Chapter 1

The morning of Valentine’s Day, 2008, Ted pushed open the glass entrance of Rico’s flower shop. The little bell fastened to the top of the door jingled, and Rico looked up from behind the counter. 

“Hey, Mister Jackson!” Rico exclaimed with a twinkle in his eye. “I knew you would be here today.” 

Rico was a stout, balding, little man with dark gray hair, whose voice lilted with an Italian-American accent. He was one of the few people whose presence filled up a room so fully that it could challenge Ted’s. 

“Look here,” he continued. 

He stepped out onto the floor of the shop, past two islands packed with prearranged flowers on display, and hobbled up to a wall case. 

“I have beautiful, colorful roses. Perfect, eh? What do you think?” 

“No,” said Ted lightheartedly. “I’d rather go with something simple this year. Have any red tulips?” 

“Yeah,” Rico said. “A dozen?” 

“Ten,” Ted said. 

“Ten red tulips,” Rico repeated. “That’s it? Just tulips?” 

“Yes. And a card.” 

“Ah!” Rico grinned. “Something romantic!”

“A blossom for each year I’ve been in love.” 

“That’s what’s on the card?” came a voice from a woman, as short and as stout and as gray-haired and as Italian-American as her husband. She had just entered from the back room, lugging a bucket full of blossoms. 

Ted sighed. “Yes, that’s what’s on the card.” 

“Eh, did you two marry in ’01?” Rico asked. “Yeah, I remember, you were still on your honeymoon… Oh, that was awful—“ 

“No, that was his birthday, Rico,” the woman interrupted. “And you forget, they met earlier.” 

“Oh, right. So ten red tulips. Got it. Good as done. Clyde’s gonna love ’em.” He turned to a young man just coming up from the back room. “Hey, Anthony, come make Mister Jackson here a bouquet of tulips. Ten red ones, okay?” 

“Sure thing,” replied the young man, tall, dark, and handsome. Then he asked, “Hey, Ted, how’s the wife?” 

“She’s fine.” 

Rico added, “You just make sure she doesn’t leave him over the wrong flowers, okay?” 

Anthony chuckled. “Sure thing, Uncle Rico.” 

Unfortunately, he had barely picked the stems out from the display case when the door bell jingled again, and into the shop barged three large men, armed, arrayed in crisply pressed blue uniforms and intimidating blue jackets. 

They strode up to Anthony, and one of them said, “Anthony Giordano?” more as a demand than as a question. 

“Yeah?” Anthony said. 

“You’re under arrest.” 

The woman gasped, bringing her hands to her cheeks. She looked like she was going to faint. 

Rico whispered to himself, “Signore del cielo!” Then he quickly said, “This is our lawyer.”

But Ted was already on it. “What’s he charged with?”

The cop said, “So, he’s already been talking to his lawyer.” Then he pulled a piece of paper from the inside pocket of his jacket. “Here’s the warrant.” 

Ted took it and read it as the other two cops muscled Anthony into handcuffs. 

“Ow,” Anthony complained. 

“Quit being a baby,” said the cop who did all the talking. Then he began to quote Miranda to the young man. 

Ted interrupted. “This man is represented by council.” 

“Yeah, I get it,” said the cop. 

“Don’t ask him anything, not even his name, got it?” And without waiting for an answer, he faced Anthony. “Say nothing. Not a word! I’ll meet you there.” 

Anthony nodded as they dragged him out of the shop. 

Ted turned back to Rico and saw that his poor, old wife was silently sobbing. He walked up to Rico and whispered, ”This warrant indicates that the police think Anthony raped the Williams girl, the one that’s been on the news. Do you know anything about that?” 

“No, I don’t believe it. He doesn’t even know her. And even if he did know her… No… You got to understand. Anthony’s a little bit… uncivilized. Blame it on his mother. Black sheep of the family, you know? But he’s still a good kid. But there’s no way Anthony could have done that. I don’t believe it, not even if I live to be 500 years old. Never! 

“God! This is wrong, Mister Jackson. They come into my place of business and assault my family? And with what? You have to fix this. You capite?”

Rico’s voice was raising steadily, and Rico’s bride, now partially recovered, said, “Calm down, Rico.” 

“Yes,” Ted agreed. “Calm down. Capisco. I’ll meet him at the station. Okay?”

---

The morning of Valentine’s Day, 2006, Saddam Hussein announced that he was on a hunger strike, along with his cohorts. They were protesting their treatment by the international tribunal. And news commentators were still absorbing themselves with Dick Cheney’s hunting accident the previous Saturday. Ted noted these things in passing, as he prepared for his closing before the jury that afternoon. 

“Miss Williams never saw her attacker’s face. So she couldn’t actually identify him. She said she knew him, that she recognized him by his voice. But you saw in this very courtroom that she failed to point out Mr. Hill’s voice from among just three men. As you heard yourself, his voice sounds quite average. How many men are there out there who might have been the actual attacker?

“Officer Simmons also could not identify the attacker. All he saw was a figure running from the scene, in the dark. No distinguishing characteristics. No distinguishing behaviors. Except that Mr. Hill does have distinguishing characteristics. As you yourself have seen, he walks with a limp. How could he have run as the attacker had? Yes, the officer later upgraded his story. After he saw Mr. Hill walk with a limp, he began to say the attacker ‘hobbled’ away from the scene. But that was not his original, unbiased statement! 

“The prosecutor also failed to show how Mr. Hill could have gotten his hands on sevoflurane, the anesthetic that the perpetrator used to knock out his victim. This is a highly controlled drug, only available to anesthetists in operating rooms. Mr. Hill is an English teacher. How would he have gotten his hands on sevoflurane? It’s not even available on the street, because there are cheaper drugs that common criminals use to knock out unsuspecting victims. Yet, we know for a fact that that Miss Williams’ attacker used sevoflurane. The prosecutions own lab experts confirmed that.

“How convenient it was that this attacker never revealed his face. The prosecution is desperate, so desperate they even went so far as to suggest that he hid his face because he had a distinguishing scar that he wanted to hide. 

“In logic, there is a fallacy called Appeal to Ignorance. In an Appeal to Ignorance, one side”—and he pointed to the prosecutor—“claims that they have no evidence to prove Mr. Hill did not hide his face; therefore, he must be. Does anyone besides me see the insanity in that? He hid his face; therefore, it must be him? By that logic, any of us could be suspects. Because I would be afraid to show my face if I had committed this horrific act. Look, no scar!” He pointed to his right cheek, where Gordon Hill was permanently marked.

“How about you?” Ted continued, sweeping his hand across the jury. He pointed to a dignified gentleman in the front row. “How about you? Would you show your face, if you had committed this act?” He pointed at another jury member. “How about you?” He continued. “How about you? Or you? Would any of us not hide his face? Just for fear of being caught?

“That’s why in our system of justice, it’s up the the prosecution to prove beyond all reasonable doubt that they have the right man.

“Please, ladies and gentlemen, let’s be reasonable. The only reason the police have to suspect my client is that he happened to be walking down the street, five whole blocks away. Let me be clear about this. Walking down the street is not a crime! At least not in the America I live in, the country I’m proud of.

“Beyond all reasonable doubt, that’s the standard of proof upon which rests the integrity of our system of justice. We do not just go throwing innocent people in jail, just because they have a visible scar, or walk with a limp. Or even if they don’t! We demand that prosecutors prove beyond all reasonable doubt that they have the right man. This is the honor of the law you swore to uphold.

“And in this case, we cannot know beyond all reasonable doubt. Frankly, I shouldn’t have to get up before you at all, today. I should have to say anything to you, because the prosecution has failed to meet its burden of proof. The fact that I am here, speaking to you, makes the point all the stronger. And that’s why I stand before you today, asking you to carry out your promise, and to return a verdict of not guilty.” 

---

“I can help you,” Baedes told the young man, “but only if you help me.” 

For a moment, Baedes wondered what the young man on the other side of the table was thinking beneath the tuft of neatly combed, black curls on his head. But in the final analysis, it didn’t really matter what the young man was thinking. It only mattered what he did and what he said and whose side he was on. 

Anthony Giordano stared up at the burly police chief with dark, soulful eyes. Yeah, Miranda was a pain in the ass, a stupid legal theory 5 crazy judges came up with over 40 years ago, and it’s been hampering law enforcement ever since. Fortunately, there were ways to end-run around Miranda. Baedes knew he wasn’t supposed to be talking to the perp. But only one officer knew that he knew, and that officer Baedes could trust not to talk. Besides, the perp had been Mirandized, and if he chose to waive his rights, that was his business. And if he was like most perps, he wouldn’t be able to keep his big mouth shut; they all wanted to tell their story, with or without a lawyer. In any case, the worst that could happen is that the information Baedes learned would be disqualified as evidence against Giordano. And Baedes was not after evidence against Giordano. The perp’s right to keep his mouth shut didn’t extend to other people.

“You know Ted Jackson, don’t you?” the chief continued. 

“Yeah.” 

“How do you know him?” 

“He’s a customer. What does it matter to you?” 

“What does he buy?” 

The young man peered through thin slits under a furrowed brow. “Flowers. What else would it be?” 

“Information, maybe?” 

No response. 

“You also know Mira Jayson,” Baedes said. 

“No, not exactly,” came the response. 

“Come on, Anthony. It can’t go like this. You have to come clean, or I can’t do anything for you.” 

Anthony grunted and rolled his eyes. “How stupid do you think I am? You’re trying to distract me. You just want to trick me into saying I did something, so you can pin it—” 

“Anthony.” The chief spoke calmly but deliberately. “Don’t fool yourself, Anthony. We don’t need any confession from you, because we already have you dead to rights. You followed that girl to her apartment, and you forced yourself inside, and you beat her up, and you raped her. She told us exactly how it happened, and we have a mountain of physical evidence to convict you. Make no mistake. You’re going away, my son, for a long, long time.” He let that sink in. “What I’m talking about is a deal. You help me, and I help you.” 

Baedes continued. “We think Ted Jackson has been selling government secrets. And I think you’re one of his couriers.” Baedes could see the whites of the young man’s eyes, splashes of fear peeking out from around each iris. He grinned. “What’s it going to be, Anthony? Start by telling me about who you work with.” 

Anthony hesitated. He finally said, with an edge of his voice, “No thanks. I think I’ll wait for my law—”

“Unless you come clean, you’re going to go to prison for the rest of your life, young man. Don’t be a fool. I can help you. Come on, you probably didn’t rape that girl, right? Maybe it was consensual. And maybe you didn’t rough her up, either. There’s probably some evidence of that, too. And I can help you find it. But unless you come clean with me, you’re going to go away for a long, long time.”

Anthony sat, stone cold silent.

Baedes nodded and swallowed. “You’ll be sorry, you know.” 

“Yeah, well, we’ll see, won’t we.” 

Baedes stooped over the table. He rested his hands on the tabletop, hanging his face close over the young man’s. “Oh yes,” he said without blinking. “You will.” 

Anthony looked up, but he neither moved nor breathed. Nor did he say a word. 

Finally, the chief said, “Well, at least you can tell you friends not to cross me, because they’ll see what happens to those who do.” 

He stepped through the door in the small room, leaving the young man behind. In the hallway, he met a diminutive, balding man in a dark suit and tie. 

“Ted Jackson is here,” said the dark suit in a edgy, nasally tone. 

“This one’s not going to talk, for now. Might talk after he thinks about it for a while. Too bad there’s no evidence to exculpate him. He could use some.” 

“Unfortunately not.” The dark-suited man held up a nondescript Manila folder. “Here are some papers that were delivered to my office by mistake. I think they were meant to go to you.” 

Baedes took the folder and glanced at the lab report inside. An unidentified sample of blood from the Williams rape kit. What did he just say about exculpatory evidence? Baedes had been waiting for an opportunity like the Williams case, and he was glad this report had into the right hands. He couldn’t allow the perp’s guilt to be clouded by misleading evidence. 

“Thanks,” Baedes remarked. “I have paperwork to do. Tell Mr. Jackson his client has already been sent to lock-up. He can catch him at the arraignment.” 

The dark-suited man nodded. 

---

Mira had agreed to meet in a cozy coffee shop on the corner of Main and Commons, and she had promised herself she wouldn’t get her hopes up, because the last time she did that, she ended up hurt. Even still, she drove in from the city to meet him for just a casual lunch at the Commons Café. The atmosphere smelled of coffee, and in the background, Mira heard the clanking of glassware. The shop’s several rooms were arrayed around a central counter. Small tables dotted the floor plan, and comfy green-patterned couches and wicker chairs with flowered cushions lined its boundaries. 

Black purse in hand, she crept timidly toward the counter, scanning the faces of the patrons. It didn’t look like Ike had arrived yet. But it had been months since she had seen him, months which seemed like years, and she wasn’t sure she would recognize him. He had been calling her once in a while, but she had been making excuses why she couldn’t see him. She didn’t want to see him. She didn’t want to get him into deeper trouble than he already was. More on the nose, she didn’t want to feel the way she felt about him. She needed time away from him, time to recover, time to calm down. 

