"Go ahead and knock," Danny said. "We're already halfway there."

I knocked and the dean called us in.

"Dean?" I asked, leaning in the half-open door as if he might not grant entrance if he knew who was knocking. "A few minutes of your time?"

"Of course," Whitestone said, waving us in. "My goodness, Curran. You're actually early." He grinned when he noticed Danny. "There's another chair against the wall there."

Danny grabbed the other chair, aluminum-framed with maroon cushions, and placed it next to the identical one before Whitestone's enormous desk. We sat and folded our hands in our laps simultaneously. I wondered if we weren't overplaying it. Whitestone begged a moment's indulgence, turning to his computer.

I had no doubt he was checking his stock portfolio on the Internet, or maybe booking another trip. He fiddled around at his keyboard for a good ten minutes, to show what a busy man he was, to impress upon us that our audience was a special honor.

"Kevin, won't you introduce me?" he finally asked.

He didn't offer Danny his hand, keeping them hidden in his lap. He had never before called me by my first name.

"Dean Whitestone," I said, "this is my brother, Danny. He's interested in enrolling at Richmond and considering his subject area, I knew he had to meet you."

"What's your preferred area of study, Dan?" Whitestone asked.

"The history of child psychology," Danny said. "Especially treatment of the mentally ill and the severely disabled."

Whitestone turned to me, his eyebrows raised and his bottom lip puffed out to show he was impressed.

I forced my best competition smile. "You can see why I brought him to you."

"Indeed," Whitestone said. "Kevin's given you some background on our Bloodroot project, then?"

"Some," Danny said. "I've also done some research on my own."

Whitestone gave me a sad shake of the head. "Kevin, considering your brother's interests, your reluctance to join the fold only confuses me further."

"Chalk it up to sibling rivalry," Danny said. He laced his fingers and leaned forward in his chair.

"I really wanted to hear about it from you, anyway, since you're the authority."

"True," Whitestone said. "I've been involved in the Friends of Bloodroot since the beginning, founding it, in fact."

"Of course the history of the place interests me," Danny said. "I'm already pretty well informed about it. I've done some research. I just wonder what would make such a place worth preserving?"

"A reasonable question," Whitestone said. "To begin, what happened there was unconscionable.

No one is denying that or trying to whitewash it. Children being used in unsupervised experiments, living in Holocaust-like conditions. All right under the nose of the greatest city on Earth in the latter half of the twentieth century. Shameful. Worse, Bloodroot was not the only place of its kind. How could such things happen?

"But let's put our emotions aside for a moment and ask another question. Why does Germany give tours of the concentration camps? Why do the Japanese commemorate Hiroshima and Nagasaki? Why do American museums and art galleries have exhibits about slavery and lynching, or address the eradication of Native Americans? Because, as we like to say in our department, those who forget history are doomed to repeat it."

Whitestone leaned forward, his face a perfect mask of sincerity. He breathed heavily through his nose as he spoke. "Bloodroot changed American history. Who knows how many innocent lives were sacrificed in the darkest days of that place? But what came out of it: the oversight, the legislation, the funding-it saved thousands more. As a historian and as a father, I can't let such an important place fade unmentioned into the past."

"It's a sound argument," Danny said, scratching at the inside of his left elbow. "But has anyone thought of the families? Bloodroot was only closed twenty-odd years ago. There are surely families in the city who placed children there. Surely there are survivors of that place? How do they feel about their ugly past being put on public display?"

Whitestone's face lit up with excitement, as if he'd been waiting the entire meeting for that one question. "I have letters from a dozen families supporting the Friends of Bloodroot. Had Kevin attended that press conference, he could have told you as much."

"I went to the last one," I said. "About the award."

Whitestone ignored me. Danny had captured his exclusive attention.

"How involved in this museum is Dr. Calvin?" Danny asked. "Could be redemptive for him."

"I haven't even attempted to find him," Whitestone said. "He hasn't been heard from in over two decades, disappeared without a trace right after the story broke. You can imagine his disgrace at being discovered."

"Is he dead?" Danny asked.

"He very well could be. He'd be rather old by now. At the time of the controversy, there were whispers of suicide, but no body was ever discovered."

"So no one knows for sure, then," Danny said. "It'd be a coup to track him down. He'd certainly have a contribution to make to the conversation."

"I don't know who'd want to hear it," Whitestone said. "He had his chance to explain himself back then and chose instead to make his escape." Whitestone shrugged, holding out his hands.

"Dr. Calvin is hardly of any consequence anymore."

"The people who wrote those letters," Danny said, "might feel differently."

"Any of those letters of support from the survivors themselves?" I asked. "That would certainly be powerful stuff in your favor."

Whitestone tossed a commiserating glance at Danny, then looked back at me, pity and impatience dulling his eyes. "Well, Kevin, most anyone at Bloodroot could barely speak their own name, never mind write a letter. It's pretty impossible for any survivors to understand the situation, never mind express approval or objection."

