PROLOGUE

Los Angeles, 1990

SHE SLAMMED ON THE brakes, ramming hard into the curb. The radio

continued to blare. She pressed both hands against her mouth to hold

back hysterical laughter. A blast from the past, the disk jockey had

called it. A blast from her past. Devastation was still rocking.

Somehow her brain functioned to take care of little matters: turn off

the ignition, take out the key, pull open the door. She was shaking in

the late evening heat. An earlier rain and rising temperatures caused

mist to spiral up from the pavement. She ran through it, looking

frantically right, left, back over her shoulder.

The dark. She'd nearly forgotten there were things that hid in the

dark.

The noise level rose as she pushed open the doors. The fluorescent

lights dazzled her eyes. She continued to run, knowing only that she

was terrified and someone, anyone, had to listen.

She raced along the hallway, her heart beating a hard tatoo. A dozen or

more phones were ringing; voices merged and mixed in complaints, shouts,

questions. Someone cursed in a low, continual stream. She saw the doors

marked Homicide and bit back a sob.

He was kicked back at his desk, one foot resting on a torn blotter, a

phone tucked between his shoulder and ear. A Styrofoam cup of coffee

was halfway to his lips.

"Please help me," she said, collapsing into the chair facing him.

"Someone's trying to kill me."

CHAPTER ONE

London,1967

THE FIRST time EMMA mET her father, she was nearly three years old. She

knew what he looked like because her mother kept pictures of him,

meticulously cut from newspapers and glossy magazines, on every surface

in their cramped three-room flat. Jane Palmer had a habit of carrying

her daughter, Emma, from picture to picture hanging on the water-stained

walls and sitting on the dusty scarred furniture and telling her of the

glorious love affair that had bloomed between herself and Brian McAvoy,

lead singer for the hot rock group, Devastation. The more Jane drank,

the greater that love became.

Emma understood only parts of what she was told. She knew that the man

in the pictures was important, that he and his band had played for the

queen. She had learned to recognize his voice when his songs came on

the radio, or when her mother put one of the 45s she collected on the

record player.

Emma liked his voice, and what she would learn later was called its

faint Irish lilt.

Some of the neighbors tut-tutted about the poor little girl upstairs

with a mother who had a fondness for the gin bottle and a vicious

temper. There were times they heard Jane's shrill curses and Emma's

sobbing walls. Their lips would firm and knowing looks would pass

between the ladies as they shook out their rugs or hung up the weekly

wash.

In the early days of the summer of 1967, the summer of love, they shook

their heads when they heard the little girl's cries through the open

window of the Palmer flat. Most agreed that young Jane Palmer

God, no one ever before or since had matched him in bed. There was a

hunger in him, a wild hunger he hid so well under his cool and cocky

exterior. She had known him since childhood, had been his on again,

off-again lover for more than ten years. No one knew better what Brian

was capable of when fully aroused.

She allowed herself to fantasize, just for a moment, what it would be

like when he peeled the dress away, when his eyes roamed over her, when

his slender, musician's fingers unhooked the frilly corset.

They'd been good together, she remembered as she felt herself go damp.

They would be good together again.

Bringing herself back, she picked up the brush and smoothed her hair.

She had spent the last of the grocery money at the hairdresser's getting

her shoulder-length straight hair colored to match Emma's. Turning her

head, she watched it sway from side to side. After today, she wouldn't

have to worry about money ever again.

Her lips were carefully painted a pale, pale pink-the same shade she had

seen on supermodel Jane Asher's recent Vogue cover. Nervous, she picked

up her black liner and added more definition near the corner of each

eye.

Fascinated, Emma watched her mother. Thday she smelled of Tigress

cologne instead of gin. Tentatively, Emma reached out for the lipstick

tube. Her hand was slapped away.

"Keep your hands off my things." She gave Emma's finger an extra slap.

"Haven't I told you never to touch my things?"

Emma nodded. Her eyes had already filmed over.

"And don't start that bawling. I don't want him seeing you for the

first time with your eyes all red and your face puffy. He should have

been here already." There was an edge to Jane's voice now, one that had

Emma moving cautiously out of range. "If he doesn't come soon . . ."

She trailed off, going over her options as she studied herself in the

glass.

She had always been a big girl, but had never run to fat. True, the

dress was a little snug, but she strained against it in interesting

places. Skinny might be in fashion, but she knew men preferred round,

curvy women when the lights went out. She'd been making her living off

her body long enough to be sure of it.

Her confidence built as she looked herself over and she fancied she

resembled the pale, sulky-faced models who were the rage in London. She

wasn't wise enough to note that the new color jpb was unflattering or

that the arrow-straight hair made the angles of her face boxy and harsh.

She wanted to be in tune. She always had.

"He probably didn't believe me. Didn't want to. Men never want their

children." She shrugged. Her father had never wanted her-not until her

breasts had begun to develop. "You remember that, Emma girl." She cast

a considering eye over Emma. "Men don't want babies. They only want a

woman for one thing, and you'll find out what that is soon enough. When

they're done, they're done, and you're left with a big stomach and a

broken heart."

She picked up a cigarette and began to smoke it in quick, jerky puffs as

she paced. She wished it was grass, sweet, calming grass, but she'd

spent her drug money on Emma's new dress. The sacrifices a mother made.

"Well, he may not want you, but after one look he won't be able to deny

you're his." Eyes narrowed against the smoke, she studied her daughter.

There was another tug, almost maternal. The little tyke was certainly

pretty as a picture when she was cleaned up. "You're the goddamn image

of him, Emma luy. The papers say he's going to marry that Wilson

slut-old money and fancy manners-but we'll see, we'll just see about

that. He'll come back to me. I always knew he'd come back." She

stubbed the cigarette in a chipped ashtray and left it smoldering. She

needed a drink-just one taste of gin to calm her nerves. "You sit on the

bed," she ordered. "Sit right there and keep quiet. Mess with any of my

stuff, and you'll be sorry."

She had two drinks before she heard the knock on the door. Her heart

began to pound. Like most drunks, she felt more attractive, more in

control, once she'd had the liquor. She smoothed down her hair, fixed

what she thought was a sultry smile on her face, and opened the door.

He was beautiful. For a moment in the streaming summer sunlight, she

saw only him, tall and slender, his wavy blond hair and full, serious

mouth giving him the look of a poet or an apostle. As nearly as she was

able, she loved.

"Brian. So nice of you to drop by." Her smile faded immediately when

she saw the two men behind him. "Traveling in a pack these days, Bri?"

He wasn't in the mood. He was carrying around a simmering rage at being

trapped into seeing Jane again and put the bulk of the blame on his

manager and his flancee. Now that he was here, he intended to get out

again as quickly as possible.

"You remember, Johnno." Brian stepped inside. The smell, gin, sweat,

and grease from yesterday's dinner, reminded him uncomfortably of his

own childhood.

"Sure." Jane nodded briefly to the tall, gangly bass player. He was

wearing a diamond on his pinky and sported a dark, fluffy beard. "Come

up in the world, haven't we, Johnno?"

He glanced around the dingy flat. "Some of us."

"This is Pete Page, our manager."

"Miss Palmer." Smooth, thirtyish, Pete offered a white-toothed smile and

a manicured hand.

"I've heard all about you." She laid her hand in his, back up, an

invitation to lift it to his lips. He released it. "You made our boys

stars."

"I opened a few doors."

"Performing for the queen, playing on the telly. Got a new album on the

charts and a big American tour coming up." She looked back at Brian. His

hair fell nearly to his shoulders. His face was thin and pale and

sensitive. Reproductions of it were gracing teenagers' walls on both

sides of the Atlantic as his second album, Complete Devastation,

bulleted up the charts. "Got everything you wanted."

Damned if he'd let her make him feel guilty because he'd made something

of himself "That's right."

"Some of us get more than they want." She tossed her long hair back. The

paint on the swingy gold balls she wore at her ears was chipped and

peeling. She smiled again, posing a moment. At twenty-four she was a

year older than Brian, and considered herself much more savvy. "I'd

offer tea, but I wasn't expecting a party."

"We didn't come for tea." Brian stuck his hands in the wide pockets of

his low-riding jeans. The sulky look he'd worn throughout the drive

over had hardened. True, he was young, but he'd grown up tough. He had

no intention of letting this old, gin-soaked loner make trouble for him.

"I didn't call the law this time, Jane. That's for old time's sake. If

you keep ringing, keep writing with all your threats and blackmail,

believe me I will."

Her heavily lined eyes narrowed. "You want to put the hobbies on me,

you go right ahead, my lad. We'll see how all your little fans and

their stick-in-the-mud parents like reading about how you got me

pregnant. About how you deserted me and your poor little baby girl

while you're rolling in money and living high. How would that go over,

Mr. Page? Think you could get Bri and the boys another royal command

performance?"

"Miss Palmer." Pete's voice was smooth and calm.. He'd already spent

hours considering the ins and outs of the situation. One glance told

him he'd wasted his time. The answer here would be money. "I'm sure

you don't want to air your personal business in the press. Nor do I

think you should imply -desertion when there was none."

"ooh. Is he your manager, Brian, or your blinking solicitor?"

"You weren't pregnant when I left you."

Didn't know I was pregnant!" she shouted and gripped Brian's black

leather vest. "It was two months later when I found out for sure. You

were gone by then. I didn't know where to find you. I could have

gotten rid of it." She clung harder when Brian started to pry her hands

off. "I knew people who could have fixed it for me, but I was scared,

more scared of that than of having it."

"So she had a kid." Johnno sat on the arm of a chair and pulled out a

Gauloise which he lit with a heavy gold lighter. In the past two years

he'd gotten very comfortable with expensive habits. "That don't mean it

was yours, Bri."

"It's his, you freaking fag."

"My, my." Unperturbed, Johnno drew on the cigarette, then blew the smoke

lightly but directly into her face. "Quite the lady, aren't we?"

"Back off, Johnno." Pete's voice remained low and calm. "Miss Palmer,

we're here to settle this whole matter quietly."

And that, she thought, was her ace in the hole. "I'll just bet you'd

like to keep it quiet. You know I wasn't with anybody else back then,

Brian." She leaned into him, letting her breasts press and flatten

against his chest. "You remember that Christmas, the last Christmas we

were together. We got high and a little crazy. We never used anything.

Emma, she'll be three next September."

He remembered, though he wished he didn't. He'd been nineteen and full

of music and rage. Someone had brought cocaine and after he'd snorted

for the first time he'd felt like a thoroughbred stud. Quivering to

tick.

"So you had a baby and you think she's mine. Why did you wait until now

to tell me about her?"

"I told you I couldn't find you at first." Jane moistened her lips and

wished she'd had just one more drink. She didn't think it would be wise

to tell him she'd enjoyed playing the martyr for a while, the poor,

unwed mother, all alone. And there'd been a man or two along the way to

ease the road.

"I went on this program, they have them for girls who get in trouble. I

thought maybe I'd give her away, you know, for adoption. After I had

her, I couldn't, because she looked just like you. I thought if I gave

her up, you'd find out about it and get mad at me. I was afraid you

wouldn't give me another chance."

She started to cry, big fat tears that smeared her heavy makeup. They

were uglier, and more disturbing, because they were sincere. "I always

knew you'd come back, Brian. I started hearing your songs on the radio,

seeing posters of you in the record store. You were on your way. I

always knew you'd make it, but, Jesus, I never knew you'd be so big. I

started thinking-"

"I'll bet you did," Johnno murmured.

"I started thinking," she said between her teeth. "That you'd want to

know about the kid. I went back to your old place, but you'd moved and

nobody would tell me where. But I thought about you every day. Look."

Taking his arm she pointed to the pictures she'd crowded on the walls of

the flat. "I cut out everything I could find about you and saved it."

He looked at himself reproduced a dozen times. His stomach turned.

"Jesus."

"I called your record company, and I even went there, but they treated

me like I was nobody. I told them I was the mother of Brian McAvoy's

baby daughter, and they had me tossed out." She didn't add that she'd

been drunk and had attacked the receptionist. "I started reading about

you and Beverly Wilson, and I got desperate. I knew she couldn't mean

anything to you, not after what we had. But I had to talk to you

somehow."

"Calling Bev's flat and raving like a maniac wasn't the best way to go

about it."

"I had to talk to you, to make you listen. You don't know what it's

like, Bri, worrying about how to pay the rent, whether you've got enough

for food. I can't buy pretty dresses anymore or go out at night."

"Is money what you want?"

She hesitated just an instant too long. "I want you, Bri, I always

have."

Johnno tapped out his cigarette in the base of a plastic plant. "You

know, Bri, there's been a lot of talk about this kid, but I don't see

any sign of her." He rose, and in a habitual gesture, shook back his

gleaming mop of dark hair. "Ready to split?"

Jane sent him a vicious look. "Emma's in the bedroom. And I'm not

having all of your troop in there. This is between Brian and me."

Johnno grinned at her. "You always did your best work in the bed room,

didn't you, luy?" Their eyes held for a moment, the disgust they had

always felt for each other clear. "Bri, she was a first-rate whore once

upon a time, but she's second-rate now. Can we get on?"

"You bloody queer." Jane leaped at him before Brian caught her around

the waist. "You wouldn't know what to do with a real woman if she bit

you on the dick."

He continued to grin, but his eyes frosted over. "Care to give it a

shot, dearie?"

"Always could count on you to keep things running smoothly, Johnno,"

Brian muttered as he twisted Jane around in his arms. "You said this

business was with me, then keep it with me. I'll have a look at the

girl."

"Not them two." She snarled at Johnno as he shrugged and pulled out

another cigarette. "Just you. I want to keep it private."

"Fine. Wait here." He kept his hand on Jane's arm as she walked to the

bedroom. It was empty. "I'm tired of the game, Jane."

"She's hiding. All these people put her off, that's all. Emma! Come

here to your mam right now." Jane dropped to her knees beside the bed,

then scrambled up to search through the narrow closet. "She's probably

in the loo." Rushing out, she pulled open a door off the hallway.

"Brian." Johnno signaled from the kitchen doorway. "Something here you

might want to see." He held up a glass, toasting Jane. "You don't mind

if I have a drink, do you, luy? The bottle was open." He jerked the

thumb of his free hand toward the cabinet under the sink.

The stale scent was stronger there, old liquor, ripening garbage,

molding rags. Brian's shoes stuck to the linoleum as he crossed to the

cupboard, then crouched. He pulled open the door and peered inside.

He couldn't see the girl clearly, only that she was hunched back in the

corner, her blond hair in her eyes and something black hugged in her

arms. He felt his stomach turn over, but tried to smile.

"Hello there."

Emma buried her face in the furry black bundle she held.

"Nasty little brat. I'll teach you to hide from me." Jane started to

make a grab, but a look from Brian stopped her. He held out a hand and

smiled again.

"I don't think I can fit in there with you. Would you mind coming out a

minute?" He saw her peep up over her folded arms. "No one's going to

hurt you."

He had such a nice voice, Emma thought, soft and pretty like music. He

was smiling at her. The light through the kitchen window was on

his hair, making the deep, rich blond shine. Like an angel's hair. She

giggled, then crawled out.

Her new dress was smeared and spotted. Her wispy baby hair was damp

from a leak under the sink. She smiled, showing little white teeth with

a crooked inciser. Brian ran his tongue over a similar one in his own

mouth. When her lips curved, a dimple winked at the left corner of her

mouth, a twin of his. Eyes as deep and blue as his own stared back at

him.

"I fixed her up real nice." There was a whine in Jane's voice now. The

smell of the gin was making her mouth water, but she was afraid to pour

a glass. "And I told her it was important to stay tidy. Didn't I tell

you to stay tidy, Emma? I'll wash her up." She grabbed Emma's arm hard

enough to make the girl jump.

"Let her be."

"I was only going to-"

"Let her be," Brian repeated, his voice flat and dull and threatening.

If he hadn't been staring at her still, Emma might have dashed under the

sink again. His child. For a moment he could only continue to stare at

her, his head light and his stomach fisted. "Hello, Emma."

There was a sweetness in his tone now, one women fell in love with.

"What have you got there?"

"Charlie. My doggie." She held the stuffed toy out for Brian to

examine.

"And a very nice one." He had an urge to touch her, to brush his hand

over her skin, but held back. "Do you know who I am?"

"From the pictures." Too young to resist impulses, she reached out to

touch his face. "Pretty."

Johnno laughed and swallowed some gin. "Leave it to a female."

Ignoring him, Brian tugged on Emma's damp curls. "You're pretty, too."

He talked nonsense to her, watching her closely. His knees were like

jelly, and his stomach tightened and loosened like fingers snapping to a

beat. Her dimple deepened as she laughed. It was like watching

himself. It would have been easier to deny it, and a great deal more

convenient, but impossible. Whether he had meant to or not, he had made

her. But guidance didn't come along with acceptance.

He rose and turned to Pete. "Weld better get to rehearsal."

"You're leaving?" Jane dashed forward to block his path. "Just like

that? You only have to look at her to see."

"I know what I see." He felt a pang of guilt as Emma inched back toward

the cupboard. "I need time to think."

"No, no! You'll walk out like before. You're only thinking of

yourself, like always. What's best for Brian, what's best for Brian's

career. I won't be left back anymore." He had nearly reached the door

when she snatched up Emma and raced after him. "If you go, I'll kill

myself!"

He paused long enough to look back. It was a familiar refrain. He

could have set it to music. "That stopped working a long time ago."

"And her." Desperate, she flung out the threat, then let it hang as they

both considered it. The arm she had banded around Emma's waist

tightened until the girl began to scream.

He felt a bubble of panic as the child's, his child's screams bounced

off the walls. "Let her go, Jane. You're hurting her."

"What do you care?" Jane was sobbing now, her voice rising higher and

higher to drown out her daughter's. "You're walking out."

"No I'm not. I need a little time to think this through."

"Time so your fancy manager can make up a story, you mean." She was

breathing fast, gripping the struggling Emma with both arms. "You're

going to do right by me, Brian."

His hands had balled into fists at his sides. "Put her down."

"I'll kill her." She said it more calmly this time, having centered on

it. "I'll slit her throat, I swear it, and then my own. Can you live

with that, Brian?"

"She's bluffing," Johnno muttered, but his palms were sweating.

"I've got nothing to lose. Do you think I want to live like this?

Raising a brat all on my own, having the neighbors gossip about me?

Never being able to go out and have fun anymore. You think about it,

Bri, think about what the papers will do when I call in the story. I'll

tell them everything right before I kill us both."

"Miss Palmer." Peter held up a soothing hand. "I give you my word we'll

come to an arrangement that suits everyone."

"Let Johnno take Emma into the kitchen, Jane. We'll talk." Brian took a

careful step toward her. "We'll find a way to do what's best for

everyone."

"I only want you to come back."

"I'm not going anywhere." Braced, he watched her grip relax. "We'll

talk." He signaled Johnno with a slight nod of the head. "We'll talk it

all through. Why don't we sit down?"

Reluctantly, Johnno pried the girl from her mother. A fastidious man,

he wrinkled his nose a little at the grime she'd accumulated under the

sink, but carried her into the kitchen. When she continued to cry, he

sat down with Emma on his lap and patted her head.

"Come on now, cutie, give over. Johnno won't let anything bad happen to

you." He jiggled her, trying to think what his mother might have done.

"Want a biscuit?"

Damp-eyed, hiccuping, she nodded.

He jiggled some more. Under the tears and dirt, he decided she was a

taking little thing. And a McAvoy, he admitted with a sigh. A McAvoy

through and through. "Got any we can pinch?"

She smiled then, and pointed to a high cupboard.

Thirty minutes later, they were finishing up the plate of biscuits and

the sweet tea he'd brewed. Brian watched them from the kitchen doorway

as Johnno made faces so that Emma giggled. When the chips were down,

Brian thought, you could always depend on Johnno.

Going in, Brian ran a hand down his daughter's hair. "Emma, would you

like to ride in my car?"

She licked crumbs from her lips. "With Johnno?"

"Yeah, with Johnno."

"I'm a hit." Johnno popped the last biscuit into his mouth.

"I'd like you to stay with me, Emma, in my new house."

"Bri-',

He cut Johnno off, lifting a hand palm up. "It's a nice house, and you

could have your own room."

"I have to?"

"I'm your dad, Emma, and I'd like you to live with me. You could try

it, and if you're not happy, we'll think of something else."

Emma studied him, her full bottom lip pushed out in a pout. She was

used to his face, but it was different somehow from the pictures. She

didn't know or care why. His voice made her feel good, safe.

"Is my mam coming?"

"No."

Her eyes filled, but she picked up her battered black dog and hugged it

close. "Is Charlie?"

"Sure." Brian held out his arms, and lifted her.

"Hope you know what you're doing, son."

Brian sent him a look over Emma's head. "So do I."

Emma Had HER first look at the big stone house from the front seat of

the silver Jag. She was sorry that Johnno, with his funny beard, was

gone, but the man from the pictures let her push buttons on the dash. He

wasn't smiling anymore, but he didn't scold. He smelled nice. The car

smelled nice. She pushed Charlie's nose into the seat and babbled to

herself.

The house looked enormous to her with its arching windows and curvy

turrets. It was stone, weathered gray, and all the windows were made up

of diamond shapes. The lawn around it was thick and green, and there

was a scent of flowers. She grinned, bouncing with excitement.

"Castle."

He smiled now. "Yeah, I thought so, too. When I was little I wanted to

live in a house like this. My Dad-your grandda-used to work in the

garden here." When he wasn't passed out drunk, Brian added to himself

"Is he here?"

"No, he's in Ireland." In a little cottage Brian had bought with money

Pete had advanced him a year before. He stopped the car at the front

entrance, realizing he would have to make some calls before the story

hit the papers. "You'll meet him someday, and your aunts and uncles,

your cousins." He gathered her up, amazed and baffled at how easily she

cuddled against him. "You have a family now, Emma."

When he walked inside, still carrying her, he heard Bev's light, quick

voice.

"I think the blue, the plain blue. I can't live with all these flowers

growing on the walls. And those beastly hangings have to go. It's like

a cave in here. I want white, white and blue."

He turned into the parlor doorway and saw her sitting on the floor,

dozens of sample books and swatches around her. Part of the wallpaper

had already been stripped, part of the replastering was finished. Bev

preferred tackling a single job from a dozen angles.

She looked so small and sweet sitting amid the rubble. Her dark cap of

hair was cut short and straight to angle down toward her chin. Big gold

hoops glinted at her ears. Her eyes were exotic, both in shape and

color. They were long-lidded with gold lights flecked in pale seagreen.

She was still tanned from the weekend they had spent in the Bahamas. He

knew exactly how her skin would feel, how it would smell.

She had a small triangular-shaped face, and a small angular body. No one

looking at her sitting cross-legged in snug checked pants and a tidy

white shirt would suspect she was two months pregnant.

Brian shifted his daughter in his arms and wondered how his pregnant

lover would react.

"Brian, I didn't hear you." She turned, half rising, then went still.

"Oh." Her color drained as she stared at the child in his arms.

Recovering quickly, she stood and signaled to two decorators who were

bickering over samples. "Brian and I want to discuss our choices a

little more. I'll call you by the end of the week."

She hurried them out, making promises, flattering. When she closed the

door on them, she took a deep breath, holding a hand over the baby

growing inside her.

"This is Emma."

Bev forced a smile. "Hello, Emma."

. "Lo." Suddenly shy, she buried her face in Brian's neck.

"Emma, would you like to watch the telly for a while?" Brian gave her

bottom a reassuring pat. When she only shrugged, he went on,

desperately cheerful. "There's a nice big one in this room over here.

You and Charlie can sit on the sofa."

"I have to pee," she whispered.

"Oh, well . . ."

Bev blew her bangs out of her eyes. If she hadn't felt so much like

crying, she might have laughed. "I'll take her."

But Emma clung tighter to Brian's neck. "I guess I'm elected." He took

her to the powder room across the hall, sent Bev a helpless look,

then closed the door. "Do you, ah pulled down her panties and sat.

He trailed off when Emma

"I don't wet my pants," she said matter-of-factly. "Mam says only

stupid, nasty girls do."

"You're a big girl," he said, stifling a fresh flow of rage. "Very

pretty and very smart."

Finished, she struggled back into her panties. "Can you watch the

telly?"

"In a little while. I need to talk to Bev. She's a very nice lady," he

added as he lifted her up to the sink. "She lives with me, too."

Emma played with the running water a moment. "Does she hit?"

"No." He pulled her into his arms, holding tight. "No one's going to

hit you again. I promise."

Then, he carried her out, past Bev, to a sitting room with a cushy sofa

and a big console television. He switched it on, settled on a loud

comedy show, and said, "I'll be back soon."

Emma watched him walk out, relieved when he left the door open.

"Maybe we'd better go in here." Bev gestured to the parlor. Inside, she

sat on the floor again and began poking at samples. "It seems Jane

wasn't lying."

"No. She's mine."

"I can see that, Bri. She looks so much like you it's scary." She felt

tears well up and hated herself "Oh Christ, Bev."

"No, don't," she said when he started to slip an arm around her. "I

need a minute. It's a shock."

"It was one for me, too." He lit a cigarette, drew hard. "You know why

I broke things off with Jane."

"You said it felt like she could eat you alive."

"She wasn't stable, Bev. Even when we were kids, she was never quite

right."

She couldn't look at him, not yet. She reminded herself that it had

been she who had pressured him into seeing Jane again, into finding out

the truth about the child. Folding her hands in her lap, Bev stared

into the dusty marble fireplace. "You've known her a long time."

"She was the first girl I ever slept with. I was barely thirteen." He

rubbed his hands over his eyes, wishing it wasn't so easy to remember.

"My father would get drunk, go on one of his famous rages before he

passed out. I'd hide out in the cellar of the flat. One day Jane was

there, like she was waiting. Before I knew it, she was on top of me."

"You don't have to go into all this, Bri."

"want you to know." He took his time, drawing in smoke, letting it out.

"We seemed a lot alike, Jane and I. Somebody was always fighting at her

house, too. There was never enough money. Then when I started getting

interested in music, I spent more time with that than her. She went

crazy. She threatened me, threatened herself I kept away from her.

"Then not long after the guys and I got together, when we were

struggling so hard to get a break, she showed up again. We were playing

in dives, barely making enough for food. I guess it was because she was

someone I knew, someone who knew me. Mostly it was because I was an

asshole."

Bev sniffled, gave a watery laugh. "You're still an asshole."

"Yeah. We got back together, almost a year. Toward the end she was

outrageous, trying to start trouble between me and the others. She'd

break up rehearsals, make scenes. She even came to the club and went

after one of the girls in the audience. Afterward, she'd cry and beg me

to forgive her. It got to the point where it stopped being easier to

say, sure, fine, forget it. She said she'd kill herself when I broke it

off with her. We'd just hooked up with Pete and had a series of gigs in

France and Germany. He was working on the first record deal. We got

out of London, and I put her out of my mind. I didn't know she was

pregnant, Bev. I hadn't even thought of her in over three years. If I

could go back-" He broke off, thinking of the child in the next room

with her crooked tooth and little dimple. "I don't know what I'd do."

Bev drew up her knees and leaned over them. She was a young, practical

woman from a stable family. It was still difficult for her to

understand poverty and pain, though those were the very things in

Brian's background that had drawn her to him.

"I guess it's more to the point what you're going to do now."

"I've already done it." He stubbed out the cigarette in a

nineteenthcentury porcelain bowl. Bev didn't bother to mention it.

"What have you done, Bri?"

"I've taken Emma. She's mine. She's going to live with me."

"I see." She took a cigarette. She'd cut out drinking and her dabbling

with drugs since her pregnancy, but tobacco was a harder habit to break.

"You didn't think we should talk it over? The last I heard we were

going to be married in a few days."

"Are going to be." He took her by the shoulders then, shaking her,

afraid that she, like so many others, would turn awqy from him.

"Goddamnit, Bev, I wanted to talk to you. I couldn't." He released her

to spring up and kick at the sample books. "I walked into that filthy,

stinking flat intending to do no more than threaten Jane if she didn't

stop harassing us. She was exactly the same, screaming one minute,

pleading the next. She said Emma was in the bedroom, but she wasn't

there. She was hiding." He pressed the heels of his hands against his

eyes. "Jesus, Bev, I found the kid hiding under the sink like a

frightened animal."

"Oh God." Bev dropped her head on her knees.

"Jane was going to beat her-she was going to beat that tiny little girl

because she was frightened. When I saw her . . . Bev, look at me.

Please. When I saw her, I saw myself Can you understand?"

"I want to." She shook her head, still fighting tears. "No, I don't. I

want things to be the way they were when you left this morning."

"Do you think I should have walked out on her?"

"No. Yes." She pressed her fisted hands on each side of her head. "I

don't know. We should have talked. We could have arranged some sort of

settlement."

He knelt beside her to take her hands. "I was going to leave, drive

around a little and think before I came home to talk to you. Jane said

she'd kill herself"

"Oh, Bri."

"I might have handled that. I think I was furious enough to egg her on.

But then, she said she'd kill Emma, too."

Bev pressed a hand against her stomach, over the child that was growing

inside her, a child that was already beautifully real to her. "No. Oh

no, she couldn't have meant it."

