"Thank you," said Keely, undeniably surprised but relieved by the lack of red tape and bureaucratic wrangling. "Thank you so much. How is my son doing? Did he come to?"

"He came out of it briefly. He was very groggy."

"Still . . . that's great," said Keely, and the nurse did not contradict her. Keely picked up her bag and rushed down the hall toward Dylan's room. Outside Dylan's door, she came face to face with Detective Stratton, who had emerged from the stairway, followed by a patrolman.

"Detective," Keely said. "What are you doing here?"

"I got a call about the 911 report from one of the officers who responded. When I heard it was Dylan-"

"This is unbelievable," said Keely. "You're still hounding him. Haven't you done enough to hurt him? He's just a boy."

The detective's expression was impa.s.sive. "Look, Mrs. Weaver. I realize this is a shock for you, and I don't want to add to your troubles, but I am pursuing an investigation here for the D.A.'s office. Would you mind telling me what happened?"

"I wasn't there when it happened," she said stiffly.

He frowned. "I questioned the officers who arrived on the scene. And I confirmed this with the ER physician. Apparently, your son tried to cut his own throat with a utility knife. Do you know why he did that? Did he say anything or leave any indication?"

Keely stared at Phil Stratton and thought about what had happened, how his questions and his hounding of Dylan and her own lack of faith had caused them to be here in this hospital tonight. Part of her wanted to tell him everything, to wave Dylan's note in his face and tell him exactly what he could do with his questions. She considered it for a second and then realized it would be futile. "Do we have to talk about this right now? I just want to be there when my child wakes up. Can't you show a little compa.s.sion? Please."

He gazed at her with narrowed eyes, and for a moment, Keely could see that he was thinking through his options. Apparently, he decided to pull back on the muscle.

"All right, Mrs. Weaver. I can come back. We can do this tomorrow."

Keely did not bother to thank him or say good night. She pushed through the swinging door to Dylan's room and left the detective in the hallway.

The sight of Dylan lying there was only slightly less jarring than when she'd seen him earlier.It's amazing how fast you get used to the worst realities,she thought. She went over to the bed and reached for his hand. She leaned over and studied his waxy face. "Sweetie," she whispered, "I'm back. I'll be here all night with you."

Dylan's eyelids fluttered, and then, with a frown that was painful to behold, he opened his eyelids a crack, and his gaze swam up to her face.

Keely felt tears rush to her own eyes, but she forced herself to smile. "Hi, darling," she said softly.

He made a noise in his throat.

"No, honey, don't try to say anything."

He made a slight movement of his head, as if to acknowledge that he couldn't say anything if he wanted to.

"I know," she said. "It's terrible. But you're going to be all right, Dylan. I've talked to the doctor. This thing in your throat is only temporary. You're going to be fine. Good as new."

For a moment, at the sight of her, there had been a slight gleam in those familiar eyes, but now it faded away, and a dull expression replaced it. His eyelids closed again.

Keely grasped his hand as if she was holding him back from falling.Oh, G.o.d,she thought.Help us. Help me to help him. Give him the will to get better.

"Dylan," she whispered urgently. She hoped his eyes would open, but they didn't. She could still feel a slight pressure from his hand, though. It would have to do. "I'm here," she whispered. "Mommy's here." And the pathos of his childhood name for her now caught in her throat even as it hovered in the air around his bed.

Part of her thought she should leave him alone then, just subside quietly into her chair and let him sleep.G.o.d knows, he needs to sleep,she thought. But something inside of her made her think that his sleep, in that abyss where he had tumbled, might not be restorative. He might not sleep easily until he understood what she now knew. She leaned over the bed and put her lips close to his ear.

"Sweetie," she said in a low voice, "listen to me. I found your note. The note you left me on my pillow."

His eyes opened abruptly this time, as if he had forgotten something and her words had reminded him.

"I didn't understand what you meant at first. About the gate. I read the note, but I didn't understand right away."

