"Probably half the young people in town are drunk on Friday or Sat.u.r.day night. Why aren't you lecturing them?" the young people in town are drunk on Friday or Sat.u.r.day night. Why aren't you lecturing them?"

It was summer. I had followed some of the maintenance guys on a cliff-jumping trip to one of the pit lakes. Cliff Cliff was a bit of an understatement, but jumping from the bluffs over the water was a local tradition among young people. The mining companies tried to chase kids away, because of liability issues, but it never really discouraged anyone. was a bit of an understatement, but jumping from the bluffs over the water was a local tradition among young people. The mining companies tried to chase kids away, because of liability issues, but it never really discouraged anyone.

I couldn't swim, and had only hooked up with the guys because I'd expected that in light of the summer squall we were having, they'd call off their plans to go to the lake in favor of something drier and safer. Not true. The worst of the lightning had pa.s.sed, they told me, and they were going to get wet by swimming anyway, weren't they?

So I'd gone along, and as we'd all progressed in our drinking, their encouragements to jump began to make more sense to me. There's really nothing to swimming, they said: once you're in, instinct will take over. We'll come get you, if you get into any trouble. Besides, you're already wet.

In addition to my whiskey courage, I was beginning to dimly perceive some kind of slur on my gender if I didn't do the things the guys could do. So I was very near to jumping when a white light lower to the ground and of longer duration than lightning splashed over us. The headlights of Kenny's truck.

He'd sent the guys on their way, but I was sitting wet-haired and sobering fast in the cab of his truck.

"Tell me you never went cliff-jumping as a kid," I demanded.

"That's not what bothers me," Kenny said. "It's your drinking. You're getting something of a reputation, Sarah."

Reputation. That word had a connotation beyond drinking. That word had a connotation beyond drinking.

"What are you trying to say?" I demanded. "I haven't slept with any of those guys. Not a G.o.dd.a.m.ned one. If anyone's saying so, they're lying."

"No, that's not what they're saying," Kenny said. "They're saying you're a lush and a tease."

"That's not fair."

"You drink and dance with these boys, Sarah, go out to the lakes with them with no other girls around. What do you expect them to think?"

"That I like drinking and dancing and going to the lakes. If they think I owe them anything, that's their problem."

"If you get hurt, it's not going to matter whose fault it is," Kenny said. "You're a tall, strong girl, but one day it isn't going to be enough. One morning you're going to wake up and be the last person in town to know you pulled a train the night before."

Never would I have believed that Kenny knew a phrase like that. It was like a slap in the face. I was a child to chiding, at least with him. I swallowed hard and didn't let the hurt show. "I can take care of myself," I said thinly.

"You keep saying that, but you're not doing it," Kenny said.

Later that month, coming home drunk, hot, and thirsty late on a Friday night, I knocked a gla.s.s from the kitchen cupboard. I thought I was being a good roommate as I got out the broom and dustpan to clean up. coming home drunk, hot, and thirsty late on a Friday night, I knocked a gla.s.s from the kitchen cupboard. I thought I was being a good roommate as I got out the broom and dustpan to clean up.

But in the morning, Cheryl Anne and Erin noticed a few shards of gla.s.s my clumsy efforts had left behind. They also inspected the kitchen trash and found the broken remains of a champagne flute that had been a keepsake from Erin's sister's wedding. They suggested it was time I found a place of my own.

I found a vacancy in a three-story rooming house. Kenny's big truck would have made the move a lot easier, but he and I weren't speaking much.

August brought the hottest days of summer, and the most humid. Everyone who didn't have air-conditioning was out on the streets. My third-floor room was a very efficient trap for the heat, so when the weekend came around, I also planned to spend as much time away from home as possible. The bar was air-conditioned, and after a certain hour, the bartenders were too busy to notice someone underage in the corner. the hottest days of summer, and the most humid. Everyone who didn't have air-conditioning was out on the streets. My third-floor room was a very efficient trap for the heat, so when the weekend came around, I also planned to spend as much time away from home as possible. The bar was air-conditioned, and after a certain hour, the bartenders were too busy to notice someone underage in the corner.

One Sunday morning, I woke up in a holding cell, with a pounding headache. When the jailer came down, it was Kenny.

"What'd I do?" I asked.

"If you don't remember," he said, "why should I tell you?"

Half a dozen possibilities ran though my mind, none of them good. I thought of Wayne and his broken nose. I thought of the beautiful deep-gray Nova I'd just bought and told myself I'd never drive drunk. Please G.o.d, not a hit-and-run. Please G.o.d, not a hit-and-run.

Kenny relented. "You didn't do much of anything," he said. "Just drunk and disorderly in public."

"Okay," I said, sitting on the bench with my hands dangling loosely between my knees. "I get a phone call, right?"

I was thinking I'd have to call a bail bondsman. Who else was there? Silva? The shambling old man across the hall from me at the rooming house, who smelled of layers of cigarette smoke and whose last name I'd never learned? Kenny was my closest friend, and clearly there was no help coming from that quarter.

