Keeping Council
by
R.A. Forster


Zebra Books Kensington Publishing Corp.

http://www.zebrabooks.com ZEBRA BOOKS are published by

Kensington Publishing Corp.

850 Third Avenue New York, NY 10022

KEEPING COUNCIL

Copyright 1996 by R.A. Forster

All rights reserved.  No part of this book may be reproduced in any
form or by any means without the prior written consent of the
Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that
this book is stolen property.  It was reported as "unsold and
destroyed" to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher
has received any payment for this "stripped book."

Zebra and the Z logo Reg.  U.S. Pat.  & TM Off.

First Printing: March, 1996 10 9 8 7 6 5 4

Printed in the United States of America

To my brothers Mike, Mark, Bruce, Jeff, and Gareth whose wit and
wisdom are a constant source of amazement and amusement

Special thanks to: Jenny Jensen as always, Sarah GaUick for her
extraordinary patience, Theresa Burkhardt for her knowledge and good
humor, and Cheryl Henderson, who never batted an eyelash.

It is the duty of an attorney to do all of the following To maintain
inviolate the confidence, and at every peril to himself or herself, to
preserve the secrets of his or her client.

Business & Professional Code Prologue

He hung his head out the window like a dog on a Sunday drive.  The
whipping wind roared in his ears and slicked back his long hair, baring
a wide high forehead.  His eyes narrowed, squinting against the force
of hot air hitting 75 miles an hour.

Sinister, that's how he looked.  Like he could take anyone down.

Women could fall at his feet and he wouldn't give two cents even if
they were naked.

That's the kind of man he was.

But if they were naked, he'd give 'em a grin for sure.

"Hah!"  he laughed once, but it was more of a shout, just to make sure
he was still alive and kickin'.

He was feeling neither here nor there.  He had a woman.  She didn't
make him happy.  Thinking about her, he stepped on the gas and the
ribbon of road blurred, turning molten under his wheels.

The asphalt was hot as hell; still steaming, though the day had been
done for hours.

Hot!  Hot!  Good when you 're with a woman, bad when you're in the
desert.

Lord, that was funny.  True things were the biggest kick of all.

But damn if this wasn't the most lonesome strip of land in all New
Mexico and him a lonesome ill R.A. Fm-ster cowboy ridin' it on the
back of some him king old steed.  Cowboys were the good guys.  Had a
code to live by, guns to carry.  And cows and horses, they just needed
a stick in the ribs, a kick in the rear to get 'em going.  No need to
talk.  No questions.

No answers.

Do you feel happy?  Sad?  What are you feeling now?  Good.  Good.  You
"II be going home soon.  Do you feel anxious?

You're so quiet.  Do you feel?  Good.  Good He was hot like a stove
top.  Hot like a pot about to boil and damn if he wasn't sitting right
on the burner, all these thoughts in his head making his lid start to
dance.  He'd blow the top of his head right off and out would tumble
all those good jokes, and lines that would make women weep.

Hot damn.  Make 'em weep.

He shook his head hard and wrapped one hand tighter around the steering
wheel while he pushed farther out the window, head and shoulders now.

The old car swerved but he got it back on track, straight on that
dotted line.

He loved those dotted lines.  Man perforating the world.  A place to
rip it in half.  Tear here.  Send the part with him on it back for a
refund.

He shook his head like the dog he was pretending to be.  His lips went
slack and he heard them flapping, even over the noise of the wind. What
an ugly sound and he wasn't an ugly guy.  So he turned into the wind
and it blew his head empty.

When he turned it back, the hot air ran straight at him and made his
eyes tear.

Life was wonderful again.  Television a blessing.

Doctors cured themselves of cancer with a thought.

Smart and fancy women could be had with a smile and a wink.

Damn, life was good.  It had taken a while but he was cookin'.  He was
the most scrumptious thing on the menu.

"Whoeee!"  he hollered, and the wind lashed that sound around and threw
it right back at him as he hung his head out the window.  He pulled it
back inside just a snail's trail before the semi whizzed by.

He thought about that close call and making love and a cigarette all at
the same time.  The close call was past so he tossed aside the image of
his head rolling around on the asphalt.  His lady was a pain in the
ass, so thinking about her was idiotic.

The cigarette, though, he could do something about that.

Two fingers burrowed into his shirt pocket.  He was already tasting
that first good drag and swore he could feel that swirly smoke deep in
his lungs.

But the pack was empty and crinkled under his fingers.  His smile was
gone.  He didn't feel like hollerin' anymore.

Two hands slapped atop the steering wheel and he drove with his eyes
straight forward on the lonely road.  He just wanted one lousy
cigarette.

But anger wasn't right.  He plastered a grin on his face.  The new him.
New and improved.  He accelerated down the four-lane, singing at the
top of his lungs in a voice that he was almost sure didn't belong to
him.  It was too smooth.

Smooth like the turn of the wheel, the slide of the stop he made four
miles down.  He was still singing when he palmed the keys and unwound
his long legs, and stood like a rock 'n' roll god in a pool of
fluorescent light at the Circle K convenience store.

He took a minute to admire himself in the side mirror.  He didn't like
the way his dirty ice eyes looked, so he admired the night sky. Nothing
like these black New Mexico nights.  Stars as plentiful as rice at a
weddin'.  He tucked in his shirt so he looked really good. Handsome. 
Damn, life was fine.  Whisding softly, he moved on.

Pushing open the glass door, he stepped inside, surprised at how
vibrant everything seemed now that he was straight.  Michelle Pfeiffer
looked like she could just walk right off the cover of People and give
him a little hug.  The slurpy machine's neon blue and pink letters
quivered as if overjoyed to be colored pink and blue.

He ambled over to the register.  Little Fourth of July flags were taped
all over the place: flags next to the Smokey Joe Hot Salami Sticks,
flags wavin' over die stale donuts under the Plexiglas counter box,
flags pokin' out of the almost-hidden condom place on the shelf behind
the counter.

Hot damn!  Independence Day.  He almost forgot.

Good day for him.  He did what he liked, when he liked.  No one around
to tell him anything.  Only his cowboy conscience, only his roamin' man
code to keep him in line.

The smokes were neatly stacked on a metal thing above the counter.  He
looked for the Camels.  Left, third row down.  Filters one row lower
than that.

It was the same at every Circle EL What a mind!

He could remember everything.

He wandered toward die counter, lay his hands atop it, and peered over,
half expecting a pimplyfaced clerk to pop up like a stupid kid's toy.
Nobody.

Just worn linoleum, a wad of gum stuck to it turning black.  Great.  He
could take a pack.  Just reach up and be on his way.

But he knew right from wrong.  He wanted to follow the rules and felt
bad when he didn't.  It took a while sometimes for that feeling to
happen, but it always did.

Then he saw her.

She was fixing coffee at the big urn right next to the
two-for-ninety-nine-cent burgers in those shiny gold and silver
wrappers behind the glass, under the red lights that never kept the
damn things hot.  Whooeee, he loved those burgers.

The woman was another matter.  He could tell what kind of woman she was
right off: fat and fussy.  She was wearing a stupid little Uncle Sam
hat that didn't fit.  The store manager probably made her wear it, but
he still hated it.  She should have some pride.

He hated her.  She didn't even care he'd come in.  She was supposed to
care.  Hop to it.  A little serv With that thought, the heat caught up
with him.

Just exploded his head like a potato too long in the fire.  This time
it wasn't funny.  This time he felt sick.  The lights were too bright.
Too much pain inside his head.  Hand out, he found the door and pushed
it hard, his other hand held tight to his temple.

The heat smacked him good when he walked out of the white light and
frigid air of the store and back into the desert night.  He pressed his
temple harder as he walked to the car and got in.

He checked himself in the rearview mirror.  His hair was a mess.  He'd
feel better if he looked better.

Get the comb.  He leaned over to the glove compartment thinking his
head would split wide open, and laced his hands around the first thing
he found.  It was cool and it was metal and he held it to his head.

No comb.  He needed a comb.  Maybe that damn clerk would notice the
second time he walked into her store and sell him some smokes and a
comb.

Then he'd feel better.

He looked through the window of that Circle K again.  She was still
making coffee.  Ignoring him.

He needed a cigarette bad.  He needed a comb and now he needed some
aspirin.  He hurt so bad he could cry and she was just standing there
making coffee.

Inside again he turned right, and walked up to the woman who was
putting the big lid on top of the huge steel urn that would brew coffee
for whoever it was that might come to a godforsaken place like this in
the middle of the night.  He walked right up to her and she felt him
coming because she turned around.  Her eyes were hazel and real clear
and he saw himself in those eyes, reflected back the way people saw
him.

Hot damn, he was a good-lookin' cowboy.

And when he smiled at himself, she smiled right back.  She didn't have
a clue.  They never did.

One

Tara Limey was the last of a long line: a family that had started with
the Indians and bred with the Spanish until the Anglos put in their two
cents over the course of a hundred years.

Her cheekbones and blue-black hair were a legacy of the ancient pueblo
dwellers.  Her tawny skin was a credit to her great-great-grandfather,
Juan Montero.  The blue eyes were Irish, but had never gazed upon the
Emerald Isle.  Old family photos showed a succession of handsome women
to whom credit could be given for her height and slim hipped
lush-chested figure.

From her mother, an artist, came Tara's spare sense of style and her
love of home and hearth.

From her father came Tara's confidence, but not his fondness for power
and prestige.  Her mother had died before Tara could talk.  Her father
had raised her until his death.  The law was her sister, politics her
brother, and both were poor excuses for family, but Tara hardly
noticed.

Now her father was dead, and at times like this, she felt his absence
so keenly it hurt.  He would have been sad to see her alone.  For all
his success, the most important thing in his life had been his
daughter.  She missed his friendship and his counsel, especially now
when Albuquerque was changing and she was standing still.

On the North Rio Grande, horrid East Coast clapboard mansions were
being constructed by immigrant yuppies, springing up faster than Tara
could blink.  The interlopers planted trees and bushes imported from
parts of the country where water was less valued and more readily
available.  They complained of the heat in the summer and the cold in
the winter, leading one to wonder why they chose to live there in the
first place.  Thankfully for Tara, all was not lost.

The glorious Sandias, mountains that had stood watch over this land
since the beginning of time, remained stalwart.  Pink and surreal in
the sunset;

formidable in the light of day.  Real New Mexicans preferred to live
properly on the land, respecting it as they blended into their
surroundings.  Here, in Tara's Albuquerque, adobe houses with their
flat roofs and long porches, low walls and weathered gates were the
norm; brush, sage, and cottonwoods the natural landscaping.  Wreaths of
chiles still hung on front doors.  And five days into the new year,
Christmas luminaria still lined roofs and walls, lighting the way of
Mary and Joseph and Jesus.

Tara's home was like these.  It had been in the Limey family for
generations, on land they had claimed when a neighbor was the person a
hundred miles to the south.  The souls of all those who had gone before
still dwelt in the walls, looked out of the deep-set windows, held
tight to the heavy beams that crossed her ceiling, and warmed
themselves by the cavernous fireplaces.  Each ancestor had added
something more to the original structure: a barn, a small nursery (now
her office,) a corral, the lean-to by the river, a guest house.  Her
home was Tara's reward for a young life at the mercy of politics, spent
in cities so alien they might have been half a world away.  She loved
this house and the tradition and the stability of her life.

She hated change, but her life was changing.  Carlos, the man who had
tended the Limey land for as long as she could remember, was needed
elsewhere to deal with family business.  He had stood on this porch,
hat in hand, explaining how it was.

Tara watched him drive away.  She pulled the blanket she had thrown
over her shoulders tighter even though she couldn't see the truck any
longer.  It had been an awkward conversation, since Carlos was a man of
few words, but already she missed him.

She poked her hand out from beneath the blanket and looked at the note
he'd given her.  Neatly printed were the phone number of the place he'd
be in Arizona, and the name of the boy who would come to take care of
her horse for the duration:

Joseph.  She hoped he would be as good as Carlos said.  She knew he
wouldn't be.

"Tara, hon?  Where do you want the gold ornaments?"

Tara closed the door and sloughed off the blanket.

She'd half forgotten she wasn't alone.  Folding the blanket as she
went, Tara entered the living room just as Charlotte finished packing
the gold ornaments from the tree into the wrong box.

Charlotte looked up and smiled with prettily bowed, very pink lips.

"Is this the right box?"

"Sure."  Tara tossed the blanket onto the couch and took over the
dismantling of the Christmas tree.

"You shouldn't do that.  I don't want you to get messed up
before--wherever it is you're going."

"The high school.  Woodrow's giving a speech.

Reception afterward so he can listen to everyone's complaints."
Charlotte waved a cigarette, unapologetic for her displeasure at the
upcoming event.

"You don't mind if I smoke, do you?"

"Woodrow thinks you quit," Tara said.  Charlotte arched one
well-defined eyebrow.

"All right.  Your secret's safe with me."  With her hands full of
strung chiles, Tara nodded toward the fireplace.

"There's a lighter over there."

"Don't think I need one."  Charlotte snapped open her purse.

"Oops, wrong."  She was across the room in three long steps.  Tall and
slender, she was nonetheless substantial.  She was a doer, and a
perfect political wife for Woodrow.  Charlotte could sit with her
ankles daintily crossed for hours, or run roughshod over a room full of
volunteers until they dropped from licking too many envelopes.

They'd known each other since high school, and Charlotte Weber still
intrigued Tara Limey with her single-mindedness and generosity.
Thankfully, she always managed to get what she wanted, too.

The cigarette was lit, the first drag taken, and Charlotte was happy.

"Oh that tastes good."  She leaned back against the huge fireplace.

"You know, I still can't figure out how you managed when you were a
kid.  Keeping up with the schedule of a man in public life is difficult
even for an adult.  Knowing what to say, when to say it, what to do--"
Another drag and a thoughtful expulsion of a spirit of smoke.

"But you followed your father around through three federal appointments
and an elected office.  That was a big career for a man on his own with
a little girl."  The next puff was more perfunctory.

"The gang and I didn't sympathize very much.  We went out cruising
while you hung out at the high school watching him give speeches."

"I liked being with him.  I didn't need any sympathy."

Tara pulled a box toward her with her toe and laid the dried chiles in
a nest of tissue paper.

The mis-boxed gold ornaments went in after.

"Yes, you did.  You're just too proud to admit it," Charlotte said.

"Okay, a little would have been nice."  Tara grinned.

"Happy to know you were right?"

"No.  I like guilt," Charlotte sniffed.

"You've never felt guilty in your life."  Tara laughed.

"You're right.  But it's only because I've never really done anything
to feel guilty about."  Charlotte put her hand to her neck, tired of
rehashing history and uninterested in delving into her psyche.

"Do you think these pearls are too much?"

Tara looked over her shoulder and shook her head.

"No, they're fine.  You look like you could take over the governor's
mansion tomorrow.  Hand me those scissors, will you?"

Charlotte looked around, tossed what was left of her cigarette into the
fireplace, and grabbed the scissors off the mantle.  Though she handed
them to Tara, her eyes were locked on the cards neatly displayed on the
rough-hewn wooden mantle.

"You got one too, I see," Charlotte said evenly.

"What?"

"Ben's announcement."  This time her voice was flat.  Tara's snipping
stopped but she remained stooped over the box.  Finally, pulling a
piece of tape across the seam, she sealed it tight.

"I think everyone did," she said.

"I saw Charlie in court the other day and he mentioned getting one.  No
big deal."

"It might not be a big deal to Charlie," Charlotte said,
conversationally nudging the opening into Tara's private life wider.

"But he's kept in touch with Ben.  You haven't."

Tara nodded and lifted the box, neatly stacking it on the one she had
managed to pack before Charlotte arrived thirty minutes early.  It gave
her an excuse for not looking Charlotte in the eye.  She could kick
herself for even bothering to display that card.

"He sent flowers when Dad died last year.  He was in Los Angeles, I
think.  Didn't even mention coming back.  Not that there's any reason
he should.  It's been over twenty years."  Tara straightened and put
her hands on the small of her back.  She smiled at Charlotte.  There
was less sparkle and more strain in her expression.

"Look, I've just about had it for tonight.  You can toss those
Christmas cards in the fire.  At least the mantle will be cleared. I'll
finish packing up the tree tomorrow."

"You don't want to save Ben's card, just in case?"  Charlotte ignored
her given task and fingered the red card resplendent with gold cherubs,
one with its hand on the other's breast.  Ben always did have a subtle,
but healthy, libido.  Fleetingly Charlotte wondered if it was still
intact.  If someone like him could even manage to-Tara interrupted her
thought.

"No.  Thank you very much.  And if I hear another word about it, I
won't go to your fund raiser tomorrow night."

Charlotte quietly put the card back.

"In that case, I'm out of here."  Charlotte gathered her things, the
subject of Ben Crawford closed.  She glanced in the mirror above the
hearth, gave her St.  John suit a tug, and grinned.

"I'm really sorry I couldn't stay longer.  I hate leaving you alone
tonight of all nights."

"Not the first birthday I've been alone.  Besides,

Caroline took me out to lunch and the court reporters sent flowers to
the office.  Two judges even remembered.  The bouquet you brought was
icing on the cake, and I'm thrilled you thought of me, considering how
much you have to do tonight."

"It was nothing," Charlotte said, lifting her chin a tad.  Tara leaned
in for an air kiss and walked her friend to the door.

"Tell Woodrow hello for me and wish him luck."

"Certainly will," Charlotte murmured, her spouse voice fully in force,
her face closing, changing into the public one that no one could read
but every voter loved.  When she looked up, her smile was in place and
wouldn't droop until the last reporter had left the high school.  Tara
had long since ceased to be amazed.  She'd watched those in public life
morph since she was ten.  It was an art she'd never perfected.

" "Night then."  Tara opened the door and shivered.

It was a cold, clear January night.  The last place she wanted to be
was in the high school auditorium listening to Woodrow Weber wax poetic
on various and sundry political agendas.

"We could meet you for a late dinner and celebrate," Charlotte
offered.

Tara shook her head, too quickly.

"No, thanks.

I'll see you tomorrow.  Where is it again?  What shall I wear?"

"La Posada Hotel.  Right after work.  Everyone will be in suit and tie.
Do me a favor.  Wear a dress instead of pants.  I'm going to put you in
front of the cameras with Woodrow and your legs are fabulous,"
Charlotte said.  Suddenly her arms were around Tara.

"Wish us luck tonight."

"Of course."  Tara patted Charlotte lightly, then held her away.

"I always do, you know that."

"He just wants it so much, Tara," Charlotte said quietly.

"I know."

What else could she say?  Woodrow was a politician.

There was always hurt for the women who loved that sort.  Hurt and joy.
Rejection and acceptance.

It was all the luck of the draw, the whim of the people.  Thank
goodness her fortunes were dependent only on her actions.

Charlotte's public face had slipped.  She took a moment to put it in
place.

"All you can do is your best, Charlotte," Tara reminded her.  Charlotte
fingered her purse as if the thought made her nervous.

"I know.  I guess I just keep thinking there's more somehow."

"There isn't.  Just keep smiling.  That's what the voters want."

"Guess you should know.  See you tomorrow.

Happy birthday."

With that.  Charlotte was gone in a cloud of lavender perfume.  Tara
closed the door with a chuckle, picked up the mail that the cleaning
lady had laid neatly on the hall table, and wandered back to the living
room.

Bills, an invitation to speak at a women's conference in Taos, a letter
from Franklin, the last in her short list of lovers, and the dearest.
She opened that envelope swearing she smelled his aftershave as she
pulled out the card.  Franklin was getting married.  Good for him.  He
would make some woman a marvelous husband.  At one time she thought she
might have walked down the aisle with him.  But Franklin wanted to live
in the bustle of New York, and Tara clung to her Albuquerque roots,
unlike many of her friends and family.  Those she had liked, and some
she had loved, had left.

But now Ben was back and that wasn't something Tara had counted on in
this lifetime.  Thankfully, Albuquerque had grown.  They wouldn't be
running into one another anytime soon.

Impulsively, Tara stepped up to the mantle and gathered the Christmas
cards into a haphazard stack.  They were in the fire, curling at the
edges, before she could think twice.  The red card with the gold
cherubs was the first to go.  Watching awhile longer, Tara finally
turned away.  Knowing Ben was close again made her feel lonelier than
ever.  She didn't want to question die choices she'd made, not on this
particular birthday, anyway.

Feeling antsy, Tara went to her bedroom, and peeled off her sweater and
her too-short-for-court skirt.  She pulled on her jeans, tossed on a
flannel shirt, tied back her hair, and grabbed her denim jacket.  A
night ride was in order.  Shinin' would love it as much as she.

Tara tugged her boots on, groaning with the effort, and heard a knock
on the front door at the same time.  Her heels sounding an echo on the
died floor, Tara flipped on the lights in the living room and reached
for the doorknob.  Charlotte must have forgotten something.  She pulled
on die huge knob.  Impossible to fling, the massive door opened slowly
but it wasn't Charlotte who waited on the other side.

"Surprise!"

"Oh, my God," Tara breathed, sagging against the door, her forehead
resting on the thick wood.

She lifted her head.

"You didn't think I'd forget, did you, Tara?"  The woman on the
doorstep burst into Tara Limey's house, handing over a bouquet of roses
that had half hidden her, pressing on Tara a magnum of champagne.

"God, if you only knew what it took to get here!  You have no idea, I
swear.  Happy, happy, happy, you old broad, you!"

Tara laughed as Donna Ecold filled every available bit of space with
her gifts, her chatter, her laughter, and her presence.

"I don't care what it took to get here.  I'm just glad you made it."
Tara kissed her friend's cheek, holding her shoulder as if she were
afraid she might flit away.

"Of course you are, my love," Donna trilled.

"I

knew you'd be bummed.  Everyone is bummed when they hit forty.  So here
I am, to get you through your birthday crisis."

Donna chattered, but not without noticing that Tara wasn't listening
any longer.  The tall woman's face had fallen to a look of
bewilderment.  Donna looked over her shoulder and giggled.  She flung
her arm around Tara's waist, pulled her close, and gave her a little
squeeze.

"Okay, so it's a little more than me, myself, and I. Tara Limey, this
is Bill Hamilton.  Bill, this is my very, very best friend in all the
world.  The smartest woman you'll ever meet.  The best attorney on the
face of the earth, Tara Limey."

Donna's little head swiveled from one person to the other.  Her grin
could have lit up Albuquerque from one December to the next, but its
radiance was lost on Tara.  Her eyes were locked with Bill Hamilton's
and she had the strangest feeling that she should shut the door before
he stepped over her threshold.

Two

"There I was giving this lecture in the Taos library on the structure
of children's books and Bill walks in.  I mean, the entire room is
filled with old ladies hoping to make their fortune spinning their
little tales into best-selling books, when suddenly I see a hand raised
for a question, and there he is.

I ask Gorgeous if he has a question and he says 'sure."  So he says
"Would you have a drink with me when you're finished, ma'am?"  The
place went nuts."  Donna reached over and patted the hand that lay so
quietly on Tara's dining room table.  It seemed Bill Hamilton was used
to being touched.

He turned his electric smile on Donna, and Tara was mesmerized.

"Come on, Donna.  Tell it straight.  Those ladies just thought it was a
bit odd for a cowboy to be hangin' around a library."  He turned that
grin Tara's way and his gray eyes sparkled like a pool of quicksilver.
Tara smiled back.  Oh, but he had the magic.  Ben and betrayal,
Charlotte and failure, her father and the loneliness she felt without
him-everything was forgotten the moment Bill Hamilton walked in and
turned that smile her way.

"Are you saying I'm not in my right mind?"

Donna pouted, leaning into him.  Tara watched.

How lovely that he put his arm around her, tipped her chin with just a
crooked finger before saying, "You've probably been out of your mind
since you were a kid and that's all the more luck for me."

Gently, he set her upright and laced his hands in front of him.  Good
strong hands.  Dark hair ran up his wrists, and disappeared into the
turned-up cuffs of his denim shirt.  Tara forced herself to look him in
the eye so she didn't go on speculating about the map of that curling
hair.  It was no hardship.

He looked like a movie star without the ruse of a public face.  What
you saw was what you got with Mr.  Hamilton, it seemed.

"I'm just amazed you stopped to listen to a lecture on children's
books," Tara said, as Donna snaked her hands around his arm and held on
tight.  Tara could see the years slip away from her friend's face.  How
lucky.  How amazing.  How almost unbelievable after all these years for
Donna to find happiness with a man like this.

"I like kids.  Takes a special person to talk to them the way they need
to be talked to," Bill said.

"You have children?"  Tara asked.  She stacked dinner dishes.  The
haphazard feast had been made better because of the company.
Immediately Bill half stood as if to help.  Tara waved him down.

Donna attached herself once more as Tara turned, not realizing her
question had been ignored.

"Don't you dare move.  You're my guests.  I thought I'd be spending
this depressing evening all by myself.  Here you both are to rescue me
from the forty blues."

"If you're what forty looks like, women should be beatin' down the door
to get there."  Bill's hand covered Donna's, but his eyes were all for
Tara.

He held her gaze, then turned it on Donna.

"You're both poster girls for makin' time stand still.  Damn if I
wouldn't swear you'd been drinkin' from the fountain of youth.  Oh, I
almost forgot."

Bill was up and heading toward the front door.

Donna sighed, giving Tara a wink.

"He is just a dream, isn't he?"

"Almost too good to be true," Tara giggled.  The giddiness of these two
lovebirds was rubbing off on her like wet paint on a bench.  She hoped
she'd get rid of it soon.  She had to work the next day.

"Don't tell me he's got a brother in his pocket," Tara whispered to
Donna.

"If he did, I'd make him show me first," Donna giggled.  They pulled
apart.  He was back, all legs and slim hips moving toward the table. He
stopped at Tara's elbow and leaned down close.

"Happy Birthday.  Didn't want to come emptyhanded.  My daddy said
never, ever go to anyone's spread without something' to offer."

Bill Hamilton held out a heart-shaped, black and gold box.  Where on
earth he'd found Valentine's candy when people were still nursing New
Year's hangovers Tara couldn't imagine.

"Thanks.  That's so sweet."  And she meant it.

Sweeter than all the lovely gifts she'd been given over the years from
admirers with more than Bill Hamilton would ever have.  Putting down
the dishes, Tara took the candy.

"I was wondering what we were going to do about dessert."  She laughed
and pulled open the top only to stop short.  Her head cocked.  She
looked at the man with fog-swirl eyes and held out the nearly empty
box.

"Two pieces?"

"But they're the best two pieces.  Marzipan," he said with a wink and a
chuckle.

"Donna told me they were your favorite.  I tossed the rest.  Wouldn't
want you to have anything that wasn't right up to snuff.  Not a lady
like you."  Those eyes were still trained on her as she put the top
back on.

"Well, thanks," Tara said, flustered and flattered and just slightly
put off.

"That is definitely the most unusual gift I've ever received.  I love
it."

"I guarantee you aren't going to be forgetting this night any too
soon," Bill said quietly, moving toward Donna, running his hands across
the back of her neck until his fingers were coupled around her
throat.

"Nothin' good should last too long.

You lose appreciation for it Ain't that so.  Donna?"

Tipping her head back until her neck stretched long and taut.  Bill
leaned down and kissed her lips, slowly.

"Everything but us," she purred back and that delighted Bill
Hamilton.

"We're better than good.  We're perfect."

Donna raised her lips to be kissed again, then shot Tara a
how-'bout-them-apples look.

"Can you believe this?"

Tara shook her head and chuckled.

"It's tough, I must admit."  With that, she took the dishes and headed
for the kitchen.  A moment alone was definitely in order.  For her or
them, Tara wasn't quite sure.

Tara glanced at the clock.  Fifteen minutes.  The dishes were almost
done.  Every once in a while she could hear Donna laugh.  Her little
girl voice was getting tinnier with age.  Tara closed her eyes, hoping
against hope that Donna wasn't pulling her moppet act.  What was
charming in a sixteen-year old might drive a man like Bill Hamilton
home to the range if Donna didn't watch it.

Rinsing the last of the silver, Tara leaned over and peeked through the
open door.  Bill and Donna still sat at the table; Bill looking like
the handsome young whip he was.  Donna looking more than her age. Donna
the natural teller of tiny tales, and the tall-tale cowboy.  Two yarn
spinners happily weaving their own May-December legend.

As she retrieved the champagne flutes, Tara thought it seemed a perfect
match.

"Well, what do you think?"

Tara looked over her shoulder.  Donna was standing in the doorway in
her short, light flowered dress.  A poor choice for an Albuquerque
winter.

In a nod to the nip in the air, she'd layered it over a turtleneck. Her
thin legs were encased in black opaque stockings, her shoes were
thick-soled boots that added two inches to her height and nothing to
her panache.

"He's fabulous."  She pulled down the glasses and turned around.

Donna grinned.

"You're not mad I brought him with me?"

"No, of course not."  Tara laughed.

Ready for a chat.  Donna settled at the kitchen table and toyed with
the salt shaker.

"I'm not fooling myself, you know.  He is special and I am so happy.
He's funny.  He's surprising.  He's darn good in bed."  Her enthusiasm
melted into a sigh and she rested her chin on her upturned palm.

"You know, I'm glad you like Bill.  It's always been important that you
like my men, but it's really important you like him."

"Donna, as long as you're happy, I'm happy.  If Bill's doing it for
you, then that's great."  Tara's eyes flicked over Donna's head toward
the doorway as she joined her at the table.

"What have you done with him anyway?"

 r

"Nothing."  A Cheshire cat grin followed.

"He thought we needed some time alone to girl talk so he's making a
fire.  I love a man who thinks about stuff like that."

"Better all the time," Tara agreed quietly, letting her observation
dwindle to nothing.

"It's not awful for you, is it?  I mean the way it was for me when I
turned forty?"  Donna gave Tara a little poke in the arm, misreading
her silence.

She got a wry grin for her efforts.

"Nothing could be that awful."  Tara rearranged the three flutes.  They
now sat in a line instead of a triangle and she seemed satisfied with
the symmetry.

"I'm actually just glad we're not sixteen anymore.

Remember?  Washington was awful, wasn't it?  We were such babies."

"Yeah," Donna caught the mood and drifted with the memories.

Washington, D.C. Two girls whose fathers had been big fish in that
exclusive small pond.  Tara, adored by her widowed father, had hated
Washington because it wasn't New Mexico.  Donna's barely- there mother
was consumed by Washington.

Committees and charities, luncheons and dinners, dressing for balls,
recovering from balls, having a ball with everyone but her husband, all
took precedence over her daughter.

Donna still searched for a place and people to call her own.
Unfortunately, she put her faith in an odd assortment of people who
used her, sometimes abused her, and left her without a thought when the
happy-go-lucky, trilling-voiced little girl became a woman afraid of
growing old and being alone.  So Tara had given Donna a place to be
herself, where no one judged her.  In return, Donna had an uncanny
knack for knowing when Tara's privacy bordered on reclusiveness.  They
saved each other from their own little quirks.  Tara pushed the
champagne bottle across the table, not wanting to talk old business.

"Long time ago," she sighed, "Let's enjoy the moment."

"Damn straight."  Donna took the bottle, hitched up her skirt, and
planted the magnum between her bird legs, as tiny a body as Tara was
statuesque.  She couldn't saddle a horse, but she had a fast thumb with
a champagne cork.

"How long have you been seeing him?"  Tara asked.

"A month and three days," Donna said.  Her bottom lip disappeared
between her teeth.  She worked on the cork so she didn't have to look
at Tara.

"Four weeks," Tara mused.

"Bet you haven't written a thing.  Bet you haven't talked to your
agent."

"You know me too well."  The cork squeaked, but it was her voice that
was right.

"Where does he live?"  Silence.  Donna almost had the cork out.  Tara
drew circles on the table.

"Is he staying at your place?"

"I'm waiting," Donna said.

"For what?"  Tara lifted her hand, innocent in her ignorance.

"I'm waiting for the lecture on looking before I leap.  Let's get it
over with.  Tell me I'm moving too fast.  Point out how much I have to
lose now in a palimony suit.  Talk to me like a child.  Tell me I don't
know where his hands have been," Donna sniffed.

Startled, Tara spoke carefully.  Her curiosity wasn't judgmental.  All
wasn't well in paradise if Donna was so defensive.

"I thought you wanted to talk about him."

"Don't be ridiculous," Donna said angrily.  She worked the cork
furiously, revving herself up again, charging the battery that allowed
her to whirlybird over reality.  With a huge pop, the cork exploded out
of the bottle.  Tara ducked as it ricocheted around the kitchen,
narrowly missing her prized kachina that sat in a little niche high
above the huge oven where her ancestors once baked their flat loaves of
bread.

"Nice shot," Tara laughed, swooping in with a glass to catch the
overflow before it drenched Donna's lap.

"Friends?"

"Okay."  Donna feigned petulance and filled Tara's glass.

"Good?"

Tara took a sip and nodded.  Donna's taste was impeccable as always.
Tara put the glass down and laced her fingers around the stem, studying
the simple design.  Belgian crystal.  Beautiful and serviceable like
everydiing in the Limey family home, from the ladle that Margaret Limey
had used to fill the glasses at the saloon she and her husband Jesse
ran in the eighteen hundreds, to the Navajo rugs that hung on the thick
adobe walls.  This was history.  This was permanence.  This was a sense
of belonging that couldn't be bought.  Yet now she looked around and it
seemed that much of what she loved had lost depth of meaning. She could
recite the history, but not feel it.  She could admire the workmanship,
but not be moved by it.  Tara sighed, half listening as Donna's good
humor returned.

"So, tell me what's been happening with you?

Slain any dragons lately?  Stood up for the poor?

Won a case for the rich?"  Donna filled the other two glasses, pushing
one away, ready to fulfill her role as confidante to a woman who liked
to think she didn't need one.

Tara made a motion as if trying to erase the question.

"None of the above.  Work and more work.  I don't know where the time
goes.  Haven't got anything to match the prize in the other room," Tara
said.

"Come on, there has to be something--someone?

Talk to me," Donna prodded.

Tara chuckled and exaggerated her melancholy.

"You're beginning to sound like me.  I don't know."  She crossed her
arms on the table, leaned over and whispered.

"It's the weirdest thing, Donna.  I go to court, argue a case, present
a motion, do my paperwork, go to dinner, see people for drinks, then go
home and have this been-the redone-that feeling that's driving me
crazy."

Donna sat back and crossed her legs, her boot shod foot pumping up and
down, stoking the burners of her mind, Tara's problem the kindling.

"Honey, every woman goes through this.  But it's harder for someone
like you.  Someone who's all alone."

"Oh please."  Tara guffawed, thoroughly entertained.

"I'm not kidding.  This whole autonomous thing--men and women living on
their own, no real commitment--it's against all the laws of nature.
I've got a book I want you to read.  It's called Living Alone: The
Danger Zone."

"Donna, really."  Tara rolled her eyes and leaned back in her chair.

"Of all the nonsense.  You're telling me I need to be married?  Why?
I've got a dozen male friends and a few that have been much more than
just friends."  Tara tsked.

"And all these friends?"  Donna demanded, not to be put off.

"Where are they tonight, on your fortieth birthday?  I don't see any
big surprise party.

I didn't burst in on you getting ready for that date to-die-for.  That
table out there wasn't set up for a cozy dinner for two, was it?"

Tara raised a shoulder as if to say her solitude, like Donna's need for
companionship, was by choice.  Donna didn't buy it and made a sound
that left no doubt.

"I don't need parties.  I have flowers and good friends offering best
wishes."

"It's not the same, and it's about time you faced up to it."  Donna
poked her finger.  Tara batted her hand away and laughed.  Donna was
being ridiculous and Tara loved her for it.  She only wished she knew
when to quit.

"Tara, a committed relationship can change the way you look at
everything.  You need someone to wake up to every morning.  You've
never had a man to hold your hand, and worry with you about one thing
or another day in and day out."

"I have nothing to worry about ..."

"You haven't washed someone's underwear and not minded."

"What a thrill."

"You haven't .. ."

Tara clucked.

"I haven't cooked breakfast naked, run after small children, or enjoyed
the delights of picking up his shirts at the laundry."

"Stop it," Donna said quietly.  There was something in the air now that
gave Tara pause, and she became attentive.

"I hate it when you laugh at me.

You think I don't know what I'm talking about, but I do."

"I'm not laughing at you, Donna," Tara insisted.

Donna shook back her hair and ignored her.

"Look, I know you love me, Tara, but I also know there's a part of me
you don't respect.  I've been married three times.  I've had my share
of lovers.  At least I've tried to live a full life.  But you haven't."
Donna had found her footing.  Her dark eyes were on Tara's blue ones
and they weren't about to let go.

"Donna, I don't think less of you for the way you live."

"If I was a man, you wouldn't give me the time of day.  I've watched
you, Tara.  You pick your lovers over until you find the cream of the
crop.  You quote the guy's curriculum vitae, for goodness' sake,
instead of telling me what a good tush he has."

Donna had been fingering the stem of her flute and now pulled the glass
toward her.

"I loved each of my husbands," Donna said.

"I

adored belonging.  The sound of Mrs.  before my name was like music to
my ears.  My heart just filled up when I opened the closet and saw my
clothes hanging next to someone else's.  Sometimes I would spend hours
looking at the ring on my finger."

Donna's hand went to her nearly flat chest.

"That ring meant I was so special that someone wanted me forever.  Even
if we didn't make it to forever, it was still wonderful to think we
tried."

Donna put that same hand to her head and ran her fingers through her
blond hair as if that helped her think.  Her eyes wandered from
Tara's.

"Men and women aren't meant to live the way you do."  She sighed and
looked back at her friend.

"If people didn't make commitments, the human race would have died out
a long time ago."

"If the human race had to depend on me, we'd be in trouble."  Tara
laughed, unsure how to continue this personal, so deeply private,
conversation.

It was usually Donna who dug into her soul and bared it.  Tara wasn't
crazy about hers being mined.

"You might feel differently if you met the man of your dreams," Donna
suggested.

"I don't dream about men," Tara joked.

Donna was tenacious.

"You did once."  Tara's brow furrowed as she silently pleaded a
defective memory.  Annoyed, Donna went on, "Georgetown.  Seventeen and
you had your first drink.  Probably the last time you were ever out of
your mind.  You told me about him then."

"Those were the fantasies of a little girl," Tara said testily.  Ben
Crawford.  She didn't want to talk about him tonight.  Not with
Charlotte, and certainly not with Donna, who had never met him.

"You were a young woman."

"I was a little girl, and that was a long time ago."

Tara stood up and collected the glasses, ending the conversation.  She
looked down on her friend and spoke softly, more gently than was her
first instinct.

"Marriage and a man aren't what I need, Donna.

So don't try to make a girl's daydream into a woman's reality.  It just
ain't going to happen because you want it to.  I do love you for
wanting to make things right.  Just don't go too far."

With a look she terminated the conversation, but Donna touched her arm,
speaking in a voice that chilled Tara.

"One day soon people will stop calling you beautiful.

Instead you'll be handsome.  Someday you won't be asked to give the
keynote speech at a fancy conference; you'll be talking at
rubber-chicken luncheons about 'my career as a lawyer."  Even if your
name is Limey."  Tara moved.  Donna tugged at Tara's shirt to make her
listen.

"There are fashions and you won't be part of them.  Your father's gone.
He was a legend here and some of his aura clings to you.  But it won't
last forever."

Donna dropped her hand and leaned away from her friend.  Her eyes
fluttered down.  She'd made her pronouncements sadly, as if even she,
the teller of enchanted tales, couldn't find a happy ending for this
one.

"You've walked through life cutting a straight path, guarding your
privacy and your home.  You didn't look at what you left behind or
shoved aside to keep all this safe.  You've always been headed forward
to a destination only you could see.  You have no great ambition
because everything came so easily.  You substituted tradition and
comfort for great passion.  You've never been tested, Tara.

That's why you're sad.  Half your life is gone and you haven't taken
the time to give someone all of yourself."  She sighed and looked
straight at Tara.

"You're the last of the Linleys and it's a pity to see such a fine
family end with you.  Think about it.  Lie awake some night and let
yourself be afraid of something, for something.  Find some passion in
your life, even if it's to mourn what you haven't passed on to another
generation."

Tara listened, enraptured by this odd soliloquy, delivered with such
precision and deliberation.  She wanted to rebut this fantastic
nonsense, yet she found herself mute and embarrassed, wondering if
Donna wasn't one hundred percent correct.

"Fire's a blazin', ladies."

Slowly Tara turned to the doorway, trying to clear her head.  Bill
Hamilton leaned casually against the doorjamb, one jean-clad leg
crossed over the other.  Slender, on the right side of rangy, he seemed
to belong there in her desert house.

Perhaps this was what Donna was talking about.  A

man to dream of.  A man whose looks could steal your breath, whose
smile could warm you fifty feet off.  Tara was almost smiling when
Donna shot out of her chair.  Their moment was over and now the evening
belonged to three, not two.

"Honey, that's marvelous!"  Donna's hands fluttered over him as she
joined her man of the moment.

She looked at Tara a minute longer but spoke to Bill.

"Girl talk's over.  You've been so patient.

I think we're ready for that champagne, aren't we, Tara?"

"Absolutely," she said and walked behind them into the living room,
where she sat in the highbacked chair while Bill and Donna cuddled on
the couch.

Three

"Towels are in the front room cupboard.  I've put a coffeepot in the
bathroom so you don't have to come to the main house for a cup. There's
shampoo and there's a hair dryer.  Extra blankets in the chest. It gets
cold out here."

Tara stood back and surveyed the guest house.

It was a cozy little cottage that backed onto the Rio Grande.  In the
spring and summer there wasn't a more magical place on the face of the
earth.  The little adobe structure was shaded by the graceful arms of
cottonwoods in bloom, sage sprang up around the courtyard, and the
river tumbled by at a lazy pace.  Unfortunately, in the winter there
wasn't a chillier place.  Still, it was preferable to having Bill and
Donna in the guest room next to hers.  They could frolic to their
hearts' content out here in the frosty bungalow and she'd get a good
night's sleep.

"This is great."  Donna tested the bed with a little jump and a
giggle.

"Real nice, Tara.  Thanks.  Couldn't have asked for a better welcome
considerin' we just moseyed in here without so much as a phone call."
Bill stowed his gear in the closet and looked around, obviously
pleased.

"Considering nothing.  It's been a wonderful evening  And I still
reserve the right to a challenge match on Yahtzee.  I've never been
beaten that badly in my life."

"You got it."  Bill cocked his finger and shot her his promise.

Tara lingered, touching the quilt rack by the door.

"Back door's open at the main house.  Donna knows where everything is,
so help yourself."  Tara was headed out when she turned around.

"Listen, I've got to go to a fund raiser tomorrow night for Woodrow
Weber's gubernatorial campaign.  Shouldn't last too long.  Would you
two like to come?  We could have dinner in town after."

"Sounds wonderful!"  Donna grinned and clapped her hands.  A party. Her
favorite thing.

"Aw, I don't think so."  Bill talked over her.

Tara waited for an answer.  A look passed between the two.  Donna
smiled apologetically and explained.

"Bill's not one for crowds of fancy folk, as he puts it.  How about we
settle for dinner?"

"Sounds good.  I'll leave directions on the kitchen table.  It's
cocktails after work so plan on meeting me in front of the hotel around
seven-thirty.  Or eight."  She looked from one to the other for
confirmation.

"You're on."  Bill grinned, sat on the bed, and draped an arm over
Donna's shoulder.  He buried his face in her hair, keeping his smiling
eyes on Tara.  That was her signal.  Three was a crowd.

Tara smiled a goodnight and stepped outside, shutting the door behind
her.  She hooked her thumbs in her belt and peered at the night sky. It
was clear and lovely and she wasn't quite ready for bed.  Walking to
the paddock, she planted her boot on the lower rung of the fence and
hoisted herself up, putting her crossed arms on the top board.

"Shinin'.  Pretty boy," she called softly, though there was no need.
The horse sensed her presence.

He pranced toward her, bringing the animal warmth and companionship
Tara loved.  A strong creature, this horse of hers, bigger than life,
yet gentle.  If he were a man, Tara would have no trouble falling head
over heels in love.  She made affectionate noises as he laid his muzzle
over her shoulder and nuzzled in.

"That's right, old boy.  That's right.  You love me.

I'm not going to be an old shriveled-up prune, am

I?"

Tara put her face against his warm, silky jaw.  He snorted gently and
tossed his huge head back.  Tara chuckled and raised one hand to pet
him, balancing herself on the wood as she had since she was a girl.  In
those days she'd petted a dozen different horses, cared for by half as
many ranch hands.  In those days the land had stretched for miles,
instead of acres, on either side of her home.

The horse threw his head and danced away from her, teasing, wanting to
play.  Tara wasn't in the mood.  A lot had happened that night and her
mind was full: Ben Crawford's return to Albuquerque, Donna's
observation of Tara's loneliness, a man like Bill Hamilton sitting in
her home as if he'd visited for years.  Tara shushed Shinin', then held
out her arms.  He walked back into them and she ran her hands down his
shoulder, noting how well his winter coat had come in.  He'd be warm
tonight.  She gave him one more pat.

Jumping down from the fence, Tara brushed her hands on her jeans and
surveyed her domain.  The champagne and the cold.  Donna and Bill
behind closed doors, and the age of the evening convinced Tara it was
time for bed.  If she was destined to be a crusty old broad, a
courthouse fixture, then so be it.  If it ever really bothered her,
she'd deal with it.  She'd give herself a deadline, make a list, do
some research, see a shrink, learn a new joke, but she sure as heck
wouldn't read any of Donna's self-help books.

Head down, she chuckled at herself and Donna and the world at large
while she watched her feet kick over the hard-packed ground.  She
needed new boots.  The dry winter showed no signs of changing.  There
was a gopher hole that needed to be filled in.  Tara looked up.  The
cottonwoods, so lush and green in the spring, surrounded her like
skeletal remains planted upright instead of laid in the grave to rest.
She shivered.  The night had suddenly gone beyond cold.  She tipped her
head back and looked at the black sky, trying to feel for any hint of
snow.  There was none.  Eyes earth-level, one last over-the-shoulder
look at Shinin', she gazed past the trees to her house, so softly lit
on this winter night, and knew that something had changed.

Tara was tired, but not so weary that the difference in the space
around her went unnoticed.

Alert, hardly panicked, she narrowed her eyes, scanning the corral and
the entrance to the barn.  Every hair prickled, every muscle tensed for
confrontation.

An animal?  No.  Shinin' would have been skittish.  Whatever was out
there was ahead of her, not behind.  Irritated, she took her hands from
her pockets and walked two paces, stopped, and breathed easy.

"You don't need to hide," Tara called.

She counted the time in heartbeats, waiting for the silence to end.
Finally Bill Hamilton broke free from the black shadow of the huge
cottonwood that stood between the paddock and the main house.  He
paralleled her, his fingers digging deep into his back pockets.  Even
in the dark Tara could see the flash of his teeth, the glint of those
opaque eyes of his.  She imagined he shook back that long, straight
dark hair of his but it was hard to tell, blending in with the night
the way it did.

He wore no jacket.  It was as if he had come out of the guest house
quickly, looking for something, instead of being prepared for a late
night stroll.

There was no cigarette held up to explain his presence, no embarrassed
laugh to pretend that he'd snuck out to explore her property, curious
about his lover's friend.

"I wasn't hidin'."  He offered no alibi.

"Oh?"

"I was lookin' for you."

"Really?"

He moved idly toward her, his feet kicking at the dirt with each step,
his eyes never wavering.

"No sense beatin' around the bush."

He was closer now and she could feel him.  She felt the heat of him,
the vibrations of an unusually intense man who knew his power though,
perhaps, not how to use it.  Tara was intrigued, and no longer guarded.
Champagne, conversation, and charisma were a deadly combination.  He
was close now, almost shoulder to shoulder, and her reaction was
getting stronger.

"Is there something you need?"  Tara took charge, but Bill didn't seem
to notice.

"Nope.  Not really."  He gave the ground beside her one last scuff,
walked over to the fence, and hopped up on the first rung the way Tara
had done.  He missed his footing, grabbed for the upper rail, and
pulled himself up.  Cautiously he turned around and hung on so that he
was looking at her, listing toward her.

"Nice horse."  He half turned again and held out one hand to Shinin'.
The horse danced back delicately, hoof-over-hoof.  Shinin' snorted and
threw back his head.  Surprised, Tara moved forward to calm him.  But
Bill Hamilton had turned away from the animal, almost lost his footing
again, and then righted himself.  He laughed and there was an
excessiveness to it that bothered Tara, but Bill Hamilton gave her a
glow-in-the-dark grin.

Tara stood her ground, seeing he needed no help.

"You're not a cowboy at all, are you?"  Tara said.

He shook his head, let go of the railing with one hand, and put a
finger to his lips, "Shhh.

Don't tell Donna.  She decided I was a cowboy, 'cause I dress like one.
Probably sound like one, too.  I'm not educated like the two of you."

"Doesn't make you bad," Tara assured him.

"Doesn't make me a cowboy either," he chuckled.

Feeling more comfortable on his perch, he locked his elbows and hung
away from the fence.

"My daddy was a cowboy though.  He worked on ranches in Montana,
Northern California.  He's a good guy, my dad.  My mom too.  She was a
waitress for a long time.  Both of 'em worked real hard."

"Are they still working?"  Comfortable now in the dark with him, Tara
moved around and closer.

"Nope.  They were pretty old when they had me.

Retired now.  But my dad's still a cowboy.  Taught me to love the life.
Music especially.  I do so love that music.  Everyone's so darn sad and
strong in those songs.  Don't you think?  Especially the women.  On
their own, men leavin', men cheatin',

and they just go on.  Keep all that hurt inside.

Damn, those are sad songs."  He jumped down from the fence and examined
the palm of his hand as if he'd picked up a splinter.  Just when she
thought to help him, his eyes flicked her way, his grin almost hidden
by the angle of his head.

"Strong women.  Like you, I guess, huh?"

"And Donna," Tara reminded him.

"Naw.  Donna's the soft one.  You're the strong one.  That's what she
tells me, but I could see it myself.  You may live quiet, but I wasn't
fooled.  Not like Donna, who lives big but needs things at home that
belong to her.  That little lady thinks the world of you, you know."

Bill Hamilton began to walk, tracing a path toward the river.  Tara
joined him.  They turned and headed toward the house, only to stop near
the cottonwood where she'd found him.  Sweet talk rolled off his tongue
like sap down a wounded maple.

"We've been friends a long time.  Donna and I."

"I know.  She's told me every story about fifty times.  Wish I was
buddies with someone the way you two are."

"Looks like you've found one now."  Tara cocked her head toward the
guest house.  He followed her gaze and she swore his eyes softened
almost to tears.

"She really saved me.  That's one special lady."

He collected himself and reached down for a pebble.

He looked at it closely and then gave it a snap.

It danced over the ground and they picked up the pace again.

"You had something you needed to be saved from?"  Tara asked.

Too personal.  She could see it in his eyes.  Before

Tara could make light of it, he went on to something else.

"Donna says you're a good lawyer.  One of the best."

"I don't know how she'd know, but I appreciate the accolades."  She
smiled, pleased with the compliment.

He could charm the rattles off a snake, or even turn Tara's head,
without a problem.

"Only speakin' the truth the way I know it."  Another kick and a pebble
went flying.  Ten yards and not a word was said.

"What kind of law do you do?"

"General practice.  Civil, some criminal," Tara answered.

"This isn't exactly a big city.  It's difficult to specialize.  I've
got some corporate clients who make me comfortable.  With those fees I
can afford to help people who need a voice in the system.  You know,
just like Joan of Arc or Susan B. Anthony.  I'm right up there."  Tara
chuckled and walked slowly.  In the morning she would thank Donna for
bringing Bill Hamilton, for talking to her, for making her see that it
was time to enjoy for the sheer sake of enjoyment.

She would put an ad in the paper.  Wanted: One good-looking cowboy to
make me feel like a very special woman.  They'd double-date.

"That's good.  I like that.  You really help the folks who come to you,
even when they aren't rich?"

"I try.  Sometimes I can't help.  Most often I can."

"I bet you manage better than you know."  He twirled in front of her.
Tara stopped.  He looked toward the guest house.

"You'd talk to anyone who needed help, wouldn't you?"

"Sure.  Can't hurt to talk.  If I couldn't handle the problem, I'd
refer it to someone who could," Tara said, realizing the tone of the
conversation had changed.

"Do you know someone who needs to talk to a lawyer?"

"I do.  Yes ma'am."  They faced each other square, Tara almost as tall
as he.  Between them was something, a field of anticipation so palpable
that Tara swore she could reach out and touch it.  But this thing had
nothing to do with charm; this was no feminine short circuit.  She
looked at him curiously now, seeing beneath the brightly lit eyes,
something she hadn't noticed at first.  A seriousness, an intelligence
and intensity that made him all that more compelling.

"I need to talk to a lawyer, Tara, and I was hopin' you might consider
being the one to help."

"Nothing serious, I hope?"  She put out professional feelers, but
nothing came back.  No dread, no fear, no nothing.  She breathed
easy.

"Got me, but I know I need a lawyer.  I'd like to hire you."  His hand
was on her shoulder, and Tara was almost sure that when he removed it,
the imprint would remain.

"Of course.  I wouldn't have you go anywhere else.  I'll help if I
can."  She moved out of touching range.  He took no offense and fell in
step with her again.  They were headed back toward the house now, river
sounds serenading them.  It was time to sleep.

"I've got a hearing in the morning.

I'll be in the office about ten.  Ask Donna.  She'll tell you how to
get there."

"Sounds good.  I'll be die re  We'll do it."  He did some finger
popping and put one hand over the fist he made with the other.

"I'll see you then."  He turned toward the guest house then pivoted
back, "Oh, I know you're pretty high priced.  I just want you to know
I'm good for it.  Don't you worry.  I got money, Tara."

 r

"Didn't cross my mind.  Good night, Bill.  I'll be honored to help you
out."  Tara gave him a nod.

They parted only for Tara's professional curiosity to get the best of
her.

"Bill?"

"Yep?"

"I'll need some idea of what it is we're going to be discussing."

Tara's words bolted into the air, froze, and rang in her ears.  The
silence stretched into a thin, cold line and finally, through the dark,
he spoke.

"Summer," he said.  Tara beetled her brow and shook her head though he
probably couldn't see.

"There was a big to-do out at a Circle K on the highway."

"Yes?"  Tara waited for an explanation.

"I'd like to talk about that," he called back, and Tara could see he
was grinning.  He was still grinning when he shut the guest house door
behind him.

"I wondered when you'd be back," Donna said.

Alert, Bill stood quietly in the dark.  Without moving, he surveyed the
scene, his demeanor snake-like, slow-moving as he positioned himself
for a strike.

There she was.  In this dark room she almost vanished in the big bed.
She was talkin' like she deserved to have an attitude.

"I thought you'd be in there awhile," he said, taking a step toward
her, turning his head, indicating the bathroom door.

"Cold porcelain holds no allure on a night like this.  It's freezing in
there.  Freezing outside, too."

She smiled, a little sourly.

"Were you stargazing?"

Bill chuckled, low and deep and a little mean.

"Ah-ah-ah."  He waggled a finger, keeping time with it as he walked her
way.

"You're jealous.  You think I'm chasin' tail, don't you?"

"Don't be ridiculous," she snapped, but her voice was a whisper, almost
as lost in the dark as she was in her need to keep him.

"Naw, naw, naw."  Bill was prancing now, having fun.  His right hand
pulled at one side of his shirt, his left the other.  He bared himself
while he danced, just that little bit of skin, a little teasing song.
He was a lean machine, a man on the move.  He was the Marlboro man. Oh,
if she only knew.

"You can't fool me, you little bit of nothin'.  You can't.  You
can't."

The man's fingers were on his fly.  Down went the zipper.  An inch.  He
was close enough now and Donna could see his tongue snake out and roll
around his lips.  Not for the first time she understood there were some
things she didn't like about him.  Some small and base things that
bothered her to no end.  Down that zipper went another inch, then two,
the metallic grate background music for his striptease.  His tongue
disappeared and he was right by the bed now looking down on Donna.  She
saw him in his best light, shadowed and softened.

The fine set of his lips, the thick lashing of those sharkskin eyes.
She could have died for looking at such a beautiful face, or turned to
stone, or lay down at his feet and let him step right on her.

Now she was looking at his bared chest.  Somehow he'd managed to
unbutton that cowboy shirt of his.  Her hand shook.  She reached out
and touched the precious line of fine hair that ran down from his
navel, disappearing into the denim that hung on his slim hips.  The dp
of her nail touched that space, the flat of her hand was itching for
the feel of flesh, when her wrist was wrenched back, her arm angled
sharply away so that her body followed suit.  Donna grunted, surprised
by the sudden attack.  Not really afraid.  Not really an attack because
now he lay her hand back where she had wanted it in the first place.

He just wanted to be the person to put it there.

He spoke to her sweet.

"You're not thinkin' I'm after Tara out there, are you?"

"I saw you," Donna said, her voice shaking, tentative in her reproach,
unsure of him when he should be the one worried about being ditched.

She had the money.  She had the house.  She had the prestige.  But he
had the power and he used it now, pouring it over her like honey,
licking it off with every word he spoke.

"Aw, baby, baby.  Shh, you sweet thing," he purred, his fingers still
tight on her wrist.

"You just saw me and Ms.  Limey doin' some business.  Remember what I
told you?  I got some old business and she'll clear it up for me." Bill
pushed her hand closer to his crotch, but not close enough for her to
find out if he thought her interesting in the least.

"What kind of help?  I could do it for you," Donna breathed, her
fingers jerking as he held her tight.

"Nothin' but my business, man's business."  Bill pushed farther and
Donna moved closer, the covers falling off her naked body.  Bill's eyes
flicked over her.  She had no idea whether she pleased him or appalled
him.  He was such a hard man to read.  She had to hear words, she had
to know.

"That's all?"  She shook him off, no longer willing to be directed, and
put her hands on his hips.

Quickly, Donna pushed away the denim and the cotton beneath until there
was nothing left to push away and she found what she wanted.

"Do you care?"  Bill asked, gently, softly, like a man talking to a
child, a lover talking to a beloved.

She didn't hear all those things in his voice, nor did she answer his
question, which was just as well.

Just as Goddamn well as far as he was concerned.

"Hey, I'm not going to stand up here and spout all that stuff about
honesty and integrity.  You've seen my track record.  You know me.  My
wife's family has lived in New Mexico since before it was a state.  I
don't like rhetoric.  I'm just going to tell you straight.  I want to
be your governor because I want to make sure New Mexico doesn't become
California.  I don't want our schools at the bottom of the educational
barrel and I don't want us living on top of each other.  We shouldn't
wonder if our neighbor will lend a helping hand or cut ours off when we
reach out.  I'm ready to be your governor.

I'm ready to follow through on my promises now!"

Woodrow held up his hands as if the crowd in the high school auditorium
had raised their voices in a collective roar of approval, instead of
putting their hands together in a polite acknowledgment that he had
finished speaking.  Harriet Klinger got up from her seat, shook
Woodrow's hand, and gave him back to Charlotte, who looked at him
adoringly as he took his seat beside her.

"Well?"  he whispered through clenched teeth.

"You did fine.  So well."  Charlotte's assurance came through a
brilliant, unmoving smile.

Their attention was fixed on Harriet.

"Thank you, District Attorney Weber.  We appreciate you coming here
tonight to talk to us about your views."  Harriet was addressing the
crowd.

Woodrow grasped Charlotte's hand while he nodded to their hostess, who
had looked back at them briefly.

"Are there any questions for the district attorney?"

Harriet waited an excruciating ninety seconds before announcing, "Fine.
There are cookies and coffee in the back of the room.  You'll have a
chance to mingle with Mr.  Weber and his lovely wife in a more relaxed
atmosphere."

Class was dismissed and Woodrow mingled with Charlotte in tow.  He
munched on cookies and drank red punch and made polite conversation.

Charlotte passed him twice, giving him a minimal roll of the eyes.  One
of those signals.  Things were a little better, but on the whole the
evening hadn't gone well.  They'd been off by a beat all night for some
reason and the crowd sensed it.  But then this audience was older and
few cared about education when their children had been out on their own
for twenty years.  They might worry about overdevelopment, but that was
a toss-up.  They probably worried about crime, but the cops did a
decent job.  Woodrow needed a sexy position on something and he needed
it soon, though the campaign was young.  In the meantime he'd smile and
munch and shake hands.

Then he saw something he didn't like at all.  Out of the corner of his
eye he caught sight of a younger face, a woman's face and a familiar
one at that.  He couldn't remember her name, only that he had felt
uncomfortable in her presence.  But another voice called to him.  His
smile was back and he leaned into the greeting, giving the caller his
full attention.  Still, the little niggle of worry stayed with him for
a good long while.

"Hi, sorry I'm late."

The woman had the kind of style that doomed her to anonymity.  Her hair
was dirty blond and hung to her shoulders.  She never cut it, though it
never seemed to grow any longer.  Despite her comely features, without
makeup she was undefinable.  Her clothing was clean and old enough to
show some wear, her shoes were low, her skirt too long.  In short, she
was ordinary.  She had chosen her outfit deliberately.  She hadn't
wanted to come to this place, but the man had insisted he had no time
to make other arrangements.  Besides, Weber wouldn't remember her.  It
had been too long; she had been too minor a player.  Perhaps the man
was right, but she'd caught Woodrow's eye and now wasn't sure.  She
wanted this over with as quickly as possible.

The man she came to see was easy to identify.

He didn't look bored or enraptured and those seemed to be the only two
expressions on the faces of those who came to hear Woodrow.  She made a
beeline for the expressionless guy.

"You're from the governor's office .. ."

"I'm the man you came to see."  He talked fast and low and for some
reason she imagined he never spoke any other way.

"Do you have it?"

"Yes, I do," she said, slowing things down a bit, not quite sure this
was what she wanted to do even if she had to do it.  She looked over
her shoulder and saw Charlotte Weber, beautiful and put together as if
she didn't have a care in the world.

That made her mad--and uneasy.  Some people had quite a bit to care
about.  Some people had worries.  Maybe the politicians should think
about that.  She looked back at the man.

"Could we at least step outside?"

"Sure.  Yeah.  I've heard enough.  The guy gives a good speech, but
he's gotta learn to tailor it to his audience.  He was all over the
place."

"Everyone's a critic," she murmured and led the way out the door and
into the parking lot.  People were already leaving, headlights coming
on, weaving about, illuminating them now and again.  The woman skirted
past a red Volvo, hugged the auditorium wall, and slipped around back
between the cafeteria.

"Happy now?"  The man was holding something out to her.  She looked
surprised, even though she'd asked for it.

"I brought it, so let's get on with it."

"It's only a memo.  Maybe it doesn't mean anything."

A twinge of conscience.

"Look, you read it to my boss's secretary.  She took it down and read
it to him.  If they think it's worth something, then it's worth
something.  I don't make those kind of judgments.  Now, I've got
fifteen hundred dollars.  You want it, take it.  Give me what I came
for."

She hesitated a second longer, then opened her purse and took out a
crumpled piece of paper.

She handed it to him.  He flipped on a penlight and she could see he
had bad skin for a man his age.  Funny, she didn't think guys got acne
past sixteen.  His eyes flicked up.

"You couldn't put it in an envelope?"

"I wasn't thinking."  She fingered the one he had given her.  It felt
light for fifteen hundred dollars.

She half smiled.  She'd never had a bill in her wallet bigger than a
twenty.  Government work didn't pay much.  After the last cut it didn't
pay anything at all.

"Sorry.  Is it what you want?"

He looked it over, clicked off the light, and pocketed it and the
letter.  He was neater about it than she.

"Yes, this is what I expected.  Thanks.  See you later."

"That's it?"

"What?  You want to get a receipt?"  the man asked.

"No, but I just thought there should be something--some assurance ..."
Her voice trailed off.

"That's rich.  You're screwing Weber's career, and you want assurances
that you won't get caught.  Lady, you're not cut out for this kind of
thing.  If I were you, I'd take the money and run."

"I'm going to.  But you should know, I wouldn't have done this if I
wasn't desperate.  I just found it in the personal stuff I took when I
got laid off.

I was kind of mad when I called about this.  Now, I'm not so sure I
should do this.  I mean people could get hurt, couldn't they?"

"Boy, lady, you are a rocket scientist, aren't you?"  he muttered as he
walked away.  The woman was forgotten and so was her concern.

Behind him she was left to think about her life.

She was a really good secretary.  It wouldn't be long before somebody
recognized that.  Heck, ifWoodrow Weber could convince people he was
gubernatorial material, she certainly could convince someone to give
her a job.  Now, with the money in hand, she could wait it out until
the right job came along.

Another minute and the woman walked to her car, her step lighter than
it had been in weeks.

The man she'd been talking to watched until she was gone.  He went
across the parking lot and got into a nondescript sedan.  Inside
another man waited.  That man turned on the reading light and they both
looked at the memo.  Albuquerque.  District Attorney's Office.
Recommendation to indict Strober Industries for fraud and endangering
the public through shoddy building practices.  All this in specific
relation to the construction of the new county building.  The memo was
long.  It was thorough.

It was specific.  Across the face was a note, written in Woodrow
Weber's hand they presumed, denying prosecution.  Both men smiled.  The
one who had met with the colorless woman in the parking lot pulled
another sheet of paper out of his breast pocket and glanced at it.

"I think the governor is going to be able to use this when he really
starts campaigning.  Strober wasn't even thoroughly investigated. Seems
Weber nixed it pretty quick.  Six months later his war chest gets a
nice fat check from Strober Industries.

Then Strober begins work on three major developments doing business as
three different companies.

Weber's dead meat if the governor keeps the heat on."

"He will," the other man replied.

"He's a pro."

The first put the key in the ignition and chuckled.

"Don't you just love politics?"

Ben Crawford rubbed his eyes.  It had been a long day.  Five
interviews.  Five reports to make and the last bit of unpacking to do.
He had assumed it would take Social Security at least a month to get
him on line with work, but he'd barely had time to get the kitchen in
order before he was up and running--so to speak.  Government.  Slow as
molasses or quicker than a jack rabbit.  After this last move he would
have preferred a little more molasses.

With a groan he threw his head back, rotated his neck, and attempted to
knead the muscles at the top of his shoulders.  A wife would have been
nice right about then.  Someone bustling about, whipping him up a
little something to eat after a long day, massaging his neck.  Ben
snorted, knowing he'd never survive a wife like that.  But women were
on his mind and it wasn't because he was hungry or tired.

Charlotte Weber had called.  Charlotte, who always had an ulterior
motive for every lovely thing she did.  She'd invited him to cocktails.
Had he been out yet?  Only a few people.  Had he reacquainted himself
with any of his old friends?  A little business, a little pleasure.
Woodrow was running for governor, did he know?  Fund raiser?  Well,
yes.  Actually.  But more a chance to renew acquaintances.  Old
acquaintances.

People she was sure he remembered.  Tara Linl-ey, for instance?

Charlotte had said the magic words.  She had stopped him cold with that
one and he wondered if he should be grateful.  Now he was thinking
about the woman he'd been trying not to think of since he'd hit town.
It had been a long time, after all.

Water under the bridge.  Fond memories.  Loving memories.  He'd leave
it at that.  Unless, of course, he happened to run into her.  Unless,
of course, he happened to involve himself in something
like-well--politics.

Ben laughed outright and switched off the desk light.  The reports
could wait.  He was hungry.  He was tired.  He would decide about
tomorrow night, tomorrow night.  Then he wondered who he was kidding.

Four

A lawyer shall not knowingly use a confidence or secret of his client
to the disadvantage of his client or for the advantage of himself or a
third party, unless the client consents after full disclosure.

--Canon 4, ABA Model Rules of Professional Conduct

"Ms.  Limey.  Would you care to respond?"

Judge Mason put a finger alongside his rather fleshy jaw and pushed up
so that his right eye was almost buried in a fold of flesh.  He raised
the brow on his left He wasn't quite bored, but he was getting there.

"Yes, Your Honor."  Tara stood up and away from the counsel table.
Ignoring her paperwork, she spoke from a heart that was filled with
joy.  Her esteemed opponent was sweating bullets.

"I have not changed my mind.  Your Honor.  I respectfully put before
this court a motion for summary judgment in this matter.  The facts are
clear and in evidence.

This is not a case of fraudulent behavior or malicious intent on the
part of my client.  Rather, it was a case of men experiencing an
unfortunate and universal downturn of the market, which both
acknowledge was risky.  They also concurred that the possible return on
investment warranted such a risk.

I have fully documented statements to these facts.  I have deposed the
plaintiff and offered to this court the exhibits which should convince
Your Honor that a summary judgment is not only wise, but the only
course of action."

She sat down.  Enough said.  Judge Mason let that finger slide down his
cheek, allowing his face to resume its normal, hangdog, expression. She
decided he wasn't bored, only tired.  Divorced a year ago, either the
dear judge was worrying about alimony payments all night or he was
trying to keep up with a new honey.  Tara would put her money on the
former.

