Devore fiddled some more with his controls, turned the chair to face me where I stood in the water, some seven feet out from the overhanging birch, and then nudged the chair forward until he was on the edge of The Street but safely away from the drop off. Whitmore had turned away from us entirely; she was bent over with her b.u.t.t poking in my direction. If I thought about her at all, and I can't remember that I did, I suppose I thought she was getting her breath back.

Devore appeared to be in the best shape of the three of us, not even needing a hit from the oxygen mask sitting in his lap. The late light was full in his face, making him look like a half-rotted jack-o'-lantern which has been soaked with gas and set on fire.

'Enjoying your swim?' he asked, and laughed.

I looked around, hoping to see a strolling couple or perhaps a fisherman looking for a place where he could wet his line one more time before dark . . . and yet at the same time I hoped I'd see no one. I was angry, hurt, and scared. Most of all I was embarra.s.sed. I had been dunked in the lake by a man of eighty-five . . . a man who showed every sign of hanging around and making sport of me.

I began wading to my right - south, back toward my house. The water was about waist-deep, cool and almost refreshing now that I was used to it. My sneakers squelched over rocks and submerged tree-branches. The ankle I'd twisted still hurt, but it was supporting me. Whether it would continue to once I got out of the lake was another question.

Devore twiddled his controls some more. The chair pivoted and came rolling slowly along The Street, keeping pace with me easily.

'I didn't introduce you properly to Rogette, did I?' he said. 'She was quite an athlete in college, you know. Softball and field hockey were her specialties, and she's held onto at least some of her skills. Rogette, demonstrate your skills for this young man.'

Whitmore pa.s.sed the slowly moving wheelchair on the left. For a moment she was blocked out by it. When I could see her again, I could also see what she was holding. She hadn't been bent over to get her breath.

Smiling, she strode to the edge of the embankment with her left arm curled against her midriff, cradling the rocks she had picked up from the edge of the path. She selected a chunk roughly the size of a golfball, drew her hand back to her ear, and threw it at me. Hard. It whizzed by my left temple and splashed into the water behind me.

'Hey!' I shouted, more startled than afraid. Even after everything that had preceded it, I couldn't believe this was happening.

'What's wrong with you, Rogette?' Devore asked chidingly. 'You never used to throw like a girl. Get him!'

The second rock pa.s.sed two inches over my head. The third was a potential tooth-smasher. I batted it away with an angry, fearful shout, not noticing until later that it had bruised my palm. At the moment I was only aware of her hateful, smiling face - the face of a woman who has plunked down two dollars in a carny shooting-pitch and means to win the big stuffed teddybear even if she has to blast away all night.

And she threw fast fast. The rocks hailed down around me, some splashing into the ruddy water to my left or right, creating little geysers. I began to backpedal, afraid to turn and swim for it, afraid that she would throw a really big one the minute I did. Still, I had to get out of her range. Devore, meanwhile, was laughing a wheezy old man's laugh, his wretched face crunched in on itself like the face of a malicious apple-doll.

One of her rocks struck me a hard, painful blow on the collarbone and bounced high into the air. I cried out, and she did, too: 'Hai!,' 'Hai!,' like a karate fighter who's gotten in a good kick. like a karate fighter who's gotten in a good kick.

So much for orderly retreat. I turned, swam for deeper water, and the b.i.t.c.h brained me. The first two rocks she threw after I began to swim seemed to be range-finders. There was a pause when I had time to think I'm doing it, I'm getting beyond her area of I'm doing it, I'm getting beyond her area of . . . and then something hit the back of my head. I felt it and heard it the same way - it went . . . and then something hit the back of my head. I felt it and heard it the same way - it went CLONK! CLONK!, like something you'd read in a Batman comic.

The surface of the lake went from bright orange to bright red to dark scarlet. Faintly I could hear Devore yelling approval and Whitmore squealing her strange laugh. I took in another mouthful of iron-tasting water and was so dazed I had to remind myself to spit it out, not swallow it. My feet now felt too heavy for swimming, and my G.o.ddam sneakers weighed a ton. I put them down to stand up and couldn't find the bottom - I had gotten beyond my depth. I looked in toward the sh.o.r.e. It was spectacular, blazing in the sunset like stage-scenery lit with bright orange and red gels. I was probably twenty feet out from the sh.o.r.e now. Devore and Whitmore were at the edge of The Street, watching. They looked like Dad and Mom in a Grant Wood painting. Devore was using the mask again, but I could see him grinning inside it. Whitmore was grinning, too.

