The kitchen was pristine save for an ebony-handled carving knife, its blade embedded in the butcher block. Tara blew on her hands, trying to warm them, as she went to fetch it, only to pause. Atop the impeccably scrubbed butcher block, beneath the blade of the knife, was a note written in Donna's childish scribble. Tara's hand went behind her back, instinct telling her not to touch it, common sense telling her that caution was ridiculous.

Touch it she did. The news was a flash, scrawled in the throes of excitement. Donna was engaged.

Bill Hamilton was a bridegroom to be. Around the message she had drawn a curlicued heart and through the heart the knife had been jammed, its handle obscuring the bottom half of the page.

Grasping it tight, Tara wiggled it, yanking it out of the wood. With her other hand she picked up the note. In bold, block print, the message had been amended, Bill laughing while he wrote " "Til death do we part" before he had driven the knife through that papery heart, drawing no blood but making Tara's run cold.

Sick. Furious. Appalled at the grossness of the joke, the intimate inference that they shared a dangerous understanding of the way Bill's mind worked. She didn't want to think about it, much less understand it. Tara wanted rest. She wanted her life back. She wanted her friends back. She wanted to wake up in the morning and know there was a calendar for her to follow. No more insane teasing from Bill Hamilton. No more idiotic accusations of jealousy from Donna. This lunacy would stop now. Tara threw open the back door and stormed across the yard.

"Wake up! Bill, get out here." Tara banged on the door, dancing on the doorstep of the guest house, jumping off the steps to look through the window. But the curtains were drawn and the night was dark and silent. She lay her fist on the wood again, pounding and pounding. There was no one to hear if she screamed at the top of her lungs and she wished there were. Let someone ask questions, let someone call the cops. Let them take this out of her hands. Send her anyone else, but not someone whom Donna loved. Anyone but that.

She raised her fist and dropped it again. One.

Two. Three times.

Bill was right. He was nuts. He needed help, but if she was going to get it for him, then he had to stay out of her s.p.a.ce. She could not, would not, live with him. That was Donna's choice, not hers.

"Bill," she screamed, "I want to talk to you now.

Get out here."

The door opened. She shut her mouth and clenched her jaw. One step back and the knife was held at the ready. Tara knew only that it was there and that holding it made her feel safer. But the door stopped opening. Tara stepped forward and gave it a little push, her knees buckling in the face of such frightful uncertainty. He had touched her tonight, laid his hands on her. He had watched her and she was shaken. What was left? What would he do now that she had come for him? With a courage fueled by desperation, Tara pushed a little harder.

"Don't you play these sick little games, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d," Tara hissed.

"I don't care if we wake the dead, you're going to explain this and all the rest of it. The phone call. I know I didn't dream it.

The .. ."

Slowly the door opened all the way. Donna, half asleep, held on to the k.n.o.b and leaned against the jamb.

"Tara, come on, that hurt." She mumbled, her voice slurred with a sleepiness born of pills.

"What time is it? What are you doing?"

"Donna, I need to talk to Bill. Just go back to bed and send Bill out here. I need to see him.

Now .. ." Tara's voice broke.

"Don't you ever give up, Tara. Talk in the morning," she muttered and the door began to close again. Tara put her hand out, more gently this time so she could reach around and take hold of Donna and pull her outside onto the stoop. Swiftly she closed the door behind them.

"Tara, don't. It's freezing. I'm not dressed," Donna whined, coming awake now as Tara wanted.

She held Donna close, not for warmth but from a need to be secretive.

This was better. Much better than confronting Bill.

"Listen to me. Donna. Listen good. Look at this." Tara held up the knife. It looked uglier in the dark, a dull gleam running up the backbone of the long blade. She held Donna tight, shaking her as she ordered, "Wake up and look at this."

"What? It's a knife, Tara. I've got twenty at home." Donna twisted, trying to squirm her way out of Tara's grip.

"Ever had one through your heart?" Tara growled.

"Huh? Ever thought about that?"

"Wha .. . ?" Donna was shaking her head now, her eyes blinking like crazy as she fought the effects of her sleeping pill.

"Through your heart," Tara said, punching each word for emphasis.

"That sweet little note you left me about your engagement. Well, your intended left his own little message. He drew another heart.

