Blameless [066-142-066-172-4.0]

By: BARBARA SHAPIRO

Category: FICTION THRILLER

Synopsis:

Finding her career in ruins because of a false accusation in her
husband's suicide note, Dr. Diana Marcus, desperate to protect her
unborn child as well as her reputation, searches for the truth beneath
layers of treachery and seduction.

Last printing: 04/13/02
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AVON BOOKS# NEW YORK

.            If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be
aware that this book is stolen property.  It was reported as "unsold and
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has received any payment for this "stripped book."

BLAMELESS is an original publication of Avon Books.  This work has never
before appeared in book form.  This work is a novel, While inspired by a
true event, neither the story not the characters should be construed as
real.

To my parents, who gave me my first typewriter and the belief that
anything is possible

AVON BOOKS A division of The Hearst Corporation 1350 Avenue of the
Americas New York, New York 10019



Inside cover author photo by Marc Holland

Published by arrangement with the author

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 94-96268

ISBN: 0-1300-380-77419-4

All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or
portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by the U.S.
Copyright Law.  For information address Barbara Lowenstein Associates,
Inc., 121 West 27th Street, Suite 601, New York, New York 10001.

First Avon Books Printing: March 1995

AVON TRADEMARK REG.  U.S.  PAT.  OFF.  AND IN OTHER COUNTRIES, MARCA

REGISTRADA, HECHO EN U.S.A.

Printed in the U.S.A.

RA 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

.             ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This book could never have been written without the support of my
family, friends and colleagues.  I owe each of you much: my writers'
group, Diane Bonavist, Jan Brogan, Floyd Kemske, Rachel Plummer and
Donna Baier Stein; my experts and reviewers, Michael Bogdanow, Laurie
Bernstein, John Conklin, Dan Fleishman, Norman Shapiro, Kelly Tate, and
especially Phyllis Kaplan-Silverman whose input was instrumental from
initial story conception to final review; my agent, Nancy Yost; my
children, Robin and Scott Fleishman whose interest in my work is a joy
to me.

And finally, to my editor, Ellen Edwards, who drove me crazy on this
project from day one, my deepest gratitude.

Blameless

NDERSON STREET WAS AS STEEP AS THEY CAME IN Boston, lined by narrow town
houses with tin bays that had been tenements in the late nineteenth
century.  Diana Marcus was winded from both fear and exertion by the
time she reached the edge of the crowd, which, despite the growing
autumn chill and lengthening shadows, was large and buzzed with a
hushed, ugly excitement.

"A shotgun?"

"Big mother shotgun."

Diana's stomach lurched, and she staggered into a tall man who smelled
of gasoline.  He gently righted her and asked if she was okay.  She
nodded and elbowed deeper into the crowd, trying not to listen to the
ghoulish chatter, even as she strained to catch every word.

"One hell of a way to do yourself in.  Me, I'd take a handful of pills.
Use a handgun-a magnum-anything but a shotgun, for God's sake."

"Dude must've been crazy."

"Some yuppie stockbroker, I heard."

Diana's breathing became more labored as she worked her way along the
sidewalk.  She looked up at James's house, and bile filled her mouth:
The building was cored off with yellow tape.

"My sister-in-law's brother is the cop standing next to that cruiser,"
said a small woman in jeans as she juggled a toddler in her arms.  "Told
me it's a real gory mess in there-blood everywhere, bone even." The
woman clucked her tongue and raised her voice.  "On the walls."

Diana moved on quickly.  She had to know what had happened.  She had to
know if James was still alive.  But when she reached the front of the
house, the young policeman on guard wouldn't let her through.  "Can't do
it," he told her, not unkindly.  "The sarge'll have my head."

"I'm James Hutchins's doctor," she said, omitting that she was a
psychologist, not a physician.  "I just got a call."

The policeman lifted the tape, and Diana slipped under it.  Standing on
the cracked, steeply inclined sidewalk, she stared blankly at the
scraggly geraniums flopping in the window box next door.  The tumult
disoriented her; for a moment she couldn't imagine what she was doing
here or where to go next.  It had been only a few hours since she had
last stood on this very spot, only a few hours since James's incredible
stubbornness had caused her to stomp from this house in frustration.

"It's okay," the policeman called.  "You can go on in."

Diana nodded and walked resolutely up the granite steps and into the
recessed doorway.  She took a deep breath and pulled the scarred wooden
door toward her.  Then she marched into the dingy entryway and climbed
the stairs to James's apartment.

This morning the building had been as silent and shadowy as a tomb.  Now
it bustled with voices and light and the unintelligible babble of
two-way radios.  A uniformed policewoman raced down the stairs, followed
by a tall man in an ill-fitting suit who had the look of a cop.  They
glanced at Diana as she approached them; she put on her doctor face, and
they let her pass.  Three medics on the landing thought about the best
way to maneuver a stretcher down the narrow stairs as blue lights from
the street strobed through the dirty window above the stairway.  There
was a sharp, acrid bite to the air, but Diana also detected an
animal-like smell that she didn't want to think about.

James's apartment was at the top of the stairs, and the door was wide
open.  As Diana reached the landing she could see down the narrow
hallway and into the living room, although it was partly obstructed by
swarms of people and medical equipment.  Then the two policemen who had
been talking in the living room doorway separated, and Diana gasped.
There was a stretcher in the middle of the floor with a body on it.  It
had to be James.  And he was covered with a sheet.  She gagged and put
her hand to her mouth.

"Hey, are you all right?" The young policeman from outside came up
behind her.

Diana stared at the shiny badge on his chest.  Number 247.  Cameras
flashed from inside the apartment, and for a moment she felt a flicker
of relief: for herself and for James.  Then she was overcome with a
sadness so deep that it gouged at the center of her being.  Sadness for
James's loss, for his brilliance unfulfilled.  Sadness for her own loss:
never to see him, or talk to him, or hope to help him again.  She was
overwhelmed by guilt at her hand in it all.  "What-what happened?"

"Can't tell for sure yet." The policeman shrugged.  "But his head's
pretty much gone and there are powder burns on his foot."

"His foot?"

"My guess is he pulled the trigger with his toe."

Diana gripped the stair railing, unable to push away the image of James
calmly considering all the details of such a bizarre death scene. The
policeman nodded.  "It's been done before."

Diana felt nausea push up through her body.  She gagged again. The
policeman took a step closer, glancing nervously .            at her
slightly protruding stomach.  "I thought you were a doctor." When she
didn't say anything, he took her arm. "Better come with me, ma'am.  Get
some air."

She nodded but didn't move, her eyes riveted to the stretcher, to the
two feet that dangled from below the edge of the sheet.  The left foot
was covered with one of the paint-splattered running shoes James always
wore. The right one was bare.

She leaned into the policeman and groaned, seeing those sneakers pacing
her office, tapping against the side of a chair.  Seeing those feet,
along with her own, leaving a wake of soft impressions in the tall grass
of the Public Gardens on a long-ago summer day.

Diana watched one of the medics raise the stretcher while the other
unfolded a black body bag.  Before they could put James into that awful
sack, before they could zip him into that airless cocoon, Diana turned
and ran from the building.

THE DAYS FOLLOWING JAMES'S DEATH REDED DIANA of the time after her
sister Nina's accident, when Nina lay pale and motionless, her tiny
frame dwarfed by the adultsized hospital bed.  Every evening Diana and
her older brother, Scott, went with their parents to Mount Sinai
Hospital.  They sang to Nina, held her hand, and told her the news of
the day.  And then, exactly one month after the accident, Nina just
stopped breathing, dying without ever regaining consciousness.  Diana
was eight and Nina four.

Then, as now, it was as if Diana went through her days encapsulated in
petroleum jelly, existing at 33 rpm while everyone else raced by at 45.
The nights were even worse. For although she knew it was impossible, she
felt as if she hadn't slept since the suicide.  Suicide.  It was such an
ugly word.  She stared up at the dark ceiling and watched the fuzzy arcs
of dawn light seep around the top edge of the bedroom drapes.  Now she
could get up and stop pretending there was a chance she would fall back
to sleep.

Waves of pain washed over her, and she closed her eyes again.  How could
she have made so many mistakes? She should never have terminated her
therapy sessions with James last summer, despite the personal and
professional danger in which his bizarre actions put her, despite the
advice of her colleagues, her friends, and her husband. She should never
have referred him to Alan Martinson, allowing herself to believe that by
furnishing him with another therapist, she had fulfilled her obligation,
as if he were a dog left for a neighbor to feed and walk while she was
on vacation.  And she should have known better than to let herself fall
so eagerly into the "great rescuer" role, allowing James's success to
define her own, linking-and securing-their failures.

She had been his therapist for three years, three years of the hardest
and best work she had ever done, three years in which she had made some
of her biggest blunders.  "Words are incapable of describing the density
of my desolation when I am not with you," James had written to her when
she and Craig had gone to Cape Cod for a week last June. And knowing
that, feeling his neediness resonating within her, she had still let him
go.  She had abandoned him. Thrust him away.  Just as they all had done
before her: his mother, his father, his sister, Uncle Hank.  But Diana,
the great rescuer, had been the one whose abandonment had delivered
James into his final hell.

It had seemed so easy in the beginning.  In her mind's eye she could see
James as he had been the first day he came to her office, leaning
awkwardly against the doorjamb, tall and thin and gawky, his chiseled
good looks capturing her complete attention.  "Hi, Doc," he had said,
shy and bumbling and slightly devilish all at the same time.  "Big
Sister tells me you're the one who can fix me up."

She hadn't been able to keep from smiling at the perfect pacing of his
delivery, at the way his characterization of Jill so drolly captured
both his sister's power and her absurdity. Diana had liked him
immediately.

The failure, the guilt, and the loss twisted like spikes in her gut. She
called out, and her eyes flew open.  Craig stirred, and Diana gently
pressed her hand to the thick muscles of her husband's upper arm,
drawing strength from his closeness.  Craig would never be called
handsome; his nose had been broken one too many times during his high
school football years, and his eyebrows were too bushy.  But he was a
sexy man: tall and big and kind.  He smiled easily and always saw the
glass as half-full. Children and animals loved him.  As did Diana.

Craig turned and pulled her to him.  Sweet with sleep, he nuzzled the
back of her neck and snuggled her into the warm curve of his body.
"Sleep any better?" he asked when they were molded together like a pair
of nested spoons.

"A little," Diana said, not wanting to worry him.

He gently traced her jaw with his finger.  "You were tossing around an
awful lot."

She took his hand and rubbed it against her cheek.  "I just have to get
through feeling lousy," she said.  "Eventually I'll get tired of all
this guilt-and then it'll go away."

Craig chuckled low in his throat.  "Letting go of guilt isn't one of
your strong suits."

"I know, I know," Diana said.  "And Nina wasn't my fault either." But
inside her heart of hearts, Diana knew that James's death had been her
fault.  Just as her sister Nina's had been.  She shivered, and Craig
wound his arms around her more tightly.

"You can't blame yourself whenever something bad happens to someone
close to you."

"But I feel so responsible'

"Shush," he said, slipping his hand inside - her nightgown and cupping
her breast lightly.  "You're a wonderful, caring therapist.  You're
sensitive he kissed the back of her neck responsive." He gently turned
her toward him.  "You've helped lots of people and you'll help lots
more.

Diana pulled her nightgown over her head and pressed herself closer to
him, aching with pain and desire.  She began to cry softly.

He kissed her eyes and her lips and her wet cheeks.  "You can't rescue
everybody," he murmured, rubbing the small of her back in deep, soothing
circles.  "Nobody can."

"I know." She buried her head in his chest.  "I know." Then she was
caught up in his hands and his mouth and his body.  And, for a few
luxurious moments, everything else disappeared.

Afterward Diana lay quietly, safely entwined in, and protected by,
Craig's love.  But all too quickly the world they had managed to hold
momentarily at bay rushed back at her.  James had killed himself.  She
touched Craig's cheek. "Mind if I take the first shower?" she asked.

He kissed her and then reached for the remote control on his night
table.  "Go ahead," he said, pointing the remote at the television.
"I'll catch the news."

Diana went into the bathroom and threw cold water on her face.  James
was dead, and today she had to go to his funeral.  No amount of love or
sex or consoling words could change the facts.  She pressed the cool
washcloth to her eyes.  Well, she didn't exactly have to go to the
funeral. It wasn't as if she would know anybody there.  Except for
James's sister, Jill, and Diana was certain that Jill would be more than
happy if she stayed away.  She climbed into the shower.

Standing under the pounding water, Diana wished the shower could wash
away her indecision along with the shampoo.  Maybe she would just forget
the whole thing. Twisting the faucet off, she stood for a moment in the
silent, steamy tub.  She had to go.  She needed the formality of the
funeral service.  And she needed to say good-bye.

Diana dressed quickly, but instead of going down to the kitchen, she
found herself in the nursery, thinking, not for the first time, that she
had probably been the last person to see James alive.  She shivered and
rubbed her arms, looking around the room.  Except for a solitary moving
carton on the floor, the nursery was white and empty, a blank backdrop
awaiting its character.  The rising sun bounced slivers of light off the
newly varnished floor, and an imperfection in one of the old windowpanes
refracted a wavy rainbow over the closet.  Diana suddenly realized that
the last time she had been in this room, exulting in her own joy at the
coming baby, James must have been pulling the trigger.

The day of the suicide had been wild even before she had received the
phone call, a roller-coaster of highs and lows: her futile argument with
James in the morning; the good news from the doctor; her colleague
Adrian Arnold tearing her preliminary research results to shreds during
their lunchtime peer supervisory meeting.  After the meeting Diana had
wandered around Copley Place, troubled by James's intractability,
worried that perhaps Adrian was right, and overwhelmed with joy at Dr.
Jasset's news that the amniocentesis results showed the baby was healthy
and female.

She thought she would buy something special for the baby or the
nursery-purchases they had been postponing until after the tests-but had
found herself too agitated to make even the smallest decision.  So she
had gone home and tried to work on her research.  But that too had
proved futile, and after a couple of hours of twirling her pencil and
staring blankly at computer printouts, she had climbed the stairs to the
nursery.

Diana looked at the carton sitting in the middle of the empty room; it
was just as she had left it that afternoon when the phone had rung. "You
better come quick, Dr. Marcus," a gravelly voice had ordered.  "To
James's.  He's tried to kill himself again.  And this time it looks like
he did the job right."

"Who is this?" she had demanded.  "What's happened?" But the line
clicked dead in her ear.  For a long moment Diana had looked at the
silent phone in her hand as if it were an alien being.  When the dial
tone began to buzz across the wire, she slammed the receiver down.
James. She had to leave the nursery and, the happiness it stood for. She
had to go to James.

But the nursery was here now, silently urging her to reclaim her joy, to
forget about James.  Diana touched the curve of her stomach and looked
up at the rainbow.

riot of strong colors confirmed Craig's decision to use

primaries for the fantasy mural he was going to paint on the walls. And,
Diana thought, the rainbow could be seen as a harbinger of their bright
future.

Kneeling down, she reached for the carton of baby clothes her mother had
sent the last time she had been pregnant.  The carton she hadn't been
able to look at-let alone open-for almost two years.  Lifting the lid,
Diana thought of the years of infertility, the ectopic pregnancy, the
doctors' consensus that she would never be able to have children.  Even
with Ciraig's unerring support, she had used her career as a refuge
during that painful time.  Her success as a psychologist became an
antidote to her sterility, as well as an outlet for her need to nurture.
But now there was a healthy baby growing in her womb.

The scent of pressed cotton and baby powder and her own childhood wafted
up to her.  Gently, almost reverently, she lifted a layer of tissue
paper.  The paper was yellow and crackled under her fingers, but beneath
it lay a baby blue dress with pink and white smocking.  The embroidery
thread was satiny smooth to her touch, and her eyes filled with tears.
She remembered Nina wearing this dress, but her mother had told her that
she, Diana, had worn it also.

Pressing the dress to her cheek, drinking in its memories and its
promise, Diana felt her career recede to its proper position in her
life.  Being a psychologist was no longer her only defining role.
Suddenly she saw that Adrian's cutting critique of her research
methodology was more likely due to his jealousy than to any efforts she
might have made. And James's death had been the inevitable result of his
illness, not her own personal failure.  Carefully returning the tiny
dress to the carton, Diana promised herself that she would come back
here after the funeral.  She would go and say good-bye to James
Hutchins.  Then she would get on with the rest of her life.

Her step was lighter as she walked down the two flights of stairs to the
kitchen.  They lived in a renovated nineteenth-century town house in a
tiny neighborhood of Boston at the intersection of Back Bay, the South
End, and the Fenway, and everything in the house creaked all the time:
stairs, doors, windows, handrails the two of them, Craig said.  As she
turned a tight corner, a stair tread squeaked loudly.  She pushed the
tread hard with her foot; it gave more than it should, indicating that
their repairs were far from finished.  Making a mental note to tell
Craig, she continued down the open narrow stairway that absorbed a
quarter of every floor.

Diana loved living in the city.  When life began to close in on her,
when she got claustrophobic from the suffering her patients heaped on
her head, from the calls to make and the exams to grade, she would burst
through the front door and into the roaring, anonymous city.  She walked
for hours, down her narrow tree-lined street to the grand breadth of the
Christian Science Center, across Boylston and down Fairfield to
window-shop at the trendy stores of Newhury Street.  She crisscrossed
the Back Bay, wandering along the park-like mall of Commonwealth Avenue,
gawking at the white marble and brick mansions, drinking in the bustle
and excitement as a nature lover drinks in the scent of evergreen.
Rejuvenating herself.

Diana looked out the dining room window at the silent, dawn-streaked
sidewalk.  All the houses on St.  Stephen Street were small and narrow,
their angles hard and no-nonsense; utilitarian homes well-suited to the
sensible people who had built them, she liked to think.  Although she
and Craig admired the elegance and expanse of Commonwealth Avenue, they
were more comfortable here.  She turned and went into the kitchen,
filling the coffee maker with the decaffeinated she had learned to
tolerate over the past few months.

As the coffee dripped, permeating the room with its thick morning aroma,
Diana looked out the oversized mullioned window into their "back city,"
as Craig called it-a couple of parking spots for themselves and Diana's
patients, and a ced area just waiting for a swing set.  Dead leaves from
the one tree swirled around the base of a fence post, in a fortom,
lonely dance.  Watching the leaves, Diana felt her conviction waver and
wondered if she might be better off skipping the funeral after all.

Feeling a light touch on her shoulder, she looked up as Craig wrapped
his arms around her from behind.  He rested his palms on her stomach.
"Aren't you supposed to be bigger by now?" he asked.

She covered his hands with hers.  "I just hope you learn to worry less
after she's born otherwise you're going to drive the child wild.  I
don't even want to think about what you're going to be like when she
starts dating."

"Dating?" Craig cried in mock horror.  "You think I'm going to let some
pimply twerp paw at my daughter?"

They stood silently, watching the swirling leaves for a while.  Then
Diana said, "I thought I'd go to the funeral, but now I'm not so sure."

' Oh?" He let go of her and reached for his favorite chipped blue mug.
"Want some?"

Diana nodded.  "There's no point.  And I'm sure Jill will appreciate it
if I don't show."

He poured a cup and handed it to her.  "So don't go."

She took the cup.  "I canceled the therapy group."

The one James was in before you kicked him out?" Craig asked, referring
to her borderline personality disorder group.

"Terminated with him," Diana corrected.

Craig sipped his coffee and watched her closely.

I canceled out of respect," she said.  "But there aren't that many of
them left anyway.  Borderlines aren't exactly known for their
stick-to-itiveness." Diana smiled sadly.  "With James gone and Ethan
pulling another one of his disappearing acts, well, there's just Terrie,
Bruce, and Sandy .  .  ."

"Is it even worth your effort?"

Diana sat down at the table and stared into her mug.  "I need to go to
the funeral.  If I don't go, I'll never really believe it's true." She
took a sip.  "I'll always think in the back of my mind that James is
just playing one of his mischievous little games.  That he isn't really
dead."

"But you saw him.  .  ." Craig's voice trailed off.  When Diana didn't
lift her head, he popped some waffles into the toaster.  "So go."

Diana watched him in silence for a moment.  "But I don't want to."

Craig rolled his eyes dramatically at the ceiling.  "So don't."

"This isn't a joke," Diana said.  "I'm struggling here, and all you can
say is 'go,' 'don't go,' 'go,' 'don't go."

"

Craig sat down next to her at the table.  "Honey, I don't know what you
want me to say.  I'm just trying to help."

"Nothing," Diana mumbled into her coffee.  "Just don't say anything."

Craig nodded and covered her hand with his for a moment.  He gave it a
quick squeeze, then stood up and walked through the dining room to get
the newspaper off the front stoop.

When he came back, Diana held out her hands.  "Sorry," she said.

He leaned over and kissed her.  "It's okay." He handed her the front
section of the paper and pulled out the sports for himself.  They sat in
silence for a while, Craig eating and reading, Diana motionless,
staring, unseeing, at the Boston Globe headlines.  Suddenly Craig put
down his paper and turned to her.  "Do me a favor?"

Diana just looked at him, saying nothing.

"Go.

She blinked.

"You need to go.  To help you accept that James is really gone from your
life." He leaned toward her.  "That you aren't responsible for him
anymore."

Diana looked at her husband, at his kind, earnest face, at his troubled
eyes.  She nodded.  "I'll go." .            As DIANA CLIMBED THE MARBLE
STAIRS LEADing to the funeral home, she thought how perfect James would
have thought this day was for his funeral: dreary, rainy, cold. It was
even October, "the month of looming death," he had once called it. James
had loved it when things matched, when everything was either black or
white. He had hated the incongruous, the grays.  And there was no
incongruity here; everyone looked as miserable as the weather felt.

They stood amid the oversized floral arrangements in small whispering
clusters of edgy gloom, somber organ music pumping through speakers
mounted on the walls. Three diminutive older ladies, their creased faces
displaying the resemblance of age as much as of blood, inspected the
card attached to a wicker basket.  Nearby a circle of uncomfortable
young people squirmed; the men pulling at their ties, the woman tugging
at their skirts and fussing with their hair.  "The nerve," one of the
older woman sputtered as the other two nodded sagely.  "Nora hasn't
talked to the family in twenty-five years."

These must be the aunts on the mother's side, Diana thought.  And the
cousins.  She knew James's mother was dead, and that there were three
aunts who had more or less continued their sister's negligible presence
in James's life in the years since her death.

The father was long gone dead or alive, no one knew for sure-but Diana
guessed the fidgety bunch clinging to the wainscot in the corner must be
his side of the family. They reminded her of James: tall, gawky,
handsome, and nervous, playing with their rings, pursing their lips,
looking from side to side.  Obviously unused to being together, they
avoided eye contact, while seemingly afraid to leave the security of one
another.  Could one of them be the infamous Uncle Hank? she wondered. He
must have served out his prison term by now.  Although she saw no sign
of communication, suddenly, like a school of jittery lemmings, they
moved in awkward unison toward the chapel.

Diana looked around furtively for James's sister, Jill, hoping she
wouldn't find her.  Jill and James's relationship had been tumultuous,
to say the least, swinging from extravagant hurtful rages to
claustrophobic binges of togetherness.  Once they had lived six months
almost literally not speaking to another soul besides each other; and
another time-just recently-Jill had flushed all of the tropical fish in
James's carefully tended aquarium down the toilet.

Jill and Diana's relationship was equally stonny.  Three years ago James
had called Jill in the middle of the night, high on cocaine and
threatening suicide.  Jill, well-aware of the childhood horrors James
had repressed and terrified that he really might kill himself, decided
that her brother would never be safe until he remembered the awful past
and dealt with it.  Leaving her husband and his two children in Des
Moines, she had rushed to Boston to get James some help.  It was ironic
that it had been Diana whom Jill had so painstakingly chosen from a
large field of highly qualified psychotherapists-including both Alan
Martinson and Adrian Arnold.  For over the course of James's therapy, as
he had turned his devotion from Jill to Diana, Jill had decided that
Diana was the personification of all that evil, the reason for
everything that was wrong with him.

Jill was a strange one.  She was sharp, astute, extremely competent-some
might say as sane as they come.  But she was angry.  And unpredictable.
A year ago she had divorced her husband and suddenly moved to Boston,
resuming her role as James's overprotective parent as if she hadn't been
gone for almost six years.  Without telling James of her arrival, she
cajoled his landlady into letting her into his apartment, where she
snooped around under the guise of cleaning.  A week later she charmed
James's boss into taking her to lunch and regaled him with fairy tales
of their happy childhood-for what possible reason, neither James nor
Diana could fathom.

Diana glanced quickly around the room again, thinking about the last
time she had seen Jill.  It had been the previous spring.  Jill was in a
murderous rage, pacing in frenetic circles around the office, waving her
arms and screaming at Diana.  "I'd rather see him dead than see him the
way he is with you!" Jill had shrieked.  And although Diana calmly asked
Jill to leave her office, informing her in a quiet and unruffled voice
of the inappropriateness of her behavior, the crazed hatred in the
woman's eyes had stayed with Diana for weeks.

Who knew what state Jill might be in now? Consumed with inconsolable
grief? In a murderous rage? Diana was tremendously relieved that Jill
was nowhere in sight.  Perhaps if she sat in the back row, she could get
through the service without having to confront the woman.

Diana's heels clicked loudly on the marble floor as she headed across
the foyer to sign the guest book, as much from the desire to have a
destination as to declare her presence.  Even though she tried to walk
softly, her footfalls reverberated through the high-ceilinged room, and
she felt eyes turning to her.  To quiet her shoes, she stepped onto the
carpet leading to the chapel.  She glanced in the large room.  A shiny
mahogany casket lay on a bed of flowers in front of the pulpit.  The lid
was closed.  Diana shut her eyes.  James really was dead.  It really was
over. "You okay, Dr.  Marcus?"

Diana's lids flew open and she looked into Sandy Pierson's narrowed but
still stunning gray eyes.  "It's a tough blow for us all," Diana said,
glad to hear that although her voice was soft, it was also calm.

"Looks like I'm the only one here," Sandy said proudly. She was tall and
reed-thin, working out her eating disorder every day for two hours on a
Stain-master.  She looked like a model, which was just what she aspired
to be.

Diana glanced around the foyer.  "Perhaps the others will get here
before the service starts," she said, although she didn't believe a word
she was saying.  Sandy, along with James, Ethan, Terri, and Bruce, had
comprised Diana's borderline personality disorder therapy group.
Borderlines-as they were not so affectionately referred to in the
field-were volatile and not "own for their responsible behavior, so
Diana hadn't expected any of them to show up for something as
conventionally obligatory as a friend's funeral.  Social contrariness
was a classic borderline symptom.

"Ha!" Sandy snorted.  "No way Terri or Bruce'll show." Although Terri
and Bruce had the mildest cases of the five, they were also the most
phobic; Terri's fear of being in public places manifested itself in a
full body rash, and Bruce's blood-injury phobia, fear of illness or
injury, caused him to faint if he was in the presence of any kind of
sickness-let alone death.  "Don't you think?" Sandy demanded, glaring at
Diana's stomach and fingering the clasp of her omnipresent leather
day-timer.

"You're probably right," Diana said, ignoring Sandy's glare, all too
aware of the other woman's jealousy.  "You have everything and I have
nothing," Sandy had yelled when she discovered Diana was pregnant; Diana
had stared at the gorgeous woman in wonderment, forever fascinated . by
the power of the mind to deceive.  Now, as then, Diana knew her best
tactic was mollification.  "Sometimes I think you guys are more tuned in
to each other than I could ever be," she said.

Sandy smiled.  "Even though James and him hadn't been getting along so
great lately, Ethan's the only other one besides me who might come."
Sandy's tone was knowing and authoritative.  "I haven't seen him since
before James kill-uh, you know.  But I called his apartment a bunch of
times," She flipped open her day-timer and pointed to numerous days on
which "Call Ethan" had been neatly lettered.  "No answer." She shrugged.

"That's Ethan's style.  He'll turn up soon," Diana said, glancing around
the room, hoping that "soon" wouldn't be today.  Just the thought of
Ethan at James's funeral made her shudder.  Yet another powerful and
conflicted relationship in James's life.  She didn't even want to think
about what kind of scene Ethan might make.

Sandy stared into the chapel.  "He really did it, huh?" she said with
admiration in her voice.  "I never thought he had the guts.  Guess we
borderlines are full of surprises even to each other." She smiled
broadly at Diana.  "Never put anything past a borderline."

Diana nodded and turned.  "See you inside," she said, walking back into
the foyer, oblivious to the noise her shoes made.  She picked up the
gold pen chained to the leather guest book.

"How you doing, sweetie?"

Diana was enveloped in her friend Gail Galdetto's huge bear hug.

"We came to give you moral support," Gail added, pointing to Adrian
Arnold,

"Thanks," Diana said, glad to see Gail and surprised to see Adrian. They
were all in the same peer supervisory group-a half-dozen local
psychologists who met every two months to discuss cases and give each
other both professional and emotional support-and, although Diana and
Adrian had been quite close at one time, their present professional
disagreement had opened a rift in their friendship. Diana's new research
findings directly refuted Adrian's classic text, Borderline States,
currently used in hundreds of universities; Adrian was unnerved by her
results and had been making disparaging-downright nasty, Gail said-
remarks about Diana during their last few meetings.  On the day of
James's death, Adrian had declared Diana's methodology "unprofessionally
flawed," rendering her preliminary findings "unworthy of serious
scientific consideration." Diana looked at him closely, wondering if he
had come to gloat.

"Sorry about all this," Adrian said.  "Difficult not to feel guilty."
His eyes were full of sincerity-fake sincerity, Diana thought.  But he
had been a good supervisor during her post-doc, an extremely
knowledgeable and busy man who had taken more time than necessary with a
beginner.

"Thanks." Diana turned back to writing her name in the book.

"He insisted on coming," Gail whispered.

"Makes no difference to me." Diana shrugged.  "As my niece Robin would
say, it's a free country."

"And maybe now you'll be free too." Gail looked knowingly into Diana's
eyes.

Diana shook her head.  "Give it a rest," she said.  Gail thought that
Diana's involvement with James-and with the rest of her borderline
patients-was a disastrous mistake, both personally and professionally.
She had launched woman crusade to "disconnect" Diana, convinced a one
that Diana's "therapeutic talents" were wasted on borderlines, whose
chances of recovery were slim.  Gail pointed to the successes Diana had
achieved early in her career with phobics, as well as her many
well-received articles on agoraphobic avoidance, as proof positive that
Diana should stick with patients whom she had a fighting chance of
helping.  "Those borderlines will eat you alive," Gail had cautioned.
And in many ways, especially where James was concerned Gail's warning
had been all too prophetic.

"Think about cutting yourself loose from them," Gail was saying.  "Now
might be the perfect opportunity to disconnect."

"It's not all that easy to-"

"How nice to see you, Dr.  Marcus," a soft voice interrupted.  "So
thoughtful and considerate." Jill Hutchins had come to stand next to
them, her curly red hair even wilder than usual, her deep blue eyes-the
exact same color as James's eyes dilated with grief.  Adrian was behind
her.

Despite their turbulent past, Diana was touched by the raw pain on
Jill's face.  "I'm so sorry, Jill," she said, her voice breaking
slightly.

Jill nodded.  "Yes," she said, as if not exactly sure of what was
expected of her.  "Yes," she repeated again.

The four of them stood in awkward silence for a few moments and then
Adrian walked away.  Finally Diana cleared her throat.  "We'll all miss
him," she began.  "It's so sad-"

"He was sick." Jill sounded more like a robot than a person: stiff,
vague, unconnected.

Diana nodded.

"We came to you for help."

"And I only wish I could have done more," Diana said, growing
uncomfortable with the conversation and the glazed look in Jill's eyes.

"And what did you do?" Jill continued quietly, almost conversationally.
"You used him for your own perverse pleasures and then you threw him
away."

Diana stared at the other woman in amazement.

"Get out," Jill said, her voice still slightly dazed, but becoming
clearer and more vehement as it grew louder, as if her anger was blowing
away her protective haze.

"Now wait just a minute-" Gail said, placing an arm around Diana's
shoulders.

"Don't bother to deny it-James told me everything," Jill spat, never
taking her eyes off Diana.  "I even have proof."

"Proof of what?" Diana demanded.

"Proof that you used some psycho mumbo-jumbo on him.  Proof that you two
had a real sicko thing going." Jill burst into tears.  "And then you got
tired of him.  You used him and dumped him and then, then.  .  ." She
angrily swiped at her tears.  "Then you just threw him away!"

"This is ridiculous," Gail snapped.  "I know that you're upset-and
rightly so-but you can't go around saying things like this.  Making
damaging accusations against a respected professional-"

"I told him he'd be better off dead." Jill continued speaking as if Gail
didn't exist, tears running down her cheeks. "But I didn't mean it," she
said, her voice dropping to a whisper.  "I didn't mean it."

One of the aunts came up behind Jill and put her hand on her shoulder.
"It's okay, Jilly, let's go on in now."

"This isn't your affair, Molly," Jill snapped, flicking her aunt's hand
from her sleeve.  "You haven't been around. You don't know the half of
it." She stood back and pointed her finger at Diana.  "My James is dead
all because of you," she cried, her voice rising.  "And you're going to
pay!"

Diana backed away and probably would have bumped into the wall if Gail
had not been holding her.  She was speechless, unable to believe the
words coming from Jill.

"Jilly," the aunt said softly, trying again.  "Nobody killed James but
James."

"That is where you're wrong," Jill said, her tear-streaked face
reddening with anger.  "That's where you're wrong." She turned to Diana.
"I swear to you, you'll be sorry you ever laid eyes on my brother.  Two
days-three days at most-and then you'll know.  Then you'll be sorry you
were ever born!"

Regaining her composure as Jill's crumpled, Diana pulled a handkerchief
from her purse and placed it in Jill's hand. "I know you're angry with
me," she said softly, "but that's-" Jill threw Diana's handkerchief on
the floor.  "I don't want anything from you," she ranted, stomping on
the handkerchief as if it were a poisonous insect.  "You've already done
way too much!"

Stepping away from Jill, the aunt put her hand on Diana's sleeve.  "Why
don't you just go on home now, dear? It really would be better for
everyone concerned if you left."

Diana looked from Jill to the aunt.  Then, with Gail on 4 her heels, she
turned and, head held high, walked from the funeral home.

DIANA AND CRAIG'S HOUSE WAS FOUR STORIES TALL

and only eighteen feet wide.  They had scraped the bottom of their bank
accounts and borrowed from both sets of parents to buy it. And then,
with no cash, but lots of sweat and Craig's architectural brilliance,
they had rearranged the rooms to make the impossible floor plan a little
more livable.

The original kitchen-ground level in the back, but below the street in
front-was now Diana's office.  The new kitchen, half of its cabinets
still without doors, and the dining room were on the first floor.
Their."great room" filled the entire second floor, and three small
bedrooms comprised the third.

It was the kind of house that turned the most impulsive person into a
planner.  After discovering a book or set of keys forgotten in a
bedroom, one quickly learned to stop and think before leaving any floor.
Despite the forced planning, the depleting of their savings, and the
fraternity house two doors down, Diana loved it.

Diana came straight home after leaving James's funeral. She walked into
her office and dropped into her chair.  It swiveled under her weight and
she was turned backward, facing the window.  She stared through the
mullioned pai and naked tree branches to the fire escape crisscrossing
brick backside of the Chinese restaurant across the alley, trying to
comprehend what had just happened.

Too agitated to sit, she jumped up and began to roam the room.  He was
sick ...  We came to you for help ...  You threw him away ...  Jill's
words shook her, the hatred and vehemence with which they had been
spoken, the truth they contained.  My James is dead ...  All because of
you. Because of you ...  Because of you ...

Diana understood Jill's anger and pain.  The woman had just lost her
adored brother-perhaps the only person she had ever truly loved-in the
most hurtful way possible. Diana knew Jill needed someone to blame for
the guilt she carried within herself On the other hand, grief-stricken
or not, Jill had no right to speak to her that way.  Not in public.  Not
in front of Gail.  And Adrian.

Diana groaned and sat back down in the chair.  She turn bled for the key
hidden under one of the onyx bookends, Slowly she unlocked her bottom
desk drawer and pulled out a thick fabric book covered with aqua and
purple paisleys.  She held it in her hand for a moment.  Her journal.
The place where she let everything flow, the place where she could be as
foolish or as childish or as honest as she wanted.  She pulled out a
pen.

James is dead and Jill says I killed him.  She shouted it in the middle
of  the funeral I'm sure no one there believed her.  Most likely
everyone just assumed she was addled by grief.

Her words echoed off the hard marble ;falls, and they will always echo
in my heart.  They will be with me forever.  As will be my guilt.

It hurts.  It hurts so much.  It hurts because James is gone.  And it
hurts because Jill spoke the truth.

Diana put the pen down and absently fingered the watermarked pages.  She
had started her journal eight years ago on the advice of Adrian Arnold
when he was supervising her post-doc.  Adrian had suggested it as a way
to deal with the powerful countertransference emotions she was
experiencing from working with Kara, a young woman so agoraphobic that
she had been unable to leave her apartment for two years.

Diana knew that in order for her patient to progress, Kara had to
experience transference-imagining that, and acting as if, her therapist
was the mother who had inspired her phobia.  And although Diana had read
all about countertransference, and understood on a theoretical level how
a therapist might begin to respond as the person the patient believed
her to be, she had been caught completely off-guard when she fell so
deeply into the role of Kara's mother that she was overtaken by a
powerful jolt of maternal fury in response to the young woman's
stubbornness.

After a dream in which she had scooped a swaddled baby Kara from a grimy
sidewalk, brought her home, and placed her in the crib that waited in
her own bedroom, Diana went to see Adrian.  "It's okay to have these
feelings," he had told her.  "It's better than okay, it's necessary if
you're going to help her." Then Adrian had handed her a spiral notebook.
"Don't act on the feelings," he had said.  "Write them down."

Since then she had discovered that most of her colleagues had some
vehicle for releasing the pressure: many wrote in a journal; Marc
Silverman spoke into a Dictaphone; Alan Martinson talked with his wife.
And almost everyone had some type of peer supervisory group where they
could vent their inappropriate feelings in a place that was safe and
confidential.

Diana had never kept a journal before Adrian had suggested it, and she
had been amazed at its power to soothe. had filled half a dozen spiral
notebooks her first couple of years of practice, but had found that as
her experience an confidence grew, her use of the journal tapered off.
Three years ago Diana had been inspired to buy the aqua-and-purple book
that now rested in her lap.  She opened it and read the first entry.

A young man named James Hutchins came for his second session today. He's
even brighter and better looking than I remembered.  And wonderfully
perceptive.  "I actually don't like cocaine all that much," he told me.
"But it keeps my mind busy so I can't feel the pain." He's also full of
denial.  When I asked him to tell me what the pain was all about, he
explained that his two lionfishes, the jewels of his tropical fish tank,
had inexplicably stopped eating.

His sister, Jill, brought him to me, terrified that he was on the verge
of suicide.  Apparently Hutchins was horribly abused at roughly age
eight (a disgusting, sordid story about an uncle and a child pornography
ring) and-has repressed the entire episode.  He's also completely
amnesiac about the year preceding the abuse (when the uncle moved in
with them) and the two years following, in which the uncle and his
partner were arrested, tried, and convicted.

Hutchins has been acting out since puberty: drugs, alcohol, truancy,
petty theft, suicidal threats whole bit.  Sister thinks his only chance
of seeing thirty is for him to remember and confront the abuse.

I agree with her.

There is something about this James Hutchins.  About his quick mind, his
sense of humor, his selfdeprecation, that is immensely appealing.  I
want desperately to help him.

Diana looked at her next notation; it too was about James.  "Zestful
energy.  Witty.  Charming," she had scribbled.  "Sad in his core." The
words brought back the session as clear as a photograph.  James, some of
his thick dark hair failing sideways as he tilted his head, was joking
about Jill. "The admiral," he said, referring to his sister, "runs a
tight ship named James.  It's been her favorite occupation since we were
kids." He sat back in his chair, crossed his arms, and flashed Diana a
dimple.  "Unfortunately, I don't maneuver as well as she would like."

It was during the same session, with the same flashing dimple and deep
velvety voice, that James had calmly described an incident that had
taken place five years earlier.  He and Jill had moved up to Cambridge
together when he had started at MIT, both glad to be out of Norwich,
Connecticut, and to begin a new life.  But James found the complexities
of his freshman year overwhelming and had decided to drop out of
college.  When he told Jill, she had pulled a knife on him, threatening
to kill him if he didn't start going to class.

Despite Jill's warning, James had quit school anyway. Believing that
Jill might really hurt him, he hid out with his drug pal Dominic for a
couple of months.  When James finally returned to the apartment, Jill
was gone.  He found out a year later that she was married and living in
Des Moines.

It was during the knife story that Diana first saw through James's
cheerful nonchalance.  When she was first touched by the deep sorrow he
couldn't quite keep from his eyes. She had yearned to help him.

Diana turned her chair so she was facing the window; she stared into the
gray alley.  How long ago that day seemed. How young and naive she had
been: fascinated by Jill's engulfing obsession with her brother; drawn
into James's world by his powerful charisma; ensnared by her own
egotistical belief that she could help them. Skipping through the book,
she read an entry she had entered about a year and a half later.

James's progress is amazing.  His job is going well, his cocaine use has
stopped, and, for the first time, he actually talked positively about
the future.  "Perhaps there really is a world out there for me," he said
today.

I wonder if "cure" is a completely wild concept? With his intelligence
and charism and with the right kind of help-4he can be anything.  Maybe
not today or tomorrow certainly, but perhaps not too far in the future
...

As his therapist, I must walk a fine line: allowing him enough support
so he doesn't feel abandoned, while giving him enough autonomy so he
doesn't feel closed in.  Sticking close, but remaining distant.  Can I
do this? I think I can.

Diana shook her head.  She had been so foolishly secure in her ability
to walk that impossible line.  Now she knew that sticking close and
remaining distant were mutually exclusive.

Diana jerked her head up and sat completely still.  She swiveled in her
chair and stared at the bookshelves that lined two walls of the office.
Perverse pleasures ...  psycho mumbo-jumbo ...  sicko thing going ...
She broke into a sweat, and her skin began to prickle.  I even have
proof, Jill had declared.  What proof? There could be no proof. Two
days-three days at most and then you'll know ...

Diana threw her journal into the drawer, locked it, and wandered
upstairs.  When she reached the front door she froze.  The hallway
reeked of James's more accurately, of his cologne.  Eternity, he had
said it was called the day she had complimented him on the scent.  "I'll
wear it for all eternity-as a symbol of my eternal love for you." And he
had.  Until he got angry with her for going to Cape Cod. Then he adopted
a policy of wearing the cologne, far too much for her taste, on the days
he was pleased with her and made a point of flaunting its absence when
she wasn't meeting his criteria for perfect therapist.

The scent seemed to surround her, to be stronger than it could possibly
be.  Feeling foolish, but unable to stop herself, she cautiously
ventured to the middle of the entryway and stuck her head in the dining
room, looking through to the kitchen.  Nothing.  The house was silent.
There was nobody here but her.

She ran her fingers through her hair.  "Blue-black like Snow White's,"
James had once said of her hair.  "Unbearably shiny and erotic." Dinner,
Diana thought, pushing away thoughts of James.  She would make dinner.
Change into jeans.  Check the mail.  She bent down and scooped up the
envelopes that lay scattered on the floor in front of the mail slot.
Once again she was overwhelmed by the smell of James.  Still holding the
mail, she opened the front door and slipped outside, letting the door
close behind her.

Feeling better for being out of the house, she took a deep breath and
leaned against the wrought-iron railing, watching the narrow, busy
street: a man with a ponytail pushing a double stroller; three street
people arguing over a shopping cart; two college students, hand in hand,
with silly lovesick smiles on their faces; a couple of businesswomen in
designer suits.  Everyone was hurrying, walking briskly under the gray
and threatening autumn sky.  "Safety in numbers" kept running through
her head.  "Safety in numbers."

Safety from what? she wondered, shaking her head at her own
ridiculousness.  Safety from ghosts? Could numbers save a person from
ghosts? Perhaps numbers could save you from real ghosts, but not ghosts
of the mind.  Olfactory hallucinations were not an unheard-of
psychological

Diana began to sift through the mail.  But, strangely, this only seemed
to make the odor stronger.  Suddenly she stopped.  In her hand was an
envelope that smelled as if it had been soaked in Eternity.  An envelope
addressed to her. The return address was Anderson Street.

She ripped it open and pulled out a single sheet of paper. The rest of
the mail slipped from her fingers and fluttered to the stoop as she
read.

My darling doctor, I am sorry for any unhappiness I may have
inadvertently caused you.  I hope you can forgive me, as I have forgiven
you for forcing upon me no other option than to take this drastic step.
Perhaps I should also thank you for my final freedom. I cannot live
without you and have no desire to do so.  As promised, I shall love you
and be with you for all of eternity. In death, as in life, I am,
Eternally yours,

DIANA WAS SWIMMING NAKED.  SWIMMING IN A SEA of Eternity.  It held her
buoyantly aloft, flowed through her hair, and slid smoothly behind her
cupped palms as she stroked a leisurely crawl.  She breathed it in and
breathed it out, as if it were gas rather than liquid, air rather than
perfume.  It tasted delicious.  It felt velvety and sensual and
all-enveloping.

She flipped smoothly onto her back, arching her body, stretching her
toes, and lifting her hands high above her head.  The cologne sustained
her, caressed her, tickled between her legs.

She giggled, and suddenly she felt iron fingers grip her ankles.  She
tried to kick free, but her legs would not obey; they did not kick, they
did not move.  Two hands were pulling at her.  Pulling her down to a
place where she couldn't breathe, to a place where the sweet perfume
that had been her support was now her enemy.

And she was powerless.

Powerless to right the fingers that yanked on her.  Powerless to free
herself as they tugged harder and harder.  As they dragged her, forcing
her into a swirling black vortex, into a ghastly, loathsome, and airless
place from which she knew she could never return.

Diana jerked her leg hard and, gasping for breath, opened her eyes.
Light was forming around the edges of the drapes and shooting cheerfully
onto the ceiling; it was going.  to be a sunny day.  She needed a sunny
day, she thought, watching the brightening room and trying to shake the
lingering foreboding of the dream.

It was only a dream.  And an uninspired, almost embarrassingly
predictable one at that-given what she had been through in the past
week.  But it was over.  It was time to put it all behind her.  Time to
think of the baby and Craig and their future.  Time to move on.

Craig turned and threw a sleepy arm around her.  He pulled her to him,
and gradually her ragged breathing became more normal.  Her heartheat
began to slow, and the nightmare receded into the welcome fog of lost
dreams.  It was over. She put her hand on her stomach, hoping to feel
the gentle kick of their child, yet knowing it was probably still too
early.

Craig's hand closed over hers.  "Feel anything?" he asked.

She shook her head, the last fragments of her dream retreating beyond
her reach, leaving just a shadowy touch of unease.

"Good thing," Craig mumbled.

Diana craned her neck toward him.  "What are you talking about?"

Craig looked at her with a serious expression on his face. "It means she
doesn't have your feet," he said, breaking into a smile.  "If she had
your size tens, she'd have been pummeling you months ago."

Diana jabbed her elbow lightly into his stomach; the size-and, she had
to admit it, the ugliness of her feet was a long-standing joke between
them.  "Yours ain't so tiny either, buster," she said, then snuggled
more closely into him, nesting her long lean body into his long bulky
one.  Craig was a wonderful man, and he was going to be a great father.
She had.dated a lot before she met him at a party toward the tail end of
graduate school, but after that, there had been no one else.  It had
taken her about six months to convince him that he felt the same way
about her.  A year later they were married.

Despite their two demanding careers, the tight money, and the fertility
problems that were supposed to drive couples apart, Craig was her best
friend.  She loved him passionately, but also loved him in a richer,
more profound way.  She pressed his palm to her stomach, knowing that
despite all the craziness of the past week, she was still the luckiest
of woman.  "How come you're sleeping in so late?" she asked him.

"Hard to get up when you're sleeping with such a beautiful woman."

"Bet you say that to all the girls."

He gave her a quick hug, then swung away.  "True," he said, standing and
stretching.  "But it's easier than admitting I'm just a lazy bastard."

"Yeah, right," Diana said.  The last thing Craig Frey was was a lazy
bastard.  A senior project architect at one of the most prestigious
firms in Boston, Craig also had his own business on the side.  His dream
was to open his own firm: Frey and Associates it was to be called-even
if there were no associates for a while.

Craig's dream of Frey and Associates kept him sketching family room
additions and small office buildings on weekends and in the early
mornings.  He had a drafting table set up in the far corner of the great
room and spent as many of his at-home hours there as he did asleep.
Diana wished he wouldn't work so hard, that he would get more rest and
they would get more time together, but, knowing how much it meant to
him, she also wished for his success. Diana watched him as he shrugged
into his bathrobe, and how nice it would be to pull him back into bed,
knowing that they both had to get to work: Mr.  Frey Dr.  Marcus, the
disciplined professionals. Diana had not changed her name when they
married because she had already published a few articles and achieved a
certain level of recognition in the field as Diana Marcus.  Whenever
anyone commented on this fact, Craig would pronounce that "he had
decided to keep his own name." She wondered how anyone could not love a
man with a line like that.

Diana reluctantly sat up and grabbed her own robe from the narrow slice
of floor between the bed and the wall.  As she was tying the belt, the
telephone rang.

"You get it," Craig said, sticking his head back into the bedroom from
the hallway.  "I've got to get into the shower-big presentation this
morning on the new mall above the Central Artery."

Diana hesitated before reaching for the phone that sat on Craig's night
table.  It was far too early in the morning for casual chitchat.  But
the phone's warble demanded attention.  She lifted the receiver.

"Dr.  Diana Marcus, please," a wide-awake, no-nonsense voice requested.

"Who's calling?" Diana asked, a shadowy image from her dream creeping
through the back of her mind.

"Is this Dr.  Marcus?" the clipped voice persisted.

"Yes it is," Diana said, giving up the game.  Who else could she be at
this hour? "And to whom am I speaking ?"

"Risa Getty.  Boston Globe."

" What can I do for you?" Diana asked, relieved.  Probably just a
request for a story on suicide, or borderlines, or perhaps even a
comment on James.  She glanced at the clock.  At seven-thirty in the
morning?

"Dr.  Marcus, I'm sorry to bother you at this ungodly hour, but I'm the
medical reporter for the Globe and' "It's okay," Diana said, her relief
returning: a medical reporter.  "No problem.  I've been up for a while."

"Great.  Because I was hoping you'd be able to help me with something."
Risa's words came more slowly.  "Yesterday afternoon the city desk
passed on a tip-and I've been checking it out." I

"Tip?"

"About a complaint to be filed in court first thing this morning and,
well, frankly, I just don't know what to make of it."

"Complaint?" Diana's heart sank.

"I'm real sorry to have to be the one to tell you, but' Risa's voice was
kin according to this, you're being charged with malpractice."

Diana sat down hard on the bed, afraid she already knew the answer to
the question she had to ask.  "By whom?"

"James Hutchins's family," Risa said.  "Or to be more precise, his
sister."

"Jill?"

The sound of flipping paper seemed to reverberate across the phone
lines.  "Jill Hutchins is the complainant."

Diana stared at the black-and-white abstract pattern on the closed
drapes and said nothing.  It happens to almost everyone, she reminded
herself.  It had happened to Gail and to Alan Martinson.  It had even
happened to Adrian.  Twice. In the late nineties, malpractice suits were
becoming a standard occupational hazard for psychologists.

"Dr.  Marcus?"

"I'm here."

"I'm sorry, but it gets worse."

"Yes?" Diana's voice came out as a hoarse whisper.

"They're also accusing you of wrongful death."

"Wrongful death?" Diana repeated, unable to believe what she was
hearing.  "You mean they're saying that it's my fault James killed
himself" she demanded, feeling the blood draining from her face.
"They're charging me with a crime? In court?"

"It's civil court not criminal court." Risa paused.  "But in essence,
that's the gist of it."

That's absurd," Diana said, her fear sparking anger.

"ists can't be held responsible for their patients' suicides.  No one
would be able to practice."

"That's why I'm calling," Risa said quickly.  "I wanted to hear your
side of the story."

"I don't have a side." Diana shook her head to clear it. "Except to say
that sometimes people kill themselves."

"People like James Hutchins?" Diana hesitated; she had to be careful.
This woman was a reporter, after all.  "I'm not really at liberty to
say."

"Let's be frank here, Dr.  Marcus.  You know James Hutchins committed
suicide and so do I-what's the big deal about saying he was at risk?"

11 All kinds of people are suicide risks," Diana said slowly.
"Depressives, alcoholics, schizophrenics.  That normal-looking,
middle-aged guy who sat next to you in the Mexican restaurant last
night."

"Did James fall into one of those groups?"

Again Diana hesitated.

" I could look it up in any number of reference books," Risa pressed.
"But I'm sure you can give me a more accurate picture."

"James was one of the normal-looking ones.  Most of the time he was
highly functional charming, bright, terrific sense of humor.
Exceptionally kind.  .  ." Diana swallowed a lump in her throat,
remembering James giving Ethan his favorite leather jacket because Ethan
had no winter coat, remembering James driving Sandy to Worcester in the
middle of a snowstorm because she had finally decided it was time to
confront her grandmother. "And?" Risa prompted.

Diana took a deep breath.  "Hardly anyone would have guessed there was
anything wrong with him." But James had known.  He had a recurrent
nightmare of being curled up, fetal and naked, inside a transparent
eggshell.  Of watching helplessly as huge fingers wrapped around his
shell and cracked him into a hot great pan.

"But there was?" Risa persisted.  "Something wrong?"

Diana grabbed a pillow and hugged it to her.  "Whatever was 'wrong' with
James Hutchins was caused by what others did to him."

"Dr.  Marcus, did he have a borderline personality disorder?"

"Borderline personality disorder isn't easy to diagnosis," Diana
answered quickly.  "Nor is there even a strong consensus in the field on
exactly what it is."

"It would really help me a lot if you could be more specific.  The more
I know, the better I can cover the story. And," Risa added pointedly,
"the fairer I can be."

Diana was silent for a moment, then in her best professor voice she
said, "Borderline personality disorder is actually just a name given to
a cluster of symptoms: instability of self-image and mood; chronic
feelings of emptiness; inability to sustain long-term career goals or
relationships; lack of control over anger.  .  ." Diana tapped the
corner of her mouth with her finger, her conviction growing that Jil was
Holding a therapist responsible for the suicide of a borderline was an
impossible contention to support-in or out of court.

"Are they dangerous?"

"More often to themselves than to others," Diana said. "They walk a kind
of tightrope between sanity and insanity: They can function, appear
perfectly normal-and they rarely have hallucinations or lose touch with
reality."

"Doesn't sound too serious to me."

"We're beginning to think that they're just normal people who have been
damaged by some horrible childhood trauma.  And, unfortunately, that can
be very serious indeed. These people are often desperately unhappy.
Threats and attempts of suicide-and other kinds of self-mutilating
gestures-are all too common in the more severe forms of the disorder."
"Which James Hutchins had?" Risa pressed.

'It's a fuzzy line," Diana hedged.  "Specific diagnostic criteria for
levels of severity have never been definitely established by-"

But he had tried to kill himself before?" Risa interrupted.

Diana didn't answer.

"It'd be real easy for me to find out," Risa said quickly. And if he
actually had tried before, telling me will only help your case.  All I
have to do is check with a few of his friends.  Call in a few favors at
the hospitals closest to his apartment .  .

"Twice," Diana said slowly.  "But only once for real." The first time
almost didn't count: It had been such a blatant plea-for-help gesture.
That frantic call New Year's morning almost two years ago.  James's
roommate hadn't come home as he had planned, and James was afraid the
tranquilizers he had taken might really kill him.  "You're the only one
who can save me," James had pleaded.  "Please come." And she, the great
rescuer, had gone to his aid, dragging him into the bathroom, making him
vomit, forcing him into a cold shower, and finally, after determining
that he hadn't taken nearly enough pills to really hurt himself,
stripping off his wet clothes and putting him to bed.  She had held his
hand, fingers pressed to his pulse, until he had fallen asleep.  Then
she had lightly brushed his damp hair from his high forehead, pressed
her finger to the deep cleft in his chin.  So handsome.  So sad.

"Look," Risa said.  "Not to worry.  This sounds like it'll all come to
nothing.  People are filing complaints against each other all the time.
Hoping to get money.  Trying to get someone in trouble.  My editor was
just interested in the suicide-wrongful death angle-and I've got to
admit, it's an unusual take."

"Thanks for the encouragement," Diana said, letting her breath out in a
long sigh.  "This stuff can get pretty hairy." Craig stuck his head in
the room and raised his eyebrows. Not wanting to worry him, Diana waved
him away; she heard him going down the stairs.

"But what I don't get," Risa was saying, "is why the sister's bothering
at all." She paused.  "Any bills in dispute?"

"No," Diana answered.  "James had money.  A trust fund. Apparently quite
large."

"Oh?" The pitch of Risa's voice raised.  "The sister too?"

"No," Diana said.  "Just James." When Hank Hutchins's pornography ring
had been broken, almost a million dollars in cash had been found along
with tins of 8mm movies and cartons of photographs.  The four boys who
had been victimized had been awarded a quarter-million each.  It would
be worth twice that much now-if not more-after almost twenty years of
careful investment by a bank in Connecticut.

Risa was silent for a few moments.  "Got any idea who's the beneficiary
of the will?"

"Jill, I suppose," Diana said, although the vague stirring of an elusive
memory caused her to shift uncomfortably on the bed.

"Have you ever met the sister?"

Diana once again heard Jill's words at the funeral.  "A couple of
times."

"What's she like?"

"Bright.  Capable.  A little hotheaded, perhaps."

"Oh?" Risa's voice registered high interest again.  "Did you right with
her? Do you think she's out to get you?"

Again Diana warned herself to choose her words well. "These things are
very complicated, Ms.-?"

"Risa.  Risa Getty."

"Family members often don't understand, Risa.  Sometimes they can't face
the suicide of a loved one and need someone to blame.  Sometimes the
patient says things that aren't true-makes things up to hurt the people
he feels have wronged him.  And it isn't unusual for the therapist to be
perceived as one of these people."

"So you did have some kind of argument with Jill Hutchins?"

"I suppose you might call it that," Diana said carefully.  "But nothing
that explains the complaint.  And definitely nothing that makes her
absurd accusations any less absurd."

Let me do a little more digging," Risa said.  "I'll sit on this for a
while, and, if it all checks out and the sister's substantiation remains
weak, well, there's really not much here to run with.  You wouldn't
believe the number of ridiculous jacked-up court cases that are just
Cousin Bill's petty personal vendetta against Aunt Elma-or how many
crackpots there are out there."

"Given my business," Diana said with a laugh that sounded forced even to
her ears, "I would believe."

"Guess you would, at that." Risa chuckled.  "Listen, figure the sister's
just one of those crackpots, and don't spend a lot of time stewing over
this.  I'll give you a call if I need any more information or if I get
my hands on anything that might help you figure out what's going on. But
my bet is, as long as TV doesn't get wind of the story, I'll have
nothing to run."

:'TV?" Diana croaked.

' Yeah," Risa said.  "Once it's on the local news, we've got to cover
it-they make it news."

"Local news?"

"Not to Worry.  With all the craziness going on in the world-and only
half an hour of airtime-my bet is that they'll never even bother."
Risa's voice was confident and cheerful.  "Thanks for your cooperation.
I'll be in touch."

Diana put the receiver in its cradle and stared at the telephone, at its
innocent buttons and numbers.  The black foreboding prescience of her
nightmare slowly returned. You'll be sorry, Jill had said at the
funeral.  You'll be sorry ... DIANA TAUGHT ATNCKNOR UNIVERSITY, HER
GRADUATE school alma mater, on Tuesdays and Thursdays.  She wasn't an
official member of the psychology department-senior Lecturer was her
title-and she liked it that way.  Diana had never wanted to be a
professor. From the moment she took her first abnormal psychology
course, she knew she was going to be a therapist.

As a nineteen-year-old sophomore, sitting in a huge lecture hall not all
that different from the room she taught in now, listening to Dr.  Kaplan
describe the infinite variations in human behavior, Diana had been
hooked: fascinated by the intricacies of the mind; enthralled with
theories of causation; captivated by the idea that she might actually
learn to help those struggling with their mental demons.  Then, as now,
she just couldn't imagine doing anything else with her life.  During
graduate school, when all her classmates were teaching assistants, she
had volunteered at a halfway house in Roxbury.

