"Don't shut me out. I want to help you."

"I don't need your help. I just need to think. I need to be alone."

"You spend too much time alone, dear."

"It's my life."

"Of course it is. Nobody's denying that."

"Did you hear what I did to Bernice's boyfriend? Maybe the police haven't found him yet. I shot him last night."

"I know," said Mary, stepping a few paces closer. "But he's doing fine."

Plato looked up sharply. "I shot him a bunch of times in the chest."

"He was wearing one of those vests, the kind that bullets don't go through."

"No shit?"

"Plato, your language. You don't need to talk like that."

Here they were, in a life-and-death situation, police with loaded rifles all around them, dynamite strapped to his chest, and his mother was scolding him for using profanity. Only in a small town.

"Why don't you let the girl go, dear? I'll stay here with you instead. It will work out just the same. The police can't do anything if they think an innocent person might be harmed. Maybe, after the girl leaves, we could ask them to bring us some breakfast. Would you like that?"

Of course, thought Plato. He could ask for anything he wanted. "Maybe I'll demand a limo to take us to the airport. And then a plane to South America. Throw in a million bucks and we've got ourselves a plan!"

"Be reasonable, dear. This is Rose Hill. The police are already falling over themselves trying to figure out what to do next. You can't put any more pressure on them. It wouldn't be kind, and you're not that sort of man."

"Mother, I killed Kirby Runbeck, and attempted to kill two other people."

She seemed startled. "You killed Kirby?"

"What do you think this is all about?"

"I thought you were angry at your father, and that it escalated into-" She spread her arms wide. "This."

"It did."

"But murder?"

He groaned.

"Plato, I demand an explanation."

"Look, the girl's behind the hay bales. Go get her."

"But-"

"No more talking. Take her and leave."

"But, son, what are you going to do?"

"I don't know!"

"Give yourself up. I couldn't bear it if something happened to you. You and Bernice are the lights of my life. You're still my little boy. I'd do anything for you."

He felt himself begin to crumble. "Get the girl, Mom, before I change my mind and blow us all up."

"You'd never hurt me."

"Get her!"

Hesitantly, Mary crossed to the back of the barn. Crouching down, she untied the ropes, then helped the girl to her feet. "Plato, we can work this out somehow," she said as she passed slowly by him.

"Wait," said Plato gruffly. He stood and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. "I love you, Mom. Don't worry. I'll be out in a little while."

She smiled uncertainly. "I'll be waiting."

Once they were gone, Plato spent a few moments petting Astrid's head. "You're a good girl," he said softly. "You're my cow."

He sat down to think. Every once in a while, his musings were interrupted by the annoying sound of Doug Elderberg shouting at him, but Plato didn't listen anymore. What was the use? He'd made up his mind.

As the sun reached midday, the heat in the barn was beginning to rise to an unhealthy level. Astrid was growing restless. She needed to get outside where there was a breeze, where she could nibble on some grass.

Moving over to the door, Plato called, "Doug? Are you there?"

"I'm here," came the prompt, booming response.

"I've got an unhappy cow in here. The barn's awfully hot. She needs to get outside. Will you let me walk her out to the pasture?"

No response. He was probably conferring with his henchmen. Finally, "All right, Plato. But stay to the south of the barn."

Slipping a rope around Astrid's neck, Plato tugged her to the door. With his hand on the detonator, he looked around. The air was still, the silence oppressive. When he reached the edge of the pasture, he stopped for a moment. A shiny new penny lay at his feet. As he bent down to pick it up, he heard the report of a rifle. Lunging forward, he slapped Astrid on her haunch, sending her away from him, then spun around and dodged his way back to the barn.

"At least she's safe now," he whispered, hearing a hail of bullets hit the metal walls. It was almost over. In one deafening blast, his pain would end forever.

Or would it?

Plato's father had always maintained that most solutions were only temporary. Since Plato believed in an afterlife, as his finger slipped over the detonator, he wondered if this solution fell into that category.

Epilogue.

