THE BEST DEFENSE
by
Kate Wilhelm

PAWCETT CREST NEW YORK

Sale of this book without a front cover may be unauthorized.  If this
book is coverless, it may have been reported to the publisher as
"unsold or destroyed" and neither the author nor the publisher may have
received payment for it.

A Fawcwtt Crest Book Published by Ballantine Books Copyright 1994 by
Kate Wilhelm

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright
Conventions.  Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, a
division of Random House, Inc."  New York, and simultaneously in Canada
by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.  I

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by
any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,
or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission
in writing from the publisher.

http://www.random house.coni

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 942039

ISBN 0449223140

This edition published by arrangement with St.  Martin's Press, Inc.

Manufactured in the United States of America First Ballantine Books
Edition: September 1995 10 9 8 For Chris and Rosanne

PROLOGUE

paula kenner man is lost, confused.  Thursdays are her best days, she
keeps thinking.  She is off work on Thursday;

there is time to play with Lori, take her to the park, or shopping, or
the library.  Thursdays are good days.

Packing, she was packing their things, hers and Lori's.

Yes, that was Thursday.  Packing.  And now she is here, someplace with
a curtain around her bed, needles in her arms.  Thursday, she reminds
herself.

"What the fuck are you doing?"  Jack demands, standing in the
doorway.

"Packing.  Leaving.  I told you."

"You're not going anywhere!  Don't give me this shit."

"Leaving."

She closes her eyes and drifts away.  Leaving.  He took the money out
of the bank.  She sees herself on the floor, stunned, clutching the
door frame because the floor tilts crazily.  There was no pain, she
realizes, puzzled, because now there is so much pain.  She watches
herself watching him as if from a terrible distance.  He picks up Lori
and throws her down on the bed.

"Next time, out the window," he says.

Her eyes jerk open.  In her head Lori screams and screams.

There was a fire, she remembers, seeing it again through a window, a
kitchen blazing, flames licking against the door.  Running.  She took a
taxi, but not to that house, another house.  No suitcase.  She could
not lift the suitcase because something was broken, and she had to hold
Lori's hand.  She drifts again.

She is on the edge of a woods waiting for Lori.  An other little girl
comes running out.

"She's sleeping," she says, and from somewhere else a second child
calls, "Annie, come here.  Look what I'm making."  Annie darts away.

Sleeping, she thinks, standing against a tree, using it for support.
She is so tired; and she hurts so much.

Sleeping.  What if Lori wakes up alone?  What if she screams, in there
alone?

"If she wakes up alone, she'll be afraid.  I'd better go back."  There
is someone by her, she remembers, walking away from her, a woman.

"Whatever you want."

The woman is heading toward the children playing under a big bouquet.
Paula moves slowly; every step brings a stabbing pain through her side,
across her shoulder, down her arm.  Two cracked ribs, they said.

"I won't go to the hospital," she remembers crying.

"I

won't leave Lori.  Let her come with me."  The other side hurts as much
as the side with the cracked ribs.

From being slammed against the door frame, she re calls, thinking how
crazily the floor kept tilting.

At the kitchen door.  Flames.  The kitchen blazing.  She is running,
running, like nightmare running: all that effort and so little gain. In
the front door, up the stairs, screaming, "Lori!  Lori!"  The bed is
empty.  She plummets into oblivion again.

"Mrs.  Kennerman, can you hear me?"

Against her will her eyes come open.  Her tongue is thick and dry.

"Take a sip of water," a voice says, and a straw is placed in her
mouth.  The water helps.

"I can hear you," she whispers hoarsely.

"Can you tell us what happened back at the Canby house?  Do you
remember?"

"I couldn't find Lori," she whispers.

"I looked in every room, under the beds, in the closets, and I couldn't
find her."  She pulls against restraints on her arms.

"Where is she?  Where is Lori?"  She is crying, her voice wild and out
of control.

"Where is she?"

"Mrs.  Kennerman, here, a little more water."  A washcloth is against
her eyes, gently wiping her cheeks.  It is removed and she opens her
eyes.

Now she can see them, a man and a woman.  She is very broad, with a
broad, almost flat face; he is tall and heavy, thick through the
shoulders, with thick gray hair.

"Who are you?"  she whispers.

"Tell me where my child is, please."

"Don't you remember the rest of it?"  the man asks.

Now she does.

"I kept yelling for her to come out, not to hide, because the house was
on fire.  I went down the stairs, and then ... I don't know what
happened.  I was outside on the ground and people were all around and
the house was burning, all the windows, the door, everywhere.  Lori!"
It was not a question this time.  Lori!

Later the same man came back with the same woman.

"Why would she hide from you?  Was she afraid of you?"

"Did you see anyone?"

"What did she say to you?  Did she want to go home again?  Did she want
to go back to her father?"

"Why do you say you went upstairs?  She fell asleep watching
television, and the TV is in the living room downstairs."

"Mrs.  Kennerman, you'll feel better if you just tell us exactly what
happened.  Believe me, you'll feel better then."

In her mind Lori is screaming, screaming.  Dreamlike slow motion: Jack
picks her up and throws her onto the bed.  Next time, out the window.
Lori whimpering in her sleep in a strange house, a strange bed; her
every movement brings jabs of pain to Paula.  Lori waking up, crying
out, screaming in her sleep.

"Just tell us what happened, Mrs.  Kennerman."

She told them and told them, and then she stopped telling them, and in
her head Lori screamed.

ONE

frank holloway felt out of place here in the Whiteaker neighborhood;
his car was too big and expensive and shiny clean, his suit, a very
nice blend of silk and wool, was too well tailored.  He drove slowly
past the small houses, most of them well-kept and neat enough, he had
to admit, past the mural wall he had read about--not exactly pretty,
but impressive, he also had to admit: a jungle with unlikely creatures
and more unlikely variously colored people who all seemed happy.
Continuing, he passed a black beauty shop, a small appliance repair
shop, a Mexican grocery store with a sale advertised in big white
letters on the window:

JICAMAS, TOMATILLOS, PLANTAINS, SIXTY-NINE CENTS

A POUND.

He spotted Martin's Fine Food stenciled in white letters on a picture
window out of the fifties and drove past, parked with misgivings at the
curb, and sat for a moment rethinking his plan.  Finally he left the
car and approached the small restaurant housed in one of the old
buildings.  Some of the first houses built in Eugene were in this
neighborhood, dating back a hundred years or more, now qualifying for
historical preservation status;

this probably was one of them.  The structure was frame, freshly
painted white, with a neat row of petunias and marigolds bordering the
walkway to the entrance.  Two large picture windows had been installed,
and a fancy front door with a brass handle.  The improvements looked
hideously out of place on the building they made him think of an aged
woman wearing a Gabor wig and too much makeup. White half curtains hid
the bottom of the glass panes, hid the diners from the public, but at
the moment three people were standing in a tight group clearly visible,
obviously yelling a tall black man, a tall brown man, and his daughter,
Barbara

Frank drew in a breath and opened the door, entered.

The trio did not glance his way, and it seemed that a squad car with
siren blaring could have gone through without their noticing.  Frank
shook his head at another black man leaning against a door frame; he
was wearing an apron and was very large and very black.  There was an
amused expression on his face.  Frank passed him to take a seat in a
booth near the rear of the dining room.

There were only three tables and four booths altogether.

Barbara and her two companions were by the front window, all standing
up, holding down the table as if it might float away without their
intense effort.

"What's the matter, you can't walk?"

"My mother can't walk that late.  I told you!"

"Don't give me that shit, man!"

"I said that's enough!"  Barbara yelled, leaning closer to the tall
black man.

He was yelling loudest.  He was skinny, over six feet, dressed in
stained chino pants and a white T-shirt.

"What you mean, that's enough?  He stole!  He's a robber  That ain't
enough!"

"You don't just want your money back, you want revenge, and I told you
what the court would do.  Roberto, what are you studying at LCC?"

"I'm going to be a dental technician.  You know, false teeth, caps,
bridges, braces, stuff like that."  Roberto was also thin; he was
brown, with long hair caught up in a ponytail.  Barbara looked small
and vulnerable between the two angry men.

"I told you, I pay you back!  I already paid some back!"

Abruptly the black man sat down.

"You going to make false teeth?  No shit?"

"Yeah.  You got a problem with that?"

"Man, take it easy, okay?  False teeth?  Bridges?"

Barbara put her hand on Roberto's arm, and they both sat down again,
and their voices faded, became too faint for Frank to catch the words.
The aproned man vanished behind the swinging door to the kitchen and
quickly reappeared with a tray that had two Cokes and a cup of coffee.
He took it to Barbara's table, patted the other black man on the
shoulder, and then approached Frank's booth.

"Just coffee," Frank said.

The waiter went to the next booth.  Frank had passed it without
noticing anyone sitting there.

"You sure you don't want something to drink, miss?  A Coke or juice or
something?  No charge if you're waiting for Barbara."

"No, no.  I'm fine.  Thank you."  Her voice was very nearly
inaudible.

By the time Frank's coffee came, Barbara and her clients were standing
up again, but this time peaceably.

She reached over the table to shake hands with the black man, and then
shook hands with Roberto, and the two men walked out together.  The
black man was say8 Kate Wilhelming, "You gonna make false teeth!
That's a hoot and a half!"

Prank stood up and watched Barbara without moving toward her.  She
looked tired, he thought with regret.  It was often a shock to see her
when she didn't know he was there; how like her mother she was in
appearance, although not at all like her in any other way.  She had
fine bones, and she had let her hair grow out longer than he had seen
it in years.  Fine dark hair with just a touch of wave, enough to
soften it.  He knew there were a few gray hairs, but since he couldn't
see them from this distance, he didn't have to think about them.  She
had lost weight in the last few months and her jeans were a touch
baggy; she looked fragile, too young to be thirty-seven, thirty-eight,
whatever it was.  Fragile, he repeated in self-derision.  She was about
as fragile as a six-foot length of re bar  Actually, he didn't want to
think about her age any more than he wanted to think of her hair
turning gray.

She had faced the door during his swift scrutiny; now she turned toward
him, her face brightening as she took a quick step in his direction.

"Dad!  How long have you been here?"

"Not long."

The woman in the next booth stood up and started to walk toward the
door.

"Did you want to see me?"  Barbara asked.

"Yes, but not if you're too busy.  I mean, I'll come back some other
time."

"That's just my father," Barbara said easily.

"He'll wait.  Won't you, Dad?"

"Yep.  No problem."  He sat down again and watched the woman
approaching Barbara.  Plump, in black  9 stir rip pants and a red top,
sandals.  Not the way people dressed when they came to his office, he
thought grumpily, and Barbara, in jeans and a ridiculous T-shirt, was
not dressed the way anyone expected an attorney in a prestigious office
to dress either, he added, and picked up his coffee.  Just the father.
He could wait.  The coffee was very good.

Barbara had been surprised to see her father, but not terribly.  She
had known curiosity would bring him to her "office" sooner or later.
When he sank back down into the booth, she turned her attention to the
young woman, who had been crying recently.  Automatically Barbara
examined her arms for bruises, marks of any kind, and found only nice
pink boneless limbs.  She motioned to the table where Martin already
had cleared away the Coke cans and glasses and her cup.  Even as she
was resuming her own chair, Martin came back with a tray and two cups
of coffee and put them on the table wordlessly.

She mouthed her thanks to him and said to the other woman, "What can I
do for you?"

"It's not me, not really.  It's really for my sister, I mean."  She
stopped, and began adding sugar to her coffee.

Her hands were trembling.

"Okay.  But who are you?  What do I call you?"

"Oh.  Lucille.  Lucille Reiner."  She started to tear open a third
packet of sugar and Barbara reached across the table and took it from
her hands, which were icy.

Lucille ducked her head and groped in her bag for a tissue.

"Just tell me about it," Barbara said after a moment.

"I was in the jail, visiting her, and it's like she's turned to stone
or something.  She won't talk or cry or anything, she just stares off
somewhere else.  They gave her a lawyer, the court did, I mean, but he
thinks she did it and he says she should plead guilty.  And the
psychiatrist they sent her to, in the hospital, I mean, he thinks she
did it, too, and he says she isn't crazy or sick or anything, she can
be tried and go to prison.  Or maybe even worse.  But if she did it,
she had to be so sick, and she's sick now, not talking, not crying, not
eating I don't think.  And one of the women visitors told me to just
talk to you about it.  I mean, if she has a public defender, doesn't he
have to work for her?"

Barbara nodded.

"He does.  All that means is that when a defendant can't afford to hire
an attorney, under the law the court has to appoint one.  And that
attorney is required to treat his client exactly the way he would any
other client.  He'll do the best he can for her.  The court will be
watching to see that he does."

"But he wants her to plead guilty.  I talked to him this morning, and
that's what he said.  And when I told her, she didn't even seem to hear
me.  Back in the beginning, a couple of weeks ago, when I yelled at her
for not talking to him, she said what's the use, his mind's made up
already, and after that she didn't talk to him or me either most of the
time."

"Who is he, the attorney?  Maybe I know him and can reassure you about
him."

"Spassero.  William, I think.  He's young, real young."

Barbara shook her head.

"New to me.  But I can find out something about him.  Do you live here
in town?

Can you come back in a few days, Friday?  I'll find out what I can."

"We live down at Cottage Grove.  I come up to see her three, four times
a week, but it's hard, I've got two kids, I mean, seven and eight, and
I work four days a week, but I'll come on Friday.  I promise."

"Fine.  About this same time?"

"Yeah, that's good for me, late afternoon, I mean."

Late afternoon, four forty-five.  Time for a glass of wine, time to
relax, time to see what her father was after.... Barbara felt herself
make the few internal preliminary adjustments that meant she would
stand up now and finish this last bit of business, get on with
relaxing.

Lucille Reiner leaned forward and said, "If he's no good, this other
lawyer, I mean, he might be okay, but not for her.  Would you take the
case for us?  I have a little money, eight hundred dollars.  I mean, I
know you don't charge people here, that's what the lady in jail said,
but this would be different.  I mean, you'd have to go on trial and
everything."

Barbara shook her head slightly.

"Mrs.  Reiner, I don't even know what case you're talking about."

"Oh, I thought I told you."  She ducked her head again.

"It's my sister, Paula Kennerman."

The words baby killer leaped into Barbara's mind.

"Let me find out what I can about Mr.  Spassero," she said, feeling a
new tightness in her throat, "and talk to you again on Friday."

Barbara watched Lucille leave and then consciously put a smile on her
face and turned to the back of the restaurant.

"You can come out now."  She picked up her briefcase and laptop
computer and put them on the table and then stretched as far as she
could reach.

"Done for the day?"  Prank asked as he drew near.

"Yep.  One-thirty to about this time, Tuesdays and Fridays.  I want you
to meet Martin Owens, the best cook in the city, and the best
secretary.  He keeps the coffee coming."

She introduced the two and then said, "See you on Friday, Martin.
Thanks."

"Barbara, you sure you don't want to come back later on for some
supper.  Good red snapper, that creole recipe you like, corn fritters
..."

"Hush.  He wants to fatten me up until I'm his size," she said.

"Come on, Dad.  Let's blow."  She picked up her briefcase and handed
the satchel with the computer to her father.

"Wouldn't hurt to fatten you up a little," Frank muttered.

Martin laughed and nodded.

"Don't you guys know svelte when you see it?"  Barbara said, leading
the way outside.  Martin's laughter followed them.

"Where are you parked?"  Frank asked.

"I usually walk over," she said.

"It's only three blocks."

He knew that, and he knew that two blocks beyond her house the railroad
switch yards started, lined with warehouses, lumberyards, industrial
buildings of various sorts.  This strip north of Sixth to the river had
been built early, when people still clung to the railroad and the
river; those with enough money left, others moved in and stayed until
they made enough money to leave, and the cycle continued.  Now it had
become the only real ethnically mixed neighborhood in the city, and the
only reason anyone stayed on was that the cheapest housing was here.
Every drug bust seemed to happen here, every knifing, street brawls He
banished the ugly thoughts and said, "Well, let me drive you.  A couple
of things I want to talk about, if you're not busy."

"Free as the air," she said, getting into the car.

Frank stashed her things on the backseat, got in be hind the wheel.

"Mind a little detour first?"

"Nope."

He drove in silence until she asked, "You said things to talk about?
Today?"

"Martin Owens.  He's the football player, isn't he?  Or was.  He lets
you use his restaurant as an office?"

"He's the one.  I did him a little favor a few months ago.  A legal
matter.  He's barely making it in the restaurant, but he seems to think
he owes me.  Good guy."

"Storefront lawyer," Frank muttered, and she turned to look out the
window.

She did not ask again what was on his mind.  She knew he would get
around to it in his own way, first bring it up obliquely, then change
the subject, refer to it again later with more details, talk about the
weather or something, and so on until it was all out.  She was content
to wait.  When he finally got to it in detail he would pretend to
assume that she was in agreement, that since they already had discussed
the matter, and he had responded in advance to every possible objection
she might raise, the whole issue was already settled.  She doubted very
much that such would be the case, but meanwhile it was a beautiful June
day and she was tired.  Her two days a week as a storefront lawyer were
wearing.

"God, I hate condos," he said suddenly.

She looked at him in surprise.

"So do I, but what's that supposed to mean?"

"And apartments, too," he added.

"I've been looking at condos and apartments."

She nodded.

"An investment?"

"My accountant says I'm paying too much in taxes."

"Aren't we all?"

He was driving slowly now, watching for house numbers over the top of
his half-glasses.  Then he stopped.

They were on Twenty-first, typical of Eugene in every respect, with
tall trees, low buildings, lots of greenery, lots of flowers.

"What do you think?"  he asked, nod ding toward the house he had
located.

"I think it's green."  Apple green, in fact, with rust red trim.

"Well, it could be painted.  Blue or something."

"That house will always be green no matter how hard you try to cover it
up."

He sighed.

"I'm afraid you're right."  He began to drive again.

"There's another one."

"You're going to buy a house," she said.

"Is that it?"

"Might as well, seeing how much I hate condos.  I've looked at a few.
You buy a condo, what do you own?

A piece of someone else's building.  Want a place I can walk to the
office from."

"You're leaving the house at Turner's Point?"  Too late she realized
she had played right into his hands again.

"Not exactly.  See, how it's working out is that some of those old
fogies get so set in their ways, they've got roots clear down to
bedrock and nothing's going to change them.  Old Mary Manchester, for
instance, thinks I'm the only one in the office who can rewrite her
will every year.  I had her this morning."  That explained his nice
suit and tie.

"It's too damn far to drive three days a week," he added glumly.

"Three days?  I thought you were easing yourself out of the office,
getting ready to retire."

"I am, I am.  It's just more complicated than I thought it would be."
He had driven through the downtown section where traffic had thickened
into what Eugeneans thought was real congestion.  Five cars at a red
light meant gridlock here.

At Fifth, instead of turning left toward her house, he made a right
turn, and a block later he turned left on Pearl Street, where three of
the four corners housed dozens of small shops selling everything from
gourmet coffee and some of the best bread to be found to handmade
wooden toys, books, natural-fiber clothes Yuppie Heaven, they call it.
He was heading for Skinner Butte Park, she thought then as he drove on.
She had walked hours, miles along the river here, walking off trial
tension, thinking, scheming.  But he turned again, and she suddenly
caught her breath.  Once, years ago, he had driven up here with her and
her mother, just looking

"This is where I want to live," Barbara had said, and Frank had
laughed.

"The only way you can get a house in this neighborhood is by waiting
for the owner to die, and all the heirs, too.  Then if the real-estate
agent doesn't grab it, you might have a chance."

This was a tiny area.  a few square blocks, but she thought of it as an
oasis of sanity, serenity, stability.  The houses were spacious,
old-fashioned, with porches and gabled windows, lots of leaded glass,
even stained-glass windows, detached garages.  No two houses were
similar, but they were all of a piece, well constructed with individual
detail work, well maintained, beautifully landscaped, without a hint of
pretentiousness.

He stopped before a two-story house that was dove gray, with white
trim.  An old hemlock tree, top bowed as if in thought, shaded the
front; tall rhododendrons lined a driveway, screened the yard on one
side; the other side had deep bushes, some in bloom, all mature and
lovely.

"Not a bad location," Frank said.

"Park and the trail two blocks away, six blocks to the courthouse,
seven to the office.  Not bad.  Walk to the post office, the per
forming arts center, even the jail.  Not bad."  He glanced at her.

"Well?"

"Not much yard," she said in a low voice.

"Big backyard, even garden space.  And a rose arbor.

Let's look inside."

"You just happen to have the key?"

He didn't answer, but pulled into the driveway and got out on his side.
Slowly Barbara got out and they went inside the house that he obviously
intended to buy.

It was everything she knew it would be white-oak floors, a modernized
kitchen, bright living room, dining room ... There were stained-glass
panels in the living room windows.  Upstairs were three rooms, one of
them small, a child's room perhaps, and a bath.  Another bed room and
den were downstairs.

"It's very nice," she said after they had looked it over.

"But pretty big."

"Oh, well, I get claustrophobic in those little boxes they call houses.
Come on, let's go.  You up for dinner?"

"You bet.  But first a shower and a glass of wine or something.  Take
me home."

He had put down earnest money, she knew as well as she knew what the
rest of his little chat would be.  And her answer?  That she didn't
know yet.

Over dinner he gossiped about the office, about what was going on in
court, about a client or two.  He did not mention Turner's Point.  She
asked him about William Spassero.

"Bill Spassero," he said, thinking.

"Young, too young maybe.  In the public defender's office, couple of
years now.  About thirty, if that much, but he seems more like twenty.
A whiz kid at law school.  Hotshot attitude.  Ambitious.

Why?"

"His name came up.  I wondered.  I feel about whiz kids the way you
feel about condos."

He grinned, and she thought how well they understood each other.  They
both understood that it was time to get back to the subject at hand.

"Let's have some dessert," he said, "and some of that pressed coffee
they make here.  It's a real production number."

They watched in appreciative silence as their waiter performed; he
ground the coffee at their table, brought water to a boil over a
burner, measured the coffee into the glass pot, poured the
not-quite-boiling water over it, and tightened the top in place
carefully.  Then he set a timer.  Barbara laughed, and he grinned at
her.

They both had cherries jubilee, and that called for a new table-side
performance, but finally the productions ended and the coffee was
delicious, the cherries no less so.  And now Frank said, "I thought
maybe it would work out for me to get a house, like I said.  I really
did look at condos, and apartments, and even a hotel apartment, but
hated the idea of all of them.  A real house, that's what I need.  I'd
come in on Tuesday and go to the office, like I've been doing, and stay
over until Friday morning and head back out.  Or maybe Thursday
afternoon.  Depends on how busy I am."

She nodded.

"When do you sign the papers?"

Without hesitation he said, "Monday.  But it wasn't that cut-and-dried
from the start.  That other house, the first one, that's the kind of
stuff they showed me when I finally said no to apartments, condos, and
such.

Thought you should see it first, as I did."  There wasn't a trace of
shame in his expression.

"What I thought might be a good idea, Bobby, is for you to move in,
too.

I mean, you'd be alone most of the time, but the house wouldn't be
empty, ripe for the barbarians to sack."

"I'll have to think about it.  Dad."

"Of course."  He looked past her then and said in a low voice, "Going
out there was the best thing I did after your mother died.  I needed
the solitude, I guess.  It was good for me for a long time.  Then,
after you left, it was different.  I kept listening for your steps,
kept listening for the car to drive in.  I knew you couldn't stay, but,
Bobby, God, I've missed you."

"I'm sorry," she said.

"No, no.  I didn't mean to lay it on you, honey.  It's my problem, I
know that.  And I think I've solved it.

You want a brandy?"

What had she said at the time, just six months ago?

A lifetime ago.  What she had said was that she couldn't stay, she had
to move, and he had said simply, I know.

And he had known, had understood.  No arguments, no trying to persuade
her to remain.  He had understood.

What she had not said was that she couldn't look at the river; she was
afraid she would see Mike's body being tumbled in the current; she was
afraid she would see his body washed up on shore, tangled in the
undergrowth.

No brandy, she said firmly, and he said none for him either, and soon
they left the restaurant and he drove her home.

"Almost forgot," he said.

"We had a conference down at the office today.  You're still a member
of the firm, you know."

"And will be as long as you're second on the list of partners," she
said lightly.

"Damn right.  But there's an interesting case at hand.

Young playwright in town here claims one of the big studios stole his
material.  Maybe they did.  Someone's going to be doing some fancy
traveling on this one.

New York, Hollywood.  Meet some pretty interesting people along the
way."  He stopped at her house.

"Should be an exciting" case, probably won't go to trial, but you never
know."

She laughed.

"Good night.  Dad.  Thanks for dinner."

"They pay you anything, those folks who drop in at the restaurant?"

"Some do, some don't.  I'm okay.  Dad.  Don't worry.

You want to stay over?"

"And sleep on the floor?"  He didn't hide his incredulity.

"I'm at the Hilton tonight, tomorrow night."  He walked to the door
with her and then left.

Actually it was a futon, and she had grown rather fond of it.  And yes,
her clients paid her, when they could.  Fifty dollars here, twenty
there, free dinners, all the coffee she could drink.  She stood in the
doorway to her bedroom and surveyed it critically.  Books on raw wood
shelves supported by bricks that she had found in a heap in the
backyard.  More books in stacks on the floor.  Several towels draped
over a straight chair, over lapping too much to finish drying she
should put up a clothesline out back.  Yesterday's clothes on the
futon, some to be laundered, some to be folded and put away.

She was a pig, she had to admit, but on the other hand this house had
no room to put anything.  Four rooms and a bath.  One closet. Period.

She went into the small living room that held only a couch, one chair,
two lamps, more shelves, more books," a tape player, and a special rack
for cassettes.  More than she needed, she told herself.  She could sit
in one chair at a time, read one book at a time, hear one cassette at a
time.  She sank down into the chair.

He was lonely.  Of course.  But he had brought it all back, and she had
been so sure that her grief had passed over into acceptance finally.
Wrong, Barbara, she told herself mockingly.  Abruptly she jerked up out
of the chair and crossed the room to check the door, knowing as she did
that it was locked, that this was a meaning less motion.  She made
herself go to the kitchen, to get a drink of water, to turn off the
lights and get ready for bed, and again it was meaningless.  It would
be hours before she was ready for bed; the twilight of dawn might be
lightening her room before she drifted into sleep.  She had refused the
oblivion of sleeping pills months ago.  She had been afraid to give up
her grief.  If she didn't feel that, what would she feel, she had
wondered and the answer had come: nothing.

At the sink, holding a glass of water she did not want, she surveyed
the kitchen: ancient electric stove that had two working burners, a
table that wobbled, two straight chairs, two and a half feet of counter
space, a small refrigerator that dated back to the sixties.  And by the
back door was the ever-growing stack of newspapers destined for
recycling when she remembered to take them out.  The house was dingy
with age and neglect and she despised it.

Spassero, she thought then, almost in desperation.

Maybe he had made the news in the last month or so.

She picked up a stack of newspapers and put it on the table prepared
for a long night.  She had found that if she worked, the grief receded;
lately she had believed it had changed to something else, but it was
there, it was there.  She started to go through the papers.

TWO

an hour later Barbara had the papers sorted, with sections of local
news on the table  She was scanning for the name Spassero, but what she
found were items concerning Paula Kennel-man.  At first she had read
the story as it appeared, then had stopped reading about it as each day
brought new facts, new revelations, new horrors.  The first story, from
back in April, was a paragraph or two.  It said only that a child had
been fatally burned the previous day and her mother injured in a fire
that had burned down the house at the Canby Ranch.

The next day a more complete story had appeared.  A group of women who
were living at the Canby Ranch had gone out to pick chanterelles.  One
of the children stayed behind.  When her mother, Paula Kennerman,
returned to check on her, she had found the house in flames, but before
she could locate her daughter, a propane tank exploded.  The mother was
thrown out the front door to the ground; her daughter was fatally
burned in the fire.  The mother was hospitalized for shock, concussion,
minor burns.

The paper went on to describe the Canby Ranch and the generosity of
Grace Canby, who had turned the house over to abused women who needed a
safe haven 22 temporarily.  Pour such women and their children had been
living there when the fire occurred.

The next story was a brief report on the funeral of Lori Kenneman, aged
six.  And the one after that was the last story about the affair that
Barbara had read.  Lori Kennerman had not died of fire injuries. She
had been hit on the side of the head and killed instantly.  The fire
had been an arson fire.  The police were holding Paula Kennerman for
questioning; psychiatric examination had been ordered.  A public
defender, William Spassero, had been assigned by the court to represent
Mrs.

Kennerman.

It was after two when Barbara finished reading the newspapers.  The
usual editorials had appeared: justice must take its course; everyone
deserves a fair trial;

baby-killing must stop.  The usual people made the usual statements.
Paula's friepds and family, expressing disbelief and bewilderment; her
husband, who never had touched her and was stunned by her running off,
admit ted that she had turned against him, had been acting funny.
Concerning William Spassero she found very little he had done the
proforma things: petitioned for a change of venue, denied; petitioned
for bail, denied.

And nothing else.  There was a picture of him and Paula Kennerman at
her arraignment.  He was large, blond, baby-faced, and she looked
shell-shocked.  Not as plump as her sister was the only conclusion
about her appearance Barbara could make that and her lack of
expression.  And Spassero looked as if he should still be studying
Composition 101.

Well, what did you expect?  she asked herself crossly as she restacked
the papers at the back door.  This time she left them closer to the
threshold.  If she stumbled over them a time or two, it might jar her
memory enough to get rid of them.

Even as Barbara was finally getting ready for bed, a dozen blocks away
a night guard doing a routine check at Lane County Jail spotted a
gleaming pool of blood beneath the bed of one of the inmates.  The
guard summoned help, and then taped pressure bandages to both wrists of
the inmate while she waited.  They took the patient to the hospital,
where a doctor stitched her wrists and debated giving her a
transfusion, decided against it.

No one wanted to put blood into anyone these days unless it was
absolutely necessary, and Kennerman was holding her own for now.  They
would keep her overnight for observation and reconsider a transfusion
if her condition changed.  At the jail, officers searched her cell; she
had been alone because of the threats against her.  They found the
tool, a broken plastic comb that she had sharpened somehow.  It had not
been very efficient.

She had made a number of attempts, cuts on both arms that had not gone
deep enough, but she had persevered.

The next morning Barbara glared at the coffeepot, willing it to be
done, then glared even more fiercely at the interior of her tiny
refrigerator.  Almost barren.  A little cheese, two eggs, juice.  Some
shriveled apples.  She didn't open the crisper, afraid she would find
things growing in there.  She yanked out the juice.  No milk, damn it.
She had meant to stop at the store on the way home and her father had
made her forget.  No milk.  After she showered and drank her third cup
of black coffee, she went to the room she called her office; she glared
again, this time at her answering machine, which was winking at her.
The message was from her father:

"Want to see Spassero in action?  He's in court today, about eleven."

It had been a mistake to come to court, she told herself at five after
eleven.  Too many people knew her, greeted her, seemed to assume she
was working again.  Joe Spender down in the jury room had yelled out as
she passed him, "It's about time you got back in harness.

We missed you."  And everyone had turned to gawk, naturally.  Now she
was seated in the back row of Court Room B watching Bill Spassero do
his thing.  The case seemed to be about an attempted extortion and
malicious vandalism to an apartment building.  She paid little
attention to the details which were tedious.  But already she had
learned something.

Spassero was impressive.  He was larger than he had appeared in the
photo she had seen.  Over six feet tall, with more hair than seemed
necessary, almost bouffant it was so fluffy-looking, and very blond. He
was not fat, just big, as if he pumped iron an hour a day. Everything
about him looked expensive, from his clothes, which were as spiffy as
her father's, to the way he held himself, to his voice, which was so
mellifluous he sounded rehearsed, except no one would have rehearsed
for a piddling case like this one.

Ambitious, her father had said, and she understood exactly.  Spassero
looked like a young man putting in time enough to get some headlines,
to get a lot of trial experience quickly, maybe even make a name for
himself in court, and then he would become the golden-haired lad of a
prestigious firm, or maybe run for office.

Senator, she thought.  He wouldn't aim for less.  He would want the
Paula Kennennan case over and done with as swiftly as possible,
forgotten as swiftly as possible.  Representing a defendant accused of
murdering her child would not do him any good at all, even if his
office had forced him to take the case.  Defending the indefensible
left a blot.

So, she told herself, she had seen him in action, and she had made a
spot judgment, now what?  Nothing followed, and she stood up to leave
the courtroom before the lunch recess was called.  Spassero glanced her
way and nodded, as if to an acquaintance, or even a friend.

She nodded back and left.

She had several things to look up in the records room one of her
clients was in a dispute about whose fence it was that kept falling
down, and another one believed her grandfather had left a vacant lot to
her and two cousins; she wasn't really certain.

It took longer than it should have, but one client had spelled every
name wrong and even had the wrong street, and the other one didn't own
the property in dispute.  She was finishing up when she heard her name
called; she turned and saw Spassero.

"I don't want to interrupt," he said, "but I did want to meet you.  It
is Ms.  Holloway, isn't it?"

"Yes.  And you're William Spassero.  How do you do?"  She let him shake
her hand and hold it fractionally longer than called for.  Close-up
inspection did nothing to dispel the boyish image he projected; even
his eye brows were blond, and his cheeks were very pink.

"I've read about you," he said with a remarkably charming grin.

"It's a pleasure, Ms.  Holloway."

"Thanks," she murmured, and slipped her yellow pad into her briefcase.
She glanced around, checking for pens and pencils, then made a motion
to leave.

"I was surprised to see you in court," he said.

"You have an interest in that extortion case?"

"None whatever.  Just passing by and thought I'd have a look to see if
anything's changed.  It hasn't."

He shrugged a little, grinned again, and then became very serious and
sincere.

"Lucille Reiner called me this morning, after she saw Paula.  She said
she talked to you.  I guess she wanted you to check me out."

Barbara regarded him for a moment.  He looked as open as a schoolboy
denying to a big sister that he had taken her jelly beans.

"I talked to her yesterday," she said.

"She was confused about what a public defender is, what he does."

"You heard the news about Paula, I guess," he said.

"On the radio?  Television?  It wasn't in the papers yet."

She shook her head.

"She tried to kill herself last night, and very nearly did it."

Barbara could think of nothing to say.  She started to walk slowly, and
he walked by her side.

"Her sister thinks I'm pushing her, trying to get her to plead.  I
suggested it as one of her options, that's all.

Best thing she could do for herself, actually, but if she won't, she
won't.  Now this.  Remorse, guilt, this isn't going to help her."

"No," Barbara agreed.

"Have you seen her?  Will she be all right?"

"I talked to the doctor, she'll be okay.  They're keeping her sedated
for now.  I'll drop in tomorrow."

They walked toward the below-the-street tunnel to the parking lot. Many
other people were going that way; it was lunchtime.

"Mr.  Spassero, have you considered a second evaluation of her mental
condition?"  she asked finally, keeping her voice neutral and low.

"What's the use?  Ricky Palma is as good as they come.  He says she can
stand trial."

"I don't know what's the use," Barbara said.

"I've read about her case.  Everyone except her husband says she was a
good mother to her child.  If she was, she wouldn't have killed her,
unless she was severely men tally disturbed.  I guess that's all I
mean."

"Every woman who turns up at a place like the Canby Ranch is
disturbed," he said.

"You know that.  But they don't all kill their kids.  And maybe the
husband knows more about her than anyone on the outside."

She stopped walking and turned to face him, wondering why he was
willing to talk about this case with her, why he seemed to be arguing
about it with her.  People eddied around them as if they were rocks in
a river.

"Will you get a second opinion?"

"No."

"And last night, was she disturbed then, Mr.  Spassero?"

"She's overwhelmed by guilt," he said.  The boyish look was gone, and
although he looked less certain, a hard edge had come into his voice.

"I don't want to stage a courtroom melodrama with two psychiatrists
going at each other.  Guilt and remorse drive many people to suicide,
Ms. Holloway.  I accept that."

"I know," Barbara said, and started to walk again.

"But so do a lot of other states of mind.  Despair, severe depression,
fear, helplessness.  Even grief."

They exited from the tunnel and climbed the stairs to the parking lot,
into the sunlight.

"Good-bye, Mr.  Spassero," Barbara said, and started to walk away from
him.  He caught up with her and she walked a little faster.  He put his
hand on her arm and when she stopped moving and looked at it, he
hastily pulled back; she resumed threading her way among the parked
cars.

"Look, you think I'm not handling this case right, take it.  It's
yours.  You think I want this chickenshit?  I won't fight a change of
attorneys."

They had reached Barbara's car.  She unlocked the door, glanced at him,
and said again, "Good-bye, Mr.  Spassero."

Well, well, she thought as she left the lot, Mr.  Spassero had a few
things to learn, but he was on his way.  He knew as well as she that he
was not handling the case properly; there should be a second opinion.
And he had tried one button after another to induce her to take over
remorse, guilt; the husband might be right; an uncooperative client; an
interfering and distrustful sister.  Why didn't he just get excused?  A
client who wouldn't talk to him was reason enough for the court to
appoint someone else without another question asked.

All right, she told herself, and tried to put herself in his place.  He
knew there was no money; the state would pay thirty to forty thousand
for the defense of a murder case, but who would pay expenses for a
private attorney?

She frowned.  He knew she couldn't do it--few private attorneys
could--but maybe he had goaded her in order to provoke her into
advising Paula Kennerman of her right to have a different public
defender, in which case the petition would come from the defendant, not
him.  Would that look better?  She didn't see why it would, but maybe
he thought so.  It didn't matter much, she decided, what his motives
were.  She fully intended to advise Lucille Reiner to tell her sister
she had the right to get rid of him and have someone else appointed.
Anyone at all would be an improvement.

So he had read about her, she thought derisively.

What he hadn't read was that she was out of it, out of court, out of
doing battle with the giant state, money or no money.  No more games,
she had told her father.  No more devious tricks and grandstanding, no
more trying to psych out juries that more and more seemed to believe
the state was the final authority, that more and more accepted as
probably true enough whatever the state claimed, and that seemed more
and more often to defy defense attorneys to try to rearrange their gray
cells and convince them that the district attorney or his assistant
might not be imbued with the wisdom of Solomon, the intelligence of
Einstein, the prescience of-"Goddamn it!"  she muttered as she hit the
accelerator and cleared an intersection to a blare of horns.  Now she
was running red lights.  She took a deep breath and turned at the next
corner.  Something to eat first, then see if Mrs.  Cleveland was ready
to complete the will they had started a month ago.  Mrs.  Cleveland was
having trouble deciding who should get her sewing machine.

After the will, laundromat, and then shopping--No, she had to clean her
refrigerator first.  She had made herself stop putting anything of
consequence in it until she gave it a thorough scrub.

Late in the afternoon she finished the refrigerator.  It didn't look
any different, she had to admit, but now she felt she could put milk
and lettuce and good things like that into the box without holding her
breath.  She took the newspapers out to her car and then yanked the
sheets off her futon and added them to the basket of laundry.  And
while she worked at domesticity, she mocked herself, she was avoiding
the other problem that she kept pushing out of her mind.  What to tell
her father.

The next morning she read the news story about Paula Kennerman's
attempted suicide.  Lucille Reiner was quoted as saying it wasn't guilt
that drove her to it.  The article was fair enough, not inflammatory,
and the reporter had not mentioned guilt, except to quote Lucille, but
there it was.  Hadn't that asshole told Lucille not to make statements,
not to comment?

If this paper was doing this, she thought then, what were the other
papers doing?  The weeklies, the monthlies.

What were the television commentators saying?

She banged her cup down so hard, coffee splashed out on the table on
her shirt.  Not my business, she told herself sharply.  Pulling off the
shirt, she went to the bedroom for another one, then snatched up her
briefcase and left the house thinking of her two appointments that
morning, two more earth-shaking matters to resolve for clients.  She
heard the sardonic edge in her mind and shook her head.  Actually, she
was dealing with people for whom ten dollars was a lot to pay for
advice, and for those people these were earth-shaking matters.

When she returned home two hours later" there was an old Datsun parked
out front with Lucille Reiner behind the wheel.  Barbara went to the
driver's side and said hello.  Lucille jumped as if she had been
shocked from a trance.

"Can I ask you something?  I mean, here, not at the restaurant?"

"Of course."

"I thought I shouldn't wait until tomorrow.  I can wait if you're
busy."

"Come on in," Barbara said with resignation.  Inside the house she
herded Lucille into the kitchen and sat her down in one of the chairs
out of the way, then began to make coffee.

"You know she cut her wrists?"

"I know."

"It's my fault," Lucille said dully.

"I was supposed to take care of her and I left instead."

Her resignation turning into fatalism, Barbara stopped fiddling with
the coffeepot and went to the table

"Okay.  Just tell me about it, but start farther back."  But she knew,
Barbara thought despairingly.  She knew this story all too well.

The night her mother left home, Lucille said in a toneless voice, she
had made her promise to take care of her little sister.  Lucille was
fourteen, Paula nine.

Their father never had hit them, but that night her mother eye was
swollen shut and her jaw was swollen from a broken tooth..  .. The day
Lucille graduated from high school, she had kept going and had never
gone back.

"I told Paulie I'd get a job and bring her with me," she mumbled.

"But I couldn't.  Minimum, that's all, washing dishes, stuff like that,
and then I got married  .. She stayed until she was sixteen, and he
started beating on her just like he did our mother."

Once Lucille started talking, Barbara had got up and finished the
coffee.  Now she brought two cups to the table and put one before
Lucille, who had lapsed into silence and was gazing into the past.

"What happened to your mother after that?"  Barbara asked.

"She died.  We got a letter.  That's when he beat up Paula the first
time."

And the district attorney would get all this into the record, Barbara
thought moodily, and an expert would testify regarding the statistics
that showed the frequency of battered children becoming battering
parents.

"Where's your father now?"

Lucille shrugged.

"Maybe still in Salem.  I don't know.  One time after Paula came to
Eugene she was going to LCC to get her GED, I mean, she left before she
finished school, and we thought she should do that, and we went to the
coast and sat watching some of the boats leave.  Not just fishing
boats, I mean.  Pretty boats, yachts.  And we said when we got rich
that's what we'd do, have a pretty boat and take off.  Just take
off."

Barbara glanced at her watch.

"You said you had something to ask me, Lucille.  What was it?"

"Yeah.  It's just that this popped in my mind when that reporter came
around asking about Craig Dodgson.  I mean, did I know him?  Did Paula
ever talk about him?

Stuff like that?"

She was losing a battle with exasperation, Barbara felt then;
compassion for the two mistreated girls, sympathy for their fantasy
about wealth and escape were not enough to tilt the scales.  Carefully
she said, "Lucille I don't know who Craig Dodgson is.  I don't know
what you're talking about.  What reporter?  What did the reporter
want?"

"He said he had a tip that Craig Dodgson was telling the police that he
had joked with Paula about taking her away on his yacht.  He said that
Craig Dodgson told Paula that no kids were allowed on his boat."

"Oh, God," Barbara sighed.

"And what did you tell the reporter?"

"Nothing.  I said I didn't know anything about it."

"Did he say anything else, ask you anything else?"

"He said did I realize this gave Paula a motive for killing Lori.  And
I slammed the door on him.  Then I got in the car and came up here to
see Paula.  I might lose my job.  I was supposed to work today."

"And what did Paula say?"

"I told her, and she just said what difference did it make?  And I got
scared.  It was like she was thinking about something else and just not
interested.  She's thinking of another way to kill herself.  I know she
is.

She's smart.  She'll find a way."

She was going to break down, Barbara realized.  She said sharply,
"Lucille, stop that!  Wallowing in self-pity isn't going to help your
sister."  She took both cups to the sink and dumped out Lucille's
coffee.  She had not touched it.  She refilled the cups and returned to
the table

"Listen to me," Barbara went on then.

"Have you told anyone else about this?  Spassero?"

"No.  I went to see Paula and came straight over here."

"What is the question you said you wanted to ask?"

"Will you see if they'll let you in?  So you can talk to her, I mean?
She won't talk to the lawyer, and I don't blame her, but she won't talk
to me, either."

"What on earth makes you think she'd talk to me, then?"

i "People do.  I knew it when I first saw you, and me, | the way I've
been talking.  She would, I know she would.  Make her understand she
has to tell her side."

This was a different level, Barbara understood.  Explaining the system
to Lucille so that she could inform I her sister of her rights was
Level A, but what Lucille was asking would put Barbara on Level B, and
whether it was higher or lower she didn't know.  Different.  There was
too much she didn't know, she thought then.  Was Paula simply
stonewalling?  Was she crazy?  Was she so depressed and withdrawn that
she was uncomprehending?

Would she grasp the fact that she didn't have to stick with Spassero?
Would she understand that she had to talk to her attorney, whoever it
was, if she expected any kind of fairness?  In the end, would it matter
who represented her?  she asked herself bitterly.  Baby killer.

"Please," Lucille whispered.

"I'll talk to her," Barbara said.

"But understand this, Lucille; that's all.  I'll explain her rights to
her, no more than that, but don't expect any miracle.  If she doesn't
want to talk, that's it."

THREE

barbara explained the public defender system to Lucille then, and what
Paula could do about Spassero.

"All she has to do is write a letter to the judge, say she's
uncomfortable with her attorney, that they are incompatible, and she
will be assigned someone else.

They're good people over there, for the most part.

Spassero's just not for her."  Then she asked, "What did you mean, if I
can get in?"

"They said she's in seclusion or something.  Only family and people who
get cleared with her lawyer can see her."  She looked eager, on the
edge of her seat as if poised to take action herself, as if now she saw
that there was hope.  She started to say something, but Barbara waved
her hand.

"Wait a minute.  I want to think."  She got up and paced the length of
the small kitchen, not big enough by far, she thought distantly, and
she hated the feel of the vinyl tiles underfoot.  She stopped at the
sink and stood looking out the back window at a rhododendron that had
notches eaten out of every leaf, on its way to extinction.

Beetles of some sort.  She could call Spassero and clear it through
him, but she did not want to talk to him, since she was going to advise
his client to drop 56 him like a maggoty apple.  Seclusion, what did
that mean?  Isolation?  She bit her lip and finally went back to the
table.

"Where did Paula live, here in Eugene?  Where are her things?"

"They had an apartment, her and Jack, I mean.  He filed for divorce.  I
went there to get some stuff to take her, you know, pictures and
shampoo, stuff like that, and he said not to come back.  I guess her
stuff is still there, unless he threw it out," she added, scowling.

"What he can't sell, he'll toss, that's his style."

"All right.  Is there anything of yours in the apartment  Anything you
might have loaned her?"

Lucille started to shake her head, then she said, "Yes.

My blue sweater.  And a couple of books.  Maybe some of the kids'
stuff.  Oh, and a covered casserole."

"We're in business," Barbara said with satisfaction.

She went to the office for a legal pad and pen, which she placed before
Lucille.

"I'm going to draw up a couple of legal documents, and you make a list
of every thing you can think of that is or was yours that you would
like to have back."

Lucille was uncomprehending but cooperative, and Barbara left her at
the table and went to draw up her two documents and print them out in
triplicate.  When she brought them back, Lucille had finished.  She
signed the document without a second glance when Barbara slid it across
the table and patiently told her what it meant.

"I have been retained by you to take possession of your belongings that
are in the Kennerman apartment.

Your sister's permission is necessary for me to gain entry, and I will
try to get it from her.  The other document is for her, giving you
permission to take possession of her personal belongings and keep them
safe for her until she can claim them."

Now that Lucille was her client, she advised her very carefully about
talking to reporters, about the difference between "No comment" and "I
don't know anything about it."

They agreed that fifty dollars was a fair charge for the duties Barbara
had agreed to do, and then Lucille asked if she would mind holding the
check a day or two until she could take some money out of the savings
account to cover it.

At the county jail an hour later Barbara argued with a sergeant, and
then with a lieutenant, and watched them confer out of hearing, look up
from her ID to her, reexamine the document signed by Lucille, until
finally the lieutenant shrugged, handed everything back to the
sergeant, and walked away.  An escort was summoned to take her to a
small conference room crowded by a table and two chairs.  She sat at
the table waiting for Paula Kennerman to be produced.

"For all the good it'll do you," the sergeant had said.

"Might as well talk to a log."

To a mobile corpse would have been more appropriate, Barbara thought,
when Paula was brought in by a lean, gray-haired matron who watched her
sit down, then went to the door.

"I'll be right outside," she said.

Everything about Paula looked dead.  She was as colorless as a body
waiting for the undertaker to restore it to a semblance of life.  Her
brown hair was lank and dull.  Even her dark eyes seemed dull, with
purple shadows beneath them.  She was terribly thin.  The bandages
started around the heel of her thumb, reached nearly to her elbows.

"My name is Barbara Holloway.  You don't know me, but I've talked to
your sister."

There was not even a flicker of interest.  Paula looked straight ahead,
as if she were alone in the room.

"Lucille has retained me to go to your apartment and pick up some of
her possessions.  She made a list.  But we need your signature."

Paula's eyes shifted to the briefcase on the table and a new alertness
enlivened her face, and vanished almost instantly.

"Unfortunately they didn't let me bring a pen in here, but I have the
papers," Barbara said.  What would she have attempted?  she wondered.
Grab the pen, stab her self in the heart with it?

"I have another document giving Lucille permission to remove your
personal be longings and keep them for you until you are ready to claim
them.  Will you agree to that?"

Paula shrugged.

"What difference does it make?  I don't care."

Slowly Barbara opened her briefcase and brought out the papers.  Paula
did not look at them.

"Will you make out a list of things for Lucille to keep for you?"

"Let her take whatever she wants.  Get the matron and I'll sign
anything you say.  And then leave me alone."  The words were
toneless.

"I also told Lucille that I would advise you about your public
defender.  You don't have to keep the one they assigned to you if
you're not satisfied with his performance

Paula did not respond.

"I won't tell you the danger you're in," Barbara said evenly.

"I believe you understand that perfectly well.

The only thing the state was lacking before was motive, and now they
think they have it.  Do you know Craig Dodgson?"

Paula shook her head.

Fighting frustration, Barbara rose from her chair.

"Well, have you thought of this?  You said in your statement to the
police that the house was already burning when you got there.  Have you
considered what that means?  Someone else killed your child, Paula,
that's what it means, if you told the truth."

"I can't help it," Paula said.

"Call the matron."

Barbara walked to the door, but she did not knock yet.  She remained
motionless, facing the door for a moment and then with her back to
Paula she said in a low voice, "I keep wondering which loss is worse,
the loss of someone you've had a long time, or the loss of someone you
have just begun to love.  I don't know.

Last winter, the man I loved died.  We were going to be married.  I
went to the coast.  You know how the coast is in winter, gale winds,
the surf crashing.  It was raining.

I stood on a cliff and looked at the water and I knew this was the way
for me.  I'd thought of other ways, but they didn't seem right, and
this did.  The water was all gray and black and foamy.  I stood there a
long time and then I went to a motel to think about it, to write a
letter to my father, tidying up.  And the next day I went back to the
same place.  The sea was smoother.  I thought, Yes, now is the time,
but I just stood there, and finally I had to leave again.  I didn't
want to live.  He was all I had to live for, but I didn't do it.  I
tried once more, that same night.  And I finally understood why I
couldn't do it.  He would have been so ashamed of me.  I couldn't do
anything to make him ashamed of me when he was alive, and I had to
honor his memory, not do anything that would have made him ashamed,
even if he was gone."

"Stop it!"  Paula cried.

"Why are you telling me all that?  Get out of here!"

"I don't know why I told you," Barbara said quietly, not moving "I
haven't told anyone else.  I tore up my letter and threw it into the
ocean, and I went home."

"It's not the same," Paula whispered raggedly.

"He wasn't your child."

"No.  He was my life."  Barbara turned to look at Paula then.

She had come to life, but the life was too painful to bear.  Her face
was twisted; tears ran down her cheeks.

She was holding up her arms, staring at the bandages.

"She was all I had t live for," she said, choking on the words.
Abruptly she dropped her arms to the table and buried her face in them,
sobbing.

Barbara was holding the doorknob with one hand be hind her back in a
position that brought sharp stabbing pains in her shoulder.  She moved
her hand and walked to Paula, feeling unsteady and weak, and
tentatively put her hand on Paula's shoulder.  She sobbed harder. 
Barbara leaned in close, put one hand on Paula's head, her other arm
around her shoulders, and held her.

When the shudders began to lessen, Barbara went to the door and opened
it to say to the matron, "Could we have some tissues, please?"

"Tissues?"

"Kleenex.  I don't have any with me.  And maybe a glass of water?"

The matron opened the door farther and looked past Barbara, then at her
with an incredulous expression.

"I'll get some," she said and shut the door.

When Paula finally raised her head, Barbara had the box of tissues and
the glass of water at hand.  She eased the documents from under Paula's
arm and sat down again to look them over while the young woman blew her
nose and mopped her face and drank some of the water.

"I made a mess of your work," Paula said.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be.  I'll just run off some more copies."  Stuffing the
crumpled, sodden papers into her briefcase, she asked, "Will you help
yourself, Paula?  Will you talk about it?"

"Yes," she whispered, and then more strongly, "but not to him.  Mr.
Spassero.  He wants me to tell them I killed Lori, that I lost my head
and hit her and set the fire."  She jerked up from the chair and
swayed.

Barbara grabbed her hand from across the table

"Sit down," she said sharply.

"Go on, sit down."  When Paula was seated again, Barbara let go of her
hand.

"No more for today," she said briskly.

"You've had enough.

I'll make new copies of everything and bring it all back tomorrow.  You
try to rest, and we'll talk then.  Okay?"

Paula nodded.  She looked ghastly; her face was blotched, her eyes
red-rimmed and swollen.  But she looked alive.

"What do you mean, I can't see her?"  Barbara demanded of the sergeant
the next morning at ten.  She had been thinking there was plenty of
time to wrap this up, get the signatures, help Paula draft a letter to
the court requesting a different attorney, have a bit of lunch,

and be at the restaurant in plenty of time for her first drop-in
client.  She peered closer at the sergeant's identity tag: SGT.  R.
T.

PERRY.

"Look, Ms.  Holloway, I'm just following orders.

Okay?  She's sleeping.  Dr.  Grayling said he'd talk to you if you
want.  You want to talk to him?"

"You bet I do."

The sergeant began to rummage through papers on his desk.

"Here it is.  He left a card with his number and address.  He's already
been here and left again, but he'll be in the office all day and he
said he'd see you between patients.  That's all I can do, Ms. Holloway.
 I'm sorry."

She believed him.  He was gray-haired, florid, over weight, and, no
doubt, as tough as he looked, but at the moment his expression appeared
genuinely regretful.

She wanted to ask him why Paula was sleeping at ten in the morning, but
he wasn't the one to question, she decided glancing at the card.  Dr.
Grayling was in the medical building across the street from Sacred
Heart Hospital, where they had taken Paula to stitch up her arms.  She
nodded to the sergeant.

"Thanks."

A freight train was howling its way through town behind the jail when
she went out to her car.  For a moment she thought of the prisoners up
there behind narrow barred windows listening to the trains, wishing,
wishing.... She shook her head and got in her car.

From Fifth down to Seventh, which turned into Franklin, to Patterson,
one more block to the medical office building.  The hospital sprawled
across two city blocks, and all around it, like the moons of Jupiter,
satellites had appeared sometimes it seemed overnight professional
buildings, pharmacies, parking structures, gift and flower shops,
restaurants, wide sky ways linking buildings.  The complex couldn't
spread out to the west, the university grounds started a block away;
instead it was inexorably moving south and east, gobbling up
neighborhoods.  She drove into a parking structure; there was
absolutely no parking on the street in the area.  It took her longer to
find a vacant slot for her car than the drive over had taken.  Med biz
was booming, she thought gloomily.

She found her way to Grayling's office, where she waited ten minutes in
a large anteroom where dozens of other people were waiting to see half
a dozen different doctors who shared the common reception area.

The office she was taken to was minuscule, with hardly enough room for
the two chairs opposite the doctor's desk.  Dr.  Grayling was behind
the desk; he made a half-hearted motion toward rising, then sat down
again.  If he moved back more than six inches, he would have been up
against a window.  His hair was a touch too long, dark and straight,
and he wore horned-rimmed glasses that were too low on his nose
although he pushed them up time and again.  He was about forty, she
decided; it was hard to tell because he looked tired and harried.  He
pushed his hair back, pushed his glasses back, shifted in his chair,
and kept in motion.

He didn't register any surprise at her blue jeans and T-shirt, and she
decided he hadn't noticed.  She had thought briefly of going home and
changing, and had decided not to.  If what she had on was good enough
for the county jail, it was good enough for the jail doctor.

"Ms.  Holloway," he said after she took one of the chairs, "you know
the system we're using over at the jail, don't you?"

She shook her head.

"Tell me."

"Yes.  Well, there are a couple of nurses on duty and a paramedic.  In
fact, one of the nurses is actually a paramedic.  And I'm on call.  You
know, for things they can't handle, or shouldn't handle."

"You treated Paula Kennerman the other night?  At the hospital?"

"Yes.  They called me and I met them there and took care of her.  I've
seen her off and on from the start, of course.  Very early on I told
her that if she needed something to help her sleep, she could have
it."

"Did she talk to you?"

"Not a word."

She wished he would get a haircut, and have his glasses adjusted, or
simply sit on his hands, but they were in constant motion, fiddling
with his glasses, his hair, a few papers, a patient's file.

"What happened last night, or this morning?"  Barbara asked.

His hands came to rest on the file folder.

"I don't know," he said.

"This morning when I was over there they said her lawyer had brought in
a private doctor for her, that she had been agitated and the doctor had
given her a sedative.  From now on she will be in his care."

He was lining up papers, rearranging them in minute increments.

"That's his right," he said hurriedly, watching the progress his hands
were making.

"The county encourages inmates to have their private physicians after
the initial examination.  That's not at all irregular."

She watched him and waited.  When he remained silent, she asked, "What
is irregular, then, Doctor?"

"I didn't say that," he said swiftly.

"I'm willing to forget this whole conversation," Barbara said.

"It never happened.  But I have to know why you agreed to see me, what
it is you have to tell me.

Not only that she has a private doctor now."

He stood up and pushed his chair back against the window; he looked
with despair at the cramped office and sat down again.  They hadn't
even given him pacing room, Barbara thought with sympathy.

"They told me you had a breakthrough with Paula," he said then.

"We all tried, but you did it.  There's something we don't talk about
much," he went on, sounding almost embarrassed.

"The will to live.  In children we say failure to thrive.  Almost the
same thing.

She has lost the will to live.  I tried to get through to her, I really
tried.  I don't know what's going to happen at the trial, or what will
happen to her after that, but while she was my patient, I tried to help
her."  His hands had started their restless motions again.

"You're still trying to help her, aren't you?"

"Yes.  But I'm in a funny position."  He attempted a grin that failed
and was only a grimace.

"I can't protest what another physician does, you see.  I can't
override her choice of doctors.  But her sister could find out if that
really was her choice, or ... But I can't really get in touch with her,
either."  He added almost ingenuously, "They told me you were
representing the sister."

"You don't think the new doctor was her choice?"

He shrugged.

"I don't think so, but I don't know for certain.  Her attorney said he
was her doctor."

"Who is the other doctor?"

"Peter Copley," he said in a low voice.

"And what did he prescribe?"

"Halcion."

"And the dosage?"

"The nurse showed me," he said.

"Two blue ones initially, then one every four hours."  He lifted the
folder he had been fooling with and picked up a paper, the kind that
pharmaceutical companies inserted in their medications.  He held it out
to her.

"Just some information about Halcion," he said, not looking at her.
When she took the paper covered with small print, he stood up, pushed
his glasses back into place, and held out his hand.

"Thanks for coming."  His relief was transforming;

all the indecision, the hesitation, the embarrassment had evaporated.

She rose from her chair to shake his hand.

"Thank you.  Doctor."  She hesitated at the door.

"I won't mention your name, but the sergeant knows I was coming over
here."

"Sergeant Perry doesn't know anything," he said quietly.

She nodded and left.

In the parking structure, sitting in her car, she read the information
sheet quickly, then read it again more slowly.

"Son of a bitch," she muttered under her breath.

Home, she decided.  Someplace where she could pace, curse if she wanted
to.  She drove home and called Lucille.  Then she called her own doctor
and caught him on his way out to lunch.

Without mentioning names or details, she described Paula and her
condition.

"A lot of stress, anxiety, fear, and grief.  She lost a lot of blood
and is about fifteen pounds underweight."

"Good grief."

"Tell me this.  Am I right, that's double the high end of the normal
dosage?"

"Probably.  I don't prescribe it; I'd have to look it up."

"Exactly.  I want reports about side effects, the warnings you know the
sort of thing.  You guys get that stuff sent to you all the time."

"You know I can't second-guess another doctor with out seeing the
patient, and besides, what you want is in the library," he said.

"I need it now."

"Everybody needs whatever it is now," he said with some sharpness.

She could pick up the material at one forty-five, he agreed at last.

While talking to him she had thumbed through the phone book and found
the number for the public de fender's office; she punched in the
numbers.

"I'm sorry," a woman said.

"Mr.  Spassero is out of town.  He won't be back until Monday."

"He must have left a number where he can be reached."

"I'm afraid not.  If you'll leave your number, Ms.

Holloway, I'm sure he'll get in touch with you on Mon day."

Barbara hung up.  She tried his home number, got a machine, and left a
message.  Monday, she thought bleakly.  Monday.

She walked to the kitchen and stood at the sink looking at the doomed
rhododendron, but she was thinking of Paula Kennerman, who was equally
doomed.  Abruptly she went back to her office and again riffled through
the phone book, took a deep breath, and then punched in some more
numbers.

"May I speak with either Judge Paltz's secretary or his clerk?"  she
said to the woman who answered.

She had met Judge Paltz many different times over the years, but she
never had tried a case in his court.  He and her father had been close
in the past, until he had become a judge and her father had moved out
to the country and gradually circumstances and distance had separated
them.  The judge was seventy-three, she knew, one year older than her
father.

He was heavily built, with thin gray hair and a deeply weathered face.
A fisherman, she remembered.  His chambers office looked like the ideal
grandfather's study: deep comfortable chairs covered with dark mohair,
fine walnut tables, an even finer walnut desk cluttered with
keepsakes--a porcelain clock, pictures in silver frames, a ceramic boot
that held pens and pencils.... A reassuring sort of a room.  The only
surprising thing about it now was the presence of William Spassero, who
had stood up when she entered.

"Barbara," Judge Paltz said, taking her hand, enclosing it in both of
his.

"How have you been keeping yourself?

You look wonderful."

This time she was dressed for the occasion in a navy cotton dress with
a white jacket and white sandals.

"I'm fine.  Judge Paltz, thank you.  Mr.  Spassero," she said with a
slight nod.  His acknowledging nod was as cool as hers had been.  The
judge led her to a chair and saw that she was seated comfortably, as if
she were his elderly aunt, brittle and frail.

He sat in a chair between her and Spassero and then, with his hands on
his knees, he said, "Barbara, the message I was given said there is an
emergency situation with Bill's client.  Is there?"

"Yes, sir.  I believe there is."

"All right.  Naturally, I couldn't talk to you about the defendant
without her attorney being present also."

"Of course," she said.

"I tried to reach Mr.  Spassero, and when I couldn't I had no recourse
except to appeal to the court.  Thank you for arranging the meeting,
sir."

He inclined his head fractionally.

"You both understand that under no circumstance can I permit any
discussion of material that has a bearing on the case of Paula
Kennerman?"  It was not really a question.  Barbara nodded.

"Yes, sir," Spassero said.

"Your Honor, may I present my understanding of this matter before Ms.
Holloway goes into whatever her emergency is?"  When the judge nodded,
he went on, very smoothly, showing no animosity or resentment, only
puzzlement.

"Sir, I was in court on Wednesday when Ms.  Holloway chose to sit in
and observe me.  I didn't know if I should be flattered or
intimidated," he said with his boyish grin.

"But later, when I spoke to her, it became clear that she was
antagonistic.

She questioned the way I was handling Paula Kennerman's case,
criticized me, even offered gratuitous advice."  He spread his hands in
a helpless gesture.

"I was baffled, sir.  I know I don't have a lot of experience as a
trial attorney, but this struck me as so unusual that I mentioned it to
one of the more experienced attorneys, and he said with some emphasis
that her behavior had been unprofessional, possibly even unethical."

Barbara watched him with great interest; his hurt-little-boy act was
very convincing.

Judge Paltz shifted his position, crossed his arms over his chest.

"I see.  You wish to lodge a formal complaint?"

"No, Your Honor."

"I take it we haven't got to the emergency yet," Judge Paltz said
agreeably.

"Any time now.  Are you through.  Bill?"

"Not quite, sir.  You know that Paula Kennerman has received many
threats, and that the district attorney and I mutually agreed that her
visitors should be screened.

For her own safety.  Yesterday Ms.  Holloway got through the screening
to see the defendant and left her in a highly agitated state.  She was
so excitable that I felt obligated to bring in a second doctor to
evaluate her condition.  It was his opinion that Mrs.  Kennerman should
be sedated and kept in seclusion for the next several days under his
observation and care."  He drew in a breath and said slowly, "Today Ms.
Holloway was denied permission to see the defendant, who was sleeping 
And that, I'm afraid, is the emergency."

"I see."  The expression on Judge Paltz's face remained interested and
neutral.

"Barbara?  First, are you representing a client in this matter?"

"Yes, sir.  Mrs.  Reiner, Paula Kennerman's sister."

She withdrew the various papers she had collected, each set
paper-clipped together.

"This is my agreement with Mrs.  Reiner," she said, handing him the
documents.

"I

went to see Mrs.  Kennerman in order to get her signature  The papers
were ruined, and when I tried to get back this morning I was turned
away."

"The emergency, Barbara," Judge Paltz said with a touch of
irritation.

"Mrs.  Reiner talked to Dr.  Copley, who is now treating her sister,
and she is very upset by the choice of doctors and his treatment. Paula
Kennennan is not in competent; she can choose her own doctor and should
not be forced to submit to one who is not under contract with the
state."

"Is she being forced to submit to medical treatment?"

the judge asked Spassero.

"No, sir.  As I said, she was very excitable, and it was the doctor's
decision " "She was restrained and forced to take a massive dose of
Halcion," Barbara said sharply.

"And once a patient has been tranquilized to the extent that dosage
would induce, no further force is required."

"You questioned my competence, and now you're questioning the
competence of a distinguished doctor," Spassero snapped.

"Yes, I am.  Your Honor, I have gathered information from a number of
sources concerning the use of Halcion, especially the contra
indications for a person in the physical condition Paula Kennennan
suffers at this time anemic, under great stress, anxious, depressed."

