The Walker in Shadows

I

Spring came early that year. An unseasonably warm spell brought crocuses and daffodils leaping out of the ground in sunny splendor and encouraged the cherry blossoms to bloom on schedule for the first time in ten years. When the women met in the supermarket they gloated over the lovely weather, and hoped frost wouldn't blight the blooms of peach and cherry and apple. Fruit prices were as high as Everest already.

Mark's fancy did not lightly turn with the season. It had focused on its goal even before the daffodils appeared. Actually, according to Nancy Groft, spring didn't make young men turn to thoughts of love. They thought about it all the time, winter, fall, and summer. If "love" was the right word…

Pat smiled dutifully at Nancy 's jokes, but she wasn't really amused. Although she would never have admitted it to Nancy, who had been rendered callous by the love affairs of four sons ("you have to get tough, honey, or you bleed to death,") she was worried about Mark. He wasn't eating. Even Nancy would have agreed that was a bad sign.

To say he wasn't eating was an exaggeration, of course. He ate what a normal human being would eat-about half of his usual capacity. Pat knew what was bothering him, and in her opinion, it was only about fifty percent love. If "love" was the right word…

The other fifty percent was outraged ego. Mark was a fast worker-as Pat's generation might have said-but in this case he didn't even get a chance to start working. Kathy's father drove her to school every day. It was a long drive, almost thirty miles, and they left before seven. After a week or so Mark became desperate enough to rise at six thirty-a hitherto unheard-of concession for a girl-but it did him no good. Kathy and Friedrichs emerged from the house together, got in the car, and drove off. Their garage was on the side of the house away from Pat's, so Kathy didn't even see Mark draped over the fence like a pensive gargoyle. Pat saw him, though, and she didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

Friedrichs also drove his daughter home. Usually they didn't arrive until six or seven p.m. Some nights it was even later. Presumably they ate out a good deal of the time. The Friedrichs' telephone number was unlisted, and Mark didn't have quite enough nerve to march up to the door and ask to speak to Kathy.

The weekend, for which Mark held high hopes, was equally unproductive. It rained both days and Kathy scarcely left the house. Mark shut himself up in his room, which just happened to overlook the house next door; he had virtuously announced his intention of catching up on schoolwork, but Pat knew he spent most of the time staring morosely out his window. One of Friedrichs' first acts upon moving in had been to hang curtains, so Mark was denied even a glimpse of his new flame.

It was typical of the perversity that pursues lovers that his mother should see more of Kathy than Mark did. Once, between showers on Saturday, she caught sight of the girl wandering in the wet garden. Mark was out, rendering emergency assistance to a friend whose car had run out of gas on the highway. Another day Pat actually met Kathy as she left for work. Mark had given up his early-morning vigils by then, and was still asleep. The girl had just time enough for a smile and a shy "good morning" before her father's peremptory voice called her to hurry.

She was a darling, Pat had to admit that. Petite and dainty as a Meissen shepherdess, even in the navy-blue skirt and tailored jacket Willowburn required of its students, she had charm as well as beauty. The shy smile and nod had been quite delightful. Obviously, Pat thought, she had not inherited her father's rotten disposition. Nor had she inherited his looks; her features were delicate, unlike Friedrichs' craggy bones and jutting nose, and her eyes were as blue as cornflowers. No wonder Mark was smitten (and how he would have jeered at that word and all it implied)! Pat rather suspected that Kathy was not indifferent. When she walked in the garden she kept glancing at the wall between the two houses, as if hoping to see someone there.

In the middle of the third week Mark's vigilance was finally rewarded. When Pat came home that Wednesday night she was tired. The flu season was upon them and the office had been full of coughing, sneezing victims. But one look at Mark's glowing face made her forget her fatigue. He had started dinner, and insisted that she sit down, put her feet up, and sip her sherry like a lady while he finished concocting his specialty-spaghetti. Pat did not argue. It was lovely to relax, with the cat's heavy warmth sprawled across her knees, listening to the cheerful noises from the kitchen-pans clattering, water boiling furiously, and Mark singing at the top of his lungs, stopping only to swear when he dropped or spilled something. He had a perfectly terrible voice. Jerry had been tone deaf, and his son had inherited this trait.

Pat tickled Albert under his lowest chin. He was a tabby-the best color for a cat, Jerry always said-with a white bib and three white paws. He had come to their door one rainy night and kicked it-at least, that is what Mark claimed. His parents found it hard to believe that a shivering, wretched three-month-old kitten could kick a door that hard, but they agreed solemnly that it was probably coincidental that Mark happened to be at the door at that precise moment. As Albert grew in bulk and dignity, it was not difficult to believe he could kick a door if he felt like doing so. The necessity did not arise. He had his own door and often brought friends to lunch, for he was a gregarious soul, in a perfectly Platonic way. He had been altered at the appropriate age, Jerry commenting that his estimation of his own virility did not rise or fall on the nocturnal habits of a tomcat, for God's sake, and there were already too many stray kittens in the world.

