The girl was conspicuous even before she entered the office. It was a windy day and everything was in motion except her face. Her coat beat against her legs like captive wings and her long fair hair seemed to be trying to tie itself into knots. The sign above the door, SMEDLER, DOWNS, CASTLEBERG, MACFEE, POWELL, ATTORNEYS at LAW, twisted and turned as if the partners were struggling among themselves.

Charity Nelson, Mr. Smedler�s private secretary, was taking the receptionist�s place during the lunch hour because she herself was on a diet and didn�t want to see or think of food.

The front door opened and the wind pushed the girl into the office. She looked surprised at what had happened. She was very thin, which made Charity think about food and sent nasty little pains up and down and around her stomach.

She said irritably, �What can I do for you?�

�I like the little cage.�

�Little cage?�

�The one outside... the one at the back.�

�That�s Mr. Smedler�s own elevator. It leads to his private office.�

�Do you think he�d give me a ride in it?�

�No.�

�Not even one?�

�Only if you were a client.�

The girl didn�t look like a client, at least not the kind who paid. She was quite pretty, with high cheekbones and large brown eyes as bright and expressionless as glass.

�Do you wish to see Mr. Smedler?� Charity said.

�I don�t know.�

She took a seat at the corner window and picked up a magazine. It lay on her lap unopened and, Charity noticed, upside down.

�Are you sure you came to the right office?� Charity said.

�Yes, I took a taxi. The driver knew just where to go.�

�I didn�t mean how did you get here. I meant did you have a specific reason for coming. You realize this is a law firm.�

�I�m bothering you, aren�t I? My brother Hilton is always telling me I mustn�t bother people, but how can I help it if I don�t know what bothers them?�

�Would you care to make an appointment with one of our attorneys?�

�I think I�ll just sit here for a while and look around.�

�Everyone�s out to lunch.�

�I don�t mind,� the girl said. �I�m not in a hurry.�

At 1:25 they began returning to the office: two typists, a file clerk, Mr. MacFee with a client, Mr. Powell and his secretary, a junior member of the firm and the receptionist, who looked, Charity noted bitterly, well-fed and contented.

The girl showed her first sign of excitement. She rose suddenly, dropping the magazine on the floor.

�That�s him,� she said. �He�s who I want to see, the one wearing the glasses. He has a nice face. What�s his name?�

�Tom Aragon. What�s yours?�

�Cleo.�

�Cleo what?�

�The same as my brother Hilton�s. Jasper, Cleo Jasper. It�s awfully ugly, don�t you think?�

�I�ll check and see if Mr. Aragon will have time to talk to you.� She told Aragon on the intercom: �Some chick is waiting to see you because you have a nice face. Can you buy that?�

�Sure. Send her in.�

�Better come out and get her, junior. She looks like she couldn�t find her way out of a wet paper bag.�

Aragon shared an office with another junior member of the firm. It was furnished as if no clients were expected, and in fact few came. Aragon�s duties were mostly confined to legwork for the senior lawyers, especially Smedler, whose cases often involved rich women. Cleo Jasper wasn�t yet a woman and she didn�t look rich. The straight-backed chair she sat down on seemed to suit her better than the overstuffed leather surrounding Smedler. Her clothes were oddly childish, a navy-blue jumper over a white blouse, white knee socks and shoes that looked like the Mary Janes of another era. She wasn�t carrying a handbag, but one of the pockets of her jumper bulged as though it contained a coin purse.

�What can I do for you, Miss Jasper?�

�I�ve never been to a lawyer before. You have a nice face � that�s why I picked you.�

�I suppose it�s as good a reason as any other,� Aragon said. �Why do you need a lawyer?�

�I want to find out my rights. I have a new friend. He says I have some rights.�

�Who claims you don�t?�

�Nobody exactly. Except that I never get to do what I want to do, what other people do.�

�Like what?�

�Vote. Not that I specially want to vote, not knowing anything about Presidents and things, but I didn�t even know I could.�

�How old are you?�

�Twenty-two. My new friend says I could have voted four years ago and nobody even told me.�

�Wasn�t the subject brought up in school?�

�I can�t remember. I have foggy times. Hilton says voting is just for responsible people, who don�t have foggy times.�

�Are you an American citizen?�

�I was born right here in Santa Felicia.� The girl frowned. �It was a terrible occasion. Hilton and his wife, Frieda, often talk about how it was such a terrible occasion.�

�Why?�

�My mother died. She was too old to have a baby but she had one anyway and I�m it. Hilton says she almost got into the record book because she was forty-eight. Hilton was already grown up and married when I was born. But I didn�t go to stay with him and Frieda until I was eight. I lived with my grandmother before that. She was very nice, only she died. Hilton says she wore herself out worrying over me. She left me a lot of money. I never get to use it, though.�

�Why not?�

�I�m exceptional.�

�I see.�

�Well, are you surprised or aren�t you?�

�Not particularly. All people are exceptional in one way or another.�

�You don�t understand. I�m... My new friend has lots of fun ways of saying it, like I have a few marbles missing or I�ve only got one oar in the water or I�m not playing with a full deck. It sounds better like that than spelling it right out that I�m... you know, retarded.�

He was, in fact, surprised. She had none of the Down�s syndrome physical features and she spoke well, expressing herself quite clearly. She even wanted to vote. Whether or not she was simply echoing the ideas of her new friend, it seemed an unusual desire on the part of a retarded girl.

Not girl, he thought. She was a woman of twenty-two. That�s where the retardation was more obvious. If she�d claimed to be fourteen or fifteen he would have believed her.

�Can you read and write?�

�Some. Not very much.�

�What about your new friend? Does he read and write very well?�

�Oh, gosh yes. He�s one of the...� She slapped her left hand over her mouth so quickly and decisively it must have hurt her. �I�m not supposed to talk about him to anyone.�

�Why not?�

�It would spoil things. He�s my only friend except for the gardener and his dog, Zia. Zia is a basset hound. Do you like basset hounds?�

�Yes.�

�I just love them.�

�Getting back to your new friend...�

�No. No, I really mustn�t.�

�All right. We�ll talk about the voting. I believe the only requirements are that you be an American citizen, at least eighteen years old, not on parole or confined to a mental institution and that you sign an affidavit to that effect. You are, of course, expected to be able to read the affidavit before signing.�

�I could practice ahead of time, couldn�t I?�

�Of course.�

Her lips began to move as though she was already practicing in silence. She had a small, well-shaped mouth with prominent ridges between the upper lip and the nose. According to old wives� tales, when this area was clearly defined it indicated strength of character. Aragon looked at the timid, underdeveloped girl in front of him and decided the old wives must have been wrong.

She said finally, �Tell me about my other rights.�

�Which ones?�

�Suppose I just wanted to get on a bus and go somewhere... oh, somewhere like Chicago. Could I do that?�

�It depends on whether you have sufficient funds and whether you feel capable of looking after yourself in a large city. It would be a good idea to talk it over first with your brother and his wife.�

�No way.�

�Why not?�

�They wouldn�t let me go. I�ve never been anyplace except once last Easter on a boat. Me and some of the other students at Holbrook were taken on a cruise to Catalina on Donny Whitfield�s father�s yacht.�

Holbrook Hall was known throughout Southern California as a school for the troubled and troubling offspring of the very wealthy. In the more expensive magazines it was advertised as �a facility designed to meet the special needs of exceptional teenagers and young adults.�

�How long have you been at Holbrook Hall, Cleo?�

She blushed very faintly. �You called me Cleo. That�s nice. It�s friendly, you know.�

�How long?�

�Forever.�

�Come on, Cleo.�

�A year, maybe longer. I always had a governess before that. Also Hilton and Frieda gave me lessons in things. He�s really smart and she used to be a schoolteacher. Ted goes to college. He�s their son. He drinks and smokes pot and... well, lots of things like that. Imagine him being my nephew and he�s only a year younger than I am. He tells everybody I�m a half-wit that his parents found in an orphanage.�

�So you want to get away from Ted and your brother and sister-in-law.�

�Mainly I only want to know my rights.�

�Is there money available to you?�

�I have charge cards. But if I used any of them to do something Hilton disapproved of he would probably cancel them. At least that�s what my new friend says.�

�Your new friend seems to have quite a few opinions about your affairs.�

�Oh my, yes. Some I don�t understand. Like he says we are all in cages and we must break out of them. I thought if I could get inside the cage that goes up and down your building and then out by myself again I would sort of understand what he�s talking about.�

�Why not ask him?�

�I�m supposed to try and figure things out by myself. He says I�m not as dumb as I act. I don�t understand that part either and I try. I try real, real hard.�

�I�m sure you do,� Aragon said. Cleo�s new friend, whatever his motive, was feeding her stuff she couldn�t digest. �What else does your friend advise you to do?�

�He thinks I should take some money from my savings account and spend it on whatever I want, without Hilton�s permission.�

�Could you do that?�

�I guess. If I wasn�t scared.�

�Does your friend ever bring up the subject of borrowing any of this money?�

�Oh, no. He hates money. He says it�s rotten, only that�s not the word he used.�

��The love of money is the root of all evil.� Is that what he said?�

�Why, yes.� She looked pleased. �So you know him, too.�

�No. We�ve both read some of the same books. The quotation is from the Bible.�

�Is that what the Bible really says about money?�

�One of the things.�

�Then I suppose it�s true. It�s funny, though, because Hilton is very Christian, yet he works all the time to make more of it.�

�People often do.�

�Hilton quotes the Bible quite a bit. Ted says it�s a bunch of � he used a bad word. Ted knows more bad words than anyone in the world except Donny Whitfield at school. Donny talks so dirty hardly anybody can understand him. He�s fat. On our free afternoons from school we each get five dollars to spend and Donny spends his all on ice cream. His afternoons are never really free, he has to have a counselor with him every minute to keep him out of trouble. He�s a bad boy. Why are there good boys and bad boys?�

�No one can answer that, Cleo.�

�You�d think if God was going to the trouble of making boys in the first place he�d just make good ones.�

Charity Nelson, Mr. Smedler�s secretary, stuck her head in the door. When she saw that the girl was still there she raised her eyebrows until they almost disappeared under her orange wig.

�Mr. Smedler wants to see you, junior.�

�Tell him I have a client.�

�I told him. He didn�t believe me.�

�Tell him again.�

�You�re playing with fire, junior. Smedler had a big weekend.�

When Charity closed the door again the girl said, �That woman doesn�t like me.�

�Miss Nelson doesn�t like many people.�

�I�d better leave now.� She glanced uneasily at the door as if she were afraid Charity might be hiding behind it. �I took too much of your time already.�

�Fifteen minutes.�

�Hilton says every second counts. He says time and tide wait for no man, whatever that means. It must mean something or Hilton wouldn�t say it.�

�What brought you to this office in the first place?�

�Nothing. I mean I pass here every day on my way to Holbrook Hall. Frieda and Hilton drive me mostly but sometimes Ted when he�s home from college. That�s scary but sort of fun, too. Anyway, that�s how I saw the little cage moving up and down and wanted a ride in it and... and...�

She had begun to stammer and he couldn�t understand her words. He waited quietly until she calmed down. He didn�t know what had excited her, all the talking she�d done or memories of riding scarily with Ted or something deeper and inexplicable.

She pressed her fists against the sides of her mouth as if to steady it. �Also I wanted to see a lawyer about my rights. I thought if I came here I�d get to ride in the little cage.�

�Sorry. That�s not possible today.�

�Some other time?�

�Maybe.�

�Maybes never happen,� she said. �Not the nice ones anyway.�

�This one will.�

She stood up and removed the coin purse from her pocket. �I�ll pay you now.� She emptied the contents of the purse on his desk: three one-dollar bills, two quarters and a nickel. �I hope this is enough. I had to pay the taxi to bring me here and this is all that�s left of my free-afternoon money.�

�Let�s make the charge one dollar. This is your first visit and I haven�t helped you very much.�

�You tried,� she said softly. �And you have a nice face.�

�Shall I call you a taxi?�

�No, I can walk. I think I�ll go to the museum. The staff likes us to go to the museum on free days. They think we�re learning something. How far is it from here?�

�About a mile and a half. Do you know the way?�

�Oh sure. I�ve been there millions of times...�

He watched from the window as she left the building. The museum was due north. She walked rapidly and confidently south.

The table was long and dark walnut, carved in the intricate Georgian style and designed for an elegant English dining room. But Hilton sat at the head of it as though he were a captain instructing his crew on how to maneuver through stormy seas, which to Hilton meant taxes, Democrats, inflation, undercooked lamb and bad manners.

The crew wasn�t paying much attention. His wife, Frieda, had brought a copy of TV Guide to the table and was surveying the evening�s listings. She was a pretty woman given to fat and to peevish little smiles when she was annoyed and didn�t want to admit it. They appeared frequently during mealtime when she was struck by the gross unfairness of Hilton being able to eat everything in sight and never gain an ounce, while she couldn�t even walk past a chocolate �clair without putting on a pound or two.

The rest of the crew was equally inattentive. Lisa, the college student who served dinner every night because the cook refused to work after seven o�clock, moved rhythmically in and out and around and about as if she had an invisible radio stuck in her ear. Her skintight jeans and T-shirt were partly hidden by an embroidered white bib apron, the closest thing to a uniform that Frieda could coax her into wearing. She was the same age as Cleo but the two seldom had any personal communication except for occasional shrugs and eye rollings when Hilton was being particularly boring.

Cleo sat with her left hand propping up her head, her eyes fixed on the plate in front of her.

Frieda had come to depend on television for company. Hilton was often away on business, and even when he was at home the conversation was kept on Cleo�s level so Cleo wouldn�t feel excluded. It was Frieda herself who felt excluded.

�Please remove your elbow from the table, Cleo,� Hilton said. �And eat your soup like a good girl.�

�I can�t. It�s got funny things in it like shells.�

�They are shells. It�s bouillabaisse.�

�And bones, too.�

�Well?�

�The gardener won�t even give his dog bones. He says they might make holes in his bowels.�

�I don�t consider this a suitable subject for dinner conversation. Now eat your soup. Cook makes excellent bouillabaisse. Waste not, want not.�

�Oh, for heaven�s sake,� Frieda said. �Don�t eat the soup if you don�t like it... Now tell us what you did today.�

�I went to the museum.�

�You were gone all afternoon.�

�I saw lots and lots of pictures.�

�Did you meet anyone?�

�There were lots and lots of people.�

�I meant, did you talk to anyone?�

�One person.�

�Was it a man or a woman?�

�A man.�

�Cleo, dear, we�re not trying to pry,� Hilton said. �But what did you and this man talk about?�

�I asked him where the ladies� room was. And he told me, and then he said, �Have a nice day,� so I did.�

There was a brief silence, then Hilton�s voice sounding worried: �I thought the museum was closed on Mondays.�

The girl sat mute and pale, staring down at the bones and shells in front of her until Lisa came to take them away.

