mountains, when they\ncame up\nbehind me. From the point where Devore charged me with his\nwheelchair to\nthe point where I finally got back onto solid ground, I stuck pretty\nmuch to the truth.\nWhen I finished, John was at first utterly silent. It was a measure of\nhow thrown for a loop he was; under normal circumstances he was\nevery\nbit the chatterbox Ki was.\n\"Well?\" I asked. \"Comments? Questions?\"\n\"Lift your hair so I can see behind your ear.\"\nI did as he asked, revealing a big Band-Aid and a large area of\nswelling. John leaned forward to study it like a little kid observing\nhis best friend's battle-scar during recess. \"Holy shit,\" he said at\nlast.It was my turn to say nothing.\n\"Those two old fucks tried to drown you.\"\nI said nothing.\n\"They tried to drown you for helping Mattie.\" Now I really said\nnothing.\n\"And you never reported it?\"\n\"I started to,\" I said, \"then realized I'd make myself look like a whiny\nlittle asshole. And a liar, most likely.\"\n\"How much do you think Osgood might know?\"\n\"About them trying to drown me? Nothing. He's just a messenger\nboy.\"\nA little more of that unusual quiet from John. After a few seconds of\nithe reached out and touched the lump on the back of my head.\n\"Ow!\"\n\"Sorry.\" A pause. \"Jesus. Then he went back to Warrington's and\npulled\nthe pin. Jesus. Michael, I never would have played that tape if I'd\nknown--\"\n\"It's all right. But don't even think of telling Mattie. I'm wearing my\nhair over my ear like that for a reason.\"\n\"Will you ever tell her, do you think?\"\n\"I might. Some day when he's been dead long enough so we can\nlaugh about\nme swimming with my clothes on.\"\n\"That might be awhile,\" he said. \"Yeah. It might.\"\nWe drove in silence for a bit. I could sense John groping for a way to\nbring the day back to jubilation, and loved him for it. He leanedforward, turned on the radio, and found something loud and nasty\nby Guns\n'n Roses--welcome to the jungle, baby, we got fun and games.\n\"Party 'til\nwe puke,\" he said. \"Right?\"\nI grinned. It wasn't easy with the sound of the old woman's voice\nstill\nclinging to me like light slime, but I managed. \"If you insist,\" I said.\n\"I do,\" he said. \"Most certainly.\"\n\"John, you're a good guy for a lawyer.\"\n\"And you're a good one for a writer.\"\nThis time the grin on my face felt more natural and stayed on longer.\nWe\npassed the marker reading TR-90, and as we did, the sun burned\nthrough\nthe haze and flooded the day with light. It seemed like an omen ofbetter times ahead, until I looked into the west. There, black in the\nbright, I could see the thunderheads building up over the White\nMountains.\nFor men, I think, love is a thing formed of equal parts lust and\nastonishment. The astonishment part women understand. The lust\npart they\nonly think they understand. Very few--perhaps one in twenty--have\nany\nconcept of what it really is or how deep it runs. That's probably just\nas well for their sleep and peace of mind. And I'm not talking about\nthe\nlust of satyrs and rapists and molesters; I'm talking about the lust of\nshoe-clerks and high-school principals.\nNot to mention writers and lawyers.\nWe turned into Mattie's dooryard at ten to eleven, and as I parked\nmyChevy beside her rusted-out Jeep, the trailer door opened and Mat-\ntie\ncame out on the top step. I sucked in my breath, and beside me I\ncould\nhear John sucking in his.\nShe was very likely the most beautiful young woman I have ever\nseen in\nmy life as she stood there in her rose-colored shorts and matching\nmiddy\ntop. The shorts were not short enough to be cheap (my mother's\nword) but\nplenty short enough to be provocative. Her top tied in floppy string\nbows across the shoulders and showed just enough tan to dream\non. Her\nhair hung to her shoulders. She was smiling and waving. I thought,\nShe's\nmade it--take her into the country-club dining room now, dressed\njust as\nshe is, and she shuts everyone else down. \"Oh Lordy,\" John said.\nTherewas a kind of dismayed longing in his voice. \"All that and a bag of\nchips.\"\n\"Yeah,\" I said. \"Put your eyes back in your head, big boy.\" He made\ncupping motions with his hands as if doing just that.\nGeorge, meanwhile, had pulled his Altima in next to us. \"Come on,\" I\nsaid, opening my door. \"Time to party.\"\n\"I can't touch her, Mike,\" John said. \"I'll melt.\"\n\"Come on, you goof.\" Mattie came down the steps and past the pot\nwith\nthe tomato plant in it. Ki was behind her, dressed in an outfit similar\nto her mother's, only in a shade of dark green. She had the shys\nagain,\nI saw; she kept one steadying hand on Mattie's leg and one thumb\nin her\nmouth. \"The guys are here! The guys are here!\"Mattie cried, laughing, and threw herself into my arms. She hugged\nme\ntight and kissed the corner of my mouth. I hugged her back and\nkissed\nher cheek. Then she moved on to John, read his shirt, patted her\nhands\ntogether in applause, and then hugged him. He hugged back pretty\nwell\nfor a guy who was afraid he might melt, I thought, picking her up off\nher\nfeet and swinging her around in a circle while she hung onto his\nneck\nand laughed. \"Rich lady, rich lady, rich lady!\" John chanted, then set\nher down on the cork soles of her white shoes. \"Free lady, free lady,\nfree lady!\" she chanted back. \"The hell with rich!\" Before he could\nreply, she kissed him firmly on the mouth. His arms rose to slip\naround\nher, but she stepped back before they could catch hold. She turned\nto\nRommie and George, who were standing side-by-side and looking\nlikefellows who might want to explain all about the Mormon Church. I\ntook a\nstep forward, meaning to do the introductions, but John was taking\ncare\nof that, and one of his arms managed to accomplish its mission after\nall--it circled her waist as he led her forward toward the men.\nMeanwhile a little hand slipped into mine. I looked down and saw Ki\nlooking up at me. Her face was grave and pale and every bit as\nbeautiful\nas her mother's. Her blonde hair, freshly washed and shining, was\nheld\nback with a velvet scrunchy.\nD/k. k../ldk../INIZD \"Guess the fridgeafator people don't like me\nnow,\"\nshe said. The laughter and insouciance were gone, at least for the\nmoment. She looked on the verge of tears. \"My letters all went bye-\nbye.\"I picked her up and set her in the crook of my arm as I had on the\nday\nI'd met her walking down the middle of Route 68 in her bathing suit.\nI\nkissed her forehead and then the tip of her nose. Her skin was\nperfect\nsilk. \"I know they did,\" I said. \"I'll buy you some more.\"\n\"Promise?\" Doubtful dark blue eyes fixed on mine. \"Promise. And I'll\nteach you special words like zygote and bibulous. I know lots of\nspecial\nwords.\"\n\"How many?\"\n\"A hundred and eighty.\" Thunder rumbled in the west. It didn't seem\nlouder, but it was more focused, somehow. Ki's eyes went in that\ndirection, then came back to mine. \"I'm scared, Mike.\"\n\"Scared? Of what?\"\"Ofi don't know. The lady in Mattie's dress. The men we saw.\" Then\nshe\nlooked over my shoulder. \"Here comes Mommy.\" I have heard\nactresses\ndeliver the line Not in front of the children in that exact same tone of\nvoice. Kyra wiggled in the circle of my arms. \"Land me.\" I landed\nher.\nMattie, John, Rommie, and George came over to join us. Ki ran to\nMattie,\nwho picked her up and then eyed us like a general surveying her\ntroops.\n\"Got the beer?\" she asked me. \"Yessum. A case of Bud and a dozen\nmixed\nsodas, as well. Plus lemonade.'' \"Great. Mr. Kennedy--\"\n\"George, ma'am.\"\n\"George, then. And if you call me ma'am again, I'll punch you in the\nnose. I'm Mattie. Would you drive down to the Lakeview General\"-\nshepointed to the store on Route 68, about half a mile from us--\"and\nget\nsome ice?\"\n\"You bet.\"\n\"Mr. Bissonette--\"\n\"Rommie.\"\n\"There's a little garden at the north end of the trailer, Rommie. Can\nyou find a couple of good-looking lettuces?\"\n\"I think I can handle that.\"\n\"John, let's get the meat into the fridge. As for you, Michael...\" She\npointed to the barbecue. \"The briquets are the self-lighting kind--just\ndrop a match and stand back. Do your duty.\"\"Aye, good lady,\" I said, and dropped to my knees in front of her.\nThat\nfinally got a giggle out of Ki.\nLaughing, Mattie took my hand and pulled me back onto my feet.\n\"Come on,\nSir Galahad,\" she said. \"It's going to rain. I want to be safe inside\nand too stuffed to jump when it does.\"\nIn the city, parties begin with greetings at the door, gathered-in\ncoats, and those peculiar little air-kisses (when, exactly, did that\nsocial oddity begin?). In the country, they begin with chores. You\nfetch, you carry, you hunt for stuff like barbecue tongs and oven\nmitts.\nThe hostess drafts a couple of men to move the picnic table, then\ndecides it was actually better where it was and asks them to put it\nback. And at some point you discover that you're having fun.I piled briquets until they looked approximately like the pyramid on\nthe\nbag, then touched a match to them. They blazed up satisfyingly and\nI\nstood back, wiping my forearm across my forehead. Cool and clear\nmight\nbe coming, but it surely wasn't in hailing distance yet. The sun had\nburned through and the day had gone from dull to dazzling, yet in\nthe\nwest black-satin thunderheads continued to stack up. It was as if\nnight\nhad burst a blood-vessel in the sky over there.\n\"Mike?\"\nI looked around at Kyra. \"What, honey?\"\n\"Will you take care of me?\"\n\"Yes,\" I said with no hesitation at all.For a moment something about my response--perhaps only the\nquickness of\nit--seemed to trouble her. Then she smiled. \"Okay,\" she said. \"Look,\nhere comes the ice-man!\"\nGeorge was back from the store. He parked and got out. I walked\nover\nwith Kyra, she holding my hand and swinging it possessively back\nand\nforth. Rommie came with us, juggling three heads of lettuce--I didn't\nthink he was much of a threat to the guy who had fascinated Ki on\nthe\ncommon Saturday night.\nGeorge opened the Altima's back door and brought out two bags of\nice.\n\"The store was closed,\" he said. \"Sign said WILL RE-OPEN AT 5 P.M.\nThat\nseemed a little too long to wait, so I took the ice and put the money\nthrough the mail-slot.\"They'd closed for Royce Merrill's funeral, of course. Had given up\nalmost a full day's custom at the height of the tourist season to see\nthe old fellow into the ground. It was sort of touching. I thought it\nwas also sort of creepy.\n\"Can I carry some ice?\" Kyra asked.\n\"I guess, but don't frizzicate yourself,\" George said, and carefully put\na five-pound bag of ice into Ki's outstretched arms.\n\"Frizzicate,\" Kyra said, giggling. She began walking toward the\ntrailer,\nwhere Mattie was just coming out. John was behind her and\nregarding her\nwith the eyes of a gutshot beagle. \"Mommy, look! I'm frizzicating!\"\nI took the other bag. \"I know the icebox is outside, but don't they\nkeep\na padlock on it?\"\"I am friends with most padlocks,\" George said.\n\"Oh. I see.\"\n\"Mike! Catch!\" John tossed a red Frisbee. It floated toward me, but\nhigh. I jumped for it, snagged it, and suddenly Devore was back in\nmy\nhead: What's wrong with you, Rogette? You never used to throw like\na\ngirl Get him/\nI looked down and saw Ki looking up. \"Don't think about sad stuff,\"\nshe\nsaid.\nI smiled at her, then flipped her the Frisbee. \"Okay, no sad stuff. Go\non, sweetheart. Toss it to your mom. Let's see if you can.\"\nShe smiled back, turned, and made a quick, accurate flip to hermother--the toss was so hard that Mattie almost flubbed it.\nWhatever\nelse Kyra Devore might have been, she was a Frisbee champion in\nthe\nmaking.\nMattie tossed the Frisbee to George, who turned, the tail of his\nabsurd\nbrown suitcoat flaring, and caught it deftly behind his back. Mattie\nlaughed and applauded, the hem of her top flirting with her navel.\n\"Showoffl\" John called from the steps. \"Jealousy is such an ugly\nemotion,\" George said to Rommie Bis-sonette, and flipped him the\nFrisbee. Rommie floated it back to John, but it went wide and\nbonked off\nthe side of the trailer. As John hurried down the steps to get it,\nMattie turned to me. \"My boombox is on the coffee-table in the living\nroom, along with a stack of CDS. Most of them are pretty old, but at\nleast it's music. Will you bring them out?\"\"Sure.\" I went inside, where it was hot in spite of three strategically\nplaced fans working overtime.\nI looked at the grim, mass-produced furniture, and at Mattie's rather\nnoble effort to impart some character: the van Gogh print that\nshould\nnot have looked at home in a trailer kitchenette but did, Edward\nHopper's Nighthawks over the sofa, the tie-dyed curtains that would\nhave\nmade Jo laugh. There was a bravery here that made me sad for her\nand\nfurious at Max Devore all over again. Dead or not, I wanted to kick\nhis\nass. I went into the living room and saw the new Mary Higgins Clark\non\nthe sofa end-table with a bookmark sticking out of it. Lying beside it\nin a heap were a couple of little-girl hair ribbons--something about\nthem looked familiar to me, although I couldn't remember ever\nhavingseen Ki wearing them. I stood there a moment longer, frowning,\nthen\ngrabbed the boombox and CDS and went back outside. \"Hey, guys,\"\nI said.\n\"Let's rock.\"\nI was okay until she danced. I don't know if it matters to you, but it\ndoes to me. I was okay until she danced. After that I was lost. We\ntook\nthe Frisbee around to the rear of the house, partly so we wouldn't\npiss\noff any funeral-bound townies with our rowdiness and good cheer,\nmostly\nbecause Mattie's back yard was a good place to play--level ground\nand\nlow grass. After a couple of missed catches, Mattie kicked off her\nparty-shoes, dashed barefoot into the house, and came back in her\nsneakers. After that she was a lot better. We threw the Frisbee,\nyelledinsults at each other, drank beer, laughed a lot. Ki wasn't much on\nthe\ncatching part, but she had a phenomenal arm for a kid of three and\nplayed with gusto. Rommie had set the boombox up on the trailer's\nback\nstep, and it spun out a haze of late-eighties and early-nineties\nmusic:\nU2, Tears for Fears, the Eurythmics, Crowded House, A Flock of\nSeagulls,\nAh-Hah, the Bangles, Melissa Etheridge, Huey Lewis and the News.\nIt\nseemed to me that I knew every song, every riff.\nWe sweated and sprinted in the noon light. We watched Mattie's\nlong,\ntanned legs flash and listened to the bright runs of Kyra's laughter.\nAt\none point Rommie Bissonette went head over heels, all the change\nspilling out of his pockets, and John laughed until he had to sit\ndown.Tears rolled from his eyes. Ki ran over and plopped on his\ndefenseless\nlap. John stopped laughing in a hurry. \"Ooofl\" he cried, looking at\nme\nwith shining, wounded eyes as his bruised balls no doubt tried to\nclimb\nback inside his body. \"Kyra Devote!\" Mattie cried, looking at John\napprehensively. \"I taggled my own quartermack,\" Ki said proudly.\nJohn\nsmiled feebly at her and staggered to his feet. \"Yes,\" he said. \"You\ndid. And the ref calls fifteen yards for squashing.\"\n\"Are you okay, man?\" George asked. He looked concerned, but his\nvoice\nwas grinning.\n\"I'm fine,\" John said, and spun him the Frisbee. It wobbled feebly\nacross the yard. \"Go on, throw. Let's see whatcha got.\" The thunder\nrumbled louder, but the black clouds were all still west of us; the skyoverhead remained a harmless humid blue. Birds still sang and\ncrickets\nhummed in the grass. There was a heat-shimmer over the barbecue,\nand it\nwould soon be time to slap on John's New York steaks. The Frisbee\nstill\nflew, red against the green of the grass and trees, the blue of the\nsky.\nI was still in lust, but everything was still all right--men are in lust\nall over the world and damned near all of the time, and the icecaps\ndon't melt. But she danced, and everything changed. It was an old\nDon\nHenley song, one driven by a really nasty guitar riff. \"Oh God, I love\nthis one,\" Mattie cried. The Frisbee came to her. She caught it,\ndropped\nit, stepped on it as if it were a hot red spot falling on a nightclub\nstage, and began to shake. She put her hands first behind her neck\nand\nthen on her hips and then behind her back. She danced stand ins\nwith thetoes of her sneakers on the Frisbee. She danced without moving.\nShe\ndanced as they say in that song--like a wave on the ocean.\n\"The government bugged the men's room in the local disco lounge,\nAnd all\nshe wants to do is dance, dance...\nkeep the boys from selling all the weapons they can scrounge, And\nall\nshe wants to do, all she wants to do is dance.\"\nWomen are sexy when they dance--incredibly sexy--but that wasn't\nwhat I\nreacted to, or how I reacted. The lust I was coping with, but this\nwas\nmore than lust, and not copeable. It was something that sucked the\nwind\nout of me and left me feeling utterly at her mercy. In that moment\nshe\nwas the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, not a pretty woman inshorts and a middy top dancing in place on a Frisbee, but Venus\nrevealed. She was everything I had missed during the last four\nyears,\nwhen I'd been so badly off I didn't know I was missing anything.\nShe\nrobbed me of any last defenses I might have had. The age\ndifference\ndidn't matter. If I looked to people like my tongue was hanging out\neven\nwhen my mouth was shut, then so be it. If I lost my dignity, my\npride,\nmy sense of self, then so be it. Four years on my own had taught me\nthere are worse things to lose.\nHow long did she stand there, dancing? I don't know. Probably not\nlong,\nnot even a minute, and then she realized we were looking at her,\nrapt--because to some degree they all saw what I saw and felt what\nI\nfelt. For that minute or however long it was, I don't think any of usused much oxygen.\nShe stepped off the Frisbee, laughing and blushing at the same\ntime,\nconfused but not really uncomfortable. \"I'm sorry,\" she said. \"I just...\nI love that song.\"\n\"All she wants to do is dance,\" Rommie said.\n\"Yes, sometimes that's all she wants,\" Mattie said, and blushed\nharder\nthan ever. \"Excuse me, I have to use the facility.\" She tossed me the\nFrisbee and then dashed for the trailer.\nI took a deep breath, trying to steady myself back to reality, and saw\nJohn doing the same thing. George Kennedy was wearing a mildly\nstunned\nexpression, as if someone had fed him a light sedative and it was\nfinally taking effect.Thunder rumbled. This time it did sound closer.\nI skimmed the Frisbee to Rommie. \"What do you think?\"\n\"I think I'm in love,\" he said, and then seemed to give himself a\nsmall\nmental shake--it was a thing you could see in his eyes. \"I also think\nit's time we got going on those steaks if we're going to eat outside.\nWant to help me?\"\n\"Sure.\"\n\"I will, too,\" John said.\nWe walked back to the trailer, leaving George and Kyra to play toss.\nKyra was asking George if he had ever caught any crinimals. In the\nkitchen, Mattie was standing beside the open fridge and stacking\nsteakson a platter. \"Thank God you guys came in. I was on the point of\ngiving\nup and gobbling one of these just the way it is. They're the most\nbeautiful things I ever saw.\"\n\"You're the most beautiful thing I ever saw,\" John said. He was\nbeing\ntotally sincere, but the smile she gave him was distracted and a little\nbemused. I made a mental note to myself: never compliment a\nwoman on her\nbeauty when she has a couple of raw steaks in her hands. It just\ndoesn't\nturn the windmill somehow.\n\"How are you at barbecuing meat?\" she asked me. \"Tell the truth,\nbecause\nthese are way too good to mess up.\"\n\"I can hold my own.\"\"Okay, you're hired. John, you're assisting. Rommie, help me do\nsalads.\"\n\"My pleasure.\"\nGeorge and Ki had come around to the front of the trailer and were\nnow\nsitting in lawn-chairs like a couple of old cronies at their London\nclub. George was telling Ki how he had shot it out with Rolfe Nedeau\nand\nthe Real Bad Gang on Lisbon Street in 1993.\n\"George, what's happening to your nose?\" John asked. \"It's getting\nso\nlong.\"\n\"Do you mind?\" George asked. \"I'm having a conversation here.\"\n\"Mr. Kennedy has caught lots of crooked crinimals,\" Kyra said. \"He\ncaught the Real Bad Gang and put them in Supermax.\"\"Yes,\" I said. \"Mr. Kennedy also won an Academy Award for acting in\na\nmovie called Cool Hand Luke.\"\n\"That's absolutely correct,\" George said. He raised his right hand and\ncrossed the two fingers. \"Me and Paul Newman. Just like that.\"\n\"We have his pusgetti sauce,\" Ki said gravely, and that got John\nlaughing again. It didn't hit me the same way, but laughter is\ncatching;\njust watching John was enough to break me up after a few seconds.\nWe\nwere howling like a couple of fools as we slapped the steaks on the\ngrill. It's a wonder we didn't burn our hands off. \"Why are they\nlaughing?\" Ki asked George. \"Because they're foolish men with little\ntiny brains,\" George said. \"Now listen, Ki--I got them all except for\nthe Human Headcase. He jumped into his car and I jumped into\nmine. The\ndetails of that chase are nothing for a little girl to hear--\" Georgeregaled her with them anyway while John and I stood grinning at\neach\nother across Mattie's barbecue. \"This is great, isn't it?\" John said,\nand I nodded. Mattie came out with corn wrapped in aluminum foil,\nfollowed by Rommie, who had a large salad bowl clasped in his arms\nand\nnegotiated the steps carefully, trying to peer over the top of the\nbowl\nas he made his way down them. We sat at the picnic table, George\nand\nRommie on one side, John and I flanking Mattie on the other. Ki sat\natthe head, perched on a stack of old magazines in a lawn-chair.\nMattie\ntied a dishtowel around her neck, an indignity Ki submitted to only\nbecause (a) she was wearing new clothes, and (b) a dishtowel\nwasn't a\nbaby-bib, at least technically speaking. We ate hugely--salad, steak\n(and John was right, it really was the best I'd ever had), roasted\ncorn\non the cob, \"strewberry snortcake\" for dessert. By the time we'd\ngotten\naround to the snortcake, the thunderheads were noticeably closer\nand\nthere was a hot, jerky breeze blowing around the yard. \"Mattie, if I\nnever eat a meal as good as this one again, I won't be surprised,''\nRommie said. \"Thanks ever so much for having me.\"\n\"Thank you,\" she said. There were tears standing in her eyes. She\ntook\nmy hand on one side and John's on the other. She squeezed both.\n\"Thankyou all. If you knew what things were like for Ki and me before this\nlast week. .. \" She shook her head, gave John and me a final\nsqueeze,\nand let go. \"But that's over.\"\n\"Look at the baby,\" George said, amused.\nKi had slumped back in her lawn-chair and was looking at us with\nglazing\neyes. Most of her hair had come out of the scrunchy and lay in\nclumps\nagainst her cheeks. There was a dab of whipped cream on her nose\nand a\nsingle yellow kernel of corn sitting in the middle of her chin. \"I threw\nthe Frisbee six fousan times,\" Kyra said. She spoke in a distant,\ndeclamatory tone. \"I tired.\" Mattie started to get up. I put my hand\non\nher arm. \"Let me?\" She nodded, smiling. \"If you want.\" I picked Kyra\nupand carried her around to the steps. Thunder rumbled again, a long,\nlow\nroll that sounded like the snarl of a huge dog. I looked up at the\nencroaching clouds, and as I did, movement caught my eye. It was\nan old\nblue car heading west on Wasp Hill Road toward the lake. The only\nreason\nI noticed it was that it was wearing one of those stupid bumper-\nstickers\nfrom the Village Cafe: HOW, N BROKEN--WATCH FOR FINGER.\nI carried Ki up the steps and through the door, turning her so I\nwouldn't bump her head. \"Take care of me,\" she said in her sleep.\nThere\nwas a sadness in her voice that chilled me. It was as if she knew she\nwas asking the impossible. \"Take care of me, I'm little, Mama says\nI'm a\nlittle guy.\"\n\"I'll take care of you,\" I said, and kissed that silky place between hereyes again. \"Don't worry, Ki, go to sleep.\" I carried her to her room\nand put her on her bed. By then she was totally conked out. I wiped\nthe\ncream off her nose and picked the corn-kernel off her chin. I glanced\nat\nmy watch and saw it was ten 'til two. They would be gathering at\nGrace\nBaptist by now. Bill Dean was wearing a gray tie.\nBuddy Jellison had a hat on. He was standing behind the church\nwith some\nother men who were smoking before going inside. I turned. Mattie\nwas in\nthe doorway. \"Mike,\" she said. \"Come here, please.\"\nI went to her. There was no cloth between her waist and my hands\nthis\ntime. Her skin was warm, and as silky as her daughter's. She looked\nup\nat me, her lips parted. Her hips pressed forward, and when she felt\nwhatwas hard down there, she pressed harder against it. \"Mike,\" she said\nagain. I closed my eyes. I felt like someone who has just come to\nthe\ndoorway of a brightly lit room full of people laughing and talking.\nAnd\ndancing. Because sometimes that is all we want to do. I want to\ncome in,\nI thought. That's what I want to do, all I want to do. Let me do what\nI\nwant. Let me-I realized I was saying it aloud, whispering it rapidly\ninto her ear as I held her with my hands going up and down her\nback, my\nfingertips ridging her spine, touching her shoulderblades, then\ncoming\naround in front to cup her small breasts. \"Yes,\" she said. \"What we\nboth\nwant. Yes. That's fine.\" Slowly, she reached up with her thumbs and\nwiped the wet places from under my eyes. I drew back from her.\n\"The\nkey--\" She smiled a little. \"You know where it is.\"\"I'll come tonight.\"\n\"Good.\"\n\"I've been. .. \" I had to clear my throat. I looked at Kyra, who was\ndeeply asleep. \"I've been lonely. I don't think I knew it, but I have\nbeen.\"\n\"Me too. And I knew it for both of us. Kiss, please.\" I kissed her. I\nthink our tongues touched, but I'm not sure. What I remember most\nclearly is the liveness of her. She was like a dreidel lightly spinning\nin my arms. \"Hey!\" John called from outside, and we sprang apart.\n\"You\nguys want to give us a little help? It's gonna rain!\"\n\"Thanks for finally making up your mind,\" she said to me in a tow\nvoice.She turned and hurried back up the doublewide's narrow corridor.\nThe\nnext time she spoke to me, I don't think she knew who she was\ntalking\nto, or where she was. The next time she spoke to me, she was\ndying.\n\"Don't wake the baby,\" I heard her tell John, and his response: \"Oh,\nsorry, sorry.\"\nI stood where I was a moment longer, getting my breath, then\nslipped\ninto the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. I remember\nseeing\na blue plastic whale in the bathtub as I turned to take a towel off the\nrack. I remember thinking that it probably blew bubbles out of its\nspout-hole, and I even remember having a momentary glimmer of\nan idea--a\nchildren's story about a spouting whale. Would you call him Willie?\nNah,\ntoo obvious. Wilhelm, now that had a fine round ring to it,simultaneously grand and amusing. Wilhelm the Spouting Whale. I\nremember\nthe bang of thunder from overhead. I remember how happy I was,\nwith the\ndecision finally made and the night to look forward to. I remember\nthe\nmurmur of men's voices and the murmur of Mattie's response as she\ntold\nthem where to put the stuff. Then I heard all of them going back out\nagain. I looked down at myself and saw a certain lump was\nsubsiding. I\nremember thinking there was nothing so absurd-looking as a\nsexually\nexcited man and knew I'd had this same thought before, perhaps in\na\ndream. I left the bathroom, checked on Kyra again--rolled over on\nher\nside, fast asleep--and then went down the hall. I had just reached\nthe\nliving room when gunfire erupted outside. I never confused the\nsoundwith thunder. There was a moment when my mind fumbled toward\nthe idea of\nbackfires--some kid's hotrod---and then I knew. Part of me had been\nexpecting something to happen. .. but it had been expecting ghosts\nrather than gunfire. A fatal lapse. It was the rapidpah/pah/pah/of an\nauto-fire weapon--a Glock nine-millimeter, as it turned out. Mattie\nscreamed--a high, drilling scream that froze my blood. I heard John\ncry\nout in pain and George Kennedy bellow, \"Down, down! For the love\nof\nChrist, get her down/\" Something hit the trailer like a hard spatter of\nhail--a rattle of punching sounds running from west to east.