If I Should Die
by
Judith Kellman

When two of her patients die mysterious deaths, psychiatrist Maggie
Lyons must convince the authorities that she is not responsible and,
with the help of Detective Sam Bannister, find the real killer.

Bantam Books;

ISBN: 0553291025

Copyright 1993

the better is always the eneny of the good.

He waited for the fear.

A dozen paces from the bridge, Theodore Macklin paused and scanned the
sullen sky.  Grim clouds huddled against a deep flannel canvas.  A few
intrepid stars bled their hazy shimmer through the gloom.

From below came the rhythmic lapping of the currents.  Peering down,
Macklin eyed the darkened string of homes rimming the scalloped Rhode
Island shoreline.  Closer was a scatter of small islands.  One, half
the distance to a sprawling waterside hotel, boasted a blinking
lighthouse.  The soothing cadence of the flash seeped into Macklin's
mind.  Inhaling the bay's briny essence, he felt a startling surge of
exhilaration.

Chancing another stride, he braced for the expected jolt of terror.

When none came, he trained his reluctant focus on the bridge: the
soaring beige towers, the draping suspender cables, the pale green
stiffening trusses fencing the sides.  Along the span, gangly pole
lamps leaked ragged pools of light.

Tacked to the nearest post was a dented blue sign that read: LONELY,
DEPRESSED, CONFUSED, SUICIDAL?  Underneath was the name and
eight-hundred number of a suicideprevention hotline.  Not a phone in
sight.

He sniffed at the dark irony and searched his pockets for a
cigarette.

Macklin was a large man rendered in broad-brushed squares.

For years he had capitalized on his commanding presence the earthy
rumble of his voice, the harsh, chiseled features, the intimidating
stare.  The bulk and gruff
demeanor were perfect camouflage for the timorous little boy who
cowered inside.

Few who knew or even saw the man would have suspected the truth.

All his life, Macklin had been bullied by a strident crowd of fears.

The fears had dictated his every move, consumed his consciousness,
reduced the scope of his existence to a suffocating cell.  Now,
balanced high above the water, the catalog of terrors reeled through
his head in a taunting loop: bugs, dead animals, lightning, elevators,
bridges.

Bridges.

The word evoked the typhoon of visceral horrors he now anticipated with
a curious, electric dread.  Macklin could imagine his heart thundering
like wild hoofbeats, his throat locked in vicious spasm.  He conjured
the dislocating swirl of unreality that would overtake him without
warning, buffeting him like a leaf in a violent storm.

The fear was unbearable, the waiting was worse.

He drew closer until his shadow slithered onto the concrete floor of
the span.  Nearer still, he extended an arm and ran his fingers over
the curve of the side railing.  It was slick, chill, strangely
soothing.  Clutching the metal tube, he drew a hard breath and ventured
onto the forbidding body of the bridge.

The lady shrink at the phobia clinic had advised him to expect the
fear.  Accept it.  She'd urged him to surrender his futile resistance:
Ride the terror through.  It will only last a minute or two, she had
blithely assured.  No permanent harm will be done.

She'd sworn that panic had no power to harm or maim or kill despite the
mind's screaming certainty that it would.

Desperate for relief and a measure of freedom, Macklin had struggled to
believe her.  He'd placed himself in her reputedly capable hands,
though she had been far too young and desirable to serve him as
anything near a figure of succor or authority.

In fact, she'd reminded him of the one he'd worked decades to forget.

Same eyes: green marbles shot with amber flecks.  And she'd had the
same power to fill him with hot squeezing waves of lust.

During their sessions, he'd found his attention veering constantly to
the ripe swell of her breasts, the suggestive curve of her upper calf,
the inviting hollow of her lap.  Lying on the leather couch in her
office, confessing his humiliating fears and weaknesses, he'd pictured
her kneeling over him.  Straddling him.

Taking him in her mouth.

That's how Macklin had ached to employ that particular doctor.

But he knew how crucial it was to control the lethal longing.

An instant's lapse, and it could turn out like the last time.

Events gathering speed, spinning out of check, bursting into shards of
bloody horror.

Remembering, Macklin had battled the desire.  He'd forced himself to
listen to the doctor's canned advice and neat theories.

And he'd endured the humiliating therapy program, though none of the
foolish tricks or tools or exercises had seemed to make a bit of
difference.  After ten days, he'd left the clinic's intensive course
with nothing to show for his efforts but the bill.

Or so he'd thought.

But now, instead of panic or even a twinge of apprehension, he felt
oddly at ease.  His breathing was slow and regular, his heart the vague
flutter of a hovering moth.  His muscles felt lithe and easy.  No
vertigo.  No hot currents coursing through his veins.

Moving with unaccustomed grace, he started across the span at a brisk
walk.  In moments, his pace quickened to a jog and then a buoyant run
that took him across the bridge and rapidly back again to his starting
point.  His senses were superkeen, his mind charged with elation.

"Yes!"

His voice was a trumpet blare of euphoria.  He caressed the rail and
shivered with the thrill of the conquest.  Playing the uprights like a
xylophone, he strode to the center of the bridge and peered overhead at
the lofty steepleshaped tower.  No adverse affects.  Not a trace of
dizzy dislocation.  Not a pinch of fright.

He imagined himself a magnificent bird perched on that celestial
peak.

Flaring his wings and soaring unbound toward infinity.

Macklin slipped off his custom-made black wing tips

and navy silk socks.  He wrestled off his silk tie and wrenched open
the starched collar of his shirt.  Shrugging off his suit coat, he
hefted himself onto the railing.  There he sat for a moment, staring at
the inscrutable black depths below.

He was one with the stillness.  Whole and wholly free for the first
time in his life.  Everything but this vivid scene melted to
irrelevance, everything including the dark troubles of the past week.

They had discovered him, and now he was poised to face the unthinkable
consequences: indictment, trial, public humiliation, prison.  The only
chance he'd seen was this hopeless, terror-filled flight.

But now, he was overwhelmed by a melting wash of well-being.

Strange.

Lovely.

Hefting himself onto the railing, he deftly found his center.

Arms akimbo, he began treading toward the distant end of the span.

A gentle breeze urged his progress, ruffling his hair.  His step took
on a jaunty spring.  He was a clown-faced acrobat on the high wire,
wielding a whimsical parasol, dazzling the gaping throng with his feats
of nimble daring.

Ladies and gentlemen, I direct your attention to the center ring where
the world-famous Magnificent Macklin will perform incredible feats of
death-defying courage on the high wire.

Please, no sudden noises.

Whistling his own accompaniment, he executed a pair of swift, bold
pirouettes and landed on the balls of his feet.

He proceeded at a wanton clip, leaping and turning, infused with joy,
until he reached the center of the far suspender cable.

Only a short way to the roadway beyond.

Winded, Macklin gazed over his shoulder at the conquered span behind
him.  He cast a bold eye at the heavens and raised an exultant fist.

Then, glancing down, he spied the stolid face of the silent bay two
hundred feet below him.

Suddenly, a tidal wash of dizziness assailed him.  The walls of the
world began to tremble and fall apart.  Reaching out, he groped
frantically for solid purchase.  But all he caught were teasing crumbs
of the disintegrating sky.

He worked his bare feet in a desperate dance.  Where was the railing?

There, he felt the hard metal bite under his left heel.

Macklin calculated the way to bring his right foot in safe alignment.

Probing with his toes, he sought the safety of the rail.  But he kept
stepping down in the emptiness.

Thrashing wildly, he felt the tightening grip of a blind panic.

His heart stammered, and his throat slammed like a triggered trap.  The
world shattered in a reeling kaleidoscope as he tried to wrench a
strand of reason from the tangle of horror.

At the last second, he clung desperately to the doctor's words.

The panic will be over quickly, she'd told him.  Only a minute or two.

But it was time he did not have.

No time to worry about it now.

Chapter 1.

Tossing the troubling note in her desk drawer, Maggie Lyons swiftly
donned her lab coat, traded her running shoes for a pair of pumps, and
headed to the fire stairs linking East End Hospital's second-floor
psychiatric service to the medic wing on three west.  A smoothcheeked
resident brandishing a chart greeted her with a scowl.

"She's in there, Dr.  Lyons.  And frankly, you're welcome to her."

The young doctor, whose badge identified him as Mitchell Goldberg,
stabbed a finger toward the semiprivate room opposite the nurses'
station.  Goldberg's baby face was pinched with disdain.

"Woman's completely off the wall," he said.  "Wacko.  Don't know why
EMS didn't bring her up to the cracker factory in the first place."

Struggling to ignore him, Maggie started toward the room, but Goldberg
stalled her with a continuing litany of complaints.

"We had to move the roommate in the middle of the night.  Poor old lady
couldn't handle the commotion.  Got a migraine from all the carrying
on.  Every time we think she's finally given up, she starts in again.

Would you believe four doses of Valium, and she's still putting up a
fuss?

Maggie flipped through the chart and frowned.  The patient had been
shot full of enough tranquilizers to fell an elephant.

"Says here she was admitted at two A.M. Why didn't you call me
earlier?"

Goldberg shrugged.  He had the wide eyes and curly locks of a baby
lamb, and his white coat was long in the sleeves.  Gave him the look of
a kid playing doctor.  Then, maybe he was.

"Thought I'd let you sleep and wait for a decent hour.

Figured she'd keep."

Maggie held her tongue.  An appalling number of her fellow physicians
viewed the patient's mind as a largely vestigial organ.  Psychic
distress had a way of paling beside the grand drama of physical
disease, she supposed.  After all, the mind didn't bleed.  It didn't
rupture or fracture or yield startling lab results.  The mind wasn't
amenable to high-tech treatments or the sort of sensational research
that caught the eye of prize committees.  And it was not, in the grand
budgetary scheme of things, all that terrific a profit center,
either.

Since hiring on to run East End's new phobia clinic three years
earlier, Maggie had stubbornly endeavored to lead her more prehistoric
colleagues to the light.  No medicine was as potent as psychic
well-being.  Loneliness, despair, and self-loathing could be far
deadlier than excessive cholesterol or inadequate exercise.  People
were considerably greater than the sum of their bruised or degenerating
parts.

To Maggie, fledglings like Goldberg were the most crucial converts.

And with her typical fierce optimism, she decided there was some hope
for this one.  True, the little twit had subjected the patient to hours
of unnecessary anguish.  But at least he'd finally conceded the need
for psychiatric intervention.

"I'm sure you were trying to be thoughtful, Doctor," she said in the
most neutral tone she could muster.  "But I never mind being called in
an emergency."

"Didn't think it was."  Goldberg shrugged and strode away.

Noting his supercilious swagger, Maggie resolved to get to work on him
as soon as possible.  The guy had certain incipient jerk tendencies
that could easily turn chronic.

Maggie knocked at the patient's door, waited a decent interval, then
entered.  At first glance, the room appeared ransacked and abandoned.

The blinds were drawn, webbing the space with shadows.

The sheets had been wrenched off, exposing the stained flannel pad and
striped ticking underneath.  There was a gaping wound in the thin
cotton spread and several parallel rips in the pillowcase suggestive of
cats' claws.  Beside the boxed radiator, the metal nightstand lay
upended.  It was framed by a scatter of spilled juice, sliced bananas,
and dry cereal from a toppled breakfast tray.

Could the woman have walked out?

Crossing toward the window, Maggie recalled Goldberg's dispassionate
recital on the phone.  "I've got a forty-two-year-old white female
admitted for possible smoke inhalation after a house fire.  Name's
Daisy Tyler, and I'd say Daisy's more than half crazy.  So, I figured
I'd better give you a call."

By Goldberg's account, the woman had spent the night alternating
between fits of hysteria and periods of mute, almost catatonic,
withdrawal.  No one and nothing, including the outrageous overabundance
of medication, had been able to calm her or elicit rational
responses.

"Why don't you stop by and have a look when you get a chance?"  he'd
said off handedly at the end.  He might have been asking her to check a
leaky faucet.  No big deal.

Rounding the foot of the bed, Maggie caught a breathy whimper from the
far corner of the room.

"Miss Tyler?"

As she approached, the cry gained volume and urgency.  Maggie paused
and spoke in a gentle lilt.  "It's okay.  My name is Maggie Lyons.  I'm
a psychiatrist.  I know you've been having a terrible time.  I'm here
to help you."

There was a brittle silence that soon shattered in a burst of agony.

"Take me home.  Please take me home.  I can't stand it!"  The voice was
scraped raw by hours of desperate shrieking.  "Please!"

Edging closer, Maggie could see the woman cowering on the floor behind
the protective hill of her knees.  Her crossed arms fenced her head as
if she were braced against incoming enemy rounds.  Sinking beside her,
Maggie rested her hand on the woman's back.  The hospital gown was
sweat-soaked.  So was the curly gray-brown hair which now drooped in a
wriggling wormlike mass.  Daisy Tyler exuded a charred smell mingled
with the ripe scent of despair.

Maggie worked her palm in soothing circles.  Dr. Goldberg's instant
assessment aside, this woman was not psychotic.  To Maggie, who'd seen
many such patients during her ten years as a specialist in anxiety
disorders, the problem was obvious.

Daisy Tyler suffered from severe agoraphobia a term whose literal
meaning was the fear of open spaces.

Having experienced sudden excruciating attacks of baseless panic, such
patients went to great lengths to avoid what they viewed as potentially
threatening situations.  The condition tended to escalate over time
until many agoraphobics were unable to drive or travel freely or even
run routine errands.  Those most severely plagued felt safe only at
home.  Some went even further, confining themselves to a single room.

There, they remained selfsentenced prisoners, often for life.

"How long since you've been out of the house?"

The woman drew a ragged breath.  "Long time."

"Ten years?  Twenty?"

"Twenty-two."

Maggie felt a tug of sympathy.  This woman had been hiding from her
fears for half a lifetime.  Suddenly, the only secure place in her
universe had been obliterated.  As Goldberg told it, the fire had
totally gutted the small prewar building on East Seventy-eighth Street
where Daisy had passed the last two decades in a three-room
apartment.

Fortunately or unfortunately, she would not be going back to that
particular refuge for some time.

Maybe never.  It was the worst nightmare imaginable for a person with
Daisy Tyler's psychiatric profile.

"Do you have any family?  Close friends?  Anyone you'd like me to
call?"

Daisy shook her head and hunched deeper into the circle of her own
protection.

"Nothing is going to happen to you," Maggie soothed.  "No matter how
bad you feel, you will get through this.  We'll help you through it.  I
promise."

The woman raised her head a timid few inches.  Her eyes gleamed with
terror and unshed tears.  "I can't.  Don't you see?  You've got to take
me home.  I'll die if I have to stay here."

"No, you won't.  You'll be fine.  Daisy, they've given you a lot of
tranquilizers.  A little might have been useful, but the amount you've
had is just making it harder for you to get yourself in control.  I'm
going to help you over to the bed and sit with you until you fall
asleep.  After the medicine wears off, you'll feel better.  Then, we'll
start working on getting you well."

"I can't sleep here.  I've got to go home.  Please, please!"

"That's
not possible, Daisy.  You remember about the fire.

She moved to protest, but she couldn't escape the enormity of the
truth.  "My place is gone," she said dully.

"Yes."

"All my things.

"Yes.  But things can be replaced.  All that really matters is that
you're all right.  And you are, Daisy.  But you need to get some sleep
now."

With gentle insistence, Maggie prodded the woman, wobbly from strain
and exhaustion, to her feet.  Leaning heavily on Maggie, Daisy moved in
an inebriated shuffle.  Maneuvering around the fallen nightstand, they
approached the bed in awkward concert.

Maggie smoothed the jumbled sheets with her free hand, eased Daisy
down, and pulled the covers to her chin.

"There.  Try to rest now."

As soon as Maggie released her, Daisy stiffened and clutched her
chest.

"My heart's beating so fast.  Oh, God, help me.  I'm having a heart
attack!"

The symptom was typical.  To be sure, Maggie checked the woman's
vitals.  "That's just the anxiety, Daisy.  When you're afraid, your
body pumps extra adrenaline.  That's what's making your heart race.

It's nothing to worry about, Take a deep breath.  Slowly.  And
another.

That's good.

After an hour of steady reassurances, Daisy finally surrendered to a
drugged sleep.  Maggie decided to sit as she was for a while, not
wanting any sudden movement to jolt the woman back to fitful
consciousness.

Waiting in the dim silence, she metered her patient's ragged
breathing.

Daisy's face was puffed with grief, her features still ravaged by the
anguish that refused to release her, even in sleep.  Thankfully, Maggie
thought, there was a way to ease this suffering.  The treatment would
be long and difficult, but the incinerated ruins of Daisy Tyler's life
could be rebuilt, brick by brick.

Then, remembering the note she'd found on her desk that morning, it
occurred to her that curing Daisy Tyler might be far from the biggest
challenge she faced at the moment.

The memo had been scrawled in Alexander Ivy's flowery hand.

The hospital's president wanted to see Maggie in his office promptly at
five this afternoon.  Command performance.  A matter of some urgency,
he'd written.  Based on her unfortunate experience with the man, she
knew there were a number of possible reasons for the summons.

And none of them was good.

CHAPTER 2.

Sam Bannister peered through the morgue's viewing window, his eyes
blazing fury.  Three months they'd spent on the damned case.

Three goddamned months, and now that they were finally within sniffing
distance of the reward they deserved, the prime suspect had the gall to
go out and get himself dead.

The stiff was Macklin.  No doubt about it.  Even stained the color of
wet cement and puffed like a blowfish from his extended soak in
Narragansett Bay, there was no mistaking the oversized creep.

No matter how he tried, Bannister could not wish away the ax-head chin,
the Frankenstein-shaped head, or the truculent mouth.

"Damn you, Macklin," Bannister said.  "You spiteful, inconsiderate,
ugly son of a bitch.  Couldn't you have waited?

Would a couple of weeks have goddamned killed you?"

A conciliatory hand settled on his shoulder.  "Forget it, Sam.

It's over.  He's over."

Turning, Bannister took in Lenny Price's kindly, beleaguered face.

Good old Lenny.  No matter how unfair or infuriating the situation, the
guy managed to stay cool and philosophical.  No steam.  No temper.

Made it a cinch to work with him, true.  Bannister had teamed up with
his old boss from Manhattan South a dozen times since opening his own
Boston detective agency five years ago.  And Price had never given him
an ounce of deliberate trouble.  But Bannister dearly wished the guy
could work up a little lather over scum like Macklin.

"You're wrong, Lenny.  It's not over.  Not by a long shot.  The prick
may be dead, but that no way means I'm finished with him.

He's got some nerve, pulling a stunt like this on us."

Price sighed.  "Try not to take it personally, Sam.  The man didn't off
himself to mess up our case, after all.  What's your opinion.

"Come on.  Be reasonable for a change.  Macklin's gone.  The cops are
tagging it a suicide.  Nothing we can do about it.  Case closed."

Bannister spoke through clenched teeth.  "What about the
happily-ever-after part?  What about our payoff?  You know what this
does to that big, fat bonus check we were angling for?

Makes it fly bye-bye, that's what."

"You knew not to count on that."

"The hell I did.  I was going to pay off my national debt with that
check.  Buy new wheels, maybe.  My car's so old, a fill-up is ten bucks
worth of embalming fluid."

"What's done's done, Sam.  Your problem is you don't know how to let go
of things.  Lighten up a little.  Life's too short."

"I don't know how to let go.  No one holds on harder than you, Price.

You'll follow a lead through a brick wall and back again."

"That's different.  I'm talking about knowing it's over when it's
over."

"And I'm talking about a fifty-thousand-dollar reward."

"Think of your blood pressure, Sammy.  You're getting all red in the
face."

Bannister silenced him with a look.  Price hitched his shoulders and
slumped back into his perpetual slouch.  Everything drooped along:
eyes, jowls, gut, gray cardigan, worn brown corduroys.

"Try to look on the bright side, Sam.  We still get our time and
expenses.  Mrs. Rafferty told me she was putting a check in the mail
this morning.  That's something, isn't it?"

Price's flawless good nature finally brought Bannister to a boil.

He slammed his frustrations into the wall so hard the plasterboard
dimpled.  Behind the glass, the horrified coroner's assistant yanked
the curtain shut, shielding the corpse from Bannister's unsightly
temper.

"Good riddance," Price said with a dismissive swat, and blew his
bulbous nose for emphasis.  "Forget it.  You want my advice?

Put it behind you.  Take a break, maybe.  What's it been, three years
since you had a real vacation?  It'd do you a world of good to get
away.  Believe me."

"Yeah, sure."  Still staring at the curtained glass, Bannister went
grim and silent.  His dark eyes narrowed, and his mouth drew in a hard
seam.  A subtle twist could alter his looks from matinee idol to plain
mean.

"I'm serious.  You've been pushing yourself too hard.  Putting on too
much pressure.  Better ease up or you could snap, Sam.  You don't want
to wind up like Macklin.

A beat later, Bannister's expression brightened with a jarring
suddenness that made Price take a few involuntary steps in reverse.

"Bless you, Lenny.  You just gave me a great idea!"

Price shook his shaggy head.  "I know you and your ideas, Sam.

Whatever you're thinking, don't."

"Just listen, will you, please?  It's like you said.  Macklin snapped
under the pressure.  But it had to take time for him to get desperate
enough to take that final dive, right?  We've been leaning on him for
months and we both know he was starting to come unglued.  Meantime,
maybe he went for help.  Spilled his beans to a shrink or something."

"It's over, Sam.  Forget it."

"Don't you see?  He might have dumped everything.  Made a confession
even.  I have this feeling that's just what happened--"

"You and your
feelings."

"My instincts are impeccable, Price.  Admit it."

"Sometimes they're impeccable, and sometimes they're as peckable as the
next person's."  Price snorted at his own humor.

But Bannister persisted.  "We can't give up now, Lenny.  Not after all
we've put in on this thing."

Price shook his head.  His jowels trailed a beat later.  "I promised
Ruthie no more missions impossible."

"What is it with you?  Do you have to get the little woman's okay
before you go to the can, or what?"

Price slicked back his fine silver hair and squared his shoulders.

"Absolutely not.  She gave me blanket permission for our twenty-fifth
anniversary."

"Don't those apron strings pinch after a while?  I bet you've got dents
and everything."

"Tease all you want.  So happens Ruthie and I have a good thing
going.

We love and support each other.  And no matter what you think, she
doesn't lead me around by the nose.

"By what, then?"

"It's a pity you have such a wrong impression of marriage.

You picked a lemon, that's all.  Ruthie has never stood in my way."

A naughty glint lit Bannister's eyes.  "That's good to hear, Lenny.

Because I need you in on this.  It's going to take all we've got,
partner.  But we're going to make it work."

"I said no, Sam.  Absolutely not."

Bannister draped an arm across Price's shoulders and propelled him out
of the building toward the car.  "I've got a really good feeling about
this, buddy boy.  You watch.  Macklin's suicide could turn out to be
just the break we were looking for."

Price raised his hands defensively.  "Listen to me.  When I spoke to
Mrs. Rafferty this morning, she was real definite.  Now that we've
confirmed the floater was Macklin, she's out.  No more per them, no
more covering our expenses.  I will not let you do me another
Schildhauer.  That fiasco cost us but good."

Remembering, Bannister flushed with anger.  Moe Schildhauer was an oily
weasel who'd bilked hundreds of old people out of their life savings
with a slick insurance scam.  Reacting to a carload of complaints, the
state's understaffed attorney general's office had hired Bannister to
investigate.  Bannister had coaxed Price out of retirement to assist.

The pair had met twenty years earlier in New York City when Bannister
was tapped as a rookie detective to serve under Price on a special task
force investigating the murder of Martha Rafferty.

Polar opposites, the two men complemented each other perfectly.

Bannister was long on nerve and intuition.  Price had an astounding
network of willing contacts and a bottomless well of insight and
information.  Bannister had the knack to light Price's long, lazy
fuse.

Price was an effective silencer to Bannister's loose cannon.

Bannister took the battering ram approach to a case, while Price's
investigations were slow and methodical and often detoured in
unexpected directions.  By the time the state task force was disbanded,
both had recognized they were doomed to a lifelong friendship.

Even after both left the New York force, they'd continued to find
reasons to work together.  They'd put in six months on the Schildhauer
case.  During their examination of Schildhauer's sleazy operation,
Price had discovered that Moe had a stake in a thriving kiddie porn
operation based in Brazil.  Stalking that sideline had cost them
critical weeks.  By the time they finally had enough to nail the slime
in the local insurance scam, he'd gotten wise to their interest.  He'd
moved his entire operation, damning evidence included, across the
border to New Hampshire.

Given the complexities of dealing with a neighboring jurisdiction, the
authorities had declined to pursue the matter.

The task force was disbanded.  But Sam Bannister was not nearly as
practical or conciliatory as the state of Massachusetts, and his temper
was way bigger.  So he'd continued the case on his own.

Bringing Moe Schildhauer to justice nine months later had been every
bit as satisfying as Bannister had expected, but that satisfaction had
cost him time, clients, and a world-class American Express bill.

Price, ever the good-natured schnook, had agreed to foot half the
freight.

Ruthie keeps reminding me that we could have taken my pension and
bought that condo in the Keys five years ago.  You have any idea how
many rounds I could have played in five years?"

"I hear you, Lenny.  You leave Mrs. Rafferty to me.  Once I have her
say-so, it shouldn't take us more than a couple of weeks.

Three tops.  And it couldn't be a more perfect time.  Things are slow
at the agency.  Guess it's too nice out for people to feel like chasing
stray husbands or sticky-fingered employees.

Weather's supposed to hold, too.

"You're getting way ahead of yourself, Sam.  We're not making another
move on this case until you get Mrs.  Rafferty's okay.

I'm serious."

"I'll get it.  I told you."

Price made a leaky tire sound and stared glumly at the grimy windshield
as Bannister backed out of the spot.  "I honestly don't see how you're
going to convince her.  Macklin's dead.  The reward she posted was for
arrest and conviction.

"So we change her mind.  Mrs. R's a reasonable woman.  As long as we
deliver the goods, how can she object to a little shipping damage?"

Price rolled his eyes.  "I have to tell you.  I think maybe Macklin's
not the only one who's gone head-first off the deep end."

"I'm as sane and steady as I ever was."

"Exactly."

Bannister flipped on the car's wasted radio, which spewed a rhythmic
blast of static.  Buoyed by the fresh possibilities, he sang along.

"Why the hell do I allow you to get me into these things, Sam?"

"Because life is more than classes and books and socializing and
golf.

It isn't enough to know everything and everybody in the world.  You
need a little excitement once in a while.  Put a little color in your
face."

"Ruthie's right about you.  You're cute, but you're trouble."

"That Ruthie.  She's such a kidder."  Bannister pinched Price's jiggly
cheek.  "Don't you worry, Lenny boy.  We're just going to do exactly
what you said.  We're going to find the way to put this whole damned
case behind us.  And then we're going to forget all about it."

CHAPTER 3.

Order was everything.  Life's essence was precision, endeavors set at
scrupulous intervals like garments in a wellkept closet.

Any change in customary routine required cautious preparation.

The calls and the news checks had been added with meticulous care a
week ago, the day after the parcel was delivered to the midtown Federal
Express office.  Having dispatched the box by priority overnight
service (delivery guaranteed before ten A.M. the following business
day), there had been every reason to expect rapid results.

Now, the calls were placed to the man's office each morning at
precisely nine twenty-eight, ten minutes after the secretary's
customary arrival.  The call to the city desk at the local newspaper
was at ten to noon, nearly wrap time for the afternoon edition.  At
four P.M there was the call to the society editor responsible for
obituaries.  Four was closing time for paid announcements and
classified advertisements .

The trap should have sprung immediately.  But so far, there had been
nothing out of the ordinary except the man's sudden trip out of town.

According to the secretary, the intended victim had departed two days
before on a business trip.

Intolerable.

Despite the clear necessity for the calls and the news checks, the
disruption of normal procedure was vaguely discomfiting, like eating
something at odds with one's digestive system.

Why was it taking so long?  According to the scrupulous plan, this
first assault should have been successfully completed by now.

By this time, the next one should already be in progress.

Perhaps even the one after that.

It was inconceivable that the scheme would not work.  Animal trials had
demonstrated the drug's astonishing effectiveness.

Macklin, the first human subject, had received the necessary
preparatory dose for several weeks now.  After ingesting the massive
booster dose, Macklin would be stripped of all normal inhibitions.  He
would be moved to commit a feat of outlandish daring, probably
something bold enough to capture the attention of the media.  In the
best case, it might prove to be an act of ultimate recklessness: the
final act of the subject's useless existence.

Either way, Theodore Macklin was to be the first in a carefully
selected string of foolhardy victims.  Their inconceivable recklessness
would be Dr. Maggie Lyons's undoing.  She alone would be held
accountable for her patients' unthinkable daring and the accidents and
injuries that would inevitably ensue.  That prospect was enough to ease
the strain of the undertaking.  Seeing that woman each day, knowing she
was oblivious to the precipice looming before her, was a particular
joy.

Dr.  Maggie Lyons would pay with her precious clinic first.

She would lose her cherished work.  Her professional reputation would
be destroyed, her future ravaged.  Maggie Lyons would suffer ostracism,
humiliation, the threat of financial ruin, possibly even criminal
penalties.  But nothing would be sufficient retribution for all the
harm and suffering she had inflicted.

Still, there was the need for order.  And order required a suitable end
to each beginning.  So first, Dr. Lyons must be stripped of
everything, left with nothing but despair and confusion.  When that was
accomplished, it would be time to put the bitch out of her misery.

CHAPTER 4.

East End Hospital's executive offices were housed in a five-story
brownstone across the street from the blocklong medical facility in the
Yorkville section of Manhattan.  Maggie wound up her four o'clock
therapy session, dictated a short note to the patient's file, and left
her office.

She was blocked in the hall by Francis Xavier Kennedy, a program aide
with flame red hair and a complexion to match.  Seeing her, he stood
back from the pictures he was straightening.  Maggie spotted evidence
of F.X."s compulsive tidying all along the corridor.  The plants were
in a line reminiscent of the Rockettes.

The waiting room magazines had been alphabetized and set in precise
rows.  The notices had been straightened on the bulletin boards.

Compared to Francis Kennedy, even Maggie's fastidious assistant seemed
slovenly.

"Hey, Maggie.  Hot enough for you?"

"For anyone, F.X. Please excuse me.  I'm running late."

He stayed planted firmly in her way.  "How about a drink when you wrap
things up here?  Seven be good?"

"No, thanks.  I'm busy tonight."

"You must have time for a quick drink."

Maggie sidestepped him.  "Good night, Francis."

Putting the pesty Mr. Kennedy out of her mind, she hurried across the
street.

Sweltering city day.  Ninety-plus degrees with rain forest humidity.

The air hung like saturated towels, rank and heavy.

Two minutes outside and she started to wilt.  Her shoes pinched, and
her beige linen suit took on that crumpled lunch bag look.

She reveled in the mighty blast of conditioned air that struck her as
she pressed open the ornate front door and quickly entered the
brownstone's elegant lobby.

Formerly a private residence, the building and its furnishings had been
willed to the hospital two years earlier.  The foyer's inlaid marble
floor sparkled with pins of light from a Venetian crystal chandelier.

Stained Tiffany glass graced the windows.

An antique Aubusson runner in shades of peach and turquoise trailed up
the imposing staircase.

No time to wait for the cranky old elevator in the rear.

Maggie trotted up the stairs and made it to the president's fifth-floor
suite at five sharp.  Breathless, she smiled at Vivian, the pale,
fiftyish fixture behind the desk.  The secretary, the office, and the
job had all passed from father to son a year ago.

"Hi, Viv.  Would you please tell him I'm here?"

Slipping on her rimless bifocals, the secretary tidied the stack of
phone messages in front of her, then called inside to announce Maggie's
arrival.  Hanging up, she flashed an apologetic smile.

"Better have a seat, Maggie.  Seems he's tied up for a bit."

Maggie was not surprised.  Alexander Ivy owned and used every
conceivable power tool.  He pressed for promptness, so he'd have plenty
of time to keep you waiting.  Never placed his own calls.

Waited three days to return yours, longer or never if you weren't on
his critical list.

What did surprise her was the swift and sweeping acceptance Ivy had
achieved at East End.  Most of the hospital staff seemed willing to
overlook the administrator's boorish condescension and hyperactive
ego.

Or maybe, as Maggie's assistant, Henry, had once theorized, they simply
hadn't been treated to that appalling side of the man.

So why was she so lucky?

Maggie eyed her reflection in the glassed photo of Vivian's grandkids
on the desk.  Same old face.  She could still pass for Peter Pan's big
sister with the cropped copper hair, large green eyes, and the silly
little nose that had refused to grow up with the rest of her.  No horns
or snaggleteeth or hairy wens.

Nothing obvious to inspire the kind of instant animosity she'd aroused
in the hospital's new president.  And she managed to get along
reasonably well with most people.

But young Mr. Ivy was an unfortunate exception.  It had been an acute
case of loathe at first sight, and things had rolled steadily downhill
from there.

Ironically, Alex's father, Lawrence Ivy, had been a valued friend and
mentor of Maggie's since their first meeting a decade ago at a
professional conference in San Francisco.  The elder Ivy had wooed
Maggie away from her assistant directorship of the mental health clinic
at Johns Hopkins to start an anxiety disorders program at East End.

With his encouragement and steady support, Maggie had built one of the
premier phobia treatment centers in the country.

But then serious health problems had forced the senior Ivy into
retirement, and little Alex had stepped in to fill his father's
formidable shoes.  The hospital had been founded by Ivy forebears and
remained heavily dependent on Ivy Foundation largess.  As the only
remaining scion of the clan, Alex Ivy was the natural and expected
successor to his father's position.  The pedigree also gave young Alex
the power of the proverbial eight-hundredpound gorilla.  He sat
wherever he pleased.  And for some reason, he'd chosen to sit on
Maggie.

Poison Ivy.

She'd discussed the problem with her friend and assistant, Henry
Most.

Henry contended jealousy was the culprit.  As he saw it, Little Alex
envied his father's affection for Maggie, even now when the old man was
terminally
But that explanation was too tidy for Maggie's taste.  As a seasoned
student of human behavior, she knew things were rarely that simple.  It
was just as likely that she resembled a mean nanny from Alex's
childhood or a woman who'd spurned his adolescent advances or some
sadistic teacher who'd flunked him in seventh grade math.  Whatever the
root cause, she was determined not to let the president's animosity
undermine her work.  The clinic was too important to too many people.

Herself included.

The phone issued a Bronx cheer.  Vivian answered, listened, and nodded
Maggie toward Alex Ivy's office.

Entering, she found the hospital's president hunched over a stout sheaf
of computer printouts at his antique Chippendale desk.

The office was paneled in hurled walnut.  A wall's width of
glass-fronted shelves showcased first editions and fine porcelains.

Brocade drapes in rose and gold tones hung at the windows.  Matching
fabric swaddled the scatter of settees and chairs.  Alex Ivy waved
Maggie toward one of them.  He did not greet her.

The man was a nineties Napoleon, no taller than Maggie's five four
despite the perilous lifts in his crocodile loafers.  As usual, his
tiny form was packaged in Armani couture and accented by Hermes.  His
hair, dyed the color of espresso, was scrupulously arranged.  So was
the shark smile he sported when he finally deigned to meet her eye.

"Thanks for stopping by," he said.  "I hope this time wasn't too
inconvenient."

"No problem."

He locked her in his steely gaze.  "Unfortunately, Doctor, I'm afraid
there s a problem."

Ivy flipped the mass of computer paper in her direction and pointed at
a line of numbers.  "The phobia clinic continues to show disappointing
results.  Frankly, I was hoping to see a significant improvement by
now."

Maggie eyed the summary of the program's net revenues.

"Ninety percent of our patients report a major improvement in their
quality of life after treatment with us, Mr. Ivy.  Eighty-five percent
have maintained those considerable gains at the two-year follow-up.

I'd say those are excellent results."

Ivy blinked slowly.  His sapphire contact lenses hopped halfway up the
whites before settling back in place.  His real eye color, she noted,
was cesspool brown.  "In these difficult economic times, Dr. Lyons, we
can't afford to ignore revenues.  We're running a business here, not a
crusade."

Maggie resisted an overwhelming desire to grasp his scrawny neck and
squeeze.  "True, and our business happens to be health care.

My department may not be a gold mine, but we provide a valuable, proven
service to our patients.  And we've done more than our fair share to
enhance the hospital's reputation."

Ivy snickered.  "If you're referring to your shameless self-promotion,
Dr.  Lyons, I am frankly not impressed.  So you have a good PR firm.

So what?"

"I don't have a PR firm, I have a program that relieves serious
suffering.  The only reason I give interviews is to get the word out to
people who need help.  But it so happens East End isn't hurt by the
positive press."

He waved in dismissal.  "I didn't call you in to argue.  Bottom line
is, the phobia clinic is not pulling its financial weight, and every
department must.  You have six months to turn it around, or we'll have
to make better use of the space.  Ambulatory reconstructive is a major
moneymaker, and they badly need to expand."

"What specifically do you need to see in six months?"  Maggie asked,
carefully keeping her voice steady.  She wasn't about to debate the
critical need for more butt lifts and tummy tucks.

"A twenty percent net increase, minimum.  And a viable plan for
continued bottom-line growth during the next fiscal year.

Give me that, and I'll be willing to keep the clinic doors open.  At
least, for the time being."

Twenty percent.  He might as well have told her she had to run the
program on a space station or limit her practice to Buddhist monks with
an unreasonable fear of goat cheese.  The clinic was already operating
at the lowest imaginable overhead, with all the volunteers and
donations it could muster.  The therapy groups and staff schedules were
booked to capacity and beyond.  Maggie was already putting in such long
hours, she had to pencil in time for frivolities like sleep and
nourishment.  In fact, she'd been hoping to get the go-ahead to hire
some desperately needed extra hands.

How the hell were they going to raise another twenty percent profit?

Bake sales?  Contract murders?  Maggie knew exactly whom she'd like to
fit for the first set of cement boots.  Size seven, she guessed with a
quick glance at his reptile Guccis.

Definitely narrow.

"Alex, please, be reasonable.  You know there's no way we can squeeze
that kind of net increase out of the clinic.

"I'm sure there are ways to reduce your overhead.  For starters, you
can move up to the old office space we vacated on fifteen.

Your program is low volume.  No reason to tie up the valuable central
footage you've got now.  That would cut your space costs
considerably."

He was baiting her, but Maggie refused to bite.  "You know that's
impossible.  Some of our patients are terrified of heights and many
won't ride elevators.  We've discussed this before."

"I'm trying to help you out here, Dr.  Lyons.  You treat grown-ups.

If they're afraid of bogeymen, am I supposed to post a bogeyman patrol
in the lobby?  Coddling those people can't possibly help them get rid
of their nonsense.  If the clinic moved to fifteen, I'm sure they'd
manage somehow.  Unless, that is, the clinic isn't as crucial to them
as you seem to believe it is."

Maggie didn't bother to argue.  True, phobias weren't rational.

But they could be as real and debilitating as any illness.

Maybe more so.

"We can't move to fifteen.  It's impossible.  And so are your
demands."

Slow, deliberate nod.  "Fine, then.  I'll announce the program's
unfortunate demise immediately.  With all your media appearances, I'm
sure you'll have no trouble finding another position."

"I didn't mean that."  Having started the clinic and nurtured its
growth, Maggie had a huge, proprietary stake in its survival.

She couldn't imagine folding the place.  She would not imagine it.

"Six months," she said, mostly to herself.  "Six months, and you'll
have your twenty percent increase.

"I will, or the party's over, Dr.  Lyons.  Good day, now."

Maggie stormed out, slamming the door shut behind her.  A good day, it
most definitely was not.

CHAPTER 5.

Careful, Jessie!

Watching his little sister through the window, Jason Childs's breath
quickened and a rash of terror scaled his spine.

Heedless of the skulking dangers, her moves were brisk and breezy, fine
hair trailing like a lemon silk scarf.  As she paused to poke the
bushes, her head was cocked in concentration.  Her lips were pursed.

Practicing her whistling now that her front teeth were finally coming
in, he thought.  The way she was going full steam at life, she'd leave
him in her dust sooner than he cared to consider.  Laugh down at him
the way the rest of them did.

He captured her image, held it hard as if she were about to burst like
a seed pod and scatter on the wind.  Her dress was a shapeless wisp of
cotton, tiny flowers strewn across a blush pink ground.  It was a year
too short, so the hem barely skimmed the tops of her chunky thighs.

Her legs were a patchwork of scrapes and bruises.  Especially the
knees.  Kid was forever trying something new and dangerous: roller
skates, scooter board, a twowheeler.  She didn't seem to mind the
hazards at all.  Or maybe she was too young yet to recognize them.

Jason tried to think back to her age, to imagine himself light and
reckless.  But it was far too big a stretch over the dark pit of what
he had become.  Letting go, he was catapulted back to the fearsome
present.

Her feet were bare.  Sort of pretty.  Pink pearl toes and rubber-ball
heels.  She sidestepped the hot stone path, scuffing instead through
the parched brown grass beside
it.  At intervals, she ducked through the tall hedgerow fronting the
house, and he lost sight of her for a breathless second.

Jesus Christ.  What if something's back there?  Watch out, Jessie!

Careful, you little jerk.

There.  She was out again.  She looked bothered.  Hiking the hem of her
skirt, she wiped the sweat off her forehead with it.  The fabric fell
away, streaked with grime.

They were in the grip of a record heat spell, she'd announced that
morning in her grating shrill of six-year-old authority.

Smart little twerp she was, Jason grudgingly acknowledged.

Jess had already absorbed the tacit family tradition of keeping him
informed, bringing the world right to him, so he wouldn't have to go
out and face his monsters more often than absolutely necessary.

Even looked hot, he thought grimly, pulling his eyes off her for a
crucial moment of respite.  Watching her was too much like doing it
himself.  Being out there, open and vulnerable.  Risking a run-in with
one of them.

Shaking off that intolerable notion, he shifted his focus to the
shade-dappled front yard.  They lived in Bayside, Queens.  Less than
half an hour from midtown Manhattan, though you'd never guess it from
their sleepy circle of a block.  Six nice, well-tended houses filled
with nice, familiar people.  Neat lawns and clipped hedges.  Home was
enough for him, he'd kept telling them.  All he wanted.  Why wouldn't
they listen?  Why wouldn't they stop nagging and pushing and let him
be?

Usually, Jason enjoyed the neighborhood's rhythms, the comforting
routines.  Safe behind his window, he passed the time watching the cars
as they left for work near dawn and returned each evening.

He observed the clumps of kids who gathered to play each afternoon.  He
watched Mrs. Gavin walking the baby and Mr. Loring delivering the
mail.  At least once a day the UPS truck trundled up the street to drop
off packages from the endless stream of orders Mrs. Hauptmeyer called
in to the shopping channel.

At will, he could alter his view to break the sameness Poised at
strategic angles, Jason could catch a stray glimpse of Paul Haskel and
Susie Weiss making out on the Weiss's creaky porch swing.  He watched
the burly Ziegans twins wrestling in their yard, snapping at each other
like swamp alligators.

Yards away, Dr. and Mrs. Ziegans clinked their martini glasses in
front of their living room's bare bay window and fed each other olives
speared on frilled toothpicks.  Nothing was ever odd or unexpected or
vaguely dangerous.  But Jason felt an undercurrent of unseen menace.

Even here.

Even now.

Right now, one could be out there, lurking in the shadows.

Panting.  Drooping tail weighted by evil intent.

And they oanted him to walk right into the trap.

There was an ominous stillness to the trees.  The air quavered with an
oily, unnatural haze.  Probably bad for the lungs, Jason thought
grimly.  Too much ozone or carbon monoxide or some other deadly,
invisible poison.  Heat like this had to carry an excess of whatever
made it so people with heart or lung conditions were warned by the
weatherman to stay indoors.  Who knew if he had one of those ailments
they talked about on the health alerts?

Could be he'd contracted one since his last checkup and didn't even
know it.  They had to let him cancel the stupid appointment.

They had to!

His sister was in front of the garage now, standing on tiptoe to peek
through one of the tiny square windows in the roll-up door.

His heart squirmed as he imagined a set of cruel eyes glinting back at
her from the darkness.  Silent.  Waiting.

Don't open the door, Jess.  For Chrissakes, be careful!

He wanted to fling open the window and shout out to warn her away, but
he was frozen in place.  Paralyzed.

Jessie crouched and grasped the rusty metal pull.  Face scrunched, she
hefted the heavy door high over her head.  With a nod of
self-congratulation, she brushed the effort off her palms and strode
inside.

His throat clenched.  Dont let him get you, Jessie!  Run for
godsakes!

But the runt acted in no particular hurry, weaving her insouciant way
around the Chevy wagon, tugging open the hatch, stooping to check under
the chassis.  Familiar with the routine, she lifted the lids on the
trash cans.  Improbable or no, he could picture one hiding inside.

Ready to pounce! Peering into the last of the bins, Jessie wrinkled her
cup-hook nose in dramatic distaste.  Finished, she turned toward the
house and motioned for Jason to join her.  He read the exaggerated
movement of her lips: "Come on, Jay.  It's all clear."

But the fear would not release him.  His bowels rumbled, and a fiery
pain stabbed his gut.  Doubling over, he knew he could not go through
with this.  Not today.  He must be getting sick or something.  His
mother would have to understand.  But then, he felt her standing behind
him in the archway.  Turning, he saw the purse slung over her
shoulder.

The shopping bag dangled from her wrist.

He tried to take some comfort from the thought of the doctored watches
inside.  He'd painted a trace of his magic formula on the inside of
each hand.  But what the hell good was that going to do him now?

The keys jangled in his mother's grasp.  Her look was grim and
determined.

"Come on, Jason, honey.  Don't want to be late for the first group
meeting, do you?"

He shot her a pleading look.  "Feel my head, will you?  I think I'm
coming down with something."  Why were they making him do this?

Didn't they understand?  They were making the terrible things happen.

She frowned at him.  "Didn't I hear Jessie go out to check?"

"Yes, but--"

"Let's go, then.  I'll walk right beside you.  I
promise."

"Not today.  It's too hot out.  And that guy from Shadow Traffic on
WINS says there's construction on the FDR.  It's tied up for miles in
both directions.  We probably won't make it anyway."  He heard his
voice break.

Stop this already.  Youve got to stop before it goes any further!

She crossed the room with firm strides and gripped him by the elbow.

"We're not putting it off any longer, Jason.

You've got to keep at it like the doctor said.  Look.  Jessie's waving
that it's okay."

"What the hell does she know?  She's just a damned baby."

His mother blew an exasperated breath.  "All right.  I'll go
double-check.  But then, we're leaving.  No two ways about it."

He stood rooted while his mother slammed outside and strode along the
walk with Jess skipping behind.  She had left the shopping bag in the
foyer.  Jason chanced a furtive peek at it and turned away.

If they made him go, he would not be responsiblefor the consequences.

Whatever happened would be theirfault.

Together his mother and Jessie repeated the ritual, poking behind the
shrubbery, scrutinizing the contents of the garage.  They peered into
corners.  Inspected the trash.  Jason tried not to think about what
would follow.  He focused on how they looked side by side.  Amazing
resemblance.  Mom was the obvious source of Jessie's fair hair and high
color.  Jess had won their mother's stony resilience and steel spirit
as well.  Little squirt was forever watching what older people did.

She took it all in and imitated, him especially.  Jessie did everything
she could to hurry her way to adult independence.  Jason was content to
walk in place, avoiding change and challenge at all costs.  He'd always
favored his father: the mouse.

At six-two, he towered over his mother, and Jessie came no higher than
his knees.  But Jason knew he was the small one.  Useless little
nothing.  If only he could act near his age and size.

Squinting, he tried to imagine himself loping out to the wagon and
sliding nonchalantly behind the wheel.  He'd drive off for a burger and
a beer.  Pick up a few other kids on the way.

Maybe even Rina Latham, prettiest girl in the class.  Rina had long
black hair and eyes the color of pool water.  He imagined her coming
toward him, hips swinging in a tiny pair of shorts, cantaloupe breasts
bobbling under her tank top.  He pictured the smile spreading over her
his
cious lips as if she were thrilled to see him.  He flushed and squirmed
at the unwelcome quickening in his groin.

Stupid fantasy.

He'd never have Rina or anybody else.  He'd never enjoy fun with
friends or anything approaching a normal life.  He hardly ever even
bothered to dream about those things anymore.  What was the point?  He
couldn't even do the basic normal things a six-year-old like his sister
could.

He'd been old enough to drive for more than a year now, and he still
hadn't mustered the nerve to get his license.  The process would
require too many trips outside his safety zone.

Lessons.

Practice sessions.  What if one came along when he was behind the
wheel?  What if one lunged at the windshield?  He shivered, imagining
the sharp rain of shattered glass and the fanged monster landing on
him.  Clawing, tearing.

Why the hell couldn't they let it go?  Didn't they realize what they
were pushing him to do?

His heart squirmed.  Jason knew he was getting crazier, more desperate
and out of touch.  But he was powerless to arrest his own decline.  In
the month since graduation, all he'd done was hang around the house,
staring out the window.  Except for his invention, everything seemed a
worthless waste.  The only feelings he had were the terror and the
rage.

Before graduation, his parents had forced him to go to school.

Mom had gone out to do the check every morning.  Then she'd driven him,
left the car running at the curb, and walked him right to the
building's entrance.

In class, he'd get busy, and the fear would sometimes slip his mind.

He'd been a good student, especially in math and science.

In those subjects, he was so advanced the others had taken to calling
him Dr. Frankenstein.  But Jason had refused to let the teasing get to
him.  There were far worse things, he knew.  At least he was good at
something.

There had even been talk of him going to a top school like M.I.T.

maybe on a scholarship.  But how could he go away to college when he
couldn't even get himself from the house to the damned driveway?

His parents kept hoping.  Maybe after more treatment, they'd said.

Maybe with more time and work.  . . Maybe he'd be ready when hell
froze, Jason thought bitterly.  Or a couple of weeks after that.

Six months of treatment, and he was worse than ever.  A few months ago,
they'd let him quit.  The doctors and aides had stopped coming, they'd
left him in blessed peace.

Jason had thought it was a permanent reprieve, but after a couple of
weeks, his parents had started in on him again, nagging at him to try
attending a group clinic at the hospital.  They'd kept at it until he
was close to drowning in the flood of words.

Finally to shut them up, he'd agreed.

But there was no way he could really go through with it.  If he didn't
get rid of the doctors and the sessions and the expectations that hung
on him like lead weights, he'd lose his mind altogether.

The fear had been a shadow before, a cold looming mass that receded at
times, allowing him a merciful glint of relief.

But now, he thought about the beasts constantly.  Snarling.

Dripping beads of rabid saliva.  Leaping at his throat.  Ripping his
flesh to bloody shreds.

At night, wild packs of them slunk into his dreams and circled his
defenseless form.  He'd wake up screaming from the phantom pain of
their ferocious bites and the rank, musky stench of them.

It had happened so many times, his parents didn't even hear him
anymore.  Or they heard, but they didn't bother to squander any more
concern.

Only a dog, they'd told him a thousand, million times.  Silly little
pooch won't hurt you, Jason.  Look at him, he's harmless.

Not harmless by a long shot.  Someday, they'd see how dangerous.

Deadly in fact.  But by then, it would be too late for him.  Too late
for everything.

The door slammed, and he heard his mother's crisp stride followed by
Jessie's catch-up hobble.

"Hurry up, Jason.  We're running late."

"Hurry, Jay," Jessie echoed.  "Can we get a soft pretzel

from one of those pushcart men, Mommy And a can of soda.  Can we,
please?"

"Shh.  Okay, sweetie.  Let's go, Jason."

He was too shaky and weak to protest.  Picking up the shopping bag, his
mother urged him toward the foyer and out the front door.  He wanted to
tell her no, but he couldn't find the words.

Leave the bag, he wanted to say.  For godsakes, stop this before it
goes any further.  But they were already on the way.

The heat hit him like a sledge as the two of them tugged him toward the
garage.

They were in there.  No matter who'd checked, Jason knew they were
waiting for him.  He could hear the guttural growling.  Feel the
raverlous eyes.

Jason tried to resist.  But they were stronger.  Even Jessie was
stronger.  He was a limp balloon.  Powerless and insubstantial.

The air bristled with blinding static.  Jason strained to see through
it.  Suddenly, a shadow shifted, and his ears rang with shrill
barking.

He couldn't move.  Couldn't think.

The snarling mass lunged at him.  Leaped at his throat.

Ripping.

Tearing.  He was immobile, suffocating under the weight.

"There now.  No problem, see, Jason?  Put on your seat belt, Jessie."

"I already did, Mommy.  Can we listen to lite rock?"

Jason felt his mother's hand on his.  Forcing his eyes open, he found
her watching him wearily.  The motor was running, the wagon shuddering
as they backed down the bumpy blue stone drive.

His mother patted his hand and smiled reassuringly.  "We're on our way,
Jason, honey.  You'll see.  This program is going to change your
life."

CHAPTER 6.

Returning to the clinic, Maggie found her assistant rearranging the
conference room furniture for the new phobia group.  Henry Most had
pushed the long veneer table to the window wall and set out sweating
pitchers of lemonade and a tray of chocolate chip cookies.  Near the
door, a table held rows of plastic badges with the names of the group's
six young patients.

The meeting room, like the rest of the psychiatric wing, had been done
in numbing neutrals: dull army beige and the blue of a listless sky.

The furniture was standard institutional fare: molded plastics and mock
woods mounted on tubular aluminum frames.  Vapid still lifes and
seascapes on the walls were intended to pass for art.

The entire floor had been redecorated earlier in the year, but staff
input had been scrupulously ignored by the interior design firm hired
by Alex Ivy.  At first, Maggie had found the decor depressing.  But
Henry's small, perfect touches had managed to lift the gloom and make
the space seem almost cozy.

Bright watercolors from the pediatric art program festooned the
bulletin boards and lit the dull corridors.  Fresh flowers from Henry's
cutting garden further slashed the monotony.  Scatter rugs, scavenged
on some of his daily rummage runs around the building, hid most of the
deadly white-flecked linoleum tile.

Other forages had produced the cheerful fabric panels that Henry had
transformed with tape and staples into makeshift curtains.

Maggie had declined to ask where or how her assistant

had procured the appealing cotton prints.  Something told her she
didn't really want to know.

Dear Henry.  The man was gentle but fiercely loyal.  Sweet and
thoughtful and unfailingly self-deprecating.  Maggie felt a swell of
affection as she watched him pass from chair to chair, making subtle
adjustments to suit his scrupulous eye.

"Looks great, Henry.  Thanks."

"Maggie, hi.  Didn't hear you come in.  Almost ready here.  How was
President Ivy?"

"He was himself."

"Too bad.  He want to see you about anything in particular?"

"Plenty.  I'll fill you in later.  We're due to start in a couple of
minutes."  She sampled a cookie from the tray.  "Delicious.

You make them?"

"No.  Gail Weider did."

"I should have guessed.  Best chocolate chips in the umverse.

Henry nodded agreement.  "She stopped in about an hour ago.

Said the cookies were her contribution to the new group.

"That's great."  Maggie had been concerned about Gail, a former patient
and program aide who'd stopped attending department meetings and
self-help sessions a couple of months ago.  Her defection had been
sudden and unexpected, and Gail, a guarded and highly sensitive soul,
was not the type to express the reason.

Maggie had suspected she was reacting to some unintentional slight.

Hopefully, the gift of her legendary cookies meant all was forgiven.

Henry adjusted his black-framed glasses, smoothed his argyle vest, and
brushed invisible lint from the leg of his charcoal trousers.  At
sixty, he had aged to suit his wellupholstered frame and mellow
features.  It was easy to imagine how he'd been as a little boy,
awkward and out of place.  He continued to ready the room while Maggie
took another last-minute look through the intake summaries.

She'd read them over several times and interviewed most of the group
members personally, but she wanted to set each patient even more firmly
in her mind.  This was the first time they'd offered a group restricted
to young adults.

She knew it was a worthwhile addition to the program.  But any
adjustment to the clinic's proven operation gave her a mild case of the
doubts, especially now.

For the pilot group, she'd restricted enrollment to six.

There were four females and two males, the usual skewed ratio for
phobia patients.  Maggie shared the pervasive suspicion that the
disorder struck equal numbers of men and women.  But males were
generally reluctant to admit to anything as unseemly as being afraid.

They resisted treatment until the fear grew strident enough to outshout
the stubborn roar of macho pride.  Maggie supposed that was why her
male patients tended to be among the most seriously afflicted.

She recalled how totally incapacitated Henry had been when he attended
her first phobia clinic at East End three years ago.

His mother, an indomitable old woman, had convinced Maggie to get
involved in the case despite Henry's initial reluctance.  By Mrs.
Most's report, Henry had not left their Brooklyn neighborhood in the
nearly forty years since his graduation from NYU.  For almost the last
three decades, she said, her son had not ventured beyond their tiny
yard.

It had taken two months of home visits by Maggie and the combined
efforts of both women to get Henry to the clinic.  For most of the
group sessions, he'd insisted on his mother's presence in the room.

Nearly a year had passed before he made any significant gains.  But
after that, with constant support from Maggie and an aide, he'd begun
to confront and vanquish his terrors.  Henry had made steady
improvements until he was able to function like a normal adult.  Now he
traveled freely and attended his own needs.

Although Maggie had been concerned, he'd even adjusted well to his
mother's sudden death almost a year ago and seemed reasonably secure
and comfortable living alone.

Daily, he drove from his house in Brooklyn's Flatbush section to the
hospital, where he'd graduated from patient to aide to his current slot
as Maggie's chief assistant.  Henry could not have been better suited
for the job.  His
excellent management skills balanced her penchant for the haphazard.

Scrupulously sensitive and guarded, he tempered her unfortunate
tendency to shoot, under fire, from the lip.

Henry was mild and mellow and paternalistic, all the things her own
father decidedly was not.  Maggie hadn't the slightest idea how she'd
ever managed to run the program without him, and she wasn't at all
interested in attempting to do so again.

"It's six now," he said, eyeing his watch.  "Don't want to keep them
waiting."

"Go ask them in, then.  You're in charge."

"I don't know, Maggie.  Are you sure about this?"

"Positive.  You'll be wonderful.  Now go before I'm forced to start
pouring on the compliments and risk swelling that handsome head of
yours."

He flushed and averted his gaze.  Such a sweetheart, Maggie thought.

Having him run a group was long overdue.  All of the group clinics were
led by former phobics with the oversight of a staff therapist.  Despite
Henry's characteristic diffidence, he was certainly up to the
responsibility.  No one had a more intimate understanding of what it
took to break the stifling bonds of anxiety.  And no one could possibly
have a clearer appreciation of how much that break could mean.  For the
last year, Maggie had made it a point to assign him as the aide to some
of her most challenging patients.

"Go on, group leader.  Time to start."

He disappeared down the hall and returned in minutes trailing a ragged
line of reluctant patients.  They stalled outside the door as if the
room were on fire.  Henry had to urge them inside and direct them to
sit.  In seconds, the circle of chairs was decimated as several of the
newcomers moved predictably closer to the door.

Maggie smiled at the few who chanced eye contact.  She'd met all but
two of the new patients.  There was Tracy, a sallow, skittish
twenty-year-old whose social phobia made the group both a particular
trial and a critical opportunity.  Lauren, a mite with a mass of hair
and an ebullient personality, had a terror of insects, real and
imagined.  Andrea, pert and ponytailed, was terrified of elevators.

Melissa, whose prom queen looks belied her reticence, had a dread fear
of choking that rendered her incapable of eating in front of anyone
else, her family included.  The teenager had been forced to drop out of
college after a year of trying to subsist on nothing but the crackers
and jam she'd kept in her dorm room.

The two young men straggled in last.  Other members of the staff had
handled their intake interviews, so Maggie didn't know which was
which.

Looking at them now, she guessed that the sallow, pimpled youth with
the shaggy shoulder-length mane was Stephen.

An accomplished violinist, he had a morbid fear of storms and all
manner of extreme weather conditions.  He picked up his name tag,
confirming her hunch.  So the lanky youth with the pallid complexion
and frightened gray eyes had to be Jason Childs, an agoraphobic with a
particular dread of dogs.

Jason's parents had brought him to the clinic's attention eight months
ago.  Because the young man was unwilling to come to the hospital, one
of the residents and a staff psychiatrist had volunteered to do the
initial evaluation at the Childs's home.

The same clinic psychiatrist, a good friend of Maggie's named Pamela
Richards, had continued to make house calls to provide weekly
therapy.

F.X. Kennedy had agreed to act as Jason's aide, traveling to the young
man's Queens neighborhood for the necessary practice sessions.

Despite the concentrated effort, however, Jason's progress had been
disappointing.  Three months ago Maggie and Pam Richards had reviewed
the case and concluded that participation in a group might provide the
elusive breakthrough.  Jason's family had been working on the young man
since, urging him to give the clinic a try.

After everyone was settled, Henry quickly distributed a number of
sheets and pamphlets from the neat stacks he'd extracted from his
briefcase.  There was the brochure describing the clinic's brief
history, current services, and staff.  A pamphlet Maggie had written
defined phobias and explained what was known about their causes and
cures.  There was a preliminary questionnaire that would be compared to
a similar survey at the final group meeting in six weeks.  The other
handouts listed suggested reference works, self-help organizations, and
the five basic steps to recovery that would be repeated and reinforced
constantly during treatment: acceptance, goal-setting, rehearsal,
practice, reinforcement.

Smiling meekly, Henry cleared his throat and clasped his hands behind
his back.

"I'm Henry Most, and I'll be leading this group under Dr. Lyons's
direction.  Three years ago, I came to this room as frightened and
uncertain as you are.  Maybe more.  But Dr. Lyons turned my life
around."