She held out the sheaf of papers she had clipped together

"These are photocopies of the original articles, and stapled to each
one is an excerpt of the pertinent data."

With some reluctance Judge Paltz accepted the papers

"What is it you want?"  Spassero demanded harshly.

"First you tell me to get a second opinion, and then you create an
emergency because I brought in a second doctor  What game are you
playing?"

"Now, Bill," Judge Paltz said.

"I asked if you intended to get a second psychiatric evaluation, not if
you intended to bring in a hack who seems to think the only good
patient is a sleeping patient."

"Now, Barbara," Judge Paltz said, only minimally sharper.

"Both of you, quiet."  He began to read through the excerpts, and after
a moment he stood up, went to his desk, and picked up his telephone.

"Doris, would you run down Dr.  Grayling for me, please?"

While he waited for the call to be put through, he scanned the other
excerpts and then picked up the documents Barbara had drawn up for
Lucille Reiner.

Spassero and Barbara waited silently.

When the phone rang, a soft melodious three notes, Barbara felt her
stomach tighten.

"Dr.  Grayling, good of you to let me interrupt your day.  I just have
a couple of questions to ask you, looking for a little information, you
know."  He swiveled his chair around and his voice faded so that his
words no longer carried across the room.  The conversation seemed to
continue a long time before he swiveled back, saying, "I do appreciate
all this.  Dr.  Grayling.

Thank you so much."  After he hung up, he cupped his chin in his hand
in thought for what seemed a long time.

Finally he folded his hands before him on the desk and said, "A
defendant who is being held in jail awaiting trial becomes of necessity
a ward of the court.

But a defendant who has been declared competent to stand trial is
deemed competent to make independent decisions concerning certain
personal affairs, such as the dispensation of belongings, a will, and
non emergency private medical treatment.  Once certain treatments are
initiated, however, it appears that independent decisions are not
trustworthy, and for that ream son I have asked Dr.  Grayling to
reassume his position as Mrs.  Kennerman's doctor until Monday, when
she will be given the opportunity to choose her own physician if she so
desires.  Dr.  Grayling's opinion is that it will take until Monday for
the medication to be out of her system enough to trust her independence
in this matter."

He regarded Barbara levelly, then turned the same look of measured
assessment toward Spassero.

"Be cause her mental functions may be disturbed by the medication she
has received, I order both of you not to see her until Dr.  Grayling
gives his permission, probably on Monday after his examination."

"Your Honor!"  Spassero cried out.

"I object to this entire proceeding.  Ms.  Holloway created a crisis in
an attempt to prejudice the court for some reason which I simply can't
fathom.  She has done this in a way that is so prejudicial, my
integrity has been impugned.  Dr.

Copley's reputation has been damaged, and for what purpose God alone
knows."

"Well, she says she wants to get a blue sweater back for her client.
Isn't that what Mrs.  Reiner retained you to do?"

"Yes, sir," Barbara said meekly.  She could not inter pret the glint in
the judge's eyes.

He stood up and gathered together the papers she had given him.

"As for the rest of it, Bill, leave it alone.  No one's accusing you of
anything, far as I can tell.  You saw your client animated, according
to Dr.  Grayling, and that was so unusual you made a mistake.  It hap
pens.  But your doctor probably made a bigger mistake.

And no one outside this room knows what went on in here."  He walked
around his desk.

"I think we're through, aren't we?"  He handed the papers to Barbara.

He ushered them to the door, and said to Barbara

"Sometime, when you have plenty of time, ask your father about that
sturgeon we wrestled with over at Snake River.  And, Barbara, keep in
mind that the court appointed Mr.  Spassero to represent Paula
Kennennan.

And to my knowledge neither of them has petitioned the court for a
change."

The door clicked shut.  Barbara and Spassero walked out silently
through the offices, out to the street where (he sunshine was blinding.
Still not speaking, he turned one way and strode off, and she headed
the other way toward her car.  Only when she was inside it, holding the
wheel, did she relax, and then she grinned.  Asshole.

FOUR

she should put chairs on her porch, a few magazines, let her guests
wait in comfort, she thought when she pulled up at her house.  This
time it was her father waiting in his car, reading a paperback book.

She tooted her horn and waved when he looked up.

He met her on the sidewalk.

"I thought you were out of here," she said, planting a kiss on his
cheek.

"Why do you have an answering machine if you don't intend to listen to
the calls?"  He looked her over.

"So you really were in court?"

"Not exactly.  Come on in."

"I went to the restaurant and Martin said you were tied up in court.  I
didn't believe him.  You look pretty good."

She laughed and opened her door.

"Help yourself to some wine and pour some for me, will you?  I have to
make one call and then I'm free as a bird."

She called Lucille Reiner and had to wait for a child to go get her,
and by then Frank was standing in the doorway with a bottle of wine and
a glass.

"This?"

"It's perfectly good wine.  Dad, honest."  Then she 56 spoke into the
phone.

"Oh, Lucille?  She's off all medication and you can see her during
regular visiting hours.  I'll pay a call on Monday."

She listened to Lucille, grinning at her father, who was tentatively
tasting the wine.  He looked at it in wonder and, shaking his head,
strolled away; by the time Barbara was finished with Lucille, he had
gone out to the yard and was examining the dying rhododendron.

He came in as she poured wine for herself.  His glass was on the table
hardly touched.

"That rhody needs spraying."

"I know.  I'll get to it.  Now, why aren't you back home?  What was on
your message?"

"What I thought.  You don't listen to the calls."  He lifted his glass
and sniffed, then tasted it again.

"Drink able," he said.

"A beverage, not actually wine, but drinkable."

"Any time," she said, sitting at the table  There were several letters
she had not got around to opening that morning; she started on them.

"And don't read your mail.  Takes a personal visit to get through to
you," he commented, going to the door, gazing out.

"What I thought I might do is stay in town and look around for a few
things, for the house.

Thought I might talk you into hitting an auction or two with me, maybe
do some looking around in a furniture store or two."  When he glanced
at her, she nodded.

"

"Course, I'll just move all your stuff over.  If you want me to.  Even
if you don't use the bed, in case I have company I'll be able to offer
more than the floor."

She grinned.

"Move the stuff.  Dad.  Let's talk about dinner.  If I take you out, I
can get out of these fancy duds, and we'll go to Martin's or Hilda's.
Have you eaten there?"  He shook his head.

"Well, you should.  It's awfully good.  Central and South American
cuisine.  And very nice Chilean wines.  It's on Blair, four blocks,
walking distance.  There are bleeding hearts and lambs' ears in the
yard."  She laughed at the sceptical look on his face.

"On the other hand, if you take me out, I won't change."

"Flip you for it," he decided, and produced a coin.

"Heads it's my treat."

She laughed harder, got up, crossed to him, and snatched the coin from
his hand.

"Cheat!  You've been using that coin until it's worn so smooth you
can't even tell it has two heads."

She took him to Hilda's, where, appropriately, they stopped to admire
the flowers.  The next day they drove the twelve miles to Junction City
and an auction where he bought nothing, and then to an antique store in
south Eugene where he considered a table for a long time and then shook
his head.  On Sunday, just as fruitless as Saturday had been, he said
he might as well bring his own couch and other things from the Turner's
Point house.

He couldn't sit on foam, he explained, made his butt sore; his couch
had inner springs, the way God intended.

She nodded gravely.  Then they went to a garden shop, where he seemed
to go on a buying hinge-garden implements, gloves, a straw hat, even a
tiller.

"Couldn't you just have someone come in and till up garden space?"  she
asked.

"Could.  But I want to do it."

There had always been a garden when she was growing up; her mother and
father had tended it together most of the time.  After her death he had
sold the house, got rid of all the garden equipment, moved out to
Turner Point, and he had not gardened since; Barbara never had gardened
after her one childhood attempt at weeding, when she had hoed out every
seedling carrot.

She experienced a stabbing jolt of memory: how they had laughed,
holding each other helplessly.  Not right away, but later that evening.
And she, Barbara, had marched off indignantly.  No jealousy flared with
the memory, although in the not too distant past it would have done so;
now she felt only a sadness for him, pity for his loss.  She turned
away before he could look up and decipher the expression on her face. 
He would take a lot from her, she knew, but not pity.  Never that.

While he discussed tillers and delivery, she bought a potted red
geranium to put on her porch to keep her visitors company if they got
there when she was away.

He brought up the copyright case only twice, adding details each time,
still pot asking her directly to take it She played innocent.

He was excited about the house, she thought fondly when he dropped her
off Sunday afternoon.  She was happy for him, and still undecided about
moving in.  After he got settled down again with his own familiar
furniture and his garden out back, maybe then he would realize he
really didn't need her.  He still was denying it, but she bet herself
that within a year he would sell his house out on the river.  And the
garden would be his excuse  He would say no one can tend a garden with
a forty-mile-long hoe.

She went to bed early that night, but was still groggy with sleep when
her doorbell jolted her awake the next morning.  Eight o'clock, she
groaned, and started to turn over when the bell shrilled again.

She tied her robe belt as she made her way to the door; when she lifted
the corner of the blind she saw her father.  He jabbed the bell again
as she unlocked the door and pulled it open.

"What's wrong?  What happened?"

He pushed his way in, slamming a rolled-up newspaper against his
palm.

"You tell me.  Barbara, are you mixed up in that Kennerman case?"

"What's this all about?"  she demanded.

"What's that paper you're mutilating?"

He thrust it at her.

"You were in Lewis Paltz's chambers on Friday, weren't you?  That was
your afternoon in court.  Messing around with that baby killer's
case."

"I'm not 'messing around' with anything."  When she opened the paper, a
tabloid she never had seen before, the banner headline leaped at her:
baby killer judge unfit I The story lead-in was in bold print: Baby
Killer Kennerman, on the verge of confession, was put on hold as Judge
Paltz and an old friend swapped fish stories in the judge's chambers
Friday.

"Oh no!"  Barbara breathed.

"Christ on a mountain!  You are involved!"

Barbara moved past him and put the paper on the kitchen table.  Her
hands were shaking.

"Go shower or wash your face or something," Prank snapped.

"I'll put on coffee."

She stumbled from the room into the shower and let the water beat on
her in full force for a long time.  Why did he do it?  she asked over
and over.  Why did Spassero do it?

Frank was at the back door facing out when she returned to the kitchen
and wordlessly poured coffee before sitting down to read the newspaper.
Every fact was followed by an explanation or opinion that was cruel,
malicious, dangerous, and wrong.  She, Barbara, had gone to see Paula
Kennerman; the article added that her purpose had been to stop a
confession that was in the works.  She had objected to the doctor and
his treatment the paper said she was insistent on bringing in her own
private psychiatrist, who would declare Baby Killer Kennerman insane.
Judge Paltz had made the only reference to his friendship with her
father and a fishing expedition; the paper said she had used old
loyalties and affection to wheedle out of the judge (who might be
senile or at the very least was said to have an eye for a pretty face)
a three-day period during which Baby Killer Kennerman's court-appointed
attorney could not speak with her.  Time enough, it went on, for her
sister, on orders from Holloway, to talk her out of confessing.

"Good God," she said when she finished the article.

"There's more," Prank said.

"Back page."

She turned the paper over and saw her own face, a picture taken a year
or more ago.  Over it was the question who is barbara holloway?  She
scanned the rest of the page swiftly, her stomach churning.

"A member of the law firm Bixby, Holloway ... Dropped out of sight a
number of years ago.  Doing what?  Organizing legal counsel for her
'sisters'?  ... Sowed so much confusion and doubt an alleged murderess
had charges dismissed, but only after two innocent men died in a
meaningless and avoidable accident.... Who is she?

Single, never married, her father calls her Bobby, engaged in a man's
profession, chooses to wear male clothing, no makeup.

"Nuff said?  One last item: She seems to believe no woman is capable of
committing any crime more horrendous than marrying a man."

"Who is this?"  Barbara cried furiously as she yanked the paper open,
searching for the masthead.  She stopped at a picture of William
Spassero, looking like a high school football star.  His headline:
rising public defender

OUTSMARTED BY FEMALE SHARK.

"With leSS than two years as public defender, where he was making a
name for himself, William Spassero finally met the most predatory
creature God saw fit to put on earth--a female shark hungry for blood.
And he lost...."

There, the masthead.  Publisher, Richard Dodgson; editor, Richard
Dodgson; circulation, Kay Dodgson ... The two of them apparently did it
all.  She frowned at the name, but could not recall where she had heard
it recently.

"Judge Paltz is senile or a womanizer, Spassero is a wimp, and I'm a
shark," she said finally.  The words fell flat.

"And don't forget the defendant," Prank said.

"She's a baby killer."  He left the door and sat down at the table
opposite her.

"You going to tell me anything?"

"Sure," she said.

"Everything."  She did so, succinctly.

"A blue sweater," he said in disbelief.

"All this over a damn blue sweater?  For God's sake, buy the woman a
sweater and get out of it!"

"I'll see if I can get an appointment to see Judge Paltz," she said,
nudging the paper away from her.

"That's the dumbest thing you could do.  What would you say?  You
didn't talk, and Bill Spassero must be guilty?  Lewis knows damn well
it was one of you.

Write him a letter and hand-deliver it to his secretary.

No accusations, just express your dismay and include a firm statement
that you talked to no one.  That's all."

After a moment, she nodded.  He knew Lewis Paltz, knew how he would
react to all this, what he must be thinking.  And Spassero would be
there making his own case.  Why did he do it?  she asked herself again,
and got no further than before with an answer.

"Thanks, Dad, that's what I'll do.  I'm really sorry the firm got
dragged in like this."

He made a dismissive gesture.

"Look, Bobby, we want someone to handle that copyright case.  It's
right up your alley, you understand.  It's got to be someone with
stamina to make the trips to New York and Holly wood, and enough smarts
to stay on top of those Hollywood shysters.  In a nutshell, you."

Another time that would have brought a smile to her lips: His office
consisted of upright attorneys; in Holly wood they were shysters.

"And it would keep me occupied," she murmured, and suddenly wondered.
Who had told Spassero he called her Bobby?

"That, too," he admitted.

"No, thanks.  Dad.  Let someone else make a bundle this time.  Are you
going to be late for your appointment for the house closing?"

He glanced at his watch and scowled.

"I'll give you a call later on.  If you have those papers for Kennerman
to sign, I could drop them off for her.  Not out of my way."

She shook her head.

"Dad, does Bessie still keep all those local newspapers on hand?"
Bessie was Herman Besserman, who must be going on eighty; he had been
with the firm since it started.

"Sure.  Why?"  He glanced at the Valley Weekly Re port on the table and
said, "Leave it alone, honey.  You can't win with a rag like that, and
you've got a lot to lose if they fix their sights on you.  You know
that."

"Just curious," she said with a shrug.

"You know them, the Dodgsons?"  Another name swam back into reach:
Craig Dodgson, the man who claimed he had asked Paula Kennerman out on
his yacht.

"Nope.  I've got to go.  Bobby, will you stay out of that mess?
Please?"

"Go buy a house.  Dad."

After he left, she read the paper again, more carefully this time;
there was no mention of Craig Dodgson, but there was a bit of
information tucked into the recap of the murder: "Baby killer Kennerman
left her husband and killed her child and thought she was rid of all
obstacles to a life of luxury, free to pursue a wealthy man she
believed would take her away on a yacht."

She wrote a brief letter to the judge and then dressed today in a
flowered skirt and blouse, panty hose even, and sandals.  Just in case
she ran into the judge, she told herself, tugging on the panty hose
with some resentment.  It was going to be a hot day.

She delivered the letter without seeing the judge or Spassero, and then
returned to the jail for the third time.

Today there was no delay in taking her to the conference room, and they
let her keep her pen.  Paula was brought in almost immediately. The
bandages had been changed, Barbara noted.  They were no more than
simple coverings to keep the wounds clean.

Paula was still pale, but her eyes were alive and there was a light
flush on her cheeks when she greeted Barbara

"I'm glad you came back," she said, taking her seat.

"What happened Friday?"  Barbara asked.

"He came to talk to me, the lawyer.  He's off the case.

Thank you.  They'll send someone else now, I guess.

Anyone would be better."

"Friday?"  Barbara prompted.  At least Spassero had had enough sense to
bow out, she thought, before Paula asked for his dismissal.

"He came and began asking me what Craig someone was to me.  Were we
having an affair?  Was there anyone else I was running around with?
Things like that.  He said this Craig would cinch it for the state,
that I had to talk about him, about us.  I tried to tell him Jack must
have done it, and he wouldn't listen and just kept asking about
affairs, and I started to yell at him to get out and stay out."  She
ducked her head the same way Lucille did.  For just an instant she
looked like her sister, then the look vanished and she leaned forward
with her hands on the table

"I kept thinking of what you said, someone else did it, and it had to
be Jack.  There's got to be a way to prove it!"

Barbara said quickly, "Paula, listen to me a minute before you say
anything else.  You know I'm not your attorney.  I'm representing your
sister, that's all.  I have the papers for you to sign, and you can add
whatever you'd like to the list of things for her to keep for you.

You see, since I'm not your lawyer, there is no guarantee that anything
you say to me will remain confidential.  If they put me on the stand
under oath, I would be required to repeat what you tell me."

"I understand," Paula said impatiently.

"It's what I told the police in the very beginning; they know what I
said.  So does that lawyer, but he didn't believe it.  I just didn't
tell them all about Jack because ... I don't know why.  I didn't think
of him, of someone killing Lori.  I thought I was hidden from him out
there at that place."

She took a long breath.

"He did it, he had to have been the one.  We ... he used to hit me now
and then, not of ten, three or four times.  I told him if he did it
again I'd take Lori and leave, and for a long time, nearly a year, he
didn't touch me.  So that day I had a big tip from the night before,
and I went to the bank to add it to the special account we started for
Lori's school later, and all the money was gone.  He took it all out.
When he came home I yelled at him and he punched me."  She had started
calmly enough, but now she was crying and choking on the words, which
came out faster and faster.

"I was on the floor and he picked up Lori and threw her down on the bed
and he said next time he'd throw her out the window.  I was scared,
more than I ever was be fore.  He'd never touched Lori before, only me,
and I knew it would be like it was with my father.  I heard the hall
door slam, and as soon as I could get up from the floor I grabbed Lori.
She was crying, as scared as I was, and I ran out with her."

She had to stop, her sobbing was too hard for the words to be coherent.
Today Barbara had stuffed a big wad of tissues in her briefcase; she
put some into Paula's hand and waited, feeling sick.

When Paula was able to speak again, she said, "A long time ago, one of
the girls at work told me about a Safe House, and I went there.  But I
was afraid to stay because he'd find us.  And they took us to the ranch
and gave us some clothes.  But he found out anyway."

"Did you tell anyone about this?"  Barbara asked.

"At the ranch?  I couldn't.  I just couldn't say anything like this in
front of Lori.  And I couldn't leave her alone, she was so scared."

"You have to tell this to the new attorney they assign you," Barbara
said.

"It's very important that you tell him exactly what you told me.  Will
you do that?"

Paula nodded.

"Can I tell you about the ... that day?

It's just what I told the police," she added in a rush, "and the
psychiatrist.  I haven't changed anything because there's nothing to
change."

Reluctantly, Barbara nodded.

"Lori wasn't feeling good," Paula said.  Her voice wavered, and she
closed her eyes for a moment and drew in air.

"She kept getting a stomachache, and she had to go to the bathroom, and
she didn't want to go out when everyone else did, and another little
girl said she would stay with her.  One of the women said the best
thing I could do for Lori was to act like I wasn't afraid, and that
sounded right, so I went out, but I stayed at the edge of the woods
waiting for her, and the other little girl came running over in a while
and said Lori was sleeping.  I hung around the woods for another minute
or two, but finally I had to go back, to be with her if she woke up in
a strange place, so she wouldn't be alone and scared again."  Her voice
dropped to a hoarse whisper, and she was staring at her hands on the
table;

they were clenched into tight fists.

"I went to the back door and the whole kitchen was on fire, so I ran to
the front.  I ran upstairs, but she wasn't in the bed, and I looked in
the bathroom and the other bedrooms and then ran down again, and then
... I don't know what happened, they said the stove or something
exploded, and someone was holding me and the house was burning up."
The words were almost unrecognizable now.

"I

woke up in the hospital."

Barbara did not ask questions, did not try to get any more details than
Paula was giving her; that was a job for her new attorney.  Obviously
the police had found terrible flaws in her story, and also obviously
the district attorney believed he had everything he needed to convict
her.  She simply listened as Paula talked.

Toward the end of the hour and a half she spent with Paula, she did ask
if Spassero had told her about the new attorney.

"No.  I haven't seen him since Friday.  Dr.  Grayling told me.  He said
I can have my own doctor if I want, but I don't have a doctor.  Dr.
Grayling has been good to me.  Is he all right, to just let him be my
doctor now?"

"I think he's fine," Barbara said.

Paula added to the list of things for Lucille to take from her
apartment, and signed the papers.  Barbara was replacing them in her
briefcase when a tap sounded on the door, and the matron opened it to
say, "Mr.

Fairchild is here to see Mrs.  Kennerman.  Will you be much longer, Ms.
Holloway?"

"No.  I'm leaving now."  Theodore Fairchild, she repeated to herself:
retirement age, in the public defender office as long as she could
remember, kindly, sharp in court ... "Will you stay, too?"  Paula asked
in a hushed voice.

"No," Barbara said, and stood up.

"You have to have confidence in your attorney or the case is hopeless,
and you have to speak to him knowing that everything you say is
protected.  That isn't true about what you say to me.  I explained that
before, remember?  I can't sit in on a private, confidential talk
between you and your attorney."

"What if he agrees with the other one, that the only thing I can do is
confess?  What will I do then?"

"Talk to him," Barbara said firmly.

"Just talk to him.

Okay?"

Paula nodded, and then made a visible effort to control the fear that
had reappeared on her face.  She closed her eyes a moment, opened them,
and drew herself up straighten Her clenched hands gave her away.

Barbara met Theodore Fairchild briefly in the corridor as he was being
escorted in.  They shook hands.  He looked tired, she thought, older
than she remembered, not quite haggard, but drawn.

"Ms.  Holloway," he said.

"Barbara.  Always a pleasure to see you.  How are you?"

"Fine, fine.  And you?  And Mrs.  Fairchild?"  A mistake, she realized
too late when a shadowed look crossed his face and his shoulders sagged
momentarily.

"I'm well, and my wife is getting along fine.  Doing better all the
time.  I'll tell her you asked."  He started to move away, then added,
"Oh, yes.  I told Bill I'd pass the word to your ... that is, my
client.  He was given permission to oversee the case after all the
preliminary work he put into it.  Judge Paltz said that seemed fair."

He was watching her closely.

She shrugged.

"That's his right.  Nice seeing you."

She spent the next several hours in Herman Besserman's office reading
The Valley Weekly Report.  She had come to the office when most of the
people were out to lunch, but it seemed word had spread that she was
here, and now and then someone opened the door to say hello, or just to
check it out that she really had made an appearance.  Her name was
still included in the long list of attorneys that went down the length
of the left mar gin of the official letterhead, but it was a joke, and
they all knew it.  She had no salary, no office, no flunky to bring her
coffee.... The door opened a crack; she looked up to see Herman
Besserman Bessie peering, at her curiously.  She had called, asking
permission to use his room, read his papers, and he had given it cheer
fully, although, he had added, he wouldn't be around until
midafternoon. His eyes were like owl eyes, magnified by thick lenses,
and he was as pink and roundly smooth as a baby.  Stout, they said;
never fat, just stout.

But he was fat and happy with himself, with his body, with his office,
and now he seemed especially happy to see Barbara at a table poring
over the tabloids

"I always say know what the devils are saying about you," he said,
entering.

"How are you, Barbara?  Good picture of you there, I thought."  Bessie
would outlive them all, everyone agreed, and although he had not been
in court for fifteen years, he was still respected as a smart attorney
who knew a thing or two.

"Makes me think censorship might be a good idea, after all," Barbara
said with disgust.

"You know what they say, homophobia, hatred of all government,
misogyny, you name it, might be bad, even evil, but it's not a crime.
Not yet.  The Dodgsons have perfected every aspect of voicing hatred
for the other."

Barbara nodded, putting the newspapers back in their bin.  Reading them
like this, one after another, covering a six-month period all that
Bessie kept at any one time was like seeing particularly evil souls
exposed to a harsh light that left few secrets.  Evil, she repeated.

Evil people who hated women, hated gays, hated liberals humanists.
Democrats, most Republicans, feminists, agnostics, atheists ... "Why
did they take out after Paula Kennerman like that?"  she asked.

"Prom day one, they tried her, convicted her, and now they're yowling
for the death sentence for mothers who 'kill' their babies in any way
abortion, actual murder, manslaughter, neglect of the child, prenatal
neglect...."

"That's their style," Bessie said simply.

"You mixed up in that?"

"No!"  she snapped.  She straightened up from restoring the newspapers
to their proper place.  Bessie's office was large, like her father's,
with the same kind of desk, big and durable, and a round table with two
straight chairs, other comfortable chairs.  His office had one wall
taken up with big windows, one wall with bookcases, and two walls with
bins for the newspapers he collected fifteen different papers, at
least.  She glanced at them.

"Bessie, are others picking up that same message?  Death sentence, baby
killer already convicted, all that?"

"Some are."  He waved at the bins.

"Do you good to spend a day or two with them, see what they're really
saying out there in the boonies."

She nodded slowly.

"I might do that, if you don't mind.  Thanks.  I'll give you a call.
Now, I need a shower."

He grinned amiably and waddled to his desk.  His chair was custom-made,
oversized, well padded.  He sank into it with a little sigh that could
have signified pleasure.

She had just missed her father, Pam, the receptionist, said: he had
been in and left again.  Good, Barbara thought.

But she wasn't ready to go home, she knew, as she headed west on Sixth,
toward Highway 126, the major road to the coast in this area.  It was
said that from any point in downtown Eugene a fifteen-minute drive
would take one out to the country, and for the most part that was true.
She had bypassed most of the commercial strip, had driven past
industrial strips, skirted Fern Ridge Reservoir, dotted with bobbing
small boats, and was in open country within minutes.  A few minutes
later the land became hillier at the start of the eruption of the Coast
Range of mountains that sheltered the broad valley from the Pacific
storms.  Her next turn would be onto Spring Bay Road, where the
Dodgsons lived, next door to the Canby Ranch, where someone had killed
Lori Kennerman and burned down the Canby house.

The Dodgsons had made a statement that no one could have passed them to
get to the Canby house that morning without being seen.  They had
convicted Paula Kennerman in their newspaper.  Their son had come for
ward to supply a motive, and altogether they just might convict her in
court.

have on her right the land was mesa like while on her left
forest-covered low hills came to the edge of the road, retreated,
forming deep narrow valleys, advanced again, and beyond lay the
paroxysm of the Coast Range with its rain forest.  Orchards--cherries,
apples, peaches-strawberry fields, pastures, fields of wheat gleaming
in the sunlight, fields of grasses grown for the seed industry--all
were very pretty and lush now in early summer before the usual summer
drought struck.  When she reached Lewiston, she slowed to the posted
speed limit of twenty miles an hour.  A small town, under a thousand
people, it served the farming community, and it housed many people who
drove the twenty-four miles back and forth every day to jobs in
Eugene.

She had driven through Lewiston before without stopping, and had paid
little attention to it; today she looked it over more carefully.  A
Dairy Queen, Texaco station, post office, grocery store ... and the
large metal building housing the Dodgson Publishing Company.  It was
set back several hundred feet from the street, with a manicured lawn,
precisely planted red petunias bordering a white walk to the main
entrance, and a wide concrete driveway that vanished under a high
wooden 73 fence which enclosed the rear of the property.  No one was in
sight on the grounds.

She nodded at the building, then turned onto Spring Bay Road and
followed it out of town, not yet heading for the Canby Ranch, in order
to look at the Dodgson house.  She passed an orchard and a strawberry
field on her right and a meadow on her left.  The main crop of berries
evidently had been picked; now the field was open to the public, and
women and children were there in force.

On the other side, beyond the meadow, she caught a glimpse of the
Dodgson house; it appeared to be on the edge of the forest that covered
the hills and mountains all the way to the coast.  She drove on until
she had a clearer view of the big house, which had been featured in the
newspapers when it was built, twelve years ago.

It looked more like a church than a residence; a center section peaked
steeply, with tall beautiful stained-glass panels.  Wings extended to
the north and to the south;

attached to the southern wing, the dome of the swim ming pool rose. The
meadow continued to the landscaping of the grounds close to the house,
and behind the house the forest started.

She would have turned at the driveway if she had not heard gunfire.
Startled, she clicked off the radio.  Gun fire.  Up the road a short
distance she saw a sign in the shape of a rifle fifteen feet long:
Gallead Firing Range.

Slowly she drove that way.  A Buick with four women in it pulled onto
the road from the Gallead drive in front of her.  Another car stopped
for her to pass.  The property was completely enclosed with high wood
fencing, and a heavy gate that stood open.  The gunfire was coming from
behind a low concrete-block building, the only thing visible beyond the
open gate.

Barbara shrugged and continued driving, looking for a place where she
could turn; the forest pressed in close to the roadway; the road became
curvier, the grade steeper.

She finally made her turn at a driveway that led to a small frame house
where three VW vans were parked, two of them on blocks, one on its own
wheels, all from the fifties or sixties.  Apparently two of (he vans
were being cannibalized in order to keep the third one running.

She retraced her route and turned onto Farleigh Road, where there was
marshy ground on both sides, and from here she soon turned again onto
the private road that led to the Canby Ranch.  The Dodgson meadow, now
on her right, had been neatly cut and looked like a lawn, but the
meadow on the Canby side was a real meadow with clumps of wildflowers
in bloom, orange and yellow poppies, blue lupines; at the edge of the
woods on the far side stately foxgloves glowed like torches.  A pond at
the marshy end was almost hidden by sedges and cattails.

Here, too, the meadow extended to the immediate area of the buildings.
She passed another entrance to the Dodgson house, a gravel drive with a
closed metal gate that was posted no trespassing.  A short distance
farther, at the driveway to the Canby Ranch, she was stopped by a log
barrier.

She parked her car as near the edge of the road as she could and then
got out to walk around the log, a tree trunk twenty feet long, three
feet through.  Enough to stop any vehicle, she decided, thankful that
the ground was dry and firm at the sides of the driveway.  Her sandals
were not meant for hiking through mud.

The forest came within ten or fifteen feet of the drive, which curved
out of sight among the trees.  From here she could see only glimpses of
the Dodgson house through a scattering of firs that had been left
standing when the land was cleared.  She walked on to the site of the
Canby house.  It had been bulldozed level, and the basement filled in
with dirt that already was carpeted with grasses and weeds; only the
stones of the foundation testified to the recent existence of a
building.

Beyond the grave of the house off to the right several hundred feet was
a barn.  A few fruit trees were visible;

probably more were hidden by the structure.  In the other direction,
toward the meadow, a garden had been protected with deer fencing; weeds
were luxuriant in the garden soil, some of them as high as the
ten-foot-tall fence.

The house had faced the logging road, and from here she could no longer
see the Dodgson house; too many trees were on this side of the road.
Slowly, feeling a great sadness that she could not account for, she
walked around the leveled house site to where the back door must have
been.

She remembered Paula's words: They had left by the back door and headed
for the woods.  One of the little girls had gone to the apple tree to
wait for the other two girls.  Now Barbara retraced Paula's steps.  At
the edge of the woods she stopped again and surveyed the landscape.

The entire meadow was visible, both on this side of the logging road
and on the Dodgson side.  The little orchard began several hundred feet
away on her left against the backdrop of the deep fir forest.

She returned to the house site and then looked at the barn , which was
locked.  They said Paula had gone to the house, to the barn for the
gas, back to the house, clearly visible each time to anyone who
happened to look this way.  As Barbara walked around the house site
again, a tall man appeared on the driveway, striding toward her,
grinning.

"Honey, what's the matter?  Your old man knocking you around more than
fun and games calls for?  Tough shit, doll.  This place is out of
business."

He was lean and muscular, six feet one or two, with dark curly hair, a
thick mustache, deep-set dark blue eyes.  He was very tan, in his late
forties or even fifties;

it was hard to tell because he appeared so lean and fit a man who
valued his body and took good care of it.

"So I see," she said, walking toward the road.  He was in the middle of
the driveway.

"You the caretaker?"

"Nope.  Just a friendly neighbor.  Keeping an eye out."

She continued to walk, made a slight detour to go around him; he
stepped into her path.

"Honey, you don't have to be in a hurry.  You got a problem, let's
talk.  A little cold beer would go down right, wouldn't it?  A little
talk."

"No," she said.

"I'm leaving now."  She had come to a stop, and now she took a step
forward, another.  He laughed and held out both hands toward her.  She
stopped again and opened her purse, drew out a note book, and began to
write, murmuring, "Short-sleeved blue shirt, LL Bean, three pens in
pocket.  Cardin jeans, faded blue, suede belt, brown.  Reeboks, white.
Rolex watch, ring with red stone.  Six-two ..."

He watched her, his grin deepening.

"Honey, what's that for?  You going to press charges or something?  You
don't even know my name."

"I can find out," she said, writing.

"And what's the charge?  I think you're kind of cute?

Is that it?"

"Harassment, intimidation, unlawful detaining, and if you get in my way
again, I'll add assault with intent to do harm, because I'm leaving
now, and if you so much as touch me, I'll have you arrested."

She snapped the notebook shut, put it in her purse, and began to walk
around him.  He did not move.  She knew he watched her all the way to
her car.  She had to back up and move forward in increments until she
was able to head out the narrow road.  As she maneuvered her car
around, he came to the log barrier across the drive, where he continued
to watch her, no longer smiling.

Getting her license number, she thought grimly.

She did not start to tremble until she had made the turn off the
logging road onto the county road to Lewiston.  Not exactly fear, she
told herself, and almost believed it.  He had not been hyped up on
anything but himself, and yet ... It was the "and yet" that made her
grit her teeth in fury.  She slowed as she reached the town again, and
she suddenly wondered: Where had he come from?  There had been no car.
She stopped at the Dairy Queen for a Coke and asked the teenage counter
boy who the man was.  She didn't need a full description; the boy knew.
Royce Gallead, the owner of the firing range.

She had dinner with friends that night, and then went to a movie with
them, and the evening was not great, but pleasantly relaxing.  After
the movie, turning down coffee at one of the new espresso bars,
refusing a piano bar, she pleaded fatigue, and went home and to bed.
She slept fitfully, and when she dressed the next morning to go to the
Kennerman apartment to collect Paula's belongings, it was with a sense
of relief; this was the sort of thing she should be doing, not running
around the countryside daring trouble.

The apartment complex was at Eighteenth and Chambers an area that had
been developed during the last fifteen years and already was going
commercial, with supermarkets and banks, a chain shoe store, other
miscellaneous shops, restaurants, and apartment complexes  This one
looked nice from the outside: three buildings, four floors each, in a
U-shape around a parking enclosure, with thoughtful landscaping and
flowers in bloom.

Jack Kennerman opened the door after her fourth ring.  He glowered at
her when she introduced herself.

"They told me you'd be here and my lawyer says I get a receipt for
anything you cart off, and no questions.

I got nothing to say to you."  He pulled the door wider to admit her.

He was slightly built, with dark hair that covered his collar, dark
eyes, a sparse beard several shades lighter than his hair.  He was
pale, thin-faced, and his eyes were dilated too much for the dim light.
Shades were down in the living room; the air smelled sour, as if
nothing here had been open to the outside for weeks.

"That's fine," Barbara said agreeably.

"This is the list.  Do you know where the things are?"

"No," he said without a glance at the list.

"Never saw any of that shit."  He walked stiffly to a recliner chair
and sat down.  She followed him.

Inside the apartment, claustrophobia set in quickly.

The living room was tiny, with gray walls.  The sparse furniture was
rickety, made of pale wood and plastic.

Newspapers and magazines and beer cans were scattered everywhere, on
the furniture, on the floor.  A few small rugs were crumpled up against
the walls.  There were several pale shadows of pictures recently
removed from the dingy walls.

"Paula said there's a suitcase under the bed," Barbara said, moving
toward an open door.

"I'll get started."

The bedroom was smaller than the living room, with hardly enough space
between the bed and a chest of drawers for her to get past.  A heap of
clothing was near the closet door, more dirty clothes were scattered on
the floor, and the sheets and a light blanket lay in a jumble on the
bed.  No pictures, no knickknacks.

The closet was almost empty; the few things in it were his.  Barbara
began to pick through the heap of Paula's things in the corner.  He had
savaged them, torn them, ripped them to shreds, pulled them apart:
straps off bras, panties torn into halves, blouses with sleeves ripped
off.... It looked as if he had taken a sharp knife to them, stabbing
and tearing..  .. There was nothing salvageable.  Slowly Barbara pulled
open the third drawer of the chest of drawers: empty.  No jewelry, no
sequined purse, no nice leather gloves... . There were no books, not
the big Audubon Birds, not the collected Andersen Fairy Tales, no
children's books.

She went into the other bedroom.  Empty.  The windows were uncovered;
even the shades gone.  No child's furniture, no toys.  Nothing to
indicate a child had ever lived on the premises, except remnants of
wallpaper hanging in shreds.  The paper had been pink, with fuzzy
colorful animals.  Barbara felt goosebumps rise on her arms and rubbed
them briskly.

She returned to the living room and regarded Jack Kennerman.

"You're trying to erase her altogether, aren't you?  All her things,
her memory even.  It won't work, Mr.  Kennerman."

"I told you I never saw any of the shit on that list!

She's a goddamned whoring liar.  Let her prove she had diddly."

"She paid the rent, didn't she, Mr.  Kennerman?  How are you managing
it alone?  Three-fifty, four hundred, utilities.  Crack, meth. Whatever
it is.  Who's footing the bills, Mr.  Kennerman?"

"Get the fuck out of here or I'll stamp you down so hard you won't
leave a smudge!  Get out of here!"  He lunged from the recliner in her
direction.

"Oh, shut up," Barbara said.

"I'm not some poor little scared kid you can knock around."  She looked
him over with contempt.

"I asked some pretty good questions.  Jack, and I think I'll do a
little digging and see if there are answers.

Be seeing you."  She left without closing the door, and a moment later
it slammed so hard the floor shook.

What she wanted to do, she realized as she drove home, was to pack a
lunch, head out to the coast, and walk on the beach for hours.  Many
hours.  But not today.  Today she had open house at Martin's. Tomorrow,
she promised herself.

In her house, an apple in one hand, a piece of cheese in the other, she
roamed from living room to bedroom, to kitchen, to office, and back to
living room.  Now and then she took a bite of cheese, a bite of apple,
cheese.

She shouldn't have let her father talk her into staying here, she
thought then.  When she left his house for Eugene, he had asked her to
stay in touch, within touching distance, not off in Arizona, or
Montana, or wherever the hell she intended to go next.  And because it
had not mattered where she went, she had agreed.  A mistake.

She had dropped out once and for five years she had been free to roam,
here, there, anywhere.  Free, she mocked herself: Everything you are
running away from, you find in your little suitcase wherever you open
it.

Suddenly a sharp picture of Mike's face, frozen in revulsion forced
itself into her awareness, and she stopped moving, stopped breathing.
That day he had seen her destroy a young man on the witness stand; he
had seen her as ruthless, as pitiless, as cruel and relent less as any
shark in the waters.  The guy lied, she had stormed at Mike later, and
she had caught him at it, and that's how the game was played.

The image had immobilized her; now she moved again, this time to the
kitchen, where she put the apple and cheese on the counter, and then
went out back, where the rhody seemed to be accusing her.  Sharks, she
thought bitterly, and then, Dodgson was dead right about that if
nothing else.

Her backyard was overgrown with shrubs, weeds, clumps of day lilies
trying to find breathing space.  A week or two ago her landlady had
suggested that if she was too busy to tend it, maybe she could hire a
neighborhood boy?  Tomorrow, she thought, she would look into that.

She had dropped out, railing at a system that pitted the power of the
state against an accused person who might luck into a decent attorney
or might not.  Luck of the draw.  And if not, that accused person might
go to prison, or be executed.  Luck of the draw.  Win a few, lose a
few, and what's the score?

She had dropped out, but she had let herself be drawn back in; she had
to admit she had allowed it to happen.

Her father had not forced her, coerced her.  And once back in, she had
become the shark again, just like that, overnight devolution back to
the briny.  She realized she had become stock-still, and she took
herself back into the house.

She liked being a storefront lawyer, she told herself in the kitchen.
She enjoyed advising people of their rights, advising them about deeds
and wills and contracts, about discrimination claims, about the pros
and cons of declaring bankruptcy.  The clients she advised needed and
appreciated her help, and she did not have to hurt anyone, did not have
to play the merciless game in court.

"So, why are you into the soul-searching routine?"

she asked herself out loud.

She shied away from the question.  She had fulfilled her obligation to
Lucille to the best of her ability.  Paula was talking and was ready to
fight for her life.  Two Brownie points.  And she had made an effort to
recover Lucille's possessions.  Half a point there.

Lucille, she thought then, and without even posing the question, she
knew the answer, what she had to do.

Business was slow at Martin's that afternoon.  Only two people besides
Lucille showed up, and they were satisfied quickly.

"I don't know how you did it," Lucille said to Barbara when she took
her place at the table

"She's like a different person, fighting mad, I mean.  And she says the
new lawyer seems nice.  At least he isn't telling her the only thing to
do is confess and all that, I mean."

"Are you going back there today?"

"I don't think so.  I just came by here to pick up the stuff, but I'm
not surprised by Jack.  Bastard.  He's a real bastard."

"Could you take a little extra time and see her again?

I have something for you to ask her, if you can do it to day."

"Sure," Lucille said.

"I mean, whatever you want."

She leaned forward with an intent expression on her pretty, plump face.
She was very pink today, as if she had spent a good deal of time in the
sun over the weekend.

"It's fairly simple," Barbara said.

"Will you ask her if she knows Royce Gallead, or if she heard any of
the women at the ranch talk about him?"

"How do you spell that?  I never heard of him."

Barbara wrote the name for her.

"And then I want you to remind her that I said she is to tell her new
lawyer everything, about her clothes and books, every item on that
list, and that I brought up the name Royce Gallead.  And she should ask
him if it's okay for her to answer my questions."

Lucille looked bewildered but dutiful.  She repeated the instructions,
using the written name as a guide.

"Do you want me to come back here after?  I mean, it's no bother or
anything."

"No," Barbara said, smiling at her eagerness.

"Just wait until after she talks to Mr.  Fairchild again and then give
me a call.  Okay?"

After Lucille left, Barbara shut down her computer, closed her
briefcase, and then said to Martin, "I'd like to bring Dad around for
dinner tonight, about seven.

Can you hold a table for us?"

His grin was answer enough.

"Don't you want to know what's on the menu first?"

"Nope.  But about wine, what do you have hidden away?"  That really
didn't matter much, either.  What did matter was that they eat
someplace close enough for her to walk home if she had to.

They discussed wines, and he asked if the old man would want any
special booze.  He wouldn't.  Her father was off hard liquor these
days, wine and beer only.  She told him firmly that she had to pay for
the dinner, a celebration couldn't be on the house, and he agreed with
some reluctance.

"But, Barbara," he said seriously.

"I would be highly offended if you added a tip."

"Fine," she said.

"No problem.  Oh, one more thing.

We might want to sit around and talk a bit.  Is that okay?"  She knew
he usually closed by nine-thirty or ten.  His clientele was not into
late dinners.

"Just until dawn," he said grandly.

She laughed.

"I always suspected that what you really are is a poet.  Right?"

His laughter boomed.

"You, go on now, scat.  I got things to do in the kitchen.  See you at
seven."

Frank had been very pleased with her message, he told her several times
over dinner.  He had been dubious at first about her choice of
restaurants, but his doubts vanished with the first taste of avocado in
cream with Stilton cheese melted through it.  He followed that with
fruit-stuffed pork loin while Barbara had a lamb dish that Martin had
described with a blissful smile.

"Lots of garlic," he had warned, and there was, but it was wonderful.

The wine was excellent.  Barbara suspected that Martin had gone on a
quick wine-purchasing jaunt, but she didn't ask, merely was grateful.

Her father talked about the house with such pleasure that she had to
glow along with him.

"As far as suitability," he said thoughtfully, "on a scale from one to
ten, it's about eleven or twelve."

The restaurant filled and Martin scurried around taking care of
everyone himself.  Frank studied each new group that entered with
interest, but did not comment.

They were a mixed bunch here, Barbara thought, surprised that she had
not considered it before.  Blacks, Latinos whites, most of them in
jeans, or even shorts, and most of them greeted by name by Martin.  She
turned her attention back to what her father was saying.

"We have a pretty interesting case on hand.  It will go to the Supreme
Court eventually.  You never argued a case before the Supreme Court,
did you?"

"Dad, come on.  You know perfectly well that I haven't."

"Oh, it's an experience, I can tell you.  A real thrill, especially if
you win.  But even if you don't win, just being there, knowing you're
appealing to the highest court, knowing that every damn lawyer in the
country will be following what you're doing, the possibility that
you'll make history, be in the textbooks, it's a rare privilege,
Bobby."

He dropped it there and began talking about redecorating the house, and
how much he was relying on her for colors and such.  A while later
Martin came by to tell them about the desserts his wife, Binnie, had
made.

They both chose strawberry tart, and Martin said, "Good choice" and
cleared the table

When Martin left again, Barbara told her father about Binnie, who was
as gangly as a colt and made the best desserts to be found in the city.
Binnie was mute, she said, and very shy.  Pew people even knew Martin
was married, but they adored each other.

Frank was gazing at her with an appraising look.

"Honey, I wish I knew what all you know."

"Well, you don't."

"That's the truth."

He purposely had not asked her about Paula Kennerman, about Lucille and
her sweater, about anything, she was thinking, when Martin brought
their desserts and coffee.

"Could we just have a pot on the table  she asked.

An almost conspiratorial look crossed his face, and he smiled and said
absolutely.  She hoped he wouldn't linger by the door the way he did
when neither of them was certain a new client was to be trusted.  It
was a little after nine; the restaurant was emptying out, exactly as
she had known it would do.

She waited until they had finished off the tarts  She poured more
coffee for herself when Frank waved it away, looking very contented.

"Dad, you've done all the talking  My turn," she said then.  Some of
his contentment vanished, but she plunged in and started to tell him
about her last two days, her long talk with Paula, getting the
documents signed, meeting Fairchild.

"He's a good man," Frank said.

"Good lawyer.  His wife has cancer, you know.  Makes it rough on him
these days, of course, but he's hanging in there.  Good man."

"I'm sorry to hear that about his wife," she said, remembering the
brief conversation.  Pairchild had assumed she knew.

"After all that," she went on, "I drove out to the Canby Ranch."

Her father took off his glasses and began to polish them; his
expression was grim.

"And?"  he muttered.

She described her circuitous route, and then her own movemants at the
ranch and her encounter with Royce Gallead.

"For God's sake, Barbara, leave all this alone.  That's a dumb-shit
dangerous thing to be doing, out there, no one knowing where you went,
what you're up to.  Leave it alone!"

"Wait," she said.

"Let me finish."  She told him about Jack Kennerman.

"And what's the point?"  Frank demanded.

"Unpleas ant people, nasty people, doing rotten things?  So?"

"Listen to me.  Dad.  You've missed the point.  Some one told Dodgson
you call me Bobby.  Who?  Spassero didn't know that.  Someone told
Dodgson all about our meeting in Judge Paltz's chambers.  Who?  And
why?

Someone told Jack Kennerman that I'd be coming around.  Who?  No one
knew except Paula, her sister, her attorney, and me.  Royce Gallead
just appeared out of nowhere out at the ranch.  I was looking around
pretty thoroughly, and suddenly he was there on the driveway.

If the house had been standing, if I hadn't been in front where I was,
he could have walked right in, yet the papers have made a case that no
one could have approached without being seen."

"You're accusing Royce Gallead of killing that child, burning down that
house?  Are you out of your mind?"

"I didn't say that.  What I said is that someone could have entered
that house without being seen no matter what the papers are reporting."
She added softly, "But it's an interesting point.  Dad.  Why is Royce
Gallead looking out for that burned-down house?"

Frank took off his glasses and put them down hard on the table  He
grabbed the carafe and poured coffee into his cup so fast that some
splashed out.

"I don't know why Gallead is doing anything," he said coldly, ignoring
the pool of coffee.

"And the fact is, neither do you.

And it's none of your business."  He stirred his coffee furiously and
in an even colder tone said, "I think you're sore because Dodgson
implied that you're gay, and you're striking out blindly.  Getting mad
puts curtains in front of your eyes and all you can see is red."

"What you taught me.  Dad, is that getting hot and fighting cool wins.
I'm cool.  Dad.  Real cool."

"What have you done?"  he demanded, suddenly stilled.

"I passed a message to Paula that no one on earth knows, except her
sister and Paula and me.  Let's see who finds out and how soon."  She
watched him for a moment and then said, "If there's a leak, there's no
way she can present a decent case.  Not if everyone in sight knows
ahead of time what's going on.  They keep stacking the cards against
her.  I don't know who killed that child.

Paula says her husband did."  Prank snorted, and she ignored him.

"What I do know is that the Dodgsons seem prepared to do whatever it
takes to get her convicted.

Why did Craig Dodgson come forward after I got through to Paula?  Why
not a month ago?  And who told him I got through to her?"  She lifted
her cup but continued to gaze at him over the top of it.

"There are too many people who seem joined in one cause: to get Paula
Kennennan convicted of murder and sent up.  And there's something that
stinks to high heavens about the whole affair."

"Stir up shit and you raise an odor," Frank said coldly.

"So you're mad, and you're poking around.

Why?  What can you do?  Go talk to Fairchild.  I tell you, Barbara,
he's a good man."

"Spassero got permission to supervise the case."

"Christ!  So what are you thinking of?"

"I have a proposition for you, Dad.  You aren't going to like it, I
warn you.  If my bait is taken, if it's leaked, I'll know Paula can't
tryst anyone in the public defender office, and I want her myself."

Prank was staring aghast now.  He shook his head.

"How?  On the pennies and dimes you make in your 'office' here?"  He
waved at the restaurant, which was empty except for them.

"I want the firm to back me."

"You are out of your mind!"

"No, I'm not.  I'll come back, on no salary to repay whatever the bill
comes to, for as long as it takes, if I can keep on holding court here
two afternoons a week."

"God in heaven," he said in soft-voiced wonder.

"You're trying to bribe me."

"That's about the size of it, I'm afraid," she agreed.

"But cheer up, maybe the bait will lie there and evaporate.  And you'll
be off the hook."

"I'm off the hook right now," he snapped.

"Let's get out of here.  Where's Martin?  Where's the check?"  He
glared at the empty restaurant.

"It's already taken care of.  Why don't you go on ahead.  I'll walk
home in a few minutes."

"You'll do no such thing!  When I take a lady out to dinner, I take her
home afterward."

"Okay.  And, Dad, as I said, maybe nothing will come of this, but be
thinking about it, will you?"

"What I'm thinking," he said, standing up, "is that you got your back
up and you're making wild accusations."

"And what I'm thinking," she said in a low voice, "is that something is
going on here that is beyond simple corruption.  Something truly evil
is going on, and Paula Kennerman has found herself in the middle of
it."

SIX

wednesday.  something was eating her potted geranium, not the same
thing that was eating the rhododendron;

they left different bite patterns.  Yellow, rather pretty dandelions
were in riotous bloom.  If she had a hoe and gloves, she would weed; if
she had some spray, she would use it; if she had a hose, she would
water a hydrangea that was wilting.  She started a list.

She made three house calls and earned forty-five dollars.

The garden center bill came to twenty-seven, a few groceries cost
eight, laundry three-fifty, gas twelve.  A boy offered to cut her front
lawn for five dollars, and she accepted his offer.  Otherwise, she had
to buy a lawn mower, she had decided, or a goat.  She considered a goat
for a long time.  The boy took fifteen minutes.  On an hourly basis, he
was earning more than she was, and he didn't pay taxes.  She paid him
and gazed at the lawn in dissatisfaction; he did not rake, did not
trim.  He cut.

The clippings were three times as long as the grass they would surely
smother.  She regarded the geranium sourly; she had thought that being
in a pot brought protection.

Each time the phone rang, willing it to be her father 91 on the line,
she ran to her office to listen to her own message, and the caller's
message.  Nothing.

Thursday.  She considered answering a few letters, and put them aside.
She filed her fingernails; if she was going to do weeding, it seemed
best to start with them short.  The dandelions out back had turned into
ephemeral, glistening puffs.  The phone rang twice; one time the caller
hung up as soon as her machine came on, the next time it was Sears
wanting to know if she could use a credit card.  She took out the
garbage, and at one-fifteen she left for Martin's restaurant.

Again, there were only two drop-in clients, whom she dispatched
quickly.  She had wondered if business would slow down in the summer.
Then Lucille came in to report.

Paula never heard of that guy, Royce whatever, and her lawyer said she
could talk with anyone she wanted to, but probably she shouldn't
discuss her case with them.  Lucille seemed disappointed when Barbara
said there was nothing else for her to do.

She was chatting with Martin at three-thirty, thinking of going on home
since it appeared that no one else was coming by.  She had to transfer
money from savings to checking, she thought distantly, half-listening
to Martin talk about a new dish he was experimenting with.  He left to
answer the telephone and she gathered her things together.

"For you," he said from a little table that held a cash register, the
telephone, and a calculator.  He put the receiver down, waved, and
vanished into the kitchen.

She crossed the room, picked up the telephone, and said hello.

"Gallead.  Listen, bitch, and listen good because I don't intend to
repeat myself.  You try to connect me with that Kennerman case and I'll
come after you."  The phone clicked.

Well, she thought almost absently, that's how he pronounced it:
Gulee-ed.  Although her movements were slow, somewhat dreamlike, as she
returned to her table and finished packing up, her heart was
hammering.

She walked home slowly, deep in thought.  That call was not what she
had expected, she admitted.  Royce Gallead had been far from her mind.
What she had thought might happen was another diatribe in the Mon day
edition of Dodgson's paper, with enough said to let her know he had
been informed of her continuing prying  But not this.  And Gallead had
called her at Mar tin's; he had known where to reach her, when.
Possibly he had been the caller earlier who had hung up without
speaking, taking no chances of having his call taped.

At home, she stood, with her hand above the tele phone.  More than
anything right now, she wanted to talk to her father, but he had to
call her.  What if he had been really wounded?  Offended?  What if he
had his stubborn mode in full gear?  He might never call.  He could
well have gone back out to the country house in tending to stay there
for a week, a month.  She bit her lip and turned away from the phone.
He had to call her.

Then she picked up her purse and left again, this time heading for the
courthouse records room.  Forty minutes later she knew a little more
about Royce Gallead, knew that he had a gun shop on Coburg Road, and
that he had the range out on Spring Bay Road, and that he had acquired
the land nine years ago from Richard Dodgson.

She looked up Richard Dodgson and found that he had bought the acreage
from Grace Canby thirteen years earlier, and that the deed had a
covenant attached, a stipulation that he not develop, sell, or fence
the lower meadow.

She was forced to leave then because the courthouse was closing shop
for the day.  More thoughtfully than ever, she got in her car and sat
for several minutes trying to make sense of it.

Canby, Dodgson, Gallead.  An unlikely trio.  A more-than-benevolent
benefactress who had turned over a valuable piece of property for the
use of women who were hiding from a world they no longer could cope
with.  Dodgson, a bigot, a zealot, a misogynist, a liar, a man who
claimed to be a born-again Christian and exuded hatred with every
stroke of the pen.  And Gallead?

All she knew about him was that he was menacing, arrogant, and
apparently fancied himself a Lothario.  An unlikely trio, she repeated
as she started to drive.

That evening she made herself a sandwich for dinner, and then, feeling
guilty about the diet she was too lazy to correct, she boiled an egg to
go with it.  The egg overcooked and was leathery.  She ate it anyway.

All through the scratch meal, off and on until she went to bed, she
mulled over her next move.  She had few options.  She had about two
hundred in her checking account and twenty-one thousand in the savings
account her father claimed she was spending down to nothing on purpose.
She had not denied it, or admitted it either, but she was going through
it.  And so little came in that she figured in two years she would have
exactly zilch.

"You act like it's dirty money!"  Frank had stormed at her.

"It's not.  You earned it, every penny.

And you saved a life."

And lost two, she had added silently.

Her father could be altogether too perceptive, she thought as she
wandered aimlessly about her small house.  Dirty money.  So why was she
working like the devil on a case that wasn't even hers?  Again, Frank
had been partly right: Dodgson had got her back up, had made her as
furious as she had been in years.  But it wasn't only that.  She
thought of Paula Kennerman driven to a suicide attempt by her grief, or
possibly her guilt.  Whatever she had done, or had not done, she
deserved a fair trial, and would not get it from any public defender as
long as Bill Spassero was around.

And finally, she had been discredited in the eyes of Judge Paltz; what
integrity she possessed had been destroyed as far as he was concerned.
For years she had claimed, and believed, that she didn't care what
people thought about her.  What most people thought about her, she now
amended.  She cared what Judge Paltz thought because to her he
represented what was decent in the system: He was a good judge; he
cared about the law, about the rights of the people brought before him,
about the people themselves.  It mattered more than she had known,
until now, that he not consider her to be dishonorable.

And she couldn't go to him with the yes he did, no I didn't bickering
of children.

To regain credibility she had to be able to demonstrate that Spassero
had betrayed the trust placed in him by his appointment as Paula
Kennerman's attorney.  And to do that she had to find answers to the
mystery of why Dodgson was involved, why his son was involved, why
Gallead was involved.

She couldn't do it alone, she knew.  There was too much.  She needed
Bailey Novell, who was the best private investigator on the coast and
was not cheap.  She needed a law clerk, and secretarial help, an office
to op m crate from, to have people come to.  She needed the backing of
a rich law firm that could absorb the costs if it turned out there
would be no compensation.

And if he said no and couldn't be budged?  She had no answer.

Friday.  By eight-thirty Barbara was showered, breakfasted, and
restless.  She had not yet dressed, but was wearing a short duster and
was barefoot, trying to decide.

Skirt and blouse?  Jeans?  Shorts?  To the coast, or the backyard and
do some weeding?  The courthouse?

The library?  Too soon, she knew.  The questions that needed answers
were not yet formed in her head.  Visit Paula?  Wash windows, clean the
stove, wax the kitchen floor ... ?

Bessie, she decided finally.  He had told her he never got to the
office before one or two in the afternoon; she could use his space,
read his newspapers all she wanted before that.  She dressed and went
downtown.  Before, she had concentrated on the Dodgson articles that
followed the April murder of Lori Kennerman, and the destruction of the
Canby Ranch dwelling.  This time, when she arrived at Bessie's office,
she decided to read all the Dodgson papers he had, six months of
newspapers.

January: a long hate piece about the paganization of Christmas, the
most sacred day of the year.  Paganization?

Barbara mouthed the word and continued to read.

A long piece about the Brady bill and who really was behind it--the
satanic hordes who were desperate to disarm the country and seize
control.  Registration of guns was their first step, it claimed.  There
were letters to the editor: "Dear Rich, Right on!  Thank God we have
someone telling it like it is.  Keep up the good work.  Rich!"  And on
the back page there was a list of the abortion clinics to be targeted
in the coming month, complete with dates and addresses.

The next week had a list of the new books to be included in an ongoing
campaign to clean up the school libraries.  The Lorax, by Dr.  Seuss.
All fairy tales.  Anything to do with Dungeons and Dragons, anything to
do with magic in any form.... The headline of the article was in large
black type: kids minds at risk!

"Have you checked out your library?  If you haven't looked over the
books your children are reading, it is your duty to do so immediately.
Witchcraft, satanism, homosexuality, feminism, socialism and even
communism are the messages the New York elite is feeding your child!
Send a stamped self-addressed envelope for the complete list of banned
books."

Barbara frowned more intently at one of the articles on the hidden
agenda of feminists: "How long since you heard anything about the ERA?
Remember?  Equal Rights Amendment.  That's all they talked about a few
years back.  Sounds okay, doesn't it, but why have they dropped it?
Recently discovered documents from the secret files of NOW lay it out
there on the line.  First, feminization of the male.  Make him feel
guilty about not doing a share of women's work--house-cleaning,
babysitting, cooking.  Then, take over his jobs.  Women in the armed
forces, in the police forces, doctors, lawyers, politicians, in
construction.  You name it, they've got quotas.  And they've got the
money to back up their demands, to buy a senator here, a representative
there, ads, slanted news stories, television, books, magazines, they
control them all, or are working at getting control.  And the final
goal they are pressing for?  Complete emasculation of the American
male.  A revolution without guns.  A takeover of the entire American
economy and government.  Equal rights?  Forget it.  Absolute power is
the ultimate goal.  The American male is in a war for his life, and the
sap doesn't even know war was declared."

Barbara left the table and walked to the window.  Was he insane?  A
paranoid psychotic?  She shivered, more afraid of insanity than almost
anything else she could think of.  Reluctantly she returned to the same
issue of the paper, which seemed to be entirely about women.

The following article claimed that women who took the "so-called
'morning-after pill " were at grave risk.

Sixty percent of them required medical treatment for six months or
longer; thirty percent required hospitalization.

Fifty percent required therapy that was without end.  Fifteen percent
attempted suicide.

"God is speaking to those women who have murdered their babies.

He is passing judgment on them, and they refuse to hear His words. What
they are guilty of is murder.  They pay a penalty under God's
judgment."

Another article was about the French abortifacient, RU-486.  Here the
"statistics" bore on heart attacks, liver problems, kidney failure,
death, and madness.

"Feminists are clamoring for this deadly weapon of death.  They must be
stopped.  Call your representative, your senator.

Call today!  Call the White House.  Write to the drug manufacturers.
You and only you can stop this newest threat to the human race.  Don't
let them introduce yet another way to kill our children and destroy the
health of our women!"

Barbara found herself wiping her hands on a tissue, and realized there
was a pile of such tissues at her el 9 bow.  Not good enough, she
thought then; what she needed was a thorough scrub-down after handling
these newspapers.

She continued to read, and suddenly stopped in mid-sentence and went
back to the beginning of this diatribe.

"All over the country so-called "Safe Houses' are springing up.  Women
are luring women away from their husbands, away from their
responsibilities, away from their children in some cases.  In other
cases, women are stealing the children away from their fathers.
Kidnapping children."  Then the tone changed, Barbara realized.  The
article continued: "A vast under ground network has grown, maintained
by 'sisters' for 'sisters," funded by 'sisters' for 'sisters," as
secret as the vast underground railway system that operated during the
Civil War, when otherwise law-abiding citizens be came criminals and
aided and abetted the escape of slaves from their legal owners.  This
is a nation of law, a nation that lives under the law of the land, and
it is a criminal activity to kidnap a child, even if the perpetrator is
the mother of that child.  It is criminal activity to deny the
visitation rights of the father.  The child has no recourse under the
law because that child is hidden away, is silenced, while the band of
'sisters' strives to indoctrinate a new member into their ranks."

It changed again here, back to what Barbara thought of as Rich's style:
"What can you do?  Be alert!  Maybe there's a so-called "Safe House' on
your street.  May be there's a little kid who wants his daddy, not a
bunch of witches and pagans all around.  Visit the house, demonstrate
against this assault on every family value you hold dear.  Write a
letter to the editor, talk to your neighbors  Demonstrate.  Don't let
them get away with it!"

She plugged on doggedly, ignoring the spasms in her stomach and the
rigidity of her muscles, ignoring the mounting anger that took her away
from the table again and again.  Each time she returned until she felt
she had seen enough to know they were all alike.  And now that she was
aware of that stylistic change, she found it easy to spot over and
over.  Dodgson and his wife taking turns?  Dodgson being fed the lines
from an outside source?  Dodgson on drugs?  Something else?

She restored the papers to the bins and left Bessie's office before he
turned up this time.  In the wide corridor, heading toward the
reception room, she was stopped by her father's voice.  She turned to
see him at his open door.

"You have a minute?"  he asked.

She knew his answer was no.  It was in his posture, in the somber
expression on his face, the way he regarded her too politely.  She
headed his way, and when she reached his door, he stepped aside and let
her pass, then closed the door behind them.  Bailey Novell was slouched
in a deep chair holding a drink.

"Hi, Barbara.  How're things?"  He hauled himself up right and shook
her hand.

"You're looking good," he said appraisingly.

"Thanks.  And you?"  He was a small man, hardly taller than Barbara,
wiry, thin-faced, with sparse gray hair.  His clothes were always
baggy, as if he had bought them when he was twenty pounds heavier.
Barbara had never known him to be heavier than he was, and most of the
times she had seen him, he had been drinking something.  It never
mattered much what it was.

"Nothing changes.  Same old grind."  He seemed to melt back into the
chair.

"Tell her," Frank said in a peremptory tone.  He went to the wide
window and stood with his back to them.

"Yeah, tell me.  Bailey."  She took a matching chair and slumped almost
as much as he did.  Reaction, she understood, and also understood that
she had not really expected the firm to support her, but there had been
that little bit of hope that now was extinguished.

"Okay.  I know a few people, you know?"

She knew.

"So I asked a couple of questions and got the general picture of the
case the D.A."s making, not the details, but generally.  It's really
tight, Barbara.  They don't need more than they already got.  See,
Dodgson was out on his tractor cutting that field all morning.  Lots of
folks will testify to that.  And you couldn't get up that road without
him seeing you.  If that wasn't enough, his old lady was taking a walk
on the private road.  I mean that side's sewed up.  The women were out
looking for mushrooms in the woods across the field.  Couldn't get in
without someone in that bunch spotting you.  And right up until
Kennerman went back to the house, two little girls were playing around
the apple trees, and they would have seen anyone coming down from the
woods, and nobody did.  It's good and tight.  And even if it wasn't,
who else would have killed that kid?  The husband was out fishing with
buddies.  You know, start of trout season."

"The Dodgsons are unreliable witnesses," Barbara said.

Bailey spread his hands.  Without turning around, Frank said in a dry
voice, "You can't impeach their testimony because you don't like
them."

"I can try," she snapped.

"I told you Royce Gallead got onto that property without my seeing him.
Someone else could have done it, too."

"Gallead?"  Bailey muttered.

"He's mixed up in this?"

"No," Frank said.

"Yes, he is," Barbara said coldly.

"Up to his eyeballs.

Do you know him?"  she asked Bailey.

"Sure.  A gun nut.  Said to be a mean one.  You don't want to stir him
up, so they say.  Doubt that he's ever been charged with anything, or
they'd take away his business, but there have been rumors of
trouble."