"All right, Ms.  Limey.  As usual, your work is impeccable.

I've read over the myriad of exhibits you have given this court and
would thank you to remember, sometime in the future, that our time is
limited."

Masking a smile, Tara half stood.

"Yes, Your Honor."

"Unfortunately," he continued, "while I see there might be ground for a
summary judgment as you request, I'm going to deny your motion.  There
are gray areas that might warrant further consideration.

You have shown no interest in settling this case ..."

"As well we shouldn't, Your Honor, since my client has done nothing
wrong."  This time Tara didn't stand.  A wise decision.  He spoke over
her.

"The plaintiff seems to be champing at the bit, as they say."  His
honor gave the attorney on the other side of the room an ominous
look.

"I think we have no choice but to go to trial and see what a jury has
to say about this.  I will, however, point out to Mr.  Blackwell that
he may be well advised to have a heart-to-heart with his client before
that time.  Were I the plaintiffs lawyer, I would be considering the
long, hard road that I would have to walk to prove this case in his
client's favor.  Motion for summary judgment denied.  We will see you
here again for jury selection in four weeks' time."

The end.  Other lawyers were already moving about, ready to take their
places in front of the bench.  Tara gathered her rfiings.  She checked
her watch.  Ten 'til.  Good timing.  She pushed through the swinging
gate of the bar, nodded to Faith Cornlow, who was waiting to pass the
other way.  Tara headed down the aisle toward the door and freedom.

Gary Blackwell followed behind, briefcase under his arm, day planner
already out as he called.

"Tara, hey, wait up."  He was hot on her trail now, almost beside her.
She grinned and kept going until she was through the door and in the
hallway where spectators weren't interested in their conversation.  Now
she had time for Gary.  Not much, but enough.  Strangely, he seemed
disappointed her motion had been denied.

"I gotta tell you.  This date just isn't good for me.

You gotta cut me some slack on this.  Jury selection in a month ..."

"Can't do anything about it, Gary.  It sounds good from where I stand
and my client wants his name cleared so he can get on with business.
Have your client drop the proceedings, and you won't have any trouble
with the hearing date.  You know you don't have a leg to stand on
anyway."  She was revved up now, loving the pull and push of this
business.  It was like trying to control a horse once you've given it
its head.

"Your client's trying to tell the court that my client was in on some
conspiracy to defraud him.  That's ridiculous.  He doesn't even have a
partner.  Who was he conspiring with?  His dog?  Besides, we've got the
records."

Two attorneys they both knew passed them by with a nod and a greeting.
Tara and Gary smiled back and Tara moved in closer.

"We've got your client's approval on all transactions and memos
indicating the risk involved in some of those transfers and purchases.
The entire market went into the toilet the same time your guy was
trying to second-guess the global economy.  You can't blame my man for
that.  His advice was as solid as it could be in the face of your
client's avarice.  Now you're trying to recoup his losses at the
expense of my client's good name and limited resources.  That's the way
I see it.  That's the way I'll argue it."  Tara gave him a pat on his
shoulder and moved on.

"I have to run.  Have an appointment at ten-thirty."

"That's not true."  Gary hurried after her again, dodging an old lady
resplendent in Navajo dress.

He took a minute to admire it.  Nothing like the real thing.  Then he
sprinted after Tara.

"My client didn't understand what he was signing when your man gave him
the transaction approval.

My client is seventy-five years old.  He's infirm, Tara."

Tara turned on her heel, grinning from ear to ear.

"Then he needed you before the fact, not after.

And if he's so out of it, how come he had the presence of mind to even
question what my client was doing?  If he's that bad, he should be in a
home where he can wheel and deal over a game of Monopoly."

Tara hitched her briefcase and laughed.

"Come on, this is such a waste of time.  I haven't been sitting on my
hands.  If we go to trial, I fully intend to call the last three
financial advisors your client has retained.  To a person they will
testify to his erratic behavior.  The man wants to be Howard

Hughes, but he's a small-time investor with dreams of grandeur and
paranoid delusions.

"My man's five years out of business school with an unblemished record.
All his other clients are satisfied.

He's got a sweet little wife and twins on the way.  Put your client's
track record of professional abuse up against that saintly picture and
take your chances.  You want to go to trial?  Fine.  It'll be fun.

But if I were you, I'd drop the whole thing."  Tara gave him a
thumbs-up and walked away with a "call me" thrown over her shoulder for
good measure.

Time was a-wastin' and she had a new client headed her way.  Wishing
last night she'd gotten a little more information, Tara now hoped
Caroline had managed to work her magic and throw together some quick
and dirty research on any summer problems at Circle Ks.  She walked
back to the office, pushing through the door at five after, a little
flushed, anxious to get on with her day.  Amazing what a good night's
sleep and some company could do for an attitude.  She felt wonderful.

"Hi!  I'm home," Tara called as she burst into the reception room, her
coat already unbuttoned.

Immediately her fingers went to her lips.  Caroline was busy.  Her
hands were on the word processor and the phone was propped between
shoulder and ear.  She was muttering a mantra of "uh-huhs," so Tara
tiptoed past, dropped her briefcase, hung up her coat, and sat at her
desk.

George Amos, the esteemed chief of police, had called.  Not her
favorite fellow in the world, but useful.

She picked up the pink message slip.  He wanted information on the
deposition of one of his officers in the Johnnie Rae Riskin matter. She
almost set it aside, but thought twice.  She settled into the high
backed chair and dialed George.  There might be information to be had
for her, too.

"George Amos.  Tara Limey returning his call."

Their connection wasn't meant to be.

"Yes.  Okay.

No, just tell him I returned his call.  I'll catch him later."

"Knock, knock."  Caroline bustled in, all decked out in a signature
floral dress, before Tara could pick up the receiver again.

"Here you go, hot off the presses."

"You're a doll.  Sorry to have called you so early about this, but I
wanted to be up on things before Hamilton gets here."  Tara held out
her hand and Caroline gave her a sheaf of papers.

"How's Donna?"  she asked.

"Haven't heard from her in a month of Sundays."  Caroline settled
herself in the client chair.

"Fine.  When you see her new boyfriend, you'll understand why the phone
hasn't been ringing off the hook."  Tara flipped through the papers.

"Did you open a file on him?"

"Much as I could.  A name doesn't really constitute a file.  When he
gets here, I'll fill in the rest."

"Fine."  Tara abandoned the papers and pushed them aside.

"Fill me in on all this stuff.  I'm still in overdrive after this
morning.  Blackwell doesn't have anything and Mason knows it.  We'll
probably settle, but I was so ready for a fight" "Today might be your
lucky day if you're feeling feisty," Caroline said.

"I don't know what Mr.  Hamilton's coming to talk to you about, but it
should be interesting."  She leaned over, almost rounder than she was
tall, and pulled the faxes and Xeroxes her way, putting them in order
like a gambler organizing his hand.  When she was done, she had two
piles:

one large, the other considerably smaller.  She talked about the
smaller one first.

"Okay.  We've got a couple of Circle K incidents last summer.  One in
early June.  Had a trucker raped and beaten nearly to death."  Caroline
shook her head sadly.

"Sometimes I wonder if women's lib did us a favor.  Women shouldn't be
driving those rigs."

They sat in silence a moment, Tara thinking how lucky she was to have a
choice in life, Caroline thankful she'd found Tara and this job when
she did.

"Anyway.  There were four robberies in Circle K parking lots and two
assaults on clerks.  All in the early morning hours.  Kids were doing
the robberies.

Some in the city, some not.  A drunk trucker was arrested for one of
the assaults.  Never found the perp on the other one.  And that brings
us to July fourth.  You've got to remember that one."

"Refresh my memory."  Tara reached into her desk drawer for a compact
and lipstick.  She flipped it open, gave her lips a swipe, and put it
away.

Caroline was running through the list.

"July fourth.  Cops have the file open, no leads, no evidence or
witnesses as of the last writing, which was"--she referred to the
Xeroxes--"October third.  I haven't been able to find out if anything
has changed since then, but it's still early."

"Not to worry.  I've got a call into George Amos.

I'll ask him.  Let's keep going."

"This was a really sad one.  It gives me the creeps to even think about
it.  The lady was alone working the graveyard shift.  She'd been doing
it for a long time, really knew the ins and outs.  Anyway, it seems she
was surprised while she was making coffee.

There was no struggle.  She was shot, I don't know exactly where or how
because they kept the details out of the paper.  But I suggest you take
a look at the July fifth and July eighth articles.  That's going to
give you a good overview in case this is the thing he wants to talk
about."  She shivered and pushed herself out of the chair.

"I hope this isn't the one he's got on his mind.  It was just awful.  I
wouldn't want to be involved in it even in the smallest way.  Just the
thought of being alone in one of those stores all by myself late at
night is enough to give me cardiac arrest.  Not knowing who's going to
walk in, nobody to help if the wrong person does.  I know there isn't a
good time to die, but so early in the morning?"  Caroline wrapped her
arms around herself.  It wouldn't have surprised Tara to see the
younger woman cross herself.

"I don't even know anyone who's up at three in the morning, much less
thinking about killing someone in a convenience store just for fun--or
whatever makes someone do something like that."  Caroline tried to read
over Tara's shoulder.

Tara gave her the eye.  She straightened up.

"You're giving me the creeps," Tara said before pulling out the
articles Caroline indicated.

"How do you do this?  I can't believe you got this much information in
a few hours."

Caroline beamed, her disquietude forgotten.  It was lovely to be
needed.

"My cousin works over at the Trib.  His girlfriend is the receptionist
in research.  Her aunt knows how to work the new computer system and
here you go, everything you ever wanted to know about the latest in
criminal activity.  It is what you wanted, right?"

"I'm sure this is it.  Thanks, Caroline.  As usual, I couldn't have
done it without you."  Tara shooed her away, anxious to begin.

"Close the door on the way out, please."

"You got it."  Caroline headed out, but paused and gave a wink just
before she slipped through the door.

"You look great, by the way."

Behind the closed doors Tara read accounts of the robberies and the
rape.  The reports were informative and seemed accurate.  She set them
aside," fundamental facts committed to memory.  The assaults were
interesting, but nothing to write home about.  There was only the
murder left to review.

Suddenly tired, Tara sat back and twisted her chair toward the bank of
windows behind her.  Outside it was cold but not frigid, a blustery
kind of day that she usually loved.  Nine stories below was a sweep of
concrete that was Tara's stage.  But today the plaza was a lonely
place.  People didn't pepper the weatherworn benches, or chat as they
made their way in or out of the building, or stand together nursing
takeout coffee.  The few who straggled in and out of the building were
uninteresting for their lack of purpose, small and insignificant from
this height.  Nothing but dark specks blowing around the landscape.

Dark little .. . specks.

Tara froze before sitting up straighter to peer more intensely at
something--or someone--who caught her eye below.  There.  She tagged
it.  Movement.

Behind the concrete pillar.  Third on the left.

Beside the fountain was someone who didn't move.

Watching her.  Her window was one out of hundreds in the high-rise yet
Tara knew with certainty there were eyes on her.  Unwavering, intent,
vicious eyes.

Her heart thumped hard and there was a pulse farther down in the pit of
her stomach that quickened.

It was an ill-defined feeling, half pleasurable and half frightening,
and it filled her to bursting.

Tara sat forward in her chair, so close to the expanse of glass she
felt the tug of vertigo.  Yet she couldn't move away, nor take her eyes
off that dark spot below.  Her mind was atwirl with the possibilities
of what this speck might become.  Man?  Woman?

Fantasy creature come to haunt her from some forgotten nightmare?  Then
it was gone, turning behind the pillar in a blink, leaving her
breathless and intrigued and thoroughly amused by her own nonsense.

Someone was simply waiting, or having a smoke.

She looked again and the thought that someone had waited or watched for
her was still there.  How horrible to think about it.  Faceless,
unknown to her, but not she to him.  Tara shut her eyes, feeling so
vulnerable and small, laid bare like a lady of the night being picked
for a ten spot by the meanest man in town.

"Knock, knock."

Startled, Tara jumped and swiveled back to the door, her cheeks burning
red with embarrassment.

"I scared you.  I'm sorry.  I should have known.

Reading that stuff will make you a basket case.  Here, I just brought
some tea.  Sorry."  Caroline backed out of the room, apologizing
quietly until the door was closed.  Tara turned back.  It was only a
cold, blustery day outside.  The kind she loved and now there was no
one at all in the plaza, not a speck or a man or a creature from a
long-forgotten nightmare.

Tara turned away from the window, but found it necessary to breathe
deeply before she began to read about the killing at the Circle K. Six
articles.  The first had run on the front page of the Journal, wrapping
over to page three, describing a sadly senseless murder of a woman who
had a lot to live for.  Marge Hogan had been a two-year Circle-superior
employee when she was killed in the aisle near the coffee urn.
Inventory checked out.  Not even a stick of gum had been taken.  Mrs.
Hogan had no criminal history.  Post mortem, her praises were sung by
one and all.  This wasn't a hit.  It wasn't revenge.  There wasn't even
a jealous boyfriend waiting in the wings toward whom the long finger of
the law could be pointed.

The lady with a half-dozen bullet holes in her had been happily married
since she was sixteen and was the mother of four children.

A tragic death, softened, she supposed, by the fact that the woman had
been loved and lived well.

Tara read on, grateful she didn't deal with this kind of thing every
day.  Johnnie Rae's drunken spree had ended in a manslaughter charge,
but that didn't come close to matching this unjustifiable act of
violence.

Marge Hogan hadn't crossed anyone, bore no grudges, and was scheduled
to sing her first solo in the church choir the following Sunday.  And
at the time of her death, the lady was pregnant.  Pregnant!

A jury would draw and quarter whoever had killed her.  In a place like
Albuquerque, where life from bug to bush was considered a treasured
thing, a pregnant woman was as close to sacred as you could get.

Tara flipped through the next few sheets.  As expected, coverage of the
Circle K killing diminished with the lack of information until,
finally, Marge Hogan, her grieving family, and her unborn child were
relegated to the back page and two paragraphs, a journalistic mumble
that indicated police would continue to work on the case.  By October,
she had disappeared from the public eye.  Everyone had given up on
Marge.

Tara shoved the papers aside, remembering the crime now, remembering
the detached outrage she had felt.  Tara even remembered thinking how
interesting it would be to work on such a case, a crime curious for its
lack of rhyme or reason.  How small of her to have had so little
respect for the horror that woman must have felt, the grief the crime
had caused.  What if it had been someone she loved?  What if it had
been her?  Tara shoved away from the desk with a mental mea culpa and a
fleeting thought that she could easily let her imagination run away
with her if she read stuff like this on a daily basis.  That was when
Caroline interrupted again.

This time she simply put her knuckles discreetly to Tara's office door.
It swung open, but instead of bustling in, Caroline called from outside
the door, making her announcement like a crier to the queen.

"Mr.  Hamilton."

Five

Tara didn't stand though it was her usual habit.

Perhaps it was the account she'd just read, the odd angle of her chair,
or the surprise of seeing Bill Hamilton again that kept her in her
seat.  He was a sight to behold.  She smiled and he settled himself in
the client chair as easily as he had relaxed in her home.  Good old
boy.  Rhinestone cowboy.

He did have a way about him.

"Hope it's okay, Tara," he said, "I'm a little early.

Hung out for a while but I'll tell you, it's damn cold."

"Too cold to stand around outside."  She moved her chair closer to the
desk.

"Gotta get me a better jacket."  He held open his denim one.  It was
old, well worn, and unlined, a jacket no self-respecting gigolo would
wear.

"So where did you leave our friend?  Still getting her beauty sleep?"
Tara made small talk as she usually did to settle a new client's
nerves.

"Damn straight."  Bill laughed, shifting again, crossing those very
long legs.

"Donna's just like a kid.  If she has a big night she sleeps 'til noon.
Never seen a woman who wasn't up and about at the crack o' dawn. Guess
that's the difference between city women and country women, huh? You're
up early, though.  Saw you out there with that horse of yours."

"You should have come out."  Tara lost her smile, at the same rate his
eyes lost some of their humor.  He looked hard and she wondered if he
was more than simply a sleepless man.  Yet what more could he be? There
wasn't much to watch in the early hours on a place like Tara's. Nothing
but the countryside--or her.

"The coffee's free, you know.  You should have joined me."

Bill shook his head and Tara saw a prism behind his eyes, the third
dimension of his optical biology.

It was as mesmerizing as the bedroom voice he now used.

"Naw.  You looked too good just standin' there.

Must be nice to be that way.  Content.  Know your place."

"It has its advantages."  Tara inclined her head, more to break the
spell than to acknowledge the correctness of his observation.

"Yeah.  I just bet it does."  These words were clipped and impatient in
tone though he tried to hide it.  Fear was there too.  The story of his
trouble wouldn't be long in coming.

He smiled again, but it wasn't the electric grin of the night before.
His hands went to his thighs, massaging the lean muscle.  Then one arm
was over the back of the chair again.

"So, now that you're my lawyer, I guess we better get to it, right?"
Bill moved and pushed his hair back.  Both hands seemed unable to find
a place to light.

"I'm gonna have to tell you, Tara, I'm grateful as can be that you took
me on.  I'm a little nervous about this.  Never talked to a lawyer
before.

Lot of doctors, but that's different.  This feels weird."  His whole
body rippled in a nervous little wave as if he was excited beyond
containment.

"There's nothing to be afraid of.  A lawyer is like  r a doctor or a
priest.  What you tell me, as your lawyer, is confidential."  Tara said
the words the way she'd said them a hundred times.  And a hundred
times, she wished for some like experience so that she could understand
her client's apprehension.

The only thing to be gained in the confines of this office was help
and, she hoped, a resolution to the problem at hand.

"A preacher'll die before he tells what you told him.  Is that true for
lawyers, too?"  Bill chuckled.

Tara couldn't help but smile, "You won't find many martyrs in our
ranks.  We'll go into the lion's den, but we'll talk it to death before
we let it eat us.  However, we do take our oath of confidentiality very
seriously."

"I'll just bet you do."  Bill made it sound like a prurient act.  Then
he perked up.

"It's amazing."

He raised his hand and twirled it in the air, ready to flick his lasso
and capture her.  His nervousness vanished.  The cowboy was back.

"Don't know, Tara.  I don't think I could do it.  I'd spill the beans
for sure.  "Specially if it was something' bad.  Or really evil."

"You wouldn't if it was what you believed in.

Priests and lawyers, doctors, too, are each two different people.  One
part of them is just like everyone else.  They laugh and get hurt and
have all the emotions everyone else does.  The other part though, is
separate, above the pull of emotions.  If that weren't true, a lawyer
couldn't defend someone he knew to be guilty, a doctor couldn't operate
for fear of inflicting pain, a priest couldn't give absolution because
his human side would cry out for retribution of the sin."

Tara swung gently in her chair, lost in thought.

It had been a long while since she'd considered any of this.  Bill was
quiet, hanging on her every word.  She indulged them both.

"In law school they tell a story I'll never forget.

A man told his lawyer that he had murdered two people.  He told him
where the bodies were.  The lawyer went to that place and found the
bodies.

He took pictures and, in the process of taking pictures, moved one of
the bodies.  He went home, put the film away, and didn't do anything.
He didn't go to the police.  He didn't call the newspapers.

He didn't call the victims' families.  His client was never arrested.
The question is, what did the attorney do wrong?"

"That one's easy," Bill said, delighted with the story.

"That lawyer's supposed to tell the police where the bodies are without
saying who did it."

"No.  He was under no obligation to anyone except his client.  He was
bound to keep the client's confidence regarding the murder and the
location of the bodies," Tara answered.

"The only thing the attorney did wrong was interfere with the scene of
the crime by moving one of the victims.

That attorney went about his daily life, conducted business, and the
professional part of him lived with the knowledge of those bodies and
that crime.

That's just the way it is."

"Damn, that's something.  That's cool.  Kind of a biker code thing."
Bill hung his head and let it swing.  Tara could almost hear the hogs
gunning their engines in his brain and her own turned over in amazement
that Donna had found this unlikely paramour.

"So," Tara said, voice low, professional, and leading.

"Let's see what confidences I'll be keeping for you.  What is it you
need help with?"

"Thought you'd figured it out.  Donna said you were smart as a
whip."

"Being smart doesn't mean I can read minds," Tara said, suddenly and
briefly annoyed.

Bill nodded toward her desk.  Such sharp eyes;

Tara put her hand atop the stack of information Caroline had given her.
She glanced at it, then back at Bill.

"I have a very efficient secretary, but I'm afraid it was a hot summer
and Circle Ks on the highway seem to be where things happen.  There
were quite a few incidents."  Tara pulled a legal pad close and touched
the tape recorder to her right.

"Do you mind if I tape our conversation?  I'll have it transcribed for
your file and then the tape will be erased.  My files are also
confidential."

Bill was quick as a lizard, leaning over the desk, his hand strong and
warm on hers.  Tara's eyes snapped toward him and her lips opened.  She
remained mute, too surprised to protest.  Shaking his head.  Bill let
his hand slip away while his grin came back in exact proportions.

"We should just talk a bit, you and me.  I'd feel a heap better that
way," he said softly.  Cautiously, Tara nodded once.

"All right.  I'll take notes.  I'll need some notes as much for your
protection as my edification.

There might not even be a legal problem.  If there is, I'll need
something to refer to."

"Yeah.  Okay.  I guess that makes sense.  But I don't think you'll need
'em.  You'll remember.  I know that sure as I know my own name."

Tara saw those eyes of his flash metallic.  Her gut wrenched with a
horrible sensation that came upon her quickly with intensity and depth.
Un nerved, she waited, trying not to think ahead, re fusing to read
anything into Bill Hamilton's words or actions.  She nodded at him,
poised her pen.

He was on.

"Well, listen here."  He scooted around in his chair, found a position
he liked, cocked his elbows on the arms, and held his own hands.

"Let's get to this.  What I'm looking to do here is get something' off
my chest."

Bill dipped his head again as if his thought process was clearest in
this position.  He'd parted his hair in the middle today and it fell in
soft wings over his broad forehead.  He looked like a prince in a
fable, but he wore jeans, not tights.  Tara had a funny feeling she
wasn't in for a fairytale ending to the story he was about to tell.

His head came up, showing a hardened face, closed to her scrutiny.
Steel-colored eyes looked right at her and Tara knew, in that instant,
that this was not the same man who had eaten her food and laughed at
her jokes.  This was not the same man who Donna Ecold adored.  This was
not a man Tara could have imagined being this close to her in her
wildest dreams.

"I was in the Circle K where that woman was killed," he began.

Tara jotted a short note.  It was the date.  It meant nothing.  Relief
was on the horizon.  He was a witness, frightened, holding his emotions
at bay.

She gave him a slight nod of encouragement.  He ran with it like a
racehorse out of the gate.

"I killed that woman, Tara," Bill whispered.

Stunned, Tara sat perfectly still.  Those aren't your lines.  That's
not what you're supposed to say.  You were there, right?  You saw who
did it, right?  You're afraid, right That's what you're supposed to
say.

Bill Hamilton sighed, slid back down in the chair, and lounged with
his long legs in front of him, the tips of his boots touching the
bottom of Tara's desk.  He let them slip just enough so the tips of his
toes brushed those of her pumps.  A tremor ran up the right side of
Tara's body.  An other inch and they'd be playing footsies.  His chin
lay in one upturned palm.  He seemed to be looking past her into a sky
that matched his eyes.

"I feel so bad, yes, ma'am."  He jerked his head off its support and
snapped the fingers of that hand before it fell back into his lap and
he was hers once more.

"I can tell you, it's been bad living with this in my head."  He seemed
to segue, his voice taking on a faraway quality as he painted pictures
for Tara.

"I think of Donna and she's so sweet and so good.  And you.  Look at
you.  A real lady like my mom.  I would have wanted to kill the
son-of-a-bitch who did anything to you good women.  Then I took the
life of someone else's good woman."  Bill nodded to the articles Tara
had put aside.

"I saw all them stories.  I know about her.  Church-goin' woman.  Lots
of little kids.  I felt so bad, thought my heart would break.  Spent
days not doing anything but sittin'.  You know?  Do you know?  I swear
I thought it was a dream and I'd wake up.  Sometimes I couldn't
remember it, the actual doin' of it, then I'd remember everything."

He raised his head an inch, his eyes narrowed, and he gave Tara a look
of despair.

"Every little thing."

Tortured, he played to his audience.  What could he say?  he seemed to
ask.  How could she know what it felt like to take a life?  How could
he ask her to help him when he was a fraud?  He'd slept with her best
friend, sat in her home, was close enough to take her life last night
had he chosen.

Anesthetized, his audience listened.  What did he expect her to say?
Nothing, since he shifted again.

Deciding the chair wasn't big enough to hold him, he got up to pace the
length of her desk.

"Understand now, Tara, it wasn't like I planned it.  Not premeditated
or nothin'.  No way in hell was it that."  He guffawed, suddenly oafish
and crude instead of charmingly countrified.

"It's something' that just happened to me.  I stop being for a minute
sometimes.  Hard to understand, but that's the only way I can describe
it."

He was under full steam when Tara found her voice.  Though the pen in
her hand shook, her voice didn't.

"If this is a joke.  Bill, it isn't funny.  If it isn't, then I want
you to sit still and talk to me.  No more stories, no more
editorializing.  I want .. ."  Tara took a deep breath.  Her
professional life was passing before her eyes and she scanned it,
looking for anything that would give her a clue as to how to handle
Bill Hamilton and his confession.  The stereopticon of her life was
incredibly precise, but she found no help in the frames.  This was to
be a new experience, one with a myriad of opportunities for failure.
Even winning would bring no joy.

"Bill, I'm turning on the tape recorder."

"I wouldn't do that," he warned, hands splayed on her desk.  She
thought no longer than a second.

"Then you're not here for help."

They looked at one another for a long moment.

Blue eyes on gray, will against will.

"That a scared woman talkin' or the other half of you, Tara?  The one
that's gonna help me without being concerned about what I did?"  he
asked lazily.

"It's not a scared woman, Bill, I'll tell you that right now.  And I am
concerned about what you did--as a lawyer."

Those eyes were still on her but she didn't waver.

Finally Bill smiled, small and convincing as if he truly was licked.

"Okay.  Okay.  We're on."

"Fine."  Tara's hands disappeared beneath the desk.  She clutched her
right in her left, trying desperately to tame her shakes.  She began to
talk, falling into the persona that so fascinated Bill Hamilton,
finding some comfort in her detachment.

"There could be a lot of reasons why you're here, not the least of
which could be that you're telling me the truth.  If it is anything but
the truth, I want you to think very carefully before you say another
word.  Fifteen minutes of fame isn't worth the fire and brimstone that
will rain down on your head if you confess to this crime."  Tara raised
the pen.  Her hand no longer shook.  She pointed it at Bill Hamilton,
confident behind her professional guise.

"Now, if you're telling me the truth, tell it without all the nonsense.
Start again or leave."

Bill's lip curled.  If he'd had a toothpick, he would have tackled it
with his tongue and twirled it to show his prowess.  Instead, he waited
an interminable minute before his lips relaxed into an almost quizzical
expression.  Tara hoped he would walk out.

He sat down.

He leaned forward.

He said, "I killed the woman in the Circle K on Route 47."

Behind his eyes was the truth and Tara couldn't read it.

"Have you done this before?"  she asked quietly.

"Nope."  Bill straightened up, relaxed now.  Relieved perhaps.

"Never hurt anyone before."

"Where's the weapon, Bill?"

"Don't know, Tara, and that's the Lord's own truth."

"Cut the crap."

Bill chuckled.

"Can't."  She accepted that.  It was probably the truth.

"Gun's gone.  I don't remember where.  Don't remember a lot in my life.
When I was a kid, my mom sent me to a doctor.  I walked into that
office for sixteen and a half years.  I know I was sick, but I was sick
of takin' them pills too.

I was sick of being' sick so I just up and stopped the whole thing." He
scowled, he would have spit, but he had some decency.

"I saw a doctor on TV who cured himself of cancer and I was better'n
that guy.  I could do that.  I didn't even have cancer.

I fired that bastard doctor's butt.  He never got excited about
anything, never listened.  I showed him good.  Cured myself--for a
while."  He gave her a little click of the tongue and a sad wink as if
to say the fun didn't last long.

"Then there I was, at that Circle K wanting some smokes.  Next thing
that woman was dead.  And"--he opened his hands, widening his
eyes--"there you go."

He was done.  Confessed and cleansed.  Tara hadn't taken a note.  She
hadn't moved a muscle.

The tape still turned.  He smiled.  I chopped down the cherry tree and
there's nothing to be done.

"Does Donna know you're here?"  Tara asked, her voice flat but
audible.

"Yep."

"Does she know about this?"

He shook his head.

"Nope."

"Have you had any thoughts of hurting her?"

Tara looked at him hard, hoping her eyes seemed as unforgiving and cold
as his had.

"I swear I'd never hurt Donna.  Not for the world."  He seemed
genuinely disturbed and made a small gesture as if to say, "Tara, come
on.  It's me.  Bill."  Yes, it was Bill, but not the Bill Hamilton of
last night.  That man couldn't have done what this one was confessing
to.

Tara looked away briefly, finally understanding specifically what drew
Donna to this man.  Sincerity.

It was difficult to find these days and Bill Hamilton breathed his
adoration most convincingly.  What, she wondered, had he had sincerely
felt when he pulled the trigger and killed a lovely, married,
church-singing, pregnant lady?  She put a hand to a chest that felt
brittle and tight, as if she could reach through and pluck out her
heart to see if it was still beating.

"All right," she said, exhaling the words with a thoughtful breath. She
double-checked herself, running imaginary hands over her brain to make
sure everything was where it should be.  Rational.

Intelligent.  Her tone was right, her body language regulated.

"I think we better formalize our business.

After I oudine the terms, it will be up to you to choose whether or not
you want to continue our professional relationship.  Should you decide
not to, I am still bound by my oath of confidentiality.

No one, not even Donna, need know of this conversation.  You will be
free to seek other counsel without fear of recrimination."

"I won't be changin' my mind, Tara.  No siree.

I need your help.  I need you, Tara, and I need you bad.  I been
waitin' a good long while to find a woman just like you."

She looked at him sharply and he looked back mildly, perhaps even
playfully.  His lips were turned up at the corners.  She felt not
triumph from him, but mischievousness, as if the fun part was yet to
come.

"All right, Bill.  I must advise you, I have never handled anything
quite like this.  If you're charged, it would most likely be for
first-degree murder.  I can refer you to someone in Santa Fe who
specializes in high-profile cases such as this if you so desire."

"No thank you, ma'am," he said.

Tara caught his rhythm and didn't miss a beat.

"My fee is two hundred and fifty dollars an hour.

You'll be charged for any out-of-pocket costs for trial exhibits or
investigative services as necessary.

I will require a retainer of five thousand dollars."

She paused.  He didn't flinch.  Neither did she and the last memory of
the playful talk of the night before vanished.

"I'll require that now."

"Yes, ma'am."  The checkbook was out of his pocket.  He laid it on the
desk like a gunslinger.  I'll see you and raise you one.

"Do I have your permission to call your bank to verify your balance?"

The request diminished Tara because it was made spitefully and that
realization unnerved her.

This was not simply business.  She wanted to bring him down a peg or
two, she wanted him to falter, to question, to do something other than
look at her with a cocksure grin or furrow his brow as if frustrated,
concerned, or any number of expressions that seemed to change with the
light.  Bill Hamilton was not just a client arriving by referral.

He was Donna's lover, firmly implanted in Tara's own backyard.  This
weed that she was trying to uproot threatened her, and that
dispassionate person she had spoken of only moments ago was no where to
be found.  The emotional Tara hung on for dear life.

"Absolutely.  Sure thing.  Business is business," Bill said.

Tara gave him a pen and buzzed Caroline.  The check was handed over.
The door closed.  They were alone again.

"I'd like you to move out of the guest house and not see Donna while we
take care of this."

"I don't think so.  I think you can take me at my word that Donna'll be
cared for.  We gotta trust one another, Tara," he reminded her.

"How old are you, Bill?"

Down to business.

"Twenty-nine."  He clicked his tongue and stuck the tips of his fingers
in the coin pocket of his jeans.

"You have family.  Where are they?"

"Arizona."  He rattled off a phone number.  Tara jotted it down.  He
was getting antsy again.  This man didn't like to sit for long.

"Now, I gotta be truthful with you on that one.

I haven't seen them for a while.  We had a falling out and I am not
real sure if I can swear to that number.  I just want that on the table
between us, okay?"

"That's a start."  She jotted a note without looking up.

"Where do you live?"

"With Donna."

"Before that?"  Tara shot back, happy to have found that part of her
that couldn't be touched, that dealt only in strategy and laws and
loopholes.

She would have wept with relief if she'd been able to.

"All over the place.  I get rooms.  Sometimes I stay with other people.
Depends on what comes up.  But I think I'll be stayin' on with Donna
now, if you know what I mean."

"Does your father know about this?  About this woman you claim to have
killed?  Have you told any friends?  How about your mother?"  Tara
watched him carefully from under her lashes, looking for any sign that
he was disoriented by the illogical course of her questions.

"No."  He hesitated.  His eyes lowered quickly, his fingers winding
around themselves now.  Interesting how the mention of his mother
bothered him.

"I

don't think my mama would be very proud of that, do you?  She'd be
shamed for sure.  She can't do nothin' for me, so I don't want her to
know."

And what, Tara wondered, did he think would happen when he was on trial
for this?  Tara would want the woman front row center in a courtroom.

The point, though, was moot.  If Bill Hamilton was charged with this
crime, he'd be lynched before his mother could cry.  The intercom
buzzed.  Tara picked up the receiver instead of putting the call on
speaker.  It was Caroline.  Bill Hamilton was good for the retainer.

"Do you work?"  Tara asked, replacing the receiver.

"T>.

I've worked just about anywhere they'd hire me.  Doin' anything.  I'm
not lazy, that's for sure.  I like my money too much.  Do what I gotta
do to get it."  Again the grin.

"Did you rob the Circle K?"

Bill shook his head, "Didn't need any money.

Just a pack of smokes.  Late night.  Lonely road.

Just a pack of smokes was all."

"Are you employed now?"  Tara continued, unimpressed with his glibness.
As far as she was concerned, he was a liar.  Whether it turned out that
he had actually pulled the trigger or made up a story, he was a liar. 
He had lied with the first smile and the last compliment and he could
still be doing it.

Bill Hamilton gave his answer and the answers to every question after
that.  He worked when he had to, got money where he could, and it
seemed plentiful.  Women liked to care for him.

"And I always give them back just what they need.  Exactly what they
need," he whispered, and they were off again, holding his life up for
scrutiny.

Not a care in the world, a lady to love him, money in the bank, a gun
in hand.  What more could a young man ask?  Just that one little
blemish on his record.

No criminal history, he insisted, and she knew she would have it
checked before he made it down the elevator.  Married?  Naw, not a
cowboy like him.

Lived with a gal.  Yup, a gal.

"Hard to believe, Tara, but that woman decided she just didn't like me
anymore.  And I'll tell you one thing, yes siree, I gave that woman all
I had to give."  He raised a finger as if lecturing her.

"She put me out like a dog, Tara."  Bill grinned.  He laughed.  This
was obviously a private joke.

And they were off for another run, talking about Bill's philosophy of
life.  Just gotta take what comes, then pay the piper.  Bill's hatred
of his psychiatrist and disdain for his own illness and terrible
weakness.

Donna's precious clothes.  A dead woman.

Until Tara touched the middle of her forehead, a fortuneteller still
connected to the other world.

"What do you want from me.  Bill?"  she asked evenly.

"Help," he answered, astonished she should have to ask.

"What kind of help?  Are the police on to you?"

"Naw."  He shook his head and his hair caught the light.  There was a
golden tone in it.

"Do you want me to go with you to turn yourself in?"  she suggested.

"God damn, no."  He laughed and slapped his leg lightly.

"I couldn't go to jail.  I'd never make it in there.  I'll tell you,
Tara, I swear I'd never make it.  I know that what I did was wrong, but
I wasn't in my right mind.  Hell, I just had a blackout and boom. Don't
even know what I did with the gun.

Don't know how I walked out of there."  He pursed his lips and blew out
the bad air, took in some good.

Both hands were in his hair and he pulled the pretty waves up into
wings.  He pulled so hard his eyes changed shape.

"I need help to just straighten out.  A place where I could find a
doctor who understood me."  He thumped his chest once, and smiled
sweetly, "Maybe straighten me out.  I want a bunch of 'em to take a
whack at me, just to be sure this time I'm getting' what I need, you
see?

Not just one guy pullin' a fast one.  Not just one bastard who thinks
he knows everything.  He'd be the kind to hold all this over my head.
Like I failed him, personally.  There's only so much of that a man can
take, you know?"  He lowered his hands and leaned heavily on the desk.
All the smiles were gone.

"So just do that.  Whatever I need to do so I can get me into a
hospital and I won't go to jail.  Just get me some help."

Mr.  Happy-Go-Lucky had vanished.  This man was tired, and if she had
to guess, he was afraid like everyone else who came to her.  Tara knew
where she stood now.  She was ready to act.  As his advocate, not his
friend, she would work miracles for him.  Tenting her fingers, Tara
tapped them against her lips.

"I need proof that you're telling the truth.  Bill.

Convince me.  Give me permission to check your information with the
proper authorities.  The police released no details of this murder.  If
they have matching information, that will help me to make some
decisions."

"What decisions do you have to make?"  Bill asked.

"You're my attorney, ain't you?  Just sign me in someplace.  Get me to
a hospital.  Let me lie low.

I don't want to black out again.  I don't want to hurt anyone again."

Donna's face flashed in Tara's mind.  She'd like nothing better than to
lock him in a loony bin and throw away the key.  Her throat tightened
and she said nothing.  But Bill tired of the silence, so he filled
it.

"You better do this, Tara, or it won't be good for you."  His voice was
gentle.  Tara was lulled by it.

"You couldn't live with yourself, never really knowing what had
happened to me.  I mean if you decided not to be my lawyer, you still
couldn't tell anyone the stuff I told you.  You'd have to sit here by
your lonesome, and just think and think about it.  Then Donna and I
would go away, and you'd think some more.  I'd bet my saddle you'd
rather be in the thick of it all, instead of on the outside wondering
what's what.  I think you like being what you are.  Two people, one who
has the power.  Am I right?  Did I hit the jackpot?"

The silence that ensued was strangely thin, one that wasn't stuffed
with his apprehension and regret the way Tara would have expected.
Instead it was like a fog further clouding her now darkened sky.  Tara
looked at this man who had appeared at her door to celebrate a birthday
and had, instead, aged her light-years.

"You're right about one thing, Bill.  I have the power.  But it's not
limited.  It's my conscience and my ethics, not my power, that will
make me work for you.  But I will only work for you if you're straight
with me.  You could be a nut who simply likes to confess to other
people's exotic crimes.

You may be covering for someone.  I won't know until I confirm what
you've told me with details.

Now, give me the information, give me your permission to use it then
leave me alone to do my work because you need me more than you know."

"You're a good one, Tara."  Bill laughed, his head back, dark hair
grazing the collar of his shirt.

"I

need you, yes I do.  You help me and keep me laughing.

I feel so much better when I'm laughing."

"We'll see."  Tara picked up her pen.  Bill winked, a knowing little
gesture that sealed their bargain.  Then he told her a thing or two
about that night at the Circle K. When he was done, Tara spoke again.

"My obligation is to help you receive the medical treatment you need
and desire.  I'll represent you as a mentally disturbed person until
the truth of that is determined by the law.  I will do my best not to
jeopardize your well-being in any manner that might result in your
incarceration without the opportunity for medical evaluation."

"Fine and dandy, Tara.  Just fine."

"You can go now, Bill.  I'll think about this.  I'll see what I can
do," Tara said wearily.

Bill stood up, tugged on his jacket, and put out his hand.
Mechanically, Tara took it while he chatted.

"Now I'll sleep just fine.  A real load off my mind, Tara.  Hey, mind
if I use your phone?  Gotta call Donna, see if she's ready for me to
come on home."

Tara waved him to the reception room, unable to bear him as close as
the phone.  He picked up the receiver on Caroline's desk and punched
out the number to the guest house from memory, turning his back on her
when he began to speak.

Caroline buzzed on the other line.

"Yes?"

"George Amos, returning your call."

"Tell him I'll call him back," she said, her eyes still on Bill.

"You got it."

The connection was broken.  Bill Hamilton hung up, too.  He looked over
his shoulder, gave Tara a little salute, and killer grin.  He walked
out of her office firmly established in her life.

Six

When the other line rang, it startled her.  Then it annoyed her.  Still
listening to the phone in her guest house ring, Tara hesitated, then
punched the blinking button on line one, hoping against hope it was
Donna calling from somewhere.

"Tara Limey."

"Where are you?"

It took a minute for Tara to adjust to what she was hearing.  This
wasn't Donna's little-girl voice crying for help, or wailing over a
broken heart.

The voice on the other end of the line was a contralto, not a soprano,
and the woman talked about Woodrow Weber, not Bill Hamilton.  Tara
switched gears.

"Tara?  Come on.  Woodrow's expecting you."

"Charlotte, I'm waiting"--she stumbled over the lie--"I'm trying to get
hold of someone.  I can't talk right now.  I can't make it tonight."

"But Tara, it's almost seven.  I thought you were coming around six."
Charlotte's voice changed, softening to honey.

"I'm sorry.  I know you're busy.

It's just that we'd planned on you being here.  This is such an
important evening.  We've got everyone who is anyone here, and you've
been asked for more than once."

"Charlotte, I'm sorry.  I'm so sorry."  Tara stood up and turned toward
the window.  The phone cord wrapped around her middle.  She pulled it
away and let it snap back, anxious as she looked out into night.  Last
she remembered it had been four-thirty in the afternoon.  She'd drafted
a letter and attended a deposition that ended before it began when the
plaintiffs witness didn't show up.

She'd begun writing a speech that ended up in the trash can, then
initiated a list of possible solutions to the problem of Bill Hamilton.
Then she started to worry--not about legal ramifications, not about the
professional disposition of this predicament--but about Donna.

So Tara started to call.  She must have redialed a hundred times and
now Charlotte wanted to know where she was.  Why wasn't she making
small talk with bankers and politicians at Woodrow's fund raiser?
Charlotte asked.  Well, honey, because a guy who just confessed to
killing a woman in cold blood is hanging with my friend.  Instead she
said, "I don't know where the time went.  I don't think I can come."

She begged off, standing firm against Charlotte's noises of hurt and
dismay that normally would have reeled her in.  Then Tara realized
seeing Charlotte was just what she needed to do.  Donna and Bill were
going to pick her up after the fund raiser.  They were out and Tara
wasn't where she was supposed to be.  She had to be where Donna
expected her to be.

"I'll be right over," Tara said quickly, anxious to get off the phone
now.

"I'm sorry.  I truly am.  It was a bad day, I'll be right there."

"Okay.  If you're sure," Charlotte said, but now there was a note of
concern.  If Tara was on edge, she might not be a sterling guest.

"But only if you're up to it.  There'll be lots more times."

"Of course.  Of course.  The sooner we're off the phone, the sooner
I'll be there."

"We're right in the lobby.  Can't miss us.  They still have the tree
up.  It looks so wonderful.  Lots of people are passing, talking about
what's going on--" "Charlotte," Tara sighed, "hang up.  I can't come
until you hang up."

"Right.  Hurry now."

Tara indulged in necessary primping.  Her sun kissed complexion had
taken on a sallow cast, her hair looked as if she'd just rolled out of
bed.  She managed some lipstick, a comb, and a splash of cold water to
wake herself up.  It would take ten minutes to walk to the hotel; she'd
spend forty schmoozing.

Time would pass more quickly.  She couldn't panic.

Nothing was wrong in the guest house.  Donna and Bill had gone out.
Nothing had happened last night, nothing would happen tonight.  Bill
needed Tara and he needed her happy.  As long as that was true, Donna
was safe.

In front of her, past the towering Christmas tree hung with ribbons and
bows and dried chiles; past the tiled fountain topped with a spray of
impossibly exotic flowers; under the garlanded archway and the towering
beamed ceiling; milling about the rough-hewn wooden tables and chairs
and the gleaming bar were the shakers and movers who had come to wish
Woodrow Weber well and add a little something to his gubernatorial war
chest.

It was a good crowd.  Thirty or forty people at least.

Charlotte had sounded desperate for Tara's presence, but she'd
obviously been missed more by Charlotte than anyone else.  She
unbuttoned her winter-white melton coat, put on a smile, and found her
hostess.

"You made it.  Oh, thank you.  I was getting so worried.  I just don't
think things are going very well.

Everyone's being awfully tight-fisted tonight.  Maybe you can loosen a
few wallets.  Look, there's Mrs.

Houghton.  She adores you.  A word and she'll get that old fogy husband
of hers to write a check."

Charlotte had Tara by the elbow and had steered her to the bar.

"What do you want to sip on?"

"Water," Tara said, shaking her head to indicate she wasn't going to be
picky tonight.  The man behind the bar shot some into a glass, tossed
in a sliver of lime, and handed it to her.

"Thanks."

"So, you want to tackle the Houghtons first?"

"Charlotte, I'm sorry.  I don't really feel like tackling anyone.
Couldn't I just kind of mingle?  You're early anyway on the fund
raising.  It's not even two weeks since New Year's.  Even rich people
feel the pinch right after Christmas."

"I can't believe you, of all people, are saying that.  You know how
much it costs to run a campaign.

Besides, our esteemed governor already has two million backing him.
That wife of his pours her own money into his campaign like it was
water.

I wish I had something I could give Woodrow.

Something really substantial."

"You give him more than you know," Tara answered, as if by rote.

"Where is he, anyway?  I wanted to have a word with him."

"Not about business, I hope.  We're leaving all that district attorney
stuff until tomorrow.  Promise it won't be about business, and I'll
find him."

"Okay.  No business," Tara answered reluctantly, hoping Charlotte would
disappear long enough for her to find out what Woodrow knew about the
Circle K matter.

"Go mingle.  I'll find him and be back."

Charlotte was gone, touching an elbow here, whispering in an ear there,
doing her candidate's wife thing so beautifully Tara was impressed.
Charlotte was gobbled up.  Tara was on her own.  She wandered, her eyes
roving toward the door over and over again.  She half expected to see
Donna burst through it wild-eyed as she screamed for help, Bill
Hamilton after her with a gun in his hand.  Tara shook her head to
clear it.  An assistant U.S. attorney she'd been casually acquainted
with tried to catch her eye across the room.  She turned the other way,
toward the phones.  One more call.  Just in case they had simply been
outside watching the river, taking a walk, doing something normal and
safe.  Just in case Donna hadn't heard the phone.

Tara turned sideways, murmured her apologies, held her drink above her
head, and managed to slip into the alcove without being stopped for a
conversation.  Leaning against the wood, she put her sparkling water on
the right side of the phone, her purse on the left, then leaned her
head back and closed her eyes.  Her head was splitting.  Funny she
hadn't noticed it before.  A wave of laughter erupted from the party.
Tara smiled.  It was nice where she was.  A good place to wait.

"Need a quarter?"

She opened up her eyes.  The first thing she saw was a corroded
quarter.  The second thing she saw was a most attractive hand.  Then
she saw an arm.

But it wasn't held out to her, it was held up.  Tara looked down and
hoped she was hallucinating.

There was Ben Crawford.  She'd thought about meeting him like this--by
surprise--often enough.

She'd even thought about what she might say.  She would be warm.  They
would exchange pleasantries, maybe become misty-eyed if the
pleasantries lasted long enough.  They would part.  An awkward meeting
made bearable because the suspense was over; a volatile situation
finally diffused.  But this wasn't any day and Tara wasn't ready for
this particular surprise.

Her stomach fluttered.  Her mouth went dry.

Her lips parted and no sophisticated, inspired words eased her through
these first awkward moments.

Her hands were orphaned.  She found no place where they felt graceful
or casual or even comfortable.

Tara's eyes darted here and there, finally resting on Ben and locking
onto eyes that had grown older, but no less kind.  Under that gaze,
Tara's faltered.

Her eyes skittered away and she found herself looking at the wheelchair
in which he sat.  Immediately, she looked back at his face, a safer
focus.

"I'd almost given up on you.  If I'd known you were hiding, I would
have started seeking sooner.

Woodrow never did know how to throw a party."

"Ben, I ..."  What was there to say?

How've you been the last twenty-four years?  Like your chair.  Do you
mind I didn't call Any chance you're ever going to walk again?  Did you
miss me when I stopped coming by ?  Did you He awake knowing why ?
Wondering why the letters stopped coming?  I did.

But Ben was gracious, and Ben was good, and Tara felt her heart a
little blackened because in his greeting there were no accusations,
only pleasure that he'd found her here.

"Okay.  Be that way," he said sweetly.

"Don't talk.

Bend down here and give me a hug."

She did, grateful for his mercy when he could have exacted a pound of
flesh.  Tara rested her hands on the hard black arms of the
wheelchair,

and closing her eyes, she lay her lips against his cheek, realizing it
was no longer fear in the pit of her stomach, but that age-old draw of
him that swelled inside her.  He smelled so good.  A man's scent where
once there had only been the changing essence of a boy.  He was strong
too.  The arm that wrapped around the back of her was iron-like,
unbreakable, secure.  But her eyes opened as she knew they must.  She
saw his legs, shriveled and useless, as she backed off.

"How are you?"  Tara said automatically.  She lay her hand on her
purse, knowing she looked like a colt ready to bolt.

"I'm fine.  You look miserable, though.  Need to make that call, or can
I interest you in a quiet corner and a sympathetic ear?  You look like
you could use both."

Tara chuckled self-consciously, "I don't think there's a quiet corner
to be had out there.  In fact, I'm surprised to find you here.  I
didn't know you were interested in politics."

"I'm not.  Charlotte told me you were going to be here."

"Did she send you to find me?"

Ben looked over his shoulder.  Charlotte was watching.  He gave her a
little wave.  He smiled, then looked at Tara.

"Yes."

Now she really did laugh.

"Honest as always.  I always thought that was an odd trait in high
school.  You and I were probably the only ones who had perfected the
art of telling the truth."

"Except to each other?"  Ben asked.  Tara's expression clouded.

"I don't think I'm up for this discussion tonight, Ben.  It's great to
see you, but--" He held out his hand.  She was going to leave and he
didn't want that.

"I'm sorry.  You're right.  That was clumsy.  There's just so much to
catch up on."

"And you want to start where we left off?  Not exactly the most
pleasant time in our lives."  Tara slapped her purse under her arm.

"I thought maybe we could start with the basics.  What do you do?
Married?  Kids?"

"Psychologist.  No.  I don't think so," Ben said quickly, adding
softly, "I'm sorry."

Tara took a deep breath.  She held it.  She looked to the ceiling. They
were in a small space.  It would be tight for two people standing. It
was impossible with Ben's chair.  She had to get out of there and he
seemed to know that.  He twirled his chair.  No more than a flick of
those hands--lovely, masculine hands--on the chrome wheels.  If she
didn't know better, she would have sworn he'd turned on his heels.

"Wait," she said, hurrying after him though it was only a few steps.

"It's okay.  I wasn't leaving," Ben said seriously.

"It's the only way I know to back off.  You can't possibly think I'm
going to make this easy for you."  It took thirty seconds for his eyes
to soften and crinkle and for Tara to understand that he was teasing.
Not much had really changed about Ben--not much and yet everything.

"No, I wouldn't expect you would.  I guess I'd kind of gotten it into
my head that this town was big enough for both of us."

"It is," Ben agreed, "no matter how we decide to live in it.  Sorry I
came back?"

Ben began to move forward.  Tara fell in step beside him.

"I don't think that's for me to say," Tara answered.

"Maybe not, but it's something I need to hear."

Ben's fingers moved lightly over the wheels.

"You forgot your drink.  What were you having?"

They had made it to the fringe of the crowd.

Those who noticed Ben's chair made way.  The women did double takes. He
was a handsome man.

Strong-jawed, tan, hair just long enough, mustache just bushy enough,
and eyes so beautifully blue and knowing.  Tara then saw the
disappointment in the women's eyes as they noticed the wheelchair and
turned away.  Ben was oblivious.

"Sparkling water.  I don't really need a refill."

"I think you do.  In fact, you probably need something stronger right
about now."  He cocked an eyebrow.  She shook her head, hugged her
purse closer, and looked around.  She smiled at people across the room.
She checked her watch.

She thought of Donna and the day threatened to overwhelm her.  She
watched as Ben ordered the drinks and kept an eye on her.  An old world
of memories fell in on her.  His timing was lousy.

About as horrible as hers had been twenty years ago.  Only difference
was, she was still standing.

"Come on."  He was back.  Two drinks in one hand, the other maneuvering
his chair.

"Let's start again.  I'll ask you how your day was.  You complain.

Everyone will leave and then we'll really have a good chat."  He was
moving ahead of her, looking over his shoulder, smiling gloriously when
Woodrow caught up with them.

"Tara, I'm so glad you made it!"  Woodrow's arm was around her, his
lips on her cheek.  He whispered, "Thanks.  I really appreciate it."

Tara gave him a pat, "My pleasure.  I'll make you pay me back one of
these days."

"You got it," he promised.

 r

"Sooner than you think," she whispered and stood away, still cradled in
the crook of his arm.

"I see you found Ben.  It's great he's back in town.  How about a
picture?"  Woodrow tipped his head.  A photographer appeared.  Ben
moved out of the way.

"My man, where are you off to?  Come back here."

"Nope.  I'm the new kid in town again, but I don't need the publicity.
You go on."  Ben grinned, happy to be out of lens range.

"Jane, come on over here for a picture with Tara and me," Woodrow
called, taking Ben at his word.

Tara gave him a wry look then smiled broadly.

She could feel his eyes on her, even as she tried to stand tall and
look good for the camera.  Woodrow didn't notice how right she was, how
uncomfortable despite her grin and chit-chat.  But Ben knew something
wasn't right.  She played the game, he watched from the
sidelines--amused and confused because it had been a long time and he
couldn't put his finger on what was wrong.  The trio smiled, the flash
popped, and it was done.

"Ben, you don't mind if I borrow Tara for a minute, do you?  There's
someone over here who knew her father well."  Woodrow had Tara by the
hand, but they didn't go far.

"Well, here he is.

Tara, do you remember Jim Beckley?  He was in Washington when your
father was attorney general.

He was a Reagan appointee too.  Now he heads up his own organization
for senior citizens.  The main idea is to create a network of
transportation opportunities so that our older folks can get around
safely day and night.  Safety is a big part of my campaign."

Tara put her hand out.  She'd heard Woodrow's speech on crime a
thousand rimes and would bet that poor Mr.  Beckley had heard it once
more than she.

"Of course I remember.  Jim, it's lovely to see you again.  I know that
Woodrow is very committed to our senior citizens.  I'm delighted to see
you here tonight."  She made it through the speech without screaming.
Small talk wasn't right.  Not now when Donna was out there with that
man.

"You've grown a bit since I last saw you, young lady," the old man
chuckled, delighted to be remembered.

Tara swiveled and held out a hand.

"Have you met Ben Crawford?  He just recently came home to Albuquerque
from--from parts unknown."

Ben offered a hand.  The older man took it between both of his.

"You're a man I'd like to talk to.

The handicapped have a lot in common with us old folk.  Or is that what
they call you these days?"

"Physically challenged," came the reply, but it wasn't Ben who had
spoken.

The small group turned to look at the well groomed middle-aged woman
who had offered the politically correct answer in an even more
politically correct manner.  Woodrow obviously didn't know her, but
that didn't keep him from recovering nicely.  There was more
handshaking.  Woodrow gave it a you-mean-a-lot-to-me emphasis.

"Nice to see you.  Nice of you to come," he said.

The woman gave him a watery smile and severed their connection.
Obviously, she wasn't as thrilled as Woodrow was.

"I'm a freelance journalist, Mr.  Weber.  I wanted to ask you some
questions.  I think I could sell the story I'm writing to one of the
national news magazines if it checks out, but I need some corrobora-
don."

Woodrow's mouth turned down thoughtfully to keep his grin from flying
off his face.  National coverage.

The night was a success.

"Happy to carve out some time for the press.

Why don't we go find someplace that's quiet?"

Woodrow reached to steer her away, then stopped.

He snapped his fingers as if he'd just had a marvelous idea, and said,
"You know, we could set a time tomorrow for an interview if you like.
Lunch, perhaps.  Hard to get the full story on certain things if you're
rushed for time.  I could make sure we weren't interrupted, Miss .. .
?"

She ignored him.

"No, that's all right.  I'm kind of booked up and this really won't
take long."  She pulled a recorder from her pocket, pushed a button,
and held it out to Woodrow without apology.

"Is it true that you refused to prosecute Strober Industries when
investigators in the district attorney's office found that they had
used inferior materials in a county building, making those buildings
dangerous to the public?  Did your investigators also find that full
payment was authorized for the originally spec'd materials after their
conclusions had been reached, knowing these materials were useless?"

Woodrow had taken more than a minute to process what was being said.
Tara watched his smile tighten, falter, then fail.  He tried to move
out of the circle of people.  Jim Beckley was enthralled.

Ben's face had tightened as he realized what was going on.  Tara tried
to run interference.

"Woodrow, I'm afraid I've really got to find Charlotte.  I do hope
you'll forgive us," she said to the woman as she stepped between
them.

"Of course, Tara.  Let me take you to her."

Woodrow took the hand Tara offered.  She was now solidly between him
and the reporter, but the woman was a pro and was hanging in.  He
called over Tara's shoulder, smiling but nervous.

"Call my office and I'll be happy to discuss this with you.

I'll provide information that you'll find very interesting."

Woodrow was sweating, saying too much, too loudly.

Ben wheeled himself into the fray, further distancing the woman.

"Woodrow, I'm afraid I've got to run, but I did want to have a word--"
"Mr.  Weber," the woman called, attracting too much attention by
design.

"Did Strober, in return, funnel over thirty thousand dollars into your
campaign coffers from various subsidiaries?  Mr.  Weber, this isn't a
hard question.  Are they still giving you money at the expense of
public safety?"

Stunned, Woodrow stood beside Tara.  His hand on the small of her back
trembled, but his political sensibilities were intact.  He moved
slightly, facing the stringer, smiling just in case a rogue camera was
about "I think you have some misinformation.  I'd like to talk about
that situation rather than give you quick answers that could be
misconstrued.  Now, if you'll give me your card, I'll call you
personally and set up the appointment.  I can see by the look on your
face that you want to make this more than it is.  Give me my say,
that's all I ask.  I'm not going to fight with you.  So either accept
our hospitality and enjoy yourself tonight, or let's set up something
between the two of us.  After that, print what you like."

The woman eyed Woodrow, assessed the situation--Ben, Tara, and a
continually curious Mr.

Beckley--then made her decision.

"I'll call you," she said.

They watched her back as she bee lined for the front door.  Woodrow
mumbled his thanks to them all as he fished for his handkerchief, wiped
his brow, and went the opposite way.  Ben had wheeled backward as Mr.
Beckley moved in on the group, wondering what that was all about.  And
Tara, who almost turned her eyes away when the reporter pushed through
the door, was thrilled a minute later that she hadn't.  Donna Ecold
burst through, a tiny little thing blown in with the wind.  Her eyes
were wide.  Her hair disheveled, her lips parted.  To call for Tara? To
ask for help?

Tara slid away, the world falling out of focus.  She barely heard Ben
call her name.  She wasn't aware that Charlotte had joined Woodrow.
Tara only knew she had to get to Donna.  Slowly at first, then faster
she went, until her heels seemed to crash onto the tiles in her haste.
She was stopped by a knot of people.

Tara feigned left, then right before getting around them.  That's when
Donna saw her.

They were so close Tara could almost reach out and touch her.  She was
almost close enough to talk, but before Tara could ask if she was all
right, before Tara could ask where Bill Hamilton was, she saw his
reflection in the door.  His image was liquid and one dimensional in
the glass.  Bill Hamilton, time traveler caught between dimensions. 
Then he saw her too, and the mother-of-pearl-colored Bill Hamilton
smiled slowly, contentedly, and gave her a wink just as Tara gathered
Donna into her arms.

"Tara, please, not in public."  Donna laughed and pried herself away.

"I'm sorry.  I'm sorry," Tara breathed, her eyes flicking toward the
door.  He was gone, reflected now only in her mind.

"I'm sorry.  I'm just so happy to see you.  You looked so worried when
you came in.  Then Woodrow.  There was this incident Hey, nothing.
Sorry.  I'm not making any sense.  Long day."  Tara ran her hands down
Donna's arms.  She felt good.  So little, but intact.

"Must have been a killer," Donna said.

"You have no idea," Tara answered, drawing her into the lobby.

"Hey, what are you doing?"

"I thought we'd go in."  Tara stumbled, realizing how ridiculous that
sounded.  She couldn't drag Donna away from the man outside without an
explanation and she couldn't give an explanation.

What Tara knew about Bill Hamilton couldn't be shared even with the
woman who climbed into bed with him every night.

"Nothing.  I don't know what I was thinking."  Her smile was shaky but
she managed it.

"Good," Donna put her arm through Tara's.

"Now, where's your coat?"

"Left it over there."  She tossed her head back and followed the
gesture.  Coat in hand, she was retracing her steps when she saw Ben
watching her from across the room.  He made no attempt to intercept
her.  Tara almost wished he had.  Realizing it was best, she lifted her
lips sadly in something that could have been a smile but passed more as
an acknowledgment that situations had never been on their side.  She
left La Posada without another word to anyone and joined Donna, who was
already cuddled up with Bill Hamilton in the car.

"Tara, you hardly ate anything.  We should have gone somewhere else.
Greek was never your favorite."

Donna was draped over the back of the seat, her arms crossed, her chin
atop them.

"It was fine.  I'm just tired."

"Long day, huh, Tara?"  Bill yawned and used his free hand to touch
Donna's hair.  She cooed and got closer to him.

"When you gonna get a real job, babe?  Somethin' that makes a
difference in the world."

Donna giggled and turned her head into his caress.

"I do make a difference.  Every little kid who reads one of my books
believes that there's a happy ending just waiting for them out
there."

"I haven't read your books and I believe that too."  Bill Hamilton was
purring, his hand on the back of her neck now.  Tara looked away.  In
the dark of the car the scene was too intimate--too frightening--but
Bill wanted her attention.

"What do you believe, Tara?  You believe in happy endings?"

She put her hand to the side of her head and rubbed her temple.  She
thought she did.  She'd been living a happy ending all her life.

"I believe in the right ending.  The one that's best for everyone."

"Does that always mean the bad guy gets it in the end?"  His eyes were
in the rear view mirror.

Tara could only wonder if they were also on her.

"I don't know, Bill.  I don't know," she said, her voice a worn-out
whisper.

"I don't think so.  Bad guys can have reasons for being bad.  What do
they call that?  Extenuating circumstances.

That's it.  Damn, I love those lawyer words.  What do you think,
Tara?"

"Oh, let her rest," Donna murmured, turned around now, her head on
Bill's shoulder.

"We've been playing all day and she's been working.  Don't tease
her."

"You're right, Donna.  I won't tease.  I'll just drive.  Man, I love to
drive."

Donna mumbled her thanks.  Tara let her head fall back on the seat and
closed her eyes.  They would be home soon and she could think.  But the
car was moving strangely.  Faster now than Tara knew the speed limit
allowed.  Bill took a left.  Tara opened her eyes.  She rotated her
head to see the landscape changing.  They weren't headed home, but out
of town.  She sat up.  Even Donna noticed the change in route.

"Bill, where're you going?"  Donna sat up straighter, shaking off
sleep.  Her shoulders didn't clear the seat.  She looked like a child
sitting next to him.

"Honey, come on.  Tara's tired, Bill."

But Bill wasn't with them any longer.  He was somewhere else, seeing
something else on the road, and he was speeding toward it.  Both hands
on the wheel, he suddenly snapped his arm and flipped a switch.  The
window rolled down, smooth and silent, letting in the roar of the
highway wind.

"Bill?"  Donna had scooted away only far enough to turn toward him and
lay her hand on his shoulder.

"Bill, where are we going?"

In the backseat Tara clutched the armrest, her eyes bright, her heart
slowing as she saw where they were: nowhere.  Nothing but desert, a
house or two, a mile out, blurring as they sped by.  Suddenly Bill
threw himself toward the door and his head went out the window.

"Whooeeee!  I am the Marlboro Man!  Hot damn!"

He hollered and the cold, cold air blew his hair back and the wind
whipped through the car until Tara was sure she would freeze to death
or die of fright in the face of Bill Hamilton's insanity.  It had to be
insanity.

"Bill.  Come on.  Stop," Donna hollered over the cacophony.

"Come on.  It's cold."

The car swerved off the road and Bill slammed on the brakes.  Donna was
thrown forward but he caught her before she hit the dashboard.  Tara's
breath was knocked out of her, the tight belt holding her midriff in
place while the rest of her jackknifed.

"Ow, baby, that was fun.  Wasn't that just a dandy ride?  Just a hell
of a ride."  He pulled Donna to him and held her tight, then he grinned
at Tara.

A little boy done wrong, a little boy with a secret.

His voice lowered.  They might as well have been alone together.

"I just wanted me some smokes.

Just a pack of smokes."

With that he sat Donna upright, opened the car door, and got out.  Tara
watched him saunter across the hard dry ground.  She watched him reach
in his back pocket and pull out a comb, run it through his hair just as
he hit a pool of light She watched him open the door and she watched
him disappear inside the Circle K. "Isn't he crazy?  I swear, that man
is crazy," Donna muttered and Tara thought she heard a note of pride.

"Yeah, I think he is," Tara answered and in her voice was a note of
surety.

Seven

"I cannot--repeat--cannot believe this.  What is it?  Is the entire
world conspiring against me?  Explain this debacle, Joanie.  No, don't
try to explain.

Let me just go over the facts, and see if there's a glimmer of hope
that somehow this can be explained to me."

Woodrow Weber measured his paces to the window of his office, looked
toward downtown Albuquerque, noting the gleaming high-rises and the
fine architectural figure the Hyatt Hotel, tallest structure in the
city, cut across the sky.  Then he looked down and considered the
unpaved, dirt parking lot that surrounded his own, square, ugly, brick
building.  He pivoted, clasped his hands behind his back and paced back
again, passing his secretary on step five.  He held up his hand, the
pointer finger heavenward.

"One.  The rapist that's terrorizing the university is caught in the
act.  With great fanfare we--I-make the decision to indict.  With
greater fanfare, we go to trial.  I assign our finest team with the
full confidence in their ability, believing every assurance they give
me.  Then, with the greatest fanfare of all, the district attorney's
office bites the big one and there's a mistrial because of our
incompetence.

We have to start from scratch.

 r

"Two."  Up popped another finger.

"We finally find out who's been fixing the high school basketball
games.  George Amos makes an arrest.  The kid's been in high school for
six years, making more money taking bribes and flunking his classes
while he plays basketball than he ever could pumping gas.  Now half the
city is in an uproar because we've arrested a child.  A child, they
call him!  The other half of this city is mad because we're not already
in court sending the bastard up for daring to tinker with the outcome
of a sporting match."

"But Mr.  Weber, we're going to pretrial hearings," the young woman
began, knowing she shouldn't be put in the position of defending
anything in this office.  She wasn't an attorney.

Woodrow held up his hand, did a precision turn, and headed back.  He
stood over her, the scent of Aqua Velva wafting down upon her.  He
spoke gently, carefully, and condescendingly.

"Joanie, don't try to make it better.  What does the public know about
pretrial hearings?  What, I ask you?"  The poor girl shrugged, having
no clue what the proper response was.  Not that it mattered.

The entire conversation seemed to be rhetorical.

"I'll tell you what they know.  Nothing!

Nothing!  The voting public thinks I try every case myself.  I swear,
the way the editorials have been running lately I might as well.  It
couldn't get any worse.  And now dlis!"

Woodrow stopped, held out his hands, palms up, invidng her to look at
die pamphlet on the desk.

Joanie turned her head but her eyes were closed.

She'd already seen it.

"Five hundred thousand mailers."  He whispered and stepped forward.

"Five hundred thousand direct mail pieces that are supposed to convince
the good people of the entire state of New Mexico that I would make a
wonderful governor.  Now."  He took in a ragged breath and let his eyes
flutter shut for a moment.

"It is my understanding that a good mailer, one that should convince
people to vote for the right candidate, the one who would be the best
governor, should at least spell the candidate's name properly.  Don't
you think, Joanie?  Don't you think that someone .. ."  He bent from
the waist and looked at her close up, his middle-aged gnome face taking
on unusual and unattractive proportions.

"... someone who was responsible for proofreading such material, might
have noticed that the name "Woorfrow Weber' is not spelled WooArow
We<for!"

Joanie slid her eyes his way.  His face was purple.

It wasn't a pretty sight.

