"It's usually the Gregory Trexes of the world you have to deal with, Mary, not the Elysius Culhanes."

"No," she said, shaking her head adamantly. "That's treating the symptoms, not the disease."

"Gregory Trex is a symptom that will kill you."

"The only way to stop being manipulated by men like Elysius Culhane is to refuse to deal with, to fight, their surrogates a" people like Gregory. When enough people refuse to fight, then the fighting will simply stop."

"Gandhi, Martin Luther King, and the Community of Conciliation would have lasted about five minutes in n.a.z.i Germany or Pol Pot's Cambodia. Pacifism can only work in a basically just society, where the majority of people are basically just. The problem, Mary, is that it takes only one Gregory Trex with a machine gun to wipe out droves of pacifists, and Trex wouldn't give it a second thought if he thought he could get away with it. What do you do about that?"

"Wait for him to run out of ammunition."

"You're joking, of course."

"I am not," she said evenly, drawing herself up slightly.

"He'll simply reload."

"Then we wait for the people who supply him with the ammunition to stop manufacturing it."

I had better things to do than debate pacifism with Mary Tree, and I didn't want our meeting to end on a sour note. I bowed slightly, extended my hand. "Thank you, Mary."

She took my hand in both of hers, smiled warmly. "I take it you don't think much of the pacifist philosophy."

"My philosophy is do unto others as you would have them do unto you, but keep a sharp lookout for the bad guys. There have always been bad guys, Mary, and there always will be. They'll roll right over you if you let them; first take everything you own and then take your life. If you're not prepared to fight and die for certain things, then you probably don't have much to live for."

"But you believe you also have to be prepared to kill for certain things."

"Yes."

"Then you're back to the danger of being manipulated by demagogues, cowards, bigots, and hypocrites like Elysius Culhane."

"No."

"Who tells the good guys from the bad guys?"

"I do."

"Only you?"

"Only me. Dying and killing are very personal things."

"Men should only, say, fight in wars they personally believe in, and refuse to fight in others?"

"Yep. And then accept the consequences of that decision if the government wants to throw you in jail, or even kill you. It's a h.e.l.l of a lot better to die for what you believe in than to die a" or kill a" for something you don't believe in. Each individual must make his or her own decision."

"That makes you an anarchist."

"G.o.d, I hope Garth doesn't find out about it. He already has enough names to call me."

Mary Tree laughed lightly, then gripped me gently by the shoulders. "That reminds me of something I have to give you. Just wait here a minute."

I waited, kneading my sore left arm and gazing out the bank of windows at the river. She was back a few minutes later, looking slightly flushed. She was carrying a plastic shopping bag, which she handed to me. It felt heavy.

"This is just between you and me and your brother, Mongo," she said, her pale blue eyes bright with excitement and warmth. "I've been negotiating with a small record company in Los Angeles that wants to sign me to a new recording contract. These are copies of demo tapes I've been working on for the past year. They're not as clean as they should be, and a couple of rhythm tracks still have to be laid in, but, since you say your brother is such a fan of mine, I think he might enjoy listening to them. I've written a lot of the songs myself, which is a departure for me, but there are a number of new Harry Peal songs, and Dylan even gave me one. They're also doing some uncredited backup vocals. I've autographed the tape slipcases."

"Good grief, Mary," I said, hefting the plastic bag. "There must be enough music here for three or four alb.u.ms. Talk about collectibles. I'll certainly enjoy listening to the tapes, but I'm going to be sure we're standing in Garth's apartment when I give these to him. He's going to lose control of his bodily functions when he hears what I've got here."

Mary Tree's smile grew even broader, warmer. "Also, I want you to bring him out for the day when this other business is behind you. We'll poke around the antique shops, have a picnic lunch up in the quarry, and maybe go sailing, if you'd like."

"I'd like. As for Garth, well, words cannot express."

"I've got everyone else lined up out in the foyer. They'd like to say h.e.l.lo. Okay with you?"

"Fine with me."

I followed her across the ballroom, stopped just before we reached the archway, and took her arm. She turned toward me, a puzzled expression on her face. "Mary," I continued quietly, "I don't want to frighten you, but I'd like you to be very careful for ... a while. Until we get this matter of Michael's death cleared up, I want you to watch out for yourself. When you leave the house, even if it's just for a walk into town, always take somebody with you. Okay?"

She studied me for a few moments, and when she spoke her voice had grown slightly husky. "Mongo, you think Michael was murdered, don't you?"

"Yes," I said, feeling my stomach muscles flutter, "I do."

"You didn't seem so certain before."

"I got certain when you told me Michael had supposedly used the canoe without permission. There was a time when Michael loved boating and swimming, and I was willing to grant the possibility that he'd decided to celebrate the new life he was planning to start with you people by going back to doing the things he'd once enjoyed; if so, his being out in a canoe on the Hudson might be explainable. The river kicked up on him, he capsized and drowned."

"But now you don't believe that's what happened."

