Leading criminologist Matthew Namode wrote in Chokes Alone Chokes Alone (1999) that individuals who suffer a serious trauma-a child who'd lost a parent, a man who'd committed a single brutal crime -"may often, subconsciously or no, obsess over a lone word or image that may be directly traced back to the incident" (p. 249). "They repeat it when they're nervous, or idly doodle it in the margins of a piece of paper, write it on a windowsill or in the dust along a shelf, often a word so obscure it may be impossible for outsiders to discover the shattering ordeal at its root" (p. 250). In Hannah's case, it (1999) that individuals who suffer a serious trauma-a child who'd lost a parent, a man who'd committed a single brutal crime -"may often, subconsciously or no, obsess over a lone word or image that may be directly traced back to the incident" (p. 249). "They repeat it when they're nervous, or idly doodle it in the margins of a piece of paper, write it on a windowsill or in the dust along a shelf, often a word so obscure it may be impossible for outsiders to discover the shattering ordeal at its root" (p. 250). In Hannah's case, it wasn't wasn't obscure: Leulah saw the word Hannah had unknowingly scribbled all over the notepad by the telephone, but in Hannah's haste to hide the paper from her, Leulah had misread it. Perhaps it had not said, "Valerio," but obscure: Leulah saw the word Hannah had unknowingly scribbled all over the notepad by the telephone, but in Hannah's haste to hide the paper from her, Leulah had misread it. Perhaps it had not said, "Valerio," but "Vallarmo" "Vallarmo" the Texan town where Hannah had killed a man. the Texan town where Hannah had killed a man.

And then-at this point I had Box Office Mojo; if they'd stuck me on a track I would've broken some hurtling records; in front of the high jump, I'd have soared so so high, spectators would swear I had wings -I realized the truth behind the camping story Hannah had told us. high, spectators would swear I had wings -I realized the truth behind the camping story Hannah had told us.

Hip injury, hip surgery, one leg shorter than the other: the man whose life she'd saved on the camping trip, the man who'd injured his hip, was George Gracey. He'd been living in the Adirondacks. Or perhaps she'd invented that detail; maybe he'd been hiding along the Appalachian Trail or in the Great Smokies like the Vicious Three detailed in Escaped Escaped (Pillars, 2004). Perhaps this was why Hannah had become a seasoned mountaineer; it'd been her responsibility to bring him food and supplies, keep him alive. And presently, he was living in Paxos, an island off the western coast of Greece, and Greece was where Hannah had told Eva Brewster she longed to go at the beginning of every St. Gallway school year, so she could "love herself." (Pillars, 2004). Perhaps this was why Hannah had become a seasoned mountaineer; it'd been her responsibility to bring him food and supplies, keep him alive. And presently, he was living in Paxos, an island off the western coast of Greece, and Greece was where Hannah had told Eva Brewster she longed to go at the beginning of every St. Gallway school year, so she could "love herself."

But then-why had she decided to tell me her Life Story in such a roundabout way? Why had she been living in Stockton, not with Gracey in Greece? And what were the present movements of Nachtlich - Nachtlich - if any at all? (Solving crime-related questions was like trying to rid one's house of rodents; you kill one, blink, six more dart across the floor.) if any at all? (Solving crime-related questions was like trying to rid one's house of rodents; you kill one, blink, six more dart across the floor.) Perhaps Hannah had decided to tell me because she sensed I, out of all the Bluebloods, had the wits to solve the riddle of her life (Jade and the others weren't methodical enough; Milton, for one, had the mind-and body, for that matter-of a Jersey Cow). "Ten years from now-that's when you decide," "Ten years from now-that's when you decide," Hannah had said. Obviously, she'd wanted someone to know the truth, and not now-later, after she'd staged her disappearance. The night I'd shown up on her doorstep, she'd undoubtedly known all about Ada Harvey, and had been uneasy about what that dogged and determined Southern Belle (desperate to avenge the death of Big Daddy) might uncover and reveal to the FBI: Hannah's true ident.i.ty and crime. Hannah had said. Obviously, she'd wanted someone to know the truth, and not now-later, after she'd staged her disappearance. The night I'd shown up on her doorstep, she'd undoubtedly known all about Ada Harvey, and had been uneasy about what that dogged and determined Southern Belle (desperate to avenge the death of Big Daddy) might uncover and reveal to the FBI: Hannah's true ident.i.ty and crime.

She and Gracey couldn't couldn't be together for security's sake; they were still wanted by the Feds and thus it was crucial to cut off all contact, reside on opposite sides of the globe. Or else, their romance had gone flat as uncapped Pellegrino; "The shelf life of any great love is fifteen years," wrote Wendy Aldridge, Ph.D., in be together for security's sake; they were still wanted by the Feds and thus it was crucial to cut off all contact, reside on opposite sides of the globe. Or else, their romance had gone flat as uncapped Pellegrino; "The shelf life of any great love is fifteen years," wrote Wendy Aldridge, Ph.D., in The Truth About Ever After The Truth About Ever After (1999). "After that you need a serious preservative, which can seriously harm your health." (1999). "After that you need a serious preservative, which can seriously harm your health."

