The Burning Man

"He chopped her up. Chopped her with a .. . a hatchet."

Downes's heart leaped. "What kind of hatchet?"

"I can't see the blade, but it seems like a hatchet."

There was a drawer in the long interrogation table. In it were pens, paper and a ruler. Downes took the picture of Sandy from Gary's right hand and replaced it with the ruler.

"Take hold of this ruler."

Gary did as he was told.

"Gary, you are unbelievable. I've never seen anyone with your powers. Now, to me, this is a ruler, but with your supernatural mind, you can use 'projection transfer' to transfer this ruler to the hatchet. Do you have it?

Can you feel the shiny, silver hatchet?"

Gary nodded.

"All right. Here's where you do your thing. I'm gonna stand and so are you. I'm gonna be Sandy, so I'll squat down some, and you're gonna let that hatchet lead you to strike like the killer did, so we can see how Sandy was killed.

"Okay, stand up and keep your eyes closed. I'm right in front of you. Only now I'm Sandy. Are you read y?

Gary nodded.

"Let it flow, Gary. First hit. Where was it?"

Gary brought his arm up sluggishly. "Top of the head," he said, as his arm slowly descended.

"This is great. Then what?"

Gary saw It all. His arm swung sideways.

"Another to the right side," he said. "And another."

Blood was spraying from Sandy's face as the blade sliced into it. Gary's arm rose and fell. Her face was breaking up as she fell back, flying away like shards from a fractured mirror. Gary stopped.

"What's the matter?" Downes asked.

"I don't like her face like this."

"What do you mean?"

"The blood."

"You can see her face chopped up?"

I I I "Yes.

"Where is the killer, Gary?"

"Over her."

"Can you see his face?"

"No."

"Try hard, Gary."

"I can't see it."

"Okay, guy. You're doing fantastic. Hang in there.

I've never met anyone with powers like yours. So, let's use those powers. Let them flow through Sandy's medallion. Let God help you see that hatchet. Can you see It?"

"Yes."

"Okay. The killer took the hatchet away. Where is it now?"

"He ... he threw it away."

"Where, Gary?"

"He threw it 'cause of the blood. He didn't want to see all that blood."

"But where did he throw it? Help us find it. Project yourself into that hatchet."

Gary's head wobbled. He wet his lips.

"He's running to a dark place because he's scared."

"Someplace dark? But where?"

"Just dark. I don't know."

"Come on, Gary. Don't let me down now. Use your special powers."

"I'm trying, Sergeant, but he's too far from Sandy to see him."

"You mean he's out of the park?"

"Yeah. She can't see him."

"Where is Sandy?"

"By the well."

"How did she get there?"

"She ... she ran."

"Okay."

"Then, after he chopped her, she was by the well."

"You saw that?"

"Yeah."

"Is there much blood on the killer?"

"Yes."

"Did the killer clean off that blood?"

"I can't see. He's too far away."

"Okay. One last try at something. Why did the killer murder Sandy? Do you know why he did it?"

Gary thought about the girl at the dorm and the girl at the Stallion and how he wanted them to love him.

Maybe the killer asked Sandy to be his girl and she said no, like the girl at the bar.

"He wanted Sandy to be nice to him, but she said no."

"To be nice?"

"To love him, but she wouldn't love him and he got mad."

"Like you got mad at Karen Nix?"

"Yeah." Downes should have been exhausted, but he was so elated he did not feel the fatigue.

"Did I help you?" Gary asked .

"Oh, yeah. You've been a big help."

"Can I go home now?"

"Not just yet."

"Why?"

"Gary, I'm gonna be honest with you. We have a problem here."

"What problem?"

"The problem of how you know so much about Sandy's murder."

"I seen it with my powers."

"Well, that's probably it, but that wouldn't explain one thing. Bob Patrick told me what he saw on your hands."

Gary's eyes widened.

"What did you see, Gary?"

"B ... blood."

"Why do you think you saw the blood?"

"I don't know."

"Blood doesn't just appear on someone's hands.

Where did it come from?"

Gary understood what Downes was suggesting and he started to squirm on his chair.

"Oh no, Sergeant. I couldn't of done that."

"Do you know what you just said, Gary? You said couldn't." You didn't say "I did not kill that girl." Why didn't you say, flat out, that you did not kill Sandy?"

I .. . I don't know."

"You were drunk that night, weren't you?"

"Yeah."

"And you told me that you don't remember everything clearly because you had too much to drink."

Gary nodded.

"Think about it. Why did you say 'couldn't' instead of 'didn't'?"

Gary looked at Downes with pleading eyes and asked, "Do ... do you think I killed that girl?"

"I don't know, Gary. I wasn't there. Only Sandy and her killer were there. But you'd know in your heart, if you did it. Even if you couldn't remember with your conscious mind, because you were so drunk, your subconscious mind would know."

"I . I don't remember killing anyone, Sergeant.

Honest. If ... if I did, I don't remember."

Gary licked his lips. Could he have killed Sandy and forgotten? Could he have done the things he saw on the movie screen?

"Well, Gary?"

"I ... I couldn't have done that," Gary said, desperately. "No, no, I couldn't. Could 1?"

"I don't know, Gary. Why don't we talk about that?"

PART FOUR THE CHANCE OF A LIFETIME

Chapter ELEVEN.

Peter was so depressed that he did not fall asleep until two-thirty in the morning, giving him a grand total of two hours sack time before he was wrenched out of bed by the ringing of the phone.

"Hello," he rasped as he squinted at the clock.

"Pete, it's Steve Mancini."

"Steve? Aren't you on your honeymoon?"

"I was. Donna and I are on our way back to Whitaker. Gary's been arrested."

"He didn't get arrested for peeping again?" asked Peter. He had told Steve about Gary's arrest and Steve had saved Gary's job. He had also decided to keep the information about the arrest from Donna and Gary's parents.

"Gary is charged with murder, Pete. It's that girl at the wishing well."

"Holy shit!"

"I won't be back in Whitaker until eleven or so. He needs a lawyer, right away. The cops will make minceeat out of him if they get Gary alone."

"Steve, I'm very sympathetic. I mean, Gary seems like a nice guy, and I was glad to help him out, but I'm not your man. I've been handling criminal cases for what? Two months? The only case I tried by myself was a suspended license charge, and I lost it."

"I'm not asking you to take the case. I just want you to make certain that Gary doesn't do anything stupid before I talk to him."

1. "Why don't you call Amos or someone else with more experience?"

"No offense, but I doubt Geary is sober at this hour and the attorneys who practice criminal law in Whitaker make Bozo the Clown look like Perry Mason. You're the only one I can trust to do this the right way."Peter had met some of the other lawyers who practiced in the Whitaker criminal courts. Mancini was right. They weren't all that swift. And Steve only wanted Peter to baby-sit with his brother-in-law until he got back to town. It was the least he could do for one of the few people in Whitaker he could call a friend.

"What do you want me to tell Gary?" Peter asked.

"You'll do it?"

"Yeah, yeah. Come on. Brief me."

"I owe you big."

"And don't forget it. So, what should I do at the jail?"

Peter stood when Gary stumbled into the room where Peter's abortive interview with Christopher Mammon had taken place. In the weak rays of dawn, Harmon's face seemed drained of color. There were dark circles under his eyes and his uncombed hair was mussed from his brief steep.

"I'm Peter Hale, Gary. I helped you out when you were arrested at the college. Do you remember me?"

Gary nodded.

"Why don't you sit down."

Peter indicated the metal folding chair on the other side of the wooden table. Gary shuffled forward. A sour odor assailed Peter as soon as Gary drew close. It was a unique combination of fear, sweat and disinfectant that Peter had come to associate with the incarcerated. He pushed himself back from the table to widen the distance between himself and the prisoner.

"Are they treating you all right?" Peter asked.

Gary nodded. "When can I go home?"

"I don't know, Gary. I think you'll have to stay for a while."

"I don't like it here."

"Yeah, well, no one likes jail."

"Can't you get me out?"

"I'm not going to be your lawyer, Gary. Steve Mancini asked me to help out until he comes back. He's driving here from Portland, right now. He should be in Whitaker by noon and I'm sure he'll come see you."

"Sergeant Downes said I was helping to catch the killer. He said I was a good detective. Why won't he let me go?"

"Maybe the sergeant can't let you out. You're charged with a pretty serious crime. I think you'll need a judge's permission."

"Will Steve ask the judge to help me?"

"You bet," Peter answered. Steve had told Peter that ball was not automatic in a murder case. If the state opposed release, there would have to be a hearing. Gary looked so pathetic that Peter did not have the heart to tell him that he might not be able to get out of 'all.

I "I don't like jail. I'm all locked in. And I don't like the people here. They scare me. They call me names and say things about that girl. They say I'm going to die in the electric chair. They say my brain will boil and melt."

"Gary, there is no electric chair in Oregon. Those men are teasing you. Ignore them."

"I can't. They say it all the time. Please get me out.

You got me out when I was arrested before."

"That was different. I just happened to be walking through the campus when you were caught. I really didn't do anything. Sergeant Downes decided not to arrest you. If you'd been charged, I wouldn't have been your lawyer." Gary looked so sad that Peter asked, "Have you talked to the police?" in an effort to distract him.

"Uh-huh."

"How long did you to k to them?"

"A long time."

"An hour? Two hours? Can you tell me the exact time?"

"It was a really long time. I got sleepy. I ate three burgers."

"And you were talking to the cops all that time?"

Gary nodded.

"Why do the police think you killed Sandra Whiley?

Did you tell Sergeant Downes you killed her?"

"No. I just seen the girl killed."

"You saw the murder?"

"Part with my eyes and part with my mind."

"I'm not following you. What do you mean, you saw part of the murder with your mind?"

"I got these powers. Supernatural powers. I never knew I had 'em, but I do. Sergeant Downes showed me how to use them to see who killed Sandy. I was real tired, but I did it to help. Now I'll lose my job because I can't go to work. Mom will be so mad."

"I'm sure someone will talk to the college about your job and your mom won't be mad. She loves you. She knows it's not your fault you can't go to work. Now, try to think about why you're locked up. What do you mean you saw Sandy killed?"

"With m' powers, I can close my eyes and see what y happened in the past."

"You mean you make it up?"

"No, I really see it happen. Only a few people got my powers. Sergeant Downes said I had the best powers of anyone. Better even than those people on TV."

"What did you tell Sergeant Downes you saw using your powers?"

"I seen Sandy being killed."

"Did you see who killed her?"

Gary shook his head. "It was dark. I couldn't see his face. But I seen him do it."

"How much of the evening can you remember when you on't use your powers?"

Gary looked sheepish.