She had always been curious about other people's lives, peering into
windows, eavesdropping in small restaurants, wondering what the woman on
the park bench was really

Here was the perfect profession for a nosy person herself, a way to
connect without getting too close.  A way to do something worthwhile.
And perhaps, a way to make amends for her sister Nina's death.  Although
Diana had been only eight at the time, she had known Nina's accident-and
her own culpability in the tragedy-would be with her forever.

Diana and Nina had been playing in the front yard while Beth Yaffo, the
fifteen-year-old who lived down the block, baby-sat.  Diana could
remember everything about that late summer day: her brother, Scott,
arguing with their mother that he didn't need any new clothes for school
as they climbed into the station wagon; the languid, sticky heat; the
low buzzing of the somnolent bees as they moved listlessly from one
droopy flower to another; the yellowed grass and dusty bushes thirsty
from the long drought; Beth's boyfriend driving up in his father's new
cream-colored Oldsmobile Cutlass; Beth's admonition that Diana watch
Nina for "just a sec" while she took a spin around the block with
Mitchell.

Nina was laughing and turning in circles to make herself dizzy and then
suddenly, inexplicably, she darted into the street.  Diana would never
forget the sound of her own scream as she watched the red-and-white
appliance truck moving slowly, inexorably, toward Nina.  She had shouted
and started to run, but before she had crossed half the front lawn, she
heard the surprisingly solid thunk of the little body as it was hit by
the truck-and the deadly crack that it made when Nina came down hard on
the macadam.  Frozen with terror and overwhelming guilt, Diana had stood
motionless, watching the stocky truck driver standing over the tiny,
still form, crying and punching his fist in the air, beseeching his God.

Sometimes she still dreamed of that truck driver, tears running along
the wrinkles engraved in his weathered face, and of the little girl who
had been herself, shivering uncontrollably in the hot summer sun.
Whenever she dreamed of those long-ago people, Diana was glad for the
profession she had chosen.

She had gone to Ticknor right from Brown University and completed her
Ph.D.  in psychology in five years.  After a clinical post-doc at Beth
Israel Hospital, she had gone into private practice, continuing her
affiliation with BI as a research fellow.  So she had never thought
about the university , and her foray into teaching had been completely
serendipitous.

Two years ago she had unexpectedly run into Bradley Harris, her mentor
and head of her dissertation committee, at an American Psychological
Association conference. Over lunch he told her he was now chair of the
psychology department at Ticknor and in desperate need of a last minute
replacement to teach an abnormal psych course. Would she be willing to
save his neck?

It had worked out surprisingly well.  Not only was she far better at
teaching than she would have expected, but she really enjoyed it.  Diana
had also picked up some clinical hours at the student mental health
center and been placed on the university referral lists.  She now taught
the course every semester and had so many referrals she was forced to
wait-list patients.  She also knew that the university connection had
added bonus points toward the award of her latest research grant.

After the phone call she had just received from the Globe, Diana was
glad she had a class today.  She stood up and dressed hurriedly; her
class was at ten and she still had to review her notes.  Teaching would
get her out of 9 the house and keep her occupied, too occupied to waste
any time worrying about what effect Jill Hutchins's words might have on
her life.  No effect, she thought as she headed downstairs toward the
kitchen.  No effect at all.

As Diana poured herself a cup of coffee, she briefly described Risa's
phone call to Craig, downplaying the conversation, hoping not to worry
him before his big presentation.

"Do you think we should call a lawyer?" he asked as he stood up and put
his mug in the dishwasher, worry creasing his face despite her best
efforts.  "I don't want you upset by this."

"I'm not upset," she assured him, wishing she could also assure herself.
"And it's just not worth the time-it's all too stupid to be believable."

"But what's the harm of calling? Of getting some information?" he
pressed. "It'd be covered by your malpractice insurance, wouldn't it?"

"That's not the point," Diana said, standing and giving him a hug.
"You're the one who's always telling me not to worry let's take your
advice and wait to worry until there's something to worry about."

Craig let her change the subject to the party they were invited to that
weekend.  But Diana could feel his eyes on her as she ate her breakfast.
And he gave her an extra-long hug before he went out the door.

After Craig left, she bustled around the house, throwing in a load of
laundry, making the bed, reviewing her lecture notes.  But no matter how
busy she kept herself, every once in a while a voice would call from the
back of her mind: You'll be sorry ...  You'll be sorry ...  Diana pushed
it away, reminding herself that there was no way she could be held
legally responsible for James's suicide.  That Risa was right-as
unprofessional as it might be for Diana to agree.  Jill was a crackpot.
A crackpot with no case.

But the haunting voice wouldn't stay away, and the same thing kept
happening at Ticknor.  She would be busy, happy, going through her
professor motions: gossiping with the department secretaries; giving an
amusing and informative lecture on the difference between narcissistic
and antisocial personality disorders; meeting with her teaching
assistants to plan this week's discussion sections; explaining to a
student why his excuse of an "unexpected wedding"-on a Thursday, no
less-would not change the F he'd received on the exam.  And then it
would be there, striking her like a slap in the face: the voice.  You'll
be sorry ...  You'll be sorry ...

For about the fifth time she told the voice to shut up and raced home
for her two o'clock appointment: another extra session with Sandy
Pierson.  Diana had been worried about Sandy before James's death, but
now, after yet another abandonment in her life-no matter how unplanned
Sandy's precarious grip on reality could easily slip.  Diana knew that
Gail would reprimand her for giving Sandy so many free appointments,
that Gail would say she was too enmeshed" for her own, or for Sandy's,
good.  But Diana also knew that Sandy needed her, and, despite being a
bit over their heads on the house, it wasn't as if she and Craig were
desperate for money.

As she pulled into the alley, it occurred to her that there might be a
message from Risa waiting for her.  A message telling her it was all a
mistake-or a message verifying the worst.  When she walked through the
small waiting room and pushed open the door to her office, she didn't
know whether to be relieved or disappointed: The red light on her
answering machine was still.  There had been no calls.

But as she sat, trying to focus Sandy away from James and toward her
father-the real source of her abandonment-the machine began to click,
indicating an incoming call.  Two more times it clicked.  Three calls.
Blink.  Blink. Blink.  Diana glanced at the clock mounted discreetly on
the shelf behind Sandy's head.  Fifteen more minutes.

"There's not much there, Dr.  Marcus," Sandy was saying softly.  "It's
mostly a big blank.  A curtain."

Diana leaned forward, putting her elbows on her knees. "Can you see
anything nudging the curtain?" Blink.  Blink. Blink.  The red light
burst into her line of vision as she bent toward Sandy; Diana leaned
back in her chair.  "Anything trying to come out from behind it?"

"No," Sandy said, opening and closing the latch on her day-timer. "Any
shadows you can discern through the curtain?"

Sandy stared out the window behind Diana, her eyes focused much farther
away than the perpendicular shadows east by the fire escape on the brick
wall across the alley. "Red Sox," she croaked.

Diana thought she misheard.  "Red Sox?"

Sandy burst into tears.  "He took me to a Red Sox game," she said
between sobs.

"It's okay," Diana said softly, handing Sandy a tissue. "It's hard to
remember hurtful things.  It's okay to feel sad." Blink.  Blink.  Blink.
Diana squared her shoulders and sat straight in her chair, furious with
herself for her lack of concentration.  "It's okay," she repeated,
forcing all her attention on the sobbing woman.  "It's often the things
you're afraid to feel that keep you from getting well."

Sandy shook her head, tears sprinkling her blue jeans. "We.  .  ." she
started, then took a deep breath.  "We had a wonderful time."

"Pleasant times lost can be hard to remember too." Diana flashed on the
day she and James had sat barefoot and crosslegged at the Public
Gardens, eating turkey sandwiches and laughing over a "Saturday Night
Live" sketch they had both seen the previous weekend.  She and James had
met unexpectedly at the Boston Public Library and, although she knew
some of her colleagues might think it inappropriate, she had impulsively
acquiesced to his suggestion that they share lunch and the summer day.
The jab of grief that the memory evoked emphasized the truth in the
words she had spoken to Sandy.  Diana looked down at her hands for a
moment, then looked up, allowing Sandy to see her pain.  "Things are
very rarely all good or all bad."

Sandy's sorrowful eyes locked onto Diana's, then they lightened with
understanding.  "People either," she said, her voice barely a whisper.

Diana smiled sadly.  "It's a thin line." When she glanced away, she
caught sight of the clock: The hour had passed. Slowly she closed her
notebook.

Sandy blew her nose and stood.  "Next week, same time?" She flipped open
her day-timer and raised her pen expectantly.

"Let's see how you're doing before we schedule another individual
appointment," Diana said gently, congratulating herself on her
cautiousness and thinking of how Gail would approve.  "You'll be here on
Monday for group."

Sandy's face paled and the pen in her hand trembled slightly.  "But I
know I'll need to see you'

"If you need to see me before Monday," Diana interrupted, "you will." As
Diana rose, the blinking light caught her eye.  She turned her back on
the machine and walked the troubled woman through the waiting room and
down the hallway to the back door.

Sandy closed her book and slipped it into her oversized shoulder bag, an
expression of gratitude crossing her beautiful face.  "Thanks," she
whispered as she stepped out into the alley.

Diana walked back into her office and punched the button on the
answering machine.  Three messages.  As the tape rewound, she watched
Sandy climb into the battered sports car that was parked next to their
equally battered jeep.  Sandy angrily wiped her eyes with the sleeve of
her coat as she turned the key in the ignition.  Then she threw the car
in reverse and sped out of the alley.

The machine set itself to replay, and Diana turned her attention to the
messages.  She didn't realize she had been holding her breath until the
recording played itself out and the air escaped from her lungs in a
rush.  Risa hadn't called. There was only a cancellation, a referral,
and a staticky message from her missing patient, Ethan, telling her that
he was holed up in Provincetown.

Diana dropped into her chair and swiveled it so she was looking out the
window.  A blanket-clad figure was huddled on the fire escape across the
alley.  For a moment it seemed to Diana as if he or she was staring at
her, watching her, waiting to do her harm.  As Diana snapped the blinds
closed, she decided that they were just going to have to find the money
to fix the alarm system.  She shivered and briskly rubbed her arms,
futilely trying to depress the goose bumps the sight of the shrouded
figure had raised.

Craig was a rock.  During every crisis of their eight year marriage, he
had remained resolute and unshakable in his contention that until the
worst is verified, there is no point in assuming it will occur.  His
calm optimism had gotten Diana through her father's heart surgery, her
ectopic pregnancy, and their years of infertility.  In every case, Craig
had been right: The worst had never materialized.

Despite the fact that she hadn't heard from Risa-or maybe because of
it-by the time Craig got home, Diana was feeling pretty jittery.  As
they sat over a dinner of cheese omelets and salad, they rehashed her
conversation with Risa Getty.

His unflappability was soothing.  "This whole wrongful death thing is
nuts," he said.  "Malpractice is one thing and she doesn't even have a
case there-but wrongful death." He shook his head.  "Don't even bother
worrying about it."

Diana played with the salad on her plate.  "We've got to face it," she
said.  "There is a death involved."

"This isn't just 'a death' it is a suicide," Craig disagreed.  "When
therapists start being held responsible for their patients' suicides, no
one's going to be able to practice.  It can't happen."

"That's just what I told the reporter," Diana said.  "But isn't that
what malpractice is all about? That a doctor is responsible for the
health and safety of his or her patients? For providing quality care?"

"Fine," Craig said.  "Let's go from that premise." He put his fork down
and crossed his arms in imitation of a television lawyer.  "Would you
say, Dr.  Marcus, that you used standard procedures in treating James
Hutchins?"

Diana smiled at him and then sobered, thinking of how poorly she had
navigated the line between sticking close and remaining distant.  "I
don't know, Craig.  There really are no 'standard procedures,' per se.
There are .  .  ." She paused, looking at him, begging him to make her
feel better.  "There are theories, acceptable practices .  .  ."

"And did you follow these 'acceptable practices,' Dr. Marcus?" Craig
boomed, waving his finger in her face. "Do you have notes? Professionals
who can verify that your therapy was appropriate?"

Diana thought of her incredibly complete files, the ones Gail and Marc
always laughed at, calling her a perfectionist-obsessive; she must have
hundreds of pages on James alone.  "Yes, Mr.  Prosecutor." She grabbed
his finger and stuck her tongue out at him.  "And I'll be glad to give
the court copies of every note I ever took on James Hutchins-if you've
all got a spare month or two."

"See?" he said, coming.  over and kneeling next to Diana's chair. "She's
fishing.  There's no substance." He wrapped his arms around her.
"There's nothing there."

Diana snuggled into him, feeling better for his words, for his arms, for
his love.  "I just worry because Jill isn't your usual person.  She's
quirky.  Volatile." Diana played with the top button of his shirt.  "She
runs hot and cold. She did to James.  She did to me." Diana shook her
head. "I just don't think we can count on her to see things as they
really are to do the reasonable thing .  .  ."

"Honey," Craig said, raising her chin.  "Don't you see, it doesn't
matter.  She doesn't have anything to go unreasonable or unreasonable.
This is a matter of law.  There is no case."

Diana nodded and dropped her head onto his shoulder. He was right.  Of
course he was right.  She took one of his hands and placed it on her
stomach.  They sat in quiet contact.  The voice was finally still.

Through their silence, Diana heard the street suddenly come alive:
brakes squealed; car doors slammed; voices were raised in excitement.
Another frat party.  Didn't those guys ever study? Diana wondered,
listening to the intensifying street noises as the dining room windows
glowed from the approaching headlights.  "Thanks," she said.

"I love you." He rubbed her stomach.  "Both of-" Craig was cut off by
the chime of the bell.  He looked questioningly at Diana; she shrugged.
They both stood and, their arms still around each other, walked to the
entryway.  Diana stepped to the side as Craig pulled the heavy oak door
toward him.

The door swung open, and they were hit by a blaze of lights so bright
that it might have been noon.  Diana stood frozen like a rabbit caught
on the highway, the sinking feeling in her stomach registering the
catastrophic significance of what she saw before her befuddled brain
could fully assess the scene.

"Ned Holt.  Channel 5 News," declared a short man with the manufactured
look of a doll, his face painted the color of Mercurochrome.  He stuck a
microphone under Diana's nose.  "Is it true that James Hutchins's family
is holding you responsible for his death, Dr.  Marcus? Do you have any
comment on the family's allegations?" he added before she could even
comprehend his first question.

Dr.  Marcus.  Dr.  Marcus.  Her mind was whirling.  How did they even
know it was she? "I, ah, I-" She blinked into the intense light, trying
to discern what was out there, trying to find a place to run.  "I don't
really know," she finally said, groping for Craig.

"But this isn't the first you've heard of it?" Holt was demanding,
waving his hand for a squat heavyset boy with a camera on his shoulder
to climb the steps.  "You were aware that a suit was filed? Charging you
with malpractice and wrongful death?"

Before she could answer, another reporter came from behind a van with
"Channel 7 News" lettered on its side in diagonal black graphic.  "You
did know that you were the beneficiary of James Hutchins's will?" asked
a vaguely familiar woman.

Diana gripped the wrought iron railing.  Once again she was at 33 rpm,
separated.from these frenetic plastic-looking people, not of the same
world as everyone else.  She was only peripherally aware of Craig's
hands gripping her shoulders as the memory that had eluded her that
morning came flooding back.  "Without you I'd be nothing-you've saved my
life," James had told her after his promotion at Fidelity.  "And to show
you my gratitude, I'm going to change my will so that you're my sole
beneficiary.  When I die, you'll be a rich woman." She had dismissed the
whole thing as another one of his meaningless grandiose gestures,
forgetting the incident completely.  Until now.

"We deny everything," Craig boomed in a strong, angry voice, coming
around to stand in front of Diana, blocking her from view.  "This is
completely trumped up and ridiculous."

"Do you deny that your wife is the beneficiary of James Hutchins's
considerable estate? We have information from a source in Hutchins's
lawyer's office .

"No one has contacted us." Craig hesitated, his voice not nearly as
confident as before.  "We have seen no documents." He turned and
propelled Diana toward the open door.  "We have nothing else to say."

As they slipped into the foyer the woman called out. "What about the
sexual abuse charge?"

Diana and Craig stopped and turned as if one.  "What?!"

"Jill Hutchins charges that Dr.  Marcus was having sexual relations with
her brother," Holt said.  "She claims he told her the whole story. Told
another psychiatrist too." The microphone once.again rose up in front of
Diana's face.  "Do you have any comment, Dr.  Marcus?"

"That's completely insane," sputtered Craig, shoving the microphone away
from Diana and pulling it toward himself "It's a complete and total
lie!"

"If you knew anything about people suffering from borderline personality
disorder," Diana said, "you would know that-"

"Don't say anything else," Craig hissed at Diana, just about pushing her
into the house.  "We'll countersue," he said into the microphone.  "For
defamation of character," he called over his shoulder before he shut the
door.

Diana leaned back against the cold plaster wall, her eyes locked onto
Craig's; he appeared as shaken as she. Jill's words reverberated through
her brain.  You used him for your own perverse pleasures ...  James told
me everything ...  You two had a real sicko thing going ...  I even have
proof...  Diana reached out for Craig's hand.  He pulled her to him and
held her tight.

DIANA TOOK HER LECTURE NOTES FROM THE FILE AND spread them before her on
the desk.  Although she was quite familiar with the material, she liked
to spend at least half an hour reviewing her notes before each class.
This allowed her to speak without consulting the pages, giving her
lectures a more extemporaneous feel and, as she told Craig, bamboozling
the students into thinking she knew what she was talking about.

Bipolar disorder with psychotic features, she read, although the words
might have been engineering jargon rather than psychological
nomenclature for all the sense they made to her at the moment.
Schizoaffective schizophrenia.  Mania.

How was she going to pull this off? she wondered as her eyes skidded
down the paper.  By just doing it.  She started at the top of the page
again, forcing herself to concentrate. Bipolar disorder with psychotic
features.

Yesterday she had hid in the house, studying her picture in the Boston
Globe.  She was unable to grasp that the stunned, obviously pregnant
woman standing on the stoop, her hair blown backward off her high
forehead, was really she-4hat Diana Marcus was the center of this media
circus.  No one could possibly believe this nonsense.  Not her friends.
Not her colleagues.  Not those who knew her. But what of all the others?
They would believe it; it was in the newspaper, ergo, it must be true.
What else could they think? As she stared at the picture, her horror
grew. They could think she was pregnant with James's baby.

TICKNOR PSYCHOLOGIST CHARGED WITH WRONGFUL DEATH IN PATIENT SUICIDE,
read the front-page headline.  The subtitle of the article noted the
malpractice and sexual abuse charges in thick black letters.  Ned Holt's
eleven o'clock news story had been tame compared to the Globe.

The paper had focused almost entirely on Jill's allegations: James's
tales that Diana had shared her erotic fantasies with him; a postcard
Diana had sent him from vacation on the Cape; Jill's contention that,
prior to his contact with Diana, James had been completely normal. Craig
called to tell her that the Inquirer was even worse. SEX DOC SAYS SHE'S
NO MURDERER, the tabloid headline screamed.

She had stood staring out the front window, careful to stay behind the
curtains so that curious eyes could not see her from the street,
watching for reporters, watching those blessed with anonymity go about
their wonderfully normal lives.  She had been just like them only last
week: worried about whether Craig's firm would win the Central Artery
project; worried about firing one of her teaching assistants; worried
about whether hobbits were too scary to include in -the baby's fantasy
mural.  She would give anything to have those worries again, to go back
to when it was safe.

Today she had to go out.

Yesterday she had canceled all her appointments and talked only to Craig
and her mother and Valerie Goldman, the lawyer her insurance company had
retained.  "Best mal- practice lawyer in the Commonwealth," the woman at
Joint Underwriters of America had assured her.  Diana had met Valerie
Goldman once when she spoke at a New England American Psychological
Association breakfast last winter.  Her topic was "Protecting Yourself
From Malpractice Suits," and the room had been completely full.

Valerie was tall and carried an extra twenty pounds, but her perfectly
tailored suit turned what would have been heft in another woman into a
look of substance and competence.  Her speech had been coherent and
informative, and she had answered questions from the audience-half of
whom had been involved in malpractice suits-with an ease that showed the
depth of her knowledge.  But she had also struck Diana as humorless; she
never smiled, and she looked puzzled at Marc Silvennan's joke about the
lawyer, the psychologist, and the rabbi that had cracked everyone else
up.

In Valerie's defense, Diana did remember that halfway through her
speech, she had ripped off her Italian leather heels.  "Men designed
these shoes to make sure that woman couldn't run as fast as they,"
Valerie had said without a smile as she placed them on the chair next to
the podium.  And Gail swore by her: Joint Underwriters had hired Valerie
to handle Gail's malpractice case also. This morning, after a quick
phone conversation with the woman, Diana was even more convinced of both
Valerie's competence and her humorlessness.

Yesterday Diana had prowled her office, listening to the endless stream
of messages on the answering machine. Channel 7.  The Globe.  The
Inquirer.  Gail.  She hadn't even talked to her brother, Scott; Craig
had called him back in the evening.  The Worcester Telegram.  Channel 4.
The Providence Journal.  She hadn't bothered to pick up the phone when
Valerie called to say that, after trying Diana's house, the sheriff had
served the complaint at her office. Valerie had agreed to accept
service.  They had twenty days to file an answer in court. Today she had
a class to teach.

Yesterday she had indulged her anger and sorrow.  She had slammed doors
and yelled into the empty house.  Then she had called her mother and
sobbed out her humiliation, just barely finding the strength to resist
her parents' offer that they come East immediately.  As much as she
needed the support, they were better off in California, geographically
spared the brunt of her shame.  She hollered out her fury at the media.
"Would you be doing this if I were a man and James was a woman?" she had
yelled out loud.  "Would this be front-page news if our sexes were
reversed?"

And although she knew that it was Jill and the media and society's
sexist values that were really at fault, most of her anger was focused
on James.  She pictured him as he had been last July, right after she
had terminated with him. He was waiting for her outside the dry
cleaner's, leaning against the plate-glass window, his arms crossed and
his blue eyes flashing defiance.  "I'll just kill myself and save you
the trouble of doing it slowly!" he had screamed at her.  And when she
had ignored him and walked calmly down the street, he had gone home and
swallowed a bottle of Seconal, coming extremely close to making good on
his threat.

Diana didn't care that James was now dead, that his threat had been
fulfilled and her worst nightmare realized. She didn't care that she was
being immature and unprofessional.  She wanted to hurt him.  To punish
him as he was punishing her.  So she brought back every detail of him,
until James Hutchins loomed large and three-dimensional in her mind. She
breathed life into him and then mentally threw darts into his chest.

Valerie had called a third time to say that Diana had to go out, that if
she didn't continue on her normal schedule, her behavior could be
construed as an admission of guilt. "It's like falling off a horse,"
Valerie had told Craig.  "Make her get up and go to work tomorrow."

So she had.  She had gotten up, showered, and put on a new purple
maternity dress, hoping the feel of the soft wool against her skin would
raise her spirits.  After checking the sidewalk for reporters and
finding none, she had even eaten some breakfast.  The Globe sat on the
front stoop, unretrieved by anyone; Diana was afraid if she saw the
paper she would lose her nerve.  Craig wanted to go into work late and
drive her to Ticknor, but Diana assured him that she was fine and shooed
him out the door.  After he left, she had walked down to her office, her
steps heavy but resolute, the purple dress doing little for her spirits.

Bipolar disorder with psychotic features, she read yet one more time.
Schizoaffective schizophrenia.  Mania.  She snapped the folder closed
and stuffed the notes in her briefcase.  It was no use.  She glanced at
the clock and stood up. It was time anyway.

Then she sat down again, relief flooding her body.  There was really no
reason that she had to go into the psychology department offices today.
If she waited another ten minutes, she could go directly to class and
then leave right after the lecture.  Perhaps not exactly her normal
schedule, but normal enough.  She could go to work, as Valerie had
ordered, while still avoiding her colleagues.  Diana knew she couldn't
do this forever, but for today, she felt it would be acceptable.  She
would take a lesson from Scarlet O'Hara and not worry about tomorrow
until tomorrow.

The lecture hall was filled to capacity.  Diana had not seen it this
crowded since the first exam.  She roughly calculated the number of
occupied seats.  She knew there were one hundred and fifty-three
students enrolled in the class.  There had to be well over two hundred
people in the room.

She swallowed hard, keeping her eyes focused directly in front of her,
and walked to the lectern and began. The room quieted, and Diana was
quickly caught up in the concentration necessary to convey complicated
information in a clear and interesting way.  She became lost in the
material, safe for the moment.  For the first time since Ned Holt's
orange face had blazed up at her, she almost forgot.

The fifty minutes flew by all too quickly, and as her voice faded away,
reality returned.  Stuffing her notes into her briefcase, Diana pictured
her jeep in the parking lot.  All she had to do was put on her coat and
walk out of the building.  The lot was right at the bottom of the hill.
She could be home in twenty minutes.  Safe behind the curtains.

Diana slipped on her coat and watched the rapidly emptying hall.  No
questions today, she thought wryly.  No students worried about missed
lectures or confusing explanations in the text.  They were all too
afraid to face her.  Or too anxious to run off and gossip.

Stop it, she warned herself.  Just stop it.  Twenty minutes and she
would be home.  But then she saw Bradley Harris standing at the rear
door.  Department heads did not normally attend their faculty's classes.

He smiled sadly and motioned her to join him.  Climbing down the steps
toward him, Diana noticed he had the same look on his face that her
grandfather had had the day that Lori and Bev told her she was not
invited to their fifth grade sleep-over party.  And she thought, not for
the first time, that Brad reminded her of Grandpa Jack.

"I'm so sorry, Diana." He reached out to hug her.  "I'm sure it'll all
blow over quickly."

"It's too ridiculous to take seriously," Diana said, stepping back,
afraid that if he touched her, his sympathy might crack her thin veneer
of control.

Would you rather talk here, or in my office?" he asked kindly.

"I'd really rather not talk at all, if you don't mind." She tossed her
hair back and looked him straight in the eye, trying to prove to him,
and to herself, that she really was doing just fine.  "Maybe I'll stop
by next week."

Brad shook his head.  "There's something I need to tell you today."

Diana dropped into one of the seats.  "Shoot."

" There's going to be a meeting," he said, coming over and touching her
shoulder.  "The dean called it."

"About me?"

"To decide if you should be allowed to continue teaching."

I see," she said, both surprised and not surprised.  It hadn't occurred
to her that they would do this, but now that they had, it seemed all too
predictable.

"You know that I don't believe a word of this media garbage." He sat
down in the chair across the aisle from her and rested his head on the
back of the seat.  "I told them their behavior was despicable," he said
to the ceiling. "I told them I would vouch for you personally." They sat
in silence for a moment, then he turned to her.  "I tried.  I really did
try .  .  ."

Diana leaned across the aisle and touched his knee.  "I'm sure you did."
She was also sure that sensational headlines with "Ticknor Psychologist"
in them didn't go over well with the rich alumni who were financing the
new "world class" art building of which the university was so proud.

Brad shook his head, worry etching deep lines in his face.  "I might as
well tell you that they're also talking about taking your name off the
referral lists-temporarily," he added.  "Until this blows over."

She nodded.  "Of course."

"Do you want to be alone?" Brad asked.  "Or would you rather I stayed?"

"I'm fine, Brad.  Really I am," Diana said, standing and busying herself
with her briefcase and purse.  "I think I'll go home now."

Brad pushed himself slowly up from his seat with the stiff motions of an
old man.  Awkwardly he tried to hug her again; this time Diana let him.
"I feel so terrible," he said, his eyes bright with compassion.  "I'll
do everything I can."

She gave him a quick squeeze and then stepped away. "But you don't think
it'll make any difference," she said matter-of-factly.

"Of course it'll make a difference." He shook his head emphatically.
"There are a lot of fair-minded people in this university.  A lot of
people who'll be on your side." Then he was silent for a moment, looking
at his feet.  "Would it help if I talked to the press?"

Diana shrugged and lifted her purse to her shoulder.

"What if I told them all the good things about you? About your
commitment to helping.  Your status in the field.  How your cutting-edge
research is sure to lead to new treatment options?" Excited by the idea,
he grabbed her arms.  "What if I told them I'm convinced that this
Hutchins character was destined to kill himself no matter what his
therapist did?" He shook her slightly.  "How about it, Diana? Wouldn't
that help?"

"Don't make any offers you're not willing to follow through on," she
warned.

"Just tell me who to talk to."

"Let me think about it."

"Call me," he said, giving her another quick hug.  "I really want to
help."

"I know you do." She touched his cheek.  "And I may need all the help I
can get."

When Diana pulled in behind her house, she was so relieved to be home,
and to find the alley empty of reporters, that she jumped too quickly
from the jeep.  She tripped over her scarf and fell to the asphalt.
Swearing, she rubbed gravel from her ripped stockings and skinned knee.
Then she flipped the scarf over her shoulder, grabbed her purse and
briefcase, and rushed for the safety of her back door.

But when she got to the door, she stopped in confusion. The door was
swung inward, open and unlocked.  The place where the deadbolt had been
was a mess of splintered wood and twisted metal.  Slowly the reality of
what her eyes were seeing filtered through to her brain: They had been
robbed.

She stared at the damaged door, furious at the thief, and even more
furious at the reporters, at the excited babble that would arrive on the
heels of the police cars.  Without considering the possibility that the
thief might still be inside, she stalked into the house and stomped
through the small waiting room and into her office.  Then she froze. The
room was in total disarray.  It had been ransacked.

File cabinets had been pushed over, shelves had been emptied.  Files,
books, and papers lay ankle-deep on the floor.  Her desk looked as if a
child had thrown a temper tantrum and waved angry arms across it.  It
had been swept clean, its contents strewn atop the papers and books. The
desk drawers had been pulled from their housings and flung, by the same
enraged and powerful child, to every corner of the room.

Diana knelt down and picked up one of her onyx bookends; it was broken.
She turned the pieces around and around in her hand, letting the sharp
edges press deeply into her palm.  She and Craig had splurged on the
bookends while in Mexico on their honeymoon.  Now they were broken.
Broken in two.

Heat pulsed through her body as the extent of the violation began to
dawn on her.  She dropped the bookend and grabbed a desk drawer.  Then
she grabbed another, and another, and another.  She turned them over.
She shook them.  She flung one to the floor.  "Shit!" she yelled into
the devastated room.  "Shit! Shit! Shit!" But no matter what she threw,
or how loud she swore, the reality remained the same: The drawers had
been emptied.  All of them.  Even the one she kept locked.

She began combing through the debris.  Frantically she pushed through
the books and the files and the papers.  It wasn't there.  She knew it
wasn't.  It would be easy to spot with its deep aqua-and-purple cover.
Her journal was gone.

Her private journal.  The place where she kept her innermost self.  The
place where she confided the things she suffered in the darkest furrows
of her soul.  The things she could never tell another human being.  Not
Gail.  Not her mother.  Not even Craig.

She fell to the floor and wrapped her arms around herself.  Her private
journal.  Filled with her secret thoughts. Filled with wild and erotic
fantasies.  Fantasies meant to be forever her own exclusive possession.

Some were about Craig.  Some were about faceless men. Some were even
about women.  She rocked, gripping her calves tighter and tighter,
pressing her chin into her knees. Some were about James.

After REGAINING A MODICUM OF composuRE, DIANA called Craig, Valerie, and
then the police.  But before she checked her files, before she climbed
the stairs, even before the swelling sirens could be heard racing toward
her, she already knew: The only thing missing was her journal.  This was
no random burglary.  This was a premeditated, personal attack.

Valerie was in court and Craig was at a building site on the North
Shore, but the police came quickly enough-as did what appeared to Diana
to be the entire Boston press corps.  And then some.  Did they have some
kind of disaster telepathy? Diana wondered as she followed Detective
Levine through the house.  Diana guessed Levine to be about ten years
her senior.  He was very tall and had a full head of curly
salt-and-pepper hair that must have been a rich black in his youth.  His
eyes were an incredible icy blue, and although they regarded Diana with
sympathy, there was a cold edge to his gaze that made her slightly
uncomfortable.

The two patrolmen who had come with him raced ahead, sliding against
walls and jerking open closet doors.  Diana nodded and answered Levine's
questions, once again in automaton mode.

Yes, this was her house.

Yes, this was her office.

Yes, they did have a security system, but it was broken. They were going
to have it fixed, but the contractor wanted too much money.

Yes, this was the kitchen.

As ridiculous as the whole process seemed, Diana was actually relieved
to be going through it.  At least she was occupied.  Listening to the
inane questions and producing the self-evident answers gave her a chance
to focus on something besides who would want to do this to her.  Some-
thing beside her missing journal.

Her journal.  Don't think about it, she warned herself. Don't think
about what was in it.  Or who might have taken it.  Or what he or
she-most likely she-planned to do with it.  Diana placed her hand on her
stomach.

Herb Levine's eyes followed her motion.  "Dr.  Marcus," he said, turning
abruptly and leading her back to her office, "I understand you're
currently involved in a pretty big malpractice suit?"

Diana righted her desk chair and sat down, waving the gangly detective
into one of the others.  She nodded.

He looked around at the disarray, swiveling in his chair to carefully
scrutinize every corner of the room. He crossed his long legs and pulled
out a small notebook.  Diana assumed he was taking some kind of
inventory, compiling clues, determining potential suspects.  Instead he
looked at her and asked, "Where's the couch?"

"I don't do that kind of therapy."

"I thought you all used couches."

"And I thought all Boston cops were Irish and that anyone named Herb
Levine had to be an accountant."

His smile crinkled his face into a mass of appealing wrinkles.  "Got me
there," he said, chuckling.

"No fingerprint dusters?" she continued, wondering how she could
possibly be so glib when the shavings of her life were curling around
her on the floor.  "No photographers and fancy forensics?" This must be
shock, she decided.  Her hands were ice-cold but steady, her heart
beating normally, her voice composed, her emotions in some kind of numb,
frozen limbo.  And if it wasn't shock, whatever it was was more than
welcome to stick around for a while.  It was far superior to what she
was going to feel when the ice started to melt.

" If we did that for every burglary in town, we'd bankrupt the
department in a month," Levine was saying, chuckling again.  "It's just
a fluke you got me.  I only came because of your other case.  Someone
recognized the name and address when you called in.  I'm homicide-and
fortunately having a slow week."

Homicide.  The word caught Diana off-guard, and she startled.  She felt
the heat rising to her cheeks and noticed that Levine had stopped
smiling.  "Homicide," she repeated, groping for something to say that
would distract her from her growing unease.  Then she realized she had
far less to fear from a homicide detective than from the fact that she
was a household name to every police dispatcher in the city of Boston.

"So," he said, finally pulling his eyes from her face and flipping his
pad open.  "Now that you've uncovered my true identity as a Jewish
homicide detective, do you have any idea who might have done this? Or
why?" He looked up and stared at her in a searing way that made Diana
glad he wasn't here in his usual capacity.  "Do you think there's a
connection between this and your other thing?" he asked.

Diana nodded, then hesitated.  She saw Jill's face at the funeral,
florid with anger.  She remembered a story James had told her about a
girl who had danced too many dances with Jill's date at the junior prom;
the following Monday, Jill had sat down behind the girl in math class
and calmly cut off her ponytail.  Diana shook her head.  "I think I
really need to talk to my lawyer before saying anything Levine raised
his eyebrows.  "Oh?"

"It's not that I have anything to hide-or that I don't want you to find
out who did this." Diana felt sweat prickling under her an-arms.  "It's
just that it's, well, it's just very complicated."

"In that case," he said, snapping his notebook closed and standing,
"this is just another burglary-obvious forced entry, but nothing of
value stolen of hundreds logged every week."

She jumped from her chair and followed him to the office door.  "Does
that mean you won't even try to find out who did it?" She waved her
hand.  "Or to get my journal back?"

"Look," he said, his eyes grazing her stomach again, "you seem to have
enough trouble here already, so I'm not going to bullshit you." He
glanced around the room and shook his head.  "This kind of break-in
almost never gets solved.  Once in a while we catch a guy with stolen
goods and someone lucks out and gets their stuff back." He shook his
head again.  "You and I know that's not going to happen here."

"So you're saying there's nothing you can do?" Diana asked, anger
lapping at her protective numbness, melting it a bit.  "What are you
going to tell the reporters?"

"I've had lots of experience with those sniffers," Levine said as they
climbed the stairs to the front door.  "Don't worry about me.  I can
handle them just fine."

The two patrolmen were coming down from the second floor.  "Clean as a
whistle," one of them said.

Levine handed Diana his card.  "You get your lawyer to call me and, if
he gives me something to go on, then maybe I'll be able to check out a
few things for you.  But as it stands now, not much can be done." He
held out his hand, looking honestly sorry.

Diana shook his hand and thanked him, then opened the door just wide
enough for the three policemen to slip out. AS she closed the door
against the hubbub Levine's appearance had created among the sniffers,
the telephone began to ring.  Figuring it must be Craig, and not knowing
if her answering machine was still in one piece, Diana picked up the
kitchen phone.  It was Valerie.

Valerie was pleased with Diana's refusal to talk to Herb Levine, but
horrified at the theft of the journal.  "Now let me get this straight,"
Valerie said.  "You write down all the erotic feelings you have about
your patients and that makes the feelings go away?"

"It's not just erotic," Diana said.  "Sometimes you might feel anger or
frustration or overprotectiveness."

"And this works?"

"It's called countertransference," Diana tried again, all too aware of
the difficulty a layperson would have with the concept.  "It's part of
the therapeutic process.  The patient relates to you as if you were
someone in his or her past and you can't help taking on some of the
feelings that accompany the role he projects on you.  A therapist can't
act on the feelings-but you need some way to deal with them."

There was silence for a moment before Valerie finally said, "Sounds
weird to me." Then she demanded that Diana reconstruct some of the more
damaging passages.

Diana searched her memory, her mind flipping back through the entries
she had written in her journal over the past three years.  Many of them
were quite benign: a description of how infuriated she was at Sandy's
grandmother for her relentless fault-finding; a sheepish admission that
she really couldn't stand Ethan; notes on a dream she had in which she
protected Bruce from his brother by waving a huge gun in the brother's
face.

A flush crept up her neck as she remembered the entries about James;
many were sexual-and those that were were uniformly wild.  A hot,
unrestrained fantasy of stripping each other's clothes off in a utility
room at the Boston Common garage, the thrill of possible discovery
sending her into a flurry of multiple orgasms.  A slow, steamy fantasy
of making love to James on the stage of a large lecture hall, in front
of two hundred mesmerized, note-taking students.

"Diana," Valerie said, interrupting her rumination, "it's imperative I
know everything you can remember."

Diana took a long, faltering breath.  "Most of it's pretty dull.  But,
uh, some of it .  .  ." She paused and tried again. "Well, some of the
entries are sexual-but they're nothing really unusual.  They're the kind
of fantasies everyone has." Diana knew that although her words were
true, in the current context, the journal entries would be construed as
anything but usual.  "You know, sex in strange places .  .

"Such as?"

Diana thought of the entry she had written one afternoon this past June.
It had been a hot, sweltering day and James had been dressed in a pair
of cut-off jeans and a red tank top.  He was tan and lean and his biceps
gleamed with a thin layer of sweat; when he moved, his muscles rippled
with the grace and strength of a stalking lion, and when he laughed, his
eyes flashed blue and luminous against his tanned skin.

After he left, Diana had poured her unabashed desire into her journal.
She had described how, throughout the entire session, all she could
think of was ripping off James's shirt. Of their eyes locking and the
aching pain of the passion she would feel as he slowly unhooked his
shorts.  Of his beautiful body, naked and sweat-covered and wanting her
as much as she wanted him.  She had written, in excruciating detail, how
she and James had made love on the floor of her office, the old creaky
air conditioner drying the sweat from their bodies.  She groaned softly.
"A closet, a classroom," she whispered.  "My office."

"You and Hutchins?"

"Yes."

Valerie was silent for a long moment, then she said, "This is bad."
Although her voice was calm, Diana detected a note of amazement in it.

"It was only for me," Diana tried to explain.  "No one was ever supposed
to see it."

"If the journal surfaces-and I think we have to assume that it will,"
Valerie said as if Diana hadn't spoken, "we'll immediately file a motion
in limine to sto"

"A motion in what?" Diana interrupted.

"A motion in limine.  It's a request to prevent something from being
introduced as evidence.  From what you've told me, the last thing we
want with this sexual abuse charge is for your journal to be a part of
the court record."

"My journal can't be evidence," Diana cried in a horrified whisper.
"It's my journal.  It's private.  It's confidential-and it was stolen."

"All that's true enough, but the confidentiality argument has
traditionally been weak," Valerie said.  "Once the journal's existence
and contents are accepted as fact, Hutchins's attorney will undoubtedly
file a motion for court ruling on admissibility, citing its direct
relevance to your guilt or innocence-stolen or not."

"But someone broke in here.  They busted through my locks and ransacked
my office.  A crime was committed!" Diana's voice grew louder as her
fury completely thawed the numbness.  "Doesn't that make a difference?
It has to make a difference!"

"If this were a criminal case, you'd have a point," Valerie said slowly.
"Civil law's not so defense-oriented.  Seems to me, I remember a
Missouri case where stolen records were admitted into evidence.  .  ."
She paused and Diana could hear her typing into a computer.  "Nothing on
first query," she said.  "But either way, it's a long shot-we may be
better off with privilege against self-incrimination .  .  ." Her voice
trailed off and the tapping began again.  "Think it was Jill Hutchins?"

"Who else could it be? Who else would care about my journal?"

"Lots of people.  The press.  Some loco patient." Valerie paused.  "Know
anyone who would benefit from you being smeared? A colleague whose
promotion might be assured if you were out of the picture?"

"My business doesn't work like that," Diana said.  "I'm pretty much on
my own."

"You and your husband having any marital problems?" Valerie asked.

"Yeah, right Craig broke in here and ransacked his own house.  You and I
both know that Jill Hutchins either did it or arranged for it to be
done.  She's the only one who would benefit'

"Did she know about the journal?" Valerie interrupted.

Diana was silent for a moment.  James had known about the journal; he
could have told Jill.  "It's possible."

"How many other people knew about it? Where you kept it? What was in
it?"

Diana paused again, mentally running down the list: her peer supervisory
group; Craig; her borderline therapy group.  Telling her peer group and
Craig was fine, but why had she told her borderline group? Her heart hit
her stomach.  How could she have been so stupid? She remembered the day
she had discussed it with them.  It was about two years ago; Ethan
wasn't in the group yet and it had been just James, Sandy, Bruce and
Terri.  Diana had suggested that they each begin keeping a diary to
track their emotional states, and had used her own journal as an example
of what a powerful and helpful tool it could be.  What had ever
possessed her to listen to Adrian's advice about "being real," about the
importance of the therapist's personal revelations to the borderline
patient's identification process? What a crock of shit.  "A few," she
said slowly.

"Look," Valerie said, "you make a complete listing for me of everyone
who knew about it-2'

"No one really knew what was in it."

"-and exactly how much they knew," Valerie continued.  "Then I want you
to keep quiet and sit tight.  Let me check this out with a couple of my
partners-we're moving beyond the parameters of your usual malpractice
suit, here.  This kind of thing just doesn't come up that often."

"Sit tight?" Diana asked, her voice rising again.  "I'm just supposed to
sit around and wait for the next disaster to strike?"

"And what do you propose as an alternative?"

"Something.  Anything," Diana said.  "Why can't you tell the police we
suspect Jill? Have them search her apartment. Maybe they'll find the
journal-or at least get her to admit that she stole it."

"If you think Boston's finest are going to waste their time tracking
down suspected diary thieves'!-Valerie made a strange noise that must
have been a chuckle-"you've been seeing too many movies."

Diana said nothing.  She wasn't going to let Valerie or Leviner
anybody-stop her.  There were private detectives.  Or she would confront
Jill herself.

"Look," Valerie continued, "there's no reason for you to get involved in
this, Just go on with your normal routine and let me handle it from my
end."

Diana was silent, trying to remember what James had said about Jill's
schedule.  Something about her losing her job as a graphic artist for
Marshall's and free-lancing at home.

"Okay?" Valerie asked.  "I'm your attorney, and your insurance premiums
are paying a lot of money for my advice-so take it."

Diana was so distracted that she nodded.

"Well?" Valerie demanded.

"Okay," Diana said quickly.  "Okay.  Sure."

"And before I forget," Valerie added, "I'm supposed to pass on the
message that you've got an appointment Monday morning."

"Appointment?"

"Jill's attorney, Ron Engdahl, called to tell me that James Hutchins's
will is being read at his office at nine o'clock Monday.  As you know,
you're on the list of beneficiaries."

I have to go?" Diana asked.

u don't have to, but you probably should-especially if you really are
getting a big chunk of money."

"I don't want the money."

"Find out what you have before you decide you don't want it-and if Jill
is going to right you for it." Valerie snapped.  She paused for a
second, then offered, "Do you want me to come with you?"

"Let me talk to Craig about it." After copying down the necessary
details, Diana hung up.  She dropped into a chair at the kitchen table
and stared out into the shadowy alley. Idly she watched a gust of wind
playing with what appeared to be a clump of used napkins.  The wind
tossed them up and down, twirled them in a jerky two-step, hurled them
hard into the brick wall.  And then the wind died, allowing the whole
mess to drop unceremoniously into a puddle of muddy water.

She had finally caught a break, Diana thought wryly a few minutes later
when she returned to her office and found the answering machine still
connected to the telephone, all the attendant numbers and lights lit in
their proper places. Now she would be able to screen for Craig's call.
Craig. What was he going to say about the journal? How was he going to
feel if the contents were revealed in court? Diana thought again of the
graphic detail of some of the entries, and despair rolled through her.
How would Craig be able to hold his head up in the office? How could he
look his clients in the eye? She had to get the journal from Jill before
the courts, or Craig, or anyone, saw what was in it.

Diana jumped as the phone at her elbow rang.  She let the machine
intercept the call.  The Globe.  Apparently the reporters hadn't been
satisfied with Levine's statement. They must have sniffed out that there
was more to the story than what he had told them.  She didn't pick up
the phone.

Instead she stood in the middle of the ravaged room, her

r growing.  She would go to Jill's right now.  She would get her journal
back before it did any damage.  She reached for her coat.  No, she had
left an urgent message for Craig; she had to wait.  He would be wild
with worry if he called and got no answer.  He would be sure there was
something wrong with the baby.

Before she even realized what she was doing, Diana began to straighten
up the mess.  She pushed the file cabinets back against the wall and
gathered books from the floor.  She kept herself busy organizing and
rearranging as the calls kept coming in.  The Boston Inquirer.  A
Patient canceling an appointment.  She shelved her social psych books
next to the few sociology books that she had.  She stood back and
admired her work, then picked up a couple of anthropology texts and
placed them next to the sociology section.

An hour went by, and Craig still hadn't called.  The office looked much
better, but Diana was feeling worse. The longer it took him to call
back, the more worried she became.  If she had been able to reach him
when it had first happened, she would have just blurted out the whole
story. But now, now that she had had time to reflect and remember, she
was growing obsessed with how best to present it to him, how much to
tell him, how to soften the blow so that it would hurt the least.

She had tried to explain countertransference to Craig, but knew he
didn't really understand-although he had listened carefully and nodded
in the appropriate places. Diana realized that for a person who had
never experienced the transference-countertransference of therapy, it
was an almost impossible concept to comprehend.

In James's case, he had needed to face the childhood abuse he had
repressed.  Transference was what had happened when James had projected
his feelings about his uncle to Diana: his need for Hank Hutchins's
approval; his awe of his idol, the only adult who had ever shown him any
attention or affection; his need to explore his budding sexuality.
Countertransference was what Diana felt in response to James's feelings.
She had handled James's awe and his demand for her unconditional
approval, but his sexuality had been so strong-and he had been so damn
good-looking-that she had responded to him with a fullblown case of
lust.  Her feelings had gotten out of control, and she had turned to her
journal.

She shoved the books back onto the shelves.  Things had been bad enough
for Craig before this.  How does a man feel when his wife's name is
besmirched? When her picture is on the front page of the newspaper? When
he knows that everyone is wondering about them, about their marriage,
wondering if indeed Diana had had an affair behind his back? However
Craig felt, he had responded with unflinching support-public and
private.  But this new twist might demand too much of him.  And as much
as she knew he would deny it, she was afraid the journal might make him
wonder if there was any truth to the allegations.

She reorganized her library so that her alcoholism and substance abuse
books were in the same area as those on addiction, a far better method
than before.  The calls kept coming, sometimes so fast that the machine
couldn't answer them all, getting stuck resetting itself while new calls
were coming in.  The Providence Journal.  Gail, Ned Holt.  Brad Harris.
Scott.  But no Craig.

The reporters all wanted to know if the burglary was related to the
malpractice suit.  Gail and Scott sent their love and support.  Brad
left a message saying that the dean's meeting was scheduled for
Wednesday afternoon, but for her not to worry.  He had been lobbying on
her behalf, and the vote was sure to come down in her favor.  She
arranged an entire corner devoted to personality disorders, but still
Craig hadn't called.

He must have had his own problems at work, she thought, labeling folders
to hold the research papers that had been thrown from the shelves and
scattered on the floor; she had been meaning to file these papers for
months.  He probably hadn't gotten back to the office yet.  Her hand
froze above -the half-written label.  Maybe he wouldn't go back to his
office at all.  She stared at the words she had written.  If he didn't
call, then she would have to tell him in person.

Diana began working more quickly, as if putting things back the way they
had been could somehow erase what had occurred.  Craig knew she kept a
journal, but not what was in it.  He knew every inch of her body,, but
had no clue of the wild things she often imagined while they were making
love, the somewhat perverse fantasies she entertained.  Although they
professed to tell each other everything-and almost did-this was a piece
of herself Diana had kept from him.  Maybe she was afraid he would be
hurt. Or maybe she was just embarrassed.

Suddenly overwhelmed by exhaustion, Diana dropped into her chair.  It
spun around and she was facing the window, staring into the dark alley.
Once again she saw the huddled figure on the fire escape.  As she stood
to close the blinds, she heard the front door open.  Craig was home. .

THE SOUND OF CRAIG'S GREETING, DIANA FROZE, her hand on the drawstring
to the venetian blinds.  What was she going to tell him? How was he
going to react?

"Diana?"

This was Craig, she reminded herself as she let go of the string.  He
was her husband, her best friend, her staunchest supporter.  He would
understand.  "Down here," she called, slowly climbing the stairs.  Craig
was hanging his coat on the rack when she reached the entryway.  Stay
calm, she ordered herself.  Stay in control.  She started to give him a
quick hug, but found herself burying her face in his suit jacket; her
head ached from the strain of holding back the tears.

Craig kissed the top of her head lightly.  Then he stiffened and pushed
her from him so that he could see her face.  "What happened?" he asked
sharply.  "Is something wrong with the baby?"

No, no," she managed to assure him.  "The baby's fine." Then she led him
downstairs and, as calmly as she could, told him about the break-in.

They walked along the narrow hallway to the back door and Craig silently
inspected the shattered wood and broken deadbolt.

"Jesus," he muttered.  "Are you sure nothing else is missing?"

"The police figure the thief never even made it upstairs," Diana told
him as they headed toward her office.

"But that doesn't make any-" Craig stopped in the office doorway and
stared at her.  "There was sexual stuff about Hutchins in that journal,
wasn't there?"

Diana nodded miserably.  "Remember when I told you about
countertransference?" She walked into the office, and Craig followed.
"Well, James was a real struggle for me. He was so needy, so demanding.
.  ." She sat on the edge of her desk and looked at Craig, her eyes
begging him to understand.  "So good-looking."

Craig dropped into a chair and stared at her.  "Let me see if I've got
this straight: Hutchins transferred his sexual attraction to you-and you
countertransferred it back?"

Diana smiled weakly; Craig had understood more of their conversation
than she had thought.  "That's about it."

"So .  .  ." Craig hesitated, his expression bewildered.  "You wrote in
your journal about being attracted to him." He ran his fingers through
his hair.  "And that made you feel better?"

"It's like talking a problem over with a friend," she said, overwhelmed
with guilt at what her blunders were putting him through.  "You get it
off your chest, and it doesn't seem so bad anymore."

"Did it make you stop being attracted to him?" Craig asked, his voice
hoarse with hurt.

Diana knelt down next to Craig and wrapped her arms around him.  "It's
not like that," she said.  "It's Really being attracted to a movie star.
Like James was Tom Cruise." She looked up at Craig, who sat with his
arms held rigidly by his side.  Despite her best efforts, her eyes
filled with tears. "It never meant anything.  Nothing.  I promise."

He looked at her for a long moment, but didn't move to touch her.  "I
know it didn't," he said slowly.  "Of course it didn't." He stared over
her head into the dark alley.  "So what exactly did you write?"

Diana stood and walked to the window.  Turning her back to Craig, she
rubbed her hands together, suddenly cold.  What should she tell him? He
needed to know enough so that he would understand the impact of the
theft.  But, since there was a chance he would be spared actually
reading the journal, there was no point in giving him too many details.
Diana snapped the blinds shut and turned.  "Most of the entries are
pretty benign," she began slowly, "but some could be bad for us." She
looked down at her hands.  "The things about James are the worst."

"Like what?"

"Well, there are some dreams-weird, mixed-up images ...  And there are
fantasies .  When Craig didn't say anything, she took a deep breath and
plunged ahead. "About how handsome he was." She raised her head and
looked Craig straight in the eye.  "About how I wanted to have sex with
him."

Craig flinched at her words, and his face paled.  "Oh," he said, his
knuckles white on the arms of the chair.

Nausea coursed through Diana; she gripped the edge of the desk for
support.  "I'm so sorry."

Craig stood up.  He didn't say anything and he didn't look at her, he
just paced the small room.  Then he stopped pacing as abruptly as he had
started.  Standing in front of Diana, his arms crossed, he said, "We're
not going to let James Hutchins tear apart everything we've built."

Diana dropped her head in relief.  She wanted to rush into his arms, but
she had to know if he really understood. "What if the journal ends up in
court?" she asked softly, raising her eyes.  "It would be so
humiliating.  It could destroy us.  You.  Professionally, personally . .

"People get bored easily," Craig said.  "If the worst happens, we'll
just tough it out until they do.  But," he added, motioning her to sit
down in the chair next to him, "we're not going to let the worst happen.
We're going to figure out a way to get that journal back."

Diana sat and they began to analyze the situation from all sides.  She
told him the details of her conversations with both Detective Levine and
Valerie.  Craig suggested a private detective, but Diana dismissed the
idea as far too expensive

.            Craig was silent for a moment, then he asked, "Have you
thought about what you want to do with James's money?"

Diana stood up and played with the sociology-anthropology shelf,
rearranging it so that the sociology books were directly beneath the
social psychology on the shelf above. "We don't even know for sure that
there is any money.  Or if Jill is going to contest the will."

"You wouldn't be asked to the reading of his will if there weren't
money-and if it was done legally, the money's probably going to be
yours."

Diana stopped fussing with the books and dropped back into her chair.
"Is it really important to you?"

He rested his elbows on his knees.  "Is it important to you?"

"It's like being rewarded for my screw-ups.  .  ." Diana looked him
directly in the eye.  "I can't take it.  It's blood money .  .  ."

"You mean you want to tell them to keep it?" His voice was both resigned
and disappointed.

"We could give it to charity." He searched her face.  "This is your
call," he said slowly. I'll go along with whatever you decide."

"Then I want to give the money to AIDS research or the homeless or maybe
some halfway house for borderlines."

He nodded and smiled sadly.  "I've got to admit I had a few thoughts
about all the things we could do.  As much as I'd love to be rich and
get Frey and Associates off the ground," he said, reaching over and
touching her cheek, "I know this is the right decision.  And to tell you
the truth?  "I'm proud of you for it,"

Diana dropped her head to her hands and finally allowed herself to cry,
overwhelmed with love for Craig and with .            so fear for them
both, overwhelmed with guilt for everything. she had done.  Craig rubbed
her back, murmuring consoling words.  When she regained her composure,
they returned their attention to the theft.

Craig proposed that the thief had been a crack junkie or some
overzealous reporter.  But Diana knew enough about drug users to be
quite certain a junkie would go straight for the easy-to-carry,
easy-to-fence items: jewelry and silver, perhaps the answering machine
and a few CDs.  It just didn't make any sense for a junkie to break into
a house and steal a diary.  They then came to the reluctant conclusion
that although the story was hot, it was equally unlikely that a reporter
would risk arrest just for a front-page byline. No matter how they tried
to dodge it, the only possible culprit was Jill: There just wasn't
anyone else with enough motive.

After a heated discussion of both the personal and legal implications of
the journal becoming public, Craig was reluctantly forced to agree with
Diana.  She had to try to talk Jill into giving it back-and the sooner
the better.  "I know when you get that expression on your face that I'm
not going to be able to stop you," he said.  "Just promise me you'll be
careful and that you'll call me as soon as you get home."

She must be in the anger and irritability stage of the grieving process,
Diana decided the next morning as she hurtled across the Mass Ave.
bridge, raising her fist at a weaving bicyclist, jabbing the horn when
the traffic came to a dead stop in front of her.  Of course, all her
gestures were futile.  Nothing moved but the man in the pickup truck in
front of her with a Red Sox hat jammed low on his forehead.  He raised
his third finger in a gesture more resigned than angry.

Or perhaps this was bargaining.  She shook her head.  Or better yet,
just plain insanity.  According to the psychological literature on
grief, successfully managing the loss of a loved one involved going
through a particular sequence of emotions; she had certainly experienced
loss and was, equally as certainly, fighting her way through a maddening
swarm of feelings.  The grief experts said that shock and denial came
first, followed by anger and irritability, bargaining, depression and
finally, acceptance.  "You can't do that!" Diana yelled to the car
triple-parked at the light in Central Square.  "Move!" Yes, she thought,
this was definitely anger and irritability.

Fury was boiling within her-a fury at herself, at James, at Jill, and at
the unlucky fates.  A fury she would have considered both predictable
and healthy if she were one of her patients.  "It's okay to be angry,"
she would have counseled the irate client.  "As long as you use it the
right way.  As long as you don't let it motivate your behavior."

Diana laughed out loud, a harsh laugh reflecting no humor.  As long as
you don't let it motivate your behavior. That was a joke.  For here she
was, on her way to Jill's.

Diana usually dealt with her anger by swallowing it, by trying to avoid
confrontation.  But there had been times in her life-such as when Scott
was wrongfully accused of selling marijuana during college, or when her
father's heart specialist wouldn't return her mother's calls, or when
Mary Lessing, a clinic patient from her Beth Israel days, had been
mistreated at a homeless shelter-when Diana had felt it was necessary to
stand up and demand both an explanation and an immediate remedy.  Even
Craig had been forced to agree that this was one of those times.

Diana swung the jeep neatly around a gaggle of hesitant pedestrians
nervously making their way across the busy street.  She could handle
Jill.  She would have the element of surprise in her favor, as well as
the fact that she knew much more about Jill than Jill thought.  James
had spent a lot of time discussing the bizarre relationship he had with
his sister.

When James was growing up, he considered Jill his mother; their real
mother wallowed in a lifelong depression rendered her a ghostlike figure
who floated powerless the background of her children's lives.  Although
Jill had been only thirteen at the time Hank Hutchins's pornography ring
was exposed-and had known nothing of its existence-she had taken it upon
herself to ensure that nothing untoward ever happened to James again.

Jill loved her brother passionately and unconditionally: encouraging him
with his schoolwork; coaching him to first place in the Connecticut
Elementary Student Math Challenge; scrimping to save money for his
tropical fish; monitoring his friends; restricting his hours of
television. And although James loved her and needed her desperately, her
overprotectiveness enraged him.  They fought a lot and they played a lot
and they worked together a lot.  For the five years following the trial,
James began to grow into the man he might have been.

But Jill was just a child herself, and in the engulfment abandonment
pattern so common to borderlines, she had left her brother when he
needed her most.  James was just turning thirteen when Jill took off for
Omaha with her boyfriend.  As enraged by his sister's desertion as he
had been by her overprotection, James began hanging around with the "bad
crowd': doing drugs, skipping school, committing petty crimes.  When
Jill suddenly returned two years later-minus the boyfriend-she clamped
down on James as if she had never been gone.  James graduated from high
school with a 3.9 average and 1550 on his SATS; he was accepted early
admission at MIT.  James and Jill acted out their engulfment-abandonment
roles many times over the years; they had been in the middle of another
episode when James had killed himself.

Diana didn't blame Jill for any of it: James's illness, his fury and
acting out each time Jill left, his death.  From what James had told
her, he wouldn't have survived as long as he had without his sister's
support.  But she knew Jill must blame herself.  Diana also knew how
passionately Jill loved James.  And how lethal that kind of passion
could be.

