As if to remove any lingering doubts she might have had on this score, her visitor poked its head forward in a kind of parody of inquisitiveness, giving Jessie a clear but mercifully brief look at it. The face was that of an alien being that has tried to mimic human features without much success. It was too narrow, for one thingnarrower than any face Jessie had ever seen in her life. The nose seemed to have no more thickness than a butterknife. The high forehead bulged like a grotesque garden bulb. The things eyes were simple black circles below the thin upsidedown Vs of its brows; its pudgy, livercolored lips seemed to be simultaneously pouting and melting. No, not melting, she thought with the bright narrow lucidity that sometimes lives, like the glowing filament in a lightbulb, within a sphere of complete terror. Not melting, smiling. Its trying to smile at me. Then it bent over to grasp its case, and its narrow, incoherent face was mercifully lost from view again. Jessie staggered back a step, tried to scream again, and could only produce another loose, glassy whisper. The wind moaning around the eaves was louder. Her visitor straightened up again, holding the case with one hand and unlatching it with the other. Jessie realized two things, not because she wanted to but because her minds ability to pick and choose what it would sense had been completely demolished. The first had to do with the smell she had noted earlier. It wasnt garlic or onions or sweat or dirt. It was rotting flesh. The second had to do with the creatures arms. Now that she was closer and could see better (she wished it werent so, but it was), they impressed her more forciblyfreakish, elongated things that seemed to waver in the winddriven shadows like tentacles. They presented the case to her as if for her approval, and now Jessie saw it was not a travelling salesmans case but a wicker box that looked like an oversized fishermans creel. Ive seen a box like that before, she thought. I dont know if it was on some old TV show or in real life, but I have. When I was just a little girl. It came out of a long black car with a door in the back. A soft and sinister UFO voice suddenly spoke up inside her. Once upon a time, Jessie, when President Kennedy was still alive and all little girls were Punkins and the plastic bodybag had yet to be inventedback in the Time of the Eclipse, let us sayboxes like this were common. They came in all sizes, from Mens Extra Large to SixMonth Miscarriage. Your friend keeps his souvenirs in an oldfashioned morticians bodybox, Jessie. As she realized this, she realized something else, as well. It was perfectly obvious, once you thought about it. The reason her visitor smelled so bad was because it was dead. The thing in Geralds study wasnt her father, but it was a walking corpse, just the same. No ... no, that cant be But it was. She had smelled exactly the same thing on Gerald, not three hours ago. Had smelled it in Gerald, simmering in his flesh like some exotic disease which can only be caught by the dead. Now her visitor was opening the box again and holding it out to her, and once again she saw the golden glitters and diamond flashes amid the heaps of bones. Once again she watched as the narrow dead mans hand reached in and began to stir the contents of the wicker bodyboxa box which had perhaps once held the corpses of infants or very small children. Once again she heard the tenebrous click and whisk of bones, a sound like dirtclogged castanets. Jessie stared, hypnotized and almost ecstatic with terror. Her sanity was giving way; she could feel it going, almost hear it, and there wasnt a thing on Gods green earth she could do about it. Yes there is! You can run! You have to run, and you have to do it now! It was Punkin, and she was shrieking... but she was also a long way off, lost in some deep stone gorge in Jessies head. There were lots of gorges in there, she was discovering, and lots of dark, twisty canyons and caves that had never seen the light of the sunplaces where the eclipse never ended, you might say. It was interesting. Interesting to find that a persons mind was really nothing but a graveyard built over a black hollow place with freakish reptiles like this crawling around the bottom. Interesting. Outside, the dog howled again, and Jessie finally found her voice. She howled with it, a doglike sound from which most of her sanity had been subtracted. She could imagine herself making sounds like that in some madhouse. Making them for the rest of her life. She found she could imagine that very easily. Jessie, no! Hold on! Hold onto your mind and run! Run away! Her visitor was grinning at her, its lips wrinkling away from its gums, once again revealing those glimmers of gold at the back of its mouth, glimmers that reminded her of Gerald. Gold teeth. It had gold teeth, and that meant it was It means its real, yes, but weve already established that, havent we? The only question left is what youre going to do now. Got any ideas, Jessie? If you do, you better trot them out, because time has gotten awfully short. The apparition stepped forward, still holding its case open, as if it expected her to admire the contents. It was wearing a necklace, she sawsome weird sort of necklace. The thick, unpleasant smell was growing stronger. So was that unmistakable feeling of malevolence. Jessie tried to take a compensatory step back for the one the visitor had taken toward her, and found that she couldnt move her feet. It was as if they had been glued to the floor. It means to kill you, toots, Ruth said, and Jessie understood this was true. Are you going to let it? There was no anger or sarcasm in Ruths voice now, only curiosity. After all thats happened to you, are you really going to let it? The dog howled. The hand stirred. The bones whispered. The diamonds and rubies Rashed their dim nightfire. Hardly aware of what she was doing, let alone why she was doing it, Jessie grasped her own rings, the ones on the third finger of her left hand, with the wildly trembling thumb and forefinger of her right. The pain across the back of that hand as she squeezed was dim and distant. She had worn the rings almost constantly across all the days and years of her marriage, and the last time shed taken them off, shed had to soap her finger. Not this time. This time they slid off easily. She held her bloody right hand out to the creature, who had now come all the way to the bookcase just inside the entrance to the study. The rings lay on her palm in a mystic figure eight below the makeshift sanitary napkin bandage. The creature stopped. The smile on its pudgy, misshapen mouth faltered into some new expression which might have been anger or only confusion. Here, Jessie said in a harsh, choked growl. Here, take them. Take them and leave me alone. Before the creature could move, she threw the rings at the open case as she had once thrown coins at the EXACT CHANGE baskets on the New Hampshire Turnpike. There was less than five feet between them now, the mouth of the case was large, and both rings went in. She distinctly heard the double click as her wedding and engagement bands fell against the bones of strangers. The things lips wrinkled back from its teeth again, and it once more began to utter that sibilant, creamy hiss. It took another step forward, and somethingsomething which had been lying stunned and unbelieving on the floor of her mindawoke. No! she screamed. She turned and went lurching up the hallway while the wind gusted and the door banged and the shutter clapped and the dog howled and it was right behind her, it was, she could hear that hissing sound, and at any moment it would reach out for her, a narrow white hand floating at the end of a fantastic arm as long as a tentacle, she would feel those rotting white fingers close on her throat Then she was at the back door, she was opening it, she was spilling out onto the stoop and tripping over her own right foot; she was falling and somehow reminding herself even as she went down to turn her body so she would land on her left side. She did, but still hit hard enough to see stars. She rolled over onto her back, lifted her head, and stared at the door, expecting to see the narrow white face of the space cowboy loom behind the screen. It didnt, and she could no longer hear the hissing sound, either. Not that those things meant much; it could hurtle into view at any second, seize her, and tear her throat out. Jessie struggled to her feet, managed one step, and then her legs, trembling with a combination of shock and bloodloss, betrayed her and spilled her back to the planks next to the wirecovered compartment which held the garbage. She moaned and looked up at the sky, where clouds filigreed by a moon threequarters full were racing from west to east at lunatic speed. Shadows rolled across her face like fabulous tattoos. Then the dog howled again, sounding much closer now that she was outside, and that provided the tiny bit of extra incentive she needed. She reached up to the garbage compartments low sloped top with her left hand, felt around for the handle, and used it to haul herself to her feet. Once she was up, she held the handle tightly until the world stopped swaying. Then she let go and walked slowly toward the Mercedes, now holding out both arms for balance. How like a skull the house looks in the moonlight! she marvelled following her first wideeyed, frantic look back. How very like a skull! The door is its mouth, the windows are its eyes, the shadows of the trees are its hair ... Then another thought occurred, and it must have been amusing, because she screamed laughter into the windy night. And the braindont forget the brain. Geralds the brain, of course. The houses dead and rotting brain. She laughed again as she reached the car, louder than ever, and the dog howled in answer. My dog has fleas, they bite his knees, she thought. Her own knees buckled and she grabbed the doorhandle to keep from falling down in the driveway, and she never stopped laughing as she did it. Exactly why she was laughing was beyond her. She might understand if the parts of her mind which had shut down in selfdefense ever woke up again, but that wasnt going to happen until she got out of here. If she ever did. I imagine Ill need a transfusion, too, eventually, she said, and that caused another outburst of laughter. She reached clumsily across to her right pocket with her left hand, still laughing. She was feeling around for the key when she realized the smell was back, and that the creature with the wicker case was standing right behind her. Jessie turned her head, laughter still in her throat and a grin still twitching her lips, and for a moment she did see those narrow cheeks and rapt, bottomless eyes. But she only saw them because of (the eclipse) how afraid she was, not because there was really anything there; the back stoop was still deserted, the screen door a tall rectangle of darkness. But you better hurry, Goodwife Burlingame said. Yes, you better make like a hockey player while you still can, dont you think? Going to make like an amoeba and split, Jessie agreed, and laughed some more as she pulled the key out of her pocket. It almost slipped through her fingers, but she caught it by the oversized plastic fob. You sexy thing, Jessie said, and laughed hilariously as the door banged and the dead cowboy specter of love came charging out of the house in a dirty white cloud of bonedust, but when she turned (almost dropping the key again in spite of the oversized fob), there was nothing there. It was only the wind which had banged the dooronly that and nothing more. She opened the drivers door, slid behind the wheel of the Mercedes, and managed to pull her trembling legs in after her. She slammed the door and, as she pushed down the masterlock which locked all the other doors (plus the trunk, of