A twitch appeared at the corner of Hilton�s right eye, moving the lid like an evil little wink. �Of course you know how important it is to tell the truth, don�t you, Cleo?�

�I went to the museum. There were lots and lots of pictures. I saw lots and lots of people...�

�I care about you very deeply, Cleo. Your welfare was entrusted to me. I have to know where you go and what company you keep.�

�I go to Holbrook Hall. I have lots of company at Holbrook Hall.�

�Leave the girl alone for now,� Frieda said sharply.

�Obviously this is one of her foggy times. We can�t expect her to behave like a normal person.�

�I am exceptional,� Cleo said.

�Certainly you are, dear. And it�s not your fault you�re different. Everyone�s different. Look at Lisa. She�s different from other people.�

�In what way?� Lisa said, putting the gravy boat on the table, spilling a dollop and wiping it up with her forefinger.

�You wear awfully tight pants,� Cleo said. �I don�t see how you can go to the... well, you know, the ladies� room if you�re in a hurry.�

�Practice.�

Hilton sat in gloomy silence. He had felt for some time now that things were getting out of hand, that he had no control over Cleo or Frieda or the servants. Even the gardener�s dog, Zia, didn�t acknowledge his presence when he walked down the driveway to get the paper in the morning.

Bad manners and taxes and crime and Democrats and unsuitable subjects for dinner conversation were sweeping the country. He was only forty-five and he wanted to stop the world and get off.

�I would rather be exceptional wearing tight pants,� Cleo said.

Hilton sighed and served the scrawny rock hens which reminded him of Cleo, and the wild rice which was only grass from Minnesota, and the asparagus which he hated.

�Why couldn�t I be exceptional wearing tight pants? Why not?�

�Please don�t argue with me, Cleo.�

�Why can�t I wear...�

�Because that style of dress is not suitable for you.�

�Why isn�t it?�

�There�s a stranger in our house. We don�t air our personal problems in front of...�

�I�m going to tell on you. I�m going to tell everybody.�

�They won�t listen to you.�

�Oh, yes, they will. I have rights.�

Hilton ate the scrawny little hen that reminded him of Cleo, and the wild rice which was really grass and the asparagus which he hated. His hands shook.

�I have rights,� the girl said again softly.

During the next few days Aragon thought of the girl off and on in a desultory way. It wasn�t until Thursday that he had reason to remember her more vividly. A card was brought into his office by the receptionist: Hilton W. Jasper. The card made him think of the girl�s high, thin voice repeating, �Hilton says... Hilton says.�

He told the receptionist, �Send him in here.�

�Here?�

�It�s the only place I have.�

�It�s a mess. This man looks important, you know, like in M-O-N-E-Y.�

�Send him in anyway. He might enjoy slumming.�

Hilton Jasper wasn�t quite what Aragon expected. A tall, well-built man in his forties, he was almost handsome except for the puffiness around his eyes and the thin, tight mouth.

�Mr. Aragon?�

�Please sit down, Mr. Jasper.�

�Thank you.� He sat in the same straight-backed cane chair his sister had occupied. �We haven�t met, Mr. Aragon. I didn�t even know of your existence until an hour ago. Now it seems you may be very important to me.�

�In what way?�

�I have a young sister, Cleo. Her welfare is of prime concern to me.� He paused. �I have reason to believe she came here the day before she disappeared.�

�She came to my office on Monday afternoon.�

�Why? Oh, I�m aware of the confidentiality between lawyers and clients but I can hardly consider my sister a client. She had no reason to seek legal advice. Everything has always been taken care of for her. The idea of her coming to a law office is quite incomprehensible to me. Unless � and I�m forced to consider this possibility � she was interested in you personally.�

�No.�

�You�re young, I thought there was a possibility... She�s so innocent. She has this habit of taking a fancy to people, of trusting them.�

�I saw her Monday the first and last time. Her visit lasted fifteen minutes approximately. And that�s just what it was, a visit. She didn�t seem to be in any kind of trouble that would require the services of an attorney.�

�Thank God for that.�

�Would you like a glass of water, Mr. Jasper?�

�No.�

Aragon poured one anyway from the pitcher on his desk into a paper cup. Jasper drank it.

�Did she appear normal to you, Mr. Aragon?�

�Normal is a pretty big word.�

�Not big enough to include Cleo, I�m afraid.�

�While she was here she behaved in a responsible manner. I don�t give I.Q. tests.�

�What brought her here?�

�What brought you, Mr. Jasper?�

�A private detective I hired traced her movements on the day before she disappeared. He found out she took a taxi from the school during the lunch hour. She told my wife and me that she�d spent the afternoon at the museum. I didn�t believe it. The museum�s closed on Mondays. Anyway, the taxi driver said he drove her to this office. So here I am... The school knows nothing, or so they claim. These places never know anything except about collecting money. In that field they�re experts.�

�You�ve been to the police?�

�Yes. They were polite, no more.�

�They don�t get very excited about missing persons because they usually turn up safe and sound. Do you think she ran away, Mr. Jasper?�

�I�ve had no ransom demands,� Jasper said grimly. �Also, she withdrew her entire savings account from the bank, a matter of a thousand dollars. The money won�t do her any good, may even make things worse. She�s so vulnerable, at the mercy of anyone, anything.� He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. �It never occurred to me she�d draw the money out. I gave her everything she needed, everything she wanted. The account was in her name because I was trying to encourage her to be responsible about money, to save. And she did save, money she got for birthdays, Christmas, things like that.�

�Then it was her own money?�

�Yes.�

�She committed no crime to get it?�

�No.�

�And she�s over twenty-one?�

�Yes.�

�Are you her legal guardian?�

�Yes.�

�You signed a document to that effect?�

�Yes.�

�Have you checked it recently?�

�No. It�s in one of my safe-deposit boxes. I�m not even sure which one.�

�Legal guardianships usually terminate at twenty-one.�

�But she�s not... not competent.�

�A judge would have to decide that.�

�It�s common knowledge.�

�Common knowledge is not a term recognized by the courts,� Aragon said. He felt uncomfortable with the man, more uncomfortable than he had with Cleo. �I�m not sure what you want from me, Mr. Jasper.�

�Help. I must get Cleo back to the safety and security of her own home. But first I have to find her. Where could she have gone, where in God�s name could she have gone? We have relatives here and there throughout the country but none of them would take her in. They wouldn�t want to be held responsible for her. They know what she is.� His voice rose. �No, she�s out there alone someplace, probably telling everyone she meets how much money she�s carrying, inviting disaster, asking for it. You don�t understand how easily a girl like that can be taken in, a mere smile or a kind word. I have to find her.�

�You told me you hired a detective.�

�Yes, when it became clear the police weren�t interested. The detective traced Cleo as far as your office, then he had to fly to Houston to testify in a custody case. It was a poor start. I anticipated a poorer finish and fired him.�

�And came here.�

�I had you checked out by one of my secretaries. You�ve looked for missing people before. And you have an additional advantage. You�ve seen my sister, talked to her, noticed the extent of her incapacity. You know her.�

�You don�t get to know someone in fifteen minutes.�

�Perhaps she told you things.�

Aragon thought of all the times he�d heard �Hilton says, Hilton says.� �A great deal of her conversation consisted of quotes from you, Mr. Jasper. Your opinions seemed very important to her.�

�I thought they were, until last week.� A film of moisture appeared in the man�s eyes. �I need your help, Aragon. I can pay any amount you ask for.�

�It�s not up to me. I work for a law firm, and I do what the head of that firm, Mr. Smedler, tells me to do.�

�Smedler can be handled.� There was a note of contempt in his voice, as though handling people like Smedler was simply routine. �Are you interested in the assignment?�

�Yes. As long as you realize that the girl cannot be forced to return.�

�Even if she�s mentally and emotionally unstable?�

�I doubt you could prove that. The laws protecting the rights of individuals have become very strict.�

�I have never forced her to do anything,� he said, but he looked oddly disturbed, as though something he thought hidden had been discovered. �Force is not part of my nature. When you find her you will simply persuade her to come home, where she is loved and safe.�

�What caused her to leave. Mr. Jasper?�

�I don�t know.�

�There were no quarrels?�

�No.�

�Even a small disagreement might provoke��

�I told you, no.�

�May I talk to your wife?�

�I think not. She�s easily upset. It would be preferable if you dealt entirely with me.�

�Cleo mentioned your son, Ted. He might have some information not available to you, Mr. Jasper.�

�That�s impossible. He�s away at college.�

�What college?�

�It would be a waste of time to question Ted. Anyway, why she left isn�t the issue. It�s where she went that must concern you.�

�The two are usually connected.�

�Find her,� Jasper said. �Just find her.�

He made it sound more like an order than a plea.

�Has she ever run away before?�

�No.�

�Talked about it?�

�No.�

�When was the last time you saw her?�

�Monday night. Cleo and my wife and I had dinner together. During the course of it I asked her how she�d spent her afternoon and she said she had gone to the museum. I was pretty sure the museum was closed on Mondays but she spoke of seeing lots and lots of pictures. I didn�t argue. After dinner she went to her room to watch TV. Frieda and I retired early. It�s a large house with thick, solid walls that muffle sounds. Perhaps Cleo stayed up late watching TV. At any rate, she didn�t appear for breakfast and we didn�t waken her. I left for the office and Frieda went to a meeting. We assumed that when the school bus came to pick her up she would board it as usual. The cook says she saw the bus waiting in the driveway when she arrived for work but didn�t see Cleo get on it. That�s all.�

It didn�t sound like all, or even like half. Jasper seemed to realize this, too.

�I can�t tell you everything,� he said, �because I don�t know everything. I�ve acted in loco parentis for fourteen years, ever since Cleo was eight, and I thought I understood the girl. It appears now I was wrong. The lie about how she�d spent the afternoon may not have been the first, perhaps only one of a hundred. I say perhaps. Again I don�t know.�

The admission was obviously difficult for Jasper. Though the room was chilly, he wiped his forehead as if being wrong or even doubtful gave him a fever.

�The school called Tuesday afternoon to see if Cleo had stayed home because of illness. They keep close watch on these matters because many of the students are highly susceptible to contagious diseases. So that�s how we discovered she had gone.�

�Did she take anything with her?�

�Yes.�

�Clothes? Suitcase?�

�The dog,� Jasper said. �She took the dog, Zia.�

He pressed a handkerchief against his mouth and the noise it stifled could have been a cough, a laugh, a cry of rage.

�The dog,� he repeated. �It�s a basset hound belonging to our gardener, Trocadero. The old man�s heartbroken. He saw her leave the grounds with the dog at midmorning and thought she was going to take a run on the beach, which is only three blocks away. He spent the afternoon searching for the dog, calling the Humane Society, the Animal Shelter, even the police. After the school called in the late afternoon I did some searching myself, but not for the dog. I drove around to various neighbors, called friends, checked the bus station, the airport, even the two local car rentals, though I knew Cleo couldn�t drive. Finally I went to Troc�s apartment over the garage and told him Cleo had run away and taken Zia with her. He didn�t believe me.�

�What did he believe?�

�That someone had picked them up in a car. He had no proof, nothing to go on but a hunch. He claims Zia weighs sixty-five pounds, much too heavy for Cleo to lift, let alone smuggle aboard a bus or plane. Troc placed an ad in the lost-and-found column of the local paper offering a fifty-dollar reward for the return of the dog, no questions asked. The ad appeared in this morning�s paper. So far there have been no answers.�

He paused, staring out the window with its view of the city. Every day it seemed to be crawling farther up the mountain that separated it from the desert beyond. It was a small city but it looked suddenly enormous, capable of hiding hundreds of lost dogs and young girls.

Jasper turned back to face Aragon. �Do you recall the three girl hitchhikers who were murdered here last year?�

�Yes.�

�So do I.� The bodies of two of the girls had been found at the bottom of a wooded canyon, partially decomposed. The third body was picked up by a fishing boat beyond the kelp line, bloated by decomposing gases and mangled by sharks.

�Don�t borrow trouble,� Aragon said. �The interest is too high.�

�Have you any more concrete advice?�

�You might follow up on that ad. Increase its size, change the wording from return of the dog to leading to the return. And increase the reward to five hundred dollars.�

�I can pay more. Any amount.�

�Try it this way first.�

�I considered inserting an ad for Cleo herself, with a picture and description and so on, but Frieda vetoed the idea. She has too much of what she terms pride. I�m not sure that�s the right word. At any rate I didn�t go against her wishes. Things are bad enough without that.�

�There�s a hot line for runaways that pretty well covers the country. If she changes her mind and wants to come home, you�ll hear about it.�

�She wouldn�t know about such a thing as a hot line. She�s very unworldly.�

�You said she watches TV.�

�Yes.�

�A lot?�

�Yes.�

�Maybe she�s not as unworldly as you think, Mr. Jasper.�

Jasper stirred in his chair like a boxer evading a punch. �I�d better be leaving. I�m already late for an appointment... Are you going to help me find her, Aragon?�

�I have to wait for orders.�

�They�ll come.�

Holbrook Hall was located on the former estate of a turn-of-the-century cattle baron. Its stone walls were part of a government work project of the thirties but the main gate with its electronic eye was strictly modern and so were the outbuildings scattered here and there throughout the grounds. They were redwood structures that looked like bungalows.

The atmosphere was strangely quiet for a school. There was no shouting, no laughter, only the noise of a power mower and the whinnying of horses. As he passed the corral Aragon saw that two of the horses were under saddle and had recently been ridden too hard and too fast. A moment later the riders came into view, a pair of adolescent boys wearing western boots and cowboy hats pulled down over their foreheads. At the sound of the car they raised their thumbs for a ride.

Aragon opened the door and they both got in the front. They were about fourteen years old, dirty, tired and morose. Tears mingled with sweat, and water leaked from the canteens they carried.

�What are you guys up to?�

�Nothing.�

�Not a thing.�

�We took a ride.�

�We got caught.�

�We going to visit my mom in New York.�

�We forgot the sandwiches.�

�We going to surprise her.�

�My mom, too.�

�She�s not your mom. We�re not brothers.�

�My mom�s right tight close by in New Orleans.�

�We forgot the sandwiches.�

The boys were let out at one of the bungalows and Aragon proceeded on up the driveway to the main house of the estate, a Mediterranean-style classic. Its tile-floored foyer served as the school�s reception room.