His gaze had shifted to her face now. He seemed to be peering at her from a vast distance, but his attention was focused on her all the same. Keely licked her lips and then continued. "And then suddenly it hit me what you were saying." She gazed at him steadily. "You were saying that someone else opened the gate the night th . . . that Mark died. Someone else did it. Not you. You'd tried to tell me before, but you knew I wasn't hearing you."

He closed his eyes for a moment and then opened them again and gazed at her intently.

"I heard you this time, darling," she said fiercely, squeezing his cold hand in hers. "I heard you this time, no mistake. I kept saying it wasn't your fault, and what I meant was that you had left the gate open accidentally. That you didn't mean for anything bad to happen. But now I realize why you were so frustrated by that. Because you didn't leave it open . . . at all. You knew you weren't the one who had left it open-only n.o.body would listen. Not even your mother." Her voice faltered and she had to take a deep breath to continue. "I hope you can forgive me for that," she said.

His gaze did not waver, but she saw his eyes slowly fill. He blinked rapidly and a tear spilled over the rim of his lower lid. Keely felt relief surge in her own heart, and she was grateful. That tear seemed like the first drop of rain after a drought. The pinched lines in his face seemed to have eased.

Clutching his hand, Keely went on, her voice an urgent murmur in the dark room. "I don't know who did it, but I'll find out. I promise you that. I'll find out how it happened. And everyone's gonna know. Whether it was someone else's carelessness or even Mark's, I don't care. I won't have them blaming you anymore. Do you hear me? It wasn't your doing, and I won't have you paying the price for it. Okay?"

He nodded slightly and closed his eyes.

Keely swallowed hard. "And I only hope someday you'll forgive me for being so unfair to you. I made a mistake, and I'm sorry. More sorry than you'll ever know."

His eyes remained closed, his pale, chapped lips set in a grim line.

"You sleep now, Dylan. I'll stay right here with you. I promise," she whispered fiercely. "I'll never let you down again."

18.

Phil Stratton walked up the driveway, illuminated by moonlight, toward the carriage house where Maureen Chase lived. Although they'd worked together for five years now, Phil had never been invited to Maureen's home. Not until tonight. And he wasn't fooling himself that it was a social invitation. Not at this hour. It was nearly midnight. When he got the call about Dylan Bennett, he called to inform Maureen. She'd been irritable when she'd first heard his voice, but when he broke the news about Dylan, she insisted that she couldn't wait until morning for the details. She had ordered him to go to the hospital, then come right over to her house afterwards to report on what he'd learned.

As he climbed the low fieldstone steps to her door, he thought that this romantic little carriage house was not the kind of place where he would have expected Maureen to live. She seemed like the type who would live in a brand-new condo, with white walls and sleek furniture, by the harbor. This place looked like something out of the English countryside.

Phil hesitated before he knocked. Ever since they'd started working together, he'd been attracted to her and found himself constantly comparing the women he dated to Maureen. She was sharper and prettier than most of the women he met. Most of the women he knew had no idea what he did, and their eyes would glaze over when he tried to tell them. Of course, Maureen had been involved with Mark Weaver when they'd first started working together, and by the time that was over, their relationship had settled into a businesslike groove. Maybe it wasn't too late to change that, he mused.

Phil reminded himself that she was interested only in his informationabout Dylan Bennett. Phil smoothed down his tie and rang her doorbell.

After a few moments, the door to the carriage house opened. At first he wasn't sure it was Maureen. She was barefoot and wrapped in a terry-cloth robe, and her hair hung in wet ringlets around her face. She looked pale and freckled and plainer than she did at the office, but also softer, more vulnerable.

"Phil," she said. "Thanks for coming."

Phil hesitated, waiting for her to invite him in. Over her shoulder, he glimpsed candlelight and plump, chintz-covered furniture. This domestic coziness was a side of Maureen he would never have imagined. There was music playing softly in the background. For a moment, he wondered if the music and candlelight might be for his benefit.

"Well?" she said. "What happened? Is he still alive?"

