Absolute rage

9

"I was just trying to get you, " said Karp. "Your cell phone doesn't work?"

"This is West Virginia, the Mountain State," said his wife. "Here in Robbens County we have no TV except satellite and no cell phones."

"It sounds like my kind of place."

"No bagels, however, and I looked."

"They barely have bagels in New York anymore. How are you?"

"Not bad. The case is going well, but somebody just tried to kill me. That's why I called."

A silence. "How serious was it? You're not hurt?"

"Shaken up. They tried to run us into a phone pole on the road. I was with Poole, the local defense counsel."

"Maybe it's time to come home."

"Oh, it's just starting to be fun," she said lightly, knowing the tone would irritate him. It was a little game they played, had played for years. In philosophical moments she wondered why they didn't get beyond it, or if it was permanently fixed in the structure of their marriage, like a trilobite in chert. He said nothing, so she continued, "But why I called is, I was wondering if you got any information from Sterner. Whether the feds are going to move on the murder."

"They may, but the state is in it for sure. The governor would very much like to preempt federal involvement, in fact. They're appointing a special prosecutor with full powers, bringing in state cops. The governor's more or less decided to clean up Robbens County."

"That's a change. Any idea why?"

"It's time, I guess. The global village. People are starting to get more sensitive to killing and corruption, even in the backwaters. They want wild and wonderful West Virginia to be a little less wild and a little more wonderful."

"I'm impressed," she said. "Have they picked the guy yet? Or girl?"

"Not officially," replied Karp after the briefest pause. "The governor wants to examine the cut of his jib, but for all practical purposes, according to Saul, it's a done deal."

"Do you know who it's going to be?"

"Yes." Two beats. "Me."

"No, I mean really."

"Really," said Karp, aware of a rush of faintly sadistic pleasure. She was always pulling sneaky surprises on him, and this was a delicious turnabout. "I'm flying down to Charleston tomorrow. They're actually sending the state plane to pick me up at Teterboro."

An even longer silence. "Marlene?"

"I'm gaping. Wait a minute-you're leaving your job? What about the kids?"

"I'm not leaving my job. Jack was more than happy to lend me. The crocodile tears were falling so fast he had to wring out his tie. And Lucy can handle the twins until you get back there."

"Who says I'm going back?"

"Well, if I'm in charge of the prosecution, it's clearly impossible for you to be associated with the defense."

"Yeah, but the guy I'm defending isn't the guy. The case against him is a joke."

"If that's true, we'll obviously quash the indictment. And then you can go home."

"Home?" She said it like a foreigner trying an unfamiliar word.

"Yes, home. You know, among your pet children, your beloved dogs, the familiar felons. You can do the laundry, cook nutritious meals, and in the evenings embroider by the fire."

"You're loving this, aren't you?"

"Since you ask…"

"Rat! When is this all scheduled to happen?"

"Oh, you know, it's state bureaucracy, so figure weeks, not days. Will you promise not to get killed until I rescue you?"

"You know me, dear. It'll take more than a bunch of hillbillies to do me in. As a matter of fact, I might have this whole thing wrapped up by the time you get here."

Karp's tone changed. "No, be serious! There's no reason to poke into anything anymore until I get down there with the cavalry. Besides, you could screw up something." Oh, God, that was a mistake, thought Karp, the instant the words had passed his lips.

"Oh, well, I'll certainly try not to screw things up for you, dear. But I don't know, I'm such a total klutz, when it comes to legal procedure and all the other boy things. I swear, I don't know how you men keep all that stuff in your heads."

"I didn't mean it that way, Marlene, and you know it. You're just spoiling for a fight because you're miffed because you're going to have to give control of this thing over to me, which as you know has absolutely nothing to do with any assessment of your abilities. I'm sorry I said you might screw things up. I'm sure everything you've done down there has been in accord with the highest standards of legal procedure."

"Oh, I hate it when you try to wriggle out of it, when for once your true thoughts manage to slip out from under all the hypocrisy. Why don't you admit it? You really want a little wifey safe at home."

"Marlene, that is such total bullshit! I can't stand that whenever you're pissed at me, you trot out this absurd feminist cant. How long have we been married? In all that time, have I ever once-"

"Innumerable times. You really do want me to do embroidery."

