Sixteen.

"I'd give anything to get this guy into the office for a session. He is a piece of work." Ben shook his head, amazed at the story he'd just heard.

"You know, I didn't think I was missing anything in my work, but Hamilton sounds like the kind of challenge that comes along once in a lifetime."

They dined in the living room. The sun porch where they'd eaten pizza was just off to the right, the kitchen was straight ahead. Tonight they feasted on chicken. No bucket. Ben had cooked.

Tara was impressed. The sauce was creamy, Albuquerque chiles forsaken. There were peas, a salad, and bread. She'd run out for wine and dessert while he managed the feast in record time.

One gallon of cherry marble fudge had found its way into her basket. Ben was kind enough to rave over her choice; Tara was smart enough to know she could have left out the cherry and made him happier with more fudge. Either he'd changed over the years or, as when they were teenagers, he'd let her run roughshod over life's little decisions.

Tara stood in the doorway of the kitchen and held up the ice cream.

"More?"

Ben patted his middle.

"Better not. I've only got half of me to keep in shape, but I still have to work at it full time."

Tara put away the carton, grateful to have a minute to herself. It was hard to listen to his jokes.

She went back, folding herself into the chair, winegla.s.s in her hand.

"So the bottom line is?" she asked.

She put aside the dessert bowls. Little dotted cows painted on the bottom caught her eye. They were unlike Ben, who seemed to prefer clean lines.

Perhaps he hadn't chosen the cow bowls at all.

Perhaps a woman had been with him, lived with him. Maybe they'd sat like this one night when she gave him this frivolous gift. Maybe he'd smiled at her the same way he smiled at Tara now. The notion made Tara feel odd. She was jealous. After all these years, she still cared. After all he'd been through, she still wanted him.

"I haven't the foggiest idea what the bottom line is." Ben laughed and she joined in, ignoring the painted cows. His laugh faded, but not the pleasure she saw in his eyes.

"You look so beautiful when you do that."

"Thank you," she answered, only to find herself uncomfortable in the silence that followed. She prodded.

"Where were we?"

"A dead end. I haven't got a clue what to tell you." He put his elbows on the table. One finger drew little sketches on the hard wood as he thought.

"Since I haven't met Bill, I can only speculate on the outline you've sketched for me.

I can't see the dimensions. In my line of work you don't discount vibes.

"For instance, I could interpret his offhandedness with the police any number of ways. He doesn't rock the boat by acting normal, he skirts arrest on a lesser charge. On the other hand, he could be pushing the system to the limit. Kind of thumbing his nose at it. I'd tend to think it's the latter since he knew there would be some consequences for sending you that shredded blouse."

"Where do I fit in? If that's what he wants to do, let him play games with the police. George would love it."

"If he wanted to do that, he'd kill someone else." Ben laid his hands flat on the table.

"Then it would be between him and the cops. But that's not what he wants. You're the system. You're successful within it, you're able to work through it, understand it, and he thinks you can manipulate it. Maybe it's keeping you on edge that's fun.

When you get the commitment papers, he's won.

If he was playing the same game with the police, he'd eventually lose and be put in prison."

Tara set down her winegla.s.s and pushed it away.

"Ben, do you think he really wants help?"

"At first he asked for it as honestly as he could.

Just because he seems up all the time doesn't mean there isn't something eating away at him. He could be tortured, he could be troubled, he could be evil." Ben shrugged as if to say take your choice.

"When we were by the river, I drought he was a tortured soul, but he changes so quickly. The things he says sound normal, yet the look behind his eyes isn't."

"Content and form of thought," Ben said, his bottom lip disappearing for a moment. He bit it and Tara had incredibly juvenile romantic thoughts about die way he looked. Ben's, tfiough, were still on the problem at hand.

"From what you say, there seem to be disturbances in those areas. Let's a.s.sume that his actions were imposed upon him by some external force when he killed that woman."

"Oh. The hand of G.o.d came down and helped him pull the trigger?"

"Not quite. He might have seen something that reminded him of a particularly terrible time in his life. The woman he killed is doing something, and it's that something that triggers his violence. The content of this fugacious tableau intersects with reality and boom." Delighted, Ben opened his hands as if to show her how realistic all this was. Tara tapped one of those hands.

"In English, please."

"Sorry. There's a delusional explosion, so to speak. When Bill complains about being nowhere and feeling nothing, that could be what he's describing.

Bang, that poor lady is dead and he doesn't actually remember the other bang*the one in his head. His memory of a particular incident blacks out an actual physical response to it."

Ben let her think about that for a minute, then added, "The form of thought problem seems a possibility, too. Statements that seem to lack meaningful relationships to one another when you and he are one-on-one."

Tara unwound her legs. Bending over the table, she became reflective as their heads came closer and she shared her secret thoughts.

"He was so charming, and part of the charm was that he was surprising. Talking about his mother, then about country-Western songs, then about needing help."

"Did you notice any change in tone when he spoke? Like a flat, inappropriate affect in speech pattern or expression? For instance, his voice monotonous, his face sort of immobile, like he's not reacting?"

"Yes and no." Tara sat away again, smiling as she realized the futility of trying to describe Bill Hamilton.

"I can't tell, Ben. Ever since I found out what he did, I think my vision of him is clouded by the danger he might present to Donna.

That's exactly what I've been fighting against, that emotional involvement. It's not possible for me to be completely objective," Tara answered as honestly as she could.

"And now he's out of my reach.

I'm tired of him moving in and out of my life so fast. That's the one thing that really unnerves me."

