He was, however, confident that the chamber was empty.

"So, no one at the state police removed the casing?" Keenan inquired.

"Mr. Barrett, you're a lawyer. I shouldn't have to lecture you about the collection of evidence. When I confiscated the weapon there was the chance this would become a criminal investigation. I therefore tried to preserve the weapon in the condition I found it."

"Thank you," Keenan said, not exactly contrite but humbled slightly.

"You're welcome. Forgive me, sir, but I wish someone in this case-you or Mr. Seton's lawyer-knew the first thing about guns. I wish Mr. Seton had known the first thing about guns. I hate to be glib when a man has been so badly injured, but the truth of this matter is that all of your questions combine to make for one great argument for serious gun control."

"Tell me," Keenan said. "You said you found the weapon by an apple tree."

"That's right."

"But in the drawing I saw of the accident scene-the reconstruction, if you will, that showed where the players were that night-when the child fired the weapon, she was closer to the driveway itself than to those apple trees."

"That's correct."

"Why weren't the locations where the rifle was discharged and where you found it the same?"

"The girl's mother wanted the firearm as far from the child as possible after the shooting. It was a gun, she'd just seen firsthand its ability to inflict monumental damage, and she didn't want the girl anywhere near the thing anymore."

"So she moved it?"

"I believe that's what she told me that night. I could check my notes. But I believe she said she tossed it."

"And then you recovered it?"

"Yes."

"Then where did the casing go?" Paige asked.

"If this were a criminal investigation, we would have begun our search on the property. Near where the child discharged the firearm and then where we found the rifle."

"But you didn't..."

"Ma'am?"

"You didn't search the property..."

"No. The state's attorney chose not to press charges. It was pretty clear it was an accident."

"A horrible one," she said simply, and breathed in deeply through her nose. In somewhere between twenty-six and twenty-seven hours, she was going to have to say something. No one in that press conference was going to ask about the missing casing: There was no reason to believe they would even be aware it was gone. But someone was bound to ask why John Seton had left his rifle loaded, and that would demand they have an explanation for his inability to extract the cartridge.

"Yes," Howland agreed. "A horrible one."

"I guess we should try to find the casing," she mumbled, though she knew also that this wasn't going to happen-at least not in the next twenty-six hours. And even if, by some unprecedented miracle, the casing did turn up that afternoon, it couldn't be a.n.a.lyzed in time for the press conference. She wondered briefly if they should postpone the event, but these things had a momentum of their own. They had been working toward tomorrow since well before Spencer had returned to work. The lawsuit was just about ready to be filed: Sections of it were being proofread in a room down the hall that very moment.

But the casing could still affect it. Their contention was that the rifle was inherently unsafe because a round remained in the chamber when you emptied the magazine, and there was no mechanism on the barrel to warn a person that the gun was still loaded. Perhaps if they had the casing and could show that the rim was damaged, then they could sue the ammunition manufacturer as well.

"Thank you, Sergeant Howland," Keenan was saying. "We appreciate your getting back to us."

She thanked the trooper, too, but her mind already was elsewhere. She was trying to imagine what she would say tomorrow when someone asked her why that dimwit in Vermont-though the reporter would not frame the question quite that way-had been unable to pop out the cartridge that remained in the rifle.

Thirty-three

"In college," Spencer was saying, "I never thought I would be a bald, angry man when I hit middle age."

"No one does," John answered, and he guessed it was the truth. Certainly he'd never presumed that he would hit forty with a receding hairline and eyegla.s.ses.

On the other hand, he wasn't angry. Not like Spencer, anyway. Lately he'd been pretty d.a.m.n p.i.s.sed at his brother-in-law, but that irritation had been triggered by a fairly precise set of circ.u.mstances.

It was Monday morning, not quite nine thirty, and the two of them were sitting in his mother's living room with its sweeping views across Park, Madison, and Fifth, and into Olmstead's vast commons-these days a series of baseball diamonds, skating rinks, and paths for exercisers on their in-line skates and air-cushioned Nikes. His mother's dog had lumbered over to Spencer, sniffed out Tanya's scent, and-satisfied-was sitting now with his snout draped on the man's lap. Nan was somewhere on the other side of the apartment, in that long series of rooms that looked south on the spires of midtown Manhattan, and Catherine and Charlotte were at Brearley.

"I mean, why didn't someone tell me I had so much rage?" Spencer said.

He shrugged. "We did. We tried, anyway."

"And I wasn't listening?"