"I suppose the last person who saw it should have caught that mistake,"
she squeaked, as defiant as she dared be.  He was, after all, the
person who had signed off on the proof.  With everything else that was
going on around the office, he shouldn't expect her to be responsible
for his campaign literature.

It wasn't in her job description and she would have told him except, as
usual, they were interrupted.  Gratefully, Joanie stood up and grinned
at Tara Limey.

"Hi," Tara called from the outer office and walked right into
Woodrow's.  One look at him and she wondered which of them was worse
off.

"Sorry.

I interrupted.  I'll wait outside."

"No, no," Woodrow said and waved her in.  He looked better already. The
purplish color was draining from his face.

"Might as well interrupt now before I kill someone or jump out the
window.

Look at this, Tara.  Just look.  Woodrow We<fer.

 r

Five hundred thousand of these were drop-shipped this morning."

Joanie slipped past Tara, gave her a pat on the arm, and disappeared.
Tara closed the door to Woodrow's office and went to the sideboard.
They could both use a cup of coffee.  Cream in his.  Hers was black.

"Here," she said, handing it to him while he keened over his misprinted
mailers.  She patted his back and stood for a silent minute.

"Tara, I don't know if I'm cut out for this.  Running for district
attorney was one thing, but a governor's slot, I don't know."  He shook
his head, pushed up his tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses, and stuffed his
hands in the pockets of his winter-white pants.  His bucks were white
too.  A blue-striped shirt, old school tie.  She'd bet her bottom
dollar there was a blue blazer hanging around somewhere.

Such a dapper guy.  She loved Woodrow because he had style and he was
smart and still there was something awfully vulnerable about him.  It
was a unique combination in an educated man.

"It's a huge leap, Woodrow.  Maybe there was a stepping stone you
should have taken before you went for the big one," she commiserated.

He breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth.  A word came
with it.

"Maybe."

He sounded so despondent, Tara felt terrible for even suggesting it.

"Hey, Woodrow, I wasn't thinking.  The old gov himself is going to make
mistakes, too.  Besides, Charlotte called early this morning and said
that you'd taken in more last night than you'd expected."

Tara hoped this would brighten his mood a bit.  She needed to have his
complete attention.

"You really think this isn't a disaster?"  He picked up the offending
material and looked at it.

Tara slipped it out of his fingers.

"I know it isn't.  Really.  But it's not going to help if you keep it
on your desk and look at it all day long."  She took it away and put it
under a stack of papers on the credenza.

"Drink your coffee.  It'll make you feel better."

"I guess you're right.  Oh, before I forget .. ."

Woodrow had coffee in hand.  He headed for his chair, turned, and back
stepped into it.

"Are you going to that tea Charlotte's giving for the Women Voters
Coalition?"

"I don't know," Tara said wearily.

"What if I just send a check?  Couldn't I just do that?"

"Come on, Tara.  You know that's not it.  I don't want your money,"
Woodrow insisted.

"I mean money's really appreciated, but it's you I want.  You show up
and the fact that a Limey's hanging around will really give me a boost.
And boy, do I need a boost.  Especially after last night and that
thing with Strober Industries.  Could you believe that?  I've had Sandy
trying to figure out who that woman was and who she worked for. I don't
know what she's got but it was damn scary, I'll tell you."

"Any truth to it?"  Tara asked, seating herself.

"I don't think so.  I mean that investigation was so long ago.  I
swear, I really think the decisions made were a matter of expediency. I
hadn't even decided to run yet.  I'm going to review the file, of
course, but as I recall, the civil division was overextended when that
came across my desk.  Inspectors had approved changes.  The company
paid some kind of fine.  It was arbitrated."  He rubbed his eyes with
his free hand.

"Boy, I'm tired.  I don't know how Charlotte keeps up with all this.
She's always fresh as a toothpaste ad and on to the next thing."  He
let his glasses fall back on his nose and pushed them into place.

"Speaking of which, that tea isn't for a few months.  And no, you don't
have to go.  I just appreciate all the support you do give me.  I won't
push it."  He chuckled affectionately.

"Won't make the same promise for Charlotte, though, so if you can't
come, I suggest you lie low."

"I'll try I will."

" "Preciate it."  He drank his coffee.  She stared at hers.  He studied
her over the rim of his cup.

When Tara didn't speak, Woodrow took it upon himself.

"I guess you didn't come in to scream at me for a miserable evening
last night."

"When have you known me to scream?"

"Never.  You're more formidable when you don't, actually.  Always
throws me when we're in court together, and you pull that righteous
persona out of your hat.  Hard, smart, sure of yourself. Meticulous."

"That's how I am in court, huh?"  Tara smiled and put her coffee
aside.

"In court.  Not now."  He cocked his head.

"Something's on your mind.  Charlotte get under your skin by setting
you and Ben up last night?"

Tara bit her bottom lip.  She looked away from him.  He owed her for
last night and a few other things so he remained patient.  It was one
of his best traits--and his worst.  He'd patiently followed Tara around
in high school, driving her crazy, until finally realizing Charlotte
was the woman of his dreams.  Funny how things worked out.  Charlotte
and Woodrow a steady item, she and Ben strangers.

But even Woodrow's patience had a limit.

"Earth to Tara."  She looked at him.

"I'm in a bind, Woodrow.  I'm not happy about it.  In fact, it's really
thrown me for a loop.  The good news is, I think I have a solution to
my problem if you'll help."  Tara laced her hands together.

"Off the record?"  Woodrow asked.

"Pretty much.  I'm not going to give you much.

I don't want to compromise you, or myself, in any way."

Woodrow nodded, sagely.  Enough said.  He was a good attorney, a
dedicated attorney.  She'd been up all night working this out and he
would understand what she needed.  There was no other way for Tara to
discharge her duty as a sworn officer of the court, be faithful to her
client, and keep Donna safe.

"Woodrow, I've taken on a new client.  This person came to me for help.
I believe he's mentally unstable, but lucid.  He is very intelligent
and knows exactly what he wants.  This client has given me specific
instructions as to the disposition of his problem."

"Tara, you sound like you're giving an opening statement.  It's me.
Spill it," Woodrow said quietly, concerned now.

"Woodrow, I am bound by my oath as an attorney to do what is in the
best interest of my client."

"Tara ..."  Woodrow warned.

"He says he killed that woman, the clerk, at the Circle K last
Independence Day.  The murder on 47."

"Whoa," Woodrow breathed, his coffee cup tipping as his hand went
slack.  Luckily he had enough presence of mind to right it before a
drop of the dark stuff spilled on his creamy slacks.

Quickly he put it on the desk and pulled his chair closer.

"Are you sure?"

Tara laughed lifelessly.

"I'm not sure about any thing.  I talked to him at length before I took
him on as a client.  I met him in a social situation.  He came
recommended.  I didn't pick him up off the street, he wasn't waiting in
my office, he didn't put a gun to my head.  He seemed like a nice,
normal kind of guy initially.  The last thing I expected to hear was
something like this.  But there are other things, feelings of
apprehension, odd behavior of his that comes and goes.  I'm not a
psychiatrist, but I've seen enough to think that I'm not dealing with a
sociopath.  I know he has been under the care of a doctor for much of
his life.  He hasn't come asking for punishment.  He wants my help to
get him off the streets."

"We should call George on this immediately.  You know that, don't you?"
Woodrow said, yet he made no move to pick up the phone.  He had
nothing.

Not a name, not a clue as to whom Tara was talking about.

"Woodrow, please.  I didn't come here for such a simplistic resolution,
you know that.  I'm not here to turn him in.  The man believes, and I
believe, that he is mentally disturbed.  He's asked me to get him help.
If he truly is the Circle K killer, he needs it and I'll want to get it
for him fast.  I don't want him on the streets, and quite truthfully, I
don't want him near me."

"Hmm."  Woodrow harrumphed in a most thoughtful manner.  He looked at
her from under his lashes, a look she'd seen him use on many a cowering
witness when he was demanding the truth.

"If he's threatening people, Tara, you're fully privileged to breach
the confidentiality.  I will make sure that your client is separated
from you quickly and kept incarcerated until there's a resolution to
this problem."

"He isn't threatening anyone, Woodrow.  That's the point.  He's
concerned that he might have another episode.  The idea of that doesn't
constitute a threat.  But if he's concerned, so am I. And you are too,
if I had to guess.  So all three of us want the same thing."

"I suppose that's true.  We may not want it in the same way."  Woodrow
twisted in the chair and crossed his legs, ankle over knee.  He had a
rather handsome profile.  He didn't quite look so gnome like from that
angle.  He had been smart and was photographed that way for some of his
campaign literature.  He looked back at her too soon.

"Why not tell me what you want first?  Since this is new to me, I need
time to mull it over.  Better if I have your take to think about at the
same time."

"Okay.  Fair enough."  Tara watched him carefully, trying to discern if
there was anything going on in Woodrow's head.  There were no vibes.

Either she was more unnerved than she thought, or Woodrow was simply
taking it all in and the wheels weren't turning yet.  She began to
talk.

"There is a way we can do this so that everyone wins and justice will
still be served.  Since I'm not sure if this guy is just spinning a
tale, I asked him for some specific information.  I'd like you to go to
George Amos.  Get the status on this thing and the lowdown on those
details.  I've already confirmed the file is still open.  I have my
client's permission to give you this information only."

Woodrow nodded.  Tara was walking a fine line and she was doing it
beautifully.  Woodrow searched for a pen and paper as he talked.

"You don't think he might be covering for someone else?  Using you to
do exactly this so that he can find out what the status of this thing
is?"

"The thought crossed my mind," Tara admitted.

"A lot of things have crossed my mind.  Believe me, if he's a confessor
or playing some kind of game, I'll be thrilled to cut him loose."  Then
she'd tell Donna about her beloved's strange sense of humor.

This bit of information she kept to herself.

"But my next step has to be predicated on what you're going to do. Will
you see George?"

"Why not ask him yourself, Tara?  It would be more expedient."  He
faced Tara.  She looked tired.

Beautiful, but tired.  Ben had been the luckiest guy in high school to
have her.  Too bad they all had to grow up.

"I don't think it would be wise."  Tara shook her head.

"Caroline found out George knew the woman.  George isn't exactly the
most judicious law man in the best of situations.  I don't want to make
this personal, and I don't want to give his imagination something to
work on.  You can approach this like a routine inquiry.  Tell him you
want to make sure your calendar is clear if there's anything new.  Make
it casual, Woodrow.  Just take a look at the file and check out these
details.  Please."

"And once that's done?"  He was playing with a pen now, his coffee
getting cold, his eyes downcast.

He was thinking.  Tara could almost see the wheels.

"When we're sure this man is who he says and has done what he
professes, then I'd like the District Attorney's Office to petition the
court for hospitalization for my client.  If your office makes the
petition, my client is hospitalized with impunity.  Anything said to
the doctors can't be used against him in a court of law.  He's safe
from self-incrimination.

I have done my duty and remanded him to the care of professionals who
can monitor his behavior and, hopefully, help him."

"And this office has made that possible," Woodrow objected, his brows
pulled together tight.

"I

think it would be more judicious to get him behind bars.  We're not
talking about jaywalking here."

"Woodrow, if he did this, then he's got real problems.

He needs to be given all protection under the law.  And," she said
quietly, "you run a risk if you arrest and attempt to indict.  If the
grand jury won't return a true bill, the public will be outraged.  This
isn't fixing a high school basketball game, Woodrow.

If you try and fail, the voters will just see you chasing your tail
again.  I'd hate to see that.  I'd hate for you to jeopardize your
position, or the governor's seat."

Woodrow's gaze never left hers.  They didn't war with their eyes, their
body language never changed, but in their heads both knew what had
transpired.  Tara had thought this through and was willing to play
hardball.

"I suppose it could happen," he said finally.

Smoothly he pulled his coffee toward him, lifted it, and drank.  Tara
knew it had to be cold, but he didn't react if it was.  He was being
decisive.  Theatrics were dear to an attorney, as much for buying time
as masking a disadvantage.  Finally, he said, "All right.  I'll take
the first step.  Let's go for it.  Give me what you got."

Tara closed her eyes, a little prayer of thanks flitting through her
mind as she reached into her briefcase.  From it she withdrew a sheet
of yellow lined paper, neatly folded.  She didn't hand it to Woodrow.
Instead, she unfolded it, held it in front of her so that he couldn't
see her notes, and looked up before she began to read.

"Let's do this as quietly as possible."

* * *

"Exactly correct.  Down to the pinky finger.  Look here.  See where
it's wrapped around the metal thing that's sticking out from the shelf
like she's kind of holding on to it?  Whew, this guy is good.

I can't remember the last time I peed, and he's got a dead body from
six months ago locked in his head down to how her fingers looked. Jeez,
that's weird."

Harry Johnson made the comment.  His partner Clay Williams took up the
task.

"The other stuff checks out, too.  The cardboard hat she was wearing,
the positions of bullet entry, the one that just chipped her skull
right here."

Woodrow listened without a second glance at Harry and Clay.  No doubt
they had many endearing qualities that set them apart from the rest of
the human race and each other.  Yet when they worked, the similarities
were uncanny.  They finished each other's sentences and came to the
same conclusion within seconds.  They dressed alike:

short-sleeve shirts, brown Sansabelt pants, lace-up shoes, black and
brown ties that hung halfway down their bellies.  They were guests
Woodrow had been unhappy to see at this particular party.

"Good pictures," Woodrow said, eyeing the cork board on which the
coroner's photos were laid out helter-skelter.  Woodrow wasn't
skittish.  He'd seen a dozen murder scenes, but he didn't take delight
in lingering over them.  Clay, or Harry, was showing them like they
were last year's vacation stills.  Woodrow glanced at it again, sorry
to find himself thinking what a wonderful exhibit they would make in
front of a jury.  Damn effective.

"Thanks.  I've always said this department was particularly talented
that way."  George Amos threw his feet on top of his desk and laced his
hands behind his head.  He was a handsome man.  Woodrow could just
imagine a campaign poster with him on it.  He'd give anything to have
half the man's looks in this day and age of television campaigns.  Not
that George could have done what Woodrow had.  Not in a million years.
He cared too much about kicking butt.

"Yeah," Harry piped up, "look how great this one is.  That hole right
near her thorax is clear as day.  Good thing somebody found her pretty
quick after it happened.  She was still warm.  Time of death is real
accurate."

"Who found her?"  Woodrow settled himself on the credenza opposite the
chief of police and hitched one leg up and under him, then let it drop
again.  He hadn't been able to get comfortable since Tara left his
office.  He almost disliked her for sticking another thorn in his
side.

"Hey, Woodrow."  He looked up.  George wanted an audience since Woodrow
had asked for the show.

"You want to hear this or what?"

"Yeah.  Sorry."

"The guy who found her just stopped for cigarettes and a candy bar. Can
you imagine seeing that when all you wanted was a Snickers?"  He shook
his handsome head but forgot to wipe the smile off his face.

"Called us right away, then split."

"Maybe your guy is the one who found her.

Might be," Harry speculated, hitching up his Sansabelt pants, looking
sincerely at Woodrow.  Clay seemed to have lost interest in the
conversation and was still checking out the photos of the body.

He tired of it soon enough, gave George the high sign, and received a
silent acknowledgment that he wasn't needed any longer.  Clay tugged at
Harry's sleeve.  Harry was still waiting for an answer.

 r

"Yeah, that could be," Woodrow said, anxious to be away from this place
and these people who seemed to enjoy their work more if it was just the
wrong side of distasteful.

"I don't buy it for a minute," George said and his tone had an edge to
it.  The big guys could be honest now that the underlings were gone.

"Why phone it in that night and then turn yourself in six months later?
No percentage in that.  The guy was totally freaked on the 911 tape. He
drove a rig, couldn't afford to get involved.  Apologized all over
himself when he was coherent."  George tossed a wad of paper onto the
desk.  Woodrow hadn't noticed him toying with it.

"Naw.  My bet is he was an upstanding citizen, doing what was right and
scared to boot.  That's not the guy you've got, is it, Woodrow?"

"I've told you, I haven't got anything but some information, and now
you have that too," Woodrow complained, tired of George trying to draw
him into a speculative discussion about this case.  Woodrow's brow knit
as he looked askance at the chief of police.

"You talk about this like it's a game.  Doesn't it bother you at
all?"

"What?  That woman dying like that?  Damn, Woodrow.  I hate it."

"Doesn't sound like it."

"I'm a professional," George said softly.  His eyes slid toward
Woodrow, his gaze an accusation.

"I

don't wear my heart on my sleeve.  You start doing that, and you're in
big trouble.  You start doing that, and you won't think straight.  I
think straight all the time, and I've got patience.  That's why I knew
I'd be hearing this someday.  I hoped I'd be the one to track that
sucker down, but if he wants to stroll right in here, that's fine with
me too.  I

knew that woman, Woodrow."  He heaved himself up, grabbed another piece
of paper, and settled down again.  Instead of crumpling it, he began to
fold it.  Over and over and over itself until Woodrow was sure he
couldn't fold it one more time.

He tossed it back on the desk.

"I knew her since we were kids together, and I want that boy hangin'
from the nearest tree.  Now we've got him, I want to do this right.  No
screwups."

"George, there are a dozen possibilities here that you simply can't
discount.  He could be the trucker, he could be someone who likes to
confess, he could be covering for someone, he could be insane.  I'd
have to think he's insane to do that," Woodrow mused, bothered with
this whole conversation.

He had wanted in and out in minutes.  This little chat was going on an
hour and George Amos was making vigilante noises.  George, sensing the
other man's caution, backed off, even managed a little grin.

"You're right.  Can't rule anything out, Woodrow.

But this poor lady died bad.  It was cold.  I mean when you think about
the mop ..."  George put a hand to his mouth and let the sentence
dangle.

Woodrow didn't rise to the bait.  Two could play at this game.

"I didn't come to talk about the mop, George."

"We should talk about it.  We got a great set of prints off the thing
and they're just itching to be matched up to somebody."  George's feet
were off the desk, his hands atop it now.

"We've either got a fine upstanding citizen who's never been
fingerprinted in his life, who suddenly went berserk and kills this
lady, or we've got a sociopath who kills all the time, has never been
caught, and therefore has no fingerprints on file.  Or a little bit of
both with a morbid sense of humor thrown in to boot.

Now I'd want someone like that off the streets.  I'd think you would
too, Woodrow."

Woodrow held up his hand.

"I want to do what's right, sure, but I'm not going to go off
half-cocked on this.  It isn't personal.  This is about what's legally
possible."

"Bull.  It's personal.  If you don't think that, then you should get
into another line of work."

"And if you believe that, then you shouldn't be in law enforcement,"
Woodrow drawled.

"You're the most dangerous kind of lawman."

"No."  George stood, facing off with the man across the room.

"You're dangerous because you calculate every move without the right
kind of motivation behind it.  Everything in this world is personal,
Woodrow.  Now I'm not going to do anything stupid where this guy is
concerned.  But when I get him, within the parameters of the law, you
better believe I'm going to feel personal about it.  I'm going to do
everything in my power to make him pay for what he did.  If you don't
feel personal once you get him in the courtroom, then he's going to
walk and all my hard work is down the drain."

Woodrow slid from his perch and buttoned his double-breasted blue
blazer.  Over that he threw a dark trench and grabbed an umbrella.  His
business was finished, but George wouldn't let go.

"So," George said quietly, "where you got this fellow hidden,
Woodrow?"

Woodrow shook his head and gave George a wry smile.  George never did
give him enough credit.

"I don't have him.  An attorney came to me and asked me to check it
out, confirm that the information she'd been given was correct.  I
promised to look at the file, not tell half the police force.

So next time I ask you a favor, George, let's keep it between you and
me.  Just to keep relations good between the cops and the DA."

George ignored the wrist slap.  He loved the cops-and-robbers thing.

"Who, Woodrow?"  George prodded.

"Marcia Mabley?"  Woodrow buttoned his coat.

"Sue Farmer.  That's who, right?"  Woodrow rolled his eyes.  Even he
wouldn't have thought of Sue Farmer.

"Tara Limey," George guessed.  Woodrow looked him right in the eye.

"Cut it out, George.  It's a stupid game and I have better things to
do."  Woodrow's poker face cracked enough for the other man to know
he'd guessed right.

"Tara Limey's going to defend this creep?  Miss Upstanding Citizen
herself?"

George read people well, but sometimes he misinterpreted the message
because of the medium.

Woodrow's chin nuzzled near his tie as he arranged his coat collar.
Woodrow ignored him.

"It doesn't matter who's got him.  I'm not going to do anything with
him.  I'd never get it through the grand jury much less a pretrial
hearing and you know it better than anyone.  There's no case."

"Give me a warm body, Woodrow, I'll get everything you need.  Let me
pick him up and talk real nice to him.  I promise, Woodrow, I'll give
you something you can use."

Woodrow turned a jaded eye George's way.

"George, I don't even know if he's in the state, much less the city.
All I have are the few details I gave you.  I understand that this is
an emotional thing with you, but it's not with anyone else.  I want to
make that perfectly clear."  Woodrow hoisted his briefcase.  The eyes
behind his glasses were hard.

"His attorney's got an agenda for him that works for me, too.  There
are laws and we will work within them.  Whether we like it or not,
those suspected of a crime have rights too.  If I agree with this
attorney's proposal, we may eventually get the guy up on charges.  If I
don't follow that game plan, we might get him into court and watch our
case fly out the window because we haven't done the proper
psychological screening."  Woodrow sighed.

"Now, don't fly at me like that again, George.  There's a difference
between personal and passionate.  I'm passionate about my job, but I
also know the limitations of the law.  I work within it like most
attorneys.  I've had enough trouble lately.

I'm not going to take on something I can't win.

If the guy wanted to confess, he would have done it.  He didn't.  You
making an arrest just means a headline.  It doesn't make a case."

"Who gives a shit what he wants, Woodrow?"

Woodrow stepped back, fearing for a moment George was going to rush
him.  Instead the bigger man slid onto the desk, half sitting, and
looked hard at Woodrow Weber before he smiled.

"I'm not questioning your commitment to the law, Woodrow.  But you've
got other things to think about too.  A big trial would do more for you
right now than winning all of the piddly little ones you've been
working on.

Half the women in this city--probably the state-would be rooting for
you to be governor if you did finger this guy.  You're running on a
tough-on-crime ticket like everyone else.  Here's your chance to milk
this."

"There's nothing to milk.  We're not going to discuss it further,"
Woodrow wailed.

"I haven't got a case, and I want you to be very clear: you haven't got
a suspect."

"I'll get you one, Woodrow.  I promise you."

"Then make sure you do it right.  Bring me a name, solid evidence, an
eyewitness, and I'll prosecute.

Without that, I'm going to do what is legal, ethical, moral, and
expedient."  Woodrow raised a hand in warning.  George shut his
mouth.

"And I am concerned personally about this, but not in the way you
think.  Tara Limey is responsible for a great deal of political
goodwill, and she's an old friend.  I'd be committing political suicide
if I screwed up on all fronts.  End of story.  I've got to go.  Four
reverends, their wives, and two monsignors are coming for dinner
tonight."

George shrugged, not quite finished.

"Fine, Woodrow.  It isn't my campaign.  But maybe Tara knows something
we don't, and that's why she's pushing to commit her man."

"Like what?"  Woodrow's hand was on the knob but he had a minute more
for George.

"Maybe we're close to finding something, and we don't know it yet.
Maybe there is a witness.  Maybe her man did another job and we're
going to be able to tie him to this one.  Anything's possible."  George
talked faster, outlining his scenario.

"She holds out the carrot, says "Woodrow, do your constituents a favor
and get this guy into a hospital and off the streets."  You agree, then
all hell breaks loose.  The perp can't be prosecuted because you've got
him in the hospital, certified."  Woodrow glared at George.

The chief backed off.

"Okay.  She's a friend.  Probably wouldn't do something like that.  But
she's a lawyer, too, and the law swings a lot of different ways.  She
knows how to use it as well as you do.  Just my opinion."

"I appreciate your input."  The door was half open when he looked
back.

"I'd love to hang this guy if he's really the one.  I'm not unfeeling,
but I have to be prudent where everyone is concerned.

Everyone, George.  Even Tara's client."

"Sure, Woodrow."  George was dismissing him, already settled in his
chair and looking at paperwork.

"Just keep me apprised and let me know if you need anything on this."
George looked up as if surprised to see Woodrow still there.

"Have a good dinner.  Maybe those reverends will say a prayer for all
those people you're concerned about and one extra for your campaign."

"Maybe they will," Woodrow said and he was gone.

"You're going to need it, you wimp," George muttered to the closed
door.

Eight

Tara waved as she got out of the car and tried to remember the name of
the boy who was crossing her land.  He was coming from the stable
headed toward the cottonwood tree, walking that insolent amble young
men affect at a certain time in their lives.  He seemed without purpose
until he turned toward the pump.

"Tara," she chided herself, "how condescending."

Closing the car door she walked out to meet him, her breath turning
into a cloud as she called, "Hello."  They met halfway across the
yard.

"I put the horse down for the night 'cause I didn't know if you were
going to be late."  He looked surly, and anxious to get out of her way
as soon as possible.

"Thanks.  I appreciate it.  I'll check him later," she said.

"I did it right."  He glared at her from under thick, dark brows that
almost came together over the ridge of his nose.  Tara tried not to
smile.  She'd seen tough and she'd seen odd.  Tough and odd were
embodied in Bill Hamilton.  This boy didn't come close to being
either.

"I'm sure you did, Joseph."  Finally, the name had come to her.  He
twisted his shoulders in what Tara assumed was an expression of
embarrassment.

"Yeah.  I did," he mumbled.

"So do you need anything else?"

"No.  Just wanted to say hello," Tara said, her eyes darting toward the
guest house.

"Carlos is a good teacher.  I'm sure everything is fine.  Was there
anything around here today that bothered you?  Anything that I need to
attend to?"  Eyes to the guest house again.

"I mean, I have guests.  I thought that they might have gotten in the
way."

Leading the witness.

"Nope."  Joseph shook all the way down to his shoulders and stuffed his
free hand into the pocket of his worn down jacket.  He waited a minute
longer, assumed he was dismissed, and turned away, forgetting the water
he had come for.  Tara called after him.

"Payday is every Friday.  I'll leave it on the front porch in an
envelope."

He raised a hand above his head and Tara knew he was smiling.  She
passed Donna's car, hitched her briefcase, and shuddered.  Memories of
their wild nocturnal ride were still fresh in her mind.

So where were they now?  Inside?  The light from the bedroom shined
golden and low.  Lovemaking light.  Tara shuddered at the image.

Were they waiting, perhaps watching from a window in the small house?
Bill whispering things to Donna.  Telling her his stories while they
watched Tara walk toward the main house?  Donna believing them.  Donna
wanting him so bad she'd believe-or do--anything for him.

Tara frowned.  There was something she hadn't considered.  Donna not as
victim but partner.  Certainly not in murder.  Donna could never con
science such horror.  But she could be drawn in and partnered to Bill's
madness.  She'd have to find a way to talk to Donna about Bill,
naturally skirting the issue of his homicidal resume.

Preferably, Donna would have already tired of him and he'd be gone.
That would be lovely.

Tara pushed open the gate.  The hinge was almost off.  She walked
slowly over the pavers.

Perhaps Bill was gone, Donna left behind and something of value
missing.  Tara could notify the cops.  She would suggest they look a
little closer at the thief.  She would suggest they ask him about
places he'd been.  Perhaps ask him about the Fourth of July.  She'd be
a bug in their ear.  Her record would be clean--a suggestion was hardly
a broken confidence.  Someone else could figure out exactly what they
had in him and Donna would be safe.  Fat chance.  Daydreams.

Mail was in the basket.  She flipped through it as she pushed the front
door open with her hip then stopped cold.  The house smelled.  Garlic
and oregano and onions.  The scent wafted on a wave of heat from the
kitchen and washed over the front room, tainting everything in its
path.  Tara followed the smell, briefcase and mail still in hand, coat
still buttoned up to the chin.  She hung back before quietly stepping
into the kitchen doorway.

Bill Hamilton, apron-clad and wielding a wooden spoon, grinned at her,
greeting her as jovially as a bridegroom awaiting his bride.

"Well, there you are.  Damnation, I'd almost given up on you, girl!"

Tara didn't smile.  This man didn't belong in her life, much less in
her home taking liberties with her kitchen.  Things had changed.

Tara stood quietly, her expression unreadable.

Bill Hamilton seemed to thrive on reaction and the last thing she
wanted him to do was flourish.

Cautiously she moved into the kitchen, circled, and stood opposite him,
the table between them.  She unbuttoned her coat slowly and stashed her
briefcase on the closest chair.  The mail went onto the table.

"Where's Donna?"  she asked carefully.

Bill gave the pot a little stir, dipped his head, and slid his eyes
toward her.  He leaned over from the waist, his eyes darker in this
light, but still bright.  The steam from the pot he tended curled
around his head forming a hellish halo, his smile curled as lazily as
the mist.

"In the closet with a knife through her heart," he whispered, then
laughed, letting it wither into a chuckle.  Upright a moment later, he
ignored Tara's pallor and the pain that was raw, swift, and deep in her
blue eyes.

"Hope you like spaghetti.

Thought I'd do you a little favor and cook tonight.

Long hard day for the lady lawyer."  He laughed hard once, then twice,
then gave her a wink.

"You should be thankin' me.  Donna told me you were feeling out of
sorts.  Give me a hearty handshake, Tara, 'cause I'm changin' your
life."

His good humor tortured her.  Tara fought for her voice, found it, and
lay her hands on the back of the kitchen chair for support.

"Where's Donna?"

Bill's eyes snapped her way.  He was peeved, unhappy that she didn't
find his little game fan.  He stirred the contents of the pot
precisely.  Still pleasant, he was no longer good-humored.

"In the guest house.  You know her.  Gotta dress just right even if
it's just family at the table."

Tara shivered, so relieved she felt ill.  But he was watching her and
she wouldn't give him the pleasure of seeing her so.

"You're not family, Bill."

"Oh, I know that," he said and held up a handful of noodles.

"What do you think?  The whole pound?"  Without waiting for her answer,
he cracked the pasta in half and dumped it in the water that boiled on
the back burner.

"Don't worry.  I haven't been steppin' where I don't belong.  Really.
Just an expression.  That's all.  Words are funny things.

Donna likes to talk about words.  They mean a lot to her.  They mean a
lot to doctors, lawyers, merchants, chiefs.  Damn, I'd like to be a
chief.  You're a chief.  Donna said, and I can see it now.  Little
town, big lady.  Real classy the way you handle it."

"What about you, Bill?  Are words important to you?"  Cautiously, Tara
slipped out of her coat.  Her jacket seemed tight.  She'd give anything
to change her clothes but not when Bill Hamilton was in the house.  Not
when they were alone.  She wouldn't take her eyes off him for a minute
"Do you want to change any of those words you used today?  You want to
tell me a different story?"

"Nope," he answered.

"Hand me the oil, will you?"

Tara looked, spotted the olive oil, and walked around the table to
retrieve it.  She went close, handed it to him, and looked him in the
eyes.  He needed to understand she wasn't afraid of him.

She wished she wasn't.

"Okay.  If that's the way you want it.  Soon it's going to be too late,
though.  If this is a joke, I want to know now."

"Why?"

Those eyes were moving her way again as if they had a life of their
own.  Tara moved two, three feet back, out of the circle of his
influence.  Bill Hamilton shimmered with a bizarre ascendancy.  Under
his sway, other people would do unpleasant things without question
because those things felt good, felt mean and nasty and free.  This was
what Donna found irresistible.  Words, important though they may have
been to her, were nothing compared to a hard, willing body, the gift of
youth and abandon Bill Hamilton offered.

"I need to know if you want to change your mind.

It will make a difference in the way I help you.  You may not want me
to be your lawyer if you can't accept what I decide," she lied.

"Not that easy, Tara.  You want me to say I want someone else to talk
for me.  That won't solve the problem."  He spoke quietly, intent on
his culinary task.

"If I told you something different, you still couldn't tell anyone
else.  Even if I fired you, you'd have to sit with two different things
in your head, trying to figure out which one is right.  Even if you
said you couldn't be my lawyer, I'd still be with Donna and you'd still
know about what I did."

Disgusted, Tara turned away but Bill reached for her.  Taking her arm,
he held her firmly in his grip.  Her breath slipped into her throat,
scraping between her teeth.  Instinctively her hand covered his, her
fingers digging into his.  She fought no further because he was so
close and she could see the sheen of his clean shaven skin, smell a
scent that made him unique and beautiful.  He moved closer to her, his
lips parting as if he might kiss her.  Instead, he spoke gently, those
beautiful lips of his moving just outside her peripheral vision.

Tara closed her eyes.  She trembled.

"I told you the truth.  Don't be mad at me.

We've gotta work together.  Together."  He gave her a little
underscoring shake.

"You're my hope.  So hang in, babe, okay?  I am one sick sucker.  I'm
so good sometimes, then sometimes I feel"--he sighed--"nothing."

Mechanically Tara opened her eyes, terrified to the very core of her
being.  She leaned away and looked at his hand.  Finally she found the
courage to look up at him.  He was evil or he was sick, but one thing
she knew with certainty--he was smart.

He let her go.  Spoon in hand, he changed again, chameleon-like, quick
and captivating.  Conversational once more.

"So, did you find out anything?  Did you go and ask whether or not the
stuff I told you was right?"

"Yes," she almost stammered.

"I told someone what you'd told me and he promised to check it out."

"That's all, right?  You didn't tell him my name.

You can't do that, right?"  He tried to smile but she saw the worry
behind those eyes of his.  Tara shook her head.  He was satisfied.

"Incredible.

Against human nature if you ask me, but whatever.

Did you figure something out5 I don't want to go to jail, Tara.  Donna
would understand a hospital but not--" "Thank goodness!  You're finally
home!"

Startled, Tara half jumped out of her skin and twirled toward the
doorway.  Donna stood with her arms out, half hanging on the jamb like
they were monkey bars on the playground.  She looked perfect.

Jeans, a big sweater that hid impossibly tiny hips, its cowl neck
hanging just right.  The shades of purple offset her platinum hair. She
wore lavender cowboy boots, so pristine it was impossible to imagine
they'd ever been worn outside much less in the presence of a horse.

"Hi."  Tara's voice was so small she had a hard time finding it.  Tara
touched her brow, the sign of an exhausted woman, not one unnerved. But
Donna wasn't paying attention to Tara.  She pranced into the kitchen,
wound her arms around Bill's waist, gave his back a kiss, and grinned
at Tara.

"I'm starving, but Bill insisted we wait for you.

He said everyone deserves a good hot meal after a hard day's work." She
breathed deeply, her eyes closed, "Smells heavenly."

"I usually just have a salad."  Tara turned away but Donna caught her
arm.

"Don't be a spoilsport," Donna said, a plea in her voice, fear that he
might go play somewhere else if they weren't nice.

"He's worked so hard.

Even put out some munchies.  Make an exception, just this once."

"Tara is one of those women, Donna, who makes exceptions for friends.
Bends over backward, right, Tara?"

Bill didn't wait for an answer.  He put his hands on both women's
waists and herded them out.

"Fire's a-goin' in the living room, little snacks, everything you need
to relax 'til dinner.  Now get, both of you.  I'll call when chow's on.
Go."

Tara didn't need to be told twice.

"Oh, look at this.  Cheese, crackers.  Not exactly inspired, but sweet.
I swear, I didn't even know he could cook.  Come on, have some."

Donna settled herself on the couch and put a piece of cheese on a
cracker while Tara thought about Bill Hamilton rummaging around her
cabinets, touching things that belonged to her and her family.  He had
violated her subtly, in so many ways--her mind, her home, her friend.
This was detestable, sick or not.

"I don't want a cracker."  Tara took off her jacket, avoiding Donna's
curious gaze.

"I'm just not hungry, Donna.  It's been a long day, and I'm not crazy
about coming home to find someone using my things."

Slowly Donna put the cracker back on the plate.

The wine was forgotten, the good mood broken.

"If you don't want us here, you should have just said so."

"Don't be ridiculous.  Of course I want you here."

"But not Bill, is that it?  You're mad about last night.  You're mad
about his little prank with the car," Donna said quietly.  To her
credit she didn't pout.

"Oh, Donna, no," Tara said.  Spent, she slipped onto the sofa beside
Donna, her shoulders curled in as if she were exhausted.

"It was stupid.  What he did was dangerous, but I'm not mad about
that."

"Then what?  You weren't yourself last night.  It was like you went out
the door in the morning and came back someone else that night."  Donna
drummed her fingers on the table and glanced at her friend.

"That was Ben last night, wasn't it?  At Woodrow's cocktail party."

"Yes."

"Had you ever seen him in that wheelchair?"

"No.  He was still in the hospital when Dad and I had to leave for
Washington," Tara said quietly.

"Guess you just went from one needy soul to the next."  Tara looked up,
confused.  Donna smiled.

"Me.  I meant me.  That's when we met.  I just didn't know about Ben. I
didn't know for the longest time that you were having some troubles of
your own.  You really keep things in tight, Tara.

Maybe all those feelings you kept in about Ben when you were a teenager
are coming back now.

Is that what's making you act so strange?"

Tara laughed, a short despairing sound.

"No, I don't feel badly about seeing Ben.  His accident was years ago.
We're adults now.  It actually feels .. ."

Tara paused, having no words to describe what she felt about her
encounter with Ben.  Those feelings were too wrapped up with this
nightmare.

"He's handsome.  Still looks good.  Looks great as a matter of fact,"
Donna said brightly, but her good cheer was forced as she tried to find
her way in the labyrinth of Tara's new mood.

"This isn't about Ben."  Tara patted Donna's knee.  She got closer,
throwing her arm over the back of the sofa, an idea taking root.

"Look, I think I was just fooling myself.  I am upset about turning
forty.  I need a vacation and I want you to come with me.  Please."

Donna was content.  This she could understand.

"Of course I'll go with you.  Don't be ridiculous.

Where do you want to go?"

"I want to go far away.  Europe maybe.  Right after I clear up
something with Woodrow."  Bill's name burned itself into her tongue,
but she didn't say it.

"I have a case that will be great if it works out.  If it doesn't, then
I'm out of here.  I'm going to run away, and I want you to run away
with me.

How about it?"

"Tara, I swear you're losing your mind."

"No, I'm not," she insisted.

"You're my best friend in the world.  Pay me back for your fortieth.

You can do this for me, can't you?"

"Of course.  I haven't been for ages, and Bill would love to see
Europe," Donna soothed.

"No!"  Tara half came off the couch.  She stood up, covering her panic
as she poured a glass of wine, calming herself with the mechanics of
it.  She couldn't look at Donna and spoke with her back turned.

"No, I want us to go.  Just girls.  He'll be here when you get back.
Please, a few weeks.

That's all."  When the silence stretched, Tara looked over her
shoulder.  Donna was considering her, her expression troubled.

"Wine?"  Tara asked.

"No, thank you."  Donna put one elbow on her knee before resting her
chin on her upturned fist.

"Tara, is there something between you and Bill?

Something you're not telling me?"

"Oh, Lord," Tara muttered, defeated.

"It's okay if there is.  I understand.  Believe me.

He's young, you're vulnerable.  He's charming, you're overworked.  He
hit me that way too.

Women react that way to someone like him."

"Please, Donna.  It's nothing like that," Tara groaned and took her
seat again.

"I just want to go away with my best friend and relax.  That's it."

"It's more.  If it's not Ben, and it's not Bill, then it's something
even you don't understand."  Donna rested her leg on the couch, the
other dangling over the side.

"I still think you're lonely.  I can help you work through it, really I
can.  Or at least let me give you the name of my therapist."

"Donna, I don't need a therapist.  I need a hammock under a beach
umbrella.  I just turned forty, I miss my father, and work just isn't
.. ."  Tara chose the next word carefully: "... challenging."

"Honey, I can't take off right now anyway.  I've got book commitments.
Besides, if you and I are going to travel, I want to do it in style.
Why rush it?  Let me finish up my work and we'll plan a whopper of a
trip."  Donna reached for the cheese and crackers again.  She gave one
to Tara and took one for herself.

"I'm still going to give you the name of my therapist, and I hope your
incredible pride won't get in the way of calling her.  Talking to
someone who doesn't know you from Adam can be so freeing.  No
judgments.  Just help."  Donna took a bite of the cracker and spoke
through the crumbs.

"Kind of like your job.  You help people who come to you without
questioning why they do what they do.  You know.  Bill was in therapy
since he was a kid.  He's benefited so much from it."

"How'd you find out Bill had been in therapy?"

Tara asked cautiously.

Donna smiled beautifully, transported to some private moment she held
dear.  Tara shivered at the thought of Bill Hamilton and his
confessions.

"He told me.  Soon as we met.  That's unusual for a man to admit
something like that."

"Sounds like his problems were bad if he was in therapy as a child."

"I can't say.  We shared our history in confidence, Tara," said Donna,
sober as a judge.

Tara responded quickly, working the opening.

"I

would just worry that his problems might create trouble in your
relationship.  I'd hate to see you hurt again."

"That's so sweet," Donna whispered.  She looked like she might cry, and
then she looked pleased.

"You're feeling bad and you're worried about me.

It's nothing like that.  He has headaches--episodes--where he doesn't
remember much.  Poor thing."  Donna leaned closer, "Between you and me,
I don't think his mom and dad were as wonderful as he makes them out.
But he's strong, and he's optimistic.  He doesn't even see his
therapist any more.  Just as well.  It sounded like the man was taking
him for a ride in the last few years anyway."

"How so?"

"You know, keeping Bill on for the monthly check.  I was surprised to
hear it because when Bill mentioned the man's name I thought maybe we
had the same doctor.  I was so silly."  She laughed at herself.

"I took that as a sign that we were meant to be together.  But my Dr.
Carol wasn't his Dr.  Carrol because mine was a woman and she liked to
be called by her first name and his doctor had the last name spelled
with two r's."

"So much for fate."  Tara forced herself to keep her lips tight
together so she wouldn't sing an alleluia.

She would have thrown her arms around Donna and crushed her in a
bearhug, but then she'd have to explain herself.

"The mistake's understandable.

Albuquerque's not that big a place.

I can see how you'd jump to that conclusion."

"Oh, that was even sillier.  His doctor Carrol isn't even in
Albuquerque.  He's in Santa Fe."  Donna opted for a handful of crackers
this time, no cheese, and sat cross-legged on the couch, happy the
conversation was lighter.  She picked through the crackers looking for
those that were perfectly golden.

"I'd be a basket case if I had to drive all the way to Santa Fe to see
my shrink.  Wouldn't you?"

Tara laughed, "I don't know.  I think I might drive that far if I
thought that was the doctor who could help me."

"Reverend Halliday, it was so good of you to come.  I hope we'll see
you again.

Charlotte shook the reverend's one hand in her two and smiled sweetly.
He was a huge man with more than his share of extra padding.  She'd
spent most of the evening wondering if her delicate dining room chairs
would hold up until dessert.  Now she was sending him on his way, with
a little prayer of thanks.  The chair had survived.

"I enjoyed myself thoroughly, Mrs.  Weber."

"Charlotte, please," she responded generously.

"Charlotte.  Well, I always thought Woodrow would make a fine governor,
but after meeting you I think he's the perfect candidate.  It would be
wonderful to have a woman in the mansion who enjoyed doing the things
women should.  The current governor's wife seems to think that she
should have her hand in matters of government.  Absurd."

"Well, I enjoy keeping house, boring as that is.

And I'm so glad you enjoyed the dinner.  The only problem I'd have as
the governor's wife is dealing with all those people who'd want me out
of the kitchen."

Reverend Halliday laughed, gathered his own wife, and lumbered down the
walk, leaving behind a pleased Charlotte.  She felt triumphant, even
though evenings such as this belonged to Woodrow.  She set the stage,
he stood center.  Charlotte was very proud of him and would be his
partner to the end.

"Good night!"

Woodrow was beside her now, calling out to the retreating figures. They
didn't turn.  They hadn't heard him.  That was fine.  Woodrow put his
hand on her shoulders as she closed the door.  He kissed the top of her
head.

"Come on, I'll help with the dishes."

"You don't have to, honey," Charlotte said, secretly pleased when
Woodrow trailed her to the dining room and began stacking.

"You had such a miserable day I'm surprised you made it through the
dinner.  I can't believe Tara asking you to put that man in the
hospital just like that."

"Charlotte, she has a point.  I just can't imagine winning that one,
and I've taken such a trouncing on the rapist case and now this
basketball betting scam with the high school."

Woodrow raised his voice.  He was talking to the air.  Charlotte was
already in the kitchen with the water running.  He carried in six
dishes, three wineglasses, and a handful of silver.  He deposited them
in the sink, sank into a chair, and rubbed his eyes under his glasses.
Charlotte was his best friend, his confidante.  Luckily he hadn't
married someone with problems as big as his own.

"I'm no expert, Woodrow, but it seems to me that George has a point.
Any press is good as long as your name is in front of the public.  The
governor is getting so much coverage with this crack baby thing.  Then
he adopted that little baby.

Sometimes I wonder if he didn't do that just for press value."

"Charlotte."  Woodrow verbally waggled a finger at her overstatement.

"Well, Woodrow, you never know.  I do think if there's anything to
Tara's client's case, you ought to go for it.  I've listened to you
talk about the law.

From what you say, a jury would be sympathetic to the victim in this
case.  They wouldn't need a lot of evidence, would they?  I mean
sympathy counts for a lot.  Look at those two brothers who murdered
their parents in California."  Charlotte stacked a few plates in the
dishwasher, stole a look at her husband, saw the hurt in his face, and
quickly amended her lecture.

"But of course you're the expert, honey.

Whatever you think best.  I'm sure you know what's right for
everyone."

Woodrow stood up.  He was too tired to talk anymore.

"It's not a matter of making a decision, Charlotte.

Sympathy wouldn't hold up on appeal even if I managed to convict on one
piece of evidence and sympathy.  And Tara hasn't told me who this man
is."

"Oh, you could figure it out," Charlotte said brightly , holding her
soapy hands over the sink.

"You are the smartest man I know, Woodrow Weber.

I'm so proud of you.  You'll get what you need.

A confession or something."

"Or something," Woodrow said quietly.

"I thiink I'm going to bed.  Do you mind?"

"Of course not.  You go on.  I won't be a minute."

Her hands were back in the water.  She was happier doing the dishes
alone anyway.  The chore freed her mind and she let it roam.  Plans for
the Women Voters Coalition tea were refined.  She mentally composed a
short two-fold mailer with pictures and she thought about all the
things Woodrow had told her about Tara.  Another pitfall was die last
tfiing Woodrow needed.

Charlotte sighed and rinsed the last of the glasses.  She flipped off
the kitchen light and headed upstairs, taking off her jewelry as she
went.

She turned off die stairwell light on die landing, and began to
unbutton her blouse.  She'd slip into die pink negligee Woodrow liked
so much.  But when she got to the bedroom, Woodrow was asleep, his
glasses askew on his nose, an unread brief lying on his chest.

Gently Charlotte took the brief, put it on die bedside table, and
kissed her husband's forehead.

Woodrow mumbled, his sleep disturbed, and turned on his side. Charlotte
covered him, then changed into the flannel pajamas she kept for nights
just like this.

Finally, crawling in beside her husband, Charlotte put her hand on his
shoulder and patted, wishing for all the world that she could make all
the bad things go away so Woodrow could do what he was meant to do.

Nine

Tara took the Turquoise Trail, a winding trek that degenerated from
four lanes of blacktop to two just outside Albuquerque as it headed
straight into Santa Fe.  It would have been faster to take Interstate
25, but Tara needed time alone.  Away from Albuquerque she might be
able to decide if she was crazy.

During the last two days Bill Hamilton had been a perfect house guest.
He had fixed a fence rail.

Tara had heard him laughing, making suggestions for Donna's latest
book.  And always, when they happened to cross paths alone together, he
asked if she had heard anything.  Oh please, he would say politely, had
she heard?  And Tara lived this odd nightmare and she hadn't heard
anything.

That really scared her.  That terrorized her in the bright light of day
instead of the dark of night She needed a break and she needed to do
something constructive.

Her eyes drifted to the mesa as she drove.  She was dazzled by the red
blanket of earth and the seamless canopy of robin's-egg blue sky, the
breathy clouds, the hidden sun, and a flutter of snow.  The scene
empowered her and she hated the thought of it.  Empowerment!  A crazy
concept concocted by the media to make women think they weren't living
up to some stunning potential.  But Tara believed one either had power
or didn't.  At least she'd believed that until Bill Hamilton had come
into her life.

He had taken away her power of objectivity because Donna was involved.
He had destroyed the power of her position; it was now at odds with her
emotions as a friend.  Now Tara wondered if he'd made a dent in her
power of persuasion.  What should have been a simple series of
inquiries was now suspect because of Woodrow's silence.  He hadn't
returned her calls and that left her uncertain and nervous.  Bill
Hamilton should have been in a state mental facility within days, yet
he still lounged in her home, grinned at her, and slept with Donna
Ecold.

Swinging the Jeep onto the shoulder of the road, Tara left the car and
stretched.  She breathed in, raised her face, closed her eyes.  She
prayed silently, standing, that some surety would come to her soon.

If she'd thought it would help, Tara Limey would have knelt on the
earth and clasped her hands, begging to be captain of her own destiny
again.

Tara opened her eyes.  No burning bush appeared at her feet; the earth
didn't open up to spew forth its spirits.  She was alone with this
unfamiliar turmoil.  Tara got back in the car and went forward, not
back.

She made Santa Fe by noon.  An easy drive into a town she appreciated,
but never really enjoyed.

There were too many people, too close together, spending too much money
on things they didn't need.  Tara honked at a woman in an immense fox
coat who had left the door of her yellow Mercedes wide open while she
ran into a shop to drop something off or grab something up. Maneuvering
the

Jeep around the open door, she hoped the car behind her would take that
door off its hinges.  To keep frustration at bay.  Fate gave her a
freebie.  A parking space big enough for the Jeep opened up on Canyon
Road.  Tara tucked the car into the space, hopped out, and started
looking for the office of Dr.  Stanford Carrol, psychiatrist.

She found it in a pink stucco building above a lovely store, its
windows full of antiques and unusual collectibles from third-world
countries.  A tin box caught Tara's eye.  She passed by easily.  Donna
was on her mind.  She climbed a narrow flight of stairs, once painted
brick red and now charmingly chipped and worn.  Bill moved into her
mind with Donna.  Tara stumbled.  The mere thought of him unnerved her.
These were the steps he'd climbed even as a boy.  She wondered if his
mind was as disturbed then as hers was now.  Did he frighten himself?
Did he feel nothing as he walked to his appointment?  She stopped to
admire the beautiful little courtyard and calm herself.  Tara reveled
in the quiet as she slicked back her long hair and twisted it into a
rope.

To her left was a door painted hunter green.

The door to her right was cornflower blue.

Straight ahead was one stained the natural color of the wood.  Stanford
Carrol's name was printed neatly in black on that one.  An interesting
psychological statement, this.  No color, wood laid bare.

She walked through it into Dr.  Carrol's office.

There were no bells or whistles, not even a receptionist in a short
skirt and Indian-pawned silver waiting to offer her assistance in a
subdued, but lyrical, voice.  Instead, Tara found herself in a small,
whitewashed room.  The walls were bare, the furniture exquisite: a
small table, two overstuffed armchairs, and a love seat.  There were
side tables at either end of the love seat, a giant ashtray on one of
them.  Nice touch.  Nonjudgmental, this Dr.

Carrol, or simply aware that when the mind is cracked, a nasty habit
can be calming.  Very cute.

Very chic.  Very Santa Fe.  Very quiet and it was this last that
unnerved Tara most.

She waited, reassessing her surroundings.  No one came in after her,
but no one came out from behind the office door, either.  Tara paced in
the small room, then knocked on the door.  Nothing.

Her heart lurched, her stomach churned, and she hated herself for it.
Fantasy had never been her thing, and now she was indulging in it on a
regular basis.  In her mind's eye she saw the door flung open.  Bill
Hamilton here, surprising her, a maniacal head doctor hot on his heels,
both of them reaching for her .. .

Tara tsked, a noise of loathing at her own ridiculous imagination.  She
reached for the knob, and just as she touched it, before she actually
had a grip, the door flew open and Tara screamed.  So did the young
woman on the other side of the door.

"Oh no!  Look what I did!"  she exclaimed, whipping a huge cloth from
the back pocket of her very short shorts.  She fell to her knees,
putting aside the giant watering can she had in the other hand.  She
scrubbed furiously.

"Hey, you scared the bejeebbies out of me.  I can't believe this.  Stan
will be furious.  He's really funny about his carpets.  Not like you
can hurt wool with water.  What about the sheep, for goodness' sake?
They stand out in the rain and everything."  She wiped a little more
then glanced up.

"Oh, hey, I apologize.  You look awful.

I scared the living daylights out of you, too, huh?

Come on, sit down."

Tara had laid herself back against the wall, the breath knocked out of
her.  In her mind's eye it had been Bill there, Bill screaming back at
her.

Perhaps it was the idea that her imagination could be so fertile that
paralyzed Tara more than anything else.

"No.  No, really."  Tara backed away from the girl.

"I'm fine, honest.  You just surprised me.  I knocked and no one came,
so I assumed I was alone."

"I was way in the back.  Can't hear a thing in Stan's office 'cause
it's soundproof.  That's so no one hears what's going on inside."  Her
fingers posed for emphasis and Tara was reminded of a Balinese dancer.
For some reason it seemed odd that she wasn't chewing bubble gum.

"Stan can't hear outside his office.  There's a light on his desk that
tells him when people come in.  Want to see it?"

Tara's smile was shaky, but she managed it.  This girl was so cute she
couldn't help but like her.

"No, thank you.  Is he back there though?  I do have an appointment."

"Oh, you're the one."  The moppet-coiffed girl backed off and retrieved
her watering can.

"He told me you might come while I was here.  I'm the Green Girl."
Proudly she held up her watering can and patted a plant spritzer at her
waist.

"I take care of the plants in offices around here.  I have a key and
everything.  They all trust me, you know, so that's why Stan gave me a
message to give to you.  He said you could either wait or meet him at
the Loretto Chapel.  You know where that is?"

"I have an idea."

"Good, 'cause I'm busy.  I have a ficus that's weeping all this sticky
stuff and it's really yucky."

She stuck out her tongue and screwed up her nose and looked cuter than
Meg Ryan.

"I wouldn't want to take you away from that."

"Oh thanks.  I'm so glad.  I wouldn't mind walking you over there, but
this is kind of important," the girl said.  " "Course it's not as
important as what Stan's doing."  She moved and Tara smelled spring.

"The reason he's not here is because Mrs.

Rey had a breakthrough.  I didn't mean to hear that, but I did.  I
can't even imagine what it is.  I mean do you think Dr.  Stan is like
helping her have a religious experience or something since they're at
the chapel?"

"I don't know," Tara answered quite seriously despite her amusement.

"I don't either.  Well, that's the message.  You okay now?"  She held
out a hand and touched Tara's shoulder, giving her a little push as if
to see if she was stable.

"No problem.  I'm fine.  You don't know how long Mrs.  Rey's religious
experience is going to take, do you?"

The Green Girl shook her head.

"Haven't a clue."

"I think I'll go on over to the chapel and find him.  What's he look
like?"

"Oh, cute.  Tall.  You know.  Thin."  Those fingers went askew again.

"Right."  Tara gave her a thumbs-up accepting the description as the
best she was going to get "Good luck.  Hope you find him.  And don't
worry, you'll be fine.  He works wonders for people.

I was so depressed when I started seeing him and now, well."  She held
out both hands to show her self off in all her glory, and a glorious
picture she was indeed.

"Need I say more?"

"Not another word," Tara panned.  She was halfway to the front door,
the Green Girl an equal distance down the hall heading toward the
ficus, when Tara called, "Do you mind if I ask you something?"

" "Course not," she called back.

"It's snowing outside.  Aren't you cold in those shorts?"

"Oh, no," she answered, "these socks are really heavy."

Tara nodded and left the office.

The plaza was quiet in midafternoon.  A handful of people were milling
about, ducking in and out of the shops.  Late lunchers were lingering
behind the windows of bistros and burger bars.  Tara walked across the
now brown grass slowly, rehashing what she was going to say once she
found Stanford Carrol.  But the plaza wasn't big enough and she reached
no decision by the time she stepped into the hush of God's house.

In the chapel, under a cross and under the high windows, a cluster of
women knelt and prayed the rosary.  One woman's voice called the
prayers, while the beads slipped silently through their collectively
devout fingers.  A family--two parents and two kids--were viewing the
stations of the cross, and in the corner, just outside an ancillary
chapel, was the man she'd come to see.

He was one of those guys every woman under twenty fell in love with in
the sixties.  He was tall.

He was lanky.  His glasses were round and rimless and his hair was
long, straight, and parted in the middle.  His face was drawn,
sensitive-looking, and properly pale.

Tara walked down the aisle toward him.  He had no interest in her
approach, so lost in thought was he.  One hand lay in his lap, the
other was draped over the side of the pew.  His fingers looked like
marble, detailed like Jesus lying in the Pieta's lap.

They were exquisitely long and she imagined them plucking a guitar as
he sat on some college campus warbling relevant songs that changed
lives and broke hearts.

She was abreast of him now and saw that he wore his clothes well.  A
turtleneck.  What else?  Black.  Why not?  A pair of jeans.  Of course.
And boots.  Well worn, naturally.  He probably had a special occasion
workshirt and a tie in a closet somewhere.

There on the pew beside him was the requisite tweed jacket.  She'd bet
her bottom dollar there were leather patches on the elbows.  His
briefcase would be one that was fashioned by an Indian friend.  The
doctor would probably swear the leather was softened by the craftsman's
teeth.

Tara smiled when she stopped.  He did not when he looked at her.  That
didn't surprise her, the man had obviously been thinking deeply.  She
was taken aback by his voice, though.

"Tara Limey?"  That voice was as deep as the Grand Canyon.  The guy had
obviously been in the wrong line when heaven was handing out vocal
cords.  She wondered if the Lord enjoyed the sound of it here in His
house.

"Yes.  I hope you don't mind my coming here."

She put out her hand.  He half stood and took it.

"You made good time."  He drew her into the pew and moved back to allow
her room.

"And no,

I don't mind your finding me here.  I don't say things I don't mean. I
gather you spoke to Paula."

"The Green Girl?"  Tara grinned.  Stanford Carrol looked at her
pleasantly.  She had his number.  The man didn't like to laugh.
Probably never cried.  He was there as a receptacle for other people's
emotions and what a fine one he was.

"Yes.  She said that one of your patients was having a breakthrough."

The old receptacle actually tipped his lips at that one.

"The patient in question has a breakthrough once a month.  It's like a
progress report.  If she has a breakthrough, she can tell her husband
she has to continue with therapy."

"You don't mind that?"

"I'm not crazy about it.  But I think she needs the attention, and
there's merit in that.  I'm sure you know people who sue other people
just so they can feel as if they're accomplishing something."

"Can't deny it."  Tara popped the snaps on her denim jacket.  It was
hotter in the church than she'd first thought.

"Where is she?"

"The miraculous staircase."  He tilted his head to the right.

Tara had seen it once, the staircase that St.

Joseph supposedly built for the nuns.  Whoever did build it had to be a
saint.  They'd left without getting paid.  The church now charged
tourists to see it.  Tara wondered why, since St.  Joseph hadn't stuck
them with a bill.

Stanford Carrol was still talking, his deep voice soothing in the
twilight of the place.

"We come here every time she has a breakthrough.  I wish all my
patients were so kind as to give me a reflective moment on their hour.
So," he said precisely, "I have reflected and here you are.  My patient
will be in there for at least ten more minutes.  You're on."

Tara eyed him.  He was so grounded, so up front.

She tried to imagine Bill Hamilton sitting with this calmly ordered man
who didn't adorn himself, his workplace or, most likely, his life. Bill
would have been put off by such austerity, frustrated by his inability
to crack Stanford Carrol's demeanor.  She could just see him prancing,
spinning his tales, growing into the fake cowboy he'd become right in
front of Stanford Carrol's eyes.  And what had this man done to stop
it?  What did he know about the process and the end result that could
help her now?  That's what she had come to find out.

"I'm here about Bill Hamilton.  As I told you on the phone, I'm his
attorney, and I have some questions for you."

"Do you have a release from Bill?"

"No, I don't."  She held his gaze.

"Then I could have saved you a long drive.  We could have discussed all
that I'm free to discuss over the phone.  You realize that, of
course."

"I do," Tara admitted.

"But I needed to see you.

I thought that might tell me something about Bill, too.  And
truthfully, I was hoping I might be able to convince you otherwise.
You're not Bill's favorite person.  I didn't want him to know I was
coming to see you.  This visit is to help me make appropriate decisions
regarding Bill's legal standing.  I want to assure you, though, I'm not
talking a specific point of law at the moment."

"I'm not sure I really understand."  He adjusted his glasses from the
side, took them off, and held them up to the altar light.  Satisfied
with what he saw, he put them back on and gave her all his attention.

"Bill hasn't been charged with a crime.  I've been retained to assist
him in navigating around a problem so that he will not be
incarcerated."  Tara pushed up the sleeves of her sweater and crossed
her legs, ready to work.

"Isn't that what lawyers are supposed to do?"  The question wasn't
easy.  Dr.  Carrol went on when she didn't answer.

"I find it hard to believe Bill would be involved in anything small. He
was a grandiose person."

"He is unusual, and the specifics of his problem aren't really
important at the moment.  I'm looking for general information.  I
believe you treated him for a number of years?"

"He was an adolescent when I first started seeing him."

"How young?"

"Twelve, I think.  Maybe thirteen.  He didn't tell you?"

Tara pressed on, quietly.  The family followed the stations of the
cross toward their pew.

"Is yours a pediatric practice?"

"No.  General.  I tend to see more men than women.  That's simply a
personal preference.  I like women too much to want to be disillusioned
in my personal life by what I hear in my professional one."

Stanford looked at Tara, and waited for her next question.

"Interesting."  She pushed back her hair, trying to find words that
would get her what she wanted.

Unfortunately, Tara didn't really know what that was.  She started to
fish.

"Can we talk about Bill's family?"

"In general."  He agreed and shifted, recrossing his long legs.

"I saw his mother the first time Bill came in.  She seemed reasonable,
rational.  A nice looking woman.  Other than that, I'm not at liberty
to discuss his family.  Money?  Would that be of interest?"

Tara nodded.

"I can tell you that I was always paid.  I got the feeling that it
bothered Bill when there wasn't money--not just for me but other
things.  I never raised my rates for Bill.  As we grew older together,
I realized I didn't like to see him agitated."

"Did it frighten you when he was like that?"

Tara whispered now.  The family was right behind them, staring at
Christ fallen under his cross.  A priest had come onto the altar.  The
place was beginning to feel crowded.  She wished they could go back to
his office.

"It didn't make me happy.  Bill was not an unusual guy on some levels.
On others ..."  Stanford stopped, then picked up his jacket.  He held
it in his hands, twisting it while he considered what to say next.

"But then, to follow that line of thought would be discussing the
specifics of that patient, wouldn't it?"

"Not really.  This could be a general conversation about, say, Bill
Hamilton's tendency to truthfulness.

Does Bill tell tales?  Does he hallucinate?  I suppose we could discuss
how reliable those tales are.  Neither of us have to talk about what
he's told us," Tara contended, though that was exactly what she wanted
to do.  Strangely, she had the feeling Dr.  Carrol wouldn't be averse
to a little soul baring either.

Tara moved on the hard, shiny wood of the pew, pushing him as far as he
would go.  But Dr.  Carrol was staunch.  Tara tried again.

"Maybe we could talk about his tendency to violence.  Could Bill
Hamilton be violent?  That's the real question.  That's the one I need
answered."

The doctor held up a hand.  He turned his head away, thought a moment,
then looked back at Tara.

"This is walking a real fine line.  I could ask you if you're concerned
for your safety, or if Bill has made any threats.  You might even lie
and tell me you fear for your life, but I have a feeling fudging isn't
your style."  His expression clouded; his body language was that of an
irritable man.

"Okay.  Let's talk clinically."  He tossed the jacket aside.  Obviously
it gave him no inspiration, or comfort, to hold it.

He gazed at the altar, not Tara.

"Where there are violent tendencies, there are no hard-and-fast
rules.

For some people, violence is manifested quickly and sporadically.  This
is almost a physical necessity like breathing.  Others are violent at
will for psychological reasons.  The violence makes them feel better
about themselves, satisfies a desire for power, that kind of thing.
Generally drugs such as Prozac and lithium can be used for control.
That might be of interest to you.  You could extrapolate from there.

Other than that, may I suggest you call when you have a signed release
from Bill."

"Okay.  How about this."  Tara knew she'd been given a gift, but it
wasn't what she wanted.  She wanted to return it for something
bigger.

"Can these people work?  People with violent tendencies?"

The doctor's eyes flickered with something-amusement or irritation, she
wasn't sure.

"Many of my patients are well enough to hold jobs.  Some are actually
classified as disabled.  Then Social Security picks up the tab."

"Was that the case with a certain patient?"

The doctor was tiring.  It had been irritation behind his eyes.

"I never really concerned myself with where the money came from."

"Can I see his emergency information?"  Tara asked.

"No," he answered smoothly and started to rise in the same way.  He was
standing when Tara put her hand on his arm.  They must have made quite
a picture, the tall man, the woman pleading with him, her hair falling
down her back.  Very biblical.

"Doctor, there's a lot at stake here.  I'm scared and I don't know if I
should be.  I'm afraid for other people, too, but he hasn't really done
anything."

"And all I have is your word that you represent Bill Hamilton," he
reminded her.  The family had moved on.  A small woman in a plaid dress
had come through the chapel doors and tagged Stanford.

Tara didn't have much time.

"Do you want to call him?"  Tara bluffed, hoping he wouldn't take her
up on it.  She had no idea how Bill would react if he knew she was
there.

"I want a written release, Ms.  Limey, or a written request from
another doctor for a transfer of medical records.  I'll accept either
one.  Let's put it this way--when you're discussing crazy people it
doesn't hurt to be very, very careful."

"Okay.  Okay."  The woman in plaid was bearing down now.  Tara was out
of time.

"Look," came the rumble of a voice.  Tara's head snapped up.  He was
giving in--sort of.

"I have no doubt you're who you say you are, but I don't want to be on
the wrong end of Bill Hamilton.  I don't want to know about him or why
he needs a lawyer.  When he terminated me, I washed my hands of him
gladly."

Tara was mute, afraid to scare him off by asking another question.
Stanford looked over his shoulder, made a motion, and the woman in
plaid held back.  She sank to her knees in front of a statue painted
blue and white.  Tara had him for a moment longer.

"I'll tell you this.  Puberty often creates a crisis for certain types
of patients.  Where medication may have worked before, it may not after
that particular change in life.  You think you're making progress, then
boom, you're back to square one or even lower.  Stuff happens.  I guess
sometimes I think more of my skills than I should.  The one saving
grace is that certain people"--he put the emphasis on the right word
and Tara listened up-"certain people are truly distressed when their
actions cause injury.  I would worry if that ever stopped.  Hopefully,
if we were to talk about a mutual acquaintance, someone is monitoring
that emotional meter.  The fact that honest anguish follows or precedes
violence is important here.  Certain people need medication and I hope
someone makes sure that they get it."

Dr.  Carrol started to sidestep out of the pew.

While Mrs.  Rey knelt in front of the statue with her hands folded, her
eyes were on her doctor.

Tara followed him.

"Could you order medication for me if I needed it?"  He stopped and
spoke quietly, remorsefully.

"Lovely thought, but no.  I can't do anything without that person's
consent, and that will never happen.  It seems in this case, an
infomercial has more credibility than I."

"Is there anything I can do?"  Tara asked.  Stanford Carrol looked
heavenward, then back at her.

"Pray?"  Tara's disappointment was so evident that he clucked an
expression of commiseration.

"Sorry.  Best I can do is suggest you get him to see someone.  If he
trusts you, and I'm assuming he does, then he'll follow your advice."

"I have no idea whether or not he trusts me, Doctor."  Tara looked at
the floor, wishing she had found answers here instead of another door
closed in her face.

"He may hate me.  He may admire me.  I'm not sure who he is, or what he
is.  Sometimes I think he's jerking my chain, sometimes I think he's as
scared as I am.  I've never had a client like him.  I wish there was
something I could do."

"Just take care of business best you can," Stan said.

"That's about it.  In all the years I saw him, I'm not sure I
accomplished anything.  It can be disconcerting."

"It can be downright scary."

"It can be dangerous," he said seriously, then added, "though I
wouldn't really know about that."

Tara could almost see the small print of that statement: This doctor
has made a statement that can be construed neither as the truth nor as
a judgment on his former patient Bill Hamilton.

"One last question," Tara said, her eyes darting to the impatient Mrs.
Rey.