At one of the desks a young man sat typing, slowly and thoughtfully, as though he was writing his memoirs. The other desk was empty except for a large blue bird eating peanuts. The nuts were being shelled for him by a teenaged girl with the slant-eyed, sweet-tempered look of a Down�s syndrome child.

The man said, �Knock it off, Sandy. We have company.�

�A friend?�

�Sure.�

The girl rose, the bird flew out the window, and the young man turned back to Aragon.

�Are you Mr. Aragon?�

�Yes.�

�Mrs. Holbrook�s expecting you. Lovely morning. Nothing beats spring. Come this way.�

Mrs. Holbrook�s office with its red leather upholstery and semicircular desk was more imposing than its occupant. She was a tiny woman with short curly white hair and dimples and soft blue eyes that appeared somewhat baffled.

�Please sit down, Mr. Aragon.�

�Thanks.�

�This is a distressing situation. A school like ours is hard hit by any scandal. We are dependent on grants and donations. Our fees are high but they simply don�t cover our costs and we need benefactors like Mr. Jasper. He�s been very generous in the past... And there�s Cleo herself, of course. She must be considered.�

�Yes.� He wondered how far down on the consideration list Cleo rated.

�The other students don�t know, naturally. I let it out that she was suffering from chicken pox � I picked something contagious just in case any of them thought of going to visit her... I must say I�m surprised at Cleo. It�s not like her to do something like this.�

�What is like her?�

�To withdraw when things don�t suit her, to refuse food and wander by herself down to the stable or the poultry pens. These young people often have a strong rapport with animals. She�s a timid girl, overindulged, overprotected. A positive step like running away and being able to stay away this long is quite amazing. Nothing has prepared me for it. Well, practically nothing.�

�Does �practically nothing� mean a little something?�

She hesitated before replying. �At the last staff meeting Cleo�s name came up. One of the counselors reported that she seemed to be gaining self-confidence, was even getting a little feisty. He felt it was a step forward and the others agreed.�

�By others, are you referring to teachers or counselors?�

�Here they�re the same thing. We avoid the word teacher because it sometimes has a negative connotation these days.�

�What counselor made the observation about Cleo at the staff meeting?�

�Roger Lennard.�

�Did he have a special interest in Cleo?�

�Not in the way you might mean,� she said dryly. �We hire as counselors for the girls men who are not � ah, interested in women. And vice versa for the boys. It minimizes staff-student romances, which can be a problem even in a place like this. Some of the parents refuse to admit that these young people have the same sexual drives as other young people. We deal with them as best we can.�

�There�s no chance that Cleo was romantically involved with Mr. Lennard?�

�None.�

�None?�

�He�s gay as a goose.�

She walked to the other end of the room, pausing to straighten one of the class pictures hanging on the wall. She had a small, neat figure and her yellow linen suit looked expensive. She wore no jewelry except a wedding band.

�Exactly what�s the matter with Cleo, Mrs. Holbrook?�

�Most likely a combination of things. It�s hard to separate mental retardation from emotional retardation. Cleo�s a dependent, passive little creature. She�s never made a decision in her life, never been expected to, wouldn�t be allowed to, probably. So we can�t tell for sure how she�d act on her own. I myself suspect that among other factors she has a mild form of epilepsy. But our attempts to get an electroencephalogram were unsuccessful. As soon as she saw the needles she became hysterical and the Jaspers took her home. For accurate results, the patient�s cooperation in an EEG is necessary, so no further attempts were made. What a pity. Because if epilepsy should turn out to be part of her problem, it can be treated. Another method of treatment, of course, would be complete separation from her brother and his wife... Here I go again, speaking out of turn, diagnosing, practicing medicine without a license. But when you�ve been in a place like this for over thirty years you see so much repetition it tends to make you oversimplify. Cleo is, like all of us, complex. As we say, exceptional.�

She glanced at the door. It was as definite a dismissal as if she had pointed at it and ordered him to leave.

Aragon said, �Let�s review briefly, Mrs. Holbrook. In your opinion, it was unusual for Cleo to take a direct action like running away, and even more unusual for her to stay away this long.�

�Yes.�

�Yet there is some evidence, according to counselor Roger Lennard, that she was becoming more self-sufficient.�

�That�s right.�

�Are you quite sure that Mr. Lennard and Cleo��

�Quite, quite sure. Roger was the one who brought her name up at the staff meeting. If there was any relationship between them, he certainly wouldn�t have advertised it.�

�How do you feel about Cleo, Mrs. Holbrook?�

�I can�t afford to get personally involved with any one student. It diminishes my ability to deal with the others.� The telephone on her desk rang and she went to answer it. �Yes?... Lund and Johnston, that�s a first, isn�t it?... Are the horses all right?... Send the boys in. After they�ve showered.� She hung up and turned back to Aragon. �I hope Cleo�s little caper hasn�t started a trend.�

�I thought the students hadn�t found out about it.�

�They found out,� she said with a sigh. �Somehow they always do. One way or another, they always do.�

Aragon spent the rest of the day at the public library and in the microfilm department of the local newspaper. Hilton Wilmington Jasper was listed as an oil executive and a bank director, born in Los Angeles to Elliot and Lavinia Jasper, a graduate of Cal Tech in Pasadena, married to Frieda Grant, one son, Edward.

The same reference volume listed Peter Norman Whitfield, philanthropist, graduate of Princeton, married five times, one son, Donald Norman Whitfield, and a daughter, deceased.

Ted Jasper was found among the seniors of an old Santa Felicia high school yearbook. The picture showed a smiling blond youth whose sports were listed as tennis and soccer, hobby as girls, and ambition, to attend Cal Poly and become a veterinarian. A current Cal Poly student directory gave his address as 207 Almond Street. When Aragon called the number listed he was told Ted had gone home on the semester break.

An educational journal rated Holbrook Hall as a superior facility for exceptional students. Both boarding and day arrangements. Fees high. Well endowed, established 1951.

No information was available on Roger Lennard.

After a TV dinner and a bottle of beer Aragon phoned his wife. She was a doctor specializing in pediatrics and completing her residency requirements at a hospital in San Francisco. It wasn�t an ideal arrangement for a marriage, but it was working and it wouldn�t last forever. They planned on living together in Santa Felicia within a year.

Laurie sounded tired but cheerful. �I�m so glad you called, Tom. I get sick of kids. I want to talk to a nice sensible adult.�

�What�s this, my dedicated wife sick of kids?�

�I�m entitled to a moment of undedication now and then. How about you?�

�Smedler is working in mysterious ways again. I�m expected to track down a runaway retarded girl who maybe isn�t so retarded and maybe didn�t run away. I have a hunch she might have been coaxed, possibly promised something. She�s not a girl, either. She�s twenty-two.�

�That�s a bit old for a runaway.�

�She doesn�t look her age.�

�You know her?�

�I met her once.�

�Pretty?�

�Very.�

�That complicates matters.�

�I�m afraid so.�

�A lot of runaways are picked up while trying to hitchhike. We get quite a few in here. They don�t always come out. How are her parents taking it?�

�Coolly. They�re both dead. She was raised by a brother at least twenty years older. He�s the one who commissioned me to look for her.�

�Commissioned? That sounds lucrative.�

�Two weeks� pay in advance. More later, perhaps. Very perhaps.�

�You don�t have a contract?�

�No.�

�Really, Tom, who�s the lawyer in this family? You should have a contract.�

�I don�t think Mr. Jasper expects much from me. And he�s not the type to pay for what he doesn�t get. No little sister, no big bucks.�

�How come you bought a deal like that?�

�I didn�t buy it. I was sold... Laurie, why do we have to spend all our time talking about other people when we have so much to say about just the two of us?�

�You started it.�

�I had all these great things I was going to say to you��

�Well, it�s too late now. Someone wants me in the operating room.�

�I want you in the operating room,� Aragon said. �Or any other room.�

�I love you, too. Bye.�

�Laurie��

But she�d hung up, and he swallowed all the great things he had to say to her with the aid of another bottle of beer. Then he called Charity Nelson at her apartment on the West Side. When she answered the phone there were loud staccato noises in the background.

�Hello. I�m too busy to talk. Call back.�

�What�s all the hubbub?�

�I�m watching an educational program.�

�It sounds more like a shoot-em-up western.�

�All right.� She turned down the sound. �What do you want?�

�Is there any connection between Smedler and Mr. Jasper?�

�How would I know?�

�I have a notion you might have looked it up.�

�Of course I looked it up. They�re not friends really but they both belong to the Forum Club and serve on a couple of the same boards of directors, the Music Academy and Holbrook Hall. And they have this bond between them that rich men develop � you put your money in my bank and I�ll buy stock in your copper mine. It�s a great system if you own a bank or a copper mine. The best way to get rich is to start rich.�

�Don�t let it depress you,� Aragon said. �Go back to your shoot-em-up.�

�If I had a million dollars��

�You�d blow it.�

�By God, I believe you�re right,� she said thoughtfully. �But what a blow, junior, what a blow.�

�Am I invited?�

�I�ll consider it. First, I�d buy me a racehorse. Not one of your ordinary nags but a real thoroughbred with class and guts and stamina. Boy, he�d leap out of that starting gate like a bullet.�

�There goes your million.�

�You�re a wet blanket, junior, a killjoy, a��

�Okay, okay, with my million I�ll buy a house in the country where you can keep the horse between races.�

�Do you know anything about feeding horses?�

�I thought they fed themselves.�

�You�re not taking me seriously, junior. Go to bed and have a nightmare.�

He went to bed. If he had a nightmare he couldn�t remember it when he woke the next morning to the ringing of the phone. A woman identifying herself as Frieda Jasper spoke in a sharp, brittle voice. Making no apology for the earliness of the hour and giving no reason, she asked him to come immediately to 1200 Via Vista.

The house, built on a hill overlooking the Pacific, was a two-story adobe with a red tile roof and iron grilling across the lower-floor windows. It looked as though it had been there for a hundred years through a succession of earthquakes, fires and floods. It was a California house, with ice plant covering the ground instead of grass, and landscaped with drought-resistant native plants like ceanothus and sugar-bush.

The woman who crossed the patio to meet him was tall and sturdily built, with a mass of curly red hair just beginning to turn grey. She held a newspaper in one hand, clutching it as though she intended using it to swat a fly or discipline a dog. There were no flies or dogs in sight.

�Mr. Aragon? Please sit down. I thought we�d talk out here on the patio. It�s such a pleasant morning.�

It was lightly foggy and the wind blowing in from the sea was cold. He buttoned his coat.

�Unless, of course, you would prefer to go inside?�

�Oh, no.� The way she was holding the newspaper made him think she would have used it on him if he�d disagreed.

They sat on cushioned redwood chairs with a small redwood table between them.

�My husband was called to Sacramento by the governor for an emergency meeting on offshore oil leases. Only such an important matter would have taken him away from the house at a time like this. He left me with instructions on what to do if anything new developed. The first was to call you immediately. He�s taken a liking to you. Hilton does things like that � perhaps every good executive has to.� One corner of her mouth curled up in a small, unamused smile. �I know what every executive�s wife has to do, and that is obey orders. So here we are, you and I.� She made it sound like the opposite of a fun date.

�Has anything new happened, Mrs. Jasper?�

�I think it�s going to. Have you seen the morning paper?�

�Not yet.�

�It contains the advertisement about the dog. I didn�t even have a chance to check it out before the phone began to ring. A man who said he was on welfare described a dog he�d found on his front porch. It was obviously a beagle, not a basset, and I advised him to ask the Animal Shelter to pick it up. The second call was more interesting. A woman with an accent, perhaps Irish, told me that one of her tenants had brought home a dog. She manages an apartment house where dogs are not allowed and she�s bringing the dog here in about an hour. It�s undoubtedly Zia. She spoke of a small shaved area on the dog�s chest where he�d been treated for a hot spot. I�d like you to stay and meet her, Mr. Aragon.�

�Did she give a name?�

�Griswold. Mrs. Griswold.�

�And address?�

�I forgot to ask. I was terribly rattled. I even had the wild idea that it might be Cleo herself playing a trick on us. She likes to play tricks, but of course anything that elaborate is way beyond her ability.�

�Did Mrs. Griswold seem eager to collect the reward?�

�She never mentioned it.�

�Not a word?�

�No. I�m prepared to hand it over to her, of course. Hilton left me five one-hundred-dollar bills in case something like this happened. I don�t think he expected it though.� She glanced at her wristwatch. It was large and serviceable-looking, like Frieda Jasper herself. �We have at least forty-five minutes to wait, assuming Mrs. Griswold arrives on time. I have some coffee made. Would you like some?�

�I would, yes.�

The fog was lifting. Steam rose from the swimming pool and the heavy shake roof of the house next door. The sea shone like a bright new revelation. In the distance Mexican palm trees, skinny and shaggy-topped, stood like a row of upside-down dust mops.

She returned carrying a tray with a glass pot of coffee and two ceramic mugs.

�Cream? Sugar?�

�Black.�

�Troc�s working in the citrus grove out back. I haven�t told him yet about the dog. He�s old and very emotional and I would be afraid of the consequences if the woman doesn�t show up.� She sat down again. �We have well over half an hour to wait. I suppose you�ll want to ask questions about Cleo.�

�Yes.�

�The second of the instructions Hilton left me was to be discreet. I�m not sure I can talk about Cleo and be discreet at the same time. I�ll try.�

She didn�t try very hard. After a swallow of coffee and a couple of deep breaths of air she was off:

�I didn�t want to take the girl in. She was eight, a year older than my son, Ted, already fixed in her ways and spoiled by a half-crazy grandmother. But there was no one else willing and able to do it, so she came here. At first Hilton couldn�t stand the sight of her because he�d always blamed her for his mother�s death. When he came to realize her innocence and her vulnerability, he felt terribly guilty, to blame a child for being born. He gave her everything, everything he had, and unfortunately everything I had, too. Ted was sent away to school so I could spend more time educating her.�

�What did she learn?�

�She learned,� Mrs. Jasper said grimly, �whatever she damned well wanted to. Reading? She read quite well indeed if it involved the captions on the pictures in a movie magazine and not a newspaper or book. A selective learner, the educators might call her now. No matter how little she accomplished, Hilton praised her, or rather over-praised her. I went along with it. He was on a guilt trip, you see, and I was his passenger. A fourteen-year guilt trip. God knows how many times I felt we�d come to the end of the line. Maybe this is it.�

She finished her coffee and looked into the empty cup as if she hoped to find in it tea leaves that would foretell the end of the line. There was only a coffee stain and a thirsty buffalo fly on the cup�s rim.