"It would be a strange choice if I did," Karp snarled. "As far as I know, the only thing you've ever embroidered is the truth."

They went back and forth like this for a couple of more increasingly nasty rounds until Marlene hung up, leaving both parties feeling stupid, guilty, and irritable. Every long-married couple has a tape like this-some have whole racks of them-and they are wise who avoid pushing the Play button. Marlene knew she was a sneak who cut corners, when not actually committing crimes, but she wanted her husband to treat her like a model of legal prudence. Karp had spent nearly twenty years waiting for a call from some police agency telling him that his wife was either dead or under arrest for a violent felony. Most of the time he suppressed the anguish this caused him but occasionally it popped out, as now. The root of the pain was that each deeply loved the other, but wished the other different in this small way: why the divorce courts hum as they do.

"Bad news?" said Poole. He had heard the yelling from the porch. She glared at him and slammed a wedge of chopped chuck into a bowl hard enough to stun it.

"I see you've found the bourbon," she said, eyeing his highball.

"Yeah, I'm good at that. Trouble at home?"

"No. My husband has informed me that your governor is appointing a special prosecutor on the Heeney case and he's it."

A half smile appeared on Poole's face. "You're kidding, right?"

"No, I'm not."

"He's a prosecutor?"

"Yes. A big-time labor lawyer named Sterner arranged the whole thing."

Poole took a long swallow. "Well, I'll be damned! This'll be something to see. A hotshot New York prosecutor come to straighten out the hicks. He any good?"

"A lot of people think he's the best."

"I hope he's bulletproof, too."

"Don't be stupid, Poole. Nobody's going to do any more shooting. There's no way this arrangement you've got down here is going to stand up to serious public scrutiny. He'll find the idiots who did the crime, try them, convict them, and put them in jail for life. End of story."

"Maybe. But I'll tell you one thing, city girl. They brought the United States Army up here in '21. Fought them a little guerilla war up in the hollers, and it was a toss-up who won it. The folks up in Mingo and Logan laid down their arms when the troops showed up, but not here. Lot of people around here aren't too happy with the U.S. government."

"You mean like militias?"

"No, I mean families. They don't like people in fancy suits telling them what to do. They don't like the liquor laws, or the tax laws, or the drug laws. A lot of them got their own religion, too. They've been that way since 1790 or thereabouts. They'll take money from the coal company when it pleases them, and from the union, too, but mainly they do what they like. You'll see."

"Yes, we will," snapped Marlene. "Now, unless you want to help, scram out of here while I fix this goddamn cookout."

She fixed, Poole drank. It was not a fun affair. Marlene was grumpy, Poole drank and talked. Of the two sorts of drunk, he was the garrulous kind. Dan sulked. Emmett made sarcastic comments about Poole's stories. Emmett's girlfriend, Kathy, a small blond who might have been cloned from Rose Heeney, started using let's-split body language fairly early in the evening. Around nine, Emmett said they were going to go back to Kathy's to watch Gladiator on satellite, and they left.

"Young squirts don't know how to party," said Poole after they had gone, and launched into a rambling story about a memorable spree. He kept stopping and asking Marlene if she remembered old Joe Whitman and what he'd done with the cake some woman had made for some church supper, as if she were one of the old McCullensburg gang of his youth. She gave short answers, or none, but the odd thing was that she didn't think he was drinking that much, not enough for this kind of behavior. It was as if he was trying to live up to his reputation as a hopeless, drunken bore, while not really believing in it. He avoided her eye.

After several increasingly broader hints, Marlene decided to ignore him and tried not to think about what she was like when drunk, and whether she was even now on the first steps of the slope that led to this sort of display. She was clearing the picnic table using the kind of hyper-efficient and semiviolent motions women apply to household tasks when they are angry. Crash, clang. Dan hung around dutifully, trying to help, getting in the way. She was short with him, too, and finally he vanished into his room. She felt a pang of guilt and ruthlessly suppressed it. What was she feeling guilty about? She was doing them a favor! She had abandoned her family, and her business, and come here to this shitty little town, to get a half-wit out of trouble and hand the bad guys their lumps, only now it was her husband who was going to do that, so she was not only stupid but useless as well. Poole was still out in the yard talking away to the crescent moon. And nursemaiding a pathetic drunk, too, another thing she really enjoyed doing. She eyed the bottle of jug wine she had bought earlier, grabbed it, poured a juice glass full, stared at it, felt a tumult of revulsion in her gut, threw it splashing into the sink. No, coffee was the thing now, sober the both of them up and drag Poole back to his house; yes, cut off his booze and fill him with black coffee, a little sadism-stuffed virtue here, and why not? She loaded the coffeemaker, then the dishwasher, the latter with such enthusiasm that she smashed a large majolica serving dish.

