"You did, dummy! That's the nail in the coffin."

"I didn't. I couldn't have. I had no signatory powers over the account. I never even knew what bank it was in."

"Nice try, Jake, but you filled out a signature card when the account was opened, and the signature on the wire transfer request matched."

"Abe, I'm telling you I never signed any card or transfer request or anything. If they match, it's only because the same forger did them both. I was set up the day the Rocky Mountain Treasures bank account was opened."

"Pretty farfetched, Jake."

"Who opened the corporate account?"

I heard a rustling of papers at the other end of the line. "Louis X. Baroso, last December nineteenth."

"Blinky. Of course, who else would it be?"

"A week later, he mailed in a signature card signed by Cimarron and you."

"No, forged by Blinky."

"So you say. Well, we can have a handwriting expert take a look at it."

I was still chasing the shadow of an idea. "They still needed my bank account number."

"What?"

"Abe, the night Hornback was killed, Kip said someone came up to my bedroom."

"Right. That's where they got your necktie."

"They got more than that. There's a desk in my bedroom by the window. In the middle drawer, along with last year's Christmas cards, is my checkbook. Abe, I want you to dust for prints. There shouldn't be any latents, except mine."

"You expect to find Blinky's greasy thumb? Did he kill Hornback, too? As I recall, you're the one who said he wasn't capable."

"Abe, this is really getting complicated."

"You're trying too hard. Come on in, Jake. You're just going to make it worse for yourself."

"Worse! How?"

There was a faint buzzing on the long-distance line. "I don't know," Abe Socolow said, "but I'm sure you'll find a way."

The ride down the mountain seemed to take longer, but that's always the way it is when you're in a hurry. I had parked the car on Durant Street near the Little Nell Hotel, and I told Kip to hustle. He did, and we both hopped into the rental convertible without opening the doors.

I drove north on Spring Street to Main, turned left, passed the courthouse, the old Hotel Jerome, the Sardy House, and the Christmas Inn, turned right on Third Street and parked just behind the music tent. It hadn't taken five minutes, one of the joys of small towns.

"What's up?" Kip asked.

"A little culture for you, my boy."

There were maybe eight hundred people half filling the place. We took seats in the rear, near the main entrance, Kip pausing long enough to fill his pocket with candied throat lozenges thoughtfully provided at the door.

"What is this?" Kip asked.

I looked toward the stage. "A couple of women playing violins," I said, providing expert commentary.

"A violin and a viola," whispered the man next to me. He had silver hair, a matching mustache, and wore a tweed sports jacket with elbow patches. His eyes were closed, and his head swayed gently to the music.

"That's what I meant," I whispered back. "We miss anything?"

He didn't speak until the music stopped and people applauded, and the violinists-or is one a violist?-took slight bows. "I should say so," the man said, eyes open now. "You missed all of Mozart's K. 423 in G, and quite marvelous it was, filled with contrapuntal ingenuity, enhanced by double stops, a wonderful piece of didactic, etudelike virtuosity."

"It's one of my favorites," I allowed.

"Well then, you will appreciate K. 424 in B-flat. It's next."

In a few moments, they started playing again, and in my expert opinion, they sounded swell. I walked down the aisle, crossed in front of the stage, and up another aisle. I caught a few stares, but most people seemed entranced. Finally, halfway up on the right-hand side, there she was.

Jo Jo Baroso was wearing jeans and a long-sleeve green cotton blouse covered by a red Mexican serape. She wore no makeup, and her dark hair was pulled straight back. She would have looked about eighteen years old, but there were dark circles under her eyes and her face, even in quiet repose, seemed to convey a profound sadness.

I slid into the seat next to her. "I'm partial to violas, how about you?"

A tremor seemed to go through her body. She reached for my hand, the healing one, and pressed it to her cheek, which was cool to the touch. She just held my hand there, letting it gently caress her face. In a moment, twin tears slid down her granite cheekbones. She lowered my hand, leaned close to me, and softly kissed me on the cheek.

"Oh, Jake," she whispered, now grasping my hand with both of hers. "I'm frightened. So much is happening. Simmy has flipped out over all of this. I just don't know what to do."

"Go home with me. Help me prove I didn't kill anybody."

"Is that all?"

"No. Be with me."

"I want to, at least I think I do."

From behind us, a loud shush.

"Go now, please," she whispered. "I'll call you later and tell you everything."

"Call me? Why don't we meet somewhere?"

"No, Simmy's watching me like a hawk. I ride every night before dinner. I'll call you from the barn just before dark. Please, trust me."

I told her where we were staying and promised to be in the room for her call. Then I gathered up Kip, who was dozing peacefully just as the violin, or maybe it was the viola, got to one of those parts of didactic, etudelike virtuosity.

I was sitting in the little cottage at the Lazy Q, waiting.

Thinking.

Worrying.

I thought I heard the floorboards creak on the front step. I opened the door and looked outside.

Nothing.

Getting paranoid.