�I never knew Hilton�s mother. Hilton and I didn�t meet until after she died. In my high moments I like to think he swept me off my feet and we got married and had a child. My low moments are more realistic. He was grief-stricken and lonely and I was available, the motherly type five years his senior. If there was any sweeping off of feet, I did it. He was smart, handsome and destined for big things.�

There was no mention of love, either on his part or hers, either for each other or for the girl. There was only duty, guilt, sacrifice, anger.

�If Hilton�s business associates were told some of the things I�ve told you, Mr. Aragon, they wouldn�t believe them. Hilton has a reputation as a cool, unsentimental, hardheaded, hard-driving executive. Our close friends know about Cleo, of course, but we don�t have many. I�ve never had the time for them. Up until this past year, when Hilton agreed to send Cleo to Holbrook Hall, I�ve been a full-scale babysitter.�

�What did Cleo take with her when she left here, Mrs. Jasper?�

�As far as I can tell, nothing. She wore the clothes she usually wore to school.�

�In addition to the thousand dollars she withdrew from the bank, did she carry a charge card?�

�Yes, at Drawford�s department store.�

�Was she accustomed to using it?�

�For Christmas gifts, birthdays, occasions like that. Usually when she shopped I went with her and she used my cards.�

She described what Cleo had been wearing on the morning she left with the dog. It was the same kind of outfit Aragon remembered from Cleo�s visit to his office, a navy blue jumper with white blouse and knee socks and black shoes.

�She picked her own clothes,� Mrs. Jasper added. �Mostly little-girl stuff. That was partly because she was so small we often had to buy things in the teen department of the store, but it was also her own choice. That is, until recently.�

�What happened recently?�

�We hired a new girl to come in and serve dinner every night � Lisa, a college senior. Cleo decided she wanted to dress more like Lisa.� She rubbed her left temple with her fingertips as though she were trying to erase a new headache or an old memory. �I guess Hilton�s little sister finally decided to become a woman.�

From the driveway came the unmistakable noise of an old Volkswagen, followed by the crunch of metal. There were a hundred yards of parking space available, but the VW had chosen to park directly behind Aragon�s Chevy.

A short, stout middle-aged woman wriggled out of the front seat and stooped to examine the two bumpers. Her frown and the way she stood with her hands on her hips indicated that in her opinion Aragon�s Chevy had willfully and deliberately backed into her VW. When she satisfied herself that no damage had been done she opened the front door of the car and a dog jumped out, dragging a length of rope. She attempted to grab the rope but the dog was too fast for her. He made a beeline for the garage, nose to the ground and tail wagging so furiously it was going in a circle. His legs were so short his stomach barely cleared the grass. A loud, full-throated bark announced to the world that Zia was home and in charge.

The woman puffed her way across the patio, trying to explain simultaneously that the dog was a holy terror, wouldn�t obey, dragged her every which way, and she hoped it was the right dog because she certainly didn�t intend to take it back, not on your life.

Frieda Jasper assured her it was the right dog. �I�m Frieda Jasper, Mrs. Griswold.�

�Thank heaven for that. About the dog, I mean. The strength of that mite of a creature you wouldn�t believe.�

�And this is Mr. Aragon, who is representing my husband in this matter.�

Mrs. Griswold, in the act of offering her stubby, sunburned hand to Aragon, suddenly withdrew it. �Representing, what�s that mean?�

�I�m one of Mr. Jasper�s lawyers.�

�A lawyer? Well, if that isn�t one for the books, dragging a lawyer into the case of a lost dog. Rich folks sure live different. I wouldn�t pay no lawyer for a commonsense thing like a lost dog.� Her sharp little eyes focused accusingly on Aragon. �Well, whatever commission you�re supposed to get, it�s not coming out of my share of the reward.�

�I�m on salary, not commission,� Aragon said. �You�ll receive the reward in full, Mrs. Griswold.�

�Oh, no, I won�t. I�m only getting fifty dollars for delivering the dog. It�s not much, but fair is fair. I didn�t find it and I didn�t see the ad. It was my tenant, Timothy North. His car�s on the blink.�

�Can you tell me the circumstances under which he found the dog?�

�He didn�t. A man gave it to him. He was in the bar where he works when a man came in and he had this dog with him.�

�Can you tell us the name of the bar or its location?�

�No. But it probably was one of those peculiar places, if you catch my gist. Mr. North is a pleasant young man, eats healthy, never touches a drop of booze, but he�s � well, peculiar.�

�It was a gay bar?�

�I guess that�s what they call it.�

�Did the man come in alone?�

�My goodness, I wasn�t there. They don�t like women coming into those places. Anyway, you�ve got the dog back, so what difference does it make?�

�Perhaps a great deal.�

�It said in the ad, �no questions asked,� and here I am faced with a whole bunch of them. Fraud, that�s what it is, fraud, and you a lawyer, too. You ought to be ashamed.�

�The dog was stolen, Mrs. Griswold, and I�m trying to locate the young woman who stole it.�

�My goodness, don�t you lawyers have more important things to do than tracking down a dog thief?... Now I�ll take my money if you don�t mind, and be on my way.�

�I prefer to hand the money over to Mr. North personally...�

�That sounds like you don�t trust me.�

�Of course we trust you,� Frieda Jasper said. �You volunteered the information that you didn�t either find the dog or see the advertisement. Only an honest woman would have done that.�

Mrs. Griswold was partly mollified. �Even my worst enemies never called me dishonest.�

�However, Mr. Aragon feels he must talk to your tenant because he might have some vital information. Much more is at stake than a stolen dog.�

�It�s the girl,� Mrs. Griswold said. �It�s the girl you�re after. Well, like I told you before, no girl would have any business going into that bar.�

�These places usually have a pretty steady clientele, like an unofficial club,� Aragon said. �Perhaps Mr. North knew the man who brought the dog in, or at least could give me a description. Would I find him at home now?�

�He was there when I left. I�m going right back and you can follow me in your car if you want to.�

�I�ll do that.�

It was still morning, though it felt later. The hours spent with Frieda Jasper, Mrs. Griswold and Timothy North seemed to have spread across a whole day like an oil spill, leaving black stains and the smell of tar.

He drove to Holbrook Hall for his second visit of the week. Halfway up the long steep driveway, two older students were preparing to have a picnic lunch under an enormous fig tree. A third was in the tree itself � Donny Whitfield, his fat, sunburned legs dangling like meat on a hook. He let out a yell when he saw Aragon�s car.

�Hey. Hey, wait up!�

Aragon stopped. The boy dropped out of the tree and came stumbling across the lawn. He got in the car, breathing noisily.

�Jeez, am I glad to see you.�

Aragon wished he could say the same, but everything about Donny seemed swollen � his short puffy fingers, his cheeks distended like those of a squirrel storing food for winter, his thighs bulging out of the cutoff jeans. Even his eyelids looked blistered from the heat of either tears or sun.

He said, �I forget your name.�

�Tom Aragon.�

�Listen, man, I got to split this dump. They put me on a diet, me and those two back there. All we�re allowed for lunch is lettuces and cottage cheese, rabbit food, yuck. They even locked the candy machine. How�s that for a low blow? You don�t happen to have a chocolate bar on you?�

�No.�

�Pack of Life Savers?�

�No. Sorry.�

�Screw you.�

�You told me that yesterday.�

�So? It still goes. If you help me get out of here, I bet I could help you find Cleo. I know about chicks from all my dad�s chicks. They�re the same, even a nut like Cleo. How about it, do we have a deal?�

�What happened to the kidnapping theory you had yesterday?�

�Down the drain, I figure, now that she flew the coop. A lot of my dad�s chicks did the same.� Donny removed the huge wad of chewing gum from his mouth, examined it critically and put it back in. �Look, man, I�m ready to deal. I can lay my hands on some money. You must need money or you wouldn�t be driving this hunk of rust. How about it?�

�You�re not actually a prisoner here, are you, Donny?�

�You want to know what would happen if I walked out without one of those dimwit counselors tagging along? They�d call the cops.�

�Why?�

�I�m on probation. If I stick around here, I stay out of the slammer. It was a bum rap. I don�t belong with the crazies you see in this joint. I�m not retarded either. I got an A in school once. Want to guess what in?�

�Tell me.�

�Eating,� the boy said somberly. �It was a joke, ha ha.�

�What bum rap did they pin on you, Donny?�

�That was long ago and far away, man. Anyway, my dad fixed it. He�s a great fixer, dear old dad, specially when it leaves him free to mess around with the chicks without competition from me. Maybe you think I�m not much competition, right?�

�I�m not a chick,� Aragon said. �I have to go up and see Mrs. Holbrook now. Want to come along for the ride?�

�Naw. She makes me puke.�

The plane from Sacramento arrived at twilight. Though Hilton Jasper sat in one of the rear seats, he let all the other passengers get off before him. He didn�t want to go back to a house without Cleo, without Ted. From the window he could see Frieda waiting for him at the gate, pacing up and down with quick little steps that indicated her impatience. She was always impatient, impatient for night to fall, impatient for morning to begin, impatient to drive him to the airport, to drive him home again. The world moved too slowly for Frieda. She wore herself out trying to hurry it along.

The flight attendant handed him his briefcase. �We�re here, Mr. Jasper.�

�Yes. Thanks.�

�Unless you want to go back to Sacramento with us��

�I think not.�

He stepped out of the plane and Frieda came hurrying to meet him. She took the briefcase out of his hand. It was probably meant to be a loving gesture but there was no love in it. She said, �Everyone got off before you. I thought you might have missed the plane.�

�Someone has to be last.�

She frowned, as though she was trying to understand this odd bit of philosophy. Frieda was always the first on a plane and the first off. It was as natural to her as any ordinary bodily function.

�You look tired,� she said. �Cook made you a lovely dinner. It will take only three or four minutes to heat it up in the microwave.�

�I�m not really hungry, Frieda.�

�Of course you�re hungry,� Frieda said in a tone that meant he damned well better be hungry because she was. �And it�s especially important that you have a good meal tonight.�

�Why?�

�Mr. Aragon is coming over at nine. He has something to tell you... Now please don�t get excited, Hilton. The doctor warned you to take it easy. Cleo is all right. She�s not dead or injured or any of the dozen things you imagined. I repeat, she�s all right. Apparently she just doesn�t want to come home.�

�Because of Ted � that terrible scene��

�For God�s sake, let�s not go into that again. Her decision to leave very likely had nothing to do with Ted. Perhaps she�s been planning it for a long time. The girl never confided in me. I never knew what was going on in that head of hers. When I asked her anything personal she�d just stare at me with those funny eyes��

�Be quiet, Frieda.�

They drove home in silence, and they ate in silence in a small alcove off the kitchen which had a view of the mountains. As the sun set each night the mountains gradually turned from violet to midnight blue and finally disappeared. Lights were springing up along the foothills like strings of Christmas decorations.

Frieda served the meal herself. The only live-in maid, Valencia, had gone to her room to watch television, or whatever maids called Valencia did in their rooms. Frieda had never bothered to find out. She felt reasonably sure, however, that the woman, who spoke little English, would not be eavesdropping like the cook or intruding to express an opinion like Lisa, the college girl who served dinner.

�I hate these silences,� she said finally. �They�re mean, hostile. Can�t you think of anything to say?�

�Nothing you�d want to hear.�

�All right, I�ll say something and you won�t want to hear it either. Ted came to pick up his things this morning. I gave him some money. Don�t worry, it was from my own bank account.�

�Your own bank account came from my own bank account. And I specifically asked you not to give him any money.�

�You commanded me not to.�

�But you did anyway.�

�He�s my son. You treated him unfairly, cruelly.�

�He did something unforgivable. If it weren�t for that, Cleo would be at home right now, safe and secure.�

�And you know where we�d be, Hilton? Right here with her for the next ten, twenty, thirty years like the last fourteen, babysitting a girl who�s never shown the slightest shred of gratitude, who doesn�t even like us.�

He dropped his fork on the plate and spit the food from his mouth into a napkin. She knew she had hit him hard and she was almost but not quite sorry that she was going to hit him again.

�If Cleo walked in the front door this very minute,� she said, �I�d walk out the back. And you and Cleo could live happily ever after.�

�What are you implying, you bitch?�

�I�m not implying anything. I�m stating it outright. You and Cleo can live happily ever after as far as I�m concerned. I don�t want to be around.�

�By God, you are a bitch.�

�It took fourteen years of Cleo to make me one.�

Outside, the dog Zia had begun to bark, a deep-throated menacing bark incongruous for his size. He paused now and then as if to gauge the effect of his threats, and during these pauses a car engine could be heard.

Hilton got up so fast he almost knocked the table over, and he reached the front door at the same time as Aragon.

�Have you found her?�

�No,� Aragon said. �But I�m pretty sure she�s all right.�

�Thank God for that. Come in. Come in and tell me about it.�

They went down the long galleria to the kitchen. Frieda had cleared the dishes off the table and was pouring herself a cup of coffee. She didn�t offer any to either of the men.

Aragon sat across the table from Hilton Jasper and began to talk. �For the past few months Cleo has been counseled at school by a man named Roger Lennard. He�s in his early thirties and has the reputation of being very conscientious in his work. He evidently gave Cleo some new ideas about herself and indicated some possibilities for her future. At any rate, he and Cleo became involved emotionally. I won�t say romantically, because Lennard is a homosexual.�

Jasper made a strange choking noise as if he had something stuck in his throat. �And she�s with him?�

�They�re going to be married. Perhaps they already are.�

�Cleo doesn�t even know what a homosexual is,� Jasper said. �She doesn�t really know what marriage is.�

Frieda spoke for the first time. �She�s not the innocent little angel my husband imagines she is. He never let me tell her the facts of life. He said she was too young, too simpleminded. I didn�t insist. I assumed they took care of these matters at school. She was certainly no innocent. I know that from� � she gave Hilton a long meaningful stare � �from experience... Don�t we, Hilton?�

�Please don�t interrupt, Frieda.� And to Aragon: �Tell me more about this Roger Lennard. Where does he live?�

�In a mobile-home court down near the beach. It was one of his neighbors who told me about the impending marriage. Lennard asked permission to have his wife come to live in the unit he rented.�

�He must be a real prize, a counselor in a school like Holbrook making a play for one of his students.�

�Mrs. Holbrook thinks very highly of him.�

�Then she�s evidently a poor judge of people.�

�Just who made a play for whom?� Frieda said. �That�s what I�d like to know.�

Jasper went over and put his hand on her shoulder. �You appear tired, Frieda. Perhaps you should go to bed.�

�I don�t want to go to bed.�

�I suggest you reconsider.� He pressed his hand down hard on her shoulder. �You want to appear all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed tomorrow at breakfast the way you usually are, don�t you?�

�I�m glad she�s gone. You hear that, Hilton? I�m glad. She�s ruined enough of my life.�

�You�d better go to bed.�

�Let her ruin somebody else�s.�

Aragon watched her leave, her heels clicking decisively on the tile floor. It was the first time he�d thought of Cleo as a ruiner, a destructive force, more of a victimizer than a victim.

