Side Effects

Thursday 13 December

"Do you think God is a man or a woman, Daddy?"

Suzy Paquette sat cross-legged on the passenger seat of her father's new Mercedes 450 SL, parked by the pump at Bowen's Texaco. Behind the wheel, Arlen Paquette watched the mid-morning traffic glide by along Main Street, his thoughts neither on the traffic nor on the question he had just been asked. "Well, Daddy?"

"Well what, sugar? " The attendant rapped twice on the trunk that he was done. "Company account, Harley, " Paquette called out as he pulled away.

"Which is it, man or woman?"

"Which is what, darling'?"

"God! Daddy, you're not even listening to me at all." She was seven years old with sorrel hair pulled back in two ponytails and a China doll face that was, at that moment, trying to pout. Paquette swung into a space in front of Darlington Army/Navy and stopped. Never totally calm, he was, he knew, unusually tense and distracted this morning. Still, it was Second Thursday and that gave him the right to be inattentive or cross, as he had been earlier with his wife. He turned to his daughter.

She had mastered the expression she wanted and now sat pressed against the car door displaying it, her arms folded tightly across her chest. In that instant, Paquette knew that she was the most beautiful child on earth. He reached across and took her in his arms. The girl stiffened momentarily, then relaxed and returned the embrace. "I'm sorry, sugar,"

Paquette said. "I wasn't listening. I'm sorry and I love you and I think God is a woman if you're a woman and a man to someone who's a man and probably a puppy dog to the puppy dogs."

"I love you too, Daddy. And I still don't know why I should have to pray to Our Father when God might be Our Mother."

"You know, you're right. I think that from now on we should say… Our Buddy who art in Heaven."

"Oh, Daddy."

Paquette checked the time. "Listen, sugar, my meeting is in half an hour. I've got to get going. You be brave, now."

She flashed a heart-melting smile. "I don't have to be brave, Daddy.

It's only a cleaning."

"Well then, you be… clean. Mommy will be by in just a little while.

You wait if she's not here by the time you're done." He watched as she ran up the stairs next to the Army/Navy and waited until she waved to him from behind the picture window painted Dr. Richard Philips, DDS.

Then he eased the Mercedes away from the curb, and headed toward the south end of town and his eleven o'clock Second Thursday meeting with Cyrus Redding, president and chairman of the board of perhaps the largest pharmaceutical house in the world. The. meeting would start at exactly eleven and end at precisely ten minutes to noon. For seven years, as long as Paquette had been with the company, it had been like that, and like that it would remain as long as Cyrus Redding was alive and in charge. Nine o'clock, labor relations, ten o'clock, public relations, eleven, product safety, an hour and ten minutes for lunch, then research and development, sales and production, and finally from three to three-fifty, legislative liaison, department heads meeting with Cyrus Redding, one on one, the second Thursday of each month. The times and the order of Second Thursday were immutable. Vacations were to be worked around the day, illnesses to be treated and tolerated unless hospitalization was necessary. Even then, on more than one occasion, Redding had moved the meeting to a hospital room. Second Thursday, raises, new projects, criticisms, termination-all, whenever possible, on that day. The factory covered most of a thirty-acre site bordered to the south and west by pine-covered hills and to the east by Pinkham's Creek. Double fences, nine feet high with barbed wire outcroppings at the top, encircled the entire facility. The inner of the two barriers was electrified — stunning voltage during the day, lethal voltage at night and on weekends. The only approach, paralleling the new railbed from the north, was tree lined and immaculately maintained. Two hundred yards from the outer fence, a V in the roadway directed employees and shippers to the right and all others to the left. A rainbow

sign, spanning the approach at that point announced, REDDING PHARMACEUTICALS, INCORPORATED DARLINGTON, KENTUCKY 1899

"The Most Good for the Most People at the Least Cost" Paquette bore to the right beneath the sign and stopped by a brightly painted guardhouse, the first of a series of security measures. He found himself wondering, as he did on almost every Second Thursday, if knowing what he knew now, he would have left his university research position in Connecticut to become director of product safety. The question was a purely hypothe ical one. He had taken the job. He had agreed to play Cyrus Redding's game by Cyrus Redding's rules. Now, like it or not, he was Cyrus Redding's man. Of course an annual salary that, with benefits, exceeded four hundred thousand dollars went far toward easing pangs of conscience. Suzy was the youngest of three children, all of whom would one day be in college at the same time. He stopped at the final pass gate, handed the trunk key to the guard, and drummed nervously on the wheel while the man completed his inspection. It hardly paid to be late for a Second Thursday appointment. + Over the hundred and eighty years since Gault Darling led a band of renegades, moonshiners, and other social outcasts to a verdant spot in the foothills of the Cumberlands, and then killed two men for the right to have the new town named after himself, Darlington, Kentucky, had undergone any number of near deaths and subsequent resurgences. Disease, soldiers, Cherokees, floods, fires, and even a tornado had at one time or another brought the town to its knees. Always, though, a vestige survived, and always Darlington regrew.

