"See, Doc, what'd I tell you. Tara and me, we're on the same wavelength. She's a good woman.

You're a lucky man. Funny she'd pick a guy like you, though. I seen her out with that stallion of hers. This lady likes a good hard ride, if you know what I mean." Tara swallowed hard and closed her eyes, tensing with each contemptuous comment. Finally she stepped forward and faced him, her hand on Ben's shoulder.

"Ben, I think this might not .. ."

Ben smiled, but it was at Bill. For Tara he had only a pat on the hand. He was enjoying himself.

"It's fine," Ben said.

"Hey, little lady," Bill said, slapping the right arm of Ben's chair.

"Come on now. You been around. You know how it is with man talk."

"Yeah, Tara," Ben rejoined.

"This is guy stuff.

Why don't you go find something else to do and leave us to it? I think Bill and I'll get along great."

Tara bridled at this ridiculous game. Posturing for a dangerous man only undercut their mission.

"I don't think so. I know Bill. He'll talk your ear off if you give him half a chance. Among other things," she added.

Bill threw back his head and laughed.

"Don't you worry none about that. I wouldn't want die doc to lose an ear when he's already lost those legs of his. What else you missin'. Doc?"

"Bill! Please."

Ben squeezed her hand. She stopped talking.

Ben smiled plea sandy and pinched harder, a warning for her to back off. She was happy to oblige.

"I think I need a drink," she said.

"Ben?"

"No, I'm fine."

"Me too." Bill laughed. She glared at him.

"I'll leave you two alone then."

"Great." Bill stood up and put his hand on the back of Ben's chair.

"Take your time. Me and the doc probably have a lot to talk about." Bill pushed the chair and Tara almost went after him. She didn't want him to take Ben anywhere, not out of the house or out of sight. But she held back and was about to wander away when he called her once more.

Leaving Ben where he was. Bill came back. Tara tensed, ready to fight if he touched her again. He smiled genially, but his voice was hard.

"I saw the paper. Someone's nosin' around about die Circle K. They lookin' for me, Tara?"

He touched the tip of her hair.

"Did you tell, Tara? Did you tell so someone would come get me?"

Tara stared at him, her own eyes cold and equally harsh now.

"You know I didn't. I gave you my word."

"You made trouble with me and Donna about it."

"You made that trouble yourself, Bill. I haven't said anything to anyone that you didn't give me permission to say. You're the one holding things up. Talk to Ben if you're serious about help. No more c.r.a.p."

Bill looked around him, considering the people, the house, the food, and the waiters who pa.s.sed drinks so generously.

"I don't know anymore. Maybe I was wrong to say anything. Maybe I don't need you. Maybe you're lyin' to me."

He went back to Ben. They disappeared, swallowed up by the crowd of revelers. Donna's laugh tinkled high above the rest of the noise and it sounded forced to Tara. But what did she know?

Maybe that's the way real happiness sounded. Or perhaps, it was the sound of obsession, or a cry to be rescued. Who knew anymore? Certainly not Tara.

"Here you go."

A drink landed on the bar at her elbow. She reached for it and offered a quick little grimace to the bartender, hoping it would pa.s.s for a smile of thanks. She wandered through the room past knots of people and heard them talking about clothes and hair. Another group espoused opera in Albuquerque.

Tara shook her head, dismissing a waiter offering phyllo food. Donna had come and gone twice since Ben and Bill disappeared. She was thrilled to see the two men with their heads together. Now Tara was alone, wishing they could leave. But Ben wasn't done, so she stayed.

She found herself in the foyer between the living room and the huge room Donna affectionately referred to as the family room. An odd concept since family these days consisted only of Bill Hamilton.

To her right was the staircase. Big and wide, it was a sweeping half-moon shape that called to her as clearly as if it could speak.

Without another thought, Tara started climbing the stairs, setting her gla.s.s on the edge of one as she went. Single-mindedly she moved on, ever more quickly until she was on the upper landing.

This house was as familiar to her as her own, yet she felt disoriented, as if traps awaited everywhere.

Slowly, Tara began to wander. She poked her head into the bathroom, taking note of the imported tile Donna had been so thrilled with during the building of this mansion. She went into the pristine guest room. No one had slept there. Bill had not been relegated to the status of company.

She wandered out and into the hall again. The next room was Donna's office, in its normal state of disarray. The desk was littered with correspondence.