�Forgive my wife,� Jasper said quietly. �This business has put a severe strain on both of us. Frieda is just as devoted to the girl as I am.�

He didn�t sound convinced or convincing and seemed to realize it. He let the subject drop abruptly, as though he�d picked up a rock too hot and heavy to handle.

Aragon rose, ready to leave. �I�m sorry I haven�t been able to solve your problem, Mr. Jasper, but this is the end of the line for me.�

�Where�s Cleo?�

�I made it clear that I don�t know.�

�Then you haven�t done what you were hired to do,� Jasper said. �Cleo must be found and rescued.�

�By �rescued� you mean brought back here?�

�Yes.�

�The law is pretty specific about kidnapping.�

�Use persuasion.�

�I�m afraid Roger Lennard has already used persuasion.�

�She must be rescued,� Jasper repeated. �It�s not the homosexual part that worries me most. It�s the fact that he�s a fortune hunter. Cleo will come into her grandmother�s full estate when she�s twenty-five. A great deal of money is involved. Cleo is vaguely aware of this, certainly aware enough to have told Roger Lennard about it. But I�m sure she has no idea about the California community property laws or anything involving money. A million dollars in the bank isn�t as real to her as a crisp new ten-dollar bill. If someone grabbed the ten-dollar bill from her, she�d resent it and try to get it back or else come crying to me for another one. But a million dollars that she can�t see or feel or buy candy with is nothing to her. To Roger Lennard it�s everything. He may even be faking a few love scenes. The thought of it makes me sick.�

He looked sick. His face had a waxen pallor and there was a fringe of moisture across the top of his forehead. Aragon had acquired a minimal knowledge of medicine from his wife, Laurie, and Jasper appeared to him like a man set up for a heart attack. A big man, an ex-athlete, overweight, with a sedentary job and under a heavy strain, he was programmed for one. Whether it happened or not was a matter of luck, good or bad.

Jasper said, �That bastard Lennard is going to regret this. He�ll wish he had stayed in the closet with the door deadlocked!�

�I advise you to wait for the facts before you take any action.�

�Then get the facts.�

�I�m not trained in police work, or psychology either, for that matter. I don�t know where to go from here.�

�You got this far. Keep going. If you won�t, I will.�

�Stay out of it personally, Mr. Jasper, at least until you��

�Cool down? I don�t cool easily.�

It wasn�t exactly news. The blood had come rushing back into Jasper�s face and he looked ready to burst his skin. He slapped his hand fiat against the table.

�When I get through with that bastard,� he said, �he�ll be lucky to get a job as a dishwasher. He�s contemptible, a man without moral decency, to take advantage of a girl like Cleo entrusted to his care. God knows what romantic notions he put into her head.�

Aragon knew of only one notion, and not by the wildest stretch of the imagination could it be called romantic. He remembered almost precisely the words she�d used on her visit to his office: �My new friend says I got rights, I can do what other people do, like vote.� Vote. Lennard�s approach was certainly unique.

�I�ll do the best I can, Mr. Jasper. But don�t expect miracles. Both people involved, Lennard positively, Cleo probably, must be aware that they�ve asked for trouble.�

�I don�t expect miracles. I expect results. Go back to where Lennard�s been living, examine his personal effects, his correspondence, bank accounts if any, even the books he reads.�

�You�re asking me to break in.�

�No. We won�t call it that.�

�Others will. Gaining entry to Lennard�s place would require a search warrant issued by a judge to a policeman under circumstances strongly suggesting a crime. I don�t meet any of these conditions.�

�I have connections.�

�Don�t try to use them. You�ll cause difficulty for both of us if you do.�

�Very well.�

�I take that as a promise, Mr. Jasper.�

�It�s a promise I may not be able to keep. If I should happen to see them walking past my office building, I�ll knock the hell out of��

�It�s a long way from Hibiscus Court to the Jasper building. However, I think they�re still in the city. Otherwise Lennard wouldn�t have asked permission for his bride to come and live in the court with him. There�s another fact: Lennard has a job to keep.�

�That�s what he thinks,� Jasper said. �As of tomorrow morning Lennard�s name will be off the school payroll and the salary for the two weeks� notice he�s entitled to will be mysteriously delayed or lost in the mails. The facts surrounding his dismissal will be available to any prospective employer. Let�s see how romance thrives on a little adversity.�

�Sometimes it does, Mr. Jasper.�

Jasper refused to consider this. �It will be three years before Cleo comes into her fortune. I confidently predict that by that time Roger Lennard will be long gone and forgotten and Cleo�s estate will have a conservator.�

�Your second prediction may come true but I wouldn�t bet on the first one.�

�He will be gone and forgotten,� Jasper repeated with grim satisfaction.

When the two men parted, Jasper didn�t offer to shake hands. It was a bad sign, a symptom, Aragon thought, of the paranoia often afflicting rich men, that people who didn�t agree with them were against them.

Drawford�s department store catered to the young ladies and the old money of the city�s North Side. Located at the head of a recently constructed shopping mall, it was built in the style of the string of old missions along the southern California coast. There were differences. Its bell tower clanged the hours only when the store was open for business, the taped music was soft and secular except at Christmas, and the thickly carpeted floors were not meant for the bare feet of padres. Bare feet were not, in fact, allowed at all. There was a sign to that effect on each of the four entrance doors.

The credit department was on the third floor. Its manager was on vacation but the assistant manager agreed to see Aragon.

She was a young woman who looked as if she�d been born and brought up in the store itself, nurtured on the skinny sandwiches of its tearoom, coiffed in its beauty salon, clothed in its designer dresses, perfumed and made up in the cosmetics section, educated in the pages of its chic, glossy catalogues. Aragon would scarcely have been surprised if she�d introduced herself as Ms. Drawford.

�I�m Mrs. Flaherty,� she said. �May I help you?�

Aragon gave her his card and she read it through jewel-trimmed glasses from the optometry department.

�Drawford�s is always happy to welcome an attorney,� she said with a well-practiced smile. �Especially if he�s on our side.�

�Thank you.�

�What can we do for you?�

�I�m trying to find out if the holder of a certain credit card purchased anything here during the past week.�

�I�m sorry but we cannot give out that information.� It sounded like a line from Drawford�s Training Manual for New Personnel.

�Does that mean under any circumstances, Mrs. Flaherty?�

�Almost any. It would be advisable if you�d wait for Mr. Illings to get back from his fishing trip in British Columbia. That will be in another week and a half.�

�That might be a week and a half too late. This is really important.�

Mrs. Flaherty threw away the manual. �Oh damn, I knew something like this was going to happen the minute he left. Right off the bat someone waltzes in, a lawyer yet, and asks for confidential information. What am I supposed to do?�

�Use your own judgment.�

�Okay. What�s the name of the credit card holder, the billing address and the number of the card?�

�Cleo Jasper. The bills are probably sent to her brother, Hilton Jasper, on Via Vista.�

�And the number of the card?�

�I don�t have it, sorry.�

�I�d really like to know what this is all about.�

�And I�d really like to tell you. But as any employee of Drawford�s must realize, rules are rules.�

�All right, I�ll see what I can do. I�ll have to get her credit card number from our files, then run it through the computer and see what comes out.�

She was gone for five minutes, during which Aragon had time to examine her office. It was mostly chrome and glass, very neat and almost devoid of personal touches except for two small framed photographs on the desk, one of a baby and the other of a young man in football uniform who looked like Joe Namath. Drawford�s would probably not approve of an assistant credit manager having a photograph of Joe Namath on her desk, so Aragon assumed the picture was of Mrs. Flaherty�s husband, and the baby their joint effort.

Mrs. Flaherty returned carrying a sheet of paper. �The computer indicates that Miss Jasper made some purchases two days ago.�

�What were they?�

�We don�t know yet. When a purchase is made, the slip contains the name of the credit card holder and the number of the associate. When we check that number we�ll have the name of the associate and thus the department in which she or he works.�

�By �associate� you mean sales clerk?�

�If you insist. Drawford�s believes that associate sounds better and improves morale. Now then, we�ll find out whether that associate is working today and after that you can do � well, whatever it is that people like you do.�

�They work,� Aragon said, �...and when do I get the names of the associates?�

�My secretary�s checking that now.�

The secretary turned out to be not a clone of Mrs. Flaherty but a close copy. She had the same hairdo and wore an almost identical expression and dress. She said that one of the numbers belonged to Mrs. deForrest of the shoe salon and the other to Miss Horowitz of the better jewelry department. Miss Horowitz had sold Miss Jasper a set of rings and Mrs. deForrest had sold her two pairs of shoes.

This was Miss Horowitz�s day off but Mrs. deForrest was on duty in the shoe salon, having clocked in at 9:07 that morning.

Shortly before two o�clock the members of the board of directors began arriving. From the north windows of her office Mrs. Holbrook could have watched them, noting which ones had found time to come to a meeting so suddenly arranged. She stood instead at the south window, surveying the grounds of her school. She knew every square foot of its acreage, the tennis and basketball courts, the pool enclosed by an eight-foot chain-link fence with its gate double-padlocked, the picnic grounds, the corral and dog runs; she knew how much the new roof for the stable had cost; she knew the names of every horse and dog, of every shrub and tree on the property. It was her small kingdom and for thirty years she had lived in it and for it.

Tears stung her eyes and blurred her vision. Everything seemed to be moving, as if the first tremor of an earthquake had struck. There was a knock on the door. She blinked away the tears and said, �Come in.�

A girl entered, carrying an oversized canvas tote bag with the name Gretchen printed on it. She was sixteen, large and sturdy, with a moon face and round eyes and the faint trace of a mustache.

�I came to clean,� Gretchen said.

�You cleaned yesterday, Gretchen. Things haven�t had a chance to get dirty.�

�I see dirt that other people can�t.�

�All right. Go ahead.�

The girl began her work at the bottom shelf of one of the bookcases. She sat on the floor, removed a dustcloth from the tote bag and started wiping each book individually. She hummed tunelessly as she worked. The noise didn�t bother Mrs. Holbrook. Gretchen was happy at these times and Mrs. Holbrook was happy for her.

Her gaze returned to the school grounds. A picnic was in progress and a group of boys was playing basketball, coached by their athletic director, Miss Trimble. A girl was working a quarter horse in the training ring but the pool and the tennis courts were empty. Only one student was using the playground. He was swinging on a tire suspended from a limb of a huge cypress tree.

His name was Michael and he was new and very quiet and Mrs. Holbrook was worried about him. She went down the hall and out the back door and crossed the lawn to the cypress tree. The boy didn�t turn his head or indicate in any way that he was aware of her.

�Hello, Michael,� she said. �Do you like swinging?�

His eyes were closed and he might have been asleep except for the movement of his legs.

�Have you had lunch, Michael?�

He made a sound that could have been yes or no. She was quite sure it was no. The dietitian had already discussed Michael�s case with her. A problem eater given to hunger strikes, he was at least twenty pounds underweight.

�I have a bowl of very nice apples in my office,� she said. �Or perhaps you and I could walk down to the grove and pick some oranges. Would you like that?�

He spoke without opening his eyes.

�I hate you.�

�I don�t hate you back, Michael. I think you and I can become good friends. Your mother�s driving down to see you next month. Did you know that?�

�I hate you.�

She felt the sting of tears again. She would have liked to hate him back but... Instead, she wanted to hold him in her arms and comfort him. He was helpless and possibly hopeless. There was no apparent cause for his condition. He had loving parents, three sisters and a brother, all normal, and no history of childhood illnesses or accidents. He was probably, as one of the counselors had pointed out, the victim of the commonest and most mysterious cause of all, a failure of genetic programming, a fancy name for rotten luck. She tried to remember which counselor had said it. Perhaps it was Roger Lennard and perhaps he was talking about himself, not this quiet boy on the swing with his eyes closed to the world.

�You can�t see anything unless you open your eyes, Michael,� she said gently. �It�s like being blind, and you wouldn�t like to be blind, would you?... I know. I bet someone has glued your eyelashes together. Let�s go to the tap over there and wash away the glue, and presto, your eyes will pop open again. How about it?�

�I hate you.�

�That�s okay. I�m not so crazy about me, either.�

She turned and went back to her office, pausing only to pick up some bark that had peeled off the lemona eucalyptus tree and toss it in the trash bin. A failure in genetic programming. Rotten luck. She was almost sure now those were Roger�s words and that he�d been talking about himself. Though he had never openly indicated dissatisfaction with his role in life, she sometimes sensed his uneasiness, his awareness that he was out of sync, out of tune.

In the office Gretchen was still at work on the bottom shelf of books, still humming, still happy. Mrs. Holbrook picked up the phone and called Roger�s number as she had done a dozen times in the past two days. She was about to hang up when she heard the click of a receiver being lifted.

�Roger? Is that you, Roger?�

The only answer was a whimpering animal sound followed by the thud of something falling, or being thrown.

�Roger, it�s Rachel Holbrook. Are you drunk? Answer me.�

She waited for a full minute before hanging up. She felt dizzy with anger, days, weeks, years of anger, at the Rogers and Cleos and Donnys and Michaels and boards of directors, years of anger she had never shown, never even realized she felt.

She spoke as quietly and as calmly as possible to the girl sitting on the floor. �I have an important errand, Gretchen. Perhaps we�d better postpone the rest of the cleaning to another day.�

�No, I can�t. Everything�s terribly dirty. It�s going to take me six months to finish up.�

�I need your cooperation, Gretchen. My secretary had to go to the dentist. When he returns I want you to give him a message for me. Can you do that?�

�No. I�m very busy.�

�Gretchen, for God�s sake��

�You told us not to swear,� Gretchen said. �God is a dirty word.�

Frieda spent the afternoon sorting through clothes and bric-a-brac and books to be donated to the Assistance League rummage sale. The clothing would be sent to the cleaners, the bric-a-brac washed or polished, the books dusted. She carefully avoided Cleo�s room and Ted�s. Ted�s would be half-empty and Cleo�s exactly the way she�d left it when she walked away with the dog.