course; there was really nothing in the world quite like German efficiency), an inexpressible sense of relief washed over her. Relief and something else. That something else felt like sanity, and she thought she had never felt anything in her life which could compare with its sweet and perfect return... except for that first drink of water from the tap, of course. Jessie had an idea that was going to end up being the alltime champeen. How close was I to going mad in there? How close, really? That might not be a thing you ever want to know for sure, toots, Ruth Neary returned gravely. No, maybe not. Jessie stuck the key in the ignition and turned it. Nothing happened. The last of the laughter dried up, but she didnt panic; she still felt sane and relatively whole. Think, Jessie. She did, and the answer came almost at once. The Mercedes was getting along in years (she wasnt sure they ever really got anything so vulgar as old), and the transmission had started doing some annoying little tricks lately, German efficiency or no German efficiency. One of them was a failure to start sometimes unless the driver shoved up on the shiftlever poking out of the console between the bucket seats, and shoved up hard. Turning the ignition key while pushing up on the transmission lever was an operation which would take both hands, and her right was already throbbing horribly. The thought of using it to shove on the transmission lever made her cringe, and not just because of the pain. She was quite sure it would also cause the deep incision across her inner wrist to break open again. Please God, I need a little help here, Jessie whispered, and turned the ignition key again. Still nothing. Not even a click. And now a new idea stole into her head like a nastytempered little burglar her inability to start the car had nothing at all to do with the little glitch that had developed in the transmission. This was more of her visitors work. It had cut the telephone lines; it had also raised the hood of the Mercedes long enough to rip off the distributor cap and throw it into the woods. The door banged. She glanced nervously in that direction, quite sure that she had seen its white, grinning face in the darkness of the doorway for just a moment. In another moment or two it would come out. It would grab a rock and smash the car window, then take one of the thick slivers of safety glass and Jessie reached across her waist with her left hand and shoved the knob of the transmission lever as hard as she could (although it did not, in truth, seem to move much at all). Then she reached clumsily through the lower arc of the steering wheel with her right hand, grasped the ignition key, and turned it again. More nothing. Except for the silent, chuffing laughter of the monster that was watching her. That she could hear quite clearly, even if only in her mind. Please, God, cant I have just one fucking break? she screamed. The transmission lever wiggled a little under her palm, and when Jessie turned the key over to the Start position this time, the engine roared to lifeJa. mein Fhrer! She sobbed with relief and turned on the headlights. A pair of brilliant orangeyellow eyes glared at her from the driveway. She screamed, feeling her heart trying to tear itself loose of its plumbing, cram itself into her throat, and strangle her. It was the dog, of coursethe stray who had been, in a manner of speaking, Geralds last client. The former Prince stood stockstill, momentarily dazzled by the glare of the headlights. If Jessie had dropped the transmission into drive just then, she probably could have driven forward and killed it. The thought even crossed her mind, but in a distant, almost academic way. Her hate and fear of the dog had gone. She saw how scrawny it was, and how the burdocks stuck in its matted coata coat too thin to offer much protection against the coming winter. Most of all she saw the way it cringed away from the light, its ears drooping, its hindquarters shrinking against the driveway. I didnt think it was possible, she thought, but I believe Ive come across something thats even more wretched than I am. She hit the Mercedess hornring with the heel of her left hand. It uttered a single brief sound, more burp than beep, but it was enough to get the dog started. It turned and vanished into the woods without so much as a single look back. Follow its example, Jess. Get out of here while you still can. Good idea. In fact, it was the only idea. She reached across her body again with her left hand, this time to pull the transmission lever down into Drive. It caught with its usual reassuring little hitch and the car began rolling slowly up the paved driveway. The winddriven trees shimmied like shadowdancers on either side of it, sending the falls first tornadofunnels of leaves whirling up into the night sky. Im doing it, Jessie thought with wonder. Im actually doing it, actually getting the puck out of here. She was rolling up the driveway, rolling toward the unnamed wheeltrack which would take her to Bay Lane, which would in its turn take her to Route 117 and civilization. As she watched the house (it looked more than ever like a huge white skull in the windy October moonlight) shrink in the rearview mirror, she thought Why is it letting me go? And is it? Is it really? Part of herthe fearmaddened part which would never entirely escape the handcuffs and the master bedroom of the house on the upper bay of Kashwakamak Lakeassured her that it wasnt; the creature with the wicker case was only playing with her, as a cat plays with a wounded mouse. Before she got much farther, certainly before she got to the top of the driveway, it would come racing after her, using its long cartoon legs to close the distance between them, stretching out its long cartoon arms to seize the rear bumper and bring the car to a halt. German efficiency was fine, but when you were dealing with something which had come back from the dead... well... But the house continued to dwindle in the rearview mirror, and nothing came out of the back door. Jessie reached the top of the driveway, turned right, and began to follow her high beams down the narrow wheelruts toward Bay Lane, guiding the car with her left hand. Every second or third August a volunteer crew of summer residents, fueled mostly by beer and gossip, cut back the underbrush and trimmed the overhanging branches along the way out to Bay Lane, but this had been an offyear and the lane was much narrower than Jessie liked. Each time a winddriven branch tapped at the cars roof or body, she cringed a little. Yet she was escaping. One by one the landmarks she had learned over the years made their appearance in the headlights and then dwindled behind her the huge rock with the split top, the overgrown gate with the faded sign reading RIDEOUTS HIDEOUT nailed to it, the uprooted spruce leaning amid a stand of smaller spruces like a large drunk being carried home by his smaller, livelier friends. The drunk spruce was only threetenths of a mile from Bay Lane, and it was only two miles to the highway from there. I can handle it if I take it easy, she said, and pushed the radio ON button with her right thumb, doing it very carefully. Bachmellow, stately, and above all, rationalflooded the car from four directions. Better and better. Take it easy, she repeated, speaking a little louder. Go greasy. Even the last shockthe stray dogs glaring orange eyeswas fading a little now, although she could feel herself beginning to shake. No problems whatsoever, if I just take it easy. She was doing that, all rightmaybe a little too easy, in fact. The speedometer needle was barely touching the 10 MPH mark. Being safely locked in the familiar surroundings of ones own car was a wonderful restorativealready she had begun to wonder if she hadnt been jumping at shadows all alongbut this would be a very bad time to begin taking things for granted. If there had been someone in the house, he (it, some deeper voicethe UFO of all UFOsinsisted) might have used one of the other doors to leave the house. He might be following her right now. It was even possible that, were she to continue puddling along at a mere ten miles an hour, a really determined follower might catch up. Jessie flicked her eyes up to the rearview mirror, wanting to reassure herself that this idea was only paranoia induced by shock and exhaustion, and felt her heart fall dead in her chest. Her left hand dropped from the wheel and thumped into her lap on top of the right. That should have hurt like hell, but there was no painabsolutely none at all. The stranger was sitting in the back seat with its eerily long hands pressed against the sides of its head, like the monkey that hears no evil. Its black eyes stared at her with sublimely empty interest. You see... me see... WE see... nothing but shadows! Punkin cried, but this cry was more than distant; it seemed to have originated at the other end of the universe. And it wasnt true. It was more than shadows she saw in the mirror. The thing sitting back there was tangled in shadows, yes, but not made of them. She saw its face bulging brow, round black eyes, bladethin nose, plump, misshapen lips. Jessie! the space cowboy whispered ecstatically. Nora! Ruth! Myohmy! Punkin Pie! Her eyes, frozen on the mirror, saw her passenger lean slowly forward, saw its swollen forehead nodding toward her right ear as if the creature intended to tell her a secret. She saw its pudgy lips slide away from its jutting, discolored teeth in a grimacing, vapid smile. It was at this point that the final breakup of Jessie Burlingames mind began. No! her own voice cried in a voice as thin as the voice of a vocalist on a scratchy old 78rpm record. No, please no! Its not fair! Jessie! Its stinking breath as sharp as a rasp and as cold as air inside a meatlocker. Nora! Jessie! Ruth! Jessie! Punkin! Goodwife! Jessie! Mommy! Her bulging eyes noted that the long white face was now halfhidden in her hair and its grinning mouth was almost kissing her ear as it whispered its delicious secret over and over and over Jessie! Nora! Goody! Punkin! Jessie! Jessie! Jessie! There was a white airburst inside her eyes, and what it left behind was a big dark hole. As Jessie dove into it, she had one final coherent thought I shouldnt have lookedit burned my eyes after all. Then she fell forward toward the wheel in a faint. As the Mercedes struck one of the large pines which bordered this section of the road, the seatbelt locked and jerked her backward again. The crash would probably have triggered the airbag, if the Mercedes had been a model recent enough to have come equipped with the system. It was not hard enough to damage the engine or even cause it to stall; good old German efficiency had triumphed again. The bumper and grille were dented and the hood ornament was knocked askew, but the engine idled contentedly away to itself. After about five minutes, a microchip buried in the dashboard sensed that the motor was now warm enough to turn on the heater. Blowers under the dash began to whoosh softly. Jessie had slumped sideways against the drivers door, where she lay with her cheek pressed to the window, looking like a tired child who has finally given up and gone to sleep with grandmas house just over the next hill. Above her, the rearview mirror reflected the empty back seat and the empty moonlit lane behind it. 35 It had been snowing all morninggloomy, but good letterwriting weather and when a bar of sun fell across the keyboard of the Mac, Jessie glanced up in surprise, startled out of her thoughts. What she saw out the window did more than charm her; it filled her with an emotion she had not experienced for a long time and hadnt expected to experience again for a long time to come, if ever. It was joya deep, complex joy she could never have explained. The snow hadnt stoppednot entirely, anywaybut a bright February