She returned to the truck, deposited the rifle on the pa.s.senger seat, and drove slowly back to the little house that she occupied with her two children. The big house was screened from view by lilacs as big as trees themselves, and blooming rhododendrons from palest pink to scarlet, yellow, orange, white. She parked in the drive outside the garage because she would have to go out again to pick up her daughter, Carol. She took the rifle out and walked into the house. It had been built by her great-grandfather of half-split cedar logs, and no one had ever seen any need to do anything in the way of maintenance beyond keeping the windows and doors in good repair. The cedar shake roof was the original roof. The garage was a recent addition, from thirty years ago, and inside the house insulation had been added. Other than those changes, it was the way her great-grandfather had planned it, the way he had left it finally.

"Travis?" she called at the living room door.

"Hey, Travis, where are you?"

She went to the foot of the stairs and called again, but she knew he was down by the river. She had known that from the time she had raced away from Turner's Point. At first, all she had been able to think was. Dear G.o.d, let him not have seen that body! Halfway home she had kept a watch for him on his bike. If he had seen, he would be tearing off for another look; she would have pa.s.sed him on the gravel road. But even so, she had to make certain.

Her pace quickened as she left the house by the back door.

There was a lawn, twenty feet wide, and then a steep descent to the river. The river made a sharp turn here, leaving her side with a stretch of gravelly sand and slow-moving water, while on the far side it was very deep and swift against the cliff.

At the top of the bank she saw Travis out in the drift boat, fifteen feet from sh.o.r.e. He was lying back, one arm over his eyes against the late afternoon sun, one leg dangling over the boat rail.

"Travis! Get in here!" She scrambled down the bank to the beach.

He sat up, pulled in his foot, and grinned at her.

"It's tied. Mom."

"You get in here right now! Right this minute!"

"I want to stay out. You know, I might be able to get in the Guinness Book if I stay out here a few days. Bet no one's ever done that before."

"Travis, I'm warning you." She shook the rifle and saw his eyes widen.

"You fire that shot?" he asked.

"Why?"

"You don't start hauling in by the time I count to three, you'd better hunker down in one end of that boat or the other, because I'm going to shoot it full of holes." She didn't wait for him to acknowledge the threat.

"One."

Travis began to pull hand over hand on the rope that tethered him to a great rock on sh.o.r.e.

He was muttering as he came in.

"You do it all the time.

We all do it. Why not me? Even if I fell in, the water's only up to my knees. What's the big deal?"

She knew all this. And they did it all the time; it was the only way fishing was possible. They had to get out close to the end of the shallow water or their hooks snagged when they reeled in their lines. "You never said I couldn't do it alone," Travis continued as he climbed out of the boat and finished pulling it in halfway up the beach where he tied the line.

"I'm saying it now," Nell said.

"You don't go out alone.

Never. You don't go out there unless a grownup is here.

Is that plain?"

He shrugged. It was a lifting of one shoulder, a slight movement with his left hand, exactly the way his father always shrugged. More and more often Nell saw Lucas in her son. Right now he was studying her surrept.i.tiously, the way Lucas used to do, to gauge her mood, to test her anger. Dark curly hair, brown eyes, dexterity, these were the products of her genes; his lithe and long body, the expressions that crossed his face, his gestures, those were his legacy from his father.

He finished his evaluation of her mood and grinned widely at her.

"What did you shoot, anyway?"

"A beer can. Come on, let's get up to the house." As they walked, she slipped her arm across his shoulders and told him about the men who had come to cut down the fir tree. No way would she tell him about the body in the river; he would learn about that all too soon. It occurred to her quite abruptly that she was under siege. Strangers coming to cut down her trees. Bodies appearing in her river, and thank G.o.d Travis hadn't seen that. She knew now that he had not. He would have been unable to conceal his excitement, maybe even a touch of fear. And Lucas was in the state again. Just two days ago his parents had called to tell her: Lucas was back. She realized she was holding the rifle stock so hard her hand was aching.

FIVE.

when nell and Travis entered the house, the phone was ringing. She answered, and Travis went out the front door to get the library books. Nell's daughter, Carol, was on the line, pleading to be allowed to stay at her friend's house for a cookout. Michele's mother would bring her home by ten. After speaking with Michele's mother, Nell said sure. She hung up as Travis came tearing in to announce that he was going to go with James Gresham to look at a sick pig; he needed his sweatshirt for later. Standing behind him was James, who was a veterinarian, and Nell's tenant. James was a tall black man, very dark, soft-spoken, and at the moment he was smiling broadly as he listened to Travis inform his mother about his plans.