"No, Henry.  You turned your life around.  All I did was help you
figure out how to go about it."

Henry shook his head.  "She may deny it, but Dr. Lyons is responsible
for what I am today, for what my life has become.

If you're willing to follow her program, you'll be amazed at the
changes in yourselves.  Every one of you."

Maggie saw the pooled emotion in his eyes.  Old Mr. Softie looked
ready to break down.  But he squared his shoulders and continued.

"Let's start by having each of you explain why you've come to the
phobia clinic.  The first step in our program is acceptance.

We're going to look those fears straight in the eye and learn how to
get past them."

Lauren with the big hair volunteered to speak first.  She chirped on
for fifteen minutes, describing her harrowing run-ins with cockroaches
the size of tour buses and diabolical tarantulas who convened nightly
to plot her undoing.  Lauren was a phobic rarity, able to laugh at
herself, fully aware that her fears were baseless and exaggerated.

Still, she was powerless to overcome them, and the consequences were
sometimes devastating.

Earlier that week she'd seen a water bug in the kitchen sink and fled
her West Village studio apartment in a panic.  Unable to return, she'd
spent the next three tormented nights on a bench in Gramercy Park.

Junkies and muggers were less intimidating to her than the products of
her own imagination.

Andrea spoke next.  She eyed the floor as she recounted an adolescence
rich in regret and rife with squandered opportunities.  No visits to
friends in high apartments.  No senior prom, since hers had been held
in the tower suite of a twenty-eight-story hotel.  To her, an elevator
was a moving tomb.

She imagined suffocating inside, or worse.

Maggie listened as Henry deftly led the young patients through their
difficult initial confessions.  Acceptance was the first, critical
phase.  Each had a problem.  It was not unique, and there was no reason
for shame or denial.  The fear could be overcome through a specific
plan of treatment and practice.

As usual, after the third group member had spoken, there was a palpable
slackening of the tension in the room.  Each was beginning to realize
they were all in the same leaky boat.

Not alone.

Jason Childs spoke last.  The teenager's posture was guarded, eyes
darting like night creatures facing the hostile unknown.  Odd kid,
Maggie thought.  Nothing said phobics couldn't be every bit as weird as
the next person.  When Jason finished, Henry fixed him with an
expectant look.  After an awkward pause, the boy ducked down and
retrieved a shopping bag from under his seat.

"Here."  He shoved the bag toward Henry.  "My dad's insurance firm has
a deal with a premium business that makes all kinds of customized
stuff.  So they cost next to nothing."

Smiling, Henry distributed the contents: T-shirts with "Thursday Night
Lyons Club" printed on the back and sport watches with a ring of lions
prowling the plastic band.

Henry explained.  "When I talked with Jason about coming to the group,
he noticed how appropriate your name is, Maggie.  Dr. Lyons: queen of
the cowardly lions.  We thought the club idea might provide some added
inspiration.  So those are Jason's contributions.  And here's a little
something from me."

Henry distributed small white boxes.  Each held a lionshaped medallion
on a silver chain.  For Maggie, there was a special gold version with
tiny sapphire eyes.  The card read, "For Maggie.

I'll neverforget."

Fastening the chain around her neck, Maggie swallowed a lump of emotion, and she clearly wasn't the only one
affected.

The group sprouted smiles, and there was a burst of enthusiastic
chatter.  With the myriad techniques she'd incorporated in the program,
she'd never considered the power of good, old-fashioned flattery and
tangible rewards.  She'd always been an ardent believer in using
whatever worked.  Looked as if Henry's clever touches weren't limited
to accessorizing a room.

The group broke up so the members could meet with their individual
aides over refreshments.  In addition to the weekly meetings, each
patient would complete a series of individually prescribed practice
sessions with the help of a specially trained recovered phobic.  Henry
and Maggie made the introductions.

When they finished, Maggie touched the medallion.  "This is so sweet,
Henry.  Everyone really appreciated the idea."

"Jason thought of it.  I just went along."

"Aren't you ever going to take credit for anything?"

His eyes went vague.  "There's so much I owe you, Maggie.  I can't
imagine ever being able to pay you back for all you've done.

She didn't bother to respond.  She'd told him dozens of times that he'd
been responsible for his own recovery.  But Henry persisted in pinning
all his abilities and accomplishments on others.

It was part of what made him Henry, she supposed.  And Maggie was more
than willing to accept the package, minor failings included.

"That was a really good first session.  Something tells me your group
is going to make record strides."

"I hope so.  I dearly do.  Give you a lift home?"

"No, thanks.  I've got a little record keeping to do before I go.

"Take the leftover cookies, will you?  I'm trying to lose a few
pounds."

"My pleasure."  Maggie was a sucker for Gail Weider's masterpiece
chocolate chunkers.  Good thing the woman only made them once in a
while and stubbornly refused to part with the recipe.

Maggie spent the next hour in her office, dictating a report on the
group's initial meeting for her records.

Thinking about the six young patients, she smiled.  Watching people
like those hatch and fly made everything seem worthwhile, even having
to put up with Poison Ivy.

Unreasonable creep.

She was definitely not going to let him get in the way of what the
clinic was able to accomplish.  She'd think of something.

Not a doubt in her overconfident mind.

Leaving, Maggie spotted Pamela Richards at her desk in the adjacent
office.

"Hey, Pam.  I met your prize patient tonight."

"Jason Childs actually showed up?  Now there's a medical miracle.

"The miracle will be if we make any headway with him.  He didn't
exactly seem thrilled to be here."

"The group has to work for that kid, Maggie.  I couldn't get anywhere
with him and neither could F.X."

Despite the frown, Pam Richards was a picture worth framing.

A tall, opal-eyed blonde with aristocratic features and a goddess body,
she missed the stock physician image by miles.  Though she wore no
makeup and sported stern, dark-framed glasses, she was frequently taken
for a model or an actress.  Strangers would approach with giddy
tentative expressions and say, "Didn't I see you in that film
with--?"

or "Aren't you--?"

Maggie's initial reaction to Pam had been similar awe and an
unreasonable pang of envy.  The two women had met when both were on the
psychiatric service at Johns Hopkins.  Though Maggie wasn't by nature a
jealous soul, Pam, with her beauty, intelligence, and serene good
nature, had instantly been a particular inspiration.

Their first few professional encounters had only served to intensify
Maggie's irrational resentment.  What right did anyone have to look
that good and be that affable and brilliant?

But getting to know Pam had evicted the green-eyed monster.

Maggie sincerely liked, trusted, and admired the woman.  Pam was
honest, open, and entirely unassuming.  If anything, she was a bit on
the shy side.  And, while she wasn't unaware of her physical
endowments, she was painfully aware of their down side.  Men were
intimidated
by Pam and rarely asked her out.  Those who did seek her company tended
to do so for unfortunate reasons.  The outcomes were similarly
unfortunate.  Pam's catalog of dating disasters ran to several
volumes.

Maggie and Pam had become and remained close friends and compatible
colleagues.  After signing on to head East End's phobia program, Maggie
had convinced Pam to come along and join the staff.  Not surprisingly,
Dr. Richards was one of the most sought after and effective doctors on
the service.

"I hope the group helps, Pam.  But if you couldn't get through to
Jason, I have to admit I'm not all that optimistic.

"You never know.  Look at Henry.  No one ever imagined he'd come this
far."

Maggie grinned.  Pam was the optimist's optimist.  The glass might be
half full to Maggie, but Pam had it spilling over.  The only fault
Maggie could honestly find with her friend was how difficult Pam made
it to keep up a bout of serious moping.

"I'm starved.  You free for dinner?"

"I'd love to, Maggie.  But I promised myself I'd catch up on these
reports."

"Good idea.  I hear the head of the clinic's an absolute bitch about
paperwork."

Pam smiled.  "That she is.  See you tomorrow, boss lady."

No one else was left working on the floor but Dr.  Drew Paulson.

Paulson was an ardent Freudian who published obsessively and spent so
much time in his office that Maggie often wondered why he didn't have
himself built in.  With his penchant for temper fits, she also wondered
why Paulson wasn't spending some time on the other side of the desk.

Lunacy was an equal opportunity employer, after all.  Psychiatrists
were certainly not immune.

As Maggie passed his office, Paulson peered up from the perfectly
aligned manuscript he was editing and rubbed his eyes.  His skin was
the color and texture of old parchment, his hair a patchwork of
yellowed cotton wisps.

"Working late again, I see, Dr.  Lyons.  I hope nothing's amiss.

"Not at all.  Everything's going beautifully, in fact.  We started the
young adult group tonight.  Henry ran it.  Wonderful first session."

Paulson's dour expression showed no signs of thawing.  "Yours is an
intriguing system.  Effects without causes.  Responses without
stimuli.

Equal treatment for all, regardless of need.

Irresponsible, no doubt, but no one would accuse you of being
undemocratic."

Maggie smiled sweetly.  "I'm flattered to see you've given my program
so much thought, Dr. Paulson.  Now I'd better run along and let you
get back to your groundbreaking research.  The world is waiting, after
all."

On the way out, she turned off the lights and locked the conference
room door.  Passing the patient rooms, she stopped to check on Daisy
Tyler.  The woman was watching the tube through heavy-lidded eyes.  She
looked drowsy and relaxed.  Much better.

"Need anything before I go, Daisy?"

"No, thanks, Dr.  Lyons.  I'm feeling all right.  See you tomorrow."

Exiting the hospital building, Maggie found that the heat had lightened
to match her mood.  Funny how things could turn around like that, just
when you least expected.

CHAPTER 7.

Leona Rafferty lived in a harborside duplex on Newport's exclusive Goat
Island.  Over Price's hefty objections, Bannister drove directly there
from the coroner's office in Providence, and they landed on her
doorstep unannounced.  Waiting for the client to answer her bell, Price
kept shifting from leg to leg like a skittish pigeon.

"We should have called first, Sam.  I hate busting in on someone like
this.  Maybe she's not dressed.  Maybe she's not even home."

Bannister pressed the doorbell again.  He figured they'd already
suffered more than their share of obstacles and inconveniences on the
Macklin case.  The woman simply had to be home and receptive to his
plan.  He refused to entertain the alternative.

"Really, Sam.  I don't like showing up without calling first- "Mrs.
Rafferty!"  Bannister crooned in a muted singsong.

"There, I called.  Happy now?"

"Actually, no."

Looking himself over, Bannister found all the suck-up essentials in
place: paper cone of flowers, affectionate gaze, sycophantic smile.

Given sufficient motivation, Bannister could spew charm like an open
hydrant.  And right now, he was plenty motivated.  Fifty thousand
dollars and three months' worth of work were riding on this little
visit.  So was his gnawing hunger for revenge.  The thought of Theodore
Macklin sticking his thumb on the scales of justice yet again brought
Bannister to frying temperature.

That rotten creep's death could not be the final curtain here.

Finally, he heard the trudge of approaching footsteps.  The door opened
to the limits of the latch chain.

"I told you I was sending a check right out, Mr. Price.  By now, I'd
think you'd know I pay promptly."

The voice was elderly but firm.  Bannister chuckled.  "This isn't about
the bill, Mrs. Rafferty.  Lenny and I just wanted to stop by and say a
personal thank-you.  Working for you has been a real pleasure."

The door closed.  They heard the security chain slip from its casing.

The woman reappeared, backlit by the stream of sunshine through the
glass terrace doors.  Somewhere in her seventies, she had cloudy blue
eyes and aristocratic bearing.  Wavy white hair framed a strongfeatured
face softened by melancholy.  She wore a navy skirt and a white silk
blouse set off by vintage jewelry.

Jane Austen's collected works were pressed to her ample bosom, and
reading glasses dangled from a chain around her neck.  Her gaze skipped
from Bannister's face to the flowers he held and back again, and her
lips pursed in rebuke.

"What is it you really want, Mr. Bannister?  I'm way too old for tap
dancing."

Bannister's smile evaporated.  "And way too smart."

"True.  So if you have something to say, go ahead.  But I only speak
plain English."

Bannister turned to Price.  "I need to talk to Mrs. Rafferty alone,
Lenny.  Give us half an hour."

"But, Sam--"

"You may as well go, Mr. Price.  If I refuse to hear him
out now, he'll only nag at me until I give in.  You'll find a diner two
blocks down on the left.  They have excellent pastries.

After Price made his reluctant exit, Leona Rafferty led Bannister
through a tasteful living room decorated in blond woods and pastels to
a terrace cantilevered over the rippling currents of the bay.

Bannister breathed the salted breeze and eyed the lazy line of
sailboats floating ghostlike across the horizon.

Felt like he was on his fantasy vacation Caribbean island-hopping on a
chartered yacht.  With a bitter frown, he thought this was probably the
closest he'd ever come to the real thing, unless you counted his
regular cruise on the choppy sea of perpetual debt.

Leona Rafferty's voice shattered his sour reverie.  "Coffee?"

"If it's no trouble."

"It is, but I'll get you some anyway."

She directed him to sit on one of the webbed lounge chairs and
disappeared inside.  In minutes she returned with a flowered porcelain
pot, matching cups, and a platter of fruit and Danish.

Bannister sipped awhile, mesmerized by the rocking motion of the
tides.

The view was so relaxing, he almost forgot the purpose of his call.

Almost, but not quite.

"I'll be straight with you, Mrs. Rafferty.  I'm here because I'm not
ready to give up this case.  I don't think Macklin's death has to be
the end of the line.  In fact, I have a strong feeling we can milk his
suicide for some final answers.

"I've already made my decision, Mr. Bannister.  It's the end of the
line as far as I'm concerned."

"I don't buy that.  For twenty years, you've wanted the truth about
your daughter's murder.  If I can finally prove who killed her, why
should it matter whether the guy is dead or alive?"

She sighed.  "Because you can't punish a corpse."

"No, but you can settle the score.  You can know Macklin was definitely
the one.  That's got to make it easier to live with."

The woman was silent.

"Give us a couple of weeks," Bannister urged.  "Three tops, and I'm
sure we'll be able to tie up the ends.  I can feel it."

"I'm afraid all good obsessions must come to an end eventually, Mr.
Bannister, even one as old and stubborn as mine.  At this point, I'm
finally willing and able to let it go.  I'd advise you to do the
same."

Bannister searched her weary face for fine print.  He found none.

"Yeah, sure.  It was your daughter, after all.  If you can forget about
her murder, it shouldn't be any problem for me.

She caught him in a hard stare.  "That was a cheap shot, Mr.
Bannister.

I think you'd better leave now."

"Please, Mrs.  Rafferty.  I can't give up now that I'm this close.

It's not my goddamned way."

She blinked.  "Pursue it, then.  I can't stop you."

"Problem is, you can.  Chasing the truth costs money, which I happen
not to have.  So, if you won't go along, I guess I'll have to drop
it.

Like it or not."

She stared out at the water.  For a moment he thought she had shut
down.  Then she said: "Chasing the truth can cost considerably more
than money.  I've found that out the hard way."

Bannister didn't get it.  How could she ride this far and slam the
brakes on now?  He tried to imagine what was simmering inside her.

Tried to fathom how he'd feel if the victim had been Chloe.

The thought made him shiver.  How could anyone live with a thing like
that?  Your only child is eighteen.  She's a good kid.

Sweet, pretty, smart.  Plenty of friends, unlimited future.  One night
she goes to a party in the neighborhood.  It's a safe, solid party.

The parents are home.  You've known all the kids practically from
birth.

Your kid leaves the party at twelve-thirty with a pack of friends.  Her
curfew's one A.M and she's always been the type to respect the rules.

She's the kind of kid who remembers birthdays and gets good marks and
sends thankyou notes without nagging and doesn't believe in sex without
love.  She's the kind who sometimes makes you stop and consider how
lucky you are, and the thought makes you nervous as hell.

Half a block from your posh Park Avenue apartment house with the caring
neighbors and the watchful doorman, the other kids say good night and
peel off.  Your daughter has three goddamned buildings to pass.

Shouldn't take her more than two minutes to get home

along a familiar street.  But instead, that innocent little stroll
detours through the black belly of hell and lasts for the rest of
eternity.

Ten days later Martha Rafferty's nude body was hooked by a sport
fisherman angling for blues.  She'd been raped, strangled, and dumped
in the Long Island Sound.  Capricious currents had carried her remains
half the distance to Great Neck, New York.

Other capricious currents worked to scuttle the subsequent
investigation.  From the beginning, the Rafferty case was distinguished
by a record number of mistakes.  Crucial evidence was lost.  Critical
interviews were botched.  Key information was leaked to the media,
generating a spate of confounding false confessions and time-consuming
bogus leads.

In the worst of them, an anonymous tipster had fingered a boy from a
building two down from the Raffertys'.  The investigating officer had
failed to locate the kid and deemed him a guilty runaway.  It had taken
the cops a month to wake up and discover that their principal suspect
was severely retarded and living in a residential facility in Queens.

Even the autopsy results had been scuttled when the girl's corpse was
accidentally embalmed.

Six months after Martha's death, New York City officials, anxious to
atone for the embarrassing mess, had tapped Lenny Price, a seasoned
homicide detective with an excellent batting average, to marshall a
special task force to breathe some life back into the Rafferty case.

Price had hand-picked his crew, choosing the rookie Sam Bannister in
the hope that his youth and looks might give him an edge in gaining the
confidence of Martha Rafferty's young friends.

The task force had given the case their best, but there wasn't much
left to resuscitate.  They'd narrowed the focus to three suspects: a
vagrant named Willie Dean known to frequent the neighborhood, a janitor
from the building next door to the Raffertys' who'd come forth as an
early witness, and Theodore Macklin, a classmate of Martha's who'd
lagged behind that night to speak with the girl when the others drifted
away on the fateful walk home.

After interrogation and extensive scrutiny, everyone on the task force
was convinced Macklin was their perp, but their attempts to prove it
hit a series of dead ends and blind alleys.  No incontrovertible
physical evidence, no witnesses.  And the doorman in Macklin's building
had corroborated the young man's unshakeable story that he'd arrived
home moments after leaving the group without a mark or a drop of blood
on him.  Six months later, Price was forced to declare the unit out of
leads, and the task force was disbanded.

As a last-ditch gesture, a local citizens' group had posted a
twenty-thousand-dollar reward for information leading to an arrest and
conviction in the Rafferty case.  The reward had generated a flurry of
renewed interest in the case, but not enough to crack it open.  At the
time, Mrs. Rafferty had urged her husband to up the ante, but,
determined to try to get past the tragedy, he'd refused.

Cut to twenty years later, and the old man dies of pancreatic cancer.

Left with nothing but her millions and her hideous memories, Mrs.
Rafferty decides to make another attempt to vindicate her daughter's
death.  She posts a fifty-thousand-dollar reward for information
leading to arrest and conviction of Martha's murderer and hires
Bannister and Price to take another crack at the old case.  By then,
both men had relocated to the Boston area, where the principal suspect
in the original investigation also happened to reside.

Price jumped at the assignment.  Given new forensic techniques, old
evidence could be milked for fresh information.  Bannister was equally
inspired to hire on, though for different reasons.

Something about the case had grabbed and held him from the start.

In two decades, he'd never been able to get the smell of the unsolved
Rafferty murder off his hands.

With Mrs. Rafferty footing the bill, the pair stirred the ashes and
followed the yellowed brick road.  They sifted through all the ancient
evidence, did enough mouth-to mouth on friends, neighbors, and
relatives to revive moribund memories.

Slowly, things started to come together.

Fibers cut at the time of the murder from the carpet of Teddy Macklin's
car were treated with Luminol, a substance that causes even the most
minute blood traces to glow in the dark.  Bingo.

The traces were analyzed and found to match Martha Rafferty's blood
type, factor for factor.

It was compelling new evidence, but not enough to take to a grand
jury.

As Price pointed out, Martha Rafferty could have taken a ride with the
Macklin boy at any time, cut her finger or accidentally bitten her lip,
and left the minute amount of blood found on the carpet sample.  But
soon, other things started slipping into place.

Both Teddy and Martha had attended the exclusive Harper School.

Several classmates who'd been shocked or intimidated into silence
decades back now recalled Teddy's obvious crush on the Rafferty girl.

They remembered him obsessively scrawling her name on his notebooks,
compulsively watching her.  More than one alluded to an ancient rumor
linking Macklin to a terrible accident involving one of Martha
Rafferty's boyfriends, Ricky Bates.

It had happened at the start of Martha's senior year in high school.

Seems the Bates kid was trying to help a friend navigate his car into a
tight parking space in an outdoor lot.  Ricky was standing in the space
against the side of a brick building.

When the friend tried to slowly ease in, the car accelerated wildly.

In his struggle to escape, Ricky had fallen and been crushed against
the wall.  His knee was shattered, leaving him with a permanent rolling
limp.  It took six operations to reconstruct the boy's face.

When the car was examined, there were signs of tampering.

There was no proof against Teddy Macklin, but everyone was aware of his
mechanical bent.  Macklin loved to tinker with engines.  In fact,
seventeen-year-old Teddy had rebuilt his own vintage Olds 88 from the
wheels up.

Bannister and Price had managed to track down most of Martha Rafferty's
old friends.  When they had compiled a damning but still legally
deficient case against Macklin, they decided to confront the bastard.

Maybe they could goad him into a confession.

They'd made an appointment to meet with him at his posh offices on
Commonwealth Avenue.  Teddy Macklin had grown up to be a high-rolling
financial advisor.  He handled only those clients who had portfolios in
excess of a million bucks.  Bannister and Price claimed they had plenty
to invest and wanted to hear how Macklin would propose to handle it.

It was true enough, only they weren't talking dollars.

Confronted with the particulars of the case against him, Macklin had
acted every inch the hooked worm.  In minutes, he'd gone from mock
outrage to angry denial to desperate accusations.

Bannister had taken in all the guilt symptoms: dilated pupils, shallow
breathing, sweat circles spreading under his arms.  But Macklin hadn't
cracked.

Leona Rafferty drew a breath, tugging Bannister back to the present and
the peace of their perch overlooking the bay.

"All I've wanted since Martha died was to see her murderer punished.

If Ted Macklin killed my daughter, he killed my chance for final
justice as well.  You got my hopes up these past months, Mr.
Bannister.

And that's been far more painful than I ever imagined.

My husband was right.  I should have left it alone."

Bannister sipped his coffee.  It was lukewarm now and bitter.

"I can't tell you what to do, Mrs. Rafferty.  But if you want the
truth, I think we can still get it for you."

Her eyes filled.  "Martha was such a delightful child.  And so
popular.

Everyone loved her.  But it never went to her head.

She remained entirely open and unassuming.  Always went out of her way
to befriend the children who had trouble fitting in.  She managed to
find some good in everyone, even a difficult, belligerent boy like
Teddy Macklin.

"Teddy had few friends.  He put people off.  Martha took him under her
wing, urged the others to include him as well.  Ironic, isn't it, Mr.
Bannister?  My daughter's own kindness probably killed her."

Sounded like his Chloe, Bannister thought.  Kid was a pistol.

Charming, smart, caring.  She'd inherited the best of her mother and
him.  Looks, personality.  Lucky thing.  A different toss of the
Darwinian dice and she could have been a vindictive bitch like his ex
or a stubborn, hotheaded bastard like her old man.

Different roll of fortune's wheel, and she could have been bones and
ashes like this poor lady's little girl.

Almost a week now since he'd spoken to his daughter, Bannister thought
with a twinge.  Last time, Chloe'd been in an adolescent stew over
something or other.  He'd have to call her later, see how she was
doing.

"Kindness didn't kill your daughter, Mrs. Rafferty," he said, and she
flinched.  "Some sick son of a bitch did that and got away with it.  At
least, he's gotten away with it so far.

The doorbell rang.  Certain it was Price, Bannister went to answer.

Lenny had sprouted a powdered sugar goatee, jelly scars, and a
satisfied grin.  He held up a rumpled brown bag.

"Great doughnuts.  I brought a couple for you, Sam.  Don't tell Ruthie,
will you?  She's been after me to watch myself."

"So you'll watch yourself blow up."

Mrs. Rafferty had stepped in from the terrace.  With a glance at
Price, she proffered a linen napkin.  He accepted it as if he were
accustomed to having his hygiene supervised.  Bannister, watching
anxiously, spotted a trace of softening in the old woman's
expression.

He turned away quickly, before he scared it off.

"Say good-bye, Lenny.  It's time we hit the road."

"You needn't run on my account," she said.  "Maybe you'd like some
coffee, Mr.  Price."

Bannister could feel her nibble.  Tiny tug on the line.

"Thanks anyway Mrs. R. But we've really got to get going.  Anyway,
Lenny's trying to cut down.  Aren't you, partner?"

He knew to play it nice and steady.  Reel her in.  With out a beat of
hesitation, he steered Price out the door and across the lot to the
Camaro.  Resisting the urge to look back, he opened his partner's
door.

As he crossed to the driver's side, he could feel the old woman's eyes
on him.

He would not blow it.  Under no circumstances would he give her the
critical bit of slack.  Gritting his teeth, he slid behind the wheel.

"Mr.  Bannister?"

He waited, milking the moment.  Pretended not to hear her call as he
fiddled with his seat belt.

"Mr.  Bannister?"

Cupping his ear, he made a casual quarter turn in her direction.

"You'll let me know what you find?"

"Are you saying what I think you're saying, Mrs.  Rafferty?"

She motioned for him to come back.  Suppressing a smirk, Bannister told
Price to sit tight and got out of the car.  He'd expected unconditional
surrender, but the old shark quickly made it clear she had plenty of
fight left.

Returning to the car five minutes later, he set his face in a careful
mask of optimism.  As soon as he slipped inside, Price hit him with the
expected questions.

"So?  Did you convince her?"

"It's all set."

"What did she say exactly, Sam?  I told you, I will not be party to
another Schildhauer."

"You heard me, Lenny.  I said it's all set."

"I mean it, Sam.  I'm not taking this out of our savings."

Bannister patted his pocket.  "You don't have to."

"You saying she gave you an advance?"  Price eyed him warily, but his
caution yielded slowly to a grudging smile.  "You're amazing, Sam.  You
could charm the pants off Queen Elizabeth, I swear it."

"Liz isn't my type."

"Lucky for her."

Bannister bumped the Camaro out of the condo lot, crossed the Goat
Island Bridge, and worked his way through the clotted Newport streets
toward the highway.  Mrs. Rafferty's parting shot echoed in his
mind.

If he proved the case against Macklin to her satisfaction, she was
willing to resurrect the posted reward.  But the attempt was strictly
on speculation.  No guarantee of time, expenses, or anything else
except a giant challenge.

This goddamned thing was not going the way he'd hoped.  But then,
almost nothing ever did.

CHAPTER 8.

A spike of sunlight prodded Maggie awake.  Squinting hard, she looked
away and spied the scrawled list on her nightstand.

During her training analysis, she'd gotten in the habit of waking
sufficiently to jot down her dreams for interpretation.

Scanning what she'd written the previous night, she thought about the
field day her former therapist, Caroline Grayboys, would have had with
this selection.

In one dream, she cut herself shaving.  The pain and blood trickling
down the shower drain were hers.  But the leg was stumpy, heavily
muscled, and coated with wiry hair.  A male leg.

Something was odd about the razor, too.  It was antique with a
mother-of-pearl handle and a tarnished gold head.  Clearly not hers
either.  Nor was the bathroom.  The one in the dream was a stuffy tiled
cubicle with a claw-foot tub and a basin freckled with rust.  A sable
brush and a pot of shaving soap were perched beside it.  Both were
bloodred and smelled of berries.  For some reason, Maggie's unconscious
found that hilarious.  In the dream, laughter bubbled inside her, and
gleeful tears trickled down her cheeks.  But when she looked into the
tiny warped mirror to catch her giggling image, no one was there.

Another dream had her stumbling through a fog so thick it consumed her
extremities as she went.  An arm disappeared as she swung it forward, a
foot to the knee.  She felt the weight of an invisible burden dangling
from a leather strap over her shoulder.

The bundle grew heavier

until the strap tore her flesh.  The pain was excruciating, but for
some reason she could not let the package go.  She struggled on,
evaporating in the mist.  Crumbling under the pressure.

Maggie shook her head.  She certainly didn't need Dr. Grayboys to
elucidate the obvious themes: insecurity, fear of failure.

Nor did anyone need to tell her that she was more worried about the
clinic's future than she cared to admit, even to herself.

Alex Ivy, that wretched minimegalomaniac, had even followed her home to
sleep.

But the next dream on the list had nothing to do with Poison Ivy or
East End, and that one was the most disturbing of all.  It was her
recurrent nightmare: the window dream.  It had been five years or more
since she'd last had one of those.  Maggie had hoped she was finally
done with them.

The scene was always the same.  Maggie is a small child in a
twin-bedded room with matching flowered spreads and curtains.

There is a faded blue rug with a flowered border.  Kneeling to say her
prayers, Maggie's knees are cushioned by pink cabbage roses and fluffy
yellow mums.  She twines her fingers tightly and clenches her lids.

She hears her own voice say: "Now I lay me down to sleep.

i pray the lord, my soul to keep.

If I should die .  . ."

Music seeps through the wall.  The heat is damp and ponderous and has
the cloying aroma of overripe fruit.

She rises and slips open the window.  It glides like a skillful skater
on ice.

Next comes a rush of cold wind and the piercing screech of an angry
hawk.  Suddenly, she's soaring on the bird's back, flying in dizzy
arcs.  Struggling to hold on, she clutches fistfuls of feathers.  But
they come away in her hand.  The wings turn to fan blades that raise a
blustering squall.  She's swept away.

Falling.

Her screams are swallowed by the wind.

"Lazy bit," she hollers.  "LAZY BlTt" Maggie's heart was racing.  She'd
spent countless hours trying to decipher the meaning of that awful
dream and the screamed nonsense phrase that always jolted her awake,
but she still had no idea what any of it might signify.

Crumpling the dream list, she slipped out of bed.  She had neither the
time nor the energy for such nonsense.  Today was for far more pressing
business.  Her noisy subconscious would just have to take a number.

With a burst of resolve, she showered, dressed, and made a pot of
killer coffee.

Her ninth-floor apartment, bestowed upon her by her mother after her
parents' divorce, was in the Sutton Arms, a pristine prewar building
nestled at the juncture of Eighty-first Street and the East River.

Maggie's folks had purchased the place at the pinnacle of their
marriage, which happened, by fortunate coincidence, to coincide with
the collapse of the city's co-op prices in the early seventies.  For
thirty thousand dollars and change, they'd garnered three bedrooms, two
and a half baths, a wraparound veranda complete with built-in redwood
sealing and planters, and a panoramic view that now featured the
sanitarium on Ward's Island across the polluted waterway.

During the growing season, she was treated to a steady feast of
revolving color as her mother's annuals and perennials flourished on
the terrace in defiance of Maggie's benign neglect and black thumb.  In
all seasons, Joe, the super, was available for emergency repairs and
alterations.  A uniformed doorman was always on hand to accept her
packages, greet and screen her visitors, and hail cabs for her.  With
only the meager maintenance to cover, the place cost her next to
nothing, at least in dollars.

Maggie's friends were openly envious, especially Pam, who'd been forced
to move three times in as many years to flee noisy neighbors, a
heat-withholding landlord, and, the last time, her unfortunate
proximity to a hospital ambulance route.

But like many alleged blessings, this one was decidedly mixed.

The apartment was haunted by the ghosts of her parents' bitter
breakup.

And, at intervals, these particular

ghosts showed up with their luggage and settled in the guest room for
an extended stay.

More mind clutter.  Maggie pushed it aside.  Figuring out how to meet
Alex Ivy's outrageous demands was going to require her complete
concentration.  That and an industrial-strength miracle.

She spent the next two hours in the spare bedroom she'd converted to a
home office.  Reviewing the clinic budget, item by item, her heart
sank.  Precious little fat to trim.  The extras were typically
contributed by her or Henry or someone else on staff.

The basics were just that.  She couldn't fathom a way to further prune
expenditures for essential materials, equipment, or staff.

Her head throbbed, and the numbers started swimming on the page.

Slipping into shorts and a T-shirt, she decided to take an hour off and
try to tone her flabby imagination with a run.

Reluctantly, she clipped on her beeper.  This was one of those times
when she'd be happy to miss any stray emergencies.

Pete, the regular day man, was at the door.  They exchanged
pleasantries.  Maggie was tempted to instruct him to discourage any
stray visitors, but she reminded herself that it was not necessary.

Her mother, who now lived in a one-bedroom apartment in the Gramercy
Park section, was spending the weekend with Aunt Hannah in Stamford,
Connecticut.  Maggie's father hadn't called since Monday, which meant a
new lady in his life, which meant he'd be completely preoccupied and
out of touch for his standard relationship run: thirty days.  Maggie
wasn't even curious about this latest in his long line of
lost-and-found love objects.

She'd come to view the occasional monthlong breaks as a vacation.

By pleasant coincidence, she also happened to be on one of her regular
vacations from Ethan.  They'd been a sometimes couple since sharing a
cadaver in first-year anatomy lab at Cornell Medical School.  Ever
since, they'd struggled with a perverse attraction that neither of them
honestly understood or particularly appreciated.

Ethan was an orthopedist at the Hospital for Joint Diseases,
specializing in knee and hip replacements.  Maggie, as he saw it,
specialized in wimps and whiners.  Maggie didn't understand his love of
human carpentry any more than he could comprehend her interest in
emotional excavations.  And that was only the tip of the difference.

She liked normal food: Italian and Chinese.  His culinary tastes ranged
from the exotic to the frankly bizarre.  He hated ballet, which she
loved.  She loathed boxing, which was Ethan's life.

She was a confirmed physical coward, he a devout daredevil.  You name
it, Ethan had risked it: helicopter skiing, rock climbing, visiting
DisneyWorld during Christmas vacation.  On those rare occasions when
Maggie bothered to think about it, she found the only thing they really
had in common was a short fuse.  That, and they both had this thing
about ear nibbling.

The East River Promenade was a meandering trail of footpaths and
overpasses abutting the FDR Drive.  Following her usual routine, Maggie
took a brisk warm-up walk to the Seventy-first Street entrance and
climbed the stairs.

Over the highway to the riverside path, she stopped to stretch out the
kinks and commenced a listless northbound jog.  It was too hot for
serious exertion, she decided with a nod of satisfaction.

She never felt entirely right about exercising until she'd established
a compelling reason not to push herself too hard.

Sunbathers, newspaper perusers, and sleeping street people occupied the
riverside benches.  A dog walker strolling with a tangle of pedigreed
pups was trailed by a uniformed nanny wheeling a set of identical
infants.  Maggie paused for a moment of cooing admiration.  Normally
she wasn't drawn to strangers' babies, but something about twins got to
her every time.

"What are their names?"  she asked.

"Jennifer and Jocelyn."

"They're adorable."

"Not so adorable at three A.M honey.  Believe me.  Not so cute at four
or five either."

Trudging up the steps to the next trestle, Maggie passed a line of
serious runners.  Marathoners, no doubt.

They had that unmistakable look about them, as if they'd been put
through a juice press.

Maggie would never understand it.  To her, exercise was a matter of
health, definitely not a religion.  She jogged to still her nagging
conscience and to atone for the regular sins of her sweet tooth.

Put off by the trendy East Side gyms, she'd chosen jogging by
default.

Exploratory visits to neighborhood health clubs had confirmed her
suspicions.  Those places were infested by paper-thin women in thong
leotards and men whose cut muscles appeared to be marinated in a light
vinaigrette.  Maggie had been appalled by the sight of bionic squads of
them pumping and thumping in the weight rooms and exercise classes.  No
one perspired.  No one had the decency to grunt or complain.

Watching them, Maggie had vowed that if she ever found herself really
enjoying a workout, she'd rethink the entire issue and give good old
sedentary sloth another try.

She followed every straightaway and overpass to the northern terminus
of the Promenade.  An hour later, she returned to Seventy-first Street
armed with a virtuous flush and a pleasant surge of energy.  A germ of
an idea had sprouted on one of her ponderous ascents over the
highway.

The more she considered it, the more promising it appeared.  She
couldn't wait to get home and start making the necessary calls.

She stopped on the way for battle provisions: bagels, barbecued
chicken, rice pudding, microwave popcorn, Diet Coke, and iced tea.  If
this thing really got underway, it was going to be a very busy couple
of days.

The thought energized her further.  By the time she reached her
building, she was running in overdrive.

"Help you with the packages, Dr.  Lyons?"

"No, thanks, Pete.  I'm fine.  Couldn't be better in fact."

"Happy to hear that, becausc- " Maggie was already at the elevator.

Anxious to get started, she hurried inside and pressed nine.  First,
she'd have to check with the community outreach department, then public
relations, then the facilities manager and the continuing education
division....

Her impatience grew with the list.  The elevator was taking forever,
stopping at every floor.  The culprit had to be Mickey Glover, the
building's resident delinquent.  Little monster had started pressing
all the elevator buttons as soon as he was big enough to reach them.

He also bit people, threw things, screamed colorful obscenities, and
teased the family's cocker spaniel so mercilessly the poor creature had
developed a nervous tic.

His mother, a round-shouldered wisp named Gretchen, never stopped or
rebuked him.  She was the type who figured everything her precious
child did was simply darling.  Someday, Maggie predicted, Gretchen
Glover would be monitoring Mickey's adorable antics through the
visitor's screen at Sing Sing.

Finally, the doors slid open at her floor.  Juggling her groceries,
Maggie worked the trio of locks on her door.  The one controlling the
dead bolt was highly temperamental.  If not for the promise to her
security-crazed mother, she would have removed the damned thing years
ago.  Maggie was fast on the verge of taking a sledge to it anyway when
the lock clicked and the door swung open.

"There you are, Maggie.  I was worried sick.  Oh, my.  Look at you.

You're all flushed."

"Mom?  What are you doing here?  I thought you were at Aunt
Hannah's."

Thought, wished, counted on it, said a prayer of thanks .  . .

Her mother sighed.  "Hannah's impossible.  You know."

Maggie did.  Too well.  Growing up, Aunt Hannah's family had lived two
floors down in the same West Side apartment house.  Maggie and her
three cousins had played, fought, scuttled, and supported each other in
typical sibling fashion, which had almost, but not quite, compensated
for the sibling of her own that Maggie had always yearned to have.  In
the mothering department, Hannah and Maggie's mother, Francine, had
served interchangeably, dispensing their bounty of neurotic cautions
and concerns with equal fervor to all the cousins.

The two women even looked alike, though Maggie's mother was three years
older or three years younger depending on which sister you asked.  Both
had terrific legs and dubious dispositions.  Both, like three of their
four offspring, had large green eyes, fair skin, and toy noses.

Both Hannah and Fran shared the ability to disarm and dazzle when they
smiled.  Maggie suspected it had something to do with the rarity of the
event.

"Why don't you change out of those sweaty clothes, Maggie?

You'll catch something, all overheated like that."

"I'm fine, Mom.  Listen.  I don't mean to be inhospitable, but I have a
ton of work to do this weekend.  I really don't have time to visit."

"Of course.  I understand, honey.  Go about your business.  You won't
even know I'm here."

Maggie had hoped for a more literal disappearance, but she couldn't
bring herself to show her mother the door.  She loved the woman, no
matter how impossible she tended to be.

The truth was Maggie would give anything to see her mother active and
happy again, though she'd about run out of hope.  After the divorce,
Mom had dropped out of her normal existence.  Ever since, she'd devoted
herself full time to rage and recriminations, allowing only an
occasional break for a psychosomatic illness or an anxiety attack.

"Want me to make you something, Maggie?  You look a little washed
out.

Maybe you're working too hard."

"I'm fine.  Excuse me, will you?  I have some calls to make.

Sigh.  "Of course.  Do what you have to.  Heaven knows I'm used to
being alone."  She sighed her way down the hall to the guest room.

She sighed open the bureau drawers and deposited her things in the
dresser.  From the bulge of her suitcase and the number of drawer slams
Maggie calculated she was in for a long siege.

Amazing how just when things seemed bleakest, something could happen to
make them even worse.

But Maggie refused to let it get to her.  Closing the study door, she
placed the first crucial phone call.  If she made a move without
slogging through official channels, Poison Ivy would have her scalp.

An hour later, she left the study for a restorative dose of
Gail Weider's cookies and an iced tea.  Her calls to the central office
had been fruitless.  Everyone on staff at East End worked Saturdays and
Sundays on a rotating basis.  But all the people she needed to reach
were off this weekend.  Using the staff directory, she'd tried home
numbers next.  Got nothing but phone machines, answering services, and
apologetic relatives who promised to transmit her urgent message as
soon as possible.  Until she spoke to someone in proper authority and
got the go-ahead, she'd have to put her possibly brilliant scheme on
hold.

Her mother was out on the terrace, murmuring to the salvia.

Favored by the sun, Francine's skin took on the soft glow of fine
porcelain.  Her hair shone, and her green eyes sparkled.  She stooped
to deadhead the bearded iris, moving with the grace and vigor of
someone half her age.  The woman was so bright, talented, and
attractive, Maggie had an irresistible urge to go out there and give
her a much needed boot in the rear.

She should have done it years ago, Maggie knew, before the depression
had hardened to concrete.  But she'd waited for her mother to take hold
of her own life.  Waited too damned long.

Fortifying herself with a few more of Gail's sinful cookies, she
virtuously stuffed the rest in the freezer and crossed the living room
toward the sliding glass doors.  It still wasn't too late.

On the way, she considered the best choice of words.  This delicate
task called for the precise mix of concern, support, confrontation, and
quick reflexes to dodge any flying chunks of fury.  Lady-and-tiger
time.  Not a pleasant prospect.

Approaching the door, Maggie was gripped by a sudden sick feeling.  Her
mouth parched, and her breaths went ragged.

Clutching the arm of the sofa, she fought a wave of nausea and groped
for a distraction to pull her out of the horrible moment.

Her seeking mind settled on the window dream.  Twoyear-old Maggie is
kneeling at her bedside.  Her tiny fingers are woven, eyes tight with
concentration.  The window glides open.

Now l lay me down to sleep .  . .

Easy.  Deep breath.  There, better.  Almost gone.

What the hell?

Maggie clung to the sofa a moment longer, willing the last of the awful
sensation to pass.  When it did, she straightened, took a deep,
steadying breath, and headed for the hall.  Had to be the stress.  She
hadn't had a spell like that in years, not since she'd been cured of
her own paralyzing fear of heights.

Before that, she'd known firsthand the hideous grip of a sudden panic,
the terrifying sensation of being out of control, perched on the brink
of unspeakable disaster.  She'd known the irrational fear coupled with
the seductive pull of the danger.  It had taken months of steady work
and treatment for her to put those paralyzing episodes behind her.

No backsliding, Maggie Lyons.  That's the last thing you need right
now.

Straightening the papers on her cluttered desk, she resolved to be
fine.  Maybe her brain was warning her not to take on anything else
until she cleared up the money crisis at the clinic.

Made sense to defer her mother's mountain of personal problems until
she could devote her full attention to them anyway, Maggie thought.

Knowing Mom, it was going to be a tricky climb.

With a little luck, she thought she could make a few more phone calls
before her mother finished swabbing the mealybug off the coleus.  But
the porch door slid open an instant later.

"Maggie?"

She recognized the brittle voice and knew what would follow.

Maggie didn't look up.  Mom would surely read a problem on her face.

The last thing she needed was more clucking concern.

"Sorry, Mom.  I'm right in the middle.  Have to run."

"Yes, dear.  I was just wondering if you've heard from Prince
Charming.

Wondering what he was up to.  Or should I say, who ?"

"Honestly, Dad hasn't called in days.  Guess he must be busy."

"I can imagine.  Robert's always been a busy boy.  Even when I had no
idea.  Amazing how blind a person can be."

Maggie continued making piles of her notes, not wanting to see the hurt
look.  If only her mother would let it go.  If only she'd get on with
her life already.

"Maggie, please.  If he's seeing someone, I'd rather--" The phone rang,
giving Maggie a welcome excuse to scoop it up.

She hoped it was one of the critical return calls.  Something had to
start working here.  This day was not proceeding at all according to
her careful design.

But the voice on the phone was not the relief she'd expected.

He identified himself as Detective Frank Fazio of the Rhode Island
State Police.  It was about a suicide, he said.  The victim had been
one of her patients.

CHAPTER 9.

Bannister's detective agency was headquartered on Federal Street in
Boston's financial district.  To cut expenses after the divorce
separated him from his money, he'd relocated from a four-room office
suite on nearby Milk Street.  Now, he shared space and a secretary with
a bail bondsman named Willy James and the personal injury law firm of
Shatzkin, Shatzkin, Mulrooney & Guck.

His tiny, windowless office was sandwiched between the door that read
"James's Bonds," and the one occupied by the senior Shatzkin, founding
partner and first tenor in the firm's ubiquitous radio jingle:

Shatzkin, Shatzkin, Mulrooney & Guck.

They're the names to call when you're injured or sick.

Just dial Three-Two-One HELP, and we're there for you quick.

That's Shatzkin, Shatzkin, Mulrooney & Guck.

Hardly the most sumptuous surroundings.  Noise ricocheted like stray
bullets off the flecked linoleum floors and pressed tin ceilings.  A
haze of cheap cologne and cutrate cigar fumes hung in the air.  The
decor was vintage Ho Jo's: orange sherbet plastic with aqua accents and
faux-walnut trim.  Most of the equipment, air-conditioning included,
was dysfunctional or deceased.

Bannister barely noticed.  Given the nature of his work, he reasoned he
was rarely in the office anyway.  As he saw it, there was no sense
paying more than the bare minimum for what was basically a mail drop
and a phone answering service.  And Myra, the secretary who owed him
one-seventh of her time, attentions, and loyalty, was exceptional at
placating attention-starved clients and deflecting pesky creditors.

Bannister sat at the desk.  Price occupied the not-soeasy chair and the
second line on the extension phone across the room.

Hanging up, he hugged himself and shivered.

"I'm freezing to death, Sammy.  Can't you turn that thing off?"

"Sorry.  The only two settings are steam bath' and meat locker."

Want me to ask Myra to bring you more tea?"

"No, thanks.  The last cup froze to my lip."

"Hang in there, Lenny.  We're going to hit the bull'seye soon.

I can feel it in my bones."

"That's good, Sam.  Cause I'm too numb to feel anything."

Preoccupied with the task at hand, Bannister was oblivious to the
chill.  To him, there was nothing like the chase.  Best part of the
work next to the fee collecting.  He loved tracking the stench, closing
in on the trash pile, and hauling another heap of rotten waste to the
dump.  There was nothing like the moment when it all came together.

Not even sex, from the little of that he could remember.

He especially enjoyed working a case with Price.  Appearances aside,
the guy was whip smart and able to milk a clue for every last drop of
insight.  Likable to a fault, there was someone he could call on for
virtually anything they might happen to need.

Best of all, though he was unfailingly agreeable, Price did not give up
without a monumental, mule-worthy effort.  Once he latched on to a line
of investigation, you had to practically pry the guy loose with a
crowbar.  Bannister really admired that in a person.

Reminded him of himself.

The two men had spent the entire afternoon in Bannister's deep freeze,
trying to unearth Theodore Macklin's medical records and find out if
the man had sought any psychiatric treatment in the year before his
death.  With
the aid of Price's crackerjack contacts, they'd managed to procure
copies of Macklin's canceled checks and tax returns for the past two
years.  But there were no payments to physicians and no medical
deductions.

Macklin's business records were a little trickier to come by,
camouflaged as they were in a maze of interlocking and dummy
entities.

But Price had finally gotten his hands on the primary corporate filings
through a sister of a friend at the secretary of state's office.  From
there, he'd been able to ferret out the name of the carrier for the
company's insurance plan.

Problem was, Macklin's health policy called for direct payments to
r had contacted Macklin's former secretary and the
firm's bookkeeper to see if either remembered submitting any claims for
the boss for visits to a shrink, but the man's sudden death had left
both women mute and suffering from bad cases of selective amnesia.

The claims adjustor Bannister questioned at Mass Mutual Insurance was
no more helpful.  Company policy prohibited her from divulging
information about individual claims, she informed him in a grating
nasal whine.  Past records were stored centrally and unavailable except
through special application.  If Mr. Macklin wanted copies of anything
in his file, he'd have to go through channels.

Bannister was not pleased.  He had no scruples about impersonating
Macklin to get the records, but channels took time.  Getting to the
right person in the claims department had cost him three transfers and
close to five minutes on Muzak-ridden hold.

Given that, he could imagine how long it would take for a special
application to slog through the company's bureaucratic molasses.

Meanwhile, someone would probably get around to informing the computer
that Theodore Macklin had been dropped from the client rolls the hard
way.

Out of ideas, Bannister saw no alternative but to throw a tantrum.

"Damn it, Lenny!  I hate corporations and records and clerks and
policies.  I hate those phone systems where you're bounced around like
a goddamned Ping-Pong ball until they finally figure out who's the
right person to disconnect you or put you off.

Price nodded amiably.  "Get it out, Sam.  You'll feel better.

"And computers.  I'd like to get my hands on the jackass who invented
those goddamned machines.  Last week alone, one ate my cash card and
another told the kid at the Erron station that I wasn't good for a
lousy five bucks' worth of medium-grade oil.  I ask you, Lenny, are my
finances any of that kid's business?"

Price's head was still bobbling, but his expression had changed.

Sporting a pensive frown, he raised a finger, requesting a moment's
silence.

Bannister gave it to him, though it wasn't easy.  Once his temper was
on autopilot, it was no mean feat to unlock the landing gear and bring
it down.

The moment was up.  "So?"

"So your mentioning computers made something click, Sam.  I remember
reading a piece in one of the trade journals about a central data bank
that insurance companies use to pool claim information.  Not something
they want the public to know about.

And the feds have questioned whether it's an antitrust violation or
restraint of trade.  But it cuts fraud and helps insurers avoid
bad-risk clients.  So they've fought to keep it going."

Bannister reached for the phone.  "Great.  How do we reach them?"

"You can't call.  It's a subscriber network.  You have to be a
member.

Go directly to the mainframe.  Takes an entry key and pass code to log
on."

"So you're telling me you've got this great idea, only it's useless.

"No.  I think I know who can break into the network for us.

Ten minutes later, Price managed to locate his source.  "His name's
Harry Horgan, Sam.  Golf buddy of mine.  He's president and CEO of
Compcom, a small but real successful computer hardware company.  I
caught him on his cellular, putting out the seventeenth green at
Fairview.  He's willing to meet us back at the shop in an hour."

Bannister aimed the Camaro west and took the Mass Pike to Route 128,
also known as America's Technology Highway.  The road was bounded by
sleek, modern buildings housing high-tech operations with cyberpunk
staffers and technobabble names.  Sun glinted off steel-and-glass
facades and baked the great surrounding stretches of unused, unnoticed,
unnecessary lawn.  Several miles and billions of microchips later, they
turned into the long ribbon of access road connecting the highway to
Compcom Industries, Inc. The chairman's suite occupied most of the
second floor.  An executive secretary with a brusque manner and
pierpiling legs led them to Horgan's enormous corner office.  A
smoked-glass wall offered a muted view of the manmade duck pond in the
rear and the emergency generators beyond.  The black lacquer
ultramodern furnishings could have been copped from a Spielberg
movie.

Compcom's chief stood in the center of the space, clad in plaid
knickers and a tam, practicing his tee shot.  Guy had a walrus mustache
and a sun-fried complexion.  He acknowledged their arrival with a nod
and kept swinging.

"That blasted slice came back, Lenny.  Put me deep in the rough on
fourteen.  Cost me two strokes and a hundred bucks to Arnie Simpson,
that arrogant son of a bitch from Paqsystems.  Anyone but Arnie, it
wouldn't have been so bad."

"Take it straight back the way I showed you, Harry," Price said.

"You're breaking your wrist early."

Horgan swung again and cast an expectant look in Price's direction.

"Better.  Focus on the arc and vector of the swing.  Use the natural
momentum to goose your velocity.  Better.  Easy does it now."

Another couple of swats and Horgan was ready to suspend the practice
session.  Peeling off his fingerless glove, he motioned them to choose
one of the circle of plush chairs surrounding his gargantuan desk.

"Harry, this is Sam Bannister.  He's the private eye I work with once
in a full moon.  Sam, Harry here knows computers inside out and
backward."

"And Lenny has been more help to my golf game than all the pros from
here to eternity, Sam," Horgan said.  "He's the only person I've ever
met who's broken the game down to geometry and physics, language real
people can understand.  So what can I do for you boys?  Like a
drink?"

Price declined and told him what they were after.  Horgan requested the
necessary particulars, including Macklin's social security number,
corporate name and carrier, and the company's group policy number.

Then he pressed a button in a control panel on the desk, and the slick
surface parted to expose a work station.  He tapped the keys.

Paused.

Tapping again, he squinted at the screen.

"Damn.  The network's got a Transprotect Cover."

"A what?"  Bannister said.

"Security system.  Electronic sentry.  Guaranteed uncrackable.

Sorry."

Price flipped up his palms.  "So it goes.  Guess it's back to the
drawing board, Sam.  Thanks for trying.  Harry."

"God damn it.  There has to be some way in," Bannister said.

"Easy, Sam.  Harry's the best.  If he can't do it, I'm afraid it can't
be done."

Horgan frowned.  "How important is this, Lenny?"  Very.

"All right, then.  But only this once and only for you."

Compcom's chief pressed another button in the console and the intercom
squawked on.  "Call Levitt.  Tell him I need him right away."

He looked up.  "Shouldn't take long.

"Who's Levitt?"  Bannister demanded.

"First name's David, but he prefers plain Levitt, and we give him
whatever he prefers.  He's a computer genius.  Best I've come across.

We call him in to consult, but only on very special occasions.  He's in
huge demand, and his availability is strictly limited."

Horgan retrieved his driver and practiced his swing under Price's
direction.  Ten minutes later, his secretary poked her head in.

"Levitt's here, Mr.  Horgan."

"Great.  Send him in."

A scrawny bespectacled kid in a scout uniform soon appeared.

Bannister made him at nine or ten maximum, and small for that.

The boy eyed his Mickey Mouse watch and cracked the giant gum wad
orbiting in his jaw.

"What's the big emergency, Harry?  I've got a troop meeting at five.

We're making s'mores."

"This is Mr. Bannister and Mr. Price, Levitt.  They need access to a
national network with a Transprotect Cover.  I know they bill it as
uncrackable, but--" The kid nodded impatiently and took Horgan's place
at the terminal.  "Okay, give me the specs."

As Horgan read off Macklin's personal and company data, the child's
bony fingers worked the keyboard.  He frowned at the screen and swiped
a speck of debris from his glasses.

Fiddling with his neckerchief, he watched and waited.

A minute later, the boy hefted his shoulders and puffed his lips.

"No luck?"  Horgan said.

The kid pressed a final key causing a rush of unseen activity.

Reaching under the edge of the desk, he extracted a sheet of paper.

"Here's your data Okay if I leave now?  I'm bringing the
marshmallows."

Price brightened as he scanned the page.  "A complete list of Macklin's
medical claims for the last five years.  That's terrific.  Thanks,
Levitt.  So much for guaranteed uncrackable security, eh, Harry?"

Horgan ruffled the kid's hair.  "True enough, Lenny.  Those boys over
at Mass Mutual really ought to demand their money back."

CHAPTER 10.

On the phone, Detective Fazio had refused to part with any details.  A
suicide, he said, of one of her patients.  He would not even offer
Maggie the name of the victim or the reason for an inquiry into an
apparently self-inflicted death.  All he'd volunteered was that the
police were investigating to clear up certain unspecified questions.

According to a source, Dr. Margaret Lyons at East End Hospital had
provided psychiatric treatment some months ago for the dead man.  Fazio
said he would greatly appreciate her cooperation.  His tone said she
would cooperate or else.

At his request, Maggie had agreed to see him at three.  She'd have no
problem keeping busy until then.  If nothing else, she could spend the
time worrying herself sick.

Suicide.

It was every psychiatrist's worst nightmare.  The supreme failure.

Maggie had considered herself fortunate.  In ten years of practice,
she'd never had to cope with a patient taking his own life.

Until now.

She reflected on the people she'd treated in the past months.

No one had struck her as a potential suicide.  Could she have missed a
serious depressive?  Worse, could something in her therapy have driven
this particular patient, whoever he was, to commit such an act of
desperation?

Conventional wisdom held that ridding someone of a phobia was
liberating and life-affirming.  But there was nothing conventional
about the uncertain course of individual human emotion.  Maggie had
never shared the baseless confidence of some of her more dogmatic
colleagues.  Every treatment involved some measure of risk.  When you
peeled away a defense or stripped off a habituated reaction, there was
no guarantee you'd be left with a healthy core of self-esteem and
resilience.  Usually it worked that way, bLIt what about the
rule-proving exception?

The so-called cure might conceivably expose a screaming nerve.

Leave nothing but raw, unendurable pain.

She shivered.  No use speculating.  The suicide may have had nothing at
all to do with Maggie's treatment.  The pathogenic seeds could have
been planted much earlier.  Or the desperate death might have been
precipitated by a sudden shift of circumstance after the patient was
out of her care.  Several plausible causes occurred to her immediately:
a catastrophic illness, chemical imbalance, financial reverses, the
sudden death or defection of a loved one.

Still almost an hour until her meeting with Detective Fazio.

Maybe she could pry her mother out of the apartment before he showed
up.  The woman definitely did not need an additional worry to add to
her already extensive collection.

Perusing the weekend section of yesterday's Times, Maggie hit on the
perfect diversion.  Aware that her mother would likely balk at any
direct suggestion, she opened the paper to the strategic page, dropped
it on the sofa, then made a soundless retreat to her office.

Perfect trap.  In seconds, she heard the rush of the sliding terrace
door and her mother's footsteps trailing into the living room.

"Maggie, dear," Francine called.  "You shouldn't leave the paper on the
couch like that.  You'll get ink stains."

Maggie listened as the paper rustled, and footfalls veered toward the
kitchen.  The nice thing about obsessive/compulsives was their absolute
predictability.  Her mother always read the newspaper at the kitchen
table where any errant newsprint could be wiped clean.  And
Mom always started by scanning for gardening-related articles and
announcements.  It took precisely the five minutes Maggie had
anticipated before she heard the knock at her office door.

Her mother looked sheepish.  "There's a show and sale through this
evening at the Mid-Hudson Orchid Society, dear.  Any chance you'd like
to go with me?"

"Sorry, Mom.  I told you I'm up to my ears.  But you go ahead."

"You sure you wouldn't mind?  I thought I'd stay around and make us a
nice dinner.  But they're featuring a new hybrid phalaenopsis.  Hard to
resist."

"Enjoy yourself."

Maggie stifled the smile until her mother was out the door.

Finally, something had gone her way.  Hoping it might signal a trend,
she went to the kitchen for a couple of Gail Weider's chocolate chip
cookies, which were even delicious frozen, and tried several of her
calls again.  She was on seemingly perpetual hold in the administration
office when her other line started ringing.

She picked up, certain it was one of her crucial return calls, but that
was far from the case.

"Maggie?  Francis Kennedy.  I was thinking what a nice day it is for a
picnic supper.  What do you say?"

She tried to keep the irritation out of her voice.  Maggie reminded
herself that the man was an old school chum of Alex Ivy's.  And the
last thing she wanted was to give Little Caesar yet another reason to
climb on her case.

"I'm busy, F.X. And anyway, as I explained to you, I don't socialize
with the aides in the program.  It's against the rules."

"Rules are meant to be broken, Maggie.  What could a picnic hurt?

I'll cater.  How's that?"

"Against the rules, as I told you.  Please don't call me at home
anymore, Francis.  I'd appreciate that."

As she hung up, the lobby buzzer sounded.

"Two--uh--gentlemen to see you, Dr.  Lyons."

"Thanks, Pete.  Send them up."

The catch in the doorman's voice prepared her for an oddity, and she
was not disappointed.  The elevator soon
disgorged a ruddy armed giant in uniform and a skeleton in a suit
toting a briefcase.  The cadaverous accountant type was in obvious
command.  Maggie accepted the hand he proffered and glanced at the
laminated card identifying him as Detective Frank Fazio, Rhode Island
State Police.

"That's Nelligan," Fazio said of his mammoth mute companion.

"He's local out of the nineteenth."

Hiking his trousers by the crease, Fazio sat on the sofa, snapped open
his briefcase, and extracted an accordion file crammed with
documents.

"Theodore Macklin," he said, as if that explained everything.

"According to his records, you saw him back in February.

Remember?"

She did, though not fondly.  Ted Macklin had been an overbearing,
abrasive man who'd checked in for the course of intensive treatment the
clinic offered for acute cases and out-of-towners.

Maggie had suffered his crudeness and cynicism for a week or so and was
frankly delighted when he'd elected to cut his program short and
checked himself out.

"Theodore Macklin killed himself?"

"He did."

Maggie recalled the man's leering, his tactlessness and social
ineptitude.  Aside from his phobias, she d thought him to be
emotionally brain dead.  "Any idea why?  He certainly didn't seem the
type."

"Frankly, Dr. Lyons, the state isn't all that interested in his
motives.  What we need is a firm and fast certification of the suicide,
so we can proceed against Mr.  Macklin's holdings."

Tersely, Fazio explained that Macklin had convinced several top state
executives to entrust him with the management of a large pension
fund.

His performance there had been so impressive, he'd been placed in
charge of several other sizeable state accounts.

Then, a week ago, an anonymous tipster had called the governor's office
and claimed Macklin's operation was involved in shady dealings.  The
informant warned that the investment firm's illicit transactions would
likely be uncovered as part of an ongoing federal probe.

Pending a full investigation, Rhode Island officials had moved
immediately to freeze Macklin's assets.  They knew that if the feds
took after the man, any state funds in his control could be impounded
indefinitely along with the rest of his holdings.

Unfortunately, before they were able to complete the paperwork,
Theodore Macklin was dead.