"I don't remember a lot of it too well. Everyone was buying me drinks because of the wedding'i'm going to ask you a serious question and I want you to try real hard to answer it."

Gary sat up straight and concentrated so he could give Peter the right answer.

"Is it possible that you killed that girl, but you don't remember because you were drinking?"

Gary licked his lips. He looked very frightened.

"I ... I don7t think I killed her."

"You don't think you killed her? That's not the same as being sure."

"I ... I couldn't have killed that girl," Gary said uncertainly.

"Then how do you know so much about the murder?

I don't buy this superpower stuff. I want you to be honest with me. Did you do it?"

Gary swallowed. He was chewing his lip and looking around the narrow room as if trying to find a way out.

I "Gary?"

Gary's head swung back slowly toward Peter. There were tears in his eyes.

"I want to go home."

"Try to stay on track, Gary. We were talking about the murder."

"I don't want to talk about that no more. I didn't do nothing bad. I'm a good boy. I want Mama. I want to go home."

At eight o'clock Sunday morning Becky O'Shay called District Attorney Earl Ridgely at home and asked him to meet her at his office. When he arrived at nine-thirty, Becky was waiting for him. Ridgely's spacious corner office looked out on Wishing Well Park and the slow meanderings of the Camas giver, but O'Shay had no interest in the scenery. She sprang to her feet as soon as her boss walked in.

"We got him," Becky said excitedly. "He confessed.

We have motive ..."

"Slow down, Becky. Who are you talking about?"

"The man who killed Sandra Whiley. We nailed him."

Ridgely flushed with anger. "Why wasn't I informed?

I was supposed to be notified if there was a break in the case."

"We weren't certain we had the right man until early this morning. Dennis Downes and I decided against waking you at 4 A.M."

Ridgely's anger disappeared as quickly as it had come.

Catching Whiley's killer was the important thing.

"Who is it?"

"Gary Harmon."

"Not Jesse and Alice's boy?"

Becky nodded. Ridgely walked slowly to his chair and sat down. He felt sick.

"I've known Gary since he was born. I was at Donnals wedding, yesterday."

"I know. It's terrible. But there's no doubt he did it."

"What's your evidence?"

Becky started with the peeping incident and explained about the pornography discovered in the search of Gary's home. Then she moved to the attack on Karen Nix and Gary's threat to kill her.

"Nix and Whiley look alike. We think Nix was the intended victim and Harmon attacked Whiley by mistake. It's obvious from the peeping incident, the porno and the way he handled his rejection by Nix that Harmon is weird where women are concerned."

"Do you know anything about Gary?" Ridgely asked.

"I watched part of the interrogation."

"He's mildly retarded. He's like a kid."

"And children have poor impulse control. Besides, we have what amounts to a confession. At first, Harmon claimed he didn't know anything about the murder.

Then, he admitted seeing the killer fighting with Whiley at the entrance to Wishing Well Park. The more he talked, the more detail he gave."

"Did he ever admit he killed Whiley?"

"No, but he didn't deny doing it."

"What did he say?"

"He started by claiming he was too drunk to remember anything, but he ended up giving Dennis details about the murder that only the killer would know."

"Such as?"

"He knew the location of the blows that killed Whiley and he said the murder weapon was a hatchet."

"What?!"

"A pretty odd choice for a murder weapon, right?

And, coincidentally, the weapon used to kill those other two women."

Ridgely looked stunned. "Did you question Gary about the other murders?"

"No. We wanted to concentrate on Whiley. We were afraid we'd spook him if we started asking about other crimes. But the hatchet did it for me. Dennis says we've been keeping the type of weapon used on the other women a secret as a check against false confessions."

Ridgely swiveled his chair. Morning fog was twisting through the low brown hills across the river. Becky waited expectantly while her boss digested what she had just told him. When he swiveled back, Ridgely looked exhausted.

"Jesse and Alice love that boy. They've sacrificed so much for him." He shook his head. "There are times when I hate this job."

Steve Mancini's office was in a square, earth-brown, single-story building on the outskirts of city center, five blocks from the courthouse. On one side of the building was Pearl Street. On the opposite side, a narrow parking area formed a buffer between the building and a Mexican restaurant.

In the back was more parking and a high wooden fence that separated the lot from a residential area of run-down homes. LAW OFFICES OF STEPHEN L. MANCINI was affixed to the building beside the front door in black block letters. Smaller lettering below Mancini's name listed two other sole practitioners who rented from him.

Steve's office was at the rear of the building next to the back door. It was furnished with cheap wood paneling, a large, imitation Persian rug and a battleship-size desk. A month ago, Peter would have thought the office pretentious, but serving time in Amos Geary's rat-trap offices had dulled his senses.

"Did you talk to Gary?" Mancini asked as soon as Peter was seated. Both men looked exhausted from lack of sleep.

"I saw him this morning, right after you called."

"How's he holding up?"

"Not too well. The poor kid kept asking for you."

"I'll see him this afternoon."

"Uh, just how slow is Gary?"

"He's retarded, but he got through high school and he can work. Why?"

"It looks like Dennis Downes played some games with his head."

"What do you mean?"

"Downes conned Gary into talking about the case by convincing him he's a detective. He has Gary believing he has supernatural powers and can read minds or some such nonsense."

Mancini looked puzzled i "I know Dennis. He's a good guy. I can't see him taking advantage of Gary like that."

"I don't care how nice Downes has been in the past.

This supernatural mind thing sounds like a trick you'd use to take advantage of someone who's not too bright.

You better check it out."

Mancini looked uncomfortable. He picked up a pencil and tapped it on his desk.

"I've got a problem, Pete. I had a lot of time to think on the drive back.

There's no way I can be lead counsel in this case. Ridgely might go for the death penalty.

Think of what it would do to my marriage if I lost.

Donna loves that kid. She'd never forgive me."

"I see what you mean. You're going to have to bring in someone from Portland to handle a case like this.

Maybe Michael Palmer or Ann Girard?"

Mancini shook his head. "Whitaker juries won't take to an outsider. I've seen what happens when one of those slick big-city types rolls into town. Ridgely eats them for dinner. No, Pete, I was thinking of you."

"Me?" Peter laughed uneasily. "You've got to be kidding. I've lived in Whitaker for barely two months. I'm as much of an outsider as any other Portland lawyer.

And I've already explained how little criminal law experience I have."

Mancini looked Peter in the eye.

"You don't have to take this case, but you'll regret it, if you don't. I'm giving you a once in a lifetime opportunity. If you win Gary's case, you'll be the most famous lawyer in the eastern part of the state. You are going to be the 'go to' guy for every farmer and ranch hand who's injured between Whitaker and the California border. I don't have to tell you how much money Ron Siss ler, Dave Macafee and Ernie Petersen make defending claims for the insurance companies. Pete, there's a lawyer on the other side of every claim they defend. That lawyer could be you."

"That would be great, Steve. But I'd only be famous if I won. A murder case is out of my league."

"Don't be ridiculous. It's not as complex as some of the stuff you handled at Hale, Greaves. Besides, I'll help you. I've got plenty of experience with criminal cases."

Mancini had Peter thinking. He had second-chaired several major cases with his father and he had tried a number of smaller matters that were much tougher than any criminal case.

"Don't tell me you can't use the money?" Mancini said.

"Well, sure, but ... What kind of money are we talking about?"

"You'd have to ask for at least a hundred grand.

What with expert witnesses, investigation."

"Do the Harnions have that kind of dough?"

"Jesse Harmon is worth a lot and he doesn't spend a nickel he doesn't have to, but he'd clean out his savings for Gary."

"What about Amos?" Peter asked, suddenly remembering his boss. "He'd never let me defend Gary. We're up to our eyeballs in court-appointed stuff.

If I was representing Gary, I wouldn't have time to do any other work."

Mancini leaned back in his chair and held the pencil in both hands. Then, he said, "Fuck Amos Geary."

"What?

"Fuck him. For Christ's sake, Pete, he's an old, washed-up drunk. I can't believe a guy like you is saddled with that run-down sot."

Mancini leaned forward. He pointed the pencil at Peter.

"Have you seen what passes for the bar in this burg?

We're bigger than that, Pete. When Mountain View gets oing I'll be a millionaire, but I'm also going to have to spend a lot of time with the project. I could use a partner right now, but there hasn't been a lawyer in the three counties I'd let near one of my files, until you came along.

"Think about it, Pete. You and me and all of those clients who'll want to be represented by the man who won the Wishing Well case. What does Amos pay you?

I bet it's not one hundred thousand a year. And that's just one case."

Peter's heart was beating fast. Amos Geary was in Cayuse County trying a robbery case. He'd be there all week. What would he say if he came back and found out that Peter was Gary's attorney? What could he say?

With Peter on the case for a week, it would be a fait accompli. Geary would have to accept the fact that Peter was representing Gary Harmon.

"It sounds tempting," Peter said, " ut I really should think about this."

"Pete, I hate to pressure you, but the Harnions are here, now."

"What?"

"They're in the conference room waiting to meet you: "They are?"

"I've been building you up as the only guy in Whitaker who is qualified to represent Gary. They're ready to hire you."

"I don't know..

"Jesse wants his boy represented right away. If you don't hop on this, he's going to see it as a sign that you don't think you're big enough to handle the case.

"And I need you to be Gary's lawyer. He's my brother-in-law. The poor kid needs my help. If you're lead counsel, I can work with you. We'll make a great team."

For a nanosecond, it occurred to Peter that Gary Harmon could die if he screwed up the case, but he banished this pang of conscience from his thoughts. With Steve as his partner, Gary would have a great defense.

Peter imagined himself as the most famous attorney in eastern Oregon, rolling in money and picking and choosing from the supplicants who would beg him to take their cases. He conjured an image of his father staring, openmouthed, at a headline in The Oregonian that read:

PETER HALE WINS ACQUITTAL IN BIGGEST DEATH CASE IN EASTERN OREGON HISTORY Peter had no intention of spending his life trying traffic cases for peanuts. Steve Mancini had confidence in Peter's abilities and he was handing Peter the chance of a lifetime.

"Let's do it!" Peter said.

Mancini grinned at him. "That was the smartest decision you ever made. Let's meet your new clients."

Mancini led Peter down the hall to the conference room. Jesse Harmon was pacing the floor when Steve opened the door. Harmon's fifty-nine years showed in his thatch of white hair and the lines on his tanned, weather-beaten face. He was barrel-chested and broad shouldered from years of farrnwork. Donna was sitting next to Alice Harmon, a tall, rawboned woman with more gray than brown in her hair.

"I've got good news," Mancini said enthusiastically, as soon as the introductions were made. "Pete's going to take the case."

Jesse and Alice Harmon's faces showed none of Steve Mancini's excitement. They were drawn with worry.