\nSomething\nsplit the air in front of my eyes--I heard it. There was an\nalmost-musical sproing sound, like a snapping guitar string. On the\nkitchen table, the salad bowl one of them had just brought in\nshattered.I ran for the door and nearly dived down the cement-block steps. I\nsaw\nthe barbecue overturned, with the glowing coals already setting\npatches\nof the scant front-yard grass on fire. I saw Rommie Bissonette sitting\nwith his legs outstretched, looking stupidly down at his ankle, which\nwas soaked with blood. Mattie was on her hands and knees by the\nbarbecue\nwith her hair hanging in her face--it was as if she meant to sweep\nup\nthe hot coals before they could cause some real trouble. John\nstaggered\ntoward me, holding out a hand. The arm above it was soaked with\nblood.\nAnd I saw the car I'd seen before--the nondescript sedan with the\njoke\nsticker on it. It had gone up the road--the men inside making that\nfirst\npass to check us out--then turned around and come back. The\nshooter wasstill leaning out the front passenger window. I could see the stubby\nsmoking weapon in his hands. It had a wire stock. His features were\na\nblue blank broken only by huge gaping eyesockets--a ski-mask.\nOverhead,\nthunder gave a long, awakening roar.\nGeorge Kennedy was walking toward the car, not hurrying, kicking\nhot\nspilled coals out of his way as he went, not bothering about the\ndark-red stain that was spreading on the right thigh of his pants,\nreaching behind himself, not hurrying even when the shooter pulled\nback\nin and shouted \"Go go go!\" at the driver, who was also wearing a\nblue\nmask, George not hurrying, no, not hurrying a bit, and even before I\nsaw\nthe pistol in his hand, I knew why he had never taken off his absurd\nPa\nKettle suit jacket, why he had even played Frisbee in it.The blue car (it turned out to be a 1987 Ford registered to Mrs.\nSonia\nBelliveau of Auburn and reported stolen the day before) had pulled\nover\nonto the shoulder and had never really stopped rolling. Now it\naccelerated, spewing dry brown dust out from under its rear tires,\nfishtailing, knocking Mattie's RFD box off its post and sending it\nflying into the road.\nGeorge still didn't hurry. He brought his hands together, holding his\ngun with his right and steadying with his left. He squeezed off five\ndeliberate shots. The first two went into the trunk--I saw the holes\nappear. The third blew in the back window of the departing Ford,\nand I\nheard someone shout in pain. The fourth went I don't know where.\nThe\nfifth blew the left rear tire. The Ford veered to that side. The driver\nalmost brought it back, then lost it completely. The car ploughed intothe ditch thirty yards below Mattie's trailer and rolled over on its\nside. There was a whumpfl and the rear end was engulfed in flames.\nOne\nof George's shots must have hit the gas-tank. The shooter began\nstruggling to get out through the passenger window.\n\"Ki... get Ki... away...\" A hoarse, whispering voice.\nMattie was crawling toward me. One side of her head--the right\nside--still looked all right, but the left side was a ruin. One dazed\nblue eye peered out from between clumps of bloody hair. Skull-\nfragments\nlittered her tanned shoulder like bits of broken crockery. How I\nwould\nlove to tell you I don't remember any of this, how I would love to\nhave\nsomeone else tell you that Michael Noonan died before he saw that,\nbut I\ncannot. Alas is the word for it in the crossword puzzles, a four-letterword meaning to express great sorrow.\n\"Ki... Mike, get Ki...\"\nI knelt and put my arms around her. She struggled against me. She\nwas\nyoung and strong, and even with the gray matter of her brain\nbulging\nthrough the broken wall of her skull she struggled against me, crying\nfor her daughter, wanting to reach her and protect her and get her\nto\nsafety.\n\"Mattie, it's all right,\" I said. Down at the Grace Baptist Church, at\nthe far end of the zone I was in, they were singing \"Blessed\nAssurance''.., but most of their eyes were as blank as the eye now\npeering at me through the tangle of bloody hair. \"Mattie, stop, rest,\nit's all right.\"\n\"Ki... get Ki... don't let them...\"\"They won't hurt her, Mattie, I promise.\"\nShe slid against me, slippery as a fish, and screamed her daughter's\nname, holding out her bloody hands toward the trailer. The rose-\ncolored\nshorts and top had gone bright red. Blood spattered the grass as she\nthrashed and pulled. From down the hill there was a guttural\nexplosion\nas the Ford's gas-tank exploded. Black smoke rose toward a black\nsky.\nThunder roared long and loud, as if the sky were saying You want\nnoise?\nI3ah? I'll give you noise.\n\"Say Mattie's all right, Mike!\" John cried in a wavering voice. \"Oh for\nGod's sake say she's--\"\nHe dropped to his knees beside me, his eyes rolling up until nothingshowed but the whites. He reached for me, grabbed my shoulder,\nthen tore\ndamned near half my shirt off as he lost his battle to stay conscious\nand fell on his side next to Mattie. A curd of white goo bubbled from\none corner of his mouth. Twelve feet away, near the overturned\nbarbecue,\nRommie was trying to get on his feet, his teeth clenched in pain.\nGeorge\nwas standing in the middle of Wasp Hill Road, reloading his gun from\na\npouch he'd apparently had in his coat pocket and watching as the\nshooter\nworked to get clear of the overturned car before it was engulfed.\nThe\nentire right leg of George's pants was red now. He may live but he'll\nnever wear that suit again, I thought. I held Mattie. I put my face\ndown\nto hers, put my mouth to the ear that was still there and said:\n\"Kyra's\nokay. She's sleeping. She's fine, I promise.\" Mattie seemed tounderstand. She stopped straining against me and collapsed to the\ngrass,\ntrembling all over. \"Ki... Ki...\" This was the last of her talking on\nearth. One of her hands reached out blindly, groped at a tuft of\ngrass,\nand yanked it out. \"Over here,\" I heard George saying. \"Get over\nhere,\nmotherfuck, don't you even think about turning your back on me.\"\n\"How bad is she?\" Rommie asked, hobbling over. His face was as\nwhite as\npaper. And before I could reply: \"Oh Jesus. Holy Mary Mother of\nGod,\npray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Blessed be the\nfruit of thy womb Jesus. Oh Mary born without sin, pray for us who\nhave\nrecourse to Thee. Oh no, oh Mike, no.\" He began again, this time\nlapsing\ninto Lewiston street-French, what the old folks call La Parle. \"Quit\nit,\" I said, and he did. It was as if he had only been waiting to betold. \"Go inside and check on Kyra. Can you?\"\n\"Yes.\" He started toward the trailer, holding his leg and lurching\nalong. With each lurch he gave a high yip of pain, but somehow he\nkept\ngoing. I could smell burning tufts of grass. I could smell electric rain\non a rising wind. And under my hands I could feel the light spin of\nthe\ndrei-del slowing down as she went. I turned her over, held her in my\narms, and rocked her back and forth. At Grace Baptist the minister\nwas\nnow reading Psalm 139 for Royce: If I say, Surely the darkness shall\ncover me, even the night shall be light. The minister was reading\nand\nthe Martians were listening. I rocked her back and forth in my arms\nunder the black thunderheads. I was supposed to come to her that\nnight,\nuse the key under the pot and come to her. She had danced with the\ntoesof her white sneakers on the red Frisbee, had danced like a wave on\nthe\nocean, and now she was dying in my arms while the grass burned in\nlittle\nclumps and the man who had fancied her as much as I had lay\nunconscious\nbeside her, his right arm painted red from the short sleeve of his WE\nare THE CHAMPIONS tee-shirt all the way down to his bony, freckled\nwrist.\n\"Mattie,\" I said. \"Mattie, Mattie, Mattie.\" I rocked her and smoothed\nmy\nhand across her forehead, which on the right side was miraculously\nunsplattered by the blood that had drenched her. Her hair fell over\nthe\nruined left side of her face. \"Mattie,\" I said. \"Mattie, Mattie, oh\nMattie.\" Lightning flashed--the first stroke I had seen. It lit the\nwestern sky in a bright blue arc. Mattie trembled strongly in my\narms--all the way from neck to toes she trembled. Her lips pressedtogether. Her brow furrowed, as if in concentration. Her hand came\nup\nand seemed to grab for the back of my neck, as a person falling\nfrom a\ncliff may grasp blindly at anything to hold on just a little longer.\nThen it fell away and lay limply on the grass, palm up. She trembled\nonce more--the whole delicate weight of her trembled in my arms--\nand\nthen she was still.\nChapter After that I was mostly in the zone. I came out a few\ntimes--when that scratched-out scrap of genealogy fell from inside\none\nof my old steno books, for instance--but those interludes were brief.\nIn\na way it was like my dream of Mattie, Jo, and Sara; in a way it was\nlike\nthe terrible fever I'd had as a child, when I'd almost died of the\nmeasles; mostly it was like nothing but itself. It was just the zone. Iwas feeling it. I wish to God I hadn't been. George came over,\nherding\nthe man in the blue mask ahead of him. George was limping now,\nand\nbadly. I could smell hot oil and gasoline and burning tires. \"Is she\ndead?\" George asked.\n\"Mattie?\"\n\"Yes.\"\n\"John?\"\n\"Don't know,\" I said, and then John twitched and groaned. He was\nalive,\nbut there was a lot of blood. \"Mike, listen,\" George began, but\nbefore\nhe could say more, a terrible liquid screaming began from the\nburning\ncar in the ditch. It was the driver. He was cooking in there. Theshooter started to turn that way, and George raised his gun. \"Move\nand\nI'll kill you.\"\n\"You can't let him die like that,\" the shooter said from behind his\nmask. \"You couldn't let a dog die like that.\"\n\"He's dead already,\" George said. \"You couldn't get within ten feet of\nthat car unless you were in an asbestos suit.\" He reeled on his feet.\nHis face was as white as the spot of whipped cream I'd wiped off the\nend\nof Ki's nose. The shooter made as if to go for him and George\nbrought\nthe gun up higher.\n\"The next time you move, don't stop,\" George said, \"because I\nwon't.\nGuaranteed. Now take that mask off.\"\"I'm done fucking with you, Jesse. Say hello to God.\" George pulled\nback\nthe hammer of his revolver. The shooter said, \"Jesus Christ,\" and\nyanked\noff his mask. It was George Footman. Not much surprise there. From\nbehind him, the driver gave one more shriek from within the Ford\nfireball and then was silent. Smoke rose in black billows. More\nthunder\nroared. \"Mike, go inside and find something to tie him with,\" George\nKennedy said. \"I can hold him another minute--two, if I have to--but\nI'm\nbleeding like a stuck pig. Look for strapping tape. That shit would\nhold\nHoudini.\" Footman stood where he was, looking from Kennedy to me\nand\nback to Kennedy again. Then he peered down at Highway 68, which\nwas\neerily deserted. Or perhaps it wasn't so eerie, at that--the coming\nstorms had been well forecast. The tourists and summer folk would\nbeunder cover. As for the locals... The locals were.., sort of listening.\nThat was at least close. The minister was speaking about Royce\nMerrill,\na life which had been long and fruitful, a man who had served his\ncountry in peace and in war, but the old-timers weren't listening to\nhim. They were listening to us, the way they had once gathered\naround\nthe pickle barrel at the Lakeview General and listened to prizefights\non\nthe radio. Bill Dean was holding Yvette's wrist so tightly his\nfingernails were white. He was hurting her.., but she wasn't\ncomplaining. She wanted him to hold onto her. Why? \"Mike!\"\nGeorge's\nvoice was perceptibly weaker. \"Please, man, help me. This guy is\ndangerous.\"\n\"Let me go,\" Footman said. \"You'd better, don't you think?\"\n\"In your wettest dreams, motherfuck,\" George said.I got up, went past the pot with the key underneath, went up the\ncement-block steps. Lightning exploded across the sky, followed by a\nbellow of thunder.\nInside, Rommie was sitting in a chair at the kitchen table. His face\nwas\neven whiter than George's. \"Kid's okay,\" he said, forcing the words.\n\"But she looks like waking up. .. I can't walk anymore. My ankle's\ntotally fucked.\"\nI moved for the telephone.\n\"Don't bother,\" Rommie said. His voice was harsh and trembling.\n\"Tried\nit. Dead. Storm must already have hit some of the other towns.\nKilled\nsome of the equipment. Christ, I never had anything hurt like this in\nmylife.\"\nI went to the drawers in the kitchen and began yanking them open\none by\none, looking for strapping tape, looking for clothesline, looking for\nany damned thing. If Kennedy passed out from blood-loss while I\nwas in\nhere, the other George would take his gun, kill him, and then kill\nJohn\nas he lay unconscious on the smoldering grass. With them taken\ncare of,\nhe'd come in here and shoot Rommie and me. He'd finish with Kyra.\n\"No he\nwon't,\" I said. \"He'll leave her alive.\" And that might be even worse.\nSilverware in the first drawer. Sandwich bags, garbage bags, and\nneatly\nbanded stacks of grocery-store coupons in the second. Oven mitts\nand\npotholders in the third- \"Mike, where's my Mattie?\"I turned, as guilty as a man who has been caught mixing illegal\ndrugs.\nKyra stood at the living-room end of the hall with her hair falling\naround her sleep-flushed cheeks and her scrunchy hung over one\nwrist\nlike a bracelet. Her eyes were wide and panicky. It wasn't the shots\nthat had awakened her, probably not even her mother's scream. I\nhad\nwakened her. My thoughts had wakened her.\nIn the instant I realized it I tried to shield them somehow, but I was\ntoo late. She had read me about Devore well enough to tell me not\nto\nthink about sad stuff, and now she read what had happened to her\nmother\nbefore I could keep her out of my mind.\nHer mouth dropped open. Her eyes widened. She shrieked as if her\nhand\nhad been caught in a vise and ran for the door.\"No, Kyra, no!\" I sprinted across the kitchen, almost tripping over\nRommie (he looked at me with the dim incomprehension of someone\nwho is\nno longer completely conscious), and grabbed her just in time. As I\ndid,\nI saw Buddy Jellison leaving Grace Baptist by a side door. Two of the\nmen he had been smoking with went with him. Now I understood\nwhy Bill\nwas holding so tightly to Yvette, and loved him for it--loved both of\nthem. Something wanted him to go with Buddy and the others .. but\nBill\nwasn't going.\nKyra struggled in my arms, making big convulsive thrusts at the\ndoor,\ngasping in breath and then screaming it out again. \"Let me go, want\nto\nsee Mommy, let me go, want to see Mommy, let me go--\"I called her name with the only voice I knew she would really hear,\nthe\none I could use only with her. She relaxed in my arms little by little,\nand turned to me. Her eyes were huge and confused and shining\nwith\ntears. She looked at me a moment longer and then seemed to\nunderstand\nthat she mustn't go out. I put her down. She just stood there a\nmoment,\nthen backed up until her bottom was against the dishwasher. She\nslid\ndown its smooth white front to the floor. Then she began to wail--\nthe\nmost awful sounds of grief I have ever heard. She understood\ncompletely,\nyou see. I had to show her enough to keep her inside, I had to...\nand\nbecause we were in the zone together, I could.\nBuddy and his friends were in a pickup truck headed this way. BAMM\nCONSTRUCTION, it said on the side.\"Mike!\" George cried. He sounded panicky. \"You got to hurry!\"\n\"Hold on!\"\nI called back. \"Hold on, George!\"\nMattie and the others had started stacking picnic things beside the\nsink, but I'm almost positive that the stretch of Formica counter\nabove\nthe drawers had been clean and bare when I hurried after Kyra. Not\nnow.\nThe yellow sugar cannister had been overturned. Written in the\nspilled\nsugar was this:\n\"No shit,\" I muttered, and checked the remaining drawers. No tape,\nno\nrope. Not even a lousy set of handcuffs, and in most well-equippedkitchens you can count on finding three or four. Then I had an idea\nand\nlooked in the cabinet under the sink. When I went back out, our\nGeorge\nwas swaying on his feet and Footman was looking at him with a kind\nof\npredatory concentration. \"Did you get some tape?\" George Kennedy\nasked.\n\"No, something better,\" I said. \"Tell me, Footman, who actually paid\nyou? Devore or Whitmore? Or don't you know?\"\n\"Fuck you,\" he said. I had my right hand behind my back. Now I\npointed\ndown the hill with my left one and endeavored to look surprised.\n\"What\nthe hell's Osgood doing?\nTell him to go away!\" Footman looked in that direction--it was\ninstinctive--and I hit him in the back of the head with the Craftsman\nhammer I'd found in the toolbox under Mattie's sink. The sound washorrible, the spray of blood erupting from the flying hair was\nhorrible,\nbut worst of all was the feeling of the skull giving way--a spongy\ncollapse that came right up the handle and into my fingers. He went\ndown\nlike a sandbag, and I dropped the hammer, gagging. \"Okay,\" George\nsaid.\n\"A little ugly, but probably the best thing you could have done\nunder..,\nunder the...\" He didn't go down like Footman--it was slower and\nmore\ncontrolled, almost graceful--but he was just as out. I picked up the\nrevolver, looked at it, then threw it into the woods across the road. A\ngun was nothing for me to have right now; it could only get me into\nmore\ntrouble. A couple of other men had also left the church; a carful of\nladies in black dresses and veils, as well. I had to hurry on even\nfaster. I unbuckled George's pants and pulled them down. The bulletwhich had taken him in the leg had torn into his thigh, but the\nwound\nlooked as if it was clotting. John's upper arm was a different story--it\nwas still pumping out blood in frightening quantities. I yanked his\nbelt\nfree and cinched it around his arm as tightly as I could. Then I\nslapped\nhim across the face. His eyes opened and stared at me with a bleary\nlack\nof recognition. \"Open your mouth, John!\" He only stared at me. I\nleaned\ndown until our noses were almost touching and screamed, \"OPEN\nYOUR\nMOUTH,/ DO IT ?\nOW,/\" He opened it like a kid when the nurse tells him just say aahh.\nI\nstuck the end of the belt between his teeth. \"Close!\" He closed.\n\"Now\nhold it,\" I said. \"Even if you pass out, hold it.\" I didn't have time to\nsee if he was paying attention. I got to my feet and looked up as thewhole world went glare-blue. For a second it was like being inside a\nneon sign. There was a black suspended river up there, roiling and\ncoiling like a basket of snakes. I had never seen such a baleful sky. I\ndashed up the cement-block steps and into the trailer again. Rom-\nmie had\nslumped forward onto the table with his face in his folded arms. He\nwould have looked like a kindergartner taking a timeout if not for the\nbroken salad bowl and the bits of lettuce in his hair. Kyra still sat\nwith her back to the dishwasher, weeping hysterically. I picked her\nup\nand realized that she had wet herself. \"We have to go now, Ki.\"\n\"I want Mattie! I want Mommy! I want my Mattie, make her stop\nbeing\nhurt,/Make her stop being dead,/\" I hurried across the trailer. On the\nway to the door I passed the end-table with the Mary Higgins Clark\nnovel\non it. I noticed the tangle of hair ribbons again--ribbons perhaps\ntriedon before the party and then discarded in favor of the scrunchy.\nThey\nwere white with bright red edges. Pretty. I picked them up without\nstopping, stuffed them into a pants pocket, then switched Ki to my\nother\narm. \"I want Mattie! I want Mommy! Make her come back./\" She\nswatted at\nme, trying to make me stop, then began to buck and kick in my\narms\nagain.\nShe drummed her fists on the side of my head. \"Put me down! Land\nme!\nLand me!\"\n\"No, Kyra.\"\n\"Put me down! Land me,/Land me,/PUT ME DOWN,/\" I was losing\nher. Then,as we came out onto the top step, she abruptly stopped struggling.\n\"Give\nme Stricken! I want Stricken!\" At first I had no idea what she was\ntalking about, but when I looked where she was pointing I\nunderstood.\nLying on the walk not far from the pot with the key underneath it\nwas\nthe stuffed toy from Ki's Happy Meal. Strickland had put in a fair\namount of outside playtime from the look of him--the light-gray fur\nwas\nnow dark-gray with dust--but if the toy would calm her, I wanted her\nto\nhave it. This was no time to worry about dirt and germs. \"I'll give\nyou\nStrickland if you promise to close your eyes and not open them until\nI\ntell you. Will you promise?\"\n\"I promise,\" she said. She was trembling in my arms, and great\nglobular\ntears--the kind you expect to see in fairy-tale books, never in reallife--rose in her eyes and went spilling down her cheeks. I could\nsmell\nburning grass and charred beefsteak. For one terrible moment I\nthought I\nwas going to vomit, and then I got it under control. Ki closed her\neyes.\nTwo more tears fell from them and onto my arm. They were hot.\nShe held\nout one hand, groping. I went down the steps, got the dog, then\nhesitated. First the ribbons, now the dog. The ribbons were probably\nokay, but it seemed wrong to give her the dog and let her bring it\nalong. It seemed wrong but... It's gray, Irish, the UFO voice\nwhispered.\nIOU don't need to worry about it because it's gray. The stufd toy in\nyour dream was black. I didn't know exactly what the voice was\ntalking\nabout and had no time to care. I put the stuffed dog in Kyra's open\nhand. She held it up to her face and kissed the dusty fur, her eyesstill closed. \"Maybe Stricken can make Mommy better, Mike. Stricken\na\nmagic dog.\"\n\"Just keep your eyes closed. Don't open them until I say.\"\nShe put her face against my neck. I carried her across the yard and\nto\nmy car that way. I put her on the passenger side of the front seat.\nShe\nlay down with her arms over her head and the dirty stuffed dog\nclutched\nin one pudgy hand. I told her to stay just like that, lying down on\nthe\nseat. She made no outward sign that she heard me, but I knew that\nshe\ndid. We had to hurry because the old-timers were coming. The old-\ntimers\nwanted this business over, wanted this river to run into the sea. And\nthere was only one place we could go, only one place where we\nmight besafe, and that was Sara Laughs. But there was something I had to\ndo\nfirst. I kept a blanket in the trunk, old but clean. I took it out,\nwalked across the yard, and shook it down over Mattie Devote. The\nhump\nit made as it settled around her was pitifully slight. I looked around\nand saw John staring at me. His eyes were glassy with shock, but I\nthought maybe he was coming back. The belt was still clamped in\nhis\nteeth; he looked like a junkie preparing to shoot up. \"Iss ant eee,\"\nhe\nsaid--This can't be. I knew exactly how he felt. \"There'll be help here\nin just a few minutes. Hang in there. I have to go.\"\n\"Go air?\" I didn't answer.\nThere wasn't time. I stopped and took George Kennedy's pulse. Slow\nbut\nstrong. Beside him, Footman was deep in unconsciousness, but\nmutteringthickly. Nowhere near dead. It takes a lot to kill a daddy. The jerky\nwind blew the smoke from the overturned car in my direction, and\nnow I\ncould smell cooking flesh as well as barbecued steak. My stomach\nclenched again. I ran to the Chew, dropped behind the wheel, and\nbacked\nout of the driveway. I took one more look--at the blanket-covered\nbody,\nat the three knocked-over men, at the trailer with the line of black\nbulletholes wavering down its side and its door standing open. John\nwas\nup on his good elbow, the end of the belt still clamped in his teeth,\nlooking at me with uncomprehending eyes. Lightning flashed so\nbrilliantly I tried to shield my eyes from it, although by the time my\nhand was up, the flash had gone and the day was as dark as late\ndusk.\n\"Stay down, Ki,\" I said. \"Just like you are.\"\"I can't hear you,\" she said in a voice so hoarse and choked with\ntears\nthat I could barely make out the words. \"Ki's takin a nap wif\nStricken.\"\n\"Okay,\" I said. \"Good.\"\nI drove past the burning Ford and down to the foot of the hill, where\nI\nstopped at the rusty bullet-pocked stop-sign. I looked right and saw\nthe\npickup truck parked on the shoulder. BAMM CONSTRUCTION on the\nside.\nThree men crowded together in the cab, watching me. The one by\nthe\npassenger window was Buddy Jellison; I could tell him by his hat.\nVery\nslowly and deliberately, I raised my right hand and gave them the\nfinger. None of them responded and their stony faces didn't change,\nbut\nthe pickup began to roll slowly toward me. I turned lift onto 68,heading for Sara Laughs under a black sky.\nTwo miles from where Lane Forty-two branches off the highway and\nwinds\nwest to the lake, there stood an old abandoned barn upon which\nILFHEN\none could still make out faded letters reading DONCASTER DAIRY. As\nwe\napproached it, the whole eastern side of the sky lit up in a\npurple-white blister. I cried out, and the Chevy's horn honked--by\nitself, I'm almost positive. A thorn of lightning grew from the bottom\nof that light-blister and struck the barn. For a moment it was still\ncompletely there, glowing like something radioactive, and then it\nspewed\nitself in all directions. I have never seen anything even remotely like\nit outside of a movie theater. The thunderclap which followed was\nlike a\nbombshell. Kyra screamed and slid onto the floor on the passenger\nsideof the car with her hands clapped to her ears. She still clutched the\nlittle stuffed dog in one of them. A minute later I topped Sugar\nRidge.\nLane Forty-two splits left from the highway at the bottom of the\nridge's\nnorth slope. From the top I could see a wide swath of TR-90--woods\nand\nfields and barns and farms, even a darkling gleam from the lake.\nThe sky\nwas as black as coal dust, flashing almost constantly with internal\nlightnings. The air had a clear ochre glow. Every breath I took tasted\nlike the shavings in a tinderbox. The topography beyond the ridge\nstood\nout with a surreal clarity I cannot forget. That sense of mystery\nswarmed my heart and mind, that sense of the world as thin skin\nover\nunknowable bones and gulfs. I glanced into the rearview mirror and\nsaw\nthat the pickup truck had been joined by two other cars, one with aV-plate that means the vehicle is registered to a combat veteran of\nthe\narmed services. When I slowed down, they slowed down. When I\nsped up,\nthey sped up. I doubted they would follow us any farther once I\nturned\nonto Lane Forty-two, however. \"Ki? Are you okay?\"\n\"Sleepun,\" she said from the footwell. \"Okay,\" I said, and started\ndown\nthe hill. I could just see the red bicycle reflectors marking my turn\nonto Forty-two when it began to hail--great big chunks of white ice\nthat\nfell out of the sky, drummed on the roof like heavy fingers, and\nbounced\noff the hood.\nThey began to heap in the gutter where my windshield wipers hid.\n\"What's\nhappening?\" Kyra cried. \"It's just hail,\" I said. \"It can't hurt us.\"This was barely out of my mouth when a hailstone the size of a\nsmall\nlemon struck my side of the windshield and then bounced high into\nthe\nair again, leaving a white II mark from which a number of short\ncracks\nradiated. Were John and George Kennedy lying helpless out in this? I\nturned my mind in that direction, but could sense nothing. When I\nmade\nthe left onto Lane Forty-two, it was hailing almost too hard to see.\nThe\nwheelruts were heaped with ice.\nThe white faded out under the trees, though. I headed for that\ncover,\nflipping on my headlights as I went. They cut bright cones through\nthe\npelting hail. As we went into the trees, that purple-white blister\nglowed again, and my rearview mirror went too bright to look at.\nTherewas a rending, crackling crash. Kyra screamed again. I looked\naround and\nsaw a huge old spruce toppling slowly across the lane, its ragged\nstump\non fire. It carried the electrical lines with it. BIOCKED in, I thought.\nThis end, probably the other end, too. 're here. For better or jor\nworse, we're here. The trees grew over Lane Forty-two in a canopy\nexcept\nfor where the road passed beside Tidwell's Meadow. The sound of\nthe hail\nin the woods was an immense splintery rattle. Trees were\nsplintering, of\ncourse; it was the most damaging hail ever to fall in that part of the\nworld, and although it spent itself in fifteen minutes, that was long\nenough to ruin a season's worth of crops. Lightning flashed above\nus. I\nlooked up and saw a large orange fireball being chased by a smaller\none.They ran through the trees to our left, setting fire to some of the\nhigh\nbranches. We came briefly into the clear at Tidwell's Meadow, and as\nwe\ndid the hail changed to torrential rain. I could not have continued\ndriving if we hadn't run back into the woods almost immediately, and\nas\nit was the canopy provided just enough cover so I could creep along,\nhunched over the wheel and peering into the silver curtain falling\nthrough the fan of my headlights. Thunder boomed constantly, and\nnow the\nwind began to rise, rushing through the trees like a contentious\nvoice.