"As you can imagine, the governor is most anxious to protect the
state's interests, Dr. Lyons.  In these difficult times, the last
thing he wants is to look like a losing player in a three-card monte
game."

"I don't see how I can help you."

"Simple.  Review your notes, listen to your tapes, whatever.

There must have been some indication Macklin was depressed, possibly on
the edge.  You certify that, and I know we can get the coroner to sign
off immediately, so we can expedite our claim.  All we want is to
secure our taxpayers' money."

"You're not going to find what you're looking for in my records.

Mr. Macklin may have been many things, but there wasn't a hint of
depression or suicidal tendencies."

Fazio shook his head.  "I'm afraid you don't understand, Dr.  Lyons.

The man is dead.  All you have to do is say you're not surprised he
took his own life, and we can recover funds that rightly belong to the
good citizens of the state of Rhode Island.

I'm talking pensions, special accounts for emergency assistance to
indigents and the elderly, programs for prenatal and infant nutrition
and the disabled.  Consider it a public service, why don't you?"

"Sorry, but I'd have to consider it a fraud.  I won't lie for you,
Detective.  No matter how noble the cause."

Fazio frowned.  "Get me a drink of water, will you, Nelligan?"

The big cop nodded and loped to the kitchen.  Fazio leaned his ferret
face closer to Maggie and spoke in a rasp.  His breath was musty.

"I'd hoped we could do this without unpleasantness, Dr.  Lyons.

But I intend to get what I came for.  Don't make me throw my weight
around."

Maggie would have laughed, but outrage cooled the impulse.

"I'm not going to be bullied into violating my personal or professional
ethics, Detective.  I saw no indication that Ted Macklin was
suicidal.

If I'm asked to testify at an inquest, that's what I'll have to say."

Fazio attempted a minute of silent intimidation.  He gave up when
Nelligan lumbered back in, his massive mitt dwarfing a glassful of
water that was dripping onto the leg of his uniform pants and Maggie's
carpet.

"Let's go, Nelligan.  I'm through here."

The big man stalled.  He stared at the drink in bewilderment.

"Put that down, will you?  You keep sloshing it around like that,
you'll drown yourself like Macklin did."

The words crept under Maggie's skin.  "Macklin droned?  I thought you
said it was a suicide."

"He went off the Newport Bridge, Dr.  Lyons," Fazio hissed.

"Either it was a suicide, or the guy had a mighty strange idea about
what made a decent diving board."

Fazio shoved the Macklin file back in his briefcase and stood to
leave.

Watching him, Maggie's gaze drifted to the terrace.

Again, she was accosted by a terrible sensation.  The sky shuddered,
and there was a rush of melting heat.  Her pulse raced, and the world
slipped out of focus.  She imagined herself at the edge of the terrace
floor, jumping off.  Plummeting.

The feeling soon passed.  Caught in panic's grip, time seemed suspended
for an eternity, but the actual spells never lasted more than a minute
or two.  Still, by the time the terror released her, King Kong and Mr.
Bones were at the door.  Fazio twisted the knob and stepped into the
corridor.  Nelligan was about to lumber after him when Maggie found her
voice.  I "Wait, Detective."

Fazio turned.  His smile was a rictus.  "Having second thoughts?"

She told him she was.  Now she was even more positive that Theodore
Macklin's death had not been a suicide.

CHAPTER 11.

As Maggie spoke, Detective Fazio's mood decayed from scattered clouds
to storm warnings.

She told him Theodore Macklin would never have gone on or off the
Newport Bridge voluntarily.  Macklin was intensely phobic about
bridges.  No matter how desperate he might have become, that would
never have been his chosen mode of self-annihilation.  Given that, she
knew, the state could be in for a long and difficult murder
investigation.  Macklin's assets would be untouchable until it was
over, giving the feds ample time to stake any claim they might have.

Fazio kept pressing her for a more palatable conclusion.

"What kind of murderers would bother to take off the victim's shoes and
socks and suit jacket before they tossed him over the side?  And his
jewelry.  Divers found some of his things washed up on the bridge
pilings."

Maggie shrugged.  "I'm not the detective, Detective."

"And what about the way Macklin's Jaguar was left in the service lot?

Parked nice and neat with the doors locked.  Has suicide written all
over it.  Why the hell would a murderer worry about the car enough to
lock the doors?"

"Maybe to make it look like a suicide," Maggie suggested.

"Although, I really can't imagine why someone intent on suicide would
worry about locking car doors."

Fazio smirked.  "True, Doctor.  But then, there's nothing rational
about suicide.  Which is exactly why Macklin might have forgotten
about his phobia long enough to jump off that bridge."

"No way.  He was more terrified of bridges than anything.  Even
death."

Fazio wasn't giving up.  "So maybe he got treatment for that particular
phobia after he left your program."

"Again, I'm not the detective."

"All right.  I know.  If he had, we probably would have turned up some
record of it when we went through his papers.  There are thousands of
other shrinks.  Maybe he went to one and wasn't billed yet.  Or maybe
he paid out of some account we haven't turned up.  You're not the only
game in town."

Maggie smiled sweetly.  "You're absolutely right.  There are many
similar programs.  Hundreds, in fact.  I'll be happy to send you a
list."

She was even happier to see him and his oversized escort to the door.

Despite her relief at discovering that she probably hadn't pushed a
patient over the edge, there was something in Fazio's accusatory manner
that made her feel guilty.

Allowing the pair sufficient time to depart the neighborhood, she left
the apartment and headed to the hospital.  By now, Daisy Tyler should
be over the worst effects of the tranquilizers.

Maggie went directly to the second floor, but the patient had not yet
been transferred to her service.  Taking the stairs to three, she found
Daisy's room empty.  Time for a shift change, so there were no nurses
in the corridor to question about Ms. Tyler's whereabouts.  Maggie
decided to poke around until she found the woman on her own.  She hoped
poor Daisy wasn't cowering under a bed somewhere.  Or locked in a
supply closet.  Or worse.

Trying to appear nonchalant, she strolled from room to room.

No sign of Daisy.  Not that she'd expected the woman to be out
socializing with her fellow patients, but she had to be somewhere on
the unit.  Maggie seriously doubted that Daisy Tyler had the temerity
to leave the floor, much less the hospital.  No matter how intolerable
the woman might be finding things here, she wasn't likely to prefer the
milling crowd of imaginary horrors outside.

Maggie checked the lounge, smiling at the clusters of patients and
visitors who turned at her entrance.  No Daisy.  Growing more concerned
by the minute, she poked around in the supply closets and examining
rooms.  She even went back to Daisy's room to look in the shower stall
and clothes closet.

Deciding that this qualified as a potential emergency, she knocked at
the staff lounge and interrupted the change-of-shift conference to get
whatever information she could from the nurses and residents.  By all
accounts, Daisy had not left her room since her admission.  Anyone
who'd looked in on her in the past eight or ten hours had found her
asleep or resting in bed.

The shift supervisor left the meeting to help Maggie with the search.

They agreed to make one more thorough sweep of the floor before calling
security.

Maggie rechecked the patient rooms.  She thought of Daisy's desperate
state last night.  Maybe she shouldn't have been left alone.  Maggie
could have posted a nurse in the room.  She could have spent the night
there herselœ She crossed in front of the elevator bank to check the
rooms on the other side of the wing.  A voice from behind stalled her
before she came to the first door.

"Dr.  Lyons?  That you?"

Maggie turned.  Mitch Goldberg was escorting Daisy Tyler off the
elevator.  Daisy's hand was looped through the young resident's cocked
elbow.  She had a bright smile and proud bearing.

Except for the hospital-issue bathrobe, Daisy looked for all the world
like the mother of the groom.

Maggie was incredulous.  "Daisy, hi.  I was searching all over for
you.

Where have you been?"

Daisy wrapped her blue robe tighter and smiled.  "Dr. Goldberg took me
down to the cafeteria."

"Ms. Tyler's been through enough," Goldberg said.  "I didn't think she
should have to put up with that slop they were trying to pass off as
lunch."

"I owe you for the sandwich, Doctor.  But my money--" Her lip
quivered.

Goldberg dipped in a gallant bow.  "Not at all.  Not only were you
charming company, but you got me out of a staff meeting.

He caught Maggie's eye and motioned for a private conference.

She nodded and led Daisy into her room.

"I'll be back in a minute," Maggie told her.

"Sure, Dr.  Lyons.  I'm not going anywhere."

She found Goldberg waiting at the end of the hall.  His arrogance had
evaporated.  An uncertain smile took its place.  It was a definite
improvement.

"I hope it was okay for me to take her," Goldberg began.  "I stopped in
earlier, and she was getting agitated again.  I thought a little
distraction might be in order.  I tried calling you at home for
permission, but I got your machine."

"It's fine.  In fact, it's wonderful.  You convinced her to do more
than she has in the past twenty-two years.  Maybe you'd like to give up
the Ben Casey stuff and join us on the angst unit."

"Who's Ben Casey?"

For a second there, Maggie had forgotten the guy's age, or lack
thereof.  "TV character.  Probably on after your bedtime.  Or maybe
before your conception."

"I'm not as young as I sometimes act, Dr.  Lyons."

"It's Maggie.  And I think you acted perfectly.  Thanks, Doctor.

Really.  I owe you one."

"It's Mitch.  And I'll remember.  Profound indebtedness is one of my
favorite things."  He winked as he walked away.  Forgetting herself,
Maggie winked back.  She covered it by pretending there was something
in her eye.  They're making little kids mighty precocious these days,
she thought.  Probably some additive in the milk.

Maggie spent the next hour explaining the clinic's intensive program to
Daisy Tyler.  They would meet privately for an hour a day to discuss
progress, problems, and strategies.  At least twice a day, Daisy would
work on specific goals with her assigned aide.

Recovery hinged on planned, sequential exposure to feared things or
situations.  Gradually, the patient became desensitized and was able to
progress to more and more intimidating tasks.

"If you were phobic about snakes, we might start by having you think
about them.  Next step might be looking at pictures," Maggie said.

"After you were comfortable with that, we'd probably ask you to touch
the pictures or handle a rubber snake.  Then, maybe you'd visit a pet
store where they have live snakes in tanks.

You'd get closer and closer until the experience stopped provoking any
serious anxiety.  Eventually, you'd learn to view or even hold a snake
without particular fear."

Daisy shuddered.  "Why would I want to do that?"

"It's just an example.  Part of your treatment will be deciding exactly
what you fear most.  You'll be the one to set the goals.

If you could wave a magic wand right now and get rid of one fear, what
would it be?"

Daisy fingered her bathrobe.  "Might be easier to tell you one thing
I'm not afraid of."

"Can you remember a time when you weren't fearful?"

"I had general anesthetic once.  For an appendectomy.  Maybe when I was
under."

She recounted a typical phobic history.  Daisy had been reared by an
overprotective mother and a salesman father who was rarely at home.

She'd had the normal childhood fears: demons, the dark, separation,
geWng lost in crowds.  But, unlike other children, she had failed to
outgrow them.

Instead, the fears had outgrown her.  Like a fire raging out of
control, they had surrounded her, driven her back, confined her to a
small, ever-shrinking safe zone.  A living crypt.

"After my mother died, my dad used to practically drag me out of the
apartment," Daisy said.  "I couldn't hold a job, couldn't make myself
get out and meet people.  But every Sunday, even when it snowed, he'd
force me to get all dressed up.  We'd go to church together and then
out for Sunday supper.

"The whole thing was torture for me.  In church, I was sure I was going
to scream or pass out and make a terrible spectacle of myself.  I had
to sit in the back row, right on the aisle.

I spent the whole time watching the exit door.  I had to be the first
one out when the service was over.  Otherwise, I was sure I'd get
trapped.  Maybe trampled to death.

"Afterward, at the restaurant, I'd get so nervous, I couldn't eat a
bite.  But I had to go through with that ritual every Sunday for as
long as Daddy was alive.  I'd beg him not to make me, but he
insisted.

Said I was just being a silly prima donna."

"And when he died?"  Maggie said.

Daisy's eyes filled.  "I couldn't even get myself out of the house for
his funeral.  He would have been so ashamed of me.  I've been such a
disappointment, Dr.  Lyons.  Especially to myself."

Listening, Maggie recognized the parallels between Daisy's experience
and her own.  Maggie, too, had a fearful mother who'd portrayed the
world as hostile and unsafe.  A mostly absent father.  A childhood
plagued by demons.  Fortunately, Maggie's holdover anxiety had been
restricted to a fear of heights, and she'd managed to work her way
through that so it hadn't remained a serious impediment.  All right,
Ethan considered her severely restricted because she refused to
consider hang gliding or sky-diving.  But Ethan also deplored her
refusal to eat pickled squid or roast yak.

"The important thing is the future, Daisy.  You're going to get past
the fears.  You'll finally have the opportunity to live the life you
want."

"It's hard to imagine."

Not so hard for Maggie.  She'd seen it before with Henry and others as
tortured and imprisoned.

Daisy's voice faded, and her lids drooped.  As her breathing gentled,
Maggie edged across the room and shut the door.  The woman needed her
rest.  She'd taken the first step, but she had a long, hard hike ahead
of her.

CHAPTER 12.

The printout from the insurance network had confirmed Bannister's
hunch.  According to the claim records, Macklin had spent ten days in
the psychiatric unit of a Manhattan hospital six months ago.

The admitting diagnosis was nonspecific anxiety.  From Horgan's office,
Price phoned a psychology professor he knew who described the term as a
atchall.  Nonspecific anxiety could signify anything from insomnia to
relationship problems to a total nervous collapse.

Things were no clearer after several exploratory calls to East End, the
hospital where Macklin had been treated.  No one on staff would
surrender patient information on the phone.

So it was off to the Big Hassle.

Bannister had taken less than five minutes to toss his gear in a
suitcase, collect the necessary files, and make it back to where he'd
left Price and the Camaro idling at a bus stop.

His studio apartment was in Boston's North End, over an Italian deli on
Hanover Street.  In exchange for an occasional snooping job for his
paranoid landlord, he lived rent-free, which was, as accountant types
recommended, about a quarter of his monthly net income.

Next stop was Price's cozy Tudor on a quiet block in suburban
Watertown.  Ruthie, a solid, affable woman with paprika-toned hair and
smiling eyes, bustled out to greet them in the driveway.

She clucked over Price as if it had 9o
been months, not hours, since their parting.  Then she led her husband
upstairs to pack.

Knowing it could take quite a while for her to get the guy equipped and
give him his marching orders, Bannister settled in the den with a Coke
and his case notes.

All the circumstantial fingers had pointed straight at Theodore
Macklin.  From Martha Rafferty's friends, he and Price had discovered
that the bad luck streak in their Harper School class had extended well
beyond Martha and Ricky Bates.

Within a year of graduation, a star basketball player named Andy Gordon
had drowned in the pool at a private midtown club.

Several months later, Jerry Seiden, class salutatorian, had died of a
rumored drug overdose.  Very strange, given that no one could connect
the studious young man to any former hint of substance abuse.  Next,
Robby Mercer, Harper's resident lady-killer, had taken a fall on the
marble foyer floor in his apartment and lapsed into an irreversible
coma.

At the time, no one had suspected a connection between the tragic
events, but Price had spotted a clear one right away.  All the victims
had dated or at least shown an interest in Martha Rafferty.  And all of
the so-called accidents could have been engineered by Teddy Macklin.

Macklin's family belonged to the club where Andy Gordon drowned.

Few people used the pool, so it would have been a simple matter for
someone to sneak in while the Gordon boy was doing his regular
early-morning laps and sneak out again once the kid was in a genuine
dead man s float.

Jerry Seiden's alleged overdose might have been arranged by Macklin
with the aid of supplies pilfered from one of the pharmacies in his
father's city wide chain.  As the owner's son, Teddy had easy access to
the back rooms and supply closets where controlled substances were
stored.

The Mercer apartment was one floor below the Macklins'.  No one in the
family was home at the time of the deadly fall.  Teddy could have snuck
down there, bashed in Robby's skull, and landed back on his family room
couch in the time it took for a standard commercial break.

Young Ted had fifty pounds and four inches on the Mercer kid.  No
contest.

Indications of Macklin's probable guilt had continued to pile up
nicely.  Several vintage Harper teachers confirmed that Teddy Macklin
had been given to outbursts of serious temper.  A couple remembered
recommending that the boy have psychological counseling, but the
Macklins had refused.

Bannister had even paid a visit to Macklin's parents, who'd relocated
to a posh estate in Palm Beach.  He'd passed himself off as an old
friend of Ted's, and neither parent had questioned him or balked at his
dogged curiosity.  They seemed more than willing to unburden
themselves.

As Macklin's father told it, Teddy had been the youngest of their five
children and the one who'd failed to fit the family mold.

The others had been exuberant, outgoing, and athletic.  Ted was the
eccentric, a demanding, troublesome boy.

Tearfully, Mrs. Macklin admitted that the child had been unplanned and
unwanted.  All of her earlier pregnancies had been difficult, straining
her health.  When, in her early forties, she became pregnant for the
fifth time, her doctor had been dismayed but unwilling to perform a
therapeutic abortion.  Same result when they sought a second opinion.

At that time, the procedure was only legal if the pregnancy posed a
serious threat to the mother's life.  Neither doctor was willing to go
out on the necessary professional limb.

The Macklins had decided to seek the procedure on their own.

Someone had recommended a clinic in Puerto Rico.  But the attempt had
been botched, and the pregnancy continued to term.  There were no
obvious ill effects on the child, but Macklin's parents blamed
themselves thereafter for their son's every quirk and problem.

Yes, they'd recognized that the boy was withdrawn and temperamental.

Yes, in retrospect, they wished they'd sought professional help when it
was suggested by his school.  But at the time, guilt had kept them from
acknowledging their son's problems.  Later, when it was clear that his
emotional growth had been skewed and stunted, he was well beyond their
influence.  For the last several years, they'd had virtually no contact
with Teddy.

Bannister had Macklin's parents in his pocket until he mentioned Martha
Rafferty.  The name triggered an automatic locking mechanism.  Cold
eyes, steely expressions.  Fine with Bannister.

Their silence spoke volumes.  Even the guy's parents believed him
guilty.

But he and Price were obligated to shore their suspicions with hard
evidence.  And dead or alive, the simplest, most effective proof of
Macklin's involvement in Martha Rafferty's murder would still be the
man's own confession.  Bannister's gut told him that the shrink who'd
treated Macklin's acute case of whatever was their best remaining
hope.

His patience had run out.  Checking the time, he bellowed up the
stairs.  "You almost ready, Lenny?"

"Almost.  You think the place we're staying provides a blow dryer,
Sam?"

"A who?"

"Guess I'll take mine in case.  Did you bring a travel iron?"

"Come on.  Enough already."

"Take it easy.  I'll be down in a few minutes."

Bannister turned to the beginning and started flipping through the
Macklin file again.  His anger grew with the pile of pages.

Rape, murder, a pack of young lives snuffed by an arrogant bastard who
was able to wash off the blood again and again and walk away clean.

It was all the goddamned system.  There were too many legalities and
technicalities to trip over.  Too many loopholes and exceptions to slip
through.  Damned system could be stretched and strained and distorted
to cover any size heap of manure, even a pile as big as Theodore
Macklin.

That's what had driven Bannister off the force five years ago.

One Macklin case too many had coaxed him to shed
the procedure-book straitjacket and try playing by a far more flexible
set of rules.  Five years, and he was still testing and resetting the
boundaries.

Nice thing about solitaire was how you could change the game to suit
you as you went along.

CHAPTER 13.

The drive to New York took three hours and change.  Felt like that much
again before they were able to find a parking spot, and that one was
tight as a tourniquet.  Alternate side restrictions, the sign said.  So
tomorrow at half before the street sweeper, Bannister would have to get
back in the saddle again.

Restless from the ride, he set off down the block as if his tail had
caught fire.  Price, burdened by his baggage and a lifetime of devout
laziness, strained to keep up.  Guy was huffing like a locomotive.

Spewing garlic clouds from the salami sandwich Ruthie had packed for
him to eat en route.

"Wait up, Sam.  These bags are heavy."

"Must be the blow dryer."

Checking the address against the information he'd scrawled on the back
of a past-due notice, Bannister turned into a dilapidated building near
Second Avenue.

"What kind of hotel is this, Sam?  Looks a little rundown."

"It's not a hotel.  This guy I know rents apartments by the week.

Much more comfortable.  You'll see.  More like home."

Price made a face.  "Not my home."

"Trust me.  Have I ever steered you wrong?"

"Actually, yeah.  You steered me way wrong with the Schildhauer
thing."

"You were the one who took the detours, Lenny."

"Maybe so, but you were the one who put us on the road."

"Besides Schildhauer then."

Price went silent a minute, thinking.  "How about two Decembers ago,
when you called me in to help you with those blond twins who were
accused of servicing that old guy for his inheritance?

What were their names again?  Yummy and Tasty Divine?  Something real
subtle like that."

"That was charity."

"Oh, really?  Then how come it wasn't deductible?"

"Some things you do for the good feeling, Lenny."

"Yeah, you and that old guy."

The lobby had all the charm of a holding cell.  Everything was chained
in place and scented with a fetching blend of cheap wine and weak
bladders.  Muttering, Price trailed Bannister up the slim staircase.

Their apartment was on two.  Bannister relocated the snoring vagrant at
the threshold, worked the locks, and stepped inside.

"Hole, sweet hole.  Hey, look, Lenny.  It's not bad at all.

Honest."

The place was doll-sized but clean and tidy.  Every pillow was plumped,
the chair arms snugged in crocheted condoms.  Amazing how spiffy
everything looked, given the probable vintage.  The tiny Motorola in
the casketlike case was about Price's age.  The bookshelves were
crammed with Reader's Digest Condensed Books circa the Year of the
Flood.

Opening the narrow doors along the far wall, Bannister discovered a
bathless bathroom and a chaste bedroom with a single bed shrouded in
pink chenille.  The final two doors revealed a broom closet crammed
with Fuller Brushes and a cramped kitchen with ancient appliances.

Peering inside the refrigerator, Bannister found a wall of ice streaked
with green mold.  The stove was home to a frolicking clan of
cockroaches.  He slammed the oven door and smiled.  So much for budget
home cooking.

"Seeing it's on Mrs.  Rafferty, we might as well eat out.

Right, Lenny?"

 "Whatever you say."

"Flip you for the couch?"

Price clutched his lumbar region.  "My back.  You know."

Bannister nodded.  Price had spasms.  When one kicked in, the poor guy
got all twisted with that sad puppy look on his hangdog face.

Spent his days not complaining, which was enough to drive Bannister
nuts.  He had no patience for martyrs, not even that old-time French
chick who got herself barbecued and became a saint.  So no couch for
Lenny.

Bannister flopped on the sofa.  The cushions collapsed in a flatulent
rush.  Nothing under the fluff but springs and imagination.  He forced
another smile.  Much more of this, and his lips were going to get
charley horse.  "Real comfy."  You get what you goddamned pay for, he
thought ruefully.  Or less.

"Let's get to it, Price.  Sooner we start, the sooner I get you back
home to that sexy wife of yours."

"I'm for that."

Bannister led him out of the dump and down a block bristling with local
color: methadone clinic, rat-infested warehouse, film studio that was
definitely not connected to one of the majors.  As they passed,
Bannister peered through a crack in the door and caught a glimpse of a
huge-breasted woman clad in nothing but a garter belt and matching
mascara.

They walked past the Camaro.  Someone had stuffed an ad for detailing
under the wiper blade.  Bannister took it out and read it.  Two hundred
a pop to get your car cleaned by some anal retentive armed with Q-Tips
and toothbrushes.  Who were they kidding?  Whole goddamned car wasn't
worth two hundred bucks.

The hospital was only a few blocks away.  After hours or not, Bannister
was anxious to start tracking down the shrink who'd treated Macklin.

He was sure they were in the home stretch to the final answers.

Price stayed skeptical.  "I don't know, Sammy.  If Macklin was able to
keep whatever he knew to himself all those years, why would he suddenly
risk telling it to a psychiatrist?"

"Because, a thing like that can get heavier as you go along, that's
why.  Anyhow, with doctor-patient privilege, what was the big risk?"

"Even if you're right.  That same privilege may make the doc unwilling
to talk to us."

"We'll blow up that bridge when we come to it, Lenny.

They turned the corner, passed the hospital's emergency entrance, and
filtered through a vestibule clogged with vending machines and
visitors.  Bannister eyed the place with something considerably less
than affection.  To him, the only decent part of any hospital was the
way out.

An evening skeleton staff manned the main floor service stations.

Two women with extremely high mileage guarded the patient files at
reception.  A young faux cop armed with a walkie-talkie staffed
security.  Admitting was deserted.  Ditto billing.  A single snail in
an apron worked the coffee shop counter.  The gift shop was still
open.

Bannister headed to it and found a cheap box of chocolates on the sale
shelf.  Looked a little rumpled, but then so did he.

He led Price to reception and requested a pair of visitor s passes for
Mr.  Brown.

"You want Nicholas Brown or Christopher?"

Bannister chose Christopher and headed for the stairs.  They emerged on
two and followed the trail of beigewalled corridors to the nurses'
desk.

The psych unit was nothing like the movies.  No raving lunatics or
shuffling zombies.  The open doors revealed reasonably normal-looking
people watching the tube or chatting with visitors.  All right, one or
two were chatting with themselves, but from the little Bannister was
able to pick up, the conversations sounded pretty rational.

He paused at the main office entrance.  "Let me lead, Lenny.

Deal?"

"Long as you stay off my feet, Sam."

Bannister spotted a promising pigeon at the nurses' station and got
himself in the mood.  He strode over and flashed his most beguiling
smile.

"I can see why Uncle Ted still talks about this place.  So many nice,
attractive people," he boomed.

An inflated nurse with a blond bouffant hairdo answered his smile with
a hefty one of her own.  Woman was so well stuffed, her skin
glistened.

Bannister noticed she had great teeth.  Pity she used them quite so
often.

"Uncle Ted?"

"Ted Macklin.  He was here a few months ago.  Can't stop raving about
the place."  Raving.  Bad choice of word, but she didn't seem to pick
up on it.

"Macklin?  Sorry.  We get so many people through here.  Most of them
short term."

He deflected her remorse and whipped out the candy.  "Doesn't matter.

Uncle Ted asked me to drop this off as a token of his appreciation.

Thought the staff might enjoy it.  You can't imagine what you people
did for him."

She cast a longing look at the box.  "How nice.  I'll put it out in the
staff lounge."

"And he wanted me to say a special hello to his doctor.  Oh, darn.

What was that doctor's name again, Lenny?"

Bannister turned to Price, who shrugged on cue.  "You know me and
names, Sam...."

"Uncle Ted will never forgive me," Bannister said.  "You think you
could look it up?  I hate to bother you, but I promised."

"Oh, it's no bother."  She bustled to the bank of files behind her and
spent a few minutes poking through the Ms.  "Here it is.

Mr.  Macklin was admitted by Dr.  Lyons.  I should have guessed.

Don't know what she does exactly, but it certainly seems to work.

Lots of grateful ex-patients."

"You should hear Uncle Ted," Bannister said.

"Hope that helps," the receptionist said.  She pulled out a calendar
marked with staff schedules.  "Dr. Lyons isn't on tonight, but she
usually drops by to see her in-patients.

Want to leave a note?"

"Actually, I'd rather give her a call.  You have her number?"

"Sorry.  I'm not permitted to give that out."

"Of course.  I understand.  Is that Lyons with a Y?"

"Exactly."

"Thanks.  Where's the public phone?  I'll try through her service."

The nurse directed them to a bank of phones near the elevators.

Price dialed a realtor friend and got the doctor's address and home
number from a reverse directory.  What he couldn't get was Dr. Lyons's
cooperation.  The woman had sole control of her private patient
files.

This was one of the rare situations beyond the reach of his
international network of contacts.  As soon as Price explained that he
needed to talk to her about a former patient, the lady shrink cut him
off at the knees.

"I don't talk about my patients, former or otherwise."

"But you don't understand.  This one is--"

"Doesn't matter.  Patient
information is privileged.  Now, if you'll excuse me."

Price hung up.  "Sorry, Sam.  No dice.  She sounded pretty miffed, too,
like she resented my even asking."

Bannister scowled.  "Follow me."  He led Price back to the nurses'
station.  His portly pal with the terrific teeth was still around.

"You reach the doctor?"  the nurse said.

"No problem.  You think I could trouble you for one more favor?"

Sure.

"Great.  I'd like to make an appointment with Dr. Lyons.  She said
someone here could get hold of her schedule."

"No problem.  You want an appointment for yourself?"

"Yeah.  Guess these things run in families."

As she left to get the doctor's book, the nurse tossed him a peculiar
look.  Bannister hoped Macklin hadn't checked himself in for child
molestation or lusting after sheep.

When she returned, he tried to smooth it over.  "It's just for a
consultation, to see if the doc thinks I need treatment.

There wouldn't be any charge for that, would there?"

"For an introductory visit, no.  I'd think not."

"Great.  What's she got Monday?"  Dr.  Lyons had an early opening.

Bannister took it and left.  He had two days to find out all he could
to get himself into the right wrong frame of mind.

CHAPTER 14.

She pulled her Honda into the drive.  With her car still spewing plumes
of exhaust, she leaned into the rearview mirror for a touch-up.

Camouflaged by the drapes, Jason watched her plump her lacquered hair
and slather on another coat of scarlet lipstick.

Angling even closer to her reflection, she blotted her mouth on a
tissue.

Jason had disliked her from the instant they were introduced after the
first meeting of the phobia group.  He'd hoped to stay with the aide
who used to come to the house, but Dr. Lyons had paired him up with
that creature.  Woman reminded him of a beach ball.  Round, flashy,
nothing substantial inside.  She had claw nails and raisin eyes rimmed
in raccoon liner.  Favored clothes in colors that hurt his eyes: scream
pinks and purples.  Her voice was like Yankee Stadium on a full
count.

And she smelled like chewing gum.

Her name was Binnie, for godsakes.  What kind of a name was Binnie?

What the hell were they trying to do to him?  At least his other aide
had been decent.  In fact, Jason had hit it off pretty well with the
guy.  They'd even gotten sort of friendly.  Same with the young doctor
who'd come for the medical checkups the hospital required.  Even the
lady psychiatrist had been okay.  Not too pushy, and definitely easy on
the eyes.

But this one gave a whole new meaning to the word hopeless.

Jeer, no, now she was getting out.  Coming up the walk toward the
house.  Dumb woman walked like one of Jes
she's old pull toys.  Wibble-wobble.  She carried a bulging purse
stamped with status initials.  One of those designer fakes sold on
street corners, he'd bet.

Jason backed away from the window and bolted up the stairs.

Passing Jessie's room, he spotted his sister sitting cross-legged on
her rug, back to him, playing with her Barbie beach set.

"Jess," he whispered.  "You have to do me a favor."

Kid was lost in space, playing all the parts of one of her dippy
fantasies.  Normally, she was all over him, following him around,
watching everything he did.  He was forever catching her spying with
those saucer eyes of hers.  But now, when he needed her, she was off on
Planet Nowhere.

The screen door creaked open, and the doorbell rang.

"Jessie, damn it!  I'm talking to you," he rasped.

The kid didn't flinch.  She acted as if he were mute and invisible.

Jason stormed into the room and grabbed her hard by the arm.  She
yelped, startled, and tried to shake free.

"Jay-son," she whined.  "You scared me."

"Get down there and answer that damned door.  Say I'm sick."

The bell sounded again.  Lucky thing his mother had gone shopping.

"Go on, now.  Hurry up!" She wrestled out of his grip and set her
jaw.

"You have to see that lady, Jay.  Mommy said."

"I don't give a flying fish what Mommy said, Miss Prissy big mouth.

Now get the hell down there and do what I told you."

Standing, she smoothed her T-shirt and stuck her hands on her hips.

"You're being silly."

"You're asking for it, you little jerk.  Move or you're gonna get it.

There was a firm knocking at the door followed by Binnie's strident:
"Jason?  Anybody home?"

"Get down there and get rid of her, Jessie.  I mean it."

"I'm not scared of you, Jason.  And I'm telling."

A molten rage filled him.  Suddenly, he realized he could kill her.  He
could just coil his fingers around that little pink neck of hers and
squeeze until the bones were crushed to powder.  He could rip her
damned little arms off.  Break her in two.  Fury pounded in his
temples.  Grew so big he couldn't see around it.

"Jason?"

That broke through.  Deflated his bloated bubble of rage as if someone
had stuck it with a pin.  It was his mother.  What was she doing back
already?  Should have taken her hours at the mall.

"Get out of my room, you big stinker.  I'm not talking to you ever
again!"

Jessie's voice was brimming with tears.  Her bottom lip curled and
trembled.  God almighty, had he really lost it and hurt the kid?

Had it gone that far?  Terrified, he looked her over.  No marks on her
neck.  No welts or anything serious he could see.  There was a band of
color on her arm where he'd held on to her, but it was already dulled
to an innocent pink.

Then, he spotted the parts gathered in her skirt.  All he'd done was
wreck her damned doll.  Barbie had lost her head.  And an arm.

"Hey, I didn't mean it, Jess.  The thing just broke.  It's put together
like junk is all.  See, there's nothing but these little wires and a
couple of elastic bands.  I'll get you a new one, okay?"

"Go away.  I don't want you in here!"

"Damn it, Jessie, I said I was
sorry.  How about I get you that astronaut Barbie?  You said you wanted
that one, remember?"

"I hate you, Jason.  I'm never talking to you ever again!"

His mother was on the steps now.  Silently, she absorbed the scene.

Jessie flushed and teary.  The doll dismembered.  And him.

Lord knew what he looked like.  Probably some wild creature from Star
Wars.  But Mom chose to stay out of it.

"Jason?  Binnie's here to see you.  Didn't you hear her at the door?

Come on down now."

"Mommy, I need to talk to you.  Real bad," Jess whimpered.

"A few minutes, Jessie.  Let me just get things settled with Binnie and
your brother."

"Okay.  But come up soon.  Please.  It's really, really important."

Trapped, Jason trudged down the stairs.  He kept his eyes downcast.

Binnie was waiting in the foyer.  He took in her shoes, pointy-toed
things with pale puffs of fat rising in the middle like raw dough.

"Ready, Jason?  I looked over the list of goals you and I wrote up
after the meeting, and I thought we'd spend this first practice session
taking a little walk around the neighborhood.

He'd been up all night, imagining this, expecting the horror to
overwhelm him so badly he'd get sick.  Maybe puke on the carpet.

Maybe he'd even have a heart attack and drop dead.  At least, that
would be the end of it.

His old aide had never pushed him like this.  They'd sat around and
chewed the fat.  Talked about Jason's experiments.  Looked over the
data.  Guy had acted really impressed.  Asked a million questions.  So
had that young doctor.

But this stupid bitch was bearing down on him like a steamroller.

Jason wanted to tell her to get the hell away.  He wanted to warn her
off, to make her see the danger.  But all he felt was a weird numbness
as if his insides had been packed in ice.

"Beautiful day for a walk," his mom said.  "Heat finally let up a
little."

"Come on, Jason," Binnie said.  "The hardest part is thinking about it,
believe me."

Why the hell should he believe her?  Binnie had given him a major line
of crap.  Claimed she'd been exactly like him only two years ago.

Afraid to go out.  Incapable of entering a store or a restaurant or
church.  Scared of tall buildings.  Convinced a chunk of glass or
concrete was going to break loose and fall on her.  If it did, it'd
probably bounce off, he thought.  Woman looked like Miss Piggy.  Even
had the snout.

"All I'm asking is that you give it a try, Jason," Binnie said.

"We can turn back whenever you say."

"Should I check first?"  his mother asked.

Binnie waved her off.  "Why don't we try without that?  Okay, Jason?

I'll be right with you every step of the way."

He felt his mother watching.  Jason imagined her eyes filled with
disgust and disappointment.  Usually, his desire to win her approval
was no match for the fear.  But this time, there was nothing inside
him.  He was a blank.

He shrugged.  "Okay.  Let's go."

"Great."

Binnie breezed outside and Jason followed, letting the screen slam
behind him.  For a second, he was startled by the sun's glare, but the
shock soon yielded to a rush of relief.  Felt like plunging into a cold
pool on a scorching day.  How long since he'd done anything like
that?

How long since he'd done anything, period?

With Binnie waddling beside him, chattering like a fussy duck, he came
to the end of the walk and stepped out on the pavement.

Funny how he didn't feel anything.  Maybe his damned demons had decided
to take the morning off.

At this time of day, there were no cars.  All the working people were
long gone, the stay-at-home mothers already out for errands.

Mail and deliveries wouldn't start for at least another hour, and all
but the littlest kids were off to camps or jobs or summer school.  So
he was left with no distractions but Binnie's runaway tongue.

"Such a pretty street," she prattled.  "Like the country with all the
trees and everything.  My place is in Lefrak City.  Ever been there?

Must be fifty billion people.  Maybe more.  They've got schools,
churches, stores.  You name it.  Everything but room to move."

On and on.  Like a bee buzzing in his ear.  So irritating, Jason wanted
to slap it out.  Or her.  He passed the last house on the block and
kept going, quickening his pace.  Anything to keep as far away as
possible from that mouth.

The next street was deserted, too, but he paused at the corner to make
sure.  So much air out here.  Felt as if he were swimming in a giant
ocean of air, rushing and cool.  Made him almost dizzy to breathe it,
scented as it was with clipped grass, flowers, and motor fumes.  Wasn't
a bad kind of dizzy either.  The backs of his hands tingled.  He wafted
them through the breeze and felt a charge of satisfaction.

He was actually doing this.  Taking a walk.  Regular walk in the
neighborhood like a normal person.  He was on the verge of a smile when
the bitch started in again.

"Well, here we are at a crossroads, aren't we?  Hardest thing for me is
these small decisions.  I've got no problem at all with giant
issues--war-and-peace stuff.  But offer me the choice of chicken salad
or tuna, and I'm lost.  What's down that way?"

Motor Mouth was asking about the street to the left: Hillandale.

The right fork was Magruder, the way to school and shopping and the few
other places Jason had dared to go in the past five years.

"Nothing special.  A regular block," he said.

"Looks shadier.  You care?"

He did vaguely.  But not enough to admit.  Suddenly, it seemed
ridiculous to prefer one direction over another.  He turned on to
Hillandale.  If he couldn't take it, they could head back any time.  He
wasn't a prisoner.  That large-mouth ass couldn't make him do a damned
thing against his will.

"How's it going, Jason?  Feeling all right?"

"Yeah.  No problem."  The truth surprised him, even as he spoke it.

"No anxiety at all?  It's okay to feel it, you know.  The practice
sessions are meant to bring some out.  That's the only way you can
learn to deal with it.  We have exercises, tools.  Lots of things to
help you."

"Well, I'm feeling okay.  Sorry."

She laughed.  A tinny giggle that reminded him of cheap glass beads.

The walk wasn't getting him, but she sure was.  He imagined holding her
head under water until the bubbles stopped, and his smile came back.

"That's great, really.  I didn't mean to make you think you were doing
anything wrong.  Everyone reacts a different way.

Whatever you feel is fine.  It'll be up some days and down others.

That's the usual thing."

"Yeah.  Right."  The words kept pouring out of her, such a hemorrhage
of words you'd think the stupid woman would bleed herself dry and
empty.

He quickened his pace.  It felt good to stretch his legs out full.

There wasn't much space in the house.  The rooms were small and cramped
with furniture.  Most ended in a couple of strides.

Hillandale continued for a half-dozen houses.  At the intersection of
Somerset, he turned left again.  That way, he could finish the loop in
two more blocks and head home.  He'd never imagined going so far this
first time.

Not too shabby, Jason, my man.  Not bad at all.

As he rounded the corner, the neighborhood changed abruptly.

Unnerved, Jason slowed for a second.  Forcing himself to keep going, he
passed a rubble-strewn vacant lot and a body shop.

Next came a seedy old Victorian that had been converted to
apartments.

After that was a tiny box of a house surrounded by chicken-wire
fencing.  He felt Binnie stall beside him, and then he heard it.

A low, throaty growl.  Another.  Then barks, sharp as gunshots.

They pierced him.  Left him bleeding rivers of fear.

Three enormous beasts lunged at the fence.  Jason stood rooted as they
leaped and flattened themselves against the wire, trying to get at
him.

Their eyes were ice black.

A scream rose in his throat.  Stuck there deep and hard like a knife
blade.  Then the world shivered and went dim.  Suddenly, everything was
so far away he could barely touch or hear it.

But he knew.  They were out there.  They would get him.  Their snarls
tore his flesh, crushed his bones.

"It's okay, Jason.  They're all locked up.  See?  Can't come anywhere
near you.  Boy, they look fierce, don't they?

Rottweilers, right?  Anyone would be glad they're penned, not just
you.

That's why they are penned, in fact.  Let's go, now.  Come on.

That's enough for today."

He was walled by blackness.  Frozen.  But the next thing he knew, they
were back at his house.  Binnie held the screen open for him and gave
him a little nudge inside.  His mother was waiting in the living
room.

"He did beautifully," Binnie gushed.  "We went all around the long
way.

We even passed a yard with three big dogs, and he was all right.  You
had a little anxiety there, didn't you, Jason?  But you managed.  He
was amazing, really."

Thinking of those snarling monsters, a hot rash scaled his spine and
set fire to his face.  She'd forced him out there with them.

Dumb bitch had almost gotten him ripped to bloody shreds.

Binnie kept at it.  "You okay now?  Sometimes you feel so good, you
take on too much too fast.  We're going to do this step by step, young
man.  We're going to desensitize you and teach you ways to deal with
the anxiety when it hits you.  I've got a whole bunch of things in my
little bag of tricks to help you out.  There, you look better
already.

Feeling all right?"

He shook his head in dull compliance.  No need to argue with her or
anyone.  He knew what he had to do.

Whatever it took, he was going to get through this.

CHAPTER 15.

Bannister hung up, troubled.  He'd had a long, hard talk with his
daughter last night and another this morning, but she'd refused to
reveal the source of her obvious unhappiness.  Chloe wouldn't even
admit she had a problem.  But there was an unmistakable dull edge to
her tone.  Kid sounded like a box so jammed with troubles there was
barely room for air.

He'd tested every imaginable angle: friends, school, boys.

He'd even considered that the kid's funk might have his name on it.

"Is it because I had to postpone our visit this month, sweetheart?"

he'd asked.  "Because you know I wouldn't have if it wasn't absolutely
necessary."

"It's not that."

"What then?"

"Nothing.  I told you."

"Well, whatever it is, I'm here for you.  Anything, any time.

You know that."

"Sure, Daddy.  Mind if I go now?  I wanted to watch something."

Price tried to comfort him.  "It's hormones, Sammy.  Kids get hormones,
there's no living with them for eight, nine years.

Ruthie and I went through it with all three of ours, You're taking it
much harder than she is.  Believe me.

Bannister tried.  But he couldn't shake the sense that this was
something larger than normal adolescent turmoil.  He knew his
daughter.

At least, he'd thought he did.

"I'm running late, Lenny.  You'll call at exactly ten after?"

"I said I will, and I will.  But I have to tell you the whole thing
sounds pretty ridiculous to me.  Not to mention a felony.

"Right.  Don't mention it."

Price insisted on staying at the hovel to do some digging on the
phone.

He wanted to reconstruct what he could of Theodore Macklin's last few
days.  See what, if any, eleventh-hour contacts the creep had made.

The idea held no appeal for Bannister.  Price's thoroughness had a way
of complicating matters, contaminating a nice, straightforward case
with lots of messy alternatives.  All they needed to do was establish
Macklin's guilt in the Rafferty murder.  Why risk getting sidetracked
by some silly quest for the whole, unvarnished truth?

Bannister headed out alone.  Opening the apartment door, he found their
wino curled up sleeping on the welcome mat.  Hurdling him, Bannister
hurried down and through the lobby where four more people slept in
various states of undress and unconsciousness.

The sight made him think of the toppling tower of unpaid bills on his
nightstand, the maxed-out credit cards and eviscerated bank account.

His fiscal house of cards had been verging on collapse for more months
than he cared to consider.  This Rafferty case could either plump the
deck or strip him of the last of his dwindling store of trump cards.

Banishing the uneasy thought from his mind, he left the building.

The call to Chloe had left him with only ten minutes to make his
scheduled appointment at East End Hospital.

He worked the Camaro out of the spandex-tight space and eased down the
block seeking a spot on the legal side of the street.

Near the corner of Third Avenue, he spied a red sports number angling
into traffic.  With any luck, that precious scrap of real estate would
be his.  There were no cars ahead of him.  But just as he was about to
ease into the vacant slot, a black Porsche backed out of nowhere and
blocked his way.

A patient, reasonable Bannister got out and ambled toward the
interloper.  Guy at the wheel sported a roadkill toupee and a
supercilious smirk.

"Excuse me, sir," Bannister said.  "I guess you didn't see me.

I was waiting for that spot."

"Fuck off."

Finishing school dropout, no doubt.

Bannister kept calm.  "Believe me, I wouldn't argue over a parking
space, but I'm in a hurry.  So if you'd be so kind as to move."

"Kiss my ass."

"Certainly.  Whatever you say, sir."  He sauntered back to the
Camaro.

Turning, he raised his hands to frame the Porsche.

Made a lovely picture in his mind.  He imagined the bashed bumper, the
busted taillights raining shards of million-dollar glass, the driver's
apoplexy.  Bannister's jalopy wasn't good for much, but he couldn't
fathom a better battering ram.

Bannister backed up a fair distance and started gunning the engine,
which sounded on its best days like a badtempered bull elephant.  He
gave Mr. Porsche plenty of time to decide between his macho crap and
his dickmobile.

The car won.

Bannister claimed the spot triumphantly and headed for the hospital.

He told himself he was prepared for this.  At least, he'd done his
homework.

Over the weekend, he and Price had spent hours doing research in the
midtown library.  First, they'd consulted the physicians' blue book,
which listed Dr. Margaret Lyons as a board-certified psychiatrist
specializing in anxiety disorders and phobia treatment.  Woman was
around thirty-five, thirty-six, judging from the year of her
graduation.  Had diplomas from Brown and Cornell Medical School.  Did
her residency at Johns Hopkins and worked there until coming to East
End.

Bannister did some reading about her area of specialization.

Therapists were split on the correct approach to patients with
phobias.

Traditional Freudians held that free-floating terrors were caused by an
underlying trauma or conflict.  The classic case was a child patient of
Freud's named Little Hans whose abject terror of horses supposedly
reflected an unresolved oedipal complex.

Shrinks who took Freud's view prescribed individual analysis, to cure
the problem by digging for the roots.  Without analysis, they believed
patients would simply substitute a new symptom for the conquered
phobia.  And the new one might be worse.

Then, twenty or so years ago, a number of doctors in the field broke
with Freud and decided it was more practical and productive to simply
treat the phobic behavior directly.  Pluck it like a weed and forget
about the roots.  They claimed symptom substitution was not a
problem.

Phobia treatment centers sprang up across the country.  Some programs
used tranquilizers in combination with therapy.  Some relied on
acupuncture or relaxation techniques.  Others worked to help the
patient redefine his perceptions so feared situations could be seen in
a new and less threatening light.  A few held that phobias were sensory
disturbances curable by medical means.

More common were programs like the one at East End where patients were
deliberately exposed to their anxiety triggers under controlled
conditions and taught ways to overcome them.

There was a giant list of specific phobias.  You name it, Bannister
discovered, someone was terrified by it: birds, lightening, public
speaking, dentists, swimming, balloons, in-laws, the sight of blood.

Most severe phobics had a cluster of fears that ganged up to limit the
scope of their lives, sometimes even keeping them housebound.

Many experienced panic attacks, episodes of intense physical
reaction.

Bannister memorized the symptoms: rapid heartbeat, sweating, shallow or
labored breathing, tingling in the palms, dizziness or nausea, a sense
of unreality.

Though the spells were brief and benign, panic victims believed they
were seriously ill, even dying.  They developed intense fears of losing
control and making fools of themselves.  In one of those ironic
self-sustaining circles, the fear of the fear developed a life and
power of its own.

Weird to think of Ted Macklin as phobic.  Hard to imagine that big
gorilla cowering in the shadow of some imaginary menace.

From what Bannister remembered, the guy was all bulk and bluster.

Jutjawed, dare-me type.  Then, it could be he'd consulted Dr. Lyons on
something outside her specialty, say suicidal depression.  Or it could
be he'd developed some kind of irrational fear as a smoke screen for
the guilt he harbored about the rape and murder of Martha Rafferty.

Bannister paused at the hospital entrance and fortified himself with a
breath.  Ready as he'd ever be, he strode to reception and requested a
pass to the phobia clinic.  He lowered his voice, suddenly
self-conscious about his fresh, unwelcome status as a psychiatric
patient.

He went to the main office and gave the receptionist his name.

She directed Bannister to Dr. Lyons's office down the hall and called
ahead to announce his arrival.

His uneasy feeling intensified as he passed several other offices where
shrinks and their clients were locked in earnest exchange.

He could see the pairs through the bubbled glass inserts in the
doors.

Each duo resembled a plant tipped toward the sunlight.

He imagined the air thick with old hurts and musty questions.

Therapy was definitely not for him.  Sure, he was as crazy as the next
guy, but he saw no reason to brag about it to a professional,
especially when it cost over a dollar a minute for the dubious
privilege.

His knock brought a trim, green-eyed blonde with boycut hair to the
door.  Tiny diamonds winked from her ears and a miniature gold lion
dangled from a chain around her neck.

"Hello, I'm Maggie Lyons.  Mr.  Bannister?"

He pleaded guilty.  Bannister was surprised and more than a little
unsettled by the doctor's appearance.  He'd expected someone stern and
bookish, preferably with orthopedic shoes and a bun.  Dr. Lyons had
fire in her eyes and a nice edge about her.  If he hadn't sworn off
women forever, this one would be a definite maybe.

She motioned him toward the couch, and he sat pitched forward like an
expectant pinball.  No way he was going to lie down.

She pulled up a chair and sat opposite him.

"So what brings you here, Mr.  Bannister?"

Standard opening gambit.  Bannister had picked up the usual session
format from a book by Lucy Freeman, an author who wrote extensively on
the psychoanalytic process.  So he had his answer ready.

"It's really embarrassing, Doctor.  I'm having this problem with
heights.  Came on me suddenly a couple of months ago.  And I work in
construction.  Commercial stuff.  Hard to be a job foreman when you
can't bring yourself to go out on the rigging."

She was eyeing him strangely.  "What happens to you when you try?"

"Rapid heartbeat, dizziness, sweaty palms.  I feel as if I'm having a
heart attack.  And there's this sense of unreality."

Her curious look was curling at the edges.  "And how long does this
feeling last?"

"Oh, probably just a minute or two.  But it seems much longer.

And I have this sense everyone's watching me, as if I'm making a
terrible fool of myself."

She bit back a smile.  Here he was baring his invented agonies to the
woman and she had the nerve to find them amusing.  Real professional.

"And are you, Mr.  Bannister?"

"Am I what?"

"Making a terrible fool of yourself?"

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"You tell me.  I was hoping to change the time of our appointment.

I tried calling the number you left and found there was no such
number.

You aren't listed or unlisted with Manhattan Information.

The address you gave turns out to be an armory.  And the construction
company you claim to work for doesn't happen to exist.  My diagnosis is
that you came here to pull some phony scam with my unwitting
assistance.  What's the game, Mr. Bannister, if that's your real
name?

Disability claim?  Unemployment benefits?

Insurance fraud?  What?"

Bannister was dumbstruck.  When he found his voice again, it had shrunk
several sizes.  "I'm a private investigator.  I came because I need
some information on one of your patients.

"Then why didn't you simply ask?"

"My partner tried that.  You refused to talk to him."

"Then that should have been the end of it."

Maggie's beeper sounded.  Training a wary eye on him, Dr. Lyons picked
up the phone to answer the page.

"Who?  Well, that makes absolutely no sense.  Could you call down and
get back to me?  Right.  Thanks."  Her frown deepened.  "You wouldn't
be behind that bit of nonsense, too, would you?"

Bannister felt like a chastened child.  "Not unless it was someone
paging you to Emergency."

She puffed her lips.  "Did you really think I was going to stroll out
of my office and leave you behind to steal my patient records?"

"Not steal, borrow.  Look, I'm sorry.  I guess I was desperate.

"Good-bye, Mr.  Bannister."

Bannister knew a futile situation when he saw one.  But he'd never been
one to let that stop him.

"Please, Dr. Lyons.  This guy shouldn't be allowed to get away with
what he did."

"I said, good-bye."

"We're talking human garbage.  Lowest of the low.  Macklin's not worth
any goddamned privilege, and he's not worth protecting."

Her steely gaze faltered.  "Macklin again?"

"What?"

"I had a visit from a Rhode Island detective over the weekend.  He
wanted information about Theodore Macklin also."

"How come?"

The doctor moved to speak but appeared to reconsider.  "Why don't you
tell me what your interest is first?"

He did, sketching the decades-old murder of Martha Rafferty and
Macklin's probable but as yet unproven guilt in the case.

Bannister left out the part about Mrs. Rafferty's posted
fifty-thousand-dollar reward.  The doctor's opinion of him was more
than low enough already.

"Why was the Rhode Island cop asking about Macklin?"

Dr. Lyons hesitated.  After a beat, she recounted what Detective Fazio
had told her about the possibility of shady dealings by Macklin's
investment firm and the state's interest in having the man's death
certified as a suicide.

"So what did you tell him?"

"That's privileged."

"Why?  Was this detective your patient, too?"

She bristled.  "All right, Mr. Bannister.  I told him I won't bend my
professional ethics or opinions to suit anyone.  That includes the
state of Rhode Island.  And it most certainly includes you."

Bannister frowned.  "Are you saying you don't think Macklin went off
that bridge on his own?"

"I'm saying I want you to leave."

"What makes you think it wasn't a suicide?"

"Good-bye, Mr.  Bannister."

"But wait.  I have to know."

"Will you go on your own, or do I have to call security?"

"Please, Dr. Lyons.  Just tell me that much."  He spotted a trace of
softening in her eyes.  Nice eyes, soft or no.

"All right.  Theodore Macklin simply did not strike me as suicidal.

And even if he were, given his intense bridge phobia, he would have
chosen a different way out.  Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to
do."

"Please, Doctor.  All I need is to go through Macklin's file.

I can do it under your supervision or anyway you say.  The guy is
dead.

What can it hurt?"

"Good-bye, Mr.  Bannister."

Bannister jotted his local address and phone number on the back of the
detailing ad he'd found under his windshield wiper and tossed it on her
desk.

"Here's where I'm staying in town.  Please think it over.  A young
girl's life was stolen.  Her mother's had to live all these years not
knowing who did it.  You might have the answers she's been looking
for.

She's an old woman, Dr. Lyons.  All she wants is a little peace of
mind."

She crumpled the number and tossed it in the trash.

Woman was very attractive when she was furious.  Not so bad the rest of
the time either.  Bannister found himself in no particular hurry to
adjourn the meeting.

"Look, Doc.  I'm really sorry I wasn't straight with you from the
beginning.  Isn't there some way I can make it up to you?

"Leaving would be a start."

"Come on.  Macklin doesn't deserve to go out with a clean slate.

"Good-bye, Mr.  Bannister."

"Think about it.  That could have been your kid.  It could have been
you."

' Give it up, Detective.  It's not going to work."

Bannister left her with a pleading look and a parting shot to the
conscience.

"You can keep that scum from getting away with murder, Dr.  Lyons.

You can make things right here."

Bannister had spent all his ammunition, but not a single shot had hit
the target.  Dr. Margaret Lyons was a very appealing, extremely
well-constructed brick wall.

Leaving the office, Bannister knew he wasn't about to let that or
anything else stop him.  When the stakes were this high, you didn't
fold over a little thing like a hopeless hand.

CHAPTER 16.

Maggie's schedule was packed.  In the few spare minutes between
patients, she finally managed to reach Richmond Steele, the hospital's
vice president for community affairs.  He listened without comment as
she quickly outlined her idea for East End to host a national symposium
on phobia treatment.

"I'm sure I can get several of the top names in the field to speak,"
she told him.  "We can schedule it for a weekend and draw people from
all over the country.  It'd be good for East End and terrific for the
clinic."

Steele raised the obvious issues.  Maggie assured him that she would
take care of getting all the necessary permits and insurance
coverage.

The clinic would assume full responsibility for all facility rentals,
printing, publicity, and incidental costs.  She was positive they could
attract enough paying attendees to cover expenses and still realize a
sizeable profit for the endangered phobia program.

While Steele made some notes, Maggie mused about the intriguing
possibilities.  If the symposium was the success she anticipated, she
would make it an annual event.  If that didn't generate sufficient
revenue, she could hold regional or local meetings more often.  She
could even develop a training institute for area mental health
professionals.  All she needed was the necessary blessing from Steele,
and Alex Ivy could have his precious twenty-percent increase in the
clinic's bottom line.  Maybe more.

"Sounds like an interesting idea," Steele conceded at last.

"I'll run it by a few people and get back to you."

"Can't you just give me the okay?  I thought you were in charge of all
outreach activities."

He chuckled.  "Outreach, yes, overreach, no.  Let me just discuss it
with President Ivy, and I'm sure I'll be able to give you the green
light.  Protocol.  You understand."

Maggie's hopes plunged.  "Yes.  Unfortunately, I do."

"I'll have an answer for you as soon as possible."

No hurry, she wanted to tell him.  Maggie knew what the answer would
be.  Poison Ivy wasn't about to make anything easy for her.

He would find some reason to refuse her request.  But there had to be
some way around that little creep.  Or through him.

All day, she kept turning the problem over and arguing it with herself
from every conceivable angle.  She had to force herself to pay
attention during treatment sessions.

Her last scheduled patient was Daisy Tyler.  Maggie noticed that the
woman seemed much more relaxed.  Daisy made surer eye contact, and her
hands rested easily on her lap.  A touch of optimism had even invaded
her vocabulary.  A couple of times, she said when I get better.  Not
it: Given enough time, work, and determination, Maggie was certain the
woman could be cured.  But there wouldn't be enough time if Alex Ivy
had his way.

Maggie was in no financial position to open her own practice.

If East End folded, she'd have to find another job.  Start over,
probably in a different city.  Patients like Daisy would be forced to
start again, too, a fresh, painful new beginning many of them would
probably avoid.

There was a knock at Maggie's office door.  This time it was Pam
Richards's turn to suggest dinner.

"I heard about a new Italian place near Bloomingdale's, and it so
happens Bloomie's is having a big sale," she said with a mischievous
hitch of her brow.  "We could do our patriotic bit to pump the
economy."

"Tempting, but I think I'd better take a rain check."

Pam's eyes narrowed.  "You all right?"

"I'll let you know in a day or two."

"Sure you don't want to talk about it"

"I do, Pam.  But right now, I'm
talked out."

"Rain check it is, then."  She hesitated at the door.  "My shoulder's
available any time, you know."

"Thanks.  Consider it reserved."

Maggie was nowhere near ready to surrender, but the battle had left her
energies a few quarts low.  She craved a long, hot bath and a night of
oblivion.  She wanted to kick Alex Ivy and East End and suicides and
irritating detectives as far out of her weary mind as possible.

Fortunately, her mother was visiting Cousin Kathy in Roslyn for dinner
and an overnight stay.

Cousin Kathy was one of Aunt Hannah's three children.  She'd agreed
immediately when Maggie called earlier seeking a little respite care
for her mom.  They had exchanged such favors before.

Once, Maggie had taken her mother and Aunt Hannah to Miami Beach for a
four-day stint, so Kathy could have her second caesarian in relative
peace.

Kathy and her two sisters had always been close to Maggie, virtual
siblings.  But Maggie had always longed for a real sister, someone
bound by blood and experience.  Even at this age, she felt the lack as
a small but real discomfort.  It was like a vacant section in a jewel
box, a visible reminder of a teasing, untenable wish.

Tony, the regular evening doorman, greeted her at the building's
entrance.  He was a gregarious fellow with a ponytail trailing from his
uniform cap and a snake tattoo slithering forth from his cuff.

"Hey, Dr.  Lyons.  You watching the game tonight?"

"Only if it's playing inside my eyelids."

The elevator was taking forever.  Mickey Glover had added to his
mischief repertoire, stalling the cars between floors, pressing the
emergency stop button.  On the interminable ride to nine, Maggie reined
her temper with positive thoughts.  Someday, the little Glover brat
would grow up and move out.  Much sooner, she would be in sweet, warm,
wet solitude.  Even the thought was relaxing.

For a change, her apartment locks worked smoothly.  Inside, she found
several lights blazing.  Surprising, given her mother's overblown
opinion of the powers of electricity.  As Francine saw it, a burning
bulb could suddenly develop a temper and explode.  A plugged-in
appliance could engage in devilish acts of spontaneous mayhem.

Usually, Mom left the place in a blitz-level blackout.

Maybe her mother was easing up a little, Maggie thought with a reckless
shot of optimism.  And maybe the moon was made of pickled herring.

She ran a tub and undressed.  Slipping on a terry robe and plush
slippers, she padded into the living room to check the mail.

The usual stack of bills and circulars.  Nothing that couldn't wait.

Four messages had registered on the phone machine.  There was her
mother's tremulous voice announcing her safe arrival at Cousin Kathy's
house.  Ethan had called for the first time in weeks.

He had two tickets to a grudge match at the Garden and was wondering if
Maggie might want to go.

She could imagine the evening.  First, they'd have dinner at a cafe
specializing in Peruvian shashlik or candied root vegetables.  After
watching two brainless behemoths bash each other to pulp in the ring,
Ethan would suggest something truly romantic to cap the night.

Bungeejumping off the World Trade Center, perhaps.  Or spelunking in
the New York City sewer system.