"If you had a hypothetical patient whose violent tendencies were
controlled with Prozac and lithium, and that hypothetical patient quit
taking these medications after an extended period of time, how long
would it take for the patient to revert and the violence to take hold
again?"

"Difficult to say.  Everyone is different."

"Three months?"

"Three months would be reasonable."

"Would reasonable apply here, Dr.  Carrol?"

"I doubt it, Ms.  Limey."

They parted.  He went off to deal with the mystical Mrs.  Rey; she left
to find the only earthly person who could work a miracle: Woodrow
Weber.

Ten

"Hello!  Hello!"  Out of breath, Tara fell on the phone.  The receiver
slipped, she juggled it, and it dropped to the floor with a thud.  It
was back in her hands in a flash.

"Sorry.  Hello?  Who is this?"

"Tara, you okay?"

"Woodrow!  Woodrow, this is great."  Relief actually did come in waves
and she was drowning in them.  Tara tossed her purse on the nearest
chair, checked the yard, saw that no one was about, flopped onto the
window seat, and put her feet up.

She felt exhausted from her drive when she walked through the door, but
Woodrow's voice had rejuvenated her.

"I've been so worried.  You haven't returned any of my calls.  I
expected to hear from you yesterday at the latest I was about to come
find you."

"This isn't the only thing I have to do, you know."  Woodrow was testy.
Tara took two deep breaths, calmed her beating heart, and gave herself
a mental whack on the head.

"I'm sorry.  I really am.  I just assumed you wouldn't have any trouble
getting George to show you the file.  I never wanted to put you out.  I
know how busy you are."

Come on, come on.  You have no idea what kind of person this is.  Help
me, Woodrow.

"Hey, I didn't mean to snap either.  I'm sorry.

One thing led to another, Tara, and I had to do some checking on
things.  I had to think."  Woo- drow sounded dred.

"Did you see the paper this morning?"

"Yes.  This whole thing with Strober is getting out of hand."  Tara
closed her eyes and let her head rest against the wall.  Home felt
good.  Gossiping with Woodrow felt good.  Her life was almost normal
for a moment and she gave in to the pleasure.

"That's so, but I checked the file.  It was arbitrated to the people's
satisfaction.  I didn't see a damn thing about that in the write-up. Or
anything about the fines they paid.  Or the fact that permits were
pulled until everything was fixed.  Oh," he went on, sounding as close
to outright anger as she'd ever heard him, "I loved the quote from
Chris."

"I don't remember," Tara said, having done nothing more that morning
than skimmed the headlines.

"The governor is appalled that I would even consider running for his
prestigious seat when I can't be trusted with the public safety.  It's
bad, Tara.  Charlotte knows it.  I know it The voters take this kind of
thing and latch on to it."  Tara remained silent, waiting for him to
play out so she could get to business.

"I've had to do some major disaster control over here, so I just can't
sit up and take notice when you demand things and ask favors.

You understand that, don't you?"

Tara rolled her eyes and checked out the crack in the ceiling, biting
back the six or seven retorts that came to mind, half wondering if
there wasn't something else going on here.  She was fairly sure she had
a killer on her hands.  She knew, after her visit with Stan Carrol,
that Bill was certifiable.  But

Woodrow had never met Bill Hamilton.  Confined by her confidence, Tara
had no way of convincing Woodrow how urgent this matter was.  Luckily,
she didn't have to try.

"Listen."  He sighed.

"I've talked to George.  I need to talk to you.  Could you meet me at
Lindy's around five?"

"Maybe it would be better if we settled the details over the phone.
That way I can do whatever I need to do and deliver him to you in the
morning with all the paperwork.  You sound awfully tired to be doing
this tonight," Tara said.

"Lindy's at six, then.  Would that be in your schedule?"

"Sure, Woodrow.  No problem," Tara muttered, properly chastised by this
unusually terse Woodrow.

She put out her feelers with a tease.

"If you beat me there, order me a milk shake, huh?"

"Sure, Tara."  But there wasn't a chuckle to be spared.

"On second thought, don't bother.  See you then.  And Woodrow, thanks.
I really appreciate all you're doing."

The line went dead without so much as a goodbye, but his voice still
rang in her ears.  He had sounded embarrassed, even a little guilty.
Holding the receiver close for a minute, she finally hung up, hoping
Woodrow wasn't burning both his bridges during this campaign.  He'd
find himself out of a job if he couldn't control either end of his
life.

She checked her watch.  It was only four.  She needed to clear her head
and be ready for whatever Woodrow had for her.  A ride would get rid of
the cobwebs.

* * *

"Hello you," she called quietly, forcing herself to keep her eyes on
the paddock instead of the guest house.  She didn't want to see Bill,
though she'd kill to see Donna.  It was an awful feeling and one that
would be nonexistent in a few hours.

Until then, she would suppress her urge to do an about-face, find
Donna, and tell her that she was in lust with a nut.

Tara slipped the paddock latch open, and eased herself into the corral.
Shinin' was on her in seconds.

A nuzzle, a pat on his long, strong neck, and they walked together as
far as his stall.  Like a dog seeing its leash, Shinin' bolted in
delight.  Tara smiled and let her eyes flick over the stable yard.

Joseph had everything in order.

Whistling, she checked her English saddle and decided it would do.  Her
hands ran over the well worn leather of the girth, held it, and pulled
it off the wall.  Half turned, already feeling the cinch of the thing
on Shinin', she grabbed the bridle.  A second later she heard a
frightful noise and it was coming from her own throat.

Woodrow walked slowly out the back door into the garden.  It was bare
this time of year.  The shrubs looked sad without the spring flowers to
cuddle up to.  Charlotte was on her knees, digging in earnest as she
planted bulbs in precisely dug holes.  He pulled up a garden chair and
sat beside her.  She sat back on her heels.

"I hope I'm not planting these too early."

"I'm sure they'll be fine."

"Yes, I am, too.  Did you call her?"

"Yes."  Woodrow ran a finger around the intricately designed
wrought-iron chair and wondered why on earth they'd ever bought them.
They were darn uncomfortable.

"And?"

"And she's meeting me at Lindy's at six.  I don't know about this whole
thing.  Charlotte.  It gives me a very bad feeling.  I sure don't want
Tara to be hurt."

"Woodrow, I don't want anyone to be hurt.  I know you've been having
second thoughts about this, but you have to do what's best.  Believe
me, this is best."

"I suppose you're right.  Charlotte?"

Her eyes hadn't left him since he sat down but she smiled as if he'd
just caught her attention.

"I'd like to cancel the next couple of engagements.

I really think I should be at the office a little more.  You know, get
things under control.

What do you think?"

"Well"--she lifted a shoulder--"it's up to you.

You know what's best."

"Yes.  Yes, I suppose.  That's it then.  I'll cancel the next
engagements."

He started to get up but Charlotte put her hand on his knee, "Unless
you'd like me to step in for you.  I could make those speeches.  It
might look just right if we did that.  It would make a good impression,
a candidate so dedicated to the people that he was risking a campaign."
Woodrow took it all in.  When he remained silent, Charlotte smiled
gently.

"You don't have to decide now.  Just think about it."

"I will.  It's a good idea.  I think I'll go shower and lie down a bit
before I have to meet Tara."

"Woodrow," Charlotte called to his back.  She smiled wider when he
turned around.

"Don't worry about Tara.  She'll be fine.  I know it."

"I don't want to do anything that might hurt her," Woodrow said and
Charlotte nodded.  Charlotte hated the thought of someone she cared for
hurting too.

Tara was on her knees howling in pain.

Horrified, she looked down to see blood gushing from her right arm. Her
skin was ripped in the same jagged pattern as her shirt.  From wrist to
elbow she seemed perforated by jagged holes.  Beside her lay the
pitchfork.  The damnable tines, sharp as a sword, had caught her full
force on the tender skin that protected against damage to more than
vital veins.  Jesus, how did it get there?  Poised above that bridle
where it never should have been.

She yanked.  It fell.  Jesus, Lord above, there was blood everywhere.
And she hurt.  She hurt so badly.

Small sounds came from someplace deep in her lungs, bubbling out of her
lips.  A mewling of horror that popped, faded, and was lost in the echo
of that first scream.  Now mute, Tara watched her life's blood pumping
from the horrendous rent in her arm.  Oddly aware that she was in
shock, mindful that the pain was now nonexistent, she clutched her
right arm with her left hand.  But the wound was too long.  The blood
poured through her fingers, flowed under her nails, stained the ground
around her, and mixed its scent with the dirt and dung.  She was
sweating in the cold, but the sweat became icy and the noises in the
corral surrealistic.

Feeling faint, Tara forced herself to let go of her arm long enough to
push herself up.  Terrified her arm would fall off if she didn't clasp
it again, Tara held it tight against her stomach, half stumbling, half
running out of the corral.

Shinin' was on her instantly, nuzzling and pushing, alarmed by the
scent of blood.  Feebly she tried to push him away, but he stood
fifteen hands.

Whole she was hardly a match if he decided to be against her, wounded
she was his victim.  Somehow Tara managed to get herself out of the
corral.

Nausea rising, she stumbled toward the pump that seemed to fade in and
out of her line of vision.

"Please.  Please, God," she mumbled, sure He wouldn't hear such a frail
cry but she felt better for it.  She heard herself sobbing into the
frosty day, the sound trailing around trees and bushes hoping to find
someone to hear and help.

Suddenly strong arms were around her.  A voice whispered comfort.  Tara
was caught up against a strong chest, and in her relief, she half held
up her arm, half cried, half smiled as she looked up, not into the face
of a savior, but that of a gray-eyed devil.  Bill Hamilton held her and
there was no choice but to put her faith in him.

"I'm hurt," she whimpered.

"I'm hurt."

"Damn if you aren't, little lady."  He held her tighter, pressing her
arm against his chest, working the pump with his other arm until the
cold water ran hard and fast as it came out of the spout.

"You've had yourself an accident.  Damnation.  Bad one.  Bad.  Bad.
Bad."

He whispered and whispered and turned her around so she was cupped into
him like a lover, held affectionately from behind.  With care he moved
her arm, so gently she didn't know why she resisted.  The cold water
flowed over the wounds and Tara's knees buckled with relief.  She was
saved.  Closing her eyes she fell back into him, half conscious but
fighting for the whole of her senses all the same.  Something wasn't
right.  Something just wasn't right.

She forced her eyes to open.  The water was still pumping.  But so was
her blood.  Bill's hand around her arm was pressing from the side so
the blood flowed more freely than ever.  She struggled feebly, knowing
now he wasn't trying to help her at all.

Insane.  He was insane.  Holding her arm lower than her heart so the
blood poured out of her and into the drain.  No one would ever know
what he had done.  She would be dead.  He would live.

Swooning, her sudden weight caught Bill Hamilton off guard and down he
went with her until they were both kneeling in the bloody, muddy earth.
With one last breath, Tara rallied, refusing to let him kill her.
Refusing to be another woman lost to his moment of nothingness.  Her
life was worth more than that.

"No," Tara whispered, weak though she was.

"No," she said again and struggled as best she could, blinded by the
hideous exhaustion that was overtaking her.  With her free hand she
pushed him hard as she could.  Off balance still, he fell and the
stream of water stopped as suddenly as it began.  Tara managed to find
her feet.  Woozy, she took a step.  Then another.  But he was fast, up
and grabbing for her.  He twirled her into him and held her tight
against his chest.  Too tight.  She couldn't fight him and she knew it.
She couldn't run and she knew it.  And her blood was binding them
together her wounded arm caught between her and the man who tormented
her.  Through bleary eyes she saw him smile, grin really.  He opened
his mouth.

"Donna!"  he yelled and grinned once more so that Tara would know he
was saving her.  He turned his head, his beautiful expression of
endearment changing to one of panic.  Tara closed her eyes and lay
against him.  There was nothing more she could do except listen to the
vibrations in his chest of his liar's call for help.

"Donna!

Come quick!"

"Bill!  Tara!"

Tara was in other arms.  Thin arms were holding her.  Tiny hands
caressing her.  A golden head and angelic face hovered above hers. They
slipped on the pulpy earth until she was lying half on her hip and half
in Donna's lap.

"Help me, Bill.  Help me now.  I think she's in shock.  Come on,
quick."

Bill picked her up and they got to the guest house with Donna trailing
behind making hysterical noises.  That was the last thing Tara
remembered until she opened her eyes to find Donna cleaning her wounds,
heedless of her dress, touching her as if she was the most precious
thing on the face of the earth.

"No stitches," was the only thing Tara could think to say.

"You need stitches.  I've cut butterflies, but I don't know if they'll
hold."  Donna didn't look up but Tara could see that her face was tear
streaked even as she worked the gauze around her arm.

"Tara, this was so ugly.  I've never seen so much blood gush out of one
person.  I thought"--she hiccupped a sob--"you were dying.  I thought I
wouldn't have you anymore.  What would I do without you?  Thank
goodness Bill was there.  What would have happened if Bill hadn't been
there?"

"He hurt me," Tara managed to say but her mouth was dry and
dirt-encrusted.  She tried again but Donna lay her hand on Tara's
forehead.

"I know, honey.  He had to press so hard."

Donna cooed her soothing, gentle words.  Tara shook her head back and
forth, half out of her mind with fear and pain and anger.

"Holding so tight," Tara croaked.

"I know, sweetie, I know."  Donna pushed her back once more and secured
the bandage.

"He had to, honey.  To stop the blood.  You have to understand."

"No," Tara said, near tears.

"Before, Donna.  Before."

"I found it."

There he was.  Bill Hamilton, savior, standing with long legs apart as
if he owned the place.  In his hand was the pitchfork, on his body a
blood drenched shirt.  Donna flew to him, Tara forgotten.

He was Neptune ready to spear his little fishy with his muddy, bloody
trident.  A little appetizer before indulging in the already helpless
main meal.

"This did it?"  Donna whispered.  Bill ignored her.

"How's she doin'?"  She followed him meekly until they both stood over
the couch looking down at Tara.  But Tara only had eyes for him.  He
bent his knees; he balanced on the balls of his feet.  He smiled at her
so gently Tara thought she might cry.  Had she imagined Bill Hamilton
malicious and savage when he was only saintly?  Had she dreamed of her
blood running river-like down the drain?

She closed her eyes, but he touched her shoulder.

"You rest, little lady.  You should be tired," Bill cooed, his lips so
close Tara could feel the warmth of his breath on her.

"You made a hell of a mess out of me, didn't you?"  Tara was mute.  He
leaned into her and maybe his lips brushed her hair.  Perhaps he only
leaned too far as he stood up and handed Donna the pitchfork, knowing
Tara watched him from under lowered lashes, feeling safer with her eyes
on him.

One.  Two.  Three buttons.  Bill Hamilton's chest was bared on six.  He
slipped off his shirt and even Tara could see the stain of her blood
down the front of his naked torso.  It had matted the dark curling hair
that covered his chest and ran a fine line down his stomach to the
buckle of his belt.

He ran his hand over that hair, his lips parting so slightly Tara hoped
she imagined it.

"You should shower, honey.  Go on.  I can take care of her."  Donna was
tugging on his arm, taking him away from Tara, reclaiming him for her
own.  There was no reluctance in him.  He turned and kissed her atop
her head, touching her own bloodied clothes.

"You need one too," he said and kissed her again, on the lips, a
triumphant statement of his hold on Donna that he made her forget about
the wounded Tara.

"Later," Donna breathed the moment he let her up for air.

Tara turned her head, too tired to watch him go or see Donna look
adoringly after him.  Too dred to figure out what was going on here.

"Tara?"  Donna touched the wounded woman.

"Honey, do you think you'll be all right 'til Bill and I clean up or do
you want to go to the hospital now?"

Panicked, Tara struggled to sit up.  She held out her good hand.

"No.  I don't need a hospital.

Please just get me home, to my house."

"I'll do no such thing," Donna gasped.

"You've got to have a doctor stitch that."

"I will.  I promise.  Not now.  Please.  I have an appointment.  I have
to go."  Tara knew how irrational she sounded, but for her, Woodrow was
the key to life and death.  Her arm was only a painful inconvenience.

"Don't be ridiculous," Donna protested, but Tara already had her feet
planted on the floor, her head and arm exploding with a fiery pain she
tried to hide without success.  With a screech Donna was on her.

"Tara, go to the hospital, please.  You'll die if you don't.  I
couldn't be here without you.  You're the most important thing in the
world to me.  Please, Tara.  I'm not good at this.  Please go--for
me."

Donna cried big, real tears.  They fell out of her eyes in glops,
taking her mascara with them.  Tara saw the fright her friend felt. But
what could she do?  There was no choice as long as that man, that
puzzle, remained in her life.

"This can't wait.  Donna.  It can't," Tara half sobbed, half insisted,
pushing Donna up as she forced herself to stand.  Donna held on, her
grip loosening, afraid to hurt Tara if she held too tight.

"Tara.  Tara."

"I have an hour and a half.  Just do this for me.

Help me get to the house.  Put me in a hot bath.

I promise, if I'm not feeling a hundred percent better, I'll cancel.
Let me try.  Please."

"All right, sweetie.  All right," Donna fussed, sniffling, afraid Tara
was out of her mind.  Gingerly, Donna wrapped her arms around her
friend and helped her cross the yard.  They stopped more often than
Donna liked, Tara crumpled once too often.  But they forged ahead.

In the house Tara sat on a small vanity chair watching her bath water
run, wondering when she would see it run red, tinged with her own blood
somehow spit up from the ground.  She couldn't take her eyes off it
even as Donna ever so gently stripped off Tara's clothes.  Deftly she
wadded them into a ball and took them away.  When she came back, Tara
was already halfway in the tub.  Without another word.  Donna eased her
in.  When she was settled , Donna disappeared again, only to return
with a huge glass of orange juice.  This she put on a small table
beside the claw-foot tub.

"You shouldn't go, Tara," Donna whispered, sadly aware that she didn't
hold as much sway over Tara as Tara did over her.  With a sigh, she
closed the door and left Tara alone in the steaming tub.

A second later Tara heard the back door close.

She willed her eyes to stay shut, wanting to see nothing but darkness.
But the darkness was full of pictures.  Blood and mud, gray eyes, a
smile, lips that whispered.  Donna standing in the arms of a killer or
a madman or both.  Still Tara Limey kept her counsel and that made her
a part of the darkness too.

"Hi."

Tara slid gingerly into the booth knowing she looked like death warmed
over.  Woodrow had the courtesy not to say anything, or he had a bee in
his bonnet that was buzzing like mad and didn't notice how horrid she
looked.  From his expression Tara assumed it was the latter because
he'd forgotten himself too.

Usually a picture-perfect gubernatorial candidate, Woodrow looked like
a man on the edge of his luck.  He wore a sweater, not a jacket, and
Tara noticed a hole in the sleeve.  His eyes were red rimmed  He was a
tired man.  A defeated one?  Just looking at him made Tara feel her own
debilitation more acutely.  Donna was right.  She should have postponed
this meeting.  But another day with Bill Hamilton was unthinkable.
Exhausted, sick, or even dying, she had to Finish this.

"I saw the file," he said without ceremony or eye contact.  Along with
every photo, statement, and, opinion given by everyone involved.

"There's a good chance your guy is the right one.  A very good chance,
Tara.  All we need to confirm is his fingerprints.

There was a clean set lifted at the scene and that would be conclusive
if we could do a comparison."

"Who's 'we," Woodrow?"

Woodrow started to lie, then changed course.

His mind was made up so no amount of affront could sway him.

"George," he said, his eyes leveled at her collarbone.

"You told George?"  Tara's voice was so plaintive Woodrow looked her in
the eye and his brow twisted in commiseration.

"I did.  I told George because I wanted to hear more about the
investigation.  It's my duty as--" "Woodrow, please don't try to make
it better," Tara moaned.

"And don't try to railroad me," he said, lowering his voice.

"We may be friends, Tara, and colleagues, but I have to make my own
decision.  I didn't accept your proposition on face value.  And now
that I've seen the photos of that woman, I don't think I could live
with myself if I just signed your man over to a hospital and left it at
that.

Tara, a woman died."

"Oh, Woodrow," Tara sighed.  Her arm throbbed, her head pounded with
this unexpected turn of events.

"Don't you think that's all I've thought about?  I know a woman died.
Women die all the time and their killers aren't caught.  Sometimes
they're killed by the men they love and sometimes by men they don't
know, and I don't want another one to be victimized by my client.

But he is my client and his welfare has to be uppermost in my mind.  I
know that sounds hollow, I know it sounds cold, but that's the way it
is.  The ethics of our legal obligations are in question now.

Not just mine as a defense attorney, but yours as a prosecutor.  You're
not bound to prosecute every case presented to you.  You're bound to do
what's right for your constituency.  I think you've proven you can do
that if we take the Strober incident."

"That wasn't murder, Tara," Woodrow snapped.

"It could have been if that building failed," she reminded him quietly.
Her voice trailed off until there was hardly a sound made on the last
all-important word.  When she spoke again, there was a sadness in her
voice that pained her to listen to it.

"Woodrow, please tell me this isn't what I think it might be."

"Tara, listen to me.  I'm in a bad spot.  I'm sorry, I really am.  At
any other time I would stand by you.

But I talked it over with George and he agrees.  This is big.  It needs
public closure."

"And it sure as hell wouldn't hurt your campaign if you could deliver
the Circle K killer, right?"

"No, it wouldn't.  I'm not going to lie to you and I'm not going to
tell you this decision has been easy.  You have no idea what I've been
going through trying to come to it."

"And I don't care," Tara said curtly.

"I didn't think you were this low, Woodrow.  In fact, I'd al ways been
proud to death of you.  I thought you had guts.  Now I can see you're
just like every other sleazy politician around."

"Your father was one."

"No, he wasn't.  Not like you.  He never traded a life for a vote, or
justice for a long shot.  My father was a statesman.  You're a
politician and that's all you'll ever be.  You're using that woman's
death to try and cover up the fact that you want my client for your own
purposes.  You don't want to see her put to rest."

"And you do?"

"Yes.  No."  Tara shook her head.

"I want to do what's right.  Woodrow, listen."  Her hand snaked out to
touch his, but he moved it away.

"Listen to me.  I spoke with his doctor.  The man is afraid for him and
of him.  He didn't tell me much, but it was enough for me to give my
client a fifty-fifty chance of being totally insane.  You can't try an
insane man.  Where will that get you if you try?"

"He's the one, Tara.  I know it and you can't hide behind the sanity
question."

"You haven't seen him."

"You haven't seen what he did."  Woodrow's voice was shrill, the
picture of the murder scene fresh in his mind.

"I confirmed everything.  The paper hat, the bullet wounds.  Granted, I
could be off base.  He could be the trucker that found the body and
called it in.  I don't know.  If we could test your client's prints
against the set we have, then we'd know for sure because the driver
told us he didn't touch anything except the pay phone outside.  So
either you've got the perp, or you've got the guy who turned it all
in."

Woodrow sighed and ran a hand across his eyes.

As if he'd willed it, a waiter appeared and flourished menus.  Tara
shook her head.  Woodrow did too.  The waiter left, none too pleased.
Woodrow leaned over the sparkly red laminate table, folded his hands,
and looked at her.

"I'm not going to petition for anything on behalf of a man I haven't
met.  What you've given me isn't enough.

"So many things could be going on here.  I would be derelict in my duty
as district attorney if I didn't take a look at this from all angles.
Let him come in and talk to me, Tara.  Or George, if you want.  Just
talk.  You know we can't force him to be fingerprinted.  Just convince
him to come in and tell us what he told you.  Let me evaluate him
myself, and I'll have George open the file to you.

We'll put our heads together."

Tara shook her head in disbelief.  Bill Hamilton had messed up the rug
of her life and Woodrow Weber had just pulled it right out from
underneath her.

"Woodrow, I thought you were my friend," Tara said quietly.

"And you're mine," he challenged.

"See, it cuts both ways."

"And so it's a standoff?"

"I guess so," he sighed.

"I don't know that there's any other solution.  I can't budge on this,
Tara."

"Neither can I. I am legally bound to my client and intend to honor his
request.  Even if he wasn't my client anymore, I couldn't hand him over
to you."  She leaned over the table, lowering her voice.

"Have you forgotten what it means to be a lawyer just because you want
to be the lawmaker?"

Tara hung her head, not in defeat but to buy time to think.  When she
raised it again, she was breathing easier, all her energy directed at a
solu on to this new problem.

"He's been under a psychiatrist's care, medicated since he was an
adolescent.  He's complex, he's unstable, he isn't a clear person for
want of a better term.  This man will not blithely walk in and let you
question him.  I promised to be his advocate when I accepted him as a
client.  Don't do this, Woodrow.

Don't put me in a bind like this."

"I don't want to, Tara, but you're not the only one with principles,"
Woodrow said, finding it difficult to sound convincing.

"I'll make it easy.  Just give me his name.  I'll run him.  I'll do all
the work.

You don't have to tell me anything except that.

You've done your job by asking me to petition.

Now I'll do mine."

Tara cocked her arm and propped the elbow on the side of the booth,
hoping the change in position would alleviate the throb.  Her thumbnail
disappeared between her teeth.  She looked past Woodrow as she thought.
He looked at her wrist.

Slowly he reached out as if to touch the bandages.

Tara started, then pulled her arm down and put it under the table.

"Did he do that?"  Woodrow breathed.

"No," Tara said, unsure if that was the truth, but she exploited the
change of subject.

"He helped me when this happened.  Now I want you to help me.  I want
him out of my life, Woodrow.

I want him off my property.  But I want it done the right way."

"He's on your property!"  Woodrow paled.

"What in the hell have you gotten yourself into?

Is this personal?  Does this man mean something to you?"

"Yes," she answered, seeing a crack of light behind the door he was
closing on her.

"It is personal  But not in the way you think.  It's a friend of mine,
Woodrow.  A woman I care deeply about."

"Then you have no choice," he said gravely.

"Give him to me."

"Only if you agree to hospitalization," Tara answered, frustrated and
tired.  He was missing the point and it wasn't even a fine one.

"If the doctors find he's sane, they'll release him, and he's all
yours, but I'll have fulfilled my obligation.  You've maybe waited a
few months while he's being evaluated.

That's nothing."

"I don't have a few months," Woodrow shot back.

"You do.  Stop it.  Stop worrying about your campaign," Tara
insisted.

"You know the rules as well as I do.  I can't give you anything that
can be used against him: not his name, not a set of prints, not a piece
of physical evidence, nothing.  I am bound by my oath of
confidentiality and I will not breach it."  She almost lay across the
table, looking very young and almost defeated.

"Woodrow, what's it going to take to convince you that he's not arrest
able much less indictable, at this point?"

"I only have your word that he's unbalanced, Tara.  I haven't seen a
psychological workup, I haven't met the gentleman in question.  Bring
me something that says he's certifiable, and I'll consider petitioning.
I wouldn't have a case anyway if he's legally insane.  If you can't do
that, then convince this guy to talk to us.  He made the first step in
contacting you and giving you permission to partially disclose.
Obviously he wants some kind of resolution.

Do it, Tara.  Either one, but do it quick."

Tara hung her head.  Woodrow was right.  Bill Hamilton had cried out
for something.  But what?

Was this the whimper of a flawed man?  Or a cry that was a prelude to a
laugh because the joke was on her?  Stanford Carrol was closemouthed
and Woodrow was taking the goal and going home.

"Okay, Woodrow."  Lifting her head, so tired she could cry, Tara Limey
acquiesced.

"I'll get you what you want.  But I want your word that he will be
committed per the State so that anything he says to the physicians
cannot be used against him in a court of law.  Your word, Woodrow."

She'd given as much as she could.  If Bill Hamilton was going to stand
trial, he would do it with a clean slate.  No medical file open to the
prosecution should he be judged sane.  If that could be arranged, Tara
would have done her job.

"I'll see, Tara.  I'll do my best," was all he said.

Wearily she slid out of the booth and, without a backward glance, left
Lindy's and Woodrow Weber, but not her worries, behind.  She drove in a
trance, never once tagging the unmarked car that followed her all the
way to the driveway of her home.

For the first time in her life Tara locked the doors of her car and,
once she was inside, the doors of her home.  Ten minutes later she was
in bed, a painkiller working its magic on her throbbing arm and her
aching head and her heavy heart.  Failure was not a familiar or
comforting bedfellow.

Almost asleep, it was a struggle to answer the phone when it rang.  But
answer it she did, only to hear nothing on the other end.  Sleep coming
fast, she almost hung up when she heard a sound like wind through the
cottonwoods.  But it wasn't wind, it was someone sighing.  A beautiful,
almost deep voice pulling in a breath and exhaling it, and in the
rhythm it made, Tara was sure she could hear a word.  Over and over
again she heard the word.

"Bang."

"Bang."

"Bang."

Eleven

"Are we billing this time?"  Caroline stood in front of Tara's desk,
notepad in hand, waiting for instructions.

"Darn right we're billing this," Tara muttered.

The night had been too short, her sleep too disturbed by ridiculous
dreams, to make her anything but out of sorts.  Bill Hamilton was
disturbing every minute of her life; he might as well pay for it.

"And if Mr.  Hamilton doesn't get his check back posthaste, then we
drop him."

Bravado.  It was a ridiculous indulgence.  She wanted Bill Hamilton to
disappear, but on her terms.  Putting her fingers to her eyes, Tara
wondered if the likes of him could ever be exorcised.

No matter what the outcome of all of this, he would color her life, and
Donna's, forever; he would shadow their friendship until the end of
time and Donna might never even know it.

"Maybe you should cancel your appointments today."

Tara lowered her fingers and a worried Caroline came into view.  Tara
smiled.

"I'm fine.  Really.  I just didn't sleep well last night."

"Can't imagine why," Caroline drawled.

"Did you have anyone look at that arm yet?"

Tara laughed.

"Not yet, but I will.  Donna went through my address book this morning
and made an appointment for me.  Pushy, pushy."

"Good for her.  I should have thought of that."

Caroline raised an eyebrow.

"Are you going to keep it?"

Tara looked at the bandage peeking out from under her buttoned cuff.

"The appointment or the arm?"

"Very funny."  Caroline pulled a face and held up her notebook.

"Are we done with this?"

"Not unless you have something."  Tara handed over a pile of
correspondence to be typed.

"Messages and mail," Caroline said.

"Gary Blackwell still can't get his client to settle.  You're going to
start picking a jury as scheduled.  Johnnie Rae's mother called.  She
wants to know why it's taking so long to get a trial date."

"Have her take that up with the court clerk," Tara responded quickly,
immediately sorry she'd spoken so flippantly.

"No, don't tell her anything of the sort.  I'll call her.  Poor woman
is beside herself.

Johnnie Rae's her only child.  It's got to be hard for her."

"She is a sweet lady.  She also started making noises about her bills."
Caroline bit her lip, hesitant to bring it up.

"Take care of that, too.  We'll put her on a payment schedule.  I'll
let you know what we work out so you can adjust the records."

"Last one.  Ben Crawford called.  Wanted you to call him back at your
convenience.  Nice voice."

Caroline handed over the pink message slips.  Tara took them, glanced
at the top one, and let the name imprint itself on her brain.  It was a
name she actually etched into her notebooks in high school.  It still
looked good.  Strong letters.  The sight of it written still gave her a
sense of security.

"Thanks.  I'll take care of all of them this morning."

She set all the pink slips aside, tapping them thoughtfully.

"Nothing from any of the psychiatrists I've talked to?"

Caroline shook her head, hating to be the bearer of bad news.

Tara sighed.

"I did think that last one might bite."

"Janet Gardner?"  Caroline remembered them all.  A steady stream of
psychiatrists had been called and summoned and cajoled, but not one
wanted the job Tara had to give them.  Caroline could only imagine what
Tara was telling them.  It must be awful.  No one she knew ever turned
down work.

"Yes, that was the one.  Gardner," Tara mused.

"Unfortunately her practice was new and she didn't want to get involved
in anything that could result in bad press."

"You told her that?"  Caroline was astounded.

"I had to.  It would take about three seconds for her to put two and
two together.  Woman murdered, pregnant woman no less, and our guy
looking for hospitalization.  Women's groups, Right-to-Lifers, they'd
all have a field day with it.

Dr.  Gardner said she wasn't a crusader."  Tara pushed aside the
message slips and Caroline put the mail in front of her.

"Funny thing is, I don't think I am either."

"Don't be silly," Caroline scoffed, already halfway to the door.

"You work for a zillion causes."

"Not the kind that are going to ruin me."

"Anything I can do to help?"

"Find me a psychologist who's willing to medicate our new client and
consult with him even if our client doesn't want to be medicated or
consulted with," Tara said with a half-beaten smile.

"I'll work on it over lunch."

"Thanks," Tara said with a laugh.  She waved her off only to call her
back.

"Actually, would you mind bringing in our hit list?  I may give one or
two a call again, and see if I can't be more persuasive this time."

"Now?"  Caroline asked.

"When you've got a minute."

The door closed and Tara was alone.  She riffled through the mail,
pushed it aside, put her feet up, and lay back her head.  Eyes closed,
she thought of what she needed.  A psychologist who didn't mind bending
the rules a bit, a shoulder to cry on, a voice she trusted, to help her
through all this.  She couldn't blame a self-respecting psychologist
for not wanting to take this one.  After all, would she try to convince
someone they needed a lawyer?  The shoulder to cry on would have been
Donna's if dlis was any other problem than the one at hand.  A voice
she trusted?  Tara fingered the message from Ben, then pushed it
aside.

She thought of her father and tried to remember exactly how he looked,
how his voice sounded.

Desperately she tried to recall his sober demeanor, the way he spoke
with such surety, his talent for considering a problem from all angles.
But he'd been dead a year and the sound of his voice wasn't as clear as
it once was.  Harold Limey couldn't help his daughter.  No one could
help except Woodrow.

She would try him one more time.

Unwinding, feet on the floor, Tara had the receiver to her ear when
Caroline buzzed.  She punched the lighted button, but before she could
speak, the door flew open and in popped a friendlier face than the one
Tara had been thinking of.

"Hi, sweetie!"  Donna's head popped in, but she held the door tight
against her neck as if, by exposing only one-eighth of her body, she
would bother Tara less.

"Well, hi.  Come on in."  Tara stood up and waved her in, a grin on her
face that wavered but came to full bloom when she saw that Donna was
alone.

"Hi yourself.  I'm glad to see you so chipper.  In the middle of
something horrendously important?"

"No, come on."  Tara went around her desk to meet Donna halfway,
fighting to contain the wash of relief that came over her at times like
this.  Tara gave her a hug, realizing how easy it would be to whisper
in that ear about a secret she was keeping.

What would it hurt?  Who would know?  A well placed word.  A broken
pledge, a professional deceit.

What was there to lose?

Everything.

Tara's serenity of conscience.  Her license to practice law.  Bill
Hamilton's right to representation and the right to be considered
innocent--or at least impaired--until proven otherwise.  Donna Ecold's
life.  Tara's own, perhaps.

But Bill had done nothing unequivocally threatening.

So the philosophical triumphed over the physical once again.  The law
recognized only the extreme threat of harm, or the reality of it, as a
basis for breaking faith with a client.  Justice could indeed be
blind--so she smiled a bit more broadly at her friend and pretended
Bill didn't exist.

"Come in.  This is wonderful!"

"You're sure you're not busy?"  Donna asked.

"No, I told you.  Nothing that can't wait for a while."

"Good," Donna reached behind the door, took Tara's coat off the hanger,
and held it up.

"Then we can have coffee after your doctor's appointment."

"You were so brave!  Oh, I just hate stuff like that.  I would have
passed out for sure.  Thank goodness I never had children.  I'd hold
the pain over their stupid little heads forever."  Donna snapped her
napkin and rearranged the sugar and creamer.

"This place is adorable."

Tara laughed, still shaky.

"I hope I can get a good stiff drink."

"I think it's tea only," Donna whispered.

"Want to take off?"

"No.  I was joking."  She touched her arm gingerly.

She hadn't expected the stitches.  In fact, she had assumed it was too
late to do any more damage.

How wrong she'd been.

Donna raised her hand and hailed a waitress, tired of their medical
talk.  The girl who came to the table was a cute little thing dressed
like Miss Muffet.  Donna gave her the once-over and ordered.

"Two Earl Greys and a plate of whatever you have that passes for tea
cakes."  She waved the speechless girl away with a quick call, "And two
waters, please," before turning to Tara.

"She looks like she belongs in one of my books."

"You're so uppity.  Poor thing looked terrified," Tara clucked.  She
reached over and touched Donna's hands.

"Thanks for making me go to the doctor.  I admit, I was going to
conveniently forget about that appointment."

"So tell me another."  Donna lay her napkin on her lap.

"You needed to go.  Someone's got to look out for you, and I love you
best," she said softly.

"Thank you, Mama."  Tara laughed.

"I did need to stop for a minute and just enjoy myself.  I'll admit
that.  So what do you say?  Let's keep the momentum going.  We'll have
our tea, then swing down the street and go shopping.  We'll wind up
with a late dinner at Rio Bravo.  That would be so good .. ," "I don't
.. ."

"Okay.  What do you feel like?  Something fancier?

I know, Le Marmiton.  That would be lovely.

Just like old times."

"Tara, sweetie," Donna said.

"I'd love to poke my head in a few shops and maybe do dinner tomorrow,
but I promised Bill I'd make him one of my famous burgers tonight. That
is if you don't mind me messing up your kitchen again," she added
quickly.

"I thought we could all eat around seven, and then maybe we could play
Yahtzee again.  Like your birthday.  I'd really like that, Tara.

I'd like it more than I can tell you."

"Sure.  Yes, why not," she said.  Tara's chest tightened.

Flash points of resentment banged about in her brain.

"Sounds like a heck of a lot of fun."

"Boy, that was convincing."  Donna rolled her eyes.

"We can hardly wait for you to get home if you're going to be such a
fireball."

"Donna, give me a break.  It's been a tough day.  I've been to work,
had needles poked into me, and I've still got things waiting for me at
the office that I didn't finish."

"Hey.  Hey."  Donna called a time-out.

"A minute ago you were ready to go on a shopping spree and stay in town
late for dinner."

"And a minute ago," Tara reminded her tersely, "I thought I might have
some quality time with my friend.  Isn't that the reason you came here
in the first place?  I thought you wanted to celebrate my birthday, not
flaunt a new piece of a " Miss Muffet returned with their tea and a
plate of lemon squares.  The two women sat back, ignoring both, glaring
at one another.  Tara managed a thank-you before the girl flounced
off.

"You're jealous," Donna teased, honing the impertinent edge to her
voice, a mean intonation like little girls use on playgrounds.

"That's absurd," Tara said, disgusted.

"Unfortunately it's exactly the kind of interpretation I would expect
from you.  Donna, it's time to grow up.  Stop hanging out with
juveniles and see if you can hold your own with real men.  Maybe then
there'd be some merit to that kind of charge."

"I was just joking, Tara."  Donna crossed her arms on the table.

"But it is interesting what flies when you throw it up, isn't it?"

"I think you're reading a heck of a lot into a situation, and I think
you're giving yourself credit you don't deserve."

"Well, now we get to it.  I'm stupid, you're not.

Big lawyer, Tara; dopey children's book writer, Donna.  Is that it?
Well, I may not have enough brains in my head to attract die Pope, but
you've lost everything that could possibly attract a real man like
Bill."  Donna spit those last words at Tara.

People were looking and she didn't care.

"I'm not going to sit here and listen to this non sense," Tara said,
crumpling her napkin and tossing it on the table.

"I have better things to do."

"That's it.  Run away.  Just like you always do.  Run away from Ben
when he needed you, run away from love, run away from me now that I'm
happy.

You know why you're going to run?  It's because I'm strong now.  I
never was before, but Bill gives me strength and you don't like it.  It
means that you aren't the center of the universe anymore."

Tara was up, tossing bills on the table, her lips tight, eyes downcast,
anger bubbling just below the surface.

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes I do.  It's been coming for years.  You're hiding, Tara.  You try
to make it seem that you're just thinking things through but you're
hiding.  You hid behind your father when he was alive.  I always
thought you were selfless, helping him where you could when you could.
But you were really comfortable, back there behind him.  It meant
people wouldn't approach you.  You were defined without ever uttering a
word.  That was so safe, wasn't it, Tara?"

Tara turned on her heel, aware that every eye in the small teahouse was
on them.  She walked to the door, identifying sounds of disarray behind
her: overturned china, Donna wiping up tea, finally ignoring it, and
hurrying after her.

"And what about Ben?"  Tara pushed through the door, Donna followed, a
Mutt to Tara's taller Jeff, annoying as she hopped around, dogging
Tara's steps.

"How convenient for him to have an accident that kept him in hospitals
and rehabs.

How convenient so Tara didn't have to deal with the ugly, seamy side of
life."

"And what about your job?  What about that?"

Donna crowed.

"It's bloodless.  There's no life in it, no compassion, no--" "There's
honor in it, damn you."  Tara had turned so quickly Donna had to jump
back.  Tara towered above her, righteous indignation etched on every
feature of her face.  Anger colored her neck but left her cheeks pale.
When she spoke again, her voice had lowered, the tension was
heightened.

"There's honor in the way I live and in what I do.  You, on the other
hand, haven't a clue.  You run around, jumping into situations, and cry
when they turn against you.  Let me tell you, Donna ..."  Tara moved
closer, leaning into her friend.

"You're in a hell of a situation now.  Jealous is the last thing I am.
Concerned.  Frightened.

Those adjectives might work.  But you, little lady, are thinking with
something that isn't even close to your brain and you don't have a clue
what you've got your claws into."

Tara turned and punched the button that would give her permission to
cross the street.  She punched it so hard it sent a shot of pain
straight up her injured arm.  Donna grabbed her and there was another
kick.  She turned angry eyes on Donna.  The other woman backed off, a
fleeting expression of sorrow and guilt on her face.  Tara exploited
it.

"And if you want to talk about changes, look at you.  You used to be so
happy-go- lucky.  Now you're so anxious you need constant reassurance
that Bill is the jewel you keep swearing he is.  Are you having second
thoughts, Donna?  Or maybe you realized he's just a little off, but
you're too proud to admit it.  Maybe you don't know how to untangle
yourself and you're hoping I'll give you a good reason.  Maybe you're
trying to goad me into saving you."

"Nice theory.  So tell me what I've got myself into, and let me make a
real adult decision about Bill.  Let me actually think about our
relationship instead of just lying on my back and spreading 'em.  Isn't
that what you think, Tara?"  Donna moved closer again.

"Or maybe that's the part you're jealous of."

"That's disgusting and beneath you," Tara snapped.

"I'm Bill's attorney.  Did you know that?"

"Of course."  Donna raised her chin proudly, but kept her lashes
lowered.  To hide the truth?  To save face?  Tara would never know.

"He told me you were doing business."

"Did he tell you what kind?"

"No.  Tell me.  Go on.  Shock me.  Make me shiver.

Tell me what's got your holier-than-though panties in such a knot,
Tara."

"I can't," she screamed.

Donna was breathing hard.  Her cheeks were red with the cold and now
Tara thought Donna looked a little silly in her head-to-toe chile
pepper ensemble.

She pulled away, looking at her with the dispassionate eye of an
attorney.  How many women were there like this, dependent upon men who
didn't deserve to follow them down the street, much less lead them?
With a tremulous, defeated breath, Tara spoke.

"I can't tell you, Donna.  I won't tell you.  Go ask Bill.  Go crawl
into bed with him and ask why he needs my help."

"I will," Donna whispered.

"And while I'm doing that, why don't you just lie all alone in yours
and figure out why it probably won't matter to me at all."

Across the street, the little illuminated man flashed on.  It was time
to walk.  Tara did.

"Hi."  Charlotte was sitting on the porch, cigarette in hand, flicking
ashes over the railing into the rosebushes below.

"Hi," Tara called, coming up the walk.

Charlotte took a last drag, expertly flipped the butt into the flower
bed below, and stood at the top of the stairs waiting for Tara to reach
her.  When she did, Charlotte gave her a kiss and put her arm around
Tara's waist to walk her into the house.

"I'm so glad you could come.  I meant to get back to you about taking
you to dinner for your birthday, but things got out of hand."  They
stepped into the house.  Tara loved Charlotte's calming taste, all
muted colors, peach and beige, green and blue.

Small patterns on chairs, dark wood, a feeling of permanence.  She
closed the door behind them.

"I

just couldn't get Woodrow's schedule and mine together, so I decided
not to try to do anything fancy and just make it the two of us."

"I'm glad you didn't."  Tara dropped her purse by the door.

"Believe me, your timing was perfect.

I was desperate to put my feet up and be waited on.  I don't think I
could have faced another restaurant."

"Sounds like you've had a rough day.  I'm glad I called then,"
Charlotte said, walking on ahead and calling over her shoulder.

"Come on into the kitchen with me.  Since it's just us girls, I figured
you wouldn't mind casual."

"As if anything you ever do is casual."  Tara laughed, pushing herself
to good humor.  Unfortunately, the memory of her icy parting with Donna
blocked the effort.  Tara slipped out of her jacket and tossed it onto
the couch as she passed.

"I've made a new dish.  You're going to love it.

Bacon, sun-dried tomatoes, and that's just the pasta.

The sauce is even better."  Charlotte was bending over to peer into the
oven when Tara joined her.

"Homemade bread too."

"Beats burgers," Tara muttered.

"What?"  Charlotte checked a pot atop the stove and an incredible scent
filled the air.  Tara smiled properly now.

"Nothing.  Private joke."  She was feeling better, here where life was
stable with a predictable friend.

"Oh.  Hope it's a good one.  We haven't been doing much laughing around
here.  This whole thing with Strober Industries is causing Woodrow such
grief I've never seen him so disheartened, Tara.  Sit."  She motioned
to a ladder back chair.

Tara didn't need to be asked twice.  Charlotte had the wineglasses
filled and was sitting opposite her ready for a good chat.

"I saw the interview with him this morning on television.  He looked
good, he sounded good.

What he did was perfectly ethical.  The problem was taken care of and
that should be that."

"It would be if this wasn't election time.  You know they found out how
it happened, don't you?

How the governor got hold of this information?"

Tara raised a brow.

"Really?  I didn't know there was an investigation."

"All very quiet, naturally.  Sort of a personal inquiry," Charlotte
told her.

"Woodrow had Sandy looking into a few things.  What else is a campaign
manager for after all?  Want some munchies?"  Tara shook her head.

"Anyway, it was a woman who was laid off ages ago.  She passed the memo
along to person unknown for a fee.  Now she's terrified Woodrow will
prosecute for theft even though that's not what it was at all.  She
just found it in her personal things."

"He's not going to, is he?"

"Of course not," Charlotte sniffed, her arms crossed as she rested
against the counter.

"Can you imagine?  Woodrow prosecuting a woman who's been out of work
for almost a year, for giving the authorities something that could be
construed as proof that Woodrow is the real culprit.  He might as well
stand on the Senate steps and wait for the old knife in the back."

"Well," Tara sighed, "I'd say that Woodrow is about due for a change of
fortune.  He's really been weathering one storm after another."

"I'll say.  I could have shot that stringer who showed up at the party
at La Posada.  Everything was planned so perfectly, then there she was.
I should have seen her coming."  Charlotte poured the wine and gave a
glass to Tara.

"The way I should have seen Ben coming?"  Tara asked.  Charlotte
colored, smiling a sweet and innocent smile.

"Mad?"

"Nope," Tara admitted.

"Heard from him?"

"He called," she said.

"And?"

"And I've been busy.  I'll call him.  I promise.  I actually would like
to apologize for running out on him that night Your pot's going to boil
over."  Tara raised a hand and Charlotte jumped to rescue the pasta.

"I saw that.  You were out of there like a bat out of hell.  What was
going on?"  Tara ignored the question; Charlotte ignored the silence.

"So you're feeling better?"  Charlotte drained the pasta, added a
squirt of olive oil, and smiled at Tara.

"What?"  Charlotte nodded and Tara raised her arm.

"Oh, much, thanks.  I can't imagine how that happened.  My mind was on
other things."

"Things can happen that way.  I know I worry about Woodrow when he has
a lot on his mind."

She sipped at her wine, stirred something in another pot, opened the
oven, and checked the bread.

"I think of him having a car accident, or having a heart attack or
something.  But sometimes I just worry about him failing because that
would just kill Woodrow."

"Everyone fails sometimes, Charlotte," Tara said.

"You can't protect a grown man from that.  Besides, Woodrow can hold
his own.  Grief is something he can dish out."

Tara twirled her wineglass and looked out the picture window onto the
Webers' impeccable backyard.

Charlotte's husband, that selfless public servant, wasn't all he
appeared to be, but it wasn't her place to point that out.

"I hear you're giving some back," Charlotte answered, taking her
attention from the stove, giving it to Tara.

"Grief, I mean."  The two women looked at one another for a minute that
stretched to two.

Charlotte smiled and held out her hand.

"Pass me that colander, will you, Tara?"  It was in her hands and a
second pot of pasta drained by the time Tara recovered her wits.

"Charlotte?"  Tara was cautious and Charlotte was chatty.

"Get the salad out of the refrigerator, will you?"

Tara stayed where she was.  Charlotte got the salad herself.  They both
knew what was coming and Charlotte had the chutzpah to force the
issue.

"Tara, come on, we'll talk about it over dinner.  Sit down again, have
some wine.  It's no big deal."

Charlotte made up a plate for Tara and was holding one for herself.
Tara looked at neither.

Her appetite had died.  Charlotte fluttered her lashes and finally put
her plate on the table.

"Okay.  I'm sorry I said anything, but I couldn't help it.  Woodrow's
worried about this thing between you and him, and I'm worried about him
and you.  There, I said it.  Now, please eat.  I worked all day on
that."

"Woodrow put you up to this, didn't he?"

Charlotte lay her fork down with great deliberation.

She reached for her throat, but the pearls weren't there and this
wasn't a meeting of the sisterhood of homemakers.

"Of course not.  Woodrow can fight his own battles.  I'm telling you as
a friend that I'm concerned that this Circle K thing could ruin a
friendship that has stood for years."

"It can't possibly, Charlotte.  Our profession has nothing to do with
how we feel about one another.

Those are two different relationships," Tara answered, knowing if
Charlotte went much further she would amend that statement.

"Not if what you're doing professionally affects your friend's
ambitions.  Not if you are deliberately holding back information on a
dangerous man, one whose incarceration could result in a safer
community as well as help Woodrow get what he wants."

"I'm not a part of Woodrow's campaign.  Charlotte"--Tara pushed away
from the table--"and I'm not sure you should be quite so well versed on
the details of the district attorney's business."

"Now that's ridiculous," Charlotte laughed humorlessly.

"I'm Woodrow's wife.  You think he doesn't tell me what he does with
his day?"

"I would have thought he'd keep information general, but it seems that
Woodrow likes to fill you in on the specifics.  And you're the second
person today who doesn't seem to think there's anything wrong with
shading a line here or there between professional ethics and personal
curiosity.  What's this world coming to?"  Tara drawled and pushed the
chair into the table as she headed out.

Charlotte put her hand on Tara's wrist, pulled back as if afraid she'd
hurt her, then realized it wasn't the one that was bandaged.  Tara
shook her off.  Instead of trying to stop her, Charlotte followed.

"Tara, there are no secrets between a husband and wife.  Jobs are
things that last for a while and then you go on, but trust and
friendship between two people who are married is forever.  I just don't
understand why you're upset."

Tara laughed, a short harsh sound, and called over her shoulder.

"Charlotte, you sound like one of those commercials for marriage
counseling videos.

This is so weird.  First Woodrow makes all this harder than it should
be and now he sends you to convince me that I'm the one who's being
unreasonable?

Or is it dishonorable?  This is so rich, Charlotte, I can't tell you
how it makes me feel that you and Woodrow have decided to be so
supportive.

I'm glad you've had a chance to discuss your strategy in detail.  It's
a damn sight more courtesy than your husband has shown me.  He gave me
two minutes in a coffee shop before he decided to hang me out to
dry."

"Stop it.  He did no such thing."  They were in the living room now and
Charlotte looked odd in the half light, too thin, too pale, too tight.
But she softened quickly, so effectively that Tara wondered if she was
the rigid one, taking out her anger and frustration over Donna on
everyone.

"Woodrow is very concerned about the decision he made regarding your
client.  And I think that you shouldn't be so inflexible.  There's a
lot at stake here, Tara,

and it's not just Woodrow's standing in the polls.

There's the safety of the community to consider.

You don't seem to think about that at all.  You interpret Woodrow's
stand as purely political when it seems only right to bring a man like
this to trial."

"I'm not going to discuss the individual versus the community at large.
What I will point out is that you are acting as if my client is guilty
of this crime."

"But he confessed to it.  That's what you told Woodrow."

"And, may I remind you, that was a confidence I had been given
permission to share with Woodrow.  Besides, he hasn't been proven sane
enough to stand trial," Tara stated.

"Charlotte, after all these years of living with an attorney you should
understand a lawyer's obligation to his client.  I won't consider
Woodrow's career needs, I won't discuss your concerns or criticisms of
my actions.

I will listen to my conscience.  If you and Woodrow bend the rules,
then you live with that.  Any behavior can be justified.  I could even
justify murder in a court of law.  But I'm not going to do that.  I'm
going to help my client."

"Very nice, Tara, but hardly the real world."

"In the real world the finger is pointed your way when you don't do
what someone wants.  I'm selfish, I'm jealous, I'm endangering the
public wellbeing.  I've heard it all now, Charlotte, and the one thing
you forget is that there is no evidence against this man.  No one has
seen him.  No one has examined him.  No one can de him to anything that
happened at the Circle K. This is a witch hunt and I am not going to be
the next one to speak in tongues."  Tara grabbed her jacket and put it
on.

"And you're forgetting that he admitted killing that woman--unless
you're lying about that."

"To what purpose?"  Tara challenged.

Charlotte shrugged.

"I wouldn't know.  That was a stupid thing to say."

"Thank you for that anyway."  She buttoned up, ready to go.

"But think of how you could help your client if you worked with Woodrow
instead of against him.

The longer you leave this man hanging, the greater the chance he'll
hurt someone else."

Tara searched for her purse.

"Did Woodrow give you a script?  I have to tell you, the more you talk,
the more determined I am to honor my client's wishes.  I'm glad he came
to me.  If he'd turned himself in, he would have been lynched by
now."

Tara took a deep, raiding breath and glared at the other woman.

"Charlotte, I can't stay in this room one more minute.  I don't blame
you at all for trying to change my mind.  But I have been pummeled and
knocked around today by people I love and respect and I've had it up to
here."  She swiped a hand across her forehead.

"I'll call you when I cool off.

Just do me a favor.  Don't put your nose in dlis one."

"Hi, you two."  Tara whirled toward the door as Woodrow pulled it
open.

"Something smells good."

He stopped as if physically restrained by the angry charge in the
room.

"I would have been here sooner if I'd known you were coming for dinner,
Tara."  He smiled hesitantly.

"Don't worry, Woodrow.  I'm not staying for dinner," she said.

"Tara, please .. ."  Charlotte made an effort to stop her but it wasn't
a very heartfelt one.

"Bye, Woodrow.  Call me.  I think we better talk."

Tara passed him fast, pivoted, and came right back.

"You know, Woodrow, you're not batting a thousand these days.  If
anyone should be helping anyone, it should be you.  My dad lent his
name to your campaigns and so have I. We've given money.

I've done everything I can when we are on different sides of the
courtroom to conduct myself professionally so that we don't have
problems like this.

I respected you and I trusted you, Woodrow.  But I don't anymore.

"From here on, until this situation is taken care of, we're going to do
this the right way.  No more unrecorded meetings.  No more handshakes.
No more social engagements.  No more fund raisers.

I'll memo you on your promise to petition if I supply a psychological
profile.  I'm going to get you that profile.  Then we'll go back to the
way things used to be."

Tara walked out of the Weber house.  Charlotte came to Woodrow's side
and together they watched Tara until she got into her Jeep and drove
off.  It was cold but both of them stood in the open doorway awhile
longer.

"I'm sorry, Woodrow," Charlotte said.

"I thought if I asked her woman-to-woman, she'd come to see things your
way."

"I wish you'd talked to me, Charlotte, before you talked to her,"
Woodrow said.  He put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her neck.

"I think I've just lost her support for the campaign."

"You can win without her."

"You think so?"

"I know it," Charlotte said and turned toward the kitchen.

"Dinner in five," she called over her shoulder, taking out a cigarette
to calm her nerves as she went.  Woodrow would just have to
understand.

It was only one--in the house--after all.

Woodrow closed the door and went to wash up.

Looking in the mirror he decided Charlotte was right.  The Limey name
was old and respected, and looked good on fund-raising programs, but
times had changed.  It wasn't the draw it once was.  The only thing
Tara Limey really had that he wanted for his campaign was the Circle K
killer.

Twelve

She'd walked through the kitchen, exchanging a polite but restrained
greeting with Donna.  Bill sat at the table.  He gave her a
"hey-little-lady" and Tara thought she would burst.  Clothes changed,
she went outside and saddled Shinin'.  There had been a moment when she
reached for the bridle that had given her pause, but Tara was just
angry enough to let it pass.  At this point a pitchfork through her
heart might be enough to put her out of her misery.  She cinched the
girth with a vengeance, apologized to Shinin', and swung herself into
the saddle a minute later, only to be stopped by a call from the
dark.

"Tara?"  Bill Hamilton stood in front of the gate to the corral.
Shinin' danced, anxious to leave yet wary of the human being in his
way.

"Not now, Bill," she said, angry he'd followed her out.  She glanced
quickly at the house.  Donna was in the window, shadowed and still.

"You better go back in.  You've caused enough trouble for a
lifetime."

"Heard you and Donna had words.  I'm sorry 'bout that.  Damn shame, if
you ask me.  I never wanted that to happen."  He took a step forward,
then another.  Shinin' was shying but Tara held the reins tight.

"You don't feel bad at all, Bill.  Maybe you're in your playful mode,
having a little joke at my expense.

I think you like this, me and Donna at odds.

Exactly what kind of kick do you get from it?"

"None.  I swear."  He held a hand to his chest.

He was close now and she could see him clearly in the night.  He wore a
denim shirt, open almost to the waist, and an expression closed to her.
His eyes glittered but she couldn't see them clearly.

That was a blessing.

"Did she ask you about our business?"

"Yep.  But I couldn't tell her.  I care for that woman too much.  I
don't want her to wonder, don't want her to ever wake up in the night
and think I'm gonna do her wrong, understand?"

"She already thinks so.  She thinks you want to get in my pants, Bill.
What do you think about that?"

"Nice to know she figures I have good taste."  He laughed.

"She thinks the same about you, Tara."

"I know.  Donna gives herself too much credit."

"That's harsh, Tara.  And too bad," Bill was so close he stood just
under Shinin's jaw.  The horse threw his head.  Bill put up a hand,
calmly, casually, as if he could will the creature away.

"You are a pretty lady.  Not delicate like her.  A little handful,
that's what Donna is.  And a bird in the hand ..."

Bill leaned into her, his chin almost on her knee.

"You know what they say about the bush?"

"I know.  Bill," Tara said quietly "Good.  So you know I'm sincere
about her.  Real sincere.  Same as about you getting' me help."

"Can't do it, Bill.  Not without your cooperation."

Tara looked into the night, talking as if he wasn't even there.

"The DA wants a psychological workup.  You've got to cooperate on that
one, and until you do, we're in a standoff.  Simple as that."

"Nothin's that simple, babe.  You know what I am.

You tell him.  We don't play games, you and me.

Find me the right doctor and I'll sure think 'bout doin' a couple of
tests.  Trouble is, I might flunk."

He looked sorrowfully at her.

"Then I'm out on a limb.  I'm on the run.  I'm with Donna forever."  He
was whispering now and Tara felt his face as he lay it against her
thigh.  He nuzzled there, spreading his arms cross-like over Shinin's
flank, reaching all the way to the horse's neck as he pressed against
her leg and the gold-colored animal.  The contact was so surprising, so
electrifying, Tara bolted beneath it.

Without thinking, frantic, she dug into Shinin', letting loose of the
reins, allowing him to tear through the gate and into the night without
concern for the man she left behind.

Tara sped through the darkness, across her land and beyond to the
fields that no longer belonged to her.  She rode until she saw the
lights of home, civilization she had no desire to confront.  With a cry
she wheeled and headed back again, only to do the same before she
reached her house.  The cold night was cut by her cries of frustration
and those same cries urged Shinin' on until he breathed as hard and
deep as she.  Beneath her thighs the animal moved with a surety and
might that excited her.

Tara leaned into him, commanding him with a flick of her wrist, a tug
at the rein, a press of her knees into him.  And he responded: right,
left, right again, and a full head.  On his back Tara pressed into the
saddle, erasing thoughts and replacing them with a physical pleasure
that erupted inside a part of her so private no one had ever touched
it.  Until tonight.

It wasn't just the horse, or the ride in the black night; it wasn't the
cold or the feel of her own body responding to the pleasure she felt.
It was Bill.  He had touched her.  He had laid his head on her body and
pressed himself into the horse, becoming a part of both of them.  God
forgive her, she had felt what Donna must feel.  She had felt desire so
swift and intense as to leave her mindless.  What was in him had passed
to her and she felt the madness like a gift.

That was what she wanted to rid herself of.  Instead she used it,
matching it with her own anger and frustration.  And when she was done,
when the horse stood panting in the middle of the field in the middle
of the night, with his exhausted rider lying over his back and stroking
his mane, something came into Tara's head.  A glimmer of an idea, just
a seed of a thought.  Perhaps this was what he'd wanted in the first
place.  Perhaps it wasn't Donna at risk at all.  In some way, somehow,
Bill Hamilton's next victim was her.

Tara walked Shinin' back across the fields, staying close to the river
as she went.  The extravagant sensations, the unbridled inference she
had imagined alone in the dark, had been tamed.  There was no
conspiracy here to victimize her.  Bill needed Tara too much.  Donna
was in no danger.

A meal ticket seldom was.  Her home was still there and standing,
glowing golden through windows where a light had been left on.  By
design or mistake she didn't care.  What had been up was down, those
who had loved her loved themselves more, and an oath taken when she had
passed the bar so many years ago seemed suddenly a tremendous burden.
All she wanted now was food, rest, and in the morning she would step
closer to the middle of the road on this thing.  Surely she and Woodrow
could work out something that would be acceptable to Bill.

Slipping from Shinin', she bedded him down with a pat on the neck
before peeling off her gloves as she glanced toward the guest house. It
was dark, Bill and Donna sleeping tangled in one another's arms, she
imagined.  She didn't speculate on what they dreamed, but strode on,
pushing open the door to the main house, equally hungry and tired.
Hunger overrode exhaustion.  The kitchen was the next stop.

Flipping on the light, Tara blinked in the brightness, thinking that
soup would warm her.  As her eyes adjusted, she stopped thinking about
food, and looked around to see if anything was out of place.

The kitchen was pristine save for an ebony-handled carving knife, its
blade embedded in the butcher block.  Tara blew on her hands, trying to
warm them, as she went to fetch it, only to pause.  Atop the impeccably
scrubbed butcher block, beneath the blade of the knife, was a note
written in Donna's childish scribble.  Tara's hand went behind her
back, instinct telling her not to touch it, common sense telling her
that caution was ridiculous.

Touch it she did.  The news was a flash, scrawled in the throes of
excitement.  Donna was engaged.

Bill Hamilton was a bridegroom to be.  Around the message she had drawn
a curlicued heart and through the heart the knife had been jammed, its
handle obscuring the bottom half of the page.

Grasping it tight, Tara wiggled it, yanking it out of the wood.  With
her other hand she picked up the note.  In bold, block print, the
message had been amended, Bill laughing while he wrote " "Til death do
we part" before he had driven the knife through that papery heart,
drawing no blood but making Tara's run cold.

Sick.  Furious.  Appalled at the grossness of the joke, the intimate
inference that they shared a dangerous understanding of the way Bill's
mind worked.  She didn't want to think about it, much less understand
it.  Tara wanted rest.  She wanted her life back.  She wanted her
friends back.  She wanted to wake up in the morning and know there was
a calendar for her to follow.  No more insane teasing from Bill
Hamilton.  No more idiotic accusations of jealousy from Donna.  This
lunacy would stop now.  Tara threw open the back door and stormed
across the yard.

"Wake up!  Bill, get out here."  Tara banged on the door, dancing on
the doorstep of the guest house, jumping off the steps to look through
the window.  But the curtains were drawn and the night was dark and
silent.  She lay her fist on the wood again, pounding and pounding.
There was no one to hear if she screamed at the top of her lungs and
she wished there were.  Let someone ask questions, let someone call the
cops.  Let them take this out of her hands.  Send her anyone else, but
not someone whom Donna loved.  Anyone but that.

She raised her fist and dropped it again.  One.

Two.  Three times.

Bill was right.  He was nuts.  He needed help, but if she was going to
get it for him, then he had to stay out of her space.  She could not,
would not, live with him.  That was Donna's choice, not hers.

"Bill," she screamed, "I want to talk to you now.

Get out here."

The door opened.  She shut her mouth and clenched her jaw.  One step
back and the knife was held at the ready.  Tara knew only that it was
there and that holding it made her feel safer.  But the door stopped
opening.  Tara stepped forward and gave it a little push, her knees
buckling in the face of such frightful uncertainty.  He had touched her
tonight, laid his hands on her.  He had watched her and she was shaken.
What was left?  What would he do now that she had come for him?  With a
courage fueled by desperation, Tara pushed a little harder.

"Don't you play these sick little games, you bastard," Tara hissed.

"I don't care if we wake the dead, you're going to explain this and all
the rest of it.  The phone call.  I know I didn't dream it.

The .. ."

Slowly the door opened all the way.  Donna, half asleep, held on to the
knob and leaned against the jamb.

"Tara, come on, that hurt."  She mumbled, her voice slurred with a
sleepiness born of pills.

"What time is it?  What are you doing?"

"Donna, I need to talk to Bill.  Just go back to bed and send Bill out
here.  I need to see him.

Now .. ."  Tara's voice broke.

"Don't you ever give up, Tara.  Talk in the morning," she muttered and
the door began to close again.  Tara put her hand out, more gently this
time so she could reach around and take hold of Donna and pull her
outside onto the stoop.  Swiftly she closed the door behind them.

"Tara, don't.  It's freezing.  I'm not dressed," Donna whined, coming
awake now as Tara wanted.

She held Donna close, not for warmth but from a need to be secretive.
This was better.  Much better than confronting Bill.

"Listen to me.  Donna.  Listen good.  Look at this."  Tara held up the
knife.  It looked uglier in the dark, a dull gleam running up the
backbone of the long blade.  She held Donna tight, shaking her as she
ordered, "Wake up and look at this."

"What?  It's a knife, Tara.  I've got twenty at home."  Donna twisted,
trying to squirm her way out of Tara's grip.

"Ever had one through your heart?"  Tara growled.

"Huh?  Ever thought about that?"

"Wha .. . ?"  Donna was shaking her head now, her eyes blinking like
crazy as she fought the effects of her sleeping pill.

"Through your heart," Tara said, punching each word for emphasis.

"That sweet little note you left me about your engagement.  Well, your
intended left his own little message.  He drew another heart.

He wrote, "Til death do we part," then stuck this through the heart.
Through it.  Donna.  Don't you understand?  Don't you see what he's
trying to tell me?"  Tara took a deep breath.  Her eyes darted to the
door.  It was still closed, the house still silent, Tara still
frightened.  Her whisper grew more urgent still.

"Don't get any clothes, just come with me to the house.  I want you to
leave tonight.  Bill can stay here, and I'll take care of him.  He
needs help.  Donna, and I don't want you around if it gets ugly."

Donna was staring now, standing quietly in the circle of Tara's arm.
She looked drunk.  She looked astonished.  Finally she looked amused,
and then she started to giggle.

"Tara.  You are getting weird.  Very, very, very weird."  Donna put her
hand out, touched the knife, then backed off to the door, clearly
annoyed.

"It was a joke.  He thought our news would be like a knife through your
heart.  We shouldn't have laughed about it, but we did.  He stuck the
note to the board with a knife.  Big deal."

"Donna, you don't understand.  Donna .. ."

Tara insisted in a frantic whisper, but Donna already had the door
open.

"I'm freezing, Tara.  Go to bed.  Sleep it off or whatever."  She waved
behind, shooing Tara away from her.

"I'm not drunk," Tara said, throwing herself against the door and
holding her hands across the frame.

"He hurts people.  Donna.  He's going to hurt you."

"Oh, please."  Donna turned back and rolled her eyes.

"That man loves me.  He took me to bed tonight and touched me and loved
me and I loved him back.  Want to look?"  She held out her arms.

"See any scratches?  Bruises?  Want to watch next time just to make
sure I come out unscathed?"

"I'm not crazy," Tara said flatly.

"Really?"  Donna asked.

"Could've fooled me."

The door closed.  Tara was alone in the cold dark wondering if maybe,
just maybe, she had lost her mind.