Mira’s heart was beating faster than normal, and her breaths fell heavily upon her chest. She felt as if she were in a dream, as if everything were not quite real. She studied the menu, neatly printed in colored chalk on a large, slate blackboard overhead. It described a selection of coffees, baked goods, and sandwiches. She finally decided on a coffee and a ham-and-cheese bagel sandwich. 

“Hello, Mira,” said a sweet, soft, masculine voice just behind her. 

Mira swung around and gazed up at the smooth face of the man she had been waiting for. His sandy hair had grown out a little, and he had parted it neatly to one side. His presence smelled like mild aftershave, and his dark eyes looked like chocolate. He wore a thick sweater of blue and beige and burgundy and green, and Mira wanted to squeeze it to see how soft it was, or rather, how soft he felt in it. And if it were anyone else, she probably would have. But right here, right now, she wasn’t sure of herself. Mira didn’t know whether a hug would be merely friendly or whether it would betray feelings she had promised herself she would not feel.

So instead she said, “Aren’t you cold out without a coat?” 

He grinned. “I don’t know. Aren’t you hot dressed as the Michelin Man?” 

Mira suddenly noticed the bulging, blue winter coat she was wearing, and she felt her face flush hot red. 

Ike said, “Can I hang up your coat for you?” 

She unzipped it and slid it off, revealing a tight-fitting salmon sweater over a white blouse. She felt sheepish under Ike’s radiant gaze. 

He took the garment. “Get whatever you like. It’s on me.” 

They brought their food to a table and sat and ate. They eased into conversation. Had she ever eaten here before? No, she hadn’t, but she was enjoying herself. Was he still working? Yes, and things were going well for him. But the roofing business was slow over the cold winter months, and he had arranged to take a vacation day. Because once spring hit, with its melting snow, driving rain, and abundant roofing emergencies, there would be far too much work and not enough manpower, and he would not be able to get time off. How was work for Mira? Fine, but she couldn’t talk about details, because of counselor-client confidentiality. How was the Committee? Slow. They were working toward a ballot question for the 2008 November election, but that work would not begin in earnest until April. The big part of that was to form a separate committee just for the ballot question. They called this the Committee to Replace Sam Baedes, which just happened to be run by and consist of the same people behind the Committee for a Fairer Future. Yeah, politics makes no sense sometimes. This process had actually begun some months ago.

Then Mira asked the question she had been dying to ask, but had no interest in asking, because she was too ashamed to ask. “How’s your girlfriend?” 

“Sophie?” Ike said. “She’s fine.” Then he added, “And she’s not my girlfriend anymore.” 

“Oh,” said Mira. “I’m sorry to hear that.” She held her breath for a moment, involuntarily. 

“Don’t be. It was good while it lasted.” 

“What happened?” 

“Well… I guess she just wasn’t the right one.” Then he asked, “Are you seeing anyone?” 

“Not really,” she replied. 

Not really? That was a deceptive way to put it. The truthful answer was an unequivocal No! She had been depressed about men in general, and she was beginning to wonder whether she should try lesbianism. If she had been one of her own clients, she would have told herself that you can’t “try” being gay. Life doesn’t work that way, because sexual experimentation can’t resolve deep-seated emotional issues. She would have advised herself to focus on the things in life that make her happy. And she would have worked with herself to adjust her image of romance to be more in line with reality, so that she could steer herself in a more positive direction. All this she would do if she were one of her own clients. Unfortunately, there’s no one more neurotic than a psych major. Doctor, heal thyself.

After lunch, Ike walked Mira to her car, which she had parked in one of the metered spaces on Main Street. Mira felt self-conscious about her unassuming, puffy coat, which left everything to the imagination. She told herself it didn’t matter, but for some reason, she cared nonetheless that she look attractive. So she put her arms through the jacket’s sleeves, but left the front unzipped. The air outside was nippy, but calm, and a strong, clear afternoon sun warmed everything it touched. Ike remarked how good the weather turned out, and how romantic the sun was. In response, Mira relayed a joke she had heard about a blonde who wanted to visit the sun. (You can’t visit the sun, because you’d burn up, to which the blonde replied, “Duh, not if you go at night!”) Ike laughed a polite laugh.

“Sorry,” she said. “I guess it wasn’t that funny.” 

Ike smiled warmly. “Are you kidding? That’s a great joke. I have to remember that one.” 

Mira reached her car and stopped walking, and without thinking about it, with her left hand she brushed her hair behind her ear on one side. “Uh, this is me,” she said, pointing to a bright red Nissan hatchback. 

“Nice,” Ike said, peering through the passenger-side window. “When did you get this?” 

“A couple months ago.” 

“Well, it fits you.” 

“Thanks,” Mira said. 

Ike turned back to her and stared into her eyes. “Hey,” he said, with a sweet, tender voice. “It was really good to see you again.” 

“You too,” she replied. 

“I missed you.” 

Mira hesitated. Then she squeaked, “Me too.” 

She regretted those words as soon as she uttered them, but she couldn’t remember why. She felt more than ever as though she were in a dream, as though things were happening to her inside her mind and she couldn’t control them. It was as if part of her mind had shut down, the part that directs her conscious thoughts, and her subconscious had taken over. 

Ike took a step forward and ran his fingers through her hair where she had brushed it back. Cradling her head gently in his hand he brought his lips to hers. Carefully, tenderly, their lips touched. Mira felt a slight suction, and she closed her eyes and responded in kind. With his other hand, he reached inside her jacket. It ruffled as he pushed past, behind her, across her sweater, and caressed the small of her back with the tips of his fingers. With delicate motions, his tongue stroked the inside of her lips. His breath rushed across her face, smelling of coffee. His mouth tasted of sugar. For a moment, Mira’s whole body felt on fire, not with pain, but with satiated longing. Her nipples felt tender, her body, enraptured, her being, at peace. She groaned softly. Then, as seamlessly as it had started, it was over.

Mira breathed out a deep, heavy breath. She stared at the sidewalk. A sudden fear and guilt embraced her, deep in her gut, but she couldn’t remember why that would happen. 

“This is wrong,” she said. 

Ike was mute. She looked back at him. He looked dumbfounded. 

“I’m sorry.” She shook her head. “I have to go.” 

She ran around to the driver’s side of the car, rifling through her purse. By the time she reached the door, she had come up with her keys and opened the door. Ike might have been asking something. She couldn’t hear him. She just got in the car, started it, and drove off. 

---

Clyde watched the jury file into the courtroom. The judge, a stout man with very little hair on his head, leaned back in his chair and said, “Foreman, have you reached a unanimous verdict?” 

“Yes, your honor,” the jury foreman said. 

The judge continued, “Defendant, please rise.” 

Mr. Hill, and Ted beside him, stood up.

“What say you?” the judge asked. 

The head juror read from his note, “In the matter of the Commonwealth versus Gordon Hill, on the charges of aggravated rape and battery, we find the defendant not guilty.”

Unlike the courtroom TV shows, the entire room remained silent, until the judge spoke. “So say you all?” 

Each juror nodded. 

“Very well. The jury is discharged. Jurors, we thank you for your service. The defendant is free to go. Court is adjourned.” The judge banged his gavel. 

Clyde slid off of the bench and slunk up behind Ted. She snuggled up to his arm. “Congratulations,” she cooed. 

Ted turned and pecked her on the lips. 

“Well, well,” said Mr. Gordon Hill. “Who’s this pretty lady?” 

On top of his head, short hairs shone bright red, even more so than Clyde’s, like a field of tiny flames. Freckles spotted his pale complexion, from which gazed large, piercing, green eyes. From just under his left eye, a scar trickled down his cheek like a river. And when he said the word ladeeee, he accentuated each vowel, and he drew out the last syllable with a suggestive leer.

Frankly, he creeped Clyde out. 

Ted nonchalantly answered. “This is my beautiful bride. Clyde, meet Gordon Hill. Gordon, this is my wife, Clydene.” 

“Clyde, eh?” He held out his hand. And when out of politeness she returned the favor, he took her hand and kissed it, all the while gazing into her eyes. 

Clyde was desperate to get out of there. “It was nice to meet you, Mr. Hill,” she said. Then turning to her husband, “Ted, romantic dinner reservations.” She eyed him. 

She immediately regretted using the word romantic, considering the third wheel currently eavesdropping. But Ted so frequently worked late. Even Clyde’s late nights at the office didn’t compare to Ted’s. So whenever she had the opportunity to go out with her husband, it didn’t have to be fancy to be romantic. Even hamburgers and fries were a special occasion.

“I have to cancel,” Ted said. “I have a mountain of research to finish for a meeting tomorrow morning.” 

Clyde felt her countenance physically fall. 

“Don’t wait up for me,” Ted continued. “Hey, why don’t you take Gordon?” 

“No,” Clyde said as pleasantly as she could muster. “I think I’ll just whip something up at home.” 

Chapter 2

Ted had of course lost his share of cases. That didn’t mean he was used to it. Because Ted hated losing, more than anything else. And to keep from losing, Ted had a three-part strategy: preparation, preparation, and preparation. Now, Ted was to depose J. Gill’s accountant in the morning. That is, the man was his accountant until he accused Gill of financial malfeasance, and Gill’s wife, the only other shareholder in Gill’s corporation, sued him. Ted needed to devise a questioning strategy that would uncover the accountant’s motives as well as nail his feet to the floor, so he can’t backpedal at trial. And he needed to accomplish this without cluing the witness, at least not until it’s too late. Ted needed to anticipate what the witness might say, and what Ted might ask in response, and what the witness might answer. Planning for a deposition is like playing a game of chess, except that you don’t know where the pieces are until after you’ve made your move. Clyde would forgive him, he was sure, for reneging on their dinner plans. 

Before he left the courthouse, however, his now vindicated client had asked him for a quick word in private. 

“So, that’s it?” Gordon Hill asked once they were in a witness room. 

“That’s it,” Ted confirmed.

“It’s all over?” 

“It’s all over.” 

“They can’t do anything else to me.” 

“Right,” Ted said. “You’ve been found not guilty.” 

“Even if they got additional evidence, they couldn’t do anything about it.” 

“That’s correct.” Ted mentally went through the list of loopholes the government sometimes uses to get around double-jeopardy. None seemed significant here. 

“But I can still tell you something and have it be covered by lawyer-client privilege, right?” 

“Of course.” Ted gathered that Gordon wanted to ask him a deeper legal question, and now he waited for it. 

“I’m not… not guilty,” he said. “I was guilty. I did it.” 

Ted had experienced this before, a client declared “not guilty” who now wanted to make restitution, felt his conscience pinging at him, to be absolved of his misdeeds. Ted nodded and explained matter-of-factly, “Even though the government can’t prosecute you again for the same crime, you still probably want to keep that quiet. For example, the victim could still sue you under civil law, and that has a whole different set of rules. There are also many who unfortunately would take it upon themselves to punish you, any way they can think of. So you need to lay low and stay out of trouble.” 

“I’ve done this before, you know.” 

“Done what?” 

“Other… similar crimes.” 

Ted thought a moment, then he asked, “You weren’t tried on any of those charges?” 

“No. Was never even arrested.” 

“Those crimes could still be prosecuted, up to 15 years after the events occurred, under the same charges, if someone files charges and there’s enough evidence. And a confession would count as evidence. So you don’t want to go around talking about them. As I said, you want to keep quiet, lay low, stay out of trouble.”

Gordon seemed to consider these words. Then he said, “I want to stop. I just don’t know how.” 

“I have a list of criminal psychiatrists who can—“ 

“N— uh… No, no, no.” Gordon was shaking his head. “Psychologists freak me out.” 

“These gentlemen are medical doctors. They’ll keep your secret as safe as I will. You’ll enjoy complete privilege with them, just as you do with me. Now, I can’t recommend or refer you to any doctor in particular. But call my office first thing in the morning, and my assistant will get you a list of names, okay?” 

Gordon waited a moment, then smiled. “Okay. I’ll do that. Thanks.” Then he added, “It’s not my place to say, but… You should go home, be with your wife. She deserves to have someone with her tonight.” 

Ted chuckled. “Well, I’ll think about that.” This was Ted’s version of diplomatic. He had already made up his mind. 

---

Clyde didn’t feel like going home to an empty house. She drove around for untold minutes—or was it hours?—feeling sorry for herself, listening to the radio, a long string of nondescript pop love songs bombarding her ears. Occasionally, the DJ took a call from a sickening woman gushing about true love, or an infuriating man dedicating a very special song to it. Finally, Clyde had heard enough of this parade of affection, and she wended her way back home. Even an empty, lonely house has to be more fun than this. She never considered turning off the radio.

The blue Camry parked in the driveway, a gentle tick-tick resonating under the hood, Clydene sulked as she fiddled with her keys in the dark. She paused at the foot of the walkway. The gentle breeze felt like Winter but smelled like Spring. She looked up into the clear sky and identified Orion, the archer, keeping watch over her from directly overhead. It was the only constellation she had ever learned to locate in the chill, Winter, night sky. She sighed a deep, sad sigh and felt her lower lip involuntarily collapse under the weight of her cheeks.

“Well, my friend,” she said to the picture in the stars, “at least we have each other.” 