sun had broken through the clouds overhead, turning both the fresh six inches on the ground and the snow still floating down through the air to a brilliant diamantine white. The window offered a sweeping view of Portlands Eastern Promenade, and it was a view which had soothed and fascinated Jessie in all weathers and seasons, but she had never seen anything quite like this; the combination of snow and sun had turned the gray air over Casco Bay into a fabulous jewelbox of interlocking rainbows. If there were real people living in those snowglobes where you can shake up a blizzard any time you want to, theyd see this weather all the time, she thought, and laughed. This sound was as fabulously strange to her ears as that feeling of joy was to her heart, and it only took a moments thought to realize why she hadnt laughed at all since the previous October. She referred to those hours, the last ones she ever intended to spend by Kashwakamak (or any other lake, for that matter), simply as my hard time. This phrase told what was necessary and not one thing more, she felt. Which was just the way she liked it. No laughs at all since then? Zilch? Zero? Are you sure? Not absolutely sure, no. She supposed she might have laughed in dreamsGod knew she had cried in enough of thembut as far as her waking hours went, it had been a shutout until now. She remembered the last one very clearly reaching across her body with her left hand so she could get the keys out of the right pocket of her culotte skirt, telling the windy darkness she was going to make like an amoeba and split. That, so far as she knew, had been the last laugh until now. Only that and nothing more, Jessie murmured. She took a pack of cigarettes out of her shirt pocket and lit one. God, how that phrase brought it all backthe only other thing with the power to do it so quickly and completely, she had discovered, was that awful song by Marvin Gaye. Shed heard it once on the radio when shed been driving back from one of the seemingly endless doctors appointments which had made up her life this winter, Marvin wailing Everybody knows... especially you girls ... in that soft, insinuating voice of his. She had turned the radio off at once, but shed still been shaking too badly to drive. She had parked and waited for the worst of the shakes to pass. Eventually they had, but on the nights when she didnt wake up muttering that phrase from The Raven over and over into her sweatsoaked pillow, she heard herself chanting, Witness, witness. As far as Jessie was concerned, it was six of one and half a million of the other. She dragged deep on her cigarette, puffed out three perfect rings, and watched them rise slowly above the humming Mac. When people were stupid enough or tasteless enough to ask about her ordeal (and she had discovered she knew a great many more stupid, tasteless people than she ever would have guessed), she told them she couldnt remember much of what had happened. After the first two or three police interviews, she began to tell the cops and all but one of Geralds colleagues the same thing. The single exception had been Brandon Milheron. To him she had told the truth, partly because she needed his help but mostly because Brandon had been the only one who had displayed the slightest understanding of what she had gone through... was still going through. He hadnt wasted her time with pity, and what a relief that had been. Jessie had also discovered that pity came cheap in the aftermath of tragedy, and that all the pity in the world wasnt worth a pisshole in the snow. Anyway, the cops and the newspaper reporters had accepted her amnesiaand the rest of her storyat face value, that was the important thing, and why not? People who underwent serious physical and mental trauma often blocked out the memories of what had happened; the cops knew that even better than the lawyers, and Jessie knew it better than any of them. She had learned a great deal about physical and mental trauma since last October. The books and articles had helped her find plausible reasons not to talk about what she didnt want to talk about, but otherwise they hadnt helped much. Or maybe it was just that she hadnt come to the right case histories yetthe ones dealing with handcuffed women who were forced to watch as their husbands became Purina Dog Chow. Jessie surprised herself by laughing againa good loud laugh this time. Was that funny? Apparently it was, but it was also one of those funny things you could never, ever tell anyone else. Like how your Dad once got so excited about a solar eclipse that he blew a load all over the seat of your underpants, for instance. Or howheres a real yuckyou actually thought a little come on your fanny might make you pregnant. Anyway, most of the case histories suggested that the human mind often reacted to extreme trauma the way a squid reacts to dangerby covering the entire landscape with a billow of obscuring ink. You knew something had happened, and that it had been no day in the park, but that was all. Everything else was gone, hidden by that ink. A lot of the casehistory people said thatpeople who had been raped, people who had been in car crashes, people who had been caught in fires and had crawled into closets to die, even one skydiving lady whose parachute hadnt opened and who had been recovered, badly hurt but miraculously alive, from the large soft bog in which she had landed. What was it like, coming down? they had asked the skydiving lady. What did you think about when you realized your chute hadnt opened, wasnt going to open? And the skydiving lady had replied, I cant remember. I remember the starter patting me on the back, and I think I remember the popout, but the next thing I remember is being on a stretcher and asking one of the men putting me into the back of the ambulance how badly I was hurt. Everything in the middle is just a haze. I suppose I prayed, but I cant even remember that for sure. Or maybe you really remembered everything, my skydiving friend, Jessie thought, and lied about it, just like I did. Maybe even for the same reasons. For all I know, every damned one of the casehistory people in every damned one of the books, I read was lying. Maybe so. Whether they were or not, the fact remained that she did remember her hours handcuffed to the bedfrom the click of the key in the second lock right up to that final freezing moment when she had looked into the rearview mirror and seen that the thing in the house had become the thing in the back seat, she remembered it all. She remembered those moments by day and relived them by night in horrible dreams where the waterglass slid past her along the inclined plane of the shelf and shattered on the floor, where the stray dog bypassed the cold buffet on the floor in favor of the hot meal on the bed, where the hideous nightvisitor in the corner asked Do you love me, Punkin? in her fathers voice and maggots squirmed like semen from the tip of its erect penis. But remembering a thing and reliving a thing did not confer an obligation to tell about a thing, even when the memories made you sweat and the nightmares made you scream. She had lost ten pounds since October (well, that was shading the truth a bit; it was actually more like seventeen), taken up smoking again (a pack and a half a day, plus a joint roughly the size of an El Producto before bedtime), her complexion had gone to hell, and all at once her hair was going gray all over her head, not just at the temples. That last was something she could fixhadnt she been doing so for five years or more?but so far she simply hadnt been able to summon up enough energy to dial Oh Pretty Woman in Westbrook and make an appointment. Besides, who did she have to look good for? Was she planning to maybe hit a few singles bars, check out the local talent? Good idea, she thought.


Some guy will ask if he can buy me a drink, Ill say yes, and then, while we wait for the bartender to bring them, Ill tell himjust casuallythat I have this dream where my father ejaculates maggots instead of semen. With a line of interesting conversational patter like that, Im sure hell ask me back to his apartment right away. He wont even want to see a doctors certificate saying Im HIVnegative. In midNovember, after she had begun to believe the police were really going to leave her alone and the storys sex angle was going to stay out of the papers (she was very slow coming to believe this, because the publicity was the thing she had dreaded the most), she decided to try therapy with Nora Callighan again. Maybe she didnt want this sitting inside and sending out poison fumes for the next thirty or forty years as it rotted. How much different might her life have been if she had managed to tell Nora what had happened on the day of the eclipse? For that matter, how much difference might it have made if that girl hadnt come into the kitchen when she did that night at Neuworth Parsonage? Maybe none ... but maybe a lot. Maybe an awful lot. So she dialed New Today, New Tomorrow, the loose association of counsellors with which Nora had been affiliated, and was shocked to silence when the receptionist told her Nora had died of leukemia the year beforesome weird, sly variant which had hidden successfully in the back alleys of her lymphatic system until it was too late to do a damned thing about it. Would Jessie perhaps care to meet with Laurel Stevenson? the receptionist asked, but Jessie remembered Laurela tall, darkhaired, darkeyed beauty who wore high heels with sling backs and looked as if she would enjoy sex to the fullest only when she was on top. She told the receptionist shed think it over. And that had been it for counselling. In the three months since she had learned of Noras death, shed had good days (when she was only afraid) and bad days (when she was too terrified even to leave this room, let alone the house) but only Brandon Milheron had heard anything approaching the complete story of Jessie Mahouts hard time by the lake... and Brandon hadnt believed the crazier aspects of that story. Had sympathized, yes, but not believed. Not at first, anyway. No pearl earring, he had reported the day after she first told him about the stranger with the long white face No muddy footprint, either. Not in the written reports, at least. Jessie shrugged and said nothing. She could have said things, but it seemed safer not to. She had badly needed a friend in the weeks following her escape from the summer house, and Brandon had filled the bill admirably. She didnt want to distance him or drive him away entirely with a lot of crazy talk. And there was something else, too, something simple and direct maybe Brandon was right. Maybe her visitor had just been a soupon of moonlight, after all. Little by little she had been able to persuade herself, at least in her waking hours, that this was the truth of it. Her space cowboy had been a kind of Rorschach pattern, one made not of ink and paper but of winddriven shadows and imagination. She didnt blame herself for any of this, however; quite the opposite. If not for her imagination, she never would have seen how she might be able to get the waterglass... and even if she had gotten it, she never would have thought of using a magazine blowin card as a straw. No, she thought her imagination had more than earned its right to a few hallucinatory megrims, but it remained important for her to remember shed been alone that night. If recovery began anywhere, she had believed, it began with the ability to separate reality from fantasy. She told Brandon some of this. He had smiled, hugged her, kissed her temple, and told her she was getting better in all sorts of ways. Then, last Friday, her eye had happened on the lead story of the PressHeralds County News section. All her assumptions began to change then, and they had gone right on changing as the story of Raymond Andrew