\nAhead of me, a leaf-heavy branch dropped into the road. I ran over\nit\nand listened to it thunk and scrape and roll against the Chevy's\nundercarriage. Please, nothing bigger, I thought.., or maybe I was\npraying. Please let me get to the house. Please let us get to the\nhouse.By the time I reached the driveway the wind was howling a hurri\ncane.\nThe writhing trees and pelting rain made the entire world seem on\nthe\nverge of wavering into insubstantial gruel. The driveway's slope had\nturned into a river, but I nosed the Chevy down it with no\nhesitation--we couldn't stay out here; if a big tree fell on the car,\nwe'd be crushed like bugs in a Dixie cup.\nI knew better than to use the brakes--the car would have heeled\nsideways\nand perhaps have been swept right down the slope toward the lake,\nrolling over and over as it went. Instead I dropped the transmission\ninto low range, toed two notches into the emergency brake, and let\nthe\nengine pull us down with the rain sheeting against the windshield\nandturning the log bulk of the house into a phantom. Incredibly, some\nof\nthe lights were still on, shining like bathysphere portholes in nine\nfeet of water. The generator was working, then.., at least for the\ntime\nbeing.\nLightning threw a lance across the lake, green-blue fire illuminating\na\nblack well of water with its surface lashed into surging whitecaps.\nOne\nof the hundred-year-old pines which had stood to the left of the\nrailroad-tie steps now lay with half its length in the water.\nSomewhere\nbehind us another tree went over with a vast crash. Kyra covered\nher\nears.\n\"It's all right, honey,\" I said. \"We're here, we made it.\"I turned off the engine and killed the lights. Without them I could\nsee\nlittle; almost all the day had gone out of the day. I tried to open my\ndoor and at first couldn't. I pushed harder and it not only opened, it\nwas ripped right out of my hand. I got out and in a brilliant stroke of\nlightning saw Kyra crawling across the seat toward me, her face\nwhite\nwith panic, her eyes huge and brimming with terror. My door swung\nback\nand hit me in the ass hard enough to hurt. I ignored it, gathered Ki\ninto my arms, and turned with her. Cold rain drenched us both in an\ninstant. Except it really wasn't like rain at all; it was like stepping\nunder a waterfall.\n\"My doggy!\" Ki shrieked. Shriek or not, I could hardly hear her. I\ncould\nsee her face, though, and her empty hands. \"Stricken! I drop\nStricken!\"I looked around and yes, there he was, floating down the macadam\nof the\ndriveway and past the stoop. A little farther on, the rushing water\nspilled off the paving and down the slope; if Strickland went with the\nflow, he'd probably end up in the woods somewhere. Or all the way\ndown\nto the lake.\n\"Stricken!\" Ki sobbed. \"My DOGGY!\"\nSuddenly nothing mattered to either of us but that stupid stuffed\ntoy. I\nchased down the driveway after it with Ki in my arms, oblivious of\nthe\nrain and wind and brilliant flashes of lightning. And yet it was going\nto beat me to the slope--the water in which it was caught was\nrunning\ntoo fast for me to catch up.\nWhat snagged it at the edge of the paving was a trio of sunflowerswaving wildly in the wind. They looked like God-transported\nworshippers\nat a revival meeting: Is, Jeesus! Thankya Lawd! They also looked\nfamiliar. It was of course impossible that they should be the same\nthree\nsunflowers which had been growing up through the boards of the\nstoop in\nmy dream (and in the photograph Bill Dean had taken before I came\nback),\nand yet it was them; beyond doubt it was them. Three sunflowers\nlike the\nthree weird sisters in Macbeth, three sunflowers with faces like\nsearchlights. I had come back to Sara Laughs; I was in the zone; I\nhad\nreturned to my dream and this time it had possessed me.\n\"Stricken!\" Ki bending and thrashing in my arms, both of us too\nslippery\nfor safety. \"Please, Mike, please!\"Thunder exploded overhead like a basket of nitro. We both\nscreamed. I\ndropped to one knee and snatched up the little stuffed dog. Kyra\nclutched it, covered it with frantic kisses. I lurched to my feet as\nanother thunderclap sounded, this one seeming to run through the\nair\nlike some crazy liquid bullwhip. I looked at the sunflowers, and they\nseemed to look back at me--Hello, Irish, it's been a long time, what\ndo\nyou say? Then, resettling Ki in my arms as well as I could, I turned\nand\nslogged for the house. It wasn't easy; the water in the driveway was\nnow\nankle-deep and full of melting hailstones. A branch flew past us and\nlanded pretty much where I'd knelt to pick up Strickland. There was\na\ncrash and a series of thuds as a bigger branch struck the roof and\nwent\nrolling down it.I ran onto the back stoop, half-expecting the Shape to come rushing\nout\nto greet us, raising its baggy not-arms in gruesome good fellowship,\nbut\nthere was no Shape. There was only the storm, and that was\nenough.\nKi was clutching the dog tightly, and I saw with no surprise at all\nthat\nits wetting, combined with the dirt from all those hours of outside\nplay, had turned Strickland black. It was what I had seen in my\ndream\nafter all.\nToo late now. There was nowhere else to go, no other shelter from\nthe\nstorm. I opened the door and brought Kyra Devore inside Sara\nLaughs.\nThe central portion of Sara--the heart of the house--had stood for\nalmost a hundred years and had seen its share of storms. The one\nthatfell on the lakes region that July afternoon might have been the\nworst\nof them, but I knew as soon as we were inside, both of us gasping\nlike\npeople who have narrowly escaped drowning, that it would almost\ncertainly withstand this one as well. The log walls were so thick it\nwas\nalmost like stepping into some sort of vault. The storm's crash and\nbash\nbecame a noisy drone punctuated by thunderclaps and the\noccasional loud\nthud of a branch falling on the roof. Somewhere--in the basement, I\nguess--a door had come loose and was clapping back and forth. It\nsounded\nlike a starter's pistol. The kitchen window had been broken by the\ntopple of a small tree. Its needly tip poked in over the stove, making\nshadows on the counter and the stove-burners as it swayed. I\nthought of\nbreaking it off and decided not to. At least it was plugging the hole.I carried Ki into the living room and we looked out at the lake, black\nwater prinked up in surreal points under a black sky. Lightning\nflashed\nalmost constantly, revealing a ring of woods that danced and swayed\nin a\nfrenzy all around the lake. As solid as the house was, it was\ngroaning\ndeeply within itself as the wind pummelled it and tried to push it\ndown\nthe hill.\nThere was a soft, steady chiming. Kyra lifted her head from my\nshoulder\nand looked around.\n\"You have a moose,\" she said. \"Yes, that's Bunter.\"\n\"Does he bite?\"\n\"No, honey, he can't bite. He's like a... like a doll, I suppose.\"\"Why is his bell ringing?\"\n\"He's glad we're here. He's glad we made it.\"\nI saw her want to be happy, and then I saw her realizing that Mattie\nwasn't here to be happy with. I saw the idea that Mattie would never\nbe\nhere to be happy with glimmer in her mind.., and felt her push it\naway.\nOver our heads something huge crashed down on the roof, the lights\nflickered, and Ki began to weep again.\n\"No, honey,', I said, and began to walk with her. \"No, honey, no, Ki,\ndon't. Don't, honey, don't.\"\n\"I want my mommy! I want my Mattie!\"\nI walked her the way I think you're supposed to walk babies who\nhavecolic. She understood too much for a three-year-old, and her\nsuffering\nwas consequently more terrible than any three-year-old should have\nto\nbear. So I held her in my arms and walked her, her shorts damp with\nurine and rainwater under my hands, her arms fever-hot around my\nneck,\nher cheeks slathered with snot and tears, her hair a soaked clump\nfrom\nour brief dash through the downpour, her breath acetone, her toy a\nstrangulated black clump that sent dirty water trickling over her\nknuckles. I walked her. Back and forth we went through Sara's living\nroom, back and forth through dim light thrown by the overhead and\none\nlamp. Generator light is never quite steady, never quite still--it seems\nto breathe and sigh. Back and forth through the ceaseless low\nchiming of\nBunter's bell, like music from that world we sometimes touch but\nneverreally see. Back and forth beneath the sound of the storm. I think I\nsang to her and I know I touched her with my mind and we went\ndeeper and\ndeeper into that zone together. Above us the clouds ran and the rain\npelted, dousing the fires the lightning had started in the woods. The\nhouse groaned and the air eddied with gusts coming in through the\nbroken\nkitchen window, but through it all there was a feeling of rueful\nsafety.\nA feeling of coming home.\nAt last her tears began to taper off. She lay with her cheek and the\nweight of her heavy head on my shoulder, and when we passed the\nlakeside\nwindows I could see her eyes looking out into the silver-dark storm,\nwide and unblinking. Carrying her was a tall man with thinning hair. I\nrealized I could see the dining-room table right through us. Our\nreflections are ghosts already, I thought.\"Ki? Can you eat something?\"\n\"Not hung'y.\"\n\"Can you drink a glass of milk?\"\n\"No, cocoa. I cold.\"\n\"Yes, of course you are. And I have cocoa.\"\nI tried to put her down and she held on with panicky tightness,\nscrambling against me with her plump little thighs. I hoisted her\nback\nup again, this time settling her against my hip, and she subsided.\n\"Who's here?\" she asked. She had begun to shiver. \"Who's here\n'sides\nus?\"\n\"I don't know.\"\"There's a boy,\" she said. \"I saw him there.\" She pointed Strickland\ntoward the sliding glass door which gave on the deck (all the chairs\nout\nthere had been overturned and thrown into the corners; one of the\nset\nwas missing, apparently blown right over the rail). \"He was black like\non that funny show me and Mattie watch. There are other black\npeople,\ntoo. A lady in a big hat. A man in blue pants. The rest are hard to\nsee.\nBut they watch. They watch us. Don't you see them?\"\n\"They can't hurt us.\"\n\"Are you sure? Are you, are you?\"\nI didn't answer.I found a box of Swiss Miss hiding behind the flour cannister, tore\nopen\none of the packets, and dumped it into a cup. Thunder exploded\noverhead.\nKi jumped in my arms and let out a long, miserable wail. I hugged\nher,\nkissed her cheek.\n\"Don't put me down, Mike, I scared.\"\n\"I won't put you down. You're my good girl.\"\n\"I scared of the boy and the blue-pants man and the lady. I think it's\nthe lady who wore Mattie's dress. Are they ghosties?'\n\"Yes.\"\n\"Are they bad, like the men who chased us at the fair? Are they?\"\n\"I don't really know, Ki, and that's the truth.\"\"But we'll find out.\"\n\"Huh?\"\n\"That's what you thought. \"But we'll find out.'\"\n\"Yes,\" I said. \"I guess that's what I was thinking. Something like\nthat.\"\nI took her down to the master bedroom while the water heated in\nthe\nkettle, thinking there had to be something left of Jo's I could pop her\ninto, but all of the drawers in Jo's bureau were empty. So was her\nside\nof the closet. I stood Ki on the big double bed where I had not so\nmuch\nas taken a nap since coming back, took off her clothes, carried her\ninto\nthe bathroom, and wrapped her in a bathtowel. She hugged it\naroundherself, shaking and blue-lipped. I used another one to dry her hair\nas\nbest I could. During all of this, she never let go of the stuffed dog,\nwhich was now beginning to bleed stuffing from its seams.\nI opened the medicine cabinet, pawed through it, and found what I\nwas\nlooking for on the top shelf: the Benadryl Jo had kept around for her\nragweed allergy. I thought of checking the expiration date on the\nbottom\nof the box, then almost laughed out loud. What difference did that\nmake?\nI stood Ki on the closed toilet seat and let her hold on around my\nneck\nwhile I stripped the childproof backing from four of the little\npink-and-white caplets. Then I rinsed out the tooth-glass and filled it\nwith cold water. While I was doing this I saw movement in the\nbathroommirror, which reflected the doorway and the master bedroom\nbeyond. I\ntold myself that I was only seeing the shadows of windblown trees. I\noffered the caplets to Ki. She reached for them, then hesitated. \"Go\non,\" I said. \"It's medicine.\"\n\"What kind?\" she asked. Her small hand was still poised over the\nlittle\ncluster of caplets.\n\"Sadness medicine,\" I said. \"Can you swallow pills, Ki?\"\n\"Sure. I taught myself when I was two.\"\nShe hesitated a moment longer--looking at me and looking into me,\nI\nthink, ascertaining that I was telling her something I really believed.\nWhat she saw or felt must have satisfied her, because she took the\ncaplets and put them in her mouth, one after another. She\nswallowed themwith little birdie-sips from the glass, then said: \"I still feel sad,\nMike.\"\n\"It takes awhile for them to work.\"\nI rummaged in my shirt drawer and found an old Harley-Davidson\ntee that\nhad shrunk. It was still miles too big for her, but when I tied a knot\nin one side it made a kind of sarong that kept slipping off one of her\nshoulders. It was almost cute.\nI carry a comb in my back pocket. I took it out and combed her hair\nback\nfrom her forehead and her temples. She was starting to look put\ntogether\nagain, but there was still something missing. Something that was\nconnected in my mind with Royce Merrill. That was crazy, though ..\nwasn't it?\"Mike? What cane? What cane are you thinking about it?\"\nThen it came to me. \"A candy cane,\" I said. \"The kind with stripes.\"\nFrom my pocket I took the two white ribbons. Their red edges\nlooked\nalmost raw in the uncertain light. \"Like these.\" I tied her hair back in\ntwo little ponytails. Now she had her ribbons; she had her black dog;\nthe sunflowers had relocated a few feet north, but they were there.\nEverything was more or less the way it was supposed to be.\nThunder blasted, somewhere close a tree fell, and the lights went\nout.\nAfter five seconds of dark-gray shadows, they came on again. I\ncarried\nKi back to the kitchen, and when we passed the cellar door,\nsomethinglaughed behind it. I heard it; Ki did, too. I could see it in her eyes.\n\"Take care of me,\" she said. \"Take care of me cause I'm just a little\nguy. You promised.\"\n\"I will.\"\n\"I love you, Mike.\"\n\"I love you, too, Ki.\"\nThe kettle was huffing. I filled the cup to the halfway mark with hot\nwater, then topped it up with milk, cooling it off and making it richer.\nI took Kyra over to the couch. As we passed the dining-room table I\nglanced at the IBM typewriter and at the manuscript with the\ncross-word-puzzle book lying on top of it. Those things looked\nvaguely\nfoolish and somehow sad, like gadgets that never worked very well\nandnow do not work at all.\nLightning lit up the entire sky, scouring the room with purple light. In\nthat glare the laboring trees looked like screaming fingers, and as\nthe\nlight raced across the sliding glass door to the deck I saw a woman\nstanding behind us, by the woodstove. She was indeed wearing a\nstraw\nhat, with a brim the size of a cartwheel.\n\"What do you mean, the river is almost in the sea?\" Ki asked.\nI sat down and handed her the cup. \"Drink that up.\"\n\"Why did the men hurt my mommy? Didn't they want her to have a\ngood\ntime?\"\n\"I guess not,\" I said. I began to cry. I held her on my lap, wiping\naway\nthe tears with the backs of my hands.\"You should have taken some sad-pills, too,\" Ki said. She held out\nher\ncocoa. Her hair ribbons, which I had tied in big sloppy bows,\nbobbed.\n\"Here. Drink some.\"\nI drank some. From the north end of the house came another\ngrinding,\ncrackling crash. The low rumble of the generator stuttered and the\nhouse\nwent gray again. Shadows raced across Ki's small face.\n\"Hold on,\" I told her. \"Try not to be scared. Maybe the lights will\ncome\nback.\" A moment later they did, although now I could hear a hoarse,\nuneven note in the gennie's roar and the flicker of the lights was\nmuch\nmore noticeable.\"Tell me a story,\" she said. \"Tell me about Cinderbell.\"\n\"Cinderella.\"\n\"Yeah, her.\"\n\"All right, but storyguys get paid.\" I pursed my lips and made\nsipping\nsounds.\nShe held the cup out. The cocoa was sweet and good. The sensation\nof\nbeing watched was heavy and not sweet at all, but let them watch.\nLet\nthem watch while they could.\n\"There was this pretty girl named Cinderella--\"\n\"Once upon a time! That's how it starts! That's how they all start!\"\n\"That's right, I forgot. Once upon a time there was this pretty girlnamed Cinderella, who had two mean stepsisters. Their names\nwere... do\nyou remember?\"\n\"Tammy Faye and Vanna.\"\n\"Yeah, the Queens of Hairspray. And they made Cinderella do all the\nreally unpleasant chores, like sweeping out the fireplace and\ncleaning\nup the dogpoop in the back yard. Now it just so happened that the\nnoted\nrock band Oasis was going to play a gig at the palace, and although\nall\nthe girls had been invited...\"\nI got as far as the part about the fairy godmother catching the mice\nand\nturning them into a Mercedes limousine before the Benadryl took\neffect.\nIt really was a medicine for sadness; when I looked down, Ki was\nfastasleep in the crook of my arm with her cocoa cup listing radically to\nport. I plucked it from her fingers and put it on the coffee-table,\nthen\nbrushed her drying hair off her forehead.\n\"Ki?\"\nNothing. She'd gone to the land of Noddy-Blinky. It probably helped\nthat\nher afternoon nap had ended almost before it got started. I picked\nher\nup and carried her down to the north bedroom, her feet bouncing\nlimply\nin the air and the hem of the Harley shirt flipping around her knees.\nI\nput her on the bed and pulled the duvet up to her chin. Thunder\nboomed\nlike artillery fire, but she didn't even stir. Exhaustion, grief,\nBenadryl. .. they had taken her deep, taken her beyond ghosts andsorrow, and that was good. I bent over and kissed her cheek, which\nhad\nfinally begun to cool. \"I'll take care of you,\" I said. \"I promised, and\nI will.\" As if hearing me, Ki turned on her side, put the hand holding\nStrick-land under her jaw, and made a soft sighing sound. Her lashes\nwere dark soot against her cheeks, in startling contrast to her light\nhair. Looking at her I felt myself swept by love, shaken by it the way\none is shaken by a sickness. Take care of me, I'm just a little guy. \"I\nwill, Ki-bird,\" I said. I went into the bathroom and began filling the\ntub, as I had once filled it in my sleep. She would sleep through it all\nif I could get enough warm water before the generator quit entirely.\nI\nwished I had a bath-toy to give her in case she did wake up,\nsomething\nlike Wilhelm the Spouting Whale, but she'd have her dog, and she\nprobably wouldn't wake up, anyway. No freezing baptism under a\nhandpump\nfor Kyra. I was not cruel, and I was not crazy. I had only disposablerazors in the medicine cabinet, no good for the other job ahead of\nme.\nNot efficient enough. But one of the kitchen steak knives would do.\nIf I\nfilled the washbasin with water that was really hot, I wouldn't even\nfeel it. A letter T on each arm, the top bar drawn across the wrists-\nFor\na moment I came out of the zone. A voice--my own speaking as\nsome\ncombination of Jo and Mattie--screamed: What are you thinking\nabout? Oh\nMike, what in God's name are you thinking about? Then the thunder\nboomed, the lights flickered, and the rain began to pour down again,\ndriven by the wind. I went back into that place where everything\nwas\nclear, my course indisputable. Let it all end-the sorrow, the hurt, the\nfear. I didn't want to think anymore about how Mattie had danced\nwith\nher toes on the Frisbee as if it were a spotlight. I didn't want to bethere when Kyra woke up, didn't want to see the misery fill her eyes.\nI\ndidn't want to get through the night ahead, the day that was coming\nbeyond it, or the day that was coming after that. They were all cars\non\nthe same old mystery train. Life was a sickness. I was going to give\nher\na nice warm bath and cure her of it. I raised my arms. In the\nmedicine\ncabinet mirror a murky figure--a Shape--raised its own in a kind of\njocular greeting. It was me. It had been me all along, and that was\nall\nright. That was just fine.\nI dropped to one knee and checked the water. It was coming in nice\nand\nwarm. Good. Even if the generator quit now, it would be fine. The\ntub\nwas an old one, a deep one. As I walked down to the kitchen to get\ntheknife, I thought about climbing in with her after I had finished\ncutting\nmy wrists in the hotter water of the basin. No, I decided. It might be\nmisinterpreted by the people who would come here later on, people\nwith\nnasty minds and nastier assumptions. The ones who'd come when\nthe storm\nwas over and the trees across the road cleared away. No, after her\nbath\nI would dry her and put her back in bed with Strickland in her hand.\nI'd\nsit across the room from her, in the rocking chair by the bedroom\nwindows. I would spread some towels in my lap to keep as much of\nthe\nblood off my pants as I could, and eventually I would go to sleep,\ntoo.\nBunter's bell was still ringing. Much louder now. It was getting on\nmy\nnerves, and if it kept on that way it might even wake the baby. Idecided to pull it down and silence it for good. I crossed the room,\nand\nas I did a strong gust of air blew past me. It wasn't a draft from the\nbroken kitchen window; this was that warm subway-air again. It\nblew the\n%ugh $tuff crossword book onto the floor, but the paperweight on\nthe\nmanuscript kept the loose pages from following. As I looked in that\ndirection, Bunter's bell fell silent. A voice sighed across the dim\nroom. Words I couldn't make out. And what did they matter? What\ndid one\nmore manifestation--one more blast of hot air from the Great\nBeyond--matter? Thunder rolled and the sigh came again. This time,\nas\nthe generator died and the lights went out, plunging the room into\ngray\nshadow, I got one word in the clear:\nNineteen.I turned on my heels, making a nearly complete circle. I finished up\nlooking across the shadowy room at the manuscript of My Childhood\nFriend. Suddenly the light broke. Understanding arrived. Not the\ncrossword book. Not the phone book, either. My book. My\nmanuscript.\nI crossed to it, vaguely aware that the water had stopped running\ninto\nthe tub in the north-wing bathroom. When the generator died, the\npump\nhad quit. That was all right, it would be plenty deep enough already.\nAnd warm. I would give Kyra her bath, but first there was something\nI\nhad to do. I had to go down nineteen, and after that I just might\nhave\nto go down ninety-two. And I could. I had completed just over a\nhundred\nand twenty pages of manuscript, so I could. I grabbed the\nbattery-powered lantern from the top of the cabinet where I still\nkeptseveral hundred actual vinyl records, clicked it on, and set it on the\ntable. It cast a white circle of radiance on the manuscript--in the\ngloom of that afternoon it was as bright as a spotlight.\nOn page nineteen of My Childhood Friend, Tiffi Taylor--the call-girl\nwho\nhad re-invented herself as Regina Whiting--was sitting in her studio\nwith Andy Drake, reliving the day that John Sanborn (the alias under\nwhich John Shackleford had been getting by) saved her three-year-\nold\ndaughter, Karen. This is the passage I read as the thunder boomed\nand\nthe rain slashed against the sliding door giving on the deck:\nFRIEND, by Noonan/Pg. 19\nover that way, I was sure of it,\" she said, \"but when I couldn't see\nher\nanywhere, I went to look in the hot tub.\" She lit a cigarette. \"What Isaw made me feel like screaming, Andy--Karen was underwater. All\nthat\nwas out was her hand.., the nails were turning purple. After that... I\nguess I dived in, but I don't remember; I was zoned out. Everything\nfrom\nthen on is like a dream where stuff runs together in your mind. The\nyard-guy--Sanborn--shoved me aide and dived. His foot hit me in the\nthroat and I couldn't swallow for a week. He yanked up on Karen's\narm. I\nthought he'd pull it off her damn shoulder, but he got her. He got\nher.\"\nIn the gloom, Drake saw she was weeping. \"God. Oh God, I thought\nshe was\ndead. I was sure she was.\"\nI knew at once, but laid my steno pad along the left margin of the\nmanuscript so I could see it better. Reading down, as you'd read a\nvertical crossword-puzzle answer, the first letter of each line spelled\nthe message which had been there almost since I began the book:owls under stud 0\nThen, allowing for the indent next-to-last line from the bottom:\nowls under studio Bill Dean, my caretaker, is sitting behind the wheel\nof his truck. He has accomplished his two purposes in coming\nhere-welcoming me back to the TR and warning me off Mattie\nDevore. Now\nhe's ready to go. He smiles at me, displaying those big false teeth,\nthose Roebuckers. \"If you get a chance, you ought to look r the\nowls,\"\nhe tells me. I ask him what Jo would have wanted with a couple of\nplastic owls and he replies that they keep the crows from shitting up\nthe woodwork. I accept that, I have other things to think about, but\nstill... \"It was like she'd come down to do that errand special,\" he\nsays. It never crosses my mind--not then, at least that in Indian\nlklore, owls have another purpose.' they are said to keep evil spiritsaway. If Jo knew that plastic owls would scare the crows off, she\nwould\nhave known that. It was just the sort of inj3rmation she picked up\nand\ntucked away. My inquisitive wij. My brilliant scatterbrain.\nThunder rolled. Lightning ate at the clouds like spills of bright acid.\nI stood by the dining-room table with the manuscript in my unsteady\nhands.\n\"Christ, Jo,\" I whispered. \"What did you find out?\" And why didn't\nyou\ntell me? But I thought I knew the answer to that. She hadn't told me\nbecause I was somehow like Max Devore; his great-grandfather and\nmy own\nhad shit in the same pit. It didn't make any sense, but there it was.\nAnd she hadn't told her own brother, either. I took a weird kind of\ncomfort from that. I began to leaf through the manuscript, my skincrawling. Andy Drake rarely frowned in Michael Noonan's My\nChildhood\nFriend. He scowled instead, because there's an owl in every scowl.\nBefore coming to Florida, John Shackleford had been living in Studio\nCity, California. Drake's first meeting with Regina Whiting occurred in\nher studio. Ray Garraty's last-known address was the Studio\nApartments\nin Key Largo. Regina Whiting's best friend was Steffie Underwood.\nSteffi's husband was Towle Underwood--there was a good one, two\nfor the\nprice of one. Owls under studio. It was everywhere, on every page,\njust\nlike the K-names in the telephone book. A kind of monument, this\none\nbuilt--I was sure of it--not by Sara Tidwell but by Johanna Arlen\nNoonan. My wife passing messages behind the guard's back, praying\nwith\nall her considerable heart that I would see and understand. On pageninety-two Shackleford was talking to Drake in the prison visitors'\nroom--sitting with his wrists between his knees, looking down at the\nchain running between his ankles, refusing to make eye-contact with\nDrake.\nFRIEND, by Noonan/Pg. 92\nonly thing I got to say. Anything else, fuck, what good would it do?\nLife's a game, and I lost. You want me to tell you that I yanked\nsome\nlittle kid out of the water, pulled her up, got her motor going again?\nI\ndid, but not because I'm a hero or a saint...\"\nThere was more but no need to read it. The message, owls under\nstudio,\nran down the margin just as it had on page nineteen. As it probably\ndidon any number of other pages as well. I remembered how deliriously\nhappy\nI had been to discover that the block had been dissolved and I could\nwrite again. It had been dissolved all right, but not because I'd\nfinally beaten it or found a way around it. Jo had dissolved it. Jo had\nbeaten it, and my continued career as a writer of second-rate\nthrillers\nhad been the least of her concerns when she did it. As I stood there\nin\nthe flicker-flash of lightning, feeling my unseen guests swirl around\nme\nin the unsteady air, I remembered Mrs. Moran, my first-grade\nteacher.\nWhen your efforts to replicate the smooth curves of the Palmer\nMethod\nalphabet on the blackboard began to flag and waver, she would put\nher\nlarge competent hand over yours and help you. So had Jo helped\nme. I\nriffled through the manuscript and saw the key words everywhere,sometimes placed so you could actually read them stacked on\ndifferent\nlines, one above the other. How hard she had tried to tell me this. ..