"She did." He tightened his grip on her hands. "Whether she would have

followed through, I don't know. But at that moment, she meant it. I

couldn't leave Emma there, Bev. I couldn't have left a stranger's child

there."

"No." She took her hands from his to lift them to his face. Her Brian,

she thought. Her sweet, caring Brian. "You couldn't have. How did you

get her away from Jane?"

"She agreed," Brian said shortly. "Pete's having documents drawn up so

it will all be legal."

"Bri." Her hands firmed on his cheeks. She was in love, but she wasn't

blind. "How?"

"I wrote her a check for a hundred thousand pounds. In the agreement

she'll get twenty-five thousand a year every year until Emma reaches

twenty-one."

Bev let her hands drop away. "Christ, Brian. You bought that baby?"

"You can't buy what's already yours." He bit off the words because it

made him feel dirty. "I gave Jane enough to be sure she would stay away

from Emma, from us." He laid a hand on her stomach. "From ours. Listen

to me. There's going to be press, some of it will be ugly. I'm asking

you to stick with me, ride it out. And to give Emma a chance."

"Where would I go?"

"Bev-"

She shook her head. She would stick with him, but she needed a little

time yet. "I've been reading a lot of books lately. I'm pretty sure

you shouldn't leave a toddler alone for this long."

"Right. I'll go take a look."

"We'll take a look."

She was still on the sofa, her arms curled tight around Charlie. The

blare of the television didn't disturb her as she slept. There were

tears drying on her cheeks. Seeing them, Bev's heart broke a little.

"I guess we'd better get the decorators busy on a bedroom upstairs."

EMmA LAY IN the bed between fresh soft sheets and kept her eyes tightly

closed. She knew if she opened them, it would be dark. There were

things that hid in the dark.

She kept a hammerlock on Charlie's neck and listened. Sometimes the

things made swishing noises.

She couldn't hear them now, but she knew they were waiting. Waiting for

her to open her eyes. A whimper escaped and she bit her lip. Mam always

got mad if she cried at night. Mam would come in and shake her hard,

tell her she was stupid and a baby. The things would slink under the

bed or into the corners while her mam was there.

Emma buried her face in Charlie's familiar, stale-smelling fur.

She remembered that she was in a different place. The place where the

man from the pictures lived. Some of the fear vanished in curiosity. He

said she could call him Dad. That was a funny name. Keeping her eyes

closed, she tried it, murmuring it into the dark like a chant.

They had eaten fish and chips in the kitchen with the dark-haired lady.

There had been music. It seemed music played in the house all the time.

Whenever the Dad man spoke, it sounded like music.

The lady had seemed unhappy even when she had smiled. Emma wondered if

the lady was going to wait until they were alone before she hit.

He'd given her a bath. Emma remembered that he'd had a funny look on

his face, but his hands hadn't pinched and he hadn't gotten much soap in

her eyes. He asked about her bruises, and she had told him what her mam

had warned her to say if anyone asked. She was clumsy. She fell down.

Emma had seen the angry look come into his eyes, but he hadn't smacked

her.

He'd given her a shirt to wear, and she had giggled because it had come

all the way to her toes.

The lady had come with him when he had put her in bed. She'd sat on the

edge and smiled when he had told a story about castles and princesses.

But they had been gone when she'd awakened. They'd been gone and the

room was dark. She was afraid. Afraid the things would get her, snap

their big teeth, eat her. She was afraid her mam would come and slap

her because she wasn't home in her own bed.

What was that? She was sure she had heard a whispering noise in the

corner. Breathing through her teeth, she opened one eye. The shadows

shifted, towering, reaching. Muffling her sobs against Charlie, Emma

tried to make herself smaller, so small she couldn't be seen, couldn't

be eaten by all the ugly, squishy things that hid in the dark. Her mam

had sent them because she'd gone with the man in the pictures.

The terror built so that she was shuddering, sweating. It burst out of

her in one high wall as she scrambled out of bed and stumbled into the

hallway. Something crashed.

She lay sprawled, clutching the dog and waiting for the worst.

Lights came on. They made her blink. The old fear dissolved in a new

one as she heard voices. Emma scooted back against the wall and sat

frozen, staring at the shards of china from the vase she'd broken.

They would beat her. Send her away. Shut her up in a dark room to be

eaten.

"Emma?" Still dazed with sleep, floating a bit on the joint he'd smoked

before he and Bev had made love, Brian walked toward her.

She curled into herself, bracing for the blow. "Are you all right?"

"They broke it," she told him, hoping to save herself.

"They?"

"The dark things. Mam sent them to get me."

"Oh, Emma." He dropped his cheek to the top of her head.

"Brian, what--" Still belting her robe, Bev rushed out. She saw

what was left of her Dresden vase, gave a little sigh, then crossed to

them, avoiding the shards. "Is she hurt?"

"I don't think so. She's terrified."

"Let's have a look." She took Emma's hand. It was fisted, her arm taut

as a wire. "Emma." Her voice had firmed, but there was no meanness in

it. Cautious, Emma lifted her head. "Did you hurt yourself ?"

Still wary, Emma pointed to her knee. There were a few drops of blood

on the white T-shirt. Bev lifted the hem. It was a long scratch, but

shallow. Still, she imagined most children would have wailed over it.

Perhaps Emma didn't because it was nothing compared to the bruises Brian

had found on the girl when he'd bathed her. In a gesture more automatic

than maternal, Bev lowered her head to kiss the hurt. When she saw

Emma's mouth drop open in shock, her heart was lost.

"All right, sweetie, we'll take care of it." She picked Emma up and

nuzzled her neck.

"There are things in the dark," Emma whispered.

"Your daddy will chase them away. Won't you, Bri?"

The Irish in him, or perhaps the drug, made him weepy when he looked at

the woman he loved holding his child. "Sure. I'll chop them up and

toss them out."

"After you do, you'd better sweep this up," Bev told him.

Emma spent the night, the first of her new life, snuggled with her

family in a big brass bed.

AS SHE Had every day for nine days, Emma sat on the big window seat in

the front parlor and looked through the mullioned glass. She stared

beyond the edges of the garden with its nodding foxglove and bushy

columbine to the long graveled drive. And waited.

Her bruises were fading, but she hadn't noticed. No one in the big new

house had hit her. Yet. She'd been given tea every day, and presents

of sugar plums and china dolls from the friends who came and went so

casually in her father's house.

It was all very confusing for Emma. She was given a bath every day,

even if she hadn't been playing in the dirt, and clean-smelling clothes

to wear. No one called her a stupid baby because she was frightened of

the dark. The lamp with the pink shade was turned on in her room every

night, and there were little rosebuds on the walls. The monsters hardly

ever came into her new room.

She was afraid to like it, because she was sure her mam would be coming

soon to take her away again.

Bev had driven her in the pretty car to go shopping in a big store with

bright clothes and beautiful smells. She had bought bags and boxes of

things for Emma. Emma liked a pink organdy dress with a frilly skirt

the best. She'd felt like a princess when she'd worn it the day her dad

and Bev had been married. She'd had shiny black shoes with little

straps as well, and white tights. No one had scolded when she'd smudged

the knees.

The wedding had seemed very strange and solemn to Emma, with everyone

standing out in the garden and the sun fighting off clouds. One of the

men everyone called Stevie had worn a long white shirt and baggy white

pants. He'd sung in a husky voice while strumming a glossy white

guitar. Emma had thought he was an angel, but when she'd asked Johnno,

he'd only laughed.

Bev had worn a circle of flowers in her hair and a flowing multicolored

dress that had swept her ankles. To Emma, she was the most beautiful

woman in the world. For the first time in her young life, she had been

struck by true envy. Th be beautiful, and grown-up, and standing beside

Dad. She'd never be afraid again, or hungry again. And like the girls

in the fairy tales Brian was so fond of, she would be happy ever after.

When the rain had started, they had gone inside to have cake and

champagne in a room with fabric books and flowers and fresh paint. More

guitars had been played and people had sung along and laughed. Beautiful

women, in slim short skirts or flowing cotton dresses, had roamed the

house. Some of them had cooed over her or patted her head, but for the

most part she'd been left to herself

No one noticed that she'd had three pieces of cake and smeared icing on

the collar of her new dress. There had been no other little girls to

play with, and Emma was too young to be dazzled by the names and faces

of the luminaries of the music business who had wandered through the

house. Bored, a little queasy from cake, she'd gone off to bed, lulled

by the sounds from the party.

Later, she'd woken. Restless, she had dragged Charlie out of bed to go

downstairs. But the heavy scent of pot smoke had stopped her. She was

familiar with it, too familiar. Like the stink of gin, the sweet scent

of marijuana was firmly linked in her mind with her mother, and the

shakings and beatings that had come whenever Jane had crashed from her

highs.

Miserable, she had huddled on the steps, cooing reassurances to Charlie.

If her mam was here now, she would take her away. Emma had known she

would never again wear the pretty pink dress, or hear her Dad's voice,

or go into the big, bright stores with Bev.

She'd cringed when she heard the footsteps on the stairs, and waited for

the worst.

"Hello there, Emma luy." Soaring, at peace with the world, Brian had

dropped down beside her. "What're you doing?"

"Nothing." She'd curled tighter over the stuffed dog. She made herself

small, very small. If they couldn't see you, they couldn't hurt you.

"It's quite the party." Leaning back on his elbows, he'd grinned at the

ceiling. Never in his wildest fantasies had he believed he would one

day entertain giants like McCartney, Jagger, Daltrey, in his own

house. And his wedding, too. Good Christ, he was married. A married

man with a gold ring on his finger.

Tapping his bare foot to the beat of the music that crashed its way up

the stairs, he'd studied the ring. No going back, he'd thought

comfortably. He was Catholic enough, and idealistic enough to believe

that now that the deed was done, it was forever.

It was one of the biggest days of his life, he'd thought as he'd fumbled

in his shirt pocket for the pack of cigarettes he'd left downstairs. One

of the biggest, he'd thought again with a sigh. And if his father had

been too drunk or too lazy to pick up the bloody tickets he'd sent to

Ireland, what did it matter? Brian had all the family he needed right

here.

He'd pushed thoughts of yesterdays out of his mind. From now on there

would only be tomorrows. A lifetime of them.

"How about it, Emma? Want to go down and dance at your Dad's wedding?"

She'd kept her shoulders rounded and barely shook her head. The smoke

twining mystically in the air had made her temples throb.

"Want some cake?" He had reached out to give her hair a gentle tug, but

she'd cringed away. "What's this?" Baffled, he'd patted her shoulder.

Already queasy, Emma's stomach had rolled with a combination of terror

and too many sweets. After one hiccup, she'd lost her cake and tea all

over her father's lap. Wretched, she managed a single moan before

curling back over Charlie. As she lay too sick to defend herself from

the beating she was certain was coming, he'd begun to laugh.

"Well, I imagine you're feeling a good bit better." Too high to be

disgusted, he'd staggered to his feet then held out a hand. "Let's get

cleaned up."

To Emma's amazement there had been no beating, no cruel pinches or

sudden smacks. Instead he had stripped them both down to the skin in

the bathroom, then hauled her into the shower. He'd even sung as the

water had poured over them, something about drunken sailors that had

made her forget to be sick.

When they were both bundled in towels, he had woven his way to her room

to slip her into bed. His hair had been wet and sleek around his face

as he'd fallen over the foot of the bed. Within seconds, he'd been

snoring.

Cautious, Emma had crawled out from under the covers to sit beside him.

Gathering her courage, she'd leaned over and pressed a

damp kiss to his cheek. In love for the first time, she had tucked

Charlie under Brian's limp arm, and gone quietly to sleep.

Then he had gone away. Only days after the wedding the big car had

come, and two men had carried out luggage. He had kissed her and had

promised to bring her a present. Emma had only been able to watch

wordlessly as he'd ridden away, and out of her life. She hadn't

believed he was coming back, even when she heard his voice over the

phone. Bev said he was in America where girls screamed every time they

saw him, and people bought his records almost as fast as they were made.

But while he was gone, there wasn't as much music in the house, and

sometimes Bev cried.

Emma remembered Jane crying, and the smacks and shoves that had usually

accompanied the tears. So she waited, but Bev never hit her, not even

at night when the workmen were gone and they were all alone in the big

house.

Day after day, Emma would cuddle up on the window seat with Charlie and

watch. She liked to pretend that the long, black car was cruising down

the drive, and when it stopped and the door opened, her Dad came out.

Each day when it didn't come, she became more certain it never would. He

had left because he didn't like her, didn't want her. Because she was a

nuisance and bloody stupid. She waited for Bev to go away too, and

leave her alone in the big house. Then her mam would come.

WHAT WENT ON in the girl's mind? Bev wondered. From the doorway she

watched as Emma sat in her now habitual position on the window seat. The

child could sit for hours, patient as an old woman. It was rare for her

to play with anything except the ratty old stuffed dog she'd brought

with her. It was rarer still for her to ask for anything.

She'd been in their lives now for almost a month, and Bev was a long way

from resolving her feelings.

Only a few weeks before, her plans had been perfectly laid. She wanted

Brian to succeed, certainly. But more, she wanted to make a home and

family with him.

She'd been raised in the Church of England, in a calm, uppermiddle-class

family. Morals, responsibilities, and image had been important parts of

her upbringing. She'd been given a good, solid education with the idea

that she would make a sensible marriage and raise solid, sensible

children.

She had never rebelled, mostly because it had never occurred to her to

rebel. Until Brian.

She knew that although her parents had come to the wedding, they would

never completely forgive her for moving in with Brian and living with

him before marriage. Nor would they ever comprehend why she had chosen

to marry an Irish musician who not only questioned authority but wrote

songs defying it.

There had been no doubt that they had been appalled and baffled by

Brian's illegitimate child, and their daughter's acceptance of her. Yet,

what could she do? The child existed.

Bev loved her parents. A part of her would always desperately want

their approval. But she loved Brian more, so much more that it was

sometimes terrifying. And the child was his. Whatever she had wanted,

whatever her plans had been, that meant the child was now hers as well.

It was difficult to look at Emma and not feel something. She wasn't a

child who faded into the woodwork no matter how quiet and unobtrusive

she tried to be. It was her looks, certainly. Those same elegantly

angelic looks of her father. More, it was that sense of innocence, an

innocence that was in itself a miracle considering how the child had

lived the first three years of her life. An innocence, and an

acceptance, Bev thought. She knew if she walked into the room right

now, shouting, slapping, Emma would tolerate the abuse with barely a

whimper. That struck Bev as more tragic than the miserable poverty

she'd been saved from.

Brian's child. Instinctively Bev laid a hand over the life she carried.

She'd wanted so desperately to give Brian his first child. That wasn't

to be. Yet every time she felt resentment, she had only to look at Emma

for it to fade. How could she resent someone so utterly vulnerable?

Still she couldn't bring herself to love, not as unquestioningly, as

automatically, as Brian loved.

She didn't want to love, Bev admitted. This was another woman's child,

a link that would forever remind her of Brian's intimacy with someone

else. Five years ago or ten, it didn't matter. As long as there was

Emma, Jane would be a part of their lives.

Brian had been the first man she'd slept with, and though she had known

when they'd become involved that there had been others for him, it had

been easy to block it out, to tell herself that their coming together

had been an initiation for them both.

Dammit, why had he had to leave now, when everything was in upheaval?

There was this child slipping around the house like a shadow. There

were workmen hammering and sawing hour after hour. And there was the

press. It was as ugly as Brian had warned her it would be, with

headlines screaming his name, and hers, and Jane's. How she hated, how

she detested, seeing her picture and Jane's on the same page of a paper.

How she loathed those nasty, gloating little stories about new wives and

old lovers.

It didn't fade quickly, as she had prayed it would. There was

speculation and questions about the most personal areas of her life. She

was Mrs. Brian McAvoy now, and public property. She had told herself

countless times that because marrying Brian was what she wanted most,

she would be able to tolerate the public dissections, the lack of

freedom, the smirking headlines.

And she would. Somehow. But when he was away like this, thousands of

miles away, she wondered how she could bear a lifetime of being

photographed and hounded, of running away from microphones, of wearing

wigs and sunglasses to do something as ordinary as buy shoes. She

wondered if Brian would ever understand how humiliating it was for her

to see something as intimate as her pregnancy splashed in headlines for

strangers to read over their morning tea.

She couldn't laugh at the stories when he wasn't with her, and she

couldn't ignore them. So she rarely left the house when he was gone. In

less than two weeks, the home she had envisioned for them with its cozy

rooms and sunny windows had become a prison. One she shared with

Brian's child.

But she was enough her parents' daughter to know her duty, and to

execute it unwaveringly.

"Emma." Bev fixed a bright smile on her face as Emma turned. "I thought

you might be ready for your tea."

There was nothing Emma recognized quicker or distrusted more than a

false smile. "I'm not hungry," she said and gripped Charlie tighter.

"I guess I'm not, either." If they were stuck there together, Bev

decided, at least they could talk to each other. "It's hard to have a

nice tea with all the hammering going on." Taking the step, she sat on

the window seat beside Emma. "This is a nice spot. I think I should

plant more roses, though. Don't you?"

Emma's lip poked out a little as she moved her shoulders.

"We had a lovely garden when I was a girl," Bev continued desperately.

"I used to love to go out in the summer with a book and listen to

the bees hum. Sometimes I wouldn't read at all, but just dream. It's

funny, the first time I heard Brian's voice, I was in the garden."

"Did he live with you?"

She had Emma's attention now, Bev thought. It only took a mention of

Brian's name. "No. It was over the radio. It was their first

single-'Shadowland." It went . . .. "At night, midnight, when shadows

hug the moon."' Bev started the tune in her soft lilt, then stopped when

Emma picked it up in a clear, surprisingly strong alto.

"'And the land is hot and still, breathless I wait for you."' "Yes,

that's the one." Without realizing it, Bev reached out to stroke Emma's

hair. "I felt he was singing it just for me. I'm sure every girl did."

Emma said nothing for a moment, remembering how her mother had played it

over and over on the record player, drinking and weeping while the words

had echoed around the flat. "Did you like him because he sang the

song?"

"Yes. But after I met him, I liked him much more."

"Why did he go away?"

"His music, his work." Bev glanced down to see Emma's big eyes shiny

with tears. Here was kinship, where she hadn't wanted or expected it.

"Oh, Emma, I miss him too, but he'll be home in a few weeks."

"What if he doesn't come back?"

It was foolish, but Bev sometimes woke with that same awful fear in the

middle of the night. "Of course he will. A man like Brian needs people

to listen to his music, and he needs to be there while they do. He'll.

often go away, but he'll always come back. He loves you, and he loves

me." As much for comfort as to comfort, she took Emma's hand. "And

there's one more thing. Do you know where babies come from?"

"Men stick them in ladies, but then they don't want them."

Bev broke off an oath. She could cheerfully have throttled Jane at that

moment. Although Bev's own mother had always been reserved, unable to

speak of intimacy in more than a vague fashion, Bev firmly believed in

openness. "Men and women who love each other make babies together, and

most of the time they both want them very much. I have a baby right

here." She pressed Emma's hand against her stomach. "Your father's

baby. When it's born, it will be your brother or sister."

After a moment's hesitation, Emma slid her hand over Bev's stomach. She

didn't see how there could be a baby in there. Mrs. Perkins

across the alley had had a big bloated belly before little Donald had

come.

"Where is it?"

"Inside. It's very, very small now. It has almost six months more to

grow before it's time for it to come out."

"Will it like me?"

"I think so. Brian will be its Dad just like he's your Dad."

Enchanted, Emma began to stroke Bev's stomach as she sometimes stroked

Charlie. "I'll take good care of the baby. No one will hurt it."

"No, no one will hurt it." With a sigh, Bev slipped an arm around Emma's

shoulders and looked out toward the hedgerow. This time Emma didn't

inch away, but sat still, fascinated, one hand over Bev's stomach.

"I'm a little afraid of being a mum, Emma. Maybe you can let me

practice on you."

After a deep breath, Bev stood up, bringing Emma with her. "We're going

to start right now. Let's go up and put on your pretty pink dress.

We're going out to tea." The hell with reporters, the hell with starers

and gawkers. "We're going to make ourselves into the two prettiest

ladies in London and have our tea at the Ritz."

FoR EMMA iT was the beginning of her first relationship with another

female that wasn't based on fear or intimidation. Over the following

days, they shopped at Harrods, walked in Green Park, and lunched at the

Savoy. Bev ignored the photographers who snapped them. When she

discovered Emma's love of beautiful materials and bright colors, she

indulged them shamelessly. Within two weeks, the little girl who had

come to her with only the shirt on her back had a closet bulging with

clothes.

But at night the loneliness crept back, when each lay in bed pining for

the same man.

Emma's longings were more direct. She wanted Brian to come back because

he made her feel good. Love wasn't something she'd learned to define or

agonize over.

But Bev agonized. She worried that he would grow tired of her, that he

would find someone more in step with the world he lived in. She missed

the good, strong sex they shared. It was so easy to believe he would

always love her, always be with her during that calm drugging time after

love and before sleep. But now, alone in the big brass bed,

she would wonder if he filled up his loneliness with women as well as

music.

The sky was just beginning to lighten when the phone rang. Bev groped

for it on the third ring. "Yes." She cleared her throat. "Hello."

"Bev." Brian's voice was urgent.

Instantly awake, she shot up in bed. "Bri. What is it? What's

happened?"

"Nothing. Everything. We're a smash, Bev." There was a dazed and

dashing edge to his laughter. "Every night the crowds get bigger.

They've had to double security to keep the girls from flinging

themselves on stage. It's wild, Bev. Insane. Tonight one of them

grabbed Stevie's sleeve as we were making the dash for the limo. Ripped

his coat clean off. The press is calling us vanguards of the second

wave of the British invasion. Vanguards."

Sinking back onto the pillows, Bev struggled to drum up enthusiasm.

"That's wonderful, Brian. There've been some snippets on the telly

here, but not much to go by."

"It's like being a gladiator, standing there on stage and listening to

the roars." He didn't think he could explain, even to her, the thrill

and the terror. "I think even Pete was impressed."

Bev smiled thinking of his pragmatic, business-first-and-last manager.

"Then you must be something."

"Yeah." He drew on the joint he had lit to extend the high. "I wish you

were here."

She heard the background noises, loud music, male and female laughter

mixed with it. "So do I."

"Then come." He pushed away a blonde, half naked and glazedeyed, who

tried to crawl into his lap. "Pack a bag and fly over."

"Do what?"

"I mean it. It's not half as good as it would be if you were here."

Across the room a brunette, nearly six feet tall, slowly stripped.

Stevie, the lead guitarist, popped a Quaalude like rock candy. "Look, I

know we talked about it and decided it was best for you to stay home,

but we were wrong. You need to be here, with me."

She felt tears well in her eyes even as laughter bubbled. "You want me

to come to America?"

"As soon as you can. You can meet us in New York in-shit. Johnno, when

are we in New York?"

Sprawled on a couch, Johnno poured the last of the Jim Beam. "Where the

fuck are we now?"

"Never mind." Brian rubbed his tired eyes and tried to concentrate.

His mind was bloaty with booze and smoke. "I'll get Pete to work out

the details. Just pack."

She was already out of bed. "What should I do with Emma?"

"Bring her, too." On a burst of family feeling, Brian grinned at the

blonde. "Pete will figure out how to get her a passport. Someone will

call you this afternoon and tell you what to do. Christ, I miss you,

Bev."

"I miss you, too. We'll be there as soon as we can. I love you, Bri,

more than anything."

"I love you. Talk to you soon."

Moody and restless, Brian reached for the brandy bottle the moment he'd

hung up. He wanted her with him now, not a day from now, not an hour

from now. Just listening to her voice had him hard and hurting.

She had sounded just as she had on the night he'd met her, shy, a little

hesitant. She'd been so sweetly out of place in the smoky pub where his

band had been playing. Yet even with the shyness, there had been

something so solid, so true about her. He hadn't been able to get her

out of his mind, not that night, not any night since.

He lifted the brandy and drank deeply. It seemed as though the brunette

and Stevie weren't going to bother to move to the privacy of one of the

bedrooms to have sex. The blonde had given up on Johnno and was rubbing

her long, limber body against P.M., their drummer.

Half amused, half envious, Brian drank again. P.M. was barely

twenty-one, his face still round and youthful with its sprinkle of acne

on the chin. He looked both appalled and delighted as the blonde slid

down to bury her face in his lap.

Brian closed his eyes, and with music filling his head, fell asleep.

He dreamed of Bev, and the first night they had spent together. Sitting

cross-legged on the floor of his flat, talking earnestly, about music,

about poetry. Yeats and Byron and Browning. Dreamily passing a joint

back and forth. He'd had no idea it had been her first encounter with

drugs. Just as he'd had no idea, until he had slipped into her, there

on the floor with the candles guttering in their own wax, that it was

her first encounter with sex.

She'd wept a little. Instead of making him feel guilty, her tears had

brought out feelings of protectiveness. He'd fallen completely, and

somehow poetically, in love. That had been more than a year ago, but he

had never been with another woman during that time. Whenever the

temptation came strongly, he would see Bev's face.

The marriage had been for her, and the child, his child, she carried.

He didn't believe in marriage, the foolishness of a contract on love,

but he didn't feel trapped. For the first time since his miserable

childhood, he had something more than music to comfort and excite him.

I love you more than anything.

No, he couldn't say that to her with the ease and honesty she could say

it to him. He probably would never be able to say that to her. But he

did love, and where he loved, he was loyal.

"Come on, my lad." Barely rousing him, Johnno dragged Brian to his feet.

"It's bed for you."

"Bev's coming, Johnno."

Brow lifted, Johnno glanced over his shoulder at the tangle of bodies.

"So's everyone else."

"She'll meet us in New York." With a half-laugh, Brian slung a rubbery

arm around Johnno's neck. "We're going to New York, Johnno. New

tucking York. Because we're the best."

"That's dandy, isn't it?" Grunting only a little, Johnno dumped Brian on

the bed. "Sleep it off, Bri. We've got to go through the whole bloody

business again tomorrow."

"Got to wake Pete," Brian mumbled as Johnno pulled off his shoes.

"Passport for Emma. Tickets. I have to do the right thing by her."

"You will." Weaving a little, courtesy of the Jim Beam, Johnno studied

his newly purchased Swiss watch. He didn't imagine Pete was going to

appreciate being awakened, but he staggered off to do the deed.

ON HER FIRST transatlantic flight, Emma traveled first class. And was

miserably sick. She could not, as Bev periodically urged her, look out

at the pretty clouds or page through any of the colorful picture books

Bev had stuffed into her carry-on bag. Even empty, Emma's stomach

pitched and rolled. She was vaguely aware of Bev's helpless little hand

pats and the stewardess's soothing voice.

It didn't matter that she had a new outfit with a short, bright red

skirt and a flowered fussy blouse. It didn't matter that she'd been

promised a ride to the top of the Empire State Building. The nausea was

so unrelenting that it no longer mattered that she was going to see her

father.

By the time the plane banked over JFK airport, she was too weak to

stand. Frazzled, Bev carried her through the gate. After clearing

customs, she nearly gave way to tears when she spotted Pete.

In his impeccable Savile Row suit, he took a long look at the pastyfaced

child and the edgy woman. "Rough trip?"

Instead of tears, Bev found laughter bursting through. "Oh no. It was

a delight from start to finish. Where's Brian?"

"He wanted to come, but I had to veto it." He took Bev's carry-on bag,

then her arm. "The lads can't even open a window for a breath of air

without causing mass hysteria."

"And you love it."

He grinned, steering her toward the exit of the terminal. "Optimist

that I am, I never expected this. Brian's going to be a very rich man,

Bev. We're all going to be rich."

"Money doesn't come first with Bri."

"No, but I can't see him kicking it out of his way as it comes pouring

in. Come on, I've got a car waiting."

She shifted Emma, but the girl only moaned and hung limply in Bev's

arms. "The bags."

"They'll be delivered to the hotel." He shuffled her out of the

terminal. "There are plenty of pictures of you in the fan mags, too."

It was a white Mercedes limo, as big as a boat. At Bev's puzzled look,

Pete grinned again.

"As long as you're married to a king, luy, you might as well travel in

style."

Saying nothing, Bev settled back and lit a cigarette. She hoped it was

the long, miserable flight that made her feel so out of place and

hollow. Between her and Pete, Emma curled on the seat and sweatily

slept through her first limo ride.

Pete didn't pause in the lobby at the Waldorf but rushed them through

and onto an elevator. He wasn't sure if he was relieved or disappointed

that their luck had held. A mob scene at the airport or on the street

in front of the hotel would have been inconvenient, but it would have

made great copy. And copy sold records.

"I've got you a two-bedroom suite." The extra expense bothered his

practical soul, but he justified it by knowing that Bev's presence would

make Brian more cooperative, and more creative. And it wouldn't hurt

for the press to know that Brian's family was traveling with him. If he

couldn't promote Brian as a sexy single man, he could promote him as a

loving husband and father. Whatever worked.

"We're all on the same floor," he went on. "And security's very tight.

In Washington, D.C., two teenage girls managed to get into Stevie's room

in a maid's cart."

"Sounds like a laugh a minute."

He only shrugged, remembering that Stevie had been drunk enough to

appreciate the girls' offers. The guitarist had rationalized that two

sixteen-year-olds equaled one thirty-two-year-old. That had made them

into one older woman.