More water sloshed in my mouth. I spit most of it out, but some went down, making me cough and half-retch. I started to sink below the surface and fought my way back up, not swimming but only splashing wildly, expending nine times the energy I needed to stay afloat. Panic made its first appearance, nibbling through my dazed bewilderment with sharp little rat teeth. I realized I could hear a high, sweet buzzing. How many blows had my poor old head taken? One from Whitmore's fist . . . one from Devore's cane . . . one rock . . . or had it been two?

Christ, I couldn't remember. Get hold of yourself, for G.o.d's sake - you're not going to let him beat you this way, are you? Drown you like that little boy was drowned?

No, not if I could help it.

I trod water and ran my left hand down the back of my head. Not too far above the nape I encountered a goose-egg that was still rising. When I pressed on it the pain made me feel like throwing up and fainting at the same time. Tears rose in my eyes and rolled down my cheeks. There were only traces of blood on the tips of my fingers when I looked at them, but it was hard to tell about cuts when you were in the water.

'You look like a woodchuck caught out in the rain, Noonan!' Now his voice seemed to roll to where I was, as if across a great distance.

'f.u.c.k you!' I called. 'I'll see you in jail for this!'

He looked at Whitmore. She looked back with an identical expression, and they both laughed. If someone had put an Uzi in my hands at that moment, I would have killed them both with no hesitation and then asked for a second clip so I could machine-gun the bodies.

With no Uzi to hand, I began to dogpaddle south, toward my house. They paced me along The Street, he rolling in his whisper-quiet wheelchair, she walking beside him as solemn as a nun and pausing every now and then to pick up a likely-looking rock.

I hadn't swum enough to be tired, but I was. It was mostly shock, I suppose. Finally I tried to draw a breath at the wrong time, swallowed more water, and panicked completely. I began to swim in toward the sh.o.r.e, wanting to get to where I could stand up. Rogette Whitmore began to fire rocks at me immediately, first using the ones she' had lined up between her left arm and her midriff, then those she'd stockpiled in Devore's lap. She was warmed up, she wasn't throwing like a girl anymore, and her aim was deadly. Stones splashed all around me. I batted another away - a big one that likely would have cut open my forehead if it had hit - but her follow-up struck my bicep and tore a long scratch there. Enough. I rolled over and swam back out beyond her range, gasping for breath, trying to keep my head up in spite of the growing ache in the back of my neck.

When I was clear, I trod water and looked in at them. Whitmore had come all the way to the edge of the embankment, wanting to get every foot of distance she could. h.e.l.l, every d.a.m.ned inch. Devore was parked behind her in his wheelchair. They were both still grinning, and now their faces were as red as the faces of imps in h.e.l.l. Red sky at night, sailor's delight. Another twenty minutes and it would be getting dark. Could I keep my head above water for another twenty minutes? I thought so, if I didn't panic again, but not much longer. I thought of drowning in the dark, looking up and seeing Venus just before I went under for the last time, and the panic-rat slashed me with its teeth again. The panic-rat was worse than Rogette and her rocks, much worse.

Maybe not worse than Devore.

I looked both ways along the lakefront, checking The Street wherever it wove out of the trees for a dozen feet or a dozen yards. I didn't care about being embarra.s.sed anymore, but I saw no one.

Dear G.o.d, where was everybody? Gone to the Mountain View in Fryeburg for pizza, or the Village Cafe for milkshakes?

'What do you want?' I called in to Devore. 'Do you want me to tell you I'll b.u.t.t out of your business? Okay, I'll b.u.t.t out!'

He laughed.

Well, I hadn't expected it to work. Even if I'd been sincere about it, he wouldn't have believed me.

'We just want to see how long you can swim,' Whitmore said, and threw another rock - -a long, lazy toss that fell about five feet short of where I was.

They mean to kill me They mean to kill me, I thought. They really do. They really do.

Yes. And what was more, they might well get away with it. A crazy idea, both plausible and implausible at the same time, rose in my mind. I could see Rogette Whitmore tacking a notice to the cOMMUNITY DOIN'S board outside the Lakeview General Store. Yes. And what was more, they might well get away with it. A crazy idea, both plausible and implausible at the same time, rose in my mind. I could see Rogette Whitmore tacking a notice to the cOMMUNITY DOIN'S board outside the Lakeview General Store.