\nand I had no intention of doing anything else until I found out why. I\ndropped the manuscript back on the table, but before I could re-\nanchor\nit, a furious gust of freezing air blew past me, lifting the pages and\nscattering them everywhere in a cyclone. If that force could have\nripped\nthem to shreds, I'm sure that it would have. No./ it cried as I\ngrabbed\nthe lantern's handle. No, finish the job./ Wind blew around my face\nin\nchill gusts--it was as if someone I couldn't quite see was standing\nright in front of me and breathing in my face, retreating as I moved\nforward, huffing and puffing like the big bad wolf outside the houses\nof\nthe three little pigs. I hung the lantern over my arm, held my hands\noutin front of me, and clapped them together sharply. The cold puffs in\nmy\nface ceased. There was now only the random swirling air coming in\nthrough the partially plugged kitchen window. \"She's sleeping,\" I\nsaid\nto what I knew was still there, silently watching. \"There's time.\" I\nwent out the back door and the wind took me at once, making me\nstagger\nsideways, almost knocking me over. And in the wavering trees I saw\ngreen\nfaces, the faces of the dead. Devore's was there, and Royce's, and\nSon\nTidwell's. Most of all I saw Sara's.\nEverywhere Sara.\nNo! Go back! You don't need no truck with no owls, sugar! Go back!\nFinish the job! Do what you came Jr!\"I don't know what I came for,\" I said. \"And until I find out, I'm not\ndoing anything.\"\nThe wind screamed as if in offense, and a huge branch split off the\npine\nstanding to the right of the house. It fell on top of my Chevrolet in a\nspray of water, denting the roof before rolling off on my side.\nClapping my hands out here would be every bit as useful as King\nCanute\ncommanding the tide to turn. This was her world, not mine... and\nonly\nthe edge of it, at that. Every step closer to The Street and the lake\nwould bring me closer to that world's heart, where time was thin and\nspirits ruled. Oh dear God, what had happened to cause this?\nThe path to Jo's studio had turned into a creek. I got a dozen steps\ndown it before a rock turned under my foot and I fell heavily on my\nside. Lightning zigged across the sky, there was the crack of anotherbreaking branch, and then something was falling toward me. I put\nmy\nhands up to shield my face and rolled to the right, off the path. The\nbranch splashed to the ground just behind me, and I tumbled\nhalfway down\na slope that was slick with soaked needles. At last I was able to pull\nmyself to my feet. The branch on the path was even bigger than the\none\nwhich had landed on the roof of the car. If it had struck me, it likely\nwould have bashed in my skull.\nGo back! A hissing, spiteful wind through the trees.\nFinish it! The slobbering, guttural voice of the lake slamming into the\nrocks and the bank below The Street.\nMind your business! That was the very house itself, groaning on its\nfoundations. Mind your business and let me mind mine!\nBut Kyra was my business. Kyra was my daughter.I picked up the lantern. The housing was cracked but the bulb\nglowed\nbright and steady--that was one for the home team. Bent over\nagainst the\nhowling wind, hand raised to ward off more falling branches, I\nslipped\nand stumbled my way down the hill to my dead wife's studio.\nC bi ;P T R At first the door wouldn't open. The knob turned under\nmy\nhand so I knew it wasn't locked, but the rain seemed to have\nswelled thewood.., or had something been shoved up against it? I drew back,\ncrouched a little, and hit the door with my shoulder. This time there\nwas some slight give.\nIt was her. Sara. Standing on the other side of the door and trying to\nhold it shut against me. How could she do that? How, in God's\nname? She\nwas a fucking ghost!\nI thought of the BAMM CONSTRUCTION pickup.., and as if thought\nwere\nconjuration I could almost see it out there at the end of Lane\nForty-two, parked by the highway. The old ladies' sedan was behind\nit,\nand three or four other cars were now behind them. All of them with\ntheir windshield wipers flopping back and forth, their headlights\ncutting feeble cones through the downpour. They were lined up on\nthe\nshoulder like cars at a yard sale. There was no yard sale here, only\ntheold-timers sitting silently in their cars. Old-timers who were in the\nzone just like I was. Old-timers sending in the vibe.\nShe was drawing on them. Stealing from them. She'd done the same\nwith\nDevore--and me too, of course. Many of the manifestations I'd\nexperienced since coming back had likely been created from my own\npsychic energy. It was amusing when you thought of it. Or maybe\n\"terrifying\" was the word I was actually looking for. \"Jo, help me,\" I\nsaid in the pouring rain. Lightning flashed, turning the torrents a\nbright brief silver. \"If you ever loved me, help me now.\" I drew back\nand hit the door again. This time there was no resistance at all and I\nwent hurtling in, catching my shin on the jamb and falling to my\nknees.\nI held onto the lantern, though. There was a moment of silence. In\nit I\nfelt forces and presences gathering themselves. In that moment\nnothingseemed to move, although behind me, in the woods Jo had loved to\nramble--with me or without me--the rain continued to fall and the\nwind\ncontinued to howl, a merciless gardener pruning its way through the\ntrees that were dead and almost dead, doing the work of ten gentler\nyears in one turbulent hour. Then the door slammed shut and it\nbegan. I\nsaw everything in the glow of the flashlight, which I had turned on\nwithout even realizing it, but at first I didn't know exactly what I was\nseeing, other than the destruction by poltergeist of my wife's\nbeloved\ncrafts and treasures. The framed afghan square tore itself off the\nwall\nand flew from one side of the studio to the other, the black oak\nframe\nbreaking apart. The heads popped off the dolls poking out of the\nbaby\ncollages like champagne corks at a party. The hanging light-globeshattered, showering me with fragments of glass. A wind began to\nblow--a\ncold one--and was quickly joined and whirled into a cyclone by one\nwhich\nwas warmer, almost hot. They rolled past me as if in imitation of the\nlarger storm outside. The Sara Laughs head on the bookcase, the\none\nwhich appeared to be constructed of toothpicks and lollipop sticks,\nexploded in a cloud of wood-splinters. The kayak paddle leaning\nagainst\nthe wall rose into the air, rowed furiously at nothing, then launched\nitself at me like a spear. I threw myself flat on the green rag rug to\navoid it, and felt bits of broken glass from the shattered light-globe\ncut into the palm of my hand as I came down. I felt something else,\nas\nwell--a ridge of something beneath the rug. The paddle hit the far\nwall\nhard enough to split into two pieces.Now the banjo my wife had never been able to master rose in the\nair,\nrevolved twice, and played a bright rattle of notes that were out of\ntune but nonetheless unmistakable--wish I was in the land of cotton,\nold\ntimes there are not forgotten. The phrase ended with a vicious\nBLUNK!\nthat broke all five strings. The banjo whirled itself a third time, its\nbright steel fittings reflecting fishscale runs of light on the study\nwalls, and then beat itself to death against the floor, the drum\nshattering and the tuning pegs snapping off like teeth. The sound of\nmoving air began to-how do I express this?--toj3cus somehow, until\nit\nwasn't the sound of air but the sound ofvoices--pant-ing, unearthly\nvoices full of fury. They would have screamed if they'd had vocal\ncords\nto scream with. Dusty air swirled up in the beam of my flashlight,\nmaking helix shapes that danced together, then reeled apart again.\nForjust a moment I heard Sara's snarling, smoke-broken voice: \"Git out,\nbitch/You git on out/This ain't none o/yours--\" And then a curious\ninsubstantial thud, as if air had collided with air. This was followed\nby a rushing wind-tunnel shriek that I recognized: I'd heard it in the\nmiddle of the night. Jo was screaming. Sara was hurting her, Sara\nwas\npunishing her for presuming to interfere, and Jo was screaming.\n\"No!\" I\nshouted, getting to my feet. \"Leave her alone! Leave her be!\" I\nadvanced\ninto the room, swinging the lantern in front of my face as if I could\nbeat her away with it. Stoppered bottles stormed past me--some\ncontained\ndried flowers, some carefully sectioned mushrooms, some woods-\nherbs.\nThey shattered against the far wall with a brittle xylophone sound.\nNone\nof them struck me; it was as if an unseen hand guided them away.\nThenJo's rolltop desk rose into the air. It must have weighed at least four\nhundred pounds with its drawers loaded as they were, but it floated\nlike\na feather, nodding first one way and then dipping the other in the\nopposing currents of air. Jo screamed again, this time in anger rather\nthan pain, and I staggered backward against the closed door with a\nfeeling that I had been scooped hollow. Sara wasn't the only one\nwho\ncould steal the energy of the living, it appeared. White semeny stuff\nectoplasm, I guess--spilled from the desk's pigeonholes in a dozen\nlittle streams, and the desk suddenly launched itself across the\nroom.\nIt flew almost too fast to follow with the eye. Anyone standing in\nfront\nof it would have been smashed flat There was a head-splitting shriek\nof\nprotest and agony--Sara this time, I knew it was--and then the desk\nstruck the wall, breaking through it and letting in the rain and thewind. The rolltop snapped loose of its slot and hung like a jointed\ntongue. All the drawers shot out. Spools of thread, skeins of yarn,\nlittle flora/fauna identification books and woods guides, thimbles,\nnotebooks, knitting needles, dried-up Magic Markers--Jo's early\nremains,\nKi might have called them. They flew everywhere like bones and bits\nof\nhair cruelly scattered from a disinterred coffin. \"Stop it,\" I croaked.\n\"Stop it, both of you. That's enough.\" But there was no need to tell\nthem. Except for the furious beat of the storm, I was alone in the\nruins\nof my wife's studio. The battle was over. At least for the time being.\nI knelt and doubled up the green rag rug, carefully folding into it as\nmuch of the shattered glass from the light as I could. Beneath it was\na\ntrapdoor giving on a triangular storage area created by the slope of\nthe\nland as it dropped toward the lake. The ridge I'd felt was one of thetrap's hinges. I had known about this area and had meant to check\nit for\nthe owls. Then things began to happen and I'd forgotten. There was\na\nrecessed ring in the trapdoor. I grabbed it, ready for more\nresistance,\nbut it swung up easily. The smell that wafted up froze me in my\ntracks.\nNot damp decay, at least not at first, but Red--Jo's favorite perfume.\nIt hung around me for a moment and then it was gone. What\nreplaced it\nwas the smell of rain, roots, and wet earth. Not pleasant, but I had\nsmelled far worse down by the lake near that damned birch tree. I\nshone\nmy light down three steep steps. I could see a squat shape that\nturned\nout to be an old toilet--I could vaguely remember Bill and Kenny\nAuster\nputting it under here back in 1990 or '91. There were steelboxes--filing cabinet drawers, actually--wrapped in plastic and\nstacked\nup on pallets. Old records and papers. An eight-track tape player\nwrapped in a plastic bag. An old VCR next to it, in another one. And\nover in the corner-I sat down, hung my legs over, and felt something\ntouch the ankle I had turned in the lake. I shone my light between\nmy\nknees and for one moment saw a young black kid. Not the one\ndrowned in\nthe lake, though--this one was older and quite a lot bigger. Twelve,\nmaybe fourteen. The drowned boy had been no more than eight.\nThis one\nbared his teeth at me and hissed like a cat. There were no pupils in\nhis\neyes;\nlike those of the boy in the lake, his eyes were entirely white, like\nthe eyes of a statue. And he was shaking his head. Don't come down\nhere,\nwhite man. Let the dead rest in peace. \"But you're not at peace,\" Isaid, and shone the light full on him. I had a momentary glimpse of\na\ntruly hideous thing. I could see through him, but I could also see\ninto\nhim: the rotting remains of his tongue in his mouth, his eyes in their\nsockets, his brain simmering like a spoiled egg in its case of skull.\nThen he was gone, and there was nothing but one of those swirling\ndust-helixes. I went down, holding the lantern raised. Below it, nests\nof shadows rocked and seemed to reach upward.\nThe storage area (it was really no more than a glorified crawlspace)\nhad\nbeen floored with wooden pallets, just to keep stuff off the ground.\nNow\nwater ran beneath these in a steady river, and enough of the earth\nhad\neroded to make even crawling unsteady work. The smell of perfume\nwas\nentirely gone. What had replaced it was a nasty riverbottom smelland--unlikely given the conditions, I know, but it was there--the\nfaint,\nsullen smell of ash and fire. I saw what I'd come for almost at once.\nJo's mail-order owls, the ones she had taken delivery of herself in\nNovember of 1993, were in the northeast corner, where there were\nonly\nabout two feet between the sloped pallet flooring and the underside\nof\nthe studio. Gorry, baa they looked real, Bill had said, and Gorry if he\nwasn't right: in the bright glow of the lantern they looked like birds\nfirst swaddled, then suffocated in clear plastic. Their eyes were\nbright\nwedding rings circling wide black pupils. Their plastic feathers were\npainted the dark green of pine nee-dies, their bellies a shade of dirty\norange-white. I crawled toward them over the squelching, shifting\npallets, the glow of the lantern bobbing back and forth between\nthem,\ntrying not to wonder if that boy was behind me, creeping in pursuit.When I got to the owls, I raised my head without thinking and\nthudded it\nagainst the insulation which ran beneath the studio floor. Thump\nonce r\nyes, twice r no, asshole, I thought.\nI hooked my fingers into the plastic which wrapped the owls and\npulled\nthem toward me. I wanted to be out of here. The sensation of water\nrunning just beneath me was strange and unpleasant. So was the\nsmell of\nfire, which seemed stronger now in spite of the damp. Suppose the\nstudio\nwas burning? Suppose Sara had somehow set it alight? I'd roast\ndown here\neven while the storm's muddy runoff was soaking my legs and belly.\nOne of the owls stood on a plastic base, I saw--the better to set him\non\nyour deck or stoop to scare the crows, my dear--but the base the\nothershould have been attached to was missing. I backed toward the\ntrapdoor,\nholding the lantern in one hand and dragging the plastic sack of owls\nin\nthe other, wincing each time thunder cannonaded over my head. I'd\nonly\ngotten a little way when the damp tape holding the plastic gave way.\nThe\nowl missing its base tilted slowly toward me, its black-gold eyes\nstaring raptly into my own.\nA swirl of air. A faint, comforting whiff of Red perfume. I pulled the\nowl out by the hornlike tufts growing from its forehead and turned it\nupside down. Where it had once been attached to its plastic base\nthere\nwere now only two pegs with a hollow space between them. Inside\nthe hole\nwas a small tin box that I recognized even before I reached into the\nowl's belly and chivvied it out. I shone the lantern on its front,knowing what I'd see: JO'S NOTIONS, written in old-fashioned gilt\nscript. She had found the box in an antiques barn somewhere.\nI looked at it, my heart beating hard. Thunder boomed overhead.\nThe\ntrapdoor stood open, but I had forgotten about going up. I had\nforgotten\nabout everything but the tin box I held in my hand, a box roughly\nthe\nsize of a cigar box but not quite as deep. I spread my hand over the\ncover and pulled it off.\nThere was a strew of folded papers lying on top of a pair of steno\nbooks, the wirebound ones I keep around for notes and character\nlists.\nThese had been rubber-banded together. On top of everything else\nwas a\nshiny black square. Until I picked it up and held it close to the side\nof the lantern, I didn't realize it was a photo negative.Ghostly, reversed and faintly orange, I saw Jo in her gray two-piece\nbathing suit. She was standing on the swimming float with her\nhands\nbehind her head.\n\"Jo,\" I said, and then couldn't say anything else. My throat had\nclosed\nup with tears. I held the negative for a moment, not wanting to lose\ncontact with it, then put it back in the box with the papers and steno\nbooks. This stuff was why she had come to Sara in July of 1994; to\ngather\nit up and hide it as well as she could. She had taken the owls off the\ndeck (Frank had heard the door out there bang) and had carried\nthem out\nhere. I could almost see her prying the base off one owl and stuffing\nthe tin box up its plastic wazoo, wrapping both of them in plastic,\nthen\ndragging them down here, all while her brother sat smoking\nMarlboros andfeeling the vibrations. The bad vibrations. I doubted if I would ever\nknow all the reasons why she'd done it, or what her frame of mind\nhad\nbeen... but she had almost certainly believed I'd find my own way\ndown\nhere eventually. Why else had she left the negative?\nThe loose papers were mostly photocopied press clippings from the\nCastle\nRock Call and from the ekly News, the paper which had apparently\npreceded the Call. The dates were marked on each in my wife's\nneat, firm\nhand. The oldest clipping was from 1865, and was headed ANOTHER\nHOME\nSAFE. The returnee was one Jared Devore, age thirty-two. Suddenly\nI\nunderstood one of the things that had puzzled me: the generations\nwhich\ndidn't seem to match up. A Sara Tidwell song came to mind as I\ncrouchedthere on the pallets with my lantern shining down on that old-timey\ntype. It was the ditty that went The oldjlks do it and the youngjlks,\ntoo / And the oldjlks show the youngjlksjust what to do...\nBy the time Sara and the Red-Tops showed up in Castle County and\nsettled\non what became known as Tidwell's Meadow, Jared Devore would\nhave been\nsixty-seven or -eight. Old but still hale. A veteran of the Civil War.\nThe sort of older man younger men might look up to. And Sara's\nsong was\nright--the old folks show the young folks just what to do.\nWhat exactly had they done?\nThe clippings about Sara and the Red-Tops didn't tell. I only\nskimmed\nthem, anyway, but the overall tone shook me, just the same. I'd\ndescribe\nit as unfailing genial contempt. The Red-Tops were \"our Southernblackbirds\" and \"our rhythmic darkies.\" They were \"full of dusky\ngood-nature.\" Sara herself was \"a marvelous figure of a Negro\nwoman\nwith broad nose, full lips, and noble brow\" who \"fascinated men-folk\nand\nwomen-folk alike with her animal high spirits, flashing smile, and\nraucous laugh.\"\nThey were, God keep us and save us, reviews. Good ones, if you\ndidn't\nmind being called full of dusky good-nature.\nI shuffled through them quickly, looking for anything about the\ncircumstances under which \"our Southern blackbirds\" had left. I\nfound\nnothing. What I found instead was a clipping from the Call marked\nJuly\n19th (go down nineteen, I thought), 1933. The headline read\nWTERA GUIDE,CARETAKER, CANNOT SAVE DAUGHTER. According to the story, Fred\nDean had\nbeen fighting the wildfires in the eastern part of the TR with two\nhundred other men when the wind had suddenly changed, menacing\nthe north\nend of the lake, which had previously been considered safe. At that\ntime\na great many local people had kept fishing and hunting camps up\nthere\n(this much I knew myself). The community had had a general store\nand an\nactual name, Halo Bay. Fred's wife, Hilda, was there with the Dean\ntwins, William and Carla, age three, while her husband was off\neating\nsmoke. A good many other wives and kids were in Halo Bay, as well.\nThe fires had come fast when the wind changed, the paper said'like\nmarching explosions.\" They }jumped the only firebreak the men had\nleft in\nthat direction and headed for the far end of the lake. At Halo Bay\ntherewere no men to take charge, and apparently no women able or\nwilling to\ndo so. They panicked instead, racing to load their cars with children\nand camp possessions, clogging the one road out with their vehicles.\nEventually one of the old cars or trucks broke down and as the fires\nroared closer, running through woods that hadn't seen rain since late\nApril, the women who'd waited found their way out blocked.\nThe volunteer firefighters came to the rescue in time, but when Fred\nDean got to his wife, one of a party of women trying to push a balky\nstalled Ford coupe out of the road, he made a terrible discovery. Billy\nlay on the floor in the back of the car, fast asleep, but Carla was\nmissing. Hilda had gotten them both in, all right--they had been on\nthe\nback seat, holding hands just as they always did. But at some point,\nafter her brother had crawled onto the floor and dozed off and whileHilda was stuffing a few last items into the trunk, Carla must have\nremembered a toy or a doll and returned to the cottage to get it.\nWhile\nshe was doing that, her mother had gotten into their old Desoto and\ndriven away without rechecking the babies. Carla Dean was either\nstill\nin the cottage at Halo Bay or making her way up the road on foot.\nEither\nway the fires would run her down.\nThe road was too narrow to get a vehicle turned around and too\nblocked\nto get one of those pointed in the right direction through the crush.\nSo\nFred Dean, hero that he was, set off on the run toward the\nsmoke-blackened horizon, where bright ribbons of orange had\nalready\nbegun to shine through. The wind-driven fire had crowned and raced\nto\nmeet him like a lover.I knelt on the pallets, reading this by the glow of my lantern, and all\nat once the smell of fire and burning intensified. I coughed.., and\nthen\nthe cough was choked off by the iron taste of water in my mouth\nand\nthroat. Once again, this time kneeling in the storage area beneath\nmy\nwife's studio, I felt as if I were drowning. Once again I leaned\nforward\nand retched up nothing but a little spit.\nI turned and saw the lake. The loons were screaming on its hazy\nsurface,\nmaking their way toward me in a line, beating their wings against\nthe\nwater as they came. The blue of the sky had been blotted out. The\nair\nsmelled of charcoal and gunpowder. Ash had begun to sift down\nfrom the\nsky. The eastern verge of Dark Score was in flames, and I could hearoccasional muffled reports as hollow trees exploded. They sounded\nlike\ndepth charges.\nI looked down, wanting to break free of this vision, knowing that in\nanother moment or two it wouldn't be anything so distant as a vision\nbut\nas real as the trip Kyra and I had made to the Fryeburg Fair. Instead\nof\na plastic owl with gold-ringed eyes, I was looking at a child with\nbright blue ones. She was sitting on a picnic table, holding out her\nchubby arms and crying. I saw her as clearly as I saw my own face\nin the\nmirror each morning when I shaved. I saw she was about Kyra's age\nbut\nmuch plumper, and her hair is black instead of blonde. Her hair is\nthe\nshade her brother's will remain until it finally begins to go gray in\nthe impossibly distant summer of 1998, a year she will never see\nunlesssomeone gets her out of this hell. She wears a white dress and red\nknee-stockings and she holds her arms out to me, calling Daddy,\nDaddy. I\nstart toward her and then there is a blast of organized heat that\ntears\nme apart for a moment--I am the ghost here, I realize, and Fred\nDean has\njust run right through me. Daddy, she cries, but to him, not me.\nDaddy!\nand she hugs him, unmindful of the soot smearing her white silk\ndress\nand her chubby face as he kisses her and more soot begins to fall\nand\nthe loons beat their way in toward shore, seeming to weep in shrill\nlamentation. Daddy the fire is coming! she cries as he scoops her\ninto\nhis arms. I know, be brave, he says. We're gonna be all right,\nsugarplum, but you have to be brave. The fire isn't just coming,' it\nhascome. The entire east end of Halo Bay is inflames and now they're\nmoving\nthis way, eating one by one the little cabins where the men like to\nlay\nup drunk in hunting season and ice-fishing season. Behind A1\nLeroux's,\nthe washing Marguerite hung out that morning is in flames, pants\nand\ndresses and underwear burning on lines which are themselves\nstrings of\nfire. Leaves and bark shower down,' a burning ember touches\nCarla's neck\nand she shrieks with pain. Fred slaps it away as he carries her down\nthe\nslope of land to the water. Don't do it! I scream. I know all this is\nbeyond my power to change, but I scream at him anyway, try to\nchange it\nanyway. Fight it! For Christ's sake, fight it! Daddy, who is that man?\nCarla asks, and points at me as the green-shingled roof of the Dean\nplace catches fire. Fred glances toward where she is pointing, and inhis face I see a spasm of guilt. He knows what he's doing, that's the\nterrible thing--4way down deep he knows exactly what he is doing\nhere at\nHalo Bay where The Street ends. He knows and he's ajaid that\nsomeone\nwill witness his work. But he sees nothing. Or does he? There is a\nmomenta doubtful widening of the eyes as if he does spy\nsomething--a\ndancing helix of air, perhaps. Or does heidel me? Is that it? Does he\njel a momentary cold draft in all this heat? One that jeh like protest\ning hands, hands that would restrain if they only had substance?\nThen he\nlooks away,' then he is wading into the water beside the Deans' stub\nof\na dock. Fred! I scream. For God's sake, man, look at her! Do you\nthink\nyour wife put her in a white silk dress by accident? Is that anyone's\nidea of a play-dress? Daddy, why are we going in the water? she\nasks. Toget away from the fire, sugarplum. Daddy, I can't swim! You won't\nhave\nto, he replies, and what a chill l ]gel at that/Because it's no lie--she\nwon't have to swim, not now, not ever. And at least Fred's way will\nbe\nmore merciful than Normal Auster's when Normal's turn comes--\nmore\nmerciful than the squalling handpump, the gallons of eezing water.\nHer\nwhite dress floats around her like a lily. Her red stockings shimmer m\nthe water. She hugs his neck tightly and now they are among the\nfleeing\nloons,' the loons spank the water with their powerful wings, churning\nup\ncurds of jam and staring at the man and the girl with their distraught\nred eyes. The air is heavy with smoke and the sky is gone. I stagger\nafter them, wading--I can Jel the cold of the water, although I don't\nsplash and leave no wake. The eastern and northern edges of the\nlake are\nboth on fire now there is a burning crescent around us as Fred Deanwades deeper with his daughter, carrying her as if to some baptismal\nrite. And still he tells himself he is trying to save her, only to save\nher, just as all her lij Hilda will tell herself that the child just\nwandered back to the cottage to look fir a toy, that she was not left\nbehind on purpose, left in her white dress and red stockings to be\nJSUND\nby her father, who once did something unspeakable. This is the past,\nthis is the Land of Ago, and here the sins of the fathers are visited\non\nthe children, even unto the seventh generation, which is not yet. He\ntakes her deeper and she begins to scream. Her screams mingle\nwith the\nscreams of the loons until he stops the sound with a kiss upon her\nterrified mouth. \"Love you, Daddy loves his sugarplum,\" he says,\nand\nthen lowers her. It is to be a full-immersion baptism, then, except\nthere is no shorebank choir singing \"Shall V Gather at the River\" and\nnoone shouting Hallelujah! and he is not letting her come back up. She\nstruggles furiously in the white bloom of her sacrificial dress, and\nafter a moment he cannot bear to watch her,' he looks across the\nlake\ninstead, to the west where the fire hasn't yet touched (and never\nwill),\nto the west where skies are still blue. Ash sifts around him like black\nrain and the tears b I UI-IEN IXLPQKA pour out of his eyes and as\nshe\nstruggles furiously beneath his hands, trying to free herself)qom his\ndrowning grip, he tells himself It was an accident, just a terrible\naccident, I took her out in the lake because it was the only place I\ncould take her, the only place left, and she panicked, she started to\nstruggle, she was all wet and all slippery and I lost my good hold on\nher and then I lost any hold on her and then-I ]rget I'm a ghost. I\nscream \"Kia/ Hold on, Ki!