The resounding belief was that, even today, Nachtlich Nachtlich was alive and well. (Littleton supported this claim though he had no evidence. Dad was more skeptical.) "Thanks to inspirational recruitment," wrote Guillaume on www.hautain.fr, "they have more members than ever. But you can't go and join. That's how they remain unseen. They choose was alive and well. (Littleton supported this claim though he had no evidence. Dad was more skeptical.) "Thanks to inspirational recruitment," wrote Guillaume on www.hautain.fr, "they have more members than ever. But you can't go and join. That's how they remain unseen. They choose you. They you. They decide if you're suitable." In November 2000, an executive at the center of an accounting fraud, Mark Lecinque, had unexpectedly hanged himself at his family home twenty minutes north of Baton Rouge, a pistol-fully loaded, apart for a single bullet-was found on the floor next to him. His apparent suicide was a shock, because Lecinque and his lawyers had acted smug and haughty when interviewed on network television. It was thus whispered his death had been the vigilante work of decide if you're suitable." In November 2000, an executive at the center of an accounting fraud, Mark Lecinque, had unexpectedly hanged himself at his family home twenty minutes north of Baton Rouge, a pistol-fully loaded, apart for a single bullet-was found on the floor next to him. His apparent suicide was a shock, because Lecinque and his lawyers had acted smug and haughty when interviewed on network television. It was thus whispered his death had been the vigilante work of Les Veilleurs de Nuit. Les Veilleurs de Nuit.

Other countries, too, claimed similar silent a.s.sa.s.sinations of bigwigs, magnates, industrialists and corrupt officials. The anonymous editor-in-chief of www.newworldkuomintang.org wrote that between 1980 and the present, more than 330 moguls in thirty-nine countries, including Saudi Arabia (men with a combined net worth of $400 billion) had been "quietly, efficiently disposed of" thanks to The Night.w.a.tchmen, and though it was unclear if such sudden deaths actually benefited the downtrodden and oppressed, at the very least, it sent corporations into a temporary state of upheaval, forcing them to focus immediate attentions on resolving internal leadership problems, rather than looking outward to the land and people they might sacrifice to turn a profit. Countless employees also started to complain of a steep decline in productivity in the years following the death of the CEO or various trustees- what some referred to as a "never-ending bureaucratic nightmare." It was nearly impossible to get any work done or for anyone to make a final decision, because so many managers from different departments were required to sign off on the tiniest of ideas. Some Web sites, particularly those out of Germany, suggested members of Nachtlich of Nachtlich were employed as supervisors at these behemoth conglomerates, their aim being to fan the flames of inertia by means of endless mandatory paperwork, circuitous checks and balances and labyrinthine red tape. Thus, the corporation, day after day, burning millions in what was becoming an endless waiting game, would "slowly eat itself from the inside out" (see www.verschworung.de/firmaalptraume). were employed as supervisors at these behemoth conglomerates, their aim being to fan the flames of inertia by means of endless mandatory paperwork, circuitous checks and balances and labyrinthine red tape. Thus, the corporation, day after day, burning millions in what was becoming an endless waiting game, would "slowly eat itself from the inside out" (see www.verschworung.de/firmaalptraume).

I liked to believe Nachtlich Nachtlich was still active, because it meant Hannah, during her monthly trip to Cottonwood, had not been collecting men like they were tin cans she'd hoped to recycle as we'd all believed. No, she'd been engaged in prearranged encounters, "private one-on-ones" intended to was still active, because it meant Hannah, during her monthly trip to Cottonwood, had not been collecting men like they were tin cans she'd hoped to recycle as we'd all believed. No, she'd been engaged in prearranged encounters, "private one-on-ones" intended to appear appear like seedy one-night stands, while in fact, they were a platonic exchange of vital information. And perhaps it'd been Doc, sweet Doc with his relief-map face and retractable trellis legs who'd informed Hannah about the recent movements and probing inquiries of Smoke Harvey and following like seedy one-night stands, while in fact, they were a platonic exchange of vital information. And perhaps it'd been Doc, sweet Doc with his relief-map face and retractable trellis legs who'd informed Hannah about the recent movements and probing inquiries of Smoke Harvey and following that that rendezvous-the first week of November-Hannah decided she had to kill him. She had no choice, if she wished to preserve her former lover's hiding place in Paxos, his sanctum sanctorum. rendezvous-the first week of November-Hannah decided she had to kill him. She had no choice, if she wished to preserve her former lover's hiding place in Paxos, his sanctum sanctorum.

But how had she done it?

It was the question that stumped Ada Harvey, but after reading about the other Nachtlich Nachtlich a.s.sa.s.sinations, I could now answer it with my eyes closed (also with a little help from Connault Helig's a.s.sa.s.sinations, I could now answer it with my eyes closed (also with a little help from Connault Helig's Machinations Idyllic and Unseen). Machinations Idyllic and Unseen).