"Schizophrenics do that," Ben said lazily.

"They force relationships, cling to people."

"Sounds like half the people I know." Tara laughed.

"Putting aside angst-ridden middle-aged professionals we both know," Ben countered.

"I resent that," Tara insisted, flirting and enjoying it.

"Which part? The angst-ridden reference or middle age?" His hand covered hers and it felt so good to have him touch her.

Bill was right. There was power in secrets, but not in keeping them. She'd shared hers with Ben and those secrets had the power to bind them. But her grin faded. She saw only one part of him: chiseled face with the full-lashed eyes, purposefully ignorant and all-seeing at the same time. His shoulders were broad and inviting, his arms muscled.

Ben's chest was so broad she could lay her head on it and want to stay there forever. But she could never forget the other part of him. Tara turned away and slid her hand from his, privately shamed by the limits of her compa.s.sion*her pa.s.sion*and he knew it.

"For goodness' sake, Tara. Come on. Don't do this. Let's at least talk about it." He reached and took her hand in both of his.

"We knew it would come to this the minute we saw each other. Let's get it out of the way and move on and up or wherever you want to go."

Tara looked at their entwined hands long and hard, then used her free one to lift his to her lips.

It was a gentle kiss, lasting only a moment before she lay them back on the table and rose.

"I don't want this to go anywhere, Ben." Tara moved off. She didn't know what she wanted, where she should go or what she should say. Ben came round the table. She looked down on him.

"You don't know what you want, do you? You never have where we were concerned, and it's worse with me in a wheelchair. But you're a big girl now, I'm a big boy. I've done my thinking and it took years. I was alone after the accident. I had plenty of time."

"Don't try to make me feel guilty, Ben," Tara warned, knowing she'd made herself feel worse than he ever could.

"I'm not," he insisted and he chuckled a little.

"Funny your first thought should be of blame or guilt. You just hate being wrong or less than perfect."

Tara crossed her arms, and studied the floor, refusing to look up. Ben backtracked.

"Okay, I'm sorry. You hate being weak. Maybe that's part of your attraction to your client. He makes you feel ineffectual and you have to prove him wrong."

Tara glared at him. It hurt that he should know this secret about her, and talk about it so openly.

Ben twirled his chair and in one swoop caught up the two winegla.s.ses. With his other hand he took up the half-filled bottle of wine and gave her a smile.

"Come on." His wheelchair was on auto made. It whirred past her. He stopped and looked over his shoulder.

"Come on. It's now or never, Tara."

Unsure, she finally followed him into the living room. Ben pointed to a chair. Tara sat. He handed her a gla.s.s, but she shook her head so he set both aside along with the bottle.

"Don't stare at me like that." Ben grinned.

"Don't a.n.a.lyze me," she groused.

"Why not? I've done nothing for years except try to figure us out. Even when I began living a full life again, when I began to enjoy women again, you were always there, Tara. I missed you. I loved you. I love you still. I can't ask you to love me back, but I can ask you to let go of all the things you've buried for years. I think you want more than my help. I think you want my forgiveness for being cowardly. But it wasn't cowardly to be afraid of what happened to me. We might have grown apart anyway, even if that car hadn't left me like this."

Tara shrugged.

"We might have. But I like to think that we wouldn't."

"I think you're right," Ben said.

"I can tell you're still feeling something for the good half of me, and then you think about the defective part of me and it scares you. But there isn't a defective part of me, Tara." Ben leaned forward and said gently , "There's only a defective part of my body.

It took me a long time to understand that. I'm willing to wait until you do, too."

"I do understand."

Tara pulled her legs up beneath her and then realized how oddly subliminal that action was. Was she trying to meet him on his own level; did she truly view him in pieces? She planted her feet on the floor again. She wouldn't apologize for being whole, but there were apologies to be made.

"Once I was in Washington, I remembered the way you'd been. I convinced myself you'd be that way again. You had your mom and dad, all of our friends, a ton of people to take care of you. I convinced myself you didn't need me. I convinced myself you wouldn't miss me the way I missed you."

"Tara, I needed you so much. I missed you every single day. But I was too proud to pick up the phone and tell you I was scared." Ben shook his head. He poured half a gla.s.s of wine, then forgot to drink it.

"My parents tried desperately to be strong. Our friends had other things to do. There was no one to just sit and hold my hand and let me be afraid. I would have killed to have just one hour with you."

"Ben, please."

"That was only a wish, Tara. Now I'm glad you weren't there. If you had been, you would have seen me as half a person. You would have hated me for being so needy."

"I could have done whatever you needed."

"Yes, you could have," he agreed.

"The question always was, would you have felt the same way if the only thing I'd needed from you was strength? I don't think so. But I'm not half anymore. I'm whole and I don't think all that love is dead. I really don't."

"Of course it isn't," Tara said quietly, closing her eyes. She was aware of everything around her: the warmth of his home, the nubby fabric of the chair, his closeness, his curiosity, his feelings*hers. Without opening her eyes she began to speak.

"My father was a very strong man. I watched how he dealt with his hurt and fear when he was dying. Then I understood why I am the way I am.

"He dealt with it by not acknowledging it. Three days before he died he talked about my mother and how her death had left him weak with sorrow.

He told me that he was proud that he'd kept me out of harm's way by teaching me how to snap my eyes forward and put one foot in front of the other. He could die happy because he'd taught me how to control my feelings." Opening her eyes, she looked straight at Ben.

"Dad thought I'd be safe if I knew how to do that. And I was safe, Ben.