\" and dive. I reach her, I see her terrified\nface, her bulging blue eyes, her rosebud of a mouth which is trailing\nasilver line of bubbles toward the surface where Fred stands in water\nup\nto his neck, holding her down while he tells himself over and over\nthat\nhe was trying to save her, it was the only way, he was trying to save\nher, it was the only way. I reach for her, again and again I reach r\nher, my child, my daughter, my Kia (they are all Kia, the boys as well\nas the girls, all my daughter), and each time my arms go through\nher.\nWorse---oh, far worse--is that now she is reaching)$r me, her\ndappled\narms floating out, begging Jr rescue. Her groping hands melt\nthrough\nmine. I cannot touch, because now I am the ghost. I am the ghost\nand as\nher struggles weaken I realize that I can't I can't oh I couldn't\nbreathe--I was drowning. I doubled over, opened my mouth, and\nthis time\na great spew of lake-water came out, soaking the plastic owl which\nlayon the pallet by my knees. I hugged the jo's NOTIONS box to my\nchest,\nnot wanting the contents to get wet, and the movement triggered\nanother\nretch. This time cold water poured from my nose as well as my\nmouth. I\ndragged in a deep breath, then coughed it out. \"This has got to\nend,\" I\nsaid, but of course this was the end, one way or the other.\nBecause Kyra was last. I climbed up the steps to the studio and sat\non\nthe littered floor to get my breath. Outside, the thunder boomed and\nthe\nrain fell, but I thought the storm had passed its peak of fury. Or\nmaybe\nI only hoped. I rested with my legs hanging down through the\ntrapthere\nwere no more ghosts here to touch my ankles, I don't know how I\nknew\nthat but I did-and stripped off the rubber bands holding the stenonotebooks together. I opened the first one, paged through it, and\nsaw it\nwas almost filled with Jo's handwriting and a number of folded typed\nsheets (Courier type, of course), single-spaced: the fruit of all those\nclandestine trips down to the TR during 1993 and 1994.\nFragmentary\nnotes, for the most part, and transcriptions of tapes which might still\nbe down below me in the storage space somewhere. Tucked away\nwith the\nVCR or the eight-track player, perhaps. But I didn't need them. When\nthe\ntime came--if the time came--I was sure I'd find most of the story\nhere.\nWhat had happened, who had done it, how it was covered up. Right\nnow I\ndidn't care. Right now I only wanted to make sure that Kyra was\nsafe and\nstayed safe. There was only one way to do that. Lye stille. I\nattemptedto slip the rubber bands around the steno books again, and the one\nI\nhadn't looked at slipped out of my wet hand and fell to the floor. A\ntorn slip of green paper fell out. I picked it up and saw this:\nFor a moment I came out of that strange and heightened awareness\nI'd\nbeen living in; the world fell back into its accustomed dimensions.\nBut\nthe colors were all too strong, somehow, objects too emphatically\npresent. I felt like a battlefield soldier suddenly illuminated by a\nghastly white flare, one that shows everything. My father's people\nhad\ncome from The Neck, I had been right about that much; my\ngreat-grandfather according to this was James Noonan, and he had\nnever\nshit in the same pit as Jared Devore. Max Devore had either been\nlying\nwhen he said that to Mattie... or misinformed.., or simply confused,\ntheway folks often get confused when they reach their eighties. Even a\nfellow like Devore, who had stayed mostly sharp, wouldn't have\nbeen\nexempt from the occasional nick in his edge. And he hadn't been\nthat far\noff at that. Because, according to this little scratch of a chart, my\ngreat-grandfather had had an older sister, Bridget. And Bridget had\nmarried--Benton Auster. My finger dropped down a line, to Harry\nAuster.\nBorn of Benton and Bridget Noonan Auster in the year 1885. \"Christ\nJesus,\" I whispered. \"Kenny Auster's grandfather was my\ngranduncle. And\nhe was one of them. Whatever they did, Harry Auster was one of\nthem.\nThat's the connection.\" I thought of Kyra with sudden sharp terror.\nShe\nhad been up at the house by herself for nearly an hour. How could I\nhave\nbeen so stupid? Anyone could have come in while I was under the\nstudio.Sara could have used anyone to-I realized that wasn't true. The\nmurderers and the child victims had all been linked by blood, and\nnow\nthat blood had thinned, that river had almost reached the sea. There\nwas\nBill Dean, but he was staying well away from Sara Laughs.\nThere was Kenny Auster, but Kenny had taken himself and his family\noff\nto Taxachusetts. And Ki's closest blood relations--mother, father,\ngrandfather--were all dead. Only I was left. Only I was blood. Only I\ncould do it. Unless-I bolted back up to the house as fast as I could,\nslipping and sliding my way along the soaked path, desperate to\nmake\nsure she was all right. I didn't think Sara could hurt Kyra herself, no\nmatter how much of that old-timer vibe she had to draw on... but\nwhat if\nI was wrong? What if I was wrong?\nKi lay fast asleep just as I had left her, on her side with the filthylittle stuffed dog clutched under her jaw. It had put a smudge on her\nneck but I hadn't the heart to take it away from her. Beyond her and\nto\nthe left, through the open bathroom door, I could hear the\nsteadyplink-plonk-plink of water falling from the faucet and into the\ntub. Cool air blew around me in a silky twist, caressing my cheeks,\nsending a not unpleasurable shiver up my back. In the living room\nBunter's bell gave a dim little shake. Water's still warm, sugar, Sara\nwhispered. Be her friend, be her daddy. Go on, now. Do what I\nwant. Do\nwhat we both want. And I did want to, which had to be why Jo at\nfirst\ntried to keep me away from the TR and from Sara Laughs. Why\nshe'd made a\nsecret of her possible pregnancy, as well. It was as if I had\ndiscovered\na vampire inside me, a creature with no interest in what it thought\nofas talk-show conscience and op-ed page morality. A part that wanted\nonly\nto take Ki into the bathroom and dunk her into that tub of warm\nwater\nand hold her under, watching the red-edged white ribbons shimmer\nthe way\nCarla Dean's white dress and red stockings had shimmered while the\nwoods\nburned all around her and her father. A part of me would be more\nthan\nglad to pay the last installment on that old bill. \"Dear God,\" I\nmuttered, and wiped my face with a shaking hand. \"She knows so\nmany\ntricks. And she's so fucking strong.\" The bathroom door tried to\nswing\nshut against me before I could go through, but I pushed it open\nagainst\nhardly any resistance. The medicine-cabinet door banged back, and\nthe\nglass shattered against the wall. The stuff inside flew out at me, but\nit wasn't a very dangerous attack; this time most of the missilesconsisted of toothpaste tubes, toothbrushes, plastic bottles, and a\nfew\nold Vick's inhalers. Faint, very faint, I could hear her shouting in\nfrustration as I yanked the plug at the bottom of the tub and let the\nwater start gurgling out. There had been enough drowning on the\nTR for\none century, by God. And yet, for a moment I felt an incredibly\nstrong\nurge to put the plug back in while the water was still deep enough to\ndo\nthe job. Instead I tore it off its chain and threw it down the hall. The\nmedicine-cabinet door clapped shut again and the rest of the glass\nfell\nout. \"How many have you had?\" I asked her. \"How many besides\nCarla Dean\nand Kerry Auster and our Kia? Two? Three? Five? How many do you\nneed\nbefore you can rest?\" All of them! the answer shot back. It wasn't\njustSara's voice, either; it was my own, as well. She'd gotten into me,\nhad\nsnuck in by way of the basement like a burglar.., and already I was\nthinking that even if the tub was empty and the water-pump\ntemporarily\ndead, there was always the lake. All of them! the voice cried again.\nAll\nof them, sugar! Of course--only all of them would do. Until then\nthere\nwould be no rest for Sara Laughs. \"I'll help you to rest,\" I said. \"That\nI promise.\" The last of the water swirled away.., but there was\nalways\nthe lake, always the lake if I changed my mind. I left the bathroom\nand\nlooked in on Ki again. She hadn't moved, the sensation that Sara\nwas in\nhere with me had gone, Bunter's bell was quiet.., and yet I felt\nuneasy,\nunwilling to leave her alone. I had to, though, if I was to finish my\nwork, and I would do well not to linger. County and State cops would\nbealong eventually, storm or no storm, downed trees or no downed\ntrees.\nYes, but... I stepped into the hall and looked uneasily around.\nThunder\nboomed, but it was losing some of its urgency. So was the wind.\nWhat\nwasn't fading was the sense of something watching me, something\nthat was\nnot-Sara. I stood where I was a moment or two longer, trying to tell\nmyself it was just the sizzle of my overcooked nerves, then walked\ndown\nthe hall to the entry. I opened the door to the stoop.., then looked\naround again sharply, as if expecting to see someone or something\nlurking behind the far end of the bookcase. A Shape, perhaps.\nSomething\nthat still wanted its dust-catcher. But I was the only Shape left, at\nleast in this part of the world, and the only movement I saw was\nripple-shadows thrown by the rain rolling down the windows. It was\nstillcoming down hard enough to redrench me as I crossed my stoop to\nthe\ndriveway, but I paid no attention. I had just been with a little girl\nwhen she drowned, had damned near drowned myself not so long\nago, and\nthe rain wasn't going to stop me from doing what I had to do. I\npicked\nup the fallen branch which had dented the roof of my car, tossed it\naside, and opened the Chevy's rear door. The things I'd bought at\nSlips\n'n Greens were still sitting on the back seat, still tucked into the\ncloth carry-handle bag Lila Proulx had given me. The trowel and the\npruning knife were visible, but the third item was in a plastic sack. nt\nthis one in a special bag? Lila had asked me. Always sa]b, never\nsorry.\nAnd later, as I was leaving, she had spoken of Kenny's dog Blueberry\nchasing seagulls and had given out with a big, hearty laugh. Her\neyeshadn't laughed, though. Maybe that's how you tell the Martians from\nthe\nEarthlings--the Martians can never laugh with their eyes. I saw\nRommie\nand George's present lying on the front seat: the Stenomask I'd at\nfirst\nmistaken for Devore's oxygen mask. The boys in the basement\nspoke up\nthen--murmured, at least--and I leaned over the seat to grab the\nmask by\nits elastic strap without the slightest idea of why I was doing so. I\ndropped it into the carry-bag, slammed the car door, then started\ndown\nthe railroad-tie steps to the lake. On the way I paused to duck under\nthe deck, where we had always kept a few tools.\nThere was no pick, but I grabbed a spade that looked up to a piece\nof\ngravedigging. Then, for what I thought would be the last time, I\nfollowed the course of my dream down to The Street. I didn't need\nJo toshow me the spot; the Green Lady had been pointing to it all along.\nEven\nhad she not been, and even if Sara Tidwell did not still stink to the\nheavens, I think I would have known. I think I would have been led\nthere\nby my own haunted heart.\nThere was a man standing between me and the place where the\ngray\nforehead of rock guarded the path, and as I paused on the last\nrailroad\ntie, he hailed me in a rasping voice that I knew all too well.\n\"Say there, whoremaster, where's your whore?\"\nHe stood on The Street in the pouring rain, but his cutters'\noutfit--green flannel pants, checked wool shirt--and his faded blue\nUnion Army cap were dry, because the rain was falling through him\nratherthan on him. He looked solid but he was no more real than Sara\nherself.\nI reminded myself of this as I stepped down onto the path to face\nhim,\nbut my heart continued to speed up, thudding in my chest like a\npadded\nhammer.\nHe was dressed in Jared Devore's clothes, but this wasn't Jared\nDevore.\nThis was Jared's great-grandson Max, who had begun his career\nwith an\nact of sled-theft and ended it in suicide.., but not before arranging\nfor the murder of his daughter-in-law, who'd had the temerity to\nrefuse\nhim what he had so dearly wanted.\nI started toward him and he moved to the center of the path to\nblock me.I could feel the cold baking off him. I am saying exactly what I\nmean,\nexpressing what I remember as clearly as I can: I could feel the cold\nbaking off him. And yes, it was Max Devore all right, but got up like\na\nlogger at a costume party and looking the way he must have around\nthe\ntime his son Lance was born. Old but hale. The sort of man younger\nmen\nmight well look up to. And now, as if the thought had called them, I\ncould see the rest shimmer into faint being behind him, standing in a\nline across the path. These were the ones who had been with Jared\nat the\nFryeburg Fair, and now I knew who some of them were. Fred Dean,\nof\ncourse, only nineteen years old in '01, the drowning of his daughter\nstill over thirty years away. And the one who had reminded me of\nmyself\nwas Harry Auster, the firstborn of my great-grandfather's sister. He\nwould have been sixteen, barely old enough to raise a fuzz but oldenough to work in the woods with Jared.\nOld enough to shit in the same pit as Jared. To mistake Jared's\npoison\nfor wisdom. One of the others twisted his head and squinted at the\nsame\ntime--I'd seen that tic before. Where? Then it came to me: in the\nLake-view General. This young man was the late Royce Merrill's\nfather.\nThe others I didn't know. Nor did I care to.\n\"You ain't a-passing by us,\" Devore said. He held up both hands.\n\"Don't\neven think about trying. Am I right, boys?\"\nThey murmured growling agreement--the sort you could hear\ncoming from\nany present-day gang of headbangers or taggers, I imagine but their\nvoices were distant; actually more sad than menacing. There was\nsomesubstance to the man in Jared Devore's clothes, perhaps because in\nlife\nhe had been a man of enormous vitality, perhaps because he was so\nrecently dead, but the others were little more than projected images.\nI started forward, moving into that baking cold, moving into the\nsmell\nof him--the same invalid odors which had surrounded him when I'd\nmet him\nhere before.\n\"Where do you think you're going?\" he cried.\n\"For a constitutional,\" I said. \"And no law against it. The Street's the\nplace where good pups and vile dogs can walk side-by-side. You said\nso\nyourself.\"\n\"You don't understand,\" Max-Jared said. \"You never will. You're not\nofthat world. That was our world.\"\nI stopped, looking at him curiously. Time was short, I wanted to be\ndone\nwith this.., but I had to know, and I thought Devore was ready to tell\nme.\n\"Make me understand,\" I said. \"Convince me that any world was\nyour\nworld.\" I looked at him, then at the flickering, translucent figures\nbehind him, gauze flesh heaped on shining bones. \"Tell me what you\ndid.\"\n\"It was all different then,\" Devore said. \"When you come down here,\nNoonan, you might walk all three miles north to Halo Bay and see\nonly a\ndozen people on The Street. After Labor Day you might not see any\none at\nall. This side of the lake you have to walk through the bushes that\naregrowing up wild and around the fallen trees--there'll be even more\nof em\nafter this storm--and even a deadfall or two because nowadays the\ntownfolk don't club together to keep it neat the way they used to.\nBut\nin our time--! The woods were bigger then, Noonan, distances were\nfarther to go, and neighboring meant something. Life itself, often\nenough. Back then this really was a street. Can you see?\"\nI could. If I looked through the phantom shapes of Fred Dean and\nHarry\nAuster and the others, I could. They weren't just ghosts; they were\nshimmerglass windows on another age. I saw a summer afternoon\nin the\nyear of... 1898? Perhaps 1902? 1907?\nDoesn't matter. This is a period when all time seems the same, as if\ntime had stopped. This is a time the old-timers remember as a kind\nofgolden age. It is the Land of Ago, the Kingdom of lyhen-I-Was-a-\nBoy. The\nsun washes everything with the fine gold light of endless late July;\nthe\nlake is as blue as a dream, netted with a billion sparks of reflected\nlight. And The Street! It is as smoothly grassed as a lawn and as\nbroad\nas a boulevard. It is a boulevard, I see, a place where the\ncommunity\nfully realizes itself. It is the main conduit of communication, the\nchief cable in a township criss-crossed with them. I'djblt the\nexistence\nof these cables all along--even when Jo was alive I jlt them under\nthe\nsurface, and here is theirpoint of origin. Folks promenade on The\nStreet, all up and down the east side of Dark Score Lake they\npromenade\nin little groups, laughing and conversing under a cloud-stacked\nsummer\nsky, and this is where the cables all begin. I look and realize howwrong I have been to think of them as Martians, as cruel and\ncalculating\naliens. East of their sun nypromenade looms the darkness of the\nwoods,\nglades and hollows where any miserable thing may await, from a hot\nlopped off in a logging accident to a birth gone wrong and a young\nmother dead bejre the doctor can arrive from Castle Rock in his\nbuggy.\nThese are people with no electricity, no phones, no County Rescue\nUnit,\nno one to rely upon but each other and a God some of them have\nalready\nbegun to mistrust. They live in the woods and the shadows of the\nwoods,\nbut on fine summer asoernoons they come to the edge of the lake.\nThey\ncome to The Street and look in each other's faces and laugh\ntogether and\nthen they are truly on the TR--in what I have come to think of as thezone. They are not Martians,' they are little lives dwelling on the\nedge\nof the dark, that's all.\nI see summerpeoplefrom Warrington's, the men dressed in\nwhiteflanneh,\ntwo women in long tennis dresses still carrying their rackets. A jllow\nriding a tricycle with an enormous ont wheel weaves shakily among\nthem.\nThe party of summer j$1k has stopped to talk with a group of young\nmen\nfrom town; the )llows from away want to know if they can play in\nthe\ntownies' baseball game at IVAR-rington's on Tuesday night. Ben\nMerrill,\nRoyce's father-to-be, says Ayuh, but we won't go easy on ya just\ncause\nyou're from N'Yawk. The young men laugh; so do the tennis girls.\nA little farther on, two boys areplaying catch with the sort of rawhomemade baseball that is known as a horsey. Beyond them is a\nconvention\nof young mothers, talking earnestly of their babies, all sajly\nprammed\nand gathered in their own group. Men in overalls discuss weather\nand\ncrops, politics and crops, taxes and crops. A teacher from the\nConsolidated High sits on the gray stone ]$rehead I know so well,\npatiently tutoring a sullen boy who wants to be somewhere else and\ndoing\nanything else. I think the boy will grow up to be Buddyjellison's\nfather. Horn broken--watch for finger, I think.\nAll along The Street jlks are fishing, and they are catching plenty;\nthe\nlake fairly teems with bass and trout andpickerel. An artist-another\nsummerjllow, judging from his smock and nancy berethas set up his\neasel\nand is painting the mountains while two ladies watch respectfully. A\ngiggle of girls passes, whispering about boys and clothes and school.There is beauty here, and peace. Devore' s right to say this is a\nworld\nI never knew. It's \"Beautiful,\" I said, pulling myself back with an\neffort. \"Yes, I see that. But what's your point?\"\n\"My point?\" Devote looked almost comically surprised. \"She thought\nshe\ncould walk there like everyone else, that's the fucking point! She\nthought she could walk there like a white gal! Her and her big teeth\nand\nher big tits and her snotty looks. She thought she was something\nspecial, but we taught her different. She tried to walk me down and\nwhen\nshe couldn't do that she put her filthy hands on me and tumped me\nover.\nBut that was all right; we taught her her manners. Didn't we, boys?\"\nThey growled agreement, but I thought some of them--young Harry\nAuster,for one--looked sick.\n\"We taught her her place,\" Devore said. \"We taught her she wasn't\nnothing but a nigger. This is the word he uses over and over again\nwhen\nthey are in the woods that summer, the summer of1901, the\nsummer that\nSara and the Red-bps become the musical act to see in this part of\nthe\nworld. She and her brother and their whole nigger family have been\ninvited to Warrington ' s to play J$r the summer people,' they have\nbeen\nrid on champagne and ersters. .. or so says Jared Devore to his\nlittle\nschool of devotedllowers as they eat their own plain lunches of\nbread\nand meat and salted cucumbers out of lard-buckets given to them\nby their\nmothers (none of the young men are married, although Oren\nPeebles isengaged).\nIt it isn't her growing renown that upsetsjared Devore. It isn't the\nfact that she has been to Warrington's; it don't cross his eyes none\nthat she and that brother of hers have actually sat down and eaten\nwith\nwhite j$1ks, taken bread join the same bowl as them with their\nblacknigger fingers. The jolks at Warrington's are flatlanders, after\nall, and Devore tells the silent, attentive young men that he's heard\nthat in places like New Irk and Chicago white women sometimes\neven fuck\nblackniggers. Naw! Harry Auster says, looking around nervously, as if\nhe\nexpected a w white women to come tripping through the woods way\nout here\non Bowie Ridge. No white woman'd fuck a nigger! Shoot a pickle!\nDevore\nonly gives him a look, the kind that says When you're my age.\nBesides,he doesn't care what goes on in New York and Chicago; he saw all\nthe\nflatland he wanted to during the Civil War... and, he will tell you, he\nnever jsught that war to free the damned slaves. They can keep\nslaves\ndown there in the land of cotton until the end of the eternity, as far\nasjared Lancelot Devore is concerned. No, he J$ught in the war to\nteach\nthose cracker sons of bitches south of Mason and Dixon that you\ndon't\npull out of the game just because you don't like some of the rules.\nHe\nwent down to scratch the scab off the end of old Johnny Reb's nose.\nTried to leave the United States of America, they had/The Lord/ No,\nhe\ndoesn't care about slaves and he doesn't care about the land of\ncotton\nand he doesn't care about blackniggers who sing dirty songs and\nthen gettreated to champagne and ersters (]ared always says oysters in just\nthat\nsarcastic way) in payment jor their smut. He doesn't care about\nanything\nso long as they keep in their place and let him keep in his. But she\nwon't do it. The uppity bitch will not do it. She has been warned to\nstay off The Street, but she will not listen. She goes anyway, walking\nalong in her white dress just as if there was a white person inside it,\nsometimes with her son, who has a blacknigger African name and no\ndaddy--his daddy probably just spent the one night with his mommy\nin a\nhaystack somewhere down Alabama and now she walks around with\nthe get of\nthat just as bold as a brass monkey. She walks The Street as if she\nhas\na right to be there, even though not a soul will talk to her-\"But that's\nnot true, is it?\" I asked Devore. \"That's what really stuck in old\ngreat-granddaddy's craw, wasn't it? They did talk to her. She had a\nwayabout her--that laugh, maybe.\nMen talked to her about crops and the women showed off their\nbabies. In\nfact they gave her their babies to hold and when she laughed down\nat\nthem, they laughed back up at her. The girls asked her advice about\nboys. The boys.., they just looked. But how they looked, huh? They\nfilled up their eyes, and I expect most of them thought about her\nwhen\nthey went out to the privy and filled up their palms.\" Devore\nglowered.\nHe was aging in front of me, the lines drawing themselves deeper\nand\ndeeper into his face; he was becoming the man who had knocked\nme into\nthe lake because he couldn't bear to be crossed. And as he grew\nolder he\nbegan to fade. \"That was what Jared hated most of all, wasn't it?\nThatthey didn't turn aside, didn't turn away. She walked on The Street\nand\nno one treated her like a nigger. They treated her like a neighbor.\" I\nwas in the zone, deeper in than I'd ever been, down where the\ntown's\nunconscious seemed to run like a buried river. I could drink from that\nriver while I was in the zone, could fill my mouth and throat and\nbelly\nwith its cold minerally taste. All that summer Devote had talked to\nthem. They were more than his crew, they were his boys: Fred and\nHarry\nand Ben and Oren and George Armbruster and Draper Finney, who\nwould\nbreak his neck and drown the next summer trying to dive into Eades\nQuarry while he was drunk. Only it was the sort of accident that's\nkind\nof on purpose. Draper Finney drank a lot between July of I 90 I and\nAugust of 1902, because it was the only way he could sleep. The\nonly way\nhe could get the hand out of his mind, that hand sticking straight outof the water, clenching and unclenching until you wanted to scream\nWon't\nit stop, won't it ever stop doing that. All summer long Jared Devore\nfilled their ears with nigger bitch and uppity bitch. All summer long\nhe\ntold them about their responsibility as men, their duty to keep the\ncommunity pure, and how they must see what others didn't and do\nwhat\nothers wouldn't. It was a Sunday afternoon in August, a time when\ntraffic along The Street dropped steeply. Later on, by five or so,\nthings would begin to pick up again, and from six to sunset the\nbroad\npath along the lake would be thronged. But three in the afternoon\nwas\nLow tide. The Methodists were back in session over in Harlow for\ntheir\nafternoon Song Service; at Warrington's the assembled company of\nvacationing flat-landers was sitting down to a heavy mid-afternoon\nSabbath meal of roast chicken or ham; all over the township familieswere addressing their own Sunday dinners. Those who had already\nfinished\nwere snoozing through the heat of the day--in a hammock, wherever\npossible. Sara liked this quiet time. Loved it, really. She had spent a\ngreat deal of her life on carny midways and in smoky gin-joints,\nshouting out her songs in order to be heard above the voices of\nredfaced, unruly drunks, and while part of her loved the excitement\nand\nunpredictability of that life, part of her loved the serenity of this\none, too. The peace of these walks. She wasn't getting any younger,\nafter all; she had a kid who had now left purt near all his babyhood\nbehind him. On that particular Sunday she must have thought The\nStreet\nalmost too quiet. She walked a mile south from the meadow without\nseeing\na soul even Kito was gone by then, having stopped off to pick\nberries.\nIt was as if the whole township were deserted. She knows there's anEastern Star supper in Kashwakamak, of course, has even\ncontributed a\nmushroom pie to it because she has made friends of some of the\nEastern\nStar ladies. They'll all be down there getting ready. What she doesn't\nknow is that today is also Dedication Day jr the new Grace Baptist\nChurch, the first real church ever to be built on the TR. A slug of\nlocals have gone, heathen as well as Baptist. Faintly, jqom the other\nside of the lake, she can hear the Methodists singing. The sound is\nsweet and faint and beautiful,' distance and echo has tuned every\nsour\nvoice. She isn't aware of the men--most of them very young men,\nthe kind\nwho under ordinary circumstances dare only look at her from the\ncorners\nof their eyes--until the oldest one among them speaks. \"llnow, a\nblack\nwhore in a white dress and a red belt! Damn if that ain't just a little\ntoo much colorjet lakeside.What's wrong with you, whore? Can't you take a hint?\" She turns\ntoward\nhim, ajaid but not showing it. She has lived thirty-six years on this\nearth, has known what a man has and where he wants to put it\nsince she\nwas eleven, and she understands that when men are together like\nthis and\nfull of redeye (she can smell it), they give up thinkingjr themselves\nand turn into a pack of dogs. If you show fiar they will fall on you\nlike dogs and likely tear you apart like dogs. Also, they have been\nlayingjr her. There can be no other explanation jr them turning up\nlike\nthis. \"What hint is that, sugar?\" she asks, standing her ground.\nWhere\nis everyone? Where can they all be? God damn! Across the lake, the\nMethodists have moved on to \"?just and Obey,\" a droner if there\never was\none. \"That you ain't got no business walking where the white Jblkswalk,\" Harry Auster says. His adolescent voice breaks into a kind of\nmouse-squeak on the last word and she laughs. She knows how\nunwise that\nis, but she can't help it--she's never been able to help her laughter,\nany more than she's ever been able to help the way men like this\nlook at\nher breasts and bottom. Blame it on God. \"Why, I walk where I do,\"\nshe\nsays. \"I was told this was common ground, ain't nobody got a right\nto\nkeep me out. Ain't nobody has. You seen em doin it?