Albert purred. Pat sipped her sherry. She felt wonderful.

Mark came in to announce that dinner would be ready in ten minutes. Pat gestured toward a chair.

"Join me, kind sir. And tell me why you're in such a good mood."

"I'll have a beer," Mark said. "As for my mood, why shouldn't I be in a good one?"

"Because it's muggy and warm and your paper for that psych course is overdue."

"I do hate omniscient mothers."

"You can do it this weekend, if you work every minute," Pat murmured.

Mark pulled the ring on the beer can and stopped the overflow with his forearm.

"Shirt's dirty anyhow," he said cheerfully, anticipating his mother's protest. "You're a sly one, aren't you? How did you know?"

"Know what?"

"That I have a heavy date Friday night. With Kathy."

"You're kidding!" Pat registered appropriate surprise and admiration.

"Nope. The old Robbins magic did the job. I met her at the gate this afternoon…" Mark hesitated. Pat kept her face straight with an effort. She knew Mark was wondering whether to admit that he had lurked in the yard all afternoon, as he had for days. He decided not to admit it. "I just happened to be there when they got home," he went on casually. "They were early today. Teachers' meeting, or something. Anyhow, he went on in the house, and she sort of hung around, and I asked her, and she said yes."

"That's wonderful. Every boy-I mean, young man -on the street has tried to date that girl."

For a moment Mark looked as smug as Albert.

"I know. I won five bucks from Rick."

"Mark! You didn't!"

"Bet? Sure. Why not? Let's eat. I think the spaghetti's done."

They had barely sat down when the telephone rang.

"I'll get it, it's probably for me," Mark said.

It usually was for him. Pat went on eating. She heard him say, "Hello," and then, "Well! Hi, there." The tone of the second greeting made her look up. By then Mark had disappeared with the phone. It was on a long cord, and Mark carried it with him into the hall or, when even greater privacy was required, into a closet. This call was of the latter variety. Pat heard the door close and grinned. The caller must be female. Kathy, no doubt. No other girl could arouse quite that degree of enthusiasm just now. Then her smile faded. That the girl should telephone so soon after accepting an invitation from Mark might not be a good sign.

When Mark reappeared in the doorway she knew her hunch had been correct. He stood for a moment holding the telephone as if he didn't quite know what to do with it. His face was a mask of bewilderment.

"She can't go out with me."

"That's too bad. A previous engagement?"

"No." Anger replaced Mark's initial surprise. He slammed the telephone back onto its wall holder. "I asked how about Saturday night, or Sunday. She finally admitted her dad says she can't go out with me. Ever."

"Oh, Mark. Did she say why?"

"She was crying," Mark said. He turned. "I'm going over there."

"Mark, wait!" But he was gone. The front door slammed.

Pat stared miserably at the remains of her spaghetti. It was all very well for Nancy to talk about becoming hardened to the troubles of one's children. Pat only wished she could. Her anger against Friedrichs flared, and she fought to control it before Mark returned. She would have to help him overcome his anger, not add to it. She hoped he didn't lose his temper and say, or do, something unforgivable.

He was back in five minutes. The door slammed again and Mark's footsteps pounded down the hall, making bric-a-brac rattle. He took his seat without speaking; his face was white with rage, his mouth pinched together.

"Break something," Pat suggested sympathetically. "Those glasses are expendable; dime-store stuff."

Mark's tight lips relaxed slightly.

"The guy is sick," he muttered. "I mean, really sick."

"What did he say?"

"He answered the door. I bet he never lets her do it. She might meet somebody who could contaminate her." For the first time Mark appeared to see his mother's worried look. His eyes lost their flinty glare. "Hey," he said. "Relax, will you? The Robbins honor is untarnished. I did not punch the old devil in the nose. I didn't even say anything rude. All I said was I thought a condemned man had a right to defend himself."

"Cute," Pat admitted. "The legal touch. What did he say?"

"He stood right there in the doorway and told me what he had against me. Honest to God, Mom, you never heard such garbage. The guy is a hundred years out of date. He should be living in 1880."

"What did he say?"

"Well." Mark abandoned any pretense of eating. He pushed his chair back and pondered briefly. "As near as I can remember, he said he didn't want his daughter going out with a guy who drove too fast, drank too much beer, played rock and roll too loud, didn't mow the lawn or help around the house, stayed out till all hours instead of studying, and was too stupid or too lazy to get admitted to a decent college. There may have been a couple of other things, but I forget them."