Next up was F.X. Kennedy.  He was wondering about dinner.

Wincing at his voice, Maggie found herself wondering about the
persistent Mr. Kennedy.  The man refused to be put off by polite
refusals or firm reminders about hospital rules.  A teensy obsession in
progress?  Last thing she needed at the moment was to play a home game
of fatal attraction.

The final message was from that obnoxious detective, Sam Bannister.  He
hoped she was reconsidering his request to see Theodore Macklin's
records, he said.  They might contain crucial information about the
murder case and more.  Would she consider discussing the matter in
person?  Say, over lunch tomorrow?

Maggie shook her head and clicked off the machine.  The man certainly
suffered no shortage of unmitigated gall.

All day, she'd gotten reports that Bannister was snooping around the
hospital, asking questions, trying to get his hands on Theodore
Macklin's records.  He'd attempted everything from blatant flattery to
fibs to outright fraud.

He'd even barged into Pam's office while Maggie was with a patient and
tried to pass himself off as a journalist doing an article on phobia
programs.

Pam had found the whole thing amusing.  "The reporter bit didn't fool
me for a minute, Maggie, but he was very attractive, and sexy, and
obviously very, very interested in you.

"Not in me, Pam.  It's my patient files he's after."

"That's not all, Maggie.  Believe me.  There was definitely more on
that man's agenda than files."

"Well, whatever it is, he can keep it."

Pam sighed.  "If you're determined to throw this one back, toss him in
my direction, will you?"

"With pleasure."

Maggie made a face at the phone machine.  Having failed at every turn,
the detective probably thought he could badger her into acquiescence.

Fat chance.  Maggie had been nagged by masters of her mother's caliber
and managed to hold her ground.

She was not at all pleased that Sam Bannister had gotten her unlisted
phone number.  On the other hand, she was pretty sure she had his
number as well.  The man was good looking and knew it.

Pam's assessment aside, he was probably a card-carrying narcissist with
the sensitivity of a rock.  The urban singles jungle was crawling with
that species of predatory beast.

Before she'd learned suitable vigilance, Maggie had been nipped a time
or two herself.

Erasing the tape, she felt a surge of well-being.  If only all her
problems were that easy to eliminate.

The bath was perfect.  Enveloping warmth, froth of bubbles.

Maggie drifted on a soap-scented cloud.  So soothing, it took a minute
for the sound to penetrate.

Footsteps.

Fear gripped her.  Someone was in the apartment.  Pulse racing, she
tried to rise soundlessly from the tub.  As she lifted her leg, the
water sloshed.  Was it loud enough to give her away?

Holding her breath, she tried to gauge the location of the footfalls.

Living room or kitchen, she thought.

Slipping on her terry robe, she approached the bathroom door.

Cracking it open, she peered into the dim hallway.  She couldn't see
anyone, but there was the distinct clack of leather soles on the
kitchen tile.

With the building's security, she never bothered to use the apartment's
burglar alarm system, another relic of her mother's galloping
paranoia.

But now, Maggie was grateful for the defensive overkill.  There were
several panic buttons scattered throughout the place.  The nearest was
in her study.  All she had to do was slip into the next room and press
it to sound a blaring siren and summon the police.

Her heart squirmed as she stole out of the bathroom.

Please let me make it.

Suddenly, a floorboard creaked under her weight.  She stopped cold.  No
reaction from the intruder.  After a few breathless seconds, she forced
herself to continue.

Almost there, Maggie.  A few more steps.

Her heart was racing, her throat was so parched she couldn't swallow.

Forcing the terror aside, she focused on the panic button.  One second
of that screaming alarm and whoever it was would turn tail and run.

All she had to do was reach it.

The study door was shut.  Surely it was open when she passed earlier.

What if someone were in there, waiting?

Hesitating, she heard sounds from the kitchen again.  But there could
be more than one of them.

Clutching the knob, she quickly assessed the risks.  If she opened the
door, she might be trapped immediately.  The kitchen was occupied, but
going in that direction, she'd have a better chance of reaching the
panic button in the hall or fleeing the apartment before the intruder
could get to her.

Maggie raced down the hall and into the foyer.  She twisted hard at the
door handle.  It wouldn't open.

Damned locks.  Which ones had she left open and which had she shut?

Desperately, she wrenched and twisted at the trail of bolts and
levers.

Open, damn it!  Let me out of here!

"Maggie?  Where did you come from?  We thought you were out.  I was
just leaving a note."

Spinning around, she saw her father holding a pen and a note pad.

He had a mischievous grin on his face and a nubile brunette dangling
from his arm.

"rma Brodsky, this is my daughter, Maggie Lyons."

"Maggie, hi.  I'm so glad to meet you.  Robbie talks about you all the
time."

Robbie?

Maggie's incredulity grew as the last of her fear evaporated.

Tina had a child's face.  Shrink-wrapped skin.  No wrinkles, not even a
crow's-foot or two, for decency's sake.  Her taut little body,
untouched by gravity, was packaged in a black tank top and tight white
jeans.  The girl was brand-new, for godsakes.

Probably still had the tags on her.

"Hope we're not interrupting anything, honey," her father said.

"We wanted to surprise you."

"Well, you certainly did that.  Give me a minute, will you?

I'll get dressed."

She dripped her way back down the hall.  With a wistful glance at the
bubble-capped tub, she toweled off and slipped on a sweatsuit.  Running
a comb through her hair, she thanked the benevolent fates for her
mother's timely trip to Cousin Kathy's.

Mom had long viewed her father's affinity for younger women as a
personal affront.  And this one was practically fetal.

Maggie steeled herself and headed back down the hall.  Cooing sounds
emanated from the living room.  There, she found her father and his
little friend on the couch.  Tina's trim feet were perched on Dad's
lap.  Wouldn't have surprised Maggie a bit if her father had commenced
chanting, "This Little Piggy Goes to Market."

Her father was sixty-three.  Tina was mid-twenties, maximum.

What could they possibly have in common?  Country of origin?

"Where did you two meet?"  Maggie asked.  Sesame Street?

"One of those things."  rma giggled.  "You know."

I definitely do not.

"I was out to lunch with a client," her father said.  "Tina and a
friend were at the next table.  We got to talking."

About what?  Toilet training?  Kicking the pacifier habit?

"Can I get you anything?"

"No, sweetheart.  We're all set.  I made dinner reservations at Bella
Vita.  We were hoping you'd join us."

"Thanks, but tonight's really not good."

"Tomorrow then?"

Maggie gave him a hard look.  "I have plans with Mom."

"Too bad.  I really want you and Tina to get to know each other
better.

How's next Saturday?"

She couldn't put him off forever.  "All right, I guess."  At least by
then, Tina will be a few days older.

"How about we have lunch in the meantime, Maggie?  Just the two of
us?"

rma asked.

Get real.  "Sorry.  Lunch is hit or miss depending on my schedule.

I never make plans."

Tina's perkiness gave her the look of a wind-up toy.  "No problem," she
said eagerly.  "I'll just stop by East End one of these days when I'm
in the neighborhood.  If you're free, great.

"Oh, I wouldn't want you to go out of your way."  Or get in mine.

"Be my pleasure."

Maggie didn't debate that one.  The pleasure would certainly not be
hers.

Dad got to his feet.  "See you Saturday, then.  Bring someone if you
like.  Come on, Tina honey.  We're running late."

He whisked his little friend out the door.  Turning as he left, he
fixed Maggie with a worried look.  "Get some rest, will you?

You look whipped."

She shut the door and locked it.  Listening, she heard Tina's voice
fade to a wordless trill.  Trudging down the hall to the bedroom,
Maggie wondered if her fatigue really showed.  Maybe she only appeared
worn by comparison to Lolita Brodsky.

Whipped, indeed.  No matter how she looked, Maggie was not ready to
concede defeat by any means.  In fact, she had an idea that might turn
circumstances back in her favor.  If she hurried, there was still time
to take care of it tonight.

Changing into a more suitable outfit, she made the necessary call and
shut the apartment door behind her.

CHAPTER 17.

"You haven't eaten a thing, Jason.  Aren't you feeling well?"

"Fine, Mom.  Just not hungry."

"You sure?  It's all your favorites."

"All right, for godsakes.  Look, I'm eating.  I'm stuffing my face.

You happy now?"

He forced a bite.  Felt like a mouthful of pebbles, choking dry.

Usually, he loved steak off the barbecue.  And the corn and roasted
peppers and tossed salad with Ranch Dressing.  But tonight, he was all
jammed up inside.

Shying from his mother's fretful gaze, he glanced across the table at
his father.  Nothing to the guy but skin, bones, and glasses, Jason
thought with a contemptuous sniff.  Everything else about him was
painfully nondescript.  His clothes skimmed his narrow frame like
flimsy curtains.  He had hair almost the exact color of his face, so
everything blended to near disappearance.

Average features, eyes the color of rain.  Guy hardly left footprints
in the carpet, for chrissakes.  Conscious of Jason's scrutiny, his old
man looked over and blinked slowly, like a frog.

"So how's your summer going, son?  Working on your experiments at
all?"

"Some."

"Are not," Jessie taunted with a mean jut of her pointy chin.

"You haven't been down there for weeks."  She turned to her parents and
spoke in a conspiratorial hush.  "He's afraid of the basement.

Thinks maybe there's a youknow-what hiding there."

There was a harsh silence.  His father finally broke it.  "Glad you're
going to that group at the hospital for that problem, son.

I was thinking, once you've got it licked, maybe you'll be ready to get
a job, maybe come on board with the field force at Mutual Life."

Jason's stomach fisted.  "Thanks anyway, Dad."

"Now, don't be hasty, son.  Selling's not an easy profession, but
there's always room for up-and-corners.  You learn the ropes, who
knows?

Might find you've got the knack for it like your old man.

Worth a try anyway.  How about I put in a good word for you next time I
see Mr.  Pavia at the main office?"

Jason's cheeks went hot.  Last thing he wanted was his father's
stinking business or his useless good words or anything else.

Guy was a big nerd of a failure.  Always got the worst territory in the
entire company.  And he was forever scrambling to meet his quota.

Worse, he only managed to sell his dumb policies to neighbors and
family, people who felt too sorry or embarrassed to turn him down.

"The thing is, I'm getting college applications together, Dad.

I've decided to go for that degree in chemistry after all.

Maybe even a masters."

"Sure.  That'd be nice."  His father studied his plate, trying to mask
his disbelief.

"And I am working on my experiments.  Plenty of times I do it when
you're off at your baby school or after your infant bedtime, Miss
Bigmouth Know-it-all.  So happens I'm going down right after dinner
tonight.  And you stay the hell away while I'm at it, or I'll wring
your little neck.  I'm sick and tired of you following me around all
the time."

"Mommy," Jessie whined.  "He doesn't own the basement, does he?

Isn't it afree country?"

His mother's smile was wan.  "Experiments take concentration,
sweetheart.  Anyway, I need your help in the kitchen after dinner.

You're my chief plate dryer, aren't you?"

The child brightened.  "Can we bake cupcakes after?"

"Good idea.  We'll make our own concoction while Jay works on his down
in the lab."

So Jason was trapped.  After the dishes were cleared, they all sat
waiting for him to get up and go downstairs.  Daring him.  The cellar
door was directly across from the kitchen table, there was no way he
could somehow escape and fake it.

"Have to go get a few things in my room first," he told them.

"I'm going up anyway," his father said.  "What do you need?"

"Some papers and junk.  They're scattered all over.  Be easier if I get
them myself."

"I know where your stuff is, Jay.  Want me to get it?"  Jessie
chirped.

"Want me to get you, you nosy little creep?"  Jason glowered.

"Stop teasing her, Jason," his mother said.

"She's a goddamned pain in the ass.  I'm sick of her poking around in
my business."

"Watch your language, son," his father said.

"When are all of you going to get off my goddamned case?"

Jason bolted and raced up to his room.  Banging the door shut, he
leaned against the wall until his breathing settled.  The cellar was a
place of eerie darkness and inexplicable dangers.  He couldn't go back
down there.  Impossible.

He was startled by a knock.  "Jason, honey.  Are you all right?"

"Yeah.  I told you.  Just have to get some stuff together."

"Want Dad to go down there with you and check things out?  He wouldn't
mind."

"No, damn it.  I said I'm going, and I am."

Anger pushed him out the door and down to the kitchen where Jessie was
reading the instructions on the back of a cake mix box.  Runt could
read like she'd been born to it.  Then, everything had always come easy
to her.  Little Miss Perfect.

"Two eggs well beaten.  A half cup of water.  Stir until barely
moistened .  . ."

Jason opened the basement door and started down.  The risers crackled
under his weight.  His shadow spread over the dim stairs and spilled
onto the cellar's stained concrete floor.  His sister's voice faded to
a drone in the distance.

"Pour in a well-greased pan .  . ."

He passed quickly around the space, tugging the strings to activate the
dangling scatter of bare bulbs.  The light was glaring and uneven.

There was the steady beat of dripping water in the crawl space under
the den.  A ripe moldy smell made his eyes water.

Two paint-freckled sawhorses marked the boundaries of the makeshift lab
Jason had set up during his frenzied preparation for the Westinghouse
Science Talent Search last year.  His honors chemistry teacher, Otto
Allen, had urged him to enter.  Mr. Allen had lent him the latest
texts and experimental journals and provided him with all the equipment
and ingredients he requested.

Guy was an oddball, true.  But he'd warmed Jason to the competition
with steady praise and encouragement.  Mr. Allen kept telling Jason he
had real talent for chemistry.  Enough of that, and Jason had come to
believe he had an actual chance at winning one of the prestigious
awards.

For months, Jason had spent every spare second developing and refining
his special formula.  He'd tested his results on the dozen white mice
Mr. Allen had ordered from a special lab animal breeding company known
for their scrupulous genetic controls.

Everything had been going along even better than Jason had dared to
hope.

Then, one morning when he went to the basement to run his trials, he
found one of the mice dead.  The stiff remains were warped and
bloodied, the skull crumpled like a paper bag.

What kind of a creature could have done that?

Jason had struggled to oust the incident from his mind and continue
with his planned protocol.  Completed contest entries were due in a
week, and he needed to finish one final round of trials on his latest,
most successful formulation C2BU.  If he could document its
effectiveness with the remaining mice, he was sure he'd be named one of
the Talent Search winners.

The next morning, he'd awakened early and gone down to his lab to check
the mice.  At first glance, things looked fine, but then he'd spotted
another mutilated dead mouse in the rear corner of the cage.

Only one kind of beast could do this.  It had to be one of them.

In a horrific flash, Jason could see the claws and smell the feral
blood lust.  He shriveled inside, became the tiny, tortured prey.

Pitiful desperate thing, caught in the monster's grip.

Wracked in every fiber of its being by a deathly terror.

Phantom screams shrilled in his head, so sharp and fierce he thought
his skull would split.

That was the end of it.  No matter how he tried, Jason could not bring
himself to go down there again.  His doctor friend had urged him to
continue with the experiment, and so had his aide.

There were a number of comforting, alternative explanations for the
violent deaths of the experimental mice, both had assured him.

Maybe they'd overreacted to the courage drug and battered themselves in
an attempt to escape the cage.  Maybe the formula had induced some
bizarre cannibalistic behavior in the animals.

It was even possible that the deaths were unrelated to the drug
altogether.  The mice may have succumbed to an illness.  Maybe some
disorder that caused violent seizures.

Try though he did, Jason could not accept the rationalizations.

Something evil was lurking in that cellar, a danger he could not
risk.

He forged a doctor's note claiming that the experimental chemicals were
making him sick.  Adverse skin reaction from the fumes, he'd written in
a decent imitation of their pediatrician's choppy hand.  For good
measure he'd played sick, faking a flu that kept him home from school
until after the contest deadline had safely elapsed.  Afterward, Jason
paid Neil Ziegans from down the block to fetch the remaining mice and
return them to Mr.  Allen.

For months now, Jason's neat rows of prior formulas had sat untouched
in their corked beakers in the cellar.

C2BU, his masterpiece, remained unproven, hidden in a corked bottle in
the back of his closet.  He couldn't bring himself to discard the
sample and all the work it represented, so it remained where it was as
a silent rebuke.

Jason tried not to think about it.  Useless waste of time.

Without experimental proof, no one would believe the formula worked.

And what the hell did it matter at this point The contest was way
over.

And he was the loser by miles.

He crossed to the racks of glass containers and ran a finger over the
dusty corks.  Killing time until he could beat a dignified retreat, he
shuffled the beakers around, remembering how each variation had moved
him a heady step closer to his goal.  He'd been so hopeful then,
carbonated with excitement.  He remembered showing off the data to his
aide and the young doctor.  They were both so nice about it.  Always
acted interested and impressed.

Jason had been only too glad to soak up the compliments about how smart
and creative he was.

Creative like hell.  Dumb hunk of human waste, that's what he was.

No way he'd ever amount to anything but a futile, pathetic flop like
his old man.

For an instant, he considered uncorking all the tubes and swallowing
the contents.  He imagined his family discovering him blue and cold on
the cellar floor.  Stiff and bloodied like one of those dead mice.  He
could almost hear them wailing and moaning over their tragic loss.

Oh, Jason.  Our darling son.  How will we live without him How?  Very
nicely, thank you.  In fact, they'd probably celebrate.

If he croaked, they'd be shed of a weirdo kid with no life and no
future.

Then they'd be free to enjoy their precious, perfect baby daughter who
was brave and brilliant and entirely sane.

They'd sure as hell mourn their heads off if something happened to
Jessie.

But who could blame them for not caring about him?  What was he worth,
after all?  What had he ever done to make them proud?

If only he'd won that Talent Search.

He'd have a bright future: school, career, everything.  Even Rina
Latham would have taken notice.

Eyeing the rows of formulas, he wished he could do it again, go back
and have another chance.  This time he wouldn't run away and foul it
up.  No copping out, no matter what happened.

And then it occurred to him that he didn't have to go back.

There was more than one way to prove the success of his invention.

He'd already taken the first step.  He was ready to press ahead, no
matter what the cost.

It still was not too late.

CHAPTER 18.

They'd arranged to meet at six.  Bannister slogged into the pocket park
at five after and slumped on the bench where Price sat tossing the
remains of a hot dog roll to a bobbling crowd of pigeons.

"Don't feed those things, Lenny.  They're nothing but winged rats."

"They're God's creatures, Sam.  Same as you and me."

"Oh, yeah?  When was the last time you took a dump on somebody's
head?"

Price's droopy eyes dripped empathy.  "No luck?"

"I had plenty.  All bad."

Careful to avoid Dr. Lyons, Bannister had spent the rest of the day at
East End Hospital seeking an alternate way into Theodore Macklin's
records.  He'd hit all the departments: admitting, billing, research,
records, accounting, even the lab.

Flashing the tin special deputy's badge he'd gotten while under state
contract on the Schildhauer case, he'd passed himself off as a cop from
the Boston force assigned to investigate Theodore Macklin's suspicious
death.

But every one of the desk jockeys had turned him down cold.

Same with all the nurses and doctors and floor clerks and file clerks
he'd approached with various stories, trying to get his hands on some
scrap of useful information.  Without exception, they'd referred him to
the administration offices in the brownstone across the street.

Hospital rules on releasing patient information were very strict,
they'd echoed like a cageful of trained parrots.  Official permission
from the executive suite was the only key to the vault.

Bannister was shocked.  Where were all the lax and lazy workers?

Where was the screw-the-boss, ream-the-rules attitude?  This was
corporate America, for Chrissakes.  Didn't these people have any
patriotism?

Scraping bottom, he'd finally crossed to the administration building.

The offices were housed in a converted mansion.

Very fancy place.  Had the original air and everything.  A guard in the
lobby eyed Bannister's phony badge with profound disinterest and
pointed him toward the president's office.  Fifth floor.

A pleasant fiftyish woman was at the extremely neat desk fronting the
executive suite.  She heard him out, called inside to the chief honcho,
and advised Bannister to sit awhile.  A while had stretched to more
than an hour.  The boss's secretary had endeavored to keep him
comfortable.  She'd offered him coffee, chitchat, magazines, sour
balls, and pictures of her grandchildren.  But Bannister was just as
happy to spend the time pacing and cursing under his breath.

He'd worn tracks in the plush carpeting by the time he was summoned
into the chief's sanctum.  Predictably, the hospital's iron-fisted
administrator was a tiny guy in designer doll clothes.  He eyed
Bannister, his little lips pursed in disdain.

Funny how small men had such hostility for their taller counterparts.

Bannister harbored no such biases, not even about pompous,
overcompensating, puny runts like this jerk.

The president's name was Alexander Ivy.  Ivy didn't flinch when
Bannister handed him the line about being a detective on the Boston
force.  Figuring he was in the door, Bannister flashed the play
badge.

But when he went to slip it back in his pocket, the little prince
waggled a finger, demanding a closer look.

Bannister thought that would be the end of the act and him.

Impersonating an officer was serious business.  Getting caught at it
was not only punishable by fine and imprisonment, it was downright
embarrassing.

Fortunately, the guy was bat blind and too vain to put

on the glasses that were folded beside his blotter.  Instead, he had
squinted his beady brown eyes at the badge and shoved it back in
Bannister's direction without comment.

"Lucky thing," Price said.

"Yeah, but staying out of jail wasn't all I'd hoped to accomplish."

Price looked surprised.  "If he bought the cop act, why would he turn
you down?"

"He didn't.  He asked what East End could do to help," Bannister
said.

"I told him I needed to see the patient's records.  I explained they
might provide us with key evidence in our case.  No problem, he says,
so I figured I was home free.

"I give him the name.  He gets on the horn and starts barking orders.

A couple of minutes later, his secretary comes in with the info.  The
guy squints at the page and tells her to call extension
eight-five-oh-two and tell them he's sending someone right over for the
Macklin file."

Bannister went wistful.  "Such a nice lady, that secretary.

You ever notice how the worst pricks have the nicest secretaries?"

"That Myra who works for you is nice."

"Don't be a wiseass, Lenny.  Myra's not that nice.  Anyway, the
secretary tells me to wait a second, and she'll write out directions to
the person I need to see.  I'm halfway across the hospital lobby when I
realize she's sending me back to Dr.  Lyons's office."

"Ouch."  Price winced.

"Exactly.  You sure you don't have someone you can call on this?"

"I told you, Sam.  I know a lot of people, but getting into someone's
private files is out of my range."

Bannister shrugged.  "There's got to be some way I can get through to
that woman."

"What's she like?"

"Two-legged mule.  Stubborn.  Hard-nosed.  Unreasonable."

Price grinned.  "Sounds like your type, Sammy."

"Could be.  How'd it go with you?"

"Not bad."

Working from the checking account records, Price had been able to
contact Macklin's housekeeper and the head of the service that cleaned
the investment company offices.  Both had last seen Macklin a week ago,
five days before his body washed up in Narragansett Bay.

That was the day he left Boston.  Charges on his Mobile card had him
filling up with gas on the way to Newport.  There, according to his
corporate American Express account, he'd checked into a suite at the
Doubletree Inn.  He'd ordered all his meals from room service, portions
for one, and made a number of calls.

Price convinced another contact to run down the numbers itemized on the
hotel bill.  Some were in Boston.  The others were scattered around the
New York area.

"I had Ed Simek, a cop friend of mine from the neighborhood, check out
the Boston numbers," Price said.  "All squeaky clean.

Legit clients of Macklin's investment firm.  We can start running down
the list of calls to this area after dinner."

"Only if you promise to give up anything that doesn't relate directly
to the Rafferty murder."

"You feel like a burger again tonight?"

"No wild goose chases, Lenny.  I mean it."

"That's one thing about you, Sam.  You're real sincere."

Bannister leaned back on the bench.  So far, the entire trip had been
spent in useless wheel-spinning.  They hadn't even established as a
certainty whether Macklin's death had been take-out or deliverance.

Dr. Lyons's impressions aside, Macklin might have taken that dive
voluntarily.  That certainly worked better for Bannister.  If someone
had pushed the man off that bridge, there loomed the huge open
questions of who and why.  And chances were it had nothing at all to do
with Martha Rafferty's twenty-year-old murder.

Totally unacceptable.

Bannister ached for a quick, clean end to this endless case.

He wanted the open questions closed, for Leona Rafferty's sake and his
own.

"We're going after Macklin's scalp here, Lenny.  Nothing else.

Price shook his head.  "You think you can get things to go the way you
want, Sam.  That's your problem."

"Why is that a problem?"

"Because it's not reality.  All you can find is what's there.

And if you put on blinders, chances are you won't even find that
much."

Price tossed the last of the bread balls to the birds.

Brushing off his hands, he stood and started out of the park.

Scattering pigeons, Bannister fell in beside him.

"Damn it, Lenny.  Why do you have to be so logical all the time?"

CHAPTER 19.

The cab deposited Maggie on the park side of the street.  The sidewalk
was crowded with summer strollers basking in the soft pink dusk.

Horse-drawn carriages waited in a patient row at the curb.  A
hay-scented breeze ruffled her hair.  Circling the line of hansom cabs,
she crossed Central Park South and entered the opulent lobby of
Lawrence Ivy's apartment building.

A wizened concierge announced her over the intercom and escorted her to
a private elevator abutting the lavishly planted courtyard in the
rear.

Noting the terraced rock garden with its studied serenity and soothing
flow of subtle colors, Maggie thought of her mother.  That woman had
the knack to make anything grow lush and lovely.  Maggie had seen her
work her magic on carrot ends and avocado pits and the tiniest bits of
roots, leaves, or stems.

So why was her own life all shriveled and brown at the edges and
suffused with stubborn weeds?

The car arrived seconds after Maggie pressed the button.  No delinquent
little Mickey Glovers were allowed in a rarified joint like this, she
presumed.  They probably had an on-site exterminator to deal with the
vaguest hint of such pestilence.

Entering the elevator, a sudden panic squeezed her throat tight.

Her heart began to hammer and her focus shattered in a dizzying
burst.

Refusing to let the fear take hold, she trained her gaze on the ornate
mirrored panels and fine wooden wainscoting in the elevator.

Distraction can work wonders.  Even the worst fear will surrender given
sufficient diversion.  Music seemed to swell through the walls.

Her lips formed the words of the nightly rhyme.  It was so important,
Mommy said.  So important, Maggie had to concentrate with all her tiny
might.  She had to shut her eyes, block out everything.  I ray the Lord
my soul to take.

By the time the doors slid open at the penthouse, the hideous sensation
had passed.

Stepping out, Maggie thought of her last visit to the senior Ivy's
home.  Over a year ago, Lawrence had requested a private meeting, so he
could tell her of his retirement plans before he made his general
announcement to the hospital staff.

Maggie's immediate reaction had been a selfish refusal to accept the
necessary facts.  She knew she was going to miss everything about the
man: his courtly manners and kindness.  His wisdom and infallible
advice.  His unfailing support.

But the truth was unavoidable.  Physically, Lawrence could no longer
manage the considerable responsibilities that came with the president's
office.  He was going to need all his remaining strength for his
struggle against Lou Gehrig's disease.  In the end, it would be a
losing battle.  But Lawrence was not the type to go gently.

Today, an attractive blond nurse greeted her in the apartment's
foyer.

She led Maggie to the sun room.  The breathtaking view made the lovely
green sprawl of Central Park appear to be Lawrence's personal front
yard.

Maggie's friend sat in a paisley silk robe, propped in a wheelchair.  A
portable respirator, hooked by a plastic hose to the permanent
tracheostomy in his neck, worked in jarring, percussive rhythm.

Lawrence was painfully thin and pale.  Even his hair had lost its
vigor, the spare remaining strands lying limp and colorless across his
mottled scalp.

Trying to mask her shock, Maggie crossed and kissed his cheek.

The skin was unnaturally cool and draped his wasted frame like a
rumpled sheet.  He exuded the cloying scent of decay.  Maggie had
called several times since his retirement, hoping to see him, but until
tonight's plea of urgent business, he'd put her off.

"Hi, Your Excellency.  How's it going?"  she said.

"It's going, as you can see.  Sit, Maggie dear.  It's been months since
I looked at a lovely young woman who wasn't wielding a syringe or
holding a bedpan."  His words came in rushed clumps, punctuated by the
harsh tides of the repirator.

"How are you feeling, Lawrence?  Tell me what you've been up to."

"I'm a tiresome subject, Maggie.  Nothing but numbers and doses these
days, I'm afraid.  Life reduced to fluid balance and the measure of my
steady decline.  I'd much rather talk about what brings you here.  It's
wonderful seeing you, really.  I should have indulged myself sooner."

She hesitated.  "I shouldn't be bothering you with my troubles, it's
just--"

"Nonsense.  I can't tell you how much it would mean to be
useful again, if only for a moment.  I suppose it's no secret that I've
deliberately shut myself off these past months.  Frankly, I couldn't
see subjecting innocent souls to the repulsive sight of me when I could
offer nothing in return but an object of pity."

"You're no such thing.  Don't talk like that."

He chuckled.  "Darling Maggie.  Always the great defender of the faith
and the fragile ego.  I have missed you.  I didn't allow myself to
realize how much until you called earlier.  Now, tell me, what can this
old ruin possibly do for you?"

Trying to skirt the sticky personal issues, she described her idea for
East End to host a national symposium on phobia treatment.  Her
enthusiasm grew as she spoke.  The more she talked about it, the more
convinced she was that the project would be a huge success.  Beyond the
profitability, there was the exciting prospect of gathering experts in
the field for a valuable exchange of clinical experiences and
strategies.

"Sounds like an excellent idea," Lawrence told her.  "What's the
problem?"

"I'm afraid there might be some--reluctance--on the part of the
administration."

"Is my son still giving you the business, Maggie?  What is the matter
with that boy?"

"Apparently, he doesn't have your excellent taste in people."

He waved a frail hand in dismissal.  "Nonsense.  I know Alex lacks
experience, but there's no excuse for allowing personal feelings to
influence professional judgments.  He doesn't have to like you, though
Lord knows why he shouldn't, but he does have to treat you
professionally and fairly.  This symposium you're proposing would be a
definite feather in East End's cap.  Imagine the free publicity
alone."

"I didn't come here to whine or tattle, Lawrence.  And I'm not asking
you to get in the middle of my relationship, or lack of one, with
Alex.

I'll work things out with him somehow.  I'm just hoping to avoid his
obstruction, so I can go ahead with the conference."

He flushed with the effort of his anger.  "I'd like to take that boy
over my knee."

Maggie laughed.  "I'd definitely want front row center seats for that
one.  Meanwhile, all I was hoping you'd do is encourage him to expand
the hospital's outreach programs in general.

They're far from East End's strongest suit right now, so it'd be
logical for you to bring it up.  My proposal will just happen to be
under consideration, and maybe he'll be less inclined to turn it down
for arbitrary reasons.

He frowned deeply.  "Allow me to handle Alex in my own way, will you,
dear?  My son has a few weak suits of his own to address.

Before I die, I owe it to him and the hospital to point them out.

Diplomatically, of course."

She nodded.  "No one's more diplomatic than you."

A mischievous twinkle lightened his wan look.  "And if diplomacy fails,
there's always the direct double-barrel shot between the eyes.  Lord
knows I love my son.  But he doesn't always respond well to subtlety.

Alex is stopping by for lunch tomorrow.

I'll speak with him then and get back to you first thing in the
afternoon."

Maggie bit back her concerns.  She'd have to trust Lawrence to handle
this without deepening the animosity between her and Little Caesar.

The truth was, she couldn't imagine how the situation could get much
worse.

Anyway, if this last desperate scheme didn't work out, she had nothing
much left to lose.

CHAPTER 20.

Price and Bannister had a decidedly downscale dinner at Sergio's Cafe
on First Avenue.

Sergio's, where the daily special was not, provided the fetching
ambience of a prison mess and consistent service with a snarl.

But it met Bannister's basic requirements: low prices and portions
large enough to fill the considerable blanks.  He and Price had eaten
there at least once daily since their arrival.

Lenny was already starting to smell like a cross between a Sergio
burger, rancid fry grease, and the mosquito repellent the cafe tried to
pass off as Diet Coke.

This evening, Price compounded the felony with a slice of Sergio's
"world-famous" apple pie, and Bannister paid the check.

The first number on the list of calls Macklin had made from Newport to
New York was in the Brighton Beach section of Brooklyn.  Bannister
dialed it from Sergio's pay phone.  A woman with a dense accent
answered.  Hard to analyze its origin through the din.  Crying baby,
clatter of pots and dishes, running water, angry voices, the deafening
blare of a television.

Claiming he had a package to deliver, Bannister confirmed that someone
would be at home all evening.  He and Price headed for the subway stop
at Lexington Avenue and Seventy-seventh and caught a downtown local.

At Lafayette they transferred to a Brooklyn-bound D train.

The littered cars were crammed with dead-eyed riders.

Laughter erupted in jittery bursts.  Troubled silence rode the
intermittent blackouts.  An occasional pack of predatory toughs rippled
through the crowd like a noxious breeze.  Tight fists.  Taut nerves.

Wariness crackled in their wake like a live wire downed by a storm.

Bannister's cop's eye caught myriad other acts of casual urban
terrorism: a pickpocket working tote-bag patrol, a man grinding himself
into the rear end of a woman mashed against a pole, a pimply kid
snorting coke from a Big Mac container.  The transit cop posted at the
end of the car was oblivious.  Too busy marking picks on a daily racing
form.

They exited at the Brighton Beach station and walked to an address near
the corner of Surf Avenue and Ocean Parkway.  The section was locally
known as Little Odessa for its large and burgeoning concentration of
Russian immigrants.  The building they sought was next to a market
whose name and sale items were spelled out in Cyrillic.  Bannister
counted a dozen varieties of vodka in the window display.

They entered the apartment house through a vestibule cluttered with
overflow equipment: baby carriage, battered trike.

Tracking the same pandemonium Bannister had heard on the phone, they
mounted the dim rear staircase to the third floor.

Their knock brought a doe-eyed young woman to the door.  Her face was a
scrupulous blank, her posture guarded.  Blinking at them, she wiped her
hands on a food-spattered apron.

"Yeah?"

"Is this the Popov residence?"  Price said.

"Popov, yeah," she intoned in choppy night-school English.  A burst of
noise from inside caught her like a dart.  She called over her
shoulder: "Reuven, stop hitting your sister.  Bella, you change the
baby now like I tell you."

"Is your husband home?"  Bannister said.

"Husband?  You wait."  She shooed them outside with a toss of her apron
and shut the door.  Soon, it was opened by a somber man clad in a
vested black mohair suit and a hat.

Bannister flashed his Playskool badge.  "Mr.  Popov?  I'm
Sam Bannister.  This is Lenny Price.  We're investigating the death of
Theodore Macklin."

"I am Anatoly Popov.  But this name you say, I do not know it."

Bannister had caught the second's flash before the guy's expression
slammed shut.  He was lying, and not well.

"Mind if we come in a minute?"

"I do not see for why, Mr. Bannister.  I told you I do not- Bannister
muscled his way into the apartment.  Price hesitated in the hall, then
followed.  Lenny's good manners were like a tight girdle, hard to shed
no matter what the circumstances.

Popov was agitated, but not in the manner of an upright private citizen
beset by government bullies.  His eyes darted around the cluttered
living room as if he were checking for visible contraband.  His wife
had retreated to a rear bedroom, where the boisterous children, and
anyone else on the premises, had been cowed into a macabre silence.

"Just a few questions," Bannister said.  Without invitation, he
sprawled on the plump green couch and pulled out a pad.

"Where do you work?"

"Why do you want to know this?"

"I'm the curious type."

"I do not have to answer your questions."

"No, not if you have something to hide."

"You have warrant?"

Bannister sniffed.  "Damn.  I must have left it in my other purse."

"I ask you to leave now, Officer.  This is my home.  Home is castle."

"You telling me you refuse to cooperate?"

Popov was getting flushed and clammy.  "What is to cooperate?

I told you, I do not know this man you ask about, Mr.--"

"Macklin.

Theodore Macklin.  If you don't know him, I wonder why he'd be calling
you."

"What calling?"

There was a burst of childish exuberance from the back room.

It was quickly squelched.

Bannister nodded.  "We have the phone company records."

Popov's eyes went steely.  "You must be mistaken.  There was no such
call.  I tell you I do not know this man Macklin."

Price had kept quiet, hanging near the door as Bannister questioned the
Russian.  He'd paced uneasily in the background as Bannister made his
territorial claim on the couch.  Now Price's grin was conciliatory.

"You heard him, Sam.  He doesn't know anything.  Excuse us, will you,
Mr.  Popov?  You know how these things can get fouled up.

Somebody probably reversed a number when they wrote it down."

Popov was all for that theory.  "Of course."  The Russian chuckled
dryly, mopping his pale face with a hankie.  "I understand.  No
problem, gentlemen.  Sorry you come for nothing."

"Come on, Sam.  Let's leave these nice people alone."

Bannister sat for a minute, seething for effect.  "I don't know,
Lenny--"

"But I do.  Bye now, Mr.  Popov.  Sorry for the intrusion.

Say good-bye to your wife for us, will you?"

"Of course.  Good-bye, Officers."

Price left.  Bannister followed a few grudging steps behind.

They plodded noisily down to the second landing and ducked out of
sight.

"Hand it over," Bannister demanded.

Price produced a wireless receiver.  He'd planted the button-sized
microphone on a pole lamp near the Popovs' couch.

Given the tension level they'd inspired, Bannister didn't think he'd
have long to wait for an after shock, and he wasn't disappointed.

Everyone had gathered to talk in the Popovs' living room.  Worried
excited voices.  No mistaking the tone.

"God damn it," Bannister said.  "I knew this was going to be a waste of
time."

"They didn't bite?"  Price said.

"Oh, they bit.  They're biting like crazy.  Want to hear?"

Price pressed the receiver to his ear.  Listening, he frowned.

"Well, we wanted to get them talking, and we did."

"Yeah, right, Lenny.  Only not in Russian."

Price produced a cassette recorder and taped the next fifteen minutes
of conversation from the upstairs apartment.

"Problem isn't the Russian.  That I expected," he whispered halfway
through.  "Trouble is how they all talk at once.  I know a guy who'd be
willing to translate, but he'd have a helluva time sorting out all the
chatter."

"Want me to go up there and tell them to take turns?"

Bannister said.

"I'd say yes.  But knowing you, you'd probably do it."

The phone was ringing when they returned to their rental tenement.

Price answered.  All the calls since their arrival had been from
salespeople, sales robots, wrong numbers, or Ruthie.

But this time, Price extended the receiver in Bannister's direction.

"It's for you, Sam.  Chloe."

Bannister took it with trepidation.  "Hey, sweetheart.  How's it
going?"

A few words, and he relaxed.  His daughter was bubbling over with news
about a week-long babysitting job she'd just started and this cute kid
Adam who almost certainly probably liked her.

She was also pumped about an upcoming trip with her grandmother to the
Berkshires.

"We're leaving Sunday.  Gran says she can't wait to spoil me rotten."

"Sounds great, sweetheart.  And it's great to hear you sounding like
your old self again."

With that, the kid took a dizzying turn for the worse.  She started
bemoaning her fates, complaining about her friends, the weather, her
mom treating her like an infant, how fat she was.

Fat?  The kid weighed next to nothing, give or take.

"You're not fat.  That's ridiculous."

"I'm huge, Daddy.  You haven't seen me lately.  My face looks like a
balloon.  And I'm getting thunder thighs.  They make actual slapping
noises when I walk.  It's so gross, I could die."

"Come on.  I saw you two weeks ago."

"I'm a horse."

"A very, very thin horse."

"Why won't anybody listen to me?"  she wailed.

In record time she went from irritated to irate to unraveled.

Bannister had no trouble making matters worse.  Anything he said seemed
to do the trick.  Placating was useless.  Ditto reassuring.

Raw flattery sent the kid in a tailspin.  Pleading for reason was even
worse.  Several frustrating minutes later, Bannister hung up.

He felt as if he'd gone ten rounds with a dyspeptic alligator.

And according to Price, that's exactly what he'd done.

"Hormones, Sam.  I'm telling you.  All kids go through it."

"Chloe's not like other kids."

"Thank goodness she is.  You get an endocrine dysfunction, it's not
pretty.  Growth deficiencies are the least of it.  You can be talking
gross organic damage, intellectual sequelae, Just last month, I read in
the NEJM about this kid who- Bannister stared him silent.

"Okay, Sam, okay.  I just thought it might make you feel better."

The phone trilled again.  Bannister didn't know whether to grab it or
run.  He decided to face the beast down.  It was his beast after all.

Lifting the receiver gingerly, he spoke in a gentle lilt.

"It's all right, sweetheart.  I understand."

He confined himself to murmurs of agreement and occasional head nods.

Kept his voice well below sea level.

Price eyed him warily as the conversation ended.  "Better?"

"I don't know, Lenny.  You should hear her.  She tells me she has these
moods.  Kid doesn't know what to do with herself sometimes.

Worries me sick."

"Normal, Sam.  All normal."

"Oh, yeah?  What about teen suicides?  What about anorexia and drug
abuse and babies having babies?"

Price narrowed his eyes.  "Have you been watching Oprah again?"

"I don't like the way she sounds.  I don't like having to walk around
her like she's broken glass.  I don't like the whole goddamned
thing."

"Better get used to it, Sam.  She's got a lot of teenage ahead of
her."

But the child's voice echoed in Bannister's mind.  Pained, troubled.

No one and nothing could make him simply toss it off and forget about
it.  He knew how a single misstep could short-circuit a child's bright
future.  Take a wrong turn, trust the wrong person, and you could wind
up like Martha Rafferty.

Bannister wasn't leaving anything to chance where Chloe was
concerned.

For his little girl, he was willing to go the limit.

CHAPTER 21.

She floored the accelerator.

Mile marker six.  Ten.  Fifteen.

Flying phone poles.  Black blur of passing trees.  Raveling sprawl of
power lines.  Speed coursed through her in a white hot surge.

Incredible.

Mile marker twenty.  Twenty-five.  Hell on wheels.  Racing the world.

Winning.

Who'd believe it?  She laughed aloud, straining her foot harder against
the gas pedal.  Milking the speed.  Reveling in it.

Marker thirty.  Forty.

She barely believed it herself.  The whole thing had the grainy,
distant feel of a dream.  But it was true.  True and real and wonderful
beyond her wildest dreams.

It had started with the surprise visit from her sister Alice late this
afternoon.  After weeks of nagging and resistance, Alice had finally
gone to the doctor.  That worry was over.  The lump had been nothing
after all.  No big C, no chemo.  Only a scare, an innocent cyst.

They'd opened the split of champagne her sister had brought to
celebrate.  Paired the decadent indulgence with strawberries and a
plate of cookies.

Crisp bubbles danced up her nose.  One sip, and she'd felt the subtle
shift inside.  An odd pulse beat started, syncopated and insistent.

Curious, but not at all unpleasant.  Setting her glass aside, she'd
decided not to mention it to Alice.  She wouldn't have known what to
say.  Instead, she
15i
tried to counter the dizzy rush with food, but the tipsy feeling
persisted.

By the time her sister left, the pulse had deepened to a restless
throbbing.  She'd splashed frigid water on her cheeks, pressed a cold
cloth to the back of her neck.  But instead of easing, the sensation
spread and intensified.

Driven outside, she'd circled the block several times until a mindless
urge prodded her down the ramp to the parking garage.

Oswaldo, the dark, toothy attendant, had fixed her with his standard
look of raw contempt.  But this time, she'd refused to let it shrink
her.  She held her ground and kept her expression neutral until he
drove the Chevy up the ramp in a noisy haze of exhaust and flipped her
the keys.

"Been weeks since you took her out, lady.  Engine's real cold.

Frozen almost," he'd said.

"Then I'll have to warm her up, won't I?"  she'd replied with a
mischievous smirk.  "I'll have to give her a real good workout."

"Yeah, sure you will."  His chuckle jiggled in his throat like loose
change.

She'd roared up the exit ramp at peak speed, chuclding to herself at
the thought of Oswaldo's astonishment.

Traffic parted magically as she raced through the weave of streets
toward the Ninety-sixth Street entrance to the northbound FDR Drive.

A snap later, she was out of the city.  Snap again, and the linked
chain of Westchester suburbs yielded to long, twisting ribbons of
deserted roadway.  Nothing but her and the speed.  Luscious, breathless
speed.  Speed that filled her with near-excruciating pleasure.

Markerfifty.  Sixty-five.

Could this really be happening?  For years, speed had been the enemy.

She'd moved in deliberate slow motion, trapped in a cumbersome bubble
of fear.

There had seemed no way out.  She'd tried every imaginable remedy:
numbing drugs, hypnosis, meditation, acupuncture.  She'd plodded
through every conceivable therapy.  Individual analysis.

Semantic restructuring.  Selfhelp and support groups.  Mountains of
dollars.

Thousands
of hours.  She'd devoted her entire existence to a cure, but nothing
had worked to conquer the driving phobia.  Her other fears melted away,
but that one refused to yield.

Lord knew she'd done everything, even put up with the incessant insults
as long as she could.  When she couldn't stand it any longer, she'd
stopped going to the clinic.  After that, she'd figured she was lost
for good.  But she hadn't seen a choice.

Now suddenly, the bubble had burst.  Disappeared.  She was freed.

Sprung like a pinball in a self-perpetuating burst of momentum.

Rubber rebounding off the corners of the world.  No end.  No limits.

Go!

Marker one hundred.

She was through the roof.  Erupting with joy.  She didn't need the
damned hospital or anything else.  She could beat the fear on her
own.

The road angled skyward.  Dips and turns.  Thrilling bends and
angles.

She breezed past the string of yellow signs bordering the narrow
pavement.  Snaking arrows.  Warnings to slow.

Never again.  Slow was for lumbering mortals.  She was the wind.

Free and indestructible.

Mile one twenty-one.

Twenty-one was her lucky number.  She'd been born on the twenty-first
of June.  Grew up on Twenty-first Street.  Had her first marriage
proposal at twenty-one.  First and last as it had happened, but she'd
had no way of knowing that when she turned the young man down.

No way of knowing she was about to cross the threshold into perpetual
darkness either.  No boyfriend, no love, no luck at work.  One pink
slip after another.  Layoffs, shutdowns, restructurings, personality
clashes.  Soon she'd given up, stopped looking.  Spent all her time
cowering at home, huddling with her family.  Good little cook, she
was.

Great baker.  Her cookies and brownies were so good, they'd pushed her
to go into business.

But she had no talent for business.  Her only talent was fear and
worry.

Soon the worries had spawned reluctance and the reluctance had begat
the fear and the fear had become her and she had become the fear.

Girl in the bubble.  Trapped.  Immobile.  Living the living death.

Trying to fill the aching void with mountains of food and great numbing
gobs of sameness.

But now she was free of it.  Another yellow sign heralded a convoluted
trail of S-curves as the road began its descent.

Nothing but a flimsy guardrail to her right.  No sign of anyone
ahead.

A solid sheet of darkness filled the rearview mirror.

The car was gathering speed on the downslope.  She clutched the wheel
harder, trying to rehearse the perilous curves ahead.

Was it right first or left?  Why couldn't she remember?  She struggled
to picture the snaking arrow on the yellow sign, but her mind was a
quivering blank.

God, no!

The fear had snuck back.  She was trapped in a terror larger than
herself.  Consumed.

But she could get through it.  All she had to do was slow down.

Bring herself back to the safe place, the place where she was hardly
moving.

Her fingers were cramped on the wheel.  Muscles searing.

Desperately, she worked her foot around, feeling for the brake.

The car was rushing like river rapids, carrying her out of control.

She found the brake pedal and pressed with all her might.  She had to
stop it.

There, the speed was easing.  She felt the dragging weight of the
brakes.  Heard the reassuring squeal.  Slower, please.  Please stop!

Sharp curve ahead.  She could never make it at this speed.

Clenching her teeth so hard they ached, she jammed harder on the
brake.

The speedometer was sinking, but not fast enough.

Tensing every fiber of her being, she braced for the turn.

Her heart was galloping, breath caught.

You can make it.  You can.  Just ease into it.  Concentrate.

Ignore the fear.  Get your mind on something else.

The curve began.  She tugged at the wheel.  Worked into it.

Halfway around.

You can do it.  Almost there.

Turn the other way!  The signal screamed in her mind.  Fired like a
thousand rockets.  But the glare of a million flames couldn't penetrate
the black bubble of fear that encased her.  Held her stiff, stunned,
and immobile.

There was a way out.  There had to be.

But before she could find it, she was crashing through the barrier and
hurtling off the edge of the world.

CHAPTER 22.

Jason could hear them downstairs.  Binnie's nasal shrill twined with
his mother's low, patient tones.  They were probably talking about him,
he thought with a swat of annoyance.  But he had far bigger things to
occupy his mind.

He'd pretended to be asleep when his aide showed up for their nine
o'clock practice session.  The ruse was a necessary part of his
experimental design.  He'd calculated carefully.  Given his weight and
metabolism, the formula should reach peak effectiveness in fourteen
minutes and remain near maximum for half an hour after that.  Binnie
was never on time, so he couldn't risk administering the dose until she
was in the house.  As soon as he heard her at the door, he entered the
starting time in his log and made his soundless way to the bathroom.

He weighed one hundred sixty-five and a half pounds.

Extrapolating from the gram weight of the experimental mice, he filled
the bathroom glass with two precisely measured teaspoons of C2BU and
swallowed it in a rush.  He could not chance an overdose, and too small
a measure would fail to overwhelm his inhibitions.  With the others, he
wasn't so cautious.  But no matter how useless and desperate he
sometimes felt, he had no desire to place himself in unnecessary
jeopardy.

The liquid was dense and cloyingly sweet.  Jason had made it that way
on purpose, so it would be palatable to the rodents.  Only a very rich
confection would overpower the taste.  He thought of the cupcakes on
the kitchen counter, but he might lose the precision of measurement if
he tried to bury the formula in food.  Shuddering, he wished he could
chase the putrid aftertaste with a swig of water, but he didn't want to
risk diluting the impact.

"Ready yet, Jay?"

"Must've overslept.  Be down in a minute."

Standing at the sink, he twisted the hot water tap watched the mirror
frost with steam.  Tuning to his own visceral responses, he searched
for a physical sign that his invention was taking effect.  Pressing two
fingers to his wrist, he measured his pulse rate against the second
hand on his watch.  It was dancing at the usual clip.

No changes yet.

Determined to waste ten full minutes, he returned to his room, opened
and shut several drawers, and stepped into his closet.

His shirts and pants hung in an orderly row, all beiges or grays or
other nameless neutrals.  Same for the shoes and the shelf of winter
sweaters shrouded in plastic bags.  Jason had always taken pains to
avoid attention.  As a world-class nothing, he'd been in no real danger
of drawing the spotlight.  But he'd made doubly sure with his hunched
posture, meek manner, downcast eyes, and drab wardrobe.

But all that was going to change.  If this experiment worked, he'd take
the bows he had coming and enjoy them.  He imagined himself on a stage,
facing a sea of admiring faces.  Washed by applause.

Jason the Brave, the Bold, the Magnificent.  His cheeks blazed, and his
lips spread in an irrepressible grin.

"Thank you, thank you," he mouthed with his hands lofted to still the
imaginary tumult.  "That's enough, really.  You're too kind--"
"Jason.

Come on, now.  Binnie's waiting."

Checking his watch, he plodded down the stairs.  From the foyer, he
spotted his mother and his aide in the living room.  He yawned broadly
for effect.

"Sorry.  Didn't hear my alarm go off."

Binnie cocked her head in sympathy.  "Bad night, lion?  Mine was
terrible.  Can't sleep for anything in this heat.

And the air-conditioning gives me such a sinus, I can hardly
breathe.

You ready to go?"

I guess.

"Great.  I was thinking maybe you'd like to take a little ride over to
the boulevard.  We can look at the stores while we walk.

Be cooler, too.

Jason stifled a protest.  Binnie couldn't know it, but the experiment
called for precisely that sort of difficult trial.

"Sounds okay."

His mother looked pleased.  "You two want to stop for something at the
luncheonette?  My treat."

"A cold drink might be nice.  Don't you think, Jason?"  Binnie said.

Jason accepted the five-dollar bill his mother pulled from her wallet
and followed the woman out the door.

The sky thrummed with haze and a melting heat.  Sounds rent the morning
stillness: a truck clattering over metal plates in the road, the
chatter of a lawnmower, the hacking cough of a reluctant car engine.

Jason sniffed and suppressed a tremor.

Bad morning.  Had a dangerous edge to it.  If he could get through all
this, the drug was an even bigger miracle than he'd dared to hope.

Distracted, Jason had lagged behind.  By the time he tuned in again,
Binnie was already at her car, fishing in her tote bag for the keys.

He stalled at the edge of the flagstone walk.  A raging sea of imagined
hazards stretched between them.  He was open, vulnerable.

"Come on, Jason lion.  Sinus or no, you hop in, and I'll turn the air
on full blast.  It's hot as blazes out here."

He shied from her expectant gaze and tried to move.  He needed to get
back in the house for a minute, he needed to piece himself back
together again.  But terror had welded his feet to the walk.

His heart was banging like a crazed prisoner.

"You okay, lion?"

He couldn't answer.  Why the hell wasn't the formula working?

Maybe he hadn't taken enough.  But no, he'd checked his calculations
fifty times.  Two teaspoons was definitely right.

Any more might push him to dangerous disinhibition.

He fiddled with the chain around his neck.  The lion's head medallion
had slipped to the back where it was poking him in the spine.  With
trembling fingers, he slid it back in place.  He was filled with
electric tension.

Come on, Jason.  Get moving.  What the hell's the matter with you?

"I'll start her up and get things cooling, okay?"  Binnie said.

"You take your time."  She ducked into the car and closed the door.

The engine caught, and stinking fumes spewed from the tailpipe.

Waiting, Binnie tipped her dumb head toward the mirror and slathered a
fresh hill of lipstick on her big mouth.  Too bad it wasn't Krazy
Glue.

Maybe then she'd shut up for a blessed second.

The idea made Jason giggle.  The fear was fading.  Trying to speed it
away, he tuned his thoughts to the experiment.  He checked the time.

Three more minutes until the drug reached optimum effectiveness.  It
had to work.

C2BU.  The name was shorthand for "courage to be you."  Jason's formula
was designed to eradicate fear.  No more phobias.  No panic attacks or
suffocating anxieties.

His work for the Talent Search had been inspired by studies he'd read
on post-traumatic stress disorder: PTSD.  Afflicted patients suffered
from extreme irritability, troubled sleep, recurrent nightmares, and
terrifying flashbacks of the precipitating trauma.

The problem had afflicted scores of Vietnam veterans, spurring an
increase in research efforts.  Recently, scientists had discovered
physiological differences in PTSD patients.  In one experiment, a
mood-altering drug called yohimbine triggered an increase in panic
attacks and flashbacks in PTSD patients but had no such effect in
normal control subjects.  Another study found that PTSD patients tended
to oversecrete opioids, such as endorphin.

That numbed the perception of pain, causing a sense of unreality and
dislocation.  Still another experiment established that PTSD patients
released excessive amounts of the pituitary stress hormone, CRF, which
caused the same symptoms as the original trauma: chills, trembling,
panic.

Armed with those findings, Jason had searched for a drug or drugs
capable of blocking the actions of the body chemicals implicated in
post-traumatic stress disorders.  He reasoned that phobias were
virtually identical to the recurrent panic attacks experienced by war
veterans.  For him and other severe phobics, mundane situations were as
traumatic and fraught with perils as the front line in a raging
battle.

His goal was to develop a pill that would blunt the terror, lower the
volume on his hyperactive imagination, and allow him to live a normal
life.  And his efforts had been remarkably successful.

Early versions of his formula had so emboldened his experimental mice
that they were willing to risk pressing an electrified lever to
retrieve a pellet of food.

With further refinements, he'd been able to spur increasingly dramatic
risk behavior in the mice.  He'd continued to modify the formula until
he developed C2BU, which induced seemingly total fearlessness with no
apparent side-effects.

In preliminary tests, mice given the drug displayed no startle response
to loud noises.  They lost their instinctive fear of normal
predators.

Placed in a clear container in the presence of a snarling cat, his
experimental rodents evinced no physical or behavioral responses
whatsoever.  They appeared oblivious to the threat.

Jason was confident he'd discovered a cure for fear.  All he needed was
further work to confirm and document his findings.

Then he could approach a pharmacological lab capable of conducting the
extensive human studies required for FDA approval.

The potential was staggering.  An approved courage drug could cure
phobias and all disabling anxieties.  It could eliminate combat stress
and fortify soldiers for hazardous duty.  Test pilots, stunt people,
police, firefighters, and others in high-risk occupations could take
the drug to reduce dangerous fear responses that might impair judgment
or cripple performance.

For creating a nation of heroes, Jason Childs would be the greatest
hero of all.  Respected.  Adored.

Drawing a hard breath, he ventured off the sidewalk and felt an
immediate chill of elation.  His stride was spring-loaded, his moves
sure and fluid as a stalking cat.

The drug was working.

As he approached the car, big-mouth Binnie ceased her primping and
pushed open the passenger side door.

"There now, you look much better.  Didn't want to push you, lion.

Sometimes it takes a couple of minutes to get yourself together, isn't
that so?"

"Yeah."

"Exactly how I used to be," she said smugly.

In fact he was worlds better.  So improved he could barely relate to
the simpering coward he'd been when he first stepped outside.

A matter of minutes had made an incredible difference.  Three minutes
to be exact.  Testing his pulse, he found it slow and regular.  Kettle
drum thumping with firm certainty in his veins.

His brain was operating with startling clarity.  Leaping blithely from
thought to thought.  Not a single dip into the dark chasms of
self-doubt.  Not a blip or hesitation.

Stifling an exultant shriek, Jason slipped into the car and slammed the
door.  He could do anything, go anywhere.  And if it worked this way on
him, it would surely have a similar effect on all phobics.

"Let's get going," he said.  "I've had it with hanging around here."

Binnie laughed.  "My, you're the changeable one, aren't you?

Okay, then.  Here we go."

Here I go, he wanted to shout.  Get ready, world, a new star is
rising.

His brilliant formula was everything he'd dared to imagine.

And more.

CHAPTER 23.

Maggie glared at the clock, trying to prod the lumbering seconds
along.

Lawrence Ivy had promised to call early this afternoon.  As soon as she
got the go-ahead, she could set the date for the symposium, book a
suitable facility, and begin lining up key speakers.  A conference of
the magnitude she anticipated would be no small undertaking, and she
was achingly anxious to get started.  She needed the distraction.

"Notv I lay me down to sleep .  . .

The window dream had continued to haunt her.  Her mind kept skipping to
it at odd moments during the day.  Several times each night, she was
transported to the room where she knelt to say her prayers on the
flower-bordered rug.

"I pray the Lord my soul to keep."

Each time, the window slid up and she was cast out for the horrifying
flight on the hawk's back.  Circling, hurtling toward the ground.

"If I should die .  . ."

Had to be the stress, she thought.  Extreme psychic strain could churn
up long dormant symptoms.  The only way to deal with them was to apply
the techniques she'd learned in treatment.  The same ones she taught
her patients.

Speaking of which, her morning schedule had been filled with two
private patients and an intake evaluation for a woman with
claustrophobia.  Maggie had found her an amiable, attractive person
who'd likely mesh well with five others Maggie had already signed up
for a group slated to start in two weeks.  There were applications in
progress from four other people, so the group was already at
capacity.

That left nothing for Maggie to do but choose a leader.  She decided to
see to it immediately and bump that issue from her overbooked brain.

Reviewing her roster of treatment aides, she eliminated those who had
recently run groups.  Eyeing the remaining candidates, she crossed off
several who would be taking vacation time during the eight-week
program.  She further deleted those she judged too introverted or too
shaky in their recovery to be effective.

Another few had not proven themselves sufficiently reliable as aides to
be trusted with the far more complex administration of a group
program.

She crossed off Francis Kennedy in self-defense.

The last thing she needed was to give the man any encouragement, real
or imagined.

She'd pared the list to five names.  Scanning them, Maggie's immediate
instinct was to ask Beverly Magida, a recovered claustrophobic with an
ebullient personality and a delightful sense of humor.  But her eye
kept veering back to Gail Weider.

Gail had been a steady presence at the clinic since enrolling in a
group for her multiple phobias nearly two years ago.  In addition to
her work as a treatment aide, she'd continued to attend self-help
sessions and participated in the clinic's social and fund-raising
projects.  Gail had been one of a small core of dependable, readily
available volunteers.  But for the last couple of months, she'd been
conspicuously absent.

At first, Gail's sudden defection had troubled Maggie, but she'd
decided to leave it alone.  It could be that distancing herself from
East End was the woman's way of trying to further her recovery.  Gail
had come a considerable distance in treatment.

She'd conquered her fear of crowds and open spaces, but she was plagued
by a persistent fear of driving, especially on highways.

Patients who hit that kind of frustrating wall were encouraged to test
a variety of strategies.  Hard to say what might work in a given
case.

The craziest things sometimes did.

Then, a couple of weeks ago, Maggie had run into Gail on First
Avenue.

The woman had been abrupt, verging on glacial.  Maggie was at a loss.

Clearly, her ex-patient was miffed at something.

But no matter how she searched her memory for the culprit, she came up
blank.

The mystery had been buried, however, under an avalanche of larger
issues.  And last week, after Gail had dropped off that batch of her
delectable chocolate chip cookies, Maggie had concluded with relief
that the difficulty, whatever it was, had been resolved.

But now it struck her, as she reviewed her roster, that she might be
looking at the source of the woman's pique.  Could it be that Gail was
angry at not being selected as a leader?

Maggie chided herself for the oversight.  Unfortunately, Gail Weider
was the type that blended instantly and invisibly: human Covermark.

She was assiduously average.  Medium height and weight.

