"Don't get too interested." She frowned at him. He had done that before, and been an hour late after a performance. She wouldn't tolerate that from him, or anyone in fact. She didn't have to. As she pointed out to him regularly, she was a real real artist. artist.

"Do you want me to take you back?" He looked hopeful, like a schoolboy anxious to please her. It was something about him that had pleased every woman he'd been involved with, even Sasha, although she didn't admit it to him. She never told him how much she loved him, or how much she liked his company. It was beneath her to say those things, and he didn't need to know them.

"I'm meeting some of the others in five minutes, John. On the corner. I'll see you tonight?" She stood up, tiny and exquisitely erect, her back like a beautifully sculpted slab of marble, and one eyebrow raised over the olive-green eyes. "On time, yes?"

"You're a tyrant." He stood to kiss her and watched her go, as he sipped his tea, and then paid the check. Something about her always always left him feeling unnerved and excited. As though he wanted more, as though he couldn't get enough, as though she would never let him possess her. It was as though she danced away from his grasp each time he reached out for her, but in some ways he liked it. He liked chasing her. He liked everything about her. She was so much more alive than Eloise, and the endless numbers of women attorneys and ad execs he had taken out in the five years since he'd divorced her. Sasha was entirely different. left him feeling unnerved and excited. As though he wanted more, as though he couldn't get enough, as though she would never let him possess her. It was as though she danced away from his grasp each time he reached out for her, but in some ways he liked it. He liked chasing her. He liked everything about her. She was so much more alive than Eloise, and the endless numbers of women attorneys and ad execs he had taken out in the five years since he'd divorced her. Sasha was entirely different.

He walked back to the office, more slowly this time, thinking of Sasha at first, and then of arthur Patterson and the three women he wanted him to find. It was an odd story and he couldn't help wondering if there was more to it than Arthur was telling. There was a piece missing to the puzzle somehow, maybe even several of them. Why did he want to bring them back? What did it matter if they met now? They were grown women, having led separate lives, what could they possibly have in common? And why did Arthur Patterson feel so guilty? What had he done? Or what hadn't he done? And who were these women's parents? John's mind whirled over the questions as he walked along. He was good at what he did because he had an uncanny knack for seeing the pieces that were missing and then finding them, like the proverbial needle in the haystack. He had found more than a few, and had been crucial in several major cases. His most astounding work had been in the field of criminal law, and he was respected by attorneys and courts all over the country. Arthur Patterson had come to the right place. But John Chapman wondered if he could find the missing women.

He took the file home with him that night and pored over the little that was there. It was pathetic how little there was, though. Arthur had been right. There wasn't much there to help him. Only what he had said in the office. There were all the clippings of the trial, which John read first, intrigued by the unspoken elements of the story. Why had Sam Walker really killed his wife? Was it premeditated, as some thought, or a crime of pa.s.sion? What had the woman done to him, and who was she? In a way, he didn't need to know those things, and yet the questions intrigued him. He read reviews of several of Walker's plays, and remembered seeing him once as a little boy. All he remembered was that it was an impressive performance and he was very handsome. But more than that he didn't remember.

There was a brief note in Arthur's trembling hand, explaining that he and Sam Walker had been buddies in the army. There was a list of the places they had been, and a description of their first meeting with Solange, which was surprisingly lyrical for a man his age, and one who had written nothing but legal doc.u.ments and briefs all his life. And John wondered if therein lay some of the answers. Perhaps Arthur had been in love with her. Or perhaps it didn't matter. The facts were still the same. Sam had killed Solange for whatever reason, leaving their three children orphans.

The eldest had gone to relatives at a Charlestown, Ma.s.s., address, an Eileen and Jack Jones, and Arthur knew she had gone to Jacksonville from there, because she had told him so when she'd come to his office in 1966, seeking her sisters' addresses. Arthur had mentioned in a footnote that she had been less than cordial. He said too that she mentioned having been in juvenile hall in Jacksonville, and John wondered if she had gone afoul of the law as a young girl. If so, she may have done so again, and he might be able to find a rap sheet on her. That would make her easier to find anyway, especially if she was sitting in prison somewhere. But at least he could tell Patterson he'd found her.