In 1858, the Lexington-Knoxville Railway passed close enough to Darlington to send off a spur, the primary purpose of which was the transport of coal from the rich Juniper mines. By the end of the century, however, output from the Junipers had fallen to a trickle, and the railbed was left to rot. Darlington was once again in danger of becoming a ghost town. Shops closed. The schoolhouse and Baptist church burned down and were not rebuilt. Town government dwindled and then disappeared. In the end, where once there had been well over a thousand, only a handful remained. Fortunately for the town, one of those was Elton Darling, self-proclaimed descendant of Gault. In 1897, Darling engineered a massive hoax utilizing three pouches of low-grade gold ore, two confederates, and a remarkable ability to seem totally inebriated when stone sober. Rumors of the "Darlington Lode" spread quicky through cities from Chicago to Atlanta, and Darlington acquired an instant citizenry, many of whom stayed on, either out of love for the beauty of the area or out of lack of resources to move elsewhere. Having single-handedly repopulated his town, Elton Darling set about giving it an industry, making use of the area's only readily available resource, the sulfur-rich water of Pinkham's Creek, a tributary of the Cumberland River. In less than a year, with some food coloring smoky-glassed bottles, an attractive label, and an aggressive sales force, the vile water of Pinkham's Creek, uninhabitable by even the hardiest fish, had become Darling's Astounding Rejuvenator and Purgator, an elixir alleged effective against conditions ranging from dropsy to baldness. Over the years before his death in 1939, Elton Darling made such changes in his product as the market and times demanded. He also made a modest fortune.

By the time his son, Tyrone, took control of the family enterprises, the rejuvenator had been replaced by a variety of vitamin and mineral supplements, and Darlington Pharmaceuticals was being traded, though lightly, on the American Stock Exchange. Far from being the visionary and businessman his father was, lyrone Darling spent much of his time, and most of his money, on a string of unsuccessful thoroughbreds and a succession of city women, each of whom was more adept at consuming money than he was at making it. Darling's solution to his diminishing cash reserves was simple, issue more stock and sell off some of his own. In the fall of 1947, at the annual Darlington stockholders meeting, the ax fell. Intermediaries for a man spoken of only as Mr. Redding produced proof of ownership of more than fifty-three percent of Darlington Pharmaceuticals and in a matter of less than a day, took over the company on behalf of Mr. Cyrus Redding of New York, New York. Stripped of influence, as well as of a source of income, Darling tried to negotiate. To the best of anyone's knowledge, he had not succeeded even in meeting with the man who had replaced him when, on the following New Year's Eve, he and a woman named Densmore were shot to death by the woman's husband. Thus it was that the fortunes of Darlington, Kentucky became tied to a reclusive genius named Cyrus Redding and to the pharmaceutical house that now bore his name. In the years to follow, there were a number of minor successes, Terranyd, a concentrated tetracycline, Rebac, an over-the-counter antacid, and several cold preparations.

Redding Pharmaceuticals doubled in size, and the population of Darlington grew proportionally. Then, in the early 1960s, Redding obtained exclusive U. S. patents to several successful European products, including the tranquilizer that was, following a blitzkrieg promotional campaign, to become one of the most prescribed pharmaceuticals in the world. A year after release of the drug, Darlington was selected an All american City, and shortly after that, the Darlington Dukes minor league baseball franchise was established.

Marilyn Wyman sipped at a cup of tea and risked a minute glance at her gold Rolex. Ten minutes to go and another Second Thursday would be over for Redding's director of public relations. From across his enormous desk, Cyrus Redding appraised her through his Coke-bottle spectacles.

"There are exactly eight minutes and thirty seconds to go, Marilyn," he said. "Does that help?"