"No. What I'm not willing to grant is that he'd use somebody else's property a" in this case a very special, handcrafted canoe a" without asking permission. Michael was a gracious and rigorously courteous man, a stickler for respecting other people's privacy and property. He would never have taken that canoe without permission. I wasn't sure I wanted to tell you my suspicions, not only because I didn't want to frighten you but because somebody might think you know more than you do, and that could place you in danger. But then I realized that people are bound to find out that I've talked to you, and just that fact could be dangerous. That's why I want you to be careful. Yes, I believe Michael was murdered. Now the questions become who did it and why."

CHAPTER FOUR.

I hung around in the huge foyer of the Community of Conciliation mansion for half an hour, chatting with Mary and fifteen other members of the pacifist organization, and then I was out the door and three quarters of the way down the driveway before I realized that I'd forgotten to call a taxi. I flexed my tender right knee, decided that I'd test it with the walk back into town and hope that it didn't stiffen up too badly on me.

I needn't have worried. I'd limped along only a half mile or so, occasionally reaching across my body to knead my throbbing left arm, when a white Cairn police car pulled up to the curb beside me and Dan Mosely rolled down the window.

"You look like you're hurting, Frederickson," Mosely said in his deep, resonant voice. "I think you need a lift."

I stopped, studied the impa.s.sive features of the man with the steel-colored hair and eyes. "Chief, that sounds to me like an official invitation."

"Semi-official. Get in, Frederickson. If you will."

I walked around to the other side of the car, got in, and fastened my seat belt, but Mosely didn't put the idling car into gear. He leaned forward, bowing his head slightly as he hooked his wrists over the steering wheel. "You must have hurt your leg while you were kicking the s.h.i.t out of Gregory Trex again," Mosely said with a small sigh. "You really should be more careful; if you don't stop beating on that bonehead, you're going to cripple yourself."

"Pardon me?"

"It really is true what they say about you."

"What do they say about me, Chief)"

"That you're a G.o.dd.a.m.n holy terror."

"Who? Me? Wow. A G.o.dd.a.m.n holy terror. It has a ring to it."

"You might be interested in knowing that Gregory Trex is in the hospital with a concussion, a broken nose, lots of missing teeth, lots of abrasions, and a ruptured right eardrum. He may lose his hearing in that ear."

"Poor boy. Aside from my general concern for all humanity, why should I be interested in Trex's misfortune?"

"Because you did it to him. He was found virtually under your window."

"Who does Trex say did it to him?"

Mosely turned his head slightly to look at me, and his lips drew back in a thin smile that seemed to reflect respect along with his irritation. "He says he was coming around to talk to you and that he was mugged by four guvs. He says three guys held him while the fourth worked him over with nunchaku sticks."

"It sounds terrible," I said, wincing. "Did he happen to mention what he wanted to discuss with me?"

"He never got around to explaining that. What the h.e.l.l happened, Frederickson? Did that s.h.i.t-for-brains make the mistake of coming after you again?"

"Chief, if Trex told you he was beaten up by four muggers, who am I to call him a liar? He might take offense."

Mosely grunted with disgust, then abruptly straightened up and slammed the car into reverse. The tires spun and spewed gravel as he backed into a driveway, and then he shifted again and we speeded away in the opposite direction, away from town. A decidedly captive audience, I figured I would find out soon enough where we were going and what he wanted, and so I remained silent as we reached the end of Pave Avenue. He took the left branch of the Y that led up to the abandoned stone quarry, then took a sharp right after a hundred yards or so onto another road. The pavement had ended abruptly, and we were on a winding, pitted, dirt road that had been carved right through the side of the mountain. He shifted into four-wheel drive to slowly maneuver around a truck-eating pothole, and then we continued on our way up. Viewed from a distance, the remains of the quarrying operation that had systematically devoured a good portion of the mountain appeared like an ocher and mauve scar across the face of the sky; seen up close, the naked, machine-washed face of the rock was starkly beautiful, cut in irregular, fluted patterns of rock shelves that made it seem as if we were traveling through the innards of some gigantic, petrified pipe organ of the G.o.ds.

"The whole mountain is trap rock," Mosely said in an easy, conversational tone as we reached a large, gra.s.s-covered plateau about three quarters of the way up the mountain. He shifted back to two-wheel drive and drove into a small parking lot that was virtually at the edge of a precipice overlooking the Hudson. Adjacent to the parking lot were a concrete and steel barbecue pit, a picnic table, and an overflowing trash can. There was a huge yellow building set back on the plateau, connected to the face of the mountain by flat umbilical cords of rusted steel that had once been conveyor belts. Two other wide conveyor belts emerged from the front of the building and plunged underground, presumably leading down to the river's edge. "Sixty to seventy years ago, this quarry supplied more than half of the crushed stone used in construction projects in New York City. They'd chop and shave the rock off the side of the mountain onto those conveyor belts, which would carry it to a rock crusher that was inside that building, which is now used for storage. The crushed rock would come out on those other conveyor belts and be carried down to the river, where it would be loaded onto barges that would take it downriver."

"Interesting," I said in a neutral tone.