TO THE MARTIANS OF TR-90, GREETINGS!Mr, MAXWELL DEVORE, everyone's everyone's favorite Martian, will give each resident of the TR ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS if no one will use The Street on FRIDAY EVENING, THE 17th OF JULY, between the hours of SEVEN and NINE P.M. Keep our 'SUMMER FRIENDS' away, too! And remember: GOOD MARTIANS are like GOOD MONKEYS: they favorite Martian, will give each resident of the TR ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS if no one will use The Street on FRIDAY EVENING, THE 17th OF JULY, between the hours of SEVEN and NINE P.M. Keep our 'SUMMER FRIENDS' away, too! And remember: GOOD MARTIANS are like GOOD MONKEYS: they SEE SEE no evil, no evil, HEAR HEAR no evil, and no evil, and SPEAK SPEAK no evil! no evil!

I couldn't really believe it, not even in my current situation . . . and yet I almost could. At the very least I had to grant him the luck of the devil.

Tired. My sneakers heavier than ever. I tried to push one of them off and succeeded only in taking in another mouthful of lakewater. They stood watching me, Devore occasionally picking the mask up from his lap and having a revivifying suck.

I couldn't wait until dark. The sun exits in a hurry here in western Maine - as it does, I guess, in mountain country everywhere - but the twilights are long and lingering. By the time it got dark enough in the west to move without being seen, the moon would have risen in the east.

I found myself imagining my obituary in the New York Times New York Times, the headline reading POPULAR ROMANTIC SUSPENSE NOVELIST DROWNS IN MAINE. Debra Weinstock would provide them with the author photo from the forthcoming Helen's Promise Helen's Promise. Harold Oblowski would say all the right things, and he'd also remember to put a modest (but not tiny) death notice in Publishers Weekly Publishers Weekly. He would go half-and-half with Putnam on it, and - I sank, swallowed more water, and spat it out. I began pummelling the lake again and forced myself to stop. From the sh.o.r.e, I could hear Rogette Whitmore's tinkling laughter. You b.i.t.c.h You b.i.t.c.h, I thought, you scrawny bi - you scrawny bi - Mike, Jo said. Mike, Jo said.

Her voice was in my head, but it wasn't the one I make when I'm imagining her side of a mental dialogue or when I just miss her and need to whistle her up for awhile. As if to underline this, something splashed to my right, splashed hard. When I looked in that direction I saw no fish, not even a ripple. What I saw instead was our swimming float, anch.o.r.ed about a hundred yards away in the sunset-colored water.

'I can't swim that far, baby,' I croaked.

'Did you say something, Noonan?' Devore called from the sh.o.r.e. He cupped a mocking hand to one of his huge waxlump ears. 'Couldn't quite make it out! You sound all out of breath!' More tinkling laughter from Whitmore. He was Johnny Carson; she was Ed Mcmahon.

You can make it. I'll help you. You can make it. I'll help you.

The float, I realized, might be my only chance - there wasn't another one on this part of the sh.o.r.e, and it was at least ten yards beyond Whitmore's longest rockshot so far. I began to dogpaddle in that direction, my arms now as leaden as my feet. Each time I felt my head on the verge of going under I paused, treading water, telling myself to take it easy, I was in pretty good shape and doing okay, telling myself that if I didn't panic I'd be all right. The old b.i.t.c.h and the even older b.a.s.t.a.r.d resumed pacing me, but they saw where I was headed and the laughter stopped. So did the taunts. The float, I realized, might be my only chance - there wasn't another one on this part of the sh.o.r.e, and it was at least ten yards beyond Whitmore's longest rockshot so far. I began to dogpaddle in that direction, my arms now as leaden as my feet. Each time I felt my head on the verge of going under I paused, treading water, telling myself to take it easy, I was in pretty good shape and doing okay, telling myself that if I didn't panic I'd be all right. The old b.i.t.c.h and the even older b.a.s.t.a.r.d resumed pacing me, but they saw where I was headed and the laughter stopped. So did the taunts.

For a long time the swimming float seemed to draw no closer. I told myself that was just because the light was fading, the color of the water draining from red to purple to a near-black that was the color of Devore's gums, but I was able to muster less and less conviction for this idea as my breath shortened and my arms grew heavier.