The second one had gone to one of arthur's partners, who had then died, and the widow was G.o.d knows where, remarried to G.o.d knew who. That one was a healthy project. He'd have to start with the Gorham files at the firm, and pray they'd had to contact her for something in recent years, maybe a trust or some other lingering detail of the estate Arthur knew nothing of since he was not one of Gorham's trustees ... and then there was the baby.

The youngest child had also virtually disappeared, but not without warning. Arthur had told him that David Abrams felt strongly about Patterson's not maintaining contact with the child, that they wanted her to have a new life, totally divorced from her past, and wanted to ensure that she did so. John even found himself wondering if that had been part of their reason for moving to California, to start a new life, where no one even knew that the child was adopted.

And after that, there was nothing. There was one clipping at the back of the file, the one Arthur had mentioned, but despite the similarity of name, like Arthur, John thought it was a long shot. It was the article from The New York Times The New York Times, about a Hilary Walker's promotion at CBA Network, and it was highly unlikely that she was the same girl. Even Arthur didn't recognize her, and it was too sweet and easy to find her within easy reach, and successful. John had been in the business of finding people for long enough that he knew a false hope when he saw one. He'd look into it of course, but he was sure she would turn out to be a different Hilary Walker.

And that was it. There was nothing else. He sat back in his chair, and thought about all three. How to find them, where to start. The wheels were already turning. And then with a sudden start, he glanced at his watch.

"Son of a b.i.t.c.h ..." he muttered to himself. It was just after ten-thirty. He grabbed his jacket off the back of a chair, and hurried down the three flights of his brownstone. He had the top floor of a lovely house on East Sixty-ninth Street. And he was lucky enough to find a cab almost at once, but with posttheater traffic, he barely made it to the stage door in time to meet Sasha.

She came out at precisely eleven-ten, as he knew she would, looking tired, wearing jeans and sneakers and carrying her dance bag.

"How was it?" There was always the tension of someone having performed major surgery, not unlike Eloise's struggles with difficult denouements in the plot. But somehow this seemed more exciting.

"It was awful."

He knew better than to believe her, and put a protective arm around her as he took her dance bag. "You expect too much of yourself, little one." She was so tiny, it always made him feel protective of her, and in any case, he was that kind of person.

"No, it was terrible. My feet were killing me. It's going to rain tonight. I can always tell." John had learned that dancers' feet were a constant source of agony, and a constant topic of conversation.

"I'll ma.s.sage them when we get home." He promised as they climbed into a cab and headed back to East Sixty-ninth Street.

The apartment was peaceful and quiet when they arrived. There were only two other tenants in the building, one a doctor who never seemed to be there. He was younger than John, and when he wasn't on call, delivering babies at New York Hospital, he seemed to be staying with a.s.sorted women. And the other was a woman who worked for IBM and traveled eight to ten months of the year. So most of the time he was alone in the building. He had a view of the little garden outside, and the larger gardens of the town houses on Sixty-eighth Street. "Do you want a drink?" he inquired, poking his head out of his well-ordered kitchen.

"Just some tea, thanks." She sat down on the couch with a sigh and stretched her arms and her back and her legs. She never cooked anything in his small kitchen. It never dawned on her to do things like that for him or herself. John always did them for her.

He emerged a few minutes later, bringing her tea in a gla.s.s, the way she liked it. It was a Russian tradition he had come to like, and he had bought special gla.s.s mugs just for that purpose. He had been equally expert at preparing Eloise's snacks while she was working. But in return, she had cooked him some wonderful dinners between books. She loved to bake, and had a real flair for French cuisine. Unlike Sasha, who thought being expected to make toast was an affront to her as an artist.

"Are you coming to the performance tomorrow?" she asked as she slowly pulled the pins from her hair, and it began to cascade in long blond sheets past her shoulders.