Tara's fingernail nudged a letter from Donna's editor. There was another beneath. Both asked for a book that had been promised weeks earlier. Tara felt nothing and that, in itself, was a victory. Here, in the same house with Bill Hamilton, she was learning how to control her reactions.

Her a.s.surances of objectivity seemed so arrogant now. But it was sneaking back again. Tara could indeed view the havoc Bill was wreaking on Donna's life and feel nothing but a renewed determination to remove him from it. She patted the papers. The master bedroom was next. Tara didn't hesitate. She walked into the mauve and stone colored room.

Bill's closet. Bill's clothes. Jeans, boots, shirts.

She ran her hands over the shelf above. Nothing personal. No baggage. Strange for a man who would call this his home. Quietly she closed the doors. Donna's closet was no mystery. Tara knew exactly what was in there so she ignored it in favor of the chest of drawers. One, two, three drawers were opened. She riffled the clothes carefully*or so she hoped*finding only clothes.

The bedside table was next. Town &f Country magazine, hand lotion, oil of peppermint, pens and pencils, a tape recorder. That was Donna's side of the bed. She moved to the other side, engrossed in what she was doing. The first nightstand drawer was empty; the second yielded a stack of girlie magazines. Tara riffled through them. Finally, in the last drawer, something far more telling. Catalogs and magazines for guns and ammunition, mercenary want ads. And used as a bookmark, the article by Martin Martinez that asked whether or not the Circle K killer was indeed in Albuquerque.

Tara had begun to read, refreshing her memory on the impressive subtleties of his work, when she was touched. She froze. The newsprint fluttered from her fingers. She stood tall and rigid, her eyes closed, her back to the door. Seven seconds. Huge numbers flashed in her mind as she counted the moments. She waited for a blow, the tear of a knife, a bullet ripping through her brain and stopping the show. When it didn't come, when she still lived, Tara turned slowly and opened her eyes, wanting to see what was to come. She would look him straight in the eye for Vera, for Paulette, for the woman in the Circle K, for Donna who refused to see for herself what he was.

"Bill," she whispered.

He didn't smile as she'd hoped he would. He looked not so much at her as through her, his vision trained on the hollow at her neck. Tara didn't move. She couldn't hear her breath. She waited for a cue, but there wasn't one before he reached for her. He lay his hand on her shoulder then slid it to her throat. In her peripheral vision Tara saw his fingers move spider-like across her body until she lost sight of them as they wound around her neck. Long, strong fingers spanned the back of her neck, his powerful thumb was up front on her pulse point. Tara's blood ran hot and scared through her veins, pumping against the softness of her skin flowing into his until they were joined in life and death. Pressure from him and she died. Simple. Straightforward. Madness.

"I'm so sorry," he said finally and flatly.

Tara bolted, slipping out of his grasp, and she thanked her luck when he made no move to hold her. She flew down the stairs, unnoticed by Donna's inebriated guests. Her head snapped right and left, searching for any sign of Ben. She saw him but didn't run. Instead, she looked up, through the sweep of stairs. Bill stared down at her. Expressionless, he watched. She left, thinking only of herself and Ben and running away to leave Donna defenseless.

"We have to go," she said quietly, leaning down so that her head rested on Ben's shoulder. The man Ben was talking to went away without question or a farewell.

"You're shaking." His arms were around her, his lips burying themselves in her hair as he spoke.

Were people watching them? Did they wonder what was going on? Let them. She was going to be sick.

"We have to go. He found me upstairs looking through his things. Please, Ben, we have to go now." She stood straight, her hand on Ben's back, and shook out her long hair. Ben took her hand and they went out the way they'd come.

He got into the van. Tara reached for the door handle, slipping before she could open it. She moved the heel of her shoe and bent down, curious about a glint she saw in the dirt. Plucking some bright things up, Tara held them in her palm, jingling them, rolling them back and forth in her palm. She heard the lock of the bolt that held Ben's chair in place, and pulled herself together, sliding in beside him, still looking at her treasure. She held out her hand, flipping on the overhead light. Together they looked at the sh.e.l.l casings.

"Target practice," Ben mused.

"I didn't see a gun in there," Tara said quietly.

"Give me a report, Ben. Give me what I need to go to Woodrow."

"I need time. Vera's information, an affidavit from Paulette. I should have clinic time with him.