When I was still thirty yards away a cramp struck my left leg. I rolled sideways like a swamped sailboat, trying to reach the bunched muscle. More water poured down my throat. I tried to cough it out, then retched and went under with my stomach still trying to heave and my fingers still looking for the knotted place above the knee.

I'm really drowning I'm really drowning, I thought, strangely calm now that it was happening. This is how it happens, this is it This is how it happens, this is it.

Then I felt a hand seize me by the nape of the neck. The pain of having my hair yanked brought me back to reality in a flash - it was better than an epinephrine injection. I felt another hand clamp around my left leg; there was a brief but terrific sense of heat. The cramp let go and I broke the surface swimming - really really swimming this time, not just dog-paddling, and in what seemed like seconds I was clinging to the ladder on the side of the float, breathing in great, s.n.a.t.c.hing gasps, waiting to see if I was going to be all right or if my heart was going to detonate in my chest like a hand grenade. At last my lungs started to overcome my oxygen debt, and everything began to calm down. I gave it another minute, then climbed out of the water and into what was now the ashes of twilight. I stood facing west for a little while, bent over with my hands on my knees, dripping on the boards. Then I turned around, meaning this time to flip them not just a single bird but that fabled double eagle. There was no one to flip it to. The Street was empty. Devore and Rogette Whitmore were gone. swimming this time, not just dog-paddling, and in what seemed like seconds I was clinging to the ladder on the side of the float, breathing in great, s.n.a.t.c.hing gasps, waiting to see if I was going to be all right or if my heart was going to detonate in my chest like a hand grenade. At last my lungs started to overcome my oxygen debt, and everything began to calm down. I gave it another minute, then climbed out of the water and into what was now the ashes of twilight. I stood facing west for a little while, bent over with my hands on my knees, dripping on the boards. Then I turned around, meaning this time to flip them not just a single bird but that fabled double eagle. There was no one to flip it to. The Street was empty. Devore and Rogette Whitmore were gone.

Maybe they were gone. I'd do well to remember there was a lot of Street I couldn't see. I sat cross-legged on the float until the moon rose, waiting and watching for any movement. Half an hour, I think. Maybe forty-five minutes. I checked my watch, but got no help there; it had shipped some water and stopped at 7:30 P.M. To the other satisfactions Devore owed me I could now add the price of one Timex Indiglo - that's $29.95, a.s.shole, cough it up. they were gone. I'd do well to remember there was a lot of Street I couldn't see. I sat cross-legged on the float until the moon rose, waiting and watching for any movement. Half an hour, I think. Maybe forty-five minutes. I checked my watch, but got no help there; it had shipped some water and stopped at 7:30 P.M. To the other satisfactions Devore owed me I could now add the price of one Timex Indiglo - that's $29.95, a.s.shole, cough it up.

At last I climbed back down the ladder, slipped into the water, and stroked for sh.o.r.e as quietly as I could. I was rested, my head had stopped aching (although the knot above the nape of my neck still throbbed steadily), and I no longer felt off-balance and incredulous. In some ways, that had been the worst of it - trying to cope not just with the apparition of the drowned boy, the flying rocks, and the lake, but with the pervasive sense that none of this could be happening, that rich old software moguls did not try to drown novelists who strayed into their line of sight.

Had Had tonight's adventure been a case of simple straying into Devore's view, though? A coincidental meeting, no more than that? Wasn't it likely he'd been having me watched ever since the Fourth of July . . . maybe from the other side of the lake, by people with high-powered optical equipment? Paranoid bulls.h.i.t, I would have said . . . at least I would have said it before the two of them almost sank me in Dark Score Lake like a kid's paper boat in a mudpuddle. tonight's adventure been a case of simple straying into Devore's view, though? A coincidental meeting, no more than that? Wasn't it likely he'd been having me watched ever since the Fourth of July . . . maybe from the other side of the lake, by people with high-powered optical equipment? Paranoid bulls.h.i.t, I would have said . . . at least I would have said it before the two of them almost sank me in Dark Score Lake like a kid's paper boat in a mudpuddle.