She nodded and stood up.

"Are you free?  Have some time to do a few things?"

He glanced at Frank, who had not moved.

"You or the company?"

"Me."

"I'm free, Barbara," he said earnestly.

"But you know I got expenses, payroll to meet, stuff like that.

Who's paying?  Kennel-man's got zilch, I understand."

"I'm paying.  But we'll try to keep expenses down.

Okay?"

"I always keep them down," he protested.

"Can you come over to my house around four?  First I have^ to talk to
Paula."

"And I'm going home," Frank said sharply.  He marched from the room
without a glance at her.

"Wow!"  Bailey said.

"The old man's really riled."

Barbara shrugged.  So was she.

"Look at it from his angle," Bailey said.

"This is a downer case if there ever was one.  You'll be smeared by
that Dodgson rag from here till Christmas.  If you tangle with Gallead,
that's real trouble.  And for what?

You know how many kids have been killed here in the county the last few
years?  Couple of dozen.  People are pretty fed up; they'll take it out
on you.  There's no way you can get a jury that doesn't already know in
their hearts that Kennennan killed her kid.  Go after Dodgson and he
starts screaming freedom of the press.  First Amendment, all that."

"Am I paying for this time?"  Barbara demanded.

Bailey grinned.  It was a great big jack-o'lantern grin that used every
muscle in his face and made wrinkles, channels, and gullies where they
had not been before.

"Starting at four," he said, saluting her with his glass.

Paula looked incredulous when Barbara asked if she wanted her to take
the case.

"Yes!  Oh, my God, yes!"

Then she said, "But I don't have any money.  Will the state pay you?"

"I'm afraid not," Barbara said.

"So it's going to be a very tight budget, and you should know that up
front."

Paula nodded.

"Mr.  Fairchild is a nice man, but he can't do much for me, not like
you can.  I'll find a way to pay you someday."

"Okay, that goes on the back burner.  First, I have to instruct you
about your options.  I know the others did this, but I have to make
certain you understand.  What you have to do is listen carefully."  And
she began.

When she was ready to leave, Barbara warned, "Don't talk to anyone
about our conferences--not Lucille, not anyone here, not anyone.  Until
we know where the leak is, we keep quiet.  Agreed?"  Paula nodded.

"And I want a list of everyone you can think of who ever saw you with
Lori--baby-sitters, daycare people, people in the apartment complex.
Whoever you can think of.  And people who knew the relationship you and
Jack had, how he was with Lori.  Take your time with it and make it as
complete as possible."

"They won't let me have a pencil or pen.  Nothing sharp," Paula said.
She ducked her head.  The bandages were off her wrists; red scars stood
out vividly.

"Dr.

Grayling said I'll be scarred.  He's sorry about it," she whispered.

"Tell Dr.  Grayling that I offered to defend you," Barbara said.

"Tell him I need your help.  I think he'll see to it that you get a pen
and paper."

Paula nodded, rubbing her wrist lightly.  She would be scarred, Barbara
thought, more than she knew at the moment, and the worst scars would
never be seen by anyone.

SEVEN

on her way home she stopped at a bookstore and bought a county road map
and a U.S. Geological Survey map of the county.  She was dismayed to
see that it was dated 1983.  The clerk said it was the latest one
available.

When Barbara admitted Bailey at four, she had the map spread out on the
kitchen table.  Bailey glanced at the living room with a bland, neutral
expression, but she knew he had taken an inventory.

"Coffee?  Coke?  That's about all I have."

He said Coke and followed her into the kitchen when she went to get it;
they returned to the living room to sit down.  There wasn't enough room
in her office for a guest and her.

"Here's a list," she said, handing it over.

"You know the kind of stuff.  General background and immediate
details."  He looked at it and whistled.

"I know," she said.

"I know.  So don't let them know you're prying.

Whatever you can find out about the Dodgsons--where they got the money
for that house, a yacht, how they're doing now.  That little scandal
sheet can't pull in much.

What does?  And same for Gallead.  And Jack Kennerman.  About Mrs.
Canby, forget the money angle.  Her 105 former husband inherited from
his father, and made more.  But is she involved in any way with
Dodgson?

Who worked at the ranch for her, when, did anyone leave mad?  Who was
out there the day the house burned?  Who was in charge and where is she
now?"

This was all elementary, routine stuff, she was aware, but she didn't
know enough yet to ask for anything more specific.

"Gotcha," Bailey said, and then asked, "What about Spassero?  He's in
the public defender's office, isn't he?"

She hesitated only a second.  Her father had always confided in Bailey,
she knew; he said no one could do a complete job without the necessary
information, and she had always agreed.  She told Bailey about Bill
Spassero and concluded, "He's the source of the leaks, but why?  What's
he up to?  Who is he working for?"

She drew in a breath and went on to tell him about Royce Gallead, why
he was on the list.

Bailey whistled.

"Barbara, does the old man know he threatened you?"

"No.  Dad's all the way out of this one.  Keep it that way."

Bailey had set his Coke down to take a few notes.

Now he lifted it and drank it all.

"Okay," he said then.

"Let's talk about money."

She handed him a check for five thousand dollars;

she had called the bank to make the transfer first thing on arriving
home.  He stashed it away in his notebook and made out a receipt.  They
both knew five thousand would not last very long.

"One more thing," she said.

"The map.  Let me show you what I want."  They went to the kitchen
table, where she pointed to a dark line she had drawn with a marker.

"This map is out of date, but it's the most recent one there is.  What
I need is an aerial photograph of that portion in the outline.  Can
do?"

"Someone can do," he said.

"See if he can do it without giving away what he's up to, will you?"

"Barbara, how do you suggest hiding an airplane flying overhead taking
pictures?"

"I bet he can, though."

"It might mean more flying time, more money," Bailey warned.

"I know," she said with a sigh.

"I know."

After Bailey left, she opened the road map, which seemed pitifully
inadequate after the many details of the survey map.  She studied the
route she would take the next day.

For a moment she was tempted by the idea of driving to the coast,
having a nice dinner, getting a motel room.... She shook her head.

When she drove past the firing range the next morning, there was the
sound of gunfire as before, more of it this Saturday, and although she
drove quite slowly, she could see little through the open gate: the low
white concrete building, cars parked in front of it, and what seemed to
be another fence.  Customers had to go through the building to get to
the range in back.

Farther up the road, the people who collected VW vans were in the yard
today--half a dozen young people playing with a ball.  Several looked
up and waved.

She waved back.

Three more driveways led to small houses in small clearings.  They all
had people around.  She turned onto a Forest Service road and within a
hundred feet, still in sight of Spring Bay Road, she stopped.  The road
was too steep and rocky; it would take a four-wheel-drive to navigate.
She backed out and went back the way she had come.

Although she was watching closely as the meadow yielded to forest off
Farieigh Road, she was unable to tell where the Canby property ended.
Apparently Mrs.

Canby did not like fences or keep our signs.  Then she spotted the
second logging road, which was the southern boundary of the property,
and made the turn.

This was impossible, she knew after only two or three hundred feet. The
road had not been maintained even minimally, and the winter rains had
worked at un doing what the graders had done.  The dirt road was deeply
rutted in places, overgrown with seedling fir trees, vine maples,
brambles.  Now, in the middle of June, it was dry, but in April ... She
ignored the growing disquietude enveloping her and began to back out.

One more, she thought grimly as she drove again, this time to the
blacktop road that led to the Canby driveway and beyond.  The asphalt
stopped fifteen or twenty feet past the Canby driveway, and a dirt road
curved out of sight in a steep grade.  Barbara stopped her car and
brooded.  In April the ground would have been saturated, that dirt road
would have been like a sliding board.  If any vehicle had driven up
there, it would have been known immediately by anyone who glanced that
way, and as soon as an arson fire was suspected, investigators would
have been all over the scene.  Maybe they did know, she thought then,
and reluctantly got out of the car.  She could have driven, but the
thought of backing down again was more than she wanted to contemplate;
she locked her car and started to walk.  The curve followed a rock
outcropping; immediately after the curve the road was blocked by fallen
rocks.  She could walk around them easily enough, but no car could have
gone by.  She sat on a boulder and stared into the dense woods.

He could have come up here Friday night, she thought, slept in the car,
waited for a chance on Saturday to get to the house.... After he killed
the child and started the fire, he could have gone back to the car.  He
had plenty of time that morning to smooth out any marks he had left on
the dirt road.  And he could have waited until everyone was gone, the
fire equipment out, the occupants transported somewhere else.  He could
have waited until dark, and then backed down, turned in the Canby
drive, and left.  She made a note to herself to check the weather for
the days following the murder.  Rain could have obliterated any tracks
easier than a man could have done.

Or he could have parked down on Farleigh Road and walked in through the
woods, easily avoiding the women looking for mushrooms.

Or, she told herself, standing up, he could have parked down in
Lewiston and walked here.  It wasn't that far, a couple of miles.  But
how had he known about gas in the barn?  Would that be a given?
Farm--mowers, tillers, other equipment--equals gas in the barn?

She returned to her car and went home feeling out of sorts, as if she
was wasting time that was irreplaceable and precious.

On her answering machine was a message from Grace Canby.  Barbara
listened to it twice.

"Ms.  Holloway, this is Grace Canby.  It is two-thirty in the
afternoon, Satur day.  Will you please give me a call?  I'll be in the
rest of the afternoon, or tomorrow all day."  She gave her number and
hung up.

Barbara called the number, and Mrs.  Canby answered the second ring.
After Barbara introduced herself, Mrs.

Canby said very coolly, "Ms.  Holloway, it was brought to my attention
earlier today that you are representing yourself as being in my employ.
If, indeed, you are doing this, you must stop immediately, or I shall
be forced to consult my attorney."

"Mrs.  Canby, wait!"  Barbara said.

"I haven't done such a thing.  Who told you that?"

There was a slight pause.

"It doesn't matter who it was.

I don't understand this, or why.... However, if you are not making such
a claim, I apologize for disturbing you."

"No, please.  Mrs.  Canby, may I come talk to you?

It's very important."

"I'm sorry, I'm very busy."

"Mrs.  Canby, I am the defense counsel for Paula Kennerman, and there
are influential people here who seem determined to interfere."  She
shut her eyes and gripped the receiver harder.

"One of them is Richard Dodgson.  May I come talk to you?"  She did not
open her eyes yet, and realized she was holding her breath.

She let it out in the pause that followed.

"Yes.  Tomorrow?  Two in the afternoon?  I really am very busy through
the week."

"Tomorrow.  Thank you, Mrs.  Canby.  Where?"

She would not speculate, she told herself as she speculated wildly
after hanging up.  It must have been Dodg son; his name had opened the
door for her.  He must have called Grace Canby.  Maybe he thought she
was footing the bill.  What was the connection between them?

Mrs.  Canby lived on the top floor of a condominium situated in a park
like setting a short distance west of Salem, sixty-eight miles north of
Eugene.  There was a security guard at the front desk, a rare sight in
Oregon.

When Barbara showed her ID, he checked it against a list, then escorted
her to the elevator; he let her ride up alone, except for the
closed-circuit television camera that moved slightly whenever she
did.

The elevator opened onto a small foyer with only one door and another
television camera.  The door opened as Barbara approached to knock.

"Ms.  Holloway, come in.  I'm Grace Canby."  She was in her
mid-sixties, tall and thin, with ropelike muscles in her arms and.  a
skeletal face that nevertheless was handsome.  Her hair was white,
drawn back in a severe bun, her eyes deep-set and pale blue.  She was
wearing gray sweatpants, a matching, short-sleeved sweatshirt, and
running shoes.

"I put off my run until three," Mrs.  Canby said as she walked ahead of
Barbara into a spacious living room.

The room was almost garish, with furniture covered in a material that
had giant tropical flowers in brilliant colors.

A heap of newspapers was on the sofa, magazines and books on several
tables.  Two lamps had Tiffany shades, one a bamboo shade.  Scatter
rugs were red, blue, yellow.

"Let's sit over here by the window, shall we?"

She led the way to two facing chairs with a game table between them.
Glancing out the window, Barbara saw that the park became a real woods
behind the building.

"They put in a running track through the trees," Mrs.

Canby said, nodding toward the grounds.

"Doesn't it look like something out of the Disney studios?"

It did.  When Barbara turned once more to Mrs.

Canby, she found the older woman studying her.

"What can I do for you?"  Mrs.  Canby asked.

"Was it Richard Dodgson who told you I was misrepresenting myself?"

"Yes."  She was sitting perfectly still with an intent expression, as
if she was still appraising her guest.

"And you called me right away to get to the bottom of it," Barbara
said.

"Will you tell me what he said?"

"In a minute," Mrs.  Canby said, her expression changing subtly.  She
looked a little more relaxed.

"After Rich called, I talked to my own attorney here in Salem.  I
didn't mention Rich, but I asked him about you, and his report was
completely satisfying, and that's the reason I called.  If Rich was
telling a lie about you, I felt you should know about it.  If it was
the truth, I wanted you to stop."

"I'm very grateful that you did call," Barbara said.

"Yes.  Well, I have tried very hard to remain neutral as far as Rich is
concerned, but it is difficult at times.

He demanded that I call you off, or he said he would fence in the
meadow and we could slug it out in court for the next ten years."  Her
voice had become very dry.

"If he fences that meadow, I'll hire people to tear down the fence, and
then we'll slug it out in court."

"You've made it into a wildlife refuge," Barbara murmured, visualizing
the meadow with its pond and native grasses and flowers.

"I didn't make it, it happened, and I want to keep it that way.  I sold
that acreage to Rich years ago, with the proviso that he never fence
the lower meadow, or build on it.  The deer and elk come down from the
woods through the orchard and on into the meadow, the way they always
have.  If Rich ever fences in his piece of land, they will have to
change their route, probably go out on the highway.  It would be
slaughter."

Her mouth was set in a firm line.  She would be a formidable enemy,
Barbara thought.

"Did he object when you turned the ranch into a refuge for women?"

"Not really.  He started to, but I told him if he printed a word about
the ranch, I would start an investigation of him, his family, his
publishing company, everything.  I reminded him that everyone has
something in the past better left buried.  It would have been trouble
for both of us, but he knew I would do what I said and he backed off.
Things happened from time to time that made him angry all over again,
and he has called me to protest, but he never mentioned the ranch in
his paper, to my knowledge, until after that ghastly tragedy."  When
Barbara started to speak, Mrs.  Canby tapped the table with her
finger.

"Wait.  I have a question for you.  Why does he care if you represent
that wretched girl?"

"I wish I knew.  I've never met him, never laid eyes on him or his
family, or his paper until now.  What kinds of things did he protest
about?"

For a second she thought Mrs.  Canby had said all she intended to say,
but then she spoke again, and this time she filled in the background
without any prompting.

"I thought for a time that one of my children might want to live at the
ranch; they all grew up in that house, you see.  But it didn't work out
that way.  I came here to Salem to serve on a committee and it became
pointless to try to maintain the house as a residence.  For several
years it remained empty.  Then three years ago I got the idea to use
the house again, to let it be used by women who needed isolation, and
safety.  Refuge.  Repairs had to be made, some appliances replaced,
things of that sort had to be done first.  Six months later we were
ready to open."

"You said Rich Dodgson complained from time to time.  Were they serious
complaints?"

"Not at all.  The first year someone used his driveway to turn around
in, and he called me.  I told him to stop being a fool and put up a
gate, which he did.  A few months later he called to inform me that the
girls were skinny-dipping in the pond, a wickedness he would not
tolerate or have his two grown sons witness."  A rather wicked gleam
sparkled in her eyes.

Barbara suppressed a grin; Mrs.  Canby laughed.

"I

used to do that myself when we lived there.  I told him the rushes made
a perfect screen and anyone who saw the girls had to work at it.  He
hung up on me."  She tilted her head, thinking.

"There was one other time, last winter.

This time he said they were trespassing on his side of the meadow and
he would not stand for it.  It seems," she said caustically, "that one
of the girls got up before dawn to try to get some photographs of the
elk as they moved through the orchard.  She was in position at first
light.  The elk," she added, "relish the apples Mr.  Reading leaves on
the trees for them.  Sometimes they even stand on their hind legs to
reach them.  What possible harm that girl could have done is a mystery.
I asked Emma Emma Tidball was the housekeeper manager to tell them to
stay off his property, and that was the end of that.  That's when he
posted the entire acreage.  Idiot.  He was just looking for things to
complain about, I'm afraid."  She shook her head.

"He's the kind of man who gives orders and expects them to be obeyed;
he seems to feel the stability of the universe is at stake."

"Mrs.  Canby, I'd like to talk to Emma Tidball and some of the women
who stayed at the ranch.  Do you know how I can get in touch with
Emma?"

Mrs.  Canby shook her head and pointedly looked at her watch.  It was
close to three.

"Emma retired after the fire.  I offered her a job here in Salem, but
she has family down in Cottage Grove and that's where she went.

As for the girls, what records we had were kept in the house and were
destroyed in the fire.  Tell me, Ms.

Holloway, how can any of this be connected with that poor Kennerman
girl?"

"I don't know," Barbara said.

"The reports said an other woman was there to lead the hunt for
mushrooms that day.  Angela Everts.  Is she in your employ?"

"No.  She went out to the ranch three days a week to help out with
cleaning and gardening.  She lives in Lewiston."

"Do you think she would talk to me?"  Barbara asked, and saw the
knowing look in Mrs.  Canby's eyes.

"I suspect that people who work for you don't talk unless you give
permission," she added.

"I'll give you their numbers and give them both a call," Mrs.  Canby
said.

"But, Ms.  Holloway, I must tell you, I believe that poor girl lost her
head and killed her child, just as Angela and Emma both believe.  She
was in great physical pain and emotionally exhausted.  I know such
things happen; very good, decent people can lose control.  I feel
dreadfully sorry for her, but I don't believe for a minute that I can
be of any help in her defense."

"I think you've been a great help," Barbara said.

"I'm just not sure yet what any of it means," she added honestly.

EIGHT

sunday night she pretended she was not listening for the telephone to
ring, for her father's voice.  Stop worrying about him, he won't stay
mad, she told herself sharply.  But he might, she added.  He might.

She made a list of things to do immediately.  Call Fairchild first
thing in the morning, ask for a copy of everything they had gathered to
date: police reports, fire department reports, Paula's medical records,
the psychiatrist's report, interviews with the others who had been at
the ranch.... Call Emma Tidball and Angela Everts for appointments.  No
matter if they had been interviewed already, with Mrs.  Canby's
intercession either or both of them might be more forthcoming.  Go to
Bessie's office to read the latest diatribe.

She looked at her calendar with a frown.  The trial date was set for
the Tuesday following Labor Day, ten weeks away.  And people took off
in the summer, the Fourth of July holiday would interfere, as would the
Labor Day holiday.

It would be tight, too tight to be comfortable, but there it was.  Ten
weeks; countdown had started.

She turned on her computer and keyed in an account of her conversation
with Grace Canby not that she was very likely to forget, but to try to
clarify an elusive feeling 116 that she had learned something important
that she had not yet identified.  Reading her report over, she still
did not know what that elusive fragment had been.

She wondered if, when Mrs.  Canby called her former employees, she
would refer to Barbara as a girl.  She smiled to herself, and rather
hoped she would.

He could be so stubborn, she thought then, and drew in an exasperated
breath when she realized she was still brooding about her father.  He
had always been stubborn, her mother had complained.  Barbara
remembered how, when they fought, which was rare, neither of them had
yielded until her mother had found a way to make him think he had won.
She tightened her lips and shook her head.  No way would she play that
game with him.

Suddenly she remembered what he had told her, that after her mother's
death he had not been able to sleep until he moved out to the house on
the river, and there, soothed by the wind in the fir trees, and the
rush of the river, he had finally been able to rest.  She hoped he was
sleeping now.

Her own grief had been different.  She had fought sleep, not wanting
oblivion, wanting to stay conscious to remember and relive everything,
every moment, every word, over and over.  When her body betrayed her
and forced sleep upon her, she came awake again and again in tears with
no memory of her dreams.

Abruptly she left her desk and went to the bathroom.

No brooding, she told herself.  Take a soaking bath, go to bed, be
rested for the day to come.  Countdown had started.

Mr.  Fairchild was cooperative, as she had known he would be.  He would
have copies of everything made and send it all over to the office, he
said, and she told him no, she would pick it up later.

Next on her list was Angela Everts, who agreed to meet her at four that
afternoon.  As soon as she hung up, the phone rang, and she picked it
up without waiting for her machine to answer.

"Oh, Barbara, Ted Fairchild here.  Look, there's been some kind of
silly business over here.  We can't find the Kenneman file.  I gave it
to Bill to review on Friday, and he's off on vacation and no one can
put their finger on it now.  He could have taken it home with him, I
sup pose, and forgot to return it."

"Damnation," she muttered.

"I quite agree.  I'm just terribly sorry, Barbara.  I wouldn't have had
this happen for anything."

"I know.  I know.  Can Spassero be reached?  Where did he go?"

"I don't know.  He has a married sister back East somewhere, and
parents in Massachusetts, and ... I re ally don't know.  He'll be back
in two weeks," he said in a more hopeful voice.

"Thanks," she said dryly.

She called the district attorney's office and asked for Gerald Fierst,
who would be prosecuting the case.  She had known him years ago, but
had not met him again since returning to Oregon.  He was very cautious,
she remembered, and her memory was confirmed by his reluctance to give
her anything.  When she hung up she was in a black mood.  He would put
together some thing, she knew, but how much?  The same stuff he had
handed over to Spassero in the beginning?  Maybe, maybe not.  When, was
another question; as soon as possible, he had said, but they were
pretty busy, people on vacation, you know how that goes.

Emma Tidball called her "dear" and said she could come by anytime.  She
had nothing if not time.  They agreed on eleven that morning.

Was there time enough to go to the office and read the latest scandal
sheet?  She decided there was, if she hurried; she left the house and
hurried.  She nodded to Pam at the reception desk and went directly to
Bessie's office, where on the table the newspaper was open to a big
picture of Paula in manacles being led away to jail.

BABY KILLER KENNER MAN FIRES

ANOTHER LAWYER

Baby killer Kennennan has fired the second lawyer provided by the court
in an attempt to find one who will handle the case her way.  Barbara
Holloway of the firm Bixby, Holloway, and a dozen others, all
high-priced and left of center, has agreed to represent Baby killer
Kennennan.... Barbara scanned the article quickly and lifted the paper
to turn to the continuation on page four.  Under it was another one
with Paula's picture and the same headline.

She looked at the paper she held and found that it was The Watchman,
from Joseph County.  The one under it was Dodgson's paper.  The story
was exactly the same.

She sat down and let her gaze roam over the many bins of small-town
papers from all over the state.  How many others would be offering up
this same picture, this same story?  Later, she told herself.  Later.
Now she had time only to look over Dodgson's paper.  She scanned the
first page, largely devoted to Paula Kennerman.  Barbara was the big
item on page two, and a long article about the firm, the wealthy
clients it catered to, the special-interest groups it served--gays,
feminists, environmentalists, foreigners.... She gritted her teeth,
thinking of the reaction of some of the people it singled out for
attention.

There were other articles that she intended to read, but not now.  One
about schools and the need for choice, another about a new threat to
the logging of someone's private property, which was being halted by
Earth First!

She put the paper down and patted it.  Later, she thought; later.

Cottage Grove was a pleasant little town situated in the hills
twenty-five miles south of Eugene.  It was an easy drive on the
interstate, one that Barbara had always enjoyed because it appeared
that as soon as one left the valley, the world turned into a vast
forest on hills that precluded large farms with massive mechanized
equipment.

Here the farms were small, manageable, dimples in the forest.

In Cottage Grove she drove past the auto shop where Lucille Reiner's
husband worked, past the hotel where Lucille was a desk clerk part of
the time.  On an unpaved street near a stream she found the address for
Emma Tidball.  The house was frame, as were most of them here, blue
with white trim, with a neat lawn and a flower border edging a fence.
The house had been built back in the twenties, apparently, with
gingerbread over gables upstairs, more gingerbread on the porch
railing.

Emma Tidball came to the door at the first ring.

"Yes, yes," she said as soon as Barbara stated her name.

"Come in, dear, come in."  She was sixty-two, Barbara learned that day,
along with complete histories of her, her husband--now dead, bless his
soul--the Canby family, many people Barbara never had heard of, and the
town itself.  Emma was twenty pounds overweight, she also confided, but
she felt comfortable with it, not like some people always trying to
diet and feeling bad when it didn't work out.  She had curly gray hair
and many wrinkles; laugh lines, she said.

They were seated on a screened back porch overlooking a small vegetable
garden and more flowerbeds.

Emma had brought out a pitcher of iced tea and glasses, and a small
plate of oatmeal cookies.

"With walnuts," she said.

"Always made them with walnuts.

They seem naked without the nuts."  They were delicious.

Barbara steered the conversation in the direction of the Canby Ranch
refuge for women, and sat back with her iced tea to listen to another
monologue.

Barbara learned which appliances had been replaced, how much it cost to
heat in the winter, how much food those women ate, on and on.  Then she
listened more intently.

"Before we even opened it up.  Grace brought over this psychologist,
and we sat in that house and talked about it.  Some of the women would
be so scared, the psychologist said.  Janey Lipscomb, that's her name.
She said, if they don't want to talk, don't try to make them.

You wouldn't believe the shape some of them were in!

You just wouldn't believe it.  And every last one of them scared to
death the men they were running away from would come after them.. .."

As soon as there was a break in the monologue, Barbara said, "Emma,
you have such a wonderful memory, you surely remember the names of some
of those women, don't you?"

Emma nodded gravely.

"Some.  Mostly we didn't make them say their names, you know.  Some did
and some didn't.  But we promised not to tell anyone."

"I understand," Barbara said.

"Emma, I swear to you that I will not reveal any of their names to
anyone with out their permission.  But they've been through what Paula
Kennerman went through with her husband; they understand her better
than you or I can.  Maybe some of them would want to help her.  Maybe
we should let them have the choice, let them decide."

Emma's lips tightened and she stood up.

"I'll get us some fresh tea," she said.

Barbara waited, fighting her frustration and impatience.  Emma was gone
too long to be making tea.  Calling Grace Canby for instructions?
Thinking?  What?

When Emma returned, she put the pitcher of tea down and said, "I had to
pray over it first.  A lot of those women came in in pretty bad shape,
just like Paula, and some of them could have done what she did, they
were that crazy.  Scared to death, hurting they can do crazy things and
not even know it the next day."

Emma had written out a list of seventeen names, all she could recall,
and she had snapshots of three of the women.  Some of them dropped a
line now and then, she said, but all the notes, cards, and letters had
been in the house when it burned.

Barbara thanked her sincerely and asked, "Were any of these mixed up in
any of the incidents that made Rich Dodgson call Mrs.  Canby and
complain?"

Emma's pleasant, crinkly face hardened.  She looked over the list and
pointed to three names.

"These two, Pam and Jenny, went swimming naked, and that fool had to
stand on tiptoe to see them.  And this one, Carol, took pictures of the
elk on his property or something.

At dawn.  You'd think that idiot would have been in bed instead of up
looking for trouble."

While Barbara made notes beside the names, Emma went on about
Dodgson.

"Butter wouldn't melt and all that baloney soft soap when he first
started coming around wanting that property.  And then he started that
filthy rag of a paper.  He's the kind of Christian that makes the rest
of us think Buddhism might be worth looking into, except he's no
Christian, not the way I understand religion.  He'd see me in Lewiston
shopping or something and he'd say something smirky like "And how many
wounded birds are flapping around your ankles these days?  Seven?" He
always knew the head count.  They spied on us from the start, him and
her, Kay Dodgson.  One of our girls had a miscarriage last year and we
had to get an ambulance and get her to the hospital, and the next day
here he came, him and that son of his, worse than the father, that one,
and they were yelling that we were running an abortion clinic, for
heaven's sake!  Well, one of the girls who'd been up all night with
that sick girl screamed at them to get out of there, that the poor kid
had the shit beat out of her by her husband and she might die, and if
they didn't hightail it out she'd start throwing rocks at them and with
any luck she'd hit one smack in the head and kill him."  There was a
gleam of very un-Christian satisfaction in Emma's eyes as she
finished.

"What did Mrs.  Canby say about that?"

"I didn't tell her.  If he complained, then I'd tell her the whole
story, I decided, but until he did, well, it seemed to me that the
matter had been handled just about right.  I guess I didn't want to
worry her any more than I had to.  I mean, she left me in charge and
all."

Soon after this Barbara said, "You know you'll be called by the
prosecution as a witness, don't you?"

"I talked to them," Emma said.

"They asked questions and I answered them as best I could.  And I told
them the same thing I told you about that day."

"Did they ask how Paula and her child behaved on Thursday night, all
day Friday?"

"They did, and I told them Paula loved that child more than life, and
Lori adored her mother.  She'd go pressing against Paula's side, and
you could see Paula turn ghost white, and sweat stand out on her lip,
she was in such pain, but she held that little girl tight against her
until she was willing to let go again.  Paula was out of her mind when
she did it.  She was walking on the brink and she fell off, and it
wasn't her fault, but his.  He's the one should be locked up, not
her."

When Barbara finally left, she decided to have a sandwich, then see if
Paula had her list of names ready, and then make her four o'clock
appointment with Angela Everts.  There would be enough time if she
didn't dawdle anywhere along the line.  She didn't dawdle, and arrived
at Angela Everts's house promptly at four.

It was a large two-story house on several acres that seemed to consist
of vegetable gardens and fruit trees.

The property was a mile out of Lewiston; it looked very well tended and
productive.

When the door opened at Barbara's knock, a pleasing fragrance of
strawberry jam wafted out.

"Mrs.  Everts?

I'm Barbara Holloway."

Angela nodded and moved so that Barbara could enter

"Mrs.  Canby called," she said.

"She said I should tell you what you want to know, but there isn't
anything really.  I already told it all."

"I know," Barbara said.

"I'm really sorry to intrude, but I would appreciate your talking to
me, too."

Angela Everts was in her forties, blond with slightly protuberant blue
eyes and a little too much weight around her midsection.  She was
dressed in faded, soft jeans, and a tank top.  Her arms were very
muscular and tanned.

She led Barbara to the kitchen, a big room with a table large enough to
seat a dozen people.  There was a lot of counter space that appeared
almost covered by jars of strawberry jam.  TherQ were kettles on the
stove, another in the sink, long wooden spoons, a splotch of jam on the
floor.

Barbara accepted coffee and took a place at the table

Angela looked over her kitchen with a shrug and turned her back on it
to sit down with her own cup.

"Do you want to ask questions or just let me tell you what I told the
others already?"  Angela asked with resignation

"Why don't you just tell me."

It was the same story Barbara had heard and read.

When Angela was finished, Barbara asked, "Were you near Paula when
Annie came out?  Could you hear what Annie told Paula?"

"I know what she told her.  Same thing she told me;

Lori fell asleep watching television and Annie didn't see much point in
staying in with her."

"But you couldn't hear what she said to Paula?  Is that what you're
saying?"

"I asked her what she told Paula and she told me."

She finished her coffee and set the cup down.

"Miss Holloway, I know what you're going to ask, if you can talk to
Annie, and no, you can't.  She's forgotten all this, the way children
do.  She was pretty upset at first, crying in her sleep, afraid people
would blame her, and now she's put it out of mind, and I don't want to
stir her up again."

They couldn't leave it at that, Barbara knew, but now she said, "Did
you work for Mrs.  Canby when she was living out here?"

"Yes, until she moved up to Salem.  Never full-time, just two or three
days a week, like I was doing when Emma was running the place."

"And you know the Dodgsons, the whole family, I understand."

"I used to work for them.  After Mrs.  Canby moved away, Mr.  Dodgson
asked me to come.  I didn't stay long.  They're awfully particular,"
she said in a flat tone.

"I hear they can be difficult," Barbara commented with as little
emphasis as Angela had expressed.

"You saw them both that morning, didn't you?"

"Yes.  He was out on the tractor.  He liked to go out there, wear a
cowboy hat, smoke his cigar, and ride that tractor like it was a fancy
car or something.  He was out that morning.  It was too wet to mow, but
he was out doing it.  I said to myself that he'd get stuck down in the
marshy places, and he did, and revved the engine some thing fierce
until he pulled it out again.  And she was walking on the road, the way
she does."

"Will you tell me about that, about meeting her, what she said?
Whatever you can remember."

Angela looked away, out the screen door, and said carefully, "I don't
like her.  Miss Holloway, and that's the truth.  And that's why I
stopped.  Because I don't like her, if you can understand that."

Barbara nodded.

"I think I understand."

"Well, Annie saw her and scrunched down in the backseat, hiding.  She
doesn't like her either.  Maybe it was because of the way Annie was
acting, and I wanted to teach her a little lesson in being polite or
something.

But I couldn't pretend I didn't see her, in that pink running outfit
and white sneakers.  She wears pink a lot, and with her complexion she
shouldn't.  Anyway, I stopped and told her we were all going to gather
chan terelles and I asked her if she'd like some.  I knew there'd be a
lot.  And she asked how sick the new girl was, the one they took over
to the hospital, her and her child, and I knew I'd made a mistake by
stopping at all.

They always seemed to know things like that, and I didn't even know a
thing about it.  So I said not too sick to take a little walk in the
woods, and I drove on."

"When you drove to her house to use the phone, was Mr.  Dodgson still
out on the tractor?"

Angela nodded.

"Heading toward the marshy edge again, I guess daring it to try to stop
him again.  Mrs.

Canby asked him not to cut it so close the ducks like to nest in the
high grass and the geese eat the seeds but he likes things neat.  Real
particular, both of them."

Loved by all, Barbara thought.

"Was anyone else home that day when you used their phone?"

"Well, Craig was swimming and Reggie Melrose was in the kitchen.  I
rang the doorbell and hammered on the door, and Mrs.  Dodgson opened
it.  She was carrying Craig's robe.  I guess she was pretty surprised
to see me at the front door.  I thought for a minute she was going to
bawl me out, but she didn't.  She told me to use the phone in the
family room, and she went on through it to turn off the music in the
swimming pool room.  Craig always blasted your ears with music in
there.  And she yelled at him to get out and get dressed, and Reggie
came out of the kitchen to see what was happening."

"Did you see Craig?"

"Yes, I guess I did.  I saw him and then turned my back.  He swims
naked."

"Who is Reggie?  The housekeeper?"

"Was.  She left.  No one stays very long, I tell you.  If there's a
speck of dust, someone's going to lead you to it and point it out just
like the world's coming to an end."

There was little more that she could add, and in a few minutes Barbara
returned to the subject that couldn't be avoided any longer.

"Mrs.  Everts," she said slowly, "I believe you know that Annie hasn't
really forgotten what happened that day.  Children don't forget things
like fire and death.  Probably she'll never forget it.

Would you consider counseling for her?"

Angela stood up.

"I have to clean up all this mess and start making supper now.  Miss
Holloway."

Barbara rose from her chair.

"I'm not a psychologist," she said, "but I have read that children who
are seriously disturbed by something they witnessed some times revert
to more infantile behavior.  They might start bed-wetting again, or
suck their thumbs, or forget lessons they knew previously.  Mrs.
Everts, would you be willing to discuss this with a trained child
psychologist?"

Angela looked hard and cold and very distant.

"No, I won't.  There's nothing wrong with Annie!  You hear me?  There's
nothing wrong with my little girl!"

"I think there must be something disturbing her very much if she claims
to have forgotten.  Please think about it, Mrs.  Everts.  Her entire
life could be affected if she is deeply troubled and doesn't receive
help now before she really does bury this incident."

"I have to be getting on with my work," Angela said, and started toward
the hall that led to the front door.

Barbara followed her.  At the door she tried once more.

"Do you know Dr.  Jane Lipscomb?  Mrs.  Canby hired her early on,
before she opened the house."

Angela shook her head.

"I never saw her.  Emma talked about her a little."

"You know if Mrs.  Canby hired her she must be good.  If I ask her to
get in touch with you, will you at least talk to her?"

Angela hesitated, then nodded.

"But she can't see Annie, just me."

on her way home she bought a frozen dinner and salad makings and even a
bottle of wine, which was cheap but okay.  She was too tired to cope
with a real meal and too hungry to care what she had.

She listened to her phone messages as she ate.  Unless she heard to the
contrary.  Bailey would drop by tomorrow around ten.  She nodded.
Nothing from her father, nothing she had to do anything about.  Then
she called an old friend, Brian O'Connor, who had been a classmate
years ago and now was a professor of law at the University of Oregon in
Eugene.

She remembered Brian as a chubby, round-faced, serious boy with red
hair and freckles.  She had gone to his wedding seven years ago and
found that he had become a chubby, round-faced, serious man with hair
not quite so red.  Nothing really changes, she had thought then.

Brian wanted to chat, bat she was in no mood to hear about his two
wonderful kids, his wonderful wife, or his wonderful tenure.

"Brian," she cut in, "I need some students to do some research."

His tone changed.

"Ah, research.  Students.  Why students?"

"Because I can't afford professionals," she said honestly.

"And it would be good experience for them.  They have to be very, very
discreet, and very bright."

"Students," he said again.

"I suppose you mean graduate students."

"Brian, come on.  You know that's what I mean.

When we were in school this would have seemed heaven-sent to us.  A
little real work, a little money.  Can you give me three?"

"Why don't we get together and talk about it?  You know, I have a
responsibility to my students.  I wouldn't feel right unless we talk
first."

She closed her eyes tightly.

"Fine.  Look, let me buy you " She caught herself before she said
lunch, remembering that he ate like a horse, and said instead, "A cup
of coffee.  Tomorrow?"

He had to explain at some length why he couldn't make it until in the
afternoon, and they agreed to meet at three in an espresso bar
downtown.  But he would do it, she knew.  He owed her; she had done
enough algebra homework for him a long time ago for him to pass the
course, and her little reminder of their impoverished days would jog
more than one memory.  He would think about whom to recommend
overnight, hem and haw about it, ask too many questions, and then give
her the short list.

She had to write out her activities of the day, keep her notes
up-to-date, plan tomorrow, clean up her kitchen, get some sleep
eventually.  And this was how it would be for the long stretch ahead,
she knew.

* * * "You're not going to like this," Bailey warned her the next
morning, opening his briefcase.  He withdrew a file and put it on the
table, pushed it across to her.  She had given him a cup of coffee,
which he sipped as she examined the contents of the file.

"Damn," she murmured.  He had brought a collection of photocopies of
articles about pro-life demonstrations.

The caption of the picture she was looking at named some of the people,
including Craig Dodgson, linked arm-in-arm with men on each side,
blocking a women's clinic in Cincinnati.  The next one was in Spokane,
Dodgson in the front of the line again, his face twisted in rage.  And
again in Buffalo.  Atlanta .. .

She studied Craig Dodgson: Lean, dark-haired, young was all she could
say about him.  In each photograph his face was contorted in anger.

"Well," she said when she had looked at them, nine in all.

"The boy's busy, isn't he?"

"He gets around," Bailey agreed.

"He's bad news, Barbara."

"I see he is.  Does he organize, or just show up to help out?"

"We're working on that.  There's another son, Alex, twenty-four, an
intern in the office of Senator Bulmar in Seattle.  Nothing more than
that about him yet.  And we'll get the aerial today.  Our guy's made a
couple of sweeps over the forest, scouting out yew trees for the drug
Taxol.  He'll wrap it up today."

"What else is bothering you?"  Barbara asked.

He shrugged.

"I just don't know where to draw the line.  I sent Winnie in at the
restaurant to talk to some of the women there."  Winnie was Winifred
Scourby, a matronly woman in her fifties who could ferret out any 3
thing she went after.

"She got them talking, and they don't think Craig Dodgson's been asking
anyone to take a cruise with him, not for a couple of years, and they
seem to think that he did take a waitress out a few years ago, and then
paid her off to go somewhere else."

Barbara looked again at the furious face in the photograph before
her.

"Give, Bailey.  What did they say?"

"They believe he knocked her up and paid off with an abortion and cash
for her to get lost."

"Find her," Barbara said in a soft voice.

"Don't even think of drawing the line.  Bailey, not until I tell you
to.

I want her."

She gave Bailey a new list, culled from the lists Paula and Emma had
provided.

"You might have trouble getting some of them to talk to you.  Let
Winnie do it, especially this one, Carol Burnside.  She took some
pictures last winter, near dawn, that made Dodgson Senior blow.  Why?

What's in those pictures?"

He looked at the list gloomily and stuffed it into his briefcase.

"Okay.  You're the boss.  I just don't know what we're digging for."

"Worms," she said.

"Slimy, loathsome worms."

She made a few phone calls, and then she went to the office to
intercept Bessie before he got busy, if he ever did.  Bessie quivered
when she told him she would like to have three researchers go through
his accumulation of newspapers.

"No, no!"  he cried.

"Barbara, you can't be serious.

Three of them in my office?  No, I can't let them do that."

"Can I have the papers boxed up, moved somewhere else?"

"All of them?"  He turned anxious eyes to the many bins and quivered
again.

"All of them?"

"I'll bring them back, Bessie.  I just want them to read, not cut them
up or mark them up, just to read."

She was afraid he would cry.

"We could do it another way, of course, but it would be so costly, and
since they're here, together ... Bessie, we'll take good care of
them."

"Oh, dear," he said in an undertone.

"Oh, dear me.

Not out of the offices.  I haven't even finished them all yet."  His
face brightened and he said eagerly, "In the waiting room, that would
be all right."

She knew the room he meant; it was where clients and family members and
their attorneys all put in their time waiting for jury decisions,
waiting to be called back to court.  She nodded.  That would be even
better;

the students wouldn't have to work in his office while he was out. They
could go right through everything as fast as possible.

That afternoon she met her researchers.  Although Brian had been
painfully disappointed when she refused to explain what she was looking
for, he had supplied two men and a woman.  They looked terribly young.
Sally Wesley had black hair halfway down her back, great round glasses,
and a nice little snub nose.  Rob Carradine, going for the poised,
man-of-the-world appearance, had dressed in a shirt and tie and sports
coat;

the effect was somewhat spoiled by Levi's and dirty running shoes.  And
John Rohr, the youngest of the three, was bespectacled, tall, thin, and
intense.

She had asked them to meet her at the office, and they were in the
waiting room, where the bins of papers had been lined up against a
wall.  The coffee machine was plugged in, magazines in place on low
tables, a few games on a shelf, all exactly the way it always had been
as long as she could remember.  She indicated the bins.

"They are far-right-wing publications; some are the religious right,
others not, but they're all right of Attila the Hun.  You have to read
them all and make notes of the articles and editorials--you know,
pro-life or anti gay or school choice, whatever the topic is--and when
you've read them all, group those under the same headings and check
them out.  Are they the same?  Same wording, same catch phrases?  Just
similar?  Not alike at all, except in topic?  Keep good notes about
dates and sources."

"You think maybe they aren't all locally written?"

John Rohr asked.

She looked at him more closely.  He was no more than twenty-five, she
thought, and intense.  He had retainers on his teeth, and wore glasses
that made his gaze more like a stare.  She nodded at him.

"I don't know yet.  That's what I want to find out.  Is someone
leading, others following?  And if yes, who is doing which?"

It was nearly five, too late for them to start that day.

"Keep your hours noted," she said.

"And if you get tired, or disgusted, you know, if your eyes start to
blur, take a break."  She finished with a warning about not talking.

"Not with anyone," she said, "except among yourselves.  Okay?"

They all nodded solemnly.  They looked like children, she thought with
dismay, not at their youth, but at the gap that had widened insidiously
and now separated her so thoroughly from students in their twenties.

As she was leaving, she saw Sam Bixby with an elderly couple who
looked very prosperous.  She smiled at Sam and kept walking.

"Oh, Barbara, do you have a minute?"  he called after her.

She glanced at her watch and shook her head.

"Tomorrow?

I have an appointment in about ten minutes."

She had known Sam Bixby all her life; he and her father had become
partners more than forty years ago, and the firm they had launched had
prospered.  From the start her father had done most of the trial work,
and Sam the estate planning, trust fund planning, wills, real estate
deals.  Now a dozen other lawyers did most of the trial work, and her
father and Sam coddled the rich old folk who had come to rely on them.
Sam was tall and stooped, with scant hair that didn't cover his scalp,
although he was always trying new ways to have it cut and combed.
Silly, vain old man; today his hair looked as if he had had it styled
and blow-dried.  She was very fond of him.

He took a step in her direction.

"Call my secretary for a time, will you, Barbara?  Tomorrow?"

She nodded.  She had thought he just wanted to pat her on the head and
voice the hope that no hard feelings would result from the firm's
decision.  But this was something else, she realized.

She walked out of the offices, out of the building, out into the
sunlight, where she debated walking the dozen blocks to her
appointment, but after a glance at her watch, regretfully retrieved her
car from the lot.  No time, no time, she muttered as she headed once
more toward the Sacred Heart medical complex.  Five o'clock traffic was
heavy on Pearl, but as soon as she turned off onto Thirteenth, she was
out of the worst of it.  Nice tree-lined streets with well-kept big
houses framed with shrubbery and flowers gave the impression that this
was a residential area, but it was commercial.  Here the businesses had
settled into the houses--a good women's clothing store, a hatter, one
of the best restaurants in town, real-estate offices, a book store.. ..
Within a block of the hospital complex it all changed; the buildings
were new, concrete, ugly.  Tiny circles had been left open in the
concrete paving, like fishing holes in ice, for spindly trees that were
doomed.  Barbara didn't even look for a parking space, but drove
straight to the hospital parking garage.

She had found Dr.  Jane Lipscomb's number in the phone book, had called
her, and the doctor had said, "Why don't we meet in the coffee shop on
Thirteenth.

You know it?  The Roaster?"  She had added almost ingenuously, "I saw
your picture in the paper.  I'll recognize you and wave."

As soon as she saw Janey Lipscomb waving from a table, Barbara knew she
would have trouble thinking of her as "the doctor."  She was dressed in
wrinkled slacks with an equally wrinkled cotton shirt, sandals without
hose; her permed hair was tied back with a red ribbon.

She was very pretty, very dimply, with blue eyes and brilliant white
teeth.  Her patients must love her, Barbara thought as they shook
hands.

"I'm glad you had time to see me," she said, taking a chair opposite
Janey.  She glanced about the coffee shop, which was crowded and
noisy.

"This is a good place."

"I think so.  There was no way I could talk to you at the office. We're
controlled by an ogre who runs appointments like Mussolini's train
schedules.  No appointment, you wait.  The usual lag is close to three
weeks."

She was grinning as she said this.

"And you intrigued me enough not to want to wait that long.  You're
representing Paula Kennerman, and there's an emergency with a child who
possibly will be a witness.  How could I wait?"

A waitress took their orders, two cappuccinos, one pastry.

"I have to eat something," Janey said.

"No lunch today, and dinner's a long way down the road."

"Do you do much work with children?"  Barbara asked when the waitress
left.

"Mostly family practice, at least in theory, but actu ally it's mostly
survivors."  She looked at Barbara for recognition of the term, and
when Barbara nodded, she went on.

"Women and their children.  Dysfunctional families.  Battered women.
Children in trouble.  How did you get my name?"

Barbara caught a glimpse of shrewd intelligence that vanished quickly
from Janey's face.  She told her about Emma, and then about Angela and
her daughter Annie.

"It made a difference when I said Mrs.  Canby had hired you.  I think
otherwise she would have turned me down altogether."

"Ah, the magic name," Janey said with a little laugh.

The waitress came back with their order; the pastry was as large as a
dinner plate.

"Ah, good," Janey murmured, and began to cut the pastry into wedges
with a knife and fork.  She picked up a piece in her fingers.

"Have some."

Barbara shook her head and watched her eat.  The coffee was
excellent.

Neither spoke again until Janey had eaten half the pastry and finished
her coffee.  She held the cup up to get the attention of the waitress
and then leaned back.

"What I would do in a situation like this," she said thoughtfully, "is
go out and talk to the mother first.  I don't know how deeply into
denial she is, of course, but that's the first hurdle.  She has to
admit she has a trou bled child.  Step one.  She might not talk, you
know.  She might not trust me worth a damn."

Barbara smiled.  She would make a bet that suckling puppies would leave
their mothers to follow this young woman.

"You agree that the child must be very troubled?"

"Well, sure," Janey said.

"Ah, more coffee."  The empty cups were replaced with steaming cups,
and Janey returned to her pastry.

"She's in Cottage Grove," Barbara said.

"And she isn't to be billed.  I'll pay for this."

"Well, someone better or the ogre would eat me raw."

The second half of the pastry was vanishing as fast as the first half
had done.  Janey held a piece poised in front of her mouth.

"But you have to understand that no matter who pays the piper, if that
child becomes my client, I have to treat our relationship with absolute
confidence.  I'll make the mother understand that also."

Slowly Barbara said, "What I'm hoping for is that if she'll talk to you
first, maybe then she'll talk to me."

"And if she doesn't?  Talk to you, I mean."

"I don't know."

"Uh-huh.  Boy, that was good!"  She picked up crumbs on her fingertip
and put it in her mouth.

"Sorry.

I was starved.  I'll call Angela Everts tomorrow and see if I can go
out on Thursday.  My day off," she added with a rueful expression.

"You know this all might take a long time?"

"How long?"  Barbara asked, almost dreading an answer.

"Who knows?  If the mother agrees to the whole thing, I'll have her
bring the child to the office, where we are set up for children.  You
know--toys, dolls, doll houses

"You videotape the sessions?"

Janey gave her another one of her intelligent, appraising looks and
shrugged.

"Usually.  Off-limits, though."

"Of course."  Barbara thought a moment, then asked, "But would it be
unethical if you let me know how you're making out with them?"

Janey laughed.

"You're paying the bill.  You get that much."

"Do you want a map of the area?  The house and barn , all that?"

"No.  If she cooperates, she'll make a map.  I suspect it will be more
interesting than one you could supply."

Well, Barbara thought, back in her car, not moving yet, she had set a
lot of wheels as ping  She felt as if all around her things were in
motion that had not been only a few days ago, and she was tired and
hungry.

She drove through town without caring that traffic was heavy now, not
caring how long she had to wait at the red lights.  On impulse she
drove toward Skinner Butte Park and the house her father had bought.
She slowed down when she saw his car in the driveway.  She could park,
go ring the bell, and say, "Hey, I'm hungry."  And he would put his arm
around her shoulder and say, "Well, let's go eat."  That's what her
mother would have done, she thought, and they both would have pretended
nothing had happened.  She drove past the house and went home.

On her porch was a second potted geranium, white, with a card that
read: One looked pretty lonesome.  I watered them both.

She returned to her car and drove back to his house.

When he opened the door, she said, "Hey, I'm hungry," and he said,
"Well, let's go eat."  His arm felt good around her shoulder.

They walked to a neighborhood German restaurant, where they had big fat
sausages, mashed potatoes, coleslaw, and dark beer.

"Save room for strudel," Frank warned when they ordered.

"This time of year it will be with fresh cherries."  It was a hard
admonition to follow, the food was so very good.

"Never told you the fish story Lewis brought up, did I?"  Frank said as
they ate.

"Never told a soul, actually.

Let's see, it was back about nineteen fifty-five, 'fifty-six,
thereabouts.  We were both young and full of oats.

We decided to go over to Snake River and do a little salmon fishing,
take a weekend off, have ourselves a boys-night-out sort of holiday.
Long drive over there, of course, but that was all right.  We got there
before dark on Friday, and Saturday was exactly what we had planned.
Good fishing, good weather, had a good supper that night of
spit-roasted salmon, had some good talk.  Then Sunday we decided to go
back out for just a couple of hours before we headed back home.  And
Lewis snagged a sturgeon."

Telling his stories like this always worked magic, Barbara thought,
watching him.  Years vanished, leaving his face soft and vulnerable;
his eyes appeared unfocused, but she suspected that his vision was
extremely clear, focused sharply on the past.

"A sturgeon," he said, smiling slightly, "is really an waterlogged
tree trunk that breathes now and then, once every six months or so, and
moves just about with every breath.  Any fishing fool knows that all
you can do if you snag a sturgeon is to cut it loose.  You try to bring
it up, it's like lifting the whole damn river bottom.  Lewis knew that
as well as I did, but he decided to forget what he knew.  And another
thing he forgot is that the river doesn't like things to stay put.  No
way.  It's forever rearranging things to suit its own whims.  And the
current nudges everything downriver, toward the rapids and falls,
toward the Columbia eventually, and the ocean by and by."

His grin widened with the recollection.

"And it seemed that we interrupted this particular sturgeon during its
period of activity; the damn thing decided to move, heading out toward
the middle of the river, where the current was a mite swifter.  So I'm
yelling at Lewis to cut the thing loose, and he's yelling that he's got
it.

And we're drifting out and moving just a little faster downriver, but
Lewis is at the end of the boat where the outboard motor is, and he
won't listen to reason.  Start the damn engine, I yell, and he yells, I
got the sucker!

And I yell.  Change places with me!  And we are doing that when Lewis
goes over the side.  Just like that, over the side.  He said I pushed
him, but I never, and he's trying to climb back in and next thing the
damn boat is upside down and we're both in the drink.  And now we can
feel the current really fine.  We can't catch up to the boat, and we
head for shore.  A little bit of beach, a little bit of a cliff, some
scraggly trees, and not a thing more."

He laughed.

"Oh, we were a sorry couple, I tell you.

Lewis had some matches in a waterproof box, and we pulled down some of
the scrub and started a fire and stripped to dry our clothes, and not a
single word 5 between us.  Not a word.  A little growling maybe, but
not a civil word."

Barbara had finished her dinner while he talked; she waved the waiter
away when he approached the table

"So I was trying to calculate how long before the sun dipped behind the
cliff, and trying to calculate how much firewood we'd need to last all
night, and Lewis kept searching his pockets for something to eat, and
we both sort of fell asleep for a little while.  He woke up first and
started yelling again, waving his shirt, just like a castaway.

Here came one of those big rubber boats that takes thrill seekers down
the rapids, with a guide and six customers, and they're heading our way
and we're trying to cover ourselves.  But they rescued us, all right,
and took us with them down the rapids.  And that's how I came to shoot
the rapids in the deepest gorge in North America."

He finished the last scraps on his plate and now the waiter came to
clear the table and they waited for coffee and strudel.

"You never told Mother?"  Barbara asked.

"Nope.  Never told a soul, like I said.  She would have worried every
time I looked like fishing, and she thought Lewis was a bad influence.
She said Lewis's wife, Caroline, thought the same thing about me.  Bet
he never told anyone either."

The strudel was too good for talk to get in the way.

When Barbara finished hers, she leaned back with a contented sigh.

"If I did this often I wouldn't be able to move.  I was starving."

"Thought you looked a mite frazzled when you came in.  I stopped by
your office today and Martin says you've closed shop for a while.  Busy
days?"  He was not quite off-hand, but neither was he probing.

She nodded.

"I've done some thinking over the weekend," he said, looking past her
at a picture of hearty German women in dirndls carrying trays of beer
steins.  All the pictures in the restaurant were of hearty young women
doing hearty tasks.

"About Judge Paltz?"  she prodded when he seemed lost in contemplation
of the artwork.

"About Lewis.  He made a good judge, in spite of everything.  He's fair
and honest.  He can be loose and easygoing, or he can be as tight as--"
He pulled his gaze from the picture and didn't finish.  All the young
women wore very tight bodices over very plump bosoms.

He grinned and waved a hand.

"Anyway, he can be strict, allow not one inch of leeway."

"And he probably thinks I manipulated him, lied to him," she
murmured.

"Hold on.  Let me do this my way.  See, I've known him for more than
fifty years.  He knows damn well that someone lied to him and threw him
to the dogs.  And you ended up getting what it appeared that you wanted
in the beginning, and Bill Spassero ended up getting out."  He held up
his hand when she started to speak.

"Wait.  Paula Kennerman's already been convicted by public opinion, the
newspapers, television, all of it.  She's dead in the water as far as a
defense goes, so that's not a real consideration at this moment.  It
seems to me that you've got yourself on two tracks at the same time,
and they're going to rip you in halves.  There's the Kennerman track,
where all you can do is make damn certain the state proves its case,
and there's the Dodgson track, where it all ends up in muck and murk
and there's damn all you can do about them except make them mad.  I
can't see a way for you to prove anything about Spassero unless he
decides to tell it himself.  And with that hanging, you could be a
liability, not an asset for Kennerman."

She waited this time until she was certain he was finished

"Dad, thanks," she said softly.

"I really don't want you to worry about this.  Maybe I've gone out on a
limb, but maybe not.  I don't think there are two tracks at all.  Just
one, and I'm following it to the end."

"Because of Lewis?"

"He's a big part of it," she admitted.

"It wouldn't do for him to believe you tried to drown him and I threw
him to the dogs, would it?"

He shook his head and drew in a deep breath, and re turned his gaze to
the buxom women.

"No, it wouldn't do.  What can I do to help?"

She stared at him.

"What do you mean?"

"Christ on a mountain!  What did it sound like?  No deals.  No quid pro
quo.  Just a doddering old fool offering a feeble, useless hand. You
can't do citations worth a damn."

"Like hell!  I can cite with the best of them when I want to!"

"When you want to," he muttered, "and that's rare.

Real rare.  Well?"  He looked at her over the top of his glasses, his
eyebrows drawn nearly together in his fiercest scowl.

"I probably can find something for you to do," she said, surprised at
the huskiness of her voice.

"Well, let's get out of here and talk about it," he said.

"Your place.  I'd take you home with me, but I've only got one chair
and damned if I can sit in it with a woman sitting on the floor, and
I'll be double damned if I sit on the floor."

TEN

barbara had an appointment with Sam Bixby at nine forty-five and
another with her father at ten in his office.

He wanted to meet "their client": She said the words in her head with
satisfaction.  And then he wanted to see the Canby Ranch.

"I'll go with you," she had said quickly.  Without hesitation he had
nodded.  And they had agreed that neither of them would go out there
alone, not until something was done about Royce Gallead.

Now, at the office, she looked into the waiting room and said hello to
her three student researchers, already at work.  They had identical
loose-leaf notebooks open;

newspapers were spread on the table some on the floor, another batch on
an end table by an overstuffed chair.  She closed the door softly and
went on to Sam Bixby's office, where his secretary, Marjorie Newhouse,
greeted her.

Marjorie sometimes said she wished Sam would retire so she could.  She
was near seventy and would not even consider turning him over to
someone else.

"He's waiting," she said with such a neutral look that Barbara braced
herself.

Today Barbara was in jeans, a T-shirt, and walking shoes, prepared for
the Canby Ranch, and comfortable enough with Sam Bixby that her clothes
wouldn't matter.

He had seen her in a bathing suit, in shorts, slacks, formal wear.  No
doubt, she had told herself that morning, in times that memory
mercifully had erased, he had even seen her bare-assed.  Now she wished
she had chosen something else to wear, something more appropriate for a
business office.

She tapped on the door and opened it.

"Good morning," she said, entering, closing the door behind her.

"Ah, Barbara.  Good morning, my dear.  Please, take a chair.  Would you
like some coffee?"

She shook her head, but did take the chair opposite his desk, hating
the feeling that she had been called to the principal's office.

"Barbara, you know your father brought up the matter of the Kennerman
case with us, of course.  And we were opposed for many different
reasons, but, Barbara, it made me start to think of the somewhat
irregular position you seem to be in at present."

"Barbara" three times, "my dear" once; it was worse than bad, she knew,
and held herself very still.

"Barbara, my dear, this is very awkward for both of us, I'm afraid."

Her heart sank even lower.  With the window behind him, the drapes
open, his expression was impossible to read, even to see, but the slope
of his shoulders, the way he was shuffling a few papers around, that
was enough.  Light reflected off his head as if it were made of
porcelain.  She waited, aware that her silence was making it more
difficult for him.  At the moment she didn't care.  His conference, let
him run it.

"My dear, I really think that it would be in the best interests of all
of us if you simply offered to resign from the firm.  Unless, of
course, you choose to come back as a real member."

She let out a long breath.

"Have you talked this over with Dad?"

"Of course not.  I would hate to cause a rift in our partnership after
so many years.  I think it's best to handle this just between the two
of us."

"I see.  Of course, I'll resign, Mr.  Bixby.  You want a statement in
writing, I suppose?"

"It's going to be Mr.  Bixby now?  Barbara, I--" "I think I should be
on my way," she said, rising.

"I'll send in the letter this afternoon."

His shoulders slumped even more, but he did not get up from his
chair.

They both turned to look when there was a pounding on the door and it
flew open.  Frank strode in and kicked it shut after him.

"Oh, Lord," Sam Bixby muttered.

"You're damn right, "Oh, Lord!"  What's this chicken-shit?  When's the
last time one of us fired anyone without talking about it first?  You
yellow-bellied slinking lowlife!"

"Dad, he didn't fire me!"

"The hell he didn't!"  He had come across the wide office to the desk,
where he grasped the edge and leaned forward and said in a grating
voice, "You got a few phone calls and turned chicken!  Didn't you?"

"Calls and letters!  I told you this was explosive!  We don't need
it!"

"Crap!  Dodgson waved a stick and you ran like a yellow dog, whining,
yelping, looking for cover."

"It wasn't Dodgson.  Some of our clients, your clients and mine, damn
you.  People are hot, Frank, and there's no moral ground to stand
on."

"We faced them down during the McCarthy witch hunts didn't we?  Both of
us together.  We lived through those years.  Now you're like a fat cat
cringing at shadows.

What have you turned into, Sam?"

"I'm protecting what we built!  I'm not going to let it all go down the
drain for a baby killer.  I'm not going to lose everything we've worked
for--not for your daughter, not for your grandstanding.  My God, I'm
sick of the kind of people you've dragged through these offices over
the years, and if you think I'll sit still and let your daughter do the
same, you've lost what little sense you ever possessed.  Maybe it's
time for you to retire, too!"

Barbara watched them, speechless.  They had argued over the years, many
times, but never anything like this.

Sam Bixby was on his feet yelling, her father was livid.

They were saying things that wouldn't be forgotten or forgiven, she
thought in despair.  She reached for her father's arm; he shrugged away
from her without a glance.

"Maybe it is," he said in a much lower, much more menacing voice.

"And the firm goes down with me, Sam.  I'll see that it does.  Think
about that while you're planning some goddamn tax dodge for one of your
fat cats."

"You don't know a goddamn thing about corporate structure.  You want a
fight?  You think I'm not ready for a fight?  Is--" Barbara snatched up
a book and slammed it down on the desk.  It sounded like an
explosion.

"Stop this!  Stop it this minute!  Both of you!"  They both froze.

"Look at you.  Look at what's happening to you.  First, Dodgson came
between us.  Dad.  He did.  On his high moral ground taking potshots
here, there.  Now he's between you two.  Sniping away.  And we're all
playing right into his hands, doing exactly what he wants us to do!"

Abruptly Sam Bixby sat down again and Frank straightened, took a step
backward.  Sam reached for the papers on his desk; his hands were
trembling.  He looked at them for a moment and then folded them
together

"We should discuss this at a later time," he said faintly.

"Now," Frank snapped.

"How many letters, how many calls?"

"Enough," Sam said.

"Four calls, one letter.  All from clients who have been with us for
years, all protesting the same thing, and the last caller said there
would be others.  I believe him."

"So do I."  Frank grunted and sat down in one of the comfortable chairs
facing the desk.

"They've got a data bank," he said after a moment.

"My God, that man's got a data bank that includes our clients!"

Sam looked stricken.

"You don't know anything like that."

"He probably sent out a questionnaire," Frank went on, ignoring his
partner.

"Who's the family doctor, the dentist, lawyer, what's the church
affiliation?  And people obligingly filled in the blanks.  A goddamn
data bank."

"I tell you, Frank, it isn't like that.  People are taking a stand.
They're picking sides."

"And we can't be on both sides of the fence.  Let them choose.  Come
on, Bobby, we've got some work to do."

"What do you mean?"  Sam cried.

"What do you mean 'we'?"

"Forgot to mention it, I guess," Frank said caustically, "what with all
the yelling.  I'm her assistant on this one.  She goes, and there's no
choice: I gotta go where the boss is."

"Oh, Lord," Sam moaned.

Frank took Barbara's arm in a firm grasp and propelled her from the
office.  He closed the door gently be hind them, smiled genially at
Marjorie Newhouse, who looked petrified, and walked Barbara from the
offices out into the sunlight.  He was humming under his breath.

It sounded like a cat purring.

On the way to the jail, she said, "Dad, I'm really sorry.  I wouldn't
have had that happen for anything.  I didn't want you to get
involved."

"Don't be sorry," he said.  He laughed and added, "It takes a fight
with an equal to keep the blood circulating, keep the brain cells
functioning.  Sam liked it as much as I did.  Or he will when he cools
off."  He laughed again.

He was cheerful when they met Paula Kennel-man, who regarded him with
wariness when Barbara explained that he would be working on the case,
too.  He might come around to ask questions, and it would be exactly as
if she, Barbara, were asking them, she told Paula.

"Except I might ask harder questions," Frank added.

"Harder than hers?"  Paula asked with a faint smile.

"I doubt you can think of anything harder than she has."

"Well, I'm meaner than she is."

Paula's look said she doubted that, too.

"I wrote out everything I could think of," she said, and handed a sheaf
of papers to Barbara.

"Good.  That will be helpful," Barbara said.  The handwriting was very
legible; it looked like a schoolgirl's report.  She avoided her
father's glance; he knew as well as she did that she had to keep Paula
thinking about the death of her child, talking about it, writing about
it, or when the trial started, she might collapse when others began to
talk about it.

In the car a few minutes later, Frank said, "I like her.

Of course, when the moon is full she could turn into a raving homicidal
maniac, but right now I like her."  It was his firm belief that most
killers could be very nice people as soon as the impediments to
happiness were removed.

He drove past the Dodgson Publishing Company, exactly as she had done
on her first trip, and then headed toward the ranch, but he continued
past the turnoff, and they scanned the few houses on the left side of
Farleigh Road as they drove by them.  The marshy ground ended at a low
ridge that followed the road for nearly a mile, and there were four
houses in clear view on the ridge.

Any one of them could hold a spy for Dodgson, Barbara thought.  From
those houses, the meadow, the pond, the Canby house and garden area
would be clearly visible.

Anyone up there could keep an eye on the comings and goings at the
ranch.  She pretended unawareness of the question why?  in her mind.
When the trees closed in, Frank turned around and drove back to the
private road and the Canby property.

He walked the same path she had walked at the ranch, and then drove the
same route she had taken.

He had to see the layout exactly as she had needed to, she understood,
and wondered how much he actually had taught her over the years,
lessons so deeply assimilated that she no longer could recall when they
had been delivered.

