"Do you want to call him?" Tara bluffed, hoping he wouldn't take her up on it. She had no idea how Bill would react if he knew she was there.

"I want a written release, Ms. Limey, or a written request from another doctor for a transfer of medical records. I'll accept either one. Let's put it this way*when you're discussing crazy people it doesn't hurt to be very, very careful."

"Okay. Okay." The woman in plaid was bearing down now. Tara was out of time.

"Look," came the rumble of a voice. Tara's head snapped up. He was giving in*sort of.

"I have no doubt you're who you say you are, but I don't want to be on the wrong end of Bill Hamilton. I don't want to know about him or why he needs a lawyer. When he terminated me, I washed my hands of him gladly."

Tara was mute, afraid to scare him off by asking another question. Stanford looked over his shoulder, made a motion, and the woman in plaid held back. She sank to her knees in front of a statue painted blue and white. Tara had him for a moment longer.

"I'll tell you this. p.u.b.erty often creates a crisis for certain types of patients. Where medication may have worked before, it may not after that particular change in life. You think you're making progress, then boom, you're back to square one or even lower. Stuff happens. I guess sometimes I think more of my skills than I should. The one saving grace is that certain people"*he put the emphasis on the right word and Tara listened up-"certain people are truly distressed when their actions cause injury. I would worry if that ever stopped. Hopefully, if we were to talk about a mutual acquaintance, someone is monitoring that emotional meter. The fact that honest anguish follows or precedes violence is important here. Certain people need medication and I hope someone makes sure that they get it."

Dr. Carrol started to sidestep out of the pew.

While Mrs. Rey knelt in front of the statue with her hands folded, her eyes were on her doctor.

Tara followed him.

"Could you order medication for me if I needed it?" He stopped and spoke quietly, remorsefully.

"Lovely thought, but no. I can't do anything without that person's consent, and that will never happen. It seems in this case, an infomercial has more credibility than I."

"Is there anything I can do?" Tara asked. Stanford Carrol looked heavenward, then back at her.

"Pray?" Tara's disappointment was so evident that he clucked an expression of commiseration.

"Sorry. Best I can do is suggest you get him to see someone. If he trusts you, and I'm a.s.suming he does, then he'll follow your advice."

"I have no idea whether or not he trusts me, Doctor." Tara looked at the floor, wishing she had found answers here instead of another door closed in her face.

"He may hate me. He may admire me. I'm not sure who he is, or what he is. Sometimes I think he's jerking my chain, sometimes I think he's as scared as I am. I've never had a client like him. I wish there was something I could do."

"Just take care of business best you can," Stan said.

"That's about it. In all the years I saw him, I'm not sure I accomplished anything. It can be disconcerting."

"It can be downright scary."

"It can be dangerous," he said seriously, then added, "though I wouldn't really know about that."

Tara could almost see the small print of that statement: This doctor has made a statement that can be construed neither as the truth nor as a judgment on his former patient Bill Hamilton.

"One last question," Tara said, her eyes darting to the impatient Mrs.

Rey.

"If you had a hypothetical patient whose violent tendencies were controlled with Prozac and lithium, and that hypothetical patient quit taking these medications after an extended period of time, how long would it take for the patient to revert and the violence to take hold again?"

"Difficult to say. Everyone is different."

"Three months?"

"Three months would be reasonable."

"Would reasonable apply here, Dr. Carrol?"

"I doubt it, Ms. Limey."

They parted. He went off to deal with the mystical Mrs. Rey; she left to find the only earthly person who could work a miracle: Woodrow Weber.

Ten.

"h.e.l.lo! h.e.l.lo!" Out of breath, Tara fell on the phone. The receiver slipped, she juggled it, and it dropped to the floor with a thud. It was back in her hands in a flash.

"Sorry. h.e.l.lo? Who is this?"

"Tara, you okay?"

"Woodrow! Woodrow, this is great." Relief actually did come in waves and she was drowning in them. Tara tossed her purse on the nearest chair, checked the yard, saw that no one was about, flopped onto the window seat, and put her feet up.

She felt exhausted from her drive when she walked through the door, but Woodrow's voice had rejuvenated her.

"I've been so worried. You haven't returned any of my calls. I expected to hear from you yesterday at the latest I was about to come find you."

"This isn't the only thing I have to do, you know." Woodrow was testy. Tara took two deep breaths, calmed her beating heart, and gave herself a mental whack on the head.

"I'm sorry. I really am. I just a.s.sumed you wouldn't have any trouble getting George to show you the file. I never wanted to put you out. I know how busy you are."

Come on, come on. You have no idea what kind of person this is. Help me, Woodrow.

"Hey, I didn't mean to snap either. I'm sorry.

One thing led to another, Tara, and I had to do some checking on things. I had to think." Woo- drow sounded dred.

"Did you see the paper this morning?"

"Yes. This whole thing with Strober is getting out of hand." Tara closed her eyes and let her head rest against the wall. Home felt good. Gossiping with Woodrow felt good. Her life was almost normal for a moment and she gave in to the pleasure.

"That's so, but I checked the file. It was arbitrated to the people's satisfaction. I didn't see a d.a.m.n thing about that in the write-up. Or anything about the fines they paid. Or the fact that permits were pulled until everything was fixed. Oh," he went on, sounding as close to outright anger as she'd ever heard him, "I loved the quote from Chris."