"Of all the unreasonable, unfair…" Pat's voice rose. She counted to ten and tried again. "How does he know all that?"

Mark began to laugh. His temper was quick to explode and as quick to cool off. He reached out a long arm and patted his mother on the shoulder.

"Thanks a lot, Mom."

"I didn't mean that. I meant-"

"I know. He must have been watching us all this time. The grass did get pretty long last week. And you had to go and mow the front, where everybody could see you… Okay, okay, I know I should have done it before you had to. And a couple of the guys did leave some beer cans along the driveway one night. And that warm night when the windows were open I guess I did have my hi-fi turned up pretty loud…"

Pat said nothing. She was shocked at the intensity of her rage. Hearing Mark recounting his little sins, with that compulsive, touching fairness of his, she was thinking of the crudest accusation of all and resenting it even more bitterly than she had resented Friedrichs' sneer at her. Mark had had his choice of several excellent colleges. He had turned them all down when his father died, in order to stay with her. She pushed her chair back from the table.

"I'm going over there and tell that-"

"Mom!" Mark grabbed her and hugged her till her breath came out in a gasp. "Cool it," Mark said. "What a termagant you are! I can defend myself, you know. I'd look like a damned fool if my mommy went running over there to scold the mean man for hurting my little feelings." His voice changed. "Seriously, Mom, I appreciate it. But it wouldn't do any good. He'd just be rude to you. The man is neurotic. He's going to ruin that chick's life, but it's not your problem."

"You're right," Pat said. She put her arms around Mark and hugged him back. "I'm sorry for the girl, but there's nothing we can do about it."

All the same, she spent the rest of the evening thinking about what Friedrichs had said, and inventing horrible fates for him. Not until she was in bed and almost asleep did she isolate the odd feeling of uneasiness that had plagued her since dinner. "It's not your problem," Mark had said. Just a casual pronoun-only somehow she suspected its choice had not been casual at all.

II

A few days later she decided she had let her imagination run away with her. Mark had apparently accepted the situation with perfect equanimity. He was eating, and drinking beer-and, his mother admitted to herself, playing his hi-fi too loud and perhaps driving just a little too fast-just as he had done before Kathy entered his life.

Friedrichs' unjust criticisms continued to haunt Pat, though she knew she should dismiss them with the lofty contempt they deserved. Any man who would judge a boy by the college he attended had to be the worst kind of snob. The slap in the face-or rather, the plural slaps- irked her all the more because she had hoped so much for congenial neighbors. The two old houses at the end of Magnolia Drive were isolated not only in space but in character from the new houses on the block. It would have been so nice to have Halcyon House occupied by a pleasant woman who shared some of her interests, who would drop in for coffee on Saturday morning or perhaps invite her over for a drink occasionally. Early evening was the worst time. If Mark didn't have basketball practice he had other activities to occupy him, and Pat was often alone at that most melancholy hour of the day, when the body is tired and the mind yearns for communication.

Of course, she reminded herself, all single women had to come to terms with that problem. In some ways it was easier for women who had never been married. Such a woman was accepted as complete in herself; she had never been one of a partnership. But she knew she was luckier than most, not only because of the nature of her relationship with Jerry, but because Mark had given up a year of his life to help her make the painful transition from two to one.

As the lilacs opened lavender spears and the azaleas produced clumps of rosy bloom, Pat continued to brood. Like the flowers, she had been dormant for months. Now she was coming to life, jarred by the annoying presence next door. The process was painful, but perhaps it had a certain potential. Pat wondered wryly if the flowers really enjoyed the act of blooming. Maybe the azaleas ached too.

The problem of what to do about Mark bothered her more and more. Was it too late for him to apply to another college next fall? He had said nothing about it; he seemed quite content with his life, with his friends and girl friends at the junior college, and his undemanding routine. Was he hiding his real feelings or-worse-was he getting into a comfortable rut which would be harder to break as time went on? Pat realized only too well that, beloved as he was, Mark was no substitute for Jerry as a companion. The generation gap was not fiction. She liked Haydn, Mark liked Jimmy Hendricks. To her cars were a means of transportation; to Mark, they were practically a religion.

Ballet was not one of the interests they shared, and it was to the ballet Pat went on the following Thursday, picking up a friend in Chevy Chase and going on to Kennedy Center, where Barishnikov was appearing in Swan Lake. After the performance she stopped for a cup of coffee with Amy, then drove home through the perfumed spring night in a dazzle of remembered pleasure. The white dogwood trees slipped past the car windows like slim Swan maidens fleeing an enchanter, and the lovely, saccharine music echoed in her ears.

Friday was not a working day for her, but it was for most of the residents of Magnolia Drive. The street was dark and quiet when she turned off the highway, with only a few squares of lighted windows burning against the dark. The drive curved. Not until she neared its end did she see something that made her foot move instinctively from gas pedal to brake.