"Steve tells us you've got lots of experience in these cases," Jesse Harmon said, getting down to business immediately.

Before Peter could think up an answer that would satisfy Harmon and not be a lie, Mancini said, "Pete's spent the last four years with the most prestigious firm in Portland working with its top litigator, who just happens to be his father. You might say that Pete's got highlevel litigation in his genes."

"Did that firm handle criminal cases?" Jesse asked, ignoring Steve's attempt to skirt the issue of Peter's experience.

"Jesse," Mancini interjected, his expression turning somber, "there is something that Peter and I know about Gary that we've kept from you, Alice and Donna. Something that bears very strongly on the suitability of Peter to represent Gary." Donna and Alice cast worried glances at each other and Jesse's features hardened. "A few weeks ago, Gary was arrested when he was caught peeping in a window at the girls' dormitory while a young woman was undressing."

Alice's hand flew to her mouth and Donna said, "Oh, my God."

"Pete just happened to be walking across campus when this happened. He calmed down campus security, accompanied Gary to the police station and convinced the police that Gary should not be charged. Then ' he came to me. I squared things with the college so Gary could keep his job.

"Jesse, not only is Pete a top-flight lawyer, but Gary trusts him. In a case like this, trust between a lawyer and his client is essential."

Peter was concerned that Jesse Harmon would become suspicious if Steve kept speaking up for him. He decided it was time for him to say something. Peter knew almost nothing about the state's case, so he had no idea whether Gary was guilty or innocent, but he had a very good idea of what Jesse and Alice wanted to hear.

"Mr. and Mrs. Harmon," he said with as much sincerity as he could muster, "I know how concerned you are about Gary, so I want you to know why I am willing to undertake Gary's defense. I am convinced that the I police knew about Gary's mental handicap and took advantage of it to trick him into confessing to something I is he never did. What the police have done to Gary i wrong and I intend to do something about it."

Jesse Harmon's features softened and -a tear trickled down Alice Harmon's cheek.

"We appreciate what you did for our boy," Jesse said, and we would be grateful if you would help him out now."

Chapter TWELVE.

Peter had not expected to see Becky O'Shay sitting next to Earl Ridgely's desk when the receptionist showed him and Steve Mancini into the district attorney's office. He started to smile, but caught himself. He remembered how reluctant Becky had been to go out with him because of their adversarial position and decided she might not appreciate an outward show of affection in front of her boss.

"How are Jesse and Alice holding up?" Ridgely asked Mancini when everyone was seated.

"As well as can be expected."

"They're awfully good people. I'm sorry they have to 90 through this ordeal."

"It would be a lot easier on them if you'd agree to let Gary out on bail."

"I can't do that."

"Earl, you've known Gary his whole life. Do you think he murdered that girl?"

"Look, I feel terrible about the arrest. You know how much I respect Jesse and Alice. But the evidence is very strong. We're still investigating, of course, but we have a taped confession .. ."

"He admitted killing her?"

"Not in so many words, but .. ." Ridgely paused.

"I'm sorry. I can't discuss this any further. We'll be going before a grand jury tomorrow. If an indictment is returned, I'll give you all the discovery the law allows, but I'm going to play this one by the book."

"Earl, we've known each other how long? I don't understand the problem in letting us know what you've got on Gary."

"The statutes say the defense isn't entitled to discovery until there's an indictment. I know that's not how this office usually does things. We've only got a handful of lawyers in the county and I know every one of them, so I usually bend the rules. But not this time. Not in this case."

Peter put his hand on Mancini's arm.

"I respect that, Mr. Ridgely. We can wait. I'd appreciate it if you'd let us know as soon as the grand jury votes and I'd also appreciate seeing the discovery as soon as possible."

Peter handed Ridgely his business card.

"Steve, why don't we let Mr. Ridgely get back to work?"

Mancini looked like he wanted to say something else, but he held it in. The two men shook hands with Ridgely and nodded at O'Shay. just before he left, Peter managed to flash a smile at Becky. She was standing so Ridgely could not see her and she returned the smile.

Peter's heart soared.

The door closed and Ridgely sat lost in thought. After a moment, he looked over at his deputy and said, "There's no way I can prosecute Gary Harmon. I know the family too well."

O'Shay had been hoping the district attorney would reach this decision. She had been very worried that he would want to prosecute Gary Harmon himself.

"You were at the wedding, weren't you?" he asked after a while.

O'Shay was ready for this. "Yes," she said, "but I don't know the Harmons and I only know Steve Mancini professionally."

Ridgely was a little put off by O'Shay's eagerness, but he understood it. Prosecuting a murder case was the ultimate challenge for a district attorney and the chance to do it in Whitaker was rare.

"I can ask the Attorney General for assistance. They provide help to. small counties in major cases."

Becky knew it was now or never. She pulled her chair up to the desk and leaned toward Ridgely.

"Earl, I can do this. You know I'm good. I'm running a ninety-five percent conviction rate."

"This is a murder case, Becky. What's the most complex case you've tried?"

"Peck, and I won. Three weeks, toe to toe with a hired un from Portland. I kicked his ass around the court room and you know it. Ask judge Kuffel."

"I don't have to. He went out of his way to tell me what a great job you did."

"Then you know I can try Harmon. Give me the chance."

Ridgely could not think of a reason to deny O'Shay the case.

"Harmon is yours," he said.

"Thank you. I'll never forget this."

"Before you prosecute Gary, I want you to be damn ertain he's the right man."

"De itely." O'Shay paused. She looked a little nervous when she asked, "What about the death penalty?"

Ridgely paled. He started to say something, then he c aught himself "I can't answer that question for the same reason I can't try the case. If you ask for the death penalty, it MUSE be your decision."

Becky nodded solemnly like a person beset by a moral quandary of epic proportions, but Becky O'Shay had decided she was going for the death penalty as soon as she realized that she had a chance to prosecute Gary Bar Mon. A lot of doors would open for a lawyer who was tough enough to successfully prosecute a death case.

Kevin Booth lived six miles outside of Whitaker at the end of a gravel road in a single-bedroom house that was little better than a shack. The paint on the outside of the house had been scarred by endless waves of windblown debris. A dismantled junket sat on blocks in the yard in front of a small, litter-filled garage. Booth's nearest neighbor was half a mile away. The view was brown flatlands and desolation, broken only by the wavering outline of another shack, a forlorn apparition abandoned long ago that served as a reminder of the inhospitable nature of the desert.

The inside of the house looked no better than the outside. Empty pizza boxes, crumpled cigarette packs and soiled skin magazines lay scattered around. In the kitchen, the rust-stained refrigerator was almost empty and dried soup congealed around the burners on the dilapidated stove.

Booth had staggered in around one and collapsed on his unmade bed. He was in such a deep sleep that the pounding on his front door did not arouse him immediately. When the din finally penetrated, he jerked awake, upsetting the lamp on his end table. It was pitch black in his room and his heart was beating so loudly that he could not distinguish between the two thumping sounds.

"One minute," he called out, but the pounding continued.

Booth swung his legs over the side of the bed. He was wearing boxer shorts and an undershirt. His mouth felt gummy. Awakening suddenly in the dark had disoriented him. The pills he'd taken before he went to sleep did not help. Booth fumbled for the switch on the lamp and had trouble finding it because the lamp was on its side.

"Just a minute," he yelled again.

This time the pounding stopped. Booth found the switch. The light hurt his eyes. He winced and groped around for his jeans, then pulled them on. After slipping into his sneakers, Booth staggered into the front room.

"Who is it?" he called through the door.

"Rafael Vargas," said a voice with a faint trace of Spain.

"Oh, shit," Booth said to himself.

"Open the fucking door," a deeper voice commanded.

The moment Booth opened the door he regretted it, but refusing to let the two men in would have been useless. The first man through the door could have eaten it if he wanted to. He wore a suit jacket over a tight black tee shirt that stretched across corded muscles. When he in oved, the jacket flapped back revealing the butt of a large handgun. The man wore his long hair tied back in a ponytail and a gold earring dangled from his left ear.

A jagged scar cut across his cheek, his nose was askew and his eyes were wild. As soon as he was inside, he searched the house.

Rafael Vargas was lean, wiry and obviously Latin. His amused smile revealed even, white teeth and there was a pencil-thin mustache over his upper lip.

'."Sit down, Kevin," Vargas commanded after he took the most comfortable chair in the shabby living room.

Booth sat on the couch across from his visitor.

"There's no one else here," Vargas's bodyguard said when he was finished searching. Vargas nodded, then turned his attention back to Booth.

"Did Chris explain what we want from you?" he asked.

Boot swa owe . He was sti groggy from the pills.

"When Mr. Vargas asks a question, he expects an answer ," the bodyguard said, taking a threatening step forward.

"Yeah," Booth answered quickly. "I'm just sleepy. It's three in the morning."

"Then you must wake up quickly, Kevin," Vargas said. "There are things to do."

"Uh, look, Mr. Vargas," Booth said anxiously, "I told Chris I didn't think I was right for this."

Vargas held up his hand and Booth froze.

"Look, amigo, Chris is hot. DEA is gonna have him under surveillance. He's smart enough to know that."

"I was arrested with Chris. They probably suspect me, too."

Vargas shook his head. "DEA forgot you the minute you left the courtroom."

"Right, but.. ."

"Kevin, wheels are in motion. It's too late to stop them from turning."

Vargas stood up. "I've got twenty kilos of cocaine in van parked out front. All you have to do is hold it for few days. Do you think you can do that?"

Booth felt the way he would have if Vargas had asked him to stand at ground zero on the day they dropped the A-bomb on Hiroshima.

"Twenty ... Mr. Vargas, I really don't want to be around twenty kilos of snow."

"There is nothing to worry about. We don't plan to leave the merchandise here for very long," Vargas said.

"Let's go to the van."

Booth got up quickly and Carlos and Vargas followed him outside. There was almost no moon and there was no light in the yard except for the headlights of a brown van and the light that filtered into the yard through the living room curtains. The only sound was Booth s breathing and his sneakers scraping across the dirt.

Booth stumbled on his way to the van, but neither man made any effort to catch him. Vargas found a flashlight in the glove compartment while Carlos opened the back of the van revealing two large, black plastic trashbags secured with ties.

"Take them out," Carlos commanded.

Booth grabbed the bags by their necks and pulled them out. As soon as he started for the garage, lights flooded the yard.

"Freeze! Federal agents!" shouted a man in a dark blue windbreaker. Stenciled on the back in yellow letters was DEA. Vargas dropped the flashlight and started to run, but two armed men appeared from the side of the garage. Carlos held his hands away from his body.

Booth froze.