\"\n\"IOU see us now,\" George Armbruster says, trying to sound tough.\nSara\nlooks at him with a species of kindly contempt that makes George\nshrivel\nup inside. His cheeks glow hot red. \"Son,\" she says, \"you only come\nout\nnow because the decent folks is all somewheres else. Why do you\nwant to\nlet this old filla tell you what to do? Act decent and let a lady walk.\"I see it all. As Devore fades and fades, at last becoming nothing but\neyes under a blue cap in the rainy afternoon (through him I can see\nthe\nshattered remains of my swimming float washing against the\nembankment),\nI see it all. I see her as she starts jrward, walking straight at\nDevore. If she stands here jawing with them, something bad is\ngoing to\nhappen. She Jels it, and she never questions her tidings. And if she\nwalks at any of the others, ole massa'll bore in on her from the side,\npulling the rest after. Ole massa in the little ole blue cap is the\nwheeldog, the one she must face down. She can do it, too. He's\nstrong,\nstrong enough to make these boys one creature, his creature, at\nleast jr\nthe time being, but he doesn't have herjrce, her determination, her\nenergy. In a way she welcomes this conjontation.Reg has warned her to be careful, not to move too fast or try to\nmake\nreal friends until the rednecks (only Reggie calls them \"the bull\ngators\") show themselves--how many and how crazy--but she goes\nher own\ncourse, trusts her own deep instincts. And here they are, only seven\nof\nem, and really just the one bull gator.\nI'm stronger than you, ole massa, she thinks, walking toward him.\nShe\nfixes her eyes on his and will not let them drop,' his are the ones\nthat\ndrop, his the mouth that quivers uncertainly at one corner, his the\ntongue that comes out as quick as a lizard's tongue to wet the lips,\nand\nall that's good.., but even better is when he falls back a step. When\nhe\ndoes that the rest of them cluster in two groups of three, and there\nitis, her way through. Faint and sweet are the Methodists, faithy\nmusic\ncarrying across the lake's still surface. A droner of a hymn, yes, but\nsweet across the miles.\nWhen we walk with the Lord in the light of His word, what a glory\nHe\nsheds on our way...\nI'm stronger than you, sugar, she sends, I'm meaner than you, you\nmay be\nthe bull gator but I'm the queen bee and if you don't want me\nstingin on\nyou, you best clear me the rest of my path.\n\"I3u bitch,\" he says, but his voice is weak; he is already thinking this\nisn't the day, there's something about her he didn't quite see until he\nsaw her right up close, some blacknigger hougan he didn't Jel until\nnow,\nbetter wait br another day, better- Then he trips over a root or a\nrock(perhaps it's the very rock behind which she will finally come to rest)\nand falls down. His cap falls off, showing the big old bald spot on top\nof his head. His pants split all the way up the seam. And Sara makes\na\ncrucial mistake. Perhaps she underestimates Jared Devore's own\nvery\nconsiderable personal jrce, or perhaps she just cannot help herself--\nthe\nsound of his britches ripping is like a loud fart. In any case she\nlaughs that raucous, smoke-broken laugh which is her trademark.\nAnd her\nlaugh becomes her doom.\nDevore doesn't think. He simply gives her the leather from where he\nlies, big ]bet in pegged loggers' boots shooting out like pistons. He\nhits her where she is thinnest and most vulnerable, in the ankles.\nShe\nhollers in shockedpain as the left one breaks,' she goes down in atumble, losing her furled parasol out of one hand. She draws in\nbreath\nto scream again and Jared says from where he is lying, \"Don't let\nher!\nDassn't let her holler!\"\nBen Merrill falls on top of her full-length, all one hundred and ninety\npounds of him. The breath she has drawn to scream with whooshes\nout in a\ngusty, almost silent sigh instead. Ben, who has never even danced\nwith a\nwoman, let alone lain on top of one like this, is instantly excited by\nthe el of her struggling beneath him. He wriggles against her,\nlaughing,\nand when she rakes her nails down his cheek he barely J%is it. The\nway\nit seems to him, he's all cock and a yard long. When she tries to roll\nover and get out from under that way, he rolls with her, lets her be\non\ntop, and he is totally surprised when she drives her J3rehead down\nonhis. He sees stars, but he is eighteen years old, as strong as he will\never be, and he loses neither consciousness nor his erection.\nOren Peebles tears away the back of her dress, laughing. \"Pig-pile!\"\nhe\ncries in a breathy little whisper, and drops on top of her. Now he is\ndry-humping her topside and Ben is dry-humping just as\nenthusiastically\nfrom underneath, dry-humping like a billygoat even with the blood\npouring down the sides of his head j%m the split in the center of his\nbrow, and she knows that if she can't scream she is lost. If she can\nscream and if Kito hears, he'll run and get help, run and get Reg-\nBut\nbejre she can try again, ole massa is squatting beside her and\nshowing\nher a long-bladed knij. \"Make a sound and I'll cut your nose off,\" he\nsays, and that's when she gives up. They have brought her down\nafterall, partly because she laughed at the wrong time, mostly out of\npure\nbuggardly bad luck. Now they will not be stopped, and best that Kito\nshould stay away--please God keep him back where he was, it was a\ngood\npatch of berries, one that should keep him occupied an hour or\nmore. He\nloves berry-picking, and it won't take these men an hour. Harry\nAuster\nyanks her hair back, tears her dress off one shoulder, and begins to\nsucker on her neck.\nOle massa the only one not at her. Old massa standing back, looking\nboth\nways along The Street, his eyes slitted and wary; old massa look like\na\nmangy timber-wolf done eaten a whole generation of chickenhouse\nchickens\nwhile managing to avoid every trap and snare. \"Hey Irish, quit on\nher a\nminute,\" he tells Harry, then widens his wise gaze to the others. \"Gether in the puckies, you damn jols. Get her in there deep.\"\nThey don't. They can't. They are too eager to have her. They arm-\nyank\nher behind the Jrehead of gray rock and call it good. She doesn't\npray\neasily but she prays now. She prays r them to let her live. She prays\n]r\nKito to stay clear, to keep filling his bucket slow by eating every\nthird handful. She prays that if he does take a notion to catch up\nwith\nher, he will see what's happening and run the other way as fast as\nhe\ncan, run silent and get Reg. \"Stick this in your mouth,\" George\nArmbruster pants. '?lnd don't you bite me, you bitch.\" They take her\ntop\nand bottom, back and front, two and three at a time. They take her\nwhere\nanybody coming along can't help but see them, and ole massa\nstands off alittle, looking first at the panting young men grouped around her,\nkneeling with their trousers down and their thighs scratched from\nthe\nbushes they are kneeling in, then he peers up and down the path\nwith his\nwild and wary eyes. Incredibly, one of them--it is Fred Dean--says\n\"Sorry, ma'am\" after he's shot his load Jeh like halfway up to east\nbejeezus. It's as if he accidentally kicked her in the shin while\ncrossing his legs. And it doesn't end. There's come down her throat,\ncome running down the crack of her ass, the young one has bitten\nthe\nblood right out of her leso breast, and it doesn't end. They are\nyoung,\nand by the time the last one has finished, the first one, oh God, the\nfirst one is ready again. Across the river the Methodists are now\nsinging \"Blessed Assurance, Jesus Is Mine\" and as ole massa\napproaches\nher she thinks, It's almost over, woman, he the last, hold on holdsteady and it be over. He looks at the skinny redhead and the one\nwho\nkeeps squinching his eye up and tossing his head and tells them to\nwatch\nthe path, he's going to take his turn now that she's broke in. He\nunbuckles his belt, he unbuttons his flies, he pushes down his\nunderwear--dirty black at the knees and dirty yellow at the crotch-\nand\nas he drops a knee on either side of her she sees that ole massa' s\nlittle massa is just as floppy as a snake with its neck broke and bejre\nshe can stop it, that raucous laugh bursts all unexpected from her\nagain--even lying here covered with the hot jelly spend of her\nrapists,\nshe can't help but see the funny side. \"Shut up/\" Devore growls at\nher,\nand smashes the heel of one hard hand across her face, breaking\nher\ncheekbone and her nose. \"Shut up that howling/\"\"Reckon it might get stif-/br if it was one of your boys layin here\nwith\nhis rosy red ass stuck up in the air, sugar?\" she asks, and then, For\nthe last time, Sara laughs.\n49o Devore draws his hand back to hit her again, his naked loins\nlying\nagainst her naked loins, his penis a flaccid worm between them. But\nhere\nhe can bring the hand down a child's voice cries, \"Ma/What they\ndoin to\nyou, Ma? Git off my mama, you bastards/\" She sits up in spite of\nDevore's weight, her laughter dying, her wide eyes searching Kito\nout\nand finding him, a slim young boy of eight standing on The Street,\ndressed in overalls and a straw hat and brand-new canvas shoes,\ncarrying\na tin bucket in one hand. His lips are blue with juice. His eyes are\nwide with confusion and fright. \"Run, Kito!\" she screams. \"Run away\nh--\"Red fire explodes in her head,' she swoons back into the bushes,\nhearing\nole massa from a great distance: \"Get him. Dassn't let him ramble,\nnow.\"\nThen she's going down a long dark slope, she's lost in a Ghost\nHouse\ncorridor that leads only deeper and deeper into its own convoluted\nbowels,' from that deep falling place she hears him, she hears, her\ndarling one, he is screaming. I heard him screaming as I knelt by the\ngray rock with my carry-bag beside me and no idea how I'd gotten\nto\nwhere I was--I certainly had no memory of walking here. I was\ncrying in\nshock and horror and pity. Was she crazy? Well, no wonder. No\nfucking\nwonder. The rain was steady but no longer apocalyptic. I stared at\nmy\nfishy-white hands on the gray rock for a few seconds, then lookedaround. Devore and the others were gone. The ripe and gassy\nstench of\ndecay filled my nose--it was like a physical assault. I fumbled in the\ncarry-bag, found the Stenomask Rommie and George had given me\nas a joke,\nand slipped it over my mouth and nose with fingers that felt numb\nand\ndistant. I breathed shallowly and tentatively. Better. Not a lot, but\nenough to keep from fleeing, which was undoubtedly what she\nwanted.\n\"No!\" she cried from somewhere behind me as I grabbed the spade\nand dug\nin. I tore a great mouth in the ground with the first swipe, and each\nsubsequent one deepened and widened it. The earth was soft and\nyielding,\nwoven through with mats of thin roots which parted easily under the\nblade. \"No! Don't you dare!\" I wouldn't look around, wouldn't give\nher a\nchance to push me away.She was stronger down here, perhaps because it had happened\nhere. Was\nthat possible? I didn't know and didn't care. All I cared about was\ngetting this done. Where the roots were thicker, I hacked through\nthem\nwith the pruning knife. \"Leave me be!\" Now I did look around, risked\none\nquick glance because of the unnatural crackling sounds which had\naccompanied her voice--which now seemed to make her voice. The\nGreen\nLady was gone. The birch had somehow become Sara Tidwell: it was\nSara's\nface growing out of the criss-crossing branches and shiny leaves.\nThat\nrain-slicked face swayed, dissolved, came together, melted away,\ncame\ntogether again. For a moment all the mystery I had sensed down\nhere was\nrevealed. Her damp shifting eyes were utterly human. They stared at\nmewith hate and supplication. \"I ain't done!\" she cried in a cracked,\nbreaking voice. \"He was the worst, don't you understand? He was\nthe\nworst and it's his blood in her and I won't rest until I have it out!\"\nThere was a gruesome ripping sound. She had inhabited the birch,\nmade it\ninto a physical body of some sort and intended to tear it free of the\nearth. She would come and get me with it if she could; kill me with it\nif she could. Strangle me in limber branches. Stuff me with leaves\nuntil\nI looked like a Christmas decoration. \"No matter how much of a\nmonster\nhe was, Kyra had nothing to do with what he did,\" I said. \"And you\nwon't\nhave her.\"\n\"Yes I will!\" the Green Lady screamed. The ripping, rending sounds\nwerelouder now. They were joined by a hissing, shaky crackle. I didn't\nlook\naround again. I didn't dare look around. I dug faster instead. \"Yes I\nwill have her!\" she cried, and now the voice was closer.\nShe was coming for me but I refused to see; when it comes to\nwalking\ntrees and bushes, I'll stick to Macbeth, thanks. \"I will have her! He\ntook mine and I mean to take his!\"\n\"Go away,\" a new voice said. The spade loosened in my hands,\nalmost\nfell. I turned and saw Jo standing below me and to my right. She\nwas\nlooking at Sara, who had materialized into a lunatic's hallucination--a\nmonstrous greenish-black thing that slipped with every step it tried\nto\nwalk along The Street.\nShe had left the birch behind yet assumed its vitality somehow--theactual tree huddled behind her, black and shrivelled and dead. The\ncreature born of it looked like the Bride of Frankenstein as sculpted\nby\nPicasso. In it, Sara's face came and went, came and went. The\nShape, I\nthought coldly. It was always real.., and if it was always me, it was\nalways her, too. Jo was dressed in the white shirt and yellow slacks\nshe'd had on the day she died. I couldn't see the lake through her as\nI\nhad been able to see it through Devore and Devore's young friends;\nshe\nhad materialized herself completely. I felt a curious draining\nsensation\nat the back of my skull and thought I knew how. \"Git out, bitch!\" the\nSara-thing snarled. It raised its arms toward Jo as it had raised them\nto me in my worst nightmares. \"Not at all.\" Jo's voice remained\ncalm.\nShe turned toward me. \"Hurry, Mike. You have to be quick. It's notreally her anymore. She's let one of the Outsiders in, and they're\nvery\ndangerous.\"\n\"Jo, I love you.\"\n\"I love you t--\" Sara shrieked and then began to spin. Leaves and\nbranches blurred together and lost coherence;\nit was like watching something liquefy in a blender. The entity which\nhad only looked a little like a woman to begin with now dropped its\nmasquerade entirely. Something elemental and grotesquely inhuman\nbegan\nto form out of the maelstrom. It leaped at my wife. When it struck\nher,\nthe color and solidity left Jo as if slapped away by a huge hand. She\nbecame a phantom struggling with the thing which raved and\nshrieked and\nclawed at her. \"Hurry, Mike!\" she screamed. \"Hurry/\" I bent to the\njob.The spade struck something that wasn't dirt, wasn't stone, wasn't\nwood.\nI scraped along it, revealing a filthy mold-crusted swatch of canvas.\nNow I dug like a madman, wanting to clear as much of the buried\nobject\nas I could, wanting to fatten my chances of success as much as I\ncould.\nBehind me, the Shape screamed in fury and my wife screamed in\npain. Sara\nhad given up part of her discorporate self in order to gain her\nrevenge,\nhad let in something Jo called an Outsider. I had no idea what that\nmight be and never wanted to know. Sara was its conduit, I knew\nthat\nmuch. And if I could take care of her in time-I reached into the\ndripping hole, slapping wet earth from the ancient canvas. Faint\nstencilled letters appeared when I did: j. M. MCCUTDIE SAWMILL.Mccurdie's had burned in the fires of '33, I knew. I'd seen a picture\nof\nit in flames somewhere. As I seized the canvas, the tips of my\nfingers\npunching through and letting out a fresh billow of green and gassy\nstench, I could hear grunting. I could hear Devore. He's lying on top\no/her and grunting like a pig. Sara is semiconscious, muttering\nunintelligibly through bruised lips which are shiny with blood. Devore\nis looking back over his shoulder at Draper Finney and Fred Dean.\nThey\nhave raced after the boy and brought him back, but he won't stop\nyelling, he's yelling to beat the band, yelling to wake the dead, and if\nthey can hear the Methodists singing \"How I Love to ll the Story\"\nover\nhere, then they may be able to hear the yowling nigger over there.\nDevore says \"Put him in the water, shut him up.\" The minute he says\nit,as though the words are magic words, his cock begins to stifn.\n\"What do\nyou mean?\" Ben Merrill asks. \"You know goddam well, \"Jared says.\nHe\npants the words out, jerking his hips as he speaks. His narrow ass\ngleams in the afternoon light. \"He seen us! I3u want to cut his\nthroat,\nget his blood all over you? Fine by me. Here. Take my knij, be my\nguest!\"\n\"N-No, Jared!\" Ben cries in horror, actually seeming to cringe at the\nsight of the knij. He is finally ready. It takes him a little longer,\nthat's all, he ain't a kid like these other ones. But now--!\nNever mind her smart mouth, never mind her insolent way of\nlaughing,\nnever mind the whole township. Let them all show up and watch if\nthey\nlike. He slips it to her, what she's wanted all along, what all her kindwant. He slips it in and sinks it deep. He continues giving orders\neven\nas he rapes her. Up and down his ass goes, tick-tock, just like a cat's\ntail. \"Somebody take care of him! Or do you want to spend jrty years\nrotting in Shawshank because of a nigger boy's tattle?\" Ben seizes\none\nof Kito Tidwell's arms, Oren Peebles the other, but by the time they\nhave dragged him as far as the embankment they have lost their\nheart.\nRaping an uppity nigger woman with the gall to laugh at Jared when\nhe\njll down and split his britches is one thing. Drowning a scared kid like\na kitten in a mud-puddle.., that's another one altogether. They\nloosen\ntheir grip, staring into each other's haunted eyes, and Kito pulls jee.\n\"Run, honey!\" Sara cries. \"Run away and get--\"Jared clamps his\nhands\naround her throat and begins choking. The boy trips over his own\nberrybucket and thumps gracelessly to the ground. Harry and Draper\nrecapture\nhim easily. \"What you going to do? \" Draper asks in a kind of\ndesperate\nwhine, and Harry replies \"What I have to.\" That's what he replied,\nand\nnow I was going to do what I had toin spite of the stench, in spite of\nSara, in spite of my dead wife's shrieks. I hauled the roll of canvasout of the ground. The ropes which had tied it shut at either end\nheld,\nbut the roll itself split down the middle with a hideous burping\nsound.\n\"Hurry/\" Jo cried. \"I can't hold it much longer!\" It snarled; it bayed\nlike a dog. There was a loud wooden crunch, like a door being\nslammed\nhard enough to splinter, and Jo wailed. I grabbed for the carry-bag\nwith\nSlips 'n Greens printed on the front and tore it open as Harry the\nothers call him Irish because of his carrot-colored hair--grabs the\nstruggling kid in a clumsy kind ofbearhug and jumps into the lake\nwith\nhim. The kid struggles harder than ever,' his straw hat comes off and\nfloats on the water. \"Get that!\" Harry pants. Fred Dean kneels and\nfishes out the dripping hat. Fred's eyes are dazed, he's got the look\nof\na fighter about one round from hitting the canvas. Behind them SaraTidwell has begun to rattle deep in her chest and throat like the\nsight\nof the boy's clenching hand, these sounds will haunt Draper Finney\nuntil\nhis final dive into Eades Quarry. Jared sinks his fingers deeper,\npumping and choking at the same time, the sweat pouring off him.\nNo\namount of washing will take the smell of that sweat out of these\nclothes, and when he begins to think of it as \"murder-sweat,\" he\nburns\nthe clothes to get shed of it. Harry Auster wants to be shed of it all\nto be shed of it and never see these men again, most of all Jared\nDevore, who he now thinks must be Lord Satan himself. Harry\ncannot go\nhome and face his father unless this nightmare is over, buried. And\nhis\nmother! How can he ever face his beloved mother, Bridget Auster\nwith her\nround sweet Irish face and graying hair and comrting shelf of\nbosom,Bridget who has always had a kind word or a soothing handler him,\nBridget Auster who has been Saved, shed in the Blood of the Lamb,\nBridget Auster who is even now serving pies at the picnic they're\nhaving\nat the new church, Bridget Amter who is mamma,' how can he ever\nlook at\nher again---or she him--if he has to stand in court on a charge of\nraping and beating a woman, even a black woman?\nSo he yanks the clinging boy away--Kito scratches him once, just a\nnick\non the side of the neck, and that night Harry will tell his mamma it\nwas\na bush-pricker that caught him unawares and he will let her put a\nkiss\non it--and then he plunges the child into the lake. Kito looks up at\nhim, his face shimmering, and Harry sees a little fish flick by. A\nperch, he thinks. For an instant he wonders what the boy must see,\nlooking up through the silver shield of the surface at the face ofthejllow who's holding him down, thejllow who's drowning him, and\nthen\nHarry pushes that away. Just a nigger, he reminds himself\ndesperately.\nThat's all he is, just a nigger. No kin of yours.\nKito's arm comes out of the water his dripping dark-brown arm.\nHarry\npulls back, not wanting to be clawed, but the hand doesn't reach Jr\nhim,\nonly sticks straight up. The fingers curl into a fist. Open. Curl into a\nfist. Open. Curl into a fist. The boy's thrashing begins to ease, the\nkickingjet begin to slow down, the eyes looking up into Harry's eyes\nare\ntaking on a curiously dreamy look, and still that brown arm sticks\nstraight up, still the hand opens and closes, opens and closes.\nDraper\nFinney stands on the shore crying, sure that now someone will come\nalong, now someone will see the terrible thing they have done theterrible thing they are in fact still doing. Be sure your sin will find\nyou out, it says in the Good Book. Be sure. He opens his mouth to\ntell\nHarry to quit, maybe it's still not too late to take it back, let him\nup, let him live, but no sound comes out. Behind him Sara is choking\nher\nlast. In front of him her drowning son's hand opens and closes,\nopens\nand closes, the reflection of it shimmering on the water, and Draper\nthinks Won't it stop doing that, won't it ever stop doing that? And as\nif it were a prayer that something is now answering, the boy's locked\nelbow begins to bend and his arm begins to sag,' the fingers begin\nto\nclose again into a fist and then stop. For a moment the hand wavers\nand\nthen I slammed the heel of my hand into the center of my forehead\nto\nclear these phantoms away. Behind me there was a frenzied snap\nandcrackle of wet bushes as Jo and whatever she was holding back\ncontinued\nto struggle. I put my hands inside the split in the canvas like a\ndoctor\nspreading a wound. I yanked. There was a low ripping sound as the\nroll\ntore the rest of the way up and down.\nInside was what remained of them--two yellowed skulls, forehead to\nforehead as if in intimate conversation, a woman's faded red leather\nbelt, a molder of clothes.., and a heap of bones. Two ribcages, one\nlarge and one small. Two sets of legs, one long and one short. The\nearly\nremains of Sara and Kito Tidwell, buried here by the lake for almost\na\nhundred years.\nThe larger of the two skulls turned. It glared at me with its empty\neyesockets. Its teeth chattered as if it would bite me, and the bones\nbelow it began a tenebrous, jittery stirring. Some broke apartimmediately; all were soft and pitted. The red belt stirred restlessly\nand the rusty buckle rose like the head of a snake.\n\"Mike/\" Jo screamed. \"Quick, quick/\"\nI pulled the sack out of the carry-bag and grabbed the plastic bottle\nwhich had been inside. Lye stille, the Magnabet letters had said;\nanother little word-trick. Another message passed behind the\nunsuspecting guard's back. Sara Tidwell was a fearsome creature,\nbut she\nhad underestimated Jo... and she had underestimated the telepathy\nof\nlong association, as well. I had gone to Slips 'n Greens, I had bought\na\nbottle of lye, and now I opened it and poured it, smoking, over the\nbones of Sara and her son.\nThere was a hissing sound like the one you hear when you open a\nbeer ora bottled soft drink. The belt-buckle melted. The bones turned white\nand\ncrumpled like things made out of sugar--I had a nightmare image of\nMexican children eating candy corpses off long sticks on the Day of\nthe\nDead. The eyesockets of Sara's skull widened as the lye filled the\ndark\nhollow where her mind, her prodigious talent, and her laughing soul\nhad\nonce resided. It was an expression that looked at first like surprise\nand then like sorrow.\nThe jaw fell off; the nubs of the teeth sizzled away.\nThe top of the skull caved in.\nSpread fingerbones jittered, then melted.\n\"Ohhhhhh...\"It whispered through the soaking trees like a rising wind.., only the\nwind had died as the wet air caught its breath before the next\nonslaught. It was a sound of unspeakable grief and longing and\nsurrender. I sensed no hate in it; her hate was gone, burned away in\nthe\ncorrosive I had bought in Helen Auster's shop. The sound of Sara's\ngoing\nwas replaced by the plaintive, almost human cry of a bird, and it\nawakened me from the place where I had been, brought me finally\nand\ncompletely out of the zone. I got shakily to my feet, turned around,\nand\nlooked at The Street. Jo was still there, a dim form through which I\ncould now see the lake and the dark clouds of the next\nthundersquall\ncoming over the mountains. Something flickered beyond her--that\nbird\nventuring out of its safe covert for a peek at the re-arranged\nenvironment, perhaps--but I barely registered that. It was Jo I\nwantedto see, Jo who had come God knew how far and suffered God knew\nhow much\nto help me. She looked exhausted, hurt, in some fundamental way\ndiminished. But the other thing--the Outsider--was gone. Jo,\nstanding in\na ring of birch leaves so dead they looked charred, turned to me and\nsmiled. \"Jo! We did it!\" Her mouth moved. I heard the sound, but\nthe\nwords were too distant to make out. She was standing right there,\nbut\nshe might have been calling across a wide canyon. Still, I understood\nher. I read the words off her lips if you prefer the rational, right out\nof her mind if you prefer the romantical. I prefer the latter. Marriage\nis a zone, too, you know. Marriage is a zone. --So that's all right,\nisn't it? I glanced down into the gaping roll of canvas and saw\nnothing\nbut stubs and splinters sticking out of a noxious, uneasy paste. I got\nawhiff, and even through the Stenomask it made me cough and back\naway.\nNot corruption; lye. When I looked back around at Jo, she was\nbarely\nthere. \"Jo! Wait!\" --Can't help. Can't stay. Words from another star\nsystem, barely glimpsed on a fading mouth. Now she was little more\nthan\neyes floating in the dark afternoon, eyes which seemed made of the\nlake\nbehind them. --Hurry... She was gone. I slipped and stumbled to the\nplace where she'd been, my feet crunching over dead birch leaves,\nand\ngrabbed at nothing. What a fool I must have looked, soaked to the\nskin,\nwearing a Stenomask askew over the lower half of my face, trying to\nembrace the wet gray air. I got the faintest whiffof Red perfume..,\nand\nthen only damp earth, lakewater, and the vile stink of lye running\nundereverything. At least the smell of putrefaction was gone; that had\nbeen\nno more real than...\nThan what? Than what? Either it was all real or none of it was real.\nIf\nnone of it was real, I was out of my mind and ready for the Blue\nWing at\nJuniper Hill. I looked over toward the gray rock and saw the bag of\nbones I had pulled out of the wet ground like a festering tooth. Lazy\ntendrils of smoke were still rising from its ripped length. That much\nwas real. So was the Green Lady, who was now a soot-colored Black\nLady--as dead as the dead branch behind her, the one that seemed\nto\npoint like an arm. Can't help.., can't stay.., hurry. Couldn't help with\nwhat? What more help did I need? It was done, wasn't it? Sara was\ngone:\nspirit follows bone, good night sweet ladies, God grant she lye stille.And still a kind of stinking terror, not so different from the smell of\nputrescence which had come out of the ground, seemed to sweat\nout of the\nair; Kyra's name began to beat in my head, Ki-Ki, Ki-Ki, Ki-Ki, like the\ncall of some exotic tropical bird. I started up the railroad-tie steps\nto the house, and although I was exhausted, by the time I was\nhalfway up\nI had begun to run. I climbed the stairs to the deck and went in that\nway. The house looked the same--save for the broken tree poking in\nthrough the kitchen window, Sara Laughs had stood up to the storm\nvery\nwell--but something was wrong. There was something I could almost\nsmell... and perhaps I did smell it, bitter and low. Lunacy may have\nits\nown wild-vetch aroma. It's not the kind of thing I would ever care to\nresearch. In the front hall I stopped, looking down at a heap of\npaperback books, Elmore Leonards and Ed Mcbains, lying on the\nfloor. Asif they had been raked off the shelf by a passing hand. A flailing\nhand,\nmaybe. I could also see my tracks there, both coming and going.