"If the police had picked up Lucas he would have taken the rap for the girl's murder. Aggravated murder, death penalty sure as h.e.l.l.

Lucas couldn't have beaten it. Not over in Deschutes County. Probably not anywhere."

"Suppose that was the plan, but then he saw Lucas laughing, his arms outstretched as if about to hug Nell. I don't know. Maybe he went crazy. Maybe he thought Nell and Lucas would go back together, that she would stick by him. Otherwise it just doesn't make any sense not to let the law take care of Lucas. I think that was his one second of real pa.s.sion; everything else was absolutely cold blooded."

Her father walked to the window and stood gazing at the street below. He shook his head.

"Boy, oh, boy, do you ever need one piece of hard evidence. It's all could be, maybe, probably, no doubt. And finding hard evidence six months after the crime is just about as likely as finding an ice rink in h.e.l.l. What are you going to do?"

"I don't know. Wait for Bailey to check in. And then, I just don't know."

Neither of them mentioned Tony, or anyone else in the district attorney's office. Pointless, they understood. Once the prosecutors said black is white, they stuck to it. Too much was already invested in proving black was white; too many egos were at risk. Any unproven theory at this time would simply be written off as yet another defense attempt to get a client out of deep trouble. Barbara had no hopes now of the jury's bringing in a not guilty, not after this long a deliberation. If they brought in guilty, there would be the appeals procedures to initiate. The best she could hope for was a hung jury, and then find whatever it took to indict Clive before the district attorney's office announced if it would retry. After they were committed again, it would be just as difficult as it would be today to make them consider alternatives. It came down to a matter of saving face, she knew, and she also knew that image was far more important than substance to men like Tony De Angelo Prank jammed his hands into his pockets, paced back and forth a minute or two, and then cursed softly. She looked across the desk at him and waited.

"It's going to take hard proof," he. said darkly.

"They could indict the first time on circ.u.mstantial, but to disprove that, and to get someone else, is going to take proof, and I don't see how the h.e.l.l we can get it."

"Me neither. But thanks, Dad." When he looked blank, she added, "You said we. I needed that."

No one could face a restaurant meal at lunchtime; they had food delivered to the lounge. Frank joined the family there, and Barbara went for a walk. At three. Bailey called in.

"Barbara, you won't like it. The guy flew out this morning, to Denver. You want someone to go after him?"

She shook her head numbly, then said no. She stared at the phone a long time without moving.

Then she called Brandywine's hotel and learned that she had checked out.

Denver, she thought distantly. He had gone to Denver.

Like Lucas.

At four-thirty the call came telling them to return to court. And by five they knew they had a hung jury.

Snagged, Frank said, at seven to five. They got there and never budged again.

THIRTY-THREE.

the way they all hugged her, anyone would have thought it was really over and Nell home free, Barbara thought sourly. Amy Kendricks was weeping again, and John was blowing his nose hard too often. Clive kept grinning and grinning, and Nell looked ten years younger than she had minutes before.

"Can we talk tomorrow?" Nell asked.

"When the kids are in school? Did Mike give you the disks?"

"He put them in a safe place," Barbara said. Probably that was as true as anything she could have said. Nell and her family and Clive left together, once again with Frank acting the good shepherd. They stopped at the door to the hall where the press was waiting, and now Doc appeared; he went up to Nell and kissed her forehead, then quickly walked away. She watched him until Frank took her arm with one hand and Amy's with the other and propelled them into the crowd.

Tony came over to shake Barbara's hand.

"You pulled it right out of the fire," he said.

"Didn't think you could do it. We'll be in touch."

She nodded. Yes, she knew they would be in touch.

Then she steeled herself and she, too, left the courtroom.

She smiled and waved and said nothing at all as she pushed her way through the reporters and camera crews.

"Home?" Frank asked, when they were both inside the car.

"Home."

She put her head back and closed her eyes. She did not have to think of a thing right now, she told herself. She did not have to plan out the next day, try to antic.i.p.ate what anyone might utter, damaging or helpful, did not have to put on stockings and makeup, did not have to say a single word. If she could blank out her mind, how pleasant that would be. No words, no pictures, no memories, no fears, just a comforting blank. But her thoughts kept circling around Mike and the disks and Denver and Ruth Brandywine and Schumaker and Margolis. Around and around.

After a while Frank murmured, "Too hard to decide what to keep, what to file away."

"What are you talking about?" She did not open her eyes "Your cross-examinations. Some of them have to go in the book, of course, but which ones is giving me a problem.

I want them all."

"You won't when you think of the transcription costs."

"Ah, won't be a big problem. Taped just about everything, you know." '" "You what?" Now she sat up straight and stared at him.

"You didn't! Lundgren will have your head if he finds out."

"I reckon I don't aim to tell him," he said cheerfully.

"Can't say I noticed a budding relationship forming between you and old ice face either. Did I ever tell you about August Tremaine and the time he had his secretary take down everything in shorthand?" He chuckled and launched the story without waiting for an answer.

"So anyway," he said presently, "there they were with hundreds and hundreds of pages of shorthand notes, and she started to type them up for him. But funny thing was, she didn't know shorthand, you see. For four years he'd been dictating letters, you know, party of the first part, all that, and she'd been typing up beautiful letters, literate as h.e.l.l. Old Gus couldn't have dictated those letters if his life depended on it, and he was giving himself pats that could have broken his arm, but he couldn't admit that the letters weren't his. Not old Gus. So when the girl began to transcribe her notes, she was filled with creative energy Shakespeare would have envied. The people began to talk in rhymes, in iambic pentameter, in Faulknerian sentences, and it was lovely. Oh, it was lovely."