"These families supporting the project," Danny said, "their Bloodroot children are still alive?"

Whitestone shook his head. "No, no children. People as severely damaged as those poor souls usually did not live very long."

"Usually," Danny said. "How hard have you looked?"

I snuck a glance at Danny. I feared that he'd taken on more than he could handle in discussing Bloodroot with someone who felt very differently about the place than he did. A single blotch of hot, red blood bloomed behind his ear. The clock had started ticking on his temper. Time to draw the meeting to a close. Hopefully, Danny had learned what he needed to know about Whitestone's office.

"Man, I'm fired up," I said, standing. "I think the three of us can really get into this Bloodroot thing. I'm not going to miss the next board meeting. Dean, you'll be sure to let me know about it?"

Whitestone had sunk back in his chair, tapping his lips with a pen, studying Danny and trying to ascertain, I was sure, exactly how much use Danny could be to him.

"I hate to bring a halt to things," I said, "but I do have a class to teach." I set my hand on Danny's shoulder. He hadn't moved. "Maybe we can get together again another time, set up some introductions over in Psych." I looked down at Whitestone. "Thank you, Dean, for your time."

Without moving his head, Whitestone shifted his eyes away from us and settled them on his bookshelf.

Danny finally stood. I let slip a huge sigh of relief and backed toward the door. Danny didn't move.

"As soon as I'm enrolled," Danny said, "I think we can do a lot together, me, you, and Kevin."

He glanced at me then back at the dean. "Don't let Kevin fool you. He knows more than you think. Our grandfather was Dr. Henry O'Malley. You might be familiar with the name."

Whitestone practically leaped over his desk to get to us.

"Kevin, why keep this information a secret? I have such immense respect for Dr. O'Malley; he's practically a hero of mine." He lowered his eyes, licked his lips. "If you'll forgive my immodesty, I sometimes think of myself as your grandfather's heir. That I'm continuing his work on behalf of abused children." The dean paused, folding his hands across his chest, playing for reverence before he spoke again. "We have a prominent display planned for your grandfather at the museum. Perhaps, Kevin, you and your brother could speak at the next FOB meeting. The O'Malley name and reputation, now that would give some weight to our modest organization. I know the Advance will send a reporter and a photographer." He cuffed me on the shoulder. "No school paper for Dr. Henry O'Malley."

I could practically see the dollar signs in Whitestone's eyes. The old ladies would remember my famous grandfather. His name would be worth its weight in gold at the fundraisers. Gold that would line Whitestone's pockets. I pulled the office door open wide, feeling dirtier than I had at the dump. I desperately needed some air. "I'll put something together," I said.

"Dan?" Whitestone asked. "I hope you'll consent to be part of this, too. Carry on the noble labors of your bloodline."

Danny snatched Whitestone's hand from his side and squeezed it in a firm grip, resting his other hand on the smaller man's shoulder. "Dean Whitestone, I feel like I already am part of it. More than you know." He turned the dean's wrist, eyeing the scars on the back of his hand. "Painful?"

Whitestone pulled his hand away. "Childhood accident."

"Happens to the best of us," Danny said.

Whitestone raised his hands, backing away from us, his yellow-toothed smile oozing across his face. "Enjoy the rest of your day, gentlemen."

Danny and I couldn't get out of the building fast enough, barreling down the stairs and bursting out the building doors like we had the Redcoats' breath on our backs.

" GOD ALMIGHTY," DANNY SAID, shaking off a chill. "I feel like boiling myself. And that's saying something considering the people I know."

"Danny, I told the folks about our conversation that night you gave me the tour. They remember things differently. So I did some research of my own. Grandpa was the public face of the city's medical community during the entire scandal. His name is in every article in every local newspaper, every national story." I took a long drag on my cigarette. "And there's more, Danny.

The cops talked to Grandpa about Calvin going missing. A couple of times. That was in the papers, too."

I stopped, waiting for Danny to say something. He stayed quiet.

"There was talk that Calvin didn't disappear very far from home," I said. "His home in Brooklyn. Park Slope, Brooklyn." I dropped my cigarette butt on the ground and crushed it out.

"The night you first took me to the restaurant, Bavasi said something to me about him and Santoro knowing Grandpa. The other night, when we were talking about you, Dad talked about Grandpa having powerful friends, not all of them doctors. What's that sound like to you?"

"Ancient history," Danny said, holding his smoke to his mouth and staring down at his shoes.

"So Mom and Dad said I was lying to you? About where I came from."

"No, not really," I said, sitting on the bench. "They just think you misremember some things from when you were really young. That you've got a couple things mixed up in your head. They blame the drugs." I stretched my arms across the back of the bench, trying to look casual, like Danny had at the restaurant. "Danny, you think Grandpa really killed someone?"