Joubert began its steady march from filler between the Community Calendar and the County Police Beat to banner headlines on the front page. Then, yesterday... seven days after Jouberts name had first appeared on the County page ... There was a tap at the door, and Jessies first feeling, as always, was an instinctive cringe of fear. It was there and gone almost before she realized it. Almost... but not quite. Meggie? That you? None other, maam. Come on in. Megan Landis, the housekeeper Jessie had hired in December (that was when her first fat insurance check had arrived via registered mail), came in with a glass of milk on a tray. A small pill, gray and pink, sat beside the glass. At the sight of the glass, Jessies right wrist began to itch madly. This didnt always happen, but it wasnt exactly an unfamiliar reaction, either. At least the twitches and that weird myskiniscrawlingrightoffthebones sensation had pretty much stopped. There had been awhile there, before Christmas, when Jessie had really believed she was going to spend the rest of her life drinking out of a plastic cup. Hows yer paw today? Meggie asked, as if she had picked up Jessies itch by some kind of sensory telepathy. Nor did Jessie think this a ridiculous idea. She sometimes found Meggies questionsand the intuitions which prompted thema little creepy, but never ridiculous. The hand in question, now lying in the sunbeam which had startled her away from what she had been writing on the Mac, was dressed in a black glove lined with some frictionless spaceage polymer. Jessie supposed the burnglovefor that was what it washad been perfected in one dirty little war or another. Not that she would ever have refused to wear it on that account, and not that she wasnt grateful. She was very grateful indeed. After the third skingraft, you learned that an attitude of gratitude was one of lifes few reliable hedges against insanity. Not too bad, Meggie. Meggies left eyebrow lifted, stopping just short of Idon tbelieveyou height. No? If youve been running that keyboard for the whole three hours youve been in here, I bet its singing Ave Maria.  Have I really been here for? She glanced at her watch and saw that she had been. She glanced at the copyminder on top of the VDT screen and saw she was on the fifth page of the document she had opened just after breakfast. Now it was almost lunch, and the most surprising thing was she hadnt strayed as far from the truth as Meggies lifted brow suggested her hand really wasnt that bad. She could have waited another hour for the pill if shed had to. She took it nevertheless, washing it down with the milk. As she was drinking the last of it, her eyes wandered back to the VDT and read the words on the current screen No one found me that night; I woke up on my own just after dawn the next day. The engine had finally stalled, but the car was still warm. I could hear birds singing in the woods, and through the trees I could see the lake, flat as a mirror, with little ribbons of steam rising off it. It looked very beautiful, and at the same time I hated the sight of it, as I have hated the very thought of it ever since. Can you understand that, Ruth? Ill be damned if I can. My hand was hurting like hellwhatever help Id gotten from the aspirin was long gonebut what I felt in spite of the pain was the most incredible sense of peace and wellbeing. Something was gnawing at it, though. Something Id forgotten. At first I couldnt remember what it was. I dont think my brain wanted me to remember what it was. Then, all at once, it came to me. Hed been in the back seat, and hed leaned forward to whisper the names of all my voices in my ear. I looked into the mirror and saw the back seat was empty. That eased my mind a little bit but then I The words stopped at that point, with the little cursor flashing expectantly just beyond the end of the last unfinished sentence. It seemed to beckon to her, urge her forward, and suddenly Jessie recalled a poem from a marvellous little book by Kenneth Patchen. The book was called But Even So, and the poem had gone like this Come now, my child, if we were planning to harm you, do you think wed be lurking here beside the path in the very darkest part of the forest? Good question, Jessie thought, and let her eyes wander from the VDT screen to Meggie Landiss face. Jessie liked the energetic Irishwoman, liked her a lothell, owed her a lotbut if she had caught the little housekeeper looking at the words on the Macs screen, Meggie would have been headed down Forest Avenue with her severance pay in her pocket before you could say Dear Ruth, I suppose youre surprised to hear from me after all these years. But Megan wasnt looking at the pcs screen; she was looking at the sweeping view of Eastern Prom and Casco Bay beyond it. The sun was still shining and the snow was still falling, although now it was clearly winding down. Devils beating his wife, Meggie remarked. I beg your pardon? Jessie asked, smiling. Thats what my mother used to say when the sun came out before the snow stopped. Meggie looked a little embarrassed as she held her hand out for the empty glass. What it means Im not sure I could say. Jessie nodded. The embarrassment on Meggie Landiss face had lensed into something elsesomething that looked to Jessie like unease. For a moment she hadnt any idea what could have made Meggie look that way, and then it came to hera thing so obvious it was easy to overlook. It was the smile. Meggie wasnt used to seeing Jessie smile. Jessie wanted to assure her that it was all right, that the smile didnt mean she was going to leap from her chair and attempt to tear Meggies throat out. Instead, she told her, My own mother used to say, The sun doesnt shine on the same dogs ass every day. I never knew what that one meant, either. The housekeeper did look in the Macs direction now, but it was the merest flick of dismissal Time to put your toys away, Missus, her glance said. That pills going to make you sleepy if you dont dump a little food atop it. Ive got a sandwich waiting for you, and soup heating on the stove. Soup and sandwichkid food, the lunch you had after sledding all morning on the day when school was cancelled because of a noreaster; food you ate with the cold still blazing redly in your cheeks like bonfires. It sounded absolutely great, but... Im going to pass, Meg. Meggies brow furrowed and the corners of her mouth drew down. This was an expression Jessie had seen often in the early days of Meggies employment, when she had sometimes felt she needed an extra pain pill so badly that she had cried. Megan had never given in to her tears, however. Jessie supposed that was why she had hired the little Irishwomanshe had guessed from the first that Meggie wasnt a giverinner. She was, in fact, one hard spring potato when she had to be ... but Meggie would not be getting her way this time. You need to eat, Jess. Youre nothing but a scarecrow. Now it was the overflowing ashtray which bore the dour whiplash of her glance. And you need to quit that shit, too. Ill make you quit them, me proud beauty, Gerald said in her mind, and Jessie shuddered. Jessie? Are you all right? Is there a draft? No. A goose walked over my grave, thats all. She smiled wanly. Were a regular packet of old sayings today, arent we? Youve been warned time and time again about not overdoing Jessie reached out her blackclad right hand and tentatively touched Meggies left hand with it. My hands really getting better, isnt it? Yes. If you could use it on that machine, even part of the time, for three hours or more and not be yelling for that pill the second I showed my face in here, then I guess youre getting better even faster than Dr. Magliore expected. All the same All the same its getting better, and thats good ... right? Of course its good. The housekeeper looked at Jessie as if she were mad. Well, now Im trying to get the rest of me better. Step one is writing a letter to an old friend of mine. I promised myselflast October, during my hard timethat if I got out of the mess I was in, Id do that. But I kept putting it off. Now Im finally trying, and I dont dare stop. I might lose my guts if I do. But the pill I think Ive got just enough time to finish this and stick the printout in an envelope before I get too sleepy to work. Then I can take a long nap, and when I wake up III eat an early supper. She touched Meggies left hand with her right again, a gesture of reassurance which was both clumsy and rather sweet. A nice big one. Meggies frown remained. Its not good to skip meals, Jessie, and you know it. Very gently, Jessie said Some things are more important than meals. You know that as well as I do, dont you? Meggie glanced toward the VDT again, then sighed and nodded. When she spoke, it was in the tone of a woman bowing to some conventional sentiment in which she herself does not really believe. I guess so. And even if I dont, youre the boss. Jessie nodded, realizing for the first time that this was now more than just a fiction the two of them maintained for the sake of convenience. I suppose I am, at that. Meggies eyebrow had climbed to halfmast again. If I brought the sandwich in and left it here on the corner of your desk? Jessie grinned. Sold! This time Meggie smiled back. When she brought the sandwich in three minutes later, Jessie was sitting before the glowing screen again, her skin an unhealthy comicbook green in its reflected glow, lost in whatever she was slowly picking out on the keyboard. The little Irish housekeeper made no effort to be quietshe was that sort of woman who would probably be unable to tiptoe if her life depended on itbut Jessie still did not hear her come or go. She had taken a stack of newspaper clippings out of the top drawer of her desk and stopped typing to riffle through them. Photographs accompanied most, photographs of a man with a strange, narrow face that receded at the chin and bulged at the brow. His deepset eyes were dark and round and perfectly blank, eyes that made Jessie think simultaneously of Dondi, the comicstrip waif, and Charles Manson. Pudgy lips as thick as slices of cut fruit pooched out below his blade of a nose. Meggie stood beside Jessies shoulder for a moment, waiting to be acknowledged, then uttered a low Humph! and left the room. Fortyfive minutes or so later, Jessie glanced to the left and saw the toasted cheese sandwich. It was now cold, the cheese coagulated into lumps, but she wolfed it nevertheless in five quick bites. Then she turned back to the Mac. The cursor began to dance ahead once more, leading her steadily deeper into the forest. 