"The lads have some interviews scheduled today, then the Sullivan show

tomorrow."

"Brian didn't say where we were going next."

"Philadelphia, then Detroit, Chicago, St. Louis-"

"Never mind." Bev heaved a long, grateful sigh as the elevator doors

opened. The hell with where they were going. She was here now. It

didn't matter a damn that she was enormously tired or that her

arms ached from carrying the sleeping Emma. She was here, and could all

but feel Brian's energy in the air.

"Just as well," Pete said as he pulled out a key. "You've a couple of

hours before the boys' interview. It's with some new mag that'll

publish its first issue later this year. Rolling Stone."

She took the key, pleased that he was sensitive enough not to intrude on

the two hours he'd given her with Brian. "Thanks, Pete. I'll make sure

he's ready for it."

The moment she opened the door, Brian came racing out of the adjoining

bedroom to sweep both her and Emma into his arms. "Thank Christ," he

murmured, raining kisses over Bev's face. He took the limp, drowsy

Emma. "What's wrong here?"

"Nothing now." Bev dragged her free hands through her hair. "She was

dreadfully sick on the plane. Hardly slept. I think she'll do fine

once she's tucked up."

"Right then. Don't move." He carried Emma into the second bedroom. She

stirred only once as he slipped her between the sheets. "Dad?"

"Yes." It still rocked him. "You sleep now awhile. Everything's fine."

Comforted by the sound of his voice, she took it on faith, and drifted

to sleep again.

He automatically left the door ajar, then just stood and looked at Bev.

She was pale with fatigue, the shadows under her eyes making them huge

and dark. Love welled up in him, stronger, needier than any he'd ever

known. Saying nothing, he crossed to her, picked her up in his arms and

carried her to his bed.

He didn't have words, though he was a man always filled with them. Words

to poetry, poetry to lyrics. Later he would be filled with them, reams

of words, flowing through him, all stemming from this, what might have

been his most precious hour with her.

She was, in that hour, so completely his.

The radio beside the bed was on, as was the television at the foot of

it. He'd chased away the silence of his rooms with voices. When he

touched her, she was all the music he needed.

So he savored. He undressed her slowly, watching her, absorbing her.

The shudder of traffic outside the window-later he would remember it in

bases and trebles. The small, yielding sounds she made were pitched low

in countermelody. He could even hear the whispering song of his hands

gliding over her skin.

There was sunlight pouring through the window, and the big, soft bed

yielding under them.

Her body was already changing, subtly, with the life growing in it. He

spread his hand over her rounded stomach, amazed, dazzled, humbled.

Reverently he lowered his lips to her flesh.

It was foolish, he thought, but he felt like a soldier returning from

war, covered with scars and medals. Perhaps not so foolish. The arena

in which he'd fought and won wasn't one he could take her to. She would

always wait for him. It was in her eyes, in her arms as they tenderly

enfolded him. That promise and patience was on her lips as they opened

for his. Her passion was always steadier than his, less selfish,

balancing his edgier and more dangerous urges. With her he felt more of

a man, less of a symbol in a world that seemed so hungry for symbols.

When he slipped inside of her, he spoke at last, saying her name on a

long, fluid sigh of gratitude and hope.

Later, when she lay half dozing under the tangled sheets, Brian sat at

the foot of the bed in his underwear. She was sated with sex, but his

mind was in overdrive. Everything he'd ever wanted, ever dreamed of,

was at his fingertips.

"Pete had film taken of the Atlanta concert. Jesus, it was wild, Bev.

Not just the fans screaming, though there was plenty of that. Sometimes

you could hardly hear yourself sing for the noise. It was like, I don't

know, being on the runway of an airport with planes taking off all

around, but mixed with the noisy ones were people who were really into

it, just listening, you know. Sometimes you could see through the

lights and the pot smoke, and there'd be a face. You could sing just

for that one face. Then Stevie would go into a rill, like in

"Undercover,' and they'd go wild again. It was like, I don't know, like

great sex."

"Sorry I didn't applaud."

Laughing, he tugged on her ankle. "I'm so glad you're here. This

summer is special. You can feel it in the air, see it in people's

faces. And we're part of it. We're never going back, Bev."

She tensed, watching him. "Th London?"

"No." He was half impatient, half amused by her literal mind. "Th the

way things were. Begging to play in some grimy pub, grateful if we got

free beer and chips for pay. Christ, Bev, we're in New York, and after

tomorrow millions of people will have heard us. And it's going to

matter. We're going to matter. It's all I've ever wanted."

She sat up to take his hands. "You've always mattered, Bri."

"No. I was just one more scruffy singer. Not anymore, Bev. And

never again. People listen. The money's going to make it possible for

us to experiment a bit-do more than the boy-girl rock. There's a war

going on, Bev. A whole generation's in upheaval. We can be their

voices."

She didn't understand big, sweeping -dreams, but it had been his

idealism that had attracted her from the beginning. "Just don't leave

me behind."

"I couldn't." He meant it sincerely, completely. "I'm going to give you

the best, Bev. You and the baby. I swear it. I've got to get

dressed." He kissed both her hands, then shook back his tousled hair.

"Pete's really high about us being in the first issue of this new mag

that'll come out in November." He tossed her a tie-dyed T-shirt. "Come

on."

"I thought I'd stay in here."

"Bev . . ." They'd been through all this before. "You're my wife.

People want to know about you, about us." He bit back annoyance when she

simply sat, running the shirt through her hands. "If we give them a

little, they won't hound us for so much." When he said it, he believed

it. "It's especially important because of Emma. I want everyone to see

that we've made ourselves into a family."

"A family should be a private thing."

"Maybe. But the stories about Emma are already out there." He'd seen

them, dozens of them, labeling Emma as a love child. There could be

worse things, he mused, since Emma hadn't been made out of anything

remotely resembling love. It was his other child, he thought as he laid

a gentle hand on Bev's stomach again, who had been made of love. "I

need you with me on this."

Hating it, she climbed out of bed and began to dress.

twenty minutes later, she answered a knock on the door.

"Johnno."

He gave Bev a quick grin. "I knew you couldn't stay away from me."

Swooping her into an exaggerated dip, he kissed her. As she laughed, he

looked over her head to where Brian was coming through the doorway. "Ah

well, he's found us out. We'd better come clean."

"Where'd you get that ridiculous hat?" was all Brian said.

After setting Bev back on her feet, Johnno straightened the floppy white

fedora. "Like it? It's a happening."

"Makes you look like a pimp," Brian commented before he walked to the

bar.

"There. I knew I'd made the right choice. Nearly cost me my life, but

I managed to break out of here and do some shopping on Fifth

Avenue. I'll have one of those, luy." He nodded to the whiskey Brian

was pouring.

"You went out?" Brian stood with the bottle in one hand and a glass in

the other.

"Sunglasses, a flowered tunic He wrinkled his nose. "And love beads.

Worked nicely as far as disguises go, until I tried to get back in. Lost

the love beads." He helped himself to the glass Brian held. With a

pleased sigh, he flopped on the couch. "This is the place for me,

Brian, my lad. I am New York."

"Pete will have your head if he finds you went out on your own."

"Bugger Pete," Johnno said cheerfully. "Though he's not precisely my

style." Grinning, he downed the whiskey. "So, where's the little brat?"

"She's sleeping." Bev picked up a cigarette.

Brian answered the next knock. Stevie strolled in, and after an absent

nod to Bev headed straight to the bar. P.M. followed, and looking a

little pale, dropped into a chair.

"Word from Pete is we'll do the interview here," he said. "He'll be

bringing the reporter along. Where'd you get the hat?" he asked Johnno.

"It's a long, sad story, son." Glancing over, he spotted Emma standing

at the crack in her bedroom door. "Don't look now, but we've company.

Hello there, prune face."

She giggled a little, but didn't come in. At the moment, her eyes were

all for Brian.

He crossed over and, picking her up, patted her bottom. "Emma. How does

it feel to be an international traveler?"

She thought she'd dreamed it, that one moment where he'd tucked her in

bed and kissed her cheek. But it wasn't a dream, because he was there,

smiling at her, his voice making all the nastiness in her stomach

disappear.

"I'm hungry," she said and offered him a huge grin.

"I'm not surprised." He kissed the dimple at the corner of her mouth.

"How about some chocolate cake?"

"Soup," Bev put in.

"Cake and soup," he amended. "And some nice tea."

He set her down to go to the phone and ring room service.

"Come over here, Emma. I have something for yon." Johnno patted the

cushion beside him. She hesitated. Her mother had often said just

that. And the something had been a smack. But Johnno was smiling a

true smile. When she settled beside him, he took a small, clear plastic

egg from his pocket. Inside was a toy ring with a gaudy red stone.

Emma gave a little gasp as he put it in her hand. Speechless, she

turned the egg this way and that, watching the ring slide from side to

side.

It had been a careless thing, Johnno thought. A machine that took

American quarters, and he'd had change left after his speedy shopping

spree. More touched than he wanted the others to see, he opened the egg

for her, then slipped the ring on her finger.

"There. We're engaged."

Emma beamed at the ring, then at him. "Can I sit on your lap?"

"All right then." He leaned close to her ear. "But if you wet your

pants, the engagement's off."

She laughed, settled on his lap, and began to play with her ring.

"First my wife, then my daughter," Brian commented.

"You'd only have to worry if you had a son." Stevie tossed off the words

as easily as he tossed off the drink. Then wished he'd cut off his

tongue. "Sorry," he muttered as the room fell silent. "Hangover. Puts

me in a filthy mood."

At the knock on the door, Johnno gave a lazy shrug. "Better put on that

famous smile, son. It's show time."

Johnno was angry, but hid it well as the young, bearded reporter sat

down with them. They had no idea what it was like, he thought. None of

them, save Brian who had gone to school with him, had befriended him.

The names he'd been called-fag, pussy, queer. They had hurt a great

deal more than the occasional beatings he'd taken. Johnno knew he would

have had his face smashed into a pulp more than once if it hadn't been

for Brian's ready fists and loyalty.

They had been drawn together, two ten-year-old boys with drunken

fathers. Poverty wasn't uncommon in London's east end, and there were

always toughs ready to break an arm for pence. There were ways of

escaping. For both him and Brian, the escape had been music.

Elvis, Chuck Berry, Muddy Waters. They would pool whatever money they

could earn or steal to buy those precious 45s. At twelve, they'd

collaborated on their first song-a really poor one, Johnno remembered

now, lots of moon/June rhymes set to a three-chord rhythm they'd pounded

out on their battered guitar. They'd traded a pint of Brian's father's

gin for that guitar, and Brian had taken an ugly beating. But they'd

made music, such as it was.

Johnno had been nearly sixteen before he realized what he was. He'd

sweated over it, wept over it, pounded himself into any girl who

would have him to turn his fate around. But sweat, tears, and sex

hadn't changed him.

Finally it had been Brian who had helped him to accept. They'd been

drinking, late at night, in the basement of Brian's flat. This time,

Johnno had pinched whiskey from his father. The stench of garbage had

been rank as they sat with a candle between them, passing the bottle

back and forth. On the dented portable record player, Roy Orbison had

been soaring with "Only the Lonely." Johnno's confession had come out

with drunken weeping and wild threats of suicide.

"I'm nothing, and I'll never be nothing else. Living like a bleeding

pig." He'd guzzled whiskey. "My old man stinking up the room and Mum

whining and nagging and never doing nothing to make it change. My

sister's working the streets and my little brother's been arrested twice

this month."

"It's up to us to get out of it," Brian said with boozy philosophy. With

his eyes half closed he listened to Orbison. He wanted to sing like

that, with that otherworldly melancholy. "We've got to make a

difference for ourselves, Johnno. And we will."

"Difference. I can't make it any different. Not unless I kill myself.

Maybe I will. Maybe I'll just do it and be done with it."

"What the bloody hell are you talking about?" Brian searched in their

crumpled pack of Pall Malls and found one.

"I'm queer." Johnno dropped his head on his folded arms and wept.

"Queer?" Brian paused with the match an inch from the tip of the

cigarette. "Come on, Johnno. Don't be daft."

"I said I'm queer." His voice rose as he lifted his tear-stained,

desperate face to Brian. "I like boys. I'm a freaking, flaming fag."

Though he was shaken, the drink was enough of a cushion to make him

open-minded. "You sure?"

"Why the bloody hell would I say it if I wasn't sure? The only reason I

could make it with Alice Ridgeway was because I was thinking of her

brother."

Now that was disgusting, Brian thought, but kept his feelings to

himself. They'd been friends for more than six years, had stood up for

each other, lied for each other, had shared dreams and secrets. Brian

struck another match, lit the cigarette and pondered.

"Well, I suppose if you're made that way, then you're made that way.

Nothing to slit your wrists over."

"You're not queer."

"No." He fervently hoped not-and vowed to spend the next few weeks

proving it to himself with every girl he could charm into spreading her

legs. No, he wasn't queer, he assured himself The sexual acrobatics

he'd experienced with Jane Palmer should have been a good indication of

his preferences. Thinking of her, he hardened and shifted his legs. It

wasn't the time to get horny, but to think of Johnno's problem.

"Lots of people are queer," he said. "Like literary people and artists

and such. We're musicians, so you could think of it as part of your

creative soul."

"That's shit," Johnno mumbled, but wiped his dripping nose.

"Maybe, but it's better than slitting your wrists. I'd have to find a

new partner."

With a ghost of a smile, Johnno picked up the bottle again. "Are we

still partners, then?"

"Sure." Brian passed the cigarette. "As long as I don't start making

you hot and bothered."

And that had been the end of it.

When Johnno took a lover, he took him discreetly, and never discussed

it. His sexual preference was common knowledge within the band, but for

his own privacy, and at Pete's insistence, he cultivated an image of a

heterosexual stud. For the most part, it amused him.

There were regrets, though he hated to acknowledge them. It came to him

now, as he bounced Emma on his lap, that he would never have a child of

his own.

And with frustration, he was forced to admit, as he watched Brian slip

an arm around Bev, that the one man he truly loved would never be his

lover.

EMmA WAs DAZZLED by New York. After a late breakfast where Brian

indulged her with strawberry jam and sugary pastries, she was left in

Bev's hands. It didn't worry her, not this time. Her Dad was going to

be on the telly that night, and he'd promised that she could go to the

place where the telly pictures were made and watch.

In the meantime, she and Bev drove around the city in the big white car.

She giggled at the blond wig and big round sunglasses Bev wore. Though

Bev didn't smile much at first, Emma's excitement soon distracted her.

Emma liked watching the people rush along the sidewalks, jostling each

other, streaming across intersections while horns blared. There were

women in short skirts and high heels, their bouffant hairdos as steady

as carved stones. There were others in denim and sandals, with their

manes of hair hanging straight as rain down their backs. On the corners

there were vendors selling hot dogs and soft drinks and ice cream which

the pedestrians snapped up as the temperature soared outside the cool

cocoon of the limo. There was a nervy aggression to the traffic that

Emma didn't understand but enjoyed.

Unruffled, and proper in his tan uniform and stiff-brimmed hat, the

driver pulled to the curb. He didn't think much of music himself,

unless it was Frank Sinatra or Rosemary Clooney, but he was sure his two

teenagers would go wild when he brought them home autographs at the end

of his two-day job.

"Here we are, ma'am."

"Oh." A little dazed, Bev stared out the window.

"The Empire State Building," he explained with a gesture toward the

doors. "Would you like me to pick you up in an hour?"

"An hour, yes." Bev took Emma's hand firmly in hers when the driver

opened the door. "Come on, Emma. Devastation's not going to the top

alone."

There was a long, winding line, with wailing babies and whining

children. They started at the end, two bodyguards silently falling in

behind, and were soon swallowed up. A group of French students filed in

seconds later, all carrying Macy's shopping bags and talking in their

fast, flowing language. Amid the mix of perfume, sweat, and wet

diapers, Emma caught the dreamy aroma of pot. No one else seemed to

notice or care. They were shuffled onto an elevator.

Long, stuffy minutes later, they were led off to wait again. She didn't

mind. As long as her hand was firmly caught in Bev's, she could crane

her neck and look at all the people. Bald heads, floppy hats, scraggly

beards. When her neck got tired, she switched to shoes. Rope sandals,

shiny wing tips, snowy white sneakers, and black pumps. Some people

shuffled their feet, others tapped, a few shifted from side to side, but

hardly a one was still.

When she grew tired of that, she just listened to the voices. She heard

a group of girls arguing nearby. As teenagers, they had Emma's

immediate envy.

"Stevie Nimmons is the cutest," one of the girls insisted. "He's got

big brown eyes and that groovy mustache."

"Brian McAvoy," another corrected. "He's really fab." To prove her

point, she took a photo, cut from a fan magazine, out of her madras

purse. A communal sigh went up as the girls crowded around it. "Every

time I look at it, I just about die."

They squealed, were glared at, then muffled giggles with their hands.

Both pleased and baffled, Emma looked up at Bev. "Those girls are

talking about Dad."

"Ssh." Bev was amused enough to want to relay the story to Brian, but

she was also aware that she was wearing the wig and sunglasses for a

reason. "I know they are, but we have to keep who we are a secret."

"Why?"

"I'll explain later," she said, relieved when their turn at the

elevators arrived.

Emma's eyes widened when her ears popped as they had on the airplane.

For a moment she was terrified that she would be sick again. She bit her

lip, closed her eyes, and wished desperately for her Dad.

She wished she hadn't come. She wished she'd brought Charlie for

comfort. And she prayed, as fervently as a three-year-old could, that

she wouldn't lose her wonderful breakfast all over her shiny new shoes.

Then the doors opened, and the dreadful swaying motion stopped. Everyone

was laughing and talking and crowding out. eying Bev's tug on her hand,

she kept close to her while still fighting the nausea.

There was a big stand with shelves of bright souvenirs, and wide, wide

windows where she could see the sky and the spread of buildings that was

Manhattan. Dumbfounded, she stood still while people swarmed around

them. Sickness passed into wonder.

"It's something to see, isn't it, Emma?"

"Is it the world?"

Though she was as amazed as Emma, she laughed. "No. Only a small part

of it. Come on then, let's go out."

The wind barreled over them, sending Emma's skirts flying up as she

staggered back. But the sensation excited rather than frightened as

Bev, laughing again, plucked her up.

"We're on top of the world, Emma."

As they looked over the high wall, Emma felt her stomach do playful

little leaps and bounces. It was all spread out below, the crisscross

of streets in the canyons made by the buildings, the tiny cars and buses

that looked like toys. Everything ran so straight and true.

When Bev put a coin in a box, she looked through the telescope, but she

preferred her own view, through her own eyes.

"Can we live here?"

Bev fiddled with the telescope until she focused on the Statue of

Liberty. "Here, in New York?"

"Here. On top."

"No one lives here, Emma."

"Why not?"

"Because it's a tourist attraction," she answered absently. "And one of

the wonders of the world, I think. You can't live in a wonder."

But Emma looked out over the high wall and thought that she could.

THE TELEVISION stuDio didn't impress Emma. It didn't look as pretty or

as big as it did onscreen. The people were ordinary. She did like the

cameras, though. They were big and bulky, and the people behind them

seemed important. She wondered if looking through one of the cameras

was like looking through the telescope on the Empire State Building.

Before she could ask Bev, a skinny man began talking in a loud voice. It

was the oddest American accent she'd heard yet. She couldn't understand

half of what he said, but she caught the word "Devastation." Then came

the explosion of screams.

After the first shock, Emma stopped cringing into Bev's skirts and

leaned out. Though she didn't understand the screaming, she realized it

wasn't a bad sound. It was a good, young noise that bulleted off the

walls and slammed off the ceilings. It made her grin, though Bev's hand

trembled lightly in hers.

She liked the way her father moved across the stage, prancing and

strutting as his voice, strong and clear, merged with Johnno's, then

Stevie's. His hair glowed gold under the bright lights. She was a

child, and easily recognized magic.

As long as she lived she would hold this picture in her mind, and her

heart, of four young men standing on stage, drenched in light, in luck,

and in music.

THREE THOUSAND MiLEs AwAy, Jane sat in her new flat. There was a pint

of Gilbey's and an ounce of Colombian Gold on the table beside her.

She'd lit candles, dozens of them, using those and the drugs to mellow

her mood. Brian's clear tenor played on her stereo.

She'd moved into Chelsea with the money she'd taken from Brian. There

were young people there, musicians and poets and artists, and the ones

who followed them. She thought she would find another Brian in Chelsea.

An idealist with a beautiful face and clever hands.

She could pop off to the pubs whenever she liked, listen to the music,

pick out a likely companion for the night.

She had a six-room flat with shiny new furniture in every room. Her

closets bulged with clothes from fashionable boutiques. On her finger

was a fat diamond ring she'd bought the week before when she'd been

feeling blue. She was already bored with it.

She had thought that one hundred thousand pounds was all the money in

the world. She ran one hand down the silk robe she wore, pleased, very

pleased with its sinuous feel. She'd soon discovered that large amounts

were as easily spent as small ones. She still had enough to last her

awhile, but it hadn't taken long for her to realize she'd sold Emma

cheap.

He'd have paid twice as much, she thought as she nursed her gin. More

than twice, no matter how much the bastard Pete had frowned and

muttered. Brian had wanted Emma. He had a soft spot for children.

She'd known it, but, she thought in disgust, hadn't been clever enough

to exploit it.

A lousy twenty-five thousand a year. How was she supposed to live on

that, she wondered.

A little bleary with gin, she rolled a sloppy joint.

She still took in a john now and then, but that was as much for the

company as the extra cash. She'd had no idea she would miss Emma. As

the weeks passed the concept of motherhood took on new, emotional

meanings.

She'd given birth. She'd changed nasty nappies. She'd spent her

hard-earned money on food and clothes. Now the little brat probably

didn't remember she existed.

She'd hire a solicitor. She'd hire the best with Brian's money. There

was justice in that. There wasn't a court in the country that wouldn't

see that a child belonged with her mother. She'd get Emma back. Or

better, she'd get twice as much money.

Once she'd bled them a bit, Brian and his snotty new wife wouldn't

forget her. No one would forget her, not the stinking press, not the

stupid public, or her own little brat.

With this thought dangling in her mind, she brought out her cache of

Methedrine and prepared to go flying.

EMmA COULDN'T wait much longer. There was a nasty sleet falling

outside, but she continued to press her face against the window to try

to see through it.

They would be coming soon. Johnno had said so. She was wise enough to

know that if she asked him how soon again he'd snarl at her. But she

couldn't wait. After her nose grew cold, she stepped back to dance from

one foot to another. Her Dad was coming home, with Bev, and her new

baby brother. Darren. Her brother's name was Darren. She tried the

name out to herself in a whisper. Just the sound of it made her smile.

Nothing in her life had ever been so huge, so important as having a

brother. He would be her own, and he would need her to tend him, to

look out for him. She'd been practicing for weeks and weeks on the

dolls that now filled her room.

She knew you had to hold their heads ever so carefully, or they fell way

back and broke off. Sometimes babies woke in the middle of the night,

crying for milk. She wouldn't mind, Emma thought. She rubbed her own

flat chest and wondered if Darren would find milk there.

They hadn't let her go to the hospital to see him. That had upset her

so that for the first time since she had come to her new home, Emma had

hidden in a closet. She was still angry about it, but she knew it

mattered very little to adults if children were angry.

Weary of standing, she sat on the window seat to pet Charlie and wait.

She tried to think of other things. Her time in America. Humming to

herself, Emma let herself picture all the things she'd seen. There had

been the big silver arch in St. Louis. There had been the lake in

Chicago that had seemed as big as the ocean to her. And Hollywood.

She'd liked the big white sign, and remembering it, tried to picture all

the letters.

Her father had played at a huge theater there right outside. They had

called it a bowl. She had thought that strange, but it had been fun to

listen to the cheers and screams rising on the open air.

She'd celebrated her birthday, her third birthday, in Hollywood.

Everyone had come to eat the white cake with the little silver balls on

top.

They had gotten into a plane almost every day. And every day it had

scared her, but she'd been able to battle back the sickness. There had

been a lot of people with them. Readies her father called them. Which

seemed silly since they were so often in the air, and not on any road at

all.

She'd liked the hotels best, with room service and new beds almost every

night. She'd liked looking out the window at new places and new people

every morning.

With a yawn, she settled back with the dog snuggled under her arm.

When they went to a hotel again, Darren could go with them. Everyone

would love him.

Watching the sleet made her sleepy. And she thought of Christmas. It

had been the first she'd ever had with a stocking hanging from the

mantel with her name on it. Under the tree they had decorated had been

stacks and stacks of presents. Thys and games and dolls in pretty

dresses. They'd all played Snakes and Ladders in the afternoon. Even

Stevie. He'd pretended to cheat to make her laugh, then had taken her

on a screaming piggyback ride through the house.

Afterward her father had carved a big Christmas goose. When gluttony

had made her sleepy, she had curled up in front of the fire and had

listened to the music.

It had been the best day of her life. The very best. Until this one.

The sound of a car roused her. Pressing her face against the window

again she peered out. With a screech, she leaped off the seat.

"Johnno! Johnno! They're here." She went flying down the hallway, her

shoes clattering on the wood floor that had been painstakingly

refinished and polished.

"Hold on." Johnno stopped scribbling the lyrics that had been playing in

his head to catch her on the run. "Who's here?"

"My Dad and Bev and my baby."

"Your baby, is it?" He tugged on her nose, then turned to Stevie

who was experimenting with chords at the piano. "Shall we go welcome

the newest McAvoy?"

"Be right along."

"I'm coming." P.M. stuffed the last of a tea cake into his mouth before

he rose from the floor. "Wonder if they managed to get out of the

hospital without being mobbed."

"The precautions Pete took makes James Bond look like a piker. TWo decoy

limos, twenty burly guards, and the final escape in a florist truck."

With a laugh, he started down the hall with Emma in tow. "Fame makes

beggars of us, Emma luy, and don't you forget."

She didn't care about fame or beggars or anything else. She only wanted

to see her brother. The moment the door opened, she pulled her sweaty

hand from Johnno's and shot down the hall.

"Let me see him," she demanded.

Brian bent over, shifting the blanket from the bundle in his arms. For

Emma, the first sight of her brother was love. Unconditional,

allencompassing. It was so much more than anything she'd expected.

He wasn't a doll. Even as he slept she could see the gentle flutter of

his dark lashes. His mouth was small and moist, his skin thin and

delicately pale. He wore a little blue cap over his head, but her

father had told her that he had hair as dark as Bev's. His hand was

curled in a fist, and she touched it, gently, with her fingertips.

Warmth, and the faintest of movements.

Love burst through her like light.

"What do you think?" Brian asked her.

"Darren." She said the name softly, savoring it. "He's the most

beautiful baby in the world."

"Got that pretty McAvoy face," Johnno murmured, feeling foolishly

sentimental. "Nice job, Bev."

"Thanks." And she was glad it was done. None of the books she had read

had prepared her for the exquisite, draining pain of childbirth. She was

proud to have brought her son into the world naturally, though it had

been touch and go during those last hours. Now she wanted nothing more

than to settle down and be a mother.

"The doctor doesn't want Bev on her feet much for the next few days,"

Brian began. "Do you want to go up and rest?"

"The last thing I want is to get into another bed."

"Come on in and sit then, and Uncle Johnno will fix you a nice cup."

"Beautiful."

"I'll go up and put the baby down." Brian grinned at the way P.M.

stood back and gawked. "He doesn't bite, old man. He doesn't have

teeth."

P.M. grinned and stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Just don't ask me

to touch him for a while."

"Entertain Bev. She really had a rough go of it. We've got a nurse

coming in this afternoon, but I don't want her doing anything strenuous

in the meantime."

"That I can handle." He wandered back toward the parlor.

"We'll put the baby to sleep," Emma announced and kept one hand on the

edge of the blanket. "I can show you how."

They started up the stairs with Emma leading the way.

The nursery had been finished with frilly white curtains and rainbows

painted on the pale blue walls. The bassinet had a skirt of snowy Irish

lace dotted with satin ribbons of pink and blue. An old-fashioned pram

stood in the corner guarded by a six-foot teddy bear. An antique rocker

waited by the window.

Emma stood beside the bassinet as her father laid Darren down. Once the

little cap was removed, she reached in to carefully stroke his downy

black hair.

"Will he wake up soon?"

"I don't know. I get the feeling babies are pretty unpredictable."

Brian crouched down beside her. "We have to be very careful with him,

Emma. He's so helpless, you see."

"I won't let anything happen to him, not ever." She put her hand on her

father's shoulder and watched the baby sleep.

EMMA WASN'T SURE she liked Miss Wallingsford. The young nurse had

pretty red hair and nice gray eyes, but she rarely allowed Emma to touch

baby Darren. Bev had interviewed dozens of applicants, and was well

satisfied with Alice Wallingsford. She was twenty-five, of good family,

and had excellent references and a pleasing manner.

In the first months after Darren's birth, Bev was so tired and moody

Alice's services became invaluable. More, she was another woman to talk

with about things like teething, breastfeeding, and diets. Bev was as

determined to gain back her willowy figure as she was to be a good

mother. With Brian closed up writing songs with Johnno, or in meetings

with Pete about the next recording, she struggled to make the home she

wanted so badly for them.

