Barbara had to pull herself back from a void.

"Some of it." She surprised herself then by adding, "A lot of it, actually. Even it if is pretty self-serving. I guess the truth can be self-serving at times."

"Um. She's one scary lady. One h.e.l.l of a scary lady."

He pa.s.sed a truck. He was a good driver. When Barbara was a child they had driven hundreds, thousands, of miles during summer vacations. She remembered how bad a driver her mother had been. They always joked about it: She couldn't drive and talk at the same time, or drive and listen to others talking. Frank had not allowed her to drive very often when he was in the car. He joked about that, too, said he was too susceptible to nervous breakdowns to deliberately put himself in harm's way.

Now, having maneuvered around the truck and pulled away from it, he said, "I think she was leveling about a few things, anyway. One of them just could be that the disks should be burned. Will you promise blind, honey?"

"You know I won't."

"Yes, I guess I do.

"Okay, let's compromise. If those disks turn up, let's do it her way, let me have a peep at them first. Deal?"

"First after Mike," she said bitterly.

"Let's decide if they turn up." She glanced at his profile, dimly red in the lights from the dashboard.

"She said you would be safe because you know what you believe. Do you?"

"Tough question, honey. Real tough. Maybe she sees a realist in me, more than in you. Over the years I've lowered my expectations so often that I finally reached a level where I got from people pretty much what I expected, and that's the end of illusion and disappointment, maybe the end of childhood. Pragmatism, realism, whatever it is, maybe that's what she sensed in me."

Suspecting that she would not get more than that from him, she did not persist. But it was more than that, she was certain. He did know who he was, what he believed, and he was not afraid. That made the difference. He was not afraid. When her mother had been dying, he had provided the strength she needed to die with courage and even grace. Over the years Barbara had thought of him as simply lethargic or even fatalistic in his acceptance of what was happening at any moment, but now she thought it was not just like that. It was more as if he was able to say and believe, that was last year, or yesterday, or an hour ago, and this is now. She remembered what he had said about lowering his expectations, but that was not just right either.

He had an acceptance of people that she lacked; their goodness, their evil, whatever he saw in them did not surprise him. He was unsurprised by Mike's betrayal.

Barbara realized that she had come to view it as betrayal; the terror had subsided, leaving a dull ache in some part of her that was so deep that she didn't know if it had a name, if it could be removed and examined. Not the heart, she felt certain; the heart had become an organ that could be seen with instruments as it pumped, that could be dissected and examined for the fatal flaw when it ceased. The pain she was feeling would not show up with the instruments of science, she knew. What then? The soul? The soul, she thought, exactly that. She felt certain that Mike had taken the disks to a friend's house, or to his office, someplace where he had run through them all and realized that he needed time alone with them in order to understand the work, to follow it step by step.

Also, she told herself, he would be in no more danger than Brandy wine or Schumaker. Young, naive people might be at risk, but not scientists or mathematicians, or elderly lawyers. No, Mike would be fine, happily at work. When he was finished, when he had made it his own in the realest sense, then he would show up again with his engaging smile. And then? She could not say what then. Her previous reactions to betrayal had been to immerse herself so deeply in work, or school, or something, that she had no time to spend on disaster; or else to run away.

She knew she was to blame. She should not have sent him, used him, and again it came back to that, people using people for their own purposes. The people in Colorado using naive boys, using Lucas, using one another.

She was as guilty as any of them. She had been willing to use Mike, to use Clive with her attempt to disprove that the forest ranger could have seen what he claimed. And he, the ranger, had tried to use circ.u.mstances that could have had deadly results. That still could have them. But that was how it worked when you used people, she went on inexorably; the consequences were of no importance.

She had even used Ruth Brandywine, not with any real hope of changing the outcome of the trial, but rather to raise such clouds of dust that no one would be able to see clearly. She had tried to manipulate the jury, the judge, the spectators, Tony, everyone, because she had decided that her ends were worthy.