Standard-issue brown hair and eyes.  Personality unburdened by excesses
of any sort.  She was incredibly easy to overlook.

But she was every bit as capable and dedicated as other aides who'd
joined the program long after she had, and who'd already been chosen to
run phobia groups.

Now, anxious to make things right, Maggie phoned Gail's apartment and
left a detailed message on the answering machine.

"I'm looking forward to hearing from you," she concluded.  "I know
you'll do a terrific job as a leader."

That done, Maggie felt better, as if an invisible splinter had been
removed.  To feel better still, she decided to get something to eat.

Tuning to the sandpaper growl from her stomach, she realized that Gail
Weider was not the only one she'd been ignoring.

Lunchtime, and a long line of staff and visitors snaked out from the
cafeteria entrance.  Impatiently gauging a minimum fifteen-minute wait,
Maggie was about to give up when she heard a beckoning voice.

"Maggie?  Dr.  Lyons?  Come on.  We've been holding your place."

She walked to the front of the queue where Mitch Goldberg was standing
beside Daisy Tyler.

Eyeing the crush behind them, she shook her head.  "I really
shouldn't."

Daisy caught her eye.  "Please, Doctor.  I'd really love it if you'd
join us."

A pair of nurses behind them pressed back to make room.  "It's okay,
Dr.  Lyons.  No big rush to eat in this place."

"Thanks, if you're sure."  Maggie fell in beside Daisy and the resident
and picked up a tray.

As they slipped into a sun-drenched booth near the window, Maggie
noticed that Daisy had done her hair and even applied an artful trace
of makeup.  Soft gray shadow, peach blush, and a pale matching lipstick
defined her features and replaced the prison pallor with a pleasant
glow.  Daisy wore the white blouse and black slacks one of the nurses
had picked up for her at Macy's.

The outfit was crisp and flattering, especially with the addition of a
flowered neck scarf and red hoop earrings.

"You look great," Maggie said sincerely.

Daisy dipped her eyes.  "You think so?"

"Absolutely.  How's it going?"

"All right, I guess."

Goldberg grinned.  "Come now, Ms. Tyler.  We'll have none of that
false modesty.  This morning, Maggie, she walked all the way to the
corner with her aide.  Then they went down to the gift shop, and Daisy
picked out a few things for herself."

Daisy touched the scarf.  "You like it?  The earrings were on sale."

"They're perfect.  You have a real sense of style."

The woman flushed with pleasure.  "I used to dream of working in a
boutique someday.  One of those small, elegant places on Madison
Avenue.  Pretty ridiculous, huh?"

"Not at all," Maggie assured her.  "You can still do that, once you're
feeling better."

Daisy tensed and studied at her salad plate.

"I meant after a lot of work and healing, Daisy.  A goal for the
future.  No one's going to make you do anything before you're ready."

But there was clearly no way to convince the woman that she'd ever be
up to such an overwhelming challenge.  Maggie caught Goldberg's eye and
passed a cautionary look.  Don't push it.

Gradually, Daisy would come to the necessary new understandings on her
own.  The three fell silent and started on their food.

Goldberg broke the awkward hush with a string of hilarious stories.

The young doctor was a natural comic.  He had perfect timing and a real
flair for impersonations.  His George Bush was so perfect, the
ex-president seemed a poor imitation.

Daisy's laugh was infectious.  Maggie delighted in watching the woman
enjoy herself, and she was very grateful to Goldberg.

Resident schedules were notoriously impossible.  The guy could be using
this precious scrap of free time to catch up on sleep, friends, or
family.  Putting himself out to amuse a troubled patient was well
beyond any reasonable call of duty.

When they finished their meals, Goldberg accompanied them to the second
floor and saw Daisy to her room.

"I'm off tomorrow," he told her.  "When I stop by to see you the day
after, I expect you to have at least two adventures to report.

"I'll try, Doctor."

"So happens the best falafel in New York is just around the corner.

You go once, you'll thank me."

Daisy dipped her eyes.  "I'll do the best I can."

"That's a deal."  Goldberg tagged beside Maggie as far as her office
door.  "Looks like she's coming along nicely," he said.

"Looks like you are, too."

His grin was mischievous.  "So how come I'm still waiting for that
special thanks you said you owe me?"

"Slipped my mind.  Next time we dine at Cher Ivy, it's on me.

I promise."

"Sorry, Dr. Lyons.  If you want to express your appreciation for my
selfless professionalism and astonishing wit, you'll have to do better
than the hospital cafeteria."

Maggie couldn't help smiling.  Guy was awfully cute.  Probably appealed
to the roving gang of mommy genes that bullied their way into her
consciousness from time to time.

Which gave her a devilish notion.

"How's next Saturday?  I'm having dinner with my father and a friend.

You're welcome to join us."

He hesitated, then said: "I'd be delighted."

"Great.  I'll let you know when we decide the time and place.

Closing the office door behind her, she enjoyed a moment of pure
diabolical delight.  Seeing Tina in the company of a juvenile peer like
Mitch Goldberg was bound to bring her father closer to his misplaced
senses.  Maybe the two little ones would even hit it off and decide to
form their own play group.  True, that might bruise her Dad's ego.  But
Maggie was confident he'd soon forget this absurd relationship and move
on to fresh unsuitable pursuits.

There was a knock.  Knowing her next appointment wasn't expected for an
hour, Maggie assumed it was someone on staff.

. Jome m.

Too late, she found herself confronted by the relentless Bannister.

"What now, Detective?"

"Listen, I'm really sorry about yesterday.  I should have told you
straight out what I was looking for.  I don't know what got into me."

Maggie knew exactly what he was full of, but she didn't bother to share
her diagnosis.  Instead, she decided to try the firm, reasoned
approach.  There had to be some way through the man's thick skull.

"I told you, I'm not giving you the Macklin file or anything else, Mr.
Bannister.  And I do not appreciate your snooping, trying to get
information about him or me from other people on this staff.  If you
don't give it up, I'm going to ask hospital security to bar you from
the building.

The threat didn't penetrate.

"I'd be glad to give it up if it wasn't so critical, Dr.  Lyons.

Believe me, the last thing I want to do is annoy you.  But I need to
see that file."

"Believe me, Detective.  You are annoying the hell out of me, and it's
not going to get you what you want."

Maggie expected further argument, but Bannister suddenly tacked and set
the conversation on an entirely different course.

"Do you ever treat teenagers, Dr.  Lyons?"

"Why do you ask?"

"I think my daughter's having a problem.  She won't say what exactly,
but she's not herself.  I was hoping maybe we could have lunch or
whatever and talk about it."

"If your daughter has a problem, she's the one who should be talking
about it."

"I know, but she's in Boston.  I just want to get your read on the
situation.  Figure out what I should do."

Maggie put it all through the processor and came out with a nice puree
of horse manure.  The man would use anything, even some invented
crisis.  Wouldn't surprise her if the daughter were invented as well.

"Nice try, Mr. Bannister.  But if I won't let you in the door, I'm not
about to allow you to sneak in through a window."

"I'm not trying to do that, Dr.  Lyons.  At least, not now, I'm not.

This honestly has nothing to do with the Macklin case.

I'd really value your opinion about what's happening with my little
girl.  If lunch isn't good, how about meeting me for a drink after
work?"

"I'm busy."

"Dinner?  Breakfast?  Coffee?  You name it."

"I have named it, Detective.  It's called no."" He hitched his head
toward the door.  "Afraid the boyfriend would object?"

She frowned.  "I don't know what you're talking about, and frankly, I
don't care."

He frowned harder.  "I'll call you, Dr.  Lyons."

"Threats will get you nowhere, Detective."

As soon as he was out the door, the phone trilled.  Lifting the receiver
ch.o hPrl the terto rolls rllsh of Lawrence Ivy's respirator.

"I spoke with Alex, Maggie.  Go ahead and plan your symposium.

My son will not interfere."

"You mean it?  That's wonderful.  You're wonderful.  Tell me what
happened?  I want the complete play-by-play."

He chuckled dryly.  "No energy right now, my dear.  Another time?"

"Of course.  You get some rest.  And thanks so much.  I can't tell you
what this means to me."

"My pleasure.  Good-bye now."

Maggie's happiness was muted by her friend's obvious exhaustion.

She was desperate to save the clinic, but she didn't want that or
anything to be accomplished at the expense of Lawrence's frail
health.

Troubled, she dialed his apartment and spoke to his nurse.  The woman
assured Maggie that the old man always experienced a dip in energies
after a visit, especially a visit from his son.

"He was thrilled to be able to help you with your conference, Dr.
Lyons," the nurse said.  "He's been talking about it nonstop since you
left last night.  Haven't seen him as up about anything in months.  It
was good medicine, honestly."

Relieved, Maggie hung up, then asked Henry to come in and help her make
the preliminary conference arrangements.  He arrived an instant later
armed with a steno pad and a satisfied smile.

"Leave it to you.  If there was any way to convince President Ivy to go
along with your symposium, I knew you'd find it."

"Let's say I went around him."

Henry nodded.  "That's you, Maggie.  You want something, you don't quit
until you get it."

"In this case, I guess you're right.  This clinic is way too important
to be scuttled by petty politics or personal grudges.

I'm sure the symposium will solve our financial problem, but it's going
to take a tremendous amount of work."

"We'd better get to it, then.  Tell me exactly what needs doing."

Twenty minutes later, he left with a pile of assignments.

He'd insisted on seeing to most of the arrangements him self, and
Maggie didn't argue.  Knowing Henry's unfailing efficiency and
scrupulous attention to detail, she was confident that under his
direction the conference planning would proceed without a glitch.

When her two o'clock patient arrived, she was able to set the symposium
and the rest of her recent worries aside and focus completely on the
man's intense fear of heights.

In his mid-forties, Phil Lustberg was a tall, rangy character with jug
ears and large, limpid eyes.  As he described his reaction to high
places, Maggie tensed with her own remembered terrors.

"I feel as if I'm going to do something crazy, Dr.  Lyons.

Jump out the window or go off the theater balcony.  It's an urge
almost.  I'm scared to death, but at the same time, I feel pulled
toward the edge.  I know it sounds nuts."

"Not at all.  It's not uncommon."

Maggie knew the sensation only too well.  Before her own treatment,
she'd suffered precisely the same dread feelings.

Fear drawing her like a seductive siren.  Luring her to her own
destruction.

Maggie suppressed a shudder.  "The imagination can be extremely
powerful, Mr. Lustberg.  Sitting here, you know you're not going to
jump out any windows, but when you're in the phobic situation, it's
easy to get overwhelmed and lose your grip on reality.

"In this program, you'll learn how to work through those moments.

Once you understand and accept the fear, there are ways to distract
yourself until the worst of it passes and you're fully back in
control.

It takes time and practice, but you'll get to the point where the fear
won't rule you anymore.

"I dearly hope you're right, Dr. Lyons.  I can't do my job.  My wife
and friends are about out of patience.  It's making me crazy."

"That's what we're here to help you with.  You're going to learn to
deal with your anxiety and get your life back on track.

"I'd give anything."

"All it takes is time and effort."

Maggie shook his hand.  She set her face in a mask of confidence and
held it until he was out the door.

Everything would work out, she thought.  One way or the other.

CHAPTER 24.

Bannister could not get his mind off his daughter.  Waiting until he
knew the child would have left for her babysitting job, he steeled
himself and put in a call to his ex-wife.

When he expressed his concern about Chloe, Lila was her usual,
compassionate self.  The woman was full of helpful suggestions.  If he
had objections to the way she was raising the child, he could go to
hell, she told him.  And on the way there, he could mail off his
support check.  He was three days late, and she was sick of his crap.

So sick, in fact, she was thinking of reporting the ailment to the
domestic relations people.

As Lila saw it, there was nothing wrong with Chloe.  But if the child
had any problem, it was probably her irresponsible, insensitive
father.

After all, her mother was perfect.

The perfect bitch.

Banging the receiver down, Bannister let Lila's accusation wash over
him.  Since he'd first felt the marriage crumbling several years back,
he'd worried about the effects of a split on his daughter.  He'd held
on as long as inhumanly possible.  He hadn't wanted Chloe to be
subjected to the inevitable anger and hostility.  The threats and
retribution.  The tug-of-war.

He knew it all too well.  His own home had been broken, though not by
divorce.  Bannister's parents had stayed together to the bitter end,
and a very bitter end it had been.  Five years ago, after his father
died of a heart attack, his mother had celebrated with the unbridled
joy of a freed hostage.  Bannister knew their love had predeceased his
dad by thirty or more years, but it had still hurt to get slammed with
the evidence.

Growing up, Bannister had fantasized that it would be different for his
kids.  He'd imagined having a noisy, boisterous pack of them.  A real
home and family full of love, light, and energy.

He'd hoped that he and some hypothetical soulmate could give his kids
solid walls of support and security.  Two loving parents to shield them
from life's hard knocks and rough edges.  Neat trick.

He just hadn't been able to figure out how to pull it off.

"Let's go to work, Sam," Lenny said, nudging him.  "You can't spend all
your time worrying."

"Says who?"

The next number on the call list Macklin had made from the Newport
hotel was to Alter Ego, Inc. It turned out to be a theatrical costume
company on lower Broadway.

The building's street level housed a luncheonette, a stationer's, and a
shoe repair shop.  Above were seven floors of dance studios and
rehearsal halls.  The costume company occupied the shabby building's
ninth and tenth floors.  The only access was a creaky commercial
lift.

Price paled as the ancient mechanism stuttered its way to the top.

"You okay, Lenny?"

"Listen to that.  Thing sounds like it's going to fall.  You see an
inspection sticker?"

"Since when are you afraid of elevators?"

"I'm not afraid of elevators.  It's riding in them I don't like."

"Funny.  I never noticed."

"Believe me, Sam.  There's nothing funny about it."

"Hell.  You should have been the one to go see Doc Lyons.  You wouldn't
have had to fake it."

Price nodded stiffly.  "Aren't we there yet?"

The elevator disgorged them into a cavernous space crowded with racks
of garish garments and bizarre accessories.  Fake limbs, futuristic
weapons, creature masks, a rainbow of wigs.

Several people worked the inventory, boxing and tagging.  Bannister and
Price edged through the tight aisle between a pair of dress racks
toward the line of offices in the rear.

Dusty, dirty, flying bits of frill and feathers.  By the time they
emerged at the far end of the racks, Bannister's nose itched and there
was a fierce tickle at the back of his throat.  Took three sneezes to
neutralize the damage.

His knock at the first occupied office was answered by a plump, bald
man with wide-set eyes and an odd hitch to his walk.

Natural frog.  No costume necessary.

Bannister explained the purpose of the visit.  Froggy didn't blink when
he mentioned Theodore Macklin.

"Name's not familiar to me.  But I only handle the major theatrical
accounts.  What kind of business is this Macklin guy in?"

Bannister wished he knew.  "Investments."

"Probably rented for a private party then.  Sit.  I should be able to
look it right up for you."

The nameplate on the desk said Howard Storch.  A photo on the wall
showed Howard huddling with his wife and their three tadpoles on the
lawn of a massive estate.  Bannister watched as the man fingered
through a giant Wheeldex.

"Funny.  No Macklin on the customer list.  Maybe Elva knows.

She's our office manager.  She knows everything."

Howard picked up his phone and dialed an extension.  Seconds later, a
round face capped by a blond beehive poked in.

"Elva darling.  These detectives say someone named Theodore Macklin
called here about a week ago.  Sound familiar?"

"Nope.  Who'd he talk to?"

"That's what we're trying to find out."

Elva batted a lethal set of false lashes.  "Sorry.  We don't log
incomings.

"Do you keep message logs?  Or records of calls out?"  Price asked.

"Both, but I don't sec"

"Show them, Elva dear," said Howard.  "Alter
Ego is always glad to cooperate with the boys in blue."

Bannister and Price spent the next hour poring over a boxful of
duplicate message slips.  They found nothing from Theodore Macklin and
no calls from anyone in Rhode Island.  Next, helpful Elva produced a
printed list of recent long-distance calls made from Alter Egos
phones.

Each office was assigned a code number, she explained, so the bills
could be charged to the right departments.  Personal calls were
strictly monitored and billed to employees.  The aspiring actors they
often hired for stock work on a temporary basis liked to reach out and
touch an astounding number of people.

Price found the number for the Doubletree Inn on the second page of
calls.  "Got it, Sam.  Whose code is twentyeight?"

Elva looked it up and led them to the last office on the right.  A
thirtyish man with platinum hair and plastic features greeted them with
a histrionic bow.  His teeth were unnaturally white, and his voice was
an octave or so deeper than God's.

"Clint Traynor," he said with a rakish heft of his sculpted brow.

"If you gentlemen are seeking that special look for a memorable night
on the town, you've come to the right place."  He scanned Bannister's
body with unabashed interest.  "Anyone ever tell you you'd make
afabulous pirate?"

Elva snorted.  "Can it, Clint.  They're cops.  They're interested in
someone you called."

Clint frowned at the number.  "Not me, Elva.  I don't know a soul in
area code four-oh-one."

"Business maybe?  Think, dearie.  It was made from your extension.

He eyed the list.  "Oh, no.  Not again.  Last month Howard got me for
almost ten dollars' worth of personals to numbers I didn't know.  It
was close to twelve the month before.  I did not make that call, and
I'm not paying."

Elva tamped the turbulent air.  "All right, all right.  Don't get
excited.  I'll check it out."

"You'd better.  It's not the money.  It's the principle," he sniffed.

Elva led them back to the antique elevator.  "I have a

feeling who it might be," she told them, and asked for their number.

"Either way, I'll call you later."

Price was eager to hit the next stop.  Bannister was dragging.

With the way things weren't going and his nagging worries about his
daughter, he was about ready to cash his few remaining chips and head
home.  Maybe Chloe would perk up if he took a week off and spent some
time with her.  There were more important things in life than the
damned Macklin case and solvency.

"I think you were right in the first place, Lenny.  Why don't we just
call it quits?  I could surprise Chloe.  Take her to my place for a
couple of weeks."

"But you said she was really looking forward to going away with her
grandmother next week."

"True."

"And didn't you tell me she loves the babysitting job she's got for the
rest of this week?"

"Yes.

"So you think you should wait a couple of weeks or ask her to give up
the things she's enjoying?"

"Where to next, Lenny?"

After their abortive visit to the Popov family the previous night,
Price had contacted a friend at the Immigration and Naturalization
Service.  Price's INS connection had tracked the Popov clan to its
origins in the town of Staritsa, north of Moscow.

From Staritsa, Anatoly, his wife, Luta, two of Anatoly s brothers, and
the couple's two young children had applied for exit visas five years
ago.  Their entry to the states was approved after Luta's uncle agreed
to sponsor the family's quest for U.S. citizenship.

The uncle, Mischa Nemichev, had provided the Popovs with interim
housing and financial support.  Once the adults qualified for work
permits, Uncle Mischa had found jobs for them in his company: Nemichev
and Sons, Jewelers.

IRS records confirmed that Luta and the brothers Popov--Anatoly,
Arkady, and Danik--were all currently employed by the jewelry firm,
which had thirty-eight workers on the weekly payroll.

The retail end of the business was conducted out of booth twenty-seven
of the Metallica Exchange in the midtown diamond district.

Passing the row of glassed storefronts, Bannister shaded his eyes
against the glare of the display diamonds.  There were doorknob rings,
giant drop earrings, and icicle chains designed to choke only the most
privileged throats.  The priceless glitter stood in stark contrast to
the somber proprietors, mostly Anatoly Popov clones with cheap, dark
suits and dreary expressions.

The Metallica Exchange housed a labyrinth of cramped cubicles.

Each was manned by a company elder and a couple of smiling underlings
trained to hawk the wares.  Many of the booths were deserted.  At a
few, customers scanned the crowded sample cases for bargains or
indulgences or, better yet, both.

Bannister and Price circled booth twenty-seven and bowed their heads
over the counter of a nearby vendor with similar merchandise and a
fortunate view.  A solicitous young woman approached them.

"Help you, gentlemen?"

"Thought maybe I'd pick up a little something for the wife," Price
said.  "Her birthday's coming up."

"Bracelet, pendant, necklace?"

"A ring maybe."

"Precious or semiprecious?  Formal or informal?  Fourteen- or
eighteen-carat?"

Soon, they were surrounded by tottering trays of rings ranging from the
mildly overstated to the frankly ostentatious.

Ruthie, a sensible person whose home base was Earth, wouldn't be caught
dead in any of them, Bannister knew.  Fortunate, given that the
cheapest cost about a twobedroom condo in the Keys, even in a slack
market.

Price was doing a commendable job of feigning interest.

Borrowing the woman's jeweler's loupe, he spewed his standard
overabundance of trivial information.

"I'd say this is G color, clarity near flawless.  WS grade, am I
right?"

He handed back the loupe.  The woman's eyes were stretched with
astonishment.  "Exactly."

Bannister was getting a headache.  Probably the altitude of the prices,
he thought.  While the saleswoman chirped on, he kept a surreptitious
eye on booth twenty-seven.

Despite the general lull at most counters, business was brisk at
Nemichev and Sons.  A burly dark man presided over the operation.

He was assisted by two slender women who sought his constant advice.

"How much for this, Uncle Mischa?  Can we do this in sapphire, Uncle
Mischa?"  A steady line of customers eyed the merchandise, made their
choices, and slipped away.  While Bannister watched, there were two
tanned men with ponytails, a trim young couple in pastel jogging
clothes, and a trio of jewel-encrusted women who'd obviously enjoyed a
plentiful liquid lunch.

A couple of strange things caught Bannister's trained eye
immediately.

The packages the ponytailed pair took away were crude, paper-wrapped
bundles in lieu of the neat velvet boxes and drawstring sacks the
others received.  And he caught no currency exchange between the
bearish Uncle Mischa and the tanned guys.

Not even the casual scrawl of signatures on notes of memoranda that
were standard for the trade.  No cash, no credit cards.

Nothing but the satisfied look of the two departing men and the even
deeper smile of contentment on the face of the proprietor.

Something was clearly not kosher.  But Bannister strongly doubted that
it had anything to do with the Martha Rafferty murder.

He could feel another of Price's damned detours coming on.

"Ready to go, Lenny?"

"I don't know, Sam.  The round cut, you think?  Or the emerald?

Round's a better investment, but I think Ruthie likes the classic
less-faceted look."

"Your call.

"Yeah?  So hard to decide.  Guess I'd better think about it.

You open tomorrow?"

"All day."

"Great.  We'll be back."

She gave him a look that said she knew better and started packing away
the samples.

Out on the street, Bannister sucked a breath to clear his lungs of the
extravagance.  "My feeling is we're getting off the track here,
Lenny.

What do you think?"

"The truth?  I think Ruthie would love a diamond solitaire and a
wedding band to match.  Nothing too fancy, mind you--"

"The way I see
it, nothing here could possibly have anything to do with the Rafferty
murder.  You agree?"

Price's face was dreamy.  "I bet she'd kill me if I showed up with the
rings.  But murder by Ruthie is not exactly what you'd call
punishment.

You know what I'm saying?"

"Stick with me here, Lenny.  I'm suggesting we forget this other
business Macklin might have been involved in whatever it is, and
concentrate on the Rafferty case."

"How can we forget what we don't know, Sammy?  Have a little patience,
will you?  It's like I always tell you.  You take your time, you'll get
there much sooner."

CHAPTER 25.

Closing the symposium file, Maggie rubbed her neck to ease the kinks.

Henry was handling most of the conference plans, and Pam had agreed to
do anything she could to help.  But Maggie still had to line up the
keynote speakers and the panel moderators.

She'd spent the last hour and a half on the phone, and so far, things
were going better than she'd dared to hope.

Initial enthusiasm for the project was high.  Nearly everyone she'd
contacted had agreed to participate.  Several of her colleagues had
offered help and useful suggestions.  One director of a phobia program
in Ohio had even volunteered to take charge of publicity.

Maggie was increasingly assured that the conference would be
successful.  By Henry's preliminary reckoning of costs and probable
enrollment, they'd be able to raise more than enough to save the
clinic.

Which definitely called for a celebration.  Unfortunately, Pam was tied
up with her niece's birthday party, and Henry had long-standing plans
with a neighbor.  Ethan took more energy than Maggie cared to expend at
the moment, and the two other friends she tried were out.

Dialing her apartment, Maggie found herself hoping that her mother had
decided to spend another night at Cousin Kathy's.

A solitary celebration would be far more festive than dinner with the
world champion wet blanket.  But no such luck.  Francine picked up,
with her customary groan of greeting, after the third ring.

Maggie managed to squelch her disappointment and muster a trace of
enthusiasm.

"Mom?  How about getting gussied up and meeting me at Grifone?"

The elegant Italian restaurant on East Forty-sixth was a favorite of
Maggie's.  Wonderful food, lovely atmosphere, fabulous service.

Perfect place to mark an occasion.

"You mean where we went for Aunt Hannah's birthday?  Isn't that awfully
expensive?"

"It's my treat.  I'm up for a special dinner."

Sigh.  "You'd better count me out then, dear.  I'm afraid I wouldn't be
very good company."

Ask Mom to a picnic, she'll volunteer to bring the storm clouds.

"What's wrong?"

Deeper sigh.  "Oh, nothing.  I called your father with a question a
while ago, and some chippie answered.  Acted like she owned the
place."

Same old revolving door.  At least once a week, her mother found an
excuse to telephone her father's apartment.  Then she sank into the
doldrums over something she did or did not hear.

"Why do you keep doing this to yourself?  You know it's always a
problem for you when you call Dad."

"There was a financial matter I needed to discuss with him.

After all those years together, you can't simply cut a person out of
your life.  You might have told me about his new flame, Maggie.  I felt
so foolish."

Maggie suppressed a sigh of her own.  "Please come to dinner.

We'll have fun."

"No, really.  I'm exhausted, and I have no appetite.  It'd be a waste
of money.  How old is this new one anyway?  She sounds like a child."

So much for merrymaking.  Her mother's blue funks required lavish doses
of TLC.  Take-out chicken and salad from Eddie's Deli with a side of
sympathy it would be.  Probably some humble pie a la crow for
dessert.

Yes, I am a rotten daughter, Mom.  I should certainly have told you
about Dad's new lady love.  After all, if you cant count on your
children to t,orment you, who can you count on
Talk about expensive.

Suddenly, Maggie was not all that anxious to leave her office.

She dawdled, clearing up the mess on her desk.  That done, she flipped
through her book to see what pending matters she might be able to clear
up before she headed home.

Her eye settled on the still-open question of a leader for the new
group.  Gail Weider hadn't returned her call.  Maybe some further
persuading was in order.  Maggie decided to try again.

She dialed Gail's apartment and let the phone ring seven times.

No answer.  Funny.  The machine had been on earlier.  Gail had an
admitted fetish about being reachable in case one of her multitudinous
relatives tried to contact her.  The Weiders were a very close and
calamitydriven family.  By Maggie's reckoning, they held the world
record for near misses, medical scares, and harrowing escapes.

To remain firmly in the hysterical loop, Gail was forever investing in
the latest model answering device.  When she wasn't home, she called in
at least hourly for messages.  Maggie couldn't imagine Gail forgetting
to turn on her machine.

Not unless there had been a real emergency for a change.  What if Gail
were sick or injured and unable to get to the phone?

What if she'd been accosted by a burglar or rapist in her apartment?

Cut it out, Maggie.  You're starting to think like your mother.

There had to be a simple explanation.  Maybe Gail was in the shower.

Or maybe she'd stepped out for a second to dump the garbage or do her
wash.  Maggie knew that Gail's building was only a few blocks from her
own.  She decided to stop by on her way home and discuss the group
leadership in person.

Leaving the floor, she bumped into Francis Kennedy.  The overgrown elf
seemed to materialize out of thin air.

"Excuse me, F.X."

"No need."  He flashed an insipid grin as he moved a plant two
centimeters to the left to conform to the others.

"You can crash my wagon anytime, Doctor dear."

Maggie winced at his strong boozy smell and the higher-than-usual color
staining his freckled cheeks.  "You know better than to come here when
you've been drinking.  Please leave."

"With you?  You bet."

"I mean, please leave by yourself.  If you persist in breaking the
rules, I'm not going to be able to keep you on as an aide."

Alex Ivy's pal or not, Maggie was not putting up with this.

He raked his fingers through his carrot-curl hair, then straightened
his tie.  "Sure you're not up for dinner?"

"I'm positive."  Maggie strode away, feeling an odd sense of menace.

The man's harmless, she assured herself.  Harmless.

Another muggy night.  The sky was an ominous ash color and had the
crackling feel of an impending storm.  Quickening her pace, Maggie
headed north on York Avenue.  With a little luck, she could pay a fast
visit, pick up dinner, and beat the rain home.

Gail's apartment house was an ivory brick box sandwiched between a
firehouse and a vacant municipal building.  The first drops of rain
freckled the pavement as Maggie entered.  In the tiny foyer, Maggie
found two Weiders listed on the building directory.

She pressed the button for G Weider in 4J.

After a pause, she buzzed again.  No answer.  So much for the shower
and laundry theories.  Gail would have been finished with either of
those long before now.  Maggie was sure there were other plausible
innocent scenarios, but none came immediately to mind.

On impulse, she pressed the buzzer for the other Weider.

Before she could question the wisdom of the move, a male voice squawked
through the speaker.

"Yes?"

"Hello.  I'm Maggie Lyons, a friend of Gail Weider's from East End.  I
m--"

"I know.  Eight B. Come on up."

The lock release droned.  Maggie pressed open the inner door to the
lobby.  Inside, she hesitated.  The voice over the intercom sounded as
if she were expected.  Either he'd mistaken her for someone else, or by
fortunate coincidence Gail was in that apartment.

The other Weider could well be a relative, she decided.  Lord knew Gail
had plenty of those.

As the elevator opened on eight, Maggie was accosted by a crush of
voices.  She tracked the noise to the B apartment, last on the right.

The door was open.  From that and the decibel level, Maggie gathered
that there was a party in progress.  She was reluctant to intrude, but
having come this far, she thought she might as well butt in long enough
to confirm that Gail was all right.

She rapped on the door frame, drawing curious looks from a knot of
people in the foyer beyond the open door.  Given the physical
resemblance, it had to be a Weider family gathering.  Everyone shared
the same amazingly unremarkable looks, size, and coloring.

All fell silent.

Clearing her throat, she hastened to fill the awkward hush.

"I'm Maggie Lyons.  A friend of Gail's from East End.  I hate to
interrupt but--" A man in his forties stepped forward.  "Not at all.

I'm Don Weider, Gail's cousin.  I'll take you in.  They're all in the
den."

Grasping her elbow, he steered her forcefully down a hallway lined with
family photographs and clusters of chatting relatives.

No wonder Gail hadn't bothered to turn on her phone machine.

Virtually everyone in her universe was gathered right here.

Maggie hesitated.  "Maybe I should come back another time.  . .

."

"Not at all.  Go on in."  Holding fast to her elbow, he paused at a
closed door and knocked gently.  "Estelle?  Marion?  It's a friend of
Gail's from the hospital."

A line of Gail clones, men, women and children, sat on the L-shaped
sofa inside.  Another several stood talking near the window.  At first,
Maggie couldn't pluck her friend from the garden of look-alikes.  But
then, Maggie spotted her ex-patient.

Her knees buckled, and she felt the color drain from her cheeks.  A
pair of faces, tight with concern, swam toward her through the thick,
rippling air.

"Are you all right?  Here, sit."

The throng on the couch parted to make room for her.  Maggie slumped in
the space, drew a tremulous breath, and waited for the walls to stop
wavering.

"Feeling better?  Can I get you a brandy?  Something to eat?

"No, I'm all right now.  It was just such a shock."

"It was to everyone."

Maggie's eyes drifted back to the open coffin near the window.

The group gathered in front of it had thinned, so she had a clearer
view of Gail's ashen face.

"What happened?"

"Terrible accident upstate.  Aunt Gail drove her car off a cliff
rounding a turn.  Went right through the guardrail.  Troopers said she
was going way over the speed limit.  But that's the craziest thing I
ever heard.  If you're a friend from the hospital, you must know how
scared Gail was of driving.  Used to be she wouldn't get behind the
wheel at all.  Last few months, she was a little better about it.  Even
went to visit Aunt Grace in Merrick for her anniversary.  But we all
still teased about how slow and cautious she was.  Gail the snail, we
called her.  Her brother always said if our Gail drove any slower she'd
be moving in reverse."

Maggie's mind bristled with disbelief.  Gail Weider would never have
gone careening around some perilous curve.  She'd never drive at
excessive speed under any circumstances.  No more than Theodore Macklin
would have blithely hopped on a bridge railing and fallen to his
death.

What was happening?

CHAl?TER
True to her word, Elva from Alter Ego had cracked the mystery of the
call to Newport in record time.  Noting that the unauthorized charges
from Clint Traynor's extension had been made in the evening, Elva had
stayed at the costume company after hours to catch the culprit.  First
night out, and she'd bagged her bird.

"It was exactly who I suspected: the slut," Elva had informed Price
triumphantly when she'd called earlier.  Price had strained to hear her
through the pelting rain that struck the flimsy windows of the hovel
like buckshot.  Howard the frog, Elva explained, had been fooling
around with this woman for several months.  Everyone knew about it
except Howard's poor wife, May Ellen, who was a lovely woman and a
saint and definitely did not deserve such shabby treatment.

"Men," Elva spat, summarizing her analysis of the gender.

As Elva told it, the slut was a cabaret singer named Fern Compton
Harlow who traveled worldwide, performing in clubs.  When Fern was in
town, she often showed up at the costume company, but always after
business hours.  Employees working overtime had reported slut
sightings.  Elva suspected that Howard had one of the seamstresses stay
late to run up new dresses for Ms. Harlow to wear in her no-talent
act.

Elva described the songbird as a flamboyant harlot with hundreds of
sequined gowns.  Given that she was wearing one of them when Elva
caught her on Clint Traynor's phone, Ms. Harlow was probably off to
one of her sleazy crooning jobs tonight.  Price could find out where
she was performing through her agent.  Ever diligent, Elva provided the
man s name and number.

"What's the point of chasing this, Lenny?"  Bannister demanded.

"What can Howard and his cabaret canary possibly have to do with Martha
Rafferty's murder?"

"There's only one way to find out, Sam."

"Go yourself then.  I'm really not interested."

"You don't have to be interested.  All you have to do is drive and
bring some of Mrs. Rafferty's advance money for expenses.  The club is
way downtown, so we'll never be able to find a cab back, especially in
this weather."

"We won't need to if we don't bother to go."

"Coming here and continuing with this case was your idea, Sam.

Remember?"

"I'm trying to forget."

After his fifth pass through the area, Bannister gave up trying to find
a free space and pulled into a park-and-lock on West Broadway.  The
gap-toothed man in the booth demanded payment in advance.  By the time
the attendant counted out the change, giving each single a complete
physical before handing it over, the rain had saturated Bannister's
shirt and gotten a running start on his pants and shoes.

The Coco Loco Club was in TriBeCa, so named because the downtown
Manhattan section formed a triangle below Canal Street.

The club claimed the ground floor of an office building and boasted a
mock tropical motif.  The lobby walls were done in a leopard print.

Velvet monkeys and inflatable coconuts hung from a lush plastic bower
of potted palms.  From inside came the insistent pulse of synthesized
jungle drums.

A large woman in cave-girl garb was posted at the door.  She had
three-mile legs and breasts so high-riding they resembled a flotation
collar.  She eyed Bannister and Price as if they were on a sale rack,
then stepped aside to let them pass.

They picked through a curtain of fake vines fitted with

stuffed butterflies and found themselves at Alley Oops's bar mitzvah.

A tight crush of pumping, gyrating, undulating dancers crowded the
dance floor.  Outsized body parts jiggled behind tiny swatches of fake
fur.  The walls were draped in light-studded mosquito netting.  The
tables were tree trunks rendered in papier-mache.

Amorous couples cuddled on fake driftwood banquets.  A waiter in a
baboon suit slalomed through the throng wielding a tray of drinks in
pineapple and coconut shells.  As Price and Bannister stood absorbing
the scene, another baboon in a loincloth and a shirtless collar caught
Bannister by the wrist.

Bannister responded with his customary calm.  "If you're fond of that
hand, you'd better get it the hell off me The guy's bravado melted like
candle wax.  Releasing Bannister, he set his hands on his hips.

"This happens to be a private club.  I'll have to ask you two gentlemen
to leave.

"We'll go after we speak to Fern Harlow."

"Sorry.  Members only."

Bannister grabbed the guy by the collar and twisted hard.

"But for us you'll make an exception, right" There was a gurgling.

"Was that a yes ?"

Tight nod.

Bannister let go.  The bouncer staggered and clutched his rumpled
collar.

"Now where's Fern Harlow?"

"Right there."

The lights dimmed, and a striking woman appeared in a wavering cone of
light.  Her hair was an ebony satin spill.  Eyes a haunting lilac.  She
was poured into a tube of floorlength red sequins slit to reveal a
well-done thigh quarter.  Gems glittered at her lobes, wrists, and
neck.  Bannister made her at six feet minimum and way too rich for his
budget, even if he'd been in the market.

But there was no charge for window shopping.

She slunk to center stage, tossed her hair, and drew enough breath to
fill a parade float.  Waiting out four bars of sultry introduction, she
started the set.

Her voice was warm syrup, her moves the sinuous coil of a seeking
vine.

Everything she sang was slow and languid: "The Man I Love,"
"Just My
Bill,"
"Stranger in Paradise."  And she made lazy love to herself as
she oozed out the notes.

Bannister knew better than to be seduced by slick visuals.

He'd fallen into that trap with Lila.  Bought the pretty package
blind.

Owned it outright before he'd even thought to fully examine the
contents.  At the time, the rotten return policy hadn't even crossed
his besotted mind.

". . . Iet's fa-a-a-all in 1ve," Fern Compton trilled, ending her final
number.  The lights came up.  But before Bannister and Price could
reach center stage, a crush of dancers had crowded the floor, masking
the diva's departure.  Bannister cornered the simian bouncer again.

"Where'd she go?"

The man planted a protective hand on his shirt collar.

"Dressing room.  Right behind the grass shack."

Bannister and Price wove through the writhing dancers and rounded the
fake front of a jungle hut.  Behind the prop was a door marked by a
frayed paper star.

Fern Compton Harlow responded to their knock with a throaty
invitation.

At close range, she was far less attractive.  Her skin was suffocated
by beige pancake.  The perfect features and flawless form had been
given an obvious surgical assist.  Her eyes and expression were frosted
over and didn't look worth the effort to thaw.

The dressing room was cramped.  There was a vanity, a cot, a small
settee, and a free-standing closet stuffed with glittery dresses.

Two suitcases and a steamer trunk occupied the remaining floor space.

Price asked the questions.  Fern Harlow played it pleasant and
cooperative.  She admitted using Clint Traynor's office on the
occasional evenings she spent at Alter Ego.  Howard Storch was a fan
and a good friend, she said, but nothing more.  He allowed her to use
the company's facilities when she was in town.  Living as she did in
hotels, she lacked access to fax, copiers, multiline phones, and other
equipment she needed to conduct her business.  She'd never had gowns or
anything else made at the costume company, she said.

She also denied any knowledge of Theodore Macklin.  If she'd called the
Doubletree Inn a week or so ago, it had to have been for some other
reason.

"I travel all the time, Detective.  If I phoned some hotel in Newport,
I've probably got a gig coming up there.  I like to book my own
rooms.

Make sure they don't stick me near the elevators or ice machines."

Price persisted.  The woman was slick and convincing, but the
coincidence of the Newport number was way too big a chunk to swallow.

Macklin calls Alter Ego, Fern Harlow calls the Doubletree later the
same day.  You have two and two, four is a reasonable expectation.

Woman had a manufactured smile and lush lips that she kept moistening
with her forked tongue.  Her slowcrossing legs exposed a deliberate
peek of lace.  Bannister saw right through the diversionary tactics,
but his hormones found them mildly amusing.

Still, she wouldn't budge from her story.  "Guess that's it then,"
Price said, reaching for the doorknob.  "Thank you, Miss Harlow."

"Sure you gentlemen don't want to catch the second show?"

"Thanks anyway," Bannister said.  By his calculations, they'd already
sat through two mediocre performances.

Back on the street, they dashed through the downpour to the car park.

As they drove uptown, Price worked the pieces together.

"So there's Anatoly Popov and those oddball transactions at the
Nemichev jewelry company.  And there's Fern Harlow, traveling diva, and
her friend Howard at Alter Ego.  Interesting.

"Left field, Lenny.  We're here about the Martha Rafferty murder.

Nothing else."

"Did you notice the diva's wardrobe, Sam?  And the airline tags on her
luggage?"

Price went on about the odd ports of call Fern Harlow had visited.

Third-world nations.  Bucolic islands.  Places where you wouldn't
expect to find nightclubs or cabaret acts.

And there was some complicated bit about the way her gown was sewn.

Apparently Ruthie, an accomplished amateur seamstress, had made a
sequined costume for their daughter, Rebecca, years back for a school
play.  Bannister tried, but he couldn't connect to the discussion.

Price lost him somewhere between Bahrain and the notions counter.

His thoughts swerved back to Chloe.  Given a hard enough shove in the
wrong direction, any kid could get derailed, even one as smart, real,
and together as his little girl had always seemed to be.

Daddy's girl.

He thought about their special mornings together.  Before the divorce,
they'd sneak out weekends while Lila was still asleep.

Bannister would take Chloe for pancakes and laughs.  Then they'd walk
and talk until they'd exhausted a month's supply of words.

Bannister could still feel Chloe's little hand in his as she skipped to
keep pace with his longer strides.  Sweet hand, warm and boneless.

Felt like a fragile bird, full of restless fluttering.

Chloe had always seemed so eager to grow up and away.

Big-eyed, impatient, dressing up in Lila's heels and makeup.  Bannister
had often imagined the hard time he'd have dealing with her becoming a
woman, a separate individual with other loves and a world and purpose
of her own.

Until now, he'd never given much thought to the terrifying
alternatives.

CHAPTER 26.

"So I was in the company cafeteria, and I couldn't help but overhear
these women talking at the next table.  They were describing this girl
in auditing who's having an affair with her periodontist.  I kept
picturing her in the chair, and the guy scraping her gums.  Not my idea
of a romantic interlude, that's for sure.  Anyhow, before I knew it,
I'd finished my whole sandwich."

Melissa, the blue-eyed beauty with the phobia about eating in public,
was finishing her recitation to the young adult group.

She was the third member of the Thursday Night Lyons Club to report her
progress and the third who'd made remarkable gains since the group's
initial meeting a week ago.  There was a scatter of applause and
congratulations, and the girl settled back in her seat, beaming.

"That's wonderful, Melissa.  You should be really proud of yourself."

Smiling, Henry turned to another group member.

"Stephen?  You want to tell us about your week next?"

The musician shifted in his seat and cast a wary eye toward the
window.

Last night's thunderstorm must have been a torment for him, Maggie
thought.  On her walk home from the Weiders', she'd been accompanied by
jarring thunderclaps and jagged spikes of lightning.

At the time, she'd been grateful for the tumultuous storm.  It had
provided a welcome distraction from the shock of Gail Weider's sudden
death.  At home, she was further distracted by her mother's hour-long
diatribe against Maggie's duplicitous father.  Mom saw her ex-husband
as a well-oiled spite machine.  She was convinced his every move was
designed solely to hurt and humiliate her.

Maggie didn't make a futile attempt to reason with the woman.

They'd had this discussion too many times.  It always ended exactly
where it began--no place.  Instead, she listened and sought to fill the
occasional pauses with attentive gestures and expressions of empathy.

Anything was better than dwelling on Gail Weider's inexplicable
death.

Even this.

But the tragic accident returned to taunt Maggie as she lay in her bed
hours later, well into the night but miles from sleep.

She kept trying to envision Gail's Chevy wagon screaming around a
perilous curve, splintering the guardrail, hurtling off a cliff.

She struggled to make it real, to set the reported circumstances in a
rational pocket of her mind.  But the image kept exploding in a puff of
incredulity.

What in the name of God was going on?

Tracy, the social phobic, was next to speak.  When Henry asked about
her progress, the young woman clutched her purse like a lifeline.

Henry didn't press her, and the rest of the group waited patiently for
a response.  Everyone in the room understood only too well the wall
Tracy was working to break through.

"My hardest thing is right here," she said finally.  "I stood in the
hall for twenty minutes before I could get myself to come inside."  Her
voice was tiny and rode on a tremor.  "I felt like running away.

"But you didn't," Henry said.  That's what matters.  And it's going to
get easier.  Now, can you tell us about your practice session with
Rosalie?"

Tracy looked tense enough to snap.  "We'd arranged to meet at the mall
Saturday.  I was on time, but no sign of Rosalie.  I almost turned
around and went home, but I figured maybe she'd gotten stuck in traffic
or something.  She showed up about fifteen minutes later.  Said she'd
been waiting for me the whole time in front of Macy's."

"What happened then?"  Henry prompted.

Tracy allowed a meek smile.  "I told her off, that's what

happened.  She's supposed to be helping me, not leaving me stranded and
scared half to death.  She admitted it was her mistake.  She
apologized, too, but I didn't let it go at that.

I'm afraid I really let her have it."

"Good for you," said Lauren with the big hair and matching mouth.

"I have to tell you, Tracy, you don't exactly come across as the
assertive type."

Tracy giggled.  "I'm not.  In fact, I couldn't believe what I was
saying.  But it felt great."

Henry was nodding enthusiastically.  "Best thing is to get a feeling
like that off your chest.  Otherwise, it can eat you up inside."

Maggie covered her mouth to mask the grin.  Henry was the least
confrontational soul imaginable.  If you parked your car on his foot,
he'd probably apologize for denting your tire.

"Jason?  Let's hear from you next.  How did your session with Binnie
go?"  Henry looked expectantly at the lanky young man slouched in his
chair.

"Two sessions," Jason amended with a shrug.  "Went okay, I guess.

We walked around the neighborhood the first time.  Yesterday, we went
to the boulevard and looked at the stores.  Had a soda.

No big deal."

"Sounds like an enormous deal to me," Henry said.  "Could this be the
same Jason Childs who had to be pried out of the house with a crowbar a
week ago?"

"I sure didn't picture you strolling around the neighborhood, Jason,"
Lauren contributed.  "Last week you said you were always thinking a dog
could be around the corner.  It's how I feel about bugs.  Like one
could be waiting for me any place, any time.

That's why I always need to see what's ahead of me, to make sure I'm
not going to run into a spider or something.  Keeps me out of dark
places, I'll tell you that much."

Jason shrugged again.  "No big thing."

Maggie stiffened.  How could he be so offhanded about such a monumental
change?  The young man even looked different.  His eyes were
brighter.

No more webs of fear.  An edge of authority had invaded his tone and
bearing.  And instead of the beige fade-in-the-wall outfit of last
week, he was wearing a bright print shirt and sneakers with iridescent
orange trim.

Eyeing the group, Maggie was struck by the enormous transformation in
every one of them.  They'd all come so far in one week.  Was it too
far?  Too fast?  Could there be something in this innocent-seeming
process that moved patients to take deadly dangerous risks?

Like Gail?

She pushed the awful thought aside.  Logic would not allow her to blame
the clinic for what had happened to Gail Weider or Theodore Macklin.

Hundreds of patients had gone through the group sessions.  Thousands
more had completed similar programs at other centers.  There was no
black magic here, nothing secret or sinister.  Just proven techniques
and hard work.

Maggie drank the rest of her iced tea.  Her throat felt raw and
fisted.

Get a grip, Magge.  Gail's death and Macklin's were two separate
cases.

Cut through the terrible coincidence, and there had to be a rational,
believable explanation for each shocking incident.

According to the Rhode Island police detective, Theodore Macklin's
company had probably been involved in illegal dealings.

Macklin might well have trampled some line and been marked for
execution.  If his murderers knew about his phobia, they could have
arranged his killing on a bridge as a sadistic sweetener to their cup
of revenge.  Nothing illogical there.

There had been no witnesses to Gail's accident.  The police were
spouting pure supposition when they said she'd been speeding around a
dangerous curve.  The skid marks they'd found could have been made by
another car altogether.  Maybe Gail's brakes had failed at a critical
moment.  Or she might have spun out of control on an oil slick or wet
patch.  That kind of thing could happen at any speed.

Gail's reason for driving so far from home was a bit harder to
fathom.

But Maggie hadn't seen Gail in a while.  It was possible the woman had
managed to press past her former limits and decided not to tell anyone
about it until she felt more confident.

Stranger things had happened.

Comforted by those rational explanations, Maggie turned to Henry as he
concluded the session.

"You're all off to a terrific start.  From now on, I'd like you to keep
personal journals.  Write down any situations that give you trouble and
instances where you deal well with your anxiety.

It will be really nice to be able to look back and see how far you've
come."  He extracted a small spiral notebook from his jacket pocket and
held it up.  "I still refer to my own clinic journal from time to
time.

Helps me remember how things used to be."

"And next time, please bring in your charts.  We'll collect and keep
them until the final session," Maggie added.  Each patient was asked to
record anxiety reactions during outside practice sessions.  The notes
were another good way of tracking and documenting individual
progress.

Phobics tended to underrate their accomplishments.  Building their
creaky confidence was a crucial element of the program.

With the formal session over, the Thursday Night Lyons Club adjourned
to the side of the conference room where Henry had arranged pitchers of
iced tea and a platter of brownies.

Maggie thought of the cookies from Gail Weider he'd served at last
week's meeting.  She'd been munching on the leftovers Henry had pressed
on her all week.  She still had a few on a plate on her kitchen
counter.  Strange to think of Gail's hands mixing and shaping the
dough.  Gail's fingers setting the finished confections on a doilied
platter.

The group had split in fragments.  Three of the girls stood near the
back of the room.  At the window, Lauren and Stephen were sipping iced
tea and talking.  Jason stood aside, watching warily.

Very odd kid.

Henry was straightening up the refreshment table.  He wore his special
occasion suit, a shapeless banker blue.  Maggie remembered that he'd
planned to pay respects to Gail's family on his lunch hour.

She walked over and waited for him to finish brushing off the
tabletop.

"How did it go at the Weiders'?"

He blinked, then seemed to find his place.  "They're holding up as well
as can be expected, I suppose.  Such a blow for them."

"Yes.  But I was asking about you."

Maggie knew the visit must have evoked painful memories of his mother's
death.  Henry and his mom had been unusually close.

They'd enjoyed so many of the same things: gardening, cooking, watching
old movies on cable.  Henry refused to talk about it, but the old
woman's passing had to have left an enormous hole in his life.

"I'm fine, Maggie.  You needn't worry about me."

"Sure I do.  I'm your friend.  It's in the contract."

Henry was so intensely guarded and private.  Reminded her of a
long-locked room.  Maggie wished she could find a way to open the man
up and air him out.

She suspected that his visit to the Weiders' had been doubly
difficult.

Henry rarely socialized, but he had taken an observable interest in
Gail Weider.  Maggie had read the signs.

Fluent body English.  A sudden interest in slimming down.  New
clothes.

The pair had taken to having an occasional lunch together while Gail
was still a regular at the clinic.

. 1
T She caught the annoyance.  Rare defensive parry from Mr.  Meek.

Time to back off and respect his boundaries.  Otherwise, the border
patrol would be reinforced.

"See you tomorrow then, Henry.  Great meeting."

Leaving the room, she was stalled by Tracy, who had a question about
her medical insurance coverage.  Next, Lauren cornered her to discuss
whether it was reasonable for her to fear red grapes now that spiders
had been discovered in several bunches in California supermarkets.

By the time Maggie finished that conversation, the others were
straggling out.  An attractive blond man in khaki slacks, a rep tie,
and a navy blazer stood waiting in the corridor.

Probably a friend or boyfriend of someone in the group, she thought.

Curious, she hung back, waiting to see who approached him.

But there were no greetings or hints of recognition.  The stranger held
his place as the others peeled away and disappeared down the hall.

"Can I help you?"  Maggie asked.

He eyed her badge.  "You're Dr.  Lyons?"

"Yes.

"Actually, I've come to see you."

"About what?"

He cast a meaningful eye into the conference room, where Henry was
still restoring order.  "It's best if we talk in private."

"Whatever it is, you can tell me here."

He nodded crisply.  Flashing an ID, he met Maggie's eye.  "My name is
Dean Connell.  I'm with the investigating unit of the State Board of
Health.  We've received serious allegations against you, Dr.  Lyons.

I've been assigned to check them out."

"Allegations?  Is this some kind of a joke?"

A muscle twitched in his square jaw.  Otherwise, he was stone, a statue
of perfect bureaucratic control.  "I can assure you, Doctor.  It's no
joke.  Two patients in your care have died recently under highly
questionable circumstances.  If the charges against you are
substantiated, professional censure may be the least of your
worries."

Maggie was reeling.  This could not be happening.  Any second, someone
would jump out from behind a corner and claim credit for the sick
hoax.

So where was he?

Maggie peered into the diligent blue eyes, searched for a betraying
trace of humor in the chiseled face.  Nothing.

"This can't be happening."

"I'm afraid it is, Dr. Lyons.  Now, can we go somewhere to talk
privately?"

Dazed by the shock, she led him to her office.  Looking around, she
confirmed that everything was exactly as she'd left it: shelves, desk,
files, pictures.  Even the clutter was intact.

But all that didn't change the terror that crept under her skin in a
hideous electric rash.

CHAPTER 27.

Jason's insides were dancing like crazed revelers, his brain a
fast-bowed fiddle.  Joy of such magnitude was an alien feeling,
overwhelming.  The world had been polished to a blinding sheen.

Everything was so strikingly clear and resonant, the pleasure verged on
excruciating.  Even Jessie with her prissy nagging arrogance couldn't
get to him today.

"I'm going out to play with Allison, Jay.  I'll be back by lunch if you
need me to check around for you outside or anything."

"I don't and I won't, sister dear," he said with a smile.

"Stay away as long as you like.  Do whatever pleases you.  Have
yourself the finest day in the recorded annals of mankind."

She narrowed her eyes.  "Mommy, Jay's teasing," she whined toward the
staircase.

"Jason?"  came his mother's weary voice from downstairs.

"I just told her to enjoy herself, that's all.  Isn't that what I
said?"

"Jessie?  Is that what happened?"

"He meant it teasing though.  Make him stop."

He heard his mother sigh.  "Allison's waiting outside for you, honey.

You ready, or should I tell her to come back later?"

"I'm ready."  The child backed down the hall, eyeing her brother
warily.  At the head of the staircase, she stalled and scowled at
him.

"You better cut it out, Jay.  I'm not fooling."

He waggled his fingers.  "Have wonderful fun, little sister.

Laugh and play and delight in this glorious day."

"I said stop.  And you better not go in my room while I'm gone
either.

I know just exactly how many candies are in that box grandma sent
me."

"That's because you're such a clever child.  You should be grateful for
that fine mind of yours.  It will serve you well."

"That's it.  I'm telling."

He watched her hasten down the stairs, her silken blond waves sinking
out of view.  Bless the little snippet.  She was a major pain in his
ass, true.  But she was also a bobbling, bubbling mass of energy and
adventure.  Everything a kid ought to be.

Same thing he planned to become.  A kid again.  Full of life and
devilment.  Or had he ever really been one in the first place?

Well, no matter.  That was history.  The dark, dismal ages.  The geek
he'd been had nothing to do with the new improved model Jason Childs.

Fearless and accomplished.  Undaunted by life's trials and
challenges.

Pressing forward toward a brave, new act and outlook.  Now that he'd
passed into the light, he had no intention of looking back at the
timorous troll he'd been in a bleak past incarnation.

The future view was far more enticing.  From last night's group
meeting, he'd learned that even small doses of the courage drug could
work miracles.  Every one of his fellow phobics had made startling
progress.  And he'd barely dabbed a trace of his special formula on the
watchbands.

All he needed to do was run a few more preliminary trials on himself.

Then, with his findings molded into a creditable report, he would
consult with his old science teacher and mentor, Otto Allen.

Jason could imagine Mr. Allen's ebullient welcome, the pride in the
science teacher's dull gray eyes as he recognized the renewed sheen on
Jason's long-tarnished potential.  Mr. Allen had selected him,
nurtured him, believed in him.  And now the old man would see that his
faith had not been tragically misplaced.

Chemistry was Otto Allen's life.  The man lived and breathed his
molecules and catalysts and reagents.  He constantly tracked the latest
news and views in the field.  He knew every player from minor lab
drones to Nobel laureates.  Mr. Allen would be able to direct Jason to
a pharmaceutical lab where the testing on C2BU could be conducted for
FDA approval.

More important, the man could help Jason to register and protect his
invention.  The necessity had occurred to him in the middle of a night
marked by sleep-shattering excitement.  Mr. Allen would know whether
C2BU required a patent or a copyright or a whatever and how to go about
getting one.  Jason wasn't about to risk having some predatory
corporate type steal his formula.  If that happened, he'd never get a
shred of the credit he deserved.

A finding of such magnitude had to be handled with utmost caution.  Any
scientist would be delighted to see his name on Jason's courage drug.

The rights had to be worth a fat fortune.

And there was the promise of international professional regard and
recognition, the press, the possible prizes.

Irresistible.

With a sickening jolt, Jason realized that a small-time nobody like
Otto Allen would be every bit as vulnerable to such temptation as the
next person.  Maybe more.  That guy would probably give his left test
tube for a chance to be credited with Jason's discovery.

If the science teacher claimed C2BU as his own, who'd believe that
Jason had been its real inventor?  After all, old man Allen had been a
known chemistry loon for decades.  It was no secret that he was forever
experimenting in the high school lab.

Nights, weekends, holidays.

No, Jason could not risk sharing his discovery with his old science
teacher or anyone else.  At least, not yet.  First, he'd have to figure
out a way to document his findings and make an indisputable record of
his authorship.

But how?

His brain was swimming in vain circles.  He had to

move ahead, set a logical course.  It still made sense to complete his
planned series of personal trials first.  While he was doing that, he
could research the next essential moves to protect his discovery.

His Uncle Fred was a lawyer.  Without surrendering any telling details,
Jason was sure he could pick Uncle Fred's brain for the correct legal
means to safeguard his invention.

By fortunate coincidence, Uncle Fred and Aunt Irene were scheduled to
come to dinner Saturday night.  By then, Jason would think of some way
to slip the necessary questions into casual conversation.  Once he
found out how to register his formula, the rest would follow.

Fizzing over with anticipation, Jason went to the bathroom and measured
a fresh dose of C2BU.  Slugging it down, he checked the time.  He'd be
ready to commence the next experimental trial in fourteen minutes
sharp.  Ten forty-two and counting.

"Jason, honey?  I'm going to the store.  Need anything?"

Perfect.  He could have worked around his mother, but now he wouldn't
have to bother.

"No, Mom.  I'm fine.  See you later.  Take your time."

"You'll keep an eye out for Jessie"

"Of course.

"Bye then, dear."

He heard the door slam and the clack of her footsteps on the walk.  A
beat later, the car door smacked shut.  The engine caught with a
churning roar.  As the sound faded, he checked his watch again.  Nine
minutes to maximum effectiveness.  He'd use the time to set up.

All the clinic papers and pamphlets were in the manila folder on his
desk.  Extracting the list of long-term goals he and Binnie had devised
together, Jason snickered.  A week ago, a solo walk in the neighborhood
had seemed as impossible as scaling Mount Everest.  Now he could barely
wait to breeze through the intermediate steps and venture out on his
own.

He would have skipped all the silly preliminaries altogether, but he
knew it was best to proceed through them sequentially.

Valid experiments were painstaking and thorough.  His ultimate goal was
too precious to sacrifice to rashness or impatience.

Reviewing the list, he confirmed that he'd already completed the first
three goals with his new aide.  They had planned a neighborhood walk
and completed the local outing together.

Phase three was a walk in a familiar but more distant location.

Their excursion to the boulevard covered that one.

Next, Jason was scheduled to view photos of dogs ranging from tiny lap
pups to large, menacing breeds.  Sequential desensitization, it was
called.  The theory held that fears could be dulled and finally
deadened by systematic exposure to increasingly threatening
situations.

Binnie had provided him with the pictures.  Now, Jason extracted the
sealed envelope from his desk drawer, slashed open the top flap, and
dumped the snapshots facedown on the scarred surface.

Four minutes to go.

After looking at the stills, the treatment plan called for Jason to
watch a special videotape Binnie had prepared.  Using her camcorder,
she'd captured scenes of sleeping dogs, pooches at play, and finally,
animals aroused to furious frenzy, straining at their leads.

Jason was reminded of the crazed curs leaping at him at the fenced
horror house around the corner.  Stupid Binnie had blithely led him
there, set him squarely in the center of his blackest nightmare.  But
on his wondrous drug, even that horrific memory failed to arouse any
serious anxieties.

As he checked the clock, the digital display advanced to ten
fifty-six.

Time to get started.

He turned the stack of photos over and began flipping through them.

Without a twinge of apprehension, he progressed from the picture of a
playful toy schnauzer to a somber-faced springer spaniel to the final
entry, a mammoth rottweiler baring its mammoth teeth.

Finished with those, he went down to the family room and popped
Binnie's tape in the VCR.  Sprawled on the sofa, he watched the jerky
parade of scenes.  A small terrier napped in the shade of a towering
oak.  A mutt played a spirited game of Frisbee.  A poodle, shorn in a
show cut, strutted through a practiced routine of standard tricks: sit,
speak, roll over, shake hands.

In Binnie's amateur grip, the camera twitched and wavered.

Segments were wrenched out of focus and pulled back with a jolting
choke-hold effect.  Jason sniffed his contempt at the tape's clumsy
quality.  He was all but oblivious to the snarling Doberman that had
lumbered into the center of the frame.  The animal tensed and eyed the
camera.  An ominous threat rumbled deep in its chest.