"I asked him," James said, standing at the open door.

"We'll stop on the way home for a burger, if that's okay.

Tawna has a cla.s.s tonight. A guy's gotta eat, all that."

After a moment she nodded.

"But you keep out of the way, Travis. You do exactly what James tells you. Where is the patient?" she asked James then. Travis was already pounding up the stairs for his sweatshirt.

James told her, nearly all the way in to Eugene, thirty miles.

"I'm going over to Doc's to take Jessica her books," Nell said.

"If I'm not here when you get back, will you keep Travis at your house for a while?"

"You bet. No problem."

Travis returned, panting, sweating, dragging a sweatshirt on the floor behind him.

"Will you have to cut the pig open? Can I see the guts?" He waved to Nell casually and walked out with James to the station wagon, listening intently to what James was telling him.

Now, at five-thirty, Nell walked through the woods, around the monolithic rock, on a trail that was hardly even perceptible, to the Burchard house. Nell and Doc were the only two who used the trail regularly, except for Travis, who managed to cover all the woods around here. But Travis cared little if there was a trail. Nell picked her way among exposed roots, over a mossy trunk, skirted a vigorous, newly sprouted poison oak vine, and then paused when Doc's house came into view. If houses were cars, she thought, hers would be a Model-T, and Doc's a Ferrari.

It was boomerang-shaped, with the leading edge facing the river so that every room had a river view either due south or to the west.

From now until the sun went down was the best time of day at Doc's house. He and Jessica would be out front on the deck, where they spent much of their time together.

They would be facing south, and later, very gradually, they would shift until they were facing west, paying homage to the sunset, completing a slow dance. Nell was in no hurry to join them. Jessica would be avid for details of what she had seen at Turner's Point, who had done what, who had been there. Nell shifted the books from one arm to the other, and leaned against an alder. Her gaze had not lingered on the house but on the river, which had been hidden by the thick woods until this point. No boats were in sight, but they wouldn't be, not upstream. Had they found that girl's body yet? She shuddered at the thought of dragging a body through the water to sh.o.r.e, over the rocks, over submerged logs.. .. She bit her lip and shook her head, trying to clear away the image.

Finally she gave the alder a pat and started to walk again.

It seemed very strange to her that alders peeled the way they did, exposing a polished red, hard core under the pale bark. Like blood, she thought, and began to walk faster.

Doc must have been watching for her. He hurried out as she emerged from the woods, and there behind the house, he drew her to him and kissed her.

"You were down there today? It must have been awful for you. Are you all right?"

"Okay," she said, her voice m.u.f.fled against his chest.

She breathed in the good, sharp smell that always clung to him. After a moment she pulled back, stood on her toes, and kissed him swiftly.

"We'd better go on. I can't stay very long."

He stroked her hair, then reluctantly let her go. They' began to walk side by side.

He was a slender man of forty-three, with narrow shoulders and long, narrow fingers. His hair was thinning, touched with gray at the temples; his face was very an gular. He would be one of those cadaverous old men you sometimes see, she had said once, laughing, running her finger over a sharp rib. He walked with a quick, restless energy everything he did was with the same swift motions that became almost jerky, except when he was with a patient; then it was as if he shifted into a different gear altogether: His movements became fluid, his manner contemplative even leisurely. She had met him as a patient and later had been very surprised to discover this second man coiled tightly behind that serene mask.

"I have to talk to you," she said in a low voice as they approached the deck.

"Lucas is coming. He was at his folks' house Monday. He's probably on his way here right now."

Doc's steps faltered, and he jerked around to take her by the shoulders. She clutched the books to keep them from falling.

"Why don't you divorce him and be done with it?"

It was more a demand than a question. She shook her head.

"Down on the beach, after the kids are sleeping?"

He nodded, angry, but turned his head slightly, listening as a car squealed around the turn in the driveway.

"Later, about eleven."

They separated at the house, Doc to enter by a back door as she turned the corner of the deck and started down the length of the redwood flooring to where Jessica sat in her wheelchair, gazing out at the river. Near her, also gazing at the river, was Frank Holloway, another neighbor.

Of course, Nell thought in resignation. Everyone in town would be buzzing with the story of the dead woman in the river. There would be groups all over, discussing it, theorizing, questioning those who had seen her.. .. The image of the body being dragged over sharp rocks to sh.o.r.e flashed before her mind's eye again, and once more she shook her head, shook it away. She made a swift, searching examination of the river: The cabins were visible from here, people standing around, some at tables, no boats tied up. They were all out there helping with the search.

