"It's beginning now. I'd want him and his men out here in no more than half an hour. It might get out of hand after that."

"Don't worry about it. Hand me the phone."

"How are you going to get Sheriff Sharp out here?"

"Who, Cooter? Don't worry about it. I've known that old bastard all his life. He first got rich on the Longs. Now it's the Eyetalians running cocaine from the gambling boats in the river. Shit, don't tell me. We still hunt a lot. Actually he's not a bad old boy."

"How soon can you get him out here?"

"How about twenty minutes?"

"That will be fine."

The uncle picks up the phone, cocks an eye at me. "What's going to happen between now and then? Maybe you better go over to the door by my gun."

"Don't worry. Make your call. Nothing is going to happen."

7. IN FACT NOTHING HAPPENS for several minutes. Everyone is sitting peaceably. I observe nothing untoward-except. Except that the persons present do not exhibit the usual presence of people waiting-the studied inwardness of patients in a doctor's waiting room, the boredom, the page-flipping anxiety, the frowning sense of time building up-how much longer?-the monitoring of eyes-I-choose-not-to-look-at-you-and-get-into-all-that-business-of-looking-or the talkiness. None of that. Everyone simply sits, or rather lounges, out of time, as relaxed as lions on the Serengeti Plain.

Mrs. Cheney is still holding Coach's head against her breast and twisting the towel.

"Let's take a look, Mrs. Cheney. The bleeding should have stopped."

The bleeding has stopped. "You did a good job, Mrs. Cheney."

"Oh, thanks, Dr. More!" says Mrs. Cheney, holding Coach close, patting him.

Coach's eyes follow me trustfully.

Mr. Brunette has got his pants up and is sitting at his ease, only slightly off center, next to Mrs. Brunette, giving no sign of his recent injury. Having got him dressed, zipped up, belted, Mrs. Brunette is busy straightening his clothes, smoothing his coat lapels, adjusting his tie. But now she is busy at his hair, not smoothing it but ruffling it against the grain and inspecting him, peering close, plucking at his scalp. I realize she is grooming him.

The uncle too is at his ease, having taken his place between door and shotgun, not out of time like the others, but passing time like a good hunter waiting, hunkered down, blowing a few soft feeding calls through his fingers.

Only Vergil is uneasy, shooting glances at me. I know that what worries him is not what the others have done but whether I know what I am doing. He takes to pacing. I motion him over.

"Vergil, why don't you go check on Claude and Ricky. But come right back. I might need you."

"Good idea!" he exclaims, as pleased to find me sensible as he is to leave.

To share his new confidence, he leans closer, almost whispering, yet not really whispering. Somehow he knows that overhearing is not a problem now. "Am I correct in assuming that you expect them to regress to a primitive primate sort of behavior as a result of the sodium 24?"

"Not primate. Pongid. Primate includes humans."

"Right. I had that in Psych 101. Did you know I was a psych minor?"

"No."

"So the reason you're doing this is not punishment or revenge but rather because, though they have not themselves received the sodium 24 earlier and are therefore entirely responsible for these abuses"-he pats the pocket holding the photos-"the only way you could be sure of convincing the sheriff of their guilt is to dose them up and regress them to pongid behavior, for which they are not responsible but which will impress the sheriff?"

"You got it, Vergil," I say gratefully. "The only thing is, we don't know if it will work. Otherwise the sheriff is not going to be impressed by this peaceable scene. The photos are probably inadmissible."

"That's ironical, isn't it?" muses Vergil, glancing around at our little group.

"Yes, it is, Vergil. But we don't have much time. Do you think you could check on Claude and be back here in five minutes?"

"No problem," says Vergil, and he's gone.

"How's Coach doing?" I ask Mrs. Cheney, who is sitting between me and Coach. Though she has removed the towel from Coach's head, she has her arm around his neck, her hand against his ear, pulling him close.

"Fine, darling!" says Mrs. Cheney, pressing her knee against mine. "You boys can both come by me!" Mrs. Cheney has suddenly begun to talk in a New Orleans ninth-ward accent.

I lean out to take a look at Coach. He has stopped bleeding and seems in a good humor, smiling and pooching his lips in and out.

"How are you, Coach?"

He too leans out in an accommodating manner and seems on the point of replying, but instead takes an interest in the leather buttons on the front of Mrs. Cheney's dress and begins plucking at them.

"Mrs. Brunette, how is Mr. Brunette?"