The house was quiet and orderly without the two of them. Each hour came in a neat little package and piled up in corners unopened.

When Hilton arrived home for dinner she went downstairs to meet him.

�You�re late,� she said.

�I can tell time.�

�Oh, we�re in a mood, are we? You must have had a bad day.�

�It was � interesting.�

�That�s more than mine was.� She noticed his hand when he put his hat away in the hall closet. �What�s the matter with your hand?�

�I hurt it.�

�That�s obvious. Let me take a look at it.�

�Stop fussing. It doesn�t suit you. Is dinner ready?�

It was ready. Cook had left some time ago and Lisa, the college girl who did the serving, was waiting in the kitchen. Someone � the cook? Valencia? Lisa?�� had removed one or two of the extension boards of the dining room table, so it was smaller and appeared less deserted.

�If you�re going to have difficulty handling a soup spoon with your right hand,� Frieda said, �we can skip that course and go on to the salad.�

�Get rid of the girl.�

�What do you mean, get rid of her? Fire her?�

�Tell her we won�t need her for tonight.�

�Why?�

�I have something important to discuss with you in private.�

�That sounds ominous. I don�t like it. You�re frightening me, Hilton.�

�I can�t help it.�

�Is it about Cleo?�

�It�s about me.�

Lisa came in wearing her usual uniform: skintight jeans and T-shirt partly covered by an apron. She carried two bowls of soup, hot consomm� floating sprigs of parsley on lemon rafts.

Frieda spoke in the too-bright voice she used as a cover-up. �Lisa, we�ve decided to have dinner alone tonight. You�re free to leave.�

Lisa put the soup bowls on the table in a manner that clearly indicated her displeasure. �I don�t want to leave just yet. My boyfriend�s not picking me up until eight o�clock.�

�Where is he now?�

�The university library.�

�Suppose you go and meet him. I�ll give you five dollars for cab fare.�

�That might not cover it and I�m broke.�

�All right. Ten dollars.�

�I still think it�d be simpler if I just stayed and served dinner as usual. A cab might get caught in a traffic jam. Or Brent might finish his term paper early and we�d miss each other. I don�t see why I can�t sit quietly in the kitchen and watch television until Brent comes.�

�I don�t want to hear any television sounds coming out of the kitchen,� Jasper said. �And I don�t want any dining room sounds going into the kitchen. Have I spelled that out clearly enough for you?�

�Okay, okay. But I don�t like having my plans screwed up like this.�

�Here.� He took a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet and shoved it at her. She stared at it a moment before accepting it. Then she folded it and tucked it into the rear pocket of her jeans. �I see you hurt your hand.�

�Yes. Good night.�

She phoned for a cab in the kitchen, speaking in a very loud, distinct voice to make sure they overheard. Then she went out the back door, slamming it behind her.

�Twenty dollars was too much,� Frieda said.

�I didn�t have a ten.�

�You could have asked me.�

�I could have, yes.� I could have... I never meant... what if... Useless phrases belonging only to the past.

�What happened to your hand?�

�I hit a man.�

�Oh, I don�t believe it. You�d never do anything so primitive.�

�Well, I did.�

�What on earth for?�

�I wanted to make him tell me where Cleo is. I was sure he knew. She probably went directly to him the morning she left here. He refused to admit anything.�

�You should have tried to bribe him. God knows that�s not above you. We just had an example of it a minute ago.�

�I wanted to hit him.�

�That�s always been the governing principle of your life. You wanted to do something, so you did it... Do you want to eat your soup? If you don�t, I�ll take it back to the kitchen and we�ll go on with the rest of the meal.�

He looked at her bitterly. �There�s no sympathy in you, is there, Frieda?�

�I�m reserving mine for the man who was hit.�

�Don�t waste your time. He�s dead.�

She tried to cover her alarm with a show of cynicism. �If this is one of your attempts to build yourself a macho image, forget it.�

�I�ll have to go to the police. I�ve been trying to get in touch with some of the company�s lawyers but they�re in Washington or L.A. or Sacramento. One is even hunting capercaillie in Scotland. They�re everyplace but here. And they�re not accustomed to dealing with cases like this anyway. It�s a criminal matter.�

�Roger Lennard,� she said. �You killed Roger Lennard?�

�I�m not sure. He took some pills. Maybe he�d already taken them when I arrived. He made no attempt to fight back. I thought it was because he didn�t have the guts, but maybe he was already dying. We have to wait for the results of an autopsy.�

�How long will that take?�

�I don�t know.�

She sat twisting the soup spoon around and around between her fingers as though she was trying to wring its neck. �Chalk another one up to Cleo. She�ll beat us all before she�s through.�

�Don�t blame Cleo. It�s my fault. Cleo wouldn�t hurt a fly.�

�No, she wouldn�t hurt a fly. Or a dog or a horse. But what about the rest of us? We�re the ones who get our wings pulled out, our paws stepped on.�

�Please, let�s not argue about Cleo. We have to decide what to do next.�

�We? You mean I now have a part in the decision making?�

�You always did.�

He was down and she would have liked to kick him a few more times to make sure he remembered after he got up again. But she was a reasonable woman with a keen sense of survival. He was down. That was enough.

�Give me the whole picture,� she said. �You knocked at his door. Was it locked?�

�Yes.�

�Did you tell him who was there?�

�Yes.�

�And he unlocked the door and let you in?�

�Yes, right away. I had the peculiar feeling that he might even have been expecting me. He seemed almost resigned. He knew who I was, of course. Cleo probably talked about me to him the way she does to everyone.�

�All right, he let you in. Then what?�

Her husband stared into his soup bowl. The little lemon raft with its cargo of parsley had floated to one side as if his breath had provided enough wind to move it. �He lives � lived � in a mobile home, a very small one where everything is wall-to-wall. There was a typewriter on the table, I remember, and a magazine on the couch. I asked him right away where Cleo was and he claimed he didn�t know, that she�d walked out on him. He talked very slowly and calmly and that made me even angrier. I began to yell at him. One of the neighbors overheard me and reported it later to the police.�

�When you hit him, did he fall down?�

�No. I hit him again.�

�Then did he fall down?�

�No.�

�How could you have killed him when he wasn�t even knocked over by the force of the blows?�

�The effects of head injuries aren�t always immediately apparent.�

�But he was still standing up when you left?�

�Yes.�

�Then the chances are that you had nothing to do with his death?�

�I made it clear to him that he didn�t have much of a future in this town or in his profession or with Cleo. If that caused him to take an overdose of pills, then I have some moral responsibility for his death.�

�A man doesn�t commit suicide because of a few words spoken in anger. He may have been planning it for weeks, months, even years. He had many personal problems, according to Aragon.� She paused. �What about Aragon? He might be able to help you.�

�He�s too young and inexperienced.�

�At least he�s not hunting capercaillie in Scotland,� she said sharply. �Whatever the hell capercaillie is. Shall I call him?�

�If you like.�

�If I like? What I�d like is a nice peaceful life without a husband who goes around slugging people.�

She had hit him once too often while he was down. He was getting up now, and it showed in his face and his voice.

�The person I should have slugged is you, Frieda.�

�It�s a bit late for that. It would cost you too much, especially where it hurts, in the pocketbook.�

�You intend to leave me, don�t you?�

�If Cleo comes back, yes. I can�t face another year like the past fourteen.�

�Have things been that bad?�

�Worse. You don�t realize that because you were away most of the time, at the office or at meetings out of town, while I was stuck at home watching her every minute, trying to teach her to talk properly and to read, looking after the succession of stray animals and birds she dragged home only to lose interest in them almost immediately, the way she lost interest in the dog Zia. She took him with her that morning and then she must have simply left him somewhere, forgot all about him.�

�Why do our conversations always revert to Cleo?�

�Because she�s been the focus of our lives, not you or I or Ted.�

He said, �Here I am, in serious trouble, sitting in front of a bowl of cold soup, across the table from a wife who hates me, talking about a sister who ran away from me.�

�At least we can take care of the cold soup part.�

She carried the soup bowls back to the kitchen and returned with two plates of salad. �I repeat the question, Hilton. Shall I call Aragon? You don�t have to take his advice, just see what he has to say.�

�Go ahead.�

�You might want to do it yourself.�

�No. You handle these things very well, Frieda. It�s one of your talents.�

She used the wall phone in the kitchen. There was no answer from Aragon�s apartment, so she left a message with the answering service at his office for him to call back. She saw the headlights of a car coming up the driveway and she thought at first what a nice coincidence it was, to have Aragon show up at the very time she was trying to get in touch with him. But as she listened she knew the car couldn�t be his. The engine sounded too quiet and smooth.

She went to the front door and opened it at the first ring of the chime. The overhead light that switched on automatically when the door opened revealed a tall middle aged man with a deeply tanned face and bright, expressionless eyes that reminded her of Cleo�s.

�Mrs. Hilton Jasper?�

�Yes.�

�You shouldn�t open the door like that without first asking who is there.�

�All right, who is here?�

�Lieutenant Peterson of the Police Department.�

�This is an inconvenient time to receive you,� she said coolly. �We�re in the middle of dinner.�

�Really? Funny thing, I was in the middle of dinner myself when the desk sergeant played me a tape of a message that had just come in from a woman. Sounded like a girl, actually. It seems she�d been listening to the six o�clock news and heard about the death of a man she knew, Roger Lennard. Is that name familiar to you?�

�Vaguely.�

�Perhaps your husband might find it less vague.�

Her response was to open the door a little farther to allow him to step inside. When she closed it again the overhead light went off and Lieutenant Peterson�s face was in shadow. It looked better that way, more expressive, kinder, with the disturbing brightness of his eyes obscured.

�Let�s not beat around the bush, Lieutenant,� she said. �We�ve called our attorney and until he arrives my husband isn�t going to make any statement.�

�That�s fine. I�ll wait.�

�I�m not sure when he�s coming. I left a message with his answering service but he may not even get it tonight.�

�I�ll still wait. I presume you have a spare bedroom.�

She let out a gasp of surprise.

�Now, now, don�t get shook. That was just a little joke to lighten up the atmosphere.�

�It wasn�t very successful.�

�Many of my jokes aren�t. Win a few, lose a few. I�d like to see Mr. Jasper, all jokes aside.�

�As I told you, we�re in the middle of dinner. Would you mind waiting for him?�

�I wouldn�t mind, no. But I�d prefer to come and sit at the table with you. What are you serving, by the way? I hope you don�t mind my asking. You see, I was in the middle of dinner myself.�

�Avocado and grapefruit salad and seafood Newburg.�

�Sounds great. Did you make the seafood yourself?�

�We have a cook.�

�Congratulations. Good cooks are hard to find these days.�

�I didn�t say she was a good cook... Are you by any chance inviting yourself for dinner?�

�The thought crossed my mind.�

�This is... this is really extraordinary.�

�I don�t agree. Put a hungry man on the trail of seafood Newburg and what he does is quite ordinary.�

�I don�t know what Mr. Aragon will say when he gets here if you�re sitting having dinner with us.�

�Aragon? Now, he�s pretty small potatoes for a big man like your husband. Potatoes. There goes my mind again, back to food.�

�I�ve never been in a situation like this before in my life.�

�As a matter of fact, neither have I. But we mustn�t shut ourselves off from new experiences, must we?�

�Come this way.�

It wasn�t the most gracious invitation he�d ever received but it was the only one for dinner that night, so he followed her down the hall.

Jasper was standing at the head of the dining room table, his left hand in his pocket.

�Hilton, this is Lieutenant Peterson,� Frieda said. �He has kindly consented to join us for dinner.�

The lieutenant nodded. �Glad to meet you, Mr. Jasper. I don�t imagine the feeling is mutual.�

�No, it�s not.�

�Ah well, suppose we forget business for a while and act like new friends about to break bread together for the first time.�

Jasper�s only reply was to pull out a chair and then put his own plate of salad, which he hadn�t touched, in front of the lieutenant. Frieda turned up the heat under the silver chafing dish that contained the seafood.

She said, �My husband and I aren�t having wine with dinner tonight but I�ll open a bottle for you if you like.�

�Not while I�m on duty.�

The lieutenant ate quickly and quietly with only an occasional remark about the weather, the food, the state of the nation. Neither of the Jaspers made any attempt to converse. Frieda served the food and Jasper pushed it around on his plate in a pretense of eating.

Afterward, the lieutenant said, �Excellent, excellent. I truly appreciate having a home-cooked meal now and then. Since my wife died I�ve probably eaten more Big Macs and fries than any man in town.�

Jasper took a deep breath and held it for a moment before speaking. �Why are you here, Lieutenant?�

�As I told your wife, the desk sergeant received a phone call about six thirty. He played the tape of it for me. It was the voice of a young woman, a girl probably, who�d been listening to the six o�clock news and heard about Roger Lennard�s death. A man named Abercrombie had spoken rather freely to the press describing someone who�d visited Lennard in the late morning. She claimed the description fitted you.�

�I see.�

�A lot of policemen would like people to believe that we go around solving crimes by taking fingerprints and making plaster casts and ballistics tests. Now these things all look good in a courtroom once the criminal is on trial. But how he�s caught is usually a different story. Somebody squealed, a disgruntled employee or partner, a jealous lover, a cast-off wife. These are the people who solve crimes. If it weren�t for the young woman�s phone call I wouldn�t be here. Tall man in a grey suit and Panama hat � that�s not much to go on. Add a name and address, and the picture changes. Did you go to see Roger Lennard this morning?�

�I�d like to hear that tape.�

�That�s not an answer to my question, Mr. Jasper.�

�I�ll answer your questions if you let me listen to the tape.�

�No,� Frieda said. �No, you won�t. You�re not to say anything until Mr. Aragon��

�Be quiet, Frieda. What about it, Lieutenant? Do we have a deal?�

�Sounds fair to me.�

�I want to hear the tape first.�

�Now that part isn�t so fair,� the lieutenant said. �Maybe you think you might recognize the voice?�

�I might.�

�We�ll have to go out to my car. I brought the tape with me. I intended to play it for you anyway.�

Frieda made one more attempt to stop him but he pushed her aside. �Let me handle my own affairs,� he said. �I�m a big boy now.�

�You don�t eat like one. You�re a stupid, pigheaded little boy.�

�I hate to break up a good old-fashioned family row,� the lieutenant said. �But sometimes I have to. Let�s go, Mr. Jasper. Would you like to come along too, Mrs. Jasper? It�s the least�I can do in return for the excellent meal.�

�I hope you get indigestion,� Frieda said.