"

"Course," he said meditatively as he drove, "it could well be that
Dodgson feels his reputation is on the line.  He declared that girl
guilty, and she must be guilty, or he wouldn't have said so.  And once
he's got his own tail in his mouth, no way he can back down.  And he
spied on the ranch because he wanted to find cause to close it down
because he doesn't believe in letting women run out on their men."

"Just doing the Lord's work," Barbara murmured.

"That, too," he said cheerfully.

"And Kay Dodgson, home alone and terrified, called Royce Gallead to the
rescue when a trespasser appeared me," Barbara said.

"That makes as much sense as anything else," her father agreed.  Then
in the same cheerful voice he said, "Honey, you've considered, I
suppose, that all the digging and prying you do may only reveal that
Dodgson's part of a vast network that shares information about books to
ban, when to come down hard on abortion, or homosexuals, or whatever
the line of the day is.  Just a foot soldier in the battle for the mind
and soul of the country."

"I've considered that," she said glumly.

"Well, you've got the tiger by the tail and there aren't a whole lot of
options."

"I know.  You go for the ride, or you let go and get eaten, or," she
added, "you dig in your heels, tighten your grip, and you start
swinging the damn beast for all you're worth."

 m

* * * But as the days passed, as the weeks melted into each other, she
had to admit that she had not yet budged the beast.  Each report Bailey
brought in seemed to add to the depth and the darkness of the growing
cloud that hung over her head.

She had sent her resignation letter to Sam Bixby; it was returned with
a scrawled Not accepted.  When they met in the wide corridor of the
offices, he nodded curtly and did not speak.  The students finished the
first part of their job and were busy grouping stories, comparing
language, dates.  Bailey found the spy on Farleigh Road.

"You won't like it," he said gloomily in her father's office, which
they were sharing for now.

"Mrs.  Carrie Voight.  Her husband's the night watchman at Gallead's
range.  She's the day watchwoman over the Canby place.  Three hundred
plus, never leaves her upstairs rooms, which are equipped with a
telescope and binoculars.

Doing the work of the good Mr.  Dodgson, who was sure those women were
up to no good, smuggling aliens, growing dope, something like that. She
saw Angela Everts drive up the road that Saturday morning, watched her
stop to chat with Mrs.  Dodgson, and drive on.  No one else went up
that road.  And the day after I talked to her, one of the D.A."s eager
beavers did likewise.

Their witness."

"Shit," Barbara said.

"What does she do, sit and stare out the window all day waiting for the
smugglers to show up?"

"Nope, they put in a sensor with a radio signal to her room, light goes
on when anything breaks the beam."

She stared at him.

"That's pretty heavy-duty stuff."

"Yep."  He had helped himself to a drink from the little bar hidden
behind a section of bookshelves.  He swirled the bourbon around and
watched it.

"You won't like Winnie's report, either," he commented.

"It's there, and a tape recording."  He pointed to a manila envelope he
had put down on the desk.

"Just tell me," Barbara said wearily.

"Right.  Christina Lorenza, the woman Craig Dodgson took out on his
boat a few years back.  Winnie had a time getting her to talk, and
she'll deny everything.

But for what it's worth, she was pregnant, all right, and she went
after him for support, and he took her out again and they talked it
over.  He signed a paper accepting responsibility, agreed to pay two
hundred a month for support, the whole bit, and then she miscarried. So
he's off the hook, but out of the goodness of his heart, he forked over
five grand so she could go to computer school down in San Francisco,
which she did.  She's a programmer now, good job, and she says he isn't
all that bad a guy.  He was young, she was young, let bygones be
bygones."

"Miscarried?  Five thousand dollars because he's a good guy?  It
stinks.  Bailey."

"I thought so, but Winnie says she's leveling.  For what it's worth."

He believed in Winnie the way she, Barbara, believed in him.

"Listen to the tape when you have half an hour," he suggested.

"Cheer up.  I got a lead to a guy who worked in the publishing plant a
couple of years, up to last fall.

I'll see him tomorrow.  Up in Corvallis.  Maybe the pendulum will start
the other way."

"It had better, or I'll find me a new Sam Spade," she muttered.

Bailey grinned and finished his drink.

By late July her father had finished the move into his house.  He
invited her to his first dinner party.  He was a superb cook and liked
to show off, she thought, grateful for the invitation.  First he had to
show off his garden-tomatoes, beans, a hill of zucchini, green
onions.... Then his office was open for inspection; he had arranged all
the books he was using for research to write his own two books on the
art of cross-examination, which he had been at for years, and she
doubted would ever finish, because he kept finding new material that
could not be omitted.

He had been right about the house; it was perfect for him.  All through
the evening she kept expecting him to bring up his invitation for her
to move in, but he didn't.

Instead, over iced asparagus soup he told her he had lunch with Ted
Fairchild the previous day.

"You know," he said with a shrug, "we old-timers like to get together
and chat."

"Gossip like magpies," she commented.

"Now, Barbara.  Anyway, Ted confessed that he was not happy with the
arrangement to let a youngster like Bill Spassero supervise a case Ted
was handling.  Not that he complained; he wouldn't.  But still, pride's
got to be involved in something like that.  He's fretted about it.

What he said was that it seemed to him the telescope was pointed in the
wrong direction with the wrong eye at the working end.  I thought that
was pretty good."

Barbara could well imagine the luncheon, with her father being ever so
sympathetic and understanding, asking about the sick wife, retirement
plans, and Ted Fairchild opening like a book.

"It seems," Frank continued, "that Bill's working under a two-year
contract that runs out the end of October, and he hasn't signed the
renewal contract yet.  But he's being close about his plans.  Real
close."

He cleared away the soup plates and brought a platter of beautiful
vegetables--tiny carrots, snap peas, green onions, strips of red and
green peppers, all brilliant, glistening from a marinade of lemon juice
and olive oil.

The casserole he brought out next was of small beef cubes with a lot of
red onions, and marble-sized red potatoes.

"This is why I never make dinner for you," Barbara said a few minutes
later.

"I know when to compete and when to drop out.  This is all
wonderful."

"I've given you recipes for everything on the table he said, pleased
with her pleasure.

"Back to Bill Spassero.  Ted thinks he's got an offer from Doneally and
Jensen."

"Well, that's not unusual for an up-and-coming trial lawyer," she said
after a moment, trying to place the names.  She did not know either of
them.

"Nope.  Interesting thing is that Doneally is Dodgson's lawyer. Handled
a big libel case for him five or six years ago.  Won it, too."

"Oh," she said softly.

"What makes Ted think there's an offer?"

"Take it easy," Frank said.

"Even if we know it for a fact, it doesn't prove anything.  Ted saw
them together a few times back before Bill went on vacation.  That's
not much."

She thought about it.  They would know for sure when Bill Spassero
walked out of the public defender's office, crossed the street, and sat
down in a different chair.  November?  Too long to wait.

"Eat your vegetables," Frank said, "and stop plotting.

This is information-gathering time, that's all."

She resumed eating.

"Ted hasn't seen them together more recently?"

"Nope.  Lying low, or the affair cooled down.  Who knows?  The only
other thing I got out of him was that Bill was due to take his vacation
the last two weeks of September, and he asked to have it changed."

She considered this for a moment and then said, "I wonder when the
offer was made.  If it was.  After he was appointed to Paula Kennerman,
or before?"

"Why don't you ask him?"  Frank said snappishly.

"You aren't tasting a thing you're putting in your mouth."

After dinner she rinsed the dishes and stacked them in the dishwasher,
and scrubbed a pot or two while they talked.  Frank was following up on
the students' work with the newspapers, culling out those that would be
revealing he said.  He couldn't do too much at a time; the taste they
left in his mouth made him go do something else pretty fast.

"What I'm doing is reading for fifteen or twenty minutes every night,
and then I take a bath."

"You brought them home?"  she asked incredulously.

"Does Bessie know?"

"Of course he knows."  He laughed.

"I promised I wouldn't put them in the birdcage."

When she was ready to leave, he said, "Bobby, things look pretty bad,
but hell, I've had cases that looked worse than this one does, and you
will too before you're done with the law."

"Did you win them when they looked this bad?"

He decided his glasses needed cleaning and got busy with that.

"Sometimes.  But you know as well as I do that that isn't the point.  I
said in the beginning you're on two tracks, one you've got to go with
and the other one you want to go with.  What you have to do is see to
it that Paula Kennerman gets a fair trial, and not get so wrapped up in
what you want to do that you lose sight of that."

The next day Bailey called, and sounded happy, such a rare occurrence
with him that Barbara drew in her breath.

"We found your missing photographer," Bailey said.

"Winnie just got back from talking to her.  In Sonoma, for God's sake.
Sonoma!  And your boy Craig is off on another jaunt; Winnie saw him in
the airport and got curious.  He's off to Denver this time."

Another demonstration?  How many times a year did he do that?

"Do you know someone in Denver?"  she asked, as much out of irritation
as with purpose.

"Let's find out what he does on these trips.  Talk about frequent
flyers!"

"Denver ... Yeah, there's a guy there.  You serious?"

"Yes, Bailey.  Just find out where he goes, who he sees.  Is he
organizing or just showing up?  What about the photographer?  Did she
have anything to say?"

"Better than that, Barbara.  We have her film.  I'll drop it off to a
guy I know to get it developed and printed, and then we'll see what
made old man Dodgson blow his stack.  Okay?"

"You bet.  And call that guy you know in Denver before the plane lands
and Craig gets lost in the crowd."

* * * That night she, Frank, and Bailey examined the photo graphs under
a strong light in Barbara's kitchen.  They were arranged in sequence;
the first few were dark and murky, with little detail.

"My guy said she was probably doing a few random shots to get her
light-meter reading right.  Maybe set the stage before the animals
arrived.  See here, he said there's something between her and the
building in this one and a couple that follow it."

There was the Gallead fence, with a faintly paler sky behind it.  The
elk probably came from behind that fence to get to the orchard, Barbara
thought, peering at the prints.  A later print showed an animal, a
black silhouette against the lighter sky, emerging from the far side of
the fence.  Then a print with several elk bunched so that they looked
like one large animal with too many heads.  Then, apparently, the elk
had turned and run away.

"She was pretty disgusted, never developed them, since the elk never
got to the orchard where she could get a better shot," Bailey said.

"But what my guy said is interesting is the thing between her and the
fence.  He can do things with the negatives, enhance the image, bring
it out, he says, if we want him to."

Barbara nodded absently.  She could almost make it out.

A truck?  And several figures.  Not even at Dodgson's place, but in
front of Gallead's fence.  She looked closer.

The edge of the gate was there, visible, light against dark.

The gate was open.  She straightened and rubbed her back.  Frank was
rubbing his, too.

"Let's see what he can do with them," she said.

"Just these."  She sorted them, choosing the ones that showed the
fence, the gate, and the thing that looked like a truck.

"Is the damn fool running guns?"  Frank muttered.

"Illegal aliens?  When can he get them done so we can see something?"
he asked Bailey; he was scowling fiercely.

"I'll get back to him first thing in the morning," Bailey said as he
gathered up the prints.

"Take him a day or two.  And, Barbara, I know where Craig Dodgson went
in Denver, but what it means is about as clear as this mess.  Four
doctors.  All obstetricians, gynecologists, you know, women's doctors.
All in private practice, spread out over the city.  He went in, stayed
fifteen minutes came out, and went to the next one, and then he came
home.  You figure it out."

"Are they pro-lifers?  Do they do abortions?"

Bailey shrugged.

"One pro-lifer, three do whatever comes along.  Maybe he's trying to
convert them."

"You put a tail on Craig Dodgson?"  Frank asked.

"Good God!  What for?  I'm going home."

"Just for today, Dad.  And I don't know what for."

And, she realized when they were both gone, she didn't know what for
about any of this affair.

ELEVEN

day by day the temperature edged upward; the sun shone without mercy.
Nice people began to snarl and snap at other nice people.  Those
without enough energy to snarl bared their teeth silently.  For most of
July the nights were cool, alleviating the danger of mass insanity, but
then the night temperatures began to climb also, and now people were
saying.  If I wanted to live in a desert, I'd go down to Southern
California.  Those who chose to live in the valley liked rain and mist
and cool weather; they did not like snow, and they especially did not
like it when the thermometer flirted with the one-hundred-degree red
mark day after day.

Barbara's house was hot day and night.  It did her temper no good at
all to think of Frank's house with a heat pump that provided heat in
winter and cool air in the summer.  She read reports; she wrote out her
own notes and reports; she interviewed people in the office, where the
air-conditioning made her want to curl up and sleep; she raced around
the countryside in her un air-conditioned car to interview other
people.

The tiger was still straining; she was still holding on, and neither of
them had moved an inch.

The first week in August Janey Lipscomb called.

"I

have a present for you," she said in her cheerful way.

"Mrs.  Everts is pretty grateful that you steered me onto Annie, and
she said you could have a copy of the tape if you think it will be
useful."  Her tone hinted that Barbara would find it useful.

"I'd like to see it very much," Barbara said, trying to resist the
buoying effect of too much hope.

Janey said she could drop it off on her lunch hour, and Barbara
arranged to meet her at the office at noon.

When the young psychologist arrived, Barbara thought again how
improbable it seemed for her to be a doctor of anything; she looked
more like a cheerleader.

Thanks," Barbara said, taking the tape

"Will Annie be okay?"

"She'll be fine.  I told her mother not to let her testify in court,"
she said with charming candor.

"That would be too traumatic for her.  right now."

"All right.  Dr.  Lipscomb may I call you Janey?"

"You might as well.  Everyone else does, little kids with two teeth,
great-grandparents with two teeth, it's just Janey to them all.  Why
should you be different?"

Barbara laughed.

"I wonder why that is."  Then, serious again, she said, "There's one
more thing I'd like to engage you to do.  Go see Paula Kennerman."

Janey's dimply smile vanished as she shook her head.

"I'm not a forensic psychologist, no match for the guy the state always
uses what's his name?  Ricky Palma.

I don't want to butt heads with him."

"I don't want you to," Barbara said.

"Just go spend an hour with Paula.  Talk about the weather, knitting,
whatever.  I just want people to know you've been there."

Janey looked at her appraisingly.

"Why?"

They were standing near the large round table in Frank's office; it was
piled high with newspapers, notebooks, folders; Barbara added the tape
to a heap of stuff.  The accumulation of weeks of investigation
appeared to be nothing more than a jumble, which was how she thought of
it all.  A jumble.  Barbara waved at the mess.

"Out of all that stuff I'm beginning to unravel threads, one here, one
there.  I'm not sure yet where they lead, or if they connect.  I don't
know yet where that tape will fit in, or even if it will.  But if it
does, I may have to call you to testify.  Your name will be on the list
of witnesses for the defense.  I'd rather have everyone think you might
testify about Paula and not that child.  I can't tell you more than
that, because at this moment I don't know more than that."

Janey grinned again and shrugged.

"Okay.  I'm sort of curious about her, anyway.  Thursday," she added.

"Your day off," Barbara said.

"Days off are really theoretical, aren't they?  They sound good on a
job description and vanish in reality.

Gotta run.  See you."

Barbara went back to sorting her materials.  The Jack Kennerman
material made up one stack.  Then the Dodgsons and Royce Gallead, who
obviously was smuggling something.  All that space in his building, not
necessary to his business, she felt certain, but for what?

And the truck with the five men around it, on the way in.  To do what?
Dodgson probably knew about Gallead's operation, maybe had a piece of
it.  She could form a tenuous link between them, but she could not link
that side to the murder of Lori Kennerman and the arson fire at the
Canby house.  It seemed that Dodgson had taken steps to make certain no
one at the Canby place would ferret out his secrets, but once the steps
were taken, boundaries established, he had left the Canby guests alone.
And he and his wife and even their son were all accounted for the
morning of the murder and fire.  Gallead had been at the firing range
all that morning, accounted for; his employee, Terry Bossert, had been
in the gun shop all day that Saturday.

No matter how she tried to work the information she had, there remained
a missing piece, and without it she had a foot on two different tracks,
exactly as her father had claimed from the start.

He simply hadn't realized that one hand was clutching a third track as
if life depended on not letting go.

She had taken seriously his admonition that she might be a hindrance
rather than a help to Paula as long as Judge Paltz believed her to be
dishonorable.  She could not start a trial in his court until that was
settled, she understood, but every time she had tried to find a way to
clear the air of that business, she hit a wall.

She frowned at the paper she was holding, undecided where to place the
report on William Spassero.  She sat down to consider him yet again.
Everything in his life had been exemplary right up to the time he
acquired Paula Kennerman as a client.  Good family, money in the
background, good education, good prospects.  Absolutely unblemished,
not a sour note anywhere.  She bit her lip in exasperation.  He had
come to Eugene two years ago, with faultless recommendations, to take
the job in the public defender's office.  Not associated with right- or
left-wing groups.  Presbyterian.  Probably would go with Doneally and
Jensen in November.  And Doneally, evidently, was in Dodgson's
pocket.

Suddenly she stood up.

"What if he didn't know?"

she said softly, and after a moment she said to herself, "That's it. He
didn't know."

She sat down again to think about it, but she felt certain that Bill
Spassero had walked into a bear trap without awareness until it closed
on him.

She examined this idea for a few more minutes, and then she called
Spassero's office.  She listened as someone at the other end yelled for
him to pick up the phone.

"Barbara Holloway," she said when he barked hello.

"I'd like to meet with you to discuss something."

There was a pause, then he said, "Ms.  Holloway, what a coincidence.  I
was going to call you about that file.  I can't tell you how sorry I am
about that.  We searched and searched, and just last night I found it
at home, under a bunch of stuff.  Why don't I drop it off?"

"Fine," she said.

"I'm at my father's office.  You know where it is?"

He said he did and would be by in half an hour.

She hung up thoughtfully.  She had given up on obtaining the original
file; the district attorney's office had sent over what they said was
everything, and she believed them.  It seemed complete.  And now
Spassero had found his file.  Interesting, she thought, just
interesting.

She had seen him being coolly professional in court;

had seen him grinning with boyish enthusiasm and friendliness; he had
been stiff and indignant and very righteous; and then furious.  All the
roles had been very well performed.  The most important lesson he could
learn at the public defender's office was self-control; he would be
given A plus if that were a graded subject.

Today when the receptionist, Pam, led him to the office, he was
reserved and careful, open, willing to be friends but not pushing
anything.

"I really do want to apologize for this," he said, handing her the
bulky file.

"Things happen," she said.

"Thanks.  But this isn't what I called about.  Please, sit down so I
can."

"Of course," he said agreeably.  He sat in one of the overstuffed
chairs.  She took one facing him.

"All right," he said.

"What did you call about?"

He was wearing a lightweight suit that looked to be more silk than
wool; his shirt appeared to be silk, and his tie.  His hair, looking
more silvery than gold today, was as fluffy as a cloud, and he had a
good tan.  His face was set in a pleasant expression, like the
going-to-Aunt-Maud's-tea-party expression he must have worn a lot as a
youth.

"Let me tell you what I think happened," she said.

"You found yourself saddled with Paula Kennerman's case, not a happy
situation, but there it was.  A day, two days, maybe a week later, you
had a talk with an established attorney here in town who made what
seemed like an incredible offer.  No resume required, no application,
just walk out one door and in through another."

His expression had changed as she spoke; it now was rigor-mortis blank.
Not a muscle on his face twitched.

He could have become deaf in the last minute or so for all the response
he was showing.  She continued, "And this prestigious attorney said it
would be a good idea for him to supervise a case or two, watch you at
work, give you a pointer maybe.  You leaped at the chance.  Who
wouldn't?  A heaven-sent opportunity, lightning now instead of having
to wait a few years.  Did you celebrate?

I imagine you did.  I would have."  She smiled slightly, then became
serious again.

"When did you suspect you were being used?  When that article appeared
in Dodgson's paper?  I rather imagine that your new friend suggested
that Paula needed a doctor, and it happened he knew the right one for
her.

Is that how it worked?"

"Enough," he said, an edge in his voice now.

"I've heard about enough."

"No, you haven't.  Not yet.  I'm not finished with my summation, you
see.  You were taken off the case and Fairchild was put on it and you
asked to supervise him, a man with more years of trial experience than
you have lived.  What an arrogant suggestion that was, and a suggestion
that probably didn't originate with you.  Did it?  But then Fairchild
was removed, and there were no more opportunities to spy on Paula and
the development of her case.  Were you scolded?  Is that why you
decided to leave town for a couple of weeks?  Was the offer withdrawn,
Mr.  Spassero?"

He flushed and stood up.

"Last week I signed a contract to continue at the public defender's
office.  So much for your fairy tale."

"I intend to take my fairy tale to Judge Paltz," she said quietly.

"I don't intend to start a trial in his court with this hanging."

"Why did you tell me all this?"  he asked, halfway to the door.

"To give you the opportunity to go to Judge Paltz yourself, to admit
you were taken in, that you had no idea at the time that Doneally was
Dodgson's attorney."

He stiffened when she said the name, and she let out a breath softly
and finished.

"To tell him that you've had time to think about what happened, and
realize now that you were too trusting."

"You're out to get me, aren't you?  Why?  Just a little game you
play?"

She shook her head and got to her feet.

"If I have to go to him, he'll question you.  You will either lie or
you will admit the truth; in either case you'll be ruined.  If you go,
you can save yourself."  She regarded him levelly;

his look had turned bitter.

"I'll call him next Monday if I haven't heard from him by then.
Good-bye, Mr.

Spassero."

"Barbara," Bailey said later that day, "I can tell you a little about
the truck in the pictures, but probably not enough."  He looked at
Prank questioningly; from his desk, Frank waved him toward the
bookshelves.  Bailey wandered to the section of shelves with the
volumes from T through V, and opened the little bar by pushing against
Tyrants.  Frank had loved it when he had that addition made to his
office.  Now Bailey stood considering his options.

Bourbon, Barbara knew.  It was always bourbon if he had a choice; if
there was no choice, he took whatever was there.

"Just tell me," she said with a touch of impatience.

"Sure, sure."  He poured his drink first, closed the bar, and slouched
into a chair.

"Either Gallead or the guy who works for him, Terry Bossert, leaves
after dark now and then in the truck, a Chevy van with no windows in
the back, no markings.  A couple of days later, before it gets light,
the truck comes back.  And then leaves again four or five days later
for another two-day trip.  It repeats just about every six to eight
weeks.  And that's it.  It heads south, maybe.  We know that one time,
at least, it either loaded or unloaded five guys in work clothes."

"Unloaded," she snapped.  The enhanced pictures showed five men heading
toward the open gate, where another man was standing, evidently the one
who had opened the gate.  No features, no identifying marks, no way
could it be told who they were, but they were five in number, and they
were going in.

"You've been watching for more than three weeks now," she said,
thinking.

"If they're keeping to any kind of schedule, in two or three weeks the
truck will take off again.  Are you sure Gallead isn't on to your men
out there?"  Bailey shrugged.  Who could be sure?  She went on.

"I don't want him to change his routine.  We need to talk to one of the
men.  Bailey.  Are they regulars or new people each time?  Do they have
papers?  Are they electronics people, drug packagers, pornographers?

What?  I need one of them."

He shrugged again.

"We'll do what we can.  No guarantees about when it leaves again."

Frank made a growly sound.

"I think it's time to call in proper help.  The state special
investigation team, or the D.A."s special investigators, or even the
Feds.

We've got enough to interest them."

They had been through this before.  Barbara hardly even glanced at
him.

"No, not yet."  She knew a lid could be clamped down hard, that nothing
to do with Dodgson or Gallead would be permitted out in the open, and
her own case for Paula Kennerman might well be shot out of the water.

Bailey's source for the Dodgson Publishing Company had said they
printed everything: newspapers, magazines, posters, bumper stickers,
labels, postcards, letterheads Some jobs even in other languages. The
company got a lot of business by fax and modem.  He didn't think
Dodgson wrote much of the stuff he ran.

Nothing new, Barbara had thought, listening gloomily to Bailey's
report; it seemed that no matter what they found out, what theories
they confirmed with a witness who would testify to the truth of the
theory, all she had was a series of speculations, theories strung to
theories.

She was afraid that even if they got one of the men who had been
delivered to Gallead, what he would tell them would be nothing more
than what they already knew or suspected.  Still, she told herself, she
had to talk to one of them.

Bailey was being extremely cautious, they all knew.

If he slipped up now" the whole operation, whatever it was, might close
down overnight, everything disposed of, nothing left to point to, and
there would be very hard feelings about not notifying the proper
authorities, very hard feelings indeed, possibly charges.  Barbara
shrugged away the worry.  She had to talk to one of the men.

On Friday Judge Paltz had his secretary call her.

While she waited for his voice over the phone, she wiped her hands on a
tissue.

"Barbara, how are you?"  he began genially.

"It's too damn hot, isn't it?  Maybe it will break soon."

She assured him that she was fine and hoped he was, and then he got
down to the business of the call.

"I had a little chat with Bill Spassero yesterday, Barbara.  I'm afraid
he's been feeling quite perturbed over what turned out to be an
innocent mistake.  He confessed that he was the source for that article
in the Dodgson rag.

Bill believed he was confiding in a valued mentor, but it seems that
his confidante was instead a snake in the grass and he only recently
came to understand this.

He rendered his most sincere apologies, and no doubt he will be in
touch with you."

"I'm glad that's been settled," she said.

"It was a worry."

"Yes, yes.  I know.  I think that young man will go far, Barbara.  It
took a certain amount of courage to face up to what he had done, and he
was very forthcoming about it all.  He'll go far."

Barbara grinned.

Ten days to blast-off, she thought a few nights later, staring at the
aerial map of the Canby Ranch, the Dodgson property, the surrounding
woods.... Time became a curious ally and enemy all at once.

They had to prepare Paula for the trial; she was going to hear the most
gruesome forensic details about how her child had died in a savage,
inhuman attack, how severely she had been burned, the condition of her
flesh, her skin, her hair.... She could not face all that without
preparation; no one could.  If she took the stand, another question not
yet settled, she would face a grueling examination by the prosecutor;
she had to be prepared for that.  Few people were ever subjected to the
kind of questioning that the witness chair permitted for hours at a
time, days at a time.

Lucille Reiner shopped for her sister.  Nothing fancy, Barbara warned
her.  Simple lines, no frills, washable clothes would be fine in this
weather, hose, low shoes.

Just keep it simple, not black, no mourning now, but not wild prints
either, and long sleeves, she had added.

Lucille had nodded, awed by the amount of money Barbara gave her for
the purchases: three outfits, one pair of shoes, panty hose, underwear,
a light-weight jacket in case the weather changed.

There was so much to do: review all the reports, listen again to all
the tapes watch one more time the video Janey had provided, reread the
Dodgson papers, which had been returned temporarily to Bessie's office
to his great relief.... It all had to be done in real time, without
shortcuts.  The days were too short, and, strangely, tomorrow with its
new reports, new bits of in formation, new insights, tomorrow seemed
unreachable, until all at once it had been there and was yesterday.

On Friday before Labor Day she realized how scant her own wardrobe was
for this season.  She hurriedly shopped for herself-^two skirts, two
blouses, one dress and then she picked out a beige silk and ramie
jacket that would go with everything she owned, but that wasn't why she
bought it.  She wanted it because the fabric was beautiful, the garment
was well tailored, well designed, and most of all or maybe even the
only reason was because she loved it.  She grinned at herself in the
mirror modeling the jacket, and knew this was not the sort of rationale
that her father would under stand, and it was not exactly the best way
to hold down expenses, which she had agreed to do.  But she loved the
jacket.

Then, because time was behaving so mysteriously, she had the impression
that she no sooner took off the jacket to have it wrapped, to pay for
it, than she was putting it on again, on Tuesday morning.  Countdown
had come to an end.

TWELVE

jury selection was completed by the lunch recess on Friday; Barbara had
held out for equality, half male, half female, and that was how it
ended up.  She had had no illusions about finding totally neutral
jurors--the public had already found Paula guilty--but she had
dismissed several people whose eyes appeared too glittery, and one man
for no reason that she could have stated.

She had not liked him.  Reason enough.  This week there had been few
spectators; jury selection was a boring business for voyeurs.  But they
would come, she knew.

Her three student researchers were there taking notes;

she suspected that Brian O'Connor had assigned them this case to follow
to the end.  And Lucille was there, today accompanied by a thickset man
who looked uncomfortable.

She brought him to be introduced during the lunch recess--her husband,
Dave Reiner.  Would it look bad, he asked hesitantly, if he didn't come
every day?  It was hard to miss work.  Barbara assured him that it was
understandable, that no one would think anything of it.

Inwardly she was seething.  He believed Paula was guilty, she realized;
she would have rejected him for jury duty.  And she certainly did not
want her jurors to read his face, read the forced smile he directed at
Paula.

She hoped he stayed away altogether.

After lunch on Friday Gerald Fierst rose to address the jury.  He was
in his mid-fifties, gray-haired, and wore a gray suit and a bright blue
tie.  He was a quiet man without mannerisms, without fidgets or tics,
just a cautious, methodical, almost plodding prosecutor who, if he had
a sense of humor, left it at home when he went to work every day.  He
would have crossed all the t's, dotted all the is, Barbara thought
appraisingly.

The evidence would prove, he said, that Paula Kennerman struck and
killed her child and then set an arson fire in an attempt to hide her
crime.  His remarks included only one item that Barbara had not
anticipated:

"Paula Kennerman spilled gasoline through the lower half of the house,
lighted a fire in the kitchen, and then replaced the empty gas.  can in
the barn in an attempt to hide her crime.  When she returned to the
house and tried to enter, a propane tank exploded and she was thrown to
the ground outside the front door..  .."

Barbara nodded to herself, a man who dotted the is.

No gas can had been found near the house, something no report had
mentioned.

When it was her turn, Barbara stood before the defense table, so that
in looking at her, the jurors also saw Paula, who was deathly white.
Speaking quietly, she stressed the fact that the burden of proof was on
the state.

Defense would prove that Paula Kennerman had been above reproach as a
parent, that her only goal in life had been to secure a decent future
for her child, and that she had absolutely no motive for the murder of
Lori Kennerman.

"Defense does not have to point the finger at another person.  You will
hear testimony that contradicts other testimony, and it is your duty to
consider the motives of all those who appear on the witness stand in
this procedure.

Defense does not have to prove Paula Kennel-man's innocence; it must
only raise the specter of doubt that the state has proven its case."

When she sat down again and looked at the bench, Judge Paltz was
regarding her with a remote, unreadable expression.  Gone was the
grandfatherly attitude, the kindly, reminiscing, old family friend; he
had turned into the jurist her father had warned her about: strict,
scholarly, and unflappable.  He looked like a stranger.

He thanked her courteously, thanked Gerald Fierst, and instructed the
jury regarding its duty in the coming days, and then called for a
recess until Monday morning at nine.

Over the weekend Barbara stewed about the missing piece she knew was
somewhere in the mass of information they had gathered.  She reviewed
reports and listened once more to the tape made by Christina Lorenza,
the woman in Silicon Valley, whose education had been financed by Craig
Dodgson.

"So I said, hey, it's yours, too, you know.  And he said, yeah, sure.
I'll take care of it.  Honest, I will.... I thought he'd want me to
have an abortion, but I guess even back then he was dead set against
it.  Anyway, he wrote out what all he'd do and signed it.  But I was
too sick to care very much, you know.  I guess my stomach was queasy,
morning sickness that went on and on.  We were going up to some islands
out of Seattle, and I just kept getting sick.  So he gave me some
Dramamine, and that helped a little but not much.  Two days later I
said I had to go home, I was too sick for anything, and he gave me some
more Dramamine, stronger this time, and we headed back..  ..

I was scared, and he was, too.  Then I knew I was having a
miscarriage.... He was really sweet to me, really caring.  Brought me
tea and was anxious, you know, caring and we made it back to Spring
Bay.  By then I was feeling better, and we stood at the rail and tore
up the paper he had written and signed, and we even laughed a little.
That's when he said he'd like to do something for me, you know, send me
to school or something.  And that seemed okay to me, so we agreed that
he'd pay for two years of computer school, and he did."  There was a
silence; Winnie asking a question?  Then Christina's voice was back:
"Look, I was twenty-one and he was twenty-four, but we were like two
scared little kids..  .."

Winnie had believed her, and Barbara had to admit that she did, too.
Dead end.  A sweet Craig Dodgson was the last thing she intended to
introduce at this trial.

The weather continued hot and dry; grass was dying, leaves turning
brittle on the trees; a forest fire started in the Willamette National
Forest and smoke from it drifted across the valley, making the light a
peculiar dirty yellow.  Bailey had nothing to report about a truck
leaving Royce Gallead's firing range.

Sunday afternoon she had a conference with Paula and warned her again
about the bad days to come.

"Are you sure you don't want to use a mild tranquilizer?  It would
help."

"Dr.  Grayling said he'd give me something if I needed it.  I don't
want anything.  You know, I feel sort of like I have to be there,
really be there, for everything.

I told Janey that and she understood."

Barbara nodded; she understood too, all too well.

* * * Every morning Barbara had driven to Frank's house and they had
walked the half mile to the courthouse.  On Monday morning when Frank
came out to meet her, she said, "I have stuff to carry."  He looked
with interest at the Kmart plastic bag she held, along with her bulging
briefcase and purse.  He took the bag, hefted it, then shrugged, and
they began.

Even his shady neighborhood was muggy that morning; it would be a hot
walk home.  They passed Yuppie Heaven, deserted at this hour, passed
the first two-tiered parking structure where automobiles were lined up
to enter, stopping traffic.  Ahead, across Seventh, a fire truck was
diverting traffic as it backed into the municipal building fire
department.  That building and the courthouse across the street from it
were like a matched pair, four stories high, stable looking with old
well-weathered concrete and many windows.  But the fire department
really shouldn't hold maneuvers at this hour, Barbara was thinking,
when Frank caught her arm in a hard grip, drawing her to a stop.  They
were even with the middle of the county parking lot where another line
of cars had come to a halt awaiting entrance.

Framed between two cars, visible through an opening in the stopped
traffic, was the courthouse entrance where twenty-five or thirty people
were milling about, shouting, some with signs: death sentence for
baby

KILLERS!  LET BABY KILLER KENNER MAN HANG!  One man had a heavy rope
tied into a noose that he carried suspended from a pole.  Television
crews were there in force; police had put up a barricade and were
trying to keep the demonstrations behind it.  The traffic light
changed, the cars began to move again, and the scene was obliterated.

"My God," Barbara whispered.

"Hold it," Frank snapped, still clutching her arm in a hard grasp.

"They've got garbage to throw.  Come on."

He pulled her behind a car waiting to enter the parking lot.  They
stayed behind cars to the entrance of the tunnel under Seventh that led
to the courthouse.  The tunnel was crowded as usual at this hour.

As soon as they emerged within the building, a bailiff met them.

"Judge Paltz wants you," he said to Barbara.

And she wanted him.

Gerald Fierst was already there when she was admitted to Judge Paltz's
chambers.  Both men were grim-faced.  Judge Paltz looked her over
quickly and motioned to a chair, and then seated himself behind his
desk.

"This won't do," he.  said

"I request that the jurors be sequestered," Barbara said.

"Those people have tomatoes, who knows what all."

"I know that," the judge said.  He turned to Gerald Fierst.

"How long is this trial going to take?"

"I'll wrap up my end in three days," Fierst said.

"If there's no hindrance from the defense."

"I don't know how long it will take," Barbara said.

"But if it takes a month, the jury has to be protected from a mob like
that.  There can't be a fair trial with that kind of demonstration
outside the door.  It's a vigilante mob out there.  And we all know
some of them will be inside the court today.  Ask them if they intend
to delay anything."  She drew in a deep breath.

"If the jury is prejudiced or frightened by a mob like that, it's an
automatic mistrial."

"Don't tell me my business," Judge Paltz said softly.

"We have a situation on our hands, and we have to deal with it.  Once
the jury is inside and accounted for, they will be protected.  And
there will not be any demonstrations in my court.  The principals in
this case will all be escorted to the courthouse door for the duration
of this trial.  You will be picked up by an unmarked police car and
brought here, and taken back at the close of the day.

No attorney in my court is going to appear with tomato or eggs on their
clothing.  A room will be set aside for lunches to be brought in, or
you may choose to bring your own food, or eat in the cafeteria.  There
will be no disruption of these proceedings.  I advise both of you to
expedite this trial.  Before today's opening I shall speak to the jury
and explain the situation to them.  Is that satisfactory

After he dismissed them both, Barbara found Frank waiting outside the
door.  She told him what arrangements Judge Paltz was making.

"How did he sound?"  Frank asked.

"He never raised his voice."

"Yep.  Mad as hell.  Don't blame him, either.  Well, that's life."

The courtroom was packed to capacity that day.  The three students were
there, but for the most part the audience was middle-aged or older, and
they were for the most part well dressed and silent.  To Barbara's eye
they looked like vultures waiting for the first blood.

"Did you see all those people?"  Paula whispered when she was led in to
take her place by Barbara.

"Don't worry about them.  The judge is handling things."

Paula nodded, but she looked very frightened.

If the panel of jurors had been upset by the demonstration whatever the
judge told them seemed to have had a calming effect; they were
impassive and attentive when Gerald Fierst called his first witness.

Willis Jacobson testified that he was with the volunteer fire team that
got to the fire six or seven minutes after the call came in.

"It had been burning maybe ten minutes by then; the whole building was
burning, up and down.  The defendant was crying that her baby was
upstairs somewhere, and I was suited up, so I went in with a hose to
look for her.  But it was too smoky by then to see anything and I had
to back out again.  We had the pumper on the house, and had the fire
out within ten minutes, and we looked again for the child, and found
her body on the first floor, in the living room."

"Exactly what did Mrs.  Kennerman say when you got there?"

"Well, she was sort of out of her head, crying and screaming, and
fighting to get back in.  Two women were holding her back.  She was
bloody and burned some herself.  She said, "My baby's upstairs
somewhere.

For God's sake, she might be under a bed or in a closet hiding."

" Barbara had no questions.

The next witness was the state fire marshal.  Gerald Fierst had him
describe his background, his position, his years of experience, and
then asked, "Mr.  Conkling, what time did you arrive at the Canby
house?"

"Twelve-thirty."

"I see.  And who called you?"

"The chief of the volunteer fire department, Walter Dixon."

"And why did he call you?"

"When there's a suspicious fire, it's routine to bring in an
investigator.  Chief Dixon suspected arson fire and called me."

"All right.  Tell us, please, exactly what you did at the scene."

"Yes, sir."  He was a solid man, forty-three years old, six feet tall,
and very broad, slow speaking, deliberative.

He took his time describing his investigation.  Gasoline had been
present in the kitchen, in the hallway, and in the living room.  The
kitchen door had been closed, and when the tank of propane exploded, it
blew the door open and blew out the front screen door, and the fire
spread to the living room and on up the stairs."

"How do you know it was gasoline and not kerosene, or even motor
oil?"

Conkling went into a very technical explanation of the different ways
combustibles burned, the different ash left, the different smoke.  He
explained the flash effect of the blast against the door; the same
effect had been through the hall and on the frame of the screen door,
and to a lesser extent on the front wall of the living room.

"So you can tell exactly what burned, and where it started, even after
the firemen have soaked the house?"

"Yes, sir.  We can tell."

"What did you determine about the living room where the child's body
was found?"

"Someone had thrown gasoline on some of the furniture, but mostly on
the floor and on the rugs.  And the girl's body had been covered with
gasoline.  There was gas under her and over her."

Paula made a low sound, but did not move, and Barbara did not turn to
look at her.  She listened intently to the marshal as he continued to
describe what he had found.

"It was as if the person had stood in the room and splashed out gas in
several directions, making a ray pat tern."

"How do you know the child's body was soaked in gasoline?"  Gerald
Fierst asked in a low voice.  He sounded as if he hated this as much as
anyone in the room.

"I examined her body and her clothing."

"Can you just tell us the conclusions you drew from your
examination?"

"Yes, sir.  The fire flashed over her, consuming all the gasoline, and
it ignited her clothes and her hair...."  He kept his gaze fixed on
Gerald Fierst.  His voice was without expression.

Someone in the seats behind Barbara began to sob in a loud voice, and
there were mutters, and one voice calling out in a harsh whisper, "Oh,
God!  Oh, God!"

Barbara did not turn to look.  She did, however, glance at Paula, who
was like a carving, except that her eyes were closed and tears were
coursing down her face.

Barbara stood up.

"Your Honor, may we have a re cess?"

He already had his gavel raised, and brought it down hard as she
spoke.

"Ten minute recess," he said.

"The bailiff will clear the courtroom."  He stalked out.

When they resumed.  Judge Paltz said icily in a very soft voice, "If
there is any further demonstration of any kind in this courtroom, the
persons responsible will be charged with contempt of court and will be
denied reentry.  Mr.  Fierst, please."

Gerald Fierst surprised Barbara then by changing the direction of his
questions.

"Mr.  Conkling, as part of your investigation did you try to find the
source of the gasoline?"

"Yes, sir.  We found three gas cans in the barn.  One five-gallon can
and two one-gallon cans.  The five-gallon can was half filled, the
others were empty."

"No further questions," Fierst said.

"Thank you, Mr.

Conkling."

Barbara rose and walked to the front of her table.

"Mr.  Conkling, can you estimate how much gas was spilled in the house
that day?"

"At least a gallon," he said without hesitation.

"Could it have been more?"

"It might have been more, but no less than a gallon."

"Mr.  Conkling, I have here a floor plan for the Canby house."  The
drawing was admitted.  She handed it to Conkling.

"Is this correct as far as you can tell?"

"Yes, ma'am.  That's the house plan."

"What I'd like you to do, Mr.  Conkling, is try to show us where the
gas actually was, starting with the kitchen.  Can you do that?"

"Yes, ma'am."

She handed him a red felt-tip pen.

"If you would just indicate where the gas was spilled, please.  And
describe to the jury where you are marking the floor plan."

He began to draw jagged red marks in the kitchen, explaining as he
went.  He looked up at her.

"There wasn't any gas on the kitchen door.  Out in the hall, it was
sort of splashed back and forth, not quite to the walls.  Then in the
living room."

When he finished, she took the house plan and studied it a moment.

"There wasn't any gas on the stairs?"

"No, ma'am."

"You show that it stopped several feet away from the living room door,
and there isn't any shown for several feet into the room.  Is that
correct?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"These other two doors in the hallway, one to a bedroom, and the other
to an office, were they splattered at all?"

"No, they weren't."

"Mr.  Conkling, as part of your investigations into arson fires, do you
sometimes reconstruct the actions of the arsonist?"

"Frequently we do that."

"And could you do it for us with this fire?"  She walked to the jury
and held the house plan drawing up so they could see it and follow what
he was saying.

"Yes, pretty much.  Someone went to the kitchen and splashed the gas
around and tossed a match in, and then closed the door.  and went
through the hall splashing it around for about fifteen feet.  Then the
arsonist went into the living room and stood about where I put a
circle, and threw the gas around the room and on the child's body, and
then went out."

"You're assuming the child's body was on the floor already?"

"Well, the gas was all over her."

"But you said earlier that it was under her as well.

Didn't you?"

"Yes.  It was."

"So it had to be on the floor already when she was struck and then
covered with gas.  Is that right?"

"Objection," Fierst called out.

"This is getting out of the range of expert opinion into pure
speculation."

"The witness has been testifying as an expert from the start; this is
what he does for a living, reconstruct what happened," Barbara said
quickly.

"Overruled," Judge Paltz said.

"You may answer."

"This is a difficult question," Conkling said.

"Some gas could have flowed under the body, or she might have fallen
where gas already was in place, or she might have rolled into it, or
been placed on it.  Without observing her body in place, I couldn't say
which one is correct."

Barbara nodded.

"All right.  Would you expect anyone throwing around that much gas to
get some on his or her clothing?"

"Very likely."

Barbara nodded and went to the defense table, where she had placed the
large plastic bag.  She took out a gas can.

"Mr.  Conkling, is this like the cans you found in the barn?"

She handed it to him, but he was already nodding.

"Yes, it is," he said.

She took the can back and walked with it to the jury box to show them.
The can was red, with a short spout and cap and a top handle.  She
returned to the witness stand with it.

"Mr.  Conkling, would you mind demonstrating how you believe the
arsonist threw the gas around?"

"Objection," Fierst said.

"This witness can't know the movements of the arsonist.  This is pure
speculation."

Judge Paltz was eyeing the gas can with a slight frown.  He waved
toward Pierst and said, "I think I would like to see such a
demonstration.  If you will, Mr.

Conkling?"

Conkling stood up, went to the front of the bench, and took the can
from Barbara.  He regarded it for a moment.

"We'll pretend the kitchen door is here," Barbara said, drawing an
imaginary line.

"The door is closed now."

"Well," Conkling said, grasping the can in both hands, "I think you'd
want to walk backwards, so you wouldn't walk through the gas."  He
walked backward a few steps, tilting the can with one hand, guiding it
with the other in a sweeping motion.

"And now the living room," Barbara said.

"Let's pretend this is where you drew your circle, where you think the
arsonist stood."

He paused in thought again and then looked at her.

"I

think you'd want the cap off," he said.

"You couldn't throw it out very well through the spout."  She nodded,
and he removed the cap and, using both hands, pantomimed throwing
gasoline.  When he was done, he replaced the cap.

"Thank you, Mr.  Conkling.  When you examined the gas cans in the barn,
were the caps on them all?"

"Yes they were."  He looked hesitantly at the witness chair and she
nodded.  He reseated himself.

"Did you examine the clothing worn by Paula Kennerman that day?"

"Yes, ma'am, I did."

"Did you find any traces of gas?"

"No."

"Did you also examine Paula Kennerman?"

"Yes."

"Please tell us what you found."

"She had flash burns down one side of her face and her body, a
first-degree burn where her skin was exposed."

"One side of her face and body?  Which side?"

"Down the left side.  Her hair was slightly charred on the left side,
also."

"Thank you, Mr.  Conkling.  No further questions."

Fierst asked from his table.

"Mr.  Conkling, when you said that likely the person would get gas on
her clothing--"

"Objection," Barbara snapped.

"Pronouns, Mr.

Fierst."

"Let me rephrase the question," Fierst said with a glance at Judge
Paltz.

"If a person were being very careful, then would it be likely that he
or she could avoid splashing gas on himself or herself?"  From someone
else the question would have hung heavy with irony, but from Fierst it
simply showed caution.

"It probably could be avoided."

The prosecution's next witness was the medical examiner who had
performed the autopsy on the body of Lori Kennerman.  Dr.  Voorhees was
sixty-four, thin-faced, with a raspy, high-pitched voice.  He started
by describing the condition of the body.  When he went into detail
about the extent of the burns, Barbara gripped Paula's arm.  It felt
like steel.  In his irritating voice Voorhees continued to give a
detailed report on what he had done, what his conclusions were.

"What exactly was the cause of death?"  Pierst asked.

"A blow to the neck, just below the anterior region of the right ear,
with an instrument sharp enough to puncture the skin and sever the
carotid, and to cause a break between the third and fourth
vertebrae."

"A broken neck, is that the common term?"

"Well, I suppose it is."

"Was the wound caused by a knife?"

"No, nothing that sharp.  It broke through the skin, but didn't cut it
as a knife would do."

"Something like the edge of a square-cut fireplace poker?"

"That could have done it, or anything with a straight edge wielded hard
enough."

Barbara glanced again at Paula, who had her eyes closed and her fists
clenched tight enough that blood was showing on her hands.  Fierst
finished his questions, and Barbara stood up.

She picked up the gas can once more and approached the witness chair.

"Dr.  Voorhees, could something like this have caused such a wound?"
She indicated the bottom of the can.  He peered at it.

"Yes, that straight edge might have done it, too."

"Dr.  Voorhees, would such a wound as you describe cause copious
bleeding?"

"Oh my, yes.  She was very nearly exsanguinated."

"And would there have been a spurt of blood from such a throat
wound?"

"I should think so."

"Would you expect a person standing close enough to cause such a wound
to have that blood on his or her clothing?"

"It's difficult to say for certain, but I think so."

"Would death have been very fast from such injuries?"

"Instantaneous unconsciousness and death immediately following would
result from such injuries," he said.

"As part of your examination, did you look for indi cations of previous
accidents or injuries, signs of abuse in the past?"

"Yes.  There were none."

Barbara thanked him and turned back to the defense table.  Paula had
her head buried in her arms.

Fierst stood up for his redirect.

"Dr.  Voorhees, would a long weapon afford enough distance to avoid
being splashed with blood?"

"If it's long enough, or if the killer was in motion, I guess he could
avoid it.  But blood would have spurted."

Fierst had no further questions and the doctor was excused

"In view of the hour, we will be in recess until two," Judge Paltz said
then.

Everyone except Paula rose as he left the bench.  She tried, but sank
back down into her chair.  As soon as the judge was gone, a murmurous
group voice rippled over the courtroom.  Paula looked up at Barbara;
her face was ashen.

"How could you do that?"  she whispered.

"How could you talk about her as if she weren't even real?"

"I'm sorry," Barbara said.

"Paula, you've come through this much.  Don't break now.  It won't get
any worse than today."

THIRTEEN

today emma tidball was dressed in a dark blue polyester suit with a
white blouse and a strand of large pearls.  Her face was as wrinkled as
Barbara remembered.

Gerald Fierst asked her to describe the Canby Ranch, what it was used
for, and her position there, and she did so in a rambling way that took
a long time.

Fierst finally stopped the flow and asked, "Will you just tell us what
you remember about the morning of Saturday, April nineteenth?"

"Angela--that's Angela Everts--she called at about nine-thirty and said
the mushrooms were up thick and did we all want to go get some, and I
said sure, it would be good for everyone to get out in the woods for a
time.

You know, we had all that rain, and finally the sun was out and it was
nice and warm.  But Paula didn't want to go out, and Lori wasn't
feeling good.  Poor little thing, she said her stomach hurt, but I told
Paula it would be good for them to go out for some air, and that Lori
wouldn't be so afraid as soon as she saw that her mother wasn't so
afraid, so Paula said they'd go.  At the last minute Lori said she had
to go to the bathroom, and Angela said why didn't I go on ahead with
everyone else since I knew as well as her where the mushrooms were, and
she'd wait, her and Annie, that's Angela's girl.  And Fern, one of the
other little girls, said she wanted to wait for Annie, and that seemed
all right, so that's what we did."

"Where were you when the fire started?"

"Off nearly to the other logging road, half a mile maybe."

"Did you hear the explosion?"

"We heard something, but we didn't know what it was.  And then Angela
was screaming, closer by, that it was a fire, and we all hurried
back."

"Then what happened?"

"Well, Angela got there first, and when I came up she was holding Paula
back from going in the house.

And she yelled for me to hold her and she would call the fire
department, and she got in her car and raced off, and me and one of the
others held Paula."

"It took two of you to hold her?"

"Yes, it did.  She was fighting to go back in, screaming, crying,
pulling.  Out of her head."

"Mrs.  Tidball, you said there were four women and their children at
the ranch, and then Angela Everts and her child came.  Did you see
anyone else at the ranch that morning?"

"No, I didn't."

"You said that Mrs.  Kennerman was irrational when you arrived at the
scene of the fire.  Was she irrational before that?  In the morning
before you left the house?"

"I said she was out of her mind.  Which she was.

Screaming and yelling."

"Earlier that morning how did she appear?"

"Like before, scared out of her wits, and hurting."

"But not out of her mind?"  He didn't smile, but Emma Tidball stiffened
as if she heard a smile behind the words.

"She was quiet, but as sane as you or me."

"Thank you," Fierst said.

Barbara stood up and approached the witness stand.

"Had you been working at the ranch from the time it opened for
women?"

"Yes, from the very first day."

"And was there any resistance from neighbors about opening the ranch
for troubled women?"

"Objection," Fierst said.

"Irrelevant."

"No, it isn't," Barbara said.

"There could be a number of people who might have wanted the ranch put
out of business one way or another."

Judge Paltz nodded.

"Overruled."

Emma described the times that Dodgson had objected, and how Mrs. Canby
had handled them all.

"Except I never told her that him and Craig came over that time yelling
about abortions."

"So he seemed to know who was there and what was going on much of the
time?"

"He knew everything going on there, and he didn't like any of it," Emma
said, her wrinkles deepening in a scowl.

"Did anyone else cause you any trouble?"

"No.  Only them, the Dodgsons."

"Mrs.  Tidball, did you give Paula Kennerman a tour of the property on
Friday?"

"No.  I offered to, but she didn't want to go outside.

They stayed in their room most of the day."

"You observed Paula and Lori together Thursday night, on Friday, and
Saturday morning.  Could you describe how they acted with each
other?"

Mrs.  Tidball did at length; a frightened child clinging to her mother,
and a mother who never took her eyes off the child, who paled at a
touch, but held her.  One of the women in the jury was wiping her eyes
when Mrs.

Tidball finished and sat back in her chair.

"When she was fighting so hard when you held her, Mrs.  Tidball, what
was she screaming?"

"Let me go.  She's in there.  Let me go.  I have to find her.  Things
like that.  Like she thought if she could get back in the house, she
could save her baby."

"That Saturday morning, were you inside all the time until you left to
gather mushrooms?"

"Yes, every minute."

"And when you left the house, did you go straight across the property
to the woods?"

"Well, yes.  We wanted to get at the mushrooms."

"Did you happen to glance back at the house at all?"

"No.  We went straight to the woods and the trail."

"Thank you, Mrs.  Tidball," Barbara said.

"This is hellish," Barbara grumbled at lunch with Frank.  They were in
a small room that held a desk and two straight chairs, and now had a
table set up with a tablecloth.  Someone from the office had brought in
sandwiches, a thermos of coffee, and a basket of fruit.

Barbara regarded the food with distaste and crossed the room to pull
open a blind.  The room overlooked the skyway across Pearl Street and
the state and federal buildings on the other side.  The sun was
shining.  People were in summery clothes.  She saw two people coming
toward the courthouse and she let the blind close.  Them.

She felt as if she were in jail.

"What's happening out on the street?"  she asked.

"They're picketing," Frank said amiably.  He unwrapped a sandwich.

"Ah, good.  Liverwurst and onions.

Too bad you can't eat onions."

"That's disgusting."

She sat opposite him, glowering.  What she needed to do was walk, not
eat.  She always walked during the lunch recess.  She picked up the
other sandwich--roast beef--and took a bite.

"It's going about like I expected," Frank said after a moment.

"Not bad so far."

She put down the sandwich and went back to the window.  They were
walking away from her.  She hoped their legs fell off at the hips.

"At least no one's fighting," she said, returning to the table where
she poured coffee.

"Not yet.  Wait until you go ha ring off after the Dodgson crew."

She put down her cup and went to the door.

"I'll be back in a few minutes."

It did not surprise her that Frank did not object.  He knew she needed
to walk as well as she did.  He always had walked during the lunch
recess.  He nodded and rewrapped her sandwich, and recapped the
thermos.

Compared to Emma Tidball, Angela Everts was taciturn.

She identified herself, described her employment at the Canby house,
and added not a word beyond what was required.  Gerald Fierst had her
tell about the morning she had gone there to pick mushrooms, and the
following events, and was finished with her very quickly.

When Barbara stood up for her turn, she produced her aerial map and had
it introduced as an exhibit.  It was very clear, two feet by three, and
showed the Canby property, the Dodgson acres, and across the road from
them the orchard and Gallead's firing range.

Enough of the forest behind the properties was on the map to make that
part complete.  Farleigh Road made a definitive boundary, with Carrie
Voight's house across the road at the bottom of the map.  She stood an
easel where the jury and Judge Paltz could see it and placed the map on
it.

Pointing with a pen, she asked, "Is this the private road to the Canby
house?"  Angela said it was.

"And where did you meet Mrs.  Dodgson on the road?"  She traced the
road until Angela said that was it, right about there.  Barbara drew a
red circle midway between the Dodgson gate and the road entrance.

"You were previously acquainted with Mrs.  Dodg son?"

"I used to work for her."

"Was she facing you when you saw her?"

"She was walking in my direction."

"You told us earlier that you offered to bring her some chanterelles.
What else did you talk about?"

"She asked me if the new girl, the sick girl, was well enough to go out
in the woods."

"She knew there was a new woman at the ranch al ready?"

"She knew, and she knew there was another child there, too."

"Was she pleasant to you and Annie that morning?"

Angela's lips tightened a fraction.

"She didn't see Annie.  Annie was looking for something on the floor in
the backseat.  She was pleasant enough to me."

"Did you happen to notice what time it was when you stopped to talk to
Mrs.  Dodgson?"

"Ten-thirty.  I told Emma I'd be there at ten-thirty and I would have
been if I didn't stop first."

"All right.  They were waiting for you at the Canby house.  Did you
leave right away?"

"No.  It was about ten minutes after I got there that I told Emma to go
ahead and we'd catch up.  We waited a few minutes and then Paula and me
started.  She stopped at the woods and leaned against a tree.  I went
on ahead of her.  But I got uneasy about leaving her and the three
little girls, and I went back just about when Annie came running out
and said something to Paula and Fern called her, and she went tearing
off to see what Fern was up to."

"Mrs.  Everts, could you point to where Paula Kennerman stopped?  Where
you were when Annie came out again?"

She looked hesitant and moistened her lips.

"I just don't know for sure."

"Try.  For instance, this is the house.  You have reached the woods
with Paula Kennerman.  Where?"

With great reluctance Angela left the witness stand to approach the map
on the easel.

"We come out this way," she mumbled after studying the map for a second
or two.

"Fern, she went off up this way, to the apple tree.  And I went this
way, along the edge of the woods, sort of waiting for the girls to come
along."

"Then you saw Annie running toward Paula Kennerman.  Where were you
when you saw her?"

"I don't know."

"How far away do you suppose you were?  As far as from here to the back
of the courtroom?"

"More.  Oh, I know.  Just about even with the end of the garden. That's
right."  She put her finger on the map.

Barbara drew a small red circle.

"From that spot you couldn't see the house or the driveway, could you?
Wasn't there too much shrubbery?"

"Yes, there was.  I saw Annie after she got past the bushes."

"And looking that way, you would have seen the barn but not the woods
beyond it.  Is that right?"

"Yes."

"Thank you, Mrs.  Everts.  You may sit down again."

She waited until Angela was back on the witness stand.

"So you were here, and Annie ran out.  Did you go to her right away?"

"I waited a little, not much.  Then I started to walk to them."

"Where were you when Annie reached Paula?"

"I don't know," she said, almost in anguish.

"Annie was running.  She runs like a deer.  And Fern yelled at her, and
she ran off that way by the time I got to "Did you hear what Annie told
Paula?"

"I thought I did," she mumbled, "but I just don't know."

"Were you as far from them as from here to the back of the
courtroom?"

"No.  Maybe almost that far.  I don't know."

"Was Annie facing you?"

"No.  She was looking at Paula and then at the apple tree.  Fern was
yelling to her."

"I see.  So she came out and said something, and at the same time the
other little girl was calling her.  Was Annie yelling?"

"No.  Fern was yelling.  And Mr.  Dodgson was revving up his mowing
machine something awful.  He was stuck in the marsh."

"So it would have been very difficult for you to hear what Annie told
Paula?"

"It would have been hard."

"When you reached Paula Kennerman, where was Annie?"

"At the apple tree with Fern."

Barbara put her finger there on the map.

"And what did Paula say?"

"She said Lori was sleeping, but she didn't want her to wake up alone
in a strange house and maybe she should go back, and after a minute she
started to go back."

"And where did you go?"

"Over to the girls at the tree.  And Annie said Lori fell asleep
watching television and she didn't want to stay in the house with her.
I told them since Lori's mother would be with her they could come with
me if they wanted to, but they didn't, and I started through the
woods."

"Did you look back at Paula or the house after that?"

"No, I just went into the woods and headed down toward Emma and the
others."  She paused, then added without prompting, "And in just a
second Annie yelled that they were coming, too, so I slowed down and
waited for them, and we all went on together."

Barbara nodded at her reassuringly.

"When you reached the house after the explosion, what exactly was Paula
doing?"

"Well, she was on the ground, sort of on her hands and knees, dragging
herself, sort of.  I helped her get up and she tried to pull away and
go to the house, but it was blazing everywhere and I held her."

"Was she fighting you?"

"No.  She was sort of dazed and real wobbly.  She couldn't hardly stand
up alone, but she kept pulling."

"Now, when you drove to the Dodgson house to call the fire department,
who let you in?"

"Mrs.  Dodgson."

"You went to the front door?"

"Oh, yes.  It was closer, going in the front, so I never gave it a
thought, but she looked real surprised and not very happy about it."

"Did you see anyone else?"

"Reggie Melrose came out to see what was happening

"She's the housekeeper?"

"She used to be."

"Anyone else?"

"Craig Dodgson was in the swimming pool."

Angela described going into the family room to use the phone.

"Mrs.  Dodgson went to the pool and yelled at Craig to get out and
tossed his robe down and turned off the music.  Then she came back and
closed the door while I was talking to the fire department.  She went
to the door with me, and I left and went back to the house."

"You say she threw down his robe.  Where did she get it?"

"She was carrying it when I got there, I guess.  She had it when she
opened the door."

"You can see into the pool room from the family room?"

"Yes.  There's a door, and a hall, and the door to the pool room right
opposite.  Both doors were open.  That's why the music was so
blaring."

"So she went into the pool room and then what?  Did you watch her?"

"Not really.  It's just that the telephone's on a table so that you
look at a wall or that way.  I saw her."

"She threw down his robe and yelled at him to come out?"

"No.  She went to one of the tables and chairs and turned off the music
and put his robe on a chair and then yelled at him."

"Did you see Craig Dodgson?"

"Yes.  When she turned off the music, his head popped up out of the
water.  That's when I turned my back."

Barbara thanked her and sat down.

When Fierst approached her for his redirect examination, he carried a
sheaf of papers.

"Mrs.  Everts," he said in a quiet, almost sad voice, "when you made
your preliminary statement you said that Annie ran out to Paula
Kennerman and said that Lori fell asleep watching television.  Was that
correct?"

"That's what she told me happened."

"Let me read from the statement you made, Mrs.

Everts.  The question was: "What happened then?"  You answered, "Annie
come running out and said that Lori fell asleep watching television, so
she didn't want to stay in with her.  Then her and Fern decided not to
look for mushrooms but to keep on making garlands with the apple
blossoms, and I went on to catch up with Emma and the others.  Paula
Kennerman went back to the house."

" He looked at her for a moment and then asked, "Do you remember making
that statement?"

"Yes, I remember that day."

"And you read it and signed it because you thought it was correct?"

"I signed it.  I don't remember now just when Annie said that."

"Mrs.  Everts, wouldn't you say your memory of what happened was
clearer that soon after the events than it is now, nearly six months
later?"

"Objection," Barbara snapped.

She was overruled, as she had known she would be.

"Mrs.  Everts, do you remember the question?"  Fierst asked.

"I remember it.  I just don't know."  Her voice had be come fainter
again, more muffled, and she had paled.

He read another bit of her statement and asked her if she remembered
that part; she said yes.  He read another question and answer and asked
her again, and again she said yes.  Patiently, he kept at it until he
had covered most of what she had said in her preliminary statement.

"Mrs.  Everts, why is it that you recall so well every thing in your
statement except this one incident?  Can you explain that?"

"Your Honor, I object.  Mr.  Fierst knows very well that no one can
explain the capriciousness of memory."

"Sustained," Judge Paltz said quietly.

"Mr.  Fierst, perhaps you can get on to something else?"

Fierst bowed slightly.  And suddenly Barbara wondered if he saw himself
as Job, much put-upon, forced to endure the obstinacy of defense
counsel and his own witness.

"No further questions," he said.  The look he gave Angela was long and
very sad.  He shook his head slightly and sat down.

After Angela left the stand, Fierst asked permission to enter a
statement made by Annie Everts in the presence of her mother; Sergeant
Gary Durham; Ms.

Rogene Lancaster, an assistant to the district attorney;

and Mr.  William Spassero, who at that time was the defense counsel for
Paula Kennerman.  He read the statement in his dry, almost inflection
less voice, sounding ludicrous as he repeated the child's words.

Sgt.  Durham: "And when you reached Mrs.

Kennerman, then what did you do?"

Annie: "I don't know."

Sgt.  Durham: "You told her something, didn't you?"

Annie: "Yeah, I guess so.  Mom was coming."

Sgt.  Durham: "Did you tell them where Lori was?"

Annie: "Yeah.  Sleeping.  We watched television and she went to sleep.
She sucked her thumb."

Sgt.  Durham: "And you told them that?"

Annie: "Yeah, I guess so."

Ms.  Lancaster: "Did you tell Mrs.  Kennerman that?"

Annie: "Yeah.  I told everybody.  And me and Fern made some more
crowns."

Spassero was not quoted as asking anything.

Judge Paltz called for a ten-minute recess, and when he was gone, Paula
whispered, "She didn't tell me that.

She didn't."

"Shh," Barbara murmured.

"We'll get our turn.  Go take a break for a minute.  Remember, we'll
get our turn."

That their turn was coming was all Paula could cling to now, Barbara
thought, watching her being escorted from the courtroom by a police
matron.  Paula knew how damning that one little point could be: Had she
known Lori was downstairs sleeping in front of the television instead
of upstairs in bed?  Paula was so pale jailhouse pallor but she walked
out with her back straight and her head up.  Good girl, Barbara thought
at her.  She was seething at Spassero, who had stood mute while that
inane questioning had been taking place.

"Let's get some coffee," Frank said close to her ear.

"The Dodgsons have arrived in force, all three of them."

FOURTEEN

bad timing, barbara thought, at ten minutes before four when Kay
Dodgson was called by the prosecution.

She walked briskly to the front of the courtroom and swore to tell the
truth, and seated herself.  She was dressed in a dusty-rose, raw silk
suit with perfectly dyed shoes and hose to match.  Her blouse was
creamy white.  She had a lapel pin with rubies, and earrings with
rubies, and rings on several fingers.  She was trim, moved like a
dancer or an athlete, very attractive, with dark hair skillfully
coiffed, skin a touch too swarthy for the delicate colors she wore, but
beautifully made up.

The jewelry was overkill, the makeup perfect.  A very rich-looking
lady, Barbara thought.

But it was bad timing.  Whatever Kay Dodgson said would go undisputed
overnight, leaving a long time for the jurors' minds to assimilate it,
to embed it in concrete.

Gerald Fierst was not exactly deferential to her, but his tone was not
what it had been with Emma and Angela, either.  He treated this witness
with a respect they had not received.

He led her through the background of purchasing the land, building a
house, how long they had been there, what she and her husband did, the
fact that their son, Craig, lived at home with them.