"I don't remember," Tara said, having done nothing more that morning than skimmed the headlines.

"The governor is appalled that I would even consider running for his prestigious seat when I can't be trusted with the public safety. It's bad, Tara. Charlotte knows it. I know it The voters take this kind of thing and latch on to it." Tara remained silent, waiting for him to play out so she could get to business.

"I've had to do some major disaster control over here, so I just can't sit up and take notice when you demand things and ask favors.

You understand that, don't you?"

Tara rolled her eyes and checked out the crack in the ceiling, biting back the six or seven retorts that came to mind, half wondering if there wasn't something else going on here. She was fairly sure she had a killer on her hands. She knew, after her visit with Stan Carrol, that Bill was certifiable. But Woodrow had never met Bill Hamilton. Confined by her confidence, Tara had no way of convincing Woodrow how urgent this matter was. Luckily, she didn't have to try.

"Listen." He sighed.

"I've talked to George. I need to talk to you. Could you meet me at Lindy's around five?"

"Maybe it would be better if we settled the details over the phone. That way I can do whatever I need to do and deliver him to you in the morning with all the paperwork. You sound awfully tired to be doing this tonight," Tara said.

"Lindy's at six, then. Would that be in your schedule?"

"Sure, Woodrow. No problem," Tara muttered, properly chastised by this unusually terse Woodrow.

She put out her feelers with a tease.

"If you beat me there, order me a milk shake, huh?"

"Sure, Tara." But there wasn't a chuckle to be spared.

"On second thought, don't bother. See you then. And Woodrow, thanks.

I really appreciate all you're doing."

The line went dead without so much as a goodbye, but his voice still rang in her ears. He had sounded embarra.s.sed, even a little guilty. Holding the receiver close for a minute, she finally hung up, hoping Woodrow wasn't burning both his bridges during this campaign. He'd find himself out of a job if he couldn't control either end of his life.

She checked her watch. It was only four. She needed to clear her head and be ready for whatever Woodrow had for her. A ride would get rid of the cobwebs.

"h.e.l.lo you," she called quietly, forcing herself to keep her eyes on the paddock instead of the guest house. She didn't want to see Bill, though she'd kill to see Donna. It was an awful feeling and one that would be nonexistent in a few hours.

Until then, she would suppress her urge to do an about-face, find Donna, and tell her that she was in l.u.s.t with a nut.

Tara slipped the paddock latch open, and eased herself into the corral.

Shinin' was on her in seconds.

A nuzzle, a pat on his long, strong neck, and they walked together as far as his stall. Like a dog seeing its leash, Shinin' bolted in delight. Tara smiled and let her eyes flick over the stable yard.

Joseph had everything in order.

Whistling, she checked her English saddle and decided it would do. Her hands ran over the well worn leather of the girth, held it, and pulled it off the wall. Half turned, already feeling the cinch of the thing on Shinin', she grabbed the bridle. A second later she heard a frightful noise and it was coming from her own throat.

Woodrow walked slowly out the back door into the garden. It was bare this time of year. The shrubs looked sad without the spring flowers to cuddle up to. Charlotte was on her knees, digging in earnest as she planted bulbs in precisely dug holes. He pulled up a garden chair and sat beside her. She sat back on her heels.

"I hope I'm not planting these too early."

"I'm sure they'll be fine."

"Yes, I am, too. Did you call her?"

"Yes." Woodrow ran a finger around the intricately designed wrought-iron chair and wondered why on earth they'd ever bought them. They were darn uncomfortable.

"And?"

"And she's meeting me at Lindy's at six. I don't know about this whole thing. Charlotte. It gives me a very bad feeling. I sure don't want Tara to be hurt."

"Woodrow, I don't want anyone to be hurt. I know you've been having second thoughts about this, but you have to do what's best. Believe me, this is best."

"I suppose you're right. Charlotte?"

Her eyes hadn't left him since he sat down but she smiled as if he'd just caught her attention.

"I'd like to cancel the next couple of engagements.

I really think I should be at the office a little more. You know, get things under control.

What do you think?"

"Well"*she lifted a shoulder*"it's up to you.

You know what's best."

"Yes. Yes, I suppose. That's it then. I'll cancel the next engagements."

He started to get up but Charlotte put her hand on his knee, "Unless you'd like me to step in for you. I could make those speeches. It might look just right if we did that. It would make a good impression, a candidate so dedicated to the people that he was risking a campaign." Woodrow took it all in. When he remained silent, Charlotte smiled gently.

"You don't have to decide now. Just think about it."

"I will. It's a good idea. I think I'll go shower and lie down a bit before I have to meet Tara."

"Woodrow," Charlotte called to his back. She smiled wider when he turned around.

"Don't worry about Tara. She'll be fine. I know it."

"I don't want to do anything that might hurt her," Woodrow said and Charlotte nodded. Charlotte hated the thought of someone she cared for hurting too.

Tara was on her knees howling in pain.

Horrified, she looked down to see blood gushing from her right arm. Her skin was ripped in the same jagged pattern as her shirt. From wrist to elbow she seemed perforated by jagged holes. Beside her lay the pitchfork. The d.a.m.nable tines, sharp as a sword, had caught her full force on the tender skin that protected against damage to more than vital veins. Jesus, how did it get there? Poised above that bridle where it never should have been.

She yanked. It fell. Jesus, Lord above, there was blood everywhere.

And she hurt. She hurt so badly.