\nThey had\nalready begun to dry. They should have been the only ones; I had\nbeen\ncarrying Ki when we came in. They should have been, but they\nweren't.\nThe others were smaller, but not so small that I mistook them for a\nchild's. I ran down the hall to the north bedroom crying her name,\nand I\nmight as well have been crying Mattie or Jo or Sara. Coming out of\nmy\nmouth, Kyra's name sounded like the name of a corpse. The duvet\nhad been\nthrown back onto the floor. Except for the black stuffed dog, lying\nwhere it had in my dream, the bed was empty. And Ki was gone.\nI reached for Ki with the part of my mind that had for the last fewweeks known what she was wearing, what room of the trailer she\nwas in,\nand what she was doing there. There was nothing, of course--that\nlink\nwas also dissolved. I called for Jo--I think I did--but Jo was gone,\ntoo. I was on my own. God help me. God help us both. I could feel\npanic\ntrying to descend and fought it off. I had to keep my mind clear. If I\ncouldn't think, any chance Ki might still have would be lost. I walked\nrapidly back down the hall to the foyer, trying not to hear the sick\nvoice in the back of my head, the one saying that Ki was lost\nalready,\ndead already. I knew no such thing, couldn't know it now that the\nconnection between us was broken. I looked down at the heap of\nbooks,\nthen up at the door. The new tracks had come in this way and gone\nout\nthis way, too. Lightning stroked the sky and thunder cracked. The\nwindwas rising again. I went to the door, reached for the knob, then\npaused.\nSomething was caught in the crack between the door and the jamb,\nsomething as fine and floaty as a strand of spider's silk.\nA single white hair. I looked at it with a sick lack of surprise. I\nshould have known, of course, and if not for the strain I'd been\nunder\nand the successive shocks of this terrible day, I would have known.\nIt\nwas all on the tape John had played for me that morning. .. a time\nthat\nalready seemed part of another man's life. For one thing, there was\nthe\ntime-check marking the point where John had hung up on her. Nine-\njorty\nA.M., Eastern Daylight, the robot voice had said, which meant that\nRogette had been calling at six-forty in the morning. .. if, that was,\nshe'd really been calling from Palm Springs. That was at least\npossible;had the oddity occurred to me while we were driving from the\nairport to\nMattie's trailer, I would have told myself that there were no doubt\ninsomniacs all over California who finished their East Coast business\nbefore the sun had hauled itself fully over the horizon, and good for\nthem. But there was something else that couldn't be explained away\nso\neasily. At one point John had ejected the tape. He did it because, he\nsaid, I'd gone as white as a sheet instead of looking amused. I had\ntold\nhim to go on and play the rest; it had just surprised me to hear her\nagain. The quality of her voice. Christ, the reproduction is good.\nExcept it was really the boys in the basement who had reacted to\nJohn's\ntape; my subconscious co-conspirators. And it hadn't been her voice\nthat\nhad scared them badly enough to turn my face white. The\nunderhum haddone that. The characteristic underhum you always got on TR calls,\nboth\nthose you made and those you received. Rogette Whitmore had\nnever left\nTR-90 at all. If my failing to realize that this morning cost Ki Devote\nher life this afternoon, I wouldn't be able to live with myself. I told\nGod that over and over as I went plunging down the railroad-tie\nsteps\nagain, running into the face of a revitalized storm.\nIt's a blue-eyed wonder I didn't go flying right off the embankment.\nHalf my swimming float had grounded there, and perhaps I could\nhave\nimpaled myself on its splintered boards and died like a vampire\nwrithing\non a stake. What a pleasant thought that was. Running isn't good\nfor\npeople near panic; it's like scratching poison ivy. By the time I hadthrown my arm around one of the pines at the foot of the steps to\ncheck\nmy progress, I was on the edge of losing all coherent thought. Ki's\nname\nwas beating in my head again, so loudly there wasn't room for much\nelse.\nThen a stroke of lightning leaped out of the sky to my right and\nknocked\nthe last three feet of trunk out from beneath a huge old spruce\nwhich\nhad probably been here when Sara and Kito were still alive. If I'd\nbeen\nlooking directly at it I would have been blinded; even with my head\nturned three-quarters away, the stroke left a huge blue swatch like\nthe\naftermath of a gigantic camera flash floating in front of my eyes.\nThere\nwas a grinding, juddering sound as two hundred feet of blue spruce\ntoppled into the lake, sending up a long curtain of spray, which\nseemedto hang between the gray sky and gray water. The stump was on fire\nin\nthe rain, burning like a witch's hat. It had the effect of a slap,\nclearing my head and giving me one final chance to use my brain. I\ntook\na breath and forced myself to do just that. Why had I come down\nhere in\nthe first place? Why did I think Rogette had brought Kyra toward the\nlake, where I had just been, instead of carrying her away from me,\nup\nthe driveway to Lane Forty-two? Don't be stupid. She came down\nhere\nbecause The Street's the way back to Warrington's, and Vrrington's\nis\nwhere she's been, all by herself, ever since she sent the boss's body\nback to Calij$rnia in his privatejet. She had sneaked into the house\nwhile I was under Jo's studio, finding the tin box in the belly of the\nowl and studying that scrap of genealogy.She would have taken Ki then if I'd given her the chance, but I\ndidn't.\nI came hurrying back, afraid something was wrong, afraid someone\nmight\nbe trying to get hold of the kid-Had Rogette awakened her? Had Ki\nseen\nher and tried to warn me before drifting off again? Was that what\nhad\nbrought me in such a hurry? Maybe. I'd still been in the zone then,\nwe'd\nstill been linked then. Rogette had certainly been in the house when\nI\ncame back. She might even have been in the north-bedroom closet\nand\npeering at me through the crack. Part of me had known it, too. Part\nof\nme had felt her, felt something that was not-Sara. Then I'd left\nagain.\nGrabbed the carry-bag from Slips 'n Greens and come down here.\nTurnedright, turned north. Toward the birch, the rock, the bag of bones. I'd\ndone what I had to do, and while I was doing it, Rogette carried\nKyra\ndown the railroad-tie steps behind me and turned left on The Street.\nTurned south toward Warrington's. With a sinking feeling deep in my\nbelly, I realized I had probably heard Ki... might even have seen her.\nThat bird peeking timidly out from cover during the lull had been no\nbird. Ki was awake by then, Ki had seen me--perhaps had seen Jo,\nas\nwell--and tried to call out. She had managed just that one little peep\nbefore Rogette had covered her mouth. How long ago had that\nbeen? It\nseemed like forever, but I had an idea it hadn't been long at all--less\nthan five minutes, maybe. But it doesn't take long to drown a child.\nThe\nimage of Kito's bare arm sticking straight out of the water tried to\ncome back--the hand at the end of it opening and closing, opening\nandclosing, as if it were trying to breathe for the lungs that\ncouldn't--and I pushed it away. I also suppressed the urge to simply\nsprint in the direction of Warrington's. Panic would take me for sure\nif\nI did that. In all the years since her death I had never longed for Jo\nwith the bitter intensity I felt then. But she was gone; there wasn't\neven a whisper of her. With no one to depend on but myself, I\nstarted\nsouth along the tree-littered Street, skirting the blowdowns where I\ncould, crawling under them if they blocked my way entirely, taking\nthe\nnoisy branch-breaking course over the top only as a last resort. As I\nwent I issued what I imagine are all the standard prayers in such a\nsituation, but none of them seemed to get past the image of Rogette\nWhitmore's face rising in my mind. Her screaming, merciless face.\nI remember thinking This is the outdoor version of the Ghost House.Certainly the woods seemed haunted to me as I struggled along:\ntrees\nonly loosened in the first grand blow were falling by the score in this\nfollow-up cap of wind and rain. The noise was like great crunching\nfootfalls, and I didn't need to worry about the noise my own feet\nwere\nmaking. When I passed the Batchelders' camp, a circular prefab\nconstruction sitting on an outcrop of rock like a hat on a footstool, I\nsaw that the entire roof had been bashed flat by a hemlock.\nHalfa mile south of Sara I saw one of Ki's white hair ribbons lying in\nthe path. I picked it up, thinking how much that red edging looked\nlike\nblood. Then I stuffed it into my pocket and went on. Five minutes\nlater\nI came to an old moss-caked pine that had fallen across the path; it\nwas\nstill connected to its stump by a stretched and bent network of\nsplinters, and squalled like a line of rusty hinges as the surging\nwaterlifted and dropped what had been its upper twenty or thirty feet,\nnow\nfloating in the lake. There was space to crawl under, and when I\ndropped\nto my knees I saw other knee-tracks, just beginning to fill with\nwater.\nI saw something else: the second hair ribbon. I tucked it into my\npocket\nwith the first. I was halfway under the pine when I heard another\ntree\ngo over, this one much closer. The sound was followed by a scream--\nnot\npain or fear but surprised anger. Then, even over the hiss of the rain\nand the wind, I could hear Rogette's voice: \"Come back/Don't go out\nthere, it's dangerous/\" I squirmed the rest of the way under the\ntree,\nbarely feeling the stump of a branch which tore a groove in my\nlower\nback, got to my feet, and sprinted along the path. If the fallen trees\nIcame to were small, I hurdled them without slowing down. If they\nwere\nbigger, I scrabbled over with no thought to where they might claw or\ndig\nin. Thunder whacked. There was a brilliant stroke of lightning, and in\nits glare I saw gray barnboard through the trees. On the day I'd first\nseen Rogette I'd only been able to catch glimpses of Warrington's\nlodge,\nbut now the forest had been torn open like an old garment--this area\nwould be years recovering. The lodge's rear half had been pretty\nwell\ndemolished by a pair of huge trees that seemed to have fallen\ntogether.\nThey had crossed like a knife and fork on a diner's plate and lay on\nthe\nruins in a shaggy X. Ki's voice, rising over the storm only because it\nwas shrill with terror: \"Go away! I don't want you, white nana! Go\naway!\" It was horrible to hear the terror in her voice, but wonderful\ntohear her voice at all. About forty feet from where Rogette's shout\nhad\nfrozen me in place, one more tree lay across the path. Rogette\nherself\nstood on the far side of it, holding a hand out to Ki. The hand was\ndripping blood, but I hardly noticed. It was Kyra I noticed. The dock\nrunning between The Street and The Sunset Bar was a long one--\nseventy\nfeet at least, perhaps a hundred. Long enough so that on a pretty\nsummer\nevening you could stroll it hand-in-hand with your date or your lover\nand make a memory. The storm hadn't torn it away--not yet--but the\nwind\nhad twisted it like a ribbon. I remember newsreel footage at some\nchildhood Saturday matinee, film of a suspension bridge dancing in a\nhurricane, and that was what the dock between Warring-ton's and\nThe\nSunset Bar looked like. It jounced up and down in the surging water,\ngroaning in all its slatted joints like a wooden accordion. There hadbeen a rail--presumably to guide those who'd made a heavy night of\nit\nsafely back to shore--but it was gone now. Kyra was halfway out\nalong\nthis swaying, dipping length of wood. I could see at least three\nrectangles of blackness between the shore and where she stood,\nplaces\nwhere boards had snapped off. From beneath the dock came the\ndisturbed\nclung-clung-clung of the empty steel drums that were holding it up.\nSeveral of these drums had come unanchored and were floating\naway. Ki\nhad her arms stretched out for balance like a tightrope walker in the\ncircus. The black Harley-Davidson tee-shirt flapped around her knees\nand\nsunburned shoulders.\n\"Come back!\" Rogette cried. Her lank hair flew around her head; theshiny black raincoat she was wearing rippled. She was holding both\nhands\nout now, one bloody and one not. I had an idea Ki might have bitten\nher.\n\"No, white nana!\" Ki shook her head in wild negation and I wanted\nto\ntell her don't do that, Ki-bird, don't shake your head like that, very\nbad idea. She tottered, one arm pointed up at the sky and one down\nat\nthe water so she looked for a moment like an airplane in a steep\nbank.\nIf the dock had picked that moment to take a hard buck beneath\nher, Ki\nwould have spilled off the side. She regained some precarious\nbalance\ninstead, although I thought I saw her bare feet slide a little on the\nslick boards. \"Go away, white nana, I don't want you! Go... go take a\nnap, you look tired!\"Ki didn't see me; all her attention was fixed on the white nana. The\nwhite nana didn't see me, either. I dropped to my belly and\nsquirmed\nunder the tree, pulling myself along with my clawed hands. Thunder\nrolled across the lake like a big mahogany ball, the sound echoing\noff\nthe mountains. When I got to my knees again, I saw that Rogette\nwas\nadvancing slowly toward the shore end of the dock. For every step\nshe\ntook forward, Kyra took a shaky, dangerous step backward. Rogette\nwas\nholding her good hand out, though for a moment I thought this one\nhad\nbegun to bleed as well. The stuff running through her bunchy fingers\nwas\ntoo dark for blood, however, and when she began to talk, speaking\nin a\nhideous coaxing voice that made my skin crawl, I realized it was\nmelting\nchocolate.\"Let's play the game, Ki-bird,\" Rogette cooed. \"Do you want to\nstart?\"\nShe took a step. Ki took a compensatory step backward, tottered,\ncaught\nher balance. My heart stopped, then resumed racing. I closed the\ndistance between myself and the woman as rapidly as I could, but I\ndidn't run; I didn't want her to know a thing until she woke up. If\nshe\nwoke up. I didn't care if she did or not. Hell, if I could fracture the\nback of George Footman's skull with a hammer, I could certainly put\na\nhurt on this horror. As I walked, I laced my hands together into one\nlarge fist.\n\"No? Don't want to start? Too shy?\" Rogette spoke in a sugary\nRomper\nRoom voice that made me want to grind my teeth together. \"All\nright, 17lstart. Happy! What rhymes with happy, Ki-bird? Pappy... and nappy..,\nyou\nwere taking a nappy, weren't you, when I came and woke you up.\nAnd\nlappy. .. would you want to come and sit on my lappy, Ki-bird? We'll\nfeed each other chocolate, just like we used to... I'll tell you a new\nknock-knock joke...\"\nAnother step. She had come to the edge of the dock. If she'd\nthought of\nit, she could simply have thrown rocks at Kyra as she had at me,\nthrown\nuntil she connected with one and knocked Ki into the lake. But I\ndon't\nthink she got even close to such a notion. Once crazy goes past a\ncertain point, you're on a turnpike with no exit ramps. Rogette had\nother plans for Kyra.\n\"Come on, Ki-Ki, play the game with white nana.\" She held out thechocolate again, gooey Hershey's Kisses dripping through crumpled\nfoil.\nKyra's eyes shifted, and at last she saw me. I shook my head, trying\nto\ntell her to be quiet, but it was no good--an expression of joyous\nrelief\ncrossed her face. She cried out my name, and I saw Rogette's\nshoulders\ngo up in surprise.\nI ran the last dozen feet, raising my joined hands like a club, but I\nslipped a little on the wet ground at the crucial moment and Rogette\nmade a kind of ducking cringe. Instead of striking her at the back of\nthe neck as I'd meant to, my joined hands only glanced off her\nshoulder.\nShe staggered, went to one knee, and was up again almost at once.\nHer\neyes were like little blue arc-lamps, spitting rage instead of\nelectricity. \"I3u/\" she said, hissing the word over the top of hertongue, turning it into the sound of some ancient curse: Heeyuuuu/\nBehind us Kyra screamed my name, stagger-dancing on the wet\nwood and\nwaving her arms in an effort to keep from falling in the lake. Water\nslopped onto the deck and ran over her small bare feet. \"Hold on,\nKi!\" I\ncalled back. Rogette saw my attention shift and took her chance--\nshe\nspun and ran out onto the dock. I sprang after her, grabbed her by\nthe\nhair, and it came off in my hand. All of it. I stood there at the edge\nof the surging lake with her mat of white hair dangling from my fist\nlike a scalp. Rogette looked over her shoulder, snarling, an ancient\nbald gnome in the rain, and I thought It's him, it's Devore, he never\ndied at all, somehow he and the woman swapped identities, she was\nthe\none who committed suicide, it was her body that went back to\nCaliforniaon the jet-Even as she turned the other way again and began to run\ntoward Ki, I knew better. It was Rogette, all right, but she'd come by\nthat hideous resemblance honestly. Whatever was wrong with her\nhad done\nmore than make her hair fall out; it had aged her as well. Seventy,\nI'd\nthought, but that had to be at least ten years beyond the actual\nmark.\nI've known a lot offlks name their kids alike, Mrs. M. had told me.\nThey\nthink it's cute. Max Devote must have thought so, too, because he\nhad\nnamed a son Roger and his daughter Rogette. Perhaps she'd come\nby the\nWhitmore part honestly--she might have been married in her\nyounger\nyears--but once the wig was gone, her antecedents were beyond\nargument.\nThe woman tottering along the wet dock to finish the job was Kyra'saunt.\nKi began to back up rapidly, making no effort to be careful and pick\nher\nfooting. She was going into the drink; there was no way she could\nstay\nup. But before she could fall, a wave slapped the dock between\nthem at a\nplace where some of the barrels had come loose and the slatted\nwalkway\nwas already partly submerged. Foamy water flew up and began to\ntwist\ninto one of those helix shapes I had seen before. Rogette stopped\nankle-deep in the water sloshing over the dock, and I stopped about\ntwelve feet behind her. The shape solidified, and even before I could\nmake out the face I recognized the baggy shorts with their fading\nswirls\nof color and the smock top. Only Kmart sells smock tops of such\nperfect\nshapelessness; I think it may be a federal law. It was Mattie. A gravegray Mattie, looking at Rogette with grave gray eyes. Rogette raised\nher\nhands, tottered, tried to turn. At that moment a wave surged under\nthe\ndock, making it rise and then drop like an amusement-park ride.\nRogette\nwent over the side. Beyond her, beyond the water-shape in the rain,\nI\ncould see Ki sprawling on the porch of The Sunset Bar. That last\nheave\nhad flipped her to temporary safety like a human tiddlywink. Mattie\nwas\nlooking at me, her lips moving, her eyes on mine. I had been able to\ntell what Jo was saying, but this time I had no idea. I tried with all\nmy might, but I couldn't make it out. \"Mommy/Mommy/\" The figure\ndidn't\nso much turn as revolve; it didn't actually seem to be there below\nthe\nhem of the long shorts. It moved up the dock to the bar, where Ki\nwasnow standing with her arms held out. Something grabbed at my\nfoot. I\nlooked down and saw a drowning apparition in the surging water.\nDark\neyes stared up at me from beneath the bald skull. Rogette was\ncoughing\nwater from between lips that were as purple as plums. Her free hand\nwaved weakly up at me. The fingers opened.., and closed. Opened...\nand\nclosed. I dropped to one knee and took it. It clamped over mine like\na\nsteel claw and she yanked, trying to pull me in with her. The purple\nlips peeled back from yellow toothpegs like those in Sara's skull. And\nyes--I thought that this time Rogette was the one laughing. I rocked\non\nmy haunches and yanked her up. I didn't think about it; it was pure\ninstinct. I had her by at least a hundred pounds, and three quarters\nof\nher came out of the lake like a gigantic, freakish trout.She screamed, darted her head forward, and buried her teeth in my\nwrist.\nThe pain was immediate and enormous. I jerked my arm up even\nhigher and\nthen brought it down, not thinking about hurting her, wanting only\nto\nrid myself of that weasel's mouth. Another wave hit the half-\nsubmerged\ndock as I. did. Its rising, splintered edge impaled Rogette's\ndescending\nface. One eye popped; a dripping yellow splinter ran up her nose like\na\ndagger; the scant skin of her forehead split, snapping away from the\nbone like two suddenly released windowshades. Then the lake pulled\nher\naway. I saw the torn topography of her face a moment longer,\nupturned\ninto the torrential rain, wet and as pale as the light from a\nfluorescent bar. Then she rolled over, her black vinyl raincoat swirlingaround her like a shroud. What I saw when I looked back toward\nThe\nSunset Bar was another glimpse under the skin of this world, but\none far\ndifferent from the face of Sara in the Green Lady or the snarling,\nhalf-glimpsed shape of the Outsider. Kyra stood on the wide wooden\nporch\nin front of the bar amid a litter of overturned wicker furniture. In\nfront of her was a waterspout in which I could still see--very\nfaintly--the fading shape of a woman. She was on her knees, holding\nher\narms out. They tried to embrace. Ki's arms went through Mattie and\ncame\nout dripping. \"Mommy, I can't get you!\" The woman in the water\nwas\nspeaking--I could see her lips moving. Ki looked at her, rapt. Then,\nfor\njust a moment Mattie turned to me. Our eyes met, and hers were\nmade of\nthe lake. They were Dark Score, which was here long before I came\nandwill remain long after I am gone. I put my hands to my mouth,\nkissed my\npalms, and held them out to her. Shimmery hands went up, as if to\ncatch\nthose kisses. \"Mommy don't go/\" Kyra screamed, and flung her arms\naround\nthe figure. She was immediately drenched and backed away with her\neyes\nsquinched shut, coughing. There was no longer a woman with her;\nthere\nwas only water running across the boards and dripping through the\ncracks\nto rejoin the lake, which comes up from deep springs far below,\nfrom the\nfissures in the rock which underlies the TR and all this part of our\nworld.\nMoving carefully, doing my own balancing act, I made my way out\nalong\nthe wavering dock to The Sunset Bar. When I got there I took Kyra\nin myarms. She hugged me tight, shivering fiercely against me. I could\nhear\nthe small dicecup rattle of her teeth and smell the lake in her hair.\n\"Mattie came,\" she said. \"I know. I saw her.\"\n\"Mattie made the white nana go away.\"\n\"I saw that, too. Be very still now, Ki. We're going back to solid\nground, but you can't move around a lot. If you do, we'll end up\nswimming.\" She was good as gold. When we were on The Street\nagain and I\ntried to put her down, she clung to my neck fiercely. That was okay\nwith\nme. I thought of taking her into Warrington's, but didn't. There\nwould\nbe towels in there, probably dry clothes as well, but I had an idea\nthere might also be a bathtub full of warm water waiting in there.\nBesides, the rain was slackening again and this time the sky lookedlighter in the west. \"What did Mattie tell you, hon?' I asked as we\nwalked north along The Street. Ki would let me put her down so we\ncould\ncrawl under the downed trees we came to, but raised her arms to be\npicked up again on the far side of each. \"To be a good girl and not\nbe\nsad. But I am sad. I'm very sad.\" She began to cry, and I stroked\nher\nwet hair. By the time we got to the railroad-tie steps she had cried\nherself out.., and over the mountains in the west, I could see one\nsmall\nbut very brilliant wedge of blue. 'gxll the woods fell down,\" Ki said,\nlooking around. Her eyes were very wide. \"Well... not all, but a lot of\nthem, I guess.\" Halfway up the steps I paused, puffing and seriously\nwinded. I didn't ask Ki if I could put her down, though. I didn't want\nto put her down. I just wanted to catch my breath. \"Mike?\"\n\"What, doll?\"\"Mattie told me something else.\"\n\"What?\"\n\"Can I whisper?\"\n\"If you want to, sure.\" Ki leaned close, put her lips to my ear, and\nwhispered. I listened. When she was done I nodded, kissed her\ncheek,\nshifted her to the other hip, and carried her the rest of the way up\nto\nthe house.\n\"T'wasn't the stawm of the century, chummy, and don't you go\nthinkin\nthat it was. Nossir. So said the old-timers who sat in front of the big\nArmy medics' tent that served as the Lakeview General that late\nsummer\nand fall. A huge elm had toppled across Route 68 and bashed the\nstore inlike a Saltines box. Adding injury to insult, the elm had carried a\nbunch of spitting live lines with it. They ignited propane from a\nruptured tank, and the whole thing went kaboom. The tent was a\npretty\ngood warm-weather substitute, though, and folks on the TR took to\nsaying\nthey was going down to the MAS4 for bread and beer--this because\nyou\ncould still see a faded red cross on both sides of the tent's roof. The\nold-timers sat along one canvas wall in folding chairs, waving to\nother\nold-timers when they went pooting by in their rusty old-timer cars\n(all\ncertified old-timers own either Fords or Chevys, so I'm well on my\nway\nin that regard), swapping their undershirts for flannels as the days\nbegan to cool toward cider season and spud-digging, watching the\ntownship start to rebuild itself around them. And as they watched\ntheytalked about the ice storm of the past winter, the one that knocked\nout\nlights and splintered a million trees between Kittery and Fort Kent;\nthey talked about the cyclones that touched down in August of\n1985; they\ntalked about the sleet hurricane of 1927. Now them was some\nstawms, they\nsaid. There was some stawms, by Gorry. I'm sure they've got a\npoint, and\nI don't argue with them--you rarely win an argument with a genuine\nYankee old-timer, never if it's about the weather--but for me the\nstorm\nof July 21, 1998, will always be the storm. And I know a little girl\nwho\nfeels the same. She may live until 2100, given all the benefits of\nmodern medicine, but I think that for Kyra Elizabeth Devore that will\nalways be the storm. The one where her dead mother came to her\ndressed\nin the lake.The first vehicle to come down my driveway didn't arrive until almost\nsix o'clock. It turned out to be not a Castle County police car but a\nyellow bucket-loader with flashing yellow lights on top of the cab\nand a\nguy in a Central Maine Power Company slicker working the controls.\nThe\nguy in the other seat was a cop, though--was in fact Norris\nRidgewick,\nthe County Sheriff himself. And he came to my door with his gun\ndrawn.\nThe change in the weather the TV guy had promised had already\narrived,\nclouds and storm-cells driven east by a chilly wind running just\nunder\ngale force. Trees had continued to fall in the dripping woods for at\nleast an hour after the rain stopped. Around five o'clock I made us\ntoasted-cheese sandwiches and tomato soup.., comfort food, Jo\nwould havecalled it. Kyra ate listlessly, but she did eat, and she drank a lot of\nmilk. I had wrapped her in another of my tee-shirts and she tied her\nown\nhair back. I offered her the white ribbons, but she shook her head\ndecisively and opted for a rubber band instead. \"I don't like those\nribbons anymore,\" she said. I decided I didn't, either, and threw\nthem\naway. Ki watched me do it and offered no objection. Then I crossed\nthe\nliving room to the woodstove. \"What are you doing?\" She finished\nher\nsecond glass of milk, wriggled off her chair, and came over to me.\n\"Making a fire. Maybe all those hot days thinned my blood. That's\nwhat\nmy mom would have said, anyway.\" She watched silently as I pulled\nsheet\nafter sheet from the pile of paper I'd taken off the table and stacked\non top of the woodstove, balled each one up, and slipped it in\nthroughthe door. When I felt I'd loaded enough, I began to lay bits of\nkindling\non top. \"What's written on those papers?\" Ki asked. \"Nothing\nimportant.\"\n\"Is it a story?\"\n\"Not really. It was more like.., oh, I don't know. A crossword puzzle.\nOr a letter.