John considered agreeing that, yes, this was precisely the problem: Spencer didn't listen to anyone, because he was right about everything. At least he believed that he was. But his brother-in-law already was so abashed that John saw no reason to make him feel any worse. "We are who we are," he said simply. "And you have your strengths." He watched the light through the gauzy curtains accentuate a flying b.u.t.tress of dust.

"But listening is not among them."

"Guess not."

The dog rolled over onto his back, imploring Spencer to stroke his tummy. His brother-in-law reached down awkwardly to pet the animal with his left arm, grimacing slightly at the effort.

"Look, Catherine says you've changed in some very positive ways since the accident," he continued. "And this weekend Charlotte told Willow that she's having a great time working with you on the musical she's in."

"Getting shot does wonders for one's priorities-that and being crippled. I wouldn't recommend it for everyone, but it seems to have worked in my case."

He sat forward in the heavy chair in which, years earlier, he would watch his father flip quickly through Advertising Age Advertising Age and the and the Wall Street Journal Wall Street Journal. "Can I ask you something? And this is none of my business, so feel free to take the Fifth. But are you and my sister going to seek counseling? Or will you two crazy kids try to figure out your next steps on your own?"

"Counseling."

"Good."

"But she's not leaving and we're not separating. I've gotten a stay of execution."

"I'm relieved."

"Me, too. I think we both are. And Charlotte. Charlotte might talk a tough game, but it's all bravado. Inside she's a cupcake."

John wasn't sure if he could ever envision his niece as a cupcake, but he also wasn't about to disabuse the girl's father of this notion.

"Anyway," Spencer went on, "that's not the only reason I'm here." He pulled himself away from the dog, wincing as he sunk back into the couch. The animal looked up at him with wide eyes that, alas, reminded John of a deer's. "Given my morning, I'm glad you stuck around."

"Honestly, Spencer, I really don't know why I'm going to the press conference. At one point I'd had some vague idea that I could defend myself. But I gave that notion up. Yesterday I just decided I had to be there to...to see it. It was all very spontaneous."

"Look, don't say another word: I'm canceling the press conference."

"Are you serious?" He wasn't sure whether he heard mere incredulity or giddiness in his voice. He supposed there was a little of both.

"Yup. I haven't told anyone but Catherine yet. I tried Dominique at her home before leaving, but I missed her. She'll be disappointed, of course, but-"

"Disappointed? Catwoman? She'll be furious!"

"She's not a bad person, John. She simply sees things in black and white. Once she knows that I'm doing this because of my family-when I tell her about Charlotte this morning-she'll understand." He raised his eyebrows. "I'm actually supposed to be at Paige's office right now. Paige and Keenan are talking to our gun experts about why you couldn't get the bullet out of your rifle. I need to break the news to Paige later when she's alone."

"Your ballistics lab has had the gun since mid-August! How can they not know what the problem is?"

"They couldn't find anything wrong with the rifle. You knew that, didn't you?"

"No!"

"Paige didn't tell your lawyer?"

"No, but in all fairness there's no reason she would have. I'm not her client. I'm sure she would have gotten around to it eventually," he said, working consciously to answer Spencer's question, because if he didn't-if he focused only on the reality that his worst fears about the gun were coming true-he thought he would faint. He heard a tiny ringing in his ears, and his vision was growing slightly fuzzy.

"You okay?" Spencer was asking, the voice sounding almost as if it were on the other side of a large wall of ice.

He nodded, put his head between his legs, and breathed slowly and carefully.

"I'll get you some water," Spencer said.

Still he said nothing. He heard his crippled brother-in-law rising from the couch, and then walking-the click of the dog's toenails on the tile in the hall an indication that he was being followed-to the other side of the apartment for a gla.s.s.

WHILE SPENCER was getting him water, John forced himself to concentrate on what this news about the gun meant. He saw a couple of ways Adirondack might respond. They might argue the lawsuit was so completely frivolous-so monumentally groundless-that it should be dismissed. At the same time, they might point out that Spencer should be suing his brother-in-law in Vermont. The guy who left a loaded rifle in the trunk of his car. was getting him water, John forced himself to concentrate on what this news about the gun meant. He saw a couple of ways Adirondack might respond. They might argue the lawsuit was so completely frivolous-so monumentally groundless-that it should be dismissed. At the same time, they might point out that Spencer should be suing his brother-in-law in Vermont. The guy who left a loaded rifle in the trunk of his car.

Or they might see this as a trifling nuisance to be disposed of quickly. They would convince Paige Sutherland that it would be impossible to wrest a sizable chunk of change from them in court because she would be unable to contend the gun was defective. It was thus in her client's best interest to accept a token payment and go away.