He led her to the day of the fire and asked her to tell, in her own
words, what she had done that morning.

"Like most Saturday mornings," she said, "Craig was swimming laps, and
that morning Rich was mowing the grass when I went out to take my
walk."  She filled in the rest briefly.

"Thank you," he said.

"Now, for the record, did you notice what time you left the house, when
you met Angela Everts?"

She shook her head.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"I just didn't notice.  It was just so routine."  She looked regretful 
Then she brightened and said, "Oh, yes, it had to be after eleven when
I got back to the house.  Mrs.  Melrose had arrived; her car was parked
in the driveway."

Barbara jotted a note and handed it over her shoulder to Frank.  What
did she do before Dodgson?  Actress?

Model?  Something that gave her a public poise that few people had,
something that made her aware of timing, of gestures, that let her
control her expression too art fully.

"Mrs.  Melrose is your housekeeper?"

"She was.  She always arrived punctually at eleven."

"Very well," Fierst said.

"When you were walking, in which direction were you going when you met
Angela Everts?"  He finally left the table and crossed to stand in
front of the jury box, so that, in facing him, she was also facing
them.  It was a way of saying.  Now we come to the important part.

"Toward the end of the road at the pond.  I was al most there."

"And you went to the end of the road?"

"Oh, yes."

"What did you do then?"

"As I said, I turned around and went the other way, to the other end
where the pavement stops.  And then I went back home."

"So you were facing in the direction of the Canby house and the length
of the road?"  He crossed to the map.

"Ms.  Holloway has kindly furnished us with a map of the area."  There
was not a trace of irony in his voice.

"If you were walking this way, the entire area of the Canby property
was visible to you, was it not?"

"Yes.  Up to where the woods start."

"Did you see anyone other than Angela Everts that morning?"

She shook her head.

"No, I did not."  She smiled and added, "Except Rich, out on his mowing
machine."

"It has been suggested, Mrs.  Dodgson, that you and your husband
objected 'to the use of the Canby Ranch as a refuge for women.  Is that
correct?"

"No," she said indignantly.

"May I explain our position?"

"By all means, please explain."

"Well, when Mrs.  Canby told us what she planned, we discussed it among
ourselves at home and decided there was no harm in it as long as the
women were quiet and well behaved.  They might not have been the
neighbors we would have chosen, but we made no objections then, and
later when there were minor incidents, Rich went directly to Mrs. Canby
to talk them over.  We never printed a word against using the ranch
like that.  We never talked about it with anyone.  We accepted the
situation.  We believe very strongly that one should have the right to
use personal property in any way he chooses, without interference,
unless he creates a public nuisance or a danger to others."

She said this in a rush that left her almost breathless, as if her
indignation had overwhelmed her.

"I see," Fierst said.

"Did you spy on the Canby property?"

"Of course not!  We believe in the sanctity of marriage as very few
people seem to these days, and we feared that the domestic squabbles
that made women run away from home might follow them to the ranch and
cause trouble that could possibly spread.  As it turned out, we were
right."

"Objection," Barbara said.

"I ask that the editorial be stricken from the record, and that the
witness simply answer the questions put to her."

"Sustained," Judge Paltz said before Fierst could speak.

"Everything following "Of course not' will be stricken.  Mrs.  Dodgson,
please, just answer the questions

"Exception, Your Honor," Fierst said with his first show of anger.

"Noted," Judge Paltz said.

"Now, let us move on."

"Mrs.  Dodgson, did you hire someone to look out for your property?"

"Not hire, not in the usual sense in that she was a paid employee on a
regular basis.  We asked a neighbor to keep an eye out for trouble and
let us know if there was any when we weren't there ourselves to protect
our property.  That certainly is not spying."

"Did you pay her?"

"We gave her a little something now and then.  Certainly  She is
practically bed rid " "Objection!"  Barbara snapped.

"Sustained.  Mrs.  Dodgson, just answer the questions," Judge Paltz
said in a voice so soft and low it sounded ominous.

"Mrs.  Dodgson, are you acquainted with Paula Kennerman?"  Fierst
asked, as courteous as before, but without the note of deference.

"No.  I never laid eyes--" She glanced at the judge, clamped her lips,
and shook her head.

"Did you know Lori Kennerman?"

"No."

"No more questions," Fierst said and nodded to Barbara.

His face was expressionless.

So he disliked his witness, Barbara thought as she rose.  Too bad.  But
stitch by stitch he was sewing up the Canby property nice and tight.

Before she could speak.  Judge Paltz said, "In light of the hour we
will adjourn until nine tomorrow morning."

It was four-forty.

"Be careful with him," Frank murmured after the judge left, and the
others in the courtroom rose and started the usual buzz.

"Lewis doesn't like her and her crew, and that will make him be fairer
than fair."

She nodded.  Like Angela, she remembered, stopping just because she
disliked Mrs.  Dodgson so much.  She turned to give Paula a few words
of encouragement.

"Still their winning, but hang in there.  I intend to fry that .. .
woman."

"Bitch," Paula muttered.

"You got it.  See you in the morning."

Outside, the police were keeping the demonstrators back with ropes.
There seemed to be a lot of uniforms, and a lot more yelling people,
still with signs that waved back and forth dangerously.  They could
brain each other, Barbara thought with disgust.  She ignored the TV
cameras, the news reporters shouting questions.

The bailiff went with them to introduce their driver, Heath Byerson, a
cheerful lanky police sergeant, out of uniform for this mission.

"You tell me where to, and that's it," he said when they entered his
car.

"Home," Frank said, and gave the address.

"Okay.  We'll just drive around a few minutes first."

He whistled softly between his teeth as he drove in the wrong
direction.

"I need to get out of these clothes and take a long brisk walk, maybe
even a run, and I have to look up something at the office," Barbara
said.

"You will need dinner eventually.  Pick you up at the office later?
Seven-thirty?"

She nodded.  She could almost see the citation she wanted.

"What I need is a glass of very good wine," Frank said as they drew
near his house.

Heath Byerson slowed down and surveyed the street carefully before he
stopped.

"See you in the morning.

Quarter to nine okay?"

They said it was and got out; he left, "Honey, if you tell me what it
is you want to look up, maybe it will come to mind," Prank suggested
when they walked to her car in his driveway.

"Back East somewhere, a witness lied so often that finally all his
testimony was thrown out.  State appellate upheld the decision.  That's
all I can think of right now."

"You mean Stanley," Frank said with a grin.

"Good old Stanley.  State of Rhode Island versus Stanley, back around
'forty-eight or so.  Everyone knows good old Stanley."

She laughed and kissed his cheek.

As she got into her car, he said, "Bobby, the catch to Stanley is that
first you have to prove the lies.  Remember that."

"How many does it take?"

"More than one or two.  Pick you up around seven?"

She nodded and drove home.

Bill Spassero was waiting for her at her house.  She recognized him
instantly; at least, she corrected herself, she recognized his hair,
which looked like a dandelion gone to seed.  He was on the porch,
stiffly upright, watching a neighborhood happening: a dozen or more
people had gathered to paint the Delgados' house.

There was loud music from a boom box, a keg of beer on a table, and a
lot of children running around.  She waved to her neighbors, and
Spassero came down to meet her at the car door.

"Can we talk?"  he asked.

"Why?"

"I'm not sure.  I just feel we should talk, if you're not too beat."

"I'm going to change clothes and take a long walk," she said, heading
for the house with him at her side.

"That's about all I'm in the mood for.  Sorry."  Now she saw his car, a
low, sleek Nissan-something that cried money.

"Let me walk with you, then."

She eyed his expensive suit and shoes.

"You're not really dressed for a walk on the bike path, are you?"

He nodded.

"I'll wait here and let you decide.

Okay?"

She shrugged and entered her house and locked the door behind her.  Now
what?  she thought irritably.

She took off her silky jacket and hung it up, eyeing it with dismay. Of
course, it would wrinkle like that, she told herself, and took it to
the bathroom to steam later.  She would have to press it, she knew, and
pre tended not to know.  She hung up her skirt and tossed the blouse
and panty hose into her laundry basket and dressed again, this time in
jeans and a T-shirt.  When she went back out, ready for a brisk walk,
he was waiting.

She led the way, set the pace, and he stayed at her side without
speaking.  She didn't look to see if he was taking in his surroundings.
The hell with it, she thought, but if she had spoken, she would have
said.  This is where most of your clients come from, bozo.  Look!  In
silence they crossed the train tracks; a short distance away a freight
train was being tortured with great crashes and screams of metal on
metal.  She had not heard the switching yards for a long time; today it
was eerie, like being in a futuristic world where the metal beasts were
dominant and coupled with shrieks of anguish  At last they reached the
bicycle path, which led off in both directions.  She turned left. The
path paralleled the river, and they had to keep to the edge because of
the cyclists, the people running dogs on leashes, and hordes of
teenagers who appeared in a dead heat and passed them the same way. It
was relatively cool here, and the river sparkled and was beautiful,
giving no hint of the continuing drought that was plaguing the
county.

A pall of smoke discolored the sky.

At last he said, "I keep thinking that any day now you'll tell me what
you want."

She didn't respond.  She was walking faster than she would have done if
she were alone; a film of sweat covered her arms; she could feel it on
her face, down her back.  It felt good.

"I keep trying to figure it out," he said.

"I looked you up.  I know everything there is to know that's public
knowledge, and it's no help."

"Look, Mr.  Spassero, I don't want anything.  So you can go now."

"Why did you do it, then?"

She nodded to a man and woman approaching.  The man had a small boy on
his shoulders; the child had both hands full of the man's hair.  They
were all grinning

"I tossed a coin," she said.

"Heads you were in collusion which I probably never could prove; tails
you were bone ignorant.  Tails won.  I'd have done the same thing for a
kid brother.  Now go home."

"I'm thirty-two," he said.

"You've been sheltered."

"That's true.  Do you want me to tell you about it?"

"No."

"But I want to.  The day after I got the Kennerman case Doneally showed
up.  You called it: They had been watching me; they were interested;
they wanted a new man in the office, the whole works.  I was
flattered.

And, yes, bone ignorant.  It simply never occurred to me to question
why this had come up now."

Barbara maintained her steady, too-fast pace and didn't even glance at
him.  Now and then she nodded at others on the path, and now and then
moved aside to let others pass her, and now and then noted the ripeness
of the blackberries that still clung to the brambles that were thick
along the side of the path.

"Okay," he said, "I should have suspected something;

I can see that now, but there wasn't any reason to at the time.  I
thought Kennerman was guilty.  I still think she's guilty.  I believed
Doneally was giving me guidance; no one had ever done that before.
Doneally told me Copley was his own doctor; I never even questioned
what he was prescribing."

He lapsed into silence, and she began to get a sense of how difficult
this was for him.

"Then, after you got the case, I took the file and went away to think.
I read everything again and again, and it still didn't make sense, not
until I got back and did a little research on Dodgson and found out
that Doneally was his attorney."

She looked at him now.  He was walking steadily, his gaze on the ground
before him, frowning.

"I still don't understand it," he admitted.  He caught her arm.

"Could we take it a little slower?  This isn't the easiest thing I've
ever done, and I need all my breath."

She slowed down thankfully.

"So I called Doneally and told him I'd reconsidered and decided to stay
on at the public defender's office.

He said that was just as well, because they had decided not to expand
after all, not just now."

She remained silent.  He had not told her a thing she had not already
known or guessed.  She waited for the hook.

"Then you did what you did.  Judge Paltz was really very generous, you
know?  I didn't expect that.  I met him in the hall a couple of days
ago and he asked me if I'd spoken to you."

Now we have it, she thought, regret tinged with bitterness.

If the judge asked again, he could answer yes and look schoolboy
innocent.

When he spoke the next time, his words were slower, more hesitant.

"I realized that you hadn't said a word to him when he called you.  I
didn't expect that, either."

He touched her arm again and stopped walking; she stopped also.

"Look," he said, "I know I'm bugging you.  You need time alone, to
think, to relax.  I'm sorry.

I just want to tell you that I'm extremely grateful.  Not that I won't
still be waiting to see what you want, but there it is.  I'm grateful.
Thank you."  He looked as if those words cost him more than he could
pay.  Abruptly, he turned and almost ran in the opposite direction.

She watched him fop a second or two, and then continued on her walk.
What was he after?

Later, when she told her father about the meeting, he said, "Maybe he
said what's on his mind--he's sorry, he was wrong."

"Right," she said.

"Why didn't he come forward when he knew what was up?"

"Scared, probably.  A decade of life gone down the tube.  When you're
his age, a decade is one third of your life.  That's hard."

She made a snorting sound that even to her ears sounded exactly like
the kind of noise he made when disgusted.

"You know," he went on, "most of the time it's easy enough to spot when
you've made an enemy, but it takes a lot of experience to recognize
when you've made a friend."

The next morning she drove to Frank's house; Heath Byerson arrived
promptly at eight forty-five and drove them to the courthouse, where
they were present in force.  She ignored them.

Today Kay Dodgson wore a soft pink dress with a matching jacket, and
pearls, and looked even more expensively turned out than she had
previously.

Judge Paltz reminded her that she was still under oath, but before
Barbara could start, Gerald Fierst said, "Your Honor, the witness spoke
to me before court this morning and said she would like to make a
statement.

She mis spoke yesterday and wants to correct the record."

Judge Paltz eyed Kay Dodgson with a distant look.

"Is that so, Mrs.  Dodgson?"

"Yes, sir," she said.

"I made a mistake.  I realized last night that it might look bad, and I
thought I should fix it as soon as I could."

So, Barbara thought, Doneally, Dodgson's attorney, knew about Rhode
Island v. Stanley along with everyone else.

"Proceed, Mrs.  Dodgson," Judge Paltz said.

"Thank you.  Your Honor.  You see, when he asked if we paid Carrie
Voight, I was thinking of paying, like you do people who clean the
house, and the people who work at the press, you know, on a weekly
basis, or hourly, or whatever.  Then I realized that since Rich is
helping support Carrie, that might look like we're paying her.  But
it's not the same thing."  She hesitated, and cast a swift glance at
the jury, then plunged on.

"We give donate, that is, two hundred fifty dollars a month to help
support her."

Judge Paltz nodded.

"Thank you, Mrs.  Dodgson.  Ms.

Holloway, if you will."

"That's a very generous gift, Mrs.  Dodgson," Barbara said, rising,
moving toward the witness stand.

"Is Carrie Voight related to you or your husband?"

"Of course not."

"So you can't even claim her as a dependent on your income tax, which
makes it even more generous.  How long have you lived in your present
house, Mrs.

Dodgson?"

"Twelve years."

"And when did you start this act of generosity with Carrie Voight?"

"I really don't know for sure."  Kay Dodgson glanced again at the jury
box and raised her eyebrows.

"I mean, we just like to help people.  We don't make notes about it."

"You said earlier that you're the general manager of the Dodgson
Publishing Company, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"So you keep the books?  Do the accounts?  Make out the payroll?  Are
those your functions?"

"Yes," she said sharply.

"I said that."

"I know you did, Mrs.  Dodgson.  I know you did," Barbara said
easily.

"Yet you don't know how long you have been paying, excuse me, giving
Carrie Voight two hundred fifty dollars a month?"

"No, I don't."  She turned her gaze to Gerald Fierst, as if to seek his
intervention.  He made no response.

"Mrs.  Dodgson, what kind of arrangement did you have with Carrie
Voight?  Did she report personally when something was out of line?"

"No.  I never met her."

"How did she communicate when she suspected a problem?"

"She called us sometimes to say what was going on."

"I see.  Did you take those calls?"

"No.  She talked to Rich.  I never had anything to do with her."

"Did you share your husband's feelings about the seriousness of the
incident when two women from the ranch went swimming nude in the
pond?"

"Yes!  Absolutely.  I have to protect my own children from that sort of
thing."  Her mouth had become very tight, her lips almost invisible,
and two spots of red appeared on her cheeks as she answered.

"How old are your children, Mrs.  Dodgson?"

"Craig is twenty-seven and Alex is twenty-three."

"And this happened two years ago when they were twenty-five and
twenty-one.  Do they ever swim nude, Mrs.  Dodgson?"

"No!  Of course--" She stopped herself and said, even more tightly, "In
the privacy of our home, not in public, they might."

Barbara went to her table and opened a file, extracted several glossy
prints.

"Your Honor, I would like to introduce into evidence photographs of the
pond we are talking about."

"Objection," Fierst said, and already he sounded tired.

"This is irrelevant to the case we're hearing."

"Your Honor," Barbara said, approaching the bench, "this witness is
prejudicial to the use that was made of the Canby property, and that
prejudice may have ex 9 tended to my client.  In cases of extreme
prejudice witnesses sometimes mis speak misinterpret what they see, or
fail to see what is clearly before them.  It is my intention " Judge
Paltz held up his hand and overruled the objection, and Barbara
continued.

"This is a photograph of the pond taken from the private road leading
to the Canby property.  Do you recognize the pond?"

"Of course not!  I can't even see the pond!"

"This one was taken from Farleigh Road.  Do you recognize the pond from
this one?"

"No!"  Kay Dodgson snapped.

"And finally, another one taken from your driveway off the private
road.  Can you recognize the pond here?"

"You know I can't see the pond in those pictures."

"Yes, I know that.  And yet the swimming incident was one of the
problems your husband raised with Mrs.

Canby, wasn't it?"

"Yes.  That pond is in public view, even if those pictures don't show
it."

Barbara went to the aerial map and traced the outline of the pond.

"Three-fourths of the ground around the pond is overgrown with rushes
that grow six to eight feet high by midsummer."  She pointed to a
narrow strip without vegetation.

"This one area is open, and it faces the woods that are on the Canby
property.  Would you call that public, Mrs.  Dodgson?"

"Yes.  Swimming naked in public is indecent, and they were there to be
seen by anyone who looked."

"When your two sons swim nude, what is to prevent your housekeeper from
glancing in and seeing them?"

"She knows better.  If they have the music on, she doesn't go near the
pool room."

"So, if those two women had played music, that would have been enough
to warn off possible voyeurs?"

"They had no business swimming naked out in the open like that!  Not
around impressionable young boys."

"Mrs.  Dodgson, did your sons make it a habit to tres pass on the Canby
property here in the woods, for ex ample?"

"Never!  They knew better than to go over there."

"Could they have seen anyone in that pond from your property?"

Kay Dodgson hesitated and Pierst objected.

"The witness can't testify about what someone else might have seen."

"I withdraw the question," Barbara said.  Then she asked, "Did you see
the women swimming that day?"

"No."

"When did you hear about it?"

"I don't remember.  After dinner, after Rich got home.

I'm not sure."

"Your sons didn't report it to you?"

"No.  Rich told us."

"Was he at work that day?"

"Yes."

Barbara led her through the incident with the gate.

Did she see anyone actually turning around on their property?  Was Rich
home when it happened?  Was Craig?

"If no one saw it, why were you so upset?  Was any harm done to your
landscaping?"

"No.  We were afraid one of those women would decide to take a shortcut
through our driveway out to Spring Bay Road.  You just don't know what
irresponsible women like that will do.  We wanted them to stay off our
property, and we put up a gate to see that they did stay off."

"How can you be certain it was one of those women who turned in your
driveway that day since no one in your household saw her?"

"We knew.  We just knew."

"Did Carrie Voight tell you?"

"Not me.  She might have told Rich.  Not me.  I told you, she didn't
call me."

During the first recess Frank handed Barbara a report from Bailey.  She
read it and grinned.  Kay Dodgson had been a dancer in a casino in Las
Vegas when she married Rich Dodgson.  Frank winked at her.

"You're wearing her down just fine," he commented.

She nodded.

"Not enough, not yet.  But I'm working on it."

When they all filed back into the courtroom, she heard Frank's voice in
her ear.

"Someone opened up her spine and filled it with starch."  Kay Dodgson
was almost rigidly straight, with high color, as if she had been given
a swift kick.  Barbara hoped that had happened.

"Mrs.  Dodgson," she asked, "have you ever met any of the guests at the
Canby Ranch?"

"No, of course not!"

"Yet earlier you labeled them irresponsible.  Why?"

"They left their husbands, didn't they?  That's irresponsible."

"Do you think there is ever a legitimate cause for a woman to leave her
husband?"

"Rarely."

"Do you accept that some men beat their wives?"

"If they fight, it takes two."

Fierst objected on the grounds that a criminal trial was no place to
conduct a philosophical discussion.

Barbara agreed, thinking, testing, just testing.

She led Kay Dodgson through the incident with the woman photographer
and concluded by asking, "So no one could have seen her, since you say
your family rises at about eight or eight-thirty.  Is that right?"

"Yes."

"And she didn't make any noise that you heard?  Is that right?"

"Yes."

"She didn't leave any trash behind, did she?"

"I don't know."

"If she had, wouldn't that have been part of the complaint?"

"Maybe.  I don't know."

"So no one saw her, or heard her, and probably no one found anything
she left behind.  How did you know she had been on your property?"

"Rich told me."

"And did Carrie Voight tell him?"

"Yes."

Later: "Mrs.  Dodgson, how did your husband and son learn that a woman
had miscarried?"

"I don't know."

"Did you know they were going to the Canby house to confront Mrs.
Tidball, to accuse her of running an abortion clinic?"

"I knew.  We all talked about it first."

"Do you and your husband support someone in the emergency room of
Sacred Heart Hospital?"

"What do you mean?"

"Do you have a spy in the hospital who calls you when there's a
suspicious emergency?"

"We don't have spies!"

"You say you help out Carrie Voight.  Do you 'help out' someone in the
emergency room of the hospital?"

"No," she said harshly.

"We were suspicious from the start, that's all."

"Yet you didn't go to Mrs.  Canby this time.  Why not?"

"It was just a miscarriage, that's all."

"How did you know that?"

"Emma Tidball told Rich."  She drew in a quick breath.

"And they threatened him and Craig, just like we always knew they
would."

"You knew that Paula Kennerman and her daughter had arrived at the
ranch.  How did you know she was injured

"I didn't know that."

"What did you say to Angela Everts that Saturday morning?"

"I said I'd like some mushrooms.  That's about all."

"Did you mention the new woman and her child?"

"I don't know.  I might have.  We wanted them to know we were keeping
an eye on them, that's all."

"Did you ask if the new woman was well enough to go into the woods?"

"No!  I didn't.  I didn't know she was hurt."  The red spots on her
cheeks had spread down her face.  Angela Everts had been right; pink
was not a good color for her.  And the stage training that had given
her poise yesterday had deserted her today.

Barbara walked to her table and leaned against it with her arms
crossed.

"You said as long as they were quiet and behaved themselves, you had no
objection to women using the Canby Ranch as a refuge.  Is that
right?"

"Yes, that's what I said.  That's what we agreed from the start."

"Were they quiet?"

"I don't know.  I guess so."

"Your house is about how far from the site of the Canby house?"

"I don't know, not very far."

Barbara went to the pile of stuff on her table and pulled out an
acetate sheet.

"This is an overlay with distances marked to scale with the aerial
map."  It was accepted as an exhibit and she carefully positioned it
over the other map.

"Let's see the distances we're talking about," she said.

"Your house here is two thousand fifty feet from the site of the Canby
house.  About half a mile.  Wouldn't you say there was little chance of
hearing anything from such a distance?"

"I guess so."

"Mrs.  Dodgson, when did you and your husband sell the other parcel of
land?  Over here, across Spring Bay Road?"

"Objection," Fierst cried.

"Your Honor, that is irrelevant.  What difference does it make to this
trial?"

"It isn't irrelevant," Barbara said swiftly.

"If they objected to noise, it is highly relevant to ascertain to whom
they sold that property, and for what purpose.  I maintain that noise
had nothing to do with their objections."

She was allowed to continue.  Kay Dodgson moistened her lips.

"When did you sell that piece of property?"  Barbara snapped at her.

"About nine years ago."

"And to whom?"

"Royce Gallead."

"What is Mr.  Gallead's occupation?"

"He owns a gun shop and a firing range, I think."

"Don't you know he owns a firing range, Mrs.

Dodgson?"

"Yes.  He does."

"Have you ever objected to the noise from the firing range?"

"No, I haven't.  We don't hear it much."

Barbara returned to the map and overlay and put her finger on the
Dodgson property, and then on the range.

"This shows four hundred fifty-five feet from your front door to his
back door.  That's less than half a city block.

But it doesn't bother you to hear gunfire.  Is that what you're
saying?"

"I never paid much attention to it."

"Is Mr.  Gallead a friend of yours?"

"No!  He's a neighbor, that's all."  She shot a swift glance at the
courtroom and then looked down at her hands clenched before her.

Good heavens, Barbara thought.  She's terrified of him.

To give herself time to consider this new datum, she walked back to the
table and took a sip of water.  Later, she thought.  Later.  She
returned to the map.

"Mrs.  Dodg son, the Canby house was screened by evergreens and
rhododendrons, wasn't it?"

"Yes."  She looked up from her hands and then put them in her lap.

"So your spy that is, your helpful neighbor couldn't really see what
was going on once a car got near the house.  Is that right?"

"Objection," Fierst said.

"She can't testify as to what someone else could see."

Barbara nodded and didn't demur when the objection was sustained.  She
was playing for time now; she didn't want to get into that Saturday and
then break for lunch.

She said, "If you were on the private road, you couldn't see the house,
could you?"

"No."

"Your vision was obscured by the shrubbery around the house and then by
the trees on the side of the drive way.  Is that right?"

"Well, when I got near enough I could see more."

"Even if you were up here, near the end of the road, you still couldn't
see through the dense forest, could you?"

The map showed the forest to be almost solid.  Kay Dodgson looked at it
for a second or two, and then said, "I could see someone if someone was
there."

"But I didn't ask you that, now did I?"  Barbara said in a kindly
voice.

"Do you have exceptional vision, Mrs.  Dodgson?  X-ray vision, perhaps?
The ability to see through a tree?"

"Objection!"  Fierst yelled.

"Counsel knows she can't harangue the witness in such a manner."

"Ms.  Holloway, that is quite enough of that," Judge Paltz said.

"Sustained.  Since it is almost noon, we will recess until two."

When she turned to look out over the courtroom, they were there staring
at her with hatred.  Standing against the back wall was Bill Spassero.
He nodded, and left.

"Well, sometimes you have to put your paw in the door before someone
will close it," Frank said with a grin as he examined his sandwich in
the little room that made Barbara feel like a caged animal.

She looked out the window.  They were patrolling the crosswalk.  They
were in the cafeteria, she knew.  She had the second floor of the
building to pace in; at least they were not allowed here.

"I've been thinking about disguises," Frank said thoughtfully.

"A beard for me, maybe a red wig for you, funny clothes ..."

She snarled at him and went out to pace the second floor.

FIFTEEN

"mrs.  dodgson," barbara started that afternoon, "as bookkeeper and
general manager of Dodgson Publishing, do you handle the employee
records?  Deductions for taxes, health insurance, that sort of
thing?"

"Yes, of course," Kay Dodgson said.  The break had been good for her;
she was in her very cool mode, gazing past Barbara as if bored.

"How many employees do you have?"

"Seven at the company, four full-time, three part-time."

"And you keep all their records?"

"Yes."

"Do you have a grounds maintenance person?"

"Of course.  He's part-time."

"Does he also work at your residence?"

"Yes."

"So you work with numbers a great deal.  Do you keep separate accounts
for what he does at the company and what he does at your home?"

"No.  Yes, I mean."

"Is your son Craig a paid employee?"

"Yes.  He's learning the business."

"And your other son, Alex?  Is he a paid employee?"

Kay Dodgson stiffened, then shrugged.

"He's an in tern in the office of Senator Bulmar in Seattle.  He
doesn't work for us."

"Is he a paid intern?"

"I don't know."

"Well, do you give him an allowance?"

"Yes."

"So you're tracking seven employees, three family members here, and the
allowance of another son.  Does your husband handle any of the
financial affairs of the company?"

"No.  I told you, he does the editorial end; I do the business."

"Yes, so you did.  But he handles the donations, is that right?"

"Yes."

"Does he draw from company funds to do that?"

"No.  That's his personal account."  She had become more and more wary
as this line of questioning continued  Now her gaze flicked from
Barbara to the jury, back to Barbara.

"Does Mr.  Dodgson draw a monthly salary?"

"No, not really.  He just has some personal money that he can use any
way he wants."

"Is that in a separate checking account?"

"No.  It's just his money.  I don't question what he does with it."

"But you balance the account monthly?  You process the checks?"

"Yes," she almost cried.

"I keep the books.  I told you that."

"Do you write the checks for the taxes on your property?"

"Yes."

"And for insurance, on the company property and your personal
property?"

"Yes.  That's all part of doing business," she said with a more
pronounced edge in her voice.

"Do you publish material other than the newspaper?"

"Yes."

"What kind of material do you print?"

"Objection," Fierst said.

"This line of questioning is leading into matters that are entirely
irrelevant to the case at hand."

"I agree," Judge Paltz said.

"Sustained."  The gaze he turned on Barbara was not angry, or even
cold, simply formal and distant.

Barbara nodded, and said to Kay Dodgson, "The kind of work you do takes
a concentrated focus, doesn't it?"

"Yes, very much so."

"And are you accustomed to estimating the cost of a job?  So many work
hours, plus material, plus overhead, and so on?  Is that part of what
you do?"

"Yes, I make the estimates."

"So you are used to dealing with numbers.  You notice details.  Would
you say that's correct?"

"Absolutely."

"According to the overlay on the aerial map, the total distance from
your house to the private road, up to the woods, down to the juncture
with Farleigh Road, and back to your house is a mile and a half."
Barbara traced the route with her finger as she described it.

"Would you say that's about right?"

"I don't know.  I never tried to measure it."

"How often do you take that walk?"

"Several times a week usually, unless it's raining."

"That's your exercise program, to walk a mile and a half?"

"I like to take a walk and that seems a good distance."

"Do you wear your regular clothes, the clothes you wear to the office,
for instance?"

"No.  The driveway is gravel.  It would ruin my shoes.

I dress for the walk."

"In what, Mrs.  Dodgson?  Running shoes, sweat pants?"

She hesitated briefly.

"I wear walking shoes, Nikes, and an appropriate outfit."

"Blue jeans?"

"Of course not.  Walking outfits, I suppose you could call them
sweatpants."

"Do you always walk in the morning?"

"Yes.  Right after breakfast."

"All right.  Do you make it a real workout?  Walk briskly?"

"Not always," she said cautiously.

"Sometimes."

"How long does it usually take you to walk a mile and a half?"

"I don't know," Kay Dodgson said almost triumphantly.

Barbara permitted herself a small smile and shook her head.

"You mean, you never noticed what time you left and what time you
returned?  Never?"

"No, I didn't."  She raised her chin slightly and glared at Barbara.

"I don't have to be bound by the clock, and I'm not."

"That's very fortunate," Barbara murmured.

"What time do you usually arrive at the office?"

"At ten o'clock.  Weekdays, that is.  Saturday we go in at one or two
to get the paper out for Monday morning."

"So, ten o'clock.  And you said earlier that you get up at eight or
eight-thirty.  Is that correct?"

Barbara could almost see her doing the numbers in her head.

"Closer to eight," Kay Dodgson said.

"You mis spoke when you said eight or eight-thirty?"

"It's closer to eight, that's what I meant before."

"All right.  Do you make breakfast?"

"No.  Just coffee."

"Do you read the paper, chat with your family?"

"No.  I just make coffee and get dressed and go for a walk."

"So if you were out of the house by eight-thirty at the latest, you
would allow yourself an hour and a half for the walk, for a shower, and
then to get dressed in time to get to the office by ten.  Is that about
what your schedule would be?"

"I don't know.  Something like that.  It only takes five minutes to get
to the office."  She appeared to have forgotten there was a jury and a
courtroom full of spectators.

She kept a narrow-eyed gaze on Barbara, as if waiting for the trap she
suspected was there and had not yet identified.

"Do you go to the office approximately dressed and made up the way you
are now, Mrs.  Dodgson?"  Barbara looked her over appraisingly.

Kay Dodgson flushed slightly.

"Yes, I do."

"So it must take you at least half an hour to shower and dress and put
on makeup, make yourself presentable?"

"I don't know."

Barbara nodded and glanced at the jury.  One of the women was nodding
slightly also.  She knew, Barbara thought.  She went to the defense
table and picked up a slim volume, which she introduced.

"This is a standard exercise manual published by the United States
Department of Health for adult fitness," she said after it was
labeled.

"According to the manual, a city block is approximately one-fifth of a
mile.  The mile and a half we are talking about here would be like
starting outside at the corner of Seventh Street and walking south to
the middle of the block between Twelfth and Thirteenth Streets.  Mrs.
Dodgson, I ask you, would it take you an hour to walk from here to
Thirteenth Street?"

Kay Dodgson's mouth tightened and her eyes narrowed even more.

"It might.  I don't know."

"Again, according to the manual, the average person simply walking--not
^running, not hurrying--walks a city block in five minutes or less.
That means the average walker covers a mile and a half in about
thirty-five minutes.  Mrs.  Dodgson, does it really take you twice as
long as the average person to walk that distance?  Is that your
exercise program?"  She made no attempt to disguise her disbelief.

"I don't know how long it takes!  I told you I don't go by the
clock."

"Your Honor," Fierst said, "I really have to object to this long and
drawn-out go-nowhere line of questioning.

Mrs.  Dodgson has said repeatedly that she doesn't know how long her
walks take.  And the whole matter is irrelevant."

"It is highly relevant," Barbara said.

"It is vital to my client to know how long Mrs.  Dodgson was on that
private road the morning her child was killed."

Judge Paltz allowed her to continue.

"Mrs.  Dodgson," she said, "you stated earlier that you left your house
that morning no later than ten, and possibly earlier than that.  Is
that correct?"

"I keep telling you--" "Mrs.  Dodgson, just yes or no.  Is that what
you said?"

"I don't know.  I suppose--" "Is that what you testified earlier, Mrs.
Dodgson?  We can have the court recorder find the question and answer
if you are not certain."

"Yes.  I said that.  It's the truth.  I don't know--" "The answer is
yes," Barbara said.

"You stated that your son Craig went in for a swim before you left the
house.  Is that correct?"

"Yes.  He did!"

"Did you see him enter the pool?"

"Yes.  No.  I heard him splash when he dived in, and the music was
on."

"Was the door open?"

"Yes."

"You didn't close the door to the pool room?"

"No.  I was on my way out."

"You stated that you left by the back door at ten, with the view of the
private road before you, and you turned toward Farieigh Road, where you
met Angela Everts.  Is that correct?"

"Yes, I did.  I don't know what time--" "Mrs.  Dodgson, will you please
just answer yes or no," Barbara snapped.

"I'm not asking for explanations or excuses."

"Objection."

"Sustained.  But, Mrs.  Dodgson, you must simply answer the questions
put to you.  Do you understand?"

She moistened her lips and nodded.

"Yes, sir."

"Mrs.  Dodgson," Barbara asked, "didn't you, in fact, head in the
opposite direction on the private road, and weren't you, in fact,
nearing the end of the walk when you met Angela Everts?"

"No!  No!  I wasn't!"

"You claim that you took half an hour to walk from your door to this
point?"  She pointed at the circle.

"A

distance of slightly over a quarter of a mile?  A seven or eight-minute
walk for an average walker?"

"Yes!"

"What were you doing all that time?"

"Just walking.  Taking my time."

"Or is it possible that you left your house at twenty-two minutes past
ten, that you walked at a normal pace to the point where you met Angela
Everts at ten-thirty?"

"No.  It was ten.  Or before, even."

Barbara went to the map once more.

"From your door to the private road is thirteen hundred fifty feet.  In
this direction, facing the Canby property and westward," she said,
pointing, "it is heavily forested, isn't it?"

"Not that thick," Kay Dodgson said through tight lips.

"The map shows that it is heavily forested," Barbara said scathingly.

"Didn't you leave those trees standing in order to insure privacy?"

"We left a few."

"You have to get nearly to the end of your driveway before you can see
the entrance to the Canby property," Barbara continued, moving her
finger along the driveway.

"For two-thirds of that time you could see only the lower end of the
private road, is that not true?"

"No.  I could see more than that."

"The map indicates otherwise," Barbara snapped.

"Then, when you reached the private road, you had your back turned on
the upper section.  Didn't you?"

"Yes, but you can sense if someone " "Your Honor, I ask that everything
after 'yes' be stricken from the record."

Judge Paltz ordered it done.

"Then, after ten-thirty until you returned to your house at eleven-ten
or thereabouts, you were facing the upper road no more than half the
time.  Is that right?"

"I was looking more than that!"

"How?"  Barbara demanded.

"You stated that when you reached Farleigh Road, you turned and walked
back to the end of the private road; then you turned and went the other
way, with your back to the woods, and then you turned again into your
own driveway, which put your back to the Canby property, and you went
home.  Did you walk backward part of the time?"  She traced the route
as she spoke, and was not at all surprised when Fierst objected to her
sarcasm.

"Withdraw the question," she said, satisfied.

She crossed to stand by the jury box, facing Kay Dodgson, who had made
a mess of her lipstick.

"You stated that you had the private road in view for an hour, Mrs.
Dodgson, but the fact is that even if you were walking for an hour, you
couldn't have seen the upper section for more than twenty-five minutes.
Ten minutes from your own driveway and then only by turning your head
to look that way deliberately and another fifteen minutes during which
you walked toward the woods.  Isn't that true?"

"No!  That's a lie!  I would have seen anyone on that road!  I was
looking around all the time."

Barbara ignored her and went to the table  Recess time, she thought.
Paltz took care of his court; he knew as well as she did that Kay
Dodgson was losing it.  He called for a ten-minute recess, and she
smiled to herself.

When she looked up, beyond her father, beyond Paula, the little bit of
pleasure vanished as she registered a sea of faces, some of them
twisted in hatred.  They were keeping the faith.

As soon as they were in the little room she was be ginning to think of
as hers, Frank hugged her.

"Doing good," he murmured.  Then he drew back with a trou bled
expression.

"We might have a problem," he said, and pulled a paper from his pocket,
handed it to her.

She read: Dodgson won't be called.  As soon as they 're through with C.
all three will take off on a long trip.  She read it again, and turned
it over, looking for a clue.  There wasn't any.

"Where did it come from?"

"Messenger left it at the office, addressed to both of us.  I think
it's some kind of a trap.  Something to rattle you."

She shook her head.  It didn't make any sense, she thought, and
absently accepted the cup of coffee he had poured for her.  She read
the message once more.

"We can't risk it," she said finally.

"I can't let them go.  Sub poena Dodgson as a hostile witness for the
defense, and I'll have her put on hold for recall."

Frank shook his head.

"I think that's what they think you'll do.  You simply don't have cause
to haul in Dodgson, and if you try a fishing expedition, Lewis Paltz
will shoot you out of the water.  I think they don't want you to cut
Dodgson in little pieces the way you're doing her, and they're baiting
you."

"What can Judge Paltz do?"  she demanded.

"Contempt of court, reprimand.  But worse, if Fierst makes a case that
you're on a private vendetta, Kay Dodgson's testimony might begin to
look pretty good again.  You've cut her to ribbons; this might be a way
to piece her back together again."

"Damn Doneally," she muttered.

"That, too," he agreed.

"He's a smart lawyer."

Her thoughts tumbled.  Under cross-examination she could have nailed
Dodgson a dozen ways to Friday, but under direct, even as a hostile
witness, she would have to link him to the murder and fire.  Rousing
the rabble after the fact wasn't enough, she knew.  She could keep Kay
Dodgson on ice, but would he leave then without her?  She suspected
that he might.

Finally she said, "If they get away, they'll wait until it's all over,
months maybe, and come back and pick up where they left off.  Gallead
might decide to take a vacation now.  If they leave, it's over.  You
know that."

"I know that," he agreed soberly.

"But, Bobby, you can't connect Dodgson, and you know that."

"I can't let him get away," she said.

"Dad, I can't just let it go on, whatever it is.  Subpoena him."

"Mrs.  Dodgson," Barbara began, "you stated in your direct testimony
that you had been in your house only a minute or two before Angela
Everts arrived.  Is that correct?"

"I ... I think it was longer than that."

"You mis spoke  Is that what you are saying?"

"I think so.  It was longer than a minute or two."

"How long was it, Mrs.  Dodgson?"

"I don't know.  I didn't look at the clock."

"Did you hear the explosion?"

"No."

"Yet others who were far more distant, with many trees between them and
the house, heard it.  Do you believe you were already inside your house
by then?"

"I must have been."  She had repaired her makeup, but already she was
moistening her lips; the lipstick wouldn't last long.

"According to the fire marshal, the explosion occurred at about five
minutes after eleven.  And you were already inside your house.  What
did you do when you returned from your stroll, Mrs.  Dodgson?"

"I was in my room, laying out clothes to put on."

"Did you enter by the back door?"

"No.  No.  I went in through the front and straight to my room."

"Did you see Mrs.  Melrose?"

"No."

"Where were you when Angela Everts arrived to use the telephone?"

"In my room."

"It took you ten or eleven minutes to pick out clothes?"

"Yes, if it was that long!"

"Were you surprised to see her at the front door?"

"No!  I mean, yes.  She never came to the front door."

"How did you know your son was still swimming?"

"When I came out, I saw the door open and heard the music, and when I
called him, he was in the pool."

"When did you pick up his robe, Mrs.  Dodgson?"

"I didn't."

"Mrs.  Everts testified that you were carrying his robe when you
answered the door.  Were you?"

"No!  Why would I?  I was in my room."

Barbara went to the map again and pointed.

"This is where Angela Everts met you.  About five hundred feet in from
the juncture with Farleigh Road.  Is that correct?"

"Yes, I guess so.  About there."

"And in your testimony you have stated several times that you continued
to the end of the private road.  Is that correct?"

Kay Dodgson moistened her lips again before answering.

"Yes, I did."

"Did you pass the "No Trespassing' sign?"

"I don't remember."

"You know there is a sign here, don't you?"  Barbara held her finger on
the map and regarded Kay Dodgson evenly.

"I know we posted the property some years ago, to keep out trespassers,
yes."

"Did you know about this particular sign?"

"I guess so."

"Yes or no, Mrs.  Dodgson.  Did you know about this particular sign?"

"Yes, then!  I did."

"And were you aware that this particular sign housed a motion sensor
directed across the private road?"

Kay Dodgson cast swift glances about the courtroom, toward the jury,
the prosecutor's table; then she raised her chin and said almost
defiantly, "I knew all about it.

I told you, we were determined to keep an eye on those women and what
they were up to, and since we were gone so much, we needed a
surveillance system.  I knew all about it!"

"On your morning strolls, did you stop short of the system, Mrs.
Dodgson?"

"Yes, of course."

"I see.  So you didn't really walk to the end of the road, did you? The
sign is in three hundred feet from the end of the road."

"I walked to the sign."

"So we have to reduce the distance you strolled by six hundred feet,
don't we?"

"It isn't that far!"

"Of course not," Barbara agreed.

"But three hundred feet from the sign to the end of the road and three
him dred back that does add up to six hundred feet, I'm afraid."  She
walked to the end of the jury box, very near Paula.

"Mrs.  Dodgson, is it possible that you have mis spoken about when you
finished your morning walk?  Is it possible that you turned and went
back to your home after speaking with Mrs.  Everts?"

"No!  I told you.  I went to the other end of the road first!"

Barbara nodded.

"Your Honor," she said, "I have no further questions for this witness
at this time.  I request the court to advise Mrs.  Dodgson that she is
to hold herself in readiness to be recalled as a hostile witness for
the defense after we have had the opportunity to hear testimony from
other witnesses."

"Objection!"  Fierst cried.

"Defense counsel can ask any questions she chooses to at this time.
This is a de laying tactic, meant only to harass this witness."

"Your Honor, there will be other testimony in direct conflict with the
statements Mrs.  Dodgson has made repeatedly."

Judge Paltz held up his hand for silence, and Barbara stopped.

"You wish to call this witness as a hostile witness for the defense?"

"Yes, sir.  I will call her as a hostile witness."

He regarded her thoughtfully for a second, then said, "It is the
opinion of the court that defense counsel has the right to do this.  It
is so ordered.  Mrs.  Dodgson, you will be recalled to the stand when
the defense presents its case.  Now, Mr.  Fierst, do you wish to " "I
can't stay," Kay Dodgson said in a furious voice.

"We have plans.  We are taking a trip.  I can't stay."

Judge Paltz looked at her levelly.

"Mrs.  Dodgson, you must change your plans and hold yourself in
readiness to be recalled to the stand.  Do you understand what I am
telling you?"

"But we can't just cancel everything!"  She looked about wildly.

"When will I have to come back?"

"Ms.  Holloway will determine that when she presents her case," Judge
Paltz said.

"You will be notified in advance

"Why are you letting her do this to me?  This is persecution

Judge Paltz rapped his gavel.

"Mrs.  Dodgson, you must remain silent.  Mr.  Fierst, do you wish to
redirect at this time?"

"No, sir.  I'll hold my redirect for her recall."

"Very well.  Court is adjourned until nine tomorrow morning."

The courtroom buzz sounded like a wasp nest, with her on the inside,
Barbara thought, after the judge left and the jury was escorted out.
She did not turn to look behind her.  The noise rose and rose, with
whispers, and hisses, and indignant shrill cries.

"I'll come around to see you later," Barbara told Paula as the matron
approached.

"You okay?"

Paula didn't look okay; she was far too pale and had become thinner.

"I'm okay," she said in a low voice.

"As long as they can't get to me."

"No one's going to get near you," the matron said firmly.

"Don't you worry about them.  Riffraff, that's all they are."

Barbara still didn't make a motion to rise.  Behind her, Frank was
gathering his things, making rustling sounds.  She felt his hand on her
shoulder and shook herself and shuffled her own things together, back
into the briefcase.  Paula had walked out ramrod stiff, and she would
do no less.

"Home?"  Heath Byerson asked when they were escorted to his car. Before
he could engage the clutch, a tomato splattered against the windshield.
Wordlessly he turned on his windshield wipers; the blades made streaks
as they moved back and forth.  He started to drive.

"Home," Frank said heavily.

"Then I have to come back to see Paula," Barbara said, watching the
blades move back and forth.

"I don't think that's a good idea, if you don't mind me saying so,"
Heath Byerson said.

"They'll grab that bozo who tossed the tomato, but there are others.
Yesterday they hung out around the jail, too."

"Jesus," she muttered.

"It's a state of siege.  I have to talk to my client, no matter what
they are doing."

In the end he drove them to the jail, around to the back entrance, and
Frank stayed out to keep him company when she went in to talk with
Paula.

"The state will wrap it up tomorrow," she said.

"But it's going to be bad again.  I doubt they'll call Carrie Voight,
and we'll call her later if they don't.  I don't think they want to
hear any more about spies and motion sensors.  But your ex will tell
lies about you, and Craig Dodgson will, and then they'll have the
psychiatrist on hand to explain your mental state.  It will be tough
going."

"All those people out there," Paula whispered.

"They hate me so much!  They all think I did it, and they want me to
die."

"They think whatever Rich Dodgson tells them to think," Barbara said.

"Pull yourself together, Paula.

Think of them as puppets, with him pulling their strings.  That's all
they are."

"Are you going to make me testify?"  Paula asked then.

"I'll have to see them, face them...."

"Undecided.  It depends on what the shrink says.  I don't want you on
the stand, you know.  That's an ordeal I'll spare you if I possibly
can.  What I'll want you to do tomorrow is make notes when your ex is
talking.  Every time he lies, I want you to make a note of it.  Will
you do that?"

Paula nodded, and some of the despair faded from her face.  The first
day, during jury selection, Paula had said wonderingly that she was the
least important per son in the courtroom; in a sense she had been
right.  Everything was out of her hands at this point, but she needed
to do something, anything, not just sit there day after day and listen
to people who wanted her convicted.  After Dodgson's puppets had
appeared, Barbara had asked Lucille not to attend the trial until she
had to testify.  No incidents, she thought.  Someone was certain to
know that Lucille was Paula's sister, and she might be targeted.
Instead, she had suggested, Paula could tell her everything that
happened, everything that was said;

and that had given Paula a little bit of responsibility, something to
do.  But most of all, Barbara wanted her occupied tomorrow when her
ex-husband began to lie about her, about their relationship, about
their dead child.

She stayed for half an hour, and then went out to find her father and
Heath Byerson in a conversation about roof shingles.

"What we thought would be a good idea," Frank said, too casually,
"would be to go to your place, let you pack up your things, and move
you into my house for the rest of the trial.  Just a precaution."

"Dad," she started, but Heath Byerson turned in the front seat and gave
her a long serious look, and she didn't finish her protest.

"They know your place," he said.

"You're too easy to find.  Not many know the house your father has
now."

He had cleaned the windshield; no trace of tomato remained.

They were right, she admitted to herself.  Gallead had known where to
find her.  Spassero knew where she lived.  It seemed that everyone knew
where she lived.

With reluctance, hating the feeling of defeat she had to acknowledge,
she nodded and then said to her father, "So you win."

He shook his head.

"Just until this thing is over.  I don't want you because you have to
move in.  I want you to want to move in.  There's a difference."

SIXTEEN

she had not slept well; all night dreams had brought her near the
wakeful state, and then let her slip back into sleep, but when she came
wide awake, it was the dreams that bothered her even if she couldn't
remember the context.  She blamed the bed: the same bed she had slept
in as a child, then as a teenager, when she was home from school, and,
finally, in the river house.  The same bed she had slept in with
Mike.

"Right back," she said at the breakfast table after toying with her
eggs and toast, and drinking coffee.  She ran upstairs to finish her
makeup, gather her purse and briefcase, give a final scowling glance at
her image in the mirror, and then went down again to find her father
and Heath Byerson in a solemn conversation.  Roof tiles?  Floor tiles?
Sump pumps?  They broke it off when she entered.

"Ready?"  Heath asked, his cheerful countenance in place again.

"As ready as I get," she muttered.

"Let's do it."

When they stopped at the courthouse her father said he would go on to
the office, see if Bailey needed a nudge, see what was up.

"Won't be long," he said as she got out of the car.

She nodded to her police escort, ignored the shouted questions of
reporters, the eye of the television camera, the hisses and hoots, the
names being yelled by the many people with their evil signs, and
entered the courthouse.

Almost instantly she was plunged back into the melodrama being enacted
in the courtroom.  It was as if this was the only reality; all else
outside this room was simple busywork, no more than a distraction.

Fierst called Craig Dodgson, and this was the reality, seamlessly
attached to yesterday's reality.

Craig Dodgson appeared younger than he did in the photographs she had
seen; he was tanned to a dark handsome shade, sunlamp tan, not the
uneven, leathery tan of an outdoors man.  He had dark, wavy hair neatly
cut and natural-looking, not coiffed to any noticeable extent.  He was
dressed in a sports coat, nice slacks, loafers, well dressed without
the show of ostentatious wealth his mother had exhibited.  He looked
handsome and healthy, the ideal son that a mother could be very proud
of.

Today Pierst acted like a man in a hurry.  He did not linger over
Craig's background, but led him quickly to the case.

"You stated that you were kidding around with the defendant, Paula
Kennerman, and you asked her to go out on your boat.  Is that
correct?"

"Something like that," Craig said.

"It wasn't a real invitation.  But she seemed to think it was."

"Tell us in your own words about this incident, Mr.

Dodgson," Fierst said.

"Well, I liked to go to the Olympus and listen to the jazz.  And I
kidded around with the waitresses, most of them, not just her.  You
know, they wear those cute little skirts and heels and they're fun to
kid with.  A little flirting, that's all."  He shrugged and looked
almost bewildered as he continued.

"So I said something to her about going out on the boat; but no kids, I
said, and no husband.  That's what I always said.  She laughed, and I
thought that was that.  I never gave it a second thought until a couple
of weeks later, near the end of March, I think, the next time I was in
there, and she came to my table and said, "When?"  Just like that,
when.  And I didn't know what she was talking about.  I said some thing
like, "Any time," but I was uneasy because she wasn't laughing.  She
looked serious and came back a few minutes later even more serious, and
she said if she got rid of the old man and the kid, she'd hold me to my
word.  She put her hand on my arm and said, sort of in a whisper, it
would be great, just the two of us.  Then she got busy and I left.  I
didn't go back."

"I see," Fierst said with a sober expression.

"Mr.

Dodgson, did you offer to take other waitresses out on your boat?"

"Yes I did.  Just kidding.  You know, it was a little flirtation,
that's all.  They knew it wasn't serious."

"You had a picture of the boat with you?"

"Sure," he said with a grin.

"I'd bring it out and say, "Hey, honey, want a little ocean cruise?
Isn't she a beaut!"  And I'd show them the boat, and they'd laugh or
pretend to be interested, and we just had fun."  He spread his hands in
a way that seemed to imply helplessness

"And you said Paula Kennerman didn't take it as fun and games?  She was
serious?"

"Yes, sir.  When she put her hand on my arm, she re ally dug in.  I
mean, she gripped hard.  She was serious, all right."  All traces of
boyishness, of helplessness, of bewilderment vanished, and he was more
like the grim-faced man in the photographs.

Fierst had a few more questions and then nodded to Barbara and sat
down.

"Mr.  Dodgson," she said, "how old are you?"

"Twenty-seven."

"And you own the boat we're talking about?"

"No.  My dad owns it; he lets me use it."

"Something like the family car?"  Barbara suggested with a slight
smile.

"Yeah, about like that."

"How many people will the boat sleep, Mr.  Dodgson?"

"Eight."

"Is it an oceangoing ship?"

"It could be," he said more cautiously.

"Well, have you taken it to Hawaii, for example?"

"Yes."

"Can one person run the yacht?"

"Yes."

"How often do you take the ship out, Mr.  Dodgson?"

"I don't know.  Two, three weekends a month in the summer."

"Do you take groups of people with you?"

"Sometimes."

"Do you ever take a single woman companion out with you?"

"No!  Dad wouldn't let me even if I wanted to."

"I see.  The family car again.  Do you always inform him when you are
going out and tell him who is going with you?"

"Yes, every time.  It's his boat."

"And you have his approval for your various cruises?"

"Yes."

"Do you ever go out alone, Mr.  Dodgson?"

"Yes.  I like to go out alone."

"Where do you go alone, Mr.  Dodgson?"

"No place in particular.  Sometimes up to Seattle and pick up my
brother and we cruise the inland waterway up there."

"Where else?"

"Just up and down the coast, not too far out."

"All the way down to Mexico, for example?"

"Yeah, or up to Alaska, if I feel like it."

"What do you do for a living, Mr.  Dodgson?"

"I work for the Dodgson Publishing Company."

"That's who pays your salary, I believe," Barbara said.

"But what do you actually do?"

"Objection," Fierst said with annoyance.  He had started so briskly,
and now she was delaying everything again, he seemed to be
complaining.

"Irrelevant."

"I am simply exploring areas already touched upon by Mr.  Fierst,"
Barbara said, "in order to test whether this witness, at his age, has
had enough experience to evaluate the reactions of waitresses to his
advances."

When Judge Paltz allowed her to continue, his face revealed nothing.
She never had worked before a judge who could hide himself so
thoroughly, she thought, and turned again to Craig Dodgson, and
proceeded to take him step-by-step through his duties at the press.

"You don't do any of the writing or editing," she said, "but do you
agree with the paper's editorial content?"

"Absolutely.  One hundred percent."

"Do you draw a salary from anyone else?  Any other group?"

"No."

"Do you volunteer your efforts for the national pro-life groups?"

He hesitated and Fierst objected again, this time jumping to his feet
and even raising his voice.

"Your Honor, counsel for the defense knows this is irrelevant.  What
Mr.  Dodgson does outside the confines of this case is entirely
irrelevant."

"Ms.  Holloway, do you have a point to make?"  Judge Paltz asked
courteously.

"Yes, sir, I do.  I intend to demonstrate that Mr.

Dodgson is highly biased, that his testimony here is so prejudicial
that it may be without value."

"For heaven's sake!"  Fierst burst out.

"Is everyone who might testify against the defendant to be labeled
prejudiced?"

"Mr.  Fierst, please," Judge Paltz said, just a touch more sharply than
he had done up to this moment.

"Ms.

Holloway, you may proceed.  Overruled."

"Exception," Fierst snapped.

Judge Paltz nodded.

"It will be noted."

"Mr.  Dodgson, do you volunteer your services for pro-life
organizations?"

"Sometimes.  It's something I am very concerned about."

"Is this your picture, taken in October of last year?"

She had nine newspaper photographs from a year ago to April of this
year.  One by one she produced them and he admitted that it was his
picture.

"That's nine," Barbara said.

"Were there other demonstrations in which you participated?"

"There might have been," he said, and added, "It's a deep moral issue
with me.  I care enough to try to do something."

She asked that everything following "there might have been" be
stricken.  Craig Dodgson moistened his lips, and she thought.  At
last.

"How many others, Mr.  Dodgson?"  she asked.

"Several.  Three or four."

"Making it twelve or thirteen demonstrations in the six months from
October through April.  Is that all?"

"Yes.  I think so."

"Do you fly first class, Mr.  Dodgson?"

"Objection!"

"Sustained."

"Do you organize the demonstrations?"

"No.  I just go to them."

"And how do you know about them in advance?"

"People tell us things.  We know a lot of people.  We keep in touch."

"Mr.  Dodgson, isn't there a national network that issues such
information?"

"There might be."

"Do you know if there is?"

"Yes.  I think there is."

"Do you know there is?"

"Yes.  I said yes."

"Do you subscribe to such a service?"

"Me?  No."

"Does your company, the Dodgson Publishing Company

"Yes.  I think so."

"Does your company, the Dodgson Publishing Company, subscribe to such a
service?"  she asked.

"I said yes."  His answer was even sharper than her question.

"How long are you gone from home when you attend the various
demonstrations?"

"A few days, maybe a week."

"So in a six-month period you devoted up to twelve or thirteen weeks of
your time to this cause.  Is that right?"

"Maybe.  I wasn't keeping track."

"Did you accompany your father to the Canby Ranch and accuse Emma
Tidball of running an abortion clinic?"

He moistened his lips again and nodded, then said, "Yes.  We thought it
was true."

"Had you thought they were running an abortion clinic for a long
time?"

"We suspected it from the beginning," he said, his voice harsh and even
menacing.

"Did you think you had confirmation finally?"

"Yes we did."

"How did you know a woman had been taken to the hospital with a
miscarriage, Mr.  Dodgson?"

"I don't know.  Mrs.  Voight said something about it."

"But all she knew was that an ambulance had taken someone away.  Did
you leap to the conclusion that it was for an abortion mishap?"

"I don't remember why we thought that," he said.

"It just seemed the likeliest thing."

"In those newspaper articles," Barbara said, "it states again and again
that many of the clinics you were picketing did not perform abortions.
Yet you demonstrated against them.  Why?"

He was starting to look about the courtroom, as if seeking help or
relief from some quarter.  Mercifully, Fierst was staying quiet.
Barbara was grateful that he was a methodical plodder who would not
force a confrontation with the judge who had agreed to this line of
questioning.  In his place, she would have been raising holy hell.

"Why; Mr.  Dodgson?"  she prodded.

"Because they were advising women to have abortions, to commit murder
of innocent unborn children," he said in a rush, as if to get it in
before she could object.

"Did you believe anyone at the Canby house was advising women about
abortions?"

"Yes.  We know they were."

She was walking slowly back and forth from the witness stand to the
defense table, back to the stand, forcing him to move his head to keep
his gaze on her.

She stopped midway, at the center of the jury box.

"How do you know that, Mr.  Dodgson?"

"We just did, from the start."  Now he looked like the hate-distorted
man captured in the newspaper photo graphs.

"That's a serious accusation, Mr.  Dodgson," she said.

"Did you have some evidence, some proof?  Or did you just make an
assumption?"

"We know the kind of women who went there.

Women who swim naked out in the open are the kind of women who'd have
abortions.  We knew that."

"Did you see any women swimming naked, Mr.

Dodgson?"

"No.  But they did."

"So you assumed that the Canby Ranch was provided for the kind of women
who would have abortions.  Is that correct?"

"Yes, that's right."

"And you assumed that a woman who had been severely beaten and suffered
a miscarriage was in fact having an abortion.  Is that right?"

"I said we were wrong about that.  I admit we were wrong that time."

"But that was your original assumption, wasn't it?"

"Yes."  He ran his hand through his hair and fidgeted and now he was
wetting his lips frequently.

"Did you agree to back down that time and wait for a more telling
incident to occur, something you could take to Mrs.  Canby and demand
that the house be closed?"

"Yes.  I mean no.  We didn't want to close them down.

We just wanted them to behave."

"But you didn't go to Mrs.  Canby that time, did you?"

"No.  I said we were wrong that time."

"Did you come to believe you had been wrong from the start, that the
house possibly had nothing to do with abortion counseling?"

"No!  When women like that get together, they talk about abortions.  We
knew that.  We just waited for something we could prove."

"In order to close down the house?"

"No.  We never said that."

"What did you want proof for?"

"Just to make her keep a close eye on what was going on.  For
discipline, to screen who came and went."

"I see.  Mr.  Dodgson, is abortion ever justified in your opinion?"

"Never!  It's murder!"

"Do you agree with the philosophy that maintains that women who have
abortions are criminals?"

"Yes, absolutely."

"And should be punished under the law?"

"Yes!"

"And the doctors who perform abortions are criminals?"

"Yes, they are accessories."

"And those who counsel women concerning abortion, are they accessories
also?"

"Yes."

"And those who stand by and do nothing to put a stop to this activity,
are they accessories?"

Too late he realized where she was heading.  He cleared his throat and
licked his lips.

"If they really know.  Not just suspect, but actually know, then
yes."

"You said you knew what was happening at the Canby Ranch, that you knew
abortions were being discussed, that women were being counseled.  You
have flown all over this country to demonstrate--why didn't you
demonstrate at home, Mr.  Dodgson?"

"We were waiting to get some real proof," he mumbled.

"And then what would you have done?"

Fierst finally objected.

"I withdraw the question," Barbara said.  She raked Craig Dodgson with
a look of scorn and turned her back on him, walked to her table.  Her
father was in his seat;

she had not noticed his arrival.  She faced the witness stand again.

"Mr.  Dodgson, you testified that you kidded around with Paula
Kennerman back in March.  You came forward with your statement months
later.  Why did you wait so long?"

"I just didn't want to get involved," he said.  The line was so fluent
it sounded rehearsed.

"You have had your picture in papers all over the country, in
magazines, and here you didn't want to get involved," she said.

"Why did you come forward at all?"

"I had to.  My conscience made me.  I realized it was my duty."

"Have you been back to the restaurant since the time you say you talked
with Paula Kennerman?"

"No, not once."

"How often did you used to go there?"

"Not often, once or twice a month."

"For dinner."

"No, to hear the music.  Sometimes for dinner, maybe."

"Don't you know?"

"I had dinner there once in a while."

"Alone?"

"Usually alone.  Not always."

"When you said you kidded around with Paula Kennerman, were you
alone?"

"Yes."

"And when you returned, the last time you were there, were you
alone?"

"Yes."

"Did you have dinner those nights?"

"I don't remember," he said after a hesitation.

"Come now, Mr.  Dodgson, you said you recall how she put her hand on
your arm, the exact words she uttered.  Surely you know where that
happened.  Was it next to your salad or by your drink?"

"It was in the dining room," he said.  A mean new edge had appeared in
his voice.

"I see.  If you called and made a reservation for dinner for one, we
can check the records at the restaurant and find out exactly when that
was, can't we?"

"No.  I didn't have a reservation."

Barbara shook her head.

"They don't seat anyone in the dining room without a reservation, Mr.
Dodgson, Perhaps you mis spoke

"It must have been in the lounge," he said, sounding so furious now
that he had difficulty in controlling his rising voice.

"I don't remember where I was, only what she said and how she gripped
my arm."

"Mr.  Dodgson, earlier you said the waitresses wear those cute little
skirts and heels and they are fun to kid with.  Do you remember saying
that?"

"Yes," he all but snarled at her.

"You kidded them; they kidded back.  Is that what you meant?"

"Sure.  They know they get bigger tips that way."

"Do you think they dress provocatively?"

"Sure they do, flouncing around, sassy-like.  Teasing."

"Did you know them by name?"

"No.  You don't ask girls like that their names."

"Girls like that?  What do you mean, Mr.  Dodgson?"

"I mean they're .. . flirts, out for the tips.  Names don't matter
because once you're out of there, they're out of mind.  It's a game men
and women play."  He added almost savagely, "Most men and women.  Maybe
you never played games like that."

Barbara turned to Judge Paltz, but he had anticipated her.

"The personal remarks will be stricken from the record.  We will have a
ten-minute recess at this time."

"Get hot, fight cool," Frank murmured as he poured coffee for her in
their little room.

"You're a good learner, honey."

"Oh, I'm hot enough," she said, looking out the window at them.

"What a creep!"  She let the blind drop into place.

"Where have you been all morning?"

"Things are happening," he said.

"I had a talk with Bailey.  He wanted to know how much he could spend,
and I gave him the green light."  Frank sighed theatrically.

"He's been tracking down migrants who picked berries at the orchard
earlier in the summer, and one of them came through.  Seems he worked
with a guy who said he'd been there before, back in the winter
sometime.

Gallead's place."

"No!"  she breathed.

"He's a marvel, that Bailey.

Where is this guy now?"

"Up north, picking apples, maybe Hood River, maybe already in
Washington.  Bailey needed to know it was okay to go find him.  I said
go."

"They aren't going to move now," she said, thinking of Gallead and his
secret missions.

"They'll play it cool and wait us out, won't they?"

"Wouldn't you?"

"This might be our only chance."

"There's a hell of a lot of apples up north," Frank reminded her.

"And a hell of a lot of migrants to sort through.  It's not done
yet."

"He'll do it," she said.

"What else is going on?"

"Oh, not much.  Doneally dropped by for a little chat."

She eyed him narrowly.

"And?"

"We have twenty-four hours to pull that subpoena.

He's terribly sorry, he said."

"Or else?"

"Dodgson will slap us with a suit, harassment or some damn nonsense.
But it won't matter what it is.

And another one after that, and then another one.  I sure didn't think
I'd spend my few remaining years fighting off lawsuits."

"He's acting stupid," she said, nodding.

"He's scared."

"I don't know about that.  Mad, that I give you.  But scared?  I know
I'm scared.  He's mean enough to do it.

And apparently rich enough to keep at it."

When they resumed, Barbara went directly to the Saturday Lori Kennerman
had been murdered.

"Mr.  Dodgson, you stated that your mother made a breakfast of waffles
and sausage and that the three of you ate in the dining room.  Is that
correct?"

"Yes."  He had recovered his boyish good looks during the short
recess.