"I'm sorry, sir." Wyman, in her midfifties, had been with the company longer than had any other department head. Still, no one had ever heard her refer to her employer as anything other than Mr. Redding or, to his face, sir. She had close-cut gray-brown hair and a sophisticated sensuality that she used with consummate skill in dealing with media representatives of both sexes. "We have one final piece of business. No small piece, either. It's Arthgard."

"I thought it had been taken off the market."

"In England it has, but not yet here. It has been only eight weeks since we released it and already it is in the top forty in volume and the top twenty-five in actual dollar return."

"That's a shame. The feedback I've gotten from pharmacists and patients has been excellent, too. Still, the British have proven it responsible for how many deaths so far, sixty?"

"Eighty-five, actually."

"Eighty-five." Reflexively, Wyman shuddered. Arthgard had been released to the American market almost immediately after the patent had been acquired by Reddinz. Though she had no way of knowing how it had been accomplished, the FDA-required testing periods, both laboratory and clinical, seemed to have been circumvented. It was not her place to ask about such things. Testing was the provinoe of Arlen Paquette, and the exchange of information between department heads was not only frowned upon by Redding but, in most cases, forbidden. "Well, we still have Lapsol and Carmalon, " she said. "The figures I looked at yesterday showed them both in the top ten of antiarthritic preparations. I'll write a press release announcing the suspension of our Arthgard production and then see what I can do to remind the public about both of those other products."

"You will do no such thing, Marilyn."

"Pardon?"

Redding pulled a computer printout from a file on his desk. "Do you have any idea how many millions it cost us to buy the Arthgard patent, test the product, go into production, advertise, get samples out to physicians, and finally distribute the product to pharmacies and hospitals? Correction, Miss Wyman. Not how many millions-how many tens of millions? " Marilyn Wyman shook her head. Redding continued. "The projections I have here say that, at our present rate of increase in sales, the product would have to stay on the market for another ten weeks just for us to break even. That is where you will be concentrating your efforts."

"But…" Redding's icy look made it clear that there was to be no dialogue on the matter. She stared down at the toes of her two-hundred-dollar Ferragamo pumps. "Yes, sir."

"I've got some preliminary data from that survey firm you contracted with showing that less than forty percent of physicians and less than ten percent of consumers are even aware of what's going on in England. I want those numbers to stay in that ball park for the next ten weeks."

"But…"

"Dammit, I am not looking for buts. I am looking for ten weeks of sales so that we can get our ass out of this product without having it burned off. Our legislative liaison will do his job with the FDA. Now if you want to give me buts, I'll find a PR person who does her job.

And need I remind you that her first job will be to do something creative with that M. Wyman file I have locked away?"

Wyman bit at her lower lip and nodded. It had been several years since Redding had mentioned the collection of photographs, telephone conversations, and recordings from the company hotel suite she had vacationed in at Acapulco. Beneath her expertly applied makeup, she was ashen. Redding, seeing the capitulation in her eyes, softened. "Marilyn, listen. You do your part. I promise that if there's any trouble on this side of the Atlantic with Arthgard, we'll pull it immediately. Okay?

Good. Now tell me, how's that little buggy of yours riding?"

"The Alpha? Fine, thank you. Needs a tune-up. That's all."

"Well, don't bother. Just bring it over to Buddy Michaels at Darlington Sport. He's got a spanking new Lotus just arrived and itching for you to show it the beauty of the Kentucky countryside." He checked the slim digital timepiece built into his desk. "Eight minutes of eleven. It's been a good meeting, Marilyn. As usual, you're doing an excellent job.

Why don't you stop by next week and give me a progress report. I also want to hear how that new Lotus of yours handles the downgrade on the back side of Black Mountain." With a smile, a nod, and the smallest gesture of one hand, Marilyn Wyman was dismissed. Arlen Paquette was drinking coffee in the sumptuous sitting room outside of Redding's office when Wyman emerged. Though they had worked for the same company for years, they seldom met in situations other than Second Thursday.

Still, the greeting between them was warm, both sensing that in another place and at another time, they might well have become friends. At precisely eleven o'clock, Marilyn Wyman exited through the door to the reception area and Paquette crossed to Redding's door, knocked once, and entered. Hour three of Second Thursday had begun. Redding greeted Paquette with a handshake across his desk. On occasion, usually when their agenda was small, the man would guide his motorized wheelchair to a spot by the coffee table at one end of his huge office and motion Paquette to the maroon Chesterfield sofa opposite him. This day, however, there was no such gesture. "I've sent for lunch, Arlen. We may run over."