Cursing, she swept up the pieces of bright pottery. You didn't get plates like this at the Bi-Lo in town, or at Wal-Mart, she could not help noticing. It was, or had been, a lovely moss green with flowers painted on it in shades of rust, tan, and yellow. Rose Heeney had selected it in some New York boutique, a bit of her native heath brought into exile. Marlene found herself sitting on a hard chair, crying bitterly into a dishtowel, and not just for Rose Heeney, either.

Then the dog growled. Marlene wiped her face and sprang to her feet, for it was that kind of growl.

Gog had been hanging around the kitchen, hoping she would allow him to preclean the dishes. Now he was standing stiffly, nosing the back door, the hair on his back bristling, making his bad-muffler noise. Marlene snapped the kitchen light off and looked through the back-door window. The floodlights illuminated a rough oval twenty yards out from the house; beyond that, the rural night hung like black drapes.

Marlene tapped on the door of Dan's bedroom and went in. He was lying on his bed with a set of headphones on, reading. He took the phones off and looked at her inquiringly.

"Turn off your light. Gog thinks we have company."

He sat up instantly and snapped off the lamp. "What should we do?"

"I need a big flashlight, if you have one, and your pistol."

He stalled for a moment, his eyes confused, but then leaped from the bed. A moment later she had Red Heeney's.38 Smith and a boxy camping flashlight in hand. She switched it on briefly to check the beam, then led him to the back door. They could hear Poole mumbling to no one by the picnic table.

"Stay by the light switch, watch me, and flick it off when I signal. I'll be outside in the shadow of the stairs."

"Shouldn't we call the police?"

"Yeah, that's a good idea," she said carelessly, "but watch my hand and stay by the switch." As he dialed the kitchen cordless, she went outside with the dog and crouched on the storm door lying by the stairs. The dog was whining and panting eagerly.

A few minutes later, she saw two figures, one large, one smaller, pause on the edge of the lit area. They seemed to converse for a moment, and then they started toward the house, running in a ridiculous crouch, as if that would make them less visible against the floodlit lawn. The bigger one carried a shotgun. They were both wearing ball caps, but as they looked around, she could catch glimpses of their faces. The bigger one had a stupid, brutal look, like a child's sketch of the bogeyman: lantern jaw, shadowed with beard, a floppy mouth, a shapeless nose. The smaller was good-looking in a weedy country-boy way, the sort of look that had made the fortunes of Elvis and James Dean. Their eyes were hidden in the shadows cast by their cap bills.

When they had crossed half the yard, she raised her hand and brought it sharply down. The lights went off. "Get 'em, Gog!" she cried. The dog vanished into the blackness and she followed at a trot. She heard a cry and then a boom as the shotgun discharged. She stopped and turned the flashlight on.

Gog had the big man down, with his jaws clamped around the man's throat. James Dean was crouched, blinking, and waving a large silvery revolver around. Marlene put the beam on his face and said, "If you don't drop that pistol, son, I'm going to shoot you." She held her weapon in the light beam so he could see it. He hesitated. Marlene snapped an order to her dog. The man on the ground wailed and made interesting noises indicating a deficiency of breath. She said, "I could have the dog take his windpipe right out of his neck, and I will, if you don't drop the gun. Now drop it!"

After one longing glance over his shoulder, he did. She made him lie down and called the dog off the other man, who sat up rubbing his throat, which oozed blood. Marlene tossed the shotgun away as far as she could, picked up the dropped pistol, and called out, "Dan! Hit the lights!"

The lights came on and Dan walked over.

"You know these guys?"