Quietly, in a fog.  Donna slipped back into bed with Bill.  She turned
on her side, asleep before her head hit the pillow.  Beside her, Bill
Hamilton lay quietly, his eyes on the ceiling, his mind on the pain
that shot through his head.  Then, there was nothing.

Thirteen

"Damn right, I'm mad.  I'm furious, Woodrow.

I've never been so humiliated in my entire life.

George Amos called first thing this morning.  I thought it had
something to do with Johnnie Rae's case.  But, no.  He wants to ask
about the accessory thing.  Like he would even have a clue.  Accessory,
my foot.  The man has lost it if he's trying to intimidate me on my
turf.  And I blame you.  You've put me and my client in an untenable
position.  I'll be lucky if my client doesn't go to the bar with a
complaint."

"Tara, I swear, I didn't know he'd do anything like that.  He's just
trying to do what he thinks is right."

"Don't you dare defend him!  If he's that ignorant, read him chapter
and verse about the laws against harassment."

Tara walked faster and Woodrow had no choice but to catch up.  The snow
had finally come, not in fat lovely flakes but in flat wet drops that
had a terrible tendency to transform themselves into hail pellets every
ten minutes.  Tara's head was down as she walked, her fedora pointed
into the mess.  Woodrow had run out after her call without hat or
umbrella and now his fine hair was plastered to his head.  He looked
ridiculous and Tara was glad.  It was a small thing, but she was
feeling petty today.

"I wasn't going to defend him.  Give me a break, Tara.  I thought he'd
be discreet.  And you're the one that put me in the mess anyway.  Did
it ever occur to you that if you'd simply asked me for state-ordered
commitment without the details we wouldn't be going through this?"

"Oh, right.  You'd do that without asking for particulars.

Woodrow, I trusted you.  I tried to do everything aboveboard and you're
the one who screwed the whole thing up."

"I reiterate, Tara, I did as you asked, I satisfied my own curiosity
about the case.  You know you're not the only one concerned with doing
the right thing.  I wasn't going to just waltz in to George and peek at
a file and come back and report to you.

I have responsibilities, too."

Tara took a hard left and hurried across the plaza, past the drained
fountain and its signs warning against swimming, past the weatherbeaten
benches under the concrete pavilions that shaded downtowners when the
sun was high and hot.  But it was cold and this plaza was deserted
except for a knot of homeless men gathered around a trash can, chatting
and moving back and forth on the balls of their feet trying to keep
warm.  It obviously hadn't occurred to them to risk the wrath of the
city and build a fire in that can.

They shared the space with a hot dog vendor who braved the weather to
hawk his wares.  The dogs smelled great, but Tara would wait to fuel
the fire.  She pushed through the glass doors of the Bernalillo County
Government Center and waited for Woodrow to catch up before she started
again.

"I do give you credit, Woodrow.  I always have.

It's not easy being a government attorney.  But you miss the point.
Ambition I understand.  I even understand wanting to use this
situation.  What I can't understand is how free you've been with
information.

George didn't need to know it was my client.

Charlotte certainly shouldn't be involved in any decision making.  I
can't believe either one of them held a gun to your head and made you
tell.  All you've done is muddy the waters on something we agreed could
be handled fairly and discreetly."

Tara tapped her foot.  She didn't look at Woodrow any longer as she
continued through the building.

"I confided in you as a friend.  I told you that there was someone
involved that I cared about.

You decided to ignore that very human factor in this equation.  If you
hadn't, business would have been taken care of and he would have been
out of her life and mine and I'd be sleeping a whole lot easier."  She
turned on him to make her point.

"Woodrow, did it ever occur to you that I might get hurt?  Did you ever
wonder what would happen if you did prevail and sent this guy to
prison?  Did you think about him?  Do you know what happens to unstable
guys in prison?  Do you, Woodrow?

They die and it isn't pretty what's done to them before they die. Which
of these scenarios is worth an election?"

"Okay, okay.  I get your point."  Woodrow peeled off his gloves as he
followed her to the elevator.

They waited.  Tara pushed the button, Woodrow opened his wet coat,
reached in the back pocket of his slacks, and pulled out a comb.

"Look, Tara."

The comb was back in his pocket and he spoke quietly to her.

"You know, Tara, I live here too.  I worry about Charlotte, knowing a
guy like that is out there.  I worry about all of us.  My stand is
valid too.  You've seen the system.  You know that sometimes the cracks
are huge and someone can fall right through.  I don't want him
committed only to find him un indictable because he spilled his guts to
a doctor who can't be subpoenaed."

Tara looked at the floor, some of the fight going out of her.

"I know it's tough, Woodrow.  You've got a lot of irons in this fire. I
don't think you're being malicious."  She sighed again, not as angry,
but still wary and wishing she could explain this so he felt what she
did.

"You haven't seen him.

That's all.  You haven't talked to him."

"I'd like to."

"Why can't you take my word for it?"

"Because I can't, and I'm sorry about your friend.  Really I am. That's
the pits.  And I know it doesn't count much that I'm concerned too, but
I'm not going to let you railroad me, Tara.  I'm just asking to talk to
him.  If we have something to hold him on, I will, but he'll get a
competency hearing."

Tara rolled her head back and forth.

"Woodrow, you keep thinking it's an easy thing for me to give you this
man's name.  Even if I did, even if somehow we skirted all the ethical
issues, then what?

All you'll have is a name.  What are you going to arrest him for?  He
hasn't done anything.  Nope, introducing you two is a lousy deal." Tara
shook her head and punched the up button one more time.

"This whole thing is a lousy deal.  Why is it that elevators take
forever?"

"Tara, that won't do any good."  The bell dinged just as Woodrow
admonished her.  She gave him a tired and wry smile, then stepped in
ahead of him and whipped off her hat.  Her hair cascaded past her
shoulders, her cheeks were red with cold, her eyes snapped blue like
the color of a brittle winter sky, an Albuquerque sky.  But today it
didn't come together, something vital was missing to make her
beautiful.  She lay back against the wall.

"Woodrow, I'm sorry for all this."  Tara took a deep breath.

"Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine I'd have a situation like
this on my hands.

Last night he did something strange and I thought I'd come to you and
see if we couldn't come up with some compromise.  But then George
called."

She looked up to find Woodrow looking back at her.

"I realized then that this man, incompetent or not, could not be used
by anyone.  The only good I can work for is his.  Can't you see that,
Woodrow?  If we wheel and deal and fudge the rules, then we're not
representatives of the law anymore.  We're simply advocates of our own
goals."

"You can let me talk to him, Tara.  It isn't unreasonable for me to
want that.  Even you have to agree.  Even you would want to assess a
situation personally before doing something that might hurt your
career.  You would, Tara."  Woodrow's eyes softened as if he hated
being the one to hold the mirror up for her.  Tara rolled her head back
along the wall of the elevator.

"But you won't see it, Woodrow.  You won't see how crazy he is.  He's
.. ."  She could not describe Bill Hamilton.  She looked back at her
companion.

"You feel the insanity, Woodrow.  He's so good.

He's so ... so personal about it."

"What about your friend?  What does she see?

Maybe I could talk to her."

"No."  Tara pushed herself off the wall.  This was defeat.

"She wouldn't be able to help you.  She is involved and love is
blind."

Woodrow put his hand on Tara's shoulder.

"And you're the only one that sees this clearly, Tara?"

Startled, Tara paused, thinking hard for an instant.

"Yes.  There's no black and white here, Woodrow.  I don't know what he
really wants.  I have to take him at his word.  I have to assume that
he knows he needs a doctor's care.  The roadblocks he throws up may be
his madness.  Like a child throwing a tantrum so the parents will prove
their love.  I don't know what the real story is, but I will protect
him until I find out."

They stood silently together, each thinking.  Finally, Tara spoke.

"Woodrow?"

"Yes?"  he murmured.

"You didn't push the button."

"You could have pushed it," he noted.  They stared at the panel a
little longer, Tara thinking it wouldn't be bad to hide here a bit
longer.  She was the one who finally poked it and the one who finally
laughed once.

"We're going to be late."

'"Yeah, but I didn't mind the breather.  Did you?"

"No, I didn't."

The elevator jerked gently.  They were on their way.  Friends again for
a minute.  The other side of her, Tara thought.  The side that didn't
keep secrets and needed a friend.  Oh, how she needed someone to count
on.  They reached their destination and Tara split herself.  The
attorney Limey walked out and waited for DA Weber, who went ahead to
announce their arrival.

"Mr.  Weber.  It's nice to see you again."

A mild-looking middle-aged man stood as Tara and Woodrow entered his
well-turned-out office.

Wood desk, leather chairs, real paintings on the wall.  The bar
obviously thought more of its employees than did the state.  Woodrow
said his hellos then passed the man's hand on to Tara.

"Nice of you to see us.  This is Tara Limey."

Woodrow stepped back, his arm out as if to usher her into the inner
circle.  She didn't give him a glance as she passed.

"Nice to meet you," Tara said and she meant it.

"Lovely to meet you.  I was privileged to hear you speak to the Bar
Association last year.  Lovely speech.  Well delivered.  Please, sit
down."  He smiled gently, and Tara did as he suggested, noting that he
had gracefully managed not to refer to the content of her speech, the
title of which even she couldn't remember.

Frank Sepada laughed.

"I'm delighted you called.  I'm afraid I don't see many people as the
Bar's ethics liaison.  I field phone calls, write letters, answer
complaints.  To see living, breathing human beings is truly nice.
However, I'm aware that your presence here can mean only that your
situation is serious.  Compromised, if I might make that assumption."

They both nodded.

"Mr.  Sepada," Tara said, anxious to be heard first, "I've been
retained by a person who confessed to me that he committed a horrible
crime."

Tara told the story again.  Personal involvement, heinous cold-blooded
murder, odd behavior, psychiatric history.  When she was done, Frank
Sepada turned to Woodrow.

"Mr.  Weber?"

"I'd like to at least talk to the man before I take a step regarding
state commitment."  Woodrow leaned forward in his chair, his posture
that of a concerned public servant.

"I have already agreed to make a decision based on the evaluation of
her client by a qualified psychiatrist.  I simply can't take her word
for a psychological diagnosis.  She is a lawyer, and, with all due
respect, this might be a rather unique ploy by her in preparation for a
defense.

She hasn't given me the evaluation I've requested.

I'll have to refuse any action, unless you can provide us with another
solution.  We have agreed to abide by your decision."

"This is refreshing.  Seldom do I have adversaries willing to work even
this closely together."  He cleared his throat and tapped the side of
his cheek.

"Ms.  Limey, has your client threatened anyone or exhibited such odd
behavior as to put himself in danger?"

"No," Tara said, a flush coloring her neck as she remembered the night
before, his head on her thigh, crucifying himself to Shinin'.  She
shook off the tremors that caught hold where the two men would never
see.

"No, but the potential is there.

I'm sure of that.  He's unpredictable.  Smart.  Frightening.

But there have been no overt threats."

"You've corroborated his medical history?"

"Yes, with his psychiatrist."

"And what did he tell you?"

"Nothing specific.  He confirmed the man's violent tendencies, but he
wouldn't do so on record, citing privilege."

"I see.  Well, Ms.  Limey, I suggest you get more than that.  It seems
you have only two choices.  Immediately seek Mr.  Weber's help should
your client become violent, and barring that, determine if your client
is competent to waive his rights and release you from the
attorney-client privilege.  If he is, then you must explain the
situation to him and offer him the option of working with the DA.  If
not, then I'm afraid the law can do nothing for, or with, this man."
Mr.  Sepada fluttered his eyes toward Woodrow, an oddly nervous gesture
for a man who was so very calm.

"I'm sorry, Mr.  Weber, but I can't deliver her client into your hands
because you wish it so.  You'll have to work for him."

His eyes were back on Tara again.

"Ms.  Limey, I would prefer to see you determine your client's
competency and convince him he has options rather than wait for a
violent outburst of any sort."

"I had hoped for something more, Mr.  Sepada."

"Believe me, Ms.  Limey, I wish I had a bag of tricks."

Tara nodded her understanding.

"We're sorry to have wasted your time."

"Not a waste of time.  I wish you the best."  Frank Sepada stood up.

"I do want to say, though, that I don't envy either of you.  Your
position, Mr.  Weber, yours by virtue of the elected office you hold,
has got to be based not only on legal considerations, but also on
political ones.  I wouldn't venture to guess how the percentages break
down on your motivation."

He looked at Tara.

"I might say the same of you, Ms.  Limey.  You are torn between concern
for your client and concern for your friend.  These are considerations
that I can't take under advisement.  What we lawyers promise is to work
only for the good of our client within the confines of the law, and to
remain silent regarding issues that have been told to us in
confidence.

It is the same difficulty priests pray about and doctors lose sleep
over.  The general perception that lawyers do not agonize over
questions such as these always amazes me.  I'm sorry, but I'm afraid
Ms.  Limey is, to use a nonlegal term, stuck."

They left Frank Sepada's office in silence.  It wasn't until they were
outside on the sidewalk once again that Tara found her voice.  Standing
close to Woodrow, she spoke over his shoulder, near his ear, looking at
the building on the other side.

"Woodrow, I'm sorry about last night.  I'm sorry about being angry. I'm
asking you to please issue the petition for hospitalization. Please." 
Her voice dropped to a whisper.

"The injury on my arm, Woodrow.  I think he had something to do with
it.

I think he was trying to get me to bleed to death, but my friend showed
up.  Last night I found the carving knife stuck into a note on the
butcher block.  I think he's watching me.  I think .. ."

Woodrow shook his head.

"I don't know what I think, Tara.  You're pulling every trick in the
book to get me to do something I know isn't right."

Woodrow clamped his lips shut.  There was pain in his expression, there
was fear.  He warred with his evil twin who, Tara knew, whispered
against her.

Woodrow needed her man and hated himself for it.

"My position is clear.  I see him, I evaluate him, or we do nothing."
Woodrow put his hand on her arm and pressed, offering his assurance.

"Tara, I'm your friend, and you know it.  Anyone else would have
manipulated the little you've given me.  I could have gone to the
press.  I could have just posed the questions: What if a local attorney
knew who the Circle K killer was?  Who do you think is right, Mr.  John
Q. Public?  Tara protecting the rights of a killer, or me wanting to
get him behind bars?  We're pretty basic out here, Tara.  You know what
the answers would be.  You know the public doesn't care about
philosophy when it comes to their safety."

"I didn't think you had this in you, Woodrow," Tara muttered and
stepped back.  She had begged him and he wanted her on her knees.  Now
Tara didn't want to be anywhere near Woodrow.

"I'm not threatening.  I'm only showing you this can play a hundred
different ways.  You have my offer.  I don't want to see you
compromised, but I have a lot at stake too.  I'm not throwing it
away."

Woodrow gave her arm one last squeeze and walked away.  Tara let him
go.  Anxious, tired, her arm hurting, she got behind the wheel of her
car, turned the ignition, and sat quite still.  Finally, dred of
listening to the motor idle, tired of just about everything, Tara threw
the gear, pulled out into traffic, and made a U the first place she
could.

Home wasn't where she wanted to go.  She wanted to be with a real
friend.

"Woodrow, if you don't stop pacing, I'm going to hogtie you.  Now,
either you have something to say, or you don't.  If you don't, then
I've got work to do."

Woodrow stopped and glared at George Amos.

George threw back his hands, giving up.

"Okay Okay," he chuckled.

"I'm sorry I called Tara.  I'm sorry I tipped my hand.  She already
yelled at me.  You don't have to."

"I don't see anything funny about this, George."

Woodrow stopped his pacing.  He was thoughtful.

He was concerned.

"I just don't know what you thought you'd gain."

"Nothing," George answered.  Woodrow's eyes snapped his way,
challenging him.

"That's the truth, Woodrow.  I didn't expect anything.  I just wanted
confirmation.  I'm entitled.  You put it on my plate, I can push it
around a little bit."

"That's intimidation."

"Hell, she couldn't be intimidated," George scoffed.

"But there's a lot to be told by someone's reaction.  And Tara Limey
reacted like a cat in a bath.  She is skittish and she's got something
hot."

"All that from a phone call, huh?"  Woodrow drawled.

"What a lawman."

"Better doing something than just sitting around waiting to do her
bidding like another lawman I know."

"Look .. ."  Woodrow put his hands on the back of the nearest chair.

"I don't want to be a part of your game.  I want to do this right. I'll
hold out and that's legal.  You're going down a road that might be a
little crooked.  I just think you should consider that."

"Woodrow, get off the fence.  Don't you think this is going to come out
sooner or later?  It may not be a big to-do that breaks it.  Maybe a
little whisper here or there.  Maybe a secretary will gossip about
something she overheard when you finally get this mess straightened
out.  And when it does come out, people will know Tara Limey did the
best for her client.  They'll know I did what I could to find out who
this guy was so I could keep an eye on him.  And you?  You'll be the
one who sat back and waited.  Do you think the voters will respect a
man who doesn't take a stand?"

"I've given her options," Woodrow said quietly.

"And if she doesn't take advantage of those options?"

"Then it's her problem."

"That will seem so special to all those women who want to run to the
Circle K for milk at midnight for the baby," George drawled.

"Woodrow, I don't have time for this.  I'm going to put that poor
woman's soul to rest if I can.  You can either help me or you can stay
out of my way.  And if I break the law, then you can come after me. But
until then, you just go back to your office and sit there and wait
until Tara brings him in, or I find out who this guy is and I find a
reason to bring him in, or ..."

"What?"  Woodrow asked.

"Or we find Tara Limey dead somewhere.

Hadn't thought about that one, had you?"

"Go to hell, George."

"Not before Limey's client," George said.  Woodrow was at the door.

"Oh, Woodrow, did you see today's paper?"

Woodrow turned back and George tossed it his way.  He caught it and
took the rubber band off.

"You made the front page.  Governor's going to form a committee to look
into the contracts awarded to Strober Industries.  Starting with the
board.  According to that article, you went to law school with one of
the board members."

"The article's wrong."

"That's what I thought," George said, "but it makes good reading. Since
there's nothing else interesting to read about.  Like a good collar. 
Or a murderer brought to trial."  George swiveled in his chair and
tapped at his computer.

"See you, Woodrow."

Woodrow didn't move.  He held the newspaper in a hand that was suddenly
sweaty with an arm that felt weak.  George whistled and it irritated
the heck out of Woodrow.  He opened the door, closed it again, and
said:

"George."

"Yep, Woodrow."

"I am worried about Tara.  I wouldn't mind knowing what was going on at
her place.  Keep an eye on her and let me know if you see anyone
suspicious around her house.  A discreetly watchful eye.  Might
help."

"I can spare some men for that kind of public service.  I hate to see a
fine attorney put in a bad position because of our negligence."

"Yeah.  Just remember, I'd hate to see any of us in a bad position."

Fourteen

It was perfect.  The kind of place Tara imagined Ben would have.  A
stucco bungalow bigger, she was sure, than it appeared from the
outside.  On this short, half-moon street, there were only six houses
that at one time had been home to families, the porches host to
bicycles, the yards the domain of children.  Now the porches were bare
and each of the freshly painted buildings housed a business.  A doctor,
a paralegal, and a dentist were on the left.

An accountant sort of in the middle, considering there were six houses
and no middle.  And on the right another dentist and a psychologist.

Tara stood in front of the last house.  Neat and white, it sported a
tasteful brass plaque on the far right.  She'd driven there without
thinking.  Now she was thinking twice.

Tara looked at the unpretentious building and walked up the steps,
ignoring the long ramp running from sidewalk to porch.  She rang the
bell and stepped back, holding her purse in front of her, looking like
a trick-or-treater anxious to see what surprises this place held for
her.  No one came, so she rang again and stepped farther back and to
the right, hoping to peek through the window.

It was draped.

"Hi!"  Tara twirled.  A woman leaned over the railing that wound around
the porch of the dentist's place.  She was dressed all in white.  Tara
would have pegged her for the dentist but noticed her nails.  No way
she could work on anyone's mouth with those.

"You looking for Ben?"

"Yes, I am."  Tara walked to the end of the porch on her side so they
wouldn't have to yell.

"Doesn't he keep regular office hours?"

"Usually, but he's testing today."

"Oh, I better come back then," Tara said quickly.

"He probably won't feel up to seeing anyone."

"Are you kidding?  He loves company after those things.  They get him
so pumped up.  You might as well go watch.  He's just around the
corner."  She pointed a purple talon north and Tara looked after though
there was nothing to see except traffic.

"You can't miss it.  It's the little place with the blacked-out
windows.  I don't know the name but it's not even a block up."

"If you think it's all right."

"Believe me, I know it is."

"Okay, I'll see if I can find it," Tara called.

"Thanks."

"No problem.  If you miss him, want to leave a message?"

Tara shook her head.

"No.  If I don't find him, I'll come back another time.  Thanks
again."

Tara went down the stairs and at the sidewalk paused.  She looked back
over her shoulder and gave the woman a nod, then headed in the
direction she'd indicated.  A walk would do her good, and if she found
Ben, all the better.  Thankfully, the need for a sympathetic ear wasn't
as urgent as it had been.  She turned the corner and began looking at
the storefronts, and wondered if seeking

Ben out was wise.  The floodgates of their relationship were rusty.
They might not open as she anticipated.

There might be one rejection more today, but there also might be
salvation.

She checked out the shoe repair and next to it an empty storefront.
Next to that was a small boulangerie, a twirling sign outside
announcing that the bread was fresh today.  There it was, next to the
boulangerie.  A store with blacked-out windows.

Nothing announced what business was taking place behind the worn door,
but the woman had said Ben was testing.  Tara put her hand on the knob,
hoping she wouldn't walk in on some therapy session, and pushed.  The
door opened and it was the sounds of combative men she heard.

Tara stood in an anteroom.  There was a narrow doorway on the far
right.  She headed toward it cautiously, listening to the sounds of
battle.  Cries and slaps, thumps of bodies hitting the ground, came
from the room beyond.  Cautiously she looked through the door,
registered what she was seeing, then slipped into the larger room and
sat on a folding chair, one of six against the wall.

No one noticed her.  Not the eight men kneeling against the wall to her
right, not the one man standing between them and the mirrored wall to
the left, and certainly not the two men warring in the middle of the
room with the killing moves of karate.  One of these men was Ben.

He was magnificent.  Dressed in white cotton pajamas, black slippers on
his feet, a brown belt around his waist.  He faced off with another
man.

This one was standing, and Ben seemed disadvantaged in his chair.  Yet
the man on his feet was more often on his back.  Ben pulled on him and
he went to the ground.  With a horrendous cry Ben mocked a killing blow
to his throat.  His opponent was up again and this time was brought to
his knees with a feigned two-handed strike at the kidneys.

The man reacted as if he had actually been hit.

Over and over again the exercise was played out.

Sweat glistened on Ben's face, rivulets ran down his chest, and Tara
was mesmerized by the beauty of such a deadly art and the man who
indulged in it.  His arms, corded with muscles, cut through the air,
creating sound by the mere force of motion.

His fingers curled and stretched into weapons designed to disable and
kill, yet he used his knowledge with such precision that he and his
partner seemed connected by respect, not by fear.  There was a moment
when Tara turned her head, terrified that Ben had made a mistake, that
his hands had actually made contact with flesh and blood.

But after the final cry, she looked to see his opponent standing, the
two of them holding their fists downward and bowing from the waist in a
sign of respect for each other's skill.

Ben was breathing hard.  The man who had watched, the master, didn't
smile, but he was obviously pleased.  The men kneeling against the wall
were impressed, but no more so than Tara, who sat spellbound.  With
little fanfare, the master walked to Ben, handed him a black belt,
backed off, and gave him the same fist-down salute his opponent had. He
turned to the men against the wall and went through the same ritual and
then Ben was looking at her, wiping away the sweat with a towel, while
he wheeled toward her with the other.

"Your timing is impeccable.  Nothing like being surprised when you're
doing something good."

"It looked better than good."  Tara grinned ear to ear.

"I don't know much about karate--" "Kung fu," Ben corrected, snapping
the towel and folding it into his lap.  He gave her a smile.

"Most damage, least movement.  Great for someone with limitations."

"Like a wheelchair?"

"Like a simple mind," he countered.

"You ought to try it."

"Thanks.  I never thought of myself as simple- minded," she said,
laughing.

"I meant you ought to try it for the fun of it.

You could work out some of the kinks."

"I didn't know they showed."  Tara shifted in her chair.

"Do you have anything else you need to do here?"

"Nope.  If you can wait 'til I shower, you can help me celebrate.  I'm
officially a black belt.  You were here when history was made."

"Far be it from me to snub history," she said softly.

"I'd be honored to help you celebrate."

"Great."  Ben nodded and touched his hair once more.  He nodded again
and the grin was the same one he'd given her when she said she'd go to
the Sophomore Christmas Dance with him.  She smiled back, fighting the
urge to mourn the fact that he didn't dance anymore.

"Great.  I'll be out in fifteen."

"I'll be here."

"I'm sorry.  I apologize.  I can't believe I forgot my wallet."

"Ben, I could have bought you dinner, you know.  We are celebrating
your black belt, after all."

"Sorry.  Some things haven't changed.  I'm still old-fashioned that
way.  Won't take me a minute, come on in."

Ben was wheeling up the ramp under his own steam as easily as Tara
climbed the steps to the porch.  She beat him by a second and followed
him into the bungalow.

"I made the front into my office," he said, chatting as he went down
the hall.

"Don't really need a receptionist but I keep the living room for a
waiting area.  I still do see some private patients even though most of
my work is with Social Security."

"What do you do for them?"  Tara poked her head into a large and airy
room, sparsely furnished.

"I do evaluations to determine whether or not applicants are mentally
competent for employment.

Sometimes I evaluate test scores, other times I actually have to see
the applicant.  Privately I'll deal with occupational therapy, helping
those who are newly disabled to cope."

"You'd be good at that," Tara said.

"I hope so.  Welfare isn't on my agenda."  He flipped on another
light.

"This is where I do the real work if you can't tell."  Tara's neck
craned again.  Ben had stopped and stayed by her side.

"I

love this room.  All my toys are in here.  See up there on the ceiling?
That's the first ski board I ever used.

It's amazing what they can do with sports equipment for people like me.
My diplomas.  Really proud of those.  The wind-up toys are favorites
too.  The paperwork is secondary.  Ignore it."

He wheeled on, continuing with the tour, stopping only when he realized
Tara no longer dogged him.  Silently his chair rolled over the hardwood
floors.

"Hey, you coming with me to hunt for that wallet?"

He touched her.  She turned her head toward the wall.

"Oh, Tara.  Come on.  Sit."

Tara shook her head, but he nudged her into his office and put her on
the couch.  At that moment, Tara Limey began to cry.

She put her hands over her face and Ben came to her, stopping when
there was nowhere else for him to go.  Their knees almost made contact,
but he had to lean over to touch her shoulder.  She wished it could
have been an arm he wound around her.

"I had no idea you'd be so overwhelmed by my humble abode."

He chuckled, chucked her chin, and didn't seem at all put out when Tara
raised her face and turned her head away from him.  True to form,
knowing her so well despite the years between them, Ben simply did what
had to be done.  He handed her her purse and sat back.

"Thanks."  Tara sniffled, flipped it open, then closed it without
bothering to ruffle through.

"I

don't have a Kleenex."  She sniffed again.  Ben went to the desk,
opened a drawer, and came back with a box.  Resisting the urge to swipe
her sleeve across her nose, she dug in and pulled some out.

"Do you mind?"  she asked, miserable at this turn of events.

"I've seen people blow their nose before," he assured her.

"Crying isn't something I do well," she insisted, tissue at the
ready.

"You're doing a fine job."  He went away before she could decide if he
was making fun of her.  He was across the room, politely ignoring her
while she composed herself.  When he came back, he had a cup in each
hand, his chair running by itself.

He stopped it with an elbow on a button.  Handing her a cup, he waited.
Tara balled up her Kleenex in one fist and wrapped her other hand
around the mug.

"Thank you."  She drank.

"Hot chocolate!"

"Everybody can do coffee," Ben said.

"Hope you noticed the miniature marshmallows.  Only special visitors
get those."

"How could I miss them?  Nice touch.  Pastel colors."

Tara laughed a little, still disadvantaged by the sniffles.  Taking a
deep breath, she fell back against the cushions and crossed her legs,
knowing she was wound tighter than a spring.

"I guess this wasn't such a good idea."

"Depends on what the idea was, Tara."  Ben said softly.  He set aside
his mug.

"Want to try and tell me?"

Tara shrugged, "Boy, I don't even know anymore.

Guess I wanted to be with a friend."

"You don't have any of those?"

"With someone I could trust."

"That's narrowing it."

"With someone I admire."  She looked him in the eye.  It wouldn't go
any further than that.

"I'm glad I made the cut," Ben said.

"Are you being facetious?"

Ben shook his head, his lips tipped and the smile wasn't quite sad, but
almost, as if he expected her to know him better.

"No, I'm not.  I know it's hard for you to be less than strong with
someone.  Some things don't change in twenty years.  I count myself
lucky to be the person you came to with your trouble.  There's been an
empty spot, Tara."

"I missed you, too," she said.  She put her mug aside too, knowing
there would never be a better time to climb over the wall between
them.

"Things got crazy when we were kids.  I always felt bad about that.  I
had to go with Dad to Washington .. ."

"I had to learn how to use a wheelchair," he said.  No accusation,
simply a statement.

Tara's jaw stiffened, their eyes were tight on one another.

"All right.  No excuses," she said, surprised to find anger, not regret
or sadness, buried deep inside.

"I made the choice.  I deserted you."

"That's not what I wanted to hear.  I led you into that and I'm sorry."
Ben looked out the window behind the desk.

"You were sixteen, I was seventeen, and that car took away the next ten
years for me.  Sounds like it took all twenty out of you and you didn't
know it 'til now."  He looked back at her and smiled for real this
time.

"We could really get into this, couldn't we?  You want to talk about it
now or want to do what we'd planned on doing in the first place?"

"Hunting for your wallet?"

"Dinner."

"I don't know," Tara said, suddenly wearied.

"Ben, I'm sorry, too."  For the years, the accident, the abandonment,
the love they had lost and missed.

"We're even," he said, and she knew it was true.

No judgments, no recriminations.  They could, indeed, pick up where
they'd left off.  Unfortunately, where they'd left off had been a bit
more innocent than the here and now.  Tara still had Bill Hamilton to
think about, Donna to worry over.

"Let's start again.  I'm so happy to see you."

"Me, too, Ben.  I'm happy to see you so well settled."

She took account of her surroundings.

"Finally.  It took a while.  I'd love for you to think I was this
pulled together all these years but I wasn't.  I was mad, Tara.  I was
hurt.  I was lonely and I was a horror to be around.  Then one day, it
kind of happened.  New friends, resources, people who show you how to
do the same old thing just a little differently.  I've hiked in
Colorado.  I've played basketball in New York.  I've sailed in the
Atlantic.  There's a guy in California who was paralyzed when he was a
kid.  Incredible person.  He's a kung fu master.  When I saw him, I
knew that's what I wanted.  It's a powerful sport.  So controlled.

You need to make judicious decisions.  A centimeter can mean the
difference between life and death, literally.  It's not about anger and
I think that's what I like about it.  If you can control your body that
precisely, you can control everything else in your life."

"Including your emotions?"

Ben tipped his head, "That doesn't sound like a do-you-still-love me
question."

"It isn't," Tara admitted.

"Want to talk about it?"

"Do you mind?  It's big stuff, Ben.  Not exactly small talk for two old
friends."

Tara looked at him and realized how inordinately beautiful he had
become.  Old friends indeed.

She had missed seeing him change but oh, how wonderful the change was.
His features were chiseled, hardened in a way that wasn't threatening,
only a testament to determination.  His eyes were crinkled with
wrinkles that fanned out from the corners as if he'd spent the last
years trying to see into the future.  His lips, from what she could see
under the full mustache, were still as they'd always been, the lower
one fuller than the upper but not so full as to be pretty.  They were
lips that were wide and, in repose, could be stern.

But when he smiled or laughed, Ben was Ben all over again.  Tara forgot
the wheelchair.  But the forgetfulness lasted only moments, and the
remembrance had less to do with Ben's painful memories than hers.

"I'm glad you still wear your hair long," he said, as if reading her
mind.

"And I'm glad you've come to me, no matter what the problem."

"I have nowhere else to turn," she said.

"I want you to know that.  It doesn't mean I don't value your opinion.
I just don't want you to think that's the only reason I came."

"It's nice of you to be concerned."  Kindly, Ben didn't make her pay
for her sins of omission during the past years.  He settled himself in
his chair and waited.

Tara put her hands together as if she were praying.

"I've got a client.  He's been violent in the past.  I believe he's
dangerous now.  He's taken up with a good friend of mine."

She talked, poking into every worrisome cranny she could think of,
until the whole story was told.

When she was done, Ben considered her closely.

"Sounds like a problem."

"I don't know where the lines are drawn anymore.

I honestly don't know if this man is mentally ill or just mean.  That's
what makes it so frightening.

If Woodrow chooses to do nothing about this and wait until my client
tips his hand, this guy could be with my friend for a very long
time."

"I can understand a psychiatrist not wanting to get involved.  Private
practice is something you have to protect like a lover.  With Social
Security evaluations I don't rely on the consumer base for my clients.
I can evaluate him if you can get me to him."

"A formal interview?"

"If we have to do it some other way, we can.  I don't think that's
unethical.  Just remember, I'm not a psychiatrist.  I can't prescribe
medication.

Woodrow might reject my evaluation if what you say about his agenda is
true."

Tara took a deep breath, pushed aside her purse, and slipped out of her
coat.  She rolled it up, held it tight, and wound her legs underneath
her.

"I feel helpless, Ben, and that's the worst of it.

When I took that oath to defend anyone accused, I know I never
considered all the permutations.  A criminal was almost glamorized in
my mind back then.  In all these years I've been able to practice it
impassively.  Sort of split myself in two.  I was so darn proud of
that."

"You should be.  You've always been able to do that.  Even when we were
kids.  You were the most disciplined person I knew."  Ben touched the
top of her hand.

"That wasn't bad, mind you.  Everyone was amazed when you were handed a
problem or a project.  Your eyes would glaze over and you wouldn't
surface until the objective was accomplished.

That's what makes you a good lawyer.

That's why this is so difficult.  You can't suppress that urge to do
right when your emotions are involved."

"Funny, that's what Donna said too.  Only she wasn't quite so polite.
She said I'd never experienced true passion because I always had my eye
on the goal."

"Maybe you've just been waiting for the right moment to turn off the
straight and narrow road.

Maybe passion's still ahead."

"Possibly," she said.

"I hope it is."

"Guess only time will tell."

"Yes."  Embarrassed, Tara unwound her legs and put them on the floor.

"I'm beginning to think I'm a hysterical female.  The only vibes I'm
getting are scary ones, and I'm getting them over little things. Things
other people interpret as normal."

"At the risk of being trite, do you think all these little things could
be a cry for help and you're the only one he's crying to?  Maybe he's
feeling like he wants to strike out again and this is his way of
telling you" "He should have called a crisis line."

"Tara."  Ben looked heavenward.

"This is satisfying to him.  I don't need to see him to know that.

It's a lot more interesting than simply waiting for you to do your
thing.  There's drama in his head and he's acting it out.  Didn't he
tell you he felt nothing?  Well, this way he feels all the time.  He's
making up ways to get your attention."

"Why me and not Donna?"

"He may actually love Donna, and want to spare her pain.  A sick mind
doesn't negate real emotions.

Who knows what you represent to him?  Who knows anything until he gives
you a chance to see beneath it all?"

Tara caught the fever.  Ben was interested.  Ben would help.

"You know what really bothers me?  This isn't a legal issue at all.  If
he were accused, I could stand up for him in court.  If he wanted to
confess, I could be by his side with counsel.  But all he's done is
tell me this horrible thing and give me permission to dangle a carrot
in front of Woodrow and

George.  I hate that I took the bait.  I hate that I didn't think it
through better."

Ben countered, "There was nothing to think through at the time.  You
had a problem.  You had a friend in need.  You had a solution and you
had no reason to think that it was anything but an expedient and
judicious one.  Lighten up, Tara."

"Good advice, but wrong.  He's in my guest house.  He ..."  Tara stood
up quickly, the memory of Bill touching her a confession on the dp of
her tongue.  Ben was the last person she wanted to share that memory
with.

"He's Donna's lover.

Anyone else, and I wouldn't count this as a problem.

I would just let it go until circumstances changed and I could actually
make a difference.  He would be on the other side of the wall that
separates my work life from my real one.  I'm not quite sure what my
next move should be.  All I know is I can't release his name to the
authorities or talk about his crime to my best friend."

Tara verbally threw up her hands.  Ben's brow was knit.  He sat
quietly, then reached for the phone.

"I think we need to put our heads together on this one.  Just a
minute."

Tara could only guess what was going through his mind as he punched in
a number, held up a finger, and listened to the ring.  Tara moved
closer, curious as to who he might call to help solve dlis dilemma.  He
smiled at her and ordered a pizza, a salad, and a six-pack of soft
drinks.

"I can't think on an empty stomach," he said, and held out his hand.

Tara took it.  It felt good in hers even though in her memory it wasn't
like this.  Not hard and dry, the hand of a purposeful man.  How well
he'd grown despite his accident.  How very wonderful.

How very attractive.  She slipped her hand out of his.  He stopped,
looked back and up at her.

"Will you see him, Ben?  If I can get him here.

Will you?"

"Sure."

Tara smiled and closed her eyes.  She stood back and let him go through
the door, peaceful for the first time in days.  Ben was here to help
and she appreciated it more than he would ever know.

They would be partners.  Professional to the last.

Why, then, when she followed him, did she feel almost disappointed?

Home.  Full of pizza.  At peace.  What more could a girl ask for other
than finding a solution to a miserable problem.  Smiling, Tara swung
out of the car, slammed the door, and was about to head in when she saw
Joseph slogging across the yard.

"Joseph!"  she called.

"Wait.  Please."

Tara hurried to him.  Nothing much had changed.  The teenager still
looked sulky.  He stopped, glared at her, and waited for her to come to
him.

"Joseph, I'm sorry to keep you, but do you know what happened the other
day?  My arm?"  She held up her arm, still bandaged, and he peered
through the dark.

"I put that pitchfork away where it was supposed to be.  I put it on
its hook, and I didn't have nothing to do with moving it.  I swear I
didn't."

The surly youth transmuted into a frightened boy before her eyes.  Not
at all the reaction she had wanted.  Fear closed mouths as often as it
opened them.

"I didn't say you did, Joseph," Tara assured him.

"I was only asking if you knew how it came to be balanced behind the
bridle.  I just wanted to make sure you hadn't made a mistake, and if
you had, I'd show you where the pitchfork is supposed to be kept."

"Well, I didn't.  I've never hurt anybody, and I do what I'm told."

"I believe that.  Carlos never would have left you in charge if he
hadn't thought so too."

That threw him.  If there was no attack, there couldn't be a defense.

"Well, then.  Okay."

"Okay," Tara said, and he dismissed himself.  She called after him.

"Payday tomorrow.  Don't forget."

He waved his hand over his head.  She was beginning to think of that as
a rather endearing gesture.

With a lighter step for having confirmed her fears, Tara stopped by
Shinin's stall.  Joseph had indeed done his job properly and therefore
someone--Bill Hamilton--had to have specifically moved the pitchfork.
He had wanted her to be scared, if not hurt.  That had to count for
something on the nutty scale.  She was closer to her goal now.  It
wouldn't be long with Ben on her side.

Not long at all.  With a final pat for Shinin', she headed in.

"Just wait, Mr.  Hamilton," she whispered to herself.

"We're almost home now."

"Tara!  Tara!"

Tara stood in the half-open doorway, thinking how like a mother she'd
become.  Her ears were always pricked for the sound of Donna's voice,
the sound of distress.  But distressed was hardly what Donna seemed.
She whirled up to Tara, her long black wool skirt flapping around her
riding boots,

the sleeves of her turtleneck sweater pushed up her arms.  She looked
charming.  She looked mad.

"Hi."  Tara smiled but Donna was determined to set the tone of their
talk.

"Tara."  She nodded curtly.

"I think we need to talk."

"I'd love to," Tara said.

"Come on in.  Let me make some tea.  I'll tell you about Ben.  I saw
him and--" "I don't want to talk about Ben.  Not until we've
straightened things out about Bill.  I've been thinking about this all
day and I've got to get it off my chest.  I came all this way to
celebrate your birthday and you have done nothing but ignore me, attack
Bill, and imply that I am stupid for having feelings for him.  Tara, I
have to tell you.  Last night was the last straw and I want an
explanation."

"Donna," Tara said flatly, "I gave you an explanation.

I'm seeing Bill professionally.  He asked for help on issues that I
think are serious.  I'm not going to get into a cat fight over that
man.  I'm his attorney, and as such, I can't be your friend on this
matter.  Either you trust me or you don't.

You can honor the years we've known each other or the weeks you've
known Bill.  Your choice.  But I can't pretend that things haven't
changed since he retained me.  They have.  I'd prefer you didn't see
him until we settled this matter and that's about all I can say."

"What a high-and-mighty mouthful," Donna taunted.

"Any other orders, Sargeant?"

Tara shook her head, and took a step closer to her friend.

"Donna, I just want you to understand that I'm in a difficult position.
I wish you trusted me enough to act on my instincts.  Since you don't,
things will have to change."

"Meaning you and I can talk, but Bill can't come to the party."

"Yes."

Donna sucked in her breath through pursed lips.  Then she pushed past
Tara and went into the house, shutting the door after Tara followed.

"I think we'll leave in the morning, Tara.  Bill and I. I think we'll
just head on back to my place.

But before we go, I have a few things to say.  First, we're either
friends or we aren't.  If we're friends, then you owe me an
explanation.  You can't hide behind your oaths and potions and pledges.
You talk to me straight, or you hug me goodbye until you're ready to
pick up and be friends again.  But I can't take this anymore.  You're
just like Jorge."

Tara tried to steer clear of the conversation, fussing with her coat,
running a finger over the hall table, trying to place Donna's second
husband.

"Why on earth would I remind you of Jorge?"

"Because you're gutless."  Silence.  Deep, show stopping silence
enveloped them.  Donna dug in.

"You are, Tara.  You don't have the guts to tell me to my face, so
you're pulling this long-suffering,
you'd-never-understand-in-a-million-years act.  One of us has got to do
something.  Since you don't have the guts, I will."  Donna sighed and
plopped herself down on a kitchen chair.

"You know, Jorge did the same thing to me.  He wasn't happy if the
house was too clean because it meant I didn't have enough time for him.
He was unhappy if I spent time with him, and the house went to pot.  I
was too loud in front of people, or too shy.  I couldn't win."

"This isn't really about you.  Donna.  Not in the way you think."

"Of course it is.  It's about the man I adore.

Everything that touches him, touches me."  She slapped her knees with
her hands and pushed herself off the chair.

"I learned my lesson with Jorge, Tara.  When someone acts that weird,
when you can't get a smile from them anymore, when they run away or
stick their nose behind a book and send out those cold, colder, coldest
vibes, it's time to move on.  And you're hitting the freezing point,
Tara.  So either talk, or it's hasta la vista and we pretend this was a
lovely visit.  Your call."

Tara paced, finding it hard to be stationary while she listened to
Donna's accusations.  Finally she leaned against the thick wall, then
slid herself into the deep windowsill and rested there.

"I have nothing more to say."

"You made him feel so welcome that first night," Donna said, pleading
for Tara not to throw her away.

"He's calculating.  He makes things up."

"He's anxious to please.  He likes to entertain."

"He's taking advantage of you."

"I'm using him!"  Donna threw up her hands.

"Tara, he's young, he's handsome, what on earth is he doing with me?
I'm not paying him.  Thank goodness I haven't fallen to those depths
yet.  He hasn't asked me for a thing.  Not money, not clothes, not a
car.  Nothing.  It's not like that at all."

"You're being used and so am I."

Donna took a few steps and waved a hand as she shook her head.  Now she
had the picture.

"There it is again.  You're being used.  You know you diminish my
relationship with him by insinuating yourself^ into it.  You've been
doing it since the minute we got here.  Flirting and blushing.  When
that didn't work, and he came to you for help, you used that to make
yourself more important in his life.  Now you're suggesting that he and
I separate.

It sounds very strange to me, Tara.  It sounds like you're using
everything you can to get next to him."

"That man is a fraud," Tara said quietly.

"He's not a cowboy and he's hiding a lot of ugly things, Donna."

"So what?"  Donna wailed.

"Who doesn't have secrets or faults to hide?  Are you so perfect that
you don't hide?  Please.  You're the worst.  First you hid from Ben
behind your father, then you hid from the world behind your profession.
Admit it, Bill reminded you that you're a woman and you don't like it.
It's as simple as that."

"That's disgusting," Tara rejoined, her eyes narrowing.

"That may be the way you see my world, Donna, but it's not my way.  I
don't slip between the sheets and share my home just because someone
pays attention to me.  I'd have to know more about him than he's good
in bed."

"Jesus," Donna breathed, her dark eyes wide and hurt.

"Do you think I'm a whore or something?"

Tara held up her hands and crossed them in the universal sign of
time-out.

"No.  You act on instinct.

You need to step back.  I know how you need to be needed."

She got up and reached out, but Donna's arms were crossed.  She backed
off and Tara did too.

"I'm just saying that you're a giver, Donna.  You always have been.
I've been overly cautious and even miserly with my feelings.  I think
our ways have made both of us needy and lonely at times.

Neither way is right.  But this time, I know, in the bottom of my
heart, that Bill is dangerous."

"You are sick."

"I am right," she whispered.

Donna passed Tara, their shoulders brushing as she went.  Tara stood
alone in the silence of her home.  She looked at the floor, her chin on
her chest.  It took three minutes for her to analyze what had happened
and conclude it was wrong.  Donna was at a disadvantage, without a
frame of reference, and that made Tara's responsibility greater.

She'd grovel if she had to.  If she couldn't get Donna to send Bill
away, then there was a greater percentage in keeping them together and
near, just to make sure that Donna remained alive and kicking.

She knocked on the door of the guest house twice.  When no one came,
she touched the knob, turned it, and walked in.  The place was quiet.
Bill wasn't about.  Tara would have felt him if he'd been within fifty
feet.  Something rolled off that man, an emanation of energy, that
couldn't be identified as evil, nor could it be counted on for good. It
was simply there, pulsating, incessant, and overwhelming as he pushed
himself through her life.

"Donna?"  Tara stood just inside the door and called.

Nothing.

Then she heard a drawer slam in the bedroom.  Come find me.  Here's a
little noise to guide you.  You make the first move.  Tara walked
toward the bedroom, following the audio crumbs Donna was tossing out.
But Tara froze in the doorway.

Every drawer in the dresser was open and most were empty.  Donna's
small lips were set in anger, her blond hair flying back and forth as
she turned to grab a piece of lingerie, a forgotten ball of socks, a
last sweater.  On the bed her suitcase was almost filled, and it was on
the suitcase that Donna focused, knowing full well that Tara was
watching.

Tara slipped into the room and hugged the wall.

"I'm sorry."  The apology hung in the air long enough to be frozen by a
glance from Donna.

Without missing a beat she leaned over the bed, and pushed and shoved
the clothes into a different configuration.  Tara's eyes flickered to
the floor.

Bill's duffel was ready to go.  Tara pushed off the wall and hung on
the bedpost.

"Don't, Donna.

This is just plain silly.  A man isn't worth our friendship, is he?"

"Our friendship probably isn't worth anything, Tara."  Donna's voice
was as tight as the packing job.  She pushed down the lid and leaned on
it to get the left clasp shut.  She did the same to the right and
talked through clenched teeth.

"I'm sorry, too.  Truly sorry it's come to this.  But you've been
impossible.  Wonderful and welcoming one minute, and the next you're
treating Bill like he's a psycho, and me like I'm an idiot.  If Bill is
so damned dangerous, then what's he doing hanging out here?  Huh?  No
answer, right?"

Donna took a second to glance at Tara, who didn't bother to answer.
There was nothing more she could say.

"You've got a serious case of attitude, and I don't care how big a
lawyer you are, or how busy you are, or what an upstanding citizen of
Albuquerque you are--it wouldn't have killed you to be straight with
me.  That's what friends do.  Or you could have pretended that nothing
was wrong.

Because that's also what friends do.  You couldn't do it, and it wasn't
'til tonight that I figured it out."  Tara heard a snap.  The suitcase
was loaded and ready to go.  Donna turned, one hand on her hip, the
other atop the suitcase.  She was breathing hard from the exertion of
her job and her emotions.

"You're transparent as glass.  You're lonely and you're jealous that I
always have a man and you don't.  I thought you really liked him and
were happy for me, but you wanted him.  Admit it."

"I will do no such thing!"  Tara's voice rose an octave to stop Donna's
tirade.  She rounded the bed and sat down heavily right under Donna's
nose.

"Have you ever seen me do anything stupid because of a man?  You
haven't.  Don't deny it," Tara asked.

"How can you reduce this to such simplistic drivel?"

"Because that's all it is," Donna snapped.

"Get real.  What Bill means to me has nothing to do with middle-aged
hormones, sweetheart.  If anything, he's the one that's been after me.
He came out to the corral that night you guys fixed dinner.  Ask him
about that.  If that wasn't a come- on, I don't know what is."

Tara waited, her upturned face a showcase of triumph.  She waited for
Donna to collapse next to her, stunned into silence.  Tara was sorely
disappointed.

"I know exactly what went on.  We laughed about it, Tara.  He told me
how you bolted, terrified of him.  All your big talk and you're still
terrified of a real man.  You ran away from Ben when he was whole.
Yeah, I know all about that night.  I think it's pitiful."

Speechless, Tara locked eyes with Donna's.  Bill Hamilton's spirit
stood between them, destructive and gleeful.

"Is there anything else?  I have a few things more to pack before we
leave."

"You're being stupid, Donna.  Very, very stupid.

I don't know how he's turned you against me.  I'm not afraid of men.
I'm afraid of Bill Hamilton."

Without another word Tara started to leave, pausing long enough to
scoop up a bright red blouse Donna had dropped.

"Don't forget this.  I'd hate for you to come back for anything."  Tara
lay the red silk blouse across Donna's palm.  As she did she caught
sight of a twinkle of silver just outside the window, a short flash of
something glittery.  So many things came into her mind's eye: a knife,
a pitchfork, a belt buckle.  The muzzle of a gun, perhaps.  The two
women stood bathed in light, framed by a curtainless window.  So
vulnerable.  Such easy targets, the two of them.

The moment of caution was past.  Anger was back.  It was a way of life
these days, but this time, Tara was going to make it work for her. This
was her home, her friend, and Bill Hamilton couldn't have either. This
was no ghost, no figment of her imagination.  It was Bill Hamilton,
liar and felon, she caught sight of out there.

Tara headed out the front door, hesitating on the step.  The wind was
up.  She pulled at a long strand of hair that blew across her eyes, and
lifted her head as if she could smell him.  She walked around the
house, her guard up against his tricks.

He could pop up anywhere or be found languishing near a tree.  She
could pass him in this dark and not know it until he chuckled.  She
would spin only to see that white bright grin of his.

"Not this time.  Billy," Tara muttered, slowing her step, keeping her
eyes wide open for any sign of life on this cold, now miserable,
night.

Finally she saw him.  He stood quietly with his back to her, his hands
in his pockets, contemplating the flow of the river at his feet. Slowly
Tara moved forward, steeling herself against any sport in which he
might indulge.  She moved almost noiselessly until the waist-high brush
kept her from going farther without commotion and greater effort.

Still Bill Hamilton didn't move, and Tara breathed hard, hoping he
wouldn't hear it.  Bill liked fear.  He fed on it.  Tara took a moment
before she spoke.  It was too long.  Bill beat her to it.

His voice was so beautiful on this clear and chilly night, so different
from the happy, manic cowboy who'd probably paid compliments while he
shot that poor, pregnant woman.  This wasn't the voice of a sanguine
seducer.  This voice could have brought her to tears, so lovely and
low, the words heartfelt and anguished.  He was unrecognizable because
of them.

"It's so sad to be loved and thrown away because someone's afraid of
you."  He turned his head but only far enough so Tara could see his
profile.  His head was raised, his handsome face turned just so as if
to be admired, hoping to be caught for eternity by an artist's hand.
But his eyes were on a star and it seemed he was not as aware of her as
she imagined.

"I cry when I think of the babies thrown away.  Abandoned in trash
cans.  Mothers who don't love them.  My mother loved me.  Oh, how she
loved me.  And look what I've become.  Donna loves me.  She's not
afraid.  You can't make her that way, Tara.  She sees what I am because
she wants me in a way you'll never understand.  You see the wrong thing
because you're afraid.  You won't admit it,

but you are.  And the funny thing is, you're afraid of the wrong thing.
Oh my, yes, the wrong, wrong thing."

He sighed as if he was saddened but Tara wasn't sure who he sorrowed
for--himself for being in such a situation, her for not being able to
understand the depth of him, or Donna for loving him so well that she'd
lost all reason.  He sighed and turned his body.  His hands were still
in his pockets.

He talked to her as if they had lazed the day away and were now at the
end of it, getting down to twilight talk.

"I'll bet there are a lot of people who are afraid of you."

"There's no reason for anyone to be.  Least of all you," Tara said,
using her voice just to see if it still worked.

"Oh," he said, laughing bitterly, "but there is.

You are a mighty fearsome person."  She could have sworn his lips
pursed as if he might throw her a kiss.

"You are the keeper of secrets, Tara, and that is darn powerful.  Maybe
that's why Donna's afraid of you.  You know all her secrets.

Ugly little things that could show the world how really useless she
is."  One hand lifted and he underscored his words with an almost
raised fist.

"Tell your secrets and you could ruin lives, shame people.  You could
make it so people die."  He slid his eyes her way and Tara thought for
a minute the old Bill was back.

"Hell, you could panic a whole city with what you know about me.  It
wouldn't be right for you to tell.  But you could do it, couldn't you?
There's nothin' really holdin' you back 'cept a promise, is there?"  He
looked away, almost talking to himself again as he stooped to pick up a
rock and toss it in the river.

"Think about that, just one little minute.  Oh,

just think about it.  Don't it make your skin tingle to think what
you've got in your head that nobody else knows?"  He was smiling now,
that famous good old boy grin.  His voice dropped, he bent from the
waist as if to tell her another secret.  But what he said came as
little surprise.

"I would love to have that kind of power, Tara.  I could have it.

If only I had been born a different man."

"You've got the power, Bill," Tara answered in kind, her voice as bare
of emotion as the branches of the winter cottonwoods.

"You've got a fearful power if what you told me is true."

"Aw."  Bill's body swayed as if embarrassed by the compliment.  Did his
boot chuck at the ground?

Had she flattered him?  Then his gray eyes were back on her and Tara
lay her hands on the brush to steady herself.  He wasn't smiling
anymore.

"Tara, to make someone afraid is so easy.  To make them live with fear,
to have enough power to make them wonder day in and day out if you're
going to tell something'--whoee, that's mighty."

With a sad smile, he turned away from her and looked back to the river.
Did he think of throwing himself in?  Wouldn't that be a blessing?

"I'd like people to respect me, Tara.  They should because of what I
can do.  But everyone doesn't know what I can do, and I'm so afraid to
tell 'em.  If I do, they'll expect so much.  I'm not brave enough to be
what they expect.  Are you?"

Tara didn't move.  She only stared at him, wondering how a man like him
could ask all the right questions, point out all the wrong things.  He
chuckled and threw another rock.

"There's even something worse.  To be weak when you look like you
shouldn't be.  Oh, damn," he sighed.

"When people find out this cowboy ain't got the power, they dis him,
Tara.  Dis him bad."  He sighed deeply.

"Have you ever felt like you couldn't make something' happen?  It's a
lousy thing.  Hell, I haven't been able to make life happen.

Those pills made me feel like I was someone.

Problem was, it wasn't the someone I should be.

Do you get it?  Do you know what I mean?  Do you see why I need help so
badly?  I don't think the someone I am is a very good person to be. I'd
like to be you, Tara.  I'd like to be the two of you.

One lady in her home, on her ranch; one the keeper of secrets, hard and
tough and no one can make her tell."

Tara's heart slowed, the night around her stop- framed for an instant.
Her head swam.  Who was this man?  How did he get into her life?  Was
he weak and sad and looking for the finale to the very poor play in
which he'd been cast?  The magic he attributed to her was nonexistent.
She had no power to protect herself against the fear Bill Hamilton
inspired, and there was certainly no power in knowing his secrets.  She
proved this every day as one by one friends turned against her.

Quietly, she drew on everything that made her what she was, calling on
all the strong spirits that had, over a century, imbued her with
tenacity, if not strength.  She would act out the role that Bill
Hamilton had assigned her.  Tara Limey made her demands.

"I don't want you to leave here tonight.  Talk to Donna.  She'll listen
to you."

Bill didn't face her, but she knew he was listening hard.

"It's time I used my power to help you then.  I want numbers where I
can reach your family.  I want to talk to your old girlfriend.  You
will see a psychologist tomorrow.  His name is Ben Crawford.

I'll pick you up and drive you to his office in the morning.  You give
me these things and do these things, or I cut you loose, Bill.  I'm
taking risks for you.  I'm not losing Donna because of you.  I will
tell my secrets and you will fry along with me unless you do as I
say."

"Really?"  Bill asked.

"Really," Tara insisted and she knew he didn't believe her.  She didn't
believe herself "Nine o'clock, Bill.  Be ready."

Fifteen

Tara took the steps two at a time and rang the bell.  The buzzer
unlatched the door and she pushed through, walked into the house and
down the hall.

"Ben!"  she called.

"You can relax.  I'm all alone."

She'd swung into his office before he made the hall.  They met in the
doorway and Ben backed off.

"You are alone!"  Ben looked around her, checking for himself.

"I am."  Emboldened by the adrenaline rush of this morning's surprise,
Tara skirted past as if she'd been popping in for years.

"Have any hot chocolate?"

"I'm not that creative in the morning.  Sorry.

Coffee?"

"I'll settle."  She shrugged out of her jacket and looked over her
shoulder as she went to the sideboard.

"Want some?"

"Already got it."  The wheelchair was on automatic pilot.  It whirred
while he settled himself behind the desk.  She slid on top of it and
cupped her mug with both hands as she blew on the hot coffee.

"You keep a clean desk."

"Only when I know I'll have visitors who prefer it to the couch," he
said.  He was ready for business.

"So, what's the scoop?  I was expecting to take a meeting with the
devil this morning."

"He took off.  I didn't hear a thing.  Donna obviously didn't mind
leaving.  She didn't even say goodbye."

"And you're sitting here instead of calling out the militia?"  Ben
asked.

"Can't even work up a good fury?"

Tara shook her head.

"Guess I finally got smart."

"That's fairly amazing."

"Something happened last night.  It's hard to explain."

Tara took a sip of her coffee, slid off the desk, and walked to the
windows.  She looked past the well-manicured grass onto the street.
Cars went by, people walked, everyone went about their business.

She turned around and propped herself up against the sill.  He was
smiling at her.  She laughed.

"What?"

"Nothing."  He shrugged, but there was more.

She smiled back, liking the way the few strands of silver in his hair
brightened his face.  He was still grinning.  She put a hand to her hip
and he gave in.

"Okay.  You look great this morning.  That's it.

You just look great."

Tara chuckled.

"That's nice.  And this is crazy."

"I don't know, I think seeing a beautiful woman in the morning has its
merits."

"I meant it's crazy that I should be so pleased that you noticed. Given
the fact that Donna's taken off with a crazy man, our friendship is
probably over, my client is still loose, and I am more convinced than
ever after last night that he's a nut case, I should be hysterical."

"Hysteria uses a lot of energy," Ben said.

"Besides, it's not your style."  Ben touched his coffee cup, gave it a
quarter turn, then tapped the top of his desk.

"But I have to admit you have good reason to worry.  Any idea where
they've gone?"

"He's not a fugitive.  They've probably gone back to Donna's place. She
built a mansion in the middle of the desert about an hour from here."

"Must be hard to get a good maid out there."

"She pays well.  Besides, now she has Bill.  I doubt they ever get out
of the bedroom long enough to mess anything up," Tara said.

Ben was amused.

"There are some aspects of this guy's psyche that work just fine if you
ask me, Tara."  She gave him a withering look.

"Be serious.  Last night was so weird.  I found him by the river.  We
talked.  It was spooky because he was so controlled--or maybe exacting
is the word.  He knows why he's angry, yet he spoke like he was sad. He
knows what he wants, but understands the violence isn't the way to get
it.  His voice was completely different than all the other times I've
spoken to him."

"That's not unusual.  Some who are mentally disturbed actually seem to
change their appearance depending on the depth of the psychosis."

"It was really spooky, but we also came to an understanding.

I told him that I'd cut him loose if he didn't give me something to
work with.  The other part of the equation was keeping this appointment
today.  I slept well last night because I was seeing an end to this
whole mess.  Then he does this."  She threw up her free hand, a gesture
of frustration.

"And I think the reason I'm not more upset is because I'm worn out
trying to second-guess him.  I don't know if he's thumbing his nose at
me, afraid of me, afraid that if I had the information I wanted,

he'd actually be committed.  Without his cooperation, I'm forced to
give up."

"It would seem that way," Ben agreed.  They sat silently for a moment.
Tara pushed away from the window and paced slowly.

"The only problem is, he's still got Donna."

"Tara, he isn't holding her hostage," Ben chuckled.

"Donna went with him.  If he had dragged her off by her hair, I'd be
suggesting we call the police right now."

"I know," Tara moaned.

"I know that.  Oh, God, Ben sometimes I think what he has is catching
and Donna's got it.  Do you know Donna actually thinks I was attracted
to that man?  Can you believe it?"

Ben laughed.

"I believe anything.  I'm a psychologist."

"Don't make fun."

"I'm not," he said, and she believed him.

"I'm just saying there isn't anything you can do short of running after
them to change the situation, and that's hardly productive.  So it
seems you made the right decision."

"I know.  But it would be easy to just pick up the phone and tell her
what I know about him.

I've already come so close.  Why not go the rest of the way?"  Tara
cupped her hands around her mug and leaned her elbows on her knees.

"Until last night I thought I could wait it out.  I was so sure
something would break.  Now I don't think it will."

Speaking softly, Tara looked at the floor, unable to meet Ben's eyes.

"You know, when Donna leaves my house, there's always something of
herself left behind, like a little bit of her spirit.  But this time I
don't feel her.  This time I feel him and it's awful.

And," she sighed, "since there is nothing I can do about any of this
short of giving Woodrow Bill's name or telling Donna she's sleeping
with a murderer, I'm going to have to move on.  If I don't, I'll be the
one who's nuts."

"I would have loved to meet this guy, Tara."  Ben was almost wistful.

"I would have been happy about that, too."

"Meanwhile?"  Ben asked.

"Meanwhile, there's one last thing I can do."

Tara stood up and put her mug on the edge of the desk.

"Can I help?"

"Let me use your phone."

"What's the number?"  He punched in the numbers as she gave them and
held the phone toward her.  She could hear it ringing.

"Gina Patton, please," Tara said when someone answered.

While she waited for her connection, Tara looked at Ben and Ben
mouthed.  Dinner, tonight?  She nodded and smiled, then her party was
on the line.

"Gina?  Tara Limey.  I need you to find someone."

Tara walked out to the courtyard to hang a ristra.  A pro bono client
had brought the string of dried chiles with great fanfare the day Tara
told Ben he wouldn't be keeping his appointment with Bill Hamilton.
That day she'd contacted Gina, one of the best private investigators in
the city, and put her on the payroll.  Three days ago.  There had been
a dinner and two lunches with him since then.  Tonight would be dinner
again.  The time she spent with Ben almost overcame the dread she felt
with the passing of silent days without contact from Donna or Bill.

But now the only thing on her mind was the ristra.  She already had one
hanging on the post near the far side of the wall where the
bougainvillea climbed, almost obscuring it.  Finally she hooked the new
ristra near the front door.  When she stepped back to admire it, Tara
saw the car.

It wasn't hard to spot and it wasn't difficult to figure out what to
do.  She'd been aware of it for days now and it hadn't bothered her a
bit that Woodrow, or George, had put someone on her tail.

Actually, it had been rather amusing when they kept their distance, but
now they were too close to home.  In fact, they were trespassing.

Sticking her hands into the back pockets of her trousers, Tara pushed
through the gate, her eyes trained on the olive green sedan.  Joseph
ambled toward her from the barn.  She held up a warning hand, then
pointed toward the end of the drive.

He came alongside quietly.

"You need help?"  he mumbled.

"No thanks.  I can handle this.  Go on back to Shinin'.  Think you can
get him out for some exercise today?"  She looked over her shoulder.

The horse stood at the fence watching his mistress.

Tara smiled, then looked back at Joseph.  He nodded, glared at the car
at the end of the road, and went back to his chores.

Tara ambled down the long dirt drive toward Rio Grande Boulevard.  Her
heel hit a rock and her ankle twisted.  She stopped to shake it out.
The person in the car hadn't spotted her.  All was quiet.

She went on until she was close enough to run her hand along the rear
of the car and over the fender until she stopped and stood quietly
watching the man in the car.  He slept with his head on the open
window, his mouth gaping and a cup of coffee balanced on the center
console.  Tara leaned down, bending from the waist.  It was time to
send him on his way.

"Hello?  Hello?"  Tara sang softly, but it was enough to startle the
man.

He bolted upright and almost lost the coffee onto the gear shift.  One
hand went to the Styrofoam cup, the other to his face.  He rubbed
frantically, leaving a red blush up the left side.  His eyes were heavy
and his lips weren't working quite right.

"What?  Yeah.  What?  I was just turning around.

Sorry, ma'am.  Was just trying to find my way.  Got lost." Tongue-tied,
he sounded as ridiculous as he looked.  George should train his men
better.  Tara sighed and put her hands on the car door.

"It's all right.  Don't worry about it, Detective.  It is Detective,
isn't it?"  She was patient.  She was kind.

"I appreciate the position you're in, but let's agree that this isn't
getting you anywhere.  I can't be intimidated, and you can't find who
you're looking for here.  Tell Woodrow and George that he's gone."

"He might come back," the big man grumbled, almost finished,
rearranging himself.  He'd even found the top to his Styrofoam cup and
replaced it meticulously.

"And then what are you going to do?"  Tara laughed.

"Arrest him for being a house guest?"

"We weren't going to arrest him," the man complained.

"Okay.  Intimidate him.  That's a great way to pass the day.  Save
yourself time and effort.  Sleep at home.  Drive only when you have
somewhere to go.

Don't drink coffee in the car.  Woodrow is not going to get anything
out of me, because I have nothing to give him.  And tell George I'm
really disappointed in him, too- This is a terrible waste of taxpayers'
money."  Tara stepped back from the car.

"If I ever have what they want, I'll get it to them.  But right now
that's a slim possibility."

"I don't think they'll like this."  The detective hunkered over the
steering wheel and started the car.

"Tough."  Tara stood back.

"Now, on your way, or I'll show you how much I know about tying up
people's time with frivolous lawsuits."

He breathed heavily, and it wasn't even close to a sigh of
disappointment.  George would have him doing something else equally
absurd by noon.  But the detective knew George better than she did.

"I'll probably be back.  Just want you to know."

"Park on the road," Tara said.

"I've got to do my job," the man groused.

"Then wait until there's actually something to do."  The suggestion was
lost in the drone of the engine.  She waved him off, watching until he
was out of sight, knowing that Woodrow must be desperate.

Slowly she walked back to the house, imagining how her silence now gave
Woodrow sleepless nights.  He needed Bill Hamilton more than ever.

Woodrow was no longer campaigning.  He was simply defending himself
against new, and ever more sensational charges that he had used his
power as the district attorney to hand out favors.  Fortunately
Charlotte's good works didn't go unnoticed and her pretty face still
smiled out from the society page as usual.  Opening the front door,
Tara wondered if they would ever speak again.  If there was no
resolution to this problem with Bill Hamilton, if he remained
untouchable, culpable only in her mind, would the broken relationships
ever be mended?

Tara checked the clock.  It was time for work, not time to reflect on
what could have been had each of them acted differently.  Tara grabbed
her car keys and briefcase and checked to make sure the answering
machine was on just in case Donna called.  She might decide it was time
to make amends.  She might need Tara.  There was always that
possibility.  Living with Bill Hamilton, it was likely.

"Morning, Caroline.  Any messages?"

"Johnnie Rae Riskin's mother called to thank you for making
arrangements on the billing.  The doctor wants to know why you haven't
been back in for him to check your arm.  I made an appointment for a
consultation next week.  Civil matter.

Ben called."  She waggled that particular message slip mischievously.
Caroline had been having a great deal of fun since she realized Ben was
not a professional acquaintance.

"He wants to know if you'd like to go riding with him before dinner.

He's going to start training for a marathon.  Actually he said he'd
wheel while you rode."

"Funny."  Tara pulled a face.

"I thought so," Caroline said.

"You've got a light day so I could make a doctor's appointment
anytime.