36 That eased my mind a little bit but then I thought, He could be crouched down back there so the mirror doesnt show him. So I managed to get turned around, although I could hardly believe how weak I was. Even the slightest bump made my hand feel like someone was jabbing it with a redhot poker. No one was there, of course, and I tried to tell myself that the last time I saw him, he really was just shadows... shadows and my mind working overtime. But I couldnt quite believe it, Ruthnot even with the sun coming up and me out of the handcuffs, out of the house, and locked inside my own car. I got the idea that if he wasnt in the back seat he was in the trunk, and if he wasnt in the trunk, he was crouched down by the back bumper. I got the idea that he was still with me, in other words, and hes been with me ever since. Thats what I need to make youyou or somebodyunderstand thats what I really need to say. He has been with me ever since. Even when my rational mind decided that hed probably been shadows and moonlight every time I saw him, he was with me. Or maybe I should say it was with me. My visitor is the man with the white face when the sun is up, you see, but hes the thing with the white face when its down. Either way, him or it, my rational mind was eventually able to give him up, but I have found that is nowhere near enough. Because every time a board creaks in the house at night I know that its come back, every time a funny shadow dances on the wall I know its come back, every time I hear an unfamiliar step coming up the walk I know its come backcome back to finish the job. It was there in the Mercedes that morning when I woke up, and its been here in my house on Eastern Prom almost every night, maybe hiding behind the drapes or standing in the closet with its wicker case between its feet. There is no magic stake to drive through the hearts of the real monsters, and oh Ruth, it makes me so tired. Jessie paused long enough to dump the overflowing ashtray and light a fresh cigarette. She did this slowly and deliberately. Her hands had picked up a small but discernible shake, and she didnt want to burn herself. When the cigarette was going, she took a deep drag, exhaled, stuck it in the ashtray, and returned to the Mac. I dont know what I would have done if the car battery had been deadsat there until someone came along, I guess, even if it meant sitting there all daybut it wasnt, and the motor started on the first crank. I backed away from the tree Id hit and managed to get the car pointed down the lane again. I kept wanting to look in the rearview mirror, but I was afraid to do it. I was afraid I might see him. Not because he was there, you understandI knew he wasntbut because my mind might make me see him. Finally, just as I got to Bay Lane, I did look up. I couldnt help it. There was nothing in the mirror but the back seat, of course, and that made the rest of the trip a little easier. I drove out to 117 and then up to Dakins Country Storeits one of those places where the locals hang out when theyre too broke to go over to Rangeley or to one of the bars in Motton. They mostly sit at the lunch counter, eating doughnuts and swapping lies about what they did on Saturday night. I pulled in behind the gas pumps and just sat there for five minutes or so, watching the loggers and the caretakers and the power company guys go in and come back out. I couldnt believe they were realisnt that a hoot? I kept thinking they were ghosts, that pretty soon my eyes would adjust to the daylight and Id be able to see right through them. I was thirsty again, and every time someone came out with one of those little white Styrofoam cups of coffee, Id get thirstier, but I still couldnt quite bring myself to get out of the car ... to go among the ghosts, you might say. I suppose I would have, eventually, but before I could muster enough courage to do more than pull up the masterlock, Jimmy Eggart pulled in and parked beside me. Jimmys a retired CPA from Boston whos lived at the lake yearround since his wife died back in 1987 or 88. He got out of his Bronco, looked at me, recognized me, and started to smile. Then his face changed, first to concern and then to horror. He came to the Mercedes and bent down to look through the window, and he was so surprised that all the wrinkles were pulled out of his face. I remember that very clearly how surprise made Jimmy Eggart look young. I saw his mouth forming the words Jessie, are you all right? I wanted to open the door, but all at once I didnt quite dare. This crazy idea came into my head. That the thing Id been calling the space cowboy had been in Jimmys house, too, only Jimmy hadnt been as lucky as I had been. It had killed him, and cut off his face, and then put it on like a Halloween mask. I knew it was a crazy idea, but knowing that didnt help much, because I couldnt stop thinking it. I couldnt make myself open the fucking car door, either. I dont know how bad I looked that morning and dont want to know, but it must have been bad, because pretty soon Jimmy Eggart didnt look surprised anymore. He looked scared enough to run and sick enough to puke. He didnt do either one, God bless him. What he did was open the car door and ask me what had happened, had it been an accident or had someone hurt me. I only had to take one look down to get an idea what had put a buzz under him. At some point the wound in my wrist must have opened up again, because the sanitary pad Id taped around it was entirely soaked. The front of my skirt was soaked, too, as if Id had the worlds worst period. I was sitting in blood, there was blood on the steering wheel, blood on the console, blood on the shiftlever... there were even splatters on the windshield. Most of it had dried to that awful maroon color blood getsto me it looks like chocolate milkbut some of it was still red and wet. Until you see something like that, Ruth, you just dont have any idea how much blood there really is in a person. Its no wonder Jimmy freaked. I tried to get outI think I wanted to show him I could do it under my own power, and that would reassure himbut I bumped my right hand on the steering wheel and everything went white and gray. I didnt pass out completely, but it was as if the last bunch of wires between my head and my body had been cut. I felt myself falling forward and I remember thinking I was going to finish my adventures by knocking most of my teeth out on the asphalt ... and after spending a fortune to get the top ones capped just last year. Then Jimmy caught me ... right by the boobs, as a matter of fact. I heard him yelling at the storeHey! Hey! I need a little help out herein a high, shrieky old mans voice that made me feel like laughing... only I was too tired to laugh. I laid the side of my head against his shirt and panted for breath. I could feel my heart going fast but hardly seeming to beat at all, as if it had nothing to beat on. Some light and color started to come back into the day, though, and I saw half a dozen men coming out to see what was wrong. Lonnie Dakin was one of them. He was eating a muffin and wearing a pink teeshirt that said THERES NO TOWN DRUNK HERE, WE JUST ALL TAKE TURNS. Funny what you remember when you think youre getting ready to die, isnt it? Who did this to you, Jessie? Jimmy asked. I tried to answer him but couldnt get any words out. Which is probably just as well, considering what I was trying to say. I think it was My father. Jessie snuffed out her cigarette, then looked down at the top newsprint photograph. The narrow, freakish face of Raymond Andrew Joubert gazed raptly back ... just as he had gazed at her from the corner of the bedroom on the first night, and from her recently deceased husbands study on the second. Almost five minutes passed in this silent contemplation. Then, with the air of one who starts awake from a brief doze, Jessie lit a fresh cigarette and turned back to her letter. The copyminder now announced she was on page seven. She stretched, listened to the minute crackling sounds from her spine, then began to touch the keys again. The cursor resumed its dance. Twenty minutes latertwenty minutes during which I discovered how sweet and concerned and amusingly daffy men can be (Lonnie Dakin asked me if Id like some Midol)I was in a Rescue Services ambulance, headed for Northern Cumberland Hospital with the flashers flashing and the siren wailing. An hour after that I was lying in a crankup bed, watching blood run down a tube into my arm and listening to some country music asshole sing about how tough his life had been since his woman left him and his pickup truck broke down. That pretty well concludes Part One of my story, Ruthcall it Little Nell Across the Ice, or, How I Escaped Handcuffs and Made My Way to Safety. There are two other parts, which I think of as The Aftermath and The Kicker. Im going to scamp on The Aftermath, partly because its only really interesting if youre into skingrafts and pain, but mostly because I want to get to The Kicker before I get too tired and computerwoozy to tell it the way I need to tell it. And the way you deserve to have it told, come to think of it. That idea just occurred to me, and its nothing but the baldassed truth, as we used to say. After all, without The Kicker I probably wouldnt be writing you at all. Before I get to it, though, I have to tell you a little more about Brandon Milheron, who really sums up that Aftermath period for me. It was during the first part of my recovery, the really ugly part, that Brandon came along and more or less adopted me. Id like to call him a sweet man, because he was there for me during one of the most hellacious times of my life, but sweetness isnt really what hes aboutseeing things through is what Brandon is about, and keeping all the sightlines clear, and making sure all the right ducks stay in a row. And that isnt right, eithertheres more to him than that and hes better than thatbut the hour groweth late, and it will have to do. Suffice it to say that for a man whose job it was to look out for a conservative lawfirms interests in the wake of a potentially nasty situation involving one of the senior partners, Brandon did a lot of handholding and encouraging. Also, he never gave me hell for crying on the lapels of his natty threepiece suits. If that was all, I probably wouldnt be going on about him, but theres something else, as well. Something he did for me only yesterday. Have faith, kidwere getting there. Brandon and Gerald worked together a lot over the last fourteen months of Geralds lifea suit involving one of the major supermarket chains up here. They won whatever it was they were supposed to win, and, more important for yours truly, they established a good rapport. I have an idea that when the old sticks that run the firm get around to taking Geralds name off the letterhead, Brandons will take its place. In the meantime, he was the perfect person for this assignment, which Brandon himself described as damage control during his first meeting with me in the hospital. He does have a kind of sweetness about himyes, he doesand he was honest with me from the jump, but of course he still had his own agenda from the beginning. Believe me when I say my eyes are wide open on that score, my dear; I was, after all, married to a lawyer for almost two decades, and I know how fiercely they compartmentalize the various aspects of their lives and personalities. Its what allows them to survive without having too many breakdowns, I suppose, but its also what makes so many of them utterly loathsome. Brandon was never loathsome, but he was a man with a mission keep a lid on any bad publicity that might accrue to the firm. That meant keeping a lid on any bad publicity that might accrue to either Gerald or me, of course. This is the sort of job where the person doing it can wind up getting screwed by a single stroke of bad luck, but Brandon still took it like a shot... and to his further credit, he never once tried to tell me he took the job out of respect for Geralds memory. He took it because it was what Gerald himself used to call a careermakerthe kind of job that can open a quick shortcut to the next echelon, if it turns out well. It is turning out well for Brandon, and Im glad. He treated me with a great deal of kindness and compassion, which is reason enough to be happy for him, I guess, but there are two other reasons, as well. He never got hysterical when I told him someone from the press had called or come around, and he never acted as if I were just a jobonly that and nothing more. Do you want to know what I really think, Ruth? Although I am seven years older than the man Im telling you about and I still look folded, stapled, and mutilated, I think Brandon Milheron may have fallen a little bit in love with me ... or with the heroic Little Nell he sees in his minds eye when he looks at me. I dont think its a sex thing with him (not yet, anyway; at a hundred and eight pounds, I still look quite a bit like a plucked chicken hanging in a butcher shop window), and thats fine with me; if I never go to bed with another man, I will be absolutely delighted. Still, Id be lying if I