"Drop the bags," commanded the man in the windbreaker. Booth complied instantly. One of the garbage bags broke and a fine white powder seeped out of the tear. Booth was slammed against the side of the van.

Rough hands frisked him, then his arms were wrenched behind him and metal cuffs were snapped on his wrists.

When he was jerked around, Booth found himself standing next to Vargas. The slender Hispanic said nothing until they were left alone for a moment while their captors conferred. As soon as the agents were far enough away, Vargas turned to Booth and whispered, "You are a dead man."

Kevin Booth looked worse than Steve Mancini had ever seen him. Not only was his acne acting up and his body odor more repulsive, but he appeared to be on the brink of a psychotic break. Sweat was pouring off Booth, he jerked around constantly and Mancini could swear that his client had not blinked once since he sat down.

"Kevin, Kevin. You've got to get ahold of yourself," Mancini cautioned.

"Ahold? What are you talking about? I was arrested with ten kilos of cocaine in each hand and Rafael Vargas, the executioner for one of Colombia's biggest drug cartels, has personally threatened to kill me. How can I get ahold of myself? You tell me."

"I admit you're in some serious shit here, but Vargas was probably venting his anger at you. These threats are made all the time and rarely carried out. And as far as the dope goes, you said you were forced to carry the bags. I'll explain that to the feds, we'll agree to cooperate in the prosecution of Vargas and .. ."

"No. No way will I testify against Rafael Vargas.

And, besides," Booth said in a suddenly subdued voice, "the feds aren't interested."

"How do you know?"

Booth ran his tongue across his lips. "I tried. When I was arrested, I begged them to let me cooperate. They sol id they didn't need me. They ... they said they were going to send me away forever and ... and nothin I could say would help."

"What happened exactly?" Mancini asked.

Booth told him. Mancini digested this information.

He looked at the case from the feds' point of view. The DEA must have been onto Vargas all along and followed him to Booth's home. Carlos and Vargas had probably been photographed loading the cocaine into the van and the three men had been caught red-handed. The case was open and shut. No search-and-seizure problems, no statements to be suppressed. just three amigos standing around with enough cocaine to get every man, woman, child and household pet in the state high.

Mancini shook his head solemnly. "This is going to be tough, Kevin. I'm going to have to work overtime to save your butt."

"You think you can win, Steve?" Booth pleaded, looking so pathetic that Mancini had to choke back a laugh.

"Didn't I take care of you the last time?"

"Yes. Yes you did," Booth responded eagerly.

"Now, with a case this big, I'll need twenty thousand up front," Mancini continued.

"Twenty ... The last time you only charged me seventy-five hundred."

"The last time we were in state court and you weren't caught with twenty kilos of snow. Fighting the feds is expensive. They have the resources of the entire government. I'm fighting Washington, D.C not some small town D.A."

"I don't have twenty thousand dollars," Booth said desperately.

"What about your parents?"

"My father ran off when I was two. I don't even remember him. And my mother," Booth said bitterly, "she's dead."

"Where did you get the dough last time?"

"Chris Mammon lent it to me."

"Well?" Mancini said with a shrug. "From what you've told me, you're in this scrape because of Mammon. Ask him to go your fee."

Booth hung his head. "I already called him. He won't talk to me."

Mancini sighed. "I want to help you, Kevin, but I can't work for free. Not on a case this big. You understand that, don't you?"

"You won so easy the last time. Can't you give me some credit? If you get me off I'll pay you double."

"No can do. Sorry, but I have an ironclad rule about fees in criminal cases."

Mancini looked at his watch. "Hey, I'm going to have to break this off. I'm due in court."

"Wait a minute. You can't just walk out on me."

"I'm afraid I have other clients, Kevin."

"Don't do this to me, man," Booth whined, "you gotta help."

"I really am due in court."

Mancini started to rap for the guard, but Booth grabbed him by the arm.

"I'll ... I'll tell the cops about you," Booth threatened.

Mancini did not move his arm. Instead he turned until his face was inches from Booth's.

"Oh, really?" Mancini said. "What exactly will you tell them?"

The former quarterback's bicep felt like steel through his suit jacket and Booth knew he had made a mistake.

"You ... you know," Booth stuttered.

"Let go of my arm, Kevin," Mancini said softly.

Booth's grip loosened. Mancini still did not move. Finally, Booth's eyes dropped and he released Mancini's arm. Mancini slowly lowered it.

"Never touch me again, Kevin. And never, ever threaten me. But if you feel compelled to talk, remember that two can play that game. Would you like me to visit Rafael Vargas and confirm his suspicions about you?"

Booth swallowed. Mancini smiled coldly, then made a point of turning his back on Booth. Booth sank back on his chair, shaking with terror at the thought of a life in prison, if he was fortunate enough to escape the vengeance of Rafael Vargas.

Chapter THIRTEEN.

Reporters from the Clarion, several other eastern Oregon papers and the local TV station were waiting for Peter outside the courtroom where Gary was to be arraigned. Peter made a brief statement expressing his total belief in his client's innocence. During the statement Peter made numerous references to the Bill of Rights, the Constitution and the American System of justice. He loved every moment in the spotlight.

Donna, Jesse and Alice Harmon were sitting with Steve Mancini in the front row of spectator seats. Peter stopped briefly to say hello, then walked through the low wooden gate that separated the spectators from the court. There were several defendants waiting to be arraigned and Gary was last on the list. Peter expected Earl Ridgely to handle Gary's arraignment, but Becky O'Shay was handling all the arraignments today and she called the case.

A guard brought Gary into the courtroom. He was used to his status as a prisoner by now and looked more confused than afraid. Gary spotted his parents. He started toward them, but the guard grabbed Gary by the elbow and pointed him toward Peter.

The clerk presented Peter and Gary with copies of an indictment charging Gary with aggravated murder, the most serious degree of homicide in Oregon and the only charge that carried the death penalty. The judge explained the charge and his rights to Gary, then the judge asked Gary what plea he wanted to enter. Peter told him to say, "Not guilty," and Gary said the words in a nervous whisper that could be heard easily only by those within the bar of the court. Peter and Becky discussed scheduling with the judge for a few minutes; then the arraignment was over.

"Hold up, will you?" Peter asked Becky. She waited patiently at her counsel table while Peter told Gary he would see him later in the afternoon, after he had a chance to read the discovery. As soon as Gary was led out, Peter smiled and asked O'Shay, "How've you been?"

"Great. Sorry about the other night."

"Me, too. Maybe I can collect on that rain check soon?"

"The Harmon case is a real plum for you," Becky said, skillfully avoiding Peter's question. Peter tried to look modest.

"A death penalty case is a big responsibility," he answered solemnly. "Where's Earl? I thought he'd want to handle Gary's arraignment personally."

"Earl isn't prosecuting Gary."

"He isn't? Then, who ... O'Shay smiled.

"You? You're going to prosecute?"

O'Shay nodded and looked suddenly somber. "Unfortunately, Peter, that means that we won't be able to see each other for a while, except, of course, in the courtroom."

Peter had been looking forward to going out with Becky. He felt a little depressed. Gary's case was going to put a damper on his social life.

O'Shay touched Peter lightly on the arm. "Come up to my office and I'll give you the discovery. And don't look so glum. We can make up for lost time when the trial is over."

After court, to his delight, Peter was interviewed by the press again, then Jesse Harmon gave him a twenty-fivethousand-dollar installment of the retainer. The money and the rush from being the center of attention put Peter in a very good mood.

Peter was so excited about the prospect of being the lead counsel in a major case that he had not given much thought to whether Gary had killed Sandra Whiley.

Gary's claim that he did not have a clear memory of the hours when the killing occurred and his evasive answers when asked point-blank if he had killed Sandra Whiley had aroused Peter's suspicions, but he had little basis for forming an opinion until he read the police reports.

When he returned to his office, Peter dumped the stack of police reports and the box of tapes O'Shay had given him ant o his desk and hunted up a tape recorder so he could hear Gary's interrogation. As he listened, Peter's mood changed from excitement to confusion to concern. Something was not right. Peter could see that Gary knew a lot about the murder, but what was this projection transfer" and "supernatural mind" stuff? It sounded to Peter as if Sergeant Downes had tricked Gary into making many of the statements that were incriminating. What i Gary was repeating what Downes said and not remembering it? What if Gary was innocent)

Several hours after the arraignment, a guard let Gary into the attorney-client interview room at the jail.

"Can I go home now?" Gary asked as soon as he saw Peter.

"No, Gary. I've explained this all to you before.

You're charged with murder, so there isn't any way you can get out of jail for a while."

Gary looked agitated. "How will I do my job?

I "Gary, you've got to focus on what's important.

Okay? We're talking about your life here. That job at the college is just a janitor's job. That job isn't important."

"Oh no, my Job is important," Gary told Peter with great seriousness. "Mom says every job is important and my job is very important. There are germs.

They are very small. You can't see them. They make people sick.

I scrub and scrub. I clean away the germs. I make the floor shine so you can see your face. I take out the garbage so the room won't smell bad. If I don't do my job people will be sick, the room will smell."

Gary grew more agitated as he spoke. Peter was surprised by how serious Gary was about his work. He felt a little bad about putting down his job.

"Look, Gary," Peter said gently, "I'm sure they have someone filling in for you. Someone to clean away the germs and take out the garbage until you can come back."

"Is someone taking my job?" Gary asked. He was pacing back and forth. "I want my job."

"No, no. No one is taking your job. Listen to me. Did I help you when you were arrested for looking at that girl?"

Gary nodded, but his eyes were darting back and forth with worry.

"Did Steve and I make sure you kept your job?"

Gary stopped pacing. He looked less worried.

"Gary, do you think Steve and I will let them take your job?"

"You helped me keep my job," Gary said, relaxing a little.

"Right. Your job is important, Gary. It's very important. The college needs you to do that job. They won't let anyone take your job because you're so good at it.

Okay? But you won't be able to go back at all unless you help me."

Gary's breathing settled. He stopped pacing.

"Now, why don't you si down and we'll take that it first step toward getting you out of here so you can work." Peter indicated one of the metal chairs on the other side of the wooden table. Gary sat down obediently. He wiped the palms of his hands on his jumpsuit and waited for Peter to continue. Peter sighed with relief then pointed to several tape cassettes and the stack of police reports he had reviewed over the past few hours.

"I've received some discovery from the district attorney and I wanted to go over it with you. I've read a summary of the statement you made to Sergeant Downes and I've listened to a few of the tapes of your interrogation. I want you to tell me again how you know so much about this murder."

"It's in . y powers."

"Your supernatural and subconscious minds?"