She listened when he spoke of things like war in Asia, race riots in

America, but her world centered on whether the sun would shine

warm enough to take Darren for a stroll. She taught herself how to bake

bread and tried her hand at knitting, while Brian wrote songs, and spoke

out against war and bigotry.

As her body returned to normal, her mind eased. For Bev, this was the

sweetest time of her life. Her son was chubbily healthy, and her

husband treated her like a princess in bed.

With Darren at her breast and Emma at her feet, she rocked in the chair

by the nursery window. There had been rain that morning, but the sun

was out now, and bright. She thought that by afternoon she could take

the baby and Emma for a walk in the park.

"I'm going to put him down now, Emma." Bev shifted her blouse to cover

her breast. "He's fast asleep."

"Can I hold him when he wakes up?"

"Yes, but only when I'm with you."

"Miss Wallingsford never lets me hold him."

"She's just being cautious." Bev smoothed the blanket over Darren before

she stepped back. He was nearly five months old now, she thought.

Already she couldn't imagine her life without him. "Let's go down and

see about baking a nice cake. Your Dad loves chocolate cake."

Knowing she had to be satisfied with that, Emma followed her out.

Alice paused in the hallway, holding fresh linens for the nursery.

"He should sleep awhile, Alice," Bev told her. "His tummy's full."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Emma and I will be in the kitchen."

An hour later, when they'd taken the cake out to cool, the front door

slammed. "Your Dad must be home early." Bev automatically fluffed her

hair before she hurried out of the kitchen to greet him. "Bri, I didn't

expect you until . . . what's wrong?"

He was dead pale, his eyes red-rimmed and bleary. He shook his head as

if to clear it as Bev held out her hands to him. "They've shot him."

"What?" Her fingers clamped down hard on his. "Who? Shot who?"

"Kennedy. Robert Kennedy. They've killed him."

"Oh my God. Oh sweet God." She could only stand and stare, horrified.

She remembered when the American president had been killed, and the

shocked world had mourned. Now his brother, his bright, young brother.

"We were rehearsing for the album," Brian began. "Pete came in.

He'd heard it on the radio. None of us believed it, not until we'd

heard it ourselves. Goddamnit, Bev, just a few months ago it was King,

and now this. What's happening to the world?"

"Mr. McAvoy . . ." Alice started down the stairs, her face as white

as her apron. "Is it true? Are you certain?"

"Yes. It should be just a nightmare, but it's true."

"Oh, that poor family." Alice wrung her apron in her hands. "That poor

mother."

"He was a good man," Brian managed. "He would have been their next

president. He would have stopped that bloody war, I know it."

It disturbed Emma to see tears in her father's eyes. The adults were

much too involved with their own grief to notice her. She didn't know

anyone named Kennedy, but she was sorry he was dead. She wondered if he

had been a friend of her Dad's. Maybe he'd been a soldier in the war

her father always talked about.

"Alice, fix some tea. Please," Bev murmured as she led Brian toward the

parlor.

"What kind of a world have we brought our children into? When will they

understand, Bev? When will they finally understand?"

Emma went upstairs to sit with Darren and leave the adults to their

tears and tea.

They found her there, in the nursery, an hour later. She was singing

one of the lullabies Bev often sang at bedtime while she rocked Darren.

Panicked, Bev started in, only to have Brian catch her arm. "No,

they're fine. Can't you see?" It eased some of the rawness inside him

to watch them. Emma rocked with her feet dangling far from the floor,

and the baby carefully supported in her arms.

Emma looked up and smiled beautifully. "He was crying, but he's happy

now. He smiled at me." She leaned over to kiss his cheek as he gurgled.

"He loves me, don't you, Darren?"

"Yes, he loves you." Brian moved over to kneel in front of the rocker

and wrap his arms around both of them. "Thank God for all of you," he

said as he held out a hand for Bev. "I think I'd go mad without you."

BRLm KEPT HIS FATLILY CLOSER during the next weeks. Whenever possible,

he worked at home, and even toyed with the idea of adding a recording

studio onto the house. The war in Southeast Asia preyed on his mind.

The horrible and useless fighting in his homeland of Ireland tore at

him. His records soared up the chart, but the satisfaction that

had rushed through him in the early days paled. He used his music both

as a projection of his feelings and a buffer against the worst of them.

His need for family kept him level.

They were sanity, he was certain.

It was Bev who gave him the idea to take Emma to the recording studio.

They were about to lay the first tracks for their third album. An album

Brian considered even more important than their debut. This time, he

had to prove that Devastation wasn't a fluke, nor a pale imitation that

was clinging to the coattails of groups like the Beatles and Rolling

Stones. He had to prove to himself that the magic, which had dimmed so

during that last year, would still be there.

He wanted something unique, a sound distinctively their own. He'd

shuffled aside a dozen solid rock numbers he and Johnno had written.

They could wait. Despite Pete's objections, the rest of the group was

behind him in his decision to pepper the cuts with political statements,

down-and-dirty rebel rock, and Irish folk songs. Electric guitars and

penny whistles.

When Emma walked into the studio, she had no notion she was being

allowed to witness the making of music history. To her, she was

spending the day with her Dad and his mates. It seemed like an enormous

game to her, the equipment, the instruments, the tall glass room. She

sat in a big swivel chair, sipping a Coke straight from the bottle.

"Don't you think the tyke's going to get a bit bored?" Johnno asked as

he fiddled with the electric organ. He wore two rings now, the diamond

on one pinky and a fat sapphire on the other.

"If we can't entertain one little girl, we'd best pack it in." Brian

adjusted the strap of his guitar. "Anyway, I want to keep her close

awhile. Jane's making noise again."

"Bitch," Johnno said mildly, then picked up a glass of Coke liberally

laced with rum.

"She won't get anywhere this time either, but it's a nuisance." He cast

a quick look at Emma and saw she was occupied with talking to Charlie.

"She's trying to say she was tricked into signing the papers. Pete's

handling it."

"She just wants more money."

With a grim smile, Brian nodded. "She won't get more out of Pete. Or

out of me. Let's have a sound check here."

"Hello there, Enmy luy." Stevie stopped beside her to poke a finger into

her belly. "You auditioning for the band?"

"I'm going to watch." She stared up at him, fascinated by the gold hoop

he now wore in his ear.

"That's fine, then. We always do better with an audience. Tell me

something, Emmy." He bent down close, whispering. "Truth and nothing

but. Who's the best of thig lot here?"

It had become a standard game by this time. Knowing the rules, Emma

looked up, then down, then side to side. Hunching her shoulders, she

bellowed, "Dad!"

It earned her a snort of disgust and a lot of tickled ribs. Struggling

not to wet her pants, she squirmed to the back of the chair.

"It's illegal in this country to brainwash children," Stevie said as he

joined Brian.

"The kid has taste."

"Right, all bad." He took his Martin out of its case and ran loving

fingers down the neck. "What's on first?"

"We'll lay down the instrumentals o. "Outcry."$

"Saving the best for first." With a nod, Stevie sped through some

experimental chords. "Let's get to work, mates."

Of the four, Stevie was the only one who had grown up with real money,

in a true house with a garden and two live-in servants. He was used to

the finer things, expected them and was easily bored with them. He'd

fallen in love with the guitar, and had made his proper parents rue the

day they had given it to him.

At fifteen, he'd formed his own band. Stevie and the Rousers. It had

lasted six months before bitter infighting had broken it up. Undaunted,

he'd formed another, then another. His natural, flashy talent with the

guitar had drawn many hopefuls to him. But then they'd looked to him

for leadership that he'd been innately incapable of providing.

He'd come across Brian and Johnno at a party in Soho, one of those

candlelit, smoke-and-incense-choked gatherings his parents were

terrified of. He'd been attracted immediately to Brian's intensity

about music, and Johnno's caustic, careless wit. For the first time in

his life, Stevie had joined instead of formed. He'd followed Brian's

lead with relief.

There had been lean days, grubbing in pubs begging for a chance to play.

There had been heady days spent writing songs and creating music. There

had been women, gloriously sweaty acres of them ready to fall on their

backs for a fair-haired man with a guitar in his hand.

There had been Sylvie, the girl he had met on their first gig in

Amsterdam. Pretty, round-checked Sylvie with her broken English

and guileless eyes. They'd made love like maniacs in a filthy little

room where the roof leaked and the windows were coated with grime. He'd

fallen in love, as much as he believed himself capable. He'd even

entertained ideas about bringing her back to London with him, setting up

house in some cramped cold-water flat.

But Sylvie had gotten pregnant.

He remembered when she'd told him, her face pale and her eyes full of

hope and fear. He hadn't wanted children. Good Christ, he'd only been

twenty. His music had come first, had had to. And if his parents had

discovered he'd fathered a child with a Dutch cocktail waitress . . .

It had been lowering to realize that no matter how far he'd run, how

much he'd protested, what his parents thought had still mattered so

much.

Pete had arranged for an abortion, discreetly, expensively. Sylvie,

with the tears flowing down her cheeks, had done what he'd asked. Once

she had, she had walked out of his life. Until she had gone, Stevie

hadn't realized he'd loved her even more than he'd believed himself

capable.

He didn't want to think of it, hated to remember it, and her. But just

lately it had begun preying on his mind. It probably had to do with

Emma, he thought as he glanced over and saw her sitting flushed and

delighted in her swivel chair. His child, whatever it had been, would

have been about her age now.

The day in the studio was fun for Emma. So much fun her only regret was

that Darren wasn't there to share it. Watching her father and his

friends play now was different from seeing them in the theaters and

auditoriums across America. There was a different energy here. She

didn't understand it, but she felt it.

On tour, Emma had begun to see them as a unit, like a body with four

heads. The picture that made in her mind made her laugh to herself, but

it seemed a true one. Today, they argued, and swore, joked or just sat

silently during playbacks. She didn't know the meaning of the technical

terms being tossed back and forth-didn't need to. She amused herself

when they huddled together, or was amused by them when they took a

moment to tease her. She ate gobs of greasy chips and bloated her belly

with Cokes.

During a break she sat on P.M."s lap and bashed away at the drums. She

said her name into one of the mikes and heard her voice echo through the

room. With a spare drumstick in her hand, she dozed in the swivel

chair, her head pillowed on the faithful Charlie. And she awoke to her

father's voice, soaring in a ballad of tragic love.

Spellbound she watched, rubbing the sleep from her eyes and yawning into

Charlie's fur. Her heart was too young to be touched by the lyrics. But

the sound reached her. She would never hear the song again without

remembering the moment when she'd awakened to hear his voice filling her

head. Filling the world.

When he had finished, she forgot that she was supposed to be quiet.

Bouncing on the chair, she clapped her hands together. "Dad!"

In the engineering booth, Pete swore, but Brian held up a hand. "Leave

that on." With a laugh, he turned to Emma. "Leave it on," he repeated

as he held out his arms to her. When she reached them, he tossed her

into the air. "What do you think, Emma? I've just made you a star."

IF BRmN's FAITH in man had been shaken in 1968 with the assassination of

Martin Luther King, then Robert Kennedy, it was expanded during the

summer of 1969 with Woodstock. It was a celebration for him of youth

and music, of love and brotherhood. It symbolized the chance to turn

around the year of bloodshed and war, of riots and discontent. He knew,

as he stood on stage and looked out at the sea of bodies, that he would

never do anything so huge or so memorable again.

Even as it thrilled him to be there, to leave his mark, it left him by

turns depressed and terrified that the decade, and its spirit, were

ending.

He rushed through his three days in upstate New York at a fever pitch of

emotional and creative energy, fueled by the atmosphere, heightened by

the drugs that were as handy as popcorn at a Saturday matinee, and

pushed by his own fears about where success had taken him. He spent an

entire night alone in the trailer the band used, composing for a

marathon fourteen-hour stint while cocaine stormed through his system.

On one illuminating afternoon he sat in the woods with Stevie, listening

to the music and the cheers of four hundred thousand. With the help of

LSD he saw whole universes created in a maple leaf.

Brian embraced Woodstock, the concept of it, the reality of it. His

only regret was that nothing he had said had persuaded Bev to come with

them. She was, once again, waiting for him. This time she waited in

the house they had bought in the Hollywood hills. Brian's love affair

with America was just beginning, and his second American tour felt like

a homecoming. It was the year of the rock festival, a phenomenon Brian

saw as demonstrating the strength of rock culture.

He wanted, needed, to recapture that towering high of excitement when

success had been new, when the band, the unit of them, had been like one

electric force smashing through the world of music and public

recognition. Over the past year, he had sensed that electricity, that

unity, slipping away like the sixties themselves. He'd felt it forge

again at Woodstock.

When they boarded the plane, leaving the faithful at Woodstock behind,

Brian fell into an exhausted sleep. Beside him, Stevie carelessly

popped a couple of barbiturates and zoned out. Johnno settled back to

play poker with some of the road crew. Only P.M. sat restlessly by the

window.

He wanted to remember everything. It annoyed him that unlike Brian, he

saw beneath the symbolism and statement of the festival to the miserable

conditions. The mud, the garbage, the lack of proper sanitary

facilities. The music, good Christ, the music had been wonderful,

almost unbearably so, but often, too often, he'd felt the audience had

been too blissed out to notice.

Still, even someone as pragmatic and simple as P.M. had felt the sense

of commitment and unity. Of peace-a peaceful trio of days with four

hundred thousand living as family. But there had also been dirt,

prolific and heedless sex, and a careless abundance of drugs.

Drugs frightened him. He couldn't admit it, not even to the men he

considered his brothers. Drugs made him sick or silly or put him to

sleep. He took them only when he saw no graceful way not to. He was in

turn amazed and appalled at the cheerfulness with which Brian and Stevie

experimented with whatever came their way. And he was more than a

little frightened by the ease with which Stevie was quietly, and

consistently, shooting smack into his veins.

Johnno was more particular about what he pumped into his system, but

Johnno's personality was so strong no one would laugh at him for

refusing to indulge in acid or speed or snow.

P.M. knew personality wasn't his strong point. He wasn't even a

musician, not like the others. Oh, he knew he could hold his own with

any drummer out there. He was good, damn good. But he couldn't write

music, couldn't read it. His mind didn't run to poetry or political

statements.

He wasn't handsome. Even now, at twenty-three, he was plagued by

occasional outbreaks of pimples.

Despite what he considered his many disadvantages, he was part of one of

the biggest, most successful rock groups in the world. He had friends,

good and true ones, who would stand for him. In two years, he had

earned more money than he had ever expected to make in the whole of his

life.

And he was careful with it. P.M."s father ran a small repair shop in

London. He knew about business and books. Of the four he was the only

one who ever asked Pete questions about expenses and profits. He was

certainly the only one who bothered to read any of the forms or

contracts they signed.

Having money pleased him, not only because he could send checks home-a

kind of tangible proof to his doubting parents that he could succeed. It

pleased him to have it jingling in his pocket.

He hadn't grown up as poor as Johnno and Brian, but he'd been a long way

from knowing the comforts of Stevie's childhood.

Now they were on their way to Texas. Another festival in a year crammed

with them. He didn't mind really. After that, it would be another

performance in another city. They were all blurring together, the

months, the stages. Yet he didn't want it to stop. When it did, he was

desperately afraid he would sink back to obscurity.

He knew that when the summer was well and truly over, they would head to

California, to Hollywood. For a few weeks, they would live among the

movie stars. And for a few weeks, he thought with twinges of guilt and

pleasure, he would be close to Bev. The only person P.M. loved more

than Brian was Brian's wife.

EMmA SET UP THE LETMRED BLOCKS. She was very proud of the fact that she

was learning to read and spell, and was determined to teach Darren.

"E-M-M-A," she said, tapping each block in turn. "Emma. Say'Emma."$

"Ma!" Laughing, Darren pushed the blocks into a jumbled pile. "Ma Ma."

"Em-ma." But she leaned over to kiss him. "Here's an easy one."

She set up two blocks. "D-A. Dad."

"Dad. Dad, Dad, Dad!" Delighted with himself, Darren climbed onto his

sturdy legs to race to the doorway and look for Brian.

"No, Dad's not there now, but Mum's in the kitchen. We're having a big

party tonight, to celebrate the new album being finished. We'll be

going home to England soon."

She was looking forward to it, though she liked the house in America

just as much as the castle outside of London. For more than a year she

and her family had flown back and forth over the ocean as casually as

other families drove across town.

She had turned six in the autumn of 1970, and had a proper British

tutor, at Bev's insistence. When they settled back in England again,

she knew she would go to school with others her age. The idea was both

frightening and wonderful.

"When we get back home, I'm going to learn lots more, and teach you

everything." As she spoke, she piled the blocks into a neat tower.

"Look, here's your name. The best name. Darren."

On a cry of glee, he pranced back to crouch and study the letters. "D,

A, Z, L, M, N, 0, P. " After sending Emma a wicked smile, he swooped

his arm through it. Blocks crashed and tumbled. "Darren!"

he shouted. "Darren McAvoy."

"You can say that well enough, can't you, boy-o?" In three years, the

flow and cadence of her voice had come to mirror Brian's. She smiled as

she began to build something a little more intricate for him to

demolish.

He was the light of her life, her little brother with his dark thick

hair and laughing sea-green eyes. At two, he had the face of a

Botticelli cherub and the energy of a demon. He'd done everything

early, crawling weeks before the baby books had warned Bev to expect it.

His face had been on the cover of Newsweek, Photoplay, and Rolling

Stone. The world had an ongoing love affair with Darren McAvoy. He had

the blood of Irish peasants and staunch British conservatives in his

veins, but he was a prince. No matter how careful Bev was, the

paparazzi managed to snap new pictures of him on a weekly basis. And the

fans clamored for more.

They sent him truckloads of toys which Bev meticulously shipped off to

hospitals and orphanages. Offers poured in for endorsements. Baby food,

a line of children's clothing, a chain of toy stores. They were

unilaterally refused. Through all the attention and adulation, Darren

remained a happy, healthy toddler, who was currently enjoying, with

relish, his terrible twos. If he had known about the attention, no

doubt he would have cheerfully agreed he deserved it.

"This is the castle," Emma told him as she arranged blocks. "And you're

the king."

"I'm the king." He plopped down to bounce on his padded bottom.

"Yes. King Darren the First."

"First," he repeated. He knew very well the meaning of that word, and

enjoyed being put there. "Darren's first."

"You're a very good king and kind to all the animals." She pulled the

ever faithful Charlie closer. Dutifully, Darren bent to give him a wet

kiss. "And here are all your good and courageous knights." Meticulously

she set up dolls and stuffed toys. "There's Dad and Johnno, Stevie and

P.M. And here's Pete. He's, ah . . . prime minister. This is the

beautiful Lady Beverly." Pleased, Emma posed her favored ballerina doll.

"Mum." Darren kissed the doll in turn. "Mum's pretty."

"She's the prettiest lady in the world. There's a horrible witch after

her, who locked her in a tower." Emma had a vague image of her own

mother, but it passed quickly. "All the knights go out to save her."

Making galloping noises, she pushed the toys toward the doll. "But only

Sir Dad can break the spell."

"Sir Dad." The combination of words struck Darren as so funny he rolled

and smashed the castle.

"Well, if you're going to go around knocking down your own castle, I

give up."

"Ma." Darren wrapped his arms around her and squeezed. "My Ma Ma. Let's

play farm."

"All right, but we have to pick up the blocks or prissy Miss

Wallingsford will come in and say we're noisy, messy children."

"Pissy. Pissy. Pissy."

"Darren." Emma clapped both hands over her mouth and giggled. "Don't say

that."

Because it made her laugh, he said it again, at the top of his voice.

"What a word to come out of a nursery." Not sure if she should be amused

or stern, Bev stopped in the doorway.

"He means prissy," Emma explained.

"I see." Bev held out her arms as Darren ran to her. "That's a very

important r, my lad. And what are you two up to?"

"We were playing castle, but Darren liked knocking it down better."

"Darren the Destructor." Bev nuzzled against his neck until he squealed

with laughter. His little legs locked around her so that she could hold

him in his favorite position. Upside down.

She hadn't known it was possible to love so much. Even the passion she

felt for Brian paled beside the love she felt for her son. He gave back

without even knowing he was giving. It was simply there, a hug, a kiss,

or a smile. Always at the right time. He was the best and brightest

part of her life.

"Here now, go help your sister tidy up the bloicks."

"I can do it."

After setting Darren down, Bev smiled at Emma. "He has to learn

to pick up his own messes, Emma. However much you and I would like to

do for him always."

She watched them together, the delicate, fair-headed girl and the dark,

sturdy boy. Emma was a neat, well-mannered child who no longer hid in

closets. Brian had made a difference for her. And Bev hoped she

herself had had a hand in forming Emma into the bright, cheerful child

she was today. But it was Darren, she knew, who had truly tipped the

scales. In her devotion to him, Emma forgot to be frightened, she

forgot to be shy. In turn, Darren loved her completely.

Even as a baby, he had stopped crying more quickly if Emma soothed him.

Each day the bond between them only strengthened.

Bev had been pleased the day a few months before when Emma had begun to

call her Mum. It was a rare thing for her to look at Emma and think of

her as Jane's child now. She didn't, couldn't, feel for Emma the fierce

almost desperate love she felt for Darren, but the love she did feel was

warm and steady.

Because he liked the clattering they made, Darren dropped the blocks

back in their box. "D," he said, holding his favorite letter over the

opening. "Dog, drum, Darren!" He let it fly, satisfied when his letter

made the most noise. Certain he'd done his duty, he hopped on his red

and white rocking horse and headed west.

"We were going to play farm." Emma took the big Fisher-Price barn and

silo off the shell It only took the word "farm" to have Darren leaping

off his horse. He dragged off the top to shake the animals and

round-faced people out of the silo.

"Let's go, let's go," he chanted while his still clumsy fingers

struggled to set the white plastic fence pieces straight.

Emma steadied his hand before she glanced up at Bev. "Can you play,

too?"

She had a million things to do, Bev thought, with all the people Brian

had asked over that evening. In a few hours, the house would be full.

It always seemed to be full, as if Brian were afraid to spend a few

hours in his own company. What he was running from, she didn't know,

and doubted that he did.

When we get back to London, she thought. Everything would click into

place again when they got home.

She looked down at the children, her children. And laughed.

"I'd love to play."

An hour later Brian found them as the turkey rug which stood in for the

cornfield was plowed under by a fleet of Tonka trucks. Before he could

speak, Emma was scrambling up.

"Dad's home." She rushed forward, ending on a bound, sure that his arms

would be there to catch her.

He scooped her up, planting a noisy kiss on her cheek before sweeping

his free atm around Darren. "Give us a big one," he told Darren, then

staggered as the boy pressed a hard, wet kiss on his chin. Hefting them

both, Brian stepped around the white plastic fences and stubby figures

spread around the floor.

"Farming again?"

"It's Darren's favorite." Bev waited for him to sit, then grinned. Brian

was always at his best in the circle of his family. "I'm afraid you've

just plopped down smack in the manure pile."

"Oh?" He leaned over to pull her against him. "Wouldn't be the first

time I've sat in shit."

"Shit," Darren repeated, his diction perfect.

"Good going," Bev murmured.

Brian only grinned and tickled his son's ribs. "So what's the plan?"

She settled back as Darren wiggled out of Brian's hold to sit in her

lap. "We're plowing under the corn since we've decided to plant

soybeans."

"Very wise. Quite the gentleman farmer, aren't you, old man?" He poked

a finger into Daffen's pudgy stomach. "We'll have to take that trip to

Ireland. Then you can ride on a real tractor."

"Let's go. Let's go." Darren bounced on Bev's lap, chanting his

favorite phrase.

"Darren can't ride on a tractor until he's bigger," Emma said, sedately

folding her hands over her knee.

"Quite right." With a smile, Bev nodded toward Brian. "Just like he

can't use the cricket bat or the bicycle someone bought him."

"Women," Brian said to Darren. "They don't understand macho stuff."

"Pissy," Darren recited, pleased with his new word.

"I beg your pardon?" Brian managed over a laugh.

"Don't ask." After a quick hug, Bev set Darren aside. "Let's clean up

this business so we can go have our tea."

"Excellent idea." Brian sprung up and grabbed Bev's hand. "Emma, you're

in charge, luy. Mum and I have something to do before tea."

"Brian-"

"Miss Wallingsford's just downstairs." He continued to pull Bev from the

room. "Don't forget to wash up."

"Brian, the nursery's in a shambles."

"Emma'll take care of it. She's tidy as a pin." He pulled Bev into the

bedroom. "Besides, she likes to."

"Even so, I-" She caught his hands as he started to tug off her T-shirt.

"Bri, we can't do this now. I've a million things to see to."

"And this is top of the list." He closed his mouth over hers, pleased

when her halfhearted struggles ceased.

"It was top of the list last night," she murmured, running her hands

down to his hips. "And again this morning."

"It's always top of the list." He unhooked her jeans.

It amazed him how small, how firm she was. After two children. No, one

child, he reminded himself He often forgot, perhaps deliberately, that

she hadn't given birth to Emma. No matter how familiar her body became,

touching her like this took him back to their first nights together.

They'd come a long way from a two-room flat with a single creaky bed.

They owned a pair of homes now, in two countries, but the sex was as

strong and sweet as it had been when he had had nothing in his pockets

but desperate hopes and shiny dreams.

They rolled over the bed, limbs tangled, mouths growing hungrier. As she

rose over him, he watched her aching pleasure reflected on her face.

She'd changed so little. Her hair swung to her shoulders now, sleek and

straight. Her skin was milk pale, delicately flushed from the passion

that heated it. Pushing up, he circled her breasts with slow, whispery

kisses. When her head fell back, he sucked greedily, excited by the

small, helpless sounds she made.

With Bev, he wanted the beauty. With Bev, he found it.

Gripping her hips, he lifted her up and onto him, letting her set the

pace. Letting her take him exactly where he wanted to go.

Nm&D, SHE STRETCHED then curled up against him. With her eyes half

closed she could see the sun pouring through the windows. She wanted to

pretend it was morning, some lazy morning, when they could stay just as

they were for hours.

"I didn't think I'd like staying here this time, for all these months

while you recorded. But it's been wonderful."

"We can stay a bit longer." His energy was beginning to build, as it

always did after making love with her. "We could take a few weeks, lie

around, go to Disneyland again."

"Darren already thinks it's his own personal amusement park."

"Then we'll have to build him one." He rolled over, propping himself on

his elbow. "Bev, I had a quick meeting with Pete before I came home.

"Outcry' has gone platinum."

"Oh, Bri. That's marvelous."

"It's more than marvelous. I was right." He pulled her by the shoulders

until she sat beside him. "People are listening, really listening.

"Outcry' has become like an anthem for the antiwar movement. It's

making a difference." He didn't hear the faint desperation in his voice,

the desperation of a man trying to convince himself "We're going to

release another single from the album.. "Love Lost,' I think, though

Pete's muttering about it not being commercial enough."

"It's so sad."

"That's the point." The words snapped out, and he bit off the impatient

rest to continue more calmly. "I'd like to pipe it into Parliament and

the Pentagon and the U.N., all those places where the smug, fat bastards

make decisions. We need to do something, Bev. If people listen to me

because I have hit records, then I have to make sure I have something

important to say."

IN mE PEWHOUSE HE'D RENMD in the heart of L.A., Pete Page sat at his

desk and considered the possibilities. Like Brian, he was delighted

with "Outcry"'s success. With him it was a matter of sales generated

more than social conscience. But that's what they paid him for.

As he had predicted only three years before, Brian and the others were

very rich. He was going to see to it that they all became a great deal

richer.

Their music was sterling. He had known that since he'd listened to

their first demo six years before. It had been a little rough, a little

raw, and exactly the right sound for its time. He had already managed

two other groups to solid record contracts, but Devastation had been his

chance'for glory.

He had needed them. They had vieeded him. He'd gone on the road with

them, sat in dives, hustled record producers, called in all of his

markers. It had paid off far beyond his initial expectations. But his

expectations were flexible. He wanted more for them. He wanted more

for himself.

The band, individually and as a group, was beginning to worry him. They

wandered off on their own too much these days, Johnno with his frequent

trips to New York, Stevie spending weeks at a time God

knew where. P.M. was always within arm's reach, but he was taken up in

an affair with some ambitious starlet. Pete no longer believed it was a

fling. There was Brian, of course, spouting antiwar politics at the

drop of a hat.

They were a band, dammit, a rock and roll band, and what they did

separately affected what they did as a group. What they did as a group

affected their sales. Already they were backing off planning a tour

after the new album was released.

He wasn't going to see them cracked down the middle as the Beatles had

been.

After a deep breath, he settled back to think about them, as they had

been, and as they were.

It pleased him to see Johnno's collection of cars. The Bentley, the

Rolls, the Ferrari. There was one thing about Johnno, Pete thought with

a small smile. The man knew how to enjoy money. He'd nearly stopped

worrying that Johnno's sexual preferences would leak. Over the years

Pete had gained a strong respect for Johnno's intelligence, common

sense, and talent.

No, he didn't have to worry about Johnno, Pete decided as he glanced

over the papers on his desk. He was one who could keep his private

affairs private. And the public loved him for his outlandish outfits

and glib tongue.