Clyde trudged the remainder of the way to the doorway, pulled open the storm door, inserted her key in the lock, turned the knob. She pushed the door into darkness, listening to it creak on its hinges. 

“I’ll have to do something about that,” she said to herself, knowing she would forget all about it in five or ten minutes. 

Stepped up the little step into the foyer, dropped her keys into her purse, closed the door, debated for a moment whether she should lock it and force Ted to use his own key when he finally arrived home, God-knows-when. She elected to leave the door unlocked, just in case Ted got home before she went to bed. She didn’t want to feel guilty about forcing him to fiddle with the lock when she was right there. 

Into the kitchen, up to the refrigerator, swung open the door. There must be something in here. Leftovers? She scanned the shelves of the chill chest, empty except for some raw vegetables and staples like milk and butter. She opened the deli drawer. Some sliced turkey and cheese, which she swiped up. Grabbed a loaf of bread from the counter, lumbered over to the kitchen table, and set about making a sandwich.

“Damn! Forgot the mustard,” she said. Back to the fridge. 

Having procured a plate from the cabinet and assembled her dinner thereon, she brought it into the living room, collapsed on the sofa, grabbed the television remote, clicked on, bit into her sandwich, chewed thoroughly.

On screen, Alan Shore passed around a self-portrait of an expressionless, nine-year-old girl, a picture entitled “Happy Girl.” Marissa could not smile, and no one wanted her. Somehow, Clyde could sympathize. She took another bite of sandwich. If she closed her eyes, Alan Shore reminded her a little of Ted, except that Ted wasn’t so passive-aggressive. Just misunderstood. And missed. 

A commercial came on. Clyde couldn’t tell what they were advertising. This was not the exciting evening she had planned. This was the lonely night she had thought she had avoided, upon her now, and nothing she could do would fix it. Her anger stewed. 

I don’t ask for much, do I? I don’t want him to give up his career. Hell! I just want a little time, that’s all. Is that unreasonable? God! I’m his wife, for crying out loud. Damn it! That little bastard! He can’t find just a couple hours for me? For us!? Just once a year?

She felt angry, not only because of Ted, but also because she had doubted herself, that she was entitled to his affection. She knew this wasn’t his fault, but she was hurt and upset. And she wanted to blame him for anything she could think of. 

Commercial over, at trial, another lawyer slapped down a copy of the national protocol for treating victims of sexual assault. Apparently, a raped woman had become pregnant with her attacker’s baby, because the hospital wouldn’t provide emergency contraception. Already angry, Clyde set her teeth. Even though it was make-believe, somehow she couldn’t help but become part of the drama. 

A knock sounded at the door, jolting her from her thoughts. 

Strange, Clyde thought. Who could that be, this late at night?

Without leaving the couch, she pulled back the curtain behind her. She had to push herself up a little to see through the window, holding her sandwich and plate in her lap so that it wouldn’t slide to the floor. She couldn’t see anything, because it was dark outside.

“Damn,” she said. Forgot to turn on the outside light.

She set the plate on the couch and strode up to the front door, flicked the switch for the outside light, peered through the peephole. Nothing there, as far as she could see. 

She pulled open the door. Still nothing. Pushed open the storm door and craned her head through the gap, sweeping it from side to side in order to take in the whole yard. Still nothing. No one there. 

“Hmm,” Clyde said, puzzled. I did hear a knock, right? Maybe it was the TV. Yes, she was sure it had been the TV. She had just been so deep in her own thoughts, she wasn’t paying attention to what was going on in the room, on the tube. Rewinding the experience in her memory, she now remembered the scene that was on. One of the characters had come through a door, and he must have knocked first.

Clyde shook her head at herself, thinking she was going to need a shrink if she kept this up. She stepped back into the foyer, letting the storm door wheeze shut, and she swung the creaky front door closed, pushing it until the latch clicked. Clyde paused a moment, thought about her sanity, shook her head again at herself, snorted, and turned back toward the living room. 

From nowhere, something soft and mildly sweet-smelling hit her in the face. She had run into it, and now she couldn’t get it off her. She gasped for breath, choked, coughed, pushed at the thing. Someone was behind her, pressing himself to her back, smothering her with his hand. She knew she should do… What was it she should do? She couldn’t remember. Even if she were able to remember what she should do, she couldn’t think of it. Or something like that. Her mind was a blurred jumble of thoughts, sounds, and images. Or was the room actually dissolving into chaos? She continued hacking under the thick, empty smell that was suffocating her, struggling against it, ever more desperate, ever weaker.

She didn’t remember what happened next. 

---

The air smacked of dirt, sweat, and stale urine. The guard slid open the cage door, and Ted entered the cell. Anthony was sitting on a bench physically attached to the structure. Ted sat across from him. 

“Anthony.” He spoke softly. “We have a probable cause hearing tomorrow morning.” 

“Okay,” he said. 

“That means the prosecution will set forth their evidence, or rather, just enough to show that they can make a case at trial. The hearing poses little risk to us, because even if they win, we get a sneak peek at what their case will be at trial. Does that make sense?” 

“Yes.” 

“However, if we win at probable cause, we won’t go to trial.” 

“Yeah,” said Anthony with a grin, “That’s what I want.” 

“It’s by no means guaranteed…” Then Ted saw the grin on Anthony’s face. “That was a joke, wasn’t it?” 

“Please just try your best. I don’t want to wait in jail for God knows how long while you get a trial ready. I hate it here. Whatever I can do. If you want me testify—“ 

“I don’t think so. It’s very unusual for a defendant to testify at his own probable cause hearing, because it usually doesn’t do any good, and it could give the prosecution more ammunition that they use against you.” Ted took a breath. “And as far as rotting in this cell, your father’s already working on raising bail.” 

“Bail or no, I hate the idea of this hanging over my head even one hour longer than necessary. You know just having these accusations being reported in the press is ruining my reputation, and my father’s. What’s it going to do for his business?”

“I don’t know. But what you can do is to tell me what happened.”

“I don’t know what happened. I wasn’t there. I didn’t do what they say I did.” His words began spilling out faster than usual. 

“Okay. Do you know Nona Williams?” 

Anthony hesitated. 

“I’ll take that as a ‘Yes.’ A jury surely would.” 

“You’re not the jury,” Anthony objected, angry. 

“Correct. I’m not the jury. I’m your lawyer, and that means whatever you tell me, I will only use it to help you. That’s my job. So please tell me what happened.” 

Anthony stared at the steel bars for several seconds. “Yes, I know Nona. But we’ve kept our relationship a secret.” 

“I have a feeling the truth will out.” 

“There’s no way to keep it a secret?” 

“Not if she’s telling the police about it,” Ted replied. “Just how deep did this relationship go?” 

Anthony stared into Ted’s eyes. “We were having an affair.” 

This puzzled Ted. “Why have an affair? Neither of you is married. If you want to be together, why not just be together?” 

“Because she has a boyfriend, Paul Randolph.” 

Ted took out a notepad and pen, and he wrote down the name. “And she didn’t want to break up with him?” 

Anthony stared at the ceiling for a moment. “Look at me. She’s out of my league.” He looked back at Ted. “I don’t think she wanted to be embarrassed. So we kept it a secret.” 

“I see. Let’s talk about Tuesday night. I understand that someone raped her and beat her up pretty badly.” 

“It wasn’t me.” 

“Okay. Did you see Nona on Tuesday?” 

“Yes, that evening.”

“Tell me about it,” Ted said. 

“We met at a place called China Gardens, out in Palmer.” 

“So, someplace where no one would recognize you.” Ted made another note. 

“Yeah. We ate at about seven o’clock. We were done by about eight-thirty or nine.” 

“Okay. Then what happened?” Ted kept writing. 

“Then I rented a room, at the Park Street Inn. I brought Nona up the back entrance.” He paused. “After a while, she went home. I stayed the night.” 

“What time did she leave?” 

“I’m not sure. I was pretty out of it. But it must have been before 11.” 

“Could it have been closer to 10?” 

“Yes.” 

“And did you have sex?” Ted asked pointedly. 

Anthony nodded, with that body language that says, “I’m supposed to be adult about this, but I’m really uncomfortable.” 

“Then what happened?” 

“Then I woke up early the next morning, took a shower, and went to work.” 

“You wore the same clothes?” Ted asked. 

“Huh?” 

“Your clothes. Did you bring a change of clothes to the hotel? Or did you wear the same clothes two days in a row?” 

“Uh. Same clothes.” 

“Who did you see yesterday? Or rather, did anyone see you wear the same clothes yesterday, the same clothes you were wearing on Tuesday?” 

“I saw my uncle, but he doesn’t notice what I’m wearing.” 

“Still couldn’t hurt to ask him. One more thing: If what you’re telling me is true, someone attacked Nona after she left you.”

Anthony nodded sadly. 

“And she’s covering up for him,” Ted continued. 

“I guess so.” 

“Do you have any idea who it might be?” 

Anthony thought for a minute. “No, I don’t know.” 

---

Clydene paced across the kitchen floor, down the back hallway, through her tiny office, up to the window. She caught a glimpse of the picket fence dividing their property from the neighbors’ as she whipped her body around and headed back to the kitchen. As she made this round trip again and again, she had a conversation with the air around her. 

“Don’t tell me not to take it personally. Beady-eyes made it personal! He comes after innocent people, because he hates us. Anything he can get away with, he just does it. It doesn’t matter whether you’re innocent. But if you’re not on his side, God help you! God help us all! ‘But we promise never to abuse this power!’? God! He tortures the innocent, locks them up without council, without sleep, badgers them until they give in. He punishes his enemies at will. He is lawless, a criminal in uniform.

“And they support him! Don’t they realize that anyone who approves of him approves of what he does? Don’t they know we will all be held accountable for the things of which we approve? And if you vote for him, you have signed your own warrant. I would not choose to face the Great and Mighty with that record on my account. 

“Eventually, he’ll come after us all, hunt you down.” She set her teeth. “And there won’t be anything you can do.” 

She was stomping by now. A tear streamed down the side of her nose. She felt angry and hurt, helpless and victimized. 

“Damn it! I did this… But if I had not, how much worse off would we be?“

The doorbell rang. Clyde wiped the tears from her eyes and sniffled. She reached the door, paused, breathed, then opened it. Cold air wafted over her body, mixed with a hint of perfume. On the landing just outside stood small, dark-haired woman, bundled in a puffy, blue, winter coat. Because the landing was a step lower than the house proper, she looked even shorter than she actually was. Her head came up to Clyde’s chest. Despite that, the woman stood tall and proud. Clyde reminisced for a moment, noticing for the first time in a long time how big her friend made her feel, regardless of her physical stature. 

“Mira,” Clyde said. “What’s up?” 

“I need your advice.” Then a look of concern spread across her face. “What’s wrong?” 

“Come in,” Clyde said. “Don’t mind me.” Then she made an excuse. “Sad movie. What’s up?” 

“I had lunch with Ike.” 

“I thought you couldn’t be around him.” 

“Yeah, I know,” Mira said. 

“You changed your mind?” 

“Kinda.” Mira paused, then blurted out, “He kissed me.” 

Clyde stood, nonplussed, mouth gaping wide. That reaction just seemed right for the occasion. But truthfully, Clyde wasn’t surprised. 

Mira beamed, radiated, as though she had just had sex. 

“Are you sure it was just a kiss?” Clyde asked salaciously. 

“No, it was just… He just kissed me. He put his arm around me and ran his fingers through my hair, and we kissed, just like that.” 

“At lunch.” 

“Well…” Mira giggled like a teenager. 

So Mira told Clyde all that had happened that afternoon. Clyde interjected occasionally with comments like “It would be like hugging Poppin’ Fresh,” or “Was he wearing tight jeans?” or “So, on a scale of 1 to 10…” Clyde knew she could be crude, sometimes inappropriately so. As long as they didn’t actually say the word sex or any of its synonyms. But Mira kept talking. It felt like they were having a slumber party.

“So, what do you think I should do?” Mira asked. 

That sobered Clyde. She thought about it. There was a good reason Mira had stopped calling Ike, had stopped carpooling with him, had stopped talking to him, had cut him out of her life. When Mira was around Ike, something happened to her. His presence made her lose control of her feelings. Mira had fallen in love with this man, this man who had shown so little interest in her, and she had drenched Clyde’s shoulder with her tears. That had been months ago, and Mira was just beginning to get back on her feet. Clyde shuddered. 

Clydene understood how her friend felt. Which one of us hasn’t fallen inexplicably for someone? Mira never lost that adolescent innocence. Mira was a visionary, and she felt deep feelings. Both sometimes got her into trouble. 

“Clyde?” Mira interrupted. 

“Yeah… What was the question again?” 

“I’m too close to it to think straight. What should I do?” 

Well, she could do as Nancy Reagan and just say no. But what if things would have worked out? Mira lived in loneliness, and Clyde had often felt lonely for her friend. Clyde glanced at the tulips Ted had sent, now displayed on the coffee table. She remembered what it was like in the beginning, before Ted, before the end of loneliness. 

