Bonnie gasped at the almost surreal scene before her.

The snake was coiled around Amanda's bare ankle, its body swaying hypnotically toward her. "Mommy," Amanda cried softly, as Bonnie stood frozen in the doorway. "He's squeezing my foot, Mommy. It hurts. Make him stop."

Oh G.o.d, Bonnie thought, feeling her own body sway, her head grow light. She was going to faint, she realized, then, no, no, she couldn't faint. Wouldn't faint. She had to save her daughter. Nothing else mattered. This was her child, more precious to her than life itself. There was no way she was going to let anything happen to her. She would do anything to protect her.

In the next moment, she felt herself leave her body, abandoning it in much the same way a snake sheds its skin, growing weightless as she flew through the air toward Amanda's bed, no longer thinking anything at all, an animal only, operating on pure instinct and adrenalin. Bonnie lunged at the snake, grabbing at its head with one hand, at the tight coils of its tail with the other. The snake stiffened and grew heavy in her hands, as if she'd grabbed hold of an iron pole. And then it started twisting, its head straining against the palm of her hand, its long body tensing and pushing against her grip in seemingly all directions at once. Her fingers worked to loosen the snake's coils from her daughter's foot, but it was as if the snake had fingers of its own, pulsing rhythmically against hers. He's so strong, Bonnie thought, not sure if she had the strength to hold him.

She heard noises, the sounds of her own screams, she realized, as she fought to unwrap the snake from Amanda's ankle. Almost there, she thought, her fingers digging under the snake's silken skin. She almost had him.

She pulled hard, heard a pop, like a suction cup coming free, the snake now off Amanda and struggling inside her arms. He was so heavy, she thought, so d.a.m.n strong. She couldn't hold him much longer, she knew, hearing voices, turning around as Nick appeared in the doorway, his eyes wild, his arms outstretched, the gun in his hands pointed directly at her head.

She gasped, and stopped struggling, her palms opening, the snake dropping to the floor.

He hit the carpet with a thud and coiled back in fury, preparing to strike.

"Don't shoot him!" Sam screamed, knocking Nick aside and racing into the room, throwing himself over the enraged boa constrictor. Bonnie's eyes remained riveted on her brother, the gun still in his hand. Was it the same gun he'd used to shoot Joan? she wondered. Was he going to shoot her now as well?

Out of the corner of her eye, Bonnie saw Sam, wincing with pain, as he rose to his feet, the snake still putting up an impressive show of resistance. Shaken and breathing hard, giving only a fleeting glance in Nick's direction, Sam carried the reptile out of the room.

Bonnie waited until she heard the top of the tank being fitted back into place before sinking to her knees and bursting into tears.

"Mommy!" Amanda cried, jumping out of bed and into her mother's arms.

"Are you all right, baby?" Bonnie asked, kissing Amanda's cheeks, patting her hair, stroking the bruise already forming a chain around the child's ankle, like a rope burn.

"What's going on?" a voice asked from the doorway. Bonnie turned, saw Lauren hovering behind Nick, his gun nowhere in sight. Was it possible she'd imagined it?

"We found the snake," Amanda said.

Bonnie heard laughter, realized it was her own. "We certainly did," she said.

"The snake is here?" Lauren drew back, looked warily at her feet.

"Sam has him."

Lauren's eyes shot to Nick. "What are you still doing here?" she asked, clearly confused by what was happening.

"Not much," Nick said, and laughed, moving to Bonnie's side, helping her to her feet. "Are you okay?"

"I think so," she told him, pulling out of his arms. "But I think Sam may have been bitten."

"He's been bitten before," Lauren told them. "The bites sting but they're not poisonous."

Bonnie lifted her daughter into her arms, still feeling the weight of the snake's resistance in her hands. Did she have any strength left? she wondered.

"That was very impressive," Nick said. "Remind me not to mess with you."

Bonnie stared at her brother. Explain, her eyes said.

He stared back. Later, his eyes said in return.

"Are you going to kill us?" Bonnie asked her brother after everyone else was finally settled and asleep. The snake was in its tank; the rats were gone.

"Is that what you think?" Nick asked. "That I'm here to kill you?"

"I no longer know what to think," Bonnie said honestly, every muscle in her body crying out to lie down.

"I'm not here to hurt you, Bonnie."

"Why then?"

"I thought I could protect you," he said, after a pause.

"I didn't think convicted felons were allowed to carry guns."

"They're not."

Bonnie sank down on the foot of her bed. What was the point in trying to talk to her brother? Did she really think he'd tell her anything? "Do you think we should have insisted that Sam go to the hospital?" she asked instead.

"He said he thought a few extra-strength Tylenol would get him through the night, that he'd see a doctor about his bites in the morning, if he felt it was necessary."

Bonnie nodded. She'd helped Sam wash the bitten area thoroughly, watched while he applied a special antiseptic ointment. He'd said nothing about seeing the gun in Nick's hand. Perhaps she'd imagined the whole thing.

She'd put Amanda to bed in Lauren's room, Amanda quickly settling into the crook of Lauren's arm, Lauren's other arm draped around her waist, their breathing gentle echoes of one another as they drifted off to sleep.

"Is that the gun that killed Joan?" Bonnie asked, suddenly aware of the b.u.t.t end of the gun tucked into the waist of Nick's jeans.

"The gun that killed Joan was a thirty-eight," Nick said matter-of-factly. "This is a three fifty-seven Magnum."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" Bonnie asked, realizing that it did.

"I would never hurt you, Bonnie. Don't you know that?"

"What's going on, Nick?" she asked.

He said nothing.