John looked at her with regret. He hated to remind her. He knew that whenever he did it would create a scene between them. It annoyed her when he went anywhere. She expected him to be always near. And the next afternoon he was flying to Boston.

"I'm going up to the Cape for the weekend, Sash. I said something about it a few weeks ago, but you may have forgotten. It's my mother's birthday. I tried to get out of it, but I really couldn't. It's her seventieth, and it's important." Both of his brothers were going to be there, and their wives, and their children. It always made him feel inadequate somehow, going there without an entourage to show for his years of marriage and a.s.sorted romances. Everything they had was tangible and obvious, wives who had nice sapphires or diamonds as engagement rings and anniversary presents, kids who had skinned knees and missing teeth, and in the case of his oldest nephew, even a high school diploma. It was going to be a long weekend. But he knew it would be fun too. He was fond of his two brothers, one older, one younger. His sisters-in-law were a bit difficult, but the kids were great. And there was no way he could bring Sasha. Even at his age, his parents would have frowned on his bringing a woman with him for a family occasion. "I'll be home Sunday."

"Don't bother." She straightened her back and dropped both feet to the floor gracefully. "I have rehearsal Sunday afternoon. And I'm not interested in crumbs left over from your parents' table." She looked so outraged that he could only laugh at her choice of words. Sometimes her English was outlandish.

"Is that what I am, Sash? A crumb?" It was more than obvious that she thought so.

"I don't understand what is so sacred about your family. You've met my parents, my aunt, my grandmother. Are your parents so much better than mine? They would disapprove because I'm a dancer?" She sounded terribly Russian and looked extremely dramatic as she paced around the room, her hair flying and her hands shoved into the back pockets of her blue jeans, her tiny little body tense with emotion.

"They're very private, that's all." And very Bostonian. A writer had been difficult enough. A ballerina would drive his mother totally crazy. She had a healthy respect for the arts, but preferably on a stage, not in her son's bedroom. "They don't understand relationships like ours."

"Neither do I. Are we together or are we not?" She stood in front of him looking like an enchanting elf, but an elf who was extremely angry. She felt shut out by the family he never introduced her to, and without his ever saying so, she was aware of their disapproval.

"Of course we're together. But as far as they're concerned, you don't acknowledge those things until you're married, or at least engaged." And she was the one who resisted that. She saw no need for a permanent statement.

"They think we're immoral?"

"Maybe. They prefer not to think about it. They don't want to have to confront this kind of thing, so they don't. And as their son, I have to respect that. They're pretty old, Sash. My mother is going to be seventy on Sat.u.r.day, my father is seventy-nine. It's a little late to force them into acknowledging modern arrangements."

"That's ridiculous." She stormed across the room again, and then stood glaring at him from the kitchen doorway. "And if you were any kind of a man at all, you would take me anyway, and force them to acknowledge my existence."

"I'd rather invite them to see you dance the next time they're here. That would be a better introduction. Don't you think so?"

Sasha thought it over as she crossed the room again, only slightly mollified, and then she sat down on the couch and began to put on her sneakers. He knew it was a bad omen. She was always storming out at two in the morning and going back to her apartment.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm going home. Where I belong." She looked at him malevolently and he sighed. He hated scenes, and she doted on them. They seemed to be part of her art form.

"Don't be silly." He stretched out a hand and touched her shoulder. It felt like rock beneath his fingers, "We each have things in our lives we have to do on our own. You have your work and your ballet friends and your rehearsals. I have my own work, and a few other obligations."

"I don't want to hear it. The truth is, Mr. Chapman" -she stood up and glared at him, swinging her dance bag over her shoulder-"that you're a sn.o.b, and you're afraid your parents won't think I'm good enough. And do you know what? I don't care. You can have your Mayflower Mayflower and your Plymouth Rock and your Boston. I don't need to be in the social register, I will be in and your Plymouth Rock and your Boston. I don't need to be in the social register, I will be in Who's Who Who's Who one day. And if that's not good enough"-she made a gesture that said it all, and stalked to the door. And for once he didn't stop her. He knew that by Sunday she'd cool off, and he couldn't appease her by not going. one day. And if that's not good enough"-she made a gesture that said it all, and stalked to the door. And for once he didn't stop her. He knew that by Sunday she'd cool off, and he couldn't appease her by not going.