Sophie sat by the hospital room window, knitting a wool scarf. She hadn't done any knitting in years, but she needed to keep busy right now, keep moving, even if only barely. She'd made herself a cup of tea a few minutes ago, a variety that promised to tame her tension, but it wasn't working. In an effort to occupy herself with something other than worry, her thoughts turned to Cora Runbeck's cat. Winthrop had been found locked in a small cage in the basement of the Rose Hill Gazette two days after Plato had blown himself up. Plato had given him water and food, but by the time he was discovered, it was all gone. His plight had made headlines as far away as New Zealand. A veterinarian had checked him over and pronounced him frightened but fit, and Cora had taken him home to the cheers of cat lovers everywhere.

A lot had happened since Plato's death three months ago. It was late November now, a few days before Thanksgiving. The last Sophie had heard, Cora Runbeck was commuting to New York and L.A. on a regular basis. Her cat's odyssey had ended happily, and so had her own.

After being wined and dined in the Twin Cities as the third-place winner of the Times Register's meat loaf contest, Cora had made a hit on Good Morning with Bailey Brown. So much of a hit that she'd been invited back three times. By the middle of October, she was a regular on the program. And by early November, she'd been a guest on The Tonight Show, David Letterman, Oprah, and Rosie. The latest scuttlebutt hinted that Cora would be the first person to land a regular berth on Politically Incorrect with Bill Maher. In three short months, she'd become a Minnesota phenomena, spouting her no-nonsense, small-town, Lutheran-inspired brand of plain talk on all the major networks. People couldn't seem to get enough of her.

Except for the Washburns. Sophie and Bram had driven down to Rose Hill in early October for Bernice and Angelo's wedding. Since everyone else in the country was talking and laughing about Cora, the fact that her name was never once mentioned didn't go unnoticed. And yet, nothing could get in the way of Bernice and Angelo's happiness that day. To everyone's delight, John was there, too, sitting in a wheelchair, thin as a reed in a new suit. He may not have been dancing at their wedding, but he was beaming with joy.

Later, when the happy couple was in Venice on their honeymoon, John had suffered a second stroke. He lived for two days before dying quietly in his sleep. Mary and Milton were at his side until the end. Mary called Bernice and Angelo when it was over, saying that John wanted to be cremated. His memorial service could wait until they returned from their trip.

Before Angelo left for Italy, he and Sophie had talked privately. He insisted that John's secrets be kept from the family. He'd already extracted an oath of silence from Cora. If Bernice or her mother ever learned the truth, it would only cause more pain. Sophie went along with him because she had no reason not to.

Angelo and Bernice were living in Connecticut now. And Milton and Mary were happily settled at the house in Rose Hill. Bernice wrote Sophie that her mother had fallen in love with Milton, never guessing that Sophie already knew. Bernice was happy that her mother wouldn't be alone, now that her father was gone. She approved wholeheartedly of the relationship, though she didn't think Milton and her mother would ever marry. They'd been down that road and didn't want to do it again. If they continued to live in the house without benefit of matrimony, it would become quite the scandal in Rose Hill. But Bernice said her mother had changed since her father's death. She didn't care these days what other people thought. What she thought was more important.

As for Viola Newman, the old woman in the nursing home, Sophie drove down to visit her every few weeks. Viola said she missed Jim, as she still called John Washburn, but she was glad he'd finally found peace. She talked to him every day now and felt he was listening, that he was waiting for her to join him. Sophie hoped that was true.

After taking a sip of tea, Sophie's thoughts turned to Nathan Buckridge. His dining room at Chez Sophia was finally under construction and he was busily at work with a commercial kitchen designer. She'd driven out one afternoon in late October to see the plans. Nathan was bouncing off walls he was so excited. She was happy for him. He wanted her to come back the following day to look at carpet samples, but she said she couldn't. He didn't press her and she was glad. Nathan had been a huge question mark tossed in the path of an otherwise happy marriage. But a few days ago, a new, more ominous threat had turned up. At this moment, all Sophie wanted was to spend the rest of her life with her husband. She wanted a long life with him, but that was up in the air right now.