But Diana was confident she could handle Jill.  She was a licensed
psychologist, after all, trained to deal with the troubled.  She would
convince Jill to give the journal back. Two could play the manipulation
game.

As the light ahead changed to yellow, Diana accelerated and turned hard
to the left.  What made her think Jill would give her the journal? Why
did she even expect Jill to be home at eleven o'clock on a Friday
morning? Desperation, Diana thought.  Pure, unadulterated desperation.
Maybe she had just discovered a new emotion in the grieving process.

But Jill was home.  She buzzed Diana through the door without any of the
anger or questions Diana expected, and then graciously waved her into
the narrow "railroad car" apartment, the same apartment to which Diana
had come that first New Year's Day to make James vomit the tranquilizers
he had swallowed in his plea-for-help suicide attempt.  James had never
really liked Cambridge, so when Jill left her husband and came back to
Boston a year ago, he turned the rent-controlled apartment over to her
and moved to Anderson Street.

Dressed in a thigh-length sweatshirt and leggings, her mass of red curls
even wilder than usual, Jill leaned against the living room doorway
calmly scrutinizing Diana.  She was tall and lean and languorous-and she
reminded Diana so much of James that Diana felt a shiver run up her
back. Guilty, Diana thought, watching a slight smile flicker across
Jill's face.  Guilty as charged.

"Please come in and sit down," Jill said cordially, pointing to the
couch.  "Can I get you a cup of coffee?"

"Please," Diana answered in equally sweet tones.  This must be the Jill
who had charmed James's boss and landlady, she thought as she watched
Jill walk gracefully down the long hallway to the kitchen.  Not a bad
act.  Then she remembered that Jill had started out soft-spoken and
gracious at James's funeral too.  Another cold chill ran up her spine.
sitting gingerly on the edge of the couch, Diana rubbed damp palms on
her pants and thought of the story James had told her about Jill slicing
the tires of her boss's car after he had fired her.  How might a woman
like that react to the person she thought had killed her brother?

Before Diana could answer her own question, Jill was back with two mugs
of black coffee.  Diana accepted the offered mug and, although she
preferred cream and wasn't supposed to be drinking caffeine, took a sip.

Jill sat down in the chair across from Diana and smiled. "I've been
expecting you."

Diana nodded.  So much for the element of surprise.

"You want me to drop the charges," Jill said, as if she were commenting
on the colorful fall foliage outside the window.  "That's why you're
here."

Startled, Diana put her cup on the table.  "I would love you to drop the
charges," she said slowly.  "But that's not why I'm here."

y

"I'm not dropping the charges." Jill's tone was friendly and chatty.
"People must be accountable for their own behavior.  It's my strong
feeling that this lack of personal responsibility underlies many of the
problems in our society today.  I hate all this suing of bartenders and
hosts don't you?" She looked over at Diana expectantly, seemingly
anxious to hear Diana's opinion on the liability of drunk drivers.

"Isn't that just what you're doing?" Diana asked.  "Making me
responsible for James's behavior?"

Jill raised one eyebrow, an amused smile on her lips. "Oh no, you don't
understand, do you?" She shook her head.  "You see, you are responsible
for James's death."

Diana took another sip of coffee before she answered. "I'm confident
that the facts will completely exonerate me in court," she said with a
calmness she didn't feel.  "I came here for my journal."

"You are not only responsible in the passive sense-as I had at first
believed," Jill continued as if she had not heard Diana.  "But now that
I see you manipulated James into changing his will to favor you.  .  ."
Her language became more formal and precise, but her tone remained cool
and conversational, almost detached.  "Cutting out my three dear aunts,
as well as myself.  Well .  .  ." She paused, sighed, and then stared
sadly at her steepled fingers.  "It now appears that I must congratulate
you on a brilliant, carefully crafted, and almost perfectly executed
murder."

Diana watched Jill carefully.  This woman was as dangerous as she was
unpredictable.  But, Diana reminded herself in an effort to keep her
fear in check, she understood dangerous, unpredictable people.  She knew
how to handle them or hoped she did.  "I'm sorry you feel that way," she
said softly.  "I know you cared deeply for James and feel his loss
keenly."

Again, it was as if Diana had never spoken.  "What I don't
understand-truly don't understand," Jill said, her voice full of
sincerity, "is why you need the money.  You and Craig must make more
than enough to cover the mortgage on that cute little town house.  It is
on the edge of Roxbury and it does back up to that gamy alley behind the
Chinese restaurant, after all-so how much could it cost?" She looked at
Diana's stomach and smiled her best garden-party smile. "Perhaps it's
the coming expense? Little girls can put quite a dent in their parents'
pockethooks-but I'm sure you'll find her worth every penny."

"I've come for my journal," Diana said, fear hammerlocking on her soul
at the familiarity with which Jill discussed her home and her family
life, at the flippant reference to the baby's sex.  How could Jill know
it was a girl? No one knew but their parents and a couple of close
friends-and her peer supervisory group.  Diana hadn't meant to tell her
peer group; the doctor had called right before the meeting and she was
so excited that she had just rushed in and blurted out the news.  But
she knew she had never told James.  She remembered all too vividly that
James had killed himself only hours after she discovered she was
carrying

earthy girl.  Pushing the thoughts from her mind, Diana leaned forward,
forcing her voice to be calm and authoritative.  "Please get the journal
for me.  Now."

For the first time Jill looked directly at Diana, shrewdness splintering
her polite act.  "You think I have some kind of journal?" she asked,
sitting back in her chair and smiling, a smile that reached her eyes, a
smile revealing true elation.  "How interesting.  Must be something very
important in that journal to get you over here"-she looked at Diana and
grinned begging."

"Just go get it," Diana said softly. "Beg for it," Jill said.

"I'm not begging for anything.  The journal belongs to me and-"

"Beg!" Jill leaped from her chair and grabbed a poker from next to the
fireplace.  She waved it in the air, then stabbed it into the carpet.
"Get down on your knees and beg."

:'Don't be ridiculous," Diana began.

'I said beg!" Jill ordered.  When Diana didn't move, Jill smiled
slightly and slowly lifted the poker until it pointed directly at
Diana's stomach.  Then, with painstaking deliberateness, she took a
small step forward, bringing the poker infinitesimally, but ominously,
closer to Diana's slightly &welling abdomen.

Diana looked from the poker to ' Jill.  She knew she could not show
weakness, but she also knew that she had to diffuse Jill's anger and get
the hell out of her apartment.

Diana pushed the poker aside calmly and slid to her knees.  "Please give
me my journal," she said, her voice composed and authoritative.

Jill burst out laughing.  "I don't have your stupid journal," she said.
"I don't even know what you're talking about." Then her laughter stopped
as abruptly as it had started, and her eyes narrowed.  "Now get off the
floor and get out of here! "

Diana did. 4VALERIE'S LAW FIRM, BOGDANow, FEDERGREEN, STARR, and
Calahane, was located on Beacon Street, just a few doors down from the
State House.  Diana had planned to stop by on her way home from Jill's
to drop off the photocopies of the treatment notes Valerie had
requested.  "The Hutchins Files," Valerie called them, as if they were a
made-for-television movie.  As she slammed the jeep door behind her,
Diana looked down at the mound of papers sitting on the passenger seat.
The stack was well over three inches thick and held together by two
large elastic bands.  Diana winced; the last person she wanted to see
right now was Valerie.  Valerie, who had had the foresight to warn her
away from confronting Jill.  Valerie, who had made her promise to mind
her own business.

All the emotions Diana had kept hidden in Jill's narrow Cambridge
apartment now deluged her; she felt raw and exposed and incredibly
stupid.  Blood hammered in her ears, and her hands began to tremble on
the steering wheel.  How could she have been such an idiot? She pounded
her door lock down and then reached across to lock the passenger side.
Furtively she looked through the rear window to see if Jill was coming
out of her building.

Go, she told herself.  Just start the car and get the hell out of here.

Her hands did her mind's bidding, and before she was really aware of it,
she was speeding out of Jill's neighborhood, crossing the Charles River
and swinging onto Storrow Drive.  She was driving herself to Valerie's
office even if it wasn't where she really wanted to go. Within minutes
the spires of the Longfellow Bridge rose thick and squat over the river,
dwarfing the brilliant death hues of the trees along the Esplanade.
Diana glanced to her right at the brick Victorian townhouses marching
seamlessly down Pinckney Street, gazing into the flats of Beacon Hill,
an area containing some of the most expensive real estate in the city of
Boston, an area that had once been primarily used for the stabling of
horses.  Who ever knew how things would turn out? she wondered.  Who
ever knew how things, or people, would shift or change or even reverse
themselves? But she should have known about Jill.  She had heard all the
stories.  About what Jill had done to James's tropical fish and her
boss's tires and the girl at the prom.  Jill might actually have hurt
her.  Or the baby.

As she stopped at the rotary off Charles Street, the rusty green
elevated T tracks towering over her, Diana dropped her head to her
hands.  The worst part of the whole episode was that it had all been for
nothing. She lifted her head and stared at the cars and trucks
surrounding her, at the swarming crowds of pedestrians, at the concrete
and glass of Mass General looming over her.  She had taken a huge risk
for nothing: Jill didn't have her journal, Diana was sure of it.

Against all the odds, she found a legal parking spot on Charles Street.
An omen, she told herself as she dropped a quarter into the meter. Sure,
she had made a mistake going to Jill's and had come back empty-handed,
but it was over and done with.  There were other ways to protect herself
from the journal.  There was Valerie's motion in limine. She and Craig
would come up with an alternate plan.  Or perhaps it really had been
some crack junkie.

Placing the bulky stack of paper under one arm, Diana headed down
Charles Street toward Beacon.  As she approached the Coffee Connection,
she noticed two young mothers chatting on the sidewalk, their babies
strapped into matching red-and-blue strollers.  Soon, she thought.  Soon
she would be standing with a stroller discussing colic and diapers and
the best time to start solid food.  Soon all of this ridiculousness
would be over and she and Craig and their daughter would be able to get
on with their lives.

Diana smiled as she got closer and noticed that both babies were waving
their pudgy legs ; the one on the right seemed to think he was carrying
on a conversation with the sky.  Diana couldn't help reaching down to
touch the baby's cheek.  But when she raised her eyes from the stroller
and straightened up, Diana saw that the mothers had stopped chatting.
Both women were staring at her-and the expressions on their faces were
not friendly.  Diana took a step backward, but the women didn't avert
their gazes.  If anything, they seemed to intensify their scrutiny.
Diana shrugged and continued on.  Boston was apparently going the way of
New York when young mothers were suspicious of a pregnant woman.  Then
she glanced down at her long coat and realized that they probably
couldn't tell she was going to have a baby.

The smell of fresh apples wafted up at her as she passed the open bins
of fruit in front of DeMatteo's.  Unable to resist the display of native
tomatoes, Diana reached out and squeezed one.  It was perfect, so she
popped it into a paper bag and reached for another.  But as she was
squeezing a few more, she felt that creepy, tingly sensation that told
her someone was watching her.  Putting down the tomatoes and shifting
her stack of paper so it fit more securely under her arm, Diana slowly
turned around.  To her relief, she saw only the usual Charles Street
traffic, two men buying yogurt, and an elderly lady completely focused
on choosing between Delicious and Maclntosh apples.  Reaching back for
the tomatoes, she suddenly had the dismaying thought

perhaps the mothers in front of Coffee Connection weren't being
routinely suspicious at all.  Maybe they were just suspicious of her,
Diana Marcus, "Sex Doc."

She forced herself to pick up some milk and orange juice, reprimanding
herself for her paranoia.  Those women didn't know her.  Most people
didn't even read the newspaper, let alone remember what they had read
three days earlier.  And yet Diana was unnerved.  She suddenly recalled
the briefcase-toting businessman who had stared at her as she entered
Jill's building; at the time she had been vaguely flattered, but now
that she thought about it, he had been far too young and good-looking to
be attracted to her.  And she had had that same creepy watched feeling
when she had run out to get her dry cleaning that morning.  Although she
knew she was being ridiculous, Diana quickly paid for her purchases and
made no more stops on her way to Valerie's office.

Still shaken from her experience at Jill's and the eyes at DeMatteo's,
Diana wanted only to drop the papers off with Valerie's secretary and go
home.  But as soon she entered the conservatively subdued law suite, the
young woman behind the glass partition jumped up to greet her.  "Dr.
Marcus?" she asked, although it was obvious she recognized Diana.  "Ms.
Goldman was hoping you'd come by before she left for court.  She's very
anxious to see what you've brought and asked me to have you come right
down to her office.  You've got a moment?" Again, it was clear her
question wasn't really a question.

Diana nodded and followed the striking woman in her designer suit.  How
did a receptionist afford such an expensive outfit? she wondered glumly
as she walked through the hushed, wainscoted hallway.  Diana was
beginning to wonder if perhaps she hadn't picked the wrong profession.

When they got to Valerie's office it was much smaller and more modern
than Diana expected, given the rest of the suite.  But the office was
the whirlwind of papers and activity that Diana could easily have
predicted.  Valerie waved her into a chair while she talked into the
phone, ate a sandwich, and stuffed her briefcase with files.  As usual,
she was barefoot.  Hanging up the phone, Valerie held out her hand.
"Looks pretty hefty," she said, waving her manicured fingers in the
direction of the papers on Diana's lap. "The Hutchins Files."

Diana handed them to her.  "I've been accused of being a bit compulsive
when it comes to record keeping."

"Good thing," Valerie said between bites of her lunch. She carefully but
efficiently ripped off the elastic bands and quickly flipped through the
pages.  "Proof positive," she said, patting the stack, "of your
professional competence.  Let Engdahl try and prove substandard care
now."

Substandard care," Diana echoed.  The whole situation was too impossible
to believe.  She had never provided substandard care to any patient. And
definitely not to James Hutchins.  But that was just what Jill was
contending: that Diana had failed to do everything, from devising an
appropriate treatment plan to properly terminating with James and that
she had mismanaged everything in between.

Valerie swallowed the rest of her sandwich in a large gulp and grabbed
her suit jacket from a hanger on the back of the door.  "If they're
admissible," she muttered almost to herself.

"If what's admissible?" Diana asked, catching something in Valerie's
tone that she didn't like.

"The treatment notes," Valerie said as she shrugged into her jacket.

"You mean my treatment notes might not be admissible in court?" Diana
stared at Valerie.  "What are you talking about?"

Valerie sighed and pulled a pair of gray leather heels from the
bookshelf over her computer.  She came around and sat on the edge of her
desk.  "It's that damn doctor patient privilege," she said, wincing as
she pushed her plump feet into the narrow pumps.  "It's often
sacrosanct."

Diana couldn't believe what she was hearing.  "Are you saying that my
personal, stolen journal is admissible-but my professional notes
aren't?" she demanded.

"Now don't get all excited," Valerie warned.  "You just caught me
talking to myself First of all, I've already drafted the motion in
limine to keep the journal out-so forget about that.  And I'll find some
way around this confidentiality issue too." She forced her other foot
into its shoe and stood up.  Frowning at Diana, she picked up her
briefcase and tapped the stack of treatment notes again.  "I'm trusting
that you're good at your job," she said.  "You're just going to have to
trust that I'm good at mine."

By the time Diana got home she was completely exhausted by the emotion
of the morning.  Warily, she pushed the button on her answering machine.
There were three messages.  The first was from Craig.  Her stomach
squeezed as she listened to his deep, soothing voice.  "We've gotten
through tough times before, Di.  We'll get through this too.  Hang in
there, hon.  Call me as soon as you get home."

While she waited for the next beep, Diana rested her hands on the curve
of her stomach.  She really was quite small for five months, and she
still hadn't felt the baby kick.  Although she knew from the
amniocentesis would only eight days have passed since she had received
the results?-that everything was fine, she was still a bit worried.  And
even though Craig was still cracking bad jokes about her shoe size, she
knew he was worried too.  The little one had probably been kicking away
for a week, Diana consoled herself.  She had just been too distracted to
notice.

Distracted was definitely the word, for the second message was from her
obstetrician's office, reminding her of her appointment later that
afternoon.  Diana had forgotten until this moment that she had one.  She
usually looked forward to her appointments with, Geni Jasset for days,
writing down questions, reading up on fetal development, anxious to hear
the rapid pump of the baby's heartheat; the stethoscope Gerri placed on
her stomach.  And today she had almost forgotten.

Listening to the message, Diana stared at her blotter, following the
deep red threads of the pad as they wove in and out, in and out,
crossing over and under each other Until they formed a solid mass.  She
thought of the empty Whitewashed nursery three floors above her, just
waiting for curtains and a crib and maybe some of those cloth
primary-colored balloons she had seen in a window on Newhury Street. But
instead of joy, these thoughts filled her with unease.

Diana was startled from her self-reflection by the third message.  It
was from her wandering patient Ethan Kruseand it was very strange.  His
words were hard to understand because his voice was so shaky.  It got
louder and softer, and at one point he burst into hysterical laughter.
There was no doubt in her mind that Ethan was in some kind of trouble.
But, of course, this was nothing new.  She rewound the tape and played
it again.

"Dr.  Marcus, it's me, Ethan," the message began, "I heard about James-I
read it in the paper.  I'm fine but you need to check out James's
records .  .  ." His voice dropped to a whisper, and it sounded as if he
had turned away from the phone.  She heard him giggle.  "Something's
weird," Ethan said quickly, as if his dime were running out.  "Something
no one knows but you need to find out to .  .  ." Here he hesitated once
again, and Diana heard a loud burst of laughter in the background.  "To
understand," Ethan finally said.  "I'll be in touch." Then the phone was
slammed down with a loud bang.

Diana stared at the machine as it clicked and blinked, resetting itself
for the next call.  What the hell was that all about? She replayed the
tape and wrote down the message word for word.  Then she played it back
again to make sure her transcription was correct. .

everything was about as fine with Ethan as it was with her.  Not that
anything had ever been fine with Ethan.  She had clearly made a mistake
putting him in the borderline group, for he was far more unmanageable
than the others. He had no ability to empathize, rendering him virtually
use- less as a group member, and his blatant drug use and violent
outbursts had had an unsettling influence on them all-especially on
James.

It was Ethan's horrendous childhood trauma that had fooled her- He had
fit so neatly into her theory that borderline personality disorders were
really a protracted form of post-traumatic stress syndrome-that it
wasn't bad mothers, but some kind of horrible childhood abuse, that made
her patients the way they were.  Diana had allowed herself to be duped
by Ethan because she desperately needed more subjects to increase her
sample size, to complete her research, and to topple Adrian Arnold from
his throne as the national expert on borderline personality disorders.
How absurd and misguided her ambitions seemed now.

Suddenly she cared little about the scientific upheaval her results
might cause among a tiny group of borderline experts.  Diana realized
that besting Adrian Arnold and becoming the new rising star had little
appeal.  She froze and stared at the silent answering machine.  Adrian?
Could Adrian have stolen her journal?

She laughed out loud.  While he might have the biggest ego she had ever
encountered, there was no way her little research project was going to
turn one of the most eminent psychologists in the country into a cat
burglar.  Adrian Arnold, the next president of the American
Psychological Association, arrested for breaking and entering.  She
really was losing her grip.

After leaving a message with Craig's secretary that she was home from
Jill's, Diana flipped through her Rolodex and found Ethan's telephone
number.  As she listened to the hollow ringing, she once again berated
herself for letting Ethan into the group.  She had exposed her other
patients to his disruptive influence and had potentially retarded their
improvement just because she needed more data to prove her precious
theory.  And it hadn't worked anyway.

For it turned out that witnessing his mother's murder was only one of a
long line of horrors Ethan had suffered as a child.  And right before
James's death he had confessed that he had excluded arson, aggravated
assault, and two arrests for a scam on elderly homeowners from the
"minor problems with authority" he had described to her at their first
meeting. Based on everything she had learned and observed about Ethan
since that first interview, Diana had finally come to the conclusion
that he didn't have a borderline personality disorder at all.  Now it
appeared that he suffered from an antisocial personality disorder. Ethan
was what they used to call a psychopath.

Diana had planned to present Ethan's case at peer review last week and
ask for a recommendation.  But after Adfian's criticism of her research,
she had decided to skip it.  Now Diana wished that she had discussed
Ethan; she had been seriously considering suspending him from the group
when he returned.  But after what had happened to James, she was gun-shy
about making another mistake.

She looked back down at her notes.  "Check out James's records." What
records? James's school records? Psychiatric records? Medical records?
Phonograph records? "Something no one knows but you need to find out to
understand." To understand what? Her journal? James's death? Suddenly
Diana's stomach squeezed in a new kind of fear.  What exactly did Ethan
know about James's death? What could he know?

She.pushed herself from her chair and began pacing the room.  Stopping
at the window and staring into the autumnal dreariness, Diana rubbed her
arms to fend off both the inner and outer chill.  Then she went to the
file cabinet and grabbed the stack of manila files that sat on top of
it: James's records.  Although she had just had the whole

photocopied for Valerie, she hadn't read through most

the material in a es.

Clearing her research materials from the desk, Diana placed the pile of
files on her blotter.  She flipped through them: treatment plans,
histories, individual session notes by year, group session notes, and a
fat miscellaneous file.  She opened the miscellaneous file and sifted
through the odd assortment of materials: a copy of the signed release
from Mass General giving her access to James's hospital records after
his suicide attempt; postcards he had sent her last summer; a letter of
reference she had written to Fidelity.  These records were all that she
had left of him.

He had had such a strong need to survive, such a powerful urgency to
help himself and others.  He was always running errands for Mr.  Berger,
the paraplegic who lived in the apartment below him on Anderson Street,
and he was always bringing home strays-both animals and people.  He took
yoga and oil painting and stress-reduction classes.  He sweated through
hours of excruciatingly painful therapy. But despite the courses and the
therapy sessions, despite his generosity with both his money and his
time, James had always sensed that his future was foreshortened.  "When
I think of all the things I'm not going to achieve," he had told her
last spring, "I already feel as if I don't exist."

Diana closed the miscellaneous file and opened the one containing her
notes on his individual sessions.  James would be pleased with the bulk
of his legacy.  There must be at least one hundred and fifty pages from
last year alone. Substandard care.  It was ludicrous.  Ridiculous.  For,
despite her ultimate failure, she had brought James so close to success.

When he first came to her, he had been completely blocked, unable to
remember a large chunk of his childhood, unable to see the events that
haunted and controlled his life.  For the first two years she had worked
to help him unlock the chains, to guide him safely toward-and
through-the wall he had built to protect himself from the horrors.  The
wall that kept him from being who he really was.

Diana would never forget the day she and James had finally broken down
the wall.  That dark afternoon in early November, when for the first
time James had allowed himself to remember what had happened to that
little boy, had held so much pain and so much promise for them both.

For months James had described dreams of being surrounded by bright
lights, of clowns playing with his toes, of being suffocated by the
smell of horse manure.  "I keep seeing these weird images," he said,
"but I know they can't be real." He smiled his arresting
self-deprecating smile.  "Maybe I'm more nuts than I think."

Diana watched him closely, knowing what he was trying to remember-and
trying not to remember.  Jill had told her the whole depraved tale: the
dilapidated old barn Hank Hutchins had used for his filming; the clown
costumes he and the other men had worn to gain the boys' trust; what
they had done to James and the others after their trust had been
attained. "Or maybe you're not nuts at all," Diana had told James
gently.  "If you keep thinking and feeling these things, keep seeing
them, then maybe there's something to them." She paused, gripping her
hands tightly under her desk, her eyes locked on to James's.  "Maybe
they're some kind of body memory trying to tell you something."

James immediately started to deny her suggestions, then he stopped in
mid-sentence and turned deathly pale.  "Oh my God," he whispered,
staring over her shoulder and into the past.  "Oh my God," he repeated.
He shifted his eyes and looked directly into hers, his face such a mask
of pain that she could barely stand to hold his gaze.

"What is it, James?" Diana asked softly, all too cognizant from Jill's
tearful description of James's years of sodomy and violation what he
must be seeing.  Her heart ached so for that little boy-and for the man
he had become. She was simultaneously nauseated by the fact that she had
forced him to look into the pit and exhilarated by her knowledge that
what he saw might ultimately set him free.

"He-he-2' James stuttered, covering his face with his hands as if to
stop the flood of memories.  "ID a barn.  A cold barn.  Uncle Hank.  He
held me down while the clown-the clown-" He began to sob, huge wrenching
sobs that shook his whole body.

Diana had truly understood for the first time in her life what murderous
rage actually meant: For if Hank Hutchins had walked through the door at
that moment, she would have killed him.  Instead, she stood up and
walked around her desk to where James was sitting, huddled and hurt and
as wounded as if he had been physically attacked.  She knelt and wrapped
her arms around him.  "He can't hurt you anymore," she murmured,
caressing his hair and holding him as if he were a small child.  "It's
over and you're safe here," she had repeated rhythmically, rocking him
as she spoke. "It's over and you're safe."

Tears rolling down her cheeks, Diana stared unseeing at the thick stack
of files on her desk.  It was after that day that James had started his
slow march toward health.  The ghosts from his past began to recede, and
the James Hutchins who should have been-who would have been, had Uncle
Hank never entered his life-began to emerge.  He was kind and bright and
full of wry humor.  After a.few months James's drug use ended and he
landed a good job as a stockbroker for Fidelity Investments.

He had been so happy and proud of himself-and thankful to her.  When she
refused his extra payments and the jewelry and fur coat he had bought
her, he sent ten thousand dollars in her name to the AIDS Action
Committee, her favorite charity.

Diana pounded her fist on the folders.  She may have gone over the line
at the end, but her treatment strategy had been faultless.  Jill was
wrong, and she, Diana, was going to prove it.  She would call every
psychologist and psychiatrist in the city and get statements attesting
to her competence and standing in the community.  She and Valerie would
go through every record she had on James until they had amassed a paper
trail of proof so thick that no one would be able to question the fact
that she had delivered only the highest quality care.

She would prove how absurd the allegations were.  She would make her
journal moot.  She would free herself and her family from this horror
named Jill Hutchins. .            C4ERRI JASSET'S OFFICE WAS ON THE
CORNER OF COMmonwealth Avenue and Dartmouth Street, about a mile across
town.  Sometimes Diana walked, strolling past the reflecting pool at the
Christian Science Center mall, stopping for ice cream in the Prudential
Center, peering into store and apartment windows in the Back Bay.  But
today she decided to drive.

it was too cold to walk, she told herself It would be almost dark by the
time she returned home.  She had spent so long mulling over James's
records and talking with Craig about Jill that she just didn't have
time.  But Diana knew none of these was the real reason.  The real
reason was the eyes.

She reminded herself that Boston was a large anonymous city where people
didn't recognize their next-door neighbors, let alone a nameless woman
who had been in the news a few times.  People were more concerned with
paying their next MasterCard bill than with some minor court case.
Nevertheless, she couldn't forget the two young mothers or the
businessman in front of Jill's.  She had felt eyes at DeMatteo's and in
the alley yesterday afternoon. She threw on her coat and climbed into
the jeep.

But when she got to Gerri's office, there was no place to park.  After
circling around the block a few times, Diana made a larger circle and
finally found a spot down on Beacon Street near Mass Ave.  She might as
well have walked; she was more than six blocks away.  Swinging her purse
to her shoulder and holding her head high, she turned toward the
doctor's office, searching for people uninterested in her presence.

There were many.  She didn't even merit a glance from the three teenage
boys walking toward her; she was clearly too old and too conservatively
dressed for their taste.  The bag lady sitting on the curb just nodded
when Diana gave her a dollar, not bothering to look twice at her face.
The guys working on the street just kept pounding their jackhammers. The
cop directing traffic just kept waving his arms.  And the cars just kept
whizzing by.

By the time Diana got to the medical building, she was feeling much
better, sure she was worrying too much, seeing signposts that weren't
there, and looking forward to hearing the baby's heartheat.

The receptionist informed - her that Gerri was running almost an hour
late.  Diana nodded, thinking that this was just another indication of
her level of distraction.  She always called first to check on Gerri's
schedule; today it hadn't even occurred to her.  She settled into one of
the deep couch is too deep for pregnant women, a detail someone should
have picked up on by now-and reached for a three-week-old Time.

"Dr.  Marcus?" The matronly nurse-practitioner who worked with Gerri
stood at the desk with a clipboard in her hand-Annie, Diana thought her
name was.  Annie smiled and motioned for Diana to follow her into the
inner offices.

"Quickest hour I've ever sat through," Diana remarked as she rolled up
her sleeve to have her blood pressure taken.

"Oh, we decided to squeeze you in, dear," Annie said, patting her hand
before she pumped up the cuff.  "We thought it would be best."

Diana smiled.  "Well, that was awfully nice of you.  Tell Gerri thanks.
I appreciate it."

"Under the circumstances we thought you'd prefer not to sit out in the
waiting room," Annie said, watching the fluid rise in the meter.  "You
know, all those people."

Diana just stared at the older woman.

Annie ripped off the blood pressure cuff and scribbled on the chart.
"Good, good," she said.  "Almost as low as before." Then she turned and
looked at Diana, her eyes full of sympathy.  "We're rooting for you,
dear," She patted Diana's hand again.

Stunned, Diana nodded.  "Thanks," she said.

Annie told Diana to take off all her clothes and handed her a thin
blue-and-white checked Johnny.  She patted Diana's hand yet one more
time.  "Doctor will, be with you in a moment." Then she left the room.

Diana slowly began to remove her clothes.  Did this mean that she hadn't
been imagining it? That all those people really had been staring at her,
whispering about her? That the eyes were real? She wrapped the thin belt
of the Johnny around her middle, but it wouldn't close completely.  When
she pushed herself up onto the examination table, her back was exposed.

The cold air on her bare skin made her shiver.

On her walk back to the car, Diana tried to concentrate on the healthy
double-time of the baby's heartheat pounding through Gerri's
stethoscope.  But all she could feel were the eyes.  And her own
vulnerability.  She watched her step carefully, telling herself she was
avoiding the broken pieces of sidewalk.  But she was all too aware that
she was really avoiding the eyes.

By the time she reached the jeep, an ache in Diana's neck was beginning
to develop, as was her annoyance with her skittish paranoia.  She
couldn't-and wouldn't-live like this.  She jerked the door of the jeep
open and slammed the key in the ignition.  Heading down Mass Ave., she
vowed to right Jill until she won.  Until her family's future was safe
and she could walk down the street and hold her head up without fear.

Diana was so intent on her thoughts that she almost missed the turn onto
St.  Stephen Street.  She hit the brakes hard, and her tires squealed as
she careened around the corner.  She yanked the wheel and pulled into
her spot behind the house, stopping the jeep with a jolt.

When she turned off the headlights, she realized that it was completely
dark in the alley.  Night comes so quickly in October, she thought.  It
had taken her by surprise, and she hadn't left a light on for herself
She started to get out, then stopped.  She felt them again.  The eyes.

Diana peered through the front window into the shadowy darkness.  She
looked left and right, then turned and scanned the back window. Nothing.
There was nothing there.  Nevertheless, she didn't move.  She couldn't
shake the creepy feeling running up and down her back.  She couldn't
shake the eyes.  She pulled out a small can of Mace.

Holding the Mace out in front of her, Diana opened the jeep door with
one hand, jumped out, and slammed it with her hip.  Her eyes darted
everywhere.  Nothing to see.  But something to feel.

Her key missed twice as she tried to put it in and pull it out of the
two new heavy-duty deadbolts.  One lock open. One more to go.  Nothing
to see.  Something to feel.

Finally the last bolt twisted back and the door swung inward.  But
before she could step into the safety of the house, two powerful hands
gripped her shoulders.

An electric current of fear pulsed through Diana's body. For an instant
she felt the inside of every bone, as if her marrow were on fire, her
skeleton outlined in neon.  Adrenaline poured through her.  Wrenching
herself from the iron grasp on her shoulders, she raised the Mace can
and turned to face her assailant.

But when she saw the anxious face before her, her arms dropped to her
sides and weakness filled her bones.  "Sandy!"  her voice reflecting
both terror and relief "What is at's the matter?" Diana grabbed the
taller woman, her fingers trembling slightly.  "What are you doing
here-you almost gave me a heart attack!"

"I-I just had to see you," Sandy said, her hair falling in her face.  "I
just had to."

Her heart still pounding, Diana pulled her distraught patient into the
house, flicking on lights as she went.  She looked at Sandy's white face
and the fierce set of her mouth, well-aware of the turbulence storming
beneath the surface. Diana propelled Sandy toward her office.  "Go in
and sit down," she ordered.  "I'll be back in a minute." Then she turned
and hurried upstairs.

Diana hung up her coat and took a series of deep breaths. She went into
the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water.  Looking out at the
back alley, she placed her hand on her stomach.  "It's okay, little
one," she said softly.  "It's okay." When she finished the water, she
put the empty glass on the counter, took a few more deep breaths, and
headed back downstairs.

Sandy, unaware that Diana had returned, was pacing the office.  Diana
stood silently in the doorway, watching Sandy march back and forth in
front of the desk.  Sandy picked up the stapler, the Rolodex, a picture
of Craig, and then dropped each one unceremoniously back into place. She
reached down and gently ran her finger around the lopsided edge of
Diana's clay paper-clip holder; it was crooked and erratically glazed
with blotches of green and brown enamel, clearly the work of a child's
hand.  It had been a birthday present from her favorite niece, Robin,
and Diana loved it.  It was all she could do to keep herself from crying
out when Sandy raised the small piece and pulled it tightly to her
chest.

Still holding Robin's gift, Sandy walked over to the window and stared
out into the alley, craning her neck as if trying to see something on
the fire escape across the way. Diana thought she caught the glimpse of
a smile on the corner of Sandy's mouth, but doubted her perception,
given the slump of Sandy's shoulders and the misery that had made her
beautiful face appear haggard and plain under the glare of the hallway
light.

Without taking her eyes from the window, Sandy opened her oversized
purse and raised the paper-clip holder as if she were about to drop it
into one of the large compartments.

"Hi." Diana strode into the room and took Robin's gift from Sandy's
hand.

"I was just admiring this," Sandy said, as if she had not been caught in
the act of stealing it.  "Who made it for you?"

"Please sit." Diana waved Sandy to the chair in front of her desk and
then sat down.  She folded her hands across the blotter and looked at
the other woman.  "What's going on for you?" she asked.

Sandy didn't sit.  Instead she continued to prowl the room, flipping her
long blond hair behind her shoulders every few seconds.  She was
agitated and jumpy, her every movement an exclamation point to her
resentment and anger.  She began to walk in wider and wider circles,
taking larger steps and running her fingers along the furniture and book
spinesven across a framed poster that hung on the wall. "Looks different
in here," she said.

Again Diana thought she caught a slight smile, but this time she felt a
stab of hope.  "Why do you think you noticed that?" she asked quickly.

Sandy turned her back to Diana and shrugged, flipping her hair.  "Don't
know." She shrugged again.  "The colors are changed or something."

"Sandy," Diana said in her best velvet-covered-iron voice, come over
here and sit down."

This time Sandy obeyed, turning and dropping gracefully into the chair
across from Diana.  She studied her professionally manicured nails, then
looked up.  "I got the modeling job for Filene's."

"That's great," Diana said, honestly pleased despite her annoyance.
"Maybe this'll be your big break."

Sandy beamed, her beauty shining through despite her disheveled hair and
tear-streaked cheeks.  "My agent says that even though I'm kind of old,
I still might be able to really make it.  He says the nineties is the
decade of the older woman."

Diana had to smile.  At twenty classified as an older woman especially
with a body that looked as if it belonged to an eighteen-year-old.  "I'm
happy for you," Diana said, leaning forward.  "But somehow I don't think
you waited in a dark alley just to tell me about the Filene's
assignment."

Sandy stretched out her square fingernails.  Some new nail style from
France, she had told Diana proudly.  Diana had been forced to control
her face so that Sandy wouldn't see how ridiculous she thought they
looked.  Sandy carefully inspected the nails on her right hand for
imperfections in their squareness.  Then she checked her left.
Apparently finding none, she dropped both hands to her lap and finally
said, "I missed you."

Diana sat back in her chair.  Sandy's neediness again. "We're having
group on Monday," she said softly.  "That's only a few days away."

"I know," Sandy whimpered.  "But-but we didn't meet this week.  And-and
it was just real long for me.  You know how I get.  How I need to make
sure that you're okay?"

" It has felt like a long time since we've seen each other," Diana said.
"But it's actually been just three days.  Remember you had that extra
appointment the day after James's funeral?" It didn't seem possible so
little time had passed.

Sandy looked down at her hands again.  "I saw you since then," she
mumbled.

"What do you mean?"

Sandy sighed and looked up.  "I kind of followed you around a couple of
times."

"Oh?" Diana dropped her hands into her lap so Sandy couldn't see her
clenched fists.  Just what she needed right now: an obsessed fan.  Then
her hands relaxed.  Obsessed fans often broke into the homes of those
they admired. Stole their possessions .  .  .  "You followed me around?"
she prompted.

"I, ah, I kind of went to your class yesterday.  And and .  .  ."

" And?" Diana looked at the large purse hanging on the back of Sandy's
chair.  An obsessed fan might steal a personal object.  And, even more
important, an obsessed fan might keep that personal object in her
possession.  Diana couldn't take her eyes from the purse.  Perhaps her
journal was sitting right across from her.

"And I saw you on Charles Street this morning." Sandy hung her head like
a guilty child.  "I followed you to DeMatteo's."

"Did you do anything else? Follow me anywhere else? Or do something .  .
." Diana paused, searching for the right words.  "Something that was
maybe-maybe a little more wrong?"

Sandy shook her head, swinging her long hair back and forth, but she
didn't raise her eyes.

"Are you sure?" Diana asked, hoping against hope that Sandy was lying.
"It's easier to just spill it all now."

Sandy checked her nails for squareness again.

She is lying, Diana thought jubilantly, her eyes once again drawn to
Sandy's purse.  She does have the journal. "You can't do this, Sandy,"
Diana said gently.  "You frightened me.  I understand what you're
feeling, I understand that you worry about me, but that doesn't make it
okay."

"You don't understand anything!" Sandy stood up and began stomping
around the office.  "How can you?" She marched over to the desk, grabbed
Robin's gift, and waved it under Diana's nose.  "How can you understand
what I feel when you have someone who makes something like this for
you?" she demanded.  Then she seized Craig's picture with her other
hand.  "When you have him?"

Diana silently watched the angry woman, her jubilation dying.  That was
the thing with borderlines: They adored you, and then they hated you,
and there was not much sense to be made of what turned them one way or
the other.

Sandy slammed Craig's picture to the desk and began raving again.  "Even
with all this stuff in the paper, with all the things going on that you
probably think are so terrible, you-you still have everything.  This."
She waved the paper-clip holder in the air, then pointed to Diana's
stomach.  "The baby, that nice husband." She dropped into the chair and
burst into tears.  "And-and if you stop the group, I won't be able to
afford individual sessions and then I'll have nothing!"

Diana nodded.  So that was it.  "We're not going to stop the group."

Sandy looked up, her huge gray eyes shiny with tears. "But James and
Ethan are gone."

"James hasn't been a member of the group for months," Diana reminded
Sandy.  Despite her misgivings about Ethan, she added, "Ethan's called
twice in the last few days, so I'm going to assume he'll show up soon.
Bruce and Terri and you are still in.  Four's enough for now.  Maybe,
after we've dealt with the effect of James's death on us all, we can
discuss whether we want to add a new member or two at some later date."

Sandy's face was suddenly radiant.  "I know I did the wrong thing when I
followed you-and I'm sorry, truly I am.  But, but I was so afraid of
losing you.  Now that Sam and me have broken up, I've only got you-my
doctor." She tilted her head and smiled up at Diana.  "My good doctor."

Diana stood.  "We'll meet on Monday afternoon, as usual," she said.  "We
can talk about all of this then."

"Sure." Sandy jumped from her seat and placed the paperclip holder
carefully back on the desk.  "Sure, that'll be great!" She swung her
purse over her shoulder and just about danced out of the office.

Diana pressed her fingertips to the desk, as if to balance herself
against the barrage of relief that was flooding through her.  Sandy had
the journal; it had to be.  There was no other explanation.  It wasn't
Jill.  It wasn't Adrian.  And it obviously wasn't some junkie.  So it
had to be Sandy.  There was no one else.

She dropped into her chair and smiled.  Valerie was going to exonerate
her in court, and the journal was going to stay safely hidden in the
bowels of Sandy's purse.  Diana touched her stomach lightly.  It's going
to be all right, she silently reassured her daughter.  It looks like it

DIANA SAT IN BED, IDLY WATCHING A BAD SKIT ON "Saturday Night Live." She
was waiting for Craig to come out of the bathroom so they could finish
the party postmortem.  Once a month Diana and Craig got together for
dinner with six other couples; one member of each couple had gone to
graduate school with Craig, and the fourteen of them had been close for
almost ten years.  They rotated houses, made lavish dinners, and usually
drank a bit too much-with the exception of whoever was pregnant at the
moment.  That night Krista had put on a gourmet Mexican feast, and Diana
and Linda had abstained from the margaritas.  "Why do I always think
this show is going to be better than it is?" Diana asked Craig when he
finally walked into the bedroom.

He took off his pants and shirt and climbed into bed next to her.  "So
you started to tell me what Ann said about Bill losing his job."

"I can't believe Bill didn't tell you himself," Diana said. "What were
you guys talking about at your end of the table?"

"The Celtics.  Rock and roll." Craig grinned.  "Barry was doing his
little old Jewish man bit."

Diana' shook her head in feigned annoyance, but she smiled.

"All Bill said was that he'd wanted to get out of Digital for years.
That this was the best thing that could happen to him." Craig propped up
his pillow so he could lean against it.  "Is Ann worried?"

"You know Ann." Diana shrugged.  "She worries about everything."

Craig nodded.  "She's worried about you."

"Seems I'm a hot topic of worry in that group." Diana moved closer to
Craig and rested her cheek against his chest; he put his arm around her.
"Everyone seemed so up on the details." Although she had tried not to
show it, Diana had been both surprised and unnerved by how much her
friends had known.  Even though everyone had ' been supportive-and
careful not to discuss the case too much the whole thing had made her
feel uncomfortably exposed, like the dream she frequently had of
glancing down during a lecture and discovering she was wearing only
underwear. Except tonight it had felt as if her underwear was dirty.

Craig gave her an encouraging squeeze.  "Tim and Mark both missed the
burglary write-up in the paper."

"Steve and Carol too," Diana said, raising her head.  "I guess we should
be glad for those drive-by shootings Thursday night-they must've kept
our break-in off the front page."

Craig played with a lock of her hair.  "Thank God for urban violence."
"Our resident feminists were outraged."

"Kathleen and Lisa?"

Diana nodded.  "They went off on a tirade about how the media would be
ignoring this whole thing if I were a man and James had been a woman."

"Even Kevin said something like that."

"I suppose I should take that as a good sign," Diana said dryly.  "No
one's ever accused Kevin of being a feminist."

"Don't worry." Craig pulled her closer and kissed the top of her head.
"Your reputation's going to be just fine Sandy's got your journal and
Valerie's going to put Jill in her place with your treatment notes." He
placed his hand over the curve of her stomach, and Diana covered it with
her own.  "And we're going to be a family."

"I told Valerie I'm not going to the reading of the will," Diana said.

"Was she upset?"

"She seemed more resigned than angry.  She's going to go as my 'legal
representative."

"

"Good.  The farther you stay from Jill Hutchins the better." Craig
raised the television remote.  "Mind?" he asked. When Diana shook her
head, he clicked off the television, and they snuggled down into the
bed.

"I think I'm starting to believe this really is going to blow over. That
it's-" Diana stopped mid-sentence and held her breath.  She felt
something.  A movement.  A fluttery butterfly of a movement in her
stomach.  "She kicked," Diana cried, tears welling in her eyes.  "She
actually kicked! Feel," Diana ordered, pressing Craig's palm to her
stomach.  They waited in complete silence for a moment and then it came
again: a faint, gentle pressure from inside her womb.

"Yes," he said softly, almost reverently.  Then he burst out laughing.
"Damn," he said.  "Do you think this means she is going to have your
feet?"

The following morning the Sunday papers were wonderfully devoid of any
mention of the case, and Diana's optimism continued to grow over the
week.  The media lost interest in her story as a rash of gang murders
hit the city.  Sandy was edgy and jittery in therapy group Monday
afternoon, refusing to meet Diana's eyes and reinforcing Diana's belief
that she did indeed have the journal.  Even the news that Diana was the
sole beneficiary of James's estate estimated at five hundred thousand
dollars-was less upsetting than Diana would have expected.  "We'll set
up a charitable trust," she told Craig and Valerie.  "Invest the
principle and give away the income." Craig nodded little glumly, Diana
thought-and Valerie warned her not to do anything rash and at least wait
to see what, if anything, Jill did about contesting the will.  But Diana
felt good about the decision.

"These past couple of weeks have made me realize how lucky we are-and
how easily it can all be lost," Craig said over dinner Tuesday evening.
"Let's get away and revel in what we've got." So Diana booked them the
front room with the fireplace at the Echo Lake Lodge for the coming
weekend.

On Wednesday Ticknor voted to allow Diana to keep her teaching position,
and even permitted Brad Harris to issue a memorandum of support on
university letterhead.  And her colleagues all rallied around her.  By
the end of the week, everyone in her peer supervisory group-with the
exception of Adrian Arnold-had given her written statements of support
to release at her discretion, as had Brad Harris and three psychiatrists
she had worked With at Beth Israel.

Now that it appeared Sandy planned to keep the journal to herself, the
other good news was that Valerie and Ron Engdahl, Jill's attorney, had
petitioned the court for a speedy trial and won.  Judge Hershey had been
more than happy to set an early trial date as this would give him points
with the governor, who was pushing to streamline the court system.  And
Hershey's known sympathy for the defense gave Valerie additional
confidence about winning the motion to admit Diana's treatment notes.

Diana quit working early on Friday afternoon so she could pack for the
weekend; Craig was due home at five and their plan was to leave for
Vermont by six.  Straightening her desk, Diana picked up the file that
held the statements of support from her colleagues, increasingly
confident that the letters would clear her-as would the mass of notes
and articles she was slowly organizing into an unshakable defense.
Valerie had explained her four-pronged attack against the substandard
treatment charge: Diana's detailed treatment plan for James's therapy,
substantiated by regular progress reports; Diana's professional
competence and credentials, including degrees, published articles, and
professional associations; the seriousness of James's illness and his
propensity for self-mutilation and suicide; and the extreme difficulty
of treating people who suffered from borderline personality disorders.

Valerie had instructed Diana to talk to her colleagues and get their
input-in writing-supporting each of the prongs." She was then to go
through her treatment notes, through .  her psychological literature,
and her personal files to find information bolstering Valerie's
positions. Everything from James's past suicide attempts, to Diana's
prestigious post doc, to research showing a low cure rate for
borderlines was relevant.  And everything had to be copied,
corroborated, and organized under the correct prong.  "While you're at
it," Valerie had added, "might as well see if you can find whatever it
was your weird patient was talking about." Although Diana knew this to
be a tremendous amount of work-and was doubtful she would find what
Ethan was talking about-she was confident that she could produce the
material Valerie needed.

Diana dropped the statements into a file drawer and pushed it closed
with her hip.  It really was going to be okay, she thought as she
flicked off the lights.  The baby was healthy, the trial would come
soon, and her exoneration would be swift.  Then she would be able to
reclaim her life.

The doorbell rang.  With the sound of the chimes, Diana was filled with
a sudden foreboding.  Despite her previous optimism, she somehow knew
that the news on the other side of the door wasn't good.  She ran up the
stairs and peered through the peephole.  Valerie was standing on the
stoop.  Her face was grim.

"I didn't want to tell you over the phone," Valerie said, as soon as
Diana pulled the door open.  "Your journal has surfaced-and it couldn't
be in worse hands."

Diana led Valerie up to the great room.  She sat on the edge of the
couch and listened with a sinking heart as her lawyer told her that
twenty-five photocopied pages of her journal had been delivered to
Jill's lawyer's office that morning.  Valerie explained that Ron Engdaht
was planning to submit the pages in court as evidence that Diana had
indeed had an affair with James Hutchins.

Diana stared out the front bay window, watching the shadows shift on the
translucent window shade across the street, as all her hopes died.  The
shadows turned one way and then the other.  Two shadows, three shadows,
seemingly without purpose, crossing and melting into one another, only
to emerge as separate entities once again.  Diana turned toward.Valerie.
She ached with disappointment.  She was nauseated with fear.

"Engdahl is a smug bastard in the best of situations-and on the phone
this morning he was positively strutting.  He told me that the excerpts
were 'very juicy' and that there was no way any jury would believe you
after they had read them," Valerie said as she kicked off her pumps.
"Mind?" she asked Diana, nodding toward her feet.

Diana shrugged her indifference, and Valerie droned on about
admissibility and motions in limine.  Although Diana knew she needed to
be concerned, that she needed to understand, all she could think of was
Craig.  Of how hurt he would be.  "Motion in limine." She repeated
Valerie's words in robotic tones.  "To keep the journal out of
evidence."

"That's right," Valerie said patiently and then continued. "Turns out my
secretary, Katie, has a friend who works in Engdahl's office.  So I had
her scout down some info for me,

Diana shook her head as if to clear it.  "Will it get in the
newspapers?"

Valerie didn't appear to hear the question as she pulled a legal pad
from her briefcase; she flipped through it with the back of a pencil.
"Katie found out that the journal came without a note, and that it had
been sent-and paid for in cash-from the Government Center Federal
Express office."

"Federal Express from Boston to Boston?" Diana asked, feeling more
disoriented by the moment.

"More importantly, with a fake return address." Valerie dropped the pad
to the coffee table with a loud thump.

:'So much for detective work."

'I'm a lawyer, not a detective," Valerie snapped.  "My job is to prevent
that journal from being introduced in court. And don't you worry: I'm
going to do just that." She leaned toward Diana.  "I'm going to hit
Engdahl with a motion in limine that's going to wipe that cocky smile
right off his alligator-preppy face."

"What about the newspapers?" Diana asked again.

Valerie frowned and tapped her pencil on the table.  "What about them?"

"Do they know about it?" It took all of Diana's strength to keep from
screaming at the woman.  She swallowed hard. "Will they print it?" she
asked softly.

"Even if the person sent them copies," Valerie said, "I doubt any
newspaper would risk it."

"What's the risk?" Diana asked, although the blood was pounding so hard
in her ears that she knew she would have trouble hearing Valerie's
answer.

"We don't have a lot of law on this in Massachusetts," Valerie said
slowly.  "And although it wouldn't be libelous-it is your diary, after
all-printing it in a newspaper would be a pretty clear invasion of
privacy." She paused and looked up at the ceiling.  "Chapter 214.  Right
of privacy.  If I remember correctly, it protects against something like
'unreasonable, substantial, or serious' interference with a person's
privacy .  .  ." She shook her head.  "A legitimate newspaper printing
an unauthorized personal diary sounds pretty unreasonable, substantial,
and serious to me." She shook her head.  "I just don't think they'd pull
it."

"We could sue them?"

Valerie nodded emphatically.  "In a flash."

Diana sighed in relief and leaned back into the couch. Then she bolted
up as another thought came to mind.  "What about the press if you lose
the motion in limine?"

Valerie hesitated, playing with her pencil and avoiding Diana's eye. "If
we lose the motion in limine," she finally said, "it becomes admissible
in court."

Diana felt sweat prickling under her arms.  "And then the sniffers can
print it?"

"I , m sorry, Diana, but once it's public record then the .  . Valerie
paused and looked questioningly at Diana.  "What was it you called
them?"

"Sniffers."

Valerie nodded.  "Then the sniffers will be all over it."

Nausea boiled up toward Diana's throat.  She pressed her hand to her
stomach.  "We can't let that happen."

"I'm not going to.  I'll win the motion-both motions," Valerie said,
putting her pad and pencil back into her briefcase.  "I got this hearing
combined with the hearing on the admissibility of your therapy session
notes."

Diana realized she was biting the cuticle on her thumb and yanked her
finger from her mouth.  "We still have the good judge?"

Valerie nodded again.  "Hershey's cool-and he doesn't like clutter-so my
guess is that he'll rule on both motions Tuesday," she said, slipping
her shoes back on.  Then she turned and stared out the window.  "The
thing that worries me is that he might construe both motions as hinging
on the same issue: confidentiality versus direct relevance .  .  ."

Diana felt her stomach plummet to her knees.  "What does that mean?"

"According to that logic," Valerie said slowly, "one would assume that
both the therapy notes and the journal would fall into the same
category."

"And?"

"And that both motions will be either granted or denied. From our point
of view, we'd get a split decision,"

Speechless, Diana stared at the lawyer.  If the journal was allowed into
evidence, Craig would be devastated.  If her therapy notes were not
allowed into evidence, her career would be devastated.  "Is there
anything I can do to help?"

Valerie stood up and reached for her coat.  "Not unless you want to
spend the weekend boning up on privilege against self-incrimination."
She looked at Diana, and for a moment her face softened.  "You just need
to sit tight until Tuesday and have some faith."

"I'm not a religious person," Diana mumbled.

Valerie burst out laughing, the first real laughter Diana had ever heard
from the woman.  "I didn't mean in God-I meant in me." Chuckling, she
walked down the stairs and let herself out of the house.

Great, Diana thought as she heard the front door slam. Now the woman
develops a sense of humor.

DIANA CANCELED THEIR RESERVATIONS AT THE ECHO Lake Lodge.  When Craig
came home and she told him what had happened, he went to the video store
and rented a half dozen classic movies.  The two of them spent the
weekend holed up with Humphrey Bogart, Lauren Bacall, Clark Gable, and
Marilyn Monroe.  They didn't talk much, just sat close together on the
couch and ate lots of popcorn.

Diana didn't tell Craig about the worst of the entries, still holding to
the hope that Valerie's motion on Tuesday might spare him from reading
them.  But there was ice around her heart as she worried about direct
relevance and Valerie's skill and whether whoever sent the pages to
Engdahl might not also send them to the Inquirer.

But she kept these ies to herself as she held Craig's hand and watched
Bogie in Casablanca.  Sometimes she got up and roamed around the house.
Often she found herself in the empty nursery, her mind wandering to
images of driving up to Albany to visit Craig's parents, she and Craig
laughing as the baby gurgled from her car seat in the back of the jeep.
Of the house on the Cape they had talked about renting in August with
their friends Larry and Sheryl and their one-year-old son.  Of what it
would be like if Craig so hurt and angry after he read her journal
entries that

of these things ever happened.

On Monday morning Craig went to the office and Diana saw a few patients.
After her borderline group left, she tried to analyze some of her
research data.  But she didn't get much accomplished.  She was just too
scared to concentrate.

By Tuesday she was exhausted from both stress and lack of sleep; she was
having difficulty concentrating on anything but the hearing scheduled
for that afternoon.  The journal had to be ruled inadmissible.  It had
to stay out of the papers.  And out of Craig's hands.  Diana tried to
focus on the lecture notes for her morning glass, but her worries kept
intruding.  The fact that the lecture, which she called "Who's Really
Crazy Here, Anyway?", was one of her favorites didn't seem to holster
her ability to focus on it.

Social expectations, social stigma, negative sanctions, she read.  Every
word, every concept, seemed to relate to her own plight, seemed to be
speaking directly to her. She was violating social expectations.  And
that was why she wasn't sleeping, why her stomach was squeezing and
turning and leaving her in a constant state of nausea.  She was scared.
Scared of the negative sanctions.  Terrified of the social stigma.  And,
just as her lecture notes said, it was making her crazy.

"It's in the bag," Valerie had told her last night.  "I'll call you as
soon as it's over." Diana had nodded and hung up the phone.  Then she
turned to Craig, "It's in the bag," she repeated.  Craig had hugged her
and said that he was sure that it was, his trusting eyes full of
compassion and a slight puzzlement over the fact that she didn't seem to
be comforted by Valerie's optimism.

Was Valerie's optimism just a front? Part of her tough lady personality?
Or could they really win both of the motions? Diana forced her eyes and
her mind back to the page.  Mental illness as a social phenomenon.
Sanity and insanity as socially defined states.

Diana loved throwing the sociological perspective on mental illness at
her students.  The sociological arguments turned the theories she had
been discussing all semester on their heads and got even those
slumbering in the back row to sit up and think.  Perhaps R.  D.  Laing
was right after all, she would suggest to the class.  Perhaps insanity
was just a form of "supersanity"; perhaps psychosis was just the sane
response to an insane world.

She sure could relate to that, for she was struggling to respond to a
world that no longer made any sense.  She, a psychologist with no
interest in the legal profession, was obsessed with motions in limine
and with the intricacies of confidentiality versus direct evidence. She,
a pregnant woman with a devoted husband and a promising career, was
obsessed with the fear that her entire life was falling to pieces around
her.  It was truly an insane world.  And it was definitely making her
nuts.

Could the judge really be convinced to interpret the two motions as
different issues? Valerie said that she had come up with an
unimpeachable argument for separating the to something even Engdahl
wouldn't be able to counter. "You'll be getting your money's worth on
this one," she had assured Diana.

But Diana was far from assured.  Valerie hadn't seen the love and
support in Craig's eyes last night-nor had she seen the fury that filled
them just a few weeks ago, just before James's suicide, when Diana had
told Craig that James was following her.  'Mat she had seen James
sliding through the corridors at Ticknor, ducking into classrooms when
she turned around.  That James had hidden behind the garbage cans and
jumped out at her as she walked to the back door, hurling insults and
wild nonsense.  Her gentle Craig, rocklike and stoic, could become a
different man if he thought someone he loved had been wronged.

Diana rested her hand on her stomach, searching for a butterfly flutter.
She closed her eyes for a moment.  If it had to be one or the other, she
prayed to a God she didn't really believe could hear her, please err on
the side of confidentiality. Please don't let Craig read the journal.

Diana opened her eyes and focused on the words in front of her. Residual
rule breaking.  Exceeding the limits of eccentricity. Defective coping
strategies.  It was no use. Nothing was computing.  She threw her pen
down on the desk, grabbed her hat and coat, and walked out the door.

She crossed the busy intersection at Symphony Hall and headed toward the
reflecting pool at the Christian Science Center.  Well, at least her
coping strategies weren't all that defective, Diana thought as she
strolled among the soaring columns, breathing in the fresh air.  She
felt much better already.  Sitting on a bench in the open plaza, she
watched the pool spilling over itself, marveling at the serenity of the
water flowing perpetually over the brownspeckled marble.  She had always
wondered how a religion so seemingly closed-minded could have such a
vast vision of architecture.

Nothing made any sense.  Not the Christian Scientists. Not the obviously
impoverished kids running through the plaza in their hundred-dollar
sneakers.  And certainly not her present situation.  Diana shook her
head and watched the water rolling over the pool's rounded rim as if it
were a living creature.  A soft breeze played across one end of the
basin, rippling the water, changing its form, separating it into a
myriad of tiny waves.  But when the water fell, it resumed its smooth
totality and disappeared as a complete entity over the edge.  Everything
was strange, Diana thought, pulling her coat more tightly around her and
shifting to the other side of the bench to remain under the anemic touch
of the autumnal sun.

The plaza grew more crowded, filling with scurrying figures trying to
beat the threatening clouds to their destination.  Some clutched
briefcases, others children's hands, and still others held brown paper
bags close to their chests. Most, being city-wise, looked neither left
nor right.  But here and there, a few adventurous souls cast their gaze
on Diana.

She stiffened as a tall man in work clothes, the head of a hammer
sticking from his back pocket, slowed his steps to get a closer look at
her.  He pushed his face close to hers, and his eyes lit up as if with
recognition.  "Howdy," he said, but when Diana didn't respond, he
shrugged and sauntered away.

Diana pulled her hat farther down on her forehead to avoid the probing,
beady eyes of an elderly lady carrying a plastic shopping bag.  But
Diana's attempts were futile; the woman stopped right in front of her
and dropped her bag on the ground.  Lifting a pair of glasses from her
ample bosom, the lady perched them on the end of her nose.  Then she
sighed, clearly disappointed, picked up her bag, and continued on her
way.

Diana shook her head.  Her growing paranoia was straight out of her
lecture: Once she labeled herself as being watched, the signs were
everywhere.  Self-fulfilling prophecies.  The looking-glass self.  If
she wasn't careful, she would soon be failing down Lemert's slippery
slope to madness.