Mrs. Brunette says something not quite audible but pleasant and affirming. She is busy brushing Mr. Brunette's hair against the grain and examining his scalp. Mr. Brunette, head bowed in Mrs. Brunette's lap, is going through Mrs. Brunette's purse, a satchel-size shoulder bag, which he has opened. He removes articles and lines them up on the game table.

A glance toward Van Dorn, who is nodding approvingly.

"Van, what were the casualties at Sharpsburg?" I ask him.

"Federals 14,756; Confederates 13,609," he says instantly and without surprise.

There are two things to observe here. One: though we have both read the same book, Foote's The Civil War, he can recall the numbers like a printout and I cannot; two: he does so without minding or even noticing the shifting context.

"What is the square root of 7,471?" I am curious to know how far he'll go into decimals.

"Snickers," says Van Dorn.

"Snickers?"

"Snickers." He makes the motion of peeling and eating something.

"He's talking about a Snickers bar," says the uncle companionably from the door. "He evermore loves Snickers. You can get me one too."

I get them both a Snickers bar from the vending machine in the pantry. "Eight six point four nine," says Van Dorn, and begins peeling his from the top.

Mr. Brunette has removed, among other things, a good-size hand mirror from Mrs. Brunette's shoulder bag.

I hold it up to him. He sees himself, looks behind the mirror, reaches behind it, grabs air.

Van Dorn makes a noise in his throat. He has noticed something that makes him forget the Snickers.

Mrs. Cheney has risen from the sofa and is presenting to Coach, that is, has backed up to him between his knees. Coach, who is showing signs of excitement, pooching his lips in and out faster than ever and uttering a sound something like boo boo boo, takes hold of Mrs. Cheney. But he seems not to know what else to do. He begins smacking his lips loudly. Mrs. Cheney is on all fours.

"Now you just hold it, boy," says the uncle, rising, both outraged and confused. "That's Miz Cheney you messing with. A fine lady. You cut that out, boy. You want me to shoot your other ear off?"

But Coach is not messing with Mrs. Cheney but only smacking his lips.

Before anyone knows what has happened, before the uncle can even begin to reach for his shotgun, Van Dorn has in a single punctuated movement leaped onto the game table, evidently bitten Coach's hand-for Coach cries out and puts his fingers in his mouth-and in another bound landed on the bottom step of the spiral staircase. Van Dorn mounts swiftly, using the handrails mostly, swinging up with powerful arm movements. There on the top step he hunkers down, one elbow crooked over his head.

I wave the uncle off-he has his shotgun by now. "Hold it!" What he doesn't realize is that Van Dorn is only assuming his patriarchal role, establishing his dominance by cowing the young "bachelors," who do in fact respond appropriately: Coach flinging both arms over his head, palms turned submissively out. Mr. Brunette is smacking his lips and "clapping," that is, not clapping palms to make a noise, but clapping his fingers noiselessly. Both movements are signs of submission.

I glance at my watch. Where in hell is Vergil? Things could get out of hand. I know all too well that the uncle and I are no match for the new pongid arm strength of Van Dorn, and we can't shoot him.

"That's the damnedest thing I ever saw," says the uncle, not so much to me as to Mrs. Cheney, who, now sitting demurely, is casting an admiring eye in his direction. "Oh, Jesus, here he comes again," he says, eyes rolled back, and picks up the shotgun.

"Hold it, Uncle Hugh Bob!" Van Dorn has swung lightly over the rail. I pitch him the rest of his Snickers bar. He catches it without seeming to try, resumes his perch. "Throw him yours, Uncle Hugh Bob."

"What?"

"Throw him your Snickers."

"Shit, he's got his own Snickers."

"Throw him your Snickers."

"Oh, all right." He does so.

Where is- The uncle has replaced his shotgun and is opening the door.

"Where do you think-" I begin.

In walks Vergil and the sheriff, followed by two young deputies.

I experience both relief and misgivings.

The scene which confronts the sheriff is as peaceful as a tableau.

Coach is sitting aslant, one arm looped over his head, but no more hangdog than any coach who has lost a game. He is not even pooching his lips.

Mrs. Cheney, next to him, is plucking at one of her own buttons, eyes modestly cast down in the same sweet-faced, madonna-haired expression she is known for.

Mrs. Brunette is busy putting articles back in her purse, Mr. Brunette helping her with one hand, the other fiddling with her hive hairdo-just as any faculty husband-and-wife team might behave at any faculty meeting.

Van Dorn, seated on the top step, surveys his staff with a demeanor both equable and magisterial, a good-natured and informal headmaster munching on a Snickers bar, but headmaster nevertheless.