Her tone of voice burst his fantasy bubble. He realized that she was going to remain right there leaning against the door frame, barring his entry. He reminded himself that any romantic involvement with her would interfere at work and that he was here on business.

"He's all right. He's gonna live."

Maureen's eyes glittered. "How'd he do it?"

He shook his head. "The kid tried to slit his own throat."

"Jesus," she whispered, and she reached protectively for her own creamy neck.

"I know," he said. "Pretty gruesome." He thought that now she would step away from the door and invite him in to talk, but she just stood there fingering her throat with her manicured fingertips, deep in thought.

"Apparently, he went down into the bas.e.m.e.nt of his house and used a utility knife while his mother was out. She found him down there when she got home. I spoke to the doctor briefly. It seems that Dylan went into shock at the sight of the blood and missed the major arteries."

Maureen shook her head. "What a screwup."

Phil found her remark a little chilling. "I tried to get in to see him," he continued. "But he's got a trach tube. Can't even talk."

She nodded absently, her eyes narrowed. "Did you talk to the mother?"

"She wasn't much help. She was a little freaked out, as you can imagine. I told her it could wait."

Maureen frowned at him. "Phil, you know better than that. We're trying to nail this kid. A suicide attempt? He's practically screaming 'guilty conscience.' You know you have to close in on them while they're vulnerable."

Phil stiffened at the rebuke. "I used my judgment," he said.

"Well, you used bad judgment. It sounds to me like you got a little weak-kneed at the sight of the pretty weeping widow," she said angrily.

"The kid is only fourteen," Phil protested. "He's obviously messed up. And you know he's not going anywhere. They're going to stick him in Blenheim for observation once he heals up. I think if we press him too hard, Lucas Weaver's going to be all over us."

"I'm not afraid of Lucas Weaver," she said.

"I'm not afraid of him either," said Phil. "But look-it's not as if we're pursuing some hardened criminal here."

"You're making excuses," she snapped.

Phil stared at her, forcing himself not to snap back at her. He took a deep breath. "Look-it's late, and I've had a very long day. I'll let you know what they have to say when I talk to them." He turned and started down the path to the driveway. He was glad she could not see his reddening face.

"Phil," she called out, "wait a minute."

Phil looked back at her. "What?"

Maureen grimaced. "Sorry. I'm a little too . . . close to this one."

"Well, it's late," he said coolly. "We're both tired."

"No, you don't need me to tell you how to do your job," she said.

Phil shook his head. "Not a problem."

"Look, why don't we talk it over later in the week? Have dinner, maybe?"

Phil's heart turned over, and he felt himself brighten, though he hated himself for it. "I suppose. You buying?" he said, momentarily wanting to punish her for the stinging criticism. But then, almost instantly, he regretted saying it. He didn't want her to buy. Whatever reason she had for going out with him, it was still his opening, his opportunity with her. But it was too late.

"We'll let the office pay," she said, smiling thinly. "Call it business."

You idiot,he thought.What did you say that for?Just as he was about to apologize, she waved at him dismissively. "Get some sleep," she said. She closed the door on him, and he was left outside in the darkness. He made his way down the path to his car. As he reached it, he glanced back at Maureen's curtained window. It was glowing like an ember in the dark.

ALIGHT WAS SWITCHED ON,and Keely awoke in a fog, trying to sit up. It took her a moment to realize where she was. And then she remembered. She propped herself up on one elbow. Her spine ached from being pressed against the metal frame of the cot through the thin mattress. Across the room, she saw a nurse hovering beside Dylan's bed, replacing the bag of clear liquid that was hooked to his IV with a new bag.

"How's he doing?" Keely whispered.

The nurse turned and gazed mildly at Keely. "He's doing fine," she replied, speaking at a conversational decibel level as if it were the middle of the day. "We'll keep checking on him." Then she switched off the light over Dylan's bed.

Keely fell back against the pillow and looked at the illuminated hands of the clock on the wall: 3:45A.M.She knew she would not fall back to sleep anytime soon. She could hear m.u.f.fled noises coming from the hospital corridor outside.