Paquette tensed. In seven years, his eleven o'clock visit had never run over. "I'm all yours, " he said, realizing, as he was sure the old man across from him did, that the words were more than a polite figure of speech. "Have you any problem areas you wish to discuss with me before we start?"

Paquette shook his head. He knew Cyrus Redding abhorred what he called "surprises." If Paquette encountered major problems in the course of his work, a call and immediate discussion with Redding were in order. "Fine,

" Redding said, adjusting his tie and then combing his gray crew cut back with his fingers. "I have two situations that we must ponder together. The first concerns Arthgard. Do you have your file handy?"

"I have my files on everything that is current, " Paquette said, rummaging through his large, well-worn briefcase. "Is our testing on Arthgard current? " Redding's tone suggested that he would consider an affirmative response a "surprise."

"Yes and no, sir. The formal testing was completed several months ago.

You have my report"

"Yes, I remember."

"However, " Paquette continued, "I began reading about the problems in the UK, and decided to continue dispensing the drug to some of the test subjects at the Women's Health Center in Denver."

"Excellent thinking, Arlen. Excellent. Have there been any side effects so far?"

"Minor ones only. Breast engorgement and pain, stomach upsets, diarrhea, hair loss in half a dozen, loss of libido, rashes, and palpitations.

Nothing serious or life threatening."

Serious or life threatening. Even after seven years, Paquette's inner feelings were belied by the callousness of his words. Still, he was Redding's man, and Redding was concerned only with those side effects that would be severe enough, consistently enough to cause trouble for the company. Only those were deemed reason to delay or cancel the quick release of a new product into the marketplace. In a business where a week often translated into millions of dollars, and a jump on the competition into tens of millions, Redding had set his priorities. "How many subjects were involved in the Arthgard testing?"

"Counting those at the Denver facility and at the Omnicenter, in Boston, there were almost a thousand." He checked his notes. "Nine hundred and seventy."

"And no one from the Omnicenter is receiving Arthgard right now?"

"The testing there was stopped months ago. There were too many other products that we had to work into the system."

Paquette knew that the Arthgard recall in Great Britain was going to prove a fiasco, if not a disaster, for Redding Pharmaceuticals, a company that had not suffered a product recall or even an FDA probe since the man in the wheelchair had taken over. Testing of pharmaceuticals in Europe seldom met FDA standards. Still, the UK had a decent safety record, and the Boston and Denver testing facilities served as a double check on all foreign-developed products, as well as on drugs invented in Redding Labs. Problems inherent in various products-at least by Cyrus Redding's definition of problems-had always been identified before any major commitment by the company was undertaken… always, until now. "Tell me, Arlen, " Redding said, drawing a cup of coffee from a spigot built into his desk and lacing it with a splash from a small decanter, "what do you think happened? How did this get past us?

" Paquette searched for any tension, any note of condemnation in the man's words. There was none that he could tell. "Well, " he said,

"basically, it boils down to a matter of numbers." He paused, deciding how scientific to make his explanation. He knew nothing of Cyrus Redding's background, but he was certain from past discussions that there was science in it somewhere. Straightforward and not condescending-that was how he would play it. "The Arthgard side effect-the cardiac toxicity that is being blamed for the deaths in England-seems to be part allergy and part dose related."

"In other words, " Redding said, "first the patient has to be sensitive to the drug and then he has to get enough of it."

"Exactly. And statistically, that combination doesn't come up too often.

Arthgard has been so effective, though, and so well marketed, that literally millions of prescriptions have been written in the six years since it was first released in the United Kingdom. A death heref a death there. Weeks or months and miles in between. No way to connect them to the drug. Finally, a number of problems show up at just about the same time in just about the same place, and one doc in one hospital in one town in the corner of Sussex puts it all together. A little publicity, and suddenly reports begin pouring in from all over the British world."

"Do you have any idea how many hundreds of thousands of arthritis patients have had their suffering relieved by Arthgard?"

"I can guess. And I understand what you're saying. Risk-benefit ratio.

That's all people in our industry, or any health provider for that matter, have to go by."

"I've decided to keep Arthgard on the American market for ten more weeks." Redding dropped the bomb quietly and simply, then he sat back and watched Paquette's reaction. Noticeably, at least, there was none.

"Fine, " Paquette said. "Would you like me to continue the Denver testing? We have about an eighteen-month head start on the overall marketplace."