"I'm sorry you feel that way, Sash." She slammed the door in answer, and he sat down with a sigh. Sometimes she was so unbelievably childish. And so self-centered. He didn't let himself think about it often, but she hadn't once asked him about his new case. The only time she noticed his life was when, for whatever reason, it enraged her.

He turned off the lights in the living room, and went to bed without putting their gla.s.ses in the sink. The cleaning lady could do it in the morning. And as he lay in bed, he thought about her accusations ... that he was a sn.o.b ... and that his parents wouldn't approve of her. In some ways, she was right. His parents would not have been enchanted by Sasha Riva. They would have thought her too limited, and extremely difficult, inadequately educated and ill-informed, and yes, it would matter to them that she wasn't "social." It wasn't something that mattered to him a great deal, but he knew that to them, it was important. Eloise had been something else. She and his mother had never really gotten along, and she thought his sisters-in-law unspeakably boring. But she was from an excellent family, and had graduated from Yale summa c.u.m laude. You couldn't fault Eloise's breeding, or her education. And she was intelligent and amazingly witty, none of which had made her a good wife. Far from it. Not that Sasha showed much greater promise. He thought about calling Sasha after she got home, but he was too tired to hunt her down, wake her roommates up, and beg her forgiveness because he was going to Cape Cod to see his mother. Instead he burrowed into the pillow and fell asleep, and didn't wake up until the alarm rang the next morning.

He showered and shaved, made himself coffee and left for work, and he noticed when he read the newspaper on the subway that Eloise had a new best seller. Good for her. It was all she had in life, and he knew how happy it made her. He envied her sometimes. He would have liked to be as fulfilled, as obsessed, as totally enthralled with what he did that it didn't matter what else happened in his life. He loved his work, but he wanted so much more than that. And so far, he hadn't found it. It was one of the reasons why he was excited about the Patterson case. There was something about it that excited him and he hadn't been this excited about his work in aeons. The first thing he wanted to do was find the oldest one, Hilary. There was something about her that haunted him. And G.o.d only knew what had happened to her after Arthur had abandoned her in Charlestown. He knew from her visit to Arthur's office in later years that she had wound up in Jacksonville, Florida. Somehow, but how or when or why, neither of them knew, and maybe it wasn't important. And what had happened to her afterward was a mystery too. She had never contacted Arthur again. She had simply disappeared. And then there was the clipping from The New York Times The New York Times Arthur had given him of the woman named Hilary Walker at CBA Network. But was that even the same woman? He doubted it. It seemed extremely unlikely. Arthur had given him of the woman named Hilary Walker at CBA Network. But was that even the same woman? He doubted it. It seemed extremely unlikely.

Chapter 16.

John got to the office before nine o'clock. He had a lot to do before leaving early for the weekend, there was something he wanted to do before he left. He wanted to try calling the Hilary Walker in Arthur's clipping. It probably wasn't the woman he wanted but it was worth a shot. It was a lead, and he couldn't afford to ignore it. She might just be at CBA, right under their noses, working near the top at a major network.

He glanced at his watch. It was nine-fifteen, and he picked up the phone himself. He called information, and then dialed the number.

"Hilary Walker, please." His mouth felt a little dry, and he was surprised. He didn't know why he was getting to care about the Patterson case so much.

A secretary answered, and he asked for her again.

"May I tell her who's calling?" a voice asked.

"John Chapman of Chapman a.s.sociates, she doesn't know me, and it's a matter of some urgency, if you'd be good enough to tell her that."