She felt a great bitterness thinking again about Ruth Brandy wine's dismissal of the mutilation and death of the girl in the woods, her dismissal of Nell and her children, of Lucas and his ruined life, his death. Brandywine had said she, Barbara, had a gift for discerning the truth. She could have laughed at that.

She gazed straight ahead; lights appeared, drew even, vanished; red lights "appeared, were pa.s.sed, vanished.

Truth, she was thinking; she had believed Nell Kendricks was telling the truth. She had said that to her father, who accepted that Nell had shot and killed her husband. She had believed Nell was innocent. Her intuitive self had believed until her rational self had started the "Yes, but" routine and killed the belief.

They were driving along the winding sh.o.r.eline of the reservoir. The surface of the water was black, as if a hole had opened there and the little bit of world bounded by its outline had dropped into it. She rejected that image immediately. It was like the black center of a Mandelbrot set, she thought then. If you turned the magnifying gla.s.s to any segment of the border there would be the complexity the mystery, the ever-expanding patterns that were unique and were also nearly like all the other patterns that might emerge at different places. She and her father were segments of one of the patterns, swirling about each other, touching, withdrawing, flying off in opposite directions, returning. And at Turner's Point there would be a hundred, two hundred other similar patterns; people in the houses that rode the ridge above the point generated their own similar yet different patterns. All held together, and kept separate by invisible links.

The links that bound them were the same that had bound humans from the beginning of time: love, hatred, jealousy, greed.. .. Nothing changed even while everything was in the midst of change.

She had flown out of this set, determined never to re turn, but the pull back was stronger than the pull away, and she had come home, just as Lucas had. Suddenly she realized with startling clarity that Judge Lundgren had been mostly right in limiting the scope of the trial. She had not really thought that hired detectives would gun down a man, but if she renounced that as a possibility, she had to eliminate Brandywine and her colleagues as suspects in the death of Lucas Kendricks. With this admission, she accepted that the pendulum had swung again; she had re turned to her original belief that Nell was innocent.

Something in Nell's recounting of her story had made Barbara say, / believe, even though she had to admit later that the impossibilities had outweighed the probable truth. Her rational self had silenced the irrational believer, and now she could curse herself for offering up Brandywine and company, for casting suspicions that she, Barbara, did not entertain instead of trying to find a plausible alternative.

But even if the judge had been right in saying no, he also had pulled the sides of the box too close. This particular box had to include the death of that poor girl in the woods. Janet Moseley belonged inside the box. Janet Moseley was not irrelevant.

They drove through Turner's Point, where at least half the lights were already off; people took sleep seriously out here in the country. Then Frank turned onto the private, gravel road; when the fir trees closed in about them it was as if they had entered a singularly dark tunnel that their headlights could not penetrate. The only light was directly ahead, now on a wall of tree trunks and undergrowth, now on an open s.p.a.ce that was too restricted. It was as if the darkness had to remind them that they were limited creatures in spite of their attempts to penetrate beyond their range with high beams. And then they were home again.

Frank kept his word and busied himself with an omelette as soon as they entered the house. She called Mike's number, his office, and finally Bailey Novell. His machine took the call. With nearly savage fury she told the machine to tell Bailey to get his a.s.s in to Frank's office at ten the next morning. When she stamped back to the kitchen, Prank began to whistle tunelessly. Good, she thought at him. Just don't say it, anything.

The next morning when they arrived at the courthouse, Doc was in the corridor. He looked almost as wretched as Nell.

"Will they decide today?" he asked.

"Probably," Frank said.

"You look like h.e.l.l, by the way."

Doc drew himself up straighten "I want to talk to you, Frank. Just you. Not about Nell or this trouble. But, first, if they come in with a verdict, will you have someone give my office a call? I can be over here in five minutes. She's ... she might go to pieces. I'm concerned. What it is, is I'm really frightened for her. If they are hung, will there be another trial? My G.o.d, she can't stand to go through it again."