Jason growled back.  "Dumb dog, you're only a damned picture.

And if you were real, I'd call your stupid bluff and scare you the hell
away."  He clapped his hands and the filmed animal turned tail as if in
response.  "Shoo, you dopey mutt.  Get lost."

The reel ended.  Jason turned off the set and bounded up the stairs for
the next exercise.  Binnie had packed a bunch of miniature dogs in a
shoe box for him.  Threedimensional was supposed to be scarier, she'd
claimed.

At the time, the absurd plan had seemed serious to him.  But now, he
felt the total fool, lifting the tiny creatures.  Feeling their
miniature muzzle and petite paws.

Next case.

He shoved the figures back in the box.  From the paper bag under his
bed, he retrieved the life-sized dog puppet Binnie had given him.

Slipping his arm inside, he experienced a twinge of emotion.

Not fear so much as repugnance, as if the puppet's insides were the
slippery entrails of a living creature.

Shaking off his revulsion, he stroked the realistic fur, fingered the
soft felt lining of the mouth.  He couldn't make out the breed.  It
appeared to be a cross between a German shepherd, a collie, and an
English sheepdog.  Big, shaggy rag.  He tried in vain to muster some
anxiety or even a grudging touch of respect.

Nothing.

"What do you have there, Jay" Jessie's flute voice startled him.

"Don't you know how to knock, you little cretin?"

"The door was open.  And you're not supposed to call me bad stuff."

She edged closer and stroked between the puppet's pointed ears.

"What's his name, Jay?  He's so soft."

Curling his fingers inside the puppet's muzzle, he made a playful nip
at his sister's dewy cheek and then nuzzled the side of her velvet
neck.  She chortled in delight as he spoke in a gruff canine voice.

"Boy, I'm hungry.  What shall I have for lunch?  Hmmm.  Maybe a nice
peanut-butter-and-little-girl sandwich on white."

She giggled.  "That's funny.  Do it some more."

He dipped the puppet to floor level, caught her bubble toes through her
sandals, and made loud slurping noises.  "Or maybe a foot-long little
girl foot on a bun with mustard and relish.

I'd really relish that."

Bright crystalline giggles trailed on the lustrous air.

Crouching, she hugged the puppet in her boneless arms.

Jessie's laugh was contagious.  He felt her warmth through the mock
fur, and he experienced a swell of satisfaction.

He was worthy, after all.  Charming and lovable and accomplished.

The black veil had lifted.  A few more experiments, and he'd be ready
to move ahead, to embrace the light.

Then no one and nothing would ever stand in his way again.

CHAPTER 28.

Maggie's life had passed into total eclipse.  It had started with the
shocking visit from the State Health Department investigator.

As soon as they stepped into her office and closed the door, young Mr.
Connell had dropped the conciliatory act and let down his fangs.

Flashing a warrant, he'd demanded her complete treatment records for
Theodore Macklin and Gail Weider.  When she requested time to get the
papers in order, he'd flatly refused, more than hinting that he
suspected she might tamper with the files if he gave her the
opportunity.  She was welcome to consult her attorney, he said.  But
any lawyer would corroborate her obligation to provide the requested
documents.

Maggie saw no point in arguing.  She had nothing to hide and no reason
to act as if she did.  Once she collected the Macklin and Weider files
and handed them over, Mr. Connell informed her that the investigation
would not end with a review of the records.

There would be a thorough examination of her professional conduct, he
told her coldly, including interviews with staff and administration
and, if necessary, patients.

In a month or two, when all that was completed and his preliminary
report was ready, the department would hold a full, formal hearing.

Connell advised Maggie several times of the serious nature of the
charges against her and pointedly reminded her of her right to
counsel.

He dropped black hints about dire personal and legal consequences if
the allegations against her were proven.  The only thing the guy hadn't
done was slap on the cuffs and leg irons.

But then, he had promised to return again soon.

After the investigator left, Maggie had craved nothing but the peace
and solitude she'd need to do some serious worrying.

But she'd gone home to find her mother on the living room couch,
weeping inconsolably.  Seems Dad and Tina had dropped by earlier,
hoping to lure Maggie out to a neighborhood movie.  As if the moment
hadn't been awkward and difficult enough, when Dad introduced his
ex-wife to his exuberant little love bunny, Tina had gotten confused
and taken Mom for Dad's mother.

"She called me Grandma, Maggie.  And your son of a bitch father thought
it was funny."

After nearly an hour of gentle reasoning and reassurance, Maggie had
managed to douse that fire, but by then, another literal one was
blazing in the building.  Dear Mickey Glover had picked that
unfortunate evening to add arson to his repertoire of creative
amusements.  Sweet child had shoved a garbage can stuffed with
newspapers into the elevator, lit it, hopped out, and triggered the car
to stop between floors.  By the time the fire department managed to
extract and extinguish the mess, the smoke was so thick that the entire
building had to be evacuated.

Balmy, beautiful night, but Maggie's mother passed the entire time
outside spewing dire predictions.  Night air was virulent and hostile,
she intoned with a sniff.  So were night people.  Out like this in
their robes and slippers, they would surely catch something.  Maggie
didn't know about that, but the thought of throwing something had a
definite and growing appeal.

When, after two A.M they were finally allowed to reenter the building,
Maggie was far too overcharged to sleep.  Staring at the ceiling, she
reviewed every tic and nuance of her brief treatment of Theodore
Macklin.

She recalled their first session.  Macklin had charged in, armored by
defenses.  Expensively dressed and oozing self-assurance, he'd informed
her that he held her entire profession in extreme contempt and all but
dared her to prove him wrong.

Maggie had been put off by everything from the man's

gruff demeanor to his pugnacious personality to the way he edged too
close and invaded her personal space.  Subsequent meetings had only
reinforced her initial instinct.  Theodore Macklin had all the charm
and finesse of a B-52.

But Maggie had done her professional best.  Replaying their sessions in
her mind, she couldn't find a single moment when she'd permitted her
temper to overwhelm her sense.  Not a single instance where she'd
revealed her enmity or distaste.  She didn't have to like a patient to
give him the care and treatment he deserved.  All she had to do was
objectively apply her training to the presenting problem.  And that she
had in Macklin's case.

No question.

Examining her relationship with Gail Weider was much more complicated,
however.  She'd known the woman for years in a range of capacities:
patient, aide, personal and professional acquaintance.  But now she had
to admit she had never known her all that well.

Gail was a lot like Henry: reserved, self-effacing, unobtrusive, locked
in a terrible emotional vise.  But nothing in her treatment at East End
could have pushed her over an emotional precipice.

The clinic had freed the woman from a number of difficult fears.

Nothing more.

How could anyone think either of those deaths had been Maggie's
fault?

In her own private theater of the absurd, Maggie tried to picture
herself tossing Ted Macklin off that bridge, pressing Gail Weider's
foot to the accelerator of that runaway car.  But the scenes were too
bizarre to play in even her wildest imagination.

The whole thing was insane, a sick nightmare.

Sleep, when it came, brought no relief.

Maggie is kneeling on the flower-bordered rug.  Listening to the
distant music.  Weaving herfingers together and shutting her eyes to
concentrate.

"Now i lay me down to sleep."

"Lazy bit.  Lazy! Maggie jerked awake, drenched in sweat.  She found
her mother still disconsolate over her unpleasant encounter with Dad
and rma.  Several times over breakfast and the morning papers,
Francine's stony resolve melted in a stream of mournful tears.

"Grandma," she wailed.  "That little twit called me Grandma.

Can you imagine?  And all your father did was laugh."

Maggie finally managed to prod her mother toward her beloved plants.

Gardening was the surest way to mute the volume on the woman's angst
and leave Maggie free for a few minutes to wallow in her own.

But almost immediately after Francine stepped out on the terrace and
Maggie shut the door to her office, the phone had started ringing.

Every call was bad news, except for the one or two where the news was
closer to terrible.

Daisy Tyler had relapsed during the night and required tranquilizers
again.  Two members of the upcoming group clinic had suffered second
thoughts and canceled their applications.

F.X.

Kennedy would like to make amends for his bad behavior by taking her to
dinner at 21.

Then came the killer call from Lawrence Ivy.  Through the rasp of his
ventilator, her former mentor informed Maggie of even larger
troubles.

"Alex stopped by for breakfast, Maggie.  He told me about the charges
against you.  It seems the state's health department investigator
called him last evening, right after he left you.

I'm afraid Alex is insistent that your symposium plans be postponed
until all this nasty business is cleared up."

"But the allegations are pure nonsense!"

"I have no doubt of that, my
dear.  But I can see my son's point as well.  The last thing you or
East End needs right now is any extra attention.  The publicity
surrounding a major conference would be the worst thing possible.

Baseless though they are, those charges could cause major problems for
you and the hospital.  Please try to understand."

Maggie took a long, hard breath.  "Do I have a choice?"

"I'm sure they'll have this foolishness resolved in no time.

Then you can go ahead with the symposium."

Sure."

Fat chance is what she longed to say.  Any significant delay, and it
would be impossible to keep the date they'd chosen.  If they put the
conference off, the profits would come too late to save the clinic.

What more could go wrong?

As if in answer, there was a chilling scream.  Maggie raced out of her
room and tracked the din to the terrace.  Flinging open the glass
sliders, she spotted her mother at the distant edge.

The woman was frozen in horror.  Her mouth was distended in a strangled
scream.  Her face was sheet white.

"What happened, Mom?  What was all that--" Tracking her mother's gaze,
Maggie too was shocked speechless.  A section of the ornate wrought
iron railing had fallen away.

The supporting uprights dangled in space.  Nothing stood between her
mother and a deadly nine-story fall.

Inches away from the break in the rail, her mother began to whimper.

Maggie fought back the dizzy waves crashing through her skull.

"Move back, Mom.  Come inside."  She held out a trembling hand.

"I can't."  Her voice was a shiver.  "Can't move."

"Yes, you can," Maggie said.  "I'll help you."  Proceeding with
agonizing slowness, she forced herself onto the terrace.  Her legs were
wooden.  A chill sweat drenched her, and her breaths came in shallow
stabs Don't think about it.  Don't let the fear take over!

"Oh, God, look.  Hurry, Maggie.  Please.  Stop her.  Don't
Her?

The woman was disassociating, distancing herself from the horror by
slipping out of her own skin.  Inching forward, Maggie understood the
feeling too well.  She was splitting away herself.

Unreality spread over her in a prickling rash.  The city streets
spilled beneath her.  This was not happening.

Her gaze slid to the open edge of the terrace.  Going over would be so
easy.  Tempting.  She could see herself leaping in space, flying on the
hawk's back.  Circling in breathless arcs.  "If I should die .  . ."

Terror tugged at her like a monstrous magnet.  Why fight it?  Much
easier to let go.

So much simpler.

Stop!

She made a desperate grab at reality, caught it by its disintegrating
edges.  The urge to surrender was a trap.  She would not be caught.

She could not.  Distraction was the key.

Grabbing the first trick that occurred to her, she started at a hundred
and began counting backward by threes.  The silent counting held her in
place.  Kept her in the awful moment.

"Hang on, Mom.  I'm almost there."

Eighty-eight, eighty-five, eighty-two .  . .

Maggie was halfway across the terrace now.  With aching clarity, she
saw how perilously close her mother stood to the unprotected brink.  A
breeze could push her over.

Careful, Maggie.  Dont spook her, for godsakes.  Watch it!

Her mother shrieked and pointed.  "No, Maggie.  Don't!  Don't let her
fall!"

Instinctively, Maggie dimmed her tone to a soothing lull.  "I won't,
Mom.  Don't worry.  Just stay right there.  Don't move."

"She's falling.  Oh, God, no!"

Her mother's hands flew to her throat.  With an anguished wail,
Francine wavered like a sapling in a storm.  As Maggie watched in
horror, her mother stumbled back, then tried to regain her balance with
a forward step.  In a desperate reflex, Maggie lunged.  She grabbed
Francine as she was about to pitch through the break in the railing.

Trembling, Maggie dragged her mother back across the terrace and into
the living room.  Once Francine was settled on the couch, Maggie made
her shaky way across the room and locked the sliding terrace doors.

With a satisfying rush of air, the menace was shut outside.  Better.

But how had the railing broken like that?  Peering out, Maggie saw the
ragged ends.  Probably rusted through from all the moisture from her
mother's frequent watering of the precious plants.

Francine was in shock.  Her pupils were dilated, skin slicked with a
chill sheen of perspiration.  Maggie raised her mother's feet on a hill
of throw pillows and loosened her clothing at the neck and waist.

"There, Mom.  That's better.  Now take a deep breath."

Call someone.  An ambulance, Francine cried.  "They have to help her.

She can't be dead.  Can't be."

"Sssh.  You're all right now.  You're safe on the couch."

Her mother fixed her with a wide, uncomprehending stare.

"Maggie?"

"It's over, Mom.  You're fine now."

"I should have fallen.  It's what I deserve.  It's all my fault.

Everything."

"Stop."  Maggie dabbed the tears from her mother's ashen cheeks.

"You've had a bad scare, that's all.  Just try to relax.

There was a bristling stillness, aftermath of the horror.

Maggie watched her mother slowly uncoil and surrender to a sleep of
stone exhaustion.  Staring at the bisque skin and fine features, Maggie
felt a hard swell of affection.

Yes, the woman drove her crazy.  But wasn't that par for the
treacherous course?  Mom had done her parenting job well enough, given
it her best.  Maggie had enjoyed the essentials: love, warmth, and
protection.  And her mother had provided an anchor.  At times it
dragged the bottom, true.  But who was perfect?

The harrowing incident had dwarfed the rest of Maggie's problems.

Daisy Tyler would get better in time.  They'd find other applicants to
fill the vacancies in the new group, or they'd run it below capacity.

The recurrent window dream had to stop haunting her eventually.  Maggie
would find something that worked, even if it meant shooting the damned
hawk.  And if the symposium had to be shelved, she'd think of some
other way to fulfill Alex Ivy's outlandish fiscal demands.  There was
more than one way to skin a rat.

As far as the state's investigation was concerned, Maggie knew she was
innocent of professional misconduct, and she intended to prove it
beyond a doubt, reasonable or otherwise.

Focusing on that, a crowd of fresh questions jammed her mind.  Who had
lodged the absurd complaint against her?

Could the whole thing be a further effort to undermine the clinic?

Wouldn't surprise her in the least.  Poison Ivy was not the type to be
stalled by such frivolous issues as ethics, fairness, or truth.

As budding anger nosed out the last of her despair, the phone rang
again.  It was that obnoxious private investigator from Boston again,
still trying to manipulate her into a meeting.

More nonsense about his alleged daughter's alleged emotional
problems.

As he spoke, the answer to all her impossible questions came into
sharp, ugly focus.  Alex Ivy was not the prime suspect at all.

Detective Sam Bannister must have set up the whole phony state
investigation bit to get his hands on the Macklin file.  The so-called
inspector from the health department was probably some actor Bannister
had hired, the allegations were nothing but a vicious ruse.  In the
shock of the moment last night, Maggie hadn't thought to take a close
look at Dean Connell's identification or the document he'd claimed to
be a warrant authorizing him to take her files.  Bannister.  That man
would stop at nothing, but Maggie was about to apply the brakes
herself.

The black tide had turned.  And the sludge was about to be carried out
to sea.

CHAPTER 29.

"I don't like it, Lenny."

"You don't have to like it, Sam.  All you have to do is live with
it."

Bannister choked down the last of an English muffin.  Price savored the
final bites of Sergio's special omelet, mushroom with extra shells, and
corralled the remains with a scrap of buttered toast.

"No, I don't.  I don't know what Lila's trying to pull, but I'm not
going to stand for it."

Last night when Bannister called to speak to Chloe, his ex-wife had
claimed the child was sleeping.  It was only ten o'clock, and his
daughter never turned in before midnight, minimum.  You couldn't nail
that kid's eyes closed by ten.

Early this morning, he'd phoned again, but Lila claimed Chloe wasn't up
yet.  When he called half an hour later, his ex-wife said the child had
already left for her babysitting job.

Bannister had dialed the number there but the woman who answered
informed him that Chloe wasn't expected for another hour.

"If Lila thinks she can keep me from talking to my own daughter, she's
dead wrong."

"Get a grip, Sam.  Why would Lila do a thing like that?"

"To twist the blade, that's why.  To make me suffer.  It's what she
lives for."

"Maybe so, Sam.  But I don't think this has anything to do with Lila.

Kids Chloe's age are tough to reach, that's "Are you saying Chloe
doesn't want to speak to me?  I don't buy that.

No goddamned way!"

"Take it easy, will you?  You're going to blow a fuse or something."

How was he supposed to take it easy?  Bannister imagined a huge chasm
yawning between him and his little girl.  He pictured Chloe drifting
beyond the breach, shrinking to a void in the swelling distance.

"What can I do, Lenny?  All of a sudden I don't understand my own kid
anymore."

"You're not supposed to, Sam.  I told you.  Teenagers speak a whole
different language."

"Isn't there a Berlitz or something?"

Price patted his plumped belly.  "Let's get going.  I promised the guy
we'd be on time."

Price had arranged an eight-thirty meeting with Kenneth Abby, an art
dealer at the venerable Winslow-Gray Gallery at Madison Avenue and
Fifty-seventh Street.  Abby's home number was next on the list of
numbers Theodore Macklin had dialed from the Doubletree Inn before his
death.  When Price called, the art dealer had not only admitted
speaking to Macklin, he was willing to talk to them about it.

Small miracle.

When they arrived at the gallery, the iron security gate was locked.  A
camera lens scanned the street in rapid sweeps like a paranoid
cyclops.

"He's not here, Lenny.  Guy makes a big commotion about our being on
time, and he's late.  I say we take off."

"Be reasonable.  It's only eight thirty-two."

"Late's late, Lenny.  This whole business is a waste of time as it
is.

Seconds later, a gray stretch Lincoln swept up to the curb.  A liveried
chauffeur emerged and held open the rear door for a dapper man in his
forties.  Abby was clad in a silver-gray Italian suit, a stiff
white-on-white shirt, and gleaming wing tips.

His salted hair was parted in the center and styled in dove's wings.

"Sorry to keep you, gentlemen.  Traffic was simply dreadful."  Guy
sounded as if his tongue had been done with extra starch.

"No problem.  We just got here," Price said, ignoring Bannister s grunt
of impatience.

"Come in, won't you?  Welcome to the Winslow-Gray."

Abby unlatched the gate, unlocked the door, disarmed the security
system, and bustled about the gallery flipping on lights and adjusting
thermostats.

While he performed his opening exercises, Bannister and Price checked
out the gallery collections.  The walls in the main room were hung with
modern masters.  Price rhapsodized over early impressionist works by
Berthe Mrisot and Mary Cassatt and pieces by the American realists
William Merritt Chase, Winslow Homer, and Thomas Eakins.  Fizzing over
like a kid on Christmas morning, he led Bannister through the small
side rooms devoted to postimpressionists including Seurat, Pissarro,
Cezanne, and Vuillard.

"You see that Derain, Sammy?  Guy was the first to break with the
fauvists.  Created a huge flap."

"Sure, Lenny.  I can imagine."

Having completed his morning ritual, Kenneth Abby joined them.

"Now then.  Would you gentlemen mind ternbly if I catalog some new
acquisitions while we chat" The walls and floors of the basement-level
storeroom were neatly lined with the precious overflow: oils,
watercolors, pastels, mixed media, constructions, stone and marble
sculpture, graphics, sketches, and photographs.  Many of the works were
entombed in wooden crates, each scrupulously labeled.

Kenneth Abby spoke in derisive tones about Mary Boone and Leo Castelli
and the other upstart art dealers who'd invaded SoHo in the seventies
and eighties and promoted what he described as Hula Hoop modernists.

"Salle, Basquiat, Hockney, Motherwell."  He sniffed.  "All trash.

Fads.  Flashes in the pan."

He dismissed the entire roster of contemporary artists, including the
most respected.  Abby claimed their works were only purchased by dumb
yuppies with bloated pockets and atrophied tastes.

Winslow-Gray represented over a century of dedicated contribution to
the nation's creative consciousness, he said.  They employed only the
finest curators, catalogers, and restorers, and culled only the best of
the best artists for their exclusive clients and exquisite shows.

"I will not allow my works to reside with just anyone," he said with a
proprietary sweep of his arm.  "These are my children, so to speak.  I
consider each sale an adoption.  Every piece must be placed in a proper
home, where it can be guaranteed the love, care, and attention it so
richly deserves."

Bannister was tempted to duck the flying horseshit.  Price was bobbing
his head as if he actually agreed.  But Lenny was about as
argumentative as rice pudding.

"You said you had business dealings with Theodore Macklin?"

Bannister said.

"Yes, many.  Ted was quite the canny investor.  Last month alone, I
sold him a gorgeous bronze by Lipchitz and a fabulous oil by Juan
Gris."

"Then the relationship was strictly business?"

"It began that way, though we developed a mutual regard and affection
over time.  I acted as his personal consultant," Abby answered.  "When
Ted came across a piece he liked or a new artist he admired, he'd
solicit my advice.  I also accompanied him to shows and auctions.  Our
tastes were most compatible."

"You consulted for a fee?"  Bannister figured a guy who sold his
children wasn't likely to give away his time.

The dealer stiffened.  "An hourly rate and a percentage of any
resultant purchases.  Quite standard in the trade, I assure you."

Bannister didn't bother to say so, but the creep didn't assure him in
the least.

"Do you remember what Ted Macklin phoned you about a week ago?"

Price asked.

The dealer pressed a finger to his lips and hummed.  "Honestly, I don't
recall that specific conversation.  We talked once or twice a week on
average.  Sometimes more.  If I had to guess, we were probably
discussing an upcoming auction at Christie's.  Ted and I agreed that
market
conditions were ripe for some excellent bargain-hunting.  And there's a
scrumptious little Monet slated to go on the block in a couple of
weeks."

While the dealer talked, Price studied the stored works and packing
crates.  "How many pieces would you say you sold Mr. Macklin over the
years?"

"Oh, my.  Hundreds.  Maybe more."

"So he was a real good customer?"

"Absolutely," Abby said.  "Ted will be sorely missed personally and
professionally.  Terrible about his death.  I can't imagine what
prompted him to do such a thing."

"Can you imagine anyone who might have prompted him?  Price said.

"Murder, you mean?  Heavens, no," Abby exclaimed.  "Is that what you
suspect?"

"Just covering all the bases," Price said.

Bannister was jangling with impatience.  Chloe should be at her sitting
job by now.  He wanted to hear his daughter's voice.

Start to repair the fractured connection between them.  He tried to
catch Price's attention, but the guy was absorbed in his offhanded
snooping around the storeroom.  Bannister knew he'd have to wait until
his partner had satisfied his ravenous curiosity.

"Guess that about does it, Mr. Abby.  Thanks for your time," Price
said when Bannister was about to erupt.

"Yeah, it's been a real treat," Bannister said.

"Likewise, I'm sure."

Oven-hot day.  The air thrummed with a blue haze, and the choking
stench of exhaust fumes.  Price shrugged off his plaid sports coat.

Bannister shed his tie and rolled up his sleeves.

"That one was a curve ball," Price said.  "Kenneth Abby didn't sell any
art to Ted Macklin."

"How do you know that?"

"Remember the investment company offices?  Macklin had bargain-bin
prints on the walls.  Starving artist stuff.  If he was an art
connoisseur, I'm the Easter bunny."

"Damn it, Lenny.  I told you this was a waste of time--"

"I wouldn't
say that.  If anything, the lie makes Abby's connection to Macklin even
more intriguing."

"Then how come I'm not the least goddamned bit intrigued?"

Price clacked his tongue.  "You write things off too easily, Sammy.

Use your imagination.  It's even possible this will lead us to a final
answer in the Rafferty case."

"How?"

Price gave it his creative best.  Suppose Macklin had some unknown
accomplice in Martha Rafferty's murder.  The original task force had
not been able to confirm or deny a possible conspiracy in the
killing.

But the existence of a confederate would tie up several loose ends in
the case against Macklin.

According to Macklin's doorman, young Ted had arrived at the building
no more than fifteen minutes after the Rafferty girl's other friends
from the party departed, leaving Ted and Martha alone.  An accomplice
in the murder could have disposed of the girl's remains, freeing
Macklin to make his rapid, squeaky-clean appearance at home.

All these years later, when the evidence was closing in on him, it
would have been logical for Macklin to contact his former partner in
crime for aid, advice, or reassurance.  Whoever it was might then have
murdered Macklin to ensure his continued silence.

Bannister snorted.  "You really believe that?"

"It could be true."

"Yeah.  And you co-ukl be the Easter bunny."

By the time they'd walked the mile and change back to their apartment,
Bannister's shirt was glued to his back.  Price was flushed and
breathing in rasps.

In the dive, they turned the window fan up full, stirrillg a ponderous
breeze.  Price was anxious to get on the phone and find out what he
could about Kenneth Abby and the Winslow-Gray Gallery, but he wasn't
nearly as anxious as Bannister, who grabbed the line like the rip cord
on a reserve chute.

Chloe answered on the second ring.  Hearing her voice, Bannister's
heart started knocking in his throat.

"Hey, sweetheart.  How's it going?"

"What's wrong, Daddy?  How come you're calling me here?

"No reason.  I just wanted to touch base, see how you're doing.

Her voice was sharp and impatient.  "You know I'm working."

It was like a bad sitcom script.  I told you not to call me at the
office, darling.  What is it thzs time?

"You sounded so down the last time we spoke.  I just wanted to make
sure you're okay."

"I'm not a baby."

"No one thinks you are."

"Then why do you keep checking up on me?"

"I'm not.  I care about you, that's all."

"Well, I'm babysitting Timmy, Dad.  Not having some wild party."

"I know that, sweetheart.  You've just been sounding so down lately.

Are you worried about going to high school next year?

Is there a problem with Mom?"

Bannister was casting in the wind.  Getting nowhere.  She wouldn't even
answer his questions.

"Can't you please tell me what's bothering you, Chloe?

Whatever it is, I'd really like to help."

He'd tried to swallow Price's empty assurances.  Hormones raging at
flood stage.  Temporary, seasonal storms that would recede without a
trace of damage.  But those pat explanations refused to go down.

"Nothing's bothering me, Daddy.  I told you that.  I told you and told
you and told you.  Now will you please get off my case!"

There was a jarring click.

Dial tone.

Bannister took a minute to shake the shock and accept that she'd hung
up on him.  His head had been lopped off and sent rolling.

And his sweet baby girl had swung the ax.  He stared at the receiver in
disbelief, and then he started dialing again.

Price placed a restraining hand on his forearm.  "Don't, Sam.

At least give her a few minutes to get herself back together.

"I'm not calling Chloe."

This thing had gone too damned far.  No matter how he had to twist her
arm, he was going to pull a professional opinion from that mule-headed
lady shrink from East End Hospital.  If she said that Chloe needed
counseling, he'd find some way around Lila and his lack of funds.  His
anemic insurance would cover only half the cost at best, but money or
the lack of it was not going to stand in the way of Chloe's
well-being.

A male secretary put him through to Dr. Lyons.  Fearful that she'd
hang up on him, too, Bannister blurted out the reason for his call.  No
hedging.  His daughter had become moody and unapproachable.  He needed
to know whether this was normal teenage turbulence or something more.

For some nameless reason, the lady shrink's read on the situation was
important to him.  Instinct told him he could trust her.

Listening to her response, his eyes widened in amazement.

He'd expected any number of answers, but the one she offered was not on
the list.

One thing he never suffered was a shortage of surprises.

CHAPTER 30.

The building superintendent had positioned a makeshift barricade in
front of the break in the terrace rail.  He promised to replace the
missing section as soon as possi "Only hang-up is getting the
materials," he told Maggie.

"Those ironwork places can take forever, and the piece I need isn't a
stock size.  Can't imagine how it rusted all the way through like
that.

The rest looks fine."

Maggie kept her eyes away from the jagged break.  "It's really
dangerous this way, Joe.  Can't you tell them it's an emergency?"

"Oh, I'll tell them, Maggie.  I'll tell them but good.  I keep thinking
how lucky it is you were here to help her back inside.

Lucky those fallen pieces landed in the shrubbery, too.  I thank the
Lord no one was hurt, and you can bet I want it to stay that way."

Joe Gerard was a building fixture.  He'd been around for the length of
Maggie's memory and beyond.  Time had dulled his jet hair to charcoal
and tanned his ruddy skin to cordovan leather.

At sixty-something, there was also a noticeable slackening of his gait
and burly build.  But Joe was still ready and able to remedy most any
ill the building or its ninety residents might think to suffer.

When Maggie was a little girl, the kindly super had always been around
to salve skinned knees or bruised feelings.  Uncle Joe, as she'd called
him then, had a seemingly inexhaustible supply of patience and
understanding Everyone liked and trusted the man, including Maggie's
mother, whose very existence was based on the presumption of universal
guilt.

"Is Mrs. Lyons all right?"  He frowned at her sleeping mother on the
couch.  Francine hadn't budged in over an hour.  Even Joe's hammering
on the terrace had failed to rouse her.

"She's had a bad scare, that's all.  The shock wiped her out.

She'll be fine."

"Too bad it had to happen to her of all people.  Fine woman, your
mother.  But not exactly what you'd call easygoing."

"Not exactly."

The landscape of Maggie's youth had been littered with her mother's
incessant warnings and dire predictions.  Mom was omnipresent,
all-nervous, and a devout proponent of Lyons s Law of Perpetual
Misfortune.  Any rotten thing you could imagine happening would.  Any
horror you failed to fathom and fret about would occur that much
sooner.  No amount of worry or caution was nearly sufficient.  The
world was a malevolent place, pocked by obvious and invisible
pitfalls.

Small wonder Maggie had developed a few irrational fears of her own.

The amazing thing was that she wasn't every bit as phobic as Daisy
Tyler.

"Listen, Joe.  I hate to ask, but I have to take care of something at
work.  I asked my aunt to come over, but it'll take her an hour or more
to get here from Stamford."

"No problem.  Be glad to keep an eye on your mom.  My pleasure."

The bundle on Maggie's back lightened by several bricks.

"You're a national treasure."

He flapped away the compliment.  "Go on about your business now.

With all the crazies running loose in this town, you can't afford to be
taking time off."

Maggie hurried to the hospital.  She was anxious to check on a couple
of things before her scheduled meeting.  Her first stop was the
second-floor patient wing, where she found Daisy Tyler in bed, staring
at a quiz show.  Woman had the limp, sorry look of a picked-over
buffet.

"Feeling better, Daisy?  Heard you had a bad night."

Daisy issued a trembly sigh.  "Can't imagine what got into me all of a
sudden, Dr. Lyons.  I was fine through dinner.  Ate like a horse, in
fact, especially the sweets.  Afterward, I went to take a shower and
wash my hair.  I was having a grand old time, singing to myself and
everything.  But next thing I knew, I was Screaming Mimi again.  Took
three nurses to get me dried off, dressed, and back to bed."

"Try to forget it," Maggie said.  "Everyone has times when they
backslide.  You'll have fewer and fewer bad moments as you go along.

Daisy shuddered.  "I'm so embarrassed.  Imagine me standing there
dripping wet and buck naked.  Screeching like a banshee.  Can't imagine
what they must think of me.

"They think you're a courageous woman who's dealing with a very
difficult problem, that's what.  Now get some rest.  That's an
order."

"I'm supposed to meet Dr.  Goldberg for lunch at twelve-thirty.

Thought I was even ready to try getting down there by myself.

But I'm really not up to it today."

"I'll tell him.  You just take it easy.  Don't worry about a thing."

"That'll be the day," Daisy said.  Her voice was winding down like a
Victrola.  "Guess I could use a little nap...."

"Good idea.  I'll check back with you later."

Still half an hour until her meeting.  Restless, Maggie headed to her
office.  Henry greeted her with a worried look.

"I heard about the health department investigation.  I'm so sorry,
Maggie."

Maggie hadn't told her assistant or anyone about the charges against
her.  Henry had been gone by the time she'd finished talking to the
so-called state investigator the previous night.

Clearly, the news of her impending demise was already spreading like a
bad flu.

He bristled.  "Imagine them suggesting you hurt some of your
patients.

I'd like to tell them a thing or two."

"You're a pal, Henry."

"Are you all right?  Anything I can do?"

"Don't worry.  It's all going to work out.  And soon."

"Of course it will.  Coffee?"

"Thanks.  That'd be nice."

Interrupted by the phony investigator's sudden appearance, she hadn't
yet dictated her report on the latest meeting of the Thursday Night
Lyons Club.  Popping a fresh tape in her recorder, she worked to set
the scene in her mind.

Reconstructing the session, she was struck again by the enthusiastic
pitch of the group.  She pictured the ring of shining eyes.  The
flushed faces.  The flood of eager words.  They'd been like kids
playing chicken, pressing each other to edge past their usual limits.

But that was the whole point of the program.  Group support was
intended to inspire the phobic to take chances.  Their brash risks were
other people's baby steps.  There was no danger in the clinic's
approach.  Nothing to move her to apology or regret.

So why was she still uneasy about the whole thing, even though she knew
the investigation was a sham?

Finished taping her impressions, she headed out to her appointment.

Drew Paulson, the department's chief creep, peered up as she passed his
office.  Thick lenses gave the doctor's eyes the look of snails
bobbling in an aquarium.  His smile bared teeth the color of old
parchment.

"So sorry to hear of your dreadful troubles, Dr.  Lyons."

"What troubles?"

She returned his phony grin.  The man was dying to see her squirm.

And Maggie had no intention of playing hooked worm to his starving sea
bass.

Paulson stridently believed that phobics needed years of intensive
analysis.  He'd never hesitated to express his contempt for Maggie and
the clinic's short-term approach.  With regularity, his disdain erupted
in a hot accusatory torrent.

Maggie vividly recalled his tirade at a recent staff meeting.

"It's unconscionable, Dr. Lyons.  Your so-called therapy puts your
patients at risk for irreparable damage.  Physcian, do no harm.

Remember?"

Refusing to be baited by his acidic challenge, Maggie had tried to view
the issue from Paulson's unfortunate perspective.  In Freudian terms,
she could well understand what had triggered the man's idiotic
outburst.  Drew Paulson was fixated at the anal stage.  He had his head
firmly planted up his butt.

But that was his problem, and Maggie had an ample supply of her own.

"If the Health Department finds against you, I suppose it could mean
your career...."

"Sorry to disappoint you, Dr. Paulson.  But that's not going to
happen."  She pushed through the outer doors, feeling his enraged eyes
on her.

The day had heated to a boil.  Maggie's skirt clung like plastic wrap,
and her blouse was fusing to her skin.  Many others consigned to the
urban kiln had adapted by shedding their customary skins, opting
instead for bare legs and midriffs, plunging necklines, and skeletal
shoes.  But Maggie's discomfort added welcome fuel to her raging ire.

Evenings, the Intensive Care Saloon on First Avenue was packed with
East End staffers seeking to blunt the strain of the work with doses of
anaesthetic on the rocks.  At eleven on a weekday morning, however,
only a few tables were occupied.

Maggie spotted the detective reading the Times and sipping coffee at a
booth in the rear.  She took in his smoky eyes, tousled hair, and
chiseled features.  Bannister had the sort of arrogant good looks that
come packaged with a matching attitude.

She slid in opposite him, wove her fingers together, and held her tone
at a strained neutral.

"I want you to know I have never harbored truly murderous urges before,
Mr.  Bannister.  But you have managed to change that."

He looked startled.  "Wait a minute.  When I called this morning, you
said you'd be delighted to meet with me.  You said you were very
anxious to hear what I had to say."

"And I am.  But first, you will return my files.  Next, you'll write a
statement explaining your little scam in detail.  Then I'll approach
the proper authorities.  After I have your license revoked and file the
civil suit against you, I can't wait to hear exactly what you have to
say."

"Try not to take this the wrong way, Doctor.  But I think maybe you
caught something from one of your patients."

"Get off it.  The game's over, and you lost.  I want the Weider and
Macklin files back.  Now.  Today.  You deliver them to me within the
next thirty minutes, or I'll add criminal charges to the list.

I'll be in my office."

She stood to leave.  Bannister cuffed her wrist with firm fingers.

"Look.  I don't know what the hell you're talking about.  The only
reason I called was to get your advice about my little girl.

Something's wrong with her, and she won't let me get close enough to
find out what it is."

Maggie was incredulous.  The man wouldn't even give up when he'd been
hooked, reeled, and left flapping in the boat.

"Enough, Mr. Bannister.  I told you, I'm not playing your stupid
game.

What can you possibly hope to accomplish by continuing with this line
of nonsense?"

"All I'm trying to do is help my daughter, damn it.  I wouldn't make up
a thing like this."  He tugged out his wallet and flipped it open.

"Look what a beautiful kid she is.  Always had a beautiful nature,
too.

But she's changed.  She's upset, angry.

Flies off at the slightest thing.  I'm scared to death she's going to
do something crazy, get herself into some kind of trouble."

Maggie searched for signs of insincerity, but found none.

Eyeing the open wallet, she saw a photograph of Bannister with his arm
around a pretty young girl.  The resemblance was undeniable.

Definitely daddy and daughter.

"You're serious," she stammered.

"Forget it.  If you won't listen, I'll find someone who will."

Catching the waiter's eye, he motioned angrily for the check.

The truth seeped under Maggie's skin.  There was no perverse scheme or
cruel practical joke.  Bannister hadn't taken those files.  Dean
Connell and his terrifying investigation were for real.  Maggie's work
and future and the clinic she'd nurtured from its infancy were really
on the line.

And maybe more.

Bannister tossed a bill on the check and pushed back his chair.

"Wait, Mr.  Bannister.  I'm sorry.  I was wrong."

His anger flared.  "No, I was.  I thought you were smart and solid and
really gave a damn about rescuing people in trouble.  I thought maybe
you could help me figure out what the hell to do about my little
girl."

"Maybe I can."

"You expect me to believe you're anxious to help me all of a sudden?

Forget it, lady.  I'm not nearly as dumb as you obviously think."

"Not anxious, but I'm willing."

"And why is that?"

"Because I can see you really care about your daughter, and that scores
a lot of points with me."

He stared at her.  His eyes were coal hard and filled with challenge.

"And?"

"And because I feel guilty for misjudging you."

"That's not enough?"

"Even Mother Teresa has her own agenda," Bannister said.

"What's in it for you?"

"I have a feeling you might be able to help me in exchange.

There was a bristling pause.  Bannister stared at her as if she were
mounted on a slide.  "How?"

Maggie told him about the health department's inquiry into her
professional conduct.  She recounted the inexplicable circumstances of
Theodore Macklin's and Gail Weider's deaths and the horning suspicions
those deaths had spawned.

"The state investigator treated me like Jack the Ripper.

Somehow, they've gotten it in their heads that those two deaths are
connected and that I did something to cause them.  I have to know
exactly what's going on, and how to make it go away."

As she spoke, one disconcerting fact occurred to her for the first
time.  Gail Weider had died only five days ago.  The authorities in
Albany could not have known anything about that incident or Maggie's
brief, distant link to Theodore Macklin unless the information had been
fed to them by someone at East End.

The entire dreadful business might be a further attempt by Poison Ivy
to scuttle her and the clinic.  Or it could be an attempt at
professional subterfuge by someone else.  Drew Paulson came immediately
to mind.  The doctor was unbalanced enough to attempt to destroy her.

And Maggie knew there could be others.  Any one of her more cordial
colleagues might harbor secret resentments.

There was always the possibility of a disgruntled ex-patient or someone
on staff with a real or imagined gripe against her.

She didn't have to be paranoid to acknowledge the grotesque
possibilities.  She'd learned long ago there was never a threatened
shortage of the irrational or irate.

A glint of mischief lightened Bannister's grim expression.

"If I agree, Doc, you'll have to give me full access to the information
l need."

"You'll have it."

"Including Macklin's file."

"I'm afraid that's impossible.  The state investigator took his records
and Gail Weider's.  I have no copies."

Before Bannister's face could fall the rest of the way, Maggie assured
him that she could reconstruct much of Macklin's record from memory and
whatever notes or tapes she might still have on hand.

"I've already spent hours reliving my sessions with him, Detective.

But I have to be honest with you, I can't remember anything he said
that was anything close to a murder confession."

"But you weren't looking for one.  All I want is the best possible
chance here, Dr. Lyons.  And I'll do anything it takes to have
that."

"My sentiments exactly."

Maggie was not about to sit back and play the helpless victim.

Someone was out to get her, and she refused to do her fighting in the
dark.

CHAPTER 31.

From Maggie's office, Bannister phoned his daughter at her babysitting
job.  Waiting for an answer, he had the look of someone trapped with a
ticking bomb.

As Maggie had suggested, he told Chloe a friend of his wanted to talk
to her.  He made sure the timing was acceptable.

Fortunately, his daughter's small charge had just settled in for a
nap.

Bannister's eyes were dark with pleading as he handed the phone to
Maggie.

At first, the girl sounded suitably tentative.  Maggie explained who
she was and why Bannister had suggested they speak.  She was careful to
couch it in terms even the testiest adolescent would find acceptable.

No assignment of blame.  No stifling parental concerns or suspicions.

This was a simple fact-finding mission, hostile territory or no.

Maggie explained that it was her job to help people manage difficult
feelings and troubling experiences.  Everyone could benefit from an
extra pair of ears once in a while.  It had nothing to do with being
weak or immature or abnormal in any way.

As the girl responded, Maggie probed gently, trying to part the child's
defenses and peek inside.  Checking for troubling undercurrents, she
searched for chinks and cracks beneath the level surface, examining
each stingy scrap of information, searching between the lines until she
had enough to make a reasonable judgment.  By the time she hung up,
Bannister was on the brink of explosion.

"How was she?  What did she say?  What do you think?  Did she tell you
what's wrong?"

"No.  And I'm not convinced there is anything wrong."

He looked stricken.  "But you don't understand.  I know Chloe better
than anyone.  She's not herself.  You have to believe me.

Anything happens to that kid, I don't know what I'll do.

She's all that matters to me.  Everything."

"I do understand.  And I don't doubt she seems different to you.

She probably s different.  Kids her age go through major changes,
physically and emotionally.  It can be very disturbing for a parent,
especially one who doesn't see the child every day."

"But it's more than that.  There's something really wrong.  I know
it."

"She sounds all right to me, but I certainly can't make a firm
assessment from one fifteen-minute call.  Why don't I recommend someone
in the Boston area?  A session or two, and I'm sure any good therapist
will be able to determine whether there's a significant problem or
not."

She retrieved a professional directory from her bookshelf and started
leafing through it.

"Why can't you do that?"  Bannister demanded.

"Because I'm here and Chloe's there."

"But you were able to get through to her.  Isn't it possible to do
these sessions on the phone?"

"Yes, but it makes more sense for her to work with someone
face-to-face."

He reached over and shut the directory.  "I want you to do it.

I liked the way you spoke to her.  I liked that she didn't blow you off
or get upset.  Who says she'll click like that with somebody else?"

"I have no special magic, Mr.  Bannister."

He caught her gaze and held it.  "Please."

Maggie passed a beat in silent argument.  "All right, but if she needs
treatment, you'll have to find someone in her area.

"Deal.  When's good for you to speak to her again?  I'll set it up with
Chloe."

Maggie suggested a time late that afternoon, and they agreed to meet
again afterward.  Meantime, Maggie would begin reconstructing Macklin's
records.  Bannister promised to use the time to start unraveling the
inside story on the health department's investigation.

His smile was impish.  "Looks like we're in this together, Doc."

"Only for as long as it takes, Detective."

In the hospital lobby, Maggie spotted Mitch Goldberg loitering outside
the cafeteria.  Aiming the detective toward the exit, she went over to
talk to the resident.  She didn't notice Bannister loitering at the
door, watching her with the young doctor until envy forced him outside
for a breath of stale air.

"You wouldn't happen to be waiting for Daisy Tyler?"  Maggie asked
Mitch.

He eyed his watch.  "Actually, I am, but I think she's standing me
up."

"Sorry, it's my fault.  She asked me to tell you she wasn't feeling up
to lunch today.  Slipped my mind."

He grinned.  "Then I'd say you have the moral obligation to take her
place."

Maggie was tempted.  Mitch was good company.  And she could well
imagine the scene at home with Aunt Hannah and her mother.

Symphonic hysteria.  The Doom Sisters performing in Be Major.

But a guilt-edged chain was tugging her back to the apartment.

"Sorry.  I'd honestly like to.  But today's not good" He registered a
flattering trace of disappointment "We still on for tomorrow night?"

'Tomorrow?  Oh, right.  My place at seven?"  Sounds good."

The dinner had also slipped her mind.  More to do.  She'd have to call
her father and make plans.  Pick up snacks.  Thinking of tiny Tina, she
wondered what went with Shirley Temples.  Her father most definitely
did not.

Nor did her mother.

Before tomorrow night, Maggie would have to find some way to ease Mom
out of the apartment.  Even if they wound up meeting at the restaurant,
her mother would not take well to Maggie's consorting with the enemy.

Entering her apartment, she found Hannah and her mother huddled at the
kitchen table.  The sisters were sipping tea and sighing in practiced
harmony.

"Feeling better, Mom?"

"How can I feel?"

"You can feel glad that you weren't hurt."

"What kind of a way is that to talk to your mother?"  Hannah snapped.

"An honest way."

"Don't be fresh, Maggie," her mother chided.

Hannah clacked her tongue.  "Such a terrible thing to happen.

The worst."

"Come on, Aunt Hannah.  Mom's fine.  Thankfully, no damage was done.

No one was hurt.  That's hardly the worst."

Both sisters glowered at her.  "I'd think you, of all people, would be
more understanding," Hannah huffed.

"Then you'd be wrong."  Normally, Maggie had the sense and forbearance
to keep her unwelcome logic to herself, but the strain of the past few
days and her dreamshattered sleep had frayed her patience.

Francine's eyes widened.  "Margaret Lyons, what on earth's gotten into
you?  Apologize to your Aunt Hannah.

"For what?"

"I am shocked," her mother sputtered.  "Shocked and disappointed."

"I know that, Mom.  That is your response to everything: shock and
disappointment.  I just wish you could see that you have a choice.

You could choose to be happy.  You could choose to let the anger and
frustration go.  You could decide to enjoy your life for a change."

"That's easy for you to say.  You haven't lived through the things I
have."

"What things?"  Maggie demanded.  "What's been so goddamned awful?"

"You watch your tone, young lady."

"Damn it, Mom!  When are you going to give it up?"

"The nerve of you, Maggie.  Who do you think you are?  I will not be
spoken to that way.  Let's go, Hannah.

Her mother stormed toward the guest room with Hannah trailing tightly
in her wake.  Drawers slammed, followed by the click of luggage
latches.  Maggie's reflex was to follow them and atone for some mystery
sin.  But she resisted the self-destructive urge.

For as long as she could remember, Maggie had caved under the weight of
her mother's overwhelming demands and fragility.

Even as a child, she'd felt the need to tiptoe around the woman's
countless raw spots and sensitivities.  Little girl or no, she'd viewed
herself as stronger and therefore somehow responsible for preserving
her mother's tenuous well-being.

During her training analysis, however, she'd learned to let much of it
go.  She could not be her mother's mother.  Maggie had no power to
repair her mother's wounds or unburden the woman of her corrosive
secrets.  Mom had to take responsibility for her own healing and
happiness.

A door slammed down the hall.  The sisters formed a wedge at the
kitchen door.  Hannah clutched a lace handkerchief.  Francine led with
a quivering lip.  "I'm going now, Maggie.  You can call me when you're
ready to apologize."

"I'm sorry you're upset, Mom.  But I will not apologize.

Hannah ticked her tongue.  "You used to be such a sweet girl, Maggie.

I don't know what's gotten into you."

"Maybe a little sense," Maggie muttered.

Tears welled in her mother's eyes.  "You're getting to be just like
your father.  You know that, Maggie?  You're getting to be as
thoughtless and insensitive as that son of a bitch."

Faced with her mother's pain and anger, Maggie expected a penitent
pull.  But she felt none.  Nothing pierced her numb weariness but a
treacherous scrap of understanding for her father's defection.  She had
always viewed his leaving them as an inexcusable betrayal.  But now she
began to see it as a logical means to survive.  Lash yourself to a
sinking ship, you're asking to be pulled under "Bye, Mom," she said
dully.

"Come, Fran."  Aunt Hannah gripped her sister by the bent elbow like a
broken bird.  "You'll stay at my place.  Take it easy for a few
days."

Turning from the room, Han
L

nah stroked her sister's hair and soothed her with syrupy assurances.

"There, there.  You know how selfish young people can be.

She's a good girl.  She'll come to her senses."

Maggie listened to the smack of the apartment door as it shut the women
outside.

She had turned away wearily when she heard the knock.  Mother must have
forgotten something.  A parting shot of some sort, no doubt, Maggie
thought.

Opening the door, she was surprised and infuriated by the sight of
F.X.

Kennedy holding a paper sack.  The aide's eyes were bloodshot, and
there was a hard set to his mouth.

"You shouldn't have come here, F.X."

"I told the doorman I had groceries to deliver.  Clever, huh?"

"What do you want?"

"I want to know what the hell I did to you, Maggie.  Here I try to be
nice and friendly, and all I get's the brush-off."

He was trying to bully his way through the door.  Maggie refused to
budge and give him an opening.

"Please leave, Francis.  I don't appreciate your showing up at my door
like this."

He glowered.  "You don't appreciate anything, do you, you snobby
bitch?"

"That's enough.  Get out now, or I'll call the police.  And don't
bother coming back to the clinic.  You'd be better off seeing some
other doctor to get yourself back on track."

"What the hell do you know?"

He made a move toward her.  With a firm push at his shoulders, Maggie
maneuvered him back so she was able to slam the door.

Then she went to the kitchen and sat at the table.  Pressing her hands
against the table's surface to keep them from trembling, she waited for
his vicious hammering at the door to stop.

For a long time afterward, she sat alone in the gathering silence.

CHAPTER 32.

Jessie carried a bag of beach toys to the car, her flip-flops slapping
the walk.  The ruffled rear of her swimsuit wobbled, ducklike, and her
pigtails were a set of yellow swings.

Peering out from the living room, Jason could read his mother's
impatience.  She stood in the driveway beside the station wagon,
tapping her sandaled foot.  Mom took the toys from Jessie and stuffed
them in the trunk alongside the picnic cooler, an old army blanket, the
tote full of sunscreens and extra clothes, and the stack of
candystriped towels.  Swiping the sweat from her forehead, she slammed
the hatch.

"Hop in and buckle up, Jess.  I'll be back in a minute."

Mom approached the house.  Lit by hazy sunshine, her hair was a wreath
of dried wheat.  Jason sensed the hard press of heat around her.  Her
steps were plodding, her arms limp.  She squinted in the glare.

With a squeeze of shame, Jason noticed how poor she looked.

I'll-tended.  He should be helping out, making money to ease the family
burden.  Mom was wearing one of Dad's old shirts over a shabby black
tank suit.  Beneath the slack elastic, her legs were milk-pale and
mapped with bulging veins.  A strap on her sandal was torn and
flapping.

Stepping into the foyer, she breathed her relief.  "Lord, it's hot out
there.  Nice and cool in the house, at least."

"Supposed to hit a hundred or more.  Probably break the record," Jason
said.

"Bound to be cooler at the beach, Jay.  Sure you don't want to come
along?"

"Nah.  You go ahead.  I'd as soon stay in the den with the air on.

"For once, I can't say I blame you.  If I hadn't promised Jessie and
her friends, that's where I'd be headed.  Guess there are worse things
than three little girls in hundred degree weather.

But I honestly can't think of any."

"Try a hundred little girls in three-degree weather."

Her laugh was a trill.  "Now there's a thought to get me through the
day."

"See you later then."

"We should be back around five or so, depending on traffic."

He shrugged.  "Sure.  Whenever."

"Bye now."

Once the car had slid out of sight, Jason felt a surge of triumph.  Two
down.  One final interference to eliminate, and he could begin.

He dialed his aide's number.  Binnie picked up on one of those godawful
speakerphones.  She was huffing like a steam train.

"Hullo?"

Her phone gave the connection a hollow timbre.  Thing made Jason feel
as if he were trapped in a bowling alley.  Toss the voice.

Catch the rumbling echo.  Wait out the long, reverberating beat before
the clash.

"Hi, Binnie.  It's Jason.  You sound out of breath."

"Working out on my stationary bike," she panted.  "Very
cardiovascular.

Only two more miles to go, a quick shower, and I'm out of here.

Should be your way right on schedule."

"Actually, I called to cancel for today.  I'm not feeling well."

"Oh, that's too bad, lion.  You running a fever"

"No.  Just a cold, I
think."

"Maybe do you good to get out for a bit, then."

He raised his middle finger.  "Not today.  I'm really feeling lousy.

And it's hot as a boiled bitch outside."

Her laugh was direct from the funhouse.  "Never heard

that one before, but it's true enough.  Guess we'll leave today
alone.

We can touch base first thing tomorrow morning and see how you're
doing."

"Right.

"Bye, then.  Keep cool.  And feel better."

"Oh, I will."

Hanging up, he felt better already.  In the kitchen, he bolted a
chocolate doughnut and chased it back with a slug of orange juice from
the plastic carton.

Bounding up the stairs, he headed for his closet.  His remaining supply
of C2BU was hidden behind the shoe box where he kept his skin
magazines, his ossified condoms, and the pictures of Rina Latham he'd
snapped sophomore year when she was cheerleading at a pep rally.

Jason could still see her bouncing boobs, the creamy turn of her
thighs, the tiny skirt twirling up to reveal the white panties
stretched over the V of her crotch.

Jason had been mesmerized by that V. He'd worked its endless
possibilities in his fevered brain.  V for Very Warm.  V for the
Village of his Vigorous, Voracious Longings.  V for Victory over the
choking chains of perpetual Virginity.  Three years, and the
titillating power of that V was undiminished.  Even now, desire
squeezed him so hard his eyes watered.  But today he resisted the
pressing urge to seek release.  Proving himself and his formula had to
come first.  The rest would follow.  Anything would be possible after
that.

Retrieving his precious invention, he noticed that the beaker was more
than half empty.  Strange.  He hadn't realized he'd used so much.

Soon, he'd have to mix a fresh batch.  That would mean a trip to the
pharmacy for ingredients, a visit to Otto Allen at school for other
necessary substances, and an hour or more down in the basement lab to
do the actual measuring and mixing The thought sent his pulse racing
and stole his breath.  But he caught the panic before it could race
away like a wild horse, dragging him helplessly behind.  None of it
would be difficult on the formula.  On C2BU he could do anything.

Be anything.

Jason dosed himself and stepped into the shower.  He turned the
pressure up full.  Raising his chin, he let the needle-hard spray pelt
his face.  Turning, he relished the tapping tingle on his shoulders.

He toweled off on the way to his room, dripping a trail on the hall
carpet.  Infused by the first jolts of power, he clipped the legs off a
pair of jeans and sliced the neck and sleeves out of a T-shirt.

Dressed, he slicked his wet hair straight back and slapped his cheeks
with after-shave.  Appraising his image in the mirror on the back of
his door, he declared himself ready for the debut of his astonishing
new role: Jason Childs: HUMAN.

Outside, he squinted to blunt the glare.  The street was deserted.

Straining hard, he caught the distant rush of traffic and the vague
thunder of a passing plane.  Overture and orchestra.

He started down the block, trampling the lanky sprawl of his own
shadow.  The heat was harsh and fiercely penetrating.  His hair dried
in a blink, and he started to perspire.  Sweat stung his eyes and
trailed south from his neck and armpits.  Much more of this blasted
heat, and he'd need another shower.  But the show must go on.

"Curtain going up," he intoned.  "At rise: Jason Childs, simpering
nonperson, cowers into view from upstage right.  Clutching the ewer
with trembling hands, he imbibes the magic potion.

There's a striking blast and a cloud of smoke.  It clears, revealing
the young man who's been recast as a sinewy giant.  He moves with the
skulking strides of a great cat.  His eyes are hazard lights, flashing
danger.  He farts fire."

Jason laughed aloud.  He had always been his own best audience.

Best and only, for that matter.  But this was a performance worthy of
his standing ovation.  He was out alone.  Unafraid.  Going somewhere.

But where?

Walking quickly, he came to the end of his block and continued straight
to the intersection of Magruder and Hillandale.

Hesitating at the corner, he remembered his last foray in the
neighborhood with Binnie.  He recalled the snarling dogs leaping at the
fence.  Lunging at him.

But there had been no real cause for concern.  The fence was steel
wire, eight feet high, chained, and locked.  The trauma had been a
simple product of his pretzeltwisted brain.

He veered left to the deeper shade and greater challenge of
Hillandale.

Passing a half-dozen somnolent houses, he came to the corner of
Somerset.  Stalled for a second at the corner, he inhaled deeply and
prepared himself for the jolting change in the face of the
neighborhood.

But he was not prepared for the red convertible that came barreling
toward him as he was about to turn the corner.  It spat a round of
honks and a chorus of taunting voices.

"Hey, Jason !"

"Look, it's the Childs-monster!"

"Hey, Frankenstein old pal, how's it hanging?"

Mike Marchand was at the wheel.  Brad Smith rode shotgun.

Jason spotted Alyssa Hutt and Nancy Pearce seated like bookends at the
rear windows.  The last passenger remained obscured until the crimson
car had come up idling beside him: Rina Latham.

A sledge pounded in Jason's chest, and he felt a rising "Hey, Rina,
look.  It's your number-one fan," Brad said.

"Come on over and give your dream girl a little smooch, Dr.
Frankenstein," Alyssa taunted.

Blood thundered in Jason's head, and his heart started bucking like a
mechanical bull.  He couldn't do anything, couldn't say anything.  The
mocking voices pierced him like a rain of darts.

"Aw, look, he's embarrassed," Mike said.

Brad piped in.  "Don't be embarrassed, Childs-man Rina has that effect
on lots of guys.  In fact, she's just been named poster child for the
National Wet Dream Association, haven't you, gorgeous?"

"Perfect match for Jason Childs, king of the nightmare dorks.

Right, Rina baby?"  Mike said.

"How can that be, Mike?  I thought you were king of the nightmare
dorks."  Jason heard Rina's voice and his cheeks burned with shame.

"Look at that.  He's got a little lion hanging from his neck.

Isn't that precious?"  Nancy said.

"Very sweet," Brad said.  "Come on, let's get out of here before all
the sugar makes me puke."

His words evaporated in a trail of noisy exhaust as Mike gunned the
engine and took off down the block.

Overwhelmed by rage and humiliation, Jason shivered in the heat.

All the vicious moments from his past came flooding back.  The taunts
and insults.  The loaded looks and whispered comments.

The wire-capped wall of inclusion they'd built to keep his kind
outside.

For as long as he could remember, the other kids had picked at him like
a flock of predatory birds.  Pecking away.  Eroding every scrap of hope
or confidence.  His weaknesses were their seed and gravel.  They honed
their spiteful beaks on his inexcusable strengths.  His clumsiness and
shyness were fair targets.  But so was his superior skill in science
and math.  Dr.  Frankenstein, they called him.  The mad scientist.

Well, now he was fuming mad.  Sons of bitches had no right to mock or
belittle him.  Couldn't they see?  He was tottering at the brink of
greatness.

The hell with all of them.  Rina Latham included.  If she were worth a
damn, she wouldn't have let them talk that way about her.

Bitch probably enjoyed it.  Probably got off on everyone wanting her,
sniffing after her like animals in heat.  She certainly asked for it
with her clinging tops and her skimpy shorts and the skirts that barely
covered her biggest question.

Probably got it, too.  With a swell of revulsion, Jason imagined the
ripe, provocative body crawling with sexually transmittable diseases.

The hell with her, too.

He'd show them.  Sucking a ragged breath, Jason reaffirmed his sense of
purpose.  Those assholes weren't going to get him down or derail him.

Jason Childs would show them all.

He rounded the corner onto Somerset.  The vacant lot was strewn with
beer bottles, crack vials, crumpled food wrappers, paper scraps, and
glinting shards of broken er lion at theaisnpøif Ihisfneck he flung his
stu id Jason continued on his way.  Hammering and a spraying sound
escaped the closed bays of the body shop.  Passing the dilapidated
Victorian, he thought of the fenced house
Nothing to fear.

They were only dumb animals As he approached the yard, the trio of
growling beasts chmet lubnginJg at the fence.  Hatred rumbled deep in
their
He stopped to watch as they hurled themselves repeatedly against the
wall of wire.  Stupid mutts.  Again and again, they heaved at the
fence, smashed their dopey eats. en they backed away dazed and
whimpering on y to recover and repeat the ridiculous exercise.

Jason snickered.  "Hey, Bozo.  Come on, come get me."  ee lly, he egged
them on.  The dogs kept chargin and stumbling backward until all three
of them were lien leafy elm to sleep it off.

Y filed under a th,enough with you yet."  e. Im not One fierce heat.

You hear me?  I said, I'm not through."

No response.

"Don't you dare ignore me, you dumb bitches!  Get
He waited, but although their eyes were on him, there wasn t a hint of
movement "No?  Fine, then.  I'll come show you who's boss " J h only was
able to frePe thee lmooprofdding with his house key fe ine øl kinks came
away with a satisfying jingle, the
Loping across the yard, Jason imagined Binnie's stupid camera on him.

"Lights .  . . action.  Our hero steps boldly toward the ring of
sleeping giants.  Unafraid, he walks into the lair and gives the stupid
beasts their wake-up call.

He stopped beside the rottweiler.  Rheumy-eyed beast's tongue was
lolling like a fat pink scarf.  Swallowing a swell of nausea, Jason
nudged the heaving rib cage with the toe of his sneaker.

"Get up, you dumb jerk.  You don't ignore me.