"Just a moment please." The girl at the other end gave away nothing. She had called Hilary oh the intercom, and she couldn't figure out who the h.e.l.l John Chapman was or why he was calling. She had a major production meeting to run at ten o'clock and she didn't have time to waste with crank callers.

"Ask him if I can call him back later," she told the secretary and then countermanded her own orders. "Oh never mind, I'll talk to him myself." She pushed the b.u.t.ton with the flashing light, and her cool, deep voice came on the line. "Yes? This is Hilary Walker." And for an odd moment, John was reminded of his mother's deep voice. She was the only other woman he knew with a voice as deep as that, but he got down to business with her quickly. Whether she was the right Hilary Walker or not, this one was a very busy woman.

"Thank you for taking my call, I appreciate it, and I'm going to be direct with you, in the interest of saving time. My name is John Chapman, I'm the head of Chapman a.s.sociates, I'm looking for a woman named Hilary Walker. Her father was Sam, her mother Solange, and she lived with a couple named Jack and Eileen Jones in Boston. Are you that woman?" It was fortunate that he could not see her face at the other end. She was chalk-white and shaking from head to foot as one hand clutched her desk, but her voice betrayed nothing.

"No, I'm not. What is this about?" Her first instinct had been to deny it, but she had to know why he was looking for her. Was it for the others? Not that it mattered anymore. They were long gone, and probably didn't even remember her. She had given all that up years before. All she had now was the network. And much more likely, it was Arthur. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

"This is part of an investigation for a client. He was hoping to find this Miss Walker. And he saw the articles about you in the Times Times and and The Wall Street Journal The Wall Street Journal, and hoped that you might be the right one. It was a long shot, and I'm sorry to have disturbed you." He could hear in her voice that she wasn't the right one, and he had to admit he was disappointed.

"I'm awfully sorry not to be able to help you, Mr. Chapman." Her voice was smooth and cool, but she was definitely not moved by his inquiry. It would have been much too simple if she had been the right one.

"Thank you for your time, Miss Walker."

"Not at all." And with that, she hung up, and he quietly hung up the phone. He had struck out. And he couldn't see the woman who sat pale and shaken at her desk across town. It was like getting a phone call from a ghost. She was sure it was Arthur looking for her, the old son of a b.i.t.c.h, well he'd never find her. She had no reason to reach out to him, to soothe his conscience for him. He had never done anything for her or her sisters. To h.e.l.l with him. And John Chapman. And all of them. She didn't need them.

She walked into the meeting at ten o'clock and tore heads off for the rest of the day. But she was still shaken when she left the meeting and so was everyone else. She had fired three producers, and threatened everyone else in the meeting. She was merciless, but then again she was known for it. She was only slightly worse after the call from John Chapman.

Chapter 17.

In his office, John Chapman sat staring into s.p.a.ce in disappointment. The woman in the article was not the Hilary Walker they wanted ... he he wanted ... He sighed deeply and put the clipping back in the file with a notation. Later, he would have to call and tell Arthur. But two of his a.s.sociates were anxious to speak to him in the meantime. wanted ... He sighed deeply and put the clipping back in the file with a notation. Later, he would have to call and tell Arthur. But two of his a.s.sociates were anxious to speak to him in the meantime.

Three of their biggest cases were coming to court, and they had gotten the goods in all three. It was very rewarding. And at noon, John looked at his watch and made a decision. He had handled pretty much everything he wanted to, the rest could wait till Monday. His parents weren't expecting him till dinnertime. And if he caught the two o'clock commuter flight out of La Guardia, he'd be in Boston at three, and he could stop in Charlestown on his way to his folks. He'd still be there in plenty of time, and he wanted to see if he could turn up anything on Hilary Walker. He had what he needed to go straight to Jacksonville on her, but he still liked to be thorough in his investigations. And a trip to Charlestown might turn something up on one of the others. It was worth a look in any case, and he was going in that direction.

He told his secretary where he'd be in case she needed him, and took a cab back to his apartment. It took him ten minutes to pack a bag. He knew exactly what he needed for a weekend with his family. And by one o'clock he was already on his way to La Guardia. He bought a seat on the commuter flight, arrived at three-ten, and rented a car at the airport. And from there it was a thirty-minute drive to Charlestown.