He wrote, "Til death do we part," then stuck this through the heart. Through it. Donna. Don't you understand? Don't you see what he's trying to tell me?" Tara took a deep breath. Her eyes darted to the door. It was still closed, the house still silent, Tara still frightened. Her whisper grew more urgent still.

"Don't get any clothes, just come with me to the house. I want you to leave tonight. Bill can stay here, and I'll take care of him. He needs help. Donna, and I don't want you around if it gets ugly."

Donna was staring now, standing quietly in the circle of Tara's arm. She looked drunk. She looked astonished. Finally she looked amused, and then she started to giggle.

"Tara. You are getting weird. Very, very, very weird." Donna put her hand out, touched the knife, then backed off to the door, clearly annoyed.

"It was a joke. He thought our news would be like a knife through your heart. We shouldn't have laughed about it, but we did. He stuck the note to the board with a knife. Big deal."

"Donna, you don't understand. Donna .. ."

Tara insisted in a frantic whisper, but Donna already had the door open.

"I'm freezing, Tara. Go to bed. Sleep it off or whatever." She waved behind, shooing Tara away from her.

"I'm not drunk," Tara said, throwing herself against the door and holding her hands across the frame.

"He hurts people. Donna. He's going to hurt you."

"Oh, please." Donna turned back and rolled her eyes.

"That man loves me. He took me to bed tonight and touched me and loved me and I loved him back. Want to look?" She held out her arms.

"See any scratches? Bruises? Want to watch next time just to make sure I come out unscathed?"

"I'm not crazy," Tara said flatly.

"Really?" Donna asked.

"Could've fooled me."

The door closed. Tara was alone in the cold dark wondering if maybe, just maybe, she had lost her mind.

Quietly, in a fog. Donna slipped back into bed with Bill. She turned on her side, asleep before her head hit the pillow. Beside her, Bill Hamilton lay quietly, his eyes on the ceiling, his mind on the pain that shot through his head. Then, there was nothing.

Thirteen.

"d.a.m.n right, I'm mad. I'm furious, Woodrow.

I've never been so humiliated in my entire life.

George Amos called first thing this morning. I thought it had something to do with Johnnie Rae's case. But, no. He wants to ask about the accessory thing. Like he would even have a clue. Accessory, my foot. The man has lost it if he's trying to intimidate me on my turf. And I blame you. You've put me and my client in an untenable position. I'll be lucky if my client doesn't go to the bar with a complaint."

"Tara, I swear, I didn't know he'd do anything like that. He's just trying to do what he thinks is right."

"Don't you dare defend him! If he's that ignorant, read him chapter and verse about the laws against hara.s.sment."

Tara walked faster and Woodrow had no choice but to catch up. The snow had finally come, not in fat lovely flakes but in flat wet drops that had a terrible tendency to transform themselves into hail pellets every ten minutes. Tara's head was down as she walked, her fedora pointed into the mess. Woodrow had run out after her call without hat or umbrella and now his fine hair was plastered to his head. He looked ridiculous and Tara was glad. It was a small thing, but she was feeling petty today.

"I wasn't going to defend him. Give me a break, Tara. I thought he'd be discreet. And you're the one that put me in the mess anyway. Did it ever occur to you that if you'd simply asked me for state-ordered commitment without the details we wouldn't be going through this?"

"Oh, right. You'd do that without asking for particulars.

Woodrow, I trusted you. I tried to do everything aboveboard and you're the one who screwed the whole thing up."

"I reiterate, Tara, I did as you asked, I satisfied my own curiosity about the case. You know you're not the only one concerned with doing the right thing. I wasn't going to just waltz in to George and peek at a file and come back and report to you.

I have responsibilities, too."

Tara took a hard left and hurried across the plaza, past the drained fountain and its signs warning against swimming, past the weatherbeaten benches under the concrete pavilions that shaded downtowners when the sun was high and hot. But it was cold and this plaza was deserted except for a knot of homeless men gathered around a trash can, chatting and moving back and forth on the b.a.l.l.s of their feet trying to keep warm. It obviously hadn't occurred to them to risk the wrath of the city and build a fire in that can.