The sociologists were right: The stress, the fear, and the labels were
all making her crazy.  The tall man had just been trying to pick her up.
The elderly woman's myopic eyes had momentarily mistaken Diana for a
long-lost granddaughter. Diana took a series of deep breaths and forced
herself to focus on the rolling smoothness of the water.  Both her
paranoia and her fears were unfounded.  And self-defeating.

A young man in a wheelchair, a briefcase across his legs and a Red Sox
hat on his head, rolled himself across the plaza toward the elevators.
Diana watched him smile and wave away another man who tried to help him.
Then he raised himself on one arm and pushed the button.  The man in the
baseball cap didn't give up, Diana thought as she watched him wheel
himself into the elevator.  He must have problems far more serious than
hers, and here she was giving up, declaring defeat, before defeat had
even occurred.  This was all wrong.  Valerie was still fighting.  She
would keep fighting too. kay, Diana thought, her eyes trained on the
water as right around the edge of the pool.  Think positive.  Act
positive.  Valerie said it was in the bag; ergo, it was in the bag.  She
had a class to teach, James's records to finish compiling-perhaps even
Ethan's "something" to find within them.

Chin high, she headed home, choosing a route that took her along her
favorite street in Boston: St.  Gennain.  As she stepped onto the narrow
lane, European and appealing with its flower boxes and rounded recessed
doorways, she decided to put her fears out of her mind.  She would trust
Valerie and let Valerie take care of her business while she, Diana, took
care of her own.

She stepped briskly, taking in the beautiful wrought-iron grillwork
along the street-level windows, feeling the quiet harmony of the tiny
enclave.  She would go teach her class and then come back and hit
James's files.  Gail always contended she was a control freak.  Well,
now was the time to focus on things she could control.

Diana's stroll had made her late.  She grabbed her notes and rushed from
the house, ignoring the blinking answering machine.  Feeling better than
she had in days, she practiced her lecture on the way to Ticknor.
Halfway across Cambridge, she decided that she knew her stuff.  She
turned on the radio and sang along with an oldies station until she
reached Medford.

When she got to campus, the swarms of students that filled the quad
between classes were gone, presumably already settled in their seats,
notebooks open and pens poised.  Diana hurried toward Eaton Hall,
buffing from the climb up the steep stairs.  She glanced at her watch.
Not so late that the students would have left.  Twenty minutes was the
rule.  And it was only ten minutes past ten.  Still, her steps
lengthened.  She hated to keep anyone waiting.  Especially one hundred
anyones.  Especially when she had such a strong lecture to give.

As soon as she opened the door to the building, somewhere, on some lower
level of consciousness, Diana felt that something was wrong.  Dismissing
the premonition as another bout of unfounded paranoia, she bounded up
the half-flight of stairs toward her room.  But when she reached the
landing, she knew something was wrong.  The hall was too quiet.  That
many students waiting for a tardy professor would be making an uproar.
And there was none.

Moving even more quickly, Diana entered the lecture hall.  She stood in
the door, frozen with bewilderment. The room was empty.  Was it the
wrong day? No, she thought, remembering the hearing, today was
definitely Tuesday.  The wrong time? She checked her watch once again.
Then she looked up at the podium.  On the blackboard behind the lectern
was a large message: "Psych 112 Canceled Today."

Canceled? She hadn't canceled class.  Diana raced downstairs to the
psychology department offices.  She ran past a few open doors without
taking the time to talk to anyone and headed straight for the
secretary's office.  Peg, who knew everything that went on in the
university, would surely know what was going on with her class.  But Peg
wasn't there.  The office was empty.

As Diana turned toward the Xerox room-Peg's second home-she noticed a
copy of the Boston Inquirer on top of a file cabinet.  She stopped, her
stomach squeezing so hard she had to grab the wall for support.  SEX
DOC'S DIARY VERIFIES ALL, screamed a headline so big and so thick that
it took the entire top half of the tabloid's first page.  She flipped
the paper over so she could read what was written beneath the fold.  She
stared in stunned disbelief; her own face was staring back at her.  The
kicker along the bottom of the page said: "Excerpts Inside." . WITHOUT
CONSCIOUS AWARENESS OF WHAT SHE WAS doing, Diana grabbed the newspaper
and shoved it into her briefcase.  Then she turned from the office and
ran.  When she got to the jeep, she punched the locks and sat staring
out the windshield at the rows of cars in front of her, her breath
coming in labored gasps.

With trembling fingers, she pulled the Inquirer open and turned to the
page listed under the headline.  When her eyes fell on the first
excerpt, she was filled with relief- It was not only relatively mild, it
also brought out the whole issue of countertransference. l know it's
countertransference.  I know that I need to feel these feelings to do my
job well.  That it's normal, even desirable.  But it's scary.  The man
is just too sexy and too crazy about me. I look into his eyes and I
think thoughts I should never think.  / brush his arm and dream dreams I
can't dream.  And yet, I long for the thoughts and yearn for the dreams.
When I wake from a James-dream, I close my eyes and try to find the
thread that will lead me back to him again.  I am being drawn to the
forbidden-and I am afraid it is where I want to go.

But when she turned the page and, read the next, her heart plummeted.
They had used the first entry as a teaser, a scene-setter, and now they
were coming in for the kill.

It is hot.  Steamy.  But not unpleasantly so.  The old air conditioner
shrieks and labors in the window, rattling the narrow blinds closed
above it to hold back the midday sun.  We are alone in the dim,
hot-coolness of the cavelike room.  Sweat beads along James's collarbone
and I ache to touch it.  To taste it with my tongue.  He speaks, but I
can barely hear his words, so focused am I on my need to feel the smooth
ripple of the muscles in his arm.

Then he grows silent and still and his eyes lock onto mine; a bad-boy
smile plays along the edges of lips that already appear after
love-making.  Slowly

James holds out his hands.  I stand and walk toward him, pulled by an
invisible magnet that I know I must resist, that I know / must right.
But I keep walking.

Walking forever across the short distance that separates us, the pain
growing outward.from the center of my being until it consumes and
becomes every nerve of my body.  The horrible, glorious pain of the
forbidden.

And then I am upon him.  And he upon me.  The pain both sharpens and
abates as we crush together, tasting and touching each other in a
ferocity that obliterates all else.  It is heaven.  And it is hell.
There were more: the one describing the two of them making love in the
parking garage; the one in the lecture hall; one she had forgotten about
where she related how she and James had performed gymnastic feats in the
hot tub at her friend Susan's trailside ski condo as skiers rode the
chairlift over their heads.  As Diana read, panic roared through her.
Sweat broke out on her forehead and on her upper lip and on her chest.
The back of her blouse was wet.  She saw Jill rubbing her hands with
glee.  She heard Kathleen and Lisa yelling about gender equity and
sexism in the media.  And she saw Craig, hurt and bewildered, his gentle
eyes filled with pain.

As if coming out of a deep slumber, Diana slowly became aware of the
frigid chill of the air.  She adjusted her coat snugly around her, but
the icy cold that emanated from within and her damp clothes made her
begin to shiver uncontrollably.  A small moan escaped her lips; she
bowed her head on the steering wheel and cried.

When Diana pulled onto St.  Stephen Street, a man and a woman were
lounging against the streetlamp in front of her house.  Despite their
superficial nonchalance, the couple was alert, scanning the sidewalk,
whispering and pointing at something written on a pad the woman held.
Sniffers. Through some incredible stroke of luck, neither noticed Diana
as she swung her jeep into the alley.

How had this happened? she asked herself for about the hundredth time
since seeing the Inquirer headline.  Valerie had said it couldn't.
Valerie had said until the journal was part of the court record, no
newspaper would risk it.  It was against the law.  But the Inquirer had
obviously chosen not to abide by the law; they had weighed the cost of a
possible suit against the gain of a juicy story and an expanded
readership, and had-just as obviously decided the risk was worth taking.

Driving slowly down the alley, Diana looked right and left, peering
around the trash cans and the cars and the sagging planks of wood that
roughly demarcated property lines.  She even checked the deep sinkhole
behind the house next to theirs.  No sniffers.  No neighbors.  No street
people filling the Dumpster behind the Chinese restaurant. Either the
reporters hadn't figured out that there was a back entrance, or, more
likely, they were far too mindful of the realities of urban life to risk
hanging around in a dim alley-no matter how hot the story.

But despite the stillness, Diana felt the eyes.  She felt them on the
back of her neck as she pulled into her spot. She felt them watching her
from above as she scampered to the house.  She felt them poring over
her, surrounding her, swallowing her, even as she slipped inside the
door.

Her breath coming fast, Diana leaned against the cool plaster of the
hallway, pressing her cheek to the wall. Unfounded paranoia, she had
called it just a mere hour ago.  Founded paranoia was what it was.  The
mothers on Charles Street and the businessman in front of Jfll's.  The
elderly woman and the man with the hammer at the Christian Science mail.
It was like the old joke: Just because you're paranoid, that doesn't
mean they aren't following you.

Diana wrapped her coat around her-whether to warm or protect herself,
she did not know-and walked slowly toward her office.  Craig.  She had
to call Craig.  And Valerie. She looked at her watch.  Valerie might
already be on her way to the hearing.  The hearing.  Diana barked a
harsh laugh containing no humor.  The judgment she had looked upon as
defining her life had been completely voided of its power.

She stood in the doorway to her small waiting room and looked through to
her office.  She could see the red light blinking on the answering
machine.  Perhaps Craig had called already.  He must have seen the paper
by now. She pressed her palm to her stomach.  Someone would have showed
it to him.

Despite Craig's unflinching support since James's death, Diana knew he
had never been comfortable with her relationship with James.  Even
during the first year, before there was any indication of the problems
to come, Craig had questioned her involvement.  "It seems as if you're
always talking about this Hutchins character," Craig had said right
before James had his memory breakthrough.  "Don't you think you should
give your other patients-not to mention your husband-a bit of your
time?" he had teased.

But after she had terminated with James, after James had begun to harass
them both, Craig had stopped teasing and become angry.  About a week
before his death, James had sneaked into the backseat of the jeep,
jumping up from his hiding place while Diana was driving to Ticknor. She
had been so startled, she had slammed on her brakes and skidded into a
parked car.  She did little damage to either the jeep or the other car,
but she was quite shaken-as was Craig.  "Either you get rid of that
loser, or I'm calling the police and getting a restraining order," Craig
had told her. "You talk to him or I will." But before she or Craig could
do anything, James had gotten rid of himself.

Diana was startled from her reverie by the slight kick of a tiny foot
beneath her palm.  What was Craig going to think of her relationship
with James now? Talking about James was one thing; writing about having
sex with him was another.  "Oh, little one," she whispered, "let's hope
your daddy understands."

She turned and headed up the stairs.  On some level, she could
appreciate that she was nauseated and terrified and furious.  But
really, what she felt most was calm.  A strange, detached composure,
almost as if she were once again acting in a high school play, as if she
were both mentally and physically unable to believe that this was really
her life.

She climbed up to the great room and, swinging wide toward the back of
the house, approached the front window from the side.  She pulled the
edge of the drape.  The sniffers were still there.  Straightening a
pillow on the sofa, she wondered how long they would stay and then
wandered out of the room.  Leaning over the stairwell, she looked
through the narrow opening between the balustrades and the landings to
the floor two stories below.  "I'll be with you ways," James had told
her the day she had terminated with him. "Even when you think I'm
finally gone."

Diana twisted her head and looked up at the clouded, dirty skylight one
story above.  James's prescience was definitely spooky.  She climbed one
more set of stairs, drawn to the small room at the front of the house.
To the empty, freshly whitewashed room with three windows at the
treetops and a shiny new hardwood floor.

But when she entered the nursery, Diana was jolted from her cool
reverie.  She raised one hand to her mouth as a small gasp escaped her
lips.  For there, standing in the corner of the room, his arms hanging
limp at his sides, was Craig.

"Craig-" Diana started, and then her voice cracked. She wanted to run to
him, to bury her head in his chest, but something about the stiff,
uncomfortable way he was holding himself stopped her.  "I'm so sorry,"
she whispered, looking at her hands, unable to confront the hurt on his
face.  A shiver of apprehension ran down her back: The cold eyes she had
felt on her in the alley had been Craig's. "So sorry."

"Lionel dropped the paper on my desk as soon as he got in this morning,"
Craig said softly.  "Then he suggested I take the rest of the day off."
Lionel Lunt was Craig's boss.  He was one of the most powerful
architects in the country, and his opinion regularly made-and unmade
people's reputations.

The full impact of the situation hit Diana like a punch in the gut.
"This whole disaster is all my fault," she said, taking a step toward
Craig.

"Don't." Craig held his hands up, whether to stop her from coming any
closer or to stop her from speaking, Diana wasn't sure.  "Don't blame
yourself," he said, but he didn't move toward her.

"They canceled my class without telling me."

Craig nodded, his back pressed to the wall.  "When did you see the
paper?"

"It-it was in the department office.  I went down to find out why the
class-why my class was-why it-" She couldn't speak; she couldn't get the
words past the huge lump in her throat.

"I know you didn't do the things you wrote about," Craig said, still not
moving toward her.  "But it just seems sa-so real, to read it in the
paper like that .  .  ."

Diana stood alone and defenseless in the middle of the barren room.  She
hung her head, thinking of the thousands of people who would read the
Inquirer: their friends, their family, her colleagues, a sea of
opinionated strangers ready to think the worst.  "Everyone's going to
believe it," she whispered.

Craig dropped his arms.  "No, they won't," he said, shaking his head.
"It's too wild to believe.  The stuff at Ticknor. In the parking garage.
Susan's ski house - .  ." Then the images seemed to be too much for him;
his tenuous control collapsed and his voice rose.  "Why did you have to
write it?" He lurched forward and grabbed her by the shoulders. "Why did
you have to be so graphic?"

Unable to speak, Diana just stood there.

"Why, Diana?" he demanded, his fingers digging into her coat.  "Why?"
His angry words ricocheted harshly off the bare floor and walls.  Then
as quickly as he had seized her, Craig suddenly let her go.

Diana staggered backward and then righted herself.

Craig was staring at his hands in horror.  "This can't be happening," he
said, shaking his head as if to shake himself out of a trance.  "This
can't be us." He pressed his hands under his armpits and walked to the
window, turning his back to her.

"It was my journal." Diana crossed over to Craig and took his arms,
forcing him to turn and face her.  "Now it may seem stupid-but when I
wrote in it I never expected anyone to read it.  It was my private
journal.  And it was stolen," she added.  "I kept the damn thing locked
up in my desk, for God's sake!"

Craig nodded slowly, but his fists remained stuffed under his arms.

"I couldn't help what I thought, the feelings my job caused me to feel,"
she tried again.

"I know that," he said, letting his arms drop to his sides, but not
meeting her eye.  "I understand your work.  You don't have to ex-"

"But I do," Diana interrupted, terrified that Craig would be so hurt or
so angry or so disgusted with her that they would never pick out a crib
with bright-colored bumpers and a quilt to match.  "I don't want to lose
you.  I don't want our daughter to grow up without a family.  I want us
to be together .  .  ."

"This is nuts." Craig threw his arms up in the air and began to pace the
perimeter of the room.  "Completely nuts."

"It may be nuts," Diana said, "but it's also the truth.  This
countertransference stuff is for real.  Don't you remember what happened
with Sandy? How I was mothering and overprotecting her? How I had to
talk to my peer group and work it out in my journal? She was responding
to me as her mother-and that was a good and necessary part of her
therapy-but I needed to learn not to respond back from that role."

Craig stopped his pacing.  He crossed his arms and stood at the far end
of the small room.

"It was the same thing with James," Diana said softly. "I needed to let
him relate to me as someone I wasn't. I had to be Hank Hutchins for him.
He had to make me into a sex object to work through the pain.  Don't you
see? Then I needed to work it through on my end and learn how not to be
the sexualized person he made me into."

Craig took a step closer and searched her eyes.  "So this
countertransference thing is pretty powerful .  .  ."

"That's what I've been trying to tell you." She looked up at him.  "You
have to believe me.  You have to."

Although his brow was still slightly furrowed, Craig stepped forward and
touched her cheek.  Diana dropped her head, her hot tears fell onto his
hand, soaking into the gray wool of her coat.  They stood like that for
a long time in the center of the empty room.  "I guess a person has a
right to put anything they want in a private journal," Craig finally
said.  "I guess you just did what you thought you had to do." Then he
pulled her toward him and held her close.

When Valerie called to report on the results of the hearing, the irony
of the situation was not lost on either Diana or Craig: confidentiality
had prevailed over direct relevance. Neither the journal nor Diana's
treatment notes would be admissible in court.

"But what about your 'unimpeachable argument'?" Diana demanded.  "What
about all that 'in the bag' business you were handing me last night?"

"I'm sorry, Diana," Valerie said, her voice softer than Diana had ever
heard it.  "Truly I am.  The truth is, you never know what's going to
happen in court-with a judge or a jury.  I was wrong to be so confident.
Wrong to get your hopes up." The rapid tapping of fingers on a computer
key- board came over the phone lines and then Valerie cleared her
throat.  "I'm, ah, I'm also real sorry about the Inquirer. You two doing
okay?" she asked awkwardly.

Diana had to swallow the lump in her throat that Valerie's sympathy had
elicited before she could answer the question. "Craig's being great,"
she finally said, turning to smile sadly at him.  "A real trouper.  I
think I'm still numb."

"I guess there must've been a leak at Engdahl's."

"Or whoever sent it to Engdahl sent it to the Inquirer too." Diana
chuckled without humor and then added, "I just can't imagine who it
might have been."

Valerie was silent for a long moment.  "If it makes you feel any
better," she finally said, "after reading the paper this morning, we're
lucky that journal isn't going to be allowed-tough as the loss of the
treatment notes is." She paused again.  "Those entries would have
crucified us, despite the fact that its obvious most of them aren't true
and there's no corroboration."

"Corroboration?"

"The only person-besides yourself-who knows if your entries are fact or
fantasy is dead."

Now it was Diana's turn to sit in silence.  "So what do we do now?" she
finally asked.

"Well," Valerie said, her voice perking up, "I figure we continue with
our four-pronged attack to build up your credibility and tear down
James's.  Ultimately proving that no one-not even a top-notch therapist
such as yourself could have stopped a true loony like Hutchins from
killing himself."

"Can we do that without the treatment notes?"

"It won't be as easy, but it can be done," Valerie assured her., "We put
you on the witness stand and have you start to describe what was in the
notes, Engdahl objects and, although his objection is sustained, I get
the judge to instruct the jury that extensive notes were taken-even if
their content is privileged."

"That doesn't sound like enough."

"It isn't," Valerie agreed.  "But we've still got your credentials,
James's history, and all those articles you told me about proving that
borderlines are impossible to treat.  And if a number of your colleagues
testify to the existence of your notes-and I can elicit a few pieces of
specific information from them before Engdahl objects-we'll be able to
portray you as thorough and competent and always maintaining the highest
of professional standards."

"I've got support letters from almost a dozen professionals in the
field."

"Fax them to me as soon as we hang up," Valerie ordered. "We may have to
make some changes so that the language emphasizes the right things."


"Diana, I know that having your journal in the Inquire- is a terrible
personal blow," Valerie interrupted.  "But you've got to remember that
it's irrelevant to this suit.  All that matters right now is what's in
court." She then went on to direct Diana to put together a resume as
complete and impressive "as if she were going up for tenure at Harvard"
and set up a meeting to review Diana's list of potential witnesses.  "I
want you to keep organizing your treatment notes as if we were still
going to use them-that way I'll have full knowledge and be able to work
what I can into evidence.  Oh," she added, "I also need you to come down
to my office to review some hospital records I got from Engdahl-you'll
probably need three or four hours."

"Hospital records?" Diana asked.

"Mass General.  Looks like Hutchins was admitted there for a suicide
attempt this past summer.  You knew that, right?"

:,All too well."

"That's what I thought.  Anyway, Engdahl seems to think the records
contain proof positive of your incompetence, but I figure we can use
them to show how sick Hutchins really was."

Diana agreed to check her schedule and hung up the phone.  Then she sat
back down at the kitchen table where she and Craig had been pretending
to eat a late lunch, but had, in actuality, been moving mounds of
reheated linguine marinara in circles on their plates.  Diana repeated
Valerie's words, although Craig had caught the gist from listening to
her side of the conversation.

"So she's still optimistic?" Craig asked.

Diana picked up her fork and twisted some pasta around it, carefully
soaking up as much sauce as she could.  Then she just as carefully
pushed it all from her fork and to the other side of her plate.  "I
guess."

"If she's still optimistic," Craig said, "then we should try too." He
put a large scoop of linguine in his mouth and looked at her
thoughtfully as he chewed.  "Figure it this way, if you can convince the
supposed 'wronged husband,' you can convince anybody."

Diana went ice-cold.  She knew Craig meant for her to be consoled, but
the words "wronged husband" and the calmness of his tone terrified her
more than any angry outburst could have.

"If I stand by you," he said, "everyone will know that it can't possibly
be true-and then they'll all go away and leave us alone."

Diana played with her linguine.  If only it was as simple as Craig made
it sound.  If only he believed what he was saying.  If only she believed
it.  As she lifted the fork to her mouth, the telephone rang.  She
looked at Craig and shook her head; he jumped up to get it.

It was their friend Lisa.  "Yeah," Craig said, "the lawyer's pretty sure
we've got a good case.  Invasion of privacy." He smiled at Diana and
rolled his eyes.  "I don't know about sexual harassment.  It seems like
a long shot when there's no proof the Inquirer wouldn't have done the
same thing to a male psychologist.  But Valerie Goldman's the-" He
listened for a moment.  "She's doing okay, but she's not really up to
talking to anyone now." He nodded.  "I'll tell her," he said and hung up
the phone.

Craig told Diana that Lisa sent her love and resumed eating his lunch.

"Do you think I should call that reporter at the Globe?" Diana asked
after a while.  "To get out my side of the story?"

Craig shook his head.  "Forget about the press-let them have their
little fun.  Then let it die down."

"But-"

"No," Craig interrupted.  "You start trying to refute your own words and
you're just begging for trouble.  It'll prolong the whole thing and turn
this into a city wide Globe-Inquirer blow it up into an even bigger
circus than it already is." He took another bite of pasta.  "Better to
concentrate on the things you can do that'll help.  Like getting all
those papers on your desk in order for Valerie.  Like getting people to
testify for you."

The telephone rang again and Craig sighed.  "Your turn," he said.

"Let the machine get it."

But Craig had never been one to -let a ringing phone go unanswered.
After a few rings, he stood up and grabbed it. This time it was his
brother Paul's wife.  "We're hanging in, Martha," he said, looking over
at Diana and raising his eyebrows.  "It's nice of you to call." Martha
was not the person they would have expected to come through for them in
a crisis.

Diana shrugged and mouthed the words, "Maybe she's not as selfish as we
think."

"I took the afternoon off to be with Diana," Craig explained.  "We're
just having lunch." As he listened to Martha, his eyes hardened and his
chin jutted forward. "No," he said, "I don't think that at all.  My last
name isn't Marcus, and neither is Paul's-I doubt either one of us has
anything to be concerned about.  Now I've got to go.  Tell Paul I'll
talk to him later." He hung up the phone without saying good-bye and sat
back down at the table.

"She's worried about the effect of this on Paul's reputation?" Diana
asked, surprised, but not surprised, at her sister-in-law's
self-centeredness.

Craig nodded as he twisted a huge wad of linguine around his fork.

"See?" Diana said.  "I have to call the Globe.  I have to try to clear
myself-for all of our sakes."

"You don't have to do anything because of that idiot Martha," Craig
snapped.

"But if I don't explain about the journal, if I just let it stand the
way it is in the Inquirer, it's as if I'm admitting that what I wrote
really happened." Diana stood and dropped her full plate in the sink.
Then she walked over to the window and looked out at the shadowed alley.
The gathering clouds of the morning had fulfilled their promise.  It was
raining.  When the phone rang for the third time, Diana didn't turn
around.  "I'm not here."

"Oh, hi Lionel," Craig said with false joviality in his voice.  "We're
doing pretty well, thanks.  Just having a little lunch."

Diana closed her eyes as Craig listened to his boss, her stomach
squeezing.  How could she have been so stupid? What had she done to them
all?

"That's really thoughtful of you-but it's not necessary. Diana's got a
great lawyer and we're sure this whole thing'll blow over in a day or
two." Craig paused.  "No, no, really I'm sure.  I'll be in in the
morning." He paused again. "Okay, right, I'll call.  But expect me at
the usual time."

Diana turned as Craig dropped into his chair.  This time he didn't
bother to feign interest in his linguine.  "He offered me the rest of
the week off.  'Take a few personal days,' he said.  'We'll cover it out
of overhead."

" Craig shook his head.  "That'd be four days counting today.  Lionel
Lunt's never covered four personal hours out of overhead without someone
holding a gun to his head." Craig looked up at Diana and smiled
ruefully.  "Sorry," he said.  "Bad choice of words."

She shrugged.  "I guess that clinches it.  I'm calling Risa Getty."

"Face the facts here, Diana," Craig said, pulling at his ear and staring
over her shoulder.  "It's going to be tough to refute that journal.  You
have to admit that you wrote those things, and once you do .  .  ."

Diana didn't say anything.  She watched Craig, hoping that she was
imagining the anger she heard building under his words.

"Damn it!" he yelled, pounding his fist on the table.

Diana jumped at the sound.  "Craig, don't-"

"Damn that Hutchins!" he exploded.  Then, in a single forceful motion,
he stood, picked up his plate, and threw it hard against the wall.  To
Diana's surprise, it didn't break. It clattered to the floor, turned a
few revolutions, and then came to rest facedown in a puddle of red sauce
and linguine noodles.  "Damn him!"

"Stop it, Craig," Diana cried, rushing to him and trying to wrap her
arms around him.  "Stop it."

He pushed her away and began to pace the room.  "The guy's dead! The
fucking guy's dead and he's ruining our lives!" He grabbed Diana by the
shoulders.  "When will it end? When we're broke and divorced and the
stress has made you lose this baby too?"

Diana shook her head.  "Don't," she whispered.  "Don't even say those
things."

Craig dropped his affns and glared at her.  "I'm suffocating," he said.
"I've got to get out of here."

"Craig," she began, reaching out toward him.

He held up his hands.  "I'm not mad at you-I've just got to get some
fresh air." He turned before she could say any more and slammed out the
door.

Diana stared past the place where Craig had been, through the window,
into the murky grayness of the alley.  Sheets of rain cut diagonally
into the brick wall and bounced off the railings of the fire escape. She
closed the blinds. ON WEDNESDAY DIANA OBEDIENTLY FOLLOWED VALerie and
Craig's advice.  From the time she awoke at five A.M., to the time she
fell into a dead sleep at eleven P.M., she ignored the media, marshaled
her colleagues, started compiling her "Harvard tenure" resume, and
searched the Psychological literature for research supporting Valerie's
contention that borderlines were untreatable.  She even had a telephone
appointment with the one patient who hadn't canceled that week: a man so
agoraphobic that not only was he unable to leave his apartment, but he
couldn't read newspapers or watch television either.

But on Thursday morning, when Gail's voice, furious and righteous,
boomed over the phone lines ordering Diana to sue the bastards at the
Inquirer for defamation of character, Diana knew that one day of
obedience was all there was going to be.  Pulling the brim of her hat
low on her forehead, she slipped into the 7-Eleven, dropped her money on
the counter, and hurried from the store with both the Inquirer and the
Globe under her arm.

When she got home, there was a message on her machine from her friend
Alan Martinson, the psychologist to whom she had referred James after
she had terminated with him.

"I'm on my way out for the day," Alan's message said, "but after seeing
the Inquirer, I had to call and apologize to you.  The damn reporter
twisted everything I told her. She left things out and she purposely
used my words out of context-I'm writing a letter of complaint first
thing tomorrow." There was a long pause on the tape, and Diana opened
the Inquirer with trembling fingers.  TWO SHRINKS CONFIRM SEX DOC'S
ABUSE, the headline asserted.  She closed her eyes against the pain of
the words, but the thick letters blazed red against her eyelids.  Would
this never end?

"She bamboozled me, Diana," Alan's voice continued. "I'm sorry.  She got
me to tell her-I'm still not exactly sure how-that Hutchins said he was
having sex with you. But as soon as I realized what I said, I explained
how I didn't believe him that borderlines make up things like that all
the time.  I also told her that when I asked Hutchins if he'd give me
permission to file a sexual abuse complaint against you, he refused."
Alan's sigh was audible on the tape.  "Unfortunately the bitch chose not
to print that part. I can't tell you how sorry I am, Di.  Hang in there,
kid.  I'll call you this evening."

Diana quickly flipped through her Rolodex and dialed Alan's number; when
his answering machine clicked on, she hung up the phone and began
reading the paper.  "Who the hell is this Pumphrey?" she called into the
empty room as her eyes scanned the story.  Then she remembered: John
Pumphrey was the young resident on call at Mass General in July when
James was admitted for his Seconal over- dose.  Diana vaguely recalled
serious dark eyes surrounded by smooth, sallow skin.  "He's just a kid!"
she yelled as she read.  "He doesn't know anything!" But kid or no kid,
Pumphrey had informed the Inquirer that James had told him he wanted to
die because his therapist was breaking off their affair; the Inquirer
had printed Pumphrey's words as if they were fact, and Alan Martinson
was quoted as the second "confirming shrink."

When she finished reading the article in the Inquirer, Diana snapped the
paper closed and turned to the Globe; the only mention of her was a
small piece in the Metro/Region section noting Judge Hershey's decision
not to allow the journal into evidence at the trial.  She threw the
Inquirer into the trash.  Trash.  It was irresponsible, unsubstantiated
trash.  Anyone reading it would know that.

She began pacing the small office.  Then she stopped, staring at the
newspaper sticking out of the wastebasket. How would they know it was
trash? If anything, this corroborated the journal entries that had been
printed on Tuesday.  The only thing people reading the Inquirer would
think was that she had had sex with James Hutchins.  She reached for the
telephone and dialed Craig's office.

"I know we decided I should stay away from the press," she said as soon
as he answered, "but now I can't." After describing the contents of the
article, Diana told him that talking with Risa Getty was the only way
she could see to prove her innocence.  "Not responding is tantamount to
a declaration of guilt."

Craig was silent for a moment.  "I thought Valerie said you should
concentrate on getting the trial materials together."

"This won't take that long," Diana said.

His silence lasted even longer this time.

"I can't just sit here and let my name be dragged through the mud," she
finally said.

"If you start fighting the Inquirer you're going to see a whole lot more
mud." Craig's voice was flat, as if he was too deflated to care.

"But what do you think?" Diana persisted.  "Should I contact her?"

"It's your call, Diana.  Frankly, I don't know what to tell you," Craig
said, then he sighed.

There was something in his wording, maybe in his sighing.

Craig never sighed-that made Diana's blood turn to ice. "Is something
wrong?" she asked.

"No," he answered quickly, then sighed again.

"What?" Diana demanded.

"Lionel took me off the Central Artery project."

For a moment Diana forgot her own concerns.  "But that's been your
project from day one," she protested.  "You made all the contacts.  The
whole concept was your idea."

"Lionel said he was sorry, but it was an 'upper management call."

" Craig's voice was bitter.  "Told me the competition is so tight that
he didn't want the slightest hint of wrongdoing."

"Wrongdoing?" Diana repeated. "He's giving me the Nashville project."

Diana closed her eyes for a moment, the pain gouging deep through her
gut.  "Out of town."

"You might say Tennessee's out of town."

Diana ran her fingers through her hair.  "Jesus, we don't even have the
same last name."

Craig didn't say anything.

"What about Keith or Will?" Diana demanded, her pain turning to fury.
"Can't you get them to talk to Lionel? You've worked with them
forever-they're your friends."

"Can't even get them to talk to me.  Whenever I walk into a room the
conversation stops."

"Oh," she whispered.  "I'm so sorry."

"I'm sorry too, hon.  I know you don't need this." He paused for a
moment, then added, "Now that I think about it, .  you might as well
call that woman at the Globe.  At this point, what've we got to lose?"

"It's a pack of lies and I need you to help me prove it," Diana told
Risa Getty when she reached her at the paper. "My husband and I can't
live like this-and I won't."

Not having seen the Inquirer, Risa asked Diana to slow down and explain.
"It seems odd this Dr.  Pumphrey would disclose that kind of
information," she said after Diana had described the article.  "Doesn't
doctor-patient privilege still hold after death?"

Diana hesitated, surprised.  that she hadn't thought of Risa's point. "I
think my lawyer said all of James's hospital records were
subpoenaed-would that make it okay for Pumphrey to talk?"

"Maybe," Risa said.  "But I would still think he'd need permission from
the family."

"Jill," Diana muttered.  Jill was behind the whole thing; Diana was sure
of it.  She saw Jill sitting comfortably in her living room, her voice
chatting and friendly.  Oh no, you don't understand, do you? Jill had
said with an amused smile on her face.  You see, you are responsible for
James's death.

"Even so," Risa was saying, "I thought there was more of a brotherhood
between doctors.  You know, that you folks protected each other."

"There was some comment in the article about how he had once had a
patient 'ruined by psychologists like her,"' Diana said, her voice
coated with disgust.  "He's a psychiatrist."

"And psychologists and psychiatrists aren't in the same brotherhood?"

"Alan Martinson called to apologize," Diana said, leaving Risa's
question unanswered.  "He said the Inquirer reporter twisted everything
he told her.  That what she wrote was misleading and that she had quoted
him out of context."

"And you want me to talk to him?" Risa asked slowly.

"To him.  To me.  To a whole bunch of other people who'll tell it from
my side." Diana paused, her anger boiling as she thought of the things
the Inquirer had printed-and not printed.  Of what this was doing to
Craig. And to her.  "According to Alan, the reporter bamboozled him into
admitting James said he was having sex with me." Risa whistled.  "Pretty
slick."

" 'Bitch' is the word Alan used.  He's going to complain. He said she
omitted his clarifying remarks."

"Like what?"

"Like how he tested James by asking him if he'd give his permission for
a sexual abuse complaint to be filed and James refused.  How
borderlines-"

"I don't understand," Risa interrupted.  "What do you mean 'tested' him?
Does a patient have to give permission before a complaint can be filed
against a doctor?"

"If the complaint comes from him, he does," Diana said. "And I wouldn't
doubt, if we checked with Pumphrey, we'd find Pumphrey asked James the
same question-and that James refused to let him file too." Diana wanted
to slam her fist into the desk and scream.  Instead she swallowed her
pride.  "I need your help."

"I'd be one hell of an idiot if I didn't jump at this interview," Risa
said, still speaking slowly.  "But I've got to let you know up front, I
can't just play it from your side.  I'll be more than happy to give you
an opportunity to tell your story.  But my job's to be objective-not to
vindicate you."

"Objectivity is all I ask."

Risa was good to her word, and the next few days were a whirlwind of
dueling experts in the media.  Diana and Craig rode the peaks and the
troughs of the resultant elation and disappointment as well as they
could.  He went to work and pretended that everything was fine while she
maintained the facade of in-control righteousness: giving interviews;
coaching allies; working with Valerie.

Diana had trouble sleeping and was exhausted all the time.  Craig was
irritable.  He complained that there were no English muffins in the
freezer.  He stared at a spot behind her shoulder when he spoke to her.
And he turned from her in bed, claiming that he "just wasn't feeling
affectionate."

Although Diana was worried about Craig, she had to focus her energy on
John Pumphrey and the Inquirer and some idiot the reporters kept
quoting-someone calling himself Benjamin J.  Talcott, M.D., borderline
personality disorder expert-although neither Diana nor any of her
colleagues had ever heard of the man.  Valerie said that, although she
had initially advised against it, the media right was actually helping
her prepare for court.  She claimed the reporters were doing half of her
job for her: highlighting the strong and weak witnesses; finding holes
in each side of the case.

But whether they were helping Valerie or not, it was clear the
journalists were having a field day-and that a lot of papers were being
sold.  Risa quoted Brad Harris in the Globe as explaining that
borderline patients were more likely than those with other mental
illnesses to falsely accuse their therapists of abuse.  Then she added
that Benjamin J.  Talcott, M.D., borderline personality disorder expert,
had countered by claiming false accusations of sexual abuse were
actually quite rare.

Marc Silverman, one of the members of Diana's peer group, stated that a
therapist who was having an affair with a patient was unlikely to
present that patient's case at supervision, as Diana had done.  And he
declared it even more unlikely that an abusive doctor would solicit
advice from a Harvard expert on a sticky countertransference issue with
said patient, as Diana had also done.  But then Benjamin J.  Talcott,
M.D., borderline personality disorder expert, suggested that Diana
discussed James's case with her colleagues just to cover herself in the
event that James made their affair public.

Risa did determine that John Pumphrey had indeed received permission
from Jill to make James's medical records public.  The man was
interviewed ad nauseamand his remarks were invariably in opposition to
Diana's. He said he had found James exceedingly normal, even likable,
noting that James had a strong self-image, had denied ever using drugs,
and had a long history of goaloriented behavior.  He stated that James's
clinical picture clearly indicated that he was suffering from a
"reactive depression, perhaps complicated by a mild affective
instability'!-not the -severe personality disorder Diana had diagnosed.

Never did Pumphrey mention that he had spent a total of three days with
James-versus Diana's three years.

Although Diana was unable to get Adrian Arnold to speak to the press,
she was able to get more than half a dozen other experts to refute
Pumphrey.  Gail was a particularly effective spokeswoman, asking why the
last three cases of sexual abuse against therapists filed in Middlesex
District Court had been almost completely ignored by the Boston media.
Could it be because the therapists in those cases had been male and
their patients female? she demanded.

The battle raged, filling the front pages of both Boston newspapers, as
well as receiving national attention and debate.  But no matter how hard
Diana worked, no matter how many authorities she found or studies she
cited, someone always came forward to refute her experts or data and to
erase her advantage.  At the end of every day, after all the words had
been,read and written and spoken, it was invariably a stalemate.

A co-worker at Fidelity stated that James was charming, hardworking and
dependable.

A childhood friend reported that as teenagers, he and James drank
heavily, smoked marijuana, and used cocaine.

The Inquirer reported that Diana was not really a faculty member at
Ticknor, only an adjunct, implying that she had misrepresented her
credentials.

When pressed by Risa, Pumphrey admitted that James had refused him
permission to file a sexual abuse complaint against Diana.

A minister in James's hometown of Norwich, Connecticut, said the
Hutchins family had always been well-respected churchgoers, and that
James had been a happy child, particularly close to his sister, Jill.

When Adrian Arnold claimed prior commitments, Brad Harris went on the
Channel 5 News to discuss borderline personality disorder.  He reported
that many therapists refused to work with these patients out of fear of
just such a situation as Diana was facing.  And he managed to squeeze in
a couple of statements about Diana's uncompromising dedication to her
patients and the promising preliminary findings of her research.

And in a journalistic coup, the Providence Journal discovered that when
Diana had been an undergraduate at Brown, she had amassed five unpaid
parking tickets more than the number the university automatically
excused-and the pursar's office had had to threaten to withhold her
diploma to get her to pay up.

By Sunday the story had slipped from the headlines to the inner pages,
the repetitive arguments and lack of clear villain or victor obviously
boring the public.  Diana's disappointment with the ineffectiveness of
her campaign was somewhat mitigated by her relief at finally becoming a
bore.

"Waste of time," Craig muttered as he turned the pages of the Sunday
Globe, breaking the silence of their glum brunch.  "Just stirred
everything up."

"I had to do something," Diana said, hearing the whine in her voice.

Craig raised his eyes from his bagel and looked at her directly for the
first time in days.  He didn't say anything, but his thoughts were
clear.  Haven't you done enough? Diana read in his eyes.

Pouring herself another cup of coffee, Diana left Craig with the
newspaper and went down to her office.  Craig was right: She had been
wasting valuable time-three days to be exact-in a vain attempt to
maintain some idiotic status in the minds of people she didn't know.
Wasting her time battling Jill in the media-instead of in court where it
mattered.  Although Valerie was increasingly optimistic about the trial,
she kept reminding Diana she needed her resume, the support statements,
the literature review, and her treatment notes organized as soon as
possible.

As the resume and support statements had practically generated
themselves out of the media battle of the last days, Diana's priorities
were to search the psychologist literature for research supporting
Valerie's "impossible borderline" prong and to organize James's records
under the "self-mutilation" and "treatment plan" prongs.  Picking up the
thick pile of manila folders containing her notes on James, Diana paused
a moment to moment their loss as evidence.  Then, reminding herself to
keep an eye out for Ethan's elusive "something," she turned to the task
at hand. She had skimmed through the notes last week and marked segments
that might be useful to Valerie.  Now it was time to carefully
scrutinize every word.  And there were many.

She had seen James for almost three years, on an average of twice a
week, resulting in over three hundred pages of individual session notes.
He had also been part of her borderline disorder group for almost as
long; her group notes were not as detailed, but they were voluminous,
and references to James would be more difficult to ferret from her
general comments.  Roughly another three hundred pages.

Intakes.  Histories.  Treatment and discharge summaries. Consult
reports.  Copies of hospital forms from his suicide attempt.  Lab slips
for blood work monitoring his medication.  A couple of pictures James
had given her: one of him clowning at the beach with friends and the
other of him and Ethan standing in front of Ken's Pub in Cambridge, arms
thrown over each other's shoulders, grinning their bad-boy smiles for
the camera.  Postcards.  Letters.  The crushed black orchid he sent
after she had terminated with him.

This was going to be both long and painful.  Pulling the individual
session files from the stack, Diana ordered herself to focus.  But from
the very first page, she found herself distracted, unable to keep from
getting lost in James.  Every sentence she read, every word, brought him
back.  James, lost and confused and hiding behind his repressed memories
the first year.  James, gaining strength and confidence during the
second year.  James, losing it completely at the end.

She forced herself to jot down notes and make piles for Valerie.  But
before long, her mind strayed once again.  It hadn't just been James's
good looks or winsome chance that had won her over, as Gail often
teased.  Diana had known enough to see through the perfect manners and
flattery.  "I know this is how you've charmed your way through life,"
she told him in response to his comment that she was the best therapist
he had ever had, that she was "right on target," that she saw things
about him no one else had ever even glimpsed.  "You don't need to do
that here," she had said.

It wasn't what showed on the outside that had gripped her, it was what
was inside: James's potential, his spirit, his energy, his health,
hiding beneath the shell he had built to protect himself.  It was his
love of literature, the voracious way he devoured Homer and Tolstoy as
well as Anne Tyler and Agatha Christie.  It was how he had painted his
downstairs neighbor's living room because Mr. Berger was in a wheelchair
and the landlord refused to pay for it.  It was the software program he
designed at Fidelity that had a better performance record predicting
stock prices than Magellan, Fidelity's own superstar fund.  It was that
perfectly sane, perhaps even brilliant, James who had haunted Diana, who
kept her awake at night, who roamed her dreams.  It was that bruised,
beautiful boy she had longed to unearth, to bring back to life.  "I feel
like I'm floating alone in space," he told her early in his treatment.
"Lost in ghostly solitude."

Diana squeezed her eyes closed to hold back both the tears and the
raging guilt.  She had brought him so far, only to fail him.  He had
been doing so well after he remembered what Hank Hutchins had done to
him.  But about six months after his breakthrough, she had suffered an
ectopic pregnancy.  And nothing between them was ever the same after
that.

Guilt twisted through Diana and she dropped all pretense of reading her
notes.  She swiveled her chair and looked out the window.  It had been a
cold, bright day, not all that different from this day.  But it had been
mid-winter; it would be two years this coming February.  The twelfth of
February, to be exact.

James had been edgy and excited, alternately wringing his hands and
laughing as he told her about his fantasies of killing Uncle Hank.  "I
dreamed last night I was in a castle. A dark, brooding castle.  in a
room with a pointed ceiling so tall I couldn't see to the top.  I had
him on a rack-a metal rack like ones you see in those old horror movies.
I had strapped down his wrists and his ankles with thick leather thongs
and he kept begging me to release him.

"But I just laughed in his ugly face," James said, his eyes shining with
both fear and excitement.  "Then I yanked on a huge lever mounted in the
cement wall behind me and the rack began to pull apart.  It pulled his
arms one way and his legs another.  He screamed and screamed and then he
exploded into a million bloody pieces." James looked up at her with a
guilty smile.  "Am I a terrible person?" he asked.

When Diana assured him that he was not, that his anger was a normal-and
positive-response, he began talking about how thrilled his boss was with
the performance of his software program.  "I feel like a great albatross
has been lifted.  I'm going to be able to do it now.  I really am."
James grinned at her, his deep blue-almost purple-eyes locked on hers.
"Because of you," he said softly.  "All because of YOU."

The intensity of James's stare sent small ripples of desire through
Diana.  She looked down at her desk.  The guy was just too damn good
looking.  More than good-looking.  He was steeped in sex appeal-he
reeked of it.  Only an ice woman could withstand this kind of idolatry
from that kind of face.  She twisted her wedding ring and looked at a
spot above James's head, hoping the flush that she felt rising to her
face was not visible.  "I'm glad if you think I've been of some
benefit," she said stiffly.

James grinned at her.  "The only reason I have this job is because of
you.  Because of the help you gave me." c "It's because of you," she
corrected.  But before she could continue, a pain cut through her belly
and jackknifed her forward in her chair.  A moan escaped her lips as she
looked down and saw blood spreading across her lap.

James was beside her in seconds.  She looked up at him, the agony in her
eyes and the growing circle of blood on the chair communicating
everything he needed to know. Before she could say a word, he grabbed
her coat from the hook outside the door and wrapped it around her.  He
lifted her in his arms as easily and as gently as if she were a child.
"Don't worry, everything's under control," he said as he carried her
outside, kicking the door closed with his foot.  "Beth Israel's the
closest."

The pain was so great that Diana couldn't speak.  Tears squeezed from
her eyes as she hunched into a fetal position in the front seat of his
new Porsche, blood spreading over the leather upholstery.  Her baby. Her
baby was flowing from her and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

James kept up a soothing prattle as he sped to the hospital.  "You're
going to be fine," he said.  "You're going to be fine.  I'd never let
anything happen to you." Steering with one hand, he gently pressed her
lower back with the other, as if he had some instinctual sense of the
source of her pain.  "Fine, fine," he kept repeating.  "You're going to
be fine."

"Sony," she managed to whisper.  "Blood.  Car." Something was very
wrong.  This hurt far too much to be a normal miscarriage.  Something
else was happening.  Something very bad.

"We're going to one of the finest hospitals in the world,"

he said as if reading her thoughts.  He applied more pressure to her
back, rubbing in a soothing circular motion.  "In the world," he
repeated.

He swerved into the emergency entrance and jumped from the car almost
before it stopped.  "Quick! Quick!" he yelled as he ran toward the door,
carrying her in his arms. "She's bleeding.  She's bleeding badly"'

The rest had always been pretty much of a blur to Diana. Even at the
time, her daze of pain and fear had kept her in a fuguelike state,
dissociated from the orderlies and the stretchers and the lights and the
noise, until finally some kind of rubbery mask turned the world into
sweet blackness.  But through her fog, she had been keenly aware of two
warm, protective hands cupping hers.  And she could still hear that
velvety voice.  "They're going to take good care of you here," James
kept repeating.  "You're going to be just fine."

DIANA SPENT THE NEXT THREE DAYS READING AND organizing and rereading
every word she had on James Charles Hutchins.  The whole process was
even longer and more painful than she had anticipated, an emotional
roller coaster that threw her from the depths of sorrow to the heights
of rage, and just about every feeling in between.

But finally, she was finished.  She called Valerie to tell her that she
had everything she needed-including a number of recent studies
concluding that recovery from borderline personality disorder was a long
shot, at best.  They agreed that Diana would bring the documents over
the next morning and go through the Mass General records from James's
July suicide attempt at the same time.

Diana was happy to have the job behind her and relieved that she could
finally get out of her house and on to some thing beyond her own files.
But the next morning when she stopped into her office to pick up the
materials for Valerie, she noticed the light blinking on her answering
machine.

And when she heard the voice on the tape; she knew that her hours with
James's files weren't over yet.

It was Ethan Kruse, and he had left two messages.  The first was an
unintelligible jumble, something about not being at the Cape anymore,
followed by some gibberish about his feet.  But the second message was
distinct and straightforward.  "It's in the records," he said clearly,
although he giggled between sentences.  "The records."

Still standing at the side of her desk, Diana shook her head as she
replayed the messages for the third time.  There was no "it" in the
records.  She had been through every one at least twice-many of them
three or four times.  There was nothing in them.  And there were no more
records to search. For about the tenth time in the past couple of weeks,
she dialed Ethan's number.

As she listened to its empty, endless ringing, Diana stared at the
bookshelves across from her, waves of exhaustion and anger washing over
her.  It was as if Ethan's message had been some kind of catalyst,
releasing the hostility that she had been trying to suppress.  For
suddenly she was mad at everything: at the world, at the media, at
James, at Jill, at Craig's boss Lionel, even at her mother, who kept
calling with homilies about being glad she had her health.  She was mad
at her sister-in-law Martha, who had telephoned Craig at work to
complain of the embarrassment this was causing his brother Paul.  She
was mad at the sickos who left obscene messages on her machine, and she
was mad at the strangers who wrote her touching letters of support.  And
right now, she was especially mad at Ethan.  She slammed the phone down.

Diana had to admit to herself that she had never liked Ethan: his lack
of remorse after his drunk-driving accident, his cruelty to anyone
weaker than he, his uncanny ability to hone in on that weakness, his
powerful-and negative influence on James.

And now this.  If Ethan was so hell-bent on helping her out of this
mess, then why didn't he just tell her what she should be looking for?
Why didn't he call when she was home? Or better yet, why didn't he just
show up with the proof? Because Ethan was amusing himself with some kind
of sick joke, Diana thought, not for the first time.  Toying with her,
punishing her for some slight of which she was unaware or had never
committed.  James had once told her he was afraid of Ethan.  Mortally
afraid.

Diana sat down at her desk and tapped her pen on the Pile of papers she
had compiled for Valerie.  Maybe the ectopic pregnancy hadn't been the
beginning of James's slide, she thought.  Maybe it had been Ethan.  She
had lost the baby in February, and it really wasn't until that summer
that James had started to slip.  She opened a file and quickly found the
notation she was looking for: James had met Ethan in May.

About a year and a half before his death, James went to a party where
there was far too much high-quality cocaine and, as he told Diana, he
had had far too little willpower. He and Ethan met around the coke
mirror and stayed up all night doing lines and "relating." Diana checked
her notes again.  It was subtle but clear, now that she knew what she
was looking for.  After becoming friends with Ethan, James had started
to deteriorate.  Before Ethan, James had stopped using drugs completely;
after Ethan, his drug use quickly escalated to dangerous levels.  And as
James and Ethan spent more days at White Horse Beach and more evenings
partying, James's attitude toward work became more laissez faire; he
complained that his boss was "leaning on him" too hard, and in July he
confessed to Diana that he had been calling in sick a lot.  "I never
sleep at night," he told her.  "Ethan says you draw strength from being
awake while the world rests." When Diana pointed out that he didn't seem
to be getting the strength he needed, James had just hung his head. "I'm
sorry," he whispered.  "I just don't know any other way to be." Not long
after that, James had been picked up by the police, dazed and wandering
along the Harvard Bridge at three o'clock in the morning.

Although James and Ethan's relationship was obviously destructive,
neither seemed able to stay away from the other.  Diana immediately saw
what Ethan got from James.  Money-but she had always been confused as to
James's payoff.  One thing she knew for certain: James, or any- one
suffering from a borderline personality disorder, would never get into a
relationship without some clear advantage accruing to him.  Maybe it was
just for companionship, she thought.  But she doubted it.

They fought all the time.  Violent fights.  One even landed them both in
the emergency room.  Diana would never forget that winter afternoon when
Ethan had shown up for group wearing James's favorite leather jacket,
mimicking James's accent and gestures.  When James objected, Ethan
punched him in the stomach and they had both been bloody and bruised,
and her office in complete disarray, before they finally fought
themselves out.  It had been horrible, brutal, full of hate.  Bruce had
fainted.

Diana told both James and Ethan they would not be allowed back until
they were willing to contract with the group that there would be no more
violent outbursts.  James agreed but Ethan stormed from her office and
disappeared for a couple of months. James had improved after that until
Ethan returned.

Diana flipped through the folders, looking for her notes from that
period to verify her memories.  "Don't coddle James so much," she had
written to herself.  "Let him feel some of the consequences.  Don't
allow your narcissism to maintain his pathology: Watch it." Diana smiled
sheepishly.  Even then she had known that James's idolatry had made her
feel too powerful for her own good.  That it wasn't healthy for either
of them.  That it had the potential to lead her over the line.

She frowned as she reread her words.  Here she was doing it all over
again: acting like a mother who was blind to the guilt of her child, who
always blamed "that wild crowd he runs with." Ethan might be jerking her
around with his messages, but what had happened to James wasn't Ethan's
fault.  And it wasn't her fault either.  It was James's fault. James had
done it.  James was responsible for his own behavior.

Diana jumped from her chair and began to pace back and forth between the
bookshelves, thinking about one of the last times she had seen James
alive.  It had been this past August, a few weeks after she had
terminated with him-just after he had been released from the hosPital
for his Seconal suicide attempt.  Coming home from a peer supervisory
meeting, she had actually been worrying about whether James felt he had
been abandoned yet again, and wishing she could help him through the
difficult transition.  She had been distracted as she pulled the jeep
into the alley and was halfway to the door when he jumped out from
behind the garage cans.

"You're still my doctor!" he had screamed at her, waving his arms.  Then
he had grabbed her shoulders, almost lifting her off the ground, shaking
her.  "You know you love me. You know it's my baby you're carrying!
Mine!"

Somehow, although she never remembered quite how, Diana had managed to
free herself.  Terrified, she had rushed into the house and called the
police.

But James was long gone by the time they arrived.

The view from the conference room of Bogdanow, Federgreen was
spectacular.  It was on the second floor of a Back Bay town house, a
small slice of a once-grand ballroom belonging to a once-grand Boston
family.  Floor-to-ceiling bay windows overlooked the Public Gardens.
Even at this time of year, the strollers crisscrossing the park and
walking along the edge of the lagoon were an entrancing sight.  Diana's
eyes lingered on a large oak; its once emerald leaves, now a rusty
brown, clung tenaciously to its limbs. She and James had shared a
sandwich sheltered from the summer sun by that oak's spreading green
canopy.

But Diana had no time for irrelevant memories or entrancing sights.  She
turned her back to the windows and reached for the files Valerie had
given her, Valerie's words still in her ears.  "I'm feeling pretty
confident about our side of the case, but these medical records look bad
to me," Valerie had said as she led Diana to the conference room.
"They're just what Engdahl ordered: They read like Hutchins wasn't that
crazy.  This doctor makes the suicide attempt sound like some minor
mental aberration-like being depressed after a divorce.  Or having
insomnia.  Is that possible?"

"It's not possible." Diana shook her head.  "But it appears to be Dr.
Pumphrey's conclusion."

"Look, the guy tried to commit suicide-a couple of times-and he had been
in therapy for years." Valerie handed Diana the medical records.  "And
this attempt was only last July, right? So he succeeded in killing
himself less than three months later-that doesn't sound too healthy to
me."

Diana nodded and glanced down at the file.

"See what you can find in there to buttress our contention that he was
one sick cookie: errors, omissions, ways we can undermine the
credibility of the other doctors anything and everything.  I can't
believe it'll be all that difficult."

"It's so amazing to see this here," Diana said, flipping through the
pages.  "Hospitals treat medical records like gold locked in Fort Knox."

"Limited discovery." When Valerie noticed Diana's confused expression,
she tapped the top file with the tip of her manicured finger.
"Production of documents because of the speedy trial.  Judge Hershey
ruled that in order to proceed in such a short time frame, both Engdahl
and I had to get copies of all evidentiary documents to each other
immediately.  Pumphrey's notes and Hutchins's medical records are part
of Engdahl's case-I have to give him copies of everything you just gave
me."

"You mean one side gets to see everything the other side's going to use
in court?" Diana was amazed.

"That's the law," Valerie said as she walked to the door. "I'll check
back with you later-"

Flipping through the hospital files, Diana was overwhelmed with remorse.
She had terminated with James on July 25; he had swallowed an entire
bottle of Seconal on July 3 1.  Pushing away her guilt, she focused on
the records.  They were even more dense and complicated than she had
expected.  Considering that James had been in the hospital for only
three days, it didn't seem possible that so much could have been written
about him. She quickly began sorting the papers into piles: intake
interview, medical evaluations and tests, a neurological assessment,
psychiatric consults, psychological test results, lab reports, daily
rotation notes.  She shook her head. Incredible.

She decided to start with the psychological information, figuring that
held the most promise.  Glancing quickly at the grandfather clock
standing at the far corner of the room, Diana bent to her task.

She was familiar with most of the test results-she had copies of the
same pages in her personal files-although a few were new to her.  She
was not surprised to discover that James had achieved an extremely high
score on the WAIS, an intelligence test, or that his mode of aggression,
measured by the Rosenzweig Picture Frustration Study, was
extrapunitive-that he projected his anger outward, toward other people.
Disappointed, she skimmed through the rest of the tests; but whether she
was searching for proof of James's illness, a discrediting bit of
evidence, or Ethan's "something," there didn't appear to be much of
anything there.

The grandfather clock chimed, and Diana jumped in her chair.  She
squinted at the clock as it chimed nine more times, guessing that it was
going to go off at least every half-hour, perhaps every fifteen minutes.
She turned to the psychiatric assessment done after James had been
stabilized in the medical unit.  Pumphrey had administered the interview
and, although he had recommended ten days of psychiatric evaluation,
Diana now understood Pumphrey's diagnosis: James had lied to him.  The
problem was proving it.

Diana was all too aware of how easily, and how well, James could lie.
She knew for a fact that Ethan was capable of reciting complete fiction
and passing a lie detector test, for his lack of a conscience-and
therefore any physical manifestations of guilt easily fooled the
machine. And although she didn't like to acknowledge too much similarity
between James and Ethan, Diana had often wondered whether James would be
an equally successful subject. Even though James had thoroughly fooled
Pumphrey, that didn't make him a psychopath.  In his defense, Pumphrey
was a new resident, completely unfamiliar with James.  And probably
equally unfamiliar with the deceptive nature of borderlines.

According to Pumphrey's notes, James had been "lucid" and "charmingly
forthcoming." Diana had to smile at the description: James at his
best-and most manipulative. James had denied any drug use, any past
suicide attempts, said he was never troubled by insomnia, had no
problems concentrating, and had just recently left a job he had held for
almost two years.  She nodded as she read Pumphrey's diagnosis: moderate
reactive depression, single episode. Unfortunately for their case, it
was a reasonable diagnosis, given the information he had.

The clock chimed again, and again Diana jumped.  She was relieved to see
that it was ten-thirty-at least the damn thing wasn't going to go off
every fifteen minutes.  She turned back to the records and then laughed
out loud. Pumphrey had done a suicidality evaluation to determine
James's chance of attempting suicide again; on the basis of the test, he
had concluded that James was low-risk. She pulled the test sheet from
the pile: Finally she had something they could use to show an error in
Pumphrey's judgment.

She pushed away the psychiatric and psychological piles and skimmed
through the rest of the reports.  Her stomach churned with frustration.
Valerie was right: These reports made James look good.  She supposed
they could use the suicidality evaluation to show how tests-and doctors
could be wrong. But she knew it was weak at best.

Diana stood up and walked into the bay.  As had happened earlier, she
was overcome with both exhaustion and a surprisingly strong anger.  She
clenched her fists and actually raised one, as if to punch it through
the mullioned panes of the window.  Stop it, she warned herself, pulling
her arm down and opening her fingers.  Now was not the time to lose it.
Perhaps she could find something that would help their case-and there
was always the remote possibility that Ethan actually was trying to help
her.

Diana sat back down at the table and reached for the intake interview.
James had overdosed on barbiturates and alcohol-Seconal and Scotch, to
be exact.  He had been brought in by ambulance, barely conscious, with a
laceration to his head, apparently from a fall down the front steps of
his building.  His blood had been analyzed, assessed for toxicity,
lethal `:/3+' levels established, and then his stomach had been pumped.  After
he was stabilized, they had run him through a battery of neurological
tests.

Just as Diana was reaching for the neurological reports, Valerie walked
into the room and asked if she had found anything.  When Diana shook her
head, Valerie sat down across from her.  "What can I help you with?" she
asked. "I've got about an hour."

"See if anything jumps out at you," Diana said as she pushed the intake
and medical piles across the table, figuring they would be easier for
Valerie to understand than the neurological.  "You know your four prongs
as well as I do."

Valerie began to read.