said I didnt like seeing that look in his eyes, the one that says Im part of his agenda nowme, Jessie Angela Mahout Burlingame, as opposed to an inanimate lump his bosses probably think of as That Unfortunate Burlingame Business. I dont know if I come above the firm on Brandons agenda, or below it, or right beside it, and I dont care. It is enough to know that Im on it, and that Im something more than a Jessie paused here, tapping her left forefinger against her teeth and thinking carefully. She took a deep drag on her current cigarette, then went on. than a charitable sideeffect. Brandon was right beside me during all the police interviews, with his little taperecorder going. He politely but relentlessly pointed out to everyone present at every interviewinctuding stenographers and nursesthat anyone who leaked the admittedly sensational details of the case would face all the nasty reprisals a large New England lawfirm with an exceedingly tight ass could think up. Brandon must have been as convincing to them as he was to me, because no one in the know ever talked to the press. The worst of the questioning came during the three days I spent in guarded condition at Northern Cumberlandmostly sucking up blood, water, and electrolytes through plastic tubes. The police reports that came out of those sessions were so strange they actually looked believable when they showed up in the papers, like those weird manbitesdog stories they run from time to time. Only this one was actually a dogbitesman story ... and woman as well, in this version. Want to hear whats going into the record books? Okay, here it is We decided to spend the day at our summer home in western Maine. Following a sexual interlude that was two parts tussle and one part sex, we showered together. Gerald left the shower while I was washing my hair. He was complaining of gas pains, probably from the sub sandwiches we ate on our way from Portland, and asked if there were any Rolaids or Turns in the house. I said I didnt know, but theyd be on top of the bureau or on the bedshelf if there were. Three or four minutes later, while I was rinsing my hair, I heard Gerald cry out. This cry apparently signalled the onset of a massive coronary. It was followed by a heavy thumpthe sound of a body striking the floor. I jumped out of the shower, and when I ran into the bedroom, my feet went out from under me. I hit my head on the side of the bureau as I went down and knocked myself out. According to this version, which was put together by Mr. Milheron and Mrs. Burtingameand endorsed enthusiastically by the police, I might addI returned to partial consciousness several times, but each time I did, I passed out again. When I came to the last time, the dog had gotten tired of Gerald and was noshing on me. I got up on the bed (according to our story, Gerald and I found it where it wasprobably moved there by the guys who came in to wax the floorand we were so hot to trot we didnt bother to move it back where it belonged) and drove the dog off by throwing Geralds waterglass and fraternity ashtray at it. Then I passed out again and spent the next few hours unconscious and bleeding all over the bed. Later on I woke up again, got to the car, and finally drove to safety ... after one final bout of unconsciousness, that is. That was when I ran into the tree beside the road. I only asked once how Brandon got the police to go along with this piece of nonsense. He said, Its a State Police investigation now, Jessie, and weby which I mean the firmhave lots of friends in the S.P. Im calling in every favor I have to, but in truth I havent had to call in that many. Cops are human beings, too, you know. These guys had a pretty good idea of what really happened as soon as they saw the cuffs hanging from the bedposts. Its not the first time theyve seen handcuffs after someone popped his carburetor, believe me.


There wasnt a single one of those copsstate or localwho wanted to see you and your husband turned into a dirty joke as a result of something that was really no more than a grotesque accident. At first I didnt say anything even to Brandon about the man I thought I saw, or the footprint, or the pearl earring, or anything else. I was waiting, you seelooking for straws in the wind, I suppose. Jessie looked at that last, shook her head, and began to type again. No, thats bullshit. I was waiting for some cop to come in with a little plastic evidence bag and hand it to me and ask me to identify the ringsfingerrings, not earringsinside. Were pretty sure they must be yours, hed say, because they have your initials and those of your husband engraved inside them, and also because we found them on the floor of your husbands study. I kept waiting for that because when they showed me my rings, Id know for sure that Little Nells Midnight Caller had just been a figment of Little Nells imagination. I waited and waited, but it didnt happen. Finally, just before the first operation on my hand, I told Brandon about how Id had the idea that I might not have been alone in the house, at least not all the time. I told him it could have just been my imagination, that was certainly a possibility, but it had seemed very real at the time. I didnt say anything about my own missing rings, but I talked a lot about the footprint and the pearl earring. About the earring I think it would be fair to say I babbled, and I think I know why it had to stand for everything I didnt dare to talk about, even to Brandon. Do you understand? And all the time I was telling him, I kept saying stuff like Then I thought I saw and I felt almost sure that. I had to tell him, had to tell someone, because the fear was eating me from the inside out like acid, but I tried to show him in every way I could that I wasnt mistaking subjective feelings for objective reality. Above all I tried to keep him from seeing how scared I still was. Because I didnt want him to think I was crazy. I didnt care if he thought I was a little hysterical; that was a price I was willing to pay to keep from getting stuck with another nasty secret like the one about what my father did to me on the day of the eclipse, but I desperately didnt want him to think I was crazy. I didnt want him to even speculate on the possibility. Brandon took my hand and patted it and told me he could understand such an idea; he said that under the circumstances, it was probably tame. Then he added that the important thing to remember was that it was no more real than the shower Gerald and I took after our athletic, bumpandbruise romp on the bed. The police had gone over the house, and if there had been someone else in there, they almost certainly would have found evidence of him. The fact that the house had undergone a big endofsummer cleaning not long before made that even more likely. Maybe they did find evidence of him, I said. Maybe some cop stuck that earring in his own pocket. There are plenty of lightfingered cops in the world, granted, he said, but its hard for me to believe that even a stupid one would risk his career for an orphan earring. It would be easier for me to believe that this guy you thought was in the house with you came back later and got it himself. Yes! I said. Thats possible, isnt it? He started to shake his head, then shrugged instead. Anything is possible, and that includes either cupidity or human error on the part of the investigating officers, but ... He paused, then took my left hand and gave me what I think of as Brandons Dutch Uncle expression. A lot of your thinking is based on the idea that those investigating officers gave the house a lick and a promise and called it good. That wasnt the case. If there had been a third party in there, its oddson that the police would have found evidence of him. And if theyd found evidence of a third party, Id know. Why? asked. Because something like that could put you in a very nasty situationthe kind of situation where the police stop being nice guys and start reading you the Miranda warning. I dont understand what youre talking about, I said, but I was beginning to, Ruth; yes indeed. Gerald was something of an insurance freak, and I had been informed by agents of three different carriers that I was going to spend my period of official mourningand quite a few years afterin comfortable circumstances. John Harrelson in Augusta did a very thorough, very careful autopsy on your husband, Brandon said. According to his report, Gerald died of what MEs call a pure heart attack, meaning one uncomplicated by food poisoning, undue exertion, or gross physical trauma. He clearly meant to go onhe was in what Ive come to think of as Brandons Teaching Modebut he saw something on my face that stopped him. Jessie? Whats wrong? Nothing, I said. Yes there isyou look terrible. Is it a cramp? I finally managed to persuade him that I was okay, and by then I almost was. I imagine you know what I was thinking about, Ruth, since I mentioned it earlier in this letter the double kick I gave Gerald when he wouldnt do the right thing and let me up. One in the gut, one smack in the family jewels. I was thinking how lucky it was Id said the sex was roughit explained the bruises. I have an idea they were light, anyway, because the heart attack came right on the heels of the kicks, and the heart attack stopped the bruising process almost before it could get started. That leads to another question, of coursedid I cause the heart attack by kicking him? None of the medical books Ive looked at answer that question conclusively, but lets get real I probably helped him along. Still, I refuse to take the whole rap. He was overweight, he drank too much, and he smoked like a chimney. The heart attack was coming; if it hadnt been that day, it would have been the next week or the next month. The devil only plays his fiddle for you so long, Ruth. I believe that. If you dont, I cordially invite you to fold it small and stuff it where the sun doesnt shine. I happen to think Ive earned the right to believe what I want to believe, at least in this matter. Especially in this matter. If I looked like I swallowed a doorknob, I told Brandon, its because Im trying to get used to the idea that someone thinks I killed Gerald to collect his life insurance. He shook his head some more, looking at me earnestly all the while. They dont think that at all. Harrelson says Gerald had a heart attack which may have been precipitated by sexual excitement, and the State Police accept that because John Harrelson is about the best in the business. At most there may be a few cynics who think you played Salome and led him on deliberately. Do you? I asked. I thought I might shock him with such directness, and part of me was curious as to what a shocked Brandon Milheron might look like, but I should have known better. He only smiled. Do I think youd have imagination enough to see a chance of blowing Geralds thermostat but not enough to see you might end up dying in handcuffs yourself as a result? No. For whatever its worth, Jess, I think it went down just the way you told me it did. Can I be honest? I wouldnt want you to be anything else, I told him. All right. I worked with Gerald, and I got along with him, but there were plenty of people in the firm who didnt. He was the worlds biggest controlfreak. It doesnt surprise me a bit that the idea of having sex with a woman handcuffed to the bed lit up all his dials. I took a quick look at him when he said that. It was night, only the light at the head of my bed was on, and he was sitting in shadow from the shoulders up, but Im pretty sure that Brandon Milheron, Young Legal Shark About Town, was blushing. If Ive offended you, Im sorry, he said, sounding unexpectedly awkward. I almost laughed. It would have been unkind, but just then he sounded about eighteen years old and fresh out of prep school. You havent offended me, Brandon, I said. Good. That takes care of me. But its still the job of the police to at least entertain the possibility of foul ptayto consider the idea that you could have gone a step further than just hoping your husband might have what is known in the trade as a horny coronary.  