I decided I didn't care who might be watching from the other side of the lake. I didn't care if the two of them were still lurking on one of the tree-shielded parts of The Street, either. I swam until I could feel strands of waterweed tickling my ankles and see the crescent of my beach. Then I stood up, wincing at the air, which now felt cold on my skin. I limped to sh.o.r.e, one hand raised to fend off a hail of rocks, but no rocks came. I stood for a moment on The Street, my jeans and polo shirt dripping, looking first one way, then the other. It seemed I had this little part of the world to myself. Last, I looked back at the water, where weak moonlight beat a track from the thumbnail of beach out to the swimming float.

'Thanks, Jo,' I said, then started up the railroad ties to the house. I got about halfway, then had to stop and sit down. I had never been so utterly tired in my whole life.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

I climbed the stairs to the deck instead of going around to the front door, still moving slowly and marvelling at how my legs felt twice their normal weight. When I stepped into the living room I looked around with the wide eyes of someone who has been away for a decade and returns to find everything just as he left it - Bunter the moose on the wall, the Boston Globe Boston Globe on the couch, a compilation of on the couch, a compilation of Tough Stuff Tough Stuff crossword puzzles on the end-table, the plate on the counter with the remains of my stir-fry still on it. Looking at these things brought the realization home full force - I had gone for a walk, leaving all this normal light clutter behind, and had almost died instead. Had almost been murdered. crossword puzzles on the end-table, the plate on the counter with the remains of my stir-fry still on it. Looking at these things brought the realization home full force - I had gone for a walk, leaving all this normal light clutter behind, and had almost died instead. Had almost been murdered.

I began to shake. I went into the north-wing bathroom, took off my wet clothes, and threw them into the tub - splat splat. Then, still shaking, I turned and stared at myself in the mirror over the washbasin. I looked like someone who has been on the losing side in a barroom brawl. One bicep bore a long, clotting gash. A blackish-purple bruise was unfurling what looked like shadowy wings on my left collarbone. There was a b.l.o.o.d.y furrow on my neck and behind my ear, where the lovely Rogette had caught me with the stone in her ring.

I took my shaving mirror and used it to check the back of my head. 'Can't you get that through your thick skull?' my mother used to shout at me and Sid when we were kids, and now I thanked G.o.d that Ma had apparently been right about the thickness factor, at least in my case. The spot where Devore had struck me with his cane looked like the cone of a recently extinct volcano. Whitmore's bull's-eye had left a red wound that would need st.i.tches if I wanted to avoid a scar. Blood, rusty and thin, stained the nape of my neck all around the hairline. G.o.d knew how much had flowed out of that unpleasant-looking red mouth and been washed away by the lake.

I poured hydrogen peroxide into my cupped palm, steeled myself, and slapped it onto the gash back there like aftershave. The bite was monstrous, and I had to tighten my lips to keep from crying out. When the pain started to fade a little, I soaked cotton b.a.l.l.s with more peroxide and cleaned my other wounds.

I showered, threw on a tee-shirt and a pair of jeans, then went into the hall to phone the County Sheriff. There was no need for directory a.s.sistance; the Castle Rock P.D. and County Sheriff's numbers were on the IN CASE OF EMERGENCY card thumbtacked to the bulletin board, along with numbers for the fire department, the ambulance service, and the 900-number where you could get three answers to that day's Times Times crossword puzzle for a buck-fifty. crossword puzzle for a buck-fifty.

I dialed the first three numbers fast, then began to slow down. I got as far as 955-960 before stopping altogether. I stood there in the hall with the phone pressed against my ear, visualizing another headline, this one not in the decorous Times Times but the rowdy but the rowdy New York Post New York Post. NOVELIST TO AGING COMPU-KING: 'YOU BIG BULLY!' Along with side-by-side pictures of me, looking roughly my age, and Max Devore, looking roughly a hundred and six. The Post Post would have great fun telling its readers how Devore (along with his companion, an elderly lady who might weigh ninety pounds soaking wet) had lumped up a novelist half his age - a guy who looked, in his photograph, at least, reasonably trim and fit. would have great fun telling its readers how Devore (along with his companion, an elderly lady who might weigh ninety pounds soaking wet) had lumped up a novelist half his age - a guy who looked, in his photograph, at least, reasonably trim and fit.

The phone got tired of holding only six of the required seven numbers in its rudimentary brain, double-clicked, and dumped me back to an open line. I took the handset away from my ear, stared at it for a moment, and then set it gently back down in its cradle.