When the clock chimed eleven times, Diana stiffened but didn't look up.
Although she couldn't imagine finding any thing helpful in the
neurological reports, nonetheless she flipped through the poor-quality
copies; the originals had been on flimsy yellow or pink paper, and the
contrast was very bad.  She squinted at the words: a CAT scan,

an MRI, an EEG.  All showing normal brain activity.  The logical tests
had been run because James had been admitted with a head injury; there
had never been any real expectation that something was wrong.  Just
covering their butts, she thought.  Something with which she should have
been a little more concerned.

Alertness assessment: normal.  Orientation to time, space and person:
normal.  Reflex assessment: normal both knees; normal left Babinski; no
Babinski contraction of all five digits of right foot, no plantar
reflex.  See recommendation. Diana drew in her breath and read the
reflex assessment results again.  No Babinski contraction of all five
digits o right foot.

"What?" Valerie asked.  "What is it? Did you find something?"

Diana didn't say anything.  Her eyes flew to the bottom of the page
where the recommendation was recorded.  "Patient reports paralysis of
five toes on right foot due to nerve dam- age suffered in motorcycle
accident, 8/90," she read.  "Seek medical records to explore history and
extent of previous injury."

"What?" Valerie demanded.  "What?"

Stunned, Diana simply handed the paper over to Valerie.

Valerie quickly scanned the report.  "I don't get it."

Diana pointed to the recommendation, her finger shaking slightly. "James
couldn't have killed himself," she said, unable to believe she was
actually speaking the words she heard coming from her mouth.  "Or at
least not the way that we thought," she added.

"He couldn't have?" Valerie frowned and read the paragraph again.

The clock ticked in the corner, horns honked from the street, voices
called to one another in the corridor on the other side of the door, and
Valerie held the poor copy up to the light.  But Diana was alone.  She
was separate, apart. It was as if the noises and movements of the living
were happening on another plane while she existed within this unearthly
fog of incredulity.  A fog that muted sound, light, time.  A fog that
buffered her from this overwhelming new reality.

"His right big toe was paralyzed," Valerie said, her voice slow and
incredulous, as if hearing the words spoken out loud would lend them
meaning.

Diana was back on the landing of James's apartment building on Anderson
Street, looking down the narrow hallway at the still form that lay on
the stretcher, at the two feet that dangled from the edge of the sheet.
The left foot was covered with James's paint-splattered sneaker.  The
right one was bare.  There's powder burns on his foot, the policeman had
said. My guess is he pulled the trigger with his toe.

"His right toe was paralyzed," Valerie said again.  Then a huge grin
split her face, and she actually let out a whoop. "You're off the
hook-he couldn't have committed suicide!"

Diana listened to the high whine of an approaching police siren drop as
it raced passed the building, rushing to its emergency.  She said
nothing.

Valerie's smile disappeared into her more customary severe expression.
Her eyes locked onto Diana's.  "But if Hutchins didn't commit suicide. .

Diana nodded grimly.

"Then," Valerie said slowly, "he must have been murdered." .  THEN HE
MUST HAVE BEEN MURDERED.  VALERIE'S words seared like a neon stamp into
Diana's brain.  Then he must have been murdered.  Through her protective
haze, Diana could feel a fragment of dread in the center of her soul, an
apprehension that she feared would soon grow and overpower her.

Valerie leaned forward in her chair.  She raised her eyebrows slightly,
but she said nothing.

Neither did Diana.  Then he must have been murdered.

Finally, Valerie placed her hands on the table, fingers splayed, and
began to push herself from her chair.  "I'll go call Engdahl," she said.

Diana's hand flashed forward.  She grabbed Valerie's wrist before she
could stand.  "Do you have to?"

Without taking her eyes from Diana's, Valerie sat back down in her
chair.  "Why shouldn't I?"

Diana released Valerie's hand and looked down at her own.  She shook her
head.  Valerie said nothing, and Diana could almost feel the force of
the challenge in Valerie's reticence.  Although Diana didn't raise her
head, she mumbled, "They're going to say that I did it."

Valerie was silent for yet another moment.  When she finally spoke, her
words were slow and deliberate.  "Why do you think that?"

"For all the reasons I was responsible for his suicide," Diana said,
still looking at her hands.  "But now it's even more compelling." She
slowly raised her eyes and looked at Valerie.  "I've got plenty of
motive: five hundred thousand dollars' worth of it.  And .  .  ." she
paused as the potential horror of the situation struck her.  "And I
don't think I've got an alibi for that afternoon."

"Don't you think you're jumping to conclusions here?"

"But what about my journal?" Diana asked.  "What if the police decide I
did it to get rid of a difficult patient or because James and I were
having some kind of lovers' quarrel?"

"You're really stretching, Diana," Valerie said, smiling and shaking her
head.  "And if it came to it-which it won't-the rules of evidence are
different in criminal law."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that although your journal might have been admissible in a
civil suit, it would never be allowed in evidence in a criminal
proceeding.  Criminal law is much more advantageous to the defendant.
And anyway-"

"But don't you see how this looks?" Diana interrupted. "I've got motive
and opportunity."

"I can't believe this." Valerie threw her hands in the air in mock
despair.  "You've just gotten the best news you could ever get and
you're talking like some character from 'Murder, She Wrote'." She shook
her head.  "You remind me of my Grandma Rae-always looking for the cloud
in the silver lining."

"But-"

"But nothing." Valerie stabbed a fingernail at the neurological report.
"This completely exonerates you in James Hutchins's death, and Engdahl
will be forced to drop all the charges." She chortled happily.  "There's
no basis for either wrongful death or malpractice-and this . undermines
the hell out of the sexual abuse aspect."

"What does this have to do with sexual abuse?" Diana asked, although she
felt hopeful for the first time.  "Why should Jill let that go?"

"I'd guess she'd be too embarrassed not to."

"You think the press will drop it too?"

Valerie looked thoughtful for a moment.  "You know what I think?"

Diana shook her head.

"I think that the same media that has had such fun crucifying you is now
going to do a one-eighty." She nodded as if heartily agreeing with her
own words.  "Yes, I wouldn't doubt it at all.  Not at all." Valerie
began to chuckle.  "Don't you see-the sniffers are going to feel guilty.
They've backed the wrong side, and we'll make sure that it's thrown in
their faces!"

Diana leaned forward.  "We will?"

"I have a few friends in the press," Valerie said slyly. "And we've got
a hell of a defamation of character suit against the Inquirer to add to
the right-to-privacy violation."

Diana's smile was half-bitter, half-amused.  "Spoken like a true
lawyer."

Valerie stood.  "The truth is,no matter what you might want, as an
officer of the court, I'm under a legal obligation to report this
information." She lifted the neurological report and let it drift slowly
back to the table.  "Not to mention that it's part of the official court
record."

"But its importance would probably be overlooked."

Ignoring Diana's comment, Valerie picked the report up again.  "I'd just
love to take this over to Engdahl myself," she said, waving it in the
air.  Then she looked at the clock. "No time-I've got to be in court in
an hour.  I'll have to be satisfied hearing his voice and imagining what
splattered ego looks like all over his face." She pulled open the heavy
door and left the room.

Diana remained at the large table, papers scattered all over its marble
surface, listening to the happy clicking of Valerie's heels on the
hardwood floor.

The weekend following Diana's discovery passed in a whirlwind of chaotic
emotion.  One moment she soared from her public vindication, and the
next she plummeted from the suspicion and innuendo.  She was buffeted
and bloodied by the storm of media conjecture.  SEx Doc INNOCENT, the
Inquirer headline screamed in a double-edged exoneration the morning
after the suit was dismissed.  HUTCHINS MURDER INVESTIGATION OPENED,
declared the Globe.

Valerie had been right in her prediction that Jill would drop all the
charges.  With the evidence that James couldn't have committed suicide,
it was clear that the wrongful death and malpractice suits were moot,
and apparently Engdahl felt that without Diana's journal, even his
sexual abuse case was too weak to prosecute.

Unfortunately, Valerie's prophecy of the press's one-eighty wasn't quite
so accurate.  Although the Globe ran an editorial exploring the role of
the media in her persecution, comparing it to the media's mishandling of
the Carol Stuart fiasco-when Boston police had arrested a black man for
the murder of a white pregnant woman, only to discover that her husband
was guilty-much of the coverage was negative. With the lurid fascination
of a bypasser at a highway accident scene, Diana followed the talk shows
and tabloids as they debated the various possibilities of who might be
charged with murder-she, Jill, or even Ethan, who became a suspect when
the press got hold of two police reports of Ethan and James fighting in
a Cambridge bar.  Still, most people seemed to think it would be Diana
who would be charged.  Diana had wished for an end to the agony of the
civil suit; now she understood the full meaning of the old saying: "Be
careful what you wish for."

Despite the suspicion about her, which Diana felt like a binding cocoon,
friends and colleagues called to congratulate her, and Ticknor asked her
to complete the semester. Her sister-in-law Martha actually apologized
for worrying about Paul instead of Diana, and her mother was exuberant,
claiming to have never doubted for a moment that Diana would be cleared.
On Sunday afternoon, when she stopped for gas, the attendant told her he
had known all along that it wasn't her fault.  Although Craig didn't get
his Central Artery project back, his colleagues restored him to
fullmember status in their water-cooler conversations.  And he began
singing in the shower again.

Diana nodded and smiled and graciously accepted everyone's good wishes,
as well as Ticknor's offer.  But despite what looked from the outside to
be a change in fortune, Diana was wary of too much celebration.  For
until she knew she wasn't a murder suspect, it all meant nothing.

The police came first thing Monday morning, when she fortunately had no
patients scheduled.  And when the bell rang, Diana knew from the
insistent pressure who would be waiting on the other side of the door.
Her feet were heavy on the stairs.

Two unsmiling men dressed in street clothes stood on the e stoop.  They
flashed their badges simultaneously, almost as if they had been
choreographed, and asked to come in.  She ushered them up to the great
room, offered them coffee and went down to the kitchen to call Valerie.

Although Valerie didn't do criminal work, she had promised Diana that
she would sit with her through this first interview to determine if a
criminal lawyer was necessary. Valerie said she would be there within
the hour.  "Don't say a word," she directed Diana.  "Not a single word."
Diana was stunned by Valerie's final instruction: "If they want to take
you down to the station, call me back and I'll meet you there."

After canceling her ten and eleven o'clock patients, Diana dragged
herself back upstairs, straining to appear as normal and calm as she
could, trying to assure herself that there was little chance they would
arrest her. "My lawyer says she can't be here for at least an hour.
Would you prefer to wait, or to come back later?"

They preferred to wait, and Diana spent what turned into an extremely
uncomfortable hour and a half, repeating that she did not want to say
anything without her attorney present.  Neither man ever smiled, or
registered any emotion whatsoever, as they patiently asked question
after unanswered question.  Although this was clearly getting them
nowhere, neither appeared the least bit perturbed.

When Valerie finally arrived, the police obtained little more
information than they had gleaned from Diana's nonanswers.  "My client
often works alone," Valerie said in response to their request for
verification of Diana's whereabouts on the afternoon of the murder.
"It's the nature of her profession," she added, her voice haughty and
more than a little condescending.  "She often sets her machine to screen
her calls so that she can pursue her scientific investigations without
interruption." Valerie smiled and looked over at Diana for confirmation.

Diana nodded, unable to speak.  She was sure Valerie was going to anger
the detectives with her arrogance, and that the two men would soon jump
up, snap handcuffs on her wrists, and drag her off to jail.

But they did no such thing.  Instead they wrote down everything Valerie
said.  Finally, once again in unison, they flipped their notebooks shut
and stood up.  One even smiled as he told Diana to call and leave a
number where she could be reached if she was going to be away from home
for more than a day.

"Nothing," Valerie said as she flew out the door, already late for her
next meeting.  "Jack-shit," she called over her shoulder cheerfully.
"They've got jack-shit." She promised to phone Diana later in the
afternoon.

Diana spent the remainder of the morning trying to work on her research
project, but ended up spending most of her time pacing through the
house.  Murder.  She was a suspect in a murder investigation.  She could
really be arrested.  She could go to prison.  For life.  It was small
consolation that Massachusetts had no death penalty.

She had been to prison once, during a field trip for a criminology
course she had taken in graduate school.  A ",correctional facility,"
they had called it.  But no matter what name they used, it was still a
prison: a haphazard arrangement of concrete and cinderblock buildings
completely encircled by a double row of tall barricades topped by spiral
loops of barbed wire.  Lookout towers stood like castle turrets at the
four corners.  A large German shepherd had come up and nuzzled her hand
while they were waiting for the group to assemble.  As she bent to pet
the animal, its trainer told her the dog had once ripped a man's leg to
the bone.

But the inside of the prison was the worst.  Claustrophobic, windowless
cells originally planned for one inmate were crammed with two or three,
sometimes four, cots. The mattresses were thin and worn and a single
toilet stood along the back wall of each cell-most often, the toilet had
no seat.  Two stories of cells lined a large open "rec room" where a few
picnic tables and pieces of broken exercise equipment sat amid a wide
expanse of green linoleum.  It smelled of Lysol.

From the one-way window of the guardpost high above the rec room, they
had watched the prisoners loitering around the tables in their
ill-fitting uniforms.  Their shirts and pants were of a coarse,
scratchy-looking fabric dyed white, gray, orange, or red.  "Middlesex
Correctional Facility" was stenciled in large black letters on their
backs.  The sheriff giving the tour explained that the brighter the
color, the more serious the crime.  "Murderers and rapists wear red."

When the horn blew its wrenching minor-chord blast, all the inmates
slowly rose from their places at the tables, or on the floor, or leaning
against the walls, and trudged to their cells.  The horn blew again, and
the cell doors all clanged shut.

Diana shook her head and forced herself to sit down at her desk.  She
opened the thick stack of computer printouts that had been gathering
dust while she concentrated on her case for Valerie, hoping to lose
herself in the statistics she had run before James had died.  But the
numbers all swam before her eyes, and her brain refused to function.
Murder. Suspect.  Prison.

Forcing herself to concentrate on the data, Diana flipped quickly
through the pages.  Then she slowed down to scrutinize the individual
numbers, caught by the results despite her concerns.  It really was
unbelievable how well her theory was holding.  At least half of the
ANOVAs were statistically significant and her discriminant function
model was looking very promising; three variables were well over 1.0 and
significantly contributed to the amount of change in lambda.

Her data was clearly contradicting the traditional wisdom, established
by Adrian Arnold, that borderline personality disorders were caused by a
disturbed early maternal relationship.  Diana tapped the printouts with
her pencil. None of her maternal variables were showing any statistical
significance at all.  It was amazing how powerfully linked childhood
trauma was to a person's chances of developing a borderline disorder.
Regardless of age, sex, or race.  And the more chronic and horrific the
traumas, the stronger the relationship.  That sure explained Sandy.
James too.  Murder.  Suspect.  Prison.  She pushed herself up from the
chair and resumed her pacing.

When her borderline group arrived for their weekly session, Diana put
aside her statistics, happy for the distraction.  But she soon found
that neither Sandy's loneliness, nor Terri's inability to get herself to
ride the subway, nor Bruce's nightmare of being lost in a hospital with
no exit doors, could keep her from her own worries.  Murder.  Suspect.
Prison.  She forced herself to focus on Sandy's face, to look Bruce
directly in the eye, to listen to Terri with her entire body.  But the
concentration just wasn't there.

Finally the hour was over and they left.  Soon after, Valerie called.
She told Diana that her partner Mitch Calahane, the criminal lawyer to
whom she wanted to refer Diana, had gotten the "courthouse gab" on the
Hutchins case.  "They have even less than I thought," she said.  "Less
than jackshit.  Three suspects-but nothing on any of you."

"So why did the police act like they knew I was guilty?"

"Because it's their job to make people nervous," Valerie said.  "But
what's really interesting here is that it seems your old nemesis-and
co-suspect-Jill Hutchins is saving your skin."

"Jill is saving my skin?"

"Well, not on purpose," Valerie said.  "And she's saving her own as well
as that other guy's-but, either way, it seems that she destroyed all the
evidence.  And without evidence, it's just about impossible for the
prosecution to sustain its burden in a criminal suit-where burden of
proof already favors the defendant."

Valerie went on to tell Diana that after the funeral, Jill had had
James's body cremated and scattered his ashes off the coast of
Provincetown.  Jill also sold the shotgun the murder weapon-and had the
apartment thoroughly cleaned.  Then she subleased it to a couple of
college students, omitting the grisly details of what had happened to
its last occupant.

Valerie explained that at the time of the murder, no hair, no fibers, no
blood or fingerprints had been collected.  No witnesses had been
questioned or crime lab photos taken.  Although technically every death
was supposed to be considered a homicide-md every crime scene treated as
such-Jill's positive identification of the body, combined with James's
history of suicide attempts, had been more than enough for an overworked
police force to step out of the case.  "And now the trail's stone cold,"
Valerie chortled.  "Or, more accurately, there's no trail at all."

Diana exhaled the breath she wasn't aware she had been holding.  "So I'm
in the clear?"

"Well," Valerie said slowly.  "Circumstantial cases have been built and
successfully prosecuted with less physical evidence, and I would
recommend retaining Mitch.  But if pushed, I'd have to say that you're
in pretty good shape,"

"So why do I need a criminal lawyer?" Diana demanded.

"It's always best to be prepared," Valerie said in a very lawyerlike
manner.

But when Diana heard Calabane's retainer for a homicide case was fifty
thousand dollars, she shook her head. "It's impossible," she said.  "Out
of the question."

Valerie hesitated.  "It's not really a good idea to go into this alone.
And Mitch is worth every penny-he's the best."

"Why can't I just keep paying you at your hourly rate?"

"This isn't my area," Valerie protested.  "I know very little about
criminal law.  The only reason I'm even doing this is because I'm
working on your suit against the Inquirer. I'm out of my league here.
You'd be doing yourself a grave disservice-"

"But you think I could get away without him for now?" Diana interrupted.
"Given all this lack of physical evidence business?"

"I suppose so-although, as your lawyer, I would be remiss in advising
it."

"Well, there's really no choice here," Diana said with more confidence
than she felt.  "Let's leave things the way they are and see how they
play themselves out." .             DIANA REACHED UNDER HER DESK AND
RIPPED THE socks from her feet.  Then she unfastened another button on
her blouse.  Although Indian summer was not an uncommon phenomenon in
Boston, it usually hit in late October often the day after Diana had
dragged her shorts and bathing suits to the basement.  It didn't usually
waft through the week before Thanksgiving.  And it was never this warm.
Diana lifted the window, and balmy air flowed into the office.  This was
nuts even for New England.  It had to be seventy degrees.

She had just returned from school, having taught her first class since
her reinstatement.  The class had gone fine, although no one showed up
for her office hours.  Leaving the department a bit early, she had come
home and run some data through her computer in an attempt to Make up for
the time she had lost on her research project.

Anxious to see the results, Diana read each chart, her head twisted
sideways, as the paper chugged out of the printer.  Amazing, she thought
as she burst the pages.  These numbers were even stronger than the
earlier ones had been. The new cases she had just added to her database
increased the support for her theory beyond her wildest expectations.

She dropped into the chair.  According to the data in front of her,
borderline personality disorders did not arise from disturbed mothering
before age two, as Adrian Arnold and company maintained.  Her research
showed that a major traumatic event usually abuse, often sexual, and
involving a trusted family member-at a much later age was correlated
with borderline symptomology.  The data also indicated that the
condition itself was much more similar to posttraumatic stress disorder
than to the other severe personality disorders.

Her heart racing, Diana tapped her pen on the printouts. "This was major
league stuff.  She checked through the numbers one more time and smiled.
Her methodology was tight, her sample size more than adequate, and the
numbers were indeed very strong.  There was more than enough here for
publication.  She would try Abnormal Psychology first.  Wouldn't Adrian
just die?

She looked back down at her data.  This wasn't just about getting
published in a prestigious journal or besting Adrian Arnold-although she
had to admit it was about those things too.  The real importance of
these data was their implication for treatment.  For, as long as
borderline personality disorders were seen as being caused by ambivalent
mothers or some kind of interference in the infant-mother bonding
process, then those suffering from them were, for all intents and
purposes, incurable.  On the other hand, if it was a variation of
posttraumatic stress, then many types of therapy, including short-term
behavioral technique sould effect a cure.

Diana once again saw James's lifeless body on the stretcher in his
living room.  She heard the policeman's words: His head's pretty much
gone.  If only she had been smarter.  Better.  If only she could have
held on to him, and to herself, just a little bit longer.  She could
taste the metallic tang of her failure.  And of her guilt.

She remembered the afternoon she had discovered her briefcase missing
from her office.  "I don't know who might have taken it," she had told
James over the phone.  "I just wanted to let you know it was missing-and
that if it happened to show up anytime soon, no questions would be
asked." One hour later James had knocked on the door and handed her the
briefcase, furious with her for thinking him capable of such deception
and thievery.  He was so confused, so conflicted: One part of him tried
to do the right thing, while the other part of him just couldn't pull it
off.

"No," she said out loud as she pushed away the images and breathed in
the preposterous, but delicious, springscented air.  It was over.  No
purpose could be served by obsessing.  Nothing could be changed.  Think
of the data, she directed herself.  Think of the weather.  They were
harbingers of her new fate, omens that all of this awfulness was really
behind her.

Still, it was difficult for her to dispel James's ghost.  He wouldn't go
away as easily, or as quickly, as she would have liked.  But finally her
optimism won, and Diana started to allow herself to think that the worst
just might be behind her.  That she really might be free of James
Hutchins at last.

The phone rang at her elbow and, in a response reflecting her new state
of mind, Diana picked up the receiver without screening the call through
her answering machine.

"Just wanted to fill you in on the libel suit," Valerie's voice boomed
through the receiver.  "This could be lucrative as hell.  I've done a
little research and there's no doubt: We've got a clear case of invasion
of privacy, defamation of character, and libel.  We might even go for
libel directly causing others to slander, although that one's a long
shot." Valerie paused.  "But with or without the slander, I'd go for a
million.  Maybe one and a half."

"One and a half million dollars?" Diana was incredulous.

"The Inquirer's got the money.  And you deserve compensation.  You went
through severe emotional trauma.  And incontestable damage was done to
your professional reputation and earning power."

"One and a half million dollars?" Diana asked again, simultaneously
exhilarated and disgusted by the greed and vindictiveness that jolted
through her.

"Gotcha!"

Diana didn't say anything as visions of a new car maybe even two-a
security system, and a college education for the baby flew across her
mind.  Not to mention a tasteful office in the Prudential Tower with
"Frey and Associates" on a brass nameplate next to the door.

"It's a strong case," Valerie was saying.  "But I've got to be honest
with you: It could be years before any award is made-and what we ask for
may not be what we get.  The thing you've got to remember is that it's
not the actual dollar amount that's important-it's getting the Inquirer
that counts."

Diana shook her head, wondering how a lawyer could possibly make that
statement with a straight face.  She also wondered if they would really
"get" anybody.  Would their efforts-and her public humiliation-produce
retaliation against any of the people who were actually responsible for
her trauma? the Inquirer would most likely just shrug it off, chalking
the whole thing up to the cost of doing business, letting their
insurance company write out a fat check.  "What do you think would be
the actual amount?" she finally asked. "Impossible to say."

"Half?" Diana pressed.

"Look," Valerie said.  "I got into trouble promising you things I
couldn't deliver before, so I'm not going to fall into that trap again.
But I repeat, it's a strong case."

"And what about you? How do you get paid?"

"One-third of the award," Valerie answered quickly.

Diana now saw a much smaller car, a less sophisticated security system,
and only a couple of years of college tuition in the bank.  "If this
really is over," she said slowly, 11 all I want to do is forget about
the whole thing and get on with my life." .

"After a couple of days, the publicity from this new suit would die
down," Valerie continued.  "It wouldn't be like the others.  You're
suing a newspaper-not being tried for murder."

Murder.  The word reverberated through Diana's brain. She could have
been tried for murder.  She could be wearing one of those coarse,
scratchy red uniforms and sleeping with a bunch of angry women in a
claustrophobic cell.  No, she thought, there was a lesson here.  She
shouldn't tempt the fates.  She had just won big.  Now was the time to
cash in her chips and go home.

As if reading Diana's mind, Valerie made a last stab. "Don't you think
you should discuss this with Craig before making a final decision? You
told me the other day he was pretty hot on the idea of suing the
Inquirer.  Better check and make sure-he might think it's well worth
whatever minor intrusion it might create in your lives."

Diana knew Craig was more than angry enough with the Inquirer to put up
with a "minor intrusion." But she also knew he would back her decision
one hundred percent. "No," she said with conviction.  "I just don't have
the stomach for it."

"How about letting me continue for a little while longer?" Valerie
asked.  "See what I can come up with that might change your mind? Can't
do any hurt it won't cost you a thing," she added. Unable to withstand
Valerie's persistence, Diana said, "All right, all right.  But I'm not
making any promises."

"None expected," Valerie agreed.  "I have something else to tell you."

"What's up?" Diana's heart did a nosedive and her body stiffened.

"Mitch's got some more courthouse gab for you."

"What?" Diana demanded, sitting ramrod straight.

"He said that according to his sources on the police department., the
Hutchins case is starting to look like a shitcan."

"A shitcan?"

"Police slang for 'homicide not likely to be solved.' "Really?" Diana's
heart pounded in relief.  She slumped into the chair.

"Apparently," Valerie continued, "they haven't been able to confirm Jill
Hutchins's alibi either.  And the other guy your patient?"

"Ethan Kruse."

"Yeah.  Well, they still can't seem to find him-so he's got no alibi
whatsoever."

"So we're all equal?" Diana asked.

"You're all nothing-three suspects with no alibis in a case with no
evidence doesn't add up to much.  Although they apparently did discover
that your Mr.  Kruse has got quite a long rap sheet."

"That's no surprise." Diana knew of a,few of Ethan's encounters with the
police, but knowing what Ethan was capable of, she assumed she only had
a small piece of the picture.

"Mitch didn't give me any details, but the important thing is that it
looks like you really are in the clear on this one."

"I think I'm finally starting to believe that."

"Good," Valerie said.  "It's about time things began to turn around for
you."

"Thanks." Diana was caught off-guard by the warmth in Valerie's voice.
"Thanks for everything."

"All in a day's work," Valerie said gruffly.  "I'll be in touch." Then
she hung up.

Diana smiled as she replaced the phone in the cradle.

Less than an hour later, after Diana had only begun to digest her
statistics, she heard Craig's key twist in the lock. She jumped from her
chair and ran up the stairs.  Something was wrong.  Craig never came
home from work in the middle of the day.  But there he was, smiling and
holding out a bouquet of carnations.

Slightly breathless, she asked, "What's going on?"

"Smelling the coffee, or the roses, or the carnations or whatever," he
said, coming over and putting his arms around her.  "Don't you think we
deserve it?" He kissed her before she could answer his question.

"Is this spring fever in November?" she finally asked, pulling away and
smiling up at him.  "Are you playing hooky?"

He nodded, and then his expression sobered.  "Sort of.  I just wanted to
be with you.  To enjoy this day.  To celebrate a little for how
everything has turned out."

And so they did.  Most of Diana's patients hadn't yet returned, so her
afternoon was open.  She didn't even go back down to her office, she
just grabbed her jacket, and they headed outside.

Craig loved walking through the city as much as she did, and they
meandered along the Christian Science mall while Diana chattered about
her astonishing research results, the libel suit Valerie wouldn't let go
of, and Valerie's report of Mitch Calahane's shitcan.  They had lunch at
the deliciously expensive Cafe Budapest-the same restaurant where they
had gone, stunned and starry-eyed, the night they had become engaged-and
toasted their turn of fortune.

Then, hand in hand, they walked along the brick sidewalks of Marlborough
Street talking about Craig's latest plan for the fantasy mural in the
nursery.  "It's going to go across all four walls," he explained.  "A
complete circle of fairy tale and Disney characters-we'll forget the
hobbits. I've even thrown in a few inventions of my own." They discu
ssed cribs and the toy box Craig was going to build, and whether, now
that Diana's practice was picking up again, they might be able to afford
to have someone come in and take care of the baby, rather than putting
her in day care.

The soft air flowed around them like a mother's caress, all the sweeter
for its unexpectedness and the knowledge that it would soon be gone.
Other couples strolled as they did, and they smiled at each other, happy
co-conspirators, stealing a May afternoon to be relished in late
November.

Dusk came too early, as it does on the edge of winter, and Diana and
Craig headed toward home, full of themselves and bittersweet nostalgia
for the day not yet gone. But when they turned the corner onto St.
Stephen Street, they came to a simultaneous stop. A police cruiser was
parked in front of their house. .             [ANA WATCHED IN HORROR AS
A FAMILIAR BEANpole of a man, sweating slightly from the warmth of his
wool sport jacket, climbed from the black-and-white police car.  He
unfolded himself to well over six feet and stepped to the bottom of
their front stoop.  Pressing a handkerchief to his forehead, Herb Levine
turned and looked at them expectantly.

Diana swayed for a moment, and Craig grabbed her arm. She closed her
eyes, feeling as if a steel door had slammed shut behind her, separating
her from the world as it had existed just a moment before and thrusting
her into a new, and unwelcome, reality.  "Valerie said not to say
anything without her," she whispered to Craig.

"Don't panic," he ordered.  "Maybe it's nothing.  Lift up your head and
look him right in the eye." He gripped her elbow more tightly, and they
walked toward the house. "Don't make it seem like you have anything to
hide," he said out of the corner of his mouth.

"Nice to see you again, Dr.  Marcus," Levine said, his smile pleasant.
He nodded to Craig.  "Mr.  Marcus."

"Frey," Craig said.  "My name is Craig Frey."

"I'm Detective Levine.  Herb Levine." He shook Craig Is

hand and then pulled a badge from his pocket.  "Homicide." He turned
back to Diana, his smile even wider.  "Sorry I wasn't more help with
your journal."

Rooted to the sidewalk, Diana swallowed hard and stared at the
detective.  She didn't seem to be able to get her brain to work.  Her
synapses refused to fire, and she felt incapable of either speaking or
moving.

"What can we do for you, Detective?" Craig asked.

"I came for your wife's help," he said, then turned to Diana.  He
glanced down at her stomach and smiled, "Please don't be upset, Dr.
Marcus-I just need some psychological advice.  Can you spare a few
minutes for me to pick your brain, or should I come back some other
time?"

Craig smiled at Diana and nodded.  "Please," he said, raising his keys
and motioning the policeman up the stairs. Craig gave Diana's arm a
gentle tug and propelled her forward. After Levine refused Craig' offer
of coffee, but gratefully handed over his jacket, the two men climbed up
toward the great room, Diana hung behind to call Valerie, but Craig
shook his head at her.  She hesitated, then slowly followed, knowing
that Craig was right about not looking guilty, but nonetheless feeling
vulnerable without the knowledge Valerie was on her way.

Herb Levine ducked as he walked through the doorway, then settled
himself comfortably into the leather chair. Diana and Craig perched on
the edge of the couch.  Levine didn't say a word.  He just crossed his
long legs and looked around as if he were a dinner guest waiting to be
served cocktails and hors d'oeuvres.  Diana and Craig shifted in their
seats.  Diana leaned forward and rearranged the magazines that littered
the coffee table.  Still the policeman said nothing.

Craig cleared his throat.  "So how can we help you, Detective?" he asked
again.

"Well, as I said, it's really your wife's help I need.  On the Hutchins
case." He leaned toward Diana.  "It's about Ethan Kruse.  I understand
he's also a patient of yours?"

Diana hesitated.  Although his words were reassuring, she still wished
that Valerie was coming.

"We were under the impression that this case was going to be closed,"
Craig said before Diana could answer the policeman's question.

"The Hutchins case?" Levine asked, his gray eyebrows pulling upward.
"Unsolved homicides are never closed. There's no statute of limitations
on murder," he added, smiling pleasantly at Diana.

Diana knew she should hold Levine's eye, that to look down would imply
guilt.  But she was afraid he would see the reflection of the terror his
words had sparked in her. She leaned over and pulled up her sock.

"We heard it was a-a 'shitcan,"' Craig said, then barked a
false-sounding chuckle.

Levine didn't seem to notice that Craig's chuckle wasn't real, and he
began to laugh also, a huge belly laugh that lit up his face.  He was
obviously amused by some private joke that Diana and Craig were not
privy to.  A joke Diana worried was at their expense.

She looked over at Craig; he shrugged his shoulders and laughed along
with Levine.  As Diana tried to smile, she had the fleeting and
irrelevant thought that Herb Levine must be a fun guy at a party.

"A shitcan!" Levine finally gasped, blotting his eyes with the sleeve of
his shirt.  "A shitcan!"

"But it isn't?" Craig asked.

"I sure as hell hope not," Levine answered, still chortling. "Gregg. Who
I think you met?" He looked at Diana questioningly.

She returned his gaze, confused.

"Detective Gregg," he repeated patiently, still smiling slightly.
'Didn't he stop by to talk to you the other day?"

Diana nodded slowly, a muddled memory emerging that one of the
detectives she had spoken with had a name that started with "G."

Levine smiled sympathetically.  "When my wife was pregnant, she to
forgot everything.  'Prego-anmesia,' she called Diana's answering smile
was weak.

"Anyway," Levine continued conversationally, "Gregg Moved over to
Special Investigations, and Hutchins got added to my caseload." He
paused and glanced from Diana to Craig and then slowly back to Diana.
Suddenly he didn't look like such a fun party guest after all.  "I don't
believe in shitcans."

Diana placed both palms protectively over her stomach. "Of 11 course
not," she finally managed to say.  "Of course

not.

Levine's eyes followed Diana's movements, and when he looked back at
her, his expression was gentler.  "So do you have any idea where Ethan
Kruse might be, Dr.  Marcus?"

She shook her head and explained to him about Ethan's frequent
disappearances and apologized for not being able to give him more
information due to doctor-patient confidentiality.

He nodded and wrote the few things she said in his notebook.  When she
had told him all that she legally could which wasn't much-he stood.
"Just one more thing," he said.  "What kind of printer do you own, Dr.
Marcus?"

"Printer?" Diana asked, standing also.

"Don't you use a computer in your work?" Levine's voice was patient.  "I
thought I remembered seeing one the last time I was here."

"Oh, my printer," Diana exclaimed.  "Yes, of course I have a printer."

"And exactly what kind of printer is it?"

"It's a-a-" She turned and looked to Craig for help, her brain locking
up.

"An NEC Pinwriter," Craig said quickly, throwing an arm around her
shoulders.  "Either a P6 or P7-it's right downstairs.  Why?"

"Is it one of those lasers?" Levine asked, ignoring Craig's question.
"Or.  .  ." He paused and flipped a couple of pages in his notebook. "Is
it a dot matrix?"

"Dot matrix," Diana said.  "But it has a very good letterquality
setting," she added foolishly.

Levine nodded.  "Hutchins had a laser."

"What does that mean?" Craig demanded, shoving Levine's jacket at him.

The detective took his jacket and shrugged nonchalantly. "Probably
nothing.  It's just that Hutchins's sister received a suicide note that
was printed on a dot matrix printer and, according to her, he had one of
those newfangled lasers' He checked his notes again.  "Hewlett Packard.
She showed it to me."

"She didn't save her brother's body or the gun that killed him," Craig
said, his tone thick with disgust, "but she saved his printer." He
looked piercingly at Levine.  "Seems kind of suspicious, don't you
think?"

The detective nodded.  "Yes, it does." Then he turned to Diana.  "You
wouldn't mind going downstairs and printing a page or two off your
printer for me, would you?"

"I'm-I'm sorry," she said slowly.  "But my lawyer told me to check
everything with her first."

Levine nodded and smiled.  "That's fine.  Fine.  I didn't come here for
that anyway." He held his hands up.  "No problem.  I can get a warrant
if it turns out to be important."

Diana nodded and led him out of the room.

"Did James Hutchins ever mention his landlady-a Mrs. Manfred?" Levine
asked as he ducked through the great room doorway.

Diana stopped on the landing.  "Just that he helped her out
sometimes-shoveling snow, taking in the garbage cans, that kind of
thing."

"Seems that she thinks she remembers hearing footsteps right after the
shooting," Levine said.  "Running down the stairs.  She says she's sure
they were a woman's footsteps. Says she knows they weren't a man's. But.
.  ." He paused and looked at Diana.  "Frankly, Doctor, she just doesn't
seem all there, if you know what I mean.  So I was just wondering if you
knew anything about her.  Like if you think I should take her
seriously?"

"But the murder was over a month ago," Craig said, stepping between
Diana and Levine.  "How come she's just reporting this now?"

Herb Levine looked a bit sheepish and smiled.  "Because we never asked
her before."

"If she really had heard something, don't you think she would have told
you without anyone having to ask?" Craig persisted.  "And isn't almost
five weeks an awfully long time for a memory to remain credible?"

Levine nodded seriously, as if Craig's suppositions were actually
causing him to consider the facts in a new light. Then he turned back to
Diana.  "You told Gregg and Kimberie you were working in your home
office at the time of the murder?"

"Yes," she croaked, then cleared her throat and tried again.  "Yes," she
said more clearly.  "We went through this whole thing with my lawyer."

"But no one can verify that claim?"

"My wife works alone a lot of the time," Craig answered for Diana. "It's
the nature of her job."

"I appreciate that, Mr.  Marcus-"

"Frey."

"Mr.  Frey," Levine corrected.  "It's just rather unfortunate in this
particular situation."

"But we understand that neither Jill Hutchins nor Ethan Kruse have
alibis for that afternoon either," Craig said.

Levine's eyebrows shot up again and he looked closely at both of them.
"That was true a few days ago," he said slowly.

Diana gripped the banister, unable to ask the question that she needed
to have answered.

"But it's not true today?" Craig asked for her.

Levine shrugged and began to walk down the stairs.  "And what about that
phone call you told Gregg and Kimberle about?" he asked, turning to look
eyeball-to-eyeball with Diana, who was a couple of stairs above him.
"The call you claim told you that James had killed himself? The
anonymous voice that ordered you to go to his apartment?"

Diana gripped the railing more tightly and said nothing. She too had
wondered about that phone call: Who had known to call her, and why?
Diana followed Levine down the stairs, placing each foot carefully on
the tread in front of her, afraid if she didn't concentrate on every
movement, her addled brain would fail her and she would lose her balance
and topple right into the detective.  "I'm sorry," she finally said as
they stepped into the foyer.  "I really feel that I shouldn't answer any
more questions without my attorney present."

Again, Levine held up his hands.  "No problem." But when Craig opened
the door, Levine pulled out his awful notebook again.  "Two years ago
this coming February," he said to Diana, "Hutchins took you to the
hospital.  Why was that?"

As Diana began to recite her not-without-my-attomeypresent line, Craig
walked over to where she stood and threw his arm across her shoulders
again.  He told Levine the entire ectopic pregnancy story, adding that
he was indebted to James for his clearheadedness during the incident.

Levine nodded to Craig, appearing truly thankful for the information.
Then he turned to Diana again.  "Isn't it unusual for a therapist and
her patient to eat lunch together-as you and James Hutchins are reported
to have done in the Public Gardens during the summer of that year?"

"What?" Craig demanded, dropping his arm from Diana's shoulder.

"Lunch at the Public Gardens," Levine repeated, although neither Diana
nor Craig seemed to hear him.  For they were carrying on a silent
conversation: Diana begging Craig to understand and Craig challenging
her to come up with an explanation he could accept.

"We just ran into each other," Diana stammered in answer to both Levine
and Craig.  "It-it was pure coincidence." When the men just stared at
her, obviously doubtful, she launched into a long-winded, humbling
explanation of how she and James had just happened to be at the Boston
Public Library the same morning-she to research a new grant application,
and he to get information on competing mutual funds for his boss.  How
stuffy and airless it had been inside the library.  How the sun had
flickered through the fair weather clouds and the breeze had been coming
in off the ocean.  How they had grabbed a couple of sandwiches from a
kiosk in Copley Square and wandered over to the Public Gardens to eat
their lunch in the shade of a huge oak tree.  "It was harmless," she
finished lamely, her face hot with shame at being caught in a breach of
professionalism. "Completely harmless .  .  ."

"I'm sure that it was," Levine said, snapping his notebook shut and
putting it in his pocket.  He smiled pleasantly as he headed down the
steps.  When he reached the sidewalk he turned and waved.  "And I'm sure
I'll be in touch soon."

As Diana closed the door behind the detective, sweat ran down between
her breasts, and she knew if she didn't sit down fast, she was going to
faint.  She closed her eyes for a moment and pressed her hot cheek to
the cool plaster wall.  When she opened them again, Craig was staring at
her.  "It-it really wasn't any big deal," she stammered, reaching her
hand out to him.

"Probably not," he said, stepping away from her and pulling the door
open.  "I'm going for a walk."

It was almost midnight when Craig finally returned.  He walked into the
bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed. "Diana?"

"I want to explain-" Diana began, sitting up and pulling the blanket
around her.

"I think we need to hire that criminal lawyer," he said as if she hadn't
spoken.  "Valerie's partner."

Diana touched his hand.  "He needs fifty thousand dollars up front-we
don't have that kind of money."

"We'll borrow against the five hundred grand you're going to get from
James's estate."

"The bank won't-"

"Why not?" he interrupted, moving his hand away from hers.  "Valerie
said we should get the money within a few months-that seems like pretty
sound collateral to me."

Diana fingered the edge of the sheet, letting her hair obscure her face.

"We'll invest what's left in your charity trust, if that's what you're
so worried about-fifty thousand more or less isn't going to make that
big a difference," he said.  "This is an emergency."

"You don't understand," Diana whispered, still keeping her eyes lowered.

"I understand plenty."

"No, you don't," she said, finally looking at him.  "You can't inherit
money from someone you're accused of murdering."

Craig stood abruptly.  "Then we'll work out some kind of a deal.  Call
Valerie.  They're lawyers-they'll come up with something." Towering over
her, fists clenched by his side, Craig threw a long, menacing shadow
across the bed. "We have the baby to think of," he said calmly, his
composure more terrifying to Diana than the most ferocious anger.  "I
won't allow her to be hurt by all this." Suddenly he slammed a fist into
his palm.  The sound cracked like a whip through the nighttime
stillness; Diana's body involuntarily jerked.  "I won't allow it," Craig
repeated, his voice still soft and even.

Diana placed her hands on her stomach and took a deep breath.  "I didn't
kill him," she said quietly, straining to match Craig's calm, although
her heart was pounding and her stomach felt as if it were being squeezed
by iron fists.

"Of course you didn't," he snapped.  "I might not be sure of much
anymore, but I'm still pretty damn sure you couldn't blow a man's brains
out with a shotgun."

She looked up at Craig in relief, but his gaze was focused on the wall
over her head.  "I'll call Valerie first thing in the morning," she
promised, reaching over to touch his arm.

"And find out what you have to do to get that fucking detective off our
backs," Craig ordered, shaking off her hand.  Then he turned and walked
from the bedroom. .

DIANA SPENT A fitful NIGHT, TOSSING BETWEEN wakefulness and flickering
dreams.  She raced down a long hall to an arched doorway behind which
she knew lay safety.  But when she reached it, she found herself facing
a towering blank wall-the door had shrunk into a miniature of itself,
barely big enough to slide her fist through.  In the midst of a loud and
crowded party, she offered her brother Scott and Detective Levine
cocktails off a round silver tray, but they were laughing so hard, they
were unable to grasp the drinks that kept slipping through their
fingers.  And then right after dawn, Diana dreamed she was a little
girl, standing at the water's edge on a late summer afternoon.  Her
mother was singing and wrapping her in an oversized towel, hugging her
and nuzzling her neck as she rubbed the water and sand from Diana's
small body.

When Diana woke, there were tears in her eyes.  To be that little girl
again.  To start over.  To have the chance not to make mistakes.  An
impossible, unattainable, and foolish wish, she chastised herself,
reaching out to touch the cool sheet where Craig should have been
sleeping.  But he wasn't there, and the stillness of the house told her
he had already left for the day.

Slowly she pulled herself into a sitting position.  She paused for a
moment at the edge of the bed and pressed her palms to her stomach,
hoping to feel the butterfly movement of a tiny foot.  But there was
nothing.

Valerie was very annoyed.  "You, better come up with the cash to retain
Mitch Calahane," she snapped after Diana described Levine's visit.
"Either that, or come up with enough sense not to answer any
questions-or at least, to call me before you do.  The cop's got no
case," she added. "He's fishing, and you're biting at his bait like some
peabrained salmon."

Diana murmured apologies as Valerie ranted on.  Finally, when Valerie
calmed down, Diana said, "Look, we don't have fifty thousand dollars,
you know that.  We can't hire Calahane straight out, but I can't just
sit here either.  I won't," Diana declared.  "There's got to be
something else we can do.  Some way that I can exonerate myself without
spending all that money."

"I under stand your position," Valerie said.  "But I still think Mitch's
your best bet."

Diana hesitated, not knowing what to say.  She was no good at this; she
always paid too much for cars and had been at a complete loss bargaining
in Mexico.  "Is, ah, is there any other way we could possibly pay for
his services? On some kind of piecemeal basis?"

Valerie hesitated.  "You know," she finally said, a sly tone to her
voice, "there just might be a way to finagle this for YOU."

Diana pressed the phone tighter to her ear.  "Oh?"

Valerie was silent for a few moments, then she said, "Perhaps something
involving the Inquirer suit ...  Some kind of swap for straight hourly
rates .  .

Diana could almost hear Valerie weighing the firtn's onethird of the
Inquirer award versus what they might lose by .  not making Diana pay
Calahane's retainer.  Obviously, Valerie thought the Inquirer was a good
bet.

"The reason for the large retainer on a murder case is that the legal
fees can run well over six figures.  Sometimes even seven" Valerie was
saying slowly, obviously thinking out loud.  "And often defendants don't
have that kind of cash."

"And if they're convicted," Diana said dryly, "you might never get
paid."

"But, as it's highly unlikely this case will ever go to trial," Valerie
continued, ignoring Diana's remark, "the firm might be willing to take
the risk.  And the truth is, Mitch's a pretty good detective.  He's got
quite a knack for getting people to talk-I swear he could get a Mafia
hit man to sing on his charm alone." The clicking of computer keys came
over the line.  "I'd have to check it out with a few of my partners-and
with Mitch, of course," Valerie finally said. "But I think that maybe we
can put something together for YOU."

"As long as I agree to go ahead with the Inquirer suit?"

"Of course," Valerie said sweetly.

At four o'clock that afternoon Diana found herself seated in the
mahogany wainscoted reception room of Bogdanow, Federgreen, Starr, and
Calahane, antique brass sconces fighting off the encroaching dusk with
their soft rosehued light.  The reception area had been carved out of
the same ballroom as the conference room where she had gone through
James's Mass General records, the room where she had turned her life in
a new direction-although it was far from clear whether the new direction
was an improvement over the old.  Today, as she stared through the
mullioned panes at the Public Gardens, at the paper cups and used
napkins caught between the naked branches of the scraggly bushes, Diana
avoided looking at the oak tree.

"Here she is," Valerie's voice boomed as she strode cross the plush
carpet.  Mitch Calahane, who resembled a good-natured bear with his
thick mane of white hair and his rumpled suit, ambled in behind her.
"Diana Marcus," Valerie said, waving at them as they shook hands. "Mitch
Calahane."

Mitch's handshake was as substantial as he was, and his smile lit up his
face in a way that made Diana understand how he got all the "courtroom
gab." It wasn't that he was handsome-although he wasn't bad-looking-it
was just that he was irresistibly likable in a jolly Santa Claus kind of
way.  "Nice to meet you, Dr.  Marcus," he said as if he really meant it.

"Diana," she corrected.

He rewarded her with an even broader smile and a request for her to call
him Mitch.  After reminding them to keep their "little swap" under wraps
because "Bogdanow would have a shit fit" if he ever found out, Valerie
excused herself. Diana followed Mitch into his office.  It was much
larger and better appointed than Valerie's, he being a senior partner,
and its understated elegance made Diana nervous about how high even his
hourly rate might be.

She quickly launched into her story.  Mitch listened patiently, taking
notes and nodding his head as she recounted the details.  He stopped her
a couple of times to ask questions in a very mild Southern accent.  He
told her he had worked with Herb Levine, adding that he had always found
Levine to be a very good and a very "plain dealing" cop. Diana wasn't
sure whether this was good or bad news. "I didn't kill James Hutchins,"
she said.  "And Detective Levine was acting as if he was .  She paused.
"Well, as if he was sure that I had." Mitch chuckled softly.  "That's
Herb Levine's style, Diana.  Don't take it personally."

"But it is personal," Diana said It doesn't get any more personal than
having to prove that you aren't a murderer." She leaned forward in her
chair.  "Do you think you can help me?"

Mitch was silent for a moment, turning his pencil with his thumbs and
forefingers.  "What you need to understand .            is, from the
police's point of view, this is one bitch of a case." He smiled
sheepishly and tilted his head.  "Excuse my French."

"Because of the lack of physical evidence?"

"Combined with reasonable doubt," he added.  "Herb Levine's problem is
getting hold of enough evidence to build up a case that'll convince a
jury that you're guilty beyond a reasonable doubt.  So, the question is:
How is he going to do that?"

"Not easily?" Diana said, her hopes rising.

"Slowly," Mitch corrected and Diana's heart sank.  "Piece by piece.
Remember that Robin Benedict case a few years back?"

"The one where they never found the body?"

"Never even knew for sure that she was dead," he said. "But they
convicted that professor anyway.  Weight of evidence." He paused and
twirled his pencil once again.  When he continued, it was as if he were
speaking more to himself than to Diana.  "At least Levine's got the fact
that there was an actual DB going for him."

"DB?" Diana asked.

"Dead body."

Diana cringed at the image Mitch's words brought to mind.  "But Levine's
evidence is so circumstantial," she said, pushing the image away.

He nodded.  "That's how you build a case like this."

"But it's just a bunch of little bits of nothing .  .  ."

"Herb Levine's no fool.  He obviously thinks it's all going to add up to
something." Mitch raised his hand and began ticking off his fingers as
he spoke.  "Number one: he's got motive-five hundred thousand dollars'
worth-with maybe even a few extra motives thrown in to spice up his
case."

"Does he need more than one?"

"No," Mitch said.  "But a thwarted lover, a difficult patient, perhaps a
threat to professional security-these possibilities wouldn't hurt him a
bit."

Diana twisted her wedding ring.

"Number two," Mitch solemnly held up a second finger, "there's
opportunity.  Unfortunately, Diana, you haven't been able to come up
with an alibi for the afternoon of the murder."

"How can I come up with an alibi I don't have? I was working at home all
afternoon-alone.  Before that I was alone." Diana shrugged.  "End

"Think about the day for me one more time," Mitch pressed, scribbling on
his pad.  "Relive it in your mind.  Did you talk to anyone on the phone?
Buy anything at Copley Place? Charge anything to a credit card?"

Diana did as Mitch asked, then shook her head in frustration.  She
replayed that afternoon over and over again. And the answer to all your
questions is still no."

Mitch pushed his legal pad away from him and just looked at Diana.

"So this is worse than I thought?"

"Maybe yes," he said slowly.  "Maybe no."

"Maybe no?" Diana asked, hearing the desperation in her own voice.

"We can't forget there are two other suspects with qualifications almost
as good as yours."

"Except that Detective Levine seemed to imply that Jill has come up with
an alibi'," Diana said glumly.  "And that Ethan might have one too."

"That's something I can check on for you," Mitch offered.

Diana nodded vigorously.  "Please."

"But my guess is," he continued, "unless their alibis are airtight,
those two are our answer."

"Our answer?"

"Look, all we have to prove is that someone else might have done it.
That's the way the law works.  You and I figure out a way to show that
either one of these other jokers had equal motive and opportunity .  -
." Mitch paused dered around Copley Plac of story, and looked Diana
straight in the eye.  "And you're off the hook."

"It's that simple?"

"And that difficult."

It turned out that Mitch was every bit as good a detective as Valerie
had reported.  By the following Monday he called Diana with the news
that the police still hadn't found Ethan, but that Jill Hutchins's aunt,
a Molly Arell of Norwich, Connecticut, had signed an affidavit that she
had been visiting with Jill on the afternoon of James's murder.

"She's lying," Diana told Mitch, explaining that James had told her
right before his death that neither he nor Jill had seen their aunts for
at least five years.

"You really could use a private detective more than a lawyer," Mitch
told her.  "But as long as Valerie's cooked up this deal-and in case the
worst does materialize and we end up in court-here's my suggestion." He
outlined a plan in which he, Valerie, and a private detective he often
used, worked together.  He proposed a three-pronged strategy:
researching both Ethan and Jill's backgrounds using his police contacts
and access to various national databases; tracking down Ethan; and
visiting Jill and James's hometown to investigate Molly Arell's story
and just plain snoop around.  "I've got a feeling about this last
piece," he said.  "I'm no detective, but there's something to be found
in Norwich.  I just know it."

As Diana listened to his reasoned plan, her hopes soared, but when Mitch
told her the estimated cost, she was crushed. Although the price was a
fifth of his retainer, it was still far too high.  "It all sounds
wonderful," she said softly, "but we can't afford it." She couldn't tell
Craig they had to spend ten thousand dollars to get her out of this
debacle of her own making.  Ten thousand dollars that they didn't have.
Ten thousand dollars that would put him years behind in his plans for
Frey and Associates.  "We just can't afford it," she repeated.

"What can you afford?" Mitch asked, undeterred.

When Diana told him, he paused, and she could hear the tapping of
computer keys.  "My hourly rate is higher than Valerie's ...  As long as
we don't tell Bogdanow, we could move some of my hours over to her
column and save you a few more bucks.  And, if I gave you a courtesy
discount for a proportion of my time .  .

"I couldn't ask you-"

"Would you be willing to be the detective?" he interrupted.

"You mean, I would work for you?"

His chuckle was wartn.  "In a convoluted, incestuous sense.

After she hung up, Diana stared at the phone.  The final price she and
Mitch had negotiated was still far more than they could afford.  But she
had almost two thousand dollars in her business account, and they would
just have to make up the difference by borrowing from her parents.

She knew her parents would be more than happy to help out; relieved
even, that she was finally letting them do something for her.  She also
knew that Craig wouldn't like it at all-but that he would agree with her
decision.  Hiring Mitch had been his idea in the first place, and, of
course, he would have no qualms about trying to stick it to the
Inquire-.  The truth was, as they were all too aware, there was little
choice.

Diana told herself there was no way she was going to be arrested for
murdering James-let alone convicted.  They were just being cautious; it
was better to spend a few dollars to ensure the worst didn't happen. But
no matter how hard she tried, the images wouldn't go away.  The baby
being born in prison.  Her daughter growing up with the stigma of an
incarcerated mother-a mother she only saw wearing the coarse red uniform
of a murderer.

Diana blinked back tears.  To lose her family.  To be separated from
Craig.  From their child.  To never know her.  To never drink in the
sweetness of her baby smell, to never feel her chubby arms pressed
tightly around her neck.  TO see them both only on monthly visiting
days.

Diana saw the sterile vastness of the visitor's room at Middlesex, the
long table running the width of the space, clear plastic rising from its
surface to the ceiling, separating the free from the unfree.  She
remembered the sheriff explaining that although there were bathrooms off
the visitor's room, no one was allowed to use them.  Visitors had to go
back out through the metal detectors to the facilities off the main
entrance.  This was to keep contraband from being hidden in the toilets
for prisoners to retrieve later. "Yes," he had responded in answer to a
question.  "Even the elderly and small children."

It WAS THE TUESDAY BEFORE THANKSGIVING AND THE roads were busy, but
traffic was flowing smoothly.  Diana figured that with a little luck,
she could make it to Norwich by ten-thirty, thereby giving herself half
an hour to get lost before Molly Arell expected her.

When Mitch had advised her to call ahead to arrange to meet with Molly,
Diana had balked.  But to her surprise, Molly had been very pleasant.
Diana hadn't even had to use her half-baked explanations for the
trip-her meeting in the area and her need to get a few final bits of
information on James to close out her files-for Molly had immediately
invited her to stop by anytime.

"People love to talk about themselves," Mitch had said. "Always have,
always will." As Diana's class was canceled due to the Thanksgiving
recess, she had proposed to Molly that she come down the next day.
James's aunt had graciously offered to fit her in between her
nine-o'clock tennis game and her noon literature class.  Diana had been
forced to shuffle her afternoon patients around, but it had all been
accomplished with surprising ease, and now she was flying down the Mass
Pike toward a meeting she anticipated with both excitement and dread.

Mitch had spent almost an hour on the phone coaching her.  "Remember,"
he had advised, "the one and only pose of this visit is to see if you
can get the aunt to slip lip and reveal that Jill's alibi is a lie.  So
do everything you can to make her feel comfortable.  Never be
antagonistic. Never threaten or intimidate.  Only if she trusts you will
her guai-d drop."

He was a good teacher, and Diana felt much more confident than she would
have expected under the circumstance.  She also had found his optimism
contagious.  "I can just feel it in these old bones," he had told her.
"You're coming back with something."

Diana's heart beat faster at the idea of actually finding some evidence
that would implicate Jill, of coming home exonerated and triumphant.
Stop it, she warned herself as she turned off the highway.  Raising her
expectations, for what promised to be a difficult encounter-to say the
least-was not a good idea.  But she also knew she, needed every possible
ounce of confidence she could muster to walk up to the door of 52 Pine
Street.

Consulting Molly Arell's directions and the map Mitch had suggested she
buy, Diana drove through downtown Norwich-"downtown" being a rather long
stretch of t'it, term.  The place had that depressed-fifties look that
indicated it had never seen better times, Diana thought is s, took a
left turn around a jewelry store with a huge 1):iiii- i declaring that
they had lost their lease, and a right two stoi,, beyond a closed-down
moviehouse.  She was relieved as she headed away from the drab narrow
streets toward the mci-e suburban part of town.

She rode for a couple of miles past unpretentious houses and strip
shopping centers named Marcus Plaza and found the corner of Warren and
Pine just a little all-i ten-thirty.  She returned to Marcus Plaza and
sat in the small parking lot, revving up her confidence and reviewing
Mitch's instructions, until just before eleven.

A beaming Molly Arell greeted Diana at her front door. "Please, please
do come in, dear," she said, leading Diana through her unassuming living
room into a bright homey kitchen that flashed Diana back to childhood
afternoons of Oreos and milk.  "I'm so glad you're here," Molly
continued.  "This whole thing has just been so difficult for all of
us-for the family." She touched Diana's hand and her smile faded.  "And
I'm sure it has been equally difficult for you.

Even though she had come to this woman's house to get proof she was a
liar, Diana couldn't help warming to James's aunt.  The aunts hadn't
technically done anything wrong, after all; they had been only guilty of
disinterest and silence.  According to both James and Jill, their mother
and her three sisters had known when Hank Hutchins first moved to
Norwich that he was up to no good, although it wasn't clear exactly what
that "no good" was.  And although Hank was from James's father's side of
the family, he spread his money around James's mother's family-helping
pay off Gertie's mortgage, "loaning" Molly what she needed for a new
refrigerator, paying a year's college tuition for Hallie's oldest-so it
was convenient for everyone to keep their eyes averted.  And after Uncle
Hank got caught and sent to prison, the sisters were so humiliated they
continued to act as if nothing untoward had occurred.  On second
thought, Diana realized that an act of omission was still a wrong.

Diana accepted the older woman's offer of coffee and sat down at the
large and comfortably worn table.  She watched Molly, who must have been
in her early sixties but moved as if she were half that age, as she
poured from a coffee maker standing on the immaculate counter. "Decaf, I
presume?" Molly asked, smiling at Diana's stomach.  "My daughter just
had her second, so I know all the rules."

"Thank you," Diana said again, pressing her damp palms to the skirt of
her jumper.  She felt as she did on the first day of class: nervous and
hyped-up, full of both excited anticipation and an almost uncontrollable
desire to bolt from the room.

Mitch had instructed Diana to take her lead from Molly, to sit quietly
and politely and just let the woman jabber' And Molly was doing exactly
as he had predicted.  "I felt just terrible when Jilly was so hard on
you at James's funeral," she was saying.  "But you have to understand
that the poor girl was beside herself.  James meant the world to her.
Everything, perhaps." She stared into the depths of her coffee mug and
sighed.  "I don't think she ever really accepted how truly disturbed
that boy was." She shook her head and looked up at Diana.  "You're not
by any chance related to any of the Norwich Marcus girls, are you? I
went to school with Beatrice, but there was Bertha and Rose and Doris
and Sandra-and a son too, I think.  One of their husbands-Sandra or
Doris's, I can't remember which-built a shopping center just around the
corner from here." She nodded as if she didn't expect Diana to believe
her words. "Named it after them."