"Yeah," Dan said. "That's Earl Cade and his brother Bo."

"Earl and Bo Cade, huh?" said Marlene. "So what were the Cade boys doing sneaking up on this house late at night, armed to the teeth? Hmm?"

"We warn't sneakin'," said Bo. "We was huntin'."

"Yeah," said Earl, "we was huntin', and you had no call to set that damn dog on us."

"What were you hunting for?" Marlene asked.

They looked at one another briefly. "Coon," said Bo.

"Yeah, that's right. Coon," said Earl.

"Gosh, I thought you needed dogs to hunt coon," she observed.

A look of confusion came over Earl's face, but Bo spoke up. "Shows you don't know much about huntin'."

"Well, maybe not," agreed Marlene. "We'll let the police sort it out. By the way, you guys murdered the Heeney family, didn't you? And you tried to run me off the road today."

She was watching Earl's face as she said this, looking straight at his eyes. These were very pale blue and practically vibrated with the effort to keep meeting her eyes, which she knew was a habit particularly stupid criminals adopted to fake sincerity.

"No, we didn't," he said.

"Mose Welch killed them folks," said Bo. She examined him, too. Same eyes, but a more skillful liar. Get them isolated from one another, and a halfway decent interrogator would have the whole story out of them in half an hour. She reached out her foot and tapped the sole of Bo's boot. There were old OD combat boots, cracked and stained. "They caught him wearing your new boots. It must've hurt to toss them away like that. You should've worn those old ones to the murder."

"I didn't kill nobody," he said. "And I ain't got any new boots to throw away."

A car sounded on gravel and red lights flashed against the foliage. Shortly there appeared a stout police officer in a tan uniform with a big American flag sewn to the left shoulder. He had a slack pie face and a boozer's lump of a nose, and his eyes looked squashed, as if he had just been awakened from a long sleep. The steel name tag on his breast identified him as Omar Petrie.

"What all's the problem here?" he asked, taking in the peculiar scene.

Dan said, "I made the call. We caught these guys sneaking up to the house with weapons."

Bo Cade said vehemently, "Damn it, Omar, we wasn't sneakin'. We was huntin' and she set that dog on us. It just about ripped Earl's throat right out."

At this, Earl started to get to his feet, the better to argue, but Gog barked at him and showed his impressive fangs.

"See! See!" Earl shouted, scooting away. "That's a bad dog, Omar. You ought to shoot him right now."

Marlene moved to put herself between the cop and the dog. "Officer, that is a highly trained guard dog and it's under my complete control." She lowered the timbre of her voice and ordered, "Gog! Off! Down! Stay!"

The dog seemed to forget about Earl Cade. He walked over to Marlene and dropped to his belly with an audible thump.

"See?" said Marlene. "He's perfectly safe."

"Who're you?" the cop demanded. He still had his hand on the butt of his pistol.

Marlene introduced herself. "I'm a guest here and doing some legal work for the Heeney family. The dog warned us and we saw these two sneaking up to the house. Sneaking is definitely the correct word. Three people were murdered in that house a little while ago and we thought we should take precautions. It could've been the murderers coming back."

Bo said, "Aw, shit, Omar, you know us! We ain't no murderers. Besides, they got the fella did it, that dumpy Mose Welch. We's just walking across the yard here and she attacked us. You ought to arrest her."

Marlene saw Petrie's eyes darting back and forth from the Cades to her. This is not going as it should, she thought.

The cop cleared his throat heavily and spat on the ground. "Well, what I see is one man chewed up by this dog and you got all the guns. Why don't you give them here for a start."

Marlene turned over the two pistols and Petrie stowed them in his capacious uniform pockets. Turning to the Cades, he said, "Boys, whyn't you all run along now. It's late."

Earl said, "What about my neck? That dog chewed the shit out of me. You just gonna let her get away with that?"

Petrie considered this. "You making a complaint here, Earl?"

"Damn right I am. And I'm gonna sue that bitch's ass for everything she got."

The cop nodded wisely. To Marlene he said, "I got to take your animal with me. Go put it on a chain."

"You are not taking that animal," said Marlene in an outraged tone. "That dog did nothing wrong. He knocked down and secured an armed trespasser as he's trained to do."