Then there was Stevie. The drugs were a bit of a problem. It wasn't

affecting his performance, yet, but he had noticed that Stevie's mood

swings were wider and more frequent. He'd been stoned during the last

two recording sessions, and even Brian, no slouch in the drug department

himself, had been annoyed.

Yes, he'd have to keep his eye on Stevie.

P.M. was as dependable as a sunrise. It was true that Pete was by

turns amused and irked that the drummer pored over every word in a

contract. But the boy was investing his money well, and earned Pete's

respect there. It had also been a surprise, a pleasant and profitable

one, when the girls took so giddily to his homely face. Where Pete had

once worried that P.M. would prove the weak link, he had turned out to

be one of the strongest.

Brian. Pete poured himself two fingers of Chivas Regal, sat back in his

overstuffed leather chair and considered. Brian was, without doubt, the

heart and soul of the group. He was the creative drive, the conscience.

It had been fortunate that the business with Emma hadn't set them back.

Pete had worried about it, then had been delighted when the

whole affair had generated sympathy, and record sales. True, Pete still

had to cross swords with Jane Palmer from time to time, but the mess had

never put a dent in the group's popularity. Nor had Brian's marriage.

It had frustrated Pete that he hadn't been able to portray the group as

four young, single men. But Brian's family life had turned into a

bounty of press.

The pity was the peace rallies, the speeches. Brian's affection for the

Students for a Democratic Society, his outspoken support of American

draft dodgers. They'd nearly had the cover of 7-ime before Brian had

popped off with a few ill-chosen criticisms of the Chicago Seven trial.

Pete understood the power of the press, how one careless statement could

have the masses, the record-buying masses, turning against you. John

Lennon had opened his own can of worms a few years earlier with an

offhand, sarcastic comment about the Beaties being bigger than Jesus.

Brian had come close, too close, to making the same mistake.

He was entitled to his politics, of course, Pete thought as he sipped

his whisky. But there was a point where personal beliefs and public

success parted ways. Between Stevie's enchantment with drugs and

Brian's idealism, there was bound to be a disaster.

There were ways to avoid it, of course, and he had already begun to

consider a few. He needed the public to see Stevie not just as a

drugged-out rocker, but as an extraordinary musician. He needed them to

see Brian as not only a peacenik but a devoted father.

With the right balance of images, not only the youth would be buying

records and magazines but their parents as well.

THEY STAYED iN California another two weeks, basking in long, lazy days,

making love in the afternoon, giving all-night parties. There were

midweek trips to Disneyland in careful disguises. The photographers

Pete hired to record the outings were so discreet Bev never noticed

them.

She decided to throw out her birth control pills, and Brian wrote love

songs.

As the time to go back to England drew near, the group made peace within

themselves, and set up an informal headquarters in Brian's hillside

home.

"We should all go." Johnno carelessly passed his turn on the bong. "Hair

was the first important musical for our generation. A rock musical." He

liked the phrase, the grandeur of it. Already he was turning over ideas

for one. He hoped, when they returned to London, he and Brian could put

together a musical that would outdo Hair, and the Who's current success,

Tommy.

"We can lay over in New York a couple of days," he continued, "see the

play, raise some hell, then head back to London."

"Do they really strip naked?" Stevie wanted to know.

"Right down to the buff, son. That should be worth the price of a

ticket."

"We should go." Mellowed from the company and smoke, Brian rested his

head on Bev's knee. He'd already stayed in one place longer than he

liked, and the idea of New York appealed. "For the music and the

statement."

"You go for the statement." Stevie grinned. "I'll go for the naked

birds."

"We'll get Pete to fix it up. What do you say, Bev?"

She didn't like New York, but she could see Brian's mind was set. And

she didn't want to spoil the easy, peaceful mood of the last weeks.

"It'll be fun. Maybe we can take Darren and Emma to the zoo and through

Central Park before we fly home."

EmmA WAS THRILLED. She remembered her first trip to New York well, the

big bed in the hotel room, the soaring thrill of standing on top of the

world, the glorious rides on the carousel in Central Park. She wanted to

share all of that with Darren.

She tried to explain all the wonders of it to him as they prepared for

the trip. As Alice Wallingsford packed up the nursery, she kept Darren

out of mischief with his favored farm.

"Moo cow," he said, holding up the black spotted white piece from the

set. "Want to see a moo cow."

"I don't think we'll see a moo cow, but we'll see lions at the zoo."

She made a roar that had him squealing.

"You're getting him too excited, Emma," Alice said automatically. "And

it's nearly bedtime."

Emma just rolled her eyes as Darren danced around her. He was wearing

his Oshkosh overalls and little red Keds. For Emma's approval, he

struggled to do a sloppy somersault.

"All that energy." Alice clucked her tongue, though in truth she was

charmed by the boy. "I don't see how we'll get him to sleep tonight."

"Don't pack Charlie," Emma put in before Alice could drop the stuffed

dog into a packing box. "He has to ride on the plane with me."

With a sigh, Alice set the worn dog aside. "He needs a good washing. I

don't want you sneaking him into the baby's crib anymore, Emma."

"I love Charlie," Darren announced and tried another somersault. He

landed heavily on his Playskool TI tool bench, but instead of crying,

picked up the wooden hammer to play a tatoo on the colored pegs. "I

love Charlie," he sang to his own rhythm.

"Be that as it may, sweet thing, he's getting a bit smelly. I don't

want germs in the bed with my baby."

Darren sent her a sunny smile. "I love germs."

"It's a heartbreaker you are." Alice picked him up to bounce him on her

hip. "Now Alice is going to give you a nide bath before bed, with

bubbles. Emma, don't leave those pieces spread about," she added as she

paused in the doorway. "You can have your bath as soon

as Darren's finished. Then you can go down and say good night to your

parents."

"Yes, ma'am." She waited until Alice was out of sight before she got up

to get Charlie. He did not smell, she thought as she buried her face in

his fur. And she would put him in Darren's crib, because Charlie

watched over him when she was sleeping.

RLY WISH YOU MDN'T asked all those people over tonight."

Bev fluffed the pillows on the couch, though she knew such niceties were

a waste of time.

"We have to say goodbye, don't we?" He put on a Jim! Hendrix album

because it reminded him that though the artist was dead, the music lived

on. "Besides, once we're back in London, we're back to work in a big

way. I want to relax while I can."

"How can we relax with a hundred people milling about the house?"

"Bev. It's our last night."

She opened her mouth again, then closed it when Alice ushered the

children in. "There's my boy." She scooped Darren up on the fly before

she winked at Emma. "Is Charlie ready for his trip?" She knew and

sympathized with Emma's unease with planes and smoothed a hand over the

girl's hair.

"He's just a little nervous. He'll be all right with me."

"Of course he will." She pressed a kiss on the delicate area between

Darren's ear and throat. "Already bathed?" She'd wanted to take care of

that evening chore herself. There was nothing Bev liked better than to

play with Darren in the tub, smoothing the soapy cloth over his pale,

shiny skin.

"All washed and ready for bed," Alice put in. "They've just come to say

good night before I tuck them up."

"I'll do that, Alice. With all the confusion today, I've hardly seen

the children."

"All right, ma'am. I'll finish the packing."

"Dad." Emma gave Brian her shy little smile. "Can we have a story?

Please."

What he'd planned to do was roll a joint of good grass and listen to

music. But he had a hard time resisting that smile, or his son's

bright, bubbly laughter.

He went upstairs with his family, leaving Hendrix wailing.

It took two stories before Darren's eyes began to droop. He fought

sleep as he fought all sedentary activities. He wanted to be doing, to

be running or laughing or turning somersaults. Most of all, he wanted

to be the brave young knight his father spoke of He wanted to take up

the shining magic sword and slay dragons.

He yawned and, cozied between his mother's breasts, began to doze. He

could smell Emma, and went off to sleep happy that she was nearby.

He didn't wake when Bev lifted him into his crib. Darren slept the way

he did everything. With a full heart. She tucked the satin-bordered

blue blanket around his shoulders and tried not to think that he would

soon be too big for a crib.

"He's so beautiful." Unable to resist, Bev stroked her fingers across

his warm cheek.

With Emma's head resting on his shoulder, Brian looked down at his son.

"When he's like this, it's hard to believe he can tear a room apart

single-handed."

With a soft laugh, Bev slipped an arm around Brian's waist. "He uses

both hands."

"And his feet."

"I've never known anyone who loves life as much. When I look at him, I

realize I have everything I've ever wanted. I can see him a year from

now, five years from now. It makes the idea of growing older pleasant

somehow."

"Rock stars don't get old." He frowned, and for the first time Bev heard

a trace of sarcasm, or was it disillusionment, in his voice. "They

could start playing Vegas in white suits."

"Not you, Bri." She tightened her arm around his waist. "Ten years from

now, you'll still be on top."

"Yeah. Well, if I ever buy a white suit with sequins, kick me in the

ass."

"With the greatest pleasure." She kissed him, lifting a hand to his

cheek to soothe as she might with one of the children. "Let's put Emma

down."

"I want to do right by them, Bev." Shifting Emma, he started down the

hall to her room. "By them, and you."

"You are doing right."

"The world's so tucked up. I used to think if we made it, really made

it, people would listen to what we had to say. That it would make a

difference. Now I don't know."

"What's wrong, Bri?"

"I don't know." He laid Emma down, wishing he could put his

finger on the reason for the restless dissatisfaction he'd begun to

feel. "A couple of years ago, when things really started to break for

us, I thought it was fab. All those girls screaming, our pictures in

all the mags, our music on every radio."

"It's what you wanted."

"It was, is. I don't know. How can they hear what we're trying to say,

what difference does it make how good we are, if they scream through

every bloody concert? We're just a commodity, an image Pete's polished

up to sell records. I hate that." He stuffed his frustrated fists in

his pockets. "Sometimes I think we should go back to where we

started-the pubs where people listened or danced when we played. When

we could reach them. I don't know." He passed a hand through his hair.

"I guess I didn't realize how much fun we were having then. But you

can't go back."

"I didn't know you felt this way. Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't know myself really. It's just that I don't feel like Brian

McAvoy anymore." How could he explain that the feeling he'd revived at

Woodstock had stubbornly faded in the year following it? "I didn't know

how frustrating it would be not to be able to go out and have a drink

with the lads, or sit on the beach without people swarming around,

wanting a piece."

"You could stop. You could pull back and write."

"I can't stop." He looked down at Emma, sleeping peacefully. "I have to

record, I have to perform. Every time I'm on stage or in the studio, I

know, deep down, that this is what I want to do. Need to do. But the

rest of it . . . The rest of it sucks, and I didn't know it would.

Maybe it's Hendrix and Joplin dying the way they did. Such a waste.

Then the Beatles breaking up. It's like the end of something, and I

haven't finished."

"Not the end." She laid a hand on his shoulder, automatically kneading

the tense muscles. "Just a change."

"If we're not moving forward, we're moving back, don't you see?"

But he knew she couldn't, and tried to put his feelings into more

understandable words. "Maybe it's Pete pressuring us to tour again, or

talking Stevie into sitting in with other groups in studio sessions, and

doing that movie score. All I know is, it's not just the four of us

getting together and playing from the heart anymore. It's image and

bloody marketing, it's brokers and tax shelters."

Emma rolled over, murmuring.

"And I guess it's worrying about Emma going to school, and Darren going

off one day. What's it going to be like for them? Will people

start picking at them, wanting pieces of them because of what I am? I

don't want them to have the filthy childhood I did, but am I doing any

better by them, making them a part of something that's gotten bigger

than all of us? And hungrier."

"You think too much." She turned to take his face in her hands. "That's

what I love most about you. The children are fine. You've only got to

look at them to see. Maybe their childhood isn't normal, but they're

happy. We're going to keep them happy, and safe. Whatever you are,

whoever you are, you're their Dad. We'll work out the rest."

"I love you, Bev. I must be deft, worrying about all this. We've got

everything." He brought her closer, to rest his head on her hair. He

wished he could understand why everything had turned out to be too much.

BRim's DISCONTENTMENT VANISHED after a couple of joints. The house was

full of people Brian felt understood him, what he wanted to do, where he

wanted to go. The music was loud, the drugs were plentiful and varied.

Snow, grass, Thrkish hash, speed, bennies. The grinding, soul-wrenching

rock of Janis Joplin poured out as his guests took their pick. He

wanted to listen to her, again and again, to hear her belt out "Ball and

Chain." Somehow it helped him grab onto the fact that he was alive, he

still had a chance to make it matter.

He watched Stevie dance with a redhead in a purple miniskirt. Stevie

didn't worry about beirfg a figurehead or turning into a poster for some

girl's wall, Brian mused as he washed down pretzels with smooth Irish

whiskey. Stevie gleefully jumped from woman to woman without a care in

his head. Of course, he was stoned most of the time. With a half-laugh,

Brian picked another joint out of the bowl and decided it was time to

get stoned himself

From across the room, Johnno watched Brian settle back. Distancing

himself, Johnno reflected as he chose a Gauloise over grass. It had

been happening more and more recently. Perhaps because Johnno was

closest to Brian, he had been the only one to notice. He thought now

that the only time Brian seemed truly in tune was when the two of them

sat down to write. Melody, countermelody, phrases, bridges.

He knew Brian had been upset by the deaths of Hendrix and Joplin. So had

he. In its way, it had been as devastating as the Kennedy

assassinations. People were supposed to grow old and decrepit before

they died. But though he'd been shaken, he hadn't mourned as Brian was

mourning. Then, Brian always cared more, needed more.

Like Brian, he glanced over at Stevie. He didn't like what he saw. It

didn't matter a damn if Stevie screwed every woman on the continent,

though he felt it lacked a certain finesse. It was the drugs, and the

fact that Stevie was rapidly losing control over them, that concerned

Johnno. He didn't care for the image they were beginning to project.

The stoned-out rockers.

Shifting his gaze, he looked at P.M. There was a bit of a problem there

as well. Oh, not with drugs. Poor old P.M. could barely function

after one toke. It was the busty blond bimbo that had attached herself

to the drummer two months before. P.M. didn't appear to be making any

attempt to sheike her off.

Johnno watched her now, the long-faced, sloe-eyed blonde-all legs and

tits in a tight red dress. She wasn't as softheaded as she made out to

be, Johnno mused. She was sharp as a tack, and knew how to play the

tune P.M. wanted to hear. If they didn't watch themselves, she'd get

him to marry her. And she wouldn't stay quietly in the background like

Bev. No, not this one.

The three of them, in their separate ways, were on the verge of

destroying the group. And nothing mattered more to Johnno.

WHEN EMMA WOK% the floor was vibrating with the bass from the stereo.

She lay quietly a moment listening, trying as she did from time to time

to recognize the song from the beat alone.

She'd gotten used to the parties. Her Dad liked to have people around.

Lots of music, lots of laughing. When she was older, she would go to

parties, too.

Bev always made sure the house was very clean before the guests arrived.

That was silly, really, Emma thought. In the morning, the house was a

terrible mess with smelly glasses and overflowing ashtrays. More often

than not a few of the guests would be sprawled over the sofas and chairs

amid the clutter.

Emma wondered what it would be like to sit up all night, talking,

laughing, listening to music. When you were grown-up, no one told you

when you had to go to bed, or have a bath.

With a sigh, she rolled over on her back. The music was faster now. She

could feel the driving bass pulse in the walls. And something else.

Footsteps, coming down the hall. Emma thought. Miss Wallingsford. She

prepared to close her eyes and feign sleep when another thought occurred

to her. Perhaps it was Dad or Mum passing through to check

on her and Darren. If it was, she could pretend to have just woken,

then she could persuade them to tell her about the party.

But the footsteps passed by. She sat up clutching Charlie. She'd

wanted company, even if only for a moment or two. She wanted to talk

about the party, or the trip to New York. She wanted to know what song

was playing. She sat a moment, a smalk sleepy child in a pink

nightgown, bathed by the cheerful glow of a Mickey Mouse night-light.

She thought she heard Darren crying. Straightening, she strained to

listen. She was certain she heard Darren's cranky tears over the pulse

of the music. Automatically she climbed out of bed, tucking Charlie

under one arm. She would sit with Darren until he quieted, and leave

Charlie to watch over him through the rest of the night.

The hallway was dark, which surprised her. A light always burned there

in case Emma had to use the bathroom during the night. She had a bad

moment at the doorway, imagining the things that lurked in the shadowy

corners. She wanted to stay in her room with the grinning Mickey.

Then Darren let out a yawling cry.

There was nothing in the corners, Emma told herself as she started down

the dark hallway. There was nothing there at all. No monsters, no

ghosts, no squishy or slithering things.

It was the Beatles playing now.

Emma wet her lips. Just the dark, just the dark, she told herself Her

eyes had adjusted to the dark by the time she'd reached Darren's door.

It was closed. That was wrong, too. His door was always left open so

he could be heard easily when awakened.

She reached out, then jumped as she thought she heard something move

behind her. Heart pumping, she turned to scan the dark hallway.

Shifting shadows towered into nameless monsters, making sweat break out

on her brow and back.

Nothing there, nothing there, she told herself, and Darren was crying

his lungs out.

She turned the knob and pushed the door open.

"Come together," Lennon sang. "Over me."

There were two men in the room. One was holding Darren, struggling to

keep him still while the baby screamed in fear and anger. The other had

something in his hand, something that the light from the giraffe lamp on

the dresser caused to glint.

"What are you doing?"

The man whirled at her voice. He wasn't a doctor, Emma thought

as she made out the needle in his hand. She recognized him, and knew he

wasn't a doctor. And Darren wasn't sick.

The other man swore, a short spurt of ugly words, while he fought to

keep Darren from wriggling out of his arms.

"Emma," the man she knew said in a calm, friendly voice. He smiled. It

was a false smile, an angry smile. She noted it, and that he still held

the needle as he stepped toward her. She turned and ran.

Behind her she heard Darren call out. "Ma!"

Sobbing, she raced down the hall. There were monsters, her panicked

mind taunted. There were monsters and things with snappy teeth in the

shadows. They were coming after her now.

He nearly caught the trailing edge of her nightgown. Swearing, he dove

for her. His hand skimmed over her ankle, slid off. She yelped as

though she'd been scalded. As she reached the top of the stairs, she

screamed for her father, shrieking his name over and over again.

Then her legs tangled. She tumbled down the flight of stairs.

In the kitchen, someone sat on the counter and ordered fifty pizzas.

Shaking her head, Bev checked the freezer for ice. No one used more ice

than Americans. As an afterthought, she dropped a cube in her warming

wine. When in Rome, she decided, then turned toward the door.

She met Brian on the threshold.

Grinning, he hooked an arm around her waist and gave her a long, lazy

kiss. "Hi."

"Hi." Still holding the wine, she linked her hands behind his neck.

"Bri."

"Hmm?"

"Who are all these people?"

He laughed, nuzzling into her neck. "You've got me." The scent of her

had him hardening. Moving to the sinuous beat of the Lennon/ McCartney

number, he brought her against him. "What do you say we take a trip

upstairs and leave them the rest of the house."

"That's rude." But she moved against him. "Wicked, rude, and the best

idea I've heard in hours."

"Well, then . . ." He made a halfhearted attempt to pick her up, sent

them both teetering. Wine spilled cool down his back as Bev giggled.

"Maybe you can carry me," he said, then heard Emma scream.

He rammed into a small table as he turned. Dizzy from drugs and booze,

he stumbled, righted himself, and rushed into the foyer. There

were people already gathered. Pushing through them, he saw her crumpled

at the foot of the steps.

"Emma. My God." He was terrified to touch her. There was blood at the

corner of her mouth. With one trembling finger, he wiped it away. He

looked up into a sea of faces, a blur of color, all unrecognizable. His

stomach clenched, then tried to heave itself Into his throat.

"Call an ambulance," he managed, then bent over her again.

"Don't move her." Bev's face was chalk-white as she knelt beside him. "I

don't think you're supposed to move her. We need a blanket."

Some quick-witted soul was already thrusting a daisy afghan into her

hands. "She'll be all right, Bri." Carefully, Bev smoothed the blanket

over her. "She'll be just fine."

He closed his eyes, shook his head to clear it. But when he opened them

again, Emma was still lying, dead-white, on the floor. There was too

much noise. The music echoing off the ceilings, the voices murmuring,

muttering all around. He felt a hand on his shoulder. A quick,

reassuring squeeze.

"Ambulance is on the way," P.M. told him. "Hold on, Bri."

"Get them out," he whispered. He looked up and into Johnno's shocked,

pale face. "Get them out of here."

With a nod, Johnno began to urge people along. The door was open, the

night bright with floodlights and headlights when they heard the wall of

the sirens.

"I'm going to go up," Bev said calmly. "Tell Alice what's happened,

check on Darren. We'll go to the hospital with her. She's going to be

fine, Brian. I know it."

He could only nod and stare down at Emma's still, pale face. He

couldn't leave her. If he had dared, he would have gone into the

bathroom, stuck a finger down his throat, and tried to rid his body of

some of the chemicals he'd pumped into it that night.

It was all like a dream, he thought, a floaty, unhappy dream. Until he

looked at Emma's face. Then it was real, much too real.

The Abbey Road album was still playing, the sly cut about murder.

Maxwell's silver hammer was coming down.

"Bri." Johnno put a hand on his arm. "Move back now, so they can tend

to her."

"What?"

"Move back." Gently Johnno eased him to his feet. "They need to have a

look at her."

Dazed, Brian watched the ambulance attendants move in and

crouch over his daughter. "She must have fallen all the way down the

stairs."

"She'll be all right." Johnno sent a helpless look toward P.M. as they

flanked Brian. "Little girls are tougher than they look."

"That's right." A bit unsteady on his feet, Stevie stood behind Brian

with both hands on his shoulders. "Our Emma won't let a tumble down the

stairs hold her up for long."

"We'll go to the hospital with you." Pete moved over to join them.

Together they watched as Emma was carefully lifted onto a stretcher.

Upstairs, Bev screamed . . . and screamed and screamed, until the

sound filled every corner of the house.

LOU KESSELRING SNORED like a wounded elephant. If he indulged in a beer

before bed, he snored like two wounded elephants. His wife of seventeen

years coped with the nightly event by wearing earplugs. Lou knew Marge

loved him in her own steady, no-nonsense way, and he considered himself

fortunate and smart for not sleeping with her before marriage. He was

honest, but had kept this one little secret. By the time she'd

discovered it, he'd had his ring on her finger.

He was really rattling the shingles tonight. It had been nearly

thirty-six hours since he'd slept in his own bed. Now that the Calarmi

case was closed, he was going to enjoy not only a good night's sleep but

a whole weekend of sloth.

He actually dreamed about puttering around the yard, pruning roses,

playing a bit of catch with his son. They'd barbecue some burgers on

the grill and Marge would make her potato salad.

He'd had to kill a man twelve hours before. It wasn't the first time,

though, thank God, it was still a rare occurrence. Whenever his work

took him that far, he needed, badly, the ordinary, the everyday. Potato

salad and charred burgers, the feel of his wife's firm body against his

during the night. His son's laughter.

He was a cop. A good one. In the six years he'd been with Homicide,

this was only the second time he'd had to discharge his weapon. Like

most of his colleagues he knew that law enforcement consisted of days of

monotony-legwork, paperwork, phone calls. And moments, split seconds,

of terror.

He also knew, as a cop, that he would see things, touch things,

experience things that most of the world was unaware of-murder, ghetto

wars, back-alley knifings, blood, gore, waste.

Lou was aware, but he didn't dream of his work. He was forty, and had

never, since picking up his badge at the age of twenty-four, brought his

work home.

But sometimes it followed him.

He rolled over, breaking off in mid-snore as the phone rang.

Instinctively he reached out, and with his eyes still closed, rattled

the receiver off the hook.

"Yeah. Kesselring."

"Lieutenant. It's Bester."

"What the fuck do you want?" He knew he was safe using what Marge called

the F word since his wife had her earplugs in.

"Sorry to wake you up, but we've got an incident. You know McAvoy,

Brian McAvoy, the singer?"

"McAvoy?" He scrubbed his hand over his face, fighting to wake up.

"Devastation. The rock group."

"Yeah, yeah. Right." He wasn't much on rock himself-unless it was

Preslay or the Everly Brothers. "What happened? Some kids turn up the

music too loud and cook their brains?"

"Somebody killed his little boy. Looks like it might have been a

bungled kidnapping."

"Ah, shit." Awake now, Lou switched on the light. "Give me the

address."

The light woke Marge. She glanced over, saw Lou sitting naked on the

side of the bed and scrawling on a pad. Without complaint, she got up,

tucked her arms into her cotton robe, and went down to make him coffee.

LOU FOUND BRAN at the hospital. He wasn't certain what he'd been

expecting. He'd seen Brian a few times, in newspapers, or television,

when the singer had spoken out against the war. A peacenik they called

him. Lou didn't think too much of the bunch that went around getting

stoned and growing their hair ass-long and passing out flowers on street

corners. But he wasn't sure he thought much of the war, either. He'd

lost a brother in Korea, and his sister's boy had left for Vietnam three

months before.

But it wasn't McAvoy's politics, or his hairstyle, that concerned Lou

now.

He paused, studying Brian, who was sprawled on a flower-patterned chair.

Looked younger in person, Lou decided. Young, a little too

thin, and oddly pretty for a man. Brian had that dazed, dream-struck

look that came with shock. There were others in the room, and smoke

billowed up from a number of ashtrays.

Mechanically Brian put a cigarette to his lips, drew in, set it down

again, blew out.

"Mr. McAvoy."

Repeating the routine with the cigarette, Brian glanced up. He saw a

tall, leanly built man with dark hair carefully combed back from a long,

sleepy face. He wore a suit, a gray one, and a conservative tie of

nearly the same shade against a crisp white shirt. His black shoes were

glossy, his nails neatly trimmed, and there was a slight nick on his

chin where he'd cut himself shaving.

Odd the things you notice, Brian thought as he pulled on the cigarette

again.

"Yes."

"I'm Lieutenant Kesselring." He took out his shield, but Brian continued

to look at his face, not the ID. "I need to ask you some questions."

"Can't this wait, Lieutenant?" Pete Page took a long, hard look at the

identification. "Mr. McAvoy's not in any shape to deal with this now."

"It would help us all if we got the preliminaries over with." Lou sat.

After replacing his badge, he spread his hands on his knees. "I'm

sorry, Mr. McAvoy. I don't want to add to your grief. I want to find

out who's responsible for this."

Brian lit a cigarette from the butt of another and said nothing.

"What can you tell me about what happened tonigmt?"

"They killed Darren. My little boy. The took him out of his crib, and

left him on the floor."

Sick at heart, Johrmo snatched up his Styrofoam cup of coffee and turned

away. Lou reached in his pocket for his pad and freshly sharpened

pencil.

"Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to harm the boy?"

"No. Everyone loves Darren. He's so bright and funny." Brian's throat

locked up, and he looked around blindly for his own cup. "I know this is

difficult. Can you tell me about tonight?"

"We had a party. We were all going to New York tomorrow, and we had a

party."

"I'd like a list of the guests."

"I don't know. Bev might . . ." He trailed off, remembering that Bev

was in a room down the hall, heavily sedated.

"We should be able to put together a fairly accurate list between us,"

Pete put in. He tried to drink more coffee, but it was burning a hole

in his gut. "But you can be sure that no one Brian invited to his home

would have done this."

Lou intended to find out. "Did you know everyone at the party, Mr.

McAvoy?"

"I don't know. Probably not." He rested his elbows on his knees a

moment to rub the heels of his hands hard against his eyes. The pain

was the closest he could get to comfort. "Friends and friends of

friends, and like that. You open the door and people come. It just

happens."

Lou nodded as if he understood. He remembered the parties Marge'

planned. The careful guest lists, RSVPS, the detailed checks and

rechecks of food. Their fifteenth-anniversary party had been planned as

meticulously as a state dinner.

"We'll work on the list," Lou decided. "Your daughter, Emma, is it?"

"Yes, Emma."

"She was upstairs during the party."

"Yes. Asleep." His babies, tucked away, safe and sound. "They were

both asleep."

"In the same room?"

"No, they have separate rooms. Alice Wallingsford, our nanny, was

upstairs with them."

"Yes." He'd already had the report that the nanny had been found bound,

gagged, and terrified in her own bed. "And the little girl fell down

toucan carry me," he said, then heard Emma scream.

He rammed into a small table as he turned. Dizzy from drugs and booze,

he stumbled, righted himself, and rushed into the foyer. There

were people already gathered. Pushing through them, he saw her crumpled

at the foot of the steps.

"Emma. My God." He was terrified to touch her. There was blood at the

corner of her mouth. With one trembling finger, he wiped it away. He

looked up into a sea of faces, a blur of color, all unrecognizable. His

stomach clenched, then tried to heave itself Into his throat.

"Call an ambulance," he managed, then bent over her again.

"Don't move her." Bev's face was chalk-white as she knelt beside him. "I

don't think you're supposed to move her. We need a blanket."

Some quick-witted soul was already thrusting a daisy afghan into her

hands. "She'll be all right, Bri." Carefully, Bev smoothed the blanket

over her. "She'll be just fine."

