Tara swung gently in her chair, lost in thought.

It had been a long while since she'd considered any of this. Bill was quiet, hanging on her every word. She indulged them both.

"In law school they tell a story I'll never forget.

A man told his lawyer that he had murdered two people. He told him where the bodies were. The lawyer went to that place and found the bodies.

He took pictures and, in the process of taking pictures, moved one of the bodies. He went home, put the film away, and didn't do anything. He didn't go to the police. He didn't call the newspapers.

He didn't call the victims' families. His client was never arrested.

The question is, what did the attorney do wrong?"

"That one's easy," Bill said, delighted with the story.

"That lawyer's supposed to tell the police where the bodies are without saying who did it."

"No. He was under no obligation to anyone except his client. He was bound to keep the client's confidence regarding the murder and the location of the bodies," Tara answered.

"The only thing the attorney did wrong was interfere with the scene of the crime by moving one of the victims.

That attorney went about his daily life, conducted business, and the professional part of him lived with the knowledge of those bodies and that crime.

That's just the way it is."

"d.a.m.n, that's something. That's cool. Kind of a biker code thing." Bill hung his head and let it swing. Tara could almost hear the hogs gunning their engines in his brain and her own turned over in amazement that Donna had found this unlikely paramour.

"So," Tara said, voice low, professional, and leading.

"Let's see what confidences I'll be keeping for you. What is it you need help with?"

"Thought you'd figured it out. Donna said you were smart as a whip."

"Being smart doesn't mean I can read minds," Tara said, suddenly and briefly annoyed.

Bill nodded toward her desk. Such sharp eyes; Tara put her hand atop the stack of information Caroline had given her.

She glanced at it, then back at Bill.

"I have a very efficient secretary, but I'm afraid it was a hot summer and Circle Ks on the highway seem to be where things happen. There were quite a few incidents." Tara pulled a legal pad close and touched the tape recorder to her right.

"Do you mind if I tape our conversation? I'll have it transcribed for your file and then the tape will be erased. My files are also confidential."

Bill was quick as a lizard, leaning over the desk, his hand strong and warm on hers. Tara's eyes snapped toward him and her lips opened. She remained mute, too surprised to protest. Shaking his head. Bill let his hand slip away while his grin came back in exact proportions.

"We should just talk a bit, you and me. I'd feel a heap better that way," he said softly. Cautiously, Tara nodded once.

"All right. I'll take notes. I'll need some notes as much for your protection as my edification.

There might not even be a legal problem. If there is, I'll need something to refer to."

"Yeah. Okay. I guess that makes sense. But I don't think you'll need *em. You'll remember. I know that sure as I know my own name."

Tara saw those eyes of his flash metallic. Her gut wrenched with a horrible sensation that came upon her quickly with intensity and depth. Un nerved, she waited, trying not to think ahead, re fusing to read anything into Bill Hamilton's words or actions. She nodded at him, poised her pen.

He was on.

"Well, listen here." He scooted around in his chair, found a position he liked, c.o.c.ked his elbows on the arms, and held his own hands.

"Let's get to this. What I'm looking to do here is get something' off my chest."

Bill dipped his head again as if his thought process was clearest in this position. He'd parted his hair in the middle today and it fell in soft wings over his broad forehead. He looked like a prince in a fable, but he wore jeans, not tights. Tara had a funny feeling she wasn't in for a fairytale ending to the story he was about to tell.

His head came up, showing a hardened face, closed to her scrutiny. Steel-colored eyes looked right at her and Tara knew, in that instant, that this was not the same man who had eaten her food and laughed at her jokes. This was not the same man who Donna Ecold adored. This was not a man Tara could have imagined being this close to her in her wildest dreams.

"I was in the Circle K where that woman was killed," he began.

Tara jotted a short note. It was the date. It meant nothing. Relief was on the horizon. He was a witness, frightened, holding his emotions at bay.

She gave him a slight nod of encouragement. He ran with it like a racehorse out of the gate.

"I killed that woman, Tara," Bill whispered.

Stunned, Tara sat perfectly still. Those aren't your lines. That's not what you're supposed to say. You were there, right? You saw who did it, right? You're afraid, right That's what you're supposed to say.

Bill Hamilton sighed, slid back down in the chair, and lounged with his long legs in front of him, the tips of his boots touching the bottom of Tara's desk. He let them slip just enough so the tips of his toes brushed those of her pumps. A tremor ran up the right side of Tara's body. An other inch and they'd be playing footsies. His chin lay in one upturned palm. He seemed to be looking past her into a sky that matched his eyes.

"I feel so bad, yes, ma'am." He jerked his head off its support and snapped the fingers of that hand before it fell back into his lap and he was hers once more.

"I can tell you, it's been bad living with this in my head." He seemed to segue, his voice taking on a faraway quality as he painted pictures for Tara.

"I think of Donna and she's so sweet and so good. And you. Look at you. A real lady like my mom. I would have wanted to kill the son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h who did anything to you good women. Then I took the life of someone else's good woman." Bill nodded to the articles Tara had put aside.

"I saw all them stories. I know about her. Church-goin' woman. Lots of little kids. I felt so bad, thought my heart would break. Spent days not doing anything but sittin'. You know? Do you know? I swear I thought it was a dream and I'd wake up. Sometimes I couldn't remember it, the actual doin' of it, then I'd remember everything."

He raised his head an inch, his eyes narrowed, and he gave Tara a look of despair.

