"We got him his own line, finally. Mort said-'Self-defense.'"

"I remember a girl, senior year. She wasn't a girlfriend of Zach's exactly, but-"

"Oh, there were so many. We didn't always approve."

"A cheerleader, I think-"

"Some of them were so brazen, you wouldn't believe it."

"This girl made some crazy accusation about Zach?-after a prom?"

"I don't remember that."

"We were all at a party, at Bobbi Krauss's, she tried to say us guys weren't invited but we were. And-whatever happened afterward, after this girl left with Zach, wasn't too clear."

"No. I don't remember."

Mrs. Lundt was speaking quickly, anxiously. About to hang up and Patrick didn't want to arouse her suspicion but he heard himself say, incensed, "This girl's dad, he was a farmer or something?-he came to your house? Zach told us, he was scared as h.e.l.l. You called the police, though, Mrs. Lundt-"

Mrs. Lundt said, in a low rapid voice, "I-don't remember exactly. It was a confused time. The man was drunk and violent and threatened to kill my husband and son-"

Patrick said, "Hey look, us guys were all on Zach's side. For sure. If it'd come to a-you know, trial-we were going to testif-,' for Zach."

"Oh, yes. We so appreciated it, Mort and I. We were so terribly upset. But the girl was lying, and exaggerating, and nothing came of it."

Patrick said, incensed, "Zach always knew he could count on his buddies. We didn't need for any lawyer to talk to us, to tell us what to say."

Breathless Mrs. Lundt said, "Oh yes, Mort and I did appreciate it-your loyalty. It was a terrible, terrible time-"

Patrick said, "h.e.l.l, Mrs. Lundt, if there's anybody a guy can count on, it's his buddies."

"We were terrified that madman-the father-would come back here, and-do something violent. The police said they couldn't keep him in custody and he wouldn't listen to reason."

"Geez. Whatever happened to him, and the girl?"

"The girl moved away, thank G.o.d. Her family sent her away. The man-I'm not sure." Mrs. Lundt was breathing quickly, audibly. She seemed on the verge of bursting into tears. "I think I'm going to have to hang up now."

"Hey, I'm sorry if I upset you, Mrs. Lundt. I didn't-"

"I'm going to hang up now. Good-bye, Dan."

Patrick said, "Thanks for Zach's number, Mrs. Lundt. See you!"

As -f he'd been in terror of a bridge. A suspension bridge for instance. Fear of stepping out onto it, a narrow hz-h-swaying bridge like the one across Fall Creek. And to his astonishment he discovered no danger in it-none at all. Crossing the bridge scarcely aware of what he did and he was safe on the farther side.

I-lard to believe that Patrick Mulvaney was making such mistakes.

Three times, before Thanksgiving, he'd changed his research topic for his senior honors thesis in biology. First he'd been working on a problem of membrane biogenesis, then on a problem of invertebrate genetics, both topics suggested to him by his supervisor Professor Herring. But he couldn't maintain his initial interest. He tried, tried very hard. He understood that a young research biologist must work under the guidance of his elders. You're part of a team, you do what you're told and don't question why. But Patrick became discouraged and impatient, tossed away his data.

His third topic was more theoretical than the first two, and would involve ma.s.sive amounts of reading in areas new to him, and less lab work. This was an application of mathematical game theory to Darwinian evolutionary theory. Patrick wanted to a.n.a.lyze the concept of the "forced move" in evolutionary design: the biological imperative in which, in order to survive, a species must adapt along a line of X and no other. (Examples were parasites that become exclusively dependent upon a single host-species, the phenomenon of English sparrows dependent upon areas of dense human habitation, short-term gestation in certain species, long-term gestation in others, odd features like eyes on stalks, or recessed eyes, exoskeletons, minute brains.) The "forced move" was a metaphor from chess. You make your move as a species in crisis, brilliant, desperate, lucky or doomed-you have no choice. In retrospect, if you survive, it could be hypothesized from a future vantage point that you'd "adapted" to an altered environment. You'd exercised biological "specialization." The record might seem to show, or one might argue it did show, an unconscious DNA-design. Purpose, intelligence.

Unless the record argued utter randonmess, chance. In which case species survival isn't an essence of species but mere accident.

When Patrick spoke of such matters to Professor Herring, in Herring's office in Lydall Hall, the elder man regarded him with bemused eyes. Frequently, he interrupted Patrick to ask him questions which Patrick fumbled to answer-"That's one of the things I want to know." Herring was a vigorous man of middle age, with a reputation in the department for caprice and cruelty, for exploiting disciples who eagerly did scut-work for his prot,g,s among the younger faculty; but he was a brilliant man, generously funded by the Na- tional Science Foundation and by the university, known to be remarkably kind to certain of his students, foreign as well as American, but all young men, whom he treated virtually like sons. For three years, Patrick Mulvaney had been a favored undergraduate of his. He'd arranged for Patrick to receive summer research grants, workstudy grants, he'd written a surely strong letter of recommendation for Patrick, for graduate school; he'd given hum consistently high grades of course, while singling him out at times for harsh criticism. "You can do better than this, Mr. Mulvaney. You can do better," he'd said. And so Patrick did better, without fail. He was grateful to Herring, admired Herring beyond any of his other professors, but he was uneasy in the man's presence. As he was uneasy in the presence of all older strong-willed outspoken and physically robust men who reminded him of his father.