\"\n\"Pretty long letter,\" she said, and then laid her head against my leg\nas\nif she were tired. \"Yeah,\" I said. \"Love letters usually are, but\nkeeping them around is a bad idea.\"\n\"Why?\"\n\"Because they...\" Can come back to haunt you was what rose to\nmind, but\nI wouldn't say it. \"Because they can embarrass you in later life.\"\"Oh.\"\n\"Besides,\" I said. \"These papers are like your ribbons, in a way.\"\n\"You don't like them anymore.\"\n\"Right.\" She saw the box then--the tin box with JO'S NOTIONS\nwritten on\nthe front. It was on the counter between the living room and the\nsink,\nnot far from where old Krazy Kat had hung on the wall. I didn't\nremember\nbringing the box up from the studio with me, but I suppose I might\nnot\nhave; I was pretty freaked. I also think it could have come up... kind\nof by itself. I do believe such things now; I have reason to. Kyra's\neyes lit up in a way they hadn't since she had wakened from her\nshort\nnap to find out her mother was dead. She stood on tiptoe to take\nhold of\nthe box, then ran her small fingers across the gilt letters. I thoughtabout how important it was for a kid to own a tin box. You had to\nhave\none for your secret stuff the best toy, the prettiest bit of lace, the\nfirst piece of jewelry. Or a picture of your mother, perhaps. \"This is\nso... pretty,\" she said in a soft, awed voice. \"You can have it if you\ndon't mind it saying JO'S NOTIONS instead of KI'S NOTIONS. There\nare\nsome papers in it I want to read, but I could put them somewhere\nelse.\"\nShe looked at me to make sure I wasn't kidding, saw I wasn't. \"I'd\nlove\nit,\" she said in the same soft, awed voice. I took the box from her,\nscooped out the steno books, notes, and clippings, then handed it\nback\nto Ki. She practiced taking the lid off and then putting it back on.\n\"Guess what I'll put in here,\" she said. \"Secret treasures?\"\n\"Yes!\" she said, and actually smiled for a moment. \"Who was Jo,\nMike? DoI know her? I do, don't I? She was one of the fridgearator people.\"\n\"She--\" A thought occurred. I shuffled through the yellowed\nclippings.\nNothing. I thought I'd lost it somewhere along the way, then saw a\ncorner of what I was looking for peeking from the middle of one of\nthe\nsteno notebooks. I slid it out and handed it to Ki. \"What is it?\"\n\"A backwards photo. Hold it up to the light.\" She did, and looked for\na\nlong time, rapt. Faint as a dream I could see my wife in her hand,\nmy\nwife standing on the swimming float in her two-piece suit. \"That's\nJo,\"\nI said. \"She's pretty. I'm glad to have her box for my things.\"\n\"I am too, Ki.\" I kissed the top of her head.\nWhen Sheriff Ridgewick hammered on the door, I thought it wise to\nanswerwith my hands up. He looked wired. What seemed to ease the\nsituation was\na simple, uncalculated question. \"Where's Alan Pangborn these days,\nSheriff?.\"\n\"Over New Hampshire,\" Ridgewick said, lowering his pistol a little (a\nminute or two later he holstered it without even seeming to be\naware he\nhad done so). \"He and Polly are doing real well. Except for her\narthritis. That's nasty, I guess, but she still has her good days. A\nperson can go along quite awhile if they get a good day every once\nand\nagain, that's what I think. Mr. Noonan, I have a lot of questions for\nyou. You know that, don't you?\"\n\"Yes.\"\n\"First off and most important, do you have the child? Kyra Devore?\"\n\"Where is she?\"\"I'll be happy to show you.\" We walked down the north-wing\ncorridor and\nstood just outside the bedroom doorway, looking in. The duvet was\npulled\nup to her chin and she was sleeping deeply. The stuffed dog was\ncurled\nin one hand we could just see its muddy tail poking out of her fist at\none end and its nose poking out at the other.\nWe stood there for a long time, neither of us saying anything,\nwatching\nher sleep in the light of a summer evening. In the woods the trees\nhad\nstopped falling, but the wind still blew. Around the eaves of Sara\nLaughs it made a sound like ancient music.\nEPILOGUE It snowed for Christmas--a polite six inches of powder\nthat\nmade the carollers working the streets of Sanford look like theybelonged in It's a Wonderful Lij. By the time I came back from\nchecking\nKyra for the third time, it was quarter past one on the morning of\nthe\ntwenty-sixth, and the snow had stopped. A late moon, plump but\npale, was\npeeking through the unravelling fluff of clouds.\nI was Christmasing with Frank again, and we were the last two up.\nThe\nkids, Ki included, were dead to the world, sleeping off the annual\nbacchanal of food and presents. Frank was on his third Scotch--it\nhad\nbeen a three-Scotch story if there ever was one, I guess--but I'd\nbarely\ndrunk the top off my first one. I think I might have gotten into the\nbottle quite heavily if not for Ki. On the days when I have her I\nusually don't drink so much as a glass of beer. And to have her three\ndays in a row.., but shit, kemo sabe, if you can't spend Christmas\nwithyour kid, what the hell is Christmas for?\n\"Are you all right?\" Frank asked when I sat down again and took\nanother\nlittle token sip from my glass.\nI grinned at that. Not is she all right but are you all right. Well,\nnobody ever said Frank was stupid. \"You should've seen me when\nthe\nDepartment of Human Services let me have her for a weekend in\nOctober. I\nmust have checked on her a dozen times before I went to bed.., and\nthen\nI kept checking. Getting up and peeking in on her, listening to her\nbreathe. I didn't sleep a wink Friday night, caught maybe three\nhours on\nSaturday. So this is a big improvement. But if you ever blab any of\nwhat\nI've told you, Frank---if they ever hear about me filling up that\nbathtub before the storm knocked the gennie out--I can kiss my\nchancesof adopting her goodbye. I'll probably have to fill out a form in\ntriplicate before they even let me attend her high-school\ngraduation.\" I\nhadn't meant to tell Frank the bathtub part, but once I started\ntalking,\nalmost everything spilled out. I suppose it had to spill to someone if\nI\nwas ever to get on with my life. I'd assumed that John Storrow\nwould be\nthe one on the other side of the confessional when the time came,\nbut\nJohn didn't want to talk about any of those events except as they\nbore\non our ongoing legal business, which nowadays is all about Kyra\nElizabeth Devore. \"I'll keep my mouth shut, don't worry. How goes\nthe\nadoption battle?\"\n\"Slow. I've come to loathe the State of Maine court system, and DHS\naswell. You take the people who work in those bureaucracies one by\none and\nthey're mostly fine, but when you put them together...\"\n\"Bad, huh?\"\n\"I sometimes feel like a character in Bleak House. That's the one\nwhere\nDickens says that in court nobody wins but the lawyers. John tells\nme to\nbe patient and count my blessings, that we're making amazing\nprogress\nconsidering that I'm that most untrustworthy of creatures, an\nunmarried\nwhite male of middle age, but Ki's been in two foster-home\nsituations\nsince Mattie died, and--\"\n\"Doesn't she have kin in one of those neighboring towns?\"\n\"Mattie's aunt. She didn't want anything to do with Ki when Mattie\nwasalive and has even less interest now. Especially since--\"\n\"--since Ki's not going to be rich.\"\n\"Yeah.\"\n\"The Whitmore woman was lying about Devore's will.\"\n\"Absolutely. He left everything to a foundation that's supposed to\nfoster global computer literacy. With due respect to the\nnumbercrunchers\nof the world, I can't imagine a colder charity.\"\n\"How is John?\"\n\"Pretty well mended, but he's never going to get the use of his right\naffn back entirely. He damned near died of blood-loss.\" Frank had\nled me\naway from the entwined subjects of Ki and custody quite well for a\nmandeep into his third Scotch, and I was willing enough to go. I could\nhardly bear to think of her long days and longer nights in those\nhomes\nwhere the Department of Human Services stores away children like\nknickknacks nobody wants. Ki didn't live in those places but only\nexisted in them, pale and listless, like a well-fed rabbit kept in a\ncage. Each time she saw my car turning in or pulling up she came\nalive,\nwaving her arms and dancing like Snoopy on his doghouse. Our\nweekend in\nOctober had been wonderful (despite my obsessive need to check\nher every\nhalf hour or so after she was asleep), and the Christmas holiday had\nbeen even better. Her emphatic desire to be with me was helping in\ncourt\nmore than anything else.., yet the wheels still turned slowly. Maybe\nin\nthe spring, Mike, John told me. He was a new John these days, pale\nandserious. The slightly arrogant eager beaver who had wanted nothing\nmore\nthan to go head to head with Mr. Maxwell \"Big Bucks\" Devore was\nno\nlonger in evidence. John had learned something about mortality on\nthe\ntwenty-first of July, and something about the world's idiot cruelty, as\nwell. The man who had taught himself to shake with his left hand\ninstead\nof his right was no longer interested in partying 'til he puked. He was\nseeing a girl in Philly, the daughter of one of his mother's friends. I\nhad no idea if it was serious or not, Ki's \"Unca John\" is\nclosemouthed\nabout that part of his life, but when a young man is of his own\naccord\nseeing the daughter of one of his mother's friends, it usually is.\nMaybe\nin the spring: it was his mantra that late fall and early winter. What\nam I doing wrong? I asked him once--this was just after\nThanksgiving andanother setback.\nNothing, he replied. Single-parent adoptions are always slow, and\nwhen\nthe putative adopter is a man, it's worse. At that point in the\nconversation John made an ugly little gesture, poking the index\nfinger\nof his left hand in and out of his loosely cupped right fist. That's\nblatant sex discrimination, John. I3ah, but usually it's justified.\nBlame it on every twisted asshole who ever decided he had a right\nto\ntake off some little kid's pants, if you want,' blame it on the\nbureaucracy, if you want,' hell, blame it on cosmic rays if you want.\nIt's a slow process, but you're going to win in the end. I3u've got a\nclean record, you've got Kyra saying \"I want to be with Mike\" to\nevery\njudge and DHS worker she sees, you've got enough money to keep\najger\nthem no matter how much they squirm and no matter how many\nJrms theythrow at you.., and most of all, buddy, you've got me. I had\nsomething\nelse, toowhat Ki had whispered in my ear as I paused to catch my\nbreath\non the steps. I'd never told John about that, and it was one of the\nfew\nthings I didn't tell Frank, either. Mattie says I'm your little guy now,\nshe had whispered. Mattie says you'll take care of me. I was trying\nto--as much as the fucking slowpokes at Human Services would let\nme--but\nthe waiting was hard. Frank picked up the Scotch and tilted it in my\ndirection. I shook my head. Ki had her heart set on snowman-\nmaking, and\nI wanted to be able to face the glare of early sun on fresh snow\nwithout\na headache.\n\"Frank, how much of this do you actually believe?\" He poured for\nhimself, then just sat for a time, looking down at the table andthinking. When he raised his head again there was a smile on his\nface.\nIt was so much like Jo's that it broke my heart. And when he spoke,\nhe\njuiced his ordinarily faint Boston brogue. \"Sure and I'm a half-drunk\nIrishman who just finished listenin to the granddaddy of all ghost\nstories on Christmas night,\" he said. \"I believe all of it, you silly\ngit.\" I laughed and so did he. We did it mostly through the nose, as\nmen\nare apt to do when up late, maybe in their cups a little, and don't\nwant\nto wake the house. \"Come on--how much really?\"\n\"All of it,\" he repeated, dropping the brogue. \"Because Jo believed it.\nAnd because of her.\" He nodded his head in the direction of the\nstairs\nso I'd know which her he meant. \"She's like no other little girl I've\never seen. She's sweet enough, but there's something in her eyes.\nAtfirst I thought it was losing her mother the way she did, but that's\nnot\nit.\nThere's more, isn't there?\"\n\"Yes,\" I said. \"It's in you, too. It's touched you both.\" I thought of\nthe baying thing which Jo had managed to hold back while I poured\nthe\nlye into that rotted roll of canvas. An Outsider, she had called it. I\nhadn't gotten a clear look at it, and probably that was good.\nProbably\nthat was very good. \"Mike?\" Frank looked concerned. \"You're\nshivering.\"\n\"I'm okay,\" I said. \"Really.\"\n\"What's it like in the house now?\" he asked. I was still living in Sara\nLaughs. I procrastinated until early November, then put the Derry\nhouse\nup for sale. \"Quiet.\"\"Totally quiet?\" I nodded, but that wasn't completely true. On a\ncouple\nof occasions I had awakened with a sensation Mattie had once\nmentioned--that there was someone in bed with me. But not a\ndangerous\npresence. On a couple of occasions I have smelled (or thought I\nhave)\nRed perfume. And sometimes, even when the air is perfectly still,\nBunter's bell will shiver out a few notes. It's as if something lonely\nwants to say hello. Frank glanced at the clock, then back at me,\nalmost\napologetically. \"I've got a few more questions--okay?\"\n\"If you can't stay up until the wee hours on Boxing Day morning,\" I\nsaid, \"I guess you never can. Fire away.\"\n\"What did you tell the police?\"\"I didn't have to tell them much of anything. Footman talked enough\nto\nsuit them--too much to suit Norris Ridgewick. Footman said that he\nand\nOsgood--it was Osgood driving the car, Devore's pet broker--did the\ndrive-by because Devore had made threats about what would\nhappen to them\nif they didn't. The State cops also found a copy of a wire-transfer\namong Devore's effects at Warrington's. Two million dollars to an\naccount in the Grand Caymans. The name scribbled on the copy is\nRandolph\nFootman. Randolph is George's middle name. Mr. Footman is now\nresiding\nin Shawshank State Prison.\"\n\"What about Rogette?\"\n\"Well, Whitmore was her mother's maiden name, but I think it's safe\nto\nsay that Rogette's heart belonged to Daddy. She had leukemia, wasdiagnosed in 1996. In people her age--she was only fifty-seven\nwhen she\ndied, by the way--it's fatal in two cases out of every three, but she\nwas doing the chemo. Hence the wig.\"\n\"Why did she try to kill Kyra? I don't understand that. If you broke\nSara Tidwell's hold on this earthly plane of ours when you dissolved\nher\nbones, the curse should have.., why are you looking at me that\nway?\"\n\"You'd understand if you'd ever met Devore,\" I said. \"This is the man\nwho lit the whole fucking TR on fire as a way of saying goodbye\nwhen he\nheaded west to sunny California. I thought of him the second I\npulled\nthe wig off, thought they'd swapped identities somehow. Then I\nthought\nOh no, it's her all right, it's Rogette, she's just lost her hair\nsomehow.\"\"And you were right. The chemo.\"\n\"I was also wrong. I know more about ghosts than I did, Frank.\nMaybe the\nmost important thing is that what you see first, what you think\nfirst..,\nthat's what's usually true. It was him that day. Devore. He came\nback at\nthe end. I'm sure of it. At the end it wasn't about Sara, not for him.\nAt the end it wasn't even about Kyra. At the end it was about\nScooter\nLarribee's sled.\" Silence between us. For a few moments it was so\ndeep\nthat I could actually hear the house breathing. You can hear that,\nyou\nknow. If you really listen. That's something else I know now.\n\"Christ,\"\nhe said at last. \"I don't think Devore came east from California to kill\nher,\" I said. \"That wasn't the original plan.\"\"Then what was? Get to know his granddaughter? Mend his fences?\"\n\"God, no. You still don't understand what he was.\"\n\"Tell me, then.\"\n\"A human monster. He came back to buy her, but Mattie wouldn't\nsell.\nThen, when Sara got hold of him, he began to plan Ki's death. I\nsuspect\nthat Sara never found a more willing tool.\"\n\"How many did she kill in all?\" Frank asked. \"I don't know for sure. I\ndon't think I want to. Based on Jo's notes and clippings, I'd say that\nthere were perhaps four other.., directed murders, shall we call\nthem?.\n.. in the years between 1901 and 1998. All children, all K-names, all\nclosely related to the men who killed her.\"\"My God.\"\n\"I don't think God had much to do with it. .. but she made them\npay,\nall right.\"\n\"You're sorry for her, aren't you?\"\n\"Yes. I would have torn her apart before I let her put so much as a\nfinger on Ki, but of course I am. She was raped and murdered. Her\nchild\nwas drowned while she herself lay dying. My God, aren't you sorry\nfor\nher?\"\n\"I suppose I am. Mike, do you know who the other boy was? The\ncrying\nboy? Was he the one who died of blood-poisoning?\"\n\"Most of Jo's notes concerned that part of it--it's where she gotstarted. Royce Merrill knew the story well. The crying boy was Reg\nTid-well, Junior. You have to understand that by September of 1901,\nwhen\nthe Red-Tops played their last show in Castle County, almost\neveryone on\nthe TR knew that Sara and her boy had been murdered, and almost\neveryone\nhad a good idea ofwho'd done it. \"Reg Tidwell spent a lot of that\nAugust\nhounding the County Sheriff, Nehemiah Bannerman. At first it was to\nfind\nthem alive Tidwell wanted a search mounted--and then it was to find\ntheir bodies, and then it was to find their killers.., because once he\naccepted that they were dead, he never doubted that they'd been\nmurdered. \"Bannerman was sympathetic at first.\nEveryone seemed sympathetic at first. The Red-Top crowd had been\ntreated\nwonderfully during their time on the TR--that was what infuriated\nJaredthe most--and I think you can forgive Son Tidwell for making a\ncrucial\nmistake.\"\n\"What mistake was that?\" Why, he got the idea that Mars was\nheaven, I\nthought. The TR must have seemed like heaven to them, right up\nuntil\nSara and Kito went jr a stroll, the boy carrying his berry-bucket, and\nnever came back. It must have seemed that they'd finally jund a\nplace\nwhere they could be black people and still be allowed to breathe.\n\"Thinking they'd be treated like regular folks when things went\nwrong,\njust because they'd been treated that way when things were right.\nInstead, the TR clubbed together against them. No one who had an\nidea of\nwhat Jared and his prot6gs had done condoned it, exactly, but when\nthechips were down...\"\n\"You protect your own, you wash your dirty laundry with the door\nclosed,\" Frank murmured, and finished his drink. \"Yeah. By the time\nthe\nRed-Tops played the Castle County Fair, their little community down\nby\nthe lake had begun to break up--this is all according to Jo's notes,\nyou\nunderstand; there's not a whisper of it in any of the town histories.\n\"By Labor Day the active harassment had started--so Royce told Jo.\nIt\ngot a little uglier every day--a little scarier--but Son Tidwell flat\ndidn't want to go, not until he found out what had happened to his\nsister and nephew. He apparently kept the blood family there in the\nmeadow even after the others had taken off for friendlier locations.\n\"Then someone laid the trap. There was a clearing in the woods\nabout a\nmile east of what's now called Tidwell's Meadow; it had a big birchcross in the middle of it. Jo had a picture of it in her studio. That\nwas where the black community had their services after the doors of\nthe\nlocal churches were closed to them. The boy--Junior--used to go up\nthere\na lot to pray or just to sit and meditate. There were plenty of folks in\nthe township who knew his routine. Someone put a leghold trap on\nthe\nlittle path through the woods that the boy used.\nCovered it with leaves and needles.\"\n\"Jesus,\" Frank said. He sounded ill. \"Probably it wasn't Jared Devore\nor\nhis logger-boys who set it, either--they didn't want any more to do\nwith\nSara and Son's people after the murders, they kept right clear of\nthem.\nIt might not even have been a friend of those boys. By then they\ndidn'thave that many friends. But that didn't change the fact that those\nfolks\ndown by the lake were getting out of their place, scratching at things\nbetter left alone, refusing to take no for an answer. So someone set\nthe\ntrap. I don't think there was any intent to actually kill the boy, but\nto maim him?\nMaybe see him with his foot off, condemned to a lifetime crutch? I\nthink\nthey may have gotten that far in their imagining.\n\"In any case it worked. The boy stepped in the trap.., and for quite\nawhile they didn't find him. The pain must have been excruciating.\nThen\nthe blood-poisoning. He died. Son gave up. He had other kids to\nthink\nabout, not to mention the people who'd stuck with him. They packed\nup\ntheir clothes and their guitars and left. Jo traced some of them toNorth Carolina, where many of the descendants still live. And during\nthe\nfires of 1933, the ones young Max Devore set, the cabins burned\nflat\"\n\"I don't understand why the bodies of Sara and her son weren't\nfound,\"\nFrank said. \"I understand that what you smelled--the putres-cence-\nwasn't\nthere in any physical sense. But surely at the time.., if this path you\ncall The Street was so popular...\"\n\"Devore and the others didn't bury them where I found them, not to\nbegin\nwith. They would have started by dragging the bodies deeper into\nthe\nwoods--maybe up to where the north wing of Sara Laughs stands\nnow. They\ncovered them with brush and came back that night. Must have been\nthat\nnight; to leave them any longer would have drawn every carnivore in\nthewoods. They took them someplace else and buried them in that roll\nof\ncanvas. Jo didn't know where, but my guess is Bowie Ridge, where\nthey'd\nspent most of the summer cutting.\nHell, Bowie Ridge is still pretty isolated. They put the bodies\nsomewhere; we might as well say there.\"\n\"Then how.., why...\"\n\"Draper Finney wasn't the only one haunted by what they did, Frank-\nthey\nall were. Literally haunted. With the possible exception of Jared\nDevore, I suppose. He lived another ten years and apparently never\nmissed a meal.\nBut the boys had bad dreams, they drank too much, they fought too\nmuch,they argued.., bristled if anyone so much as mentioned the Red-\nTops...\"\n\"Might as well have gone around wearing signs reading :ICK US,\nWE'RE\nGUILTY,\" Frank commented. \"Yes. It probably didn't help that most\nof the\nTR was giving them the silent treatment. Then Finney died in the\nquarry-committed suicide in the quarry, I think--and Jared's logger-\nboys\ngot an idea. Came down with it like a cold. Only it was more like a\ncompulsion. Their idea was that if they dug up the bodies and\nreburied\nthem where it happened, things'd go back to normal for them.\"\n\"Did Jared go along with the idea?\"\n\"According to Jo's notes, by then they never went near him. They\nreburied the bag of bones--without Jared Devore's help--where I\neventually dug it up. In the late fall or early winter of 1902, Ithink.\"\n\"She wanted to be back, didn't she? Sara. Back where she could\nreally\nwork on them.\"\n\"And on the whole township. Yes. Jo thought so, too. Enough so she\ndidn't want to go back to Sara Laughs once she found some of this\nstuff\nout. Especially when she guessed she was pregnant.\nWhen we started trying to have a baby and I suggested the name\nKia, how\nthat must have scared her! And I never saw.\"\n\"Sara thought she could use you to kill Kyra if Devore played out\nbefore\nhe could get the job done--he was old and in bad health, after all. Jo\ngambled that you'd save her instead. That's what you think, isn't it?\"\n\"Yes.\"\"And she was right.\"\n\"I couldn't have done it alone. From the night I dreamed about Sara\nsinging, Jo was with me every step of the way. Sara couldn't make\nher\nquit.\"\n\"No, she wasn't a quitter,\" Frank agreed, and wiped at one eye.\n\"What do\nyou know about your twice-great-aunt? The one that married\nAuster?\"\n\"Bridget Noonan Auster,\" I said. \"Bridey, to her friends. I asked my\nmother and she swears up and down she knows nothing, that Jo\nnever asked\nher about Bridey, but I think she might be lying. The young woman\nwas\ndefinitely the black sheep of the family--I can tell just by the sound\nof Mom's voice when the name comes up. I have no idea how she\nmet BentonAuster. Let's say he was down in the Prout's Neck part of the world\nvisiting friends and started flirting with her at a clambake.\nThat's as likely as anything else. This was in 1884. She was\neighteen,\nhe was twenty-three. They got married, one of those hurry-up jobs.\nHarry, the one who actually drowned Kito Tidwell, came along six\nmonths\nlater.\"\n\"So he was barely seventeen when it happened,\" Frank said. \"Great\nGod.\"\n\"And by then his mother had gotten religion. His terror over what\nshe'd\nthink if she ever found out was part of the reason he did what he\ndid.\nAny other questions, Frank? Because I'm really starting to fade.\" Forseveral moments he said nothing--I had begun to think he was done\nwhen\nhe said, \"Two others. Do you mind?\"\n\"I guess it's too late to back out now. What are they?\"\n\"The Shape you spoke of. The Outsider. That troubles me.\" I said\nnothing. It troubled me, too. \"Do you think there's a chance it might\ncome back?\"\n\"It always does,\" I said. \"At the risk of sounding pompous, the\nOutsider\neventually comes back for all of us, doesn't it? Because we're all\nbags\nof bones. And the Outsider. · Frank, the Outsider wants what's in the\nbag.\" He mulled this over, then swallowed the rest of his Scotch at a\ngulp. \"You had one other question?\"\n\"Yes,\" he said. \"Have you started writing again?\"I went upstairs a few minutes later, checked Ki, brushed my teeth,\nchecked Ki again, then climbed into bed. From where I lay I was\nable to\nlook out the window at the pale moon shining on the snow. Have\nyou\nstarted writing again? No. Other than a rather lengthy essay on how\nI\nspent my summer vacation which I may show to IZYRA in some later\nyear,\nthere's been nothing. I know that Harold is nervous, and sooner or\nlater\nI suppose I'll have to call him and tell him what he already guesses:\nthe machine which ran so sweet for so long has stopped. It isn't\nbroken--this memoir came out with nary a gasp or missed heartbeat-\n-but\nthe machine has stopped, just the same. There's gas in the tank, the\nsparkplugs spark and the battery bats, but the wordygurdy stands\nthere\nquiet in the middle of my head. I've put a tarp over it. It's served mewell, you see, and I don't like to think of it getting dusty. Some of it\nhas to do with the way Mattie died. It occurred to me at some point\nthis\nfall that I had written similar deaths in at least two of my books, and\npopular fiction is heaped with other examples of the same thing.\nHave\nyou set up a moral dilemma you don't know how to solve? Is the\nprotagonist sexually attracted to a woman who is much too young\nfor him,\nshall we say? Need a quick fix? Easiest thing in the world. \"When the\nstory starts going sour, bring on the man with the gun.\" Raymond\nChandler said that, or something like it---close enough for\ngovernment\nwork, kemo sabe.\nMurder is the worst kind of pornography, murder is let me do what I\nwant\ntaken to its final extreme. I believe that even make-believe murders\nshould be taken seriously; maybe that's another idea I got last\nsummer.Perhaps I got it while Mattie was struggling in my arms, gushing\nblood\nfrom her smashed head and dying blind, still crying out for her\ndaughter\nas she left this earth. To think I might have written such a hellishly\nconvenient death in a book, ever, sickens me.\nOr maybe I just wish there'd been a little more time.\nI remember telling Ki it's best not to leave love letters around; what\nI\nthought but didn't say was that they can come back to haunt you. I\nam\nhaunted anyway.., but I will not willingly haunt myself, and when I\nclosed my book of dreams I did so of my own free will. I think I\ncould\nhave poured lye over those dreams as well, but from that I stayed\nmy\nhand.I've seen things I never expected to see and felt things I never\nexpected to feel--not the least of them what I felt and still feel for\nthe child sleeping down the hall from me. She's my little guy now,\nI'm\nher big guy, and that's the important thing. Nothing else seems to\nmatter half so much.\nThomas Hardy, who supposedly said that the most brilliantly drawn\ncharacter in a novel is but a bag of bones, stopped writing novels\nhimself after finishing Jude the Obscure and while he was at the\nheight\nof his narrative genius. He went on writing poetry for another twenty\nyears, and when someone asked him why he'd quit fiction he said he\ncouldn't understand why he had trucked with it so long in the first\nplace. In retrospect it seemed silly to him, he said. Pointless. I know\nexactly what he meant. In the time between now and whenever the\nOutsider"
    }
]