I want it to stand up for you. I don't want him released no matter where he ends up." Ben touched her hair.

"Bill Hamilton is one weird guy.

He may be sicker than anyone can imagine, or as sane as you and me. I need him in my office. He's promised to come. I think he will if for no other reason than to show off."

"I can't wait, Ben. This is terrifying. He's terrifying," Tara insisted.

"Then go to Woodrow." Ben put his hands on the steering wheel, thought for a moment, then started the car.

"Have him arrested for threatening you."

"But it wasn't like that," she answered softly.

"Not like that at all. I'm still bound to him."

"No," Ben said.

"You're obligated to him. You're bound to me and I'll help make it right. I promise."

Tara lay her head back and closed her eyes, praying she could hold him to that.

"Let's go to your place." She didn't open her eyes. He didn't answer, but she knew he would take her there.

The last place she wanted to go was home. The ghosts of the bread-baking women had fled; there were no specters of all those who had built the house brick by brick. Tara had lost the comfort of her father's phantom. All that was left were the places Bill Hamilton had been, the things he had touched: the guest house, the pump, the kitchen, the corral. He had sprayed his madness throughout, marking her place as his territory. He had driven her out of her home, claimed her best friend, put her at odds with the Webers, and made her question the sanct.i.ty of a law that bound her to silence. There was only Ben now. Without him, Bill Hamilton might have conquered her, too.

Nineteen a lawyer shall not knowingly use a confidence or a secret of his client to the disadvantage of his client or the advantage of himself or a third party, unless the client consents after full disclosure.

Canon 4 ABA Model Rules of Professional Conduct "Do Ya Think I'm s.e.xy"? Rod Stewart. Nineteen seventy-nine? She couldn't remember the year, but the tune was clear. Ben had been playing it when she awoke. They made love to it, his magical hands leaving her wanting more. They showered to it and kissed goodbye to it. The tune pounded in her head as she drove home, sharing s.p.a.ce with all the things she and Ben didn't talk about. The party, Bill Hamilton, Donna Ecold were all off limits. For a few hours the only thing worth thinking about was what had happened between the sheets on Ben Crawford's bed.

Home again, Tara looked at her house for a long while, waiting for that feeling of tranquillity it once afforded. It was gone, eluding her like so much else these days. With a sigh, a dejected slam of the Jeep door, Tara gave up.

She stopped at the corral and gave Shinin' a pat.

The horse whinnied, objecting to her offhanded attention. He danced off and back again, agitated as if he could force affection if he complained. He was worse than a child.

"Shinin', give me a break. It was a long night."

When he didn't settle down, Tara turned her back on him and walked through bl.u.s.tery wind to the house. Inside, the place was shadowy, bathed in winter grayness. Tara kicked off her shoes and lit a fire in the living room. She headed back down the hall, unb.u.t.toning her shirt as she went. Her head felt heavy, her chest scratchy, and she wanted to curl up in her robe, under a blanket. Ben would call when he had confirmed Bill's appointment.

She would read the material Ben had Xeroxed for her.

Tara stopped toying with the shirt b.u.t.tons. Suddenly the house vibrated with the odd hum of a noise she'd never heard before. Her hand lay immobile on her breast as she listened carefully, picking and discarding adjectives that might describe the sound. Dull. Thudding. Repet.i.tious. Then, silence.

Water heater?

She c.o.c.ked her head.

Hammering? Joseph? Not today. He didn't come today.

Silence still. Tara stepped ahead, one more b.u.t.ton coming slowly undone, the cold air p.r.i.c.king her almost bared chest just as the sound came at her again. A smothered noise. Electrical? No.

Plumbing? Perhaps. Cautiously Tara changed her course, instinctively hugging the wall. She peeked into the kitchen.

Quiet.

She looked down the hall.

Silence.

Thud.

Back to the kitchen, her eyes flicked to every appliance. Something was. .h.i.tting against*something else. There were no branches close enough to throw themselves against a wall. A gate wasn't loose, slamming shut. She looked left. Her office was in order. Tara looked toward the window. Outside was still gray, the wind was down. The trees didn't bend as they had earlier; there were no shutters to heave up and back.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

"Do ya think I'm s.e.xy?"

The words kept time with the noise, and the noise got louder as Tara inched farther down the hall to the guest room. She looked in. Nothing.

Thud. Rip.