He was an investment banker."

I knew all that, of course, from the crime scene and arm scan this morning as well as the preliminary computer report I'd run on Mr.

Foster. Still, it was a start.

"Did he say anything to you this morning before he left? Something to make you angry?"

"No," she giggled a little under her breath.

"He told me to take out the garbage." She was still remembering, not looking at me directly.

"I guess I did," she said.

Wanting to catch her in this reflective mood, I quietly asked, "Did you really kill your husband, Fran?"

"Oh, yes. Detective Jacob Bridges. I killed him in self-defense."

For the second time that morning, I sat there dumbfounded.

Self-defense? How the h.e.l.l do you kill someone in self-defense with a hypertrain? She laughed again, lightly, and waited for my reply.

Finally, I said, "Self-defense, huh? I guess you'll have to explain that one to me."

"I know," she said.

"And that's the story I'm going to tell you. The story you need to hear."

"Well, then, I guess I'm done asking questions. At least for now."

"Very well," she said, "then I can begin."

Her eyes went down-left again, and we both ignored the coffee. Her soft melodic voice was the only sound in the room. She said, "It all goes back to an anonymous e-mail I received last summer. It said that the person knew I was an abused wife, and if I wanted to get out of the situation, I should come to a secure virtual chat to hear this man speak.

"Winston would've killed me if he'd known. But I went anyway. By then, I was so desperate for a way out that I would've done anything at all. The one time I went to the police, he beat the h.e.l.l out of me. Of course, he knew a judge, so the matter just 'disappeared' from the official records." She laughed bitterly.

"Still, I thought maybe this chat was my last hope. So I went."

I nodded, and said, "I understand what you must've been feeling. My sister was abused. It only ended when my father died. What happened at the chat?"

I asked.

"My whole life changed," she said.

"I sat in the fourteenth row of the dark auditorium and wondered what I was doing. I stopped there by accident really, or maybe it was curiosity. Hope was not something I was feeling. Mostly, I was afraid that my husband would come home while I was online and plug in to see what I was doing.

"The speaker was a blond man, in his early thirties.

He was dressed in a cream-colored sweater and blue jeans. I remember because he seemed so confident and relaxed. His voice wasn't deep, but he spoke well.

I thought he sounded like a minister.

"Ladies," he said, "my name is Maxwell Centouro.

I am here to help you, and if you listen to me, your troubles--at least those with your husbands--will soon be over.

"My father was an alcoholic and an abuser. On the last night of his wretched life, he beat my mother for the very last time. Because he killed her. And I killed him.

"What I didn't know at the time was this: I should have done it in such a way as to leave no doubt that it was an accident. But I didn't.

Instead, I got sent to prison for seven long years. But while I was there, I made one vow to myself. When I got out, I would teach others--women like yourselves, whose husbands hurt them--how to escape the situation."

"I remember thinking at the time that it was like a dream- Winston would never allow me to escape.

Never allow me to leave him. Still, I listened. It seemed I had no choice."

"You can't rely on the law, ladies. My mother tried that. And he won't get better if you just do the right thing. All he will do is get worse and worse. Because he likes hurting you. And I'm here today to teach you how to stop him."

"I remember how silent it was in that room. All around me the women were completely quiet, though a few of them cried softly to themselves as Maxwell talked. They sounded like wounded animals. I probably would have left then, but I was already hooked. I felt hope again.

"Winston hit me all the time, and every time it got worse. I would've left but for one thing. Something so small that Winston had already forgotten it, I'm sure.

Two weeks before I came to this lecture, Winston had beat me with a belt in this very room. Not far from where you're sitting, Jacob.

"And as I lay on the floor, crying and begging for him to stop, he stood over me with that d.a.m.n belt in his hand and he smiled. He was enjoying my misery.

I realized then that I'd do anything to be free of that smile for the rest of my life.

"I learned a lot that day. I learned that it must 142 R. Clans appear to be an accident, and just in case, to doc.u.ment the abuse. I also learned four techniques that Maxwell said would 'take care of your husband permanently."

The best one for me, or rather for Winston, was number three. Maxwell called it: For the man who has a daily pattern. It was perfect.

"You see, Jacob, Winston had a pattern. Was a man in love with patterns. If I let him fall behind schedule for any reason, his wrath was terrifying. So I planned a way to use it against him.

"It took me six months to figure it out. To find the 'hole' in his pattern where an accident could happen.

It took me another three months of online study to figure out how to make the accident happen. During this time, I doc.u.mented as much as I could about what Winston was doing to me. I took pictures and wrote everything down. My biggest fear was that he would find them."

I finally interrupted.

"Hold on a minute. Do you still have those pictures and stuff?"

"Yes," she said.

"I do. Maxwell taught us very well.

But I thought we'd agreed on no more questions?"

"You're right," I said.

"Sorry, go ahead." I noticed when she spoke her voice automatically lowered in tone. Another body language sign of submission.

She continued, "Of course, he beat me during those months. But in some ways it was worth it. For the first time in nine long years I had a secret. Something Winston didn't know. I think, maybe, that a mad little part of me was in love with the very idea of secrecy.

Of having something to myself. I hid the pictures and letters under the grill vent of the refrigerator. And I watched Winston.

"Each day, I learned more about his schedule. Finally, I spotted the hole. He insisted on driving to work. In that ridiculous 'cla.s.sic'

car of his, rather than take an air car or use the city train. Every morning at 8:04 sharp, Winston left for work. Not at 8:05, and not at 8:03. As I said, he was really stuck on his schedule.

"The hypertrain crosses the tracks at 8:13. I know because I timed it every d.a.m.n day for a month. I told Winston 1 wanted to lose some weight, so I left the house right at 8:00 to bicycle down there and check the time. It was h.e.l.l, Jacob, to get on the bike and pedal like crazy in order to get there and be away before Winston drove by.

"Always, the train got there at 8:13. So, just like Winston, the ran on time. I just needed to get him there at the right time. And he needed to be distracted, just enough to take his mind off the train and his car. It wasn't that difficult really. Once I figured it out, I was surprised that I hadn't thought of it sooner." Her voice trailed off, and she looked at me.

"Jacob, do you ever feel that way?" she asked.

"Yeah, Fran, sometimes I do. Like now, except I don't have all the answers yet. How did you do it?"

"I set his watch back. His big, fancy watch that could tell him right down to the second what time it was."

I knew the watch, having seen it that morning.

"Okay, but what made him crash?"

"Simple. Last night, while he slept, I went out to the garage to accomplish two things that I learned.

You see, what I studied online during those months was mechanics.

"Cla.s.sic Vehicle Maintenance 101' was the actual course t.i.tle," she said.

I looked at her with some admiration.