He closed his eyes, shook his head to clear it. But when he opened them

again, Emma was still lying, dead-white, on the floor. There was too

much noise. The music echoing off the ceilings, the voices murmuring,

muttering all around. He felt a hand on his shoulder. A quick,

reassuring squeeze.

"Ambulance is on the way," P.M. told hilooks. "Your wife, Mr. McAvoy,

she found your son?"

"Yes. She went upstairs after we heard the ambulance. She wanted to

check on . . . She wanted to be sure, you see, that he hadn't woke

up. I heard her screaming, screaming, screaming. And I ran. When I

got into Darren's room, she was sitting on the floor with him, holding

him. And screaming. They had to give her something to put her out."

"Mr. McAvoy, have there been any threats against you, your wife, or

your children?"

"No."

"Nothing?"

"No. Well, there's some hate mail from time to time. Political stuff

mostly. Pete has it screened."

"We'd like to see everything that's come in for the last six months."

"That's quite a bundle of mail, Lieutenant," Pete told him.

"We'll manage."

Brian ignored them both and rose as the doctor came in. "Emma," was all

he said. All he could say.

"She's sleeping. She has a concussion, a broken arm, and some bruised

ribs, but no internal injuries."

"She's going to be all right."

"She'll need to be watched carefully for the next few days, but yes, the

outlook is very good."

He cried then, as he hadn't been able to when he'd seen his son's

lifeless body, as he'd been incapable of doing when they'd taken his

family from him and left him in the green-walled waiting room. Hot

tears poured through his fingers as he covered his face.

Quietly, Lou closed his notebook and, motioning to the doctor, stepped

into the hall. "I'm Lieutenant Kesselring. Homicide." Again, Lou

flashed his ID. "When will I be able to talk to the little girl?"

"Not for a day, perhaps two."

"I need to question her as soon as possible." He took out a card and

handed it to the doctor. "If you'd call me as soon as she's able to

talk. The wife, Beverly McAvoy?"

"Sedated. Ten or twelve hours before she should come around. Even then

I won't guarantee she'll be able to talk, or that I'll be willing to

allow it."

"Just call." He glanced back toward the waiting room. "I've got a son

of my own, Doctor."

EMMA Had TERRIBLE DREAms. She wanted to call out for her Dad, for her

mum, but it was as though a hand were closed over her mouth, over her

eyes. Great weights seemed to press her down and down.

The baby was crying. The sound echoed in the room, in her bead, until

it seemed as though Daffen were inside her mind screaming to get out.

She wanted to go to him, had to-but there were two-headed snakes and

snarling, snapping things with black, dripping fangs all around her bed.

Each time she tried to climb out they lunged at her, hissing, spitting,

grinning.

If she stayed in bed, she'd be safe. But Darren was calling for her.

She had to be brave, brave enough to run to the door. When she did, the

snakes disappeared. Beneath her feet the floor felt alive, moving,

pulsing. She looked back over her shoulder. It was just her room, with

toys and dolls tidily on the shelves, with Mickey Mouse smiling

cheerfully. As she watched the smile turned into a leer.

She raced into the hall, into the dark.

There was music. The shadows seemed to dance to it. There were sounds.

Breathing, heavy, wet breathing, snarls and the movement of something

dry and slithering on the wood. As she ran toward the sounds of

Darren's cries, she felt the hot breath on her arms, the quick nasty

nips at her ankles.

It was locked. She pulled and pounded on the door as her brother's

screams rose higher, only to be drowned out by the music. Under her

small fists, the door dissolved. She saw the man, but there was no

face. She saw only the glint of his eyes, the gleam of his teeth.

He started toward her, and she was more afraid of him than of the snakes

and monsters, the teeth and the claws. Blind with fear, she ran, with

Darren's screams rising behind her.

Then she was falling, falling into a dark pit. She heard a sound, like

a twig snapping, and tried to scream out at the agony. But she could

only fall silently, endlessly, helplessly, with the music and her

brother's cries echoing in her head.

When she awoke, it was bright. There were no dolls on the shelves.

No shelves at all, just blank walls. At first she wondered if she was

in a

hotel. She tried to remember, but as she did, the aching began-the hot,

dull aching that seemed to throb everywhere at once. Moaning against

it, she turned her head.

Her father was sleeping in a chair. His head was back, turned a bit to

the side. Beneath the stubble of his beard his face was pale. In his

lap, his hands were clenched into fists.

"Dad."

Already on the edge of sleep, he woke quickly. He saw her lying against

the white hospital sheets, her eyes wide and a little afraid. The tears

welled up again, clogging his throat, burning his eyes. He fought them

with what little strength he had left.

"Emma." He went to her, sitting on the edge of the bed and pressing his

exhausted face against her throat.

She started to put her arm around him, but it was weighed down with the

white plaster cast. That had the fear bubbling quick again. She could

hear in her mind the sound of that dry snap, the screaming pain that had

followed.

It hadn't been a dream-and if it had been real, then the rest . . .

"Where's Darren?"

She would ask that first, Brian thought as he squeezed his eyes tightly

shut. How could he tell her? How could he tell her what he had yet to

understand or believe himself ? She was only a child. His only child.

"Emma." He kissed her cheek, her temple, her forehead, as if somehow

that would ease the pain, for both of them. He took her hand. "Do you

remember when I told you a story about angels, about how they live in

heaven?"

"They fly and play music and never hurt each other."

Oh, he was clever, Brian thought bitterly, so clever to have woven such

a pretty tale. "Yes, that's right. Sometimes special people become

angels." He reached far back for his Catholic faith and found it weighed

heavily on his shoulders. "Sometimes God loves these people so much he

wants them with him up in heaven. That's where Darren is now. He's an

angel in heaven."

"No." For the first time since she had crawled out from beneath the

dirty sink over three years before, she pushed away from her father. "I

don't want him to be an angel."

"Neither do I."

"Tell God to send him back," she said furiously. "Right now."

"I can't." The tears were coming again; he couldn't stop them.

"He's gone, Emma."

"Then I'll go to heaven too, and take care of him."

"No." Fear clutched in his gut, drying his tears. His fingers dug into

her shoulders, putting bruises on her for the first time. "You can't. I

need you, Emma. I can't get Darren back, but I won't lose you."

"I hate God," she said, dry-eyed and fierce.

So do I, Brian thought as he gathered her close. So do I.

THERE wo BEEN OVER a hundred people in and out of the McAvoy house on

the night of the murder. Lou's pad was overflowing with names, notes,

and impressions. But he was no closer to an answer. Both the window

and the door of the boy's room had been found open, though the nanny was

adamant that she had closed the window after putting the boy to bed. She

also insisted the window had been locked. But there had been no signs

of a forced entry.

There had been footprints beneath the window. Size 11, Lou mused. But

there had been no impressions in the ground a ladder would have made,

and no traces of rope on the windowsill.

The nanny was little help. She'd awakened when a hand had clamped over

her mouth. She'd been blindfolded, bound, and gagged. In the two

interviews Lou had had with her, she'd changed her estimate of the time

she'd been bound from thirty minutes to two hours. She was low on his

lists of suspects, but he was waiting for the background check he'd

ordered.

It was Beverly McAvoy that Lou had to see now. He'd postponed the

questioning as long as possible. Longer, after he'd scanned the police

photos of little Darren McAvoy.

"Keep this as brief as possible." The doctor stood with Lou outside the

door. "She's been given a mild sedative, but her mind is clear. Maybe

too clear."

"I don't want to make this any harder on her than it already is."

What could, he wondered as the image of the young boy fixed itself in

his mind. "I need to question the girl as well. Is she up to it?"

"She's conscious. I don't know if she'll talk to you. She hasn't

spoken more than two words to anyone but her father."

With a nod, Lou stepped into the room. The woman was sitting up in bed.

Though her eyes were open, they didn't focus on him. She looked very

small and hardly old enough to have had a child, and to have lost one.

She wore a pale blue bed jacket, and the hands lying on the white sheets

were absolutely still.

Beside her Brian sat in a chair, his unshaven face an unhealthy

shade of gray. His eyes looked old, red and puffy from tears and lack

of sleep, clouded with griel When he looked up, Lou saw something else

in them. Fury.

"I'm sorry to disturb you."

"The doctor told us you'd be coming." Brian didn't rise or gesture to a

chair. He simply continued to stare. "Do you know who did this?"

"Not yet. I'd like to talk with your wife."

"Bev." Brian laid a hand over hers, but there was no response. "This is

the policeman who's trying to find . . . to find out what happened.

I'm sorry," he said, looking back at Lou. "I don't remember your name."

"Kesseiring. Lieutenant Kesselring."

"The lieutenant needs to ask you some questions." She made no move. She

barely breathed. "Bev, please."

Perhaps it was the despair in his voice that reached down deep to where

she had.tried to hide herself. Her hand moved restlessly in his. For a

moment she closed her eyes, held them closed, wishing with all her heart

that she was dead. Then she opened them again and looked straight at

Lou.

"What do you want to know?"

"Everything you can tell me about that night."

"My son was dead," she said flatly. "What else matters?"

"Something you tell me could help me find who killed your son, Mrs.

McAvoy."

"Will that bring Darren back to me?"

"No."

"I don't feel anything anymore." She stared at him with huge, tired

eyes. "I don't feel my legs or my arms or my head. When I try to feel

it hurts. So it's best not to try, isn't it?"

"Maybe, for a while." He drew up a chair beside the bed. "But if you

could tell me what you remember from that night?"

She let her head fall back and stared up at the ceiling. Her monotone

description of the party was similar to her husband's, and to those of

the others Lou had interviewed. Familiar faces, strange faces, people

coming in, going out. Someone on the kitchen phone ordering pizza.

That was a new one, and Lou noted it down.

Thlking with Brian, then hearing Emma scream-finding her at the foot of

the steps.

"People crowded around," she murmured. "Someone, I don't know who,

called an ambulance. We didn't move her-we were afraid to

move her. We heard the sirens coming. I wanted to go to the hospital

with her, her and Brian, but I needed to check on Darren first, and to

wake Alice and let her know what had happened.

"I stopped to get Emma's robe. I don't know why really, I just thought

she might need it. I started down the hall. I was annoyed because the

lights were out. We always leave the hall light on for Emma. She's

afraid of the dark. Not Darren," she said with a halfsmile. "He's

never been afraid of a thing. We only keep a night-light in his room

because it's easier for us if he wakes in the, night. He often does

still. He likes company." She brought a hand to her face as her voice

began to shake. "He doesn't like to be alone."

"I know this is hard, Mrs. McAvoy." But she had been the first on the

scene, had found, and had moved the body. "I need to know what you

found when you went into his room."

"I found my baby." She shook off Brian's hand. She couldn't bear to be

touched. "He was lying on the floor, by the crib. I thought, I

thought, Oh God, he's climbed up and fallen out. He was lying so still

on the little blue rug. I couldn't see his face. I picked him up. But

he wouldn't wake up. I shook him, and I screamed, but he wouldn't wake

up."

"Did you see anyone upstairs, Mrs. McAvoy?"

"No. There was no one upstairs. Just the baby, my baby. They took him

away, and they won't let me have him. Brian, for God's sake, why won't

you let me have him?"

"Mrs. McAvoy." Lou rose. "I'm going to do everything I can to find out

who did this. I promise you that."

"What difference does it make?" She began to cry, huge, silent tears.

"What possible difference does it make?"

It made a difference, Lou thought as he stepped into the corridor again.

It had to.

EMmA STUDIED Lou with a straightforward intensity that made him feel

awkward. It was the first time he could remember a child making him

want to check his shirt for stains.

"I've seen policemen on the telly," she said when he introduced himself.

"They shoot people."

"Sometimes." He groped for something to say. "Do you like television?"

"Yes. We like Sesame Street the best, Darren and l."

"Who do you like best, Big Bird or Kermit?"

She smiled a little. "I like Oscar because he's so rude."

Because of the smile, he took a chance and lowered the bed guard. Emma

didn't object when he sat on the edge of the bed. "I haven't seen

Sesame Street in a little while. Does Oscar still live in a garbage

can?"

"Yes. And he yells at everyone."

"I guess yelling can make you feel better sometimes. Do you know why

I'm here, Emma?" She said nothing, but gathered an old black stuffed dog

to her chest. "I need to talk to you about Darren."

"Dad says he's an angel now, in heaven."

"I'm sure he is."

"It's not fair that he went away. He didn't even say goodbye."

"He couldn't."

She knew that because she knew, deep in her heart, what you had to do to

become an angel. "Dad said that God wanted him, but I think it was a

mistake and God should send him back."

Lou brushed a hand over her hair, moved as much by her stubborn logic as

he had been by the mother's grief. "It was a mistake, Emma, a terrible

one, but God can't send him back."

Her lip poked out, but it was more defiance than a pout. "God can do

anything He wants."

Lou stepped uneasily onto shaky ground. "Not always. Sometimes men do

things and God doesn't fix it. We have to. I think you might be able

to help me find out how this mistake happened. Will you tell me about

that night, the night you fell down the steps?"

She shifted her eyes to Charlie and plucked at his fur. "I broke my

arm."

"I know. I'm sorry. I have a little boy. He's older than you, almost

eleven. He broke his arm trying to roller-skate on the roof."

Impressed, she looked up again, eyes wide. "Really?"

"Yes. He broke his nose, too. He skated right off the roof and landed

in the azalea bushes."

"What's his name?"

"Michael."

Emma wanted to meet him and ask him what it had felt like to fly off a

rooftop. It sounded very brave. Like something Darren would have

wanted to try. Then she began to pluck at Charlie's fur again. "Darren

would have been three in February."

"I know." He took her hand. After a moment she curled her fingers

around his.

"I loved him best of all," she said simply. "Is he dead?"

"Yes, Emma."

"And he can't come back, even though it was a mistake?"

"No. I'm very sorry."

She had to ask him, ask him what she hadn't dared ask her father. Her

father would cry, and might not tell her the truth. This man with his

pale eyes and quiet voice wouldn't cry.

"Is it my fault?" Her eyes were desperate as they shifted up to his.

"Why would you think so?"

"I ran away. I didn't take care of him. I promised I always would, but

I didn't."

"What did you run away from?"

"Snakes," she said without hesitation, remembering only the nightmare.

"There were snakes and things with big teeth."

"Where?"

"Around the bed. They hide in the dark and like to eat bad girls."

"I see." He took out his notepad. "Who told you that?"

"My mammy mam before Bev. Bev says there aren't any snakes at all, but

she just doesn't see them."

"And you saw the snakes the night you fell?"

"They tried to stop me from going to Darren when he cried."

"Darren was crying?"

Pleased that he hadn't corrected her about the snakes, Emma nodded. "I

heard him. Sometimes he wakes up at night, but he goes back to sleep

again after I talk to him and take him Charlie."

"Who's Charlie?"

"My dog." She held him out for Lou's inspection.

"He's very handsome," Lou said as he patted Charlie's dusty head. "Did

you take Charlie to Darren that night?"

"I was going to.- Her farce clouded as she struggled to remember. "I

kept him with me to scare the snakes and the other things away. It was

dark in the hall. It's never dark in the hall. They were there."

His fingers tightened on his pencil. "Who was there?"

"The monsters. I could hear them squishing and hissing. Darren was

crying so loud. He needed me."

"Did you go into his room, Emma?"

She shook her head. She could see herself, clearly, standing in the

shadowed hallway with the sounds of hissing and snapping all around. "At

the door, there was light under the door. The monsters had him."

"Did you see the monsters?"

"There were two monsters in Darren's room."

"Did you see their faces?"

"They don't have faces. One was holding him, holding him too tight and

making him cry hard. He called for me, but I ran. I ran away and left

Darren with the monsters. And they killed him. They killed him because

I ran away."

"No." He gathered her close, letting her weep against his chest as he

stroked her hair. "No, you ran to get help, didn't you, Emma?"

"I wanted my Dad to come."

"That was the right thing to do. They weren't monsters, Emma.

They were men, bad men. And you couldn't have stopped them."

"I promised I would take care of Darren, that I wouldn't ever let

anything happen to him."

"You tried to keep that promise. No one blames you, baby."

But he was wrong, Emma thought. She blamed herself And always would.

IT WAS NEARING MIDNIGHT when Lou got home. He'd spent hours at his desk

going over each note, every scrap of information. He'd been a cop for

too long not to know that objectivity was his best tool. But Darren

McAvoy's murder had become personal. He couldn't forget the

black-and-white photo of the boy, barely out of babyhood. The image had

imprinted itself into his brain.

He had an image of the child's bedroom as well. The blue and white

walls, the scatter of toys as yet unpacked, the little overalls neatly

folded on a rocking chair, the scuffed sneakers beneath them.

And the hypodermic, still full of phenobarbitol, a few feet away from

the crib.

They'd never had a chance to use it, Lou thought grimly. They hadn't

been able to stick it into a vein and put him soundly to sleep. Had they

been going to carry him out the window? Would Brian McAvoy have gotten

a call a few hours later demanding money for the boy's safe return?

There would be no call now, no ransom.

Rubbing his gritty eyes, Lou started up the steps. Amateurs, he

thought. Bunglers. Murderers. Where the hell were they? Who the hell

were they?

What difference does it make?

It made a difference, he told himself as his hands clenched into fists.

Justice always made a difference.

The door to Michael's room was open. The soft sound of his son's

breathing drew him. He could see in the faint moonlight the wreckage

of toys and clothes strewn over the floor, heaped on the bed, mounded on

the dresser. Usually it would have made him sigh. Michael's cheertil

sloppiness was a mystery to Lou. Both he and his wife were tidy and

organized by nature. Michael was a tornado, a rushing wind that hopped

from spot to spot and left destruction and chaos behind.

Yes, usually he would have sighed and planned his lecture for the

morning. But tonight, the wild disarray brought tears of gratitude to

his eyes. His boy was safe.

Picking his way through the rubble, he crept toward the bed. He had to

push the traffic jam of Matchbox cars aside to find a place to sit.

Michael slept on his stomach, the right side of his face squashed into

the pillow, his arms flung out and the sheets in a messy tangle at his

feet.

For a moment, then five, then ten, Lou simply sat, studying the child he

and Marge had made. The thick dark hair he'd inherited from his mother

was tousled around his face. His skin was tanned, but still had the

dewy softness of first youth. His nose was crooked, giving character to

what might have been a face too pretty for a boy. He had a firm,

compact little body that was already beginning to sprout. Bruises and

scrapes colored it.

Six years and two miscarriages, Lou thought now. Then finally he and

Marge had been able to unite sperm and egg into strong, vital life. And

he was the best and brightest of both of them.

Lou remembered Brian McAvoy's face. The stunned grief, the fury, the

helplessness. Yes, he understood.

Michael stirred when Lou stroked a hand over his cheek. "Dad?"

"Yes. I just wanted to say good night. Go back to sleep."

Yawning, Michael shifted and sent cars clattering to the floor. "I

didn't mean to break it," he murmured.

With a half-laugh, Lou pressed his hands to his eyes. He didn't know

what it was, and didn't care. "Okay. I love you, Michael."

But his son was fully back to sleep.

IT WAS BRIGHT, almost balmy. The breeze from the Atlantic ruffled the

tall green grass. Emma listened to the secret songs it whispered. Over

its music was the low, solemn voice of the priest.

He was tall and ruddy-faced with his white, white hair a shocking

contrast to his black robes. Though his voice carried a lilt very

similar to her father's, Emma didn't understand much of what he was

saying. And didn't want to. She preferred listening to the humming

grass and the monotonous lowing of the cattle on the hill beyond the

gravesite.

Darren was to have his farm at last, in Ireland, though he would never

ride a tractor or chase the lazy spotted cows.

It was a lovely place, with the grass so green it looked like a

painting. She would remember the emerald grass and the fresh, vital

scent of earth newly turned. She would remember the feel of the air

against her face, air so moist from the sea it might have been tears.

There was a church nearby, a small stone structure with a white steeple

and little windows of stained glass. They had gone inside to pray

before the little glossy casket had been carried out. Inside it had

smelled strongly, and too sweetly, of flowers and incense. Candles had

been burning even though the sun ran through the stained glass in

colorful streams.

There had been painted statues of people in robes, and one of a man

bleeding on a cross. Brian had told her it was Jesus who was looking

after Darren in heaven. Emma didn't think anyone who looked so sad and

tired could take care of Darren and make him laugh.

Bev had said nothing at all, only stood, her face pale as glass. Stevie

had played the guitar ajain, as he had at the wedding, but this time he

was dressed in black and the tune was sad and quiet.

Emma didn't like it inside the church, and was glad when they stood

outside in the sunlight. Johnno and P.M., whose eyes had been red from

weeping, had carried the casket, along with four other men who were

supposed to be her ceiusins. She wondered why it had taken so many to

carry Darren, who hadn't been heavy at all. But she was afraid to ask.

It helped to look at the cows, and the tall grass and the birds that

glided overhead.

Darren would have liked his farm, she thought. But it didn't seem

right, it didn't seem fair that he couldn't be standing beside her,

ready to race and run and laugh.

He shouldn't be in that box, she thought. He shouldn't be an angel,

even if it meant he had wings and music. If she had been strong and

brave, if she had kept her promise, he wouldn't be. She should be in

the box, she realized as tears began to fall. She had let bad things

happen to Darren. She hadn't saved him from the monsters.

Johnno picked her up when she began to cry. He swayed a little, and the

movement was comforting. She laid her head on his shoulder and listened

to the words he spoke along with the priest.

""The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want . . ." But she did want.

She wanted Darren. Blinking tears from her eyes, she tried to watch the

grass move with the wind. She heard her father's voice, thick with

grief.

. . . walk through the valley of the shadow of death I will fear no

evil . . ."

"

But there was evil, she wanted to shout. There was evil, and it had

killed Darren. Evil had no face.

She watched a bird swoop overhead, and followed its path. On the

hilltop nearby she saw a man. He stood, overlooking the small grave and

the grief, silently taking pictures.

HE WOULD NEVER be the same, Brian thought as he drank steadily, a bottle

of Irish whiskey on the table near his elbow. Nothing would ever be the

same. The drink didn't ease the pain as he had hoped it would. It only

made it sink its roots deeper.

He couldn't even comfort Bev. God knew he'd tried. He'd wanted to.

He'd wanted to comfort her, to be comforted by her. But she was buried

so deep inside the pale, silent woman who had stood beside

him as their child had been put in the ground that he couldn't reach

her.

He needed her, dammit. He needed someone to tell him there were reasons

for what had happened, that there was hope, even now, in these the

darkest days of his life. That was why he'd brought Darren here, to

Ireland, why he'd insisted on the mass and the prayers and the ceremony.

You were never more Catholic than you were at times of death, Brian

thought. But even the familiar words, and scents, even the hope the

priest had handed out as righteously as communion wafers hadn't eased

the pain.

He would never see Darren again, never hold him, never watch him grow.

All that talk about everlasting life meant nothing when he couldn't take

his boy up in his arms.

He wanted to be angry, but he was far too tired for that, or any kind of

passion. So if there was no comfort, he thought as he poured another

glass, he would learn to live with the griel

The kitchen smelled of spice cakes and good roasted meat. The scents

hung on though his relatives had been gone for several hours. They had

come-he wanted to be grateful for that. They had come to stand beside

him, to cook the food that was somehow supposed to feed the soul. They

had grieved for the loss of the boy most of them had never met.

He had pulled away from his family, Brian admitted. Because he had had

his own, had made his own. Now what was left of the family he'd made

was sleeping upstairs. Darren was sleeping a few miles away, beneath

the shadow of a hill, beside the grandmother he had never known.

Brian drained his glass, and with oblivion on his mind, poured another.

"Son?"

Looking up, Brian saw his father hesitating in the doorway. He wanted

to laugh. It was such a complete and ironic role reversal. He could

remember, clear as a bell, creeping into the kitchen as a boy, while his

father sat at the table getting unsteadily drunk.

"Yeah." Lifting the glass, Brian watched him over the rim.

"You should try for sleep."

He saw his father's eyes dart and linger on the bottle. Without a word,

Brian pushed it toward him. He entered then, Liam McAvoy, an old man at

fifty. His face was round and ruddy from the cross-stitches of broken

capillaries under his skin. He had the blue, dreamy eyes that had been

passed on to his son, and the pale blond hair now wiry with

gray. He was gaunt, brittle-boned, no longer the big, powerful ' I man

he had seemed in Brian's youth. When he reached for the bottle, Brian

felt a jolt. His father's hands might have been his own, long-fingered,

graceful. Why had he never noticed before?

"It was a fine funeral," Liam said, groping. "Your mother'd be pleased

you brought him here to lie with her." He poured, then thirstily downed

three fingers.

Outside the soft rain of Ireland began.

They'd never drunk together before, Brian realized. He poured more

whiskey into both glasses. Perhaps, at last, they would find some

common ground. With a bottle between them.

"Here's a farmer's rain," Liam said, soothed by the sound and the

whiskey. "A nice soft soaker."

A farmer's rain. His little boy had dreamed of being a farmer. Had he

passed that -much of Liam McAvoy into Darren?

"I didn't want him to be alone. I thought he should be back in Ireland,

with family."

"It's right. You done right."

Brian lit a cigarette, then pushed the pack toward his father. Had they

ever talked before, the two of them? If they had Brian couldn't

remember. "It shouldn't have happened."

"There's a lot that happens in this world shouldn't." Liam lit the

cigarette, then picked up his glass. "They'll catch the bastards who

did this, boy. They'll catch them."

"It's been a week." It already seemed like years. "They've got nothing.

"They'll catch them," Liam insisted. "And the bloody bastards will rot

in hell. Then the poor little lad'Il rest easy."

He didn't want to think of vengeance now. He didn't want to think of

his sweet little boy resting easy in the ground. Time had passed, and

was lost. There had to be reasons for it.

"Why didn't you ever come?" Brian leaned forward. "I sent you tickets,

for the wedding, when Daffen was born, for Emma's birthday, for his. For

God's sake, you never saw him until his wake. Why didn't you come?"

"Running a farm's busy work," he said between swallows. Liam was a man

filled with regrets so that one easily melded into another. "Can't go

larking off anytime you please."

"Not even once." Suddenly, it seemed vital that he have an answer, a

true one. "You could have sent Ma. Before she died, you could've let

her come."

"A woman's place is with her husband." Liam tilted his glass toward

Brian. "You'd do well to remember that, boy."

"You always were a selfish bastard."

Liam's hand, surprisingly strong, clamped down on Brian's. "Mind your

tongue."

"I won't run and hide this time, Dad." His eyes, his voice were steady.

In both was an eagerness. He would have relished a battle, here, now.

Slowly, Liam removed his hand, then picked up his glass. "I won't butt

heads with you today. Not the day my grandson's been laid to rest."

"He was never yours. You never even saw him until he was dead," Brian

tossed back. "You never bothered, just cashed in the tickets I sent to

buy more whiskey."

"And where were you these last years? Where were you when your mother

died? Off somewhere playing your bloody music."

"That bloody music put a roof over your head."

"Dad." With the stuffed dog clutched in her arms, Emma stood in the

doorway, her eyes wide and frightened, her lower lip trembling. She had

heard the angry voices, smelled the hot odor of liquor before she

stepped into the room.

"Emma." A bit unsteady, Brian walked over to pick her up, careful not to

jar her arm with the cast. "What are you doing down here?"

"I had a bad dream." The snakes had come back, and the monsters. She

could still hear the echo of Darren's cries.

"Hard to sleep in a strange bed." Liam got to his feet. His hand was

awkward, but it was gentle as he patted her head. "Your grandda will

fix you some warm milk."

She sniffled as he took out an old, dented pan. "Can I stay with you?"

she asked her father.

"Sure." He carried her to a chair and sat with her on his lap.

"I woke up, and I couldn't find you."

"I'm right here, Emma." He stroked her hair, studying his father over

her head. "I'll always be here for you."

EVEN THERE, LOU THOUGHT. Even at such a time. He studied the grainy

tabloid pictures of Darren McAvoy's funeral. He'd seen the paper at the

checkout of the supermarket when he'd picked up the whole wheat bread

Marge had sent him out for. Like anything that had to do with the

McAvoys, it had caught his interest, and his sympathy. He'd been more

than a little embarrassed to have bought it, in public, from Sally the

checker.

In the privacy of his own home, he felt even more like a voyeur. For a

few pieces of loose change he, and thousands of others, could witness

the intimacy of grief It was there on all the faces, though they were

bluffed. He could see the little girl, her arm in a cast and sling.

He wondered how much she had seen, how much she would remember. The

doctors he had consulted had all claimed that if she had witnessed

anything, she had blocked it. She could remember tomorrow, five years

from tomorrow, or never.

DEVASTATION ATGRAVESITE

There had been other headlines, dozens of others. Lou already had a

drawerful.

DIDEmMAMcAvoyWffNESSHERBROTHER'S

HoRRiBLEDEATH?

SON'SDEATHROCKSDEvAsTATION

CHILD MURDEREDDUR[NG PARENTS' ORGY

PiTuALKiLLING OFRocKER's BABY:

ARE MANSONF==Rs REsPONsiBLE?

Garbage, Lou thought. It was all garbage. He wondered if Pete Page

managed to shield the McAvoys from the worst of it. Frustrated, he

rested his head in his hands and continued to stare at the picture.