"No," Diana said politely, although she was worried that the older
woman's tangents might whittle away her short hour.  "My father was an
only child."

"Too bad," Molly said, playing with the handle on her mug.  "I
understand Jilly was also quite rude to you when you went to visit her
at her apartment."

Diana took a sip of coffee in an attempt to cover her surprise.

"Oh, yes," the aunt said, nodding sagely.  "Jilly and I are very close
now.  And I know she felt quite badly about the incident."

"She did?" Diana asked, not bothering to conceal her incredulity.

"And that's why you're here, right?" Molly tilted her head and smiled at
Diana.  "You want my help getting back that journal or whatever it is."

Speechless, Diana resisted the urge to shake her head. Mitch had
cautioned her to watch her body language, to modulate her voice, to play
to Molly's lead.  So Diana tried to control her movements.  She
swallowed her words and nodded encouragingly.

Diana's reaction must have been acceptable, because Molly continued,
"You have to forgive Jilly's rudeness. You must," she pleaded, "We-the
whole family, that isknew right from the start, when we thought it was
suicide, that you couldn't be held responsible for what James had done."
She raised her eyebrows.  "Let's just say that no one was overly
shocked.  And now, well.  .  ." She looked meaningfully at Diana's
stomach.  "Well, it's obvious that you had nothing to do with this
either."

Diana nodded and sipped her coffee, trying to figure out how to take
control of the conversation.  According to Mitch, she shouldn't
interrupt Molly's prattle, but her time was running out, and she had to
get the woman to the subject of Jill's alibi.  "Bite your tongue if you
have to," Mitch had advised.  "But keep yourself quiet." So, against her
better judgment, she did.  And once again Mitch's recommendation was
right on the mark.

"I was so happy that Jilly and I reconciled before all this happened-it
would have been just too horrible for everyone involved had the family
not been back together. Ironic, isn't it? To think that I was actually
up in Boston visiting with Jilly on that very day .  .  ." She stared
off into space.  "Frankly, I don't know if Jilly could have survived it
all without us."

"Families can be a tremendous source of strength in difficult times,"
Diana murmured, hoping to encourage Molly to let down her guard and say
something that would reveal what Diana believed was her charade.

I 'Yes," Molly said, nodding her agreement.  "And even though our family
has had its rocky moments, we've always stuck together when times got
difficult."

Diana tried to smile at Molly, but it wasn't easy.  She knew too much of
the history, had felt too much of James's pain, to believe a word of
Molly's close-knit-supportive.            family rubbish According to
James, it had been Jill who had raised him, Jill who had made him do his
homework, Jill who had bailed him out when he got caught shoplifung, and
Jill who had helped him write his college application essays. Their
mother had slipped into a deep depression after the Uncle Hank episode-a
depression from which she never recovered, a depression, it seemed to
that she had been in all her life.  And although all of her sisters
lived in Norwich, they went out of their way to maintain their distance
from James.  James had Taught if and said he was just the family black
sheep, claiming the hurt in hi every family needed one.  But Diana had
seen his eyes when he told her his aunts had stopped inviting him to
Thanksgiving dinner after Jill moved to Des Moines.

"Like when my poor sister Gertie-Jilly's mother-was having all those
troubles with James," Molly was siyiii,,, "The drinking.  The drugs. The
police." She stared out the front window and sighed with labored
sincerity.  "It was  burden we all shared together.  It was so hard for
Gertie to understand, James being so smart and handsome and all. She
just couldn't see-kind of like Jilly wouldn't see that the boy was plain
bad." Molly turned and looked at Diana.  "It was his own fault, I always
said.  Someone that smart could have helped himself, if he had really
wanted looks and his brains.  She shook her head to.  With his and
clucked her tongue.  "Don't you agree?"

Diana looked at the older woman, amazed at the capacity of the human
mind to deny what it didn't want to see, to truly forget what it didn't
want to remember.  "These things can be very difficult to understand,"
she said slowly, straining to follow Mitch's advice, but unable to help
herself. "More complex than one might think."

Molly pursed her lips.  "If you had known him as a child, I'm sure you
would agree.  He had the devil in his eyes from window a,, a car day
one." She stood and looked out the pulled up in front of the house. "Day
one," she repeated, then frowned.  "My son, Adam."

A tall blond man in his mid-twenties sauntered through the kitchen door.
"You're James's doctor," he said when he saw Diana.  "Adam Arell." He
held out his hand and smiled warmly.  "I know that you were a good
friend to James."

Diana took his hand, vaguely remembering him from the funeral.  "And I
know that you were too." James had spoken often of Adam: of how they had
fended off Jill and the older cousins together; of how Adam had stood up
to the high school principal for him; of Adam's problems in Baltimore.
Diana looked into Adam's pale eyes and smiled.  Although his coloring
was completely different, there was something of James about him.

Molly pursed her lips again.  "Why aren't you at work?" she demanded.

Adai-n dropped Diana's hand and winked at her, He turned to his mother.
"I've got early lunch today.  I'm due back at the store at noon." He
walked across the room and began pulling sandwich-makings from the
refrigerator. "My mother mentioned that you were coming down this
morning" he said to Diana.  "Would you like something to eat'!"

Diana shook her head and, out of the corner of her eye, could see Molly
glaring at Adam.  Molly quickly rearranged her I'ace for her guest.
"Used to be that children grew up and moved away," she said, sighing
heavily.  "Now they grow up and stay."

"A,,,.:, you love it, Ma," Adam said, winking again at Diana to be
crying in your coffee when my c(,,i-nmissions get big enough for me to
get a place of n) y o,.v ii. "I (i,)tibt it," Molly said.

Diana smiled slightly at this pseudo-friendly repartee. She didn't need
a Ph.D.  in psychology to sense the undercurrent of tension.  She
watched and listened in silence for a worth, her eyes moving between
mother and son like a spectator at a tennis tournament.  Mitch might not
approve of the ;aggressiveness, but it struck Diana that in this family
.             animosity lay an opportunity that would be lost continued
to remain passive.  "So," Diana said into of silence, "your mother has
been telling me how family is."

"Ha!" Adam snorted as he spread mayo on a pieces of bread. "And," Diana
continued, as if unaware of Adam's cyniis that she and your cousin cal
response, "how pleased she Jill have reconciled their differences.

"Not the we're-all-so-happy-sweet-Jilly-has-returned-to-the-fold
bullshit again?" he said, pulling a thick wad of turkey from a plastic
bag.

"Adam!" Molly stood abruptly and carried her cup to the sink.

He sidestepped neatly around her and grabbed a glass from the cabinet.
"Along with the James-was-plain-badcry, I suppose?" from-day-one st

"You know that James was in trouble all of the time." Molly slammed her
cup into the sink and turned to her -on. ,,you know that just as well as
I do, Adam Francis! You can do all the pretending that you want, but he'

"And the rest of us were all perfect?" Adam asked.

Now Diana took Mitch's advice.  She sat back in her chair and said
nothing, letting Adam and Molly take their argument wherever it might
go, hoping it would give her what she needed.

"Far from it," Molly said with venom in her voice.  " Especially when
you were around him.  But that doesn't change the fact that'

"Did I ever tell you what really happened the night Elizabeth broke her
arm?" Adam asked his mother.

"We have company, Adam." Molly's voice rang with icy authority.

Adam carried his plate to the table and placed it across from Diana.  He
sat down and addressed Diana as if his mother hadn't spoken.  "When we
were kids, all the cousins were afraid of Jill.  She might not have been
'bad from

Des Moins.  He flashed his mother a roguish grine was a real hothead. No
way to figure what shing to do next.  Even James was afraid of her-
-.ought she could walk on water. One minute "cting you from Mike
Carlson, the bully of H oad, and the next she was pushing you off the
gym.

"That's quite enough, Adam," Molly ordered.  "I have this kind of talk
in my house."

"You and all the aunts thought Elizabeth fell and her arm, didn't you?"
He shook his head sadly.  "Was 'Twzis your precious Jilly who pushed
her."

"I won't listen to your nasty lies," Molly said. mu,,t al)o!")gize to
you, Dr.  Marcus.  Adam has been so and -,it of late." She glanced down
at Diana's stomach. it) (,Everything for them when they're young. the
li,lit of your life.  Your beautiful children.  And th

"Cut the crap, Ma," Adam said.  "It's important Marcus to hear both
sides of the story.  Did you not tell her anything good about James?
Anything abou close he and Jill were? How he supported her for the
decade or so? What about how he helped her whe got into that mess in Des
Moines? Or how about why he dropped everything and came down to
Baltimore to b out';"' Adam waved his sandwich in the air.  "Did y her
any of that, Ma? Did you?"

Diana shifted in her seat, trying to look as if she terribly
uncomfortable, although actually she was t by the family feud she had so
easily instigated.  Sh also enthralled.  This discord was the soil in
which had been nurtured, in which he had grown.  Jill too.

"No," Molly said.  "Nor did I tell her that since clit Jilly off, the
Poor thidg's been in terrible fin sti-21it,,.  ,

"N(, that sad car repossession story again," Adam

his voice dripping with sarcasm.  "Seems to me Jill is old enough to be
responsible for herself."

"Oh?" his mother asked, raising her eyebrows. "People who live in glass
houses .

"Touch6!" Adam said, grinning, then took a bite of his sandwich.  "So
who do you think killed James?" Adam asked Diana conversationally.

"I have my literature class at noon," Molly said before Diana could
answer Adam.  "I'm on my way out the door." She picked up Diana's mug
and placed it in the sink.  "And so is she."

Diana didn't move.  Mol "I don't have your book-and neither does Jilly."
ly handed Diana her purse.  "I know that for a fact." She grabbed
Diana's coat from where she had placed it over a chair.  "I'm sorry if I
got you here under false pretenses. Perhaps it was terribly selfish of
me, but I just wanted to apologize to you.  I had been feeling badly
about the whole thing ever since the funeral.  Although'!-she scowled at
Adam'I suppose you have no better picture of our family after today."
She held Diana's coat open, politely-and pointedly,

Diana's own politeness overcame her desire to stay.  She stood and
slipped into the offered coat, "Thank you for the coffee," she said.

"So do you think Jill could have done it?" Adam asked, then took another
bite of his sandwich.

"You have gone quite far enough, young man," Molly said, glaring at Adam
as she put on her own coat.  "You know that I was up in Boston that
day-"

Adam raised his eyebrows.  "Jill was always good at covering her ass."

"Don't be ridiculous!" Molly cried.  Her son's implication that she
might be lying caused her voice to quiver with anger.  "You yourself
said how close Jill and James were-you know how much she loved him.  She
didn't kill him anymore than I did!" Molly ripped her purse from a
kitchen chair with such force that the chair toppled to the floor.  She
grabbed it and thrust it back into its original position.

"if'hen how come she flipped when she found out that Dr. Marcus here got
all of James's money? Why is she planning to contest the will?" Adam
asked, his demeanor growing .            nci-easingly calm as his
mother's became more agitated. 1',

H,ow come Zach had to give her those tranquilizers?"

, You should be ashamed of yourself for even thinking such nonsense,"
Molly growled.  "The poor thing had just lost her only brother.  She was
a complete wreck that afternoon.  A complete wreck," she repeated,
twisting the strap of her purse around her fingers.

"But my question is why?" He tilted his head and looked up at his
mother.  "Which brings me back to my original question: Who killed
James?"

"Don't you see that neither of those questions matter anymore?" Molly
snapped.  "What matters is picking up the pieces and going on.  What
matters is for a family to stick- together." She pulled the door toward
her and then turned and glared at her son.  "Something you could learn a
bit More about."

Diana caught Adam's wink over Molly's shoulder as she was ushered out of
the house. .             DIANA'S MIND WAS REELING AS SHE HEADED TOWARD
Boston.  With only one wrong turn, she found the two-lane highway that
would take her north to the Mass Pike.  The road was clear, and the sun
hung above the bare treetops. Mitch had been wrong.  She wasn't coming
back with anything.  All she had gained was a conviction she couldn't
prove: Molly Arell was lying.

Even her son knew it.  And Molly's agitated response to Adam was further
testimony to her guilt.  But the fact that Molly was lying didn't prove
Jill had killed James.  It didn't prove anything.  And as long as Molly
stuck to her story, Jill ' ate her as one of the police's had an alibi
that would elim'm suspects.

Diana cranked up the heat as a thick bank of clouds streamed across the
sun.  Show that either one of' these other jokers had equal motive and
opportunity, Mitch had said.  And you're off the hook.  While the fact
that Jill had gotten upset after discovering she wasn't the beneficiary
of the will, and that her car had been repossessed, indicated a possible
motive, the operative part of Mitch's sentence was the word "and."
Without opportunity, all the motive in the world was useless to Diana

About half a mile ahead, Diana could see an overloaded truck dragging
its way up a steep incline, slowing all the traffic behind it to a
crawl.  The double yellow line to her left forbade passing, but in any
case, it was obvious that there was nowhere to go.

Diana smiled ruefully to herself.  She should have been clever, like
Jill.  She should have gotten someone to cover for her too.  Maybe she
could have talked Gail into claiming that they had had a late lunch that
afternoon, or perhaps Sandy could have been confused into thinking she
had been at Diana's office for an appointment.  Diana shook her head in
frustration; she would never involve a friend or a patient-r anyone-in a
lie.  Adam would say that Jill was far I)etter at "covering her ass"
than Diana was.  And Adam would be right.

Diana was exhausted, her back ached, and she really needed to get to a
bathroom.  If only she were home.  Here she had rearranged her entire
day-and would have to make up the work over the rest of the week-and
placed herself in an awkward and difficult situation, just to come home
empty.  Worse than empty.  For now she knew there was no salvation for
her in Jill.

Diana finally pulled onto the Mass Pike and around the slow truck, only
to find the six-lane highway moving at a skulk that matched the road she
had just left.  What was the use of all the nudging and maneuvering?
What was the point of her becoming Mitch's detective? Did any of it
really matter? Yes, she reminded herself.- It mattered a lot.  It
mattered because she needed an alternative plausible suspect in order to
clear herself In order to keep the police from arresting her for murder.
Diana saw all too clearly how the scenario would appear to Levine: She
had both motive and opportunity, Jill had only motive.

The traffic thinned, and Diana pulled into the passing lane.  She
wouldn't allow herself to succumb to depression and self-pity.  She had
too much to lose, too much to right for.  If Molly's statements
destroyed Jill as a plausible .             suspect, then she would just
have to switch to Ethan.  She would call Mitch as soon as she got home
and start focusing on the elusive Ethan Kruse.

Diana tuned the radio to an oldies station and tried to cheer herself by
singing out loud to the Beatles.  The clouds thickened, and the sun
dropped behind the Worcester hills. Although it was early afternoon, she
turned on her headlights.

A shiver ran down her spine and silenced her singing. She jacked up the
heat, but it didn't help.  It was that feeling again.  The eyes.  She
glanced nervously in the rearview mirror.  She turned to her right, and
then to her left.  But no one was looking at her.

No one had any interest in her at all.

When Diana got home she wasn't able to call Mitch, for Sandy Pierson was
huddled in the alley waiting for her,

Itow-eyed and scared.  "I'm sorry, Dr.  Marcus," Sandy ho sobbed from
her seat wedged against the cold brick of the house.  "But 1-1 couldn't
help it.  I did it again," she wailed. "Even though I promised I
wouldn't, I did it again.  11

"Come on in," Diana said, reaching her hands out to help the younger
woman up.  Even in her misery, Sandy rose gracefully.  Diana waved Sandy
into her office, hung up her coat, and went to the bathroom.  When she
returned, Sandy was still crying.

"I wanted to be like you," Sandy said.  "For you to be t part of me - -

Diana walked around the perimeter of the room, her hand pressed to her
lower back, watching Sandy.  It was almost impossible to believe that
the stringy-haired, white-face(i woman sitting before her was the same
person who had smiled so alluringly out of a Filene's "Night on the
Town" ad in the Globe last week.  Diana dropped heavily into her chair
and swiveled so that she faced Sandy.  "Why don't you start from the
beginning?" she suggested.

clump of hair

Sandy hung her head, twisting a thick around her finger.  "I made a
chocolate-chip cookie," she whispered.

Diana nodded.

"I know chocolate-chip are your favorite," Sandy said to her feet. "Your
very favorite food in the whole world, you told us once.  Full of
wonderful memories that you could relive again and again.  Every time
you ate them.  Smelled them even, you said."

When had she ever told Sandy that? Diana wondered. And why? Then she
remembers .  d .  a group session early on, when James had been so
promising, before Ethan arrived on the scene.  Everyone was telling a
story about a positive childhood experience.  When James asked Diana to
tell them one from her own childhood, she had agreed.  "Psychotherapy
cannot proceed without empathy on both sides," Adrian had pounded into
her during her post doc.  "You must offer yourself as a positive,
supportive figure.  As a real persoti-with your own foibles and
fantasies-for identification to take place." So much for Adrian's great
advice, Diana thought.  "You made chocolate-chip cookies .  .  ." she
coaxed, glancing at the clock and wondering how late Mitch stayed in his
office.

"I only did it because I love you so much," Sandy said sharply, as if
somehow tuning in to Diana's distraction. "If it weren't for you"-she
raised her head and stared at Diana, defying her to disagree'I never
would have done it at all!"

"Is what you did really so bad?" Diana asked softly.

Sandy crossed her arms over her chest.  "I made a huge chocolate-chip
cookie and I shaped it to look just like you!" she said, glaring at
Diana's stomach.

"And'?" Diana kept her voice soft and her emotions from her c,es.

There was silence as the two women looked at each other. Saii(ly's
expression slowly shifted from defiant to confused, then settled into a
sulk.  "I ate the whole thing," she finally said.

Diana nodded.

"But it didn't fill me with wonderful memories-and it didn't fill me
with you," Sandy said sullenly.  "So I stuck my finger down my throat
and threw it all up."

Diana closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them, Sandy was
standing, facing the back wall. Diana watched Sandy square her shoulders
and turn with the fluid motions of an experienced model during a photo
shoot.  The woman from the Filene's ad stood facing her.

"I guess you're right," Sandy said, as if she had not just told Diana
she had vomited her into a toilet.  "Now that I've actually said it, it
doesn't sound all that bad after all."

Diana watched warily as the self-confident model approached and sat
gracefully in the chair, throwing one of her long legs across the other.
"You feel better now?" Diana asked.

Sandy leaned back in an overly nonchalant manner. "Yes," she said as if
she wasn't all that sure.  "Yes," she repeated more loudly, but with no
more certainty.

Diana looked at the beautiful but terribly damaged woman before her. How
could people do these things to their own children? she wondered, not
for the first time.  How could Sandy's father have locked her up in a
dark closet every day after school? How had Uncle Hank brought him self
to photograph his nephew being sodomized? Restin her hand protectively
over her stomach, Diana thought of her new research data: If it actually
was these horrendousbut isolated-events that caused the disease, then
there real I

I ty might be hope for a therapeutic cure.  And then maybl I Sandy
wouldn't have to relive-and relive and relive--her fear of abandonment;
maybe she could be freed to put liei trust in another human being. "Does
this remind you of ittiv thing that's happened before?" Diana asked
softly. Sandy shook her head.  "No, not that I can-" Then sli, stopped
and her eyes widened.  "The time I called evcrv one and canceled group?"
she asked.  "To have you ill t( myself?"

Diana nodded.

"James and Ethan said I was selfish and spiteful.  Terri and Bruce too."
Sandy stared over Diana's shoulder, through the window beyond, but Diana
knew from the pain in Sandy's eyes that she was not seeing the alley.
"They didn't want me in the group anymore."

"And do you remember what I told you at the time?"

"You-you mean," Sandy began, her eyes welling with tears, 11 you mean
after my hinge?"

Diana nodded.

"You told me a good expression of love might make me feel better," she
whispered.

"And did it?" Diana asked, handing Sandy a tissue.

Sandy nodded, wiping her cheeks.  "Remember?" She Smiled through the
tears.  "I did something nice for everyone.  I cleaned James's apartment
and loaned Bruce my car."

Diana returned Sandy's smile, remembering very clearly how good she,
Diana, had felt when the group reconnected, how proud of herself she had
been.  Until Ethan had caused it all to fall apart by fighting with
James.  Her smile disappeared.

Sandy sniffed and raised her chin.  "I did it even though I was really
pissed off at them."

"You did giving things," Diana said.  "Loving things." She flashed to
James's sweetness during her ectopic pregnancy; she could almost feel
his hand covering hers as he sped toward the hospital, almost hear his
soft, crooning voice, Even Ethan had helped her once when her jeep broke
down-shrugging off the fact that it made him late for a date.  How much
could be salvaged? she wondered. How deep did the damage have to go
before the true person was irretrievable?

"And they decided that I could stay." Sandy played with the wet tissues.
She shredded them and then molded them into a ball.  She clenched the
ball tightly in her fist.  "So I should do something for you?" she asked
without raising her eyes. .             "That's not necessary, Sandy,"
Diana said.  "Just remember that things can be undone.  That people who
care about you are willing to accept youven if you're not perfect."
Diana rested her arms on her desk and leaned closer to Sandy.  "None of
us is perfect."

Sandy glanced up, then quickly looked out the window. She twisted her
hair around her finger and inspected heinails.  Then she clutched her
hands together and looked straight at Diana.  "I want to give you
something because I love you."

Diana nodded.

"But I don't have anything to give," Sandy wailed.

"It's really not-"

"There were a lot of things about the group that you nevel knew," Sandy
blurted.  "That we kept from you.  Especiill) James and Ethan.  James's
sister too."

"Oh?" Diana gripped the edge of her desk, her surpi-ist, at the mention
of Jill catching her off-guard.  She caref'Llli) folded her hands and
forced herself to relax in the ch,tir.

"We all knew it was against the rules." Sandy's woi-d!, came out in a
rush.  "We knew it was dishonest and not fair to you.  But Ethan made it
into such a fun game.  YOL know, like when you were a kid and there was
a substitute teacher?" Sandy's eyes begged Diana's forgiveness. "fiche
made it exciting-like, to see how far we could -,o." She hung her head,
shielding her face with her hair'in(i kneading her wet wad of tissues.

"How far you could go?" Diana prompted.  The rules of the group were
that anything that transpired between niem bets outside group hours
would be discussed at the next session.  Diana knew that this was
virtually impossible, a,,, James and Ethan had been friends prior to
Ethan's entei,in(-. the group-and that had been - ie of her many
reserval ions about Ethan jog-but Sandy's words made it SOLIII(I much
more sinister than the few undisclosed pranks Diaiii had suspected.

Fright crossed Sandy's face and she shrugged and loi 1,,(i

at her feet.  "I promised never to tell," she mumbled.

n said he'd find out if I ever did."

ana bit her lip and stared at the fearful woman in

of her, caught between her own needs and those of patient.  Maybe Sandy
knew something that could help her-but maybe she, Diana, knew something
that could help Sandy more.  "Thank you," Diana finally said.  "It means
a lot to me that you shared this."

Sandy jumped up and looked around the room as if she thought it might be
bugged.  "I can't," she said, grabbing her coat.  Then she leaned toward
Diana and tilted her head, her voice dropping to a whisper.  "We used to
go to Ken's Pub in Cambridge.  All together.  All the time."

"Sandy-" Diana began, standing also.

"It doesn't matter anyway," Sandy said, shaking her head.  "Nothing
matters anymore." She began to cry softly.  "They've both left me.
Everyone's gone." She shrugged into her coat and, shoulders drooping,
walked out the door.

Diana sat back down, knowing that Sandy had said all she was going to
say, that it was best for Sandy to work this through by herself for a
while.  Diana swiveled her chair and watched as the lonely, beautiful
woman climbed gracefully into her car.

Sandy had offered her a gift: a "good expression" of her love.  Keii's
Pub.  But before Diana could fully take in the information, before she
could figure out if Sandy really wanted to help her or hurt her, before
she could consider how-and if-Sandy's information could be of any use,
she felt a gush of warm dampness.  She jumped from the chair and a bolt
of terror highlighted every nerve in her body. She was bleeding.

As she lunged for the phone, nauseated with fear, Diana imagined herself
lying within a softly billowing curtained enclosure, lost and empty and
crying, her dead baby leaking from her body.  James was holding her
hand. .            CRAIG SAT ON THE EDGE OF THE BED AND BRUSHED the hair
from Diana's forehead.  "How are you doing?" he asked.  It had been a
long, stressful afternoon and evening in the emergency room, and they
both looked it: pale and drawn and droopy.  But the news had been good,
and the doctors had sent Diana home to rest for a few days, optimistic
that she could resume her regular schedule on Monday with the
expectation of a normal delivery-and a healthy child.

"Now that I'm home, I feel much better," she said, although what she
felt was exhausted.  Completely and totalty drained.  All she wanted was
sleep.  But Craig looked so much like a little boy who had been lost and
finally fOLind, the fear and relief equally mixed in his tired eyes,
that she, didn't have the heart to ask him to leave.

He picked up her hand and kissed her palm and then pressed it between
his two.  "We'll get through this, Diana," he whispered, his voice
cracking slightly.  "All of it.  Whatever it takes.  Even if there's
only the two of us, we're still a family." He squeezed her fingers so
hard that they hurt.

She gently extricated her hand.  "They said everything going to be
fine." According to the doctors, she had had a "minor bleeding episode,"
a not-uncommon event.  They had quickly determined that she wasn't
miscarrying, that she didn't have placenta previa, and, in answer to her
repeated questioning, that this pregnancy was not ectopic.

An ultrasound had been performed, and she and Craig had watched the
screen, breathless and grinning, as the technician focused first on the
baby's face, then on her legs, pressed tightly to her belly.  At one
point, the baby had turned and popped her thumb into her mouth.  They
even had a photograph: an eerie but beautiful grainy blackand-white
reverse image of a perfect nose, a perfect mouth, and two perfect eyes,
widely spaced and wide open.  Their daughter appeared to be smiling at
them.

"This whole thing today scared the shit out of me," Craig said "Made me
think about things-about what's really important." He stood and began to
pace their small bedroom.  He ran his hand along the edge of the bureau
and the brass railing at the foot of the bed.  Through half-closed eyes,
Diana watched him as he walked to the closet, then abruptly turned and
walked to the door.  Finally he stopped at the window.  His back toward
her, he crossed his arms and stared silently into the dark alley.

A shiver ran down Diana's spine and she tucked the comforter up around
her chin.  "Please close the drapes," she asked.  He immediately jerked
the cord, and the heavy fabric closed over itself.  The room was
brighter and warmer, and, Diana thought, somehow safer.

" I know f haven't been completely supportive," Craig said, still facing
the window.  "That I've been thinking of myself and worrying about
stupid things that happened in the past."

"That's ridiculous," Diana said, pushing herself up in the bed.  "You've
been fabulous-wonderful.  Much more understanding and tolerant than I
would've been if our roles were reversed."

"No." He turned and looked her straight in the eye "You Would Shave had
more trust in me." Coming over and kneeling by the side of the bed, he
reached for her hand under the comforter.  "It's you and me against that
detective."

"Craig-" Diana began.

"No more questions," he said, holding a finger to her lips. "No more
recriminations.  Just trust."

Diana closed her eyes, both from exhaustion and the need not to look at
Craig.  She was grateful for both his love and his willingness to
forgive, but it was all too emotionally overwhelming.  And it made her
feel guilty, not worthy of him.  All she wanted was to go to sleep.  She
pulled herself into a fetal position and pressed a pillow to her belly.

"Sleep.  You need sleep." Craig stood and kissed her forehead.  "Is
there anything I can get for you?"

She shook her head, keeping her eyes closed.

"I'll leave the door open and be right downstairs," he said.  "Just
call.  I'm not going anywhere." He kissed her again, and to Diana's
great relief, finally left the room.

By Friday Diana was feeling much better, but she was worn out from
Craig's hovering.  Laughing, she handed him his briefcase and ordered
him to the office.  "If you don't get out of here and leave me alone for
a while, I'm packing my bags and moving in with my mother until this
baby is born," she warned him.  He agreed to go into work only after she
arranged for Gail to come by and keep her company.

"Rumor has it that you did this on purpose," Gail said from her chair
across from Diana, who was ensconced on the couch.  "To get out of going
to your mother-in-law's for Thanksgiving."

"Well, you've heard all those overcooked turkey stories Diana kept her
expression serious as she rearranged the pillows under her knees.  "I
just couldn't face it another year."

"You look damn healthy to me." Gail narrowed her eyes. "One might even
say you have 'that glow."'

"Not 'that glow,"' Diana said, holding her hands up in front of her face
as if to ward off a vampire.  "Please, please, tell me anything but that
I'm glowing."

"Okay, you may not be glowing, but you do look damn good, sweetie." Gail
leaned over and touched DiaDa',s foot. "So everything really is okay?"

"The doctor said I can get back to real life on Monday. The ultrasound
was normal and the bleeding stopped by the time I got to the hospital."
She shrugged.  "Apparently this isn't all that rare-it just really
scared me."

"Did they say anything about the baby being small? You look more like
You're four months pregnant than six."

"They said she is on the small side-but not unusually SO." Diana patted
her stomach affectionately.  "When I insisted, the technician guessed a
birth weight somewhere just under seven pounds."

Gail looked at Diana with envy.  "When I was six months pregniiit, I was
the size of a house.  People thought I was ready to drop the babies any
minute."

"if'wiiis don't count," Diana said, swinging her legs from the couch to
the floor.  "Can I get you something? Tea? Diet soda? How about a glass
of wine?"

Gail jumped from her chair and grabbed Diana before she could rise.
"Don't you dare move!" she ordered.  "I don't want a thing!"

"You're as bad as Craig," Diana muttered, shaking Gail', hands from her
shoulders and pointing to the chair.  "I'm not an invatici-let go of me
and sit down." %en Gail returned to her chair, Diana said, "So, you
promised me some good gossip .  .  ."

"'I'li is really is good.  You're gonna just love it.  Gail rubbed her
hands together and wiggled around in her seat. "Ciucss who's in major
league trouble?"

I)iiiia groaned and looked at the ceiling.  "You mean out Ot'every
person in the world?"

"Nope," Gail answered.  "Just out of every person we kno-." She paused
and then added, "Professionally." Art

"Every person we know professionally," Diana repeated.  "Got to be
someone we don't like ...  Especially me. She looked thoughtfully at
Gail and then her face fit up. "Pumphrey?" she asked.

Gail shook her head.  "Not quite that good."

"What kind of trouble?" Diana demanded like an overeager child playing
Twenty Questions.

"Financial.  Personal.  Maybe even legal."

"The only person I can think of is Adrian." Diana shook her head.  "But
there's no way he could be in financial trouble."

"Don't be so sure .  .

"Adrian Arnold's in financial trouble? That's impossible. Not with a
thousand courses around the country using his textbook every semester.
11

"True enou h, Counselor," Gail acknowledged.  "But

9 remember how he was always complaining about Rebecca the Princess
driving him nuts with her demands for more alimony and child support?"

"I thought that was just because she was jealous of Diana paused.  "What
did she call them? Oh, yeah, his 'Young tarts."'

"Apparently it wasn't only the tarts-although I heard his latest is less
than half his age and quite a hot ticket." Gail's eyes sparkled as she
leaned toward Diana.  "Because Rebecca just won!"

"Won what?" Diana asked, completely baffled "A huge settlement for back
payment!" Gail cried triumphantly and sat back in the chair.  She swung
her leg nonchalantly.  "Seems our little friend Adrian got caught hiding
almost ten years' worth of royalties."

"Ten years?" Diana whistled.  "On all those books?"

"I don't know the specifics,

Gail raised her eyebrows.

but I heard the number was well over six figures."

gossiped some more about Adrian, then the conversation jumped and
skipped, as it does between close friends. They discussed how Gail's
two-year-old sons had mashed sweet potatoes into her mother's new
catpet, then switched to the effect of national health care on
psychotherapists, the latest Barbara Kingsolver novel they were both
reading, and the cover story in the Atlantic exploring the significance
of divorce on children.  Then Diana told Gail the Sandy chocolate-chip
cookie storymitting Sandy's name, of course.  Gail laughed uproariously,
making only one passing comment about Diana's obsession with
borderlines. But when Gail's chortling died down, her face sobered, and
she began watching her swinging boot, uncharacteristically silent.

"What?" Diana demanded.  "You think this woman's dangerous?"

"It's possible-but I doubt it," Gail said, continuing to watch her foot.
Then, with false casualness, she asked, "So how's everything else?"

"Everything else?" Diana repeated, fear gripping her stomach, although
she wasn't sure why.

"You know." Gail looked up for a second and then concentrated once again
on her boot.  She shrugged.

"Fine," Diana lied.  "The police seem to be at an impasse because
there's so little physical evidence." She had told no one but "her
lawyers'as she now thought of Valerie and Mitch-about Levine's visit,
figuring the fewer people who were aware she was still an active
suspect, the better. The lack of an immediate arrest, combined with the
Thanksgiving holiday and numerous catastrophes both local and
international, had pushed her case from the public eyeand she was going
to do everything she could to ensure that :it stayed that way.  Diana
felt a little guilty not confiding in Gtil, but knew it was for the
best.  Swallowing hard, she attempted a laugh.  "The police say it's a
shitcan."

Giiii glanced up, her eyes dark with sympathy.

"'['hat means a homicide not likely to be solved." Diana's voice was
upbeat when she started the sentence, but the ex,,ession on Gail's face
caused her words to dwindle off toward the end.  Her hands trembled
slightly, and she .            clasped them together.  "What?" she
demanded.  "What is it?"

Gail bit at her thumbnail, and then began to speak.  "I might as well
just come out and say it .  .

Diana swung her legs from the couch and planted them on the floor as if
to better brace herself against the impact. She waited silently.

"A policeman came to see me on Monday," Gail said, speaking quickly.
"Asking questions about you and James. He-"

"Tall and skinny with gray curly hair?" Diana interrupted, her voice
remarkably calm considering the turmoil that raged within her.  "Seems
like a real nice guy?"

Gail nodded, her eyes so filled with compassion that Diana felt tears
pricking behind her own.  "He talked to everyone else in the group too,"
Gail continued.  She leaned across the table and grabbed Diana's hands.
"But no one told him anything-even Adrian.  I know.  I grilled them
all."

Diana stood and walked into the front bay.  She looked out on the narrow
street, watching the college students an(i tourists and neighborhood
people jostling each other for sidewalk space.  The Friday after
Thanksgiving, she thou)ht somewhat irrationally, was the busiest
shopping day oi- th year.  But the creatures outside her window might
have beeii from another planet for all she had in common with tliei-n,
worrying about what to bu for whom, and which of their y charge cards
still had a viable credit line.  She hated them. Every last one of them.

She hated every person who walked on the earth, who ate dinner with a
fork, and who called his mother on Suiiday.  Every person whose life was
still non-nal.  Every person whose concerns were the mundane.  Her anger
and frlistrttion grew as she watched the preoccupied crowds until she
feared her tun-noil would burst from her as a livin,, breathing, hating
demon.  "Did he ask you if I was a moneyhungry bitch who would kill to
get her hands on h iff a

on dollars?" She whirled around to face Gail.

I

-ome and sit down," Gail said, striding over to Diana and trying to help
her to the couch.

Diana threw off Gail's hands and remained rooted in the bay.  She hated
Gail too.  Crossing her arms, Diana glared at her friend.  "Did he ask
you if I had sex with James?"

Gail stepped back and said nothing.  Then she walked to the chair and
sat down.  "He wanted to know if you ever discussed having a sexual
attraction to James," she said quietly.  "And he did ask if you were
aware that James was planning to change his will." She pointed to the
couch. "That's all he asked anyone."

As she listened to Gail's calm words and watched her friend's quiet
movements, Diana went suddenly numb.  She felt no more anger, no more
hatred.  All she felt was a deep, searing emptiness.  Perhaps, she
thought with some removed, still-rational part of her brain, this was
shock. She grabbed the window molding for support, almost as if her
anger had been holding her upright, and now that it was gone, she had
nothing to support her.  Pushing off the wall, she moved from the ba and
slumped into the couch. "Sorry,,, she said.

(jlii] nodded her understanding and then continued.  "No one told him
anything.  Everyone quoted him the 'privileged infof-tiiation' line,
and, to his credit, he accepted my refusal very graciously.  Marc said
the same thing."

"Oh, Levine's gracious all right." Diana's voice was without affect.
"Gracious as a cobra."

"I checked with my friend Stacey-she does litigationafter he left," Gail
continued.  "Stacey said that the only way we can be forced to break
confidentiality is if this cop gets someone in the DA's office to
convene a grand jury," She Paused and took a deep breath.  "She said we
could be subPo nted to appear.  .

Diana looked up at her friend.  "Can they do that before sonicone's been
arrested?" Gail shrugged.  "Stacey called it Pre-litigation deposition,
or discovery, or some such thing." She touched Diana's knee.  "But she
said if it happened, we'd have to talk.  That we'd be under oath."

Diana closed her eyes, remembering all the things she had said in peer
review.  Every concern she had ever voiced, every confidence she had
ever shared.  About her sexual attraction for James.  About her erotic
fantasies.  About her feelings for him.  She remembered the day she had
told Gail what James had said about his will, never believing for a
moment that he meant a word of it.  "Can you believe that one?" she had
asked Gail, laughing.  "A new way to get rich: knock off a grateful
patient." Diana's eyes flew open and she stared into Gail's, fear
nibbling at her numbness. "You'd have to tell that I knew about the
will?" she said.

Gail nodded miserably.  "And what you said when you told me about it."

Diana closed her eyes again.

"You look tired, sweetie," Gail said softly.  "Would you like me to
stayr would you rather I left?"

Diana was tired.  Exhausted.  Bereft of energy.  She leaned back against
the couch and imagined friendly ol' Detective Levine shmoozing with some
assistant district attorney, getting him or her to convene a grand jury.
She closed her eyes again.  If her peer supervisory group talked, she
was a dead woman.

"I'll let myself out," Gail said softly.  "I'll call you tomorrow."
Gail's boots scraped against the floor as she stood. She left a light
kiss on Diana's brow.

Diana sat silent and still, listening to Gail's footsteps descending the
stairs, a dreamlike kaleidoscope of unrelated images shifting across her
mind's eye: Adrian Arnold's malicious critique of her sampling
procedures when she presented her preliminary research results at peer
review; Jill stabbing a poker into her living room carpet; Sandy's
stunning face smiling out of the Filene's ad; Ethan's hol- low, vacant
eyes; Craig, pale and scared, standing next to her in the hospital;
James, his chiseled face lightly covered with sweat, his shoulders
exposed by a blue cotton tank top, shiny and achingly erotic.

She saw Detective Levine laughing uproariously in the great room, and a
picture that had run in the Globe of an imprisoned mother nursing her
baby, separated from the photographer by a seemingly endless row of
vertical bars. .             24 ON MONDAY MORNING DIANA RESUMED HER FULL
schedule.  The first thing she did was call both of her lawyers. Valerie
was ecstatic about their progress on the of so upbeat.  "As far as the
Inquirer suit, but Mitch was n

olice are concerned, Molly Arell is an upstanding citizen," p he told
Diana.  "So, regardless of Jill Hutchins's actual guilt aintain her
alibi, they'll probor innocence, if the aunt can in ably look to another
suspect."

ding to specify just who that They both knew without nee other suspect
might be.

He was also concerned about Levine's aggressiveness. After some
deliberation over the cost, Diana authorized Mitch to have his
detective, Norman Seymour, spend three hours on the case.  Mitch agreed
with Diana's assessment that they needed to focus on Ethan, and he
suggested that Norman do just that.  Norman would start with Ethan's rap
sheet, following up all the arrests to determine if there were any
outstanding warrants or Parole violations-or anything convince the the
least bit suspicious that might be used to "And maybe police Ethan was a
better suspect than Diana.

whereabouts," Norman'll be able to get a lead on Kruse's

232

itch said, although the tone of his voice suggested that he

lieved otherwise. When she told Mitch about Jill's repossessed car and
dam Arell's reference to a problem Jill had had in Des Moines, he
suggested that Norman devote one of his hours to Jill.  "Just because
the police eliminate her as a suspect," Mitch said, "doesn't mean that
we have to." Norman could check into the seriousness of Jill's financial
problems through some national credit databases and run her name through
some criminal databases to which he had access. Diana was skeptical
about the possibility o Jill having a criminal background.  But she
agreed with Mitch: They might as well check it out.

They also decided Diana should go to Ken's Pub.

By two o'clock Diana had completed her work commitments for the day. Her
borderline group had just finished and she had no more appointments. If
she left the house immediately, she could be at Ken's by two-thirty-the
perfect time, according to Mitch, to get information from someone
working in a restaurant.  "They're tired and bored in the midafternoon,"
he told her.  "Most apt to speak to a stranger.  Most apt to let down
their guard."

Diana wanted desperately to find Ethan.  She had to find him, for she
and Mitch had agreed that Ethan could very well be her only chance.  But
Diana didn't want to go to Ken's.  She didn't want to find him.  The
truth was, she was a little afraid of Ethan-maybe more than a little.
And she always liked been.

Pulling, open a file drawer, Diana ran her finger along the tahs Lintil
she came to the one she was searching for: "Borderline Group Session
Notes." She pulled the file from the cabinet and brought it to her desk.
Without sitting, she quickly sifted through the contents, searching for
a photograph that had been taken almost exactly a year ago.

Sandy had brought a camera to group-a gift from her new boyfriend, a
photographer-and had been so excited and anxious to show off its
features, that in an attempt to

asked the group if Sandy calm Sandy's mania, Diana had could take a few
pictures.  it was right after Ethan had joined, during those short weeks
when openness and affability had reigned and everyone was still
optimistic, so no one objected.  When Sandy suggested a group shot using
the automatic timer, even Diana had agreed to be photographed.

The picture was facedown at the back of the file.  Gingerly, Diana
lifted it without turning it over and held it away from her for a
moment.  She remembered the afternoon clearly: Ethan clowning as they
waited for the timer to release; the serious case of the giggles they
had all caught; how warm James's arm had felt across her shoulder.

She took a deep breath and slowly turned the photo over. Looking down at
it-at them as they had once been-she felt such a bittersweet stab of
nostalgia that she almost winced.  They looked so happy.  So carefree.
So hopeful. How could only a year have passed?

Now James was dead.  Ethan had disappeared.  Sandy was more lost than
ever, Bruce was still fainting, and Terri couldn't bring herself to go
anywhere near the subway.  And she? Diana narrowed her eyes and studied
tie laughing woman in the picture.  She had aged a decade in the past
year.

Diana forced herself to look at James, at the perfect Iiiie of his
cheekbone, at the deep happiness in his eyes as he rested his arm on her
shoulder and his chiii (ii tol) of her head.  Ethan stood next to James,
almost the height and of comparable buildven their hair -,,,,is a
similar chocolate-brown color-but the look that giiiitei from Ethan's
eyes could not have been more different from James's.  Ethan's eyes were
hard and cold, iili-nost colorless.  A shiver ran down Diana's back.
Ethan's eyes were empty.

"Sometimes I think there's nothing inside Ethan," James had once
confided to her.  "Like he's hollow.  Just ,i shell pretending to be a
human being." He had stared silently at her for a moment, then added,
"Sometimes he scares the shit out of me."

Diana dropped the picture into her purse, reminded once again of James's
uncanny perceptiveness.  One of the most common characteristics of
Ethan's illness-antisocial personality disorder-was the inability to
experience emotion, part icularly guilt or empathy: Ethan was a truly
hollow man.

Diana took her coat from the rack and buttoned it, but it did little to
ward off the cold that emanated from the marrow of her bones.  She was
afraid.  Afraid she wouldn't find Ethan.  And afraid that she would.

For although it wasn't unusual for people with Ethan's disorder to die
young, she wasn't worried that Ethan was dead-he was far too cunning and
street-smart for that, and he had left a message on her machine just
last week.  What Diana fe,,,red was that he had caused another to die.
And that if backed into a corner, he would have no qualms about doing it
again.

She be,,an to unbutton her coat.  She couldn't put herself in this kind
of jeopardy.  She couldn't take this kind of ch .  ance with her baby's
life.  Then, once again, she heard the gnrn bleating of the Middlesex
horn prodding the sluggish prisoners into their tiny cells.

And Diana knew that she had no choice.

Diana was disappointed when she found a parking spot in front oi' a
small Cambodian restaurant just a couple of blocks clown from Ken's Pub.
She had been hoping there would be no spaces on Mass Ave.  Then she
would have to go home.  Craig would never let her park on a side street
in Ceiitriti Square when it might be dark by the time she got back.  Too
risky, he would say.  Much too risky.  She smiled wryly at herself In
this instance she would have been more than happy to comply with Craig's
cautiousness.

Slowly she climbed from the jeep, wishing she were back at Molly
Arell's.  Talking with James's congenial aunt now seemed a picnic
compared with looking for someone who might be a psychopathic killer.
Stop it, Diana reprimanded herself.  Aside from Ethan's lengthy rap
sheetwhich she knew would include a number of DWI and pettythp-it
arrests, as well as one for "hurricane drag racing," a variation on
chicken in which both drivers must be loaded to the gills-there was no
indication he was a killer. None whatsoever.  She swung her purse over
her shoulder and marched down the crowded sidewalk toward Ken's.

Actually Ethan had always been particularly gracious to her.  Congenial,
polite, always calling when he disappeared to let her know where he was.
Never threatening or mean, never the least bit dangerous.  The only
thing she could realty accuse him of was oversolicitousness.

She smiled as she opened the heavy oak door of the restaurant,
remembering a session when Ethan had reprimanded Sandy for interrupting
Diana.  "Eddie Haskell clone", she had scribbled in her notes, a
reference to an obsequious character from "Leave It to Beaver......
Figure out what he wants." Her smile disappeared when she realized that
she never had.

Diana blinked into the dimness of the pub, the dark wood and glazed
windows giving the place a clandestine, cavelike ambience.  A small
woman approached her from the dusky shadows, and Diana indicated her
preference for a table near the I bar, as Mitch had suggested.  "Talk to
the bartei,(iei-," he had instructed her.  "They're the ones who know
everything that's going on." They had discussed the fact that she
could't sit at the bar-a lone pregnant woman on a bar stool sipping club
soda was a bit too peculiar-so they decided oil a nearby table from
which she could easily rise and reqLIC','( some change.

Diana self-consciously settled herself in the chair, renicving her coat
and smoothing her jumper in a mannei- that "Too bad You emphasized her
slightly protruding stomach. aren't further along," Mitch had said.
"Nothing like a prel, a nant woman to elicit sympathy and loosen a
tongue." Dis-Rusted as she was by the idea, Diana could appreciate the
wisdom of his words.

Although she wasn't hungry, she ordered a sandwich and picked at it as
she watched the bartender enclosed in his large oval-shaped bar, her
unease growing along with her scrutiny.  He was a gruff and reticent
black man named Marcel.  He waited on his two customers with unemotional
efficiency, running tabs, making drinks, even getting a pack of
cigarettes from the machine, without moving a muscle in his
expressionless face.  One of the waitresses appeared truly afraid of
him, and the other, a long-legged student type, joked with him, although
Marcel's response was invariably a scow 1.

Diana knew this man wasn't going to give her any information.  How could
he? she wondered, taking a tiny bite of her sandwich: She was never
going to get up the guts to talk to him.  Then she remembered the
tightness around Detective Levine's jaw when he said he didn't believe
in shitcai)s.  She stood up.

"COLII(-i I please have change for a five?" she asked, holding out ;t
bill toward Marcel while pressing a hand to the small of' tier back.

He glanced at her stomach as he took the proffered money and grunted in
a somewhat friendly way.

"A dollar in change, please," Diana added, not knowing what else to say.
Mitch had told her to be pleasant and tentative.  To try to elicit
sympathy.  When Marcel reached over the bar to give her the change,
Diana dropped her hand from her back and sank onto a stool.  She ran her
fingers through her htir and sighed.

"YOL) okay?" he asked, his voice rich and low with concern.  "('iiii I
get you something?"

Diana f'clt heat rise to her face and the sweat of embarrassmefit
1)rickle under her arms.  "No, no," she stuttered, horrified at what she
was doing-and how good she was at it.  4'1'in fine.  Really I am."

Marcel looked at her closely.  "My wife just had her second," he said.

Diana nodded.  "Maybe a little water?" she asked tentatively.

He quickly produced a glass of water.  She took a few sips, and he
watched her impassively until she emptied the glass.

"Thanks," she said.  "I guess I just stood up too fast." He nodded and
began to turn away.  Diana knew if she didn't speak up now, she never
would.  "Excuse me," she called, her voice a little breathless with
trepidation.

Marcel turned back to her.  He said nothing, just waited, pokerfaced.

"I-I was wondering if you could please help me?" Diana asked.  When
Marcel took a step closer, the flicker of concern registering on his
stolid face, Diana shook her head. "I'm fine," she said, pulling the
photo from her purse.  "It's something else."

Warily, Marcel stepped back as she pushed the picture across the bar.

"I'm looking for someone," she said, her nervousness adding just the
right amount of shakiness to her voice.  "I really need to find him."

Marcel glanced down at the picture, then up at Diana. His face was
expressionless.  He didn't move.  "Never seen any of them."

Diana pointed to Ethan.  "Please," she said plaintively, trying to make
her eyes moist and sincere.  "It's really important." She blinked
rapidly and then looked down at

er stomach.  "I the photograph, placing her hand lightly on h don't know
where he is," she added softly, hating herself for what she was
suggesting, while hoping that it worked. "I just need to talk to him."

Marcel reached for the picture.  He studied it for a while, then placed
it back down on the bar.

"Ethan Kruse is his name," Diana said, pointing again. "Do you know
him?"

Marcel squinted at Diana.  "You're that psychologist," he said, his
voice deadpan, but his eyes reflecting his all-toocomplete awareness of
her situation.

Diana's face flushed as she nodded.  She felt naked and ashamed,
unmasked for the liar she was.  "Has he been in here lately?" she asked
quickly to hide her embarrassment.

"Not since before that Hutchins guy died," Marcel said, pointing a
splayed finger at James.

Disappointed, Diana slumped on the stool.  She twirled the einpty glass
on the bar.

Marcel's eyes flickered over her face, and a flash of empathy passed
through them.  "That one's been here since then," he said, pointing at
Sandy.  "With the other woman and her boyfriend, the professor."

"The other woman-was she tall with red curly hair?" Diana asked,
figuring he must be talking about Jill.

Marcel nodded.

"But not Ethan?"

Marcel turned and picked up a rag, studiously wiping the counter along
the other side of the bar.  Then he pivoted back toward Diana and added,
"Been a lot quieter since those two guys stopped coming by."

"What do you mean?" Diana asked, leaning her elbows on the brass
railing.

Marcel said nothing for a moment.  He studied Diana, then seemed to come
to some kind o decision about her. "Especially Kruse.  He's been a
regular here for years.  I've had to cut him off lots of times.  Got
into fights." He poked the picture again.  "Was yelling at Hutchins one
of the last times I saw him."

"Ethan and James had a right in here." Diana demanded. "Right before
James was killed?"

"Don't know about right before," Marcel said, picking up the rag again.
"And it wasn't a right.  Just yelling." He turned and walked down to the
far end of the bar.

Disappointed, Diana watched his retreating back.  Like so much of what
she had learned about Jill, she already knew .            just about
everything Marcel had told her about Ethan.  His penchant for fights.
His aggressiveness toward James.  His disappearance.  She was coming up
empty again.

Slowly Diana climbed off the stool and gathered her things.  She left
money on the table with her check and headed toward the door.  As she
passed Marcel, who was engrossed in his scrubbing with his back to her,
she called out her thanks.  Even she could hear the frustration and
tiredness in her voice.

"Try his landlady," Marcel grunted without turning around.  "He lives
just down the street."

When Diana stepped,out of the restaurant, the winter sun was still above
the buildings.  There was enough time and light left to go to Ethan's
apartment-she had even brought the address with her, knowing it to be
the logical next step.  But, as before, she didn't want to go.  For the
more she thought about Ethan-about what he was capable of, about what he
might have done-the more frightened she became, Sh e might be stalking a
killer.  Or, if the eye,, were more than her overactive paranoia, he
might be stalking her.

She glanced down at the piece of paper on which she had copied the
address and phone number from Ethan's chart.  She had already called the
number many times, listening to its hollow ring over and over again. And
she knew the street.  It was narrow and dingy and line(i with seedy
double- and triple-deckers.  It was in one of those "low-rent" districts
in which poor people paid high rents to avoid security deposits and
credit checks.  The kind of neighborhood where everyone studiously
minded his own business.

Diana stood in front of the restaurant and eyed the traffie inching its
way along the congested street, listening to the horns honking, the
people yelling.  She tried to convince herself that the trip would be
pointless, that the landlady was sure to be oblivious of the rovings of
her transient tenants.  But, according to what Ethan had told her, Diana
figured lie must have lived at Sunderland Court for at least three or
four years.  So most likely the landlady knew somethiii2 about him.  If
she was willing to talk.

A truck was triple-parked in front of the karate studio next door to
Ken's, trapping a man who had double-parked. "Son of a bitch!" he was
yelling, waving his arms indignantlv, as if he were completely guiltless
in his current bind.  "Stupid, selfish son of a bitch!" Diana watched
his futile flailing and then swung her purse over her shoulder, once
again marching toward a destination she did not want to reach.

Two blocks in from Mass Ave., Diana felt as if she were in i different
world.  She pulled her coat more tightly around her, although the
afternoon was not cold.  She stepped into the iiii(!(The of the street,
although the sidewalk was empty. The bLISt I - and diversity of Central
Square had silenced into a griiiiy ,ameness of streets littered with
garbage and rusty cars.  'F'Ii houses she passed were tired structures
whose saolinl, I)orches supported families of three-legged furniture. No
one was about.  If not for the haunting vision of the ilirsing mother
behind bars, Diana would have quickly turned back.

She rounded the corner onto the deadend Sunderland Court, finding more
of the same kinds of houses as she tried to avoid the muddy potholes
while searching for the correct address.  She was surprised to discover
that number 17 appeared to be a large, rather respectable house
surrounded by a porch.  But as she drew closer, she realized her
original! Assumptions had been correct: the paint was peeling big time
and the railing was broken in places and missing in others, and the
floorboards of the porch were so rotted that she had to step carefully
to make sure she didn't fall through.

The front door was slightly ajar and lopsided, swinging inward on only
two of its three hinges.  Diana glanced over her shoulder and then
looked into the vestibule-if the dingy space filled with cartons and an
amazing number of old television sets could be called a vestibule.  She
decided not to go in.

Stepping back, she searched the row of buttons to the left of the door.
A sign above the top button, scrawled n barely legible Magic Marker,
read: "R.  M.  Masdea, D.D.S. No Appointment Necessary." Next to the
other half-dozen buttons were slots either empty or stuffed with
ill-fitting pieces of paper.  "E.  K." was scribbled along the side of
the one that must belong to Ethan.

As she pushed the buzzer next to the designation number one, guessing
that might belong to the landlady, Diana looked through the murky window
into Dr.  Masdea's mean little office.  Despite her own fear and
discomfort, she felt a rush of sympathy for those who had to let someone
touch their teeth in such an awful room.

"What?" demanded an annoyed voice from inside the house.

Diana stepped gingerly around the television sets and looked up the
large staircase that still retained some of its original grace, despite
its missing balustrades and pitted wood.

"What?" asked the young woman who approached the landing.  Aside from
her hair, which was wild and huge and unkempt, she seemed normal enough,
as did the two toddlers peeking out from behind her legs.

"I'm, ah .  .  ." Diana paused, although she was calmed by

1, the sight of the children and the relatively ordinary-looking woman.
"I'm looking for the landlady."

The woman squinted down at Diana and ran her fin-ers through her hair.
"I'm her," she finally said.

Diana unbuttoned her coat and pressed her hand to her lower back. "Could
I possibly speak with you for a few minutes?" She smiled and waved her
fingers at the children and then added, "I promise I won't be long."

The woman took in Diana's stomach and walked closer to the edge of the
stairs, dragging the children along, with her.  "What do you want?" she
asked, not unpleasantly.

"I'm looking for Ethan Kruse," Diana said, deciding on the direct
approach, although she wasn't sure why.

"Comes and goes," the woman said, crossing her arms. "Same as I told
that cop."

Diana climbed a few steps and stood on a landing about a quarter of the
way up so that she was - directly facing Ethan's landlady.  "Have you
seen him lately?"

"You ain't no cop, are you?" the woman demanded. The children were
big-eyed and strangely silent, watching Diana.

"I'm a friend of his," Diana said, keeping her eyes locked onto the
woman's, trying to look as sincere as she could.

'I'lie woman snorted.  "Always had a lot of them," she said, evening
Diana's stomach again.  "You're older than most."

"It's really important that I find him," Diana said, letting the woman
think what she would.

"Yoti'i-e better off without him, honey," the landlady said.  "'i'liat
guy's no good.  Never has been.  Never will be. Best y(ii take your baby
and go."

"I to," Diana said, nodding.  "When was the last time You him?"

l,slii)l),,d his rent under my door first of the month.  Full amount in
cash.  Same as always." She shrugged.  "Last time I seen him."

Diiiii calculated quickly.  The first of the month was well after
.1in-ies had been killed.  This woman had seen Ethan more ieL,t-,ntly
than anyone else.  "So he was here within the last few %veeks?" she
asked.  "He's been home?"

"GLi(:., SO." She shrugged again.  "Rent got paid.  Like I told vol!, he
comes and goes." She leaned down and deft I ly lit'ie(i I)oth children,
mounting each on a hip.  "Probab y shoul(in'i have let him stay after
what happened before," she s!i(i as she turned toward her door.  "But he
pays the reiit--at)(i that's more than most of these losers do."

Diina charged up the stairs, sidestepping the toys that littered the
landing.  "What do you mean," she demanded. "After what happened
before?"

The woman surveyed Diana, then she smiled slyly.  "After his last
girlfriend got herself a shotgun and blew off her head," she said, her
voice filled with equal measures of pity and disgust.  "Made a hell of a
mess in the apartment." She shook her wild mane of hair.  "Hell of a
mess," she repeated.

Then she kicked the door closed with her foot, leaving Diana standing
alone in the silent, toy-strewn hallway.

Dusk was falling quickly, filling the murky alleys and doorways with
ominous shadows.  Diana clutched her purse tightly and hurried down the
stairs.  Ethan's girlfriend had killed herself with a shotgun blast to
the head.  It probably meant nothing.  But it could also mean
everything.  It could save her neck legally.  Or it could get her
killed.

Right now, she didn't care much about legal.  She was edgy and scared,
her nerves like frayed rope, her every sense heightened and painfully
alert.  All she cared about was getting home.

And then, as she stepped into the street, she caught a movement along
the side of one of the houses.  She froze for a moment, like a deer
caught in headlights, then whirled around.  Nothing.  Buttoning her
coat, Diana focused on the cross street in front of her.  Get off
Sunderland Court.  Turn left and head west for two blocks.  Another left
and in two blocks she would be on Mass Ave.

She rushed down the street, oblivious of the muddy potholes, stepping
wherever her long-legged stride placed her boot.  Then she saw it again.
There was someone near the doorway of the decaying house on her right.
Someone hiding in the gloom of the listing porch.  A man.  A large man
in a bomber jacket.  Watching her.  He slipped back into the shadows,
but Diana knew that this time the eye." were for real. She began to run
and didn't look back.  Hearing the foot falls pounding behind her, she
ran even faster.  She turned the corner of Sunderland Court and raced to
the lights of Prospect Street, her body flying on the adrenaline of pure
fear.  She felt the darkness of his shadow fall onto her back. She felt
the weight of it.  The terror.  She dashed around the corner on to
Prospect, toward the bustle of Central Square. .             IANA JUMPED
INTO HER JEEP AND PUNCHED THE locks on both doors.  She rammed the key
into the ignition, gunned the engine, and pulled away from the curb.  A
horn blared in anger, but she didn't care.  All that mattered was that
she lost whoever was following her.  All that mattered was that she got
away.

Ethan.  She knew it was Ethan.  She had seen enough before he ducked
inside that doorway.  Enough of him, and enough of the jacket.  James's
leather jacket.  The jacket he and Ethan had fought over.  The jacket
Ethan had never returned.

Diana slammed on her brakes at a red light, her eyes darting feverishly
to the left and then to the right.  She looked in her rearview mirror,
straining to differentiate among the headlights that followed her,
struggling to discern if he was still there.  She stared at the light,
willing it to turn green.  She had to get away.  Now.  This instant.

Ethan was capable of anything.

He was stalking her as she was stalking him.  But what did he want? What
might he do? The array of possibilities was endless.  Frighteningly
infinite.