Gary nodded. Peter shifted uncomfortably on the metal chair as he searched for the words he wanted to say. Gary watched him hopefully. Peter felt sorry for his client. He wondered what it must be like to go through life with the mind of a very slow child. What did Gary think about? Did he think at all without a st'mulus? Was Gary nothing more than a machine with malfunctioning circuits? Were the rich patterns of life mere shadows for him? Or was there more to Gary than was apparent at first? According to the police reports, Gary had flown into a rage when Karen Nix insulted his intelligence.

Would a machine care what a person thought of its capabilities?

Peter had thought a lot about the fame and fortune Gary's case could bring him, but very little about Gary Harmon. At first, he was even put off by his client. Peter liked to be around intelligent, well-educated and presentable people. People on the go. People like himself before the Elliot case. Peter would never associate with someone like Gary under normal circumstances, but Peter found Gary's childlike dependence on him endearing as well as flattering. After the way he had been treated at Hale, Greaves, it was nice being appreciated.

Peter stopped musing and looked directly at Gary.

Gary met his eye without wavering.

"Gary, I want you to listen carefully to what I'm going to say." Gary leaned forward expectantly. "You do not have any special powers."

Peter waited for a response. Gary looked confused.

When he didn't reply, Peter pushed on.

"Do you understand what Sergeant Downes did to you?"

Gary shook his head. Peter tried to think of a diplomatic way of breaking the bad news to Gary.

"I'm your friend, Gary. Do you trust me?"

"Yeah."

"And you know if I say something that hurts your feelings, I'm saying it because I have to in order to save you?"

Gary nodded, again.

"Okay. Do you understand that you aren't as smart as some other people?"

Gary flushed, but he nodded.

"Do mean people take advantage of you sometimes?

Play tricks on you or try to fool you?"

"Yeah. I don't like them mean people. They hurt my feelings."

"Gary, Sergeant Downes played a trick on you. He took advantage of you. He said you have supernatural powers, but you don't."

Gary's expression was blank for a moment. Then his brow furrowed.

"How did I see the murder if I don't have powers?"

"There are only two explanations I can think of, Gary. Either you murdered Sandra Whiley ..

"Oh no, Mr. Hale. I couldn't do that."

or you made up what you said."

"No. I didn't make it up. I seen it."

"Sergeant Downes told you to imagine what you saw in your head, didn't he?"

"Yeah.

"That's all it was, Gary. Your imagination.

"But it seemed so real."

"Do me a favor. Close your eyes."

Gary obeyed Peter's request.

"Now this room. Do you have it?"

Gary nodded.

"What time of year is it?"

"Summer."

"In your mind, imagine it's winter." Peter waited a few seconds. "Can you see snow on the window? Is it cold?"

"Yeah.

"Now, imagine Santa Claus is in this room with us.

Do you see him? Can you see the icicles hanging from his beard? Can you see the twinkle in his eye?"

Gary smiled.

"Gary, have you ever seen Santa in this jail?"

"No."

"But you're seeing him in the jail now."

"That ain't .. ."

Gary stopped. His eyes opened slowly. The smile faded to a look of puzzlement.

"Do you see what Sergeant Downes did to you? Do you understand it now?"

"I ... I know I seen something. I know I seen two people in the park when I passed by."

"Can you swear you saw Sandra Whiley?"

Gary shook his head. He looked dejected. Peter's heart went out to him.

"This is our job, then. To find out what you really saw and what you made up. It's going to be a hard job, but we're going to work together and we're going to do it. Will you work with me, Gary? Will you help me?"

"Yes I will, Mr. Hale. I'll try real hard."

"Good, Gary. That's a start."

it was almost five o'clock when Peter left the jail. Working with Gary was exhausting. He was so open to suggestion that Peter had to watch every word, and he could never be certain if Gary really understood him or was nodding'to be polite. Representing Gary Harmon was going to be very frustrating and very time consuming.

As he walked up the stairs to Geary's office, Peter checked his watch. He was going to Steve's house after dinner to discuss strategy. There were all sorts of technical defenses, like diminished capacity, they might employ with a guilty client with Gary's intelligence. After today's session with Gary, Peter was wondering if they shouldn't dispense with them and go with a straight not guilty on the grounds that Gary did not commit the crime.

The autopsy report described the carnage to Sandra Whiley in graphic detail.

The person who inflicted those wounds was in a rage. Gary had been in a rage when he attacked Karen Nix, but Gary's rage was a spontaneous response to Nix's insult. The hatchet screamed premeditation. Who walks around with a hatchet? No, the killer carried the hatchet with him to use on the victim and that meant the killer planned his moves. Peter had a hard time picturing Gar Harmon planning breakfast . y "Mr. Geary wants to speak to you," Clara said as soon as Peter opened the office door.

"He's here?" Peter asked nervously.

"Nope," Clara answered without looking up from her typing. "He's at the Bunkhouse Motel in Cayuse County. Said to have you call the minute you walked in." Clara stopped typing and looked at Peter. "Those were his exact words. "The minute he walks in the door."' "Do you know why he wants to talk to me?"

"That's none of my business, Mr. Hale. I'm just a secretary. But he did seem a mite annoyed."

Peter wondered if Geary knew he was on the case already. He had hoped for more time to cement his position as Gary's attorney before having to confront his boss.

"Mr. Geary," Peter said as soon as he was put through by the motel clerk, "Clara said you wanted to talk to me."

"Yes. Yes I do. I was sitting in judge Gilroy's chambers after court and he jokingly offered me condolences on getting stuck with the Harmon case. I told him I didn't know what he was talking about, because our office doesn't handle death penalty cases. With all the work in the office, we would never be able to commit the time we would have to commit in order to do a competent job. Not to mention that no one in my office is qualified to handle a death case, which, I'm sure you know, is a case that requires a specialist.

"The judge said he could be mistaken, but judge Kuffel had phoned him during a break in our trial and he thought Kuffel said that my young associate had appeared at the arraignment for Mr. Harmon. That isn't true, is it, Peter?"

"Well, uh, yes it is. I mean, the judge is right. But you don't have to worry. This isn't a court appointment. The Harnions are going to pay us one hundred thousand dollars and expenses."

Peter held his breath as he waited for Geary to absorb the amount of the fee. Peter assumed that one hundred thousand dollars would allay any qualms his boss might have. There was silence on the line for a moment. When Geary spoke again, he sounded as if he was fighting to keep himself under control.

"Peter, I want you to call Jesse Harmon and tell him you made a mistake when you accepted his son's case without consulting me. Then, you march down to judge Kuffel's office and resign as quickly as you can. First thing in the morning is fine, but tonight would be better, if you can catch him in. You might want to call as soon as I hang up."

"But, Mr. Geary "No buts, Peter. You and this office are off the Harmon case as of now. Do you understand me?"

"Well, no, I don't understand. How much do we make on one of your crummy court appointments?

What, a few hundred bucks? I just brought in a one-hundred-thousand-dollar fee and you're acting like I did something wrong."

"You did do something wrong, Peter," Geary said in a tone that had Peter picturing swelling blood vessels and tightly clenched teeth. "First, you took this case without consulting me, your boss.

"Second, our firm has a contract to represent indigent defendants in three counties. A contract is a binding promise between two or more parties to undertake particular tasks. In order to honor my part of the contract I need to have you available to represent the indigent accused, no matter how crummy they may be. You will not be available if you are in court on one case for two to four months.

"Third, and most important, this is not some shoplifting case. If you fuck up, Gary Harmon will have lethal chemicals injected into his veins. And you will fuck up, Peter, because you are a fuck-up. Did you forget that your father exiled you to this intellectual Devil's Island because of your gross incompetence? Are you so shallow that you want to compound your felony by risking Gary Harmon's life for money?"

"I resent the implications that I took this case for the money," Peter said indignantly.

"I don't give a shit what you resent," Geary shouted.

"You either march down to the courthouse and resign the minute I hang up or clear out of your office."

The line went dead. Peter's hand was shaking. He hung up and slumped in his chair. What was he going to do? If he didn't resign from Gary's case, his last chance to get back in his father's good graces would be gone. But if he did resign, a golden opportunity to make a name for himself on his own would disappear. A chance like this might never come his way again.

Peter had rationalized his banishment to this dust bowl as a temporary inconvenience. He always believed that his father would welcome him back after he had done his penance as a low-paid advocate of the indigent accused.

What Peter pondered long and hard was his father's reaction to a call from Amos Geary telling him that Peter had lasted barely two months before he had to can him.

Before Elliot, Peter would never have believed his father would punish him for anything he did. When he was suspended from high school after tearing up the football field with his jeep in a drunken frenzy, Richard paid for the damage and somehow kept the suspension off his record. When there was that unfortunate prob I in lem with the sorority girl i college, Richard fumed and hollered, then paid for the abortion. And what about law school? To this day, Peter had no idea how he would have gained admission with his grades, if Richard had not stepped in. That was why it had been such a shock when his father lowered the boom after his fiasco in E hot and it was the reason why he could not dismiss the possibility that Richard would cast him out forever if he failed him again.

The thought of quitting Geary's firm made Peter feel like a kid getting ready to make a high dive for the first time. He could edge back along the board to safety by dropping Gary Harmon or he could take a frightening plunge into the unknown by staying on the case. Was he willing to trade his freedom for security? Did he want to stay a child his whole life, totally dependent on his father, or did he want to become a man who could stand on his own two feet?

Then, Peter remembered Steve Mancini's advice.

"Fuck Amos Geary," Mancini had said. Mancini was right. With one hundred thousand dollars he could say "Fuck you" to a lot of people. And there was the partnership waiting. When Peter thought about it, the choice wasn't all that hard.

"What are you going to do?" Steve Mancini asked as soon as Peter finished his account of his phone conversation with Amos Geary. They were seated on the couch in Mancini's living room. Police reports and tape cassettes were stacked next to a tape recorder in front of them on the coffee table. Donna was in the kitchen brewing coffee and slicing a coffee cake.

"I know what I'd like to do, but I have one huge practical problem. If I stay on as Gary's lawyer, I've got to clear out of my office."

"That's no problem, at all. I have an extra office at my place you can rent. You'd have a receptionist and you can pay one of my secretaries by the hour to type your stuff. My place is a hell of a lot nicer than Geary's mausoleum. What do you say?"

"Are you still serious about going into partnership?"

"You bet. Of course, we can't do it right now, because I've got to get Mountain View squared away and you've got Gary's case to try."

"Right."

"But I'm definitely interested."

"That's terrific, because I think it could work."

"Okay. So, we'll talk."

Peter shook Steve's hand and smiled bravely, but his insides were churning with fear.

"Now that we've got that settled, let's get to work," Steve said.

"I want you to read this report." Peter handed a thick, stapled stack of paper to Mancini. "It's a summary of Downes's interrogation. Then I want you to listen to sections of these tapes. The whole interrogation is about seven hours. I only had time to listen to two tapes, but the parts I'm going to play will give you some idea of what's going on."