"You'd get one phone call if you'd been arrested," he said. "I didn't arrest you last night. You're not officially here."

"What?" I said.

"I brought you in here to sober up and think a little."

I should have been grateful, but instead I just got angry. I stood up, and immediately my blood pressure rose, making my head throb. "You think I want favors from you?" I said. I held out my hands as if for handcuffs. "If I did something wrong, arrest me. If I didn't, then let me out."

Kenny shook his head.

"No, arrest me if you think I deserve it. Then at least I can call someone, make bail, and get out."

But Kenny shook his head again. "I don't want to do that today for the same reason I didn't last night," he said. "I don't want you to have an arrest on your record, because it could hurt your chances."

"Chances for what?"

"For being a cop," Kenny said.

I let my hands fall. If he had said, For the s.p.a.ce program, For the s.p.a.ce program, I couldn't have been more surprised. My voice, when I spoke, was faint. "Are you kidding?" I said. I couldn't have been more surprised. My voice, when I spoke, was faint. "Are you kidding?" I said.

"You're too smart to be a miner and too mean to be a college girl," Kenny told me. "You've got a lot of energy and it's all going nowhere. You need a job you can pour it into."

"You're not serious," I said. "They don't need people here, anyway. There probably isn't even a vacancy in the every-other-weekend citizen's reserve program that you do."

"No, there isn't," Kenny said. "But they're always looking for good people down in the Cities."

"You're serious," I said.

"Yes," Kenny said.

For a moment I didn't even feel the ache in my temples. Kenny thought I could be someone like him, and this amazing realization made all my anger drain away. He was wrong, of course.

"Listen, Kenny," I said, "thanks, but I'm not cut out for it."

"How do you know?" he asked.

"I just do. You're reading me all wrong." After another moment I said, "Really, I'm sorry."

When he saw I meant it, Kenny fished for his keys.

Weeks pa.s.sed and September came. Kenny had gone back to his work, patrolling the mines during the week and the streets and jail on the weekend. I went back to what I did best, drinking on the weekend nights. and September came. Kenny had gone back to his work, patrolling the mines during the week and the streets and jail on the weekend. I went back to what I did best, drinking on the weekend nights.

Around 3 A.M., after a typical Sat.u.r.day night, I was in a familiar position: kneeling over the toilet bowl. When you throw up on a fairly regular basis, you lose your distaste for it. Afterward, I wiped the corner of my mouth with my hand, swaying slightly on my knees, feeling the dampness of unhealthy sweat on the nape of my neck, grateful for the cool night air from the open sash window. I'd just brushed my teeth and was splashing water on my face, when outside the window, a woman screamed.

I froze, completely still except for the water droplets crawling on my face, and then I went to the window.

"Hey!" I yelled. "Is someone out there?"

The bathroom window looked out onto a gra.s.sy slope, which led up to the railroad tracks. It was dark there, except far to my right, where I could see the signal lights on the tracks.

"Hey!" I yelled again. There was no response.

"G.o.ddammit," I said, fumbling for my towel. I wanted to hear drunken t.i.ttering, or a sour voice saying, Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. I wanted to feel irritated. It was preferable to feeling worried about someone in the dark who'd screamed and now wasn't answering. I wanted to feel irritated. It was preferable to feeling worried about someone in the dark who'd screamed and now wasn't answering.

Back in my room, I undressed and pulled back the bedcovers, instructing myself to forget about it. I told myself that animal noises could trick you sometimes. Like bobcats, for example; they sounded a lot like women screaming. Or barred owls.

It wasn't any bobcat. It wasn't any owl.

If anyone was out there, and really was in trouble, they'd have screamed again. They'd have answered when I called.

You don't know that.

For G.o.d's sake, what help would I be? I was still half drunk. Surely someone else, nearer, had heard it as well. Someone else would look into it.

You can't be sure of that. You don't know that anyone else heard. You only know that you heard.

"Son of a b.i.t.c.h," I said tiredly, and started looking for st.u.r.dier clothes to wear than the ones I'd worn drinking.

My only weapon back then was a Maglite, but it was beautiful, four D-cells long with a body of anodized cherry-colored metal. As I went up the slope behind the house, still a little unsteady on my feet, I swung it in arcs, illuminating the brush and shadows. "Is anyone out here?"

When I'd finished searching behind the house, I doubled back. The scream might have come from the front of the house, a trick of acoustics bouncing the sound waves off the slope and back toward the bathroom window. I retraced my steps down the slope and went out into the street. Walking toward town, I shined my light low onto lawns and into front entryways, careful to avoid the darkened windows beyond which people slept. Then, as I got into town, I found myself looking into alleyways and at the front steps of businesses. Nothing. There was no sign of any trouble, and the streets were quiet as a movie set by night.

I ended up standing in the town square, completely sober and totally alone in the center of town. The night was nearly gone. Dawn would come in an hour.