Jason assumed a boxing stance.  He feinted and punched, working his
feet around the somnolent beasts.  Jabbing them playfully in turn.

"Right uppercut, left hook.

The nearest dog lifted its mammoth head off its muzzle and rose slowly
to its feet.  The others followed like swamp creatures rising from the
muck.  For the first time, Jason felt a tic of anxiety, and his feet
stalled.  He searched for a joke to chase away the rising terror.  But
he couldn t think of one.  Nothing penetrated the tidal wave of fear.

The dogs began circling like vultures over dead flesh.  Jason struggled
against the dark waves of dizzy terror that threatened to drag him
under.

Think, Jason.  Get a hold of yourself Scraps of sense invaded the
blackness.  All he had to do was run.

He could race through the gate and shut the beasts inside.

All he had to do was find a way to get e signals from his mind to his
frozen muscles.

You can do it, Jason.  You have to do it!

The thoughts were beginning to penetrate as the first vice of teeth
clamped his leg.  As he struggled to get away, a massive weight was
hurled at him, knocking him defenseless to the ground.

CHAPTER 33.

Bannister left the hospital humming.  Things were definitely on the
upswing.  One of Price's countless contacts would get the scoop on the
State Health Department's probe of Dr. Lyons.  In exchange, the lady
shrink would help him get a handle on what was going on with his
daughter.  In the bargain, he'd finally have his look at the rotten
lining of Theodore Macklin's psyche.

Bannister remained confident that Macklin's couch confessionals would
contain some sort of damning evidence of his guilt in the murder of
Martha Rafferty.  Mrs. Rafferty's reward check was so close, Bannister
barely had to stretch to get the feel of it.

And there would be the satisfying bonus of nailing that scumbag
Macklin, even in death.  Bannister had always believed in judicial
symmetry.  What goes around should definitely come around.

But sometimes what goes around, goes flat.  Passing the Camaro, he
spied a ticket drooping from the windshield wiper.  Reading the
citation, he discovered that the parking spot he'd found yesterday
after a nationwide search was for vehicles with diplomatic permits
only.  Half a block away, a sign the size of a flea bite confirmed the
bad news.  And to add injury to the forty-five-buck insult, now he had
to find another space.

Twice during the scouting expedition, the heat warning light flashed on
his dashboard, and a steam genie levitated from the hood.  By the time
he finally landed a legal spot ten blocks up and two over, his radiator
wasn't the only thing boiling over.

On the way back to the dump, he dined on a street vendor hot dog with a
frozen center and a rock-solid roll.  Half a block from home base, he
stepped in a flagrant violation of the pooper scooper laws.  Some
years, it honestly didn't pay to get out of bed in the morning.

Parking his soiled shoes and simmering temper on the doormat, he let
himself into the dump.  Price was sprawled on the couch in his
skivvies, reading the paper.

"Hi, honey, I'm home," Bannister said.

"Hey, Sam.  Hot enough for you?"

As usual, Price was in fine humor and had a productive morning to
report.  A contact at Customs was tracing import-export invoices from
the Winslow-Gray Gallery.  A friend-of-a-friend from an international
news clipping service was running down the peripatetic career of
songbird Fern Compton Harlow.  Nemichev and Sons, Anatoly Popov, Howard
the Frog, and Alter Ego, Inc were being dissected by a team including a
friend of Price's at Internal Revenue, a mole in the Attorney General's
office, and a pal from Rackets and Frauds.  Price also had phone
company and banking buddies working on any hidden links between the
diverse characters and companies on Macklin's final call list from the
Newport hotel.

"Looks like you've been a busy bee," Bannister said.  "All I managed to
do was get a full promise of cooperation from Macklin's lady shrink."

Price was suitably impressed.  Bannister could tell by the way he
flipped from the sports section to Op Ed and scratched behind an ear.

"I mean it, Lenny.  Dr. Lyons is going to thing she's got on
Macklin."

This time, Price was so moved, he shut the paper and yawned.

"In exchange for what, Sammy?"

"Nothing.  A few phone calls, a half hour's work, tops."

"What work?  Which calls?  Come on, Sam.  This thing has gotten way
bigger than we bargained for already.  It's starting to get that
Schildhauer smell about it."

"Don't get yourself in an uproar.  I'm willing to take on all the tough
stuff.  All you have to do is run down the
give us every-UDITH IELMAN
source of a complaint for me, and we get the Macklin file.

Price frowned.  "I still think you're barking up an empty tree, Sam.  I
bet Macklin didn't confess the Rafferty murder to that lady shrink or
anybody else."

"Thanks, Lenny.  I knew you'd go along."

"When did I agree to do that?"

Bannister waggled a finger.  "You see?  That's what happens when you
don't pay attention."

He briefed Price about the allegations against Dr. Lyons and her visit
last night from Dean Connell of the State Health Department's
investigation unit.

Price's frown deepened.  "Pretty strange that two of her patients died
one right after the other like that."

"It's a coincidence, Lenny.  There's no way in hell Maggie Lyons is
responsible.  Don't even suggest it.  Not for a damned second."

Price held up a hand.  "Down, boy.  Easy.  I'm not suggesting
anything."  His face went coy.  "Except maybe that someone I know seems
to have fallen like a brick for a lady shrink."

"My ass, Lenny.  This is strictly business."

Price smirked.  "Sure, Sam.  Sure."

"I mean it, Price.  I told you, I'm off women.  Besides, this one's got
a boyfriend.  Some jerky, smooth-cheeked doctor-in-training.

Looks like a dark Dennis the Menace.  Can't imagine what she sees in
him.  Not that I care."

Price's look was impish.  "Of course you don't.  After all, it's
strictly business."

"Right.  So what do you think about this Health Department thing?"

"Odd that the investigator would demand those patient files right off
like that," Price mused.

"That occurred to me, too.  I figure this Connell character must have
storm trooper tendencies."

Price mulled it over for a minute.  "Or it could be this case has been
placed on the center front burner for some reason.

Sounds as if that investigator was real eager not to let anything
slip.

So eager, he was willing to risk being accused of trampling Dr.
Lyons's legal rights."

"Why would that be?  You're not talking serial murder or the death of a
Vanderbilt here."

"Can't tell you why, Sammy.  But I am curious."

"Don't be, Lenny.  Okay?  We've got enough troubles without your damned
curiosity."

Price got busy on the phone.  He had no contacts at the New York State
Health Department, but that was a minor obstacle.  A call or two, and
he'd unearth a friend twice removed or the grateful sister-in-law of an
ex-victim he'd vindicated, and the wheels would start spinning in their
direction.

Price's popularity was miles beyond Bannister's comprehension.

The more people he knew, the more people he knew disliked him.

Price had managed to web his world with spun sugar.  Everyone the man
had ever touched was willing and eager to return the favor.

This assignment proved more challenging than most.  According to
Bannister's Timer, it took almost seventeen minutes and four calls for
Price to get the confidential dope on the Health Department's complaint
against Dr.  Margaret Lyons.

The alleged professional misconduct had been reported by phone by
William Weider, father of one of the deceased patients.

According to Mr. Weider's complaint, Dr. Lyons had brainwashed and
manipulated his only daughter, causing the woman to engage in highly
uncharacteristic reckless behavior that had resulted in her tragic
death.

Hanging up, Price went wistful.

"That was really nice, Sam.  Haven't touched base with Carl Blake from
the A.G."s office in an age."

"The Attorney General's office?  Who's Carl Blake?"

"Old friend.  Ruthie and I had a ballet subscription with the Blakes
for years before we moved to Boston.  Played bridge together, too."

"You've got more damned friends, Lenny."

Price shrugged.  "Guess I'm just a people person."

"Good guess."

To each his own.  Bannister had no desire to vie for the iss
Congeniality award.  But there were certain clear advantages to being
well loved and even better connected.  While Price got to let his
fingers do the stalking, Bannister had to brave the heat and make a
very cold condolence call.

On the way to Gail Weider's former apartment, he toyed with a few
alternative approaches.  Given how little he knew of the dead woman,
claiming to be her friend was too risky.  From Dr. Lyons, he'd learned
that Ms. Weider was a former patient and sometimes aide in the phobia
program.  Maggie had shown him an obituary from the Times that listed a
staggering number of family ties and the dates and site of the planned
mourning period.  Beyond those meager bits, Bannister was flying on
instruments.

Pressing the buzzer in the front vestibule, he announced himself as an
acquaintance of Gail's from East End.  In the elevator, he decided to
go the conservative route and claim to be a fellow program aide.  "Dr.
Sam Bannister" had a certain ring to it, but it was nowhere near the
ring of truth.

Turned out he'd been worried for nothing.  Bannister was not asked to
field any sticky questions or quell any skepticism.  He was greeted
with open arms and a parade of food platters.  Hating to be rude, he
allowed Cousin Whoever to force a pile of chocolate chip cookies on
him.  Best he'd ever tasted, and he considered himself something of a
junk food gourmet.  Eating the sweets, he held a studied frown.  But it
was tough to act properly morose while your taste buds were singing the
Hallelujah chorus.

Aunt Whatsis took him in hand and made the introductions.  He was
presented to a roomful of rubber-stamp relatives, uniformly pleasant
and unassuming.  Bannister expressed his desire to pay respects to
Gail's parents, and the aunt propelled him toward a weeping woman on
the couch.

"Evelyn, dear.  This is Sam Bannister.  He knew Gail from the
clinic."

"So sorry for your loss, Mrs.  Weider," Bannister said.

Gail's mother snuffled and wiped her eyes.  The moonfaced man to her
right draped a comforting arm around her shoulders.

Bannister nodded gravely.  "Mr. Weider?  I knew your daughter from
East End.  So sorry."

The man shook his head.  "Gail was my niece.  Her father passed on
several years ago."

Bannister was taken aback.  Dead men rarely lodge official
complaints.

Talk about long distance.  "Sorry.  I didn't know."

Gail's mother spoke in a tear-filled voice.  "That's all right.  We all
feel as if Thomas is still here with us.  Gail, too.

Beating a clumsy retreat, Bannister settled next to a woman named
Alice, who turned out to be Gail's younger sister.  So much for a
father named William whose only daughter had been brainwashed and
imperiled by Dr.  Lyons.

"Gail will be sorely missed at East End," Bannister said.

Alice swiped her fevered nose with a napkin.  "She missed the place
herself.  In fact, she was finally thinking of going back when this
happened."

"Back?"

"I kept telling her she was spiting herself staying away.

Gail enjoyed the hospital so.  Gave her something to do.  A sense of
purpose.  But that girl always was one to hold a grudge until it yelled
for mercy."

"Who did she have a grudge against at East End?"

Alice eyed Bannister.  "You didn't know?  Mad as she was, I figured it
must have been common knowledge."

Having opted not to play doctor, Bannister was certainly not up for
pulling teeth.

"Not to me.  Who was she mad at?"

Alice shrugged.  "Gail didn't mention the name.  Said it wouldn't mean
anything to me.  All she told me was she wasn't putting up with any
more insults."

"Could it have been Dr.  Lyons?"

"Are you kidding?  Gail worshiped the ground that woman walked on.

Dr. Lyons saved my sister's life.  No question.  Before the clinic,
all Gail ever did was stay home, watch the soaps, and bake cookies."

At the mention, Bannister searched the room for seconds.  "If they
were anything like the ones I just had, that was a job worth doing."

"They're from Gail's recipe.  Used to be top secret.  Gail wouldn't
even give it to any of us in the family.  Had the notion she might go
into the cookie business someday.  Sell to fancy delis and the like.

But first, she had to get over her driving phobia."

Alice whimpered.  "Gail thought all her problems would be solved if
only she could get herself over that fear."

Bannister steered the conversation back on course.  "You have no idea
who she was fighting with at the hospital?"

"Only that it was a man.  I remember her saying, The nerve of him
treating me that way.  Saying those things, and he's not even a real
doctor."

" The memory spurred a fresh flood of tears.

"It's hard, I know," Bannister said.

"You know what gets me the most?  All her life, Gail battled a weight
problem.  Three months ago, she finally hit on a diet that worked for
her.  She started exercising, stopped baking.  Even gave out her
precious cookie recipe to a few people, so no one would be nagging her
to start making them again.  I saw my sister the day she died.  When I
left her, I remember thinking she'd never looked better in her whole
life."

Alice was consumed by wracking sobs.  Uncle Whochamacallit swooped down
to comfort her.

For the next hour, Bannister worked the gloomy room.  Everyone
expressed wholly positive feelings about Dr. Lyons and Gail's
experience at East End.  There wasn't a spoken hint of suspicion that
Gail's death might have been connected in any way to her work or phobia
therapy at the clinic.  Without exception, her relatives believed the
woman's death had been a bizarre accident.

Bannister tried to get more information about the mysterious blowup
Gail's sister had mentioned, but no luck.  Must have been a doozy to
keep the woman away from her sole work and purpose outside the tight
family circle.

On his way back to the dump, a nasty thought burrowed under Bannister's
skin.  Had the so-called accident been arranged by Gail Weider's
unnamed adversary at East End?

Murder would account for the incomprehensible circumstances of the
woman's death.  Given Gail's terror of the road, it was completely
illogical that she'd taken that final killing spin voluntarily.  But
feuding parties rarely resolve their differences by burying the hatchet
in the other guy's head.

That thought stalled him for an instant, but Bannister was able to cast
it quickly aside.  Reduced to their lowest common denominator, people
were just animals after all.  And it didn't take all that much to strip
some human beasts of their sheep suits.

Lucky thing for him, Bannister thought with a sardonic smirk.

If everyone started behaving by the rules of sane civility, he'd have
to go find himself a brand-new line of work.

CHAlPTER
Maggie often reused or discarded old dictation tapes after having them
transcribed for inclusion in a patient's record, but she managed to
locate a couple containing session summaries from her work with
Theodore Macklin.

Playing them back, she was struck by the sharp edge in her own voice.

Even after the man had left her office, she'd remained tense and
unsettled.

That was the way Macklin had always made her feel.  And he'd done it
with obvious relish.  Most patients played by the unstated rules,
instinctively allowing her to claim the necessary position of trust and
authority.  Even when they passed through the normal phase of
transference, temporarily substituting doctor love for their
obstructive defenses, most clients kept their appropriate distance.

But Theodore Macklin had been a memorable exception.

From the first, he'd taken small liberties designed to upset the
equilibrium.  Entering the office, he'd moved to shake Maggie's hand.

But he'd held it well past the point of comfort or necessity.

The first time he pulled that stunt, Maggie had been flustered and at a
loss for an instant, effective response.  Refusing the gesture would be
admitting her uneasiness, giving him the edge he sought.  If she
accepted, she invited or, at least, appeared to condone his boorish
behavior.

Having relived the awkward moment several times by the following
session, Maggie had thought she was ready for him.  But Macklin, too,
had prepared.  Instead of extending a hand, he'd pretended to stumble
on his way to the couch.

Maggie had grabbed him reflexively by his thick upper arms.  Macklin
had languished there, leaning heavily into her with parted lips and a
lascivious glint in his eyes.

Maggie had itched to drop him on his head, but she knew any such
passionate response was exactly what he wanted.  Instead, she sat the
jerk down and set out the ground rules in terms even he could
understand.

MacWin had suffered from a classic case of sexual insecurity.

Beneath the blowhard macho posturing, beat the heart of a little boy
with severe libidinous stage fright.  He deeply doubted his power to
attract, connect, and perform with a woman.  He was as phobic about
carnal encounters as he was about bridges or tunnels.  Freudian or not,
it was hard to overlook the obvious symbolic connections.

Any female, regardless of age, role, or eligibility, had the power to
stir Macklin's terror.  But his response to the fear of sex was not
typical phobic avoidance.  Like a timorous kid in a schoolyard, Macklin
reacted by becoming a sexual bully.

Maggie tried to imagine that bullying response pushed to its grisliest
extreme.  Could a teenage Ted Macklin have brutally raped and murdered
Martha Rafferty?  Bannister had described the victim as the one person
in Macklin's class who'd gone out of her way to be kind to Ted.  Martha
Rafferty had encouraged Macklin to get out more.  She'd pushed the
others to accept the boy.

Given his terror of females, Macklin might have been threatened by the
girl's attentions.  But was he capable of responding with murderous
violence?  And after committing such a heinous act, would he have been
capable of making all the bloodless calculations necessary to bury the
crime in fact and eradicate it from his own conscience?

Or did the man lack a conscience altogether?

The question haunted Maggie.  Had Theodore Macklin been a true
psychopath, completely devoid of human caring or remorse?

Every potential clinic patient was given a thorough intake evaluation,
including medical and psychological testing.

Maggie had spotted no red flags in Ted Macklin's profile, but the
program's questionnaire was not designed to smoke out clandestine
criminal types.  Most of Maggie's patients lacked the nerve to jaywalk,
much less commit and conceal a rape and homicide.

She searched her memory for signs of psychopathic development in
Macklin's history.  By his own description, Theodore Macklin had been a
loner with poor and sometimes stormy family relationships.

As a young boy, he'd had trouble getting along with other children and
was often punished for his poor conduct in school.

All were typical of a psychopath-in-training.

It wasn't standard practice to question phobic patients about a record
of animal abuse or fire setting, both common in the early lives of
psychopaths.  But if Macklin had been capable of normal caring,
kindness, or empathy, he'd hidden the ability well.

When, on rare occasions, he'd referred to other people in his life, it
was in terms of their use or value to Theodore Macklin.  New
acquaintances were opportunities.  Clients were portfolios.

Employees were gofers or go-getters.  Socializing was business with
food.

Maggie spent the next several hours carefully reconstructing Macklin's
file from her notes, tapes, and memory.  Certainly the man had been
among the more spectacular failures in the history of the phobia
clinic.  Ten days of daily individual sessions, group meetings, and
supervised practice hadn't even gotten him to the point of true
acceptance of his phobic condition, the first essential step toward
recovery.

Macklin contended to the end that every bridge was a very real
danger.

Ditto tunnels.  He'd come to East End armed with harrowing statistics
about the country's tottering infrastructure.  And the superstructure
wasn't much better.  The man had memorized a grim litany of building,
bridge, and tunnel collapses.  He knew the site and circumstance of
every major construction debacle in the last twenty years.  He could
reel off the bruise and body counts and offer a description of each
victim's wounds in macabre detail.

Macklin had been a source of tremendous frustration to Henry, who had
acted as his aide.  Maggie had asked her star assistant to assume the
odious assignment as a special favor.  But this patient had proved even
more impossible than Maggie had dared to anticipate.  Animals could
smell fear, and Macklin was no exception.  He'd sniffed out Henry's
residual anxieties.  With vicious deliberation, Macklin had preyed on
poor Henry's fears.

One instance stuck in Maggie's mind.  Henry had planned to take Macklin
for a ride on the FDR drive, which would involve close-range sightings
of several formidable bridges.  Henry was a cautious driver who always
kept to the right lane and the speed limit.  Sensing his aide's
uneasiness, Macklin had spent the entire practice session harping on
the snail's pace.  Henry hadn't been able to get Macklin to focus on
the real purpose of the exercise.

Maggie remembered Henry's report of the irritating session.

"He was so busy teasing me about life in the slow lane, he wouldn't
even look at the bridges," Henry had complained.  "I don't get it,
Maggie.  Why did he come to East End in the first place?  What can he
possibly hope to accomplish if he refuses to cooperate?"

"I guess he hopes to drive us all crazy."

"But how can we help the man if he won't even try?"

"We can't.  Don't let him get to you, Henry.  Try to look on the bright
side.  He'll be gone in a couple of weeks."

Turned out to be a very long brief stay.  Macklin had been a pariah to
his phobia group, where no one appreciated his superior attitude or
steady portents of doom.  He'd aroused even gentle Henry to something
akin to actual anger.  The floor staff and other patients had avoided
Macklin.  Maggie, who could not avoid him, had anticipated their daily
sessions with the same eagerness she brought to root canal.

After a week and a half, Macklin had simply packed his bags and left.

No official checkout.  No farewells.  The man hadn't even paused to
fire a parting shot before riding off into the sunset.

Shaking out her cramped fingers, Maggie wished she'd never heard of
Theodore Macklin.  Six months later and dead, he was still leaving
muddy footprints all over her life.  When was it going to end?

Was it going to end?

She was damned well going to do her part to hurry this mess to its best
possible conclusion.  Four o'clock.  Time to call the detective's
daughter and do a little detecting of her own.

CHAPTER 34.

Sick headache.  Jangling nerves.  Too little sleep, too much coffee.  A
crowd of shrill worries jockeyed noisily for the conscious center
stage.

The first two had gone perfectly.  The next was in process.  The plan had
to proceed in perfect order.

The cab ride intensified the sense of uneasiness.  The taxi had brick
seats, liquid shock absorbers, and a leadfooted driver.

At intervals, garbled squawking spat from the two-way radio.  In
response, the cabbie pressed the mike to his cracked lips and rasped in
a nasty, alien tongue.

Rotten city was bad enough in the winter.  Summer heated the
ozone-tainted air and brought the simmering populace to a boil.

The cab passed masses of plodding bodies.  The faces were squint-eyed
and grim.  Even the smallest kids had a grave, edgy look about them.

How awful being out among them, open and vulnerable.  How wonderful to
have the peace and solitude of the special place.  But there would be
no retreating to that until the work was done, the retribution
ensured.

The cab stopped in front of the store.  The door opened with a whine.

The necessary moves were a silent mental echo.  Step out.

Breathe.  Exhale the stalking demons.

Nothing could get in the way.  Everything had been planned to the most
minute contingency.  Everything must be perfect, beginning to end.

The next hour was focused on the final details.  Armed with the
essential purchases, the voice urged another foray outside.  Wait for
a cab.  Raise a seeking arm.  Flash a fetching smile.

The moment was coming.  A few more days of this hideous charade, and it
would be time to attend the bitch's funeral.

CHAPTER 35.

Maggie could read his aching uncertainty.  The detective's eyes were
pained, his jaw worked as if he were chewing on stones.

Nothing she'd told him had done a bit of good.  No amount of
reassurance from her or anyone was going to convince the man that his
daughter was doing all right.  He had to come to that risky
understanding on his own.  And to get there, he'd have to traverse some
very rocky personal terrain.

Two hours ago, when he'd shown up at her apartment uninvited and
unannounced, Maggie had been miffed, to say the least.  But recognizing
the depth of his pain and worry, she'd quickly forgiven the
intrusion.

Now he sat on the couch in her living room, his hands knotted.

"You don't understand.  Chloe's very smart.  Smart enough to tell you
what she knows you want to hear."

"That's not what happened, Detective."

"How can you be so damned sure?"

"We've been riding this merry-go-round for over an hour now.

I'm satisfied that Chloe isn't in any serious psychic distress.

If she were, there would be some obvious impact on her behavior or her
ability to function.  She'd be having sleep problems or a loss of
appetite or psychosomatic symptoms.  She'd be sullen or withdrawn or
distracted or running with a new crowd or all of the above.  You said
yourself that none of those things are true.

And you told me Chloe's mother doesn't see a problem either.

"Chloe's mother s a problem."

"Maybe so.  But you yourself described her as a loving, caring parent
who has your daughter's welfare and best interests at heart.  Do you
think she'd deny signs of serious problems in your daughter just to
spite you?"

"No."  Bannister shook his head wearily.  "But Lila doesn't hear what I
hear when I speak to Chloe.  And neither do you."

"I'm sure that's true.

Patiently, Maggie tried to explain why his perception was separate and
unique.  He was listening to his child through a stack of distorting
filters: distance, the marital breakup, guilt, uncertainty, fear.

"It's natural for you to worry about what effects the divorce might
have on Chloe and your relationship with her.  The parent-child tie is
very close and extremely complicated.  A stressful change like a
divorce can work that tight bond in tangles.  It's going to take a lot
of effort on your part to learn how to separate your own fears and
worries from what your daughter is feeling, Mr.  Bannister.

"Call me Sam, will you?  Seems ridiculous being so formal while you're
digging around in my underwear drawer."

"Interesting way to put it."

"Look.  I appreciate your talking to Chloe.  And, whether I buy it or
not, I'm glad to hear you don't think she has a serious problem.  But
if you're trying to shrink me, don't waste your time.  I'm way too big
a piece of work.

Maggie repressed a smile.  "I don't treat people against their will,
Sam.  All I'm suggesting is that you might have a few things to work
through yourself.  Most of us do."

"Only a few?"

"I'm not a mathematician.  And I'm not your doctor.  But if you get
your stuff worked out, I can guarantee you'll be more comfortable about
the job you're doing as Chloe's father.

"Is that the whole commercial?"

Maggie spotted his stubborn expression and shrugged.  "So it seems."

"Time to return to our regular programming then."

Bannister explained the oddities he'd discovered in the health
department complaint against her.  The complainant's name and several
surrounding facts had been falsified.  From Bannister's visit to the
grieving Weider family, he seriously doubted that the gripe against
Maggie had been lodged by anyone on the dead woman's side of the
fence.

"Those people think you walk on water," Bannister concluded.

"Only when it's absolutely necessary."  Maggie's grin evaporated.

"So I was right.  The charges came from someone at the hospital."

"Looks that way.  Question is who?"

"And why."

"Yes," Bannister said.  "But you're forgetting your Abbott and
Costello.  Who's always on first."

He told Maggie that his partner was trying to get his hands on a copy
of the complaint.  The exact wording of the allegation might tell them
something.  Beyond that, there wasn't much to go on.

Maggie seethed awhile in silence.  "There has to be a way to find out
who did this," she said at last.

"We can't interview the entire East End population.  And even if we
did, I don't think anyone would run to take credit for the charges.  If
whoever it was hadn't wanted anonymity, he wouldn't have made up the
phony name and pedigree in the first place."

"I feel like I'm shadow boxing, only the shadow has all the
advantages.

There has to be something I can do."

"Why don't you make up a list of four or five key suspects?  I can turn
the screws that many times and see if anyone yells Uncle.""

"No
problem."  Maggie's expression was grim as she listed the obvious front
runners: Francis Kennedy, Drew Paulson, Alex Ivy, and two other
psychiatrists in the department who'd competed for the job as head of the phobia clinic.

She handed over the list.

"You sure you don't want time to think about this?"  Bannister said.

"Believe me.  It's all I've been thinking about."

The discussion shifted to Theodore Macklin's reconstructed record.

Maggie led Bannister on a guided session-by-session tour of the man's
brief stay at East End.  She described Macklin's social ineptitude and
the disturbing facets of his past and personality.

"Viewing the case with the benefit of my perfect twenty-twenty
hindsight, Theodore Macklin had several attributes of the classic
psychopath," Maggie said.  "Wouldn't surprise me to learn that someone
with his profile had committed violent criminal acts."

"Unfortunately, that's not good enough."  Bannister scowled.

He needed hard facts.  Evidence.  He needed to hear that Macklin had
made some sort of an admission in therapy about the Martha Rafferty
murder.

Maggie searched her memory again.  "There was nothing like that."

"There had to be."

"Believe me.  I'd remember."

"I know you'd remember an outright confession.  But it might have been
more subtle than that.  Maybe he used a kind of code.

Maybe it was in a dream he described.  Think, Doctor.  Please."

All the word "dream" did was remind Maggie of her recurrent
nightmare.

Circling on the hawk's back.  Screaming the nonsense words: Lazy bt.

Lazy bit?

Forcing herself back to the moment, she couldn't come up with anything
to fill in the blanks for Sam.  "Sorry."

"Damn it.  Why isn't anything ever easy?"

Maggie smiled.  "My mother would say it's because the world is full of
evil and darkness."

Bannister couldn't help but smile back at her.  "Your mother sounds as
impossible as my mother."

"No way, Sam.  I'm not usually competitive about things like this, but
I can guarantee you my mother wins the impossible award hands down."

Their eyes met.  What Maggie saw there made her glance away and change
the subject quickly.  Under other circumstances, the guy's visible
interest might have been flattering.  But under other circumstances,
she might be able to breathe and swallow.

"So, I guess that's it for now," she said.

Bannister eyed his watch.  "I'm starved.  You up for some dinner?"

"Sorry.  Tonight's not good."

"How about tomorrow then?"

"I'm busy then, too.  Thanks anyway."

Bannister frowned.  "The resident?"

"Actually, yes.  How did you know?"

"Not important."  He stood to leave, pausing at the kitchen door.

"There was one more thing."

Bannister recounted what he'd heard about a feud between Gail Weider
and some nameless foe at East End.  The argument had been enough to
keep the woman away from the clinic for the last few months.  Gail's
sister had mentioned an insult by a mystery male whom she'd described
as not even a real doctor.

"You know about that?"

Maggie shook her head.  "I had no idea why Gail stopped coming to the
clinic.  I figured I must have done something to upset her."

"Not according to her family."

Bannister's gnawing hunger drew his eye to the plate of cookies on the
counter.  At Maggie's nod, he helped himself to a handful.

"That's strange," Maggie mused.  "I can't picture a submissive soul
like Gail Weider having a big blowup with anybody.  And if she did, I
can't imagine not hearing about it.  East End has a remarkable rumor
mill.  Sneeze on two west, they'll bless you on fourteen."

"Wonder why it didn't work this time?"

Maggie didn't answer.  She was caught by the sick paradox of her own
remark.  These days it seemed every time she sneezed on two west, some
distant soul wound up wearing a toe tag.

CHAPTER 36.

Bannister spent the next hour trying to walk off a jittery sense of
confusion.

Someone had reshuffled his deck, fixed it so he couldn't tell the trump
cards from the jokers anymore.  Correct or mistaken, he'd always known
exactly how to play the hand he'd been dealt.

But suddenly the world was operating by an unfamillar set of rules.

And they were written in hieroglyphics.

He struggled to decipher the dips and squiggles.  Dirty was clean.

Guilty was not.  Down was up.  Chloe's problems were in his mind, not
hers.  Lila was the sensible one.

Other unthinkable thoughts kept bubbling up through the muck.

An emerald-eyed shrink had captured his muddled fancy.  Woman was
smart, swift, and equipped with a state-of-the-art bullshit detector.

Bannister appreciated all of the above.  Good solid contents.  And the
package wasn't bad either.

He tried to push away the treacherous idea.  Maggie Lyons was obviously
not interested in him.  And she was unavailable.  For some
inconceivable reason, she'd hooked up with that damned resident.

Bannister had disliked and distrusted that dippy kid doctor on sight.

But the resident wasn't his problem, and neither was Maggie.

He sternly reminded himself he'd sworn off women.  Permanently on the
wagon.  Start something with the wrong one, and you were guaranteed a
nasty finish.  Given his unblemished record of disastrous choices, he
wasn't about to trust his instincts in the romance department.

His excellent nose simply went blank in that direction.  Total
abstinence was the only certain defense.

He remembered how it had been with Lila.  Woman had intoxicated him
instantly and completely.  By the time he'd sobered up, he was paying
alimony, making appointments to see his kid and visit his money, and
living in a single room over a pepperoni palace.

Most people dreamed in black and white.  His dreams were in provolone
and garlic.

Bannister had drifted north to Spanish Harlem, not the greatest place
for a solitary stroll after dark.  He tried to muster a sensible
measure of self-protective fear and turn back, but he found he didn't
give a damn.  No one was going to get in his face tonight.  He simply
wasn't in the mood.

Night had fallen, but the temperature had failed to sink along.

Mopping his brow, he turned into a small, decayed park slipped between
an abandoned tenement and a caged bodega.

Patchy darkness shrouded the parched grass and blistered benches.

The few streetlamps that hadn't been shot out dripped stingy puddles of
tepid light.  Flies ambled over a man sleeping fitfully in the failed
shade of a scrawny pin oak.  A kid swaggered by, carting a housesized
ghetto blaster that screamed songs of rage and promises of
retribution.

Long after the kid disappeared, the alleged music rang in Bannister's
ears.  When the echo finally faded, an unwelcome vision slipped in to
claim its place.  Bannister saw Theodore Macklin's ugly face in the
morgue and the timid guise of Gail Weider from the brief Times
obituary.  Try as he did to keep them separate, the images bled
together like paint swirls on wet paper.

There had to be a connection.

What was it Price was always saying?  You take your time, you'll get
there sooner.  And there was Lenny's other favorite.  You can only find
what's there.  The truth is too big to ignore or step around.  You try,
you're only going to go miles out of your way to get to the place you
can't avoid.

Why hadn't he seen it before?

Bannister's mind was working a fast shuffle.  His heart was racing,
mouth dry as chalk.  He had to get back to the dump and talk to
Price.

Turning fast, Bannister bumped head-on into a nastylooking Hispanic
kid.  Guy had bad teeth, worse hair, and a silver hoop earring.  He
wore a studded leather vest over skin that was mottled with ruts and
bruises.

"Watch yourself, asshole," he snarled.

Kid had a raw, mean look in his eyes.  Normally, Bannister would read
it as a caution sign, but it didn't seem worth the bother.

"Who do you think you're calling asshole, asshole?"  Bannister snapped
back.

"That's it, man.  You're out."

Bannister looked the kid over and laughed.  Real fashion statement.

The dead black leather matched his eyes.  The studs and earring matched
the knife blade.

He came at Bannister with a feral growl.  The slash was at warp
speed.

The move reminded Bannister of a teasing wink.  It was almost
flirtatious.  And the punk was definitely not his type.

Bannister caught the wrist of the hand holding the blade.

Flipping the guy around so he was facing away, Bannister compressed the
creep's bulging windpipe with a forearm.

Big shot made a sound like a stuffed sink.  Bannister caught his
breath, dismissed the throbbing pain in his gut, and concentrated on
the plumbing problem.  His assailant was taller by several inches.  Had
a hard, lanky body.  Long drink of agua.  But water wasn't the only
thing this one ran through his pipes.  He had the nervous feel of a
needy junkie and that cloying junkie stench.

Wormlike tracks crawled the length of his inner arm.  Walking waste
dump.

"You got a name?"

"Lemme go, man.  I can't fucking breathe."

"That's a step in the right direction."

"Hey!  You're choking me.  You fucking nuts or something?"

His sanity might be questionable.  But Bannister was not up for a
debate.  Creep needed a lesson, and it had been way too long since
Bannister had played a nice game of school.

Still clutching the guy in a choke hold, Bannister used the knife to
slice open the pocket bulging with the kid's wallet.

Rifling through it, he found what he was after.

Moving in a muggers' tango, Bannister maneuvered the jerk to the pay
phone on the corner.  Incredibly, the thing was in working order.  His
first call was to the local precinct, requesting immediate trash
collection.  But it was his next contact that put a nice gleam of fear
into the punk's dead eyes.

"Hey.  Don't do that, man.  You don't know--" Bannister smiled.  "Oh,
yes, I do, Ernesto.  I know exactly.

It's ringing, Ernesto.  Someone's picking up now."

"No, man.  Really."

The punk struggled in his grip.  But Bannister held fast.  He was
grateful for the moment.  He was grateful to Senor Feldman, his high
school Spanish teacher, who'd been a stickler for oral practice.  Even
all these years later, he had no trouble finding the necessary words.

"Hola.  Senora Nunez Polic'a a4uœ Tengo su hijo."

As the storm gathered on the other end of the line, Bannister felt the
kid go limp.

"Fuck, man.  What'd you have to go call my old lady for?"

"Because I'm sure she's very concerned about you, Ernesto.

She sounded extremely concerned, in fact."

"Woman's got a temper on her like you never seen.  She'll rip my
fucking head off."

He caught the approaching headlights.  "Maybe so, but she's going to
have to wait her turn, hijo."

Waiting for the strategic moment, Bannister released the kid so he was
catapulted toward the squad car barreling up the block.

Even if the cops released him, mamacita would see to Ernesto's proper
punishment.  Bannister had neither the time nor patience to go with
them and make a
formal complaint.  His insides were hosting a grasshopper s
convention.

Ducked out of sight, he watched the cops nab the punk, cuff him, and
roar off with their sirens wailing.  They were out of sight before a
pain again drew Bannister's attention toward his abdomen.

Glancing down, he saw the slash across his shirt and the spreading
fingers of blood.  Wincing, he peeled back the matted fabric and
appraised the seeping wound All he'd bargained for was a little
satisfaction.  Looked like sweet Ernesto had given him a nice big
tip.

CHAPTER 37.

She couldn't sleep.  The air danced with sparks and currents.

Daisy didn't know what to make of the odd feeling.  It bore no
resemblance to her usual anxieties: ponderous, and suffocating.

This was a live wire.  Hissing and seductive.  Exotic vixen.

Danger dancing under a teasing stack of veils.

Intriguing.

Daisy stared at the ceiling.  Maybe it was something she ate.

Or maybe it was the result of eating everything.  These past few days,
her appetite had been overwhelming.  A gaping chasm.

She'd always downed her food out of dull, mechanical need, but now she
was ravenous all the time.  Between meals, she was forever rooting in
the refrigerator near the nurses' station.  She ordered nearly all the
items on the menu.  Double portions of starches and sweets.  And with
all that, she eagerly awaited the plate of cookies she knew she'd find
on her nightstand late each afternoon with a note signed by her
"not-so-secret admirer.

At first, his attentions had flustered her, left her at a breathless
loss.  She'd never considered herself worthy of such special regard.

But now she'd come to expect and rely on the pleasant extra touches he
provided.  Such a sweet person, he was.

Exactly the sort you'd hope to find working with sick people.

The compliments and gifts didn't even seem strange anymore.  They felt
lovely.

The odd thing was that she hadn't gained any weight.  Maybe she'd even
lost a few pounds.  She didn't have to step on a scale for
confirmation.  Her body was leaner than usual, the muscles better
toned.

Not that she'd ever paid her figure all that much attention.

Appearance doesn't count for much when terror is your sole and constant
companion.

Reading herself in Braille, Daisy traced the proud jut of her
cheekbones and the startling hollows beneath.  The puff of gelid flesh
beneath her jaw had disappeared.  Her breasts were firmer than she
remembered, spongy hillocks mounted on a curved ladder of protruding
ribs.  Her belly lay like a vacant hammock between the bony ridges of
her hips.

Where were the doughy masses surrounding her thighs?  Where was the
excess rump tissue oozing out from beneath her like melted
marshmallows?  What had become of the real Daisy Tyler, the one long
since gone to middle-aged seed?

Maybe the fountain of youth was hooked to the hospital water supply or
lurking in the laundry detergent.  Or maybe she was crazier than she or
anyone suspected.

Weird how the idea failed to disturb her.  What was crazy after all,
and what was so terrible about it?  During the past few days, whenever
she'd mustered the nerve to leave her room or even peer out the door,
she'd observed the other patients on the psych ward.  Nothing in
particular distinguished them from so-called normal people.  As her
mother used to say, it was all mind over matter.  If you don't mind, it
doesn't matter.

Slipping out of bed, Daisy went to the bathroom.  Shutting the door,
she flipped on the harsh fluorescent lights.  Leaning over the sink,
she viewed herself critically in the mirror.

Definite improvement.  Her skin had a pleasing flush, her eyes the
clear sparkle of a rushing stream.  Was it her imagination, or had the
wrinkles faded?  She recalled the map of age on her former face.  Where
were the tire ruts running from her nose to the edges of her mouth?

And who'd stolen the splash of lines circling her eyes like cracked
ice?

"What's gotten into you, Daisy Erin Tyler?  Have you gone totally
daft?"

The words and the startled sound of her own voice set her laughing.

Unconsciously, she'd slipped into a fine approximation of her father's
stern Irish brogue.

"Dress yourself this instant, girl.  Put on your Sunday finest, and
let's be going before we miss the opening hymn altogether."

"Nearer my God to thee .  . ."  she sang to her shining reflection in a
thready voice.

"That's better, girl.  Don't you be cowering in the corner like that.

Afraid of your own shadow, aren't you?  A shame on your own house.

That's what you are."

Yes, Poppa.  No, Poppa.  Whatever you say, Poppa.

Daisy made a face, sassing the miserable memory.  She could barely
connect with the cringing creature she had been.  If this was crazy,
crazy suited her just fine.

Slipping back into the room, she dressed in the dark, tugging on her
navy skirt and white blouse.  It felt sinful and delicious to have the
fabrics draped over her bare breasts and buttocks.

They slid in a delicate caress as she moved.  Lover's fingers.

"Crazy as a bedbug you are, Daisy Erin."

You bet your sweet ass l am, Poppa.

Wiggling her toes, she decided not to bother with shoes and
stockings.

The floor felt wonderful.  Cool and daring.

Peering into the hall, she waited for the patrolling charge nurse to
round the distant corner.  As soon as the woman was out of sight, Daisy
hastened from her room, raced down the hall, and ducked through the
emergency exit to the stairs.

The metal risers nipped her bare soles as she scrambled down the double
flight to the lobby level.  There was an echo in the stairwell, the
clamorous clang reminiscent of church bells heralding a blessed
event.

Hear ye, hear ye.  Daisy Tyler is alive and well.  Daisy Erin Tyler has
risen this day from the living dead.

Hallelujah and a rousing amen!

Waiting impatiently for the security guard to abandon his post at the
door, she tried to form a plan.  Unfettered by the fear, she could go
anyplace.  Do anything.

A lifetime of denied dreams looped through her humming brain.

She could go dancing at the Rainbow Room.  Have drinks at the Helmsley
Palace and dinner at Lutece.  She could take a carriage ride through
Central Park and stop for a rich dessert at Tavern on the Green.  She
could do some or all of the above, or none of it, with no better reason
than whim or fancy.  Maybe she'd go dunk her head in the spouting
fountain at Rockefeller Center.  Or was that fountain only operative at
Christmas time?  No matter.  If she wanted to soak her skull, soak it
she would.

Finally, the portly guard stood, yawned extravagantly, and strolled
toward the men's room.  Daisy barely felt the tile beneath her feet as
she half ran, half flew through the lobby and out the revolving door.

Joy overwhelmed her as she stood outside, absorbing the summer night's
bounty.  Twinkling bridge lights.

ura of the skyline.  Crackling whisper of the tepid breeze.

At the curb, she closed her eyes and let the swell of city sounds
saturate her hearing.  Crying babies, people talking, lines of cars
passing, the squealing brakes of a bus.

A villainous idea edged out all the others.  Dropping her arms to her
sides, Daisy tuned to her inner rhythms.  Her pulse was a kettle drum,
deep and insistent.  The blood surged through her like rush hour
traffic on a fortunate day.

Nothing can stop you.  Nothing will harm you.  You are beyond caution
or peril.

Imagining the gasp of a gathered throng of admirers, she nodded
decisively and stepped off the curb.  She would cross to the other side
with her eyes closed.

Fearless Daisy Tyler.  Daisy the daring.  Watch out, World.

Here she comes!

She was too filled with wonder to sense the gathering risk.

The truck bearing down on her.  The driver unaware.

"Wait up, girl.  Who can keep up with you, Daisy Erin?  You're going to
get yourself killed, running reckless like that."

Go to hell, Poppa.  And don't hurry back.

Step by solid step, she stepped closer to the traffic lane.

She was the tide, a giant, unstoppable force.

But she was about to be stopped.  The truck was closer.  Aimed for
disaster.  Twenty yards away.  Ten.

Suddenly rough hands reached out and wrenched her backward to safety.

The truck sped past, slapping her with a hard rush of air.

Flustered, Daisy turned and found herself in Dr. Goldberg's powerful
grip.  His face was taut.  "My God, Daisy.  Are you all right?"

"What?  Yes, I'm fine.  Just stepped out for some air.  So stuffy
inside."

Her heart was pounding wildly.  What in hell had she been thinking?

What was she doing out like this, half naked?

Barefoot?

She must be completely insane.  She could have gotten herself killed.

The thought made her tremble.  For the first time, she felt a rush of
fear.  Circling his arm around her, the young doctor led her back
through the lobby and summoned a nurse to plant her safely back in
bed.

Out of Daisy's hearing, he ordered a sedative guaranteed to deliver a
sound night's sleep.

The nurse soon reappeared in the hall, nodding to let him know that Ms.
Tyler was down and decent.  Goldberg entered the room sporting a
studied smile.

"There.  That's better."

Daisy's eyes filled.  Angry with herself, she swiped the tears away.

"Can't imagine what got into me, Dr. Goldberg.  I must have taken
leave of my senses altogether."

"No such thing," he said, pulling the blanket to her chin.

"Just feeling your oats."

"Honestly?  You don't think I'm certifiable?"

"Not at all.  In fact, I'd bet you'll be ready for midnight strolls and
plenty more before you know it."

She drew a deep breath.  Such a dear young man.  So reassuring.

And look at how he'd gone out of his way for her at every turn.  If
Dr. Goldberg said things were fine, Daisy would make it her business
to believe him.

"I dearly hope you're right, Dr.  Goldberg."

"Trust me, Daisy.  Very soon, you'll be doing things you never imagined
possible.  Tonight just wasn't the time."

CHAPTER 38.

Price blew an exasperated breath.  "You should have known better,
Sam.

You're not carrying, and a junkie jerk comes at you with a blade that
way, you give him whatever the hell he wants."

"I did, Lenny.  What he wanted was to cut me."

"What the hell were you doing up there anyway?  You know better than to
go walking around alone at night in a neighborhood like that."

Bannister shrugged, and instantly regretted the movement.

"Apparently, I don't."

"And you should have called.  I was worried sick about you.

"Please forgive me, sweetheart.  You know how hard it can be to break
away in the middle of a hemorrhage."

"No kidding, Sam.  You really okay?"

Bannister flapped a hand.  "It was nothing.  Doc in emergency shoved my
guts back in place.  Gave me a couple of hundred stitches, and I'm good
as used."

Price's forehead was still pleated in worry lines.  "Get some rest.  Go
on.  You take the bed."

"What about your back?"

"My back, your front.  We're a regular pair of bargains.  But right
now, you're the bigger one.  So go.  Sleep tight."

Very tempting.  Bannister was drained.  The mugging in the park was bad
enough.  But then he'd suffered the second, longer assault in the
emergency room at East End.  The place had all the amenities you'd
expect from a fine, modern house of healing.  Nasty receptionist.

Endless waiting.  Giant stack of forms.  Bannister had sat trying to
stanch his bleeding in the pleasant company of a gunshot victim, a
projectile vomiter, a screaming woman with a pretzel-twisted arm, and a
kid who'd left most of two fingers in a garbage disposal.

When his turn came at last, he was ushered in to see a doctor with an
impenetrable accent and a tic.  From what Bannister had forced himself
to watch, the guy had no knack at all for embroidery.  So there went
the swimsuit modeling career.  And to top it off, he'd been subjected
to a lecture on his runaway blood pressure, a problem he'd never had
before and definitely didn't need now.

"All right, Lenny.  I'll take the bed.  But first there's something
serious we have to discuss."

"Your near-death experience isn't enough for one night?"

Bannister recapped the conclusion he'd come to just before colliding
with Ernesto Nunez's runaway temper in the park.  He and Price had been
interested in the life and crimes of Theodore Macklin only.  Even after
they'd tripped over Gail Weider's surprise ending, they'd never stopped
to wonder whether the two corpses might be connected by something more
than coincidence.

But what Bannister had heard about the dead woman's feud with someone
at the hospital had put a fresh spin on things.

"Suppose some nut got mad enough at Gail Weider to whack her, Lenny.

Macklin, charmer that he was, might have ticked off the same time bomb
while he was at that hospital."

"And?"

"And nothing.  Isn't that enough?  Didn' you hear me?  We might be
looking at a double homicide here.  And if someone at East End likes to
solve his little disagreements by tossing people off roads and bridges,
we damned well better find out who it is and put a stop to him."

Price shook his head.  "Don't you think I know that, Sam?  What do you
think I've spent the last eight hours on?

"You've already started checking out the double homicide angle?"

"I figured you knew that.  Soon as you mentioned the other patient's
death and the Health Department investigation, I told you I was
curious."

Bannister's own curiosity overwhelmed his urge to argue.  "So what the
hell did you find?"

Price had run the double-murder possibility by Joey McKenna, a friend
and homicide detective on the District Attorney's squad.

McKenna had found the theory interesting.  But as Price had suspected,
given the current budget crunch, no official agency was about to get
involved on the strength of supposition.

"As Joey said, Sam.  At this point, we don't even know for sure whether
the Macklin and Weider deaths were homicides, accidents, or suicides.

Of course, they'll be glad to hop on once we build them a firm enough
platform.

"Exactly how many stiffs does it take to make a platform?"

"No more, I hope."

Price's work on the case hadn't ended with McKenna.  He'd pulled the
necessary strings to get copies of the Macklin and Weider autopsy
reports faxed to a toxicologist friend at the Manhattan coroner's
office.  The doctor had agreed to review the records first thing in the
morning.

"I figured Doc Lepczek might find something in the postmortems that
would show a link between the deaths, if one exists.

"Good thinking."

"And I got a list of Dr. Lyons's other patients.  I figure we'd better
start checking them all out, see if any of the others look to have
targets painted on their backs."

Bannister went grim.  "I told you, Lenny.  Maggie Lyons had nothing to
do with those deaths.  You don't know her, but she's definitely no
murderer.  I'd stake my life on it."

"All I'm saying is that if the trees start falling in the forest, you
check the others to keep the blight from spreading.  Maggie Lyons is
far from the only one at East End who deals with her patients."

Bannister pressed his lips in a seam.  "Fair enough.  Guess we better
catch some sleep.  Looks like we've got a busy day ahead of us."

Price settled on the couch.  Bannister dropped his brick head and
aching body on the narrow bed.  Only a couple of hours until the world
opened for business again, and they could start trying to figure out
what the hell they were really up against.

Suicides?  Serial murder?  Bizarre coincidence?  One from column A and
one from B?

Stow it, Bannister.  You don't get your beauty sleep, you're going to
look like hell in the morning.

He tried to empty his mind.  When that didn't work, he rummaged around
for a relaxing thought.  But every channel was playing a horror
flick.

He saw Ernesto with the gleaming blade.  Macklin with pretty young
Martha Rafferty.  A crazed killer on every corner, hawking his
unlicensed wares.

Counting sheep was for farm boys.  Bannister finally drifted off
tallying up the corpse count.

CHAPTER 39.

Double feature.

Twice during the night, Maggie was startled awake by the terrifying end
of the window dream.  She slips out the window.

The hawk flies her in dizzy circles.  She's falling away.

Plummeting toward the ground in a helpless, endless spiral.

"Lazy Bit.  Lazy" No!

After the second time, she gave up and declared the night a forfeit.

One of these days, when all the real horror was behind her, she'd have
to make an appointment with Dr. Grayboys and try to get at the elusive
root of that dumb dream once and for all.

They had worked to dredge up the subterranean significance many times
during her training analysis.  But Maggie's memory drill kept hitting
ledge.

Meanwhile, she had her hands more than full with the weighty present.

And at the moment, there was nothing she could think to do to hurry a
lighter, brighter future along.  Sam Bannister had promised to find out
who'd lodged the complaint against her.

The state department investigators would take care of mixing the tar
and feathers.  Maggie's impossible role was to await the outcome,
whatever it might be.

Patient waiting was far from her favorite activity.  In truth, she'd
never been able to get the hang of it.  Maggie decided she'd better
figure out some way to fill the sprawl
,
of empty hours that threatened to suck her up like a pool of
quicksand.

Dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, she went for an early jog.

Six A.M and the sky was tarnished silver.  A vague shimmer capped the
horizon.  Pilot light.  From the edgy aura of the atmosphere, it felt
as if the blaze would catch again in earnest at any second.

She took a brisk walk to Seventy-first Street and crossed the
connecting overpass to the East River Promenade.  Only a scatter of
restless souls were out this early on a Saturday dawn.  The eyes she
passed were locked and bolted.  Take the standard city distrust, add
heaping helpings of sweltering heat and sore tempers, shake it up and
dish it out before the sun shines, and you've got yourself a fat slice
of paranoia pie.

Maggie didn't want any.  In active defiance, she started greeting the
wary strangers she passed with a wave and a smile.  A couple backed
away as if they'd been slapped.  Most countered with reflexive
courtesies: cautious grin, guarded wave.  A few muttered "hello" or
"good morning."  One young man in sweats and a headband paused long
enough to trade friendly complaints about the weather.

Better.  Living in a jungle didn't mean she had to walk on all fours.

The run and the satisfying exercise in civility gave Maggie a critical
boost.  Eddie's Deli had opened by the time she was headed home, and
she felt up to the task of buying snacks for the planned cocktail hour
visit by Mitch Goldberg, Dad, and Babycakes.

Fifteen minutes later, she left the market toting a bagful of cheeses,
crackers, crudites fixings, and mixers.  On the two-block walk to her
building, she tried to decide between the black dress and the red, the
sum of her summer evening wardrobe.  Both were comfortable and
appropriate.  Pity she couldn't say the same about her father's date.

Half a block from her apartment house, Maggie spotted the doorman and
the super at the curb.  She couldn't catch the words, but Pete and Joe
were talking in grim, rough voices.  Joe worked his hands in the
extravagant angry gestures of a revival tent preacher.

As she neared the building, she overheard the magic words.

Mickey Glover strikes again.

"What was it this time, Joe?"  she said.

Spotting her, the super shook his head in disgust.  "Because of the
fire that little monster set the other night, I had a surprise visit
this morning from the city inspector.  Guy really busted my chops.

Went looking for infractions and wouldn't quit until he found some
trumped-up nonsense to cite us for.

Bottom line is we have to empty out the entire storage room."

"Sorry, Joe.  Sounds like a major pain."

He nodded.  "I'm asking all the tenants to come and claim the stuff
they want.  I'd bring it around myself, but it'd take a while.  If that
inspector shows up before we get it emptied, it's another citation."

"I don't have anything in storage," Maggie said.

"No?"  Joe pulled a folded page from his pocket.  "I made a quick
list.

Thought I saw something of yours.  Yes.  Here it is.

There's a carton with your name on it.  Maybe stuff from your folks."

Maggie followed Joe down the back stairs to the basement.

They passed the utility room and the laundry.  The storage room was in
the rear, a concrete bunker crammed with castoff baby equipment,
out-of-season sports gear, and layers of boxed memorabilia.

"Wait here.  I think I can put my hands on it quickly," Joe told her.

He entered the cluttered chamber.  Moments later, he emerged carrying a
battered box marked "Lyons."

Maggie took it, balancing the grocery bag on top.

"Sure you can manage?"  Joe asked.

"I'm fine."

Another tenant appeared to collect his stored belongings, and Joe got
busy with him.  Leaving the basement, Maggie's curiosity was piqued.

After the divorce, her mother had gone on a discard hinge, ridding the
apartment of all conceivable evidence of her husband's duplicitous
existence.  Mom had sold or donated all the furniture
Dad had left behind.  She'd packed up the books, souvenirs, and
knickknacks for collection by charity thrift shops.  But stripping the
place bare had not been enough to evict the demons.

Eventually, her mother had felt the need to abandon the apartment
altogether, leaving Maggie to rattle around in the glut of sanitized
space Maggie had envied friends whose homes overflowed with nostalgic
paraphernalia: photo albums, bronzed baby shoes, dusty cartons crammed
with priceless, worthless treasures.  At times, she felt like a player
on a bare stage, acting out her life without benefit of props or
backdrop.  Neither her mother nor her father liked to muse about the
past.  And there was no physical evidence to flesh out Maggie's sketchy
recollections.

Until now.

Riding the elevator, she studied the carton.  She estimated it at two
feet across and three deep.  Had a solid feel, but there was enough
play to allow the contents to slip and jiggle when she gave it a hard
shake.

Balancing the awkward burden on her hip and forearm, Maggie opened the
trail of locks.  Entering the apartment, she went directly to the phone
and dialed.  Her aunt answered before Maggie heard a ring.  Learning
who it was, Hannah's voice went brittle.

"I hope- you're calling to apologize, Maggie.  Your mother has been
beside herself."

"Is she there?  I have to ask her something."

"She won't talk unless it's to hear you say you're sorry."

Maggie held her tone level.  "Will you please tell her I'm on the
phone" Hannah's palm smothered the receiver.  Maggie caught the muffled
play of voices.  Drone meets groan.  A discussion between those two was
never what one would call uplifting.

"Fran told me to tell you she's simply too upset to speak to you,
Maggie.  What is it you wanted to ask her?"

Anxious to break the odious connection, Maggie told her aunt about the
box from the basement storeroom.  Hannah was only half listening.  Her
attention was diverted by her sister's plaintive wailing in the
background.

"Ssh, Fran.  Please.  Take it easy."  Hannah came back on the line.

"Now's not the time, Maggie.  You can hear how aggravated she is."

"But what about the box?"

"Can't be too important.  Let it wait, or look through it yourselfœ Up
to you."

"Okay."

Hannah's voice dipped to a harsh whisper.  "Would it kill you to
apologize?"

"No, but my phony apology isn't going to give her what she needs."

'What's that supposed to mean?  For the life of me, I can't understand
what's gotten into you, Maggie."

"Forget it.  Just tell Mom to give me a call when she feels up to it,
will you?"

"All right.  I'll speak to her as soon as she calms down a little."

Maggie hung up thinking she could be in for a very, very long wait.

She'd settled the box on the floor.  Eyeing it gave her an uneasy
feeling.  Silly.  If the carton had contained anything private or
critical, her parents wouldn't have left it in the communal
storeroom.

She used a paring knife to slice the cords.  The box flaps had been
stuffed together.  They came apart with a sucking sound and a puff of
dust.

Inside was a layer of yellowed newspaper.  It was a thirty-year-old
copy of the Neo York Times from November 15, less than a month after
Maggie's second birthday.

Underneath were baby things: a pair of worn receiving blankets, two
knitted cap and sweater sets, tiny kimonos, and Dr. Denton pajamas
with flap bottoms.  Holding them, Maggie marveled at the tiny sizes.

Hard to believe her feet had ever fit into the booties that now barely
stretched to accommodate her thumb.

She smiled at the absurdity of how small a person starts.  But everyone
remains small and vulnerable in certain pieces of the uncertain self.

Scraps of the tiny infant she'd been remained buried deep within her.

For a second, her nightmare pressed to the surface.  But she was also
the sound, independent woman whose pragmatic voice urged her to get
to the bottom of the carton.

Under the clothes were a scatter of infant toys: rattles, pop-beads,
wooden blocks with alphabet markings, music boxes.

So many toys.  So much alike.  Then, her mother had always been the
type to have extras of everything: in case.

At the bottom of the box was another section of the ancient
newspaper.

Maggie lifted it out.  Nothing underneath.  Scanning the piles of
things, she tried to make some meaningful connection.

But a mountain of dark space loomed between her and the infant girl
she'd once been.

So much for Memory Lane.  Maggie started replacing the stacks of toys
and clothes and equipment.  Ten minutes later, she added the top paper
layer, sealed the carton, and stuffed it in the back of the guest room
closet.

Washing her filthy hands, she felt a tug of disappointment.

Would be nice to find a boxful of easy answers, she supposed.  But
knowing human nature, she'd be forced to concoct a fresh batch of
personal enigmas if that ever happened.

Heading for the living room, she decided to get the place presentable
for her expected guests.  She straightened the cushions, made neat
piles of the scattered papers and magazines she was forever meaning to
get to, and picked up the obvious debris.

Maggie was about to deposit the messy heap in the trash can when she
realized that the paper slip she'd picked off the foyer floor was the
back of a faded photograph.  There was a date penciled in her mother's
graceful hand.  Turning it over, she found a snapshot that had fallen
out of the box of baby things.

As the image pierced her shock, Maggie understood that she had
discovered a boxful of answers after all.  Here was the explanation for
all the blanks and inconsistencies that had plagued her for a
lifetime.

And now she would have to face them.

CHAPTER 40.

The toxicologist slipped her reading glasses in the pocket of her lab
coat and folded her hands.

"Sorry, Mr. Price.  I'd be glad to help, but I can't give you what I
don't have."

Price nodded.  Bannister was not inclined to be so agreeable.

"But you said you spotted the same peculiarity in both autopsy
reports."

Imke Lepczek nodded.  She was a rangy woman with silken blond hair and
a dense accent.  According to Price, Dr. Lepczek knew her way around
lab values better than anyone else in the bagged-body business.  For
her old friend Lenny, she'd agreed to give up part of her day off to
meet the two detectives in her lab at the coroner's office on Thirtieth
Street and First Avenue.  She'd spent the last hour there, reviewing
and comparing the results of the postmortems from Gail Weider and
Theodore Macklin.

"That's true, Mr. Bannister," she said.  "Both blood scans showed an
excess of a stress hormone called CRF and a slight depression of normal
endorphin levels.  Strange combination."

"Strange how?"  Bannister said.

"Normally, you'd expect to see an elevation of both factors.

It's a common pattern in patients with post-traumatic stress
disorders."

Price scratched behind an ear.  "Macklin and Weider were both severe
phobics.  Wouldn't it make sense for them to react like PTSD
patients?"

"Absolutely," the toxicologist said.  "That's why I find this unusual
combination of factors so surprising.  But the problem, as I told you,
is that I can't assess them in a vacuum.  I'd have to have longitudinal
data to tell whether this was a transitory anomaly or indicative of
external contaminants."

Price read Bannister's confusion.  "She's saying that she'd have to see
blood samples from a living patient for a couple of days to tell
anything, Sammy.  Without that, Dr. Lepczek doesn't know what to make
of results like this.  Those weird numbers could have come from
somebody giving Weider and Macklin a drug of some sort.

Or it could have been a fluke."

"You mean two flukes," Bannister said.  "That's pretty hard to
swallow."

"Maybe not.  What if Dr. Lyons prescribed some medicine that caused
those changes in both victims?"  Price saud.

"No way.  Maggie wouldn't mess with any drug that would hurt a
patient."

"Easy, Sam.  I'm not accusing her of anything, I'm just suggesting a
possible reason for those strange lab results.  What do you think, Dr.
Lepczek?"

The toxicologist frowned.  "It's possible, I suppose.  But only if she
were involved in experimental trials of a new drug.  I know of nothing
on the market that would cause this odd pattern."