"Did any of it touch upon the trial at all?" Barbara asked, laughing.

"Absolutely not. She sort of lost sight of what the trial was all about early on. Now, old Gus was a lazy son of a b.i.t.c.h, and his memory was pretty much shot, so when he started his cross-examination using her transcriptions, everyone in court thought they had slipped sideways in time and s.p.a.ce to fall into a loony bin."

That evening at dinner, once more at the kitchen table, Frank scowled at her plate.

"Getting just a little bit p.i.s.sed," he said, "at people messing up perfectly good food."

She looked down guiltily; she had made little mounds of food: a hill of peas and carrots, an island of chicken b.r.e.a.s.t.s with mushrooms, a cliff of scalloped potatoes.. ..

"Honey," he said, "he could have a perfectly good reason, you know. Sometimes people get a wild idea and they have to go wherever it takes them. Not as if they really have much choice, sometimes."

She smiled briefly.

"It's okay. Dad. I'm a big girl now.

It's just that .. . that--" Nothing else came. Sometimes they have to go wherever it takes them, she thought then, and abruptly she pushed her plate back.

"I'm going back to town, to Mike's house. If he isn't back by morning, I'll go to Denver and get him."

Frank blinked in surprise.

"That's not exactly what I was getting at," he said mildly.

"G.o.dd.a.m.n it to h.e.l.l!" she muttered then. She had forgotten that her car was still in the shop.

"Look, either I take the Buick and leave you stranded, or you have to drive me in. Want to toss a coin?"

"Bobby, you don't even know where he is."

"Oh, yes, I do. I don't know the address, but I can find it. Walter Schumaker's place in Denver. I'll find it, and him." "d.a.m.n it, Bobby, slow down. Mike's a grown man, after all. He might not take kindly to being rescued, especially if there's nothing to rescue him from."

"He's as naive as a child," she said softly.

"You know he is. Smart, intelligent, and dumb. As dumb as Lucas was. Those people are dangerous, and he doesn't know that. He thinks his brain is enough, and it isn't."

"You think you're a match for them?"

"You betcha." She stood up.

"I'll toss a few things in a bag. Ten minutes. You can decide if you want to be without a car or be chauffeur again."

He grumbled for the first few minutes of the drive back to town, but when she did not respond, he subsided. There had been a flight in from Denver at seven that evening, and Mike could have been on it; there would be another flight at eleven-thirty, and another in the morning at six forty-five. And no doubt Mike either was home already or he would be on one of the other flights. She did not respond to that, either.

By the time they reached Franklin Boulevard and the university area, a misty rain was falling. It was just enough to smear the windshield. He cursed under his breath.

"Don't eat or drink anything they offer," he growled.

"No way," she said at that.

"Brandy wine can't fix my headache, or backache, or anything else, either. Don't worry, Dad. I've read a book or two about hypnosis. I'll be careful." She added rather grimly, "I'll tell them I promised to report in frequently."

He drove through the university district where many young people did not seem to realize that it was raining; they were out on foot, on bikes, milling about generally.

On Mike's block he had to drive nearly to the corner before he could park.

"I'll go to the door with you. d.a.m.n silly business. I'm warning you, he won't like you to come charging after him. Not a bit."

"Dad," she said softly, "what if it happened to you and Mother? Would you go charging off after her?"

"That's different."

"I know. Come on, let's see if the wandering boy's home yet."

When they approached the house, she stopped, her hand hard on her father's arm. At the front door one of the orange cats was clawing to get in; the other one was pacing back and forth.

"Saber Dance and Ditto," she whispered.

The cats would be asleep in the flower boxes if Mike was not home.

"Didn't you turn off the light last night?"

He nodded. Although the drapes were drawn, they could see light in the living room.

"I told you he'd be here," he said gruffly.

"But something's wrong," she said in the same whisper.

"I don't see Mike's car anywhere."

"That's wrong, too." She relaxed her grip on his arm.

"Let's go see. We'll have to play it by ear." She had her key out already, but when they went up to the door, she knocked, and then again. The cats stropped her legs and whined. She knocked one more time, and then used the key and opened the door. Both cats streaked inside past her.

A big white-haired man was at the computer; he had blanked the screen and was facing them. He looked alarmed and somewhat angry. Mike was sprawled on one of the sofas, his eyes closed.

"Hey!" Barbara cried, "What's going on? You guys deaf or something? Mike? What's wrong with him?"

She ran to the sofa and took Mike's hand. He opened his eyes part way, sighed, and closed them again.

"He's just pa.s.sed out," the man at the computer said.

"Drunk. Who are you?"

"Dad, I think we might need an ambulance, or the police, or something," Barbara cried.

"What's going on here? Who are you? What's wrong with Mike? I'm his fiancee, and this is my father."

Another man appeared in the doorway from the hall then.

"Please," he said, "don't be frightened. There's nothing much wrong with your friend. He simply drank too much at dinner, I'm afraid."

His head was large and appeared even larger because of his thick, long hair, which had started to turn gray but was still brown with light streaks. Walter Schumaker, Barbara realized, remembering his face from the covers of several magazines over the years.

Frank had stayed by the front door. Now he pulled it open, and called out, "Bailey, call the police. Quick!"

"s.h.i.t!" the man at the computer said.

"Who's out there?"

"Bailey Novell, a private detective. We were going to let him get some names and numbers to start tracing Mike's whereabouts," Frank said. He glanced outside, waved, and pulled the door closed again.