246

She darted across the Mass Ave.  bridge into Boston, weaving carefully
between the lanes of traffic.  She managed to twist around a truck
making a left turn onto Marlborough Street, but was halted by the light
at Boylston.  When the light finally changed, she stepped on the gas and
glanced behind her.  As before, a pair of headlights clung to her
taillights as if leashed by a powerful magnet.  But it didn't seem
possible that a single car could have stuck with her at every
intersection.  Or did it?

She moved past the Christian Science Center at a maddeningly slow pace
and then turned the jeep sharply onto St.  Stephen Street.  Checking her
rearview miitor again, she saw a line of headlights, paired and strung
behind her.  But there was no way of knowing whether a set belonged to
Ethan.

Diana didn't turn into the alley.  Instead she stayed on the street,
pulling into a spot a few doors down from the house.  She kept the
engine idling as she scrutinized the cars attached to the headlights she
had feared.  They streamed benignly by her.  She took a deep breath and
dropped her head to the steering wheel.  She rubbed a muscle in her
neck.

She had either lost him or he had never existed.  He had never existe ,
s e to d herself.  She was running from shadows.  Just like last week at
the library when she had been so sure Jill was on the other side of the
stacks, slinking along the aisle, peering between the volumes.  Diana
had felt the danger like a physical presence; she smelled it. But when
she had marched out to confront Jill, Diana found a redheaded student,
at least ten years Jill's junior, sitting cross-legged on the floor. The
girl glanced absently up from her book, then returned to her reading.

All Diana had smelled was her own fear.

There was a message from Ethan waiting for her when she went into her
office.  Diana's hands trembled as she listened.  "I'm in Charlotte," he
said.  "North Carolina.  At .            PI

my brother's.  I probably won't be north for a while-b

don't worry, I'll keep in touch." Diana shook her hea

She knew exactly where Ethan was-and it wasn't North

Carolina.  Ethan was here.  Watching her.  Following her.

She snapped the blinds shut and checked the lock on the back door,
thinking of the small handgun Craig had ordered.  Double-action, he tol
her when he came home from the store last week, showing her a picture in
a catalogue.  Some kind of revolver, she remembered, tiny and
mean-looking.  "Consider it a temporary alarm system," he said in
response to her horror at the idea of having a weapon in the house.
"I'll get rid of it as soon we fix the real system-well before the
baby's old enough to walk." For the first time since the Brady Bill
passed, Diana was sorry there was a waiting period to buy guns.

Stop it, she told herself as she removed the message tape and dropped it
into her desk drawer.  She didn't need a gun.  Last week, Detective
Levine had asked her to save all of Ethan's messages for him, so she
called the police station and told the dispatcher that she had another
tape foi Levine to pick up.  She was being ridiculous.  The episode with
Ethan's landlady had just freaked her, as had her illusionary pursuit.
Most likely Ethan was in North Carolina. His taped message did have that
long-distance crackle to it, and she thought she remembered a brother
somewhere in the South.  Most likely it was just the same as the
incidents at the library and in the alley: She had imagined the whole
thing.  There had been no man in a bomber jacket, no footfalls chasing
her, no headlights following her.  The eyes were not real.  She had to
stop running from shadows. She had to stop scaring herself with outra
eous fantasies. 9 Reality was more than scary enough.

Diana fiddled with the tape in the open drawer before her, trying to
catch an elusive memory that danced away every time she got close to it.
She thought she remembered something that might impress Detective
Levine.  Something Ethan had once said about shotguns.  And girlfriends.

She went over to the file cabinet containing her group session records,
trying to recall exactly when Ethan had started.  She pulled two files
from the drawer and carried them back to her desk, then flipped open the
first one.  It had been Halloween-just over one year ago-and by
Thanksgiving she had known she had made a terrible mistake.

For months James had been begging her to let Ethan into the group,
convinced that she was the only one who could help his friend.  "He's a
good guy underneath all the cocaine and bravado," James had told her. "I
know you could really help him."

After a couple of phone conversations, she had invited Ethan for a
preliminary interview.  He came in late one afternoon, a sly
I've-been-a-bit-naughty aura about him. He was forthcoming about his
drinking and drug use, and even admitted to a few petty crimes.  "I
don't want to be like this anymore," he said, his eyes wide and locked
onto hers.  "I want to change."

He told the classic borderline tale of constant abandonment by those
closest to him.  And he had the major single traumaringing in the corner
of the kitchen as his mother's boyfriend slit her throat-that Diana was
finding so common among her research sample.  Although a small voice in
the back of her mind told her not to do it-a voice she now wished she
had heeded-Diana had agreed to let Ethan in the group for a three-month
trial period.

Diana didn't need to read her notes -to remember that he had shown up
for that first session wearing a wide orange tie with skeletons dancing
all over it-and flying high on cocaine.  Ethan had squirmed in his seat,
played with the ring on his finger, and sniffled and swallowed a lot.
His pupils were dilated, and he excused himself twice to use the
bathroom-presumably to take a few snorts.  Had she known him better she
might have challenged him or brought it up to the group, asking them
what it felt like to have their cohesion upset; but she hadn't been sure
he didn't suffer from allergies-and she had known the group wasn't
ready, Her notes did remind her that, despite the cocaine, he had been
"attentive and sweet," listening to Sandy's struggles with her father
and even offering a few, quite sensible, solutions. But within a month
Ethan's flimsy veneer of charm had worn through.  He was edgy and
irritable, snapping at Sandy to grow up and for Bruce to get a life.  By
Christmas he was I swaggering around the room, taunting James and Teffi
for being "wimpy-assed teetotalers" and bragging that he could drink an
entire bottle of Jack Daniels and not feel a thing. And then there had
been the fistfight over James's bomber jacket.  She had asked him to
leave and he had-for almost two months. When he returned, all contrite
and apologetic, full of resolve to change and willingness to meet all
her demands for his reentry into the group, she had allowed him back in
It had been a mistake, but terminating a patient was a ticklish and
formidable task, one that Diana had always found extremely difficult.
Gail claimed it was because Diaiit's heart was too soft-that her
patients had survived before they had started seeing her, and that they
would survive long after her as well.  Diana grimaced, thinking of how
long James had survived after she had terminated with him: less than
three months. With James there had just been no choice.  He had gotten
completely out of hand.  Although he had been on a downward slide the
entire last year of his life, this past sumly1ci had been a disasters
disaster for which Diana held her- i

i self responsible.  "I need you to think of me as much as I I think of
you," James had begged one July morning after Diana caught him following
her to the library.  "Otherwise there's no purpose to my life." When she
told him that hill purpose for living had to come from within himself,
he had blamed her for his inability to get his life together, declaring
that if she were a better doctor be would be better too.  Diana had
known his words held more than a grain of truth.

So she had tried to be a better doctor: talking to her peer supervisory
group, consulting an expert on borderline disorders at Harvard, working
out her feelin s in her journal.  But the damage had been done, an 9

d James only got worse.  "I'm going to kill myself and it's up to you to
see that I don't," he warned, trying to use her feelings for him against
her. Where before he had pretended to accidentally bump into her at the
store or the library, he now blatantly followed her to class, to the
parking lot, to the dry cleaner's.  He hid in her car and harassed
Craig's secretary with phony appointments.  He also began stealing her
things: the hairbrush she left on a shelf in the office, the coral
paperweight her parents had brought her from Greece.  When she
confronted him about his inappropriate behavior, he crossed his arms and
said, "If I'm going nowhere, you've only yourself to blame."

Gail and Craig and her entire peer group argued for termination. "You're
not doing either one of you any good," Gail told her.  "If you really
care about him, refer him elsewhere." Craig was even more
adamantspecially after they discovered Diana was pregnant.  "I don't
want him around you," he said.  "We don't know what he's capable of.

With much ambivalence and trepidation, Diana told James she couldn't be
his therapist anymore.  Rather than the anger she had expected, James's
face crumpled and tears streamed down his cheeks.

"Please," he had begged.  "Don't turn me away.  I've nowhere to go
without you."

Although she wanted to take him in her arms and tell him he could stay,
Diana remained resolute, explaining what a good doctor Alan Martinson
was and how much better Off James would be with him.  She set up a
series of termination sessions, but James never returned.  Within the
week, he was at Mass General having Seconal pumped from his stomach.
Less than three months later, he was dead. .             Diana closed
her eyes against the pain and forced herself to return to her search for
Ethan's shotgun reference. After about an hour of fruitless reading, she
finally found the reference in the notes from a group the following
spring: Ethan had talked about how his mother's boyfriend had taken him
duck hunting and taught him to shoot-before the boyfriend killed the
mother, that was.  Diana shook her head.  Nothing that would impress
Levine.  Anyone could have been taught to use a shotgun.  And the truth
was, a person didn't need lessons to know how to blow someone's head
off.

Disappointed, Diana put the file back in the cabinet.  She called Mitch
and briefly summarized her afternoon; he was very interested in Ethan's
girlfriend's death, and they made an appointment for the next day.  She
called Craig and asked him to pick up Chinese food on his way home. Then
she the next day's pulled out her notes and began reviewing for lecture.
of the evening

When Craig got home they ate in front f news, pressed close together on
the couch, open boxes o moo shu chicken and Hunan-spiced shrimp spread
on the coffee table in front of them.  Diana told him about her visits
with Marcel and Ethan's landladymitting her fears of being followed.
Craig told her his client in Nashville was concerned about a slip in the
construction schedule and that he had to go,down there on Wednesday. for
three days,"

"I worry about you here by yourself he said, putting down his chopsticks
and looking at her seriously.

111,11 be fine." Diana loaded more moo shu chicken into the empty
pancake on her plate and carefully rolled it into the shape of a fat
cigar.  "Gail stays home alone all the time when Shep travels." Diana
wasn't nearly as confident as she sounded, but Craig was having enough
trouble at work because of her; if he refused to go to Tennessee-which
she knew he would if she seemed the least bit afraid-it could make
things extremely difficult for him.  "It's not i big deal," she added,
smiling and taking a bite of the sloppy pancake.

"I'll be right back," Craig said, standing up and walking into the
hallway.  He returned with a large white bag.  Slow- ly he removed the
contents: a box of bullets,,a Ziploc bag containing some oddly shaped
tools, and a black rectangular box that Diana knew contained the gun. "I
know you don't want this in the house," he said before she could speak,
"but it'll make me feel a lot better if you just let me leave it in my
night table drawer."

Diana put down her moo shu chicken and pressed herself into the couch.
"I don't like this."

"And you think I do?" Craig asked as he snapped open the box and showed
her the gun lying on ridges of foam rubber-.  It was shiny and small and
looked more like a toy than a deadly weapon.

Despite her aversion, Diana reached out and touched it. "I thought it
would be a bluish color," she said,

"I got a license so it's all legal and official.  I signed up for
lessons at a firing range somewhere out in Weston.  You should take a
few too.  This thing doesn't have a safetyonce it's loaded it's ready to
go."

Diana pulled her hand back as if it had been burned.  "I'm not learning
how to shoot a gun."

"Okay, okay," Craig said, snapping the case shut.  "I'll load it later
and put it away-you can forget it's even here."

But Diana knew she wouldn't forget,

The next day Diana decided to walk to her appointment with Mitch.
Although it would be dark by the time the meetin.Q was over, her path
home from his office crossed some of the brightest and busiest segments
of Bostonspecially now, as the city was festooned with millions of
Christmas I iglits and what seemed to be almost as many shoppers.  She
hoped the gaiety would be contagious.

T'lie late afternoon sky was an unforgiving steel-gray as Diana stood in
front of Symphony Hall waiting for the .            light to change.  A
cold wind was kicking up off the water, and she wrapped her scarf an
extra time around her neck. Across the street, the Christian Science
Plaza was blazing with lights and bustling with people, as if defying
both the weather and the calendar.  But neither the lights nor the
people could fool Diana.  It was cold, it was bleak, and today was the
first day of December.

As she walked across the plaza., ignoring the Salvation Army Santas and
the street merchants hawking Christmas baubles beneath the columns, she
reviewed all she had to tell Mitch, and worried about all he had to tell
her.  She lii(i detected both an edge of excitement and a tinge of
desl)iir in his voice when she had called to set up their meeting.
"We'll go over everything tomorrow," he had promised. "Tomorrow we'll
sort the germane from the irrelevant." For some reason, Diana found the
idea of sorting the germane from the irrelevant quite ominous.

She was so distracted that she almost tripped over a child turning
circles along the side of the reflecting pool. A little boy in a bright
purple parka bumped into her, lost his balance, and sat down hard on the
concrete.  Surprised. he leaned his head backward until his eyes met
hers, then began to giggle.  His mother ran over to them and scoope(,,
the child up in her arms.  "Sorry," she said to Diana, siliiiing as she
nuzzled his neck.  "He never watches where going.  Do you? Do you?" she
demanded in mock seriousness.  The little boy continued to giggle.  As
his mother  turned around, he raised a red mittened hand to Diana and
waved good-bye.

Diana stopped and watched the small red mitten disippear into the crowd.
She continued to wave, somehow uplifted by the encounter, although the
child was no longer  aware of her.  She strode more purposefully toward
Mitcli's, focusing on the encouraging things she had to tell him: that
Ethan and James had been heard arguing at Ken's i-i,-ht before James's
murder; that Ethan had most likely bceii to his apartment within the
last couple of weeks; that she had the feeling the bartender knew more
than he was telling.  And she already knew Mitch considered her
discovery about Ethan's girlfriend's "Suicide" germane.

Not bad for an amateur, she thought, riding the escalator down toward
Boylston Street.  And as she walked past the towering Prudential Center
Christmas tree, she was reminded that the coming of December also
brought her that much closer to the birth of her child.

By the time she stepped into Mitch's office, she was feeling much
better, almost optimistic.  ,so, let's sort the germane from the
iffelevant," she said cheerfully as she sank into the chair he pulled
out for her.

Mitch raised his eyebrows in mild surprise and went around to the other
side of his desk.  He nodded and pulled a folder from the drawer.  "You
first." As before, he took notes and listened carefully, stopping to ask
her a question now and then.  She told him everything she had discovered
and everything she thought about each piece of information. When she
finished, he seemed very pleased and declared all of her information
germane.

"Kruse never said anything to you about the girlfriend's suicide'?"
Mitch asked.

She shook her head.  "Patients only tell you what they want-and there's
no way for a therapist to find anything out unless you're told."

"But wouldn't the police call you?" Mitch asked, obviously surprised.

"About what?"

"I don't know-like if something strange happened involving one of your
patients? Or if a patient got arrested?"

Diana smiled; the outlandish assumptions people had about therapists
always amused her.  "How would the police know that he was one of my
patients?"

Mitch nodded.  "I'll have Norman run a check on the girlfriend's
suicide-we just might have something here.  And," he added, pulling a
small packet of computer printouts from the file, "I've got a few
interesting tidbits for you too.  Many of them based on the information
you got in Norwich." He smiled at her.  "Maybe you're in the wrong
occupation?"

Flushed with optimism and Mitch's compliments, Diana grinned.  "It's
nice to know I have a fall-back career if this one blows up in my face."
Her grin disappeared as she listened to her own words.

"Here's my good news," he said quickly.  "Jill Hutchins may have an
alibi, but she's looking more and more suspicious with every additional
piece of information we discover about her."

"She is?"

He flipped through the printouts.  "According to this preliminary credit
check, the woman is deeply in debt, and her credit rating is abysmal."
He tapped the desk with his pen. "But there's something else here

"Something else?"

He locked his fingers behind his head and looked at the ceiling.  "It's
subtle, but her pattern of debt seems to indicate a kind of
desperation," he said.  "At various times, on a single day, she's pulled
cash from every credit card.  All the cash she could get." He turned and
looked at Diana.  "That and her criminal record."

"Jill has a criminal record?" Diana leaned closer to Mitch. "Something
we can use?"

He held up his hands, "Don't get too excited.  We don't know if it's
germane or irrelevant yet." He smiled at her, then continued , "But it
appears that Ms.  Hutchins was arrested for assault with a deadly weapon
out in Des Moines a few years back.  And she also had a run-in with the
police in Omaha, Nebraska, in the early eighties.  Grand theft auto.

"Molly Arell's perfect little angel

"The aunt probably never knew anything about it.  The Nebraska thing
happened a long time ago-and a long way from home." He checked his pages
once more.  "And the Des Moines charge was dropped rather abruptly."

"Whom did she assault?" Diana asked, beginning to enjoy herself.  "With
what deadly weapon?"

"Her husband, with a knife, in the kitchen," he said, his voice serious,
but his eyes laughing.

Diana flashed on Jill holding a poker to her stomach the afternoon she
had gone in search of her journal.  She saw herself on her knees,
looking into Jill's feverish eyes.  Perhaps this wasn't so much fun
after all.

"This isn't a parlor game," Mitch said, as if reading her mind.  "We've
got to watch this woman.  I think we should follow up on why the Des
Moines charges got dropped."

Diana nodded.  "What about Ethan?"

Mitch pulled out another folder, flipped it open, and glanced into it,
"Nice company you're keeping," he said.

"That bad?" Diana asked,

"He starts off with everything from disorderly conduct to burglary to
DWI .  .

Diana nodded. e "Spends some time in Leavenworth-but he's released arly
for his good behavior, and, I quote, 'impressing the authorities with
his attitude, remorse, and plans for the future."'

"I believe that," Diana said, shaking her head and smiling slightly.  At
least she wasn't the only one Ethan had bamboozled.  He had told stories
Diana believed to be true because no one could make up anything so
detailed and complicated-but she'd discovered later they were pure
fabrication,

"Kruse's list ends with compounding a felony, arson, and rape," Mitch
was saying.

"Rape?"

"It wasn't just Ethan involved in that rape," he said

Slowly.

Diana's heart sank, and she knew before she heard the Words what Mitch
was going to tell her.

"He and James Hutchins were arrested last NovemberNovember 15, to be
exact-for rape.  A young woman claimed they gave her a ride home from a
party and then wouldn't leave her apartment until she had sex with them
both."

"That's impossible," Diana cried.  "Something like that couldn't have
happened to James last year-he would have told me about it .  .  ." Her
voice dropped off at the end of the sentence; as she said the words, she
knew they weren't true.

Mitch raised his eyebrows, and Diana looked at her hands.  "If it makes
you feel any better," he said, "these charges were also dropped rather
abruptly."

"You think there's a connection between this and Jill's thing?" she
asked.  "Because the charges for both were dropped?"

He shrugged.  "Given the size of James Hutchins's bank account, I think
it's a distinct possibility." They looked at each other in silence for a
moment.  Then Mitch said, "So now are you ready for the bad news?"

Diana smiled weakly.  "I'm finding the good news hard enough to take."

"The police seem to be buying Molly Arell's story," he said quickly.
"And they haven't had any more luck than we have finding Kruse."

Diana nodded.

"But it's Herb Levine I'm worried about.  .

Diana rubbed her palms on her jumper and said nothing, feeling as if her
neck were in a guillotine.

'Word on the street is that Levine's convinced some ADA to convene a
grand jury- "ADA?" Diana asked, more to slow Mitch down than because she
really needed, or cared, to know.

"Assistant district attorney.  Your colleagues will be served subpoenas
to appear'

But how can they do this before anyone's been arrested?" Diana
interrupted again.

"It's a discovery suit," he explained patiently.  "The grand jury will
use the testimony to determine if there's probable cause to issue an
arrest warrant."

Arrest warrant.  The words reverberated through Diana's brain and her
fingers began to shake.  She pressed her hands under her arms to still
them.  Arrest warrant.

Mitch leaned toward her and asked gently, "Will it be really bad for you
if they tafk?"

Diana thought of the dream she had described to her group in which she
and James had been living naked and happy on a desert island populated
by blue trees that grew upside down.  She thought of how she had told
them of Craig's anger at James's stalking-and of his fury and threats to
confront James after the car accident.  She thought of the conversation
she had had with Gail about James's WI '11.  It was all she could do to
nod her head. .             -2f;

HE NIGHT WAS CLEAR AND BRITTLE As DIANA WALKED past the Ritz Carlton on
her way home from Mitch's office. She glanced upward in confusion,
thinking she remembered the afternoon being gray, her walk overedged by
clouds. But even through the city lights, she could see that the sky was
now black and empty, a vacant backdrop.  Was she mistaken? Had she come
so unglued that she couldn't tell this day from another? Or had the wind
just blown the clouds away while she had been in with Mitch?

She remembered a comment Mark Twain had once made about New England's
climate: that he had counted one hundred and thirty-six kinds of weather
inside of twenty-four hours.  But Twain's thoughts didn't cheer her.
Helplessness and despair surrounded her like a shroud.  Despite Mitch's
guarded optimism and the open expanse of the Commonwealth Avenue mall in
front of her, Diana felt crowded and claustrophobic.  And a little
unsteady.

For after Mitch had told her about the grand jury and the possibility of
an arrest warrant being issued, she had separated from herself.
Completely detached.  Suddenly, instead of sitting in the chair across
from his desk, she was off to the side, hovering somewhere above the
small

260 couch, watching herself as if she were an actress on the stage.

Diana stopped at the corner of Fairfield and Comm Ave. and grabbed a
streetlamp.  Although she hadn't been frightened at the time-it had
actually been a strangely pleasurable experience-she was very frightened
now.  And although it had never happened to her before, except perhaps
for a few moments in the shower or walking on a treadmill, she knew what
it was: She had dissociated.

Releasing her grip on the streetlamp and pushing herself toward Boylston
Street, Diana.  reminded herself that dissociating could be a perfectly
normal, even desirable, phenomenon.  That people aspired toward it
during meditation, that artists and writers found it to be the highest
plane of creativity.  She knew it could be brought on by simple fatioue
or stress.  But she also knew it could be a sign of a serious mental
problem.

She had actually dissociated, she thought as she stepped onto the
escalator that would take her to the Prudential Center mall.  It had
actually happened.  As a detached, almost disinterested observer, she
had watched herself nod agreemeiit to Mitch's confident declaration that
they would find a way to break Molly Arell's alibi and use both Ethan
and Jiil's criminal backgrounds against them.  She had also nodded her
acceptance of his recommendation that they wait until they had amassed
more information before going to the, police with their discoveriesven
the news about Ethan's girlfriend, he had said, would be more powerful
if it was presented along with all the incriminating facts.  Then she
had watched herself authorize him to have Norman do more ititei-isive
investigations of Ethan, Jill, and Molly.  But she had felt as if it
weren't she, Diana Marcus, doing these things.  Although she knew that
it was.

Then the Diana who was simultaneously herself and not herself, had
agreed to go back and talk with the bartender at Ken's-this time
focusing on Jill while trying to gain Marcel's confidence so that he
would tell her whatever it was he had withheld before.  And she had
offered to search her records once again for clues to Ethan's possible
whereabouts.

As she had left the office, Mitch squeezed her arm and she was
tremendously relieved to find herself fused with herself once again.
"Chin up," he told her.  "I've seen bleaker cases turn around."

But Diana didn't believe him.  Molly wasn't going to crack.  Ethan
wasn't going to be found.  And she, Diana, was going to b I e punished
for her mistakes in a way she never could have envisioned: She was going
to prison.  Levine

ad her on opportunity, and once the grand jury already h convened and
her colleagues testifiedspecially Gailthere would be more than enough
motive.  In her distraction, Diana tripped getting off the escalator on
the back side of the Prudential Center.  Flailing her arms wildly, she
was overwhelmed by her own powerlessness.  In that fleeting second of
vertigo and terror, she saw herself hunched on the sidewalk clutching
her stomach, blood running between her legs.  She cried out and a
teenage girl grabbed her arm. Diana ri hted herself and smiled weakly at
the girl.

9

Oblivious to the cold and the crowds, Diana dropped to a concrete bench
not far from the escalator and stared at the towering buildings and
glass walkways of Copley Place, at the flickering Christmas lights
adorning the Colonnade Hotel, at the water rolling over the edge of the
reflectin pool.  The world she thought she knew, the city she loved, the
people she had cared for, were all alien and frightening. She pressed
closer to the couple sharing the bench with her. Everyone and everything
was so much more dangerous than she had ever imaged.

But Levine was her biggest threat.  He and the assistant district
attorney and the grand jury.  None of them were psychologists; they
would never understand why she had needed to discuss her attraction to
James with her peers, why it had been necessary for her to confess the
depths of her passion, the fire he had ignited within her-any more than
anyone had understood why she had needed to write about it in her
journal.  And no one was going to believe that she hadn't followed
through on such powerful feelings.

Everyone was going to think that she had had sex with James-and that she
had killed him.

Diana rubbed her arms briskly, but her external actions could do nothing
to ward off the cold that emanated from deep within the marrow of her
bones.  The grand jury would not only hear of her sexual feelings for
James, but once her peer group explained the basis for
countertransference, they would also hear of his passion for her.  They
would learn she had been forced to end his therapy because her husband
was worried James might harm her; and they would most like)y wonder if
Craig hadn't also been a little bit jealous.  But most damning, the
grand jury would learn from Gail that James had indeed told her that he
was going to change his will-and that she had actually joked about
killing him for the money.

Diana stared upward, straining to glimpse the heavens through all the
earth light; but from where she sat, she could not.  The couple on her
left rose and wandered off toward Copley Place.  The bench felt empty
and cold, exposing her unprotected flank.

Diana stood and headed home, taking the path of least resistance between
the swarms of hurrying shoppers.  She allowed an ample woman gripping
two matching shopping bags to elbow around her.  She slowed behind an
elderly Couple holdin(, hands.  She skirted two boys playing tag. But
she knew that the path of least resistance was not going to be the road
she could take for long.

Diana forced herself to go to the Stop and Shop and pick up some chicken
for dinner.  She also bought some grapefruit and salad and wild rice.
She headed home with the rest of the working hungry, balancing her
parcel and strainin, to occupy her mind with the pros and cons of
various .            ZVI* recipes.  But the words arrest warrant kept
pushing a her mind's debate between barbecue versus honey-m chicken.

As she chopped tomatoes and cucumbers and whipped up a honey-mustard
sauce, she focused on the things she could do to keep Levine at bay.
Absently she boiled water for the rice and set the table.  Tomorrow was
Wednesday; her last patient was at noon.  After she dropped Craig at the
airport, she would be free.  She tossed the salad and cut the
grapefruit.  She would go to Ken's and talk to Marcel.  Then she would
come home and go through Ethan's records to search for hints of his
whereabouts.

Her reverie was broken by the chime of the doorbell. When she saw Levine
standing on the stoop, she froze.

"Got the message that you had another Kruse tape for me," he said.  "I
know it's dinnertime, but I was in the neighborhood." He smiled
sheepishly and shrugged.  "Do you mind?"

"No, no, of course not," Diana said, ushering him into the house.

He glanced around.  "Your husband isn't home yet?" he asked.

Diana shook her head.  "The tape's just downstairs in my office.  I'll
get it for you.  Do you want to come down with me? Or would you rather
wait?" She gestured awkwardly in the general direction of the kitchen.
"I was just making (linner.  Can I get you something to eat or drink?"
she blurted before thinking.

To Diana's chagrin, Levine happily took her up on the offer, declaring
he would just love a cup of coffee.  Furious with herself for her
stupidity, she told him to go sit in the kitchen while she ran and got
the tape.

When she came back upstairs, she handed him the plas box and smiled in
what she hoped was a perky-and inno cent-manner.  "Regular, I presume?"
she asked, wavinp. him into a chair 'and walking to the refrigerator for
th( coffee.

he detective eyed the two place settings on the table and sat down in
the extra chair.  "You bet," he said.  "I'm on till eleven." He crossed
his long legs casually, resting one ankle on the other.  As he watched
her setting up the coffee maker, Levine turned the rectangular tape box
from side to side, hitting it on the kitchen table, saying nothing.

His silence and the dull clunk of plastic against wood got on Diana's
nerves.  She bit her lip and kept her back to him. But when she finished
putting the filter in place, scooping the coffee, pouring the water, and
pushing the appropriate buttons, she had to turn around.  "It'll be a
few minutes," she said lamely.

He nodded, still clunking the tape.  "As long as I'm here," he said,
"and as long as we have to wait for the coffee, perhaps you won't mind
if I take advantage of your professional expertise again? I really could
use some help understanding the more complicated psychological stuff."
He flashed her a winsome smile.  "To be perfectly honest, I'm pretty
damn confused."

Diana sat down in the chair across from him.  She had to be cautious
here, she had to remember not to be disarmed by his charm: Levine was
sharper than he let on.  He probably hadn't come just for the tape, he
had most likely chosen the opportunity-and even this particular hour-for
his own ulterior motives.  "I'll be happy to try," she said, her voice
guarded.

"I've been going through James Hutchins's medical reports and talking to
doctors and psychologists-sometimes I think I've talked to every shrink
in town." His eyes sparkled mischievously.  "I've even tried reading
some of those deadly psychology textbooks .  .  ."

Diana nodded, hoping she was keeping the fear his words elicited from
showing in her eyes.

And, frankly, Dr.  Marcus, I'm very confused about this whole diagnosis
thing." He lifted his hands and turned his Palms up.  "I just don't
understand how one expert can say a man's so sick that he's a danger to
himself and othersand another expert thinks there's nothing much wrong
with him at all."

"You're talking about John Pumphrey?"

Levine pulled the ubiquitous notebook from his pocket and flipped a few
pages.  "And Benjamin J.  Talcott, M.D."

"Borderline personality disorder expert," Diana muttered.

"He's not?" Levine asked.

Diana stood and took a coffee mug from a doorless cabinet.  She filled
the cup and placed it before the detective. "Dr.  Pumphrey spent three
days with James Hutchins," she said.  "I spent three years."

He nodded his thanks.  "So you're saying you knew Hutchins better?"

"I'm saying that James Hutchins lied." Diana put cream and sugar on the
table and handed Levine a spoon. "It's part of the disease.  People
suffering from borderline personality disorder are often quite
inventive-and quite believable-liars.  'Lucid and forthcoming' is how I
think I remember Pumphrey describing James in his report. Pumphrey
didn't know James, so he couldn't tell." She had known James, Diana
reminded herself, and she ha(in't always been able to tell either.  He
had obviously failed to mention the rape incident with Ethan, Jill's
reconciliation with Molly-who knew what else.  "It can be very trick she
added, whether in her own defense or Pumphrey's, she wasn't sure.  "His
diagnosis was probably reasonable, given the information he had."

"But even your friend.  .  ." Levine glanced down at his notes.  "Alan
Martinson.  Even Dr.  Martinson said Hutchins might not have borderline
personality disorder. that he might only be suffering from posttraumatic
stress syndrome."

Diana turned abruptly and picked up the wooden spoon resting on the
stove.  Despite his claims of ignorance, Detective Levine sounded as if
he knew exactly what he was talking about.  She stirred the rice, then
checked the chicken.  She turned and leaned back against the counter.
looked directly at Levine.  "You haven't actually talked to

y

Alan Martinson, have you?"

The detective looked a little sheepish and had the grace to blush
slightly.  Then he grinned at her.  "I just read what he said in the
Inquirer."

"Go talk to Alan," Diana told him, her confidence growing.  "He'll
explain the part of the story that the Inquirer chose not to print.  The
part about how some of us are starting to think that the label of
borderline personality disorder or posttraumatic stress makes no
difference.  The part about how sick James was either way." She crossed
her arms over her chest.  "I had terminated with James.  He was very
angry with me."

Levine stirred some sugar into his coffee and looked at her
thoughtfully.  "So Hutchins did the whole thing just to get you in
trouble? The Scotch-and-Seconal suicide attempt? The lies to Pumphrey,
Martinson-and that other guy, Talcott?"

"Benjamin J.  Talcott, M.D.," Diana said, "never met James Hutchins in
his life."

"But Dr.  Pumphrey said-"

"Look," Diana interrupted.  "Pumphrey's a first-year resident-and James
was an extremely smart and manipulative man.  It was no contest.  James
could be very charming when he chose to be.  He could present himself as
very normal."

"But he wasn't?"

"Let me put it this way, Detective.  Dr.  Pumphrey did a suicidatity
risk assessment on James and, based on his analysis, determined that
there was very little danger that James would kill himself." Diana
raised her eyebrows. "And then look what he went out and did." She
tilted her head and smiled at Levine.

"Except, Dr.  Marcus," the detective said, his eyes locked onto hers,
"as it turned out, Mr.  Hutchins didn't kill himself at all-somebody
else did."

Diana felt Levine's words like a blow.  She knew the impact registered
in her eyes and she quickly turned to .            268 BA"ARA SHAPIRO
stir the rice.  How could she have been so stupid? she berated herself
as she removed the chicken from the oven and placed it on the stove. How
had she gotten so damn cocky and self-confident that she had forgotten
James had been murdered? She had fallen right in Levine's trap, that was
how.  And she had shown him how close to the edge she actually was.

Diana jabbed a couple of pieces of chicken with a fork to test them for
doneness; the inside was just pink and the juices were slightly opaque.
She slipped the pan back into the oven and switched off the heat.  "Of
course," she said, turning and trying to arrange her face in as innocent
an expression as she could.  "What a stupid thing for me to say."

Levine took a sip of his coffee.  "This case is confusing everybody." He
glanced at the clock and leaned back in his chair, as if he were
planning to stay for dinner.  "You should see poor Mrs.  Manfred." He
shook his head.  "She sure is one for your books."

"James's landlady?" Diana asked, relieved with Levine's change of
subject.  "The one you think might not be 'all

there'?" h dLevine sipped his coffee and recrossed his legs.  "S e su
denly remembers everything-and recognizes everybody.  I think if I
showed her a picture of Sigmund Freud, she'd tell me that he had been to
visit Hutchins right before he was ki.Iled-and that he had been fighting
with him." The detective chuckled.  "Is there a name for someone who
thinks everybody's a suspect, Dr.  Marcus? You guys got one for that?"

Diana dropped back into the chair, suddenly not happy with the turn of
their conversation, worried that this wasn't really about Mrs.  Manfred
at all.  That this was really about her.  Paranoia, she thought in
answer to Levine's question, although she didn't speak it aloud.
Paranoid, just like me.

"Do you know," Levine continued, leaning toward her, "that Mrs. Manfred
claims that sometime right beforcmurder, she saw an entire cast of
characters fighting with James: the sister, Kruse, the sister's
boyfriend, you .  . He paused and put his mug on the table, watching her
closely.

Diana nodded for him to go on, as if unconcerned that a policeman had
just told her she had been seen arguing with a man "sometime right
before" he was murdered.  Levine seemed unperturbed; therefore, so would
she.  Diana swallowed the bile that rose to her throat, wishing she
hadn't promised Mitch not to discuss what they had discovered about Jill
and Ethan.

When Diana didn't say anything, Levine continued, "According to her, a
whole bunch of people-including the mailman-were all at Hutchins's
apartment fighting with the him in the weeks prior to his murder." He
shook his head.  "She even says your husband was there!"

"My husband," Diana gasped, glad that she was sitting down.  "That's
impossible.  Craig doesn't even know where James lived."

"That's why I figure this woman's going round the bend," the detective
said, glancing at the clock again.  "Do you think he'll be home soon?"

"Craig?" Diana asked, knowing that, of course, Levine was referring to
Craig.  "You want to know when my husband will be home?"

Levine nodded as if her questions weren't stupid.

"He's-" she stammered.  "He's already late.  He should have been home
about fifteen minutes ago." Could Craig have gone to James's? It didn't
seem possible.  But the truth was, he could have gotten the address from
her files.  And he had definitely been angry enough after James had
popped up in the back seat of the jeep, causing her to hit that parked
car.  "If anything had happened to you or the baby," Craig had said, "I
would've killed that guy." Then another thought struck Diana.  "How did
this Mrs.  Manfred identify my husband?" she demanded.

Levine shrugged.  "Oh, you know, I was just showing her a bunch of
pictures, and she was pointing out who she had seen at Hutchins's and
who she hadn't.  Your husband was one of many she claimed to have
seen-4oo many for my taste, I might add."

"But I don't understand why you were showing her pictures of Craig in
the first place," Diana said, her blood running ice-cold.  "Or where you
got them."

The detective grinned and slowly lifted the coffee mug 27 to his lips.
"Just thorough, I guess."

IANA FELL INTO COMPLETE SILENCE.  SHE KNEW SHE

should chat, discuss the weather or politics or the environ mental
crisis, but she didn't.  She just sat at the table and

stared mutely into the doorless cabinets, trying to keep her self from
fixating on the clock that refused to move, on the

doorknob that didn't turn, on how long she would remain

a prisoner in her own kitchen.  Levine casually sipped his

coffee, seemingly unperturbed by the quiet.  They waited

for Craig.

After the longest fifteen minutes Diana had ever lived,

he finally showed up.  "Detective," Craig said, walking into

the kitchen.  He draped his jacket over a chair as nonchalant ly as if
it were an everyday occurrence to find a homicide

detective seated at his dinner table.  Looking at the small

box Levine held in his hand, he asked, "Here for the latest

Kruse tape?"

"And a few cups of coffee," Levine said, lifting his mug

and smiling.  "Along with some of your wife's psychologi cal expertise."

Craig stood behind Levine and raised his eyebrows at

Diana; she pretended not to notice.  "I think I'll join you,"

271 .            Craig said smoothly, walking over to the coffee maker.
"Can I pour you some more?"

"I've had enough, thanks," Levine answered.  "But I did have a couple of
questions for you."

"For me?" Craig put his coffee cup down on the counter and went to stand
behind Diana.  He placed his hands lightly on her shoulders.  "I'd be
happy to answer anything that will help solve this case."

The detective leaned back in his chair.  Diana wanted to warn Craig, to
prepare him, but she knew there was nothing she could do.  "Did you ever
go to James Hutchins's apartment?" Levine asked.

Craig's fingers clutched Diana's shoulders for a brief second, then
relaxed.  "Of course not," he said, coming out from behind her, his
hands held lightly behind his back. "Why would I go there?"

"Someone said they saw you arguing with Hutchins in front of his house."
Levine didn't move a muscle; his eyes remained glued to Craig's.  "Not
long before he was murdered."

"Then someone is wrong." Craig was as self-possessed as if he were
explaining a design to one of his architectural clients.  "I don't even
know where James Hutchins lived."

"That's what your wife said." Levine nodded and stood. "Frankly, I'm
starting to think this so-called witness is a little bit suspect."

Craig offered his hand to Levine.  "I've heard there are a lot of
crackpots out there always wanting to confess or give evidence in big
cases." He smiled winningly.  "It must be hard to sort the real ones
from the cranks."

Levine pumped Craig's hand and chuckled.  "And to sort the truth from
the lies," he added.  Then he turned to Diana and pulled a notebook from
his coat.  "Remember you told me how you and Hutchins met accidentally
for lunch one ?19 day

Diana couldn't move; fear gripped her in the chair.  The policeman had
been sitting here for almost an hour, but he

e waited until this particular moment to bring up this particular
subject; whatever was coming wasn't good.  "We met accidentally at the
library," she corrected him.

"Right, right." Levine flipped through his notebook. "Did you also meet
accidentally at the Capitol Theater in Arlington one afternoon this past
winter? On January 10, to be exact."

"You went to the movies with him?" Craig demanded, oblivious of the
close scrutiny the detective paid him. "Diana?"

"It-it was a documentary," she stuttered.  "About a woman overcoming
childhood abuse." Diana clasped her hands tightly under the table and
looked at Craig for support; but there was none to be found.  "It-it was
a therapeutic outing," she tried to explain.  "Purely therapeutic ...

Craig stood completely still, staring at her, his face pale and his
fists clenched.  He said nothing.

Herb Levine nodded.  Then he told her he would be stop- ping by with a
warrant to take custody of her printer, wished them bon appetit, and
left.

Craig brought the salad and rice to the table.  He poured them each a
glass of water and sat down, placing his napkin on his lap.  "Chicken
smells good."

"I'm so sorry-"

Craig waved Diana's apologies aside.  "It feels weird," he said calmly.
"I've never been a murder suspect before."

"I don't think you are now." Diana forked a piece of chicken onto each
of their places.  "I think this is just Levine's way of freaking us
out."

"Well, it worked," he said, then started eating the driedout chicken and
limp salad as if nothing unusual had occurred.

Diana poked at her chicken, then cut a tiny piece and tried to chew it,
but it was no use; nothing would go down, and she discreetly spit it
into her napkin.  Craig was too composed.  And too distant.  She wanted
him to yell, to scream, to cry-to do anything but just sit there, calmly
eating his dinner; she needed him to connect with her.  "What time's
your plane tomorrow?" she finally asked, although she already knew the
answer.

"I need to be at Logan by one-thirty.  But I decided I'll just take my
suitcase into work in the morning and take a taxi from there.  There's
no need for you to come get me and drag all the way out to the airport.
No point in messing with your schedule," Craig answered, although she
had told him yesterday that her afternoon was free.

"My last patient's at noon," she assured him.  "It won't be a problem.
I'd like to drive you." Diana could see from the set of Craig's face
that he wanted to argue, but instead he slumped back in his chair and
said nothing.  "Nashville's supposed to be a nice town," she added.
"Weather should be warmer than here."

Craig agreed, and they talked politely of the clients he would see, the
hotel he would stay in, the building he was designing.  But it was as if
neither of them were really there. As if they were automatons Diana and
Craig, playing their parts, saying their lines, while the real Diana and
Craig were elsewhere.

They fell into silence, and Diana played with her rice, concentrating on
sorting the dark grains from the lighter ones.  But the rice was mushy
from too much stirring and the kernels wouldn't separate.  She raised
her eyes and looked at Craig, at his clenched jaw, at his eyes staring
unseeing into the dark alley.  She thought of the empty whitewashed room
upstairs, of the fantasy mural he was going to paint.  Of how happy she
had been standing in that room right before she o got the call that
James had died.  She began to cry softly.

Craig turned his eyes from the window, but they remained empty and
vacant-just like the nursery.  He watched her tears, but didn't rise to
comfort her.  He just continued to eat his chicken, saying nothing at
all.

Diana swiped at her face with her napkin and stood, dumping her uneaten
food into the sink.  Slowly, deliber m lately, she pushed it into the
garbage disposal.  Turning on the switch, she watched, mesmerized, as
the swirling water washed her dinner down the drain.  She imagined it
spilling into the sewers and traveling under the city until it merged
with the sea.

Craig brought his plate over and they cleaned up in strained silence.
"If you don't need me anymore," he said, "I think I'll go pack."

Diana nodded.  Pushing a sponge across the already clean counters, she
listened to him muttering and slamming drawers and closet doors.  When
there were no more surfaces to wipe, she went down to her office and
turned on her computer.  She had to focus.  She had to think about
something besides the emptiness.

She pulled out her notes and flipped through the introductory section of
her article.  Finding her place in the document, she ordered herself to
write.  But she couldn't concentrate.  Her mind wandered to an article
she had read in the Globe.  It had described a new "humane 11 program in
a women's prison in New York in which incarcerated women who gave birth
were allowed to keep their babies for a year.  The program was run much
Re a kibbutz, the article had explained, allowing visits for nursing and
special play hours, but separating the babies from their mothers at
night.  The women took parenting courses that continued even after their
children were placed in foster care.  This "humane" program taught
mothers how to care for their babies-and then it took their babies away.

Diana pressed her hands to her stomach, searching for the butterfly
kick.  "Don't you worry," she whispered to her child, her voice
cracking.  "I won't let them take you away from me." But she felt-
nothing under her palm, and despair surrounded her like a shroud.

Although she tried to force her mind back to her research, her heart
ached and images of her childhood filled her vision: herself as a
four-year-old, skipping along the beach, her tiny hand encircled by her
mother's large, warm one; .            276 BARIDARA SHAPIRO standing in
a boat gliding under Niagara Falls, her head tipped back to catch the
spray as Scott and her parents laughed; eating Thanksgiving dinner with
the whole noisy extended family clustered around her mother's
not-quitelarge-enough dining room table.

Then, in a strange mental juxtaposition, she flashed to sharing a turkey
sandwich with James that day at the Public Gardens.  She had known it
wasn't quite right, and her every sense had been heightened by the faint
aura of wrongdoing. When James's arm had accidentally brushed hers,
Diana had felt the heat of the contact long after it had ended.  She
imagined she could still smell his cologne.

Craig stopped down around nine and told her he had forgotten something
at his office.  Diana waited up for him to return, wanting to reconnect
with him, to make sure he wa-, still her ally, to convince herself that
their marriage wasil', dead.  When he didn't come home by midnight, she
dragger herself up the three flights of stairs and flopped onto the bed.
She lay there, waiting.  But still he didn't come.  II,-, didn't return
until well after she had fallen into a fitful sleep.

The next day, despite Craig's protests, Diana took him to the airport.
As they drove through the exhaust-filled tutinet', Craig was the perfect
robot of a concerned husband anti she of the dutiful wife.  He reminded
her to take her vitarniri and lock the door, and promised he would phone
every evening.  She agreed to all he suggested, only requesting that he
call early so she could get a good night's sleep.

But she was too smooth.  And his eyes were too hard.  H, was so
distracted that he misstated his airline, first teilin her to go to
Delta, then changing to American.  She made I t wrong turn leaving the
airport and found herself stucv-, on a highway with few exits, driving
away from Boston, head((I north toward Saugus.

As she had planned, Diana went straight to Ken's aftr dropping Craig
off.  She knew Marcel had seen her where she walked into the restaurant,
that he was just pretending he hadn't.  She noticed his eyes flicker
toward the door as her own were adjusting to the dimness.  Then he
turned his back and put a drink before his ]one customer.

The hostess seated Diana at a tiny corner table at the far end of the
service bar.  Whenever the waiter came up with a drink order, Marcel
would place the filled glass diagonally on the counter so that he could
avoid looking over the waiter's shoulder and right into Diana's face.

While Marcel ignored her, Diana tried to eat.  She ordered a chef's
salad and a glass of milk, but found she could do little more than move
the meat and vegetables around in the bowl.  She knew that worrying
about Craig wasn't going to help, but she couldn't stop herself.  His
anger teffified her, her complicity in his anguish tormented her, but
the thought of her life without him was something she couldn't even
begin to contemplate.

She chewed on a piece of turkey for what seemed an inordinately long
time, finally forcing it down with a large gulp of milk.  She had to get
rid of Levine and his allegations; she had to get him out of her house
and out of her life before he tore apart everything she had.  If she
cleared herself, Craig would be able to forgive her.  If she cleared
herself, they could still be a family.

Diana stood up.  While Marcel was at the cash register making change for
a waiter, she positioned herself behind the man so Marcel would have no
choice but to look in her direction when the waiter stepped away.  "Hi,"
she said as soon as she caught his eye.

Marcel grunted.

"I never did find Ethan," she continued, as if he had actually greeted
her, "I went to talk to his landlady, like you sug,,ested." She flashed
Marcel what she hoped was a sympathy-elicting smile and shrugged.  "But
she hadn't seen him either."

"Must've split town," Marcel mumbled, picking up his rag.

Encouraged by the fact that he had spoken, Diana leaned against the bar.
"Now I'm looking for James Hutchins's sister-the tall one with the curly
red hair?"

"Maybe you should stop looking for so many folks." He turned and headed
toward the other end of the bar.

Without conscious awareness of what she was doing, Diana thrust out her
hand and grabbed Marcel's upper arm. Caught completely off-guard, he
grew rigid.  He turned his head slightly and stared at her.  "I can't
stop." Diana's voice was soft but firm.  "If I don't find these people,
I'm going to be arrested." She dropped her hand.  and felt her eyes
filling.  In that split second, she decided to let Marcel see the tears.
"I don't want my baby to be born in prison," she added.

He looked at her coldly for a long moment, and Diana was sure she had
lost him, that she had overplayed her part.  But then his shoulders
dropped and his eyes visibly softened.  "They're a fucked-up bunch," he
said.  "Every last one of them."

"I know," Diana said, smiling slightly.  "I'm their therapist."

Marcel snorted.  "Guess I'm not telling you anything new.,' Noticing the
waving hand of his customer, he nodded and poured a Scotch on the rocks.
After he had delivered the drink, he returned to Diana.  "That professor
one of your patients?" he asked.

"Professor?"

"Boyfriend of the one you're looking for-what's her name, Jane?"

"Jill," Diana corrected.  "Jill Hutchins."

"The professor I s the one acting like he's headed for the loony bin."

"Has Jill been acting strange too)" Diana pressed, not the least bit
interested in Jill's professor- "Has she been in lately?"

"Don't think so." Marcel shrugged.  "But the professor's been in a lot.
Cg in his beer, so to speak.  Romance is

BI-AMELESS 279 on the skids.  And someone told me he's having money

troubles."

"Who isn't these days?" Diana said in an attempt to change the subject.
"But what about Jill? Has she been upset also?"

"Like I told you, she hasn't been in much." He shook his head and picked
up his rag again.  "Way I figure it, you should be more concerned about
the guy."

"Why do you say that?" Diana demanded as Marcel turned away.  "Why
should I be more concerned about him than about Jill or Ethan?"

"Don't reall

y know," he answered.  "But I'm telling you he's on the edge.  Looks to
me like he's the kind likely to do just about anything." He picked up
his rag and walked to the other end of the bar.  Clearly the
conversation was over.

Deflated, Diana returned to her table and sat down.  She watched Marcel
from her shadowy corner as he signaled the hostess to replace him and
slipped out from under the bar. He walked into the kitchen without even
a nod in her direction.  So Jill had a crazy boyfriend.  If Jill had a
boyfriend who wasn't crazy, Diana would have been surprised.

She took a last sip of milk and pushed the salad bowl toward the middle
of the table.  She and Mitch were just going to have to go to Levine
with what they had on Jill: a strong motive and a criminal background.
If it weren't for the damn alibi, Jill would be a far better suspect
than Diana.  Molly was the connection that needed to be broken. Nloily
was Diana's only hope.  It was time to get in touch with Adam Arell.
Time to go back to Norwich.  She would call Mitch and regroup.  Diana
signaled for her check.

As she waited for her change, Diana stared at the leaded panes of the
heavy wooden entrance door.  She watched the door swing open and admit
two men in wrinkled business suits.  Absently she followed their rogress
as they walked p to the far end of the bar and sat down.  When one
offered the other a cigarette, she turned her eyes back toward the
entrance.  The door swung open a second time and a couple emerged from
the shadows: a tall woman with wild curly hair, followed by a much older
man about the same height. It was Jill.  And behind her was Adrian
Arnold.

Jill and Adrian didn't see Diana in her dimly lit corner. They waved to
the hostess and seated themselves at what was apparently their usual
spot, a small table kitty-corner to the front door.  They began talking
immediately, gesturing and touching each other.

Diana stared at them, unable to believe what she was seeing.  Jill and
Adrian couldn't possibly know each other, let alone be lovers.  She was
their only connection, and she had certainly never introduced them. They
were so different: in age, in education, in temperament.  It wasn't
possible.  But there it was.

She nodded her thanks to the waiter, but didn't move from her seat.
Could this have anything to do with Jarpes',,, death? Were they plotting
against her? She closed her eye5, and reminded herself that everything
didn't have to do with her.  Her paranoia was just running amok.  There
was some logical explanation.  Some explanation that had nothing t(, do
with either James or herself.

Then she remembered.  When Jill had come north to James a therapist, she
had interviewed a number of peo ple in the Boston area-and Adrian had
been one of them Could Jill and Adrian have been having an affair all
thes(years? It didn't seem possible, but that would explain why,. Adrian
had been at James's funeral.  And how Jill ha(i known the baby was a
girl.  In its own bizarre way, the whole thing made sense.

As Diana stared, another thought crossed her mind. Between the two of
them, there was plenty of motive, and with another person in the
picture, Levine might b, convinced that there was opportunity, that Jill
and Adriaii had killed James together.  Diana's palms began to sweat.

The scenario would have to have been premeditated iiicir der: Jill and
Adrian killed James and set up the fake stii cide so that Jill would
inherit the money.  Then, when it turned out that Diana was the
beneficiary, they decided to ruin Diana so that the money would revert
to Jill-and as an added bonus, save Adrian's career by keeping Diana's
research from being published.  But would Levine buy that? It had
possibilities, but also seemed rather farfetched.  Then Diana remembered
what Mitch had told her.  All she had to (lo was convince the police
that it was possible.  Reasonable doubt was on her side.

Marcel's words echoed through her brain: Looks to me like he's the kind
likely to do just about anything.  Gail would attest to Adrian's
financial difficulties, Marcel to his instability, someone else in their
peer group would explain how discrediting Diana would save Adrian's
future book royalties.  Combined with Jill's own money problems, her
ambivalent and sometimes violent relationship with James, her criminal
record ...

Watching them from her corner, Diana realized that Jill and Adrian were
having some kind of disagreement.  Jill was sitting back in her chair
with her arms crossed, a petulant look on her face.  Adrian leaned
toward her, talking and gesturing rather frantically.  Jill remained
impassive.

It just might work, Diana thought.  She had heard of much weaker motives
for murder.  Jill and Adrian might be the alternative plausible suspects
she had been searching for.  They did it together to get out from under,
to start a new life.  James and Jill had had a huge row right before his
death.  And hadn't Levine just told her that Mrs. Manfred claimed to
have seen Jill's boyfriend at James's apartment?

The waiter stopped by and asked if she wanted anything else, blocking
her view of Adrian and Jill.  Diana shook her head, and, as he stepped
from her line of vision, she peered once again at the small table by the
door.  But now Jill and Adrian were not looking at each other.  They
were I)oth looking straight at her. .             2cq

RANSFIXED, DIANA STARED ACROSS THE DIMLY LIT RFStaurant.  It seemed to
her that the tables and the chairs and the few other scattered patrons
didn't exist; there were only she and Adrian and Jill, locked together
by the intensity of their fixed gazes.  Then Adrian blinked, his
expression of abashed surprise taking on even stronger shades of guilt.
Jill's gaze remained unwavering.  At the first moment of recognition, a
gleam of hatred, almost a physical aversion, seemed to flash from her
eyes, supplanted swiftly by a look Diana could only describe as cordial.
Jill smiled slightly and nodded.  She waved and motioned for Diana to
come over to their table.

Diana hesitated, her brain function returning slowly al'ter the shock of
eye contact.  She remembered Jill's rages in her office, at the funeral,
at Jill's apartment.  She rememt)ei-e(i James's stories of slashed tires
and dead tropical fish-.iiid the police report of assault with a deadly
weapon.  We',e got to watch this woman, Mitch had said.  She was a
i-e(it hothead, Adam Arell had told her.  No way to figure vt,ii(it she
was going to do next.  Diana knew a friendly little cliit was hardly
what Jill had in mind.

Diana's stomach squeezed as she placed her change in

282 her wallet.  What were her options? Either she pretended she hadn't
seen them, and stayed in her corner until they decided to leave, or she
went over for a moment to say a quick hello.  She supposed she could
leave without speaking to them, but, given their proximity to the door,
this seemed a rather difficult feat to pull off.  She rummaged through
her purse for her car keys.  The last thing she wanted right now was to
have a friendly chitchat with Adrian and Jill.

A sharp knock on her table jolted her from her reverie. Startled, she
dropped her purse on the floor.  Her wallet skidded across the tiles;
her lipstick and a small prescription bottle rolled under the next
table.  The remainder of the contents of her purse lay in a messy pile
at her feet.

"You lucked out," Marcel said, knocking on the table again.  He pointed
across the restaurant at Jill, who was still smiling and waving.  "Your
friend and the professor are here."

Diana crouched on the floor, grabbing for her wayward possessions.
"Thanks," she managed to mutter.  "I sure lucked out."

"Yoo-hoo, Diana!" Jill called.

Marcel grunted and slipped back under the bar.  Diana stood and gathered
her things.  She walked resolutely toward their table.

"Adrian," Diana said, slipping on her coat and throwing her purse over
her shoulder so as to leave no doubt as to the imminence of her
departure.  "Jill."

"It's so great to see you," Jill said, as if she really meant it.  She
reached out and grasped Diana's hands, as if they were old churns.  "You
must sit down with us for at least a few minutes.  You must!"

Before Diana could answer, Adrian said, "I don't mean to be rude, but
maybe some other time would be better." Although ostensibly speaking to
Diana, he was looking at Jill.

"I can't right now, thanks," Diana said, detaching her hands from
Jill's.  "I really have' .             "Nonsense," Jill interrupted,
smiling warmly up at Diana. "We won't take no for an answer." She
removed her jacket from the extra chair and hung it on the back of her
own.

Diana looked to Adrian for help.  Jill wasn't a bad actress, although
the clipped preciseness of her words told Diana that this facade of
friendly cordiality was all too thin. Adrian met Diana's eyes for a
moment, but his expression was inscrutable.  He shrugged in defeat. Jill
pointed to the empty chair and tugged on Diana's sleeve.  Diana sat.

For a few moments, the silence was thick and uncomfortable, the tension
between them almost palatable.  Jill smiled brightly, clinking her ice
with a stirrer, while Adrian stafe(i into his drink and Diana fidgeted
with the strap of tier purse.

Diana took a deep breath and looked right at Adrian.  "So how long have
you two known each other?" she asked, tipping her head and trying to
smile.  Although she and Adrian had had their problems of late, they had
been close at one time; the two of them had spent many a lunch
discussing Adrian's marital difficulties.

Adrian had the grace to blush slightly and shrugged again.  Before he
could speak, Jill answered Diana's qtiestion for him.  "We've known each
other since I first moved to Boston." She smiled wickedly.  "But if
you're speaking of the biblical sense, it's been just over a year."

"We ran into each other again at Quincy Market last suiiimer," Adrian
added.

"And as they say'Jill pinched his cheek'the rest is history."

Adrain twisted his face away from Jill's hand and shot her a look that
clearly told her he was not happy with the conversation.

Jill tossed her head and turned to Diana.  "So," she iid with the overly
festive voice of a hostess attempting to liven up a dull dinner party.
"It seems to me that the last time we met, we were talking about
drinking and bartender liability." She chuckled.  "And here you find me
in a bar with

she raised her glass as if in toast to Diana, "in the middle of a
Wednesday afternoon."

Diana looked at her in confusion, then, just as Jill had desired, she
went cold at the memory.  Once again she was in Jill's apartment
watching Jill's charm disintegrate into fury.  Once again she was on her
knees, a poker being held to her stomach.

"Diana stopped,by for a little chat," Jill was explaining to Adrian. "We
had coffee and a bit of girl talk." She flashed Diana a playful smile,
as if intimate secrets had been shared between the two women that no man
could ever be expected to understand.  Then she turned back to Adrian.
"It seems to me, we were discussing responsibility .  .

"Don't do this," Adrian hissed at Jill, slamming his drink down on the
table.  "How's your research going?" he asked Diana.  "Still having
those sampling problems?"

Although she would have loved to rub her latest data in his face, Diana
controlled herself.  Now was not the time to antagonize him, not when
she needed him as an ally against Jill, not when she wanted to get
information out of him on his own possible alibir, she hoped, lack
thereof.  "Oh," she sighed, figuring two could play the actress game,
"you know how difficult it is to achieve statistical significance with
such small samples." She shook her head and frowned.  "Sometimes I
wonder if it's ever going to happen."

Adrian's grin contradicted his words.  "Too bad," he said. "I know how
tough that can be.  How disappointing."

"That's enough shop talk about your silly statistics," Jill declared,
patting Adrian's hand and shaking her head. "I'd much rather just
gossip." She took a sip of her drink and leaned closer to Diana.  "Let's
talk about our mutual friends."

"I didn't know we had any," Diana said, wondering what Jill was getting
at.

Why, but of course we do." Jill's voice was perky and cheerful. "There's
Adrian, here." She tilted her head and looked at him with the amused
smile of an overindulgent .            mother.  "And then there's Ethan
and Sandy-and of course there was James." As she pronounced her
brother's name, Jill's voice wavered and her face lost its polite
veneer, but she recovered quickly.  "Poor Sandy seems to be having quite
a difficult time these days," she said with great sincerity.  "I do
worry about her."

it struck Diana that Jifl's smile was taking on a touch of shrewdness,
that her eyes were slightly glazed.  Diana wished she too had a drink.
"I'm hopeful that Sandy's going to be just fine," she said carefully.

"It's this whole alibi thing that she's doing for you." Jill sighed and
put her drink down on the table with a resounding clank.

"What are you talking about?" Diana was completely confused by this turn
of conversation.  "I don't have an alibi."

"Yeah, right," Jill said, looking directly at Diana.  "As if you didn't
know Sandy was planning on going to the police to tell them she had an
appointment with you that afternoon."

"That's ridiculous," Diana said.  "And it isn't true."

"Then how come you convinced her that she was with you?"

"I never convinced her of any such thing," Diana sputtered.  She looked
at Adrian.  "You know full well I'd never do anything like that."