"By all means, Arlen."

Paquette nodded, scratched a note on the Arthgard file, and slid it back in his briefcase, struggling to maintain his composure. There was little to be gained by revealing his true feelings about what Redding was doing, and much-oh, so much-to lose. His involvement in the testing centers alone-involvement of which Redding possessed detailed documentation-was enough to send him to prison. In fact, he suspected that Redding could claim no knowledge of either facility and make that claim stick. Even if no confrontation occurred, the chances were that he would be fired or demoted… or worse. Several years before, a department head had been openly critical of Redding and his methods, to the point of discussing his feelings with the editor of the Darlington Clarion Journal. Not a week later, the man, a superb horseman, had his neck broken in a riding accident and died within hours of reaching Darlington Regional Hospital. "Have you the product test reports for this month?"

"Yes, sir. I took them off the computer yesterday evening."

Paquette was rummaging through his briefcase for the progress reports on the fourteen medications currently being investigated when he heard the soft hum of Redding's wheelchair. "Just leave the reports on my desk, Arlen, " Redding said, gliding to | I the center of the room. "I'll review them later. Could you bring my coffee over to the table, please?

I want to apprise you of a potential problem at the Omnicenter, and I could use a break from talking across this desk." Paquette did as he was asked, keeping his eyes averted from Redding as much as possible, lest the man, a warlock when it came to reading the thoughts of others, realized how distasteful the Arthgard decision was to him. On the day of their first interview, over eight years ago, he had sensed that uncanny ability in the aging invalid. It was as if all the power that would have gone into locomotion had simply been transferred to another function.

"Arlen, the Omnicenter was already operational when you joined us, yes?

"Sort of, sir." Paquette settled into the Chesterfield and took a long draught of the coffee he had surreptitiously augmented with cognac while Redding was motoring across the room. "The computers were in, our people were in place, and the finances had been worked out, but no formal testing programs had been started."

"Yes, of course. I remember now. You should go easy on that cognac so early in the day, my friend. It's terrible on the digestion. In the course of your dealings in Boston, did you by chance run into a woman pathologist named Bennett, first name Kathryn, or Kate?"

Paquette shook his head. He had set his coffee aside, no longer finding reassurance in the warm, velvety swallows. "Reese keeps me away from as many people as possible." He smiled and whispered, "I think he's ashamed of me."

Redding enjoyed the humor. "Such a reaction would be typical of the man, wouldn't it. He lacks the highly advanced abilities to appreciate and respect. With him, a person is to be either controlled or feared — none of the subtleties in between."

"Exactly." Paquette was impressed, but not surprised, by the insight. As far as he knew, Redding had had but one direct contact with the Metropolitan Hospital administrator, but for the Warlock, one was usually enough. "What about this Dr. Bennett?"

"She has begun investigating the Omnicenter in connection with two unusual deaths she has autopsied. The women in question had similar blood and reproductive organ disease, and both were Omnicenter patients."

"So are a fair percentage of all the women in Boston, " Paquette said.

"Have you talked to our people?"

"Carl called me. Both women have participated at various times in our work, but never with the same product. The Omnicenter connection appears to be a red herring."

"Unfortunately, we have other herrings in that building which are "That is precisely my concern, " Redding said, "and now yours. I have sent instructions to Reese that he is to find a way to divert young Dr.

Bennett's interest away from our facility. He seems to think he can do so. However, I have had my sources do some checking on this woman, and I tell you, Norton Reese is no match for her, intellectually or in strength of character."

"He would be the last to admit that."

"I agree." Redding opened a manila folder he had apparently placed on the coffee table prior to Paquette's arrival. "Here are copies for you of all the information we have obtained thus far on the woman. I want you to go to Boston and keep tabs on things. Do not show yourself in any way without checking with me first. Meet with our Omnicenter people only if absolutely necessary."

"Yes, sir."

"There is a small item in that report which may be of some help to us.

Bennett's father-in-law heads the law firm that handles the Metropolitan Hospital account, as well as some of the Northeast business of the Tiny Tummies line of breakfast cereals. Although the connection 1S not generally known, Tiny Foods is a subsidiary of ours. The man's name is Winfield Samuels. From all I can tell, he's a businessman. Paquette nodded. Coming from Cyrus Redding, the appellation "businessman" was the highest praise. It meant the man was, like Redding himself, a pragmatist who would not allow emotions to cloud his handling of an issue. "Do you have any idea of what Reese has in mind to deal with the doctor?"