And I think a ride with Dr.  Crawford would be just the thing."

"Thank you.  Dear Abby.  And no thanks, I can make my own doctor's
appointment."  Tara took the mail and messages from Caroline, who
looked awfully disappointed.

"But I'll compromise on Ben.

Tell him I'll come by his place after work.  I'll run, he can wheel.
The way it looks, it'll take me the rest of the day to go through this
stuff.  I must say, I am feeling popular today."

"Oh yeah?  What else besides a lot of mail and phone calls?"  Caroline
put a chubby fist under her chin and waited for Tara to entertain
her.

"Nothing earth-shattering.  Just an unexpected visitor at home."  Tara
grinned, thinking she'd like to sit and gossip all day.

"But I can get some mileage out of it.  Would you get Woodrow on the
phone, please?  I'd like to give him a little grief.  After that, we'll
give George Amos a little what-for."

"You got it."  Caroline reached for the phone, disappointed it was
going to be a business-as-usual day.

"Give me three minutes to stash my purse."

Caroline nodded and Tara headed to the inner sanctum.  Settled, she
shoved aside the more mundane number ten envelopes, preferring to see
what had been sent in the padded one.  The intercom buzzed.  She hit
the button on the phone.

"Mr.  Weber's office on line two.  We're on hold."

"Okay."  Offhandedly Tara picked up the receiver, kicked back, and held
it on her shoulder while she ripped open the envelope.  She left the
staples hanging.  Inside was no freebie from a promotional house, but a
pile of fabric, soft and smooth to the touch.  Slowly Tara pulled it
out.

Carefully she laid it on her desk.  The phone had slipped from her
shoulder.  She caught it and held it close to her face, half missing
her ear while she looked at the mess on her desk.  Mesmerized, Tara
unfolded it slowly, knowing she had seen it before.

"Woodrow Weber."

Woodrow's voice seemed far away and of little interest.  Tara picked
away at the fabric until it resembled a ruby sunburst, not the red
blouse it had once been.  In a revelatory flash Tara relived the moment
she'd touched it before.  Angry words.

Donna furious and cold.  Packing.  Leaving.  Donna leaving with the red
blouse in her suitcase.  Now it was here, in Tara's office.  Destroyed
not by accident but with passionate slashes of something sharp.  A
knife?  Scissors?  The phone popped from her shoulder and clattered to
the desk.  She could hear Woodrow's indignant voice as if he himself
had been dropped so rudely.

"Hello!  Woodrow Weber.  Who is this, please?"

Frantically Tara shoved her hand into the envelope, drawing blood as
the staples scraped over her skin, not caring what happened to her
until she found what she was looking for.  It had to be there.

Subtlety wasn't Bill Hamilton's specialty.  She pulled at that padded
envelope until it tore, she found a scrap of paper, nothing more than
that.  A scrap of paper with an apocalyptic message.

"I can hear you.  Who is this?"  Woodrow hollered.

Tara grabbed the phone and put it to her ear, the note in the other
hand.

Look what I can do.  Look what I have done.  Look what I can do.

The message was typed until the words ran off the page.  This was a
typewriter, not a computer printout.  Donna's typewriter?  Donna!  Weak
with fright, she steadied herself with a hand on the pile of fabric and
pushed the phone tighter against her ear as if that would keep her from
reaching through it to strangle Woodrow Weber.

"Start praying, Woodrow," Tara growled.

"He's lost it.  If I find a body where I'm going, it's on your head."

Before he could utter a word of protest or horror, before he could ask
a question, Tara slammed down the phone and vaulted out of the room,
holding the mess of red silk against her breast.

"Call the sheriff, Caroline.  Call them now.

Donna Ecold's house.  Ten miles east of Highway 25 off 518.  It's an
emergency.  Life and death.  Tell them it's an assault with intent to
kill.  Tell them anything, just get them there."

"Oh no, is it really?"  Caroline called after her, but Tara was gone,
the question ringing in her ears as she took the fire stairs two at a
time instead of waiting for the elevator.  She was too far away to
answer, but did anyway.

"I hope the hell not."

Forty-five minutes to Donna's.  A record, accomplished because the
roads were clear, the snowfall had been insignificant, and there wasn't
an icy patch to be found on the blacktop.  Potholes slowed her down on
the more poorly kept road that led to Donna's isolated home, but the
Jeep took those with gumption and Tara sped onto Donna's land like a
downhill cart on a rollercoaster.  Out of the car she moved fast, her
coat flapping, the remnants of Donna's red blouse still clutched in her
hand.

"Donna?  Donna!"

Tara took the steps fast and banged on the front door with her fist.
Nothing.  She rounded the porch.  It was a big place, a monument to
Donna's success as a writer and a triple divorcee.  Tara paused,
shielded her eyes, and peered into the dining room through one of the
long windows.  Everything as it should be.  She headed down the porch
and took a right.  Donna's car was there.  Another with a pointed star
painted on its side sat next to it.  The sheriff had arrived.  But one
car for a man like Bill Hamilton?

Suddenly light-headed, Tara stopped and held on to the side of the
house.  She held her stomach.

Nausea, dizziness, visions of Donna viciously attacked were clear in
her mind's eye.  They were almost too much to bear.  It would be her
fault if Donna was dead.  And for what?

Lilting her head, Tara tilted it back and took a deep breath.  In the
desert silence she heard voices.

They spoke without urgency.

Tara fell against the wall, leaning on her shoulder, turning her head
to it with a moan.  There was no frantic activity.  No paramedics.  No
one to help Donna, because Donna was beyond help.

Raising her hand, Tara buried her face in the soft silk.  She couldn't
smell the scent of her friend's perfume.  She closed her eyes and
couldn't remember the look on Donna's face when she smiled or cried.
All Tara could remember was Bill Hamilton standing by the river.

Tara pushed wearily away from the wall, and steeled herself to look at
him now.  Three male voices came from the kitchen.  One of them
laughed.  Confused, Tara opened the kitchen door and looked in.  Around
Donna's antique table sat two sheriffs deputies and Bill Hamilton. Cups
of coffee and smiles all around.

"Tara!"  Bill was up, his arms held wide as if he would embrace her.
She backed off, glaring at him.

The cowboy was here and he was good.

"Where's Donna?"  Tara was aware that one of the deputies had stood up.
The legs of his chair grated on the wooden floor but her eyes didn't
leave Bill Hamilton until the deputy spoke.

"You must be Ms.  Limey."

Tara whirled on him, her face flushed with anger and shock.

"Where is Donna Ecold?"

Taken aback, he nodded toward the double doors that led to the living
room.  Tara cut a wide berth around Bill and pushed open the doors with
such force they banged against the opposite wall.

They swished closed behind her, and sealed the men into the kitchen and
her in the living room with Donna.

Donna was bent over the typewriter, her little fingers pounding the
keys as if each of them were a thing despised.  She didn't stop when
Tara stood trembling beside her desk.  When Tara shoved the torn red
blouse in front of her, Donna sat quietly, stony-faced as if waiting
for Tara to tire and leave.

"What in the hell is this?  What?"  Tara demanded, tears of anger and
relief swelling painfully behind her eyes.  Her hand was shaking and
her fingers were weak.  She held it higher, as if for Donna to take
it.

"I don't know," Donna replied.  A split second later she shoved Tara's
hand away.  She was typing again.

"Stop.  Stop it," Tara cried.  She slapped Donna's hands away from the
keys and shoved the machine away from Donna.  Hair flying over her
face, she pushed Donna's chair back, planting herself between her
friend and the fairy story that held her in thrall.

"Look at me, damn you.  I thought you were dead."  Tara's voice caught
on a high note and was tempered by a sob.  She pushed her hair away and
turned her head to compose herself, embarrassed to find so much emotion
in her and nothing returned in kind.  Her voice softened to a
whisper.

"I thought you were dead."

"Why didn't you just call?  The telephone is an amazing invention."
Fake lashes swept over her cheeks, her eyes glittering angrily beneath
them.

Donna wore a new color of blush and it was harsh against her pale
skin.

"I did call."  Tara swung her head back to look at Donna, amazed that
her friend would think her so stupid.

"I called from the car three times.  When you didn't answer, I thought
the worst.  If you were all right, why didn't you answer?"  Tara's fist
hit the desk hard.  She ignored the hurt.  It was nothing compared to
what was in her heart as Donna sneered at her.

"Gee, I don't know," she countered sarcastically.

"Maybe I was indisposed.  Maybe you called when the police burst in
with their guns drawn and caught Bill and me in a compromising
position.

Yes, I did hear the phone ring, but for some reason they didn't want me
to answer it.  Or maybe you called when they had him down on the floor,
handcuffed, and I was screaming for them to let him go.  Or"--Donna
tapped her cheek with a finger and rolled her eyes ceiling
ward--"perhaps, you could have let it ring a little longer when they
dragged him out to the car to question him.  He was half dressed and it
was cold and he'd done nothing wrong."  Donna's eyes narrowed. There
was fury in them and her voice was frigid.

"I don't know, Tara, maybe you should have let it ring longer."

"I don't give a damn what they did to him," Tara countered, moving half
a step toward Donna as if closer, she would be made to understand.

"I

was so scared that you were hurt, and it was all my fault."  Donna made
a sound of disgust and got up.  She walked away, but Tara dogged her,
taking hold of her arm and pushing the red blouse at her again.

"Look at this, and tell me you wouldn't have completely freaked out if
you'd seen it.  He sent it" Tara gestured toward the kitchen.

"He sent it as a warning.  I thought it meant that he'd already hurt
you, but I think it just means he could.  He told me he wouldn't, but
now I think that was a lie or at least it's a cry for help.  Please
look at it, Donna.  Please."

Slowly Donna turned and looked at Tara with a lazy up and down.
Finally, she took the fabric and unraveled it, holding it away from her
with a great show of distaste.  She eyed it dramatically, judging the
amount of time Tara seemed to require and said flatly:

"It's not my blouse."

"It is your blouse," Tara cried in disbelief.

"I

saw it the night you left, the night I tried to tell you that this guy
was bad news.  I picked it up off the floor and handed it to you,
remember?  Donna, why are you protecting him like this?"

Tara hurried after Donna, who didn't break stride as she headed for the
main staircase.

Dressed in white from head to toe she looked angelic and avenging,
skating over the hardwood floor in her haste.  She pounded up the
stairs to the second floor and threw open the door to her bedroom. Tara
dashed after, studiously ignoring the tangle of sheets on the big bed. 
She was just headed in to the walk-in closet when Donna was coming out.
 The smaller woman pushed past her.

"Here.  Now tell me about whatever it is you think you have there."
Donna held up a red blouse.

"Three buttons, Tara.  No cuffs.  That's not even my size, or didn't
you look at the label?  That thing is polyester, Tara, not silk.  Now,
I don't know who did that, but it wasn't Bill and it wasn't my
blouse."

Tara ran her hands over the blouse, crushing the other one in her hand.
They weren't the same.

Not even close.  She looked toward the door, half expecting to see Bill
Hamilton standing there, getting a charge out of his little joke.  Tara
threw down both blouses and stormed out of the bedroom.

This time Donna was the one doing the chasing.

"Give me some paper," Tara demanded.

At the desk again, she ripped a sheet off the stack next to the
typewriter and shoved it into the machine without waiting for Donna.
She twirled the platen and the paper fed through askew.  Tara typed,
Look what I can do.  Look what I have done.  She ripped the sheet out
of the machine and dug in the pocket of her coat.

"Look, Donna.  Your typewriter.  See?  The dropped e?  Now tell me you
don't think your honey did this.  You can't be that blind.  He used
this typewriter.  Don't you think that could be construed as
threatening?"

Donna stepped forward and took the paper.

Without looking she crumpled it and dropped it on the floor.

"Tara, please," Donna said softly, so sadly it made Tara turn away. She
had lost.

"Don't do this.  He isn't worth it."  She looked back at Donna.

"I am not freaking out.  I'm not having some sort of after-forty
breakdown.  When have you known me to be anything but responsible?"

"There's always a first time."

"This is ridiculous.  That's your strategy where Bill Hamilton's
concerned.  Turn a blind eye.  I don't know why I should be surprised.
You did it when your husbands cheated on you, when your lovers beat
you.  You never questioned them until it was almost too late.  I've
stood by you through everything.  I've offered my advice, my
friendship, and my home when you wanted to run away.  You always came
back and told me I was right about those men.  Well, I'm right this
time, too.  But you've got to admit it before the fact.  After may be
too late."  Tara sniffed and threw back her head, blinking away
frustrated tears.

"I wouldn't have called the sheriff if I wasn't totally convinced that
Bill had hurt you, or was planning to hurt you.  I did it because I
love you."

"I appreciate that, Tara," Donna said, her calm oddly unnerving in the
face of such an outburst.

"But you're driving me crazy and you're not going to change anything.
I'm an adult, and so is Bill.

Whatever is going on here is very, very strange, and I understand that.
But whatever is between you two has to stay there.  I don't want to
know about it even if you could tell me."

"I will, if it will help--" "Don't.  Stop.  I don't want to hear a
word."

Donna held up her hand.

"Bill told me that you couldn't tell anyone about his confidence.  That
it was the law.  If you disregard that oath and tell me something you
shouldn't, it would kill you."

"I don't care anymore."

"I do," Donna said instantly.

"I don't want anything to change between me and Bill.  He's always been
loving.  I haven't seen anything that will convince me he's going to
change.  So if you can't accept the fact that I am happy with him, and
that he is going to be a part of my life no matter what, then we can't
be with each other.  It's that simple."

"Ms.  Ecold?"  Both women whirled toward the open kitchen door, where
the dark-haired deputy watched them.

"Yes?"  Donna stepped forward, her voice pretty and girlish.  Turn the
spotlight her way and the act began.

"Since there's no problem here, we'll head back if that's all right
with you."  The man held his hat in hand, respectful of Donna's wealth
and Bill Hamilton's winning ways.

"No, it's not all right."  Tara stepped forward.

"I'm Tara Limey.  I'm an attorney and I think you should do some
serious talking with that man in there.  I want you to listen carefully
to what he has to say.  I want you to ask him if he wrote this."

Tara held out the original note.  The deputy's eyes flicked to Donna.
Then he stood straight and put on his hat.

"Ma'am, with all due respect, there just doesn't seem to be any reason
to hang around.  The only one I see making a fuss here is you.  So
unless Ms.

Ecold, or Mr.  Hamilton, would like us to remove you from the premises
we'll be saying goodbye."

The deputy cocked an eyebrow toward Donna, then turned to the doorway.
Bill appeared as if on cue.  His handsome face was set in a dutifully
concerned expression.

"No, of course we don't want that," Donna said, holding her hand out.

"Bill?"

Bill slipped past the deputies to stand beside Donna.  His arm went
around her shoulders.  She was so small in the crook of his arm.  He
laid eyes on Tara and her face burned scarlet.  He looked triumphant.
He looked powerful, as he had wished he could be.

"Yes, you do," Tara said icily, accepting defeat.

"You don't want me here, so I'll go."

"Tara, I don't understand all this."  Donna turned her face into Bill's
chest.  He put his hand in her hair, a comforting gesture.

"Why are you doing this to us?"

Tara walked close to Donna, almost touching her.

"I am not doing anything that Bill didn't ask me to.  Maybe he's the
one who can't figure out what he wants."

The deputies passed a glance.  Tara had their attention.

She stepped forward once more, sanctioned by the hesitation.

"You retained me as your attorney to help you, didn't you?  Then let me
help you."

The deputies' ears pricked.  Little watchdogs waiting to see if there
actually was anything interesting going on here.

"Things have changed, Tara," Bill said quietly with a small smile.

"Donna and I are getting married.

She's gonna need me here, with her.  I got me some thinkin' to do,
Tara.  But I don't think you have to worry none."

"Maybe you're right.  I shouldn't worry anymore at all."

Without another word Tara left Donna Ecold's home, walked across the
porch, and climbed into her Jeep.  Turning the key, the engine came to
life.

She threw the gear into reverse and, with her arm over the backseat,
spun the wheel.  The car bolted, overcompensated when she pushed the
shift into drive, then tore down the desert road.  She was anxious to
get back to the city.  She had one more stop to make before she went
home.

* * *

"The polls aren't looking good, Woodrow.  I don't know what else you
want me to say.  We knew this was going to be tight from the very
beginning.

But with all this controversy, I don't know anymore."

Sandy Parker sat back and tossed his pencil on top of the papers spread
out over Woodrow Weber's desk.  He'd done his best.  Couldn't make the
numbers look any better no matter how he massaged them and he couldn't
change history-which was exactly what it looked like Woodrow was going
to be.

"I don't understand this, Sandy.  I've poured money into radio spots in
the last few weeks, I've gone to every group that's asked me to speak,
and I'm not gaining proportional points even in the short term.  It may
still be early, but after all this damage control there should have
been a change for the better this week.  Chris is slime for doing this
to me."

"That's politics."  Sandy picked up the pencil again and ran it through
his fingers.

"That stinks."

"Look, Woodrow.  I think it's time we back off from this strategy.  We
won't try to explain it anymore.

You won't address it.  You're going to stand up in front of people and
say that you've already discussed the matter.  Period.  We'll look
better than Chris.  We'll look classier."

"We'll get killed."

"It's the only alternative strategy.  Unless we can get something tight
on him and give as good as we're getting, I don't see any other way."

Woodrow sighed and pushed his glasses up on his nose.  He glanced at
his campaign manager, who was studiously considering the poll results.
For a minute Woodrow thought of telling Sandy about Tara.  There might
be a percentage in committing her client.  He'd like to explore the
possibility anyway.

He hadn't talked to Tara in over a week, so he had to assume she was
going to hold out until she got what she wanted.

"Woodrow?"

Charlotte stood in the doorway.  She was as good a reminder as any that
compromise shouldn't be a part of the Circle K equation.  He would hold
tight a little longer.

"Yes, Charlotte?"  He smiled.

"Would you and Sandy like something to eat?

I've got cookies, cake.  I could make some sandwiches."

Charlotte came into the room quietly and put her arm around her
husband's waist.  She pulled him close and lay her head on his chest as
she smiled at Sandy.  Sandy envisioned her face plastered all over the
city on posters.  She was a blessing.  He smiled back at her.

"I've gotta go.  Charlotte, but thanks anyway."  He looked at
Woodrow.

"Want me to leave these?"

"Sure, I'll go over them again later."

"I'll see you out.  Sandy."  Charlotte held out her hand to usher him
to the door.  She gave a backward glance to Woodrow and knew it had
been bad.  So she walked quietly to the door, beginning her goodbye as
she pulled open the door.

"Tara!"  Surprised, Charlotte stepped back.

"Where's Woodrow?"

Tara was in the house before Charlotte could say another word.  Sandy
moved to the side, knowing better than to offer his hello.  Tara looked
like a hornet.

"He's in his office in the back, but ..."  Tara walked past Charlotte,
ignoring Sandy.  Charlotte was on her heels.

"Tara, he's busy right now, and I don't think we should disturb him.
He's had a terrible day."

Tara whirled on Charlotte, surprising and intimidating her in her own
home.  For that, Tara felt a twinge of regret.  She took a breath and
calmed herself.

"Charlotte, I don't mean to be rude, but I didn't stop in for a chat.
I'm sure Woodrow will fill you in on the details and that's his
prerogative.  But right now, I've got to see him."

Tara was gone, leaving Charlotte and Sandy stunned in her wake.  Down
the hall she threw open Woodrow's door and slammed it behind her.

"Do you want me to stay?"  Sandy asked.

Charlotte shook her head, "No, thanks."

"Looks like Woodrow has his hands full, huh?"

"More than you know," Charlotte answered, then murmured her goodbyes.

In the kitchen Charlotte poured herself a cup of tea, decided that
wasn't what she wanted at all, and dug in her purse for her pack of
cigarettes.

Even that wouldn't do it.  So Charlotte sat at the kitchen table
listening to raised voices.

Tara's voice drowned out Woodrow's and Charlotte cringed.

Charlotte left the kitchen table when she heard the door of Woodrow's
office open again.  She was waiting in the living room when Tara
appeared looking drawn and pale, moving slower than when she'd come in.
As she passed, Tara put a hand out, but Charlotte stopped her, taking
her arm and pushing it away before she could be touched.

Startled, Tara looked up and she saw a person she didn't know.  There
was an edge about Charlotte.

Her smile was gone, replaced by a grim mouth that lacked definition
without her signature pink lipstick.

"Don't ever do that again, Tara," Charlotte said, and the order was
more unnerving because it was delivered without emotion.

"Don't ever walk into my house and go past me as if I don't matter.

Don't ever come here on the warpath looking for my husband.  He
deserves more respect than that, and so do I."

"I'm sorry.  Charlotte," Tara apologized cautiously, deciding against
the hundred other things she'd like to say.  Quietly, she went out the
door knowing Charlotte was watching through the leaded glass.  When she
was sure Tara was leaving, Charlotte went to Woodrow's office.  She
stood in the doorway.

"I'm sorry I didn't stop her, Woodrow," Charlotte said, happy to see he
looked no worse than before Tara had come.

"What did she want?"

"There was some trouble tonight.  She thought her friend had been hurt.
She says it's my fault."

Charlotte walked into the room and sat in the leather chair in the
corner.  It was the only place that wasn't covered with campaign
materials.  From this angle he did look tired.  He sounded it too.

"Is this about the Circle K killer?"  Charlotte asked.

"One and the same."  Woodrow ran a hand through his hair and closed his
eyes.

"Jeez, my neck is tight.  Do you mind?"  Charlotte shook her head and
smiled, doing as he asked.  She kneaded the muscles that ran across his
shoulders and waited until he was ready to talk again.

"Charlotte, I just don't know what to do.  I don't want to be
responsible for anyone getting hurt.  I couldn't live with myself if
her friend had been killed."

"You wouldn't be responsible, Woodrow.  Tara knows what she has to do,
and so do you.  She's the one with all the information.  She's the one
who should use it wisely."

"I'm not making it easy for her," Woodrow admitted.

"It shouldn't be easy.  Someone has to have backbone, Woodrow.  I'm
proud that you're not caving in."

Woodrow sat up straighten "Really?

"Really," she whispered and kissed him on the cheek, letting her arms
wind round him.

"Remember, Woodrow, you're a public servant.  You have considerations
that transcend the personal.  Tara's never been in the position of
being responsible for anyone but herself.  Her scope of loyalty has
always been focused on herself, her father, her friends.

She's never had to work for the good of the whole.

I'm not sure she could."

"You're right."  He patted her hand.

"I've done what I can.  There isn't any more I can do at this point.
It's a pity.  I think I could do a lot of good if I could bring that
guy in.  Not just for myself, Charlotte.  I know you understand that."
Woodrow slid away from his wife, feeling better because of her.

"Let's go upstairs."

"That's a good idea.  It's been a long day," Charlotte said.  They held
hands as they walked up the stairs toward the bedroom.  At the landing,
Charlotte paused.

"You know, Woodrow, I have a funny feeling things are going to get
better for you real soon."

Woodrow squeezed her hand in thanks.  But she knew he didn't believe
her.  She also knew that he should.

Tara was on his doorstep.  Again.  Without an invitation.

Again.  The place was dark, but that was to be expected.  It was later
than she'd imagined.

She was hungry.  She was tired.  She was humiliated.

But she wasn't worried anymore.  She wouldn't be that.  Donna had made
her bed, let her lie in it.

Tara rang again, cupped her hands, and blew on them.  The door opened.
She grinned, hoping she didn't look pathetic.  Ben smiled back.  He
obviously hadn't been expecting visitors.

"You're ruining my social life, Limey."

"Guess you're starting to feel used, huh, Crawford."

"What the heck, let's see how much I can take."

Ben whirled his wheelchair back and smiled.

Tara stepped through the door gratefully.

Sixteen

"I'd give anything to get this guy into the office for a session.  He
is a piece of work."  Ben shook his head, amazed at the story he'd just
heard.

"You know, I didn't think I was missing anything in my work, but
Hamilton sounds like the kind of challenge that comes along once in a
lifetime."

They dined in the living room.  The sun porch where they'd eaten pizza
was just off to the right, the kitchen was straight ahead.  Tonight
they feasted on chicken.  No bucket.  Ben had cooked.

Tara was impressed.  The sauce was creamy, Albuquerque chiles forsaken.
There were peas, a salad, and bread.  She'd run out for wine and
dessert while he managed the feast in record time.

One gallon of cherry marble fudge had found its way into her basket.
Ben was kind enough to rave over her choice; Tara was smart enough to
know she could have left out the cherry and made him happier with more
fudge.  Either he'd changed over the years or, as when they were
teenagers, he'd let her run roughshod over life's little decisions.

Tara stood in the doorway of the kitchen and held up the ice cream.

"More?"

Ben patted his middle.

"Better not.  I've only got half of me to keep in shape, but I still
have to work at it full time."

Tara put away the carton, grateful to have a minute to herself.  It was
hard to listen to his jokes.

She went back, folding herself into the chair, wineglass in her hand.

"So the bottom line is?"  she asked.

She put aside the dessert bowls.  Little dotted cows painted on the
bottom caught her eye.  They were unlike Ben, who seemed to prefer
clean lines.

Perhaps he hadn't chosen the cow bowls at all.

Perhaps a woman had been with him, lived with him.  Maybe they'd sat
like this one night when she gave him this frivolous gift.  Maybe he'd
smiled at her the same way he smiled at Tara now.  The notion made Tara
feel odd.  She was jealous.  After all these years, she still cared.
After all he'd been through, she still wanted him.

"I haven't the foggiest idea what the bottom line is."  Ben laughed and
she joined in, ignoring the painted cows.  His laugh faded, but not the
pleasure she saw in his eyes.

"You look so beautiful when you do that."

"Thank you," she answered, only to find herself uncomfortable in the
silence that followed.  She prodded.

"Where were we?"

"A dead end.  I haven't got a clue what to tell you."  He put his
elbows on the table.  One finger drew little sketches on the hard wood
as he thought.

"Since I haven't met Bill, I can only speculate on the outline you've
sketched for me.

I can't see the dimensions.  In my line of work you don't discount
vibes.

"For instance, I could interpret his offhandedness with the police any
number of ways.  He doesn't rock the boat by acting normal, he skirts
arrest on a lesser charge.  On the other hand, he could be pushing the
system to the limit.  Kind of thumbing his nose at it.  I'd tend to
think it's the latter since he knew there would be some consequences
for sending you that shredded blouse."

"Where do I fit in?  If that's what he wants to do, let him play games
with the police.  George would love it."

"If he wanted to do that, he'd kill someone else."  Ben laid his hands
flat on the table.

"Then it would be between him and the cops.  But that's not what he
wants.  You're the system.  You're successful within it, you're able to
work through it, understand it, and he thinks you can manipulate it.
Maybe it's keeping you on edge that's fun.

When you get the commitment papers, he's won.

If he was playing the same game with the police, he'd eventually lose
and be put in prison."

Tara set down her wineglass and pushed it away.

"Ben, do you think he really wants help?"

"At first he asked for it as honestly as he could.

Just because he seems up all the time doesn't mean there isn't
something eating away at him.  He could be tortured, he could be
troubled, he could be evil."  Ben shrugged as if to say take your
choice.

"When we were by the river, I drought he was a tortured soul, but he
changes so quickly.  The things he says sound normal, yet the look
behind his eyes isn't."

"Content and form of thought," Ben said, his bottom lip disappearing
for a moment.  He bit it and Tara had incredibly juvenile romantic
thoughts about die way he looked.  Ben's, tfiough, were still on the
problem at hand.

"From what you say, there seem to be disturbances in those areas. Let's
assume that his actions were imposed upon him by some external force
when he killed that woman."

"Oh.  The hand of God came down and helped him pull the trigger?"

"Not quite.  He might have seen something that reminded him of a
particularly terrible time in his life.  The woman he killed is doing
something, and it's that something that triggers his violence.  The
content of this fugacious tableau intersects with reality and boom."
Delighted, Ben opened his hands as if to show her how realistic all
this was.  Tara tapped one of those hands.

"In English, please."

"Sorry.  There's a delusional explosion, so to speak.  When Bill
complains about being nowhere and feeling nothing, that could be what
he's describing.

Bang, that poor lady is dead and he doesn't actually remember the other
bang--the one in his head.  His memory of a particular incident blacks
out an actual physical response to it."

Ben let her think about that for a minute, then added, "The form of
thought problem seems a possibility, too.  Statements that seem to lack
meaningful relationships to one another when you and he are
one-on-one."

Tara unwound her legs.  Bending over the table, she became reflective
as their heads came closer and she shared her secret thoughts.

"He was so charming, and part of the charm was that he was surprising.
Talking about his mother, then about country-Western songs, then about
needing help."

"Did you notice any change in tone when he spoke?  Like a flat,
inappropriate affect in speech pattern or expression?  For instance,
his voice monotonous, his face sort of immobile, like he's not
reacting?"

"Yes and no."  Tara sat away again, smiling as she realized the
futility of trying to describe Bill Hamilton.

"I can't tell, Ben.  Ever since I found out what he did, I think my
vision of him is clouded by the danger he might present to Donna.

That's exactly what I've been fighting against, that emotional
involvement.  It's not possible for me to be completely objective,"
Tara answered as honestly as she could.

"And now he's out of my reach.

I'm tired of him moving in and out of my life so fast.  That's the one
thing that really unnerves me."

"Schizophrenics do that," Ben said lazily.

"They force relationships, cling to people."

"Sounds like half the people I know."  Tara laughed.

"Putting aside angst-ridden middle-aged professionals we both know,"
Ben countered.

"I resent that," Tara insisted, flirting and enjoying it.

"Which part?  The angst-ridden reference or middle age?"  His hand
covered hers and it felt so good to have him touch her.

Bill was right.  There was power in secrets, but not in keeping them.
She'd shared hers with Ben and those secrets had the power to bind
them.  But her grin faded.  She saw only one part of him: chiseled face
with the full-lashed eyes, purposefully ignorant and all-seeing at the
same time.  His shoulders were broad and inviting, his arms muscled.

Ben's chest was so broad she could lay her head on it and want to stay
there forever.  But she could never forget the other part of him.  Tara
turned away and slid her hand from his, privately shamed by the limits
of her compassion--her passion--and he knew it.

"For goodness' sake, Tara.  Come on.  Don't do this.  Let's at least
talk about it."  He reached and took her hand in both of his.

"We knew it would come to this the minute we saw each other.  Let's get
it out of the way and move on and up or wherever you want to go."

Tara looked at their entwined hands long and hard, then used her free
one to lift his to her lips.

It was a gentle kiss, lasting only a moment before she lay them back on
the table and rose.

"I don't want this to go anywhere, Ben."  Tara moved off.  She didn't
know what she wanted, where she should go or what she should say.  Ben
came round the table.  She looked down on him.

"You don't know what you want, do you?  You never have where we were
concerned, and it's worse with me in a wheelchair.  But you're a big
girl now, I'm a big boy.  I've done my thinking and it took years.  I
was alone after the accident.  I had plenty of time."

"Don't try to make me feel guilty, Ben," Tara warned, knowing she'd
made herself feel worse than he ever could.

"I'm not," he insisted and he chuckled a little.

"Funny your first thought should be of blame or guilt.  You just hate
being wrong or less than perfect."

Tara crossed her arms, and studied the floor, refusing to look up.  Ben
backtracked.

"Okay, I'm sorry.  You hate being weak.  Maybe that's part of your
attraction to your client.  He makes you feel ineffectual and you have
to prove him wrong."

Tara glared at him.  It hurt that he should know this secret about her,
and talk about it so openly.

Ben twirled his chair and in one swoop caught up the two wineglasses.
With his other hand he took up the half-filled bottle of wine and gave
her a smile.

"Come on."  His wheelchair was on auto made.  It whirred past her.  He
stopped and looked over his shoulder.

"Come on.  It's now or never, Tara."

Unsure, she finally followed him into the living room.  Ben pointed to
a chair.  Tara sat.  He handed her a glass, but she shook her head so
he set both aside along with the bottle.

"Don't stare at me like that."  Ben grinned.

"Don't analyze me," she groused.

"Why not?  I've done nothing for years except try to figure us out.
Even when I began living a full life again, when I began to enjoy women
again, you were always there, Tara.  I missed you.  I loved you.  I
love you still.  I can't ask you to love me back, but I can ask you to
let go of all the things you've buried for years.  I think you want
more than my help.  I think you want my forgiveness for being cowardly.
But it wasn't cowardly to be afraid of what happened to me.  We might
have grown apart anyway, even if that car hadn't left me like this."

Tara shrugged.

"We might have.  But I like to think that we wouldn't."

"I think you're right," Ben said.

"I can tell you're still feeling something for the good half of me, and
then you think about the defective part of me and it scares you.  But
there isn't a defective part of me, Tara."  Ben leaned forward and said
gently , "There's only a defective part of my body.

It took me a long time to understand that.  I'm willing to wait until
you do, too."

"I do understand."

Tara pulled her legs up beneath her and then realized how oddly
subliminal that action was.  Was she trying to meet him on his own
level; did she truly view him in pieces?  She planted her feet on the
floor again.  She wouldn't apologize for being whole, but there were
apologies to be made.

"Once I was in Washington, I remembered the way you'd been.  I
convinced myself you'd be that way again.  You had your mom and dad,
all of our friends, a ton of people to take care of you.  I convinced
myself you didn't need me.  I convinced myself you wouldn't miss me the
way I missed you."

"Tara, I needed you so much.  I missed you every single day.  But I was
too proud to pick up the phone and tell you I was scared."  Ben shook
his head.  He poured half a glass of wine, then forgot to drink it.

"My parents tried desperately to be strong.  Our friends had other
things to do.  There was no one to just sit and hold my hand and let me
be afraid.  I would have killed to have just one hour with you."

"Ben, please."

"That was only a wish, Tara.  Now I'm glad you weren't there.  If you
had been, you would have seen me as half a person.  You would have
hated me for being so needy."

"I could have done whatever you needed."

"Yes, you could have," he agreed.

"The question always was, would you have felt the same way if the only
thing I'd needed from you was strength?  I don't think so.  But I'm not
half anymore.  I'm whole and I don't think all that love is dead.  I
really don't."

"Of course it isn't," Tara said quietly, closing her eyes.  She was
aware of everything around her: the warmth of his home, the nubby
fabric of the chair, his closeness, his curiosity, his feelings--hers.
Without opening her eyes she began to speak.

"My father was a very strong man.  I watched how he dealt with his hurt
and fear when he was dying.  Then I understood why I am the way I am.

"He dealt with it by not acknowledging it.  Three days before he died
he talked about my mother and how her death had left him weak with
sorrow.

He told me that he was proud that he'd kept me out of harm's way by
teaching me how to snap my eyes forward and put one foot in front of
the other.  He could die happy because he'd taught me how to control my
feelings."  Opening her eyes, she looked straight at Ben.

"Dad thought I'd be safe if I knew how to do that.  And I was safe,
Ben.

When I saw you again, I realized that might not have been a good thing
to learn.  Now I think it may be too late to change."

Tara looked at Ben without moving her head.

Instead she shifted her eyes, and her lashes made phantom shapes on her
cheeks.

"And now here you are.  Stronger than me because you learned how to
live with what you've been dealt.  Stronger than me because you didn't
just struggle on, you really lived your life.  Stronger than me because
you recognized that love has failings and you accepted mine, then
turned around and welcomed me with open arms again.  You want honesty,
Ben?  I am honestly shamed by you and your understanding, and I truly
do still care."

"And what," he asked, "do you honestly want?"

"For you and me?"  Tara moved her head on the back of the chair.

"I don't know.  I'm not that courageous.  I'm coming back to you again
and again, almost hoping you'll throw me out and make the decision for
me."

"So far I haven't had the urge," he chuckled.

"But I'm not even sure we can get to it until you figure out what you
want from this thing with Bill Hamilton."

"I just want it to be over," Tara said, then qualified her statement.

"I want my life back."

"Then take it back.  He's stealing all the things you love.  Your
security.  Your sense of control.  Take them back, Tara."

"I can't do anything to jeopardize my license, my standing as an
attorney, and I don't want my life back at the expense of justice," she
insisted.

"I'm not asking you to.  I'm asking you to make a decision that's based
on something other than written rules.  You've got to make a decision
that will let your conscience rest.  There are ways.  There are things
you can find out about Bill Hamilton.

Bring pressure to bear wherever you can.  On Woodrow, on George Amos,
on Bill, on Donna.  Do it, Tara.  Don't just look straight ahead. Start
playing Bill's game."

"I've never played like that before.  I don't think I can do it and
still keep my integrity."

"Anything's possible, Tara," Ben said and reached for her hand.  He
touched it with his fingertips.

Those eyes of his looked right through her.

"Anything at all."

"I may make it worse."

"You may make things better."  He wound his fingers through hers.

"Take a chance."  He tugged on her hand and she pulled away.  He tugged
back and she was his.  He reached up and touched her shoulder.

"Life can be what you want it to be, Tara.  All you have to do is want
it badly enough."

He murmured and he whispered and he guided her down until she sat in
his lap.  Tara curled atop him and her head lay exactly where she had
wanted it--against his broad and strong chest.  He buried his lips in
her silky hair and they sat together like that for a very long time.

"Can you?"  Tara whispered as she climbed onto his bed.

"I mean .. ."

"I know what you mean."  Ben laughed in the darkness at all the things
she found so curious that he had come to take for granted.  He was on
the bed beside her, lifting his legs, graceful in the shadows because
of his strength.

"I didn't even see you leave the chair," she whispered.

"I thought it was harder than that.  I thought it should be--harder."

Tara lay on her side, her black hair tumbling over the pillow and the
spread and over her shoulders.

Ben pushed it away so that it streamed behind her.  He smiled sweetly
and touched the button at the high neck of her sweater.  He popped the
first.  Tara lay her hand at his waist, feeling the muscles underneath
his shirt, trying not to imagine the rest.  He popped the next button
and his fingers touched her throat.  She shuddered, still looking him
in the eye, hoping he would see she wasn't ready.

"How do you get out of that thing so easily?"

Tara's voice shook; she gestured toward the chair.

Ben gave it a quick glance as if he'd forgotten it was there.  Head
back on the pillow again, he moved closer.

"Upper body strength," he murmured, amused at her anxiety, determined
not to let his own show.

They should have done this in high school, but then maybe the memory
would have made it more difficult for them both.  He moved.  He kissed
her.

She kissed him back.  Ben Crawford was in heaven.

Tara Limey, in his arms again, at last.

"Do you .. . ?"  she said against his lips.

"Adore you?"  he asked.

"Yes."

He kissed her again.

"Do I hurt?  No."

He lay his lips against her cheek.

"Can I do what other men do?  Yes."

The kiss was longer this time, his mouth open, his hands coming slowly
up her sweater.

"Will you have to work harder?  Absolutely."  He slipped the sweater
over her head, then kissed the swell of her breast.

"But you've always been such a hard worker, Tara."

She sighed, she shivered, and she put her arms around him and pulled
herself closer.  With each breathy word, each tender touch, the
questions became as unimportant as the answers.  Tara rose to the
challenge, but worked no harder than he.  The man she loved was
complete, more so than any man Tara Limey had been with.

She had touched his legs, but desire had made them as lovely as if they
could have wrapped around her.  Later she would remember to cry for
them--she never had in all these years--but at that moment, those
wonderful minutes when they kissed and touched and his hands went
everywhere, and her arms and legs covered him, Tara thought only of
what was and not what could have been.  That was the first thought on
her mind when they lay together, covers over them, naked bodies molded
together, her head on his shoulder, his arm under hers.

"I've made a decision," she said lazily.

"Really?"  Ben was sleepy.  She could hear it in his voice so she
plucked at the lovely light hair that ran across his chest.

"Yes, really.  I've decided you're right.  I have to make things
happen."

"Oh, Tara."  Ben moved his head so that he looked away from her.  He
closed his eyes and pleaded, "Don't ruin it.  I don't want to hear
about work or Bill Hamilton or crazy people or anything.

Please, Tara, let me just lie here a little while longer."

"Not on your life.  You're the one that started all this nonsense," she
teased, running her tongue over her lips and lowering her voice.

"I just want you to know that I've decided I've done everything I can
for Bill Hamilton.  I haven't been running away at all.  I've begged
Woodrow for help.  I've told Bill what needs to be done and he's
refused to cooperate.

I've all but broken my pledge of confidentiality with Donna and she
still won't listen."  Tara kissed Ben's chest and smoothed over the
spot.

"So I will not breathe a word of what I know about Bill, but I won't
let him rule my life.  I won't beg Woodrow for help.  I will be ready
if Donna needs me."

"Bravo, Tara," Ben murmured.

"Bravo."  And he kissed her.

"And I will start living life as it should be lived."

She gave him a sly look.

"So whaddya say?  Shall we play it again, Sam?"

"I think I remember the tune," he whispered, and they were at it
again.

Bagels.  Cream cheese.  Butter.  Jelly.  Lox.  Capers.

Ben in bed beside her.  If it could be better, Tara didn't want to know
about it.  Unfortunately, after the food, and between the touching,
Tara managed to convince Ben the day must begin.  He convinced her to
postpone it a little longer.  It took another hour and a half to get
dressed, twenty more minutes to tear herself away.

In her Jeep, heading home to change before the office, Tara came to her
senses.  She had to wipe the ridiculous grin off her face by the time
she deposed the girl who had witnessed Johnnie Rae Riskin run into the
pickup truck with all the kids in it.  So Tara put Ben in his proper
niche inside her head and her heart and edited her deposition as she
drove.  She was whistling by the time she reached the house.  She ended
the tune with a flourish while she parked, and walked into the house
just in time to answer the phone.

"Hello."  It sounded like she was singing.  Knowing that was
ridiculous, she smiled anyway.

"It's Caroline.  There was a reporter here, Tara, about one of your
clients."  Caroline paused.  Tara could hear her hesitate.

"He wants to talk to you about the Circle K killer."

"Wonderful," Tara muttered.

"He's coming out to the house."

"Oh, no."

Wrapped in a serape, her feet up on the wall, Tara kept her eyes on the
long road that led to her house.  In her great-grandmother's day she
would have had a rifle slung over her lap.  A well-said word or two
would have sent the scoundrel packing.  Unfortunately, it wasn't her
great-grandmother's day and a few choice words could make front page
news.

The last thing Tara wanted, the first thing a few other people wanted,
was to make the front page.

Apprehensive as she was, now wasn't the time to sort out how this had
come to be.  So Tara stared blankly at the road.  Finally, a small
white car, much the worse for wear, came coughing and clanking up the
road and stopped at the gate.

Out of the egg-shaped vehicle stepped a man in desperate need of a
makeover.  His black hair stood angled out of his head instead of lying
upon it.

His shirt sleeves ended before his wrists began.  His lovely Hispanic
complexion was at odds with his rather bulbous nose, eyes, and lips. He
was a sight to behold, but a guy to be reckoned with.

"Tara Limey?"  He handed her a card with great ceremony.  Tara didn't
move.  He lay it atop the stucco wall.

"Martin Martinez.  Reporter for the Journal.  Heard you made a call the
other night to the sheriffs, and got the deputies out to see about a
disturbance.  Possible felony assault?  Like to talk to you about
that."  He sighed and looked about as if this were incredibly trying
for him.

"Please go, Mr.  Martinez.  I have no comment about that incident.  It
was personal."

"Not so personal if the cops were called."  He looked around with a
lazy eye but Tara was sure he saw a lot.  She didn't like it.

"You check up on every police call?"

"Nope.  Just heard this was a little different.  My source says you
have a client that's a real doozy."

He'd had a visual tour and was now back to her.

"Thought that call might have something to do with that client."

"What client might that be?  The doozy?"  Tara asked wryly.

"Don't have a name.  No charges were brought, so I don't have a public
record to check on the other night."

"Mr.  Martinez?  Can we get to it?"  If he had anything, he'd show his
hand now.

"I hear you've got something going on the Circle K killing.  I hear
you're keeping the DA from getting this guy.  Love to talk about that,
Ms.  Limey.

Two sides to every story."  She thought he might yawn.  If he did,
she'd laugh.  But he didn't, and she knew then how serious this was.

"I have no comment."  She stood and pulled the serape close.  He didn't
stand away; he held his notebook at the ready.

"But I do have a question, Mr.  Martinez.  Where are you getting your
information?"

"Sorry, ma'am.  Privileged.  Can't reveal a source, you know.  I talked
to someone, who had talked to someone else.  Circle K killer would make
a pretty good story.  Lot of people had a hard time letting that one
go.  Just doing my job, you understand."

"Of course," Tara murmured, and picked up his card.  She looked at it
to have something to do, then she tossed off the serape.

"I have to get to work.  I'm in the book.  If you want to bring your
source to my office, feel free.  I'll discuss anything you like as long
as everything's on the table."

"No other comment, right?"

"Nope."

"Can I quote you?"

"I don't think an offer of hospitality constitutes a story, Mr.
Mardnez.  And I might remind you, there are laws against posting
fiction as fact.  But you're a reporter.  You know how careful you have
to be."

"Yes, ma'am.  My source was pretty good, but I'll double-check.  Could
make a story out of what I've got.  You know, a retrospective.  Put it
in front of the public one more time.  Would be great to have something
from you, though, to round it out."

The man gave another Eeyore sigh.  Tara wasn't fooled.  She'd met
reporters she thought were brain-dead only to find them sharp as tacks.
So when Martinez held up his hand in what passed as a wave, Tara took
the initiative.

"On some other matter, Mr.  Martinez, and only at my office, please."

"Sure thing," he said, not put off by her rejection.

"You never can tell how these tips are going to work out, can you?"  He
looked at her, heavy lidded then looked away and began the tortuous
ritual of leaving.

Back in his little Good & Plenty car, he coaxed his cranky clutch into
gear and drove down the road he had come up only moments before.  Tara
rested her hands on the low wall and stood looking after him.  When he
was gone, she tilted her head back and howled like an animal, just
once, just loud enough and long enough to get it out of her system.
Finished, content knowing no one had heard her lose her last shred of
composure, she calmly went into the house, got her car keys, and headed
out.

"Woodrow, I thought we were done with this nonsense.  I can't believe
you're still trying to force this issue.  Does an election mean so much
to you that you would sell me out to the press just so you can look
good?  You've not only put a wedge between Charlotte and me, you've
brought George in on it, and now you're whispering in a reporter's ear
that I've got the Circle K. killer in my backyard."

Woodrow sat in front of Tara's desk, she behind it.  Not a harsh word
passed between them because Tara knew it would do no good to scream,
and Woodrow was still in shock.  This wasn't what he'd anticipated when
Caroline had called and asked him to stop by.

"What are you talking about?  I did no such thing."

Tara was surprised, too.  She hadn't expected him to look honestly
dumbfounded.  It threw her for a minute, but she recovered nicely.

"Woodrow, I came to you in good faith with this problem.  In good
faith, I assumed, you took a stand that wasn't concordant.  I accept
that.  Woodrow.  And I assumed that after we'd been to see Sepada and
it was clear that neither of us had recourse, we would let the matter
drop.  Didn't we agree to that?"

Tara sat back and looked at him full face, her blue eyes icy.  To his
credit he looked back quietly, waiting to hear what was next.

"What possible good could come from planting a story and scaring the
public half to death when there's no solution for our problem?  I don't
see how you could think that you could forward your campaign when you
can't deliver on an indictment?

And Woodrow, did you honestly think sending a reporter to my home would
intimidate me?"

"I didn't think anything, Tara, since I didn't talk to any reporter.  I
didn't send anyone to your house and I resent being called here and
spoken to like this."

Woodrow no longer looked surprised.  He didn't look angry and Tara
finally saw what kind of governor he'd make.  A good one because he
didn't back down and he lied like a pro.

"Resent it all you like.  You've been free with in forma don before.  I
don't see why you should balk at telling the press," Tara said.

"I'm willing to forget this.  I'm willing to go back to the original
deal.

A psychiatric workup and state commitment or nothing.  We'll just
wait.

"But if you pull anything like this again, I'll talk to the press.  And
I'll tell them how you refused to get a murderer off the street.  You
had the opportunity, and you blew it.  I think it'll make a fine story.
They can run it next to the Strober inquiry."

"You wouldn't dare!"  That got a cool rise out of Woodrow, but it was
Tara who stood.

"Yes, I would," she said calmly, gathering her papers.

"I just realized, Woodrow, there's very little percentage in not being
creative.  This is the new Tara Limey.  Be on your toes.  Now, I have a
deposition to take.  I just wanted to make sure we were clear about
everything.  Don't pull any fast ones, Woodrow, 'cause I'll pull them
right back, and I'll do it better.  If you'll excuse me."

"I will not."  Woodrow was out of his chair, meeting her halfway around
the desk.

"You're really arrogant, Tara.  You think everything is being done to
you.  Did it ever occur to you that you might have done it to yourself?
I'm not the only one who's been asking about this guy.  You've been
trying to get a psychiatrist to see your boy.  Since I don't have a
report, I'll assume nobody wants to touch him.  Didn't you tell me you
saw his old shrink?  Why should I believe that you didn't spill it to
him?  Or maybe he knew all along and he's been talking.  So get off
your high horse, Tara, because there are a hundred ways a reporter
could get something like this."

Tara looked at him, knowing in her gut that he was grasping at straws.
But her gut was telling her something else too.  Standing face-to-face,
she didn't feel the vibes she'd expected.  Indignation, yes.  But guilt
was missing.

"Look," she said, "I was ready to wait.  But now I have to make a
judgment call based on the facts in evidence.  Those facts tell me that
you have a history of sharing information, you have a use for my
client, and you could manipulate the press in your favor.  I have no
choice but to assume the leak is coming from you or is directed by you.
I'm asking you to stop now, Woodrow."  Tara hugged her papers tighter
and raised her chin.

"I promise you, no more confrontations.  Neither of us wants to be
running in and out of each other's lives screaming.

From here on out I take my cue from you.  You send reporters sneaking
around, I promise to give them a story.  And you won't come out looking
like Prince Charming."

Tara started to walk around him, but Woodrow stopped her.

"Tara.  Please believe me.  I had nothing to do with leaking this
information.  And remember this is my life we're talking about here.
You're saying you'll tell on me if I tell on you, like this is a game.
This could ruin my campaign, my standing in the community.  This guy's
a murderer.  He deserves what he gets.  I'm only trying to do what's
right."

Tara softened, seeing in him a man afraid, and she was sorry for
that.

"And I'm trying to do the same, Woodrow.  There are real lives at stake
here.

My client's, for one, and that's where my loyalties lie.  I've promised
to be his advocate.  I'll do that to the letter of the law and in the
spirit of it, too.

I can't worry about your professional future."

She walked out the door with a nod.  There was nothing more to say. Ten
minutes later, Woodrow was gone, and Tara was deposing a witness to the
fateful crash involving her client Johnnie Rae Riskin.  At least
Johnnie Rae's case would have a conclusion.  For that Tara was
grateful, and she gave her full attention to the matter at hand.  Even
when Caroline slipped into the conference room and pushed a note onto
the table beside her, it took Tara a minute to realize Caroline was
waiting for an answer.

Tara unobtrusively slid her right hand toward the note, still listening
to the woman being deposed.

She read it, and jotted her directive.  Caroline was to call Dr.
Crawford and advise him that she would be unavailable for an early
dinner.  She would be leaving as soon as the deposition was done.

Gina Patton had found Bill Hamilton's parents.

Seventeen

"Good."  Tara flipped through Johnnie Rae's file and found what she
wanted.

"Caroline, do me a favor and contact Johnnie Rae's employer.  Ask him
if we can change the time of his deposition."

"His lawyer's Phil Harmon.  We already asked for an extension on this
guy.  Harmon likes to keep his appointments.  This time he's going to
be mad."

Tara snorted softly.

"Phil only gets mad because changes interfere with his manicure
appointments.

Leave a message on my machine if you have any trouble getting him to
agree.  I'll call him at home tonight to see if I can straighten it
out.  Do you have the calendar?"

"Yep."  Caroline flipped open a black, leather bound book.

"How about a week from now?  Same day.  Same time."

Caroline shook her head.

"No.  You've got a meeting with the U.S. attorney about the casino and
the Women in the Judiciary reception.  The next day you're handling a
pleading first thing in Judge Ferguson's court for Shirley Templeton.
Remember?

She's on vacation and Ferguson screwed up the calendar before she left,
but you're free that afternoon."

"Okay, let's do it then."  Tara put on her coat.

"If you finish early, go home."

"Thanks," Caroline said, knowing she'd be lucky to leave by five.  She
handed over a neatly typed sheet of paper.

"Here's all the information including directions.  Gina didn't contact
Bill Hamilton's family per your instructions, but she's confirmed that
someone is living at that address."

"Okay."  Tara slung her purse over her shoulder, leaving her briefcase
behind.

"If there's anything important, give me a call on the car phone or page
me."

The elevator came quickly, but it wasn't soon enough for Tara.  She was
itching to get where she was going.  Finally she'd have something
concrete to put under Woodrow's nose.  Maybe even a living, breathing
human being who would add a voice to hers and convince the DA that Bill
Hamilton needed the protection of the law.  Maybe two.

Tara pushed open the glass door of the office building.  She hoped to
bring both parents back to the city with her.  Outside, the afternoon
was cold and bright.  Tara decided to settle for either mother or
father, when she realized that the insistent blaring of a horn was
directed at her.  A van pulled around the island in the parking lot and
Tara waited.  It stopped right in front of her.  Automatically, the
tinted window rolled down, and for an instant, Tara's heart stopped.
She imagined that window was a curtain and Bill Hamilton the actor
behind it.  But her heart was beating again and she was smiling a
second later.

"Need a ride, lady?"

Tara put her hand out and touched the dark green van.

"Nice wheels, Ben," she said, before climbing into the passenger
side.

"Turn here."  Tara put her hand under Ben's nose and pointed excitedly.
He chuckled and pushed it out of the way.  She apologized.

"Sorry.

Do you see any numbers?"

"I haven't been out this way for a hundred years, but I do remember
that no one worried about their address numbers being legible."  He
squinted behind his dark glasses.  The sun was brilliant.
Unfortunately, even a bath of bright light couldn't make this lay of
land look hospitable.  They'd left the freeway twenty minutes earlier,
and the highway ten minutes after that, in favor of a long stretch of
road that seemed never-ending and never-changing.

"Do you even know what town we're in?"  Tara's hands were folded in her
lap, but she could barely contain herself.  She would have gotten out
and run if she thought it would do any good.  Instead she lifted her
sunglasses as if that would help her identify something significant in
these generic surroundings.

"I know it isn't Albuquerque.  There."  Ben pointed with a tip of his
nose, simultaneously braking with the controls at his fingertips.
Another magical motion with his hands and the van went backward.

"That's wonderful," Tara said, delighted as a kid learning how to work
a Christmas train.

"This is the ultimate boy toy."

Ben laughed and revved the engine.  Backward they went again, Ben in
full control.  He pointed over her shoulder when they stopped.

"Can you see a house number there?"

Tara looked in the direction he indicated.

"Yes--2010."

"We're close then."  Ben threw the car into gear and they were off
again.

"How come you don't roll?"  Tara asked.  No question or turn of phrase
seemed wrong or awkward now.  Walk, run, put your feet up, take a load
off, were all words and expressions Ben had assured her would not have
to be stricken from her memory bank.

"You want the official explanation?"

"We can start there," she said.

"On the base of the chair are metal brackets which support a vertically
centered bolt under it, allowing a few inches for clearance.  Without
that I'd be bolted to every nook and cranny around."

Ben looked out the window as he lectured.  His voice slowed along with
the van when he tried to identify a number and picked up again as he
drove further.

"Underneath me is an electronically activated receiver.

When I roll over it properly, the receiver is activated and
automatically grabs the bolt.  It's the same technology
tractor-trailers use to hitch the rigs together.  Only problem is, they
have to take out the seat so my chair will fit.  I don't even get to
choose the upholstery when I get a new car."

Ben chuckled, but his amusement didn't last long.

They'd arrived.

Ben pulled to the side of the road.  The car idled.

They were silent as they scanned whatever part of nowhere they were in.
If it wasn't the middle, it was darn close.  Tara counted ten houses
scattered around the flat and rocky land.  It was impossible to tell
how far the farthest was and the closest seemed uninhabited.  Three
unleashed, mangy dogs ran about.  A horse was tethered in an area that
someone had forgotten to fence in.  The house was as ill cared for as
the poor mare.  Tara's heart broke, but out here people would just as
soon shoot her as listen to her run on about animal rights.  This was
the place where people came to disappear.  Their choice of location was
an unequivocal social statement.

If anyone was about, they were inside, alert to the arrival of
strangers in a car that was far from ready for the junk heap that
sprawled off to the left.  To their right three trailers were planted
in a neat row, oddly close considering the grand expanse of desert
around them.

Dead plants in dusty bowls were strung from the metal awnings of the
middle one.  A lone azalea struggled for life on the trailer nearest
the road and that shared the porch with a rusty bike and an ice chest.
The home in the back was up on blocks, a fairly new model with splendid
white siding and an awning striped yellow, green, and blue.

The awning had seen better days but it still looked almost new compared
to the ones on the other trailers.

"Guess we better do it.  Time's awastin'," Ben muttered, eyeing their
target.  They rode in silence as the van bounced over the rutted dirt
road and finally stopped in front of the trailer on the third
terrace.

The windows were curtained, the curtains drawn.

Air-conditioning units poked from two windows.

Bedroom and living room, Tara guessed.  She gave them as much
consideration as they deserved.  A metal chair, with specks of rust on
the legs, and a ripped, ineffectual screen door were the only two
items that were ill kept on this homestead.  Ben rolled down his
window, stuck his head outside, pulled it in, and grinned, happy to
have accomplished what they set out to do.

"Let's get to it," he said.

Before Tara could object, before she could suggest that he stay in the
van while she dealt with Mr.  and Mrs.  Hamilton, the rear doors flew
open, the electronically activated bolt disengaged, and Ben was rolling
backward, doing a whee lie halfway down the length of the van.  He shot
her a grin from the lift.

"Race you to the door."  The lift whirred and Ben was lowered.  Tara
was waiting for him when he rolled around the side.

Ben took the lead, his beautifully engineered wheels moving over the
uneven ground without so much as a shimmy.  Instinctively Tara reached
out for the handles on back of Ben's chair to help him over the lip of
the porch, but he was too quick.  Throwing his body weight, he balanced
on the back wheels until the front cleared the few inches between porch
and ground.  He was on the wooden slats at the same time Tara stepped
up.

"Nice moves," she said.

"You ain't seen nothin' yet," he shot back.

"Why do I have the feeling that's a prophetic statement?"

She knocked on the door.  He straightened out the chair.  Eyes forward,
they waited, giving no indication that they were aware of what was
going on inside.

Furtive steps could be heard headed their way, only to stop at the
door.  They could sense the person inside tiptoe to look through the
dusty peephole.

The footfall sounded again, this time in retreat.  A curtain swayed.
There was a face behind it, unidentifiable regarding sex, age, or
intent.  Tara slid her eyes toward Ben.  He didn't acknowledge her. The
curtain fluttered again.  Tara could have sworn she heard someone
inside thinking.  In the extended silence the only sound worth
listening to was the slam of a door somewhere far down the road.  The
desert was a wonder of acoustical engineering, something Tara was sure
the person inside the trailer wasn't aware of.

Tara bided her time, letting whoever watched feel at least complacent,
if not comfortable, regarding their presence.  She knocked once more.
This time the footsteps they heard were slower, heavier, and resigned.
The door opened wider than Tara would have expected.  A woman stood
behind it, head and shoulders showing.  She stared through the ripped
screen assuredly as if it afforded some protection.  She didn't speak,
but watched with the look of someone for whom wariness was a way of
life and the unexpected never brought good news.

"Mrs.  Hamilton?  Vera Hamilton?"  Tara asked gently, to put the woman
at ease.

The woman wasn't fooled.  There wasn't even the hint of an
acknowledging smile.  Just a twitch so deep down in her jaw Tara
wondered if she really saw it, or was simply desperate for a sign of
confirmation.  Ben sat quietly, comfortably beside her, impatience not
in his repertoire.

"Mrs.  Hamilton, I'm Tara Limey, your son's attorney."

It was a nice introduction, Tara thought, but the lady inside had a
different take.  She sagged like a rag doll.  Her face turned into the
door as if the wood were comforting.  She made a noise, sort of a sigh
and sort of a hiccup.  Maybe she was crying.

Tara didn't know.

"They got him then," she whispered.

"They got him and you have to help him.  Boy, oh boy.  They got him."

Tara moved forward.  Gently she opened the screen door frame and passed
it to Ben, who held it open as Tara put a hand on the older woman's
thin shoulder.  It should have been frail.  Instead it felt hard, all
bone and muscle.  It was her demeanor that was brittle.

"Mrs.  Hamilton, I'm trying to help your son, but no one has him.  He
isn't in jail.  Don't worry about that.  We're going to try to keep him
out," Tara reassured her softly.

Suddenly Vera Hamilton was all arms and hands and voice.  She pushed at
Tara, shoving her back out the door, open palms slapping against any
part of Tara's body she could find.  Instinctively Tara raised her
hands to ward off the blows as she jumped away.  But the doorway was
narrow and unfamiliar and she backed into the jamb, caught between wood
and a crazy woman.

"No!"  Vera Hamilton shrieked.

"Get out of my house.  Get out now if you don't have him in jail,
behind bars where he belongs.  Don't tell me you brought him with you.
Oh, damn, you didn't, did you?"  She half hopped, trying to look
through the window to the left of the door as she pushed and pummeled
Tara.

"Don't tell me you brought him here.  I don't want him.  I finally
found a place to escape from him.  Don't tell me you don't want him in
jail.  Don't--" Vera's tirade was silenced as quickly as it had
started.  Ben had flipped and maneuvered his chair so rapidly that Vera
jumped back in alarm.  He was almost between the two women in the
cramped doorway, his hand held high, Vera's arm clasped in a viselike
hold.  Stunned, the older woman looked at him fearfully.  A man, no
matter how he was incapacitated, was capable of many fearful things.

"Mrs.  Hamilton," Ben said quietly, "please listen to Ms.  Limey.
Please."

In slow motion he lowered Vera Hamilton's hand, still holding longer
than he should to make sure it would stay where he put it.  She lowered
her other one without being asked.  In Ben's eyes there was enough
power or goodness or common sense to convince the woman to move away.
As she did, Tara stepped cautiously over the threshold into Vera
Hamilton's world.

The place had a closed-up feeling and was uncomfortably warm despite
the cold outside.  The air was oppressive and stale, not with the odors
of cooking, but the scent of old tobacco and perfume.

Tara noted the perfume wasn't cheap and that, in itself, was curious.
There was, or had been, a cat in residence, but no litter box was
evident.

Two sofas upholstered in a lovely spring green print, three needlepoint
chairs, and a plethora of knitted afghans decorated the living room.
Vera Hamilton had a penchant for green and apricot roses crocheted in
3-D.  On the couch was another work in progress, the crochet hook still
laced with her last stitch.  In the corner was a console television and
a basket full of beauty magazines.  An enormous crucifix was on the
north wall.  Crazily, Tara thought to ask where the garlic necklace was
kept, for Vera Hamilton didn't strike her as one of the faithful.
Frightened, yes.  Religious, no.

From where she stood Tara saw into the kitchen and a small eating area
beyond.  The table was of good wood, surrounded by four chairs painted
bright white.  She doubted any had been pulled out for a friend of
late.  This wasn't a home that carried the spirit of neighborliness
even if there had been anyone to entertain.  A coffee cup with a red
lipstick stain sat on a saucer, obviously left over from the morning.
Now Vera Hamilton's lips were colorless.  The whole thing was odd.
Lovely furniture pushed into a mobile home in the desert far from what
Tara considered civilization.

She walked a few steps farther into the living room and sat down.  Ben
settled himself opposite Tara.  Together they waited for Vera Hamilton,
who still clung to the door.  Finally, disgusted by their tenacity and
her own impotence, she closed the door and faced the inevitable.  She
sat on one of the sofas and pulled an afghan over her, holding it close
to her chest like a shield.

"Mrs.  Hamilton," Tara said, "I apologize for surprising you the way we
did.  I should have called."  And you would have bolted.  Good
decision, Tara.

"But we're here on urgent business.  As I said, I'm your son's
attorney.  This is Dr.  Ben Crawford.  He's a psychologist.  Hopefully,
at my request.  Dr.  Crawford will evaluate Bill's mental state."

"Fat chance," the woman muttered, pulling her lips tight.  Vertical
lines were etched into them.  Lipstick would bleed right through the
little canals.

Her skin was sallow; around her eyes, deep wrinkles.

A smoker's face.  Yet beneath it all, there was a remnant of beauty.
Tara could see Bill there.  The high cheekbones, the clipped jaw, the
confident dp of the head.  He was his mother's son, and Tara wondered
if the resemblance was only skin-deep.

"I'm sorry, I didn't hear you."

"Fat chance Bill would let you near him, much less treat him.  He
won't have anything to do with psychiatrists anymore," the woman
grumbled.

"I'm a psychologist, Mrs.  Hamilton.  I can't prescribe medication and,
from what I hear.  Bill objects to medication, not to talking."  Ben
rested his elbows on the chair arms and opened his hands, a sign of
hope and friendship.  Vera Hamilton tensed, arms clenched across her
chest.

"No," she sighed.

"He doesn't object to talking.

How could he?  It's the thing he does best.  If nothing else, Bill
likes to show off what he does best."

She rearranged the afghan.  It was beautifully constructed but didn't
seem as if it would keep a body warm.  It would be a long haul with
Vera unless Tara found some way to lighten her up.

"Mrs.  Hamilton, perhaps it would be better if your husband was here
while we talked.  When do you expect him?"  Tara asked, and Vera
Hamilton actually smiled.

"Who told you about my husband?"

"Bill."

"Still spinning tales, is he?  Everyone believes him.  Even you, a
lawyer and a doctor."  Vera sighed and set aside the afghan in favor of
a pack of cigarettes from the end table.  Taking her time, she lit one,
sat back, and crossed her legs.  She was ready to settle in for a
chat.

"There is no Mr.  Hamilton.

In fact, it's amazing I had Bill at all considering how long his father
and I were together.  Must have been a virgin birth," she chuckled
sadly.

Surprised, but far from stunned, Tara asked, "Has there ever been a man
in the home?"

"None to speak of."  She raised a shoulder, shrugging off her love life
as if it were an unimportant thing.

"I was married for a few years, but Bill didn't like him."

Ben sat forward.

"Did you divorce because Bill didn't like your husband?"  In Vera's
eyes there was venom.  Bingo.  He smiled at her.

"Did you do everything Bill wanted you to do when he was small?"

"You watch out for your kid," Vera said, and took a long drag off her
cigarette, her eyes never leaving Ben's.  He could figure it out and
she was going to let him.  But it was Tara's turn to tug the leash. She
pulled Vera's attention her way, anxious to peel away the layers and
find out exactly who Bill Hamilton was.

"Mrs.  Hamilton, why were you so relieved when you thought he was in
jail?  Have you been in touch with Bill?  Are you aware of the crime he
says he committed?"

Sliding her eyes toward Tara, she stared at the younger woman.  The
change in Vera was incredible.

She filled out, or up, with her importance.

She smiled, sucking on the cigarette and blowing out her information
with the smoke.

"Which one?  Burning down Mr.  Taylor's shed in the back of the house
when we lived in Albuquerque?

Chasing after that other woman when she didn't want anything to do with
him, scaring her half to death?  Scaring me half to death?  Killing
animals and driving like a madman?  Talking like a madman?  Staring at
you, putting his arm around you, whispering things?  Which crime are
you talking about?  He's a criminal no matter what you're talking
about, and I'd be the first one to turn the key in the lock if you
could get him near a cell."

Tara's eyes flicked toward Ben, who looked back expressionless.  Vera
Hamilton saw it all and it pleased her to no end to have them looking
so hungrily at the carrot she dangled.  She narrowed her eyes and
warned, "I don't want him back.  I'll tell you what you need to know,
but I don't want him.  Do you understand?  I had to pick up and move
because I was afraid he'd come back."

Tara gestured toward Ben and included herself.

"If you're afraid of Bill, arrangements can be made to help protect
you."

"Hah!"  Vera was getting cocky now.  Cocky and nervous and neither Ben
nor Tara missed the last inflection.  Uncomfortable in the silence,
Vera talked.

"I'm afraid of Bill.  He's got a mean streak in him.  But I'm more
afraid of him because he can make me do anything.  I can't help that. I
don't want to see him because of it.  I'm tapped out.  There's nothing
left."  She looked from Ben to Tara, received no pity, and let out a
deep sigh.

"Oh hell, what's the use.  What do you want to know?"

"We want to know your impressions of your son, some factual details
about work, education, friends.

Fill us in on his mental state.  Diagnosis.  Times he's most vulnerable
to violence.  Things he dislikes.

Anything."