Kenny was dressed for church, in a coat and tie, with his hair slicked down, when I knocked on his door at seven-thirty in the morning. He took in the sight of me at his door, Maglite still in hand, with a mildly quizzical expression. dressed for church, in a coat and tie, with his hair slicked down, when I knocked on his door at seven-thirty in the morning. He took in the sight of me at his door, Maglite still in hand, with a mildly quizzical expression.

"I think I want to be a cop," I said.

"I don't see a case here," Kilander said. Kilander said.

It was the morning after Marlinchen and I had our drinks out by the lake, and I was doing something I'd done a number of times since the morning I'd told Kenny Olson I wanted to be a cop: conferring with a prosecutor over the feasibility of criminal charges.

It was, though, on an unofficial basis. Kilander and I were spending the lunch hour in his office, eating takeout I'd brought up: a curried chicken salad over lettuce, dinner rolls, and iced tea. I'd just told him what I knew about the Hennessys: Hugh's beatings and Aidan's exile, the inexplicable animosity Hugh felt toward his eldest son.

"It's an ugly story, no question," Kilander said. "But the purpose of juvenile and family law isn't to punish, it's to intervene. No agency would try to prosecute a parent for past child abuse that didn't result in permanent injury."

"I know that," I said, tearing my previously untouched roll in half and spreading b.u.t.ter on it. More than anything else, I was stalling. What I was about to tell Christian Kilander, I hadn't even shared with Marlinchen yet. "What I've told you is essentially background. That wasn't the end of the story."

"Ah," Kilander said. "Should I cancel my one o'clock deposition?"

He was teasing me; I'd known he'd do that. I'd known he'd play devil's advocate, too. It didn't bother me. That was partly what I'd come to him for, his sharp and reductive mind.

"Sarah?" Kilander prompted.

"I think Aidan shot himself with his father's gun," I said, setting the roll down uneaten. "I think Hugh covered it up."

For the first time, Kilander smiled. "You come up with the most amazing theories," he said. "Do tell how you arrived at this one."

I told him about Aidan's missing finger and the explanation Marlinchen had given me for it, the neighbor's vicious dog that had supposedly bitten the three-year-old boy, causing him to be away from home for what Marlinchen had called "a long time" and to return without a little finger on his left hand.

"Why don't you believe it?" Kilander asked.

"I've seen the area they live in," I said. "They have neighbors, but not immediate ones. It would have been quite a long trek for a three-year-old to make, to put himself in the path of a neighbor's dog."

Kilander said nothing.

"At that same time, Hugh Hennessy owned some antique pistols. He kept them in his study and showed them to reporters; I've seen them in magazine photos. But at some point later, Hennessy developed an aversion to guns. He won't have them in his home." I banished an unwelcome thought of Cicero. "Meanwhile," I went on, "Hugh decided to replace the carpet in his study. He had the money to have it done professionally, and he wasn't a do-it-yourself type. Yet he did the work himself. Badly. You can see it was done by hand. The kids estimate he did this about fourteen years ago, when the twins would have been three to four years old.

"At around this time, in her earliest memories, Marlinchen Hennessy has a rather odd recollection. She says lightning struck the house, and that it upset her mother to the point of crying, and that this gave her a fear of storms for years to come. Storms and loud noises," I added, stressing the last two words.

"Couldn't there really have been a lightning strike?" Kilander asked.

"I've seen the house from the outside," I said. "There's no damage from it anywhere."

"So it was repaired," Kilander said.

I shook my head. "That's what I thought, but Marlinchen Hennessy can't even point to the spot where the house was. .h.i.t. How could she have vivid memories of the night it happened, but no memory of seeing the damage, or workmen climbing up to repair it, anything like that?"

Kilander nodded.

"Speaking of home repair," I went on, "in addition to the carpet Hugh replaced himself, there are bleach spots on the carpet in the upstairs hallway, like someone scrubbed out some stains. They're consistent with Hugh cleaning up bloodstains himself, to the best of his limited ability."

Kilander nodded, speculative. "So you think the little boy shot himself with his father's gun, and the finger wasn't salvageable."

"He was just old enough to be curious like that, and disobedient. He'd probably seen guns on TV," I said.

"And Hugh lied about what happened to cover it up," Kilander went on.

"It would have been professionally disastrous," I said. "Imagine what the media would have made of it: 'Negligent Father Leaves Loaded Gun in Unlocked Desk; Adorable Tot Shoots Self with It.' Hugh was a bigger name in those days; the press was interested in him. It would have been bad publicity for any writer, but worse for Hugh. He'd written two popular books on family and love and loyalty. Being a family man was his-" How did marketing people put it? "It was his brand."

Kilander sc.r.a.ped the rest of the chicken salad onto his plate. He was eating more than his share, but I kept quiet. There was something endearing about his unabashed greed.

"So Hugh tried to keep it quiet," I said. "The twins were just young enough to have their memories reprogrammed like that. If your parents tell you something long enough, you believe it," I said. "But if you talk to the Hennessy twins, their memories don't line up. Marlinchen remembers lightning striking the house. Aidan doesn't. Marlinchen says Aidan was in the hospital a long time. Aidan doesn't think he was. Something's screwy there."