"Can't hurt to ask Dr.  Lyons," Price said.

"I'll do it, Lenny.  Use your phone?"  Bannister strode to the one on
Dr.  Lepczek's desk in a tiny rear office.

"Be there, damn it.  Please be there."  Bannister needed to hear that
Maggie hadn't been dosing her patients with some unproven concoction.

He couldn't bear the thought that she might have been responsible for
those deaths even inadvertently.

Watch it, Sammy boy.  Youfallfor a woman, you're liable to keep right
on falling.

There was no answer at Maggie's apartment.  He left a message on her
machine and tried her office at the hospital.  According to her
assistant, Maggie hadn't been in and wasn't expected.  When Bannister
said it was an emergency, the guy clacked his tongue.

"Ordinarily, she can be reached by pager, but I've been trying her
since early this morning and no luck.  Isn't it just the way to have
her unavailable with all these emergencies.

"Why?  What's going on?"

Bannister heard the assistant out.  Hanging up, he returned to Price
and the toxicologist.

"What's wrong, Sammy?  You feel okay?"  Price said.

Bannister told them, his wound throbbing in sympathy for the latest
victims.  Last night, a female patient of Maggie's in the hospital had
wandered outside in her bare feet.  The woman had ventured into traffic
and narrowly missed being run down by a truck.

Another patient, a member of Maggie's young adult group, had let
himself into a fenced yard where three killer dogs were lurking.

In a vivid rush, Bannister felt the catch of teeth, the sickening rip
of flesh.  His throat filled with the sour taste of fear.

Looked like Ernesto Nunez had left him with more than the scar across
his middle.  The work had its moments.  But this wasn't one of them.

"You okay, Sammy?  Christ, you're green.  Sit down.  Let your head hang
between your knees."

Bannister tried to shake the queasiness.  "I'm all right.

Something just got to me there for a second."

This was no time to fall apart.  They had to pay a visit to the newest
clinic casualty.  Maybe this one could provide the necessary answers.

They had to find the magic words to make the nightmare disappear.

CHAPTER 41.

The cab ride from her building to Grand Central Station was a blur.  So
was the moment outside the Pan Am Building when she changed her mind
and asked the driver to take her to Stamford, Connecticut.  He'd turned
to Maggie, the insanity verdict printed on his face.

"Cost you hundred fifty dollars."

"That's all right."

"Tolls extra.  Waiting time, too."

"I understand."

The cost had no meaning for her.  All she cared about was reaching her
destination as quickly as possible with the fewest possible turns and
detours.  She could not tolerate further complications or delays.

She'd waited far too long already.  Nearly her entire life.

The cab's radio was too loud, the music nail-sharp and grating, but
Maggie experienced it from a benign distance.  Everything seemed
blunted and flat, including time, which passed in jarring bursts.  With
jolting suddenness, they'd completed the bulk of the trip and turned
off the Merritt Parkway at the second Stamford exit.  At Maggie's
direction, the cabbie headed north through the confusing weave of
streets that led to Aunt Hannah's house.

"Turn here?"  the driver said.

"At the church sign.  Then make the second left."

The cabbie clutched the wheel and negotiated the meandering back roads
at a timorous crawl.  He was suffering from a fear of the unfamiliar,
she suspected.  Definitely a feeling Maggie could understand.

Or could she really understand anything?

Pulling the faded photo from her purse, she stared at it again.

The meaning was undeniable, but she couldn't find a place for it.

Her mind was a wall.  The incredible truth could only bump and bounce
away.

Aunt Hannah's house was a prim Dutch colonial screened by a dense
privet hedge.  Maggie knocked at the door frame and watched as her aunt
appeared in silhouette behind the dark screen door.

Peering out, Hannah shaded her eyes with cupped fingers.

"Maggie?  Is that you?"

"I have to see my mother."

Hannah unlatched the screen and pulled it open.  Spotting the waiting
city cab at the curb, her hand flew to her mouth.  "My God.  What
happened?  Did somebody die?"

Maggie's mother had moved from the kitchen into the hall.

"That's what I'd like to know.  Who was Elizabeth?  And what happened
to her?"  Maggie stepped inside and squinted as her eyes adjusted to
the gloom.

Hannah moved quickly, circling her sister in a protective embrace.

"It's all right, Fran.  Let me handle this."

"Tell me, Mom," Maggie said.

"Ssh," Hannah crooned, stroking her sister's hair.  "Don't let her
upset you."

Maggie gripped her mother by an elbow and drew her out of Hannah's
grasp.  "I have to hear it, Mom.  I have to hear it from you."

Her mother nodded dully.  "How did you find out?"

"This was in the carton you had in storage."

Maggie pulled the old photo out of her purse and set it in her mother's
palm.  For a long time, her mother stared at the snapshot.  She looked
like a photograph herself, captured and still.

By now, the image on the old picture was etched in Maggie's mind.

It was the room from her window dream.  Same twin beds with the
matching flowered spreads and curtains, same flower-bordered rug.

The two objects that hadn't survived in her nightmare explained
everything.

On each bed was a large embroidered pillow.  One said, Margaret, the
other, Elizabeth.

"Elizabeth was my sister?"  Your twin.

"Twin?"

Her mother's eyes were fogged with pain and memory.  "You were
identical, almost impossible to tell apart.  I always kept name
bracelets on you to make sure there wasn't a mix-up.

"But there was really no chance of that from the way you acted.

Your personalities were entirely different.  You were the brave one,
Maggie.  Always the first to try something new.  Always the one we had
to keep an eye on.  Lizzie was shy and quiet.  Much less active.  Lazy
Elizabeth, we used to call her."

Lazy Elizabeth.  Lazy Bit.

"What happened to her?"  Maggie said.

Aunt Hannah had slipped back in her regular role: human shield.

For once, Maggie's mother raised a protesting hand and edged clear of
the cover.

"It's no good, Hannah.  It has to come out.  I always knew it would,
sooner or later."

Her mother's voice wavered.  "Your father and I had a dinner party to
go to.  Business thing.  Usually, we left you girls with Hannah and
Bill when we went out, but they were away that weekend."

"Bill's niece's wedding in Philadelphia," Hannah said.

"So we hired a sitter from an agency," Maggie's mother went on.

"She seemed like such a nice young woman.  Smart, responsible.

Good references.

"I gave her all the instructions.  Told her your exact routine.  And of
course, I left the number where we'd be.  I It was a midtown hotel, no
more than a mile or two from home.  Still, I felt nervous for some
reason.  As if I had a premonition.  Your father kept telling me I was
being nell-rotic.

That I had to learn to ease up, let you two go."

Tears consumed her.  She yielded for a moment, then patched herself
back in control.

"We got the call in the middle of dinner.  The sitter was hysterical,
barely able to speak.  She'd put you girls to bed.

There wasn't a peep out of you, so she thought everything was fine.

She was listening to the radio when she heard the sirens in the
street.

From the window, she saw something that looked like a broken doll lying
on the sidewalk.  How terrible, she thought.

Some child must have fallen.  Until the police came knocking at our
door, she'd had no idea it was Elizabeth."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Tears spilled over in Francine's eyes.  "You were just a baby.

Close as you were to Lizzie, you stopped asking about her after a few
days.  The pediatrician thought it was best to leave it alone for the
time being.  We always intended to tell you later on, but it never
seemed like the right moment."

"I told you dozens of times about that recurrent nightmare.

You knew it was about Elizabeth falling.  Why didn't you say so?"

"I couldn't, Maggie.  Don't you see?"

The dream played against the coating of ice over Maggie's
consciousness.  She was pushing up the window with a smooth easy
glide.

Soaring out.  Landing on the hawk's back.  Starting the dizzy
descent.

But it was not her.

Lazy bit.

"How did she fall?  Tell me what happened."  Maggie caught the silent
warning look that passed between the two sisters.

"Tell me."

Her mother was crying again.  "It was an accident.  Somehow, the window
got opened wide enough so Elizabeth was able to slip out."

Somhow.

Maggie was numb, her head reeling with the impossible new twists.

"All she wanted was to protect you, to keep you safe and happy.

What more can a mother do?"  Hannah said.

"Nothing," Maggie said dully.  "I have to go now.  The taxi's
waiting."

Hannah followed her out the door and down the walk.  "It wasn't her
fault, Maggie.  Don't you understand?  Don't you see?

Pulling the taxi door shut, Maggie asked the driver to turn up the
radio.  They drove off in a burst of enveloping noise.  But nothing was
sufficient to mute the strident facts.

For the first time in her life, Maggie understood and saw perfectly.

She'd been born with a twin sister, an identical other half.  And once
upon a tragic time, Maggie's mischief had sent that innocent angel to
her death.

CHAPTER 42.

Order was the essence.  Good fortune followed meticulous planning and
attention to the basest detail.  Tragedy trod the heels of sloppiness
and neglect, no matter how brief or transitory.  A blink, a moment's
breach of the guard, and events could spin eternally out of control.

It had happened once.  It would never happen again.

In school, there had been endless lessons in the value of redundancy.

Check and double-check.  Test and retest.  Backup and contingency
systems were the best insurance against accidental failure.

All was in readiness.  And that readiness would pay suitable
dividends.

Needing to get the bitch doctor out of her apartment during the final
preparations, several alternative strategies had been devised.  It
would only take a few minutes alone in the place.

Tonight was the finest imaginable night: her final one.

Any number of ways to lure her out had seemed foolproof.  But such
intervention had proven unnecessary.  Before dawn, the bitch had left
the building on her own.  Her departure had been so precipitous, she'd
even forgotten her beeper.  There it was, on the foyer table.  Opening
the door with the duplicate keys made from the ones lifted temporarily
from Maggie's purse in her office, the beeper was sitting there in
plain sight, a pleasurable bonus.  The
very best of good fortune.  Out of touch, Dr. Maggie Lyons was even
more vulnerable to the plan This was the finest imaginable chess
match.

The queen was the pawn.  The pawn was the king.  And the end game would
be a real one.

CHAPTER 43.

After twenty years in the business, Bannister thought he'd developed
professional immunity to the effects of violence.

But nothing had prepared him for the sickening spectacle of Jason
Childs.

Kid was mummified, his bandages oozing a rainbow of revolting fluids.

A staggering array of lines linked the teenager to medications and
machines.  The monitors shrilled and beeped in dissonant chorus,
filling the room like swarms of warring bugs.

According to Mrs. Childs, the dogs had separated Jason from part of
his lower lip, a piece of his left ear, and the tips of three
fingers.

The rest of him was marred by ruts and bruises.  His recovery would
take numerous grafts and several rounds of plastic surgery.  But the
largest damage was to his mind.  The kid was in a near catatonic state,
totally unresponsive to all stimuli, including deep pain.

Price shook his head.  "It's a defensive thing, Sammy.  He'll come back
eventually.  Might be soon, but it could take days or weeks."

"Damn it, Lenny.  Why can't we get a break?"

"You're looking at him and wondering why we can't get a break?"

Bannister fell silent.  There but for the gracelessness of Ernesto
Nunez he knew he might be as well.  Going mouth to mouth with that punk
had been just as risky as Jason's foolhardy attempt to get up close and
personal with the rottweiler sisters.  And Bannister's dumb stunt could
have had a similarly unfortunate outcome.  Funny to
be grateful for a throbbing gut and twenty-seven stitches.

But all things were relative.

"I just mean I wish he could tell us what happened," Bannister said for
the fifteenth time.

"Maybe he still can.  Follow me."

Mrs. Childs was waiting in the hall, cuddling a little blond girl on
her lap.  Cute kid, Bannister thought.  Reminded him of Chloe.

But then most things did.

"Are you policemen?"  the child chirped "Detectives," Price said.

"You going to punish those nasty dogs that hurt my
"That's the dog warden's job.  Ours is to try to figure out what
happened," Price told her.

"Jason would never tease a dog," the little girl said gravely.

"Never."

Price sat beside the mother and questioned her gently.  No, she said.

Jason hadn't been on any medication.  No.  She couldn't imagine him
going into that fenced yard voluntarily.  To her knowledge, the boy had
no enemies.  In fact, he was pretty much a loner.  He hadn't complained
about anyone at the hospital in particular.

"He hated Binnie," the little girl said.

"No, he didn't, Jess.  Binnie was Jason's new therapy aide," Mrs.
Childs explained.  "He didn't hate her, he just hated having to go to
the hospital for that group.  He didn't mind when his old aide and the
doctors came to treat him at the house, but it's a torment for Jason to
go out.

"He stays home all the time?"  Bannister asked.

"Mostly.  For the last six years, I've had to drag him out for
essentials like school.  And even then, I had to deliver him to the
door and pick him up."

"But he did make it to the group sessions," Price said.

A ghost of a nod.  "Only after months and months of nagging from his
father and me.  I feel so guilty.  None of this would have happened if
we hadn't pushed him."

"What makes you say that?"  Price asked She gnawed her lower lip.

"Jason's changed since he started that program.  Gotten nervier.  I was
hoping it was a sign of some improvement.  But now this."  Her eyes
filled.

"He would never have gone into that fenced yard if we hadn't made him
desperate.  I'd bet he did it to get us and everyone off his back."

"It might have had nothing to do with you or the clinic, Mrs.
Childs.

That's what we're trying to find out," Price said.

"I should have left him alone," his mother sobbed.  "This is all my
fault.  I know it."

The little girl stroked her mother's cheek.  "It's not, Mommy.

It's Jason's own fault."  She faced Bannister and Price, her jaw set.

"He did take medicine.  I saw him swallow some of his experiment
stuff."

"Experiment?"  Bannister felt his heart quicken.

Mrs.  Childs mopped her eyes and drew a shuddering breath.

"That's silly, Jessie.  Jason wouldn't do a thing like that.  He
must've been fooling you."

The child's head swung in an adamant arc.  "He wasn't, Mommy.

He didn't even know I was watching.  He took that stuff, and then he
started acting real funny."

"What kind of experiment was he doing, Mrs.  Childs?"

Bannister asked.

"It was some project he was working on last year for the Westinghouse
Talent Search," she said.  "Never came to anything, but he still
tinkers with it from time to time.  I'm honestly not even sure what he
was trying to develop.  Jason was very secretive about his
experiments."

"I know," the child said.  "It was this magic medicine that could make
you very, very brave."

Bannister tensed.  Price caught his eye.  Go easy, his stern look
said.

"That's silly, Jess.  There's no such thing."  Mrs. Childs turned to
the men.  "I'm afraid she has an active imagination.

"What makes you think it was a bravery drug, sweetheart?"

Price asked.

"It said so in Jay's experiment book."  Her eyes widened.

"Please don't tell him I looked in there.  He'll get furious."

The woman shook her head.  "Jason was only teasing, Jessie."

"He never teases in his experiment book, Mommy.  You know that."

"We need a sample of that formula, Mrs.  Childs," Bannister said.

"But why?  Jason would never make anything harmful.  He's the gentlest
soul imaginable."

Bannister held his calm.  "I'm sure he is.  But we have a friend who
can analyze the compound and make sure there's nothing about it that
could affect Jason's care.  You know, sometimes drugs can interact and
cause troubles."

"Right.  It's for Jason's sake, Mrs.  Childs," Price said.

She worked it over.  "All right, if you think it's important "I do.

And we should have a copy of Jason's hospital record, in case my friend
in the lab needs to check his medications or whatever," Price said.

"Okay, Detective.  I'll go ask the nurse."

The little girl watched until her mother was safely out of earshot.

"Is Jay in trouble?"  she demanded.

"We just want to find out what happened, sweetheart," Price said.

Mrs.  Childs was returning, her steps crisp against the tile.

The child lowered her voice to a fretful breath.

"Please don't say I told on him," she rasped.  "Jay will kill me.

I know he will."

CHAPTER 44.

Maggie couldn't bring herself to return to the apartment.

Suddenly, she didn't seem to belong there.  Or anywhere else, for that
matter.  She'd been evicted from her normal slot in the universe.  Set
out for random collection like a castoff piece of furniture.

She'd had the cabbie drop her at the north terminus of the East River
Promenade.  For hours, she wandered aimlessly, trying to weave her
unruly thoughts into something approaching bearable order.

She'd been redefined, rewritten.  Her entire conscious existence before
today had been a tentative first draft.

New main character: Margaret Lyons, identical twin.  Maggie struggled
to dredge up some memory of the lost Elizabeth.

Images teased at her, vague as moth wings.  She was clutching at
chubby, dancing fingers.  Tumbling over a small hill of giggling
flesh.

Making silly faces at a living mirror.

Voices trilled the birthday song, and she pictured a cake capped with
sugar roses.  "Happy birthday to--" y The "you" part must have been
Elizabeth's.

Lizzie, the lazy one.

Lazy Bit.

Lizzie the lost.

Having a twin sister cleared up so many lifelong riddles.

Maggie had always had an inexplicably strong reaction to twins.

Once, after reading an article about a meeting of a national twins
organization, she'd been moved nearly to tears.  The response had
seemed senseless at the time.

The story had been entirely upbeat and whimsical.  But it had haunted
Maggie for days.  She'd even joked with Henry that she must have been a
twin in a former incarnation.

And so she had.

"Ring around the rosies.

Pocket full of posies.

Ashes, ashes.

We all fall down!"

Now her mind could split the ancient rhymes into her part and
Lizzie's.

Chilling echo from a distant other side.  Her mother must have taught
them all the baby songs and chants that way, playing the pair of them
like two slats on a xylophone.

The photograph had shown identical bedspreads and pillows, the two of
them dressed in the same dotted dresses, frilled socks, and patent
leather Mary Janes.  Maggie's mother had mentioned name bracelets and
distinct personalities.  Otherwise, they'd been given doubles of
everything.  The carton from the storeroom had contained duplicate
toys, outfits, blankets.

The current wisdom on raising twins was to encourage them to be
separate and distinct.  But there had been no reason for Maggie's
mother to worry about helping her and Lizzie establish individual
identities.  Only one of them had been destined to survive.

Lazy Lizzie.  Flying on the hawk's back.  If I should die .

The bird that haunted Maggie's dreams must have been a passing cloud or
plane, some visual quirk printed indelibly on her infant imagination.

New plot: Maggie Lyons murders her second self and spends the rest of
her unnatural life struggling with the unthinkable consequences.

Infant or no, she had been responsible for her sister's death.

From the look that had passed between her mother and her aunt, Maggie
knew she'd always been held to blame for that tragic event and the
avalanche of troubles it unleashed.  Maggie was seen as the source of
her mother's suffocating overprotection and irrational fears.  Maggie
was the fuel that had fed her mother's blazing need for self-denial.

Maggie had stolen her mother's youth and courage and strength.

She was deemed responsible for killing her parents' marriage, dooming
her mother to a dark life of loneliness and regret.

Lazy Lizzie and Murdering Maggie.  Maggie, the destroyer of her home
and family.

Maggie knew it was unfair and untrue.  She'd been a baby at the time of
Lizzie's death.  Anyway, her mother was responsible for her own
happiness.  Everyone was.  But Maggie couldn't shake the illogical
burden of guilt and shame.  She kept viewing the act from her adult
perspective.  In horrific detail, she saw her tiny hands raising the
window.  She felt her willful fingers urging the infant Elizabeth to
her death.

In a daze, she left the promenade.  Heading west, she walked through
Central Park and followed Central Park West to Eighty-second Street.

All those years ago, her family had lived in a majestic old apartment
building called the Beresford.

Maggie remembered that they'd occupied a north-facing apartment on the
tenth floor.  Standing across the street, she counted until she was
staring at the windows to her parents' old apartment.

She tried to envision herself and Lizzie inside, playing in their room
with the flowered spreads and curtains and the flower-bordered rug.

She struggled to conjure the smell and feel and sound of that brief
safe time before the world was shattered in irrevocable fragments.

Shivering in the heat, she was overwhelmed by the sudden loss of what
she hadn't known she'd had.  And her mind filled with the child's
prayer her mother had taught and urged the tiny pair of them to say
each night without fail: "Now I lay me down to sleep.

I pray the lord my soul to keep.

If I should die before I wake.

I pray the lord my soul to take."

CHAPTER 45.

While Bannister circled the block searching for a parking space, Price
dashed into the coroner's office to deliver the sample of Jason
Childs's experimental formula and a copy of the young man's hospital
record to Dr.  Lepczek.

From the Childs's house, Price had reached the toxicologist at her home
in Riverdale.  Dr. Lepczek had agreed to return to the lab immediately
to analyze the experimental compound and compare Jason's blood values
to the odd ones she'd discovered in the Macklin and Weider autopsy
reports.

Near the corner of Thirty-third Street, Bannister spotted a boisterous
family piling into a minivan.  He pulled the Camaro alongside and
waited out the laborious loading process.  There were two parents,
three kids, two dogs, one grandma, and an accompanying jumble of
purchases and paraphernalia.  Bannister thought of his own world, the
entire inventory small enough to stuff in a lunch bag.  Not much to
show for nearly forty years on the planet.

At least there was Chloe, he reminded himself.  That kid was his ticket
to immortality.  And the ticket was definitely first class.

His little girl had way more to offer than most people, Bannister
thought with a swell of pride, even with her occasional bouts of
distemper.

Bannister had spotted the same proud parental gleam in Mrs.  Childs.

The woman was visibly moved by her young daughter's poise and
self-possession.  Jessie had taken things in hand, especially after
they all arrived at the family home in Bayside.  The little girl had
led them directly to the spot where Jason stashed his formula at the
back of his closet.  She reported how Jason had dropped out of the
Talent Search competition, too fearful to continue with the experiment
after finding one of his test animals dead.

"I saw Jay carry this mouse up from the cellar in one of those flower
shovel things.  It was all smashed and yucky, and he flushed it down
the toilet.  That was the day he called his chemistry teacher and said
he had the flu.  Remember, Mommy?"

Bannister thought about how kids are taught not to snoop or tattle.

Lucky thing Jason's little sister had chosen to ignore that particular
lesson.

The minivan finally vacated the spot.  Bannister angled in and headed
to the Medical Examiner's office, a blue and-white tile building on
First Avenue near Bellevue Hospital.

He found Price and Dr. Lepczek huddled over a spiky readout in the
toxicology lab.

"You see the skewing in the pattern from the baseline to the pretrauma
sample, Lenny?  And then the severe dip?"  Dr.  Lepczek said.

"Very interesting.  See that, Sam?  You notice the steady phase
overload followed by a major spike in the opioid levels?  Ever see a
more obvious rebound?"

Bannister stared at the paper.  "Once or twice at a Knick's game."

Explaining, Imke Lepczek ran her square finger along the sharp trail of
lines.  "We found the same odd pattern in the Childs blood samples that
we saw in the Weider and Macklin autopsy reports.  Fortunately, we also
have a copy of blood work done on Jason at intervals since his
admission to the hospital.  And we have reports from his last several
regular checkups.  Jason's doctor is on staff at Elmhurst General, so
the chart goes back a few years."

"What does it mean?"

Dr. Lepczek made a tent with her fingers.  "It means Jason was taking
a maintenance dose of some drug that elevated his CRF stress hormone
level and depressed his normal production of endorphins.  Shortly
before his admission, he ingested a much larger quantity of the
drug.

That would account for the major and continuing change in his levels of
both substances."

"You're saying the Childs he really did develop a courage drug?"

Bannister said.

Price's nod was grim.  "Suicide drug's more like it.

Apparently, whatever this substance is, it strips normal inhibitions
altogether.  Makes it so a person takes risks he never would in his
right mind."

"From what I see here, I'd bet on a time-release preliminary exposure
for several days before the booster dose," Dr.  Lepczek said.

"Time-release like one of those cold capsules, you mean?"

Bannister asked.

Price shrugged.  "Doubtful, Sammy.  No matter how clever this kid was
in chemistry, it's unlikely he'd figure out how to fabricate something
like that.  Imke agrees it was probably a topical thing, something
taken in through
Bannister called Elmhurst General and tracked Mrs. Childs to Jason's
room.  Again, the little sister was the one with ready information.

Jessie had seen Jason apply some of his magic bravery drug inside the
plastic watchbands he'd distributed to his phobia group.

Cupping his hand over the receiver, Bannister reported the finding to
Dr.  Lepczek.

"That could work.  He might have inserted some absorbent substance
between the plastic layers," she said.

Bannister picked up his hand for a high five.  "So, partner, looks like
we've deduced the hell out of this one.  Jason Childs is our man, and
he's certainly in no condition to hurt anyone else.

We take back the watches from the other group members, and the party's
over."

Price didn't return the gesture.  His face had fallen like a failed
souffle.

"Only one major fly in that ointment, Sammy.  According to Mrs.
Childs, Jason never left the house without her, remember?"

Reality crept over Bannister like a rash.  "Which means he couldn't
have gotten to Macklin and Gail Weider."

"Exactly."

"So maybe the mother is wrong.  He could have snuck out when she was
out shopping or whatever."

"Not likely, Sammy.  Everyone swears that Jason Childs was a shut-in,
even his little sister who knows all and sees all.

Besides, what connection would Jason have had to Macklin and Gail
Weider, much less that woman patient at the hospital who tried to play
chicken with a truck last night?"

Bannister couldn't pull a single rabbit out of the hat.  "None I can
think of.  But that doesn't mean there wasn't any.  Don't you always
tell me to take it where it leads you, Lenny?  Aren't you the one who's
always saying I shouldn't overlook anything?"

"Yeah, Sam.  And of course, we'll check all the angles.  But you also
can't overlook the very large possibility that the snake we're after is
still hiding out there in the grass."

CHAPrER
All day, Bannister had been running on nothing but painkillers and
frustration.  At Price's insistence, he agreed to a pit stop at
Sergio's for refueling.  Now he sat prodding his food around the
plate.

Nothing could come between Lenny and his appetite, but Bannister's only
hunger was for an end to this mess.

"Eat, Sammy.  You're pale as a ghost.  Last thing anyone needs is for
you to get yourself sick."

Bannister couldn't see the point.  "Maybe food would help.  But this
stuff?"

"Come on.  We need you big and strong."

They certainly needed something.  Three victims already, one harrowing
near miss, and, if Price was correct as usual, an untold number of
people could be waiting in the on-deck circle.

Between hearty bites of his turkey club, Price outlined his plan and
scribbled a wish list on the paper place mat.

"First, we need the names of all hospital personnel that dealt with the
Childs kid.  Then, we find out which of those also had dealings with
Weider, Macklin, and that woman who almost had the head-on collision
with the truck last night.  What's her name again, Sam?"

"Tyler.  Daisy Tyler."

"Right.  I say, first we call the Childs woman to find out who worked
with Jason.  Would have been someone who spent a fair amount of time
with the kid, I figure.  No one would believe Jason had actually
developed a courage drug without a decent amount of talk and
demonstration.  Also, the mother said Jason was secretive about his
experiments.  So it's not likely he opened up to a casual
acquaintance."

"I'll call."

Bannister went to the pay phone in the rear and dialed Maggie's number
first.  He'd been trying to reach her all day.  One conversation would
clear so many open questions, he thought as he listened to her taped
voice on the answering machine.

Maggie would know who'd worked with the Childs boy and the other
victims.  Maggie could tell him and Price about the suspects, help them
get a handle on who might be capable of stealing the kid's formula and
using it to murder and maim.

So where the hell was she?  Bannister's gut fisted.  What if something
had happened to her?  But no, that wasn't a possibility he was willing
to entertain.

Mrs. Childs had gone home for dinner.  Bannister caught her there and
got the list of East End personnel who'd worked with Jason during his
first round of therapy.  Several of the names were familiar from the
grand rounds he'd made when he was trying to get his hands on Macklin's
records.

Next, he phoned the psych ward at East End, hoping to reach his portly
nurse friend.  Unfortunately, she was at some unknown out-of-town
location for the rest of the weekend.  Not surprisingly, the woman on
the line wouldn't budge when he tried to pass himself off as Ted
Macklin's new doctor and requested the names of the people who'd
treated Macklin during his stay at the hospital.  Bannister knew only
too well that East End wrapped barbed wire around patient
information.

As usual, they were going to have to go around the long way.

Returning to the table, he found Price seated with a chunk of cherry
pie and an expectant look.  Bannister read from the notes he'd scrawled
during his conversation with Mrs.  Childs.

"Starting about eight months ago, Jason had weekly sessions with a
psychiatrist named Pam Richards, a good friend of Maggie's.

A young resident came by several times to check him medically, but
Mrs. Childs doesn't remember the guy's name.  His aide was Francis
Kennedy, better known as F.X pleasant enough according to the mother.

Got along fine with Jason.  When F.X. couldn't make it to Jason's for
practice sessions, another aide filled in.  Mrs. Childs couldn't
remember that name either."

Price wiped a slick of cherry filling off his chin.  "You still
couldn't reach Dr. Lyons to find out who worked with Macklin and
Weider?"

"No, and I have to tell you, I'm worried about her."

"You don't have to tell me, Sammy.  It's obvious."  He motioned for the
check.  "Let's go see that Daisy Tyler woman at the hospital.

Maybe she can hand us the missing link."

CHAPTER 46.

They found Daisy Tyler in bed, watching a Fred AstaireGinger Rogers
movie.  At Price's knock, she cast an expectant look toward the door.

Spotting them, her face registered disappointment.

"Daisy Tyler?  I'm Sam Bannister, and this is my partner, Lenny
Price.

We're consultants to the hospital.  If you're not busy, we'd appreciate
it if you'd help us with a survey we're conducting.  It'll only take a
few minutes."

The woman's face went wary.  "What kind of survey?"

Price picked up the ball and ran with it.  "It's a staff evaluation
poll.  Just routine.  Dr. Lyons recommended you as one of the people
we should talk to."

Her face softened.  "Sure.  I'll be glad to help if Dr. Lyons wants me
to."

"We appreciate your cooperation, Ms. Tyler.  Can you tell us which
doctors and aides you've worked with here at the hospital?"

Daisy's eyes narrowed.  "Dr.  Lyons could have told you that."

"Just procedure.  We have to get the answers directly from the
patients."

She nodded.  "Okay.  My aide is a woman named Beverly Magida.

She's a great person, with a wonderful sense of humor.  As you probably
know, I see Dr.  Lyons for therapy.  And there are tons of nurses.

Three shifts.  At
least eight or more a shift.  Plus the weekend people.  They've all
been so nice."

Price kept pressing.  "How about other aides?  What happens when this
Beverly Magida can't make it?"

"Bev hasn't missed a session so far.  I suppose they'd substitute
someone else if she got sick or something."

"Have you had any dealings with F.X. Kennedy?"

"That redheaded aide He works with another patient here.

Woman named Lira something.  She introduced me to him in the lounge.

Friendly man.  Drops in from time to time to see how I'm doing."

"Have you seen any psychiatrists other than Dr.  Lyons?"

Bannister asked.

"Once or twice, Dr. Lyons had another doctor stop by.  A woman named
Dr. Richards.  Very nice.  Everyone here has been just wonderful to
me.  You can put that down in your evaluation report in big letters."

Her eye drifted toward a doilied plate covered with hand-dipped
chocolates.  Bannister spotted the accompanying note.  It read: "From
your not-so-secret admirer.

Daisy giggled.  "I know it's silly.  But it does give me a lift.

Every day, someone manages to sneak in and leave me a treat."

She fingered her watch.  "This was the first gift.  Most nights it's
cookies or candy."

"Who do you think sends them?"  Bannister demanded.

"I'm almost ashamed to say," she said.  "The man's half my age, and I
know it isn't real interest."

"A young resident?"  Bannister pressed.

"How did you know?"

"What's his name?"

Bannister held his breath, waiting for what he knew he was about to
hear.  A young resident had made several visits to Jason Childs.  A
resident had free run of the hospital and free access to patients.

Son of a bitch must have had some hidden agenda, maybe a murderous
obsession.  Bannister's suspicions had been aroused the first time he
saw the guy sniffing around Maggie.  A vicious pulse was thundering in
his ears.  He should have listened to his instincts.  Why hadn't he
warned Maggie to stay away?

Daisy's smile was wistful.  "He's the sweetest young man you ever want
to meet, Mr.  Bannister.  His name s Mitch.  Dr.  Mitchell Goldberg."

CHAPTER 47.

A wrapped package and a banded stack of mail awaited Maggie at the door
to her apartment.  Carrying them in, she found the place awash in eerie
stillness.  She passed from room to room, flipping on lights,
televisions, radios Anything to fill the lethal hush.

In her office, she noticed that it was nearing six-thirty.

The day had been swallowed whole.  Back in the foyer, she leafed
through the mail and opened the package.  It was a box of hand-dipped
chocolates from a posh Madison Avenue shop.  The note was from a
"not-so-secret admirer."  Fishing for a list of possible suspects, she
suddenly remembered that she had a dinner appointment with Mitch
Goldberg for ths evening.  If she didn't hurry, her unwelcome company
would soon be on the way.

She called her father first and was delighted for once to hear Tina's
voice on the line.  Maggie begged out of the evening, claiming a work
emergency.  Without pause or question, Tina was willing to trade
Maggie's lame excuse for a polite expression of disappointment and a
promise to reschedule soon.  No doubt her father would have been a
tougher sell.

Mitch Goldberg didn't answer his home phone, and he didn't respond to
his page at the hospital.  Maggie was not up to seeing him or anyone
tonight.  She called down to Tony, the night doorman, and asked him to
head off her guest at the pass.

"Tell him I'm not feeling well, will you, Tony?  I haven't been able to
reach him, so he might be on the way."

"Sure thing, Dr.  Lyons.  Need anything?"

"No, thanks."

What she needed couldn't be sent up from the pharmacy or the corner
market.  She ached for peace.  Maggie wanted her life back in
reasonable order.  She was like a drawer rifled by a thief, her
contents violated and thrown in chaos.

Maggie plodded to her bedroom and sprawled atop the covers.

She tried to sort through the disconcerting mess, to impose some hint
of harmony on the jumble of thoughts and thorny feelings.  But it was
all too new and overwhelming.

Weighted by the day, she pressed her cheek against her pillow and
succumbed to a dreamless sleep.  She could have used a week of numb
unconsciousness, but she was yanked awake moments later by the drone of
the doorbell.

Who the hell?

Maggie lay still, willing whoever it was to give up and go away.

But the buzzer kept sounding.

"All right, I'm coming."

She padded down the hall and peered through the peephole.  The young
resident was at the door.  Why hadn't Tony turned him away as she'd
asked?  And why, in any event, had Goldberg been allowed upstairs
without the customary announcement?  It wasn't like Tony to slip like
this.

Maggie spoke through the door.  "Mitch?  Sorry.  I tried to reach
you.

Didn't the doorman tell you I'm not feeling well?"

"No one was down there, but if you're sick, there's all the more reason
for you to accept the company of a fine physician such as myself."

Angling her eyes down, she saw that he was cradling a bottle of
champagne.

"Thanks, but really, I'm not up to it tonight."

"Can't I just come in for a second to give you a little gift of good
cheer?"

Maggie felt a guilty twinge.  "All right, I guess.  But you really
shouldn't have gone to so much trouble."

She worked the locks.  Opening the door, she saw that Goldberg had
gone all out.  New clothes, fresh haircut, the heady scent of an
extravagant cologne.  The champagne was vintage Dom Perignon.

"This is too much, Mitch.  Honestly."

"It's my pleasure.  Sorry you're under the weather."

Under the weather didn't begin to cover it.  Maggie was a mess.

She was still wearing the running shorts and sneakers from her morning
jog.  Her T-shirt was soiled from the dirty carton she'd carried up
from the storeroom.  Her eyes were grainy with sleep, and a jackhammer
was working at her temples.

"As you can see, I'm in no condition for a night on the town.

How about a rain check?"

He breezed past her and set the champagne on the kitchen counter.

With deft moves, he uncorked the bottle.

"You shouldn't have gone to such expense."

He flapped away her concern.  "Sit down and put your feet up.

Doctor's orders."

Plumping a pair of throw pillows, he slipped them behind her neck.

"First, I prescribe a spot of bubbly."

"I don't know--"

"But I do," he said firmly.  Rummaging through the
kitchen cabinets, he found two stemmed wine glasses.  Filling them with
measures of the crackling liquid, he offered one to Maggie.

She took a sip.  The champagne tasted wonderful.  The bubbles tickled
her nose and fizzed at the dull rubber swaddling her brain.  Nice.

Goldberg plied her with more champagne.  After seeking her permission,
he opened the box of chocolates and offered her several luscious
selections.  Two glasses of bubbly and many sinful calories later, she
had to admit the therapy was having a positive effect.

"Better?"  he said.

"Much."

"Good.  Why don't you go slip into something more uncomfortable?

I'll call the restaurant and tell them we'll be a little late."

Maggie shook her head.  "I'm honestly not up for that, Mitch.

"Woman can't live by chocolates and champagne alone."

"Yes, she can.  And very happily so, I might add."

He waggled a finger.  "I'm the doctor here, Doctor.  And I say you need
some real nourishment."

"How about we compromise, and I order up a pizza?"

"Mushroom and pepperoni?"

"You've got yourself a deal."

Maggie called Ray's Original.  Leaving Goldberg to await the delivery,
she took a quick shower and dressed in fresh jeans and a clean
T-shirt.

The young resident turned out to be a pleasant distraction.

His company kept her from dwelling on the horrific turn her life had
abruptly taken.  The champagne helped dull the shock of the day's
revelations.  Maggie wasn't aware of how well until the walls wavered
and her pulse started to race.

"Whoa.  I'm afraid my brain has taken on a bit of water."

Goldberg nodded.  "No problem.  A little fresh air should take care of
that."

Gripping Maggie by the elbow, he led her out to the terrace.

"There now.  Easy does it."

Leaning hard on a redwood planter, Maggie struggled to clear her
head.

Her eyes blurred, and her legs threatened to buckle.

Had she really had that much champagne?  She was sure the bottle was
still more than half full.  And Mitch had definitely downed his
share.

"I'm not usually so susceptible."  Her tongue was thick.  The words
oozed out slowly like toothpaste from a nearempty tube.

Goldberg looked grave.  "I'd say you need to get more food into that
stomach.  I'll heat up the rest of the pizza.  Be back in a minute."

An eerie feeling was overtaking her.  Maggie didn't want Mitch to leave
her alone.  But she was operating in slow motion.  By the time she
found the necessary words, he'd gone inside and slid the terrace door
shut behind him.

A bizarre sensation was creeping up her legs.  Advancing army of
electric spiders.  Maybe there really was something wrong with her.

"Mitch?"

Her voice was forceless, thin as a breeze.

"Mitch!"

The darkness was thick and heavy.  Standing, she inhaled deeply and
shook her head to try to clear it.

The charged flush scaled her legs.  It spread across her abdomen and
chest and seeped up her neck.  Her cheeks were ablaze.

Suddenly, her mind sharpened to startling clarity.  A heavy pulse
throbbed inside her.

Looking around, Maggie noticed that someone had pushed aside the
super's temporary barricade, exposing the wide break in the terrace
rail.

With purposeful strides, Maggie moved to set the barrier back in
place.

But as she neared the edge, the urge for safety was displaced by a
stronger pull.

Her mind was frenzied.  She could climb onto the remnants of the
railing.  Dance on the breeze.  Conquer the sky.

Maggie slipped out of her shoes.  Her heart was thundering now.

Approaching the rail, she ran her hands over the iron uprights.

She had no doubt that they would hold her.  She was beyond danger.

Gripping the top rail, she lifted a foot.  A sound from behind stalled
her: the door sliding open again.

Maggie called over her shoulder: "Hey, Doc.  You're just in time for
the big show.  Watch this."

"I'm watching, Maggie."

Maggie was caught by the voice.  Turning, she was shocked to see that
it wasn't the face she expected.

CHAPIER
Bannister sped toward Maggie's address.  Leaning on the horn, he busted
the scattered traffic clots and cleared the streets of stray
pedestrians.  They had to get to her.

Price clutched the dashboard and stomped an imaginary brake.

"Geez, Sammy.  Take it easy.  You're going to get us killed."

"Maggie told me she's having dinner tonight with that scum Goldberg.

She's in danger, Lenny."

"Maybe so, but we'll be more help to her in one piece."

"He must've monkeyed with the phones.  That's why I got that
out-of-order recording when I tried to call.  Son of a bitch!"

"All
right, Sammy.  Easy now.  We'll be there in a couple of minutes.  For
Chrissakes, you almost hit that bus!"

They turned east at Times Square and headed up First Avenue.

Bannister veered around a stalled truck, circled a wedge of
construction horses, dodged a weaving drunk.

The way looked clearer as they neared Fifty-seventh Street.

Bannister stomped the gas, urging the Camaro to its limits.

"This is crazy, Sam.  Slow down.  You're going to get a- As if in
response, a cop car appeared out of nowhere.  It wailed up behind them,
cap light shooting blue and crimson sparks.

Bannister's desperate eye veered from the rearview mirror to Price and
back again.  He set his jaw.

"Don't even think about it, Sam."

"I'll only stop if you promise you'll take care of it."

"How can I promise?  What if it's someone I don't have a line to?"

Bannister pressed harder on the gas.  The trailing siren grew more
insistent.

Price sucked a breath.  "All right.  Okay.  Now for godsakes pull over
before they start shooting."

Bannister did.

"Maybe they can help, Sam."

"Forget it, Lenny.  We've got no time for explanations.

Besides, these guys are in a kaffic ticket mode.  You know what it
would take to shift them to murder-in-progress?"

Price nodded.  "You could be right."

"I know I am."

At the curb, Bannister pressed Price to get out and approach the squad
car, badge in hand.  The move was risky, he knew, but nowhere near the
danger Maggie was facing.  They had to get to her immediately.  They
couldn't afford the time it would take for the cops to run a computer
check of the Camaro's plates or anything else.

Bannister's nerves were jangling as he watched his partner at the squad
car.  Price was leaning in at the window.  The two stiffs on patrol
were nodding up and down.

Come on, already!  We've got to get there.

Under three minutes later, Price waved a hand at the departing cop car
and returned to the Camaro.

"Damnedest thing, Sammy.  The younger one was Rick Devaney's son.

Remember Rick?  He used to play on the league basketball team I coached
at the Y."

"Sure, Lenny.  It's all I think about."

Bannister pulled out and barreled north, desperate to make up for lost
time.  Seemed an eternity before they turned onto Maggie's street, a
dead end abutting the East River.

They ditched the car and raced toward the building's entrance.

The lobby was deserted.  No one at the door.  Bannister found Maggie's
name on the posted directory.

"Nine C, Lenny.  Hurry.

The elevator opened as they approached.  Bannister raced inside,
pulling the reluctant Price behind him, and pressed nine.

Price was paling, but Bannister couldn't worry about the guy's dread of
elevators or anything else.  All he cared about was Maggie, about
getting to her before it was too late.

Or vas it too late already?

Price was panting like an overheated dog.  Damned elevator was taking
forever.  Watching the numbers, Bannister saw that they'd stopped
moving.

He pressed all the buttons and pounded the emergency switch.

Nothing.

"Hey!  Move, goddamnit!"  He thumped the elevator wall.  "Move!"

"We're stuck?"  Price could barely get the words out.  His face was
chalk.

"Forget it, Lenny.  How the hell do we get out of here?"

Price struggled with his shirt collar.  "I can't breathe."

"Think, Lenny.  Goddamnit.  You know everything about everything.

How do I get this thing moving?"

Price wiped the sweat pearls from his forehead and swallowed hard.

Clenching his eyes, he pointed up.  "I don't know.  But you can get out
through the maintenance hatch."

Bannister saw the metal panel propped in the roof of the car.

Standing on the handrail, he was able to reach up and work the square
free.  Pushing it aside, he hefted himself out of the stranded car.  He
pressured open the doors to the next floor and slipped through.

"Hold tight, Lenny.  I'll send someone."

Price was slumped against the wall.  "Yeah, Sammy.  Thanks.  I'd really
like it if you would do that."

 48.CHAPTER

Maggie's mind was reeling.  "Henry?  What's going on?  What are you
doing here?"

"Watching you, Maggie.  Go on.  Climb the rail.  Don't let me
interrupt.

Something in his voice pierced her like a blade.  Dropping her foot to
the terrace floor, Maggie clutched the iron uprights.

"Where's Mitch?"

"Dr. Goldberg is inside.  I told him I needed to speak to you alone
for a moment."

"Why?  What's wrong?"

The heat had become intense, unbearable.  Maggie's skin was on fire.

Henry appeared oblivious.  A curious smile stained his expression.

"Nothing's wrong.  In fact, I've finally made everything right so
Mother can rest easy."

"I don't understand."

"Of course not.  You never did.  If you had a grain of understanding,
you would have allowed me to remain myself.  I was fine.  Perfectly
contented.  Mother and I had a wonderful life until you and your damned
clinic destroyed everything."

Maggie struggled to think past the stifling heat and her overwhelming
desire to slip through the yawning break in the rail.

"That's crazy," she said.

"You murdered my mother.  You killed her as surely as if you'd pushed
her down those stairs yourself."

"She fell.  It was an accident."

He was coming at her.  "No, Maggie.  You were the accident.  You ruined
everything I was.  Everything I had."

"No, Henry.  That's not true.  Mitch?  Mitch!" Her voice rode the
bloodless trill of Henry's demonic laugh.

"He can't help you now, Maggie.  Your young friend looked so tired, I
put him down for a nice long nap.  So many sleepy people here.

I left the doorman napping in the storage room.  Poor man couldn't keep
his eyes open."

Henry was near enough to reach out and push her through the break in
the rail.  His brow peaked in amusement.

"Go now, Maggie.  Give in to it."

"What?  What did you do to me?"

"I discovered a chemical door through the fear, an experimental drug
developed by one of your young patients.  Just what you've always
dreamed of, isn't it?  A way to steal the fear from me and everyone.

You stole my fear, you see.  It belonged to me, and you took it
away."

Maggie's own fear was returning.  She felt the looming vastness behind
her.  The danger gripped her like a vise.  She could fall like
Lizzie.

Plummet to her death like her sister.

She forced her gaze over Henry's shoulder.  "Oh, Mitch.  Thank God!"
Henry turned his head just long enough for Maggie to grab her mother's
prize coleus and toss it at his head.  But he ducked, and the pot
shattered on the terrace floor.  Lifting an elephant's-ear plant, she
tried again, but he feinted out of the way at the last instant, and the
clay pot smashed against the redwood planter.  On the third try, she
set him off balance with a false start.

When he regained his center, she bashed a prayer plant hard against the
side of his head.  A startled sound escaped him, and he staggered
back.

Trapped, Maggie watched, waiting for him to topple.  He sank to his
knees.  She stepped around him, anxious to get to a safer place.  But
as she passed, superhuman hands gripped her by the ankles.  Hands
nudged her toward the broken space in the rail.  She was at the edge.

Through.

In a desperate rush, Maggie lunged for one of the remaining uprights.

She caught it and held fast.  Dangling from the terrace ledge, she
heard her terrified breath rasp in the void.

Where was he?  She had to pull herself up and get past him.

A sudden breeze buffeted her.  Her arms ached, and there was a burning
in her strained fingers.  Not a sound came from the terrace above
her.

At any moment, he would lean over and spot her.  He would pry open her
grip and send her tumbling to her death.

Maggie forced away the tightening grip of terror.  Groping for the
crucial distraction, she thought of her lost twin.  Lazy Lizzie.

Lazy bit.  Lost Lizzie across the room.  Maggie kneeling on the rug
beside her bed.  Maggie saying her prayers.

Now I lay me down to sleep.

She saw Lizzie giggling as she pushed the window up.  It slid open,
smooth as glass.  There was Lizzie at the edge, peering out.

i pray the Lord my soul to keep.

Slowly, Maggie pulled herself up until she could see over the concrete
terrace floor.  Henry was kneeling over the sprawl of broken clay
shards and lumps of soil.  Henry the neat nut, compelled to clean up
the mess, even now.

If I should die before I wake .  . .

Maggie raised herself higher, until her forearms were resting on the
terrace.  Straining, she brought her upper arms onto the concrete
floor.  Splinters of cracked clay raked her skin, but the pain didn't
penetrate.  She was too intent on the vivid memory of Lizzie at the
window.

"Maggie, look!"

It was Lizzie's voice, small and sweet.  Lizzie s tiny form worked to
an awkward stance on the far bed.  Maggie only half watched.

She was concentrating on saying the prayer.  The prayer was very, very
important, Mommy said.  The prayer could keep you safe.

I pray the Lord my soul to take.

Maggie had a knee on the terrace now.  Both knees.  On all fours, she
crawled toward Henry.  He was heedless, too busy tidying up.

"Look, Maggie!"

With sickening clarity, Maggie saw her twin disappear out the window.

In a breathless rush, she was at the window herself, staring out in
horrified amazement, watching her sister's dizzy descent on the hawk's
back.  The memory played on relentlessly, though she struggled with all
her will to shut it out.  Lizzie falling.  Circling.  Spiraling down
until she hit the distant pavement with a harsh crack like a clay pot
dashed against the terrace floor.

Henry stirred.

Finally, she knew the truth.  She hadn't killed Lizzie.  All these
years, she'd been blamed.  Shielded from the haunting facts.

All these years, she'd been made to suffer that awful, endless
nightmare.

Maggie allowed the rage to claim her.  Lifting a pot of salvia high
overhead, she brought the full strength of her fury down on Henry's
bowed head.

He crumpled slowly, like ice cream melting on a torrid day.

"How many times do I have to kill you, you silly bitch?"  he said.

His voice wound down like a recorder with spent batteries.

"You know I can never repay you, Maggie.  You know I will never, never
forget."

CHAPTER 49.

Bannister bolted up the seven flights of stairs.  His lungs were
blazing, heart thwacking like a pickax.

Please let her be all right.  Please! He couldn't stem the flood of
feelings.  Damn it, he cared about the woman.  She'd invaded a piece of
him he'd declared closed to the public years ago.  A place he'd had
locked and condemned.

So maybe it was another mistake in the making.  Maybe it would come to
nothing.  Or worse than nothing.  That didn't matter.

Nothing mattered but seeing her safe and whole.

"Hang on, Maggie.  I'm almost there."

Bursting through the fire door on nine, he raced down the hall.

The door to 9C was locked.  Bannister backed into a running start and
bashed it open with his right shoulder.  There was a sharp pain in his
freshly sewn midsection, and he felt a warm, sticky rush.

Ignoring it, he raced in through the foyer and started groping his way
around the dark apartment.  Where are you, Maggie?

Where the lieU are you?

"Who's there?"

Turning, he tracked the voice to the kitchen.  Maggie was on the
floor.

Her hair was a matted mess.  Dirt streaked her face, and a rash of
angry scratches covered her arms.  A purple bruise was rising on the
knee visible through the rip in her jeans.

Woman was a total wreck.  Best sight he'd seen in years.  Goldberg was
laid out on the floor.  Jerk was muttering incoherently.

Bannister grabbed the guy's wrists and urged Maggie away.

"Call the cops, Maggie.  Goldberg's the one who killed Macklin and Gail
Weider.  He got his hands on this formula Jason Childs concocted.

Makes people do crazy things."

"No, Sam."  Her voice was strained but steady.  "It wasn't Mitch.

It was Henry."

"Henry?"

Maggie shivered, still battling her own disbelief.  "He's out on the
terrace.  I knocked him out with a plant.  I locked the door."

Bannister tried to absorb the impossible twist.  His mind had already
tried and convicted Goldberg and delivered the creep to Rikers
Island.

Henry?  Guy looked like a Good Humor man.

"We'd better call the cops."

"I already did.  Henry cut the phone wires, so I went next door and
called the police and an ambulance for Mitch.  I think he has a
concussion."

Bannister deflected a hard stab of envy.  "Hope it's not serious.

Maggie caught his meaning and bit back a grin.  "It's not, Sam.

Mitch is just a friend.  I'm worried about Tony the doorman, too.

Henry said he knocked Tony out and left him in the storeroom."

"I'll check on him."

His face was chalk pale.  Maggie's eyes drifted to his midsection.

"What happened to you?  You're bleeding."

Eyeing the seeping wound, he winced.  "Just a scratch."

Her green eyes went liquid.  "I can't believe it was Henry.  He hated
me for curing his phobia.  He blamed me for his mother's death.  It's
so crazy."

Bannister nodded.  "Good diagnosis."

Maggie was staring at his abdomen.  "That looks nasty.  Sit down.

Let me take a look at it."

"Really.  It's okay.  Everything's okay now."

Their eyes caught and held.  Bannister felt a warm rush as if someone
had filled his veins with chicken soup.  Nice feeling.

He hated to have to let it go, even temporarily.

"Will you be okay here alone for a couple of minutes?

My partner's stuck in the elevator.  I'll check on the doorman, too.

"Sure, go ahead.  Henry's locked out, and the police are on the way.

"It's just that poor Lenny's phobic about elevators," Bannister said.

He caught her eye again, and his mind started dancing like a drunken
fool.  "Thanks, Maggie.

"For what?"  she said.

Bannister didn't bother casting around for a logical response.

None of this made sense, but some of the best things didn't.

Time to get Price out of the elevator.  Time to get his whole stalled
life unstuck and back in motion.

CHAPTER 50.

"I'll pay it.  I'll pay it not."

Bannister was in his office, sorting the bills.  Despite the growing
stack of unpaids, he remained curiously at peace.

Things felt more sure and settled than they had in years.

His ex-wife, Lila, had a new man in her life, and the acquisition had
softened her second row of teeth.  The witch had become almost
agreeable in their necessary dealings, giving him freer, less
regimented access to his little girl.  For that or whatever reason,
Chloe seemed to be back to her regular self.  Now Bannister could speak
to his kid without having to don protective gear, and he had a
reasonable idea of what to expect when they got together.

His financial situation remained catastrophic, but at least, the
uncertainty was over.  After several months of wheedling and
discussions, Leona Rafferty had given them a definite answer about the
reward on Theodore Macklin.

And the answer was no.

No matter how Bannister painted it, he and Price had not proven
Macklin's guilt in Martha Rafferty's murder.  The best Bannister had
been able to squeeze out of Mrs. Rafferty was partial coverage of the
mountain of expenses he'd incurred during the chase.

The Macklin case would go down in the Bannister annals as second only
to the Schildhauer debacle.  Or was it first?  Adding up his part of
the cost of the rental tenement, the alleed "meals" at Sergio's, and
the parking
tickets, Bannister figured he'd be paying for that assignment for
quite some time.  Still, the only thing he really resented was the
medical expense.  Once he admitted to running up the seven flights to
Maggie's apartment and using his shoulder as a battering ram, his
insurance company had refused to cover the restitching job.

So much for the value of honesty.

So much for his fantasy Caribbean cruise, too.  The way things were
going, the closest he'd ever come to that was riding the duck boats
downtown, something he and Chloe did from time to time on their days
out.  Thinking of that made him want to see his daughter.  Maybe he'd
give her a call and find out what she was doing this afternoon.  And
maybe he'd call and see what the other woman in his life was doing
tonight.

On balance, the whole thing had been worth it.  More than worth it, he
thought, and felt that silly grin he'd been sporting for months
spreading over his face.

The phone rang.  Bannister expected a cranky creditor, but it was
Price.  Guy was his usual self, Mary Sunshine in drag.

"Hey, Lenny.  Long time no speak.  What's up?"

"I've got good news and amazing news, Sammy.  You sitting down?

Bannister made space for himself between the bill hills "Now I am.

Shoot."

Price had the most astonishing tale to tell.  After their return from
New York, they'd agreed to give up on the Macklin case.

All their leads had been squeezed to the limit and found lacking.

But Price, ever the curious one, hadn't been able to resist dabbling
with the loose pieces they'd picked up along the way.

For the last six months, he'd continued to collect information on the
Winslow-Gray Gallery and Nemichev and Sons Jewelers and the Alter Ego
costume company and Fern Compton Harlow.

"I finally cracked it last night.  Turns out Macklin was part of a
money-laundering operation that involved Nemichev, Alter Ego, and the
Winslow-Gray.  They were turning Colombian drug profits into diamonds
and art, selling those, and running the proceeds through a series of
dummy corporations.  Given the parties involved, there was also some
predictable hanky-panky going on with counterfeit gems and fake art
works.  Very convoluted deal.  Took long legs to follow it."

"Where did Macklin fit in?"  Bannister said.

"The principals needed to make a lot of big money wire transfers.

Because of his investment business, Macklin's company was the ideal
front.  He zapped the laundered cash to banks in the Caymans and
abroad."

Bannister scratched his head.  "Can I ask you one question, Lenny?"

"Sure.  What?"

"Who cares?"

Price chuckled.  "We do.  That's where the amazing news comes in.

You remember the reward we didn't get for solving the Rafferty
murder?"

"Vaguely.

"Well, guess how much the state of Rhode Island had posted for
information leading to the successful recovery of the state funds
impounded in the Macklin investigation?"

"Are you saying what I think you're saying, Lenny?"

Price was laughing in earnest now.  "Can you believe it, Sammy?"

Bannister sighed contentedly.  His half of the Rhode Island reward
would be just enough to melt the debt mountain with a smidgen left over
for a down payment on some more reliable wheels.

That happened to be doubly critical now, given his frequent drives to
New York City.

"That's great, Lenny.  Really terrific."

"We can go to Providence any time to get the check."  Sign me up.

"Consider yourself signed."

Bannister was about to hang up, but something occurred to him.

"What was that singer's place in the scam?"

"Fern Compton Harlow?  Funny you should ask.  That was the one piece I
couldn't work out for the life of me.  Held me up for weeks.  Turns
out, she wasn't part of the
money-laundering deal at all.  Ms.  Harlow's a high-price hooker.

Singing's just a sideline and a cover she uses to keep the IRS off her
busy back.  In reality, the diva travels the world to keep the smiles
on rich guys like Ted Macklin and Howard the Frog from the costume
company."

Bannister enjoyed a moment of pure, personal satisfaction.

From the time he laid eyes on the diva, he'd sensed that she was way
out of his price range.  Nice to know his instincts were still in
decent working order.  When all else failed, he'd always had his gut
feelings to fall back on.

"Bye, Lenny.  And thanks."

"My pleasure, partner."

Bannister hung up and put in a call to his daughter.

CHAPTER 51.

The closing reception had been scheduled to end at six, but at
six-thirty, the crowd showed no signs of thinning.  The symposium had
been successful beyond Maggie's most optimistic imaginings.

More than five hundred professionals from across the country and
several foreign countries had attended.  The press coverage was
considerable.  And the presented papers had generated tremendous
enthusiasm and several important fresh insights about approaches to
treating anxiety disorders.

Maggie's diabolical high moment was when petite president Alex Ivy
strutted to the microphone to offer a few words before the keynote
speaker at yesterday's luncheon.

"East End Hospital is proud of its part in this memorable event," he
began.  "We'd like to thank you all for coming.  And we'd especially
like to commend our esteemed colleague, Dr. Margaret Lyons, for her
considerable efforts in making this conference a reality."

Maggie had sat at the podium, biting her lip to trap the sarcastic
laugh.  A single thought reeled through her mind as the minimonster
finished flinging the bull and left the packed room: You little shit.

I showed you.

Maggie took a sip of wine.  With the conference over, she could relax
and enjoy the praise and congratulations of her colleagues.

Best of all, she could enjoy the results.

The clinic was secure.  They could continue working their small
miracles with clients like Jason Childs and Daisy Tyler.  Both had
worked as conference volunteers.

Jason had arrived wearing an M.I.T. sweatshirt, proud emblem of the
school he would start attending in the spring term.

Jason had received a full scholarship after the college learned of the
young man's outstanding scientific abilities.  Turned out that Sam
Bannister's partner, Lenny Price, had an old friend in the admissions
office.

Daisy had rearranged her job schedule to help with conference
registration and assorted other details.  She'd been working for the
past three months in the hospital gift shop.  It wasn't a Madison
Avenue boutique, but Daisy had developed a fondness for East End.  And
working in the gift shop made it convenient for the woman to fulfill
her occasional duties as a therapy aide.

The horror with Henry was fading by slow degrees.  At the trial, he'd
been found not guilty by reason of insanity and placed in a hospital
for the criminally insane.  Maggie couldn't entirely forget, but most
of the time, her mind was aimed in much more pleasant directions.

A hand looped through her arm.  Turning, she smiled up at Sam.

"Hey, Doc.  Almost ready?"  he said with a wink.

"Almost."

He leaned closer, his breath tickling her ear.  "I missed you.

"That's nice," she said, commenting on far more than the sentimental
words.

So he was a fellow hothead.  So he lived three hours away, and they
only got to see each other on weekends.  These days, Maggie had learned
to be more accepting of the things that couldn't be changed.  It still
felt a little funny, but she was even getting used to the idea of Tina
as her dad's new wife.  So her stepmother was twenty-seven.  Stranger
things had certainly happened.

Now if only her mother would reclaim her life as well.

Shedding the stifling secret of Lizzie's death had helped a little.

Mom had signed up for an advanced horticulture class at the botanical
gardens.  The professor in charge, a charming Ichabod Crane clone named
Nelson Long, had taken quite an interest in the fetching Francine
Lyons.  Maggie had done everything in her meager power to help the
relationship bloom.  But Mom was still a stubborn hybrid, highly
resistant to the threat of happiness.

But that was her problem, Maggie reminded herself.  When Mom decided to
surrender to contentment, Maggie would be there to cheer the woman
on.

Meantime, she had some contentment of her own to enjoy.

She felt Sam's eyes on her.  "I'm so happy for you, Maggie," he said in
a conspiratorial whisper.

"You'll show me later."

"Whenever you say."

"I say, let's hit the road."

Looping a hand through his elbow, Maggie led him through the crowd
toward the exit.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.

If I Should Die is Judith Kelman's seventh novel.  In addition, she's
written articles for major magazines, including Redbook, Glamour,
Ladies' Home Journal, and McCall's, and for the New York Times.

Judith Kelman lives in Connecticut with her husband and two sons.

the end.