It's basically an uneasy position, to be grateful to an elder. Patrick wasn't sure he liked that position at all.

As Patrick spoke, at what would be their final conference, in January, Herring appeared to be listening with a growing air of discomfort. Patrick had turned up at Herring's office with a sheath of unnumbered sheets of paper covered in close-typed paragraphs and equations, diagrams, and graphs; he was unshaven, eye red-rimmed and gritty from lack of sleep. He'd rushed ahead on a new subtopic before he'd discussed, with Herring, the chapter he'd handed in the previous week. (He could see his earlier work, marked in red, on Herring's desk, waiting to be returned to him. Oh but what did he care about that, he'd all but forgotten that.) Patrick's reading in mathematical game theory was enormously exciting to him and he was floundering and flailing like a drowning man but-game theory was the key, he was sure! Joining Darwin and John von Neumann and John Maynard Smith-he was sure! Why is it that there exist organisms so similar in design to other organisms they're virtually indistinguishable from them, yet have wholly different DNA? What of the role of ma.s.s extinctions in evolution? What is the relation of "natural selection" to "adaptation"? Above all-how could life, which is highly complex biochemical activity, ever have arisen out of nonlife, which is chemical simplicity? What sense does that make?

Patrick's voice echoed in the large, high-ceilinged s.p.a.ce of Herring's office. The walls of the office were lined with bookshelves and several garishly painted, tusked and black-haired African tribal masks. Eyeless, the masks gazed at Patrick with expressions of mild

Hard to believe that Patrick Mulvaney was making such mistakes.

Three times, before Thanksgiving, he'd changed his research topic for his senior honors thesis in biology. First he'd been working on a problem of membrane biogenesis, then on a problem of invertebrate genetics, both topics suggested to him by his supervisor Professor Herring. But he couldn't maintain his initial interest. He tried, tried very hard. He understood that a young research biologist must work under the guidance of his elders. You're part of a team, you do what you're told and don't question why. But Patrick became discouraged and impatient, tossed away his data.

His third topic was more theoretical than the first two, and would involve ma.s.sive amounts of reading in areas new to him, and less lab work. This was an application of mathematical game theory to Darwinian evolutionary theory. Patrick wanted to a.n.a.lyze the concept of the "forced move" in evolutionary design: the biological imperative in which, in order to survive, a species must adapt along a line of X and no other. (Examples were parasites that become exclusively dependent upon a single host-species, the phenomenon of English sparrows dependent upon areas of dense human habitation, short-term gestation in certain species, long-term gestation in others, odd features like eyes on stalks, or recessed eyes, exoskeletons, minute brains.) The "forced move" was a metaphor from chess. You make your move as a species in crisis, brilliant, desperate, lucky or doomed-you have no choice. In retrospect, if you survive, it could be hypothesized from a future vantage point that you'd "adapted" to an altered environment. You'd exercised biological "specialization." The record might seem to show, or one might argue it did show, an unconscious DNA-design. Purpose, intelligence.

Unless the record argued utter randomness, chance. In which case species survival isn't an essence of species but mere accident.

When Patrick spoke of such matters to Professor Herring, in Herring's office in Lydall Hall, the elder man regarded him with bemused eyes. Frequently, he interrupted Patrick to ask him questions which Patrick fumbled to answer-"That's one of the things I want to know." Herring was a vigorous man of middle age, with a reputation in the department for caprice and cruelty, for exploiting disciples who eagerly did scut-work for his prot,g,s among the younger faculty; but he was a brilliant man, generously funded by the Na- tional Science Foundation and by the university, known to be remarkably kind to certain of his students, foreign as well as American, but all young men, whom he treated virtually like sons. For three years, Patrick Mulvaney had been a favored undergraduate of his. He'd arranged for Patrick to receive summer research grants, workstudy grants, he'd written a surely strong letter of reconirnendation for Patrick, for graduate school; he'd given hum consistently high grades of course, while singling him out at times for harsh criticism. "You can do better than this, Mr. Mulvaney. You can do better," he'd said. And so Patrick did better, without fail. He was grateful to Herring, admired Herring beyond any of his other professors, but he was uneasy in the man's presence. As he was uneasy in the presence of all older strong-willed outspoken and physically robust men who reminded him of his father. It's basically an uneasy position, to be grateful to an elder. Patrick wasn't sure he liked that position at all. As Patrick spoke, at what would be their final conference, in January, Herring appeared to be listening with a growing air of discomfort. Patrick had turned up at Herring's office with a sheath of unnumbered sheets of paper covered in close-typed paragraphs and equations, diagrams, and graphs; he was unshaven, eye red-rimmed and gritty from lack of sleep. He'd rushed ahead on a new subtopic before he'd discussed, with Herring, the chapter he'd handed in the previous week. (He could see his earlier work, marked in red, on Herring's desk, waiting to be returned to him. Oh but what did he care about that, he'd all but forgotten that.) Patrick's reading in mathematical game theory was enormously exciting to him and he was floundering and flailing like a drowning man but-game theory was the key, he was sure! Joining Darwin and John von Neumann and John Maynard Smith-he was sure! Why is it that there exist organisms so similar in design to other organisms they're virtually indistinguishable from them, yet have wholly different DNA? What of the role of ma.s.s extinctions in evolution? What is the relation of "natural selection" to "adaptation"? Above all-how could life, which is highly complex biochemical activity, ever have arisen out of nonlife, which is chemical simplicity? What sense does that make?