It was not, of course, in Paige Sutherland's best interest to acquiesce to a token payment. Not by a long shot. She might care as deeply about the rights of animals as Spencer or Keenan or Dominique, but there was also a big pile of money on Adirondack's side of the table, and her goal was to convince them to slide it over to her.

Besides, Spencer didn't want a token payment. Actually, John wasn't sure that he wanted any payment. Oh, he understood the damages could be enormous, but for Spencer this nightmare had never been about the money. It had been about animals and hunting and violence.

He looked up when he saw Spencer returning with his water. He took a sip and wished he felt better than he did. Spencer sat down and watched him.

If only they had the casing, he thought, and it had a definitive ding or dent. A rim that was defective.

"I wish we had the casing," he murmured simply. He half-emptied the water in his gla.s.s and placed it down on one of the coasters he remembered from his childhood. It had an artist's rendering of the Mayflower Mayflower on it. "I might look a little less foolish. And your lawsuit might be more viable." on it. "I might look a little less foolish. And your lawsuit might be more viable."

"John, it's fine. Let it go."

"No, it's not fine. With the gun working perfectly, this lawsuit-"

"There isn't going to be a lawsuit."

"What?"

Spencer pushed himself to the edge of the couch, and John saw a glimpse of the intensity that once ran through his brother-in-law like river water in March.

"There's something you need to know. Something Catherine and I just found out this morning."

His mind was still centered on Adirondack; he couldn't imagine what Spencer was about to tell him.

"Go on."

"Charlotte was stoned when she shot me."

"Stoned? What are you talking about?"

"Charlotte had been smoking dope that night and she'd had a beer. A whole beer. She'd stolen a joint from some older kid's bag at the bonfire the teenagers were having, and she and Willow-yes, little Willow-were wasted. Maybe not falling-down-drunk wasted, but somewhere between careless and unthinking. You've been there, John. Me, too. G.o.d, we've been there together."

"Not at ten years old," he said. "Not at twelve, even!"

"If it makes you feel any better, your daughter has been trying to get mine to come clean for almost two months," Spencer said, shaking his head slightly, before continuing with details John understood he was only half-hearing. Something about two beers, a bottle for each girl, and a joint that, according to Charlotte, was as thick and round as a crayon.

The image of his daughter, her tiny legs in her shorts, pa.s.sing a joint to her cousin on a summer night in New Hampshire disgusted him. He wasn't angry with her-the child was ten, for G.o.d's sake, still a week shy of eleven-but he was furious with himself. How had it come to this? he thought, and then he decided he knew. He knew.

Here was one more thing for which he could feel guilt and remorse, one more reason to kick himself in the a.s.s. Unlike the weapon he'd left loaded for eight long months, however, this was a gaffe he could fix. He and Sara both. He didn't know whether it was before Patrick was born or after, he didn't know whether shipping their girl off to her grandmother's in the summer was a mere symptom or a part of the cause, but he was confident now that at some point he and his wife had managed to lose sight of their daughter.

"Who knows what she was thinking when she shot me," Spencer concluded. "All I can say is that it's evident she wasn't thinking real clearly."

"Oh, you can say more," John said. "Me, too."

Spencer began to use his left fingers to toy with the ones on his right, and John had the sense that this wasn't an unconscious mannerism. He wondered if his brother-in-law was supposed to do this to keep the blood circulating. Spencer then offered the smallest of smiles: Resignation. Capitulation. Fatigue. "Anyway," he said, "this little bit of information sealed the deal in my mind. There can't be a lawsuit. Not now. I doubt we could win if this information were known, and we certainly can't try to bury it and proceed. I'm going to tell Paige this morning."

"Are you going to mention the marijuana?"

"Yes. And I'll explain that I don't want my daughter and my brother-in-law to become public spectacles-Catherine's concern all along. I'll tell her how Catherine almost left me this morning."

A few minutes ago, John thought, he had been speculating on how little interest Paige would have in a token payment. But dropping the lawsuit completely? He hadn't even contemplated that. He started to estimate how many billable hours she might have ama.s.sed but quickly turned off the calculator in his head. He didn't want to know. Besides, she was bound by a fiduciary duty to follow her clients' instructions. If Spencer McCullough wanted the suit dropped, then dropped it would be.

"She won't be happy," he told Spencer simply.

"No, but she has a good heart. Really, she does. She'll understand that I'm doing this for my family."