The mail was delivered to Holbrook Hall the following morning at ten o�clock. Rachel Holbrook had been waiting for it, pacing around her office as if she were measuring its precincts, glancing at her wristwatch every few minutes. When she saw the truck coming up the driveway she went to meet the postman at the front door.

He was a plump, cheerful young man who felt it was part of his job to give his important customers a preview of the day�s haul.

�Lots of throwaway stuff this morning, Mrs. Holbrook. And bills � I guess you can�t run a place like this without a bunch of bills.�

�Thank you, Harry, I�ll just take it and��

�New issues of Reader�s Digest, Psychology Today, Audiovisual Journal. Letters for the kids, naturally. I always wondered, do they read their own letters or are they read to them?

�A catalogue of playground equipment. I�d like to borrow that when you�ve finished, if you don�t mind, Mrs. Holbrook. My kids are getting old enough now to use things like that in the yard.�

�I�ll save it for you, Harry. Goodbye.�

The box of mail was so heavy she could hardly carry it back to her office. The job of separating it was usually left to her secretary but this morning she did it herself. She found the letter from Roger Lennard almost immediately. It looked like any other letter, but it was the first she�d ever received from a dead man and it seemed to give off a faintly sour odor.

She called Aragon at his apartment.

�Roger�s letter has arrived,� she said. �I think you should be here when I open it.�

�Why?�

�I�m beginning to wonder if I did the correct thing. Yesterday it seemed so logical and right. Now I don�t know. I�m frightened.�

He hesitated. Then: �I should be there in about twenty minutes. Take it easy.�

�Roger meant me to have it. It�s not as though I took something that didn�t belong to me, do you think?�

�I think you should stop second-guessing until I get there.�

When Cleo woke up, the boat was rocking slightly with the rising tide. She wasn�t ready to wake up yet, so she kept her eyes closed and rolled her head back and forth on the pillow and thought of the baby inside her rolling back and forth, too, rocking, rocking, rock-a-bye baby. She held another pillow clasped tight against her belly. This second one was made of foam rubber and it felt smooth and yielding like flesh. Sometimes, in a foggy moment, she believed it was real flesh, her own real baby. But usually she knew it wasn�t, that her real baby was deep down inside her, very tiny, hardly bigger than a grain of sugar.

Once she tied the pillow around her waist inside her dress and went downtown, walking along the streets and into the stores. People looked at her oddly.

Some were pitying: �Why, you poor child, you�re scarcely more than a child yourself. How far gone are you?�

�Quite,� Cleo said solemnly. �Quite far gone.�

Some were contemptuous. �Don�t they teach about contraceptives in school? Look at her. Probably on welfare. That brat of hers will probably be on welfare, too. And we�ll be picking up the bills.�

One woman reached out and touched Cleo on the stomach.

Cleo drew back, surprised and frightened. �What did you do that for?�

�For luck. Didn�t you ever hear that?�

�No.�

�Whenever you see a woman big with child you touch her on the stomach for luck.�

She went back to the motel near the beach and told Roger about the woman who touched the baby for luck, only it wasn�t the baby.

�Why did you do a thing like that?� he said, turning red with anger. �People will think you�re crazy.�

�But there really is a baby deep inside. And you�re going to be the father and I�m going to be the mother. You promised, Roger. That very first day when I came to you and told you what happened with Ted and me, you said you would take care of me. You said you would see to it that Hilton wouldn�t take the baby away and have me fixed like he did our cat. You promised, Roger.�

�Yes.�

�And after this one, we�ll have some more. Boy, girl, boy, girl, or two boys and two girls, whichever you think is best. It wouldn�t be fair to have just one child. It would always be lonely, the way I am.�

�What if we can�t make it, Cleo, if things don�t work out?�

�You�re always telling me that people can work anything out if they really try, that people can make things work out. You told me that.�

�Yes.�

�You weren�t lying?�

�I didn�t intend to lie, Cleo. Perhaps I only spoke too soon, too optimistically.�

She began to cry then, and Roger held her in his arms, trying to soothe her, stroking her hair, brushing her tears away with his mouth.

�Come inside, Roger,� she said. �Come in and visit our baby. Come inside.�

�Not now.�

�Why not?�

�The dog,� he said. �The dog wants out. I have to go and walk him.�

�Oh, I�m sick of that dog. He�s always interfering like this. He�s not my friend anymore... Will you come back soon?�

�Yes.�

Roger was gone a long time. When he came back he told her he�d arranged to have the dog returned to the Jaspers. He was very pale and smelled of liquor.

�Are you going to visit the baby now, Roger?�

�I want to.�

They lay down again and she clasped her legs around his and held him tight against her. She could feel him struggling to get away and pretty soon he began to cry.

�God forgive me. I�m sorry, Cleo. Sorry, sorry, sorry.�

Roger always said things three times when he really meant them, so that was the night she found out that things sometimes didn�t work out no matter how hard people tried.

This time when Roger left he took his clothes with him and that was the end of the marriage.

She phoned Ted at the house the next morning and told him a sort of lie. She said Hilton had kicked her out just the way he had kicked Ted out and she was staying at a motel because she had nowhere to go. She asked him to help her find a place to live. He said he�d be right down, though he sounded rather peculiar.

She waited for him outside the motel.

His first words were, �That story you gave me on the phone was a lot of bull, wasn�t it?�

�A little,� she said. �Not a whole lot.�

�So what actually happened?�

�I ran away. I ran away because they kicked you out and I didn�t think it was fair.�

�Why�d you do that?�

�Because I like you.�

�Oh, come off it, kid.� But he sounded flattered. �You shouldn�t have run away. You know you can�t look after yourself. What do you intend to do?�

�I was going to get married.�

�What changed your mind?�

�I found out he was already married.�

�Hang in there. He might divorce her.�

�It�s not a her.�

�So why did you drag me into this?�

�I don�t know.�

She did know, though she hadn�t known for long. When she telephoned him for help she had only a vague idea in her mind, but now she was perfectly sure. Ted had nice features, he laughed easily, he played games well, he surfed and skied, and he could teach all these things to a son the way a good father should.

They walked along the waterfront. Ted told her his mother had given him enough money to live on for the summer, and that if his father hadn�t relented by next fall she intended to sell some bonds to finance his senior year in college. Cleo asked him where he was going for the summer. He wasn�t certain.

�Aspen, maybe,� he said. �It�s not as lively as it is in the winter but there�s still plenty of action if you look for it.�

�I was in Catalina once.� She recalled the trip vividly because it had been the only real experience in her life, with no Hilton or Frieda around, no Mrs. Holbrook or counselors, just the waves and the sea birds and a pleasant little man who ran the boat. She even remembered his name, Manny Ocho, because there weren�t many names in her life to remember. She saw the little man once in a while because on her free afternoons she sometimes took a bus down to the harbor and looked for the boat. If it was there she waved to the skipper or whoever was on board. But usually it was gone and the space where it was supposed to be was empty. She felt left out, like a little girl not invited to a party.

She said, �Do you think I�d like Aspen?�

�Sure. Why not?�

�I�ve got a thousand dollars.�

Ted laughed. �That�s about four days� worth in Aspen.�

This was a shock. She thought a person could live for a whole year on a thousand dollars. �Where is Aspen?�

�In the mountains in Colorado.�

�Is it healthful?�

�In some ways, I guess. In others, no.�

�I mean, does it have a healthful climate? I need a healthful climate.�

�Look, kid, the most healthful climate for you is right here. You�d better call my parents and tell them you�ll be home pretty soon. Will you do that?�

�If you want me to, Ted.�

�Listen, what I want has nothing to do with anything. It�s simple logic. You know what logic is, common sense.�

�If you�re driving alone someplace and I wanted to go to the very same place, wouldn�t it be common sense to take me along?�

�No,� he said. �No, no.�

�Why do men always say things three times? Why not two or four?�

�Okay, well make it four. No.�

�I didn�t really ask anyway. I just said, wouldn�t it be common sense?�

�Listen, you wanted me to help you find an apartment or someplace to live. I can drive you around and we�ll look for vacancy signs. And that�ll be the end of it. Understand?�

�Yes.�

�You�re sure?�

�Yes. But let�s keep walking. It�s such a neat day and you and I haven�t ever really talked before.�

�All right. We�ll walk and talk. But don�t start getting any funny ideas. You and I are going our separate ways.�

She gazed up at him wistfully. �But Aspen sounds so pretty.�

�It�s not that pretty. Besides, I may not go there. It�s the first name that occurred to me, is all. I may go to Borneo.�

�I never heard of Borneo. Does it have a healthful climate?�

�Jeez,� Ted said. �Let�s walk.�

�But does it have a healthful climate?�

�It�s a jungle infested with giant snakes and rodents.�

�Then why are you going there?�

�To get away from people who ask dumb questions.�

�I have to ask dumb questions,� she said. �I�m dumb, aren�t I?�

�Come on, come on, come on.�

She didn�t move.

�Now what�s the matter?�

�You did it again, Ted.�

�Did what?�

�Said something three times, instead of two or four.�

Ted said, �Move it, kid,� and gave her a little push. They began walking out toward the breakwater, past the Coast Guard headquarters, the marine accessories store and yacht brokers� offices, a fish market, and finally the breakwater itself. The tide was low and a small group of children were picking up mussels off the rocks on the sea side. On the other side, between two rows of marinas, a western grebe was diving for dinner. It came up with a fish in its beak and maneuvered it around until the fish could be swallowed headfirst. The bird�s long thin neck bulged for a moment or two. Cleo didn�t like to see creatures eating other creatures, so she closed her eyes and clung to Ted�s arm to help keep her balance.

When she opened her eyes again, there was the Spindrift, sky-blue and white, with dark blue sail covers. At first she thought there was no one on deck; then she saw Manny Ocho about three quarters of the way up the mainmast, inspecting some rigging.

She called to him and waved. �Manny, it�s me, Cleo.�

He waved back. �Hey, Cleo, why you not in school?�

�I�m on vacation.�

�Pretty soon, I�m on vacation, too.�

�Where are you going?�

�Ensenada, see my wife and kids, make sure everything�s okey doke. Who�s your friend?�

�Ted.�

�Want to come aboard?�

�Oh, yes, I�d love to.�

�Better go the long way round. Too far to jump, too dirty to swim.�

They walked back to the entrance ramp of the marina, with Cleo pulling Ted by the hand to hurry him along.

�Who the hell wants to go on a boat?� he said. �I thought I was supposed to help you find an apartment.�

�That can wait. I still have the room at the motel where Roger and I were going to spend our honeymoon.�

�Has it occurred to you that I might have affairs of my own to settle?�

�Oh, Ted, you don�t really want to go to Borneo, do you? Maybe Manny might let us ride along with him to Ensenada. Wouldn�t that be fun?�

�I doubt it.�

�I bet it�s a lot nicer than Borneo,� Cleo said. �I bet it�s not infected with snakes.�

When they reached the Spindrift the gangplank was down, and they went on board as Manny Ocho slid down from the mast on a rope like a circus performer.

�I show off,� he said, examining the palms of his hands. �Hurts like hell. Cleo, you looking good, happy. This your young man?�

�She�s my aunt,� Ted said.

�Your aunt, ho, ho. A joke, no?�

�It�s no joke.�

�You�re a big boy to have such a cute little aunt. Me, I got nine, ten aunts, all old and fat and ugly.�

Cleo giggled, hiding her face against Ted�s sleeve. He didn�t seem to mind. She really was cute.

Manny showed them around the Spindrift with great pride. In a sense it belonged more to him than to Whitfield, who merely held the owner�s papers and couldn�t have taken the boat out of the harbor by himself.

The captain�s quarters occupied the entire forward cabin. It was spacious and luxuriously furnished, but its teak paneling was marred by Whitfield�s collection of pinups, some of them signed, and its thick, red wool carpeting bore the stains of too many spilled drinks. A television set that projected its picture on a large screen was turned on to a baseball game, and a crewman was sitting in the captain�s swivel chair, watching the game and sipping Coke out of a can.

Manny explained the crewman. �Mr. Whitfield, he at his place in Palm Springs, not expected for a couple more days. Maybe sooner, maybe longer. I think he looking for a new chick.�

�I wish Donny could get away from school and come down here,� Cleo said. �We could have a party. Wouldn�t that be fun?�

Manny laughed. �Aunts not supposed to like parties. And why you want Donny?�

�You need a lot of people to have a real party and I hardly know any.�

�Donny not a real people. He a pig.�

�He gives me chocolate bars and imitates Mrs. Holbrook and makes me laugh.�

Manny moved his mouth around as if he intended to spit in the ocean. Then he remembered he was below deck and he swallowed instead.

�Besides,� Cleo added, �if we were having a party and Mr. Whitfield suddenly appeared, it would be okay because Donny would be here... Don�t you think so, Ted?�

Ted didn�t even hear the question. He was busy examining the pictures on the wall with the air of a connoisseur.

�Okey doke,� Manny said, and showed her how to open the red leather case where the phone was concealed. Then he and Ted went to see the boat�s navigation room.

It took about five minutes and considerable lying to reach Donny at Holbrook Hall.

�Hey, Donny, it�s me.�

�Who�s me?�

�Cleo. Guess what. I�m on the Spindrift.�

�What are you doing there?�

�I�m with Ted. You remember Ted, who picks me up at school sometimes. He�s the one that drives the car you like, the kind your dad�s going to buy you if you ever get off probation.�

�That�ll be in about a million years,� Donny said bitterly. �Maybe more.�

�Oh, don�t be so gloomy. Come on down and we�ll celebrate.�

�Celebrate what?�

�I�m getting married.�

�Why?�

�Because of the baby.�

�No kidding, you�re going to have a real baby?�

She didn�t like the question. �Of course it�s real, dummy. And I�m sailing to Ensenada on my honeymoon. You can come along if you want to.�

�Sure I want to. A lot of good that does. You know how they watch me around this joint, like I was public enemy numero uno.�

�Dream up something. Like the laundry truck. Remember when you stole the laundry truck?�

�I got caught.�

�That was just bad luck, hitting the tree,� Cleo said. �Why don�t you try again?�

�I�ll think about it.�

He didn�t have to think about it very long. That was the morning Aragon left his car keys in the ignition.

It took a moment for Aragon to regain his balance and somewhat longer for his eyes to adjust after the brilliance of the morning sun. The curtains were closed and the cabin seemed relatively gloomy. Donny Whitfield sat at a rolltop desk with a gun in his hand, and standing near him was a short, wiry-looking Mexican wearing a blue-and-white diagonally striped shirt and a light-blue peaked cap. Aragon assumed this was Manny Ocho who had answered the phone.