I'm not a sissy about the sometimes whimsical, sometimes hateful attention of the press, but I'm wary, as I would be around a bad-tempered fur-bearing mammal. America has turned the people who entertain it into weird high-cla.s.s wh.o.r.es, and the media jeers at any 'celeb' who dares complain about his or her treatment. 'Quitcha b.i.t.c.hin!' cry the newspapers and the TV gossip shows (the tone is one of mingled triumph and indignation).

'Didja really think we paid ya the big bucks just to sing a song or swing a Louisville Slugger? Wrong, a.s.shole! We pay so we can be amazed when you do it well - whatever "it" happens to be in your particular case - and also because it's gratifying when you f.u.c.k up. The truth is you're supplies. If you cease to be amusing, we can always kill you and eat you.'

They can't really really eat you, of course. They can print pictures of you with your shirt off and say you're running to fat, they can talk about how much you drink or how many pills you take or snicker about the night you pulled some starlet onto your lap at Spago and tried to stick your tongue in her ear, but they can't really eat you. So it wasn't the thought of the eat you, of course. They can print pictures of you with your shirt off and say you're running to fat, they can talk about how much you drink or how many pills you take or snicker about the night you pulled some starlet onto your lap at Spago and tried to stick your tongue in her ear, but they can't really eat you. So it wasn't the thought of the Post Post calling me a crybaby or being a part of Jay Leno's opening monologue that made me put the phone down; it was the realization that I had no proof. No one had seen us. And, I realized, finding an alibi for himself and his personal a.s.sistant would be the easiest thing in the world for Max Devore. calling me a crybaby or being a part of Jay Leno's opening monologue that made me put the phone down; it was the realization that I had no proof. No one had seen us. And, I realized, finding an alibi for himself and his personal a.s.sistant would be the easiest thing in the world for Max Devore.

There was one other thing, too, the capper: imagining the County Sheriff sending out George Footman, aka daddy, to take my statement on how the mean man had knocked li'l Mikey into the lake. How the three of them would laugh later about that!

I called John Storrow instead, wanting him to tell me I was doing the right thing, the only thing that made any sense. Wanting him to remind me that only desperate men were driven to such desperate lengths (I would ignore, at least for the time being, how the two of them had laughed, as if they were having the time of their lives), and that nothing had changed in regard to Ki Devore - her grandfather's custody case still sucked bogwater.

I got John's recording machine at home and left a message - just call Mike Noonan, no emergency, but feel free to call late. Then I tried his office, mindful of the scripture according to John Grisham: young lawyers work until they drop. I listened to the firm's recording machine, then followed instructions and punched STO on my phone keypad, the first three letters of John's last name.

There was a click and he came on the line - another recorded version, unfortunately. 'Hi, this is John Storrow. I've gone up to Philly for the weekend to see my mom and dad. I'll be in the office on Monday; for the rest of the week, I'll be out on business. From Tuesday to Friday you'll probably have the most luck trying to reach me at . . . '

The number he gave began 207-955, which meant Castle Rock. I imagined it was the hotel where he'd stayed before, the nice one up on the View. 'Mike Noonan,' I said. 'Call me when you can. I left a message on your apartment machine, too.'

I went in the kitchen to get a beer, then only stood there in front of the refrigerator, playing with the magnets. Wh.o.r.emaster, he'd called me. Say there, wh.o.r.emaster, where's your wh.o.r.e? Say there, wh.o.r.emaster, where's your wh.o.r.e? A minute later he had offered to save my soul. Quite funny, really. Like an alcoholic offering to take care of your liquor cabinet. A minute later he had offered to save my soul. Quite funny, really. Like an alcoholic offering to take care of your liquor cabinet. He spoke of you with what I think was genuine affection He spoke of you with what I think was genuine affection, Mattie had said. Your great-grandfather and his great-grandfather s.h.i.t in the same pit. Your great-grandfather and his great-grandfather s.h.i.t in the same pit.

I left the fridge with all the beer still safe inside, went back to the phone, and called Mattie. I left the fridge with all the beer still safe inside, went back to the phone, and called Mattie.

'Hi,' said another obviously recorded voice. I was on a roll. 'It's me, but either I'm out or not able to come to the phone right this minute. Leave a message, okay?' A pause, the mike rustling, a distant whisper, and then Kyra, so loud she almost blew my ear off: 'Leave a HAPPY message!' 'Leave a HAPPY message!' What followed was laughter from both of them, cut off by the beep. What followed was laughter from both of them, cut off by the beep.