Donna came out of the kitchen carrying a tray shortly after Peter started playing the tapes. She gave Peter and her husband cups of coffee and a slice of cake. Then, she sat on the co next to Steve and listened as Dennis Downes explained to Gary the marvelous powers he possessed.

"Are Gary's statements the reason he was arrested?" Donna asked Peter when the tapes were finished.

"They're a big part of it."

"But that's so unfair. Gary thought he was being a detective. He thought he was helping Downes. Gary wouldn't understand that Downes was fooling him.

No jury is going to believe that what Gary said was a confession."

"It would if Gary knows something that only the killer could know," Mancini said, "and I'm betting that somewhere on these tapes is something like that."

"Keeping Gary's statement out of evidence is definitely the key to winning the case," Peter said. "The question is how to do it."

"Doesn't the fact that Downes lied to Gary mean anything?" Donna asked.

"I seem to remember reading some cases in law school that held that a confession that is elicited by deceit won't hold up," Peter said.

"Maybe I can help find them," Donna volunteered.

"When I was studying to be a legal secretary I took a course on how to do legal research. Mr. Willoughby lets me do research for him, every once in a while."

"I can use all the help I can get," Peter said.

Mancini frowned. "When would you fit it in, honey?

You're pretty busy at work."

"I could do the research after work or on the weekend. Please, Steve. I want to do something more to help Gary than make coffee."

"Well ... I guess if it's okay with Pete Donna leaned over and kissed her husband on the cheek. Then, she stood up.

"I'll let you two get back to work while I clean up.

Holler if you need anything. And, Peter, let me know what you want me to do."

Donna almost skipped out of the room. There was a big smile on her face.

"You did okay, Steve. Donna's terrific."

"Why thanks," Mancini answered with a self-satisfied smile. "One thing, though. Don't count on Donna for much help. She's a good legal secretary, but legal research .. . ?" Mancini flashed Peter a patronizing smile. "Still, if you can find a make-work project for her, she'll be happy as a clam."

"She seems pretty sharp to me," Peter said, surprised to hear his friend put down his wife. "Let's see what she can do."

"Sure," Mancini said. He took a sip of coffee. "Let's get back to the confession. We should make a list of possible attacks on it. I noticed that Don Bosco observed a lot of the questioning. Why don't I talk to him and see what he has to say about it."

"Good idea."

"I'll do it first thing in the morning."

"I'm going to need a good investigator. Can you suggest someone?ll "There aren't many in this area. Ralph Cotton is pretty good. He does some wa.rk for the Sissler firm.

And Mike Compton does some investigation."

Mancini thought for a moment. "You know, there's a guy I've used, Barney Pullen. He works as a mechanic a t his brother's garage, but he used to be a cop. You might check to see if he's available."

Peter jotted down the names Steve had given him.

Then, he said, "There are a few other things we have to go over. Becky included a police report about the peeping incident. Another report mentions some pornographic magazines that were found in the closet in Gary's bedroom. I think Becky is going to try and have the porno stuff and evidence of the peeping incident admitted. What can we do about that?"

"We have to file a motion to keep that out. The jurors are going to believe Gary's a pervert if they hear it."

"I agree. Why don't I concentrate on this issue."

"Okay.

"There's something else," Peter said.

Mancini noticed a change in Peter's voice. Whatever this new thing was, it had Peter worried.

"What's the problem?"

Peter handed Mancini a stack of police reports.

"I'm hoping these reports are in here by mistake. If they're not, Gary may be in big trouble."

Mancini skimmed the first report. His features clouded.

"Did Becky mention anything about this?"

"No.

Mancini laid the stack of reports on his desk.

"She can't think Gary was also involved in these cases."

"She must. Why would she give me police reports about the murders of two other women if she didn't think Gary committed them?"

Chapter FOURTEEN.

The prisoners in the Whitaker jail were allowed an hour a day to exercise in the yard. Gary waited for that hour like a marooned sailor longing for rescue. Inside, the jail was musty gray and the air was heavy. Outside, there with reminders was the sun, birds in flight and air sweet of the way his life used to be. This afternoon, Gary leaned against the chain-link fence and watched several prisoners pumping iron on the far side of the yard.

Gary wanted to lift weights, but he was afraid to go near them. Besides, he wasn't feeling so good. The meeting with Peter Hale had left him confused. Peter said he did not have supernatural powers, but he was certain he did.

If he didn't have those powers, how did he know so much about the murder?

How had he seen Sandra Whiley die?

"Hey, Gary?" a familiar voice said. Gary turned around and saw Kevin Booth. Booth was sweating and of stand still. He had been using so many he couldn drugs that his system was having trouble adjusting to the deprivations jail imposed. Gary did not notice. All he knew was that he finally had a friend to talk to.

"Hi, Kevin! Are you arrested too?"

"Yeah. I got busted a few days ago."

"What did you do?" Gary asked with concern.

"I fucked up, big time. Federal stuff."

Booth's shoulders twitched a little.

"I don't like it here," Gary confided.

"Why is that?"

"Some of the men pick on me. They say mean things."

"You've got to learn how to deal with those motherfuckers," Booth responded with false bravado. He wanted Gary to think he was not afraid of being in jail, but he had barely slept during the short stint he had spent when he was arrested at Whitaker State and last night had been hell. "If anyone messes with you, you mess them up first or you won't get any respect."

"My mom says I shouldn't fight," Gary said nervously.

"Yeah? Well, your mom isn't in jail."

just as he said this, Booth noticed Rafael Vargas sitting in the bleachers near the body builders. Not far away, his bodyguard, Carlos Rivera, was completing a set of curls with weights that were the size of car tires.

Every time he brought the bar to his chest, his body would swell up like a balloon. Booth felt his bowels loosen and he looked away quickly.

"So, man," Booth said, moving so Gary's body blocked Vargas's view of him, "I read about you. You're a fuckin' media star. Front page! Murder!

That's heavy."

"I didn't do anything to that girl," Gary assured his friend. "I just seen it."

"Seen what?"

"My lawyer doesn't want me to talk about the case to anyone."

An idea suddenly occurred to Booth. He shot a quick look at Vargas. When he turned back to Gary, he was wearing an ingratiating smile.

"Hey, Gary, this is me. We've been buddies since high school. What do you think I'm gonna do, rat you out?"

"Oh no," Gary said, coloring with embarrassment.

"Your lawyers probably don't want you talking to someone you don't know. Now, that makes sense. But I'm your friend, right?"

"Oh, sure," Gary agreed.

"So, what gives?"

Gary hesitated. Peter was emphatic about not talking to anyone about his case. He said that some people in jail would tell the D.A. he had confessed to them so they could get a deal on their own case. Then, they would testify against him in court and tell lies. Peter had warned him to look out for those men, but he couldn't have meant Kevin. Peter probably meant he shouldn't talk to strangers, like Mom had always warned him.

Kevin Booth wasn't a stranger. He was a friend. So, Gary proceeded to tell him everything about his case.

it was late afternoon when Steve Mancini returned to his office. He picked up his message slips at the reception desk and glanced through them as he walked down the hall. One of the messages was from Harold Prescott.

Mancini's mouth went dry and the hand holding the message shook. He closed his office door. As he dialed Whitaker Savings and Loan, he shut his eyes and said a little prayer.

The United States Olympic ski team trained at Mount Bachelor near Bend, Oregon. Three years ago, the state of Oregon had launched a campaign to bring the Olympics to Bend. Shortly after, Mancini had joined a group of investors to form Mountain View, Inc with the goal of building a ski lodge and condominiums near Bend.

Harold Prescott had engineered a construction loan at his bank. The loan was used to start work on the lodge and the first condo units, but the weather, labor problems and escalating costs had eaten up most of the loan and slowed progress on the project. The loan was due soon. Mountain View was trying to get a long-term loan from the bank to pay off the construction loan and complete the first phase of the project. Mancini had invested heavily in the project. If it failed, he would be ruined.

"I'm afraid I have bad news, Steve," Prescott said as soon as they were connected. "The committee met this afternoon. it voted against authorizing the loan."

Mancini felt as if he was going to throw up. He squeezed his eyes shut and fought the nausea.

"Steve?"

"I don't get it," Mancini managed.

"I argued for it, but there was too much opposition."

"What's the problem?" Mancini asked desperately.

"We've been dealing with Whitaker Savings and Loan since the project started. Nothing's changed."

"Steve, I warned you about this potential problem two years ago. The Federal National Mortgage Association would not approve the project. Without their approval we can't sell the loan on the New York market. I tried to persuade the others to take a chance, but it was no go."

"Fannie Mae wouldn't approve because it's a resort area and we don't have earnest money for fifty percent of the units. That will change as soon as Bend wins the bid for the Winter Olympics."

"The problem is that there's no assurance Bend will get the games. The rumor we're hearing is that one of the European countries has the edge. The committee was unwilling to take the risk."

"Harold, I don't know who you've been talking to.

Roger Dunn told me his sources say we've got a terrific shot. Once the announcement is made, those condos will sell like hotcakes."

"That wasn't the only problem. There aren't enough liquid assets in your group. Most of the land is only optioned. The feeling was that there wasn't enough hard equity in the project."

The rest of the conversation went by in a dull hum.

Mancini responded automatically as a sharp throbbing pain filled his head.

After a few more minutes, he hung up and stared at the wall. He knew he should call the other partners, but he could not move. All he could think about was his financial ruin.

Mancini told his secretary to hold his calls. Then he took a glass and a half-filled bottle of scotch out of his bottom drawer. He poured a stiff drink, downed it and poured another. The whiskey burned and the numb feeling wore off and was replaced by rage.

It was Shan, his first wife, who had talked him into investing in Mountain View, filling him with tales of the millions they would make. Then, the bitch bailed out, leaving him to face financial destruction. She'd probably known this would happen all along. He could imagine her laughing at him when she read about the collapse of Mountain View. Mancini's stomach knotted and pain ripped through his skull. His hands squeezed together and the whiskey glass shattered, spraying scotch and blood onto the carpet.

"Donna Harmon is here to see you, Mr. Hale," Clara said over the intercom.

"Send her back," Peter answered, relieved that Clara had not buzzed him to say that Amos Geary was on the line. Peter had spent the day in torment as he pondered his decision to leave Amos Geary. He had come to work late, timing his arrival to coincide with the start of court in Cayuse County, and had been out of the office during every conceivable time that Geary could call. Clara had given him several messages from his boss, each longer and more threatening, but Peter had returned none of them.

"Hi," Peter said when Donna stuck her head in the door. She looked excited.

"I think I found some good cases about tricking people into confessing," Donna said, thrusting a manila envelope at Peter.