Frank took Doc's arm and shook it slightly.

"You're babbling, you know? Go on to your office. Don't do any heart surgery today, okay? Go on. I'll call you when they callus."

They started to enter the courtroom but were stopped again, this time by Clive.

"I have to check in at work," he said.

"I'll be back as soon as I can. Will you be at your office again, like yesterday?"

"Yep," Frank said.

"You still have a job to check in at? I'm surprised."

"I'm taking sick leave," Clive said.

"I'll be back in half an hour." He hurried off. He looked as if he qualified for sick leave.

This time when they started to move again, they actually got inside the courtroom. Ten minutes later they were dismissed with the same instructions as yesterday.

Back in the corridor, Nell said, "We want to hear the tapes, if that's all right. I brought a tape player. It's in the car." She looked as if she had not slept at all; the skin was tight across the bones of her face, and her eyes seemed to get larger and larger as she lost weight week after week.

"I'll bring them around," Frank said.

"Is there any thing else I can get you?"

She shook her head.

"Did Mike get over and pick up the disks?" Barbara asked, trying to sound offhand but aware of a stridency in her voice.

Nell did not register surprise, or interest either.

"Yes.

Travis was still home waiting for James. He said Mike was there and left again right away."

John and Amy Kendricks, who had stayed back a few steps, now drew near. With a heartiness as false as amateur theatrics, John said, "We'll walk over. We can use the exercise, isn't that right, girls?"

Barbara and Frank watched them walk away.

"I think Doc's got a point about another trial," Frank said.

"That girl's really at the edge."

The whole issue of how to plead would arise again, Barbara knew. The thought occurred to her that the district attorney might even suggest a lesser charge, just to be rid of this, especially now that there were far bigger game fish in the waters. Could Nell resist? What hope could she, Barbara, hold out if she did resist? The next time, she also knew, she would not be allowed to bring in what had been declared irrelevant this time. Tony would see to that. But the odds were stacked against her being called upon to defend Nell a second time. The family, Clive, Doc, Nell herself, all probably would want someone else, and she could not blame them a bit. She felt tired and dejected as they started to walk toward the office. It was all falling apart, the way everything she touched always fell apart.

Nell and her family sat in the lounge listening to the tapes. Tears ran down Amy Kendricks's face; she was oblivious. Nell looked like a sightless wax doll. Clive had returned; he sat across the room with a tortured expression, watching Nell. Barbara fled to Frank's office. Bailey would not arrive until eleven; he had left a message, and until then she had nothing she could do. She had tried Mike's house, his office, the department secretary, everyone she could think of. She sat behind Frank's ma.s.sive desk and stared out his window at the life of Eugene, surging this way and that. Prank had said he would just mosey back to court and see if he could get in on me scuttleb.u.t.t about what was going on in the deliberation room.

Early on, Barbara had written a list of questions; many, even most of them, were still unanswered. Now, every time her thoughts whirled back to Mike, she denied that the flutter she felt was fear but called it anger instead, and she forced herself to consider the questions. Why had anyone dragged Janet Moseley across the lava bed to the creek? Who had called the ranger to report the car, and why? What did Jessie know, if anything?

If Mike ran the disks, she thought clearly then, and if the disks made people crazy, what form would his madness take? Would he be dangerous to himself, to others?

Should she call Brandywine?

She dropped a pen she had been twisting around and around and forced herself to consider Jessie Burchard. After a moment she picked up the pen again and this time began to jot notes. At eleven Bailey and Frank came in together.

"Anything?" she asked her father.

"Rumor is they're at seven to five and have been since yesterday afternoon. Seven guilty."

"Rumor," she said with a dismissive wave.

"h.e.l.lo, Bailey."

Frank shrugged; he knew how the rumor mill worked as well as she did.