'Hi, Mattie, it's Mike Noonan,' I said. 'I just wanted - '

I don't know how I would have finished that thought, and I didn't have to. There was a click and then Mattie herself said, 'h.e.l.lo, Mike.' There was such a difference between this dreary, defeated-sounding voice and the cheerful one on the tape that for a moment I was silenced. Then I asked her what was wrong.

'Nothing,' she said, then began to cry. 'Everything. I lost my job. Lindy fired me.'

Firing wasn't what Lindy had called it, of course. She'd called it 'belt-tightening,' but it was firing, all right, and I knew that if I looked into the funding of the Four Lakes Consolidated Library, I would discover that one of the chief supporters over the years had been Mr. Max Devore. And he'd continue to be one of the chief supporters . . . if, that was, Lindy Briggs played ball.

'We shouldn't have talked where she could see us doing it,' I said, knowing I could have stayed away from the library completely and Mattie would be just as gone. 'And we probably should have seen this coming.'

'John Storrow did did see it.' She was still crying, but making an effort to get it under control. 'He said Max Devore would probably want to make sure I was as deep in the corner as he could push me, come the custody hearing. He said Devore would want to make sure I answered "I'm unemployed, Your Honor" when the judge asked where I worked. I told John Mrs. Briggs would never do anything so low, especially to a girl who'd given such a brilliant talk on Melville's "Bartleby." Do you know what he told me?' see it.' She was still crying, but making an effort to get it under control. 'He said Max Devore would probably want to make sure I was as deep in the corner as he could push me, come the custody hearing. He said Devore would want to make sure I answered "I'm unemployed, Your Honor" when the judge asked where I worked. I told John Mrs. Briggs would never do anything so low, especially to a girl who'd given such a brilliant talk on Melville's "Bartleby." Do you know what he told me?'

'No.'

'He said, "You're very young." I thought that was a patronizing thing to say, but he was right, wasn't he?'

'Mattie - '

'What am I going to do, Mike? What am I going to do?' The panic-rat had moved on down to Wasp Hill Road, it sounded like.

I thought, quite coldly: Why not become my mistress? Your t.i.tle will be 'research a.s.sistant,' a perfectly jake occupation as far as the IRS is concerned, I'll throw in clothes, a couple of charge cards, a house - say goodbye to the rustbucket doublewide on Wasp Hill Road - and a two-week vacation: how does February on Maui sound? Plus Ki's education, of course, and a hefty cash bonus at the end of the year. I'll be considerate, too. Considerate and discreet. Once or twice a week, and never until your little girl is fast asleep. All you have to do is say yes and give me a key. All you have to do is slide over when I slide in. All you have to do is let me do what I want - all through the dark, all through the night, let me touch where I want to touch, let me do what I want to do, never say no, never say stop. Why not become my mistress? Your t.i.tle will be 'research a.s.sistant,' a perfectly jake occupation as far as the IRS is concerned, I'll throw in clothes, a couple of charge cards, a house - say goodbye to the rustbucket doublewide on Wasp Hill Road - and a two-week vacation: how does February on Maui sound? Plus Ki's education, of course, and a hefty cash bonus at the end of the year. I'll be considerate, too. Considerate and discreet. Once or twice a week, and never until your little girl is fast asleep. All you have to do is say yes and give me a key. All you have to do is slide over when I slide in. All you have to do is let me do what I want - all through the dark, all through the night, let me touch where I want to touch, let me do what I want to do, never say no, never say stop.

I closed my eyes. 'Mike? Are you there?'

'Sure,' I said. I touched the throbbing gash at the back of my head and winced. 'You're going to do just fine, Mattie. You - '

'The trailer's not paid for!' she nearly wailed. 'I have two overdue phone bills and they're threatening to cut off the service! There's something wrong with the Jeep's transmission, and the rear axle, as well! I can pay for Ki's last week of Vacation Bible School, I guess - Mrs. Briggs gave me three weeks' pay in lieu of notice - but how will I buy her shoes shoes? She outgrows everything so fast fast . . . there's holes in all her shorts and most of her g-g-G.o.ddam underwear . . . ' . . . there's holes in all her shorts and most of her g-g-G.o.ddam underwear . . . '

She was starting to weep again.

'I'm going to take care of you until you get back on your feet,' I said.