On the other hand, she would hate for Mira to get hurt again. Yes, to love and be loved entails a certain risk. You risk getting hurt, just as surely as you risk living happily ever after. Still, why allow yourself to fall in love with the wrong guy? It would be a shame if Mira allowed herself to fall in love again, only to be hurt again… 

That is, if she hadn’t already fallen in love.

“Do you love him?” Clyde asked. 

Mira blushed. “No. That’s silly.” 

“But it’s Ike,” Clyde protested.

“So? How much can you fall in love during lunch? It wasn’t even a real date.” Mira’s eyes seemed to light up at the thought of a date with Ike. 

The next words came out of Clyde’s mouth almost without a thought. “Does he love you?” 

Mira’s face froze for a few seconds. Then it fell. The color seemed to drain out of Mira’s cheeks. Then she forced a smile and said, “I don’t know. What does it matter? We can figure that out later.” 

“You asked me what I thought you should do. I think you should find out how he really feels about you and how far he’s willing to take this relationship.” 

---

Ted arrived home well after midnight. He pulled into the driveway, in the same spot he always parked, noticing the empty spot where Clyde’s car usually sat. Approaching the front door, he noticed flashes cast by the television onto the living room curtains. He tried the knob. It opened easily. Peeking around the corner, he made out the couch, empty except for a half-eaten sandwich on a plate. 

“Clyde?” Ted called. 

No answer. Just some guy on TV interviewing some comedienne. 

He tried again. “Clyde!” 

Still no answer. 

Must have gone out, he thought. Leaving the door open and the television on?

Maybe she was asleep. Ted bounded up the stairs. “Clyde!” he called into the darkness. He didn’t know why he was so anxious to hear her voice.

No answer. 

He dashed into the master bedroom, flipped the light on. The bed had not been slept in. Darted over to the guest bedroom, flipped on the switch. Still nothing. 

He rushed back downstairs, dodged into the spare downstairs room. Switched on a lamp, illuminating the big comfy couch and armchair, stacked with papers and miscellaneous nicknacks. 

“Clyde?” he begged, even though he could see the room clearly devoid of life. 

Then he canvassed the rest of the house: the office, the kitchen, even the basement. Clyde was nowhere to be found. Neither was any indication of where she went, and why in such a hurry. He knew it had been in a hurry, because she left the door unlocked and the TV on. No note. No message on the answering machine. 

Ted picked up the cordless telephone and dialed Clyde’s cellphone. He heard first, then he saw it, sitting on the living room coffee table, Clyde’s purse. Her phone was ringing from within, audible even through the layers of fabric. Ted walked over to it, flipped open the top, looked inside, and saw the cell. He pulled it out. By that time, Clyde’s cellphone had switched over to voice-mail. Through the cordless receiver, Ted heard his wife’s voice invite him to leave a message. 

Strange, that after so desperately desiring to hear her voice, he should be so horrified by it. Ted pushed the feeling away. With his thumb, he pressed the “off” button on the cordless. 

He paused. Something else wasn’t right. Something in the purse. Something he had seen. Ted peered inside again, and he immediately realized what was wrong. He set down the cellphone, reached into the bag, and pulled out a ruffled, white handkerchief. 

This isn’t Clyde’s.

Then he brought the white cloth near his face and sniffed it. Ted had no good reason for doing so. But he did so nonetheless, maybe in hopes of some clue. Maybe because this was his only clue. Or maybe because his brain was only half in control of his mind. He was operating on automatic pilot. The cloth smelled mildly sweet. Ted felt suddenly dizzy. It could have been the stress of the situation taking away his balance. But what his mind was telling him was something different, the worst thing that could have happened. He loathed to admit it, but he knew the truth and knew that he couldn’t escape it.

Ted dropped the handkerchief back into the open purse, and with the thumb of his other hand he simultaneously pushed the “on” button on the phone. In court, he always referred to his opponent as “the prosecutor.” But now, Ted couldn’t punch the man’s home phone number fast enough. 

He brought the phone to his ear and listened to it ring. 

Pick up! Damn it! Pick up!

“Hello?” said a groggy voice on the other end. 

“Brian,” Ted bellowed. “I need you. Now!” 

---

Clyde half woke up, groggy. She was moving, subtly jouncing, a steady hum droning in her ears. She groaned. A heavy strap was digging into her clavicle. She opened her eyes—or were they already open? She couldn’t see. 

“Where am I?” she said. 

“I thought you should be with someone you love on Valentine’s day,” a voice said. 

“Ted?” she asked. 

She now realized something was covering her eyes, and she could not move her hands. 

“No, Ted’s at work, honeeee.” The word had an eerie quality. The man speaking it drew out the last syllable like a vocal exercise. She had heard something like that before, but in her stupor, she couldn’t place it.

Not only was something covering her eyes, it was covering her face, too. She sighed deeply. 

Chapter 3

Groggy, Clydene opened her eyes a slit, squinting at an unfinished plywood wall. In the center of it, large, metal hinges fastened a make-shift door of thick plywood. Mismatched cardboard boxes lay stacked in irregular piles on the plain concrete floor. A dingy, yellow light alone illuminated the space, clearly a basement storage room of some sort. 

She asked “Where am I?” but heavy, sticky tape held her mouth shut, and all that came out was “Hmmm hm hmm.” Now she noticed heavy duct tape binding her hands to the chair in which she was sitting. And she couldn’t move her legs, because something—probably the same heavy, sticky tape—also bound her ankles to the legs of the chair.

Something touched her cheek from behind, brushed her hair back. She whipped her head around to see, and there he stood, towering, hanging over her, wearing a jack-o-lantern grin, flames of titian hair lapping the space above his head, a grotesque scar mutilating his left cheek. 

“You finally woke up. You had a nice, long nap, honeeee.”

He ran his finger, lightly, down her neck. Clyde felt its touch deep within her, poking nausea into her gut. She did not move, but she felt her teeth fight to gnash under the heavy, cloth tape. He continued down, across her clavicle, and over her white blouse. He stopped to hover at her right breast. Clyde froze.

“I felt it,” the man continued. “There was a connection between us. It was spiritual. You felt it too, right?” 

Clyde said nothing, just stared. But inside, she wanted to get out of there. She wanted Ted to storm through that door, bust it off its hinges, put this psychopath in his place. But if Ted had been with her, none of this would have happened. 

“Oh, silly me.” The psychopath giggled. “You can’t talk with this, can you?” And in one motion he grabbed the tape and ripped it from her face, leaving a stinging on her cheek, and a feeling as though Clyde’s upper lip had been pulled apart. She ignored the feeling, stared at her attacker, as though by the sheer power of her glare she could do what her absentee husband had not been available to accomplish. 

The man knelt down next to her and petted her cheek and forehead, running his fingers through her hair. 

Clyde shuddered. No, she thought. I will not give him the satisfaction. I will not give in, and I will not cry. No matter what he does, I will not cry… She gritted her teeth.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “It will be our little secret. No one will find out how we feel about each other.” 

All at once, without thinking, Clyde lashed out  with the only part of her body that was unbound, her teeth. She grabbed onto his hand or forearm, she wasn’t sure which, and she sunk into his flesh as though she were biting into a juicy, red apple. But the texture was chewy, and the juice was salty. Still the feeling was just as sweet. She grabbed onto him with the tenacity of a pit bull. She thrashed her head from side to side, like a shark hungry for a snack.

He may have cried out in pain. She wasn’t listening. He may have begged her to stop, may have even threatened her. But Clyde’s ears were closed. 

Suddenly, something whacked her her on the right side of her head. Then again. Clyde released her hold on her prey.

“Bitch!” he screamed at her. He examined his right arm where Clyde had bit him. Blood trickled from the wound. 

She couldn’t tell how deep it was, but it was bleeding pretty profusely. Clyde felt a twinge of malevolent satisfaction, and she grinned slightly. 

“Why did you do that?” the man asked. 

Clyde saw that he looked sincerely sad, and she began to think that maybe his psychological problems were more complicated. Clyde couldn’t believe it herself, but she actually felt a little sorry for the guy. 

“Should have that looked into,” she said. Maybe she was sorry, just a little, for hurting him. After all, he hadn’t physically harmed her, but it looked like he might need stitches. Or maybe she just wanted to find some way to connect with him, maybe get him talking about himself, find out what makes him tick, figure out some way to convince him to let her go. 

He glared at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he demanded. 

His tone did not set Clyde at ease. On the contrary, she felt apprehensive about saying anything. Clearly, whatever this guy’s problems were, they were too much for Clyde to understand or to handle. 

“I just meant that if you don’t have it treated, you’ll end up with another scar.” 

Clyde immediately felt as if she had said something wrong, although she didn’t know what, how, or why. 

He snarled, “You’re one of those, aren’t you?” 

Clyde was on the verge of panic. 

His demeanor became suddenly calm, almost Zen-like. “No one ever mentions my scar unless they’re making fun of me. To normal people, it’s invisible. That’s only polite, after all.” He shook his head. “I thought you were nicer than that.” 

Without another word, he lumbered over to the door, pulled it open, and left. He had left the light on, and Clyde heard a clacking through the door that could have been a padlock being latched shut. Clyde worked at her bonds, but the tape was firmly wound around her wrists and ankles, and she made only modest gains. She thought heard people walking on a wooden floor nearby. Maybe she was in a public building. Clyde shouted as loudly as she could, hoping someone would hear her and come to her rescue, but all she accomplished was to make her throat hoarse.

Innumerable minutes or hours passed, and Clyde heard another clacking at the storage room door. The man entered, a white bandage wrapped around his arm. He closed the door and latched it. In all that time, Clyde had only slightly loosened her bonds. Her arms felt tired from struggling, and her wrists felt raw from rubbing against the duct tape. 

Without preamble, he said, “Let’s start with something simple. What’s your name?” 

Clyde said nothing, not wanting to cooperate. If he couldn’t remember the name of his victim, she wasn’t going to help. 

He peered at her. “Did you understand the question?” 

Clyde stared at her interrogator, not knowing what would come next, but knowing now more than ever that she should never have felt sorry for him. And that she must never give him the satisfaction of thinking that she ever did. 

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s try again.” He strode over to her, and for the first time, she noticed that he decidedly did not walk with a limp. Without warning he raised his hand and brought it down across her face, hard.

Clyde felt the sting of his handprint across her cheek. She flinched. Then she glared back at her attacker. 

He calmly strolled to the other side of the room and began to remove his belt. Clyde only half imagined what this meant, but she refused to let herself be intimidated. 

“Let me show you,” he said, “what will happen if I don’t get the right answer.” He folded the belt in half. Holding the ends in one hand, the fold in the other, he pulled his hands rapidly apart, causing the belt to let out a sharp snap. The interrogator walked up to Clyde and snapped the belt again, this time right in front of her face.

The sound rang in her ears, and she blinked. She hissed, “You can’t intimidate me.” 

“We’ll see,” he said. Then he enunciated each word: “What is your name?” 

---

Ted stared at the linoleum of the kitchen floor. He followed a line in the tiled pattern up, over to the right, then diagonally until it met its mirror image, over some more, and up, another diagonal jaunt, and the journey started all over again. 

“Ted, I need to you focus,” a diminutive, balding man said. He wore a white polo shirt and blue jeans, and he spoke with a thin drawl that made him sound like he had something to hide. 

“Hrm,” Ted grunted. He desperately needed to distract himself, from the interrogation in which he was currently engaged, from the numerous investigators stomping through the house, from the fear and fury building within his gut. 

“Do you know where he might have taken her?” 

Ted felt his blood pressure rising. “If I knew that, don’t you think I would be there right now?” He suddenly realized he was shouting. 

“Okay,” the man said, “you don’t need to bite my head off.” 

Ted grunted again. “Nothing else seems to work,” he muttered. 

The little man either didn’t hear or didn’t care. He said, “I hope you aren’t trying to protect your client, because you know you can break privilege for this.” 

“Only if I have actual or constructive knowledge that he intends to harm someone.” Ted immersed himself in legal jargon, because it allowed him to distance himself from the situation he was in.

“We found fingerprints. We have the rag. How much more ‘constructive’ do you want?” 

Rage took Ted’s words and turned them into inarticulate sounds. With great effort, he unclenched his teeth. “Brian, I called you, because you know his habits better than I do. Until tonight, I didn’t even know…” Ted rubbed his eyes with the fingers and thumb of one hand. “You’re the expert. You tell me where he is.”

“Okay.” Brian stood up and began to head toward the next room, where investigators were still scouring the house for trace evidence. 

“And then I want you to take me to him,” Ted added. 

“I don’t think—“ 

“I want to be there,” Ted repeated. 

Brian simply sighed. 

“Hey,” said a familiar voice. 

Ted looked up to see Michael entering the room. 

“This better be good,” Michael continued, clearly annoyed. 

Brian interjected before exiting, “Oh, I think it is. You see if you can do anything with him.” 

“What are you doing here?” Ted spoke with an edginess that reflected his anger, anger first at the situation, and anger now at the fact that someone had brought Michael into it. 

Michael began. “I was in the middle of the best date of my life—“ 

“Every date is the best date of your life,” Ted scoffed. “Brunette or blonde?” 