If rumor could be believed, The Night.w.a.tchmen, following their post-January 1974 creed of invisibility, employed correspondingly traceless murder techniques. Their repertoire had to include something akin to "The Flying Demoiselle," described in The History of Lynching in the American South The History of Lynching in the American South (Kittson, 1966). (In my opinion, Mark Lecinque of Baton Rouge had been killed this way, as his death was ruled a straightforward suicide.) They also must use another, more impermeable method, a procedure first doc.u.mented by Connault Helig, the London surgeon summoned by a bamboozled police force to examine the body of Mary Kelly, the fifth and final victim of Leather Ap.r.o.n, commonly known as Jack the Ripper. A venerated, if furtive man of medicine and science, in Chapter 3, Helig details at length what he considers to be "the only flawless stealthy execution that exists in all the world" (Kittson, 1966). (In my opinion, Mark Lecinque of Baton Rouge had been killed this way, as his death was ruled a straightforward suicide.) They also must use another, more impermeable method, a procedure first doc.u.mented by Connault Helig, the London surgeon summoned by a bamboozled police force to examine the body of Mary Kelly, the fifth and final victim of Leather Ap.r.o.n, commonly known as Jack the Ripper. A venerated, if furtive man of medicine and science, in Chapter 3, Helig details at length what he considers to be "the only flawless stealthy execution that exists in all the world"

It was flawless because technically it wasn't murder, but a calculated setup of fatal circ.u.mstances. The plan was executed not by one person, but by a "consortium between five and thirteen like-minded gentlemen," who each, on the chosen day, independently committed an act a.s.signed by the central planner, "the engineer" (p. 21). Viewed individually, these acts were lawful, even ordinary, and yet in a concentrated period of time, they combined to elicit a "perfectly lethal state of affairs, in which the intended victim has no choice but to die" (p. 22). "Each man acts alone," he writes on p. 21. "He does not know the faces, actions or even the final aim of those with whom he operates. Such ignorance is imperative, for his lack of knowledge maintains his virtue. Only the engineer will know the design from inception to end."

Detailed knowledge of the victim's personal and professional life was mandatory, in order to effectively isolate the "ideal poison" to facilitate the "slaying" (pp. 23-25). It could be any possession, weakness, physical handicap or idiosyncrasy of the doomed individual-a cherished gun collection, perhaps, the steep flight of stairs outside Belgravia townhouse (which became "startlingly slippery in the wee hours of a brisk February morning"), a secret affinity for opium, foxhunting upon skittish stallions, hobn.o.bbing under rickety bridges with disease-ridden streetwalkers or most conveniently of all, a daily dose of medication prescribed by the family physician-the concept being that all weapons utilized against the prey were his/her own, and thus the death would appear accidental to even the "craftiest and most inventive of investigators" (p. 26).

This was how Hannah had done it-rather, how they'd they'd done it, because I doubted she'd acted alone at the costume party, but had a number of ghouls to a.s.sist her, most of them conveniently wearing masks- done it, because I doubted she'd acted alone at the costume party, but had a number of ghouls to a.s.sist her, most of them conveniently wearing masks-Elvis: Aloha from Hawaii, maybe; maybe; he'd he'd looked squinty eyed and suspicious, or the astronaut Nigel and I had overheard speaking Greek to the Chinese woman in the gorilla suit. ("Membership expanded not only in America but internationally," reported Jacobus on www.deechtewaarheid.nl.) looked squinty eyed and suspicious, or the astronaut Nigel and I had overheard speaking Greek to the Chinese woman in the gorilla suit. ("Membership expanded not only in America but internationally," reported Jacobus on www.deechtewaarheid.nl.) "The primary gentleman, whom we shall hereafter refer to as One, will prepare the poisons prior to the day in question," Helig writes on p. 31.

Hannah had been One. She'd ingratiated herself with Smoke, pinpointed his poisons: his blood-pressure medication, Minipress, and his favorite booze, Jameson, Bushmills, maybe Tullamore Dew ("He liked his whiskey . . . I won't lie about that," ("He liked his whiskey . . . I won't lie about that," Ada had said). According to www.drug data.com the medicine was "incompatible with alcoholic beverages," and when combined, the individual may suffer the effects of "syncope," dizziness, disorientation, even a loss of consciousness. Hannah herself had acquired the drug-or perhaps she'd had it already; perhaps that nineteen-bottle stash of prescription pills in her bedroom cabinet was never for herself, but for her hit jobs. She pulverized a predetermined quant.i.ty (the exact amount of the daily dosage, so the elevated levels of the drug discovered in the autopsy could be easily explained in the absence of other signs of foul play; the coroner would a.s.sume the victim accidentally took his dosage twice on the day in question). She dissolved the powdered drug into the alcohol and served it to him when he arrived at the party. Ada had said). According to www.drug data.com the medicine was "incompatible with alcoholic beverages," and when combined, the individual may suffer the effects of "syncope," dizziness, disorientation, even a loss of consciousness. Hannah herself had acquired the drug-or perhaps she'd had it already; perhaps that nineteen-bottle stash of prescription pills in her bedroom cabinet was never for herself, but for her hit jobs. She pulverized a predetermined quant.i.ty (the exact amount of the daily dosage, so the elevated levels of the drug discovered in the autopsy could be easily explained in the absence of other signs of foul play; the coroner would a.s.sume the victim accidentally took his dosage twice on the day in question). She dissolved the powdered drug into the alcohol and served it to him when he arrived at the party.