"No, except that Carl Horner says he seems quite sure of himself. "If that's the case, " Paquette said, "I should be back in just a few days."

Redding smiled benignly. "I told you how I perceive the Bennettreese matchup, Arlen, " he said. "I've had reservations made for you at the Ritz. Open-ended reservations."

METRO DOC LABELS BOBBY JUNKIE.

The layout editor of the Herald had, it seemed, dusted off type that had not been used since D-Day. The paper lay on the living room floor, along with the Globe and Roscoe, who was keeping an equal distance between himself and both his masters. It was still afternoon, but the mood and the dense overcast outside made the hour feel much later The calls had begun at two that morning and had continued until Jared unplugged their phones at four-thirty. Letters, typed on Kathryn Bennett's stationery and signed by her, had been dropped off at both Boston dailies and all three major television stations sometime during the previous night. The gist of the letters was that, driven by conscience and a sense of duty to the people of Boston, Kate had decided to tell the truth about Bobby Geary. Stan Willoughby, who was mentioned in the letter, and Norton Reese, as Metro administrator, were called immediately by reporters. The pathology chief, not as sharp as he might have been had he not been woken from a sound sleep, confirmed the story, adding that Kate was an honest and highly competent pathologist whom, he was sure, had good reason for doing what she had done. It was not until an hour after speaking with the first newsman that he thought to call her. By then, Kate's line was so busy that it took him almost another hour to get through. Meanwhile, Norton Reese, aided by Marco Sebastian and an emergency session with the hospital computers, had confirmed that there was, in fact, no patient named John Schultz ever treated or tested at Metropolitan Hospital. Reese was careful to add that he knew absolutely nothing of the allegations lodged by Dr. Bennett, whom he described as a brilliant woman with a tendency at times to rebel against traditional modes of conduct. Questioned for details, he refused further comment.

The house was like a mausoleum. Both Kate and Jared had attempted to go to work for business as usual, but both had been forced by harassing reporters to return home. Over the hours that followed, they sat, drapes closed, ignoring the periodic ring of the front doorbell. The telephones remained disconnected. There was a silence between them chilly enough to offset even the warmth from the wood stove. "Jared, do you want a cup of coffee?"

"Thanks, but no. Three in an hour and a half is a little over my limit."

He leaned forward from his easy chair and plucked the Herald from beside Roscoe's nose. Beneath the headline were insert photos of Bobby Geary's parents, along with a quotation from each about Kate, neither the least bit complimentary. "Goddamn tabloid really knows how to slobber it on," he said, unable to mask the irritation in his voice. "Honey, you do believe what I said about not knowing anything about those letters, don't you?"

"Of course I believe you. Why would you think otherwise?"

"No reason, I guess." The anger she had felt earlier in the day had been greatly muted by frustration and the growing realization that beyond a simple denial and the call for a handwriting analysis of her signature, she had absolutely no cards to play. Even the signature was of doubtful assistance to her claims of innocence. No one had yet come forward with the original letter, and on the photostat she had seen, the signature appeared quite accurate. "Why would somebody do this? Why? " Jared seemed to be talking as much to himself as to her, but it was clear that in his mind, confusion and doubt remained. "You say that Yoda and this Detective Finn were the only two besides you who knew about the amphetamines?"

"I said as far as I knew they were. Reese has it in for me, and he has his finger in just about every pie in Metro. He could have found out somehow, and…" She shrugged and shook her head. "I don't think much of the man, but I can't imagine him doing a thing like this."

"You know, Kate, you could have told me you were going to fake Geary's autopsy report. I mean, I am your husband."

Kate glared at him. "Jared, the three of us decided that nobody else should know. Call Mrs. Willoughby or Mrs. Finn and ask if their husbands told them. Do you share all the inner secrets of your work with me?"

"You never ask."

"Give me a break, will you? Listen, I know you're upset. You are a public figure, and directly or indirectly, you're getting negative press. But don't go blaming me, Jared. I didn't do anything."

Jared rose, shuffled to the stove, and began stoking embers that were already burning quite nicely. "I spoke with my father this morning, " he said over his shoulder. "My God, Winfield must be absolutely fried over all this. Do you think it would help matters if I called him?"

"He thinks you should call a press conference and admit that you sent the letters."

"What?"