“Redhead, with freckles. And some guy with a pole up his butt and a starched shirt so stiff I could hear it ruffling on the other end of the phone calls me and says I need to get myself down here as fast as I can before you get yourself arrested.”

Ted breathed. “Let me get you some coffee.” He rose and marched to the other side of the kitchen, where the coffee maker sat on a counter. If only he kept busy, he could distract himself. 

“Where’s Clyde?” Michael asked. 

“She’s not home right now.” Ted gritted his teeth, breathed again, removed the carafe from the machine, brought it to the sink, and began to rinse it out. 

“Well, maybe we should call her?” Michael said tentatively. 

Ted suddenly, involuntarily, brought the carafe smashing into the bottom of the sink. It boomed and crashed, as shards of tempered glass went flying. 

“Okay, that’s enough,” Michael intoned firmly. “You are going to sit down and tell me what’s going on.” 

Ted didn’t move. In an uncharacteristic moment, he neither moved nor thought. He saw the fragments of glass in the sink, on the counter. He knew some lay on the floor, too. He didn’t care. His conscious mind had shut down. 

“Do it now,” Michael instructed. “Walk to the table, and sit. Or else.” He left the thought unfinished. 

Ted complied, sat in the chair next to the window. As he sat, Michael took the carafe handle from his hand. Ted hadn’t even realized he was still holding it. 

Michael sat across from him. “Where’s Clyde?” he asked, his voice remaining firm. 

“I don’t know.” 

“Okay, what do you know?”

“She’s…” Ted couldn’t make himself say the word. 

“Go on,” Michael urged. 

Ted breathed again, and he forced his mouth to move. “… kidnapped.” 

Michael didn’t even seem to blink. “Why do I get the idea that you know who the kidnapper is?” 

Ted nodded and swallowed. He breathed again, refusing himself the right to worry. “A client of mine— former client.”

“Where does he hang out? Who does he know?” 

Ted shook his head and swallowed again. He refused to feel sad. He looked into Michael’s captivating eyes, and it suddenly struck him how very blue those eyes were. “I don’t know anything about him,” Ted replied. “Only the case.” 

Michael regarded Ted for a moment. Then he nodded. “Okay, maybe something will occur to you. I want you to sit here and try to remember people or places he might have mentioned, who might know where he is. Can you do that?” 

Ted’s conscious mind shut down again. He just stared at his friend. 

“Can you do that?” Michael repeated. 

Ted nodded slowly. “Yes,” he said. 

---

At the sound of the doorbell, Clyde glanced at the clock. 

“Oh no,” she said. 

“What’s the matter,” Mira asked. 

“I didn’t realize the time. It’s getting late.” Her whole face felt tight. 

“I’m sorry,” Mira said. 

Clyde relaxed her expression. “Don’t apologize,” she said sweetly. “You did nothing wrong.” 

The doorbell sounded again. After a moment’s pause, Mira said, “Maybe you should get that.” 

“Right,” Clyde said. She strode to the front door and pulled it open. 

Michael entered. “Oh,” he said noticing Mira sitting in the living room. 

“Yeah,” Clyde said. “We were just chatting about Ike.” Mira glared at her. She immediately regretted mentioning Ike. 

Michael rolled his eyes and sang, “He’s baaaack.” 

Mira shook her head. “Okay, whatever. I have to get back to work.” She grabbed her coat, and Clyde chased her out the door.

“I’m sorry, Mira. I didn’t mean—“ 

“It’s okay, Clyde. I’m not mad at you. I promise.” 

“You know he’s only that way because—“ 

“Because I refuse to be one of his bimbos.” 

“That’s not fair,” Clyde said. 

Mira spoke sharply. “Clydene, when it comes to relationships, Michael lives a life Aristippus would have envied.” 

Clyde didn’t know what that meant. 

Mira closed her eyes a moment. “In other words, he’s a self-centered, hedonist.” 

“Oh.” 

“Don’t you ever wonder why he’s still a bachelor, at his age?” 

“You’re almost the same age,” Clyde reminded her. 

“Okay, but at least I’m trying to do something about it.” 

Suddenly, Clyde saw it in her friends eyes. “You are in love.” 

Mira didn’t answer. 

“Just find out how he feels,” Clyde reiterated. 

Mira grunted and marched off without looking back. 

Back inside, Clyde found Michael browsing the books on the coffee table, and she tore into him. “‘He’s back’?! What were you thinking?” 

“That guy is trouble. And he always gets Mira into trouble.” 

“So you came over here to make some trouble of your own?” 

“No, I came over because you asked me to.” 

Clyde didn’t feel like talking anymore, but she needed to. She breathed deeply and exhaled slowly. “You said I could tell you if I got another tip about Baedes, and you might be able to help?”

“You’ve heard something?” 

Clyde nodded. “Baedes is holding back evidence in one of Ted’s cases.” 

“What do you mean?” Michael looked confused. 

“I mean, he has a forensics report the D.A. doesn’t know exists. He’s keeping it a secret, and it would exonerate one of Ted’s clients.” 

Clyde added, “Baedes is after us.” 

“Okay. This is not news.” 

“No, I mean, he’s been interrogating suspects, fishing for leads on Ted and Mira, corrupting the process to make life difficult for them and anyone connected with them.” 

Michael smirked. “More ammunition for the publicity machine.” 

That remark horrified Clyde. “No, I don’t think you understand. He only started doing this after I leaked information that got Mira out, last Fall.” 

Michael regarded her. “You were the source of the leak?”

“Yes.” 

“So you have an inside contact.” 

“No,” Clyde said. She waited a moment, because part of her didn’t want to go on, but she was already committed, so she might as well reveal all. “I cracked into their computer systems.” 

Michael nodded. “Brilliant,” he said. 

Clyde continued, “Baedes keeps notes on everything he does. He’s a compulsive note-taker. I get copies. He’s been looking for me, and blaming everyone else…” Clyde felt the corners of her mouth turn involuntarily downward.

Michael said, “And how do you feel about that?” 

Clydene held back the flood of tears she felt pressing from inside of her eyes. She didn’t really know where it came from. 

“I don’t know,” she said. “How should I feel? Angry? Guilty? Sorry?— I don’t know how to feel.” Then she asked, “How should I feel?” She heard her voice distorted by her facial muscles, involuntarily contorting.

“Beady-eyes is not the first bully I’ve had to face,” Michael said. “And there’s only one way to deal with a bully. You have to make him believe that you can beat him up, and that you will if you need to. No wonder the jerk is freaked. You’ve made him vulnerable. So how should you feel? You should feel like you’re making a difference. He tramples everyone, and will continue to, no matter what you do. But you have it within your hands to give the innocent a chance.” 

Something about these words touched Clyde deep within, and sudden wailing tears mapped rivers on her cheeks. Michael sidled up next to her, wrapped his arm around her shoulders. She rested her cheek against the rough fabric of his denim jacket, and for a few minutes drenched it with her tears. She convulsed in irregular bursts of sorrow she herself didn’t completely understand, a flood of pure emotion pent up, agitated, like a can of seltzer, then finally released, and now it was spewing everywhere. She finally got out the words, “I just don’t know what to do.” 

“Here’s what you do,” Michael said. “You keep an eye on what’s happening. You do what you can without getting caught. And you never let anyone else know what you’re up to. Does Ted know?”

Clyde shook her head. She was still sniffling, but paying attention to every word Michael uttered. 

“Then don’t tell him. He doesn’t need to know, so keep him out of it. We don’t want to make him complicit, because that would just compromise him. 

“Besides,” Michael added, “you know how he feels about following the rules.” 

Clyde nodded. 

“Unfortunately, in this case, the rules are useless. Get any information you can. I’ll make a few inquiries— I can’t go into details—and neither should you, unless you actually need to—but I’ll find out what I can. Whatever we uncover, maybe we can get it to Ted. But the first rule has to be secrecy. Don’t tell anyone what you’re up to. Only reveal information on a need-to-know basis, okay?”

Clyde nodded quietly. Her head was floating in fluid, but for some reason, she felt better. 

“How are you at making up cover stories on the fly?” 

Clyde was no good at thinking up lies, especially not under pressure. She was as transparent as a piece of glass. 

Michael seemed to know the answer to his question. “You should always have a cover story prepared, in case you’re discovered doing something you’re not supposed to. It doesn’t have to be perfect. It usually only has to be good enough to confuse the person you’re talking to until you can escape or change the subject.” 

With the word escape, the enormity of what Clyde had gotten herself into hit her.

At that moment, the front door opened, and Ted, staring at Clydene and Michael, Michael’s arm still wrapped around her shoulder. 

Michael looked over and said, “Hey, Ted. Good that you’re here.” He patted Clyde on the back and stood. 

“What’s going on?” Ted asked. 

“I dropped by to see you,” Michael explained. “But Clyde and I got to talking.” He continued, “You should talk to her.” 

“Why? What’s this about?” 

Michael ignored the question. “What I wanted to talk to about can wait. So I should let you guys talk.” He began walking toward the door. 

“What made you think I would be here?” Ted asked. 

“I called your office, and they said you were out.” 

“So what? That doesn’t mean I would be home.” 

“Where else would you be?” Michael said.

“I had a meeting,” Ted explained. 

“Oh. Well, I guess I assumed you’d be home.” Michael eyed him carefully before they said their final goodbyes. 

During all this, Clyde was desperately trying to think up a story that would jibe with Michael’s and would explain why her eyes were puffy and read and why she had been obviously crying on Michael’s shoulder.

After Michael had left, Ted turned to his wife. His voice was suddenly concerned, as if he had just noticed she had been crying. “What’s wrong? What happened?” 

“I think I’m pregnant,” Clyde heard herself say. 

Chapter 4

Warning: This chapter contains violence and sexual situations that are inappropriate for children (and also for some adults). See the parental warning.

---

From the defendant’s table, Ted watched Nona Williams take the stand. A tailored jacket showed off her well proportioned figure, and a gray, tweed, mid-length skirt showed off her shapely legs. A bailiff swore her in, and in response to the oath, she intoned, “I do.” She took a moment before being seated. Her straight, yellow hair flowed around lightly freckled, porcelain cheeks. Pale eyebrows hung over eyes of brown, looking down a simple, straight nose at Ted and the Italian-American seated next to him. Despite her snobbish vibe, Ted understood what young Anthony saw in her. Even marred, her beauty filled the room. A butterfly bandage held together the skin above her right eyebrow, and a purple bruise covered her chin and left jaw. Still, her natural radiance shone through. Neither did her upper lip, still swollen, affect her speech. She spoke elegantly, with grace and authority, as a woman of class and etiquette. 

Press packed the gallery, which Ted had expected. Nona Williams was the daughter of town selectman Gerald Williams, who had built a real-estate management empire before getting into politics. It was said that the Williams family owned half the town. As a result, the story of Nona’s assault and Anthony’s arrest remained discrete only not even until the day that charges were filed.

Next to Ted sat Anthony Giordano. Anthony’s parents occupied gallery seats just behind them. Ted had explained to them all that Miss Williams would take the stand, would look and sound sympathetic, would tear into Anthony, might even lie. But Ted would have his say, and they had to trust Ted to deal with the situation. Ted knew that Rico had a short temper and loved his son, and Ted needed him to keep control. 

The Assistant District Attorney trying the case was a short, balding man named Brian Chambers. He and Ted used to be cordial, if not friendly. But over the years, their cordiality had morphed into antagonism. Brian’s boss constantly pressured him to put suspected criminals away for longer and longer sentences, an objective that Ted took great satisfaction in thwarting, even if they were guilty. Meanwhile, Brian’s cozy relationship with Baedes made Ted sometimes angry and always suspicious. Now, whenever Ted and Brian went head to head, the case was no longer just a job. They both took the battle personally, and both took losing personally. 

Brian Chambers asked Miss Williams to describe the events of two nights ago. She began: 

“I was at home, reading. At between ten-thirty and eleven o’clock, someone rang my apartment, from the front door of my building.” She looked for approval from the prosecutor. 

“Go on,” he said. 

“Well, I suppose it was a stupid thing to do, but I was expecting a visit from my suitor, Paul Randolph, sitting over there.” She pointed to a well dressed, grim-faced, young man seated in the gallery. 

Brian Chambers prompted her, “You were expecting a visit from Mr. Randolph, so what did you do when you heard the buzzing from the front door?” 

“I pushed the button to open the front door. I didn’t first ask who was there, because I assumed it was Paul.” 

“Then what happened?”

“I opened the door to my apartment so that he could get in, and I sat back down on the couch to continue with a book I had been reading. I was deeply involved in reading when someone entered the room. Naturally, I thought it was Paul.” She paused at this point in the story. 

“But it wasn’t Paul, was it?” 

“No,” she said. 

“Who had entered your apartment?” 

She delayed before answering. She inhaled, a short, sharp breath. “He did,” pointing at Anthony. “The defendant.” 

Brian Chambers spoke with sympathy. “What did you do when you realized who was there?” 

“I began to run to the phone to call the police.” 

“You didn’t ask the man who he was or what he wanted?” 

“Well, he was coming at me, and he grabbed me before I could get to the phone. And then—“ She choked up. 