I didnt have the slightest idea he had a heart problem! I said. Apparently the insurance companies didnt, either. If theyd known, they never would have written those policies, would they? Insurance companies will insure anyone whos willing to pay enough freight, he said, and Geralds insurance agents didnt see him chainsmoking and belting back the booze. You did. All protests aside, you must have known he was a heart attack looking for a place to happen. The cops know it, too. So they say, Suppose she invited a friend down to the lake house and didnt tell her husband? And suppose this friend just happened to jump out of the closet and yell BoogaBooga at exactly the right time for her and exactly the wrong one for her old man? If the cops had any evidence that something like that might have happened, youd be in deep shit, Jessie. Because under certain select circumstances, a hearty cry of BoogaBooga can be seen as an act of firstdegree murder. The fact that you spent going on two days in handcuffs and had to halfskin yourself to get free militates strongly against the idea of an accomplice, but in another way, the very fact of the handcuffs makes an accomplice seem plausible to ... well, to a certain type of police mind, let us say. I stared at him, fascinated. I felt like a woman whos just realized she has been squaredancing on the edge of an abyss. Up until then, looking at the shadowy planes and curves of Brandons face beyond the circle of light thrown by the bedlamp, the idea of the police thinking I might have murdered Gerald had only crossed my mind a couple of times, as a kind of grisly joke. Thank God I never joked about it with the cops, Ruth! Brandon said, Do you understand why it might be wiser not to mention this idea of an intruder in the house? Yes, I said. Better to let sleeping dogs lie, right? As soon as I said it, I had an image of that goddamned mutt dragging Gerald across the floor by his upper armI could see the flap of skin that had come free and was lying across the dogs snout. They ran the poor, damned thing down a couple of days later, by the wayit had made a little den for itself under the Laglans boathouse, about half a mile up the shore. It had taken a pretty good piece of Gerald there, so it must have come back at least one more time after I scared it away with the Mercedess lights and horn. They shot it. It was wearing a bronze tagnot a regulation dogtag so that Animal Control could trace the owner and give him hell, mores the pitywith the name Prince on it. Prince, can you imagine? When Constable Teagarden came and told me theyd killed it, I was giad. I didnt blame it for what it didit wasnt in much better shape than I was, Ruthbut I was glad then and Im still glad. All thats off the subject, thoughi was telling you about the conversation I had with Brandon after Id told him there might have been a stranger in the house. He agreed, and most emphatically, that it would be better to let sleeping dogs lie. I guessed I could live with thatit was a great relief just to have told one personbut I still wasnt quite ready to let it go. The convincer was the phone, I told him. When I got out of the handcuffs and tried it, it was as dead as Abe Lincoln. As soon as I realized that, I became sure I was rightthere had been a guy, and at some point hed cut the telephone line coming in from the road. Thats what really got my ass out the door and into the Mercedes. You dont know what scared is, Brandon, until you suddenly realize you might be out in the middle of the woods with an uninvited houseguest. He was smiling, but it was a less winning smile that time, Im afraid. It was the kind of smile men always seem to get on their faces when theyre thinking about how silly women are, and how it should really be against the law to let them out without keepers. You came to the conclusion that the line was cut after checking one phonethe one in the bedroomand finding it dead. Right? That wasnt exactly what happened and it wasnt exactly what Id thought, but I noddedpartly because it seemed easier, but mostly because it doesnt do much good to talk to a man when he gets that particular expression on his face. Its the one that says, Women! Cant live with em, cant shoot em! Unless youve changed completely, Ruth, Im sure you know the one Im talking about, and Im sure youll understand when I say that all I really wanted at that point was for the entire conversation to be over. It was unplugged, thats all, Brandon said. By then he was sounding like Mister Rogers, explaining that sometimes it surely does seem like theres a monster under the bed, by golly, but theres really not. Gerald pulled the tconnector out of the wall. He probably didnt want his afternoon offnot to mention his little bondage fantasyinterrupted by calls from the office. Hed also pulled the plug on the one in the front hall, but the one in the kitchen was plugged in and working just fine. I have all this from the police reports. The light dawned, then, Ruth. I suddenly understood that all of themall the men investigating what had happened out at the lakehad made certain assumptions about how Id handled the situation and why Id done the things Id done. Most of them worked in my favor, and that certainly simplified things, but there was still something both infuriating and a little spooky in the realization that they drew most of their conclusions not from what Id said or from any evidence theyd found in the house, but only from the fact that Im a woman, and women can be expected to behave in certain predictable ways. When you look at it that way, theres no difference at all between Brandon Milheron in his natty threepiece suits and old Constable Teagarden in his satchelseat bluejeans and red firehouse suspenders. Men still think the same things about us they have always thought, RuthIm sure of it. A lot of them have learned to say the right things at the right times, but as my mother used to say, Even a cannibal can learn to recite the Apostles Creed. And do you know what? Brandon Milheron admires me, and he admires the way I handled myself after Gerald dropped dead. Yes he does. I have seen it on his face time after time, and if he drops by this evening, as he usually does, I am confident I will see it there again. Brandon thinks I did a damned good job, a damned brave job ... for a woman. In fact, I think that by the time we had our first conversation about my hypothetical visitor, he had sort of decided Id behaved the way he would have in a similar situation ... if, that is, hed had to deal with a high fever at the same time he was trying to deal with everything else. I have an idea thats how most men believe most women think like lawyers with malaria. It would certainly explain a lot of their behavior, wouldnt it? Im talking about condescensiona manversuswoman thingbut Im also talking about something a hell of a lot bigger and a hell of a lot more frightening, as well. He didnt understand, you see, and that has nothing to do with any differences between the sexes; thats the curse of being human, and the surest proof that all of us are really alone. Terrible things happened in that house, Ruth, I didnt know just how terrible until later, and he didnt understand that. I told him the things I did in order to keep that terror from eating me alive, and he nodded and he smiled and he sympathized, and I think it ended up doing me some good, but he was the best of them, and he never got within shouting distance of the truth ... of how the terror just seemed to keep on growing until it became this big black haunted house inside my head. Its still there, too, standing with its door open, inviting me to come back inside any time I want, and I never do want to go back, but sometimes I find myself going back, anyway, and the minute I step inside, the door slams shut behind me and locks itself. Well, never mind. I suppose it should have relieved me to know my intuition about the telephone lines was wrong, but it didnt. Because there was a part of my mind which believedand believes stillthat the bedroom telephone wouldnt have worked even if I had crawled behind that chair and plugged it in again, that maybe the one in the kitchen was working later but it sure as hell wasnt working then, that it was get the hell away from the house in the Mercedes or die at the hands of that creature. Brandon leaned forward until the light at the head of the bed shone full on his face and he said, There was no man in the house, Jessie, and the best thing you can do with the idea is let it drop. I almost told him about my missing rings then, but I was tired and in a lot of pain and in the end I didnt. I lay awake for a long time after he leftnot even a painpill would put me to sleep that night. I thought about the skingraft operation that was coming up the next day, but probably not as much as you might think. Mostly I was thinking about my rings, and the footprint nobody saw but me, and whether or not heitmight have come back to put things right. And what I decided, just before I finally dropped off, was that there had never been a footprint or a pearl earring. That some cop had spotted my rings lying on the study floor beside the bookcase and just took them. Theyre probably in the window of some Lewiston hockshop right now, I thought. Maybe the idea should have made me angry, but it didnt. It made me feel the way I did when I woke up behind the wheel of the Mercedes that morningfitted with an incredible sense of peace and wellbeing. No stranger; no stranger; no stranger anywhere. Just a cop with light fingers taking one quick look over his shoulder to make sure the coast is clear and then whoop, zoop, into the pocket. As for the rings themselves, I didnt care what had happened to them then and I dont now. Ive come more and more to believe in these last few months that the only reason a man sticks a ring on your finger is because the law no longer allows him to put one through your nose. Never mind, though; the morning has become the afternoon, the afternoon is moving briskly along, and this is not the time to discuss womens issues. This is the time to talk about Raymond Andrew Joubert. Jessie sat back in her chair and lit another cigarette, absently aware that the tip of her tongue was stinging from tobacco overload, that her head ached, and that her kidneys were protesting this marathon session in front of the Mac. Protesting vigorously. The house was deathly silentthe sort of silence that could only mean that tough little Megan Landis had taken herself off to the supermarket and the drycleaners. Jessie was amazed that Meggie had left without making at least one more effort to separate her from the computer screen. Then she guessed the housekeeper had known it would be a wasted effort. Best to let her get it out of her system, whatever it is, Meggie would have thought. And it was only a job to her, after all. This last thought sent a little pang through Jessies heart. A board creaked upstairs. Jessies cigarette stopped an inch shy of her lips. Hes back! Goody shrieked. Oh, Jessie, hes back! Except he wasnt. Her eyes drifted to the narrow face looking up at her from the clusters of newsprint dots and she thought I know exactly where you are, you whoredog. Dont I? She did, but part of her mind went on insisting it was him just the sameno, not him, it, the space cowboy, the specter of love, back again for a return engagement. It had only been waiting for the house to be empty, and if she picked up the phone on the corner of the desk, she would find it stone dead, just as all the phones in the house by the lake had been stone dead that night. Your