Petrie hitched up his gun belt and gave Marlene a cop stare. "You better do like I said, ma'am, or you're gonna be in trouble."

"I can't believe this!" cried Marlene. "You're arresting my dog for defending private property? Why don't you arrest me, too?"

"I will, if you don't get the dog into my car trunk right now."

"Oh, go fuck yourself!" she snarled, and turned to walk away.

Petrie reached out and grabbed her arm, hard, and jerked her back. This attracted the interest of the dog. Normally, he would not have broken stay for a major earthquake, but this was a special circumstance, the exception to the rule. He sprang up, barked, growled, and menaced. Petrie let go of Marlene, stumbled back a few steps, and unsnapped his holster strap. Marlene yelled, "Gog, hide!"

The dog whirled and ran. Petrie drew his pistol and took aim at the fleeing animal. Marlene flung herself on his gun arm. He grabbed her hair and yanked.

"Omar Petrie," boomed a big voice. "Let that woman go! She's not one of your roadhouse whores."

It was Poole, apparently cold sober and transformed. Petrie goggled and released Marlene's hair. She let go of his arm and stepped back. Poole walked up to the cop and laid an arm on his shoulder. "Omar, damnit, it's a good thing I was here. You almost made the mistake of your life."

"Where'n hell did you come from, Ernie?" asked the cop.

"I was in the kitchen pouring some coffee when this commotion started. I saw the whole thing through that window. These young Cades apparently got lost during one of their famous midnight expeditions. Ms. Ciampi here observed that old Earl was carrying a shotgun, and since she knew that two people in this very house had been killed with a shotgun, she was naturally on her guard. Now"-Poole lifted the flat of his hand to stall Petrie's objection-"as to the dog: Do you know what kind of dog that is? No, you don't. That is not just some yard mutt you can shoot because you're feeling a little cranky. That is a rare prize animal, Omar. That is a ten -thousand- dollar animal. Well, you shoot a ten-thousand-dollar animal that's just doing what it's told, apprehending prowlers on private property in the hours of the night, in the presence of a sworn officer of the court, which is me, Omar, then I think you're looking at a world of trouble. I'm talking lawsuits, here, big ones. The town ain't going to pay for no ten-thousand-dollar dog, and Sheriff Swett sure ain't, and who does that leave, hm? You want to set down and figure how long it's going to take to make that sum up, plus court costs and punitive damages, out of what you take off those girls down by Amos's out on Route 36? Why, some of those girls'll be grandmas before you paid it off."

Petrie was staring at him, as if at an apparition, Marlene noticed, and Dan and the two Cades were staring likewise. Poole clapped his hands briskly. "Well! Let's see now. This looks to me like a little misunderstanding. Miss Ciampi here's from away, so she might not comprehend our local mores and customs. No harm's done, except to Mr. Cade's neck, and a couple of Band-Aids'll put that right. A little disinfectant, too, if you got it. In fact, I believe, Omar, that the wisest thing you could do right now is to get back in your patrol car and drive away. Given the situation, I don't think Sheriff Swett would appreciate having legal attention being drawn to this particular house and family, if you catch my drift. What I mean is, this could be worse than what happened with Commissioner Jakes. Situation like this, the best thing to do is not to do anything." Turning to the Cades, he added, "Boys, why don't you just wander back where you come from. This business is all over."

At this Bo Cade immediately started off, but his brother rose and stood there like a dead tree. "What about my shotgun?"

Bo ran back and grabbed Earl's arm. "Goddamn it! There wasn't no shotgun, you idiot. Come along!"

But Earl jerked his arm away, roared out a curse, and flung a roundhouse blow at his brother's head, which was ducked. Bo kicked him in the shin. Earl shouted threats of murder and ran at him, Bo took off like a hare, and they both disappeared into the darkness, yelling curses at one another. Officer Petrie holstered his sidearm, adjusted his uniform, and gave everyone a look of malevolent stupidity. Without another word he strode off. They heard his engine start and then the rattle of gravel as he sped away.

Marlene said, "That was extremely impressive, Poole. Thank you. I guess there's still a little cherry vanilla left in the bottom of the carton."

"Thank you," said Poole. "I must be becoming a functional drunk. Or maybe it's that shotgun blasts at night tend to sober me up."