The prosecutor placed his hand on her forearm. “When you’re ready, tell us, what then?” 

The young woman took a deep, uneven breath. She swallowed and stared at the ceiling, to her left, away from Anthony and his lawyer. 

“He grabbed my hair and threw me against the table. Then he pulled me up and threw me against the wall.” 

She returned her gaze to the prosecutor. 

“I screamed, but he punched me in the face. I thought he was going to kill me.” 

She was visibly weeping now. 

“I begged him to stop, told him it wasn’t my fault. But he wouldn’t listen. He hit me repeatedly.” 

The girl seemed about to bawl. Tears, genuine tears, flowed freely down her cheeks. But she didn’t stop. Rather, her words became faster, louder, more intense. She looked to the ceiling again. 

“I tried to fall. I tried to curl up, to cover myself. But he yanked me— He struck me again.”

She brought her red-stained eyes square with the sad eyes of the prosecutor. 

“He continued to strike me, pummeled me.” 

Brian said nothing. He simply waited. 

She looked back up at the ceiling, this time at the opposite corner, above where Ted and Anthony were seated. 

“He pushed me to the floor. He pulled down his pants, and he got on top of me. And he pushed his way up under my skirt. And he—“ She swallowed. “He went inside me.” 

She closed her eyes for a moment, then returned her gaze to Brian Chambers. “I don’t really remember what happened after that. The next thing I remember, Paul talking on the phone to an emergency operator, and then an ambulance arrived and took me to the hospital.” 

Brian nodded, patted her on the arm, said, “Thank you, Miss Williams.” Then he sat down. 

Ted rose. “Your Honor, I suggest we take a short break.” 

“No. I’m ready now,” she interrupted. She was patting her eye with a tissue. 

“Your Honor,” Ted pleaded. 

Judge Spiller, who had been quietly observing the proceedings, now spoke. “We’ll recess until after lunch. Reconvene at 1:30.” He banged his gavel. 

Ted ushered Anthony and his parents toward a witness room. On the way, several reporters tried unsuccessfully to get a quote, and several cameras did get a shot. Ted silently held the door, as the family entered the private room. 

Rico began the discussion. “She’s lying.” 

His wife, clearly upset, seemed to doubt. “But those things,” she said. “Those things happened.” 

Rico gazed warmly at her. “But Anthony didn’t do them.” 

“You’re right of course,” Ted said. 

Rico eyeballed Ted hopefully. “You believe me, then?”

Ted explained. “I believe that she made up the part about her being raped. Because of her eyes. It wasn’t recorded in the record, but I noticed her eyes. While she was telling her story, her eyes looked off in the same direction, toward the ceiling. But when she got to the part about Anthony, she looked in the opposite direction.” Now he addressed Anthony. “We know that you and she were lovers, but we also know that you didn’t do this to her. She’s covering up for someone.” 

Before Anthony and his parents could process Ted’s chain of logic, however, he commented, “Unfortunately, as far as the court is concerned, we would have more luck with pixie dust.” 

“So how do you prove it?” Anthony asked, his eyes so full of worry that even Ted could see it. 

“I had a private investigator check out your story,” Ted said confidently. “Don’t worry. We can prove it.” 

---

After lunch, Ted stood, buttoned his suit, casually approached the witness stand, in which Nona Williams once again sat. 

“Miss Williams, you testified that when you saw my client in your apartment, you immediately ran for the phone.” 

“Yes,” she replied confidently. 

“So then, you didn’t know who he was.” 

“No.” She shook her head as she said it. 

“You didn’t know him?” 

“I didn’t know him,” she reaffirmed. 

“You had never seen him before?” 

“No.” 

“Never?” 

“Objection,” said the prosecutor. “Asked and answered.” 

Ted explained. “I just want to make sure we’re crystal clear on this point, judge.” 

“I get the point, Mr. Jackson. Objection sustained. Please, move it along,” said the judge.

Ted pursed his lips and nodded. “Now, you see, that’s funny.” 

“How so?” she asked. Even Ted could detect the smugness in her voice. 

“At least three different people can place you with my client, in a restaurant in Palmer, earlier that very evening, between 7 and 8 o’clock.” 

Ted waited for a response, but she seemed tongue-tied. 

Ted continued. “Perhaps you would like to amend your testimony.” 

“Well…” And then nothing. 

“You do know that lying under oath is perjury.” 

“I’m not lying!” she suddenly exclaimed. “I don’t know who they think they saw, but it wasn’t me! Maybe he found someone who looked like me so he could stalk me and say I knew him, the pervert.” She glared at Anthony. 

Anthony remained stoic. 

Ted continued. “I don’t think so. But maybe if several eyewitnesses confused you and this mystery woman, maybe you mistook some other man for Mr. Giordano? Because he certainly wasn’t at your apartment that night.” 

“I know what I saw,” she insisted. “You don’t forget—“ 

“How can you be so sure, if you had never seen him before?” 

“You don’t forget,” she said. “And you’re ignoring the DNA evidence. And if that all weren’t enough, you can identify him from his scar.” 

“Beg pardon?” Ted asked. 

“His scar,” she repeated. “He has a scar on… on his thing.”

A chuckle rippled through the room. 

Frowning, she looked down her nose sideways at Ted, as though that were code for what she had just tried to say. 

But Ted was unperturbed. “Hmm…” He shook his head slowly. “The problem is, it seems your recent fame has gotten the better of you. As it turns out, everyone loves to talk about the famous. And if it involves a scandal…” Ted raised his eyebrows at her, as though he were speaking code right back at her.

“Objection,” moaned the Assistant District Attorney, who had been sitting quietly, taking notes. 

The judge said, “Sustained. Mr. Jackson, if you have a question, please ask it.” 

“If that wasn’t you in the restaurant, I guess that also wasn’t you who was seen waiting in a car at a nearby hotel later that night?” 

“No!” She stared, aghast, back at Ted. “Do you mean to imply— How dare you?! You take that back!” 

Now it was Ted’s turn to glare smugly back at her. Or rather, he felt like glaring smugly, and he thought he had a right to. However, he had one more point, and he needed to look sympathetic to make it stick with the judge and the press. 

“Nona,” Ted said softly. “Who really did this to you?” 

“He did!” 

“No he didn’t. Who are you covering for?” 

“No one! He— I don’t know.” 

“Miss Williams,” Ted said, “we know that you and the defendant had sex that night. You’re right: The DNA is in evidence. But we also know that it didn’t happen in your apartment.” 

“No,” she protested. “It happened just as I said.” 

“Someone hurt you, and once you were at the hospital, you had to claim that it wasn’t consensual in order to cover up the fact that you and he were having an affair.” 

“No!” she repeated. 

“Nona…“ Ted sighed. “Nona,”—with his most compassionate face—“no one could blame you for wanting to cover that up, but an innocent man’s future is at stake.” 

“Please don’t call me Nona.”

“Nona, how did this really happen to you?” 

“Please call me ‘Miss Williams.’” She frowned sternly and glared even more steeply down her nose. Once beautiful, now it appeared pointy. 

Ted wasn’t one for sentiment. But even he had to admit, this was sad. 

---

Mira lowered herself onto her chair, as Ike held it, brushing the back of her little black dress forward as she sat. The air smelled of garlic and Parmesan cheese. And candlelight cast flickering shadows on the white tablecloth and ceramic dishes. Ike sat across from her, modern gray suit, peach shirt, red-orange striped silk tie. A waiter named Giovanni arrived, asking if they would like to start with wine or an appetizer. 

“Have you ever had escargot?” Ike asked. 

“No.” Mira was mildly amused. She didn’t actually believe that snails were an aphrodisiac, but she felt feisty and enjoyed playing along. 

Ike grinned handsomely. “Do you trust me?” 

Mira grinned back. “Implicitly,” she breathed, as seductively as she could muster. 

Ike turned to the waiter. “Please bring us escargot for two, and a bottle Pinot Noir.” 

Mira was worried about the bill. Who was bankrolling this fancy dinner? Was Ike suddenly irresponsible with money? Or did he have an unknown source of cash? Oh my God! Mira thought. I hope he didn’t steal it.

She spoke up. “I, uh, don’t want to spoil the mood.” 

“Okay,” Ike said. “So don’t, then.” He chuckled. 

Mira sighed. “Where are you getting the money to pay for this— this?” She opened her hands as if to wrap them around the table, to indicate what this was.

“I have a job,” Ike said, clearly perturbed.

“Yeah, I know.” Mira began to feel a tightness in her chest. “I just meant… This is really extravagant. Are you sure it’s alright?” Her countenance reflected her distress. 

Ike’s expression relaxed. “Yes, it’s fine. It’s a special occasion with a special woman. I’ve got it covered.” Then he added, “Trust me. You said you did, right?” 

“Yes,” Mira agreed. “Okay, but just promise me you haven’t done anything that will get you into trouble.” 

He chuckled again. “I promise,” he replied sweetly. 

The wine was smooth, soft, earthy, and full. The escargot tasted like garlic-and-butter gummy worms. Mira gathered, that was how snails were supposed to taste, at least when they were cooked in garlic and butter. For an entrée, they each had the Chicken Parmesan with ziti. They talked about other strange foods, table manners, people who annoy you at parties, embarrassing episodes from their pasts, and anything else that could deepen Mira’s feelings without forcing her to ask about Ike’s. Mira told herself that she didn’t want to plunge into that discussion until later, even though she had promised herself that before the night was over, she would ask him how he really felt. Therefore, “later” couldn’t last forever. 

Clyde had elicited that promise from her. Mira needed to promise Clyde, because she was terrified of the answer. She was terrified that Ike would see in her eyes how deeply he had won her, and that he would freak out and bolt. She was terrified that he might say they were just having fun and that they shouldn’t get too attached. She was afraid that if she didn’t ask, he would decide later that they were “just having fun,” and she would get hurt. She had been here before. She had been here before with Ike, though he didn’t know it. Most of all, she feared he would shun the danger she represented, because anyone who got involved with her was in danger of being charged with a crime, and Ike was still technically on probation, still vulnerable to threats Baedes could make.

Mira was terrified, so she put off the uncomfortable subject as long as she could. But by the time they were each sipping a cappuccino and sharing a tiramisù, Mira knew she needed to address the issue. 

“Something wrong with the tiramisù?” Ike interrupted her thoughts, and Mira suddenly realized she had been daydreaming. 

“No, everything’s wonderful.” She forced herself to smile. 

“You look sad,” Ike said. 

“I’m sorry. I just—“ Mira searched for words. 

“You wish it didn’t have to end?” Ike gazed hopefully. 

“Yes, kind of, but—“ 

“It doesn’t have to end,” Ike said. He reached across the table and caressed the back of Mira’s hand with his fingers. 

“Do you love me?” Mira blurted, suddenly overcome. 

If Mira didn’t have Ike’s full attention, she had it now. He pulled his hand back, and a look of dismay covered his face. 

“I’m sorry,” Mira said. “I shouldn’t have… Forget it.” 

Ike said, “I like you, Mira. I like you a lot. I want to spend time with you. I—“ He paused. “I don’t know if—“ 

“That’s okay,” Mira said. “I get it.” She could feel her face burning red. She began to stand. 

“Wait,” Ike said, and touched her hand again. “Please.” 

His cavernous eyes pleaded with her. 

Ike continued. “Can’t we take it slow? Just get to know each other? At least for a short while? It’s important to me.” 

Mira could see that he was sincere, desperate even. 

“I— I’m afraid,” Mira admitted. 

Ike considered this. “Is that why you were so upset about kissing me yesterday?” 

Mira nodded. 

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said. 

“I know.” But Mira knew that didn’t change anything. 

“At least let me drive you home.”

Mira hesitated. But when she stared into his desperate eyes, she finally consented. 

Ike paid the bill, helped Mira on with her coat, walked her out to his car, opened the passenger’s door. He placed his hand on her upper back as she was about to step into the car. She stopped, felt the pressure of his hand through her coat. His touch. A simple touch. How could such a simple thing evoke such powerful emotions? Mira felt her eyes begin to well up. Ike wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to his chest. She tried to push away, but he tenderly shushed her, caressed her hair. She could feel him weeping, too, deep inside his chest. 

“If you only knew, Mira,” he said. Then he whispered, “But I’m trouble, I’ve always been trouble. You don’t want to be with me.” He was crying. “You should leave, just leave, and save yourself.” 

---

When the evil man threatened Clyde again, threatened to strike her unless she told him her name, she grumbled, “You already know my name,” which was true. 

Unfortunately, that was not the answer he was looking for. 

Still reeling from the sting of his strap on her left forearm, she heard him ask again, “What’s your name?” 

“My name is Justice,” she scoffed. It sounded stupid coming out of her mouth, but she was on a roll and unwilling to admit she sounded stupid. “I’m going to come after you and tear you to shreds, you little bug.” 

He just sneered, with a maniacal laugh that said he thought he was beyond the reach of anything so puny and insignificant as her. “Do you think I’ve never done this before? I know exactly what I’m doing. That’s why they can’t catch me. I even leave them little clues. But they’ll never catch up to me. And you won’t catch up to me either, my deeeer.”