Normally Halcyon House was as dark as the other houses on the street by this time of night. Now lights began to blaze out, one after the other-first the big oriel in the master bedroom, then the windows of the upper hall, then the fanlight over the front door, as if someone were running through the house pressing the light switches as he went.

Pat glanced at the clock. It was after one a.m. She looked then at her own house. Everything was normal there; Mark had left the porch light on for her, as he always did when she was out late.

Her car had just had its spring tune-up, courtesy of Mark. The engine purred softly. When the first scream tipped through the night, there was no louder sound to combat it.

Pat was out of the car before the sound died. In fact, she was through the gate and halfway up the walk before it stopped, as abruptly as if it had been cut off. It was a terrible sound-wordless, but requiring no words-a peremptory demand for help. And the voice had been that of a woman.

The ground-floor windows of Halcyon House were open to the spring air. No wonder the voice had carried so well. As Pat bounded up the porch steps, taking them two at a time, the scream came again. She threw her weight against the door and was somehow not surprised when the heavy portal yielded.

III

The mind works far more quickly than conventional measurements of time can reckon. Pat's mind had already painted a picture of what she expected to see; the reality was so like the vision that she was momentarily paralyzed, as a dreamer would be to find his dream a reality.

The hallway of Halcyon House, the duplicate of her own, was as wide as a normal room, with the carved walnut balustrade of the stairs rising at the rear. The hardwood floor, dark with age but freshly waxed, re-llected the bulbs of the antique crystal chandelier. On the floor, practically at her feet, was a tableau that might have come out of Popular Detective, or some other sensational sex-and-violence tabloid.

Kathy's fair hair spilled like shining water across the dark floor. Her thin blue nylon nightgown was twisted around her hips and her slim bare legs thrashed, kicking the floor. Friedrichs knelt beside her, his hands on her shoulders. As the door burst open he looked up. His face was ashen, bleeding from scratches that marred one cheek, and his expression was so distorted that Pat scarcely recognized him. For a moment the hope flashed through her mind that the man attacking the prostrate girl was not that girl's own father, but a stranger, an intruder… But the shock of black hair was Friedrichs', the heavy shoulders and hard, bruising hands…

Her paralysis could not have lasted more than a second or two. She saw the marks of fingers white against the girl's blotched cheeks, and knew why the scream had been cut off so abruptly. Kathy drew a long, choking breath and again cried out. Her father struck her across the mouth.

Pat launched herself like a missile, all one hundred and ten pounds of her body, straight at Friedrichs. He wasn't expecting it; he went over backwards, hitting his head with an ugly thud, and Pat gathered the sobbing girl into her arms. Kathy fought her at first. Pat quieted the flailing hands by pressing them against her body, cradling the golden head on her shoulder and talking as she had talked to Mark years ago when he had had a bad nightmare. "It's all right now, it's all gone-no one can hurt you, I'm here, I'll not let it hurt you…" Kathy's body finally relaxed. Her light bones and quivering muscles felt no heavier to Pat than Mark's eight-year-old body had felt, so long ago.

When the girl's gasps had subsided to low, moaning breaths, Friedrichs sat up. Pat eyed him warily. She was still so shocked and angry it was hard for her to speak, but she knew what tone she must adopt. Very calm, very firm.

"Just what is going on here?" she demanded.

"I wish to hell I knew." Friedrichs fingered the back of his head and winced. "How did you get-no, never mind that. Is she all right?"

"No thanks to you if she is." Pat clutched the girl lighter and tried to move away from Friedrichs, no easy task from a squatting position, with a now limp weight encumbering both arms.

Friedrichs' eyes blazed. He made an instinctive move forward. Seeing Pat's equally instinctive withdrawal, he sat back and took a deep breath. His shirt was crumpled-the sleeves rolled up, the neck open. His thick wavy hair stood out around his face, unkempt and uncombed. One of the deeper scratches on his cheek oozed blood. He needed a shave. He looked like a drunk who had been in a brawl. But when he finally spoke his voice was quiet and controlled.

"Okay, I know what you're thinking, and in all fairness I can't blame you for leaping to conclusions. The important thing-"

"Leaping to conclusions!"

"Just hear me out, please. The important thing is Kathy. She ought to see a doctor immediately. I don't suppose there's a physician in the country who makes house calls, and I'm equally certain that you would scream your head off if I tried to touch her; so perhaps I could impose on you to drive her to the nearest hospital."

Pat stared at him, openmouthed. Her heart was still thudding so hard that her chest ached, but the cool reason of Friedrichs' speech impressed her against her will. Kathy was a dead weight against her shoulder. She was breathing almost normally now.