He couldn't pull himself away from the case. He was bringing his work

home with him now, and bringing it home with a vengeance. Files, photos,

notes littered his desk in the corner of Marge's tidy living room.

Though he had good men assigned with him, he doublechecked all their

work. He had personally interviewed everyone on the guest list he'd

been given. He'd pored over the forensic reports, then had gone back

again and again to comb through Darren's room.

More than two weeks after the murder, and Lou had absolutely nothing.

For amateurs, they certainly covered their tracks, he thought. And they

had been amateurs, he was certain. Professionals didn't end up

smothering a child that might have been worth a million in ransom,

nor would they made such a poor attempt to give the illusion of a

break-in.

They had been in the house. They had walked right through the front

door. That was something else Lou was sure of. That didn't mean their

names were on the list Page had managed to compile. Half of Southern

California could have walked into the house that nightand been given a

drink or a joint or whatever party drugs had been available.

There hadn't been any fingerprints in the boy's room, not even on the

hypodermic needle. There were only fingerprints of the McAvoys and

their nanny. It seemed that Beverly McAvoy was an excellent

housekeeper. The first floor had shown the disorder expected in the

aftermath of a party, but the second floor, the family floor, had been

clean and ordered. Marge would have approved, he thought as he imagined

the rooms. No fingerprints, no dust, no signs of struggle.

But there had been a struggle, a life-and-death struggle. Sometime

during it a hand had clamped over Darren McAvoy's mouth and, perhaps

inadvertently, his nose.

That struggle had occurred sometime between the time Emma had heard her

brother cry-if indeed she had-and when Beverly McAvoy had gone up to

check on her son.

How long had it taken? Five minutes, ten. Certainly no longer.

According to the coroner, Daffen McAvoy had died between two and

two-thirty A.M. The ambulance call for Emma had been logged in at

two-seventeen.

It didn't help, Lou thought now. It didn't help to have the times

correlated, to have reams of notes and neatly labeled file folders. He

needed to find just one thing out of place, one name that didn't fit,

one story that didn't jibe.

He needed to find Darren McAvoy's killers. If he didn't, he knew he

would forever be haunted by the boy's face, and his young sister's

tearful question.

Was it my fault?

"Dad?"

Lou jolted, then turned to see his son standing behind him, tossing a

football from hand to hand.

"Michael, don't sneak up on me like that."

"I didn't." Michael rolled his eyes when his father turned around again.

If he slammed doors and walked through the house like a normal person,

he was being too noisy. If he tried to be quiet, he was sneaking. A

guy couldn't win.

"Dad," he said again.

"Hmmm?"

"You said you'd pass me a few this afternoon."

"When I'm finished, Michael."

Michael shifted from foot to foot in his scruffy black sneakers. In the

past few weeks "When I'm finished" had been his father's standard

answer. "When will you be finished?"

"I don't know, but I'll be finished faster if you don't bother me."

Hell, Michael thought, wisely keeping the oath in his mind. Nobody had

time for anything anymore. His best friend was at his stupid

grandmother's, and his second best friend was sick with the dumb flu or

something. What good was a Saturday if you didn't get to fool around?

He tried, really, to take his father's advice. There was the Christmas

tree to look at, and all the presents stacked beneath it. Michael

picked up one with his name on it, the one wrapped in the paper with

goofy elves dancing all over it. He shook it, carefully. The rattle

was only slight but brought tremendous satisfaction.

He wanted a remote-controlled plane. It had been first on his Christmas

list and written in capital letters then underlined three times. Just

so his mom and dad knew he was serious. He was sure, dead sure, it was

inside that box.

He set it down again. It would be days before he could unwrap it, days

before he could take it outside and make it do loops and dives.

He needed something to do now.

There were baking smells in the kitchen, which pleased him. But he knew

if he wandered in there, his mother would rope him into rolling out

cookie dough or decorating gingerbread men. Girl stuff.

How was he ever supposed to play wide receiver for the L.A. Rams if

nobody passed him the stupid football, for crying out loud?

And what was so interesting about a bunch of dopey papers and pictures

anyway? Wandering back toward the desk, he ran his tongue over the

tooth he'd chipped the week before while practicing wheelies on his

three-speed. He liked the fact that his dad was a cop, and bragged

about it all the time. Of course, when he bragged he had his dad

shooting from the hip and locking up crazies like Charlie Manson for

life. It would be a sad state of affairs if he had to tell the gang

that his father typed out forms and studied files. Might as well be a

librarian.

Theking the football under his arm, he leaned over his father's

shoulder. He had an idea that if he made a pest of himself, his father

would push the papers aside and come outside. Then his gaze fell on the

picture of Darren McAvoy.

"Jeez. Is that a dead kid?"

"Michael!" Lou turned, but the lecture dried on his tongue as he looked

into his son's shocked and fascinated eyes. Going with instinct, he put

a hand on Michael's shoulder. "Yes."

"Wow. What happened? Did he get sick or something?"

"No." He wondered if he should feel guilty for using the tragedy of one

child as a lesson to another. "He was murdered."

"He's just a little kid. People aren't supposed to murder little kids."

"No. But sometimes they do."

Staring at the police photo, Michael faced his own mortality for the

first time in his whirlwind eleven years. "Why?"

Lou remembered telling Emma that there were no monsters. The longer he

looked at what had been done to Darren, the more certain he was that

there were. "I don't know. I'm trying to find out. That's my job, to

find out."

Having a cop for a father had never stopped Michael from embracing the

television image of justice at work.

"How do you find out?"

"By talking to people, studying the evidence. Thinking a lot."

"Sounds boring." But he couldn't take his eyes off the picture.

"It is, mostly-l'

Michael was glad he'd decided to be an astronaut. He looked away from

the picture and spotted the tabloid his father had just brought home. He

had a sharp mind, and put it together quickly. "That's Brian McAvoy's

little boy. Somebody tried to kidnap him or something but he died

instead. All the kids're talking about it."

"That's right." Lou slipped the picture of Darren back into a folder.

"Wow. Wow! You're working on that case. Did you get to meet Brian

McAvoy and everything?"

"I met him."

His father had met Brian McAvoy. Michael could only stare in a kind of

dazed awe. "That's boss, really boss. Did you meet the rest of the

group? Did you talk to them?"

Lou shook his head as he began to tidy his papers. How simple life was

when you were eleven. And how simple it should be, he added as he

ruffled Michael's dark, untidy hair. "Yes, I talked to them. They seem

very nice."

"Nice?" Michael goggled. "They're the best. The very best. Wait until

I tell the guys."

"I don't want you to tell anyone about this."

"Not tell?" Michael pushed a hand through his tousled hair. "How come?

The guys'll just about fall over dead. I've got to tell them."

"No. No, you don't. I want you to keep this to yourself, Michael."

"But why?"

"Because some things are personal." He glanced back at the glaring

headlines. "Or should be personal. This is one of them. Come on." He

took the football, fitted it to his hand. "Let's see if you can catch

my bomb."

P.M. WATe14ED THE sea roll up on the sand. Even after a month, it

still surprised him that this house was his. The Malibu beach house,

his Malibu beach house, had everything the real estate broker had

promised. High, soaring ceilings, a giant stone fireplace, acres of

glass. In the bedroom upstairs where his lover still slept were twin

skylights, another fireplace, and a balcony that roped around the second

story.

Even Stevie had been impressed when he'd passed through. It had given

P.M. a wonderful sense of accomplishment to show off the rooms, the

tasteful furniture, the up-to-the-minute stereo unit he'd had built in.

But now Stevie was in Paris. Johnno was in New York. Brian was in

London. And P.M. felt very much alone.

There was still talk about a tour when the new album was released that

spring, but P.M. wasn't sure Brian would be up to it. It was nearly

two months since that horrible night, and Brian was still in seclusion.

He wondered if Brian knew that "Love Lost" was topping the singles

charts and had gone gold. He wondered if it would matter to him.

P.M. knew the police were no closer to finding out who had killed

Darren. He made it a point to stay in touch with Kesselring. It was

the least he could do for Brian, and for Bev.

He thought of Bev, how pale and stricken she had looked on the day of

the funeral. She hadn't spoken a word, not to anyone. He'd wanted so

badly to comfort her. He hadn't known how, and the fantasy he'd had

about taking her to bed, tenderly loving her until her grief passed, had

shocked him so much he'd been unable to do more than pat her cold, rigid

hand.

Angie Parks came down the circular stairs in a pink T-shirt that barely

covered her hips. She'd taken the time to add a bit of makeup

-a little mascara, a touch of lip gloss. She'd brushed out the knots

sleep and sex had tied in her long blond hair, then had carefully

arranged it to give it a tousled, bedroom look.

The best way to get what you wanted from a man was with sex. And she

wanted quite a bit from P.M.

She glanced around the big, glass-walled living room. It was a nice

start, she decided. A very nice start. She'd like to keep it as a

weekend place once she'd talked P.M. into Beverly Hills. That was

where stars lived, and she had every intention of being a star.

P.M. was her stepping-stone. Her romantic liaison with him had already

led to a handful of commercials and a nice supporting role in a TV

movie. She wanted better things, bigger things, and was willing to keep

P.M. happy to get them.

She was grateful to him. Without the interest that had come her way

since the press had picked up on their affair, she might have had to

take a turn doing some porno flicks. A girl had to pay the rent. Angie

flexed her wrist so that the light caught the diamonds and sapphires in

the bracelet P.M. had given her. She wouldn't have to worry about rent

any longer.

She turned toward the glass doors and saw him standing on the deck. As

he stood in the early sunlight she thought he looked almost handsome.

And lonely. Even a heart as naturally ambitious as Angie's could feel

some pity. He hadn't been the same since the little boy had died. She

was sorry about it, really, but the tragedy had made P.M.

even more dependent on her. And the press was worth its weight in gold.

A smart woman took whatever opportunities came her way and made the most

of them.

She ran a hand over her breasts, pleased that they were firm enough to

stand without a bra. She walked up behind him, pressed them against his

back as she wound her arms around his neck.

"I missed you, honey."

He lifted a hand to hers, embarrassed that his first thought had been of

Bev. "I didn't want to wake you up."

"You know I love it when you wake me up." She slipped around him, her

arms like long, soft ropes. With a little catchy sigh, she closed her

mouth over his. "I hate to see you looking so sad."

"I was just thinking about Bri. I'm worried about him."

"You're a good friend, honey." She played light, quick kisses over his

face. "That's one of the things I love most about you."

He drew her closer, as always stunned and delighted to hear her say she

loved him. She was so beautiful with her big brown eyes and

kewpie-doll mouth. Her breathy voice was like music she played only for

him.

She only pressed closer when he ran his hands up her legs to knead the

firm flesh of her buttocks. Her body was like a dream, long and lush

and tanned as golden as a peach. When she shuddered, he felt like a

king.

"I need you, Angie."

"Then take me."

She let her head fall back, looking at him from under carefully darkened

lashes. Slowly, keeping her eyes on him, she reached down, and taking

the hem of her shirt, pulled it up and over her head. In the sunlight,

she stood erotically naked, her breasts rosily tipped and as golden as

the rest of her. He kept his senses long enough to pull her inside the

doors before he lowered her to the floor.

She let him do whatever he liked, enjoying most of it, adding a few

calculated groans and cries when she thought it appropriate. It wasn't

that he didn't excite her. He did, in a mild sort of way. She would

have preferred it if he'd been a bit more forceful, put a few bruises on

her.

But P.M."s chunky drummer's hands were almost reverent as they skimmed

over her. Even when his breath began to chug and the sweat began to

roll, he treated her like fine glass, too considerate to put his frill

weight on her, too polite, even in passion, to ram himself into her and

make her cries sincere.

He took her gently, with a steady rhythm that brought her just inches

from full satisfaction. He lay on her only a moment, while he collected

himself and she studied the glossy wood of the ceiling. Ever mindful of

his weight, he rolled aside and cushioned her head with his arm.

"Oh, that was wonderful." She stroked his damp, pale chest. Always

practical, she knew she could finish herself off when she went upstairs.

"You're the best, honey. The very best."

"I love you, Angie." He let his hand linger in her hair. This was what

he wanted, he realized. All that crazed, nameless sex had never been

for him. He wanted to know, when he went on the road, that there was

someone waiting for him, at home, or in those miserable hotel rooms. He

wanted what Brian had.

Not Bev, P.M. assured himself on a painful twinge of disloyalty. But a

wife, a family, a home. With Angie, he could have it all.

"Angie. Will you marry me?"

She went very still. It was everything she'd hoped for, and it was

happening. She could already see the casting agents scrambling for

her-and the huge white house in Beverly Hills. The smile lit her face.

She nearly laughed with it. Then, taking a deep breath, she shifted.

There were tears in her eyes when she looked down at him.

"Do you mean it? Do you really want me?"

"I'll make you happy, Angie. Look, I know it can't be easy being

married to someone who's part of what I'm part of. The tours and the

fans and the press. But we can make something for ourselves, just the

two of us, that's ours, only ours."

"I love what you are," she told him with complete honesty.

"Then will you? Will you marry me, and start a family?"

"I'll marry you." She threw her arms around him. A family was a

different matter altogether, she thought as he lowered her to the floor

again. But as the wife of P. M. Ferguson, her career had no place to

go but up.

BRim DIDN'T KNow how much more he could take, kicking around the big

house day after day, sleeping night after night beside a woman who

cringed away from his slightest touch.

He was on the phone nearly every day, hoping Kesseiring could give him

something, anything. He needed a name, a face that he could vent his

helpless fury on.

He had nothing but an empty nursery, and a wife who drifted through the

house like the ghost of the woman he loved.

And Emma. Thank God for Emma.

Rubbing his hands over his face, he pushed back from the table where

he'd been trying to compose. He knew if it hadn't been for Emma over

the past weeks, he'd have gone insane.

She was grieving too, silently, sadly. Often he sat up with her long

past her bedtime, telling her stories, singing, or just listening. They

could make each other smile, and when they did the pain eased.

He was terrified every moment she was out of the house. Even the

bodyguards he'd hired to see her to school and back again didn't take

away the gut-knotting fear he felt when she walked out the door.

And how would he feel when it was time for him to walk out the door? No

matter how much he missed his son, the day would come when he needed to

go back to the stag&, back to the studio, back to the music. He could

hardly tie a six-year-old girl around his waist and haul her with him.

And there was no leaving her with Bev. Not now, and not, as Brian saw

it, in the near future.

"Mr. McAvoy, excuse me."

"Yes, Alice." They had kept her on, though there was no child to nurse.

She nursed Bev now, Brian thought and dug a cigarette from the pack he'd

tossed on the table.

"Mr. Page is here to see you."

Brian glanced back at the table, the scatter of paper, the jumble of

lyrics and half-phrases. "Bring him on in here."

"'Lo, Bri." With one look Pete took in the evidence of a man struggling

to work without much success. Balls of paper, a cigarette smoldering in

an overflowing ashtray, the faint scent of liquor, though it was barely

noon. "Hope you don't mind me popping 'round. I have some business and

I didn't think you'd care to come in to the office."

"No." He reached for the bottle that was never far from his hand. "Have

a drink?"

"I'll hold off a bit, thanks." He sat, trying for an easy smile. The

mood between them was stiff and uncharacteristically formal. No one

seemed to know how to behave around Brian, what questions to ask, what

questions to avoid. "How's Bev?" he ventured.

"I don't know." Remembering his cigarette, Brian plucked. it out from

among the butts. "She won't say very much, won't go out at all."

He let out smoke with a long, uneven sigh. When he looked at Pete there

was both a plea and defiance in his eyes. The same, Pete thought, as

there had been years before when Brian had come to him, asking for

management. "Pete, she sits in Darren's room for hours at a time. Even

at night, sometimes I'll wake up and find her in there, just sitting in

that bloody rocking chair." He took a swallow from his glass, then

another, deeper. "I don't know what the hell to do."

"Have you thought of therapy?"

"You mean a psychiatrist?" Brian pushed away from the table. The ash

from his cigarette crumbled onto the rug. He was a simple man, from

simple people. Problems, private problems, were handled privately.

"What good would it do for her to talk about her sex life and how she

hated her father or some bloody thing?"

"It's just an idea, Bri." Pete reached out a hand, then dropped it to

the arm of his chair. "Something to think about."

"Even if I thought it might help, I don't know if I could get her to

agree."

"Maybe she just needs a bit more time. It's only been a couple of

months."

"He'd have been three last week. Oh, Jesus."

Saying nothing, Pete rose to pour more whiskey into Brian's glass.

He handed it over, then eased Brian into a chair. "Do you hear anything

from the police?"

"I talk to Kesselring. They're no closer. That makes it worse somehow.

Not knowing who."

Pete sat again. They needed to get past this thing, all of them, and

move ahead. "What about Emma?"

"The nightmares have stopped, and the cast comes off in a few weeks. She

has school to keep it off her mind, but it's always there. You can see

it in her eyes."

"She hasn't remembered any more?"

Brian shook his head. "Christ, Pete, I don't know if she saw anything

or just had a bad dream. It's all monsters with Emma. I want it behind

her. Somehow we've got to put it behind all of us."

Pete paused a moment, considering. "That's one of the reasons I'm here.

I don't want to push you, Bri, but the record company would very much

like a tour to commence with the release of the new album. I've put them

off, but I wonder if it might not be good for you."

"A tour would mean leaving Bev, and Emma."

"I realize that. Don't give me an answer now. Think about it." He took

out a cigarette, lighted it. "We can go through Europe, America, Japan,

if you and the lads are willing. The work might be just what you need

to help you through."

"And it would sell plenty of records."

Pete gave a thin smile. "There's that. No pushing an album over the

top these days without touring. Speaking of records, I signed that new

boy on. Robert Blackpool. I think I mentioned him."

"Yes. You said you had high hopes."

"And so I do. You'd like his style, Bri, which is why I want you to let

him recor. "On the Wing."$

Simple surprise had Brian pausing before he drank again. "We always

record our own music."

"So you have, thus far. But it's good business all around to expand a

bit." Pete waited a moment, gauging Brian's mood. Because he sensed it

was more responsive than he'd expected, he pressed on. "You pulled that

particular piece from the last album, and it suits Blackpool to the

ground. It wouldn't hurt to have a new artist record a ditty you and

Johnno turned out. In fact in this case it'll only enhance your

reputations as songwriters."

"I don't know." He rubbed his hands over his eyes. It didn't seem to

matter. "I'll run it by Johnno."

"I already have." Pete smiled. "He's agreeable if you are."

BRiAN FOUND BEV IN DARREN'S R00m. Though it cost him, he went inside,

trying not to look at the empty crib, at the toys neatly stacked on the

shelves, at the huge teddy bear he and Bev had bought before Darren had

been born.

"Bev." He laid a hand on hers and waited, fruitlessly, for her to look

at him.

She was too thin. The bones in her face were too prominent for elegance

now. The luster in her eyes, her hair, her skin was gone. He found

himself gritting his teeth to keep from grabbing her by the shoulders

and shaking her until life bloomed in her again.

"Bev, I was hoping you'd come down and have some tea."

She could smell the liquor. It turned her stomach. How could he sit

and drink and scribble his music? She took her hand from his and laid

it in her lap. "I don't want any tea."

"I have some news. P.M."s gotten himself mained."

She looked at him then, a flick of a disinterested glance.

"He was hoping we'd come out for a short while. He'd like to show off

his house at the beach and his chesty new wife."

"I'll never go back there." There was such quick, angry violence in her

voice, he nearly stepped back. But it wasn't emotion that stunned him

nearly so much as the look in her eyes when they met his. Loathing.

"What do you want from me?" he demanded. lie bent close, gripping both

arms of the rocker. "What the hell do you want?"

"Just leave me alone."

"I have left you alone. I've left you alone to sit in here hour after

hour. I've left you alone when I've needed so badly just to hold on to

you. And at night, I've left you alone when I've waited for you to turn

to me. Just once to turn to me. Goddamn you, Bev, he was mine, too."

She said nothing, but the tears began. When he reached for her, she

jerked away. "Don't touch me. I can't bear it." When he backed off,

she slipped out of the chair to go to the crib.

"You can't bear me to touch you," he began as his fury built. "You

can't stand me to took at you, or speak to you. Hour after hour, day

after day, you sit in here as if you're the only one who hurts. It's

time to stop, Bev."

"It's easy for you, isn't it?" She snatched a blanket from the crib to

press it to her breasts. "You can sit and drink and write your music as

if nothing happened. It is so bloody easy for you."

"No." Weary, he pressed his fingers to his eyes. "But I can't just stop

living. He's gone, and I can't change it."

"No, you can't change it." The helpless grief welled up to rub the wound

raw. "You had to have the party that night. All those people in our

home. Your family was never enough for you, and now he's gone. You had

to have more, more people, more music. Always more. And one of those

people you let into our home killed my baby."

He couldn't speak. If she had taken a knife and slashed him from heart

to gut there might have been less pain. Certainly less shock. They

stood, with the empty crib between them.

"He didn't let the monsters in." Emma stood in the doorway, her books

dangling from their strap, her eyes dark against her white skin. "Dad

didn't let the monsters in." Before Brian could speak, she was rushing

down the hall, her sobs trailing behind her.

"Good job," Brian managed to say while his jaw clenched and unclenched.

"Since you want to be alone, I'll take Emma and go."

She wanted to call after him, but couldn't. Tired, much too tired, she

sank into the rocker again.

IT TooK HIM AN HOUR to calm Emma. When her tears had put her to sleep,

he began his calls. His decision made, he ended with Pete.

"We're leaving for New York tomorrow," he said shortly. "Emma and I.

We'll hook up with Johnno, take a few days. I need to find her a good

school and arrange security. Once she's settled, and safe, we'll go to

California and begin rehearsals. Fix up the tour, Pete, and make it a

long one." He took a hard pull of whiskey. "We're ready to rock."

SHE DOESN'T WAnt to go back." Brian watched Emma wander around the

rehearsal hall with her new camera. He'd given it to her during their

tearful goodbye at Saint Catherine's Academy for Girls in upstate New

York.

"She'd barely been there a month before this spring-break thing,"

Johnno reminded him. But he felt a twinge for the little girl as she

snapped a picture of Stevie's Martin on its stand in the corner. "Give

her a bit of time to adjust."

"It seems all we do is adjust." It had been eight weeks since he'd

walked out on Bev, and he still ached for her. The women he'd taken

since were like a drug, the drugs like women. Both only eased the pain

for moments at a time.

"You could call her," Johnno suggested, reading his partner's thoughts

with the ease of a long relationship.

"No." He'd considered it, more than once. But the papers had been full

of their separation, and his appetite since. He doubted if he and Bev

would have anything to say to each other that wouldn't make things

worse. "My concern now's for Emma. And the tour."

"Both'Il be smashing." Johnno glanced over, giving a pointed look toward

Angie. "With a few exceptions."

Brian merely shrugged and began to noodle on the piano. "If she

clinches that movie deal, she'll be out of our hair."

"Smarmy little bitch. Did you see that rock she had P.M. spring for?"

Johnno tilted his head and affected an upper-class accent. "Too, too

tacky, dearie."

"Draw the claws. As long as P.M."s honkers over her, we're stuck.

And we've more to worry about than our little Angie." He watched Stevie

come back into the hall.

He was spending more and more time in the bathroom, Brian noted. And it

didn't have anything to do with his bladder. Whatever Stevie had jabbed

or swallowed or snorted this time had him flying. He stopped by Emma to

give her a quick swing, then picked up his guitar. As the amp was off,

his frantic rill was soundless.

"Best to wait until he's down to talk to him about it," Johnno

suggested. "If you can catch him when he is." He started to add

something, then decided that Brian had enough on his mind. It would

hardly do any good to tell him what he'd heard before they'd left New

York.

Imagine Jane Palmer writing a book. Of course someone else would do the

work, like putting sentences together. Still, he imagined Jane would

get a princely sum for it. And whatever she said in her little public

diary wasn't likely to please Brian. Best to let Pete handle it, he

decided, and not hit Brian with what was already going on until after

the tour.

Emma paid little attention to the rehearsal when it got back into swing.

She'd heard all the songs before, dozens of times. Most of them were

from the album her Dad and the others had made when they'd been in

California before. She'd been allowed to go to the studio a few times.

Once Bev had brought Darren.

She didn't want to think of Darren because it hurt too much. Then she

was struck with a miserable wave of guilt because she tried to block him

out.

She missed Charlie, too. She'd left him behind in London in Darren's

crib. She hoped Bev would take care of him. And maybe one day, when

they went back home, Bev would talk to her again, and laugh, as she once

had.

She didn't understand very much about penance, but she thought leaving

Charlie behind was only right.

Then there was school. She was certain that having to go to that place,

so far away from everyone she loved best, was her punishment for not

taking care of Darren as she'd promised.

She remembered being punished before, the slaps and shouts. It seemed

easier, she thought now, because once the slaps were over, so was the

punishment. There seemed no end to her current banishment.

Dad didn't call it a punishment, she mused. He said she was going to a

good school where she would learn to be smart. Where she would be safe.

There were men there to watch her. Emma hated that. They

were big, silent men with bored eyes. Not like Johnno and the others.

She wanted to go from city to city with them, even if it meant going on

airplanes. She wanted to stay in hotels and bounce on the beds and

order tea from room service. But she was going back to school, back to

the sisters with the kind eyes and firm hands, back to morning prayers

and grammar lessons.

She glanced back as her father peeled into "Soldier Blues." It was

another song about the war, its hard-edged lyrics set to a harderedged

beat. She didn't know why it appealed to her. Perhaps it was P.M."s

cymbal-crashing style or Stevie's frantic, blood-pumping guitar. But

when Johnno's voice merged with Brian's, she lifted her camera.

She liked to take pictures. It never occurred to her that the camera

was too expensive and difficult to master for a child of her age. Just

as it had never occurred to her that giving it had been a sop to Brian's

guilt for tucking her away in an obscure school.

"Emma."

She turned to study a tall, dark man. He wasn't one of the bodyguards,

she realized, but there was something familiar about his face. Then she

remembered. She smiled a little because he had been kind when he'd come

to see her in the hospital, and he hadn't embarrassed her when she'd

cried on his shoulder.

"Do you remember me?" Lou asked her.

"Yes. You're the policeman."

"That's right." He put a hand on the boy beside him, trying to draw his

son's attention away from the group rehearsing. "This is Michael. I

told you about him."

She brightened even more, but was too shy to ask him about rollerskating

off rooftops. "Hello."

"Hi." He gave her a quick glance, a fleeting smile. It was all he could

spare before his eyes were riveted to the four men in the center of the

hall.

"We need the horns," Brian began when he signaled a halt. "Can't get

the frill sound without them." His heart stopped when he spotted the man

beside Emma, then sl(ywly, thickly began beating again. "Lieutenant."

"Mr. McAvoy." After a quick warning glance at his son, Lou crossed the

hall. "I'm sorry to interrupt your rehearsal, but I wanted to speak to

you again, and your daughter, if possible."

"Do you-"

"No. I have very little to add to what you already know. But if I

could have a few minutes of your time?"

"Sure. You chaps want to go for lunch? I'll catch up with you."

"I could hang around," Johnno offered.

"No." Brian gave his shoulder a quick squeeze. "Thanks."

Emma caught the look in Michael's eyes. She'd seen the same expression

in those of the girls at school when they'd discovered who her father

was. Her lips curved a little. She liked his face, the slightly

crooked nose, the clear gray eyes.

"Would you like to meet them?"

Michael had to wipe his sweaty palms on his jeans. "Yeah. That'd be

boss."

"I hope you don't mind," Lou said to Brian as he noted that Emma had

spared him from asking. "I brought my son along. Not strictly

procedure, but-"

"I understand." Brian took a long, envious look at the boy as Michael

beamed up at Johnno. Would Darren have been so bright, so sturdy at

eleven? "Why don't I send him an album? The new one won't be released

for a couple of weeks yet. He'll be the hit of the schoolyard."

"That's very kind of you."

"It's nothing. I've a strong feeling that you've put more time in on

what happened to Darren than you're required to."

"Neither one of us has nine-to-five jobs, Mr. McAvoy."

"Right. I always hated cops." He gave a thin smile. "I guess you do

until you really need one. I've hired a private-detective firm,

Lieutenant."

"Yes, I know."

It was strange, but Brian felt the easiness of his own laugh. "Yes, I

suppose you do. They reported to me that you've covered more ground

than five cops might in the last months. That's the only thing they've

been able to tell me that you haven't. One would almost think you want

them as much as I do."

"He was a beautiful boy, Mr. McAvoy."

"Yes, by Jesus he was." He looked down at the guitar still in his hands.

Because he wanted to fling it, he set it with exaggerated care on its

stand. "What would you like to talk to me about?"

"Just a few details I'd like to go over again. I know it's

repetitious."

"It doesn't matter."

"I'd also like to talk to Emma again."

The easiness passed as quickly as it had come. "She can't tell you

anything."

"Maybe I haven't asked the right questions yet."

Brian ran a hand through his hair. He'd had several inches cut off and

was still surprised when his hand ran through it and into air. "Darren's

gone, and I can't risk Emma's state of mind. She's delicate at the

moment. She's only six, and for the second time in her life, she's been

uprooted. I'm sure you've read that my wife and I are separated."

"I'm sorry."