He checked the information in the file again and made sure he had the correct address, and cringed inwardly as he began driving down the streets of Charlestown. It was one of those areas that had been ugly forty years before, and had not improved with age. There were other sections that had been lucky in recent years, and were being restored by loving hands, but these houses were not among them. And if they had been ugly when Hilary lived there, they were worse now. They were truly awful. Filthy, broken down, with paint peeling everywhere, and many of the houses boarded up and crumbling. There were signs here and there, on houses that had been condemned by the city, and John could almost feel the rats waiting to sneak out at nightfall. It was an awful place, and the house where he stopped was one of the worst among them. He stood for a moment, looking at it from the sidewalk, the weeds were shoulder-high in the yard, and the smell of trash was heavy in the air, and the front door was almost falling off its hinges.

With trepidation, he walked up the front steps, trying to avoid the two broken ones so as not to fall through, and he knocked on the door resoundingly.

The doorbell was hanging by a thread and clearly broken. And although he heard noises within, no one came to the door for a long time, and then finally a toothless old woman answered. She stared at him, confused, and then asked him what he wanted.

"I was looking for Eileen and Jack Jones. They lived here a long time ago. Did you know them?'." He spoke loudly, in case she was deaf. But she did not seem so much deaf as stupid.

"Never heard of 'em. Why don't you ask Charlie across the street. He been living here since the war. Maybe he knew 'em."

"Thank you." A glance into the house told John that it was depressing beyond belief, and he only hoped that it had been more pleasant when Hilary and her sisters lived there. Though it was hard to imagine it ever having been much better. The street had become a slum, but it didn't look as though it had even been pretty. "Thank you very much." He smiled pleasantly, and she slammed the door in his face, not because she was annoyed, but only because she didn't know there was any other way to do it.

He looked up and down the street, and thought of talking to some of the other residents. But he went first to the house she had pointed to. He wondered if anyone would be home at four o'clock on a Friday afternoon, but the old man she had called "Charlie" was rocking on his front porch, smoking a pipe, and talking to an old mangy dog who lay beside him.

"Hi there." He looked friendly, and smiled at John as he came up the steps.

"h.e.l.lo. Are you Charlie?" John smiled pleasantly. He had been good at this, in the days when he actually did the legwork. Now he just determined it from his desk on Fifty-seventh Street, but there was a certain thrill to doing this part of it again. He had tried to explain to Sasha once how much he loved it. But she couldn't understand it. To her, there was only dancing ... and Lincoln Center ... and rehearsals. Nothing else mattered. Sometimes he even found himself wondering if he did.

"Yes, I'm Charlie." The old man answered. "Who wants to know?"

John stuck out a hand. "My name is John Chapman. I'm looking for some people who lived here years ago. In that house," he pointed, "Eileen and Jack Jones. Do you remember them by any chance, sir?" He was always polite, friendly, at ease, the kind of guy everyone wanted to talk to.

"Sure, I do. Got Jack a job once. Didn't keep it long of course. Drank like a son of a b.i.t.c.h, and she did too. I heard it finally kilt her." John nodded as though it were something he already knew. That was part of the art form. "I used to work in the navy yard. d.a.m.n good work too, durin' the war. I was 4-F 'cause I had rheumatic fever as a boy. Spent the whole war right here, close to home, with my wife and my kids. Sounds kinda unpatriotic now, but I was lucky."

"You had children then, did you?" John looked at him with interest.

"They're all growed now." He rocked back and forth and a sad look came into his eyes as he gnawed on his pipe. "And my wife's gone. Died fourteen years ago this summer. She was a good woman." John nodded again, letting the old man ramble on. "My boys come to see me from time to time, when they can. Daughter lives in Chicago. Went to see her last year, Christmas, colder'n a witch's teat. Got six kids too. Her husband's a preacher." It was an interesting history and John patted the dog as he listened.