"One," writes Helig on p. 42, "is accountable for relaxing the victim, ensuring his defenses are down. It may serve the group well if One is a person of great physical beauty and charm."

They pa.s.sed Nigel and me on the stairs, went to her bedroom, talked, and shortly thereafter, Hannah excused herself, maybe under the guise of getting them another drink, taking both gla.s.ses with her, heading downstairs to the kitchen, rinsing them out in the sink, destroying the only piece of incriminating evidence in the entire plot-and so concluding what Helig designated the initial setup, "The First Act." She never returned to him for the rest of the night.

The Second Act comprised the seemingly random relay race that "gently guides the man toward his own conclusion" (p. 51). Hannah must have known Smoke would wear the olive-green Red Army uniform, and thus the a.s.signed individuals knew not only his physical description but also what costume to watch for. Two, Three, Four, Five (and I wasn't certain how many there were)-they appeared at prearranged locations, approaching him, introducing themselves, handing him another drink, chatting breathlessly as they escorted him from the bedroom, down the stairs, outside onto the patio, each of them bold, engaging, ostensibly drunk. Perhaps one or two of them were men, but the majority were women. (Ernest Hemingway, who wasn't keen on the fair s.e.x, wrote, "a young dame with pretty eyes and a smile can make an old man do just about anything" [p. 278, Journals, Journals, Hemingway, Hemingway, This carefully ch.o.r.eographed relay continued for an hour or two until Smoke was positioned by the edge of the pool, his face swollen and red, his eyes unable to pick themselves up off the scales and angel wings and dorsal fins to see where he was standing. His head was a bag of feed for chickens. That was the moment Six, standing in a group, b.u.mped into him, making him lose his balance, fall, and Seven -Seven must have been one of the rats playing Marco Polo -made certain he was helpless, if not holding his head under water, then simply ensuring he splashed, drifted to the opposite end of the pool, the deep end, and was left alone.

And so the victim dies, completing the Second Act, "the most noteworthy Act of our little tragedy" (p. 68). The Third Act begins the moment the body is found, ending with each implicated person "dispersing into the world like the withered petals off a dead flower, never to come together again"

(p. 98).

I rubbed my eyes after scribbling this last bit into my CASE NOTES (now occupying twelve pages of a college-ruled legal pad), threw down my pen and pressed my head into the back of Dad's office chair. The house was quiet. In the lone window by the ceiling, darkness clung like a flimsy nightgown. The wood-paneled wall, where my mother's six cases of b.u.t.terflies and moths had once hung, stared back at me, expressionless.

Remembering old Smoke Harvey, shadowing him through the costume party, his Long Night's Journey into Death - it rained all over the parade of secret revolution against corporate greed.

That was the problem with causes, the cheap toy within their Happy Meal; inevitably, there came a point when they looked exactly like their enemy, when they became what they fought so hard against. Freedom, Democracy-the big breathy words people shouted with their fists in the air (or else whispered, wimpy looks in their eyes)-they were beautiful mail-order brides from far-flung countries, and no matter how long you insisted they stick around, when you actually took a good look at them (when you stopped feeling woozy in their presence), you noticed they never actually actually fit in; they barely learned the customs or language. Their transplant from a textbook into the real world was slipshod, rickety at best. fit in; they barely learned the customs or language. Their transplant from a textbook into the real world was slipshod, rickety at best.

"Just as no imposing character in a book may be cleverer than its minuscule author," Dad remarked in his lecture "Landlocked Switzerland: They're Nice and Neutral Only Because They're Tiny," "no government can be greater than its governors. And provided we're not invaded by Little Green Men any time soon -reading a week's worth of The New York Times, The New York Times, I'm not so sure that'd be a bad thing-these governors will always be mere humans, men and women, cute little paradoxes, forever capable of astounding compa.s.sion, forever capable of astounding cruelty. You'd be surprised- Communism, Capitalism, Socialism, Totalitarianism-whatever I'm not so sure that'd be a bad thing-these governors will always be mere humans, men and women, cute little paradoxes, forever capable of astounding compa.s.sion, forever capable of astounding cruelty. You'd be surprised- Communism, Capitalism, Socialism, Totalitarianism-whatever ism ism it happens to be doesn't matter all that much; there will always be the tricky balance between the human extremes. And so we live our lives, make informed choices about what we believe in, stand by them. That's all." it happens to be doesn't matter all that much; there will always be the tricky balance between the human extremes. And so we live our lives, make informed choices about what we believe in, stand by them. That's all."