They shared the s.p.a.ce with a hot dog vendor who braved the weather to hawk his wares. The dogs smelled great, but Tara would wait to fuel the fire. She pushed through the gla.s.s doors of the Bernalillo County Government Center and waited for Woodrow to catch up before she started again.

"I do give you credit, Woodrow. I always have.

It's not easy being a government attorney. But you miss the point. Ambition I understand. I even understand wanting to use this situation. What I can't understand is how free you've been with information.

George didn't need to know it was my client.

Charlotte certainly shouldn't be involved in any decision making. I can't believe either one of them held a gun to your head and made you tell. All you've done is muddy the waters on something we agreed could be handled fairly and discreetly."

Tara tapped her foot. She didn't look at Woodrow any longer as she continued through the building.

"I confided in you as a friend. I told you that there was someone involved that I cared about.

You decided to ignore that very human factor in this equation. If you hadn't, business would have been taken care of and he would have been out of her life and mine and I'd be sleeping a whole lot easier." She turned on him to make her point.

"Woodrow, did it ever occur to you that I might get hurt? Did you ever wonder what would happen if you did prevail and sent this guy to prison? Did you think about him? Do you know what happens to unstable guys in prison? Do you, Woodrow?

They die and it isn't pretty what's done to them before they die. Which of these scenarios is worth an election?"

"Okay, okay. I get your point." Woodrow peeled off his gloves as he followed her to the elevator.

They waited. Tara pushed the b.u.t.ton, Woodrow opened his wet coat, reached in the back pocket of his slacks, and pulled out a comb.

"Look, Tara."

The comb was back in his pocket and he spoke quietly to her.

"You know, Tara, I live here too. I worry about Charlotte, knowing a guy like that is out there. I worry about all of us. My stand is valid too. You've seen the system. You know that sometimes the cracks are huge and someone can fall right through. I don't want him committed only to find him un indictable because he spilled his guts to a doctor who can't be subpoenaed."

Tara looked at the floor, some of the fight going out of her.

"I know it's tough, Woodrow. You've got a lot of irons in this fire. I don't think you're being malicious." She sighed again, not as angry, but still wary and wishing she could explain this so he felt what she did.

"You haven't seen him.

That's all. You haven't talked to him."

"I'd like to."

"Why can't you take my word for it?"

"Because I can't, and I'm sorry about your friend. Really I am. That's the pits. And I know it doesn't count much that I'm concerned too, but I'm not going to let you railroad me, Tara. I'm just asking to talk to him. If we have something to hold him on, I will, but he'll get a competency hearing."

Tara rolled her head back and forth.

"Woodrow, you keep thinking it's an easy thing for me to give you this man's name. Even if I did, even if somehow we skirted all the ethical issues, then what?

All you'll have is a name. What are you going to arrest him for? He hasn't done anything. Nope, introducing you two is a lousy deal." Tara shook her head and punched the up b.u.t.ton one more time.

"This whole thing is a lousy deal. Why is it that elevators take forever?"

"Tara, that won't do any good." The bell dinged just as Woodrow admonished her. She gave him a tired and wry smile, then stepped in ahead of him and whipped off her hat. Her hair cascaded past her shoulders, her cheeks were red with cold, her eyes snapped blue like the color of a brittle winter sky, an Albuquerque sky. But today it didn't come together, something vital was missing to make her beautiful. She lay back against the wall.

"Woodrow, I'm sorry for all this." Tara took a deep breath.

"Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine I'd have a situation like this on my hands.

Last night he did something strange and I thought I'd come to you and see if we couldn't come up with some compromise. But then George called."

She looked up to find Woodrow looking back at her.

"I realized then that this man, incompetent or not, could not be used by anyone. The only good I can work for is his. Can't you see that, Woodrow? If we wheel and deal and fudge the rules, then we're not representatives of the law anymore. We're simply advocates of our own goals."

"You can let me talk to him, Tara. It isn't unreasonable for me to want that. Even you have to agree. Even you would want to a.s.sess a situation personally before doing something that might hurt your career. You would, Tara." Woodrow's eyes softened as if he hated being the one to hold the mirror up for her. Tara rolled her head back along the wall of the elevator.

"But you won't see it, Woodrow. You won't see how crazy he is. He's .. ." She could not describe Bill Hamilton. She looked back at her companion.

"You feel the insanity, Woodrow. He's so good.