"It's hardest on Emma. I don't want her upset again."

"I won't push." He tabled his idea of suggesting hypnosis.

Enjoying her role as hostess, such as it was, Emma brought Michael over

to her father. "Dad, this is Michael."

"Hello, Michael."

"Hello." Finding his tongue tied in knots, Michael could only grin

foolishly.

"Do you like music?"

"Oh yeah. I've got lots of your records." He wanted desperately to ask

for an autograph, but was afraid he'd seem like a jerk. "It was great

hearing you play, and all. Just about the greatest."

"Thanks."

Emma took a picture. "My Dad can send you a copy," she said, admiring

Michael's chipped front tooth.

WHEN LOU LEFT, leading his reluctant son out of the rehearsal hall, he

had the beginnings of a headache and a nasty case of frustration. He'd

kept his promise and hadn't pushed Emma. He hadn't been able to. The

moment he had mentioned the night her brother had died her eyes had gone

blank and her body had stiffened. Instinct told him she had seen or

heard something, but her memory of that night was already bluffed. It

was peopled with monsters and snarling shadows.

He didn't care to admit that breaking the case depended on a terrified

six-year-old whose memory of that night, according to the psychologists

he'd interviewed, might never return.

There was still the pizza man, Lou thought grimly. It had taken him two

days to locate the right shop and the clerk who'd been working the

graveyard shift. He'd remembered the order for fifty pizzas, and had

considered it a joke. But he'd also remembered the name of the person

who'd placed the order.

Tom Fletcher, a session musician who played both alto and tenor sax, had

had a yen for pizza that night. It had taken weeks to track him

down, and weeks more to put through the paperwork to bring the musician

back from his gig in Jamaica.

Lou preferred pinning his hopes there. Whoever had been in Darren's

room hadn't come back down the main stairs or climbed out of the window.

That left the kitchen stairs where Tom Fletcher had been trying to

convince the night clerk to deliver fifty pizzas with everything.

"Hey, Dad, that was the best." Michael dragged his feet on the sidewalk

to give himself a few more moments. He pulled open the door of his

father's '68 Chevelle, craning his neck to look at the upper windows of

the building at his back. "The guys are going to go nuts when I tell

them. It's okay to tell them now, right? Everybody knows you've got

the case."

"Yeah." Lou pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and

forefinger. He wasn't sure if the headache had been brought on by

tension or the furious pulse of music. "Everybody knows." He'd burrowed

his way through a trio of press conferences.

"How come they got all those security guards?" Michael wanted to kncrw.

"What guards?"

"Those." As his father settled into the driver's seat, Michael pointed

to the four dark-suited, broad-shouldered men near the entrance of the

building.

"How do you know they're guards?"

"Come on." Michael rolled his eyes. "You can always tell cops. Even

rent-a-cops."

Lou wasn't sure if he should wince or laugh. He wondered how his

captain would feel if he knew the average eleven-year-old could make an

undercover cop. "Th keep people from hassling them, maybe hurting them.

And the little girl," Lou added. "Someone might try to kidnap her."

"Jeez. You mean they've got to have guards all the time?"

"Yes."

"Bummer," Michael murmured sincerely, no longer sure he wanted to pursue

the idea of becoming a rock star. "I'd hate to have people watching me

all the time. I mean, how could you have any secrets?"

"It's tough."

As his father pulled away from the curb, Michael cast one last look over

his shoulder. "Can we go to McDonald's?"

"Yeah. Sure."

"I guess she doesn't get to do that much."

"What?"

"The little kid. Emma. I guess she doesn't get to go to McDonald's."

"No." Lou ruffled his boy's hair. "I guess not."

It took only a few minutes to get Michael settled in with a

cheeseburger, fries, and a shake. Lou left his son in the booth to call

in. From the phone outside the window he could see Michael dousing more

ketchup on the burger. "Kesselring," he said. "I'll be in the station

in an hour."

"I got some bad news for you, Lou."

"What else is new?"

"It's Fletcher, your pizza man."

"Didn't he make it into L.A.?"

"Yeah, he made it in. Sent a couple of uniforms to pick him up this

morning for questioning. Seems they were about six hours too late. He'd

been dead that long."

"Shit."

"Looks like a standard 0D. He had the works and some top-grade heroin.

We're waiting on the coroner's report."

"That's great. That's tucking great." He slammed a hand against the

wall of the booth, hard enough to make a mother hurry her three children

by. "Have the lab boys been over his hotel room?"

"Top to bottom."

"Give me the address." He fumbled for his notebook. "I have to drop my

kid at home, after that I'll have a look."

Lou noted it down, swore again, and banged the receiver. He opened the

door, then to give himself a moment, leaned against it. Through the

window he could see his son cheerfully plowing through the cheeseburger.

Saint Catherine's Academy, 1977

TWO MORE WEEKS, Emma thought.. "IWo more long, boring, rotten weeks, and

she'd be out for the summer. She'd be able to see her father, and

Johnno and the rest. She'd be able to breathe without being told she

was breathing for God. She'd be able to think without being warned

about impure thoughts.

As far as she could see, the nuns must be full of impure thoughts or

else they wouldn't be so sure everyone else had them.

She would be going back to the real world for a few precious weeks. New

York. Emma closed her eyes a moment, trying to bring its noise, its

smells, its life into her quiet room. With a sigh, she propped her

elbows on her desk, slouching in a way that would have made Sister Mary

Alice crack her ruler. She didn't bend over the French verbs she was

supposed to conjugate, but looked out over the green lawns to the high

stone walls that closed the school off from the sinful world.

Not all the sinful world, she thought. She was full of sin, and was

grateful her roommate, Marianne Carter, was equally blighted. Her days

at Saint Catherine's would have been torture without Marianne.

She grinned as she thought of her funny, freckled, redheaded roomie and

best friend. Marianne was sinful, all right, and was even now doing

penance for her latest transgression. The caricature Marianne had

sketched of Mother Superior was worth a couple of hours scrubbing

bathrooms.

If it hadn't been for Marianne, she might have run away. Though where

she would have run, she hadn't a clue.

There was really only one place she wanted to go, and that was to her

father. And he would have shipped her right back.

It wasn't fair. She was nearly thirteen, nearly a real teenager, and

she was stuck in this antiquated school conjugating verbs, reciting

catechism, and dissecting frogs. Gross.

It wasn't that she hated the nuns. Well, she admitted, perhaps she did

hate Sister Immaculate. The Warden. But who wouldn't hate someone with

a pruny mouth, a wart on her chin, and a fondness for giving young girls

extra chores for the teeniest infractions?

But Dad had only been amused when she'd told him about Sister

Immaculate.

She missed him; she missed all of them.

She wanted to go home. But she wasn't sure where home would be. Often

she thought about the house in London, the castle where she had been so

happy for such a short time. She thought about Bev and hated it that

her father never spoke of her. Even though they had never divorced,

Emma thought. Some of the girls at school had parents that were

divorced, but you weren't supposed to talk about it.

She still thought of Daffen, her sweet little brother. Sometimes she

could barely remember how he had looked, how he had sounded. But when

she dreamed of him, his face, his voice, were as clear as life.

She remembered almost nothing about the night he had died. Nuns tended

to drum such pagan nonsense as monsters out of young girls' heads. But

again, if she dreamed of that night, as she did when she was ill or

upset, she remembered the terror of walking down the dark hall, the

sounds all around, the dark monsters holding Darren as he cried and

struggled. She remembered falling.

And when she awoke, she would remember nothing at all.

Marianne came through the door in an exaggerated stagger. She held out

her hands. "Ruined." She dropped backward onto her bed. "What French

count would want to kiss them now?"

"Rough going?" Emma asked, struggling not to grin.

"Five bathrooms. Disgusting. Ugh. When I get out of this joint, I'm

going to have a housekeeper for my housekeeper." She rolled over on her

stomach, crossing her ankles in the air. Emma only smiled, enjoying the

sound of Marianne's brisk American voice. "I heard Mary Jane

Witherspoon talking to Teresa O'Malley. She's going to do it with her

boyfriend when she goes home this summer."

"Who?"

"I dunno. His name's Chuck or Huck or something."

"No, I mean Mary Jane or Teresa?"

"Mary Jane, you dork. She's sixteen and built."

Emma frowned down at her own flat chest. She wondered if she'd have

boobs to speak of when she hit sixteen. And if she'd have a boyfriend

to do it with.

"What if she gets pregnant like Susan did last spring?"

"Oh, Mary Jane's folks would fix it up. They've got piles of money.

Anyway, she's got something. A diaphragm."

"Everyone has a diaphragm."

"Not that kind, dummy. It's birth control."

"Oh." As always, Emma was ready to defer to Marianne's greater

knowledge.

"You put it in, you know, inside the sacred vault, with jelly and it

kills off the sperm. You can't get knocked up with dead sperm."

Marianne rolled over to yawn at the ceiling. "I wonder if Sister

Immaculata ever did it."

The thought was enough to bring Emma completely out of the dumps. "I

don't think so. I'm pretty sure she bathes in her habit."

"Holy hell, I nearly forgot." Marianne rolled again, and digging into

the pocket of her rumpled uniform, pulled out a half-pack of Marlboros.

"I struck gold in the second-floor john." She scrambled up to search

through her underwear drawer for a pack of matches. "Somebody had them

taped to the back of the tank."

"And you took them."

"The Lord helps those who help themselves. I helped myself. Lock the

door, Emma."

They shared one, blowing little puffs of smoke out the open window.

Neither enjoyed the taste particularly, but gamely dragged on. It was

adult and sinful, two things both of them craved.

"'Rvo more weeks," Emma said dreamily.

"You're going to New York. They're sending me to camp again."

"It won't be so bad. Sister Immaculata won't be there."

"That's something." Marianne tried to adopt a sophisticated pose with

the cigarette. "I'm going to try to talk them into letting me stay with

my grandmother for a couple of weeks. She's pretty cool."

"I'll take lots of pictures."

Marianne nodded, thinking further ahead. "When we get out of this

Village or L.A. Someplace cool. I'll be an artist and you'll be a

photojournalist."

"We'll have parties."

"The biggest. And we'll wear all kinds of gorgeous clothes." She held

out the hem of her uniform. "No plaids."

"I'd rather die."

"It's only four more years."

Emma turned to gaze out the window. It was hard to think in terms of

years when she wasn't sure how to get through the next two weeks.

ACONnNENT AWAY, Michael Kesselring studied himself in cap and gown. He

couldn't believe it. It was finally over. High school was behind him

and life was just around the next bend. There was college, of course,

but that was a summer away.

He was eighteen, old enough to drink, to vote, and thanks to President

Carter, had no military draft to interrupt his plans.

Whatever they were, he thought.

He hadn't a clue what he wanted to do with the life that was ahead of

him. His part-time job at Buzzard's Tee Shirt Shop was mainly for gas

and date m4oney. He had no intention of spending his life

screenprinting T-shirts. But just what he would do was still a cloudy

mystery.

It was a little scary taking off the cap and gown. Like shedding his

youth. He held them both in his hands as he scanned his room. It was

cluttered with clothes, mementos, record albums, and since his mother

had long since given up on cleaning it herself, his cache of Playboys.

There were the letters he'd earned in track and baseball. The letters,

he remembered, that had convinced Rose Anne Markowitz to climb into the

backseat of his secondhand Pinto and do it to the tune of Joe Cocker's

Feeling Alght.

He'd been blessed with a tough athletic body, long legs, and quick

reflexes. Like his father, his mother was fond of saying. He supposed

in some way he took after the old man, though their relationship had had

its share of battles. Over hair length, wardrobe, politics, curfews.

Captain Kesselring was a stickler.

Came from being a cop, Michael supposed. He remembered being careless

enough once to bring a single joint into the house. He'd been grounded

for a month. And a few lousy speeding tickets had cost him just as

dearly.

The law was the law, old Lou was fond of saying, Michael thought now.

Thank God he himself had no intention of being a cop.

He took the tassel from the cap before tossing it and the gown onto his

unmade bed. Maybe it was sentimental to keep it, but nobody had to

know. He routed through his dresser drawers for the old cigar box that

held some of his most valued possessions. The love letter Lori Spiker

had written him in his junior year-before she'd dumped him

for a biker with a Harley and tatoos. The ticket stub from the Rolling

Stones' concert he had, after a lot of blood and sweat, convinced his

parents to let him attend. The pop top from his first illegal beer. He

grinned and, pushing it aside, found the snapshot of himself and Brian

McAvoy.

The little girl had kept her word, Michael thought. The picture had

arrived in the mail only two weeks after the incredible day his dad had

taken him to meet Devastation. The new album had come with it, the

hot-off-the-presses copy. He had been the envy of his contemporaries

for weeks.

Michael thought back to that day, the almost unendurable excitement he'd

felt, the sweaty armpits. He hadn't thought about that day in a long

time. Now, perhaps because of his newly acquired adult status, it

occurred to him that it had been a terrific thing for his father to do.

And uncharacteristic. Not that the old man couldn't come up with

terrific things, but he had gone to the rehearsal hall on police

business. Captain Lou Kesselring never mixed police business and

personal pleasures.

But he had that day, Michael thought.

It was strange, but now that he was remembering it all, he could picture

his father dragging home files, night after night. As far as Michael

could recollect, his father had never brought home work that way before,

or since.

The little boy, Brian McAvoy's little boy, had been murdered. It had

been in all the papers, and still cropped up from time to time, perhaps

because the police had never solved the case.

His father's case, Michael recalled.

That had been the year Michael had been named MVP on his Little League

team. And his father had missed most of the games. And a lot of

dinners.

It had been a long time ago, Michael mused, but he wondered if his

father ever thought about Brian McAvoy and his dead son. Or the little

girl who had taken the picture. Some people said that she'd seen what

had happened to her brother and had gone crazy. But she hadn't looked

crazy when Michael had met her. He remembered her only vaguely as a

slight girl with pale hair and big sad eyes. And a soft, prettily

accented voice, he recalled now. A voice a lot like her father's.

Poor kid, he thought as he placed the tassel over the snapshot. He

wondered what had ever happened to her.

EMmA COULDN'T BELIEVE her time was almost up. In less than a week she

would head back to New York and Saint Catherine's. true, she missed

Marianne. It would take weeks for them to talk through all the things

that had happened over the summer. The best summer of her life, even

though they'd only spent two weeks of it in New York.

They'd flown to London to film part of a recording session for a new

documentary, and had had tea at the Ritz just as she and Bev had so many

years before. She'd been able to spend time with Johnno and Stevie and

P.M., listening to them play, eating fish and chips in the kitchen while

they discussed their next album.

She'd taken rolls of pictures and could hardly wait to store them in her

photo album where she could look at them over and over and relive the

memories.

Her father had treated her to her first grown-up salon session as an

early birthday gift. Now her shoulder-length hair was permed in

corkscrew curls that made her feel very grown-up.

And she was starting to develop.

Emma took a quick, surreptitious look down at her bikini top. They

weren't much as breasts went, but at least she wouldn't be as easily

mistaken for a boy. And she was tanned. Emma hadn't been too certain

she would enjoy spending her last weeks in California, but the tan made

it worthwhile.

And there was the surfing. She'd had to launch a major campaign before

Brian had agreed to let her try her hand at shooting the waves. Emma

knew she had Johnno to thank for the bright red board. If he hadn't

joked and teased Brian into it, she would still be whiling away her

hours on the beach watching everyone else skim the water.

Maybe she couldn't do much more than paddle out and fall in, but at

least the process took her farther away from the bodyguards who sweated

under nearby beach umbrellas. It was ridiculous, she thought as she

carried her board toward the water. No one even knew who she was.

Each year she was sure her father would let them go, and each year they

remained with their solemn faces and big shoulders. At least they

couldn't follow her out here, she thought as she stretched out on her

board and began to paddle through the cool water. Though she knew they

watched her through binoculars, she pretended she was alone, or, better,

with one of the groups of teenagers who haunted the beaches.

She crested over a wave, enjoying the swells and the way her stomach

seemed to dip with the motion. The roar of the sea was in her ears,

mixed with the riot of music from dozens of portable radios. She

watched a tall boy in navy trunks catch a curl and ride it smoothly to

shore-and envied him both his skill and his freedom.

If she couldn't have the second, Emma decided, she would work on

developing the first.

She waited with the edgy patience of a surfer watching for the right

wave. Sucking in her breath, she brought herself up to a crouch on the

board, then stood, and with the faith of the young let the roll take

her. She was up for nearly ten seconds before she overbalanced. When

she surfaced, she saw the boy in the navy trunks glance her way, tossing

his wet, dark hair out of his face with a careless hand. Pride had her

struggling back onto the board.

She tried again, and again, each time lasting only seconds before the

wave snatched the board from under her feet and sent her flying. Each

time she dragged herself back on the board, and with muscles aching,

paddled and waited.

She imagined the bodyguards sipping their warming drinks and discussing

how clumsy she was. Each failure became a public humiliation and made

her only more determined to succeed, just once. Just once to ride the

wave all the way to shore.

Her leg muscles trembled as she pushed herself up. She could see the

wave curling toward her, the glassy blue-green tunnel, the dancing white

froth. She wanted it. Needed it. Just one ride-one success completely

and totally her own.

She caught it. Her heart slammed into her throat as she skimmed along

the pipe. She could see the beach rushing toward her, the glint of the

binocular lens. The drum of water was like music in her head, in her

heart. For an instant she tasted it. Freedom.

The tower of water closed in behind her, shoving her off the board,

tossing it and her up. One moment she was in the sun, the next she was

tumbling in the wall of water. It slammed her, knocking away her

breath, sending her wheeling, arms and legs flailing like rubber.

Lungs burning, she struggled to break the surface. She could see it

shimmering above her, but the power of the water dragged her deeper,

viciously pitching her. She clawed at the water, then was plunged down,

gyrating helplessly until the surface was below her and just as out of

reach.

As her strength failed she wondered giddily if she should pray. The Act

of Contrition floated dreamily through her brain.

Oh my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended thee.

As she was sucked back, sucked down, the prayer faded and music seemed

to fill her head.

Come together. Right now. Over me.

Panic stabbed through her. It was dark. Dark, and the monsters were

back. Her efforts to reach the surface were only wild flailings now.

She opened her mouth to scream and gagged.

There were hands on her, and in her terror she fought them, beat at them

as the water beat at her. It was the monster, the one who had smiled at

her, the one who wanted to kill her as it had killed Darren. As an arm

hooked around her throat, red balls danced in front of her eyes. They

faded to gray as she broke the surface.

"Just relax," someone was telling her. "I'll get you in. Just hang on

and relax."

She was choking. Emma started to drag at the arm around her throat

before she realized it wasn't cutting off her air. She could see the

sun, and when she dragged in a painful breath it was air that burned her

throat, not water. She was still alive. The tears started as much in

shame as in gratitude.

"You're going to be okay."

She laid a hand on the arm around her. "I wiped out," she managed.

There was a chuckle, quick and a little breathless. "Big time. But,

man, you had a hell of a ride first."

Yes, she had, she realized, and concentrated on not humiliating herself

further by being sick. Then there was sand, hot and rough on her skin.

She let her rescuer lay her down, but the first faces she saw were of

her bodyguards. Too weak to speak, she sent them a furious look. It

didn't make them back off, but it kept them from coming closer.

"Don't try to stand up for a few minutes."

Emma turned her head, coughed up some seawater. There was music-the

Eagles, she thought groggily. "Hotel California." There had been music

before, in the dark, but she couldn't remember the words now, or the

melody. She coughed again, blinked against the dazzle of sunlight then

focused on her savior.

The boy in the navy trunks, she thought and managed a weak smile. Water

was dripping from his dark hair. His eyes were dark too, rich deep

gray, as clear as lake water.

"Thanks."

"Sure." He settled down beside her, feeling awkward in the role of white

knight. The guys would razz him for weeks. But he couldn't bring

himself to just leave her there. She was only a kid, after all. A

great-looking kid, he thought-then felt still more awkward. He gave her

shoulder a brotherly pat and thought she had the biggest, bluest eyes

he'd ever seen.

"I guess I lost my board."

He shielded his eyes with the flat of his hand as he looked out to sea.

"No. Fred's bringing it in. It's a nice board."

"I know. I've only had it for a couple of weeks."

"Yeah, I've seen you around." He glanced back down at her. She'd risen

up on her elbows and her wet curls tumbled down her back. Her voice was

pretty, he thought, sort of soothing and musical. "You English or

something?"

"Irish. For the most part. Well be here only a few more days." She

sighed as the boy named Fred dragged in her board. "Thanks." Not

knowing what else to say, she concentrated on rubbing the wet sand from

her knee.

The boy in the navy trunks gave Fred and the others who had gathered

around a friendly wave that sent them about their business.

"When my father hears about this, he'll never let me surf again."

"Why does he have to hear about it?"

"He always does." She made a concentrated effort not to look at her

bodyguards.

"Everybody wipes out." Beautiful eyes, he thought again, then looked

deliberately out to sea. "You were doing pretty good."

"Really." She colored a bit. "You're wonderful. I've watched you."

"Thanks." He grinned and showed a chipped tooth.

Emma stared at him as memory came flooding back. "You're Michael."

"Yeah." His grin widened. "How'd you know?"

"You don't remember me." She pushed herself up to sit. "met you, well,

it was a long time ago. I'm Emma. Emma McAvoy. Your father brought

you to the rehearsal hall one Afternoon."

"McAvoy?" Michael dragged a hand through his dripping hair. "Brian

McAvoy?" As he said the name he saw Emma take a quick look round to see

if anyone had heard him. "I remember you. You sent me a picture. I've

still got it." His eyes narrowed as he glanced over his shoulder. "So

that's what they're doing here," he murmured, studying the guards. "I

thought they were narcs or something."

"Bodyguards," she said dully, then shrugged it off. "My father

worries."

"Yeah, I bet." He remembered, clearly, the police photograph of a little

boy. It left him with nothing else to say.

"I remember your father." She began to draw idle circles in the sand.

"He came to the hospital to see me after we lost my brother."

"He's a captain now," Michael said for lack of anything else.

"That's nice." She'd been raised to be polite under any circumstances.

"You'll tell him I said hello, won't you?"

"Sure." They ran out of things to say so that the whoosh of the waves

filled the gaps. "Ah, listen, do you want a Coke or something?"

She looked up, dazzled to be asked. It was the first time in her life

she had had more than a five-minute conversation with a boy. Men,

certainly. Her life had been frill of men. But being asked to have a

Coke with a boy only a few years her senior was a wonderful, and beady,

experience. She nearly agreed before she remembered the .rds. She

couldn't bear them watching.

"Thanks, but I'd better go. Dad was going to pick me up in a couple of

hours, but I don't think I'm up to any more surfing today. I'll have to

call him."

"I could take you." He made a restless movement with his shoulders. It

was stupid to feel so tongue-tied with a kid. But he couldn't remember

being more nervous since he'd asked Nancy Brimmer to the ninth-grade

Valentine's Dance. "Give you a ride home," he continued as Emma stared

at him. "If you want."

"You probably have something you want to do."

"No. Not really."

He wanted to meet her father again, Emma decided after one ecstatic

moment. A boy like him-why, he must have been at least

eighteen-wouldn't be interested in her. But the daughter of Brian

McAvoy was different. She drummed up another smile as she got to

her feet. He had saved her life. If seeing her father was the only

payment she could make, then she would make it.

"I'd like a ride, if it's not too much trouble."

"No big deal." He caught himself before he shifted his feet in the sand.

She probably thought he was a jerk.

"I'll just be a minute." She rushed off in the direction of the guards,

snatching up her beach wrap and bag on the way. "My friend is giving me

a ride home," she said in her most dismissive tone.

"Miss McAvoy." The guard named Masters cleared his throat. "It would be

better if you called your father."

"There's no need to bother him."

The second guard, Sweeney, mopped his sweaty forehead. "Your father

wouldn't like you taking rides from strangers."

"Michael's not a stranger." The haughty tone made her feel nasty inside,

but she would not, could not, be humiliated in front of Michael. "I

know him, and so does my father. Michael's father is a captain on the

police force here." She pulled the long, rainbow-colored T-shirt over

her suit. "You'll be following behind us, so what does it matter?" She

turned, and keeping her head up, walked back to where Michael waited

with their boards.

"Hold it." Sweeney put a hand on Masters's shoulder. "Let's give the

kid a break. She don't get many."

Michael's gas gauge was hovering dangerously close to empty when he

pulled up at the high iron gates in Beverly Hills. He saw the faint

surprise on the guard's face before the switch was thrown and the gates

swung inward. He was sorry as he drove down the tree-lip,-, drive that

he had nothing but scruffy sandals and his old track jer:,-.

to wear with his bathing trunks.

The house was all pink stone and white marble, four towering stories of

it that took up more than an acre of the trim green lawn. Double arched

doors of etched glass stood at the entrance. He wasn't sure if he

should be amused or impressed by the peacock that strutted across the

grass.

"Nice place."

"It's P.M."s really. Or P.M."s wife's." Emma found herself faintly

embarrassed by the life-sized marble lions that flanked the entrance.

"It used to belong to someone in the cinema-I can never remember who-but

Angie did it all over. Anyway, she's in Europe filming so we're staying

a few weeks. Have you got time to come in?"

"Ah, yeah, I got time." He frowned down at the sand clinging to his

feet. "If you're sure it's okay."

"Of course it is." She stepped out of the car, the same '68 Chevelle

that Lou had once driven to the rehearsal hall. She waited for Michael

to unstrap her board from the roof, then started up the steps. "I'll

have to tell Dad what happened. The guards will anyhow. I hope you

don't mind if I, well, make it sound minor. You know?"

"Sure." He grinned at her again, making her young heart flutter.

"Parents always overreact. I guess they can't help it."

He heard the music the moment she opened the door. A piano, a series of

thunderous chords, then an experimental noodling of notes, and the

chords again. Emma took her board from him to prop it against the wall.

"They're back here." After a moment's hesitation, she took Michael's

hand and led him down the wide white hallway.

He'd never seen a house like it, though he was too embarrassed to say

so. Arched doorways opened on room after room where abstract paintings

were slashes of frantic color against white walls. Even the floors were

white so that Michael was unable to shake the feeling he was walking

through some kind of temple.

Then he saw the goddess, the portrait of the goddess above a fireplace

of white stone. She was blond and sulky-mouthed, wearing a white

sequined dress that skimmed dangerously over the globes of her lush

breasts.

"Wow.1)

"That's Angie," Emma told him. Her nose wrinkled quickly,

automatically. "She's mained to P.M."

"Yeah." He had the oddest feeling that the portrait's eyes were alive

and fixed on him hungrily. "I, ah, saw her last movie." He didn't add

that after he had, he'd experienced fascinating and uncomfortably erotic

dreams. "Man, she's something."

"Yes, she is." And even at not-quite thirteen, Emma was aware what that

something was. She gave Michael's hand an impatient tug, then continued

on.

It was the only room Emma felt at ease in-the only room in the mausoleum

of a house where she imagined P.M. had been given a chance to express

his own taste. There was color here, a mix-match of blues and reds and

sunny yellows. Music awards lined the mantel; gold records dotted the

walls. There were a couple of thriving plants near the window. A pair

of lemon trees that Emma knew P.M. had started from seed.

Her father was seated at a beautiful old baby grand that had been in a

movie whose title always escaped Emma. Johnno sat beside him,

smoking his habitual French cigarettes. There was a litter of papers on

the floor, a big pitcher of lemonade sprinkled with condensation on the

coffee table. The glasses, ice melting lazily inside them, were already

leaving a duo of rings on the wood.

"We'll keep it moving through the bridge," Brian was saying as he

pounded out chords. "Keep it fast, overlap the strings and horns, but

keep the guitar the dominant force."

"Fine, but it's still the wrong beat." Johnno brushed Brian's hands

aside. His diamonds winked on each pinky as he moved them over the

keys.

Brian took out a cigarette, flipping it through his fingers. "I hate

you when you're right."

"Dad."

He looked up. The smile came first, then faded as he focused on

Michael. "Emma. You were supposed to ring if you wanted to come back

early."

"I know, but I met Michael." Her lips curved, charmingly, so that her

dimple flashed. "I wiped out, and he helped me get my board."

Because she wanted to leave it at that, she hurried on. "And I thought

you'd like to meet him again."

There was something enormously disturbing about seeing his girl, his

little girl, standing with her hand in the hand of a boy who was nearly

a man. "Again?"

"Don't you remember? His father brought him to a rehearsal. His

father, the policeman."

"Kesselring." The muscles in Brian's stomach clenched. "You're Michael

Kesseiring?"

"Yes, sir." He wasn't sure if it was proper to extend his hand for a

shake with a music giant, so stood, rubbing his palms on his sandy

trunks. "I was like eleven when I met you before. It was great."

He was too used to being on stage, under the lights, to let the ache

show. He looked at Michael, tall, dark, sturdy, and saw not Lou

Kesselring's son, but the potential of his own lost little boy. But he

smiled as he stood up from the piano.

"It's nice to see you again. You remember Michael, Johnno?"

"Sure. Ever talk your old man into that electric guitar?"

"Yeah." Michael grinned, flattered to be remembered. "I took It'ssons

awhile, but they gave me up as hopeless. I play the harmonica some,

though."