Friedrichs went on, "I'm going to stand up and move back out of the way. If you like, I'll go into the library and you can lock me in. Only-for God's sake, Mrs. Robbins, do something for her right away. If you can't carry her, maybe… maybe your son…"

That last appeal affected Pat more powerfully than anything else the man had said. Surely Friedrichs would not have asked for Mark's help if he hadn't cared more for his daughter than for his reputation. So-as Jerry used to say-so maybe your premises are wrong, kid.

"I think she's all right," Pat said slowly, tilting Kathy's head back so she could see the girl's face. It was relaxed in the peace of deep sleep. A little too deep, perhaps… Pat looked at Friedrichs, who had risen and was backing away. His eyes were fixed on Kathy's face, and his expression… "Are you telling me you didn't attack the child?" Pat demanded.

"I was sitting up in bed reading when I heard her scream," Friedrichs said. "Not really a scream-not then-more like a choked, gurgling moan-a horrible sound. I froze for a second. The next thing I heard was a crash from her room, and then the sound of her footsteps running like a crazy thing. By the time I got out of my room she was halfway down the stairs. I turned on the lights as I followed; that slowed me down. She went in a headlong rush, stumbling and sliding. I thought sure she'd break her neck. I didn't catch up with her till she reached the front door. She had the chain off and the key turned-"

"So that's why the door was open?"

"That's why. When I touched her she let out the most god-awful yell and turned on me like-" Friedrichs touched the scratches on his cheek. "I had to grab her hands, hold her, or she would have run straight out of the house in her nightgown. She-she didn't know me. Her eyes were absolutely empty of recognition-empty of everything except mindless terror. I guess I lost my wits too, it was so damned awful… I tried to stop her from screaming, the sound cut right through me, and then I remembered they slap people sometimes, when they get hysterical…"

The damp night air was cool on Pat's arms and cheeks. Friedrichs was sweating. Great clammy drops stood out on his forehead.

Pat came to a sudden decision. If Friedrichs was faking that look of agonized love and concern, he was a better actor than Olivier. And he was right; Kathy's needs came before any other issue.

"Close the door," she said. "Then we'll get her to bed." Friedrichs obeyed, circling Pat and Kathy with the cau-tion of a leper. Pat's fingers sought the girl's pulse. Strong and steady. Now that her nerves were settling down she found the incident more and more unbelievable. What had gone on in this house tonight?

"Here," she said brusquely. "I can't carry her. You'll have to do it."

Their hands touched briefly as she transferred Kathy's limp weight to her father's arms. His fingers were as cold as ice. Pat followed him up the stairs and along the hall to Kathy's room, the equivalent of the one Mark occupied in her house. It had the same deep bay window and fire-place, and it was decorated in a frilly, flowery style suit-able for a girl much younger than Kathy. The dainty wallpaper and matching drapes, the canopied bed and white-painted furniture would have looked pretty if the room had not been such a mess. Papers were strewn about, books had been thrown from the shelves flanking the fireplace, and the bedsheets trailed onto the floor.

Pat touched the light switch and an overhead chandelier flooded the room with brilliance. She picked up the lamp lying on the pillow, a serviceable reading lamp with a bronze base, and restored it to the bedside table. Fried-richs put the girl on the bed. Pat bent over her, checking pulse and respiration again, lifting an eyelid. A blank blue orb stared back at her.

"She seems to be all right," Pat said slowly.

"A doctor-"

"I'm a nurse, you know. I don't think she's in any immediate danger." Pat tucked blankets around the girl's body and straightened. Friedrichs stood on the other side of the bed, his arms hanging limply. Pat was conscious of an unwilling surge of sympathy.

"Look," she said. "If what you told me was the truth- and I'm beginning to think maybe it was-well, there's one obvious explanation for what happened. Are you sure you want the publicity of a doctor and a hospital?"

"Publicity?" Friedrichs stared at her. The perspiration on his forehead was a slick, shiny film. Large drops ran down his lean cheeks. "What do you mean?"

"Drugs. Her behavior suggests one of the hallucinogens."

"No," Friedrichs said. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve. "No. You mean LSD, something like that? She doesn't take drugs."

"Will you search her room?"

"No. I've never done a thing like that. I wouldn't insult her so."

Pat felt a wave of utter exhaustion, partly physical but primarily emotional. She had been through this before, too often, when she had worked briefly at a local hospital. Six months of night duty in the emergency room had been enough; she had quit and found a job as an office nurse. There were tragedies in that job too, but not like the hospital. It wasn't the blood and mess, or the pain of seeing a life slip through one's hands, a nurse got used to that. But she couldn't get used to the young people, mangled and smashed in needless car crashes, staggering drunk, or spaced out on some drug. Some of them had looked as young and innocent as the girl on the bed. And the parents had usually reacted just as Friedrichs was reacting- "Oh, no, not mine. I know there's a problem, but my child never…"

"You must search," she said. "In justice to her."