The river made its last curve here and was swallowed again by the forest. In the distance before it disappeared she could see several small boats. She shivered and then waved to Frank Holloway, who had turned to look in her direction.

He put down a drink, got to his feet, and took the few steps remaining for her to reach the seating area. He was in his late sixties, maybe even seventy; Nell could never judge ages. He probably was old, but she had seen her grandfather celebrate his eighty-sixth birthday, and old was not a word that could be used for both men. Frank was her lawyer, Doc's lawyer, everyone's lawyer around here, although he was semi-retired. He went to his law firm once or twice a week and even took a case now and then, but what he did most of the time was fish and work on a book he was writing.

He had thrown away his ties, he liked to tell people.

Now he dressed in jeans and flannel shirts and, if it got warm enough, in Bermuda shorts and tank tops. Even on the days that he went to his office in Eugene, that was how he dressed. He had earned the right, he claimed.

He approached Nell with a look of commiseration.

"You too. Poor Nell. What a shock." He put his arm around her shoulders, gave her a little squeeze, and then took the books from her.

"Thanks," she said, rubbing her arm where the book bindings had dug in.

"Hi, Jessie. How are you?"

The answer was, as always, "Not too bad. What a terrible thing!" The words were appropriate enough, but her expression was one of avidity; she clearly wanted to hear all about it again.

Jessie was older than Doc, five years older, eight. No one ever said; she looked twenty years older at times, although at other times she looked like a girl. It depended on how active her arthritis was at the moment. This evening it appeared to be under control. She was leaning for ward in her chair, studying Nell's face intently, one hand holding binoculars on her lap. It was hard to tell much about her physical appearance because she always wore long skirts that covered her from the waist down in gathers and folds and pleats all the way to her shoes. Her blouses were full, with long sleeves, almost always topped by a silk shawl in summer, a wool shawl in winter. Her fingers were misshapen, the knuckles grotesque and sore-looking.

"How perfectly awful it must have been," she said, looking at Nell, waiting.

"Least she didn't hang around," Lonnie Rowan said, suddenly appearing from the house, carrying a tray with extra gla.s.ses, wine, cheese, and crackers. She was still wearing the red pants she had worn at Turner's Point earlier A murder mystery, Nell remembered; Lonnie had put in a request for a special mystery.

"Had to go home and shoot at a tree cutter," Lonnie went on, arranging the things she had brought out. She gave Nell a quick sidelong glance.

"Nell never shot at anything in her life," Doc said as he came out to the deck.

"She either shoots it or doesn't shoot at all."

"They said she shot at them," Lonnie muttered.

"What has that to do with the body in the river?" Jessie asked, turning from Nell to Frank Holloway, who shrugged.

Immediately behind Doc was Clive Belloc. He was wearing jeans, a tan work shirt, and his boots as if he had not yet gone home from work. He was a cruiser for a logging company; people said he was one of the best around, that with just a little walk through the woods he could tell you exactly how much lumber you could realize to the last one-by-one. Except for the area around his eyes that was protected by sungla.s.ses summer and winter, his skin was a rich red mahogany color, and his hair bleached out very blond.

"I went to your place, empty. I figured you were over here," he said to Nell, ignoring everyone else in a way that suggested he had not yet noticed anyone else on the deck.

"You know what they're saying in town? Jesus! What happened out at your place?"

"Who's saying?"

"Was that girl shot? Do they already know?" Jessie asked. No one paid any attention.

"Two guys stopped off at Chuck's and said you took pot shots at them. Chuck's mad as h.e.l.l. What happened?"

Clive had drawn almost close enough to touch her, but he did not move those las^ few inches. He never did.

"Chuck's mad! Chuck? That b.a.s.t.a.r.d. He doesn't know what mad means! I'm the one who's mad."

"You took a shot at Chuck?" Jessie asked.

"Oh, Jessie. No. I didn't shoot at anyone. I shot a beer can."

Frank took her elbow and steered her toward a chair.

"What we need is a little drink. And then you tell us just why you shot a beer can. And how in h.e.l.l two guys thought you could be shooting at them. Unless one was dressed as a can."

Nell allowed herself to be seated and accepted the wine that Doc had already poured for her. Belatedly Clive spoke to the others, then helped himself to the bourbon.