Patrick's voice echoed in the large, high-ceilinged s.p.a.ce of Herring's office. The walls of the office were lined with bookshelves and several garishly painted, tusked and black-haired African tribal masks. Eyeless, the masks gazed at Patrick with expressions of milc incredulity. What are you saying! How dare you speak like that! JT/hat sense does it make? Stricken with embarra.s.sment, Patrick was renunded of the tale that made the rounds at their high school, that Marianne had put up her hand in biology cla.s.s and asked Mr. Farolino why did G.o.d make parasites?

Professor Herring was pushing Patrick's last-week's chapter in his direction across his desk, a signal that the conference was over. The new chapter lay on a corner of the desk, yet untouched. An- noyed yet managing to smile, in an almost kindly voice, as one might speak to a bright, impetuous twelve-year-old, he said, "Why do you a.s.sume, Patrick, that there is 'sense' to be 'made' of any of this? Still more, that you're capable of making it?"

Next day, Patrick was notified by a departmental secretary that he'd been a.s.signed a new thesis advisor. A white-haired a.s.sociate professor whose speciality was philosophy of science, one of the "popular" lecturers whom the serious scientists in the department scorned.

Help me! Help- One night in early April, fifteen days before he planned to drive to Mt. Ephraim to confront Zachary Lundt, Patrick woke terrified from a nightmare of-what? Quicksand dragging at his legs, seething steaming black muck, getting into his nose, his mouth! Into his eyes! He leapt from bed, stumbled and fell, his heart pounding. He was sobbing like a child. No, no-help!-what is it!-leave me alone- He'd confused his damp twisted bedclothes with black muck. Yet it seemed his bed was black muck. Liquidy as melted tar, roofing tar, the tar his dad used, yet living, a living organism, seething and sucking at Patrick Mulvaney greedy to pull him down inside it.

He switched on his bedside lamp with shaking fingers. Stared at the alarm clock not registering the time at first-4:35 A.M. And rain. Rain blown against his windows, a chilly draft from the window now that it was April and Patrick had removed the masking tape he'd been using as insulation. Now it was officially nearing spring, the landlord at 114 Cook was more grudging with heat; Patrick's room was as cold as if it were winter. Yet he'd been sweating in his sleep, in such terror of being suffocated. He wiped at his eyes imagining lashes were stuck together with black muck. Christ, how disgusting!

It must be nerves, that was all. Yet Patrick was certain he hadn't any nerves, really. His plan for the execution of justice was complete except for a few minor details. Nothing could deter him.

He'd vowed he'd be willing to trade his life, if necessary, in order to execute justice against his sister's rapist. Nothing could deter him.

Patrick went out into the bathrooni in the hail, used the toilet and splashed handfuls of cold water onto his face. There were his eyes, finely threaded with blood, seemingly enlarged without his gla.s.ses, regarding him in the splotched mirror above the sink. Were those the eyes of a twenty-one-year-old capable of murder? Patrick smiled at himself saying, "Yes. Right."

It served him right, he'd had a nightmare. Boasting to Judd earlier that night how well he'd been sleeping lately. How deep and restful his sleep. He wasn't even thinking of his G.o.dd.a.m.ned academic work he'd let slide, cla.s.ses he'd ceased attending. He'd been provisionally accepted into the Cornell Ph.D. program in biology, depending of course on his final grades; he'd missed the deadlines, or lost the application forms entirely, for admission to the University of Chicago, the University of Michigan, Berkeley and one other where Herring had, last fall, encouraged him to apply. But he didn't lose any sleep over any of this. Nothing could deter him.

Judd had said, maybe not meaning to be insolent but it struck Patrick that way, "Lucky you."

Patrick flared up at once. "Hey kid, if you want to back out of this, go right ahead. I can do it alone."

Quickly Judd said, "No! I'm in it one hundred percent."

"Just let me know, if you're afraid"

"I am afraid, sure. But I'm in it one hundred percent."