"Sit down. Let me take a look."

Peter pulled out copies of the cases and articles Donna had photocopied for him.

"There's a great sentence in Miranda v. Arizona," Donna told him, referring to her copy of the famous United States Supreme Court case that established the rule that police had to warn suspects about their constitutional rights to remain silent and to have counsel before questioning them. "It says that even a voluntary waiver of your rights is no good if the accused was threatened, tricked or cajoled into giving the waiver.

And listen to this from a University of Pennsylvania Law Review article about "Police Trickery in Inducing Confessions."

"The author says that "A form of deception that totally undermines the Fifth and Sixth Amendment protections available to an individual occurs when the police deceive a suspect about whether an interrogation is taking place." That's what Downes did. He made Gary think there was no interrogation. He made him believe he was a detective."

"You're pretty good," Peter said with genuine admiration after he skimmed the material. The cases were old and the Law Review article had been written in 1979, but they would make it easier for him to zero in on more recent cases.

"Thanks," Donna answered, blushing from the compliment.

"When did you do this?"

"During lunch."

"Well, I couldn't have done better in that amount of time. This will really help." You think so?" Donna asked hopefully.

"Definitely."

Donna's features clouded. "Have you talked to Gary?" she asked.

"Not since yesterday. He's doing pretty well, under the circumstances. He seems to have accepted the jail."

"He would. Gary never complains about anything."

"You really love your brother, don't you?"

"I love him very much. We all do,"

"it must be hard with his being, uh ... so slow."

Donna smiled. "You mean 'retarded'?"

Peter flushed. "I didn't mean "No, that's okay. I'm used to it. People always think t that a person who's 'retarded' is harder to love, but that's not true. When Gary was small, he was so much fun. You know how handsome he is. Well, he was a beautiful little boy. Always running and laughing. it wasn't until he was older that we realized how dreadfully slow he was and how hard it was for him to learn.

One day Mom came back from school. It had never been official before. just something weknew, but never admitted. Mom told us what Gary's teacher had said about a special class with other 'slow learners." Then, Mom said that Gary was God's child like everybody else and that was all she was interested in. If Gary needed extra help he would get it, but she was not going to treat Gary differently because of his intelligence. As far as sh was concerned, Gary was a kind and moral boy and that was all that mattered.

"I never loved Mom more than I loved her when she said that. It shaped Gary's life. We never made him feel like a freak or demanded less than he could accomplish."

Donna paused. Her features were set in stone.

"He is a good boy, Peter. A good, simple boy, just like Mom said. He's always been like that. He couldn't do what they're saying."

Peter wanted to say something to reassure Donna, but he knew that anything he said would sound wrong.

Donna took a deep breath and stood up. She was embarrassed by her sudden display of emotion.

"I ... I'd better go. I have to shop for dinner."

"Thanks for the cases."

"I hope they help," Donna said as she left the office.

Peter closed the door behind Donna and wandered I th u back to his desk, lost in ought. Donna really tr sted him, so did Gary. They believed that he would set Gary free. Was their faith misplaced?

Peter remembered his phone conversation of the day before with Amos Geary.

His boss had told him bluntly that he was not competent to try an aggravated murder case. Was Steve Mancini mistaken in his belief that Peter had the tools to handle a capital murder? Was Peter fooling himself? What if a death case was too complicated for him at this stage of his career? What did he really know about trying a charge of aggravated murder? It occurred to Peter that he should talk to someone with a little experience in this area in order to get some idea of what he was getting into.

Peter looked up the phone number for the Oregon Criminal Defense Lawyers Association. The secretary at the OCDLA gave him the names of three experienced death penalty attorneys. Peter decided not to call the first two names on the list. They practiced in Portland and he was afraid they would know who he was. Sam Levine was a Eugene attorney and he was in.

"So this is your first death case," Levine said after Peter explained why he was calling.

"First one."

"I remember my first. I'd tried about seven, eight murder cases and I thought I was a hotshot." Levine chuckled. "I had no idea what I was getting myself into."

"Why is that?" Peter asked nervously.

"No other case is like a death case. They're unique.

The biggest difference is that you have to prepare for two trials from the get-go. The first trial is on guilt and innocence. If your guy is convicted of aggravated murder, there is a whole second trial on what penalty he should receive.

"With your usual case, you don't think about sentenc A ing until your client is convicted. With a capital case, you have to assume he's going to be convicted even if you're personally convinced you're going to win, because the penalty phase starts almost immediately after a conviction in front of the same jury that found your client guilty and you won't have time to prepare for the penalty phase if you wait until the last minute." Peter asked question after question and felt more and more insecure with each answer. Levine explained the special jury selection procedure he should request and told Peter that there was an entire body of law peculiar to capital murder cases. After three quarters of an hour, Levine said that he had to meet a client, but he told Peter he would be glad to speak to him again.

"Thanks. I really appreciate the time you've taken."

"You'll learn that there's a real fraternity among death penalty lawyers. I always call other attorneys for help. You've got to. When you try a driving while suspended, you can afford to fuck up. What are they going to do to your client, give him a weekend in jail? But with a death case, you have to be perfect. If you make one small mistake, the state eats your client."

Donna Harmon's arms were loaded with groceries, so she backed through the front door, then pushed it shut with her foot.

"Steve, I in home," she shouted cheerfully, as she deposited her packages on the counter next to the sink.

The house was dark. Donna turned on the kitchen light.

It was late and Donna assumed Steve would be home by now. She called out his name again as she walked down the hall to the living room. When the lights went on, Donna was startled to see her husband sitting silently by the fireplace.

"Why didn't you answer me?" she asked, still smiling.

But the smile faded as her husband looked up at her.

Mancini's eyes were bloodshot and his clothing was rumpled. He was holding a drink and it was obvious that it wasn't his first. The hand holding the glass was bandaged.

"What happened to your hand?"

"I cut it."

"How?" she asked, crossing to him.

"If you were concerned about me, you would have been here when I needed you."

The anger in Steve's voice made Donna Stop.

"I had no idea you were hurt, but I have something that will make you feel better. Veal and spinach pasta with a sauce I read about in Gourmet magazine."

"Do you know what time it is?"

"I lost track of time. I was meeting with Peter about some research I did in Gary's case. I'm sorry if I'm late."

"I'm sorry," Mancini mimicked. "Is that supposed to make everything better? I bust my ass all day for you and all I ask is that you have my dinner ready when I get home."

Mancini stood up slowly and walked over to Donna.

He was speaking in a monotone. The muscles in his neck stood out and his face was flushed. For the first time since she'd known him, Donna was frightened of her husband. Mancini stopped in front of her. She could smell the thick odor of alcohol when he spoke.

"Now, let's get one thing straight here. You are not a lawyer and I don't expect you to pretend to be one.

You're a goddamned secretary and my wife. You work from eight to five, then you get your ass home. Is that clear?"

Donna was so hurt it was hard for her to speak. Tears welled up.

"I I said I'm sorry. I appreciate how hard you work ..

Mancini stared at his wife with what looked, unbelievably to her, like contempt.

"I would like a little less appreciation," Steve said between clenched teeth, "and some food. Do you think you can manage that?"

"You .. . You're not being fair," Donna stuttered. "I was trying to help Gary. I .. . I know I'm not as smart as you, but I can do research. I ... I can be useful."

"What did I just say, you cunt?" Mancini shouted.

The first blow was backhand and rattled her teeth.

The second was openhanded and sent her stumbling backward. Donna was in shock. She gaped at her husband, unable to accept what was happening even though she could see Steve's fist moving toward her. The blow struck her in the solar plexus, driving all the air from her. Donna sank to her knees, then crumpled onto her side, flailing for oxygen. Mancini kicked her in the ribs and watched her writhe on the floor.

Mouth open, Donna sucked in air. She could not breathe and she thought she would die. Nothing but air mattered. Her lungs filled and a sob escaped from her As her breath returned, she was gripped by terror.

Donna rolled on her side and saw her husband put on his jacket. By the time she could speak, he was gone.

Had Steve really hit her? It seemed incredible, even though she knew it was true. Donna curled up on the floor and tried to piece together what had happened from the moment she opened the front door. What had she done to deserve a beating? She was late, but that was because she was helping Gary and Peter. She was sorry she was late. She was sorry dinner wasn't ready.

Sorry, sorry, sorry. But did she deserve to be beaten because she was late with Steve's dinner? There must be something else, but what could she have done, that was so awful that it had driven her husband to hit her?

Donna asked that question over and over as she lay sobbing on the living room floor.

Chapter FIFTEEN.

When Donna awoke, it was to the scent of roses. The pungent smell confused her, because there hadn't been any roses in her bedroom when she had finally passed out from exhaustion, alone, in the early hours of the morning. Donna sat up to find every inch of the bed, the floor and the furniture covered by roses of every color and her husband sitting in a corner of the room watching her. Memories of the night before flooded in. Donna shrank back against the headboard.

Steve was unshaven. His clothes appeared to have been slept in. There was no anger in him. Only contrition. He walked over to Donna and knelt by the side of the bed on a carpet of red and yellow roses. His head hung down.

"I have no excuse for what I did to you. All I can do is explain why it happened and pray for your- forgiveness."

The rose fragrance was overpowering in the closed room. The memory of her husband looming above her as his blows rained on her body was vivid and frightening. But Steve seemed so chastened that Donna let him try to explain his savage attack.

"I'd been drinking. I started in the afternoon and never stopped." Mancini paused and took a deep breath before continuing. "The bank turned down the Mountain View loan." There were tears in Steve's eyes, but Donna was still too frightened of him to move. "I didn't know what to do," he sobbed, and Donna's heart began to break. "We could be ruined. I sank everything I had into that project."

Her husband raised his eyes to hers. He looked so sad.

"Can you ever forgive me? I was so full of anger and so afraid, but I should never have taken it out on you.

Please, Donna, I don't want to lose you."

"Where ... where have you been?" Donna asked, as she tried to sort out her jumbled thoughts and emotions.

"I drove around for hours thinking about what I'd done. When I was too tired to drive anymore I pulled into the first motel I saw, but I couldn't sleep. I felt so bad about ... about hurting you. God, how could I have hit you?"

Mancini's face crumpled. Kneeling by the bed, his head down, framed in the multihued bouquets of roses, Steve looked like a little boy. Donna reached out and touched him on the cheek. He took her hand and pressed his lips to the palm, then pressed it against his cheek again.

"I'm sorry about the loan," Donna said, "but we'll pull through. You have your practice and your brains and you have me."

Steve looked at Donna with the rapt glow of a supplicant whose prayers have been answered. Then, he squeezed her hand and wiped away the tears that had clouded his vision.