"But… they just walked away," Dan complained. "They snuck in here with guns and they just walked away."

"Yeah, well, I guess we could file a complaint for trespass," said Poole, "but you know Judge Murdoch would dismiss it in two shakes."

The phone rang in the house.

"Who's calling this late?" asked Dan.

"If you go answer it, you'll find out," said Marlene. Dan went into the house.

"We should pick up that shotgun," said Marlene. She used the flashlight to look in the tall grass at the edge of the yard and came back with the gun broken over one arm.

"A Remington twelve, fairly new. Do you think we're looking at the actual murder weapon?"

"Possibly," said Poole. "Although there are any number of murderous Cades and they all own shotguns. And every other kind of gun. I assume that pistol…"

"A.357 Ruger. Lizzie was killed with a.38 slug. I suppose it could've come from a.357. I take it that Officer Petrie will not put two and two together and submit the weapon for ballistic testing."

"You would assume correctly," said Poole. "In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if that gun found its way back to the owner before long." He looked away from her and up at the sky. "I can't stand these lights. It's like a prison yard. There's something shitty about having to put in security lights in a place like this. You can't see the stars."

"Are you a stargazer, Poole?"

"Yes. The sole advantage of getting drunk in rural surroundings is that you get to spend a lot of time lying on your back and watching the galaxies whirl around. You can tell yourself that you're small and meaningless and futile, which gives you an excuse for another snort. Not that you need an excuse."

Marlene went to the back door and snapped off the floods. Dan was on a stool with the phone clutched to his ear; she didn't disturb him but returned to the yard, where she found that Poole had settled himself in an aluminum lounge chair, staring at the heavens. The sky was still overcast, but the cloud cover was scudding, making holes for starshine. Marlene whistled up her dog, who arrived bounding, to be hugged and made much of.

"You should give a nice lick to Mr. Poole, Gog," she cooed. "He saved your bacon, didn't he? Yes, he did! He said you were worth ten thousand dollars. And you are, and more. Go ahead, give him a big kiss."

The dog licked Marlene instead, kissing on demand not being part of his extensive repertoire, and settled heavily under the hammock where his mistress now reclined.

Poole said, "Speaking of which, I expect that this evening's events have pressed home to you exactly what we're up against here with respect to our so-called justice system."

"Old Omar is bent, you mean."

"No, it goes far beyond that. Bent is a useful descriptor only when you have the idea of the straight. But there is no such idea hereabouts. You need to think about a little banana republic set among these misty peaks, except instead of bananas it's coal, and instead of United Fruit, it's the Majestic Coal Company."

"I know that's what you think, but I still can't understand why the state would allow it. Or the feds. I mean, we had that kind of thing in the South, and it got cleaned up twenty years ago, and the same with the bigcity machines and the Mob."

"Yes, but the critical thing there were complaints; people bitched about it, the press was involved. You know the old joke about the kid who didn't talk and his parents took him to all kinds of specialists, and no one could cure him, and one day, the kid is about ten and he pushes his plate away and says, 'I hate spinach.' And his parents get all excited. 'You can talk! You can talk! Why didn't you say anything until now?' and the kid goes, 'Everything was okay until the spinach.' It's like that. The level of expectation is so low, and the level of terror is so high, that there are no complaints. Until Red Heeney, and you saw what happened to him. The first plate of spinach, though. Now you arrive and dragoon me into it, and soon your hubby will come with the full power of the state. It'll be interesting. I may even stay sober occasionally to observe the high jinks."

"You have no great hopes, I take it."

"Oh, I think we'll get the boys who did it, the actual gunmen. As you saw tonight, we're not dealing with criminal masterminds. Probably half the people in the county know who pulled the triggers or know someone who knows. They'll toss them in the pokey, and the next squad of villains will appear ready for action. There's a never-ending supply, like cans in a soda machine. The Cades alone must have a dozen or so fellows like young Earl, shambling horrors with their eyes too close together who like to hurt people. The system, though, our way of life-changing that is another kettle of fish. It's like the transition from a society that's essentially barbaric, and based on fear and force, to a civil society based on laws and rights. It usually takes a century or so, and even then it's fragile, as the recent century has so hideously demonstrated."