Danny stood a few feet away from me, his head tilted back, staring through the dead leaves of the trees and into the sky. "You think I'm a liar? You think my drug-addled brain made up all that shit I told you the other night? Maybe you do think I made it up. To trick you into helping me. Same old Danny, right? Only out for himself and fuck everyone else. That's what the folks said, right? That what you're thinking?"

Danny's self-righteousness grated on me. Drug-addled or not, he had to know his history gave cause enough for questioning his true motives. He'd hurt the people closest to him the most, with me at the top of the list. He knew that. He remembered. He'd said so himself.

"That's how it works in history, right?" Danny said. "Whoever's left around gets to decide the truth. Like whether or not Grandpa killed a man who had it coming." He kicked at the concrete again and again, a kid who'd watched the ice cream truck turn away around the corner. "God, I hope he fucking did it. I wish we could know for sure."

"He did everything he could to put an end to that place," I said. "I'm sure he went as far as he felt was necessary." I stepped up to my brother. "And now we'll go the rest of the way. We'll bring that place down. We'll do it. What's it matter what I think? What I believe is I'm into this thing all the way. I promise. That's what matters."

"It matters to me," Danny said, "that you believe me. Mom and Dad can go screw. But you? It matters a lot, Kev. Believe that."

"I've known from the minute I saw you again that you weren't the same old Danny," I said.

"And you never will be. Believe that."

Danny stared at me long and hard. He was smart enough to know I hadn't answered his questions, I hadn't told him who or what I believed. All I could think was that I had learned to dance around the truth from the best liar I knew, my own brother.

But I hated seeing Danny like this, his shoulders slumped and his head turned away to hide the sad eyes in his quickly paling face. He looked like a kicked dog aching to be petted. And perfectly willing to be kicked again, if that was what it took to stick around. The sight reminded me too much of Danny the junkie crawling home, drooling on himself, dope sick, lovesick, and helpless.

"What time tonight?" Danny asked.

"The folks? Oh, man. Listen, it's been a long afternoon. If you wanna put it off, that's cool."

"Deal's a deal," he said. "I promised you. No more same old Danny, remember?"

"Seven," I said. "Dinner might be a bit too much. Let's stick to dessert and drinks. Ease everyone into it."

"Still cookies and whiskey?"

"Every time," I said. I glanced at my watch. "I really do have one more class to teach."

"See you at seven, then," Danny said. He started walking away then stopped and turned. "Hey, I'm sorry for fucking with you over Kelsey. I should've let you make the call." He shrugged. "It seemed like a normal brother thing to do, swing by the office and shoot the shit. I should've known better." He raised a finger at me. "She seems first-rate. Don't fuck it up."

"I'll try not to," I said, walking over to him. I didn't mention that it really wasn't up to me.

"Listen, tonight'll go fine. I'll make sure of it. And I don't care if you say you came from the moon and Mom and Dad insist it was Mars. You're my brother. That's all that matters. I mean it."

Danny held out his fist and I bumped it with my own.

"Stay away from Whitestone," he said. "I'll handle things from here. When you've been where I have, you can spot the evil ones like their fangs are four feet long. It's a myth they only come out at night."

I asked Danny what he meant but he just shook his head. "Trust me. See you tonight."

WATCHING DANNY GO, I worried maybe I was getting played: about Bloodroot, about Santoro, Whitestone, Al, some of it, all of it. Maybe even Danny giving up the drugs. Sure as hell wouldn't be the first time I'd been the fool. Could be he didn't even know he was doing it anymore. Maybe the lies and manipulation were only habit now, freeing Danny, really, of ill intent.

Maybe the hell he'd been through had marked my brother in ways neither he nor anyone else could ever undo. Maybe Danny had track marks on his soul. Or maybe Danny had always been a shape-shifter and an acrobat who served only his own shadowy needs. For all its power over Danny, maybe the heroin had been nothing more than a placeholder, an apprenticeship, a black fire in which he forged his heart until he found his true calling as one of Santoro's dark angels.

According to my folks, Danny had been born screaming in need, had breached the world shrieking into the dirty Brooklyn air for what his frantic blood told him he'd die without. Utter selfishness wasn't a choice for Danny. It was the mandate, the prime directive of his blood.

Wherever he'd come from, one thing was true. My brother had entered this life alone and already lost. Danny never even had the faith or innocence the rest of us get to throw away.

As Danny's silhouette moved away from me, growing smaller, I realized something else.

Believing in Danny now wasn't about him. It was about me. I was the one with the choices. And I chose to stand by my brother and get fucked for it every time rather than risk turning my back on him the one time he really, truly needed me. If I got hurt, the only one to blame was myself.

Everyone else around me, including Danny, stayed innocent. I knew in making that choice, I was as selfish as Danny. My conscience stayed clean no matter what. But the other option was admitting to myself I couldn't trust my brother. Ever. I didn't want to live in a world where a man couldn't trust his only brother. So I chose not to.

Like so many before me, I rewrote history the way I wanted it to be. There was no one to stop me.

SIXTEEN.