friend Brandon can smile all he wants, but we know the truth, dont we, Jessie? She suddenly shot out her good hand, snatched the telephone handset from the cradle, and brought it to her ear. Heard the reassuring buzz of the dialtone. Put it back again. An odd, sunless smile played about the corners of her mouth. Yes, I know exactly where you are, motherfucker. Whatever Goody and the rest of the ladies inside my head may think, Punkin and I know youre wearing an orange jumpsuit and sitting in a County Jail cellthe one at the far end of the old wing, Brandon said, so the other inmates cant get to you and fuck you up before the state hauls you in front of a jury of your peers . . . if a thing like you has any peers. We may not be entirely free of you yet, but we will be. I promise you we will be. Her eyes drifted back to the VDT, and although the vague sleepiness brought on by the combination of the pill and the sandwich had long since dissipated, she felt a bonedeep weariness and a complete lack of belief in her ability to finish what she had started. This is the time to talk about Raymond Andrew Joubert, she had written, but was it? Could she? She was so tired. Of course she was; she had been pushing that goddamned cursor across the VDT screen almost all day. Pushing the envelope, they called it, and if you pushed the envelope long enough and hard enough, you tore it wide open. Maybe it would be best to just go upstairs and take a nap. Better late than never, and all that shit. She could file this to memory, retrieve it tomorrow morning, go back to work on it then Punkins voice stopped her. This voice came only infrequently now, and Jessie listened very carefully to it when it did. If you decide to stop now, Jessie, dont bother to file the document. Just delete it. We both know youll never have the guts to face Joubert againnot the way a person has to face a thing shes writing about. Sometimes it takes heart to write about a thing, doesnt it? To let that thing out of the room way in the back of your mind and put it up there on the screen. Yes, she murmured. A yard of heart. Maybe more.  She dragged at her cigarette, then snuffed it out halfsmoked. She riffled through the clippings a final time and looked out the window at the slope of Eastern Prom. The snow had long since stopped and the sun was shining brightly, although it wouldnt be for much longer; February days in Maine are thankless, miserly things. What do you say, Punkin? Jessie asked the empty room. She spoke in the haughty Elizabeth Taylor voice she had favored as a child, the one that had driven her mother completely bonkers. Shall we carry on, my deah? There was no answer, but Jessie didnt need one. She leaned forward in her chair and set the cursor in motion once more. She didnt stop again for a long time, not even to light a cigarette. 37 This is the time to talk about Raymond Andrew Joubert. It wont be easy, but Im going to do my best. So pour yourself another cup of coffee, dear, and if youve got a bottle of brandy handy, you may want to doctor it up a bit. Here comes Part Three. I have all the newspaper clippings beside me on the desk, but the articles and news items dont tell all I know, let alone all there is to knowI doubt if anyone has the slightest idea of all the things Joubert did (including Joubert himself, I imagine), and thats probably a blessing. The stuff the papers could only hint at and the stuff that didnt make them at all is real nightmarefodder, and I wouldnt want to know all of it. Most of the stuff that isnt in the papers came to me during the last week courtesy of a strangely quiet, strangely chastened Brandon Milheron. Id asked him to come over as soon as the connections between Jouberts story and my own had become too obvious to ignore. You think this was the guy, dont you? he asked. The one who was in the house with you? Brandon, I said, I know its the guy. He sighed, looked down at his hands for a minute, then looked up at me againwe were in this very room, it was nine oclock in the morning, and there were no shadows to hide his face that time. I owe you an apology, he said. I didnt believe you then I know, I said, as kindly as I could. but I do now. Dear God. How much do you want to know, Jess? I took a deep breath and said, Everything you can find out. He wanted to know why. I mean, if you say its your business and I should butt out, I guess Ill have to accept that, but youre asking me to reopen a matter the firm considers closed. If someone who knows I was watching out for you last fall notices me sniffing around Joubert this winter, its not impossible that That you could get in trouble, I said. It was something I hadnt considered. Yes, he said, but Im not terribly concerned about thatIm a big boy, and I can take care of myself ... at least I think I can. Im a lot more concerned about you, Jess. You could wind up on the front page again, after all our work to get you off it as quickly and as painlessly as possible. Even thats not the major thingits miles from the major thing. This is the nastiest criminal case to break in northern New England since World War II. I mean some of this stuff is so gruesome its radioactive, and you shouldnt plink yourself down in the fallout zone without a damned good reason. He laughed, a little nervously. Hell, I shouldnt plink myself down there without a damned good reason. I got up, walked across to him, and took one of his hands with my left hand. I couldnt explain in a million years why, I said, but I think I can tell you what will that do, at least for a start? He folded his hand gently over mine and nodded his head. There are three things, I said. First, I need to know hes real. Second, I need to know the things he did are real. Third, I need to know Ill never wake up again with him standing in my bedroom. That brought it all back, Ruth, and I began to cry. There was nothing tricky or cafculating about those tears; they just came. Nothing I could have done would have stopped them. Please help me, Brandon, I said. Every time I turn off the light, hes standing across the room from me in the dark, and Im afraid that unless I can turn a spotlight on him, thats going to go on forever. There isnt anybody else I can ask, and I have to know. Please help me. He let go of my hand, produced a handkerchief from somewhere inside that days screamingly neat lawyers suit, and wiped my face with it. He did it as gently as my Mom used to when I came into the kitchen bawling my head off because Id skinned my kneethat was back in the early years, before I turned into the familys squeaky wheel, you understand. All right, he said at last. Ill find out everything I can, and Ill pass it all on to you . . . unless and until you tell me to stop, that is. But I have a feeling you better fasten your seatbelt. He found out quite a lot, and now Im going to pass it on to you, Ruth, but fair warning he was right about the seatbelt. If you decide to skip some of the next few pages, Ill understand. I wish I could skip writing them, but I have an idea thats also part of the therapy. The final part, I hope. This section of the storywhat I suppose I could call Brandons Talestarts back in 1984 or 1985. That was when cases of graveyard vandalism started popping up in the Lakes District of western Maine. There were similar cases reported in half a dozen small towns across the state line and into New Hampshire. Stuff like tombstonetipping, spraypaint graffiti, and stealing commemorative flags is pretty common stuff out in the willywags, and of course theres always a bunch of smashed pumpkins to swamp out of the local boneyard on November 1st, but these crimes went a lot further than pranks or petty theft. Desecration was the word Brandon used when he brought me his first report late last week, and that word had started showing up on most of the police crimereport forms by 1988. The crimes themselves seemed abnormal to the people who discovered them and to those who investigated them, but the modus operandi was sane enough; carefully organized and focused. Someone possibly two or three someones, but more likely a single personwas breaking into the crypts and mausoleums of smalltown cemeteries with the efficiency of a good burglar breaking into a house or store. He was apparently arriving at these jobs equipped with drills, a boltcutter, heavyduty hacksaws, and probably a winchBrandon says a lot of fourwheeldrive vehicles come equipped with them these days. The breaks were always aimed at the crypts and mausoleums, never at individual graves, and almost all of them came in winter, when the ground is too hard to dig in and the bodies have to be stored until the deep frost lets go. Once the perpetrator gained entry, he used the boltcutter and power drill to open the coffins. He systematically stripped the corpses of any jewelry they might have been wearing when they were interred; he used pliers to pull gold teeth and teeth with gold fillings. Those acts are despicable, but at least theyre understandable. Robbery was only where this guy got started, though. He gouged out eyes, tore off ears, cut dead throats. In February of 1989, two corpses in the Chilton Remembrance Cemetery were found without noseshe apparently knocked them off with a hammer and a chisel. The officer who caught that one told Brandon, It would have been easyit was like a deepfreeze in there, and they probably broke off like Popsicles. The real question is what does a guy do with two frozen noses once he has them? Does he put em on his keychain? Maybe sprinkle em with nacho cheese and then zap em in the microwave? What? Almost all the desecrated corpses were found minus feet and hands, sometimes also arms and legs, and in several cases the man doing this also took heads and sexorgans. Forensic evidence suggests he used an axe and a butcherknife for the gross work and a variety of scalpels for the finer stuff. He wasnt bad, either. A talented amateur, one of the Chamberlain County deputies told Brandon. I wouldnt want him working on my gallbladder, but I guess Id trust him to take a mole off my arm ... if he was full of Halcion or Prozac, that is. In a few cases he opened up the bodies andor skull cases and filled them with animal excrement. What the police saw more frequently were cases of sexual desecration. He was an equalopportunity kind of guy when it came to stealing gold teeth, jewelry, and limbs, but when it came to taking sexual equipmentand having sex with the deadhe stuck strictly to the gentlemen. This may have been extremely lucky for me. I learned a lot about the way rural police departments work during the month or so following my escape from our house by the lake, but thats nothing compared with what Ive learned in the last week or so. One of the most surprising things is how discreet and tactful smalltown cops can be. I guess when you know everybody in the area you patrol by their first names, and are related to a good many of them, discretion becomes almost as natural as breathing. The way they handled my case is one example of this strange, sophisticated discretion; the way they handled Jouberts is another. The investigation went on for seven years, remember, and a lot of people were in on it before it endedtwo State Police departments, four county sheriffs, thirtyone deputies, and God knows how many local cops and constables. It was right there at the front of their open files, and by 1989 they even had a name for himRudolph, as in Valentino. They talked about Rudolph when they were in District Court, waiting to testify on their other cases, they compared notes on Rudolph at lawenforcement seminars in Augusta and Derry and Waterville, they discussed him on their coffeebreaks. And we took him home, one of the cops told Brandonthe same guy who told him about the noses, as a matter of fact. You bet we did. Guys like us always take guys like Rudolph home.