"Thank you, Donna. I should have known you'd stand by me. But I was so depressed. I wanted Mountain View to succeed so much."

"I love you, Steve. I don't need Mountain View to be happy."

"You don't understand. I want to do things for you that I can't do now. I wanted us to be important, not just in Whitaker, but everywhere. If Mountain View is successful, we'll be rich. But now .. Mancini shook :10'"

his head slowly. "I don't think we can make tapped out and I can't think of any place to turn for money, now that the bank's turned us down.II "Maybe .. ." Donna started. Mancini looked up at her. "I could talk to my father.. .

"Oh no, Donna, I couldn't ask you to do that,"

"How much money do you need?"

"I'd have to talk to my partners," Mancini answered excitedly. "If we could buy some of the property instead of having it on option, we might get Whitaker Savings to rethink the loan."

Mancini stood up and sat next to Donna on the bed.

They fell into each other's arms and Steve hugged her to his chest.

"I don't deserve you, Donna. What I did can't be excused. I must have been out of my mind."

"Just hold me," Donna said,.not wanting to think about the horror of the past evening.

"I Will. III I hold you forever. And I swear to you that I will never, ever hurt you again."

"I don't think this is important," Eric Polk told Dennis Downes, "but I figured,-better safe than sorry, so I had Wilma come down."

Eric was also on the Whitaker police force, but he was several years older than Downes and was not working on the Harmon case, "How you doin', Wilma," Downes said, smiling at Eric's wife.

"Just fine. How are Till and Todd?"

"Damn kid of mine runs me ragged. He's only ten and he's almost as big as me."

"I heard he's tearing up Little League," Eric said.

"Don't get me started on Todd or I'll chew off your ear. So, what do you have for me, Wilma?"

Wilma Polk was a heavyset woman in her mid-fiffies with curly gray hair and a round, pleasant face, who was not used to being the center of attention.

"It's probably nothing. I'd even forgotten about it until Eric said something about Donna Harmon's wedit just popped into my head."

ding and, well, "Go ahead, Wilma," her husband said.

"Mabel Dawes and I were over by the food table at Donna Harmon's wedding reception. We were talking about the murder because Eric had been at the scene that morning. Gary was nearby and he must have overheard us. He came over and started talking about the murder, too."

"What did he say?" Downes asked.

"I've tried to remember exactly, but it's been a while, and I wasn't really interested at the time."

"Just give me the gist . , if you can't remember the exact words."

"He didn't get to say much, because Eric came up and interrupted us."

"We were due at Mary's at two and it was one-thirty, so we had to get moving," Eric explained. "It was Kenny s third birthday." , :"SO, go ahead," Downes prodded as he jotted down some notes about the time of the conversation.

"As I remember, I was saying something about Eric being at the crime scene.

I believe I had 'just explained J about the horrible wounds when Gary walked over. He said he had seen the girl at the Stallion, the night before.

I was about to ask him some more about the girl when Eric reminded me of the time."

"How did Gary seem Was he nervous, excited?".

"He didn't seem nervous. Maybe a little excited, but we all were. The murder is very frightening."

"Okay," Downes said, smiling at Wilma as he scribbled some more notes. Thanks for dropping by. I'll write a report about the conversation for the D.A."

Eric Polk escorted his wife out of Downes's office.

Downes looked at his watch. It was time for a coffee break. He decided to dictate his report on his interview with Wilma Polk, then see if anyone wanted to go over to Mels Car& for a piece of pie and a cup of coffee. He was finishing the dictation when the phone rang.

"Dennis, are you busy?" Becky O'Shay asked.

"I wa& going out for a cup of coffee. Why?"

"Put the coffee on hold. I just received a call from the jail. One of the prisoners, claims Gary Harmon confessed to him. I want you to come along with me. If this pans out, I'll buy the coffee and treat you to lunch."

"The last time you escaped justice by a nose, Mr. Booth," Becky O'Shay said with a smirk, "but your luck seems to have run out."

Booth flushed with anger and looked at the floor, afraid to let O'Shay see the hatred in his eyes. He could not stand being humiliated by a woman, but he was in no position to do anything about it.

"I understand you have something for us."

"Yeah, I got something. What I want to know is what I get in return."

"What do you want?"

Booth licked his lips. His right foot could not stop tapping and Booth could not sit still. Withdrawal, O'Shay thought immediately. She bet every nerve in Booth's body felt like a live wire. When he looked u O'Shay read stark terror on Booth's face.

"I want witness protection. I want to go somewhere Rafael Vargas and Chris Mammon can't get me."

"That's asking a lot. Your beef's federal. I don't know if they'll go along, even if I wanted to."

"Hey," Booth pleaded, "I'm small potatoes. I'm nothing. The feds don't want me. I'm an undersize catch. But I can deliver Mammon or Vargas and I can ice Gary Harmon."

"Tell me about Harmon."

Booth shook his head vigorously from side to side.

"Uh uh. What do you take me for? I'm not giving up anything until I know I'm going to be protected."

O'Shay turned to Dennis Downes. "Can we transfer Mr. Booth to the jail in Stark?"

"We've done that before. Sheriff Tyler will keep you warm and comfy, Kevin. They got a nice security wing.

Real modern."

"I don't care where I go, as long as it's away from anyone connected with Rafael Vargas."

"I'll check to see if any of his people are incarcerated in Stark. If there's a problem, I've got another couple ideas."

"So, Mr. Booth?" O'Shay asked.

"What about my deal? If I talk, what do I get?"

"Let me explain something to you. If we make a deal before you testify it will affect the value of your evidence. The first thing Peter Hale will ask you on cross examination is what reward you're getting for your testimony. If you can say that you, are testifying as a service to humanity, it will make you much more believable."

"You want me to testify for nothing?"

"I didn't say that, did I?"

"No, but..

"Do you think I'll let you down if you come through for me?"

Booth licked his lips. O'Shay made him very nervous and she was so sexy it was distracting.

"How do I know you won't screw me? What if I testify and you lose anyway?

I need a guarantee."

"You need help, Mr. Booth, and the only person in the galaxy who can help you is sitting in front of you in this room. Do you want my help?"

"Yeah. That's why I'm here."

"Good. Then we'll do things my way or not at all. If you ask for anything in return for your testimony, I'll walk out of here. If you want to be a good citizen and help me out, I'll be very receptive to any pleas for assistance you might make after Harmon's trial."

"Man, I don't know. I don't like this."

"You don't have to like it, Mr. Booth. You only have to accept the fact that you have no choice but to do as I say. Right now, I would appreciate hearing a summary of what you can tell me about Harmon."

Booth didn't trust O'Shay, but he realized he had no choice.

"Gary confessed to me. He told me he done it."

"Why would he do that?"

"I've known Gary since high school. He thinks I'm his friend. He's so fuckin' dumb, it was easy. At first, he denied doin' it, but I told him it took balls to commit murder. I built him up. Gary's such a retard, he never figured out what I was doin'. Soon, I had him bragging about how good it felt to snuff Whiley."

"That's certainly interesting, but how do we know you're not making up this whole story? You're facing a long sentence in a federal prison, you have some very scary people mad at you. That's a lot of motivation to lie."

Booth looked wild-eyed. He felt his only chance at safety and freedom slipping away.

"I ain't lying. This is the truth. He spilled his guts to me.

"Maybe he did, but I only have your word for that.

Unless you can give me something concrete, something that proves Harmon killed Sandra Whiley, your testimony will be useless."

Booth put his hands to his head. He closed his eyes and shifted on his seat.

"Let me think," he begged.

O'Shay felt disgust for Booth, but she did not let it show. If Harmon really.had confessed to Booth, Booth's testimony would be very important to her case. Now that the first flush of excitement had faded, she realized that her case was not as strong as she first imagined ' Although she would argue that Harmon's statements to Downes contained so much detail that he had to be the killer, Harmon had not really confessed to killing Whiley. And there was the problem of the blood, or lack of it. Police technicians had not found any of Whiley's blood on Harmon's clothes or in his house. And the murder weapon was still missing.

Suddenly, Booth's face lit up. "I got it , he said. "I got something solid. Something that will prove I'm not lying."

Peter watched Clara Schoen leave Amos Geary's office from the coffee shop across the street. Geary had left half an hour before. Peter gave it fifteen minutes more to be certain Clara would not return before scurrying across to the law office.

Peter felt a little bit like a thief, though he had convinced himself that there was nothing wrong with clearing out his own belongings from his own office after everyone was gone. He wasn't taking anything that wasn't his and coming in when Geary wasn't there would prevent a nasty scene. Everyone was better off this way.

Peter had brought an empty liquor carton with him.

He set it on the desk and was filling it with law books and personal items when he looked up to find Amos Geary watching him from the doorway.

"He ... hello, Mr. Geary," Peter said with an uneasy smile.

Geary shook his head slowly.

"You are some piece of work." Geary's voice was filled more with sadness than anger. "How are you going to defend a man's life when you don't even have the guts to leave my office in broad daylight?"

"I ... Uh, I was, uh, going to drop in tomorrow to, uh, thank you for ..

." Peter started, but Geary cut him off with a sound that was half laugh, half bark.

"You really don't have any pride, do you? It's beyond me how a man like your father could sire someone as worthless as you."

Peter flushed, but he was too embarrassed at being caught to reply.

"Where are you sneaking off to?" Geary asked.

"I'm not sneaking anywhere. These are my things," Peter said, tilting the carton to show Geary the contents.

Geary kept his eyes on Peter's face and didn't look down. Peter was able to keep eye contact for only a moment before he lost his nerve.

"I'm moving to Steve Mancini's offices," he answered. His voice quivered a little.

Geary nodded slowly. "You and Mancini should get along just fine."

Peter straightened up. He realized that he had packed all his things and there was no more need to stay, but Geary was blocking the doorway.

"I, uh, I really do appreciate the chance you gave me.

I learned a lot these past weeks," Peter said, hoping that he sounded suitably grateful.

"You didn't learn a thing, Peter. You're the same sorry son of a bitch you were when you cheated that poor woman in Portland. Is it going to take the death of Gary Harmon to make you see how truly pathetic you are?"

It suddenly occurred to Peter that Geary might be angry enough to try to talk Jesse Harmon into firing him.

"What are you going to do?" he asked nervously.

Geary made no effort to hide his contempt.

"Don't worry. I won't interfere with your precious case. You've been admitted to practice law in this state' so you're entitled to try any type of case you want to' and the Constitution gives Gary Harmon the right to be represented by the counsel of his choice, no matter how sorry a son of a bitch that lawyer may be. But I will leave PART you with a thought. Gary Harmon is a living, breathing human being. If you continue with this farce and he is executed, you will be as much a murderer as the bastard who killed that poor girl in the park."