It was 9:12 P.M. and Dad still wasn't home.

I turned off his computer, returned the copy of Federal Forum Federal Forum and the other books to the bookshelf. Gathering together my notes, I switched off the study lights and hurried upstairs to my room. I threw the papers on my desk, took a black sweater out of my closet and pulled it over my head. and the other books to the bookshelf. Gathering together my notes, I switched off the study lights and hurried upstairs to my room. I threw the papers on my desk, took a black sweater out of my closet and pulled it over my head.

I was going back to Hannah's. And I had to go, not tomorrow, not in the bleaching daylight that killed everything, made it laughable, but now, now, while the truth was still squirming. I wasn't finished. I couldn't tell anyone about my theory now. No, I needed something else, physical evidence, facts, papers - Minipress in one of those nineteen prescription bottles, a photograph of Hannah and George Gracey hand in hand or an article from while the truth was still squirming. I wasn't finished. I couldn't tell anyone about my theory now. No, I needed something else, physical evidence, facts, papers - Minipress in one of those nineteen prescription bottles, a photograph of Hannah and George Gracey hand in hand or an article from The VallarmoDaily, The VallarmoDaily, "Policeman Shot, Woman Escapes," dated September 20, 1987-something, "Policeman Shot, Woman Escapes," dated September 20, 1987-something, anything anything that would handcuff Hannah Schneider to Catherine Baker to Smoke Harvey to The Night.w.a.tchmen. that would handcuff Hannah Schneider to Catherine Baker to Smoke Harvey to The Night.w.a.tchmen. I I believed it, of course. I believed it, of course. I knew knew Hannah Schneider was Catherine as surely as I knew a turtle could weigh a thousand pounds (see "Leatherback Turtle," Hannah Schneider was Catherine as surely as I knew a turtle could weigh a thousand pounds (see "Leatherback Turtle," Encyclopedia of Living Things, Encyclopedia of Living Things, 4th ed.)- I'd been with her in her living room and on the mountaintop, painstakingly collected those splinters of her Life Story she'd scattered on the ground. Td always suspected something beautiful and grotesque lived in her shadows, and now, finally, here it was, shyly inching out of the gloom. 4th ed.)- I'd been with her in her living room and on the mountaintop, painstakingly collected those splinters of her Life Story she'd scattered on the ground. Td always suspected something beautiful and grotesque lived in her shadows, and now, finally, here it was, shyly inching out of the gloom.

But who'd believe me? Lately, my average of persuading others of my beliefs was around zero for eight. (I'd make an appalling missionary.) The Blue-bloods thought I'd killed Hannah, Detective Harper thought I had Witness Traumatization and Dad seemed to be deathly afraid I was soft-shoeing into madness. No, the rest of the world, including Dad, needed proof to believe in something (it was a crisis the Catholic Church faced with its rapidly diminishing numbers) and not not the kind of proof that was a faint shadow darting through a doorway, a hiccup on the stairs, but proof like a stout Russian schoolmarm standing directly under a floodlight (and unwilling to budge): three chins, frantic gray hair (barely pacified by bobby pins), a big orange skirt (under which an adult orangutan could hide fully undetected) and a pince-nez. the kind of proof that was a faint shadow darting through a doorway, a hiccup on the stairs, but proof like a stout Russian schoolmarm standing directly under a floodlight (and unwilling to budge): three chins, frantic gray hair (barely pacified by bobby pins), a big orange skirt (under which an adult orangutan could hide fully undetected) and a pince-nez.

I'd find this proof if it killed me.

As soon as I finished tying my shoes, however, I heard the Volvo cruising into the driveway-a snag in my plan. Dad would never let me go to Hannah's now, now, and by the time I'd explained everything, fielded every one of his tenacious, sticky questions (trying to convince Dad of something new, one had to be outfitted like G.o.d in Genesis), the sun would be rising and I'd feel as if I'd just fought off a Giant Squid. (I'll admit, too, even though and by the time I'd explained everything, fielded every one of his tenacious, sticky questions (trying to convince Dad of something new, one had to be outfitted like G.o.d in Genesis), the sun would be rising and I'd feel as if I'd just fought off a Giant Squid. (I'll admit, too, even though I I felt I'd proved it satisfactorily, I was nevertheless afraid that, unlike the Boltzmann Constant, Avogadro's Number, Quantum Field Theory, Cosmic Inflation, my feeble premise could very well collapse within twenty-four hours. I had to get moving.) felt I'd proved it satisfactorily, I was nevertheless afraid that, unlike the Boltzmann Constant, Avogadro's Number, Quantum Field Theory, Cosmic Inflation, my feeble premise could very well collapse within twenty-four hours. I had to get moving.) I heard Dad enter the front door, chuck his keys onto the table. He was humming "I Got Rhythm."

"Sweet?"