Intuitively she had touched the right note. Friedrichs thought it over for a moment and then, without a word, turned to the dresser drawers.

The harsh, unpleasant job took quite a long time. Friedrichs hated what he was doing; his mouth was a thin line of disgust. After a while Pat said, "Shall I…?" and the lawyer nodded silently. So Pat searched the adjoining bathroom-hamper, medicine chest, even the tank of the commode. She didn't enjoy the task either, but it was easier for her than for the distressed father. She found nothing except the usual patent medicines and cosmetics.

Then a sound from the bedroom sent her running back to Kathy. The girl was twisting uneasily and muttering in her sleep. Her eyes were still closed. Pat bent over Kathy. She could not make out distinct words. Then Kathy's eyes opened. They moved around the room, passing over her father as if he had been a piece of furniture. Then she saw Pat; and the light of normal, sane intelligence transformed her face.

"Mrs. Robbins… What-"

"Thank God," Pat said, the worst of her fears removed. "How do you feel?"

"Tired. I'm so tired…"

"Kathy. Did you take anything?"

"Is something… missing?" Kathy asked.

"No, I didn't mean that. Pills. Did you take anything like that?"

"No." Kathy's hand moved, groping. Pat took it in her own and the girl's slim fingers tightened on hers. "Don't go away. Stay here. Please."

"Of course, if you want me. But you must tell me-"

"Thank you…" The words trailed off in a long sigh. Kathy slept again.

Still holding the girl's hand, Pat caught Friedrichs' eye.

"Is she-"

"She's sound asleep," Pat said. "It looks like normal sleep. Mr. Friedrichs, it's up to you. I'm not going to advise you, but-"

"If she were yours?"

"I'd let her sleep it off, and see how she is in the morning."

Friedrichs nodded. He looked like a man who had just finished running twenty miles.

"I have no right to ask this, but-could you stay?"

"I have no intention of leaving. Didn't you hear me promise?"

"I heard you. But I didn't expect…" He sat down quite suddenly, not as if he had intended to do so, but as if his knees had given way and there just happened to be a chair behind him. Pat freed her hand from Kathy's grasp and started toward him, but Friedrichs shook his head. "I'm all right. Why don't you lie down on that chaise longue, where she-she can see you if she wakes. Would you like some coffee?"

"Yes, thanks. And have some yourself-with plenty of sugar."

"I'm all right," Friedrichs repeated. "I'll get the coffee. Is there anything else you would like?"

The meticulous formality of the speech sounded so incongruous that Pat smiled unwillingly.

"Yes, as a matter of fact. I'd like to leave a note for Mark, in case he wakes and wonders what has become of me. Perhaps you could take it next door."

"Certainly. There is paper here-" He indicated Kathy's desk, which was piled with books and other student impedimenta. Pat took a pen and a sheet of notebook paper and scribbled a brief message. She handed it to Friedrichs without folding it.

"You'll see that I didn't mention names, only that someone was ill and I was needed. Please stick it on the refrigerator door with one of the little magnets."

The lawyer's eyes flashed briefly, as if he appreciated the implied permission to read the note. He did not do so, only took the key Pat gave him and left the room, after a final glance at the sleeping girl.

Pat took off her coat and hung it over the back of a chair. Her purse was still in the car. She should have asked Friedrichs to get it, but it didn't seem important. Her house keys were in her coat pocket, and she made it a rule never to carry much cash when she was out late at night.

She went back to the bed. Kathy had turned on her side, her cheek pillowed on her hand. Pat brushed strands of silky hair away from the girl's forehead; Kathy's lips quivered as if she were about to smile. She sighed deeply.

Pat had no intention of lying down on the chaise longue or anywhere else. She had done a foolish thing-a damned fool thing, Jerry would have said-in advising Friedrichs not to call a doctor. Oh, she hadn't actually said it, in so many words, but she had implied as much, and the responsibility weighed heavily on her mind. She would watch the girl's every breath until she woke; at the slightest sign of trouble she would call the rescue squad. In the meantime…

Her lips set in an expression, if she had but known it, very much like Friedrichs' when he searched his daughter's possessions, Pat pulled out the top desk drawer and sifted through its contents. Friedrichs had seemed to search thoroughly, but perhaps he had missed something-something he really didn't want to find.

As she went through the room, finding nothing except a little dust and the more or less blameless records of a young girl's school and social life, she was thinking, not about Kathy, but about Kathy's father.