Clyde snarled, “I bet that’s how you got that gash across your face. Someone caught up to you. Am I right?!” 

That was also not the answer he wanted. Clyde clenched her teeth, her fists, panted against repeated stings of his strap. A tear ran down her cheek. 

He wiped away the tear. “My Deeeer, please don’t do this. I don’t you to get hurt. But you must admit what you feel and what you want. And this is the only way. Please make it easy on yourself. Cooperate. Answer my question. A simple question. Your name. That’s all I want. What is it?”

Why should she hold out for this? He already knew her name. If she answered, she would not actually be revealing anything to him. The information would not profit him any. Why should she not tell him what he wanted to hear? 

“Clyde,” she said. That was her first mistake. 

It was also not the answer he wanted to hear. 

“Clydene.” She tried again, desperately wanting to ignore the stinging in her right arm now. 

Still the wrong answer. She got the strap across her face. 

What the hell is wrong with this pervert? Clyde seethed.

“Go to hell!” she yelled through clenched teethe. 

That was definitely not the right answer. 

The blows continued. The strike across the left side of her neck was the first that made her scream. And to avoid crying, she began to fume. She spat at him. With renewed strength she pulled at her bonds. She imagined that if she only tried hard enough, she could bite him again, this time for good. She conjured up every one of the basest obscenities a good Christian girl might ever have heard and blasted them at his ugly, scar-marred face. 

None of it did any good. 

A brief respite. Still seething, Clyde ached, burned. Her heart beat fast and hard. She breathed as fast as she could. Anger gave way to panic. She had worked herself into a tizzy, and she needed to calm herself down. But she didn’t want to be calm. She wanted to be angry. It was the only way she knew to fight back.

The assaulter grabbed her hair with one hand and pulled back her head until she could reach neither to the right nor left. So she spat at him. She felt her heart go thump-thump through her scalp. 

With his other hand he ripped her blouse open at the front. 

Her chest heaved up and down with each hyperventilating breath. 

He let go, strolled behind her, came back with a pocket knife, which he pulled open. The sharp edge of the blade traced a smooth, menacing arc from the pinpoint tip down to its base. He pointed the knife at Clyde’s throat. “Let’s try this agayyyyn,” he said.

She breathed quickly and heavily. Panic set fully in now, and she struggled to calm herself. 

“Okay,” she said as soothingly as she could muster. “If you tell me what you want to know, I’ll do my best to tell you.” 

He grinned, brushed the knife softly up Clyde’s throat. She dared not move. She tried to hold her breath, but to little avail. 

“Don’t make me slip,” he warned, still in that same cool, menacing voice. Holding the knife still to her throat with one hand, with the other, he caressed her torso. 

Clyde closed her eyes and winced, but did not struggle, felt her heart thump-thump, thump-thump, like Poe at 78 RPM. 

Gently, tenderly, the knife still pressed to her throat, his arm embracing her, his hand at her back. She had been arching her back, without realizing, leaving enough room for his hand between her and the back of the chair. Still, eyes closed, she dared not move, even as he unhooked her brassiere, even as she felt the cool air upon her naked breasts, even as she heard him sigh with pleasure. She fought nausea, but she dared not move. She felt seasick. Indeed, worse than seasick.

Once, when she was in college, a date took her on a tour of Boston Harbor. He was an awful date, rich kid and proud of it, more interested in impressing her with his immense means than in being with her, and most interested in how she made him look. Fortunately, Clydene, who had never been on a ship before, developed acute nausea. She spent almost the entire tour hunched over, dizzy, holding in the bile, all of which gave her an excellent excuse to ignore her date. 

Now, strapped to this chair, Clyde would have loved to have felt that good. 

The knife left her throat, but Clyde still didn’t want to open her eyes. She feared the shame and embarrassment she knew she would feel. She prayed a silent, desperate prayer for hope, and a lone tear trickled from her right eye. 

“Let’s try this again,” he said calmly, no creepy drawl, as if he were a normal person. “You know what will happen if I don’t get the answer I need. I don’t want to hurt you. But unless you cooperate, you force me to do things I don’t want to do.” 

“Just please tell me what you want me to say,” Clyde managed, between breaths and quiet sobs. 

“I need to know your full name,” he said. 

Clyde thought carefully, then spoke each word carefully. “Clydene Patrice Hobbes-Jackson,” she said. 

This was still not the correct answer. 

---

“You don’t realize what this guy does,” Ted told Michael. “If her story was true…” 

Ted didn’t want to consider the brave testimony of young Stacie Williams in Hill’s rape trial. Fortunately for Hill’s case, she had been confused. She had not seen his face, or couldn’t recall it, yet couldn’t remember whether he was wearing a mask or had drugged her. She couldn’t clearly identify his voice or any of his physical characteristics. Her psychiatrist said she was suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder and that her mind had blocked out certain memories. This was convenient for his defense, because her testimony turned out to be the only evidence linking the crime to Ted’s client. It was wonderful for him as a lawyer. But if even only a fraction of her story were true—

Ted couldn’t think about that. He knew he didn’t always show Clyde the appreciation or attention she deserved. But he also knew she was the only woman in the world who could put up with him and sympathize with him. And she was the only person to whom he’d ever truly opened himself. When he decided that he wanted to get married, there was only one— 

He couldn’t think about that right now, either. He told himself he needed to focus, to wrack his brain for some piece of information that would bring the police closer to where she had been taken. That’s why, Ted told himself, he couldn’t be distracted by sentiment. In reality, however, sentiment made Ted feel helpless, and Ted knew this. 

“If her story was true… we need to get Clyde back.” 

He had been staring at the kitchen table. Ted wondered whether Michael was even still in the room, still listening to him, so quietly. All Ted could hear was an occasional footstep in the house, or an occasional voice, indistinct and distant. He looked up. His friend was indeed still there, still sitting across from him, eyes transfixed on him. 

Michael, the man could be a wiseass sometimes, but sometimes he knew exactly how to listen. 

Footsteps entered the kitchen, the footsteps of Brian Chambers. “Any more thoughts?” he asked. 

Ted shook his head. 

“Okay,” Brian continued. “We’re searching his apartment, and we’re also checking out other places he’s been known to frequent.”

Ted nodded slowly, serenely. 

“There’s one more thing,” Brian said kindly. “We discovered your wife’s car abandoned a few miles down route 39. We think he transferred her to another vehicle and drove off. We’ve collected forensics, but we’d like you to take a look at the car, see if there’s anything that looks out of place or missing.” 

Ted blew up at him. “What the hell is that supposed to accomplish?! How am I supposed to know if something is missing? I couldn’t pick my wife’s car out of a police line-up! And even if I could, so what? What we need to do is find out where he is, not where she left her groceries, or whatever she uses that car for.” Ted felt sheepish, but he suppressed it. “I don’t have time to be going out on useless excursions!”

Ted was standing, waving his arms around like a madman. When had he stood up? 

“Ted,” Michael said calmly. “If you find nothing, no harm done. But even if you find the littlest piece of evidence, it might help Clyde faster. And isn’t that what you want?” 

Ted remained silent. 

“And the trip might also help jog your memory. Memories are like that. It’s when you distract yourself with useless trivia, that’s when something important pops up to the surface.” 

Ted stared at his friend, expressionless. He wanted to ignore all the evidence, didn’t want to be involved unless it was to grab Gordon Hill by the neck and rip his head from his body with his bare hands. 

“Let’s go,” he said. 

Chapter 5

Warning: This chapter contains violence and sexual situations that are inappropriate for children (and also for some adults). See the parental warning.

---

When Clydene awoke again, she didn’t open her eyes. And she couldn’t open her mouth. Nor could she move her arms. She had been clenching her teeth, it seemed, and struggling against her bonds so vigorously that there was no strength left in either her jaw or her arms. Or her legs, she now discovered. Her feet were tired. Toes, hands, fingers, all refused to move except with great effort. Frigid air rested on her hands, on her arms, on her feet and shins, on her chest, her torso, her calves. The chill touched every undisclosed crevice on her body, even those surfaces that still burned, and those that still bled. She left her eyelids down and tried to relax, tried to slow her breathing, even while she still struggled for oxygen in small, swift bursts, in-out, in-out, in-out. But bile churned from the bottom of her stomach. She was suffocating in her own panic, and despite her best efforts, she could do nothing to stop it. 

The man was still there. Clyde felt his presence in the room, felt him staring, intruding into the intimate. 

He said, “I’ve always loved freckles.” He sighed. 

Clyde felt his finger, or something—if it was anything but a finger, she didn’t want to know—caress her shoulder, her chest, following the trail to where the freckles disappeared. 

The man chuckled. “I’m sorry about the cold. In a moment, you’ll be warm, and your purple lips will turn bright red again.” He ran his finger across her lips. It smelled like sex. “Soon, everything will be all better. Trust me.”

Wishing the things she felt were all part of a bad dream, yet knowing they were all real, Clyde begged, “Please,” as best she could. “Need… doctor… Please.” The words came out mumbled, because her jaw refused to flex. 

“Sweeteeee, only one doctor can fix what you’ve got wrong. This is the only way to get you better.”

Clyde began to sob helplessness. “Naaw…” she wailed. She tried to shake her head, but it just flopped from side to side.

“Let’s review, shall we,” he said. 

Clyde heard his footfalls on the concrete floor. 

“Open your eyes,” he ordered, calmly. 

Clyde didn’t want to. She hoped that if she just relaxed her eyelids and breathed as deeply as she could and brought her sobs under control that he would just leave her alone. 

Smack! She heard him snap his belt at her, a warning slap.

She squinted in the brightness around her, beheld blurry shapes in the spacious room. 

“All the way,” he said. 

She tried the best she could. The image was getting clearer. He still wore clothes, and his wounded arm was still bandaged. He still stood before her wielding a belt. And his open pocket knife was still lying on a nearby box, to remind her that he could use it any time he needed to. 

“Let’s review,” he continued. “What is your name.” He paced back and forth before her like an interrogator in a Nazi prison camp. 

She struggled with the words. “Miss Clydene Patrice Hobbes, Sir.” 

“Good,” he said. “And how old are you?” 

Between pants and gasps of air, she managed, “Thirty-eight, Sir.”

“Excellent!” he exclaimed with joyful enthusiasm. “See how easy this is?” 

Clyde saw neither the joy nor the ease of any of it. 

“And do you like it when I touch you?” 

Clyde shuddered, involuntarily sobbing again. But she feared the consequences, so she lied. She managed to nod and moan a tearful assent. 

“How long have you been alone?” he asked. 

She knew the right answer: Always. Was this to be the summary of her life? To die alone, neglected, helpless, at the hands of a tormentor, an assaulter, a rapist, at the mercy of his twisted, psychotic fantasy? Where was law and justice? Where was her husband, her protector? Where was her savior?

She recalled to her mind the only thing she could think of that had kept her sane, allowed her to believe she was not alone, nor would ever be alone. A little Bible verse she had memorized when she was a teenager, as a result of those deep emotional upheavals all adolescents endure. Whenever it had seemed her life had been falling apart, she chanted it to herself to comfort herself. And now she recalled it to her mind, recited it with her lips, huffing and puffing and mumbling the words through tears, between gasps for air. 

“Peace I leave with you, My peace I give to you; not as the world gives do I give to you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.” 

She had not completed even the first sentence before she heard the first swish of the tormentor’s strap. But she continued to recite it, repeatedly, even through sobs and tears. 

---

The cyclops eye of a bright, full moon stared down at Ted from halfway up the nighttime sky, illuminating the pavement, the gravel, the trees, the hubcaps of Clyde’s blue Camry. Brian had parked outside the perimeter, and Ted reluctantly regarded the vehicle, from a distance, Michael still by his side.

A police detective in a suit and tie handed Ted a pair of latex gloves, led them to the car, and opened the driver’s side door. He scowled silently in Ted’s direction as he motioned with his hand for Ted to enter. 

Ted didn’t want to look inside, though he neither knew nor cared why. He wanted to kick in the window, to rip the upholstery, to destroy, to burn. He set his teeth, walked up to the open door, stooped, and peered through. The overhead light lit up the passenger compartment. There was a steering wheel, two bucket seats, automatic shift stick between, everything one would expect to see. What exactly did they expect him to find, anyhow? Stolen jewelry? Missing unmentionables? Were they just trying to occupy him with useless hoo-ha? Or were they really that desperate for clues? 

Ted donned the gloves, sat in the driver’s seat, held the steering wheel, stretched out, scanned the dash. Nothing, nothing, and nothing, not that Ted would know the difference, because he never sat here. 

“I never sit here,” voicing the thought as soon as it occurred to him. “I shouldn’t fit.” 

The unnamed police detective spoke. “You mean the seat should be moved up closer to the steering wheel?” 

“Right.” Ted nodded. 

“That’s consistent with the other evidence we’ve uncovered. He drove the car. What about the keys?” 

“What about them?” Ted pawed at the ignition switch. 

“They’re in evidence,” the detective answered. “But they were found in the ignition. Does she usually leave her keys in the ignition?” 

“No. She usually keeps them in her purse.” 

At this point, the detective excused himself for a moment and went off to the side to talk to another officer. 