"And you just happened to notice that it was ten minutes before ten
when your father went out to mow the grass.  Were you wearing your
watch?"

"Yes."

"Were you dressed?"

"Yes."

"Then you and your mother cleared the table and carried things into the
kitchen.  It took a minute or two at the most, you said.  What did you
do next, Mr.  Dodgson?"

"I said I went to the dressing room and got undressed to swim."

"No, you didn't say that.  What you said was you went swimming.  Now
you say you went to the dressing room first.  Is it off the swimming
pool?"

"Yes."

"And how long do you estimate it took you there?"

"A minute maybe."

"All right.  Then you dived into the water?  Is that right?"

He hesitated.

"I looked out in the hall and saw that Mother was at the back door,
ready to go out, and then I dived in," he said triumphantly.

"How is the pool situated, Mr.  Dodgson?  Where is the deep end?"

He hesitated again, a bit longer this time.

"Mr.  Dodgson, it's a simple question.  Is the shallow end near the
hall or at the far end of the room?"

"It's near the hall.", "I see.  Why did you look out into the hall
before you entered the water?"

"I don't know.  I thought I heard her call me or some thing."

"When did you turn on the music, Mr.  Dodgson?"

"I don't remember.  Probably when I went into the pool room."

"And you play it loud to warn people that you're in there?  Is that
right?"

"No.  I like music when I swim."

"Did you swim naked that morning, Mr.  Dodgson?"

"Yes," he snapped.

"I usually do at home when I'm alone in the water."

"So you opened the door and looked out into the hall toward the back
door.  Is that right?"

"Yes.  I said that."

"Yes you did," she said.

"Mr.  Dodgson, where is the dressing room situated?  At the far end of
the pool room or near the hall door?"

"At the far end."  He looked mean again.

"And how long is the pool?"

"I don't know."

"Let me refresh your memory," Barbara said and went to the table to
rummage through papers.

"When your house was built it was featured in the local newspapers,
with photographs, the layout.... Ah, here it is."

She picked up the printed floor plan and took it back to him.

"Is this your house?"

She had the photographs and the house plan admitted, and then she said,
consulting the plan, "The pool is forty feet long, with a twelve-foot
apron on three sides and fifteen feet on the side that has doors to the
dressing rooms.  So, you went into the pool room, turned on the music,
walked back to the dressing room and got ready to swim, and then,
naked, you walked back fifty-two feet to the door to look out.  Is that
what you did?"

"If you say so," he said sullenly.

"No, Mr.  Dodgson, not what I say.  Is that what you did?"

"Yes.  So what of it?"

"Why didn't you dive into the deep end of the pool , when you came out
of the dressing room?"

"I told you already.  I thought I heard my mother call me."

"Over the music?  At the far end of the room?"

"Yes!  So I was wrong."

She nodded.

"Then you say you went to the hall door and opened it to look out and
saw her at the end of the hall at the back door.  Is that right?"

"Yes.  How many times--" "Mr.  Dodgson, please, just answer the
questions.  Was her hand on the doorknob?  Was she opening it already
when you saw her?"

"Yes.  She had started to open it."

"And you left the hall door open to the pool room, raced across the
twelve feet to dive into the shallow end.  Is that right?"

"I didn't race," he muttered.

"I know your mother says she is a slow walker," Barbara said
scathingly, "but how long could it take her to open a door and step
out?  She says she heard you splash."

"Objection!"  Fierst yelled.

"Sustained.  The jury will disregard counsel's remarks.

Ms.  Holloway, confine yourself to proper questions."

And that, she knew, was a rebuke.  There was no mistaking it.  She
said, "Yes, Your Honor.  Mr.  Dodgson, was your mother always very
particular about keeping the door to the pool room closed?"

He shrugged.

"Not really."

"Did she complain about the smell of chlorine penetrating the rest of
the house?"

"Not seriously.  Sometimes we forgot to close it, that's all."

"You estimated that you were in the water no later than five minutes
before ten and she was outside by then.  Is that right?"

"Yes.  I looked at my watch, and nothing took even five minutes after
that."

"And you were still in the pool at eleven-fifteen when Angela Everts
arrived.  Were you swimming laps all that time, Mr.  Dodgson?"

"Yes," he said.  Then quickly he said, "No, I mean.

Not that long.  I was practicing some strokes part of the time."

"An hour and twenty minutes is a long time for laps and practice, isn't
it?  Do you work out that hard often?"

"Yes," he snapped.

"I try to keep fit."

"Where did you leave your robe that morning?"  She asked it almost
casually, and was startled to see him stiffen even more.

"I don't know."

"Did your mother bring it to you in the pool room?"

He hesitated and moistened his lips.

"I don't remember."

"When you got out of the pool, did you shower and get dressed?"

"Not right away."

"Did you get out of the pool and put on a white terry-cloth robe?"

He shrugged.

"Yes.  I remember.  I had it in the pool room, on a chair."

"When did you put it there?"

"Before I got in the water."

"You mean after breakfast you went back to your room and collected your
robe?"

"Yes!"

"Mr.  Dodgson, did your parents ever tell you not to swim for an hour
after a heavy meal?"

His look was murderous now.

"I didn't eat that much," he said.

"Waffles and sausage, juice, coffee.  That's a heavy meal just before
you swim laps.  Isn't it more likely that you sat at the table reading
the paper for nearly an hour after breakfast, and then you took your
swim?"

"No!  It wasn't like that."

"Did you actually see your mother leave the house?"

"She was opening the door to go out."

"Ah, yes.  She heard you splash and you saw her at the door.  But, Mr.
Dodgson, my question is: Did you see her leave the house?"

"No.  She was opening the door to leave."

"Mr.  Dodgson, just a simple yes or no!  Did you see her go out?"

"No!"

"Thank you.  No more questions."

While Fierst took him back over the few points he wanted the jury to
hear again, she wrote robe and circled it.  She had hit a sore spot and
had not even a clue about why it was there or what it meant.

SEVENTEEN

jack khnnerman was a frightened man that afternoon;

he was thinner-faced than Barbara remembered, neatly dressed in a suit
and tie, polished shoes, but he acted as if the clothes were not his,
did not quite fit.  He stretched his neck repeatedly to ease the
constraint of his shirt; he worried a hangnail; his gaze flicked here,
there, everywhere except at Paula.  He had had his hair cut, but now it
was too short, where it had been down over his collar before.

In a brisk, businesslike manner Fierst had Kennerman give some
background, details about his marriage, where he was employed now--as a
pizza delivery man--and then describe the last evening he had seen his
wife and daughter at home.

Paula was screaming at Lori, Jack Kennerman said, throwing things
around, tossing stuff into a suitcase, and when he tried to get her to
tell him what was wrong, she pushed him and started screaming harder at
Lori, who was crying and scared.  He tried to pull her away from the
baby and she hit him and he pushed her away harder than he meant to and
she fell over a chair.  He left, hoping she'd cool down and talk to him
later.  When he got home again about eleven, she was gone.

"You had a scene like that with your former wife and you just left her
alone?  Is that right?"

He ran his finger under his collar, his gaze shifting rapidly from
Fierst out over the courtroom and back.

"Yeah, it wasn't the first time.  Usually she just cooled off and that
was the end of it."

"Did you fight with her often?"

"Yeah, I guess so.  She had a temper, and she'd start in on me, and
we'd yell, and sometimes she pushed me and I pushed back."

"You said she was yelling at your child, Lori.  Did she do that
often?"

"Yeah.  She'd yell at her."  Now he was picking at the hangnail.

"Did she hit the child?"

"Not much.  She'd say things like she was going to leave her in the
woods and let the bears eat her, scare her like that.  She'd make her
sit on a spot on the floor and if she moved, sometimes she slapped her
pretty hard."

"Mr.  Kennerman, did she ever threaten to leave you?"

"Yeah, in the last year she did.  She met this other guy, she said, and
he was rich, and he liked her a lot, and as soon as she had some money
saved up, she was taking off."  He seemed absorbed now in the wood
grain of the witness stand.

"Did you believe her?"

"Not at first.  But I got to thinking about it and then I did.  And
when I seen how much money she was stashing away, I knew it."

"What do you mean?"

"See, I was out of work and we were doing without stuff," he said in a
rush.

"Lori was doing without stuff that she needed and Paula had all this
money in the bank.  She was saving up to take off."

Paula was scribbling furiously.  Barbara didn't inter fere with the
examination; now and then she glanced at the scrawling words Paula was
writing so hastily.  Finally Fierst got to his last questions.

"Where were you all day Saturday, April nineteenth, Mr.  Kennerman?"

"Fishing.  I went up early on Saturday morning, and me and three other
guys were up the North Fork of the Willamette for the opening of trout
season.  We came back Sunday night."

"And you were with three other men all weekend?

Who were they, Mr.  Kennerman?"

He named them, and Fierst said he was finished.

"Mr.  Kennerman," Barbara began, "isn't it true that your former wife
supported you and your child for the last five years?"

"No!  That's a lie.  I worked, too."

"You were unemployed in April.  Were you collecting unemployment
insurance?"

"No.  They wouldn't give it to me."

"Why not, Mr.  Kennerman?"

"That's how the system works," he said.

"They make you quit and then you can't collect.  It happens all the
time."

"So you quit your last job.  How long were you out of work?"

"I don't know," he mumbled, looking everywhere but at her.

"Well, make a stab at it," she suggested.

"A month, three months?"

"Maybe four or five months.  I couldn't find any thing."

Fierst objected often, but she was allowed to take Kennerman back over
his work experience.

"So you quit every job you had over the past five years," she said.

"And out of that period you worked a total of sixteen months.  Doesn't
that mean that your former wife supported you?"

"I worked when I could," he said, almost whining.

"Five years ago when you quit your job delivering flowers, did you try
to start your own business?  A salvage business?"

"Yes," he said too eagerly.

"That's right.  It was a chance I couldn't pass up."

"And did you buy twenty-five hundred dollars' worth of scuba equipment
and take scuba lessons to further that business?"

"Yeah, something" like that."

"Did you start the business?"

He looked past her, at Fierst, at the ceiling.

"It didn't work out.  The other two guys chickened out on it."

"Did you charge the equipment on a credit card?"

"I don't remember."

"Who paid for the equipment, Mr.  Kennerman?"

"We paid it off.  Me and Paula."

"But you were out of work.  How did you pay any thing?"

"When I got another job, I helped pay," he said, clearly whining now.

"I sold the stuff to a guy and used that."

"Three years ago did you try to start another business of your own?  A
photography business?"

Fierst objected, and Barbara said, "One side of their domestic problems
has been shown by the prosecution;

the defense is entitled to show the other side."

"Overruled," Judge Paltz said.

Painstakingly she forced Jack Kennerman to admit to the four times he
had gone deeply in debt with one venture after another that never came
off.  When a recess was called, she felt as weary and haggard as Jack
Kennerman looked.

Today her father did not comment, but produced a small box that he
handed to her.  It was filled with expensive chocolates.  She wanted to
cry.  They shared the candy and coffee in silence.

"How long have you had your present job, Mr.  Kennerman?"

He hesitated, then said, "About three weeks."

"Are you still living in the same apartment you shared with your former
wife and child?"

"Yeah."

"Paula Kennerman wrote a check to pay for the rent in April, but who
paid the rent from May until September?"

"I did," he said, working with the hangnail again.

"How did you manage that after being unemployed for so long?"

"Some guys helped me out.  I borrowed a little.  I got by."

"How much is your rent every month?"

"Three eighty-five."

"You mean three hundred eighty-five dollars a month?"

"Yeah."

"So for four months that comes to over fifteen him dred dollars.  What
about your utility bills, your food?"

"I said some guys helped me out, and I worked a little.  Odd jobs here
and there.  I sold some stuff."

"What guys, Mr.  Kennerman?"

"I don't know," he said.

"I never seen them."

"Then how did you receive donations from them?"

"A guy came over and said these guys wanted him to take the collection
for them, and he brought it to me."

"Who paid for your divorce, Mr.  Kennerman?"

"Nobody.  He said he'd do it as a favor, that he had to do something
now and then for free."

"An attorney did you the favor.  Was he the same one who collected from
your benefactors?"

"What do you mean?"

"Did he collect the donations and give you the money?"

"Yeah.  They got in touch with him and he came around."

"Who was that man, Mr.  Kennerman?  What was his name?"

He looked around desperately.

"I don't know.  Don something.  He said it too fast."

Barbara walked to the defense table and then back to the stand,
thinking hard.

"So a strange man came to you with money from other strange men and you
simply accepted it.  Did this ever happen before, Mr.  Kenner man?"

"No.  Nobody ever gave me nothing before.  He said they did this, a
bunch of guys who thought a guy was getting the shaft.  They helped
him."

"Getting the shaft?  What does that mean, Mr.

Kennerman?"

"A guy whose wife was giving him a hard time, running around, playing
him for a dope, stuff like that."

"How much money did they give you?"

"I don't know," he mumbled.

"Thousand, a little more."

"Did they give you enough to pay your rent for several months?"

"Yeah."

"Was it enough to pay your utility bills?  Electricity, water, things
like that?"

"Yeah.  I couldn't find a job right off."

"Was it over two thousand dollars?"

"Maybe.  I don't remember."

"Did you ask what they wanted in return?"

"Nothing.  He said they didn't want nothing."

"But he was friendly, talked to you?"

"Yeah, some.  Not much."

"Mr.  Kennerman, do you remember what he talked about with you?"

"No!  Nothing much, like I said."

She walked away, and only glanced at the jury.  Some of the jurors were
regarding Kennerman as if he were an alien insect found in the
garden.

"Did he talk about Paula?"

"No!  Just about women, how they treat their men, stuff like that.  And
these guys were fed up with it."

Enough, she decided, and changed the subject.

"Mr.

Kennerman, are you an avid fisherman?"

"I guess so.  I like to fish."

"Do you tie your own flies?"

"Yeah."

"And on Wednesday, April sixteenth, did you go to a sports shop and
pick out waders, a tackle box, a fly rod, several flies?"

He was darting glances around again, or stretching his neck, running
his finger under his collar, scratching, every time he spoke.  His
twitchiness was getting on her nerves.

"Yeah, I needed some stuff," he mumbled after a long pause.

"What kind of flies did you buy?"

He shrugged.

"I don't remember.  Just some flies."

"Did you have any equipment for a fishing trip when you agreed to
go?"

"Yeah, sure, just not enough.  I just needed a few things."

"Mr.  Kennerman, didn't you try to charge three him dred forty dollars'
worth of fishing equipment on a credit card Wednesday?"

"I don't know.  Not that much."

"Weren't you turned down when the credit card charge was rejected?"

"Yeah.  They wouldn't let me use it."

"And on the next day, Thursday, did you go to the bank and withdraw
four hundred eighty dollars from your joint savings account?"

"No!"  he cried.

"It was four seventy-five."

Barbara nodded.

"And did you use that money to pay for the equipment you had selected
on Wednesday?"

"Yeah, some of it.  I had to go fishing with the guys.

One of them was going to give me a job."

"Were those three other men friends of yours?"

"Yeah, sure."

"How long had you known Gus Hormeier?"

"A couple of years.  We used to work together."

"And Michael Selby?"

"A few months, maybe."

"I believe you said the third man was named Mr.

Wentworth; how long had you known Mr.  Wentworth?"

He looked around the courtroom again, as if searching for an escape
route.

"I just met him."

"So they weren't really your friends, were they?"

"Gus is my pal."

"The four of you rented a cabin, didn't you?  Planning to stay up there
Friday night and Saturday night.  Was that the plan?"

"Yeah."

"But you didn't go until Saturday.  Why was that, Mr.

Kennerman?"

"I was looking for Paula on Friday.  I got worried when she didn't come
home Thursday night."

"Did you go to her sister's house in Cottage Grove?"

"Yeah.  She wasn't there."

"And did you go to the Olympus restaurant and try to collect her
paycheck?"

"No!  I just was looking for her."

"Did you ask Cindy Truman for Paula's paycheck?"

"No!  I might have said I'd put it in the bank for her or something
like that.  I didn't want it.  I was trying to find out if she'd been
there."

"Did you go to a house on South Polk Street looking for her?"

He hesitated a long time, studying his fingers intently.

"Yeah.  I went there."

"Who lives there, Mr.  Kennerman?"

"I don't know, just a bunch of women."

"Isn't that what they call a safe house for women?"

"I don't know what they call it," he mumbled.

"How did you know about that house, Mr.  Kennerman?"

"Guys talk, you know.  I heard about it."

"What time did you drive up to the North Fork on Saturday morning, Mr.
Kennerman?"

"I don't know, nine or a little later."

"Did you find your three friends?"

"Yeah, sure."

-"Mr.  Kennerman, did you see Gus Hormeier that morning?"

"Yeah.  He didn't see me.  He was busy, fishing."

"Did Michael Selby see you?"

"No, not right away.  He was with Gus, down the river, with a'lot of
other guys all around them.  It was crowded there."

"Who did see you?"

"Mr.  Wentworth.  I went by him and stayed awhile."

"What time was that?"

"I told you, nine-thirty or ten by then."

"How long did you stay by Mr.  Wentworth?"

"Hour, hour and a half.  I don't know."

"Was it cold and overcast?"

"Yeah."

"Where is Mr.  Wentworth now?"

"I don't know.  Back in California, I guess.  He just come up for the
opening of trout season."

"So the only person who saw you was Mr.  Wentworth, who is out of
state."

"We were all together later on," he said quickly.

"At what time were you all together?"

"I don't know.  In the afternoon sometime."

"Mr.  Kennerman, did Mr.  Wentworth tell you to go away and not bother
him?"

"How'd you-No!  We just fished."

"Didn't Mr.  Wentworth say something like you were an amateur and had
no business out there?"

"No!  No, he didn't say that."

"What did he say?"

"Nothing like that.  He said he didn't want to talk business.  He came
to fish."

"Mr.  Kennerman, didn't you buy a lot of new gear and go out there in
order to impress Mr.  Wentworth?

And didn't he treat you with contempt?"

"No!  He was a little uppity, that's all."

"And was it still overcast and cold when you left him?"

"Yeah.  He didn't want to talk and I was cold."

"Mr.  Kennerman, I have here the newspaper report of the opening day of
trout season this year."  She went to her table and produced the
paper.

"It says the weather was clear and warm all day; there wasn't a cloud
in the sky.  Yet you say it was cold and overcast.  What time are you
talking about, Mr.  Kennerman?  Before the sun rose?"

Pierst objected on the grounds that the question had been asked and
answered several times.  He was overruled.

"I don't know what time it was," Kennerman said.

"I

was cold."

"Didn't you get in your car and drive back to town then?"

"No!  I didn't!  I stayed out there and fished."

"Didn't you drive out to the Canby Ranch and have a look around?"

"No!  I didn't know nothing about the place!"

"But you knew about the Polk Street Safe House, didn't you?"

"Yeah.  I knew that one, but not the other one."

"When did you first start noticing that Paula was abusing your
child?"

"She wasn't, not that way.  She'd yell at her and punish her, that's
what I mean."  He was gripping the stand with both hands; beads of
sweat lined his upper lip, sweat shone on his forehead.

"When Lori was an infant?  In diapers?"

"Yeah, it started back then."

"Did you try to stop her?"

"Yeah, sure I did."

"How?"

"Like I said, I'd pull her away, keep her away from Lori."

"Did you hit her?"

"No!  I'd just try to pull her away."

"Mr.  Kennerman, did your former wife have to have a root canal in July
of a year ago?"

"I don't know."

"Didn't you slap her hard enough to loosen a tooth, which then
abscessed?"

"No!"

"Did you and Paula talk to a marriage counselor a year ago in
August?"

"Maybe.  I don't know when it was."

"And didn't Paula tell you then that if you hit her again, if you
didn't straighten yourself up, she'd leave you?  Do you remember
that?"

"No!"

"Did you ever hit Lori?"

"No!"  he cried in anguish.

"I never."

"Did you tell the counselor that you and your former wife would open a
savings account for Lori's education?"

"We talked about it, yeah.  We never had a chance, Paula and me.  We
wanted things better for Lori."

"Why did Paula punish Lori?  How did she misbehave?"

"She didn't.  She was a good kid."

"Did she yell, race around the place, make a lot of noise?"

"Yeah, sometimes.  And Paula made her sit still on the floor."  He was
very pale; his hands were trembling, and he was staring in a fixed gaze
beyond her.

"What else did Lori do?"

"Sometimes she wet herself."

"And she was punished for that?"

"Yeah, she said she'd take her to the woods and let the bears eat
her."

"And did she threaten her in any other way?"

"Yeah, with a curling iron.  She said she'd burn her."

He began rubbing his chest, still staring, blindly, it appeared.

"Do you have a scar on your chest, Mr.  Kennerman?"

"No!  She never burned me."

"Who are you talking about, Mr.  Kennerman?"  Barbara asked in a low
voice, moving in close to the witness stand.

He broke then.  Both hands flew to his face and his body shook out of
control.  Barbara walked back to the defense table, turned, and
regarded him with pity.  The silence in the courtroom was complete.

"You're not talking about Paula, are you, Mr.

Kennerman?"  she asked after a moment.

"No," he said, choking, his hands concealing his face.

"Did your mother burn you with a curling iron, Mr.

Kennerman?"

"No!  She didn't do that.  She wouldn't do that!"

"Your former wife never threatened your child, did she?"

"I don't know.  No.  No, she didn't."

"Mr.  Kennerman, the night you had your last fight with Paula, did you
pick up Lori and throw her on the bed?"

"Yeah, I guess so," he said from behind his hands.

"Did you threaten to throw her out the window?"

"No!  I didn't mean it.  She knew I didn't mean that.

I wouldn't hurt Lori.  I loved her.  Oh, God, I loved her!"

He stopped, and this time he buried his face in his arms on the
stand.

Judge Paltz rapped his gavel.

"The court will recess for fifteen minutes," he said quietly.

"He was crying," Barbara said softly to her father in the little
room.

"Paula was crying.  Half the jury was crying.

I might cry."

"You might want to cry," Frank said, putting his arm around her, "but
you won't.  Not here, not now.  Maybe later."  He gripped her
shoulder.

"You know you had to do it, Bobby.  You know that."

She nodded.  She knew that.  What she wanted to do, she thought then,
was go to the coast, stand on the cliff over Little Whale Cove, and
explain to Mike that she had to do it.  She patted Frank's hand and
went to the window to watch them on the crosswalk.

* * * "Mr.  Kennerman," she said when they resumed, "when Paula was in
the hospital after the tragedy, you went to visit her several times.
Then you stopped.  Why was that?"

He had washed his face and looked as if he had taken something that had
a remarkable calming effect.  He was pale but composed now.

"I knew she must have done it," he said dully.

"What made you think that?"

"The paper said she killed Lori and set the fire, nobody else could
have done it; and I got a letter."

"What newspaper are you referring to, Mr.  Kennerman?  The daily paper
here in town?"

He shook his head.

"Some paper I never seen before."

She went to the table and picked up a copy of the Valley Weekly
Report.

"Was it this paper?"

"I don't know.  Maybe.  Like that one."

"Tell us about the letter, Mr.  Kennerman."

"It just came.  It said she was seeing this rich guy and making a fool
out of me.  That's all."  Whatever he had taken had numbed him so much
that now his voice was a monotone and all his restlessness was stilled.
He looked almost asleep.

"Do you have the letter or the paper?"

"No.  I tossed them."

"Mr.  Kennerman, a year ago didn't you and your former wife see a
counselor who advised you to continue with counseling?"

He shrugged.

"I don't know.  I didn't pay any attention.

It was for her."

"You mean you went because Paula insisted?"

"Yeah."

"And did Paula say she would give you one more chance?  Only one more
chance?"

"I don't know.  I don't remember."

"When you arrived home that Thursday evening and found her packing, was
she angry because you took the money out of the savings account?  Is
that what you fought over?"

"Yeah.  She was sore."

"And did she say you had had your last chance, that you had blown
it?"

"I don't know.  Maybe."

"When you went to the Polk Street house, did you threaten to break down
the door if they didn't send her out?"

"No.  I didn't mean anything like that."

"Did you say it?"

"I don't know," he said.

"Did you threaten to burn down the house?"

"No!  I didn't say that!"  Sudden animation made him look at her; he
was wild-eyed.

"Did you yell that you would burn down the house and make all those
bitches go back home where they belonged?  Did you say that?"

"I could of!"  he cried.

"I might of.  I didn't mean it!

And I didn't burn down no house!"

"No more questions," Barbara said.

"Dad," she said, in the car with Heath Byerson behind the wheel,
driving what seemed to be a random route, "remember that wildlife
refuge up past Junction City?

Off Ninety-nine?  I think I'll change my clothes and go up there and do
some hiking."  No people, she thought, not on a weekday at this hour,
this time of year.

"Fine," he said.

"I'll go with you.  But there's some thing we have to see to first."

Heath Byerson had made many turns, and she realized that they had
entered the Whiteaker neighborhood, her neighborhood.  They passed
Martin's restaurant, and she had a surge of nostalgia for it, for
holding court in the dining room, advising people about wills and
fences and property lines.... Heath Byerson turned down her street and
stopped at her house; she gasped.  The windows were boarded up, and the
front of the house was covered with red paint.

"Those sons of bitches," she cried.

"Those god damned sons of bitches!"

EIGHTEEN

frank produced a key for the padlock, and they entered the house. Every
window had been broken; it looked as if a high-pressure paint sprayer
loaded with red paint had been used inside and out.  Silently she
looked at her futon, covered with red paint that looked like blood. In
her office her file cabinet was streaked red, the desk was covered.
Nothing in the living room was salvageable.

"Let's go," she said tightly.

"We think it happened about three or four in the morning," Heath
Byerson said back in the car.

"Probably when a train was going by, since no one heard anything.

Some of the paint was still wet when the investigating officers arrived
a little after eight.  A lot of people saw the windows and junk this
morning, and called us."

She kept her face averted, her gaze out the window although she was
seeing nothing.

"Insurance people will be out tomorrow," Frank said, "and a patrol car
will roam up and down until this whole thing is over."

She said nothing, not then, not when they reached Frank's house, and
the two men exchanged glances.

"See you in the morning," Heath Byerson said, and left them.

Inside the house, she started up the stairs.

"Bobby, wait a damn minute.  Loosen up.  It's a mess, but you've seen
messes before."

She stopped nearly halfway up.

"I don't want to fight with you," she said, not looking back at him.

"Just don't protect me anymore.  Okay?  You've known about this since
morning, haven't you?"

"What the hell good would it have done if I'd told you?  You had a
tough day to get through.  You didn't need this on top of it."

"Just don't make my decisions for me.  Don't shoulder my load.  Stop
trying to protect me!  Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

"No," he said.

"You're dealing with maniacs, people who've let the alligator brains
take over.  Someone's using them, trying to rattle you.  What if you'd
been in that bed?  Sure, we could have gone over there first thing, you
could have seen it before court, and then what?  You did a brilliant
job today.  Would you have been able to do that with fire in your eyes,
murder on your mind?"

"Don't decide what I can or can't do," she snapped.

"Let me mess up by myself!"  She ran up the rest of the stairs.

She drove alone to the wildlife refuge with little memory of getting
there, and then she started up the three-mile trail.  No one else was
in the area, which had been designated a wilderness, untouched except
for the several trails.  It was very still in the early evening; the
trail was dusty.

Noble firs, Douglas firs, an occasional yew made up the forest here.
Sunlight found an opening rarely, slanted in on columns of dancing dust
motes, and touched with gold what it could reach, but most of the trail
was in deep shadow.  Fir forests were dark, forbid ding to many people
who dreaded the menace of the shadows, the stillness.  The bears, she
thought with a shudder.  Jack Kennel-man's mother had threatened him
with bears in the woods.

She should whistle, make a noise, warn the bears that she was coming.
The only sound she made was the fall of her rubber soles in the dust of
the trail.  She climbed for half an hour, and was drenched with sweat
when she stopped to rest and look out over the valley she could now
see.  Below, the refuge was dotted with many ponds.  Geese came here,
and ducks, herons, gulls, even a pelican now and then.  Refuge.

She should be thinking about what had happened in court, who had said
what, the nuances, the changing expressions the meanings behind the
evasions, the destruction of her house and the implications Gallead?

Dodgson?  just another warning or had they thought she was there?
Instead, the words she had used, the words her father had used played
the loop.  Alligator brains, rattle you, don't protect me, murder on
your mind, let me mess up myself.... She started to walk again, this
time following the trail at the crest of a hill that afforded a glimpse
of the valley, twisted back into the forest, returned to give an other
view... .

The next time she stopped, she sat on a fallen tree trunk that was
being absorbed back into the ground but now afforded a mossy resting
place.  She said out loud, "Put it behind you, kiddo.  He's wrong, and
so are you.

Leave it for now."  She nodded at the wisdom of the words and then
brooded some more.  He did want to help, that was part of the problem.
But she had asked him to help, she reminded herself.  Not this way, she
retorted in the silent dialogue.

It occurred to her abruptly that the shadows now were not from the
forest, but were shadows of dusk; no more sunlight slanted through the
trees, and the sky had taken on a pale violet color, streaked with the
muddy gray smoke from forest fires.  She stood up and made her way on
the remaining trail, which was all downhill now.  It was nearly too
dark to see the pond when she was on level ground again; where the
water began, the grasses and rushes ended was impossible to tell.  She
skirted it with caution, and was vastly relieved when she reached her
car and got inside.

No bears, no dunking in the water, no mishaps.  Her legs were
throbbing, and she could feel the clammy touch of her shirt on her back
where sweat had soaked it through.  She began to shiver, and turned on
the engine waited for the heater, and tried to imagine the state of
mind Jack Kennerman would experience alone in the woods.  Did he still
have that fear?

All the way home she thought of Jack Kennerman and his brutalizing
mother, of Craig Dodgson and his mother, of Paula and her child, her
hopes.  And she realized she was thinking of her father and herself.
Doing the best we can, she thought then.  Most of us, some of us,
somehow or other, trying to do right by their children; children trying
to do right by their parents.

When she got back to the house and entered, the study door was open;
her father was in his old brown chair, which was a bit disreputable.

"Dad, I'm sorry," she said from the doorway.

He looked up at her over the top of his glasses.

"All right.  Let's bring all this up again at a later time."

She nodded.

"Hungry?"

"Starved.  I'll make something."

"I had Mexican pork stew.  A little spicy, but not bad."

His pork stew was heavenly, and he knew it.

"I'll heat it up if there's any left."

"Plenty left."  He turned to his book again.

"Won a bet with Heath Byerson," he said.

"Five bucks.  Not bad.

He thought you'd cry over that mess.  I said you'd get madder than
hell."

She felt her cheeks burn.

"I'll go shower first," she muttered.  Shower, eat, and then work for
several hours, she thought as she went up; a grin began to twitch at
the corners of her mouth.  Damn him.

Good, she thought the next morning when Fierst was well into his
plodding examination of Enrico Palma.

Fierst was going to cross every t, dot every ;'.  She sat back to
listen.

"Exactly what is a forensic psychiatrist?"  he asked after Palma's
credentials had been explained in infinite detail.  Palma had a gray
beard that was closely trimmed and neat.  His hair was gray, and his
eyes were a piercing black.  He was fifty-one, and had been doing
forensic psychiatry for sixteen years.

"We often work in cases such as this one, in order to determine the
state of mind of the accused at the time of the crime, and to evaluate
whether the accused is fit to stand trial."

He had examined Paula Kennerman, he said, in Salem, at the state mental
hospital.  Paula Kennerman had been taken to the hospital because she
had withdrawn into silence and was uncooperative, and it was feared she
was suicidal.

He had got her to talk to him, he said; one almost always could with
the right approach.  She had cooperated up to a point.  He went into a
very lengthy report of her childhood, adolescence, her adult life, her
marriage.  A recess was called, and after it, he picked up exactly
where he had left off and brought his testimony up to the date he had
concluded his examination.

"Exactly what do you look for when you examine persons accused of
committing a crime?  Criminal insanity?"

His smile appeared and vanished almost too fast to be identified.

"No.  I'm afraid that term has little meaning in the medical world.  We
look for a dissociative personality, for diminished capacity to resist
a compulsive urge, for a delusional personality, or even schizophrenia,
for a sociopathic personality, for an inability to distinguish right
from wrong.  There are other signs we seek, but those will do, I think.
Of course, we have to eliminate brain dysfunction due to substance
abuse, and we give a battery of tests to determine if the person is
intelligent enough to comprehend the proceedings."

Pierst was about to speak when Barbara said, "Objection.

The witness has used terms that are quite unfamiliar to most people.  I
suggest he explain them."

"I was going to ask him to," Fierst said with a touch of irritation.

And that would take them right up to lunch, Barbara estimated, when the
doctor went into a long, detailed explanation.  What a pompous little
man, she thought;

he was not quite preening, but was clearly happy with his
performance.

At lunchtime, before Paula was led out, Barbara held her hand for a
moment.

"Relax," she murmured.

"I

don't think I'll need to call you.  I'll explain later."

"Where is that Bailey?"  she demanded when she and her father entered
their room.  She stopped just inside the doorway.  A vase with many red
roses was on the table

She looked at Prank, who went to it and extracted a card, handed it to
her.

I'm sorry about your house.  Bill.  Wordlessly she picked up the vase
and went back out with it and handed it to a woman emerging from a
nearby office.

"I'm allergic to roses," Barbara said.  The woman looked at her
blankly, turned, and reentered her office carrying the flowers.

"That asshole," Barbara muttered, inside their room again.

"I'm getting fed up with their head games."

"Bobby, I wish you wouldn't call him that," Frank said, lifting the
cover of a large bowl.

"I bet he's used to it.  What do you suppose kids called him all
through school?  With his name, it's a sure bet.  What's that?"

It was a beautiful seafood salad with tiny pink Pacific shrimp, chunks
of salmon, bits of crab.... Today she sat down and ate with her father
before she prowled the second floor of the courthouse.

Pierst picked up where he had left off.

"Dr.  Palma, you've explained the psychiatric terms, and we know now
what you were looking for.  What were your conclusions after you
examined the defendant?"

"She was suffering from situational depression."

Before he could continue, Fierst looked at Barbara with some bitterness
and said, "Will you explain that term, please?"

And he was off with an explanation of the differences between
manic-depression, clinical depression, and situational depression.

"It's quite temporary," he finished

"Time and rest are the only treatment needed."

"Did you determine her state of mind before the death of her child and
the fire?"

"Yes.  I determined that she was absolutely normal."

Fierst had a few more questions and then Barbara stood up.

"Sir," she asked.

"What is your name?"

"Enrico Palma," he said promptly.

"Thank you.  You said Paula Kennerman was ordered to undergo
psychiatric examination because she had be come silent and
uncooperative.  Is that correct?"

"Yes.  She had refused to answer questions, refused to speak at all."

"Did you have access to her medical records and the police
investigators' records?"

"Yes, I did."

"And you read them all before you spoke with Paula Kennerman?"

"Yes, I did."

"You're familiar with Sergeant Sanderson's interrogations of the
defendant?"

"Yes, I am."

"Do you recall how many times the sergeant questioned the defendant?"

He frowned slightly, then shook his head.

"I'm sorry, I can't tell you.  I don't recall now."

"Oh.  What did you say your name is, sir?"

"Enrico Palma," he said, clearly and slowly.

She nodded absently.

"We have here Sergeant Sanderson's final report in which he states that
he inter viewed the defendant seven different times.  This was his
seventh time.  Of course," she added, "we have the notes from the first
six interviews also.  Did you have access to all seven interviews?"

"Yes, I did.  I read them all."

"In each one he asked the defendant to tell exactly what she did that
morning, and six times she told him that.  On the seventh time, she
became silent after saying "What's the use."

" She looked at Palma.

"Did you read that report, the notes and everything?"

"Yes, I did."

"I'm sorry, sir.  Will you please tell us your name again?"

He glared at her and turned to look at Fierst, who was already on his
feet to object.

"Your Honor, counsel is trying to provoke the witness."

"Sustained.  Ms.  Holloway, please get on with it."

"Yes, Your Honor.  Dr.  Palma, did it render you speechless to be asked
the same question only three times?  Did you begin to feel it was
hopeless?"

"Objection!"  Fierst yelled.

"Sustained," Judge Paltz said.

"The jury will disregard all the questions involving the witness's
name.  Ms.

Holloway, you will cease this form of questioning."

Barbara did not look at him for fear he would see the gleam in her eye.
Tell them not to think of elephants.

"Did you talk to the defendant's sister.  Dr.  Palma?"

"No, I did not."

"Or her ex-husband.  Jack Kennerman?"

"No, I did not."

He wasn't being paid by the hour, she thought distantly, but by the
word.

"You have told us in great detail about her childhood, her marriage,
her entire past history;

you have even quoted her, and you got your information from the
defendant.  Is that correct?"

"Yes, it is."

"Did she tell you about the day her child was killed, about the
fire?"

"Yes, she did, up to a point."

"Did she describe her actions of that day, Dr.  Palma?

Please, sir, just yes or no."

"Yes, she did," he said.

"Did you ask her to repeat the various incidents with her
ex-husband?"

"No," he said.

He knew exactly where she was going, she thought as she pressed on.

"Did you ask her to repeat the various incidents with her father?"

"No."

"But you asked her to repeat the most tragic story of her life, didn't
you?  How many times?  Was it more than three, sir?"

"Objection!  Counsel must ask one question at a time."

"Sustained."

"Did you have her repeat an account of her actions of that day.
Doctor?"

"Yes, of course.  Sometimes--" "Dr.  Palma, please just answer the
questions," Barbara snapped.

"How many times did you ask her to tell you about that day?"

"I don't know," he said.

"I didn't " "Your answer is that you don't know," Barbara said.

"Is that correct?"

"Yes, it is."

"Did she tell you about it more than once?"

"Yes."

"More than twice?"

"Yes."

"Dr.  Palma, did you explain to Paula Kennerman that it was not your
duty to treat her in any way, but that you had been hired by the
district attorney's office to evaluate her mental condition?"

"Of course!  Yes, I did."

"And she talked about her past, whatever you asked her?"

> "Yes.  Up to a point," he said with determination.

"What did she tell you about that day?"  she asked al most casually.

Fierst objected.

"On what grounds?"  Judge Paltz asked.

"Privileged information between a doctor and patient.

He can't be forced to reveal what the defendant may have told him.  She
is trying to turn this witness into a witness for the defense."

Barbara shook her head and approached the bench.

"Your Honor, Dr.  Palma is not and has never been my client's physician
or psychiatrist.  He was acting as an agent of the district attorney's
office.  He has repeated verbatim what she told him in many instances.
The prosecution cannot make an arbitrary decision now that he cannot
continue to reveal what he learned."

Judge Paltz nodded and overruled.

Dr.  Palma told what Paula had said to him, that she had gone to the
back door and had seen flames, had run around the front and upstairs,
searching for her child.

The jury appeared to be frozen with concentration.

"Is that what she said to the investigating officers?"

"Objection!"

"The witness has testified that he read all the reports.

He based his interrogation on them.  The reports are stipulated as
exhibits.  He knows what he read or didn't read in them."

Dr.  Palma was instructed to answer the question.

"Substantially," he said.

"What do you mean, 'substantially'?  Was it the same story?"

"I mean there might have been some variation," he said.

"Dr.  Palma, we have the police officers' reports.

Shall we read them and compare them to your account?

Or can you recall in what respects they vary?"

"A matter of wording," he said.

"It was basically the same."

"Thank you," Barbara said.

"Dr.  Palma, what do the letters BWS mean on your report?"

"It was a technical note to myself," he said, "to remind me to examine
for battered-wife syndrome."

"And what does that mean?"

"It's a complex system of behavior that includes violent interactions
when a woman is emotionally dependent on the man she is living with."

"What do you mean by 'violent interactions'?"

"Most often the couple quarrels and that leads to physical violence
during which the man beats the woman.  Sometimes severely."

"When you use the letters BWS as a memo to yourself, does that imply
you are searching for a pattern of behavior, predictable behavior, that
is?"

"Generally that would be true."

"Does seeking help from a marriage counselor fall into that predicted
pattern?"

"No, it does not."

Barbara started back to the table then paused to ask, "Dr.  Palma, is
there a term comparable to BWS used for men?"

He hesitated, then said, "No, there is not."

"No more questions," Barbara said.

Fierst was already on his feet to repair some of the damage.

"Dr.  Palma, was the defendant dissociative?"

"No, she was not."  , "Delusional?"

"No, she was not."

"How would you describe her mental condition?"

"Absolutely normal, completely rational."

"Your report described her as uncooperative.  Is that correct?"

"She became highly uncooperative."

"Doctor, is it standard procedure to ask a patient, or an accused
person, to repeat a statement several times?"

Fierst asked.

"Yes, it is.  Absolutely."

"Why is that.  Doctor?"

"Sometimes people simply forget part of the significant series of acts.
Talking about the events might free something that has been deeply
repressed.  Sometimes they omit something because they think it has no
significance.  Sometimes, of course, they have lied, and there is a
very high probability that they will contradict what they said
earlier."

When Fierst finished with Dr.  Palma, he said the state rested its
case.  Barbara, as a matter of form, requested that the case be
dismissed, and was denied.

"Is the defense ready to proceed?"  Judge Paltz then asked.

"Yes, Your Honor."

"Very well.  Court will recess for twenty minutes, at which time the
defense will present its case."

Barbara remained at the table to speak with Paula after the courtroom
had been cleared.

"Did he leave out anything important?"

Paula shook her head.

"I don't think so, but he made it all sound so text bookish like a
statistic."

"That's his job, and he's a pro.  But he presented your side thoroughly
and that means you don't have to."

"You made him do that somehow, didn't you?"  Paula said wonderingly,
and then she said, "Oh.  That's why Janey came to visit me, isn't it?
They thought-Oh."

"Exactly.  Go on now and get some coffee, do some breathing exercises
or something.  See you in a few minutes."

She nodded to the matron who had started to shift from foot to foot,
just out of hearing distance.

"Everyone in the business knows that character witnesses don't mean a
damn thing," Frank had said many times over the years, but he always
had called them.

The jury didn't know what a meaningless ritual it was.

He also said that cross-examination of character witnesses was no more
than a test of the intelligence of the prosecutor; he'd be a damn fool
if he went after them with spurs and whips.

Barbara had character witnesses lined up for the rest of the afternoon,
for most of the next day, and she planned to wind up on Friday with
Carrie Voight, to let the jurors mull over the Dodgsons and their spy
all weekend.

And give Bailey time to find and bring home the migrant worker.

And to reveal as little as possible about her defense before a long
weekend set in.

And give her time to consider Rich Dodgson; consider the direction this
case would take next week, time to discover what the best defense would
be.

NINETEEN

on friday the parade of character witnesses continued with few
interruptions from Gerald Fierst, who knew as well as Barbara that his
best policy was silence now.

When one of the waitresses from the Olympus restaurant was on the
stand, he asked her if Fridays and Saturdays were very busy, and she
admitted they were.  So the fact that she had not seen Craig Dodgson
for several years did not mean he hadn't been there, only that she
hadn't seen him.  She admitted that was correct.  She had come to court
dressed in the uniform the lounge waitresses wore--a knee-length black
skirt, long-sleeved white blouse.

Cindy Truman, the manager of the restaurant, followed her.  She was a
statuesque woman, broad in the shoulders, beautifully proportioned,
with satiny skin and dark hair streaked with gray.

After establishing that Paula had worked there for four years and had
an excellent work record, Barbara asked where she had worked in the
restaurant.

"In the dining room."

"Will you describe the layout of the restaurant, please?"

She did so succinctly, and when she was finished, Barbara asked, "So
the dining area is completely separate from the lounge?"

"Yes."

"Did Paula Kennerman ever work in the lounge?"

"No.  She was an excellent food server; she would have been wasted in
the lounge."

She said she knew who Craig Dodgson was and that he had not been in for
several years.

"How can you be certain?"  Barbara asked.

"About four years ago he came to the lounge with his younger brother,
who was a minor at the time.  I had to ask him to leave, and Craig
Dodgson made a scene.  In our business you remember those who make
trouble."

Barbara asked her what the food servers wore, and she stood up to show
her uniform a black skirt that came to mid-calf, and a white blouse.
She tied on a white apron to complete the outfit.

"Do you know Jack Kennerman?"

"Yes.  He used to come in sometimes and wait in the lounge for Paula to
finish work."

"When was the last time you saw him?"

"On Friday, April eighteenth."

"Will you tell us about that, please?"

"At first he said Paula had sent him," she said, "and I told him I
couldn't release her check without written authorization from her.  He
said he wanted to put it in the bank to cover checks they had written.
Then he demanded to know where she was, if she was hiding somewhere. I
told him to get out" "What was his attitude, his manner?"

"He was loud and almost incoherent at times, contradicting himself
again and again.  He looked and behaved like a madman," she said
flatly.

"When was the last time you saw Paula Kennerman?"  Barbara asked,
standing by the jury box.

"On Wednesday night of that same week," Cindy Truman said.

"She came looking for me because a gentleman at her table wanted to see
the manager.  When I went to the table a party of eight, the gentleman
said that they had paid the tab with a credit card and added a generous
tip, but that they wanted to give Paula a special tip, just for her. He
gave her twenty-five dollars in addition to the tip on the credit
card."

"Was he flirting with her?  Was that his reason?"

Cindy Truman smiled slightly.

"I hardly think so.  He and his wife were there with their three sons
and their wives to celebrate their fiftieth anniversary.  He was simply
happy with the service."

"Did Paula keep the twenty-five dollars?"

"Yes indeed.  She offered to put it in the pool to share the way all
tips are shared, but I told her she had to honor his wishes and keep it
for herself.  She said she would put it in the special savings account
for Lori's education.  She was very happy because that would take it to
five hundred dollars."

When Barbara was finished, Fierst hacked away at Cindy Truman.  She
couldn't be in the lounge, in both dining rooms, in her office, and the
kitchen simultaneously, he pointed out, and she couldn't know what was
happening in any of the rooms where she was not present.

Could she?

She said quietly that she knew what was happening in her restaurant.

"Mrs.  Truman," he said, "on a Friday night you get an influx of
customers when the performing arts center closes, don't you?"

"Yes, quite often."

"What does the lounge look like then?"

"People are standing at the bar, others clustered around the piano, or
the trio, whoever is performing jazz, and every table is filled, every
chair, with other people standing around, moving around.  It settles
down again after a bit."

"Yet you claim that you know who is in a crowded room like that.  Do
you have X-ray vision, Mrs.  Truman, that lets you see through people,
or magical vision that permits you to see around people?"

Barbara objected vehemently and was upheld, and she thought, louche,
Mr.  Fierst.

"No more questions," Fierst said with overly theatrical disgust.

Day-care people, kindergarten teacher, baby-sitter, people from the
apartment" complex, even a librarian who had known Lori and Paula, a
woman who worked at the Polk Street safe house, all drew hardly a
comment from Fierst.  Then, at three-thirty, Barbara called Carrie
Voight.  It was earlier than she had wanted, but Fierst was acting as
if it were his mission today to demonstrate how a trial could be
expedited.

Carrie Voight weighed more than three hundred pounds.  It was painful
to watch her slow progress down the aisle of the courtroom, and it was
evident that she could not possibly be seated at the witness stand.
Instead a bench was provided, and she sat down at eye level with the
jurors.

Her face seemed to have been mashed in, with a protruding forehead and
chin, receding nose and mouth.

Her hair was cut short and hung straight on both sides of her face,
with bangs that covered her eyebrows.  She was dressed in a green tent
Barbara could think of nothing else to call her garment.

She was a querulous witness, and Barbara gave her the freedom to talk
about herself for a good while.  She and Hermie, her husband, had lived
in the Farleigh Road house twenty-four years, and today was the first
time in six years that she had been outside.

When she had gone on long enough, Barbara interrupted her to ask, "But
in spite of your infirmities, you managed to hold a job, too, didn't
you?  Will you tell us about it?"

She was happy to.

"It was like this, see.  Mr.  Dodgson came by one day and said he heard
about me and my troubles, and he wanted to give me something to do, let
me feel useful again.  He said him and his wife came out to the country
for the peace and quiet after living most their lives in big cities,
and he didn't want to see that go, the peace and quiet.  And he said
Mrs.  Canby was going to let a lot of women start living in her house
and he hated the idea of a lot of loose women making trouble in the
neighborhood.  And I said Mrs.  Canby wouldn't let nothing like that go
on.  She used to bring me fruit from the trees over there.  I said she
was a nice lady and he said maybe she was, but she wouldn't be there
and who knew about the women who would be there, and I said I was sure
I didn't.  He was afraid they'd be doing bad things, like abortions
maybe, or fighting with men, or screaming and carrying on, or noisy
parties, or some thing.  He said alls he wanted me to do was let him
know who went in and out, that's all.  And I said that I could look
over there now and then, but I didn't see what good that would do, and
he said, no, they'd rig up something so I could really tell.  And they
brought this little light that sat on top of my dresser, and when
anyone went in the road over there, the light come on.  And they
brought me this telescope that was on a stand at the window and I could
see license plates and everything.  I liked that tele scope.  You know,
it kind of opens the world wide open.

And he paid me two hundred fifty dollars a month just to tell him who
went in there.  Just that."

"What did you do when the light came on?"

"I'd write down the license number, if it was a car or truck, something
like that, or write down what it had on it, like the telephone company
truck.  And if it was a per son, I'd just write down something like a
girl with long hair, or two women, or whatever came to mind, and say if
they was just taking a walk and going back, or going out to the
orchard, or on his place.  You know, sort of what they were doing "And
then what did you do?"

"Well, if it was daytime, I'd call him on the tele phone and tell him
what I seen.  If it was late, I'd wait until the next day and call him
up and tell him."

"Just him?  Did you ever call Mrs.  Dodgson?"

"He said not to call her, just him, and that's what I did."

"Do you know what turned on the light in your room?"

"I figured it out," she said with a nod that sent her flesh
quivering.

"I seen that Mrs.  Dodgson never went past that sign they put up; No
Trespassing sign it is, first one ever on any of that property.  And
one day I watched one of the girls go past it and sure enough the light
come on, so I knew."

"So you could see the cars that entered.  Could you see inside the
cars, see the people?"

"Oh, sure.  After I got the hang of the telescope, I could see right
in.  And the same car usually brought in the new girls, so I knew to
watch those times.  I could see them, all right."

"What did you do about nighttime, when it was dark?"

"They bought me some special binoculars, heavy thing it was, and I
could see at night with it.  Sometimes deer or elk or even a coyote
made the light go on, but he didn't want to hear about them.  But I
looked, just the same."

"Mrs.  Voight, just how much could you see from your room?"  Barbara
went to the stand with the aerial map and moved it closer.

"Here's your house," she began but Carrie Voight was shaking her
head.

"That's not right," she said.  Her jowls were in motion, and her mouth
was pursed so tightly her lips had vanished.

"This map was made from a photograph taken by an airplane," Barbara
said.

"This is how it all looks from above."

Carrie Voight looked at it with suspicion and shook her head again.

"All right," Barbara said in resignation.

"You just tell me what you could see and I'll try to locate it on the
map."

It was laborious because Carrie kept backing and filling  She had not
been able to see much of anything on the private road past the Canby
driveway too many trees.  Neither the Canby house nor the Dodgson house
had been visible too many shrubs and trees.  Some of the Dodgson
driveway had been visible, not much too many trees.  None of the
Gallead property; the fence was too high and he left too many trees out
front.

"Are you still employed by Mr.  Dodgson?"

"No, ma'am.  Couple days after the fire he sent some one to take away
all the stuff the telescope, the light, everything."

"While you were employed by him, did you tell any one what you were
doing?"

"Hermie knew, that's all.  Mr.  Dodgson said I shouldn't talk about it,
people wouldn't understand, and I didn't" "Did he ask you not to talk
about it after you stopped working for him?"

"Well, he said he'd appreciate it if I didn't, but he's not paying me
nothing now and I don't have to do what he says no more.  Anyways, when
people come around asking about it, I figured he must have told I mean
who else would have'?  and so I did, too."  She lifted one hand in a
gesture that seemed meaningless; her hand was tiny, as were her feet,
as if inside her hulking monstrous body was a doll-like creature.

"You were in your room on the morning of the fire at the Canby house?"
Barbara asked finally.

"Will you tell us about that, please?"

"Well, sure," Carrie Voight said.

"The light came on and I was already by the window in my chair, the
kind that has a motor to help you get out of, and so I just looked out
and seen it was Angela and didn't pay much attention.  I mean, she
worked there, and she stopped to talk to Mrs.  Dodgson.  And I started
to get up, but the chair takes a while, and when I looked out again,
Angela was already on the Canby driveway and Mrs.  Dodg son was fooling
around with the gate to her driveway.  I thought she was going in, but
maybe not, because next time I looked she was near the No Trespassing
sign again.  And I didn't look out again until the fire engines
come."

Wrong!  Barbara wanted to say, but she walked to her table in thought
instead.  This wasn't what Carrie had said earlier to Bailey.  She
said, "Let's take it a little slower, Mrs.  Voight.  The light came on
and you looked and saw Angela's car.  Did you see her?"

"No.  But I knew the car just fine."

"Did you see her daughter Annie?"

"I didn't see nobody in the car."

"And then you started to get out of your chair and didn't look out
again for a few minutes.  Is that right?"

Carrie Voight sighed and made the small gesture with her small hand.

"That's right."

"When you did look out again, you saw the car in the Canby driveway and
Mrs.  Dodgson by her own gate, doing something to it?  Could you see
what she was doing?"

"Like I said, I thought she was opening it, going in, done with her
walk."

"Did you see her open the gate?"

"No.  I said she was fooling with it, like she was going to open it,
that's all."

"Is that gate usually locked?"

"I guess so.  I seen her unlock it and go out and lock it again after
she took her walk.  Plenty of times."

"All right, then what did you do?"

Carrie's mouth pursed tight again.

"Nothing.  Just wanted to get up."

"How long do you think you were out of the chair?"

"Long enough ... I don't know."

Oh, Barbara thought suddenly.

"Where is your bath room, Mrs.  Voight?"

Her lips had vanished again.

"Down the hall a ways.

Not far."

"Did you go to the bathroom when you got out of your chair?"

"I might have."

Ten minutes?  Fifteen minutes?

"Mrs.  Voight," she said kindly, "did you go out of your room, go down
the hall to the bathroom and stay there a few minutes, and then return
to your chair?"

"Yes."  She raised both hands and let them drop gently.  She had no lap
for them to rest on; they stopped moving where they landed.

"When did you look out the window again, Mrs.

Voight?"

"Right when I got back.  She was right near the No Trespassing sign.
Couldn't miss her in that pink outfit.

Then I got myself in place for the chair to take me down and lean me
back and I turned on the television, and I didn't look out again.  I
watched "I Love Lucy';

it's just a rerun, but I like it.  It come on at eleven, so it must
have been eleven," she finished in triumph.

"What was Mrs.  Dodgson doing when you saw her that last time?"

"Nothing, just standing there.  I seen her back, that's all.  Oh, then
she was tying her shoe, I guess.  You know, she bent down like she was
tying her shoe.  And I didn't look again."

It was twenty-five minutes before five when Barbara finished with
Carrie Voight.

Fierst implied that Carrie Voight was a spy, and everyone knew spies
were not trustworthy; he implied that everything she had said was a
fabrication, an attempt to get even with the Dodgsons because an easy
income had been stopped.  Barbara objected and he retracted a bit, and
then came back meaner, right up to five minutes before five, when he
asked.

"Did you see anyone else on that private road that morning?"

"No," she said in a near whisper.  Everything about her was quivering,
her jowls, her hands, the tentlike garment, even her feet.

"Did anyone except Angela Everts set off your light that morning?"

"No," she said, shaking her head.

"No more questions," he said brusquely.

Barbara returned to the only three things of interest to her now: Was
Kay Dodgson near the pond when Angela Everts stopped?  Was she at her
gate, fooling with it, about five minutes later?  Was she again near
the pond at about eleven?

"They knew," she fumed, back in Frank's house.

"That's why they didn't call her.  She should have been their
witness."

"Well, they found out," Frank agreed.

"And by then they were pretty much committed.  Way it goes.  What I'm
going to do is get on my shorts and weed the garden, and later on broil
a couple of steaks, and cook plenty of veggies."

She went up to change her clothes, and when she returned, Frank was out
in the garden, a ridiculous figure in shorts that were baggy and came
down to his knees, sneakers without socks, and a wide-brimmed straw
hat.

He had put the telephone on the back porch.  She went outside and
walked the length of the brick path that led from the house to a
storage shed at the end of the property, fifty feet away.  It was a
pretty backyard, with the vegetable garden on one side, backed by a
fence covered with vines in bloom.  On the other side was a rose arbor,
a flower border, shrubbery.  Pretty, but too short.

She walked back and forth for several minutes and finally stopped near
where her father was weeding a row of lettuce.

"What's wrong with it?"  she demanded.

He looked up and said, "It's flabby, that's all."

She nodded.  Flabby.

"Honey, you made a very good opening statement;

pity you didn't listen to what you said.  Got it on tape if you want to
play it."

"You're taping," she said, and shook her head.

"For heaven's sake, they're going to catch you at it.  You know
that."

He shrugged.

"Maybe.  Anyway, what you said was you don't have to point a finger at
anyone else; all you have to do is raise enough doubts about the case
the state's making.  You're doing a good bit of that."

"But not enough," she muttered.

"Not enough yet."

"Try me," he suggested, and started to wield a strangely shaped hoe,
like an elongated diamond.

"Okay.  Access.  They said the place was sewed up; I showed that it
wasn't.  Kay Dodgson's story is blown out of the water, and Carrie
Voight couldn't see enough."

"Coming down the back woods means a lot of trouble Frank said, not
looking up from his task.

"Means someone already knew about the gas, or happened on it.

Always risky, counting on happenstance.  Why would a stranger come out
of the woods to kill a child and burn down a house?  And vanish without
leaving a trace?"

"You're getting into motive," she complained, walking slowly again.

"Not a stranger.  Jack Kennerman.  He had motive, as much as Paula. She
was a perfect mother."

"Yep, proven by every word in court most of the day.

But she was a battered wife.  She was pushed too far and snapped.  The
child said something like, "I want to go home, where's Daddy," and she
broke."

Barbara scowled at him.

"Jack."

"He might have wanted to burn it down," Frank said, "force her back
home, but he's afraid of the woods.

Can't prove he knew the place existed.  Not reasonable to think he'd go
fishing, drive back directly to the house, and conveniently find it
empty, or wait for it to get emptied, and do the deed.  Why not do it
first and then set up the fishing alibi?"

"He wouldn't have known it was empty," she said, coming to a stop.

"He wouldn't have known how many people were supposed to be there. Even
if he saw Paula leave, he didn't see Lori."

Frank stopped hoeing and regarded her thoughtfully.

"Oh," she whispered.

"Right back."  She ran to the house and her briefcase with the names,
addresses, and phone numbers of all the witnesses, and she called
Angela Everts.

When Frank shouldered his hoe a few minutes later and joined her on the
porch, she had the phone to her ear.  She held it out so he could hear
the ringing.

"Honey," he said, "even if you can't prove Jack did it, and I sincerely
doubt he did, you are still raising all kinds of questions about the
state's case.  That's all you have to do.  Paula deserves a fair " She
was looking at him absently, then said into the phone, "Mrs.  Melrose?"
She paused, then said, "This is Barbara Holloway.  I have to see you.
There are a few questions I really have to ask.  When would be a good
time?  An hour, this evening some time?"  She listened, and nodded.

"Fine.  At ten in the morning.  Thanks."

To Frank she said, "The gate wasn't locked when Angela went up to the
Dodgson house to call the fire department."

He waited.

"Why didn't Kay lock the gate that morning?  As careful as they were,
it should have been automatic with her.  We've been asking the wrong
question."  She stood up and stretched.

"For heaven's sake, it's so obvious."

"You planning on letting me in on what you're thinking  he asked
aggrievedly, hefting the hoe as if ready to go back to the garden.

"You going to stop messing around in the dirt and sit down so I can
tell you?"

He leaned the hoe against the porch rail and sat down.

"We've been asking why she would lie for a stranger.

That's the point Fierst will hammer home when he sums up.  What
difference did it make to the Dodgsons who did it as long as the Canby
place was put out of business?  But what if she saw someone and
recognized him?  What if she is terrified of that person?  That would
be reason enough for her lies."

In her mind's eye she saw again the look of terror flash across Kay
Dodgson's face when she said that Royce Gallead was not a friend,
merely a neighbor.

TWENTY

"No details," she said.

"Let's try a broad outline and see what's missing.  Kay is afraid of
Royce Gallead.  Maybe he's been threatening, demanding they get rid of
the women at the Canby Ranch.  After all, his truck and his workers,
legal or otherwise, were in sight the morning a photographer was out
there.  Next time, who knew what might happen?  So, Kay learns the
house will be empty and she runs home and calls him and tells him to
take care of it himself.  Then she has to go back out and see if he
actually does anything.  She must have seen him, or why lie?"

Frank made a grunting sound that she ignored.

"She thought there were two little girls," she said.

"She never saw Annie.  He must have waited until two girls were out.
That's why the long delay, why she couldn't just go back in as soon as
she saw him.  Or maybe she didn't see him until he finished and
left."

For a while neither spoke as they considered the problems her scenario
solved, and the holes it opened.  Finally Frank rose and picked up his
hoe again, regarded it as if it were an alien object, and leaned it
against the rail once more.

"Gallead was in sight at the range all morning," he said heavily.

"Dozens of people in and out of there on Saturdays.  They'll alibi him
just fine."

"The more the better," she said.

"It wouldn't have taken longer than ten minutes.  No one person saw him
every second.  They were (here to learn how to shoot guns, and he
doesn't give personal instructions.  Ten minutes out of sight, who
would have noticed that?  Remember when he appeared on the driveway the
day I first snooped around the Canby place?  He can cover ground, all
right" "You can make up stories all you want," Frank said with a new
sharpness in his voice.

"Suppose this, imagine that, and it doesn't matter.  You can suppose an
army moving in.  So what?  You can't prove a thing playing mind games
this way."

"That's what weekends are for," she said.

"Damn that Bailey!  Where is he?  I guess Winnie will do.  I have a few
notes to make."  She got up to reenter the house.

"I'm going to finish weeding," Frank said.

"God almighty, God almighty!"

She heard Frank come into the house later and went down to talk to him.
He passed her carrying a small basket filled with vegetables--tomatoes,
string beans, lettuce, a cucumber.

"No doubt half that jury believes Rich Dodgson is doing God's work
against mighty odds; you might convince half of them that Dodgsons
collectively are scum and lowlife," he growled on his way to the
sink.

"But you won't convince even that many that not liking your neighbors
is reason enough to conspire to burn down a house and kill a little
girl.  And you can't connect them to whatever scam Gallead's got going.
You can't bring in a new suspect at your summation, and you know it.

And there's no cause on earth to call him as a witness.

You can't subpoena him and just ask outright.  By the way, sir, did you
commit murder and arson."  He began to wash his vegetables with
scrupulous care.

"Dad, relax," she said.

"I know all that.  I can't prove anything, and I don't have to.  But I
do have to present an alternative scenario that will make the jury take
no tice.  Not just Jack Kennerman.  We both know Fierst will make hash
out of that."  At least, she thought, if there were two alternatives,
she could convince the jury that the state's case was incomplete and
even sloppy.

Enough doubt?  Reasonable doubt?  She hoped so.

"What are you planning?"  he asked gruffly.

She was surprised at the surge of relief that washed over her, and she
thought, Good old Dad, he knew exactly how this could work.

"I have a list of things I need to find out.  Who was actually at the
range that morning?  And what is the usual procedure?  And to make sure
Gallead isn't a total stranger, I have to find a way to connect him to
the Dodgsons.  And talk with Reggie Melrose.  It's possible she saw
something or heard something and isn't even aware of it.  Maybe she'll
connect the Dodgsons and Gallead.  And I have to go out there tomorrow
and see just how good the line of sight is from the end of the road to
the woods.  Why did Kay dally there, why not up farther?"

"Not alone," he said.  He turned to face her; he looked harder than she
had seen him in years, tougher.

"Listen a minute," he said.

"You have to write out everything you guess, everything you surmise,
everything you know already.  Two copies, two envelopes.  One ad
dressed to Lewis Paltz, one to Sam Bixby.  And a big envelope they'll
both fit in.  After dinner we'll go to the office and put them in the
safe."

"You've done this before?"

"I've been here before," he snapped.

"And you don't go anywhere alone until this is well behind us.  Not to
the post office, not shopping, nowhere.  Especially not out to the
Canby place.  You've been warned off; your house was trashed; pay
attention.  That man threatened you directly;

if he thinks you're stepping on his toes now ..."

She nodded.

"That goes for you, too.  Dad.  We stay together until it's over."

"Agreed.  Go on and write your letter and I'll make us some dinner."

"Thanks.  And, Dad, I think we're actually homing in on something.  My
toes are tingling."

"Christ on a mountain," he muttered, and attacked his vegetables
again.

>

Barbara called Winnie Scourby, who arrived at nine, raised her eyebrows
at the list of things Barbara needed to know right now, and left again
with a noncommittal "I'll try."

They talked until nearly midnight, when Frank went to bed, and she
paced and thought for another hour or so, too tense and wound up to
even think about sleeping yet.  Finally, a soaking bath, a cup of
cocoa, and exhaustion un kinked her enough to let her drop into bed and
instant deep sleep.

Mrs.  Melrose lived with her married daughter and her family in the
southwest hills.  The house was two-story, with a small apartment that
had been converted from a garage, her apartment.

She was a plump, birdlike woman, with a comfortable bosom founding out
her front, and a comfortable bottom balancing her nicely.  Her daughter
didn't want her to keep working, she said, but she couldn't just sit
around, could she?  She had a pair of professors now, she said,
pointing to chairs for Barbara and Prank, settling herself on a small
sofa covered with a handmade quilt.

"Four days a week, not hard work, but they're messy papers and books
everywhere, and none of it can be touched.

Not easy to clean around papers and books," she said with a nod.  Then
she asked, "Why did you want to see me?  I already told everything I
know about the fire and that poor little girl, and what I know is as
near nothing as you can get."

She needed little prompting when Barbara said vaguely, "Just background
information.  What was it like working for the Dodgsons?"

"Oh, them," Mrs.  Melrose said with a sniff.

"They weren't easy, believe me.  Once when I was about five minutes
late, not my fault, but a wreck on the road in front of me why, I
thought they'd fire me on the spot.

Eleven to eight, my hours, and they wanted me there at eleven sharp."

It was a repeat of what Angela Everts had said: they were fastidious
and made a fuss out of every little detail they thought wasn't exactly
right.