She had been prejudiced against Friedrichs from the start, and therefore ready to think the worst of him. Still, that didn't mean that her assessment had been wrong, or that his performance that night had been genuine. She had seen people lie just as convincingly-girls with eyes as big and blue as Kathy's solemnly swearing they had never heard of heroin, though their arms showed the damning marks of injections; cultured men in expensive clothes denying indignantly that they had ever laid a hand on their wives, while the women nursed black eyes and broken bones and flinched at the very sight of their husbands. Yes, Friedrichs could be lying. So why was she now as prejudiced in his favor as she had formerly been biased against him?

That was easy. She was sympathetic because, if his story was true, she knew how he must be feeling. In a perfect agony of terror and doubt, that was how-just as she would feel if this had happened to Mark. To have the one you loved best in all the world turn on you, striking out with hate, rejecting the help you wanted to give… And the fear-the wild, terrible theories. Drugs? Brain tumor? Paranoia, mental illness? The fear of losing the only one you had left.

Her hands were shaking so badly she decided to abandon the search. She had dropped one delicate little china figurine; it would have broken if it hadn't fallen on the rug. She had searched every place she could think of and found absolutely nothing incriminating, except a paper-back copy of The Joys of Super Sex under Kathy's mattress. Pat smiled weakly as she returned it to its place. Nothing abnormal about that.

It began to appear as if Friedrichs were right. The kids weren't that smart or that careful. They usually left some evidence lying around. So if it wasn't drugs, what on earth…?

When Friedrichs returned she had settled into a comfortable overstuffed chair, her hands folded in her lap. He was carrying a tray-and her abandoned purse.

"I hope you don't mind," he said, handing it to her, "but I took the liberty of putting your car in your drive-way. You had left the keys in the ignition, and I thought-"

"You were quite right," Pat said, with a smile. "I didn't even park it; I just stopped in the middle of the street. Thank you."

Friedrichs acknowledged her thanks with a grave incli nation of his head, and offered her coffee. Pat took it, marveling at the man's strength of will. He had been on the verge of collapse when she burst in; now he had acquired enough self-control to collect her belongings and restore them to their proper places. And the way he had retreated, instantly, when she took over with Kathy- offering to lock himself in the library… Was that consciousness of guilt, or evidence of a mind that was both rigorously logical and intuitively sensitive to other peoples' feelings?

"She's sleeping," Pat said, as Friedrichs turned toward the bed. "I'll watch her, don't worry. The rescue squad can be here in five minutes, if… You don't have to stay."

Friedrichs' lips twisted. He sat down at the desk. "Do you suppose I could sleep? I don't expect you to believe me, Mrs. Robbins, but I told you precisely what happened. I almost wish what you suspect were true. It would provide an explanation." His eyes went to his daughter, lingered, and then moved around the room as if he were really seeing it for the first time that night. "You didn't have to clean up in here. Merely staying is kindness enough."

"I just put a few things back in their places," Pat said. "books and ornaments-not much. She must have knocked them down when she ran."

"Would it be out of place for me to suggest that fact substantiates my story? Or do you suppose I came in here to attack her?"

With an effort, Pat forced her eyes away from his tormented face. At least he had had enough experience to know that things like that did happen, that horrified outrage was no defense. His hands were gripping the arms of the chair so hard the knuckles showed like naked bone. They were big, hard hands, and the arms bared by his rolled-up shirt sleeves were the arms of an athlete. He must play tennis or handball, she thought to herself. If he had attacked the girl in her bed she would have had a poor chance of getting away from him.

"If I really thought you had tried to hurt her I wouldn't be sitting here now," she said. "Mr. Friedrichs, have you-"

"My name is Josef. With an f."

Pat had to smile.

"Yes, I suppose we have progressed to first names. Mine is Pat. You needn't fear that I'll take advantage of it."

A wave of red swept over Friedrichs' face. She hadn't realized how pale he was until the flush gave his cheeks their normal color.

"Drink your coffee," she said. "You're still in a state of shock. It won't do Kathy any good if you pass out, or-or have a heart attack."

"My heart is perfectly sound." He gave her a startled look. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to touch on-"

"I touched on it," Pat said steadily. "My husband died of a heart attack a year ago. We thought his heart was perfectly sound too."

"I owe you an apology, Mrs.-Pat. Not for what I said just now; for my behavior the other evening, when you most generously offered new neighbors…" He hesitated, and the ghost of a smile curved his thin lips. "Bread and salt, shall we say?"

"Pasta is basically flour, like bread," Pat agreed. "And there was plenty of salt in that casserole."

"Whatever the ingredients, the intent was the same. It was a kind gesture and my response was boorish. I regretted it at once. I tried to call to you, but apparently you didn't hear me. That's no excuse, however, I might have telephoned to express my regrets-or, at the very least, returned your umbrella! My apologies are belated, but, I assure you, heartfelt."

"Forget it," Pat said, amused at his carefully constructed sentences and meticulous grammar. Mark was right; the man should be living in the nineteenth century.