Mosely parked in a corner of the lot, close to the picnic table, and got out. I followed him toward the table. There was a used condom draped over the edge of the trash can. Mosely picked up a stick, pushed the swollen rubber tube all the way into the can.

"f.u.c.king kids can't even clean up after themselves," he said with disgust as he heaved the stick away.

Mosely eased his tall frame down on top of the picnic table, facing the river, rested his feet on the attached bench. I climbed up beside him, stared out over the breathtaking panorama before me a" puffy c.u.mulus clouds in a blue sky above me, sheer rock faces behind and on either side, and the broad, winding expanse of the Hudson below me. Closer to the Westchester side, a dozen sailboats were heeling nicely against a brisk wind blowing from the south. In the deep channel three quarters of the way across, three squat, muscular tugboats were shepherding a train of chain-connected barges loaded with what looked like concrete sewage pipes toward New York City.

I said, "Nice view."

"Frederickson," Mosely said in a slightly exasperated tone as he ran the fingers of both hands through his thick, curly hair, "I like it here in Cairn. I really do. I like the community, I like the atmosphere, I like the people, and most of all I like my job."

"And you feel that I somehow pose a threat to you, which is why you've been keeping track of my whereabouts."

Now he turned and looked at me, hard. When he spoke, his deep voice had developed a decided edge to it. "Cairn doesn't need a holy terror, Frederickson; we've already discussed how you attract trouble, and we've already seen evidence of it. You also attract publicity, and the kind of publicity you generate could definitely end up making me look bad."

"Are you trying to tell me it's high noon, Chief?"

"I thought we'd agreed that I was going to take another, closer look at this case, and that you were going to let me do my job."

"Chief, I had two stops on my schedule when I came to Cairn; you were the first stop, and the Community of Conciliation was the second. As a matter of fact, I was just on my way back to see you."

This caught him by surprise, and it showed in his steel-gray eyes. "Oh? Why?"

"To tell you that I'm now certain that Michael was murdered, and then let you get on with your job."

He shifted his weight around on the table so that he was facing me, crossed his arms over his chest, and narrowed his eyelids.

"What the h.e.l.l makes you so sure now that your friend was murdered? What did those friendly, peace-loving folks in the Russian emba.s.sy down the road tell you that they didn't tell me?"

"They didn't tell you because they didn't think it was important."

"What didn't they think was important?"

"The fact that Michael didn't ask the owner's permission before he supposedly took that canoe out on the river."

"That's all?"

"It's enough. I've already told you that Michael hated even being near water, but that could have changed. His character wouldn't. He would never have taken that canoe without asking permission. It means somebody nabbed Michael and drowned him. Either before or after they killed him, they stole the canoe and set it adrift, knowing that the empty canoe, whenever and wherever it was found, would be connected to Michael's drowning; the police would naturally a.s.sume he'd been in it. Michael was murdered, Chief, and I wanted you to know it."

"And if I don't start looking real hard for this murderer, the famous Dr. Robert Frederickson will. Right?"

Dan Mosely and his apparent insecurity were starting to annoy me. I shifted my own position, turning to face him so that our knees were almost touching. "I think you may have an att.i.tude problem, Chief," I said tersely. "I don't need any more of this 'holy terror' and 'famous Dr. Frederickson' s.h.i.t from you. I came here because a friend of mine died under what I considered to be questionable circ.u.mstances. You were the first person I talked to about it, and I'm talking to you now. I've never suggested that you didn't do your job or that you won't continue to do it. Since you've indicated that you'll extend me the courtesy of letting me know whatever you may turn up, I'll be more than happy to get back to the city so I can get on with my own work. So get off my back."

Mosely continued to study me through narrowed lids for a few more moments, then abruptly turned away and resumed staring down at the river. "Who'd you talk to there?"

"I spoke to everyone who was in the house."

"Yeah, but who did the most talking over there?"

"What difference does it make? I a.s.sume you'll be talking to them again."

"Mary Tree."

"If you're going to answer your own questions, why bother asking me?"

"What else did she have to say?"

I shrugged. "More town gossip. I've given you the salient points of our discussion."

"Did she mention her notion that there's a death squad operating in the towns along the river?"

"The subject was touched upon."

Mosely dug out a splinter from the weathered wood of the tabletop, casually tossed it into the air; the wind caught it and carried it over the edge of the cliff. "You think I'm a crooked cop, Frederickson?" he asked in an even tone. "You think I'm letting killers operate right under my nose?"

"Chief, since you're the one I'm counting on to nab the man or men who murdered my friend, I certainly hope not."

He was silent for some time. Finally he nodded slightly, said, "I interpret that as a vote of confidence, Frederickson. I appreciate it. I know I'm an honest cop; I like to think I'm also a good one. Yes, there've been execution-style killings around here lately, and they're being investigated jointly by the police forces in all the river communities. I don't have to tell you that we're not immune to the problems you'll find in the rest of the country; we have drugs and drug dealers; we have crazy people living on the streets. Except for the vagrant, we think the deaths represent a struggle for turf among drug dealers. The vagrant may have just gotten in their way. Check it out, if you'd like."