"But I'm a good housekeeper," she said complacently.

"They never found much to fuss about."

The name Royce Gallead meant nothing to her, except that she had seen
his sign every day on her way to work.

She never set eyes on the man, she declared positively.

Gradually Barbara steered the conversation to the Saturday she wanted
to hear about.  Mrs.  Melrose told them she always drove around to the
side of the house and went in the back door.  She didn't see anyone
that day.

"It was like most Saturdays, except she left me a note to clean the
refrigerator.  She left me notes the days she wasn't going to be there,
but not usually on Saturday.

Lot of nonsense that was.  I always cleaned the fridge on Tuesday and
it didn't need a thing.  But I got right at it.  I knew they'd come in
sniffing around to make sure I did."

"Was the door open to the pool room when you got there?  Could you see
it?"

"No, you can't see it down that hall, but it was open.

Chlorine smell all through the hall, and the music was just blasting
out."

"And then what?  You were cleaning the refrigerator, but you went out
to see what was happening?  What made you suspect anything was
happening?"

"The music stopped; and I heard Angela on the phone yelling at the fire
department man.  That was a surprise, I tell you, her going in the
front door, tracking in dirt and all.  I guess she never gave it a
thought."  She didn't wait for a question this time.

"Well, she finished on the telephone and told me, and then she ran out.
And Mrs.  Dodfson told Craig to go get some clothes on, and she said
she would get dressed, and she said as soon as I got done in the
kitchen I might as well go on home.  She was too upset for anyone to be
messing around all day, she said."

"Was Craig in the white robe then?"

"Yes, he was.  A hundred dollars that robe cost them.

Can you believe it?  He came out of the pool and put it on, I guess,
and he was standing in the hall in front of the door to the pool.
Closed it first, but too late; the smell was already out And he was
dripping water down his hair.  He went across the rug to his room in
his wet bare feet and I thought she'd tell me to vacuum out his foot
prints, but she didn't, and it wouldn't have done no good anyway, what
with all the other footprints already there."

"Then what?"  Barbara prompted.

"Nothing.  I went back to the kitchen and finished up, and I checked
the dressing room to pick up towels and stuff, but there weren't any,
and I went home."

"Nothing was disturbed in the dressing room?  Were Craig's clothes in
there?"

"Not a thing."

"How long after that did you quit?"

"I didn't quit.  Oh, I threatened to many a time, but they were gone
most days, and I liked the hours, being away when the kids are here at
supper.  They're good kids, but they can get loud, you understand?
Anyway, on Tues day I never worked on Sundays or Mondays there so when
I got there Tuesday, he, Mr.  Dodgson, met me in the kitchen and
grabbed my arm and steered me right to the pool, yelling like a maniac.
Look what you did!  he was screeching.  One of those gallon plastic
jugs that floor stripper comes in was floating in the water.  He said
the water was ruined, they'd have to have the pool pumped out and
cleaned, and it was my fault.  He said I didn't go on home like Mrs.
Dodgson told me to, that I was in there messing around and knocked over
that jug.  But I didn't."

"You left right away?  You didn't stay at all?"

"Oh, I left, all right.  I told him what he could do with his temper
fits and his pickiness, and, I guess, a few other things that don't
come to mind right now."  She looked quite self-satisfied.

Barbara asked a few more questions about what she had seen or heard
that day, and listened to her for another hour.

In the car again, driving to the Canby Ranch, she said grumpily, "So,
if the Dodgsons and Gallead didn't want to broadcast that they were
associates, they wouldn't be seen together.  All right?"

Frank did not say a word.

At the Canby private road she got out near the pond and watched her
father's car as it continued up the road.

From here, at this time of year, she could not see past the rushes and
cattails, which were high, far over her head.  She walked up the road
until she could see the barn, and stopped almost even with the no
trespassing sign.  Frank had stopped at the Canby driveway, and he
walked up the road and vanished almost instantly, hidden by the trees.
She did not see him again until he appeared at the car once more,
stepped over the log barrier, and started toward the house site. There,
too, as soon as he got past the car, he vanished.  Slowly she walked up
the private road, pausing only long enough to look at the padlock on
the gate to the Dodgson driveway.

A shallow ditch was on each side of the driveway, bone-dry now, but no
doubt little rivulets in the spring.

She met Frank at the site of the burned house.

Silently she walked to the edge of the woods and kept going until she
was near the end of the barn, not far from the orchard.  Nowhere along
the walk would she have been able to see anyone leaving the house by
the back door, she realized.  Shrubbery, the house itself, the barn,
all would have been in the way.

"What's wrong?"  Frank asked when she returned and opened the car door
to get in.

"Nothing," she muttered.

"Nothing."  But she knew she would have to tell him that she had just
blown her own scenario.  Gallead wouldn't have been able to see when
the coast was clear.

It was nearly three when they got back home.  They had stopped for
lunch, and now Frank said he was going to take a nap.  She turned on
the answering machine, and they both froze when Bailey's voice drawled,
"Reeling him in.  We'll be there about ten.  You'll need an
interpreter.

See you."  Barbara let out a long breath.

"What kind of interpreter?"  she muttered.

"Where are they?  Why ten?"

"Good God, Bobby, relax!  If you can't relax, run up and down the
stairs a few times--with your shoes off."

He went down the hall to his room and closed the door.

Interpreter, interpreter, she repeated to herself, walking through the
first-floor rooms as she thought of who it would be.  Roberto, she
decided, the young man who was learning how to make false teeth.  She
phoned him, then went upstairs to the room her father had designated
her office by putting a desk, a chair, and a file cabinet in it.

It was a fine office, she had to admit, and then forgot about it as she
began a methodical review of her case.

She was jolted when her father said from her open door, "You didn't
hear a thing, did you?  For God's sake, Bobby, leave it be for a while.
It's nearly six.

Let's talk about dinner over a glass of wine.  Downstairs."

He turned and walked away.

After restacking some papers, she went down.

"Dad, you really don't have to baby-sit me," she said, accepting a
glass of wine.

"I mean, I've lived all these years without starving myself."

"Someone has to watch over you," he said in a growly voice.

"When I was in your state, your mother watched over me like a hen with
one chick to guard.  She saw to it that I ate, slept, washed.  She
reminded me to shave.  I know where you're at because I've been
there."

Barbara had a flash of memory of how her mother had looked after him,
shielding him at times from his only child.  How jealous that child,
Barbara, had been.

"Every man needs a good wife," she murmured.

"Don't be ridiculous," he snapped.

"It's got nothing to do with male female roles.  When one sees the
need, he or she tends to it, and the other one accepts.  With a
pretense of graciousness, if that's possible."

"What would it be like to be married to another attorney, with two
cases going at the same time?"

"One of them better be making enough money to hire a nanny who'd see to
both of them.  Scrub them, feed them, remind them to brush their teeth,
and then get out of the way."

She laughed.

"So let's go out somewhere.  And you'll tell me the story about when
you were threatened by someone in a case you were handling."

"I will not.  My stories are too good to waste on someone who's only
half-listening."

He took her to an Italian restaurant, and when they returned home at
eight forty-five, he said, "Well, at least you've been well fed with
decent food even if you don't know what it was, and didn't taste a
bite."

Roberto arrived at nine-thirty.  He was lankier than she remembered,
and he looked embarrassed and shy when she greeted him at the door and
introduced him to her father.  In the study, Roberto said, "Barbara, we
all miss you.  A bunch of us were in Martin's place, and we made a
committee so when they clean up your house and get it fixed again,
we'll patrol, not the cops, not anyone else.  We'll do it, our
committee.  You're coming back, aren't you?"

She nodded.

"Yes.  As soon as I can.  You didn't tell anyone this address, or that
you were seeing me, did you?"

"No!  Not even my mother.  You say tell no one, I tell no one.  Like
that."

"Thanks.  Now, how about something to drink?  A Coke, wine, coffee,
beer ..."  He said coffee would be nice, and she left to make a pot.
When she returned, he was talking earnestly to Frank about the need to
have a trade, a life-long profession.

At five after ten Bailey arrived with Miguel Torres, who was carrying a
canvas duffel bag.  Bailey looked exhausted.  He introduced his
companion, who smiled and said not a word.

"Drove down from an orchard out of Hood River," Bailey said.

"We stopped to eat.  He's okay; he slept most of the way, but I need
some shuteye.

He'll want a place to sleep."

"We'll take care of that," Frank said.

"Does he speak any English?"

"Not that you'd notice.  He's a good guy, take care of him.  I'm off.
I'll call tomorrow."  Frank went to the door with him.

"Senor Torres," Barbara said, "por favor ..."  She pointed to a
chair.

He smiled and sat down.

"Gracias, senorita."  He was muscular, in his thirties, and very
dark.

"Roberto, ask him if he'd like something to drink, or wants to use the
bathroom.  You know."

There was a swift exchange of musical language and Roberto said no,
Miguel was comfortable.

"He says you're very beautiful," he added.  Roberto could hardly
contain his excitement at his role in this adventure; his cheeks blazed
and his eyes flashed.

Barbara felt her cheeks go hot, and Miguel's smile broadened.  Roberto
spoke at some length, now sounding like a teacher or a parent, and
Miguel's expression changed to one of respect.

"What are you telling him?"  Barbara demanded.

"I told him about you," he said proudly.

"He didn't understand why you were being so friendly, why you were
talking instead of Mr.  Holloway.  Now he does."

She had Roberto explain that they would pay Miguel, and they would see
to it that he had a place to sleep.  And she wanted to tape-record the
conversation.  The exchanges became longer.  He wanted to know why,
Roberto said.

"Good," Barbara^said to Frank.

"He's sensible and intelligent."  At her words, she caught a gleam of
under standing in Miguel's eyes.

"You can understand some English, can't you?"

He nodded and held up his thumb and forefinger about an inch apart.

"Little," he said.

She suspected it was more than just a little, but she nodded and said
to Roberto, "We think the man who hired him was engaged in an illegal
activity.  We don't think the men he hired are involved, but we need
information.  That's all, just information."

Presently they had the tape recorder working and Miguel, through
Roberto, was answering questions.

He had been hired, he said, by a man in his village who explained that
the gringo wanted four men to work for three or four days, that there
would be a long drive first and they would be required to stay in the
truck.

The gringo wanted men who had no English; he was very firm about that.
Miguel had no English, he said with a little shrug, and he needed the
money.  He had a wife and three children and no job.  The gringo paid a
hundred dollars a day, including the travel time.

When they got there, they had a big room with cots and showers, and
plenty of food.  They cooked for them selves.  They weren't allowed to
go outside.

"What did they do there?"  Barbara asked.

"What was the job?"

"He's coming to it," Roberto said patiently.

They made little boxes first, out of cardboard with print on it.  And
bigger boxes to hold the little boxes.

They wore rubber gloves, doctors' gloves, and put medicine in little
containers.  They put cotton in the containers first, then medicine,
more cotton, and they packaged them.  That's all.

Frank got up and left, to return with a pad of graph paper.

"How big were the boxes?"  he asked Roberto.

Miguel held his fingers apart; five or six inches.

Frank started to draw a box and Miguel said, "Senor, por favor.  I
show."  He took the pad and sketched rap idly, a box about six and a
half inches long and two inches wide.

"Up," he said, and held up his fingers, then drew a line from the box
upward about an inch and a half.  He then drew a small cylindrical
container, a pill bottle, one and a quarter inches high, and
three-quarters of an inch wide.  He looked at his work with a frown,
then shrugged and handed the pad back to Frank.

"A little pill bottle," Frank said.

"A real little pill bottle."

Miguel nodded and spoke rapidly to Roberto.  Twelve little bottles went
in the box, he said, and twelve boxes in the big box.  He shook his
head and spoke rapidly again.  First a paper was rolled up and fitted
into the bottle.  Rules?  Miguel shook his head at the word and said
something else.  Instructions or something, Roberto said, printed
paper, very small print, it went in first, then the cotton, the
medicine, more cotton, and then the top was put on and sealed with a
machine that melted plastic into a band.

"Good Lord," Barbara breathed.

"Tamper-proof medicine bottles."  Miguel nodded.

"How many pills in each one?"

"dos, " he said promptly.

"Two pills?  Only two?"

He nodded emphatically and then spoke for several seconds to Roberto.

"He says the pills^ were very dangerous; that's why they had to wear
the gloves.  They couldn't let them touch their skin, their fingers,
anything.  They were all very frightened by them and they were very
careful."

"Could they have been radioactive?"  Barbara asked, thinking out
loud.

Roberto translated and Miguel shook his head and re plied with another
burst of rapid Spanish.  No, the gringo wore the same kind of gloves
when he handled them, but if they had been radioactive, he would have
protected himself more than that.

"Can you read English?"

"Little," he admitted, and continued in Spanish for Roberto to
translate.  The instructions were not in English  He didn't know the
language.

They kept at it for another hour.  Barbara produced a bottle of aspirin
and he nodded: Like that, one of the medicines, but smaller.  Then he
hit his forehead with the palm of his hand.  In each little bottle they
put one tablet like that, he said, and one different, a capsule, pink
and soft.  He sketched a slender capsule about an inch long.  Pink, he
said again.  The medicines were kept in plastic jars, separated.

At twelve-thirty Prank said, "These fellows need some sleep, and so do
I. Let's wrap it up for now."

Roberto suggested that Miguel go home with him.  He could tell him
about his school, and Miguel would like his mother's cooking.  Miguel
nodded.  They all stood up.  Miguel hefted his duffel bag, and Barbara
said, "Just one more question, senor.  Since you arrived in the dark
and left again in the dark, how did you know that place was here, in
Oregon, on that particular road?"

He flashed his big grin and explained to Roberto.

They had heard shooting and had been frightened, but the gringo said
not to worry and not to ask questions.

But he began to think it was like practice, not like the army or
bandits.  The morning they left, he caught a glimpse of Gallead's sign,
the long rifle silhouetted against the sky, and he put that together
with practice, and suspected a rifle range.  And on the last day, when
the gringo's servant brought them some beer and chips, the cash
register receipt stuck to the bag.  He had been able to make out the
words Eugene, Oregon, he finished and spread his hands.

After they were gone, Frank prowled about the house checking door locks
and windows, and then stopped at the kitchen table, where Barbara was
working with a calculator.

"Bet he came back up with the idea of shaking down

Gallead, and his guardian angel said that was not a very good idea."

"I've been doing the numbers," Barbara said, frowning at her answers.

"Each case holds one hundred forty-four individual bottles, and he said
there were thirty or forty cases.  That's between four and six
thousand.  Bailey said the truck makes a run about every six or eight
weeks."

She bit the end of the pencil.

"That's not enough for street drugs."

"Could be a new psychedelic," Frank suggested.

"Or an aphrodisiac from Thailand."

"An invisibility pill.  One to turn you off, one to turn you back
on."

She grinned.

"I like that."

"He wouldn't hire local help," Frank said after a moment.

"Too risky.  I'm surprised he hires anyone.  Seems like he could
handle, it alone over a week or two."

She looked up at him.

"I wonder if the Dodgsons know he brings in outside talent?"

Frank started to walk toward the hall and his bedroom.

He stopped at the doorway and regarded her for a second, and then said,
"Don't answer right now, sleep on it, but I'm thinking we may be in
over our heads.

This could really be time to talk to the FBI."

She had thought about it already, before Miguel Torres left, in fact
"If they believed us and went out there and broke down doors, what do
you suppose they'd find?"

"I know," he said.

"I know.  Gallead's had time to clear out everything right down to
virgin wood.  But they'd start an investigation."

"Yes, and six months from now, or two years from now, or five, we might
even hear echoes of it, and meanwhile, what about Paula Kennerman?"

Alone later, she continued to worry the question: What was in the
little pill bottles valuable enough to pay two thousand dollars for
illegal workers to package?  Some kind of phony treatment for something
incurable?  Parkinson's, or Alzheimer's, or even AIDS?  People would
pay anything for hope.  Where did the tablets and capsules come from?
Miguel had said emphatically they did not make them at Gallead's place;
they just packaged them.

She knew she was wasting time, but she couldn't leave it alone.  So,
she told herself, Craig picked up ten thousand doses of something
somewhere.  Where didn't matter, she decided; he said he went up and
down the coast from Mexico to Canada, even to Hawaii.  He could hide
ten thousand doses easily enough, even if he was stopped repeatedly and
searched for marijuana, coke, anything.  All that was bulky, and he was
dealing with very small items.  His father had a supply of paper for
the information sheet, or instructions; he could print and deliver five
thousand to Gallead without involving anyone else.  Same for the
various boxes.  That must be Dodgson's department, also.  And Royce
Gallead was the packager.  Then, someone had to deliver them.  Craig
Dodgson, she decided.  He had the perfect cover for numerous trips
throughout the year--his involvement with the anti-abortion groups.

Her head was reeling when she gave it up at last to go to bed.  Until
they knew what the stuff was for, they were no better off than they had
been yesterday, or last month, she thought tiredly as she went up the
stairs.

TWENTY-ONE

she had been up for over an hour before Frank appeared, looking grumpy
and rumpled, wanting a cup of coffee, and no talk.

"I got hold of Carol Burnside," she said.

"I told her we'd pay expenses, a room at the Hilton for two nights, the
works.  She said okay."

"Who the hell is Carol Burnside?"  he growled, and then shook his
head.

"Don't tell me.  Don't tell me anything yet."

"She's the photographer Dodgson bitched about.  I need to spend a few
hours at the office later on, reading to do."

"Don't talk," he mumbled, and carried his coffee back toward his
room.

She followed him through the hall.

"Where's there a pharmacy open on Sunday, with a working pharmacist?"

"Christ almighty!"  He entered his room and slammed the door.

While her father shopped in a supermarket with a pharmacy, she browsed
in the aisle of over-the-counter medications waiting for the pharmacist
to finish up what he was doing.  She held a container of baby aspirins,
which she had opened, and another of Dramamine, and was studying a pink
capsule that the label said was a time-release decongestant, when the
pharmacist approached her smiling.  The smile vanished when he saw the
open medications.  He was a bald, middle-aged man with thick glasses.

"Now, something I can help you with?"

"Maybe," she said.

"I hope so.  Can you think of any medication that would require two
different forms, one like this baby aspirin and one like this capsule?"
She held out her hand for him to see, He looked at her suspiciously.

"Baby medicine?"

"No.  For an adult."

"Maybe if you tell me what it's for, I can tell you what it is," he
suggested.

"I don't know what it's for," she said.

"Only that one is a pink capsule and one is a white tablet, and they go
together."

He shook his head.  He glanced at the open containers with a pained
expression; then he noticed the Dramamine.

"For motion sickness?"

"I don't think so.  But, tell me, does Dramamine come in different
strengths?"

His suspicion increased.

"No.  Take one or two about half an hour before the problem is
expected, and then again four to six hours later if it persists.  Is
that all, miss?"

"I suppose it has to be," she said, and started to walk away.

"Oh, there is something.  Can I buy the smallest pill container you
have?"

"Just the pill dispenser?  No medications?"

"Well, these," she said, holding up the over-the-counter medications
she had opened.

He walked stiffly past her, back through a door into the pharmacy, and
brought up a clear plastic container from under the counter.

"Like this?"

"Is that the smallest?"

He slapped it down on the counter, looked again, and brought out a
smaller one, about one and a half inches high.

"They don't come smaller," he said.

That morning she had divided all her material into two stacks, one
dealing with Paula and the Canby Ranch, and the other concerning the
Dodgsons and Gallead.

For several hours that afternoon in Frank's office she reread Dodgson's
newspapers, consulting her notes frequently, making new notes more
frequently.  Her student researchers had done their work well.  Under
the various headings they had listed the papers by dates, the
editorials and articles by page and paragraph.  Frank had added his
notes and cross-references.  It was easy to find everything.  And the
office library, down the hall from her father's office, was up-to-date;
in it she had found a medical reference volume on prescription drugs,
which she consulted again and again.

She began to pace the long wide corridor.  She liked the offices when
no one else was around, the subdued lighting, the silence, the many
closed doors that suggested secrets.  She had a flash of deja vu, a
time when she had been eight or nine; her mother had brought her to the
office one night, to deliver something to Frank, who was working late.
Barbara had stayed in the corridor, walking back and forth, pretending
she had an office here, that she was in charge, all this was hers, the
library, the large stenographers' room, the little secretaries' rooms,
all of it; everyone here worked for her.

"You going to be a lawyer, honey?"  her father had asked from his
doorway, his arm around her mother's waist.  They were both smiling,
the way parents smile at children and make them stiffen and deny
everything.

"No way," she had said firmly.  But she had known then that yes.  She
was going to be a lawyer.  She couldn't be her mother, who had been
very pretty but hadn't done anything.  Now she knew how invaluable her
mother's help had been to her father, but she hadn't seen it then.

Frank had not tried a single murder case since the death of his wife.
No more dealing with life and death, he had declared by his actions,
never his words.

Barbara reached the end of the corridor near the reception room; the
offices occupied twice as much space as they had at the time of her
memory; now the corridor made a right turn and continued with another
bank of closed doors on each side.  The firm had taken over the entire
third floor of the building.  She turned to retrace her steps one more
time, banishing the past, bringing her mind once again to the
medicines.  Finally she went back to Frank's desk, pulled the telephone
closer, and punched in the numbers for Christina Lorenza in San Jose.

"Ms.  Lorenza," she said when she reached the woman, "my name is
Barbara Holloway; I'm representing a client in a murder trial in
Eugene, Oregon.  A few weeks ago, you very kindly talked to a detective
about your experience with Craig Dodgson.  May I ask you to clarify a
point?"

"No!  Leave me alone!  I shouldn't have told her any 5 thing.  She
said no one would bother me again.  Leave me alone!"

"Ms.  Lorenza, just one question, please.  Were the pills Craig gave
you white and pink?  Were they different

"Look, I'm calling Craig and telling him you people are after him.  I'm
not taking any more calls, no more questions, nothing.  Go talk to him!
Just leave me alone!"  The phone banged down.

"Oh, dear God," Barbara breathed and redialed swiftly, to get a busy
signal.  Maybe she won't call him, she prayed, and pushed the redial
button again.  A minute later she did it again.  She called the
operator and asked for a verification of the number, and was told the
phone was off the receiver.  Don't call him, she said under her breath.
Don't call him!

She was listening to the busy signal a few minutes later when she heard
a tap on the door.  It was after five.

She should have called her father at five, she remembered, and said,
"Come in."  As the door opened and he stuck his head around it, she
hung up the phone and said, "I can't believe I did anything so stu "
Frank put his finger to his lips and opened the door all the way.  Bill
Spassero was behind him.

"He dropped in," Frank said, pointing his thumb over his shoulder.

"Thought you should hear what he has to say."

Was the man getting even blonder?  Dyeing his hair lighter?  She began
to jam papers into her briefcase.

"Well?"  she said, not looking up.  Suddenly she said, "What do you
mean 'dropped in'?"

"I looked up Mr.  Holloway in the records room and found the property
transfer," Bill Spassero said.

"Any one can do it."  He stood awkwardly at the door while Frank
entered all the way and dropped into one of the visitors' chairs.

"Anyway," Spassero went on, "I kept thinking about something and today
I decided you should know.  I've been watching you in court," he
said.

"I know, you haven't really noticed.  I wouldn't be looking over the
audience much either the way the court is packed every day with those
people, but I kept seeing this one man, Terry Bossert, and I saw that
one of the police officers I know was keeping an eye on him too, so I
asked about him."

Frank made a beckoning gesture.

"Why don't you sit down and tell it?"  he said.

Whatever it was, he already knew, Barbara realized.

She nodded at Spassero, who was watching her for an invitation.

"You might as well sit down," she said.

"Who is Terry Bossert?"

Spassero took the chair next to Frank.  He didn't look relaxed.

"His real name is Terence Bossini.  Up until he came here to work with
Royce Gallead in the gun shop, he was a small-time crook down in Las
Vegas bouncer, messenger, gofer, hustler, you name it.  He served time
for extortion, got out on parole, and a couple of years later came up
here.  As far as the police know, he's been straight since then, but he
lives in a pretty big house up on Spyglass Hill, not a cheap
neighborhood  Everything's in the name of the woman he lives with."

Barbara studied him through narrowed eyes; he appeared perfectly
guileless.  Finally she asked, "Why are you telling us this?  What do
you want?"

"Remember when I asked you that?"  he said with a hint of a grin.

"Same answer you gave me.  Nothing.  I don't want anything.  I just
thought you should know if you didn't already."

"I already thanked him for the flowers," Frank drawled.

"And for the tip that the Dodgson crew was heading for parts unknown
last week."

"You did that, too?"

Spassero nodded.

"I ran into Doneally and brought up the case, said I was really glad to
be out of it since the way you were going after the Dodgsons made it ap
pear they were involved.  He said you wouldn't hound them for long,
they were taking off.  I thought you might want to know that, too.  He
might suspect I tipped you.

Ran into him again and he cut me cold," he added with a shrug.

Frank stood up and said, "If you're done with those newspapers, I'll
start putting them back.  Bessie will have a fit if they're not where
they belong."  He picked up the stack that Barbara had put aside.

"I do want one thing," Spassero said then as he also stood up.

"After all this is over, can I talk to you?  I've been watching, making
notes of your courtroom style."

Frank left the room while he was talking.

"I'd really appreciate it if you'd explain a few things later.  Why you
did this, not that.  This question, this nuance, not that one.  You've
opened up this case in a way I wouldn't have thought possible.  I'd
like to learn how you saw it, how you knew where to go.  You know: You
mentor, me little brother.  Would you do that?"

She stood up and came around the desk.

"Mr.

Spassero, I am grateful for your tip about the Dodgsons, and even the
roses, and today especially.  You've been very helpful."  She held out
her hand to him.

He ignored it.

"You haven't answered my question."

"I'll have to think about it.  I believe we're more than even now,
don't you?"

He shook his head.

"Not yet.  You saved my life.  All I've been able to do is maybe give a
tiny nudge for your client.  Not the same."  He smiled.

"I'll be in your debt forever, I'm afraid.  Besides, as soon as you
begin to think about being even, or if I might have the upper hand,
your answer will be no.  Won't it?"

She laughed.

"Come on and shake hands and then get the hell out of here.  I have
work to do."

They shook hands very properly and he turned to leave.  She followed.

"Mr.  Spassero " "Bill," he cut in.

"Bill then, no more flowers.  No perfume, no candy.

Okay?  Really, they don't impress me."

He nodded.

"As you say.  I'll think of something that will, though."

As soon as she saw him out through the reception room and relocked the
entrance door, she marched off to find her father.

"You can come back in now," she said tartly.

"I have to tell you what happened."

His smile was benign when he emerged from Bessie's room and walked with
her back to his office, but his expression became grim when she told
him about the call to Christina Lorenza.

"If she gets Craig and he knows we're this far, she might be in
danger," Barbara finished.

"She won't get him yet," he said, frowning.

"He's out getting the yacht ready for a trip.  He might come back in
tonight, though.  Maybe she'll cool off by then."

"And maybe she won't."

"Right."  He was scowling at his desktop, drumming his fingers, back in
his own chair.  She went out to the reception desk, turned on the
computer, and called up airline schedules.  When she returned to
Frank's office a few minutes later, he was riffling through a card
file.

"There must be someone I know down there," he grumbled.

"Forget it.  I have a flight at six-thirty.  I'm going down myself."

"You can't do that!"

"Save it for the car ride.  Dad," she said, picking up her things.

"Come on.  I have to check in in twenty minutes or they won't hold the
seat.  We just have time."

"Barbara," he started, but she was already out the door.

In the car she said, "You'll have to put Lucille on in the morning and
keep her talking.  I'll be back by after noon."

> "We can send Winnie," he protested.

"She wouldn't have a chance.  Christina knows her already."

"But look at you, how you're dressed."

She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt that had butter flies all over it.
She shrugged; if it turned cool, she had a sweater.

"And get on the phone to make sure they have a car waiting for me," she
said.

"I'll get there by nine, not too late for a drop-in visit.  I'll call
you or leave a message on the machine.  Oh, sic Bailey onto Bossert,
and tie in Gallead and Kay Dodgson before she left Las Vegas."

"I called Bailey already," he said.

"Same idea.

There's a link there, all right."

"Good.  Anything else?"

He grunted and turned onto the airport road.

* * * Christina lived in north San Jose in half a duplex house with a
neat little dead lawn in front and a screaming child next door. Barbara
rang the bell and smiled at the young woman who opened the door.  She
smiled back.

"Hi," Barbara said.

"I'm looking for Christina Lorenza."

"That's me."  She was short, five feet two, and plump without being too
fat.  She had long blond hair, much of it down in her face.  Her smile
was very nice.

"Ms.  Lorenza," Barbara said, "I have to talk to you.

You're in terrible danger."

She started to close the door; Barbara held it open.

"I

spoke with you on the phone a couple of hours ago," she said, "and I
flew down here from Eugene, Oregon, to tell you that you're in
danger."

"I'll call the police if you don't get out of here!"

"After I talk to you, you might really want to call the police, but
first let me tell you why you're in danger."

"Who's there?"  a man yelled.

"It's that lawyer from Oregon, the one who called before."

He appeared behind Christina, a slender, bearded man with horned-rimmed
glasses.  He looked out past Barbara.

"You alone?"

"Yes."  From next door came a more piercing shriek.

"Let her in," he said with a shrug, "and then we can toss her out again
together."  He grinned.

Grudgingly Christina opened the door and moved aside.  She looked both
angry and frightened.

"You flew down here from Oregon?  Tonight?"

"Yes," Barbara said.

"You want to see the airplane ticket?"

Christina nodded and Barbara found it in her purse and handed it over.
They both examined it.

"I really need to talk to you alone," Barbara said when she had the
ticket back.

"Five minutes is all it will take."

"You go ahead," the man said.

"I'll finish up making the sauce."  The fragrance of tortillas and
chilies was mouthwatering.

"What do you want?"  Christina demanded as soon as he vanished around a
corner of the room.  She had admitted Barbara to a living room without
much furniture--one chair, a wooden sofa with a few pillows, and a lot
of books everywhere.

"Have you called Craig Dodgson?"  Barbara asked, keeping her voice
low.

Christina shook her head.

"He wasn't there.  And then Dale came home.  But I will tomorrow."

"Ms.  Lorenza, Craig'Dodgson is involved with some very dangerous
people.  You have information about Craig that puts you in a dangerous
position.  As long as they think no one knows about you, you're safe,
I'm sure, but if they suspect you have told anyone--" Christina was
shaking her head.

"You're just crazy," she said.

"I don't know anything about him.  I went out with him a couple of
times, that's all."

Barbara reached into her purse, brought out the small prescription
bottle, and emptied it into her hand, one baby aspirin, one pink
capsule.

"Did the medicine he gave you look like this?"  she asked, holding her
hand open before Christina.

"Yes," she said, startled.

"I was seasick."

Barbara returned the tablets to the container and brought out the
Dramamine.  She shook one out and showed it to Christina.

"This is for motion sickness.

You take one or two every few hours, not a couple of days apart."

"But he said ... What did he give me, then?"  She had gone very pale.

"I don't know for sure.  But he mustn't suspect that you've told anyone
about it, that you're at all suspicious.  Will you please not call
him?"

Christina shook her head.

"What did he give me?"

she whispered.

"Why would he lie about it?  Maybe an other kind of motion-sickness
pill?  The pink one, it's a suppository.  He said when you're so sick
you can't take medicine by mouth.  That sounded right...."  She shook
her head harder.

"It was for sea sickness!"

"Maybe it was," Barbara said.

"And you're fine, so there's nothing to worry about, just as long as he
doesn't know you've talked about it."

"I left a message on their machine," Christina whispered.

"I just said it was Chris and I'd call back."

"Did you leave your number?"

"No."

"Does he know where you live now?  Have you kept in touch?"

"Not since I got my job.  I wrote him a postcard about the job.  He
knows where I work."

How many women named Chris did he know?  Barbara bit her lip and then
drew in a deep breath.

"How long ago was that?"

"A couple of years."

Would he remember?  Would he have kept the card?

She said slowly, "I don't know how safe you are.  In your place, I'd
take a trip and stay away for a week or so.  Could you do that?"

Christina looked ghastly in her pallor.

"I don't know.

I'll have to talk to Dale.  But I can't tell him.... I don't know.  I
can't believe it wasn't exactly what he said.

Why would he ... ?  How will I know when it's safe again?"

"You'll know," Barbara said.

"Read the papers and you'll know."  At the door she said, "I think you
should tell Dale.  From what I've seen of him, I think that he would be
okay, that he'd be supportive."  And if he wasn't, she thought, without
voicing it, ditch him now before it's too late.

It was ten-thirty when she found a motel with a vacancy.

She called her father and told him about Christina.

"Something Winnie could have done," he grumbled.

"Maybe so," she said, too tired to argue.

"Get some sleep.  See you in court."

She still had to go out and get something to eat and buy a toothbrush.
She eyed the bed longingly, but went back out.  So much for staying
together, she thought, driving again, looking for a drugstore or
grocery store or restaurant, whichever came first.  There he was alone
in that house that Bill Spassero had found without any trouble at all,
and she was a thousand miles away in a strange town, starving.
Togetherness, she thought bitterly.

That night she dreamed she was running away from the ocean where pink
capsules and white pills formed waves that rose and rose and crashed
down on her like a tsunami.

TWENTY-TWO

on monday, she was dismayed to see the haggard expression on her
father's face when she spotted him on the second floor, outside the
door to the little room they shared for meals.  As soon as he saw her,
he straightened and his expression changed to relief.

"God, you had me worried," he said, embracing her.

"Sorry, Dad.  Stuck on a plane that wouldn't get off the ground.  I
think they had to glue the wings on or something.  How'd it go?"

"Fine.  Fine."  He opened the door and they went in.

"Lucille was grand," he said.

"Not a dry eye in the house by the time she was done."  He poured
coffee from a thermos and handed it to her.

"You look beat."

"Flying does that to me."  She had stewed on the plane, which had been
delayed two hours.  Heath Byerson had met her at the airport, whisked
her home to change her clothes, and then sped her to the courthouse.

It was now a quarter till two.  Fifteen minutes and she was on.  She
sipped the coffee.

"What have you heard from Bailey?  Winnie?  What's been happening?"

"That will keep.  Craig got back in last night.  If he got that message
from Christina, and if he remembers her, and they put that together
with your vanishing act this morning, they know too much.  We have to
tread very softly, Barbara."

"I know," she said.

"I have to call Roberto.  There's something I want Miguel to do
today."

"Tell me what it is; I'll call while you tackle the doctors

She told him.  She wanted Miguel to assemble facsimiles of the boxes he
and his co-workers had put together at Gallead's place.  Frank's
expression darkened again, but he nodded.

Then, all too soon, it was time for her to be back in court, time to
call the doctor who had examined Paula and have him explain the extent
of her injuries before the fire.

She had two cracked ribs on the right side, he testified, and a bruise
from her shoulder down the length of her left arm, as if she had been
hit with enough force to drive her against a rigid, unyielding
structure.

"Dr.  Fellowes," Barbara asked, "would you say it was possible for
someone with injuries like that to carry a can of gas that weighed
eleven pounds for three him dred feet, and then to methodically throw
that gas around using both hands, being careful enough to avoid getting
any on herself?"

Fierst objected.  The doctor couldn't say what was possible or not
possible.  Barbara rephrased the question, but it was the same
question.

"In my opinion it would be most unlikely," Dr.  Fel lowes said.  He
described the muscles involved, how the nerve endings affected the
muscle groups, the weakness that resulted.

In cross-examination Fierst said, "Dr.  Fellowes, it has been stated
that it required two adult women to restrain Mrs.  Kennerman when they
arrived at the fire.  It would seem that she had very good muscular
coordination.

Isn't it possible excuse me, likely that " "Objection," Barbara
snapped.

"Mr.  Pierst might as well answer his question himself.  He is leading
the witness blatantly."

Fierst rephrased.

"Sometimes," Dr.  Fellowes said, "the most grievous injuries can be
overridden by a psychological need to act in a momentary situation of
extreme anxiety."

"Do you mean that people can act even if they're injured badly?" Fierst
asked bluntly.

"That's putting it in " "Dr.  Fellowes, just yes or no.  Can people
take action even if they are badly injured?"

"Well ... yes.  Sometimes."

During her redirect examination, Barbara asked, "Dr.

Fellowes, you said 'a psychological need to act in a momentary
situation of extreme anxiety," didn't you?"

"Yes.  Those were my words."

"Let's break that down a little.  Would an action that requires five to
ten minutes of cautious behavior be what you mean?"

"No, absolutely not."

"Would you explain why not, please?"

"Yes.  Cautious behavior indicates that the person is conscious of
every action and any possible consequences, and is taking them into
account.  In the psycho logical state I'm talking about the conscious
mind is no longer functioning in a normal way; it is bypassed by the
subconscious mind, which assumes control over the body and does not
allow awareness of pain to interfere with its intentions.  In that
state a person behaves in a manner that often appears irrational, and
is irrational in that the person is not taking into account the
consequences of his or her actions.  Pain is what prevents a person
from adding further trauma when there is al ready an injury.  A person
in the state I am describing can and often does seriously aggravate an
existing in jury."

"And a person who is behaving rationally and deliberately could not
ignore severe pain to such an extent that the original injury would be
made worse?"

"A person might want to, but the body protects itself and prevents such
actions most of the time.  Tremors, weakness, even fainting may result
if the person at tempts such action."

The emergency-room doctor who had treated Paula after the fire and
then, the dentist who had treated her over a year ago followed in quick
succession.

The marriage counselor was the next witness.  She made it clear that
although she had permission from Paula Kennerman to disclose
information about their sessions, no such permission had been obtained
from Mr.  Kennerman and therefore she could not divulge anything he had
said, or what she had said to him.

Barbara nodded when she explained this.

"We'll stick to Mrs.  Kennerman," she said.

"Did she say why they were there?"

"Yes.  She told me he had struck her and she would leave him if things
couldn't be worked out."

"Did she have proposals to make, suggestions to offer

"She said if he ever hit her again, she would leave without any
discussion.  And he had to make a contribution toward the welfare of
their child, her future education.

Those were the two demands she made."

"How many times did they consult you, Mrs.  Maggiore?"

"Four."

"And did they reach an agreement that they both accepted?"

She paused, then nodded, as if she had to consider if this was
revealing what Jack Kennerman had said.

"They had an agreement."

"Was it an agreement that satisfied Mrs.  Kennerman's original
demands?"

Again she paused, and then with some reluctance said it was.

"Did you advise Paula Kennerman to have psychological counseling?"

"No."

"Do you sometimes advise your clients to do so?"

"Yes."

"Did you so advise Jack Kennerman?"

She tightened her lips.

"I'm sorry, I can't answer that."

When court recessed for the day, Barbara turned to Paula, whose eyes
were puffy and red-rimmed.

"How are you holding up?"  she asked.

Paula shrugged.

"Okay, I guess.  None of this matters, does it?  I mean, how things
were before, what it was like before?  They'll say that's past and done
with.  What matters is only that one morning, that one day."

"Hey," Barbara said.

"We're making a case.  You're tired or you'd see that we're making real
progress, Don't fade out on me now."

Paula smiled wanly.

"Oh, I'll be right here, won't I?"

She stood up.

"Lucille told them today that she offered you eight hundred dollars.
She shouldn't have done that.  It's for her kids.  Eight hundred
dollars!  That's a laugh, isn't it?"  Tears were standing in her eyes;
she turned abruptly and nodded to the matron, ready to go.

"Okay," Barbara said as soon as she and Frank were inside his house.

"Give."

"Bailey's coming over," he said.

"Don't know yet what he's dug out.  But Craig's getting the yacht ready
for a long trip.  Winnie dug up a good informant over there, and it
seems that she knows each and every time that yacht moves an inch.  For
instance, Craig and Rich took off Monday after the death of that little
girl.  Went out for two hours, returned, drove back home."  His
forehead wrinkled.

"Let's have a glass of wine.  If there's anything else, it'll come to
me."

"Did you get Roberto?"

"Oh, that.  Yes."  He led the way into the kitchen and got out the wine
and three glasses and poured for her.

"Here.  We've earned it."  He poured another glass and sipped it with
approval.

"Roberto and Miguel probably have the boxes done.  I told him to keep
away from here, to leave everything at Martin's for Bailey to pick up
later.  Roberto wants his committee to patrol this street," he added
dryly.

"Let's go out to the porch.  This weather isn't going to last, but it's
nice out there right now."

It was.  The evening was cool, pleasant, the yard fragrant with blooms
and grass.  No trace of the drought was visible from the porch. Barbara
wondered if her rhododendron had died; she felt she had been away from
home for a very long time.

"Oh," Frank said, settling himself into a lounge chair, "Bill showed up
in court this morning and left as soon as he saw I was at bat.  Did he
show up again?"

She shook her head.

"I don't know.  I didn't look."  She couldn't remember any trial where
she had so resolutely ignored the spectators.

She could feel the tension oozing out of her, feel herself relaxing,
and she wanted only to go to sleep.

Abruptly she put down her wineglass.

"I think I'd better get something to nibble on," she said, standing
up.

"I

just realized I haven't had a bite since breakfast.  And that was
seven-thirty."  She went in for cheese, crackers, whatever she could
find.  In his house there were always good findings.

Back on the porch, eating cheese, she said with her mouth full, "When
this is all over, I'm going to get drunk."

He nodded.

"I did that a couple of times.  Last time I did, the next day the judge
summoned me to hear my penalty for contempt of court.  I was in a sorry
state, believe me, hung over like you wouldn't believe, red-eyed,
bleary, unshaved, and the son of a bitch thought I'd been on a crying
jag or some such foolishness.  He said a hundred dollars and my remorse
were punishment enough."

They both laughed.  She never had seen him showing any effects of too
much to drink.  Another little secret he and her mother had shared, no
doubt.  And now, after a warning heart attack, he was off everything
but an occasional glass of wine and, very rarely, a fine brandy after
dinner.  But she could drink, she told herself, and she would get
smashed.  She took another piece of cheese.

"This is a good time of day," Frank said after a moment.

"You've put in the hours, every muscle in knots, and then you sit out
in the cool of the evening and feel the knots coming undone.  Remember
that little table we used to have out in the backyard, with the shade
umbrella?

We'd sit there with a drink, a little cheese, and you'd play in your
sandbox or on a swing, and I used to think if there's a god in heaven,
this must be what he had in mind for us."

"We'd stay out until the sky turned dark enough to see the first star,"
she said, speaking as softly as he had done.

"So you could make your wish," he added.

"We all wished on the first star.  You never would say what you wished
for, secretive little thing."

"I don't even remember what I wanted in those days," she said.  She
felt certain that what he had wished for was a little brother for her,
a son.  He should have had his son.  Never by word or act had such a
longing been expressed, but he should have had his son.

A long silence followed until he said, "What I wished for every damn
night was just one thing.  Never fudged, never cheated, went through
the whole rigamarole--Star light, star bright ... and always ended up
with the same wish: Whatever it is she's asking for, let it be. Please,
let it be."

She felt every muscle stiffen as if a synapse had fired, preparing her
for flight.  No more, she wanted to cry at him.  It seemed that the
still air had begun to vibrate with unspoken words.  Just last year, at
long last, all that wishing was coming true, they had both felt that,
known that.  Don't you dare pity me!  she wanted to say.  She set her
glass down hard, but before she could say anything, Frank shifted and
stood up.

"Then," he said brusquely, "wishing time over, bed for you, and back
into the dragon mode for me--find a way to head them off at the pass,
cut them off at the knees, mow them down one way or another."  He had
not looked at her during this brief interlude; he didn't look at her
now.

"Were you ever sorry?"  she asked, her voice hoarse with relief that he
had stopped, that the unspoken words remained silent.

For a long time she thought he would not answer; he had never voiced
any of the ambivalence that beset her.

Calling that other persona his dragon mode was the closest he had ever
come.

Then he said matter-of-factly, "Yes, I was.  Times you see that your
case is cooked, that you missed the boat and nothing you've tried is
going to make it work out.

You're sorry.  Times you smell something so rotten it takes your breath
away.  You're sorry.  Then you get mad again, and back you go.  You
can't unscrew the universe and fix yesterday, but you sure, by God, can
work on today and tomorrow.  If not us, who?  The Doneallys of the
world?"

He started for the door, but paused to put his hand on her head
gently.

"Honey, you're so good, you scare me sometimes.  If not you, who?"  He
went inside.

He would be doing something about dinner, she knew, and felt not a
twinge of conscience.  He liked to cook.

He could eat every meal out, or hire a cook, but he preferred to do it
himself most of the time.  The few times she had prepared dinner for
them, he had been brave and excessively polite.

Then she thought about the things they had just said, the things they
had not said, and she did feel guilt.  For years after her mother's
death she had refused to talk about her, had not let Frank talk about
her.  She had not understood it, could not have rationalized it in any
way, and she was doing it again, she knew, and felt helpless to act
differently.  Frank wanted to talk about Mike, he needed to talk about
him, and she couldn't.

The sky had darkened; if there had not been so much smoke in the
atmosphere, stars would be visible.  Would she have made a wish?  She
shook her head.  Unscrew the universe, fix yesterday?

Abruptly she stood up.  Bailey was late.  She started to pace the
length of the garden, and continued to pace until Bailey called hello
from the back door.

"Where the devil have you been?"  she yelled back.

He was laughing when she reached the house, and he had a glass of wine
already.

"Haven't they taught you not to throw rocks at the frog who might turn
into Prince Charming at a moment's notice?  Not even verbal rocks."

Frank stepped out of the kitchen down the hallway, and he yelled,
too.

"I don't mind cooking for you guys, but damned if I'll do it while you
talk out of hearing.  Get in here."

They sat at the kitchen table while he did mysterious things with pork
chops.

"Okay," Bailey said, "jackpot.

It was Bossert/Bossini that did it.  Should have spotted him myself,
but, hell, I've never done anything except lose money in Las Vegas.
Anyway, here it is."

Kay Dodgson, nee Kay Darling Barbara winced, and he said he was
sorry--was a dancer at a club down in Las Vegas before she married Rich
Dodgson.  Exotic dancer, he added with a leer.  Later, when Rich was on
the road almost half the time, she took up her old profession after the
boys started school, but only when Rich was not home.  And the
assistant manager of the club, he said, was Royce Gallead.  Terence
Bossini was the bouncer.

"Boy oh boy," Barbara said.

"Wow!"

"What I thought," Bailey said modestly.

"Threw me off because Gallead surrendered a California license when he
showed up here.  He took a roundabout way when he hightailed it out of
Las Vegas, a couple of years down in LA."  and then here.  Once I knew
to put him in Vegas fourteen years ago, it was easy.  He, at least,
didn't change his name."

"So fourteen years ago Rich quit selling, Kay quit wriggling, Bossert
quit bouncing, Royce quit managing, and they all ended up here,"
Barbara said with satisfaction.

"What do you know about that?  They all hit the jackpot at the same
time, made a killing--enough to set up two businesses, buy property.
How about that!"

"Lady Luck smiles on her favorites," Bailey said, and got up to refill
his glass.

Frank had made pork chops with rosemary and garlic, spinach with a
yogurt dressing, and tiny red potatoes crisped in butter.

"If I had a cook like you," Bailey said with pleasure, "I'd never leave
the house.  And you'd never leave the kitchen."

"It was wonderful," Barbara agreed.

"I don't want to move, but I have to get to the office before it gets
much later."

"Tonight?"  Frank asked in surprise.

"Yep, 'fraid so.  About an hour and a half at the most."

He scowled over his glasses.

"You might have mentioned it before.  We could have eaten earlier."

"Have you rush dinner?  Never!"  She laughed.

"All right.  All right.  We'll run you over there and then go on to
Martin's and pick up those boxes.  Better take something to put them
in, keep them out of sight.

When will you be done?"

It was almost eight-thirty.

"Ten," she said.

"No later, I swear."

"Right.  We'll come back at ten for you.  Or thereabouts."

> The office building had a small arcade on the street level with
several retail shops, two elevators, and a stairwell.  The upper floors
were mostly attorneys' offices, and were never completely unoccupied;
attorneys often worked strange hours.  Lights shone through windows
here and there on all six floors; dim lights were on in the shops on
the ground floor.  The building was a block away from the courthouse.
This area was deserted after offices closed, with few pedestrians, no
open shops; the attorneys' offices were the satellites around the
center of government, and when lawyers worked at night, they worked
alone.

When they emerged from the elevator on the third floor, there was a
light on in one of the offices off to the left of the reception desk;
Frank strode down the hall to see who was working late.

"Les Smithers," he said, returning.

"He'll be in and out of the library.  If his whistling gets to you,
tell him to cork it."  Les was one of the junior attorneys who had a
habit of whistling between his teeth while he read.

Bailey and Frank left right away, promising to return at ten, and she
went to Bessie's office to collect the papers she wanted to reread. She
took them back to Frank's room and started, but realized that she could
hear Les whistling in the library, a dozen feet or so from here. She
closed the door, but in a second or two she heard something fall, and
he called out, "Sorry."

She gritted her teeth, gathered up everything, and marched down to
Bessie's office, around the corner from the library, out of hearing no
matter what he did.

Les, of course, was working with the library door open.

His whistling followed her until she closed Bessie's door.

Her student researchers had been so thorough, she marveled, reading her
notes again.  Three times in the past year the Weekly Valley Report had
been late, al though the dates were right.  She found the three papers,
and the papers for the following weeks, searching for an explanation.
In December, a snowstorm in the mountains had delayed delivery.  In
August of last year, a power failure at the printing plant had
occurred.  And one time there was no reason given.  On Wednesday, April
twenty-third, the paper had been delivered that had been due on Monday.
She reread the editorial and the news stories, and then folded the
paper and put it in her briefcase.  Cork it, Bessie, she thought; don't
complain.  I'll bring it back.

She got up, turned off the lights, and went to the door; fifteen
minutes before ten; good timing, she thought.  She stopped after one
step through the doorway, her hand still on the doorknob.  Something
was wrong.  There was complete silence, and, she realized, the hall
lights were off.  She never had been here at night when the hall wasn't
dimly lighted.  Even as she thought this, the light from the library
was turned off, and now the only light that showed anywhere was a
tracery around Frank's door, which she had not closed all the way.  She
backed up and reentered Bessie's room, and pulled the door almost
closed, listening.  Had Les done something stupid to the lights?  She
shook her head; he would have yelled out about it.  Then a flashlight
beam shone on the corner door, Frank's door; it moved up and down, came
to rest on the doorknob, and was turned off.  She closed the door all
the way, holding the knob, releasing it slowly to still a possible
click.  She backed away.  She could not lock it; Bessie never had
installed a lock.  Some of the offices were locked each evening, others
not.  Her father kept his locked; Bessie didn't.

Faint light seeped in through the blinds, but she did not dare turn on
a lamp.  She didn't know if light would show around the edges of the
door.  She put her briefcase on the floor and groped in her purse for a
tiny penlight, and, using it, she went to the desk and the telephone.
She was starting to punch in the numbers of her father's phone, when
she shook her head and hung up.  Not him.  Not anyone from this room.
Whoever had gone to Frank's office knew she was not there; maybe he
thought she had gone to the rest room; maybe he was on his way there.
Or maybe he would start trying doors up and down the hall.

Rest room, she thought then, and played her light around the side wall.
There, a door to a bathroom Sam Bixby and Bessie shared.  She ran to
it, and then had to go back for her briefcase; he mustn't know she had
been in here, if he looked in.  Sam's door would have a lock, she felt
certain.  It would have a lock, she repeated, and opened the door to
the bathroom, as dark as a pit inside.  She reached across the tiny
space, found the opposite door, opened it, and drew in a breath of
relief.

The bathroom doors both had simple locks in the door knobs.  She locked
the one to Bessie's office and hurried across the room to try the hall
door.  It was locked.

Now she ran to the desk and fumbled in her purse, searching for her
address book, still afraid to turn on a light, using the penlight
sparingly.  She had to keep it on when she opened the book and found
Heath Byerson's number.  Everything was taking so long, she thought as
she did the numbers, listened to a distant phone ring.

No answering machine, she prayed.  Please no machine.

She had left Sam's door open to the bathroom; her gaze was fastened on
Bessie's doorknob, which looked like a pale ball floating in the dark.
Enough.  She would know if it moved.  Then a woman's voice was in her
ear.

"This is an emergency," Barbara whispered.

"I have to talk to Heath.  Is he there?"

"I can't hear you," the woman protested.

"Can you speak up?"

"No.  Get Heath."

He was there almost before she finished.

"Who's that?"  he demanded.

"Barbara Holloway.  I'm at Dad's office, and there's an intruder.  Can
you hear me?"

"I hear you.  Stay cool.  Two minutes."  He hung up.

She replaced the phone, and then froze with her hand still on it.  The
bathroom doorknob turned, and turned again, harder.  He could force it,
she knew; those locks wouldn't keep anyone out who really wanted in.
With out a sound she pushed her briefcase under Sam's desk, crawled in
after it, and crouched as low as she could.

For what seemed a long time there was a profound silence, and then she
heard the hall door being tried; the doorknob turned, turned.  And
silence again.

The offices were a labyrinth; he couldn't know which ones were locked
without trying them all.  There was the library, and a larger file
room, and the stenographers' room, the secretaries' rooms.... Two
minutes, she told herself.  Just two minutes.

Maybe he would realize it was hopeless, leave.  Stay cool, she ordered
when she realized she was trembling.

It had to have been five minutes or longer, she thought in despair.
Where were they?  Maybe Heath hadn't called anyone.  Maybe he was on
his way.  What if her father came first, surprised the prowler?  She
bit her lip and eased out from under the desk, crept to the door, put
her ear to it, listening.

Then she heard someone shouting, "Ms.  Holloway?

Where are you?  It's the police!"

She started to beat on the door, hesitated.  A trick?

"Barbara!  Barbara!"  Her father's voice sounded panic-stricken.

"In here!"  she yelled.

"Sam's office."

The door was shoved open and Frank grabbed her and held her.  He was
shaking harder than she was.

Now she heard a siren, and many voices.

"Did they catch him?"  she asked, her words muffled against his
shoulder.

"No.  They're still searching."  His voice was thick, al most
unrecognizable.

She drew back and examined him.  He was as pale as death.

"I'm all right," she said.

"It's over."

"He sneaked up behind Les.... It could have been you.  God, it could
have been you."

"How bad?"

"Don't know yet.  Bad.  Come on, let's go to my office and sit down."
He kept his arm around her shoulders as they walked back to his room,
where Bailey met them and put a glass into Frank's hand, another one
into Barbara's.

"Take a drink," Bailey said, "and then look at this."

On the desk was a picture of Barbara, the glass smashed and Frank's
paper cutter stuck in the middle of her forehead.

"Don't touch it," Bailey said.  They all sat down and waited, listening
to the police officers in the corridors, in the other offices.

Presently Heath Byerson appeared with a police lieu tenant.

"How are you?"  Heath asked Barbara.

"Okay," she said.

"What about Les?  How bad is it?"

"They took him to the hospital.  No report yet.  He's alive, that's a
plus."

"Look at that," Frank said, pointing to the picture.

"How'd he get in here?"  he demanded.

"Where's the watchman?"

"We found him," Heath said slowly.

"He took a bashing, too.  He's alive, that's all I know.  He was
dragged under the stairwell, his keys gone.  They're still gone," he
added, and then said to Barbara, "You up to making a statement yet?"

She told them, and the lieutenant made notes.  He asked the questions
after she finished.  Although he was thorough and patient, she could
add nothing.  She had not seen him, had not heard him, didn't know who
he had been.

"He wore gloves?"  Bailey asked.

The lieutenant nodded.

"They're lifting smudges, that's all."  He glanced around Frank's
office, the picture on (he desk.

"We'll do this room soon as you folks leave."

"And the weapon?"

"He kept it."

"Sounds like a pro," Bailey commented.

"Not one of those crazies who've been hanging around."

"We're considering that," the lieutenant said.

"Tonight we'll keep a man outside your house," he told Frank.

"You can leave now.  I'd change the locks here," he added grimly.  One
of the police officers came in with Barbara's purse and briefcase; she
had forgotten them.

There was a brief discussion of how they would get back to the house.
Heath wanted to drive them, but Bailey had his car in the parking lot,
and finally it was decided that Heath would tag along, see that they
got home safely, and wait there until someone came on duty.

"You're not going to like it when you get outside," he said.

"Reporters.  They'll follow us.  I'm afraid your hideout is blown from
now on."

Bailey went out to bring the car to the entrance, and Heath escorted
them to it, with officers on each side of Barbara and Frank.  The
reporters were there, the television cameras, a crowd of onlookers.
Flashbulbs exploded questions were screamed at them, a microphone was
shoved past one of the officers, who knocked it out of the way, and
from the crowd a woman's piercing voice shrieked, "Next time you get
it, bitch!"

TWENTY-THREE

what if she had not gone to Bessie's office?  What if Les had not been
there?  What if her father had arrived to find an intruder?  What if he
had had a gun?  What if she had called out to Les?  What if she had not
become alarmed by no lights in the halls?  The thoughts chased
themselves like a dust devil in her head.  Bailey had started to talk
about it, and Frank had said later, tomorrow.

How carefully she and her father had examined each other, searching for
what?

She had got to bed late, after twelve, and now her legs twitched, her
head ached, her back hurt, and sleep was in the next county over. Twice
she got up to look out a window to make certain the police were there. 
She summoned the sound of the wind in fir trees, whispering,
whispering..  .. Finally, trying to make out the words, trying to
understand, she fell asleep.

Bailey showed up even before Heath Byerson the next morning.

"Thought I'd hang in close today, tomorrow, in case something comes up
the last day or two the way it does sometimes," Bailey said in his
offhanded way.

She wanted to order him to keep an eye on her father,

not get far from him, but she thought he already knew that.

"Any word about Les?"  she asked.

"In surgery.  They flew him up to Portland last night.

The watchman's in better shape, still in intensive care, still
critical, but in better shape than Les Smithers."

Today there was a group of people outside the house same people, same
signs, same cameras, same shouted questions.

"The neighbors will love this," she murmured to Frank.

"Fuck 'em," he growled, and, with a firm grasp of her arm, walked to
the waiting car.

Outside the courthouse the crowd was larger, more unruly, and Frank was
firmer, his hand on her arm harder.  The bailiff met them and said she
was wanted in the judge's chambers.  He escorted her.

"Good morning, Barbara, sit down," Judge Paltz said when she entered
his chambers.  Fierst was already there; he looked harried^ concerned.
They exchanged nods.

"How are you?"  Judge Paltz asked Barbara when she was seated.

"Fine," she said.  She suspected that she looked like hell warmed
over.

He studied her for a moment, then nodded.

"The jury is getting very perturbed over the length of this trial," he
said.

"I have reassured them twice already that it will end soon.  And even
though they are being sequestered, whenever there is so much outside
tension connected to a trial, they seem to sense it, and even to echo
it.  Barbara, I have no idea what viper pit you're stirring up, but if
it has nothing to do with the trial we are all enjoined to facilitate,
I advise you to put down the stick until this trial is concluded."  He
held up his hand to forestall any response she might make.

"I have never lost an attorney, for either side, during the course of a
trial at which I acted in my judicial capacity," he said.

"And I don't intend to now.  Barbara, until this trial is concluded and
a verdict is in, I am placing you and your father under full protection
of this court.  You will have police protection around the clock for
the duration of these proceedings.  And I want to know how long you
estimate your defense will continue.  When will you be done?"  he asked
bluntly.

"I'm hoping tomorrow," she said.

"Very well, that will leave Thursday for your summations, and for the
jury to begin its deliberation."  He stood up.

"I hope you both will cooperate and expedite this trial to the fullest
extent possible.  No delaying tactics, no grandstanding.  Is that
understood?"

They both said meekly that they understood, and he said to Barbara,
"You understand that the protection of this court will cease as soon as
the verdict has been rendered?"

"Yes, sir," she said.

For a time he regarded her with no expression on his face, then he
nodded.

"Take care, Barbara.  Take care."

And he sent them out.

She reported briefly to her father before they were summoned to the
courtroom.  Frank had changed overnight, she realized.  Last night he
had looked haggard, like an old man, but today he looked mad as hell.
And that was fine, she thought, because that was exactly how she
felt--mad as hell.

Paula was very frightened; she clutched Barbara's hand and examined
her.

"Are you really all right?"  she asked.

"I heard the news, read the paper...."

"I'm okay," Barbara said.

"Relax.  Look at it as a positive event, in fact.  We're scaring the
shit out of someone."  She smiled at the young woman, and after a
moment Paula smiled also, but it was not a good smile.

Barbara called her next witness.

Janey Lipscomb appeared to be too young to be a professional
psychologist who dealt with the ugliest of human tragedies--domestic
violence.  As she recited her credentials, her work, it became clear
that she was exceptionally well qualified, however.

"Dr.  Lipscomb," Barbara said, "do you recall the day you and I talked?
What I said to you?"

"Indeed," she said.  She dimpled, and added, "I made notes as soon as I
got to my desk."

"In your own words, will you recount our meeting?"

She did so succinctly.

After she finished, Barbara asked, "When you saw the child, Annie
Everts, what was your appraisal?"

"She was extremely disturbed, traumatized by the events that she had
assumed responsibility for."  Annie had no memory of the day, she went
on, but she was having nightmares, and had reverted to infantile
behavior.

They had talked that day, and the following week Mrs.  Everts had
brought Annie to the offices where Janey worked.  Annie had played out
the events there.

"Will you explain how the children 'play out' the traumatic events that
bring them to you for help?"

Janey dimpled again, briefly.

"We have cutouts-furniture, animals, trees, things of that sort, and
dolls, a playhouse, other structures, boats, cars, a wide variety of
stage props.  The children select what is appropriate and position the
objects in a way that satisfies them.

Sometimes the scenes are fanciful, sometimes quite realistic. Often it
is during this period of reconstructing where the events happened that
there is a release of the repressed memories."

"So Annie set the stage and then played out the events using dolls?"

"Yes, that's right."

"Did you videotape her play?"

"Yes.  We do that in order to watch it with the children and talk about
the actions."

Barbara produced the videocassette and had her identify it, and then
said, "Your Honor, I would like permission to play this cassette at
this time."

"Objection!"  Fierst cried.

"May I approach the bench, Your Honor?"

Judge Paltz beckoned him and Barbara.

"Your Honor, the public defender represented Mrs.

Kennerman at the questioning of that child.  Defense and the
prosecution both agreed not to call her as a witness because of her
age, and to bring in further testimony that is not subject to
cross-examination at this time is a direct violation of that
agreement."

"Your Honor," Barbara said, "the day the child was questioned she was
panic-stricken.  Present were two police officers, one in uniform,
neither of them trained in child psychology.  Also present was William
Spassero, who is not trained in child psychology.  Annie said whatever
seemed to satisfy them, and then she repressed the entire incident and
became a very troubled little girl.  I argue that this tape is the
proper cross-examination of the prosecution's statement from her.

They could have done it this way, if they had chosen.

Dr.  Lipscomb is a highly trained professional who is entirely neutral
in this matter, as she has testified."

Judge Paltz looked off into space for a second or two, and then said,
"In view of the fact that there were so many unqualified people
present, none of whom appreciated the difficulty of obtaining a
statement from a child, and none of whom objected to the method of the
interrogation, we will view the cassette at this time.

Meanwhile," he added, "I shall take under consideration if this is a
proper procedure, and if I find that it is not, I will so advise the
jury.  You may proceed, Ms.  Holloway."

There was absolute silence when the television came on to show a little
blond girl at a table with a playhouse.

She picked up some wooden dolls, only two inches high, and said,
"They're going out to pick mushrooms.

This is Mom."  She put the Mom doll and a few other dolls behind a row
of trees.  The upstairs of the dollhouse had a bed, nothing else, and
downstairs one room had a cutout TV and a couch, and another room had a
refrigerator.  Annie played both roles, one doll on the bed, the other
one moving around it, then both dolls going to the TV, and the kid doll
lying down on the couch.  The Annie doll said in falsetto, "If you're
just going to suck your thumb and go to sleep, I'm leaving."

She walked her doll out the kitchen, through the door, and to the
nearest tree.

"The lady was tired," she said, and leaned another doll against a
tree.

"She's sleeping," the Annie doll said, falsetto, and then she reached
across the table to an apple and began to bounce another doll up and
down, and in a new voice, called, "Come here.  See what I'm making."
The Annie doll flew across the space.

"That's an apple tree," Annie said in her normal voice, "not really a
big apple.  Fern can make crowns, not for real, but flower crowns."

"Where's the kid?"  the Fern doll asked.

"What were you doing?"

"Watching cartoons.  She went to sleep."

The Mom doll was moved to the apple, and asked, "Where's the kid?"

Annie repeated what she had said, and the Mom doll was placed behind
the trees again; the lady doll was moved to a point about halfway to
the house, and in a moment the Annie doll and Fern dolls were put
behind the trees.

Barbara stopped the cassette there.  Annie had gone on to play out
watching the fire, the ambulance, the police, all of it.

"Dr.  Lipscomb," Barbara asked then, "when you talked to Annie and
watched the cassette with her, did she change any of the details we
have just seen?"

"Nothing.  This is what she remembers."

When Barbara said she was done with the witness a few minutes later,
Fierst was taken off guard.  It was evident that he had expected Janey
to talk about Paula.  He hesitated, and then tried to make Janey admit
that she knew what information Barbara had wanted from the child. Janey
was very pleasant, and very firm with him.

"Exactly how did this cassette come to be in the hands of the defense,
then?"  he snapped.

"After Annie began to respond to therapy, and then reverted to her
normal behavior, her mother was deeply grateful.  It was her suggestion
that if the cassette would be helpful to Ms.  Holloway, she should have
it.  Mr.  and Mrs.  Everts both agreed to release it to her.  Ms.
Holloway was quite surprised."

Poor Gerald Fierst, Barbara thought with almost malicious
satisfaction.  He had little left to do with this witness.

She could imagine the long list of questions, accusations, innuendoes
he had prepared, and would not be able to use.  He tried, however.

"Dr.  Lipscomb, did you visit Mrs.  Kennerman in jail?"

"Objection," Barbara said.

"Improper cross-examination;

the matter has not been brought up in direct testimony."

"Sustained."

He had her talk about her practice.  Did she treat women said to have
battered-wife syndrome?  Survivors?

Rape victims?  Janey talked fluently and well about her practice, but
he could not connect her in any way to Paula.  Finally he sat down.

"Just one more question," Barbara said.

"How is Annie Everts now?"

Janey smiled.

"She is a" healthy, normal little girl."

"Everyone wants to take her home with them," Frank said during the
recess.

"I want her to be a witness every time I'm in court," Barbara said.