Sheriff Vernon "Cooter" Sharp is a genial, high-stomached, vigorous man who affects Western garb, Stetson, Lizard-print-and-cowhide boots, bolo tie with a green stone, cinch-size belt and silver conch buckle, and a holstered revolver on a low-slung belt like Matt Dillon. He is noted for his posse of handsome quarter-horses from his own ranch, which parade every year in a good cause with the Shriners, clowns, and hijinks rearing cars to raise money for the Shriners' hospital. He and his posse are famous statewide and are invited to many events, including Mardi Gras parades.

Now he's taken off his hat again to wipe his forehead with his sleeve, but left on his amber aviation glasses, and is looking around, surveying the peaceful scene with the same queer, for him, expression of gravity and solemnity and here-we-go-again rue. He's shaking his head, mainly at me.

"What we got here, Doc?" he asks, not offering to shake hands.

The two young deputies are standing at ease, hands clasped behind them, pudding-faced and bored.

"Sheriff Sharp, I want you to arrest Dr. Van Dorn, Mr. and Mrs. Brunette, Coach Matthews, and Mrs. Cheney for the molestation and sexual abuse of children."

"Oh me." The sheriff sighs and, nodding mournfully, catches sight of Mrs. Cheney. "Doc, we been that route."

"Do it, anyway."

"Hi, Lurine," he says to Mrs. Cheney, giving a little wave, hand at pistol level. "How you doing?"

"Hi, Cooter," says Mrs. Cheney, fingering buttons, eyes still downcast.

"We have evidence, Sheriff. Vergil, did you-"

"I showed him the pictures, Doc, but he wouldn't hardly look at them because he says they are not admissible." Vergil is taking the photographs out to show them again.

Sheriff Sharp waves him off. "They neither here or there. Y'all know we've had a regular epidemic of pictures like that all over the pa-ish. It's terrible. I hate to think of little children seeing stuff like that. But I'm here to tell you we're cracking down. On drugs too. And minority crime."

"You don't understand, Sheriff," I say patiently. "That's not the problem here. What we're talking about here are criminal molestation and photographic evidence."

"The thing is, Doc," he says, turning to face me but not looking at me, looking anywhere but at me-he can't stand the sight of me!-"we got a problem here." I'm the problem.

"What's the problem?"

"Doc, as I told you, we been this route before," he says wearily, pushing up his amber glasses and rubbing his eyes. "The same charges have been brought before against those same folks before-" He nods toward the Brunettes, a loving couple. "They were dismissed then for lack of evidence and they'll be dismissed again-those pictures ain't worth a dime, and now you're also wanting to charge Dr. Van Dorn here and Coach Matthews, who won state last year in triple-A-and even this little lady"-he stretches out a hand toward Mrs. Cheney-"who has done more to he'p people than anybody you can name, people you know, children, your children, Doc, old folks, Miss Lucy's mamma-I don't know, Doc." He is shaking his head in genuine sorrow. "To tell you the truth, Doc, you the only one we got a warrant for. We got a pick-up order on you from Dr. Comeaux yesterday. Now I wasn't going to bother you, Doc, since I been knowing you and your family for a long time. But it looks like you hell-bent on-"

"Now you listen here, Cooter," says the uncle, who, I see with some dismay, is hopping from one foot to the other in a peculiar fashion, coat flapping open, "I was here so don't tell me what I saw. These folks all crazy as hell. You know what that little lady and the Coach were-"

"You just hold it, Hugh Bob," says the sheriff, holding out a hand but not bothering to look at the uncle. "You just watch your mouth when you talking about Lurine-Mrs. Cheney. Ever'body knows you were pestering her when she was staying out at Pantherburn with Miss Lucy's mamma, your sister, before she died."

The pudding-faced, flat-topped deputy leans over to say something to the sheriff.

"Weapon?" says the sheriff. "What you talking about, weapon? You got a weapon, Hugh Bob?"

The uncle opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, the deputy simply lifts the uncle's coattails and extracts the Colt Woodsman from his jacket pocket.

The sheriff, again overcome with sorrow, accepts the gun, sniffs the muzzle.

"This weapon has just been fired, Hugh Bob."

"It sho has."

"Who at?"

"Him." The uncle nods at Coach, who appears lost in thought, studying his palms, which are open on his knees. The sheriff walks around him, looking him over. The other side of his head is not bleeding but is encrusted with a maroon clot.

"Coach?" he says, peering down at him. He stands up, hands on hips. "What in the hell did you do to him, Hugh Bob, shoot him in the head?"

"Just his ear," says the uncle, not displeased.

"What in the hell-check that shotgun, Huval," he says to the younger, balder deputy.