"You look pretty good behind the big desk," he said, and took a chair opposite her, a client's chair. Bailey took a second one.

"Hi," he said.

"You sent, I came."

She described Mike, his family, his work, his house, everything she knew about him, and told Bailey to find him. "I don't care how much of a stink you make, either," she said grimly, her anger stronger than her fear at the moment.

Bailey grinned.

"I can take that two ways, you know.

You're telling me I don't have to p.u.s.s.yfoot around, or you're telling me I should make noise.

Which?"

"Make noise. If you can't flush him, maybe one of his colleagues or buddies will pa.s.s the word that you' remaking noise." He nodded. Then she said softly, "And, Bailey I have another small job, and this time I don't want you to so much as peep about what you're doing. Really QT. I want to know if Clive Belloc got fired from his last position, or if he quit. And if he was fired, what jobs he messed up during the last week or so that he worked for them, where those jobs were, when he did them, every thing you can rustle up. He worked as a timber estimator for one of the big lumber companies. I don't even know which one." She glanced at her father, who was regarding her as if watching a horn emerge from her forehead.

"Do you?"

He shook his head.

"He might have mentioned it, but if he did, I wasn't paying attention. One of the big ones is all I know."

"So there you have it," Barbara said to Bailey.

"And I want it yesterday."

"Jesus," he groaned.

"Give me a break. When did he leave the job? Do you have that much?"

"Oh, yes. A week or so after Lucas Kendricks was killed. In June."

Now Bailey looked interested.

"Yeah? Okay, that's something. You got priorities here?"

"Both ASAP."

* * * As soon as Bailey was gone, Frank said, "Clive, huh?

You want to enlighten an old man just a bit?"

"I was brooding about what Jessie could know. I kept thinking of the scenario I painted in court, about the private detective going around to Nell's beach, up to the house, and so on. Okay, I admit I don't think either of them did it, but I think that must be how someone did it."

"You're back to believing her story?" His voice was filled with wonder.

"Yes, I'm back to that. Let's a.s.sume she's told the absolute truth as far as she knows it. I was thinking Jessie might be protecting Doc, but if Nell told the truth, and I think she did, he was home when she called that Sat.u.r.day, so it couldn't have been him. Besides, I just can't put him on the other side of the mountain the day Janet Moseley was killed. And I can't bring myself to believe there are two killers hanging out around here." She paused, thinking, then said, "I tried James Gresham. Tawna would lie for him, I guess, but P can't place him on the mountain road, aware of the creek up there. And they both say he's never fired a gun in his life. And, finally, there wouldn't be anything for Jessie to know, or to hide, about him."

Frank shook his head hard.

"Whoa, honey. You're going too fast for me. Where does Jessie fit in?"

"She was on her deck that Sat.u.r.day, watching the search for the body of that girl. She could have seen someone-Clive, for example--head the wrong way, and put two and two together later. It probably amused her to think of him winning Nell after murdering her husband and letting her stand trial for it. I kept thinking there was something about the binoculars that I should pay attention to. Jessie had them on the deck; I saw them. But remember that day when Clive was supposed to go to the Forest Service road and let me find out if anyone could really see that far? I saw him, and I shouldn't have. Not ten miles. But I saw the flag, and a man's figure. He faked it. He must have been much closer than ten miles, no more than three at the very most. I got sidetracked when I realized that the ranger couldn't have seen any chrome on the car, and then I forgot about the whole thing. But why would Clive have faked the scene, unless he didn't want anyone to question the ranger's story? He didn't want any questions asked about who else might have known the car was down there."

Frank considered it with a distant look on his face. Finally he nodded.

"Could be. But, G.o.d alive, it's not much."

"I know. That's why I want to find out if he was in the area where that girl was killed. He would have known about the creek being there. That really has bothered me.

Who knew it was there, and why drag her body to it? The second part I don't know, but the first is Clive. He probably knows the forests better than anyone in the state."

Again her father was silent, thinking.