Wildly, my eyes veered around the room. I ran to a window, unlatched it, heaved the thing up with all my might (it hadn't been opened since the Carter Administration), then the rusty screen. I stuck my head out, looked down. Unlike a clammy family drama on network television, there was no mighty oak with ladderlike branches, no lattice, rose-garden grill or well-situated fencing-only a three-story drop, a sloping ledge above the bay window in the dining room and a few feeble strands of ivy clinging like hair to a sweater.

Dad was playing messages on the answering machine, his own, about dinner with Arnie Sanderson, then Arnold Schmidt of The New Seattle Journal for Foreign Policy The New Seattle Journal for Foreign Policy who spoke with a lisp and slurred the last four digits of his phone number. who spoke with a lisp and slurred the last four digits of his phone number.

"Sweet, you upstairs? I brought home some food from the restaurant."

Hastily, I slipped on my backpack, swung one leg out the window, then the other, awkwardly sliding onto my elbows. I dangled there for a minute, staring down at the shrubs far under my feet, noting I could very well die, at the very least, break both arms and legs, maybe even my back, end up a paraplegic-then what sort of crimes would I be able to solve, which of Life's Great Questions would I ever answer? It was a moment I was supposed to wonder if it Was Worth It, and so I did: I wondered about Hannah and Catherine Baker and George Gracey. I pictured Gracey in Paxos, then as rawhide holding a margarita by an infinity pool, the ocean jaded in the distance, skinny girls fanning out on either side of him like celery sticks on a dip tray. How faraway Jade and Milton had become, and St. Gallway, even Hannah - her face was already receding like a set of history dates I'd crammed into my head for a Unit Test. How lonely and absurd one felt dangling out a window. I took a giant breath, opened my eyes -I wasn't the sort of drip who what sort of crimes would I be able to solve, which of Life's Great Questions would I ever answer? It was a moment I was supposed to wonder if it Was Worth It, and so I did: I wondered about Hannah and Catherine Baker and George Gracey. I pictured Gracey in Paxos, then as rawhide holding a margarita by an infinity pool, the ocean jaded in the distance, skinny girls fanning out on either side of him like celery sticks on a dip tray. How faraway Jade and Milton had become, and St. Gallway, even Hannah - her face was already receding like a set of history dates I'd crammed into my head for a Unit Test. How lonely and absurd one felt dangling out a window. I took a giant breath, opened my eyes -I wasn't the sort of drip who closed closed her eyes, not anymore; if this was my last moment before total paralysis, before it all went haywire, I wanted to go down seeing it: the huge night, the gra.s.s shivering, the headlights of a pa.s.sing car scissoring through the trees. her eyes, not anymore; if this was my last moment before total paralysis, before it all went haywire, I wanted to go down seeing it: the huge night, the gra.s.s shivering, the headlights of a pa.s.sing car scissoring through the trees.

I let go.

32.

"Good Country People"

The bit of roofing jutting out like stiffened, hair-sprayed bangs over the dining room's bay window braced my plummet to the earth, and though my entire left side was scratched by the side of the house and the rhododendrons in which I landed, I stood up, brushed myself off, remarkably unscathed. Obviously, I now needed a car (if I risked creeping through the front door for the Volvo keys, I risked encountering Dad) and the only decent place that came to mind, the only person who might help was Larson at the BP gas station.

Twenty-five minutes later, I was dinging into the Food Mart. "Look who's come back from the dead," announced the intercom. "Beginnin' to think ya bought a car. Beginnin' to think you didn't like me."

Behind the bulletproof gla.s.s, he crossed his arms and winked at me. He wore a black T-shirt with the sleeves cut off that read, CAT! CAT! Next to the batteries stood his latest girlfriend, a string-bean blonde in a short red dress eating potato chips.

"Senorita," he said. "I missed ya." he said. "I missed ya."

"Hi," I said, hurrying to the window.

"What's goin' on? on? How come ya haven't come seen me? Ya been breakin' my How come ya haven't come seen me? Ya been breakin' my corazon." corazon." String Bean surveyed me skeptically, licking salt off her fingers. "How's high school?" he asked. "All right," I said. He nodded and held up an open book, String Bean surveyed me skeptically, licking salt off her fingers. "How's high school?" he asked. "All right," I said. He nodded and held up an open book, Learning the Spanish Language Learning the Spanish Language (Berlitz, 2000). "Been doin' some studyin' myself. Came up with a plan to break into the film industry. You stay here, you gotta do it from the ground up, too many people. Go to a foreign country? You can be a big fish in a little pond. I decided on Spain. I hear they need actors-"

"I need your help/' I blurted. "I-I was wondering if I could borrow your truck again. I promise to have it back in three or four hours. It's an emergency and - "

"Typical chica. chica. Only comes to see ya when she wants somethin'. Can't ask yer pops cuz things are rough with him-you don't have to tell me. I pick up on the Only comes to see ya when she wants somethin'. Can't ask yer pops cuz things are rough with him-you don't have to tell me. I pick up on the simbolos. simbolos. The The signs." signs."

"It's not about my father. It's something that happened at school. Did you hear about the teacher who died? Hannah Schneider?"