"It's his feeling that as things stand, it looks like you performed an act of conscience, and then I talked you out of owning up to it."

"So my father-in-law wants me to lie in public to keep his protege from losing any votes."

Jared slammed the poker against the stove door. "Dammit, you already did lie. That's what caused all this trouble in the first place."

Kate felt herself about to cry. "I did what I thought was the kindest and fairest thing I could do for that boy and his family."

"Well, now you're going to have to think about what's kind and fair to this boy and his family."

"So you think that's what I should do, too?"

A loud pounding on the front door precluded Jared's response. "Police.

Open up."

Kate opened the door a slit and peered out, expecting to see another overly resourceful reporter. Instead, she saw Detective Lieutenant Martin Finn. Any lingering doubt they might have had about whether or not the policeman was responsible for the letters evaporated with the man's first words. "You really fucked me, Dr. Bennett. Do you know that?"

"I'm sorry, but I didn't send those letters, " she said with exaggerated calm. "Would you like to sit down? Can I get you some coffee?"

Finn ignored her questions, and instead, remained in the center of the room, pacing out a miniature circle on the rug. "I went along with this because I'm Irish and a fan, and look what it gets me. I was up for a promotion. Maybe captain. Now, thanks to you and your fucking grandstand play, I'm going to be lucky I don't get busted to dogcatcher."

"Went along with it? " Kate was incredulous. "Lieutenant Finn, it was your suggestion in the first place. For the kids of Boston. Don't you remember saying all that? " Her voice cracked. The day had been punishing enough without this. Suddenly, Jared pushed past her and confronted the man. Though he was taller than Finn, the policeman was far stockier. "Finn, if you've said what you came to say, I want you and your foul mouth out of here. If not, say it. Then leave."

"I'll leave when I'm fucking ready."

"Get out."

Jared stepped forward, his fists clenched in front of him. It was only then that Kate sensed how heavily Finn had been drinking. She moved toward them, but not quickly enough. With no warning or windup, Finn sank a vicious uppercut into Jared's solar plexus. A guttural grunt accompanied the explosion of air from his lungs, as he doubled over and dropped to his knees. Kate knelt beside her husband. "You damn animal," she screamed at Finn. "I wish it had been you, lady, " Finn said as he turned and walked clumsily from the house. The antique vase Kate threw shattered against the door as it closed behind him. Jared remained doubled over, but his breathing was deepening. "You okay? " she said softly. "Never laid a glove on me, " he responded with no little effort.

"Could you bring over the wastebasket, please? Just in case."

"You poor darling. Can I do anything else? Get you anything?"

Slowly, Jared sat back and straightened up. His eyes were glazed.

"Just remind me again what I told that minister."

"For better or for worse. That's what you told him. Jared, I don't want to sound corny, but that was a pretty wonderful thing you did standing up to that animal."

"For better or for worse? You sure that was it?"

"Uh-huh."

"Katey, I don't know how to tell you this, but in some perverse way getting hit the way I just did felt good."

"I don't understand."

"Right before Finn came in I was ready to tell you that I agreed with my father in thinking everything would be simpler and look better for all of us if you would just admit to writing the letter. Then that asshole started in. All of a sudden, I realized how wrong I was… and I'm sorry. I couldn't stand hearing him talk to you that way. Katey, please just try to remember that there's a lot going on that's confusing to me.

Sometimes I feel that living with you is like trying to ride a cyclone.

Sometimes I feel like a slab of luncheon meat between one slice of Winfield and one slice of Kate. Sometimes He whirled to the wastebasket and threw up. Sheila Pierce stared past Norton Reese's sweat-dampened pate at the stucco ceiling of their room in the Mid City Motel and reminded herself to continue the groans that the man found so exciting.

Careful not to disrupt his rhythm, she reached up and reassured herself that her new diamond studs hadn't come dislodged. "Oh, baby, " she murmured. "Oh, baby, you're so good. So good." She wished she could have seen Kate Bennett's face when the reporters started calling. Reese was hardly a Valentino for her, but she had to give credit where credit was due, and Reese deserved what she was giving him for what he had given Bennett. "Oh, baby, come to me. Come to me, " she moaned. It had been a thrill just to watch, Kathryn Bennett, MD, Miss Perfect, confused and irritable, suddenly not in control of every little thing. How good at last to be the one pulling the strings. Too bad there was no way for Bennett ever to know. "Don't stop, Norty. Oh, yes, baby, yes. Don't stop."