"Every little thing."

Tortured, he played to his audience. What could he say? he seemed to ask. How could she know what it felt like to take a life? How could he ask her to help him when he was a fraud? He'd slept with her best friend, sat in her home, was close enough to take her life last night had he chosen.

Anesthetized, his audience listened. What did he expect her to say?

Nothing, since he shifted again.

Deciding the chair wasn't big enough to hold him, he got up to pace the length of her desk.

"Understand now, Tara, it wasn't like I planned it. Not premeditated or nothin'. No way in h.e.l.l was it that." He guffawed, suddenly oafish and crude instead of charmingly countrified.

"It's something' that just happened to me. I stop being for a minute sometimes. Hard to understand, but that's the only way I can describe it."

He was under full steam when Tara found her voice. Though the pen in her hand shook, her voice didn't.

"If this is a joke. Bill, it isn't funny. If it isn't, then I want you to sit still and talk to me. No more stories, no more editorializing. I want .. ." Tara took a deep breath. Her professional life was pa.s.sing before her eyes and she scanned it, looking for anything that would give her a clue as to how to handle Bill Hamilton and his confession. The stereopticon of her life was incredibly precise, but she found no help in the frames. This was to be a new experience, one with a myriad of opportunities for failure. Even winning would bring no joy.

"Bill, I'm turning on the tape recorder."

"I wouldn't do that," he warned, hands splayed on her desk. She thought no longer than a second.

"Then you're not here for help."

They looked at one another for a long moment.

Blue eyes on gray, will against will.

"That a scared woman talkin' or the other half of you, Tara? The one that's gonna help me without being concerned about what I did?" he asked lazily.

"It's not a scared woman, Bill, I'll tell you that right now. And I am concerned about what you did*as a lawyer."

Those eyes were still on her but she didn't waver.

Finally Bill smiled, small and convincing as if he truly was licked.

"Okay. Okay. We're on."

"Fine." Tara's hands disappeared beneath the desk. She clutched her right in her left, trying desperately to tame her shakes. She began to talk, falling into the persona that so fascinated Bill Hamilton, finding some comfort in her detachment.

"There could be a lot of reasons why you're here, not the least of which could be that you're telling me the truth. If it is anything but the truth, I want you to think very carefully before you say another word. Fifteen minutes of fame isn't worth the fire and brimstone that will rain down on your head if you confess to this crime." Tara raised the pen. Her hand no longer shook. She pointed it at Bill Hamilton, confident behind her professional guise.

"Now, if you're telling me the truth, tell it without all the nonsense.

Start again or leave."

Bill's lip curled. If he'd had a toothpick, he would have tackled it with his tongue and twirled it to show his prowess. Instead, he waited an interminable minute before his lips relaxed into an almost quizzical expression. Tara hoped he would walk out.

He sat down.

He leaned forward.

He said, "I killed the woman in the Circle K on Route 47."

Behind his eyes was the truth and Tara couldn't read it.

"Have you done this before?" she asked quietly.

"Nope." Bill straightened up, relaxed now. Relieved perhaps.

"Never hurt anyone before."

"Where's the weapon, Bill?"

"Don't know, Tara, and that's the Lord's own truth."

"Cut the c.r.a.p."

Bill chuckled.

"Can't." She accepted that. It was probably the truth.

"Gun's gone. I don't remember where. Don't remember a lot in my life. When I was a kid, my mom sent me to a doctor. I walked into that office for sixteen and a half years. I know I was sick, but I was sick of takin' them pills too.

I was sick of being' sick so I just up and stopped the whole thing." He scowled, he would have spit, but he had some decency.

"I saw a doctor on TV who cured himself of cancer and I was better'n that guy. I could do that. I didn't even have cancer.

I fired that b.a.s.t.a.r.d doctor's b.u.t.t. He never got excited about anything, never listened. I showed him good. Cured myself*for a while." He gave her a little click of the tongue and a sad wink as if to say the fun didn't last long.

"Then there I was, at that Circle K wanting some smokes. Next thing that woman was dead. And"*he opened his hands, widening his eyes*"there you go."

He was done. Confessed and cleansed. Tara hadn't taken a note. She hadn't moved a muscle.

The tape still turned. He smiled. I chopped down the cherry tree and there's nothing to be done.

"Does Donna know you're here?" Tara asked, her voice flat but audible.

"Yep."

"Does she know about this?"

He shook his head.

"Nope."

"Have you had any thoughts of hurting her?"

Tara looked at him hard, hoping her eyes seemed as unforgiving and cold as his had.

"I swear I'd never hurt Donna. Not for the world." He seemed genuinely disturbed and made a small gesture as if to say, "Tara, come on. It's me. Bill." Yes, it was Bill, but not the Bill Hamilton of last night. That man couldn't have done what this one was confessing to.

Tara looked away briefly, finally understanding specifically what drew Donna to this man. Sincerity.

It was difficult to find these days and Bill Hamilton breathed his adoration most convincingly. What, she wondered, had he had sincerely felt when he pulled the trigger and killed a lovely, married, church-singing, pregnant lady? She put a hand to a chest that felt brittle and tight, as if she could reach through and pluck out her heart to see if it was still beating.

"All right," she said, exhaling the words with a thoughtful breath. She double-checked herself, running imaginary hands over her brain to make sure everything was where it should be. Rational.

Intelligent. Her tone was right, her body language regulated.

"I think we better formalize our business.