"Killed herself," said String Bean through shards of potato chips.

"Sure," said Larson, nodding. "Been thinkin' 'bout that. I was wonderin' how yer pops was. The male species mourns different from women. Before he left, my pops was datin' Tina who worked at Hair Fantasy, took her out only a week after my stepma died of brain cancer. I had a fit. But he sat me down, told me people show their loss different, is all. Got to respect the mournin' process. So if yer pops starts datin' again, can't hold it against him. I'm sure he's upset. A lot of people come through here, all different kinds, an' I can spot real love like I kin spot an actor who's not in the moment, just readin' lines-"

"Who are you talking about?"

He smiled. "Yer pops."

"My pops."

"Figure he's pretty broken up."

I stared at him. "Why?"

"Well, yer girl ups and dies on ya-"

"His girl?" girl?"

"Sure."

"Hannah Schneider?"

He stared at me.

"But they barely knew each other." As soon as I said it, the sentence sounded absurdly frail. It curled, began to fall apart like an empty straw wrapper when a drop of water falls on it.

Larson didn't continue. He looked uncertain; sensing he'd stumbled into the wrong stairwell, he couldn't decide if he should keep going down or back the way he came.

"What made you think they were a couple?" I asked.

"Way they looked at each other," he said after a moment, leaning forward so his freckled forehead was an inch from the gla.s.s. "She came in here while he waited in the car once. Smiled at me. Bought Turns. The other time they paid for gas with a credit card. Didn't get out of the car. But I saw her. Next thing I know her picture's in the paper. Her face was so pretty, it gets etched in yer mind."

"Are you positive? It wasn't a-a woman with yellow-orange hair?"

"Oh, yeah, I saw her. her. Crazy blue eyes. No. This one was the one in the newspaper. Dark hair. Looked like she wasn't from around here." "How many times did you see them?" "Two. Maybe three." "I can't-I have to"-my voice was scary, coming out in clumps - Crazy blue eyes. No. This one was the one in the newspaper. Dark hair. Looked like she wasn't from around here." "How many times did you see them?" "Two. Maybe three." "I can't-I have to"-my voice was scary, coming out in clumps - "Excuse me," I managed to say. And then, all at once, the convenience store became highly inconvenient. I whirled around, because I couldn't look at Larson's face anymore, and the whole place looked smeared, out of focus (or else all gravitational fields had gone limp). As I turned, my left arm smacked the display of greeting cards, and then I crashed into String Bean who'd left her position by the batteries to go get a cup of scalding coffee the size of a small child. It erupted all over us (String Bean screaming, wailing about her burnt legs), but I didn't stop or apologize; I lurched forward, my foot hit the rack of beaded eyegla.s.s chains and angel air fresheners, the door dinged and finally, the night jammed into my face. I think Larson might have shouted something, "Make sure yer ready fer the truth," in his chainsaw accent-but maybe it was the screeches of the cars as they honked to avoid hitting me, or my own words as they skidded through my head.

33.

The Trial I found Dad in the library.

He wasn't surprised to see me-but then, I can't remember a time when Dad was ever surprised, except when he leaned down to pet June Bug Phyllis Mixer's chocolate Standard Poodle and the thing leaped into the air in an attempt to bite his face, missing it by half an inch.

I stood in the doorway for a minute, staring at him, unable to speak. He put his reading gla.s.ses in their case with the air of a woman handling pearls.

"I gather you didn't watch Gone with the Wind" Gone with the Wind" he said. he said.

"How long did you date Hannah Schneider?" I asked.

"Date?" He frowned.

"Don't lie. People saw you with her." I opened my mouth to say more, but couldn't.

"Sweet?" He leaned forward slightly in his reading chair, as if to better observe me, as if I was an interesting principle of Conflict Resolution scrawled across a blackboard.

"I hate you," I said in a quivering voice.

"Excuse me?"

"I hate you!"

"My G.o.d," he said with a smile. "I-this is an interesting turn of events. Rather ridiculous."

"I'm not ridiculous! You're ridiculous!" I lurched around, yanked a random book from the bookshelf behind me and hurled it at him, hard. He deflected it with his arm. It was I lurched around, yanked a random book from the bookshelf behind me and hurled it at him, hard. He deflected it with his arm. It was Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (Joyce, 1916) and it fell open at his feet. Instantly, I grabbed another, (Joyce, 1916) and it fell open at his feet. Instantly, I grabbed another, Inaugural Addresses of the Presidents of the United States Inaugural Addresses of the Presidents of the United States (Bicentennial ed. 1989). (Bicentennial ed. 1989).