"Have you looked around the audience this morning?"

"Nope.  Why?"

"Do.  You have groupies.  And they're using a metal detector on
everyone coming in.  Good old Lewis."  He handed her an envelope.

"For both of us."

"Not again," she groaned, but this note was from Sam Bixby.  The firm
was behind her one hundred percent;

anything she needed, just say the word.

"Seems someone let him in on the fact that the barbarians aren't just
at the gate but actually broke through," Frank said with a grin.

"Now it's a family matter."

When they returned to court, she looked out over the people; the room
held no more than forty spectators, and it appeared that half of them
were from her neighborhood.

Martin and his wife; Juanita Lopez, her next-door neighbor; most of the
Delgado family; Mrs.

Searles; even Roberta's mother.  Paula's sister, Lucille, with her
husband; the three students, who had been there every day.  In the back
row she spotted Bill Spassero.  He grinned, and she nodded at him, at
her friends.  The others were still there, but they no longer made up a
formidable wall of hostility.

She called Carol Burnside, a slender dark-haired woman in her thirties.
She testified that she had gone onto the Dodgson property in order to
get photographs of the elk one morning back in February.  She indicated
on the aerial map where she had stood, where she had photographed.

"But you didn't print them.  Why not?"

"Too dark.  And when there was just beginning to be enough light and I
saw them, something scared them off.  They turned back into the
woods."

She identified the photographs as hers, and Barbara had them admitted,
all without any objections from Fierst.  He didn't care, she
understood, how bad a picture she painted of the Dodgsons because he
would agree that they were not nice people, but that it didn't
matter.

Reggie Melrose was her last witness before lunch.

She told again how she had gone to work at eleven;

about Angela's phone call to the fire department; the smell of chlorine
in die house.  Barbara questioned her closely about the note to clean
the refrigerator, about the usual procedure with the pool-room door.
Mrs.

Melrose talked freely, but her dislike for the Dodgsons was perhaps too
apparent to make her a good witness.

"You say Mrs.  Dodgson told you to go on home as soon as you finished
in the kitchen.  But you looked for laundry first?  Why did you do
that?"

"Well, it didn't mean much for her to say take the rest of the day off.
And I knew he Mr.  Dodgson, I mean would have a fit when he saw all
those tracks in the living room, and a double fit if he saw dirty
towels or dirty clothes around.  So I looked, and then I went home."

"You didn't find any clothes or towels to wash?"

"No, ma'am.  Not a thing, and then I thought.  Well, I could always
tell him she told me to leave, if he got on me about it."

"What kind of tracks were in the living room?"

"I guess Angela tracked in mud when she came in, and then Craig left
wet tracks to his room.  It was a mess, all right.  That was the kind
of thing they usually went on about, tracks on the rugs and such."

"Who hired you, Mrs.  Melrose?"

"He did.  Mr.  Dodgson."

Barbara had her tell about the day she was fired.

When she finished, Barbara asked, "Where was the floor stripper usually
kept?"

"In the pantry, off the kitchen.  I used up the last of it in March and
he ordered a new gallon.  That's where it was last time I saw it, in
the pantry."

"Had you been using it for anything on Saturday?"

"No, ma'am.  Back in March I did the floors."

"Was the container open?"

"I don't know.  It must have been or it would have sunk, wouldn't
it?"

Barbara nodded.

"Mrs.  Melrose, who usually gave you orders?"

"She did sometimes, like clean the refrigerator that day.  He did
mostly."

When Barbara sat down, she scribbled a note to her father.  Did they
drain the pool?  Who did the work?  She turned her attention to Fierst
then.  He had very few questions, and they emphasized the fact that
this witness did not like any of the Dodgsons.

When he was done, Barbara asked, "Mrs.  Melrose, did you see Mrs.
Dodgson or Craig before Angela Everts arrived that morning?"

"No, ma'am."

Barbara thanked her and she was excused.  Barbara could feel her toes
tingle all the way up to her knees.

"Don't talk," she said when she and Frank were escorted to their room,
this time out the jury door through the twisting halls with jury
deliberation rooms on each side, up a back elevator.  She hardly
noticed.  After a glance at her, Frank kept silent.  He inspected their
lunch while she stood at the window, and a minute later, when she
opened the door and went out to the corridor to walk, he said
nothing.

She started and looked at him without awareness later when he touched
her arm in the hallway.

"It's one-thirty," he said.

Her eyes focused again; she looked at her watch, and said, "Shit!"

"Yep.  Come on."

Inside the room she picked up a sandwich, took a bite, and put it down
again.  Cardboard.

"Dad, who do you know in the FBI?"

"A lot of them.  Why?"

"You have to tell someone you trust that they have to keep an eye on
the Dodgsons, Gallead, and Bossert tonight."

He snorted.

"Tell Carter Heilbronner they're smuggling diamonds, is that enough?" |
She eyed him curiously.

"I don't know.  Would it be enough?"  Then she said with a touch of
impatience, "I don't care what you tell him.  They just have to keep
all of them under surveillance tonight.  Not the district attorney's
office or the local police; the FBI."  She put her coffee down and went
to the door again.

"I have to go to the bathroom."

"You think they're going to skip, all of them?"

Again she studied him with a curious intensity.

"I

think someone might try to kill Kay Dodgson."

TWENTY-FOUR

today kay dodgson was wearing another of her designer outfits,
coordinated down to her nail polish.  A soft rose-colored cashmere
suit, silk blouse, hose; she could have posed for a fashion magazine.
Her jewelry was lustrous pearls--dangling earrings, a strand of pearls
gleaming against the pink blouse, a pearl and diamond ring.

"Mrs.  Dodgson," Barbara began, pointing to the aerial map, "was this
gravel driveway there when you bought your property?"

"Yes, of course.  It went from the private road out to Spring Bay
Road."

"And you took out that end and put in your own driveway when you built,
is that right?"

"Yes."

"Did you continue to use the remaining section of driveway?"

"Now and then, but mostly just for a way to get to the private road and
take walks there."

"Later, after the Canby Ranch became a haven for women, you felt
compelled to add the gate.  Is that right?"

"Yes," she snapped.

"Did you put on a padlock?"

"Yes, we did."

"Do you keep the gate locked at all times?"

"Yes, of course.  We don't want anyone taking a shortcut through our
yard to Spring Bay Road."

"Where do you usually keep the key to the padlock?"

Barbara asked.

"It's on a rubber bracelet that we hang on a hook near the back door.
When I go out, I slip it on my wrist."

"Mrs.  Dodgson, was the gate locked the morning of Saturday, April
nineteenth?"

"Yes.  I told you, we keep it locked."

"And you locked it when you returned from your walk?"

"Yes."

"How did Angela Everts get past it that morning?

Did someone go out and unlock it for her?"

Kay Dodgson hesitated, and then said, "I don't know."

"Do you customarily give your housekeepers a key to the gate?"

"No," she said.  Her clipped manner had changed, a new wariness had
appeared.

"So if she simply opened the gate and drove through, you must not have
locked it that morning.  Is that right?"

"I don't remember," she said, almost defiantly.

Barbara nodded.  That was the best possible response for a witness who
didn't want to answer questions.

"Is it possible that someone came after you, from the private road,
along your gravel driveway, and that person forgot to lock the gate
again?"

"No, it isn't," she said.

"No one came until Angela."

"Did something happen that upset you, made you forget to lock it?"

"Objection," Fierst said.

"The witness has already said she doesn't remember.  How many times
must she repeat that?"

His objection was sustained, and Barbara asked her about her walk that
morning.  Did she go to her gate and open it?  Did she go back to her
house as soon as Angela was in the Canby driveway?  Did she return to
the pond after that?  Was she still there at eleven?  Did she remember
unlocking the gate?  Did she remember tying her shoe?  It took a long
time; Kay Dodgson stuck to her original story.

She had been well coached, Barbara thought; it would have been
surprising only if she had not been after all this time.

"Mrs.  Dodgson," she asked, "you have stated you are the
bookkeeper-business manager of the Dodgson Publishing Company.  Is that
correct?"

"Yes, I am."

"Where did you go to school to learn bookkeeping?"

She moistened her lips.

"I just picked it up."

"For a million-dollar business?  You handle the insurance, the
withholding taxes, pension plans, orders, all of it with no
training?"

"Yes.  We started small and as the business grew I kept learning
more."

"Mrs.  Voight testified that Mr.  Dodgson paid her monthly by check.
Did you ever see those check stubs or the check register with her
name?"

"No.  Yes."  She had nearly worn her lipstick down to nothing.

"I don't remember."

"Well, consider it this way.  When you balanced the checkbooks, where
did you account for that sum?  Was it a business expense?"

"Objection," Fierst said.

"The witness has said she doesn't remember."

"The witness said she doesn't remember Mrs.  Vaight's name on check
stubs or in the register.  I am asking her about the sum, two hundred
fifty dollars a month."

"Overruled," Judge Paltz said in his firm quiet way.

Kay Dodgson didn't remember.

"Who made out the payroll checks at the printing press?"

"I did."

"Did you sign them?"

"No."

"Who signed them?"

"My husband."

"Who made out the checks for household help?"

"I did.  He signed them."

"Do you have a joint checking account?"

"Yes, of course."

"Do you use it often for your own purchases, your own personal
items?"

"Yes."

"Do you sign those checks?"

Her cheeks flared, and the color washed out again rapidly.

"Yes," she said in a near whisper.

"When was the last time you wrote a check for more than a hundred
dollars that you signed?"

Fierst objected and was sustained.

"Who buys your clothes?"  Barbara demanded.

Fierst objected and was sustained.

"Do you drive your own car?"

"Yes, of course."

"Is it registered in your name?"

She didn't remember.

"Who bought your car?"

Fierst objected and was sustained.

"Who hires the employees at the printing company?"

Her husband.

"Who hires household help?"

"He does.  He likes to deal with people himself and I don't."

"Do you have any voice in the people he hires or fires?"

"Yes, of course.  We talk it over first."

"Are you present when he interviews people he hires?"

"Usually."

"Were you there when he interviewed Mrs.  Everts?"

"No.  I mean, I don't remember."

"Were you present when he interviewed and hired Mrs.  Melrose?"

"I ... I don't remember."

"Did you discuss firing Mrs.  Melrose?"

"Yes, of course.  We had been thinking of it for some time."

"Where were you when he fired Mrs.  Melrose?"

"In my room; I didn't feel well."

"Did you see the floor stripper container in the pool before your
husband fired Mrs.  Melrose?"

"Yes.  We all saw it.  He said leave it alone to show her why we were
firing her."

"When did you see it, Mrs.  Dodgson?"

She shook her head.

"I don't know.  I don't remember."

Barbara pressed her about it until Fierst objected.

"Mrs.  Dodgson, did you ever question your husband about any items in
his check register that you had to enter in the books?"

"No," she said faintly.

"So, if he is paying other informants two hundred dollars a month,
three hundred, whatever the amount, you would not know about it.  Is
that right?"

"No!"  she cried.

"He wasn't."

"But how can you be certain if you never ask him to explain his
checks?"

"He ... he looks over it with me."

"Ah," Barbara said, nodding.

"When he looks over the books with you, does he say this is for
business, this is personal?"

She moistened her lips and hesitated.  Barbara waited.

Finally she nodded.

"Yes, he does."

"So you simply enter items where your husband tells you, the way a
secretary might do.  Do you do the arithmetic

"I'm the bookkeeper!"  she cried.

Barbara walked to her table and stood by it regarding Kay Dodgson, who
looked her age and more now.  Her lipstick was gone; her face was
pasty.

"You stated last week that before you and your husband came to Oregon
to start a business he was a salesman and you were a housewife in Las
Vegas.  Is that correct?"

She nodded, then said yes.

"But were you not also a dancer, Mrs.  Dodgson?

Didn't you work for a casino called Aces Up?"

"No!"

"Weren't you what they call an exotic dancer?"

"No!  No!"  Her hand flew to her mouth, which was visibly trembling.

"Wasn't your stage name Kay Darling?"

"No!"

"And wasn't the assistant manager Royce Gallead?"

Kay Dodgson looked as if she would faint, or become hysterical.  Both
hands were pressed against her mouth hard, and her eyes were wild now,
her gaze darting everywhere.  She was shaking her head violently;

he dangling earrings flew back and forth.

"I'm sick," she said.

"I'm going to be sick!"

"For God's sake, leave her alone," someone behind Barbara yelled, and
another voice rose, and another.

"Stop attacking her!  She's not on trial here!  Get the baby killer!"

Judge Paltz was banging his gavel.

"This court will be cleared.  There will be a ten-minute recess for the
witness to compose herself.  The bailiffs will detain anyone making a
scene, and those persons are held in contempt of court."  He stalked
off.

"The cat's in the fire," Prank muttered when they were alone.

"Carter Heilbronner will see us both as soon as we're done here.  At
the house.  Bailey will let him in.

And Bill Spassero spotted Bossert in-the corridor, carrying a cane.
They grabbed him and seized it, just a cane.

He was tossed out and told to stay out.  He'll get a lawyer."

His words were staccato, his expression fierce.  Altogether he looked
exultant, and probably he was more excited than he should be, she
thought.  On the other hand, she could not account for her own feeling
of great detachment, as if none of this had anything to do with her.
What emotion she would feel if she dared let herself would be a
terrible sadness, she thought.

"Bill Spassero again," she murmured.

"Someone else probably would have spotted Bossert, but it was Bill that
did and got him out of here."

"Did Bailey find out about the pool-cleaning company?"

"You bet.  They pumped it out on Tuesday, the day Dodgson fired Mrs.
Melrose.  Bailey's talking to the guys who did the work now."

"They're gluing Kay Dodgson back together," she said, and went to the
door.

"I'll be back in a minute."

She went to the rest room that had been put off limits to everyone
except those who had proper identification.

The women who worked up here must be hating this, she thought.  She
washed her face with cold water and reapplied her own lipstick and then
regarded the stranger in the mirror.

"Shark," she murmured to the face.

The glue job on Kay Dodgson had been hasty, Barbara thought when she
resumed.  Kay Dodgson was pale, and she was very frightened; her gaze
flickered here, there, everywhere but on Barbara.  She kept looking out
over the audience as if searching for someone.

"Mrs.  Dodgson," Barbara said in a conversational tone, "you know that
the state of Nevada keeps a register of those who work in the various
casinos, don't you?"

"I don't know."

"They do.  Did you work as a dancer in a casino called Aces Up?"

"Maybe, when I was very young."

"Before you married Mr.  Dodgson?"

"Yes."

"And later, when he was working as a salesman and was away from home
for many months of the year, didn't you return to work?"

"We needed the money," she said.

"I worked a little, just to help out, when one of the girls couldn't
make it.

Not full-time."

"I see.  Did this continue, your part-time job as a dancer, until you
left Las Vegas and moved to Oregon?"

She was moistening her lips already.  She nodded.

"Just part-time, not often."

"Was Royce Gallead the assistant manager of the club where you
danced?"

"I don't know."

Barbara shook her head.

"Mr.  Gallead was assistant manager of the club where you danced until
the summer of nineteen seventy-eight, the same year you and your
husband moved to Oregon.  You knew him very well, didn't you, Mrs.
Dodgson?"

"I don't remember," she whispered.

"Did your husband approve of your dancing while he was out of town?"

"He ... he ..."  She shook her head helplessly.

"Did he know you were dancing all those years?"

"I don't know.  We didn't talk about it."

"You never told him, did you, Mrs.  Dodgson?"

She hesitated and then said, "We didn't talk about it."

"Mrs.  Dodgson, didn't you have a separate checking account, all your
own, your own money that no one made you account for?"

"I was saving," she whispered, "so we could move, start the
business."

"Did you make a contribution to the business?"

"No," she said in such a low voice Judge Paltz asked her to repeat
it.

"You couldn't, could you?"  Barbara asked then.

"He would have demanded to know where the money came from.  Isn't that
right?"

"I don't know," she whispered.  She was so pale, her makeup looked
garish in contrast to her pallor.

"Did Mr.  Gallead ever threaten to tell your husband about your
work?"

She looked down at the dais before her.

"No," she whispered.

Barbara went to the exhibit table and picked up the photographs taken
by Carol Burnside.

"Mrs.  Dodgson, do you recognize the background in this picture?"

After no more than a glance, she said, "No."

Barbara pointed out the details, showed the spot where Carol Burnside
had stood to take the picture, reminded the jury of the resultant call
Rich Dodgson had made to Mrs.  Canby, and again held the photograph out
to Kay Dodgson.

"This is the fence around the Gallead property, and this is his truck.
Someone is opening the gate, and five men are standing near the truck,
one of them stretching.  Mrs.  Dodgson, were you aware that Mr. Gallead
was importing laborers in the dead of the night to do some work for
him?"

"Objection!"  Fierst called.

"We don't know anything about that shadowy photograph, or the figures
in it.

Counsel is making unwarranted assumptions without proper groundwork."

He was sustained.

"Wasn't Mr.  Gallead the one who became angry over the incident?"
Barbara demanded.

"Didn't he insist you get rid of those women before something else
happened?"

She was still studying the photograph.

"I don't know," she said.

"Mrs.  Dodgson, on the morning you spoke with Angela Everts and she
told you the Canby house would be empty, didn't you see it as the
answer to Mr.

Gallead's insistence that you do something?  Didn't you go home and
call him and tell him the house would be empty?  Didn't you go back out
to watch for him, to see if he would actually dare do anything?  Didn't
you see him that morning?"

Pierst was yelling objections and Judge Paltz was banging his gavel,
but Barbara got it all out in a furious, demanding voice, and she knew
Kay Dodgson had heard every question.

While Fierst was stating his just cause for objecting, Kay Dodgson said
in a low voice, "Yes."  Fierst shut up to stare at her.

"Yes what, Mrs.  Dodgson?"  Barbara asked.

"I called him.  I thought I saw someone.  I wasn't sure who it was, or
that I even saw someone.  And I ran back home."

And then the cat was really in the fire, Barbara thought as the
courtroom erupted into a cacophony of voices and the rustle of people
scurrying out--reporters, she thought, without looking around.  She
kept her gaze on Kay Dodgson and waited for Judge Paltz to deal with
the pandemonium in the room.  She removed the photograph from before
Kay Dodgson and returned it to the exhibit table, and then stood with
her arms crossed, waiting.

When order was restored, she said, "Mrs.  Dodgson, will you please tell
us exactly what you did that morning?"

Kay Dodgson did not look up.  In a low voice she repeated, "I called
him."

Barbara sighed.

"You called from where?  Which room?"

"The kitchen."

"Did you go into the family room?"

"No.  I just went back outside."

"Was Craig swimming when you called?"

"Yes."

"Then what did you do?"

"I went back out to the private road, down to the pond, and watched for
him."

"And you saw what?"

"Just a shadowy figure.  I wasn't sure.  I'm still not sure what I saw.
I was afraid and hurried back home."

"Where did you see the figure?"

"If I did," she said, not looking up.  Her voice was faint; the
courtroom was absolutely silent now.

"Up past the Canby driveway, crossing the private road."

"Mrs.  Dodgson, did you see the women and children leave the Canby
house that morning?"

She shook her head.

"I wasn't paying attention."

"Come now, Mrs.  Dodgson.  You had made the call, you knew they had to
be out of the house before anyone entered.  Human nature would have
made you watch.

Didn't you see them leave?"

"I couldn't have seen them," she cried.

"The grass and weeds were too high."

"Not in April.  From the end of the road you had a perfect spot to
observe the space between the house and the woods.  Didn't you watch
until you saw them all leave, and didn't you then kneel down to tie
your shoe?"

"No!"

"Weren't you signaling to someone that the house was now empty?"

"No!"  she screamed.

"Leave me alone!  For God's sake, leave me alone!  What more do you
want?"

"The truth, Mrs.  Dodgson."  Barbara walked back and forth.

"When Mr.  Dodgson came in that morning, did you tell him what you had
done?"

Kay looked up and cast a swift glance over the spectators, and then
looked down at her hands.

"No," she said.

"You haven't told him in the intervening months?"

"No."

"Why didn't you tell the investigating officers you might have seen
someone crossing the private road?"

"I ... Rich said Paula Kennerman did it, and I believed him.  I thought
I must have been mistaken," she said in a low voice.

"Were you afraid that Mr.  Gallead would tell your husband about your
dancing during his absences?"

She cast another desperate look about and ducked her head again.

"I wasn't afraid," she said, nearly inaudibly.

"I just wanted the past to stay buried.  There was no reason to bring
it up now."

"Monday, April twenty-first, your husband and your son went out on the
yacht, but you didn't go with them.

Why not?"

She gave Barbara a startled look.

"I was sick."

"Did you go to the office that entire week?"

"No, I was sick."

"Mrs.  Dodgson, your husband controls the business;

he controls the household affairs; he buys your clothes and gives you
an allowance, doesn't he?"

She shook her head.  She looked agonized now.

"That Saturday when he came in, didn't you in fact tell him exactly
what you had done, and didn't he beat you?  Weren't you afraid that if
he learned of your dancing, your private funds, he would beat you
severely?

Wasn't that why you were in the power of Royce Gallead, because you are
deathly afraid of your husband?"

Fierst was screaming objections; Barbara ignored him.

"Mrs.  Dodgson, do you understand the meaning of battered-wife
syndrome?"

Judge Paltz's voice rose and Barbara looked at him now.

"Ms.  Holloway, you will stop piling questions on questions.  You will
stop leading this witness.  You will conduct yourself properly.  Do you
understand?"

"Yes, sir," she said.

Kay Dodgson was sobbing into her hands; her entire body convulsed.
Judge Paltz glared at Barbara; he looked at Kay Dodgson, then back at
Barbara, and beckoned her and Fierst to the bench.

"How much longer do you intend to take with this woman?"  he
demanded.

"Only a few more minutes.  Your Honor."

"I don't want this to continue into the morning," he warned.  It was
twenty minutes past four.

"Your Honor," Barbara said before he could raise his gavel for another
recess.

"I would like to suggest that Mrs.  Dodgson be made aware that she can
have protection if she so desires."

His gaze held hers for a long time, it seemed, before he nodded.

"She will be so told out of the hearing of the jury."  He raised his
gavel then and called for a recess.

 m

* * *

"Ah, Bobby," Frank said.

"How on God's little green earth did you know that?"

"She told me.  Everything she said, every gesture, her fear.  She told
me."

"Honey, it's over.  You can rest the defense today;

you've done it."

She shook her head.

"Not yet.  There's one more witness, remember?  I want him.  Dad.  I
really want him in that chair."

She went to the window and looked out.  They were still there,
patrolling.  And then in her mind's eye she saw the look on Paula's
face only minutes ago when she had returned to the defense table.  A
look that was a mixture of fear and revulsion.

"Mrs.  Dodgson, just a few more questions," she said when they began
again.  Kay Dodgson had washed her face and reapplied lipstick, but
there hadn't been enough time for the mascara, the blush, all the rest.
She looked haggard.  More, she looked defeated.

"Did you not tell the authorities the truth about that Saturday because
you were ordered not to speak of it?"

"No," she said dully.

"You know Mr.  Gallead has a gun shop and he runs a firing range, but
do you know of other activities he is engaged in?"

"No."  Her voice was toneless.

"Do you know if your husband and Mr.  Gallead are business
associates?"

She repeated her denial without a change of expression or voice.

"Do you know if your son Craig and Mr.  Gallead are business
associates?"

A flicker of life came into her eyes.

"No, they aren't!"

"What about your other son, Alex?  Is he associated with Mr.
Gallead?"

This time the life flared to a flame.

"No!"  she screamed.

"Alex doesn't know anything!  He has nothing to do " "Yes, Mrs.
Dodgson?  He has nothing to do with what?"

"Nothing.  I don't know what you're talking about!"

Barbara regarded her coolly for a moment, then re turned to the defense
table.

"No more questions," she said.

Fierst stood up as if undecided, then said he had no questions.  He
would try to undo some of it at summation Barbara knew, but he
understood it was over as well as she did.

TWENTY-FIVE

getting our of the courthouse to the car was hellish;

there were more reporters today than onlookers and demonstrators, more
flashbulbs, more TV cameras, more shouted questions, more pushing,
yelling.... At the house it was marginally better.  As Frank propelled
her to the door, it swung open and Bailey stepped aside for them to
enter, slammed the door and locked it.

"They had to put a cop in the backyard," Bailey said cheerfully.

"They were coming over the fence taking pictures of the tomatoes."

"Christ on a mountain," Frank muttered, and headed for the back door. A
man emerged from the living room.

"Oh, Carter.  Right back."  Frank went out through the kitchen.

"Ms.  Holloway, I'm Carter Heilbronner."  He extended his hand.  He was
a slender, dark-haired man, fifty or fifty-five, very well dressed in a
dark suit, maroon tie.

She shook hands with him; he looked exactly the way an FBI agent should
look--discreet, well-mannered, pleasant.

"Please," she said, "make yourself comfortable.

I'll just be a minute.  Bailey, why don't you give Mr.  Heilbronner a
drink?"  She went upstairs to change her clothes, wash her face, rid
herself of the briefcase and purse, and just to sit and not do anything
for a few seconds.  Finally, in jeans and T-shirt, she went back
down.

Heilbronner and Bailey were in the kitchen, where Frank was sorting
tomatoes and peppers, cursing.

"Damn fools, look what they did!"  He held up a smashed pepper.

"Goddamn idiots!"

Bailey asked her if she wanted wine and she said no, she wanted what he
had.  Heilbronner was not drinking  Then, with bourbon and water in her
hand, she sat at the kitchen table.

"As good a place as any," she said, motioning Heilbronner to a chair.
Frank's curses be came almost inaudible.

"Your father asked us to put certain people under surveillance,"
Heilbronner said.

"And of course we can't do that without cause.  Ms.  Holloway, will you
tell me why you made such a request?"

She sipped her drink.

"I think right now the Dodgson group is considering the murder of Royce
Gallead, and possibly his stooge, Terry Bossert.  And I think those two
are trying to figure out how they can get to the Dodgsons without being
caught.  And meanwhile, I think Kay Dodgson expects to get the hell
beaten out of her, if not tonight, then tomorrow."  She took another
drink, bigger this time.

"If that scenario isn't quite right, then some, or maybe all of them,
are likely wondering if they can get to me overnight, or else they
might be checking airlines for parts unknown.  And they really should
not be allowed to skip, not just yet."

Heilbronner's expression did not change even a fraction.

She sighed.

"I asked Judge Paltz to advise Kay Dodgson that she could have
protection if she felt the need."

"Ms.  Holloway, you know very well that isn't enough.  We need real
data or our hands are tied, as you also know."

"If I told you enough to make you call out the dogs, what would you do?
Arrest people?  Search and seize?

Bring them in for questioning?  All of the above?  I can't do that
because I haven't concluded my defense of Paula Kennel-man yet, and my
primary commitment must be to my client.  As soon as the jury starts
its de liberation, I'll tell you everything I know, everything I
suspect, give you everything I have, but I really would like to know
that all those people will be alive and healthy then."  She picked up
her glass and added moodily "And it would be really fine if they didn't
get together and discuss things overnight."

Heilbronner regarded her for another minute, then shook his head.  His
face revealed nothing.  Did the FBI have lessons in that?  she wondered
irritably.  Neutral Expression 101 ?

"You know, don't you," Bailey drawled, "that the news hounds out there
are national as well as local.  We got their attention."

"For Christ's sake, get off your high horse," Frank snapped from across
the kitchen.

"What's it going to cost you?  If you lose, you lose big.  Cover your
ass!"

Heilbronner continued to watch Barbara.  She finished her drink and
waved Bailey away when he reached for her glass.  She was so tired
another drink might make her fold.

"You understand," Heilbronner said, "that the FBI doesn't involve
itself in local crimes, not even murder."

"Of course, I understand that," she said.

"Look, I'm really beat.  Tomorrow, as soon as the jury is charged, I'm
asking Judge Paltz to convene a meeting in his chambers.  The D.A. will
be there.  Come if you want" She stood up.

"If some of the people we discuss turn up dead or missing, well, I
tried."

When he remained deadpan, she shrugged and turned deliberately to
Bailey.

"Anything new on Les Simmers or the watchman?"

"Les was in surgery for eight hours; he's critical but stable.  They
say that's a good sign.  The watchman will make it."

Heilbronner got up then.

"I'll be on my way," he said.  Bailey went with him to lock the door
again.

"What do you think?"  Barbara asked Frank.

"You kidding?  They'll be watched.  Didn't do your case any harm at
all, bringing up Les and the watchman."

He was still scowling at his ruined vegetables.

Barbara went to the stairs and stepped up, down, up, down.

"What are you doing?"  Bailey asked.

"Exercising."  Up, down, up.

"That can't be good for her," Bailey said to Prank in the kitchen.

"You staying for supper?  If so, go on out there and pick some
beans."

Barbara stepped up, down, up.... Rich Dodgson was what people meant
when they said a fine-looking man, Barbara thought the next morning,
studying him.  He was fifty-nine, a few pounds overweight, not enough
to be unattractive.  His eyes were light blue, his hair dark, almost
black, with gray at the temples.

He was dressed in charcoal-colored slacks.  With a lighter gray sports
coat, shirt open at the neck, no visible jewelry, not even a wedding
ring.

She asked him to fill in his background for the jury, and he did so
concisely.  When he was done, she shook her head.

"You are too modest, Mr.  Dodgson.  You say you were a salesman, but
weren't you, in fact, at the time of your retirement, the sales
supervisor of the entire western district for the Doud Pharmaceutical
Company?"

"Yes."

"How long were you with the pharmaceutical company?"

"Twenty years."  His voice was level, almost bored.

He looked at her infrequently, as if he found her tire some.  He was
very much at ease.  He smiled and nodded to someone in the room behind
her.

Today she had her own little cheering section again: her neighbors.
Bill Spassero, Lucille and her husband.  She had seen Kay Dodgson and
Craig in the audience, and a lot of his people.  They were being very
quiet.

"If you had remained five more years, you could have retired with a
full pension and medical insurance, couldn't you?"  she asked.

He shrugged.

"Probably."  .

"But you chose to leave in order to start your own business, is that
right?"

"Yes."

"Were you and your family dependent on your salary, Mr.  Dodgson?"

Pierst objected.  She didn't dispute him.

"Mr.  Dodgson, when you came to Oregon you bought land from Mrs. Canby,
and a year later built your house, didn't you?"

"Yes, we did."

"And you bought the printing plant, the building housing it, added new
equipment, computers.  Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"Seven years ago you bought your yacht.  Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"How much does your newspaper cost, Mr.  Dodgson?"

For the first time he hesitated, but only for a second.

"Fifty cents an issue.  A subscription is fifteen dollars a year."

"And how many copies do you print?"

He shrugged again.

"About a thousand."

"How long have you published on a weekly basis?"

He glanced at her and away.

"About two years.  Before that we were a monthly."

"So the newspaper has never been your primary source of income from the
company.  Is that right?"

"Yes, that's right," he said, a sharpness entering his voice, as if he
had lost patience with her and her questions.

"We always printed whatever jobs came along.

We are a printing company.  And we have advertisers."

"Your Honor, I object to this line of questioning," Fierst said, rising
to his feet.

"Mr.  Dodgson's company, his occupation, have nothing to do with the
matter before this court.  Counsel is simply fishing."

Judge Paltz sustained the objection, and then said, "Ms.  Holloway, I
suggest you get to another topic."

Barbara nodded.  When she looked at Dodgson again, she caught a hint of
a gleam in his pale eyes, before he registered indifference once
more.

"Your masthead lists you as the publisher and editor of the paper, Mr.
Dodgson.  Do you have reporters?"

"No."

"You write all the material yourself?"

"Yes."

"What are your news sources, Mr.  Dodgson, if you have no reporters?"

"People tell me things.  I write them," he said.  He raised his arm and
looked at his watch.

"You are solely and completely responsible for the content of your
newspaper?"

"That's what I said.  That's what I meant.  Should I say it again?"

"You wrote this?"  She picked up the top newspaper from a stack on the
defense table and read: "The so-called feminists are screeching at the
gates, folks.  Pay attention.  What they want now are classes for our
boys to teach them what they call nurturing.  What that means, folks,
is they want to teach our boys how to cook and sew and baby-sit while
they go out and steal away men's jobs.  What can you do?  Scream back
at them, for openers...."  She looked at him.

"You wrote that?"

"Objection!"  Fierst yelled.

"Mr.  Dodgson's private philosophy is not on trial.  We have and honor
freedom of speech in this country.  He can write what he wants."

"Your Honor," Barbara said, "I agree absolutely with Mr.  Fierst.
However, it is possible that the witness mis spoke when he said he
writes all his own material.

This editorial, for instance, appeared in three different local papers
in the state.  I think Mr.  Dodgson deserves the opportunity to clarify
his statement, if he spoke hastily."

Judge Paltz overruled Fierst.

"The question, Mr.  Dodgson, was, did you write that?"

"Yes.  They might have copied it, if anyone actually published that
same article."

"Oh, someone did," she said, lifting another paper.

"This is the Belham County Bugle, a monthly, I believe.

The editorial in it is from February, nineteen ninety-one.  Your
article is dated May, nineteen ninety-one.

How do you suppose they copied it before you published it, Mr.
Dodgson?"

"Objection!"  Fierst cried.

"Counsel knows that's an improper question."

"Sustained."

"I suppose it was," Barbara murmured.

"Mr.  Dodgson, here is another copy of your editorial, dated January of
the same year, and a fourth one, dated June.  Mr.

Dodgson, I ask you, did you write the editorial?"

"Yes.  I said I wrote it."

"And you can't account for the exact editorial appearing in these other
papers?"

"No, I can't."

"Very well," she said, handing the papers to the clerk to be
admitted.

"Let's take this one."  She lifted another newspaper, and watched his
gaze leave her, fasten on the stack of papers on her table.  Well, she
thought, she had his attention.  He no longer looked bored.

She read another editorial, this one attacking birth-control pills,
with three duplicates.  He said he wrote it.

Another one, about JUDs, with two duplicates.  He said he wrote it.  A
third one about the mo ming-after pill, one duplicate.  He said he
wrote it.  He had become steely-eyed, his jaw set; he was grating the
words now.

Barbara could well understand why Kay was terrified of him.

"Mr.  Dodgson, the last three editorials all deal with birth control of
various sorts.  Is it a fair assumption to understand that you are
opposed to all birth control?"

"Those aren't birth-control methods.  They're murder methods," he said
with cold precision.

"I am morally opposed to any and every kind of murder of innocent
children."

"I see," she said, and picked up another paper.  This one bewailed the
use of spermicidal gels.

"Mr.  Dodg son," she asked after she read it, "do you claim that the
use of a spermicidal gel is also murder?"

"If the girls don't want to get pregnant, they should stay out of the
bedroom."

"Do you claim that the use of spermicidal gel is murder?"  she
repeated.

"It can be considered murder."

"Mr.  Dodgson, will you explain to the jury what a spermicide is?"

"It is an agent that kills male sperm."  He was staring at her with an
almost hypnotic intensity.  His eyes looked inhuman with a metallic
sheen.

"You mean it kills the sperm before it reaches the ovum?"

"Yes.  I mean that."

"So the ovum cannot be fertilized?  Pregnancy cannot take place?"

"You know that's what I mean."

"Yes, I know that.  And you state in this editorial that it's another
form of murder."  She put the paper down, grateful that no one had
challenged it; there was no duplicate of that editorial.  She picked up
the next paper.

"Mr.  Dodgson, what is the substance you wrote about in this editorial,
RUIt's an abortion agent."

"It isn't used in this country, you say here, and yet you have a long
editorial about the dangers it presents.

Why is that?"

"There is intense pressure to have it approved here.

It's a very dangerous drug used to murder babies, and one that has
killed countless women in Europe."

"I see.  It is used in Prance, England, and Sweden, approved by their
governments.  Are they aware of its dangers?"

"Objection!"  Fierst called out.  She withdrew the question.

"In the past two years you have published one hundred thirteen issues
of your newspaper, one a week.  Of that number, eighty percent have
dealt with birth control, pregnancy, illegitimate births, single
mothers, teenaged mothers, feminism, or abortion.  Ninety editorials.

You have railed against every form of birth control available to women
except abstinence.  Many of your articles and editorials are duplicated
throughout the state.

Mr.  Dodgson, are you part of a national network to propagandize
against the use of birth control for women?"

"I write the truth as I see it."

Barbara read: "The sperm is the sacred bearer of life.

With its penetration of the ovum, the ovum itself becomes sacred, and
the body that carries it to birth is sacred."

She put down the paper.

"Until the ovum is penetrated it is not sacred.  Is that what you
mean?"

"You read it.  You know what it means," he said.

"Alone the ovum is nothing."

"Is the body that produces the sacred sperm also sacred?"

He stared hard at her and nodded.

"It is."

"And the body that produces the ovum, is it nothing until there is
fertilization?"

"Woman was created to carry the seed of life to birth.

If she shirks that God-given blessing, she is nothing."

He enunciated the words carefully.

"And you believed the women at the Canby Ranch were shirking their
duty?"

"They ran away from their husbands," he said.

"Were they shirking their duty?"

"Yes.  They were."

"So in your eyes they were nothing.  Is that right?"

"If they were counseling abortions, performing abortions, they were
less than nothing.  They were murderers and accessories to murder."

"You didn't know that," she said.

"All you knew was that they were seeking refuge from situations that
had become intolerable.  Were they nothing?"

"In my opinion, women who run away from their husbands are nothing," he
said flatly.

"Is there never a sufficient cause for a woman to leave a husband,
then?"

"Objection," Pierst said.

"This line of questioning is nothing but an undergraduate debate.  Mr.
Dodgson's philosophy is irrelevant."  The objection was sustained.

"Mr.  Dodgson, your wife came to court beautifully dressed every day.
You buy her clothes, you run the household, you oversee the domestic
help.  She lives in a doll's house, doesn't she, Mr.  Dodgson?  Is that
your duty to her?  To maintain her like a beautiful possession to show
off to the world?  And if she gets out of line, is it your sacred duty
to chastise her?  To beat her?  Do you beat your wife, Mr.  Dodgson?"

"Objection!"

It was sustained and the jury was told to disregard her remarks, and
then it was time for a recess.

"Disregard them, hah!"  she muttered to Prank as Judge Paltz left the
courtroom.

"Mr.  Dodgson, is this your editorial?  Did you write it?"

She read: "All over the country so-called Safe Houses are springing
up.... What can you do?  Be alert!... Visit the house, demonstrate
against this assault on every family value you hold dear.  Write a
letter to the editor, talk to your neighbors.  Don't let them get away
with it!"  She read the entire editorial, and he said yes, he had
written it.

"This exact editorial appeared in six different newspapers within the
state within a month's period, Mr.

Dodgson.  I ask you again, are those your words, is that your original
editorial?"

"Many people have access to the same national news--" "Mr.  Dodgson,
please.  A simple yes or no.  Did you write those words as if they were
your original thoughts?"

"Yes!"

"Do you make a distinction between your editorials and the articles
that pass as news?"

"Of course."

"Do you check the sources of news information for accuracy?"

"If possible.  I trust my sources and don't--" "Do you check them for
accuracy?"

"Sometimes, if there--" "Mr.  Dodgson, just a simple yes or no, that's
all that is required.  Do you check for accuracy?  Yes, you do, or no,
you don't."

"No," he snapped.

"There's no need with the people I deal with."

"Where did these figures come from, Mr.  Dodgson?

I quote, "Sixty percent of women who have abortions have severe
psychological problems that must be treated by qualified medical
specialists'?"

He shrugged.

"I read it in a medical article."

"Where?  What was the article?"

"I don't remember.  I read a lot of articles."

"Was it in the print media?  A magazine?"

"I don't remember."

"Was it, perhaps, an item you downloaded on your computer?"

Fierst objected.  The witness had said he didn't re member; he couldn't
be forced to remember.

"Are you aware of national networks that issue regular lists of books
to be banned by religious or political organizations?"

"Yes, I know about them."

"Do you subscribe to them?"

"Yes.  As a publisher I need to know what " "You subscribe, yes; isn't
that your answer?"

"Yes," he snapped.

Through the same process she forced him to admit that he subscribed to
other networks that issued facts and figures about abortion,
birth-control methods, mo ming-after pills, iUDs.... Finally she
demanded: "So, when you write these editorials in which you make claims
about the dangers of the birth-control pill, you are simply relying on
your network.  Those words we -not yours; yea did not write them; you
did not check the sources; you accepted the networks you subscribe to
for your information.  Isn't that correct?"

"There's no need to crosscheck--" "You accepted without question
whatever information came through the network, isn't that correct?"

"I'm trying to explain--" "I don't want any explanation," she
snapped.

"Did you simply accept whatever they told you?  It's a simple
question."

"Objection," Fierst said.

"This is not proper examination of a witness.  Counsel is trying to
browbeat the witness into making unwarranted statements."

Judge Paltz looked at him thoughtfully and then said, "Overruled.  I
think the witness can answer the question directly."  He turned to
Dodgson.

"Sir, do you recall the question?"

Dodgson's expression was murderous.

"I recall it," he said.

"I accepted what my sources told me."

"Did you ever inform your readers that many of your editorials and
articles were not your original thoughts, that you were simply
repeating what distant and unknown masters were dictating?"

Fierst objected violently this time and was sustained.

"Mr.  Dodgson, do you agree with your son that there is never any
acceptable reason to resort to abortion?"

"Yes.  Absolutely."

"Did you believe the Canby Ranch was being used for abortion
counseling, possibly for abortions?"

He hesitated.

"Yes."

"Why didn't you write an editorial, a series of articles denouncing
it?"

"A reasonable man doesn't act without proof of some kind," he said.

"I was waiting for proof."

"Did you ever demand proof for any of the information you accepted from
your computer network affiliations?"

He hesitated, as if expecting Fierst to intercede; when Fierst didn't,
he said, "No.  I knew those people."

"Did Mrs.  Canby warn you that if you published any unwarranted
accusation about her property and its use as a refuge for battered
women, she would have you and your family investigated from the day of
your birth?"

"No!  She did not!"

"Did you know the Canby Ranch property was being used as a refuge for
battered women?  Didn't Mrs.

Canby inform you of that?"

"Yes, we talked about it."

"You printed a number of articles and editorials denouncing the use of
safe houses, denouncing the principle of providing a haven for women
fleeing their husbands, did you not?"

"Yes.  I believe such action " "The answer is yes," Barbara said.

"You printed articles advising neighbors to spy on neighbors, to
inform, to demonstrate, and yet you tolerated such a house on the
property next to yours without a murmur.  Why?"

"I suspected there was more to it than merely providing a haven," he
said.

"I was gathering information."

"For over two years?"

"Yes."

"You were being cautious, is that what you mean?"

"That's what I said."

"Did you personally write this article and this editorial, calling
Paula Kennerman a baby killer, the fire an arson fire, an attempt to
hide the murder?"  She read the opening of the article.

"Yes, I did."

"This newspaper is dated April twenty-first, the Mon day following the
death of Lori Kennerman and the arson fire at the Canby Ranch.  That
was ten days before the police released a statement that there had been
a murder and arson.  Who gave you that information, Mr.

Dodgson?"

He shrugged.

"I don't remember.  Maybe I figured it out myself."

"I see.  Days before there was an autopsy, before the fire marshal made
his report, you just figured it out yourself, that a murder had been
done.  And you printed your opinion as if it were factual.  Is that
what you are saying?"

"I was right, wasn't I?"

She turned to Judge Paltz.

"I ask that the witness's comment be stricken and that he be ordered to
answer the question directly."  When this was done, she repeated: "Did
you print your opinion as if it were factual

"Yes, I did.  It was."  ' "The words following "Yes, I did," will be
stricken," Judge Paltz said.

"Mr.  Dodgson, you are required to answer the questions without further
comment.  Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Did you send, or arrange to have sent, copies of your paper to Jack
Kennerman?"

"No."

"Did you arrange a cash payment to him of three thousand dollars?"

"Of course not.  I don't even know him."

She asked that his comment be stricken.  He was staring at her through
narrowed, glinting eyes as cold as death.

"Were you aware that four other newspapers through the state ran your
original article and editorial verbatim in the weeks of early May?"

He shook his head.

"Sorry, the answer is still no."

"On Saturday, April nineteenth, where were you all morning?"

"Cutting the grass with the tractor mower."

She led him through the morning.  He had seen Angela driving in and had
started to go in when Craig came waving him down.  He returned to his
house at about twenty minutes past eleven, just about when the fire
engines arrived.

"Then what did you do?"

"Nothing.  There was nothing any of us could do.  We stayed home, out
of the way."

"Did Mrs.  Dodgson tell you she had called Mr.

Gallead?"

"No."

"Did she mention seeing, or possibly seeing, a figure crossing the
private road?"

"No.".

"It has been stated that you usually went to the office on Saturday
afternoon to prepare the paper for Monday morning distribution.  Why
didn't you do that on that Saturday?"

"My wife was not feeling well.  She was upset by the death of the
child."

"So you stayed home the rest of the day?"

"Yes," he snapped.  He looked at his watch and then checked it against
die clock on the rear wall.

"And you remained home all day Sunday?"

"What difference does that make?"  he demanded.

"Yes.  So what?  I was rethinking my front page and my editorial."

Again she asked that his comments be stricken from the record.

"Had Mrs.  Melrose left yet when you returned to the house?"

"I don't know."

"So if she was still there she might have overheard something you or
your wife or son said.  Is that true?"

"Objection," Fierst said.

"That's a hypothetical question."

It was sustained.

"Why did you fire Tier, Mr.  Dodgson?"

"She was incompetent."

"She was with you for fourteen months.  Was she incompetent all that
time?"

"She was."

"But you waited until you had proof of her incompetence?

Was that it?"

"I fired her when I got tired of her messing things up," he said.

"Fouling the swimming pool was the last straw."

"When did you first discover the empty floor stripper container in the
pool?"

"Sometime on Monday.  I left it there to show her why I was firing
her."

"And it floated around from Saturday until Tuesday," Barbara
murmured.

"Did you find that strange?"

"Objection," Fierst said.

"Isn't all this rather irrelevant?"

"It is not irrelevant," Barbara said.

"Mr.  Dodgson possibly has manufactured an excuse to fire his house
keeper who might have overheard something he did not want repeated."

"You're crazy," Dodgson said in a soft voice that sounded menacing.

"There are many ways to get rid of someone; you don't have to go to the
expense of cleaning out a damn swimming pool."

Judge Paltz rapped his gavel and admonished Rich Dodgson once more.  He
sustained the objection.

"Or maybe," Barbara said, going to her table to pick up a piece of
paper, "Mr.  Dodgson fired his house keeper as an excuse to clean out
his pool."

Fierst objected and was upheld.

During this brief period, she watched Rich Dodgson, who had become very
still, the way a predatory cat is still just before it leaps, she
thought.

"Mr.  Dodgson, is this the invoice from the Sweet Waters Pool Mainte
nance Company?"  She placed the paper in front of him.

His eyes were like pale ice.

"I will not answer any more of this woman's questions  I object to
allowing this woman to meddle in my private affairs.  I object to
having been called to testify in a matter that I know nothing about.  I
object to this public persecution.  This woman is on some sort of
personal feminist crusade to obliterate truth and decency.

What is happening here is a travesty of justice, a mockery " He had
started in a low, intense voice that gradually rose until he was
shouting.  He was drowned out by the furious banging of Judge Paltz's
gavel.

"Sir," Judge Paltz said, "the court will adjourn at this time until
one-thirty.  At that hour, you will present yourself in the witness
chair and conduct yourself properly.

You may consult with your attorney if you choose, but, sir, you have
been called as a witness, and you will testify."

The noise in the courtroom was like an explosion when the judge left.

He had cut the luncheon recess short, but it was too long, Barbara
thought, pacing, too restless to sit still, too restless to consider
food.  She wanted to walk in the woods, by the river, in her old
neighborhood, anywhere.

On the beach.  That was what she wanted, to walk on the beach, for
hours and hours.

"That's how he must be before he hits her," she said with a shudder.

"Remote, icy, monstrous."  She went to the window.

"He put on that last performance on purpose," she added.

"Controlled all the way.  Buying time to think, to plan."

"You rattled his cage, all right," Frank said.

"He must be going nuts trying to figure out where you're leading
him."

She turned away from the window--she had not seen a thing out
there--and faced him again.

"I'll nod when I want the stuff," she said.  She had told him this
already.

She bit her lip and went to the rest room to wash her face.

"Mr.  Dodgson," she said, "I showed you the invoice from the
pool-cleaning company and asked if you recognized it.  Do you?"

"Yes."

"It's correct to your knowledge?"

"I don't know."

"But you paid the bill; you must have accepted it at the time.  Didn't
you?"

"Yes."

She held up the invoice.

"The man who did the work reported here that he started the pump on
Tuesday and returned when the pool was empty on Wednesday and scrubbed
down the sides with detergent to remove an oily residue.  Mr.  Dodgson,
a floor stripper chemical is not oil based, is it?"

"I don't know what it is."

She handed the invoice to the clerk.

"When you lived in Las Vegas, were you acquainted with Royce
Gallead?"

"No."

"Did you know that your wife danced in the club where he was assistant
manager?"

"No."

"Did you know she continued her professional dancing while you were
away from home?"

"Yes," he snapped.

"We have no secrets."

"Is Mr.  Gallead a business associate of yours?"

"No."

"Do you speak French, Mr.  Dodgson?"

Fierst objected and she withdrew the question.

Dodgson's eyes were narrowed, his jaw hard and tight again.

"Is your printing company capable of printing in foreign languages?"
she asked.

While Fierst was objecting, she glanced at her father and nodded.  He
was at the defense table, not behind it as he had been throughout the
trial until now.  She faced Dodgson again, aware of the rustle of paper
behind her.

"Is it possible that Mr.  Gallead is not a real associate of yours,
that he is instead merely a customer?  Some one you do printing jobs
for?"

He was watching Frank with an intense stare.  His lips had all but
vanished.

"Mr.  Dodgson," she said.

"Did you not bear the question?"

He moistened his lips and then said in a low voice, "I've done printing
work for him."

"And you wouldn't necessarily know what the work was, especially if it
was in a foreign language.  Is that right?"

He turned his gaze to her, and then looked past her.

There was a slight commotion.  She turned to see Craig Dodgson pulling
away from Kay Dodgson's hand.  Craig hurried from the courtroom.

"Mr.  Dodgson," she 'said.

"Did you hear my question

"I heard it," he said with a flash of fury.

"I don't know what the work was.  It was in a foreign language, on a
computer disk.  I just did the printing."

"Ah," she said.  She walked to the table and regarded the pyramid Prank
had constructed, the cardboard car ton on the bottom, the case-size box
on top of it, the small box on top of that.  She turned and approached
him again with her hands in her pockets.

"Mr.  Dodgson, do you recognize these?"  She withdrew her hand and
opened it.  Dodgson turned the color of wet putty.

"Objection!"  Fierst yelled.

"Your Honor, this is a fishing expedition pure and simple.  What is
counsel doing playing games with boxes, hiding something in her
hand?"

Paltz glanced at him almost absently.

"Overruled.  Mr.

Dodgson, did you hear Ms.  Holloway's question?"

"I don't know what they are," he said in such a low voice.  Judge Paltz
asked him to repeat it.

Barbara approached the bench and said, "It's baby aspiring and a
time-release decongestant, Your Honor.  But it looks very much like the
combination drug RU-486."

There was a cry behind her; she turned to see Kay Dodgson running from
the courtroom, closely followed by half a dozen other people.
Reporters, she thought, and looked at Dodgson again.  He was
stone-faced and very pale.  She read murder in his expression, cold,
merciless murder.

"Mr.  Dodgson, did you print labels for boxes similar to those on the
defense table for Mr.  Gallead?"

"Yes."

"How many did you print?"

"I don't remember."

"Well, was it in the hundreds?  Thousands?"

He hesitated, then shrugged.

"In the thousands."

"Did you print information sheets for him?"

"I don't know what it was."

"Was it in French?"

"Yes.  I don't read French."

She walked to her table, thinking.  Here goes.  She had warned him, had
coached him, had led him all the way to the next question.  Enough? She
hoped so.  She faced him again.

"When you were cutting the grass at your house on Saturday morning,
April nineteenth, did you see anyone on your property who didn't belong
there?"

He hesitated briefly, then nodded.

"I thought I did."

"What did you see?"

"Just a shadowy figure dart across the road, go be hind the trees, out
of sight."

"Did you recognize that figure?"

He was hesitating after every question now.  This time the pause was
longer.

"No," he said.

"Where did he come from?"

"I don't know.  I just caught a glimpse of someone on the road."

"Across the road from your property is the Gallead property, isn't it?
Did he come from that direction?"

He drew in a long breath and said yes.

"Did you simply continue to cut the grass?"

"Yes."

"Mr.  Dodgson, you hired spies to keep an eye on your property, you
were so alarmed at the thought of intruders yet when you saw a strange
shadowy figure, you simply kept mowing the grass?  Is that what you
did?"

"Yes!"  he yelled.

"Yes, that's what I did!  I thought I'd been mistaken, and I cut the
grass."

"Before the fire, did Mr.  Gallead pressure you to try to get the Canby
Ranch closed as a refuge for women?"

"No."  He ran his hand over his face, and then said, "Yes, he did.  He
asked me repeatedly to call Mrs.

Canby.  I don't know why."

"But you obeyed him.  Why was that, Mr.  Dodgson?"

"I wanted them out, too."

She felt almost sorry for Fierst when it was his turn.

He stood up and then sat down again.

"No questions," he said tiredly.

TWENTY-SIX

the summations had been brief.  Fierst had reconstructed the
prosecution's case and stated that all the other material that had been
introduced was irrelevant, but his performance was lackluster,
spiritless.  Barbara had also reconstructed the state's case, and item
by item destroyed it, and the jury was out.

Now Frank and Barbara were being ushered into Judge Paltz's chambers,
where others had already gathered.

The district attorney, Larry Coltrane, was there, along with Fierst and
another assistant.  Carter Heilbronner and an assistant were there.
Judge Paltz was behind his desk, his senior clerk at his side and a
stenographer in a chair pulled back a few feet.

"Come in, come in," Judge Paltz said.  He made the introductions, and
then said, "Barbara, please sit over there."  He indicated a chair, and
then waved Frank to another one.  He peered at Barbara.

"You asked for this meeting, so I turn it over to you at this time.
Since this is irregular, notes will be taken."  He leaned back in his
big handsome chair.

"Before we start," Larry Coltrane said, "I want it on record that my
office is very aware of the leading nature of counsel's questions, and
we are considering action.

We believe she deliberately led witnesses to make statements that she
knew were lies."  He folded his arms over his chest and glared at
her.

She shrugged.

"People on the stand lied from day one.  Are you objecting because a
few of the lies helped my client instead of hurt her?  Where do we
start examining the lies given as evidence?"

"Not here, and not now," Judge Paltz said.

"This is not a good beginning.  Barbara, what is RLJ-486?"

She glanced at Heilbronner.

"Will any of them have a chance to wipe computer disks, flush stuff
down the drain?"

He shook his head.

"Good.  RU-486 is a drug combination that induces abortion with
virtually no side effects.  It mimics an early spontaneous abortion,
commonly called a miscarriage, with as few aftereffects as a
miscarriage.  It's widely used in Europe, and is illegal here.  There's
been terrible pressure to keep it from being licensed in this country;
no company here will touch it for fear of massive reprisals in the form
of boycotts, demonstrations, whatever.  There is evidence that Dodgson
and Gallead have a source for it, and they are smuggling it in, pack
aging it, and distributing it to selected doctors.  If it were legal,
it would cost about seven hundred fifty dollars;

on the black market, who knows what they charge for it?  All Dodgson's
diatribes against birth control, abortions, and all the while he was
making millions with RU-486.  And Craig's demonstrations against
clinics while he was actually delivering the stuff.  This has to be the
most cynical, the most hypocritical black-market enterprise on record!"
She was too furious to continue.

"You can prove any of this?"  Judge Paltz murmured.

His eyes were gleaming.

"Not enough," she admitted after drawing in a long breath.  She told
them about Miguel Torres, how he and three other men had spent four
days packaging a medication.

"We have the picture showing the truck with five workers at a different
time.  We have people who will testify that the Gallead truck brings in
workers every six to eight weeks.  This is a multimillion-dollar
operation.

They are packaging from four to six thousand doses at a time, six or
more times a year!  We have the names of four doctors Craig Dodgson
visited in Denver, all gynecologists; I have no idea how many doctors
may be involved.  I talked to a woman who was given medication that
looked like the baby aspirin and decongestant I showed Dodgson in
court.  She had what she thought was a spontaneous abortion following
it."

No one had moved or made a sound as she talked.

Now Larry Coltrane made a disgusted sort of noise, not quite a snort.

"If they're making that kind of money, where is it, why doesn't it
show?"

"This isn't an open-ended racket," she said.

"The day RU-486 is legalized, they have to close shop, and I imagine
the day after that, they all planned to vanish."

"By this time," she went on, "Gallead believes the Dodgsons are
throwing him overboard, framing him for the murder of Lori Kennerman.
And, no doubt, he believes that Dodgson is going to plead ignorance of
what Gallead was doing.  Dodgson said he can't read French, remember.
All he did was print orders from time to time.  I think Gallead will
talk, he'll want to deal."  She added, "It seems likely that Gallead
got hold of some 5 one with the drug years ago and looked around for a
partner, and who better than a pharmaceutical rep?"

"All that nonsense about a shadowy figure," Fierst protested.

"It's not worth a damn.  You can't pin the murder on Gallead with
nothing more than that, and you know it."

"I never said I could," she said.

"Right now they all know we're onto the RU-486 operation, and the
Dodgsons know that I'm asking dangerous questions about the arson fire
and murder of Lori Kennerman.  Let me tell you one more scenario, the
only one that makes any sense.  The one that the Dodgsons will do
anything to keep under wraps, even if it means framing Gallead."

Fierst set his mouth in a tight line and didn't speak.

"They must have been desperate to close down the refuge after Carol
Burnside took those photographs.  But if they stirred up too much
trouble Mrs.  Canby would have had the Dodgsons Investigated; she told
me that.

And real investigators were more dangerous than someone stumbling over
their operation.  Then, less than two months after that incident, Kay
met Angela and learned that the house would be empty.  She hurried back
home."

Barbara scowled at Fierst and added, "Carrie Voight saw her, remember?
Kay and Craig saw their chance to get rid of the Canby place, to burn
it down.  She wrote the note to Mrs.  Melrose to clean the refrigerator
in order to keep her in the kitchen.  She opened the poolroom door, the
door to the family room, turned the music on loud, all to establish
that Craig was in there swimming naked.  And then she went back toward
the end of the road to watch for the departure of the women and
children at the Canby house.  From the pond area she had a clear line
of sight.  But she didn't know Angela's little girl was there, so when
the second little girl ran out, she thought that was the last one, and
she stooped down to tie her shoe.  She couldn't see Craig through Die
trees, but he could see her very well in her pink running out fit. Then
she went back to the house to wait for him, to open the front door for
him.  He must have been covered with blood and gas.  Maybe in shock. 
No one expected a child to show up to witness the arson."  Her voice
hardened  She took a deep breath and continued.

"Anyway, there he was, reeking, filthy, and at any moment some one
could have walked in.  So he jumped into the pool, clothes and all,
maybe even with the gas can; he stripped under water, anchored
everything out of sight.  They couldn't risk anyone's seeing the
clothes, the can, or smelling gas.  Kay ran to get his robe, and then
Angela appeared while she was still carrying the robe.  Having Angela
appear at the front door must have been almost as great a shock as
seeing Craig covered with blood and gas."

There was complete silence while they all considered it.  Finally Larry
Coltrane said, "That's why they had to pump out the pool and scrub it
down.  There could have been some gas left in the can."

"And why Craig and Rich went out for a short cruise on Monday," Barbara
said.

"To dump the clothes and the can at sea."  She gave Coltrane a bitter
look.

"I suspect he left footprints on the flagstones, on the carpet,
somewhere.

Something that made it necessary to send Mrs.  Melrose home early
before she noticed.  I'd press Mrs.  Mel rose about the footprints she
saw.  And I'd see if they re decorated the house after that new
carpets, for instance."

"Barbara, if I may ask," Judge Paltz said, looking thoughtful, "what
made you even think of this particular scenario, true or not, as time
will tell?"

"The missing clothes," she said.

"Craig testified that he changed in the dressing room, but Mrs. Melrose
didn't find any dirty clothes there, and no one had gone to get them. 
She had no reason to lie about that Or any thing else.  He put on the
robe that his mother provided.

And there was no reason for her to take him a robe if his own clothes
were available.  That and the fabrication of an excuse to clean the
pool and get rid of Mrs.

Melrose at the same time."

"Even if there's a shred of truth," Larry Coltrane said after a moment,
"there's no way on earth to prove any thing.  Just another story."

"And what was it when you set your eyes on Paula Kennerman?"  Barbara
demanded.

"Every shred of evidence pointed away Aom her, but you never wavered.

Battered-wife syndrome, blame the mother, no more questions."

"Statistically we were right," he said.

"It usually is the mother, or the father."

"Paula Kennerman isn't a statistic!  If you want a battered woman, look
at Kay Dodgson.  Without Rich to tell her what to say and how to say
it, she'll tell you whatever you need.  She's put in a lifetime of
serving men.  You saw her in the courtroom!  She cracked wide open!
Without her men, she'll talk.  If she thinks for a second that she can
keep her younger son Alex from being involved, she'll beg for a chance
to talk.  Or if she thinks for a second there's a chance for Craig to
get off with manslaughter instead of murder, she'll sing and dance for
you."  She was shaking, and stood up, jammed her hands in her
pockets.

"I need a cup of coffee.  Are we finished here?"

"What the hell was all that shit about Gallead, then?"

Coltrane yelled.

"Just muddying the waters?"

"Don't be an idiot!"  she snapped.

"What if I had brought up this picture?  Gallead would be out of it.
The whole damn smuggling operation would be out of it.

And Craig would have got off, and you know it.  With out the smuggling,
Craig has no motive worth a damn.

The Dodgsons have done everything in their power to get a quick
conviction of Paula Kennerman.  My God, Craig's a murderer, Kay's an
accessory before and after the fact, and Rich is an accessory after the
fact!  They'll give you Gallead in a basket to save their skins, and
you need Gallead to start talking to save himself.  He knows the
difference between taking the rap for peddling an illicit drug and the
rap for murder.  No one knows what all I suspected, how much I actually
know.

Keep them separated and they'll all talk!  I rather imagine they all
think they have enough money stashed away to buy their way out of
anything."  Her fury was increased by her awareness that she couldn't
seem to stop shaking.

"Sit down, Barbara," Judge Paltz said kindly.  He nodded at his
stenographer and clerk.

"I think you can go now, and see that someone brings in coffee, will
you please?"

Heilbronner and his assistant moved toward the door.

"I'll be going, too," he said.

"Ms.  Holloway, after court adjourns we'll have to talk.  I'll want
those doctors' names, Miguel Torres, and the name and address of the
woman who took the medication."

"The doctors and Miguel," she said.

"Not her, unless she comes forward."

He regarded her for a moment, and then left without speaking again. But
he would be back, she knew, and thought.  Fuck him.

The jury took under an hour to bring in their verdict of not guilty,
and the courtroom erupted; some of Dodgson's people were loyal and
loud, but most of them left as if dazed.  Paula broke down in sobs, and
her sister sobbed with her.  Jurors pressed around, some patting
Paula's shoulder; one woman, also weeping, embraced her; one man shook
her hand awkwardly and said, "I'm sorry.  I'm so sorry."

When the crowd thinned out, Barbara said to her, "Go on with Lucille
and get some rest, some fresh air, some good food.  Give us a call when
you're rested.  Dad has come up with a fist of real options for you to
consider.

Okay?"

Paula nodded.

"Janey came to see me last night.  She said she has a group, that I
should think about joining it.  I will, if I can afford it.  She said I
should start thinking about my future, what I want to do."

"I think after you talk to Dad you'll see that you can afford Janey's
group," Barbara said.

"That's a fine idea."

"I want to go to school, do what Janey does, help other women and
children," Paula said, and then, without warning, she flung herself at
Barbara, who held her and stroked her hair and did not mind at all that
her nice silk jacket was getting tearstained.

TWENTY-SEVEN

she had been at the coast for three days.  It was pointless even to
wonder how many miles she had walked on the hard sand, how many dunes
she had scrambled over, how many cliffs she had climbed up and down.

Now she stood at the cliff overlooking Little Whale Cove.  Below, the
water was so dark it looked bottomless.

Every day the weather had been calm and warm, the waves had been
gentle, but on the horizon she could see a dark wall of clouds moving
in, bringing a Pacific storm.  She would wait for it, she decided,
although earlier she had planned to go home this evening, after this
last stop.  First the storm, then home to her little miserable house,
which was being repainted.

An erratic gust of wind swept her hair into her face, and she thought
she should get some decent clothes, at least get her hair cut, look
more like a respectable lawyer.

The water below was beginning to churn, as if in anticipation of the
coming storm, as if the distant low-pressure area was already having an
effect here.  It was, she thought then; nothing was not connected. Last
February she had stood here, rain and wind lashing her, and in February
Carol Burnside had taken her photographs:

such isolated incidents, both necessary.  Connected.

Below, a whitecap formed, vanished.  Another rose.

"This is what I do," she whispered into the gusting wind.

"This is what I am."  The words belonged out there with the note she
had thrown into the sea.

She watched the churning water, the wind tangling her hair, until she
finally turned to walk back to her car, to drive back to the rented
cottage with a view of the ocean.

By the cottage door she saw Bill Spassero.  She nodded as she got out
of the car, and went to unlock the door.

"Dad told you," she said.

"I kept pestering him, I'm afraid," he said.

"He said I might as well carry a message.  They're all singing like
trained birds.  His words."  He spread his hands, palms up.

"No present," he said.

"I don't think there's anything I could buy or steal or make that would
impress you.  I figured out what will, but it will take a long time.

First I have to learn how to be a good lawyer, and then I have to be
the second-best lawyer in the state.  A long time.  You said you'd
think about talking to me about the case."

She laughed.

"Where are you staying?"

He pointed to another cottage.

"What I'm going to do," she said, "is get a scarf and then go down to
the beach and walk until sunset, or until the storm moves in, whichever
comes first.  If you want to take a walk, fine.  But, Bill," she added,
"I'm not ready for anything else.  Understood?"

He grinned a huge grin that made him look like a sophomore.  As if he
knew she was thinking this, he said, "When I'm ninety, you'll be
ninety-six."

Then, with her scarf tied on, with a wind increasing from the sea, they
walked on the beach, talking.