"Look," she began, "I'm sick; I'm tired; I think my husband's having an affair; I've spent half the night wrestling with a snake. I'm not sure how much more I can take. I'm starting to lose it, Nick. My life no longer makes any sense. And if you don't start giving me some answers soon, then you're just going to have to shoot me, because otherwise I'm going to get on the phone and call the police and tell them that my brother, the jailbird, is in my bedroom with a three fifty-seven Magnum tucked into the waistband of his jeans."

"I don't think that will be necessary."

"If you won't talk to me, then maybe you'll talk to the police," she repeated.

"Bonnie," her brother said calmly, walking toward her. "I am the police."

28.

By the time Rod came home, Nick was gone.

"How are you, honey?" Rod asked, wrapping Bonnie in a warm embrace at the front door, then drawing back, taking a long, close look at her. "You look like h.e.l.l," he said.

Bonnie brought her hand to her hair, her fingers trying to stretch the bangs onto her forehead. Tears sprang to her eyes. She'd spent almost an hour in the bathroom trying to make herself presentable for Rod's return. She'd showered and given her hair a special treatment that promised to add new life to tired-looking hair, then brushed her teeth, careful to avoid scratching her gums, although they bled anyway. She'd even applied makeup, trying to disguise her sallow cheeks with a soft pink blush, adding layers of mascara to her thinning lashes, moistening her dry lips with pink-tinted gloss. And she'd gotten dressed for the first time in several days, exchanging her perspiration-soaked housecoat for a pretty floral print dress. And still he said she looked like h.e.l.l. Well, maybe after the silicone wonder that was Marla Brenzelle, her husband had forgotten what a real woman looked like, especially when she wasn't feeling well. Real women don't go to Miami to wrestle with television executives, she thought, glancing up the stairs. They stay in Boston and wrestle with snakes.

"How are the kids?" Rod walked into the kitchen, rifled through his mail.

Bonnie followed after him. "Fine." She checked her watch. It was either ten minutes after one or five minutes after two, she was unable to decide which. Either way, the kids were in school.

"Have you spoken to the doctor?" Rod asked.

"I called his office this morning, but the test results still weren't in. Apparently the lab's been especially busy."

"Who is this doctor anyway?"

"Dr. Kline," Bonnie said. "I told you. Diana recommended him."

"I thought she saw a Doctor Gizmondi."

"Does she?"

"Don't you remember? She went on and on about him one night. I only remember because the name was so unusual."

"Maybe she switched," Bonnie said weakly. She wasn't up for telling Rod the truth of who'd sent her to see Dr. Kline. Not yet anyway. As soon as she was feeling better, she'd tell him about her meetings with Dr. Greenspoon, she rationalized, wondering when that would be. Hadn't Dr. Kline told her that inner ear infections could drag on for months?

"You look like you haven't slept in days," Rod said.

Had he always had such a penchant for stating the obvious? "We found the snake," she told him.

"You did? Where?"

"In Amanda's room," Bonnie told him, declining to elaborate, something else she was holding back. You kind of had to be there, she thought, images of her brother immediately filling her head.

No wonder she hadn't slept. She sank into one of the kitchen chairs, studying her husband as he studied his mail, her mind racing through the events of the previous evening, replaying the encounter with her brother in every detail, as she'd done repeatedly since Nick left the house this morning.

"Bonnie," she could still hear him say, "I am the police."

Panic mingled with curiosity. "What do you mean? What are you talking about?"

"I mean, I'm still playing cops and robbers, Bonnie, still chasing the bad guys."

"I don't understand. You are the bad guy. You went to prison."

"I went to prison, yes."

"Since when do they let convicted felons become police officers?" Anger hovered, threatened to erupt. This really was too much. If it was true, no wonder society was in such a mess.

"Since my going to jail was a necessary part of the plan," he told her. "The follow-through of an elaborate scheme to nail Scott Dunphy, break up his operation, put him away."

Bonnie scoffed, shook her head, grew dizzy. "You're trying to tell me you're an undercover cop? Is that what you're seriously trying to tell me?"

"It's called deep cover, if you want to get technical," Nick said, "and yes, that's what I'm seriously trying to tell you." He paused, as if debating with himself whether or not to continue. "I shouldn't be telling you anything. I'm taking a chance, Bonnie. I'm trusting you."

"You're trusting me," Bonnie repeated, numbly.

Nick nodded.

"So I'm just supposed to trust you?" she asked in return. "I'm supposed to believe that all these years you've been living some sort of double life, making friends with people like Scott Dunphy, becoming part of their organization, just so you can get enough evidence to put them in jail?"

"It's what I do, Bonnie."

"Appearances to the contrary."

"Things aren't always what they seem."

"So I've been told." She took a deep breath, tried arranging her thoughts into some sort of coherent order. "The land development scheme...."

"...was part of it."

"But you were found not guilty; you were let go."

"We screwed up. Someone jumped the gun. There wasn't enough evidence to convict. We had to start again."

"And the other charge? Conspiracy to commit murder?"

"We got him good that time."

"But you went to jail."

"I had to protect my cover."

"I don't believe you."

"It's the truth."

"You're a cop?" Bonnie gasped, incredulously, afraid to believe him, more afraid not to. "But how could we not know? How could you keep it from your family?"

"I had no choice. It was for your protection as much as mine."

"You're saying that those years you were away, the years you supposedly spent b.u.mming around across the country...." she began.

"I was in training with the Federal Bureau of Investigation," he said, finishing the sentence for her. She felt oddly grateful he hadn't used the letters FBI.

"And you couldn't tell anyone, not even your own mother, not even when she was dying?"