Dad stared at me. "For G.o.d's sake, get a hold of yourself." "You're a liar! You're an ape!" "You're a liar! You're an ape!" I screamed, throwing it at him. I screamed, throwing it at him. "I hate you!" "I hate you!" He deflected that one too. "The use of the phrase, He deflected that one too. "The use of the phrase, I hate you," I hate you," he said he said calmly, "is not only untrue, it's- "

I threw A Tale of TwoCities Tale of TwoCities (d.i.c.kens, 1859) at his head. He deflected it, so I grabbed more, as many as I could hold in my arms like some mad, starving woman ordered to grab as much food as she could from a cafeteria buffet. There was (d.i.c.kens, 1859) at his head. He deflected it, so I grabbed more, as many as I could hold in my arms like some mad, starving woman ordered to grab as much food as she could from a cafeteria buffet. There was The Strenuous Life The Strenuous Life (Roosevelt, 1900), (Roosevelt, 1900), Leaves of Gra.s.s Leaves of Gra.s.s (Whitman, 1891), (Whitman, 1891), This Side of Paradise This Side of Paradise (Fitzgerald, 1920), a very heavy, green hardback- A (Fitzgerald, 1920), a very heavy, green hardback- A Description of Elizabethan England Description of Elizabethan England (Harrison, 1577), I believe. I launched all of them at him, rapid fire. He repelled most, though (Harrison, 1577), I believe. I launched all of them at him, rapid fire. He repelled most, though Elizabethan England Elizabethan England hit him on the right knee. hit him on the right knee.

"You're a sick, sick liar! You're evil!" I threw I threw Lolita Lolita (Nabokov, 1955). "I (Nabokov, 1955). "I hope you die a slow death riddled with unbearable pain!" hope you die a slow death riddled with unbearable pain!" Although deflecting the books with his arms, and sometimes legs, Dad didn't stand up or try to restrain me in any way. He remained in his reading chair. "Get a hold of yourself," he said. "Stop being so melodramatic. This isn't a miniseries on AB -" I hurled Although deflecting the books with his arms, and sometimes legs, Dad didn't stand up or try to restrain me in any way. He remained in his reading chair. "Get a hold of yourself," he said. "Stop being so melodramatic. This isn't a miniseries on AB -" I hurled The Heart of the Matter The Heart of the Matter (Greene, 1948) at his stomach, (Greene, 1948) at his stomach, Common Common Sense (Paine, 1776) at his face. "Is this necessary?" I threw (Paine, 1776) at his face. "Is this necessary?" I threw Four Textson Socrates Four Textson Socrates (West, 1998). I picked up (West, 1998). I picked up ParadiseLost ParadiseLost (Milton, 1667). "That's a rare edition," Dad said. (Milton, 1667). "That's a rare edition," Dad said.

"Let it be the blow to kill you then!"

Dad sighed and shielded his face. He caught the book in his hands and closed it, placing it neatly on the side table. Immediately, I hurled Rip Van Winkle & the Legend of Sleepy Hollow Rip Van Winkle & the Legend of Sleepy Hollow (Irving, 1819), hitting him in the side. (Irving, 1819), hitting him in the side.

"If you would collect yourself and behave as a rational person, I might be inclined to tell you how I came to know the supremely unhinged Miss Schneider."

Discourse on Inequality (Rousseau, 1754) struck his left shoulder. "Blue, (Rousseau, 1754) struck his left shoulder. "Blue, really. really. If you would simply calm down. You're inflicting more harm on yourself than me. If you would simply calm down. You're inflicting more harm on yourself than me. Look Look at yourself-" A large-fonted at yourself-" A large-fonted Ulysses Ulysses (Joyce, 1922), thrown over my head backhandedly after tossing The King James Bible as a decoy, managed to avert his dodge, knocking him on the side of his face, close to his left eye. He touched where the spine of the book hit him and looked at his hand. (Joyce, 1922), thrown over my head backhandedly after tossing The King James Bible as a decoy, managed to avert his dodge, knocking him on the side of his face, close to his left eye. He touched where the spine of the book hit him and looked at his hand.

"Are you finished bombarding your father with the Western canon?" "Why did you lie?" My voice was hoa.r.s.e. "Why do I always find out you lie to me?"

"Sit down." down." He moved toward me but I aimed a battered edition of He moved toward me but I aimed a battered edition of How the Other Half Lives How the Other Half Lives (Riis, 1890) at his head. "If you could calm down, you might spare yourself the stress of getting so hysterical." He took the book from me. That soft part just under a person's eye- I don't know what it's called -it was bleeding. A beadlike drop of blood glistened there. "Now calm down - " (Riis, 1890) at his head. "If you could calm down, you might spare yourself the stress of getting so hysterical." He took the book from me. That soft part just under a person's eye- I don't know what it's called -it was bleeding. A beadlike drop of blood glistened there. "Now calm down - "

"Don't change the subject," I said.

He returned to his chair.

"Are you going to be reasonable?"

"You should be reasonable," I said loudly, though not as loud as before because my throat hurt. "I understand what you must think right now-" "Every time I go somewhere I find out something from other people. Things you didn't tell me." I said loudly, though not as loud as before because my throat hurt. "I understand what you must think right now-" "Every time I go somewhere I find out something from other people. Things you didn't tell me."

Dad nodded. "I understand completely. Who were you with tonight?"

"I don't reveal my sources."