"Thank you." He relapsed into silence, as if to free her of the obligation to talk. Maybe he didn't feel like talking either. The apology had been made with a certain grace, although he had offered no explanation for his boorish-ness, as he called it. But the omission had its own decorum. Excuses would have necessitated personal references, and perhaps, if Nancy 's hunch about his marital misadventures were correct, an appeal to sympathy or an expression of self-pity. Pat glanced at him from under lowered lashes. He must be in his forties; his cheeks and forehead showed the harsh lines of experience, harsher now with strain. No, not the face of a man who indulged in self-pity or allowed others to pity him. Nor, unless all her instincts were false, the face of a man who would mistreat his daughter.

They did not speak again. The night wore on, with the deadly slowness of all vigils. Pat had long since learned the art of sleeping with one eye open; she did so now, drifting in and out of half-slumber, her senses always alert for any untoward sound or movement from Kathy. Once she slipped deep enough into sleep to dream. It seemed to her that the light from the lamp on the bedside table burned low, and that in the shadowy corner behind the bed something moved. A long arm, skeletal in its pallor and bony thinness, reached out toward the sleeping girl.

Pat woke with a start, to hear Kathy moaning. Fried-richs was sound asleep, his head on the desk, resting on his folded arms. Pat got up, stretching stiffened limbs, and tiptoed to the bed. When she touched Kathy, the girl's breathing resumed its quiet pattern.

Pat went back to her chair. The night had turned quite cold. The thin curtains shifted eerily in the breeze, like formless shapes of ectoplasm. She shivered, and wondered, half-seriously, if nightmares lingered on in the room where a dreamer's mind had shaped them. That pale skeletal arm… If Kathy had dreamed of something like that reaching out for her, no wonder she had fled in terror.

Of course the explanation was more prosaic. In her drowsing state she had heard Kathy moan, and had conjured up an appropriate horror.

But she did not sleep again. The birds roused before the sun, raising a racket in the old apple tree outside the window, and finally the sky began to brighten. The sun was not yet up, but the room was fully light when Kathy awoke.

Her father woke the moment she did, sitting up with a stifled grunt as his stiff muscles protested. His sleep-heavy eyes went straight to Kathy. The girl had turned so that her back was toward her father. She was facing Pat, and after a moment recognition replaced the haziness of waking that clouded her eyes.

"Mrs. Robbins-it is you. I thought I dreamed you." She yawned like a sleepy kitten, her even white teeth sparkling.

"Kathy?" Josef's voice cracked. Kathy rolled over in bed.

"Daddy. Did I oversleep? What time…" Then she really saw him. "What's the matter? You look so…"

She sat up and held out her arms. Josef dropped to one knee beside the bed. Even then he did not embrace her; he took her hands in his and held them tight. Pat, who had moved to the foot of the bed so she could observe what went on in those first, revealing moments, was reassured-about the Friedrichs, if not about their immediate problem. The girl's candid face showed fear, but only for her father, not of him. She turned to Pat.

"Mrs. Robbins, what happened? He's hurt-his face is all scratched and… Is that why you're here? Oh, Dad, you look terrible!"

Pat sat down on the edge of the bed.

"He's fine," she said. "Josef, I could use some coffee, and I'll bet Kathy is hungry."

"Right." Josef rose to his feet, freeing his hands from Kathy's agitated grasp. "I'll just… I'll be right back."

He knew, of course, why Pat had dismissed him. Kathy's bewildered blue eyes followed him as he stumbled from the room.

"Mrs. Robbins, what-"

"Now we talk," Pat said. "You're the patient, Kathy, not your father. What happened last night?"

"Last night? I don't understand."

"Are you taking drugs, Kathy? Pills? Pot? Peyote, or seeds, or-"

Hoping to catch the girl off guard, she made her voice hard and inquisitorial. She would not have been surprised, or convinced, by an indignant denial. Instead, Kathy blushed guiltily.

"I've smoked pot a few times… at parties… Please don't tell Dad, he thinks I'm a virgin saint or some-thing. Hey. Wait a minute. You mean last night? Honest to God, Mrs. Robbins-"

"It couldn't have been marijuana," Pat said, half to herself. "The symptoms weren't right. Besides, I'd have smelled it."

"So would Dad." Kathy pushed a pillow behind her and sat back. "I'd never be dumb enough to smoke here at home, he's got a nose like a bloodhound. What went on last- Oh!" As she twisted to push the pillow into a more comfortable shape she saw something that made the healthy flush fade from her cheeks. "Oh. I'm beginning to remember…"

She was looking at the lamp on the bedside table.

"It wasn't a dream," Kathy said slowly. "That hand- that awful, bony hand… It threw the lamp at me."