"Well, I can appreciate that," said Marlene. "I'm a kind of feudal person myself. Odd for a lawyer, but there it is. Dieu et mon droit, et cetera, and Sicilian plots and revenges."

Poole turned his head to look at her. "Are you? And your husband, is he feudal, too?"

"No, he's extremely rabbinical when it comes to justice. Never ever personal, which is why he's so good at what he does. The methodical, perfectionist approach. I tend to drive him crazy."

"That sounds dull for you."

"Mm. But sometimes I crave dullness. It's like roughage in the diet, bran flakes, no fun but necessary for the organism. There's such a thing as excessively interesting."

"What would be interesting is if you rolled over here and gave me a big kiss," said Poole.

"Is that in the nature of a proposition, counselor?"

"It is. Or maybe more in the nature of tapping on the gauges to see if there's steam. I can't remember the last time I was (a) alone with a desirable woman on a soft summer's night, and (b) conscious. It gives me goose pimples."

"I'm sorry I can't help you there, Poole, although I confess to feeling flattered, slut that I am. And also let me say that while I have come real close in twenty-odd years of marriage, I have not yet slipped over the edge into infidelity."

"That's hard to believe. And you from the evil big city, too."

"It's hard for me to believe. And it looks like I will slide gracefully into the unattractive years with my honor intact. Maybe that's the upside of being a medieval-type person."

"Honor," Poole echoed, his voice sad and hollow. He lay back on the lounge and stared upward. "There's the Summer Triangle. Altair, Vega, and Deneb. Since you're not going to slake my lust, why don't you fix me a little drink."

"I think it's coffee time," said Marlene as she rolled out of the hammock. "By the way, who's Commissioner Jakes?"

"Duane P. Jakes. One of our fine county commissioners of a few years back. He had this thing about the space program. He thought it was making holes in the sky and changing the weather. Well, no harm in that. Duane was about average among our county fathers with respect to smarts, but the problem was he conceived the notion that the daily prop flight from Charleston to Knoxville was sent by NASA to spy on him. I mean, it stood to reason-the thing flew over his spread every day at about the same time, just when he was out feeding his hogs. So he started shooting at it with his rifle. The amazing thing is he actually hit it, so Omar and another deputy paid him a visit to get him to cut it out. Basically, it was a case of taking a rifle away from a loony old man, but Omar aggravated it into a real shoot-out. The deputy got shot, Duane got shot, and the town came in for the kind of publicity it would rather not have. I thought it wise to mention it in the present situation."

"It was, too." She leaned over and kissed him on the forehead before she left.

Dan was still on the phone when she walked in, and laughing. This was unusual enough to make her stop and stare. He saw this and brought himself under control.

"Here's your mom." He handed Marlene the phone. "It's Lucy." He vanished.

"I didn't know you were such a comedian," Marlene said.

"We were doing accents of weird people we know in Cambridge," said her daughter.

"For this you called in the middle of the night? Is anything wrong?"

"No, everything's dandy. We sold all the pups, and I got the Toyota running. Why I called is, I want to go on a road trip with the boys."

"To where?"

"Oh, I don't know, just around. I thought I'd take them on the car ferry to Bridgeport and see Tran and then maybe up to Boston, take them to the Children's Museum and Science Museum. I have a couple of things to do there anyway."

"How long would you be gone?"

"Oh, three, four days. They're antsy and it would do them good."

"And you love to drive."

"That, too. The car runs great. With the new tires it came in under a grand. I charged it to the farm."

"No problem. But, Lucy? When you get to driving, make sure your wheels don't turn southward. I don't want you and the boys down here. The situation is still too fluid. Did Dan tell you what went down just now?"

"Yeah. It sounds like something out of Deliverance. Do you think they'll try again?"

"Not in the same way. They're stupid, but not that stupid. You know your father is going to be playing Mighty Mouse in this cartoon?"

"Yeah, he told me. Are you going to come back when he gets there?"

"I don't know," said Marlene a little sharply. "It depends on the situation. Look, call me from Tran's or Boston or if you have any problems. Keep in touch. Meanwhile I have to go. I have to drive this guy back to his place."