Vera's eyes flashed and behind them, behind the gray eyes so like her
son's, were memories that obviously had been wrestled with.  She began
slowly.

"He's a creature.  That's what he is," she said quietly.

"I don't think he's even human.  He's handsome.

Damn, he's handsome.  But then you've seen that for yourself."

Vera Hamilton bowed her head as if mourning, before raising it slightly
so her eyes found a midpoint between Ben's feet and his face.  Maybe if
he'd been a priest, there would have been solace in this confession,
some peace gained by looking him in the eye.

"I loved that boy like nothing you've ever seen.

Having him was the best thing I ever did.  It was a good pregnancy.  An
easy birth.  I held him in my arms and it didn't matter if he had a
father or not."  She sighed.

"I guess that's why his father didn't stay around too long.  When
you're that crazy in love with your baby, there isn't a whole lot of
room for a real man."

The cigarette had burned down to her fingertips.  Vera stubbed it out
and lit another.

"Women would come up to me in the grocery store and tell me what a
heartbreaker Bill was going to be.  Even then he'd smile so prettily.
Those women would swoon over a little boy: five, six, seven.  Just a
kid, and he had power over them."

Vera's head was shaking again.  She took a drag and blew a perfect
smoke ring.

"I swear I didn't know how I got so lucky.  His father wasn't any great
shakes in the looks department."  She looked at Ben, needing to tell
someone.  Then she decided Tara was the one who would understand.

"One day, when he was bigger, everything changed.  I didn't love my son
anymore.  I was in love with him, and the worst part was he knew it.

When Bill figured that out, he used me for target practice.  The way he
talked.  The way he touched.  I gave him everything he wanted.  All my
money, everything.  I was so taken with him.  For a while I thought I
was just being a good mother.  But when he was twelve, maybe thirteen,
I figured out something was wrong with us.  That's when I sent him to
therapy."

She smoked faster, but talked slower now.

"I thought if he could learn to control himself, then maybe I could
get back to being a regular woman, get rid of all those weird feelings.
It worked for a while, but then he'd come up and put his hand on my
hair or look at me with those eyes just like a movie, for goodness'
sake.  You know where two people just fall into each other's arms, all
hot and bothered.  But this was my kid."

She put her free hand to her breast and pounded lightly for emphasis.

"My son.  How could I ever have felt any of that?"  Her hand went down,
and when the smoke cleared, Vera Hamilton showed them a face full of
pain.  Tara wanted to look away.

She didn't.

"Was there anyone to help you?"  Tara asked.

Vera rolled her eyes, "Please.  Who'd help with something like that?
Who would I tell?"

Tara had no answer.  The shame this woman felt plainly consumed her.
Vera talked to Ben.

"We never did anything.  I want you to know that.  And for a long time
the pills helped.  Then, out of the blue, he'd be strange again, like
he was trying to seduce me."  Vera smiled.

"I used to be an executive secretary, you know.

Fabulous job.  Benefits, everything."  The smile was gone as quickly as
it had come.

"Then Bill started hanging around work.  He hung around the boss's
wife, and I got jealous.  Lord."  Her head fell back, snapped forward
almost immediately, and she reached for another cigarette.

"He banged the boss's wife.  I made a scene like a jealous lover.  Got
another job; it happened again.  Let me tell you, don't believe a thing
he says.  Don't do anything for him except put him in jail.  Don't talk
to him, or he'll convince you he's something he isn't.

Don't let him touch you," she spoke to Tara now, "or you'll be the
same as every other woman he ever touched.  You'll be lost."

Tara stared at her.  She knew what his touch could do.  She knew what
his eyes looked like in the dark.  She knew what she had felt and it
chilled her that his own mother had felt the same.

"Was your husband a cowboy?  Did he work on a ranch?"  Tara asked
softly, knowing the answer already but needing to hear it.

"Is that what he's saying his father was?  That's good.  That's funny."
Vera stayed quiet for a minute.

"That's sad."  Then she pulled herself together.

"No, he's not a cowboy.  I don't know or care what he is, or where he
is, as long as he's not in my backyard.  Some things are best kept
secret, and I want to keep my secrets.  I'm ashamed of them.  I'm
ashamed I'm his mother.  You tell him where I am, and I'll sue.  Then
I'll run.  So if you want anything from me, or Bill wants anything from
me, you can just forget it."

That was an invitation to leave.  They stayed where they were.  What an
amazing man Vera's son was.  His own mother was shaken with fear that
he might return and Donna Ecold sat quivering, fearing he might leave
her.

"Bill doesn't know we're here.  I want something from you, Mrs.
Hamilton," Tara said.

"You're lucky you got in here."  Vera Hamilton cautioned Tara not to
press.  She ignored the warning.

"I've promised to represent your son, Mrs.  Hamilton, and I intend to
do that.  Bill wants to be hospitalized.  He may have committed a
horrible crime, and if the district attorney can petition for
hospitalization, your son would be free from selfincrimination.
Instead, the district attorney wants to arrest Bill and bring him to
trial."

"Remind me to vote for him," Vera muttered.

Tara ignored the aside.

"I came here because I wanted to meet you and find out more about Bill.
Now that I have, I'm convinced more than ever that Bill needs
psychiatric help.  Unfortunately, since the DA and I can't agree on
what we want, I'd like you to sign the commitment papers.
Unfortunately, that won't protect Bill from prosecution should he
confess this crime to a doctor.  But he'll be out of the mainstream for
the time being, and he won't be dangerous to anyone else."

Vera Hamilton stood up.  She was a determined woman and she was
determined not to listen any longer.

"I don't want to talk to you about Bill, and I sure don't want to sign
any papers.  Maybe you've never seen Bill mad.  Maybe you have, and you
don't care because you have friends to watch out for you.  I've got
nothing except shameful memories.

No mother should have felt the things I felt.

Not that kind of love, and not this kind of fear.

Leave me out of it.  Go on now.  There's nothing more I can tell you."
Vera made a little shooing motion.

"Mrs.  Hamilton, he's asked for help.  Think what it took for him to do
that," Ben said.  She spoke without looking at him.

"And he'll bite the hand that gives it to him."

"Do you have any of Bill's medical records?"

Ben asked.

Vera shot him a withering glance.  There was pain behind it.  Finally
she nodded and went toward the back of the trailer, returning a minute
later.

"Might as well take them.  I burned his picture book."

Ben reached for the envelope and for a minute both of them were holding
it, linked together.

They looked at one another for a long while then Vera Hamilton let
go.

"It's all I've got left."

"You sure you want me to take it?"  Ben asked.

She nodded.  Tara and Ben went to the door in silence.  They were on
the porch again when Tara remembered she had one more question.

"Mrs.  Hamilton?"  The door was almost closed.

It didn't open again but it wasn't shut either.

"The woman Bill lived with.  Where can we find her?"

"You want to eat now?  Before we see her?"

Ben drove slowly, the envelope Vera Hamilton had given him on his lap.
Tara was once more bent over the map looking for the address Vera had
given her.

"Definitely not."

"It's dark.  It's getting late.  You're sure?"

Tara lifted her head, noted the street, then went back to studying the
infinitesimal type.

"I'm sure.

Listen, you're going to make a left on Zuni, then another quick left on
San Pedro.  Looks like about five minutes more.  I want to hear from
everyone we can tonight.  We'll go back and look at those records,
piece everything together, then I'll know what to do."

"I'm starving," Ben complained.

"Suffer," Tara said, adding a smile.

He responded in kind and they were quiet until they pulled up in front
of a small blue house.  Two bikes were out front and the garage door
was open.  Inside was a battered Toyota, surrounded by tools, boxes,
skates, and the other stuff life with kids was made of.  Tara got out
of the van, paying no attention to the whirrs and clunks of Ben's
descent.

They were halfway up the cracked and crumbling driveway when the door
of the house burst open, expelling four children of varying ages.  They
screamed, hollered, hit one another for no reason whatsoever, and were
precariously close to careening into Ben's chair before they suddenly
scattered and disappeared into the gathering dark.  Tara drew close to
Ben.  They watched the kids go, then looked toward the house and the
woman standing in the doorway, backlit by a low-light bulb.

"Hello," Tara called as they went closer.

"Hello," came the wary reply.  Mothers didn't like strangers in the
driveway when dinner dishes waited and kids were loose.  Tara and Ben
were close enough now to see the woman's round face.

Her skin was beautiful without makeup, but she looked tired and
worried.

"Can I help you?"  she asked.

"We hope so."  Tara went close to the door, holding out her card as she
did so.

"I'm Tara Limey, an attorney here in Albuquerque.  This is Ben
Crawford, a psychologist who is working with me.

We're looking for Paula Maxwell."

"Paula?"  The woman looked confused.

"You mean Paulette?"

Ben and Tara exchanged a glance.  Ben talked to the woman in the
doorway.

"We were told to find Paula Maxwell."  Tara looked to Ben, who nodded
his agreement.

"Who told you?"  The woman was suspicious now.

"Vera Hamilton.  Bill Hamilton's mother."  Tara hitched her purse a
little higher.

"We're looking for the Paula Maxwell who lived with Bill Hamilton."

Even in the dark Tara saw the woman pale.

Her voice wasn't quite so sweet anymore.

"Paula's dead."

That was it.  The door was closing.  Tara would have thrown herself
through it to keep it open.

Another dead woman.  Oh, Donna.

"Please, wait," Ben called and the woman hesitated.

He smiled gently, his hand was out to her.

"We really need help.  Please.  That wasn't what we expected to
hear."

"What do you want?"

Tara stepped in.

"I have a friend who thinks she's in love with Bill Hamilton.  She's
crazy about him and I'm worried about her."

The door was open, the woman stood back, dish towel slung over her
shoulder.

"I don't have a lot of time."

"We won't need much.  I promise."  Tara stepped into a neat-as-a-pin
tract house.

"My mom was a wonderful lady.  She had a sense of humor.  Her name was
Paula and she named me Paulette.  Everybody got us confused and that
just made Mom laugh."  Paulette shook her head sadly.

She was a big, attractive woman, serene and engaging.

But there was nothing shy about her.  She looked Ben and Tara in the
eye and kept her head moving so she didn't leave either of them out.

"Anyway, she had a real sense of life.  She shopped and went to the
bars.  She loved to dance and shoot pool.  My mom wasn't a lush or
anything, you understand," Paulette said quickly.  Ben and Tara shook
their heads simultaneously, offering appropriate though indefinable
murmurings.

Paulette smiled uncomfortably, not sure they really understood.

"She met Bill in a bar one night and fell head over heels.  Now, my mom
was really good looking.

I mean really good looking," she insisted, "but she wasn't twenty.
Heck, she wasn't even forty.  And here's this man who is just beautiful
to look at.

He was funny, paying attention to her in a way no man had before.  My
mama was in seventh heaven.

He wanted to be with her all the time and the next thing I know they
moved in together.  I couldn't believe it."

Paulette looked heavenward as if hoping her mom could hear her talking
about the good times.

She snapped the towel and laid it on her lap, smoothing her memories
out along with it.

"Was your mother a wealthy woman?"  Tara asked.  Paulette looked up,
her eyes gentle.  She shook her head emphatically.

"No, ma'am, not at all.  She was comfortable, for sure.  More than we
are, I'll tell you.  But not dumb like me.  She knew enough to keep her
legs shut and not have four kids."  Paulette laughed and it was so
sweet Tara smiled.  Obviously hanging around people under the age of
ten did good things for the soul.

"But she wasn't smart enough to get rid of Bill Hamilton."

Paulette looked startled.

"Why should she?  He was just wonderful to her.  He didn't look at
another woman that I could see.  He didn't take her money.  And when
she got so sick, he was at the hospital with her all the time.  And
that was a long ride.  We were all living pretty far out, and he would
get to that hospital any way he could.  Finally he let her buy him a
secondhand car, but he put up a fight about that.  Never could
understand it.

And then"--Paulette shrugged--"she died."

"In the hospital?"  Ben asked.  He and Tara exchanged a look and they
both knew they'd been waiting for the same thing: the gory finale.

"Are you sure?"

"Well, yeah.  She just died.  Bill was devastated."

Bewildered, she looked from Ben to Tara and pushed a strand of hair in
back of her ear.

"Bill had nothing to do with her death?"

Paulette blinked.

"Gosh, no.  He was really broken up when she died.  I think he really
loved her."

Hope was quashed.  Tara stood.  This woman couldn't be a witness to
Bill Hamilton's madness.

She arranged her purse, and tried to smile through her
disappointment.

"We've taken up a lot of your time and we've made an awful mistake.  We
understood they had quite a different relationship," Tara said.

"We'll be on our way.  Sorry to have bothered you."

Ben moved, Tara turned, and Paulette popped up, her hand out to stop
them.

"But don't you want to hear the rest?"  she asked.

"Don't you want to hear what happened after my mom died?"

Puzzled, Tara looked at Paulette.  She had changed.  There were fearful
memories too.  She just hadn't gotten to them yet.  Tara sat again. Ben
was settled.  They'd hit pay dirt.

"I loved my mom.  Actually," she said, looking a little embarrassed,
"I adored her.  I always wanted my life to be like hers but, well,
guess I wasn't as good at looking ahead like she was.  I liked the boys
too much."  Paulette colored and it looked lovely on her.

"I had three of my kids by the time I was twenty-one, and I've always
been sorry about that.  For them mostly.  Kids shouldn't have kids.

"Anyway, there I was feeling so down when my mom passed, and I guess it
didn't strike me as odd that Bill didn't leave when it happened.  I
could see that he was broken up, too.  So, since we were both grieving,
it seemed natural for him to hang around where she'd been.  I knew it
would take a while for him to find a new place and get used to being
without her.  But then I realized it was six months after my mom died
and he was still with me and the kids in the house."  She tipped her
head and asked Ben, "Don't you think that was weird?"

"I wouldn't say that was terribly normal."  Ben punctuated his opinion
with an encouraging smile.

Paulette seemed grateful and went on, plucking at some unseen flaw in
the sofa upholstery.

"Oh"--she rolled her eyes--"this is so embarrassing.

But it was kind of scary so I might as well tell you.  I said a few
things to Bill, about him maybe looking for another place to live.  But
instead of taking the hint, he just settled in more.

In fact, he got real friendly, if you know what I mean."  She wiggled
her brows.  There was no doubt about what she meant but Paulette filled
them in anyway.

"He was acting the same way he acted with my mom.  It was like he
couldn't tell the difference between us."

Paulette rubbed away the goose bumps on her arm.

"Now I can't tell you I wasn't flattered in a way."

She laughed deeply and rolled her eyes as if to say
see-how-stupid-I-can-be.

"But it was a really small way.  I always thought he was handsome and
everything, just there wasn't any chemistry between us.  I didn't like
him, or want him, or anything.  I told him to stop but sometimes I
thought it was my imagination that he was coming on to me at all.  He
started doing these little affectionate things.

Touching my shoulder, giving it a rub.  Kissing the top of my head. And
when I complained, he just laughed and told me I was dreaming. Well,
one day I knew it wasn't my imagination and I told him to stop."

Paulette pulled the dish towel tight in her hands and twisted it to
match the expression on her face.

Tara felt along with her.  She felt those eyes of his, the small
touches, the final, unmistakable come-on.

It made her sick to think of them.

"He can be intimidating," Tara murmured and Paulette looked at her
closely.  The two women understood something that Ben could not, even
if he spent the next ten years locked in a room with Bill Hamilton.

"Yes.  That's the word," she agreed quietly.

"You want to go on?"  Tara asked.  Paulette nodded.

"I had a boyfriend.  He's my husband now, but he was my boyfriend then,
and Bill knew it all along."  She caught herself, hearing the nervous
undertones of her protest.  Paulette took a deep breath and began
again.

"Mom had left him some money and he had plenty to move out on, but
every morning I'd wake up and he'd still be there:

saying all those things, touching me.  He was starting to scare me."

Paulette's voice shook a bit, just a quaver on the deep tones.  Tara
sat up straighter and noticed Ben was leaning closer.  Without
thinking, Tara touched Paulette's shoulder for encouragement.  Paulette
smiled weakly.

"One day, Bill was sitting on the couch, and I was folding clothes at
the dining room table.  Always a load going with so many kids.  Anyway,
Joey, my littlest one, was just learning to walk.  So he was talking
baby talk and toddling by when Bill stuck out his foot and tripped him.
This little tiny boy."

Paulette's eyes were wide and disbelieving even now.  She had shoved
her own foot out as if Ben and Tara needed to see exactly how Bill had
done it.

"Joey fell down and hit his head on the coffee table and started to
cry.  Bill just looked at him.

That was all.  I ran and got Joey and held him and patted him.  I gave
Bill a dirty look, but I didn't know what to say, so I didn't say
anything.  And I'm ashamed of that.  But I was scared right then.

I mean, if he could do that to a little kid and watch him cry, what
would he do to me?  I just hoped he would get tired of the kids and
noise and me not liking him.  But that day I knew he wouldn't go just
because I was mad at him or because I wanted him to.  That man had his
own mind about things, and there was no way to plan because he never
did anything the normal way."

"Was that it, then?"  Ben asked.

"He let the baby cry?"

"Sorry."  Paulette had lost her train of thought but she was back on it
now.

"Joey was crying and Bill stood up and put his fingers to his head,
like this."  She put her Fingers on her temples, her eyes closed.

"Then he put his hands down real slowly."

Paulette's eyes came open.  She looked at both of them and lowered her
voice as if they were around a campfire and she was charged with
telling a horrible tale.

"Joey was only whimpering by that time, and Bill took two steps and he
was right beside me.  I held the baby closer and turned away 'cause I
thought he might hurt him again.  But Bill reached out and gently put
his hand right on top of my head.  But it wasn't a nice touch.  It felt
real heavy and he let it lay there for a long, long time while he
looked at us.  I thought I'd had it then.  I was hardly breathing."

Paulette gave three short hard breaths as if she wanted to make sure
she could breathe now.

"Do you need a drink of water?"  Tara offered, wanting to do something
to keep her own skin from crawling, knowing Paulette had to feel twice
as bad as she.  Tara could feel Bill Hamilton's hand as if it lay on
her own head.

"No, thanks."  Paulette brightened momentarily.

"Do you want us to come back?  Do you want to do this another time?"
Tara asked.

"Oh gosh, no.  I don't think I'd ever want to tell this again.  I never
told my husband 'cause he'd kill Bill if he knew."  She laughed a
little as if pleased that she should inspire such passion.  She
continued, "So, he has his hand on my head.

Then he just walks outside.  It was strange because he didn't make any
noise and he had that great smile on his face.  I bet you've seen it.
Handsome as can be."  Tara nodded.

"He went outside and disappeared for a minute.

I watched through the door because he left it open, and then I saw him
come back.  He had a sledgehammer.  Well, I'll tell you, my heart just
stopped."  She put a hand to her ample chest as if to make sure the
beat went on.

"He looked at me.  Him out in that sunshine, me in the dark of the
house.  Then he smiled bigger and he picked that hammer up and whacked
the dog right in the head.

"Poor thing never knew what hit him.  It made this sound, a thump and
crack all at the same time.  Bill dropped the hammer near the dog, then
he came back in and sat down.  He left that dog out there rotting in
the sun.  He was all bloody.

Bill, I mean.  It was really ugly."

Paulette closed her eyes, seeing it all again in her mind.  She
shuddered.  Tara wanted to do the same.  Ben was intent on the story.

"I kept the kids inside the rest of the day so they wouldn't see the
dog.  By the end of the day I was near crazy myself.  My boyfriend was
out of town, and I had to do something.

"After I put the kids down for the night, I made coffee and told Bill I
was getting married.  I told him he'd have to go because it wouldn't do
to have two men in the house.

"I must have put twenty measuring spoons of coffee into that machine
waiting for him to answer.

I thought if I kept doing something he wouldn't hurt me.  And you know
what he did?"  Paulette's eyes widened as she looked from Tara to Ben
and back again.  She lowered her voice.

"Nothing.  He said good night, went to his room, and the next morning
he was gone.  That was that.  I haven't seen him since.  I don't want
to see him.  But I guess you figured that."

Paulette fell back, the couch pillow puffing out under her weight. She
had survived Bill Hamilton and was proud of it.  They sat in silence
until the troop of kids came rushing back through the door.

Paulette shooed them away but Ben and Tara were done.  They thanked her
and left.

"Did you hear what she said?"  Ben asked when they were halfway to
Tara's house.

"Every word."

"I mean the part about what she was doing when she told Bill he had to
leave."  Tara flipped her hair over the headrest.  She was exhausted
and Ben was hyped.

"Paulette was making coffee."  He tried to lead her train of thought
with a little whirly gesture of his hand.  Tara looked at him.

"The Circle K clerk was making coffee.  Come on, Tara.  Remember I said
that there was just a pinpoint of time where reality met fantasy, where
anger at something in the past triggered fury in the present."  Tara
sat up straighter, nodding as she realized what Ben was saying.  He
grinned.

"I think you better call Donna.  It's time she started serving tea."

"You don't think he'd do it again?  Not to Donna."

"Who knows?"

Tara planted her chin in her upturned palm and looked out the window.

"I haven't talked to her since I left that day."

"Then leave a message."  He hit the steering wheel with his open
palm.

"I can't wait to get to those medical records.  Actually, I can't wait
to meet the real Bill.  Tara, I can give you a report that will send
Woodrow reeling.  We'll have Bill Hamilton committed in no time with
what we've learned."

"So you do think he's mentally disturbed."

"From the little I know, there's no doubt."

"Then I should do whatever I can to help him."

"Yes.  I think you should."

Tara fell silent.  The lights of Albuquerque shone in the distance, a
glittering, liquid blur as they sped toward them.  Tara lay back on the
seat and wished it would be a good long while before she or Ben came
face-to-face with Bill Hamilton.

"I think there's wine in the refrigerator.  Soft drinks too if you'd
rather.  You must be beat.  I didn't mean to drag you all over
creation," Tara called as she went ahead and turned on the lights.

"Don't worry about it.  I don't get tired very often."  Ben's voice was
lost in the hall as Tara headed to her office to make a swift pass at
the answering machine.

She punched the message button.  There were two.  Caroline had called
with the good news that she'd managed to reschedule the deposition
they'd canceled, and Donna had called.  Tara smiled, so deeply relieved
she thought she might cry.  Tara kicked off her shoes and listened.
Donna, apologetic, was frenetic in her brightness.

"This is silly, sweetie.  I miss you so much.  Please, let's make up.
My place.  Saturday night.  It's an engagement party.  Stop rolling
your eyes.  Be happy for me.  All's well.  I'm in New York--I'll be
home Saturday afternoon.  You'll be surprised.  Bill's handling all the
arrangements.  If you're not there, we're coming to get you Sunday.
Please, Tara.  I need a maid of honor.  I'm sorry.  I know you are,
too."

Kisses were thrown from the East Coast and Tara smiled behind the hand
she put to her lips.  Donna was fine, safely away from Bill for a while
at least.

But best of all.  Donna had missed her too.  Bill Hamilton would be in
the hospital as soon as Ben could help put him there.  Life was good
and Ben was calling to her now, insisting she enjoy it after a very
long day.  Tara walked into the kitchen to find Ben grinning ear to
ear.

"Who did you get to do this?"  he asked.

"What a great surprise.  No wonder you didn't want to stop for
dinner."

Tara's mouth dropped.  Paralyzed by shock, gripped by misgiving, Tara
could do nothing more than stare at the butcher block.  It was a
veritable showcase of dining chic.  The candles had been burning for
some time and were stunningly misshapen, melted almost to the lips of
the silver holders.  Between the flickering tapers were two flutes and
a bottle of champagne, sweating as it lost its chill.

He had done it.

He was there--or had been there.

Fingers to her lips, Tara moved swiftly into the kitchen, whispering as
she did so, "I didn't do this, Ben.  I didn't make any arrangements."

Ben tensed, vigilant as she.  He scanned the kitchen, slowly doing a
three-sixty, looking for anything else out of the ordinary.  It was
Tara who spotted the wet-edged dinner card propped against the
champagne.  She read it before handing it to Ben.

"Dinner's in the oven," he said softly as he started forward.

Tara held him back with an open palm.  She was the one who put her hand
on the oven door, opened it, and took out the cold roasting pan.
Mechanically, she turned and held it out to Ben, showing him an
enormous hunk of newly butchered bloody meat.  Tara's eyes were on him.
Ben's mouth was open.  She was about to speak when suddenly she dropped
the pan.  It clattered on the ground, the noise horrendous and
frightening in the quiet kitchen.  The meat spilled out, blood
spattering everywhere.  They both jumped as it came to rest near the
legs of the kitchen table.

Something else fell too, the thing that had spooked Tara.  Ben was the
first to reach it.

"What on earth is that?"  he breathed, leaning over, adjusting his
chair to get a better look.

Tara's mouth opened, but nothing happened.

She couldn't speak.  She couldn't make a noise.

Her hands trembled as she touched the golden hank of rope that had been
wound around the animal flesh.  Her mouth worked, her lips moved, she
pulled her hand back as if burned.

Ben bent further, touched it, picked it up, then wished he never had.
It took a minute, but finally it dawned on him what this thing was in
his hand.

Tara's frantic eyes were on his as he held it--a hunk of Shinin's
tail.

Eighteen

Tara leaned over and flipped off the radio.

"I can't listen anymore."

"I never knew you could hear people sweating through the radio.  I
think Woodrow's broken ground," Ben said, his eyes on the road.  One
hand held Tara's; the other was on the steering wheel as they listened
to Woodrow defend himself, only to have the interviewer parry with
another embarrassing question.

"It's his own fault," Tara said without sympathy.

Ben gave her a glance that was as good as a whack on the behind.  She
shifted, but wouldn't back down.

"Okay, I'm being catty but he deserves it.

He's the one that started this.  That reporter Martinez wrote the
profile and as much as said there's a suspect.  Woodrow's leak
backfired, and I'm glad.  He can't say that he doesn't know who or
where the suspect is, so he sounds like a fool."

Tara slid her hand from Ben's.

"I'm not really worried about Woodrow, it's Bill.  He's bound to hear
about this.  Then what will he do?"

"Considering what I know about him, I think he's too narcissistic to be
worried about this.  If anything, it might give him a sense of
well-being, that he hasn't been forgotten."

"I don't think Bill Hamilton will ever be forgotten by anyone whose
life he's touched."  Tara sat up straighter and put out her arm to
point the way.

"There's the turnoff.  Ecold Drive."

"Cute," Ben mumbled.  He had both hands on the wheel.

"At least she could've paved it and put in a few lights."

"Donna may be eccentric, but she's not stupid when it comes to her
money."

"Smart woman."

"She was," Tara murmured.

"I don't want to go tonight.  Every time I think about Shinin', about
that man being in my house, it makes me furious."

"I know, but you've got to hang in.  Remember, this isn't personal.  It
can't be if we're going to put him where he belongs."

"I know.  I'll do my best.  You are going to try to get enough evidence
tonight, aren't you?

Enough to give me some leverage with Woodrow."

"I'll do my best.  I need time and he's the only one that can give it
to me.  Remember, he's been through this before with a psychiatrist.
He'll know instantly what I'm up to."

"Then we have to hope that he wants to give you time.  He can't go on
playing sick jokes forever."

"Maybe he'll want to prove that he's better than me.  Depending on what
you represent to him, I could be a hindrance as much as a help."

"There is that," Tara said quietly, hoping she never had to find out
what she meant to Bill Hamilton.

Ben put both hands back on the wheel and Tara flipped down the
passenger mirror.  It was lighted.

She checked her lipstick.  Hardly there, a bare color like the one on
her cheeks.  In this tiny bit of light she looked ghostly with her dark
hair falling down.  Was this who Bill saw when he looked at her?  Pale
with apprehension?  Did he see the fear behind her eyes?  She flipped
the visor back up.

"So who's going to be at this shindig?"  Ben asked.

"Couples carrying white-wrapped, silver bowed engagement presents?"

Tara laughed, grateful he was there to step between those memories and
her mind.

"I don't think there will be a paper wedding bell in sight.  You're
going to be hobnobbing with the cream of Albuquerque, plus Donna's
hairdresser and his significant other of the moment.  Probably one or
two people from New York.  Sometimes I think Donna built this place far
away from everything to test how much her friends love her."

"Sounds like I may have my hands full with more than Bill Hamilton.
Maybe I should go back into private practice."

"Maybe you'll be happy you're not in it when you meet these folks.
We'll know in a minute.

There's the manor house now.  Ain't it something?"

They both eyed the incredible structure.

Tonight the place was lit up.  The party was in full swing, it seemed.
Silhouettes of Donna's guests moved across the windows and Tara could
see the place was packed.

"Where do they all come from?"  Tara whispered.

"The woodwork."  Ben laughed.

"Throw a party, people come."  He pulled on the emergency brake and
looked at the house instead of her.

"Shall we?"

Tara frowned.

"If you're ready, so am I."

* * * "Tara, over here."

Ben called from the back of the house.  She found him a second later.

"I love this woman," he said and pointed toward the porch.  Laid over
the three steps that led to it was a large piece of wood that had been
stabilized into a ramp.  Tara walked toward him, leaned down, kissed
him in the darkness.

"She can be very special.  I never said she wasn't," Tara whispered.

"Shall we?"  Tara asked, her arms still lying lightly around his
neck.

"Neck in the dark?"  Ben mused.

"Nah, we better go in now that we're here."

Tara laughed against his lips, then lay her forehead on his, wishing
she could stay this way forever.

She was afraid to go in, even with Ben.  Bill Hamilton might touch her
again, or look at her with those metallic eyes and know that she knew
everything about him.  What could Ben do to save her then?
Straightening, Tara stood beside Ben and knew that she had come to hate
Bill Hamilton on one level and admire him on another.  He posed
questions she couldn't answer without thinking deeply.  In the
challenge of him was a challenge to herself.

Was she better than he?  Was she as good as the system?  More honorable
than Woodrow?  Yes.  And she would prove all of the above.  But the
persistent fear was something she hadn't expected.  She wasn't quite
sure where that fit in at all.

"I'm so glad you're here!"  Donna had Tara in a Lilliputian bearhug,
her little face tipped up so that her cheek lay against her friend's.
She whispered so only Tara could hear.

"I was so worried you wouldn't come.  But Bill said you would."

Tara held Donna away.  Yellow was the color of the day, bright and
young and joyous.  Donna was her own little ray of sunshine.  She
thought she saw something in Donna's face that didn't belong.
Triumph?

As if she'd proved her upper hand, and Bill's.  But the look was
fleeting and Donna was her own self again.  So Tara smiled.

"I'm really sorry.  I've just been so worried about you," Tara began,
but Donna talked over her.

"Stop it right now.  I'm not going to fight with you again.  I know you
can act your way out of any paper bag.  So act happy for me."

Tara held back.  Everything was shaded by the anticipation of seeing
Bill Hamilton.  She looked over her shoulder now, wishing he would
appear and grin at her so it could be over.  But Donna was pulling Tara
close, giving her a pep-up look when her attention was diverted and the
flirt meter began running overtime.

"It's Ben, isn't it?"  Donna let go of Tara and shook Ben's hand.

"I've heard about you since I was a girl.  It's about time you two got
together.

Tara's been pining long enough."  She winked at Tara.

"He is a dream."  Back to Ben.  Donna's version of tennis.  She didn't
even work up a sweat.

"If you get tired of this horsey woman, just let me know."

"I thought this was an engagement party.  I wouldn't want any trouble
from the lucky guy," Ben said.

"I promise.  No trouble from Bill.  He's very open-minded no matter
what you've heard."  Her voice dropped a tone to show her displeasure
but she recovered nicely, before Tara could take offense.

"You both need a drink.  Then we'll find Bill.  And Tara," she warned,
"I'm assuming the only words out of your mouth are going to be
congratulations or something of that nature.  Ben, I expect you to make
sure she doesn't get out of line."

Donna led them away before Tara could reply.

She held her arm up, cradling the champagne glass like Lady Liberty's
torch.  Ben and Tara followed, Ben taking time to whisper.

"Do you get the feeling that you just lost Round One?"

"Funny you should mention it," Tara said under her breath as Donna
ushered them into the heart of the party.

For ten minutes Ben and Tara were the center of attention of a group of
people who thought black was the proper color to wear to a joyous
occasion.

They were introduced from right to left and heads nodded.  Donna left
first.  Ben and Tara made small talk, holding hands, Bill Hamilton's
appearance uppermost in their mind.  More than once Tara saw Ben scan
the room, heard him falter because he couldn't remember the thread of a
conversation, so intent was he on finding the man in question.

Finally, the others melted away, leaving them with a clear path to the
bar.  Polite smiles still plastered on their faces, they breathed a
sigh of relief.

Ben raised Tara's hand to his lips.  She smiled, ready to tell him how
she loved him, and then he was there.

Bill Hamilton materialized, resplendent in new jeans and black and gold
boots, a shirt pressed just so, open to show off a marvelous chest.  He
was smiling.  Good old boy grin.  Had she missed him?

He swooped down on Tara.  He touched her.  Fingertips at her waist,
body turned into hers so the tips of her breasts barely touched him.
His face was close.  She thought he might kiss her.  Tara shuddered,
paralyzed by surprise and the intensity of her reaction to him.
Alarmed, she lifted her face, then with disgust, she raised her hands
to push him away.

He kissed her.

On the lips, moving one step closer like a lover.

His tongue darted out to cross her lips, a fluttery thing that she
could have imagined, but knew she hadn't.  Tears were coming, filling
up hard and painful behind her eyes.  She stepped back.  It had taken
no more than seconds for him to terrify her.

No more than a blink for him to become the aggressor instead of the one
in need of protection.

"Tara," he greeted her with a whisper.

She moved back two steps.  He lost interest in her and turned to Ben,
hoping to find another victim.

"Bill Hamilton," he said heartily.

"Ben Crawford."  Ben put out his hand.

"Dr.

Crawford.  We had an appointment a week ago.

Nice to meet you."

Bill's knees cracked as he hunkered down, ignoring Ben's hand in order
to put his arms on those of the wheelchair.  Ben was imprisoned.  Bill
looked him up and down, his eyes lingering on Ben's useless legs.
Bill's expression was concerned.

He shook back his long hair and finally made eye contact again.  His
face was hard, his expression cruel, but he smiled still.

"Can't say I recall, Doc, and I am truly sorry.

I'd forget my head if it wasn't screwed on, but usually I'm pretty
good at details.  Don't you think, Tara?  It's the big picture I have
trouble with."

His eyes never left Ben's; Tara never looked down at him.

"Yes, you're excellent with details."

Tara stood statue-like, afraid to move, wanting only to push him aside,
away from Ben.  She wanted to do something heroic, something that would
put Bill Hamilton in his place.  But Ben seemed to need no defense.

"See, Doc, what'd I tell you.  Tara and me, we're on the same
wavelength.  She's a good woman.

You're a lucky man.  Funny she'd pick a guy like you, though.  I seen
her out with that stallion of hers.  This lady likes a good hard ride,
if you know what I mean."  Tara swallowed hard and closed her eyes,
tensing with each contemptuous comment.  Finally she stepped forward
and faced him, her hand on Ben's shoulder.

"Ben, I think this might not .. ."

Ben smiled, but it was at Bill.  For Tara he had only a pat on the
hand.  He was enjoying himself.

"It's fine," Ben said.

"Hey, little lady," Bill said, slapping the right arm of Ben's chair.

"Come on now.  You been around.  You know how it is with man talk."

"Yeah, Tara," Ben rejoined.

"This is guy stuff.

Why don't you go find something else to do and leave us to it?  I think
Bill and I'll get along great."

Tara bridled at this ridiculous game.  Posturing for a dangerous man
only undercut their mission.

"I don't think so.  I know Bill.  He'll talk your ear off if you give
him half a chance.  Among other things," she added.

Bill threw back his head and laughed.

"Don't you worry none about that.  I wouldn't want die doc to lose an
ear when he's already lost those legs of his.  What else you missin'.
Doc?"

"Bill!  Please."

Ben squeezed her hand.  She stopped talking.

Ben smiled plea sandy and pinched harder, a warning for her to back
off. She was happy to oblige.

"I think I need a drink," she said.

"Ben?"

"No, I'm fine."

"Me too."  Bill laughed.  She glared at him.

"I'll leave you two alone then."

"Great."  Bill stood up and put his hand on the back of Ben's chair.

"Take your time.  Me and the doc probably have a lot to talk about."
Bill pushed the chair and Tara almost went after him.  She didn't want
him to take Ben anywhere, not out of the house or out of sight.  But
she held back and was about to wander away when he called her once
more.

Leaving Ben where he was.  Bill came back.  Tara tensed, ready to fight
if he touched her again.  He smiled genially, but his voice was hard.

"I saw the paper.  Someone's nosin' around about die Circle K. They
lookin' for me, Tara?"

He touched the tip of her hair.

"Did you tell, Tara?  Did you tell so someone would come get me?"

Tara stared at him, her own eyes cold and equally harsh now.

"You know I didn't.  I gave you my word."

"You made trouble with me and Donna about it."

"You made that trouble yourself, Bill.  I haven't said anything to
anyone that you didn't give me permission to say.  You're the one
holding things up.  Talk to Ben if you're serious about help.  No more
crap."

Bill looked around him, considering the people, the house, the food,
and the waiters who passed drinks so generously.

"I don't know anymore.  Maybe I was wrong to say anything.  Maybe I
don't need you.  Maybe you're lyin' to me."

He went back to Ben.  They disappeared, swallowed up by the crowd of
revelers.  Donna's laugh tinkled high above the rest of the noise and
it sounded forced to Tara.  But what did she know?

Maybe that's the way real happiness sounded.  Or perhaps, it was the
sound of obsession, or a cry to be rescued.  Who knew anymore?
Certainly not Tara.

"Here you go."

A drink landed on the bar at her elbow.  She reached for it and offered
a quick little grimace to the bartender, hoping it would pass for a
smile of thanks.  She wandered through the room past knots of people
and heard them talking about clothes and hair.  Another group espoused
opera in Albuquerque.

Tara shook her head, dismissing a waiter offering phyllo food.  Donna
had come and gone twice since Ben and Bill disappeared.  She was
thrilled to see the two men with their heads together.  Now Tara was
alone, wishing they could leave.  But Ben wasn't done, so she stayed.

She found herself in the foyer between the living room and the huge
room Donna affectionately referred to as the family room.  An odd
concept since family these days consisted only of Bill Hamilton.

To her right was the staircase.  Big and wide, it was a sweeping
half-moon shape that called to her as clearly as if it could speak.

Without another thought, Tara started climbing the stairs, setting her
glass on the edge of one as she went.  Single-mindedly she moved on,
ever more quickly until she was on the upper landing.

This house was as familiar to her as her own, yet she felt disoriented,
as if traps awaited everywhere.

Slowly, Tara began to wander.  She poked her head into the bathroom,
taking note of the imported tile Donna had been so thrilled with during
the building of this mansion.  She went into the pristine guest room.
No one had slept there.  Bill had not been relegated to the status of
company.

She wandered out and into the hall again.  The next room was Donna's
office, in its normal state of disarray.  The desk was littered with
correspondence.

Tara's fingernail nudged a letter from Donna's editor.  There was
another beneath.  Both asked for a book that had been promised weeks
earlier.  Tara felt nothing and that, in itself, was a victory.  Here,
in the same house with Bill Hamilton, she was learning how to control
her reactions.

Her assurances of objectivity seemed so arrogant now.  But it was
sneaking back again.  Tara could indeed view the havoc Bill was
wreaking on Donna's life and feel nothing but a renewed determination
to remove him from it.  She patted the papers.  The master bedroom was
next.  Tara didn't hesitate.  She walked into the mauve and stone
colored room.

Bill's closet.  Bill's clothes.  Jeans, boots, shirts.

She ran her hands over the shelf above.  Nothing personal.  No baggage.
Strange for a man who would call this his home.  Quietly she closed the
doors.  Donna's closet was no mystery.  Tara knew exactly what was in
there so she ignored it in favor of the chest of drawers.  One, two,
three drawers were opened.  She riffled the clothes carefully--or so
she hoped--finding only clothes.

The bedside table was next.  Town &f Country magazine, hand lotion, oil
of peppermint, pens and pencils, a tape recorder.  That was Donna's
side of the bed.  She moved to the other side, engrossed in what she
was doing.  The first nightstand drawer was empty; the second yielded a
stack of girlie magazines.  Tara riffled through them.  Finally, in the
last drawer, something far more telling.  Catalogs and magazines for
guns and ammunition, mercenary want ads.  And used as a bookmark, the
article by Martin Martinez that asked whether or not the Circle K
killer was indeed in Albuquerque.

Tara had begun to read, refreshing her memory on the impressive
subtleties of his work, when she was touched.  She froze.  The
newsprint fluttered from her fingers.  She stood tall and rigid, her
eyes closed, her back to the door.  Seven seconds.  Huge numbers
flashed in her mind as she counted the moments.  She waited for a blow,
the tear of a knife, a bullet ripping through her brain and stopping
the show.  When it didn't come, when she still lived, Tara turned
slowly and opened her eyes, wanting to see what was to come.  She would
look him straight in the eye for Vera, for Paulette, for the woman in
the Circle K, for Donna who refused to see for herself what he was.

"Bill," she whispered.

He didn't smile as she'd hoped he would.  He looked not so much at her
as through her, his vision trained on the hollow at her neck.  Tara
didn't move.  She couldn't hear her breath.  She waited for a cue, but
there wasn't one before he reached for her.  He lay his hand on her
shoulder then slid it to her throat.  In her peripheral vision Tara
saw his fingers move spider-like across her body until she lost sight
of them as they wound around her neck.  Long, strong fingers spanned
the back of her neck, his powerful thumb was up front on her pulse
point.  Tara's blood ran hot and scared through her veins, pumping
against the softness of her skin flowing into his until they were
joined in life and death.  Pressure from him and she died.  Simple.
Straightforward.  Madness.

"I'm so sorry," he said finally and flatly.

Tara bolted, slipping out of his grasp, and she thanked her luck when
he made no move to hold her.  She flew down the stairs, unnoticed by
Donna's inebriated guests.  Her head snapped right and left, searching
for any sign of Ben.  She saw him but didn't run.  Instead, she looked
up, through the sweep of stairs.  Bill stared down at her.
Expressionless, he watched.  She left, thinking only of herself and Ben
and running away to leave Donna defenseless.

"We have to go," she said quietly, leaning down so that her head rested
on Ben's shoulder.  The man Ben was talking to went away without
question or a farewell.

"You're shaking."  His arms were around her, his lips burying
themselves in her hair as he spoke.

Were people watching them?  Did they wonder what was going on?  Let
them.  She was going to be sick.

"We have to go.  He found me upstairs looking through his things.
Please, Ben, we have to go now."  She stood straight, her hand on Ben's
back, and shook out her long hair.  Ben took her hand and they went out
the way they'd come.

He got into the van.  Tara reached for the door handle, slipping before
she could open it.  She moved the heel of her shoe and bent down,
curious about a glint she saw in the dirt.  Plucking some bright things
up, Tara held them in her palm, jingling them, rolling them back and
forth in her palm.  She heard the lock of the bolt that held Ben's
chair in place, and pulled herself together, sliding in beside him,
still looking at her treasure.  She held out her hand, flipping on the
overhead light.  Together they looked at the shell casings.

"Target practice," Ben mused.

"I didn't see a gun in there," Tara said quietly.

"Give me a report, Ben.  Give me what I need to go to Woodrow."

"I need time.  Vera's information, an affidavit from Paulette.  I
should have clinic time with him.

I want it to stand up for you.  I don't want him released no matter
where he ends up."  Ben touched her hair.

"Bill Hamilton is one weird guy.

He may be sicker than anyone can imagine, or as sane as you and me.  I
need him in my office.  He's promised to come.  I think he will if for
no other reason than to show off."

"I can't wait, Ben.  This is terrifying.  He's terrifying," Tara
insisted.

"Then go to Woodrow."  Ben put his hands on the steering wheel, thought
for a moment, then started the car.

"Have him arrested for threatening you."

"But it wasn't like that," she answered softly.

"Not like that at all.  I'm still bound to him."

"No," Ben said.

"You're obligated to him.  You're bound to me and I'll help make it
right.  I promise."

Tara lay her head back and closed her eyes, praying she could hold him
to that.

"Let's go to your place."  She didn't open her eyes.  He didn't
answer, but she knew he would take her there.

The last place she wanted to go was home.  The ghosts of the
bread-baking women had fled; there were no specters of all those who
had built the house brick by brick.  Tara had lost the comfort of her
father's phantom.  All that was left were the places Bill Hamilton had
been, the things he had touched: the guest house, the pump, the
kitchen, the corral.  He had sprayed his madness throughout, marking
her place as his territory.  He had driven her out of her home, claimed
her best friend, put her at odds with the Webers, and made her question
the sanctity of a law that bound her to silence.  There was only Ben
now.  Without him, Bill Hamilton might have conquered her, too.

Nineteen a lawyer shall not knowingly use a confidence or a secret of
his client to the disadvantage of his client or the advantage of
himself or a third party, unless the client consents after full
disclosure.

--Canon 4 ABA Model Rules of Professional Conduct

"Do Ya Think I'm Sexy"?  Rod Stewart.  Nineteen seventy-nine?  She
couldn't remember the year, but the tune was clear.  Ben had been
playing it when she awoke.  They made love to it, his magical hands
leaving her wanting more.  They showered to it and kissed goodbye to
it.  The tune pounded in her head as she drove home, sharing space with
all the things she and Ben didn't talk about.  The party, Bill
Hamilton, Donna Ecold were all off limits.  For a few hours the only
thing worth thinking about was what had happened between the sheets on
Ben Crawford's bed.

Home again, Tara looked at her house for a long while, waiting for that
feeling of tranquillity it once afforded.  It was gone, eluding her
like so much else these days.  With a sigh, a dejected slam of the Jeep
door, Tara gave up.

She stopped at the corral and gave Shinin' a pat.

The horse whinnied, objecting to her offhanded attention.  He danced
off and back again, agitated as if he could force affection if he
complained.  He was worse than a child.

"Shinin', give me a break.  It was a long night."

When he didn't settle down, Tara turned her back on him and walked
through blustery wind to the house.  Inside, the place was shadowy,
bathed in winter grayness.  Tara kicked off her shoes and lit a fire in
the living room.  She headed back down the hall, unbuttoning her shirt
as she went.  Her head felt heavy, her chest scratchy, and she wanted
to curl up in her robe, under a blanket.  Ben would call when he had
confirmed Bill's appointment.

She would read the material Ben had Xeroxed for her.

Tara stopped toying with the shirt buttons.  Suddenly the house
vibrated with the odd hum of a noise she'd never heard before.  Her
hand lay immobile on her breast as she listened carefully, picking and
discarding adjectives that might describe the sound.  Dull.  Thudding.
Repetitious.  Then, silence.

Water heater?

She cocked her head.

Hammering?  Joseph?  Not today.  He didn't come today.

Silence still.  Tara stepped ahead, one more button coming slowly
undone, the cold air pricking her almost bared chest just as the sound
came at her again.  A smothered noise.  Electrical?  No.

Plumbing?  Perhaps.  Cautiously Tara changed her course, instinctively
hugging the wall.  She peeked into the kitchen.

Quiet.

She looked down the hall.

Silence.

Thud.

Back to the kitchen, her eyes flicked to every appliance.  Something
was hitting against--something else.  There were no branches close
enough to throw themselves against a wall.  A gate wasn't loose,
slamming shut.  She looked left.  Her office was in order.  Tara looked
toward the window.  Outside was still gray, the wind was down.  The
trees didn't bend as they had earlier; there were no shutters to heave
up and back.

Thump.  Thump.  Thump.

"Do ya think I'm sexy?"

The words kept time with the noise, and the noise got louder as Tara
inched farther down the hall to the guest room.  She looked in.
Nothing.

Thud.  Rip.

A new note was added.

Stupidly Tara went ahead.  Not back to the phone.  Not out for help.
This was her house.  Her home.  In the guest room she solved the
mystery.

Light filtered through the plantation shutters striping the opposite
wall, leaving split shadows on the bed beneath it, the man who sat
there and the knife held above his head.

His arm came down with amazingly precise rhythm, the blade flashing
through the brightest slats of light, dulling in the shadows,
disappearing as it was buried in the mattress.  Crazily, Tara's first
thought was one of relief.  Bill had a repetitious streak in him.  He
hadn't destroyed the entire bed.

Her mother's quilt still lay neatly folded at the foot of it while he
reduced the middle of the mattress to an eruption of stuffing and
strips of shiny blue fabric.

"Hey there, little lady."

Tara jumped.  She had concentrated so hard on the attack, she'd
ignored the attacker.  Horrified, she looked up wondering why she
wasn't invisible.

He had seemed so intent on his task that he wasn't quite real.
Obviously she'd been wrong.

Bill Hamilton was looking right at her, the knife raised and stable
above his head.  He was smiling.

She almost smiled back until she saw how different he was.  His eyes
were matte, the gleam was gone.

His head angled, giving his handsome face an oddly elongated
appearance.  He was no longer defined;

his features had been remade by the light and dark of the speckled
illumination.  He was a man printed slightly out of register on the
paper of life.  He could take a sledgehammer to a dog or put a gun to a
woman's head and pull the trigger or slice a mattress to shreds for no
other reason than he felt like it.

Legs quaking, dry in the mouth, Tara moved a step to the right.  The
backs of her knees touched the small chair beside the door.  She sank
onto it, hands clasping the seat on either side.  Mentally Tara ran
through a litany of precautions.  No loud noises.  No sudden movement.
No trying to reason with him.  She should remain as still as if he were
an animal, wild and unpredictable.  Could she move faster than a
madman?  Could she outrun him, outfox him, outthink him?  This was her
fault.

There were things she could have done, should have done.  But what were
they?

Suddenly her mind went blank under a wave of sensory overload.
Helplessness and horror were left in its wake.  The cool air on her
almost bare chest, the feel of the rattan under her palms were
exquisitely clear.  But not her thoughts.  Bill gritted his teeth.  The
knife came down again.  She jumped and the door was shut in her head,
leaving only a large, dark and blank space where the sound of his fury
could echo off the walls.

Sweating, Tara turned hot and cold, then hot again, with each flash of
the knife.  Two fingers had forgotten to curl around the seat of the
chair and were stiffened in a half-moon position, painfully still.
Thump.  Tara's skin tingled.  Rip.  She closed her eyes, imagining the
knife in her.  Thud.  Her breath had startled him.  He saw her again,
his attention drawn to her, a more interesting prey.

Thump.

Tara's hand jarred, the chair tipped.  The front right leg was slightly
shorter than the other three.

It hit the floor with a rap pity-tap that sounded like gunfire in her
head.  Bill didn't look up from his work.

Thump.  Thump.  Thump and rip.

This was so wrong.  The day was dreary.  She wanted a nap.  The fire
was blazing.  She had been kissed and loved and left so warmly only an
hour ago.  She wasn't meant to die on a day like this, in this house,
in this room.  She wanted to die quietly, looking out the window from
her bed and feeling the cool adobe walls beneath her fingers one last
time like her father.  She didn't want to fight for her life.  She
didn't want to beg for it when it wasn't meant to be over.  And with
those thoughts, she started to fight the hysteria.

She listened for a change in Bill Hamilton's rhythm at the same time
tears eased out from the corners of her eyes.  They lay upon her cheek
before bobbling slowly and gently down her face.

They came one from each eye and Tara found a strange comfort in those
two tears.  She was alive if she could cry and shake with fear.  As
long as there was that, there was hope.  She closed her eyes and
listened.  Suddenly it was silent again.

Tara steeled herself.  He would come for her now.  But the silence
lengthened and there was no knife in her chest, no creaking of a heavy
body rolling off the bed.  Her executioner didn't come teasing and
prancing her way, so she opened her eyes, looked past him to the window
and saw that the shadows hadn't changed at all, the day hadn't
darkened.  It wasn't a lifetime since she'd sat in this straight-backed
chair; it wasn't even hours.  Bill Hamilton still sat cross-legged on
the bed looking almost sad and worn out from all his work.

Cautiously Tara manipulated her body.  She loosened her grip on the
chair, letting the blood flow back into them.  Yes!  If her hands could
work, her legs could too.  If her legs, then her mind.  Deliberately,
her eyes clicked left a centimeter at a time until, finally, they
focused on the bed and then on him.  She was looking at Bill Hamilton
and he was sitting on the bed looking right at her.

He wore jeans and heavy boots.  His sweatshirt was pale blue,
emblazoned with a spray of flowers, butterflies and fairies buzzing
around the bouquet.

Tara felt a laugh bubble deep inside her.  Donna's last book cover. The
sweatshirt giveaways.  How absurd, to be killed by a man wearing a
children's book cover.  But Tara didn't laugh, because the man in the
baby blue shirt held a knife that was painful to look at.  It was
pearl-handled, the blade curved, the edge serrated.  It was a knife
well worn and used hard; a knife that men used to gut their kill.

She looked away from the knife and into his eyes.  The sliced light had
appliqued his face.  One eye was dark, the other opaque, one cheek
hollowed by shadow, the other highlighted, one side of his hair
shimmered, the other was dark and flat.

Donna wouldn't recognize him if she was there.

But Tara was alone.  So she opened her mouth ever-so-slightly.  She
wanted to talk.  But Bill lay his head in his hands, the knife blade
pointing heavenward, his eyes down.  A shuddering sigh quivered his
shoulders, and then he was quiet.

Tara waited and watched.  When he didn't move, she scooted forward,
raised her heels so that her weight was on the balls of her feet, and
looked toward the door.  That was when there was one more rip.  Tara
froze, closed her eyes briefly, then chanced a look his way.  Bill sat
quietly, considering what he'd done.  What was it he saw there?  Was it
the woman at Circle K he imagined?  Donna?  Tara?

Any woman?  She could speculate all day; she could also wait for him to
turn on her.  It was now or never.

Half crouching, Tara swung herself into the doorway.  She held out her
arms, steadied herself, lifted up, and stepped into the hall, moving
through the exceptional silence like a whisper.  She hoped her legs
would hold her up.  She wished she could hear the sound of the knife
once more.  But all was silent.  Decisions would have to be made in the
void.

The nearest phone was in her bedroom.

The front door was only a sprint from there.

Raising a phone was quieter than opening a door.

The telephone could bring help.

The door could bring freedom.

He wouldn't know who she was talking to.

He knew these acres almost as well as she.

Suddenly she found herself sitting on her own bed, receiver in hand,
with no idea how she got there.  She was halfway home, but the numbers
on the phone were jumping like fleas and it was hard to focus.

"Stop."  She half sobbed, half prayed.

"Stop."

There they were.  Three across.  Four down.  She could see them all.
One.  Four.  Five.  Nine.  Each number popped up, begging to be pushed.
But the order had to be right.  Please, please, what numbers should she
push?

Her head fell back, heavy hair lay across her shoulders, her skin
itched.  It was damn hot.  Help.  She listened.  Thump.  Bill Hamilton
was still playing.

With no room for error, she dialed.  Seven numbers.  The ring.  The
click.  The greeting.

"Ben.  Oh no--" Tara screamed the last words.  Bill Hamilton was on
her, his hand tangled in her hair so tight it pulled her against his
broad chest.  She could smell him, musky and manly.  He smelled of
madness.  They looked like lovers, but the arm he wrapped across her
chest was tight and the hand that lay against her shoulder still
clutched the pearl-handled, curve bladed knife.

Her breath caught, her neck was at an angle that would either break the
bone or suffocate her should she move to escape.  In the intimate
recesses of her body Tara felt a swelling and breaking, a clutching of
muscle that stroked her to fearful orgasm.  The knife glinted just out
of her view, sending a rainbow of light toward the wall opposite her.

His chest rose and he sighed.  Tara's hand fell to her lap and she
prayed that Bill would talk and Ben would listen.  The spirits were
watching.  Bill spoke.  He drawled.  It was the only thing a tired
cowboy could do.

"I thought I could trust you, sugar.  Told you my secrets, asked for
help.  Hard thing for a man to do, Tara, to ask a woman for help."

His face moved into her peripheral vision.  He was assessing her, his
eyes roaming over her face.

Tara closed her eyes.  He shifted, trying to get comfortable.

His hand tightened in her hair.  He held a hank to his face and
breathed in.

"Damn pretty hair.  Dark.  Donna's not a real blonde.  Guess you knew
that."  His chest quivered again.  What was this?  What did this mean?
Ben, are you listening?

"Bad girl, Tara.  You told the paper about me.  You're playing with me
and I trusted you."  His arm tightened over her chest but it seemed he
held her in desperation instead of anger.

"Tara, I'm so alone.  Feel so damn alone.  I wish I could find my mama.
Damn, don't I wish that."

Suddenly the arm across her chest was flung out and his fist came down
on the bed with such force it shook.  His fingers twisted again in her
hair and he jerked her head back so that she was looking up at him. His
face was pale with fury, then he was moving, scooting back to sit
cross-legged on the pillows.  She was free.  Tara lay there for a
moment, then said:

"I didn't tell anyone anything, Bill.  I promise."

Bill seemed as startled as she that she'd spoken.

Tara took advantage of his surprise.  She sat up a little straighten
The sound of her voice hadn't driven him to a rage, hadn't made him
leer at her, hadn't made him raise the knife.  She was still in
control.  She was the parent, he the child.  If only he let her talk.

"I've ruined friendships for you," Tara offered, hoping this sacrifice
would be acceptable.

"You've been trying to tell Donna I'm bad for her," he shot back.

"I've been trying to warn her that she might not be safe.  Would you
want to hurt her.  Bill?  Would you?"

He shook his head.  Did he care?  Probably.  He'd cared for Paula.
Another point for her side.  Encouraged, she went on.  The receiver was
still in her hand, slippery with sweat.  She lay it on the bed beside
her, half covering it with her flexed leg.

She hoped Ben was no longer listening but acting.

The cops would be on their way.  In the meantime, she was in control.
Please Lord, was she in control?

"I don't want you to hurt Donna either.  And she was my friend long
before you were my client.  But look who I chose.  Look what I did for
you.  I didn't tell her what you did to that woman at the Circle K."
Tara thought of Paula, Paulette, and Vera and let them lie.  Who knew
what he might do if he found out Tara had spoken to the women in his
life?

"I didn't break my promise to you even though she is my best friend.  I
chose you!"  Bill shuffled and put the knife in his other hand.  He
looked at her quickly, then away just as fast.  He tossed the knife
again.  This time it clattered to the floor.  She talked faster as he
bent to pick it up.

"And what about the DA?  I told him only what you gave me permission to
tell him.  Nothing else.

Have I tried to convince you to go in, have your fingerprints taken?
No.  I've protected you because that's what you asked me to do.  I
haven't even tried to convince you to give me permission to do that,
have I?  That would have made my life a hell of a lot easier, but I
stuck by you."

Tara scooted farther to the side of the bed.  One foot was on the
floor and with this small triumph her voice rose.  She sounded too
excitable.  That wasn't right.  Not with Bill.  He would hear the
hysteria.

She tipped her head and blew out the bad air.  When she looked at him
again he was off the bed, leaning against the wall, watching her as if
he, an audience of one, was waiting to see how the play would pace.

"I could have used any one of your pranks against you.  I could have
said you were threatening me, or Donna, or both of us with that blouse
thing.  What about Shinin's tail?  The meat?  You tried to make me
think you'd killed him.  I could have had you arrested for breaking and
entering."

"Nobody'd believe you."  He rolled his head in disbelief and disgust.

"I didn't hurt anyone.  I didn't leave any evidence.  You tried it
once.  You tried to make the cops believe you."

"I could make someone believe it.  Bill.  Those two at Donna's house
were just patrol cops.  I could have made the DA listen.  He'd listen
to anything about you, he wants you so bad.  Don't ever doubt that."
Tara's voice was strong now, her belief in her own competence stronger
than his madness.

"I could make them believe that you meant to harm me and that is a
threat.  I know this system.

I know how to use it, for my own benefit and for yours, too.  If I used
it for my own, I'd be done with you now."  Tara hit her words hard,
hoping he understood how little power or compassion she had.

"I want to make sure you get to a hospital and not a jail.  You don't
want any screwups.  You don't want me to mess up when we're so close.

But I can't do it all myself, Bill.  I need you to help, and you aren't
helping.  You're messing things up because I don't know where you're
coming from.  So how am I going to convince anyone that you need help
when you're walking around here like you're the Marlboro Man?"

That got his attention.  He swung his head back to her and there was a
twinkle in his eye.  He swung his head up and looked down his perfectly
shaped nose at her.  He looked euphoric.

"What did you say?"

Ben drove fast, but not quite fast enough to attract the attention of a
cop.  It wasn't as if there was a cloud of dust billowing after him.
This was speed in fits and starts.  He shot forward to make the lights,
only to slam on the brake a minute before he ran the red.  He could
kill someone if he did that.  Tara could die if he didn't.  He ran the
next light.

The fifteen minutes between Tara's home and Ben's was whittled to
seven.  He hit the floor bolt release and the wheelchair's motor at the
same time, intending to whip toward the back of the van, but his timing
was off.  The lock was still engaged, the chair's motor energized with
nowhere to go.  Ben remained stationary, the bolt now locked.  He
rolled down the window.  Nothing.  No sound at all from the house.  Ben
counted to ten, letting the mechanisms reorient themselves.  But the
seconds felt like hours, and he was convinced they were the last
moments of Tara's life on earth.

It took everything he had not to scream out for her.  Ben got to eight
on the countdown and gave it another try, forcing himself to release
the bolting mechanism before pushing forward on the chair.  It
worked.

He wiped the sweat from his brow and shivered in the cold as the door
opened and he wheeled onto the lift.  The ride down was interminable,
long enough for Ben to think himself as insane as Bill Hamilton.  He
should have called the police.

Bill Hamilton was full of anger in a whole body;

he was Ben Crawford, full of fear in half a one.

He was on the ground and moving forward, wishing for the first time in
a long while that he could walk--run--dash forward and get there just
that split second sooner.  But he couldn't and he had the presence of
mind to understand that.

Slowly Ben pushed open the door.  The fire burned steadily but low in
the deserted living room.  He wheeled forward on manual motion, past
Tara's shoes in the hall.  Desperately he tried to sense Tara's
presence.

"Nice to see you.  Doc."  Ben's head snapped left as he stopped, frozen
by a sense of fear so deep he could feel it in his toes.

Bill Hamilton stood in the doorway of Tara's bedroom.  Smiling and
grinning and happy to have someone else to play with.  Ben's eyes
flicked to the knife.  A clean blade.  A good sign, he hoped, for Bill
had proven to be meticulous in his mischief.

They locked eyes again.

"Bill."  Ben nodded and his voice was calm.

"Tara in there?"

"Yep.  Got her all nice and comfy on the bed.

You want to see?"

Bill stepped back, motioning Ben in with one hand.  Ben went down the
hall as far as the doorway, his heart falling to his stomach when he
looked in.  She was sitting on the edge of the bed, the phone still off
the hook and her looking like the devil.  White skin, black-smudged,
red-rimmed eyes.  Her jaw was tight and her blue eyes were dull.  She
was fine.  They would all be fine.

"Hey, Tara," Ben said quietly.

"Hi, Ben," she said back, but her voice quavered.

They watched one another.  He hoped she knew what a good job she was
doing.

"What's goin' on, guys?"  Ben asked, glancing at Bill, at the ready
should he need to protect himself or Tara.

Bill shook his head.

"You know, I don't know anymore.  Doc.  When I got here, I swear I knew
what I was up to.  Just wanted to talk to Tara.  She's my lawyer, and I
wanted to talk to her, you know."

"Looks like she's listening."  Ben slid his eyes to the knife, let them
linger there, then looked at Bill long and hard to let him know he
wasn't afraid.

"Aw, hell, Ben, you are amazing.  I swear.  For a guy that doesn't have
much goin' for him, you're doin' A-OK!  Hot damn.  You are one plucky
guy."

"Thanks, Bill.  I appreciate the compliment.  But you know what?  It's
getting late and I really hate driving out here for nothing.  So what
about it?

Why don't you and I talk and figure out what it was you were trying to
do here.  I'll talk to Tara when we're done if you don't think she
understands.

But standing here with a knife isn't the way to carry on a quality
conversation."

"Christ, Ben, that's the stupidest thing I ever heard.  Talkin' to me
like a kid.  Like a shrink."

Bill tossed his head around and snuffled.  He pulled his arm across his
nose.

"Aw hell, okay.

That okay with you, Tara?  Ben and I have a little mano-a-mano?  " Tara
shook her head, not wanting either of them alone with this man.  Ben
tossed off, "She's got a lot to do, too.  She better get her rear in
gear and figure out a way to get you what you want."

"Now you're talkin'.  Doc.  Whatever happened to the man part of you
sure didn't affect that brain of yours.  Wish we'd met earlier.  We'd
have had some high times.  Well, let's get to it."

Ben hesitated.  Bill cocked a handsome brow.

"The knife.  Bill?"

Bill looked at his weapon.  He pushed his hair back.

"Whatever."  He tossed it onto the bed and walked back to the guest
room.  Ben followed.  Tara collapsed beside the knife.  She lay on her
own bed for a good long while before she went to the living room to
warm her cold fear in front of the fire.

Ben found her perched on the edge of the sofa, facing the fire, half an
hour later.  She was huddled in a corner, her legs up, her arms wrapped
around a sofa pillow.  Eyes on the flames, her ears pricked for any
sound from the back of the house.  She heard Ben's wheelchair and
steeled herself.  Thankfully she heard nothing more than the whirr and
click of that motor.  He came up beside her, lay a hand on her arm.

"We better do something, and we better do it now."

Twenty

"You've got to make some accommodations in this house."  Ben stretched
for the coffeepot.  It was out of his reach by a mile.

"I'll get it," Tara said, the words strained and hard to get out.

"I could've got it," he assured her, "but the cabinets are definitely
off limits."

"Okay."  Tara opened the cabinet on command, her voice as dreamlike as
her movements.  Ben gave her a sidelong glance.  She was pale.  She was
itchy, but she was functioning.

Tara closed the cabinet above the stove and walked away.  Above and to
the left of the sink she opened another and reached for the saucers and
cups.  Two saucers in hand, she dropped one, juggled it in a vain
attempt to catch it and dropped the other.  They clattered to the
floor.  She threw herself back against the counter and closed her eyes,
her head shaking back and forth.  Ben went over and put his hands on
her hips.

"It's okay.  Tara, it's okay," Ben reassured her gently.

"Bill's asleep.  He's not going to get up for a while.  An outburst
like this can exhaust someone in his state of mind.  We could probably
set off a bomb, and he'd sleep through it."  Ben hesitated.

"But that doesn't mean we should be stupid.  We have to call the
police."

"Ben.  No."  This time she shook her head emphatically, no mere
reaction but a statement, a decision.

"Having him arrested would take care of things for a few days.  I'd
file charges.  He'd be incarcerated for a few hours, Donna would bail
him out.  That's not going to solve the bigger problem."

"Then tell the cops what you really have.  This is the Circle K.
killer.  He has confessed to you.  He has broken into your home.  If
this isn't threatening, I don't know what is.  Give him to Woodrow with
all that, and they won't set bail."

"He didn't threaten me, Ben."  Tara wrenched away from his hold.

"You don't understand.  Nothing he said was threatening."

"And everything he did here was obviously threatening.  There isn't
going to be anybody who questions that."  Ben wheeled left, watching
her but she wouldn't meet his gaze.

"I'd question it, Ben, if I did what you're suggesting."

Tara grabbed for the coffee, missed it, and whirled with her back to
the counter.

"Listen, I know what what went on here looks like, and I won't try to
kid you.  I was so scared I thought I would die of fright before he
could do anything to me, but I'm not ready to give in yet.  You've got
to understand a few things.  I've lost so much since Bill Hamilton came
into my life.  I've lost Woodrow and Charlotte.  He's taken Donna from
me--at least for a while.  He's made my home a house of terror instead
of a refuge.  I don't want him to take anything more."

Tara took a deep breath, fighting to control herself as she put her
thoughts in perspective.  She held her hands together, considered her
fingers as if they were alien things, then reached back against the
counter.  She couldn't look at Ben so she stared out the window over
the breakfast table while she explained.

"My law practice belongs to me.  Before that it belonged to my father
and before that it was started by his father-in-law.  This practice has
a history like almost everything else in my life.  It is a part of me
the same way my blue eyes and black hair are a part of a special
history.  I'm not going to let Bill Hamilton take that from me, Ben."
Her lip quivered and tears came into her voice, but she managed to
catch herself.  She was strong.  Generadons of strong women had come
before her.  They were all a part of her.

"I'm not going to turn him over without being damn sure that what I
feel threatened by would hold up in front of the ethics committee.  I'm
not going to let Bill Hamilton get another attorney and sue me from
here to kingdom come, ruin my reputation, and maybe take away my
license to practice.  And most of all, I'm not going to let him take my
peace of mind.  I can't let him take everything, Ben.  I can't."