"Do you remember three little girls who came to live with the Joneses about thirty years ago ... right about this time of year ... it was the summer of '58, to be precise. Three little girls. One about nine years old, one five, and the littlest one was a baby. She must've been about a year old."

"Naw ... can't say as I do ... they never had any kids, Jack and Eileen. Just as well. They weren't real nice people. Used to have some knock-down drag-out fights those two. Nearly called the cops on 'em one night. I figured he'd kill her." It sounded like a charming home in which to leave three children.

"They were her brother's children. They were just here for the summer, but one of them stayed on afterward ..." He let his voice trail off, hoping to jog Charlie's memory, and suddenly the old man looked up at him with a frown, and pointed the pipe into John's face with a burst of recognition.

"Now that you say all that, I do remember ... some terrible thing ... he had killed his wife, and the little girls were orphans. I only seen 'em once or twice, but I remember Ruth, that's my wife, tellin' me how cute they were and how terrible Eileen was to 'em, that it was a crime to leave those children with her. Half starved 'em, Ruth said, she took 'em some dinner once or twice, but she was sure Jack and Eileen ate it and never gave it to the children. I never knew what happened to 'em though. They left pretty soon after that. Eileen took sick, and they went somewhere. Arizona, I think ... California ... someplace warm seems like ... but she died anyway. Drank herself to death if you ask me. Don't know what happened to them little girls though. I guess Jack musta kep' 'em."

"Only one of them. The rest of them left that summer. They just kept the oldest one."

"I guess Ruth musta known that. I forget." He leaned back in his chair, as though remembering more than Jack and Eileen, it was all so long ago, and his wife had been alive then ... it was bittersweet to remember back that far ... he seemed to forget John as he rocked back and forth in his rocking chair, and he had given John what he'd come for. He hadn't learned anything he desperately needed to know, but it was a little piece of the puzzle. It explained some of Arthur's guilt. He must have known how terrible they were, and yet he had left them there ... and left Hilary to them ... in effect abandoned her to them. He could only begin to imagine what her life had been like in the house across the street, with the kind of people Charlie had described to him. The thought of it made John shudder.

"Do you think anyone else along here would remember them?" John asked, but Charlie shook his head, still lost in his reverie, and then he looked up at John and answered.

"No one lived here that long, 'cept me. The others all been here ten, fifteen years ... most of 'em less. They stay a year or two, then move away." It was easy to see why. "My eldest boy wants me to come live with him, but I like it here. ... I lived here with his ma ... I'll die here one day." He said it philosophically. It was all right with him. "I ain't goin'."

"Thanks for your help. You've been a big help to me." He smiled down at Charlie who looked up at him with open curiosity for the first time.

"Why you want to find Eileen and Jack? Somebody leave 'em some money?" It hardly seemed likely, even to him, but it was an intriguing idea, but John was quick to shake his head.

"No. Actually, I'm looking for the three girls. A friend of their parents wants to find them."

"That's a h.e.l.l of a long time ago to lose someone and then go looking for 'em." John knew only too well how true that was.

"I know. That's why you've been such a help. You put the picture together with little tiny pieces of what people remember and now and then you get lucky, like I did with you. Thank you, Charlie." He shook the old man's hand, and Charlie waved his pipe at him.

"They pay you good for a job like that? Seems like a lot of wild-goose chasin' to me."

"Sometimes it is." He left the previous question unanswered and waved as he stepped off the porch and walked back to his car. It was depressing just driving down the street, and it was as though he felt Hilary's eyes on him, as though he were Arthur leaving her there, and he couldn't help wondering how Arthur could have done it.

The drive to his parents' house after that took less than an hour, and his older brother was already there when he arrived, drinking a gin and tonic on the terrace with his father.

"Hi, Dad. You look great." The old man looked more like sixty than nearly eighty. There was no tremor in his voice, he still had his hair, and he had the same long, lanky legs as John as he strode across the terrace to put an arm around his shoulders.