"Oh, right," Jill said, waving her hand dismissively.  "You had nothing
to do with creating your own alibi." She leaned even closer to Diana,
pushing her face so near that the gin on her breath made Diana recoil.
"Do you want to hear the really interesting part?"

"Stop it, Jill!" Adrian ordered.

"The really interesting part is that when I went through Sandy's
appointment book, I couldn't find any entry for that particular day-and
you and I know, Dr.  Marcus" Jill's smile was wide, smug, and full of
hatred'that Sandy would never miss an appointment with you, her idol."
7'

L course there was no appointment in her book," Diana snapped.  "She
didn't have an appointment-"

Jill continued as if Diana hadn't spoken, all pretense of cordiality
gone.  "No one ever forgets an appointment with the perfect therapist,"
she spat at Diana.  "Not the most perfeet one!"

Adrian touched Diana's arm.  "Go," he said, his voice low and insistent.
"Now."

But Diana didn't move.  "Why are you doing this?" she asked Jill.

"You don't know the half of it." Jill's laughter was tinged with
hysteria.  Her eyes gleamed with hatred.  "You don't know the half of
what I've done to you."

"Diana," Adrian pleaded.

"What?" Diana demanded, beyond caring about anything but the danger
Jill's madness posed to her.  "What other half?"

"Your journal.  Detective Levine." Jill's voice began to rise and Adrian
put his hand on her arm.  She shook it off with disgust.  "I've had a
lot more to do with your troubles than you'll ever-"

"Jill," Adrian said sharply.

"Why, I even knew you'd be in here spying on us." Jill continued as if
Adrian hadn't spoken.  "Sandy told me you'd come."

Diana gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles white. "I don't
understand,' she said, her voice shaking slight y. "What have you done?"

"You killed my brother," Jill said, her voice suddenly soft, but somehow
even more ominous.  "You killed James, and I've been doing everything I
can to make you pay." She placed her fingers on the table and leaned
toward Diana again.  Her breath was foul, but this time Diana didn't
move.  When Jill began to speak, her voice was barely a whisper.  "Who
do you think got her dear, sweet friend Ida Manfred to babble to the
cops?" she asked, beginning to chuckle softly.  "Who do you think stole
your precious .            journal and sent copies to the Inquirer? Or
told Mr.  Fake Friendly Detective to look at the end where you implicate
yourself in spades?"

"What at the end? What

"And don't think I'm going to stop," Ell continued, spealdng between
hysterical cackles.  "I won't stop until your life has been ruined just
like you ruined James's!" Her laughter broke into tears, and she began
to sob quietly.  "Just like you ruined mine.  .  ."

Adrian rose from his chair and knelt by Jill's side.  He gently wrapped
his arms around her.  "It's okay, baby," he murmured, rubbing her back.
"It's going to be okay."

"It'll never be okay," Jill wailed.  "It'll never stop hurting," she
sobbed into Adrian's shoulder.  "It'll never go away."

Adrian held Jill more tightly and kissed her brow.  fie looked up at
Diana.  "Do you think you could go now?" he asked.

Diana stumbled out the door.  She stood, stunned, on the sidewalk,
unable to remember where she had parked the jeep, unable to comprehend
the full impact of all she had just heard.  Confused, she looked around
her, tryini, to ground herself in some reality she could grasp.  A
Salvation Army Santa swung his bell on the corner, indifferent to the
fact that no one was putting money in his bucket.  A large woman,
overdressed and smelling of far too much perfume, elbowed her way
between a group of teenage boys wearing dark leather jackets.  The gang
strutted toward Diana, but still she didn't move.  For a moment she was
encased in shoulders and darkness and marijuana-tinged body o(lor; then
she was in the open again, staring into the street.  A screech of tires
jolted her, and she watched in dazed surprise as a car and a truck came
to a simultaneous stopabout two inches from each other and about a foot
from her.

Stepping backward until her coat touched the cold f;c- e of the
building, Diana pressed herse f to the brick, relishing the iciness as
it seeped through to her skin.  Harder and harder, she twisted her
shoulders and head until her shoulder blades hurt and her hair felt as
if it were being ripped from her scalp.  But it was okay. It was just
physical pain, and nothing on a purely physical plane could possibly
match the despair within her.  A despair that threatened to engulf her,
obliterate her.  Jill would never make a plausible suspect.  For Jill
was far too grief-stricken and crazed over James's death for anyone ever
to believe that she had killed her brother.  And moreover, Diana knew
that Jill had not; she had seen it in her eyes.

Diana felt as if she had been turned inside out, as if the innermost
part of her being was raw and exposed, just waiting for execution.  She
stepped from the building, and the physical pain disappeared.  She
pushed backward again.

A chill wind ruffled her hair, carrying the scent of winter.  She
glanced upward and recognized the low white-gray sky.  The first snow of
the year was inside those clouds.  Her gaze returned to the street, and
as she watched the world going about its business she wondered how soon
it would be before she had no business to go about at all. . 2,9 4T
WASN'T UNTIL DIANA REACHED THE CORNER OF MASS Ave.  and St. Stephen
Street that the world began to return and she realized she had no
recollection of her drive from Central Square.  Slowly, as if emerging
from under water, she became aware of the low rumble of the car stopped
next to her, of a horn honking on the other side of the street, of two
women chatting as they stepped into the crosswalk in front of her idling
jeep.  Diana blinked.  Dusk was beginning to fall, and she was freezing.

it was over.  She had come to the end of the line.  Jill va, not a
plausible suspect.  Craig was furious with her.  Ati(' Herb Levine was
soon going to knock on her door with ai arrest warrant in his hand.

Still, despite the gathering gloom, Diana found herself fi hting against
the inevitable.  Jill might be a lost cause, 9 she thought as she pulled
the heat lever to high, but whit about Ethan? There had to be something
that would impi-es,, Levine with Ethan's viability as a suspect. Staring
out thtwindow, she was hit with an ugly, tempting thought.  She could
plant something incriminating in her notes.  She COLli(I write that
Ethan had stayed late one afternoon, after every one else had left, and
broken down and confessed to kiiiiil,,,

290 his girlfriend.  She would tell Levine that she had been horrified
at the time, of course, but doctor-patient privilege had kept her from
going to the police.

An insistent horn from behind brought Diana back to reality, and she
threw the jeep into gear.  No, she thought, it was a completely
contemptible idea.  She couldn't blame a man for a murder he possibly
didn't commit.  It was disgusting of her to have even considered it.
Plus it wouldn't work anyway.  The same laws of confidentiality that had
held then would still hold now.

As she walked into the house and hung up her coat, Diana's thoughts
turned to Sandy; she wondered why Sandy had suddenly decided she had had
an appointment with her on -the afternoon of James's murder-and why now.
Although Sandy had had a few minor delusional episodes in the past, if
she insisted that she had been at Diana's despite the fact that it
wasn't recorded in her day-timer, if her delusion could stand up against
such irrefutable evidence, then Sandy was in worse shape than Diana had
thought.

She went into her office and dialed Sandy's apartment, lettiiig the
phone ring for what seemed an interminable time. Finally Sandy picked it
up, breathlessly explaining she was in the middle of her exercise
routine, but would be able to take a break when she finished her
abdominals.  Diana asked her if she could stop by her office; Sandy
readily agreed to come over as soon as possible.

Relieved, Diana went to the file cabinet and got Sandy's records, hoping
for clues on how best to handle the situation.  Sandy loved attention
and acted as though she was entitled to it, based on her beauty.  But
Diana knew that this facade of self-confidence hid a frightened and
lonely little girl who really thought of herself as ugly and stupid-and
unlovable.  Sitting in her chair, she tapped the back of her pen on the
open folder and waited for Sandy to arrive, trying to remain focused on
Sandy's troubles, not on her own.

But despite her earlier dismissal, the thoughts about Ethan that she had
had in the car wouldn't stay away; the idea was just too persistentr
perhaps her desperation just too great. Diana strained to remember her
ethics course.  If someone's life was endangered, the need to inform
took priority over doctor-patient privilege.  Protection of the victim
overrode confidentiality.

Her mind whirled with possibilities, and she could hear the blood
pounding through her ears.  Perhaps she could say that Ethan had left a
message threatening to kill her with a shotgun? No, that wouldn't work
because she, the victim, would already be informed.  But if Ethan left a
message threatening Sandy, then Diana would be forced to tell Levine and
show him Ethan's previous murder confession in her notes.  That,
combined with the incriminating girlfriend-shotgun story, would rekindle
the police's search for him-as well as incriminate Ethan in James's
murder. She twirled in her chair and stared into the alley; darkness was
already embedded in its corners, although the time was barely five.  It
might just work.

No, she told herself, snapping the blinds shut, it was out of the
question.  She was not going to falsify records, ;Ii( was not going to
lie about phone messages, and she deti nitely was not going to malign a
possibly innocent m,.I'll.

Sandy showed up in a sweatsuit that had obviously I)ceii hastily thrown
over her workout clothes.  "I came as fast I could.  Just had to finish
up a couple more repetitions. she said as soon as she entered the
office.  Then she liesitated,'standing uncertainly behind her usual
chair.  "You (ii(i say that you needed me, didn't you?" she asked,
twistiii,, slightly damp piece of hair.

"Yes, I did." Diana nodded solemnly.  "I need your help.

Sandy's chest puffed out with pride, and a radiant sinif, illuminated
her beautiful face.  She sat down and tookei expectantly at Diana.

Diana steepled her fingers and pressed them to her tippetlip.  "I saw
Jill Hutchins today," she said, looking did-cctf, at Sandy.  "And
something she said confused me." PM "You talked to Jill?" Sandy was
obviously surprised.

"And she claimed you told her you were with me the afternoon of James's
murder."

"Yeah." Sandy inspected her fingernails.  "She's been talking a lot
about it lately.  Grilling me.  Sort of obsessive like, I guess."

"Why do you think that is?"

Sandy frowned.  "Because she hates you." She looked up at Diana
apologetically.

"It's okay-no one's liked by everybody," Diana said. "Why else do you
think she's doing this?"

"She thinks you killed James and doesn't want me to give you an alibi.
She doesn't want me to go to the police because she wants you to be
punished." Sandy grabbed her purse from the back of her chair.  "But I
know it's not true. I know you'd never do anything like that-and I can
prove

"You can?" Diana asked, hope rushing through her in a way she wouldn't
have thought possible just a few minutes ago.

"It's in my appointment book." Sandy pulled her daytimer from her purse
and began flipping through the pages. "I have it right here.  I always
write down when I'm going to see you.  Look," she said proudly, pointing
to October 15.  "Dr.  Marcus," it said.  "Two o'clock."

Diana stared at the notation, her heart pounding in her ears.  She knew
Sandy had not been in her office on the afternoon of October 15.  She
knew Sandy bad added the entry just recentlybviously after Jill had
pointed out its absence.  But there it was in front of her: her alibi,
her salvation.

"Jill's wrong," Sandy said, pulling her face into a pout. "She never
wanted James to like anyone but her."

Diana nodded, impressed with Sandy's perceptiveness. "Don't you think
it's possible that you might have made a mistake?" she asked gently,
trying to assess the strength of Sandy's delusion.  "Just this one
time?" .             BARBmu SHAPIRO

Can't be a mistake." Sandy's voice was emphatic.  "I

w that for a fact."

How can you be so positive?"

Sandy clicked the latch on her day-timer a few times, then looked up at
Diana, her expression sheepish and childishly appealing.  "I count
them."

"Count them?" Diana repeated, not sure she had heard Sandy correctly.
"Count what?"

"I know you're going to think I'm stupid and immature ...

11 I'd never think that," Diana said, a flood of warmth for Sandy
pouring through her.  Underneath all that damage, Sandy was just a
little girl trying desperately to make people like her, trying to keep
them from leaving her.

"I always write down the times I see you because I count them," Sandy
mumbled.  "I keep track of them so that I'll know when you start to get
tired of mer are trying to get rid of me.  I even sort of have a chart."
She lifted her head and stuck out her chin.  "And that I s how I know
that the appointment really happened," she added, crossing her arms
defiantly over her chest.

Diana watched Sandy carefully.  It was obvious Sandy was completely
convinced of the truth of her words-and that, because of her conviction,
she would make a compelling witness.  That was the thing about a true
delusion.  The person suffering from it wasn't lying; he or she was
certain of the veracity of their memory.  But Diana also knew that a
person who believed in this kind of delusion was also quite ill: sick
and fearful and confused.  Sandy was her patient; Sandy trusted that
Diana would do what was best to help her, the patient-not herself, the
doctor.

Sandy fiddled with her clothes and her hair for a few moments, not
raising her eyes.  "I'd never make a mistake about an appointment with
you." She played with the clasp on her day-timer.  "I'm always very
careful.  Always."

"Sandy," Diana began and then stopped.  The battle raging within her
caused nausea to twist her stomach.  She paused to let the wave of
sickness pass, knowing there was no way she could ever consciously hurt
this woman. "Sandy, it's okay to make a mistake."

"I know for a fact that I was here that afternoon," Sandy answered
quickly, but with less certainty.  The telephone began to ring, and
Sandy looked at Diana questioningly.

"The machine will get it," Diana said.  "What else do you remember about
that afternoon?"

"We talked about my father."

Diana hesitated for a long moment.  "Not.that day," she finally said,
her sense of both relief and disappointment at her victory over
self-interest so powerful it caused her voice to break.  "Don't you
remember? We met after James's funeral," she said gently.  "We talked
about your memory of your dad and that Red Sox game." Diana reached into
her drawer and pulled out her appointment book.  "Look," she said,
flipping to October 15.  "The afternoon's empty."

Sandy let her hair cover her face.  "I thought we talked about it that
day," she whispered.

"I only wish we had." Diana sat back in her chair, exhausted from her
internal battle, unsure whether she was the victor or the vanquished.

"But-but it's just that it's not like me," Sandy said, wringing her
hands.  "You know how I can get a little obsessive about things .  .  ."
She glanced furtively at Diana, then her eyes began darting around the
room.  Suddenly she jumped from her chair and stood behind it.  She
gripped the back cushion tightly, as if using it for protection.

"Sandy," Diana said, standing and starting to walk toward the frightened
woman.  "What'

"Don't come any closer!" Sandy cried, holding the chair even more
tightly, her knuckles turning white.  "You-you made me lie."

Diana stopped walking.  She stood completely still, her hand resting on
the edge of her desk in a casual gesture. 'Okay," she said softly.  "I'm
not going to touch you.  If you don't want me to come any closer, then I
won't."

Sandy backed slowly toward the door, horror contorting her beautiful
face.  "You were the best person in the world. The one I admired the
most," she said, her voice registering both fear and disappointment.
"I-I wanted to be like you. To be you.  And now ...  And now.  .  ." She
leaned over, pressing her day-timer to her stomach.  "I feel sick," she
moaned.

"Sandy, honey," Diana began.

Sandy shook her head and started to cry.  "How could you?" she asked
plaintively.  Then her eyes became wild, full of terror at the horrible
truth she thought she saw before her.  "How could you kill James?" she
screamed, and ran out the door.

Diana was stunned into immobility.  She just stood there, motionless,
her hand clutching the edge of the desk.  The pain she had experienced
on the street in front of Ken's was nothing compared to the dark despair
that flooded her now.  She had failed everyone.

Then her paralysis loosened, and she followed Sandy down the hallway.
"Stop!" she called when she reached the open door.  "You're wrong.  You
don't understand!"

But Sandy ignored her, running from her in terror, flying across the
alley.  Sandy stumbled, fell, then righted herself as she lunged for her
car.  She grasped the door handle and pulled it, then frantically pawed
through her purse and thrust her keys into the lock.  Suddenly she
stopped and stood statue-still, her tear-streaked face haunted and pale.

Diana didn't move.  She didn't call out, afraid to startle the terrified
woman, afraid of what Sandy might do.  But all Sandy did was turn and
vomit violently into the trash barrel.

After Sandy's car careened out of the alley, Diana walked back into her
office.  She stood in the center of the room, looking at it as if she
had never seen it before, wondering how the next owners of the house
might choose to use the space.  Perhaps as an all pair's room.  Or maybe
a teenager's hideaway, a gentleman's library, a sewing room, or an art
studio.  So many possibilities.  She walked to the window and opened the
blinds, looking into their "back city." The back city that would now
never hold a swing set.  She snapped the blinds shut.  If Sandy-who knew
her, and loved her, and understood how much she had cared for
James-concluded that she had killed James, what might Herb Levine's
conclusion be?

Numbly she pressed the button on her answering machine. When Levine's
voice boomed out at her, she jumped.  "Got that warrant I was telling
you about the other day," he said.  "I'll be by later this
evening-around eight.  Please be home." Warrant, she thought, her hands
beginning to trem- able.  Herb Levine had a warrant.  Was it for her
printer, or was it for her? Diana knew it had to be for the printer;
Levine's voice had sounded too casual for it to be an arrest

warrant. Nevertheless, Diana paced her small office in fear.

She walked over to the file cabinet in the corner and stood in front of
it.  Then she pulled Ethan's records from the top drawer and sat down at
her desk.  Without conscious awareness that she had come to a decision,
Diana took a few pens from her drawer and scribbled on a pad of lined
paper with each.  Selecting the one with the most faded ink, she calmly
and deliberately began to jot short notes on various sheets of paper in
his file.  "Threatened Sandy and Bruce," she wrote on one sheet.  "Told
James he would kill him," she wrote on another.

Then she switched to a different pen and wrote a much longer paragraph,
in a much neater hand.  "E confessed to murdering glfrd in apt.  No
details 'cept it was messy," Diana began, using the cryptic notations
she always employed in her personal files.  She ended the paragraph with
the words, "No remorse.  Laughed.  Said: 'She deserved it for lying." I
feel terrible.  Scared.  Can do nothing.  D-P privilege." It was as if
some outside force had control of her actions, a force more concerned
with her survival than she was.  But whether it was a benevolent or
malevolent force, she wasn't sure.

When she completed her work, Diana took the pens she had used and
carried them upstairs.  She put the pens underneath a few inches of
garbage in the trash compactor and turned the knob.  Then she went back
downstairs and called Gail.

" I'm having some trouble with my answering machine," Diana said. "Could
you do me a favor and call me right back? Just say something like, 'Hi,
this is Gail,' so I can test it?"

"Sure," Gail said.  "But, sweetie, I need to talk to you. It's really
important."

"We'll talk when you call back," Diana promised and hung up.

But when Gail called back, leaving a message on the machine that would
erase any earlier ones, Diana told her that she had to run, she had a
patient arriving in a few minutes and a lecture to prepare for the next
day.  Not easily brushed off, Gail refused to hang up until Diana had
prom- ised she would call her as soon as she got home from class in the
morning.

Then Diana took a deep breath and held it in.  Just when she thought she
would explode from lack of air, she dialed the police station and asked
for Detective Levine.  While she waited for him to come to the phone,
she held her breath again.

"You," she gasped when she heard his voice, letting her breath out with
a rush.  "You've got to come over here now-this can't wait till later.
There's a message and I'm scared.  I think that ...  I don't know what
to think, but you need to hear this.  And-"

"Whoa," Levine said.  "Slow down and start again."

So Diana told him that Ethan had just called and left a message
threatening both her and another one of her patients. That she needed
Levine to come right away because she had some new evidence for him.
Evidence she hadn't been able to reveal before.  Evidence she was sure
he would be very interested in seeing.

After she hung up, she sat at her desk, dead-calm and waiting.  Waiting
for what she knew would be her last chance. .            4VHEN THE
DOORBELL RANG, DIANA STARTLED IN HER chair.  It didn't seem possible
that more than a minute had passed since she had hung up with Levine,
but then again, distorted lately, it could have been her senses had been
so I she started three hours.  Wiping her palms on her jumper slowly out
of the office, trying to calm her pounding heart and silence her ragged
breathing, trying to hide her nervousness from the suspicious policeman
who stood on the other side of her door.  From the man who stood between
herself and prison.

But as she reached the hallway, Diana realized that it was reasonable
for her to be nervous.  That even a completely innocent person would be
unnerved by the circumstances in which she found herself She pulled open
the door and offered him a damp palm.  "Thanks for coming so fast," she
said softly.  "I'm glad you're here."

He grasped her hand in both of his and held it for a moment.  His hands
were cold and tiny flakes melted on the shoulders of his ski parka.  She
had just been staring out the window but hadn't even noticed that it had
started "Let's see what you've got," he said. to snow.

Diana brought Levine into her office and told him about

300 the message Ethan had left threatening Sandy.  "He said she was
'going the way of James,"' she stuttered, feeling both guilty about her
lies and exhilarated with how well she was lying.  "He said, 'The bitch
better watch her back." But he didn't sound like he did on the other
tapes," she added breathlessly, "He-he sounded clearer, closer." A
shiver ran down her back, a shiver she didn't have to fake.  She rubbed
the goose bumps that rose on her arms.  "Should I call her, or will
you?"

Levine took Sandy's phone number and promised he would take care of it.

Then Diana showed him the notations in her records.  She explained how
Ethan had confessed to murdering his girlfriend and how he had made
violent threats against Sandy and other group members in the past.  She
added, although she knew Levine understood, that doctor-patient
privilege had not allowed her to disclose this information before nowven
though she had known it would probably have helped her own case.

He was very encouraging, asking her to repeat things and clarify a
detail here or there.  He took copious notes and appeared honestly
relieved, almost happy, to have an alternative suspect to Diana.  He
even seemed to believe the part about how she had been in the bathroom
when Gail had called just a few minutes ago, how she had raced out as
soon as she heard a voice coming through the answering machine, but how,
unfortunately, she had not been fast enough to keep Gail's voice from
erasing Ethan's message.

"I should have taken the tape out of the machine as soon as I listened
to it," Diana berated herself.  "I've done it every other time-I don't
know why I didn't today.  It was stupid. Just plain stupid," she
repeated, almost believing her own lies

"Don't blame yourself too much," the detective said, lifting the tape
from the machine and dropping it into his pocket.  He skimmed one of the
files she had given him and added absently, "You were obviously shocked.
Scared.  You can't expect yourself to act as you might under more normal
circumstances."

"Thanks." Diana ran her fingers through her hair and let her breath out
in a rush.  She took the rest of the files and placed them in a neat
pile in the middle of her desk, trying not to think too much about what
she had just done.  She fiddled with the edges of the manila folders,
then turned and opened the blinds so she could watch the first
snowflakes of the year.  They were coating the alley with a pristine
layer of white.

She glanced at Levine, his head bent over a file resting on his crossed
leg.  He was reading her lies, believing a possibly innocent man was a
murderer because she wanted to save her own skin.  She was scum,
despicable and disgusting.  But it was too late to change anything now.
Levine scratched his stubbly chin and flipped a page.

Turning back to the window, Diana watched the snow growing on the slats
of the fire escape across the alley, transforming the pile of garbage
some animal had scourged from the Dumpster into an unsullied, and quite
striking, abstract sculpture.  Maybe it wasn't a lie, Diana thought.
Maybe Ethan had killed the girlfriend.  And if not the girlfriend, then
someone else-in the past or possibly in the future.  Perhaps she was
actually saving a life.  Lives, even. For she knew Ethan had no
conscience, that he was without guilt or remorse.  That Ethan Kruse was
a violent and dangerous man.

"Nice guy," Levine grunted, snapping the file shut and breaking into her
reverie.

Diana turned from the window and faced the detective. 'Do you want to
make copies or should I?" she asked, pushing the rest of the folders
across the desk to him.  He told her he would and reached over and took
the pile.  She held out her hand, relieved that it had all gone so well,
relieved that it was over.  "Call me if you have any questions."

But instead of standing and shaking her hand, he pulled of paper from
his pocket and placed that in her palm. warrant."

Diana felt heat rising to her face and staining it red.  It wasn't over.
She stared down at the flimsy yellow document in her hand.  The warrant.
How could she have forgotten?

"It's for your printer." He nodded toward the NEC sitting on the small
cart off to the side of her desk.  "Even with this new stuff on Kruse,
I've got to keep moving on all fronts."

"Printer," she repeated stupidly, trying to subdue the relief-and
fear-that spiraled through her.  "Of course." She walked over to the
printer and knelt behind it, hiding her red, sweat-beaded face from
Levine as she fiddled with the wires.  She realized she was going to
need a screwdriver to separate the printer from the cable.  Rising, she
asked him to excuse her for a moment.

Diana headed toward the kitchen, but when she got halfway up, to the
point where the stairway twisted and she knew she was not visible from
below, she stopped and pressed her hot cheek to the cool wall.  It
wasn't over. It would never be over.  She had lied.  She had falsified
medical records.  She had given the police false evidence. And it still
wasn't over.

"Diana?" Detective Levine stuck his head around the corner of the
stairwell and called up to her.

Diana jumped, almost losing her balance.  She pressed her palms to the
wall, steadying herself.  "Y-yes," she stuttered, trying to get a grip,
to appear calm and innocent, but knowing that her terror must be glowing
like a spotlight from within her.  "Yes?" she asked again.

"You were gone so long," he said, as if she were acting completely
non-nally.  "I was just checking to see that you were okay."

"Fine," she said, smiling weakly.  "Just a little shaky, I guess."

"To be expected," he assured her and disappeared back down the stairs.

When Diana reached into the junk drawer to get the Phillips-head
screwdriver, her right hand was shaking so badly that she had to grab it
with her left.  She couldn't lose it now, she warned herself.  She had
to hold it together for just a few more minutes.  She rummaged through
the drawer and finally found the small tool for which she had been
searching.  Levine didn't know she was lying.  He had no reason to
suspect.

Coming back into the office, Diana raised the tiny screwdriver.  "I'll
have it unhooked for you in a second," she said, trying to keep her
voice light, but knowing that she was failing abysmally.

"No rush," Levine answered, glancing up at her from writing in his
notebook.  "I've got a couple more things I want to talk to you about
anyway."

it took her a long time to unhook the printer.  The silence in the room
hung heavy and portentous as Diana struggled with her fears and the
trembling screwdriver.  A couple more things.

Finally Diana succeed in separating the machine from its cable.  Unal5le
to completely control her shaking hands, she gripped the printer tightly
and carried it to her desk.  She placed it in front of the detective,
and, unwilling to trust her voice, stood silently, hands clasped behind
her back.  A couple more things.

After a few minutes Levine looked up from the file he was thumbing
through and smiled at her as if they were casual acquaintances meeting
on a streetcomer.  He placed the file on top of the printer.
"Interesting stuff," he said conversationally.

Diana nodded.

Almost as an afterthought he reached into a deep pocket on the outside
of his parka and pulled out the aqua-andpurple book she knew so well:
her journal.

Instinctively Diana reached for the journal, her fingers longing for the
comfort of just holding it.  Then she yanked her hand back.  "Where did
you get that?" she barked, although as soon as she spoke the words, she
knew the answer: Jill had given it to him.

"I thought you knew we had it," he said, casually flipPing through the
pages.  "Got it from Hutchins's sister."

The familiarity with which the detective held her book, the purposeful
manner in which he touched the water- marked paper that held her most
private thoughts, caused Diana's fear to bum toward rage.  Don't, she
ordered herself, forcing her clenched fists to loosen.  It's his job. It
isn't personal.  But no matter how much she reminded herself of the
deadly folly of anger, she was unable to will away the boiling sea that
seethed within her.

"There's something in here I wanted to ask you about," Levine said as he
searched through the pages.  "Ah, here." He handed the journal to her,
pointing to the entry she had written right after James's funeral. "What
exactly did you mean by this?"

James is dead and Jill says I killed him.  She shouted

it in the middle of the funerat-although I'm sure

no one there believed her.  Most likely everyone just

assumed she was addled by grief.

Her words echoed off the hard marble walls, and they

will always echo in my heart.  They will be with me

forever.  As will be my guilt.

It hurts.  It hurts so much.  It hurts because James is

gone.  And it hurts because Jill spoke the truth.

Diana could see exactly what her words would say to a detective
investigating James Hutchins's murder.  "It's not what you think," she
said lamely.

He nodded, waiting for her to correct his misapprehension.

She sank into her chair and heaved a large sigh, Jill's words
reverberating through her brain: Who do you think ...  told Mr.  Fake
Friendly Detective to look at the end where you implicate yourself in
spades? Jill was obviously pulling every string she could find in her
marionette game of "Let's Hang Diana."

Diana swiveled her chair slightly so that she could watch the falling
snow softening the harsh angles of the alley. She sat silently,
wondering whether it was even worth the effort to try to explain.
Finally, she said "I was speaking metaphorically."

"You mean you just felt like you had killed him-not that you really had
killed him?"

Surprised, Diana swiveled back and looked at Herb Levine's face.  He
actually appeared to understand.  "Exactly," she said hopefully.  "I
just felt responsible because he was my patient.  I wasn't really
responsible." But the eyes that met hers were ice-cold.  Disappointed,
Diana slowly turned back to the window.  She heard Levine pick LIP the
journal and heard the flutter of pages.  A couple moi-(, things.

"Unfortunately, Dr.  Marcus .  .  ." The detective paused, and Diana
whipped her head around, alarmed by the tone of his voice: He hadn't
called her "Dr.  Marcus" since they'd first met.  "I've got some more
bad news for you. Did Hutchins ever mention a Harold Berger?"

"No," Diana said slowly, wondering what disaster Harold Berger had in
store for her.

"it seems that this Mr.  Berger lived downstairs from James-2'

"Mr.  Berger, the parapalegic?" she interrupted.

"Yup, he's in a wheelchair.  Seems real fond of Hutchins too.  It
doesn't seem to fit'!-Levine shook his head'blit Mr.  Berger told me
Hutchins once painted his apartment for him-as a favor."

"It's true," Diana said.  "And it fits."

"Anyway, it seems that Mr.  Berger was in California visiting his
daughter when the murder investigation started. Called the station this
morning when he got home.  He was very upset by the news." Levine raised
his eyebrows at Diana; when she didn't respond, he folded his hands over
the closed journal on his lap.  "He claims," the detective said slowly,
"that he heard you and James Hutchins yelling at each other on the
morning of October 15.  At the apartment on Anderson Street."

Diana's heart seemed to stop beating in her chest.  "The morning of
October 15?" she whispered.

"It appears that you've now been placed at the scene on the day of the
murder," Levine said, not taking his eyes off Diana's face.

"I, ah, 1.  .  ." she stammered, remembering.  It was about a week after
James had hidden in her jeep, causing her to hit the parked car; it was
a few days after he had shrieked at her in the alley, causing her to
call the police; it was the morning after she had a nightmare in which
James was a vampire, sucking blood from her baby's neck.

It was early, before her class, and she had gone to James's apartment to
beg him to leave her alone.  To plead with him to get on with his
life-and to let her get on with hers.  Craig had given her an ultimatum:
Either she talk to James or he would.

"This is the way it has to be," she told James.  "This is the way it
is."

But James had refused to listen.  "You can't throw me away like a sack
of yesterday's garbage," he screamed at her.  "I'll never let you
go-never!"

Closing her eyes against the memory of James's enraged face, Diana
swallowed and tried to speak again.  But no words could get past the
huge lump of terror in her throat.

Levine stood and held up his hands.  "You don't need to say anything
just yet.  Just think on it for a bit." He put her files on top of the
printer and lifted it easily.  But it was bulky and difficult to
maneuver.  "Can you help me with the door?" he asked.

Diana jumped up and led him up the stairs.  When they reached the foyer,
she pulled the door open and pressed herself to the wall so he could
pass.  "I'm real sorry to have to tell you this," he said, raising the
printer over his head and swinging wide of her stomach, "but we'll find
you wherever you go.  So do me a favor: Please don't leave town."

IANA STOOD IN THE DOORWAY LONG AFRER DETEC tive Levine's taillights
disappeared down St.  Stephen Street.

Then she ran downstairs, grabbed her coat, and climbed into

the jeep.  She didn't know where she was going, but she figured it
didn't much matter.  All that mattered was that she

was moving, that she was acting.  Even if her motions were

pointless,

Although the snow was tapering off and the flakes were melting as soon
as they hit the macadam, because it was the first snow of the season the
traffic inched along as if in the middle of a raging gale.  But for
once, Diana didn't care. She sat patiently, her mind blank and her hands
resting lightly on the steering wheel, staring at the snow waltzing in
the beams of her headlights.

It wasn't until she found herself headed west on Route 2 that she
realized where she was going: to Gail's house in Lexington.  It was just
past five, so Gail and her husband Shep were sure to be home, tending to
dinner and the twins.

Diana turned off the highway and drove past the historic Battle Green
and the stately old homes of Lexington Cen ter, then she crossed to the
other side of town and wound her way to Gail's contemporary home, set
amid a cluster of similar houses on large wooded lots.

Gail was a lot less surprised to see her than Diana had expected.  She
ran to the kitchen and held a hurried, whispered conversation with Shep,
then came back and led Diana into the family room.  She closed the door
behind them.

Diana stood in the middle of the room, the bright havoc of the
primary-colored toys in such contrast to her mood that she was
momentarily disoriented.  She tried to smile at Gail, but her facial
muscles refused to cooperate, pulling instead into what felt like a
grimace.

With a sweeping motion of her arm, Gail dumped a pile of Legos onto the
coffee table, clearing two seats on the couch.  "Sit," she ordered.

Diana sat.  She sat and stared at the jumble of picture books on the
shelves across from her.  She sat and stared at the miniature plastic
kitchen in the far corner of the room, at its red seats and orange
countertop, at its sink full of stuffed animals.  She played with the
Legos, flattening them all out on the table, then carefully picking them
up one by one.  Slowly, methodically, she built a series of small
towers.  "I'm lost," she finally said, knocking down the towers and
leveling the Legos.

Gail reached over and touched Diana's knee.  "It's going to be okay,
sweetie."

"I'm not myself," Diana whispered.  "I don't know who I am anymore. I've
become deceitful, manipulative.  A liar.  I feel empty.  Hollow." She
barked a laugh without humor.  "I sound like a symptom checklist for
borderline disorder."

"Sometimes I think the line between 'us' and 'them' is a lot thinner
than we'd like to believe .  .  ."

Diana stared at her friend in silence for a moment.  Then, not wanting
to linger too long on the frightening truth in Gail's words, she
launched into a detailed description of every blunder she had made: of
how she had failed everyone, from James to Sandy to Jill to Ethan, and,
finally, to

p- Craig and the baby.  Then she told Gail how she had duped her into
helping her lie to Levine-and how she had falsified Ethan's records.  It
was a long and exhausting speech, and when she was finally finished, she
looked over at Gail, not knowing whether she wanted absolution or
censure.

She received neither.  Instead, Gail looked at her thoughtfully and said
without judgment, "You forgot a symptom on the checklist."

Diana could feel the blood drain from her face as she scrambled to
imagine what Gail could possibly know.  "I did?"

"Obsession."

"Obsession?" Diana repeated.  "That's probably the only borderline
symptom I don't have."

Gail gripped one'of Diana's hands tightly between her two.  "It's your
obsession with borderlines," she said gently.  "With your patients, your
research.  With curing them. It's no good for you," she added.  "Or
them."

Diana played with the Legos, saying nothing.  She had heard all of this
from Gail before-many, many times.  She hadn't believed it then, and she
didn't believe it now.  Diana knew that it was only through this kind of
dedication-the kind of dedication Gail labeled obsession-that real
breakthroughs were made.

"Hutchins was just another sick puppy," Gail continued, lecturing her
willful pupil.  "Probably too sick for your anyone else-to do anything
for."

"I could have helped him," Diana said, raising her chin. "My research is
showing-"

"Forget your research," Gail snapped, dropping Diana's hand in disgust.
"This isn't about ANOVAs and regression analyses.  This is about you and
Craig and the baby-about your life.  This is about how you have to let
go of your patientsf your obsession with curing them.  About how you
have to let go of your neediness."

"You mean their neediness," Diana corrected.

"Listen to me, Diana.  This murder thing is going to blow . 1-7 over. It
may be ugly and it's hound to be awful, but you didn't kill James
Hutchins, and somehow that'll come out. The real mess, though-the mess
that's making you so crazy-won't be over until you free yourself of your
need to be the almighty fixer.  Your need for them to love you.  Your
need for their idolatry."

"What you perceive to be my need is all part of the process," Diana said
stiffly.  "To quote Adrian: 'Psychotherapy cannot proceed without
empathy."

"

"You've got to admit your obsession with Hutchins goes a bit beyond
empathy-"

"Of course I'm obsessed," Diana interrupted.  "I'm going to be charged
with his murder, for Christ's sake." 11

-and that it always has," Gail continued as if Diana hadn't spoken.
"This hasn't been just a professional relationship since the first day
he walked into your office.  He's feeding something in you.  Some empty
place you're trying to fill.  Maybe you've been using James as a way to
atone r what happened to your little sister." fo "Don't give me that
psychologist crap," Diana said. "James was special.  He was a remarkable
man.  Talented, brilliant .  .

"All that was remarkable about James Hutchins was his face." Gail stood
abruptly and began pacing the room. "Can't you see it? The guy looked
like a fucking movie star, and he thought you were the most desirable
woman in the world!" She whirled around and grabbed Diana's hands. ,,
sweetie, anyone would fall for that-I'm not faulting you. The guy had
more charisma than Jesus Christ! But you were blinded by it.  You let
his charm fool you into thinking that he-and you-could be something
neither one of you ever could be." She sat `:/3+' down and added more softly,
"He's dead.  And once this murder thing is worked out, you've got to let
go of him-and of your need to cure everyoner you'll never be free."

"That's ridiculous," Diana sputtered, throwing off Gail's hands.  "I
don't think I can cure everyone.  I just think I may have found a way to
help borderlines.  It's this traumatic stress thing-"

"Don't you see?" Gail interrupted.  "Can't you hear what you're saying?
Diana, your fascination with them is almost as sick as theirs is with
you .  " She shook her head.  "Maybe you're right.  Maybe you are
checking off a lot of symp- toms on that list."

"Oh, so now I'm a borderline?" Diana demanded.  "Is that your
professional opinion, Dr.  Galdetto? Or are you just armchair
psychologizing?"

"I didn't mean-"

"You want to know what I'm really wishing in this heart of all terrible
borderline hearts? Want to hear my truly depraved fantasies, Doctor?
I'll tell you: My fantasy is that James is alive.  That he and I are
together.  Just gorgeous James and me, alone on some deserted island."

"Diana, please-"

"The beach is long and white and empty," Diana continned, her voice low,
rumbling with barely suppressed anger.  "And do you know what I dream?
Do you know what I fantasize about my sexy dead man come alive?" she
demanded.  "I dream that I'm sitting next to him on a large blanket,
sitting next to that magnificent hunk who's stretched out in the sun,
all shiny and glistening.  I run my fingers along his perfect cheekbone.
I lightly touch the deep cleft in his chin .  .  ."

Gail watched Diana silently, her eyes dark with sadness.

"Then I reach into my beach bag and pull out a shotgun," Diana said
softly.  "I press it to his temple, and before he even opens his eyes, I
blow his brains out all over again!" She chortled at the relief on
Gail's face.  "Murder is better than sex, huh?'

"I suppose that's what I'd prefer for you in this situation."

.            "Then don't he too pleased," Diana flung back at Gail.
"Because I did that too."

"Did what too?" Gail asked, alarm replacing the relief in her eyes.

"Had sex with James Hutchins," Diana said.  "Right on the floor of my
office."

Diana fled.  ignoring Gail, who stood on the stoop imploring her to come
back inside, Diana grabbed her coat and raced to her car.  The snow was
coming down more heavily and beginning to stick, but the jeep held its
own as she screeched out of Gail's driveway.

The ride home was a blur of swirling white flakes and shifting
realities. One moment she was driving along Alewife Brook Parkway on a
snowy December night, and the next she was back in her office on that
sweltering summer day, James's arms hard and hot around her, her body
turned inside out with pure desire.

It had happened just as she had described it in her journal.  She had
wanted James for years, longed for him; but she had fought it.  She had
written about it, and talked about it, and tried to work it through; but
nothing had made it go away.  That hot July afternoon when her tenuous
control had finally snapped had been the most glorious and the most
horrible moment of her life.  James was so gorgeous, so tender, and so
full of passion.  When she finally touched him, finally allowed herself
to press her body against his, she had .  laughed out loud; the relief
alone had been almost orgasmic.

She began trembling so hard that James had to undress them both.  When
they were naked, they stood motionless for a long moment, staring into
each other's eyes.  "Just let me look at you, James had said.  "Just let
me ok.  But the ache of the wanting was too great for Diana, and she
reached out and pulled him to her.

They slid to the floor.  James kissed her forehead, her eyelids, her
earlobe.  Arching her back, Diana pressed tier breasts to his chest, her
stomach and thighs to his.  Desire rose from deep within her and spread
outward, a desire so painful it was as if her every nerve were exposed,
bared to an excruciating-and wonderful-agony.  She wrapped her arms
around him even more tightly, wanting only to merge her body with his.

"We fit perfectly," James whispered as he trailed kisses down her
throat.  Then be gently pulled away and stared deep into her eyes.  "As
if we were made only for each other." Diana raised her hands to pull him
to her again, but his fingers gently encircled her wrists.  "Slowly," he
said, releasing her hand and running his fingers down the length of her
body.  "I've dreamed of doing this slowly." Diana moaned as he bent down
and kissed her breast.  They made love as if they had been lovers for
centuries.

But when it was over, as they lay wrapped in each others' arms, the old
air conditioner creaking above them in the window, the reality of what
she had done cascaded over Diana, and she began to cry.  "Don't," James
said, stroking her cheek.  "Fbis was unstoppable.  It was meant to be."
And despite all that had happened since then, Diana knew that James had
spoken the truth.

But still, Diana thought as she peered into the oncoming snow trying to
find the edge of the road, she was being punished.  Punished for the
worst transgression a therapist could make against a patient.  Diana saw
herself reflected on the milky surface, seated behind an endless row of
tall iron bars, nursing her baby.  Her mind, her whole being, was
slipping and sliding along with the jeep.  She was losing controlf the
jeep, of her life, of herself.  She slammed on her brakes and skidded to
a stop, her fender brushing up against a rusted metal guardrail.

Somehow she managed to back up and make her way home.  But when she
pulled into the alley, instead of relief, all she could feel were the
eyes.  They were everywhere.  In the flat faces of the dark windows next
door.  Flickering on the snow-edged brick of the restaurant's backside.
On the fire escape.  in the trash cans.  She scurried into the house and
bolted the locks.  Leaning against the closed door, her

pounding wildly, Diana felt herself separate from herse once again.  And
she was grateful.

She watched herself slowly climb the three flights of stairs to her
bedroom.  She hovered somewhere above the stoop-shouldered, listless
woman who, if not for her slightly protruding abdomen, would have
appeared from her movements to be quite elderly.  She contemplated the
situation with a cool detachment.

She was a dead woman.  A deceitful, hollow, manipulative dead woman.
There was nothing she could do about it. No one to blame.  No one to
call.  She was a dead woman. She was bone weary.  She might as well get
some sleep.

Diana watched herself lie down in the middle of the bed and turn on her
side.  She pulled a pillow to her belly and curled herself around it.
There were no tears, no screams of rage, no prostrations of grief, there
was only overwhelming exhaustion.  As her lids dropped shut, Diana saw
deep smudges of darkness circling her eye sockets, standing out in stark
contrast to her chalky complexion.  I'm already dead, she thought as she
swooped down to meet her body in sleep.  I'm already dead.

Diana dreamed she was walking through a thick forest in a raging gale.
The wind tore at her hair, and the rain beat on her face.  But the noise
was the most potent and terrifying force.  It was so loud and
all-encompassing that it seemed that sound alone held the power to tear
the lowering, ancient trees from their roots.

And it did.  Trees plummeted all around her, dropping in front of her,
halting her in her place, cutting off her path. Frantic, she turned as a
failing tree trunk darkened the gloomy sky.  She leaped high over
already felled branches as more and more trees toppled around her.  Then
the win(] picked her up and whisked her away.  All was quiet and still.

brooding castle, :t

until she realized she was in a murky, castle whose ceiling was so
pointed and tall that she could not see its apex.  Until she realized
she was on a towering metal rack, its rusted beams soaring so high that
they too were lost in the shadowy heights of darkness.  Until the noise
began again.

This time the sound was mechanical and human-made, but no less
frightening than the organic noise of the forest. She tried to run from
the racket, but she could not move. She was in something's grip.
Twisting and turning her neck, stretching her muscles until they
screamed from the punishment, she was finally able to see that her arms
and her wrists were hound to the metal bed with thick leather thongs.

Then the bed began to move.  As the noise grew, the bed slowly pulled
apart, pulling her apart with it.  She was being torn in all directions,
severed from the outside inand from the inside out.  The sound of
scraping metal and splintering bone screamed in her ears, louder and
more horrible than any sound she had ever heard.  Pain wracked her body,
and agony filled her being.  "No!" she cried, finally pulling herself
awake.

Diana was disoriented, but relieved, to find herself fully dressed in
the familiar bedroom.  The city light reflecting on the newly fallen
snow threw an eerie, artificial brightness through her undraped window.
But before she could calm her ragged breathing, before she could slow
her pounding heart, Diana heard the noise once again.

For a moment she thought she was still asleep, that this was just a new
setting within the horrible noise dream. Then a powerful bang
reverberated throughout the house, and Diana knew that someone had just
broken in.  Ethan. It had to be Ethan.  He had been watching her, and
now he was coming to kill her.

Suddenly time became stuck.  It took her forever to sit up.  And when
she finally did, she had to swim through molasses just to raise her arm.
She caught Craig's night table in the corner of her eye and
painstakingly pushed her head toward it.  The brass handle, which
splayed into small bunches of roses on the face of the night table
drawer, seemed to grow until all Diana could see was the tarnish
outlining the flower petals. Behind that handle was the gun.  She froze,
knowing it was a physical impossibility, yet knowing she heard, and
felt, the soft tread of footsteps climbing thunderously toward her from
three floors below.

She looked at her own night table.  The telephone sitting on top of it
seemed to swell and expand, as if she were zooming in on it with a
telephoto lens.  Phone before gun, her numb mind finally processed.
Phone the police. On all fours, she crawled across the suddenly enormous
bed toward the telephone, her knees buckling under her on the spread,
the impossibly loud thump of approaching footsteps reverberating through
her body.

Finally she grasped the receiver in one hand; the fingers of her other
hand hovered over the keypad.  The number. Her brain strained for the
number.  Emergency.  The police. Three digits.  A three-digit number.
But her brain gave back nothing.  There was only a blank empty wall were
the number should have been.  She couldn't find it, She couldn't reach
it.  All she could see was her own number, glowing up at her from the
face of the phone.

The footsteps grew louder, closer.  The room became brighter, hotter.
Suddenly released from their amnesia, her fingers punched three numbers.
Relief flooded through her as she clutched the phone.

"Directory assistance.  What city, please?" whined a nasal, bored voice
in her ear.  Too stunned to speak, Diana gripped the receiver more
tightly in her hand.  "For what city?" the voice demanded.

Diana slammed the phone down and lunged for Craig's night table.  As she
scrambled to reach the drawer, she felt the footsteps leave the second
floor landing and begin their slow climb toward the third.

And once again, time became stuck.  She froze like a frightened and
trapped animal.  Although she was unable to move, unable to breathe, her
other senses were unbearably alive.  She saw every detail of the night
table's wood carving, highlighted by the reflected snow-light.  Every
honking horn and every squeak of the stair reverberated through her
brain like an air raid siren.  She heard the soft, measured footsteps
pounding inexorably toward her.  She smelled her Own sweat and fear. She
was going to die.

A surge of adrenaline hit her frozen limbs like a blast furnace, and she
was able to move once again.  With awkward, jerky motions, she clawed at
the handle and yanked the drawer open.  She grabbed the gun but couldn't
keep hold of it.  It slid from her damp, trembling fingers and bounced
on the bed.  Frantic, she dove after it, seizing it with both hands, She
held the unfamiliar weapon out in front of her, but she was shaking so
badly she was sure she would be unable to shoot.  The footsteps reached
the third-floor landing, and Diana turned to face the door.

As she curled her finger around the trigger, she remembered Craig
telling her it didn't need to be cocked.  "Just press," he had said.
"Point at his midsection and press."

A long shadow fell across the hallway floor.  Diana raised the gun a
little higher, gripping it more tightly, steadying it, telling herself
she could shoot it if she had to.  That any fool could fire a gun.

But Diana was too startled by the sight that filled her doorway to do
anything but stare.  For the intruder, highlighted by the brightness
streaming through her bedroom window, was James.

James Hutchins, supposedly dead for almost two months, was standing
there, grinning and holding his arms open wide. .            IANA
WONDERED IF PERHAPS SHE WAS STILL DREAM- the terror of the dripping
forest and the towering rack had metamorphosed into a ghoulish nightmare
of the walkdead.  She blinked and the gun in her hands trembled, mg e
kept it pointed at the man but still she held on to it, still sh t be,
Jaynes in the doorway.  The man who was, yet could no Hutchins.  d his
grin slipped into

James dropped his arms, an ight of out sheepish smile, his eyes bright
with the del who has pulled off a successful surprise- "I'm alive," h(k
said softly, handing her his gift.  "It's really me." He leille(,
against the doorjamb and casually crossed his arms, look- ilit, as brash
and appealing as he had the first time she had seei) him. Diana felt as
if she had been punched in the stomach. "Don't move," she ordered,
gripping the gun as tightin, a,, she could.

id, his eyes soft and iiiag

"You look wonderful," he sa netic, pulling her to him, dram "ig her in.

She shuddered and lowered the gun.  "James, she wiiis pered.

He smiled at her, and a piece of hair fell to his foreliea(i

320 with a motion so achingly familiar that Diana longed to push the
hair back with her fingers, longed to touch his brow.  "I knew you'd be
pleased," he said.

Pleased? she wondered.  Was she pleased? Staring at James, at the sweep
of his cheekbone, at the cleft in his chin, at the excitement and
delight that radiated from his eyes, Diana realized she was far more
than pleased, she was ecstatic.  Her James was alive.  He was standing
there, breathing and living.  Her mistakes hadn't killed him.  She was
being given the greatest gift of all: another chance.

As swells of glorious relief rolled through her, Diana suddenly saw the
full impact of his return: If James was alive, then she was free.  There
would be no arrest warrants or barbed wire or coarse red uniforins-and
the long shadow of Herb Levine would disappear from her life.
Unconsciously Diana touched her stomach.  Her family was free too.  The
nursery would be filled with laughter, and there would be a crib and a
bureau and a changing table, brightcolored bumpers and quilts and a
rocking chair where she would sing lullabies to soothe the baby into
sleep in the dark silent hours of night.  Craig would build a toy box
and paint his fantasy mural on the walls.

Waves of pure joy engulfed every part of her being, inundating her,
flooding her chest, almost choking her with their power.  She was as
light as air, weightless, almost floating.  Her fingers and toes tingled
with elation.  It was over. Diana's hands trembled as she began to raise
her arms toward James, to touch him, to hear his heart beat beneath her
ear, to bury her nose in the smell of his cologne.  To feel, to really
feel, to know with every part of her, with her every sense, that he was
indeed alive.  That she was indeed free.

But something in his eyes made her hesitate.  Something in the way he
was looking at her stopped her cold.  Something that began to suck the
joy from her.  "I did it for you," he said, taking a step toward her.
"For us."

Diana scrambled backward on the bed and raised the "Don't move," she
ordered again, a sudden slew of izing questions flooding in to douse her
happiness. "You're not going to shoot me," he said with perfect logic.
"You need me to love you." Stepping up to the foothoard, James calmly
rested his hand on the curved brass, secure in his insight.  "And I do."

She let the gun drop to the bed.  Diana looked at him standing there, so
hopeful and so much in love.  Who could resist the power of being so
adored? she wondered.  Who could resist the power of almost unbearable
charisma? He's feeding something in you, Gail's voice filled her ears.
Some empty place you're trying to fill.

"I love you more than anything," James said softly, his velvety voice
drawing her to him.  "That's why I did it."

"It's .  .  ." she stuttered, simultaneously wanting to hold him close
and push him away.  "It's just so incredible.  .  ." James's words
finally got through to her, cutting off her own.  She stared at him,
unable to speak.  Someone was dead because James was alive.  Too sick
for you or any- one else-4o do anything for, Gail had warned her.
Diana's stomach squeezed in panic as she groped toward the answer she
didn't want to find.

Images of Anderson Street flashed through her mind.  The steep roadway
clogged with emergency vehicles and yellow tape and gawking crowds.  The
cracked sidewalk under her feet.  The scraggly geraniums flopping in the
window box next door.  The covered stretcher.  The paint-splattered
sneaker and the naked foot.  It's a real gory mess in there. Bone ... on
the walls.  Then, suddenly, Diana knew.  Suddenly she saw the whole
thing-and understood it all too well.  "Ethan," she whispered, her voice
hoarse with disbelief.  "It's Ethan who's dead."

"I thought of it the first time I met him," James said, his eyes
sparkling with pride.  "Same hair color, same sizefrom behind, we could
have been mistaken for each other.'

"Ethan's dead," Diana repeated stupidly.  So this was what James had
gotten out of his relationship with Ethan. This was the elusive payoff
she could never figure out.  "But what about-"

"You want to know about the messages," James interrupted.  "That's the
best part: Ethan thought it was a big joker got him to tape them all
before I killed him.  There's still a few left I never used," he
bragged.

Dazed, Diana nodded, her stomach churning at the careless way he spoke
of killing Ethan.  Her James was a murderer.  Cold-blooded and
unremorseful.  You let his charm fool YOU ...

"And then I would have Ethan leave a message whenever you went out,"
James was explaining, oblivious to her growing horror.  He waved at the
window.  "I sat there on the fire escape and watched you.  Right across
the alley.  I could even tell when you were taking a shower."

A furry shiver of revulsion ran up Diana's back.  She hadn't been
paranoid.  She hadn't been imagining it.  The eyes had been real.
Someone had been out there.  Watching her.  Someone more dangerous than
she had ever dreamed. Someone she never thought it could have been.

"How did you miss it?" he asked.  "I was even afraid that you'd guess
right away-I was sure you'd recognize my voice that first day when I
called to tell you I was dead." James shook his head as a mother would
at a naughty but well-loved child.  "I planted the whole toe business so
that you'd figure out I was alive.  I didn't expect you to think I was
murdered."

Diana just stared at him in stunned silence, trying to grasp the meaning
of his words, trying to comprehend the deranged complexity of his
scheme.

"I actually was going to kill myself," he continued conversationally.
"To show you how much you loved me. But then I realized it would be a
waste." He grinned, and for the first time Diana saw the depravity
lurking below his gleaming smile, a depravity she had been blind . 7-
fore.  "I realized that if I were dead, we'd never get to

gether.

"So I decided to fake it." James's face glowed with excitement.  "Got
the idea about the shotgun from Ethan's girlfriend blowing her head
off."

"Ethan's girlfriend," Diana repeated.

"I figured that after grieving for me, when I showed up alive, you'd be
forced to admit to yourself how much you loved me-and then you'd come
away with me." James threw his arms upward, almost touching the ceiling,
a look of wild ecstasy on his face.  "And now," he cried, "now it's all
happened.  Now you can leave here.  You've no husband, no career to hold
you anymore.  I made sure I got rid of them allverything keeping you
from me.  I destroyed them so that we could be the family." James
glanced lovingly at her stomach.  "Once our baby is born."

Diana was filled with an icy dread as the jagged edges of' James's
horrible puzzle began to come together.  "There is no 'our baby, ' " she
said, moving her hand slowly, casua I I y, toward the gun at her knee.
"The baby is Craig's.  Mine and my husband's."

"Craig's left you.  I saw him leave with his suitcases this morning."
James took another step toward her, stretching out his hands.  "And you
know the baby's mine.  You know-"

"Don't come any closer!" Diana warned him.  "Don't touch me."

His face crumpled.  "I thought you'd be so happy

She looked at James, her James, the light in his eyes clouded by
disappointment that, once again, she had caused. Despite all that had
happened, despite her fear and revulsion, Diana was suffused with
compassion for the young boy who had been so violated that he could not
be helped. No treatment, no therapy, no rehabilitation could undo the
catastrophic harm that had been done to him.  Uncle Hank had taken
James's promise and made him into this horror. Hank Hutchins had stolen
James's life from him.  And Diana could not give it back.  She couldn't
be the great rescuer.  No one could.  James, her handsome, brilliant
James, was far too damaged.

He must have seen the compassion in her eyes, for he dropped to his
knees by the side of the bed.  "I felt it that day in your office when
we made love-I felt your love." His voice was deep with passion, and,
despite everything, was so powerfully evocative of that afternoon that
Diana began to tremble.  "I know you want us to be together again," he
said, grabbing her hand and pressing it to his lips.  "And so do 1. Come
away with me," he begged, kissing her open palm.  "I love you so much."

"James," Diana began, gently pulling her hand from his, filled with such
conflicted emotions that she wasn't sure she could speak.  For despite
her clear understanding of whoand what-he really was, she still felt
such tenderness, such empathy, for him.  Diana brushed the hair back
from his forehead and sighed.  "That day in my office was a terrible
mistake.  Probably the worst mistake I've ever made in my life.  It's-"

"You can't deny us that day," he said.  "I won't let you. We're not
children, Diana.  You and I both know magnetism like ours happens once
in a lifetime-if you're lucky."

"It's over," Diana said, choosing her words carefully. What he was
saying was true.  All too true.  She had never felt anything like the
powerful magic of that afternoon. She had been bewitched by him, drawn
and pulled beyond her power, or her desire, to resist.  She had never
been so encompassed by passion.  Never felt so masterful.  So alive. "It
will never happen again," she said, her voice low with sadness for
everything that couldn't be.  "Never."

"Come with me now," he begged.  "It can happen again. Now is our
chance."

"It's impossible, James.  I'm not going anywhere."

"But the baby.  I figured it out.  The timing-"

She shook her head.  "I found out the next week that I was already
pregnant." .             7 "I planned how this would happen," he said
calmly.  "I worked it all out in my mind.  Over and over.  I've been
controlled all my life and now I'm in control.  I'm not going to let my
plan fail." His eyes burned into Diana's, and again his depravity showed
through.

"James," she said softly, trying to distract him so she could grab the
gun at her knee.

But he saw her eyes flicker downward and seized the gun before she
could.  He jumped up and backed toward the door, pointing it directly at
her.  "You're coming with me," he ordered, his quiet voice much more
terrifying than if he had been screaming.  "Right now."

"James," Diana said, trying to sound calm, "it's no use. It's over."

"Not if I kill us both, it's not," he said, his eyes glazed. "If I kill
us both, we'll be together always."

Unable to speak, unable to move, Diana felt time once again stall. James
loomed enormous and hulking, growing thicker and wider, grotesque and
terrifying.  The ambient light glinted off the shiny gun barrel. James
could very well do what he threatened.  He had killed before, and she
knew that to his deranged mind, his solution was all too plausible. She
stared at the gun in horror, scrambling frantically for the response
that would save her life and the life of her child.  But she found only
blankness.  "The baby," she finally sputtered.  "You can't kill our
child."

His eyes narrowed, and his handsome face became shrewd, the planes of
his cheekbones shading to evil. "You said it was Craig's."

"I lied," Diana lied.  "You figured out the dates.  You know the truth."

He stood with the gun pointed at her belly for a long moment.  "I don't
believe you," he finally said.

"But what if you're wrong?"

They remained that way for what felt like an eternity: James with the
gun to her stomach, Diana still, To lose all she had just regained was
more than Diana could bear. To lose it all once again because of her
weakness that one afternoon-because of her obsession with James
Hutchins. She knew she deserved punishment for her wrongdoing.  But her
baby didn't.  And neither did Craig.  Diana didn't move a muscle.  She
held her breath and kept her eyes locked on James's, pleading sincerity,
pleading for a chance to live.

Then James broke the eye contact and stared over Diana's head at
someplace far away.  After another eternity he slowly lifted the gun
with robotlike jerks of his hand.  He placed the muzzle to his temple.
"One word and I won't pull the trigger."

.            Diana gasped, her eyes glued to his.  She clearly felt his
sincerity, his need, his love-no less real for its debauched nature. And
she also saw the hopeless depths of his insanity.  You've got to let go
of hind of your need to cut-e everyone ...

"One word," he begged.  "Just tell me that you want me to live."

And Diana knew in that moment that she could not take responsibility for
his life.  That she could not save him.  She closed her eyes, tears
running down her cheeks.  She wanted to open them.  She wanted to scream
out for him to stop.  For him to save himself.  That she would try to
help him again. But she did not.

"Diana, please .  .

She kept her eyes closed, kept her silence, until a powerful explosion
shattered the stillness.  Then Diana began to scream.  And it seemed to
her that she would scream forever. .