I shouted to Kip, who was across the road in a grassy field with two kids from a neighboring cottage. Kip was fooling around with the video camera, trying to get some shots of the golden eagle. He waved to me, one of those I'm-having-fun, I'm-not-hungry, don't-bother-me kind of waves.

I went back into the cottage and sat on the sagging bed. Something was nagging at me, something besides the fact I was wanted for Murder One, to say nothing of transporting a juvenile delinquent across state lines. There was an itch I couldn't scratch, a feeling of dread I couldn't contain or even describe.

I had made a mistake with Blinky Baroso. I had gotten too close to him, forgetting he was just another client, and let's face it, a born loser. I had let my guard down because he was Jo Jo's brother.

Pathetic.

Such bad judgment.

Jo Jo had been right about him all along. And right about me, too, I suppose. Just what was the social utility of keeping that crumb out of jail. What was my thanks, anyway, getting set up for murder?

Louis X. Baroso. What a waste. He could have been successful in a legitimate business, but that held no thrill for him. Risking it all and losing it, that was Blinky's style. He was like the slots player who hates to hit the jackpot because it takes so long to put the quarters back in.

Now, who had killed him? If he really was dead. Socolow had told me the blood in the Range Rover was Blinky's, but they never found a body or a trace of other evidence. None of the surf bums saw or heard a thing. Blinky had disappeared, bloodied but seemingly invisible.

And here I was, trying to figure it all out, coming up empty, but filled with a sense of foreboding.

The phone rang, startling me. It took two rings for me to even realize what it was. Get hold of yourself, boy.

"Oh, Jake! Thank God you're there." Her voice was desperate.

"What is it? What's happened?"

"He hit me. Oh God, just like before. He used to knock me around, Jake. He's got such anger in him. I thought it was my fault then, and finally, I couldn't take it anymore. That's why I left him, but he's changed, or I thought he had."

The fury began as a ball of fire in the pit of my stomach and moved up, thickening my chest, constricting my throat. I could barely speak. "Did he hurt you?"

"No. He just does it to inflict pain, to humiliate me. If he ever let loose, I'd be dead."

"Where are you?"

"In the barn. Somebody saw us together at the concert. Either that, or he's having me followed, because he knew I kissed you. It set him off. He threw me across the barn. Jake, I must have flown thirty feet. Thank God for the hay, or I would have broken my neck. Then he lifted me up and slapped me, back and forth, again and-"

"I'm coming over. Wait there."

"No! Please, Jake! I don't want you to see me like this. My face is puffy, and I'm...I'm so filthy."

"What?"

"Oh, darling, I didn't want to tell you. He forced me. He tore off my clothes, just ripped them to shreds with his hands. He was crazed, his eyes wild like a rabid animal. He took me, then left me here, filthy and naked and freezing." She started to say something else but was racked with sobs. I waited, the heat spreading to the back of my neck, sweat pouring off me. "Oh, Jake, I feel so stupid, so ashamed."

"Wait there! Don't move. I'm coming over."

"No, don't!"

"Jo Jo, I swear I'm going to tear him apart, and when the doctors put him back together, we're going to prosecute."

"Jake, no! You don't understand. It's more complicated than you realize."

"I know. You said that before. You said you hadn't told me everything, you were sorry Blinky got me involved in it, and you hoped I would forgive you. When I get there, you can tell me everything."

"I'll tell you now, darling, but you've got to calm down. I'll be all right. You can't come out here. Simmy's in the house. If he-"

"Don't move," I told her again. "Wait for me."

I flew out the door, running for the car. Kip was videotaping a mangy dog urinating against a tree. I don't know what I looked like, but Kip turned, at first puzzled, then fearful as he watched me. He left the dog there and raced toward the car.

"Uncle Jake, what's wrong? Your face is all angered up."

"Huh?"

"That's what Granny says about you. That you're sweet as mother's milk, but watch out if you ever get all angered up. "

From the neighboring cottage, the father of the two boys wandered out, pulling up suspenders over plaid Bermuda shorts.

"Kip, I'm in a hurry, and I don't have time to explain. Stay here.''

I hopped in the car, and as I started the engine, Kip tossed the camera in, then vaulted over the passenger door, just like I taught him. "Nothin' doin', pardner. Granny also told me that when you're like this, you don't think clearly. You make mistakes, and my job is to help you stay cool."

"C'mon, Kip, out! This is serious."

The car was moving, and Kip was buckling his shoulder harness. "I'm not letting you head into Shinbone all by your lonesome. I'm riding shotgun, Uncle Jake."

was aware of Bermuda Shorts watching us argue. "Kip, this isn't a movie. Now, for the last time, get out!" I started to unbuckle him.

"I'll scream child abuse," Kip said, "so you might as well gun it before knock-knees there throws himself in front of the car.

"Kip!"

"You promised never to leave me alone again. Last time-"

"I remember last time," I said, hitting the gas.

We tore up clouds of dust as we headed toward the Red Canyon Ranch and what would be my third and final meeting with the last living witness.