Oh G.o.d,she thought,what am I going to do? My husband is dead. My son has tried to kill himself. Obviously, he is deeply troubled. I have a baby to worry about.Her worries chased one another through her mind. The night and the darkness seemed to press down on her. Adrenaline ran through her veins, promising wakefulness but no peace of mind.No,she thought,stop this right now.

Keely sat up and put her legs over the edge of the cot.Stop this. Lying here for hours brooding over everything isn't going to help. By morning, you'll be no good to Dylan at all. And he needs your help.She thought again about the note he had left her-I locked the gate-and thought,All right, focus on that. What does it mean? If Dylan left thegate locked, then it means that someone else opened it.She felt shaky but somewhat calmer pursuing this thought.

Who? And how could she find out?Think it through,she told herself. Could Mark have opened it and then left it open accidentally? Maybe he went out there to get something and then the phone rang. Maybe a client showed up and Mark just left the gate open and forgot to come back. It was hard to imagine him doing that, but it was one possibility. What were the others?

Keely felt the need to make a list, to get her thoughts organized. She got up from the cot, went over the closet, and pulled her pocketbook off the shelf. She rummaged inside it and found a lined pad and a pen she always carried.This will do,she thought. She sat down gingerly in the visitor's chair and opened the pad. Dylan rustled in the bed but did not awaken.

All right,she thought.How else could the gate have been opened?What if someone came to visit while she was at the mall? No one else had admitted to being at their house that night. Of course, if they'd realized afterward what a tragic mistake they'd made by opening the pool gate . . . well, it was understandable that they wouldn't admit to having been there.ButIhave to know,she thought,so, there has to be a way to find out.

Keely wrote numbers on the lines and tapped the paper with her pen.Number one. Think about Mark. If he was online, he might have been researching a case. Call Lucas and find out what cases Mark was working on. Names and phone numbers of clients. If he'd been talking to one of them at the time of accident, they might have heard what happened.

Number two.She tried to visualize her house, her yard. The backyard was secluded but the driveway was visible. The front door was visible. Someone could have seen something.Go around and ask the neighbors if they saw anyone arrive at the house that night.

Number three.Keely chewed on the end of her pen. If people were coming over to visit, they'd probably call first, she reasoned. Or if Mark did become distracted by a phone call, it was important to know who had called.Call the phone company,she wrote. They could probablygive her, in a situation like this, the numbers of local incoming calls. Below that she wrote,Check the bill for the cell phone. Find out who called.

She underlined the last phrase. That seemed like a good start. She felt better, having done something constructive, having made a list. She put it back in her purse and replaced the purse on the shelf. Then she tiptoed over and kissed her son on his damp, cool forehead. "I'm going to find out," she whispered to him as he slumbered. She kissed him again and then crept back to the cot. After she pulled the thin thermal blanket up, she was able to fall asleep.

19.

Morning mist was still on the gra.s.s as Betsy Weaver, dressed in forest green Wellingtons, a black Mao jacket, and a straw hat, stood on tiptoe, opened the bird feeder at the foot of her garden, and looked in. A squirrel chattered in the bare branches of a maple tree above her. Betsy gave the squirrel a baleful look. "How much of this did you eat, hmmm? This is for my birds, not for you." Betsy bent over and lifted up a five-pound sack of birdseed, carefully shaking the contents into the feeder until it was full.

"Mrs. Weaver?"

Betsy turned and started with fear at the sight of the stranger who had materialized on the lawn not ten feet away from her. He was a black man with wild Jamaican-style hair like she'd seen on those Rastafarians when they vacationed at Rosehill near Kingston. "What do you want?" she cried, trying to control the tremor in her voice. "I don't have any money with me," she said. She glanced up at the house. Lucas hadn't gone to the office yet. If only he'd glance outside, notice she was in trouble.

The man eyed her coldly, and she realized that he had blue-green eyes, of all things.