"Okay, take care, Mom, and could you put Dan back on the phone?"

"Planning the wedding? I'd like to be involved."

"Mo-m."

"Okay, okay, here he is."

He had been hovering, and when Marlene handed him the cordless, he took it back to his bedroom. No, I will not hang around and listen in, she thought virtuously, and went off to pour the coffee.

"So," Dan said, "you checked in. Everything is approved?"

"Oh, yeah. I get a pretty loose rein. From her. My dad worries a lot more."

"Strange. It's funny. Mom always drummed it into us to let them know our plans, like if we weren't coming home for supper, or staying over. The other day, I drove out to Huntington to see a guy I went to school with and they asked me to stay for dinner and I said sure, let me call and tell them I won't be home. I had the phone in my hand, dialing."

Lucy had nothing to say to this that she thought would be tolerated by the other, so she stayed mum. He went on, "Could I ask you something dumb?"

"Sure. I'm an expert on dumb."

"Do you, um, believe in ghosts?"

"No."

"No? Why not? You believe in all that other supernatural cr-stuff."

"Because the spirits of the dead leave this world and other stuff happens to them. Also, it's insulting for you to imagine that, because I'm religious, I'm generally credulous or superstitious. It's like thinking that rocket scientists ought to believe in flying saucers."

"I didn't mean that," he said quickly, with genuine contrition. "Sorry, really I didn't mean… it's just… I mean weird stuff has been happening. Like calling home. I have this feeling that I'll call and Mom will pick up. It sends chills down my spine. But, okay, night before last, it's late, I'm reading in bed, totally absorbed, and all of a sudden I felt this weird feeling, like being light-headed, like when you stand up too fast? And I just knew that Lizzie was in the room with me. She used to like to be with me while I worked, or read. She had some games she liked to play on my machine. And I knew that if I had turned around, she'd be there in her quilted bathrobe, sitting in my chair. I mean the sweat was popping out on my face. And just then the hard drive kicked in, and my heart practically stopped, it was like she was there playing a game. I was just getting ready to turn and look when it went away. I mean the feeling. God, I can't believe I'm telling this to anyone! Did you ever, ah, have one like that?"

"Oh, sure, all the time. That's not ghosts, though. It's what we call the communion of saints. It's part of the Apostles' Creed as a matter of fact. I used to have long conversations with St. Teresa of Avila."

"You're kidding."

"Uh-uh, no lie. Starting from when I was about eight. For a while, I thought everyone could. I could see her and hear her and smell her, even."

"What did she smell like?"

"Onions. And roses."

"You spoke to her in English?"

"Of course not. In sixteenth-century Castilian Spanish, lisping all over the place."

"Oh, right, you can do that whole language bit. So, what are you telling me. Lizzie is some kind of saint?"

"Not at all. We just think that there remains a connection open between people who have died and people who're still alive, and there's an unseen world that can touch us and that's just as real as the one we can see. It's pretty complex and we're not encouraged to speculate about it in detail, or to try to penetrate the barrier. But it happens, there's contact."

"You don't think it's simpler to call that kind of stuff hallucinations?"

"Yes, if your purpose is to defend simplistic materialism. But that's a choice; it can't be proven scientifically one way or the other."

"But Occam's razor-"

"Yes, yes," she said impatiently, "Occam's razor, don't multiply entities beyond necessity, but that leaves open the question of what's necessary. William of Occam was a medieval churchman. He probably thought belief in the real presence was necessary, and certainly that God was. The bottom line here is that you've had an experience. You can call it an hallucination, which means that you consider that your brain is a machine with a screw loose, and that your sister is essentially erased from being, or you can believe that she still has her being in a state unimaginably different, but still real, and that your experience was also real, as real as the bed you're lying on."

"How do you know I'm lying on a bed?" he asked.

"Projection. I'm lying on a bed, so…"

"Gee, we're in bed together already, and we've barely met."

To his relief, after a brief pause, she laughed. "Yes, I'm such a slut, but I can't seem to help it. Men with their insatiable demands are ever at my heels."

He laughed, too, and after a moment said, "So, will I ever see you again?"

"In real life? Yeah, we both go to school in Boston. We could probably arrange it."

"I mean before that."

"I'm working on it," she said.