Ted opened the glove compartment. He didn’t know what he was looking for. He scanned the contents. Registration. Owner’s manual. Miscellaneous papers. An old, portable CD player. For how long had that been collecting dust in there?

“Ted,” Brian said. 

He sat up and looked out of the car. The detective had returned. 

Brian continued. “He drove off from here in another car. We’ve identified the car, and we located it.” 

Ted’s eyes perked up at that news. 

“It’s parked at his apartment complex. But he’s not in the apartment. We believe he’s nearby.” 

Ted immediately knew where the perp had taken her. But he had to work out how to proceed. He couldn’t just reveal that Scarface had once opined that the perfect place to bring a woman was his apartment storage area, that it was secure and remote, in a separate utility building. And no one ever went down there after dark. At the time, Ted discounted it, because it sounded like a joke in poor taste. But now… 

In any case, Ted couldn’t just tell Brian that he had known all along, somewhere in the back of his stress-wracked mind, what the answer always had been. Besides, Ted had to be there when the arrest went down. He owed that to Clyde, to be there to help her, and to see the perp, to stare him down, to let him know who had caught him. But the police were not going to let Ted in on the bust, not even with Brian’s influence—and Brian would not even go along with the idea. It was just too ethically questionable. 

Even Ted himself knew that he couldn’t allow himself to compromise his reputation in that way. But he also couldn’t allow himself to appear inept or stupid. And he couldn’t violate attorney-client privilege, he told himself. So he needed to lead the cops personally to the right place without letting them know what his ultimate goal was. 

“I’d like to look over the apartment site.”

---

In-between Saturday-morning coffee and email, Clyde sneaked away with her cell phone. Ted had brought a suitcase worth of work home with him the previous night, and he was reclining in the den reading reports. On the bright side, she and Ted got to spend Saturday morning together. The down side was that Clyde needed to find an excuse to get away if she wanted to be out of Ted’s earshot. 

“I’m going out for a little walk,” she announced. 

Ted glanced out the window. “The weather report said it was going to be cold today.” 

“Yeah, I know.” She lied. “But I just really feel like taking a walk. Don’t worry, I’ll bundle up,” she said as she lifted her thick, winter jacket from the hook beside the front door. 

Having donned the coat, she pecked Ted on the lips and began opening the door. “I’ll be back in 10 or 15 minutes.” 

“Hold on,” he interrupted. “I think I’ll join you.” 

“Uh— But it’s cold out.” 

“Yes, but it’s also sunny and clear, and I enjoy the company.” He grinned, shimmying by her in the hallway, and grabbed his own coat from the hook. 

“Um…” She was searching desperately for an excuse to convince him to stay so that she could call Michael. “I was going to make a business call, and I’d feel bad about ignoring you.” 

“A business call on Saturday, Gracie?” 

“Oh yes.” Clyde thought for a moment. “Well, there’s a chance the person I need to talk to is available on Saturday.” 

“Alright,” Ted said. “I won’t be offended if you talk on the phone.” He brushed the hair from her ear. 

“Right.” Clyde gathered that he had won. She would have to revise her plans to call Michael. But for now, she needed to keep up the appearance that she needed to talk to a client. So she walked along with Ted, pretended to try to make a call, and discovered that she didn’t have the phone number. She must have forgotten to add it to her cell phone.

The two walked along for a few minutes, down the private road they shared with several other homeowners, stepping through potholes the size of the Grand Canyon. A brisk, gentle breeze ruffled the trees, casting eerie, moving shadows across their path. Clyde thought it was silly that their road should be in such a state of disrepair, and that she should do some research to see what it would take to get the road resurfaced. 

When they reached the end of the road, at Washington, across from the industrial park, Ted said, “I know you didn’t need to make a business call. Why didn’t you want me to walk with you? Who were you planning on talking to? Or who were you planning on meeting?” 

Fear seized Clydene by the stomach. She hurriedly explained that indeed she did have a new client, Big Rose Shipping. They were in the process of deploying a new shipment tracking system, and she needed to get in touch with Jadon Biggs to go over a couple issues with the project. This story had the benefit of being completely true. 

Ted didn’t seem to notice, however. He said, “I’ve known about your clandestine rendezvous with my best friend, since November.” He breathed in. “And I don’t appreciate being lied to.” 

Clyde stared at him, confounded. 

“At first I thought you were planning a surprise for the holidays. And when that came to naught, I assumed it was for New Years. But when the meetings continued and you both kept denying them, I knew something was up.” 

Still standing at the side of the road, on Washington Street, Clyde suddenly felt angry. “You hired a private detective!” 

“That I did,” Ted said. 

Speechless with indignation, she faced him now and sputtered at his face, “How— could you?— I don’t believe it!”

“I hardly believed it myself,” Ted coolly remarked. 

Now Clyde found her words. She pointed her finger in his face. “Look, you. How could you think that little of me?” She waved her hand at him. “God! After all we’ve been through, how could you even think that I—“ Clyde felt sick to her stomach at the thought that anyone, must less her own husband, would entertain the thought of her in an illicit affair. 

Ted was calmly listening. 

Clyde had to pause, to regain her mental footing again, because of her outrage. She continued, “Yes, I’ve been meeting with Michael, and no, it has nothing to do with you, but I promised to love you and you only, and I’ve kept that promise. That you could even think, could even consider that I might— cheat? Oh my God! You’re kidding! Right?”

Clyde’s face was contorted into the shape of a pretzel. 

Ted pursed his lips. “Everyone can see you.” 

Clyde didn’t care. She flipped her middle finger at him, shouted one more epithet at him, and stormed back toward the house. Maybe, she thought, he actually was too much like Alan Shore. 

---

Clydene’s whole body felt hot, even as the cool basement air wafted over it. Sweat rippled down her forehead and dripped from her nose. Nausea churned through her stomach. Dryness scorched her throat. Her head spun and pounded, and her thoughts phased into and out of sobriety. Breath continued to rush in and out. She couldn’t stop breathing. 

A hand wiped sweat and tears from her eye. It caressed her cheek and her lips. 

“I know you don’t want to admit the truth about how you feel,” a voice said. 

Clyde couldn’t see who it was who spoke. The colors of the room blurred together into an intense, whirling whiteness. She could make out the words, however. And she recognized the touch on her lips, a touch that made her cry.

“It doesn’t have to be like this,” the voice continued. “I told you before, you can get out, if you just show me your good intentions. And you’ll get some water to drink, too.” 

He ran his fingers across her lips. 

“Kiss,” he said. “Show me affection.” 

Clyde hesitated, not knowing how to process what her senses told her. 

“It’s the only way,” the voice said. “Come on. I’ve never lied to you. Kiss me. Repair the damage you’ve done. You know how you feel about me.” 

Clyde’s hands, feet, face were frozen from the inside. 

“Shh,” the voice whispered sweetly. “We don’t want anyone to hear us. Suckle my finger, and they’ll go away.” 

Like an automaton, Clydene obeyed, pursed her lips as the room imploded around her. A voice shouted an obscenity, and her lover was brutally wrenched from her. 

“No,” Clyde whimpered. She squeezed tears from her eyes. 

“Clyde! Clyde!” 

Hands caressing her bruised, bleeding, once beautiful face. 

A roar, like that of a lion. 

A repeated pounding echoing in her ears. 

A rough cloth covering her nakedness. 

A tugging at her hands and feet. 

A hand on her forehead. 

A familiar voice: “Oh my God! She’s burning up!” 

Chuff. “Yeah, we need an ambulance…”

Meanwhile, Clyde collapsed in a puddle of her own sweat. 

---

Ted sat and watched his beloved sleep and listened to the now familiar beep, beep, beep, beep of the heart monitor.

When she had first arrived at the hospital, the monitor had been beeping twice as fast. The doctor had asked Ted a hundred questions, which Ted loathed to answer. But answer them he did, as best he could. She wasn‘t getting enough oxygen, the doctor explained using some 25-cent medical term with the word “malignant” in it. If that was supposed to ease Ted’s stress level, it didn’t work. But Ted was too tired to argue, and the doctor assured him that they had the situation under control and that she was going to be okay. It had been lucky, in fact, that they had gotten to her when they did. 

Lucky. What an ironic choice of words.

Ted silently promised himself he would never again let himself be so distant—and clueless. 

He admired Clydene’s hand, a beautiful and delicate hand, now scratched and bruised. Her wrists were rubbed raw from her bonds. Almost every inch of the front of her body had been battered. He tenderly touched one of the only places still unmarred, her thumb. 

Still asleep, she stole it away. 

That’s was good sign, Ted reminded himself. It meant she could move. When she had first arrived at the hospital, she had been almost paralyzed. 

“She may not want you to touch her for awhile,” a soft, woman’s voice said. 

He looked up to see a short but attractive young woman with raven hair, shoulder-length. She wore a white blouse and tan skirt, stylish and unpretentious, and she exuded confidence and authority as she walked. 

She continued, “But she still needs you.” 

“And who are you?” Ted said, annoyed. 

“I’m from the Sexual Assault Crisis Center.” 

“You have an answer to this crisis?” Ted stood, still annoyed, and stared down at her. 

“No, I don’t,” she replied matter-of-factly.

“So why are you here?” Ted felt like shouting, but he was trying to keep his voice down. One moment, he had resolved to turn his life around, never to make the same mistakes again; the next moment, he sank deeply into depression; lather; rinse; repeat. But he could always resort to anger in order to maintain control over his feelings. 

“Because,” the woman said, “when she wakes up, she’s going to think this was her fault, and she’s going to be as angry at herself as you are at yourself.” 

Ted was nonplussed. He had never considered such an outlandish possibility, that Clyde would blame anyone other but him. In a split second, Ted listed all the reasons why it was his fault Clyde was in the hospital right now. He knew he did not deserve her, but he needed her, and he didn’t know what to do to fix it, and he didn’t like to feel helpless. 

The woman continued. “You wouldn’t think it, but believe it or not, that’s the most likely outcome.” She stared Ted in the eye. “That Clydene will think it’s her fault.” 

Ted shook his head. “It’s not her fault.” He sat back down. 

“Who’s fault is it?” the woman asked. 

Ted paused. “I don’t know you well enough to answer that question, Miss—“ 

“Jayson. But please call me Mira.” 

---

Ike waited in his gray coup in one corner of an empty parking lot of an empty shopping plaza. Another car drove up, a conservative blue sedan, and pulled up beside him, on his driver’s side. Ike opened his door, got out, and then entered the passenger’s side of the blue sedan. He shut the door. 

“What do you have to report,” said the close-cut, burly police chief from the driver’s seat beside him. 

“We’ve dated. She likes me, but she hasn’t shared any details with me. I don’t know if she trusts me.”

“Whether or not she trusts you, she’s attached to you. Note how she was crying on your shoulder.” 

Ike now felt even more violated than he had been feeling. “You’ve been spying on me.” 

“Only to confirm that your reports are truthful.” 

“You don’t trust me?” 

“Only to a point. I’ve offered you a lot. I’ve offered you your freedom. And that would be very painful for you to lose. But Miss Jayson has some benefits she can offer you, that no man could counter-offer.” Baedes looked knowingly at Ike and nodded slightly. “You know what I mean?” 

Ike glared at him. 

Baedes returned to looking out the windshield. “Anyhow, I needed insurance.” 

Ike felt violated, but there was nothing he could do about it. Baedes had him trapped, already had proof, contrived or not, that he had violated parole. And if Ike didn’t do as the chief asked, Baedes would have him arrested, charged, convicted, and sentenced, all faster than he could defend himself. 

“I’ll help you get in, but I won’t hurt her.” That was Ike’s version of having a backbone. 

“This is bigger than her,” the chief said. “It’s bigger than you, bigger than me, bigger than all of us.” 

“What is?” Ike said. 

“The specifics are unimportant,” he said, Cancerman-style. “All I need from you is a little information. That’s all. And you can have your life back.” 

---

Ted and Anthony, Rico and his wife, Brian Chambers, Miss Nona Williams and her boyfriend, numerous reporters and onlookers, all listened as Judge Spiller spoke. 

“The state’s case is certainly very weak. The physical evidence is neither contested nor conclusive. The primary prosecution witness has impeachable testimony and questionable motives. And we certainly have every reason to avoid putting the friends and families of the victim and the accused through any greater an ordeal than absolutely necessary, since their lives will be under the spotlight, the whole city watching, everyone on the edge of their seats, wondering how it will play out.

“I myself wonder how it will play out. And that perhaps is best reason to let this case go to trial, because if no one knows how it will play out, then the case is not cut and dry. And that indicates there is sufficient doubt as to the facts of this case that a jury must decide them. Furthermore, the evidence and testimony as presented would clearly ensure a conviction under the law, unless the defense can muster significant evidence against them.

“I therefore find that the prosecution’s case does meet probable cause. Trial is scheduled for April 21.” 

The judge banged his gavel, as Anthony’s mother began to tear up, as Anthony himself stared with a blank expression, as Ted began talking of next steps. And Nona Williams grinned with satisfaction, as her boyfriend scowled, ushering her past the reporters, into the hallway. 

Privately, Ted