Tara turned away, ashamed and yet not.  She poured the coffee, and this
time looked out the window over the kitchen sink.  What a coward she
was in front of Ben.

"What an ugly day," she said.

Ben followed her into the living room.  She put his coffee on the table
and took hers to the window.

She was drawn to the view, unable to look inside the house because he
was still there.  Tara pulled her sweater closer.  She wore two and
still couldn't get warm.

"I want you to know, Ben, that this isn't all selfish.

I don't believe I could be that callous.  There are many other
considerations.  I don't want Bill Hamilton to beat me.  I need to
prove I can control this situation."  She shrugged.

"Stupid, huh?"

"No.  It makes you feel safe."

Tara hung her head, living with the thought for a minute.

"I'm not ashamed of it."

"You shouldn't be," Ben agreed.  She looked askance at him, but his
face was expressionless.  Did he agree with her because he knew to
argue would be fruitless?

"But you're not safe now.  I believe that in my heart" "I want to
finish what I was hired to do, and what I promised."  Her head was
level now and she was looking at Ben.

"Maybe when I passed the bar I didn't understand the full import of
keeping counsel.  Now I do.  If a person can't come to an attorney and
know that attorney is completely dedicated to his cause, utterly
trustworthy, there would be no truth.  People would be afraid to tell
it for fear their advocate would use it against them for their own
gain.  Innocent and guilty alike would never feel safe.  We might as
well get rid of the law, because I could use all the information in my
head for any purpose I choose.  Who would any of us ever trust?  Where
would we find help?  Any of us, Ben."  She paused.  The gleam deep in
her eyes was one of pain as she tried to convince herself that what she
was saying rang true.

"What if it was you, or I, whose mind was sick?  What if our actions
couldn't be controlled?  What then, Ben?"

"Tara."  Ben maneuvered his chair so that he faced her square.

"I agree with you philosophically.

But this wasn't an ugly prank like the blouse or the meat in the oven.
This was a man with a weapon.  I can't tell you what his mental state
is.

A sociopath would have slashed you to pieces without a second thought.
If Bill Hamilton isn't one, he's damn close, Tara.  He may still be
fighting the right and wrong, the help versus punishment question, or
he may just be having a heck of a good time making us all dance to his
tune.  I don't think we can afford to be anything other than
cautious."

Ben pulled on his right leg, readjusting it so that it leaned closer to
the left.  Ben didn't, or couldn't, look at her.

"I'll write you a report.  It will be full of speculation because I
would need months to properly evaluate Bill.  We can't wait, Tara.  We
have to give him to Woodrow now.  You tell him that you are afraid and
have been threatened and then tell him what Bill told you about the
Circle K. You give Woodrow the report, and you tell him that you'll
have an insanity plea anyway.  Then you can tell him it would be worse
if he tried to play this out in court and lost to commitment in the
end."  Ben looked frustrated.  He didn't know the law.  He only knew
there had to be options.

"I know one thing, Tara.  This display here today was frustration pure
and simple.  As simple as needing a pack of cigarettes and ending up
killing a woman.  As simple as being frustrated by Paulette and taking
a sledgehammer to a dog.  How long do we wait?  Until he's so
frustrated with you, or Donna, that he does something we can't undo?"

Ben pulled a face.  Tara sipped her coffee and didn't look at him.  Ben
wheeled toward her with such force she was startled.  But he was agile
with that thing and stopped right in front of her.  He touched her.
Tara froze.

"Stop it, Tara.  Just stop.  You're forty years old.

Face up.  You're not the all-seeing, all-knowing, all perfect hope of
Albuquerque, New Mexico, or even Bill Hamilton.  Just do it, damn it.
Get rid of this guy."  His voice lowered and softened.

"Please.

A lot of time's been wasted already.  I want a life for us, and it
isn't the one we're living."

"This is the one I have now.  Help me or get out of the way," she shot
back.

Ben threw up his hands.

"Again?  Again you're doing this?  First you choose your father over
me, now Bill Hamilton."

"That's ridiculous.  I did no such thing."

"You chose something over me when we were kids.  If it wasn't your
father, then what?  Sanity?

Freedom from hurt?  I don't know.  But you set yourself up for these
bizarre tests of fortitude, and then you won't back down, and then you
wonder why certain things in your life don't feel right."

"And you're taking your job too seriously.  I'm not the one who needs
analysis.  And I'm not trying to be super woman  I just want what's
right for everyone.  I want this all to be letter perfect so I don't
lose in the end.  Is that so wrong?"  Tara flared, setting down her cup
and standing tall.

"Forget letter perfect," Ben said.

"There's a moral call to be made here.  An oath does not preclude you
from keeping those you care about safe.

I wouldn't let my oath stop me from--" "Hello!  Knock, knock."  The
front door opened and Donna blew in with the cold.  The fire blazed and
crackled on cue, taking the tension between Tara and Ben for fuel.

"Well, you two look just like you've lost your best friends."

She grinned and loosened her coat, a red fox that almost buried her.
Children all over the world kept Donna Ecold in the most politically
incorrect fashion.  She often thanked the little peas out loud while
whipping out her charge card.  Now her expression was strained under a
less-than-perfect makeup job.  There was worry behind her eyes despite
the smile on her lips.

"Sorry.  Did I interrupt something important?"

"No."  Tara moved away from Ben.

"Yes," Ben said simultaneously, going the opposite way.

"Oh, this is fun."  Donna chuckled nervously and moved into the middle
void.

"I feel like I just walked in on the Two Stooges.  Listen, I'll be out
of here in a second, I promise.  But I was wondering if you'd seen
Bill?  The party was super last night, but I was so exhausted I slept
in.  Didn't even get up until one, and then I couldn't find him
anywhere.  The car was still in the drive, and I waited for him to come
in.  When he didn't come back I called, but your line's been busy, so I
thought I'd take a chance."  Donna shrugged, agitated on the verge of
frantic.

"I thought he might be here."

In the silence.  Donna became more uncomfortable.

Her head flipped from Tara to Ben and back again.  Tara looked away.

"What?  What?"  Donna fidgeted, Hinging her weight from one foot to the
other.

"So, you didn't have a good time last night or what?  Is he here?"

Ben went to her and put a hand on hers.

"He's here.  Donna, but he's not going to be going home with you."

"He's hurt?"  Donna squealed, grabbing Ben's hand in both of hers,
pleading for him to say it wasn't so.

"He was fine last night.  What happened?"

"He's not hurt," Tara snapped, flinging herself onto the couch and
pulling her legs beneath her, wrapping herself into a tight ball of
anger.

"He hasn't been fine since you first picked him up in the library or
wherever it was you found him."

"Excuse me?"  Donna was wide-eyed.  Her brows were almost nonexistent
without benefit of pencil, but she raised them anyway.  She started for
Tara, but Ben still held her hand.  Donna shot him a withering glance
and shook him off.  She didn't go very far before planting herself and
waiting for Tara's explanation.  Tara obliged.

"You heard me.  Bill Hamilton is a nut, Donna, and you should just turn
around, go home, and let us take care of him."  In the stunned silence
that followed, Ben stared at Tara.  Donna's mouth fell open, and Tara
glared at them both while she talked to Ben.

"Well, she should.  It's for her own good, and I'm not going to pretend
it isn't.  Ben, didn't you just say we should call Woodrow?"

"I'm sure I don't agree that you should make any decisions regarding my
fiance," Donna broke in icily.

"You may be his lawyer, Tara, but I'm going to be his wife.  I doubt
there's anything you know about him that I don't."

"I'd take that bet in a heartbeat, Donna."  Tara patted the couch.

"Why don't you just sit down and let me tell you a few things.  We'll
compare notes."

"Tara," Ben warned.

"Don't worry.  Don't worry.  I'm not going to tell her the juicy stuff.
I already told you I won't breach my promise."  Tara waved him away.
Her voice was mean, driven by fear and frustration.

"But I've got enough to make her think, which is something she hasn't
been doing for months."

"How dare you," Donna shrieked.

"How dare you say something like that.  I've just about had it with
you, Tara.  Ben, did you hear?"

"Donna."  Ben came between the two women.

"Please.  You've got to listen.  Come with me."

Ben took her hand and urged her away from Tara, but Donna's eyes stayed
on Tara.  Both were spoiling for a fight, the ties of their friendship
tenuous.  He gave Donna's little hand another tug.

Reluctantly she followed him, the heels of her shoes making hollow
little noises on the wooden floor.  The tapping stopped.  Tara heard
voices, but couldn't make out the words.  There seemed to be stretches
of silence.  Were they looking at the sleeping Bill, Donna's eyes
softening, moistening in her love for that maniac?  Or had Ben told her
everything, making Donna stare in horror?  Would Donna come flying back
to her best friend, just like a page out of Frannie's Family, her first
big book?

Then the sounds again.  Donna's heels.  Ben's wheels spinning on the
hard wood.  Tara imagined remorse.  She wouldn't have to say another
word.

Donna had seen it all.  Tara was still in control of herself and the
world arouhd her.

Her feet were tingling.  She unwound herself and threw back her hair,
wiped her eyes, and rubbed her cheeks.  She wanted to feel good when
she hugged Donna.  She wanted to be lucid when Donna hugged her back.
Tara stood up, steeling herself for the sight of Donna's devastated
face.

But Donna was smiling in embarrassment.

"I don't know what to say," Donna cooed with a furry shrug.  Her
fingertips went to her cheeks.

"Tara, this is inexcusable.  I'm so sorry."  Donna's tiny hands clasped
and unclasped, then wrung themselves gently around one another.  Her
eyes darted to Tara's, stealing a backward glance to Ben as if she
hoped he was a supporter.  She giggled.

"I don't know what got into him.  I guess he doesn't hold his liquor
too well, does he?"

"He wasn't drinking, Donna.  Not this morning and not last night." Tara
stayed calm in the face of such denial.  She felt wooden, rooted and
unable to move even if she had known where to go.

"You weren't there long enough to know what we had to eat, sweetie."
Donna was quick, her comment acid.  She diluted it with inane
conversation.

"But I can't blame you.  I'd want to spend every waking minute alone
with a man like Ben too.  So, I'll just wake Bill, and we'll be on our
way.

He just needs some rest.  I'll have a new mattress out here tomorrow. I
promise."  She worked on her coat, inordinately intense about the
closure.

"What is that?  A double?  You really should have at least a queen for
guests, sweetie.  Or singles.  Two singles are much better in case
someone has a spat with their significant other--" "Shut up, Donna."

Tara was exhausted.  All the years of listening to her friend's chatter
had finally caught up with her and left her weary and impatient.
Donna's head shot up, her pale, unpainted lips parted, not in
anticipation of speech, but in surprise.  In the next moment, her eyes
hooded, her lips closed, and her face set.  They were friends no
more.

"Ben?"  she said, brittlely bright.

"Would you help me wake Bill?"

Tara arranged herself grandly.  This was her home and her life and that
man sleeping in a ravished bed had terrified her.  Donna owed her
something, if only to acknowledge that she mattered.

"Don't, Ben.  Don't help her do something this stupid."

"Tara, I really thought we were over this."

Donna dug in, looking more formidable for her lack of props.  Without
makeup her age showed and with it all the pain and disappointment she
had ever experienced in her sad life.

"You were very kind to come to our party last night.  I appreciated
that.  I also noticed you didn't congratulate us on our engagement.  I
knew then that nothing would be the same between us as long as I was
with Bill.  I accepted that, Tara.  We're old enough to grow apart a
little bit now.  I also understand that you have dealings with Bill
that are professional.  I know he's been in trouble, he told me that. I
accept that too."

"Did he tell you why he hired me?"

"No," Donna said instantly, "I didn't ask.  He told me he would let me
know when he felt the time was right.  I do understand he may have to
pay for whatever it is he's done.  I accept that too."

"Since you're so understanding, Donna, why don't you go into the
bedroom, wake Bill up, and ask him to tell you specifically what it is
he's come to me for.  I think it's time you knew.  I think you should
have time to prepare yourself.  Just in case he has to pay for it."
Tara tried to curb her sarcasm, softening her argument so Donna might
listen.

"It could be dangerous for you if you don't."

Donna threw up her hands.

"I'm sick of all these half-assed accusations, Tara.  You sound like a
bad movie.  So let's just get down to it.  Why don't we take care of
this between you and me.  You tell me what's going on, then I won't
have to bother Bill and get him all upset again."

"I'm his attorney.  I can't tell you without his permission."

"Then stop trying to make trouble.  Stop trying to make me guess.  Stop
trying to scare me!"

Donna dug in her pockets for her gloves.

"Ben, what do you think?"  Donna turned toward him.

"I'll abide by what you think."

"I don't think it's a good idea for you to leave with Bill."

"You too, huh?  Do you know what he did that makes Tara so crazy?"  She
shook her hands in front of her face and said quickly, "Oh.  I forgot
you're a therapist.  I've been down that road.  Hush, hush, hush. Fine.
Keep your secrets.  I saw what Bill did.  I saw the knife. Okay.  That
was really stupid.

And I know he wasn't drunk.  But he does things like that--dumb things
that end up breaking stuff.

But it's just stuff."

"No, it's not just stuff," Tara insisted.

"People?  You're telling me he hurts people.  No, I won't accept that."
Donna shook her head furiously.

"This is an uneducated but intelligent, happy but depressed man taking
out his frustrations.

That's it.  He feels ineffectual and out of place in this world, and
I'm the only one who seems to understand that."

"And you want to marry someone like that?  You want to commit yourself
to the kid on the block who sets cats on fire?  Donna, what he did to
my mattress was a sign.  Even if you did nothing your entire life but
watch talk shows that glorify bad gene pools, you'd know that this is
not normal behavior."

"Then I shall show him the light.  I'll make sure he understands he
can't do these things," Donna said, sweetly sardonic as she batted her
pale lashes.

"And this is a waste of time being where we're not wanted.  Just let
me get him, and let me get out of here."

Turning on her heel.  Donna headed toward the hall.  Tara sprinted
after her.  Ben called out to both of them.  Tara didn't stop until she
grabbed Donna's arm through the soft fluff of her fur and whirled her
around.

"He is sick, you idiot."

"I don't care," Donna snapped and yanked her arm, but Tara held tight
so Donna stood and fought.

"I hate to shatter your self-image, darling, but you are not the
end-all and be-all in this world.

The rest of us can think and make choices without your amazing input.
Bill isn't well.  He has episodes.

He needs medication, and I think I can get him to take it if we're left
alone.  I could tell you I love him, but I don't even know if that's
the truth.  The real truth is I need him.  N-E-E-D.  A word you don't
even have in your vocabulary, so don't waste your energy trying to
figure it out."

"Donna, that's absurd.  You've got yourself.

You've got money.  You've got your work," Tara objected frantically.

"I've got nothing when I don't have someone like Bill.  Bill adores me.
He makes me feel like I'm the only woman on this earth.  So he has
episodes.

So do I. But I shop or lock myself in my room.  He tears up mattresses.
Okay.  Okay.  We're strange.  But I need him to validate me.  There
hasn't been a man who looked twice at me in the last few years.  Don't
you think I know that?  They see the clothes and they think 'babe';
they get a little closer and they say 'old broad."  Not Bill.  Not him.
He loves me.  He needs me and I damn well need him, so let go of my
arm if you don't want to help me.  Get out of my life if you don't
want to be a part of it."

Tara's hand dropped.  Ben was moving closer, holding out his arms as if
he might need to catch her when she fell.  Tara threw her arms around
herself, swaying as she tried to get back on track.

Carefully she spoke, calming herself and hoping to calm Donna too.

"Need isn't a reason to stay with a man.  Especially not a man like
him."

Donna laughed, hard and sharp and without humor.

"Honey, at our age it's the only thing.  Need and love are one and the
same, and you're the only one who hasn't figured it out.  Just look at
you, what kind of role model are you?"  Donna skirted around and pegged
Ben with her sharp eyes.

"Look at this marvelous man.  He's suffered so much, and you left him
to do it alone.  He's a good man because he's loved you all these years
and helped you when you needed him.  But you turned your back and
didn't take him to your heart until you felt a need, Tara.  Need, not
love.

Deny it."  Donna whipped back to Tara.

"Well, I'm not like that.  I'm sticking by my man, and you aren't going
to be my role model.  So just stand here, Tara, and let me get Bill.
We'll be out of here in no time, and you can forget about us.  I'll
make him see he needs a new lawyer, and when that happens, you won't
have to talk to us at all.

Just leave us alone."

Twirling away.  Donna flew out of the room, returning only when she had
Bill Hamilton in hand.

His arm was thrown around her neck and his hand lay buried in the deep
red fur of her coat.  He grinned.  He looked like a drunken sailor and
he was oblivious to the warning that shot from Donna's eyes to Ben and
Tara.

"Leave us alone.  I'm telling you.  He doesn't need you.  He needs
me."

"Damn straight, babe," Bill mumbled and tried to turn her into him.
Tara turned away, knowing she'd be sick if he kissed her.  But Donna
was full of strength.  She had him in tow and out the door, this drowsy
insolent man in the baby blue sweat shirt.  Tara shivered in the cold
wind that blew through the open door.  It slapped her in the face and
brought her to her senses.

"Ben, I can't let her do this.  I can't."

"Tara, leave it be," Ben warned, his hand on her arm as he watched
Donna help Bill Hamilton into the car.

"We'll go to Woodrow tonight, okay?"

She looked at him long enough for him to know she couldn't accept that.
They were already in the car when Tara ran out after Donna, but it was
Bill Hamilton she grabbed, Bill who was like a slaphappy rag doll so
easy to handle.  The eyes that looked at her were bright and .. .
cocky?  She wanted to slap him.

"Bill, listen to me," she whispered wildly.

"Are you going to hurt anyone?  Bill, answer me."

But Bill held out his hand, putting it against Tara's shoulder, and
Donna leaned over the con sole and slammed the passenger door shut.
Tara was outside, hollering at the closed window.  She was still
holding on to the door handle screaming when Donna hit the gas.  Tara's
grip slipped, but she ran next to the accelerating car.

"Bill.  Give me permission to call Woodrow.  I'll get you help to
night.  I promise.  I promise."

By the time Tara had run as far as she could, she was sobbing.  She
stood in the middle of the long drive that welcomed people to her home
and she cried in frustration and anger.  And the last thing she saw was
Donna hunched over the wheel, speeding away from the Limey spread with
Bill Hamilton next to her.  At the last moment Bill's head turned, his
eyes on Tara, a smile on his lips.

Tara watched a minute longer then trudged back toward Ben, who waited
sadly by the gate.  Without a word she headed into the house, but he
caught her hand.  She knew what he wanted to hear.  She couldn't say
the words, so he did.

"This is wrong, Tara.  I'm going to give Woodrow what he wants."

"You could lose your license.  You're not a psychiatrist.

You haven't dealt with people like this.

Your board could question your motives given our relationship," she
said, exhausted and defeated.

"My motives are moral.  At some point that obligation takes
precedence."

"Are you doing this for me?"  Tara asked.  When he was silent she said,
"You could lose so much."

"I've lost before."

Tara nodded and walked back into the house, wondering if she was going
to let Ben make that call, wondering if she was that much of a coward
or that much of a heroine.  Clinging to her oath?

Her license?  She turned back as Ben came in and closed the door.  She
wanted to discuss this with him, to ask his opinion.  Instead she
said:

"Donna was wrong, you know."

"About what?"  Ben asked.

"Love and need aren't the same.  Not for me.

Not when it comes to you."

Twenty-one

They had lain side by side, fully clothed, on top of the covers after
Ben made the call to Woodrow at eight.  An hour later Woodrow called
back.  Bill Hamilton had been picked up for questioning over the
strenuous objections of his girlfriend.  Ben took the call.  Tara felt
sick.  This wasn't the way it was supposed to be for her, Bill
Hamilton, Donna, and definitely not Ben.  The second call came at
eleven.

Tara dragged herself from the bed, showered, and changed.  It had
already been a long night that would now be interminable.  Tara was in
the Albuquerque police department waiting to be escorted to a very
angry Woodrow Weber by midnight.

"Ms.  Limey."

A uniformed deputy held the door, pivoting to get ahead of her the
minute she was through.  She followed him into a large room, turned
left staying on his heels, then made a sharp right and started down a
long hall.  She heard Woodrow before she saw him.  She recognized the
way he walked when he was mad.  Precise.  As if he were keeping time to
a Sousa march.  The deputy stood back, having done his duty by bringing
the two of them together.

Tara went past him, eyes forward, heading right for Woodrow.  They met
at the halfway point.

The hall was deathly quiet and all Tara could think of was how amazing
it was that Woodrow was freshly shaved at this hour.

"It's about time.  I called you an hour ago," he complained.

"It's been tough all around, Woodrow," Tara said wearily.

"I know that you know exactly what went on at my house so let's not
play games."

"If it was that bad, you should have called 911.

If you'd done that, we wouldn't be having problems now.  We could've
picked up that idiot and had the whole thing wrapped up after we got
his prints."

"He didn't hurt me, Woodrow, and it's my prerogative to press charges
or not," Tara responded.

"Can I see him?"

"No.  No.  I don't want you to see him until we have an understanding.
The guy is denying any knowledge of the Circle K. killing.  We can't
budge him.  I want you to advise that client of yours that it's time to
cooperate.  Obviously you thought he was whacked out enough to finally
tip us."

"Woodrow, get your facts straight."  Tara snapped out of her lethargy.
Life was getting in her face and she felt bad enough about letting Ben
take the fall she should have taken.

"I didn't make that call, Ben did.  And for your information, Ben was
concerned about Bill Hamilton and me.  I didn't hold the same concerns
he did, and I am still bound by confidentiality.  Ben is working on a
report as we speak.  That, and the last few hours you've spent with my
client, will convince you that you must petition to commit him.  Forget
everything else.

Let's get him help, and let's get it tonight."

Woodrow wasn't buying it.  He turned, looked over his shoulder, and
cocked a finger.

"Follow me.

Tara dogged his steps, wishing she'd worn a blouse.  The station was
hot even without all the daytime bodies.  She was running her finger
around the high neck of her sweater when Woodrow stopped in front of a
door.  He opened it.  He stepped back, arm outstretched as he held the
knob.  He looked inside, his eyes sweeping over the gentlemen who sat
there.

George Amos gave Tara a nod, but didn't lift his head from the cushion
of his upturned hand.  The detective who had slept in her drive was
there, still looking sleepy.  And of course, the guest of honor:

Bill Hamilton.

"Hey, Tara.  Ridin' in to save the day.  That's my lady."  Bill
grinned.  He sat in a small, hard chair, leaning back so that he
balanced on the back legs, one boot-shod foot firmly planted on the
beige linoleum, the other crossed casually over his knee.  One arm was
thrown over the back of the chair;

the other lay on the table in front of him.  A casual man.  A happy
man.  Not the same man Tara had seen in her home, not the shell of a
man Donna had led away from it.  Woodrow closed the door.

They were alone in the hall again.  He put his back to the wall.

"Your madman has been talking cars, Tara.  Old cars, new cars, engine
torque, and tire width.  That man knows more about cars than I ever
wanted to know.  He has a quick wit.  He can even make car jokes.  He's
crazy about cars, Tara.  He's driving me crazy.  But if he's insane,
I'll eat my hat."  Woodrow ran a hand across his brow.  He was tired.
It was a shame men didn't cry.  Woodrow looked like he'd like to.

"Tara, do it.  Get him to talk about Circle K. Get him to do anything
but talk about cars.  Ben gave me enough to send out a car and bring
Hamikon in.  Now you get him to talk, Tara, or I swear I'll put a tail
on him.  The minute he sneezes too loud, I'll arrest him.  I'll
fingerprint him.  I'll indict him.  No chance for a hospitalizarion
petition.  This is your last chance.  Get him to talk to me and I'll be
objective about all this.  But I swear, as I look at it now, that guy
is sane.  I see no reason to entertain your request for any special
treatment on your client's behalf."

Tara eyed him, judged the tension factor, and said:

"I'd like to see my client alone, Woodrow."

"Fine.  Fine."

He opened the door again.  Tara passed in; the others came out, leaving
her alone with Bill Hamilton.

She went no closer than necessary.  She held his gaze, despising him
yet challenged too.  The dichotomy was hateful.  Her hands were in her
pockets and her coat hung open.  She suffered Bill Hamilton's lazy
looks, the happy little hey-ho shake of the head he gave her.

"You having a good time, Bill?"  Tara asked quietly.

"Rather be home in bed.  Had a hard day," he breathed, taking his hands
and clasping them behind his head as if they were having a porch chat
on a summer day.

"I know you did."  She sighed and kicked out at nothing as she walked
to the back of the small room.  The lighting was a horror, bleaching
everything a shade paler than was even remotely attractive.

Yet somehow Bill Hamilton looked wonderful, full of life, delighted to
be here.  Tara put a hand to her eyes and rubbed, trying to banish the
exhaustion.

"Why don't we talk about that first, Bill.

Why don't you tell me exactly what you were trying to communicate to
me today?  What were you trying to accomplish at my house?"

His smile faded into an expression of distress.

He let himself down, the chair landing on the floor with a thump.  He
crossed his arms on the table, his expression defining the word
sincere.  He'd practiced and perfected the effect.  She thought to give
him a hand but restrained herself.

"I am sorry about that, Tara.  Damn if I know what got into me.  I was
just so darned mad, you know.  I lost it.  What can I say?  I keep
telling you I need help.  I need somebody to just take me in hand 'til
I can learn to control all this."

"So, you hitchhiked all the way from Donna's house to mine, waited for
me for who knows how long, then decided to rip up a mattress."  Tara
lay her head against the wall and stared down at him.

"That's the longest fit of madness I've ever heard of.  I don't know
much about insanity, but from what Dr.  Crawford's told me, I would
have expected manifestations to be a bit more spontaneous.

A long ride and a little wait for me would take away a bit of that
capriciousness, wouldn't you say?"

"I don't know about that, Tara.  I don't know about any of these
things.  Damn but you use some dollar words!"  He was smiling again.
She was moving.

Tara pushed off the wall, took two steps to the table, and splayed out
her hands.  She leaned over, her hair falling to the scarred surface.

"Yes, you do.  You know damn well what you're doing."  She looked at
him hard and thought she saw, for the first time, concern in those eyes
of his.  That sparkle couldn't quite be called fear, but she sure as
heck wouldn't call it confidence either.

Her voice was low and intractable.

"Ben thinks you're nuts.  I think you're a liar, a cheat, a con man,
and a murderer, and I'm beginning to think the only thing you're really
good at is hurting things.  I think you walked into my life and turned
it upside down because you felt like it.  I think you like freaking
people out.  I think Woodrow's right.

You're no more insane than any of us."

The accusation took form and hung heavy between them.  Bill's gray eyes
shaded from the color of fog to the three dimensions of steel.  Every
range of emotion ran through them instead of his mind, his heart, or
his conscience.  A shiver of recognition gripped him.  He knew what she
was thinking.  Damn, he could read her mind.

Bill stretched out, extending his long, hard body until it seemed he
simply leaned against the chair instead of sat in it.  His lashes were
down over his eyes, and he shifted his hands to make his head more
comfortable in them.  Yet he still looked at her.  She knew it.  She
could feel it.

"Remember the first night we met, Tara?  I bet you do.  You had the
hots for me that night.  I know you did."  He chuckled a little longer
when she remained silent.

"You were jealous of Donna.  Your very best friend's new beau was just
the ticket that night, huh?  Whooeee, you thought I was cute."

"Those comments might make you certifiable."

She'd finally found her voice and it was dry.  She licked her lips.

"Let's talk about those other nights.  All those ridiculous things you
did that made it seem like you were on the edge.  Why, Bill, when the
risk was so great?  I could have broken the client confidence the
minute I felt you'd stepped over the line.

"But I didn't step over it, did I?  Even today was a call, wasn't it?"
His hands came down and hung limply at his sides.

"The clerk in the convenience store?"

He pulled his lips into an exaggerated frown as if it helped him
think.

"Same thing.  It was a call."

Tara stood up and pulled out a chair, wanting to ask him about
Paulette's dog.  She didn't.

"Do you know right from wrong?"

"Yes."

"Dr.  Carrol thought you were dangerous.  He had you on heavy
medication."

"And they all worked, doin' their thing on my head.  Put a damper on
this old boy's fire, I'll tell you."  He was teasing again, but he
seemed unhappy, maybe a little angry.  He didn't want to play anymore.
He hooked his thumbs over his belt, defiant in his casualness.

"I didn't mind seem' that shrink.  It was better than being alone with
my mother.  Now there's a case for you," he scoffed and Tara half
expected him to spit.

"But the doctor wasn't bad.  Just the pills.  He should have talked to
her.  She was crazy.  I was a big boy.  But all that was a long time
ago.  Now all I know is I'll be a nut if they lock me up."

"Then why even come to me, Bill?  Why put yourself in this kind of
jeopardy.  Bill?  You had to know there was a risk.  You had to know
that no one could snap their fingers and get you what you wanted."

"I figured if anyone could, you could," Bill drawled.

"All I'd heard from Donna was how great you were.  You could get me
what I wanted, or die tryin'."

"That still doesn't answer the question.  Nobody was looking for you.
The Circle K murder wasn't even making the papers anymore.  Why wave
the red flag, even to me?"

"Cops leave that kind of thing open forever."

Bill's chin fell to his chest.  He plucked at the button on his shirt.
Looking up and right at her before he raised his head.  He talked
low.

"It'd come one day.  Thought I'd head it off at the pass."  He tired of
playing with his buttons.

"My prints are there, on a mop."  He chuckled and looked away for a
minute as if embarrassed.

"Tried to clean up the mess I made.  Can you believe that?  Got
scared.

Wouldn't my mama yell if she saw that mess."  Tara shivered, feeling
what Vera must have when she was close to him.  He didn't notice her
aversion.

"Didn't do a very good job.  Got blood all over that poor woman.
Smeared it everywhere.  On her face, her clothes.  Got kind of sick
seeing that.  I dropped that old mop and needed some air.  But the air
was hot.  So I started drivin' again.  Couldn't get cool.  Then I
remembered that mop.  Damn nice of me to clean up.  Damn stupid to drop
it without wiping ..."

"Stop it.  Stop it."  Tara slapped the table.  She was up.  She was
appalled.  She was still his attorney.

"Okay.  Sorry."  He held up his hands to calm her and tried the smile.
It didn't work.  So he enjoyed himself instead.  He told her more.

"I killed her and it was a damn hot night.  The sand was in my teeth,
and I wanted cigarettes.  I walked in there and I swear, Tara,
everything just looked so incredible.  Colorful and quiet, then I saw
her making that coffee and ignorin' me."  It wasn't as fun as he
anticipated so he threw away the telling with a wave of his hand.

"Aw, there's no excuse.  I killed her, and I knew that one of these
days something' stupid was gonna happen.  I'd get pulled over.  I'd
try to get me a credit card.

I'd touch something where another guy did the deed and they'd get me.
Someone's gonna put my old fingers on the ink pad and that'll be that.
Better to nip it all in the bud now, huh, Tara?  Better to have someone
smart to do the nippin'.  So I found someone smart, didn't I?"

"I don't know, Bill.  I think you're just a lucky guy.  You were lucky
to meet Donna, and lucky she knew me.  You've been lucky your whole
life that no one told on you or turned on you.  There were some who
should have, weren't there.  Bill?"

Bill laughed, surprising her.  His face softened, his smile was
affectionate.

"Christ, you can be so sweet."

"I don't see what's so funny."

"You are.  You're right I was lucky, fallin' into your lap.  That was
luck beyond belief."  He sat up straight now and matched her posture
across the table.

"But I didn't just happen on Donna.  I wouldn't be caught dead in a
library 'less I had something' to do, and I had something' to do that
day.  I had a little lady to catch."

Tara breathed and hung her head.  A minute later she looked up again.

"Why?  She's almost twice your age.  What would you want with her?"

"She's cute.  She's rich.  Not hard to tell where a woman fits in this
life."

"But you haven't taken anything from her.  No clothes, no money, no
cars.  I know that."

"Those things aren't nothin' compared to what I got from her."  His
smile looked almost boyish.

"I got me a slave.  I got me a woman who'll stick by me no matter what,
and that's worth its weight in gold.  She doesn't want to know about
the past, and she wouldn't believe you if you told her.  She doesn't
want to think about the future 'cause she might be there alone."  He
chuckled and ran a ringer in circles on the table.

"Naw, between the two of you I feel pretty safe.  I think you'll get me
where I want to go.  Sure as the day is long, you'll get me there."  He
sighed and clasped his hands.

"If you don't, I'll just stay out in Donna's great big of' house and
keep her happy."

"So it's all a game.  All planned out with a winner and a loser," Tara
said.

He put his hand down flat, then lifted it and put it through his
hair.

"You can be damn wearisome, Tara.  I get tired of your questions about
why this and why that.  I don't know what it is or why it is.  Kinin'
that woman was just something' that happened.  Findin' out about you
was something' that happened.  I'm on this road and I just gotta walk
it. You're walking the same way.  Too late to turn back now."

"I don't think so.  Bill.  I could walk right out of here and file a
complaint about what went on at my house today.  You'd be
fingerprinted, Woodrow would know enough to cross-check them against
that mop.  You'd be booked for the Circle K killing so fast it would
make your head spin."

"You won't," he said, chuckling softly.

"You won't.  I've never seen a human being pushed the way I've pushed
you and still keep comin' back for more.  You'll get me what I need.
You can't say a word against me.  I'm safe with you, Tara."

Tara considered how much the wall needed washing.  Woodrow was waiting.
She had a decision to make.  Her head swung back to Bill Hamilton.

He sdll lounged in his chair, content and as unconcerned as he could
be.

"Safe?  That's how I've made you feel?"

"Damn straight, sweetheart.  Safe as a baby in its cradle."

"Don't bet on it.  Bill."

She stood up, towering over him.

"Don't bet on it."

Woodrow didn't approach her when she stepped into the hall.  Tara
thought that was fair.  She had a lot to think about during her short
walk, and Woodrow needed to stand his ground.  Ben was working on a
report without documentation based on real time with Bill Hamilton.
Tara had a practice and a friend to protect.  Bill was wondering about
her now, not quite as sure of her as he had been.  He could bolt as
easily as he could stay once he was released, which would be inevitable
if Woodrow rebuffed Ben's report.  A step away now, it was time to make
some choices.  Her last-ditch efforts may be nothing but smoke, but
Tara would give it her best shot.

"Woodrow."  She planted herself in front of him, her hands in her
pockets, her head cocked just enough so she didn't look
confrontational.

"Let's compromise.  Guarantee me he'll receive an immediate
psychological evaluation.  Guarantee me that Ben sits in and allow his
evaluation to be taken into consideration.  Find some reason to hold
Bill without booking him.  I'll get Ben here as soon as you can get
your shrink in line.  If your independent psychiatrist or psychologist
or witch doctor or whatever comes back and corroborates Hamilton's
precarious state of mind, you petition for hospitalization and out he
goes.  If there's a question in your expert's mind that Ben agrees
with, I back off.  You conduct your investigation and see where it
gets you.  No reporters.  No political issues.  Just do this as fast as
you can and we're headed to some sort of conclusion."

"I'll see what I can do, Tara," he said without the flicker of a lash.
Tara grinned.  She couldn't believe it.  Woodrow cooperating.

"It will solve a lot of problems," she said quietly and put out her
hand.  He shook it and smiled.

"I'm sorry for all this, Woodrow."  They said a few more words neither
of them paid attention to.

George Amos materialized at Woodrow's elbow as soon as Tara was gone.

"What's the deal?"  he asked.

"She'll settle for a fast psych workup with her guy in on it.  Don't
book Hamilton, just detain him and wait for Ben Crawford.  Soon as she
gets a prelim on the examination from our man and Ben, she'll either
step away, or I'll have to petition."

"Who you going to call this time of night?"

George asked.

"Nobody.  She's this close to surrender; we'll just help her along a
little.  Tara's left me twisting in the wind on this for weeks.  Let's
see how she likes it.  Anyway, the guy's as sane as you and me.  I want
a shot at him.  I want him to make a mistake."

Woodrow turned to George and put his hand on the other man's
shoulder.

"Cut that guy loose.

He's a citizen.  We have no reason to hold him.

Apologize to him for me."

George laughed.  He chuckled.  When the district attorney got with the
program, he went all the way.

Tara buttoned her coat, anxious to tell Ben what had been decided.  She
wondered if she should call him or just wait until she got home to tell
him.

She wondered about Woodrow and how he was going to keep Bill Hamilton
where he was.  She wondered about Donna, and if she was all right. Tara
stepped off the curb, her sights on the Jeep.  She wondered if she was
going to sleep that night.  She wondered why she'd made such an empty
threat to Bill Hamilton.  Then Tara Limey wondered what in the heck
that little white Good & Plenty car was doing parked on a street in the
middle of the night, next to the police station where Tara had just
been and Bill Hamilton still was.

Slowing her step, Tara finally stopped dead in her tracks.  Damn.
Woodrow, double damn.  He had called Martinez.  Well, there'd be a
story for the morning edition all right.  Only it wouldn't be the one
Woodrow would be expecting.  She crossed the street and stood by the
car.

The windows were fogged and Tara could just make out the shadow of a
person in the driver's seat.  She headed for the passenger door,
grabbed the handle, and threw it open.  Instead of flinging herself
inside, Tara saw that two people fogged up those windows with their
warm breath and one with a cigarette.

"Charlotte!"

"Tara!"  Charlotte's initial surprise passed quickly.

She seemed more perturbed at the cold air than Tara's dramatic arrival
and pulled her coat closer.

She touched her tarn, the cigarette wedged between two fingers so she
wouldn't burn the wool.

"Charlotte, what are you doing in there?  With him?"  Tara leaned low,
trying to see the both of them more clearly.

"I'm talking to a friend, Tara.  One who has always been very kind to
Woodrow in his professional dealings."  She smiled at him.

"But Charlotte, he wrote .. ."  The light dawned before she could
finish her sentence.

"You're the one who tipped him about the Circle K."  Breathless, Tara
half laughed.

"Charlotte, do you know what you've done?"

"Yes, of course I do."  Charlotte tossed her cigarette past Tara and
pulled herself out of the car.

Martinez settled in, happy to wait until the ladies were done,
straining to hear whatever he could.

"I don't believe you do."  Angered at such stupidity, Tara stuffed her
hands in her pockets to keep from flailing her fists.

"You've compromised my position as an attorney.  You've angered my
client, who isn't someone you want angry.  But most importantly, you
put Woodrow on the hot seat, Charlotte."

"I know," she said, her voice clipped and tight.

"I was stupid.  I gave Martin too much leeway and not enough
information.  That's changed tonight.

The next article will answer all those questions Woodrow couldn't until
now.  I believe he has a name and a face to go along with the rest of
it."

"Oh Charlotte," Tara moaned.

"Charlotte."  Tara looked heavenward.  Nothing up there but stars.

"Tara, please," Charlotte said quietly.

"You have to be practical.  Woodrow doesn't know anything about this.
Now that you know what I'm willing to do, it will be so much easier to
resolve all this."

"You're going to have to talk faster than that to convince me Woodrow
didn't put you up to this," Tara hissed.

"Tara, you have never given me or Woodrow enough credit.  He's more
moral than you will ever know, and I am more pragmatic than you can
ever imagine."  Charlotte stepped into Tara's line of sight, a
formidable obstacle to what Tara wanted.

"So put the credit where it's due.  This is my game.

Woodrow has enough to worry about."

"But why?  After all these years that we've been friends, why would you
do this to me?"

Charlotte laughed, obviously amused.  She raised her face to the night
and was rejuvenated by the cool air.

"Don't be ridiculous, Tara.  There are degrees of loyalty and love same
as there are degrees of hatred.

My allegiance would always be to you if you were at odds with someone
else.  But when it came to you and Woodrow?"  She shrugged.

"There can't be any choice.  My loyalty will always be to my husband. I
was home when George called to say your man had been picked up, I
called Martin, and it's as simple as that.  I'm Woodrow's wife.  My job
is to support him and help him in every way I can.  I don't really
expect you to see that as clearly as I do, but that's the way it is."

Aghast, Tara stared at Charlotte Weber, a woman she didn't know
anymore.  Charlotte took a pack of cigarettes out of her coat pocket.
Dipping her head toward the match, she was illuminated for an instant.
She looked beautiful in the light, soft and pink-tinged by makeup.  But
her eyes were hard on Tara when she looked up.

"I admire you to no end, Tara.  You've never needed anyone to help you
and you've gotten along so beautifully.  But now you do need help and
there's no one.  That's why Woodrow will win.  Because he has me and
George Amos and a whole lot of others rooting for him."

Tara shook her head, but it wouldn't clear.  The world was upside
down.

"I have Ben," Tara whispered.  Charlotte eyed her.

"I hope so, for your sake, Tara."  Charlotte dropped the cigarette,
wasting half of it.  She moved back to the car and was half in when she
said, "I really do hope you have Ben, Tara.  It's awful to be alone."

The door closed.  Charlotte was seated in the Good & Plenty car with
Martin Martinez and Tara was left to wonder if Ben was still with her.
She had left him to do her dirty work, and clung to a killer as if he
were the most important person in the world.  She'd thrown away her
best friend for the sake of an oath.  She'd allowed her home to be
dishonored.  It was a circle of misery that she hoped would be broken
tonight.  She was halfway to the Jeep when she heard:

"Ms.  Limey, could you tell me why you were in the Albuquerque police
station at midnight?"

Tara kept going, ignoring Martin Martinez.  Even when Charlotte called
after her, trying to coax her back, reminding Tara that the public
wouldn't quite see things her way, she didn't turn around.

She got into the Jeep and dialed Ben from the car phone.

"Woodrow is going to arrange for a psych evaluation.

I told him you'd be there.  Tonight.  Do you mind?"  Tara listened,
knowing exactly what he'd say before he said it.  He was thrilled. He'd
run home and get his notes and the records Vera had given them. The end
was near.  She'd tell him about Charlotte later.  Before he hung up she
told him she loved him, but the phone was already dead.

Exhausted, hoping Ben would be there when she drove in, but knowing he
wouldn't be, Tara headed home.

* * *

She walked to the window and looked out.  Still dark.  Two A.M. This
was the sixth--no, seventh-time she'd gotten up from her bed on the
couch to look for Ben.  She'd called him once.  He was still working,
pulling together more information.

He threw her a kiss over the wires.  It was as distracted a gesture as
the conversation had been.

Tara could do nothing but wait.  Now Ben was Bill Hamilton's hostage.
At least for another few hours.

She sat down on the couch, started to put her feet up under the
blanket, and changed her mind.  She wasn't really hungry, but she would
eat to pass the time.

Tara heaved herself off the sofa, trying not to even think the name
Charlotte, or let herself wonder what Donna was doing.  She schlepped
to the kitchen, stopping to run her hand along the dining room table.
Spotless.  Life had gone along without her.  The cleaning lady still
came and did her job.  Joseph managed his chores and was gone before
she got home most days.  Carlos had left a message saying he was
handling his family problems and would be back soon.  Everyone was
coping.

With a sigh, Tara rubbed her hands together, snuggled in the old
sweater she was wearing, and pushed her hair back.  She couldn't wait
for a good night's sleep.  She needed a vacation.  Her stomach
grumbled.  She needed food, too, and hadn't known it.

Tara opened the refrigerator door.  The little light was welcoming. She
bent from the waist, pushed aside the mayonnaise, a plate of cold
chicken, two cans of soda.  Pickles.  She opened the vegetable drawer.
The lettuce was almost dead, its heart salvageable.  She needed some
bread.  Ten minutes to make a sandwich, another ten to eat it. Cleanup
would take at least five.  She was almost laughing, wishing away her
life in minutes spent doing mundane tasks.  In the split second between
standing and reaching for the chicken, Tara realized she wasn't
alone.

Bill Hamilton was planted in her kitchen, the light from the
refrigerator not enough to illuminate him, only give him an
otherworldly glow.  His hands were by his side, his shoulders squared.
He was smiling.  Tara's body convulsed with shock and fear, the
refrigerator door between them a pitiful shield.  The cold wrapped
around Tara's ankles and worked its way up her legs.  A great paralysis
gripped her.  Every joint in her body shook, arteries pumped the blood
so fast through her body she could hear the rush of it.  Her vocal
cords constricted and Tara could do nothing but feel the terror.  Bill
Hamilton reached out and touched her cheek, drawing one warm finger
from cheekbone to jaw, lifting up her chin when he came to it.

"Don't bet on it, Tara," he whispered, then whispered again, "Don't bet
on it."

Raising his other hand, he grinned wider, and rested his arm atop the
refrigerator door to show her what he had.  A gun.  He pointed it at
her chest.

Self-preservation became the order of the moment.

Weak legs became strong, instinct triumphed over reason.  Tara slammed
the door shut.  There was a sucking noise as the seal caught.  The
clatter of the gun falling to the ground and Bill Hamilton's laugh
following her as she sprinted out of the kitchen.  In the split second
it took for him to take chase, Bill seemed to be truly enjoying
himself.

"Come on, Tara.  Talk to me.  Woodrow told me you wanted him to hold me
without chargin' me.

Not nice, Tara."  He was coming, so close on her heels that Tara did
the only thing she could.  She ducked into her office and lay against
the wall trying not to breathe hard.  She closed her eyes, listened,
and was grateful that he still loved the sound of his own voice.

"You gonna turn me in, Tara?  You can't do that.  Tara?  Come on, babe.
You gonna do me in, then I ain't got nothin' to lose by havin' a little
more fun."

A door slammed against a wall.  Tara jerked as if the sound were a body
slamming.  He was in the guest room.  He'd gone right and not left. Her
bedroom would be next before the office.  There was time.  She could
make it to the door.  There had to be time.

"Tara?"  He was half singing now, enjoying himself immensely.  She
imagined him standing spreadeagled in the door like a town sheriff
waiting for the piano player to notice him and head for the hills.  His
gray eyes would be like night vision goggles, searching and searching
for any movement.

He'd tire of the guest room; he knew it too well.

Tara counted to herself, counted the mother-may-Igo-slow steps it would
take Bill to get to the master bedroom.  When he reached that room, he
would have to search the bathroom too.  That would be her chance.  Tara
counted, forcing herself to get to ten.  The door of that room already
stood ajar so she wouldn't hear it open.  Her best guess placed him at
the doorway of the master bedroom by an eight count.  Worst-case
scenario, she'd meet him in the hall.  Ten.  Nothing to do but pray and
go.

She dashed.  He was quick and did the same a split second later. Tara's
stomach lurched.  So fast, so little effort, and he was on her. The
trajectory of her flight was shorter than his, but Bill Hamil ton's
legs and arms were long, his intent gleefully evil.  That gave him the
edge; he was having fun.

He grabbed for her the moment their paths crossed.  Lunging, he managed
a handful of hair.

Silky, it slipped through his fingers like water.  His grunt of anger
was the last thing Tara wanted to hear.  She stumbled, crying out once,
then dashed on, knowing her home better than he.  But the doors and
windows had been locked for so long now, the only sure escape would be
where he had jimmied one to get in.  She hoped he'd been bold and come
in the front.

Tara slipped on the died floor but she recovered and hit the hall
running.  The Navajo rugs she loved were now a scourge, sliding beneath
her.  She fell.

Her shoulder slammed into the wall.  The breath went out of her but
Tara threw herself forward, colliding with the door, scrabbling up to
find the knob.

"Christ," she hollered, but the word came out garbled, half sob, half
incantation.  Everything was unfamiliar in her terror.  But flight
hadn't diminished her reason.  Bill Hamilton should have shot her twice
by now.  She should be dead in the hall and she knew it.  Clinging to
the door, she glanced over her shoulder.  The hall was empty.  Her
breath caught in little ticks of terror.  How quiet it was.  A prank?
Another gaslight?  Hide-and-seek when escape was so close, yet help
incredibly far away, was cruel.

Sniffing.  Blinking.  A sob working its way up her throat only to be
cut off by the need for breath, Tara forced herself to ease away from
the door.

Fingers shaking, she concentrated on the knob, knowing Bill Hamilton
would be on her in a second.

He'd throw himself out of the dark just when she thought she'd
mastered the lock.  He'd slam the door shut just when she started to
open it.

Hands sweating, blouse clinging between her breasts and under her arms,
Tara flushed hot then cold, then relief warmed her all over as she
heard the click of the lock and the door was open.  No one came to
close it.  She could breathe again.

Outside there was hope; there were options.

Then she heard it.  A creak.  Her ears pricked, her frantic eyes
widened.  Had it come from behind?

Ahead?  Was he crawling through the walls?

Whimpering, calling Ben's name under her breath, trying to silence
herself even as she did, Tara stepped out into the night.  She turned
toward the drive, began her run for freedom, and stopped when Bill
Hamilton stepped in front of her, raised his gun, and pulled the
trigger.  The sound was deafening.  It was the sound of death.

Tara's gut clutched.  She stood her ground, unhurt, in shock.  She
bolted left, realized she didn't stand a chance of getting around him,
then changed course so that she was running back toward the river.  No.
No.  Shinin' was spooked and dancing.

She was running toward the corral where there was some defense.  She
didn't bother with the gate.  Tara hurtled over the fence with more
ease than she had since she was a kid.  Behind her Bill Hamilton
laughed.  Close, but not on her heels.  Cocksure, he ambled her way.
Tara breathed hard and held on to the fence, looking at him between two
slats.  He was a shadow coming slowly, enjoying, perhaps savoring,
every minute of the chase.  Shinin' was behind her, nudging her with
his knee only to dance away again.  She took a chance, using the one
weapon that had held her in good stead throughout this nightmare: her
voice.

"Bill.  Stay there.  Stay where you are before you do something
stupid."

"Aw, hell, Tara, this is stupid," he hollered, throwing back his head
to laugh.  It was a sad sound, devoid of humor.

"My whole life has been stupid.  Every minute since I was a kid has
been stupid.  Doctors and pills and my mother looking at me like she'd
like to eat me up.  My own mother."  His head was down again and he was
coming crisscross toward her as if he were stepping through a mine
field.  Tara didn't want him any closer.  She called back.

"Your mother's out of the picture, Bill.  You've got Donna.  She loves
you like a woman should, and now you're doing this?  It won't do any
good."

"This is fun, Tara," he whispered, and in the silence of the night it
sounded as if he was beside her.  He raised his voice again and it
boomed through the cold night.

"But I don't know why."

He swung his gun hand, keeping time to a beat she didn't hear.

"I don't know why I'm here, or with Donna, or even botherin' with you.
I swear I don't.

Guess it was just a stoppin' place, huh?  Just another town on the Rio
Grande where I could get a shave and a beer.  Whoee, I'd love to have
been a cowboy.

Just a damn cowboy."  He twirled the gun above his head like a lasso.

"Come out here, Tara.  Come out here, you little filly, and tell me
what to do."

"I want you to put the gun down.  Throw it this way, and we'll work it
out," she called back, slipping into the dirt and sitting with her arms
around the fence post, her eyes on the man coming closer.

Suddenly he was quiet and standing still.  She wished she could see his
face, and immediately knew that was stupid.  She'd been looking at his
face for weeks now and hadn't a clue who he was or what he was
thinking.

"I don't want to, Tara.  I'm tired.  Why don't you just come right on
out here and get it.  That would be better.  I've paid you.  You work
for me.  Remember, Tara?"  He sang in whispers and cadences that were
ever changing.

"I'm all paid up and I want some action.  Come on, little lady.  Come
right on out here to me."

He took a step and another, and Tara was sure his boots would be the
last thing she saw on earth.

But behind him, in the distance, a quarter mile down the drive, she saw
lights.  Two distinct lights.

Yes.  She half sat up, ignoring Bill Hamilton in favor of the slim hope
of rescue.  Woodrow had sent someone.

Let it be someone effectual.  Not a sleepy detective on stakeout.  Not
Woodrow on his own.

Please, not that.

"Tara?"  Her head snapped back toward Bill just as the lights winked
out.  She looked again They were gone.

Please no.  They couldn't have left.  It couldn't have been someone
simply turning around.  It would be too cruel.

"Tara?"  he called again and behind her Shinin' reared.  Tara had no
choice but to pay attention.

She narrowed her eyes.  Shinin' was telling her Bill was near.  Tara
breathed deep and let her eyes flit over the landscape.  There.  He'd
gone right, heading to the gate.  Bent, Tara half ran over the soft
earth of the corral, toward the horse's stall.  The pitchfork.  Where
had she put the pitchfork?  Was it back where it should be?  Still
leaning against the wall in the guest house where Bill had last held
it.  Where?  What other weapons could there be?  Shinin'?  Shinin'
would keep him at bay for a while.  He may have gotten close enough to
whack off a hunk of tail once.  Shinin' wouldn't let him again.  No one
was coming to help.  The river lay between her and the open fields on
the other bank.  Neighbors were too far away to scream for help.  It
was up to her.  He was near.  She could smell him.

"I'm in, babe.  I'm here."

Tara threw herself into Shinin's stall, rolled awkwardly, and came up
on her hands and knees.  Her hair grazed the dirt.  Her face was wet
with tears though she couldn't remember crying.  Lifting one hand, she
swiped at her eyes and muttered a curse.

Dirt and manure were swabbed in and immediately her eyes teared to wash
it all away.  Tara blinked, trying desperately to see where Bill
Hamilton was through her reddened eyes.  A shot rang out.  Tara threw
herself to the ground.

"Whooeee!  Is that a noise, Tara?  Is that a noise or what?  Sounded
like a damn atomic explosion in that Circle K. when I did it.  Thought
for sure there'd be an army on my head, but nobody came.

Hey, Tara!"  She sniffled, she flinched, fighting the desire to wipe
her eyes.  She needed to see but her tears wouldn't come.  From the
sound of his voice, Bill Hamilton was midway between the gate and her.
She could hear Shinin' snorting and weaving, the ground shuddered
beneath her.  She pulled back into the shadows.

"Hey, Tara.  Did I tell you I tried to clean up the mess in that store?
Damn, that woman bled.  Like a pig.  I got a mop, ended up making a
mess.  Made me mad.  I even mopped her.  Jesus, it was a mess.  Did I
tell you that, Tara?"

Tara lay her face in the dirt, her hands over her ears.  She didn't
want to hear it again so she moved her lips, praying for the woman Bill
Hamilton had painted with her own blood, praying for herself.

What had she been thinking all this while?  Was her practice, her
reputation, a promise, anything on this earth worth this terror?

Another shot.  Her arms went over her head.  Her face buried itself
deeper into the earth.  A chip of wood flew off the wall beside her.
Shinin' screamed and ran the length of the corral.

"Damn.  Goddamn horse!"  Bill Hamilton screamed and Tara looked up.
Shinin' loomed in the center of the corral.  He reared and his hoofs
came down hard on the ground.  He did it again, and this time she
thought she heard Bill Hamilton scream.

"Goddamn horse.  I'm going to take out this goddamn horse, Tara."

"No!"  Tara pushed off, half crouching, terrified he would make good on
his promise.  Shinin' reared, but this time it was away from the
intruder as he tried to find his mistress.  In that moment Bill
Hamilton stood facing Tara Limey with nothing between them but the cold
air and the gray light of a night that was leaving them.

"Tara," he murmured like a lover.  He lifted his pistol, and pointed it
at her.  She heard the click of the hammer.  She waited for it to fall.
Bill Hamilton was brought to his knees at the same time Tara heard a
click, a whirr, and the sound of an attack.

There were grunts and the thud of a body hitdng the ground and Tara,
her eyes glazed with the view of death she'd just glimpsed, realized
she'd been saved.  Sweet Jesus, she was saved and the man who had done
such an amazing thing was the man Bill Hamilton had laughed at, the man
Bill Hamilton had held in such contempt.

Ben Crawford had Bill Hamilton's face in the dirt, one arm wrenched in
the air.  Ben's other hand pushed against Bill's windpipe.  One move
and Bill Hamilton would be no more.

Tara hesitated, tried to move again.  She found her feet and scrambled
up.  Breathing hard, she stood in front of Ben, looking from him to
Bill, and back again.

"I called the cops.  They told me Bill wasn't there.

They told me they'd released him."  Ben was out of breath too.  There
was fright and triumph and pride in his voice.

"You?  You were the lights I saw?"

"Thought I better come quietly.  Just in case you were entertaining."

"Good thought."  Tara's voice shook and the words quivered.

"Tara," Ben said quietly.

"This isn't easy to do in kung fu class, but it's a darn hard move to
do in real life," Ben said.

"Could you please call for help?"

"Yes.  Yes.  Oh, yes."  Tara almost skipped away but came back just as
quickly.  She leaned down, dirty and tired, cold now beyond belief She
looked Bill Hamilton in the eye.

"You were wrong.  Bill.  There's no power in keeping secrets.  The
power is in telling them."

Ben tightened his hold for emphasis.  Stunned, Bill grunted in pain.

Tara left, staying in the house long enough to call the police, load
her shotgun, and thank her lucky stars that Ben Crawford was on her
side.

Twenty-two

"Don't you want me to drive you around back, Tara?"

Caroline kept her hand on the wheel but bent low enough to peer out the
passenger side as they eased up on the courthouse.  Tara sat quietly
beside her, briefcase in hand, eyes forward, as she unbuckled her seat
belt and wished Ben were beside her.

But it wouldn't do.  She worried about his chair in an unruly crowd.
Marvelous though he may be, there were some things he couldn't do for
her.

"Nope.  My head's up and there's no reason it shouldn't be.  I'll
defend my position until I'm blue in the face."

"You may have to if the media's going to write about you the way they
did.  People magazine wasn't exactly kind."

"Good picture, though, don't you think?"  Tara laughed wryly.  The belt
retracted.  She adjusted her jacket and looked at the magazine she had
tossed at her feet.  She retrieved it, took a good long look, and held
it up for Caroline to see.  Caroline took it and tossed it behind
her.

"Yeah, great.  But they made you sound like you were some
money-grubbing weirdo who wouldn't turn Hamilton in so that you could
keep milking him."

"There wouldn't have been enough money in the world," Tara sighed,
then she laughed.

"Guess we couldn't expect anything less, huh?  The gentlemen of the
press don't have to promise to keep anyone's secrets or even tell them
when they come out."

"Well, I'm sorry anyway.  I know that was hard to read."

"No harder than what's coming up.  Come on.

Might as well pull up a little closer, and I'll see if I can get
through."  Caroline stepped on the gas.

The car glided to a stop.  It didn't take long for the crowd to zoom in
on her.  They smelled blood.

Tara put her hand on the door handle, pausing to identify the various
groups that were so anxious to have a go at her.  NOW women walked in
circles chanting slogans and raising placards denouncing Tara.  She had
bought into a man's world, protecting those who would kill her sisters.
The media, of course, was everywhere.  Three cameras that Tara could
identify, one a network.  She was coming up in the world.  A gaggle of
men and women with notepads and microphones.  Spectators were
everywhere, their only agenda to see a spectacle.

And to the far right, the hot dog vendor.  It was a big day in
Albuquerque.  The nation was waiting to hear what Tara had to say, to
see what a morally corrupt attorney looked like, to try to find out why
one woman would protect such a man when so many other women had
suffered at his hand.

"I gotta do this, Caroline.  Might as well do it now."

Caroline touched Tara's shoulder.

"You'll do great.  I'll park and come in."

"No," Tara said.

"Go on home.  I'm not going back to the office.  I want to try and talk
to Donna after the hearing.  I may be a while.  I'll be fine.  I
promise."

She opened the door and swung her long legs out.  White blouse, blue
blazer, gray skirt, and black heels.  Power dressing.  She felt right
and she'd done right.  No matter what they all said, no one could
convince her that she hadn't.

"Ms.  Limey .. ."

She heard her name called by many different voices.  Her name sounded
ugly.  Though her eyes stayed steady, looking straight ahead as she
walked up the courthouse steps, Tara was aware of the faces around her.
Curious faces, angry faces.  Mouths opening and closing and saying
things that she couldn't quite make out.  Tara pushed away a microphone
without hostility.  She muttered no comment like a mantra, but stopped
when it was clear no one was paying attention.  She was almost to the
door when someone cut through the clutter, someone caught her
attention.  In fact, the man caught everyone's attention.  The roar
faded to a murmur and Tara, surprised by the sudden quiet, stopped. The
man stepped forward.  He didn't put out his hand.

He had no microphone.  He had with him children.

Four beautiful children.

They didn't really need an introduction but he made it anyway.

"I'm Marge Hogan's husband.  These are her children.  The ones that
were born."  Tara remained silent.  She couldn't look at the little
ones so she held the man's gaze.  His eyes were red rimmed  She was
sure they had looked that way since his wife's murder.

"Why didn't you just turn him in?  Why didn't you put an end to
this?"

"Mr.  Hogan, I couldn't," Tara said quietly.

"I

was bound by the law, by an oath I took."

"That's more important than us?  Than these kids?  Keeping your word
to a killer is more important than letting a good woman rest?  What
kind of woman are you?"

Tara lowered her eyes then looked at him once more.

"I'm an attorney, Mr.  Hogan.  This is the United States, and everyone
has their rights."

"What about my wife's right to live, lady?"

Tara couldn't listen any longer.  She'd never put a face to a crime the
way this man forced her to do.  She walked through the courthouse
doors, a roar of disapproval following her.  Behind her, two guards
stood well within view of the crowd.  She felt their opinion as she
passed.  Putting her briefcase on the conveyor belt, Tara walked
through the metal detector.  No one spoke to her, but everyone looked.
She wanted the day over, but it had to begin first.

Pulling open the door, Tara walked into the courtroom where Woodrow
Weber sat confidently at the prosecutor's table.  Behind him was
Charlotte, dressed in an exquisite blue dress.  Everything was in
place: her pearls, her poise, her loyalties.

She offered Tara a sad, pitying smile that was all mixed up with a
little chin-lift of encouragement.

Across the aisle to the right.  Donna looked chic in a black dress
piped with gold.  Tara walked past her slowly, knowing she would stop
at any sign that Donna was willing to talk.  Tara was through the bar
and into the well.  Donna hadn't even bothered to lift a finger. Behind
her, there was a murmur of excitement from those counting themselves
lucky to be at this impromptu hearing.  She put her briefcase on the
counsel table and suddenly the room was silent.

Bill Hamilton appeared, escorted into the court by a female bailiff.
God only knew what people were thinking as they gazed upon this man.
Did they think Bill Hamilton handsome?  Did the women sigh at his
smile?  Were they curious about him?  Frightened of him?  Tara had
thought and felt all these things for so long, she no longer felt
anything.

Tara let him be placed next to her, stopping the bailiff before she
unlocked Bill Hamilton's shackles.

After the hearing, they could do as they pleased.  While he sat next to
her, he would be chained.

"Come on, little lady," Bill cajoled.

She would have preferred him gagged.

Bill settled back with a chuckle when she ignored him.  He was turning
to flash Donna a smile when the court was called to order.  Judge
Timothy De Mar presiding.  People stood.  People sat.  The judge
spoke.

"In the case of The People vs.  Hamilton, counsel, please make your
appearance for the record."

Woodrow stood straight and ready.

"Good morning, Your Honor, Woodrow Weber on behalf of the people."

He nodded to Woodrow, then swiveled toward Tara.

"For the defense?"

"Tara Limey for defendant Hamilton, who is present in custody before
the court."  Tara's fingertips touched the table.  She was tired.

"Good morning, Your Honor."

" "Morning, Ms.  Limey.  Now, shall we see what we have here?"  The
judge tucked his hands in the wide sleeves of his robe.  Tara remained
standing.

He looked at her frankly.

"This hearing has been placed on calendar at your request, Ms.  Limey.
We weren't set for pretrial conference 'til next month.

As I'm sure counsel is aware, this court is very busy and doesn't look
favorably upon hearings being scheduled on short notice.  You wreak
mayhem on my clerk's schedule and she didn't become a public servant in
order to work."  Those in attendance chuckled politely.  Judge De Mar
seemed pleased.

Then he got down to business.

"What's so important, counsel?"

Tara swallowed, the laughter grating on her nerves.  It had been a long
few weeks.  The end of her personal trial was in sight and it pained
her that no one truly understood the import of this moment.  She
cleared her throat.

"Your Honor, I respectfully request to be relieved as counsel of
record.  I believe my client has the means necessary to retain a new
lawyer."

To her right, almost, but not quite out of her view, Bill Hamilton
started then caught himself.

Slowly a grin spread across his face.  She heard him whisper "hot
damn."  He may have terrorized her, but she had the last laugh.  She
had sucker punched him.  Judge De Mar didn't miss a trick.

"Is your client aware of this request, Ms.  Limey?"

"No, Your Honor.  I only made the final decision early this morning."

De Mar began to take notes.

"I assume there's justification for this change considering your
actions may be detrimental to your client."

Tara smiled wryly, her eyes trained on the bench.

She had no desire to look at Woodrow and see the triumphant look on his
face.  He would never know that he hadn't beaten her.  She couldn't
look at Bill Hamilton and have him assume that his evil had sent her
running.  She wouldn't try to explain that it was heartache, pure and
simple, that had done her in.  Those she loved had turned against her.
Albuquerque no longer felt like home, her house was no longer warm and
welcoming.  She was so angered by all this, so hurt that there could be
no heartfelt explanation.  If she tried, her words would be turned
around and against her.  Holding her head high, she said clearly:

"Your Honor, my continued representation of this client would certainly
be to his detriment.  I believe a new attorney would be in his best
interest at this time."

The Judge shook his head and said to Tara, "I'm sure you're aware that
such a request is highly unusual, especially given the fact that your
decision seems to come as a shock not only to this court, but to your
client as well.  I'll need a reason, Ms.

Limey, and it better be a good one."

"It's the best, Your Honor.  Mr.  Hamilton is charged with a serious
crime.  He needs an attorney that can aggressively and effectively
speak on his behalf.  This man needs attorneys who can devote their
best efforts to his defense and make sure that all of his rights are
fully protected."  Tara's eyes flickered to the table.  It was hard for
her to speak.  When she raised her eyes, they were moist.

It was difficult to admit she was not all she had thought herself to
be.

"I thought I was that counsel.

I am not, Your Honor.  In all seriousness and candor I make this
request and ask the court to relieve me.  Allow a new attorney who will
be best able to do what is necessary in this case."

The man on the bench sighed and put his chin on his upturned hand.

"Mr.  Hamilton, do you understand what your attorney is asking?"

"Yep.  Think it's darn cowardly of her.  Darn cowardly, Yer Honor.  I
thought this little lady had more guts than that."  Suddenly Bill was
up, the shackles binding him from ankle to waist, and waist to wrist,
rattled like the ghost of Christmas past.  Tara ducked, her arms
instinctively covering her face.  There was a collective gasp.

De Mar called, "Bailiff."

The bailiff moved like lightning.

But no one was fast enough for Bill.  He was sitting back down,
grinning up at her, before anyone could reach him.  Donna had reached
over and touched his shoulder, calming him with all her maternal and
lustful energy.  Bill laughed.

"Yeah, I understand, Yer Honor," he drawled crudely.

Timothy De Mar mouth dropped, then twisted into an angry grimace as he
controlled his courtroom and his temper.

"This court finds there has been an irrevocable breakdown in the
attorney-client relationship.  I believe any further representation by
Tara Limey of William Hamilton would not be in the defendant's best
interest.  I do relieve Ms.  Limey as attorney of record."  De Mar took
a breath, calming himself.

Tara almost smiled.  How often had she had that delayed reaction after
one of Bill's little misbehaviors?

But De Mar would get over it.  She might not.

He was talking again, to Bill.

"How long will it take you to retain new counsel?"

"Not long, I should think, Judge.  I'd say there's going to be some
press in this, wouldn't you?  Couple of attorneys probably out there
right now lookin' to take me on."

The man on the bench stared at Bill Hamilton while giving the nod to
Tara.

"Thank you, Ms.  Limey.  You are excused.  Please turn over all of
your files when contacted by the new attorney so there will be no
delay.  I think this is one I'd like to see settled as expediently as
possible."

"I would think so, Your Honor," Tara answered quietly.

"Thank you.  Your Honor."  She picked up her briefcase and turned her
back on Bill Hamilton.

Tara saw Donna Ecold's eyes trained on the madman she needed more than
she needed Tara's friendship.  Tara didn't hesitate.  She walked down
the aisle and pushed through the doors.  She suffered the anger that
greeted her outside.  And through it all, through the din and the
accusations and the anger, she heard the sound that made everything all
right.  She heard the horn and saw the green van.  Tara Limey walked
right to it, jos- ded right and left, finally managing to get in and
behind the door.

"Where to?"  Ben asked.

"Anywhere, Ben," Tara said.

"Anywhere but here."  He spun the wheel and the van pulled away from
the courthouse.  Tara still looked out the window.

Ben let her be.  Finally, she found her voice.

"It will never be the same, Ben," she whispered.

"No," he answered.

"But it will be good again.

I promise."

Tara turned her head and looked at Ben Crawford.  She reached for his
hand, closed her eyes, and knew, without question, that he was right.
Of all of them, she and Ben would have a life worth living again.