Three days ago, while Bram had been doing his afternoon radio program, he'd begun to experience chest pains. As soon as the paramedics had been summoned, there'd been a mad scramble at the station to find someone to fill in for him. Sophie had been called and had met him at the emergency room entrance. The paramedics had already started him on oxygen and an IV in the ambulance. She's been so glad he was awake and able to talk that she'd burst into tears-not particularly helpful. Once he was stabilized, an emergency room doctor had come in to ask him some questions. Had he ever experienced chest pain before? Did he take any medications? Had a member of his family ever had a heart attack? Sophie was stunned to learn that Bram's father had suffered a heart attack in his early fifties, and that his uncle, his father's brother, had died of a heart attack when he was fifty-two. Bram had turned fifty-two in September. No wonder he didn't want to celebrate his birthday this year. If only Sophie had known. It explained so much about his recent actions. That's why he'd been trying so hard to get into shape. The physical he'd been given back in August hadn't suggested anything was wrong, but based on his family history, he must have had a premonition.

Bram was still sweating and in pain when they finally wheeled him off to do an EKG. Sophie spent the next hour in the waiting room, pacing in front of the window. She couldn't believe this was actually happening. Finally, a different doctor, a man named Stoebel, came out to talk to her. He explained that they'd found blockages in two of her husband's major arteries and were prepping him for bypass surgery. Bram would be given a general anesthetic and wouldn't be awake during the procedure. The surgery would take anywhere from two to six hours. A bypass graft would be performed to reroute blood flow around the blockages. Dr. Stoebel felt that Bram would do just fine, but he wasn't offering certainties.

There had been no time for a second opinion. No time to check out Dr. Stoebel's medical references. Sophie had called her son, and he and his partner, John, had arrived just as the surgery began. Together, they waited.

That was three days ago. Bram had come through the surgery like a trooper. For the first twenty-four hours, his condition had been monitored closely in the cardiac intensive care unit. Because of a breathing tube, Bram couldn't talk, but his eyes spoke eloquently. He was scared, but incredibly happy to be alive. Yesterday, the tube was removed and he'd been allowed to sit up in bed. When he coughed, he used a pillow to cover the incision and lessen the pain.

And today, the third day after the operation, his nurse had helped him to get up. He moved slowly around the room for a few minutes, then sat in the chair and watched a little TV. He was so tired when he got back into bed that he'd been asleep ever since.

Hearing Bram stir, Sophie set her knitting down and went to make sure he was okay.

"Hi, sweetheart," he said, seeing her face loom over him.

With her diminutive height, Sophie rarely had the chance to loom over anyone, so this was a rare occasion.

"How are you feeling?" she asked.

"Like I got hit by a truck." His voice was still raspy and sore from the breathing tube. "But happy to be here."

She touched his face tenderly. "Dr. Stoebel was in a while ago. He says you're doing better than expected."

"That's me. An overachiever to the bitter end."

"This isn't the end, sweetheart. You're doing so well. You'll be home soon."

"We'll see." He coughed, then winced.

She took hold of his hand. "Bram? Why didn't you tell me about your father's heart attack? I thought he died of lung cancer."

"He did."

"Then-"

"The heart attack didn't kill him. My uncle wasn't so lucky. It seems the Baldric men have a fatal flaw. Not only do their hearts break easily, but they don't work very well."

"You mean you've been carrying this worry around with you all these years? I wish you'd told me."

"Why? So you could worry, too?"

"Yes," she said, squeezing his hand. "We're a team."

He searched her eyes for a long moment.

Finally, Sophie said, "You'll recover from this, honey. You're going to be better than ever."

His expression softened. "Frisky and feisty?"

She nodded.

"From your mouth to God's ears."

"That's right," she said, straightening his bed covers. "After all the time I put in with the Church of the Firstborn, I should get some points." She was about to adjust the pillow behind his head when he took hold of her sweater.

"I love you," he said, a heartbreaking urgency in his voice.

"And I love you."

"A team, right?"

She smiled to cover her tears. "Forever, sweetheart. You and me against the world."

Pinwheel Meat Loaf First-prize Winner 1 pound ground beef

pound ground pork

1 egg

1 cup fresh bread crumbs