He started to address Ocho in Spanish but was immediately interrupted.

�Only English spoken here,� Donny said. �Well, nice of you to drop in, pal. Now suppose you drop out.�

�Is the girl here?�

�What girl?�

�You know what girl.�

�Oh, her. Yeah, sure. She�s around someplace trying to find the bridegroom. You walked into a wedding. How�s that for luck?�

�The wedding had better be postponed,� Aragon said. �I intend to take Cleo back to her family.�

�You�re going to poop the party, right?�

�Right.�

�Uh uh. Wrong... Manny, you have your orders. Obey them.�

�Please, you wait,� Ocho said. �Donny, you listen a minute.�

�Hurry up.�

Ocho turned to leave, shaking his head. As he passed Aragon he muttered a warning about a gun.

�You can be best man,� Donny told Aragon. �Or Cleo might even want to change bridegrooms. You�re not bad-looking and at least you aren�t related. What�s your name?�

�Tom Aragon.�

�Cleo Aragon. Hmmmm, sort of a nice ring to it. Not that Cleo�s particular. She�d marry any guy that�s still breathing. Weird thing is, I never knew she was like that when we were at school together. Maybe it�s the sea air.� Donny laughed. �How�s the sea air affecting you, Aragon?�

�Who�s the bridegroom?�

�She calls him Ted.�

�You�ve got to stop this crazy thing, Donny. She�s his aunt.�

�If that doesn�t bother Cleo, why should it bother me?�

�Who�s going to perform the ceremony? Did they have the necessary blood tests? Did they take out a license?�

�Details. Screw details.�

�And did you know that you�re violating the terms of your probation by having a gun?�

�Screw probation,� Donny said. �Probation is for landlubbers. At sea it�s only a word.�

�What kind of stuff are you on, Donny? What did you take?�

�Nothing. I smoked a little pot last night and had a few drinks, but since then, nothing.�Nothing from outside anyway. It�s the inside stuff that I�m on. It�s all coming from inside. There�s some pretty strong stuff in there, man, stronger than anything you can buy on the street.�

Aragon believed him. Whatever Donny�s body was manufacturing, it seemed as powerful and unpredictable as the animal tranquilizer the kids called angel dust.

He said, �Show me where Cleo is and I�ll take her home.�

�Home? Where the hell�s home for people like Cleo and me? A lousy detention school? Juvenile Hall or the slammer? Where the hell is home?�

�Drop the self-pity kick for a minute and pay attention. I want you and Cleo to come with me, and we�ll try to straighten out this whole business. I�ll even forget about the gun. I didn�t see it.�

�You saw it and you better not forget it. That�s my best friend. Him and me, we can go anywhere we want to, do anything we want to��

�Cut the crazy talk, Donny.�

�Okay, suppose I buy that crap about you trying to straighten things out for me and Cleo. What then? We get sent back to Holbrook Hall or worse, so the rest of you can live happily ever after.�

�I can�t perform miracles, Donny.�

�No? Well, I won�t settle for less.�

�Is that your final word?�

�You got it. Come on, we�ll go up on deck. There might be someone you want to wave bye-bye to.� Donny laughed again. �Or didn�t you know we�ve left the dock?�

�No.�

�That�s the trouble with you brainy guys � you start concentrating on something so hard you�re not aware of an earthquake until a brick hits you on the head. We�re under way, man. We�re off and running.�

�There are a lot of serious charges against you already, Donny. Don�t add kidnapping.�

�Kidnapping? Nobody forced you to come along. Nobody even invited you. You jumped on board. You know what that makes you? A stowaway. I could file a few charges of my own.�

�The punishment for kidnapping can be life imprisonment.�

�So? With any luck I�ll get the death penalty. Meanwhile you and I are going for a little sail. Come on, we don�t want to keep Cleo and the bridegroom waiting.�

They went up on deck.

Manny Ocho was at the helm. He had the Spindrift going several times faster than the harbor speed limit of five miles an hour, and Aragon knew from the glance Ocho gave him that he was doing it in the hope of attracting the attention of the harbor patrol boat. But there was no sign of Sprague or the boat. The only protest came from a small sloop the Spindrift passed in the channel.

�Slow down,� a man yelled through a megaphone. �You damn near hit me.�

Ocho made an obscene gesture and yelled back, �Report me. Call Sprague.�

But the sloop merely rolled and pitched in the Spindrift�s wake, and the harbor patrol boat remained at its mooring in front of the office and the Coast Guard cutter was still tied up at the Navy pier.

Traffic was light. The fishing fleet had departed hours ago and the pleasure boaters seldom went out before the afternoon winds began. Even when the Spindrift reached the open sea there wasn�t enough wind to take over the job of moving the boat. Donny ordered the sails raised anyway.

Working silently and swiftly, Velasco and Gomez raised the sails and Donny pronounced the boat now ready for the wedding ceremony. It was a picturesque setting, but the bride and groom were missing.

�Cleo,� Donny shouted. �Where the hell are you? Time to get married.�

Cleo appeared on the starboard deck wearing a white chiffon nightgown she�d found in one of the cabin drawers. The gown was too long and she had to hold it up with her left hand while she carried the .22 in her right. Her hair was combed but she�d forgotten to wash her face and her cheeks were still tear-stained.

�I don�t feel like a bride,� she told Donny.

�You don�t look like one either,� Donny said. �Where�s Ted?�

�I couldn�t get his hands untied. You made the knots too tight.�

�Oh for chrissake, can�t you do anything right? You don�t have to untie them. Cut them with a knife.�

�I don�t want to cut them. They�re my shoelaces. They�re practically brand-new.�

�All right, all right, you hold the gun on our guest here and I�ll go and get Ted.�

�Hello, Cleo,� Aragon said. �Do you remember me?�

She stared at him, frowning. �No.�

�You came to my office not too long ago.�

�Why?�

�To ask me about your rights � how to register to vote, for instance. You told me about your brother and his wife and about your counselor, Roger Lennard.�

�Poor Roger is dead.�

�Yes.�

�I mustn�t think about that now. I�m supposed to be happy. It�s my wedding day.�

�No, it isn�t, Cleo. There�s no one on board qualified to perform the ceremony and you don�t have the necessary blood tests or license. And even if you had all these things, the marriage wouldn�t be legal anyway because you and Ted are related.�

�I won�t listen to you,� she said. �I think you�re a nasty man.�

Donny came back with Ted. Ted�s hands were free and he was rubbing his wrists where the nylon laces had bitten into his skin. He looked angry and confused and he�d wet his pants.

�What�s happening around here? I wake up and my hands are tied. My hands are tied, for chrissake. What for? I thought we were having a party.�

�That party�s over,� Donny said. �We�re about to start another one. Cleo has decided she wants to get married, and since she�s a little short of bridegrooms since Roger died, she picked you.�

�Me? For chrissake, why would she pick me?�

�Because she says you�re the father of her baby.�

�That�s impossible. There isn�t any baby.�

�Oh, Ted, there is so,� Cleo said reproachfully. �It�s still very tiny, maybe like sort of a grain of sugar or a grape seed.�

�There isn�t any baby, dammit. We had only started to make love when my father barged in. I didn�t even penetrate. You�re still a virgin.�

�Ted, you know that�s not true. We were doing it exactly like in the movies, no clothes and everything. So now we have to get married.�

Ted appealed to Aragon. �Whoever you are, they�re both crazy. We have to get out of here.�

�Stay cool, and play along,� Aragon said quietly. �That�s our only chance.�

�Why should I marry some half-wit because she thinks she�s pregnant? Whatever happened � and God knows it wasn�t much � happened just a few days ago. I tell you, she�s still a virgin. And even if she weren�t she�d have no way of knowing so soon that she was pregnant.�

Cleo was crying again. She cried as easily as a plastic doll with a water-filled syringe in her head. �He doesn�t want to marry me, Donny. What should I do now?�

�Ask him again, real sweet and polite.�

�Nobody wants to marry me.�

�Maybe he�ll change his mind.� Donny pointed the Luger directly at Ted�s chest. �Go on, ask him again, Cleo.�

�Ted, will you marry me?�

�No. Get it through your thick head, we didn�t have complete intercourse. You are not pregnant. You�re still a virgin.�

�But we had all our clothes off and everything exactly like the movies.�

�You�re crazy,� Ted screamed. �The whole damn bunch of you are crazy.�

The first bullet from the Luger grazed his right shoulder. He turned and ran toward the railing. As he jumped overboard a second bullet struck him on the left arm.

Two more struck the water at the same time that Ted did. Cleo began screaming with excitement and jumping up and down until she tripped on the hem of the white nightgown that was her bridal costume. The .22 fell out of her hand and slid across the deck in Aragon�s direction.

�Don�t move,� Donny told Aragon. �It�s a bad year for heroes.� And to Ocho, who was turning the boat around and heading back toward Ted, �Keep on course. Let the bastard drown.�

�Throw him a life jacket,� Aragon said.

�Why? A dip in the ocean will cool him off. Maybe he�ll have a change of heart and decide Cleo isn�t so bad after all.�

�He might be seriously injured. And if there are any sharks in the area, the blood will attract them.�

�I bet those sharks would be pleasantly surprised to find two guys instead of one,� Donny said. �Suppose you go in after him, amigo.�

�We�re at least a mile from shore. I can�t swim very well.�

�Learn by experience. That�s what they�re always telling us at school � learn by experience.�

�Give us a sporting chance,� Aragon said. �We need two life jackets.�

Donny took two life jackets from a forward hatch and threw them at Aragon. After removing his shoes and pants Aragon put one of the life jackets on over his shirt. Then, holding the other jacket in his hand, he jumped into the water.

Ted was some hundred yards from the boat, not yelling for help or trying to swim. His eyes were closed and Aragon thought he was unconscious until he saw that Ted�s legs were moving slightly to keep him from rolling over on his stomach.

The water temperature at this distance from shore and beyond the thick kelp beds that paralleled the coast was still well below sixty degrees. This might be low enough to slow the bleeding of Ted�s arm and help numb his pain. But it might also be low enough to cause both men to suffer from exposure unless they were picked up within an hour or so. Even without the complication of Ted�s wounds, hypothermia could be fatal without quick treatment.

The Spindrift was turning away, its engine accelerating as it headed southwest. Watching it pull away, Aragon had a moment of panic. He knew he would be unable to drag Ted over the kelp beds and in to shore, and their only hope was to be spotted by a passing boat or one of the low-flying helicopters that serviced the oil platforms.

Both were possible. The sea was calm, with a long smooth swell and no whitecaps to hide any floating object.

This was Aragon�s first attempt to swim while wearing a life jacket and he found it difficult to move his arms. He rolled over on his back and used his legs as propellants.

He shouted, �Ted, can you hear me?�

Ted opened his eyes. He looked dazed and terrified. �Shot me � arm��

�I want you to help me get this life jacket on you.�

Ted kept saying, �Shot me � shot me�� as if he was more overcome by surprise than by a sense of danger or by pain.

�Put your injured arm through here first. Then I�ll pull the jacket around your back and get the other arm through. It may hurt but it has to be done.�

�Shot me � shot me��

�Stop that. You have to cooperate. Understand?�

It took several minutes for the life jacket to be put on and fastened. Ted was gradually becoming more rational and more aware of the danger they were in. He asked about the Spindrift.

�It�s gone,� Aragon said. �Move your right arm and your legs as much as possible to keep your blood circulating.�

�Didn�t know � had any left.�

�You have lots left.� He wasn�t sure whether this was true or even whether he�d given the correct advice to Ted to keep moving. He only knew that the water was incredibly cold. His original estimate of being able to survive an hour or two without much damage now seemed ridiculous. He was already numb below the ankles and suffering from what was called in his boyhood an ice-cream headache. He�d never taken a lifesaving course or even one in first aid, and he wished now he had paid more attention to some of his wife�s lectures on practical medicine.

Ted said, �You shot?�

�No.�

��What are you doing here?�

�I wanted to cool off.�

�You got it.�

A great blue heron flew overhead, his neck folded, his long legs stretched out stiffly behind him like a defeathered tail.

Ted had closed his eyes again and the wind was picking up. These were both bad omens. The rougher the sea, the more difficult it would be for anyone to spot them, and the greater the chances of Ted choking on salt water.

�Ted, keep moving.�

�Can�t � tired.�

�A boat will come along any minute.�

�Tired. Leave me alone.�

Ted�s youth was a plus factor. But there were too many minuses. Before he was shot he�d spoken of a party on board, and it was obvious then that he was suffering a hangover from alcohol or drugs or both. Also, he probably hadn�t eaten in many hours and his resistance was lowered.

�A boat will come along any minute,� Aragon repeated. �We�ll be rescued. Do you hear me, Ted?�

If Ted heard, he didn�t believe it or didn�t care enough to open his eyes.

�Are you listening, Ted? By this time Whitfield will have gone back to the harbor and found his boat missing. He�ll send the Coast Guard out after it right away. They should be passing us any minute. Hear that, Ted? Any minute. Hang on. Don�t give up, Ted. Move. Try harder. Move.�

He kept saying the same things over and over like a coach pep-talking one of his players during a game.

The wind was still rising, and now and then his voice was choked off as a wave slapped his face. The increase in wind velocity would have the effect of luring the Lasers and Mercuries and Lidos and Victories, the Hobie Cats and Alpha Cats and Nacras. But these smaller craft usually stayed inside the kelp line. The larger craft, like the fishing fleet, had departed much earlier in the day, going out under power, some as far as the Island twenty-five miles offshore, to return in the afternoon under sail.

Aragon continued talking, using both his hands to hold Ted�s head as far out of the water as possible. The numbness had spread through his whole body and he was feeling hardly any discomfort. He remembered reading that people who froze to death didn�t suffer pain the way people did who burned to death.

He heard his own voice coaxing, ordering, questioning, demanding, and he wondered if it was all being wasted on a dead man.

�Cut it out, Ted. Now open your eyes. You�ve got to cooperate. Get in there and pitch. Keep kicking your legs. We�re going to be rescued. Any minute. Any minute. You hear? Open your eyes, dammit, open your eyes.�

But his voice was getting weaker and the numbness seemed to have reached his brain like a dose of Pentothal. When he finally heard the engine he was only mildly interested, and the men yelling at him seemed to be making a fuss over nothing. One of them had orange hair and looked a little like some woman, someone he�d known a long time ago. A long long time ago...